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AbontTxKaats. "Chninbere's Journal," 

Jilcohol: Its Action and Uses. J. R Gosquefc, .... 
AmericQii View of Americttn Comiwtitiou. Edwaxil Atkinson, 
American Churches, Tlie Historical Aspect of the Beau Staulcj, 

An Imperial Pardon. F. A. S., - 

Art Education iu Gi-eat Brilaiu. Sir Coutts Lindsay, - - . 
Aitificinl Soinnaiiibidism. Kichard A. Proctor, - . . - 
Associntiou of L,ocnl .S<»ciotie8. The. J. Cilftou Ward, • 

xVtIi(.'ism and the ChuTL-h. (i. H. Curtois, 

Aui'tia, AlJrcd. PttmiUoasc Dirpe, -...-.. 
Atkinson, Jfidvrard. An Americiin Viow^ of Aiuerioan Competition, 
Baker. H. Barton. Theatrical Makeshifts uiul Hlundenj, 
Bii.vne. Thomas. English Men of Lot i era.— Shelley, - 

Besant, \yalter. Proissnrt'a Love ^^tory.}rr;iphio8 of theSc;ison. *• London Society," . - - - 

Black, Alf^ornon. Charles Lnmb. 

Mackie, John Stuart. On a lUiUcal Reform in the 3Ieth(Kl ot Toachin 

Classical Lanji^uages, - 

BL'iikie, \V. G. Fernev in Yjiltoirc'a Time and Forney To-day, 
Buchanan, Jiobert. Sydney Dobcll— A Pi'isonni Sketch, - 
Kunbury, Clement, A Visit to the Kew Zealand CJoy«oiT4, 
C Icuhitinp; liuyii. Kichaixl A. Pnictor, -' - 
Chapters on Socialism. Johu Stuart Mill, 
Cbaiices olf the English Openi, The. Francis Ilueffer, - 
Ciirislmns in ^lorocco. C. A. P. ( 'Soreello.") 
Cl.iasical Education, On tjie Worth of a. Bonasoy Price, - 
Oibbctt, William: A Biogioph);. Thomas II Ljhfs, 
<'o:umerci«l Depression ondKeclprocity. Bon..niv Price, • 
Contemporaiy iAfe and Thouj^J^t in Fnuico. C iloiiiKl, 
Contemporary Life and Thought in llussia. T. S., 

Contentment. C. C. >ni8«.r-'l vtler, 

Cooper, Basil H- Fresh Assyriuu Finds, .... 

Count Forsen, 

Coup d'Etot, A. . - 

Critic on the Hearth. The. James Payn, 

Cupid's W«»rksh'»p. Romerville Gibney, .... 

Ctrtcis, G. H. Atheism and the Chureh, • ... 

I>:tlhis, W- S. Ehti'inolo^ry. 

Befencjof Lucknow. The.* Alfre<l T'ennyson, - 

De*pr*'z, Frank. TheVaqneio, 

l'ifncultitn«of Socifdissm. TJie. .Fohn Staart >nil, - 
Discoveries of Astronomers. Tic. — IIii)parel.n.s. Hichurd A. 
Dri'amlantl. — A Last Sketch. Julia Kavaiii;gh. 
Enpish Men oi Lettrrs. — SUolley. T.ioin.ts il;iyno, - 
Ki.gli.>Ii Opera, The Chances of. Fruuuis iiuciicT, 

Eiitoniulogy. V.'. S. Dallas. - - 

Ew.-iri, Heary C\ Tho Kcluwlship Shaftesbury, 
>nrmhoiis<^ I)ir«:e. A AllVcil Au-Hiin. . - . 
I'n-uey in Voltaij'o's IMumanil J'\'iiiry Tu-il;iy. W. G. Bhiikio, 
Furbes, Archiboldf PluiiiWords About the Afghan Question. 


















3 2 



4 70 




( ii 


J 77 


Fnxer-TyOor, C. C. Cfinfeniment, 

Frciioli ffo/els. " Itlaukiiowrs EdUiburehMagsmue," 

KreDchBeuubUcanillhDCiiIhuliuCliun:E,TJie. JoImMurler 

FreebAi«7TlnnPiiii1ii. fiaall II. CiKiper, ...---.. 

Trimda Bud Foea of Riusiii. The. \v; B. Gladstoue, 

Fruiaanrt'a toveSwtj. Walter Beeiuil, 

Futuro of rndia, The, Sr Enklus l>eri7 

Gimauot, J. K Alcohol: lu Aati>in ■nd Uwa. ...... 

Glbnej, Som^rviile. Cnpid'i Wurkahop, 

GliidsUmo, W. E. Gnwee and the Tmitj of Berlin, 

Oliidiiloiie, W. B. PrubiibilitviisUioGQulBotCujiduct, 

Glodatuue, W. K. The Frlcnils atid Foc» ui RDa.'la, 

GraooaundthoTroirtjofBornii. W. E. GIoUbIouo, 

GrfMB.TlieProgrMBof. B.C.Jobb. - 

Onmth of London, Tin, 

Humlot ■■ Mr. Irvins-g.'' - Temple Bar," 

Hoppy Vidlej. TIio. L. A., 

Harrisun, Fraderto. OtithoChmoporBootB, 

UwlurieBt Aspect oTtl.o AmtrtoiinCbunjhof, Tlio. Dson ^tanler, - 
11<>;aea and IIauiit«uf thv Ittdian Poi'U. Tha-GuarinL T. Adulpboa Trollope. 
" — ' "auuMuftUoItBluuii'w.'t8.TbB.— Torqoau ■" "■- - — 

Trollope, 431 


HnelTer. Fnincls. Tho Channel of the EoKliab Opera, 

Jnup. Alci. E. Whiter Uom in Cuunlry imd Whiter Mom in Tovn, ■ 

Jeb6,K.O. TbalToi.TQBiufGreco-, 

Earanagh, Julia. UrtumluiKl ; A Laat Skotob, 

Ldimb. Charles. A]|»nicni Bluek. 

Lmi^aiu^M. Classical. On a Kudical Serorm in Ihe Uetbod oT TenoUtiK the. 


Leicester Squara, Some Gossip AUnit. 

Undaay. airUoDtls. A rt Kducution la Great Britain, 

Mnn»nil"8 Hymn for Wliitaondut. Dean Stunlej, 

Merivalo.HennnnO. Tho Wedding, 

Mill, John Stuart. Tho DlWcultlva uf SooIuUnii, 

llill, John Stuart. ChaptcM un Buolallsm, 

Mivatt, St. GeoTgs. UnlheStudjof Natural Hldtory, 

Moirud, G. CohteinporerT Lllfl and Thought in Vruiun, .... 

Morluj. John. The Fmich RopublluBudlheCatholhiChnrch, . 
Mu.icalGultiuorihePresotUif.'ltie. H n<»itlicutc StMlium, ■ 
Ou a Bodlcal Kefarm iu Ihe MelliwI oT 'leaching tho Chuaioal Lauguacca. 3o a 

filnan IllBokle, - - 

On Being Kiioekeil Don-n and Picked Up Aealo.— A ConaoLitOTT Eanj. 

Onil.o(SiolcoorBook». Fraioric Hamaon, 

UnthoSludTorKalimilHIxIor;. St. George UlcHTt. 

llnsdoal EilucaUun. Buuoi; Prii.'e, ..... 


The Futnro of India. - ■ 

'■BBicilshlMelioiiarr. The. •' Tho Aeademf." - 

te. Tha. A. H. BnfM. 

(oe AtMutii Question. Arehibold Furbo, ... 

<maienlHlI>rpn.-Biiuu andRecipnioitj. . . . . . 


nhl«ofC'.|iilBi.t. W. K, 

The. RU. Jehb. 

i-r-utur. uionam.&. ArtMclolSuninumb'diBm. 

I'ruebir, Blcfaanl A. SuppoMdChuniiuaiD the Muon, 

rnietnr, JlloharJ A. Ciflcnl-itlrig lliij-a. 

Proctor, lilcbant A. The lilsoovcrlo I'f Aa'nu Inert— Ilipparchns. 

Kwc, Kdiriuil. W^picruaa Drouuitiat, - 


'BojWkl "Weildinp, The. Hcrrann C. Morivnlo, STU 

Ivitowia, TUo l«'ric»nd»nn'iFi»csof W. K. Gladstono, • • . - . 19 

fviyce, A. H, 'rho PlioBnlciiins in Greece, -:W 

Si^hoolflliip ShafUsburj. Heiirjr C Kwart, S504 

Schopcnhai](r^ oil Mfii, Boukatintl Mnsic. '* Fraser^s Mugtuinc,'* ... 7r>) 

8iinicG«iaeii) AlMHit Iieic«Htcr^aare --...>... 51 

8';ciati8m, Obautera on. Julin Stiuirt Mill, 2.57 

S<xauii8m, DiScaltieii of. John Stuart Mill, 38t) 

Stanley, Dean. MtiU8uni'8U}ran for TVbitsnndaj, - . - • - - err? 

Stanley, Dean. TltoHistorical Aspect of the A merionn Churches, - - 6'Jl 

Statham, H. Heathcoto. The Musicnl Cultus of the Present Day, • • • 687 

SuppOHed Changes in the Moon. Kii'hnrd A. Proctor, lit 

Sraney Dobclh A P rsonnl Sketclt. Bobert Buchanan, 5'.iS 

TasBo, TorqUato. The Homes and B aunts of the Italian Poets. Prances 

« SleanorTrollopo, .-. 4^4 

Tennraon, Alfred. The Defence of Lucknow, 8H5 

Th •cKoray, RecoUectionN of, 126 

Theatrical Makeshifts and Blunders. H. Barton Baker, 22 

Their Appointed Seasons. J. G. Wood, - - . 603 

Thitmgh the Ages : A I^irend of a Stone Axe. '* New Quarterly Magtiahie/* - Hoi 

Toilers in FieUI and Factory. '* Time." - 483 

T.iilers in Field and Factory, No. II.— Chnrncteristics. "Time," • - - r»m 

TranAvaal, Abontthe. " Chambers's Journal." 3U0 

TruUope, Fninccs Eleanor. The Homes and Haunts of the Italian Poeti.— Tur- 

Sni\Uy Tsisso, 4"4 

ope, T. Adolphns. The Homes and Haunts of the Italian ^oets, - - STy 

Two Modem Jupiinese Stories, 1()5 

*'*'^P'aIvetlere, Adri.'in do. A Woman's Lore— A Slavonhin Study, - . . » r>*j 

Taquero, The. Frank Desprex, 104 

Vijat to the New Zealand Geysers, A. Client Banbury - - - • . 7i)( 

Wafpier as a Dramatist. Edward Rose, 4<n 

Wanl, J. Clifton. The Associatiom of Local RociotieB, - 2^6 

Winter Mom in Goantrr —Winter Morn in Town. Alex. H. Japp, - - 31 

Woman's Lot(«. A. A Slavonian Study. Adi'ian de Yoiiredere, .... 59 

Wood, J^. 6. Iheir Appointed Seasons, 603 



JANUARY, i879. 


SFEcrDi4ATioN as to the political futnre is not a very fruitful occupa. 
tion. In looMng back to the prognostications of the wisest statesmen, 
it "Will ba observ'ed that they vero as httle able to foresee what was to 
come a generation or two after their djath, as the merest dolt amongst 
thoir contemporaries. The ^Vhig3 at the beginning of the last century 
thought that the liberties of Europe would disappear if a prince of tha 
Honse of Bourbon were securely fixed on the throne of Spain. Th« 
Tories in the last quarter of that century considered that if England 
lost her American provinces she would sink into the impotence of th« 
Dutch Republic. The statesmen who assembled at the Congress of 
Vienna would have laughed any dreamer to scorn who should have sug- 
gested that in the lifetime of many of them Germany would become an 
empire in the hands of Prussia, France a well-organized and orderly 
republic, and the " geographical expression " of Italy vitalised into one 
of the great powers of Europe. Nevertheless, if politics is ever to ap- 
proacli the dignity of a science, it must justify a scientific character by 
its ability to predict events. The facts are too complicated, probably, 
€ver to admit the appHcation of exact deductive reasoning ; and in the 
growth of civilised society new and unexpected forms are continually 
epringing tip; But though practical statesmen will not aim at results 
beyond the immediate future, it is impossible for men who pass their 
hves in the study of the difficult task of government to avoid specula- 
tions as to the future form of society to which national efforts should ba 
direct-jd. Some theory or other, therefore, itj ahvays present, con- 
fcciously or unconsciously, to the mind of politicians. 

With respect to British India it may bo observed that very different 
views of policy prevail. Native writers in the Indian press view their 
cxcJ union from all the higher offices of Government, and the efforts of 
Manchester to transfer 800,000^. par annum raised on cotton goods to 
increased taxation in India, as a pohcy based on mere selfishness ; and 
a Kusaian joipmal, apparently in good faith, assured its readers the 


other day, that India pays into the British treasury an aminal tribute of 
twenty to twenty-live millions sterling. On the other hand, Bonie ad- 
vanc^cd tliinktrs amongst ourseivos hold that India i3 a burden on our 
r^:=oarc:s, a^^d tho cry of '* Pei*ish Ind^a I" so far as relates to its d p-nd- 
cnce on iingJaiid, ij considered to b3 not uusnpportHd by scund r.tisoa- 
ing. On 3 of the ablest publicists of India, in a i^ublished Ictt-r to Sir 
Gcorgo Campbell, has declared his conviction, after tw^enty years* expe- 
rience in that country, that good governnaeut by the British in India 
is imx>o3sijblo. 

It may be admitted that exaggerated notions as to the pecimiary value 
of India to England prevail, and it must also be confessed that, with ail 
our sjif-complacency as to the benefits of British rule, we have to ac- 
cuse ourselves of several shortcomings. Nevertheless, it may b3 
affirm od v/ith confidence that the national instinct as to th3 value of our 
possessions in the East coincides with the views of our most enhghtsned 
Btat.^smen. My colleague, Colonel Yule, has point:^d out, I think with 
entire j'jstice, that the task which wo have proposed to ourselves in In- 
dia, unlike that of the Dutch in Java, is to improve and ehvate the tv/o 
hundred milHons under our charge to the utmost extent of our powers. 
The national conscience is not altogether satisfied with th3 mode ia 
vt^hich some of our possessions have been acquired, but impartial in- 
quiry' demonstrat;3S that unless a higher morality had prevailed than has 
ever yet been witnessed amongst the sons of men, the occasions for 
conquest and acquisition of territory' that have prosentrd themselves to 
the British during the last hundred years would not have been foregone 
by any nation in the world. But the feeling I allude to quickens tho 
s:nso of our obUgations to the inhabitants of India. Having under- 
taken the heavy task of their government, it is our duty to demonstrate 
to postirlty that under British rnle we have enabled them to advance ia 
th3 route of civiHzation and progress. \7o recognise that in all proba- 
bility so distant and extensive an empire cannot permanently remain ia 
subjection to a small island in the AVest, and therefore our constant task 
is to render the i)OpulatIon of India at some day or other capable cf 
selx-government. Is such a problem susceptible of a favourable solu- 
tion ? I propose to discuss this question in tho following pages, 


Tho late Sir George Lewis once observed to mo that in his 
opinion, it was labour lost to endeavour to make anything of th3 
Hindus. They v/ere a race doomed to subjection whenever they 
ca.iie into collision vrith peoples more vigorous than themsclvcG. 
They possessed, in short, nono cf tho elements which are requisite 
for self-government Any opinion of that philosophic obser/er is 
entitled to grave consideration, and undoubtedly th?re is much in 
the history of the past that tonds to justify the above desponding con- 
clusion. The Persians, the Greeks, the Parlhians, the Huns, tho Arabs, 
the Ghaznivides, the Afghans, the Moguls, the Persians a second time. 


md the British have Buccessfully entered India and mads themselves 
masters of the greater part of it. But Sir George had ni^ver been cail -d 
npon to make any particnlar study of Indian history, nor itid-v J was it 
open, to him during the earher period of his Hfo, whi'jii was d vot d 
exclusively to study, to acquire tha knowL-dgo of Ir.dln whkli Lit r 
erudition and research have brought to light. It is iok>^'!>1j that a 
closer attention to what has occurred in the past may ciiauls us to n*- 
gard the future in* a more favourable a.spect. It will, I think, ba found, 
aftor such a study, that more intrinsic vitality and greater rocup; rativo 
I)ower exist amongst the Hindu race than they have bt>f n gtu^ rally ac- 
credited with. Unfortimately the ancient and copiou-s lit. ratur«j of tlio 
Hindus presents extremely httle of historic value. The tendency of th>^ 
Indian mind to dreamy speculations on the unseen and the unknown, to 
metaphysics, and to poetry, has led to a thorough disregard of the val- 
uable offices of history. Accordingly, we find in their epic poems, 
which date back, according to the best orientalist;^, at least seven cen- 
turies before Christ, the few historical facts which are mentioned so en- 
veloped in legends, so encumbered with the grossest exaggerations, that 
it requires assiduous scholarship to extract a scintiiia of truth from 
their relations. 

Our distinguished countrymen, Sir Y7iUiam Jones and Mr. Cole- 
brooke, led the way in applying the resources of European learning to 
the elucidation of the Sanscrit texts. And the happy identification, by 
the former, of the celebrated Chandragupta of the Hindus with the 
monarch of Patahpntra, Sandracottus, at whose court Megasthenc-s re- 
sided for seven years in the third century before Christ, laid ths first 
firm foundation for authentic Indian history. Since that period the re- 
searches of oriental scholars follov»ing up the lines laid down by their 
illustrious predecessors ; the rock inscr'plions which have been coll:ctcd 
from various parts of India, the coins, extending over many ages, of 
different native dynasties — all these compared together enable a 
even as sceptical as Sir George Lewis to form a more favourabl'3 idja of 
the Hindus in their political capacity than ho was disposed to take. 

Early European inquirers into Hindu antiquity, with the natural pre- 
judice in favour of their studies in a hitherto unknown tciir;i;e, vroro 
disposed to lend far too credulous an car to the ^ross exagf^crations and 
reckless inaccuracies of the " Mahabh'irat " and kindred works. Ja^nos 
Mill on the other hand, v,4io ^yas a Fcsitivist before AucTi'te Conito 
had begun to WTite, r •j^ctod v/ith scorn all the* alliisions to the past in 
th ;so ancient WT:t. -rs as fe'ralons. Careful schclar.:;hi-v, h-^v/-- 
ever, working on the niat-rialo of the pa<^t whicli cv.rj'' d>y's discov- 
eries are increasing, demonstrates that niueh true hislcry in to be gath- 
ered from the v/orks cf the Hanserit v/rit r; ;. 
The cclebra^ted gi'anlt^ roek of G:i*iiar-= in the pcninGnli cf Gnr^'rat 

* ilrh rock on its eastern face contains the clecrc"s of A^okii, who beiran to tva'jii 
2G?. B.C. ; on the western f ico is the iuccription of IludiT.ddinan, one of the Satrap- 
fTlcrp nnder an Indi.«in Greek dynasfy, circa 90 B.c. ; and the iiortheru face Drcsents 
tiu inscription of Skandagupta, 340 a.d. - 


presents in itself an authentic record of three distinct dynasties separ- 
ated from one another by centuries. And we owe to what may be 
justly called the genius of James Prinsep the decipherment of those in- 
scriptions of Asoka whix?h have brought to the knowledge of Europe a 
Hindu monarch of the third century before our era, who, whilst he has 
been equalled by few in the extent of his dominions, may claim supe- 
riority over nearly every king that ever lived, from his tender-hearted 
regard for the interests of his people, and from the wide principk b of 
toleration which he inculcated. 

Horace Wilson, who may be safel*" 3ited as the most calm and judi- 
cious oriental scholar of our times, aaserts that there is nothing to shock 
probability in supposmg that the Hindu dynasties, of whom we trace 
vestiges, were spread through twelve centuries anterior to the war of 
the Mahabharat.* This leads us back to dates about 2G0O years b.c. 
We have, therefore, the astounding period of over four thousand years 
durmg which to glean facts relating to the Hindu race and their capa- 
city for government, such as may form foundation for conclusions as to 
the future. The characteristics which have most impressed themselves 
on my mind after such study of Indian records as I have been able to 
bestow are, first, the very early appearance of sohcitude for the interest 
and welfare of the people, as exhibited by Hindu rulers, such as has 
rarely or never been exhibited in the early histories of other cations : 
secondly, the successful efforts of the Hindu race to re-establish them- 
selves in power on the least appearance of decay in the successive for- 
eign dynasties which have held rule among them. It is only with the 
latter phenomenon that I propose now to deal, and a rapid retrospect 
may be permitted. 

We learn from European records that Cyrus made conquests in India 
in the sixth century B.C., and the famous inscription of his successor 
Darius includes Sind and the modem Afghanistan amongst his posses- 
sions. But when Alexander entered India two centuries later he found 
no trace of Persian sway, but powerful Indian princes. Taxiles, Abi- 
sares, and the celebrated Porus mled over large kingdoms in the Pjin jab. 
The latter monarch, v/hose family name Paiu-a is recorded in the Mil- 
habharat, is described by the Greek writers to have ruled over 800 cities, 
and he brought into the field against Alexander more than 2,000 ele- 
phants, 400 chariots; 4,000 cavalrj^ and DO, 000 foot. Agaiust this force 
Alexander was only able to bring 10,000 foct p.nd 5,000 horse ; but the bulk 
of the troops wore Macedonians, and th3 loader was the greatest general 
whom the v/orld has seen. V/c have full particulars of the cclebrat. d bat- 
tle which ensued, and which ended in the completa discorcfituro of rriTis. 
The conduct of this Indian king, however, in the battle extort d tlio 
admiration of the Greek historians. IIo received nine woundf? during 
the engagement, and vras the last to leave the field, affording, as Arrijiii 
ramarks, a noble contrast to Darius the Second, who was the first to fiy 
ttmougst his host in his similar conflict with the Greeks. Alexander, as 

* JPreface to Vishnu Puranau 


in the Macedonian conquests generally, left s«itrapfl in possession of his 
Indian acqnisitionB. But a very few yars eiiKUC'ii bpforo wo fn:d a na- 
tive of India had raised up a mighty kingdoni, and all tra?o of Gr - k 
rule in the Punjab disappears. Ciiandragupta, or Saadni-ottns, is said 
by a Gr^ek \vTit<:'r to have s?en Al.'xaud r in p.rsou o;i tb t Iiy'.laq>:^s. 
Justin relates that it was he who raisf^d th(^ staudard of iud p.-nd-noa 
before his fellow-countrymen, and succcRsfully di-ovo cut Al xandrr's 
satraps. He founded the Maurj^a dynasty, aud the vast oxt nt of tha 
kingdom ruled over by his grandson Asoka is testified by the f^diota 
which the latter caused to be engraved in various parts of his domiii-ons. 
They also record the remarkable fact of his close alliance with tli*^ Gro«.k 
rulers of Syria, Egj^t, Macedon, Cyrcne and Epinis. Wo next fhid that 
one of ^nQ Greek princes who had established an indcpondtnt dynasty 
in Bactria, Euthydemus, invaded India, and made sevend conqu< Kts, but 
ho also was met in the field and overcome by Galoka, son of Asoka, who 
for some time added Cashmir to his possessions. The Bactriau dynasty 
was put an end to by Mithridates, 140 B.C., and consequently the 
Greeks were driven eastwards, and they planted themselves in various 
parts of India. We find clear traces of them in Guzcrat, v/hcro the 
town of Junaghur ( Javanaghur) etiU records the name of th i Greeks 
who founded the city. The coins and inscriptions of the Sinha 
nders of Guzerat furnish us with some particulars as to the Greek hold- 
ings at this period, and they seem to have extended from the Jumna on 
the east to Guzerat and Kutch on the west. The Macedonians S3cm 
here, as elsewhere, to have placed natives at the head of their district 
aihninistrations, and the Sinha rulers call themselves Satraps and Miiha 
Eajahs, and use Greek legends on their coins, but evidently they soon 
a»2quired complete independence. Simultaneously or nearly so with 
these Indo-Greck principahties, we find invasions of India by the race 
commoDly called Scythians, but more accurately Jutchi, Sacne, aud 
"WTiite Huns. These also formed independent kingdoms. But again 
native lead»?r8 of enterprise arose who put an end to foreign dominion. 
Tikramadit, who founded an era 57 B.C., and whose exploits have made 
a deep impression upon the native mind, is thought to bo one of the 
Hindu leaders who Gucceeded in expelling a foreign dynasty. And it 
would appf^ar that towards the middle of the third century after Christ 
all fcTrign dominion had disappeared from lli^ soil of India, excf-pt p r- 
haps some nmall Hittlements of Jutjh% ow i-.v^^ In ilis of Ih.j Indui ; .'i-id 
except t>-^ t:inportiry oonqu:gt cf Sind by tlu Amos in tJie s v-iifh 
c'.nt'aiy, from wlik-h theyvrcrj poon cxp.'li«;d by th'^j Sn:n.'a r.ajivi:./!'. 
Th-cs, a pVr>d cf GCO y-ars, we have cncour-t r d a Kris cf. v^- 
VH/jion^ and conquests of portions of Tidia by foreign, b"c aU 
Rncc.;ssivv,!y drlv-^n cut by ilia ener-^y of natlvo k^acl -rs. Tli r up >.i 
f.ollorred the estabrsliment of native dynasties all ovlt lad-a. It we. 5 
ch:^^y durmg the 700 years that nov.^ ensued, up to the invasion of 
Izda \rj "N^ahmud of Ghazni, that the great works of Sanscrit hterature 

* Elphmstoue, U%%iory of Indickf voL 1. p. 511* 


in poetry, grammar, algebra, and astronomy, appeared, Dnring this 
period also the Bajpiits, who have been well called the Normans of tho 
Kast, sscm to have found thoir way to nearly evf^ry throne in India. 
TIiL'ir a'jqnisition of po\7' r has nevt^r been fully tnxced, and probably 
til 3 uiat "rials are wanting for any full, or accurate account of it ; but the 
subject ir5 well worthy tlij attontion of an Indian studont. 

The MahomL'dan conquests which, with tho fanaticism and savage in- 
tolerance introduced by them, commenced a. d. 1001, seem to have 
exercised most depressing effects on the Hindu mind. But here again 
we meet with tho same phenomenon. So soon as the Mussulman rule 
becomes enfeebled, a native chief rises up who is enabled to rally his 
countrymen around him and form a dynasty. Sivaji in 1660-80 estab- 
lished an independency which his successors, as mayors of the palace, 
enlarged into a kingdom, out of which arose the native powers of Sindia, 
of the Gaekwar, and of the Bhonslas of Berar. Exactly the same occur- 
rence has been witnessed in the present century by the success of Kan- 
jit Sing in forming an independent principality in the Panj ab. This 
remarkable man, who was absolutely illiterate, by his own energy of 
character raised himself from the head of a small Sikh clan to tho head 
of a kingdom with a revenue of two and a half millions sterhng.* We 
may be sure that, if the British had noi been in force, natives of sol- 
dierly qualities like Jung Bahadar of Nepal, or TantiaTopi of the muti- 
ni3s, would have carved out in the present day kingdoms for themselves 
in other parts of India. 


It may be thought that in the preceding sketch I have been aiming at 
the conclusion that British dominion is in danger of extinction either by 
foreign invasion or intsrnal insurrection. Nothing is more foreign from 
my views. I firmly beheve that British rule in the East was never so 
strong, never so able to protect itself against all attacks from witliout or 
from v/ithin, as at tho present moment. In a foreign dominion such as 
ours, where unforeseen contingencies may any day arise, and where a con- 
siderable amount of disaffection must always exist, constant watchfuln^^ss 
on the part of Government is no doubt required ; but this position is thor- 
oughly recognised by all statesmen who occupy themselves with Indian 
afiairs. I do not for a moment delude myself v/ith the idea that we 
hive suficeeded in gainiiag tho aiijctions of tli3 natives. No foreign 
raltT.^ Vv'Iio have k:>pt thems-lves as a s:.parato caite fi-om tin 
coiKiU-r-d n;u'on have succeeded in accomplishing this feat. Thcr^^ is 
HO!ii:t]iiii^ of incompatibility bs-twoon th) EnropTan and Asiatic, which 
fi^r-nis to forbid ea^y amalgamat'on. Lord StowtU. in one of his fine^'n ints, has point-^d out the constant t rad^-ncy of TuropeaTDS ip tha 
East to form tii.3in*^elves into stparate communities, and to abstain from 
all social int^rconrr^jo with tho natives around them, and he illustrates 
his position with the happy quotation — 

ScylllB amara suam non intermiscult nndam. 

* See Aitcbesozju Treaties, voL vi. p. IS. 


The V.TigiittVt perhaps are dlstingmshable among all European nations by 
the deep-rooted notior-^ of self -superiority which thoir insular position 
and great success in leistory have engendered. The southern races of 
Europe, the Spanish aiiil Portaj^JSL-, have shown no r. lactam- • lo inter- 
mix fraely witli the native r.uGs of. Amt,rica, India, and th^- Phirppincs, 
sa':h as has alv/ays bjen exhibited by inhabiUiuts of the British Isl_s 
•when cxpati-iatyd to the East or West. But wht^re race, color, religion, 
prejudice intervene to prevent social intercourse between the Eughsh in 
India and the natives, what a wide gulf is placed between them I 

In justice, however, it must be stated that, although the haughtiness 
of demeanour and occasional brutality in manners which the nristo- 
cratie de peau sometimes engenders in our countrymen are much to bs 
deprecated, the estrangement which exists in India between the English 
and the natives is not wholly, nor even principally, attributable to the 
former. A Hindu of very humble caste would think himself polluted 
if he sat do^Ti to dinner with the European governor of his Presidency. 
In this instance, as in so many others, Hindu opinions have pemieatid 
the whole native community ; and other races transplanted to India, 
such as Mahomedans and Parsis, are equally exclusive in their social 
life. When I was in Bombay I made an attempt to break through the 
barrier which the latter caste Jiad voluntarily erected for themselves. 
Sir Jamshedji Jijibhai, an able, self -raised man, was then the acknowl- 
edged head of the Parsi community, and was distinguished for his 
benevolence and enhghtened views. I endeavored to persuade him to 
set his countrymen an example, and to come to a dinner at which I 
would assemble the chief authorities of the island ; and I proposed to 
him as an inducement that he should send his own cook, who should 
prepare for him his wonted fare. But the step was too startling a one 
for him, though I was glad to find that his son, the second baronet, was 
able to get over his prejudices on his visit, some years after, to London. 
A ludicrous example of the same exclusive feehng has been related in 
connection with a Governor-General. His lordship, desirous to break 
down any notion of social inferiority on the part of a distinguiyhed 
native who was paying him a visit, placed his arm round his neck as 
they walked up and down a verandah engaged in famil'ar convn-ation. 
The hfgh-bred Oriental made no sign, but as soon as he could extricate 
himsolf from the embraces of his Excellency, he hastened home to wath 
away the contamination of a Mlecha's touch. 

It may also be observed that thj mutual repugnance of the tvro races 
to such close social intercourse as int^^rmamage, for exaniple, would 
produce, gives rise to two excellent results. First, th^re is every reason 
to suppose?, judging by what we sne of the native Portuguese in India, 
that tne Eaghsh and Hindu would make, in the language of l^.reedcrs, 
a very bad cross ; and it is therefore satisfactory to find that English 
rulers in India, unlike the Normans in England, or the Moguls in India, 
have never intermarried with the natives of the country. The second 
restdt is closely connected witii the first. What has led to the downfall 


of previous foreign dynasties has been that the invaders of the conntry 
had become effeminate by their long possession of power, and had lost 
the original energy and vigour which had enabled their predecessors to 
gain a throne. The constant recruitment of English rulers from their 
^therland wholly prevents this cause of internal decay from making its 
fippearance among the British. 

It is not, then, by our hold on the affections of the people that w^o 
maintain our dominion in India. The strength and probable ondur- 
ance of our rule arc based on our real power, on our endeavours to do 
justice, on our toleration. The memory of the excesses committed 
under Mussulman rule has probably become dim with the great bulk of 
the people, but it is very vivid among educated Hindus. A strong con- 
^^ction prevails among them that if British rule were to disappear in 
India, the same rise of military adventurers, the same struggles for 
power, and the same anarchy as prevailed during the first half of the 
last century would again appear. The latest expr(5ssion of Hindu 
opinion on this subject which I have met with is contained in a pam- 
phlet pubhshed in the present year by Mr. Dadoba Pandurang.* Ho is 
an aged scholar, and though not a Brahmin, well versed in the Vcdas, 
but, above all, he is distinguished by his devout views and by his desire 
to elevate and improve his fellow-countrymen. He writes : — 

If thcro is a manifestation of the hand of God in history, as I undonbtedly 
believe there i% nothing to my imagination appears more vivid and r'^plote with 
momentous events calculated for the- mutual welfare and good of both con itriea 
than this political union of so large, important, rich, and inttiresf in? a coun try a% 
Hind in the further south-east with a small hut wisely governed island of frreat 
Britain in the further norrh-wost. . . . Let us see what England has dcaie to 
India. England, besides governing India politically, has now very wisely com- 
menced the Important duty of educatipi? the millions of her Indian children, rmd of 
bringing them up to the standard of cnliirhtenment and hi'j'h civilization whi( h hor 
own have obtain<d. Slio liu? ah-e:Kly eradicated, I shonld add here, to the gre?it joy 
of Heaven, several of the mbst b::rbaroua and inhuman practices, snch us Suttl,t 
infnnticlde, Charak Pnja t and what not, which had for ages been preval<'nt among a 
larfifo jKortiou of the children of this her new acquisition. Thtjse practices, which 
Ind 80 lopg existed at the dictation of an indlgvnions V)riesthood, except fortho 
powerful interference of England co^ild not have been abolished. 

Opinions like these, I am persuaded, prevail throupfhout the educated 
com?nuii:ty, and tlio presence of British rule amongst them is recog- 
nised as indispensably in thj j^rescnt state of Hindu society. 


Vlith. respect to a successful invasion of India, it must bo confessed 
that the English mind has always been keenly HuseepUble of alana. 
The wide plains of Illsdustan, which oSfor so ready an aeccss to ag;J^f*e^«- 
ivo armies, the absence of fortified places, and t-io f^''^qU'".n^y with v.-hiL-h 
India lias been won and lost in a single pitched battle, all tend to en- 
courage the belief that some day or other British domination will be in 

* A Hindu GenVemaiVi lUfiectiona, Spiers, Loi'don, 1ST3. 
. t Widow-burning. J The Bwiug-sacrifico.^ 


danger from some incursion of this sort. It may be observed that for 
nearly a century past the English nation has been Kubj« ctod to pt-rrodic 
fits of Indian panic. Sir John Kayo, in his "Ilistoiy of tii" Ai^l^iii 
War," gtr»tos that in 1707 the whole of India was ki-pt " la n ehroai'j Ht::to 
of nnrc'fet" from thj fears of an Afghan descent upoji tlu' plains c^f JJir- 
dustan. In 1800 the Emperoi Paul of Kussia and Njii>olt'on cone ivtd 
*'a mad and impracticable scheme of invasion," which greatly d 
local alarm. In 1800 these fears assumed even larg.-r proportions wli; n 
an alliance between Napoloon and Persia was on foot with a view to th ) 
proposed invasion ; and the miasion to Pc rsia undt^r Sir John Alakolin 
was inaugurated. In 1838 Russia took the place which Zr-nian Shah, 
Persia, and Napoleon had previously occupied, and the disastrous inva- 
sion of Afghanistan was commenced by Lord Auckland from his moun- 
tain ratrrat at Simla. 

Since that p3riod the suspicions of the nation have been coutinually 
directed against Bussia by a small but able piirty, who, from th'.ir chi- lly 
belonging to tha Presidtncy of Bombay, have been t. rmcd the Bombay 
school. The lata General John Jacob was tha originator of th'3 anti- 
Russian policy inculcated by them. He was a man of gr* at al»illty and 
original views, and, if he had moved in a widtr spht rt^, he might havo 
kft a name equal to that of the most illustrious of his countrynicn in 
India. But hi passed the greater part of his life on the barron wast s 
of Slnd, and rai*eiy came in contact with superior minds. In isr^d G n- 
cral Ja3ob addressed a singularly able papnr to Lord Canning, tli n 
Governor-General, and which Sir Lewis Polly aftir wards j)nl)lishjd to 
the world.* This was just at the closj of thj €rinioau War, wh ^n 
England was about to undertake an expedition against Persia to rop 1 
her aggression on Herat. It was Jacob's firm conviction that, uiile-s 
India interposed, Russia, having Persia comjiletely und.T h'.r control, 
could, whenever she pleased, take possession not onlj'^ of H.rat, but of 
Candahar, and thus find an entrance to the plains of India, on which 
our dominion was to disappear. To thwart this contingtmcy, and r.n- 
der the approach of a European army towards our frontier irapossil^L^ 
he would, as an ultimate measure, garrison Herat with twenty thous:xnd 
troops, but in the fii*st instance would occupy Quetta. These proposals 
were carefully considered by Lord Canning's Government, but were re- 

The same arguments were brought forward eleven years later l)y Sir 
Bartle Frere, whilst Governor of Boinbay, and were laid before the 
Government of India. That Government was then remarkably strong, 
consisting of Lord Lawrence, Sir William Mansfield (Lord Sandhurst), 
Sir Henry Maine, Mr. Massey, and Ma jor-Generai Sir Henry Durand \ 
but the proposals to improve our frontier by extending our dominions 
westward, and by the annexation of indeijendent foreign territoiy, v/cre 
nnaiiimourily disapproved of, 

* Viewa and Opinions of General John Jacob. LondoD^ 1863, 


About the same time that Sir Bartle "FTzra was cndcavomring to stinm- 
lato the Government of India to occupy Quetta, my distinguish<^d col- 
league and friend, Sir Henry Eawlinson, published t^A^o articles in tho 
*' Quarterly Il3view,"* in which he calkd the attention of the public 
to the rapidly incr; asing extension of the Kussian dominions in the di- 
rection of our Indian frontier, and to the necessity of maintaining out- 
works such as Herat and Candahar for the protection- of our Eastern 
Empire. But he raised the question in a more solemn form in the con- 
fidential memonindum which he transmitted to the Government of 
India in 1S68, and which ho afterwards published in 187"),! with 
additional matter, forming a complete conspectus of the aggressivo 
policy to be adopted to guard against a Bussian invasion. The views of 
the Government of India on these papers have not, I- beUevo, been 
given to the world, but it is well knov/n in Indian circles that the mas- 
terly activity therein advocated did not find acceptance. 

At the present moment Russophobia is raging to a greater extent than 
at any previous period ; but this is ground on which for the present I 
am precluded from entering. It is gratifying to observe, however, that 
in the great conflict of opinion which, as it will be seen, has thus been 
raging for the last forty years, as to the best method of protecting our 
north-westsrn frontier from an invading foe, both schools have ulti- 
mately agreed on one conclusion, namely, that a successful invasion of 
India by Russia is in nowise probable. The one side would avert any 
possibility of an attack by the occupation of Afghanistan, the Sukimau 
mountains, and probably the Hindu Kush ; the other would husband the 
resources of India, and not waste blood and treasure in anticipation of 
a conflict that may possibly never occur, and that certainly never will 
occur without years of warning to the nation. 

I cannot puri^ue this interesting question further at a moment when 
the whole question of our policy on the Indian frontier is ripening for 
discussion, and when the materials on which a sound conclusion can be 
drawn are not yet laid before the public. It is suffioient for my present 
purpose to repeat that the probability of British dominion in the East 
being terminated by a Russian invasion is rejected on all sides. 


If the views which have been now put forward are at all sound, wc 
may p:rhaps conclude that whilst our Indian empire requires on tlio 
part of its rulers the utmost watchfulness to guard against dangers and 
contingencies which may at any moment arise, yet that with ordinarily 
wis3 government v/e may look forward to a period of indefinitely long 
dumtion during which British dominion may flourish. That sooner or 
later the links which connect England with India will be severed, all his- 
tory teaches us to expect ; but when that severance occurs, if the grow- 
ing spirit of philantrophy and increasing sense of national morality 

* October 1365, and October 1860. f England and Rustia in the EobU Murray. 


"which characterise the nineteenth century continue, wc may fairly hope 
that the Englishman v/ill have taught tha Hindus how to f'jovem thora- 
Balves. It is Eagianci'd task, as h.r..tofor6, "to t, ach otii.r liation;^ iio-.v 
to iivc." A V€ry long pjriod, however, is required b-jfor.^ th t i> twon ca:i 
be fuHy learned, and tlio holders of Indian BLCuritics noid n»t i- ar that 
tha reversionary interests of th ir grandchildren will be end i iu'*r d. 
Our rule in India dates back little more than a century ; and alilioi!.jh 
from the first a wise spirit of toleration and an eminent dosiro to do ju ;- 
tice have prevailed, it is only within the last thirty or forty years 
any serious attempts to elevate the character of the nation have bccu 

The educational movement, which is silently producing prodigious 
changes in India, received its first impulse from England, and the clause 
in the Act of Parliament* which recognised the duty of cduoatiug 
the masses, enabled men like Lord I\Iacaulay, ISir Edward Ilyan, and 
others, to lay the foundations of a system which has since established 
itself far and wide. But the Court of Directors never took ht-artily to 
this great innovation of modern times, and it was only under the direc- 
tion of English statesmanship that the Indian authorities were induced 
to act with vigour in this momentous undertaking. Sir Charles V/ood's 
celebrated minute on education, in 1S58, laid the foundation of a national 
system of education, and the principles then inculcated have never since 
been departed from. Some generations v/iU require to pass before the 
Oriental mind is enabled to substitute the accurate forms of European 
thought for the loose speculations that have prevailed through long cen- 
turies. But already happy results are appearing, and in connection with 
the subject of this article it may be noticed as a most hopeful sign of 
the future that our English schools are turning out native statesmen by 
whom ail our best methods of government are being introduced into the 
dominions of native princes. 

The administration reports of # some of these gentlemen may vie with 
those of our best English officers ; and the names of Sir Dinkar Kao, 
Sir Madava Rao, Sir Salar Jung, and others, give full indication that 
among the natives of India may be found men eminently qualified for 
the task of government. Wittingly or unwittingly, English officials in 
India are preparing materials which some day or other will form the 
groundwork for a native empire or empires. I was thrown closely into 
contact with the Civil Service whilst I was in India, for I employed ail 
my vacations in travelling through the country, mostly at a foot's pace. 
Everywhere I went I found a cultivated Enghsh gentleman exerting him- 
self to the best of his ability to extend the blessings of civilisation — 
justice, education, the development of ail local resources. I firmly be- 
lieve that no government in the world has ever possessed a body of ad- 
ministrators to vie with the Civil Service of India. Nor do I speak only 
of the service as it existed under the East India Company, for, from ail 

* 59 Geo. III. c 65. 8. 43. 


- i 

that I have heard and observed, competition supplies quite as good ser- 
vants of the State as did in earlier days the patronage of the Court of 
Dii'ectors. The trath is, that tho exccUenca of the result has bsen 
attributable in nowise to the mode of selection, but to tho local circum- 
stances which call forth in cither case, in the young Englishman of 
decent education and of the moral tone belonging to the middle classes 
of this couuti'y, the beet quahties of his nature. But in these ener- 
getic, high-principled, and able administrators we have a danger to 
good government which it is necessary to point out. Every English- 
man in office in India has great power, and every Englishman, as the 
lato Lord Lytton once observed to me, is in heart a reformer. His na- 
tive energy will not enable him to sit still v/ith his hands before him. 
He must be improving something. The tendency of the English 
official in India is to over-reform, to introduce what he may deem 
improvements, but which turn out egregious failures, and this, be it 
observed, amongst the most conservative people of the world. Some of the 
most carefully devised schemes f op- native improvement have culminated 
in native djterioration. A remarkable illustration of this position is 
affordad by the late inquiry into the causes of the riots among the cul- 
tivators of the Deccan. It has been one of the pretensions of British 
administration that they have instituted for tho first time in India pure 
and impartial courts of justice. And the boast is well founded. In the 
Presidency of Bombay also the Government has substituted long leases 
of thirty years on what may be called Crown Lands for the yearly hold- 
ings formerly in vogue. They have also greatly moderated the assess- 
ment. The result has been that land in the Bombay Presidency from 
being unsaleable has acquired a value of from ten to twenty years' pur- 
chase. But the effect of these two measures upon the holders of thsse 
lands has been disastrous. Finding themselves possessed of property 
on which they could raise money with facihty, they have indulged this 
national propensity out of all proportion to their means; and the 
money-lenders in their turn drag the improvident borrowers before a 
court of justice, and obtain decrees upon the indisputable terms of the 
contract, which no judge feels competent to disregard. 

Another danger of the same sort arises from the short term of office 
which is allowed to officials in the highest places in India. When the 
Portuguese had large dominions in India, they found that their Viceroys, 
if permitted to remain a long time in the East, became insubordinate, 
and too powerful for the Government at Lisbon to control. They ac- 
cordingly passed a law limiting the tenure of office to five years. This 
Ihnitation seems to have been adopted tacitly in our Eastern administra- 
tive system, and has undoubtedly been observed for more than a cen- 
tury. But the period of five years is very short to enable either a Grov- 
ernor-General, or Governor, or member of Council to leave his mark oa 
tho country ; and there is a temptation to attempt something dazzling 
which would require for its proper fulfilment years to elaborate, but 
which, if not passed at the moment, would fail to illustrate the era. 


It is iiee<fleBa to observe that a serieg of ill-considered changes, a con- 
stent succession of new laws to be followed by amendt d law:i in the 
next cession, attempts to change manners and practices (not iinmonU in 
themselves^ that have prevailed for centuri-: s, ail tend to make a govern- 
ment, especially a foreign government, odious. But there is one other 
rock which it is above all essential to avoid \vhen we are considering the 
problem how best to preserve the duration of British government for 
the benefit of India. Every ardent administrator desires improvements 
in his own department; roads, railways, canals, irrigation, improved 
courts of justice, more efficient poHco, all find earnest advocates in tlio 
high plsiceB of government. But improved administration is always 
costly, and requires additional taxation. I fear that those in authority 
too often forget that the wisest iTikrs of a despotic government have 
always abstained from laying fresh burdms on the people. It is, in 
fact, the chief merit of such a government that the taxes ara ordinarily 
light, and are such as are familiarised by old usage. New taxes im- 
posed without the will, or any appeal to the judgment, of the people 
create the most dangerous kind of disaffection. But if this is true gen- 
erally, it is especially trae in India, where the population is extremely 
poor, and where hitherto the financier has not been enabled to make 
the rich contribute their due quota to the revenue of the country. 

It has been said by some that we have not yet reached the limits of 
taxation in India, but to them I v/ould oppose the memorable saying of 
Lord Mayo towards the close of his career. " A feehng of discontent 
and dissatisfaction existed," in his opinion, "among every class, both 
European and native, on account of the constant increase of taxation 
that had for years been going on ;" and he added : " The continuance of 
that feeling was a poUtical danger, the magnitude of which could hardly 
be over-estimated." The Earl of Northbrook quoted and fully endorsed 
this opinion in his examination before the House of Commons in the 
present year.* 

But although this constant aim at improvement among our English 
administrators too often leads to irritating changes, harassing legislation, 
and new fiscal charges on the people, causes are at work which tend to 
eliminate these obstacles to good and stable government. In oiu: experi- 
mental application of remedies to evils patent on the surface, our blun- 
ders have chiefly arisen from our ignorance of the people. Institutions 
that had been seen to work well in Europe might, it was thought, be 
transplanted safely to India. Experience alone could teach that this is 
often a grievous error ; but experience is being daily alTorded by our 
prolonged rule, and by our increasing acquaintance with the habits, 
wants, and feelings of the people. The tendency also to change and 
improvement, which I have before observed upon as leading to iil-con- 
eidered measures, operates hero beneficially, for there is never any hesi- 
tation in a local government to reverse the proceedings of its pradeces- 
Bors when found to work injuriously for the c ommunity. 

• Jiepcrt on East India PvJbUo Work; p. 86. 


But the most cheering symptom of future good goyemment in India 
is the increased disposition of British rulers to associate natives of char- 
acter and ability with thems'lves in liigh oijic(-s of administration. Par- 
liament so long ago as 1833 laid down the principle that no natiA''o shall 
by reason of his religion, place of birth, or colour, be disabled from 
holding any office. Her gracious Majesty also in IS.'/S proclaimed her 
will " that so far as may be, our subjects, of whatever race or creed, ba 
impartially admitti^d to offices in our service, the duties of which they 
may be qualified by their education, ability, and integrity duly to dis- 

Many obstacles have hitherto prevailed, chiefly arising out of tha 
vested interests of a close Civil Service, to prevent full operation being 
given to a pohcy eo solemnly laid down. But it is no broach of official 
propriety to announce that Lord Cranbrook has earnestly taken up the 
proposals of the present Viceroy to clear away the difficulties which have 
hitherto intervemd, and has sent out a despatch to India which it may 
bo fairly anticipated will meet the aspirations of educated natives, and 
will greatly strengthen the foundations of British government in the 

It will thus be seen that several factors are at work vfhich cannot fail, 
under tlie continued rule of the British Government, to have most ben- 
eficial efiects on the national character of India. A system of education 
is being estabhehed which is opening a door for the introduction of all 
the knov/ledgo accumulated in Europe, and which sooner or later must 
greatly dissipate that ignorance which is at the bottom of so many ob- 
stacles to good government in the East. Equality before the law and 
the supremacy of law have been fully brought home to the cognisance of 
every inhabitant of India, and they form a striking contrast, fully ap- 
preciated by the Hindus, to the arbitrary decisions and the race prerog- 
atives which characterised their former Mahomedan rulers. Continuous 
efforts at improvement are v»^itnessed in every zillah of India, and if they 
sometimes fail in their operation it is still patent that the permanent 
welfare of the people is the constant aim and object of Government. 
Moreover, the ready car tendered to any expression of a grievance, the mi- 
nute subjection of every act of authority in India, from the deputy magis- 
trate up to the Governor-General, to the scrutiny of the Home Govern- 
ment, secure to the meanest inhabitant of India a hearing, and inspire 
the consciousness that he also is a member of the State, and that his 
rights and interests are fully recognised. The association of natives 
with ourselves in the task of government, which has been commenced 
in the lower branches of the judicial administration with thp greatest 
success, and which is now about to be attempted on a larger scale, as I 
have before noted, is also a fact of the greatest gravity. On the whole, 
after very close attention to Indian administration for nearly forty years, 
of which about twelve were spent in the country itself in a position 
where I was enabled to take an impartial view of what was going on 
axound me, I am of opinion that a bright future presents itself, and, if 


I coold see my way more clearly on the very important questionB cf 
casta and of tbe future rGligion of India, I should say a brilliant futures 
in vrhich perhaps for centuries to come the supremacy of England will 
prodnco the happiest results in India 


But I must not close this article without reference to the very diflvrrnt 
views v/hich have been lately put forth in this Eeview under th-^ sensa- 
tional title of the "Bankruptcy cf India." Mr. Ilyndman, after much 
study of Indian statistics, has arrived at the conclusion that "India has 
been frightfully impoverished undv:r our rule, and that the process is 
going on now at an increasingly rapid rate." Tho rp venue r.iisid by 
taxation is about 30,000,000/., and "is taken absolutely out of (ho 
pockets of the people," three-fourths of whom arc engaged in agricul- 
ture. The increase of 12,000,000'. in tho revenue which lias occurred 
between 18r>7 and 187G "comes almost entirely out of the pockt f s of tho 
cultivators," and "the greater part of tho increase of th-^ salt, stamps, 
and excise is derived from tho same source." The cost of maintaining a 
prisoner in the cheapest part of India is rA'tft. a head, or, making allovr- 
anco for children, iCs. ; but the poor cultivator "has only 31.9. Vui., from 
Trhich he must also defray the charges * * for sustenance of bullocks, the 
cost of clothing, repairs to implements, house, <S:c., and /(;•/• taxnlJov,'''' 

He states the debt of India to be " enormous," amounting to 220,000,- 
000^. Bterhng, principally accumulated in the last few years. Tho rail- 
ways have been constructed at ruinous cost, for which tho " unfortimato 
ryot has had to borrow an additional five or ten or twenty rupees of tho 
native money rlender at 24, 40, GO per cent., in order to pay extra taxa- 
tion." Irrigation works "tell nearly tho same sad tab. Here again 
miUions have been squandered — squandere'd needlessly." Moreover, 
tho land is fast becoming deteriorated or is being worso cultivated. In 
short, through a long indictment of twenty-three pages, of whicli I omit 
many counts, he cannot find a single act of British administration that 
meets his approval. All is naught. It is true that the Civil Service of 
India is composed of men who have gained their posts by means of tho 
best education that England can supply, and who from an early period 
of manhood have devoted their lives to the practical solution of tho many 
difficult problems which Indian administration presents. But Mr. Hjiid- 
man finds fault with them aU. 

The article itself is couched in such an evident spirit of philanthropy 
that one feels unwilling to notice pointedly the blunders, the exaggerations, 
and the inaccuracies into which tho v/riter has fallen. But Mr. Hyndman 
has entered the hsts so gallantly with a challenge to all the Anglo-Indian 
world, that ho of coinse CTipects to encounter somo hard knocks, writing, 
as he does, on a subject with whicli he has no practical acquaintance. He 
has already received " a swashing blow " r^Kpoetingtho agricultural statis- 
tics on which ha bases the whole of his argunicnt. On data supplied to him 
by An able native writer, whom I know intimately and for whom I have tho 


highest respect, he has drawn conclnsions which are so manifestly ab- 
surd, that aU practically acquainted with the subject are tempted to 
throw aside his article as mero rubbish. But Mr. Dadobhai, like him- 
self, has no knowledge of the rural life of India, or of agriouiture gen- 
erally, or of the practical business of administration. Ho 1$ a man who 
has passed his whole hfe in cities, an excellent mathematician, of un- 
wearied industry, and distinguished, even among his countrymen, for 
his patriotic endeavours to improve their condition. But the mere study 
of books and of figures — especially of the imperfect ones which hith- 
erto have characterised the agricultural statistics of India — is not suffi- 
cient to constitute a great administrator ; and when Mr. Dadobhai, after 
making himself prominent by useful work in the municipality of Ecm- 
bay, v/as selected to fill the high office of Prime Minister to the Gatk- 
war of Baroda, he was not deemed by his countrymen to have displayed 
any great aptitude in statesmanship.* 

The alarming picture drawn by Mr. Hjnidman on data thus supplied 
attracted the attention of the greatest authority in England on agricul- 
tural matters ; for intrinsic evidence clearly shows that the letters signed 
*' C," which appeared in the Times of the 5th of October and the Dth 
of October, can proceed from no other than Mr. Caird. His refutation 
of Mr. Hyndman's pessimist views is so short, that I give the pifh of it 
here : — 

The conclusions arrived at are so startling that though, like Mr. Ilyndman, 1 have 
never been in India, I, as an alarmed Enelishinau, have tried to test th'.^ ytrougth of 
the basis upon which they rest. The only dfaZ-a I have at hand are taken from the 
figures in the last year's report of the Punjab. The number of cultivated acres 
there agrees with those quoted by Mr. Hyudman — say 21,000,000 acres — and 1 adopt 
his average value of U. 14s. per acre. 

Thj Government asaessment is 1.905,000?., to pay which one-sixth of the wheat 
crop [the produce of 1,120,000] would have to be sold and exported. 'J'here would 
remain for consumption in the country the produce of 5,500,000 acres of wheat and 
of 12.000 000 acres of other grain, the two sufficing to yield for a year 2 lb. p«r head 
ptT day for the population of 17,000,000, which is more than double the weight of 
corn eaten by the people of this country. Besides this, they would have for con- 
sumption their garden vegetables and milk ; and beyond it the money value of 
8-15,000 acn s of oil-seed, 720.000 acres of cotton and hemp, 391,000 acres of sugar- 

* The career of Mr. Dadobhai Naoroji illustrates in a remarkable manner the ope- 
ration of the system of education introduced under our crovernment. A Parsi, bom 
in liombay of very poor parents, he received his education at the Elphiustone Col- 
lege, where he displayed fo much iutelligenee that in 1845 an English gentleman, 
d.!sirou3 to open up a new carec r for educated natives, offered to send him to Eng- 
land to study for the bar if any of the wealthy merchants of his community would pay 
half the expenses. But in those days tlie Parsis, like the Hindus, dreaded contact 
with England, and the offv r f j11 to the ground. Dddobhai continued at the College, 
where he obtained employment as a teacher, and subsequently became professor of 
mathematics, no native having previously filled such a post. In 1845 he left scholas- 
tics and joined the first native mercantile house established in London. This firm 
commenced with great success, and DAdobhai no sooner found himself master of 
5,000'. than he devoted it to public objects ili his native city. The house of Messrs. 
Cama subseoueutly failed, and Dadobhai returned to Bombay, where, as above 
totc'd, he look an active part in municipal affairs, and was subsequently apj)ointed 
Dewau to the Gaekwar. He is now canyiug ou business as a merchant oa his own 
account in Londaik 


OMie, 190,000 acres of iDdigo, 69,000 acres of tobacco, 88,000 acres of ppiC(»^. dinCT, 
and dyes, 19.000 acres of poppy, and 8,800 acres of tea ; the Bgarn'pitv Vislii • cf w iiicli, 
without touching the com. would leave nearly twice the Govrhiiiuiit iips»'!s-:ii»< nt. 

■Mr. Hyndraan has committed the orror of aigtiin},' from au ICnj,' '.hIi iruw v vn'no 
at th3 plaice of production ujKin articles of con^iuinption, the true value i.f wlivn is 
their food-sustaining power to the people who coueume them. 

When an argument is thus found so compkt-ely ptcJirr par Sff husr^ 
it is needless to pursue it further. But I couceive that Mr. Hyiidin.iii, 
when studying tiiis overwhehning refutation, must feel koiik what cou- 
science-stricken when he reperuses such seutciices of his own as the 
following: — **In India at this time, miUions of the ryots nr-^ growin*^ 
wheat, cotton, seeds, and other exhausting crops, and send tliem away 
because these alone will 'enable them to pay their way at aU. Tliey :irj 
themselves, nevertheless, eating less and less of worse food vaAi }\ ar,. 
in spite, or rather by reason, of the increasing cxi)orts." Thus a ItiniK r 
is damaged by finding new markets for his produce ! • And Iil- k -lis his 
wheat, which is the main produce of his arable land in thos(} parts of 
India where it flourishes, to buy some cheaper grain which his huid 
does, not grow I The youngest assistant in a collector's cRtal)lishni«.ut 
could inform Mr. Hyndman that the food of the agricultural population 
of India consists of the staple most suitable to the soil of tho district : 
in the Punjab wheat, in Bengal and all well-watered lowlands rico, on 
the tablelands of the Deccan jowi'ri (Jiolcus sorfihuin) and b'ljri (pfft,}- 
cum iq)icatum\ on the more sterile plateau of Southern India the infe- 
rior grain ragi {fluesyne coracauna). 

It must have been under tho dominion of the idea produced by Mr. 
Daddbhai's statistics as to the thoroiighly wretched state of the agricul- 
tural population of India that Mr. Hyndnian has been led mto exagg.r- 
ated statements which his own article shows ho knew to bo inaccurato. 
A dreadful case of misgovemment existed in India, and, thoroughly to 
arouse his countrymen to the fact, it was necessary to pile up tho agony. 
Thu.s, in one part of his article he states that the *' enomioiLs debt" of 
India amounts to :>20,0{X),000^., but in a later portion he admits that it 
is only 127,000,000^., and he knows full well that the amount of 1(M),- 
(K)0,000/. of guaranteed railway debt is not only not a present d bt du3 
from Government, but is a very valuable property, which will probubly 
bring in some millions of revenue when they exercise their right of buy- 
ing up the interests of the several guaranteed companies. 

Again, he speaks throughout his article of tho excessive taxation im- 
posed on the poor, half-starved cultivators ; and he gives tho following 
table as showing the amount "taken absolutely out of tho j)ockets of 
the people :" — 

Land revenue - - - .- - - - £21.500 000 
Excise -------- 2,500,000 

Salt 6.2.10,000 

Stamps --------- 2,s:30.00^ 

Castpms - 2,720,000 

He thu=? maintains that the portion of tho rent paid to Govei-nment for 
occupation of the land is a tax upon the cultivator, which is about as 


true as to state that the 07,000,000^. v\' rei»tal in tho United Kingdom is 
a special tax on the farmers of this co virv. The apiount derived from 
excise is chiefly produced by the sale v/f fntoxicat'jig li'^aors, the uso of 
which is forbidden by tho social and religious vie vs or the cativf^s; and 
any contribution to the revenue under this head is .learly a voluntary act 
on the part of the transgressor. The revenue . rem stamps procec da 
chiefly from what may bo called taxes on justice ; ihey are, in my opin- 
ion, extremely objectionable, but weighty objectiv^us may be ui'gtd 
against nearly every tax, and a large portion of this tax falls on tho 
wealthier class of suitors. The amount contributed by the population, 
under the head of customs, although it may take money out of the pocket 
of the rayat, actually adds to liis store ; for, unless ho could buy iu the 
bazaar a piece of Manchester long-cloth cheaper than an article of do- 
mestic manufacture, it is manifest that he would select the latter. Thera 
remains only the- single article of salt on which the cultivator undoubt- 
edly is taxed, and which forms the solo tax from which he cannot escape. 
This tax also is extremely objectionable in theory, more perhaps than in 
practice, for it amounts to about 7^d. per head. But even if w^e tako 
tho whole amount of taxation as shown by Mr. Hyndman, excluding tho 
land revenue or rental of the land, the average per head is only l.*f. 6^. , 
of which more than one-third cai^ bo avoided at the pleasure of aay in- 
dividual consumer. It is not, then, a misstatement to aver that tha 
population of India is more hghtly taxed than any population in tho 
world living under an orderly government. 

I have thus far thought it my duty to expose what I believe, to bo 
grave errors in ^ir. Hyndman's sensational article. But I should do bim 
great injustice if I did not admit that he has brought out in vi\'id coloui's 
some very important facts. It is true that these facts arc well known to 
Indian aininistrators, but they are facts disagreeable to contemplate, and 
aro therefore slurred over willingly ; but they have such important bear- 
ing on the proceedings of Government in India that they cannot be too 
frequently paraded before the pubhc eye. 

The first of these truths is the undeniable poverty of the great bulk 
of tlio population. But hero Mr. Hyndman does not appear to me to 
have taken full grasp of the fact, or to have ascertained its causes. Tho 
dense population of India, amounting in its more fertile parts to "six and 
s 3ven hundred per square mile, is almost exclusively occupied in agri- 
cultural pursuits. But tho land of India has been farmed from ttmo 
immemorial by men entirely without capital. A farmer in this country 
has littlo chance of success unless he can supply a capital of 10/. to 20^ 
an acre. If Enghsh farms were cultivated by men as deficient in capi- 
tal as tho Indian rayats, they would bo all thrown on the parish in a 
year or two. Tho founder of a Hindu village may, by aid of his breth- 
ren and friends, have strength enough to break up tho jungle, dig a 
well, and with a few rupees in his pocket he ma}'' purchase seed for tho 
few acres ho can bring under tho plough. If a favourable harvest en- 
sue, ho has a largo surplua, out of which he pays the jamma or rent 


to Goverronent. Eiit on the first failnro of the periodical rains his 
withered crops disappear, ho has no capital whorewith to meet the Gov- 
ernment demand, to obtain food for his family and Block, or ir* piir-^Las^ 
seed for tbo coming year. To meet all th*.so "wants h ; jnust Imvo ro- 
coTirsa to the village money-lender, who has alwayj formed ii.) iiid>p'.n- 
Fablo a member of a Hindu agricultural community ai tho pIoiK Lilian 

From time immemorial the cultivator of the soil in Ind'a lia<i liv« d 
from hand to mouth, and when his hand could not supply Lis mouth 
from the stores of the last harvest he has been driven to the local 
Gankar or money-lender to obtain the means of existence. This is tho 
first great cause of India's poverty. The second is akin to it, for it 
exists in the infinite divisibihty of property which arises mider the 
Hindu system of succession, and which throws insuperable obstructions 
to the growth of capital. The rule as to property in Hindu life is 
that all the members of a family, father, jp.'andfather, children, and 
grandchildren, constitute an undividt-d j)^J^^crship, having equal 
shares in the property, although one of them, generally the eldtst, is 
recognised as tlie manager. It is in the power of any member to 
sever liiniself from tho family group, and the tendency of our Govern- 
ment has been to encourage efforts of what maj*^ be called individual- 
ism. But the new stock is but the commencement of another undi- 
vided family, so strong is the Hindu feehng in favour of this time- 
honoured custom. It is obvious that where the skill, foresight, and 
thrlftiness required for the creation of capital may be thwarted by the 
extravagance or carelessness of any one of a large number of partners, 
its growth must be seriously impeded 

It will be seen, if the above arguments are sound, that the ob- 
structions which opposo themselves to the formation of capital arise 
out of immemorial usages, and are irremediable by any direct inter- 
ference of Government. But whatever may be the causes of this 
national poverty, the fact is undoubted, and it cannot be too steadily 
contemplated by those who desire to rely on fresh taxation for their 
favourite projects, whether it be for improved administration, for mag- 
nificent pubUc works, or for the extension of our dominions. Mr. 
Hyndman also points out the great expensiveness of a foreign govern- 
ment, and his remarks on this subject are undoubtedly true. The high 
ealaries requiiTed to tempt Enghshmen of suitable qualifications to expa- 
triate themselves for the better part of their Uves, and tho heavy dead 
•wreight of pensions and furlough charges for such officials, form, no 
doubt, a heavy burden on the resources of India. The costliness of a 
European army is, of course, also undoubtedly great. But these are charges 
Tvhich, to a loss or greater degree, are inseparable from the dominion of 
a foreign government. The compensation for them is to be found in 
the security they provide against a foreign invader or against internal 
disturbances, and the protection they afford, in a degree hithei-to un- 
known m India, to life, property, and character. But Mr. Hyndman*s 


diatribes are useful in pointing to the conclusion that all the efforts of 
Government should be directed towards the diminution of these charges, 
vvhcro compatible with efficiency, and his striking contrast of the homo 
military charges in 1802-63, v/hich then amounted to 2SL 35., and now 
have risen in the present year to OGL^ deserves most serious considera- 

There is only one other statement of Mr. Hyndman which I desire to 
notice. He declares the general opinion of the natives to be that life, 
as a whole, has become harder since the EngHsh took the country'-, 
and ho adds his own opinion that the fact is so. Mr. Hyndman, 
as wo have seen, knows but Httle of the actual life of the agricul- 
tural population, and of their state under native rule he probably knows 
less. But I am inclined to think he fairly represents a very prevailing 
belief amongst the natives. A vivid indication of this native feeling is 
given in the most instructive work on Hindu rural life that I have ever 
met v/ith.* Colonel Sleeman thus recounts a conversation he held with 
some natives in one of his rambles •- 

I got an old lanclo\viier from one of the villages to walk on with me a mile and 
put mo ill the right road. I asked him what liad been the state of the country under 
the former {government of the Jilts and Mahrattas, and was told that the greater part 
Vvas n wild juuji^lo. *' I remember," said the old man, " when you could not have got 
out of the road hereabouts without a good deal of risk, I could not have vent urod 
a liundrod yards from the village witirout the chance of having my clothes stripped 
off my back. Now the whole countiy is under cultivation, aiid the roads arc safe. 
Formerly the governments kept no faith with their landowners and cultivators, cst- 
acting ten rupees where thejr liad bargained for five whenever they foimd their orop3 
pood. Cut in epite of all tliis zulm (oppression) there was then more burkul (blcss- 
ing3 from above) than now ; the lands yielded more to the cultivator." 

Colonel Sleeman on the same day asked a respectable farmer what he 
thought of the latter statement. He stated: *'Tho diminished fertil- 
ity is ov/ing, no doubt, to the v/ant of those salutary fallows which the 
fields got under former governments, when invasions and civil wars 
v*^ere thmgs of common occurrence, and kept at least two-thirds of the 
land trasie." 

The fact is that, under an orderly government like ours, the causes 
alluded to above as impeding the growth of capital become very mnch 
aggravatsd. Population largely increases, waste lands are brought xin- 
d^r the plough, grazing grounds for stock disappear, and the fallows, 
formerly so beneficial in restoring fertility to the soil, can no longer bo 
kept free from cultivation. All these considerations form portions of 
the very difficult problems in government whioh day by day pressnt 
themselves to the Indian administrator. But does Mr. Hyndman thiifk 
they are to bo solved by recurrence to the native system of govern- 
ment; by the substitution of a local rul«*, sometimes patemad, more 
frequently the reverse, for the courts of justice which now administ r 
the law which can bo read and understood by all ; by civil contracts be- 
ing enforced by the armed servant of the creditor, instead of by tlio 

* JUfmbiM qfjin Indian Qjfieial, 184^^ 


officers of a court actmg nnder strict surveillance ; by the land assesS' 
ment being colle.cted year by year through the farmers of the revenue 
according to their arbitrary will, instead of b-jing jniyable in a 
small moderate* sum, uniiitei^bie for a long term of years? If ho 
thinks this — and his allusion to the system of the non-rt- gulation pro- 
vinces favours the conclusion — ho will not find, I think, an tducat d 
native in the whole of India v/ho will agree with him. 

There are great harshnesses in our nile, therj is a rigidity and exacti- 
tude of procedure which is often distastsful to native opinion, th'T^ are 
patent defects arising out of oiu: attempts to administer justic-^, th'*re is 
graat irritation at our constant aiid often ill-conceived expt nm.iuts in 
legislation, there is real danger in the fresh burdens we lay upon the 
p2ople in our desire to carry out apparently laudable reforms. But with 
all these blemishes, which have only to be distinctly p^rceiv^d to be 
removed from our administrative system, the educated native foels that 
he is gradually acquiring the position of a freeman, and he would not 
exchange it for that which Mr. Hyndman appears to desiderate. 

E. Pebby, in Nineteenth Century, 


If little seeds by slow degree 

Put forth their leaves and flowers unheard, 
Oar love had grown into a Xroc, 

And bloomed without a single word 

I haply hit on six o'clock, 

The hour her father came from town ; 
I gave his own peculiar knock, 

And waited slyly, like a clown. 

The door was open. There she stood, 

Lifting her mouth's delicious brim. 
How could I waste a thing so good ! 

I took the kiss she meant for him. 

A moment on an awful brink- 
Deep breath, a frown, a smile, a tear; 

And then, " O Robert, don't you think 

That that was rather— cavalier f " [L<ynd(m Society. 

* So long ago as the period when Colonel Sleeman wrote, the principle was fully 
established as to the moderation to bo observed in the Goverament assessment. Ho 

says: " We may rate the Government share at one-flfth as the maximum and one- 
tenth as the minimum of the ^ross proAx'-;." (Ramhlea of an Indian 0/ficial, vol. i. 
p. 2C»1.) In the Blue Book laid before Parliament laet Session on the Deccan riots, 
it Mill be seen that the Government share in the gross produce of those districts 
ivhere a high assessment was supposed to have created the disturbances was only 


It is a gonerally received opinion that all stage wardrobes are made np 
of tawdry rags, and that the landscapes and palaces that look bo charm- 
ing by gaslight are but mere daubs by day. But there are wardrobes 
and wardrobes, scenery and scenery. The dresses used for some great 
" get up " at the opara houses, or at the principal London and prcvin- 
ciai theatres, are costly and magnificent ; the scenery, although paintt cl 
for distance and artiiicial light, is really the product of artists of tak^i>t, 
and there is an attention to reality in all the adjimcts that would quite 
startle the believers in the tinsel and tawdry \^ew. A millionaire might 
take a lesson from the stage drawing-rooms of the Prince of Wales and 
the Court theatres, and no cost is spared to procure the real article, 
whatever it may be, that is required for the scone. These minutise of 
reahsm, however, are quite a modern id?a, dating no farther b^ck than 
the days of Boucicault and Fechter. Splendid scenery and gorgeous 
dresses for the legitimate dramas were introduced by John Kemble, aiid 
developed to the utmost extent by Macready and Kcan ; but it was re- 
served for the present decade to lavish the same attention and expenses 
upon the jjetite drama. Half a century ago the property maker man- 
ufactured the stage furniture, the stage books, the candelabra, curtaine, 
cloths, pictures, &c., out of papier mache and tinsel ; and the drawing- 
room or library of a' gentleman's mansion thus presented bore as much 
resemblance to the reality as sea-side furnished lodgings do to a ducal 
palace. Before the Kemble time a green baize, a couple of chairs and 
a table, sufficed for all furnishing purposes, whether for an inn or a 

In these days of ** theatrical upholstery," we can scarcely realize the 
shabbiness of the stage of the last century. There were a few hand- 
some suits for the principal actors, but the less important ones were 
frequently dressed in costumes that had done service for fifty yeans, 
until they were worn threadbare and frequently in rags. Endeavour to re- 
ahsm upon the modern stage such a picture as this given by Tate Wilkui- 
son, of his nppearance at Co vent Garden as "The Fine Gentleman," 
in "Lethe." "A very short old suit of clothes, with a black 
velvet ground, and broad, gold flowers as dingy as the twenty- 
four letters on a piece of gingerbread; it had not seen the light 
since the first year Garrick played * Lothario,' at the theatre. 
Bedecked in that sable array for the modern *Fine Gentleman,' and 
to make the aiDpearanco complete, I added an old red Burtout, trimmed 
with a dingy white fur, and a deep skinned capo of the same hue, bcr- 
rowed by old Giffard, I v/as informed, at Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, 
to i)lay *£ing Lear' in," When West Digges appeared at the Hay - 



market as Cardinal Wolsey, it was in tho identical dress that Barton 
Booth had worn in Queeu Anne's timo : a close-fitting habit of gilt 
leather upon a biack ground, black stockings, and bla^k gauntlv-ts. No 
wonder Foote, who was in the pit, exclaimed, upon tho appearance of 
this extraordinary figure, **A iiomau sweep on May-d:iyl" Whjn 
Quin played the youthful fascinating Chamout, in Otway's ** Orphan," 
he wore a long grisly half-powdered periwig, hanging low down each 
side his breast and down his back, a huge scarlet coat and waistcoat, 
heavily trimmed with gold, black velvet breechc-s, black silk neckcloth, 
black stockings, a^ pair of square-toed shoes, with an old-fashioned x^air 
of stone buckles, stiff .high-topped whit3 gloves, with a broad old 
scolloped lace hat. Such a costume upon a pL'i*sonage not in liis first 
youth, and more than inclined to obesity, must have had a:i odd eflf.ict. 
But then, as is well known, Garrick plnycd '* Macbeth" iu a scarlet 
coat and powdared wig; John Kemble performed ** Othello" in a full 
suit of British scarlet regimentsds, and even when ho had gone so far as 
to dress "Macbeth" as a highlander of 174."), wore in his bonnet a tre- 
mendous hearsa plume, until Scott plucked it out, and placed an eagle's 
feather there in its staad. The costumes of tho ladies were ahnost 
more absurd. Whether they appeared as Komans, Greeks, or females 
of the Middle Ages, they dressed the same — in the hugo hoop, and 
powd 2red hair raised high " upon the head, heavy brocaded robes that 
required two pages to hold up, without whose assistance they could 
scarcely have moved ; and servants were dressed quite as magnificently 
as their mistresses. 

In scenery there was no attempt at **Bet§; '• a drop, and a pair of 
"flats," dusty and dim with age, were all the scenic accessories; and 
tTiTO or threo hoops of tallow candies, suspended above tho stigc, wero 
all that represented th3 blaze of gas and Ume-hght to which wo ara 
accustomed. Tho candle-snuffer was a theatrical post of some respon- 
sibility in those daj^s. Garrick was the first who used concealed Ughta. 
The uncouth appeai-ance of the stage was rendered still worse on 
crowded nights by ranges of seats raised for spectators on each side. 
The most ridiculous coittretemps freqxiently resulted from this incon- 
pxaity. Romeo, sometimes, when he bore out the body of JuUet from 
the solitary tomb of the Capulets, had to almost force his way through 
a throng of beaux, and Macbeth and his lady plotted the murder of 
Dimcan amidst a throng of people. 

One night, Hamlet, upon the appv-^arance of the Ghost, threw off his 
hat. as usual, preparatory to the address, when a kind-hearted dame, 
who had heard him just before complain of its being ^'veiy cold," 
])icked it up and good-naturedly clapped it upon his head again. A 
similar incident once happened during the performance of Pizarro. 
Elvira is discovered asleep upon a couch, gracefully covered by a rich 
velvet cloak; Valverde enters, kneels and kisses her hand; Elvira 
awakes, ris38 and lets fall the covering, and is about to indignantly re- 
pulse her unwelcomd Tisitor, whea a timid female Yoice says : '^Pleaaei 


. ma*am, you've dropped your mantle," and a timid hand is trying to 
replace it upon tlie tragedy queen's shoulders. Of another kind, but 
very much worse, was an accident that befiil Mr>i. Siddons at lidi-n- 
burgh, at the hands of another person who falLd to distinguish bot\y<-;tn 
the refil person and the counterfeit. Just before going on for the slotp- 
waiking-ocene, she had sent a boy for some porter, but the cue for her 
entrance was given before ho returned. The house was awed into 
shuddering silence as, in a terrible whisper, she uttered the worJj 
" Out, out, damned spot !" and with slow mechanical action rubbed the 
guilty hands ; when suddenly there emerged from the wings a small 
figure holding out a pewter pot, and a shrill voice broke the awful 
silence with " Here's your porter, mum." Imagine the feelings of tha 
stately Siddons ! The story is very fimny to read, but depend upon it 
the incident gave her the most cniel anguish. 

It is not, however, to the iminitiated outsiders alone we are indf-btcd 
for ludicrous stage contretemps ; the experts themselves have frequently 
given rise to thr^ijii. All readers of Eiia wih remember th3 narn^^ of 
Bensley, one of "the old actors " uj)on whom he discourses so eloquently 
— a grave jprecise man, whose composure no accident could ruffle, as tl-e 
following anecdote will prove. One night, as he was making his first 
entrance as liichard III. , at the DubUn Theatre, his wig caught upon a 
nail in the side scene, and was dragged off. Catching his hat by the 
feather, however, he calmly r3placed it as he walked to the centre of the 
stage, but left his htiir sijiU attached to the nail. Quite unmoved by th 3 
occurrence, he commenced his sohioquy ; but so rich a subject coiiid 
not escape the wit of an Irish audience. "Bensley, darlin'," shouted a 
voice from the gallery, "put on your jaiscyl" "Bad luck to yoiu: 
pohtics, will you suifer a U'/u'(/ to be hung ?" shouted another. But the 
tragedian, deaf to all clamour, never faltared, never betrayed the Last 
annoyance, spoke the speech to the end, stalked to the wing, detached 
the wig from the nail, and made his exit with it in his hand. 

Novices under the influence of stage fright will say and do the most 
extraordinary things. Some years ago, I witnessed a laughable incident 
during the performance of "Hamlet" at a theatre in the North. Al- 
though a very small part, consisting as it does of only one speech, tho 
" Second Actor " is a very difficult one, the language being pecuharly 
cramped. In the play scene he assasjJinates the player king by pouring 
poison into his ear. The spoech proceding the action is as follows : 

Thouglits black, haiuls apt, drajjs fit, and time agreeing ; 
ContLMderatu season, else no creature 8.x'i!ig ; 
'J'hou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, 
With He'-ate's ban thrice; blasted, thrice infected, 
Thy natnral ma^ic and dire property 
On wholesome life usurp imuiea:utely. 

Upon which follows the stage direction — ^^ Pours poison into h'a 

In a play of so many characters as Hamlet, such a part, in a second- 
daM theatre, can be given only to a very inferior performer. The ono 


to whom it was entrusted on the present occasion was a novic?. Muf- 
fl}d in a black coat and a black sioacbed hat, and with a fact) half h:ddv?n 
b/ burnt cork, ha looked a most viliainons villain, as ho Btob on a. id 
•71^ d about in th3 most approved mjlo-dramatic fashion. Then ho bo- 
j_,aii, in a strong north country bro^^ue, — 

Thoughts black, haiid^* spt,— 
ta?n his memory failf^d him, and he stuck fast. The prompt( r whis- 
j).r.d "drugs fit;" but stags fright had seized liim, and he could not 
tili 3 tha word. He tried back, but stuck again at the same j^lacc. Ifp.If- 
a-.!02on people were all prompting him at the same time now, but all in 
v.i'ji. At length one more practical than the rcst whispered angrily, 
"Pour the poison in his ear and get off." The suggestion restored a 
glimmering of reason to the trembling, perspn-iDg wretuh. Ho could 
not remember the words of Shakespeare, so he improvised a hne. Ad- 
vancing to the sleeping figure, ho raised the vial in his hand, and in *% 
tembly tragic tone shouted, " Into his ear-hole this I'll power /^^ 

Seme extraordinary and agonising mistakes, for tragedians, have been in what are called the flying messages in "liichard HI." and 
'* Slacbeth," by novices in their nervousness. mixing up their own parts 
wiih tho context ; as when Catisby rushed on and cri'-d, "My lord, the 
Duke ol BucktDgham's taken." There he should have stopped while 
Eichard replied, " Off with his head I so much for Buckingham !" But 
in his flurry the shaking messenger added, "and they've cut off his 
h-ad!" Yvith a furious look at having been robbed of one-^of his finest 
"points,'^ the tragedian roared out, "Then, damn you, go and stick it 
on again i" Another story is told of an actor playing one of the ofiicers 
in the fifth act of "Macbeth." "My lord," he has to say, "there are 

t.'n thousand " "Geese, villain," inteiTupts Macbeth. "Ye — cs, 

my lord I" answered the messenger, losing his memory in his terror. 

Eut a far more dreadful anecdote is relutJd of the same play. A star 
■was playing the guilty Thane in a very small company', v/hcre each 
nieuiber had to sustain three or four di£l:fcrent charaetc rs. JJuring the 
p -rformance the man appointed to play the first murder, r was taken ill. 
There was not another to be spared, and the only resource left was to 
s-iid on a supernumerary, supposed to be iut-lligent, to stand for the 
clii.i'aeter. '"Kotp close to the jkrijg," said the x^rompter ; " Til read 
you the v/ords, and you can r<'peat them aft; r me." The scene was the 
le.-equet ? the supper waj pushed on, and Macbeth, striulng down tho 
B/i.e, s.iz.d his arm and said in a stage whisper, " There's blood upon 
thy face." " 'Tis Banquo's, then," the prompt. Lost and bewil- 
d vid — having never spoken in his life before upon the stage — by tho 
tragedian's intense yet natural tones, tho fellow, Iniilaling them in the 
most confidential manner, answered, ' ' Is there, by God Jr" put liis hand 
up to his forehead, and, finding it stained with pose pink, added, *' Then 
the property man's served me a trick I" 

Once upon a time I was present at the performance of" the celebrated 
dog piece, * ' The Forest of Bondy," in a small country theatre. The plot 


turns upon a well-kno"wn story, the discovery of a murder through the 
sagacity of tha victim's dog. The play -bill descanted most eloquently 
upoJi tha \7onderful genius of tiio •'highly traiacd" animal, aud v..u-: 
Guliicicnt to raiso cxpoctation on i"p-too. Yft it had evidently fai]c?c^ to 
impress th-3 public of this town, th^-ir expcric'not'H prob-ib-y iiavl.ig tju^ 
dv,red them sce-ptical of sucli puiit-rlis, for tho hou:sj Wits m:3„r.ibly b.i;l. 
The first entrance of "the celebrated dog Goisar," hov/evor, in atfcvudaiica 
upon his master, was greeted with loud applause. He was a fine young 
black Newfoundland, whose features v/ere more descriptive of good nature 
than genius. He sat on his haunches and laughed at tha audience, and 
l^rickcd up his ears at the sound of a boy munching a biscuit in the pit. I 
could perceive he was a novice, and that he would forget all he had been 
taught when he came to the test. While Aubrey , the hero, is passing through 
a forest at night, he is attacked by two rufiians, and after a desperate co-ii- 
bat is killed ; the dog is supposed to be kept out of the way. But in 
the very midst of the fight, Caasar, whose barking had been distinctly 
heard all the time, nished on the stage. Far from evincing any 
ferocity towards his master's foes, he danced about with a joyous bark, 
evidently considering it famous fun. Aubrey was furious, and kicked 
out savagely at his faithful " dawg," thereby laj'ing himself open to tho 
swords of his adversaries, who, however, in consideration that the com- 
bat had not been long enough, generously refused tho advantages. 
** Get off, you beast !" growled Aubrey, who evidently desirrd to fight 
it out without canine interference. At length, when tho faltering ap- 
plause from the gallery began to show that the gods had had enough of 
it, the assassins buried their swords beneath their victim's arms, and he 
expired in great agony ; Cajsar looking on from the respectful distanco 
to which his master's kick had sent him, with the unconcern of a per- 
son who had seen it all done at rehearsal and knew it v/as all sham, but 
with a decided interest of eye and ear in tho direction of the biscuit- 
muncher. In the next act ho was to leap over a stile and ring the beil 
at a farm house, and, having avv^akenad the inhabitants, seize a lantern 
which is brought out, and lead them to the spot where the villaliia have 
buried his master. After a little prompting Ca:sar leaped the sllle and 
went up to the boll, round the handle of which vras twisted some red 
cloth to imitate meat ; but there never v/as a mor.3 matter-of-fact dog 
than tiil3 ; ho evidently hated all shams, even a,rllstic ones ; and after a 
sniif at the red rag ho wallied oft disgusted, and could not be iiiducv.d 
to go on again ; so the people had to rush out without being sumiuoned, 
caiTy their own lantern, and find their v/ay by a sort of canine i?istinft, 
or scent, to the scene of tho murder. But C?esar's delinquencies cnhni- 
natcd in the last scenf^, where, after tho chief villain, in a kind of lyn^h 
law trial, has stoutly assertvid his innocence, tho axgacious "d-wvg" 
suddenly bounds upon the stage, springs at his throat, and puts an end 
to his infamous career. Being held by the collar, and incited on, in tha 
side scene, Caesar's dijep bark sounded terribly ferocious, and ssemad to 
foreshadow a bloody catastrophe ; but his bark proved worse than hi» 


bite, for when released he trotted on with a most affable expression of 

conntsnanoe, his thoughts still evidently bent upon biscuits ; in vain 

did tha villain show him the red pad upon his throat and iuvlt"^ lilm to 

8:i3o it. Czesar had beon deceived oncj, and scorned to couaU iiaac,' an 

imposition. Furious with passion, thj viUaTu rusucd at hiin, dr. w him 

Tip on his hind logs, ciaspod him iu his amis, th ii upon th.i stJi*^) 

and writhod in frightful agonies, shrieking, *' Massy, mus.-y, tako oil" lao 

dawg I" and the curtain fell amidst tiie hovvls and iiissc-K of tlio auJioTic!?3. 

Another laughable dog story, although of a diffc rent kind, wa ; onuo 

delated to me by a now London actor. In a cerfciin theatre in ono of 

ihe great northern cities business had been so bad for some time that 

BAlaries were very irregularly paid. It is a pecuHarity of the actor that 

ho is never so jolly, so full of fun, and altogether so vivacious, an wlirn 

he is impecunious. In prosp'^rlty he is dull and melancholy ; the y< 1- 

low dross 83ems to wt^igh down his spirit, to stultify it ; empty his 

pockets, and it etheriahses him. At the theatre in question, tiie actors 

amused themselves if thi^y failod to amuse tho audi',nc3. AttjiclKjd to 

this houso was a mongrel cur, whom some or th^.m had taught 

tricks to while away the tedium of long waits. '* Jack " — such was his 

name — was well known all round the nciglibourhood, and to most of 

the hnhttues of the houso. Among his oth.r accomplishments he could 

simulate death at command, and could only be rocall:d to Hfe by a crr- 

tain piece of information to bd prosently mentioTud. One night the 

manager was performing *'The Strang<;r" to about hilf-a-dozou pcoplr^. 

Francis wa.3 standing at th^) wing waiting for his cu*. wh.:n hi:i cyo fill 

apon Jack, Virho was standing just oif the stag 3 on tli"! opposit'^ sido ; an 

impish thought strack him — ho whistled — Jack prick jd up his car^, and 

Francis slapped his leg and called him. Ob jdieut to th3 suemioas Jack 

trotted before the audience, but as ha reached th 3 centre of th.) stage 

ihe word '*dead!" struck upon his car. Th3 n3xt moment h3v.'a3 

stretched motionless v/ith his tv/o hind legs sticking up at an angle of 

forty-fivo degrees. The scene was tho one in which the Stranger r-latt^s 

to Baron Steinfort the story of his wrong>?, tind hv) had come to the lino, 

"My heart is like a close-shut sepulchre," v/hen a burst of iaught r 

from the front drew his attention to Jack, Ho saw the trick that had 

b-sen playnd in an instant. "Get 0.% you bntel " he growl.xl, giving 

th3 anini'il a kick. But Jack was too hi'f.::y triln-^d to h3cd BU-h an 

admonition, having learned bcforvihand thiit i\\t liicki-ig v-as not kj b?.d 

a-3 tho flogging ho would g.t for not p-rf.^v.r/iij li-ri j^art con'-.^jtiy. 

'*Doan*t tlia' kick poor Jaci:," caliod out a ron ;'.i voice, "give un tho 

T:ord." *'Ay, ay, give un tho woi\i," ecuoed half -a-doi' :n voices. 

Th.? inanaf;-r ka-v/ b..ttcr than to disr ^^^ar.l th :; adviee of his p?itrons, 

aj.'I ground out bctAvecn his t?oth, "II r:'s a policeman co-nlu-^." At 

tliat "open Sesame" Jack wa.j up and oix like a shot. It murit have 

boen one of the finest bitJ of burlesque to have seen that black-ringlet- 

wiggcd,- sallow,- dyspeptic, tr;\gic-looking individual, repeating tha 

dov/n's fori^ula over a mangy cur. 


The failure or forgetfulness of stage properties is frequently a source 
of ludicrous incidents. People are often killed by pistols that will net 
fire, or stabbed vv'ith the butt ends. In some play an actor has to seize a 
f dagger from a table and stab his rival. One night the dagger was for- 
gotten and no substitute was there, except a ca 'cUe^ which the excited 
actor wrenched from the candlestick, and madly plunged at his oppo- 
nents breast ; but it effected its purpose, for the victim expired in 
strong convulsions. It is strange how seldom the audience perceive 
such contretempSy or notice the extraordinary and ludicrous slips of the 
tongue that are so frequent upon the stage. 

A playbill is not always the most truth-telling pubhcation in the 
world. Managers, driven to their wits' ends to draw a sluggish public, 
often announce entertainments which they have no means of producing 
properly, or even at all, and have to exercise an equal amount of inge- 
nuity to find substitutes, or satisfy a deluded audience. Looking 
. through some manuscript letters of E. B. Peake's the ether day, I came 
across a capital story of Bunn. While ha was manager of the Birming- 
ham Theatre, Power, the celebrated Irish comedian, made a starring en- 
gagement with him. It was about the time that the dramatic version 
of Mrs. Shelley's "Frankenstein" — done, I beheve, by Peake himself 
— was making a great sensation, and Power announced it for his benefit, 
playing ** the Monster" himself. The manager, however, refused to 
spend a penny upon the production. ** You must do with what you can 
find in the theatre," he said. There was only one difficulty. In the last 
scene Frankenstein is buried beneath an avalanche, and among the stage 
scenery of the Theatre Eoyal, Birmingham, there was nothing resem- 
bling an avalanche to be found, and the avalanche was the one pro- 
digious line in the playbill. Power was continually urging this difficulty, 
but Bunn always eluded it with, **0h, we shall find something or 
other.'* At length it came to the day of performance, and the problem 
had not yet been solved. 

" Well, v/e shall have to change the piece," said Power. 

" Pooh, pooh ! nonsense !" answered the manager. 

** There is no avalanche, and it is impossible to be finished without." 

" Can't you cut it out ?" 


The manager fell into a brown study for a few moments. Then sud- 
d-jnly brightening up, ho said, " I have it ; but they must let the green 
curtain down instantly on the extraordinary effect. Hanging up in tlia 
flies is the large elephant made for ' Blue Beard;' we'll have it white- 

" Vvhat?" exclaimed Pov/er. 

" ^Ye'll have it v.4iitc\yashcd," continued the manager coolly ; " vrhat 
is an avalanche but a vast mass of white ? When Frankenstein is to bo 
annihilated, the carpenters shall shove the whitened elephant over tha 
fiies — destroy you both in a moment — and down comes the curtain," 

As there was no other alternative, P«wer e'en submitted. Tk& 


T^hitcned elephant was ' ' shoved " over at the right moment, the cfT oct 
was appaUing from the front, and tho cnrtain dcsccndL:d amidst loud 

Not quite so successful "was a hoax perpetrated by Elliston, diirinpf Ids 
management of the Birmingham Theatre, many years prvjAiou'ly. Th n, 
also, business had been very bad, and he was in great difncuitics. Let 
us give the managers their due. They do not, as a rule, r»>Svort to 
Bwindles except under strong pressure ; then they soothe their con- 
sciences with the reflection that as an obtuse and ungrateful pubL'c will 
not support their legitimate efforts, it deacrves to bo bwindkd. And a 
very good reflection it is — from a managerial point of vie v/. No n^an 
was more fertile in expedients than Kobtrt William Ellifitcn ; so aft/ r a 
long continuance of empty benches, tho walls aiid boardings of tho 
town were one morning covered with glaring posters announcing tliat 
the manager of tho Theatre Royal had entered into an engagement with 
a Bohemian of extraordinary strength and stature, who v/ould perform 
Eome astonishing evolutions with a stone of upwards of a ton wei ^ht, 
which he would toss about as easily as anotlier would a tennis-lmll. 
"V>Tiat all the famous names of the British drama and all the talents of 
its exponents had failed to accomplish, was brouglit about by a stone, 
and on the evening announced for its appearance tho house was crammed 
to tho ceiling. The exhibition was to take place betv/cen the play and 
the farce, ajid scarcely had the intellectual audience patience to listen to 
the piece, so eager were they for the noblo entf^rtainment that was to 
follow. At length, much to their relief, the curtain fell. Tho usual in- 
tsrval elapsed, tho hotise became impatient, impatience soon mergod into 
furioTis clamonr. At length, with a pale, distraught counteuauco, Ellis- 
ton rushed before the curtain. Li a moment there was a breathless 

" The Bohemian has deceived mo !" were his first words. " Tlint I 
could have pardoned ; but ho has deceived you, my friends, you ;" and 
his voice trembled, and he hid his face behind his handkerchief and 
seemed to sob. 

Then, bursting forth again, he went on : "I repeat, he has deceived 
me ; he is not here." 

A yell of disappointment burst from tho house, 

" The man," continued Elliston, raising his voico, ** of whatever 
name or nation ho may be, who breaks his word, commits an oilenco 

v.hich " Tho rest of this Joseph Surface sentiment v.a^ drowned 

in furious clamour, and for some niinut ;s ho could not ma3:e himself 
heard, until he drew some letters from his x:)Ockct. and held them up. 

"Here is the correspondence," he said. "Does any gcntl; ran h^ro 
und'^rstand German? If so, will ha oblige me by stepping forward V" 

The Birmingham public were not sti'ong in languages in those days, 
it would seem, for no gentleman stepped forward. 

"Am I, then, left alone?" h© exclaimed in tragio accents. "Well, I 
viQ translate them for jou.** 


Here tliero "^as anothei* uproar, out of wliich came two or three 
voices, ** No, no." Like Buckingham, he chose to construe the t"wo or 
thre3 itito *' a gi-u^ral acclaim." 

" Your commands shall be obeyed," ho said bowing, and pockctinrj 
the correspondence. ^^ lie ill iv4 read them. But my dear patrons, 
your kindness merits some satisfaction at my hands; your considt^ra- 
Uon shall not go unrewarded. You shall not say you have paid your 
money for nothing. Thank heaven, I can satisfy you of my own in- 
tegrity, and present you vv^th a portion of the entertainment you have 
paid to see. The Bohemian, the villain, is not here. But the stone is, 
and YOU shall see it." He winked at the orchestra, which struck up 
a lively strain, and up went the curtain, disclosing a huge piece of sand 
rock, upon which was stuck a label, bearing the legend in large letters, 
" This is the stone." 

It need scarcely be added that the Bohemian existed only in tho 
manager's brain. But it is a question whether the audience which 
could be only brought together by such an exhibition did not deserve 
to be swindled. 

An equally good story is told of his management at "Worcester. For 
his benefit ho had announced a grand display of fireworks ! No 
greater proof of the guUibihty of the British pubhc could be adduced 
than their swallowing such an announcement. The theatre was so 
small that such an exhibition w^afe practically impossible. A little before 
the night Elhston called upon the landlord of tho property, and in the 
course of conversation hinted at tho danger of such a display, as 
though the idea had just struck him ; the landlord took alarm, and, as 
Elliston had anticipated, forbade it. Nevertheless the announcements 
remained on the walls, and on the night the theatre was crowded. The 
performance proceeded without any notice being taken by tho manage- 
ment of the firevrorks, untH murmurs swelled into clamour and loud 
cries. Then with his usual kingly ah*, Elliston came forward and 
bowed. He had made, he said, the most elaborate preparation for a 
magnificent pyrotechnic display ; he had left nothing undone, but at 
the last moment came the terrible reflection, v/ould it not be dangerous ? 
Tfould there not be collected within tho walls of tho theatre a number 
of lovely young tender girls, of respectable matrons, to do him honour ? 
"What if the house should catch fire — the panic, the struggle for life — 
ah, he shuddered at tho thought I Then, too, ha thought of tlio pro- 
p:;rty of that v^rorthioRt of men, tho landlord — ho r^i^h- d to consult liira 
— and ho now call' d upon him — thore he was, seat d in (ho stage box — 
to i^ubiicly statv?, for tho satisf action of the distinguiBhc:d audienco ha 
Ea^v■ b-for.) him, thfit ho had forbidden tho performance ItcllI coiisidi.r- 
ations of naf- ty. TJio landlord, a very nervouf^, shrank to tho 
ba-'k of his box, scared by cv- ry cyo in tho hour-:o being llxcd rpou 
him ; but tho audience, thankful for tho terrible danger they had es- 
caped, burst into thunders of applause. 

TLo stories are endless of the shifts and swindles to which countrf 


managers, at their wits' end, have had to resort to attract a sluggish 
public. How great singers have been advertised that never htard of 
such ai engagement, and even forgpd telegrams read to an t::pjctnnt 
p.jidienc;^, to account lor their non-appf umuci. How prizes liav- ben 
distributed on benefit nights — to people who gave tii<^ni back a^aln. 
Row audiences, the ^^ctimB of some false announcement, have b»cn !• f t 
Vr'aiting patiently for the performance to commence, while th<^ nmnagf^r 
was on his way to another town with their money in liis pocket. But 
there is a great sameness about such stories, and one or two are a spoci- 
men of alL H. Babtok Baeeb, in Bdr/ravla, 


The Sabbath of all Nature ! Stillness rt'igns • 

For suow has fallen, and all the laud is white. 

The cottage-roofs slant prey atrafnpt the light. 
And grey the sky, nor cloud iior blue obtams. 

The sun is moonlikc, as a maiden feigns 

To veil her beauty, yet eenda glances bright 

That fill the eye, and make the h^art d«'llght. 
Expectant of gome wonder. Lengthened trains 

Of birds wing high, and straight the smoke ascends. 
All things are fairy-like ; the trees empenrK^d 
With frosty gem-work, like to trees in dream. 

Beneath the weight the slender cedar Ix'nds 
And looks more ghost-like ! *'lMs a wonder-world, 
"Wherein, indeed, things are not as they seem. 


Throuqu yellow fog all tlnn£«« tnk'» pp?ctral shapes : 
L'imT^s dimly gloaiii, and lliro;>'j:li tliD waid^^w pane 
The light is shed in short and l)rokcn lane ; 

And **" darkucsj vii^ible " piints, ydwus, and gapes. 

From roofs the water drips, as from high capes, 

Half-freez"? aH it falls. Like cries oi jjaiu 

Fog-signals f'linlly heard, and then again 
Grave warning worda to him who rashly apea 

The skater, nearer. All is muffled fast 
In dense doad co'ls of vapour, nothing clear— 
The world disgui.-ed in umnimiug masquerade. 

O'er each a dull thick clinging veil is cast. 
And no one is what fain he would appear : 
Vor any well-marked track on whicli to tread, 

. Alsx. H. Jaff, in Belgrcatia, 



The privilege v/hich the families of officers in the service of the Stato 
may be said exclusively to possess, of rej)roduciiig in Upper India — ^and 
especially in the Himalayan stations, and valley of Dhera Dhoon — tha 
stately or cottage homes of England, is perhaps one, to a great extent, 
unfamiliar to their relatives at home ; and it is scarcely too much to say 
that the general pubhc, which, as a rule, considers the Indian climate an 
insuperable barrier to all enjoyment, has but a faint idea of that glorious 
beauty, vrhich is no *' fading flower," in this " Happy Valley," with its 
broad belt of virgin forest, that lies between the Himalayas proper and 
the sharp ridges of the wild SewaUc range. The latter forms a barrier 
between the sultry plains and the cool and romantic retreats, where the 
swords of our gallant defenders may be said to rest in their scabbards, 
and where, surrounded by the pleasures of domestic life, healtli and hap- 
piness may, in the intervals of piping times of p5ace, be enjoyed to 
their fullest extent. 

In such favoured spots the exile from home may live, seemingly, for 
the present only; but, in truth, it is not so, for even under such 
favoured circumstances the tie with our natal place is never relaxed, and- 
the hope of future return to it adds just that touch of pensivencss — 
scarcely sadness — which is the deUcate neutral tint that brings out more 
forcibly the gorgeous colours of the picture. 

The gaieties of the mountain stations of Mussoorie'and Landour were 
now appproaching their periodical close, in the early part of October, 
when the cold season commences. The attractive archery meetii?gs ou 
the green plat3aux of the mountain-spurs had ceased, and balls and 
sumptuous dinner-parties were becoming f ev/er and fewer ; while daily 
one group of friends after another, "with lingering steps and slow," on 
rough hill-ponies or in qun,int jam-pans, were wending their way some 
six or seven thou>iand feet down tlio umbrageous mountain-sides, watched 
from above by those who still lingered behind, until they seemed like 
toilsome cmniL^ts in the far distance. 

Now that our summer companions were gone we used to while away 
many an hour with our glasses, scanning in that clear atmosphere tha 
vast plains str. itched out beneath us like a rich carpet of many colours, 
but in which forms were scarcely to be traced at that distance. Here, 
twisted silver threads represented some great river ; there, a sprinkhng 
of rice-like grains, the white bungalows of a cantonment; while occasionally 
a sombre mass denoted some forest or mango tope. Around us, and 
quailing under fierce gusts of wind &om the passes of the snowy range 


v^Tig in peaks to nearly twice tbe altitode of the Alps, the gnaried 
oaks, now denuded of their earlier garniture oi pacnntical fema, that 
•used to adoxn their mossy branches with Natnre^s own point ]ace, seemed 
filmost conscions of approaching winter. 

Landour, now deserted, save by a few invalid soldiers and one or two 
residsnt families, had few attractions. The snow was lying deep on the 
mountain-sides, and blocking np the narrow roads. Bat wintor in the 
Himalayas is a season of startling phenomena ; for it is then that thun- 
der storms of appallmg grandeur are prevalent, and to a considerable 
extent destructiye. During the night, amidst the wild conflict of the 
elementa, would, not unfrequently, ba heard the bugles of the soldiers' 
•Sonatoriuni, calling to those who could sleep to arouse themselYes, and 
hasten to the side of residents whose housea bad been struck by the 
electric fluid. 

StUl, we clung to -our mountain-home to the last, although we knew 
that summer awaited us in the valley below, and that in an hour and a 
half we might with ease exchange an almost hyperborean climate for one 
\^'herd summer is perennial, or seems so-— for the rainy season is but an 
interlude of rcfroiiing showers. 

At length an incident occurred which somewhat prematurely inflow 
enced our departure. 

As we wero sitting at an early breakfast one morning with the chil« 
dryn. Khalifa, a favourite domestic, and one who rsurely failed to observe 
that stately decorum peculiar to Indian servants, rushed wildly into the 
room, wiiSi every appearance of terror, screaming, ** Jinwiir I Burra 
janwar, sahib !" "^ at the same time pointing to the window. 

We could not at first understand what the poor fellow meant ; but on 
looking out, were not a little disconcerted at the sight which presented 

Oouched on Uie garden-wall was a huge spotted animal of the leopard 
species, xt jooked, however, by no means ferocious, but, on the con- 
trary, to be imploring compassion and shelter from the snowstorm. Still, 
notwithstanding its demure cat-like aspect, its proximity was by no 
means agreeable. V^ith a strange lack of intelligence, the brute^ instead 
of avoiding the cold, had evidently become bewildered, and crawled up 
the mountain side. As we could scarcely bo expected to extend the rites 
of hospitality to such a visitor, the harmless discharge of a pistol insured 
his departure at one bound, and witli a terrific growL 

Wild beasts are rarely seen about European stations. Those who like 
tiiem must go out of their way to find them. But perhaps stupefied by 
cold while asleep, and pinched by hunger, as on the present occasion, 
they may lose their usual sagacity. 

Having got rid of our unwelcome visitor, we determined at once to 
leave our mountain-home. 

The servants were only too glad to hasten onr departme, and in thd 

<'WUd beast! Big wild beut, sir r 



course of an hour everything was packed up, and we were ready for tbo 
descent into the plains. 

Notwithstanding the absence of a police force, robberies of houses are 
almost unknown ; and therefore it was only necessary for us to draw 
down the blinds and lock the main door, leaving the furniture to take 
care of itself. 

The jam-pans and little rough ponies were ready; the servants, 
although shivering in their light clothing, more active than I had ever 
before seen them ; and in the course of another hour we were inhaling 
the balmy air of early summer. 

The pretty little hotel of Bajpore, at the base of the mountain, was 
now reached; and before us lay the broad and excellent road, shaded 
with trees, which, in the course of another twenty minutes, brought us 
to the charming cantonment of Deyrah. All Nature seemed to be re* 
joicing; the birds were singing; the sounds of bubbling and splashing 
waters (mountain-streams diverted from their natural channels, and 
brought into every garden), and hedges of the double pink and crimson 
Bareilly rose* in full bloom, interspersed with the oleander, and the 
mehndi (henna of Scripture) with its fragrant clusters, filling the air with 
the perfume of mignonette, presented a scene of earthly beauty which 
cannot be surpassed. 

* How stupid we were," I remarked, looking back at our late home, 
now a mere black speck on the top of the snowy mountain far above — 
" how very foolish and perverse to have fancied ourselves more English 
in the winter up there, when we might all this time have been leading 
the life of Eden, in this enchanting spot I" 

" Indeed we were," replied my companion. ** But it is the way with 
us in India. We give a rupee for an English daisy, and cast aside the 
honeyed champah." 

In India there is no difficulty in housing oneself. No important agents 
are necessary, and advertising is scarcely known. Accordingly, without 
ceremony, we took quiet possession of the first vacant bungalow which 
we came to, and our fifteen domestics did not seem to question for a 
moment the propriety of the occupation. Under our somewhat despo- 
tic government, are not the sahib logf above petty social observances ? 

While A. was busily employed getting his guns ready and preparing 
for shikari in the adjacent forest and jungles, which swarm with pea- 
fowl, partridges, quail, pigeons, and a variety of other game, my first 
cara was to summon the resident mali (gardener), and ascertain how the 
beautiful and extensive garden of which we had taken possession t might 
be further stocked. 

" Mem sahib, "§ said the quiet old gardener, with his hands in a sup, 
plicatory position, ** there is abundance here of everything — aloo, lal 

* A remarkable plant. It is in constant bloom. On every spray there ia a central 
crimson blossom, which only lasts one day, surrounded by five or six pink ones, 
Which remain for many days. t Dominant class, 

) Uou0e-rent is paid monthly in India, in arrear. § My lady. 


rag, anjir, padina, bamgan, payaz, khiro, shalghmn, kobei, ajmnd, kbar- 
buza, amb, amrut, anar, narangi — ^'** 
' ' Stay I" I interrupted ; * * that is enongh.** 
Bat the old mali had Bomething more to add : 

'*Mem sahib, all is your own, and your slave shall daily bring his cnSi- 
tomary offering, and flowers for the table ; and the protector of the 
poor will not refuse bakshees for the bearer.** 

I promised to be liberal to the poor old man, and then proceeded to 
inspect the flower-garden. 

Here I was surprised to find a perfect fraternisation between the trop- 
ical flora and our own. Amongst flowers not unfamiliar to the European 
were abundance of the finest roses, superb crimson and gold poincianas, 
the elegant hybiscus, graceful ipomoeas, and convolvuli of every hue, 
the purple amaranth, Sie variegated double balsam, the richest mari- 
golds, liie pale-blue clusters of the plantago, acacias, jasmines, oranges, 
and pomegranates, intermixed with our own pansies, carnations, cine- 
raiias, geraniums, fuchsias, and a wealth of blossoms impossible to re- 
member by name. 
^' If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this I** 
Far more beautiful to the homely eye are such gardens than those of 
Shalimar and Pinjore, with their costly marble terraces, geometrical 
walks, fountains and cascades falling over sculptured slabs. 

Nor arc we in India confined to the enjoyment of Nature. Artf finds 
its way to us from Europe, and literature here receives the warmest 
welcome. Our pianos, our musical-boxes — our costly and richly bound 
Illustrated works, fresh from England — the most thrilling romances of 
fiction, and all the periodicals of the day, are regularly accumulated in 
these charming Indian retreats, and keep up the culture of the mind in 
a valley whose " glorious beauty " is, as I have said, no " fading flower," 
but tho home of the missionary, and the resort of the war-worn soldier 
or tmth-Ioving artist. 

Nor is this aU. Around Deyrah is some of the most exquisitely beau- 
tiful cave scenery, comparatively tmknown even to Europeans ; sucli, 
for example, as the wondrous natural tunnel, whose sides shine with tho 
varied hsauty of the most delicate mosaics, and are lit up by rents in 
tho hill above; the "dropping cave" of Sansadhara, "bosomed high' 
in tufted trees ;" and the strange ancient shrines sculptured in the ro- 
mantic glen of Topo-Kesur-Mahadeo. 

Of these, Sansadhara has lately been made the subject of a beautiful 
photograph, which, however, fails to convey the exquisite charm of tho 
original ; but tho natural tunnel and Tope-Kesur-Mahadco have never 
been presented by the artist to tho public, although tlicro arc nniquo 
sketches of them in the fine collection of a lady t who, as tho ^vilo of a 

• Potato, epinach, fig, miut, egg-plant, onion, cucumber, tuniip^ cabbage, parsley, 
melon, mango, guava, pomeo;ranutc, orange, 
t There la no intentiou of dieparttging Beautiful native art. t Lady Oomm, 


former Indian Commander-ln-OMef , had opportuniliefl afforded to few 
of indulging her taste. 

One might exhaust volumes in attempting to describe such scenes, and 
even then f^l to do them the faintest justice. The Alps, with all their 
beauty, lose much of their grandeur after one has been in daily contem- 
plation of the majestic snowy range of the Himalayas, while the forests 
and valleys that skirt its base have no counterpart in Europe. In these 
partial solitudes we lose much of our conventionality. The mind is to 
a certain extent elevated by the grand scale on which Nature around is 
presented. The occasioned alarm of war teaches the insecurity of all 
earthly happiness. Our life is subject to daily introspection, and before 
ilie mind's eye is the subhme prospect, perhaps at no very distant pe- 
riod, of a Christian India rising from the ruins of a sensuous idolatry in 
immortal beauty, L. A., i/i London Society, 


Herodotus begins his history by relating how Phoenician traders 
brought " Egyptian and Assyrian wares" to Argos and other parts of 
Greece, in those remote days when the Greeks were stiU waiting to re- 
ceive the elements of their culture from the more civilized East, His 
account was derived from Persian and Phoenician sources, but, it would 
seem, was accepted by his contemporaries with the same unquestioning 
confidence as by himself. The belief of Herodotus was shared by ths 
scholars of Europe after the revival of learning, and there were none 
among them who doubted that the civilization of ancient Greece had 
been brought from Asia or Egypt, or from both. Hebrew was regarded 
as the primaeval language, and the ^^rew records as the fountain-head 
of all history; just as the Greek voeKulary, therefore, was traced back 
to the Hebrew lexicon, the legends of primitive Greece were believed to 
be the echoes of Old Testament history, fe Otiente lux was the motto 
of the inquirer, and the key to aU that was dark or doubtful in the my- 
thology and history of Hellas was to be found in the monuments of the 
Oriental world. 

But the age of Creuzer and Bryant was succeeded by an age of 
scepticism and critical investigation. A reaction set in against tho 
attempt to force Greek thought and culture into an Asiatic mould. 
The Greek scholar was repelled by the tasteless insipidity and barbaric 
exuberance of tho East; he contrasted the works of Phidias and 
Praxiteles, of Sophocks and Plato, with the monstrous creations of 
India or Egypt, and the conviction grew strong within him that the 
Greek could never have learnt his first lessons of civilization in such a 
school as this. . Between the East and the "West a sharp line of division 
was drawn, and to look for the ozigia of Greek culture beyond the bound- 


aries of Greece itself came to be regarded almost as sacriloge. Greek 
mythology, so far from being an echo or caricature of Bibliciil hinl^iry 
and Oriental mysticism, was pronomiced to be Kelf-«\(>lv'-d nud inde- 
pendent, and K. O. Miiller could deny without contradiction the Asiatic 
-origin even of the myth of Aphrodite and Adonis, where tho name of 
the Semitic sun-god seems of itself to indicate its source. The Phceni- 
cian traders of Herodotus, like the royal maiden they carried away 
from Argos, were banished to the nebulous region of rationalistic fable. 
Along with this reaction against the Orientalizing school which could 
Bee in Greece nothing but a deformed copy of Eastern wihdom went 
another reaction against the conception of Greek mytholog)' on which 
the labours of the OrientaUzing school had been based. Key after tty 
had been applied to Greek mythology, and all in vain ; the lock had 
refused to turn. The light which had been supposed to come from the 
East had turned out to be but a will-o'-the-wisp ; neither the Hebrew 
Scriptures nor the Egyptian hieroglyphics had solved the problem pre- 
sented by the Greek myths. And the Greek schohir, in despair, had 
come to the conclusion that the problem was insoluble ; all that ho 
could do was to accept the facts as they were set before him, to classify 
end repeat the wondrous tales of the Greek poets, but to leave their 
origin tinexplaincd. This is practicaUy the position of Grote ; ho is 
content to show that all the parts of a myth hang closely together, and 
that any attempt to extract history or philosophy from it must bo arbi- 
trary and futile. To deprive a myth of its kernel and soul, and call the 
dry husk that is left a historical fact, is to mistake the conditions of the 
problem and the nature of mythology. 

It was at this point that the science of comparative mythology 
stepped in. Grota had shown that we cannot look for history in mytii- 
ology, but he had given up the discovery of the origin of this mythol- 
ogy as a hopeless task. The same comjyarative method, however, 
wMch has forced nature to disclose her secrets has also penetrated to 
tha sources of mythology itself. The Greek myths, like the myths of 
the other nations of the world, are the forgotten and misinterpreted 
records of the beliefs of primitive man, and of his earliest attempts to 
explain tho phenomena of nature. Restore the original meaning of the 
Language wherein the myth is clothed, and the origin of the myth is 
found. Myths, in fact, are the words of a dead language to which a 
wrong sense has been given by a false method of decipherment. A 
myth, rightly explained, will tell us the beliefs, the feelings, and the 
knowledge of those among whom it first grew up ; for the evidences 
and monuments of history we must look elsewhere. 

But there is an old proverb that ** there is no smoke without fire." 
The war of Troy or tho beleaguerment of Thebes may be but a repeti- 
tion of the time-worn story of the battle waged by the bright powers of 
day round the battlements of heaven ; but there must have been some 
reason why this story should have been specially localized in the Troad 
and at Thebes. Most of the Greek myths have a backgrpund in spao^ 


and time ; atid for this background there must be some historical cause. 
The cause, however, if it is to be discovered at all, must be discovered 
by ^eans of those evidences which will alone satisfy the critical histo- 
rian. The localization of a myth is merely an indication or sign-post 
pointing out the direction in which he is to look for his facts. If Greek 
warriors had never fought in the plains of Troy, we may bo pretty sure 
that the poems of Homer would not have brought Akhilles and Aga- 
memnon under the walls of Ilium. If Phoenician traders had exercised 
no influence on primaeval Greece, Greek legend would have contained 
no references to them. 

But even the myth itself, when rightly questioned, may be made to 
yield some of the facts upon which the conclusions of the historian are 
based. We now know fairly well what ideas, usages, and proper names 
have an Aryan stamp upon them, and what, on the other hand, belong 
rather to the Semitic world. Now there is a certain portion of Greek 
mythology which bears but little relationship to the mythology of the 
kindred Aryan tribes, while it connects itself very closely with the be- 
liefs and prEictices of the Semitic race. Human sacrifice is very possi- 
bly one of these, and it is noticeable that two at least of the legends 
which speak of human sacrifice — those of Athamas and Busiris — aro as- 
sociated, the one with the Phoenicians of Thebes, the other with the 
Phoenicians of the Egyptian Delta. The whole cycle of myths grouped 
about the name of Herakles points as clearly to a Semitic source as does 
the myth of Aphrodite and Adonis ; and the extravagant lamentations 
that accompanied the worship of the Akhsean Demeter (Herod, v. 61) 
come as certainly from the East as the olive, the pomegranate, and the 
myrtle, the sacred symbols of Athena, of Hera, and of Aphrodite.* 

Comparative mythology has thus given us a juster appreciation of 
the historical inferences we may draw from the legends of prehistoric 
Greece, and has led us back to a recognition of the important part 
played by the Phoenicians in the heroic age. Greek culture, it is true, 
was not the mere copy of that of Semitic Asia, as scholars once be- 
Heved, but the germs of it had come in large measure from an Oriental 
seed-plot. The conclusions derived from a scientific study of tho 
myths have been confirmed and widened by tiie recent researches and 
discoveries of archsBology. The spade, it has been said, is the modem 
instrument for reconstructing the history of the past, and in no depart- 
ment in history has the spade been more active of late than in that of 
Greece. From all sides light has come upon that remote epoch around 
which the mist of a fabulous antiquity had already been folded in 
the days of Herodotus ; from the islands and shores of the -SIgean, 
from the tombs of Asia Minor and Palestine, nay, even from tho 
temples and palaces of Egypt and Assyria, have the materials been 
exhumed for sketching in something like clear outline the origin and 
growth of Greek civilization. From nowhere, however, have more im- 

* See £. Cartias : Die grlecliische Gotterlehre vom geschichtlichen Standpirnkt, 
in rrewftische JahrbwheTf zxzfi. pp. 1—17. 1876. 


portant revelations been derived than from the excavations at Mykenaa 
and Spata, near Athens, and it is with the evidence famished by these 
that I now propose mainly to deal. A personal inspection of the sites 
and the objects found upon them has convinced me of the groimdJess* 
ness of the doubts which have been thrown out against tlieir antiquity, 
as well as of the intercourse and connection to wliich they testify with 
the great empires of Babylonia and Assyria. Mr. Poole has lately point- 
ed out what materials are furnished by the Egyptian monuments for 
determining the age and character of the antiquities of Mykcnse.* I 
would now draw attention to the far clearer and more tangible mate^ 
rials afforded by Assyrian art and history. 

Two facts must first be kept well in view. One of these is the Se. 
mitic origin of the Greek alphabet. ' The Fhccnician alphabet, origin, 
ally derived from the alphabet of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, and im^ 
ported into their mother-country by the Phoenician scttltrs of the Delta, 
was brought to Greece, not probably by the Phoenicians of Tyre and 
Sidon, but by the Aramaeans of Jthe Gulf of Anticch, whose nouns end- 
ed with the same *' emphatic akph '* that we seem to find in the Greek 
names of the letters, alplui^ brpr^ f/ammn, (gamla). Before the intro- 
duction of the simpler Phoenician alphabet, the inhabitants of Asia 
Minor and the neighbouring islands appear to have used a syllabary o^ 
some seventy characters, which continued to be employed in conserva^ 
tiTe Cyprus down to a very late date ; but, so far as we know at pres 
ent, the Greeks of the mamland were unacquainted with writing before 
the Aramaeo-Phoenicians had taught them their phonetic symbols. Th^ 
oldest Greek inscriptions are probably those of Thera, now Santorin, 
where the Phcenicians had been settled from time immemorial ; and ai 
the forms of the characters found in them do not differ very materially 
from the forms used on the famous Moabite Stone, we may infer that 
the alphabet of Kadmus was brought to the West at a date not very re^ 
mote from that of Mesha and Ahab, perhaps about 800 B.C. We may 
notice that Thera was an island and a Phoenician colony, and it certainly 
seems more probable that the alphabet was carried to the mainland 
from the islands of the JEgean than that it was disseminated from tha 
inland Phoenician settlement at Thebes, as the old legends affirmed. In 
any case, the introduction of the alphabet impHes a considerable amount 
of civilizing force on the part of those from whom it was borrowed ; 
the teachers from whom an illiterate people learns the art of writing are 
generally teachers from whom it has previously learnt the other ele- 
ments of social culture. A barbarous tribe will use its muscles in the 
service of art before it will use its brains ; the smith and engraver pre^ 
cede the scribe. If, therefore, the Greeks were unacquainted with 
writing before the ninth centmy, B.C., objects older than that period 
may be expected to exhibit clear traces of Phoenician influence, though 
no traces of writing. 

I * 

• CotUemporarif Review, Jaauary, 1878. 


The other fact to which I allude is the existence of pottery of the 
same material and pattern on all the prehistoric sites of the Greek 
world, however widely separated they may be. We find it, for instance, 
at Myken83 and Tiryns, at Tanagra and Athens, in Khodes, in Cyprus, 
and in Thera, while I picked up specimens of it in the neighbourhood 
of the Treasury of Minyas and on the site of the Acropolis at Orchomenus. 
The clay of which it is composed is of a drab colour, derived, perhaps 
in all instances, from the volcdnic soil of Thera and Melos, and it is 
ornamented with geometrical and other patterns in black and maroon- 
red. After a time the patterns become more complicated and artistic ; 
flowers, animal forms, and eventually human figures, take the- place of 
simple lines, and the pottery gradually passes into that known as Corin- 
thian or Phoeniko-Greek. It needs but little experience to distinguish 
at a glance this early pottery from the red ware of the later Hellenic 

Phoenicia, Keft as it was called by the Egyptians, had been brought 
into relation with the monarchy of the NUe at a remote date, and 
among the Semitic settlers in the Delta or "Isle of Caphtor" must 
have been natives of Sidon and the neighbouring towns. After the ex- 
pulsion of the Hyksos, the Pharaohs of the eighteenth and nineteenth 
dynasties carried their arms as far as Mesopotamia and placed Egyptian 
garrisons in Palestine. A tomb-painting of Thothmes III, represents 
the Kefa or Phoenicians, clad in richly-embroidered kilts and buskins, 
and bringing their tribute of gold and sUver vases and earthenware cups, 
some in the shape of animals like the vases found at Mykeme and else- 
v/here. Phoenicia, it would seem, was already celebrated for its gold« 
pmiths' and potters' work, and the ivory the Kefa are sometimes made 
to carry shows that their commerce must have extended far to the east. 
As early as the sixteenth century B.C., therefore, we may conclude that 
the Phoenicians were a great commercial people, trading between Assyria 
and Egypt and possessed of a considerable amount of artistic skill. 

It is not likely that a people of this sort, who, as we know from other 
sources, carried on a large trade in slaves and purple, would have been 
still unacquainted with the seas and coasts of Greece where both slaves 
and the murex or purple-fish were most easily to be obtained. Though 
the Phoenician alphabet was unknown in Greece tiU the ninth century 
B.C., we have every reason to expect to find traces of Phoenician com- 
merce and Phoenician influence tiiere at least five centuries before. And 
Buch seems to be the case. The excavations carried on in Thera by MM. 
Fouque and Gorceix,* in Khodes by Mr. Newton and Dr. Saltzmann, 
and in various other places such as Megara, Athens, and Melos, have 
been followed by the explorations of Dr. Schliemann at Hissarlik, 
Tiryns, and Mykenae, of General di Cesnola in Cyprus, and of the 
Archaeological Society of Athens at Tanagra and Spata. 

• See Fouqu(j*B Mission Scientifiquc & I'fle de Santorin (Archives des Missloiis 
2e B^rie, iv. iHQl) ; Gorceix in tlie Bulletin de I'Bcole francaise d^Ath^nes, i. 


The accnmnlations of prehistoric objects on these sites oil tell the 
same tale, the influence of the East, and more especially of the Phosni- 
cians, upon the growing civilization of early Greece. Thus in There, 
where a sort of Greek Pompeii has been preserved under the lava which 
once overwhelmed it, we find the rude stone hovels of its primitive in- 
habitants, with roofs of wild olive, filled vnth the bones of dogs and 
sheep, and containing stores of barley, spelt, and chickpea, copper and 
stone weapons, and abimdance of pottery. The latter is for the most 
part extremely coarse, but here and there have been discovered vases of 
^tic worWnship, which remind us of those carried by the Kefa, 
and may have been imported from abroad. We know from the tombs 
found on the island that the Phoenicians afterwards settled in Thora 
among a population in the same condition of civilization as that which 
had been overtaken by the great volcanic eruption. It was from theso 
Phoenician settlers that the embroidered dresses known as Therscan 
were brought to (ireece ; they were adorned with animals and othcF 
figures, similar to those seen upon Corinthian or Phoeniko-Greek ware. 

Now M. Fr. Lenormant has pointed out that much of the pottery used 
by the aboriginal inhabitants of Thera is almost identical in form and 
make with that found by Dr. Schliemann at Hissarlik, in the Troad, and 
he concludes that it must belong to the same period and the same area 
of civilization. There is as yet little, if any, trace of Oriental influence ; 
a few of the clay vases from Thera, and some of the gold workmanship 
at Hissarlik, can alone be referred, with more or less hesitation, to Phoo- 
nician artists. We have not yet reached the age when Phoenician trade 
in the West ceased to be the sporadic effort of private individuals, and 
when trading colonies were established in different parts of the Greek 
world ; Europe is still unaffected by Eastern culture, and the beginnings 
of Greek art are still free from foreign interference. It is only in certain 
designs on the terra-cotta discs, believed by Dr. Schliemann to be spindle- 
whorls, that we may possibly detect rude copies of Babylonian and 
Phoenician intaglios. 

Among all the objects discovered at Hissarlik, none have been more 
discussed than the vases and clay images in which Dr. Schliemann saw 
a representation of an owl-headed Athena. "VMiat Dr. Schliemann took 
for an owPs head, however, is really a- rude attempt to imitate the hu- 
man face, and two breasts are frequently moulded in the clay below it. 
In many examples the human countenance is unmistakable, and in most 
of the others the representation is less rude than in the case of the small 
marble statues of Apollo (?) found in the Greek islands, or even of the 
early Hellenic vases where the men seem furnished with the beaks of 
bii"ds. But we now know that theso curious vases arc not peculiar to the 
Troad. Specimens of them have also been met with in Cyprus, and in 
these we can trace the development of the owl-like head into the more 
perfect jwrtraiture of the human face.* In conservative Cyprus there 
■ '-■■' — ■ — — — * 

*Se«, for example, Di Cesuola's Cyprus, pp. 401, 403. 


was not that break with the past which occurred in other portions of tho 
Greek world. 

Cyprus, in fact, lay midway between Greece and Phoenicia, .and was 
shared to the last between an Aryan and a Semitic population. The 
Phoenician element in the island was strong, if not preponderant ; Paphos 
was a chief seat of the worship of the ^Phoenician Astarte, and the Pho9- 
nician Kitium, the Chittim of the Hebrews, took first rank among the 
Cyprian towns. The antiquities brought to light by General di Ces- 
nola are of eU ages and all styles — prehistoric and classical, Phoeni- 
cian and Hellenic, Assyrian and Egj^ptian — and the various styles are 
combined together in the catholic spirit that characterized Phoenician 

But we must pause here for a moment to define more accurately what 
we mean by Phoenician art. Strictly speaking, Phoenicia had no art of 
its own ; its designs were borrowed from "Egjpt and Assyria, and its 
artists went to school on the banks of the Nile and the Euphrates. Tho 
Phoenician combined and improved upon his models ; the impulse, the 
originatioil came from abroad ; the modification and elaboration were 
his own. He entered into other men's labours, and made the most of 
his heritage. The sphinx of Egypt became Asiatic, and in its new form. 
was transplanted to Nineveh on the one side and to Greece on tho other. 
The rosettes and other patterns of the Babylonian cylinders were intro- 
duced into the handiwork of Phoenicia, and so passed on to the West, 
while the hero of the ancient Chaldean epic became first the Tyrian 
Melkarth, and then the Herakles of Helled. It is possible, no doubt, 
that with all this borrowing there was still something that was original 
in Phoenician work ; such at any rate seems to be the case with some of 
the forms given to the vases ; but at present we have no means of de- 
termining how far this originaUty may have extended. In Assyria, in- 
deed, Phoenician art exercised a great influence in the eighth and seventh 
centuries b.c. ; but it had itself previously drawn its first inspiration 
from the empire of the Tigris, and did but give back the perfect blossom 
to those from whom it had received the seed. The workmanship of the 
ivories and bronze bowls found at Nineveh by Mr. Layard is thoroughly 
Phoenician ; but it cannot be separated from that of the purely Assyrian 
pavements and bas-rehef s with which the palaces were adorned. The 
Phoenician art, in fact, traces of which we find from Assyria to Italy, 
though based on both Egyptian and Assyrian models, owed far more to 
Assyria than it did to Egypt. In art, as in mythology and religion, 
Phoenicia was but a carrier and intermediary between East and West ; 
and just as the Greek legends of Aphrodite and Adonis, of Herakles 
and his twelve laboiu'S, and of the other borrowed heroes of Oriental 
story came in the first instance from Assyria, so did that art and culture 
which Kadmus the Phoenician handed on to the Greek race. 

But Assyria itself had been equally an adapter and intermediary. 
The Semites of Assyria and Babylonia had borrowed their culture and 
civilization from the older Accadian race, with its agglutinativ* lan< 


gnage, which had preceded them in the possessioii of Chaldea. So 
slavishly observant were the Assyrians of their Chaldean models that in 
a land where limestone was plentiful thej continued to build theu' pal- 
aces and temples of brick, and to ornament them with those columns 
and pictorial representations which had been &nst devised on the allu- 
vial plains of Babylonia. To understand Assyrian art, and track it back 
to its source, we must go to the eilgraved gems and ruined temples of 
pnnuBval Babylonia. It is true that Egypt may have had some influ- 
ence on Asi^iian art, at the time when the eighteenth dynasty had 
pushed its conquests to the banks of the Tigris ; but that influence docs 
not seem to have been either deep or permanent. Now the art of 
Assyria is in great measure the art of Fha3nicia, and that again the art 
of prehistoric Greece. Modem research has discovered the prototype 
of Herakles in the hero of a Chaldean epic composed it may be, four 
thousand years ago ; it has also discovered the beginnings of Greek 
cohunnar architecture and the germs of Greek art in the works of the 
builders and engravers of early Chaldea. 

"When first I saw, five years ago, the famous sculpture which has 
guarded the Gate of lions at Mykeme for so many centuries, I was at 
once struck by its Assyrian character. The Uons in form and attitude 
belong to Assyria, and the pillar against which they rest may be seen in 
the bas-reliefs brought from Nineveh. Here, at all events, there was 
dear proof of Assyrian influence ; the only question was whether that 
influence had been carried through the hands of the Phoenicians or liad 
travelled along the highroad which ran across Asia Minor, the second 
channel whereby the culture of AssyrJa could have been brought to 
Greece. The existence of a similar sculpture over a rock-tomb at Kum- 
bet in Phrygia might seem to favour the latter view. 

The discoveries of Dr. Schhemann have gone far to settle the ques- 
tion. The pottery excavated at Mykenae is of the Phoenician type, and 
the clay of which is comjKJsed has probably come from Thera. The 
terra-cotta figures of animals and more especially of a goddess with 
long robe, crowned head, and crescent-like arms, are spread over the whole 
area traversed by the Phoenicians. The image of the goddess in one form 
or another has been found in Thera and Melos, in Naxos and Paros, in 
loR, in Sikinos, and in Anaphos, and M. Lenormant has traced it back 
to Babylonia and to the Babylonian representation of the goddess Artemis- 
Nana.* At Tanagra the image has been found under two forms, both, 
however, made of the same clay and in the same style as the figm'es 
from MykensQ. In one the goddess is upright, as at Mykena3, witii the 
polos on her head, and the arms either outspread or folded over the 
breast ; in the other she is sitting with the arms crossed. Now among 
the gold ornaments exhumed at Mykenae are some square pendants of 
gold which represent the goddess in this sitting posture, t 

The animal forms most commonly met with are those of the lion, 

* GoMem Archiologiquei ii 3^9. 1 6ee SohUemum's ^cens and Tix^rns, ikLSTS. 


the stag, the bull, the cuttle-fish, and the murex. The last two point 
unmistakably to a seafaring race, and more especially to those Phoe- 
nician sailors whoso pursuit of the purple-trade first brought thorn into 
Greek seas. So far as I know, neither the polypus nor the murex, nor 
the butterfly which often accompanies them have been found in Assy- 
ria or Egypt, and we may therefore see in them original designs of 
Phoenician art. Mr. Newton has pdinted out that the cuttle-fish (like 
the dolphin) also occurs among the prehistoric remains from lalysos in 
Rhodes, where, too, pottery of the same shape and material as that of 
Mykenos has been found, as well as beads of a curious vitreous sub- 
stance, and rings in which the back of the chaton is rounded so a^ to 
fit the finger. It is clear that the art of lalysos belongs to the same 
age and school as the art of MykenaB ; and as a scarab of Amenophis 
in. has been found in one of the lalysian tombs, it is possible that the 
art may be as old as the fifteenth century B.C. 

Now lalysos is not the only Rhodian town which has yielded prehis- 
toric antiquities. Camirus also has been explored by Messrs. Biliotti 
and Saltzmann ; and while objects of the same Idnd and character as 
those of lalysos have been discovered there, other objects have been 
found by their side which belong to another and more advanced stage 
of art There are vases of clay and metal, bronze bowls, and the like, 
which not only display high finish and skill, but are ornamented with 
the designs characteristic of Phoenician workmanship at Nineveh and 
elsewhere. Thus we have zones of trees and animels, at1;empts at the 
representation of scenery, and a profusion of ornament, while the in- 
fiuence of Egypt is traceable in the sphinxes and scarabs, which also 
occur plentifully. Here, therefore, at Camirus, there is plain evidence 
of a sudden introduction of finished Phoenician art among a people 
whose art was still rude and backward, although springing from the 
same germs as the art of Phoenicia itself. Two distinct periods in tlie 
history of the Mge&n thus seem to Ue unfolded before us ; one in which 
Eastern infl.uence was more or less indirect, content to communicate 
the seeds of civilization and culture, and to import such objects as a 
barbarous race would prize ; and another in which the East was, as it 
were, transported into the West, and the development of Greek art was 
interrupted by the introduction of foreign workmen and foreign beliefs. 
This second period was the period of Phoenician colonization as distinct 
from that of mere trading voyages — the period, in fact, when Thebes 
was made a Phoenician fortress, and the Phoenician alphabet diffused 
throughout the Greek world. It is only in relics of the later part oi 
this period that we can look for inscriptions and traces of writing, at 
least in Greece proper ; in the islands and on the coast of Asia Minor, 
the Cypriote syllabary seems to have been in use, to be supersedeij 
afterwards by the simpler alphabet of Kadmus. For reasons presently 
to be stated, I would distingiush the first period by the name of Phry^ 

Throtij{hoat the wholo of it, boweTdr, the Phoaoiciaii trading ships 


must hare formed the chief medinm of inteircoTtne between Asia azid 
Europe. Proof of this has been furnished by the rock tombs of Spata, 
which have been lighted on opportunely to illustrate and explain the dis- 
coveries at Mykensd. Bpata is about nine miles from Athens, on the ' 
north-west spur of Hymettos, and the two tombs hitherto opened 
are cut in the soft sandstone rock of a small conical hill. Both are ap- 
proached by long tunnel-like entrances, and one of them contains three 
chambers, leading one into the other, and each &shioned after the model 
of a house. No one who has seen the objects unearthed at Spata can 
doubt for a moment their close connection with the Mykensean antiqui- 
ties. The very moulds found at Mykenis fit the ornaments from Spata, 
and might easily have been used in the manufacture of them. It is 
more especially with the contents of the sixth tomb, discovered by Mr. 
Stamataki in Uie enceinte at Mykense after Dr. Schliemann's departure, 
that the Spata remains agree so remarkably. But there is a strong re- 
semblance between them and the Mykenaean antiquities generally, in 
both material, patterns, and character. The cuttle-fish and the murex 
appear in both ; the same curious spiral designs, and ornaments in the 
shape of shells or rudely-formed oxheads ; the same geometrical pat- 
terns ,- the same class of carved work. An ivory in which a lion, of the 
Assyrian type, is depicted as devouring a stag, is but a reproduction of a 
similar design met with among the objects from Mykense, and it is in- 
teresting to observe that the same device, in the same style of art, may 
be also seen on a Phoenician gem from Sardinia.* Of still higher in- 
terest are other ivories, which, like the antiquities of Camims, belong 
rather to the second than to the first period of Phoenician infiuence. One 
of these represents a column, which, like that above the Gate of Lions, 
carries us back to the architecture of Babylonia, while others exhibit the 
Egyptian sphinx, as modified by Phoenician artists. Thus the handle of 
a comb is divided into two compartments — the lower occupied by three 
of these sphinxes, the upper by two others, which have their eyes fixed 
on an Assyrian rosette in the middle. Similar sphinxes are engraved on 
a silver cup lately discovered at PaJestrina, bearing the Phoenician in- 
scription, in Phoenician letters, **Eshmun-ya*ar, son of A8hta\"t An- 
other ivory has been carved into the form of a human side face, sur^ 
mounted by a tiara of four plaits. On the one hand the arrangement 
of the hair of the face, the whisker and beard forming a fringe round 
it, and the two lips being closely shorn, reminds us of what we find at 
Palestrina ; on the other hand, the head-dress is that of the figures on 
the sculptured rocks of Asia Minor, and of the Hittite princes of Oar- 
chemish. In spite of this Phoenician colouring, however, the treasures 
of Spata belong to the earlier part of the Phoenician period, if not to 
that which I have called Phrygian : there is as yet no sign of writing, 
no trace of the use of iron. But we seem to be approaching the close 

* Given by La Marmora in the Memorie della Reale Academia delle ScImlm dl 
Torino (1864), vol. xiv., pi. 8, fig. 63. 

t Ctiwa in the JCoaumnll & lasfeitato Somno^ liVib 


of the bronze age in Greece — to have reached the time when the lions 
were sculptured over the chief gateway of Mykenss, and the so-called. 
treasuries were erected in honour of the dead. • 

Can any date be aasigned, even approximately, to those two periods 
of Phoenician influence in Greece ? Can we localize the era, so to speak, 
of the antiquities discovered at Mykeiue, or fix the epoch at which its 
kings ceased to build its long-enduring monuments, and its glory was 
teiken from it ? I think an answer to Qiese questions may be found in a 
series of engraved gold rings and prisms found upon its site — the 
prisms having probably once served to ornament the neck. In these we 
can trace a gradual development of art, which in time becomes less 
Oriental and mora Greek, and acquires a certain f acihty in the represen- 
tation of the human form. 

Let us first fix our attention on an engraved gold chaton found, not 
in the tombs, but outside the enceinte among the ruins, as it would seem, 
of a house.* On this we have a rude representation of a figure seated 
undsr a palm-tree, with another figure behind and three more in front, 
the foremost being of small size, the remaining two considerably taller 
and in flounced dresses. Above are the symbols of the sun and crescent- 
moon, and at the side a row of lions* heads. Now no one who has seen 
this chaton, and also had any acquaintance with the engraved gems of 
the archaic period of Babylonian art, can avoid being struck by thd 
fact that the intaglio is a copy of one of the latter. The character- 
istic workmanship of the Babylonian gems is imitated by punches 
made in the gold which give the design a very curious effect. The 
attitude of the -figures is that common on the Chaldean cylinders; 
the owner stands in front of the deity, of diminutive size, and in the 
act of adoration, while the priests are placed behind him. The latter 
wear the flounced dresses peculiar to the early Babylonian priests; 
and what has been supposed to represent female breasts, is really 
a copy of the way in which the breast of a man is frequently 
portrayed on the cylinders, t The pahn-tree, with its single fruit 
hanging on the left side, is characteristically Babylonian ; so also are 
the symbols that encircle the engraving, the sun and moon and Hons* 
heads. The chaton of another gold ring, found on the same spot, is 
covered with similar animal heads. This, again, is a copy of early 
Babylonian art, in which such designs were not unfrequent, though, as 
they were afterwards imitated by both Assyrian and Cyprian engravers, 
too much stress must not be laid on the agreement, t The artistic posi- 

* Schliemann : Mycence and Tiryoft, p. 530. 

t Sec. for instance, the example given in Kawlinson^s Ancient Monarchies {1st 
edit.); i. p. IIA, where the Hoanced priest has what looks liice a woman's breast. 
Dancing Doys and men in the East still wear these floonces, which are variously, col- 
oured (see Lof tus : Chaldea and Susiana, p. 22 ; George Smith : Assyrian Discov- 
eries, p. 130). 

t See, for example, Layard : Nineveh and Babylon, pp. 6M, C06 ; Di Ce&nola : 
C?yprus. pi. 81, No. 7 ; pi. 32, No. 19. A copy of tke Mykennan engraving is given is 
Bchliemann^sHyceneeand TifyvftrP^^^*' --' 



tion and age of the other ling, however, admits of little doabt The 
archaic period of Babylonian art may be said to cloise with the rise of 
Assyria in the fonrteenth century B.C. ; and thongh archaic Babylonian 
intaglios continued to be imported into the West down to the time of 
the Bomans, it is not likely that they were imitated by Western artists 
after the latter had become acquainted witih better and more attractive 
models. I think, therefore, that the two rings may be assigned to the 
period of archaic Baylonian power in western Asia, a period that begios 
with the victories of Naram-Sin in Palestine in the seventeenth century 
B.C. or earlier, and endd with the conquest of Babylon by the Assyrians 
and the establishment of Assyrian supremacy. This is also the period 
to which I am inclined to refer the introduction among the Phcenicians 
and Greeks of the colunm and of certain geometrical patterns, which 
had their first home in Babylonia.* The lentoid gems with their rude 
intagUos, found in the islands, on the site of Herseum, in the tombs of 
MykensB and elsewhere, belong to the same age, and point back to the 
loamy plain of Babylonia where stone was rare and precious, and 
whence, consequently, the art of gem-cutting was spread through the 
ancient world. We can thus understand the existence of artistic designs 
and other evidences of civilizing influence among a people who were 
not yet acquainted with the use of iron. The eariy Chaldean Empire, 
in spite of the culture to which it had attained, was still in the bronze 
age ; iron was almost unknown, and its tools and weapons were fash- 
ioned of stone, bone, and bronze. Had the Greeks and the Phoenicians 
before them received their first lessons in culture from Egypt or from 
Asia Minor, where the Khalybes and other allied tribes had worked 
in iron from time immemorial, they would probably have received this 
metal at the same time. But neither at HiKsarh'k nor at Mykenae is there 
any trace of an iron age. 

The second period of Western art and civilization is represented by 
some of the objects found at Mykenaa in the tombs themselves. The 
intagUos have ceased to be Babylonian, and h^ve become markedly 
Assyrian. First of all we have a hunting scene, a favourite subject 
with Assyrian artists, but quite unknown to genuine Hellenic art. The 
disposition of the figures is that usual in Assyrian sculpture, and, like 
the Assyrian king, the huntsman is represented as riding in a chariot 
A comparison of this hunting scene with the bas-reliefs on the tomb- 
stones which stood over the graves shows that they belong to the same 
age, while the spiral ornamentation of the stones is essentially Assyrian. 
Equally Assyrian, though better engraved, is a lion on one of the gold 
pnsms, which might have been cut by an Assyrian workman, so truo is 
it to its Oriental model, and after this I would place the representation 



of a straggle between a man (perhaps Heraldes) and a lion, in 'which, 
though the lion and attitude of the combatants are Assyrian, the man is 
no longer the Assyrian hero Gisdhnbar, but a figure of more Western 
type. In another intaglio, representing a fight between armed warriors, 
the art has ceased to be Assyrian, and is struggling to become native. 
Wo seem to bo approaching the period when Greece gave over walking 
in Eastern leading-strings, and began to step forward firmly withont 
help. As I believe, however, that Qie tombs within the enceinte are of 
older date than the Treasuries outside the Acropolis, or the Gate of Liors 
whi^h belongs to the same age, it is plain that we have not yet reached 
the time when Assjrro-Phoenician influence began to decline in Greece. 
The lions above the gate would alone be proof to the contrary. 

But, in fact, Phoenician influence continued to be felt up to the jend of 
the seventh century b.o. PasFdng by the so-called Corinthian vases, or 
the antiquities exhumed by General di Cesnola in Cyprus, where the 
Phoenician element was strong, we have nmnerous evidences of the fact 
from all parts of Greece. Two objects of bronze discovered at Olympia 
may be specially signalized. One of these is an oblong plate, narrower 
at one end than at the other, ornamented with repoinse work, and divi- 
ded into four compartments. In the first compartment are figures of the 
nondescript birds so often seen on the '* Corinthian" pottery; in the 
next come two Assyrian gryphons standing, as usual, face to face ; 
while the third represents the contest of Herakles with the Kentaur, 
thoroughly Oriental in design. The Kentaur a human forefront, 
covered, however, with hair ; his tail is abnormally long, and a three- 
branched tree rises behind him. The fourth and largest com- 
partment contains the figure of the Asiatic goddess with the four 
wings at the back, and a lion, held l)y the hind leg, in either 
hand. The face of the goddess is in profile. The whole design is 
Assyro-Phasnician, and is exactly reproduced on some square gold 
plates, intended probably to adorn the breast, presented to the Louvre 
by the Due de Luynes. The other object to which I referred is a 
bronze dish, ornamented on the inside with rcpmiHfte work, which at 
first sight looks Egyptian, but is really that Phoenician modification of 
Egyptian art so common in the eighth and seventh centuries B.C. An 
inscription in the Aramaic characters of the so-called Sidonian branch 
of the Phoenician alphabet is cut on the outside, and reads: ** Belong- 
ing to Neger, son of Miga."* As the word used for "son" is the Ara- 
iraic bar and not the Phoenician heri^ we may conclude that the owner 
of the dish had come from northern Syria. It is interesting to find a 
silver cup embossed with precisely the same kind of design, and also 
bearing an insciiption in Phoenician letters, among the treasures dis- 
covered in a tomb at Palestrina, the ancient PraBueste, more than a year 
ago. This inscription is even briefer than the other: **Eshmunya'ar 
son of 'Ashta.,"t where, though hen is employed, the father's name has 



oa Aramaic form. Hclbig wotild refer these Italian specimens of 
Phcemcian skill to the Carthaginian epoch, partly on the ground that an 
A^can species of ap^ seems sometimes represented on them;* in this 
case they might be as late as the fifth century before the Christian era. 
During the earlier part of the second period of Phaenician influence, 
Fhoenieia and the PhoBnician colonies were not the only channel by 
which the elements of Assyrian culture found their way into the \iest. 
The monnments and religious beliefs of Asia IVIinor enable us to trace 
their progress from the banks of the Euphrates and the ranges of the 
Taurus, through Cappadocia and Phrygia, to the coasts and islands of 
the .^gean. The near affinity of Greek and Phrygian is recognized 
even by Plato ;t the legends of Midas and Gordius formed part of 
Greek mythology, and -the royal house of Mykenae was mada to come 
\7ith all its wesdth from the golden sands of the Paktolus ; while on 
the other hand the cult of Ma, of Attys, or of the Ephesian Artemis 
points back to an Assyrian origin. The sculptures found by Pen-ot t 
and Texier constitute a link between the prehistoric art of Greece and 
that of Asia Minor ; the spiral ornaments that mark the antiquities of 
Mykense are repeated on the royal tombs of Asia Minor ; and the ruins 
of Sardis, "where once ruled a dynasty derived by Greek writers from 
Ninus or Nineyeh, "the son of Bell," the grandson of the Assyrian 
Herakles,§ may yet pour a flood of light on the earlier history of 
Greece. But it was rather in the first period, which I have termed 
Phrygian, than in the second, that the influence of Asia Minor was 
strongest. The figure of the goddess riding on a leopard, with mural 
crown and peaked shoes, on the rock-tablets of Pterium,|| is borrowed 
rather from the cylinders of early Babylonia than from the sculptures 
of Assyria ; and the Hissarlik collection connects itself more with the 
primitive antiquities of Santorin than with the later art of Mykense and 
Cyprus. "We have already seen, however, the close relationship that 
crists between some of the objects excavated at Mykenae and what we 
may call the pre-Phoenician art of lalysos, — that is to say, the objects 
in which the influence of the East is indirect, and not direct The dis- 
covery of metallurgy is associated with Dodona, where the omcle long 
continued to be heard in the ring of a copper chaldron, and where M. 
Rarapanos has foxmd bronze plates with ^e geometrical and circular 
patterns which distinguish the earliest art of Greece ; now Dodona is 
the seat of primaeval Greek civilization, the hmd of the SeUoi or Helloi, 
of the Graioi themselves, and of Pelasgian Zeus, while it is to the north 
that the legends of Orpheus, of Musseus, and of other early civilizers 
looked back. But even at Dodona we may detect traces of Asiatic in- 
finence in the part played there by the doves, as well as in the story of 
Deucalion's deluge, and it may, perhaps, be not too rash to conjecture 

; J 

• Anuali d. Istitnto Romano, 1876. t Kratylns, 410 a, 

1 Exploration Arch6olOffiqae de la Galatie et du la Bithynie. 

ij See H«rodotas, L7. tl Tezler : Description de TAsic Mineore, L 1, pL 78, . 


that c\ en before the days of Phoenician enterprise and barter, an eclio 
of Babylonian civilization had reached Greece through the medinm of 
Asia Minor, whence it was carried, partly across the bridge formed by 
the islands of the Archipelago, partly through the mainland of Thrace 
and Epirus. The Hittites, with their capital at Carchemish, seem to 
have been the centre from which this borrowed civiUzatioii was spread 
northward and westward. Here was the home of the art which cha- 
racterizes Asia Minor, and we have only to compare the bas-relief of 
Pterium with the rock sculptures found by Mr. Davis associated with 
**Hamathite" hieroglyphics at Ibreer, in Lycaonia,* to see how inti- 
mate is the connection between the two. These hieroglyphics were the 
still undeciphered writing of the Hittite tribes^ and if, as seems pos- 
sible, the Cypriote syllabary were derived from ihem, they would be a 
testimony to the western spread of Hittite influence at a very early 
epoch. The Cypriote characters adopted into the alphabets of Lycia 
and Karia, as well as the occurrence of the same characters on a hone 
and some of the terra-cotta discs found by Dr. Schliemann at Hissarlik, 
go to show that this influence would have extended, at any rate, to the 
coasts of the sea. 

The ti-aces of Egyptian influence, on the contrary, are few and faint. 
No doubt the Phoenician alphabet was ultimately of Egyptian origin, 
no doubt, too, that certain elements of Phoenician art were borrowed 
from Egypt, but before these were handed oif to the West, they had 
first been profoundly modified by the Phoenician settlers in the Delta 
and in Canaan. The influence exercised immediately by Egypt upon 
Greece belongs to the historic period; the legends which saw an Egyp- 
tian emigrant in Kekrops or an Egyptian colony in the inhabitante of 
Argos wera fables of a late date. Whatever intercourse existed between 
Egypt and Greece in the prehistoric period was carried on, not by the 
Egyptians, but by the Phoenicians of the Delta ; it was they who 
brought the scarabs of a Thothmes or an Amenophis to the islsmds of 
the ^gean, like their descendants afterwards in Italy, and the proper 
names found on the Egyptian monuments of the eighteenth and nine- 
teenth dynasties, which certain Egyptologists have identified with those 
of Greece and Asia Minor, belong rather, I believe, to Libyan and Se- 
mitic tribes, t Like the sphinxes at Spata, the indications of inter- 
course with Egypt met with at Mykenas prove nothing more than the 
wide extent of Phoenician commerce and the existence of Phoenician 
colonies at the mouths of the Nile. Ostrich-eQgs covered with stucco 
dolphins have been found not only at Mykenco, but also in the grotto 
of Polledrara near Vulci in Italy ; the Egyptian porcelain excavated at 
MykensB is painted to represent the fringed dress of an Assyrian or a 

* Transactions of the Society of Biblical Arch*olo^y, iv. 2, 18T6. 

+ I have given the reasons of my scepticiHm in the Academy ^ of May 30, 1874. 
Brn^scli Bejr, the leading authority on the geography of the Egyptian mouumeDts, 
would now identify those names with those tribes in KolkliiB, and its neighbonr- 
hood. - - . 


Phceziician, not of an Egyptian ; and though a gold mask belonging to 
Prince Kha-em-Uas, ana resembling the famous masks of Mykenie, has 
been brought to the Louvre from an Apis chamber, a similar mask of 
small size \^as disoovered last year in a tomb on the site of Arndus. 
Such intercourse, however, as existed between Greece and the Delta 
must have been very restricted ; otherwise we should surely have some 
specimens of writing, some traces of the Phoenician alphabet. It would 
not have been left to the Aramaeans of Syria to introduce the ** Kadmc- 
ian letters " into Greece, and MykensB, rather than ThebeSj would have 
been made the centra from which they were disseminated. Indeed, wo 
may perhaps infer that even the coast of Asia Minor, near as it was to 
the Phoenician settlements at Kamirus and elsewhere, could have held 
but little intercourse with the Phoenicians of Egypt from the fact that 
the Cypriote syllabary was so long in use upon it, and that the alpha- 
bets s^srwards employed were derived only indirectly from the Phceni- 
eian through the medium of the Greek. 

One point more now alone needs to be noticed. The long-continued 
influence upon early Greek culture which we ascribe to the Phoenicians 
cannot but have left its mark upon the Greek vocabulary also. Some 
at least of the names given by the Phoenicians to the objects of luxury 
they brought with them must have been adopted by the natives of Hel- 
las. Vfe know that this is the case with the letters of the alphabet ; is 
it also the case with other words ? If not, analogy would almost com- 
pel us to treat the evidences that have been enumerated of Phasniciau 
influence as illusory, and to fall back upon the position of O. K. MUller 
and his school. By way of answer I would refer to the list of Greek 
words, the Semitic origin of which admits of no doubt, lately given by 
Dr. August Miiller in Bezzenberger's "Beitrage zur Kunde der indoger- 
iiianischen Sprachen."* Amongst these we find articles of luxury like 
*• linen," "shirt," '* sackcloth," "myrrh," and " frankincense," " gal- 
baaum " and " cassia," " cinnamon " and " soap," "lyres " and" wine- 
jars," "balsam "and " cosmetics," as well, possibly, as "fine linen" 
and " gold," along with such evidences of trade and literature as the 
''pledge," "the writing tablet," and the "shekel." If these 
were the only instances of Semitic tincture, they would be enough to 
prove the early presence of the Semitic Phoenicians in Greece. But we 
must remember that they are but samples of a class, and that many 
words borrowed during the heroic age may have dropped out of use or 
been conformed to the native part of the vocabulary long before the be- 
ginning of the written literature, while it would be in the lesser known 
dialects of the islands that the Semitic element was strongest. We 
know that the dialect of Cyprus was full of importations from the East. 

In what precedes I have made no reference to the Homeric poems, 
and the omissicm may be thought strange. But Homeric illustrations of 
the presence of the Phoenicians in Greece will occur to every one, while 



b<5th the Hiad and the Odyssey in their existing form are too modem t<i 
be quotK:5d -svitjiout extreme caution. A close inyestigation of their lan- 
guage shows that it is the slow growth of generations ; iEoUc f omiulse 
from the lays first recited in the towns of the Troad are embodied in 
Ionic poems where old Ionic, new Ionic, and even Attic jostle against 
one another, and traditional words and phrases are furnished with mis- 
taken meanings or new forms coined by false analogy. ■ It is difficult to 
separate the old from the new, to say with certainty that this allusion 
belongs to the heroic past, this to the Homer of Thcopompus and Eu- 
phorion, the contemporary of the Lydian Gyges. The art of Homer is 
not the art of Mykenro and of the early age of Phoenician influence ; 
iron is abready taking the place of bronze, and the shield of Akhilles or 
the palace of Alkinous bear witness to a developed art which has freed 
itself from its foreign bonds. Six times are Phoenicia and the Phoeni- 
cians mentioned in the Odyssey, once in the Biad ;* elsewhere it is Si- 
don and the Sidonians that represented them, never Tyre.f Such pas- 
sages, therefore, cannot belong to the epoch of Tyrian supremacy, 
which goes back, at all events, to the age of David, but rather to the 
brief period when the Assyrian king Shahnaneser laid siege to Tyre, and 
his successor Sargon made Sidon powerful at its expense. This, too, 
was the period when Sargon set up his record in Cyprus, "the isle of 
Yavnan " or the lonians, when Assyria first came into immediate con- 
tact with the Greeks, and when Phoenician artists worked at the court of 
Kineveh and carried their wares to Italy and Sardinia. But it was not 
the age to which the reUcs of Mykense, in spite of paradoxical doubts, 
reach back, nor that in which the sacred bull of Astarte carried th^ 
Phoenician maiden Europa to her new home in the west. 

A, H. Satce, in Contemporary Review. 

— — ^ ^ 

• Phcenicia, Od. iv. 83 ; xiv. 291. Phamidans, Od. xiii. 27S ; xv. 415. AJ^hcerA 
dan, Od. xiv. 288. A Phoenician tvoman, Od. xiv. 288 ; II. xiv. 321. 

t Sidon, Sidonia, U. vi. 291 ; Od. xiii. 28i ; xv. 425. Sidonians^ II. vi. 290 : Od. i* 
84, 618 ; xv. 118. 


Is old-world London, Leicester Square played a much more important 
part than it does to-day. It was then the choaen refuge of royalty and 
the home of wit and genius. Time was when it glittered with throngs 
of lace^bedizened gallants ; when it trembled beneath the chariot-wheels 
of Beauty and Fashion ; when it re-echoed with the cries of jostling 
chairmen and link-boys ; when it was trodden by the feet of the great- 
est men of a great epoch — Newton and Swift, Hogarth, Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, and a host of others more or less distinguished. Mr. Tom Tay- 
lor, in his interesting work entitled "Leicester Square," tells us that 
the Ticissitudes of a London quarter generally tend downwards through 
a regular series of decades. It is first fashionable ; then it is profes- 
Bional ; then it becomes a favourite locality for hotels and lodging- 
houses ; then the industrial element predominates, and then not infre- 
quently a still lower depth is reached. Leicester Square has been no 
exception to this rule. Its reputation in fact was becoming very shady 
indeed, when the improvement of its central indosuro gave it somewhat 
of a start upwards and turned attention to its early history. 

Of old, many of these grand doings took place at Leicester House, 
which was the first house in the Square. It was built by Robert Sidney, 
Earl of Leicester, a staunch Royalist, somewhere about 1(J36. His sons, 
Viscount Lisle and 'the famous Algernon Sidney, grew up less of Royal- 
ists than he was ; and to Leicester House, with the sanction and wel- 
come of its head, came many of the more prominent Republicans of 
the day, Vane and Neville, Milton and Bradshaw, Ludlow and Lambert 
The cream of history lies not so much in a bare notation of facts as in 
the little touches of nature and manners which reproduce for us the 
actual human life of a former age, and much of this may bo gleaned 
from the history of the Sidneys. They were an interesting family, ahke 
from their rank, their talents, their personal beauty, and the vicissitudes 
of their fortunes. The Countess was a clever managing woman ; and 
her letters to her absent lord when ambassador in France convey to us 
many pleasant details of the home-life at Leicester House. Still more 
charming is it to read the pretty littie billets addressed to the Earl by his 
elder girls. Of these six beautiful daughters of the house of Siihiey, 
four were married and two died in the dawn of early womanhood. Of 
the younger of these. Lady Elizabeth, the father has a touching entry 
in his joumaL After narrating her death', he adds: "She had to the 
last the most angelical countenance and beauty, and the most heavenly 
disposition and temper of mind that I think were ever seen in so young 
ft creature." 

With her death the mezrj happy family life at Leicester House drew 


to a close. The active bustling mother, whose influence had brought 
the different jarring chords into harmony, died a few months after- 
wards ; and the busy years as they sped onwards, while consummating 
the fail of Charles and consolidating the power of Cromwell, also put 
great and growing disunion between the Sidney brothers. At the Res- 
toration, Algernon was in exile ; Lord Lisle's stormy temper had alien- 
ated him from his father ; the EarPs favourite son-in-law was dead ; of 
the three who remained he was neither proud nor fond ; and lonely and 
sick at heart, he grew weary of the splendid home from which the fair 
faces of his handsome children had gone for ever, and made prepara- 
tions to leave it. He was presented to Charles 11. ; * and immediately 
aft3rwards retired to Penshurst in Kent ; and Leicester House was let, 
first to the ambassadors of the United Provinces ; and then to a more 
remarkable tenant, Elizabeth Stewart, the ill-fated Princess and Queen 
of Bohemia. She had left England in 1613 a lovely happy girl, tlie 
bride of the man she loved, life stretching all rainbow-hued before her. 
She returned to it a weary haggard woman of sixty-five, who had 
drunk to the dregs of every possible cup of disappointment and sorrov?-. 
Her presence was very unwelcome, as that of the unfortunate often is. 
Charles H., her nephew, was very loath indeed to have the pleasure of 
receiving her as a guest ; but she returned to London whether he 
would or not, and Leicester house was taken for her. There she lan- 
guished for a few months in feeble and broken health, and there, on 
tiie anniversary of her wedding-day, she died. 

The house immediately to the west of Leicester House belonged to the 
Marquis of Aylesbury; but in 1008 it was occupied by the Marquis of 
Ca:rmarthen, who was appointed by King 'Williaih IH. cicerone and 
guide to Peter the Great when he came in the January of that year to 
visit England. Peter's great quahties have long been done full justico 
to ; but in the far-off January of 1698 he appeared to the English as 
by no means a very august-looking potentate ; he had th"e manners and 
appearance of an unkempt barbarian, and his pastimes were those of a 
coal-heaver. His favourite exercise in the mornings was to run a bar^ 
row through and through Evelyn's trim holly-hedges at Dcptford ; and 
the stata in which he left his pretty house there is not to be described. 
His chief pleasure, when the duties of the day were over, was lo drink 
all night with the Marquis in his house at Leicester Fields, the 
favourite tipple of the two distinguished topers being brandy epiced 
v/ith peppsr ; or sack, of which the Czar is reported to have drunk 
eight bottles one day after dinner. Among other sights in London, the 
Marquis took him to see Westminster h5i in full term. **"VVho are 
all these men in wigs and gowns?" he asked. "Lawyers," was the 
answer. '* Lawyers I" he exclaimed. ** Why, I have only two in mj 
dominions, and when I get back, I intend to hang one of thf m." 

In January 1712 Leicester House, which was then occupied by the 
imperial resident, received another distinguished visitor in the person 
of Prince Eugene, oa& of tha greatest captains of the age. In appear- 


ance lie was a little sallow wizened old man, with one shotilder higher 
than the other. A soldier of fortune, whose origin was so humble as 
to be unknown, his laurels were stained neither by rapacity nor self- 
heeking ; and in all the yicissitndes of his eventful life he bore himself 
like a hero, and a gentleman in the truest and fullest acceptation of the 
word. Dean Swift was also at this time in lodgings in Leicester Fields, 
iioting with dear acute unpitying vision the foibles and f aihngs of all 
siround him, and writing to Stella from time to time after his cynical 
fashion, ^' how the world is going mad after Prince Eugene, and how 
he went to court also, but could not see him, the crowd was so great" 

A labyrinth of courts, inns, and stable-yards had gradually filled up the 
space between the royal mews and Leicester Fields ; and between 1680 
and 1700 several new streets were opened through these ; one reason for 
the opening of them being the great influx of French refugees into Lon- 
don, on the occasion of the Kevocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1G85. 
Many of these exiles settled in and around Leicester Fields, and for their 
use several chapels were built The neighbourhood has ever since been 
a resort of French immigrants. 

In one of these streets opening into Leicester Square, St. Martin's 
Street, Sir Isaac Newton Uved for the last sixteen years of his life. The 
house in which he lived looks dingy enough now ; but in those days it 
was considered a very good residence indeed, and Like Leicester House 
was frequented by the best company in the fashionable world. The ge- 
nius and reputation of its master attracted scientific and learned visitors ; 
and the beauty of his niece, Mrs. Catharine Barton, drew to her feet all 
the more distinguished wits and beaux of the time. 

Between 1717 and 1760 Leicester House became what Pennant calls 
''the pouting-place of princes," being for almost all that time in the oc- 
cupation of a Prince of Wales who was living in fierce opposition to the 
reigning king. In 1718 the Prince of Wales having had a furious quar- 
rel with his father George I., on the occasion of the christening of the 
Prince's son George William, left St. James's, and took Leicester House 
at a yearly rent of five hundred pounds ; and until he succeeded to the 
throne in 1727, it was his town residence. 

Here he held his court — a court not by any means strait-laced ; a gay 
Utile court at first ; a court whose selfish intrigues and wild frolics and 
madcap adventures and humdrum monotony live for us still in the spark- 
ling pages of Horace Walpole ; or are painted in with vivid clearness of 
toQch and execution, but with a darker brush, by Hervey, Pope's Lord 
Fanny, who was a favourite with his mistress the handsome accom- 
plished Caroline, Princess of Wales. Piloted by one or other of these 
exact historians, we enter the chamber of the gentlewomen-in-waiting, 
and are introduced to the maids-of-honour, to fair Mary Lepell, to 
charming Mrs. Bellenden, to pensive, gentle Mrs. Howard. We see 
them eat Westphalia ham of a morning, and then fr-nt out with their 
royal master for a helter-skelter ride over hedges and ditches, on bor- 
rowed hacks. No wonder Pope pitied them j and on their return, who 


should they fall in with but that great poet himself 1 They are good to 
him in their way, these saucy charming maids-of-honour, and so tliey 
take the frail little man under their protection and give him his dinner ; 
and then he finishes off the day, he tells us, by wafiking three hours in 
the moonlight with Mary Lepell. We can imagine the affected compli- 
ments he paid her and the burlesque love he made to her ; and the fun 
she and her sister maids-of -honour would have laughing over it all, 
when she went back to Leicester House and he returned to his pretty 
villa at Twickenham. 

As the Prince grew older his court became more and more dull, till at 
last it was almost deserted, when on the 14th of June 1727 the loungers 
in its half -empty chambers were roused by sudden news — George I. was 
dead ; and Leicester Souse was thronged by a sudden rush of obsequi- 
ous courtiers, among whom was the late king's prime-minister, bluff, 
jolly, coarse Sir Robert Walpole. No one paid any attention to him, 
for every one knew that Ms disgrace was sealed ; the new king had never 
been at any pains to conceal his dislike to him. Sir Robert, however, 
knew better ; he was quite well aware who was to be the real ruler of 
England now ; and he knew that the Princess Caroline had already ac- 
cepted him, just as she accepted La Walmoden and her good Howard ; 
and so all alone in his comer he chuckled to himself as he saw the crowd 
of sycophants elbow and jostle and push poor Lady Walpole as she tried 
to make her way to the royal feet. Caroline saw it too, and with a flash 
of half -scornful mischief hghting up her shrewd eyes, said with a smile : 
" Sure, there I see a friend." Instantly the human stream parted, and 
made way for her Ladyship. 

In 1728 Frederick, the eldest son of George and Caroline, arrived 
from Hanover, where he had remained since his birth in 1707. It was 
a fatal mistake ; he came to England a stranger to his parents, and with 
his place in their hearts already filled by his brother. It was inevitable 
that where there was no mutual love, distrust and aUenation should 
come, as in no long time they did, with the result that the same x>iti- 
ful drama was played out again on the same stage. In 174:3 Frederick 
Prince of Wales took Leicester House and held his receptions there. IIo 
was fond of gaiety, and had a succession of balls, masques, plays, and 
supper-parties. His tastes, as was natural considering his rearing, wero 
foreign, and Leicester House was much frequented by foreigners of every 
grade. Desnoyers the dancing-master was a favourite habitue, as vois 
also the charlatan St-Germain. In the midst of all this fiddling and buf - 
foonery the Prince fell ill ; but not so seriously as to cause uneasinesb 
to any one around him ; consequently all the world was taken by sur- 
prise when he suddenly died one morning in the arms of his friend the 
dancing-master. - After his death his widow remained at Leicester House, 
and like a sensible woman as she was, made her peace with the king het 
father-in-law, who ever afterwards shewed himself very kind and friendly 
to her. 

In October 17G0 George III. was proclaimed king; and again a ccow«t 


of conrtieis thronged to Leicester HomSe to kiss the hand of the new 
BOTereign. For six years longer the Pnnccss of "Wales continued to live 
at Leicester House; and there la 17G5 her youngest son died, and ^he 
following year she removed to Carlton House. 

While the quarrel between George H. and Frederick was at its fiercest, 
the central inclosure of Leicester Square was re-arranged very elegantly 
according to the taste of the day ; and an equestrian statue of George 
L, which had belonged to the fiist Duke of Ghandos and had been 
bought at the sale of hid effects, was set up in front of Leicester House, 
where it remained, a dazzling object at first, in all the glory of gilding, 
which passed with the populace for gold ; but latterly a most wretched 
relic of the past, an eyesore, which was removed in 1874 in the course 
of Baron Grant's improvements. 

Leicester Square had other tenants beside Sir Isaac Newton, com- 
pared with whom courtiers and gallants and fine gentlemen and ladies 
look very small indeed. HogarUi lived in this street, and so did Sir 
Joshua Beynolds. Hogarth's house was the last but two on the east 
side of the Square. Here he established himself, a young struggliijg 
man, with Jane Thomhill, the wife with whom he had made a stolon 
^ve-match. In this house, with the quaint sign of the Golden Head 
over the door, he worked, not as painters generally do, at a multitude 
of detached pieces, but depicting with his vivid brush a whole series of 
popular allegories on canvas. When he became rich, as in process of 
time he did, he had a house at Chiswick ; but he still retained the Gol- 
den Head as his town-house, and in 1764 returned to it to die. 

In No. 47 Sir Joshua Beynolds lived, and painted those charming 
portraits which have immortalised for us all that was most beautifru 
and famous in his epoch. He was a kindly genial lovable man, fond of 
society, and with a liking for display. He had a wonderful carriage, 
with the four seasons curiously painted in on the panels, and the wheels 
ornamented with carved foliage and gilding. The servants in atten- 
dance on this chariot wore sUver-laoed liveries ; and as he had no time 
to drive in it himself, he made his sister take a daily airing in it, much 
to her discomfort, for she was a homely little lady with very simple 
taetcs. He was a great dinner- giver ; and as it was his custom to ask 
eveiy pleasant person he met without any regard to the preparation 
made to receive them, it may be conjectured that there was often a 
want of the commonest requisites of the dinner-table. Even knives, 
forks, and glasses could not always be procured at first. But although 
his dinners partook very much of the nature of unceremonious scram- 
bles, they were thoroughly enjoyable. Whatever was awanting, there 
was always cheerfulness and the pleasant kindly interchange of thought. 
In July 171)2 Sir Joshua died in his own house in Leicester Square*; and 
vdthin a few hours of his death, an obituary notice of him was written 
by Burke, the manuscript of which was blotted with his tears. 

In No. 28, on the eastern side of the Square, the celebrated anatomist 
<?ohn Hunter lived. Like most distinguished men of the day, he sat to 


Sir Joshua Reynolds for his portrait ; but was so restless and preoccupied 
that he made a very bad sitter.' At last one day he fell into a reverie. 
The happy moment had come ; Sir Joshua, with his instinctive tact, 
caught the expression and presented to us the great surgeon in one of 
his most characteristic attitudes. The other celebrated surgeons, 
Gruickshank and Charles Bell, also lived in this Square. The house in 
which Bell resided for many years was large and ruinous, and had once 
been inhabited by Speaker Onslow. Here he set up his Museum, and 
began to lecture on anatomy, having for along time, he writes, scarcely 
forty pupils to lecture to. 

During all the later portion of its history Leicester Square has been 
famous for shows. In 1771 Sir Ashton Lever exhibited a large and 
curious Museum in Leicester House. In 1796 Charles Dibdin built at 
Nos. 2 and 3, on the east side of Leicester Square, a small theatre in 
which he gave an entertainment consisting of an interesting medley of 
anecdote and song. In 1787 Miss Linwood opened her gallery of pic- 
tures in needlework, an exhibition which lasted fortj'-seven years, for 
the last thirty-five of which it was exhibited at Savile House, a building 
which was destroyed by fire in 1865. 

After Miss Linwood's, one of the best shows in Leicester Square vras 
Burford's Panorama, which is now numbered with the things that were, 
its site being occupied bya French chapel and school In 1851 a new 
show was inaugurated by Mr. Wylde the geographer. It consisted of 
a monster globe sixty feet in diameter, which occupied the central dome 
of a building erected in the garden of the Square. The world was 
figured in relief on the inside of it, and it was viewed from several 
galleries at different elevations. It was exhibited for ten years, and was 
then taken down by its proprietor, owing to a dispute concerning tho 
ownership of the garden. Out of this case, which was decided in 1867, 
the proceedings originated which resulted in the purchase and renova- 
tion of the garden by Baron Grant, who having once more made it trim 
and neat, h^ded it over to the Board of Works. — CJiatnbers^s JourrioL 



Thosb races that have not undergone the heneficial and domesticating 
mflnences of civilisation, and that are isolated from the more coltnred 
MtioDs. possess to an excess the different qualities or impulses inherent 
to our nature. Amongst the emotions that move the heart of man, love 
is certainly the one that has the greatest empire over him ; it rules the 
soul so imperiously that all the other passions are crushed by it It 
makes cowards of the bravest men, and givescourage to the timid. Love 
is, indeed, the great motive-power of life. 

Our passions and our emotions are, however, more subdued than 
those of the semi-civilised nations ; for, in the first place, we undergo 
the softening influences of education, and secondly, we are more or less 
under the restraint of the rules whiich govern society. Besides this, ouf 
mind is usually engrossed by the numerous cares which our state of liv-* 
ing necessitates ; for we are not like them, contented with httle ; on the 
contraiy, instead of being satisfied with what is necessary, we require 
luxuries and superfluities, the procurement of which takes up a consider- 
able portion of our energy and our mental activity. 

The Slavonians, and more especially those belonging to the southern 
regions, such as the Dalmatians and Montenegrins, are, as a general 
rule, very passionate ; ardent in their affections, they are likewise 
given to anger, resentment, and hatred, the generic sister passion of 

The Slavonian women are, however, not indolent, nor do they ever 
indulge in idle dreams ; for they are not only occupied with the house- 
hold cares, but they also take a share, and not the smallest or the shght- 
est, of those toils which in other countries devolve upon the men alone. 
They therefore, in the manly labours of the field, not only get prema- 
tuTfcly old, but they hardly ever possess much grace, slendemess, or 
delicate complexions. No Slavonian woman, for instance, is ever 
ffiif.inonne. They, in compensation, acquire in health, and i^erhaps ui 
real aesthetic beauty of proportions, what they lose in prettiness or deli- 
cacy of appearance, consequently they never suffer from vapours or from 
the numerous nervous complaints to which the generality of our ladies 
are subjected ; the natural result of this state of things is mens sana in 
corpore sano ; this is doubtless the reason why Slavonian women are, as 
a general rule, fond mothers and faithful wives. 

They are certainly not endowed with that charming refinement, the 
fnorbiclezza of manners which but too often is but a mask covering a 
morbid selfish disposition, a hypocritical and false nature. Though igno- 


rant, they are neither void of natnral good sense nor wit ; they only 
"want that smattering of worldly knowledge which the contact of society 
imparts, and which but too often covers nothing but frivolity, gross 
ignorance, and conceit. Their conversation is, perhaps, not peculiarly 
attractive ; for being simple and artless, speech was not given to them 
as a means of disguising their thoughts ; their hps only disclose the full- 
ness of their hearts. Conversation is, besides, a gift conferred to few ; 
and even in our polite circles not many persons can converse in an in- 
teresting manner, and fewer can be witty without backbiting ; moreover, 
if man were suddenly to become transparent, would he not have to 
blush for the frivolous demonstrations of friendship daily interchanged 
in our artificial state of society ? 

The different amusements tiiat absorb so much of our time and occupy 
our minds are unknown in Slavonian countries ; the daily occupations 
and the details of the toilet do not captivate the whole attention ; so that 
when a simple affection is awakening in the heart of a man or of a 
woman, it by degrees pervades the whole soul and the whole mind, and 
a strong and ardent passion usually ensues. Moreover, amongst those 
simple-minded sincere people flirtations are generally unknown ; yet 
when they do love, their affections are genuine ; they never exchange 
amongst each other those false coins bearing Oupid^s effigy, and known 
as coquetry ; for their hps only utter what l£eir hearts really feel. Peo- 
ple there do not deUght in playing with the fire of love, or trying how 
far they can with impunity make game of sentiments which should be 
held sacred. Amongst the virile maidens of Slavonia many of them 
therefore have virgin hearts, that is to say, artless souls, fresh to aU the 
tender sentiments ; the reason of this is, that from the age of fifteen 
they do not trifle with their affections until they have become so callous 
and sceptical that marriage is merely wealth or a position in hfe. .Men 
do not first waste away all the tender emotions which the human heart is 
capable of, and then settle down into a manage de raison. 

The foUowing story, which happened about a century ago, will serve 
as an illustration of the power of love amongst the Slavonians ; it is, in- 
deed, a kind of repetition of the fate which attended the lovers of Sestos 
and Abydos. This, however, is no legend, but an historical fact ; the 
place where this tragedy happened was the island of St. Andrea, situated 
between those of Malfi and Stagno, not far from the town of Eagnsa. 

Though no Musaeus has immortaUsed this story by his verses, it is, 
however, recorded in the ^'Bevista Dalmata" (1859), m the " Annnario 
Spalatino" of the same year, as well as other Slavonian periodicals. 

The hero of this story, whose Christian name was Teodoro, belonged 
to one of the wealthiest patrician famiUes of Kagusa, his father being, it 
is said, Kector of the BepubUc. He was a young man of a grave char- 
acter, but withal of a gentle and tender disposition ; he not only poB- 
Bcssed great talents, but also great culture, for his time was entirely 
given up to study. 

One day, the young patrician having gone from the island of St. An- 


draft, \7l1ere he had been staying at the Benedictine convent, to one of 
the other two neighboring island, he in the evening wished to retaru to 
his abode. He met upon the beach a young girl who was carrying home 
soms baskets of fish. Having asked her if »he knew of anybody who 
would take him across to the island of St. Andrea, the yomig girl prof- 
fered her services, which the young and bashful patrician lelnctantly 

The young girl wa& as beautiful, as chaste, and as proud as the Arm- 
biata of Paul Heyse ; and for the first time Teodoro felt a new and 
vagao feeling awake in his bosom. He began to talk to the girl, asking 
hdr a thousand questions about herself, about her home ; and the young 
girl doubtless told him that she was an orphan, and that she Hved with 
her brothers. Instead of returning to his family, the young nobleman 
remained at the Benedictine convent, with the purpose of studying in 
reth^ment ; his mind, however, was not entirely engrossed by his books, 
and hif visits to the island where Margherita lived daily became more 

^^e love which had kindled in his heart found an echo in the young 
girl's bosom, and instead of endeavouring to suppress their feelings they 
yielded to the charms of this saintly affection, to the rapture of loving 
and being loved. In a few days their mutual feelings had made such 
progress that the young man promised the harcaHnola to marry her. 
His noble character and his brave spirit made h\m forget that he could 
not with impunity break the laws of the society amongst which he lived ; 
for that society, which would have smiled had he seduced the young girl 
and made her his mistress, would nevertheless have been scandalised had 
he taken her for his lawful wife. 

Peccadilloes are overlooked, and it is almost better in high life to be a 
knnve than a fool ; it was, indeed, a quixotic notion for a patrician to 
marry a plebeian, an unheard of event in the annals of the aristocratic 
republic of Kt^usa. The difficulties which our hero was to encotmter 
were therefore insurmountable. 

In the midst of his thoughtless happiness our young lover was sud- 
denly summoned back to Ms home ; for whilst Teodoro was supposed 
to be deeply engaged in his studies his father, without the young man's 
knowledge, and not anticipating any opposition, promised his son in 
marriage to the daughter of one of his friends, a yotmg lady of great 
Wvialth and beauty. This union had, it is true, been concerted when the 
children were mere babes, and it had until then been a bond between 
the two famihes. The young lady being now of a marriageable age, 
and having concentrated all her affections on the young man she had air 
ways been taught to regard as her future husband, she now looked for- 
vrjffd with joy for ^e anticipated event. 

Teodoro was therefore summoned back home to assist at a great fes- 
tivity given in honour of his betrotlial ; he at once hastened back to 
fiagusa, in order to break off the engagement contracted for him. 
Vainly, however, did he try to remonstrate, first with his father and 


then with his mother. He avowed that ho had no inclination for matri- 
mony, that he felt no love for this young lady, nothing but a mere 
brotherly affection, and that he could not cherish her as his wife ; ha 
found, nevertheless, both his parents inexorable. It was too late ; tli3 
father had given his word to his friend; a refusal would prove an insult, 
which would provoke a rupture between these two families ; no option 
was left but to obey. 

Teodoro thereupon retired to his own room, where he remained in the 
strictest confinement, refusing to see any one. The evening of that 
eventful day, the guests were assembled ; the bride and her family had 
already arrived ; the bridegroom, nevertheless, was missing. This was 
indeed a strange breach of good manners, and numerous comments were 
whispered from ear to ear. The father sent at last a peremptory order 
to his undutif ul son to come at once to him. The young man ultimately 
made his appearance, attired like Hamlet at his stepfa3ier*s court, in a 
suitjOf deep mourning, whilst his long hair, which formerly fell in ring- 
lets over his shoulders, was all cHpped short. In this strange accoutre- 
ment he came to acquaint his father before the whole assembly that he 
had decided to forego the pleasure, the pomp and vanity of this world, 
to renounce society, and take up his abode in a convent, where he in- 
tended passing his days in study and meditation. 

The scene of confusion which followed this unexpected dedaratiou 
can be imagined. The guests all wished to retire : the first person, 
however, to leave the house was Teodoro, expelled by his father and 
bearing with him the paternal malediction. Thiis this day of anticipated 
joy ended in disappointment and humiliation. The discarded bride was 
borne away by her parents, and it is said that her deUcate health never 
recovered from this unexpected blow. 

That very night the young man retired to the Benedictine convent 
upon the island of St. Andrea, with the firm resolution of passing his 
life in holy seclusion. When a few days had passed, his love proved, 
nevertheless, stronger than his will, and he could not refrain from going 
to see his Margherita, and informing her of all that had happened, tell- 
ing her that he had been driven from home, and that he had taken refuge 
at the convent, where he intended passing his life in a state of holy cel- 
ibacy. Notwithstanding all his good intentions, the sight of the young 
girl proved too great a temptation, her beauty overcame his resolutions, 
and he swore to her that he would brave his parents' opposition, as well 
as the anger of his cast ?, and that he would marry her in spite of his 
family and of the whole world. 

He thus continued seeing this young girl, till at last the fishermen, her 
brothers, having found out why this young patrician visited the island 
so oftv^n, severe and jealous like all their countrymen, they waylaid 
him, and threatened to kill him if hVwere once more caught uponth€S3 
shores. The prior of the Benedictines, finding besides that his prot<'(/^\ 
far from coming to seek peace and tranquillity within the walls of his 
convent, was, on the contrary, an object of scandal, expressed his iuten« 


^'on to expel him, should he not discontmue his viEdts to the neighbour- 
ing island, and rsf onn. 

Every new difl&colty seemed to give fresh conrage to the lovers ; they 
would have fl3d from their native country and their persecutors, but 
thiy knew that they would be overtaken, brought back, and punished ; 
60 they decidad to wait some time until the wrath of their 'enemies had 
a jp.tsd, and the storm had blown over. 

As Teodoro could not go any more to see the young girl, it was Mar- 
gherita who now came to visit her lover ; to evade, however, the suspi- 
cion of her brothers, and that of the friars, they only met in the middle 
of the night, and as they always changed their place of meeting, a 
ligatid torch was the signal whera the young girl was to direct her bark. 
Tli:r3 were nights, nevertheless, when she could not obtain a boat ; yet 
this was no obstacle to her bravo spirit, for upon those nights, she, like 
Leander, swam across the channel, for nothing could daunt this heroic 
woman's heart. 

These ill-^ated lovers were happy notwithstanding their adverse f or- 
tiia3. for th3 sacred fire of love which burnt within them was bliss 
enough to compensate for all their woes. Their days were passed in 
anxious expectation for the hour which was to unite them on the sea- 
shore, amidst the darkness of the night. There clasped in one anoth- 
er's arms, the world and its inhabitants existed no longer for them ; 
those were moments of ineffable rapture, in which it seemed impossible 
to drain the whole chalice of happiness ; moments in which time and 
eternity are confounded, iustants only to be appreciated by those who 
havo known the infinite bliss of loving and- being loved. Their souls 
seemed to leave their bodies, blend together and Foar into the empyreal 
spaces, the regions of infinite happiness ; for them all other sentiments 
passed away, and nothing was felt but an unmitigated love. 

The dangers which encompassed them, their loneliness upon the 
rocky shores, the stillness 3f the night, only served to heighten their 
}oy and exultation, for a pleasure dearly bought is always more keenly 

Their happiness was, however, not to be of long duration ; such f ehc- 

iiy 'm celestial ; on this earth, 

*• Lcs plus belles choses 
Ont le pirc d«8tin." 

Margherita's brothers, knowing the i)ower of love, watched their sis- 
ter, and at last found out that when the yoimg nobleman had ceased 
coming, it was she who by night visited the Island of St. Andrea, and 
they r38olved to be revenged upon her. They bided their time, and 
npon a dark and stormy night, the fishermen, knowing that their sister 
vould not be intimidated iby the heavy sea, went off with the boat and 
left her to the mercy of the waves. The young girl, unable to resist the 
impulso of her love, recommended herself to the Almighty, and bravely 
plunged into the waters. Her treacherous brothers, having watched her 
movements^ plied their oars and directed their coturse towards the 

€4 A WOMAlff'S LOVE. 

island ; they landed, went and took the lighted toroh tftSBl the place 
where it was burning, and fastened it to the prow of their boat ; having 
done this, they slowly rowed away into the open sea. 

Margherita, as u&ual, swam towards the beacon-Ught of love, but th^^ 
night all her efforts were useless — the faster she swam, the greater wn[ 
the distance that sepai^ited her from that ignis-fatuuH hght ; doubtlerj 
she attributed this to the roughness of the sea, and took courage, hop 
ing soon to reach that blessed goal. 

A flash of lightning, which illumined the dark expanse of the waters, 
made her at last perceive her mistake ; she saw the boat towards which 
Bhe had been swimming, and also the island of St. Andrea far behind 
her. She at once directed her course towards it, but there, in the midst 
of darkness, she struggled with the wild waves, until, overpowered by 
fatigue, she gave up aU hopes of rejoining her beloved one, and sank 
down in the briny deep. 

The cruel sea that separated the lovers was, however, more merciful 
than man, for upon the morrow the waves themselves softly deposited 
tli9 lifeless body of the young girl upon the sand of the beach. 

The nobleman, who had passed a night of most terrible anxiety, 
found at daybreak the corpse of the girl he loved. Ho caused it to be 
committed to the earth, after which he re-entered within the walls of 
the convent, took the Benedictine dress, and spent the rest of his life 
pining in grief. Adrtan de YAiiVEDEBE, in Tin9ley*8 Magazine. 


DuBiNO a journey through some parts of Bussia a few years ago, we 
engaged, in preference to the imperial post-chaise, a private conveyance 
for a considerable distance, the driver being a Jew — generally preferred 
in the East on account of their sobriety and general trustworthiness. 
On the road my companion became communicative, and entered into 
philosophic-reUgious discussion — a topic of frequent occurrence among 
thcso bilingual populations. After a somewhat desultory harangue, he 
suddenly became silent and sad, having just uttered the words : "If a 
Chassid goes astray, what docs he become? A meschumed, i.e. an 
apostate." — ** To what class of people do you allude?" I inquired. — 
** Well, it just entered my head, because we have to pass the house of 
one of thein— I mean the * forced ones.* "—"Forced I " I thought of a 
r ^ligious sect. "Are they Christians or Jews ? " — " Neither the one nor 
the other," was the reply, "but simply * forced.' Oh, sir, it is a great 
misery and a great crime ! Our children at least will not know any- 
thing of it, because new victims do not arise, and on the marriage of 
these parties rests a curse — they remain sterile ! Bat what am I saying? 


It ifi rather a blessing — a mercy I Should thus a t**rrible mispry be per- 
petuated? These forced people aro childless. ^Vt■Li, God knows bi'st. 
I am a fool, a sinner to speak about it." No eutrtaty of niiue would 
induce my Jewish companion to alfoi*d further information coiiceniing 
this* peculiar people. But before the end of our journey I heard unex- 
pectedly more about this unfortunate class of Eussian subji'cts. We 
travelled westward through the valley of the Dnitst r, a district but 
tliialy peopled, and rested at an inn on the bordci-s of an txtensivo 

Amidst the raillery going on in the principal room of this hostelry 
between guests of different nationalities, we had not ht ard the noise of 
wheels which slowly moved towards the house. It was a very poor 
conveyance, containing a small cask and a basket. The young hostess 
arose hastily, and, approaching the owner, said in a whispt r, *' What is 
it yon want?" A slight paleness overspread her count nance, and 
stranger still was the demeanour of my coachman. * ' >Sir, sir I " he 
exclaimed loudly, turning towards me, str-^tching out his liarids as if 
seeking support, or warding off some impending danger. *' What is the 
matter ? " I rejoined, greatly surprised ; but he merely shook his head, 
and stared at the new comer. 

He was an elderly peasant, attired in the usual garb of the country- 
people ; only at a more close inspection I noticed tliat h*^ wore a fine 
white shirt. Of his face I could see but little, it being hidden behind 
the broad brim of his straw hat. 

*' Hostess," he said, addressing the young woman, " will you purchaso 
something of me ? I have some old brandy, wooden spoons and plat»'S. 
pepper-boxes, needle-cases, &c., all made of good hard wood, and v<ry 
cheap." In an almost supplicating tone he uttered these words veiy 
slowly, with downcast eyes. From his pronunciation he appeared to i33 
a Pole. 
The hostess looked shyly up to him. 

"You know my brother-in-law has forbidden me to have dealings 
with you," she said hesitatingly, ** on account of your wife ; but to-day 
he is not at home." After a momentary silence, turning towards the 
driver, she continued, "Eeb Riissan, wiQ you betray me? You coma 
frequently this way." In reply he merely shrugged his should -^rs and 
moved away. Turning again with some impatience to the pcasai t, she 
said, ** Bring me a dish and two spoons." When he had gone to fetch 
these articles, the woman once more accosted my coachman, 
" You must not blame me ; they are very poor people !" 
** Certainly they are very poor " — he replied in a milder tone. ** Dur- 
ing life, hunger and misery, and after death — hell ! and all und. served !" 
But tihe man stood already, at this utterance, with his basket in tha 
room. The bargain was soon concluded, and the few oopeks paid. 
Curiosity prompted me to step forward and examine the merchandise. 

"I have also cigar-cases," said the peasant, humbly raisin'g his hat. 
But his face was far more interesting than his wares. You rarely see 

L. M.— I.— 3. 


Btich features f However "great the misery on earthy this pale, x>aiii- 
Btricken ccmntenance was unique in its Mnd, revealing yet traces of 
sullen defiance^ and the glance of his eyes moved instantly the heart of 
the beholder — a weary^ almost fixed gaze^ and yet full of passioiiats 

" You are a Pole I** I observed after a pause. 

** Yes,*^ he replied. 

" And do you live in this neighbourhood ?" 

*< At the inn ei^t werBt from here. I am the keeper. '^ 

* * And besides wood-carver ?** 

" We must do the best we can,'* was his reply. " We have but rarely 
any guests at our house.'' 

** Does your hostelry lie outside the main road ?" 

**No, dose to the high road, sir. It was at one time the best inn be- 
tween ibe Bug and the Dniester. But now carriers do not like to stay 
at our house.'* 

"And why not?** 

"Because they consider it a sin — especially the Jews." Suddenly, 
with seeming uneasiness and haste, he asked, "WUl you purchase 
anything ? This box, perhaps. Upon the Hd is engraved a fine country- 

Attracted by the delicate execution, I inquired, "And is this yoxn: own 
workmanship ?'* 

" Yes,** was his reply. 

"You are an artist 1 And pray where did you learn wood-engrav- 

' * At Eamieniec-PoddskL " 

" At the fortress ?" 

"Yes, during the insurrection of 1863." 

" Were you among the insurgents ?" 

" No, but the authorities feared I might join them — hence I and the 
other forced ones were incareerated in tiie fortress when the insurrection 
broke out, and again set free when it was suppressed." 

" Without any cause ?" 

"Without the shghtest. I was already at that time a crushed man. 
When yet a youth &e marrow of my bones had been poisoned in the 
mines of Siberia. During the whole time of my settlement, I have been 
since 1858 keeper of that inn ; I gave the authorities no cause for sus- 
picion, but I was a *■ forced man,' and that sufficed for pouncing upon 


" Forced ! what does it mean ?" 

" Well, a person forced to accept, when to others free choice is left — 
domicile, trade or calling, wife and religion." 

"Terrible!" I exclaimed. "And you submitted?" A little smile 
played around his thin Kps. 

* * Are you so much moved at my fate ? We genercdly bear very easily 
the most severe pains endured by others." 


^^Tfaat is A fiaying of Larochefoncanld,^^ I said, somewhat sitfprised. 
" Have you read him ?" 

'* I was at one time very fond of French literature. But pardon my 
acrimony. I am but little accustomed to sympathy, and indeed of what 
avail would it be to me now !** He stared painfully at the ground, and 
I also became silent, convinced that any superficial expression of sym- 
pathy would, under the circumstances, be downright mockery. 

A painful pause ensued, which I broke with the question, if he had 
worked the engraving upon the hd of the box after a pattern. 

"No, from memory," was his rejoinder. 

" It is a peculiar kind of architecture I" 

** It is like all gentlemen*s houses in Littanen ; only the old tree ifl 
very striking. It was a very old house." 

" Has been ? Does it exist no longer ?" 

** It was burnt down seven years ago by the Rusaans, after they had 
first ransacked it. They evidently were not aware that they destroyed 
their own property. It had been confiscated years before, and had been 
Crown property since 1848." 

**■ And have you yet the outlines of the building so firmly engraved 
on your memory ?" 

*' Of course I it was my birth-place, whicli I had rarely left until I 
was eighteen years old. Such things are not easily forgotten. And 
although more than twenty years have passed since this sad affair, 
hardly a day passed on which I did not think of my paternal home. I 
was aware of the death of my mother, and that my cousin was worse 
than dead^-perhaps I ought to have rejoiced when the old mansion was 
burnt to the ground ; but yet I could not suppress a tear when the news 
reached me. There is hardly anything on earth which can now move 
me." I record Hterally what the unfortunate man related. My Jewish 
coachman, not easily impressed, had during the conversation crept 
gradually nearer, and shook his head seriously and sorrowfully. 

** Excuse me, Pani Walerian," he interrupted: "**upon my honour, 
yours is a sad story !" He launched out into practical politics, and con- 
cluded thus: 

" A Pole is not as clever as I am. . If he (the Pole) was the equal of 
the Russian, well and good, fight it out ; but the Russian is a hundred 
times stronger^ therefore, Pani Walerian, why irritate him, why con- 
front him?" 

I could not help laughing at these remarks; but the poor '' forced 
cue" remained unmoved; aud only after some silence, he observed, 
turning towards me : 

" I have never even confronted the Russians. I merely received the 
panishment of the criminal, without being one, or venturing my all in 
my people's cause. I was very young, when I waa tranq>orted to Sibe- 
ria—little more than nineteen years old. My father had died early. I 
maSiaged our small property, and a cousin of mine, a pretty girl, sixteen 
years old, lived at our house. Indeed, I had no thoughts of politics. 7 


is true I wore the national costnme, perused our poets, especially M*ck- 
iewicz and SIo\Yaski, and had on the wall of my bedroom a portrait ol 
Koscius7ko. For such kind of high trc:ason evou the Russian Govem- 
nient woulvl not havo cnislu^d me in ordinary times — but it was the yeai 
1848. ' Kicolai Pa vvlo witch * had not sworn in vain that if the whoio 
of Europo was in flames, no spark should a^^ise in his empire — and by 
strc ams of blood and tears, he achieved his object. Wherever a young 
Polish noble lived who was suspect :d of revolutionary tendencies, re^ 
peated domiciliary searches wer<3 made ; and if only a single prohibited 
book was found, the droad fiat went forth, ' To Siberia with him !* 

" In my own casj it came like a thunderbolt. I was already in Sibe* 
ria, and could not yet r-^aUze my misery. During the whole long joxn- 
ney I was more or loss dcUrious. I hoped for a speedy Hberation, for 1 
was altogether innocent, and at that time," he continued with a bitter 
smile, *' I yet beheved in God. When all hope became extinct, I began. 
madly to rave, but finally s^jttled down utterly crushed and callous. It 
was a fearful state — for weeks together, all my past life seemed a com- 
plete bliink, at most I stih remembered my name. This, sir, is hterally 
true : Siberia is a very pecuhar place." 

The poor fellow had sunk down upon a bench, his hands rested x>o"w- 
erless in his lap. I never have seen a face so utterly worn and pain- 
stricken. Af t-r a while he continued : 

'*Ten years had thus passed away; at least, I was told so — I had 
long ceas.;d to count the days of my misery. For what purpose should 
I have done so ? 

" I had sunk so low that I felt no pity even for my terrible condition. 
One day I was brought before the Inspector, together with some of my 
companions. This official informed us that we had been pardoned on 
condition of becoming colonists in New Russia. The mercy of the Cz&r 
Vould assign to each of us a place of residence, a trade, .and a lawful 
ivif e, who would be also a pardoned convict. We must of course, in. 
addition, be converted to the Orthodox Greek Church. This latter stip- 
ulation did but httle concern us. We readily accepted the conditions, 
for the people are glad of leaving Siberia, no matter whither, even t<> 
meet death itself. And had we not been pardoned ? Alexander Niko- 
lajewitch is a gracious lord. In Siberia the mines are over-crowded, 
and in South Russia the steppes are empty 1 Oh, he is a philanthro- 
pist ! decus et d^hciie generis humani 1 But perhaps I wrong him. We 
entered upon our long journey, and proceeded slowly south-west. In. 
about eight months we reached Mohilew. Here we were only kept in. 
easy confinement, and above all, brought under the influence of the 
pope. This was a rapid proceeding. One morning we were driven to- 
getui^r into a large room, about one hundred men, and an equal num- 
ber of women. Presently the priest entered-; a powerful and dirty fel- 
low, who appeared to have invigorated himself for his holy work with a 
considerable dose of gin, for we could smell it at least ten paces o'ff^ au^ 
^6 had some difficulty in keeping upon his legs. 


*'*You ragamtifiins !' ho stammered; * yon vermin of hnmamty I 
you are to become Orthodox Christians ; but snrejy I shall not tako 
much trouble with yon. For, what do you think I get per head ? Ten 
copcis, you vermin ! ten cop^ks per head. Who will be a misKionary 
Rt such pay? I certainly do it to-day for the last time I Indeed, our 
good fatJior Alexandi^r Nikolajewitch caused one rouble to be set in tho 
tii.rifF ; but that rascal, the director, pockets ninety copeks, and leaves 
olHj ten for me. To-day, however, I have und-rtaken yocir conversion, 
b -cause I am told thero arc many of you. Now listen ! you are now 
Citholies, Protestants, Jews ! That is sad mistake ; for every Jew is a 
Liood-sucker, every Protestant a dog, and every Cathohc a pig. Such 
i:s their lot in life — but aftcT death ? carrion, my good people, carrion ! 
And will Christ have mercy on them at the last day ? Verily no ! He 
\;ill not dream of such a thing ! And until then ? Hell-fire ! There- 
lore, good people, why should you suffer such torments? Be converted! 
Thoso who agree to become Orthodox Christians, keep silent ; those who 
d'mur, receive the knout and go back to Siberia. Wherefore, my dear 
brothers and sisters, I ask, will you become Orthodox Christians?' . 
" We remained silent. 

" ' Well,' continued the priest, *now pay attention I Those who are 
already Christians need only to lift up the right hand, and repeat after 
me tho cr3ed- That will soon be done. But with the damned Jews one 
fcis always a special trouble — the Jews I must first baptise. Jews, step 
forward I — the other vermin can remain where they now are.' In this 
solemn manner the ceremony was brought to a conclusion. 

*'0n the day following," M. Walerian continued, *'the second act 
Tras performed ; the selection of a trade. This act was as spontaneous 
as our rdhgious conversion ; only, some individual regard became here 
indispensable. Three young Government officials were deputed to re- 
cord our wishes, and to comply with them as far as the exigencies of the 
case admitted. The official before whom I appeared was very juvenile. 
Though externally very polished, he was in reahty a frightfully coarse 
and cruel youth, without a spark of human f eeUng, so far as we were 
concerned- We afforded him no small amount of merriment This 
youth inquired carefully concerning our wishes, and invariably ordered 
the very opposite. Among us was a noble lady from Poland, of very 
ancient Uneage, very feeble and miserable, whose utter helplessness 
niight well inspire the most callous heart with rt spoct and compassion. 
The lady was too old to be married to one of the ' forced ones,' and was 
therefore asked to state what kind of occupation she desired. She en- 
treated to be employed in some school for daughters of military officers, 
th?re being a demand for such service ; but the young gentleman or- 
dvired her to go as laundress to the barracks at Mohilew I An aged Jew 
had been sent to Siberia for having smuggled prohibited books across 
the frontiers. He had been the owner of a printing establishment, and 
was well acquainted with the business. * Could he not be employed in 
one of the Imperial printing offices ; and if possible,' urged the aged 


man, * be permitted to reside in a place where few or no Jews liTed ?* 
He had under compulsion changed his religion ; to which he was yet 
fervently attached, and trembled at the thought that his former co-re- 
ligionists would none the less avoid him as an apostate. The young 
official noted down his request, and made him a police agent at Mias> 
kowka, a small town in the goyemment district of Podolien, almost ex- 
clusively inhabited by Jews. Another, a former schoolmaster, in tlie 
last stages of consumption, begged on his knees to be permitted to die 
quietly in some country village. * That is certainly a modest request T 
observed this worthless youth; and sent him as a waiter to a hospital. 
Need I tsll how I fared ? Being misled, hke the rest, by the hypocriti- 
cal air and seeming concern of this rascal, I made known to him my de- 
sire to obtain the post of under-steward at some remote Crown estate, 
where I might have as Uttle intercourse as possible with my fellow-men. 
And thus, sir, I became the keeper of the small ion on a much-frequented 

The unfortunate man arose suddenly, and paced the room in a state 
of great excitement 

" But now comes the best of all," he exclaimed, with a desperate ef- 
fort — "the last act, the choice of a wife." Again an internal struggle 
overpowered the unhappy narrator — a sudden and heavy tear rolled down 
his care-worn cheek, evidently caused by the remembrance of this abom- 
inable transaction. " It was a terrible ordeal," he said. ** Sir, sir," he 
continued after a momentary pause, * ' siuce the sun has risen in our hori- 
zon, he has shone on many a cruel game which the mighty of the earth 
have played with the helpless, but a more abominable farce has hardly 
ever been enacted than the one I am now relating — the manner in which 
we unfortunate people were coupled together. In my youth I read 
how Carrier at Nantes murdered the BoyaUsts ; how he caused the 
first best man to be tied with a rope to a woman, and carried down the 
Loire in a boat. In the middle of the river a trap-door was suddenly- 
opened, and the unfortunate couple disappeared in the waves. But 
that monster was an angel compared with the officials of the Czar ; and 
these republican marriages were a benevolent act in comparison with 
those we were forced to conclude. At Nantes, the victims were tied 
together for a mutual death; we for our mutual lives! . . . On a 
subsequent morning we were once more ushered into the room where 
our conversion had taken place. There were present about thirty men 
and an equal number of women. Together with the latter entered the 
official who had so considerately ordered our lot as regards a livelihood. 

" * Ladies and gentlemen,' he commenced with a nasal twang, * his 
Majesty has graciously pardoned you, and desires to see you all happy. 
Now, the lonely man is seldom a happy man ; and hence you are to 
marry. Every gentleman is free to select a partner, provided of course 
the lady accepts the choice. And in order that none of you gentlemen 
may be placed in the invidious position of having to select a partner 
tmworthy of him, supreme benevolence has ordered that an adequs^tQ 


nmnber of ladies, partly from penal settlements and partly from honses 
of coirection, should, be now offered you. As his Majesty's solicituda 
for your welfare has already assigned you an occupation, you may now 
follow unhesitatingly the promptings of your own hearts in tlie choice 
of a wife. Ladies and gentlemen, yours is the happy privilege to real- 
ise the dream of a purely sociahstic marriage. Make?, then, your selec- 
tion without delay ; and as ''all genuine love is inKtantauoous, stiddcu 
as a Ughtning flash, and soft as the breezes of spring " — to uhc the words 
of our poet Lermontoflf — I consider one hour sufficient. Bear also in 
mind that marriages are ratified in heaven, and trust implicitly to your 
own heart. I offer you beforehand, ladies and gentlemen, my con- 

" After this address, the young rascal placed his watch in front of 
him on the table, sat down, and grinned maliciously at our helpless 
condition. The full measiu'e of scorn imphed in this speech but few 
of us entirely realised, for we were in truth a curious assembly. The most 
extravagant imagination could hardly picture more glaring contrasts I 
Sidd by side with the bestial Bessarabian herdsman, who in a fit of in- 
toxication had slain the whole of his family, stood the highly cultiTated 
professor from Wilna, whom the love of his country and of freedom had 
consigned to the mines of Siberia ; the most desperate thief and shop- 
lifter from Moscow, and the PoHsh nobleman who at the height of lus 
misfortunes still regarded his honour as the most precious freasure, the ex- 
professor from Charkow, and the Cossac-robber from the Don ; the 
forger from Odessa, Ac. On my own right hand stood a thief and de- 
serter from Lipkany, and on the left a Baschkire, who had been par- 
doned at the foot of the gallows, though he had once assisted in roast- 
ing aUve a Jewish family in a village inn. A madly assorted medley of 
human beings! And the women I The dissolute female gladly re- 
leased from the house of correction, because she still more depraved 
her already degraded companions, associated with the unfortunata 
Polish lady, whose pure mind had never been poisoned by a vulgar 
word, and whose quiet happiness had not been disturbed by any pros- 
pect of misfortune, until a single letter, or act of charity to an exiled 
countryman, brought her into misery. Pressing against the young 
girl whose sole offence consisted in being the unfortunate offspring of a 
mother sent to Siberia, might be seen the infamous hag who had habit- 
ually decoyed young girls to ruin, in whose soul every spark of woman- 
hood had long been extinguished. And these people were called upon 
to marry ; and one hour was granted them in which to become ac- 
quainted and assorted! Sir, you will now perhaps comprehend my 
emotion in relating this shocking business ! 

** I consider it the most shocking and at the same time the most curi- 
ons outrage which has ever been committed." The ''forced" man 
paused, a deadly pallor suffused his countenance, and his agitation was 
great The young hostess appeared perfectly stunned, whilst Reb 
Bussan, the coachman, bent his head in evident compassion. 


AftcTawhilo M. Walerian continued in a calmer mood "Itmnst 
certainly have been an entertaining spectacle to notice the behaviour of 
this ill-assorted people at that trying hour. Even the barefaced mon- 
ster on his raised dais betrayed a feverish excitement : he would sud- 
denly jump from his chair, and again recline, playing the while ner- 
vou^y witii his fingers. I am hardly able to describe the details, being 
not altogether unbiassed at this dreadful hour. 

** I only know we stood at first in two distinct groups, and for the 
first few moments after the official announcement, not a glance was ex- 
changed between the two sexes, much less a word spoken. A deep 
silence reigned in the room, a death-hke stillness, varied only by an 
occasional deep sigh, or a nervous movement. The minutes passed, 
certainly not many, but they seemed to me an eternity ! 

" Suddenly a loud hoarse voice exclaimed, * Up, my lads ! here 
are some very pretty mates!' We all recognised the notorious 
thief from Moscow, a haggard withered fellow, with the ug^est face I 
ever beheld. He crossed over to the women and examined in his way 
which would be the most desirable partner. Here he received an indig- 
nant push, and there an impudent alluring glance. Others, again — the 
better part — recoiled from the approach of the brute. He was followed 
by the Baschkire, who like a clumsy beast of prey drew nigh, muttering 
incoherently, * I will have a fat woman; the fattest among them.* 
From his approach even the ugliest and most impudent instinctively 
recoiled — this wooer was really too hideous, at best only suited to a 
monkey. The third in order who came forward was the Don-Cossac, a 
pretty slender youth. An impudent lass jauntily met him and fell on 
his neck ; but he pushed her aside, and walked towards the girl who 
bad murdered her child. The discarded female muttered some insulting 
words, and hung the next moment on my own neck. I shook her off, 
and she repeated the attempt with my neighbour, and again unsuccess- 

"Her example became contagious : presently the more shameless of 
the women made an onslaught on th3 men. Ten minutes later the 
scene had changed. In the centre of the room stood a number of men 
and women" engaged in eager negotiation — shouting and scolding. The 
parties who had already agreed retired to the window-niches, land here 
and there a man pulled an unfortunate woman, making desperate eflbrts 
to escape from him. The females who yet retained a spark of woman- 
hood crept into a comer of the room ; and in another recess were three 
of us — the ex-professor, Count S., and myself. Wo had instinctively 
come together, watching with painful emotion this frantic spectacle, 
not inclmed to participate in it. To me at least the thought of selecting 
a wife here never occurred. 

"* Another half an hour at your disposal, ladies and gentlemen,' 
exclaimed our oflcial tormentor; twenty minutes — yet &teen znin- 


" I stood as if rootsd to the grotmd, my knees trembled, my &^tAiiou 
increased, but I remained motionless. Indeed, as often as I heard the 
unpleasant voice of the official, the blood rushed to my head, but I 
advanced not one step. My excitement increased — profoand disgust, 
bitter despair — the wildest indignation which perhaps ever pierced a 
poor hnman heart. *No,'I said; 'ImuHt ass:rt the dignity of my 
manhood I * I was determined not to make the R8leci;ion of a wife mider 
the eyes of this man. Another impulse I could hardly suppress — viz. 
to throw myself upon this imperial delegate and strangle him. And if 
I finally abstained from an act of violence, it was bjcausa I yet loved 
lifa, and wished not to end it on the gallows. Sir,'* continued M. 
Walerian, **the source of great misery on earth is this overpowering 
instinct of self-preservation ; without it, I should be freed this day from 
all my misery. Thus I stood, so to speak, at bay iu my comer, using 
dl my efforts to subdue the evil spirit within me. My looks most prob- 
ably betrayed me — ^for when my eyes met those of the official, I noticed 
an involuntary shudder. A moment afterwards he regarded me with a 
sly and malignant glance. I turned aside and closed my eyes on this 
harassing scene. 

** * Yet five minutes, ladies and gentlemen f Those as yet undecided 
must speed themselves, and unburden their heart, or I shall be com- 
pelled by virtue of my office to tie them together. And although I 
shall do so conscientiously, and to the best of my knowledge, there Is 
this risk — that you engage in a marriage of mere convenience, instead 
of one of free choice and inclination/ 

'* Though my agitation rjached its climax, I made no move. I con- 
sidered myself an accomplice in this disgraceful outrage, if I within the 
allottad five minutes declared my heart and made a choice. But another 
thought flashed across my mind: *I may still be able to prevent th? 
worst. Who knows with whom that rascal may couple me if I remain 
altogether passive ? Choose for yourself ! * — I made a stop forward — a 
mist seemed before my eyes — ^my heart beat wildly — I staggered, I 
Bought figures in order to distinguish and recot^ise myself. 

"Sir," exclaimed the narrator with a fnidden yell, ** what scenes did 
I see there ? I am no coward, but I — I dar j not venture to speak of it. 
Thus I moved forward ; hardly two minutos passed, but days would not 
suffice to relate what passed during these trrri))lo moments through ^ly 
heart and brain. I noticed in a comer a fainting woman, a young and 
dilicate creature. I learnt afterwards that she was an orphan child, 
bom of a dissolute woman in a penal settlement. A coarse fellow with 
cunning eyes bent* over her, endeavouring to raise her from the gromid. 
I suddenly pounced upon the fellow, struck him a heavy blow, and 
oarricd the unconscious woman away as if a mere child. I determined 
to defend her to the last. But no rescue was attempted, thoii^h the 
former shook his fists at me, but had seemingly not the courage to ap- 
proach nearer. Gazing about him, another female embraced him, a 


repulsive woman. He Icfoked at her somewhat abashed, bnt soon sub- 
mitted to her caresses. 

'^'Ladies and gentlemen! the allotted hour has passed,' said the 
official. ' I must beg the parties to come forward and make known 
to me their choice. This may be repugnant to some of you, but my du- 
ties prescribe it. I especially request the gentlemen in yonder comer 
to advance ' — pointing to myself and the forger. I clenched my fists 
involuntarily, but stepped forward with the fainting woman. * Cossacks, 
keep your *' Kantschu" in readiness,' said the official to the guard which 
surrounded him. Turning first to me, he said : " And are you, sir, re- 
solved to carry the woman you now hold in your arms, not only in this 
room, but through life ?' I nodded assent. * And what have you to 
say, damsel ?' The poor creature was as yet unconscious. * She is in a 
swoon,' I replied. ' In that case I am sorry,' continued the official, * to 
have to refuse in his Majesty's name my consent to your union. In the 
interests of humanity, I require an audible yes from all parties. I have 
watched attentively the whole proceedings,' continued the official — *not 
from mere curiosity, but partly as a duty, and partly out of pure sympa- 
thy — and I can assure you, sir, without disparagement to your claims, 
that the choice of the young lady you now hold in your arms fell not 
upon you, but upon the gentleman yonder,' pointing to the forger. *It 
was probably the excess of happiness at this, selection which caused her 
fainting. For you there is waiting an adequate recompense — that ripe, 
desirable beauty who now only reluctantly holds the arm of your rival. 
Therefore, changez, Messieurs ! ' * Scoundrel ! ' I exclaimed, and advanced 
to s )ize him. But ere I could lay hold of him, a fearful blow on my 
head stretched me stunned and bleeding to the ground. When I had 
somewhat recovered, our marriage procession was in progress of forma- 
tion. The woman whom the official had assigned to me knelt at my 
side, bathing my head, endeavouring to revive me. *! like you,' she 
observed, * and will treat you well.* She raised me to my feet, placed 
her arm in mine, and pushed me in the ranks of the procession, which 
moved slowly towards the church. On our road a heavy hand seized 
me suddenly by the collar. * Brother,' grunted a coarse voice in my 
Car, * your stout woman takes my fancy. Will you change with me ? 
Mine is certainly less corpulent, but younger in years.' 

"It was the man behind me — the Baschkire. The female whom he 
. di^tgged along was a lean, ugly, dark-complexioned woman, swooning or 
near a swoon. An expression of unutterable despair overspread her 
features, rendering them, if possible, yet more ugly. * A woman who 
can suffer so intensely as this one unquestionably does, cannot be with- 
out a heart — is not altogther depraved, no matter what cause brought her 
here.' These reflections determined me. *Sh9 is preferable to the 
woman at my side. Done I' I whispered to the Baschkire. Just cross- 
ing the thr3shold of the church, a momentary pause ensued, during 
which we effected the exchange ; not without a murmur, however, on 
the part of my intended wife. But the Baschkire kept her quiet ; and 


e closer inspection of her new partner seemed to satisfy her. The poor 
■tsoman I lid forward seemed hardly awara of the exchange, she was so 
entirely absorbed in her grief. We were manied. The official only 
aftt^rwards became aware of what had happened, but could not now un^ 
do it. But I had to suffer for it — tarrible was the puni-ihment." 

Not another word was uttered by the tmf ortunata man. Quite over- 
come by the recital of his cruel fate, he suddenly arose and left the 

On account of the approach of the Jewish Sabbath, my. coachman 
urged on our journey. Half an hour later, we passed the lonely and 
d-solats hostelry of poor M. Walerian, the exile of Liberia, who owed so 
much to imperial clemency r — ^F. A. S., in Belgravia, 


"To-MORROW Christmas for Moros!" said the gentle Hamed, our 
Moorish servant, entering the room soon after the bang of the last sun- 
Bet gun of Ramadan had shaken our windows, and the thick smoke of 
the coarse Moorish powder had floated away, temporarily obscjtuing the 
gorgeous hues bestowed by the retiring luminary on the restless waters 
of the South Atlantic. 

"To-morrow Christmas for MorosI In the morning Hamed clean 
house, go for soko ; then all day no trabally ; have new haik^ new 
slippers, walk about all same tijj(ry 

By which little speech our faithful attendant meant to convoy that to- 
morrow's rejoicing at the termination of the long and irksome fast of 
Kamadan was equivalent to the ** Ingleez's" Christmas, and that, after 
putting the house in order and bringing the provisions from the soko^ 
or market, he would do no more trahally^ or work — the word being a 
corraption of the Spanish trabajo — but would don the new Iiaik and 
bright yellow sUppers for which he had long been saving up, and to the 
p'lrchase of Which certain Httle presents from the children of our house- 
hold had materially contributed ; and would be entitled, by prescript- 
ive holiday right, to *'take his walks abroad" with the dolcefar niente 
dignity of a * j/^jr, or merchant. 

I think we members of the httle English community of Mogador — or, 
as the Moors fondly call this pleasantest town of the Morocco seaboard, 
"El Souerah," or The Beautiful — had almost as good reason as thi 
^loslem population to rejoice at the termination of the great fast. The 
Moors not being allowed, during the holy month, to eat, drink, or smoke 
bfitwixt the rising and the setting of the sim — the more sternly ortho- 
dox even closing their nostrils against any pleasant odour that might 
caEually pezfome the air in their vicinity, and their ears against even tht 


faintest sound of music — debairing themselveB, in fact, from whatever 
could give the slightest pleasure to any of the senses, a ccnsidcrabb 
amount of gloom and UsUessness was the inevitable result. 

The servants in the various households, not over active and int^Ui. 
gent at the best of times, became, as the weary days of prayer and fast- 
ing wore on, appaUingly idiotic, sleepy, and sullen, would do but litth 
work, and that httle never promptly nor well. Meals could not be re- 
lied on within an hour or two, rooms were left long untidy, essential httlv? 
errands and messages unperformed, and a general gloomy oonfusiou 

Did I, tempted by the smoothness of the sea, desire a httle fishing 
cruise, and send a youthful Moor to the neighbouring rocks to get me a 
basket of mussels for bait, he would probably, directly he got outsid3 
the town-gates, deposit the basket and liimself in the shade of the hrst 
wall he came to, and slumber sweetly till the tide had risen and covered 
all the rocky ledges where it was possible to collect bait. Had I told 
the youngster over night that he must come out ^o sea with me in the 
morning, and take care that my boat was put outside the dock, so that 
she would be afloat at a certain hour, I would find, on going down at 
daybreak with rods and tackle, that the boat was high and dry upon tlia 
mud, and it would take the united efforts of half a dozen Moors and 
myself to get her afloat at the end of nearly an hour's frantic struggling 
and pushing through mud and water, necessitating on my part the ex- 
penditure of a great amount of perspiration, not a httle invective, and 
sundry silver coins. 

And when we were fairly afloat my Mahometan youth would be so 
weak from fasting that his oar would be almost useless ; and when we 
did, after an hour or so of the most ignominious zigzaging. reach our 
anchorage on one of the fishing-grounds, then would he speedily becom3 
sea-sick, and instead of helping me by preparing bait and landing fish, 
he would lean despairingly over the side in abject misery,' and implore 
me to go home promptly — a piteous illustration of the anguish caused 
by an empty stomach contracting on itself. 

Nor were these the only discomforts under which we groaned and 

From the evening when the eager lookers-out from minarets of mosques 
and towers of the fortifications first descried the new moon which 
ushered in the holy month of fasting, every sunset, as it flushed the far- 
off waves with purple and crimson and gold, and turned the fleecy 
cloudlets in the western sky to brightest jewels, and suft'used the white 
houses and towers of Mogador wiUi sweetest glow of pink, and gilded 
the green-tiled top of each tall minaret, had been accompanied by the 
roar of a cannon from the battery just below our windows. 

" What the deuce is that ?" asked a friend of mine, lately arrived from 
England, as we strolled homewards one evening through the dusty 
streets, and the boom of the big gun suddenly fell upon his astonished 


"Only BUTiBst," I rcjilicd 

" QuL'er pliico this/' said J. " Does tho Brun always set ^-ith h bang ?** 

** Always auriug Ramadau." 

" Doos it risa witli^ bang too? I hato to be rousod up early iu tlio 
morning !'* 

** No, there is no gun at sunrise ; but f h^ro is a y>-Ty loud o:i( iit about 
three in the morning, or soinetimt^s haif-i^ast, or four, or lat r." 

"Shocking nuisance!" remarked J. "!My bjdroom winvlow's just 
over that abomiuablo batt ry." 

The early morning gun was a gi\at truil, ccrtaliily. I wouM not have 
minded beingj rcGcille- i'ly i<in'fi(t'(t. Hi a livn.hiu.iLi v.ould tuv. and th'u 
turning comfortably over on th*i othor wid ^ and goin;.{ to sKvji ng:iin. 

Bat somehow or other I always found mys.'li iiwiikj half an hour or 
an hour before the time, and then I cfulit iKff g. t to siec p again, l)Ut lay 
tossing about and fidgettily listening for the wy li-known din. At h ngth 
I would hear a sound like the hum of an (iiorniouH fiendish nightmarish 
mosquito, caused by a hideous long tin trumj^et, the shrill whistle of a 
fife or two, and the occasional tom-toinming of a Moorish drum. *' Ha, 
the soldiers coming along the ramT)arts ; th.-y will koou tire now." 

But tho sound of the discord^mt instrumc v]ts with which the soldI*^ry 
solaced themselves in the night for their ejiforci d abstinence from such 
"sweet sounds" in the day would continu*>, for a long tilne bfore the 
red flash through my wide-optn door would moniv-ntririly illumine my 
little chamber on tho white flat roof, and then the horrid bang would 
rend the air, followed by a d-^nse cloud of foul-sm*^ Ding smoke ; and 
then would my big dog Caisar for severjil minutes rush frantically to and 
fro upon the roof in hot indignation, and utter deep-mouthed bark*f of 
defiance at the whito figures of tho "]\Iaglu\seui," as tht^y flitted ghost- 
like along tho ramparts below, and s aort and pant and chafe and refuse 
to be pacified for a long time. 

At ths firing of the sunset fnin the Moors were allow( d to take a plight 
refection, which generally consisted of a kind of gm.el. I have seen a 
Moorish soldier squatting in tho stireet with a brass porringer in his lap, 
eagerly awaiting the boom of the cajinon to dip his well-washed fingtra 
in the mess. 

At abc^t 9 P.M. another slight meal v/as allowed to the true believers, 
and they might eat again at morning gun-£re, alt^r wliich their mouths 
were closed against all "'fixings, sohd and liquid," even against tha 
smallest draught of water or the lightest pull at the darling little pipe o^ 
dream-inducing kief. 

On the twenty-seventh day of Ramadan we were informed that 
twenty-se-^en guns would bo fired that night, and that we had bette 
leave all our- windows open, or they would certainly be broken by tli 
violence of the discharge. This was pleasant ; still more delightful w 
the glorious uncertainty which prevailed in the minds of our informan 
as to the time at which we might expect the iuilietion. 

Some said that tha twenty-seven ^runs would befired bef pre^;xudni£ht 


Hamed opined that the cannonade would not take place till 3 or 4 -a. iff. 
Many of the guns on the battery in close proximity to our abode were 
in a fearfully rusty and honeycombed condition, so that apprehensions 
as to some of them bursting were not tmnatural, and I thought it ex- 
tremely probable that a few stray fragments might " drop in " on me. 

That night I burned the "midnight oil," and lay reacUng till nearly 
two, when sweet sleep took possession of me, from which I was awak- 
ened about four in the morning by a terrific bang that fairly shook the 

A minute more, and there came a red flash and another bang, pres- 
ently another. Thought I, *' I will go out and see the show ;" so I went 
on to the flat white roof in my airy nocturnal costume, and leaning over 
the parapet looked down on to the platform of the battery below. A 
group of dim white figures, a flickering lantern, a glowing match, a 
touch at the breech of a rusty old gun, a swift skurry of the white 
figures round a comer, a squib-like foimtain of sparks firom the touch- 
hole, a red flash from the mouth, momentarily illumining the dark violet 
sea, a bang, and a cloud of smoke. 

Then the white figures and the lantern appeared again; another 
squib, another flash, another bang, Caesar galloping up and ^own over 
the roof, snorting his indignation, but not barking, probably because he 
felt "unable to do justice to the subject;" and at length, after the 
eleventh gun had belched forth crimson flames and foul smoke, all was 
peace, save a distant discord of tin trumpets, gonals and glmhris, and I 
returned to my mosquito-haimted couch with a sigh of relief. 

Pass we now to the eve of " Christmas for Moros," and let ethnolo- 
gist and hagiologist derive some satisfaction from the evidences I col- 
lected in this far-away Moorish town that the gladness of the Mahome- 
tan festival does, similarly to the purer joy of the Christian, though in 
a less degree perhaps, incline towards "peace ,and good-will to men," 
charity and kindliness. 

As we sat chatting that evening round the tea-table, to us entered 
Hamed, bearing, with honest pride illumining his brown features, a 
great tmy of richly engraved brass, heaped up with curious but tempt- 
ing-looking cakes. 

Gracefully presenting them to "the senora," he intimated that this 
was his humble offering or Christmas token of good-will towards the 
family, and that his mother (whom the good fellow maintains out of his 
modest wages) had made them with her own hands. 

The cakes were made of long thin strips of the finest paste, plentiful- 
ly sweetened with delicious honey, twisted into quaint shapes, and fried 
m the purest of oiL I need hardly say that the children were delighted, 
and immediately commenced to court indigestion by a vigorous onslaught 
<m the now and tempting sweets. Nay, why should I blush to con- 
fess that I myself have a very sweet tooth in my head, and such a liking 
for all things saccharine that my friends say jokingly that I must be 
getting into my second childhood ? — an imputation which, as I am only 


a HtUd on lihe wrong sido of tliirtj, I can bestr with equanimity. How- 
ever, I firmlj^ decline to inform an inquisitive public how man/ of those 
delightful Moorish cakes I ate : truth to tell^ I do not remember ; but I 
enjoyed them heartily^ nor found my digestion impaired thereby. 

We had a little chat with Hamed — whose face was lighted up with the 
broadest of grins as we praised his mother^s pastry aud showed pur ap- 
preciation of it in the most satisfactory manner — on certain matters of 
the J^Iahometan religion and the position of women in the future life. 
Some of the sterner Muslims believe that women have no souls ; others 
opine that while good men go to ** E'jannah^* or heaven, and bad ones 
to ** Eljeluimiam^'' or hell^ women and mediocre characters are deport- 
ed to a yague kind of limbo which they designate as ^*-Bah Marokahy*^ or 
the Morocco Gate. 

But the gentle, liberal, and gallant Hamed informed us> in reply to an 
individual query with regard to our Moorish housemaid, that ** if Lan- 
inya plenty good, no tie/em (steal), no drinkum sharab (wine), and go 
for scu^a ("school," or rehgious instruction in the mosque, or in a 
gchoolhonse adjoining it), by and by she go for " Eljannaky 

I am hardly correct, by the way, in speaking of Lanniya as "house- 
wjrtJd," for Moorish maidens and wives never go in the service of Euro- 
pean families, being prohibited by their rehgion from showing their 
iaces ; it is only widows and divorced women who may go about un- 
veiled, and mingle with Christians, 

The next morning, soon after the last gun of Eamadan had soimded its 
joyous boom in my ear, I was up and stirring, donning my shooting apparel 
and preparing for an early coimtry walk with my faithful four-footed 
comrade. I had no fear of exciting the fanaticism of the Mushm popu- 
lation by going out shooting on their holy day, for there is not much 
bigotry in Mogador, — Moors, Christians, and Jews observing their sev- 
eral religions peacefully side by side, so that three Sundaj^s come in 
every week, the Mahometan on Friday, the Jewish on Saturday, and 
then ours. 

The sun, just rising from behind the eastern sand-hills, was gilding 
all the house-tops and minarets, till our white town looked Uke a rich 
assemblage of fairy palaces of gold and ivory ; the smiling sea, serene 
and azure, came rippling peacefully up to the base of the rugged brown 
rocks, enlivened to-day by no statuesque figures of Moorish fishermen ; 
nor M a single boat dot the broad blue expanse of the unusually smooth 
South Atlantic, of which the fish and the sea-fowl were for once left in 
nndisturbed possession. 

As I gazed from the flat roof away over the great town, I heard from 
many quarters loud sounds of music and merriment. As I passed pres- 
ently through the narrow streets, with their dead white walls and cool 
dark arches, scarcely a camel was to be seen at the accustomed corners 
by the stores of the merchants, where usually whole fleets of the ' ' ships of 
the desert " lay moored, unloading almonds, and rich gums, and hides,, 
and all the varied produce of the distant interior. 


Outside the town-gates the Tcry hordes of semi-wild scaven^r do^ 
BBemed to know that the day was one of peace, for they lay in the sun- 
shine, nor barked and snapped at the inlidel intruder as he Vaiked over 
the golden sands, along the edge of the marshy pool, past the pleasant- 
looking Moorish cemetery with its graceful verdant palm-trees, a calm 
oasis in the sandy plain, and out across the shallow lagoon formed by 
overflows of high tides, by which a few late trains of homeward-boTincI 
camels went softly stepping, looking wonderfully picturesque as they 
inarched through shallow waters so beautifidly gilded ^by the momirig 
sun, thiir drivers doubtless eager to reach their own home or the shelter 
of some friendly village to participate in the modest revelries of the joy- 
oiir^> season. How I wandered along the shore of the *' mamy-BOunding 
B. a," enjoying a httle rough sport, and the blithe companicmship of the 
big doggie ; how I saw never a Moor upon the rocks, but many Jews 
w:th long bamboo rods, busily engaged in* fishing for bream and bass 
and rock-fish, it boots not to descril>e with a minuteness which might be* 
wearisome to my readers, for I am not now writing *' of sport, for sports- 

So let ns turn homewards, as the sun is getting high in the heavens, 
and note the scenes by the way. 

Yonder, near the marshy comer of the plain, haunted by wild-fowl, 
and carrion crows, and mongrel jackal-Uke dogs, is the rough cemetery 
of the despised *'Jehoud," the Israehtes who form so large and so 
wealthy a portion of the population of Mogador. Among the long flat 
stones that mark the graves of the exiled sons and daughters of Israel 
th jre is a v.dnding crowd of white-draped figures, a funeral procession. 
XJnwilHng to intrude upon their grief, I pass on, casting an involuntary 
glance at the picturesque garb and wild gesticulations of the mourners 
as the women\s loud and bitter cry of ** Ai, Ai, Ai, Ai !" sounds weirdly 
tlirough the air, just as it may have done in the old scriptural times, 
\7l\3u ''the moiinicrs went about the streets" and gaye unchecked vent 
to til ir grief in pubhc, even as they do to this day. 

I]ut as I neared Morocco Gate, from the neighbouring *' Run- 
ning Ground" came very different sounds — a din of many drums, 
ii !-q-aeaklng of merry fifes, the firing of many long Moorish guns, th3 
sl;x.itlng of men and boys, and the eerie shrill taghariet of the Moorish 

And as I passed in front of the round battery, out from the great gato 
of the New Kasbah came the crowd of men, women, and children who 
ha.l been clamouring joyfully in the Eunning-Grouud, a bright throng 
of brown faces and white raiment, interspersed with the gay colom^ 
X'-vvn by the little children, and dotted here and ther.i by the blood-red 
of th:) national flag. Suddenly from a cannon just behind mo came a 
cloucl of smoke enveloping me and the dog, and a bang which fairly 
Blioc-.'v n 1. and then another and another. The firing of the guns from 
thiii bactwxy w&s the spectacle the Moorish populace had come o\it to 


It "was an uncomfortable sensation to have big guns going off just be- 
hind one ; they were only loaded with blank cartrklgp, of courKC, biu we 
were qtiite near enough to be knocktd down by a ntray piece of wad- 
ding, and something did once whistle past my ear suggrKtively. 

But it would never do for an " Ingleez " to run away in the presence 
of a lot of Moors ; so I walked calmly across the sands while the whole 
battery of guns — twelve, I think — were fired, Cajsar meanwhile pranc- 
ing about majestically, and loudly giving vent to his indignation at a, 
proceeding which he evidently considered, as he always does the firing 
of any gun or pistol by any one but me, an express insult to his master, 
and an infringement of his pecuhar privileges. 

I went home by way of the Watev-Port, where there was no move- 
ment of hghters or fishing-craft, no stir of bare-legged port r:^ and fish- 
ermen, no bustle of Jewish and European merchants ; nearly all the 
boats were drawn up on the shore, and those which remainc d afloat, 
Blambered tenantlcss on the broad blue bosom of the sea. On rockR, 
and in the pleasant shade of walls and nrches, a few figures, in bright 
and gauzy fiaiks and gorgeous new slippei's, lounged and dozed, per- 
chance tired with the revelries they had gone through since daybreak, 
luid recruiting their energies for frcsh rejoicings towards evening, 
li^aohing home about eleven, I rested a while, deposited my birds in 
the larder, and then proceeded to stroll about the streets and see how 
tlicj populace comported themselves on this festive occasion. I was 
Rorry to learn that some of the younger and more fanatical of the Moors 
had baen relieving their feelings by abusing the Jews, some of whom 
had had stones thrown at them, and their he ads slightly broken. But 
thi8 temporary riot was over, and now all was '* peace and good-will," 
except that perhaps there may have lurked a little not unnatural ill-feel- 
ing in the minds of the broken-headid Israelites, who could not help 
feeling rather disgusted at the manner in which the Muslim youths had 
celebrated '* Christmas for Moros." 

As I passed along the narrow lane wherein the soldiers of the Kaid or 
Governor, in the snowiest of links and tallest and reddest of Urrbocshes, 
squatted against the wall, chatting blithely as they awaited the advent 
of their master, a grave and venerable-looking Moorish grandpapa, hur- 
rj'ing along with a great armful of cakes in one of the folds of his haiky 
stumbled against a loose stone and dropped several of the cakes. 

I hastily stooped and picked them up ; the old man muttered a few 
words of blessing upon me, insisted on my accepting the dainties I had 
Kscued from the dust, utterly refused to receive them back, pressed my 
hand, and hurried on, leaving me in a state of embarrassment, from 
'nliich I was opportunely reUeved by the arrival of a bright-eyed little 
Moor of soven or eight summers, who was perfectly willing to relieve 
me from all trouble connected with the handful of cakes. Passing into 
ihs busy streets of the Moorish quarter, I found the population coming 
out of tho various mosques, wh:ro they had been to morning service, 
and now ^oing in for a systematic course of '* greetings in the market- 


place," and pnrchasing of presents. O, for an artist*s pencU and eo\- 
oiirs to depict the gorgeous costumes of the town Moors, the quaint, 
wild garb of their country cousins ^ the gauzy cream-tinted haiks from 
Morocco i the rich silken caflauH of purple, or crimson, or yellow, or 
green, or azure, or pink, sweetly half -veiled by a fold or two of snowy 
gauze thrown over them; the bright red fez caps; and voluminous 
Bnowy turbans of the patriarchal-looking old men; the broad silken 
sashes from Fez, heavy and stiff with rich embroidery of gold ; the 
great curved daggers in their richly chased silver or brass sheaths, sus- 
pended amid the folds of the haik by thick woolen cords of gay colours ; 
the handsome brown faces, the flashing black eyes, the wonderful white 
teeth, the sinewy brown bare legs, the brand-new yellow sUppers of the 
merry Moors of Mogador ! 

And the negroes, or, as old Fuller would quaintly have called them, 
** the images of Grod cut in ebony," how their honest black features 
glistened, and how their bright teeth grinned beneath turban or fez, 
or gaudy handkerchief of many colours 1 

The negro servant of one of the European residents, a good-humoured 
giant of nearly seven feet, whom his master is wont to describe as *' his 
nigger and a half," came stalking down amongst the Httle shops and 
stalls with a flaunting bandanna round his head, a purple jacket, a most 
gorgeous sash, a pair of green baggy breeches, a ghttering silver-sheathed 
dagger, and a most imposing haik^ thrown in toga-like folds over all. 

Negro women, unveiled, white-clad, adorned as to their shiny black 
arms with rude heavy bracelets of silver or brass, sat at street-comers 
with baskets of sweet cakes and little loaves for sale. Veiled Moorish 
women, perchance showing just i one bright black eye to tantaUse the 
beholder, glided along like substantial ghosts in the white raiment which 
enveloped them from their heads down to the little feet shod with red 
or yellow shppers embroidered with goldthread or bright-coloured silks. 
Women leachng tiny toddlers of chSdren, httle bright-eyed boys with 
crowns shaven all but one queer little tufted ridge in the middle, deftly 
curled this morning by mamma's loving fingers ; foreheads adorned 
with quaint frontlets, from which hung curious ornaments of gold and 
coral and silver, spells against the evil eye, talismans, and what not 

Little boys in beautiful cloth or silken cloaks of pale blue, or dehcate 
purple, or crimson, or rich green, or golden yellow, trotting along as 
proud as peacocks, holding by the hand some tiny brother who can 
barely toddle. Children who have just had new shppers purchased for 
them, and are carrying them home in triumph ; children who, with 
funny little copper coins in their hand, are congregating round the stall 
of the swarthy seller of sweetstuffs, who is ejaculating loudly, ** Heloua^ 
Ileloua /" busily brandishing a feathery branch of green artim the 
while, to keep the vagix)m flies off his stores of rich dainties composed 
of walnut and almond toffee, pastes made of almonds and honey and 
sugar, httle brown sugar balls thickly strewn with cummin-seeds, long 
sticks of pepperminti and other delicacies difficult to deiczibt. 


As to the grown-np Moors, never was seen each a lumd^sliakiiig as is 
going on amongst them* Everybody is abaking hands with everybody 
else, each wishing the other the Arabic substitute for '* A men-y Christ- 
mas/^ and after each haudsht^dng each of the participauts puts his 
himd to his lips and proceeds, to be stopped two yards farther oui for 
a repetition of the performance. 

On we go through the meat-market, and note pityingly the leanness 
of the Moors* Christmas beef, which has just been butchered, and of 
which an eager good-humored crowd are buying small pieces amid 
much vociferation, chaff, and *' compliments of the season^* generally. 

Then we come to the green-grocers' shops, where we see hugs 
radishes, great pomegranates, sweet potatoes, and bunches of fragrant 
mint for the flavouring of the Moors' passionately loved bevetagc, 
^n-een tea ; then to the grocers' quarter, where, asking a grave and portly 
Moor for a pennyworth of fakea (dried fruit), he puts into half a gourd* 
&ii«ril a pleasant collection of dates, almonds, figs, and raisins, handa 
tliem to us with benign politeness. Opposite his store is a low t^ibla 
covered with queer bottles of all shapes and sizes, filled with a dubious- 
ltx>king pink fluid, resembling the most delicious hair oil, but appar^ 
futly highly appreciated by the Moorish and Jewish youth who crowd 

In the centre is a burly brandy-bottle, bearing the well-known label 
of "J. and F. Martell," now filled with a flxiid presimiably more innoc- 
uous than the choicest cognac ; the big bottle is flanked by rows of httla 
medicine-vials and long thin bottles such as are used for attar of roses 
and other Eastern scents ; for the vendor of this bright-coloured hquor 
Joes not possess cups or tumblers, but dispenses it in the httle bottles. 
A bare-headed youth, with shaven crown, tenders a mozouiw, receives 
a two-ounce vial, en^ties it solemnly amid the envious looks of his 
comrades, sets it down, and walks gravely away. 

Away we go too, Caesar and I, axid I note that there is hardly a Jew 
to be seen in the streets ; they are afraid of stone-throwing, and out- 
iiirsts of the slumbering hatred and contempt with which <£ey are re- 
corded by the orthodox Mushm. 

As for Christians, Enghshmen especially, they are much more toler- 
f/t-d and respected ; and I know that I may walk tho town all day with- 
i;ut fear of molestation, and get plenty of kindly greetings and many a 
»iuile and shake of the hand. 

Out of the busy market, up the narrow and shady streets, hearing 
^j^auds of the fearsome trumpet, which I have already compared to an 
• xaggerated mosquito, meeting that instrument presently at a comer — a 
t' irrid tin thing about two yards long, wielded by a sinewy httle man in 
I. blue tunic, accompanying a gaily-dressed boy on a sleek and patient 
ii jiikey. Fifing and drumming and firing of guns going on aU around. 

Fierce-looking Moors and Arabs from the country leaning on their 
long silver-mounted gims, scowhng at the **Kaffer," whom they have 
pcrchuice not seen until they came to El Sou^rah. A veiled, but evi- 


dsntly portly, dame, leading by the hand a pretty little girl, in n r 
skirt below a rich garment of lace or embroidery, with a crimson liocc: 
cloak or djel<(h ovor it, rich ornaments on her smooth brown forth, at 
enormous silver anklets, little bare ftct, dyed, hke htr hands and lias 
of most of th3 little girls and many of the big ones, a bright rtd v:t 
htnna. Little girl shrinks behind her mothtr, afraid of tL 
Giaour or of his big dog; the Giaour elips by with a'emile, di'^ 
gio with a friendly wag of his tail, and we go homeward for 
while ; Ca?Har to make a hearty meal of the biscuits which hj:v 
come all the way from England for him ; his master to part^l; 
of lunch, then smoke a pipe on the roof, and look wistfully oil 
over the bright blue sky, and let his thoughts wander far, far a\\ay t 
many a pleasant Christmas in a pleasant corner of the fair Western laiiil 

" WTiere is now the merry party 
I remember lODg ago. 
Laughing round the Christmas fireside, 
Brightened by its ruddy glow ?" 

But the Moor's Christmas has come early in October ; there is tln^ 
yet, and plenty of English steamers going backwards and forwarii-j 
who knows whether the wanderer may not yet spend the next Chii- 
mas by a genial English fireside, and recount to prattling childi-« u < 
his knee (others' children, alas I ) the curious sights, sounds, and scil 
of "Christmas for Moros ?" But I have not tiuite done with you }>! 
kindly reader. I must just briefly tell you how I went out again i 
the afternoon with Ca3sar and a two-legged friend, and found inn 
shopping going on and more handshaking, and found the more foti^ 
spirits getting hilarious over green tt a and coffee and kkf; how v 
strolled down to the Water-Port and sat on the quay, surround* d 1 
merry yoimg Moors in their " Sunday best;" how my friend essayul 
sketch one or two of them, and they did not hke it, but thought sor, 
evil spell would be j)ut upon tliem thereby ; how they asked us n.fti 
questions about England, and particularly wanted to know how n:ui 
dollars we possessed ; how my companion won the hearts of son e \ 
the younger members of the party by teaching them how to wh >: 
between their thumbs, and how to make a certain very loud and dii 
fully discordant screech ; and how J. and I finished the aftrmoou 1 
partaking of a dehghtful bottle of EngHsh ale iri the courtyard of a cu 
store, leaning our chairs against massive stone pillars, and smoking i) 
pipe of peace. 

But I fear the stem Editor will not grant me any more space, ar'l 
must leave at present the recital of aU that I saw on the ensuing ila 
which the gentle Hamed, if he were a little more closely acquaint 
with our institutions, would call " Boxing-day for Moros." 

C. A. P. (*' Sabcelle"j, in London Society, 




Pastohai. poetiT' had in Italy a tendency to a rajjid degeneration 
from tho first. " Decipit cxemplnm vitiis imitabiL." Tiio 
*' pastorals" were far from being without merit, and merit of a high 
order. But they were eminently "vitiis imitabiks." Tv>'o specimeuhi 
of Italian Arcadian poetry stand out» from the iucrodil iy huge 
mass of such productions still extant, superior to all the innumer- 
able imitations to which they gave ris^ in a more marked d. grc^e 
even than "originals" UsujxUy surpass imitations in value. Thos3 
are the **Aminta" of Tasso, and the *' Pastor Fido" of the poet with 
whom ife is the object of these pages to make the English nineteenth 
century reader, who never will find the time to read him, in v,om3 
degree acquainted — Batista Guarini. It would be diliieuit to Bi>/ 
which of these two celebrated pastoral dramas was received v/itii 
the greater amount of delight and enthusiasm by tho world of 
their contemporaries, or even which of them is the better pe-rform- 
ance. The almost simultaneous production of these two mastt^rpieces 
in their kind is a striking instance of the, one may almost Bay, epidemic 
nature of the influences which rule the production of the human intel- 
lect ; influences which certainly did not cease to operate for many gen- 
erations after that of the authors of the "Aminta" and the "Pastor 
Fido," although the servile imitation of those greatly admired works 
unquestionably went for much in causing the overwhelming flood of 
pastorals which deluged Italy immediately subsequent to their enormous 

I have said that it would be difficult to assign a preeminence to either 
of these poems. But it must not be supposed that it is intended thence 
to insinuate an equality between the authors of them. Tasso would oc- 
cupy no lower place on the ItaUan Parnassus if he had never written the 
*' Aminta." His fame rests upon a very much larger and firmer basis. 
But Guarini would be nowhere — would not be heard of at all — had he 
not written the " Pastor Fido. " Having, however, produced that work — • 
a work .of which forty editions are said to have been printed in his Hfetime, 
and which has been translated into almost every civiHsed language, in- 
cluding Latin, Greek, and Hebrew — he has always filled a space in the 
eyes of his countrymen, and occupied a position in the roll of fame, 
which render his admission as one of our select band here imperative. 
He is, besides, a representative poet ; the head and captain of the pas- 
toral school, which attained everywhere so considerable a vogue, and 
in Italy such colossal proportiouB. 



Guarini was born in the year 1537 in FerKU», — desolate, drearyv 
shrunken, grass-grown, tumble-down Ferrara, which in the course of 
one half -century gave to the world, besides a host of lesser names, three 
such poets as Tasso, Ariosto and Guarini. Ariosto died four years be- 
fore Guarini was bom ; but Tasso was nearly his contemporary, bein^ 
but seven years his junior. 

In very few cases in all the world and in all ages has it happened that 
intellectual distinction has been the appanage of one family for as many 
generations as in that of the Guarini. They came originally from Vero- 
na, where Guarino, the first of the family on record, who was born in 
1370, taught the learned languages, and was one of the most notable of 
the band of scholars who laboured at the restoration of classical literature. 
He hved to be ninety years old, and is recorded to have had twenty- 
tliree sons. It is certain that he had twelve Hving in 1438. One of 
them, Giovanni Batista, succeeded his father in his professonship at 
Ferrara, to which city the old scholar had been invited by Duke 
Hercules I. It would seem that another of his sons mu«t also 
have shared the work of teaching in the University of Ferrara? 
for Batista the poet was educated by his great-uncle Alessandro,*and 
succeeded him in his professorship. Of the poet's father we only leam 
that he was a mighty hunter, and further, that he and his poet-son were 
engaged in Utigation respecting the inheritance of the poet's grandfather 
and great-uncle. It is probable that the two old scholars wished' to be- 
queath their property, which included a landad estate, to theii" grand- 
son and great-nephew, who already was manifesting tastes and capaci- 
ties quite in accordance with their own, rather than to that exceptional 
member of the race who cared for nothing but dogs and horses. 

Nor was Batista the last of his race who distinguished himself in the 
same career. His son succeeded him in his chair at the university ; and 
we have thus at least four generations of scholars and professors follow- 
ing the same course in the same university, which was in their day one 
of the most renowned in Europe. 

All this sounds very stable, very prosperous, very full of the element 
of contentment. And there is every reason to believe that the great- 
grandfather, the grandfather, the great-uncle, the son, were all as tran-. 
quil and contented and happy as well-to-do scholars in a prosperous 
university city should be. But not so the poet. His life was anything 
but tranquil, or happy, or contented. The Uves of few men, it may be 
hoped, have been less so. 

Yet his morning was brilliant enough. He distinguished himself so 
remarkably by his success in his early studies that, on the death of hia 
great-uncle Alexander when he was only nineteen, he was appointed to 
succeed him. This was in 1556, when Hercules II. was Duke of Fer- 
rara, and when that court of the Este princes was at the apogee of its 
splendour, renown, and magnificence. The young professor remained 
working at the proper labours of his profession for ten years ; and they 
were in all probability the best and happiest, the only happy ones of hig 


1^6. Happy is the nation, it lias been said, which has no history ; and 
mach the same probably may be said of an individnal. Bespectiug these 
tin years of Gaarini*s life but little has been recorded. No doubt the 
chronicle of them would have been monotonous enough. The same 
quiet duties quietly and successfully discharged; the same morning 
walk to his school, the same evening return from it, through the f-ame 
streets, with salutations to the same friends, and leisurely pauses by the 
\7ay to chat, Italian fashion, with one and another, as they were met in 
the streets, not then, as now, deserted, grass-grown, and almost weird in 
their pale sun-baked desolation, but thronged with bustling citizens, 
mingled with gay courtiers, and a very unusually large proportion of men 
whose names were known from one end of Italy to the other. Those 
Behool haunts in the Ferrarese University were haunts which the world- 
veary ex-professor must often throughout the years of his remaining 
I'Jti — some forty -five of them, for he did not die till 1C12, when he was 
seventy-five — ^have looked back on as the best and happiest of his storm- 
tossed existence. 

There is, however, one record belonging to this happy time which 
must not be forgotten. It was at ^adua, Pa data la d<4ta^ as she has 
V)een in all ages and is still called, Padua the learned, in the year ir)65. 
Guarini was then in his twenty-eighth year, and had been a professor 
ftt Ferrara fot the last eight years. Probably it was due to the circum- 
f^tance that his friend and fellow-townsman, Torquato Tasso, was then 
pursuing his studies at Padua, that the young Ferrarese professor turned 
his steps in that direction, bound " on a long vacation ramble." Tasso 
was oidy one-and-twenty at the time ; but he was already a member of 
the famous Paduan Academy of the *' Etherials," which Guarini was 
not And we may readily fancy the pride and pleasure with which the 
younger man, doing the honours of the place to his learned friend, 
procured him to be elected a member of the ** Etherials." Guarini 
ISO called nel secolo — in the world), was II Costante — the ** Con- 
stant One" among the "Etherials." Scipio Gonzaga, who became 
subsequently the famous Cardinal, spoke an oration of welcome to him 
on his election. Then what congratulations, what anticipations of fame, 
what loving protestations of eternal friendship, what naTve acceptance 
of the importance and serious value of their Etherial Academic play, as 
the two youths strolling at the evening hour among the crowds of 
gravely ckid but in no wise gravely speaking students who thronged the 
coloniMides in deep shadow under ttieir low-browed arches, sally forth 
from beneath them as the suri nears the west, on to the vast open space 
which lies around the great church of St. Antony! Advancing in 
close talk they come up to Donatello^s superb equestrian statue of the 
Venetian General Gattamelata, and lean awhile against the tall pedestal, 
finishing their chat before entering the church for the evening prayer. 

The "Etherials" of Padua constituted one of the mnumerable 
".Academies" which existed at that day and for a couple of centuries 
robsequently in every one of the hundred cities of Italy. The " Area- 



diau *' craze was the generating canse of all of them. All the members 
were " shepherds ; " all assumed a fancy name on becoming a member, 
by which they were known in literary circles ; and every Academy 
printed all the rhymes its members strung together ! 

Those must have been pleasant days in old Padua, before the youpg 
Professor returned to his work in the neighbouring university of Ferrara. 
The two young men were then, and for some time afterwards, loving 
friends ; for they had not yet become rival poets. 

At the end of those ten years of university life he may be said to have 
entered on a new existence — to have begun life afresh — so entirely dis- 
Bevered was his old life from the new that then opened on him. Al- 
phonso II., who had succeeded his father, Hercides H., as Duke of 
Ferrara in 1559, *' called him to the court" in 15G7, and he began )ife 
as a courtier, or a ** servant " of the Duke, in the language of the coun- 
try and time. 

Well, in 1567 he entered into the service of the Duke, his sovereign, 
and never had another happy or contented hour ! 

The first service on which the Duke employed him, and for the per- 
formance of which he seems specially to have taken him from his pro- 
fessional chair, was an embassy to Venice, to congratulate the new 
Doge, Pietro Loredano, on his elevation to the ducal throne, to which ha 
had been elected on the previous 19th of June. On this occasion the 
Professor was created CavaHere, a title to which his landed estate of 
Guarina, so called from the ancestor on whom it had been originally 
bestowed by a former duke, fairly entitled him. 

Shortly afterwards he was sent as ambassador to the court of 
Turin ; and then to that of the Emperor Maximilian at Innspruck. 
Then he was twice sent to Poland ; the first time on the occasion of the 
eloction of Henry the Third of France to the throne of that kingdom ; 
and tlie second time when Henry quitted it to ascend that of France ou 
the death of his brother Charles IX. The object of this second em- 
bassy was to intrigue for the election to the Pohsh crown of Alphonso. 
But, as it is hardly necessary to say, his mission was unsuccessful. 

It seems, too, to have been well-nigh fatal to the ambassador. There 
is extant a letter written from Warsaw to his wife, which gives a curious 
and interesting account of the sufferings he endured on the journey a'ad 
at the place of his destination. He tells his wife not to bo discontented 
that his silence has been so long, but to be thankful that it was not 
eternal, as it was very near being I "I started, as you know, more in 
the fashion of a courier than of an ambassador. And that would have 
been more tolerable if bodily fatigue had been all. But the same hand 
that had to flog the horses by day, had to hold the pen by night. Nature 
could not boar up against this double labour of body and mind ; espc^- 
cially after I had travelled by -Serravelles and Ampez,* which is more 
disagreeable and difficult than I can tell you, from the ruggedness no 

* The now celebrated pass of the Ampezzo between Venice and Innfipnick. 


less of the conntry than of tho people, from the scarcity of hors'^s, tho 
miserable mode of liviug, and tli3 wiiut of every nocv^ssary. So liiii.h bo 
tliit on reaching Hala* I had a violout fever. I eiubirkid, h()\vev< r, 
for Vienna notwithstanding. Vv^hat with fever, discouragiiu.ut, an in- 
Wnse thirst, scarcity of rt^inedies and of medical assiKtancvi, bad lod'^'- 
iiig, generally far to seek, t and oft..n infected with disi as; >, food d.s- 
giisting, even to pei*sons in health, bed whero you ar ^ smothx r d in 
icathorrs, in a word, none of the necessaries or comforts cf 111' > ! II avo 
vou to imagine what I have siiifored. The evil inereas d; my Ktr U'^ih 
.iTrew less. I lost my apps^tite for everything savv) wine. In a v/onl, 
Iitti3 hope remained to me o4 life, and that little was o^lious to v.i \ 
Tiiere is on the Danub.% which I was niivigatiiif;, a va t wl>"r'po(], 
FO rapid that if the boatmen did not avail thoms-'lv. s of tn ^ p.sslstiinv- 1 
«if a great number of men belonging to tho lota-lty. kI/oimj n.A 
pov7erful and well acquainted with thi dan,^.r, wiio i\r^ lli. re ton- 
.-tantly for the purpose, and who Ktrug^T^le with th ir o;irs a;':*i;n- 1 T.n 
npaoions gulf, is not a viss. 1 in that gr^at rivir v.I:!. li \.(»ua1 int 
l>e engulf !.d ! Tho place is worthy of th3 name of "the Door of 
D.^ath," which with a notoriety of evil fame it has d for its. If. 
There is no passeng r so bold as not to pass that bit of tlio course of 
the river on foot ; for the thing is truly formidable and t iriblc. ]>iit 
I was so overcome by illness, that having lost all sense of d ui'i; r or d ^- 
s:re to Uvo, I did not care to Lave the boat, but remained in it, v^'itli 
tnose strong men, 1 hardly know whether to say stupidly or intr. pid'y 
—but I will say intrepidl}-, s'.nce at one point, where I vs'as witixiu an 
u<-- of destruction, I Lit no fear." 

He goes on to tell how at Vienna a physician treated him am!ss, and 
Eadi him worse ; how every kind of consideration, and his ovv'n dei-iro 
tofia^'e his life, counselled him to d lay there ; but how th ) ho-iour, the 
r.^5j)onsibility of the embassy wholly on his should rs, his duty to liis 
^f'v.Tcign prevailed to drive him onwards. He fearefl, too, 1 st it should 
\}i buppos.d at V>'arsaw that he prefen-ed his life to the business on 
which hj came, an accusation which might have been mad • use of by 
nspicious and inahgnant adversaries to deprive him of all the credit 
cf his labours, and *Ho snatch from my Prince the crown which vv-e 
ar? striving to place on his head. It is impossible to imagine," he co?!- 
tinues, **what I suffered in that journey of more than six hundr.d 
milu^a from Vienna to Warsaw, dragged rather than can'ied in carts, 
i'roken and knocked to pieces. I wonder that I am still alive ! The 
obstinate fever, the want of rest, of food,, and of medicine, tho oxces- 
fcive cold, the infinite hardships, the uninhabited deserts, were killing 
m-i. More often than not it was a much lesser evil to crouch by night 
ia the cart, which dislocated my bones by day, rather than to be sntio- 

* TWs must probably b,i Ilall on tho luu, a little below Innppruck. Cortaiiily 
anr Ixiat which he j^ot there for the descent of tho river must have been a sufflcieutly 
luis-erable mode of travel line. 

t Far, that is, from the bank of tho rirer, where he left his boat at night 


cated in the foulness of those dens, or stables rather, where the dogs 
and cats, the cocks and hens, and the geese, the pigs and the calves, 
and sometimes tlij children, kept me waiting." 

He proceeds to toll how the country was overrun, in that time of in- 
terregnum, by lawless bands of Cossacks ; how he was obliged to travtl 
with a strong escort, but nevertheless was obhged several times to devi- 
ate from the direct road to avoid the Cossacks, but on two occasions had 
very narrow escapes from falling into their hands. When he reached 
Warsaw at last, mora dead than ahve, the only improvement of his position 
was that he was stationary instead of in motion. * ' The cart no more lacer- 
ates my Umbs ! " But there was no rest to l^ got. ' ^ The place, the season, 
the food, the drink, the water, the servants, the medicines, the doctors, nitn- 
tal trouble, and a thousand other ills make up my torment. Figure to your- 
self all the kingdom lodged in one little town, and my room in the midst 
of it ! There is no place from the top to the bottom, on the right or on 
the left, by day or by night, that is not full of tumult and noise. Thtro 
is no special time here destined for business. Negotiation is going on 
always, because drinking is going on always ; and business is dry work 
without wine. When business is over, visits begin ; and when thts^j 
are at an end, drums, trumpets, bombs, uproar, cries, quarrels, fighting, 
spht one's head in a manner piteous to think of. Ah ! if I suffered all 
this labour and this torment for the love and the glory of God, I should 
be a martyr I" (one thinks of Wolsey I) " But is he not worthy of tha 
name who serves without hope of recompense ?" 

He concludes his letter, bidding his wife not to weep for him, but to 
live and care for her children, in a manner which indicates that he had 
even then but httle hope of returning alive. 

We are nevertheless assured by his biographers that he acquitted 
himself upon all these occasions in such sort as to give satisfaction 
to his sovereign and to acquire for himself the reputation of an 
upright and able minister. The Italian practice of entrusting embassies 
especially to men of letters, which we first had occasion to note when 
tracing the vicissitudes of the Ufe of Dante in the thirteenth centnr}', 
which we saw subsequently exempUfied in the cases of Petrarch, Boc- 
caccio, and Ariosto, and which might be further exempUfied in the per- 
sons of many other ItaUan scholars and men of letters, still, as we see, 
prevailed in the sixteenth century, and continued to do so for some lit- 
tle time longer. 

But in no one instance of all those I have mentioned, does the poet 
thus employed in functions which in other lands and other tiniis 
have usually led to honours and abundant recognition of a more solid 
kind, appear to have reaped any advantage in return for the service ptr- 
f ormed, or to have been otherwise than dissatisfied and. discontented 
*<vith the treatment accorded to him. 

It would have been very interesting to learn somewhat of the impres- 
sion made upon an Italian scholar of the sixteenth century by the placta 
visited, and persons with whom he must have come in contact in thosa 


transalpme lands, which were then so far ofiF, so coniarasted in all respecte 
with the home scenes among which his life had been passed in the low- 
lying, fat, and fertile valley of the Po. Of all this his various biogra- 
phers and contemporaries tell us no word ! But there is a volume of 
his letters, a little square quarto volume, now somewhat rare, printed 
at Venice in the year 1595.* These letters have somewhat unaccounta- 
bly not been included in any of the editions of his works, and they are 
bnt little known. But turning to this little volume, and looking over 
the dates of the letters (many of them, however, are undated), I found 
three written **Di Spruch," and eagerly turned to them, thinking that 
I should certainly find ther^what I was seeking. The letters belong to 
a later period of Guarini's life, having been written in 15IJ2, when he 
was again sent on an embassy to the German Emperor. This circum- 
stance, however, is of no importance as regards the purpose for which I 
wanted the letters. I was disappointed. But I must nevertheless give 
one of these letters, not wantonly to compel my reader to share my dis- 
appointment, but because it is a curiosity in its way. The person to 
whom he writes is a lady, the Gontessa Pia di Sala, with whom he was 
cvidentlv intimate. He is at Innspruck at the Court of the Emperor 
MftYimiiian The lady is at Mantua, and this is what he writes to her : 

" Di Sprnch, Nov. 29, 1592. 
" The letter of year niastrioos Ladyship, together with which you scud me 
that of your most excellent brother, written at the end of August, reached me 
yestarday. at first to my very great anger at having been for so long a time 
deprived of bo precious a thing, while I appeared in fault towards so distiliguished 
a lady i but finally to my very great good fortune. For if a letter written by 
the most lovely flame t in the world had arrived, while the skies were burning, 
what would have become of me, when, now that winter is beginning. I can 
pcarcely prevent myself from falling into ashes? And in truth, when I think 
tiat those so courteous thoughts come from the mind which informs so lovely 
a p.;rson, that those characters have been traced by a hand of such excellent 
Iwauty, I am all ablaze, no less than if the paper were fire, the words flames, 
and all the syllables sparks. But God grant that, while I am set on fire by the 
letter of your Illustrious Ijadyship, you may not be inflamed by anger against 
me, from thinking that the terms in which I write are too bold. Have no such 
doubt, my honoured mistress ! I want nothing from the flaming of my letter, 
bur to have made by the light of it more vivid and more brilliant in you, the 
i)arur<d purity of your beautiful face, even as it seems to me that I can scii it at 
thi-» distance. My love is nothing else save honour; my flame is reverence; 
iiy fire is ardent desire to serve you. And only so long will the appointment 
jii his service, which it has pleased my Lord His Serene Highness the Duko of 
Mantua to give me, and on which vour Illustrious Ladyship has been kind 
enough to congratulate rae so cordially, be dear to me, as you shall know that 
I am fit for it, and more worthy and more ready to receive the favour of 
your commands, which will always be to me a most sure testimony that you 
t'teom me, not for my own worth, as yon too comteously say, but for the worth 
vnich yon confer on me. since I am not worthy of such esteem for any other merit 

• Lettere del Siguor Cavalicre Battista Gnarini, Nobile Ferrarese, di nuovo in 
q:ii-8tJ> seconda impressione di alcune altre accresciute, e dall' Autore stesso corrette, 
111 Agostiijo Michele raccolte, et al Sereniss. Si^nore 11 Duca d'Urbino dedicate. 
Con Privilegio. In Veuetia, MD2CV. Appressp Qio. Battista Ciottl Senese al segno 
d'lla Minerva. 

1 1 translate literally. Old-fashioned people will remember a somewhat similtt 
ue of the word " Flame " in SngUsh. ^ 





than thit which coitk?s to me from being honoured by so noble and b?aiitiful a lady- 
I kls-? the hand of your Illustrious Ladyship, wishing the cuiininatioD of every 


Now, this latter I consider to be avery great curiosity ! The other 
two written from the same place, one to a Signor Bulgarini at Siena, 
the other to a lady, the Marchesa di Grana, at Mantua, are of an en- 
tirely similar description. I turned to them in the hope of finding hovr 
Iimspruck, its stupendous scenery, its court, its manners so widely dif- 
ferent fi*om those to which the writer and his correspondents were used, 
its streets, its people, impressed a sixteenth century Itahan from the 
\ alley of the Po. I find instead a psychological phenomeon ! Tha 
writyr is a grave, austere man (Guarini was notably such), celebrated 
throughout Italy for his intellectual attainments, in the fifty-seventh 
year of his age, with a wife and family ; he ia amidst scents which, 
must, one would have thought, have impressed in the very highest de- 
gree the imagination of a poc;t, and must, it might have been supposed, 
have interested those he was writing to in an only somewhat less degree, 
and he writes the stuff the reader has just waded through. It is clear 
that this Itahan sixteenth century scholar, poet and of cultivated 
int-llect as he was, saw nothing amid the strange scenes to which 
a hard and irksome duty called him, which he thought worthy of being 
mentioned even by a passing word to his friends ! Surely this is a cu- 
rious trait of national character. 

He remained in the service of the court for fourteen years, employed 
mainly, as it should seem, in a variety of embassies ; an employment 
which seems to have left him a disappointed, soured, and embittered 
man. He considered that he had not been remunerated as his labour 
deserved, that the heavy expenses to which he had been put in his long 
journeys had not been satirfactorily made up to him, and that he had 
not ]>een treated in any of the foreign countries to which his embassies 
had carried him with the respect due to his own character and to his 

He determined therefore to 'eave the court and retire to Padua, a resi- 
dence in which city, it being not far distant from his estate of Guarina, 
would offer him, he thought, a convenient opportimity of overlooking 
his property and restoring order to his finances, which had suffered 
much during his travels. This was in the year 1582, when Guarini waa 
in the forty-fifth year of his age. It is not clear, however, that this re- 
tirement was wholly spontaneous ; and the probability is that the Duke 
and his ambassador were equally out of humour with each other. And 
it is probable that the faults were not all on tha side of the Duke. Thtro 
is sufficient evidence that the author of the *^ Pastor Fido" must havo 
been a difiScult man to live with. 

The old friendship of happier days with Tasso had not survived 
the wear and tear of life at court. It was known that they no longer 
saw or spoke with each other. And everybody — if not of their con- 
temporaries, at least of subsequent writers— jumped to the conclusiou 


fl:it tho writer of the " Aminta" and the writer of the ** Pastor Fido'* 
ii it hj j aious of each othv.r. Jealousy th^ro certainly was. But 
fi .:iv fr.ui-.r aiid moro mortal f^^malo than th,; Mns.^ was thj caiisi of it. 
J ■* Abate Sv.rassi in his Hfo of Tas-.o admits that Tasno lirst gave 
. i.cj to Guarini by a sonnet in which ho endeavoured to ahi^nat:; tiie 
ai ctions of a lady from him, by r^pr.Kinting him as a faithless and 
ti kiti lovor. Tha linas in which Tasso attacked his brother poet are, it 
\L.asl bo admitted, shai-p enough I 

Si muove e pi rn<r*rira 
Instabil piu che uridu froude ai vonti; 
Is'ullale, uuir .iiuor, tal-i i tonncnti 
Soiio, c falso I'altVlo oiid' ei pospira. 
Insidioso amaute, anui o d.s})i« zza 
Qu;isi iu im pimto. o trionf iiido sj)ii'ga , 

In icmuiiuilc spo^^lie eiiipi trofoi.* . . • 

The attack was savage enough, it must be admitted, and well calcu- 
iiittd to Ijave a lasting wound. Guarini immediately answered the cruel 
goinibt by another, the comparative 'v^eakness of which is undeniable. 

Qneeti che ind;irno nd alta mira aspira 
Cou altxui biafeiiii, e con bu^iardi accynti, 
Vedi come in pe Ktespo arruota i d»'uti, 
Meutre contra ragion meco b' adira. 

• • • • 

Pi dnp fiammo si vanta, e stringo e pp^zza 
Pill vo^te an nodo; e con quest' arti j)iega 
(Chi M crederebbe !) a suo lavore i Dei.t . • 

There is reason to think that the accusation of many times binding 
and loosing the same knot, may have hit home. The sneer about bend- 
ing the gods to favour him, alludes to Tasso's favour at court, then in 
the ascendant, and may well have been as offensive to the Duke and the 
ladies of his court as to the object of his satire. Both angry poets 
show themselves somewhat earth-stained members of the Paduan 
*• Etherials." But the sequel of the estrangement was all in favour of 
tli'j greater bard. Tasso, in desiring a friend to show his poems in 
manuscript to certain friends, two or three in number, on whose opinion 
he set a high value, named Guarini among the number. And upon 
another occasion wisliing to have Guarini's opinion as to the best of two 
proposed methods of terminating a sonnet, and not venturing to com- 
municate directly with him, he employed a common friend to obtain 

* I pubjoin a literal prose translation in preference to borrowinj? a rhymed one from 
aiiv of Tapso's translators. This fellow •' flits and circles around more unstable than 
d.T It'aves in the wind. Without faith, without love, false are hw pretended torments, 
{I'd false the aft :ction which prompts his sighs. A traitorous lover, he loves and 
tl."-pisf !» jilmo-it ;»t t!ie same moment, and in tnumph displays the spoils of women as 
i:n}»ioiiP trophi; p." 

\ --See how tln't* f tallow, who in vain aims at a lofty croal, by blaming others, and 
by 'ymg aceenta, 8harpen« against hiins 'If his teeth, while without reason he is eu- 
ri.u'd with me. . . . Of two flames he boasts, and ties and breaks over and over 
a-" iu rh^ same knot : tkud by thesti arts (who would believe it I) bends in hififavoivr 
theGodaP • . . 


his broiher-poeVs criticism. Tasso had aleo in his dialogae entitled th 
•* Messagero " given public testimony to Guarini's high intellectual an 
civil -merits. But Guarini appears never to have forgiven the offence.- 
He never once went to see Tasso m his miserable confinement in the 
hospital of St Anne ; nor, as has been seen, would hold any communi- 
cation with him. 

fie must have been a stem and unforgiving man. And indeed all tlia 
available testimony represents him as having been so, — ^upright, honest, 
and honourable, but haughty, punctilious, htigious, quick to takt« 
offence, slow to forget or forgive it, and cursed with a thin-skinned 
ajnour propre easily wounded and propense to credit others with the 
intention of wounding where no such intention existed. The remainder 
of th3 story of his life offers an almost unbroken serie>s of testimonies to 
the truth of such an estimate of his character. 

It was after fourteen years' service in the courii of Duke Alphonso, as 
has been said, that he retired disgusted and weary to hve in independ- 
ence and nurse his estate in the neighbourhood of Padua. But the 
part of Gincinnatos is not for every man J It was in 1582 that he retirt-d 
from the court intending to bid it and its splendours, its disappoint- 
ments and its jealousies, an eternal adieu. In 1585, on an offer from 
the Duke to make him his secretary, he returned and put himself into 
harness again! 

But this second attempt to submit himself to the service, to the capri- 
ces and exigencies of a master and of a court ended in a quicker and more 
damaging catastrophe than the first. In a diary kept by the poefs nephew, 
Ularcantonio Guarini, under the date of July 13, 1587, we find it written 
that " the Cavaher Batista Guarini, Secretary of the Duke, considering 
that his services did not meet with sufficient consideration in proportion 
to his worth, released himself from that servitude." The phrase here 
translated "released himself" is a peculiar one — «i Ikenzio — "dis- 
missed himself." To receive licenza, or to be lieemiato, is to be 
dismissed, or at least parted with in accordance with the will of the em- 
ployer. But the phrase used by the diarist seems intended to express 
exactly what happened when the poet, once more discontented, took 
himself off from Ferrara and its Duke. He seems to have done so in a 
manner which gave deep and lasting offence. In a subsequent passage 
of the above^uoted diary we recid, ** the CavaUere Batista Guarini hav- 
ing absented himself from Ferrara, disgusted with the Duke,' betook 
himself to Florence, and then, by the intermedium of Guido Coccapani 
the agent, asked for his dismissal in form and obtained it." We hap- 
pen, however, to have a letter written by this Coccapani, who seems to 
have been the Duke*8 private secretary and managing man, in which he 
gives his version of the matter. He was " stupefied," he says, ** whtu 
he received the extravagant letter of the Cavaliere Guarini, and begnu 
to ti&izik that it would be with him as it had been with Tasso," who by 
th»* time had fallen into disgrace. There is reason to think that he left 
Ferrarft secretly, without taking leave of the Duke, or letting anybody 



at court know where lie had gone. . He did, however, obtain his formal 
dismissal, as has been said, bnt the "Duke by no means forgave him. 

Though it would appear that on leaving Ferrara in this irregnlar 
manner he went in the first instance to Florence, it seems that he had had 
hopes given him of a comfortable position and hcmourable provision at 
Tmrin. He was to have been made a Comisellor of State, and entmsted 
with the task of remodelling the conrse of stndy at the imiversity, with 
a stipend of six hundred crowns annually. But on arriving at Turin 
he found diihcultdes in the way. In fact, the angry Duke of Ferrara 
had used his influence with the Duke of Savoy to prevent anything be- 
ing done for his contumacious Secretary of State. Guarini, extremely 
mortified, had to leave Turin, and betook himself to Venice. 

His adventure, however, was of a nature to cause great scandal in 
that clime and time. As usual, the Italians were offended at the '"^ im- 
prudence " of which Gnarini's temper had led him to be guilty, mora 
than they would have been by many a fault which among ourselves 
would be deemed a very much worse one. A violence of temper or in- 
dignation shown in such a manner as to injure one*s own interests is, 
and in a yet greater degree was, a spectacle extremely disgnsting to 
ItaHan moral sentiment. 

The outcry against Guarini on this occasion was so great that ha 
found himself obliged to put forth an exculpatory statemenL 

"If human actions, my most kind readers," he begins, ''always 
bore marked on the front of them the aims and motives which 
have produced them, or if those who talk about them were always well 
informed enough to be able to judge of them without injury to tho 
persons of whom they speak, I should not be compelled, at my age, and 
fiftcr so many years of a Hf e led in the eyes of the world, and often 
busied in defending the honour of others, to defend this day my own, 
which has always been dearer to me than my life. Having heard, then, 
that my having left the service of His Serene Highness the Duke of Fer- 
rara and entered that of the Duke of Savoy has given occasion to somo 
persons, ignorant probably of the real state of the case, to make various 
remarks, and form various opinions, I have d3termined to publish tha 
truth, and at the same time to declare my own sentiments in the matt:r. 

"I declare, then, that previously to my said departure I consigned to 
the proper person everything, small as it was, which was in my handa 
regarding my office, which had always been exercised by me uprightly 
and without any other object in view than the sarvice of my sovereign 
and the pubhc welfare. Further, that I, by a written paper imder my 
own hand (as the press of time and my need rendered necessary), re- 
quested a free and decorous dismissal from the Duke in question, and 
?Jso, that I set forth in all humility .the causes which led me to that do- 
t^rmiLacion ; and I added (some of the circumstances in which I was 
compelling me to do so) that if His Serene Highness did not please to 
give me any other answer, I would take his silence as a consent to my 
request of dismissaL I declarQ further that the paper was delivered t^ 


the principal Minister of his Serane Highness, and lastly, that my snU 
ary was, without any further communication with me, stopped, ard 
cancelled from the roll of payments. And as this is the truth, so it is 
equally true that my appointment as reformer of the University of 
Turin, and Counsellor of Stats with six hundred crowns yearly, was 
settled and concluded with His Serene Highness the Duke of Savoy, 
and that I dechned to bind myself, and did not bind myself, to ask any 
othir dismissal from His Servme Highness the Duke of Ferrara tha-i 
that which I have already spoken. And, finally, it is true that, as I 
should not have gone to Turin if I had not been engaged for that service 
and invited thither, so I should not have left, or wished to leave th's 
y place,* had I not known that I received my diRmissal in tlia 
maimer above related. Now, as to the cause which may havj 
retarded and may still retard the fulfillment of the engagement 
above mentioned, I have neither object, nor obligation, nor need to 
declare it. Suffice it that it is not retarded by any fault of mine, cr 
dijSieuIty on my side. In justification of which I offered myself, and 
by these presents now again oficr myself, to present myself whei\Fc- 
ever, whensoever, and in whatsoever manner, and under whatsoev_r 
conditions anel penalties, as may bo seen more clearly s'^t forth in tha 
instrument of agreem'?nt s::nt by mo to His Highness. From all which, 
I would have th3 world to know, while these afiairs of mine are still iu 
snspensioD, that I am a man of honour, and am always ready to main- 
tain the same in whatsoever mahner may be fitting to my condition and 
duty. And as I do not at all cToubt that some decision cf some kind not 
unworthy of so just and fo maf^Danimous a prince will bo forthcoming ; 
BO, let it be v/hat it may, it will be received by me with composure and 
'■; since, by God's grace, and that of the strene and exalt d 
power under the most just and happy dominion of which I am now liv- 
ing, and whos'^ subject, if not by birth, yet by origin and family, I anuf 
I have a comfortable and honoured existence. And may you, my hon- 
our d readers, live in happiness and contentment. Venice, February 
1, 1589." 

We must, I think, nevertheless be permitted to doubt the content- 
ment and haj)pinesf; of the l:f3 he led, as it should seem, for the next 
four years, at '^ Vnico. No such decision of any kind, as ho hc^)ed from 
the Duk.3 of Savoy, was forthcoming. Ho wa=; shunted ! H<3 had quar- 
x-:!! d with his own sovereign, and evidently the other would have none 
qf him. Th 3 Italians of ono city were in tlioso days to a wonderful de- 
gree foreigners in another ruled by a clitTerent government; and thero 
can be little ck)wbt that Guarini wandered among the quays and '* callo'* 
Of Venice, or i>n,ced the great piazza at the evening hour, a moody ancl 
discontented man ! 

* It i« odd that he ehouUl so write in a paper dated, as the present is, from Vonice. 
1 suppose the expression came from his feeling that he was addressing persons at 

t SeoiDg that, as has been said, his ancestors were of Verona, which belonged to 


At last, after nearly four years of this sad life, there came an invita- 
tion from the Dnke of Alantim proposing that Guarini shotdd come to 
iMdntua together with his son iUessandro, to occnx^y honourable posi- 
tions in that court. The poet, heartily sick of '*rjtiriiment," accepted 
at once, and went to Mantua. Bat there, too, another disfipj3ointment 
awaitad him. The ** magnanimous " Duke Alphonso %youid not tolerate 
that the man who had so cavalierly left his service sliould fiud employ- 
ment elsawhere. It is probable that this position was obtained for him 
by the influence of his old friend and fellow-member of the ** Etherials " 
Jt Padua, Scipione Gonzaga ; and it would seem that he occupied it for 
a while, and went on behalf of the Duko of Mantua to Innspruck, 
whence he WTot3 the wonderful letters which have been quoted. 

The Cardinal's influence, however, was not strong enough to prevail 
against the spite of a neighbouring sovereign. There aro t^vo Ltt'irs 
extant from the Duke, or his private secretary, to that saino Coccapani 
whom we saw so scandalized at Guarini' s hurried and informal dt;part- 
Tire from Fenara, -and who was residing as Alphonso's representative &t 
Mantua, in which the Minister is instructed to reprosont to the Duke of 
Mntua that his brother of Ferrara "did not think it well that tho for- 
mer should take any of the Guarini family into his service, and when 
they should see each other he would tell hiin his reasons. For tne pres- 
ent he would only say that he wished the Duke to know that it would 
be excessively pleasing to him if the Duke would have nothing to say to 
any of them." 

This was in 1593 ; and the world-weary poet found himself at fifty- 
six once again cast adrift upon the v/orld. The extremity of his disgust 
and wearineBB of all things may be measured by the nature of tho ntzit 
step he took. He conceived, says his biographer Barotti, that "God 
called him by infernal voices, and by promise of a more tranquil life, t-3 
accept the tonsure." His wife had died some little time before ; and 
it was therefore open to him to do so. Ho went to Rome accordingly 
for the purpose of there taking orders. . But during the short d.lay 
which iiitervened between the manifestation of his purpose and the ful- 
filment of it, news reached him that his friend and protectress tha 
Duchess of Urbino, Alphonso's sister, had interceded for him with thd 
Duke, and that he was forgiven ! It was open to him to return to h^s 
former employment ! And no sooner did the news reach him than he 
perceived that " the internal voices " were altogether a mistake. God 
had never called him at all, and Alphonso had I All thoughts of tlio 
Church were abandoned on the instai ts, and he hastened to Ferrai-a, a:> 
living there on the 15fch of April, 1 i>l)^">. 

But neither on this occasion was ho destined to find the tranquillity 
which he seemed fated never to attam ! And this time the break up 
■was a greater and more final one than the last. Duke Alphonso died in 
1597 ; and the Pontifieial Court, v/hich had long had its eye on the po.i- 
sibility of enforcing certain pretended clauns to the Duchy of Ferrara, 
found &e means at Alphonso's death of oustiug his successor the Duke 

L. M— I — i. 


Cesare, who remained thenceforward Duke of Modena only, but no 
longer of Ferrara. 

Guarini was once more adrift ! Nor were the political ahangeBin Fer- 
rara the only thing which rendered the place no longer a home for him. 
Other misfortnnes combined to render a residence in the city odious to 
him. His daughter Anna had married a noble gentleman of Ferrara, 
the Count Ercole Trotti, by whom she was on the 3rd of May, 
1598, murdered at his villa of Zanzahno near Ferrara. Some attempt 
was made to assert that the husband had reason to suspect that his wife 
was plotting against his life. But there seems to have been no fouu- 
dation for any accusation of the sort; and the crime was prompted 
probably by jealousy. Guarini, always on bad terms with his sons, and 
constantly InYolved in litigation with them, as he had been with liis 
father, was exceedingly attached to this unfortunate daughter. 

But even this terrible loss was not the only bitterness which resulted 
from this crime. Guarini composed a long Latin epitaph, in whicli he 
strongly affirms her absolute innocence of everything that had been laid 
to her charge, and speaks with reprobation of the husband's'*^ crime. 
But scarcely had the stone bearing the inscription been erected than the 
indignant father was required by the authorities of the city to remove 
it. A declaration, which he pubhshed on the subject, dated June 15, 
1598, is still extant. *'0n that day," he writes, " the Vice-legate of 
Ferrara spoke with me, in the name of the Holy Father, as to the re- 
moving of the epitaph written by me on Anna my daughter in the 
church of Sta. Catherina. He said that there were things in it that 
might provoke other persons to resentment, and occasion much scandal ; 
and that, besides that, there were in the inscription words of Sacred 
Scripture, which ought not to be used in such a place. I defended my 
cause, and transmitted a memorial to his Holiness, having good reason 
to know that these objections were the mere malignity of those who 
favour the opposite party, and of those who caused the death of my 
innocent child. But at last, on the 22nd, I caused the epitaph to be 
removed, intimating that it was my intention to take up the body, and 
inter it elsewhere. On which it is worthy of remark, ttiat having made 
my demand to that effect, I was forbidden to do so." He further adds : 
** Note ! news was brought to me here that my son Girolamo, who was 
evidently discovered to be the acccmiplice, and principal atrocious author 
of the death of his raster Anna, received from the Potesta of Bovigo 
licence to come into the Polisina with twelve men armed with arque* 

All this is very sad ; and whether these terrible suspicions may or 
may not have lid any foundation other than the envenomed temper 
generated by the family litigations, it must equally have had the effect 
of making the life of Guarini a very miserable onf , and contributing to 
his determination to abandon finally his native city. 

* Barotti srives it at length ; bat it is hardly worth while to occapy spaoe by re* 
prodadug it hera. 


More surprising is it that, af tef so maaj disgusts And disappoint- 
ments, he ^onld once again have been tempted to seek, what he had 
never yet been able to find there, in a court In a letter written in 
November, 1598, he informs the Duke Gesare (Duke of Modena, though 
no longer of Ferrara) that the Grand Duke of Florence bad offered 
him a position at Florence. And his Serene Highness, more kindly and 
forgiving than the late Duke, wrote hiim an obliging and congratoliettGry 
letter in the following month. 

At Florence everything at first seemed to be going well with him, and 
he seemed to stand high in favour with the Grand Duke Ferdinand. 
But vejy shortly he quitted Florence in anger and disgust on the dis- 
covery of the secret marriage of his third son, Guarini, with a woman 
cf low condition at Pisa, with at least the connivance, as the poet 
thought, whether justly or not there is nothing to show, of the Grand 

After that his old friend the Duchess of Urbino once again stood his 
friend, and he obtained a position in the court of Urbino, then one of 
the most widely famed centres of cultivation and letters in Italy. And 
for a while everything seemed at last to be well with him there. On 
the 23rd of February, 1603, he writes to his sister, who apparently had 
been pressing him to come home to Ferrara : — " I should Uke to come 
home, my sister. I have great need and a great desire for home ; but 
I am treated so well here, and with so much distinction and so much 
kindness, that I cannot come. I must tell you that all expenses for 
myself and my servants are suppUed, so that I have not to spend a 
farthing for ai^thiug in Uie world that I need. The orders are that any- 
thing I ask for should be furnished to me. Besides all which, they give 
me three hundred crowns a year ; so that, what with money and ex- 
penses, the position is worth six hundred crowns a year to me. You 
may judge, ilien, if I can throw it up. May God grant you every hap- 
pinessi Your brother, 


But an would not do. He had been but a very little time in this lit- 
tle Umbrian Athens among the Apennines before he onoe again threw 
up his position in finger and disguet, because he did not obtain all the 
marks of distinction to which he thought that he was entitled. This 
was in 1603. He was now sixty-six, and seems at length to have made 
no further attempt to haunt at court. Once again he was at Bome in 
1605, having undertaken, at the request of the citizens of Ferrara, to 
carry their felicitations to the new Pope, Paul the Fifth- And with the 
exception of that short expedition his last years were spent in the retire- 
ment of his ancestral estate of Guarina. 

The property is situated in the district of Lendinara, on ttie fat and 
ftrtUe low-lying region between Bovigo and Padua, and belongs to the 
<ommune — pariRh, as wo should say — of St. Beilino. The house, dating 
probably from the latter part of the fifteenth century, is not much mora 


than a hundred yards or bo from the piazza of the village, which boasts 
two thousajid inhabitants. The road between th^ two is bordered with 
trees. Tho whole district is as flat as a billiard table, and as prosaical in 
its well-to-do fertility as can be imagined. It is intersected by a variety 
of streams, natural and artificiaL About a couple of miles from the 
house to tho south is the Canalbianco ; and a httie f Eurther to the north 
the Adigetto. To the east runs the Scortico. St. Bellino, from whom 
the villaga is named, was, it seems, enrolled among the martyrs by Pope 
Eugenius the Third in 1152. He has a great specialty for curing the 
bite of mad dogs. There is a grand cenotaph in his honour in the vil- 
lage church, which was raised by some of the Guarini family. But this, 
too, hko all else, became a subject of trouble and Utigation to our poet. 
A certain Bald^issare Bonifaccio of Bovigo wanted to transport the saint 
to that city. Guarini would not hear of this ; htigated the matter be- 
fore, the tribunals of Venice, and prevailed. So tiie saint still resides 
at St BeUino to the comfort of all those bitten by mad dogs in thos3 
parta The house and estate have passed through several hands since 
that time ; but a number of old family portraits may still be seen on the 
walls, together with the family arms, and the motto, ^^Fortis est in 
asperis non turbari." The armchair and writing table of the poet are 
also still preserved in the house, and a fig-tree is pointed out close by it, 
under the shade of which the poet, as tradition tells, wrote on that table 
and in that chair his "Pastor Fido." There is an inscription on the 
chair as follows : " Guarin sedendo qui canto, che vale al paragon seg- 
gio* reale." 

It was not, however, during this his last residence here that the 
** Pastor Fido " was written, but long previously. It was doubtless hi» 
habit to escape from the cares of official life in Ferrara from time to 
time as he could ; and it must have been in such moments that the cel- 
ebrated pastoral was written.! 

The idea of a scholar and a poet, full of years and honours, passing 
the quiet evening of his life in a tranquil retirement in his own house 
on his own land, is a pleasing one. But it is to be feared that in the 
case of the author of the *' Pastor Fido" it would be a fallacious one. 
Guaa-ini would not have CQme to hve on his estate if he could have hved 
contentedly in any city. We may picture him to ourselves sitting un- 
der his fig-tree, or pacing at evening under the trees of the straight av- 
enue between his house and the village, or on the banks of one of the 
sluggish streams slowly finding their way through the flat fields towards 
the Po ; but I am afraid the picture must be of one **Kemote, un- 
friended, melancholy, slow," with eyes bent earthwards, and discon- 

* '' Gaarini sitting here, sang, that which renders the seat the equal of a royal 

i It is very doubtful and very tliflScnlt to determine at what period of bis life the 
•* Pastor Fidb " was written. Ginguene (Hist. Ital. Lit. Part II. ch. xxv.) has sufli- 
ciently shown that the statements of the Italian biographers on this jxiiut an? inacca- 
rato. Probably it was planned and, in part, wiitteu many years before it was finished. 
It was first printed iu 1680. 


tented mind : *' remote,'* becaose to the Italian mind all places beyond 
the easy reach of a city are so ; *' unfriended," because he had quar- 
relied with everybody ; ** melancholy," because all had gone amiss with 
him, and his life had been a failure ; ^*8low," because no spring of 
hope in the mind gave any elasticity to his step. 

One other ** haunt" of the aged poet must, however, be mentioned, 
because it is a very characteristic one. During this last residence at 
Gaarina, he hired an apartment at Ferrara, selecting it in a crowded 
part of the centre of the city, especially frequented by the lawyers, that 
he might be in the midst of them, when he went into the city on the 
various business connected with his interminable lawsuits. The most 
crowded part of the heart of the city of Ferrara ! It would be difficult 
to find any such part now. But the picture offered to the imagination, 
of the aged poet, professor, cotirtier, haunting the courts, the lawyers' 
chambers, leaving his, at least, tranquil retreat at St. BelUno, to drag 
weary feet through the lanes of the city in which he had in earlier days 
played so different a part, is a sad one. But there are people who like 
contention so much that such work is a labour of love to them. And 
certainly, if the inference may be drawn from the fact of his never hav- 
ing been free from lawsuits in one quarrel or another, Guarini must 
have been one of these. But it is passing strange that the same man 
should have been the author of the " Pastor Fido." 

They pursued him to the end, these litigations ; or he pursued them ! 
And at last he died, not at Guarina, but at Venice, on the 7th of Octo- 
ber, 1612, where, characteristically enough, he chanced to be on busi- 
ness connected with some lawsuit. 

And now a few words must be said about his great work, the 
** Pastor Fido." It is one of the strangest tilings in the range of 
literary history that such a man should have written such a poem. 
He was, one would have said, the last man in the world to produce 
such a work. The first ten years of his working life were spent in the 
labour of a pedagogue ; the rest of it in the inexpressibly dry, frivolous, 
and ungenial routine of a small Italian court, or in wandering from one 
to the other of them in the vain and always disappointed search for such 
employment. We are told that he was a punctilious, stiff, unbending, 
angular man; upright and honourable, but unforgiving and wont to 
nurse his enmities. He was soured, disappointed, discontented with 
everybody and everything, involved in litigation first with his father, and 
then with his own children. And this was the man who wrote the 
"Pastor Fido," of aU poems comparable to it in reputation the hght- 
est, the airiest, and the most fantastic ! The argument of it is as fol- 

The Arcadians, suffering in various ways from the anger of Diana, 
were at last informed by the oracle that the evils which afflicted them 
would cease when a youth and a maiden, both descended from the Im- 
mortals, as it should seem the creme de Ja creme of Arcadian society 
foogOj was, should be joined together in faithful love. Thereupon 


Montano, a priest of the goddess who was descended from vHercxQes, 
arranged that his only son Silvio should be betrothed to Amaryllis, the 
only daughter of Tytirus, who was descended from Pan. The arrange- 
ment seemed all that could be desired, only that a difficulty arose from 
the fact, that Silvio, whose sole passion was the chase, could not be 
brought to care the least in the world for Amaryllis. Meantime Mirtillo, 
the son, as was supposed, of the shepherd Carino,"fell desperately in 
love with Amaryllis. She was equally attached to him, but dared not in 
the smallest degree confess her love, because the law of Arcadia would 
have punished with death her infidelity to her betrothed vows. A cer- 
tain Oorisca, however, who had conceived a violent but unrequited 
passion for Mirtillo, perceiving or guessing the love of Amaryllis for 
him, hating her accordingly, and hoping that, if she could be got out of 
the way, she might win Mirtillo's love, schemes by deceit and lies to in- 
duce Mirtillo and Amaryllis to enter together a cave, which they 
do in perfect innocence, and without any thought of harm. Then 
Jhe contrives that they should be caught there, and denounced by 
1 satyr ; and AmaryUis is condemned to die. The law, however, per- 
mits that her life may be saved by any Arcadian who will voluntMily 
die in her stead ; and this Mirtillo determines to do, although he be- 
lieves that AmaryUis cares nothing for him, and also is led by the false 
Corisca to believe tliat she had gone into the cave for the purpose of meet- 
ing with another lover. The duty of sacrificing him devolves on Montano 
the priest ; and he is about to carry out the law, when Carino, who has 
been seeking his reputed son Mirtillo, comes in, and while attempting 
to make out that he is a foreigner, and therefore not capable of satisfy- 
ing the law by his death, brings unwittingly to light circxunstances that 
prove that he is in truth a son of Montano, and therefore a descendant 
of the god Hercules. It thus appears that a marriage between Mirtillo 
and Amaryllis will exactly satisfy the conditions demanded by the oracle. 
There is an under-plot, which consists in providing a lover and a mar- 
riage for the woman-hater Silvio. He is loved in vain by the nymph 
Dorinda, whom he unintentionally wounds with an arrow while out 
hunting. The pity he feels for her wound softens his heart towards 
her, and all parties are made happy by this second marriage. 

Such is a skeleton of the story of the "Pastor Fido." It will be ob- 
served that there is more approach to a plot and to human interest than 
in any previous production of this kind, and some of the situations are 
well conceived for dramatic effect. And accordingly the success which 
it achieved was immediate and immense. Nor, much as the taste of 
the world has been changed since that day, has it ever lost its place in 
the estimation of cultivated Italians. 

It would be wholly uninteresting to attempt any account of the wide- 
spreading literary controversies to which the pubhcation of the "Pastor 
Fido " gave rise. The author terms it a tragi-comedy ; and this title 
was violently attacked. The poet himself, as may well be imagined 
from the idiosyncrasy of the man, was not slow to reply to his critics,. 


and did bo in two lengthy treatises entitled from the name of a contem- 
porary celebrated actor, '* Verato primo," and " Verato secondo," which 
ara printed in the fonr-quarto-volume edition of his works, but which 
probably no mortal eye has read for the last two hundred years ! 

The question of the rivaly between the ** Aminta " of Tasso and the 
"Pastor Fido " has an element of greater interest in it. It is certain 
that the former preceded the latter, and doubtless suggested it. It 
seems probable that Ginguene is right in his suggestion, that Guarini, 
fully conscious that no hope was open to him of rivalling his greater 
contemporary and townsman in epic poetry, strove to surpass him in 
pastoral. It must be admitted that he has at least equalled him. Yet, 
vhile it is impossible to deny that almost every page of the ** Pastor 
Fido " indicates not so much plagiarism as an open and avowed purpose 
of doing the same thing better, if possible, than his rival has done it, 
the very diverse natural character of the two poets is also, at every 
page, curiously indicated. Specially the reader may be recommended 
to compare the passages in the two poems where Tasso under the 
nam3 of Thyrsis, and Guarini xmder the name of Carino (Act 5, 
scene 1), represent the sufferings both underwent at the court of 
Alphonso n. The lines of Guarini are perhaps the most vigorous in 
their biting satire. But the gentler and nobler nature of Tasso is un- 

It is strange that the Italian critics, who are for the most part so len- 
ient to the Ucentiousness of most of the authors of this period, blame 
Guarini for the too great warmth, amounting to indecency, of his poem. 
The writer of his life in the French " Biographic Universelle " refers to 
certain scenes as highly indecent. I can only say that, on examining 
the passages indicated carefully, I could find no indecency at all. It is 
probable that the writer referred to had never read the pages in ques- 
tion. But it is odd that those whose criticism he is no doubt reflecting 
should have said so. No doubt there are passages, not those mentioned 
by the writer in the " Biographic," but for instance the first scene of 
thy 83cond act, when a young man in a female disguise is one among a 
party of girls, who propose a prize for her who can give to one of them, 
th3 judge, the sweetest Idss, which prize he wins, which might be 
deemed somewhat on the sunny side of the hedge that divides the per- 
missible from the unpermissible. But in comparison with others of 
that age Guarini is p]ire as snow. 

It has been said in speaking of the sad story of his daughter Anna, 
that she was accused of having given her husband cause for jealousy. 
It would seem very clear that there was no ground for any such accusa- 
tion. But it was said that the misconduct on her part had been due to 
the corruption of her mind by the reading of her father^s verses. The 
utter groundlessness of such an assertion might be shown in many ways. 
But the savage and malignant cruelty of it points with considerable evi- 
dence to the sources of tiie current talk about the courtier poet's liceii« 


It is impossible to find room here for a detailed comparison bet^w^een 
these two celebrated pastorals ; and it is the less needed inasmuch as 
Ginguene has done it very completely and at great length in the tvren- 
tj^-fifth chapter of the second part of his work. 

Guarini also produced a comedy, the *'Idropica," which was acted 
with much success at the court of Mantua, and is printed among his 
works, as well as some prose pieces of small importance, the principal 
of which is '* II Secretario," a treatise on the duties of a secretary, not 
printed among his works, but of which an edition exists in pot quarto 
(186 pages) printed at Venice in 1594. Neither have his letters been, 
printed among his works. They exist, printed without index or order 
of any kind, in a volume of the same size as the *' Secretario," printed 
at Venice also in 1595, but by a different printer. 

The name, however, of Batista Guarini would have long since been 
forgotten had he not written the ^* Pastor Fido." 

T. Adolphus Tbollofe, in Bdgra/oia. ^ 


Oh, who is so free as a gallant vaquero f 
With his beauty of broDze 'neath his shady sombrero : 
He smiles at his love, and he laughs at his fate, 
For he knows he is lord of a noble estate : 
The prairie's his own, and he mocks at the great. 
»* Ho-ho ! Hai ! Ho-ho ! 
Head 'em off ! Tarn 'em back I 
Keep 'em up to the track ! 
Ho-hillo! Ho-hillol 
Cric— crac !" 

Oh. Boona Lnlsa is proud as she's fair ; 
But she parted last night with a lock of her hair. 
And under the stars she roams, seeking for rest. 
While she thinks of the stranger that came from the West; 
And Juan bears something wrapped up in his breast — 
"Ho-ho! Hai! Ho-ho I 
Head 'em off ! Turn 'em back ! 
Keep 'em up to the track 1 
Ho-hiUo! Ho-hillo! 
Cric— crac I'" 

His proudest possessions are prettUy placed. 

His love at his heart, and his life at his waist. 

And if in a quarrel he happen to fall, 

Why, the prairie's his grave, and his pmicho's t his pall. 

And Donna Luisa— gets over it all ! 

* A CaUfomla cattle-driver. Famished with revolver, lasso, and long-lasbed whip, 
these adventurous gentry conduct the hai '-wild cattio of the plains over miles of IhHr 
sur''aco : and. with th<»ir gay sashes, hlgli boots, {gilded and belled spurs. and<iark, 
broad hats itfonibreroh), present a very picturesque appearance. t .Cloak- 


«'Ho^o! Hail Ho-bo! 
Head *em oft ! Tnrn 'em backl 
Keep 'era np to the track I 

Ho-hillo! Ho-hillo! 
Crio— cracP 

The Padrd may preach, and the Notary frown. 
Bot the poblartas ^ smile aa he ride« through tne town S 
And the Padr^^ he knows, likes a kiss on the sJ^, 
And the Notary oft has a *' drop in his eye," 
But aU that he does is to love and to die— 
"Ho-ho! Hail Ho-ho I 
Head *em off ! Tarn *em back I 
Keep *em up to the track I 
Ho-biliol Ho-hillo! 
Crio— crac !" 

Frank Despbez, in Temple Bar, 


The two stories which follow were drcnlated in the city of Yedo some 
Tears back, and show that the better educated classes of Japanese are 
keenly ahve to the absurdity of the figure cut by their countrymen 
when they attempt to jump over five hundred years in fiye hundred 



Some six years back lived in the beautiful village of Minoge an old 
lady who kept the big tea-house of the place known as the " White 
Pine." Minoge is situated at the base of the holy mountain Oyama, and 
during the months of August and September trade in Minoge was 
always brisk, on account of the influx of pilgrims from all parts of 
Japan, who came hither to perform the holy duty of ascending the moun- 
tain, and of paying their devoirs at the shrine of the Thunder-God, pre- 
vious to making the grand pilgrimage of Fuji-Yama. 

The old lady was well off, and her inn bore an unblemished reputation 
for possessing the prettiest serving-giris, the gayest guest-chambers, and 
the primest stewed eels — the dish par excellence of Japanese gourmets — 
of any hosteliy in the country side. One of her daughters was married 
in Tedo, and a son was studying in one of the European colleges of that 
city ; still she was as completely rustic and unacquainted with the march 
of affairs outside as if she had never heard of Yedo, much less of foreigners. 
At that time it was a very rare thing indeed for a foreigner to be seen 
in Minoge, and the stray artists and explorers who hai wandered there 
were regarded much in the same way as would have been so many whito 

* Peasant girls* 


It caused, therefore, no little excitement in the Yillage when, one Aoe 
autumn evening, the rumour came along that a foreigner was making 
his way towarcE the ** White Pine." Every one tried to get a glimpse 
of him. The chubby-cheeked boys and girls at the school threw down 
their books and pens, and crowded to the door and windows ; the bath- 
house was soon empty of its patrons and patronesses, who, red as lob- 
Bters with boihng water, with dishevelled locks and garments hastily 
bound round them, formed hne outside ; the very Yakunin, or mayor, 
sentenced a prisoner he was judging straight oflF, without bothering him- 
self to inquire into evidence, so as not to be balked of the sight, and 
every wine and barber's shop sent forth its quota of starers into the litUe 

Meanwhile the foreigner was leisurely striding along. He was taller 
by far than the tallest man in Minoge, his hair was fair, and even his 
bronzed face and hands were fair compared to those of the natives. On 
the back of his head was a felt wide-awake, he wore a blue jacket and 
blue half trousers (Anglice, knickerbockers), thick hose, and big boots. 
In his mouth was a pipe — being much shorter than Japanese smoking 
tubes — in his hand a stick, and on his back a satcheL 

As he passed, one or two urchins, bolder than the rest, shouted out, 
*'Tojin baka" (*' Foreign beast ") and instantly fled indoors, or behind 
their mothers' skirts : but the majority of the villagers simply stared, 
with an occasional interjection expressive of wonder at his height, fair 
hair, and costume. 

At the door of the ".White Pine " he halted, unstrapped his bundle, 
took off his boots, and in very fair Japanese requested to be shown his 
room. The old lady, after a full ten minutes' posturing, complimenting, 
bowing, and scraping, ushered him into her best guest-chamber. * * For," 
said she, " being a foreigner, he must be rich, and wouldn't like ordi- 
nary pilgrim accommodation." And she drew to the sliding screens, and 
went off to superintend his repast. Although nothing but the foreigner's 
boots were to be seen outside, a gaping crowd had collected, striving to 
peer through the cracks in the doors, and regarding the boots as if they 
were infernal machines. One, more enterprising than the rest, took a 
boot up, passed it to his neighbour, and in a short time it had circulated 
from hand to hand throughout the population of Minoge, and was even 
fait and pinched by the mayor himself, who replaced it with the rever- 
ence due to some religious emblem or relic. 

Then the hostess served up her banquet — seaweed, sweets, raw 
**tighe" — the salmon of Japan — in slices, garnished with turnips and 
horse-radish, egg soup with pork lumps floating in it, chicken delicately 
broiled, together with a steaming bottle of her choicest **San Toku 
Shin," or wine of the Three Virtues (which keeps out the cold, appeases 
hunger, and induces sleep). 

The foreigner made an excellent meal, eked out by his own white 
bread, and wine from a flask of pure silver, then, lighting his 
pipe, reclined at fuU length on the mats, talking to the old lady 


ftnd her Qaee damsels, Hana, Kiku, and O Bin (Miss Flower, 
Miss Chrysanthemum, and Miss Dragon). He was walking about 
the country simply for pleasuva, he said — which astonished the 
women greatly — he had been away from Yokohama three weeks, 
and was now on his road to the big mountain. The party were 
Boon screaming with laught3r at his quaint remarks and at his occa- 
sionai colloquial shps, and in a short time all were such good friends 
that the old lady begged him to display the contents of his satchel. 
** Certainly,'' said the stranger, pulUng it towards him and opening it. 
A db:ty flannel shirt or two didn't produce much impression — perhaps 
wares of a similar nature had been imported before into Minoge — nor 
did a hair-brush, tooth-brush, and comb ; but when he pulled out a 
pistol, which was warranted to go off six times in as many seconds, and 
proceeded to exemplify the same in the air, popular excitement began 
to assert itself in a series of **naruhodo's" (** really !" ). Then he 
pulled out a portable kerosine lamp — (kerosine lamps are now as com- 
mon in Japan as shrines by the road-side) — and the light it made, 
throt*ing entirely into the shade the native **andon,'' or oil wick, 
burning close by, raised the enthusiasm still higher. Lastly he showed 
a small box of medicines, *' certain cures,*' said he, '* for every disease 
known amongst the sons of men." 

The old lady and the maids were enchanted, and matters ended, after 
much haggling and disputation, in the foreigner allowing them to keep 
the three articles for the very reasonable sum of fifty dollars — ^about 
fifteen pounds sterling — which was handed over to the foreigner, who 
called for his bedding and went fast asleep. 

The first thing for the old lady to do the next day was to present 
herself and maids in full holiday costume with their recent purchases at 
the house of the mayor. The great man received them and their goods 
with the dignity befitting his rank, and promised that a pubUc trial 
should be m£uie of the pistol, lamp, and medicines, at an early date, in 
order to determine whether they were worthy to be adopted as institu- 
tions in the village. 

Accordingly, by proclamation, at a fixed date and hour, all Minoge 
assembled m the open space facing the mayor's house, and the articles 
were brought forth. The pistol was first taken and loaded, as directed 
by the foreigner, by the boldest and strongest man in the village. The 
first shot was fired — it wounded a pack-horse, standing some twenty 
yards away, in the leg ; he took fright and bolted with a heavy load of 
wine tubs down the street into the fields : the second shot went through 
a temple roof opposite, and shattered the head of the daity in tho 
Bhrine : the third shot perforated the bamboo hat of a pilgrim ; and it 
was decided not to test the remaining three barrels. 

Then the lamp was brought forth : the wick was turned up full, and 
the village strong man applied a light. The blaze of Hght was glorious, 
and drew forth the acclamations of the crowd ; but the wick had been 
tamed up too high, the glass burst with a tremendous report, the 


strong man dropped the lamp, the oil ignited, ran about and set fire to 
the matting. In tsn minutes^ however, the local fire brigade got the 
flames under, and the experiments proceeded. 

The medicine packets were brought forth. The first was a grey 
powder. A man who had been lame from youth upwards was made 
to limp out. The powder mixed with water, according to directions, 
was given him. He hobbled away in frightful convtdsions, and nearly 
injured his whole Hmb in so doing. 

The second packet was then unsealed — it contained pills. A blind man 
was called out — six pills were rammed down his throat, and he was left 
wallowing in a ditch. The third packet, a small book containing sticking 
plaster, was then introduced. A burly peasant, victim to fearful tooth- 
ache, was made to stand forth. The interior of his mouth was lined 
with the plaster, and when he attempted in his disgust to pull it off, 
away came his skin also. 

The medicines were condemned nem. con. 

The foreigner returned, asked how matters had gone, and was told in 
polite but firm terms that his machines were not suited to the people of 
Minoge. Whereupon he returned the fifty dollars to the old 'lady of 
the *' White Pine," and went away laughing. Minoge subsided into its 
ordinary every-day groove of life, and it was not tUl some years after 
that the inhabitants became better used to pistols, lamps, and European 


Takezawa was the head of a large silk and rice house in Yedo. His 
father had been head, his grandfather had been head, his great-grand- 
father had been head : in fact, the date when the first of the name 
affixed his seal to the documents of the house was lost in the mists of 
cmtiquity. So, when foreigners were first allowed a foot-hold on the 
sacred soil of Japan, none were so jealous of their advance, none so ar- 
dent in their wishes to see the whits barbarians ousted, as the members 
of the firm of Takezawa and Go. 

But times changed. Up to the last, Takezawa held out against the 
introduction of foreign innovations in the mode and manner of conduct- 
ing the affairs of the firm ; other houses might employ foreign steam- 
boat companies as carriers for their produce from port to port, might 
import foreign goods, and even go so far as to allow the better paid of 
their clerks to dress themselves as they liked in foreign costume ; but 
Takezawa and Ck). were patriotic Japanese merchants, and resolved to 
run on in the old groove of their ancestors. 

But times still changed, and the great house, running on in its solid 
old-fashioned manner, found itself left in the lurch by younger and more 
enterprising firms. This would never do. So Takezawa consulted 
with his partners, patrons, cUents, and friends, and after much worthy 
discussion, and much vehement opposition on the part of the old man, 
it was resolved to keep pace with the times, as much as possible, with- 
out absolutely overturning the old status of the house. 


"Well, Takezawa and Co. had still a very fair share of the export rice 
and silk business ; but their slow, heavy-sterned junks were no match 
for the swift, foreign-built steamers employed by other firms ; so, with 
a tremendous wince, and not without a side thought at *' Hara Kiri" — 
(the ** Happy Despatch ") — Takezawa consented to the sale of all his 
junks, and the purchase with the proceeds of a big f oriiigu stramcr. 

The steamer was bought — a fine three-masted, double-funnelled boat, 
complete with every appUance, newly engined, and manned by Eiiro- 
psan oSlcers and leading seamen, i'rom the dock at Yokoska, where 
she was lying, a preliminary trip was nrndo ; and so smoothly did every- 
thing w<^k, and so easily did everything seem to act, under the guid- 
aace oi the Europeans, that Takezawa considered his own mariners per- 
fectly competent to handle the vessel after an hour's experience on 
board. So the Europaans wero disclMirged with six months' salaries — 
about six times as much as they would have received at houie — and 
Takezawa fixed a day wh3n ths ship should be rechristened, and should 
make her ixiaX trip undsr Japanese management. 

It was a beautiful day in autumn — the most glorious period of tho 
year in Japan — when Takezawa and a distinguished company assem- 
bled on board the steamer, to give her a new name, and to send her 
forth finally as a Japanese steamer. The ship loolced brave enough as 
she lay in the dock — ports newly painted, brass-work fdiining, yards 
squared, and half buried in bunting. At the mizen floated the empire 
flag of Japan — a red sun on a whit 3 ground — and as Takezawa gazed 
fore and aft, and his eyes restad on brightness, cleanliness, and order 
everywhere, he wondered to hims3lf how he could liave been such a fool 
as to stand out so long against the possession of fnich a treasure, merely 
on the grounds of its not being Japanese. A fair daughter of one 
of his partners dashed a cup of " sake " against the boAvs of the vessel, 
and the newly named ** Lightning Bird" dashed forward into the ocean. 
Her head was made straight for Yokohama (Takezawa had seen the En- 
glishmen at the wheel manipulate her in that conrso on her trial trip, so 
he knew she couldn*t go wrong). And straight she went. Every one was 
delighted ; sweetmeats and wine wer3 served round, whilst on the quar- 
terdeck a troupe of the b3st ** Geyshas " or singing-girls in Yedo min- 
gled their shrill voices and their guitar notes with the sound of the fresh 
morning breeze through the rigging. 

The engines worked magnificently : coals were poured into the fur- 
naces by the hundredweight, so as to keep a good uniform thick cloud 
of smoke coming from the funnels — if the smoke lacked intensity for a 
minute, Takezawa, fearful that something was wrong, bellowed forth 
orders for more coal to be heaped on, so that in a quarter of an hour's, 
time the ** Lightning Bird" consumed as mucli fuel as would hav4 
served a P. and O. steamer for half a day. On she went, everybody 
pleased and smiling, everything taut and satisfactory. Straight ahead 
was Treaty Point — a bold blnff running out into the sea. The "Light- 
nmg "Bircb-" was bound for Yokohama — Yokohama lies well behind 


Treaty Point — but at the pace she was going it was Tery apparent that, 
unless a sadden and rapid turn to starboard was made, she would run, 
not into Yokohama, but into Treaty Pqint. 

The singing and feasting proceeded merrily on deck, but Takezawa 
was uneasy ^d undecided on the bridge. The helm was put hard 
a-port, the brave vessel obeyed, and leapt on straight for the Hne of 
rocks at the foot of the Point, over which the waves were breaking in 
cascades of foam. But the gods would not see a vessel, making her first 
run under Japanese auspices, maltreated and destroyed by simple waves 
and rocks ; so, just in time to save an ignominious run aground, the 
helm was put hard over, fresh fuel was piled on to the furnaces, and by 
barely half a ship's leng^ the '* Lightning Bird'' shaved the Point, and 
stood in straight for Yokohama bay. 

Takezawa breathed freely for the moment ; but, as he saw ahead tha 
crowd of European ships and native junks through which he would havo 
to thread his way, he would have given a very large sum to have had a 
couple of Europeans at the wheel in the place of his own half-witted, 
scared mariners. 

However, there was no help for it; the ship sped on, and the 
guests on board, many of whom were thorough rustics, were in 
raptures at the distant views of the white houses on the Yokohama 
Bund, at the big steamers and the graceful sailing vessels on all 
sides. To avoid the chance of a coUision, Takezawa managed to keep 
his steamer well outside ; they nearly ran down a fishmg junk or 
two, and all but sunk the lightship ; still, they had not as yet como 
to absolute grief. Bound they went for a long half-hour; many of 
the guests were suffering from sickness, and Takezawa thought 
that he might bring -the trip to an end. So he bellowed forth 
orders to stop the engines, and anchor. The anchor was promptly let 
go, but stopping the engines was another matter, for nobody on board 
knew how to do so — there was nothing to be done but to allow the Tes- 
sel to pursue a circular course until steam was exhausted; and she 
could go no farther. It was idle to explain to the distinguished com- 
pany that this was the course invariably adopted by Europeans, for 
under their noses was the graceful P. and O. steamer, a moment since 
ploughing along at full steam, now riding at anchor by her buoy. So 
round and round went the '* Lightning Bird," to the amazement of the 
crews of the ships in harbour and of a large crowd gathered on the 
*' Bund ;" the brave company on board were now assured that the 
judgment of the gods was overtaking them for having ventured to sea 
in a foreign vessel, and poor Takezawa was half resolved to despatch 
himself, and wholly resolved never to make such an experiment as this 
again. He cursed the day when he was finally led to forsake the groove 
BO honourably and profitably grubbed along by his fathers, and strode 
with hasty steps up and down the bridge, refusing to be comforted, and 
terrifying out of their few remaining wits the two poor fellows at the 
wheel. After a few circles, au English man-K>f-war sent a steam launch 


after ihe ** Lightning Bird," and to tha intense disgust of the great 
Japanese people on board, who preferred to see eccentricity on the part 
of their countrymen, to interference by foreigners, but to the great de- 
light of the women and rustics, who began to be rather tired of the fun, 
the engines were stopped. Takezawa did not hear the last of this for a 
long, tong time -, caricatures and verses were constantly being circulated 
bearing i^on the fiasco, although it would have been as much as any 
man's life was worth to have taunted him openly with it But it was a 
salntaiy lesson ; and although he still kept the "Lightning Bird," h3 
engaged Europeans to man her, until his men proved themselves adepts, 
and she afterwards became one of the smartest and fastest craft on the 
coast. — Belgravisu 


In this Magazine for August last I considered the moon^s multitudi- 
nous small craters with special reference to the theory that some among 
those small craters may have been produced by the downfall of aerc- 
lithic or meteoric masses upon the moon^s once plastic surface. "Whether 
it be considered probable that this is really the case or not with regard 
to actually existent lunar craters, it cannot be doubted that during one 
period of the moon*s history, a period probably lasting many milhons 
of years, many crater-shaped depressions must have been produced in 
this way. As I showed in that essay, it is absolutely certain that thou- 
sands of meteoric masses, large enough to form visible depressions 
where they fell, must have fallen during the moon*s plastic era. It is 
certain also that that era must have been very long-lasting. Neverthe- 
less, it remains possible (many will consider it extremely probable, if 
not absolutely certain) that during sequent periods all such traces were 
romoved. There is certainly- nothing in the aspect of the present lunar 
craters, even the smallest and most numerous, to preclude the possi- 
bility that they, Hke the larger ones, were the results of purely volcanic 
action ; and to many minds it seems preferable to adopt one general 
theory respecting all such objects as may be classed in a regular series, 
tlian to consider that some members of the series are to be explained in 
one way and others in a different way. We can form a series extend- 
ing without break or interruption from the largest lunar craters, mora 
than a hundred miles in diameter, to the smallest visible craters, less 
than a quarter of a mile across, or even to far smaller craters, if increase 
of telescopic power should reveal such. And therefore many object to 
adopt any theory in explanation of the smaller craters (or some of them) 
which could manifestly not be extended to the largest. Albeit we must 
fv^mamber that certainly if any small cratars had been formed during the 


plastio en b^ meteoric downfall, and had remained unchanged after the 
moon solidified, it would now be quite imposfiible to diBtiugaiah tbfise 
from craters formed in the ordinary manner. 

While we thus recognise the possibilitj, at any rate, that mnl- 
titades of small Innar craters, say from a quarter of a mile to 
two miles in diameter, may have been formed by falling meteorio 
masses hundreds of millions of years ago, and may have remained 
unchanged even ontil now, we perceive that on the moon later processes 
mnst have formed many small craters, precisely as such onaU craters 
have been formed on our own earth. I consider, at the close of the 
essay above mentioned, the two stages of the moon's development whicli 
must have followed the period during which her surface was wholty or 
in great part plastio. First, there was the stage during which the crust 
contracted more rapidly than the nucleus, and was rent from time to 
time as though the nucleus were expanding within it. Secondly, there 
came the era when the nucleus, having retcuned a greater share ii heat, 
began to cool, and therefore to contract more quickly than the erust, so 
that the crust became wrinkled or corrugated, as it followed op (so to 
speak) the retreating nucleus. 

It would be in the later part of this second great era that the moon (if 
ever) would have resembled the earth. The forms of volcanic activity 
still existing on the earth seem most probably referable to the gradual 
contraction of the nucleus, and the steady resulting contractic»k of the 
rocky crust As Mallet and Dana have shown, the heat resulting from 
the contraction, or in reality from the slow downfall of the crost, is 
amply sufficient to account for the whole observed volcanian energy of 
the earth. It has indeed been objected, that if this theory (which is 
considered more fully in my ^* Pleasant Ways in Science **) were correct, 
we ought to find volcanoes occurring indifferently, or at any rate volca- 
nic phenomena of various kinds so occurring, in adl parts of the earth's 
surface, and not prevalent in specisl regions and scarcely ever noUoed 
elsewhere. But this objection is based on erroneous ideas as to the 
length of time necessary for the development of subterranean changes, 
and also as to the extent of regions which at present find in certain vol. 
canic craters a sufficient outlet for their subterranean fires. It is natiu 
ral that, if a region of wide extent has at any time been relieved at some 
point, tiiat spot should long afterwards remain as an outlet, a sort of 
safety-valve, which, by yielding somewhat more quickly than any neigh- 
bouring part of the crust, would save the whole region from destructive 
earthquakes ; and though in the course of time a crater which had acted 
such a part would cease to do so, yet the period required for such a 
cbauge would be very long indeed compared with those periods by 
1^ hi eh men ordinarily measure time. Moreover, it by no means follows 
iUiki every part of the earth's crust would even require an outlet for 
h<^t developed beneath it Over wide tracts of the earth's surface the 
mi*' of contraction may be such, or may be so related to the the thick- 
tk«M ui Uiv cruiit, that the heat developed can find ready escape by 


conduction to the sarface, and by radiation tbence into space. 
Kay, from the part which water is kuown to play in producing Tolcauio 
phenomena, it may well be that in every region where water does not 
lind its way in large quantities to the parts in which the snbterrauean 
beat is great, no yolcanic action resolts. Mallet, following other ex- 
perienced Yxdcanologists, lays down the law, ** \Yithont water there can 
be no Tolcano;*' so that the neighbourhood of large oceans, as well as 
Bpecial conditions of the crust, must be regarded as probably essential 
to the existence of such outlets as YesuTius, Etna, Hecla, and the rest. 

So much premised, let us enquire whether it is antecedently Ukely 
that in the moon volcanic action may still be in progress, and afterwards 
consider the recent announcement of a lunar disturbance, which, if 
leaily Tolcamo, certainly indicates Tolcanic action far more intense than 
any which is at present taking place in our own earth. I have already, 
I may remark, considered the evidence respecting this new lunar crater 
which some suppose to have been formed during £e last two years. But 
I am not here going over the same ground as in my former paper' 
("Contemporary Review" fbr August, 1878). Moreover, since that 
paper was written, new evidence has been obtained, and I am now able 
to speak with considerable confidence about points which were in some 
degree doubtful three months aga 

Let us consider, in the first place, what is the moon's probable age, 
not in years, but in development Here we have only probable evidence 
to guide us, evidence chiefly derived from the analogy of our own earth. 
At least, we have only such evidence when we are enquiring into the 
moon's age as a preliminary to the consideration of her actual aspect and 
its meaning. No doubt many features revealed by telescopic scru* 
tmy are fuil of mgnificance in this respect No one who has ever 
looked at the moon, indeed, with a telescope of great power has failed 
to be struck by the appearance of deadness which her surface presents, 
or to be impressed (at a first view, in any case), with the idea that he is 
looking at a world whose period of life must be set in a very remote an- 
tiquity. But we must not take such considerations into account in dis- 
cussing the a priaH probabihties that the moon is a very aged world. 
Thus we have only evidence from analogy to guide us in this part of our 
enquiiy. I note Sie point at starting, because the indicative mood is so 
much more convenient than the conditional, that I may frequently in 
this part of my enquiry use the former where the actual nature of the 
eridence would only justify the latter. Let it be understood that the 
force of the reasoning here depends entirely on the weight we are disposed 
to allow to arguments &om analogy. 

Assmning Uie pl&Qeia and satelHtes of the solar system to be formed 
in some such manner as Laplace suggested in his ** Nebular Hypotlie- 
gis," the moon, as an orb travelling round the earth, must be regarded 
M very much older than she is, even in years. Even if we accept the 
theory of accretion which has been recently suggested as better accord- 
2n^ with known facts, it woi^ still follow that probably the moon har ' 


existence, as a globe of matter nearly of her present size, long bef ors 
the earth had gathered in the major portion of her substance. Neces- 
sarily, therefore, if we assnme as far more probable than either theory 
that the eai^ and moon attained their present condition by combined 
processes of condensation and accretion, we should infer that the xnoou 
is far the older of the two bodies in years. 

But if we eyen suppose that the earth and moon began their career 
as companion planets at about the same epoch, we should still have 
reason to beheve that these planets, equal though they were in age so 
far as mere yean are concerned must be very uuequaUy advanced so 
far as development is conoemed, and must therefore in that respect be 
of very unequal age. 

It was, I believe, Sir Isaac Newton who first called attention to the 
circumstenoe that the larger a planet is, the longer will be the various 
stages of its existence. He used the same reasoning which was after- 
waniB urged by Buffon, and suggested an experiment which Buffon was 
the first to carry out. If two globes of iron, of unequal size, be heated 
to the same degree, and then left to cool side by side, it will be found 
that the larger glows with a ruddy light after the smaller has become 
quite dark, and that the larger remains intensely hot long after the 
smaller has become cool enough to be handled. The reason of the dif- 
ference is very readily recognised. Indeed, Newton perceived that 
there would be such a difference before the matter had been experi- 
mentally tested. The quantity of heat in the unequal globes is propor- 
tional to the volume, the substance of each being the same. The heat 
is emitted from the surface, and at a rate depending on the extent of 
surface. But the volume of the lai'ger exceeds that of the smaller 
in greater degree than the surface of the larger exceeds the surface of ' 
the other. Suppose, for instance, the larger has a diameter twice as great 
as tliat of the smaller, its surface is four times as great as that of the 
smaller, its volume eight times as great Having, then, eight times as much 
heat as the smaller at the beginning, and parting with that heat 
only four times as fast as the smaller, the supply necessarily lasts twice 
as long ; or, more exactly, each stage in the cooling of the larger lasts 
twice as long as the corresponding stage in the cooling of the smaller. 
We see that the duration of the heat is greater for the larger in the same 
degree that the diameter is greater. And we should have obtained the 
same result whatever diameters we had considered. Suppose, for 
instance, we heat two globes of iron, one an inch in diameter, the other 
seven inches, to a white heat The surface of the larger is forty-nine 
times that of the smaller, and thus it gives out at the beginning, and at 
each corresponing stage of cooling, forty-nine times as much heat as 
the smaller. But it possesses at the beginning three hundred and forty- 
three (seven times seven times seven) times as much heat Conse- 
quently, the supply will last seven times as long, precisely as a stock 
of three hundred and forfy-three thousand poun£, expended forty-mix^ 
tames as fast as '>■ stock of one thousand pounds <mly, would last seven 


times as long.' In every case we find that the dnnition of the heat- 
emission for globes of the same material equally heated at the outset is 
proportional to their diameters. 

Now, before applying this result to the case, of the noon, we must 
^6 into account two considerations ; — First, the probabihty that when 
the moon was formed she was not nearly so hot as the earth when it 
first took planetary shape ; and sQoondly, the different densities of the 
earth and moon. 

Tha original heat of erery member of the solar system, including tha 
Btm, depended on the giavitating energy of its own mass. The greater 
that energy, the greater the heat generated either by the process of 
steady contraction imagined in Laplace's theory, or by the process of 
meteoric indraught imagined in the aggregation theory. To show how 
very different are the heat-generating powers of two yery unequal 
masses, consider what would happen if the earth drew down to its own 
smrface a meteoric mass which had approached the earth under her own 
attraction only. (The case is of course purely imaginoiy^ because na 
meteor can approach the earth which has not been subjected to the far 
greater attractive energy of the sun, and does not possess a velocity far 
greater than any which the earth herself could impart). In this case 
such a mass would strike the earth with a velocity of about seven miles 
per second, and the heat generated would be that due to this velocity only. 
Now, when a meteor stnkes the sun full tilt after a journey from the 
star depths under his attraction, it reaches his surface with a velocity of 
U€arly three hundred and sixty miles per second. The heat generated is 
nearly fifty times greater than in the imagined case of the earth. The moon 
being very much less than the earth, the velocity she can impart to meteoiio 
bodies is still less. It amounts, in fact, to only about a mile per sec^ 
ond. The condensing energy of the moon in her vaporous era was in 
like manner far less than that of the earth, and consequently far less 
heat was then generated. Thus, although we might well believe on a 
piiori grounds, even if not assured by actual study of the lunar f ea- 
tmres, that the moon when first formed as a planet had a surface far hot* 
ter than molten iron, we must yet beUeve that, when first formed, the 
moon had a temperature very much below that of our earth at the cor- 
responding stage of her existence. 

On this account, then, we must consider that the moon started in 
planetary existence in a condition as to heat which our earth did not at- 
tain till many millions, probably hundreds of millions of years after the 
epoch of her first formation as a planet. 

As regards the moon's substance, we have no means of forming a sat- 
isfactory opinion. But we shall be safe in regarding quantity of matter 
in the moon as a safer basis of calculation than volimie, in comparing 
the duration of her various stages of development with those of our 
own earth. When, in the August number of this Magazine, I adopted 
a relation derived from the latter and less correct method, it was because 
the more correct method gave the result most favourable to the argu- 


mcnt I was then considering. The same is indeed the case now. Yet 
it vrill be better to adopt the more exaot method, because the consider- 
ation relates no longer to a mere side issue, but belongs to the very es- 
sence of my recksoning. 

The moon has a mass equal to about one eighty-first part of the earth^s. 
Her diameter being less than the earth^s, about as two to seven, the du- 
ration of each stage of her cooling .would be in this degree less than the 
corresponding duration for the earth, if her density were the same as 
the etith's^ in which case her mass would be only one forty-ninth part of 
the earth's. But her mass being so much less, we must assume that her 
amount of heat at any given stage of cooling was less in similar degree 
than it would have been had her density been the same as the earth's. 
We may, in fact» assume that the moon's total supply of heat would be 
only one eighty-first of the earth's if the two bodies were at the same 
temperature throughout.* But the surface of the moon is between one- 
thirteenth and one -fourteenth of the earth's. Since, then, the earth at 
any given stage of cooling parted with her heat between thirteen and 
fourteen times as fast as the moon, but had about eighty-one times as 
much heat to part with (for that stage), it follows that ^e would take 
about six times as long (six times thirteen and a-half is equal to eighty- 
one) to cool through tiiat particular stage as the moon would. 

If we take this relation as :'ihe basis of our estimate 'of the moon's 
age, we shall find that, even if the moon's existence as a planet began 
simultaneously with the earth's instead of many millions of years earlier, 
even if the moon was then as hot as the earth instead of being so much 
cooler that many millions of years would be required for the earth to 
cool to the same temperature — making, T say, these assumptions, which* 
probably correspond to the omission of hundreds of millions of years 
in our estimate of the moon's age, we shall still find the moon to be 
hundreds of millions of years older than the earth. 

Nay, we may even take a position still less favourable to my argument. 
Let us overlook the long ages during which the two orbs were in the 
vaporous state, and suppose the earth and moon to be simultaneously in 
that stage of planetary existence when the surface has a temperature of 
two thousand degrees Centigrade. 

From Bischoffs experiments on the cooling of rocks, it appears 
to follow that some three hundred and twenty millions of years 
must have elapsed between " the time when the earth's surface was at 
this temperature and the time when the surface temperature was re- 
duced to two hundred degrees Centigrade, or one hundred and eighty 

* To some this mav appear to be a mere traism. In reality it Is far from bejnp so. 
If two globes of equal mass were each of the same exact temperature throaghont, 
they might yet have very unequal total quantities of heat. If one were of water, for 
instance, and the other of iron or anv other metal, the former would have far the 
larger Hupply of heat ; for more heat is required to raise a given weight of water ono 
degree iu temperature, than to raise an equal weight of iron one degree ; and water in 
cooling one degree, or any number of degrees, would give out more heat than an equal 
weight of iron cooling to the same extent. 


degrees Pahrenheit above the boiling point. The earth was for that 
enormood period a mass (in the main) of molten rock. In the moon's 
case this period lasted only one«sixth of three hundred and twenty mil- 
lion years, or about fifty-three million years, leaving two hundred and 
bixty-seveu million years' interval between the time when the moon's 
Borface had cooled aown to two hundred degrees Centigrade and the 
latir epoch when the earth's suzfaoe had attained that temperature. 

1 would not, however, insist on these numerical details. It has always 
Beemed to me unsafe to base calculations respecting suns and planets on 
expariments conductedin the laboratory. The circumstances under which 
the heavenly bodies exist, regarding tiiese bodies as wholes, are utterly 
niilike any which can be produced in the laboratory, no matter on what 
Bjale the experimenter may carry on his researches. I have often been 
amused to see even mathematicians of repute employing a formula based 
on terrestrial experiments, physical, optical, and otherwise, as though 
th? formula were an eternal omnipresent reality, without noting that, 
if similarly applied to obtain other determinations, the most stupen- 
dously absurd results would be deduced. It is as though, having found 
that a child grows three inches in the fifth year of his age, one should 
infer not only that that person but every other person in every age and 
in every planet, nay, in the whole universe, would be thirty inches taller 
at the age of fifteen than at the age of five, without noticing that the 
R\me method of computation would show everyone to be more than flf- 
t en feet taller at the age of sixty-five. It^ay well be that, instead of 
three hundred and twenty millions of years, tiie era considered by Bis- 
cboff lasted less than a hundred millions of years. Or quite as proba- 
bly it may have lasted five or six hundred millions of years. And again, 
instead (^ the corresponding era of the moon's past history having 
lasted one sixth of the time required to produce the same change in the 
earth's condition, it may have Lasted a quarter, or a third, or even half 
that time, though quite as probably it may have lasted much less than 
a sixth. But in any case we cannot reasonably doubt that the moon 
reached the stage of cooling through which the earth is now passing 
many millions of years ago. We shall not probably err very greatly in 
taking the interval as at least two hundred millions of years. 

But I could point out that in reality it is a matter of small import- 
ance, so far as my present argument is concerned, whether we adopt 
Bischoffs period or a period differing greatly from it. For if instead of 
about three hundred millions the earth required only thirty millions of 
years to cool from a surface temperature of two thousand degrees 
Cjntigrade to a temperature of two hundred degrees, we must assume 
that the rate of cooling is ten times greater than Bischoff supposed. And 
'9fe must of course extend the same assumption to the moon. Now, since 
the sole question before us is to what degree the moon has cooled, it 
matters nothing whether we suppose the moon has been cooling very 
slowljr during many millions of years since she was in the same condi- 
tion as the e^rth at present, or that the moon has been cooHng ten times 


as quickly during a teuth part of the time, or a htmdred times as qaickly 
during one-hunc&eth part of the time. 

We may, therefore, continue to use the numbers resulting from Bis- 
choff's calculation, even though we admit the probability that they differ 
widely from the true values of the periods we are considering. 

Setting the moon, then, as about two himdred and ^ty millions of 
years in advance of the earth in development, even when we overlook 
all the eras preceding that considered by Bischoff, and the entire sequent 
intarval (which must be long, for the earth has no longer a surface one 
hundred degrees Centigrade hotter than boiling water), let us consider 
what is suggested by this enormous time-difference. 

In the first place, it corresponds to a much greater interval in our 
earth's history. I>uring the two hundred and fifty millions of years the 
moon has been cooling at her rate, not at the earth's. According to the 
conclusion we deduced from tha moon's relative mass and surface, she 
has aged as much during thos3 two hundred and fifty million years as 
the earth will during the next fifteen hundred million years. 

Now, however slowly we suppos3 the earth's crust to be changing, it 
must b3 ad mitt 3d that in tha course of the next fifteen hundred miUions 
of years the earth will have parted with far the greater part, if not with 
tha whole, of that inherent heat on which the present movements of 
her surface dap and. We know that these movements at once depen(? 
upon and indicate processes of contraction. We know that sach pro- 
c 3SS3S cannot continue at their present rate for many millions of years. 
If we assume that the rata of contraction will steadily diminish — ^whicL 
is equivalent, be it noticed, to the assumption that the earth's vulcaniaj' 
or subterranean energies will be diminished — the duration of the process 
will be greater. But even on such an assumption, controlled by con- 
sidaration of the evidence we have respecting the rate at which terres- 
trial contraction is diminishing, it is certain that long before a period of 
fiftean hundred millions of years has elapsed, the process of contractiou 
will to all intents and purposes be completed. 

We must assume, then, as altogether the most probable view, that 
the moon has reached this stage of planetary decrepitude, even if slij 
has not become an absolutely dead world. We can hardly reject tha 
reasoning which would show that the moon is far older than has been 
assumed when long stages of her history and our earth's have beea 
neglected. Still less reasonable would it be to reject the conclosioa 
that at the very least she has reached the hoar antiquity thus inferred. 
Assuming her to be no older, we yet cannot escape the conviction tbiit 
her state is that of utter decrepitude. To suppose that volcanic action 
can now be in progress on the moon, even to as great a degree as on thj 
earth, would be to assume that measurable sources of energy can pro- 
duce practically immeasurable results. But no volcanic changes now 
in process on the earth could possibly be discernible at the moon's 
distance. How utterly unUkely does it seem, then, that any volcani'' 
changes can bo now taking, place on the moon which could be recog- 


tu2ea from the earths It seems safe to assume that no volcanio 
changes at aU can be in progress ; but most certainly the evidence which 
shonld convince us that volcanic changes of so tremendous a character 
ere in progress that at a distance of two hundred and sixty thousand 
miles terrestrial telescopists can discern them, must be of the strongest 
and most satisfactory character. 

Evidence of change may indeed be discovered which can be other- 
wise explained. The moon is exposed to the action of heat other than 
that which pervaded her own frame at the time of her first formation. 
The sun's heat is poured upon the moon during the long lunar day of 
more than a fortnight, while during the long lunar night a cold prevails 
whieh must far exceed that of our bitterest arctic winters. We know 
from the heat^measurements made by the present Lord Bosse, that any 
part of the moon's surface at lunar mid-day is fully five hundred 
degrees Fahrenheit hotter than the same part two weeks later at lunar 
midnight. The alternate expansions and contractions resulting from 
these changes of t^nperature cannot but produce changes, however 
slowly, in the contour of the moon's surface. Professor Newcomb, in- 
deed, considers that all such changes must long since have been com- 
pleted. But I cannot see how they can be completed so long as the 
moon's surface is uneven, and at present there are regions where that 
sarface is altogether rugged. Mighty peaks and walls exist which must 
one day be thrown down; so unstable is their form ; deep ravines can be 
seen which must one day be the scene of tremendous landslips, so steep 
and precipitous are their sides. Changes such as these may still occur 
on so vast a scale that telescopists may hope from time to time to rec- 
ognise them. But changes such as these are not volcanic ; they attest 
no lunar vitality. They are antecedently so probable, indeed, while 
Tolcanic changes are antecedently so unlikely, that when any change is 
clearly recognised in the moon's surface, nothing but the most convinc- 
ing evidence could be accepted as demonstrating that the change w£is of 
ToIcanic origin and not due to the continued expansion and contraction 
of the lunar crust. 

And now let us see how stands the evidence in the few cases which 
Eeem most to favour the idea that a real change has taken place. 

We may dismiss, in the first place, without any hesitation, the asser- 
tion that regular changes take place in the floor of the great lunar crater 
Plato. According to statements very confidently advanced a few years 
ago, this wide circular plain, some sixty miles in diameter, grows darker 
and darker as the lunar day advances there until the time correspond- 
ing to about two o'clock in the afternoon, and then grows gradually 
lighter again till eventide. The idea seems to have been at first 
tht some sort of vegetation exists on the floor of this mighty ring- 
shaped mountain, and that, as the sun's heat falls during the long lunar 
day upon the great plain, the vegetation flourishes, darkening the whole 
Tegion just as w^e might imagine that some far-extending forest on the 
earth would appear Sarker as seen from the moon when fully clothed 


with vegetation than when the trees were bare and the lighter tints of 
the ground could be seen through them. Another idea was that the 
ground undergoes some change under the siin^ heat corresponding to 
those which are produced in certain substances- employed in photo- 
graphy ; though it was not explained why the solar rays should pro- 
duce no permanent change, as in the terrestrial cases adduced in 
illustration. Yet another and, if possible, an even stranger explana- 
tion, suggested that, though the moon has no seas, there may be large 
quantities of water beneath her crust, which may evaporate when that 
crust becomes heated, rising in the form of vapour to moisten and so 
darken the crust. Certainly, the idea of a moistening of the lunar 
crust, or of portions thereof, as the sun's rays fall more strongly upon 
it, is so daring that one could almost wish it were admissible, instead of 
being altogether inconsistent, as unfortunately it is, with physical pos- 

But still more unfortunately, the fact supposed to have been observed, 
on which these ingenious speculations were based, has not only been 
called in question, but has been altogether negatived. More exact ob- 
servations have shown that the supposed darkening of the floor of Plato 
is a mere optical illusion. When the sun has lately risen at that part of 
the moon, the ringed wall surrounding this great plain throws long 
shadows across the level surface. These shadows are absolutely black, 
like all the shadows on the moon. By contrast, therefore, the unsha- 
dowed part of the floor appears lighter than it really is ; but the moun- 
tain ring which surrounds this dark grey plain is of light tint So 
soon as the sim has passed high above the horizon of this regi<m, the 
ring appears very brilliant compared with the dark plain which it siur- 
rounds ; thus the plain appears by comparison even darker than it really 
is. As the long lunar afternoon advances, however, black shadows are 
again thrown athwart the floor, which therefore again appears by con- 
trast lighter than it reaUy is. All the apparent changes are such as 
might have been anticipated by anyone who considered how readily the 
eye is misled by effects of contrast. 

To base any argument in favour of a regular change in the floor 
of Plato on evidence such as this, would be as unwise as it would 
be to deduce inferences as to changes in the heat of water 
from experiments in which the heat was determined by the sensa- 
tions experienced when the hands were successively immersed, one hand 
having previously been in water as hot as could be borne, the other in 
water as cold as could be borne. We know how readily these sensations 
would deceive us (if we trusted them) into the belief that the water had 
warmed notably during the short interval of time which had elapsed be- 
tween the two immersions ; for we know that if both hands were im- 
mersed at the same moment in lukewamr water, the water would appear 
cold to one hand and warm to the other. 

Precisely as in such a case as we have just^ considered, if we were 
obliged to test thewater by so inexact a method, we should make ex- 


periments with one hand only, and carofolly consider the condition of 
that hand daring the progress of the experiments, so in the case of the 
door of Plato, we must exclude as far as possible all effects due to mere 
contrast. We must examine the tint of the plain, at lunar morning, 
mid-day, and evening, with an eye not affected either by the darkness 
or brightness of adjacent regions, or adjacent parts of the same region. 
This is very readily done. All we have to do is to reduce the telescopic 
^Ad. of view to such an extent that, instead of the whole floor, only a 
small portion can be seen. It will then be found, as I can myself cer- 
tify (the more apparently because the experience of others confirms my 
own), that the supposed change of tint doc;s not take place. One or 
two who were and are strong baUevers in the reaUty of the change do 
indeed assert that they have tried this experiment, and have obtained an 
entirely different result But this may fairly be regarded as showing 
Low apt an observer is to be self -deceived when he is entirely persuaded 
of the truth of some favourite theory. For those who carried out the ex- 
periment successfully had no views one way or the other ; those only 
failed who were certainly assured beforehand that the experiment 
would confirm their theory. 

The case of the lunar crater Linne, which somewhere about November 
1865 attracted the attention of astronomers, belongs to a very different 
category. In my article on the moon in the "Contemporary Review " 
I have fully presented the evidence in the case of this remarkable object. 
I need not flierefore consider here the various arguments which have 
been urged for and against the occurrence of change. I may mention, 
however, that, in my anxiety to do full justice to the theory that change 
has really occurred, I took Madler's description of the crater's interior 
as **very deep," to mean more than Mgdler probably intended. There 
itj now a depreission several hundred yards in depth. If Madler's de- 
scription be interpreted, as I interpreted it for the occasion in the above 
article, to mean a dapth of two or three miles, it is of course certain 
that there has been a very remarkable chanp^e. But some of the observ- 
ers who have davoted themselves utterly, it would seem, to the hvely 
occupation of measuring, counting, and describing the ^,ens of thousands 
of lunar craters already known, assert that Madler and Lohrman (who 
uses the same description) meant nothing hke so great a depth. Prob- 
ably Midler only meant about half a mile, or even less. In this case 
tlieir favourite theory no longer seems so strongly supported by the evi- 
a nee. In some old drawings by the well-known observer Schroter, 
the crater is drawn very much as it now appears. Thus, I think we 
must adopt as most probable the opinion which is. I see, advanced by 
Prof. Newcomb in his excellent "Popular Astronomy," that there has 
b -en no actual change in the crater. I must indeed remark that, after 
comparing several drawings of the same regions by Schroter, Madler, 
Lohrman, and Schmidt, with each other and with the moon's surface, I 
find myself by no means very strongly impressed by the artistic skill of 
any of these observers. I scarcely kuov/ a single region in the mooa 


where change might not be inferred to have taken place if any one of 
the above-named obsoi'vers could be implicitly reUed upon. As, fortu- 
nately, their views diif er even more widely inter se than from the moon's 
own surface, we ara not driven to so startling a conclusion. 

However, if we assume even that Linne has undergone change, wo 
stiH have no reason to beheve that the change is volcanic. A steep wall, 
say half a mile in height, surrounding a crater four or five miles in 
diameter, no longer stands at this height above the enclosed space, if 
the believers in a real change are to be trusted. But, as Dr. Huggins 
well remarked long ago, if volcanic forces competent to produce dis- 
turbance of this kind are at work in the moon, we ought more fr - 
quently to recognize signs of change, for they could scarcely be at work 
in one part only of the moon's surface, or only at long intervals of tiiii \ 
It is so easy to explain the overthrow of such a wall as surrounded 
Linne (always assuming we can rely upon former accounts) without, 
imagining volcanic action, that, considering the overwhelming weight cf 
a priori probability against such action at the present time,~it would be 
very rash to adopt the volcanic theory. The expansions and contrac • 
tions described above would not only be able to throw down walls of 
the kind, but they would be sure to do so from time to time. Indeed, as 
a mere matter of probabihties, it may be truly said that it would be ex- 
ceedingly unhkely that catastrophes such as the one which have may oc- 
curred in this case would fail to happen at comparatively short int rvali 
of time. It would be so unhkely, that I am almost disposed to adopt i]is 
theory that there really has been a change in Liime, for the reason tint 
on that theory we get rid of the difficulty arising from the appai'oiit 
fixity of even the steep ost lunar rocks. However, after all, the tiraa 
during which men have studied the moon with the telescope — only t^^ o 
hundred and sixty-nine years — is a more instant compared with the 
long periods during which the moon has been exposed to the BUii*s in- 
tense heat by day and a more than arctic intensity of cold by night. It 
may well be that, though lunar landshps occur at short intervals of 
time, these intervals are only short when compared with those period^;, 
hundreds of milMons of years long, of which we had to speak a little 
while ago. Perhaps in a period of ten or twenty thousand years we 
might have a fair chance of noting the occurrence of one or two cata- 
strophes of the kind, whereas we could hardly expect to note any, save 
by the merest accident, in two or three hundred years. 

To come now to the last, and, according to some, the most decisive 
piece of evidence in favour of the theory that the moon*s crust is still 
under the influence of volcanic forces. 

On May 19, 1877, Dr. Hermann J. Klein, of Cologne, observed a 
crater more than two miles in width, where he felt sure that no crattr 
had before existed. It was near the centre of the moon*s visible hemi- 
sphere, and not far from a well-known crater called Hyginus, At the 
time of observation it was not far from the boundary between the light 
and dark parts of the moon : in fact, it was near the time of sunrise at 


this region. Thns the floor of the supposed new crater was in shadow 
—it appeared perfectly black. In the conventional language for such 
cases made and provided (it should be stereotyped by selenographers, 
for it has now been used a great many times since SchrGter first adopted 
the belief that the great crater Gassini, thirty-six miles'^in diameter, 
was a new one) Dr. Klein says, ** The region having been frequently ob- 
served by myself during the last few years, I feel certahi that no 
such crater existed in the region at the time of my previous observations." 
He communicated his discovery to Dr. Schmidt, who also assured him 
that the region had been frequently observed by himself during the last 
few years, and he felt certain that no such crater, &c., &o. It is not in 
the maps by Lohrman and by Beer and Midler, or in SchrOter's draw- 
ings, and so forth. ** We know more," says a recent writer, singularly 
ready to believe in lunar changes ; **we know that at a later period, 
with the powerful Dorpat telescope, Msdler carefully re-examined this 
particular region, to see if he could detect any additional features not 
Khown in his map. He found severaL smaller craterlets in other parts " 
(the italics are mine), "but he could not detect any other crater 
in the region where Dr. Klein now states there exist a large crater, 
thongh he did find some very small nills close to this spot." " This 
evidence is really conclusive," says this very confident writer, "for it 
is incredible that Miidler could have seen these minute hUls and over- 
looked a crater so large that it is the second largest crater of the score 
in this region." Then this writer comes in, of course, in his turn, 
with the customary phrases. "During the six years, 1870-1876, I 
most carefully examined this region, for the express purpose of de- 
tjcting any craters not shown by Mfidler," and he also can certify that 
no such crater existed, etc., etc. He was only waiting, when he thus 
wrote, to see the crater for himself. " One suitable evening will settle 
the matter. If I find a deep black crater, three nules in diameter, in 
tbe place assigned to it by Dr. Klein, and when six years' observation 
convinces me no such crater did exist, I shall know that it must be new. " 
Astronomers, however, require somewhat better evidence. 
It might well be that a new crater-shaped depression should appear 
in the moon without any volcanic action having occurred. For reasons 
aircady adduced, indeed, I hold it to be to all intents and purposes cer' 
im. that if a new depression is really in question at all, it is in reahty 
only an old and formerly shallow crater, whose floor has broken up, 
}-ieldmg at length to the expansive and contractive effects above do- 
biiTibed, which would act with exceptional energy at this particular 
I^rt of the moon's surface, close as it is to the lunar equator. 

Bnt it is by no means clear that this part of the moon's surface has 
ondergone any change whatever. We must not bo misled by the very 
confident tone of selenographers. Of course they fully beUeve what 
thijr tell us : but they are strongly prejudiced. Their labours, as they 
"^^u know, have 7iow very little interest unless signs of change should 
k detected in the moon. Surveyors who have done exceedingly useful 


work in mapping o region would scarcely expect the pubjdc to take mncb 
interest in additional information about every rock or pebble exiRting in 
that region, unless they could show that something more than a mere re- 
cord of rocks and pebbles was really involyed. Thus selenographers have 
shown, since the days of Schr^^ter, an intense anxiety to prove that our 
moon deserves, in another than Juliet's sense, to be called *^ the incon- 
stant moon." In another sense again they seem disposed to '* swear by 
the inconstant moon," as changing yearly, if not ''monthly, in her 
circled orb." Thus a' very little evidence satisfies them, and they 
are very readily persuaded in their own mind that former re- 
searches of theirs, or of their fellow-pebble-counters, have been 
so close and exact, that craters must have been detected then which 
have been found subsequently to exist in the moon. I do not in the 
sUghtest degree question their bona fides, but a long experience of their 
ways leads me to place very Uttle reUance on such stereotyped phrases 
as I have quoted above. 

Now, in my paper in the " Contemporary Review " on this particular 
crater, I called attention to the fact that in the magnificent photograph 
of the moon taken by Dr. Louis Butherfurd on March 6, 1865 (note well 
the date) there is a small spot of lighter colour than the surrounding re- 
gion, nearly in the place indicated in the imperfect drawing of Klein's 
record which alone was then available to me. For reasons, I did not 
then more closely describe this feature of the finest lunar photograph 
ever yet obtained. 

The writer from whom I have already quoted is naturally (being a se- 
lenographer) altogether unwilling to accept the conclusion that this spot 
is the crater floor as photographed (not as seen) under a somewhat higher 
illumination than that under which the floor of the crater appears dark 
There are several white spots immediately aroxmd the dark crater, h^ 
says: "which of these is the particular white spot which the author'* 
(myself) " assumes I did not see ?" a question which, as I had made no as 
sumption whatever about this particular writer, nor mentioned him, no* 
even thought of him, as I wrote the article on which he comments, I an* 
quite unable to answer. But he has no doubt that I have "mistaken 
the white spot " (which it seems he can identify, after all) "forKlein'^ 
crater, which is many miles farther north, and which never does appeal 
as a white spot : he has simply mistaken its place." 

I have waited, therefore, before writing this, until from my own oK 
servation, or from a drawing carefully executed by Dr. Klein, I migh*" 
ascertain the exact place of the new crater. I could not, as it turned 
out, observe the new crater as a black spot myself, since the question 
was raised ; for on the only available occasion I was away from homo. 
But I now have before me Dr. Klein's carefully drawn map. In this I 
find the new crater placed not nearly, but exactly where Rutberfurd'a 
crater appears. I say " Rutherfurd's crater," for the white spot is man- 
ifestly not merely a light tinted region on the darker background of the 
3ea of Vapours (as the reidon in which the crater haa been found id 


called) : it is a circnlar crater more than two miles in diameter ; and the 
mdih of the crescent of shadow surrounding its eastern side shows that 
in ^larch 1865, when Eutiierfard took that photograph, the crater was 
not (for its size) a shallow one, but deep. 

Now, it is quite true that, to the eye, under high illumination, 
the floor of the crater does not appear Ughter than the surrounding 
region ; at least, not markedly so, for to my eye it appears slightly 
lighter. But everyone knows that a photograph does not show aU ob- 
jects with the same depth of shading that they present to the naked eye. 
A somewhat dark green object will appear rather hght in a photograph, 
while a somewhat Hght orange-yellow object will appear quite dark. 
We have only to assume that the floor of the supposed new crater has a 
greenish tinge (which is by no means uncommon) to understand why, 
although it is lost to ordiniary vision when the Sea of Vapours is under 
full illumination, it yet presents in a photograph a decidedly Ughter 
shade than the surrounding region. 

I ought to mention that the writer from whom I have quoted says 
that all the photographs were examined and the different objects in this 
region identified within forty-eight hours of the time when Dr. Klein's 
lettPT reached England. He mentions also that he has himself personally 
examined them. Doubtless at that time the exact position of the supposed 
new crater was not known. By the way, it is strange, considering that 
the name Louis Butherfurd is distinctly written in large letters upon the 
magnificent photograph in question, that a selenographer who has care- 
fully examined that photograph should spell the name Rutherford. He 
must really not assume, when on re-examining the picture he finds the 
name spelled butherfurd, that there has been any change, volcanic or 
otherwise, in the photograph. 

In conclusion I would point out that another of these laborious cra- 
ter-counters, in a paper recently written with the express purpose of 
advocating a closer and longer-continued scrutiny of the moon, makes a 
statsment which is full of significance in connection with the subject of 
lunar changes. After quoting the opinion of a celebrated astronomer, 
that one might as well attempt to catalogue the pebbles on the sea-shore 
as the entire series of lunar craters down to the minutest visible with 
the most powerful telescope, he states that while on the one hand, out 
of thirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-six craters given in 
Schmidt's chart, not more than two thousand objects have been entered 
in the Registry he has provided for the purpose (though he has been 
uany years collecting materials for it from all sides) ; on the other 
hind, **on comparing a few of these published objects with Schmidt's 
aap, it has been found tJiat some are n^t in It,'*'' — a fact to which he 
tuUs attention, * * not for the purpose of depreciating the greatest sele- 
nographical work that has yet appeared, but for the real advancement 
of selenography." Truly, tiie fact is as significant as it is discouraging, 
^nnless we are presently to be told that the craters which are not com- 
mon to both series are to be regarded as new formations. 

^ KiCHASD A. Pboctob, in Belgravkk 


In the absence of any complete biog nphy of the late William Makepeace Thacke- 
ray, every anecdote regarding him lias a certain value, in eo far as it throws a light 
on his pergonal chaiacter and methods of work. Kead in thi* light a» d this spirit, 
all thetribntes to his memory are valuable and interesting. Glancing over some 
memoranda connected with the life of the novelist, contaii.ed in a book which l;afi 
■come mider our notice, entitled "Anecdote Biographies." we gain a rt-ady insight 
into Ills character And from the materials thus supplied, we now offer a few anec- 
dotes treasured up in these too brief memorials of his life. 

Thackeray was born at Calcutta iu 1811. While still very young, he was sent to 
England ; on the homeward voyage he had a peep at the great Napoleon in hie exilc- 
homff at St. Helena. He received his education at 'he Charterhouse School and at 
Cambridge, leaviug the latter without a degree. His fortune at this time amonnted 
to twenty thousand pounds ; this he afterwards loS't through unfortunate specula- 
tions, but not before he had travelled a good deal on the contiut-nt, and acqu;iiu!ed 
himself with French and Gorman everyday life and literature. His first incV.nat.on 
was to f«:)31ow the profeesicm of an artist ; and curious to relate, he made overtures to 
Charles Dickens to illustrate his earliest book. Thackeray was* well equipped \x)th 
in body and mind when his career as an author began ; but over ten years of hard 
toil ar newspaper and mugazine writing wer(5 undergone before he became known ms 
the author of " Vanity Pair." and one of the first of living novelists. He lectuif d with 
fair if not with extraordinary success both in EnglamI and America, when the sun- 
shine of public favour liad been secured. His career of succe-sful novel-wririui.'- 1< r- 
niinated suddenly on 24th December 1863, and like Dickens, lie had an unfinished 
novel on hand. 

One morning Thackeray knocked at the door of Horace Mayhew^a chambers i« 
Rigent Street, crying from without : 'It's no use, Horry Wayhew ; open the door ' 
Ou entering, he said cheerfully : ' Well, young gentleman, you'll admit an old fo;ry.' 
When leaving, with his hat in his hand, he remarked : * By-the-by, how stupid I I 
was going away without doing part of the business of my visit. You spoke the otber 
(lay of poor George. Somebody— ^raost unaccountably — has returned me a five- 
pound note I lent imn a long time ago. I didn't expect it. So just hand to Geoige; 
and t<'l' lum, when his pocket will \^ar it, to pass it ou to some poor fell w of his 
acquaintance By-bye/ He was gouel This was one of Thackeray's delicate 
methods of doing a favour ; the recipient waa asked to pass it on. 

One of bis last acts on leaving America after a Iect*iring tour, was to return 
twenty-five per c<nt. of the proceeds of one of his lectures to a young speculator who 
had been a loser by the bargain. While known to hand a gold pi'^ce to a waiter wi*h 
the rtnnark : *My friend, will you do me the favour to acce t a sovereign?' he 
has also be n known to say to a visitor who had pi offered a card : ' Don't leave 
this bit cf paper; it has cost you two cents, and will be just as good for 
your next call.' Evidently aware that money when properly used is a woiid< rfnl 
h'^alth-res'orer, he was found by a friend who had entend his bediooni in 
Pari?, gravely placing some napoleons in a pill-box on the lid of which was 
written : ' One to be taken occasionally.' When asked to explain, it came out 
that these str.mge pills were for an old person who saiil she was very ill, and in dis- 
tress ; and so he had concluded that this was the medicine wanted. * Dr. Thack- 
eray,' he remarked, 'intends to leave it with ler himself Let us walk out 
together.' To a young literary man afterwards 1 is amanncnsis, he wrote thus, 
on hearing that a loss had befallen him : ' I am sincertly sorry to hear of your posi- 
tion, and send the little contribution which came so' opportunely from anothtr 
friend whom I was enabled once to help. When you are wtll-to-do again, I kno>w 
you will pay it back ; and I daresay somebody else will want the money, which 'm 
mt-anwliileir.ost heartily at your service.' 

When enjoying an American repast at Boston In 1852. his friends there, dett-r- 
mined to sirrpri5»e him with the size ot their oysters, had placed six of the 3a^^c^■t 
bivalves they could find, on his plate. After swallowing number one with some lUll'j 
difficulty, hi* friend ask^ d him how he felt, ' Profoundly grateful.' he gasped ; • r.iu\ 
6S ii I had ciwallowcd a little baby,' Provioris to u farewell dinner given by his 



American intimates and adrairers. he rnniarked that it was very kfed of !)if friends 
to give hira a dinner, bat that each things* always* Ft-t liim trembling. * Bes-ides.' ho 
rumarked to his eecretary, * I have to make a t«i)eocli, and whiit um 1 to say ? Here, 
lake a pen in your hand and Bit down, and 111 hgj if I can hammer out somctbiuf?, 
lt'8 hammering now, I'm afraid it will be aramini-riiig hy-uud-by.' Ilia B)iort 
hP'jecheS; when deiivend, were as chnracterietic ;iik! nnuiisLakabU: as anything ho 
ever wrote. All the dietiucf features of his written Btylc were pre^ent. 

It is interesting to remark tlie seutimeuts he entcruiiued towards his p-cat rival 
Charles Dickens. Aitbongli the lurrer wtis more popular as a uoveliet tljt:n he eould 
ever expect to become, hv* cxpieaped himself in imuustakubie teuub rej^nnling him. 
V/heii the conversation tnni d that wuy, wo would r^uark: 'Dickeni? is making 
ten thousand a year. He is very angry at me lor tuying i o ; but I will say it, for itis 
true. He doesn't like me. He knows that ri y books are a proieet a<:ninet hi— 
tliat if the one set are trne, the other must be f:u'c?o. Jiui * Pickwick" is an exception; 
t IS a capital book. It is like a glass of good EugiisM ai-.' VViicu '*D mbey and 
{^on'' appeared in the familiar p. per cov.n% number five i outr.hiod tlie episode of the 
death of little Paul. Thackeray appeared much moved;ng it over, and put- 
ting nnmb.n- five in his po<'.lief, hastened with it to tlie o.'.itoi's room in *• Punch" 
office. Dashin*? it down on the table in ihc presence of Mark Lemon, he exclaimed I 
•There's no writing against such pow* r as this; one has no chancer I l^ead that 
chapter describing young Paul's death ; it is uns^urpassed— it is stupendous I * 

In a conversation with nis secretary previous to his American trip, he intimated 
his intention of starting a mairazine or journal on Ins roturn. to be issued in his 
owij name. This scheme evi'iitually took shape, and the result was the now well 
known "Comhill Magazine.'* This magazme proved a great success tlio pale of 
th** first number beingone hundred and t^n thousand copies. Under the ixcitement 
of this gi-eat success, Thackeray left Lcmdon for Paris. To Air. Finicle th*: Ameri- 
can publisher, who met him by anpoiutment at his hotel in the liue do la I*aix. ho 
remarked: * London is not big enough to contain mo now, and I am obli^^ed to add 
Paris to my residence. Good gracious !• sa-d he, throwing up hm long; arms, 
'^\'h!re will this tromcndonscircumtion stop? Vn'Iio knows but tha I shall have to 
fldd Vienna and Rome to my whereabouts? If the worst come to the worst. New 
Yorit also may fall into my clutches,* and only ti»«; Pocky Mountains may be able to 
stop my progress.' His spirits continued high dnriiif-; this visit to Paris, his friend 
audi:g that pomo restraint was neceesaiy trTlseep Mm from entering the jewel- 
1-Tsi' shop^and ordering a- pocketful of diamonds and * other trifle.-*; lor,' said he, 
'iiowcani spend the princely income which Smi.h* allows me for editing *'Corn- 
liill/' unless I beg" n instantly somewhere!' He complained too that ho. could not 
Bifvp at nights 'for counting up his subscribers.' On reading a crntribution by his 
young daughter to the '' Corohill,'* be felt much moved, remarking to a friend ; 
' When I read it, I blubbered hke a chi?d ; it is so good, so simple, and so honest ; 
add my little girl wrote it every word of it.' 

Dickens in the t<Mider memorial whuh he penned for the "Cornhill Mflgazins," 
raniarks on his appt'ftrance when they dined t<j<^ th-^r. * No one,' he snyn, ' can ever 
liiive i-een him r.ore giiiial, natural, coiriial. fiv^nh, pnd hon* «tly impulsive tlian I 
i'av(.' seen l;im ut those times. No on* can e t^ccer thaa 1 of the greatness and 
goodntrss of the that had then (iisrclosed itpelt ' 

Bfueatlj his * modoslly grand ' manner, his seeming cynicism and bittemeps, he 
i>ore a very tender and loving lieart. In a letter written in 18*4, andquotedin James 
liaiinay's nk-tch, ho expresses himself thus. 'I hate Juvenal,' lie says. *I 
jr.ean I think him a truculent fellow; and I love Horace better than you 
do, and rate Churchill much lower ; and as for Swift, you haven't made 
ii'C alter my opinion. I admire, or rather edndt, his power as much aa 
yon (io; but I don't admire that kind cr power so mucli as I did fifteeu 
}>ars ago, or twenty Phf U we say. Love is a higher intellectual exercise 
tban hatred; and when yon get one or two more of those young ones you 
write 90 pleasantly about, you'll come over to the side of the kind wags, I think, 
rather tban the cruel ones.' The path' tic sadness visible in much that he wrote 
bpnu)gpartly from temperament ana partly from his own private calamities. Loss 

* Of Smith, Eider, & Co. . the well kuowa .mbiishera. 


of fortune was not the only cause. When a young man in Paris, he married ; and 
aft»;r enjoying domestic happiness for several yt urs, his wife caught a fever from 
which slie n.,ver nfterwurds sufficiently recovered to be able to be with her hnsband 
and children. She was heiicetorth intrusted to the care of a kind family, where 
every comfort and attention was secured for her. The lines in the ballad of the 
** Bouiliabiiisse " are supposed to refer to this early time oi: domestic felicity : 

Ah me ! how quick the days arc flittiiig I . 

I mind me of a tame that's gone, - 
When i^ere I'd sit as now I'm sitting, 

In this place — but not alone. 
A fairyofung form wasncFtJed near me, 

A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me— 

I'here's uo one now to share my cup. 

"^ In dictating to his amanuensis during the composition of the lectures on the 
" Four Georges," he would light a cigar, pace the room for a few minutes, and then 
resume his work with increased cheerfulness, changing his position very frequently, 
so that he was sometimes sitting, standing, walking, or lying about. His enun- 
ciation was always clear and distinct, and his words and thoughts were so well 
weighed that the pro-'ress of writing was but seldom checked. He dictated with 
calm deliberation, and shewi'd no lisible feeling even when he had made a humor- 
ous point. His whole hterary career was one of unremitting industry ; he wrote 
slowly, and like 'George Eliot,' gave forth his thoughts in sucli perfect form, that he 
rarely required to retoilch his work. His handwriting was neat and plain, often 
very miuute; which led to the remark, that if all tradts failed, he would eain six- 
pences by writing the Lord's Prayer and the Creed in the size of one. Unlike muny 
men of h ss talent, he looked upon caligraphy as one of the line arts. When ut the 
heijrht of his fame he was satisfied when he v rote six pages a day, generally working 
during the day, teldom at night. An idea which would only be slightly developed in 
some of his shorter stories, ne treasured up and expanded in some of his larger 

While Alfred Tennyson the future Laureate received the gold n edal at Cambridge 
given by the Chancellor of the univergity for the best Eugheh poem, the tubject be>- 
fiig "Timbuctoo,'' we find Thackeray satiiising the subject m a humorous pai}er 
cafied *' The Snob." Here are a few lines from his clever skit on the prize poem : 

There stalk? the tiger— there the lion roars, 
Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors ; 
All that he leaves of them the monster throws 
To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites and crows; 
His hunger thus the forest monster gluts. 
And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts. 

The personal appearance of Thackeray has hern fr(»quently described. Hin nose 
thruujsh an early accident. wa9mi-i!*liapen; it wa^i broad at the bridge, and stubby a 
the end. He was near-sighted : and his hair at forty w is al ready gray, but masny and 
abundant— his keen and kindly eyes twinkled sometiniea through nnd Pomeiinie.s over 
hiH spectacles. A friend remarked that what he •Hbouldcall the predominant ex pren- 
sion of the countenance was courage— a readiness to lace the world on its own leims, * 
Unlike Dickens, he took no regular walking exercis*^. and being regardless of the laws 
of heal til, eulTered in consequence. In reply to one who asked him if he had ever re- 
ceived the be^t medical advice, his reply was: 'What is the use of advice if you don't 
follow it? They tell me not to drink, and I fio diink- They toll me not to f.moke. 
and I ('o smoke. They vM me not to eat. and I do eat. In short, I do everything that I 
am desired ro« to do— and therefore, what am I to expect?' ^. nd so one morning he 
was found lying, like Dr. Chalmers, in the sleep of death with his arms beneath his 
head, after oaeof his violent attacks of iUnoHs— to be mourned by his mother and daugh> 
ters. who formed his household, and by a wider public beyond, which, had learned to 
love him through his admirable works.— C'Aaw6cr«'« jQurnuL 



FEBRUARY, 1879. 


-T is ft common and a profitable trick of party to assume the mask of 
natiooality. It is safely calculated that sneh an assumption, saccess- 
fnlly aohieTed, will disintegrat3 the ranks of the opponents; since it is 
not only a just, but an elementary proposition that the interests of thi 
coTiiitrj aT3 to be preferred to the interests of party. Upon this safe 
calcalation tb'i Tories of to-day, aided by some whom accidents or pas- 
eiooB have rallied to their standard, have been working steadily for the 
last tTO and a half y^ars. It seems that the game is nearly played out, 
and th3 pratixt wora too thin to cover effectually what it hides. Sym- 
pathy with Russia, with the despotism of Russia, with the bad faith of 
Kn^sia, with th3 cruelty of Russia, has been the charge incessantly 
r?itirat3d 'against the Liberal, party. Not only, it seems, are they 
enanouTjd of this Power, but fio enamoured of' it that they are dispos^ 
andeag^r to sacrifice for its sake the interests. of their country, whicti 
ar3, ex neAH'Msitate rei, their own interests. 

This filching and appropriation of the national credit seems to be no 
l)?tt3r th^Ti the crowning trick of a party warfare, not fastidious as tO 
th3 waapons it employs. Only on rare occasions can it be performed : 
at jiiTietur3s, namely, when a foreign country hax)pens to stand in a 
s7iDpith3tic rilation to some cause which it is desired to discredit, and 
at th3 sam3 time to have, or to be capable of being represented as 
haviag, th 3 will and power to inflict injury on England. The second 
of th3S3 conditions can b3 easily fulfilled : for the real interests of the 
British Empiri ar j so widely lodged, that, even apart from factitious 
outgrowths and accretions, they may come within arm^s length of every 
gT3at country in ths world. So that one day France, and another day 
Giraiaay, and aaother day America, have served the turn of our alarm- 
ists. Bat for tha last three years they have speculated upon Russia as 
Bnpplying them with the best phlogistic to be had, because the ques- 
tions of the day have thrown the public susceptibilities principally into 
this directioa. The Slavonic, as well as the Christian, sympathies of 

L. M.— I. -5. 


the Rnssian people attached them powerfully to a canso, 'which the 
Liberals of England, renounciBg all theological and ecckdaBtical par- 
tialities in the case, were bound to favour as the cause of liberty against 
despotism, and of the sufferer against the oppressor. It was impossible 
for the British Liberals and Nonconformists to become the ij^Btxumente 
of \^ouBding that sacrefi c^use, the cause of the subject races of the 
East, through the sides of Russia. But the Tories in general were 
under no such disability. In the days of the Duke of Wf Uington, Lord 
Aberdeen, and Sir R. Peel, they were, for ItiII thirty y(arB, or from 
about 1820 to 1850, the great peace party of this country. But they 
have unlearned all such weakness, together with n^any of the other 
lessons inculcated by those distinguished men ; and now, on the high 
horse of national pride, they are at once the cpponents of reform at 
home, aud the main disturbers of > the general peace. Nor docs any 
such tie bind them as that which has bound the Liberal party to tbe 
cause of subject races : for who has ever heard, in the re^sent history of 
Toryism, of a deed done, or so much as a word^Fpoken, for Freedom, 
in any one of the numerous battles in which, at bo many spots on the 
surface of the globe^ she has been engaged ? 

The Ministry, then, found an opportunity first of throwing the Chris- 
tifui cause into Russian hands ; and then, because the hands were Rus- 
cian, of reviling all, who refi^se4 to surrender it to the foul and debas- 
ing tyranny of Turkey, as being of necessity the friends of Turkey's 
enemy. The great Russian bogie was purchased | and exhibited at 
every fair in the country. The game, played with skill and during, 
was successful at least within the wails of Parliament, where Eom£ thing 
very different from "chill penury" Eometimcs freezes "the genial cur- 
rent of the j^ouL" The majorities obtained by tho Government rose in 
ifumber ; and, though the action of an opposite feeling in the nation 
has at last reduced them, the process has been slow and far from uni- 
form. And now, when tho signs of change are fe£t gathering in tho 
^y, the last hope of a party bogioning to bo abashed seems still to lie 
ia. fastening on the Liberals the idle and calumnious imputation that 
thoy arc in some special and guilty sense tho friends of Russia. 

But they forget that the opening, which their g(X)d fortune gave 
them, is now closed, and tliat the old combination has given place to 
new. By arms and blood (fcr tho British Government resisted and 
broke np tho European concert which promised a milder mcthenl), Iho 
rpecial aim of Russian sympathies has been, not wholly but for tha 
iaost part, attained. Tho Slavonic provinces of Turkey are now, 
through the cHorts and sacrifices of a singb nation, independent, liko 
Gervia and Montenegro ; or tributary like Bulgaria ; or at the very least 
r-utonomous, with a moro ambiguous freedom like Eastern Roumeha. 
The work cf d:liveranco has been in tho main accomplished. The 
Liberala cf England Btili owo full justice to theso gr^at acts of Russia ; 
but they orts no longer Uablo to bo charged as moral partneis in the 
oauso ; for tho cause has now been pleaded, tho great Judge has pro. 


notmcad His s^mtenoe : and lands and vaces, 'Which England refttsred tb 
Iib3iat9, are free. Ldt it be said that Russia did good from bad 
motives. TUia is not now the question. The Tories and their adhe- 
rents have yet to acquire the perception of a fact, firom which they 
yet strive to turn away their vision : the fact that the alliance betweeu 
Bassia and the gr 3ttt cansa of deHverance is no longer the salient and 
determining point of the Eastern Qnestion. That alliance has gHdcd 
into th3 p%Bt ; its fmft is gathered ; and the position of Russia, in it? 
relatloa r38p3Ctiv3ly to the Toryism and the liiberalism of ISngland, is 
noloagdr sabj3ct to any disturbing agency. The Russian b^yie is not 
any more available for the politi<»l fait. And the questions can now 
be freely and exhaustively discussed, "who and what is Russia, and 
which is the p'lrty that is best entitled to fling in the teeth of the other 
the chargd of baing her peculiar friends ? 

Who and what i-t Russia ? Not the name of h complex and multi- 
form society of intricats configuration, such as is our own : but a vast 
mass, comparatively inorganic, still nationally young, and simple in its 
forms of life. We may regard Russia, for the present purpose, as in- 
cluding thrae elements, three fbrces only. First the Emperor ; secondly 
the pjopU; thirdly th 3 offlcitU, aristocratic and Uiilltary class ; which 
last may ba said to makd up there what, both there and here, passes 
nndsr th3 name of '^ so^i jty.*' Of these three factors, distinct estimates 
have to bo form 3d. 

Tha prafrsnt Emperor of Russia has, during a feign now approaching 
a quarter ci a century, given ample evidence of a just and philanthropic 
mind. No graator triumph of peaceftil legislation is anywhere recorded 
tittn the emancipition of the Russian serfs, which he has effected. It 
istm? that h3 gav3to England assurances about Khiva, which he has 
baen unable to fulfil. But the military measures taken against tho 
Khan appirantly hai in view the real necessities of peace and order in 
thit T3gio% fro.-n which plunder and kidnapping had to be expelled. 
Thsre is little in thair accompaniments, either of profit or of power, 
which .would warrant thi imputation of an unworthy motive. It is 
mori^just to ascribe the Emperor*s original promise- of entire abstantion 
to an honorabla anxiety for the friendship of England, and as an over^ 
Baiguina exp3ct%tion, than to denounce as fen act of bad faith a resort 
to force which has every appearance of reason and of justice. In th) 
great matt ^r of tha war With Turkey, I avow my belief that the Empe- 
ror was pr:)nipt3d by motives of humanity, which drew additional forco 
from tha spacial sympathies of race and of religion. 

Justice saems to require a similar admisgion in regard to the Rn s'an 
pBOple. They are a peaceful and submissive rase, whose courasre in tha 
fijld is^that of a detarmined and uncalculatinfir obedience. DomeRtic in 
Mr habits, rural in their pursuits, and flgliting tha battle of ordinary 
Kfeundsr hard conditions, they are littla oo'^n to th-^ evil influences of 
what is hare termed Jingoism : the conscription has for them no charms ; 
Mid war summons them to iittlo else than privation, wounds, disease, 


and death. Ftobably few among ns are so biassed as to donbt that the 
Russian people have been moved, during the last three years, by a thrill 
of genuine emotion on behalf of their enslaved and suffering brethren, 
rather than by " Russian interests," or appeals to pride, or tha lust cf 
territorial aggrEtndisement. 

Tliat which reason bids us to conclude as to tho people, wo must ako 
suppose at least as to individuals in the class which I have described as 
the third great moving force, of the Russian Empire. Of this type war, 
Ccdonel Kirieff, who met and indeed courted a hero's death in the Ser- 
vian war of 1876. But the general character and tendencies of tho 
body are another matter. The spirit of aggression has a natural home 
in the oligarchic, diplomatic, and military class, whose pcrEonal ard 
specific leanings it as strongly favours as it counteracts the interests cf 
the people. We have seen too plainly what, though with many hon- 
ourablo exceptions, are the tendencies and leanings of the correspond- 
ing classes even among ourselves, where their sentiments are moi^ficd, 
and their action limited, by free public discussion and by popular in- 
stitutions. It is not difficult to understand what aro the propensities, 
and what the power of tha miUtary, official, and aristocratic elements 
of Russian society ; what pretexts they may advance, and what use 
they may be tempted to make of the huge but inorganic forces of the 
nation, which lie almost helplessly at their disposal. It is not necessary 
here to dwell upon shades and subdivisions of opinion, or to distinguish 
Moscow from St. Petersburg. It wpuld not be just to treat even the 
incoiporated influences we are now considering as^a mass of unnoixed 
eviL But this class, in regard to the ri^ts of other countries and the 
peace of the world, is the dangerous class of Russia; the class that 
prides itself upon wisdom because it has power; the class that thin^t^ 
itself cultivated because it has leisure ; that includes all those who claim 
to l6ad the nation because they have long and often misled it, and to 
think and act for it, and drag it in the train of their thoughts and acts, 
because they Uve upon it. This class, or rather this conglomerate of 
classes, ever watchful for its aims, ubiquitous yet organised, standing 
everywhere between the Emperor and the people, and oftentimes too 
strong for both, is at work day and night to impress its own characte r 
upon Russian policy. The Duke of Wellmgton declined to place confi- 
dence in Russia ; for, as he said with strong §ense and truth, it was not 
his business to place confidence in foreign Governments. It is our 
business to judge them fairly, but to watch them closely ; and in our 
present judgments to avail ourselves of all the aid that can be derived 
from the observation of the past. 

Thus mixed in the composition of its political forces, and having not 
yet emerged from her despotic institutions, the Russia of Alexaneitr 
and of Nicholas was undoubtedly the head of European Toryism, even 
while Austria was its right hand. She was the greatest and most im- 
portant member of the Holy Alliance. In the case, however, of tho 
Christian, and especially the Slavonic Provinces of Turkey, the sympa- 


thies ot religion and race traversed the ordinary action of ihe instincts 
of power. Hence has arisen more than once an exceptioual relation 
between Eussia and the liberals of this country. At the period, for 
example, of the Greek Revolution, she and they fought on the samo 
side. . At the epoch of the Crimdan war, when sha struggled for th3 
power' of au arbitrary interference, and not for the relief of the op- 
pressed, there was no room for such an alliance. But in 1876, she was 
content to work as a member of the European family, in strict concert 
with its other members. When the deplorable abstention of England 
from the performance of duty broke up that concert, and left her to act 
alone, Liberalism could not on account of the instrument condemn the 
end, or desire that the subject races of Turkey shotdd remain debased 
by servitude, because the Government that represented free England for 
the moment baffled and befooled every joint movement to deUverthem. 
It was left to the despot to perform the duty of the free. But, unless 
in su3h cases of pure exception, Russia has uniformly and habitually 
ranged in European poUtics with the antagonists of freedom. Though 
I speak mainly of tiie rv^igns of Alexander and of Nicholas, it would 
probably be too much to say that the personal change in the occupancy 
of the throne has broken, or could break, the chain of an evil traaition. 

But that evil tradition, which places an insurmountable barrier be- 
tween the sympathy of British Liberalism and the Europeaxl pohcy of 
the Czars, has also entitled that Empire to the sympathy of Toryism, 
and has earned for it that sympathy. Of course I do not mean that 
the Tories of this country have approved of all the acts of Russia in 
Poland, which have left an ineffaceable stain upon the Empire and tha 
age. But I reckon that, in every struggle which has arisen since the 
peace of 1815, the sympathies of British Toryism have regularly gravi- 
tated to the side of power, and therefore to the side of Russia. Liber- 
alism has only found itself in any sense on the side of Russia at the rare 
times when Russia had taken, for whatever reason, the side of Liberal- 
ism. But these are exactly the occafflons, and the only occasions, when, 
with an equal certainty of instinct, British Toryism has entered the lists 
against her ; and has thought, by the loudness and violence of its 
clamours, to cast into the shadows of obhvion the fact that it had really 
regarded her as its natural ally. Russia, as the greatest among the 
standing antagonists of the Liberal movement in Europe, had a claim 
on its respect. But this claim vanished away when, contrary to her 
wont, she was breaking chains, instead of forging them. And when, in 
addition, phantom interests of England were brought into the field, tho 
patriotic violence of our Tories against Russia became, under this 
double influence, as hot as if they had not been her traditionary friends. 

But as they seem to have themselves forgotten this traditionary 
friendship, now unhappily suspended, it may be well to run briefly 
over the long series of occasions, on which it has been manifested and 

From the Treaty of Vienna onwards, whenever there has be^i a 


straggle in Europe or elsewhere, with the single exception of the 
Turkish Provinces, Bussia has taksn the side of English Toryism, and 
English Toryism has taken the side of. Kussia. The partition of 
Europe, effected at Vienna without reference to the feelings of the 
people, was agreeable to the ideas of both, and had a kind of sanctity 
in their eyes. Every deviation from that Treaty, and every effort to 
disturb it, were discountenanced by each in their several degrees and 
modes. Bussia supported Mettemich ; and received his support on all 
occasions except when, in the case of Greece, she co-operated power- 
fully in the work of Uberation; and Mettemich, it need ha»ily be 
observed, commanded the steady sympathy of English Tories. In 
Italy, Bussia and the Tories supported the Austrian system. Bussia 
eyed askance, and the Tories abhorred, the foreign policy of Mr. 
Canning. Bussia and the Tories comtem plated with chsplea^iiTe the 
French Bevolution of 1830. Both regarded with still more active 
displeasure the revolt of Belgium, ^p^hich oven the mild officiid Toryism 
of the Duke of Wellington's government condemned hi the Speech 
from the Throne after the accession of William the Fourth. In the 
dL^cuIt operation of creating the Belgian kingdom, which was probably 
the crown of Lord Palmerston's diplomatic efforts, England, with the 
variable support of Orleanist France, wrought zealoiusly on its behalf; 
but the Holy Alliance, with tha stdady countenance of the English 
Tories, as zealously against it. In Spain, in Portugal, the case was the 
same. Austrianism in Italy, Bussianism in Pcland, whoever heard of 
a Tory effort or a Tory remonstrance £^ainst them ? If, among tho 
caprices of Fortune, it chanced that another strain was heard, as wheu 
Mr. Butler Johnstone delivered a maiden speech of great ability on 
bshalf of the Italian cause, it was regarded as an accidental and youth- 
ful eccentricity, and did not serve in the slightest degree to colour tho 
general feeling of the party. Tho climax of Bussianism under Nicholas 
was reached, when he lent tho might of his legions to reinforco the 
feebler arm of Austria, and extinguished in blood tho piovcmcnt of tho 
Magyars. But who has ever heard of the sympathy of tho Tory party 
with Hungary when she was fighting for her freedom? or until, within 
thes3 last three years, she took unworthily tho part cf an' Eastern 
oppression tenfold worse than that which she hiwi agitated Europe to 
overthrow ? In truth, if there be one fact more charly v/ritten than 
another on the history of tho last half-century, it is tho genei'al 
sympathy of British Toryism with that side in Continental politicL: 
which, under the pretence of supporting order, ever contended against 
freedom in all its forms. This was the stsreotyped taunt of Liberal: 
ajainst Toryism when the first Government of Sir Bobert Peel had 
taken office in 183-i-r>, and had been djfeatcd at the General Election in 
the three capitals of the three companies. It was embodied m p. sarcastic 
paean of Mr. Gisborne's during tho existenco of that short-lived Goveni- 
ment. On its reception, he said: ^^ London, and Dublin, and Edin- 


bargh wera G^e^^osted ; bnt there was joy in St Peiersburg, in Berlin, 
and in Vienna." 

Let not, then, the r3tiiner6 of the Administnition, by reason of their 
short and quit 3 intelligible infidelity, repudiate their brilliant inheritanco 
as the representatives, on this side tiie Straits, of those who for sixty 
years have had it for their daily and nightly thought to resist the 
progress of freedom in Europe, and in whose eyes even the worst of the 
thrones of Europe were as sacrad as was the Com Law. It will assist 
ths people of thiis country in passing judgment on the great question 
how it shall b? govwmed under the next ParliameAt, if they bear in 
mind that everywhere, except in Turkey, Russian statesmanship has 
headed and sustained the votaries of reaction, with the support and 
sympathy of English Toryism. But, in Turkey alone, she has de facto 
achieved, by her unaided efforts, a work of liberation : a*d it is here, 
and h?re only, that the Tories of England have turned against her. 
That work of liberation, a great and signal one, the Liberals of England 
\nSL neither deny nor forget. But, when Russia shall return to her old 
Toca&tion in European politics, thev, under the compulsion of their prin- 
ciples, and in conformity with theur history, must maintain against her, 
as W3ll as against Austria and all the fo38 of freedom, an opposition 
mora scampulous and equitable, it is to be hoped, than the war waged 
by the Tories against their old ally, but one not less steady. 

It may be ri^t after what has been said of the standing sympathy 
between Toryism and the policy of the Russian Government, to produce 
Bome print 3d illustraltion of t^e esteem in which that Government was 
held in high Tory (juartars. Nothing can be mora to the point for such 
& pnrpos3 thau th3 spaech of Lord Beaconsfield on the outbreak of the 
FTanco-Gemian war. That war was not aimed at our interests, or 
likjly to involve us in its vortex. Nevertheless, as the organ of the 
party, he advised the Government of that day at once to join hands 
with Russia^ as Ihe b jst coodjutr jss we could have at such a crisis. 

An alliance — ^I wiTI not n*'» th'* ^^orcI firifl-nce, bccanee It mnv ^x<* rise to some 
nJ8 apprehension— J>nt a co'-d'al nndenitandin^ botween England and Rnsflia to 
r^ft JF! pc^c«. nt a tiQ»nrvl ro-»«'V|T>'icft of the position in which bot»i countries nro 
plac?d with r'*isp-rt to th^ lHii«r .vf»ntR hv the qnarantininjr of th<»se provinces (the 
Saxon prov*TtC'*s) to Prn<»^i'\ a oorrl!:il und3r9tnnd!n<r nnd co-onoratioii between these 
tHO grnt Powers wonld be liable to no sinister interpretation and excite no eus- 
rr:ou. b-cauai. as I have in«»t said, It, wonM be a natural conseqnmice of their 
oiD^OTn«»tic cnsrfla-^inflnt*?. T liope th^r-fora th-^re will be. between Her Majesty^s 
Government and Russia, not a m^^re e^nla' exching'* of platitudes a« to the advan- 
tages of restorini; p 'ac^ and avprtinj? the horrors of war. bnt something more. I 
hop^ th^y will confer tojj 'th t an^two grnat Powers who hnve ent'*red into the same 
jTipgements, and as tWvO Powers who thamae'vea may be forced to take the part of 

A pa«?saore of which th*^ entir'* snbst>»n?*^» with the reason alleged, was 
raally mu'^h mor3 applicable to the circtimstances of 1874 than to the 
CM^ of 1870. 

It is time, however, to consider more particularly the temporary de- 

" ■ ■ r— 

* HanaanU voL cdiit p.. 1^. Aag«6t 1, 1870. 


f ection of the Tories from the Bttssiaii camp. They have nndeTtakcni 
for this occasion the role of enemies of Bussia. Let us examinei kow 
they have played the part. Undoubtedly they are able to allege that 
they have done much to affront her Government, and to estrange her 
people. Not only is it probable that at no time, without actu^ "war, 
have great masses of hufimn hearts throbbed, with a mor3 hostile ex- 
citement than of late, but it is also hardly to be questioned that during 
the Crimean War itself there. was nothing among us equal or analogous 
to the fierce and almost savage antipathy which has ruled a portion cf 
the nation during the last two or three years. A phenomenon bo singn- 
lar may be readily explained by the circumstances of the two cases. 
The moving, sentiment of the Crimean War was a noble indignation at 
an ambitious and overbearing effort of the Emperor Nicholas to estab- 
lish an arbitrary power of sole interference in the Ottoman Empire. In 
a resistance to that outrage, even by arms, there was little to etir up the 
baser elements of our nature. The case was very different when, with 
a cynical selfishness, we allowed the rule to be laid down that British 
interests, no less fictitious, or at least remote, than they were obtrusive, 
were to be the rule and measure of destiny for the subject races of Tur- 
key. It was not to be the number of Bulgarians massacred, it was not 
to be the merits of the contest between Bussia and Turkey — so we were 
assured by two successive Ambassadors — that were to determine our 
causs, but the inestimable and certainly incomprehensible British in- 
terests which, according to Sir Henry Layard, were at some period cf 
the contest to compel -our interference as tke defenders ^of the Forte. 
Ofily foul watars could flow from a source so polluted. And thercforie, 
without doubt, the present Government and its followers can plead that 
they have done their best to make the Bussian people hostile to ns. 
They have also limited the b^gerent rights of die Bussian State by 
murking off Egypt as a land consecrated to British interests, which was 
to make war upon Bussia, but upon which she might not make war in 
return. They have answered her promise not to invade Constantinoplo 
by sending a fleet into its neighbourhood. And they have flourished in 
her face tiie menace of their Indian troops at Malta, of the great army 
behind them, and of the inexhaustible recruiting ground from which 
they came. All this must be admitted. It would be absurd to deny 
that they have set as remarkable an example as is anywhere on record, 
of a partial and hostile neutrality. 

But there is such a thing as rendering service which neither can nor 
even ought to eUdt gratitude ; as managing friendship in a way which 
injures friends, and as indulging jealousy and emnity in a way which 
serves those very purposes of our enemies that are most alien to our 
taste. It was by friendship of this kind that the friends of the British 
Throne brought it, under Charles the First, to its ruin ; that the enemies 
of American freedom, a century ago, stimulated the colonies to fight for 
and achieve an independence of which they had never dreamed; that 
the opponents of Beform in Parliament, by an indiscriminate resistance, 


TOUBed ihe determination for comprehensive change/ and' by av obsti- 
nate fltroggld raisad the movement to an impetus 'which gave to Liberal- 
ism its trinmph for forty years. The services conferred in both these 
two cases were as real and important as they were nnintentionaL And 
in this most true, though not a httle strange sense it is, that the Tory* 
ism, and the l^ory Government of the last three years have befriended 
Bossia, and have conferred on her advantages, which the pohcy of Lib- 
eralism would have kept wholly out of her reach. Indeed, it is to be 
added <hat the standing hostility, represented in the language of the 
ftmbassadors and followers of the Ministry, has iu the case of the Min- 
istry itself been crossed, and streaked as it were,- by veins of peculiar* 
intimacy, and by acts of association so close and suspicious, that noth- 
ing less tiian a large unexhausted stock of reputation as good Kussio- 
batsrs could have made it safe to ventore on them. 

In 1855 Bussia obtained possession of Ears. Under the peace of 
Paris, in 18.56, she had to surrender it. As a result of the war which 
British policy threw upon her hands in 1877, she has now incorporated 
it in her Empire, together with Batoum and an adjoining range of 
coontiy. In 1855, Bussia held. Bessarabia to the Danube, and rsmked 
as one of the River States, hsr frontier meeting that of Turkey. In 
1856, she was compelled to recede from the Dimube and the Turkish 
frontier ; and the Bsssarabian district fronting the stream was placed, as 
a part of the PrincipahtidB, under free institutions. In 1878, not simply 
as the result of the present war, but with the direct assistanco of the 
British Government, Bussia has returned to the Danube and is again a 
Elver State. The portion of Bessarabia, which for twenty years had 
tnjoyed free and popular government, together with the rest of Bou- 
mania, has been replaced under despotic institutions. And though 
Bossia doss not touch the Turkish ^ntier, because the Dobrudscha, 
now made part of Boumania, intervenes, this is by no act of the British 
Government, but by tha concession of Bussia itself to Boumania: a 
gift ungr<Mnously given, and reluctantly received. 

It is necessary a Uttle to unfold this topic by an illustration. In 
1870, the Bussian Government took advantage of tho Franco-German 
War to declare the Czar emancipated from that article of the Treaty of 
Paris, which limited his right to maintain ships of war on the Euxine. 
The British Government examined the reasons alleged in justification of 
the step, and found them inadequate. Ou its invitation, the Powers 
met at a conference in London. All of them, including Turkey, were 
willing that Bussia should be released from the stipulation : but she 
was required to accept the releasa at their hands, and to admit the bind- 
ing force of the Treaty by signing a Protocol, which declared it to be a 
principle of European law, that no Power could be liberated from the 
obligations of a treaty but by the consent of the rest 

This was habituaUy called by the Tories tearing up the Treaty of 
Paris. Unhappy treaty of Paris I Though torn up in 1871, it was 
Bttficiently in force in 1878 to enable those, who had declared it to be 


torn up seven years before, to keep Europe for montitis cm iihe verge 
and in the ex|)8ctation of war, in order (as was said) to compel Bnssia 
to place her rights as a beUigerent in subordination to it. But it was 
not sufficiently in force to prevent those, who had thus depreciated and 
afterwards thus exalted it, from truly tearing it up themselves, when 
they proceeded to obtain possession of a Turkish island, and to estab- 
lish separate rights of government over the whole of A»atic Turkey 
by the Anglo-Turkish Convention, although the main object of the 
Treaty of Paris had been to declare the integrity of Ottoman ttrritory, 
and to prevent all separate intermeddling between the sovereign and lus 

It has been the habit of Toryism to charge upon the late adminis- 
tration the responsibihl^ of having brought about the change effected 
in 1871. The trath is that of all the great Powers none had less to do 
with it than England. ' It was Germany which proposed the Confer- 
ence, that is to say the concession; and Austria had in 1859, and agson 
in 1869, offered to take the initiative in effecting the tklteration.'*' The 
British Government had never uttered a syllable upon the subject But 
what would their position have been, and what would have been said 
of their responsibility, if a writer in the Foreign Office had surrep- 
titiously brought about the disclosure of a Granville-Bnumow agree* 
ment duly signed, and couched in the following tcrmii ? 

The (Jovemment of her Britannic Majesty wonlrl have to express its profound 
regret in the event of Rnesia's insisting definitely upon tlio abolition o/ t'lc JiMck 
Sea clause. As, however, it is sufflcienujr established that the other signatariefi to 
the Treaty of Paris are not ready to sustain by arms the restriction on the naval forc^ 
o/Rustiia stipulated in" that Treaty, England does not find herself pnfflciently inter- 
ested in this question to be authorized to incur alone the reepoustbility of opposing 
herself to the change proposed ; and thus she binda herself not to dispute thu 
decision in this sense. 

The qualification is added further on : 

If, after the articles have been duly discussed in Congress, Bnssia persists in main- 
taining them.t 

Now this is the identical clause of the Salisbury- Schouvaloff agreement 
on the Bessarabian question, with the substitutioa only of l^e words 
*' abolition of the Black Sea clause " for "rstrccesjion of Bessarabia,^* 
and ^^restriction on the naval force of Bussia'' for '^delimitation of 
Bessarabia. '* 

It is possible, I admit, that, even if the British Government hod 
played an EngUsh part at the Congress, and had stoutly maintained the 
Boumanian cause, our Plenipotentiaries might not have succeeded in 
carrying the votes of a majority of the Powers against Bussia already 
in possession, and bent on the attainment of her end. But our trad- 
itions would not have been broken : our honour would have been with- 
out a stain : we should have been no parties to an act of gross and 

* La Russie ct la Twrquie^ par D3 Bonhkarow, pp. 241-3. 
^ Muy 30. 1878. From thu ZVmM, June 16, 1828. 


tjT&i»i(ms ingratitade : we shotild hard had no share in the eTil work 
of han^ng baok an European population from institutions of freedom 
to institutions of despotism. Whereas we gave a previous pledge to 
Tofce with Bussia unless we could convince her in the discussion. What 
vonld be thought of the int3grity of a member of Parliament who, pro- 
fessing attachment to a given cause, agreed in secret with the opposite 
side to vote against it unless he could convince them by his speech in the 
debate? Such, how aver, was the anti-national course adopted by the 
Government. So they played into the hands of Bussia : nay, entered 
into a conspiracy with her against freedom, for which she bnd some 
Bort of excuse in tha wound ad prid3 of her recollections of 1856, but 
they had no shrad or shadow of any excusa at all. 

And what was the motive for this unheard-of proceeding? Un- 
happily it is not' difficult to divine. No State, approaching a many- 
headed negotiation, can lay equal stress on all its points. It must 
snirand jr some, in ordar to gain the others : it must give here, that it 
may take there. On this giving and taking principle, the cause of 
liberty was abandoned in Boumania, in order that the cause of liberty 
might be defeated in South Bulgaria. Bussia was the enemy of free- 
dom aniong ihe Bonmans, where freedom clashed with her own tsrritorial 
aggrandisament. She was its friend in South Bnlgaria, now, by no 
"vnll of hers, re-baptised as Eastern Boumelia. Here ail the better parts 
of her composition were in play : the upright and benevolent character 
of her Monarch, the strong blood sympathies of the Bussian masses, the 
natoral and humane r avulsion against the abominations of 1876. The 
great object of the British Plenipotentiaries was to restore, or to be able 
to say that they had restorad, Southern Bulgaria, under its new name, 
to tha direct role of ths Sultan. To attain' this object they applied all 
their strength, concentrated upon it. For this tliey threatened war. 
But, in forcing ux>on Bussia such an tmaoceptable damand, it was neces- 
sary, under the iron prasidenoy of Prince Bismarck, to make some con- 
cession to Bussia elsewhere. Thus, then, as I have said, the cause of 
hberty wa"; abandoned in Boumania, in order that, as an equivalent to 
ns, the canso of liberty might b^ defeated in South Bulgaria. Bussia 
^Fas allowed to win, where she was Freedom^s enemy, in order that sho 
might ba made to lose, whare she was Freedom's friend. 

Such was the prime achievem ent of the peace-with-honour process. 
It was undoubtedly a great triumph over liberty. But was it a great 
triumph over Russia ? It wounded her only in the best of her desires 
and Rympathies. She was pledged to Slav liberation ; and at one point 
of tha compass at least, and on the scene of the chief Bulgarian hor- 
rors, Slav liberation was hemmed in, was mutilated. Russian humani- 
ty, if the sceptic will graciously allow that suph a quality exists, was 
wouuded; the Russian aggrandisement had been promoted. We 
baulked and defeated Russia in what she sought on behalf of oppressed 
and suffering humanity ; in what concarned our own pcide and power 


we suffered, and not only snjffored^ bni effectually helped her to get her 

In tmth, by this soverance of the Valley of the Maritza from the sis- 
ter district of Korthem Bulgaria, we actually ministered to the pride 
and power of Russia, by creatihg on her behalf the strongest tempta- 
tion, and the most susceptible material, for intrigue to be carried on at 
pleasure. In Hberated countries, such as Bulgaria beyond the Balkans, 
there will, without doubt, subsist a sentiment of gratitude towards the 
emancipating State. Even so France stood well with the United Statrs 
of America after the War of Independence. To this sentiment of 
gratitude a certain pohtical influence may be annexed. But the limits 
of such an influence are supplied and prescribed by the nature of the 
case itself. We may have heard of a free people which has sur- 
rendered its freedom into the hands of a liberator from within. But 
who ever heard of u free people that gave away its freedom to a foreign 
State that had set it free ? It may be that there is an old age for liberty, 
as well as for individual men, when it is 

** In second childishuesa and mere oblivion."' 
and when thcs?, who have enjoyed it long, and have been corrupted by 
the wealth and x>ower it brought them, have degenerated in the quaU- 
ties necessary for its defence as well as for its acquisition, and have let 
it slip from their possession. But the first draught at least is too sweet 
for the cup to be dropped out of tiie land. The way to keep down 
Bussian influence over Bulgarians is to develop Bulgarian freedom to the 
fulL The way to help and perpetuate Bussian influence is to establish 
sharp contrasts between the brethren in blood, who dwell on the two 
sides of the Balkans ; so that Bussia, pointing to the past, will be ena- 
bled plausibly to assert that, as she was the only Power that lifted the 
Northerns from the slough of despond to the high aiiy ground of free- 
dom, so she is still the only Power to whom the Southerns can look to 
raise them also to the level of their happier brethren. There could be 
no device more favourable to the future intrigues of Bussia than a Bul- 
garia, however named, pining in substantial servitude by the side of 
another Bulgaria substantially free. The freedom of the North is al- 
ready her work : let her not be in a conoitiOn to point to servitude in the 
South and say, " This is the work of England." 
Meantime, it is already found that in the emancipated Bulgaria peace 
9 and goodwill are following in the train of freedom. A letter of the 9th 
of December from a person of the highest authority runs as follows : 
** In Bulgaria everything is quiet. The Turks of all the regions about 
Schumla, Varna and Bustchuk, Ac, have returned to their homes. 
They are not only unmolested, but seem to have aU the rights of the 
Bnlgarians, and to be well contented." 

Thus far, then, we have found that when Toryism detected Bussia in 
the act of promoting freedom in the East, and turned against her, it did 



more fior lier by its hostility timn it seems ever to liave effected by its 
friendship, and pnt her in Uie way of securing an addition of territory 
and a vast increase of influence. 

But its relations with Enssia tonched other points. Petitions were 
prcsentad to the Congress at Berlin, which alleged thf^t the most fright- 
ful safferings had been endured by the Mohammedan popxlIatio^ in the 
Valley of the Maritza at the hands of the Russian soldiery and of the 
Bulgarians. .Undsr the authority of the Congress, the Ambassadors at 
Constantinople instituted an inquiry by an IntemationAl Commission. 
The British Ambassador appointed, as the British member of the Com- 
mission, Consul Fawcett, well known as a thorough partisan in the East- 
em Question. There were four members, however, whose impartiality 
might be presumed ; those appointed for Germany, Austria, France and 
Italy. These four were equally divided. But the French and ItaHan, 
together with the British and Turjcish Commissioners, delivered, in the 
strange form of identic notes, a Report which to a considerable extent 
adopted the statements set forth in the evidence, particularly as to a vast 
and undiscriminating slaughter at Harmanli of men, women and chil- 
dren, stated by Mr. Fawcett to be 60, 000 in number; which it appeared 
to charge upon the Russian army. The signing Commissioners recom- 
mended the adoption of measures to relieve the affliction of the refugee 
population by restoring them to their homes. And the Government 
have declared in the House of Commons that Uiey gave credence to the 
statenients of their Commissioner. 

Into that portion of the question, which affects the conduct of the 
fiossians, I do not ei\ter, beyond stating that in my opinion Ministers 
wera bound in duty either to acquit that brave and usually humane 
trmy of the charge, or to condenm them, and protest against their con- 
duct. They have done neither. What is more, they seem to have 
suffered the statements which excited pain and sympathy in this country, 
as well as those which have stirred indignation, to remain in silent 
neglect from the end of August, when the reports were sent in, onwards 
through the months of September, October, and Nov^ember ; although 
their attention was drawn to the subject by the protest of Lord Shaftes- 
bury, and, to my knowledge, by other and more direct means. But it 
remained, strange to say, unnoticed in the speeches of Lord Mayor's 
Bay, and again unnoticed in the Speech from the Throne. Both Uiese 
remarkable omissions were made the subject of public animadversion, 
the latter of them in the House of Commons. At length, after regard- 
ing the case with apparent indifference for three and a half months,; 
Ministers announced, on Friday, December 13, that they would proposo 
<i public grant for the relief of the sufferers in the Bhodope district. 
The amount, it was understood, was a sum of 50,000^. It was proper 
to suppose that, after so prolonged a period of consideration, the act 
was d'ehberate and determined. But the intention, brought to light in 
the announcement of the 13th, was strangled in that of the 15th. No 
sabstitate is offered for the measure, and we axe left to interpret the 


wiiole proceeding Bfiwe may. The muttered disAffectiezi of eapporten 
is iindetstood to Imve caused tbe withdrawal. But what other explana- 
tion can be given of the inaction, so strangely prolonged in the f^e of 
the rosponsibilitieB implied by the inquiry, except it bo a morbid and 
undue d^erence to Kussia, and an unwlUingnees to wound her euscep- 
tibilitieB in a c^se where only the interests of humanity, and not the 
higher and moro sacred obligations of ^'British interests," ara con- 

But I haya yet to stato r, more singular instance of deference to 
Bussia, and of that kind of deference which in the more plain-Epckon, 
though assuredly not less courteous, days of Parliamentary practice 
would undoubtedly have been described as truckling. 

During the existence of the lata Administration, a wis2, pacific, and 
friendly negotiataon, due to the forethought and Initiative of tord 
Clarendon, was instituted with Bussia> to promoto tho tranquiilt/ cf 
Central Asia, and to insure a good understanding between tho two 
Empires in that portion of tho world. It was an essential part of this 
understanding, and was so recorded in many avowals, that Eussia Khculd 
abstain from all endeavors to exercisa influence in Afcghanistan ; \7l1ila 
England, on the other hand, was to use her best cjEPorts for inducing 
tho Ameer to fulfil the duti?s of good neighbourhood to^vards Ms 
northern neighbours, who were tho neighbours, on tho other side, of 
Bussia. "While the lata' Government eubsistcd, (his covenant was ob- 
served 6n both sides with fidelity and advantage j and although Iho 
friend^ htiBta of General Eauffmann to tho Ameer Shcro AU. wero 
somewhat officious, they had not been deemed to give occasion for com- 
plaint do*vii to the time when Lord Northbrook gave up tho viccroyalty 
of India- early in 1876. 

But a new epoch arrived when the British Government, in violation 
of tho fifty-fifth section of tho Indian Government Act, brought a hand- 
ful of Indian trocps to Malta, at an enormous charge, without tho 
knowlsdgo or consent of Parliament. Tho measuro is now known to 
have been preceded by preparations made in India for moving," through 
AUghanistan, against tho Asiatic territories of Russia. Of small mili- 
tary significance in itself, it was obviously intended as a Etratagem to 
mislead: to inspire the perfectly untrue beUcf that tho 180,000 men, 
who form our Indian Army, could bo withdrawn from India, as cur 
home Army can, in caso of need, be safely withdrawn from, tho United 
ICingdom, and could thus be mado available in om' European vrarg. 
The ulterior aim of all this^ of course, was to intimidate Bussia, and to 
strengthen tho hands of the Government in giving effect to tho Turkish 
and anti-liberal, propensities which it indulged at Berlin, and which it 
embellished with the misused name of " British interests." 

.There probably never was a measure of such large and varied indirect 
operation, which was adopted with such an intoxicated thoughtlessness. 
Against all the cautions which the sagacity of statesmanship would have 
suggests tQ any preyioos Govcnun.ciziti the ledtage-^ffect of ibjA ounout 


twp de the/Hre osmed ih« da^. It implied ft ndieal change in ihe eon- 
e^ption and use of the Indian Ann^, wh|ch np to that time might have 
been best defined by ft negatiye : it was not an Enropean Army. The 
effect ojfL the peace <^ the countay of a proh>nged or extenslTe abstrac- 
tion of its defenstTe force, its military police, was not worth considering. 
The aojbhonty of the Parliamentary inqniry, which had pronounced 
against ' measures of t^is kind, was qnietiiy overlooked. l%ere was no 
examination of the probable results on the contentment of India, when 
6he shonld find herself saddled with ttke liabiliiy to proTide men fbr 
wars from which she could deriye no advantage ; or on the soldiery, 
who, upon a footing of itif eriofity to their comrades, were to fi^t iii 
climates, and amid races and associations, wholly strange to their expe- 
rience. Thd cantemptnous forgetf^ess of all these subjects was 
remarkable. But they were questions of the future. The Government 
also foxgot tbe most obvious sugge^ti6n of the present ; namely, that 
tiie game was a game which two eouM plfiv at. 

A3 to. tile mode of playing it, the skin of Bussia appean to have been 
more coxkspicTioos than her generosity. It was natural enough that sho 
should prepare to threaten British India through Affghanistan; and, 
when wd had' brought an earnest of the power of India into Europe, 
should indicate that thefo was also a possii^e, though a very uninviting, 
way fi^m Europe towards India. But we must suppose that the design 
of Buffiia, in ^us diractdng her troops, was much less military than 
poUticai. She knew with whom ^e ^^'f dealing : and sought to act 
OQ the Ipnid suseeptibiHties of the British Gkrvemment, bo as to draw 
it into some fals'j stop. 

It is probable, indeed, that Bussia was, through her agents, lesd 
aoaware than was the British Parliament, with how singular a perversity 
the Indian Qovemment, impelled from home, had, ever since the year 
1876, been preparing combustible material, to which she might at 
pleasure apply the match. During more than two y^ars. the unfor- 
toaate Ameer of Affghanistan had been made tha butt of a series of 
measures alternating between cajolery and intimidation, Down to th j 
time of Lord NorthbrooVs departure, he Icne^, from ft long experience, 
that he bad fkst friends in the Ticetoys of India r and with a short- 
sightednesB of petty craft sufficiently Asiatic,' he endeavoured to extort 
from their good-will everything he thought it could be mad 3 to yield in 
one-side^ larg'^sses of men, money, and engagements. He knew W4 
woe jef^us of the independence of Affghanistan, and he strove to turn 
this jealousy to aeoount for his personal and dynastic views. He desired 
to nukke us parties in determining the question of succession to his 
throne : as if we had not learned by sor^ experience, in the case of Shah 
Soojidi, the fc^y of our choosing a sovereign for that country ; and to ^ 
obtain ftom us guarantees for his security, which were not to be ) 
dependent on his conduct. Of the wise and necessary refusal to enter 
into sueh entangling stipulations, he more or less made a grievance. 
Ha UktfwiM i^okoaed^ a^pe&Mt u» a friendly leemonstrance of L(tod Korth- 



brook's against his most impolitio and vindictiyo aeyerity towatds 
eon Yakoob Khan, together \7itl1 one or two minor matters, and mA a 
complaint that we had not, as arbiters in tho case of Seistan, decided 
according to the view which he, one of tho parties, entertained. GClicro 
was not any evidence of serious meazung in his attempts to maka a 
market of these complaints. He exhibited to us no hostility.; for it was 
not a hostile act to restrain the movement, in tho interior of his 
dominions, of the subjects of a Power which had crueUy and wantonly 
desolated the country, "v^thin the memory of many living Ajfghascr. In. 
1874, Sir R. Pollock had an opportunity of learning througlf a con- 
fidential channel the stat^ of his feelings toward us ; and herciq)Gii lie 
acquamted tho Government of India that they wera in no rcexJect 
altered for the wprao. AH tho Ameer had done was to try, lito a epoiicd 
child, to get aa much as ho could out of our good- nature, , and to lay 
greater burdens on the willing horse. He littlo knew what a prico lie 
would have to pay for his incliscretibn. 

In X87G. XiOrd No^brook withdrew ; and the new Viceroy began too 
faithfully to givo effect to tho new ideas propagated from home. The 
Ameer had asked engagements, which impHed a greater intiioacy of 
relations. Tha present Grovemment, through Lord Lytton, declared ita 
readiness partially to meet his views in these respects ; but combined 
vith tho concession a variety of stipulations, which aro recorded in tho 
drafts given to guido Sir Lewis Pelly in his Peshawur ncgotiatioxus, and 
which would have placed his independence entirely at our mercy. The 
ordinary salutations of international intercourse would net suffice. The 
British Government was determined on nothing less than embiaeizigr 
the Ameer: but with .an embrace that -strangled him. lu the fore- 
g^und of these counter-demands, there £tood one stipulation which we 
made preliminary and indispensable, tiiat he should admit British 
officers i^to his dominions as Residents at various points. To any 
plan of this kind it was well known that he objected, and Lord Lawrencd 
has shown how reasonable his objections were; not only because he^ 
could not answer for the good treatment of our officers by his own 
people, but because as often as he turned his eyes towards India, he saw 
m scores of cases, that where Englishmen came in at que dpcr, there 
and then the independence, of Asiatic sovereignty went out at the other. 

The papeiis, so long unduly withheld from Parliament, cover an 
extended field ; in which those, for whom it is needful to ditrken or 
evade the i$sue, can discover plenty of bye-paths in which to dirport 
themselves. But the whole affair is summed up and brought to a head 
in the detailed conferences of Sir Lewis Pelly with the Ameer's Minister 
at Peshawmr during the early part of 1877. Here both parties, fully 
provided with instructions, declared in the most authentic manner the 
minds and intentions of their principals. And here the Ameer dis- 
covered, when too late, that the little grievances which, with a childish 
craft, he had magnified or pretended, nad brought upon him counter* 
eiactionS) which he regarded as fatal to himself %n4 to his conntiy. 


Extorttoner against extortioner, the strong one znost pveyail, and the 
weak one must go to the waIL His Minister attempted ta ezecnte hig 
change of front ; but it was too late. Producing the grieyanoes of the 
Ameer,"* he carefully excluded from them all reference to the unreason- 
able expectations about the succession and the guarantee. Assured 
that those forgotten and fictitious wants would be supplied, he camo 
face to face with what was, to him, the most real and most terrible of 
all exactions, the admission of British functionaries; and without this, 
he was told, he could not move a step in the negotiations. Not only so, 
butt that the promises given by Lord Mayo and by Lord Northbroo^, 
unless he complied ^th the demand would bo withdrawn. 

It is not often that diplomatic conferences have a pathetic aspect. 
But of the very few that have read theso Papers, hardly any, I should 
thiak, can withhold an emotion of pity from iho clover, but over* 
matched, representative of the Ameer. 

Kowhera is moro conspiououslyexhlbitodthj unquestioned possession 
of ths gianVs strength, and tho cynical determination to us3 it liko a 
giant. Again, and again, and again, the Asiatic Ikivoy entreats Sir Lewia 
PeQy to withdraw the stipulation, which ha ddclar^ to bo fraught with 
fatal peril to his country. All that the Ameer desires is to bo let alone, 
and to rest upon the Treaties, together with the promises of Lord Mayo 
and Lord Korthbrook. The agreement at UmbaUa, says iho Minister 
(p. 205), is sufficient so long as the Queen will let it remain intact and 
^able. *' TiH the time of the daparturo of Lord Northbrook^ that prc« 
vious coursd continued to bo pursued" (p. 206). "Lord Northbrook 
l^t the- ffiendship without change, in confonuity with the conduct cf 
hi& predecessors " (p. 208). The Ameer dssirad only "that tho usual 
friendship should remain firm upon Iho f or=iier footing " (p. 211). His 
former fears of Russia had disappeared ; Lord Northbrook "hiid thor- 
oughly reassured him " (p. 211). The sham or petty gnevances havo 
been put out of view: his desire only is that the Viceroy will, "with 
great frankness and sincerity of purpose, act in conformity with the 
course of past Viceroys*' (p. 213). But that is exactly what Lord Lyt- 
ton will not do. Wmle Parliament was assured at homo that there was 
no change in Indian policy, the trumpery complaints put forward from 
time to time by the Ameer, so long as he thought his standing ground 
was safe, were now mado to rls3 in judgment against him. Under the 
pretext of drawing the bonds of friend£&p closer, ho was required first 
and foremost to concede the admission of British Residents whoso pres- 
ence the Minister stated, eleven times over, would be dangerous or oven 
fatal to his independence. On his refusal, ho was told that ho must 
stand alone, andthat he was no longer to invoke the assurances cf the 
former Viceroys. But English support was to him as tho air he 
breathed, and the threat of its withdrawal was used as an in&trument of 
tortoie. In this singular negotiation, tha ruler of a thin and poor 

* Papers, p. 9(M. t Pcpcrs, p. 819. 


x^otuxtain poptdation in Vain straggleB through his Minister fo coj^-mtil 
the agent of an empire of three hundred miliidns. Before this agent he 
cowers and crouches, like a spaniel ready bound and awaiting the knife 
of the ▼irisector. It is no wonder if the Minister died of it. At any 
rate he died within a few days after the repulss. The Ameer, hopeless 
and helpless, stood utterly aghast. He sent off a new Agetit (p. 171), 
to continue the conferances, and, as was believed, to face all the future 
perils of the reqidred conoessions rather than incur the present desola- 
tion of the withdrawal of the English alliance. But the Viceroy ad- 
visedly put an end to th« Whole buraneiw. because the Ameer (ihftf.) had 
not shown an ** eagerness" to concede the t';rms which he conceived to 
bo pregnant with the ruin of his house and his country. 

Such was the mode in which the present Minierters pursued what they 
constantly announced as their policy ; to have, namely, on th€ii^|rontief 
a strong and friendly Affghanistan as a barrier against ilnssia. Wishing 
him t© be strong and friendly, they did, and they still are doing, every- 
thing which cobld make him weak and hostile. He stood between the 
two great Empires, like a pipkin (to use Lord Lylton'»? simile) between 
two iron pots. He had not substantive strength suffi/nent for self-sup- 
port, in his kingdom at once turbulent and wtak. H^ required to lean 
on some one ; and we acquainted him that he should not b^ aQowed to 
loan on us. Thus it was that, while we were in disturbed relations with 
Bussia as to European politics, we laid open for her, as f^r as policy 
could lay it open, the way, tlm>ugh Affghanistan, to our Eastern pos- 

Accordingly, Bussia did not trust to her military measures only, but 
detarmined io commit tho unfortunate Ameer, whom w© had tliown, 
CO to speak, ksto her hands. Her advances in 03ntral Asia have been 
put forward as tho excuse for our pressure upon tha Ameer. But she 
has made, so far as we aro informed, no advances at all since the annex- 
ation of Khokand in 1875 : and that advance has been far more than 
compensatad by tho establishment of the Persian authority at Merv, 
which has stopped her only practicable road. However, we kindly 
opened for her a diplomatic path ; and she bogan to press upon tho 
Ajneer the roception of a Bussian Mission. To such a Mission tho 
Amccr showed a great repugnance. But in Juno* ho was duly informed 
by General Kauffmann Uiat the misoion must be received. And wo 
have the efhrontery (for it is no hci) to maka this complaint agains j 
him, that, when ho was deprived of all promises of support from us, 
and cast into utter isolation, ho did not bid dofiancd to Kussia also by 
refusing to her I^voy an entranco into his dominions. 

But the Bussians, while they deprived the Ameer of choice in tho 
matter, proceeded like men in their senses, and did not disgrace him 
in the sight of his own subjects. Time was allowed for his decision. 
Leaving Tashkend in the end cf May, General StoletoJS waited *^for a 

* CcutTLl Afiioix Papers, I^o. 1, ii, IdO. 


iQonth" ai the teny oter the Oxns tratU the Affgban Bek unrlyecl who 
yrsa to be his eaeort* He croBsed it apparently in the beynning cf 
July ; and cmly seaohed CabiU (the exapt day is anoertain f) in tho cud 
of &e month. Now compare with this deferential caution our method 
of proceeding. On the 14th of August the Viceroy writes an imperloui 
letter to the Ameer^ ^rtoally commanding him to receive an RnglirCi 
Mission. Its delivery is deiayed« by the death of tho Amur's favorite 
son, unid the 12th of September (p. 237). Sir Neville Chamberlaia 
arrived at^ Peahawur (p. 23S) on the aome day ; and, with a gross 
indecency, of which th3 whole blame belongs to his suparior^ he pro- 
ceeded, before thero could be any reply fspm the Ameer, to communi- 
cate directly with his ^arvants. He was authorised at onco to acqusont 
the Hustafi ('J)'(L) tl^at ** the refusal ctf the free passaga v/ould bring 
iDAtters to an issuo;'* and on the 15th of September (p. 240.) Sir Neville 
Cbamberlain domEuided from the Commandant of the Fort of All 
Mnsjed ^' a dear reply'' whether he was prepared to *' guarantee the 
Bafe^ of tiid British Mission'' or not, as ^^ I ^annot delay my depaxture 
from Peshawur*" In ^kse of refusal or dels^y, he would act iadspend* 
(Qtly. The Ameer^ thus disgraced in the sight of his own servants and 
people, wocdd not (apx>arently) have sent instructionB if he could, but 
certainly could not if he would. These are hi0 words, reported by our 
own native Agent (p* 241); *^Itis as if they were come by force. I 
do not agpre^b to the Mission, coming, in this manner; ajod, until my 
oSccrs have received ordezp( from .me« how can the Hissiou come ? It 
i$ as if they wish to disgrace me." On the 21st the Mission was refused 
a passage by the AJS^ghan officers, for ihe insulted Ameer had sent them 
Lo iDstroetiona to grant it. Thus was got up by us the ^'aiFront" 
Trbich is pat f oirward in justification of a war as f ooUsh as. it is iniquit- 
oQs, and as iniquitous as it is foolish. The case is completed when we 
imd that the Ameer hod actuall;|r intimated (p. 242) that he would 
receive the Mission in a short time (p. 242): that our Agent recom* 
mended ''that the Mission should be held in abeyance " (p. 241), as the 
Busaian Mission, we have seen, with a studious respect for appearances, 
waited a whole month on the Oxus ; and, finally, tiiuit our Prime Minis- 
ter declared the object of our proceeding was to obtain a scientific 

Thus far we have been contemplating a pitiless display of I^Iight 
against Kght. Wo shall now see how the genuine buUy can crouch 
before his equaL Five days after the Viceroy addressed his high- 
handed letter te the Ameer, the Foreign Secretary despatched to St. 
Petersburg the expression of a categorical *' hope ** of tl^ Briti^ Gov- 
munent, equivalent to a demand, that the Bussian Mission, as incon- 
Eistent with the understanding between the two countries, would be at 
once withdrawn fromi CabuL$ Until the 8th of September, the Bussian 

■ I > _ I i n ■■ I ; H I ^1 I I . I ii.i II I II— li—i™ I I ll 

•OeatnlAsiaaPapers^Ko. 2,p.l4. tCovap. pp.18, 14».ll^ <* 

t Ceiitral Agi^ P*peK9» No. 1, Pr IfiO. 


Foreign Office managed to shift off its reply; and then unswered th&t 
r.3 a mission of simple courtesy, it was witiiin the onderstanding. In 
this roply the present Ministers appear at onoe to have acqoiesced. Iso 
notice is taken ol it, except in a letter to the Indian Office from the 
Forsign Office, whereat is complacently treated as fihowing that tbo 
understanding with Bnssia has *' recovered its -validity." The Mission, 
of which the immediate witbdravral had been desired, was justified by a 
shallow and transparent pretext; This pretext was accepted Tho 
Mission was not withdrawn, but the jdemand was. I do not know 
where to find, in onr modem history, sach an example of nndne and 
humiliating submissipn to a foreign GoYemment 

But when the facts became known by the publication of the papers 
on the SOth of Noyember, it was at once declared, on the part of the 
late Government, that a Russian Mission at Cabul was a departure from 
the agreement at which the two States had arrived, and that, however 
it might be justified when their relations were disturbed, it could cot 
otherwise be justified at aU. Under the ccmp^^lsdon created by this 
declaration, the Ministry has changed its course. On tiie 18th of 
December it at length announced that, T.'hen they learned the Eussian 
envoy had left Oabul, they supposed the Mission had 'gone too. And 
yet they well knew enough that the two things are perfectly distinct: 
that, for example, at the dose of the Conferences of Constantinople, 
every Foreign l^Onister left the Porte, and every Mission remained. 
Having accepted the hollow excuse of the Bussian Government, they 
presented one as hollow for themselves to Parliament and their countrj-. 
But, under compulsion, they now state they do not acquiesce in the 
continuance of a Bussian Mission at Cabtd. It remains to be seen 
whether Bassia will relieve them from their embarrassment by bring- 
ing her compliments to a close, and allowing the Mission to pack up 
and depart. Not improbably she may, if she thinks its presence there 
might render it more difficult for her to act upon her plan of leaying 
the Ameer to shift for himself under the difficulties in which she has 
helped, for her own purposes, to place him. But how are we to escape 
from the facts, that she has declared a mission of courtesy to be within 
the Clarendon understanding ; that her declaration has been receiTed 
without protest for three months ; and from the apparent consequence, 
^hat she has obtained, by the act of the present Ministers, a presump- 
tive title to send a " mission of courtesy " to Cabul when and as often 
as she pleases ? 

We have, then, sufficiently established the following propoatious :— 

1. The British Tories are the traditional and natural allies of Bussis, 
in the policy of absolutism which she commonly has followed in Con> 
tinental affairs. 

2. They only depart frOm her when, in the case of Turkish oppres- 
sion, she departs from herself, and is found fighting on the side of free- 
dom and humanity. ' ... 

8. In thus departing, they have so macnaged their resistante, that 


they have j^jed her game, f oxtiiled her pontioii, and h-ombled their 
couatry before her. 

When oar rojstsriiig pohttcians begin their preparations for the 
coming Election, ttfese propoedtions may afford them some instmction ; 
and may render a degree cif aid to the people In answering tiie great 
qnastion thej mUi^t then ahswer, tefiet/ter the premut mods f « the fnods 
m which thff whh ths country t)be governed. 

They wlH not, indeed, lack instmction from other souroes. In vain 
do3S tiie Minister of Finance escape for the hoar the payment of his 
just debis by postponing them as private spendthrifts nse to do; by 
"spreading" them over fntnre years ; and by borrowing the money of 
imporerished India, in which bat a year ago we were told that 1,400,000 
pereoDS died of famine, nntil the GoTemment can make np its mind 
vhethsr the war, which they hope is nearly oonohided, be one which 
shoold be paid for by England, or by its Eastern dependency, or by 
both. So stands the child before its doso of physic, and stmg^es for a 
few moments to pat off swallowing the draught ; which will be all the 
bitterer the long3r it is delayed. Und^r the pressure of a yast ezpendi- 
tnra. and in the thickened and nnwholesome atmosphere of a blustering, 
tnrbolent, and vacillating foreign policy, trade and industry obstinately 
refuse to revive, and suffering stalks through the land in forms and 
tneasores unknown to our m<>dem experience. In the scnreness of this 
pTdssnrd it is, and it was, almost forgotten that through the various 
departments of public action reform and improvement stagnate. But 
tlierd is one subject which not even now can be dropped from view. I 
uean the war that has been not proclaimed, indeed, but established in 
th^ country : the silent but active war against Parliamentary Gk)veni- 

The majority of the present House of Commons has, on more than 
one occasion, indicated its readiness to offer up, at the shrine of the 
GoTemment which it sustains, the most essential rights and privileges 
vHch it holds in trust for the people. The occupation and administra- 
tion of new territories, intended and admitted to involve large military 
(barge ; the assumption of joint governing rights, under circumstances 
of almost hopeless difficulty, over a range of territory which found room 
^or S3Teral of the greatest empires of antiquity ; the establishment of 
new pohcies, and Sie development of them into wars abhorrent to their 
coQntrymen ; all these things have been effected under the cloak of 
(deliberate and careful secrecy, which has been maintained with evident 
intention, and even with elaborate contrivance, to exclude the Parlia- 
ment and the nation from all influence upon the results. The greatest 
encouragement has been afforded to a renewal of these experiments ; 
for when at length they have become known, they have been accepted 
in Parliament v^th greedy approval, with that eagerness to be immo- 
^ed which even an Ameer of Affghanistan failed to show. 

^hen at length the House of Commons is allowed or invited to dis- 
^the great acts of the Groveznment, information of vitaj importance 


to a jxuigineut upon them is still withheld. TbnS) at the close of last 
July, on the motion of Lord Hartington, they debated, with the TreBty 
of Berlin, the Anglo^Turkieh Convention. Jji that OonTention, heeides 
the giros9 breach of the Treaty of Paris in 'whidt it 'was based, the 
secrecy and haste with^rhich it was concluded — because of the fear, ^s 
Mr. Bourke candidly declared, that, if time and publicity were given, 
the Sultan would refuse to sign— and the onerous and hardly conceiv- 
able eingagenbents for the defence and government of the whole of 
Asiatic Turkey, there was one other essential considc ration : its ten- 
dency to disturb our good understanding with friendly Powers, and 
especially with France. The wrong done to France by the Convention 
was strongly insisted on in the debate. But it seemed almost frivolous 
to dwell upon this topic in its several branches, when France herself 
was mute. And mute the House was Allowed to euppose her. Net 
until we had passed weU into the Parliamentary recess, a Correspond- 
ence was published from which it had appeared that France had taken 
the alarm, and that, on the 21st of July, Mr. Waddington had addressed 
to the British Government a despatch of expostulation and* remon- 
strance, the existence of v/Mch was carefully concealed from Parliament 
during the debate. 

It is not^ hov/over, over the War-making and Treaty-making powers 
alone that the majority of the present House of Commons havo dx>ne them lay to forego their controL Even on their exdusive tax- 
ing privileges, and on their legislative powers, they seem to set no 
higher value. On the evening of the 17th of December, they voted 
that the revenues of India, or rather the money of India, for there is no 
revenue of the year applicable for the purpose, should be applicable to 
defray the expenses of the Affghan "War. Under the authority of that 
vote, and of the corresponding vote in the Housa of Lords, the moneys 
of India may l>e so apphed without any limit either of time or cf 
amount- Should tho expenses rise beyond those of the first Affghan 
Tv'ar, which is 6txt:d to have cost thirty millions ; should the s ries of 
operations last, a3 they then lasted, over some four years. Parliament 
has no moro to say to it; (ho Houses havo parted with their power, 
once for all, into tho handa of the Executive Government. 

But this is not all. In this unfaithfulness to India (for such it s;cmL; 
Is in volvGcl an abdication of the Parliamentary control over British en 
pendlturo. Per it was declared on the part of the Government, by th"» 
leader cf tho Houso of Commons, that they could not as yet make vp 
their mind whether any, or if any, what proportion, of the chargo cf 
tho war should be d of rayed by the Imperial TreaEury ; but that they 
would do EO hereafter. The vote of Tuesday night was therefcro 
passed, in order to constituts in the Government an authority for an 
cxpenditura on the Affghan War without any Umit of time or of 
amount, and this under full notice that an imknown proportion of that 
expenditure might hereafter be demanded of them from the purse of 
<^3 English pecplo. About as well might tho House cf Commons, in- 

THK l'ltIE3n)S AND FOfiS OF BtiS^fA. \lil 

stoAd of TOting fhd Army Estiinatds from year to year, Btmply conftldtato 
a power of charge in the name of the Administration ; and then wait 
until, in some ^tore year, it shonld be called upon, when tho money 
had been Bpen% to set&e the aooottnt in the lump by a vote of ratifica- 
tion. • 

Not less remarkable Is the disrespect exhibited by tho presdut Gov- 
cmment to the legiedatiTe office of the Lord» and Commons of tho 
Fnitsd Kingdom. Of this Sir Alexander Qotdon« on tho 13th of 
Decemb^, pointed oat in his place in Pariiam«iit the following note* 
worthy instance : — 

On the 28th of February, 1876,* Lord 8alisbary instraoted Lord 
Lytton as follows : — 

The Qaeen's ns^nmption of the Iniperinl title in relation to her Mcjaety's Indian 
'objects, fendatoritifl, and allied, will now for the flrst time coopplcoonsly transfor to 
hor ladfan domintoDt \o form us well m fn fact the cmpreme ambority ot the Indian 
Enipiru. /^ irtU therefore be <ms qf your tarlioit duties ta nUi/y tn the Amur q/ 
Afgluinisian and the Khan of Khelat your aasumpUon of the viceregal undef 
th^s-"- mw eondUions^ 

Now the Qnsen assumed the dignity of Emx^ress of 'India under tho 
Royal Titles Act of 1876. At the time when the Ministry gave these 
presumptuous instructions, that Act had not passed. Even of the Bill, 
the House of Lords had had no cognisance whatever ; and the House oif 
Clommons had expressed no judgment on its merits, which were much 
contested. It had just been brought in, on the 21st of February. It 
vas not read a second time till the 9th of March. It did not receive 
the Koyal ass3nt till the 27th of April, two months after Lord Salisbury 
M written to Lord Lytton his instructions for acting upon it. It 
must indeed be gratifying to those members of the House of Commons, 
who confide in the wisdom of the Grovemment, to witness the recipro- 
cal confidence which that Grovemment reposes in their docility. 

Domestic policy, then, as well as foreign, and that which Ues deeper 
ihanany policy, the essential principle of ParUamentary government, 
will have to b3 considered and determined at the coming Election by 
the nation. But one word more as regards that foreign policy. The 
The standing motto of Liberalism is friendship with every country ; as 
it was indeed of Toryism, until the new-fangled Toryism of the day, 
not less turbulent than it is superstitious, came into v/3gue. Liberalism 
bas disapproved, and must disapprove, that antagonism to freedom 
which has commonly marked the continental policy of Kussia, almost 
chough not quite aS much as that of Austria ; a State which, unlike 
lUa,. has perhaps never once been led astray by any accident, into a 
snnpafhy with* external freedom. But the braggart language, the 
unseemly suspicions, the one-sided moral laws, Sie fierce national 
antipathies, which so many writers among us have been labouring to 
cherish, are as truly alien to the spirit of true Liberalism, as is tyranny 
itselt Kot only is the true fraternity of nations a great article of the 

* A%haii Papers, p. 166, 


liberal creed, but, as a creed cf justice, it reqnirea that the proceedings 
cf Govemmenta, and of despotic as well as free ^rovemments, should 
be received and judged in a spirit cf equity no kss^than of caution. It 
further demands that, in Iho administration cf oui* foreign affairs, and 
• in tho firm dafence ef our interests as well as pur honour, neither 
wonaanish alarais at every rustling breeze, nor ra mean and selfisli 
egotism, should ba su^ered to preTail. Probably if Liberal writers and 
statesmen wero called upon to declaro whiit Foreign "Minister, "vh?s 
peiiod cf , policy abroad, they thought to be the very best iinages cf 
principles truly English, they might point to the period and the persou 
of Mr. Oasuung. I have sordy shaken ^e nerves of- some by holding 
that we ought to imitate Kussia (as I would imitate ^ho worst Govern- 
ments, either foreign or domestic, that history could produce) in its 
good deeds. It seems that even a truism, which is all but vapid, can 
terrify the morbid mind. But I must add another truism, at the rlsli 
of exciting similar terror. In determining what deeds of Bussia, or 
any other country, are good, and what are bad, we must be governed by 
the same rules of evidence, and the same laws of justice, as we apply in 
considering our own. What, for the happiness of mankind, requires, 
both here and elsewhere, to be exorcised, is that spirit of unconsidering 
selfishness which, and which almost alone, makes this smiHng world 
into a world of woe. As to the disregard of our true British interests, 
which is often so freely charged, it will be time enough to weigh and 
confute the imputation, when so -much as a single case can be gathered 
from the page of history, in which a coimtry has been injured through 
a mere deficiency of regard to its own welfare. It is the excess ,of that 
sentiment, involving as it always involves its misdirection, which 
through all generations has marred the fairest prospects of humanity : 
and which yet will mar them. 

W. E. GiiABSTONB, in Nineteenth Century. 
Pbcxmbeb, 22, 1878. 



It wotild hAve been nothing yery extraardinary thotigli Shellejr had 
been still alive ; so far, that is, as a man and his human life maybe judged 
from an oidinaiy estimate. Had he been liying now, the poet Would 
haye been considgpably younger than many people one knows, whos? 
y3ars, moTeover, do Qot of themselves neoessaiily indicate a speedy tiloes 
of life. Shelley would have been, by this time, on old man, certainlT, 
but he would not have been much older than Mr. Garlyle, who can stiU 
travel to Scotland when he is inclined, or write lexers to the newspapers 
on current politics. Then it was only the other day that one, whose 
vigorous manhood wlu3 contemporary with Shelley^s, passed away in the 
g&ad and interesting Barry Cornwall. Mr. B. H. Home is still active, 
though full of years, and both Mr. P. J. Bailay and Sir Heniy Taylor 
virtually belonged to the generation that knew Shelley. He would have 
been eighty-five, or rther^y, had he lived to the present year, which 
indeed has ssen David Leong' pass away at just &&t patnarchal ago. 
Yet it is wearing on to sixty years since Shellay's tragic end, while bio- 
graphers and critics -have long been busy with himself and his writings, 
and the antiquaries are now engaged with probable relics of his furni- 

For over half, a century, then, the question has been agitated as to 
6heUey*s place as a poet. It has generally been allowed that he was a 
man of no ordinary power ; while a few nave studied him faithfully, 
and a majority, as usual, has given a verdict in utt sr ignorance of tho 
merits of tide case. He has been overrated and he has been underrated, 
belauded and maligned, feared and worshipped, and misrepresented. 
As usual, thos3 who condemn him most readily, and most thoroughly, 
are those that know least about him ; while it must be added that among 
big warmest admirers are tho83 whose admiration is challenged by the 
wrong things, or is pitched in a falsetto key. All this indicates that 
there must be something mora than ordinary about Shelley — something 
that raises him quit3 out of and above the crowd of human agents, and 
Eomething that makes him peculiar even among English men of letters. 
It is not a common thing to find a number of able thinkers puzzling 
themselves, and starting theories, and making mistakes soon to be recti- 
fied—condemning, and praising, and excusing, and expounding — all in 
connection with a mere soldier in life's great battle, who has fought the 
nsual fight and got done with ft. Shelley must have been an uncom- 
mon man before his personality should postulate such an uncommon 
interest, and give rise to so much criticism, at once tentative, warm, and 
contradictory. We seem to have got at the right distance frdm him to 
warrant something like a definite estimate of his vital worth : of what 
he was in himself, and' what he did for 1 teratm'o. Yet, as has already 

* C1S3) 


been said, tho poet, in the matter of length of years, might still have 
been with ns ; and it is ol fact that Captain Trelavny, who was one cf 
the close companions of his last days, is not only still olive, but has this 
year re-written the book containing his impressions of Shelley and 

At the very outset, then, the diffieulty meets us, as to whether it is 
altogether fair to judge of Shelley from what it was given him to do in 
his short span of thirty yeaa». When we think of wha^other eminent men 
might have been had they died so young — Chaucer, Milton, Wordsworth, 
Scotty oven Shakspeare himself — ^wo arc inclined to pause before givmg 
judgment. Chaucer, without his ^* Canterbury Tales;'* Milton, witli 
no *^ Paradise Lost;** Thomas Carlylo, merely as a translator and bio- 
graphical essayist, xfen ind3ed but striplings compared v/ith the men 
whan displa3ring their full complemect of results. Had Shelley, too, 
lived even to tho throescorj ycara of Chaucer, what,- with'fiis cnormons 
assimilative faculty, his singular introspective power, his strength of 
creative energy, might he not have done? Judging from ** Prometheus 
Hinbound " and tho * ^ Cend, " it seems not an unfair inference to make that 
Chelley, with matmrod and disciplined experience, had it in him to stand 
abreast of the foremost Elizabethans. On the other hand, however, it 
is impossible to overlook the nature of his unique development, as far 
as it went. He defies any convenient theory of averages ; he wiU not 
brook to be judged in relation to an ordinary criterion. It is quite pos- 
sible to consider him middle-aged, in some respects, while just emerg- 
ing from his teens, and to aver that his intellectual maturity wasreachtd 
and over bsforo his early death. Shelley, at twenty-two, had spiritual 
Insight and- grasp of understanding that might have served a superior 
nature at forty ; and Shellsy, at tv/enty-nino, was as far from concen- 
tration of purposo, from sanity cf outlook, and from practical sagacity 
as any schoolboy not utilised by Lord Macaulay. 

On the score of gr.^t personal intensity and rapt enthuaasnl for his 
ideal, of a certain frenzy of Platonic santiment, and of bright and pnre 
melodious oipression, Shelley's death, before reaching the ordinary 
years of maturity, was a gr,::at Wow to tholiteratura of his country ; bnt 
m BO far as ho secmad likely to add dignity to the national poetry, io 
furnish frash aesthetic mat&rial, or to contribute a new impulse to socml 
rogeneration, the poet seemed to have done his best and his worst. Aa 
a v/orker in poetic transcendentalism he had probably not reached per- 
fection ; as an individual he might have grown and expanded for tho^o 
about him and directiy couQemed with his character and conduct, while 
it is hardly probable tiiat his general influence would have gained by 
bngth cf days. Even on the ** unworldly " hypoth?6is of his admirer--, 
this seems a perf ectiy legitimate conclusion to draw ; for, if a man at 
thirty has no better sociological theories than Shelley had, when, in- 
deed, is ho likely to have them? The truth appears- to be, that if f:^^ 
poet is not to be charged with moral insanity, he must be let oS wit!) 
social puerility aiid. a marvellous poetic licence. ]^. Symonds, froiA 


the lofty ffisthetioal Btasdpoint he takes, along with other devotees, be- 
wails toad eondemns the attitude of some of the leading cn'tios among 
Shelley's contemporaries, but in doing so he overlooks the fact that 
critics, eren when considering poetry, deal with assumed human beings, 
and not with essential or possible demigods. How should a * * Quarterly " 
BeTiewer, in reading ^* Queen. Mab " or **Laon and Oythnia,*' be in a 
ppsition to know that the author ^ss not amenable to average social law, 
to say nothing of civilization or common decency ? It is all very well 
after the lapse of sixty years to reduce moral chaos within the elastic 
str3tch and grasp of a fine frenzy ; it is quite a different thing to fef 1 
that it nMiy taint existing conditions to the core. Were it not that ideal- 
ism, even of the kind in which Shelley ravels, stands so greatly in need 
of commonplace material and outward 8ymb<^, it might be possible for 
happy majorities to rejoice in it ; but as matters stand there is no de- 
nying that it is quite beyond the &3Bthetic attainment of the aventge Eng- 
lishman. And thus if Sh3ll3y's suj^am 3 reverence for liberty was Ukely to 
dsvelope in the direction it had steadily held for years, there seems no 
harshness to his memory in saying that th3 world had quits enough of 
it. As a social reformer tha poit was not likely to have much success, 
even if privileged with a lengiU of days that would have classed him 
With ths old3st. patriarch. In /o far as hs advocated a theory of liberty, 
Shelley may safely be put to '>ae sida a j tmprofitable, and what remains 
of him for considjration will be tha Bf ) h.7 l.d and the poetry he wrote. 
Now both aro so bound ux> with his theories that it is difficult to con« 
&id9r thsm apart. It is not possible, for instance, to dv^fend his treat- 
ment of his first wif 3, and ther3 ^r3 features in all his Lading poems 
which would seem to bo beyond the r^ch of even the tend«rest genftr- 
osity. Mr. Symonds, tW>agh an ardent admirer, is not quite a blind 
davotse of th3 poot, pjid he is willing to admit that extraordinary en«. 
thusiasm ^nd imperfect exparience may have induced outrageous 
'blunders. In referance to th3 painful circumstances connected with 
Harriet, he looks from a mush loftier and manlier standpoint than, for 
example, Mr. W. M. Hosatti, whos3 attempted palhation of the poet's 
conduct is nothing short of vulgar bravado ; but Mr. Symonds, also, is 
jnst too anxicas to overlo<^ the patmt fajts of the case. He is very 
hopeful that a statement yet to be mad 3 will shed an entirely new light 
upon the mattar, if not, indeed, wholly exculpate the apparenfly erring 
husband. An ordinary onlooker cannot but wond?r that such extenu- 
ating account has not been mads long ere now. Harriet could hardly be 
madj WOIS3 thai partial biographers have alriady made her, and there 
is certainly room for brightening the .memory of Shelley. In a word, 
if such things in the liv3s of great men are to be discussed at ail, they 
must be brought to th3 bar of common sans 3, and estimated according 
to recognised social law. Little good can be done by such criticisms as 
those, on tb.d one hand, of Dr. Johnson and De Quincey rosp acting 
Milton and Goethe, or those of Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Michael Bosatti 
touching K^ rdu and Shelley,' on the oth^. Readers of what th3 poets 


have left wonld rather dispense -with emoh special pleading, ancl^ inc!t:d 
(were it possible), forget fiie untoward facto altogether. Mr. Bymonds, 
in his narrative, has succeeded in fairly establishing one thing, and that 
is, that, so far as can be made out, the first Mrs. Shelley wua not an 
unworthy wife of her extraordinary husband. He has also shewn that, 
through the poef s incessant quest aft^ a Fair Ideal, even the second 
wife was perilously near a crisis. But the poeVs mind was disabusedin 
time, and circumstances favoured a return to comparative sauity. 

All this would not be worth dwelling on at all, were it not connected 
more or less intimately, with Shelley's poetry. For, after all, that is 
the main thing about the man of vital interest to this and all coming 
generations. If he has left anything worth reading ; if it is safe to read 
it ; if our wives and sistsrs could profit by the study of it, as well a3 
ourselves ; if, in short, he has contributed to literature anything that is 
worth preserving, then by all means let due credit be given. We are 
probably, at present, just too much inclined to philosophise Over our 
men of letters. Esthetic criticism is prone to discover what was ne>er 
from the first in tha writer's intention: it starts with a theory, and 
speedily turns out, by a process of ingenious reconciliation, a beautiful 
symmetrical unity. This habit has become so inveterate, that there 
seems a risk of great ancients shading oS into sun-myths, and criticiEni 
toning down into a system of ideas. Now Shelley would make a prime 
sun-myth, and his poems could b^made to encompass him with varyicg 
degrees of splendour, till the aggregate glory would be cf a kind not to 
be approached by ordinary methods cif interpretaticn. Meanwhile, 
howevel", there arj rcad«.rs of verse to whom sueh «esthetical consider- 
ations are unpalatabb, and there are very many others to whom they 
are as nothing and vanity. What is to be done with these in presence 
of work Uke Shelley's ? They will undoubtedly come to the conclusicu 
that his tone is oft-times depraved, and his etlucs unwholesome, and it 
will be extremely difficult for even the ablest apologist to prove them 
wrong. Mr. Symonds says that tho poet's theories about individual 
liberty took such hold of him, that, in his ardent advocacy, he went to 
the extremes that in his heart of hearts ho had no desire to defend. 
That may have been, but if it is the case it simply c mphasiscs the chargj 
of puerility and inexperience that comes so readily to Land against 
Shelley. If he was so innocent as not to know that others besides hiv2- 
self took an interest in social problems, then perhaps he was warranted 
in giving poetic shape to thoughts that wHl, on the first blush, challeng: 
the contempt they deserve. Some of his finest poetry is so sadlv 
tainted that it will not bear reading except by professed Btudents of 
verse, while it is only fair to add that it is quite an education in numberj 
to listen to his firm well-defined beat, and an elevation of soul to bj 
held spell-bound by his harmonies. Let any-one read, for instance, tliJ 
first fifteen stanzas of the first canto of the **Beyolt of Islam," and eaj 
whether the man that provided such work — such a sweep of landK^pe, 
such depth of colour, suoh ease and breadth of detail and distance cf 


perspective — were or were not a poetical soaker of wholly exoeptional 
calibre and resource ! 

*' And now Ms Kkc all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flate ; 
And now it is an angel's voice, 

That bids tbe lieavens be mute ! ** 

But let tihe same reader advance throagh the poem, and the likelihood 
will be that, if he appreciates the poetic beauty aright, he will regret 
that it shonld have been, through moral perversity, little other than 
thrown away. It is a pity that so much of Shelley*s poetry should illus- 
trate the incongruous union of " Beauty and the Beast. For, what- 
ever a poet may be advocating, he is fully entitled to his own opinion 
so long as he does not insult the native dignity of manhood. The day 
has gone past for ^ondamning a man's philosophy of SBsthetics, simply 
because ha is of a different political creed from Ms critic, but the time 
is surely yet far distant — nay, hopelessly remote, when he shall bo hailed 
as a public bsnefaotor who shall glorify Gatilline*s young men, or advo- 
cate the luiiversal reign of Girco. At this point, then, it is necessary to 
draw a sharp lin3 in referenca to Shelley. Mr. Symonds acknowledges 
this, and what he says is very much to the point. He carefnUy dis- 
tinguishes Ids purely poetical quality, from his attitude as a theorist, 
though indeed he is somswhat lenient in his d tailed criticism. But 
few will demur such a general estimate as the following, when they re- 
call the lyrical of the **^Thj Skylark'' and *'The Cloud," of the "Ode 
to th3 West Wind,*' and the ** Lines Written amon^ the Euganean Hills," 
as well the majesty of movement that characterises the larger works, 
apart from the question of their substantial and theoretical vcdue. '* In 
range of power," says Mr. Symonds, **h9 was also conspicuous above 
the. rest Not only did ha write the best lyrics, but the best tragedy, 
the best translations, and the best familiar poems of his century. As a 
Batirist and humorist, I cannot place him so high as some of his ad- 
mirers do ; and the purely polemical portions of his poems, those in 
which he puts forth his antagonism to tyrants and religions, and custom 
in an its myriad forms, seem to me to degeneratD at intervals into poor 
rhetoric." In the " Adonais," which is in many respects so tender and 
sweet and touching, there is much that draws one to SheUey in an atti- 
tude of respectful affection. There is singular pathos— a nota that 
reaches the finer chords of emction—is that implied wail for sympathy 
that strikes through tha stanzas on Himself. 

" 'Midst others of less note came one frail form, 

.A phantom among men, companionlesa 
As tne last clond of an expirinsstonn 

Whose thouder is its knell. He, as I gaess. 

Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness. 
Actaeon-like ; and now he fled astray 

With feeble steps o'er the world's wildemesG, 
And his own thoughts along that rugged way, 
Piusaed like raging hounds their father and thoif prey.** 

Thoicas Bay2^, iii St, Jamst^ MosffaiinOm 


' London, — the opulent, the magnificent, the illnstrioas ; or the equalicl, 
the mean, the degraded, regarded now from the standpoint of St. 
Jameses and now from that of St Giles's, — though oft described, isya 
indescribable. No other city in the world has ever beheld the tamj 
vast concentration of interests, the same aggregate of wealth, the Bam 3 
triumphs of civilisation. As a distinguished French writer has remarked, 
if we enter London by water, we see an accumulation of toil and Vrork 
which has no equal on this planet. The intellect of Greece and th: 
power of Boma find hero their modern rival developments. ** Paris, bv 
comparison, is but an elegant city of pleasure; the Seine, with iU 
quays, a pretty, serviceable plaything. Marseilles, Bordeaux, Amster- 
dam, famish no idea of such a mass. From Greenwich to London tlio 
two shores are a continuous wharf : merchandise is always being pikii 
up, sacks hoisted, ships moored ; ever now warehouses for copper, beer, 
ropework, tar, chemicalg. Docks, timber yards, calking^ basins, and 
shipbuilders* yards, multiply and increaso on each other. On the left, 
there is the iron framework of a church being finished, to be sent to 
Lidia. The Thames is a mile broad, and is but a populous street of 
vessels, a winding workyard. Steamboats, sailing vessels, ascend and 
descend, come to anchor in groups of tv/o, three, ten, then in long files, 
then in dense rows ; there are fivo or si^ thousand of them at anchor. 
On the right, the docks, like so many intricate maritime streets, disgorgo 
or store up tho vessels. If we get on a height we see vessels in the dis- 
tance by hundreds and thousands, fixed as if on the land ; their masts in 
a line^ their slender rigging, mak3 a spider web which girdles the horizon. 
If we enter one of these docks, the impression will be yet more over- 
whelming ; each resembles a town ; always ships, still more ships, in a 
line showing their heaclj ; their wide sides, their copper chests, like men 
Btrous fishes under their br^astplato of scales. " As far as the eye can see 
London looms before us, colossal, sombre as a picture by Rembrandt. 
*' Tha universe tends to this centre. Like a heart to which blood flows, 
and from which it pours, monev, goods, business arrive hither from tho 
four quarters of tho globe, and now thence to the distant poles." London 
is tho eye of tha world. Begarded from a myriad aspect, it still otgt- 
awes U3 by its unreaUsable dimensions. It is the city of extremes — tho 
home of tha obscure and the great ; — ^it ministers to the humility of tla 
one and affords ooope to the loftiest ambition of the other. '^'iMitn 
n man ia tired of London,*' said Dr. Johnson on one occasion to Boswell, 
^' ho is tired of lifo ; for there is in London all that life can afiord.'* 
And again ; — '* Cir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of 
this city, you must not bo Eatisfied with seeing its gfeat streets and 



tiqnares, but mxist Bnrvej tbc innumerablo littlo lanes and oouxts. It as 
not in the showy eTolutions of buUduigs, bat in the mukiplicity of 
human habitations which are crowded together, that tho wonderful im- 
menisity of London consisti;;." Charles Lamb, writing to V/ordsworth, 
said : — " I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as 
many and as intens3 local attstchmenta as any of your moimtalneers can 
have done with dead natoro. I often ched t'cara in iho motley Strand 
from fnlness of joy at so much lif o«" CoTTpcr also, in hi^ quiet retird* 
Dent at Olney, asked : — i 

Wharo Imis FloasiiTe snch a flcM, 
So rich, f^o thi-ougiid, fo drained, bo well capidltd. 
As Loudon— opnfnut. enlarged, and still 
IncreaeiDg Loudon ? 

Ilera, indaed, is a boundless field for tiio arohzeologist, the num of 
letters, the historian, the antiquarian, and other investigators in a 
thousand fields of knowledge. It is the London of Ghauoer^ Shakspeare, 
Milton« and Johnson ;^ the London cf kings and statesmen ; the London 
of po3ts» philosophers, merohants, philanti^ropists, martyrs, and patriots. 

Such ar3 a few general and abstract views from the limitless variety ^ 
which might be taken of this mighty centre of the universi. Nor are the 
aetnil and concreta facts which have b3en compiled upon the magnitude 
cf London less surprising, and they will enable us to term a more . ade- 
niiat3 conception of the city. From the computations of authorities, it 
appears that London (with all itd suburhs) covers within the fifteen 
miles^ radius of Charing Cross nearly seven laundrcd equnre miles. It 
uimibers within thesa boundaries over four millions of inhabitants. It 
contains mora couutry-born persona than tho counties of Devon and 
Gloueestsr combined, or thirty-saven per cent, of its entlr j population. 
Every four minutes a birth takas. plasd ia 1-ij metropolis, and every 
sii minutes a daath. Within th3 ciralo already named there are 
ail3d to tll*3 population two huadrid and fiva p3rson3 every day, 
and B3venty-five thou^nd annually. London hai seven thousand 
miles of streets, and on an average twenty-eight miles of new 
Ktr^ets are opened, and nin^ thousand new hous'^a built, every, 
year. .One thousand ves83l8 and nine thousand sailors are in its. 
port every day. Its crime is also in proportion to it^ extent. Seventy- 
three thousand persons aT3 annually taken into custody by the police, 
and mprd than one-third of all the crime in the country is committed 
within its borders. Thirty-eight thousand p-^rsons are annually com- 
mitted for druokenness by its magistrates. The metropolis comprises 
lOQsiderably upwards of one hundred thousand foreigners from every 
(joarter of the globe. It contains more Roman Catholics than Borne 
itsilf, more Jews than the whole of Palsstine. mora Irish than Belfast, 
more Scotchmen t!:2an Aberdeen, and more Welshmen than Cardiff. Its 
)>eershops and gin palaces are so numerous, that their frontages, if 
pHced side by side, would str ^tch from OharinjT Cross to Chichester, a 
distance of si^ty-two miles. If all the dwellings in London could thus 


LxiTc tlicir frontagas placed Bids bj rade, they would extetid beyocd the 
citj cf Yodc London has sufficient panpeis to occupy every botiRe in 
Brighton. The society which advocates the ceseation of Bonday labour 
wHl bd astonished to learn that sixty miles of shops are open every Sun- 
day. With regard to churches and chapels, the Bishop of Ix>ndon, ex. 
amined before a Committee of the House of Lcrds in the year 1840, 
Gaid : — " If you proceed a mile or two eastward of Ct Paul's, you will 
find yourself in the midst of a population the most wretched and desli- 
tute of mankind, consisting of artificers, labourers, beggars acd thieve r . 
to the amount of 300,000 or 400,000 souk. Throu^cui this rntL.^ 
quarter ther3 is not more than one church for every 10,000 ixJiabitants 
and in two districts there is but one church for 4i>.(.C0 eouIs." In ISSJ* 
Lord John Russ3U stated! in Parliament, that London, with thirty-fcn 
parishes, and a population cf 1.1 70, COO, had church accommodation fo . 
only 101,000, These and other rtatistics furnished ltd to the ** Metro 
polls Churches Fund," established in 18oG, which has been followed Vr 
the Bishop of London's Fund. It is still computed, however, that ^' < 
least one thousand new churches and chapels are required in the metre. . 

London was inwalled in the year SCG a. n. Such is the date assigne/ 
by Stow, who says that the walls were built by Helena, mother of Con 
stantine the Gireat ; and it is now generally accepted that the work wa" 
accomplished in the fourth century. ' These walls were upwards of tM < 
miles in circumference, and were marked at the principal points by th< 
gr:at gates of Aldgate, Bishopsgate, Cripplegate, Aldersgate, and Lnd 
gate. Fragments of the old walls are still to be seen. Modem Londoii 
was built at an elevation of 15 feet higher than the London of th^ 
Bomaus. Within the space of thirty years no fewer than two thousand 
Boman coins have been r-^covered from the bed of the Thanhs. Bag- 
ford says there was a temple of Diana on the south side of. St Paul's. 
"With regard to the gates of London, it appears that Ludgato was taken 
down and rebuilt by Elizabeth at a cost cf 1,500^. As the other gates be- 
came dilapitatad, they wer^ pulled down and the materials sold. Thus, 
when Aldgate was demolished, the materials were sold for 157Z. 10«. ; 
tho83 of Ludgate fetched 148?. ; and those of Cripplegate 91^. 

It is a curious fact that London does not appear in Dofjiesffay Book 
This r3Cord — which is so accurate with regard to other towns and cities 
—only mentions a vineyard in Holbom belonging to the Crown, and 
ten acr*^8 of land near Bishopsgate belonging to the Dean and Chapt*^r 
of St. Paul*8. The account of Middlesex, however, is complete : asd 
from this and other circumstances it has been naturally conjectured that 
a distinct and independent survey of London was made, which has 
b'jen lost or destroyed, if it does not exist among the unexplored ar- 
chives of the Crown. We get a graphic picture, nevertheless, of early 
London in the pages of the monk Fitz-Stephen. William Btephanides, 
or Fit7-.8tephen, a monk of Canterbury, was bom in London. He lived 
in the reigns of King Stephen, Henry II,, and Eichard I., dying in the 


year 1191, He wrote a description of his native city in Latin. ** Lon- 
don," he remarks, /'like Borne, is divided into wards; it has annnal 
Bheriffs instead of oonsals; it has an order of senators and inferior 
magistratss, and also sewers and aqueducts in its streets ; each class of 
suits, whether of the deliberative, damonstrative, or judicial kind, has 
its appropriate pkice and proper court ; on stated days it has its assem- 
bliea I think that there is no city in which morj approved customs 
are observed — ^in attending churches, honouring God's ordinances, keep- 
ing festivals, giving alms, raceivijig strangers, confirming espousals, 
contracting marriages, celebrating weddings, prc'paring entertainments, 
welcoming guests, and also in the arrangement of the funeral ceremoniis 
and the burial of the dc^ad. The only inconveniences of London aro, 
the immoderate drinking of foolish persons and the frequents fires. '* 
The 6am3 chronicler, detailing the sports pursued in grounds and 
marshes now dens3ly peopled with hihabitaiits, says:-^" Cytherea 
leads the dances of the maidans, who merrily trip along the grounl 
beneath the uprisen moon. Almost on every holiday in wiut r, bef or i 
dinner, foaniing boars and hug3-tusked hogs, intended for bacon, fight 
for their lives, or fat bulls or immense boars are Imited %vitli dog3. 
When that great marsh which washes the walls of the city on the nortli 
side is frozen over, the young men go out in crowds to divert thomselvoa 
upon the ice. Some having increased their velocity by a run, placing 
their feet apart, and throwing their bodies sideways, slide a graat way ; 
otheiB make a seat of large pieces of ice like miUstones, and a gr^iiit 
munber of tbem, mnning before and holding each other by the haiicT, 
draw one of their companions who is seated on the ice ; if at any tim 3 
they slip in moving so swiftly, they all fall down headlong tog 2 the ~. 
Others are more expert in their sports upon the ice, for, fitting to a„ 1 
binding under their feet the shin-bones of soma animal, and taking i 1 
their hands poles shod with iron, which at times they strike agjiinst t"L > 
ice, they are carried along with as great rapid" ty as a bird flying, cr a 
bolt discharged from a cross-bow. Sometimes two of the skater.^, havin;; 
placed themselves at a great distance apart l^y mutual agraemei:^, con.o 
together from c^posite sidefiT; they meet, raise their poles, and fitr:2:3 
each other ; either one or both of them fall, not without some bodily 
hnrt : even after their fall they are carried along to a great distanc 3 
trom each other by the velocity of the motion ; and whatever part of 
their heads comes in contact with the ice is laid bare to the very i±z.'S^ 
Very frequently the leg or arm of th3 falling party, if ho chance to l:g-t 
npon either of them, is broken. But youth is an ago eager for glcrj 
and desirous of victory, and so young men engage in counterfeit battles 
that they may conduct themselves mor j valiantly in real ones. Most of 1 
the citizens amuse themselves in sporting with merlins, hawks, and 
other birds of a Uke kind, and also vath dogs that hunt in t'lo woods. 
The citizens have the right of hunting in IViiddlesex, Hertfordshire, all 
the Chiltems, and Kent as far a3 tho River Cray." Such v/cro tli© 
^creations of Londoners nearly s'vii centuries ar;o. 

L. M — I.— 6. 


The first circmnBtantial mention of the rights of the city of Liondon 
is m a charter of Henry L Some of these privileges have since been 
modified : as, for example, the exemption of the citizens from going to 
-war; their freedom from all tolls, duties, and customs tbronghont the 
realm ; and the privilege of hunting in C^ltre, Middlesex, and Surrey, 
which was compounded for by "a day's frolic at Epping.** Other 
rights have been lost entirely, as that of summary execution against the 
goods of debtors without the walls. The citizens, however, continued 
to be exempted from having soldiers or any of the king's livery quar- 
tered upon them. Henry I. sold to the citizens of London, for an 
annual rent of 300^. in perpetuity, the shrievalty of Middlesex. At that 
time, com sufficient for a day's consumption of one hundred persons 
could be purchased for one shilling, and a pint of wine was sold at the 
taverns for one penny, with bread for nothing ! Prices have since gone 
up forty-fold, and the value of gold has declined; so that the 300^. of 
Henry's time was equal to a sum of not less than 12,(X)0^. at the present 

If the city has grown rapidly, the cost of civic entertainments can 
'scarcely be said to have done so, notwithstanding that the city banquets 
of our own day are famous for their prodigality. All through their 
long and chequered history the citizens of London have never appa- 
rently lost their appetites^ as the stories of their sumptuous feasts 
testify. Before turtle was known, lusciously dressed eels, a dish fit for 
an alderman, cost about 5^., which was equal to 80^. of present money, 
la the middle of the sixteenth century the wine at the annual Spitol 
feast cost the sheriffs 600^. In 13G3, Henry Picard, ex-Lord Mayor of 
London, entertained splendidly, and at enormous expense, at his house 
in Cheapside, Edward IH., King John of France, King David Of Scot- 
land, and the King of Cypros. In 1554 the expense of feasting in the 
city had become so great that the Corporation passed a bye-law to 
restrain it. Perhaps the most costly banquet ever given in the city was 
lliat of Juno 18y' 1814, when the Begent was entertained, together with 
the Emperer of Russia and the King of Prussia. . The expense of the 
banquet was 25,000^., and the value of the plate used was 2()0,000i?. 

TLe chief officer of London under the Saxons was the portreeve. 
Tlio Normans introduced the word maire from major, but we do not 
hear of a mayor until Henry II. 's time. His qualifications consist in 
being free of one of the city companies, in having served as sheriff, 
and in being an alderman at ihe time of his election. The word *■*■ alder- 
man," as is genei^ly known, is derived from the title of a Saxon noble- 
man. Both the country and London itself made great strides in 
prosperity during the fifteenth century. In 1534, Henry VIIL began 
the paving of London, the reasons assigned being that the streets were 
"very uoyous and foul, and iia many places thereof very jeopardous to 
all pGoi)lo passing and repassing, as well on horseback as on foot" 
Houies and strocta, wit-i tlieatres, gambling-rooms, beer-gardens, Ac, 
incrcasad rapidly. Bcf oro EHzabetli's time the houses of the country 


gentry were litiiie more than straw-thatched cottages, plastered with the 
coarsest day, and lighted only by ^jallises. Bnt the writer records ai 
improvement Tisible in 1580. Sj^eaking of the honses, he says, "hov.-- 
beit snch as be laitelie bnilded are commonlis either of bricke or hard 
stone, or both; their roomes large and comelie, and honses of oSfico 
farther distant from their lodgings." The old wooden honses wer3 
covered with plaster, " which, beside the delectable whitenesse of the 
stnffe itselfe, is laied on so even and Bmoothlie, as nothing in my judg' 
ment can be done with more exactnesse." Glass began to be employed 
foj windows, the bare walls were covered with hangings, and stoves 
were used. A qnaint old chronicler notes three great changes which 
took place in the farm -honses of the time of Henry VIIL "One is, 
the multitude of chimnies lately erected, whereas in their yottng daies 
there were not above two or three, if so manie, in most nplandishe 
townes of the realme. The second is the great (although not generall) 
amendment of lodging, for oar fothera (yea and we oorselyes also) have 
lien foil oft npon straw pallets, on rongh mats covered oaelia with a 
sheete, under coverlets made o^ dagswain, or hop-bazlote^ and a good 
round log under their heads instead of a bolster or pillow. If it were 
so that the good man of the house had within seven years after his 
marriage purchased a matteres or flocke bed. and thereto a sack^ of 
chftlfe to rest his head upon, he thought himself e to be as well lodged 
as the lord of the towne. Pillowes (said they) were thought meet onehe 
for women in childbed. The third thing is the exchange of vessell, as 
of treene platters into pewter, and wodden spoones into silver or tin ; 
for so common was all sorts of treene stuff in old time, that a man 
should hardlie find four peeces of pewter (of which one was peradven- 
ture a-salt) in a good faacmei's house.** 

Aggas^s pidonak map of London in the time of Elizabeth does not 
show a great inerease beyond the early boundaries, but within the 
actual limits ^ere was a considerable advance both in the number of 
houses and of population. Indeed, the fear of London beooming an 
overgrown, unwieldlj, and unmanageable capital 

Moved the Ptont heart of EnsrlanfTs qneen, 
Tfaongh Pope and Spaniard conld not trouble It. 

In the year 1580 Elizabeth issued a proclamation for storing the exten- 
sion of London by new buildings. This proclamation, datsd at Nonsuch, 
July 7, gave curious grounds for the arbitrary step. It set forth the 
great inconveniences which, had arisen from the vast congregations of 
people in London, greater still being likely to follow, viz., want of 
victuals, danger of plagues, and other injuries to health. She therefore 
or(3ered that no further buildings be erected by any class of people within 
the limits of the city, or within three miles from any of its gates ; that 
tiot raoTci than on? faniily should live in one house, and that suc^ fami- 
lies should not t%\ ^ inmat "S. The Mayor and Corporation were called 
upon to disp rs j all such, and to sand thom away down to their proper 


placeo in the country. She was also afraid cf the decay of the cotmtry 
aad of the provincial towns through the growth of London. The pro- 
claination p.cldrd that, amongst other miEK;hief8, her Majesty considered 
the epir t of gain p\^nf rated by nuch a city one of the most Sirions, 
and declared that ''a'i particular persons are bound by God*8 lawesand 
man's to forbcaro irom their particular and extraordinarie lucre.** What 
would haTC been good Queen Bi-i;s's opinion of the weidthy and gigaDtic 
city in the latt€ r half of this nineteenth century 1 The Stuarts also 
issued fri^quent and stringent orders against the growth of the city ; hut 
they were completely ineffective, and suggest only a comparison with 
the commands of Canute to the sea. Yv' o further read in Clarendon, in 
connection with this subject: — "By thfe incredible increase of trade, 
which the distraction of other countries and the peace of this brought ; 
and by the great license of resort thither, it was, since this King's access 
to the Crown, in riches, in people, in buildings marvelloudy increased, 
insomuch as the suburbs were almost equal to the city ; a reformation 
of which had been often in contemplation, never pursued ; wise men 
foreseeing that such a fulness could not be there without an emptiness 
in other places ; and whilst so many persons of honour and estate were 
BO dehght3d with the city, the government of the country must be 
neglected, besides the excess and Ul-husbandry that would be introduc€d 
thereby. But such foresight was interpreted a morosity, and too great 
an oppression upon the common liberty, and so little was applied to 
prevent so growing a disease." Wei-e Clarendon now living, he would 
see a population increas':d five or sixfold both in town and country, & 
fulness in London without an emptiness in the provinces, and the govern- 
ment of the country by no means neglected. But we gather from other 
sources, in addition to the writings of the royalist historian, how greatly 
the fears of an overgrown London had sprt-ad at the commencement of 
the seventeenth centiuy. The Lansdowne MSB. record (Ifill) "a brief 
discovery of the pifrpreHUtiui of new buildings near to the city, with the 
means how to restrain the same, and to diminish those that are already 
iucreaSv^d, and to r.^move many l«wd and bad people who harbour them- 
selves ntar to the city, as desirous only of the spoil thcrtof." Some 
years lat .r, in chiving evidence before the House of Commons, one Ser- 
3 ant Maynard wild : — "This building is the ruin of the gentry, and ruin 
of religion, having so many thousand people without churches to go to. 
Th-^ enlarging of London mak( s it filled with lacqueys and pages." And 
in the cours? of the same inquiry, Mr. Garroway deposed: — ** It is 
worth the honour of the House to have these immense buildings sup- 
pres.«5ed. Hie country wants tenants ; and here are four hundred soldiers 
that keep alehouses, and take them of the brewers ; and now they are 
come to be PraBtorian Guards. That churches have not been propor- 
tionable to housr^R. has occasioned the growth of popery and atheism, 
and pnt tnif» r 4igion out of the land. The city of London would not 
admit rar^ artists, as painters and carvers, into freedom ; and it is their 
own fault that they have diiven trade out of London into this end of ih« 


town, and filled the great honses with shops.'' Edmund Wallf'r, ths 
poet, accoitnts for the great influx of people into London in his own 
time hj the operation of an Act for the settlement of the poor, rjccntly 
passed. " The relief of the poor," he remarks, " ruins the nation. By 
the late Act they are hunted like foxes out of parishes, and whither 
must they go but where there are houses?" (meaning to London). 
"We sh^ shortly have no lands to hve upon, the charge of many 
parishes in the country is so great." It was a general complaint againit 
the Aet that it thrust all peopls out of the country to London. Writing 
npon the condition of things which existed earlier in the century, Hal- 
lam said: — ^^"The rapid incr^aso of London continued to disquiet tho 
Court It was the stronghold of poHtical and religious disedfection. 
Hence the prohibitions of erecting new houses, which had begun under 
Elizabeth, were continually repeated. They had, indeed, some laudablo 
objects in view — to render tho city more healthy, cleanly, and magnifi- 
cent, and by prescribing the general use of brick instead of wood, as 
\7ell as by improving the width and regularity of the streets, to afford 
the bist security against fires, and against thos3 epidemical diseases 
which visited the matropolis with unusual severity in the earlier years 
of this reign" (Charles L). "The most jealous censor of royal en- 
croachments will hardly object to the proclamations enforcing certain 
regulations of polica in some of those alarming seasons."* A commis- 
sion was grant2d to the Esurl of Arundel and others, dated May 80, 1625, 
to inquire what houses, shops, &c. , had been built for ten years past, 
especially since th3 last proclamation, and to commit the offenders. It 
rjcit3s the carj of Elizabeth and James to have the city built in a uni- 
form manner with brick, and also "to cloar it from undertenants and 
base p30ple who Hve by begging and stjaling." The proclamation en- 
joining all persons who had residences in the country to quit the capital 
and repair to them, app.ars also to have been enforced. Bushworth 
states that an information waB laid and exhibited in ths Star Chamber 
against seven lords, sixty knights, and one hundred esquires, besides 
many ladies, foe disobeying thv3 kiug^s pix)clamation, either by continuing 
ra London, or returning to it after a short absence. 

The most admirable description of London, however, in the seven- 
t?enth century, is to ba found in the pages of Macaulay. This historian 
has made a digest of all the authorities upon the subject, and tho result 
is a graphic account of tha growth of London, with its condition in 
1685. The chief points of this d ascription we shall venture to summa- 
rise or extract. In writing the sacond volume of his 'History,* thirty 
years ago^ Macaulay observed : — *' The position of London relatively to 
the other towns of the empire was, in tha time of Charles 11. , far higher 
than at present. For at present the population of London is little more 
than six times the population of Manchost -r or of Liverpool" This 
position of things has been reversed slnco Maaaulay wroto. Since 1845 

• ConstUutimal History of England, chap. viii. 


the popiilatioii of London has gone up from nearly two millions to «mie 
four millions — a rate of increase not observed by any other town in the 
kingdom ; so that at the present mc-ment the metropolis has returned 
to the position it occupied before Charles II. 's time, relatively to ths 
f other towns of the empire. At this latter period the populaao^ of 
'' London was r-.ore than seventeen times the population of Bristol or of 
Norwich. "It may be doubted whether any other instance can be 
mentioned of a great kingdom in which the first city was more than 
; fieventeen times as large as the sacond. There is reason to beUeve that 
in 1685 London had been, during about half a century, the most popu- 
lous capital in Europe. The inhabitants, who are now (18 1:7) at least 
iiinete3n hundrad thousand, were than probably littb more than half a 
milUon. London had in the world only one commercial rival, now long 
ago outstripped, the mighty and opulent Amsterdam. English writers 
boasted of the forest of masts and yardarms which covered the river 
from th3 Bridge to the Tower, and of the stupendous sums which were 
collected at tha Custom House in Thames Street. Thcrj is, indeed, no 
doubt that tha trade of the metropolis than bore a far greater propor- 
tion than at j^resent to the whole trade of the country ; yet to our gene- 
ration th3 honast vaunting of our ancestors must appear almost ludi- 
crous. The shipping, which they thought incredibly great," appears 
not to have exceeded saventy thousand tons. This was, indeed, then 
more than a third of the whole tonnage of the kingdom, but is now 
less than a fourth of the tonnage of Newcastle, and^is nearly equalled 
by the tonnage of tho steam vessels of the Thames.' The customs of 
Lon^n amounted, in 1G85, to about three hundred and thirty thousand 
pounds a y3ar. la our time tha net duty piid annually, at the same 
place, exceeds ten millions." This refers to the year 1845 ; but since 
that timv5 tha customs of the port of London have enormously increased, 
though not in proportion to the increase of the manufactures and gen- 
eral produca of tha country. With rogard to tha city itself, "whoever 
examines tho maps of London which were published tov/ards the close 
of tha reign of Charlas 11. , will see that only tha nucleus of the present 
©apital then existed. The town did not, as now, fada by imperceptible 
degrees into the country. No long avenues of villas, embowered in 
lilacs and laburnums, extended from the great centre of wealth fend 
civilisation al-noKt to the boundaries of Middlesex, and far into the 
heart of Kent pad Surr^sy. In tho east, no part of the immense line of 
warahouses aud artificial lakes which now stretches from the Tower to 
Blackwall h&d even been projected. On the west, scarcely one of those 
stately piles o^ building which are inhabited by lb") noble and wealthy 
was in exi^iitpuco; and Chelsea, which is now peopled by more than 
f 3rty thousand human baings, was a quiet country village with about a 
thour-aud inhabitants. On the north, cattle fed, and sportsmen wan- 
dara\3 v itli dogs and guns over the site of the borough of Marylebonc, 
and o^e^ far the greater part of the space now coverv.d by tho boroughs 
of liaF.bury and tho Tower Hamlets. Islington wan almost a tolitude j 


ani^ poets loved to contrast its silence and repose with the din and tur- 
moil of the monster London. On the south the capital is now connected 
^Ith its suburb by several bridges, not inferior in magnificence and 
^olid'ty to the noblest works of the Caesars. In 1()85, a single line of 
irre^ar arches, overhung by piles of m^an and crazy housjs, and gar- 
L-sbad. after a fashion worthy of the naked barbarians of Dahomej^, 
rith scores of mouldering h ads, imped'^d the navigation of the river." 
London, at the period of the Restoration was built for the most part 
of wood and plaster, the few bricks that were used being very ill baked. 
The city was consequently a ready prey for the flames, and we may 
gather som9 idea of the terrible ravages of the Gr ^at Fire from contem- 
porary records. It broke out at one o'clock on Sunday morning, Sep- 
tember 2, 16G6, and raged for nearly four days and nights. It began at 
the house of Farriner, the king's baker, In Pudding Lane, near New 
Fish Street Hill. It spread with great rapidity, and, the Ix>rd Mayor 
deoliaing to follow the advice tendered him to pull down certain houses 
to pravent th? flames extending, the fire soon r.ach d London Bridge. 
Evelyn, describing this tremendous conflagration, states that ** all the 
skie was of a fiery aspect, like the top of a burning oven, the light 
seen above forty miles round about. Above ten thousand houses all in 
one flame; the noise and cracking and thunder of the impetuous 
flames, y- shrieking of women and children, ye hurry of people, ye 
fall of towers, houses, and churches, was like an hideous storme, and 
the air all about so hot and inflam'd that at last one was not able to 
approach it, so that they were forc'd to stand still, and let the flames 
bmm on, wch they did for neera two miles in length and one in bredth. 
The clouds of smoke were dismall and reached upoji computation 
neere fifty miles in length." Thousands of p^^ople fled to the fields of 
Islington for security. "I went," says Evelyn, on another occasion, 
''towards Islington and Highgate, where one nii^ht have seen two 
hundred thousand people of all ranks and degr.^es, dispersed and lying 
a'ong by their heapes of what they could save from th^ fire, deploring 
their losses, and though ready to perish for hunger and d3stitution, yet 
not <isking one penny for rolief, which to me appeared a stranger sight 
than any I had yet beheld." Pepys, who, as Clerk of the Acts of the 
Kavy, lived in Seething Lane, Crutched Friars, has also left a vivid 
account of the fire. With his usual love of the curious, he adds : — "It 
is observed, and it ip true, in the late Fire of London, that the Fire 
bpmed just as many parish churches as there were hours from the be- 
ginning to the end of the Fire ; and next, that there were just as many 
churches left standing as there were taverns left staniing in the rest of 
the City that was not burned, b'^^ing, I think, thirteen in all of each ; 
which is pretty to observe." The London Gazette of Sept. 8, 1()(K>, 
gires the Umits of the Great Fire as follows : — ** At the Temple Church, 
near Holbom Bridge, Pye Corner, Aldersgate, Cripplegate, near the 
lower end of Coleman Street, at the end of Basingall Street, by the 
Postern ; at the upper end of Bishopsgate Street and Leadenhall Street,^ 


at the Standard in ComhiU, at the Church in. Fenchurch Street, near 
Clothworkers'>Hall, in Mincing Lane, at the middle of Mark Lane, and 
at the Tower Dock." Nearly five-sixths of the whole city were con- 
sumed ; the ruins covered 43G acres ; of six-and-twenty wards fifteen 
were utterly destroyed, and eight others shattered and half burnt; 
eighty-nine churches were destroyed, four of the City Gates, Guildhall, 
many public ^tructurss, hospitals, schools, libraries, a great number of 
stately edifices, 13,200 dwelling houses, and 460 streets. Various esti- 
mates have been formed of the p<^cuniary loss sustained, a pamphlet 
published in 1667 stating it to be 7,385,000^. ; but othfr acco.unts give 
a total of ten millions sterling. It is marvellous that not more than six 
persons lost their lives in the fire, one of thf se b« ing a watchmaker of 
Shoe Lane, ** who would not 1' ave his house, which sunk him with the 
ruins into the cellar, wh'^re his bones, with his keys, wtro fouud." The 
loss of life contrasts favourably with that of the fire of 1 212, which 
until Charles H/s reign was known as the Grrat Fire of London. 
The Woverley Ghrovklc reports that this conflagration broke out in 
fiouthwark, when a groat part of Ix)ndon in the neighbourhood of the 
Bridge, with the Southwark Priory, was burnt down. Three thousand 
bodies, hcJf burned, were found in the river Tharaf s, b^sidrs those who 
peiished altogether by the flames. Multitudes of p( ople rushed to the 
rescue t»f the inhabitants of houses on the Fridge, and while thus en- 
gaged the fire broke out on the north side also, and hemmed them in, 
making a holocaust of those who were Dot killed by leaping into the 
Thames. The next great fire in the city aft'r that of \QQiQ occurrtd in 
1748, when 200 houses wrre burnt; but a fire broke out in 1794 at 
Ratcliffe Cross, by which C30 houses ard an East India warehouse 
were destroyed, the loss being 1,000,000^. One of the greatest fires 
during the present century was the conflagration in Tooley Street in the 
year 1861, by which property was destroyed to the extent of half a 
million sterling. 

Notwithstanding the ravages of the Great Plague, which destroyed 
68,596 people, and the terrible calainity of the Great Fire in the year 
ensuing, London speedily arose aj.aiu like a phoenix from its ashes. 
Though the style of building was vastly improved, unfortunately the 
old narrow and cramped streets were pre served. But-many magnificent 
mansions were reared in the busy and contracted thoroughfares of the 
city ; for the m'-rchant prince lived where ho garner d his wealth. 
''London was to the Londoner what Athens was to the Athenian of the 
age of Pericles, what Florence was to the Florentine of the fifteenth 
century. Th3 citizen was proud of the grand ur of his cdty, punctilious 
about her claims to respect, ambitious of her offices, ard zealous for her 
franchises." But almost all the noble families of England had long 
migrated beyond the walls. *'The district where most of their town- 
houses stood lies between the city and the regions which are consid r^d 
as fashionable. A few great men still retained their hereditary hotels ?n 
ilie Strand, The stately dwellings on the south and west of Lincoln's 


Inn Fields, the Piazza of Corent Garden, Sonihampton Square (which 
is now called Bloomsbary fqvaxe), and King's Square in Boho Fieldti 
(which is now called Boho Square), were among the layoarite spots. 
Foreign piinoes were carried to see Bloomsbmy Square as one of the 
wonders of England. . . . Golden Square, which was in the next 
generation inhabited by lords and ministers of state, had not yet been 
bc^gan. Indeed, the only dwellings to be seen on the north of Picca^ 
diUy were three or four isolated and almost rural mansions, of which 
the most celebrated wm the costly pile erected by Clarendon, and nick^ 
named Dunkirk House. It had been purchased, after its owner^s down- 
fall, by the Duke of Albemarle. The Clarendon Hotel and Albemarb 
Street still pres;irve the memory of the site.'' What is now the gaycF^ 
and most crowded ^art of Begent street was in the time of Charles IL 
a complete solitude, where a rambler might sometimes have a shot at a 
woodcock. General Oglethorpe, who died at a great age in 1785, boasted 
that he had shot birds here in Queen Anne^s reign. The Oxford roail 
on the north ran between hedges, and the occasional residences to 
be met with were regarded as being quite out of towxu The centre of 
Lmcoln's Inn Fields was i:a opsn space, where a disorderly rabble con- 
gregated every evening, whilj St. Jameses Square was a receptacle for 
oil kinds of oifal and £lth. The houses in London were not numbered, 
and the walk from Charing Cross to Whitechapel lay through an endless 
BOooeBsion of ^aracens' Heads, Boyal Oaks, Blue Boars, and Golden 
Lambs, which disappeared when they were no longer required for tho 
dirbction of the people. In the evening it was not safe to walk abroad 
in the city. Besides the emptying of pails and the shooting of rubbish 
from th3 uppar windows upon tho passengers beneath, thieves and rob- 
bers plied their trade wit^ impimity, and bands of ** gentlemen '* ruffians 
paraded the str^ibts, annoying, insulting, and injuring the peaceably- 
disposjd citizens. TJutil the last year of the reign of Charles U. , tho 
strjets of London were not lighted. At this time one Edward Heming 
obtained letters pat3nt, conveying to him, for a term of years, the ex- 
ciQdive right of lighting up London. '*He undertook, for a moderato 
couaid^ration, to piase a light before every tenth door, on moonless 
nignts, from Michaelmas to Lady Day, and from six to twelve of tho 
clock.*' The friends of improvement extolled Heming as ono of tho 
gr.atest benefactors of his species, regarding the inventions of Archi- 
medes as very trifling matters *'■ compared with the achievement of tho 
man who had turned the nocturnal shiades into noon-day." There wero 
others, however, who strenuously opposed this innovation, just as in 
later days (as we are reminded) there were people who opposed vaccina- 
tion and railways. 

It should not be forgotten — though it is a point which has frequently 
escaped attention, and is not mentioned by Macaulay and others — that 
to no single cause can tho growth of London bo pioro legitimately 
assigned than to improved methods of locomotion. London would as 
ywt iuv J occupied a position very inferior to that it now enjoys had i*" 


increase in population depended chiefly upon the increase of families 
resident within its borders. When the journey from distant parts of 
the country, to the metropolis was rendered comparatively easy and inex- 
pensive, people flocked thither, but the influx bor« no proportion what- 
ever to the numbers of persons who have migrated to London from the 
provinces since the introduction of railways. If we glance at the means 
of locomotion in 1685, we shall appreciate the vast strides that have 
been made. Hardly a single navigable canal had been projected, and 
the Marquis of Worcester was suspected of beiog a madman for having 
constructed a rude steam-engiae, called a fire-v/ork, ' ' which he pro- 
nounced to be an admirable and most forcible instrument of propulsion." 
The highways were in a terrible condition. Pepys and his wife, travel- 
ling in their own coach, lost their way between Newbury and Reading. 
Subsequently they lost their way near Salisbury, and were in danger of 
having to pass the night on the Plain. Passengers had to swim for their 
lives when the floods were out between Ware and London. *' The great 
route through Wales to Holyhead was in such a state that, in 1685, a 
Viceroy, going to Lreland, was five hours in travelling fourteen miles, 
from Saint Asaph to Conway. Between Conway and Beaumaris ha 
was forced to walk great part of his way ; and his lady was carried iu a 
litter. His coach was, with much difficulty, and with the help of many 
hands, brought after him entire. In general, carriages were taken to 
pieces at Conway, and borne, on the shoulders of stout Welsh peasants, 
to the Menai Straits. In some parts of Kent and Sussex none but the 
strongest horses could, in winter, get through the ' bog,' in which at 
every step they sank deep. The markets were oftsn inaccessible during 
several months." The chief cause of the badness of the roads was found 
in the defective operation of the law. The inhabitants of every parish 
were bound to repair the highways which passed through it ; and, as 
Lord Macaulay observes, this was especially hard upon the poor parishes. 
In many instances, in fact, it was a sheer impossibility. The Great 
North Boad traversed very poor and thinly-inhabited districts ; but upon 
these districts chiefly fell the burden of the maintenance of the road, 
and not upon the wealthy and populous districts at its extremities, viz., 
London and the West Eiding of Yorkshire. Changes were slowly 
inaugurat:d, till now Great Britain is intersected in every direction by 
upwards of thirty thousand miles of good turnpike road. Besides the 
Rtajo v/ajgons in us 3 in Charles 11. 's time, there were horses and 
coaches for the wealthier classes. The cost of conveying goods wa3 
enormous. "From London to Birmingham the charge was 71. a ton; 
and from London to Exeter 121, a ton. The cost of conveyance 
amounted to a prohibitory tax on many articles." It was twenty times 
as groat as the charge for conveyance made at the present day. 
Journeys to London from the country were a very expensive as well as 
a tjdious affair. In 1GG9 the University of Oxford established a 
"Flying Coach," whose first journey to London was regarded with 
great anxiety by the University authorities. At c*:: ia Iho i^iorring on 


the first day it Isf t All Souls* College^ and at seyen in the evening the 
Yery adTentupous gelitleinen vho travelled by it safely reached their 
destination in London. ** The ordinary day's journey of a flying coaeh 
was about fifty miles in the sum-nrr ; but in the winter, when the ways 
were bad and the nights long, little more than thirty. The Chester 
coach, the York coach, and the Exeter coach, g-neraUy reachsd London 
in four days during the fine season, but at Christmas not till the sixth 
day." Yet these*" coaches, which to us ara the reverse of '* flying,'* 
proved a great temptation to people in the country to make the journey 
to London. In the year 1672, though only six stage coaches wero going 
constantly throughout the country, a curious pamphLt was written by 
oje John Cresset, of the Charter House, in favour of their suppression. 
Amongst other reasons which the writer gives against their continuance 
is the extraordinary one following 1—7'* These stage coaches make gentle- 
men come up to London upon very small occasion, which otherwise 
t icy would not do but upon urgent necessity ; nay, the conveniency of 
the passage makes their wives often come up, who, rather than come 
such long journeys on horseback, would stay at home. Here, when 
they come to town, they must presently be in the mode, get fine clothes, 
go to plays and treats ; and by these means get such habit of idleness 
and love of pleasure that thay ar3 uneasy ever after." 

It will now be interesting fo note with what rapidity the several divi* 
Bions of the metropohs, which once formed a portion of the quiet forest 
of Middlesex, have become populated, and tha abodes of the teeming 
millions of the London of the present day. Fitzsttphen, from whom 
we have already quoted, describing the suburbs at the close of the twelfth 
century, says :-t-" Theraara cornfields, pastures, and delt^ctable meadows, 
intermixed with pleasant streams, on which stands many a mill whose 
clack is grateful to the ear. Beyond them a forest extends itself, beau- 
tified wifii woods and groves, and full of the lairs and coverts of beasts 
and game, stags, bucks, boars, and wild bulls." These wild bulls were 
probably buffaloes, or an animal resembling the beasts of Andalusia, 
remarks one commentator ; but another and more probable supposition 
is that they were of the same kind as the ancient British race, which 
Sir Walter Scott tells us in the " Bride of Lammermoor " ranged in the 
old Caledonian Forest ; and of which species herds still remain in the 
parks of Chartlay, in Staffordshire, and Chillingham, in Northumber- 
land. From the spot now busy with the feet of Londoners bent upon 
commercial enterprises, the warriors of Hastings, Crecy, and Agincourt 
cut their bows which dealt destruction to the Frenchmen. To us, their 
successors, it seems impossible) to realise that flowers were once plucked 
from the thickets of the Strand and from the gardens and meadows of 
St. Pancras. 

Roger of Wendover states that in the thirteenth century Hampstead 
H^ath was the resort of wolves, and was as dangerous to cross on that 
account at night as it was for ages afterwards — and in fact almost down 
to eur own times —fBom highway nien. Matthew Paris says that not 


only did wolves abound on the Heath in his time, but wild boars, deer, 
and wild bulls, the ancient British cattle ; so that neither the wolf's bead 
tax of King Edgar in Wales, nor the mandates of Edward I. in England, 
had anythmg liie accomplished the extirpation of the wolf in England. 
Eitzstephen, in his Survey of London so late as 1182, and Juliana Bcr- 
nejrs stiil later, in the reign of Henry VI. , fifteenth century, assert (tho 
latter in the "Boke of St. Alban's") that the wolf and wild boar still 
haunted the forests north of London. At the commencement of tho 
nineteenth century, highway robberies wero of tolerably frequent occur- 
rence round and about the Heath. A good story is told of the Sheridans, 
which illustrates the condition of the Heath in the last century. Tom 
Sheridan was recommended by his distinguished father (who was tired 
of his son^s extravagance and impecuniosity) to **go and try the trade 
of highwayman on Hampstead Heath.*' Tom, who was aware of hia 
father's dimculties in the management of Drury Lane Theatre, repUed : — 
*'I have done so, but I made a bad hit; I stopped a caravan full of 
passengers who assured me they had ret a farthing amongst them, for 
they all belonged to Drury Lane Theatre, and could not get a singb 
penny of their salary 1 " 

The River of WeUs, which commenced at the foot of the Hampstead 
Hills, ran between Pond Street and Kentish Town to Pancras, and then 
by several meanders through Battle Bridge, Black St Mary's Hall 
(where also there was a epring), and thence to Tummill Street, Field 
Lane, and Holborn Bridge to Elect Ditch. Of this river, tradition saith, 
according to Nordcn, "that it was once navigable, and that lighters and 
barges used to go v-p as far as Pancras Church, and that in digglrg 
anchors have been found within these two hundred years." Kiibum 
was quite a soUtary place in Henry I.'s time, and old Kiibum Priory 
was made over to three maids of honour to the Queen. Centuries later, 
that is in 1685, Enfield, now hardly out of sight of the smoke of the 
capital, was a region of twenty-five miles in circumference, in which 
deer, as free as in an American forest, wandered by thousands. The 
last wild boars, which had been preserved for the royal diversion, and 
had been allowed to ravage the cultivated lands with their tusks, were 
slaughtered by the exasperated peasants during the license of the Civil 
War. The last wolf that roamed this island was slain in Scotland a 
short time before the close of the reign of Charles H. King Henry 
Yin. had hunting grounds, where stand now some of the most populous 
parts of the metropolis. One of his proclamations runs : — "Forasmuch 
as the King's most royall Ma^^e ig much desirous to have the game of 
hare, partridge, pheasant, and heron, preserved in and about his honour, 
att his palace of Westminster for his owne disport and pastime ; that \s 
to say, from his said palace of Westminster to St. Gyles-in^he-Fields, 
^ and from thence to Ii^ngton, to our Lady of the Oke, to Highgate, to 
Homsey Parke, to Hampstead Heath, and from thence to his said palace 
of Westminster, to be preserved for his owne disport, pleasure, and 
recroAc'on," &c. There were penalties for killing game within theM 


precincts. It is cnrious to r?ad of tho king BportiQ':^ over tlio " Rolitary 
and woodland districts of Highgnto, Hampstcad, Islington, &r>." Queen 
Elizabeth frequented Islingtou and Highgatc to hunt iiud Lawk in tho 
vast woods around. She took up her quarters at Canonbury Tower, 
and her courtiers had houfts around it, amid woods and gardrns. Sir 
Walter Kaleigh^s remains to thi 4 day as the Piod Bull public-house at 
Islington. * Belsize House, Hampstead, was formerly in a splendid park. 
As lata as the year 1772, on Monday, June 7, tho appearanc >. of nobility 
and gentry at Belsizvj was go gr^^ut that tliey r 3ckonod between tliree 
and four hundred coaches; at whicli time a wild doer was huntod down 
and killed in the park beforj tha company — which gave thr^^e hours* 
diversion. Thero were many highwaymen at Belsizo a century ago, and 
visitors returning to London at night ran grjat r:r.k of having their 
carriages stopped, and being themselves plundered, in districts which 
vere fiien very lonely. During Elizabeth's r^iign, tho Lord Mayor of 
London, Sir John Spencer, was lain in wait for by Dunkirk piratps, on 
the moors betwixt Ms place of business, St. Helen's Place, Bishopsgato, 
and Canonbury Tower. A storm fortunatc^ly prevented his lordship 
from travelling to his country seat. His journey lay through the dis- 
tricts which are now Hoxton and Islington (amongst the most populous 
of parishes), and this will sufficiently demonstrats the nature of the 
changes which have taken place in that neighbourhood in the space of 
three centuries only. 

Entertaining details are preserved respecting Kentish Town, Isling- 
ton, Clerkenwell, and other places north of the Thames, which show tho 
recent surprising growth of these places. In the middle of last century, 
for example, Kentish Town was a retired handet of about one hundred 
houses, detached from each other, on tho road side. By 1795 it had in- 
creased one-half. Therj were also forty-eight houses on the l^Iarquis of 
Camden's estate, whero the populous district of Camden Town now 
stands* Horace "Walpole, writing on June 8, 1791, says : — " There will 
soon be one street from London to Brentford ; ay, and from London to 
every village ten miles round 1 Lord Camden has just let ground at 
Kentish Town for building fourteen hundred houses — nor do I wonder ; 
London is, I am certain, much fuller than ever I saw it. I have twice 
this spring been going to stop my coach in Piccadilly, to inquire what 
was the matter, thinking there was a mob. Not at all — it was only pas- 
sengers." In the year 1251 there were only forty houses in the whole 
pansh of St. Pancras; in May, 1821, these had increased to nearly iten 
thousand houses, with a population of 71,838. In 18G1, the population 
of St. Pancras (including Kentish Town and Camden Town) was 198,788 ; 
jn 1871 it had swollen to 221,594. Islington, till a very recent period, 
was a village standing isolated in open fields. YvTien * ' Domesday Book " 
was compiled the population consisted of only twenty-seven household- 
ers uid tiieir families, chiefly herdsmen, shepherds, &g. At this time 
there were nearly one thousand acres of arable land alone in Islington. 
The maps of Ch^^xles II/s time &kow Islington to b© almost a solitude ; 


and Cowley, in his poem " Of Solitude," thus refers to the village, in 
apostrophising **the monster London " : — 

liCt bnt thy wicked men from ont thee go. 

And all the fooJs that crowd tbee so, 
Ev u then, who dost thy millions bOaBt, 

A village less than Islington will grow, 
A solitude tilmottt.- 

Through Islington runs the New Eiver, the great work of Sir Hugh 
Myddelton. Sportsmen wandered with dogs over the site of the borough 
of Marylebone in the seventeenth century, and also over the greater part 
of the space now occupied by Finsbury and the Tower Hamlets. Mary- 
lebone was originally called Tyburn, and the manor was valued at fifty- 
two shillings in ** Domesday Book." Marylebone Park was a hunting 
ground in the reign of Queen. Elizabeth ; and in 16()0 the ambassadors 
from Russia rode through the city to enjoy the sport in the fields there. 
In 1739 there were only 677 houses in the parish ; in 1795 the number 
had gone up to 6,200; and in 1861 to 16,370. Clerkenwell is another 
parish which has grown with amazing rapidity. In Queen EUzabeth's 
time there were a shepherd's hut and sheep pens near the spot on which 
the Angel Inn now stands — yet London now presents no denser spot, or 
one more thronged at certain hours of the day. In the year 1700 the 
Angel Inn stood in the fields. In the meadows between Islington, 
Finsbury, and Stoke Newington Green, the archers used to exercise 
their craft. In Henry II. 's time challenges were issued from the city 
to ** all men in the suburbs to wrestle, shoot the standard, broad arrow, 
and fliglit for games at Clerkenwell and Finsbury fields." At the begin- 
ning of the present century the ( )ld Ked Lion Tavern in St John Street 
Boad, the existence of which dates as far back as 1415, stood almost 
alone ; it is shown in the centre distance of Hogarth's print of " Even- 
ing." Several eminent persons frequented this house : among others, 
Thomson, the author of '* The Seasons ; " Dr. Johnson, and Oliver Gold' 
smith. In a room here Thomas Paine vrrote his notorious work, "The 
Rights of Man." The parlour of the tavern is hung with choice impres- 
sions of Hogarth's plates.* The whole district is now a most populous 
one — in fact, as thickly peopled as the other portions of Clerkenwell. 
In 1745, Sadler's Wells was regarded as a country resort, and it is thus 
described in a poem published at this period : — 

Herds aronnd on herhcgc green, 
And bleating flocks are sporting seen ; 
While PhoBbus with his brightest rays 
I • The fertile soil seem to praise ; 

And zephyrs with their erentlest gales. 
Breathing more sweet than flowery vales, 
Which give new health, and heat repels — 
Such are the joys of Sadler's Wells. 

The population of Islington has increased by wonderful strides. In 
tho census of 1851 it stood at 95,154 ; ten years later it had advanoed to 
155,341 ; and in 1871 it ha d reached 213,749. It may be mentioned, in 

« rinks's il'LU-y of Glcrlcnxccll, 18C5, 


coxinectioii'withthe parisliof Islington, that Mrs. Foster, grand-daughter 
of Milton, lived here, cmd died in poverty May 9, 1754, wherenpon th ) 
family of Milton became extinct. Chelsea is another parish which had 
extended with great rapidity. In the ,last centnry it was a village of 
only three hundred houses, but dw^ellings now extend from Hyde Vark 
Corner away beyond Chelsea Bridge. Sir Thomas More» the Duchess of 
Mazarin, Turner the painter, and many other distinguished individuft!i 
have resided in Chelsea. It was in a meanly-furnished house in Cheyn \ 
Walk that there died, on August 30, 1852, John Camden Neild, who 
bequeathed 500,000?. to Queen Victoria. Kensington — so charmin^lr 
described by Leigh Hunt in the ** Old Court Suburb " — is anoths^r parisli 
which has completely sprung up of recent years ; or rather, as Mr. Timba 
observes, the district has been built over in two distinct movements, on 3 
from 1770 to 1780, and the other, after the lapse of nearly fifty years, 
V^gimiing in 1825, and being still in progress. Some id3a of tho growth 
of Kensington may be gathered from the fact that in 1861 tho population 
was only 118,950, wheraas in 1871 it had f cached 283,088. No other 
pdrish in London exhibits such an enormous increase in the same space 
cf time. We have included in Kensington (following the official tables) 
Paddingion, Kensington proper, Hammersmith, Brompton,andFulham. 
The district of Bolgravia only dates from 1825. Formerly it was a 
marshy tract, bounded by mud-banka, and partly occupied by market 
gardens. Paddington, in Henry VIII. 's time, had only a population 
of 100 persons ; a century later in owned 300 ; in 1811, the number had 
risen to 4,609 ; from 1831 to 1841 the inhabitants iucreased at the rate 
of one thousand per annum, and from 1841 to 1851 at the rate of two 
thousand annually. In 1861 the population was 75,807. Two centuries 
ago it was merely a forest village. Westminster, at the time of tha 
compilation of "Domesday Book," was a village with about fifty holders 
of land, and ** pannage for a hundred hogs." Part of its site was for- 
merly Thorney Island. By the reign of Elizabeth it had become united 
to London. We cannot linger over its progress or its fascinating history. 
Crossing the river we come to Southwark, with which Lambeth is Aow 
united. The population of this latter parish in 1861 was 162,044, and 
in 1871 208,032. Wandsworth shows a proportionate rise in population 
during the same period, the numbers being — 1H61, 70,483; and 1871, 
125,050. The population of Camberwell likewise increased by 40,000 
persons during the same time. ' Kensington and Southwark, two of the 
most ancient of London suburbs, have progressed m like proportion. 
The most populous of all the London parishes is St. Pancras, to which 
we have ahready referred, and which includes one-third of the hamlet of 
Highgate, with the hamlets of Kentish Town, Battle Bridge, Camden 
Town, Somers Town, to the foot of Gmy^s Inn Lane; also "part of 
a house in Queen Square," all Tottenham Court Itoad. and the streets 
west of Cleveland Street and Rathbone Place. ,In 1503, the church of 
St. Pancras stood **all alone ; " and yet three centuries and a half later, 
as we gather from an assessment to the property tax under Schedule A, 


the schedule for the annual value of land in this parish (including th^ 
houses built upon it, the railways, &c.) gave the sum at 3,798,521^. 
But, in truth, wherever we turn our eyes upon this vast panorama of 
human life, we perceive similar evidences of rapid and prodigious 

Although the records of this country have no equal in the civilised 
world, as Sir Francis Palgrave. remarks, we have no accurate account) 
of the population of London previously to the census of 1801. Observa- 
tions, however, were made at various periods which enable us to form a 
tolerably correct idea of the advance in population, both of London and 
the country at large. At the Conquest, Uie whole population of England 
was calculated at only 2,000,000, or thereabouts. In 1377, the last year 
of the great monarch Edward III., the population, as ascertained by the 
Capitation tax, had only advanced to 2, 290,000 — an increase of not more 
than 300,000 people in the course of three centuries. "With "Wales, the 
population only reached 2,500,000. London at this period only boasted 
of 35,000 inhabitamks ! Irr 1575, the population of these realms was 
about 5,000,000, and the metropolis did not number more than 150,000 
souls. Yet England was then at her zenith as a naval power, and it was 
the age, moreover, of Spenser and Shakspeare. ' A map of London and 
Westaninster in the early part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth 6h.ows on 
the east the Tower, standing separated from liondon, and Finsbury and 
Spitalfields with their trees and hedgerows ; while on the west of Temple 
Bar the villages of Charing, St. Griles's, and other scattered hamlets are 
aggregated, Westminster being a distinct city. In 1662 and 1665, the 
population of England and Wales was calculated by the hearth tax at 
6,500,000. In 1670, Sir Matthew Hale calculated it at 7,000,000; but 
Haydn's "Dictionary of Dates ** states that in the year 1700 it was 
found by official returns to be only 6,475,000. London and its suburbs, 
in 1687, had, according to Sir William Petty, a population of 696,000 ; 
but Gregory, ten years later, made it only 630,000 by the hearth tax. 
Sir William Petty, writing in 1683, maintained (after deep study of the 
matter) that the growth of the metropolis must stop of its own accord 
before the year of grace 1800 ; at which period the population would, by 
his computation, have arrived at 5,359,000. But for this halt, he 
further maintained that by the year 1840 the population would have 
r'sen to upwards of ten mfllions ! It is not a little strange that in 1801, 
nftr^r the first actual census had been taken, the population of London 
"•as discovered to be no more than 864,845 — including Westminster, 
Fouthwark, and the adjacent districts. In 1841, however, the number 
had gone up to 1.873,000, thus showing upwards of a million increase 
in forty years. In 1851, the population had further grown to 2,361,640 ; 
v-'hW^ in 1861 it had risen to 2,803,034. Of this number 2,030,814 were 
in fh-^. ponnty of Middlesex. According to the Registrar-Generars 
^abl p of Mortality, the population of London in 1871 was 3,251,804. 
Th'^ tr.tal yfent of London was 75,362 acres ; the number of houses in- 
habited, 417,767; uninhabited, 32,320; and houses building, 5,104. 


Taking the Metrox>olitan and City of London Police Districts, tho popu- 
lation of London in 1861 was 3,222,720 ; and in 1871 it had gone up to 
3,883,092. The. whole population of Lancashire at the latter period, 
including Liverpool, Manchester, Bolton, Salford, &c., was only 2,818,- 
901 ; and the whole population of Scotland was littlo more tlian this, 
being but 3,358,613. A conception of the vast extent of London may 
be gained from the following figures : — In 1871, the East Riding of 
Yorkshire had a population of 269,505 ; York city, 43,796 ; the North 
Riding, 291,589; the West Riding, 1,831,223; Lincohishire, 436,183; 
Staffordshire, 857,233— giving as tho aggregate for the whole of these 
populous districts 3,729,479 souls — ^a number below the population of 
London^done. Or take another calculation. In 1871, the population 
of Bedfordshire stood at 146,256; that of Berks at 196,445; Bucks, 
175,870; Cambridgeshire. 186,363 ; Cheshire, 661,131 ; Cornwall, 362,- 
098; Cmnberland, 220,245; Derbyshire, 880,538; Devonshire, 600^814; 
Dorsetshire, 195,544; Durham, 685,045; Hereford, 125,364; and Rut- 
land, 22,070. Here we have a list of thirteen coonties, yielding an 
aggregate population of 3,857,785 ; or, 25,307 persons below the popu- 
lation of the metropolis. An estimate, based upon the Metropolitan 
and City of London Police Districts, gives thd population of London ia 

1878 as four millions and a quarter. 

OornhiU Magazine, 



Will yon walk with me to the brow of the hill, to visit the farmer's wife, 
Whose daughter lies in the churchyard now, eu0ed of the ache of life ? 
Half a mile by the winding lane, another half to the top : 
There you may lean o'er the gate and rest ; she will want me awhile to stop, 
Stop and talk of her girl that is gone, and no more will wake or weep. 
Or to listen rather, for sorrow loves to babble Its pain to sleep. 


How thick with acorns the ground is strewn, rent from their cups and brown I 
How the golden leaves of the windless elms come sinrfy fluttering down I 
The brionv hangs in the thiunlug hedge, as rubset as harvest coru, 
The straggling blackberries glisten jet. the haws are red on the thorn ; 
The clematis smells no more but lifts its gossamer weight on high ;■*- 
If you only gazed on the year, you would think how beautiful tas to die. 

The gtream scarce flows underneath the bridge ; they have dropped the sluice of the 

The loach bask deep in the pool above, and the water-wheel is still. 

The meal lies quiet on bin and floor ; and here where the deep banks winO, 

The water-mosses nor sway nor bend, so nothing seems left behind. 

if the wheels of life would but soiuetimw stop, and the grinding awhile would 

'Twer* 80 sweet to have, without dying quite, ju»t a sp:jU of autumn peace. 



Cottages fonr, two new, two old, each with its clambering rose : 

Lath and piaster and weather>tile these, brick faced with stone are those. 

Two crouch low from the wind and the rain, and tell of the humbler days. 

Whilst the other pair stand up and stare with a self-a«serting gaze ; 

But I warrant you *d find the old as snug as the new did you lift the latch. 

For the human heart keeps no whit more warm under elate than beneath the thatdir 


Tenants of two of them work for me, punctual, sober, tnic ; 

I often wish that I did as well the work I have got t o ('.o. 

Think not to pity their lowly lot, nor wished that their ihoujrhts coared higher ; 

The canker comes on the garden rose, and not on tho wilding brier. 

Doubt and gloom are not theirs, and so they but work and love ; they live 

lUch in the only valid boons that life can withhold or give. 


Here is the railway bridge, and see how straight do the bright lines keep, 

With pleasant copses ou eitiher Bide, or pastures of quiet sheep. 

The big loud city lies far away, far too is the cliff-bound shore, 

But the trains that travel betwixt them seem as if burdened with their roar. 

Yet, quickly they pass, and leave no trace, not the echo e*en of their noise : 

Hon't you think that silenco and stillness arc tho sweetest of all our joys ? 


Lo I yonder the Farm, ai^d rnese the ruts that the broad-wheeled wains have worn. 

As they bore up the hill tho fa<j:gots sere, or the mellow shocks of corn. 

The hops are gathered, tho twiyted bines now brown on the brown clods lie, 

And nothing of all man sowed to reap is seen 'twixt the earth and sky. 

Year after year doth tho hiirve?t come, though at summer's and beauty's cost : 

One can ou^ hope, when our lives grow bare, some reap what our hearts have lost. 


And this is the orchard, — small and rude, and uncared-for, but oh ! in spring, 
fiow white is the i^iope with cherry blooui. and the nightingales sit and sing I 
You would think that the world hud grown young once more, had forgotten death 

and fear. 
That the neai-est thing unto woe, on earth, was the smile of an April tear ; 
That goodness and gladness were twin, were one : — The robin is chorister now : 
The russet fruit ou the ground is piled, and the lichen cleaves to the bough. 


fWill you lean o'er the gate, while I go on ? Yon can watch the farmyard life, 
The beeves, the farmer's hop^, and the poults, that gladden his thrifty wife ; 
Or, turning, gaze on the busy weald, — you will not be seen from here, — 
"Till your thoughts, like it, grow blurred and vague, and mingle the far and near. 
Grief is a flood, and not a spring, whatever in grief we say ; 
And perhaps her woe, should she see mc alone, will run more quickly away. 
. % « • . 


" I thought you would come this morning, ma'am. Yes, Edith at last Ima gone ; 

To-morrow 'a a week, ay, just as the sun right into her window shone ; 

Went with the night, the vicar says, where endeth never the day ; 

But she 's left a darkness behind her here X wish she had taken away. 

She is no longer with us, but we seem to be always with her, 

In the lonely Ded where we laid her last, and can't get her to speak or stir. 


" Yes, I 'm at work ; tie time I wae. T 8bon)d have 1x»^ti beforp j 

But this is the room where she lay bo etfll, ere they ctirried her past the door. 

I thought I never coald let her go where it seeing 80 lonely of nights ; 

But now I am scrabbiiig and dusting down, and setting the place to rights. 

All I have keptj«re the Bowers there, the last that sto<w by her bed. 

I suppose I most throw them away. She looked much fairer when elie was dead. 


" Thank yon, for thinking of her so mach. Kiod thongbC is the trocst friend, 

I wish yon had seen how pleased she was with the peaches yon used to send. 

Slie tired of them too ere the end, so she did with uH we tried ; 

But she liked to Jook at them all the same, so we set them down by her side. 

Their bloom and the flush upon her cheek were alike, I used to say ; 

Both were so smooth, and soft, and round, and both iiavo faded away, 


" T never could tell yon how kind too wcrv the ladies up at the hall ; 

Every noon, or fair or wet, one of them ns«l to call. 

Worry and work'Seeins ours, but yours plunsaiif and easy days, 

And when aU goes smooth, the rich and poor have different lives and ways. 

Sorrow and death bring men more close, 'tis ioy that puts us apart; 

Tis a comfort to think, though wu ^re severed so, we Te all of ns one at heart. 


" She never wished to be smart and rich, as so many in these days do, 

?Jor cared to go in op market days to stare at the gay and new. 

She liked to remain at liorae and pinck the white viok'ti* do^-n in the wood; 

She Mid to her sisters before she died, * *Ti» so easy to be good/ 

She must have found it so, I think, and that was ttie reason why 

God deemed it ue««diti«l to leave her here, so took hei- up to the sky. 

"The vicar says that he knows she is there, and surely she ought to be ; 
Bat though I repeat the words, 'tis bard to believe what one does not see. 
They did not want me to gd to the grave, but I could not havs kept away, 
And whatever I do I can only see a coffin and churcbyard clay. 
Yes, I know it 's wrong to keep lingering there, and wicked and weak to fret ; 
Aod that 'b why I 'm hard at work again, for it helps one to forget. 


" The young ones don't seem to fnkm to work as their mofhors and fathers did. 

We never were asked if we fiked or no, but had to obey when bid. 

There 's Bessie wont swill the dairy now. nor Richard aill home tiie cows, 

And an of th^m cry, ' How can yon. mother 7' when I carry the warfi to the sown 

Edith would dmdge, for always jDealh the hearth of the hefpfullest robs. 

Bat she was so pretty I could not bear to set her on dirty jobs ! 


**! don't know how it 11 be wnth them when sorrow and loss nre theirs, 

Por it isn't likely that thev 11 cscatH? their pack of worrits and cares. i 

They say it 's an age of progress this, and a sight of f hfnes improves, } 

Bat sickness, and age, and l)ereavement seem to wnrV hi the same old groovea 

Pine they may grow, and that, but Death as lief tnke« ♦^he rnoth as the gmb. 

^'^ben their dear ones die, I suspect they 11 wish they 'd u floor of their own to wcnh. 



" Some day they'll have a homo of their own, mnch grander than this, no donht, ' * 
But poJieh the porch as you wilJ you can't keep doctors aud coffins ouL 
1 've done very well with my fowls this year, but what are pullets aud eggs. 
When the heart in vsiin at the door of the grave the return of the lost one begs? 
The rich have leisure to wail aud weep, the poor haven't time to be sad : 
If the cream hadn't been Bo coutrairy this week, I think grief would have driven me 


*' How does my husband bear up, yon apk ? "Well, thank you, ma'am, fairly well ; 

For he too is busy just now, you see, with the wheat and the hops to sell : 

It 's when the work of the day is done, and he comes indoors at nights. 

While the twilight hangs round the window pants before I bring in the lights, • 

And takes down his pipe, aud says not a word, but watches the faggots roar — 

And then I know he is thinking of her who will sit on his knee no more. 



*' Mast yon be going ? It seems so short. But thank you for thlnldng to come ; 

It does me good to talk of it all, aud criief feels doubled when dumb. 

An' the butter 'a not quite so good this week, if you please, ma'um, you must not 


And I '11 not f orcet to send the ducks and all the eggs we can find ; 

I 've scarcely had time to look round me yet, work gets into such arrears. 

With only one pair of hands, aud those fast wiphigaway one's tears. 


" Ton 've got some flowers yet, haven't you, ma'am? though they now must be going 

We never have any to speak of here, and I placed on her coffin the last ; 
Could you spare me a few for Sunday next 7 I should like to go all alone, 
And lay them down on the little mound whore there isn't as vet a stone. 
Thank you kindly, I'm sure they '11 do, aud I promise to heed what you say ; 
I '11 only just go aud lay tUeui there, and then I will come away." 

Come, let ns go. Yes, down the hill, and home by the winding lane. 
The low-lying fields are suffused with haze, as life Is suffused with pain. 
The noon mists gain on the morning sun, so despondency gains on youth ; 
We grope, and wrangle, and boast but Death is the only certain truth. 
O love of life I what a fooHsh love I we shouW weary of life did it last. 
While it lingers, it is bat a little thing ; 'tis nothing at all when past, 


The acorns thicker and thicker lie, the brlony limper grows, ., , ,, _^ , 

There are mildewing beads on the leafless brier where once smiled the sweet dog- 

You may sec the leaves of the primrose push through the litter of soddfen ground ; 
Their pale stars dream in the wintry womb, and the pimpernel sleepeth sound. 
They will awake ; Bhall we awake t Are we more than Imprisoned breath ? 
When the heart grows weak, then hope grows strong, but stronger than hope iS 


"Alfbsd Austin, in Contemporary Sevieu, 


Thsbs is an old, a yer/ old and beantiful Bimilo which wo are all 

familiar with. I do not sappose anyone knows who first ventured upon 

it, or to which special poet or philosopher it belongs. In tnilh, it is bo 

tht9 that neither dead nor living wonld care to claim it I conf cbs I 

like it, as I lika many old-fashioned things. It is simply this : life is a 

mountain up which the traveller must cUmb. The path is ragged and 

sharp, bnt tha summit must be reached. In youth Wo go up hid, ardent, 

joyous^ and imagining a wonderful world beyond that stoop paak in tlio 

blue sky. As we reach it, panting and rather worn with tlie journey, 

our ardour flags, and so does hope. We begin to suspect that down 

hill may be like tip hiU, worse perhaps, and without tho enchantment 

of desire to lure us on. When we stand on the topmost cmg wo plant 

onr flag and cry hurrah I But are we so glad, so very glad, after all ? 

I doubt it. There are many winds up there ; snow hides in tho clefts ; 

it is evening, too, grey evening, lone and chill ; the darkness d3epsns 

around us as we go down, and at the foot of tho mountain black night 

lies in wait for us. Soma divine heavenly stars pierce that gloom, and 

^7^ know that a pure morning and a glorious day lie beyond it, but wo 

also know that to reach these we must pass through the night, and I 

have found no heart, however brave, whom that thought did not appal 1 

Very few people say so, however. It is amazing how limited is tho- 

nmnber of men and women who fear death. A week ago I was in a 

village by the seaside. Cholera suddenly appeared amongst us, and, 

monster-like, devoured a few victims. Everyone packed up and fled, 

soms in the grey morning, some in the night, but no one acknowledged 

fear: business, the weather, &c., Ac, summoned them all away, and 

cholara had nothing to do with their departure. Be it so. I confess I 

felt eztremdy uneasy, and though I took my three days to pack — I am 

a m^thodicfid old maid, and cannot do with less — I, too, left, only I 

never denied my real motive for doing so; to that bravery, such as it is, 

I lay daim. But to return to my simile. 

For the last few years I have been on the top of the mountain : that 
u to say, I know exactly the down-hill road which Ues before me, and 
take no delight in the prospect. Far pleasanter do I find it to look back 
tipon the r(»d which brought me up here. How calm, how simny were 
the early hours of that long ascent. No wonder that in all autobio- 
graphy so large a space is given to childhood. Its few years generally 
fill pages, whereas lines are often made to comprise the events of later 
life. The writer who has lingered over the loss of a tame bird," and if 
yoQ are at all tender-hearted, made you shed foolish tears thereby, tells 
you in a breath that he married a charming girL lost her at the end of 


Beyen years, and took a second '^fe when he was out of monmingf. I 
believe that is one of the reasons why I shtin reading all such piodnc- 
lions unless they relate to great public events, dramas of history, and 
BO forth. They sadden me dreadfully ; I like novels a great dt3al 

My first were fairy tales, of course. The very spot where I read them 
is delightful to remember. My parents were poor, or thought them- 
B elves BO, and accordingly carried their poverty to the Continent, as was 
Iho fashion of those remote times. They took up their abode in a quaint 
Lttlo Fronch town, half town, half village, which lay hidden in a nook 
cf the Norman coast, and there spent years, always talking of a going 
home which came not. My father was a great sportsman, and gamo 
was abundant in our neighbourhood. My dear mother hated change, 
nnd I believe liked dating her letters from the Chateau de Gravilles ; so, 
what with game, cheapness, and a little innocent vanity, we made our- 
B3lves a new homo and were forgottsn in the old one. 

Gravilles wai a dear old place. It had one long sunny street with 
ctono houses, all unlike each other, but all dehciously uncomfortable. 
I thought them mansions in those days,, and the rickety old chateau we 
lived in, with its dingy rooms, its court, its garden and orchard was a 
palaco in my eyes. La one of its upper rooms on a sunny May morning, 
v,ith bird3 singing in the garden below, and the green boughs of a young 
poplar quivering close to the open window, I read my first fairy tale, 
bless 3d be the day, the spot, and the hour. The story was '*Tho 
Bleeping Beauty in the Wood," poetry, love, and romance all in one. 
Well, I maintain it without fear, there is nothing like fairy tales. They 
are just enough like life to attract, for they deal with men and women, 
nnd they are too unlike it not to charm for ever. Here aro no oppressed 
innocents sinking hopelessly under the weight of their sorrows ; no tri- 
umphant ■svrongdoers for whom retribution shall be put off till the next 
world. Wo can take up a fairy tale in most deUghtful security con- 
cerning its ending, and perhaps its great attraction is that it never dis- 
appoints or deceives us. The brutal giant is always conquered, the 
malicious fairy is always defeated, the innocent beauty is always deUv- 
cred, and the brave knight or chivalrous young prince is ever blest in 
love and war. 

How far it may be wise to present such views of life to little men and 
women, I cannot say. I am an old maid, and know nothing about 
children, or rather about education ; but I do not mind confessing that 
I fell desperately in love with the prince who woke the sleeping beauty. 
I daresay I should have identified myself with that persecuted young 
princess if I could at all have fancied myself sleeping for so many sum- 
mers and winters, but that was out of the question. I was a lively, 
wakeful child, and that long nap was a little too much for me. Besides, 
I was fair-haired and fickle, and soon forgot the prince for another, tho 
lover of Cinderella. These princes are all so much alike, all so young, 
so handsome, so chivalrous, and so faithful, that it really iams/t eae^y, 


especially for a young inexperienced person, to know one from the other. 
I confess their identity bewildered me, and I am afraid to add that I was 
in love with them all. 

My brother John liked the princesses, bat was not a bit more faithful 
to them than I was to the princes. Each had her tarn, howerer, till 
Cinderella came and ruled them aU with her little glass slipper. Dear 
John I He reminded me of that time in his last letter: the letter he 
wrofce to me the night before his ship was lost on the Irish coast. Oh I 
how strange and dreary it was to road, ** Do you romember Cinderella?' 
and to know that the young hand which had traoi^d these words wcl 
lying cold and nerveless fathoms deep in the pitiless sea. 

My father never recovered the blow, and from that day forth my dear, 
gentle mother became fretful and irritable. I was seventeen then, and 
was left to myself and to my grief. The grief I survived, but my own 
companionship left some deep traces in my lif o. 

I had entered Fairyland in childhood, and I am not at all certain that 
this pleasant country is the right place for youths ; but very sure am I 
that Dreamland, which had my next visit, is the last spot I would take 
my daughter to, if I had one, which, boing an old maid, is not the case, 
yon see. But the worst of Dreamland is that no one takes you to it. 
You go to it of your own accord, and its boundaries are so fine that they 
are crossed before you know anything about it. Some people have 
never visited that country, they say, but that I dany. To think of the 
futnre is to go to Dreamland straight 

Well, few people can lead long Uves, I suppose, and not look back to 
the past and read there with some wondor how they imagined that their 
fatore which has since become anothe]^past. These two are so unlike, 
you see : the imagination and the fulfilment The sorrows are never 
those we dreaded ; no mor3 than the blessings ara those we longed and 
prayed for. For my part I very well remember the time when twenty- 
five was to be the vanishing point of my little perspective of a life. 
Beyond these remote years I md not -go. This goal was to be my renting 
plBMse. Between that and the eighteen of my beaming I placed events, 
adventures, sorrows and joys more than I, could number. These seven 
years were a long gall 3ry with niches on either side, and every niche had 
its story. There was the niche of love, of course, and the niche of vain- 
glory, and the niche of sacrifice and that of sorrow ; and in the last of 
all I saw mvself sitting, a calm worn woman of twenty-five, looking at 
Hfe with folded hands and pitying eyes, and a heart set on the better 
world and the better part After reaching this bourne I was to enter a 
Bort of spiritual monastery. I accordingly closed its gates upon myself, 
and did not even seek to imagine what kind of a life I might lead behind 
them. I doubt if youth ever really conceives age. To me I know that 
wrinkles and silver hair were dimly remote : I could not go beyond 

Now, of course, all this seems very absurd, and yet there was but one 
folly in it: I was in too great a hurry. My conception of a life was a 


pretty true one ; but I mistook the proportions in which all theso things 
were to come to past). Most of the nichea I had filled up remained 
vacant, or very nearly so, but other niches unsuspected by poor mo ap- 
peared as I went on my Journey. The niche of love was inexoi'abl:- 
closed, and that of money cares most unexpectedly opened. Some other 
mistakes I found that I had committed. For instance, twenty-five, in- 
stead of a resting place, proved the threshold Of a life. I was never 
more restless than at that time, which I had fancied so serene and. bo 
calm. Indeed, finding that I had been all wrong, and that this was not 
the goal of life, I gently pushed it back to thirty, and bmlt another 
gallery more sober and with fewer niches in it than the first. And wer • 
Siey filled? — never. Troubles which I had not conceived came and 
took hold of me. My dreams, nOt very roery ones, however, melted on.' 
by one before the chill breath of life. And thirty found me contented 
enough, and happy enough too ; but oh I how unlike the woman of 
twenty-five whom the girl of eighteen Ijad imagined. 

What that woman is now matters very little. I have ceased to look 
forward, and I take life as a sort of dailv bread ; but sometimes I cannot 
help sighing when I look back and think of my shortcomings. For yon 
see I was young, and I worshipped heroism and goodness in those days , 
and being a vain and silly creature, as most girls are, I mada a pretty 
little image of myself and set it up for domestic adoration. I was to bo 
generous, oh ! so generous. I was to be good, not in a foolish common- 
place sort of way, but after a noble fashion. Then I was to be heroic. 
Not that I was to do such wonderful things — I had a grain of sense left 
— but great duties, or great sufferings, or great trials were to como in 
my way, and I was to take and accept them grandly. To go amongst 
the heathen, be tied to a stake and die singing God's praises with the 
flames risiag around me, would have been the very summit of my am- 
bition if I could have looked so high ; but to be candid, I could not — I 
was afraid of the fire. Some other things, however, I felt quite equal 
to. We all know how Foetus, fearing to die, was addressed by his wife, 
Arria : how she stabbed herself, then handed him the knife, and uttered 
the words, ** Foetus, it does not hmi." Well, that I could have managed 
very well. I will venture to say that it was quite in my way, only we 
have no tyrants now-a-days who compel us to commit suicide. I had 
also my doubts about Foetus. Ho was weak and pusillanimous, and was 
it neeciful that I should kill myself in order to set him an example. I 
only mention this instance to give the standard of my heroism. I was 
equal to death, to a noble one of course, but not to pain. 

Now, if any giggling schoolgirl reads this, I know what she thinks of 
me. I know she tiiinks she is not and never could be so foolish. That 
may be, child ; you hve in a wiser age than was mine, and as your age 
is so you are — ^a coolheaded young lady who talks slang and scorns 
romance. That may be, child, that may be ; but I will tell you what 
you do and what I never did. You build up your little castle m the air 
about Mr. Johnson. He half squeezed your hand last night, and forth- 



with 70a are arrayed in white, and the orange-blossom nods on jonr 
brow, and you are spending yonr honeymoon by the lakes. My dear 
child, better dream o£ being Arria or Joan of Arc herself than this. 
You see when dreams belong wholly to- Dreamland they lose half their 
mischievous power. Of course thjy are very foolish, and a terrible loss 
of time, but they have this great salve — they lead to nothing. Th3 
dream which weaves itself around reality, in which, with time, reality 
gets so blended that the dreamer cannot well tell which is which, is 
partly and simply psstilential. That grain of sense to which I have 
alluded, and a spark of prudence with it, saved me from this. Of course 
I too had my temptations, and sometimes they took tho fascinating 
aspsctof Mr. Johnson, and sometimes they did not. But no sooner 
did my careless foot tread on th3 sorpent- than I started back amazed 
aad frightened. I would have fallen in love with Poetus himself, though 
he was but a poor thing, rather than indulge in so dangerous a pastime. 
It was all very well to play with fancy in her fair Eden, but I knew it 
would never do to treat these flowery plains as if they were this firm 
stony earth of ours. I knew a dream was a dream, so, though Mr. 
Johnson did sqneeze my hand sometimes — ^and he did, whatever you 
may thiak — I looked at him with a prudent eye, and mads no god of 
that young gentleman ; and perhaps that was why my nicho of lovo 
was never fiUed up, but remained cold and vacant. Once indaed — 
but I shall say naught about that now, it having nothing to do with 
I^reauiland. ^ 

I do not mean to add much concerning my sojourn in that country. 
^ly excursions to it grjw fewer as years crept upon me, and have now 
ceased entircily. Sometimes I try to go back to that pleasant region, 
bnt I cannot. Formerly it was all cl^ar and open : a word, a look, a 
^e in a book, a cloud in the sky would take me to it, swift as the wiag 
of any bird. Now aU that is altered. A thorny forest lies between 
Dreamland and me, and beyond that I know that there are hea^^ iron 
gates locked and barred — gates which are ever closed on fad^d faces and 
white locks. There is no help for it ; the evil, if evil it be, must bo 
borne patiently ; but when the sense of my powerlessness presses upon 
tne, when I feel that never again must I indulge in foHy, but am doomed 
to wisdom, I think of dear John, who went down with his Dreamland 
full upon him. 

JxTLiA Kavanagh, in t/ie Argosy, 

.'X, .».*> 


Pabis, December 15fA, 1878. 

SuMM ART.— Political Review :— The Exhibition— The Grand Manoeuvres— Foreign 
Politics— Internal Condition— Finance— Public Works— Progress of Public In- 
struction— Reactionary Opposition in the Countrv find the Senate — Election oic 
three permanent Senators — Powerlesauess of thj Right— The Sjuatorlal Elections 
of January 5— Moral Ruin of the Men of May 16— D -•ath oi M. Dnpauloup— Elec- 
tion of M. Taiue to the French Academy— Future Dangers— Divisions of the Re- 
publican Party- Difficulty of M. Gambetta's jiosltion— Incompatibility of ParlLi- 
meutarism with a Centralized Ripublic— Establish ineut of New Museums. Liti n:- 
ture : — Gift Books: Axuxumn et, Nicolette^ translated and illustrated by Bidu r 
Correjtp&ndance de Eng. Delacroix ; Theuriet^ Souh Bois ; Stapfer, tihdkineare c t 
VAntiquite. Erudition : Port, Dictionnaire Hitftorique ; Doaen, Le Psautier 
Huffvenot. History: Mhrntiren de Bern! a: Sorel, La Ouestion d'Orient: Broglif\ 
Le Secret du Roi; Lom^uie, Le.t Mirabeau. Philosophy: Caro, Le I*esi>imiviue. 
Theatre : Polyeiicte^ by Gounod ; Lea Amavtt de Verone^ by Marquis divry ; Ltz 
Mort Civile, hjM, Giacometti. Election of<M. Massenet at the Acad^iuio des 
Beaux Ajrts. 

The year 1878 has boen a fortunata year for France, doubly so as 
compared with tli3 year 1877 of mournful memory, when the cnmiual 
fatuity of a small knot of drawing-room politicians all bat dragged thv:^ 
country into a civU war. Kot that Francvi has escaped the effect of tlij 
political disturbances and tli3 economical uneasiness that reigned cls.- 
v/here, nor that shs can hop 3 to traad honceforward in smooth paths, 
but considering tho comparatively short pi:irlod that has elapsed since 
the fall of the Empir j and tho peace of Frankfort she may well expc ri- 
cnce a feehng of pridj and satisfaction. The success of the Univvrsal 
Exhibition has oxcaedcd all anticipation. More than sixteen millions of 
visitors, recaipts exceeding half a miUion pounds sterhng, £he Exhibi- 
tion of 18G7 outdono in every way, the industrial and artistic forces of 
the country seen to bo not only unimpair^d but greater than before, the 
Republican Government receiving a ircsh act of recognition from the 
foreign princes who came to partak3 of its hospitality and festivities, 
the general and spontaneous enthusiasm with which the whole popula> 
tlon celebrated this grand undertaking, symboUcal of peace and indus- 
try, — all has h?lp3d to mako 1878 the-fir^t happy, date for France since, 
the fatal dates IJ^ 70-71. 

Tha peace j y j had a miUtary interlude. Tho military manoeuvret 
that took placj oa su^h a brg3 seals iu the month of September wertl 
the first in which tlij reserve forces took part, and in spite of the maDj| 
wants and shortcomings still apparent, especially in the military admiur 
^ istration and the commissariat, a notable improvement was nianiftBt 
and both bearing and discipline were exemplary. It is hard as yet ta| 
say what the result of the military reforms would be in the field, bat 
a means of national education the excellence of the new system has beei 
proved beyond a doubt. 



Looking at other couDtri^s, Cie Frencli have more than ono reason to 
be satisfi^ with their actual position. There was nothing very flattcr- 
iDg, certainly, to the natiosAl pride in the part taken by France in 
the Berlin Congress. After playing a leadmg part for so long to 
eome down to that of confidant, after being a preponderant power in 
Europe to have lo content herself with being official adviser and medi- 
ator, might well at certaia momenis appear hard. But by the frasik 
and digmfied manner in which he accepted it, il. "Waddington cbvated 
the part that was assigned to France, and made it serve for the defenco 
of certain general intarests of civilization and liberty cf conscienc3 and 
of the rights of a State which the other powers wonld havo willingly 
disregarded, namely, Greece. Thus without any show, but at the sams 
time honourably, IVance has resumed her place in the councils cf 
Enrope, and having come to th« Congress without advertising any 
claims and without secret ambitions, she came away with clean hands, 
guiltless of usurpation or bargains of any kind, and with a heart freo 
from regret or deception. 

Comparing her internal condition with that of other States, she has 
no grounds to ba discontented with her lot. England is under£;oing a 
crisis that imp3d:is her commercial transactions ; she is undertaking th3 
responsibility of r jf orms in the East which, to judge from former expe- 
rience, would S3 3m impossible ; her honour is pledged for the support 
of a power that seems doomed to perish ; she is engaged in a war in 
the far East of which it is impossible to foresee eitlier the end or tho 
consequences. Bussia, at the last extremity of her resources, is obhged 
at all costs to carry on the work she has undertaken, and in so doing 
spare neither men, money, nor violence; she is divided between a 
Government that clings to a superannuatsd despotism, a ravolutionary 
party that disowns its country, exalted patriots who cherish Panslavist 
chimeras, and impotent Liberals who condemn everything, hope for 
little, and do nothing. In Germany, the industrial crisis is occasioning 
misery amongst the people and a deficit in the budget, the Government 
\^Tings from the Chambers a discontented adherence to iniquitous l^ws 
that are applied with a violence ani an arbitrariness worthy of tha 
Second Empiro. In Austria tho occurrences in Bosnia have exhibited 
in a scandalous light the hopeless antagonism that separates the two 
parties in the Empire. In Italy, as in Spain, people are seeking in vain 
for the elements of a majority capable of guidhig the country. Finally, 
eyeiywhere, in Bussia, Germany, Italy, Spain, attempts, as stupid as 
they were criminal, on the Mves of the reigning powers have revealed 
the disturbed state of men^s minds and the serious nature of the econo- 
mical and political uneasiness that prevails. 

The only warlike contest France is at present engaged in is the Eanak 
rising in New Caledonia. Marshal MacMahon can manifest the most 
^interested sympathy with the^ sovereigns whose lives have been 
threatsned, and for the last year the agreement that has reigned between 
the Ministry, the Chamber of Deputies, and the country has been well- 



nigh perfect. Akhough, like all other countries, France Buffens from 
the commercial crisis caused by the protective system of the. tfnited 
Btates, the war in the East, and t^e famine in China, she is undiBlLtrbed 
by social questions. The strikes have all come to a peaceful teimina- 
tion, and the interdict put upon the "Workmen's Congress, iniquitous in 
itself and justifiable solely on grounds of international prudence, occa- 
sioned no disturbance. 

In spite of the enormous increase in the expenses and the taxes, tho 
Budget shows a considerable surplus, which has justified the issue of 
fvesh stock, — viz., the New Three per Cent., — with a sinking fund to 
redeem it in seventy-five years. This loan is int^nded to meet the ex- 
penses necessitated by the vast plans of M. de Freycinet. This intelli- 
gent, audacious, and indefatigable minister wishes to improve all onr 
ports, as well as to complete the network of our railways and canalF. 
As regards the army and navy, the Chambers have nfever haggled over 
miUions, nor has a dissentient voice ever been raised on that point. 
But it is especially in connection with pubUc instruction that important 
progress has been made. Tho reports and statistics recently publish :d 
by M. Bardoux on elementary, secondary, and higher instruction are a 
striking proof. In Paris alono the elementary schools contain 60,(!( ') 
.pupils more than they did ten years ago, and new schools are still in ccurfie 
of erection. M. Bardoux's law relating to the higher elementary schools 
will realize a plan dating from 1833, and will admit of raising the lev*. I 
of the instruction of a considerable portion of the lower classes. As to 
the higher instruction, 175 new professorships have been created within 
the last ten years, lecturers have obtained fellowships at almost all the 
Faculties, and 300 yearly scholarships distributed amongst poor 
students. The higher education budget, which was S, 895,000 francs in 
1868, is 9,165,330 francs in 1878, an increase that has taken place within 
the last three years. The present state of our higher instructioD, no 
doubt, is far from answering to the wishes of the more enfightentd 
friends of education. Largo universities with an iridc pendent life of 
their own, like tho German universities, Etill remain to be founded, to 
become great centres of scientific hf o aad production ; but yre are on 
the right road, and M. Bardoux's report shows that the central adminis- 
tration has a correct understanding of tho country^s needs. 

There are dissentient voices, no doubt, and certain important elements 
. of society which have not given in their adherence to the present Gov- 
ernment. The ecclesiastical edtabhshmenta of education contain a grtat 
number of pupils ; at the new CathoUc universities the numbers are 
rapidly increasing, and the direction there given to study threatens th«i 
unity of the national life. A rector of the Lyons Academy, ^. Dareete, 
was even lately seen reserving his favours for the CathoUc tmiversitj', 
and doing his best to prevent the opening of the faculties of the Statti 
from being celebrated with the due solemnity and splendour. Too 
many of the members of the magistracy make no attempt to conceal 
their hostility to tho existing institutions, and now and then evenTentan 


to oppose them by a partial or Jesuitical adniinistration of the laws. 
Hitherto it has been in the Senate that these reactionary elements have 
found their support. The feeble majority the Kight showed at the time 
of its formation has considerably increased since then, owing to tha 
d^ath of a number of permanent Bepublican members, and to the com- 
pact entered into by the Orleanist, Legitimist, and Bopapartist parties to 
name in turn a candidate designated by each of the tluree ; a pleasure 
they enjoyed for the last time on November 15. Though the candidates 
of the Left, MM. Andre, Montalivet, and Gresley, were men of known 
moderation, the Orleanists and Legitimists preferred to vote for M. da 
Vallee, a decided Bonapartist, and the Bonapartists for M. d'Hausson- 
rille, one of the most violent opponents of the Empire. As for the 
Legitimist candidate, M. Baragnon, his opinions could hurt no one ; for 
he was once a Bepublican, and will, if occasion require, become a Bona- 
l^rtist. This abnormal state of things, in which those who call them- 
selves conservateurs are seen to reject men of recognized moderation 
and merit, simply from a wish to overthrow tho existing political regimey 
cannot last long. The days of the reactionary majority in the Senata 
are numbered. The elections which will renew a third of the 225 re- 
movable members of the Senate take place on January 5, and the result 
of the voting can alrsady with certainty be foreseen from the nomina- 
tion of the delegatas of the communes, who form the chief part of the 
electoral senatorial body. On the Bight, a^ on the Left, it is estimated 
that aftar the elections the Bepublicans will have a majority in the 
Sanats of from ten to fifteen. In the debates on the verification of the 
powers in the Chamber of Deputies, the Bight has moreover received 
some hard hits which have brought final discredit upon it. The auda- 
city with which M. do Fourtou dared to apologiza for the Government 
of May 16, and expresses his regret for their not having been able to 
carry their lawlessness and violence still furthsr, has awakened the recol- 
lection of that painful time when a coup d'61'ft was hourly expected. 
The discussion on M. Decaze^s electiqii dealt a final blow to the men of 
May 16. The facts that cam 3 out then were so outrageous that the 
Conservatives themselves did not venture to defend them, and more 
than half of them by their abstention ratified the vot3 of invalidation 
pronounced by the Chamber. It was indeed unheard of that a Minister 
of Foreign Affairs should clandestinely beg for the votes of the separatist 
party in the Maritime Alps, whilst M. de Broglie, the Minister of Jus- 
tice, should in turn institute and suspend proceedings against a notary, 
according to whether he was opposing or supporting the official candi- 
^te. Burlesque incidents, such as that of the fire-engine sent in hot 
haste to Puget-Theniers by the Ministry, mingled with these shameful 
and guilty acts. 

Oiier blows besides these feV upon the reactionary party. By giving 
it, in spite of M. de Falloux's prudent warnings, the watchword Gontre- 
Rirohitlouj M. de Mun Jias rendered it easy for the peasants, who owe 
•Ttiiything to the Bevolution, to oppose aU the Legitimist candidates; 


and the Gomte de Ghambord, by congratulating M. de Mun on his frark^ 
ness, and adding that **God must reign as master, in order that ht 
might reign as king," destroyed the last hopes of his party by this pro- 
fession of theocratic faith. Finally, one of the authorised heads of the 
senatorial Bight, whose fi^ry clericaJism had become a link between tho 
Tarious reactionary parties, and who, at the same time, .was the only 
really eminent man the higher clergy possessed, Monseigneur Diipan- 
loup, is dead. The son of a serving-maid at an inn, never having known 
who was his father, he raised himself to the see of Orleans by his o\^n 
Unaided merit. His talents as an administrator, and, above all, as a 
teacher, his activity, his beneficence, his ready pen and fervid eloquence, 
and, lastly, his liberal ideas, assigned him a distinctive place anroiigKt 
the French clergy. The seminaries he directed were in the full tide of 
prosperity ; his great work on education was appreciated even outRid' 
Catholic circles : somo years ago Xiiberals of every shade 8poi:e of bin: 
with unvarying respect; Eome few fanatical Ultramontane s alcne darul 
to altack him, and alone abused him after his death. But frcm abi.iit 
1860 onwards, M. Dupanloup's " liberalism was seen to wane, ard th. 
ieaven of fanaticism rose in lum. He defended the Syllabus, and levelletl 
attacks as unjust as they were wanting in good taste against MM. B£r jtu, 
Taine, and Maury. The Vatican Council and the establishment of iht 
Bepublic quenched a liberalism lacking both soundness and depth. He 
was the head of tha clerical party in the National Assembly and tht 
Senate, and with him, as with most of the men of that party, the reli- 
gious question became one of political domination. He showed it by his 
zeal in supporting M. Taine's candidature at the French Academy, ontr 
as zealously opposed by him. He forgot that he had resigne d his ovn , 
seat at the Academy on account of the nomination of M. Littre, who of 
all freethinkers in France has invariably paid the greatest deference to' 
Catholicism ; whilst, in his ** Philosophes du XIX. s.," M. Taine went so| 
far as to ridicule even supematuralism itself. But what mattered suptr- 
naturalism to M. Dupanloup then ! M. Taine had written a volume on 
the Revolution which furnished the reactionary party with arms; tLut 
was enough. Foxtune favoured M. Taine in the death of M. Dupann 
loup before he could re-enter the Academy to vote for a freethinkt r^' 
He was elected, not as before, by the coterie that wished to place hi: 
in M. Thiers' seat, but by the Academicians of all parties, who 
homage in him to one of our best writers and most vigorous thinkers. 
After taking joyous and grateful leave of the year just expired, is 
with confidence unmixed that we greet the opening year ?. We thii- 
not. The Republican party in France le^ais too much to a somewbf 
superficial optimism that yields to the satisfaction of the moment, 
is apt to forget past mis^rtunes, and not foresee future dangers. 
the midst of the Exhibition rejoicings, it apparently had no thought f 
the defeats of eight years ago, and what they cost , it congratulatt 
itself with frivolous pride on giving aJ/'/e in the gallery Vhere' the Kin 
of Prussia was crowned Emperor of Germany, and Was on the vei^d 


celebrating as a national glory the gigantic lottery of twslvo millions, 
honourable no doubt in its object, but productive of tho basest covc- 
tongneas, and the occasion of the most deplorable stock-jobbing. Wo 
mnst look facts in the face with a more manly gaze, and recognize that 
not until after the 5th of January, and not until tlio Republican party 
are in actual possession of power, will the real difficulti?* and tho real 
dangers begin. At present the representatives of the Left form a very 
KinaJl proportion of the ministry, whose members b along chiefly to tho 
L tit Centre, some having even once formed part of V2.0 Right Centre. 
It is an open secret that with the first months of tlio opening year the 
ministry will fall asund3r, that M. Dufaure, M. Bardoux, and M. Leon 
Say, wSl have to withdraw on account of being in more or less open 
disagreement with M. Grambetta, and that a homogeneous ministry cf 
dements of the pure Left will have to be formed. The present state of 
things, in which M. Grambetta is the head of tho ministr}'', the prop of 
the ministry, and at the same time its intended successor, cannot long 
continue. It is necessary that M. Gambetta, or at any rata hh party, 
possessed as they ar^of the real power, should also bear its responsi- 
bility and burden. Nor is that burden a light one. Is tho Left capable 
of directing the government alone ? Will it find the necessary men to 
fill the important posts ? Will it inspire sufficient tionfidenco to obtain 
a large majority in the Chambers, and such as to enabla tho country to 
attend to its business with socuriiy ? All will depend on tho attitude of 
the present head of tho majority, M. Gambetta, and tho manner in 
which the parties grouio themselves. Two things are possible. Either 
the Left wi^ continue allied to tho Extreme Left, — in which case tho 
L'rft Centre will b3 thrown back upon tho Right, and it is easy to forc- 
s?e that the Government wilj again find itself in inextricable difficulties, 
for a Right majority will immiediately ro-form itself in tho Sanato ; or 
else it will s^parat) from tho Extreme Left to consolidate it:i union with 
th? L^ft C)ntr3, — in which caso th3 mod?rato element! of the Right 
will rally round ta.3 grjat Republican party, which will bo the truo 
representation of tho country. In this caso th3 poaccful and orderly 
development of th3 R-pubhcan Grovemment may bo hoped for. But 
the second alt ^rnatlvo, it must bo owned, is tho l3ss hkoly. Tho very 
absorbing and ruling psrsonality of M. Gambetta has, in spite of his 
gr^at intellectual capaoities and parsonal charm, alienated a great part 
of the moderato Left from him ; and if ho has won new sympathies, it 
is rather in the ranks cf th3 Right It is impossible that ho should 
remain aloof from pow3r and govern France as President of the Budg3t 
'ommittee ; but hai he ministarial aptitudes ? will he bo able to control 
I t2rap3rament that led him in 1871 to commit such grave faults ? will 
h^ bring the necessary prudence and discernment to bear on his choico 
of men ? — a choice on which the worth and the success of a Government 
in a great measure depend. Finally, what will be the new ministry's 
proeramme of reform? Hitherto the popular democratic mass has given 
ibe Govemmexit credit up to the moment when the obstacles raised by 


the reactionary majority in tho Sonato shoulS be removed ; but the time 
for action has como. Much will b 3 demanded of M. Gambetta becansa 
ho has promised much ; it is the lot of all who pass from opposition to 
power. If they do nothing, they are accused of having combated abuses 
merely because they did not benefit by them. If M. Gambetta is to*^ 
zealous a reformer, h3 will loss partisans on the moderate Left ; if too 
moderata a one, he will lose them on th^ advanced Left. What is to be 
hoped is that <the moderate party, not being called to a direct share in 
power, will not adopt a negative and hostile attitude towards the new 
ministry, but will form a large balancing party, prepared to support or 
even take the initiative in all wise reforms, but powerful enough, through 
its union with the Right, to arrest and annihilate the ministry of the 
Left should it embark on dangerous courses. What must also be hopt d 
is, that M. Gambetta will not allow the struggle against the clergy to 
divert him from meeting the need for social reforms which exists 
amongst a portion of the people. Religious strifes in which the indivi- 
dual conscience comes into play, lilways lead governments further than 
they intend. 

Lastly, besido thesa secondary difficulties, which may with wisdom 
bo averted, there is % fundamental difficulty arising out of the very 
nature ^of our constitution. Parliamentary government is all but incom- 
patible with a centralized administration like ours. The ministers de- 
pending on the deputies, and the life of the whole country depending 
on the ministries, the ministers spend their whole time in conff rrii^^: 
with the deputies, listening to tiieir demands and complaints, and 
attending their proteges^ and no time is left for serious business. It 
would require superhuman energy to resist these calls, and the minister 
possessed of it would risk the loss of his office. For parhamentary 
governments to work, a wide decentralization is necessary, as also that 
the ministers' powers should be political and not administrative. Bnt 
is such dacentralization possible ? It would present great inconvenience s 
now, when the country has still to be educated, and the struggle agairst 
the encroachments of clericalism is always on the verge of breaking out. 
There is tha great danger. Republican parhamentary government, 
owing to the tyranny of the deputies over the ministers, runs the risk 
of ending in favouritism, general impotency, and disorder. 

Whilst awaiting what the future has in store and hoping that our fears 
may not be realized, we may regard ^vith satisfaction what the year 1878 
has brought us. All that the Universal Exhibition called into being has 
not disappeared. Not to mention the Palace, which will continue to 
crown the hill of the Trocadero, several new museums are to grow out 
of the vast temporary museum in the Champ da Mars ; an educational 
museum, to include everything connected with schools and teaching 
that the Exhibition contained ; an ethnographical and anthropological 
museum, to provide these new studies with the scientific elements of 
comparative observation. There is a talk of organizing an enormous 
industrifd museum in the galleries of the Champ de l£urS| where the 


machines vonld be seen at work. Th'* Centml Union of Art3 ha0 
op^jned a museom of iudustrial art, in tho Pavilion de Flore, on the 
laodjl of the Kensington Museum. Finally, JvL Viollet le L)uo has 
started a plan for a popular theatre, with very low entrance fees, whera 
iae actors and actresses of the subsidized theatres would play the best 
pieces and opczas in their repertoire. The Ministar of Finanoe gram* 
1)1^ a little in subdued tones at the Bepublic^s tendency to do grand 
things rapidly and on an extensive scale ; what he wants to do is to 
liquidati the debt, pay the Hank, aad convert tiie stock, but neither the 
optimists of the Budget ComiiMSsion nor >L de Freycinet see things in 
tiiat light, and have no hesitation in engaging the anticipated surplus of 
future budgets in advance. 

The intellectual and artistic activity, suspended as it was by the tur- 
moil of the Exhibition and the distractions of the summer season, is 
greater than ever now that the gatas of the Champ de Mai-s are shut. I 
am not speaking merely of the necessarj' periodical activity displayed in 
tile production of handwme and charming illustrat*'d books. Aiid yet 
one of the pleasures of the season is to turn over these beautiful speci- 
mens of the printer's art, to look at the engravings entrusted to excellent 
artists, of t3n accompanied by letterpress of an intrinsic value. Every 
publishing firm has its specialty and its own particular public. For 
beautifnl pubUcations of the more soUd kind the firm of Hachette stands 
first They pubhsh this year a new volume of Elisee Rcclus' grv?at geo- 
graphical work, **La Terre et les Hommes," devoted to Bflgiiim, Hol- 
land, and the British Isles; the first volume of M. Duruy's ''Histoire 
des Bomains;" the first volume of **La Suisse," by M. Gourdault, 
most splendidly and carefully illustrated; magnificent illustrations of 
**Ariosto*' by Gustave Dor6; and, lastly, the pearl of gift-books this 
season, *' Aucassin et Nicoletts," translated and adorned with etchings 
by the great draughtsman Bida This novel, or, as M. Bida calls it, 
this *'Ohantefable," half prose, half verse, is one of the gems of the 
French literature of the thirteenth century. Never has love been 
expressed in so touching, so original, and so pure a manner. M. 
Bida, a man of most cultivated mind as well as an artist of high 
aims, whose illustrations of the Bible surpass anything ever yet 
attempted in that line, has shown, in a twofold way, his profound 
undarsianding of the ancient text by a translation half verse, half 
prose, retaining with certain liberties, the naif grace of the original, 
and by drawings, which seem living images in their plastic reality, 
of Au^assiu the young Count of Baaucaire, and his love Nicolette, the 
Saracen slave. M. Quantin, long contented, before becoming a pub- 
lisher, with being the best printer in Paris, has placed himself from the 
first on a level with the best by his fascinating recollections of the 
"Petits Gonteurs Fran9ais" (Boufflers, Voisenon), little classical mas- 
terpieces (La Princesse de Cloves, "Adolphe," ** Valerie"), and his 
luniature editions of ancient novels, ** Cupid and Psyche," ** Daphnis 
And Ghloe/' which are marvels of grace and good taste. To these be 

U M.— I.— 7. 


has this year added a collection of nnpnblished letters of the deepest 
interest: ' * Correspondance de E. Delacroix," edited by Th. Burty, — 
ft Bort of biograpliy of the painter as furnished by his letters, through 
v/iiich we form an intiinato acquaintance with the simple, loyal, and 
Gomewhat melancholy nature of this great artist. Seldom has a man of 
l^onius carried sincerity, freedom from personal pre-occupations an-.l 
petty vanities, the wide and eclsctic appreciation of everything that is 
beautiful, the absence of all exaggeration and emphasis, so far. Thv 
two ItiitiTS on the English school of painting and Bennington aro 
amongst the most interesting. What he said of the English paintt-rs 
twenty years ago, of their conscientiousness, their impulsive origuial- 
ity, their psychological penetration, is true to this day. At M. Germtr 
raiilcre's we find scientific works ; at M. Plon's books of traveL >1. 
Iletzel is the young people's favourite. He enchants them with the 
iuexhaustible magic lantern of Jules Verne, whose " Capitaino de Qniuzj 
Ans" is as exciting as his "Capitaina Hatteras," and his ** Enfants da 
Capitaiue Grant." He tftinsports them into Bussia with his ** Marous- 
sia," illustrated by the last drav/ings of the excellent Alsatian artl:-t, 
Th<k)phile Schuler. Froelich continues his series of children's book?, 
the charm and truth of which are such that they delight tho-^tnoth-Ts 
even more than the children. Those who want pretty editions of tli:> 
classics of the seventeenth century go to Jouaust ; those who waut 
modern poetry find it at Lemerre and Fischbacher's, dressed in sucb 
elegant garb as to predispose them to admiration. M. Mame and aI. 
Pahne address themselves especially to the Ultramontane connection ; 
and the firm of Firmin Didot itself seems desirous of giving a Catholio 
colour to its larger illustrated works, such as '*Les Femmcsdansia 
Society Chrotiennc," by M. Dantier, which far from rival those of 

These gift-books, however, represent only a small part of tha literarv 
activity that shows itself every year as winter conicS on. The books 
that are read, and are worth reading, are not always the handsomest, or 
finest impressions. Often even pubhshers are a triflo careless as rogarda 
those which are sure to make their way by themselves. This is not Vi ^ 
time of yf ar that noveUsts choose for pi'oducing their most cherish d 
works. They prefer spring or summer, when the attractions of tb* 
B^adon ar3 over, and thoir female readers have quiit and leisure. TU- 
return of the fine weather, the reawakening of natnr*?, arou'o a desire 
for poc tioal emotions, and lend them a peculiar charm. Winter is tb-? 
tima for serious reading, in the long fireside evenings, when the \yiT^d is 
raging outside. Hence it comes that most of the books published at 
the beginning of the winter are of the serious and solid kind. One nov- 
elist-poet only has ventured to bring out a book of the spring-time class 
just when everybody are making themselves snug within doors. Und*^ 
the title "Sous Bois" (Charpentier), A. Theuriot has collected some 
short pieces expressing aore intensely than any of his former productions 
his prof ouad sympathy with a country life. If you wish to console your* 


self for the inclemencies of the season, and reawaken delicions memories 
of days far from the stir and din of towns in the free healthy atmosphere 
of the real comitry, read over again ** En For6t" and '*La Chanson dii 
Jardinier." Yon will find yonrself making lovely excursions along tho 
banks of the Meuse, through the dense forests of tha Argonne. ilhi- 
mined at evening by the bright light of the glass-works, with ioTcr.s 
and sturdy companions. At the same time, in his essay on popular 
Bongs, M. Thenriet teaches you the treasures of unconscious poetry and 
artless and profound sentiment contained in these ruKtic vfrs^s, hi- 
therto so little known, which the peasants themselves are bcginnicg to 

Pure literature, literary criticism, is, it has been already remarked, 
very much neglected in these days in France. The daily prrss, it is 
trae, still has among its writers two critics of the higliest order, M. 
Schererof the 2'cmps, and M. Colani of the I-epvhMqve Fraijcnisr; but 
whatever savour their articles may possess, even v. hen collected in 
volumes, like M. Scherer*s "Etudes sur la Litt^rature Contempcraine" 
(o vols., Lfcvy), these disconnected sketches, designed for an inattentive 
and mixed public, limited by the very size of the pap( r, cannot rank 
"with works of a less fleeting nature, thought out and written at loipure, 
in which the general ideas present themselves, not in the shape of bril- 
liant assertions, but borne out by facts and rcaponing. It Reems as if 
those who have the talent necessary to undertake Ruch works were led 
by the daily press and the reviews to confine themselves to incomplete 
and rapid essays. The exception, if any, to this rule is some professor 
in the provinces, whom Paris has not spoiled, who, in his isolation, has 
time to read, think, and write, with sufficient sequence to compose a 
work. Thus unquestionably one of cur most distlnguishtd men of 
letters is M. Stapfer, professor of foreign literature at Grenoble. And 
yet, though possessing all the qualities calculated to please, — wit, taste, 
a lively and delicate style, very varied literary attainments, acute 
moral and psychological appreciation, — his books, " Laurence Sterne " 
and the **Causeries Parisiennes," have not met with the success they 
deserve. The world finds it difficult to believcthat vou can be a writer 
of any value if they have not seen your name in the papers or the re- 
views, and the serious class of readers has neglected lit- ratiire for eru- 
dition. M. Stapfer's now book, "Shakespeare (t 1' Antiquity," is pure 
to be more successful than its predecessors, because it treats of a great 
X)oet admired by the whole world, about whom, in France at l«:at;t, 
people do not know much, and whom M. Stapfer has here treated from 
an original point of vievr, and also because without mailing a parade of 
enidition he has givsn it a larger place than before. But it is r.ot to 
thin the book owes its value. In tho retirement oi a pi'ovincial town, 
m the isolation of solitary study, M. Stapfer could not know everything ; 
with no one to revise his work, he has overlooked some errors. Now 
and then, too, he has let his pen mn on too complacently, as if giving 
himself up to the delights of a talk. But tho real value of his book 


Bccms to mo to lio in his nioral and psychological appreciation of Ehato- 
tpearo's plays. By confining himself to the study of a portion only c2 
the great dramatist's •work, and that not the most important, he hr.3 
been ablo to analyse it with exlremo minntias, and render an accnratj 
account to himself of the mcda in which Shakespeare worked and trarin- 
formed the materials ho derived from tradition. It is in the works cf 
the second order that the true character of men of genius can cf t'-,n b . 
be st appreciate d. They are more accessible from the secondary slJ.i 
than from that cf their masterpieces, which silence criticism by tii: 
cnthus:as.n thty excite, and which, moreover, the admiration of post r- 
iiy has, so to speak, consecrated and transfigured. In devoting himself 
exclusively to thoso of Shaktspearo's plays whose subjects are boiTowtd 
from c:a.^8ical antiquity, IvI. Stapfer has been able to determine his r^al 
plac3 in the Itenaissan^o, whosa exaggerations and prejudices he sac- 
cjedjd in r. j- cting and avoiding; to show what his historical and lit.^- 
rary attaimndnts werv% the simplo [rood faith with which* he aecc pt* d 
th« traditions cf Plutarch ; and at Iho same time the powerful psj-cho- 
logical dLsigns, thc^ strong instinct of the hving realities and thj dni- 
matieal logic with which he animated thf se imperfect documents, ard 
produced works wliieh, in spiti of ail anachronisms, all incohcreucits, 
and all odditi- s, are yet profoundly lioman, profoundly English, and 
profoundly human. Perhaps the b- st chapter of the volume is that ca 
Troilus and Cr^'ssida. M. btapl^r hIiows pt rfoctly how the conceptim 
til 3 middli agjR had of the Trojan War, violently taking part with thj 
Trojans against the Gr ;tks has found its most vivid, poetically fivx- 
ta-tie, aid striking utt'ranc 3 in Shak.sp' are's pioce. Vv'o look impr.. 
ti .ntly for M. h'.tapf r's sjcond volume, in which he is to iv:itt of tii^ 
r lation and the dltlVr.mces cf th3 Shakespearian and the anci it 
drama. Th3 English, so d-^eply v^rsfid now in Shakespearian erudi- 
tion, will, we think, forgive the French critic a f w <rrors of ditail, r.\ 
coasid ration of tli^ lofty iiit lligjuco and thj calm fairness with whi^h 
h ; CO nm uts on th -i po t's work. 

It lit raturj b ; so n \vir\t n- glxt.d r.t pr ^s^nt in Franc, it is not so 
witii history. Nev r hi? it bun i^^ori etudit d, and the discover!, s y t 
to b ; mad s oven r lativi to th ) cpoebs apparently the best known, arj 
sn-pvlsing- Onj would almost b) ineiintd to think that the whole cf 
h- story oucjfht to be racast, tbat thoH> who have hitherto attempted kinro 
hstori^al syiith^sjs have bnen too hasty, and that ev.^ry fact ought fir^t 
to bj subj !ct d to th3 most minute cr'tical inveptigation. The archiv a 
hav ) many surpria s in stor^ for us still, a proof of which is to bp s. < n 
ii th) coLnmniar^^ drawn fron th^m by M. Luce for the edition (^ 
Froissart w'l'-^h he is p'lbiishing ukI r ths auspices of th-i Rocit't' d' 
l'Hif:to"r 3 d^ France. Th*^ r-^v. n volumes already issu'^d do not rorppr*^- • 
nior^ thi'i Book I., but th'^ txt is nTonpani'd by rxplftv.atm- a- 1 
cm T>d\tory ■Dot'^s so copious and comt)! tp that th^ whol ^ of the hlRtrry 
of the fourteenth century seems, as it wcr^, renovated therel)y. TLii.i 
he has done justice on the legend according to which Charles Y. waa 


supposed to have declared war on Edward IIL by sending one of his 
scdiions to him ; the truth being that Edward III. dechned a present 
of Trine Charles Y. had sent hiiu at the moment when hoHtilitics were 
beginning again, and out of this fact the legend grew. It is no less 
important to study local history in its detaOs, for the general history of 
a country results from all the local forces combined, and though by fol- 
lowing merely the great pohtical facts and the actions of the central 
power the effects may be ascertained, the causes remain imdiscovered. 
I' is through local and provincial history that social history, the most 
interesting of all, is learnt. Works of this kind have greatly multiphed of 
late years, thanks more especially to the numerous learned societies ex- 
isting in the departments. But none of them can compare with the one 
M. Celestin Port, archivist at Angers, has just completed: "Dicfcion- 
naire Historique de Maine et Loire." He has devoted long years to it, 
ransacking all the archives, all the libraries of the department and of 
the neighbouring departments, visiting ail the communes, and not leav- 
ing a single historical, htarary, or archsBological question unexplored. 
More than one article of this dictionary is in itself a book, and, strange 
to say, this immense erudition, all this dust of the archives, has in 
nowise overwhelmed M. Port. His dictionary is written with spirit, in 
in the most lively and original language, and is deUghtful reading. 
When we have encyclopaedias of this kind for each one of the depart- 
ments it will be easy to write a general history of France. Again it is 
by minute study of detail that M. Douen, in his book on *'Lo Psautier 
Huguenot " (Fischbacher), throws vivid light on the origin and deve- 
lopment of Protestantism in France. The Psalms were one of the 
ciuef forces of the Eeformation ; they animated the Calvinist soldiers to 
the fight; they sustained the martyrs at the stake; they were the very 
Boul of public as of family worship. To find out how the French 
Psalter was composed, to what tunes these simple and heroic verses 
wore set, and what tunes were written expressly for them, closely to 
study Marot and Goudimel, two of the creators, one of modem poctr\% 
the other of modem music, is to study the Reformation from one of its 
moKt intimate and beautiful sidos. M. Douf'n has done his work with 
extreme conscientiousnees, and Marot is exalted and ennobled by tbg 
light he throws upon him. Besides the court-poet and the valet of 
Francis I., with whom we were already acquaiTited, v/o find a serious 
and religious-minded man who conscientiously and bravely took his part 
in the work of the "Reformation. 

The attention of historians has, however, of latf', he^ry iv.vnod. I^rr to 
thp middle ae^os and the sixteenth cmtm-y than to t^^e eijjht-^r-nth. rf all 
epochs the most int^reatin? to us as being the Rourcc of nil tb^^ questions 
now ajntating Frano.-^ and Europe; the one, t/>o, abont which, pt-i'hapR, 
we know l-a-it, as far, at any rate, as thp v^rrr^ of I>cir!p. XV. ^s con- 
CTn^d. owinpj to our attention having hithv^rto boon chiefly confined to 
the brilliant and frivolous outside of things, the life of the salons, and 
of literazy circles. Voltaire, Diderot, Grimm, Mme. du Deffand, Mme« 


d'Epinay have absorbed onr gaze ; the lives and work of the ministers, 
of Fleury, Machanlt, Choisenl, Maupeou is still in shadow. Hencefor- 
ward, through M. Masson's two volumes of "Memoircs and Lettres du 
Cardinal de Bemis " (Plon), one minister, at least, will become well 
known. Francois Joachim de Pierre enjoyed, until now, rather a poor 
reputation. Ho was looked upon as an abbe of the boudoir and the 
bedchambf.r, of light morals and wit, a coiner of insipid rhymes, pro- 
moted without reason by the favour of Mme. de Pompadour to the 
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and chiefly responsible for the alliance of 
France with Maria Theresa, an alhance out of which the disastrous 
Seven Years' War arose. It has even been said that it was to revenge 
himself for an epigram of Frederick II. *s, on his literary productions, 
that Bemis broke off the Prussian alliance. The memoirs and letters of 
Bemis reveal him in quite another light The lively frivolous man we 
expected does not appear; he has wit no doubt, but above all gocd 
sense, observation, and prudence. As regards his relations with Mme. 
de Pompadour, we are not quite prepared to bcheve him when ho pre- 
tends to have only consented with difficulty to being presented to the 
favom-ite, and that he yielded in order to exercise a wise and healthy 
influence over her ; but on the question of the Austrian allr'aoce he is 
entirely exculpated. Not a doubt remains but that it was Frederick 
who took the initiative in the rupture with France, by being the firpt to 
make overtures of alhance to England; and yet Bemis withstood 
Austria's offers ; he was even simple-minded enough to believe, after 
the alhance with Maria Theresa was concluded, that Frederick could 
not adhere to it ; finally, in 1758 he lost his place because he wanted io 
take advantage of the first successes to make peace. Hitherto, even in 
France, people beUeved the version given by Frederick IL in his Me- 
moirs. But that great man, who knew so well how to practice the 
principles of Machiavelli, whilst refuting them in his writings, after 
beating France and Austria in the battlefield, succeeded besides in 
attachmg all the blame possible to them in the eyi?6 of posterity by what 
he wrote. The hatred and contempt inspired by the Government of 
Louis XV. gave credit, in France, to all Frederick II. 's accusations : but 
the time has come for criticism to resume her rights. It does not follow 
that, like M. Masson, we must make a great minister and a profouiid 
politician out of Bcrais. Ho was ill-preparrd for the difficult functions 
he ha:l to fulfil : if ho blamed the Austrian alliance, it w*\s he who con- 
clu:l'd ?t; the paH ho played as counsellor to Mme. de Pompadour 
not lead to the reform of any abuso ; and after having been deceived Ly 
Cho^^! ul he romalncd his friend. H^ was a man of sagacious mind, but 
of T'O frrat capncity, and of weak character. 

Th f S^von Years' War, which brouejht Russia and Austria into oolli- 
slon with Prussia, was to be the starting point of an alliance between 
the three States, an alliance that after the lapse of a century still exists, 
notwithstanding all the changes the map of Europe has undergone.* 
This alliance was the work of Frederick n., and M. Sorel has jnst given 


an accQim t of its origin in an admirable book, ''La Question d^Orient 
au XVHL 8. : Les Origines de la Triple Alliance " (Plon). Frederick 
saw that Russia and Austria were on the point of being drawn into a 
fatal contest for tho succession of tha Ottoman Einpire, and that on the 
other hand th3 rivalry between Prusaia and Au'itria in Germany would 
remain in the acuta staga and imx>ed3 Prussia's development, unless it 
were made the instrument of Russian greatness, which was likewise a 
danger to her. He saw that the partition of Poland would be the solu- 
tion of all these difficulties. As, with his impious cynicism, he ex- 
pressed it, "It will unite the throe religions, Greek, Catholic^ and Cal- 
vinist; for wa shall partake of one eucharistio body, which is Poland, 
and if it be not for the benefit of our souls, it will surely be greatly 
to the benefit of our States." It was in fact the compUclty of the 
tbree^tates that bound them indissolubly together. Russia checked her 
advances in the east, haying, of necessity, to occupy herself with Poland, 
and left Prussia to unite her possessions in the northeast with those in 
the west, by making herself mistress of the lower course of the Vistula ; 
Austria left off watching Russia in the east, and gave up her claims on 
Silesia. It is from the partition of Poland and the alliance of the three 
courts of Austria, Prussia, and Russia, that international and modem 
poiitics date. The conse(^uences are visible now, and, as M. Sorel 
eloquently demonstrates, ad^ beginning to turn against the authors of 
that glaring iniquity. The Polish question seems exhausted, but the 
Eastern question is making rapid strides towards a solution. Once 
solved, the Austrian question wiU begin to unfold itself, and then Prussia 
and Russia will remain face to face. M. Sorel has not treated this 
deeply interesting question solely as a diplomat, but as a psychological 
historian as well, and has produced finished portraits of the three chief 
actors in the drama : Catherine II., who behaved with an unscrupulous- 
ncss truly imperial, and an immodesty truly epic, conquering and 
Bnnexing on a grand scale, as if by right of nature, in the name of holy 
Russia; Frederick, harsh and persevering, mingling the cynicism of 
Mephistopheliau irony with his passion for the greatness of his country ; 
Maria Theresa, weak and greedy, devout and ambitious, full of scruples 
to which she iiaid no heed — "always weeping und always talking." 

" God is too high and France is too far oif," Haid the Poles more than 
oaee in their misfortunes. France, in fact, always Bympathized with, but, whether from weakness, powerhssnc&s, or incapacity, that 
sympathy remained a barren one, and rather harmful than useful. 
Striking examples of this are to be found in M. de Brogiie's new book, 
*' Le Secret du Roi" (2 vols., Levy). It was well known for some time 
past through M. Boutaire's publication, ** La Correspondance Secrete 
de Louis XV.," that that indolent and vicious king had kept up>, side by 
side with the official, a secret diplomacy, the threads of which he held 
in his own hand, and by means of which he now and then pursued dif- 
ferent aims from those of his ministry. But the essential documents, 
the letters of the Comte de Broglie, the chief agent and the soul of this 


secret diplomacy, "^erd wanting. The present Dnc de Broglie, the 
grand-nephew of the Comte de Broglie, thanks to the Yoluminona 
archives of his family, as also to the Archives of Foreign Affairs and of 
the Ministry of War, has been able to give a complete history of that 
carious diplomatic episode, which he has recounted with brilliant and 
forcible vivacity. He places the part Louis XV. played in its true light. 
M. Boutaire was very near making him pass for a great politician 
thwarted by his ministers, and trying to take his revenge onknowu to 
them ; M. de BrogUe shows him to have been merely a blase looker-on, 
seeking distraction of a refined kind, incapable of following out an idea, 
and meanly sacrificing his confidants as soon as the secret was discov- 
ered. We experience a certain deception in reading these two volumts, 
from seeing the many negotiations that miscarried, the magnificent plans 
that did not weigh a straw in the destinies of Europe. It is painf ixl to 
see this Penelope's web alternately made and unmade. The bock is of 
immense importance as regards knowledge of Louis XV. and his Govern- 
ment, but throws no light on what really guided the politics of Europe. 
Yet this Comte de BrogUe was a man of rare understanding, impelled 
by obedience to the King, ambition, and love of intrigue to accept a 
thankless and undignified part Poland was the centre of his projects, 
from the moment when he laboured to get the Prince de Conti elected 
king up to that in which he endeavoured to enlist the adventurer Du- 
mouriez to his ideas. He cherished dreams, it is said, of changing the 
anarchical constitution and making it the pivot of a French policy. 
These chimeras, blent with profound insight and just intuitions, ended 
in the most absolute nothingness and the craellest mortification. 

If M. de Broglie's book draws a sad picture of monarchical Franco 
in the eighteenth century, that given by M. de Lomenic's ** Mirabeau" 
(Dentre) is not more seductive, but is perhaps more instructive. The 
Mirabeau family is not oifly interesting on account of the great revolu- 
tionary tribune, but because all its members were powerful and original 
individuohties: the grandfather, Jean Antoinc, and the grandmother, 
who died insane ; the bailiif uncle, a man of great intelligence, and ad- 
mirable rectitude, who would have made an excellect Minister of tho 
Marine; the other uncle, who became (councillor to the Margrave of 
EajTeuth, after being repudiated by his family owing to his having 
married beneath him ; lastly, the Marquis, fathf r of the great Mirabeau, 
tho philosopher, philanthropist, economist, and author of "L'Ami dtn 
Hommes," one of the most extraordinary types of the reforming noLihtj 
of the eighteenth century, a true symbol of the disorder then provaJLhig — 
at outrageous war with his wife, by whom he had had eleven children ; 
at war with his son, against whom he took out lettres dc cachet^ whilst 
thundering against the abuses of authority — a strange example of th? 
influx of democratic ideas into a feudal brain. AVo must read M. do 
Lomenio^s book to understand the state of intellectual and administr^ 
tivQ anarchy into which Franco had sunk. It likewisQ gives aumy ixxtez- 


eeimg detail? concerning the navy, the Otder of Malta, and tho f eudiil 
righte in the eighteenth centuTy. 

Let those who wish to console themselves for these too highly-colonrftd 
pictures read th^. **L2ttre8 de la Princesse de Oonde an Marquis de la 
Gervaisais " (Didier), pnblished by M. P. Viollet, gennino letters ot the 
same period, forming the purest and most touching novel imaginable. 
This last heiress of the great name of Gonde had fallen in love with a 
young gentleman of elevated and original mind and precocious mnturity. 
She yielded to the charm of this inclination till the consciousness of the 
obstacle the prejudices of her rank would interpose between her and the 
one she loved constrained. her to give him up. She renounced the world, 
and retired to the cloister. This, again, is a -sad example of the barbar- 
ism of the social condition of the eighteenth century ; but here at Itast 
are souls of almost ideal nobility to admire. These letters are love melo- 
dies, of incomparable innocsnco and artlessness, and at the same time of 
pOvRsionate depth. 

The philosophical publications this year were ftir from beincr as im- 
Dortant as the historical ones. Translations continue to be made of tho 
English philosophers, who at present — Herbert Spencer more especially 
— exercise an unquestionable ascendency over French thought. In proof 
of which we have only to read M. Ribot's exoclient ** Kevue Philosophi- 
que " (Germer Baillore). The works of Germany, in the meantime, are 
not treated with indifference, especially those, very numerous in these 
days, in which philosophy is based on the sciences, on physiology and 
physics Tbu*=t, whilst M. Liard has studied "Les Logiciens Anglais 
CoQtemporains" (G. Baillere), M. Ribot has complet^jd a work on the 
*'PsychoIogues Allemands Oontemporains " (G. Baillere), and M. Bou- 
tronz has tn\nslated " L'Histoire de la Philosophie Ancienne," by Zeller, 
and has headed the first volume by a remarkable preface. Lastly, tha 
several varieties of p»?s.simism continue to excite curiosity, rather liter- 
ary, it is true, than philosophical. The fact is, it is difficult to take it 
Bsriously and as an explanation of the world, even with men like Scho- 
penhauer and Hartmann. Pessimism is a feeling, a temperament ; it 
may produce a religion, like Buddhism, but will never bo a rational 
doctrine. In France, moreover, amidst a gay, active, sensible, and 
volatile people, pessimism can never strike root even as a passing 
fashion. To us it seems like a disease. M. Caro has studied it from 
this point of view in "Le Pessimisme CJontemporain " (Hachette), a 
ch*inning book, wherein he more particularly, and with reason, devotes 
himself to bringing out the moral and psychological causes of pessimism 
in Laopardi, Schopenhauer, and Hartmann; and shows, with some 
cleverness, that the poet Leopardi was the truest philosopher of tho 
three, because he neither sought the origin nor the remedy of the ill 
from which he suffered. The modem philosophical systems, which all 
more or less disturb the notion of free-will, oblige us to revise our ideas 
on the morals of its rational foundations. The preoccupation has in- 
spired M. Gmyaa with a remarkable work on '*La Morale d'Epicure 


dans ses Rapports avec les Systemes Modemes," in which, for the firsi 
time in France, the Epicurean system has been fairly judged. 

During the whole exhibition season the theatres, sure of full houses, 
did not go to the expense of bringing cut any new pieces. They were 
content with their old repertoire. Only now are they beginning to 
shako off their inertia and to produce some novelties. The t>j>era stt 
the example with Gounod's " Polyeucte," promised and looked for long 
ago. This work, to which the composer attached great importance, has 
been much talked of for some time. Strange stories were current of 
the adventures of the score, — of its having been left in London in tho 
hands of a lady of some notoriety, who wotdd not return it, and of H, 
Gounod having in consequence entirely to rewrite it. After the semi- 
fiasco of ** Cinq Mars" a brilliant revenge was looked for ; but in vain. 
Mile. Krauss's admirable dramatic talent, Lasalle*s fine voice, the won- 
derful scenery, the dazzling "inise en scene of tho fttc of Jupiter, and 
some pieces of a lofty inspiration make **Polyeucto" a spectacle worth 
seeing ; but for one who bears the name of Gounod, and has written 
** Faust," **Eomeo," "MireiUe," **Sapho," a succes d'csHme is not 
enough. The subject, moreover, was not suited to the musician's pecu- 
liar genius. Ho fancies that because he has a mystical side to his naturo 
he is fitted to write rehgious music, alid in the case of lyrical religious 
music, if he had to express personal emotions, he would perhaps be 
right. But he is incapable of the great dramatic objectivity which a 
subject at once rehgious and antique demands. It would require the 
genius of a Gluck, and no one is less hke Gluck than M. Gounod. TTo 
are indebted to him for some of the most beautiful lyrical efi'usions, the 
most dehcious cooings and warblings in modtrn music, but his essen- 
tially personal and subjective style lacks variety, and almost everything 
he has produced since he wrote "Faust" recalls without equalling it 
He moreover committed the inistake of treating as an opera, and one 
suited to the traditional formulas of the Grand Opera of Paris, a subject 
better fitted for a kind of oratorio. The result is a species of contradic- 
tion that annoys and shocks the spectator. 

Notwithstanding the serious reserves we make with referenca to Gou- 
nod's latest work, we cannot follow those who, at his exi)ense, praised 
the Marquis d*Ivry*s "Amants de Verone." Thg difference between tha 
inspiration of a Gounod, original as it invariably is, and tho makc-np 
talent of a skilful and learned amatem*, is all in all. The success of the 
** Amants do Verone" at the Salle Ventadour, proclaimed by the singer 
Capoul, who is himself the lessee, was due, in great measure, to Ca- 
poul's own talent, which excites veritable enthusiasm in a portion of tlia 
public, more especially the female public, and to the charms of MBe. 
Heilbronn. It was due also to the Marquis dTvry's many personal 
relations, to the Salle Ventadour having become a fashionsble rendez- 
vous, and finally to the attraction exercised by the divine subject of 
Komeo and Juliet itself, so often experimented upon by musicians since 
the da^ wl^eu ^h^espeare made it the gospel of young and passioimte 


love. But no masic will ever be vrorthy of Shakespeare^s verses ; them 
and them only will lovers read and repeat again and again. 

An interesting attempt made at the Odron by M. Vitu to adupt an 
Italian piece of M. Giacometti's, *' La Mort Civile," to tho Frtnch stagf», 
is deserving of notice. Both in Franco and Italy Salvini owtjd one of his 
great successes to this piece. - A Sicilian paiuttr has carried oil a young 
girl and married her; in a fray ho has killed his wife's brother, who 
wanted to take her back to her parents, and has been coud&nmid to the 
galleys. At the end of a year he escapes and finds his wife hving as 
governess in the house of a charitable doctor, who has adopted the 
painter's daughter and gives her out to be his child. The girl herself 
believes the doctor is her father. The painter, mad with jealousy and 
lore, wants at first to take back both wife and daughter, but vanquished 
by the greatness of soul of his wife, who has herself renounced a 
mother's rights for the sake of her daughter's happiness, he condemns 
and kills himself. The piece is naif and naively treated. Some Parisian 
critics were astonished at its success, and recalled the failure of an 
analogous piece by Itl. Edmond, "L'Africain." But that piece wanted 
sincerity and conviction ; you were conscious of a substratum of Parisian 
bragging in it. **La Mort Civile," on the contrary, is unskilfully con- 
structed, but the sentiments are true and human. The scene in which 
the painter makes his wife confess that she loves the doctor, though she 
baa never let him see it, is admirable in its pathos ; and when she bids 
her daughter kneel down at the feet of her d3ang father, and call him 
father because he had had a daughter who resembled her and whom ha 
passionately loved, not an eye remained dry. The great success of '*La 
Mort Civile " proves that abiUty is not so necessary on the stage as is 
Bnpposed ; that the essential thing is to be human and true. A common 
coloured engraving that is true in sentiment is often more touching than 
the production of the most delicate brush if it be affected and false. 

The artistic world has been somewhat excited lately by M. Massenet's 
nomination to tho musical section of the Academie des Beaux Arts. M. 
Massenet's competitor was M. Saint-Saens, and in the eyes of musiciajis 
the lattar ought to have been preferred. He is M. Massenet's superior 
both as regards the number of his works, and the power and loftiness of 
his inspiration. But M. Massenet is more popular; his '*B,oi de La- 
hors" has been played at the Opera; he is an amiable man, and his 
romances have had the run of all the salons. And whilst M. Saint- 
Saens had all the musicians of the Academy on his side, M. Massenet 
had all the remainder, the painters, sculptors, engravers, and architects. 
No doubt he too deserved admission to the Institute, but the author 
of "Samson and Dalila," the "Rouet d'Omphale," "Phac'tou," " La 
Jennesse d'HercoIe," '^ Let Danse Macabre," should have entered before 

G. MoNOD, in Contemporary Beviczo. 


What has happened to the London street Arab ? Is he going the way 
the Mohicans, and the Cheroquees, and other wild tribes ? No : he is 
going a much better way. He is being turned into a civilised, respect- 
able, and useful member of society. Like the Bed Indians, he is being 
'* improved off the face of the earth;" liut in his case it is happily by 
transformation, not by extermination. He is certainly not so conspic- 
uous a feature of London street Ufe as he used ta be. The watchman^s 
buU'e-eye searches in vain many of the dark comers where he used to 
crouch at night. He is by no means so frequent a visitor to the police- 
court. The cells reserved for his occasional occupation in the gaols are 
to a large extent vacant. From the stipendiary lAagistrate down to po- 
licemaa X, all metropolitan authorities agree that the street Arab prom- 
ises soon to become one of the vanishing curiosities of the old world. 
For instance, it was stated by Sir Charles Heed in his speech on the 
te-ass'jmbling of the School Board after the midsummer recess, that 
•^rhoreas the number of juvenilo prisoners in th^' county gaol at Newing- 
^n had boen three hundred and sixty-seven in 1870, it had fallen last 
year to one hundred and forty-six. And this is not an accidental or an 
uxcej^tional diminution. Therj has been a constant and gradual de- 
creasc3 ; and the rv.port3 of Colonel Henderson are to the same effect 

To what happy influeijce is this change due ? Do we already behold 
^he fulfihnont of those prophecies so boldly made at the advent of 
jchool boards, that reading, writing, and arithmttic would be the anti- 
slote to every poison in our civilisation ? Scarcely. There has been a 
good doal more than the j>roverbial ** three K's" at work in this field. 
\Vhatever success may be fairly claimed here has been due to one par- 
ticular provision of thd Elementary Education Act, which gave new life 
to older methods of benevolont work. Industrial schools had done 
much good service before school boards came into existence, but like 
many oth^r charitable institutions they were greatly cramped for want 
of means. Now the Act of 1870 gave power to school boards both to 
build industrial schools for themsolves, and to subsidize other institu- 
tions of tha kind. The London Board has availed itself of both powers. 
It has now two industrial schools of its own, and has made contribn- 
tlons to almost every such school in England in order to secure places 
for its stroet Arabs. The number of boys disposed of in this way has 
bocn 3,8G7, while altogether between seven and eight thousand have 
boon tskkcn off the streets. The time elapsed is yet too short to judge 
of the effect which the training received may have upon the future 
charactt^r and career of this juvenile multitude ; but the effect of their 
exodus upon the London streets and prisons is unmistakably evident 



But it is of ono part oaly of this great work that we propose jo speak 
now. For many reasons a seafaring life offers special advantages to 
tiieso rescued boys. "NYo give no opinion as to tiie desirability of such 
a life in generaL But where one great danger to the youth Laving 
Echool is the risk of entanglement in the bad associations of earlier 
days, or where a lad's chief temptations arise from exuberant animal 
cpirits and a bold adventurous temper, he may do many worse things 
than go to sea. Now there are of course many such boys among the 
fdousands taken off the streets by the London School Board. And the 
best school for them is a floating school, where they may not only be- 
come accustomed to the order and discipline necessary on board ship,' 
bat may also receive elementary instruction in practical seamanship, 
riany such floating industrial schools exist round the coast. But aft.r 
eveiy available place had been occupied in them, many promising boys 
had to bo sent to institutions less fitted for them. This led those mem- 
bers of the Board who give themselves more especially to industrial 
school work, to consider the expediency of establishing a school-board 
chip in the Thames. Apphcation was accordingly made to the Govcm- 
ment for the grant of a disased ship suitable for the purpose. Most of 
the school-ships previously in existence had been in the days of their 
youth frigates or line of battle-ships. Thus the earlier part of their 
career was passed in serving Great Britain by the destruction of her 
enemies, while their tranquil old ago is passed in serving her by the 
salvation of her children. The former service may have been neces- 
sary ; but surely few would deny that in this case the words of the 
Preacher are singularly fuKilled, ** better is the end of a thing than the 
beginning thereof." But the School Board were elisappointed in tlieir 
application. Tho Government had no suitable chip to disposj of in 
such a manner; and the Board were obliged to lock clsewh r\ An 
old serew-steamcr of the Peninsular and Oriental Ln% uisu'tabb for 
the new line of traffic throu<];h the Gu^z Caual, v;a3 nuv rtis.d for tiId 
about this time, and a thorough inspection Lhow.d h r to b) w.ll 
adapted to tho obj:)ct in view. Aft-r n-id.r^olng Ihj nuc ssary r?.- 
tions and repairs, she was moor:d in a b rlh sp cially clr d^; d for h. r, 
off Grays. Her former name vraa tlij Ii'uhin^ but w'.V.i a natural and 
pbasaut recognition of th/freat s rviecs rend red by Lord Shaft sbuzy 
to the class of poor and ne^l :cted boys, she v.-a^ r naLncd after him. 

It was a bright autunii djiy when the pr s ct writ r joined a f'w 
friends bent on seeing thi^j new life-boat —for fraeli indjid she is. Ihe 
part of the London, Tilbury, and Southend Railway which pass 3 
through East London does not afford much scop 3 for pictur. squ : obs r- 
vations, wh.^ther under a bright autumn puu or any oth r kind of light. 
But it gives many a glimps? of squalid mis ry and huira-i n;td; it 
sijg^vsts many a dim persp ♦ctive of dirk cxp ri -uc ■, which formed oi;r 
best pr;'paration for thi visit we were to make. From th se grimy 
laass, flanked by staring pubiic-hous s, Tki Satan's sentinv-l-box' s to 
guard against tdl invasions of heavenly inHu^ncwS, many a boy is drivwn 


forth by ill-nsago, neglect, and starvation, to pick np his living as best 
he may. On the ether hand, even the best-disposed parents in snch 
regions find an almost insuperable difficulty in keeping their boys from ' 
evil influences that sweep them away from home controL Indeed, 
family life is impossible nndcr the conditions imposed by necessity on 
many of tho London poor ; and one of the most promising reforms of , 
the present day is the improved system of erecting workmen's dwellirj^s 
. in blocks, by which the economy of land enables the builder to give 
better accommodation for the same rent. But at present we have to do 
not with radical reforms (properly so called) which go to the root of 
tho evil, but only with one which seeks to nip it in the bud, just where 
a naughty boy is begimiing to turn into a vicious and criminal man. 

The prospect brightened across the Essex marshes, where the gr^y 
green of tho autumn grass was dotted with dull-red cattle, and touched 
with a chilly sunshine.. And when, towards Grays, the river opened 
full in view, all eyes were sc-arching for the object cf our visit, as 
though tho carHest glimpse of it was a matter not lightly to be tacri- 

** There she is I" cried a friend; — ** there, near the ExmouthP'* Be 
it observed that the ICxmotith is a workhouse ship ; that is, she tak^ s 
from various Unions the boys thought best adapted for a sailor's life. 
This is the ship v.hose predecessor was burnt some years ago, when the 
steadiness, eliscipline, and even heroism of the boys excited universal 
sympathy and admiration. How much better off are these boys than in 
the depressing atmosphere of a workhouse I It is not inappropriate 
that the school-board ship should be so near to a sister vessel cngagt d 
in so similar a work. But while our friend is bidding us observe tho 
long, shapely hues of the S/iaftcsbtn?/ contrasted with the bluff propor- 
tions of her consort, and is explaining the advantages involved in her 
iron construction — all previous school-ships being, wo believe, of wood 
— the train stops at tho station and we dismount. Tho captain and oce 
of the officers are there to meet us, distinguished by their naval uniform. 
And, indeed, smarter-looking officers are i)robably not bo met with in 
the navy than these of the Shaftesbury, It might have been supposed 
that a body elected like the School Board would have been less free than 
the committee of a volunt;iry society to givo moral and religious corsid- 
erations their full weight in selecting men for this philanthropic wort 
Experience, however, so far does not justify such a fear. "While insist- 
ing upon seamanlike experience and skill, the Board has charly been 
guided in its selection by evidence of previous interest in Christian work 
on the part of tho candidates, and of a disposition to regard as a sacred 
trust the office that they sought. 

At the landing-place wo found the ship's cutter awaiting us, manned— 
if the expression be not inappropriate — by ten or a dozen boys in thf ir 
blue jackets and sailor's hats. On the first glauce it seemed impossiblo 
to believe that these smart-looking lads had, ouly a few months before, 
been waifs and strays on the streets. But a closer inspection showed 


♦>,.♦ t1,6 ttaces of neelect and miflery -were not yet whoUy effaced, Md, 
flf^th" ladling of the oare as we ptished olf proyed that they 
l^^a^M thfraTmaterial for- Bailors. I'et the cheerfol eneip 
•^ wh^h ^v scrambled the boat along-so to speak-showtd at Icabt 
""'^ rC^t Sd^nghood. We first puUed alongside the tend.r 
c ^Tr^^^gg^d '«»«1 attach^ to the 6uojM>uryforH.^ 
■'tt SIxerSg the boys in the actual duties of a voyage, by suort 
S^ to the m^f the river. We then dropped down to th. school- 
SS, and r^^ding the -mi^nion-ladder lo^d mrn^lve^on a^^^^^^ 
* ' ^4. -i^^T, «on fAPt lon<y. with a breadth or do teet a- tne oroaucbt 
n^^'^ ^deckhl^tea^^d^cl, in adapting the ship to her present 
^T^'^v^^:ydde ha'tehes, lltted with broad ladders hte 
^^ of S we could see the «am deck, where *« loess^ab es 
w,Te being rapidly cleared. Beneath tliat agam is the domuorj v^h 
beds for three hundred and fifty boys, only »^°'^' ^f^? A^.^^^l.^, 
been admitted at the time of our visit. On the "'f^^^^^'L l.^w 
rooms with aU needful apparatus for instruction ^^ ?^/^„%?,7P;°g 
deck, and resting on the ^ncrete which forms *e baUast is t^^«i^ 
ing apparatus, sioure from dangers of fire, smce it h^ n°f '"g f?°^,^» 
but the iron ^.amework of the vessel. At the same doP^th re is a^O 
a baud-room for the noisy and necessarily discordant P«^t'°o "^J^® 
tyros of the band. But indeed some of the latter ^»d aj^^^^y made 
pro<TeBS enough to strike up a Uvely march as we made our appearance 
on deck, whUe the boys not otherwiao on duty paraded past us. 

As wo have already said, there is not much at first sight to distinguish 
these lads from any other young sailor-boys ; . but, as we Fck "P ^"'^ 
■nation about their individual histories, our interest and our sympathy 
are vastlv deepened. There, for instance, woi^e, aged twelve, ^par^ 
enUy hejdthy, hapPT. ^.nd innocent- looking. Surely such a boy would 
have done v^ry weU at an ordinary day-school ? Such is our inexpen- 
euoed imnression; but that only shows how httte we know about it. 
This very W was picked up a few montlis ago, wandermg homek^ n 
SouthwSk at two rfolock i/the morning. He was I'.'Jf-^'^r'ed and m 
a deplorable con,Mtion of rags and filth. The ^l^^^.^ wf for 
found out Us father; but there was no use m sending him home, for 
t!i3 latter had no control, was in ill-health, and had not s««° ^f ^ fo' 
a quarter of a year. Here is another, whose father is a 6ol^«t?"^];^^; 
^Ith pay at the rate of thirty shiffings a week. _ Of course such a fattier 
is raqlS^ad to make a proportionate contribution Awards the cost of 
keeping the boy on the^ship. But some wiU perhaps ^"^^"^ *^*,n 
community ouiht to be bukened with no part of *e expense insucn a 
case. Yet after all, is the community quite blameless ? The ^tn 1^^ 
certain bad elements, for a long time neglected and even fostered bythe 


fatlier^s casaal earnings as a laborer. They have come down in the 
world, by whose fault we know not, or whether by unavoidable misfor- 
tune. But the next generation seemed bent upon going a great dea] 
lower. The boy being perhaps of a lively, adventurous disposition, and 
having no attractions at home, bacame ringleader of a little gang who 
are described as a great annoyance to the shopkeepers of the neighbor- 
hood. They would hang about the doors watching their opportunity, 
or making it by the disturbance they created, and then they wonld run 
off with anything they could lay their hands on. Thus the lad Tf as in a 
fair way to become a burglar. He is now, thank God! in a fair way U>{ 
become an honest sailor. Here is a fourth case, in which the par nts 
despairing of the boy's future were willing to pay jfive shillings a week 
to any school that would take him ; and did so for six months while h^ 
remained in an industrial school. But not being sent there by order of 
a magistrate, he was removed for some reason or other, and for a year 
was worse than ever. He sought the companionship of thieves, ran 
away from home for days together, and world then be pulled out of 
some dust-bin or cellar-area by the police. He is now here by order of 
a magistrate, and he will not find it easy to evade the custody of the 
School Board. 

Enough — we have no space to describe other cases ; and, indeed, they 
are all very much alike. These boys were the pregnant germs of crime 
and disorder for a coming generation. They have been removed from 
the evil influences that surrounded them ; and it is fomid that good is 
not wholly blighted within them. They can be obedient, obliging, kind 
one to another, faithful to Uttle trusts. And it is not too much to ex- 
pect that as good influences have been substituted for iU, ih'3 better 
nature will be strengthened by a few years* discipline, so that it will 
bear the stress of life. From the heart we pray Cfod grant it. For the 
parting cheer of those boys rings in our ears still ; and it has a tone of 
confidence and hope. 

HxNBY 0. EwABT, in Sunday Magazine. 




A OEBEAT deal of hnman Hfe consists in the simplo operations, men- 
tioned in our title, of being knocked down and picked up ngain. Tlu's 
is a process constantly going on, both in a physical and a metaphorical 
sense. Life is full of ups and downs. Properly speaking, we raniiot 
have the one without the other, as we cannot liave up-hill without down- 
hilL Naturally, we prefer the **up " to the *'down," and would proba- 
bly prefer knocking down other people to the converBc* optmtion of 
being knocked down ourselves. The pjentleman who com mitt; d suic^^id."", 
on the high ground that he objected to the absurd and constantly recur- 
ring practice of dressing and undressing, ought to luive more of thoso 
serious ups and downS of life, which have sometimes been enougli, with 
a better ^ow of reason, though not with the reality of it, to drive better 
people to self-destruction. If one were using a Butleriau mode of argu- 
ment, it would be proper to say that this uncertainty is so certain, that 
want of uniformity so uniform, that they are part of the very plnn and 
sfcracture of human life. To be always **up" would be son 'C tiling 
monstrous and abnormaL When Amasis of E^rypt found that the iBiand 
despot Polycrat3S was always suoccKsf ul, that v.-hon he cast hi'^ prict Ic ss 
ring into the sea it was brou^rht back in the fish cnpturcd by the fish* r- 
man, he renounced all friendship with him. Ho knew that it foreboded 
no luck at the last. And ha ingiiuiously ar«;ucd that if he mad*' a friend 
of Polycrates he would certainly have to endure consid^ niMo mental 
anguish through the misfortunes which would happen to his fi-i nd. 
He used rather a pretty expression, indicating that hfe was a kind of 
tracery, a blending and interlacing of shadow and t.nnshino. Of course 
this way of looking at human hfe might be treated on the method either 
of weeping or laughing philosophers. Most Sc^nsible men aro cod tent 
to take together the rough and smooth, the bitter and sweet. They 
know that these things make the man and the athlcto. Bcaunarckais 
beautifully says in his **Memoirs:" "The variety of pains and plea- 
sures, of fear^ and hopes, is the freshening breez(i that fills the sails of 
the vessel and sends it gsflly on its track." I heard a man say once, that 
he had had great trials^ and with the blessing of heaven he hoped to have 
some more of them. It was a bold expression, perhaps an overbold, but 
Btm he saw into the kernel of this mystery and problem of reverse and 
misfortune. Sometimes the knockdowns are so continuous and so Etun- 
lang, that they tax all our philosophy to understand them, or even be 
patient about them. 
Let us &Bt look at the plain, prosaic, practical, and somewhat pugilis* 

— — -7 ^209) 


tic force of tbo expression. The earliest education of an ancient race 
consisted in shooting, riding, and speaking the truth. I am afraid that 
the last item is very much falling out of the modern fashionable curri' 
adrcm. Wo may faike the intermediate department as an iliustratior. 
Wo must all have our tumbles. Every man learns to rids through a 
process of tumble continually repeated. Who ever Itamed to ride exc?pfc 
through continual falls, or to fence except through continual buffeting:; I 
The other day, I was reading Mr. Smiles's **Lifo of George Moore." 
\t is a little too much of the Gospel according to Hard Cash. Jlr. 
Moore had neither chick nor child, and he invested a large portion of 
his wealth in philanthropic and religious munificence, which yielded 
him immense social returns. Bishops and judges flocked around tho dr;- 
goods proprietor, who seemed made of money, who bled gold at cvciy 
pore. I do not say that he was not a good and sincere man, but tho 
worship of the golden calf was comically mixed up with tho whole of 
it. But how this man George Moore v/orked in order to accumulata 
money He had for a partner a man called Copestake. Ho led the 
wretched Copestake an awful life. Copestake worked away in a little 
room over a trunk-shop. For many years together he never took a 
day's holiday. He went through awful anxiety in providing fundj for 
the enterprising Moore, Mi\ Moore worked quite as hard. He spent 
the week in very sharp practice, and on tho Lord's Day ho balanced 
his accounts. "I never took a day," he says, **for tho first thirteen 
years during which I had to travel." All this work, in tho long run, 
did not fail to act injm:iouBly upon his health. Lawrence, tho great 
surgeon, gave him some sensible advice : ** You had better go down to 
Brighton, and ride over the downs there ; but you must take caro nol 
to break your neck in hunting." And now Mr. Moore had to learn tha 
acrobatic art of tumbling. He had to combine tho two objects of learn- 
ing to ride, and of not breaking his neck. Li a sort of way, ho was 
constantly being knocked down and picked up agaia. Dr. Smiles re- 
cords the Gilpin-like adventures of his monetary hero. ** He had some 
difficulty in sticking on. He mounted again, and pushed on nothing 
daunted. Wherever a jump was to be taken, he would try it. Over ha 
went. Another tumble ! no matter. After a desperate run he got seven 
tumbles." Mr. Moore thus sums up his experience : " Whatever other 
people may say about riding to hounds, I always contend that no man 
ever rides bold unless he has had a few good tumbles." This had been 
identically his experience as tho Napoleon of commercial travellers. 
Lector herievole^ we must learn to tumble gracefully. Half the art of 
the bicychst is to learn how to tumble. We must become used to being 
knocked down, and even appreciate it — hke the eels, which aro said to 
have a partiality for the process of being skinned — and learn to come up 
smiling, after a sponge, for the next roimd. 

How often we find a man saying, "I was fairly knocked down. I 
bore a good deal as I best could, but the last straw breaks the earners 
back. The fatal letter came. The fatal telegram came. It told tlid 


bitterest troth. It confirmed the worst fears, I was knocked down.*' 
Wo havo heard of persons who have had the very worst tidings. They 
have died upon the spot The f eebio h?art has given way. The o^ cr- 
wrought brain has given way. Tho blow was so bLarp aud buddv-ii, that 
Done other was ever rcquirvd by tho Fates. Tho victim was hiaiiglitiivd 
"wliera he stood. *' If thou faint in the day of adversity thy strength is 
but small," and, alas, the strength has becu small indcLd. 

Thus it may bo in many cases. But it is not so in tho case of thoeo 
Trbo, in ths struggla for existence, are destined to survive, and who 
"rise refulgent " from the stroke. "With stricken hearts and wandering 
tz'ts they contrive to pull themselves together. Look at military his- 
tory. The whole story of success in war consists in the cajmcity of men 
boing knocked down and picking themselvt s up afterwards. This is 
ihe moral of that famous seventh book of Thucydides, which Dr. Ar- 
nold loved so much, which sliowed how tho invaded became the invad- 
ers, and the Athenians were overcome on their own element. This is 
lh3 way by which the Romans obtained tho Bupr^rimacy of the world. 
Englishmen have never known when they have been beaten. Prussia 
became the steel tip of tho German lance through a series of knock- 
do vrns. Head Carlyle or even Macaulay's short essay, to see how Fred- 
crick the Great lost battle after battle, campaign after campaign, beforo 
ho consolidated his glory and his kingdom. See again how, when 
Prussia was brought to tho lowest point of humiHation in tho Kapole- 
onic wars, at that very point the star of the nation began to rise. Thero 
is a proverb to tho effect that Providence is always on tho side of tho 
big battalions. This is not always tho case, as witness the fields of 
Marathon and Mongarten and Momt. It is quito conceivable that there 
have been times in a nation's history when a defeat has been more valu- 
able than any victory, when tho knockdown has been essential to any 
getting up worthy of the name, when iho disaster has laid deep and 
fina the foundations of future victory. I am ono of those EDglishmcn 
"w^ho are never tired of reading about the battle of Waterloo. I can 
hardly tell how books have been written from the stately Bimplicity of 
tae "Wellington despatches to tho misleading legends of M. Thicra.andM. 
"Victor Hugo. What has imprtjssedme most, has been the awful reticence 
of the Drie of "Wellington, the way in which he held batik the impas- 
Eiva masses that seemed doomed for massacre, whether forming square 
or deploying into line, m both a moral and a military sense submitting 
to be knocked over until the hour comes to bo "up and at them." 

"\7e BOO this law pervading all history. "When Troy fell, according to 
tl-'i "Virgilian legend, its banished citizens rrarcd a mightier city on tho 
Tiber. "When monarchy was threatened in Portugal it revived in 
Brazil. Great Britain, compa69:d by inexorable limits at homo, revives 
beyond the seas in tho Greater Britain which girdles the globe wher- 
ever tho English tongue is spoken. Pitt thought the Ftar of England 
Tras lost in tho lii,rco light of tho sun of Austcrlitz, and had rolled up 
iho map of Europe in dospair ; but only a short time beforo he had met 


at the honso of a common friend -^itli a yonng officer, tliat Arthur T7cl. 
lasley of whom we have just spoken, destinod to pluck the eye out cf 
the French eagle which had soared and screeched above so many a r d 
battle plain. How oftsn has the country "been in dang^^," "brour^ht 
to the brink of ruin," ** going to the do^s." And what has been eald 
of the country has been said pretty well of every family that goes to 
make up fhe country. But somehow men keep on. 

The getting up again is the rule through all our modem life. Vf'e 
turn the shattered Une, fill up the breach, if necessary march to tlis 
-ainparts over the bodies of our slain comrades. If there is an explo- 
sion in a pit we cl ar away the debris^ human and mineral, and the ci- 
cavation is rvmwv;d. If an opera-house is burned down we build up 
another. If a railway scheme collapses, if there is really anything to go 
upon it surely revives again. When old St. Paul's was burnt down it is 
said that a single column survived, on which was engraven the word 
**■ Resurgam." Which thing was an allegory ; we do, in fact, rehearse 
our Resurrection whenever with fortitude and unconquerable purpose 
we look forward to it. Road such stories of heroism as we find in 
mod-^rn exploration, in Governor Eyre's walk across the Continent of 
Australia, for instance. Look again at the wonderful narratives of ex- 
ploration in Africa, from the north, from the south, from the east, fi*oni 
the west. We Englishmen played the first part, but a very good B^^coni 
has baen scor^^d by Germany. English people, howevf r, are hardly ac- 
quaintsd with the work of Nachtigal and Schwoinfurth, Rolfs and 
Kraph. The great merit of Stanley is that he never knew hims If con- 
quer d ,• as often as he was knocked down he picked himself up again. 
Thos3 fight.^. day and night, with som ^ thirty tribes of savagos, and wors3 
fights witl I som » thirty raging whirlpools of waters, are fine txa-^ples of ia- 
doinitable pluck. But in the whole history of human activity, in every d - 
partnaent in life,wh3rjver there is true vital'ty, tlj ' knockdown is rath r 
disciplinary and restorative than any absolute d f < at. How oft:n ia 
youthful d^^ys we heard the' story of tho d.f.^at^d Scottish kin<? \rho 
watch;^d ihi spil^r that failed half a dozen times b'^fore it arhi.^v. d it^ 
obJ3ct, a'ld so took hmrt of grar^i and provrd a conqueror at last. Tl:"it 
is Mi^ rno'^t ct^obrited spidir in all ontomoloc'v. In commercial history, 
"'Iiic'h lb minds with so many roaterials of adventm-e and romance, w^ 
^ ' th3 c s • of good and honourable men who hav) been plainly for? d 
'i;' t'l^ f t s to give in, who have had to endur-^ the los^ of prop, rty, 
" A I hat f'l more precious and valuable commodity, crd't; and y 

1 ^' ^i h s^ men have sinefularlv r'^trieved their shatt'^red fortune 
1 1 'U It a-^ "r-»at houR'^s on ^ firm and durable basis. Look acra'n at 
t L li sLn y of invt^ntions Every ereat invention has onlv b'^^n p r- 
f t 2 h', r seated eli«ar>pointment and through lonsr proc«<?s'^«! of r^p r. 
in • t » al'nn^s'5 and -natience are r^w th'* main chara'^ter'stic** '^^ ♦i^^ 
sci '^t'fie i.-n<\ ^-^ll^aonhic temper. Tt ^xpect*^ disapnomtrarnt*?, and it 
pf'»t'5 \}y :r . and V'^owq fhat they are instniments of ndvanc* a^d ^'■ana 
of Tvilfictition. The rocord of all success is simply the record of £ttiliire& 


Alchemy gave ns chemiKtry, and astrology gave ns astronomy. Men 
wanted the philosopher's stone, and Provid^nco gave broad, Iko traJ 
bread of scientifio discovery and solid advances ia tlio realm of irntuiv. 
The same thing is constantly to be seen in science. If science BUHLaij ; 
a defeat it is only a provisional defeat. The dc feat itself is a step tov.-arcls 
victory. Every scientiiic man moves &lo^vly from point to poirt search- 
ing into that "wisdom which has been hidden that vro iy teareliing 
migLt find it out, 

I was reading in a book of travels the other day Fome thing about Tr. 
CcUig Browne, the well-!:noTvn inventor of chlorodyne. Ho \sai a 
Etaff-doctor, nnattached, and was determined to Vtrebt from bare malLi* 
Bome secret that should prove useful and lucrative. His first cxpcrl- 
nent was quite unsuccessful. He had an idea which came to nothin;^ , 
but which may yet be developed, of having chest-protectors which 
Ehould be filled with inflated air, and thus protect the che^t from the 
cuter air. The inventor is dcscribsd as "busily employed cutting out 
Etrlps of macintosh with a huge pair of scissors, end gluing them 
together with some preparation which he was heating over Ihc fire in a 
pipkin, the whole room being strewn v/ith his materials, and the fumi- 
lure in a general state of stickiness." Mr. Lucas says in his work 
("Camp Life and Sport in South Africa "), "Ho went on I know to 
many other ventures before he hit upon his grand discovery of chloro- 
dyne, which ought to have made his fortune. V»liether it turnt d out to 
bo of any substantial benefit I do not know. "Wo can venture, however, 
to give a little light upon this inquiry. After many ch« mibts had 
declljed having anything to do with tho venture, one was found suCl- 
ciently enterprising to take the matter m hand, and we bt lieve tLat tlio 
inventor and the chemist who gave currency to tho invcidicn now 
share some ten thousand a year between them. Mutatis rrmtnhdip^ 
tl\e same story may be told of the great majority of successful men. 
Most of them will probably say that taking their failures with th> !r tiic - 
cesses they have been almost as much indebted to tho one as to the 

"No mntter; he who oMmhs must connt to fnll, 
Aiid each new fall will prove him cliuil>L i^; sdn. 

It is to be observed fiat the condition of riocoss is that 7"^ Icep on 
at it. **It*8 dogged that dots it," as one of Mr. Trollop. 's homely 
charactf^rs justly observes. No limit is to be placf d, as lorg as life 
la«ts. to the power of recuperation and tho capacity of a( tion. TI13 
old legend is constantly being exemplified, that men as tht y fall Lies 
t:! moth'^r earth, and rise strengthened by tho cmbrac. "NVh :i 
?h ridan failed in ppeaking in the House of CommouR, ht^ said that h ? 
b^: w he had it in him, and was determined that it Khould come cut. A 
ptlil j?reater man than Sheridan, Lord Beaeonsfifld, made a y t n cr^ 
conspicuous failure, which he has r dressed with far more splendid fu - 
cesses. We think of poor Sir Walter Scott, in his old ag*", ovr- 
vhdmed with debts which he had net himsolf incurred, and nobly 


clearing them off at the rate of ten thousand a year by his pen. I do 
not know whether he formally cleared off the debt^ but he standi 
acquitted in thy last verdict of his generation. 

Perhaps, my young friend, you have had Bonio terrible knoclidown. 
You really think that you must lie on the ground, and lot any ono 
trample on you who has a fancy for that operation. You havo been 
refused by the girl of your heart. Your right wing is broken, and you 
will never bo able tolly as long "as you live. It may or may not be a 
very serious matter. Only this I say, that I know many men who 
would very gladly have been refused if they knew all which they came 
to know afterwards. I know many, too, who when they sec their old 
loves rejoice exceedingly that that tremendous knockdown blov/ of a 
rejection was duly administered to them. You have been dismissed 
from a situation, or you have lost some appointment for which ycu 
have been trying. These are truly serious thmgs, and I do not wish to 
underrate their gravity. Still the v/orld is a wide one, and there is 
plenty of space to allow you a perch in it. I have an idea that if a man 
does not get on in one place, it is just a sign that he will get on better 
in another. If he does not succeed in one j^rofession, it is because he 
is better adapted for something else. Perhaps you have been plucked 
at college. This is no doubt a serious matter, but still not so serious as 
it was in my time. There are so many more examinations, and the 
standard of the examinations is so much raised. The young men, who 
used to be in disgrace and despair at the pluck in my time, now 
take the matter with callous coolness. Very good men have been 
plucked, and followed up their pluck with a first class. I indorse 
the old-fashioned theory, that no one is bom into the world 
without having a place assigned to him which will give him 
a hvelihood and credit. Then, again, the extreme case arises 
of impaired health, and the enforced shutting up of the ordi- 
nary avenues of distinction. This blow seems of a decidedly knock- 
down character. But it is not necessarily so. Some of the greatest of 
this world's children have been invalids. Macaulay draws a fine con- 
trast between that ^^ asthmatic skeleton" William III. and the crooked 
humpback who led the fiery onset of France. How nobly Alexander 
Pope sang througjj^out ** that long disease his life." That amiable and 
clever novelist Mr. Smedley wrote charming stories descriptive of that 
active existence in which he himself could teke no part. When limited 
by corporeal barriers, the mind has always seemed to work with greater 
sbrengftii and freedom. Thrown upon itself, it seems to gather up its 
resources with a firmer grasp. Some of the loftiest thoughts and love- 
liest pictures and sweetest songs have come from those for whom the 
world seemed to have no place. 

The moral hiptory of the phrase might be written at great length. I 
do not know whether biography would help us very much, because 
biography is tainted with insincerity and onrsidedness. In these days 
every eminent man has his biography written, in which he is repre- 


sente^ as a fanltless monster, and f onner intimates smile at tho impos- 
ture U]X)n the pnbiic. But look at the biographies of those men who 
Lave solemnly nnveilcd the secrets of their lives, and have shown how 
they have struggled against tha mast?ry of some overwhelming vioo. 
Weak natures that swim with the stream, which have nevc^r sought to 
counteract the imperious tendencies of evil, can hardly nndorstand the 
terrific life-long conflicts of many natures, the repeated knocksdown, 
the despair, the apathy, the remorse, and then once more the rising up 
again, the renewed conflict, and perhaps the renewed defeat, or the 
ultimate victory, won with such scars and haunted with such memories. 
There has been what a recent author happily calls a ** black drop in the 
blood" — some defect of nature, some taint of character, some transmit- 
ted or acquired evil. And how to exorcise this evil principle has been 
UiD terrible life-long problem. Ton see this conflict in tho writings of 
the greatest saints, such as Augustine and Luther and Calvin ; in those, 
too, who are all other than saints. It is like the picture of the Devil 
playing with a man at chess for his soul ; it is Fanet and Mcphistopheles 
over again. Our Laureate traces this out in his conception of Lancelot, 
his awful conflict with the tyrannous passion which overwhelmed him : 

** Hip honour rooted in di^honc-ur stood. 
And faith unfaithful kept hmi falseJy true." 

"We remember the final despairing soliloquy heralding the dawning of 
the better mind : 

*' So mnsed Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, 
!Not knowing he ehouid die a holy man." 

And this is seen in some moro of Alfred Tennyson's delineations. King 
Arthur reproaches the faithless knight Sir Bedevero that he had twice 
failed, knocked down by the force of temptation, and recognises that 
he may yet rise again : 

" Thou wonldPt hetray mo for the precious hilt ; 
Either from hist of gold, or like a girl. 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet for a man may fail iu duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get tliee hence ; 
But if tJiou epare to fling Excalibnr, 
I will aiise and slay thee with my hands." 

Here the wise and mercifid king recognises the possibility of a man 
being knocked over, and yet being picked up again. And we are re- 
minded of Him who said, ** Sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto 

Let us look a little at the process of being picked up again. As a rule 
a man is left to gather himseK together as he may, to pick himself up 
as he best can. As a rule no wretch is so forlorn that he has not some 
friend who wiU act as a ** Judicious Bottleholder," will plant him on his 
feet again, and whisper the consolatory remark that he should go in 
and win. Probably, however, he is left alone on the spot where he 
"vpas prostrated. If he writhes, wriggles, and makes contortions, this 
win be a source of considerable gratification to the bystanders. Thin 


will be a favourable opportunitj' for administering a British kick to tlM 
recumbent form. A celebrated writer concludes the preface to his work 
by the remark : *' Should the toe of any friendly critic be quivering in 
his boot just now, I would respectfully submit that there could not pos- 
sibly occur a better opportunity than the present for kicking me df 
Ti'ivo, as I have been for months very ill, and am weary and broken.'* 
Some other pickings-up are thrillingly interesting. The soldier waking 
from his swoon on the battlefield under the quiet stars, recognises his 
wound, and tries to stagger to his feet. It is an even chance whether 
he is helped by surgeon or comrade, or knocked on the head by seme 
camp follower for the sake of the piUage. As we go along the ^"aysid* s 
of the world, we constantly meet with those who are robbed and 
wounded and lying half-dead, and — the heavens be thanked! — it may 
often happen that a good Samaritan, in some guise or other, is coming 
in the very direction where ho is most wanted. I know that pub- 
lic opinion in the present day is strongly in favour of letting the 
wounded traveller alone, and of watching, with enlighti^ntd curi' 
osity, whether he wiU pick himself up or bleed away. The kindly 
race of the Samaritans — I who T^Tit^ these lines know it well — have not 
yet been improved off the face of the earth. There are still good men 
and women who, like Howard, tread '*an open but unfrfquented path 
to immortality." They are '* angels unawares." They adorn humanity. 
Thsy keep alive in man the seeds of ^ oodncss and the hopes of htaven. 
There is no nobler sight in the world than a good man commg to the 
help of a good man. He will first satisfy himself about the necessity 
before he inquires about the goodness. He wiU not depute his personel 
duties towards the suffering to th3 tender mercies of a Charity Organisa- 
tion Society. As he cannot go to heaven by proxy, he will think that 
he cannot do his work on earth by proxy. If I see a fellow-soldier 
overthrown in the dust and turmoil of this battle of life, I will not leave 
him to pick himself up, but I will try and pick liim up myself. I will 
ease him of his accoutrements, I will bring him a morsel of my bread, 
and water for his feet, and he shall rost within the shadow of my tent. 
His lot may have been mine yesterday, and may be my child's to-mor- 

There are just a few good people who actually go about the world 
picking people up whom they find upon the ground. For my part, 1 
prefer the adventures of the Brothers Cheeryble to those of Haromi 
Alraschid. This can necessarily happen to ve^ry few of us. It is much 
if we can now and then help a man on the roadside ; it is given to few to 
go out and search for them. The secret of Rousseau's influence, as M. 
liouis Blanc pointed out at his centenary lately, was that he took the side 
of the nmes d^mnees of the earth, the poor, the weak, and the suffering. 
What the two Frenchmen hinted sentimentally, there are many who have 
carried out practically. Such lives leave a luminous track behind them, 
and remind us of those Arms of infinite pity and power which are ever 
irtxetched forth to arise and bless us. London Society. 


OaiNiA EXEUNT IN — ThboiiOgiam. No branch of science appears to 
cousider itself complete, nowadays, until it has issued at last into the 
Taxed ocean of theology. Thus, Biology writes **Lay Sermons" in 
Professor Huxley; Physics acknowledges itself almost Christian in 
Professor Tyndall ; Anthropology claims to be religious in Mr. Darwin ; 
and Logic, in Mr. Spencer, confesses that **a rehgious system is a 
normal and essential factor in every evolving society.'** It is only the 
second-rate men of science who loudly vaunt their ability to do without 
r^^ligion altogether, and proclaim their fixed and unchangeable resolve 
for its entire suppression. As well resolve to suppress the Gulf Stream 
or the eccentricity of the earth's orbit I If the horizon of man's 
tkought is bounded on all sides by mystery, it is in simple obedience to 
the law of his nature that ho gives some shape to that mystery. It 
were mental cowardice to shrink from facing it ; it were positive iraba- 
cility to declare that the coast-ling between known and unknown had 
uo shape at alL Granted that the lino be a slowly flucituating one, and 
that conquests here and losses there reveal themselves in cours<^ of timo 
and one day become ** striking" to the commonest observer, does that 
lact acquit of folly the Agnostic statement that — now and hero — there 
is no thinkable line at all, no features to be described, nothing to sketch, 
no appreciable curves and headlands, no conception possible which shall 
mtjgrate (for practical utility) that great Beyond whose boundaries, on 
tiie hither side at least, are known to us ? Mon who can only attend to 
one thing at a time, and whose "one thing" is the field of a micros- 
cope or ** the anatomy of the lower part of the hindmost bone of the 
sfcull of a carp,"t may perhaps escape the common lot of manhood by 
ceasing to be **men," in any ordinary sense of tlie word. But for 
people who live in the open air and sunshine of common life th^re is 
the same necessity for a religion as there is xf or that mental map of our 
^thereabouts that we all carry with us in our brains. Let any one recall 
his sensations when he has at any time been overtaken in a fog or a 
saow-storm, and when all his bearings have been blotted out, then he 
win raadily understand the need which all men feel for a theology of 
some kind, and he will appreciate what the old-school divines meant 
when they said that *.* Theology was the queen and mistress of the 
Bcienoes," harmonizing and gathering up into architectonic unity all the 
multifarious threads that the subordinate sciences had spun. 

L One is driven, nowadays, to repeat both in public and private theso 
Tery ob vious reflections, owing to the e xtraordinary persistence with 

• Spencer: Sociology (Tth ed. 18T8), p. 8 '3. 

t Cr. Mivart : Oontemporary Evoiutiou (1876), p. 134. 



"ivliicli certain philosophers think fit to inform us that we arc all maloDg 
a great mistake ; that we can do very well without a religion ; and that, 
though it is tiiiG **man cannot live by brcp.d mono," but must htr.\» 
idf::iSj yot the creed by whicih ho ma,y Vti7v' VT-cjlniako Kiiilt to iiv3 is v.'iF 
— *' SoiiETHiNO IS."* I:i poiut of brevity thtnc i^ ii-'.^ little to do^•■^.:^ 
The Aposti'ris' Cr. cd is prolix by coiijp^visou, h^v'' aUhoiiirh we ii:^ 'i 
fairly take exception to **some-thuig," as embodj'ing two v« r'/cc'ii'-'r r-- 
acts of the imagination and therefore capable of further logical ** puri- 
fication," it were ungenerous to press the objection too far. This creed 
is purer than that of Sb^uss : " Wo believe in no God, but only in a 
Belf -poised and amid eternal changes constant universum."! It is wider 
than that of Hartmann : ** God is a personification of force. "J It is 
simpler than that of Matthew Arnold : God is "a power, not our- 
selves, that makes for righteousness. "§ It is more intelligible than that 
of J. S. Mill: "a Being of great but limited power, how or by what 
limited we cannot even conjecturp," — a notion found also in Lucre tins 
and in Seneca. || It is more theological than that of Professor HuxL y : 
**The order of nature is ascertainable bv oiu* faculties, and our vohtion 
counts for something in the course of events. "f It is similar to that cf 
the ancient Bruhmans : "That which cannot be seen by the eye, but bv 
which the eye sees, that is Brahma ; if thou thinkt st thou canst know 
it, then thou knowest it very little ; it is reached only by him who says. 
* It is ! it is !' "** And considering that this formula is very nearly what 
is said also by the Fathers of the Chun^h, what better jvrm^in con- 
C'Ordi(e between science and theism could wo require ? For instance, 
Clemens Alexandrinus (a.d. 200) echoes St. Paul's ** Know Him, sayest 
thou ! rather art known of Him," v.nth the confession *' We know cot 
what He is, but only what He is not ;" Cyril of Jerusalem (a.d. S.'iO) 
Bays, **To know God is beyond man's pov/ers;" St. Augustine (a.d. 
400), "Rare is the mind that in j>pcakiiig of God knows what 
it m^eans ;" John of Damascus (a.d. 800), "What is the substance of 
God or how Ho exintn in all things, wo are agnostics, and cannot say a 
word;" and in the middle ag;S, Duns Scctns (x.d. 1300), "Is God ac- 
cessible to our r:ar>on ? I hold that He h not." ft 

It seems then there is a consensus nn^ov-g ?i]l competent persons, who 
have ever thought deeply on tho subj.}ct, that llif real r.ature of that 

•rhvfjVns: Ernminnnonof ThHs-i (1??T"^. ]v 142:— '-Wbnt -wfis the cP-^-Tit-;! 
€u^pt.ince of i.iita*;i?t:c] th;iory? Apoar'ntly it wiirt th" Haiv ptatenient ot 'n'-^ 
"uulliijjkuhlo fact tliut Soiuothing lA. 1 Ik- essence of AtiKMSiii I fi;ke to wimiai in t' o 
fiii-'iv! dogma of e: lt-oxiht.iuc'} i:s its/^if lurtlci nf to roiif«»iinl-! a theory of tliiLj^-." 

V Str:iu8:5 : DvT ulto imd dor ij:.'ne Giiaibo (,;h ed. 1ST3). n 1 1<J. 

t tli.rniiaim : Qott iind Natiirwisseni-chatt {-Mid ed. 18»2), p. 14. 

§ M. Arnold : Literature and Dogina, p. JJOrt. 

fj J. S. ^iiJ : IZaa^ya on ICtillgioa, p. 124. Cf. L'jcretioa, vi., aod Seneca, 5at. 
Q'a. i. 1 . 

H Hnxlcr : Lay Sennons. 

•• T!i« Upanishad : ap, Clarke's Ten Great Keliglonfi, p. 84. 

tt Gal. TV. 9 ; Clem. Alex., Strom, v. U ; Cyr. Jer., Cot. LQCt. jd. S ; Aug., Confeaf. 
ilil. 11 ; Joh. Dafli., Do Fide Orthod. i. 3; Dona Scotua, In Sent. i. 3. 1. 


Power which underlies all existing things is absolutely nnknown to man. 
And it is allowable, therefore, in the last resort to fall back upon Rpi- 
noza's word " sub-stanco ;" and to accept — if charity bo reqiizro — r.r? llio 
common basis for theological reunion, the Agnostic formula, **bomo- 
thing Is." 

But then, unl2ss some means be found for instantly paraiTriiDir tiio 
restless energy of human inquiry, the next question is iuevitabl.^ — 
]\'}iat is that Something ? What are its qualities, its attributes ? Uotv 
are we to conceive of it ? 

"Existence," is, after all, only on© of our three necessary forms 
of thought : "Space" and "Time" are also necessary to our thinkinf;. 
And it is in vain for pure Logicians to put on papal airs, to forbid the 
qoeBtioD, to cry Hofi possumus, and to stifle all free thinking. It is use- 
less to say, ** We have already, with razors of the utmost fineness, spht 
and respUt every emergent phenomenon ; we have, by assiduous devo- 
tion to the one single and undisturbed function of analysis, examined 
eyery possible conception that man can form, and have discovered 
everywhere compound notions, ideas that are "impure" and capable 
of further logical fissure : salvation is only possible by the confession that 
'Something Is ;^ there rest and be thankfull" It is all of no avail. 
Kaiuram expdlas furea — she is sure to return in armed revolt, and to 
demand, Who told thee that thou wast thus nakedly equipped? Beason 
is one thing ; but imagination is also another. If analysis is a power 
of the human mind, so also is synthesis. If you cannot think at aU 
without using the one; neither can you without employing tho 
other. Take for instance a process of the "purest" mathematics, 
—"twice six is twelve ;" you were taught that probably with 
an abacus, and the ghost of the abacus still lingers in your 
brain. "The square of the hypothenuse :" you sav/ that once in 
a figured Euchd, and you learnt thereby to form any number of sim- 
ilar mental figures for yourself. No : you may call the methods by 
wliich mankind think "impure," or attach to them any other deroga- 
tory epithet you please ; but mankind will darido you for your pain^, 
and will reply. "The philosopher who will only breathe pure oxygen 
will die ; he that walks on one leg, and decUncs to use the other,"^ will 
cut but a sorry figure in society ; he that uses only one eye will never 
got a stereoscopic view of anything. Use, man, the comp^wd instru- 
ment of knowledge your nature has provid<?d for yon,— and xr^v. will 
both Si^e and hve." Why, even so dct.rmiDr-d a lodcian as "PhyRi- 
<Ti?" is obliged sometimes to admit thnt "this fn/mhalic method" of 
reasoaiug is, from the nature of the rasp. tbe only method of sfi'^ntifij 
rsasoning which is available."* And Profpssor TVudaU, in tb^^ Novf^m- 
ber number of another Bevicw, aftrr complaining? thpt "it is a-^ftinst 
th3 mythologic scenery of religion that science entftrs her protest, ""finds 
himself also obliged to mythologize ; for he adds (seven pages further 

^ — ^ - - 

* Examination of Theism, p. 84. 


on), "IIow are "we to figure this molecular motion? Suppose the 
leaves to be shaken from a birch-tree. . . . and, to fix the idea, 8up- 
pose each leaf," &c. And so Pi*ofessor Cooke writes : — 

" I cannot agree with those Tvho regard the wave-theory of light as an estab- 
lished principle of gcience. . . There is something concerned in the phenomena of 
light which has definite dimensions. We represent these dimecsions to onr imagi- 
nation as wave-lengths ; and we shall find itdij^icuU to think clearly upon the subject 
without the aid of tiiis wave-theoij."* 

In short, it is obvious that without the help of this mythologic, poetic, 
image-forming faculty all our pursuit of truth were in vain. And there- 
fore, starting from the common basis of a confession that ^^sometidng 
is," we are more than justified, we are obeying a necessary law of our 
nature, in asking what that eternal substratum of existence is, and with 
what morphologic aid the Imagination may best present it for our con^ 

But here the pure logician may perhaps retort, *' You foi^et that the 
conceptions men form of things are, at their .very best, nothing more 
than human and therefore relative conceptions. A fly or a fish probably 
sees things differently. And an inhabitant of Mercury or Saturn might 
form a conception of the universe bearing HtUe resemblance to yours. "t 
Quite true ; but logicians there, too, would probably be heard to com- 
plain that, coloured by Satumian or Mercurian relativities, truth was 
sadly impure, and was, in fact, attained by no one but themselves. Nay, 
in those other worlds priests of Logic might be found so wn^>ped in 
superstition as to launch epithets of contempt on aU who approached to 
puncture their inflated fallacies ; and who devOuUy believed that a Syl- 
logism did not contain a pctitio prindpii neatly wrapped up in its own 
premises, and an induction was not an application of a pre-existing 
general idea but a downright discovery of absolute truth. If from such 
afflictions we on Earth are free, it is because the common sense of man- 
kind declares itself strenely content with the relative and the human ; 
because, while fully aware (from our schoolboy days) that all our facul- 
ties — reason among the rest — are limited and earthly, we have faith 
that "all is well" in mind, as it certainly is in matter; and because we 
smile at the simplicity of our modem Wranglers who can only analyze 
down as far as "Something," when their Buddhist masters two thou- 
sand years ago had dug far deeper, — viz. to Nothinq : — 

I " The mind of th^ Fsnpremo P^ddhn in swift, onlok, piercinjP' : "bpconp** he is 'n- 
flniteiy 'pnre.' TsirwiHia is Mio dfStniction of ail the elements of exisrpnrH. 1'h-^ 
being'who is 'pnriflod ' Icnowsthat th*^ro i<^ no Ego. no Fe\f : all the nfillcrious c< n- 
noctod witli pxi«t.]ice nro ovccomo : all tho principles of existence are annibilaf: d : 
and that cnniliilntion is N1rv.'ana."+ 

* Tookp : The Now Chemi'^trv (4th ed. 18TS). p. 22. 

t Phvou-ns (n. 14R> rifV^s this logical hohhy far beyond the confln/»s of th« pnb- 
llrne. TT-^ d'nn^nfi-=? of tbf^ Thoi«t to show that his '' God Is something more than a 
mpre Oi'no"! A<ront which is * absolute' in the protcgquely-restricted senso of heiojj 
independent of one petty race of creatnree with an ephemeral ezpeiittnce of wiiat i* 
goinsr on in one tiny corner of the universe," 

t Hardy : Eastern Mouachism, p. 291. ^ 


The Churchman, therefore, holds himself so far jnstifictl in cLiiming 
tiie modem Atheist as his ally. They are at least travelling both to- 
gether on the high-road which leads from a destructive Nihilism towards 
a constnictiye religion. Only the Atheist has thought it his duty to go 
back agaia to the beginning, and to measure indastriously the saiiie 
groimd that the Chnrch had gone over just two thousand tour hundn:d 
years ago, when the great '' Something is " addre8st«d itself to man 
tkroQgh Moses in the word "I am" or Jehovah (Absolute Exist- 

Bat perhaps the pure logician may attempt anoth t r j^Iy. Finding 
us not in the least disconcerted by hearing, ouce a;?ain, the familiar 
truth that all our faculties ara limited, he may att »mi)t to shatter our 
serenity by an announcement of a more novel kiud. He may say, Not 
only is the imagery with which you clothe, represHiit. and conceive the 
S-lf-existent merely rolativo and human, but — far more damning fact- 
it is all a developifl^nt It has all grown with tli? t^rowth of your racs. 
Environment and heredity have siipplipd you with all j'our forma of 
tboaght. Even your " conseienco is nothing moro than an organized 
IxKiy of certain psychological elements which, by long i-.ih-^rltancs have 
come to inform us by way of intuitive feeling how avo should act for the 
benefit of society, "f 

Be it so. The proof has not yet been made oi't. But since thes3 
evolution-doetrines are (as Dr. N^wma i wonl.l say) **in the air," it is 
more consonant to the ruling id as which at present dominate our 
imagination to conceive thin^ in thi-i way. Ind v-d, to a lar^o and 
iacrs^ing number of Churchmen th-3 CYoIutlon-hypotlir:?:q appears, not 
only profoundly interesting, but probably tiiio. T'\ey Had thera 
notiiing to shako their faith, and a good d^al t.) confirm it. JIan is 
what he is, in whatever way ho may have becomo bo. And how Atheists 
can persuade themselves that this beautiful th'^ory of the Divine mithod 
helps their danial of a deity, th 3 mod eri school of throlor^ians is ct a 
loss to understand. For tKe cosmic force whom Christians worship has, 
from the very beginning, been represented to ther^T, not as a fickle, but 
as a continuous and a law-abiding enerpfy. "TIj Fattier workcth 
hitherto," said Christ. ** Not a sparrow fallcth to tlio ground " v/ithout 
His cognizance. "The very hairs of your head arj all numbered." 
"In Him we live and move and havo our bcin^." J."*;ctoriil exT)roG- 
cioas, no doubt. But what worla coiild rncro cl arly ind'cato tlio 
cnhroken continuity of can >atiou ill natiiro t'.ian V.izao te::tj from t!io 
Christian Scriptures ? And it is surely the est ^bli::]rnent of a continu- 
ous, as distinct from an interm:tt:nt, a^eney in iintura vrhieli forins tho 
l-ading jwint cf interest both to science and tD t'le Cliurch, at the pre- 
Kontdaj, as against a shallow Do:3m. If, Ihr rcfor?, inau'j iiua-lnctlve 
tii moral faculties, as wo know them no^^', ari a d.v.lcpinczt frozi 
former and lower — yea, oven from eava^jo, from bestial, ii-oia octerlnj 

■' ■ . ■ 1. — — 1 

• Exod, vl. 3 t Physicus, p. 31. 


—antecedents, what is that to ns ? Of man's logical powers the self- 
same thing has to be said. Vfhy then should logic give itself such 
mighty airs of superiority and forget its equally humble origin ? How 
does it affect the truthfulness in relation to man, and the trustwortld- 
ness for all practical purposes, of our imago forming faculties, that it is 
v/hat it is only after long evolution, and that the race had a fatal 
period as well as the individual ? 

The upshot, then, of the whole discussion ^s surely this. The Abso- 
lute is confessedly inconceivable by man. All our mental facultit:s are 
in the same category ; they are all finite, relative, imperfect. But tiitn 
they are suited to our present development and environment. Faith in 
them is therefore required, and a bold masculine use of them ail. For 
in nature, as in grace, *' God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of 
power and of love and of a sound mind."* If, then, there are ques- 
tions into which mere analytic reasoning cannot enter, if logic is power- 
less, for instance, before a musical score, and is struck dumb before the 
self-devotion of Thermopylae, or the unapproachable self-sacrifice oi 
Calvary, by what right are we forbidden to employ these other faculties 
which help us, and whose constructive help brings joy and health and 
peace to our minds ? Tha many-coloured poetical aspect of things is, 
assuredly, no less "pure" and far more interesting than the washed- 
out and colourless zero reached by interminable analysis. The coloured 
sunHght is no less **pure," and it reveals a great deal more of truth, 
than '* tha pale moon's watery beams." And so we venture to predict 
that a constructive Christianity which reveals the cosmic force anel 
imity to the millions of men, will ever hold its own against a merely 
destructive Buddhism, whether ancient or modem; and, long after 
pure logic has said its last word and — with a faint cry, " Something per- 
haps is" — has evaporated into Nirwana, will continue its thrice-blessed 
efforts to rear a palace of human thought, will handle with reserve and 
dignity the best results of all the sciences, and will integrate (with 
courage and not despair) the infinite contributions of all phenomena 
into a theology of practiced utihty to the further evolution of the human 

For evolution there has certainly been. And in spite of all that has 
been said to tho contrary, f the moral atmosi)here which has from aga 
to ago rendered mental progress possible has been, for the most part 
cn{];endercd by religion, and above all, by the confidence, peace, and 
brotherhood preached by the Christian Church. No doubt religion v:as 
cradled amid pross siiporstilions ; and only by great and perilous transi- 
tions has it advancvid from tho lov/cr to the hicjhor. It vras a great stp 

+ Drapn* : Tho Conflict bat\roon Sclenco mid Religion. New York. 1873. 
otlicrw!-e ndmirMblo work Ih disiij^ired throughout by u prejudice against reliirii'i'i 
a3 a fuctor ia humau prorrogs, which is almost childish. The learned author gurrly 
f orjeta hia own words " No one can spend a large part of his life in teachiig 
BcioncG, without partaking of that love of impartiality and truth which phiiosopby 
incites.^' (P. is.) 


from the Fetish and the Teraphim to tlie a-niTnal and p Jint symbols of 
Egypt and Assyria. It was another great step to Baal, llio blazing sun,' 
r.nd Moloch, vrielder of drought and cnnstrokn, and A.^ni, f^icnc'ly com- 
rvJj of the hearth. But when astronomy and pl'j'slcs Il?A r.:ach :d Eiif- 
^2ient growth to master all these wond^rn, and to pn:dict l!i3 noLilicofi 
and the eclipses, then tho fulness of times had come onca more ; and 
no-v7 the greatest religions transition was accomplished that tho Lnman 
rr«ce has ever seen — a transition from tho physical, and tho bmtal, and 
Caq astral to the hnman and the moral, in man's search after a true (or 
liio to him truest possible) representation of the infinite forces at play 
ground him. In Abraham tho Hebrew — tho man who mado tho graat 
transition — this important advance is typified for the Semitic races ; for 
ethers, the results only are seen in tho Olympian conceptions of Hesiod 
and Homer. For hero wo have, at last, the nature-forces presided over 
and controlled after *a really human fashion. Crude, and on'y semi- 
moral, after all, as was this earliest humanizing effort ; still human it 
wa?, — ^not mechanical or bestiaL And it opened tho way for Socrates 
to bring down philosophy, too, from heaven to earth, for Plato to dis- 
cuss the mental processes in man, and apply them (writ large) to the 
processes of nature, and for Moses to elaborate with a divine sagacity a 
completely organized society, saturated through every fibre with this 
one idea, — the xmi ty of all tho nature-forces, great and small, and their 
government, not by haphazard, or malignity, or fato, but by what wo 
men call liAW. " Thou hast given them a law which shall not bo 
broken." For this word "law" distinctly connotes rationality. It 
implies a quality akin to, and therefore expressible in terms of human 
reason. Its usage on every page of every book of science means that ; 
and repndiates therefore, by anticipation, the dismal invitations to 
scientific despair with which tho logicians a outrance aro now so press- 
ingly obliging us. 

This grand transition, then, once made, all else became easy. The 
Imman imagination, tho poetic or plastic power lodged in our brain, 
after many failures, had now at last got on the high road which led 
straight to the goaL Eodemplion had como ; it only needed to bo un- 
folded to its utmost capabihties. Bull fate, dumb, Buiien, and imprac-- 
tieable, had been renounced as infra-human and unworthy. Let stoclia 
and stones in tho mountains and the forests bo ruled by it ; not free, 
glad, and glorious men I . Brute, bestial instinct also had been re- 
nounced, as contemptiblo and undivine in the highest degree. And 
BO, at last, tho culminating point was attained. The human-divine of 
Asiatic speculation, and the divinely-human of European philosophy, 
met and coalesced ; and from that wedlock emerged Christianity. Tho 
"Something is" of mere bald analytic reasoning had become clothed 
by the imagination with that perfect human form and character than 
vhich nothing known to man is higher ; and that very manhood, which 
is nowadays so loudly asserted by Positivists and Atheists to be the 
most diyine thing known to science, was precisely the form in which 


the new religion preached that the groat exterior existence, the Some- 
thing Is, the awful "I am" can alono ba presented intelligibly to man. 
For "No man sliall sae Jehovah and Hve," says the Old Testament: 
'*N"o man hath seen God at any timo," says thj Now Testament ; the 

Son of Man, who is ei^ rov 7:o?L:tov rov Ttarpot — projected on the 
bosom of the absoluto "I am'' — Ho hath declared Him. 

Of this language in St. John's Gospel, it is obvions that Hegel's 
doctrine — echoed afterwards by Comte and the Positivists, — ^is a sort 
of variation set in a lower key. In humanity, said he, the divine idea 
emerges from the material and the bestial into the self-conscious. 
Humanity presents us with the best we can ever know of the divine. 
In "the Son of Man " that somethino which lies behind, and which no 
man can attain to, becomes incarnate, visible, imaginable. But it can- 
not surely be meant by these philosophers that in the sons of men 
taken at JiapJiazard the Divinity, the great Cosmic Unknown, is best 
persented to us. It cannot possibly bo maintained that in the Chinese 
swarming on their canals, m the hideous savages of Polynesia, or in 
the mobs of our great European capitals, the ** Something is " can be 
effectively studied, idealized, adored. No, it were surely a truer state- 
ment that humanity concentrated in its very purest known form, and 
refined as much as may be from all its animalism, were the clear lens 
(as it were) through which to contemplate the groat Cosmic Power be- 
yond. It is therefore a son of man, and not the ordinary sons of men, 
that we require to aid our minds and uplift our aspirations. Mankind 
is hardly to be saved from retrograde evolution by superciliously looking 
round upon a myriad of mediocre realities. . It must be helped on, if 
at aU, by a new variety in our species suddenly putting forth in our 
midst, attracting wide attention, securing descendants, and offering an 
ideal, a goal in advance, towards which effort and conflict shall tend. 
\7e must be won over from our worldly lusts and our animal propen- 
sities by engaging our hearts on higher objects. \Jc must learn a lesson 
in practical morals from the youth who is redeemed from rude boyhood 
end coarse selfishness by love. Tie must allow the latent spark of 
moral desire to be fanned into a flame and, by the enkindling admira- 
tion cf a human beauty above the plane of character hitherto attained 
by man, to consume away the animal dross and prepare for new environ- 
ments that may bo in store for us. Y«liat student does not know how 
the heat of love for truth not yet attained breaks up a heap of preju- 
dices and fixed ideas, and gives a sort of molecular instability to tlio 
mind, preparing it for the most surprising transformations ? "Who has 
not observed the development of almost a new eye for colour, or a new 
ear for refinements in sound, by the mere constant presentation of a 
higher jesthetlo ideal ? And just in the same way, who that knows 
anything of mankind can have failed to perceive that the only Buccees- 
f ul method by which character is permanently improved is by em- 
ploying the force of example, by accumulating on the conscience reite- 
jated touches of a new moral cclour, and by bringing to bear from 


alfove the power of an acknowledged ideal, and (if possible) froia 
around Ae simnltaneous influence of a similarly affected environment ? 
Baptize now all these truths, translate them into the ordinary current 
language of the Church, and you have simply neither more nor less 
than the Gospel of Jesus Christ. And as carbon is carbon, whether it 
be presented as coal or as diamond, so are these high and man-redeem- 
ing verities, — about the inscrutable "lam," and His intelligible pro- 
s intment in a strangely unique Son of Man, and the transmuting agency 
of a brotherhood saturated with His Spirit and pledged to keep His 
presence ever fresh and effective — ^verities istill, whether they tfl^e on 
homely and practical, or dazzling and scientific forms. And the foolish 
man is surely he who, educatsd enough to know better, scorns the lowly 
foroi, and is pedantic enough to suggest the refinements of the lecture- 
room as suitable for the rough uses of everyday life. A man of sense 
will rather say. Let us by aU means retain and — with insight and trust 
— employ the homely traditional forms of these sublime truths : let us 
forbear, in charity for others, to weaken their influence, and so to cut 
away the lower rounds of the very ladder by which we ourselves 
ascended : and let us too, in mercy to our own Ifealth of character, de- 
cline to stand aloof from the world of common men, or to relegate 

away among the lumber of our lives the sTtf^a qyoavavra avvFroKnv 
that we learnt of simple saintly lips in childhood. Eather, as the Son 
OF Man hath bidden us, we will ** bring out of our treasures things both 
new and old; ** will remember, as Aquinas taught, that " nova nomina 
astiquam fidem de Deo significant ;*' and will carry out in practice that 
word wen spoken in good season, " It is not by rejecting what is formal, 
but by interpreting it, that we advance in true spirituality."*. 

n. On the other hand, if men of science are to be won back to the 
Church, and the widening gulf is to be bridged over which threatens 
nowadays the destruction of all that We hold dear, — it cannot be too often 
or too earnestly repeated, The Church must not part company mth tha 
world she is eommissioned t^) enangdize. She must awake both from her 
Henaissance and her Mediaeval dreams. To turn over on her uneasy 
conch, and try by conscious effort to dream those dreams again, when 
dayHght is come and all the house is fully astir, this surely were the 
height of faithless folly. An animating time of action is come, a day 
raqniring the best exercise of skill and knowledge and^ moral courage. 
Shall we hear within the camp, at such a moment as this, a treasonable 
whisper go round, "By one act of mental suicide we may contrive to 
escape all further exertion ; science is perplexing, history is full of 
daubts, psychology spins webs too fine for our self-indulgence even to 
think of. Why not make believe very hard to have found an infallible 
oracle, and determine once for all to desert our post and * jurare in 
verba magistri ? * " It is true that history demonstrates beyond a doubt 
that Jesus and His apostles knew nothing of any such contrivance. 
Fat, never mind I "A Catholic who s hould adhere to the testimony o f 

• The Patiene* <rf Hopei, p. 70. 
L. M.— I.— «. 


Jiistory, when it appears to contradict the Church, would b^ £<?• ff r. ^ 
merely of treason and heresy, but of apostasy."* Yes, ok tr^»o»x to 
Rome, but of faithful and courageous loyalty to Chribt- * * I am th& 
truth," said Christ. **The truth shall make you free." Epfxkk tlio 
truth in love, prove all things, hold last that which is true, said Hi.-, 
apostles. How can it ever be consonant to His will that the membtis 
of His brotherhood should conspire together lo make beheve that whiii 
is black at the bidding of any man on earth ? The Church of Englard, 
at any rate, has no such treason to answer for. Her doctrinal canoni^, 
by distinctly asserting that even '* General Councils may err and hav -. 
erred," and by a constant appeal to ancient documents, uiiivcrj-ally 
ftccepted, but capablo of ever-improvinjj interpretation, have avirtid 
the curse of a stcriio traditionalism. Ko new light is at any time iLr.L- 
cessible to her. Every historicr.1 t"-uth is treasured, every Uterary tli^- 
cuBsion is welcome, every B::ientilio cUscovcry finds at last a place 
amid her system. Time and i:5atienc3 rro, of course, required to rv.- 
arrange and harmonize all thinfii together, nev/ r.nd eld ; and a claim :s 
rightly made that new "traths" should Crjt bo substantiated as suth, 
bafore they are incorporated into so va^t and widespread an engine ct 
popular education as here. But, with this proviso, *' Theology acctp ts 
every certain conclusion of physical science as man'rt unfolding of Gca .> 
book of nature." t It is, therefor % n^.ost unwise, if any of her ckrc^* 
pose themselves as hostile to new discoveries, whether'in history, liteja- 
ture, or science. It may be natursl to take up such an altitude ; and a 
certain impatienco and resentment at the manner in v/hich these things 
are often paraded, in the crudest forms and before an xmprepared pub- 
lic, may be easily condoned by all candid men. But tiich an attitndo 
of suspicion and hostihty between "things old" and '* things new"' 
goes far bsyond the commission to ** banish and drive away all straDg: 
and erroneous doctrines contrary to God's word." For this commissiou 
^ requires proof, and not surmise, that they are erroneous; and tho 
'Church has had experience, over and over again, how easy and hew 
disastrous it is to banish from the door an unwelcome {jufest, who wa?, 
perhaps, nothing less- than an angel in disguise. The story of Gahlto 
^7ill never cease, while the v/orld lasts, to cause the enemies of iho 
Church to blaspheme. Yet of late years it has been honestly confcps-d 
by divines that "the oldest and the youngest of the natural sciences 
astronomy and geology, so far from being dangerous, . . sfCLi 
}")rovid3ntially destined to engage the present century so powerfully, 
that the ideal niaiesty of infinite time and endless space might count- r- 
aot a low and nanxDw materiahsm." t 

This expv^rience ought not to be thrown away. Ko one, who l.a^ 
paid a serious attention to the progress of the modem sciences, t a i 
cntortain a doubt that all the really substantiated discoveries whicii 

• A^be Martin : " Coptciirporr.ry Review," December, 1S78, p. 54. 

•t Dr. Puscy : University Scrr^cn, Novcaiber, 1873. + Kalisch : On Oefnesis, p. 43, 


haro been supposed to contravene Christianity do in reality only 
deepen its pTofimdity and emphasize its indispensable necessity for 
num. ITcvcr before, in all the history of mankind, has the Deity 
geemcd bo awful, bo remoto from man, so mighty in the tremendon-i 
forces that Ho wields, so majestic in the permanence and tranquility 
cf His resistless "will. Never before has man realized his o^^ti excessive 
fnnallnefis and impotence ; his inability to destroy — mnch more, to 
cTeai2 — one atom or molccnle ; his dependence for life, for thonght. for 
cliaraeter even, on the material environment of which he once thought 
himself tho master. . The forces of nature, then, have become to him 
cccQ more, as in tho infancy of his race, almost a terror. And poised 
rrd^TET, for a few eventful hours, between an infinite past of which 
h: tzows aiitdo and an infinite future of which he knows nothing, 
L: b tompted to despair of himself and of his little planet, and in 
chilclisli petulance to complain, " My whilom conceit is broken ; there 
13 nothing dso to livo for." And amid these foolish despaira, a voice 
i: Iiecrd which cays, ** Have faith in God I have hope in Christ ! have 
Icvo to man I knowledge of this tremendous substratum of all being 
it in not for man to have : his knowledge is confined to phenomena 
and to very human (but suificient) conceptions of the so-called 
hwR by whkh they all cohere. But these three qualities are moral, not 
bt:Il:ctu£U, virtues. For the Church never teaches that God can be 
ncicntifically known; she never offers certainty and sight, but only 
'"hop.-!," innnany an ascending degree : she does not say that God is a 
man, a parson like ona of us, — that were indeed perversely to misunder- 
stanj licr subtle terminology, — but only a MAN has appeared, when the 
time vos ripe for him, in whom that awful and tremendous Existence 
bsBliowtt^is something of Iiis ideas, has mado intelligible to us (as it 
vcre by a 'Word to the listaning car) what we may venture to call His 
"mind" towards us, and has invited us — by the simple expedient of 
[giving our heart'a loyalty to this most lovable Son of man — to rrach cut 
peacefully to higher evolutions, and to commit that indestructible forcp, 
oorLifa, to Him in sarene well-doing to the brothfrhood among whom 
His gpint works, and whose welfare He accounts His own. 

Is not this At/ma?it2i/i5' of tho great Existence, for moml and prac- 
tical utility, and this utterance (so to speak) of yet another crtativo 
TCrd in the ascending scalo of continuous development, ard this 
^milisinfj of His sweet beneficent Spirit in a brotherbocd as wide pa 
the woyld, precisely the i^iigion most adapted to accord with modcri 
ecisnce ? 

lot no one can listen to ordinary sermons, no one can open popular 
Iwks of piety or of doctrine, without feeling the urgert nerd thfrf hi 
among Churchmen for a higher appreciation of the maj? stic ii finitnde 
of God. It is true that, in these cases, it is the multitude and i.ot the 
liighly-cducated few who are addressed; and that, even among that 
multitude, there are none so grossly ignorant as to compare the Trinity 
to "three Lord Shaftesburys," and not many so childish as to picture 


" one Almighty descending 'into hell to pacify another.** * Such x^^tn* 
lance is reserved for men of the highest intellectual gifts, who— wliether 
purposely or ignorantly, it is hard to say — have stooped to provide their 
generation with a comic theology of the Christian Church. But, after 
all, it is impossible not to feel that the shadows of a welUloved past are 
lingering too long over a present that might be bright with joyous sun- 
shine ; that the subtleties of the schoolmen are too long idlowed to 
darken the air with pointless and antiquated weapons ; that the Renais- 
sance, with its Uterazy fanaticism, still reigns over the whole domain of 
Christian book-lore ; and that the crude conceptions of the Ptolemaic as- 
tronomy have never yet, among ecclesiasties, been thoroughly dislodged 
or replaced by the &r more magnificent revelations of tiie modem telc- 
8cx)pe. It U not asserted that no percolation of *^ things new " is going 
on. It is not denied that as in the first century a chai^ in ideas about 
the priesthood carried with it a change in the whole religious system of 
which that formed the axis,t so now a change in ideas about the earlL's 
position in space demands a very skilful and patient readjustment of all 
our connected ideas. But such a readjustment of the old S^nitic faith 
was effected, in the first eentury, by St. Paul ; find there is no reason to 
think that the Church is unequ^ to similar tasks now. And iii ihls 
country especially there is an established a^ organized "Ecclesiii 
docens " which probably never had its equal in all Church history fcr 
the literary and scientific eminence of its leading ^embers.* For 6iic2i 
a society to despair of readjusting its theology to contemporary science, 
or idly to stand by while others effect the junction, were indeed a di:- 
graceful and incredible treason ; so incredible that — ^until it bo provtu 
otherwise — no amount of vitux>eration or unpopularity should indue ^ 
any reflecting Englishman to render that work impoesible by aUovin;; 
his Church to be trampled down, and its time-honoured framework to 
be given up as a spoil to chaos. 

But there is yet another element in this question, which binds tlio 
Church of Christ to give to its solution the very closest and most bid - 
fatigable attention. It is this : that from every science thero cris -> 
nowadays a cry h'ke that addressed to Jesus himstPilf when on earth :— 
*'Lord, help mo I " It is not as if Atheism were satisfied with itscir. 
In th9 pages of the '* National Reformer" and similar organs of aggrcs. 
sive free-thought we are amused with the buoyant audacity of Ih > 
** young idea." Yet even there we find many a passage which calb 
forth the sincerest sympathy. Take, for instance, the following: — 

" There are few rpflnctive persons wbo have not been, now nnrl a^hi. imprrssod 
with awe aa thoy look'id back on the papt of bamaDity. ... It la then that wv seo 
the CTandest illuptrations of that nnendhig necessity under wbich, it wonJd f'ui. 
man labours, the necessity of abandoning ever and again the heritage of his far],' '■•. 
... of continually leaving beljind him the citadel of faith and pftaco. raised by t!. . 
piety of the past, for an atmosjjhere of tumult and denial. , . . Whatever may K"--; 
present conclnsions about Christianity, we cannot too often remember that it l;iJ 
D3en one of t ho most important fnctorg in the Hf«^ of mnnkJnd.^t 

• M. Arnold : Literature, Ac. (18T3), p. 806. Sncncer : Sociology (Tth ed, 18TS) p. 
S06. t Heb. vll. 18. ; Bradlaugh'a " National Reformer," October 6, 1373. 


This is totzefaiag enough — ^though perhaps the stolid aggressiYeness 
which knowS) as yet, no relentings is really a far more tragic spectacle. 
But there are other lamentations, uttered of late yei^B by distiugaished 
Atheists, which might move a heart of stone, much more should stir tho 
energies of every Christian teacher — ^himself at peace — to seek by ar.y 
sacrifice of Mb own ease or settled preconceptions an ^'eirenicon," 9 
method of conciliation, an opening for a mutual confession of neediest 
estrangement and provocation. 

"Does that new philosophy of hlPtory which elostroys the Christian philosophy' 
of it afford an adequate basis for such a reconstruction of the idtjjil as is i-eqaired ! 
Candidly, we ninst reply, 'Not yet,* . . . Very far are we from bihig thj first wb< 
ttave experienced the agony of diacovered delueion. , . . Well may despair almoi t 
FH23 on one who has been, not in name only .bat in. very truth, a Christian, when 
tlut incarnation which had given him in Christ an everliving brother and friend is 
found to be but an old myth [of Osiris] with a new life in it." • 

** The most serious trial through which society can pusa is encountered in tho 
exuviation of its religious restraints." t 

"Never in the history of man has so terrific a calamity befallen the race, a" that 
which all who look may now b.-hold advancing as a. deluge, hija-.k with dcsirnction, 
resistless in mi^ht, uprooting our most cherished hopes, cugnlfing our most prc!ciouj 
creed, aud burying our highest life in mindless desolation. The floodgates of infi- 
dality are open, and Atheism overwhelming is upon ns. . . . Wan has btcom<>, 
in a new sense, the measure of the universe ; and in this, tho kteet and most 
appalling of bis soundings, indications are retm'ued from the infiuito voids of spaco 
and time that his intelligence, with all its noble capacities for loveund udoiation, ia 
yet alone — destitute of kith or kin in all this universe of being. . . . Forasmuch 
as I am far from being able to agree >vith those who afllrm that the twilight doctrine 
of the ' new faith ' is a desirable substitute for the waning splendour of ' the old,' I 
am not ashamed to confess that, with this virtual negation of God, the universe to 
me has lo»t Ife soul of loveliness. And wlien at times I think, as think at times I 
iQQSt, of the appalling contrast between the hallowed glory of that creed which once 
was mine and the lonely mystery of existence as now I find it, — ^at such times I 
Bhall ever feel it impossible to avoid the sharpest pang of Mhich my nature is sus- 
ceptible." t 

It is well that Churchmen should be aware of this state of things ; and 
espscially that the clergy, when they are tempted to have their fling 
(sjcure ftx)m all reply) against the so-called ** infidel," should bear in 
mind how often the bravery of defiant arrogance is a mere mask to 
cover a sinking heart. For pity^s sake, therefore, as well as for their 
own sake, the clergy should guard against two gross but common mis- 
takes: (1) tho mistake of abusing modern science, and depreciating itci 
tmquestionablo difficulties in relation to the established theology ; (2) 
the Btifl more fatal blunder of trusting to worn-out tactics and to ttia' 
"artillery" of Jonathan and David for the reduction of these modem 
earthworks. "To the Greeks became I as a Greek," said St, Paul. 
And so must the minister of Christ in these days make up his mind to 
Mng home the Grospel to his own countrymen, with all their faults and 
peculiarities ; and to tho Englishmen of the nineteenth century must 
■ ■ - ■ I . , ■ 1^ 

•Stnart Glennie : In the "Morning Land" (18T3), pp. 29, 8TS, 431. 
t Draper : Science and Religion (P th ed. 18. 8, p. 328. 
tPhysictiB : On Theism, pp. 51, 63, 114. 


become an Englishman of the nineteenth century, that he " may by al: 
means save some.' 

But no success will be obtained, unless Churchmen will remeni])rr 
that tha vast domains recently conquered by science are (practicaiiy 
speaking) assured and certain conquests. They are no encrcachme^.^ 
but a rightful " revindication" of scientific territory. And, accepted in 
a friendly spirit, harmonized with skill and boldness, and cocstcrat-vJ 
(not cursed) in the [Master's name, they bid fair to become a new realm 
whereon His peace-bringing banner may bo right royally imfolded, aLd 
where, even in our own day, the beginning of a permanent unity may 
cartainly bo effected. And this must be attempted by a brave aid 
tailing proclamation of the great Christian doctrines, — that the awfnl 
6?lf-existent " I AM " is none other than " our Father in heaven ," that 
Christ, the blameless Son of man, is the best image of His person ; and 
that His pure Spirit, brooding over the turbid chaos of human socitty. 
offers the surest means and pledge of a future Cosmos, where '*life'' 
may perhaps transcend these baffling veils of space and time, and, in 
forms '* undreamed of by om' philosophy," display the boundless riches 
cf nature and of God. 

G. H. CuETEis, in Contemporary Reticle. 


T7ttv.v Voltaire had to lo we Germany,, and was looking around him 
for another place of abode, some citizens of Geneva inviti d Lim to that 
city, and m:ido a proposal for facilitating the printing o* his book.-, 
perhaps it wad the convenl nee of being near a printing- ;j>'-sss that kd 
him to accept tlio offer. T jltaire was rich, and had aii .ye to all the 
amenities cf Vl2j ttnd choo* tng two beautiful situations, ^? acquired oi:e 
house near Geneva, And f^.'Othtr near Lausanne. It w// r. narked tli;it 
ho was the Urst Romua ^.atholic, if he could b3 cal?»J such, that bad 
r-cquired ostabHshmentis in theso cantons sinco the (V.j's of Calvin an 1 
Swingle. Voltaire, however, did not makj either t/i these houses l.:"'- 
permanent residence. Thero runs into th3 canton of Geneva, close to 
the town, a tongno of French territory, in the Pay/ de Gex, now cnlkd 
tho Department i'Ain. At Fernry, in this part ^jI Franco, four milt s 
from Ganeva, Voltaire purchased a piece of land, and built the chatuui 
which still bears his name. The Pays do Gex had been made a wiklt r- 
nesg at the rovocation of tho Edict of Nantrs. The Protestants ^ ho 
v/erj onco numorous in it had been dvagonnaded, bui'nt. or baniFhal, 
and half the country had bcjome a marsh, spreading pestil^tial exhala- 
tions round. It hal been a /project of Voltaire's to settle in some such 
wilderness, in order to recVj -a it. Fcmey suited him adicurably for this 


purpose. There can be no doubt that und3r the auspices of Voltaire it 
v/hoily changed its external character. In place of a wretched woodju 
Lanltit, wh^ro eig.ity povorty-striolr-n pcasauts diiiggd out thnr oxibt- 
ciic^, Prirney became a thriving village of tv/elvi3 huadr.d inhaMtaiits, 
living coinfortably in hous s of ntone. Voltaira did a ^: at d-al in thj 
^7a7 of building houses, setting up industries, and funu-jhing employ- 
ment for the p.oplo. It was one of his b-ttjr qualities that he had a 
fiTv^at int'T^st in the progress of humanity, and liked to see human 
brings fiilfilling comfortably the functions of life. 

More than this — Voltaire actually built a church at Ferney. It exists at 
Vii: present day, although it is not us^d for worship. He who had allliis 
life scoSfed and snetr^d at Christianity, and had applied to our most bL ssed 
Lord and Saviour an epith t which mak.s us shnd.Ir aft r more than a 
bundr. d y<-artj, actually built a church for Roman Catholic use I Per- 
l:ap.-3 he did it with a measur3 of sincerity, for Voltaire was n.^ver an 
r.thii^t, and not only maintained th^ being of God. but h .'Id that r Jigion 
^Tfis so n-^c ?ssary for men, that if th: re were not a God, it would ba 
n:c3ss.\ry to invent 0.13. Thj little church b^ars to this day the inscwp- 
iioTi— '♦D.^o or exit Voltaire" (Voltaire built this to God). lie used to 
i:ik3 his visitors to see it, and to r.-ad the inscription. He told tlvjm 
that the chureh vras dedicated to God, as the common F.ithtT of all ni ^n. 
Th 3 simplicity of the inscription dr.;w attintlon, and it was remui-kc'd 
that it was p .^rhaps thi only church d ^dicat -jd to God alone. But dovoufc 
Lien could not but recoil from the easy funiliarity with which the £.am9 
that is above every na n3 was coupled with Voltaire's, as if Voltaire had 
plajid God U-id-r -an obligation to him. la Voltairo's intjntio/i, tha 
charjh was a sort of d fistic monmaent, a protest again -t thj Trinity, a 
protest against Christianity. That it should have bjen given over to the 
iloman Catholics was probably becau3 3 in no other way would it havo 
b^enused by the peopls. Voltaire seems to have desir^jd the credit of 
laaking provision for all their wants; and in ordjr to gain this reputa- 
tion, he ga/o them a bu'lding inv/hich they v»^cre to be trained in all tha 
! ip:rstitiou3 beliefs and magical praeticjs for which ho cherished bo 
profound a contempt. 

Th3 Chat eau- Voltaire is in excellent presrrvation at the present time, 
r.ii visitors are ^hown the grounds and gard3n. a tree plauted by Vol^ 
tiir:, and within the chat3au, his sxlon and b?d?hamb,T. These last 
"r: very much as he l?ft them. Perhaps the feature that most F.trikes fx 
^tniig_r is the voluptuous character of tli3 paintings, the marked pre^ 
oiuinance of the nude. We see the sympatiiy oi this great uubjliever 
rith that taste in art, go prevalent in France, vv^hich shows at the Ijast a 
^Tait of moral delicacy in the artist, arid tends to IowcT the moral tone 
cflh3 p:Ople. Tvro inscriptions have been plaeed in the salon that 
rath.rb3wiid3r the stranger— "Mes manes, sont consoles, puisqu3 mon 
coiiir est an niiiien de vous." " Bon esprit est partout, ct son ca^ur eet 

" By a poetical liction they repr3sei:t tli3 heart of the gr^at wrii^- 
fti Btiil hovering about the place, while his spirit spreads ov^r the vorit^ 



The last part of Uie statement is tme — ^his spirit did ^read over the 
woild, long after his shrivelled form became dnst. And this makes the 
place remarkable stilL It is touching to be in the Tcry chambers where 
one who did so much to discoontanance Christianity lived and slept It 
is strange to think of the man living and working here, who looked on 
the Bible as the great foe to human well-being and progress, and believed 
that in another century it would be well-nigh a forgotten book. The 
influences that went out from Femey in those days were not slight or 
slender forces, but served, in a very marked degree, to swell the tide of 
unbelief which rose in France to such a disastrous height, and spread to 
80 many countries besides. 

But time brings about remarkable chango& Within a stonecast from 
the Chateau-Yoltaird rises now a Protestant church, and at its side the 
modest manse of M. Pasquet, pastor of the Reformed Church of Fer- 
ney. We have said that after the dragonnades and the revocation of 
the Edict of Nantes, Protestantism was well-nigh burnt out of the Pays 
da G3X. In Voltaire's time it had no church or school, or visible repre- 
sentation whatever. But towai-ds the end of. last century, it began 
timidly to lift up its head. In 1795, a few years after the Revolution, 
Protestant worship was established. More than twenty years later a 
school was added, and in 1819 a pastor for the whole Pays de Gex \va8 
officially appointed and recognised. In 1825 a church was built at Fer- 
ney. In 1830 and 1851 two stations were set up, Gex and Divonne, 
and occasional worship was held in them. In 1852 a new start ^as 
mads, and the work of reparation was extended to other places beyond 
the Pays da Gex. But we believe we may say that it is since the 
appointment of M. Pasquet, some twenty years ago, that the work of 
evangelisation has made by far the greatest progress. Rousing the 
corigregation of Ferney, the pastor has found among its earnest people 
many valuable helpers in the great work which he has undertaken. 
We need not enter into all the dates and details of progress, which can 
hardly be appreciated when the geography of the district is unknown. 
It may be enough to state that, as the result of the labours of M. Pas- 
quet and his friends, there are now in the district around Femey eight 
stations provided with churches and schools, and with either pastors or 
evangelists, while in Ferney itself there are two orphan asylums for 
Protestant children, who were either quite destitute or were in the 
midst of pernicious moral influences, one for boys and the other for 
girls, the number of inmates being seventy in all. Besides ail this, 
libraries have been estabhshed, and the labours of the colporteur and 
tha Bible-woman are employed according as means are found, or opt n- 
ings occur ; the whole of this machinery being carried on under the 
personal superintendence and responsibility of M. Pasquet, and at an 
annual outlay, for which he alone has to provide, of about two thrns- 
and pounds sterling. It is not merely because the results already 
secured are most gratifying, that this enterprise has a claim on the 
sympathy of the Christian world, but also because it has in it such a 


' >-^ - ,* ^ 
spirit of life, fio mtich of the promise and potency of divine inflnenoe, 
that if duly sustained and developsd, it cantlot fail to be attended with 
the most important results. Ever since we became acquainted with the 
work of M. Pasquet, we have had a strong desire to publish a short 
notice of it, partly on its own account, and partly because, having Fer- 
ney for its centra, it illustrates the quiet but wonderful way in which 
the Lord bringeth to nought the counsel of the ungodly, and shows the 
everlasting vitality and enduring power and freshness of His own 

It can hardly be necessary to vindicate M. Pasquet from the charge 
of being a mere proselytiser, ono who tries to build up his own Church 
at the expense of others which he ought to let alone. Apart from all 
oth^ considerations, M. Pasquet's mora immediat3 object is to gather 
together the scattered atoms of Protestantism which survive tho perse- 
cution of centuries, and to show, under the very shadow of Voltaire's 
chateau, the mighty power of the faith of Christ, not only to counter- 
act unbelief, but to renew, purify and elevat3 tho whole Kfo and nature 
of man. • 

Where a whole community ara substantially of the same creed, with 
churches, schools, hospitals, and other institutions all moulded by its 
influence, people can have little conception of the difficulties, tempta- 
tions, and embarrassments Of scattered Protestants, living as bare 
raiits in the midst of communities thoroughly moulded by &e Church 
of Rome. The natural tendency for such scattered rismnants is to 
dwindle from age to age, and finally to disappear; because, as they 
recedj from the time when they made their great stand, tha difficulties 
jmd inconveniences of their position multiply, the zeal of succeeding 
generations becomes colder, and tho opportunity is apt to be taken of 
any excuse that offers to give up the contest and accept tho inevitable. 

In the face of such considerations and influences, tho tenacity which 
has often been shown by scatterod Protestant families, and even the 
representatives of families once Protestant, is very wonderful, and so 
is their readiness to respond to efforts made to provide them with a 
scriptoral worship, and the earnest preaching of the word of God. 

But apart from this, any one who considers the absoluta and utter 
feebleness of a Protestant pastor to contend against the tremendous 
social influence of the Koman Catholic Church, will smile at the very 
idea of an attempt by the former to make converts otherwise than 
through the self-commending power of what he teaches. If the Pro- 
testant pastor has not got a message that will go to the heart of his 
hearers, he acts the part of a fool in going among Boman Catholics, and 
trying to induce them to follow him ; and very soon indeed he will be 
convinced of his folly. If he has a message which sticks to the con- 
sciences of his hearers, and moves their hearts, that message must have 
bsen given him by the Lord of all, and he woiild be only a coward and 
traitor i^, entrusted with such a gospel, the reproach ef seeking to oro- 


selytise, or any other reproach, should hinder him from making it 

The fcuilJes tolantc,\ or fly-leaves, which M. Pasqnet issues from time 
to time, to let his friends know what is going on, are too brief and frag- 
mentary to furnish anything like a detailed account of his work. If 
these notices were more eiaborat3 and artistic, it would be easier for ns 
to place our readers en rapport with the operations in L*Ain ; but the 
docuaisnts are really on this account more trustworthy, because they 
arc so palpably genuine, and written without any idea of making a 
coidciir de rose representation. We can easily understand, too, that 
well watched as M. Pasquet and all his agents are, it would not be very 
wise for them to go much into detail, or to bring into too conspicuous a 
position their humble friends who are asking the way to the blessings 
of salvation. 

Some of the reports give us a vivid idea of the prejudices that are 
often entertained with respect to Protestants, and the bad character 
which is given to the Reformers. The old tricks here are not quite 
worn out. But we confess we were hardly prepared to find a Roman 
Cathoho nobleman, who has written a violent pamphlet against the 
work, undertake the defence of the Spanish Inquisition, and deliber- 
ately maintain that in saving Spain from the wicked schism of Luther, 
it had, in spite of some excess :s, proved a great blessing to that coim- 
try. It is rather amusing to find the Protestants treated as allies of Bis- 
marck, that modern AttUa, who, having already dragged Alsace and 
Lorraine into th3 German Empire, is preparing to do the same with thu 
Protestant cantons of Switzerland, and if Gex aid Nantua should be- 
come Protestant; would doubtless engulf them in the same scheme of 
spoliation. It is a handy, and in many cases a too successful reproach 
to denounce every active Protestant as a Prussian, or as an agent of Bis- 
marck, or at the least a restless person, who seeks to destroy, public 
tranquility and order. We cannot doubt, however, that these silly and 
ignorant cries will soon die av/ay, especially under the influence of the 
much more ample toleration which the French Government, now so 
happily estabhshed, accords to the meetings and general operations of 

In the work of evangelisation, two very opposite classes come athwart 
the agents of M. Pasquet, — ignorant Catholics, and free-thinking ouv7'i- 
era of various orders. There is something quite naive in the remarks of 
the former when some unknown fact is presented to them. ** So it was 
not Jesus Christ that instituted the rosary ?" is often the remark made 
when a true view enters the mind of what our Lord really taught as to 
the nature of prayer. We find, however, the ouvri'r class much mere 
inchned to free-thinking than to superstition. "Every day," says a 
new agent at Nantua, "since my arrival I have had (fiscussions with 
materialists, pantheists, positiviste, rationalists, or, as they call them- 
selves, free-thinkers of every description. The unbelievers, however, 
are not at rest. It is often from them that requests come for meetings 


in wliich religious questions ar3 freely handled, and discussion on them 
allowed Thass aP3 sometimes very largely attaudad. But is do3s not 
follow that all who attend tham are earnest about religion, for they oftsn 
resist priTate dealings, and they seem to like such meetings rather as 
means for opening the minds of the people on general subjects, than as 
affording tha trua solution of It's qwstloas religieuaeH.''' 

Ganeraliy thera is great ignorance of the gospel and of the Bible. 
Bat when persons are induced to listen and to read, the first impression 
is commonly that of surprise. The notion of a free salvation is a very 
striking one. It affords a great contrast to the religion d'nvfivit — tha 
raligion of money, to which they have been accustomed. And the les- 
sons of the New Testament are often as comforting as they are arrest- 
ing. The fourteenth chapt3r of St. John seems to make a gr jat im- 
pression. The notion of the Saviour preparing mansions for his paople 
in heaven, and coming again to receive them to Himself, is at once 
striking and refreshing. The desire to know more of a book that mak3S 
such striking communications and revelations, naturally springs up in 
the hsart Sometimes the lessons are made vital by the po^/er of the 
Spirit, and in su3h cas3s we need not wonder that no power could in- 
duce the owners to give up the book. 

We have intiresting scenes in some of ih^^Q feuiUcs volants. *' The 
other day," says one of the agents, *'I went to a large steam-power 
manufactory with a large bundle of tracts, which were distributed, I 
might say pulled away, in an instant. Then the wife of a stoker begg3d 
me to converse with her husband. I went below, and found a sort of 
Vulcan feeding a f urna30 from two great heaps, one of wood, the other 
of coaL Between the shovelings we had a most interesting conv3rs?> 
tion, for the man is intalligent, educated too, a hot republican, greatly 
disgusted with the teachings of Rome, seeking for the truth without 
knowing where to find it, and asking me what I thought of the Chris- 
tianity of CabeL I was glad to be able to point him to the true soureo 
of light, the Word of God, and offered him a New Testament, v/hich ho 
gladly accepted. 

" Another time I went to a large flour-mill. Feeling tired, I sat down 
on the trunk of some trees at a httle distance from the factory. V/hen 
I was observed I was soon surrounded by a groat numl^er of worlr- 
p3ople, of all ages and of both sexes. I had soma illustrated tracts. I 
showed them, and asked one of the people to read out one of th3m. I 
was fortunate in my choice, for he was an overseer, and he did his task 
admirably ; reading in an int3lligent and almost solemn tone. It was an 
iutsresting subject for a painter, as well as a Christian, tho group of 
p3ople in many different attitudes and costumes, in a fine natural situa- 
tion, surrounding a man of tall stature, who was reading to them tho 
earnest exhortation and pressing appeals of divine graced I sent a 
Gospel to one of the managers, and the other day he came to ask me if 
th3 pastor might not come and give them a sermon at the factory." 

Besidas providing the labours of pastors, evangelists, and colporteurs. 


it is a part of M. Pasqnot's plan to bring occasionally on the scene soma 
person of high repute^, that the people may hear confirmed from his lips 
the lessons addressed to them by the more ordinary run of agents. 
Among the men of mark who have been brought thus on the scene, is 
the venerable and learned Professor Rosseeuw St. Hilaire. The sub- 
J3ct on which he spoke successively at Bourg, Nantua, and Oyonnas, 
was th3 moral elevation of France. It is needless to say that on such a 
EubJGct, and from the mouth of such a speaker, the address was calcu- 
lated to promote the cause of evangelical belief among the p8opL\ 
Everywhere there were crowded assemblies, and at Oyonnax, where 
there v^as an attendance of one thousand two hundred, the speaker was 
obliged to speak from a balcony in a public square to the great mnlti- 
tudes assembled to hear him. Everywhere, too, the audience showed 
itself in the main in sympathy with what was said. The jcnmal of 
Bourg, that of Nantua, and even the journal of Lyons itself, gave an ac- 
count of tho meeting, and spoke most favourably and eulogistically of 
tlie address of the speaker. After having said that M. Rosseeuw St. 
Hilaire had shown in tha gospel the trua means of elevation, quoting in 
support the nations of strongest faith, such as England, America, Hol- 
land, &c., the writer added — ** M. St. Hilaire, as every one knows, is an 
orthodox and enthusiastic Protestant. His vindication of Protestantism, 
before an overwhelming Catholic audience, was made with tact and care 
not to hurt the sensibilities of any. The audience, composed of all 
classes of society, numerous, attentive, and sympathetic, applauded 
with all the enthusiasm which comports with their constitutional cold- 
ness, and two Catholic priests, who had taken part in the meeting, wera 
able, without surprising or hurting the feelings of any one, to go and 
congratulate this man, so profoundly religi^ous, on the ardour and sin- 
cerity with which he had upheld the faith.'* 

The general results of such operations as these are apparent in Ibe 
increasing number of stations and schools which have been established 
in the neighbourhoods where they are carried on. Occasionally an Ap- 
plication for Protestant worship will come from a large number of per- 
sons, but this may result from local irritation, rather than love of the 
(;ospel. It is more interesting and satisfactory to hear of individca] 
cases of conversion. A free-thinker, for example, comes to one of tha 
agents and says, "I was an utter unbeliever, but that is past, for now 
I cannot but believe. Up to the present time I thought of Jesus as a 
great man, the most perfect of philosophers, but since Sunday morn- 
ing, when I read some verses in the tsnth chapter of St. Matthew, and 
from all that I have read and heard since, I am constrained to adop^ 
another opinion.'* 

Among Roman Catholics, fear of death is common, and the priest 
and the last sacraments are eagerly sought. In these notices we find 
some where the fear of death has been quite overcome, and the services 
and sacraments of the priest dispensed with, because without them the 
dying person had all that he required. -^ 


Tkos, in the yery ciiscle of which Voltaire was once the centre, an^ 
vkerehis inl^uence was so great, the old, old story continues to repeat 
f.5e]f. The gospel of Jesns Christ again shows itself to be the power 
of Grod unto salvation, and gives fresh evidence of that eternal fresh- 
ness which smiles at the efforts of unbelievers, and appears in all the 
vigoor of jouth when their works are covered with the dust and rust 
of decay. 

That there is a golden opportunity now for sowing the good seed is 
abundantly evident At the present moment the opportunity is better 
than ever. It seems to us a great duty of the Christian Church, when 
Providence raises up men like ML Pasquet, of wonderful energy and 
&ith, and great power of organizing Christian labour, to supply cheer- 
folly and abundantly the means of prosecuting the work. These apos- 
tolic men are but rare gifts of the great Head of the Church. AVhile 
they are in. the prime of their strength, they should receive all due en- 
comagdment and material help ; the utmost should be made of them ; 
&ey ^ould never be left to lament the opportunities they had to ne- 
glect, the openings they were obliged to pass by, the hungry and thinty 
multitudes to whom they might have given the bread and water of life, 
if only they had been furnished with a little more of this worid*s meang. 
Bev. Professor W. G. Blaieis, D.D., in Sunday Magazm^ 



' The first astronomer of whose work and thought we have trustworthy 
record, Hipparchus, deserves to be ranked among the greatest of all 
who have studied the heaven& I am not sure, indeed, but that when 
his kibours are considered with due reference to his opportunities, we 
should not assign to Hipporchus the highest place among all a-^trono- 
mers. Almost every astronomical discovery in the two thousand years 
wbichhave passed since his time, may be traced directly or indirectly 
to him. Yet we hear far less of his woik, in most of our books on 
iwstronomy, than of the work of others far inferior to him. We see the 
hypotheses which he devised not only attributed to others, but con- 
temptuously dealt with, as though they had retarded instead of initiated 
the progress of astronomy. I hope in the brief account which I am 
about to give of the general nature of the researches and labours of 
Hipparefaus to do something towards giving him that position among 
those who study astronomy from without which he has long deservedly 
held among the j»ofessed students of the science. 
S^sMf to imd«r^taa»d>the gEeataess pfHippagohuft w an a«tronoxncr| 


we innst oonRider what astronomy was before his time. I donbt not 
that if a full account of the laborious work of Chaldfean, Egyptian, 
Indian, Chinese, and other ancient astronomers had reached cur time, 
we j^hould find many among them who well deserved to rank among 
g^eat discoverers ; for an immense amount of work had to be accom* 
plished to place astronomy in the position which it occupied when 
Hipparchus began his work. Yet if we rightly i^prehend what that 
position was, and consider what astronomy became when the labours of 
Hipparchus had produced their full effect, or rather their first fruits, 
we shall appreciate to some degree the importance of his researches. 

I will not here discuss the history of astronomy before' the time cf 
Hipparchus. It would occupy too much space, and would be outside 
of my subject. It would also lead us to the discussion of many doubt- 
ful and difficult questions. But the position of the science Ix fore the 
days of Hipparchus can be fairly well ascertained from the account 
which Ptolemy has given of the labours of his great predecessor. 

Astronomers had ascertained the general motions of the sun and 
moon, and of all the heavenly bodifes visible to the naked eye. They 
knew that the earth is surrounded on all sides by the stellar sphere, on 
the concave surface of which, in appearnvci\ the stars are set in ap- 
parently unchanging groups, — the constellations. They had learned 
that this hollow sphere is seemingly carried round once a day, as if 
turning on an axis. This motiou of rotation they had found to be abso- 
lutely uniform. 

Further, by long-continued and careful observations they had found 
that the sun i^pears to circuit the st&}laT sphere on an unchanging path 
once a year. I sprak of a year as thougb this measure of time and that 
occupied by a revolution of the sun arounc? the stellar sphere were not 
necessarily identical,— for this reason, that the year in common accept- 
ance means, and ever has meant, the cycle .o* the seasons. This cycle 
we now know indeed, to be brought about ly the sun's motion round 
the stellar sphere on an inclined path, which bi^'tgs him in midsunimtr 
nearer than at any other time to the visible pole oi' the heavens, and in 
winter nearest to the unseen pole. But the coi"!ioit*ezice, or rather th** 
exceedingly close approach to coincidence between the year of season/" 
and the period of tiie sun's circuit of the stellar sjhar';, was in reality 
one among those earlier discoveries by astronomers, o*' whose history 
ve know so little. 

The moon had been found in like manner to circuit tb*? stel!ar sphcri* 
v/ the same direction as the sun, m6ving on a path somi'^hat inclined 
9o his, in a period (variable somewhat in length) of abov^i 27^ days, 
.lalled a sidereal lunar month. The ancient astronomers ha-l also in 
determining the general laws according to which eclipses of ti.'e sun and 
/Doon rrcnr. ascertained th'^ gpneral laws of thf moon's moti"*n,\ a^.(^ 
hnd fou'id that her path among tha pfnrs is not unv-hanging llk» t-: 
sun's. WHhin certahi limits of incliration this path undergoes conrta t 
changes, the points where it crosses the son's path shifting constani-^j, 


kot always in one direction, yet always with a balanc3 of motion in ohj 
diiectiDn. If theso points wera fixed, the son would of conrso pasi 
laem at intervals of half -a-year. When he was passing then, or witliln 
I certiin distance from them, echpses of tho Bim and moon ttoc!.! 
Dccnr, so that at intervals of six months eclipso seasons, bo to call them, 
B^ould recur. But the ancients foimd that tho avera^o interval s^paraU 
tng eclipse months is only about 173^ days, instsad of haLr-a-ycar, ci* 
182| days ; .which shows that these points whcrj thj laoon'a trail: 
cro383B tha Ban's ara (on tho whob) constantly moving to meet Ciy 
advancing snn, or are constantly moving backwtuxl^j. 

Th3 earlier astronomers had also learned much about the motions cx 
the five planets or wandering stora linown to them. I ought perhaps t j 
say the five other planets, for they called the sun and moon planet", 
because th^,s3 bodies moved among the stars. They found that tuj 
plaaets, though on th3 whole advancing, are moving the same way 
round as tha sun and moDa, yet at r^gulai'ly recurring epochs csase thuj 
to advance, travel backwards for awhile, and ceasing to' travel back- 
wards, begin again to advance, — making always a much longer journey 
lerwarls than backwards, as they advance on a path showing a serieti 
of loipj and twistings of a most complicated nature. 

Noi to 03cupy mora spac ) than can be spared with the account of 
li^hat tb 3 astronomers bsfora Hipparchus had disoovered, let it stiffic j 
to say, that th^y had in a general way determined the periods of th3 
Btia'a and moon's motions and of the planetary revolutions, and had 
r.'cogaizod the regular recurrence of certain changec in the distances of 
s^, moon, and planets, indicating peculiarities in then* paths which 
might (as they judged) admit of being explained, but which certainly 
none among thsm h^d succeeded in interpreting. 

It is, however, neces'sary to notice that more than a century beforj 
th^ time of Hipparchus th3 Alexandrian School of Astronomy had been 
faanded by Ptoltjmy Soter, one of Alexander's general*?, who reigned 
over Egypt after the d3ath of Alexander. His son, Ptolemy Philadel- 
ptus, gavo to the astronomers of this school a large edifice containing 
aa observatory and the celebrated library formed by Dimetrius of Pha- 
los. Here AristiUus and Timocharis made their observations, and to this 
sihool also belonged the well-known asti*onomers Aristarchus of Samoa 
and Eratosthenes. The latter was the first successful measurer of our 
earth's globe, and has b-'^en called the Father of Chronoloi5:y. 

According to Strabo, Hipparchus was born at Nicaea, in Bithynia. Al- 
thongh we know neither the year of his birth nor of his death, it is certainly 
known that his labours were in progress during the thirty-five years 
following 160 B.C. Probably his first observations were made in Bithy- 
nia. But it is certahi that he afterwards continued his work at Rhodes. 
It has been supposed by some that ho also observed for some time at 
Alexandria ; but although Ptolemy refers to the views of Hipparchus 
fsspecting observations made at Alexandria, he nowhere says that Hip^ 
parchus himself observed there. 



From among the many services rendered to astronomy and to mathe- 
matics by Hipparchus,* 1 propose here to consider three only : fizst, his 
determination of tlie langtli of the year ; secondly, his disooveiy of that 
mighty motion of the rotational axis of the star sphesTQ which gives rlsa 
to what is technicaily called the procession of the equinoxes ; 8^ tliird- 
ly, his investigation of the motions of the smi and moon. All three 
were noblo achievements; all three were based on exact observation; 
-but they were exceedingly diversa in character. Thefirstwasatziamph 
I of mensmrational astronomy ; the second revealed the existence of con- 
Btant mutation where everything had seemed fixed and unchanging ; 
the third revealed order and regularity really existing among movements 
apparently most complicated and perplexing. 

The year had been supposed in the time of Hipparchus to last ex- 
actly 8G5 days C hours. It is indeed probable that the ancient Chal- 
daean astronomers had made more exact determination of this important 
time-measure. But it is certain, that tho astronomers of tha Alexan- 
drian school had regarded 3G6\ days as the true length of the year of 
seasons. Hipparchus was the first to recognize from direct observation 
of the sun that tho year is somewhat less than $0i)^ days in length. 
Aristarchus of Samos, in tho year 281 b.c., had observed as closely as 
he could the time when the sun reached his greatest range north of the 
celestial equator, or made his nearest approach towards tha visible pole. 
In other words, Aristarchus had timed to the best of his ability the 
summer solstice of the year 281 b.o. Hipparchus, in the year 134 b.c. 
or nearly a century and a haJf later, made a similar observation. By 
dividing the time between the two epochs into as many parts as thera 
were years in the interval, he inferred that three hundred years contain 
109,574 days, instead of 109,575 days, as they would if ayear lasted ex- 
actly 365^ days. This made the length of the year SG5 days-5 hours />.> 
minutes 12 seconds. The result is not strictly correcL Three hundred 
years contain in reality about 109, 572| days. But the correction made 
by Hipparchus was important in itself, and still more as showing the 
necessity for further observation. 

Hipparchus himself recognized tho probabiHty that his determination 
<*«f the length of the year would require correction ; and the way in 
which he showed this involved the recognition of two most important 

In the first place Hipparchus observed that the correctness of his es- 
Umate depended mainly on the length of time which had elapsed be- 
tween his own observation and that made by Aristarchus. The errors, 
whatever they might be which Aristarchus and he himself might have 
Xnade in determining the true epochs of the solstices they resj>ectively 
observed, combined to produce a certain error in the total estimated in- 
terval between the two solstices. This error might be large in itsell If 
one observation had been made at the summer solstice of. one year, and 
the second at the summer solstice of the next year, the intervail, instead 
of being a true year of 365 days 5 hours 48 minutes 49 seconds, might 


be a day or so too lonp;, or a day or so too short Hipparclias hiznsfilf 
acknowledged, that his error in determining the time of the solstice 
might amoont to a quarter of a day. Aristarchas might have made a 
similar error, or a hunger one. Snppose, however, the errors in the two 
observations to have been each half a day in length, and such 
Hiat either both seemed to shorten the interval (the furst being 
too late, the second too early), or both to lengthen it {i^e 
first being too early, the second too late). Then if the interval 
bad been but a single year, the measure of the year would have been a 
day too short or a day too long. But the interval between the two 
observations being in reality 147 years, an error of a day in determin- 
ing this interval would correspond onlj to an error of 1-147 of a day 
for each year, or not quite ten minutes. As the error actually amounted 
to little more than six minutes, we see that the actual error as between 
the observationg of Aristarchus and Hipparchus amounted to not much' 
more than half a day. The result is creditable to both astronomers. 
We must be careful not to assume, as some have done, that the error 
lay in the observation of Hipparchus. It arose from the ccmpariaon 
between his observation and that made by Aristarchus, and most prob- 
ably the largest part of the error was in Uie work of the earlier observer. 

Hipparchus, in measuring the year in this manner, recognized the 
imporiant principle (one of the fundamental principles of modem 
astronomy), that the wider apart two observations are for determining 
such a period, the smaller is tiie resulting error in the determination of 
the period itself. But he clearly perceived also that the observation of 
Bolsdoe is not a satisfactory method for determining the length of the 
year. He only selected this method at first because he had no other 
way of dealing wdth a long period. If we consider what the summer 
solstice of the sun reaUy means we shall perceive why the moment of 
its occurrence cannot be accurately determined. As midsummer ap- 
proaches, the sun passes farther and farther north from the celestial 
equator, but with a constanUy diminishing motion', — just as towards 
noon the end of the hour hand of a clock jpasses higher and higher, 
but more and more slowly, (so far as height is concerned). At the true 
midsommer solstioe the sun is at his farthest north, just as the end of 
the hour hand of a clock is at its highest at true noon. Kow it is clear 
tbat if we had no other way of telling the moment of true noon than by 
noting when the end of the hour hand was highest, we should be apt to 
make a mistake of several seconds at least, because of the small change 
which takes place in this respect near the hour of noon. Or suppose a 
horizontal line traced on a clock face at exactly the level reached by the 
end of the hour hand at twelve, and that we were to determine the hour 
by noting when ihe end of the hour hand exactly reached this level, it is 
clear that the slow change of height would cause our estimate to be, 
very probably, erroneous. On &.e other hand, suppose a horizontal 
line across a clock face at the exact level of the end of the hour 

band at three and at nine ; then we E^ould be able very readily to de- 

2i2 THE DiS(;ovEKiES OF ASTiiONo:\rr:nf;. 

termino when it was three or nine, by noting when the end of the hour 
hand passed this level, — for the end crosses this level at right angles. 
In other words, becaas3 tlu height of the hour hand is chiiuging most 
fiiiickly near three and at nine, and least quickly near twelve and six, wj 
could much mpr;i exactly tinia th3 hours thrje and nine by noting thj 
height of th3 houi* hand's end, than v/e could time six or twelve. Ko.v 
in mucjh the same way spring and autumn are the seasons when tho 
uia's midday height is changing most rapidly from day to day. It i^i 
' th3n much easier to det3rminj exactly when ho is on the celestial equa- 
tor, or th3 true epo^h of either the vernal or the autumnal equinox, 
than to datermino either when ho is farthest north or farthest south ex 
the equator, or th3 true epoch of the winter or the summer solstico. 

Hipparchus clearly perceived this point. In other words, he clearly 
reco3[mzod the principle, a most important one in observation, that th) 
best opportunity for a time observation is obtained when the body 
observed is most rapidly changing as rc:spects that particular circura- 
stauco which is to ba noted (iu this case the distance of the observed 
body from the equator or from tho visible pole of th3 heavens.) Tho 
principle is simple enough, and seems obvious enough when explained ; 
but it is certain that Hipparchus was the first definitely to indicate its 
nature and to apply it in astronomical observation. He timed tho sun's 
passages of the c3lestial equator during a period of thirty-three years. 
From these obssrvations he deducted the same value for the length of 
the year as from tho solstitial observations, though, as ah'eady men- 
tioned, these covered a period of one hundred and forty-seven years, or 
nearly five times as long. 

It should be adddd that although Hipparchus himself (through no 
fault of his own) was prevented from determining the year exactlj', yet the 
mod3rn estimats owis it^ aoeuraey to his observations. It is from a 
comparison of more observations of equinoxes by him with recent ob- 
servations that we have been able to infer tho length of the year within 
a second or so of its true length. 

The second graat discovery of Hipp'&rchus was a very remarkablo 
one. Tho first related to a period which has elapsed more than two 
thousand times since Hipparchui dealt with it ; the second relates to a 
period of which not one-twelfth part has elapsed since his time, — th-o 
tremendous precessional period of nearly 25,909 years. 

Although we cannot see the stars around the sun in th*e daytime, we 
know that his course carries him along a definite track among the stars. 
Careful observations enable the astronomer to determine the exact posi- 
tion of the various stages of the sun's course, — his equinoxes, his sols- 
tices, and the limits of the twelve equal divisions called signs. Until 
the time of Hipparchus, it was supposed, at least by the astronomers 
of the Greek school, and certainly at the beginning of his career it was 
believed hy Hipparchus himself, that the positions of the equinoxes 
and solstices are unchanging. In other words, it was believed that 
when the sun reaches a particular point in his track among the stftrs, 


epring 'begins ; whon ho is at another point we have midflrnnmcr, at 
another aatumn, and at aaoth:r midwinter, for all time. 

^^pp^chas, not long after his obsarvations, bogan to etispect that tho 
position of ihesd stages in th3 sun's track is not unchanjjinj. Hi fouaJ 
taat according to Timocharia, who had observed about a contur/ nud a 
kdf before Mis time, the bright star Spica was eight d:groes behind tho 
aatumnal equinoctial point of his tima, about 23 J ycari n. c. I say 6j- 
/' indj meaning that tho suuhad traveled eight dagroes past Ppica wh jn ha 
reached the equinoctial point. But Hipparchus found that in his own 
rj2i3, and espdcially from 120 to 125 b. c, when he carefully ntudied 
tais particular subject, th3 star Spica was only about six digraes from 
ihe equinoctial point. At firjt he supposed that possibly the stars along 
Hi zodiac — the zone centrally traversjd by tha sun — might b3 shifting 
1 lo' a direction opposite to that of the sun's motion. Ho thought 
lliis unlikely, however, because if certain stars changed in position 
>7hild other stars retained their position, the constellations would bs 
v-liangcd. On comparing tho positions of stars outside this zone with 
tie positions which carUer observations assigned to such stars, he found 
tjat they also partake in the change, as he had anticipated. 

The nature of the change thus discovered is often misunderstood. 
Coma little attention is required on the student's part clearly to appre- 
li^nd it The stars themselves are not affected by any change so far as 
lais shifting of the equinoctial points is concerned. The position 
if the sun's course among the stars, again, remains (so far as this mo> 
tioa is concerned) altogether unaltered. What changes, is the position 
cf ths polar axis, about which the entire stellar sphere seems to rotate. 
Tli3 equator, or circle midway between the poles of rotation, changes in 
position, of course, as they change. These poles, which Ue 2^^ degrees 
from the unchanging poles of the ecliptic, travel round, retaining this 
distance almost unchanged, each completing a circuit in about 25,900 
years. As a consequence, the celestitd equator, retaining its inclination 
to the ecliptic almost unaltered, shifts romid so that its points of inter- 
s3ction with the ecliptic make (each) a complete circuit in a direction 
contrary to that of the sun's motion, in the same enormous period of 

Hipparchus only indicated so much as this, all but the true period, 
^hich his observations did not enable him to determine exactly. He 
showed that such and such a change takes place in the position of the 
polar axis of the stellar sphere, and therefore of the equator, the tropics, 
colures, and so forth, — all the circles, in fact, which are determined in 
position by the poles of the diurnal celestial rotation. He left later 
astronomers and mathematicians to determine whether the change is due 
to movements reaUy affecting the star sphere, or to a change in the posi- 
tion of the earth herself. And it was left to still more profound re- 
B^^arch to determine how the actual movement to which the changfi is 
due is brought about. But it was a noble discovery, in the days of Hip- 
puchus, to show that what had been regarded aa altogether un ch a nging . 


iho roiatioBid motion of the sphere of the so-called fixed stars, is in re- 
fility subject to slow yet constant change. "Whether we consider the 
x-itercst which the phenomenon possessed in this respect, or the impres- 
r ive thoughts suggested by the tremendous time-interval necessary for 
\.AQ completion of the precessional circuit, we recognise hi this discov- 
ery an achievement which marks an epoch in the progress of astronomy. 
Trozi the time when Hipparchus had established the law of this great 
precessional change, astronomers found a new and deeper significMice in 
the celestial motions. They saw that the apparent motions, even though 
unchanging to all appearance, for hundreds, or even (to ordinary obs^rr- 
vation) for thousands of years, are in reality affected by continual fluc- 
tuations, scarce perceptible in one sense, but only because they are so 
stupendous, that compared with the periods required for their develop- 
ment the duration of the astronomer's life seems but a mere instant. 

The third and greatest work of Hipparchus is so important that it will 
require a chapter to itself. 

BicHABD A. Pbogtob, in The Day of IU*L 


ItEADEBS of Sir Walter Scott's delightful novel of '' The Abbot ** wil^ 
recollect now Mary Stuart, imprisoned in the island of Loch Lieven,| 
found her consolation in the knowledge that a band of trusty &ien(~ 
were plotting her deliverance; how Hg^ts wero seen flitting on 
mainland, signalling that the fiery Seyton and the devoted Douglas wci 
on the eve of accomplishing their design. Ab with Mary Stuart, so wit 
Marie Antoinette. The unfortunate Queen of France, surrounded 
gaolers in comparison with whom the savage Scotch of the sixteen 1 
century were miracles of kindness and mercy, yet knew this; that th( 
was one friend whose only thought in life was to free her from the toi 
with which she was encompassed, a man of unbounded daring, ai 
possefsel of that much rarer quality, infinite discretion, without tl 
least thought of self, except to keep himself free from the slightest tail 
of dishonour. Everybody who peruses his Memoirs * must agree thi 
the age of chivalry was not dead that produced a hero, san^ peur et m/| 
reprocke^ like the gallant Fersen. 

The CJount Jean Axel de Fersen, of an illustrious Swedish familj 
was bom on the 4th of September, 17r>6. His father, Field-Marshal 
Fersen, took an active part in politics during the reign of Gustavti 
The young Count, at the age of fifteen, was sent with a tutor on a coi 

* PnbTiihed at Paiis from papeiain poesesaon of Ooont Feisea'A nq^ew. 


tinental toiir of la&g dxci^tion. He Tinted Italy and Switssedaad, where 
lie had the honour of an interview with Yoltaire. 

It was not till his ninet^nth year that he first appeared at the Court 
of Versailles. He early attracted the attention of the DauphineBB, and 
it is evident that Marie Antoinette became very much intertssted in the 
handsome young Swede. Count Person mentions in- his journal that he 
was present at Uie ball of ** Madame La Dauphiae,** which commenced 
at the sensible hour of flye, and finished at half -past nine. And the 
Count relates how at a masked ball at the Opera House the Dauphiness 
engaged him a long time in conyersatiou without his at first recognising. 
her. On Count Fersen leaving Paris for London, the Swedish ambassa* 
dor thus writes to the King of Sweden : 

"The TOtrag Cotrnt Fersen is abont to leaye Paris for London. He is (of all the 
Swedes who have been here in my time) the one who has been the best received in 
the great world. The royal family have shown him much attention. He conld not 
possibly have conducted himself with more discretion and good sense than he has 
Bhown. With his handsome person and his talent (I'esprU), he could not fail to 
succeed in society, and that he has done so completely your Majestv will be pleased 
to hear. That which above all makes M. de Fersen worthy of the distinction shown 
him is the nobility and elevation of his character." 

The Count on his arrival in England was presented at' Court, visited 
Hanelagh and other sights i>f London. His account of Almack's is as 

follows : 

" Thursday, 19th May 17T4.— I have l)een presented to the Queen, who is veiy 
gracioxis and amiable, bat not at all pretty. In the evening I was taken by Comte 

to * Almack's/ a subscription ball which is held durine the winter. The room 

ui which they dance is well arranged and brilliantly lighted. The ball is supposed 
to begin at ten o'clock, but the men remain nt their clubs until half past eleven. 
Dnring this time the women are kept waiting, seated on sofas on either side of the 
great gallery in great fonnality ; one ^vould fancy oneself in a church, they look so 
eerioQS and qmet, not even talking amongst themselves. The supper, which is at 
twelve o'clock, is very well served, and somewhat less dull than the rest of the enter- 
tainment. I was placed by the side of Lady Carpsuter,* one of the handsomest 
girls in London ; she was Very agreeable, and conversed a great deal. I had occa- 
sion to meet her again some davs later, when, to some civil remark 1 addressed her 
with, she did not -even .reply. It surprises one to see yoimg girls talking unreserv- 
edly with men, and going about by themselves ; I am reminded of Lausanne in this, 
where also they enjoy complete liberty." 

The Count returned to Sweden in the beginning of 1775. He had 
akeady entered the French service in the regiment Royal Baarriere. La 
Sweden he became an officer in a cavahy regiment, and soon attained 
the rank of lieutenant-colonel. He remained in Sweden some time, 
joining in the pursuits and amusements of the young nobility at the 
gay court of Gustavus m. In 1778 he proceeded on another voyage, 
•^^3 passed thrae months in London, from whence he proceeded to 
^^ris, arriving tlbere in the dead season. Afterwards he went on a visit 
*o tho camp of t^»e Count de Broglie in NoVmandy, and inspected the 
aoMBtery of La Trappe, of which he gi ves some mteresting details. 

• Probably La^yAUneria Carpenter, daught»Ci?lvI«fd'TjrcWMt ^ 


In the winter he again appeared at the French Court He writes to 
his father : 

*' Last Tuesday I went to Versailles to bo presented to the royal family. Th<» 
Qaeen, who is cbarmiug, exclaimed, * Ah I au old acqaaiiitance I ' The rest of the 
royal family did not eay a word." 

The Count writes again : 

** The (^accn, who is the handson^st and the most amiable princess, lias orr-n 
had the Iiiiidues.^ to inquire after me. She asked Creutz why I did nut come to h r 
'j'3a'* oil Saiiddyn, and on hearing that I had b^en oue day when il did not take 
place, she mad ; u khid o! apology. 

" The Queen treats me always with great courtegy. I often go to pay my respects 
(au jju), and on every occasion she addresses mo with some words of kinduc^^. 
As thsij had spokon to her about my Swedish nuifcrm, she expressed a ereat wish to 
sue me iu it, and I am to go full dret-sed, not to Court, but to see the Queen. She is 
ths most amiable princess that I Lnow." 

In society as well as at Court, Count Fersen^s success was coicpl^t''. 
In M. Geffroy's ' Gustave III. et la Cour da Frange,' thsra are many 
anecdotes respecting it. But of course triumph begets envy, and th* 
favourites of Marie Antoinette, whose relations with her were quite as 
innocent as those of Count Fersen, began spreading malicious reports 
about their new rival. 

M. Geffroy in his work thus describes the state of affairs : 

" Ou Fersen 's return to Fr«uco, his favour at Court was so great thai ii couid not 
fail to be much remai'ked. It was in the year 1779, and we know that the wicked 
suspicions raised ngainst Marie Antoinette had not waited for the fatal cffair of \W 
necklace before attacking her as Sovereign and Woman. Fersen was received iu 
the Queen's intimate circle ; the admission extended to Stedingk t was supposed to 
be a blind, to conceal the much-desired presence of liis friend. They brought up 
against the Q is ?n tha sin dl p irtijs glvju by Mesdamas de LambuUe and de Polignac, 
in their npartments, to which Fersen was admitted : they sp<fl£e of meetinps jui.l 
prolonged interviews at the masked balls, (bals de^ l'di>era), of looks intercnanp-d 
when other intercourse was wanting at the * soire 'S, intiines,' at Trianon. Tn y 
declared that the Queen had boen seen to look expressively jit Fersen, whilst singing 
the impassioned lines from the opera of * Didou : ' 

* Ah I que je fus bien inspirfee 
Quand J3 vous recus dans ma com*' 

—to seek bis eyes and ill conceal her feelings towards him. Nothing moro wn^ 
wanting than to add publicly the name of the young Count to those with which 
Calumny hoped henceforth to ailn herself against Marie Antoinette." 

A^ain, in a secret despatch addressed to Gustavus m. by the Count 

ds Creutz, t we find an account of Fersen's attitude in the situation that 

was made so difficult for him. 

« 10th April 1779— I must confide to your Majesty thnt the young Count FoT«»-n 
has been sd well received by the Queen, as to give umbrage to many persons : I 
must own to thinking that she has a ereat preference for him; I have seen nidicii- 
tions of it too strong to be doubted. The. modesty and reserve of young Fersan a 
conduct have been admirably and above all, the step he has taken in going to 

• The grames plaved at the " jeu de la Reino " were quiiUBC, tedards, and trictrac* 
t Count Fersen's friend and travelling companioo. 
t Thd Swedish ambaBsadM. 


Aaierica fs to l)e commended ; in absenting himself ho escapes all danger, bat It 
evidently r^qHir^d apownr of self-coraMiaml, beyond hij yo:U'3, to overcome bxic^i an 
Lttmctiou. Tho Qaeen has foJlowetl him with hrr eyoa (luil of tjar») dnrin^ij th » 
Ja^tdayd precedin;^ his going away. I iniplor.-? your Majosty to keep t'.iis socrc t on 
h.r account, and o;i that ot* *S>uatour' Foraju. When th.j mwd of the Count* j 
(L-parture was Icuown, ail tho favountea were delighted. The Duchesa of Fitz- 
Jain-s 3aid to him, 'What! racnsienr, you abandon your conqnes'?* = If I had 
niAb one,' he replied, ' I shouM not liavT abandoned it. I p;o nw.\y irvC, and unfor- 
t:uitely without leaving any regrets.' Your MajjPty will auieo th^it this was eai'l 
with a wistlom and prudence marvellous in on^ so young. But th ^ Qneen is nior.; 
r>«ervEd and cautious tiian formerly. The King not only couBUlts all her wlshe?, 
lit lakes purt in her pursuits and ainuacmeuta." 

Count Fersen accompanied tho Froncli army to America as aidc-do- 
c^.mp to Goneral RochaJibaau. and, owing to his tabnta and his 
knowledge of tho English language, ho was mado tho intermediary of 
communication between Washington and tho French commander. HLs 
litters from America do not show much appreciation of the peoplo ho 
assistod to free. But then allies always speak ill of one another. 

Tho Count v/iit:3 : 

''Money ia in all their actions the first obj"(ct, and their only thought is how fo 
rain it. E^'ery ouo is for himself, no one for the public good. The inhabitant i or* 
111 ', ev<ra the best Whigd, supply tho English fleet, anchored in Gardner's Bay, 
v'ifi provisions of a'l kinds, because they pay them well ; they fl^'cce us without 
CtMiipnuction : everything ij an exorbitant price; in all the deulin|;s we have had 
v.ith them they have treated us more like enemies than friends. TheTr covetousueea 
i' nncqualletl, money is their god ; virtue, honour, all that is nothing to them in com- 
{v^risou with this precious metal. Not but what there are some estimable p^^op! » 
r.uijiig tbeni, t!?cre nre rniiiiy who are noble and generous, but I speak of tho 
Latloa in senjrai, whlc'i eoci.."3 to lue to be more Dutch tlum Englisli."- 

The Ccaiat was presont at tho siurender of Lord Comwallis a': York 
ToTrn, which Tirtually ended the war, and returned to Franco after tho 
conclusion of th^ psacj of 1783. Ho still remained in the Swedish 
R:mo9, although at tho request of Gustavus III. ho received tho ap- 
pointment of Colonel Proprietor of thi regiment of Royal Sucdois in 
the service of France. Tho Count henceforth passed hi3 time between 
thb t^o countri 3s. 

In 1787 ho again visited England, and thero i;) a curious account of a 
fracas that took plaoo bctv/-eca Lady Clermont, tho friend of Mario 
Antoinetto and th ) Prince of Vales at a London assembty, respecting 
Count Ferson. Th? Princo's conduct with rospect to tho Count does 
not tend to tho credit of tho *' first gentleman of Europe." The insinu- 
iitious against tho Quoen of Franco concerning her relations with tho 
tigh-minded Swedish nobleman wo believo aro utterly groundless. 
There is not a particlo of trustworthy evidence that the Queen ever in- 
fringed upon the duties of a wife and a mother. Count Ferssjx wag 
only her friend and servant, moro devoted in the dark winter of adver- 
fiity than in the sunny days of regal grandeur and prosperity. The 
Diike de Levis, in his Memoirs, describes him as one ' ' who had moro 
judgment than wit, who was cautious with men, reserved towards 
women, whoso air and figure were those of a hero of romance, but not 
of a French romance, for ho was not sufficiently light and brilliant." 


In Wrftxall there is the following graphic aoconnt of the scene wo 
have mentioned : 

" As Lady Clermont enjoyed bo distinguished a place in jrario Antoinette's 
esteem, it was natural that slie ahoukl eudjavoauto transfuse into thy Piiuce'a miu.l 
feelings of attachment and resptjct for the French Queen similar to those with 
which she was hersL'lf imbued. Making allowaiice tor the difference of atxes, tliero 
seemed to be indeed no inconsiderable degr^ie of resemblance between their disp^-i- 
tious. Both were indiscreet, unguarded, and ardent dvivotees of pleasure. But llse 
'Duke of Orleans, irritated at her sucaossful x)ppositiou to the marriage of hie 
daughter with the Count d'Artoia' eldest son, t ad already preposseesed tlie Priiicc 
of Wales in her disfavour. He was accustomed to speaii of her, on the Duke's 
report, as a woman of licentious life, who cliauged her lovers according to her 

or elevated sentiments. About this time Count Fersen, who was wcil known to b..* 
highly acceptable to Mario Antoinette, visited London : bringing letters of miro- 
duction from the Duches:je de Polignac to many persons of distinction here, and m 
particular for Lady Clermont. Desirous to show him the utmost attention, and to 
present him in the best company, soon after his arrival she conducted him in h:r 
o\vn carriage to Lady William Gordon's assembly in Piccadilly, one of the niof r 
distinguished in the metropolis. Sh^ had scarcely entered the room, and iiind-' 
Count Fersen known to the principal individuals of both sexes, wlien the Prince cf 
Wales was announced. I shall recount the sequel in Lady Clermont's own word^ to 
me, only a short time subsequent to the fact. 

" * His Royal Highness took no notice of me on bis first arrival ; but, in a ft^w 
minutes afterwards, coming up to me, " Pray, Lady Clrrmont," said he, **i9 that 
man whom I see here Count Fersen, the Queen's favourite?'' "The gentleman t.» 
whom your Royal Highnef^s alludes is Count Fersen ; bu% so fcir trom being :i 
favourite of the'Queen, he has not yet been presented at Court. "— *• Q— d d — n n-.e'." 
exclaimed he, *• you don't imagine I mean mi/ mother f " — " Sir,'* I replied, " wlu !i- 
ever you are pleased to use the word qiu&n withont any addition, I shall always un- 
derstand it to mean my queen. If yon speak of any other queen I munt entnat 
that you will be good enough to say the queen of France or of Spain.'/ The Priuce 
made no reply, but, after Saving walked once or twice round Count Fereen, retuni- 
ing to me, " He's certainly a very handsome fellow," observed he. "Shall I ha^e 
the honour, sir," said I, " to present him to you ?" He instantly turned on his hw'. 
without giving me any answer:* and I soon afterwards quitted Lady William 
Gordon's nouse, bringing Count Fersen with me.' " 

In 1788 Connt Fersen retnmed to Sweden and accompanied his 
sovereign on his campaign against Enssia, which ended so nnfor- 
tunataly, owing to tha disaffection of tho Finnish troops. Ho ako 
was with Gtlstavus at Gothenbnrg when besieged by tho Danes. Tn^ 
King was only saved from destruction by the conduct of Hugh El.i t, 
then ministar at Copenhagen, who crossed the wat°r aad prevailed cm 
the Danish commander to accept a truce. Count Fersen then retunif^l 
to France, and we are now approaching the most interesting part of h**^ 
career. He was now appointed the seor t envoy of Gustavns, to watcb 
over his interests at the Court of Versailles. The opening scenes of th 
French Revolution naturally filled his mind with dismay. Talleyraiil 
used to say that those who were not in society before -1789 could liot 
realise **la douceur do vivre." Its utter destruction mnst liavo b'cn 

* The Prince afterwards made a most graceful apology to Lady Clermont for bin 
conduct to her. 


appalHsgto one of iia brightest ornAmexits. The eomit was present at 

the dreadful scenes of the 5th and 6th of October at Versailles, aud ac- 
companied the King and Queen when they were dragged in triiunph to 
Paris by the victorious populace. 

It is a great misfortune that the whole of the joomal of the Count 
Fersen from 1780 until June 1791 was destroyed by the friend to whom 
it was confided on the eye of the flight to VarenneSt Fortunately there 
is in the ''Auckland Memoirs" an account of this eventful enterprise 
which we believe we can stats was drawn up by Lord Auckland himself, 
when ambassador in Holland, from information derived from Count 
Fersen and his confederate, Mr. Quintin Craufurd, who was Lord Auck- 
land's friend and correspondent^ 

The following is the account given in the Auckland papers : 

"From inrelligcnce coramnnicatod to tho Qacen, on th^ 7th of October, 1789, the 
cUy after the royal family had b3«n brought from Versailles to Paris, she fhonght 
§om:; attempt on her life was sti'l intended. That cveuingr, after slic Itad retired to her 
npartmeut, she called Madame de Tonrzel to her, and bjjid, * If yon should hear aEy 
noise in my room iu tha night, do not }o83 any time in coming to see what it is, but 
carry the Dauphin immediately to the arms of his father.' Madame de Tou'*zel, 
Uithed in tears, told this circunnstance, two days afterwards, to the Spanish ambas- 
sador, from whom I learnt it. 

" The Count de Fersen was the only person at Paris to whom the King at this 
time gave his entire coufldcuc^. He went privately to the palace by means of ono 
of those passports that were given to some of the houseliold and others who were 
eopposed to nave business tlxire, and had therefore liberty to enter at all hours. He 
saw their Maj->sties in thq King's closet, and by his means their correspondence was 
carried on, and the King's intentions communicated." 

For a long tJmo the King had determined to escape from Paris, and 
Coimt Fersen arranged with the most consummate etill all the details of 
this enterprise. He had two friends in whom he trusted implicitly : Mr. 
Quintin Craufurd, an EngUsh gentleman well known in Parisian society, 
and Mrs, Sullivan, who resided in Mr. Crauford's house, and was after- 
wards known as Mrs. Craufurd. Fersen had the greatest contempt 'for 
the levity of the French character, and seems to think that the moment 
a Frenchman is in possession of a secret he writes about it or confides 
it to his mistress. Three of the garde-de-corpa, however, were called 
in to assist in the final arrangements. The. Count had procured a pass- 
port in the name of a *' Baroness de Korff," and had ordered a travel- 
ling coach in her name. Madame de Tourzel* was to personate Ma- 
dams de Korff travelling with her family to Frankfort. Count Fersen 
assumed the whole responsibility of the safe conduct of the royal party 
as far as Chalons. After that the Marquis de Bouille, who commanded 
the troops on the eastern frontier, was charged lo protect the travellers 
by escorts of cavalry. 

The night of the 20th of June was finally selected for the attempt at 
escape, and the travelling carri«^;e was placed at Mr. Quintin Craufurd's 
hooso, and a little before midnight Fersen's coachman, a Swede, who 

!■ I ■ ■ ■ ■ 

* Govcrnees of the children of Fraac«i ^ 


did not talk French, and one of the garde-do-corps, motmtsd as poslil- 
ious, took the coach with its four Norman~ horszs, and a saddla hors ~, 
and halted on the road near the Barriere St. Martin, with ordars, in car,.? 
of seeing any one, to move forwards and roturn again to their Btatioii^ 
Count Fersen went to see the King on the evening of the 20th, and th .^ 
King determined to depart, although ha thought some suspicions vrcr ' 
entertained. Count Fei*sen departed, and at the appointed time arrived 
with a job coach and horses which he had purchased. 

The follov/ing is the account of the escape as related by Lord Auc li- 

Tlie Dauphin was pnt to bad at the n^ual hour, hut nbont half pastolevon o'd(>«:Iv * 
Madame de Tourzol woke him and dressed him in girl's clothes. About the s.r ..^ 
time Fer.^eii, dress .'d and acting as a coachman, came with the other coach to tb • 
court at thoTailerijs calloA La Cour d3S Princes, afl if to wait for fome one who v. :i^ 
in the palace. He stopped at the apartment of the Due d:; Villiquier, that i.i* n 
coramunicalion with tiie one above it. Soon nfr.T lie arrived, Madame de Tonr/ '. 
came out with the two cliildren. Fers 'u put thom into the carriaijii. Neither uf tl; • 
children e poke a word, but he observed that Madame Koyal»; was br.thed in tr..*-. 
She had aU along shown great senpibility, and a decree of prud.iuco and understamta.^ 
b^iyolld what mi^ht b ; exp 'Ctod from her years. Fersen drove at a coranioii j^nco i < 
the Petit Can'ouascl, and stopp.^ near the house that was formerly inhabited by t?. - 
Duchess'^ de la Valliere. Neither that house nor the houses near it have a conrt t < 
admit carriag.^s, and it is counuon to see them waitinpr in the street there. Mad r... « 
Elisabeth came, attend 'd. by one of her gentlemen, who, as eoon as he pnt her in th • 
coach, lett her. The Kin;^ cams next ; he had a round brown wig over Isis ha.r. .•. 
greatcoat on, and a stick in his hand. He was followed at some uistiince by on ^ »•: 
the garde-de-corps. They waited for the Queen a full quarter of an hour. Tlie K'n:: 
began to be approhan&ive, and wanted to go back to look for her, but Fers^L-n rii - 
Buaded him. While they waited for the Que^n, Lafayette passed twice in his c .:- 
rlage, followed by two dragoous, one 3 in going to the liiu de Ilouore, and ajr; i.i hi 
returning from it. On seeing him the King showed some emotion, but not of ic;.r, 
and said, loud enough for Forsen to hear him, * Le scelerat !' 

*' The Queen at last ari'ived, followed by the other gHnl(i-d!»-coi*ps. She hnd bc' 11 
detained by unexpectedly finding a sentinel at the top of the staii-s Slie was to desc* ; J 
by. He was walking negligently backwards and forward.-i, and ringing, 'i 1: • 
Queen at last observed that as he went forward from the stair, the ]>ler of ;'n n'^''.'. 
must prevent him from seeing her. She took that opportunity quickly to de-cenl 
without noise, and made signs to the garde-de-corps to do the same. As sooji A-f 
the Queen was in the carriage, the two garde-d'v>corps got up beliind it, and Fersta 
drove away." 

Mr. Croker, in his "Essays on the French Revolutio-^," originaKy 
published in the ** Quarterly Review," observes "that tha journey i- 
Varonnes is an extraordinary instance of the difficulty of ascertainin ' 
historical truth. There have been pubHshed twelve narratives by cy - 
witnesses of, and partakers in, these transactions, and all these narn- 
tives contradict each other on trivial, and some on more ess:-Dti:il, 
points, but always in a wonderful and inexplicable manner." In th: 
a3count by Madame Royale, it is positively etated that the Queen con- 
ducted th9 children to the carriag3. This ass8i*tion very much exercis d 
the mind of Mr. Croker, and it now appears it was incorrect, for th • 

• Madame Royale glvei the time as half past ten, and wa think thia was :je 
real time. 


journal o2 Count Fersen of the 20th gives the same account of the order 
h which the royal family escaped as Lord Auckland.' 

In one of the accounts it is stated that Count Fersen did not know 
ibo Btreetd of Paris, which seems very unlikely ; but it appears that 
such was the Count's caution that he first drove to Mr. Craiifurd'^s 
Lons9, to see if the travelling carriage had started, and then drove 
rapidly to the Barrierj St. Martin. In the statement by Madame 
lioyale, it is averred that Count Fersen took leave of the royal family 
theri?, and this account is adopted by Mr. Croker j but it is an error, 
for both Count Fersen and Lord Auckland agree that it was at or near 
Bondy that the parting took place. It will bo seen that the King re- 
fused to allow Fersen to accompany the royal family in their flight. 
We think that if he had consent 3d, the escapa might have been effected. 
All that was wanted was a cool head in danger, and that was lament. 
ably wanting. 

This is from the Auckland MSS. : 

" When they came to the other coach, the one that brought the roynl family from 
Paris \v.i8 driven to some distance and overtiimed into a ditch. They got into the 
travelling coach. Pereen rode before and ordered post-hcrses at Boudy. It i" com- 
niOD for persons who live at Pari* to come the fii-st stajre with their own horses. 
The post-horses, on showing the iMSspurt, were therefore iriven witliout any hesita- 
tion. Two of the garde-de-corps niounte<l on the seat of the coach, the other went 
before as a coarier. The coachman was sent on with the coach-horses towards 
Brus3els, and Fersen accompanied the royal family abont three mile-* beyond Bondy, 
wliC'D be quitted them to go to Mousv and from tiienco to Montm^dy. Thon«:h he 
pre«g>dthe King very much to permit him to go along with him, he popitiveiy re- 
ni?ed it, saying, ' If you should oe taken it will be impossible for mc to save you; 
l>"#iiles. you have papers of importance. I therefore conjure you to get out of 
FraQco as fast aa you. can.' He joined his own carriat^e that was waiting for him 
[jcar Bonrgotte, and arrived at Mons at two iu the morning of the '22ud, without 
u.oling With an^ Eort of interrupt ion." 

The following account from the journal of Count Fersen was written 
in pencil on scraps of paper, but it will be seen that with the exception 
of some diiference in time it agrees substantially with Lord Auckland's 


(l A1 

2") 0). 

/' Conversation with the King on wh:it he wished to do. Both told me to proceed 
^Ifcont delay. We agreed upon the honsG, »fc'j., &c., so that if they were 8topp»ul I 
-fconld go to Brussels and act from thbre. &c., <fcc. At partincr the King said to me, 
'M. de Fersen, whatever happens to me I shall never forget all that yon have dono 
iw me.' The Queen wept bitterly. At 6 o clock I kft lier ; she went out to walk 
with the children. No extraordinary precantions. I returned home to finish my 
hUairs. At 7 o'clock went to Sullivan to see if th^ carriage had been sent ; returned 
home agiun at 8 o'clock. I wrote to the Queen to change the 'rendezvous' with 
Vie waiting-woman, and to Instruct them to let me know the exaet hour by t^he 
turde-de-corps ; take the letter nothing moving. At a quarter to 9 o'clock tho 
pirdes join me ; they give me the letter for Mercy.* I give them instructions, rc- 
tiini home, send off my horses and coachman. Go to fetch the carriage. Thought 
Had loi't Mercy's letter. At quarter past 10 o'clock in tlie Cour des Princes. At 
qoaitcrpast 11 the children taken out with difficulty. Lafayette passed twice. At 

,* Formerly Austrian ambassador at the Court of Versailles. 


a quarter to 13 Madatrte Elisabeth came, then the 'King, then the Qneen. Start at IJJ 
o'clock, meet the carriage at the Barriere 8t. Martin. At half past one o'clock reach 
Boudy, take post ; ut thi-ee o'clock I leave theui, taking the by-road to Boorj^etie.'^* 

On arriving at Monsthe Count wrote to his father a letter acquainting 
him with the trinmphant success of his attempt. 

All had gone weP when the directions were in the hands of the brave 
and cautious Swedish officer, but the moment the French commanders 
took the affair into their own hands at Chalons, everything was lo^t 
through their levity and want of common-sense. Baron de Gognelat. 
an engineer officer who superintended the details of the expedition from 
Ch^ons, already had given offence to the inhabitants of &t» Mcnehould. 
and had quarrelled with Drouet, the postmaster there, through etoploj-- 
ing another man's horses which were cheaper to take his own carriage 
back. The Due de Choiseul, who commanded the first detachment at 
Somme-Velle, near Chsilons, because tho traveUing carriage was late, re- 
treated not by the main road, where tho royal family could have over- 
taken him, but across a country he did rot know, and he did net arrive 
at Varennes till after tho arrest of tho royal family, having previously 
gent a message to the other commander that the "treasure"! would net 
arrive that evening. On the carriage arriving at St. Menehculd, the 
commanding officer of tho hussars there foolishly went to Epeak to the 
King, who put his head out of th3 window and was instantly recognised 
by Drouet, who immediately aft^r the departure of the King rode off to 
Varennes and procured his arrest. Everything there was in confusion. 
The young Count de Bouillc was in bed; his hussars with their horses 
unsaddled. The Due de Choiseul, tho Count de Damas, arrived with 
men enough to rescue the prisoners, but nothing was done. The Kirg 
would give no orders, and the officers were afraid of responsibility. 
Count de Damas told Mr. Charles Koss, the editor of the Cornwall i^ 
Correspondence, "that he asked leave of the King to charge with the 
men the mob who interrupted him. The Queen urged him to doit, but 
Louis would take no responsibihty, and would give no order till it \^ as 
too late. M. de Damas added he had ever' since regretted not acti£g 
without orders." The Count de Bouille fled from Varennes to acquaint 
his father, who was at the next station. Dun, with the misfortune that 
had befallen the King. The Marquis hastened with the Royal AUemand 
regiment to rescue tho royal family, but he arrived too late. They had 
already left for Paris, escorted by the National Guard. 

It was at Arlon, on his journey to Montmedy, the fortress on the 
French frontier where the King intended to set up his standard if suc- 
cessful in his attempt at escape, that Count Fersen heard the news of 
the failure. 

The Count writes in his journal : 

• A village on the high-road to Mons. 

t The pretext for presence of the troops was that they were to eflcort tretsore to 
the army. 


" Le 98.~FfBe weather, cold. Arrired at Arlon at eleven o*tlock in .tbe ereolng. 
FooDd BonUl^ leanit tbat the King was taken ; the detachments not done th^ 
duij. The King wanting in reaolutiou and head. * 

The Coimt now took np his residence at Brossels, where hewas jained 
by his friend Craufurd, and henceforth employed his whole time until 
the exeoationof th^^ Quaen in attempting to save her. Although well 
knowing the fate that would await him if discovered, he wished to retom 
to Paris. His correspondence with Marie Antoinette was constant. 

Here is a letter from her, written on the 29th of June : 

" I ezlBt. . . . How anxions T hayo been abont yon, and how I grieve to think of 
all jon mnnt have suffered from not hearin.^ 6t ns t Heaven grant that tbifl 
letter majr reach you ! l>ou*c write to me, it wonld only endanger ns, and above all. 
doa't retom here andcr any pretext It is known that yon attempted onr eseape, and 
all woald be lost if yon were to appear. We are gn^^cd day and night. No matt«r 
.... Keep yonr mind at <>a8e. Nothing will hnppen to me. The AsecmUy wishes 
to deal gently mth us. Adion. ... I cannot write mon}. . . ." 

The Field-MaTshal de Fersen was yery- anxious that his son should 
now return to his own country, where a great career awaited him, but 
the Count refused to entertain the idea. Count Person wiites from 
Menna,* August 1791 : 

"SOth Attgust.^The confidence with which the Klne and Qncen of France havio 
honoared me impose npon me the daty of not abandoning them on this occasion, 
and of servhig them whenever in fntnre it is possible for me to be of nse to them. I 
shoakl deserve all cen-^ure were I to do otherwise. I alone have been admitted into 
tbeir confidence, and I may stilLfrom the knowledge I have of their po!>ition. their 
fc^timents. and the affairs of Prance, he of s jrvice to them. I should reproach 
injrself eternally as having helped to bring them into their present disastrous posi- 
tioD without having used every means in my power to release them from it. Such 
coDdact would be unworthy of your son, and you. my dear father, whatever It may 
cost yon, would not you yourself disapprove of it? It would be inconsistent and 
ticUe. and is far from my way of thinking. As 1 have mixed myself np in the 
caa^, I will go on to the end. I shall then nave nothing to reproach myself with, 
iDd if I do not mioc«ed~4f this unhappy prince finds himself forsaken, I shall, at 
lea^t, have the consolation of having doue my duty, and of having never betrayed 
the confidence with which ho has honored me!'* 

Baron de Stael, then Swedish ambassador at Paris, who through his 
wife was suspected of intriguing in favour of the new order of things, 
fisems to have endeavoured on aJl occasions to counteract the efforts of 
bis former friend. It is singular that Gustavus, a fanatical adherent 
of the French royal family, should have allowed him. to remain in his 

Count Fersen writes to Marie Antoinette : 

"Stagi says dreadful thines of me. He has corrupted my coachman and taken 
him into his service ; which has annoy trd me very much. lie has prejudiced many 
persons agaii^t me, who blame my conduct, and say that in what T have done I have 
been gnided solely by ambition, and that I have lost you and the King. The Spanish 
ambassador and others are of this opinion ; be is at Lonvain, and has not seen any 
one here.— They are right ; I had the ambition to serve you, and I shall all my life 
lament my not having succeeded ; I wished to repay in some part the benefits whiclr 

. * The Count went to Vienna to induce the Emperor Leopold to assist faissister. 


it has been so delightful to me to receive from you, and I hoped to prove that it is 
possible to be attachtnl to persona like yourself without intertfBted motives. The re>t 
of my conduct should have shown that this was my sole ambition, and that the 
honour of having served you was my best recompense." 

Connt Fersen remained at Brussels, and nnmerotis plans for the relief 
of the royal family were engaged in by his advice. In February, 171^2, 
he determined, in spite of the extreme danger, to proceed to Paris to 
see again the King and Queen. He departed from Brussels on Sunday 
the 12th, and arrived in Paris on Monday evening. 

There is the following entry in his journal : 

" "Went to the Queen. Passed in my usual way, afraid of tho National Guanls. 
• Did not see the King. 

*' Le 14, Tuesday.— Saw the Kin^ at six o'clock in the evening:, he does not wis!i 
to escape, and cannot on account of the extreme watchfulness ; but in reality he hts 
scruples, having so often promised to remain, for he i3 an ' honest man.' " 

Count Fersen had a long conversation with the Queen on the sam^^ 
eyening, in which they talked about the details of the journey from 
Varennes, and the Queen related what insults they had received : how 
the Marquis de Dampierre, having approached the carriage at St. Mtnc- 
hould, was murdered in their sight, and his head brought to tiie car- 
riage ; how insolently Pttion behaved, who asked her for, prttendini^ 
not to know, the name of the Swedj who drove thsm from the palace, 
to whom Marie Antoinetta answered ' ' that she was not in the habit of 
knowing the names of hackney coachmen." 

Count Fersen remained in Paris till the 21st, v/hen with his companion 
he left for Brussels, where he arrived on the 23d. They were arrebttd 
several times, but got through by informing the guards that they wtrj 
Swedish couriers. On the subject of the flight to Varennes we g'.\-^ 
one more extract. Just before the execution of the Queen, Droutt. 
commissary of the Convention, was arrested by the Austrians in attempt- 
ing to escape from Maubeuge. He was brought to Brussels, and Coiuit 
Fersen went to see him. 

" Sunday, fith October. — Dronct* arrived at 11 o'clock. T went with! 
Harvey to see him in the prison of St Elizabeth. He is a man of from S3 to 24 yorr^ - : 
age, MX feet high, and good-lookiug enough if he wore not so great a ecouudrel. H • 
tad irons on his hands and feet. Vv'e asked him if ho were the postmaster of Sj.ini 
^Itnehonld who had stopped the King at Varennes : ho said that h« had bttn ; 
Varenui'S, but that it was not he who had arrested the King. We nskod hiin 'i li • 
^'JLd Lft Maubeug.? from fear of being take n. He f aid No. but to execute a comn. •=- 
fion with which he; was charged. He kept hii coat clos* d to prevent the chain, \\ j. I. 
led from his right foot to his left hand, heiiig neen. The night of this iufann • - 
villain incensed ine, and the elfcrt that I made to refrtjin from speaking to hiu: [ \ 
consideration for the Ahbe de Li.nou and Count Fitz-Jamtt) {iffecttd me paiulu }. 
Anoihvr oflic.-r who wus taken wi:li hi.n Uiihitained that the (|Uv-en was in no i't- 

f;er, that sho was very well treated, :;r.d had ev ryiliin^ Aw could wi- h The pooanr^r '-. 
low Jhey lie ! — An Englishman arrivi-d in 8\v:tz. liand, ."jid t e had paid 5 loin.- r • '" 
allowed to enter the phcon wluro t'ae C^iiucn was ; ho carried in u jug of walcr— iL- 

• Droaet was the postmaster at St, Mcnchculd, not the postmaster's sau, as ta 
generally btlievtd. liu was aft-rwaids cxclia'jged. 


rcora is UDd'^r^romirl. nnd contain? only a poor b«d, n table, nml one clioir. He found 
rhe Q.n««u seattid with her fac-? Ijuried in hor h'lnds — her head whh covered«>rith two 
hiiidsyrchiefs. and sho wa^ extr^jniely ill dresfted ;— she did not even look np at him, 
aDflof cimrs^lt W.13 nndoratool that hs nhonkl not epeak to her. What a horrible 
Btoo' • i aJi%olu5 to iaqalro into the trutU of it." 

The Ccrn^.t nGvcr saw Marie Antoinette again, but he still contrived to 
correspond with h^t until her removal to the Conciergerie. Then all 
hop? seemed over. 

Count Fersen^s sufferings were extreme during the period of nppro- 
hsnsion before the Queen's execution. He attempt :'d in vain, through 
Count Mercy, to pravail on the allies to march on Paris. But the Aus- 
trians wero mor 3 intsnt on seizing the French fortress 3S, and the English 
on th? siege of Dunkirk, than in making a desperate campaign on behalf 
of the royal family. These aro the last accounts in Count Fersen's 
journal r^jspacting th3 Queen. 

"Earj ars PonT^ partirn^ara abont ths Qnsen. Her roon; Tras the third door to 
tlprJL'iTt. on entering. opposit<i to that of Custine : it was on the ground floor, and 
look'^Hl !i>to a conrt which was filled all day with priHoner.s. who through the window 
lookixi at and insulted the Qu'jen. H^r room wa^ small, dark, aud f .tid ; thcrj was 
ivMth T stov '. nor fireplac ? ; in it ther^ were three beds : one for the Queen, another 
for th^ w )man who Sirv-xi her, and a third for the tA^o gendarmes who never left the 
looii. The (^'leen 8 bed was, like the othewi, made of wood; it had a palliaSvse, a 
in.artr'3^^. and one dirty torn blanket, which had long been used by other prisoners ; 
the s'la't* w^ri coarse, unbleHCh'd linen ; there wer^^ no curtains, only an old screen. 
The Qi-'on w :)r ; a kind of black ppencer (' caraco '), her hair, cut short, was quito 
^rey. She ha I becoim 83 thin as to be hardly recognizable, and so weak she could 
sc*»roely sfand. She wore three rings on her fingars, but not jjwellcd one?. TUo 
woin HI who waitei on h'»r was a kind of tishwife. of whom eho ir.ado great com- 
p'aints The soldiers told Michonis thai she did not eat enough to ker'p her alive ; 
Th'^Y said that her food was very bad. and they showed him a Htale, skinny chicken. 
Baying 'This chicken has been served to Madame for four diys, and she has not 
enHi it.' The eendirmes complained of their bed. thoufch it was just thtj same as 
the Qaeen's. The C>U5en always slept dressed, and in bhick, expecting every mo- 
neat to be raarderea or to to be lf3d to torture, and wishing to b3 prepared for either 
Id mourning. Michonis wept a«j he spoke of the weak state of the Queen's health, 
find h^ saia that he had only b3an able to get the black spencer and some necessary 
linen for the Q'leeu from the Temple, after a deliberation in Council. These are the 
Biul details he gave ins." 

Marie Antoinette was executed on the 16th of October, 1793. It was« 
int till four days afterwards, on the 20th, that the news arrived at Brus- 


Tli3 following are extracts from Count Ferssn^s journal. 

/'Sujdav, Octol>er 20th.— Orandmnlso^i tells ms that Ackerman, a banker, rc- 
''•'vd abtter from hi^ correspond -^nt in Pm^. tellin? him that the sentence agiinst 
t '^ Q'i;>en had been p iP«»ed th^ evening before ; th'it it was to have been earned into 

^'•-•oij luai luiB execmme crime was commiitea, ana JJivine vcugeauce has n: buret 4 

DDon these monsters I f 


"Monday, 21st.—I can think of nothiuff but my loss; it i? dreadf al to haxe no 
actnal details, to think of her alone in her TaPt moments without consolation, wjtb- 
ont SI crentur3 to speak to, to whom to express her last v»iehes ; it is horrible Those 
hellish UiOiistere ! No, without revenge on them my heart will never be satiefled." 

Gustavus III. had fallen by the hands of an assassin at a masked halL 
The King of France had already been beheaded, the Prmcesse de Lam- 
balle mnrdered by the mob of Paris in a manner too horrible to relate. 
and now the Queen, who trusted him and him alone, had been dragged 
in a cart with her hands tied behind her to the place of execution and 
subjected to the insults of a brutal popujaco. What alieTiation could 
there be to a blow hke this ? Coimt Ftrsen was soon recalled to Sweden 
by the Regent, and henceforth he interested himself mainly in the af - 
fairs of his country. He was much in the confidence of the young 
King Gustavus IV., and on that unfortunate monarch's expulsion from 
the throne, Count Fersen, then the chiff of the nobility and Graud 
IMarshal, stall remained an adherent of the House of Vasa. This was 
the cause of his disastrous end. Count Fersen, whilst assisting at thn 
funeral of Prince Charles of Holstein, who had beenseJected to succeed 
to the throne of Sweden, was murdered in the most cowardly and cmel 
manner by the mob of Stockholm. His last words were an appeal to 
God, b'fore whom he was about to appear, to spare his assassins, and 
this happened in 1810, on the twcniieth of Jun>', the annivezBary of his 
daring enterprise. Temple Bar. 



MARCH, 1879. 



It was in the jeax 1869 thai, impres83d with the degree in which even 
dimng the last twenty years, whan the world seemed so wholly occu- 
pied with other matters, the sociiUist ideas of speculative thinkers had 
spread among the workers in every civilised country, Mr. Mill formed 
the ddfdgn of writing a book on Socialism. Convinced that the inevit- 
able tendencies of modern society must be to bring the questions in- 
volved in it always mora and mora to the front, hs thought it of great 
practical consequence that they should be thoroughly and impartially 
considered, and the lines pointed out by which the best specuktively- 
tested thdories might, without prolongation of suffering on the ona 
hand, or unnecessary disturbance on the other, be applied to the exist- 
ing ordar of things. He therefore planned a work which should g3 
e^ustively through the whol3 subject, point by point ; and the fionr 
chapters now printed are the first rough drafts thrown down towards 
the foundation of that work. These chapters might not, when tb3 
work came to be completely written out and then re- written, according 
to the author's habit, have appeared in the present order • they migLt 
faaye been incorporated into different parts of the work. It has not 
been without hesitation that I have yielded to the urgent wish of th^ 
editor of this Beview to give these chapters to the world ; but I have 
complied with his request because, while they appear to me to possess 
great intrinsic value as well as special application to the problems now 
forcing thei^selves on public attention, ^hey will not, I believe, detract 
even from the mere literary reputation of their author, but will rather 
form an example of the patient labour with which good work is dons. 
Janvarjf, 187*. HsLEN TAYliOB. 


In the great country beyond the Atlantic, which is now weU-n'jjh the 
fflost powerful country in* the world, and will soon b3 indisputably so, 
manhood suffrage prevails. Such is also the political qualification of 
^nmoe since 1848, and has become that of the German OonfederatioUy 



thongh not of all the Beveral stateB camposing it^ In Great Britain the 
suffrage is not yet bo widely extended, but the last Kefozm Act admitted 
within what is called the pale of ihe Constitution so large a body of 
those wholive on weekly wages, that as soon and as often, as ihjese Bhail 
choose to act together as a ciass, and exert for any comnkOD. object Ui^ 
whole of the electoral power which our present inistitutknis give them, 
they will exercise^ though not a complete ascendancy, a Tery great in. 
fluence on legislation. Now thesd are the very class which, in 
the Tocabnlary of the higher ranks, aaro ssad to hare no stake in 
the country. Of course they have in reality the greatest stake, 
since their daily bread depends <hi. its prosperity. But they are 
not engaged (we may call it bribed) by any peculiar interest of their 
own, to the support of property as it is, least of all to the support of 
inequaUties of property. So far as their power reaches, or may here- 
after reach, the laws of property have to depend for support upon con^ 
eiderations of a public nature, upon the estunate made c( their condn- 
civeness to the general welfare, and not upon motives of a mere p^r. 
sonal character operating on the Tnin/la of thoso who have control oxer 
the Gkyvemment. 

It seems to me that the greatness of this change is as yet by no 
means completely realised, either by those who opposed, or by tiiosa 
who effected our last constitutional reform. To say the truth, ttie per- 
ceptions of Englishmen are of late somewhat blunted as to iho tendrn- 
cics of political changes. They have seen so many changes made, from 
which, whilo only in. procpect, vact expectations were entertained, bota 
of evil and pf good, while tho results of either kind that actually fc!- 
lowed seemed far short of what had been predicted, that they havj 
come to feel as if it were the nature of pohtical changes not to fiLl-l 
expectation, and have fallen into a habit of hsiIf-unconsciouB belif 
that such changes, when they take place without a violent revoluticn, 
do not much or permanently disturb in practico the course of tiii: ? 
habitual to the country. Tins, however,, is but a BnpcrQcial view cii'. r 
of 0x0 past or of thj future. Tho various reforms of the last tv. j 
generations have been at least as fruitful in important c<mseqnenc s 
as was foretold. The predictions were often erroneous as to tl- ' 
suddenness of the eliccts, and sometimes even cs to the kind cf 
effect. We laugh at the vain, expectations of those who thought th-.t 
CathoUc emancipation would tranquillise Ireland, or recancilo it to 
British rule. At the end of the first tan years of the Iteform Act cf 
1832, few continued to think either that it would remove even' 
important practical grievance, or that it had opened the door to 
xmiversal suffrage, fiut five-and-twenty-years more of its operation 
have given scopo for a large development of its indirect working, 
which is much moro momentous than the direct. Sudden effects in 
history are generally siiporficial. .Causes which go deep down into 
tho roota of futiiro evert i produce the most serious parts cf their effttt 
only clowly, and have, tlicrefore, time to become a part of tho faTnili.iT 


oelsr of things before geneml attention is called to the changes they ar« 
proda<Hng ; since, when the changes do become evident, they are often 
not seen, by eaxaory observers, to be in any pecoliar manner connected 
with the caose. The remoter consequences of a new political fkct are 
seldom nndenitood when they oocnr, except when they have been ap- 
preciated beforehand. 

This timely appreciation is particnlarly easy in respect to the tenden. 
cies of the change made in onr institations by the Keform Act of 1867. 
The great increase of eleotosal power which the Act places within the 
reach of the working classes is permanent^ The ciivunistanees which 
bave cansed them, ^os far, to make a vefy limUed use of that power, 
are easentiaUy temporary. It is known even to the most inobser^'ant, 
that the working cesses have, and are likely to have, pohtical objects 
which ooncCTn them as woridng classes, and on which they believe^ 
lightly or wvon^y, that the interests and opinions ci the other power- 
fnl dasses are opposed to theirs. However mnch their pnssnit of these 
objects may be for the preset-retarded by want of Sectoral organiza- 
tion, by dissensions among themselves, or by their not having rednced 
as yet thdr wishes into a sufficiently definite practical shape, it is as 
certain as anything in politics can be, that they wiU before long find the 
metms of nwlrtng their collective electoral power effectively instm- 
mental io the promotion of their collective objects. And when they do 
so, it will not be in the disorderly and ineffective way which belongs to 
B people not habituated to the use of legxd and constitutional machinery, 
nor will it be by the impulse of a mere instinct of levelUng. The in<- 
stnunents wHi be the press, publio meetings and associations, and the 
retoxn to Parliament of the greatest possible number of persons pledged 
to the political aims of the working classes. The political aims will 
themsslves be detsrmined by definite political doctrines^ tor politics 
are now scientaficaUy studied from the point of view of the working 
dassea, and opinions conceived in the -special Interest of those classes 
are oi^^anized into systems and creeds which lay claim to a place on the 
platform of politicsd philosophy, by tho same right as the systems 
elaborated by previous thinkera. It is of the utmost importance that 
all reflecting persons should take into early consideration what these 
popular politicaT creeds are likely to be, and that every single article of 
them should be brought under the fullest light of investigation and dis- 
cnsaon, so that, if possible, when the time shall be ripe, whatever is 
rght in them may be adopted, and what is wrong rejected by general 
consent, and that instead of a hostile conflict, physical or only moral, 
between the old and the new, the best parts of both may be combined 
in a renovated social fabric. At the ordinary pace of those great social 
c!ianges which are not effected by physical violfTice, we have before us 
an interval of about a generation, on the due employment of which it 
Spends whether the arcommodation of social institutions to the tdtered 
t-:t) cf htt^xnn so^nly, shall b.^ the work of wise foresight, or of a 
con£!i:t of op»x)sito prejudices. The future of mankind will be gravely 



imperilled^ if great questions ara l?ftto ba fought over between ignorant 
cliaage and ignorant opposition to chango. 

And tha discussion that is now required is one that must fy down to 
the very first principles of existing society. Tho fundamental doctripcs 
which were assunitd as incontcBtahle by former generations, aro now put 
again on tht r trial. Until tho present ag^, tl:e institution of properly 
in the shapo in which it has been handed dowp. from the past, had not, 
except by a few speculative writers, been brought seriously into question, 
because the confiicta of the past have always been conflicts between 
classes, both of w ich had a stake in €x3 existing constitution of pro- 
p:rty. It will not be pohsiblo to rp on longer in tins manner. When tho 
discussion includes classas who have next to no property of their own, 
and ara only intorested in the institution so far as it is a public benetlt, 
'ttiey will not allow any tiling to be taken for granted — certainly not the 
principle of private property, the legitimacy and utility of which arj 
denied by many' of the reasoners who look out from the standpoint oi 
the working classes. Those (lasses will certainly demand that the Enl> 
ject, in all its part j, shall be reconsidered from the foundation ; that ril 
proposals for doing without th3 inst'tuticn, and all modes of modifying 
it which have tho appaaranco of being favourable to the int.reet of tlij 
working class38, shall r«3ceivo the fullest consideration and discussion 
before it is decided that the subject must remain as it is. As far as HAi 
country is concerned, the dispositions of the working classes have as yet 
manifested themselves hostile only to certain outlying portions of tlie 
proprietary sy8t^-'m. Many of them desire to withdraw questions of 
wages from the freedom of contract, which is one of the ordinary attri- 
butions of private property. The more aspiring of them dany that land 
is a proper subject for privata appropriation, and have commenced aD 
agitation for its resumption by the State. With this is combined, in tha 
speeches of some of the agitators, a denunciation of what they temi 
usury, but without any definition of what they mean by the name ; and 
the GTy does not seem to b 3 of home origin, but to have been caught up 
from the iut'ircoursj which has recently commenced through the 
Labour Congress ?s and th.i International Society, with the continental 
Ho^ialisLa who object to all interest on money, and deny the legitimacy 
of deriving an incom 3 in any form from property apart from labour. 
Tiiis doctrine does not as yet show signs of being widely prevalenJ 
in Great Britiiin, but the soil is well prepared to receive the seeds of thia 
description which are widely scattered from those foreign countries 
where large, general theories, and schemes of vast promise, instead ot 
inspiring distrust, are essential to the popularity of a cause. It is in 
France, Germany, and Switzerland that anti-property doctrines in th> 
widest sense have drawn large bodies of working-men to rally roond 
them. In these countries nearly all those who aim at reforming society 
in the interest of the working (Masses profess themselves Socielists, a 
designation under which schemes of very diverse character are com- 
prehended and confounded, but which implies at least a remodeUisg 


generally sppi'bachmg to abolition of the institation of i»iTate prop* 
eity. And it would probably be found that even in England the more 
prominent and active leaders of the working classes are usually in 
their private creed Socialists of one order or another, though being, 
like most English politicians, better aware than their Continental breth- 
ren that g^t and permanent changes in the fundamental ideas of man- 
kind are not to be accomplished by a coup de main^ they direct their 
practical efforts towards ends which seem within easier reach, and are 
content to hold back all extreme theories until there has been experience 
of the operation of the same principles on a partial scale. "While such 
continueR to be the character of the English working classes, as it is of 
Englishmen in general, they are not likely to rush headlong into the 
retMess extremities of somectf the foreign Socialists, who, even in sober 
Switzerland, proclaim themselves content to begin by simple subver- 
sion, leaving the subsequent reconstruction to take care of itself; and 
by subversion they mean not only the annihilation of all government, 
but getting all property of all kinds out of the hands of the possessors 
to be used for the general benefit; but in what mode it will, they say, 
be time enough afterwards to decide. 

The avowal of this doctrine by a public newspaper, the organ of an 
association ^La Solidaritc,") published at Neuch&t^l), is one of the 
the most curious signs of the times. Thd leaders of the English work- 
ing men — whose delegates at the congresses of Geneva and Bale contri- 
bated much the greatest part of such practical common sense as was 
shown there — are not likely to begin deliberately by anarchy, without 
having formed any opinion as to what form of society E^iould be estab- 
lished in the room of the old. But it is evident that whatever they do 
propose can only be properly judged, and the grounds of the judgment 
mads convincing to the general mind, on the basis of a previous survey 
of the two rival theories, that of private property and that of Socialism, 
one or other of which must necessarily fumish most of the premises in 
the discussion. Before, therefore, we can usefully discuss this class of 
questions in detail, it. will ba advisable to examine from their foundations 
tiie general questions raised by Socialism. And this examination should 
be made without any hostile prejudice. However irrefutable the argu> 
mentsin favour of ,tiie laws of property may appear to those to whom 
tiiey have the double prestige of immemorial custom and of personal 
interest, nothing is more natural than that a working man who has be- 
gnn to speculate on politics, should regard them in » very different light. 
Having after long struggles, attained in some countries, and nearly at- 
tained in others, the point at which for them, at least, there is no fur- 
ther progress to make in the department of purely political rights, is it 
possible that theless fortunate classes among the ^' adult males" should 
sot ask themselves whether progress ought to stop there ? Notwith- 
st^ding all that has been done, and all that seems hkely to be done, in i 

the extension of franchises, a few are bom to great riches, and the | 
naay to a penaiy, made only more grating by contrast. Ko longer e^- ■ 


riaved or made dependent by force* of law, the great majority ace aa by 
force of poverty ; they are still chained to a place, to an occapation, 
and to conformity with the will of an employi;r, and debarred by the 
accident of birth both from the enjoyments, and from the jnental ftnd 
moral advantages, which others inherit without exertion and independ- 
ently of desert. That- this is an evil equal to almost any of tMtoe against 
which mankind have hitherto struggled, |he poor are not wrong in be- 
lieving. Is it a necessary evil ? 'Ihey are told so by those who do 
not feel it — by those who have gained the prizes in the lottciy of 
life. But it was also said that slavery, that despotism, that all the 

grivileges ai otigarchy were necessary. All the suooessi/e steps that 
ave b^en made by the poorer classes, partly won from the better feel- 
ings of the powerful, pcurtly extorted from their fears, and partly boaght 
with money, or attained in exchange for support given to one section of 
the powerfal in its quarrels with another, had the strongest prejudices 
opposed to them beforehand ; but their acquisition was a sign of power 
gained by the subordinate dl£^sses, a means tO those classes of acquiring 
more ; it conseqnently drew to those classes a certain share of the respect 
accorded to power, and produced a corresponding modification in the 
creed of society reelecting them ; whatever advantages they succeeded 
in acquiring eame to be consider4;d their due, whSe, of those which 
thoy had not yet attained, they continued to be deemed unworthy. 
The clasfiies, therefore, which the system of society makes subordinate, 
have little reason to put faith in any of the maxims which the same 
system of society may have established as principles. Considering 
that the opinions of mankind have been found so wonderfully flex- 
ible, have always tended to consecrate existing facts, and to declare 
what did not yet exist, either pernicious or impracticable, what assur- 
ance have those classes that the distinction of rich and poor is 
grounded on a more imperative necessity than those other ancient 
and long-established facts, which, having been abohshed, are now con- 
demned even by those who formerly profited by them ? This cannot be 
taken on the word of an interested party. The working classes are en- 
titled to claim that the whole field of social institutions ^ould be re-«x- 
amlned, and every question considered as if it now arose for the first 
time ; with the idea constantly in view ih&t the persons who are tx> be 
convinced are not those who owe their ease and importance to the pres- 
ent system, but persons who have no other interest in the matter than 
abstract justice and the general good of the community. It should be 
the object to ascertain what institntioiis of property would be estab- 
lished by an unprejudiced legislator, absolutely impartial between the 
possessors of property and the non^'possessors ; and to defend and 
justify them by the reasons which would really influence such a legis- 
lator, and not by such as have the appearance of being got up to make 
out a case for what already exists. Such rights or privileges of pro- 
perty as will not stand this test will, sooner or later, have to be given 
' An impartial hearing ought, moreover, to be given to all objeoii 


tions agiunst property itself. AH evils and inconyenienceB attachmg .to 
the institiition in its best form ought to be frankly admitted, and tho 
best remedies or palliatiTes applied which human intelligence is able to 
devise. And all plans proposed by social reformers, nnder whatever 
name designated, for the purpose of attaining the benefits aimed at by 
the histitation. of property without its inconveniences, should bo cxaiu- 
ia^ with the same c&udoar, not prejulged as absurd or impracticable. 


As in all proposals for chaaoge there are two elements to be considered 
—that which is to be changed, and that which it is to be changed to — so 
in Socialism oonaiddred generally, and in each of its varieties taken 
Bepaxately, there ard two parts to be distinguished, the one negative and 
cntical, Uke other constructive. There is, first, the judgment of ^o- 
cialiBm on existing institutions and practices and on their, results ; and 
Bdcondly, the various plans which it has propounded for doing better. 
In the former all the different schools of Socialism are at one. They 
agree almost to identity in the faults which they find Y^ith the econom- 
ic order of existing society. Up to a certain point also they entertain 
the same general conception of the remedy to be provided for those 
f&nlts , but in the details, notwithstanding this general agreement, there 
is a wide disparity. It will be both natural and convenient, in attempt- 
ing an estimate of their doctrines, to begin with the negative portR>n 
which is common to them all, and to postpone all mention of their dif- 
ferences until we arrive at that second part of their undertaking, in 
which al<me they s^ously differ. 

This first part of our task is by no means difficult ; since it consists 
only in an enumeration of existing evils. Of these there is no scarcity, 
and most of them are by no means obscure or mysterious. Many of 
ihem are the veriest commonplaces of moralists, though the roots even 
of these he deeper t^n mor^dists usually attempt to penetrate. So va- 
rious are they that the only difficulty is to make any approach to an 
exhaustive catalogue. We shall content ourselves for the present with 
mentioning a few of the principal And let one thing be remembered 
by the reader. Wh^i item af tdr item of the enumeration passes before 
him. and he finds one fact after another which he has been accustomed 
to include among the necessities of nature urged as an accusation 
against social institutions, he is not entitled to ciy unfairness, and to 
protest that the evils ^mplained of are inherent in Man and Society, 
and are such as no arrangements can remedy. To assert this would be 
to beg the very question at issue. No one is more ready than Socialists 
to admit — they affirm it indeed much more decidedly than truth war- 
rants—that the evils they complain of are irremediable in the present 
conatitation of aociety. They propose to consider whether some other 
form of society may be devised which would not be liable tc those evils, 
or would be liable to them in a much less degree. Those who object 
to the present eider of society, considered as a whole, and who accept 


IIS an alternativo the possibility of a total change, have a right to set 
down all the evils which at present exist iu socit ty as part of their caso, 
whether thsse are apparently attributable to social arrangements or not, 
provided they do not flow from physical laws which human power is not 
adequate, or human Imowledge has not yet learned, to counteract. 
Moral evils, and such physical evils as would bo romedied if ail persons 
did as they ought, arj lairly chargcablo against the state of society 
which admits of them ; cud aro valid as arguments until it is shown 
that any other state of society would involve an equal or greater amount 
of such evils. In the opinion of Socialists, the present arrangements 
of society in rospect to Property ^d the Production and Distribution of 
Wealth, arc, as means to the general good, a total failure. They say 
that thcrj is an enormous mass of evU wliit>h llicso arrangements do net 
succeed in preyenting ; that the good, cith.r moral or physical, which 
they realiso is vvretchedly small compared v/ith the amount of exertion 
employed, and that even this 6.naU amount of good is brought about by 
means which are full o:! pernicious consequences, mond and physical. 

First aniong existing social evils may be mentioned the evil af Pov- 
erty. The institution of Property is upheld and commended prin- 
cipally as being the means by which labour and frugality are . in- 
sured their reward, and mankind enabled to emerge from indigence. 
It may be so; most Sociahsts allow that it has been so in earlier 
periods of history. But if the institution can do nothing more or better 
in this respect than it has hitherto done, its capabihties, they aHirm, axd 
very insignificant What proportion of the population, in the most 
civUised countries of Europe, enjoy in their own persons anything worth 
naming of the benefits of property? It may be said, that but for 
property in the hands of their employers they would be without daily 
bread ; but, though this be conceded, at least their daily bread is pli 
that they havs ; and that often in insufficient quantity^ almost always of 
inferior quality ; and with no assurance of continuing to have it at all ; 
an immense proportion of the industrious classes being at some period 
or other of their lives (and ail being liable to become) dependent, at kast 
temporarily, on legal or voluntary charity. Any attempt to depict the 
mis3ries of indigence, or to estimate the proportion of. mankind who iu 
the most advanced countries are habitually given up during' their whol<3 
existence to its physical and moral sufferings, would be superfluous here. 
This may be left to philanthropists, who have painted th'^s*? miseries in 
colours sufficiently strong. Suffice it to say that the condition of num- 
bers in civilised Europe, and even in England and France, is mora 
wretched than .that of most tribes of savages who are known to us. 

It may be said that of this hard lot no ono has any reason to complain, 
because it befalls those only who are outstripped by others, from in- 
f t^riority of energy or of prudence. This, even were it true, would be a 
very small alleviation of the' evil. If some Nero or Domitian were to 
r.^quire a hundred persons to run a race for their lives, on condition that 
the fifteen or twenty who came in hindmost should be put to death, it 


iroQla not he any dit&inTition of the injustice that the strongMit or 
lumblest would, except through some untoward accident^ be certain to 
escape. The midery and the crime wotild be tbat any were pat to death 
at aU. So in the economy of society ; if there be any who suffer physi* 
cal priTfltion or moral degradation, whose bodily necessities are either not 
satisfied or satislicd in a manner which only brutish creatures can be con- 
tent with, this, though not necessarily the crime of society, is pro tnnto a 
failure of the social arrangements* And to an^sert as a mitigation of the 
evil that those who thus v^et9XQ the weaker members of the community, 
mor&Uy or physically, ia to add insult to misfortune. Is weakness a 
justification of sufii'ering? Is it not, on the contrary^ an irresistible 
claim upon every hximan being for protection against suffering? If Uie 
minds and feelings of the prosperous were in a right state, would they 
accept theit prosperity if for the sake of it even one person near them 
was, for any other cause than voluntary fault, excluded from obtaining 
a desirable existenbe ? 

One thing there is, which if it could be affirmed truly, would relieve 
flocifll mstitutions from any share in the responsibility of these evils. 
Since the human race has no means of enjoyable existence, or of 
existence at aU, but what it derives from its own labour and abstinence, 
there would be no ground for complaint against society if every one who 
was willing to undergo a fair share of this labour and abstinence could 
attain a fair share of the fruits. But is 'this the fact? Is it not the 
reverse of the fact ? The reward, instead of being proportioned to the 
labour and abstinence of the individual, is almost in an inverse ratio to 
it; those who receive the least, labour and abstain the most Even the 
idle, reckless, and ill-conducted poor, those who are said with most jus- 
tice to have themselvefc to blame for their condition, often undergo much 
more and severer labour, not only than those who are bom to pecuniary 
independence, but than almost any of the more highly remunerated of 
those who earn their subsistence ; and even the inadequate self-control 
exeroised by the industrious \)00y costs them more sacrifice and more 
effort than is almost ever required from the more favoured members of 
society. The very idea of distributive justice, or of any proportionality 
between success and merit, or between success and exertion, is in the 
present state of society so manifestly chimerical as to be relegated to the 
regions of romance. It is true that the lot of individuals is not wholly 
independent of their virtue and intelligence ; these do really tell in their 
favour, but far less than many other things in which there is no merit at 
all. The most powerful of all the determining circumstances is birth. 
The great majority are what they were bom to be Some are bom rich 
without work,- others are bom to a position in which they can become 
rich hy work, the great majority are bom to hard work and poverty 
throughout life, numbers to indigenoe. Next to birth the chief cause Of 
success in life is accident and opportunity. When a person not bom to 
riches succeeds in acquiring them, his own industry and dexterity hav 
({encsall J cmrtrihrated to the resn^: but industry and dexterity wot 


not hard sniffiood unless thero had been also a ccmaaaeioiOQ of ocedsiaos 
and chances "which falls to the lot of only a smaH nnmber^ If peisons 
are helped in their worldly career by their virtues, so are they, and per- 
haps quite as often, by their vices : by sevility and sycophancy, by likrd- 
haarted aod close-fisted selfishness, by the permitted hea and tricks of 
trade, by gambling speculations, not seldom by downright knavery. 
Energies and talents are of much more avail for suooess in life thsn 
virtues ; but ii one man succeeds by employing energy and talent in 
something generally useful, another thrives by exercising the same 
Qualities in out-gdneralling and ruining a rivaL It is as mueh as any 
moralist ventures to assert, that, other circumstant^es being given^ honesty 
is the best policy, and that with parity of advantages an honest petson 
has better chances than a rogue, j^ven this in many stations and 
oircnmstances of life is questionable ; anything more than thi^ is out of 
the question, tt cannot be pretended that honesty, as a means of suc- 
cess, tells for as much as a difference of one single step on the social 
laddar. The connection between fortune and conduct is mainly this, 
that there is a degree of bad. conduct, or rather of some kindd of bad 
conduct, which suf&ces to ruin any amount of good fortone ; but tho 
converse is not true : in the situation of most people no degree what- 
ever of good conduct can be counted upon for raising them in; the 
world, without the aid of fortunate accidents. 

These evils, then — great poverty, and that poverfy very little con- 
nected with desert—nare the first grand failure of the esistai^ arrange- 
ments of society. The second is human misconduct ; crime, viee, and 
folly, with all the sufferings which follow in, their train. For, nearly 
all the forms of misconduct, whetiier committed towards oarselves or 
towards others, may be traced to one of three causes : Povw^ and its 
temptations in the many ; Idleness and dSscmm'ement in the few whose 
circumstances do not compel them to work ; bad educaticm, or want of 
education, in both. The first two must be allowed to be at least failures 
in the social arrangements, the last is now almost xmiversally fkdmitted to 
be the fault of those arrangements — ^it may almost be said the crime. I am 
speaking loosely and in the rough, for a minuter analysis-of the sonvoes of 
faults of character and errors of conduct w<Hild establish far more con- 
cluMvely the filiation which connects them with a defective oxganization 
of society, though it would also show the reciprocal dependence of that 
faulty state of society on a backwsurd state of the human mind. 

At this point, in the enumeration of the evils of society, the mere 
levellers of former times usually stopped : but their more far-eighted 
successors, the present Socialist, go farther. In their eyes the very 
foundation of human life as at present constituted, the very prmoiple 
on which the production and repartition of all material products is now 
carried on^ is essentially vicious and antUsocial. It is the principle of 
individuahsm, competition, each one for himself and against all the 
rest. It is grounded on opposition of interests, not harmony of inter- 
^ eats, and luider it evexy one is required to find his place by a BtroggU^ 


by pnshing oihers back or being pnshed back by them. Socialists oon« 
adsr tiiis system ojf private var (ps it m&j bo termed) between eycry 
one aztd every ono, c^ccially fatal in an economical point of view and 
in amoraL Morally, its evib arc obvioiis. It is th'o parent 
of envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness r it makes eveiy one tli3 natu- 
ral enemy of all others who crosj his path, and every onc^s path is con- 
stantly liabla to be crossed. Under tho pr3s?nt system hardly any one 
can gain except by the loss or disappointment of ono or of many others. 
In a wellMM>nstitated community every one would be a gainer by ever^i 
other pcrson^s soocessful exertions ; whilo now we gain by each other's 
los3 and loso by each other's gain, and our grjat.":t gains come 
from Va2 worst EOnrco of all, from djath, tli3 d:ath of those who 
OTj nearest and should be daarsst to us. In its purely economical 
operation tho principle of individual competition receives as un- 
qualified condemnation from the social reformers as ia its moral. In 
the competition of labourers they see the cause of low wages ; in 
the competition of producers the cause of ruin and bankfuptcy; 
And both evilsy they aifivm, tend .constantly to increase* as popuhw 
tioaand wealth make progress; no person (they conceive) bding bene* 
fitted extsept the great proprietors of laud, the holders of fixed money 
incomes, and a few great capitalists, whosj wealth is gradually enabling 
them to undersell all other producers, to absorb tha wholj of tho opera- 
tions of industry into their own sphere, to drive from the market all 
employers of labour except themselves, and to convert tho labourers 
into a kind of slaves or serfs, dependent on them for the means of sup- 
port^ and oompelled to accept tiiese on such tarms as they choose to 
offer. Society, in short, is travelling onward, according to these specu- 
latam, towards a new feudality, that of the great capiteJists. 

As I shall have ample opportunity in future chapters to state my own 
opimon on these topics, and on many others connected with and subor- 
dinate to them, I shall now, virithout further preamble, exhibit the opin- 
i(ms'Of distinguished Socialists on the present arrangements of society, 
in a selection of passages from their published writings. For the pres- 
ent I denre to be oonsidered as a mere reporter of the opinions of 
others. Hereafter it will appear how much of what I cite agrees or 
differs with my own sentiments. , 

The elettresi, the most compact, and the most ixrecise and specifio 
statement of the case of the Socialists generally against the existing 
Older of society in the economical department of human affairs, is to be 
found in the uttle work of M. Louis Blanc, Organisation du Travail. 
My first extracts, therefore, on this part of the subject, shall be taken 
from that treatisd. 

*' Competition is for the people a 17818111 of extermination. Ib ih« poor man a 
member of society, or an enemy to it T We ask for an answer. 

" AU nronnd him he finds the soil preoccupied. Can he cultivate the earth for him- 
self? Ko ; for the ri^ht of the first occupant has become a right of property. Can 
kbfiftther the fruits which the liaud of Qod ripens on the path of man 7 Ko ; for. 


like the soilt the fruits have been appropri^tted. Can be hunt or fish ? No ; for 7bi4 
is a right which is dependeut npou the govern meut. Can he draw water from a 
spring ^iclosed in a field ? No ; for the proprietor of the field is, in virtue of his 
right to the field, proprietor of the fountain. Can he, d}ing of hanger and tliirst, 
stretch out his hands for the charity of his f ellow-ci-eature@ ? No ; for there am laws 
against begging. Can he, exhausted by fatigue and without a refuge, lie down to 
Bleep upon the pavement of the streets 7 No ; for there are laws sgaiust vagaI)on- 
dage. Can he, flying from the cruel native land where everything is denied him« 
seek the. means of living far from the place where life was given him 7 No ; for it is 
not permitted to change your country except on certain conditions which the poor 
man cannot ftdfil. 

•' What, then, can the unhappy man do 7 H3 will say. * I hav« hands to work with 
I have intelligence, I have ^outh, I have strength ; take all this, and in retoru give 
me a morsel of bread.' This is what the workmg men do say. But even here the 
poor man may be answered, * I have no work to eive yon.' What is he to do then 7 " 

*• What is competition from the point of -view of the workman .7 It is work pot up 
to auction. A contractor wants a workman ; three present themselves.— How much 
for your work 7 — Half-a-crown : I have a wife and children.— Well ; and how much 
for you 7— Two shillings : 1 have no children, but 1 have a wife.— Very well ; and now 
how much for yours? One and eightpeUce are enough forme ; J am ^ngle. Then 
you shall have the work. It is done : the bargain is struck. And what are the other 
two workmen to do 7 It is tx> be hop3d tifcjy will die guietlt of hunger. But what if 
they take to thievinjg? Never fear ; we have the jjolice. To murder 7 We have got 
the hangman. As lOr the lucky one, his triumph is only temporary. Let a fourth 
M'orkman make his appearance, strong enough to fast every other day, and 
his price will run down still lower : then there wiU be a new outcast, a new recruit for 
the prison perhaps I 

** Will it be said that these melancholy results are exaggerated ; that at all events 
they are only possible when there is not work enough for the hands that seek em- 
ployment 7 but I ask, in answer, Does the principle of competition contain, by chance, 
within itt«elf any method by which this murderous disproportion is to be avoided 7 
If one branch of industry is in want of hands, who can answer for it that, in the 
couf nsfon created by univsrsal competition, another is not overstocked 7 And if, out 
of thirty-four millions of men, twenty are really reduced to theft for a living, this 
would sufflce to condemn the principle. 

** But who is BO blind ail not to seo that under the system of unlimited competition, 
the continual fall of wages is no exceptional circumstance, but a necessary and gen- 
eral fact 7 Has the population a limit which it cannot exceed 7 It is possible for us 
to say to tffdnstry— inaustry given up t-o the accidents of individual egotism end fer- 
tile in ruin— can we say, ^ This far shalt thou go, and no f&rther7' The ix>palation 
increases constantly ; tell the poor mother to become sterile, and bla8pb«me the 
God who made her fruitful, for if you do not the lists will soon become too xiarrow 
for the combatants. A machine is invented : command it to be broken, and ana- 
thematise science, for if you do not, the thousand workmen whom the new ma- 
chine deprives of work will knock at the door of the neighboni'ing workshop, and 
lower the wages of their companions. Thus systematic lowering of wages, ending 
in the driving out of a certain number of workmen, is the inevitable effect of unlim- 
ited competition. It is an industrial svstem by means of which the working rlsnnnr 
are forced to exterminate one another.^' 


'If the^ is an undoubted fact, it is that the increase of population is much mors 
rapid among the poor than among the rich. According to the StatisUcB cf Buroptcn 
PvBvMtUm, the births at Paris ait only one-thirtynsecond of the popolatioB in the 
rich quarters, while in the others they rise to one-twenty-sixth. This disiwoportion 
is a general fact, and M. de Sismondi, in his work on Political BconotnT, has ex- 
plained it by the impossibiUtv for the workmen of hopeful prudence. Those only 
who feel themselves assured of the morrow can regulate the number of their children 
according to their income ; he who lives from day to day is under the yoke of a 
mysterious fatality, to which he sacrifices his children as he was sacrificed to it him- 
self. It is true the workhouses exist, menacing society with an inundation of b^ 
gars— what way is there of escaphig from the cause T • • . . It is ctow tlMt any 


society whexe tihe roeanfB of enlieistciicc Increase less rapidly than the irambers of tb« 

popalation, la aflOcietj on the brkik of tax abyM ' Competition prodneeB 

<lestitation ; this is a ftict shown by statistics. Destitution is feartally wonfic ; this 
is shown by statistics. The fruittiilut'ss of the noor tiirows npon society nnhappy 
cre^res wiio iiave need of work and cauDOt find it ; this U shown by statistics. At 
this point society is reduced to a choice lietwcen kilUiig the poor or TTiAfTifi».iyiitig 
tliear grutnitoosly — ^between atiocfty or folly." 

So much for tlio poor. We now pass to the zzuddle classes. 

"According to the political ec-onomists of the sch-^ol of Adam Smith and L^on 
Sav, ehgtqmets is the word in which may be summed up the advantages of oulim- 
itoi oompetitiim. But why persist in cousidering the *M.cct of cheapnes-t witli a 
vi«vr ODiy to the momentary advantage (# the cousamer t Cheapness is advantage- 
008 to tlie consttmer at the cost of iucrodacing tl)e seeds of ruinous anarchy among 
the producers. Cheauness is, eo to speak, the tiammcr with which the rich aiuoujj 
the producers crash their poorer rivals. Cheapness is tlie trap iuto which the daring 
speculators entice the liaro-workere. Cheapue-B is the sentence of dtiatli to the pro- 
ducer OB a small scale who has ho money to invest iu the purcuase of iiiacUiuery 
that his rich rrrat&cau cHfriiy praiure. Ciienpuets is tlic givat iiislrument iu the 
bauds of monopoly ; it abK>rbs tLe sniall maimfacturer, cht3 nnnll shopkeeper, the 
small projector ; it is, in one word, the destruction of the middle dassed for the ad- 
vautage of a few industrial oligarchs. 

••Ought we, then, to cousiav.r cheapness as acurep? No one woe Id attempt to 
nudutain sach aa absurdity, but it is the specialty of vrrong principles to turn good 
ioto eiii and corrupt a]l things. Lmlcr the system of competitiou cheaimess is onlj 
a pretrldoaal and fatiacioua advantai^. It la maintained only so loog as there is a 
struggle; no sooner have the rich competitors diiveu out their poorer dvala than 
nrices rise. Competition leads to moiiopoiy, for the same reason clieaimdss leads to 
Ligh prices. Thus, what has been madu use of as a weapon iu the contest between 
the producers, sooner or Hdet becomes o caose of impoverish ineut among the con- 
sumers. And if to this cause we add the others we nave already enumerated, first 
among which must be ranked the iuordinirte increase of the popnlat on, we shall be 
•competed to n^cog.ise the impoveriahuient of the mass of the consumers as a di- 
rect cousequencc of coinpetitirn. 

•* But, on the other hand, this ve'y competition which tends to dry up the sources 
of demandr niiges production to over-supply. The confusion product d by the uni- 
vorea] struggle prevents eacit producer from knowing the (>t4itii o£ the market. He 
mast woik In the dark and trut* to chance for a f do. Why eliould he check the 
8ni)ply, especial !y as he can throw any loss on tlie workman whose wages are so pre- 
emiaeutly liable to rise aud fall ? Even.wheu production is CJorJcd on at a loss the 
mannfactarers still often carry it on, because they will not let their machinery, &c., 
staacf idle, or risk the loss of raw material, or lose their customers : and because 
productive indnstiy a« carried on under the compj^titive sj'steui being notiilng else 
than a game of chance, the gambler will not lose his chance of a lucky stroke. 

"Thns, and we cannot too often insist upon it, competitiou necessiuily tends to 

iDcrease supply aud to diminish consumption ; its tendency therefore is precisely the 

opposite of what Is sought by icouomic science; hence it is not merely oppressive 

but foohilh as well.** 

• •••••• 

"And in all this, in order to avoid dwelling on truths which have become com- 
womdaces tod sound declamato' y from their very troth, we have said nothing of 
the frightful moral corruption which hidustry, organized, or more properly speakmg 
diaorganiEed as it is at the present dav, has introduced among the middle classes. 
ETcrgiing has 1)ecome venal, and competition invades even the domidn of thought. 

"The factory crushing the workshop; the showy establishment absorbing the 
bumble shop ; the artisan who is his own master replaced bv the day-labourer ; cul- 
tivation by the plough superseding that by the spade, and bringing the poor man's 
fl"M under disgraceful homage to the money-lender; bankruptcies multiplied ; man- 
ttfacturing industry transformed by the ill-regulated extension of credit iuto a sys* 

^^— —^ - I, - - 1 ■ - - — - ■ ■ ■■ I — ■■ ^— M^ 

• See Louis Blauc^ " Organisation da Travail," 4m© •ditiott, pp. 6, 11, €8, ST. 


tern €3i gsmblfng where no one, not eyen tbe rogne, can be sore of winniDg; in abort 
A vast oout'aslOD calculated to arooee jeaiouey, luUlrast, uud hatred, aua to stifitd, 
little l>y little, all geueruas a=«i)lratious, ail faith, se f-aocriflce, aud poetry — ^^>iit:h iii the 
hideous tjut ouly too faithful piciure of the reaulus obtained hy the appIicatio& ot 
the |Hrinc»pl«; of coiapetitiou/* V 

The Fourierists, through their principal organ, M. Ck>nsidera[it, enn 
xnerate the evils of the eidsting civilisaeion in the following order : — 

1. It employs an enormous quantity of labour and of human powep 
unproductively, or in the work of ddstruction. 

" In the first place there is the army, which in France, as in all oMier coantiieSy ab> 
porbs tbe heulthieBt aud etmugost men, a larg: .number of the most talented and iu- 
telligeut, aud a couei-ierablo j>;irt of the public roveuue. , . , The t;xi8ting stjiw 
of society develops in its impure .itmoHpUere innumerable outcasts, whos? abonr ii 
uot merely unproductive, but. uo<uaily destrnctivc; adventurers, prostitutes, pfu|>.e 
with no acknowledged means uf living, beggars, co-victs, swindlerd, tuieves, aud 
others whotte number tends rather lo iucreaso than to diminlBti 

** To t le list of unproductive lal)oiir fostered by our i-tate of Society must be addjd 
that of the judicature aud of the bar, uf the courts of law and 'magisti-ates, the (lO- 
lic3, gaolers, exccatiouers, &c. — functions iudispousabie to ihj state of society as 
it is. 

"Al-*o people of what U called ' good society ' ; those who pass their lives in doing 
nothing; idlers of till ranks. 

"Also the numberless custom-boose officials^ tax-gatherers, balU&, exoBo-vaen ; 
in sliort, all- tliat army of men which overlooks, brings to aiccoiint, taked, but pro- 
duces nothing. 

"Also the labours of sophists, philosophers, metaphysicians, political men* work- 
ing in mistak n directions, who do notluug to advance science, and produce nothing 
but disturbance aud sUirile discussions; the verbiage of advocates, pleaders^ wit- 
nesses, &c. 

'*Aud finally all tbe operations of commerce, from those of the baokerB «nd brok* 
ere, down to those of the grocer behind his counter." t 

Secondly, they assert that even the industry and powers which in the 
present system are devoted to production, do not jncodaoe more than a 
^mall x)ortion of what they might produce if better employed and di- 
rected-: — 

" Who with any good-will and reflection will not see how ranch the want of cohe- 
rence—the disorder, the want of combination, the parcelling out of labour and leav- 
ing it wholly to individual action without any organization, without any lares or 
general views— are cansee which limit the possibilities of production and destmv, or 
at least waste, our means of action ? Does not disorder give birth to poverty, as 
order aiid good management give hirth to riches? Is not want of combtoatioii » 
pource of weakness, aa combination is a source of strength ? And who can say that 
Industry, whether agiicultural, domestic, manufacturing, scienliflc, artistic, or com- 
mercial, is organized at the present day either in the state or in municipaliilBS 7 "Who 
ran say that :ili the work which is carried on in any of these departments is ejcecot«d 
in subordination to nny reneral views, or with foresight, economy, and oitlerT Or, 
lignin, who can say that it is possible in our present state of society to develope, by 
n good edacation. all the faculties bestowed by na'ure on each of Its members; to 
employ each one in functions which he would like, which he would be the roo<e:Ji»- 
ble of, and which, therefore, ho could cany on with the greatest advantage to him- 
self and to others? Has it even been so much as attempted to solve the DroWfina 
presented by varieties of character so as to regulate and harmonize the varieties of 

•See Louis TPanc, "Organisation du Travail,>» pp. 68— Gl, 65— ^4aie Edition. 
Pans, 1845. 

4 Ree Conaid^ranW '* I>e«thi6e Sodale," tome i. pp. 86, S6, 37, Sme 6d^ Paris,18ia 


«Bp\>]nnent8 in «oeordance witb nahirml sptitodee 7 Alas 1 Tbe Utopia of ti«e mott 

iRleut phibuithropists is to teach reading aud writing to tweaty-ftvtj iniiiioaa of tha 
Frnnch people I And iu the preeeut Ktate of tliinga we moj deiy tbeui to encc eod 
creninihati • 

*' And IB it not a strange spectacle, too, and one whlrh cries out in oondenuMttioi 
of as, to aee this atate of SvMueLy tbe 8oli i:* badly cultivated, and t^oratUuiet 
Eot caifivated at all ; where man is ill lodged, ill c)othe<i, aud yet where wiiole masses 
are continaaJy iu need ot woric, aud piiiiug in uutjory becuii»e thi^ canuot fljid itf 
Of a truth we are forced to ackuuwledge that if the uutioua are poor and starving It 
is MOt b^caase nature has deiii .d the meaus of producing wealth, hue bccuu>« of tlie 
aiiarchy and disorder in our e'.uploymeut of those means ; in other words, it is be- 
cause socie^ is wrotcheoly coustiruced and lul>our auorgNnizcd. 

"But this is not all, aud you will have bat a faint conctptionof tbe evil if yon do 
not consider that to all the^ie vices of society, which dry up the soaicesof weattli 
and prosperity, must be added the struggle, the discord, the war, iji ehi/rt, under 
m-MV names and many forms which society cherishes aud caitivates between the in* 
dividpals that compose it. These struggle:* and discords correspond to radical oppo- 
Bitioas— dcep>seat<}d antinomies betwei'U the various iutercets. Exactly in so fur as 
yoa are able to establish clasSvS aud categories within the nation; in so far, also* 
7K>a will have opposition of interests aud iut«mnl warfare tither avowed or secret, 
even if you take into consideration the indutitrial system only." * 

One of the leading idaas of this school is the wastefnlness and at the 
same time the immorality of the existing arranfirements for distributing 
the pirodnce of the oottntrj among the various cousomers, the enormous 
fRipeijAxnty in point of number of the agents ct distribution, the mer- 
dnnts, dealers, shopkeepers and their ixmumerable emploTts, and the 
depraving chaiactor of such a distribution of ocoupationii. 

"It is evident that ihe interest of tho trader is opposed to that of the consnmer 
tad of the prodooer. Has be not bought cheap and nndervalue<i as much as possible 
m ail his dealings with the prodacer, the very same article which, vaunting its ex- 
cellence, he sells to yoa as dear as he can? Thus the interest of the commercial 
body, collectively and indlvidaally, is contrary to that of the producer aud of the 
coBsomur— Ui«t is to say, to the interest of tbe whole body of society.' 

• • »•.• • « • • • 

"The tracer is a go-between, who profits by th*^ general anarchy and the non-or- 
ganiaition of Industry. The trader bays np products, he buys up everything; he 
owns and d*»tain8 everything;, in such sort that : — «. u *u 

"Istly. He holds both Prodnrtion and Consumption utider hift yokey because both 
mart come to hira either Anally for the products to be consnm d. or atflrrtforthe 
raw materials to be worked np. Commerce with all *tB niptliods of bujring. and of 
Mining and lowerini; prices. Its innumerable devices, and its holding everything m 
the hands of middle^rhtn. levies toll right and left : it despotically gives the law to 
Production and Consumption, of which it ought to be onlv the subordinate. 

"2iJily. Tt robs society by its enormmui pr<)/S«8— profits levied upon the consnmer 
md the producer, and altogether ont of proportion to the services rendered, for 
which a twentieth of the' persons actnidly employed would be suiHcient. 

'•Srdly. It robs society by the subtraction of its prodnctive forces; taking on 
from prodnctive labottr nin«'teen-twentieth8 of the agents of trade who are 
mere parasites. Thus, not only doe<« commerce rob society by ''PP^9P*i, ^ ^5° 
exorbitant share of the common wealth, bnt also bv considprsblv diminlOTlng ths 
productive enerey of the hnman beehive. Th-^ great majoritv of traders would re- 
mm to productive work if a rational system of commercial organization were 8Ul> 
ititutcd for the inextricable chaos of the present state of things. 

**4thly. It robs society by the ndtiHteraMon of products, pushed at tbe present day 
beyond all bounds. And in fact, if a hundred grocers establish themselves in a town 
where before there wore only twenty. It is plain that people will not begin to cob 

*8ee *'^»e»ttti^ Sodalei" par Y. Conaid&tuit, tome L pp. 88-40; 



same flye tfanes as many groceries. Herenpon the handfed vfrtuons grocers Darn to 
dispate between them the profits which before were honestly made by the tweutr ; 
competition obliges Uiem to make it ap at the expense of the c«»isnmer, either by rui&' 
ing the prices as sometimes happens, or by adulterating the goods as always hiippeus. 
In BQch a state of tilings there is an end to good faith. Inferk»r or adnlteratedgoods 
are sold for articles of good quality whenever the crednlons customer is not too t x- 
perlenced to be deceiveii. And when the castomer has been thoroughly impos.~d 
npon, the trading conscience consoles -iti^elf by saying, * I state ray jwice ; people 
can take or leave ; no one is obliged to buy.' The losses imposed on the cousamers 
by the' bad quality or the adulteration of goods are incalculable. 

"5thly. It robs src'ety by cuxuanvtlaUons^ artificial or not., in conseqttenee of which 
Tast quantities of sroods, collect'id in one place, are damaged and destroyed for 
want of a sale. Fourier (Th. des. Quat Moav., p. 334, 1st ^.) saysr *The fnnda- 
mental principte of the coulmra'ciai systems, that of Itavtng full Liberia to ike mer" 
€hants, gives them absoiat3 right of property over the goods in which they deal ; 
they have the right to withdraw them altog^her, to withhold or even to barn ^ein, 
AS ham)eiied nKKe than once with the Oriental Company of Amsterdam, which pul>> 
Hcly buiiit stores of cinnamon in order to raise the price. What it did with dnixa- 
mon it wonld have done with cwn ; bat for the fear of being stoued by the populace, 
it wonld have bi«mt some corn in oitler to sell the rest at foor times its value. In- 
deed, it actually is of daily occorrence in port, for provisioua of grains to be thrown 
into the sea liecanse the merchants have allowed them to rot while waiting fbr a liae. 
I myseSf, when I vros a clerk, have had to superintend these infamous proceedingr, 
and in one day caused to be thrown into the sea some forty thousand bushels of rice, 
which might have b?en sold at a fair piMfit had the withhoider been less greedy o€ 
pain. It Is society that hears the cost of this waste, which takes place duly luidef 
shelter of the philosophical maxim of fUU liberty for IhemerchantsJ 

" 6thly. Commerce robs society, moreover, by all the loss, damage, and waste that 
follows from the extreme scattering of products in miHionB of shope, and by the 
multipllcatiou and complieatioB of carriage. 

•* Tthly. It robs society by shameless and unlimited nsttfy—nBory tXjBCikLtely 
appalling. The trader carries on operations with fictitlOTB capita], much higher In 
amonnt than his real ca^^taL A trader with a capital of twehe handred poimlfts 
will carry on operations, by means of bills and credit, on a scale of foor, eight, or 
twelve thonsaud pounds. Thus he draws from capital tohieh he does- not poaaesg, 
usurious interest, ont of all prop(Mrtion with the capital he actoally owns. 

*^*8thly. It robs society by innumerable bankruptcies, for the daily aoddents of 
our commercial system, political events, and any kind of disturbance, must usher 
In a day when the trader, bavins incorred obligations beyond his means, is no 
longer able to meet them ; liis f aSnre, whether fraudulent or not, most bs a severe 
blow to hn creditors. The b:inkruptcy of some entails that of others, so that bank- 
ruptcies follow one upon another, causing widespread ruin. And it is ^ways the 
prod-icer aid the consumer who suffer ; for commerce, considered as a whole, does not 
produco woalrh, and invests very little in proporti u to the wealth which passes 
throu'^h its hands. How many are the mannfactures crushed by these blows I how 
many fertile soorces of wealth dried up by these devices, with all their disastrous 
cons^uences ! 

*• The producer foraishes the goods, the consumer the money. Trade ftiniishet 
credit, founded on little or no actual capital, and the different members of the com* 
mei-clal body arc in no way responsible for one another. Thia, in a few words, is 
the whole theory of the thing. 

"9fhly. Commerce robs society by the independenee apd frreepentibilitjf "which. 
permits it to buy at the epochs when the producers are fcM-oed to sell and compete 
with one aaot^ier. in order to procure money for their rent and necessary exp^isea 
of production. When the markets are overstocked and goods cheap, trade pur- 
chases. . Then it creates a rise, and by this simple manoravre despolla both pro- 
ducer and consumer. 

•' lOtbly. It robs 8oci'>ty by a considerable drcmrittg of of capital, which will re- 
tum to pi-odactlvo industry when commerce plays its proper subordinate part, and is 
only an jjgency carrying on transactions 1)etween the producers (more or less dis»- 
tai»t) a; id the groat centres of consumption— the commuuistic societies. Thus the 
€ai>ital engaged in the speculatioiiB of commerce (which, small as it is, «om{»axed to 


4be Immense weaKh which iMesee through its hands, consists nevertheless of sami 
eDormons in themselves), woold return to HtUnalate production if commerce was 
deprived of the intermediate property in goods, and their distribatiou became a 
nutter of administrative organisation. Stock-jobbing is the most odioos form ot 
this vice of commerce. ^ _. , . « 

" llthly. It robs society by themonopoligbig or baying up of raw materials. • For,' 
says Fourier, <Th. des. Quat. Mouv., p. 86», 1st ed.), * the rise in price on articles 
that are bought ap» is b<»iie ultimately by the coDsamer» ahhough in the first place 
by the mauufacturera, who, being obliged to keep up their ebtablishments, must 
make pecuniary sacrifices, and mannfacture at small profits in the hope of better 
days ; audit is<rften long before they can repay themsulvoti the rise in prices which 
the mon(q;x>lisQr has compelled them to support in the first instance ' 

"In short, all these vices, besides many others which I omit, are multiplied by 
the extreme con^Iicarion of mt^rcautile afiaii-a ; tor products do not pass once only 
through the greedy clutches o£ commeice ; there are some which pass and repass 
twenty (^ tiiirty times bef^ reaching the consoraer. In the first placet the raw 
material passes tluongh the gras^ of commerce before reaching the manofacturer 
who first works it up ; then it returns to commerce to be sent out again to be woned 
up hi a second form ; and so on tmtil it receives its finsl shape. Then it oasses into 
the hands of merchants, who sell to the wholesale dealers, vnd these to the gr«it re- 
tai] dealers of towns, and these again to the littJe dealers and to the country shops ; 
and each time that it changes hands it leaves something behind it 

". . . . One of my friends who was lately exploring the Jura, where mncft 
wori^g in metal is done, had occasion to enter the house of a peasant who was a 
mADofactarer of shovels. He asked the price. * Let us come to an understanding, 
answered the poor labourer, not an economist at all, but a man of common sense ; 
' I sell them for Bd, to the trade, which retails them at Is. 8d. in the towns. If you 
could find a means of opening a direct commonicatlon between the workman and 
the consumer, von might liave them for Is. 2(1., and we shoq^d each gain 60. by tho 

To a similar effect Owen, in the " Book of th« New Moral World," 
part 2, chap. ill. 

"The principle now in practice is to induce a lai^ portion of society to devo*o 
their Htm to distribute w^th upon a lar?e, a medium, and a small scale, and to 
have it conveyed from i^lnce t^ place in larger or smaller quantities, to meet the 
means and wantaof various divisions of society and iudividnuls, as they are now 
situated in cities, towns, villages, and country places. This piindple of distribution 
makes a class in society whose business it Is to tniy from i»ome parfk'S and to aeU to 
others. By this proceeding they are placed under circumstances which induce th^m 
to endeavour to buy at what appears at the time a low price in the market, and to 
Bell again at tlie greatest permanent profit which they can obtain. Their real object 
beiug to get as much profit as gain between the seller to, and the buyer from them, 
as can be effected in their trtuisactions. 

" There are innumerable errors in principle and evils hi practice which necessarily 
proceed from this mode of distributing the wealth of society. 

" Ist. A general class of distributors is formed, whose intcrost ^p nepnrnfM from, 
and apparently opposed to, that of the indivldnai from whom they buy and to whom 
they sell. 

"2nd. Three classes of distributors are made, the sroaTl, the medinra, and the 
lar^ hnvers and sellers ; or the retailers, the wholesale dealers, and the extensive 

* 3rd. Three classes of buyers thus created constitute the small, the medium, and 
the large purchasers. 

" By this arrangement into various classes of hnvers and sellers, the parlies are 

\1 trained to l»sm that they have separate and opposing interests, and different 

raMB and stations in soofetv. An inequality of feelio^' and condition is thusTcreated 

ind maintain ed, with all the servility and pride which these unequal arrangements 

* Sc« ConBid6rant, " Destin^e Sociate," tome i. pp. 4S-61, 8me 6diUon, Paris. l$4a 



are sitre to prodnc*. Tlie paiHes nt^ rq^Iarly traloed in a genera] syitdm of deee^ 
tion, in order thai they may be the more ^aoccpsfol in buying oheap and aelUngdear. 

" The emaller sellera aoqoire habits of injnrlone idleuees. woitiii^ often for boom 
for cnatomers. And this evil is exparieuced Co a oooBiderable eacteut even aoKHigst 
the class of wholesale dealers. 

"There are, also, by this arrangeraeut, rcany more ept«blishmeDtB for selling 
than are necessary in the village's, tov^iis, and cities ; and a very laj^ capital i« thra 
wrsted wi( hont benefit to society And from their number opposed to each other ail 
over the country to obtain caetomen*, they endeavour fo anaersell each otiier. and 
^c therefore continaaily endeavouring to injare the producer by the catablisfament 
of vrhat arc called cheap shope and warehouses; and to 8iipt>ort tbeir character the 
mast«ir or his servaiits most be continnaliy on the watch to boy bargains, tliat in, to 
proem e wcalt/h for less than the cost of its prod action. 

' Tlie dLstribntors, small, medium, and large, have all to be pnpported by the pro- 
dacers, and the greater the nnmber of the tonncr eompared with the latter, the 
creator will be the burden which the prodac^r h&s* to sastain ; for aa the- uomber of 
distribatore increases, the aocamalation of wealth moBt decrease, and more rnoBi be 
required from tlie prodaoer. 

** The distributors of wealth, tinder the present system, are a dead weight upon 
the Jirodncers and are roost active denioralisers of society. 7'heir dcnenoent con- 
dition, at the commencement of their task, teLchesor irdact« them to ue servile to 
their customers, and to contlnoe to be eo as lung as tliey are accijmuIatiDg wealth 
by their cheap buying and dear selling. But when they have eernrt-d sufficient to be 
what they imagine to be an independence—to Hve -without business— they are too 
often filled With a most ignorant pride, and become insolent to their dependents. 

*• The arrangement is aitogeCher a most improvident one for society, wlKtf« in- 
tere^t it is to produce the grtatest. amount of wealth oi. the best qualities ; while the 
existing system of distributiou is not only to witlidraw great unmbersfrora pro- 
ducing to become distributors, bat to add to the cost of the consumtr all tlie 
of a most wasteful and extravagant distribution ; the distribution costing to the cco- 
Bumer many times the price of the original cost of the wealth purchased. 

**Then, by the position in which the seller is placed by iiis creaUd desire for itbIu 
on the one hand, and the comp;^ition he meets with from oppoueiits selling f iitiikir 
productions on the otlio', be is strongly teuipted to deteriorate the articles which he 
nas for sale ; and when these are provisions, either of home pioduction oar of fon'i|:n 
importation, the eifocts upon the health, and consequent comfort aiid happiness of 
the cou;>umers, are often most injurious, and pitxluctive of much premature death, 
especially among the woridng classes, Asho, in this respect, are }K-^hap6 made to be 
the greatest sufferers, by putxshasing the inferior or low-piiced articles. .... 

** The expense of thus distributing we^iith in Great Briti.iu and Ireland, faiclndirc 
transit from place to place, and all the agents directly and indinxstly engaged in this 
deportment, is perhaps, littl^j short of one hundred millions annually, without tak ug 
Into conaideratiou the deterioration of the Quality of many of the ai tides consti- 
tuting this wealth, by carriage, aud by l)eii)g aivlded into small quantities, and kept 
in improper stores and phic<'S, in which the atmosphere is unfavorable to the keep- 
ing of such artideft in a tolerably good, and much less in the best, condition for use." 

In farther ainstnition of the contrariety of interests between pereon 
and person, daas and clasB. which pervades tiie present confititotku of 
society, M. Oonsiderant adds : — 

" If the wine-growers wish for free trade this freedom ruins the producer of 
com. the manufacturers of iron, of rioth. of cotton, and— we are compelled to add— 
the smnggier and the cnsttHns* officer. If it is the interest of ttie consumer that 
machines should be invented which lower prices by renderlTiff production less costly, 
these same maoblnes throw out of work thousands of workmen who do not kuow 
how to, and cannot at once fir.d other work. Here, then, again is one of the in- 
numerable vt'ciotis etreles of civilization . . .for there are a thousand fact:? 
which prove cumulatively tbat In our existing social system the introduction of any 
good brings always along with it some evil. 

" In short, tf we go lower down and come to vulgar details^ we find that it is the 
interest of toe tailor, the diotmaker, and the hatter that coatBi shoes, and haU 


vbould be S'^ntt worn out ; that tbe glazier profits \n tbe lian-etorms Which lireAk 
wiudowi ; t&at tbe masou aud Kbe architect yt-oOt by flroa; Uie kiw^or la euncbed bjr 
kw-aaitfl ; Um doctor hf diaeaao ; ttie wiutHuUer by drnokeoucefi ; the prodtitut«) by 
dtftMactery. And wbat a dusaatoi* would it be iur tikc juii]{<M, ibu poilce, and tbe 
gio^ert, as well aa for tlie burriatera and tbo Bolicit<M-is aud ml tU^ kkwyera ciurkH, il 
crimes, oJSencea, and law-auita were all at once to come to un end 1"* 

Tbe i(dlowi&g i& oue of tha fMd\n»\ poiate of tiiis school : — 

^ Add to an this, that civilieation, wbicb sowa diaseneioii and war on erery Fide'; 
which amploya a gr at part o£ ita powers in miprodiictiTe labonr, or even in dcetroc- 
1400; -which ftirtbermore diiiiluii^bea the public weuith by the uiinenesaary friction 
and discord it Introdnces into iudoAtry ; add to ail thin, I say, th^t tbis same pociai 
fystein has for its sp^icial cbaracturk»ties to prudocc* a ri'pnjfuauce tor work — a (UbguHt 
for iabonr. 

" Bveryirher3 yon he^ir the labourur, tbe artisan, the clork coinpktin of his poeltioa 
and Ins occnp>)t.ioD, while they long for tbo time wbou JlKiy can retire from work iu>- 
poe«d upon them \rr i>M»wify. To be rcpuifn^nt. to have for its motive and pivot 
notliii^ iMit the ftiaf of starxation. is tlie great, Uie fatal, cbaracteristi'- of cinlised 
hboar. The citrilis^d worktnan is ooDdeinned to peual a rvitiide. Ho long- as pro- 
dnctive laboor is so orgjnjzd thar iii^tvnd of b».ing afsocitited witli pJeaKnre it is 
associared wHb iwiti. wvairiuess and dislike, it will always happen that all wlL ovoid 
it who are able. VVitb fdw exoeptious, iboaa oiily will eonsent to work who are conv 
pelted to it by want, a.nice tiw most nnnierons chiSBes, the artificers of social 
wyaJtb, tbe actfre and dJr ?ct crrf.Vors of all comfort, and luxury, wiil ahmy* he am- 
d^nio(^ to touch dtwoly on poverty 'ind hmipr; ther will always Ix? the; sl.iv 8 to 
i^orance and degradatioa; tliey will oootinne to be aiwars that hajp: herd of nit^re 
beasts of burden wlioin we8»}ill-i»rowii, decimated bifdSpeaae. bowed down hi the 
great workshop of society orcr the p)oii<?b or orer the conntcr, that fbey may 
prepare tbe delicate food, and tbe sanapttioini enfoyments of tlie upper and idle 

" So long as do method of atti-actiirp labonr has been devis -d, H wtt) coTitinne to 
be true thit • there nftiist l>e laany poor iu order fhaf tb^re may be a fe^r rich ;' a raenn 
•nd hateful saying; whic'i wo bear every dajr quoted as ai> (eternal trnth f oin the 
moaths of people who cidl tbemaelres Cbrk>tiaus or (ihiiopoptiers ! It is very oaay to 
anderstaad Uud of^iee-^on, trickery, and especijiJIy poverty, arc the pennanent aad 
fatal appsinage of ev<'ry stat; of society charact/^rized by tbe dinllke of work, for. in 
tins case, there is notbini; bnt poverty that will force men to labour. And the pio'jf 
of tbtols, that If every one of all tbe workers wen» to beconio poddenly ricii, r.iitO- 
teeo-twentietba of all the work now done wocdd bo ahaudODud.'H 

In fhe aprmaa at the FoTmeristSy the tendency of the prwent order 
of society is to a concentration of wealth in the hnndn erf a compara- 
tiroly few immensely rich indiTidnals or companies, and the redufition 
of all thj rest of the cominnnity into a oomplet'^ dependeiKie oxk them. 
This was tinned by Fouri'^r la fc(fd/(lHe wdvfftrieUe. 

"This fendalisra." aiys M. Consld5raT?t. **wo»iTd hw cowtftrrtrKT «« soon Kt. tha 
/ rgspst part of the itidiistrial and terriroral proiierty of th*^ o.vion belougrs t" t 
minority which abporhp alT its reveniT'^s. wl^le the frmat majoritv- chained to tiie 
work-bendi or labooring on the soil, mnst be content to gnaw the pittance which Is 
cast to them.''t 

This disastions result is to be brought abont partly by the mere 
progress of cornpetition, as sketched in onr previons extract by M. 

Lonii Blanc ; assisted by the progress of national debts, which M. Con- 

■^^ 11 

• Cousid^nint, *' Destinfeo Sodale," tome i., pp. fiO, <J0. 
t €k>nsid^rant, "^ r>e8tfai^ SoHale,'' tome i., pp. 00, OL 
t ** Dealing Sodale," toiue L, p. 13^ 


sidtrant regards as mortgages of the whole land and oapital of th^ 
country, of which *U s capitalistes prSteurs " become, in a greater rdA 
greater measure^ co-proprietors, receiying without labour or risk an in- 
creasing portion of the revenues. 


It is impossible to deny that the considerations brought to notice in 
the preceding chapter make out a frightful case either against the exist- 
ing order of society, or against the position of man himself in this 
world. How much of the evils should be referred to the one, and how 
much to the other, is the principal theoretic question which has to be 
resolved. But the strongest case is susceptible of exaggeration ; and it 
will have been evident to many readers, even from the passages I have 
quoted, that such exaggeration is not wanting in the representations of 
tike ablest and most candid Socialists. Though much of their allegations 
is unanswerable, not a little is the result of errors in political economy ; 
by which, let me say once for all, I do not mean the rejection of any 
practical rules of policy which have been laid down by political econo- 
mists, I mean ignorance of economic facts, and of the causes by which 
the economic phenomena of society as it is, are actually determined. 

In the first place, it is unhappily true that the wages of ordinary 
labour, in all the countries of Europe, are wretchedly insuf&cdent to 
supply the physical aud moral necessities of the population in any 
tolerable measure. But, when it is further alleged that even this in- 
sufficient remuneration has a tendency to diminish ; that there is, in the 
words of M. Louis Blanc, vne Inisss omtinue de» salfiires ; the assertion 
is in opposition to all accurate information, and to many notorious facts. 
It has yet to be proved that there is any country in the civUised world 
where ike ordinary wages of labour, estimated either in money or in 
articles of consumption, are declining ; while in many they are, on the 
whole, on the increase ; and an increase which is becoming, not slower, 
but more rapid. There are, occasionally, branches of industry which 
are being giadually superpeded by something else, and, in those, until 
production accommodates itself to demand, wages are depressed; which 
is an evil, but a temporary one, and would admit of great alleyiation 
even in the present system of social economy. A diminution thus pro- 
duced of the reward of labour in some particular employment is tho 
effect and the evidence of increased remuneration, 6r of a new source 
of remuneration, in some other; the total and the average reniuneia* 
tion being undiminished, or even increased. To make out an appear- 
ance of diminution in the rate of wages in any leading branch of indus- 
try, it is always found necessary to compare some month or year of 
special and temporary depression at the present time, with the average 
rate, or even some exceptionally high rate, at an earlier time. The 
vieissitades are no doubt a great evil, but they were as frequent and as 
severe in former periods of economical history as now. The greater 
ijpde of the transactions, and the greater- numbex^of persons involyed ia 


Mch flnctnAtion, may make the flucteation appear ^[leater, but ihoagh 
& ]ai:ger population affords more sufferers, the evil does not weigh 
heavier on each of them individually. There is much evidence of im- 
provement) and none, that is at all trustworthy, oi deterioration, in the 
mode of living of the labouring population of the countries of Europe ; 
when there is any appearance to the contrary it is local oi^ partial, and 
can always be tiaced either to the pressure of some temporary calamity, 
or to some bad law or imwise act of government which admits of being 
corrected, while the permanent causes all operate in the direction of im- 

M. Lotus Blanc, therefore, while showing himself much more 
enlightened than the older school of levellers and democrats, inas- 
mudi as he recognises the connection between low wages and tho 
over rapid increase of population, appears to have fallen into the 
Bame error which was at ilrst committed by Halthus and his ioU 
lowers, that of supposing that because population has a greater 
power of increase tnan subsistence, its pressure upon subsistence must 
r>e alwavs growing more severe. The difference is that the early 
Malihusians thought this an irrepressible tendency, while M. Louis 
Blanc thinks that it can be repressed, but only under a system of 
Communism. It is a great point gained for truth when it comes to 
be seen that the tendencv to over-population is a fact which Com- 
munism, as well as the existing order of society, would have to deal 
XTith. And it is much to be rejoiced at that this necessity is ad- 
mitted by the most considerable chiefs of all existing schools of 
Socialism. Owen and Fourier, no less than M. Louis Blanc, admitted 
it, and claimed for their respective systems a pre-eminent power of 
dealing with this difficulty. However this may be, experience shows 
that in the existing state of society the pressure of population on 
enbsistence, which is. the principal cause of low wages, though a 
great, is not an increasing evil ; on the contrary, the progress of all 
that is cbU civilisation has a tendency to diminish it, partly by the 
more rapid increase of the means of employing and maintaining 
labour, partly by the increased facilities opened to labour for trans- 
porting itself to new countries and unoccupied fields of employment, 
and partly by a general improvement in the intelligence and pru- 
dence of the population. This progress, no doubt, is slow ; but it is 
much that such progress should take place at all, while we are still only 
in the first stage of that public movement for the education of the whole 
people, which when more advanced must add greatly to the force of all 
the two causes of improvement specified above. It is, of course, open 
to discussion what form of society has the greatest power of dealing suc- 
cessfully with the pressure of population on subsistence, and on this 
qnestion there is much to be said for Socialism ; what was long thought 
to be its weakest point will, perhaps, prove to be one of its strongest But 
it has no just claim to be considt red as the sole means of preventing the 
ge&exal and growing degradation of the mass of mankind through th« 


peculiar tendency of i)OTerty to produce over^population. Society &a t4 
present constituted is not descending into that abyss, but gradoallY, 
though slowly, rising out of it, and this improvement is likely to be prc- 
gressive it uad laws do not interfere with it. 

Next, it must be observed that Socialists generally, and even the most 
enlightened of them, have a very imperfect and one-sided notion of tlij 
operation of competition. They see half its effects, and oveiiook the 
other half ; they rogard it as an agency for grinding down every one's 
remuneration — for obliging every one to accept less- wages for his labour, 
or a less price for his commodities, which would be toie only if every 
one had to dispose of his labor or his commodities to some great monop- 
olist, and the competition were all on one side. They forget that con:- 
E?tition is the caus6 of high pricas and values as well as of low ; that tb3 
uyers of labour and of commodities compete with one another as well 
as the sellers ; and that if it is competition which keeps the prices of 
la'jour and commodities as low as they are, it is competition winch pre- 
vents them from falling still lower. In troth, when competition is perfectly 
frae on both sides, its tendency is not epecially either to raise or to lower 
the price of articles, but to equalise it ; to level inequalities of remuner- 
ation, and to reduce all to a general average, a result which, in so far as 
raalised (no doubt very imporf ectly), is, on Socialistic principles, desir- 
able. But if, disregarding for the time that part of the effects oi com- 
petition which consists in keeping up prices, we fix our attention on its 
effect in keeping them down, and contemplate this effect in reference 
solely to the interest of the labouring classes, it would seem that if com- 
petition keeps down wages, and so gives a motive to the labouring 
classes to withdraw the labor market from the full influence of competi- 
ticn, if they can, it must on the other hand have credit for keeping 
down the prices of the articles on which wages are expended, to the grjat 
advantage of those who depend on wages. To meet this oonsideration 
Socialists, as we said in our quotation from M. Louis Blanc, are reduced 
to affirm that the low prices of commodities produced by competition are 
delusive, and lead in the end to higher prices than before, because when 
the richest competitor has got rid of all his rivals, he commands the mar- 
ket and can demand any price he pleases. Now, the commonest experience 
shows that this state of things, under really free competition, is wholly 
imagina^'y. The richest competitor neitht r does nor can get rid of all 
his rivals, and establish himself in the exclusive possession of the mar- 
ket ; and it is not the fact that any important branch of industry or 
commerce formerly divided among many has become, or ^ows any ten- 
dency to become, the monopoly of a few. 

The kind of policy described is sometimes possible where, as in the 
case of railwavs, the only competition possible is between two or three 
great companies, the operations being on too vast a scale to be within 
the reach of individual capitalists ; and this is one of the reasons why 
businesses which require to be carried on by great joint-stock enter- 
prises caxmot be trusted to competition, but, when not reserved by th« 


Siaio to itself ooglit to bo canied on woidet conditions prescribed, and, 
from time to tunc, vaxied by ih« State, for the ptirpoee of innnring to 
the pnblio a cheaper supply of its wants than would be afforded by pri- 
Yate interest in the abs^use of soffident competition. Bnt in the 
ordinaiy braaches of industry mo one rich competitor has it in his 
power to dri^e out all the smaller ones. Some businesses show a ten- 
dency to pass out of the hands of many small producers or dealers into 
B sma21ernu]:]^i>er of larger ones; but the cases in which this happens 
are those in which the possession of a lander capital permits the adoption 
of more poweiful maehShery, more eiHcient by more e:!cpen8iye pro* 
ceBB€8, or a bstt« cnganis^ and moro eoonomiod mode cf ' carrying op 
business, and thus exAbies ihe large dealer legitimately and permanently 
to BQpply the commodity cheaper thaa can be done on the small scalo ; 
to the great adTantage of the consumers, and therefore of the labouring 
clafiges, afnd diminishing, pratanfoy that waste of the resources of the 
cozomuniiy so much complained of by Socialists, the unnecesfary mul- 
tiplication of mere distrilxitors, and of the various other classes whom 
Pourier calls the pansiteB of indostiy. V/hen this change is effected, 
the larger capitalists, either individual or joint-stxx^k, among which the 
business is chvided^ are Seldom, if ever, in any considerable branch of 
oommeroe, so few as that oompatiiion shall not continue to act between 
them ; so that the saying in cost, whidi enabled them to undersell the 
small dealers,'" oontiniiesafterwanls, as at first, to be passed on, in lower 
piices, to their custoxoers. The operation, thereft>rc, of competition in 
keei»ng dorwn the. prices of commodities, including those on which 
^rages are expendiea, is not illusive but real, and, we may add, is a 
gzowing, not a declining, fact 

But there are other reif>ects, equally important, in which the charges 
brought by Socialists agamst competition do not admit of so complete 
aa answer. Competition is the best security for cheapness, bnt by no 
means a eecnrity for quality. In former times, when x>roducers and 
consumers Were less numerous^ it was a security for both. The market 
was Qoi large enough nor ihe means of publicity sufficient to enable a 
dealer to majie a fortune by continually attracting new customers: his 
saeeess depended on his retaining those that he had ; and when a dealer 
furnished good articles, or when he did not, the fact was soon known to 
those whom it coocemed, and he acquired a character for honest or dic- 
hoaest dea&ig ot more importajioe to him than the gain that would be 
made by cheating casual purchasers. But on the great scale of modem 
transactions^ with ^e great multiplication of comx>etition and the im- 
mense increase in the quantity of business competed for, dealers are so 
little depend^it on pexstiatient customers that character is much less 
eseential to them, while there is^Jsq far ttss certainty of their obtaining 
the duoacter they deserve. The low prices which a tradesman advern 
tises are known, to a thousand for one who has discovered for himself 
or leacned froBi oi&en, that thebad quality of the goods is more than 
M eqidvalent far their cheapness; while at the same time the much 


greater f ortnnes now made by some dealers excite the enpidit * of all - 
and the greed of capid gain substituteB itself for the modest desire U> 
make a Uving by their bmness. In this manner, as wealth increasts 
and greater prizes seem to be within reach, more and more of a gam- 
bling spirit IS introduced into commerce ; and where tbis prevails not 
only are the simplest maxims of prudence disregDrded, bntmll, even the 
most perilous, forms of pecuniary improbity receive a ternbie stimulnB. 
This ifi the meaning of what is called the intensity of modem competi- 
tion. It is further to be mentioned that when this intensity has reached 
a certain height, and when a portion of tild producers of an article or 
the dealers in it have resorted to any of the modes of fraud, such as 
adnlteration, giving short measure, &c., of the increase of which thero 
is now so much complaint, the temptation is immense on these to adopt 
the fraudulent practices, who would not have originated them; for the 
public are aware of the low prices faUaoiously produced by the firauds, 
but do not find out at first, if ever, that the article is not worth the 
lower price, and they will not go on paying a higher price for a better 
article, and the honest dealer is placed at a terrible disadvantage. Thus 
the ^frauds, begun by a few, become customs of the trade, and the 
morality of the trading classes is more and more deteriorated. 

On this point, therefore, Socialists have really made out the existence 
not only of a great evil, but of one which grows and tends to grow with 
the growth ox population and wealth. It must be said, however, that 
society has never yet used the means which are already in its power of 
grappling with this eviL The laws against commercial f^uds are vf rr 
defective, and their execution still more sa Laws of this description 
have no chance of being really enforced unless it is the special duty of 
some one to enforce them. They are epecially in need of a public 
prosecutor. It is still to be discovered how fto it is possible to repress 
by means of the criminal law a class of misdeeds which are now seldom 
brought before the tribunals, and to which, when brought, the Judicial 
administration of this country is most unduly lenient The most im- 
portant class, however, of these frauds, to the mass of the people,'iho6e 
which affect the price or quality of articles of daily consumption, can be 
in a ^eat measure overcome oy the institution of co-operative stores. 
By this plan any body of consumers who form themselves into an asBo- 
ciation for the purpose, are enabled to pass over the retail dealers and 
obtain their articles direct from the wholesale menshauts, or, what is 
better (now that wholesale co-operative agencies have been establishcdl 
from the producers, thus freeing Uiemselves from the heavy tax now 
paid to the distributiug classes and at the same time eliminate the usual 
perpetrators of adulterations and other frauds. Distribution thus be- 
comes a work performed by agents selected and paid by those who 
have no interest in anything but the cheapness and goodness of the 
article ; and the distributors are capable of being thus reduced to the 
numbers which the quantity of work to be done really requires. The 
difficulties of the plan consist in the skill and trostworthiness required 


in ib§ managers, and the imperfect nature of the control irhich can h% 
exercised over them by the body at large. The great success and rapid 
^ro^h of the sysfcexn prove, however, that these difflcnlties are, in soma 
tolerable degree, overcome. At ail events, if the beneficial tendency of 
tha competition of retailers in promoting cheapness is foregone, and 
has to be replaced by other securitiae, thd mischievous tendency of the 
sima compatitioQ in deteriorating qu'Uity is at any rate got rid of; and 
th3 prospirity of the co-operative stores shows that this benefit is ob- 
t linjd not only without detriment to chaapness, but with gr jat advantage 
to it, sinos thai profits of tha concerns enable them to return to the con- 
su H3IB a larga percentaga oo the price of every article supplied to 
thjHL So far, tharefora, as this dass cf evils is concerned, an etfectual 
rsmady is already in oparatioa, which, though suggested by and partly 
groondid on socialistic principbs, is consistent with the existing con- 
Btitotion of property. 

With regard to those greater and more conspicuous economical 
frauds, or malpractices equivalent to frauds, of which so many 
daplorabla cas3S have become notorious — committed by merchants 
and bankers betwaen. themselves or between them and those who 
have trusted th^m with money, su ^h a remedy as above described is 
not available, aud tha only resourr^es which the present constitution 
of society affords against tbamare a stamer reprobation by opinion, and 
a more efficient reprission by tha law. Neither of thess remedies has 
hal any approach to an effictuil trial. It is on thi occurrence of in- 
solvensies that thess dishonest pra'^ticss usually come to light; the per- 
petrators taka their place, not in the clais of malefactors, but in that of 
insolvent debtors ; and th^ lavs of this aud other countries were for- 
uQ3rly so saTig3 against ?i'n;5l5 insolv^rny, that by o?ie of those r<3ao- 
tioas to which th3 opinions '^f mankind ar3 liablo, insolvents came to be 
r^garled miinly as objeot*? of compassion, and it S'^'^med to be thought 
thatth) hand both of law aid of public opinion could hardly press too 
lightly upoa th3Ti. By an error in a contrary diroctiou to the ordinary 
00 3 of our law, which in the punishment of offences in general wholly 
neglects the question of reparation to the sufferer, our bankruptcy laws 
Lav* for some time treat ^d the recovery for creditors of what is left of 
th3ir property as almost the sole object, scarcely any importance beihg 
att"i:;hed to the punishment of the bankrupt for any misconduct which 
does not directly interfere with that primary purpose. For three or 
four years past there has been a slight counter-reaction, and more than 
oae bankruptcy act has been passed, somewhat less indulgent to the 
bankrapt; but the primary object regarded has still been the pecuniary 
iatirest of the creditors, and criminality in the bankrupt himself, with 
the exception of a small number of well-marked offences, gets off al- 
most wiSi impunity. It may be confidently affirmed, therefore, that, 
at Idast in this country, society has not exerted the power it possesses 
of making mercantile dishonesty dangerous to the perpetrator. On the 
loatrary, it is a gambling trick in which all the advantage is ou the side 


of the trickster : if the trick succeeds it makes his f ortone, or preserrefl 
it; if it fails, he is at most reduced to poyerty, which was perhaps al- 
ready impending when he determined to ran the ohance and he is 
classed by those who have not looked closely into the matter, and even 
by many who have, not among the infamous but among the unfortunat .. 
Until a more moral and rational mode of dealing with culpable insol- 
vency has been tried and failed, commercial dishonesty caonot be ranked 
among evils the prevalence of which is inseparable from commezcial 

Another point on which there is much mis^prehension on the pari 
of Socialists, as well as of Trades Unionists and other partisans of La- 
bc^' against Capital, relates to the prc^ortions in which the produce cf 
the country is really shared and the amount of what is actually divert d 
from those who produce it, to enrich other persons. I forbear for th i 
present to speak of tha land, which is a subject apart. But with respect 
to capital employed in business, there is in the popular notions a gr.ut 
deal of illusion. When, for instance, a capitalist invests ^20,000 in hli 
business, and draws from it an income of (suppose) £2,000 a year, tl.) 
common impression Ih as if he was the beneficial owner boUi of Ui'j 
j£20,000 and of thj X2,U0(), while the labourers own nothing but thJr 
wages. Tho truth, however, is that he only obtains the jC2,000 oa 
condition of applying no part of the £20,000 to his own use. He hcs 
the legal control over it, and might squander it it if he chose, but if ho 
did he would not have the £2,000 a year also. As long as he derives an 
income from his capital he has not the option of withholding ii froji 
the use of others. As much of his invested capital as consists of buili- 
ings, machinery, and other instruments of production, are applied to 
production and ar3 not applicable to the Kupport or enjoyment of any 
one. Wh^t is so applicablf^ (includiug what is laid out in keeping np or 
renewing hie buildings and instruments) is paid away to labourers, 
forming their remuneration and th/^ir share in the division of the pro- 
duce. For all personal purposes they have the capital and he has but 
the profits, which it only yields to him on condition that the capital itst If 
is employed in satisfying not his own wants, but those of laboorers. 
The proportion which the profits of capital usually bear to the capital 
itsolf (or rather to the circulating portion of it) is the ratio which th:* 
capitalist's share of the produce bears to the aggregate share of the Li- 
bourers. Even of his own share a small part only belongs to him iw 
the owner of capital. The portion of the produce which falls to capitd 
merely as capital is measured by the interest of money, since that is all 
that the owner of capital obtains when hf". contributes notlxing to pro- 
duction except the capital itself. Now th^ interest of capital in the pub- 
lic funds, which are considered to be the best security, is at the pi^s.i t 
prices (which have not varied much for many years) about three and 
one-third per cent Even in this investment there is some litUe risk-^ 
risk of repudiation, risk of being obligeil to aeU out at a low price in 
some commercial ericas. 


Efltimatiiig these zisks at ^ per cent., the remaining 8 per oeni. 
may be eonsidered as the remimeiation of capital, apiurt from 
insaranoe against loss. On the secoiity of a mortgage I per oent. 
is generally obtained, bat in this transaction there are considerably 
greater risks — the nncertainty of titles to land under our bad 
Eystem of law; the chance of having to realise the security at a 
great cost in law charges ; and liability to delay in the receipt of the 
iuterest, even when the principal is safe. When mere money inde- 
pendently of exertion yields a larger income, as it sometimes does, 
lor eiample, by shares in railway or other companies, the surplus is 
hardly ever an equivalent for the risk of losing the whole, or part, 
of the capital by mismanagement, as in the ease of the Brighton Rail- 
way, the dividend of which, after having been 6 per cent, per annum, 
sunk to finom nothing to 1^ per cent. , and shares which had been bought 
at 120 could not be sold for more than about 43. Whc^n money is 
lent at tibe high rates of interest one occasionally hears of, rates only 
given by spendthrifts and needy persons, it is because the risk of loss is 
80 great thai few who.possess money can be induced to lend to them at aU. 
So little reason is there for tiie outcry against '* usury" as one of the 
gnevoQs burthens of the working dassfs. Of the profits, therefore, 
which a manufacturer or other person in business obtains from his capi- 
tal no more than about 3 per cent can be set down to the capital itself. 
If he were able and willing to give up the whole of this to his labourers, 
who sfaieady share among ttiem the wh<4e of his capital as it is annually 
reprodnoed from year to year, the addition to their weekly wages would 
be inconsiderable. Of what he obtains beyond 8 per cent, a great part 
is msonaioe against the manifold losses he is exposed to, and cannot 
Eafeiy be applied to his own use, but requires to be kept in reserve to 
cover those losses when they occur. The remainder is properly the 
remuneration of his skill and industry — the wagesof his labour of superin* 
tendence. Ko doubt if he is very successful in business these wages of 
his are extremely liberal, and quite out of proportion to what the same 
skill and industry would coihmand if offered for hire. But, on the 
other hand, he runs a worse risk 'than that of being out of employment ; 
tbat of doing the work without earning anything by it, of having the 
bbour and anxiety without the wages. I do not say that the drawbacks 
balance &6 privileges, or that he derives no advantage from the posi- 
tion w];^ch makes Mm a capitalist and employer of labour, instead of a 
ckilled superintendent letting out his sf rvices to others ; but the amount 
of his advantage must not be estimated by the great prizes alone. If 
we subtract from the gains of some the losses of otliers, and deduct 
from the balance a fair compensation for the anxiety, skill and labour of 
loth, grounded on the market price of skilled superintendence, what re- 
nuuns will be, no doubts considerable, but yet, when compared to the 
entire capital of the country, annually reproduced and dispensed in 
vagea, it is very much smaller than it appears to the popular imagina- 
)m'f aad were the wholo of it added to the share of the labourers it 


wotild make a less addition to that share than -vfould be made by any im. 
portant invention in machinery, or by the suppression of unnecessary 
distribntors and other ^'parasites of industry." To complete tiie esti- 
mate, however, of the portion of the produce oi industry which goes to 
remunerate capital we must not stop at the interest earned out of the 
produce by the capital actually employed in producing it, but most in- 
clude that which is paid to the former owners of capital which has been 
unproductively spent and no longer exists, and is paid, of course, out 
of the produce of other capital Of this nature is the interest of 
national debts, which is the cost a nation is burthened with for past dif- 
ficulties and dangers, or for past folly or profligacy of its rulers, more 
or less shared by the nation itself. To this must be added the interest 
on the debts of landowners and other unproductiye oonsumers ; except 
so far as the money borrowed may have been spent in remunerative im- 
provement of the productive powers of the land. As for landed pro- 
perty itself — the appropriation of the rent of land by private individual? 
— I reserve, as I have said, this question for discussion hereafter; for 
the tenure of land might be varied in any manner considered desirable, all 
the land might be declared the property of the State without interfer- 
ing with the right of property in anythmg which is the product of hu- 
man labour and abstinence. 

It seemed desirable to begin the discussion of the Socialist question 
by these remarks in abatement of Socialist exaggerations, in order thit 
the true issues between Socialism and the existing state of society might 
be correctly conceived. The present system is not, as many SocialLt^ 
believe, hurrying us into a state of g9neral indigence and sivery from 
which only Soci^sm can save us. The evils and injustices suffered nu- 
der the priSJnt system are great, but they are not increasing; on th3 
contrary, tht3 general tendency is toward their slow diminution. More- 
over the inequalitias in the distribution of the produce between capital 
and labour, however they may shock the feeling of natural justice, 
would not by their mere equalisation afford by any means so large a 
fund for raising the lower levels of remuneration as Socialists, and many 
besides Socialists, are apt to suppose. . There is not any one abuse or 
injustice now prevailing in society by merely abohshing which the hn- 
man race would pass out of suffering into happiness. What iuncuHj- 
bent on us is a calm comparison between two different systems of so- 
ciety, with a view of determining which of them affords the greatest rt- 
Bources for overcoming thef inevitable difficulties of life. And if we find tli^ 
answer to this question more difficult, and more dependent upon int<^I- 
lectual and moral conditions, than is usually thought, it is satisfactory 
to reflect that th^re is time before us for the question to work itself oit 
on an experimental scale, by actual triaL I believe we shall find that no 
other test is possible of the practicability or beneficial operation of So- 
oialist anangements ; but thiat the inteUeotual and moral grounds of 


Kwrf^ialiRm deserve the most atteniiTe stody, as affording in many cases 
tw« gaiding principles of the improyements necessary to giye the pres- 
ent eooDomic^stem of society its best chance. 

JoBv Stuabs Mif^ in Fortnightly Mtvicw, 


"▲a iMTlnC nothing, and yetpoMeasinsall ttalBai**' 

A enuBj door, low moanioe in the wind. 

The beat and patter of the driving rain. 
Thin drifts of melting snow npon tne floor, 

Forced through the patch npon the broken pane. ' 

One chair, a little foar-locgcd stool, a box 
Spread with a clean wmte cloth, and frugal fare,— 

This is the home the widow an^ her lad. 
Two hems, and his grey cat and kittens, share. 

'* Ben, it 's full time thee was in bed," she saysy 

Drawiug her furrowed hand across his lo<dc8. 
'* Thee 's warmed th' toeH enough, the fire won^t last. 

Pull to th' coat— I '11 put away the box. 

•* Then pay th' prayerft— that *s right, dont pass *em by, 
The time 's ill raved that 's saved from God above, 

And doan't forgit th' hymn — ^thee never has, 
And clioose a one th' father nsed to love. 

" Now lay 'ee down — bore, rfve the straw a tofffi. 

Don't git beneath the whider — ^mind the snow— 
I like that side — I '11 cover 'ee jnst now. 

The boards is by the fire — they 'ro warm, I know.' 

No blanket wraps the lithe half-naked limbs, 

But love, that teaches birds to rob tbeir breast 
To warm their younglings — love devises means 

To shield this youugiiug from the bitter east. 

The warm boards laid about the weary child. 

He turns a smiling face her face towards — 
** Kother," he says, soft pity in his tone, 

** Wkat do the poor boys do that liave no boards ?" 

C. (X Fraseb-I'ttubr, in The Day ^ Am! 


Local Societies : What is their aim and what purpose do ihey serve ? 
How may this aim be most surely gained ? How can this purpose be 
most effectively earned out ? These are questions which naturally arise 
when considering the subject of local societies. 

The nun of eyeiy local society should be to raise the intc-lk ctcal status 
of the locality. The pvrpose to do so in that way most genr rally ustful. 
It is the mind of the community which has to be raise d'by affcctirg the 
minds of the individuals. Individual n'inds art to be affected by con- 
tact with material surroundings. These surroundings irfluence us tia-ciigh 
the powers of observation, hence conjnl and occfjraU ihsdratiov nniist 
exist among the members of a sociesty fulfilling its prcpcr functioiis. 
The greater the number of members exercising such otservaticn the 
greater the usefulness of the society. It is ahrost needless to instacce 
other mental qualities as necessary for success, because experience shows 
that when once the observing frculty has received its due share of at- 
t ntion, the power of using the observations made follows in duecenise. 
The faculty of observation n ust be drawn cut and cultivated by ecDtact 
with matter in relation to man, ar.d by contact with matter col side red 
apart from man as existing in a state of nature. And just as it is in p ort- 
ajit that in the culture of the individual a one-sidedness Kbculd be f^pec- 
ially avoided, so in raising the culture of a community it is c qualJy im- 
portant that opportunities or suggestions for mental irrprovt me nt ^//^ 
rovvd should be afforded- Hence we are inclined to tbirk it advitable 
that especially in the case of small ccuntry tcwrs sciertflic studies, or 
suggestions for such, should proceed from the sttme platform as these 
studies which are often spoken of as more purely lite rary. Of ccnrse 
hteraturp includes the records of science, but still for general purpcFfs 
the meaning is clear when a literary institute or Society is spoken of as 
distinguished from a scientific. Among the lower types of animals there 
is a want of specialisation of parts ; very different functions may be 
performed by the same part of the whole of the body ; in the higher, 
specialisation prevails, each functioi;i has its own organ, and the function 
is pertormed more efficiently. In large towns science may be purFUtd 
apart from general literature, and even each special science may stand 
on its own platform, but in small towns this is out of the question, and 
I believe unadvisable, for the over-performance of one function in tie 
lowly organised society is checked by the claim of the general body. 
Moreover, the tastes of a community being naturally various, it becomes 
essential to present intellectual food of various kinds. Hence we cannot 
but think that small local societies should be both literary and scientific. 
The two aspects of culture will support and strengthen each other, and 


the introdactioii of a new clique, or party, or sect be avoided. For it 
must be remembered Chat one of the diutluct collateral advantages of 
such socioties is that a common platform is providad upon which msn 
of all political or religious beliefs can stand and work toguthor. No one 
who is acquainted with the social conditions of our small towns can un- 
derrate the importance of this. 

But how are such societies to work ? I would reply, fzx>m within, 
outwards. Not, iu th>3 fir jt place, by calling in extraneous help, by en- 
gaging eminent men to givj courses of locturas, but by arousing tha 
spirit of inquiry and ob.servation amongiit the townsfolk.i Let but a 
few natives come forward with short papers on any subjects with which 
thiy may ba espaclally aaquaint id, the subjects boing treated in such a 
way as to elicit a disjussioa or inquiries, a spirit of int. rest will soon 
bs aroused, and minds put into a proper attitude for the reception of 
tmths bsf ore quite unknown to thorn, and for the prosecution of some 
special subject as a study. In practice I would strongly advisvj the fol- 
lowing course to be pursued by any embryo literary and scientiiic society. 
Have two class 38 of meetings : ou3 the ordinary we tin^f, at which 
mombvjrs alone (and therefore townsfolk) should read short papers, upon 
which a discussion should afterwards be encomTiged ; and publir. lec- 
tures^ given mainly by non-resid^ntEi, and to which the general public 
should be admitted on the payraant of a small fee. At the ordinary 
meeting the local talent and observation is drawn out^ and at the public 
licture new sabjects are introduced to the notice of members. At the 
former, notices of local phenomena and history, or the occasional orig- 
ioal investigations of members, are recorded ; at the latt'^r, new lines 
of thought are often indicated, or systematic instruction given in some 
oni subject 

A society established on some such basis is then in a position to en- 
coaragi the collection of objects of WM natural history, to establish a 
//C/e^musBum, and carry out field excursions during the summer months. 
Moreover, the exp >rience of many years past has shown me that the 
life — and therefore the growth of culture — in such a society is far greater 
than in those cases where only a yearly course of lecturer is organised, 
the grjater pai't of them being given by strangers. Next comes the 
oft rep3at3d question, But how loag will such a society last? Many are 
riady to say. We have tried some such plan, and success has attend' d 
our efforts for one or two years, and then the society has died out On 
this part of the subject a few words will now be said, and the remarks 
mide are founded upon experience gleaned amidst the practical working 
of local societies in Cumberland during the past nine years. 

How, then, can permanence be ensured? In a small town or district 
local resources and talent are apt to become exhausted or unavailable. 
.\ time will surely come when the int?ll8ctual movement will wane and 
the society be on the brink of non-existence. But the very usefulness 
of such a moyament must consist in its stability ; there should be a 
growth, not a bare existence. To insure this stability I suggested some 


years ago that the four Rocieties then existing in the Lake District and 
West Cumberland should be united for general purposes, while each 
society should ri3tain its individuality. After many preliminary diffi • 
culties were overcome, the uiiion was effected, and smce that time each 
society has grown stronger, four new societies have been formed, and 
the total number of members increased from a few hrmdred to nearly 

The objects to be attained by this association of societies are as fol- 
lows: — 1. Increased strength to be derived from mutual help, encour- 
agement, and a spirit of honest emulation. 2. The uiiion affords 
greater facihtics towards publishing transactions and securing the servi- 
ces of eminent lecturers. 3. An annual meeting of the associated soci- 
eties affords aia opportimity for the discussion of principles of working 
and promotes the general life. 4. The annual meeting being held in a 
fresh town each year helps to keep the country alive to the Association 
work, and encourages the formation of new societies. 

The constitution of the Cumberland Association is as follows : — The 
president to be a man of local note and high culture, and to serve for a 
period not greater than two y^ars.* Tho Presidents of individual 
societies to be vice-presidents of the Association. The council of the 
Association to consist of two delegates from each society, chosen annu- 
ally. The treasurer and secretary (honorary) to be one and the same 
person, and fully acquainted with the county in all its aspects. 

The working of the Association is carried on thus : The Association 
secretary keeps a record of all papers and lectures brought befon^ the 
individual societies. Before the commencement of each wint ir session 
he communicates with all the local secretaries, and from his know- 
I'^dge of available intellectual stores in the county, helps each in th 3 
drawing up of the winter programme in whatever direction htlp may 
be specially needed. It is his duty also to help forward the establish- 
ment of local classes where such are possible. At a council meeting 
held in the autumn some public lecturer is decided upon who shall go 
the round of the associated societies during the winter, and a grant 
is made towards his expenses from tho Association funds (of which 
anon), the rest being made up by each soci^^ty served. 

The annual meeting takes place at Easter or in May, and lasts two or 
three days. The Association President d-^livers his annual address, re- 
ports from the several societies are read and discussed, original papere 
are read, lectures given by one or more eminent men, and field excur- 
sions made. 

At the close of each winter session the local secretaries send into th'i 
Association secretary any papers which have been selected by the local 
committees as worthy of publication. If the Association council ap- 
prove Uiese papers they are published in the Transaciiom at the Asso- 

* The Lord Bishop of Carlisle^ acted as president for two yearSj and L Fletcher, 
IC.P., F.R.Sm '^ Qow in his second year of presidency. 


dation expense. The funds of the Association or: gnlbored thns : Each 
society pays an annual capitation grant of Gr/. p^r head on all its mtir- 
bers. There is also a class of Association membors, rcsidiDg at a dis- 
tance from, and not belonging to, any local Fociety. vho pay an aiiniml 
Eubscriptlion of r>x, and are virtually considerv^d members of all the 
societies, and have the privileges of such. The ^J'rohsactioi.s are sold 
to the societies and Association members at the price of 1.^., the 'public 
being charged 2s. 6d. Some of the societies purchase copies to the full 
nuaiber of their members, and present them, othcre take only a.limittd 
number of copies (determined by the local society committee) and re- 
sell tc those of their members who care to possess them. In this way 
the greater part of an edition of 800 copies of the Annual Trai roc- 
t'loM is disposed of. Authors are allowed extra copies of their own 
papsrs at a moderate charge, and when all expenses are met, a fair bal- 
ance is left to carry on to Qie next year. 

It should be noted that of the eight societies in Cumberland, now as- 
sociated, the local annual subscriptions of members in each «ociety is 
generally 55.; in oneLcase, however, it is 3s. 6rf., and in another 2*'. 6(f. 
Is it aiTile of the Association that members going from one society to an- 
other to afford help in the carrying out of the various programmes, should 
have their expenses paid by the society helped. Such is the general con- 
stitution and mode of working of the Cumberland Association, which has 
nndoubtedly succeeded in its aim, so far as the keeping up of existing 
societies and the formation of new ones is concerned. The **Annucd 
Transactions," too, include many papers of local value, and some of 
general interest, while among the eminent men who have kindly come 
forward to lend their services at the Annual Meetings, are the Astrono- 
mer Koyal, the Bishop of Carlisle, Prof. Shairp, Prof. Wm. Knight, and I. 
Fletcher, M.P., F.K.S. At present, however, the Association is but in its 
infancy, and may be considered more or less of an experiment, yet that 
some such method of union is desirable amongst local societies in 
the various counties or districts of England few will deny. Time will 
show how the system may be improved and varied to suit special circum 
stances, but I cannot but think that the plan of association to carry out 
hrger objects of the societies, and the annual meeting of the associated 
societies in successive towns of a county, must economise labour and 
promote the healthy culture of the county in which the work is carried on. 

Amongst the difficulties presenting themselves in the early days of 
the association, the following occurred. For several previous years a 
Cnmberland and Westmoreland Antiquarian and Archasological Society 
had flourished, and it was feared that the new County Association would 
chsh with its existence. The Antiquarians thought it best not to. amal- 
gamate with the associated society, its constitution being in many points 
different from theirs, but it was resolved that whenever papers, bearing 
on local antiquarian or archaeological subjects were read before any of 
the associated societies, these papers should be offered by the Association 
oooncil to the Antiquarian and Archaeological Society for publication in 

L. M.— I.— 10. 


tlit^ir Trrinsn"tions if deoraed worthj. Moreover, Komo of thyoSicere 
of the Association are active niemi)er3 of the Ai-chicological Society, 
and so far from there being any antagonism, the two decidedly h'^Ip o;.- 
anoth.-r for\'.':ird in the generad work of gleaning local knowledge^ ani 
diifiLrfiiig culture. 

As hoa. secretarv of the Cumberland Association, I should feel v^rv 
grateful for any hints or suggestions from the readers of Natur!-'. Vv'aat 
is wanted in every county is more culture, and that carried on in a Jtd' 
turcU way, and with a true love of nature in all her aspects., 

J. Clistox Y/aed, in I^ature, 




The old feud between the Humanists and Realists has broken out 
in a new form Greek, it appears, is to be extruded from the uuivcn - 
ti'3S ; at least that academical platform is to b 3 shaken from und r it> 
feet, and that badga of privilege is to bo torn from its breast, which for 
many years have given it a secure position in the palaestra where tliv 
youth of Gr.^at Britain have been trained to the highest functions of in- 
telloctual manhood. Not a few persons — even thosa who have no par- 
ticular intjrcst in or sympathy with Hellenic learning — ^will look on tLi< 
changad position of the most aristocratic of traditional scholastic stncli :-> 
with unaffected sorrow ; neveithaless, they will say, the thing must b^' 
done; times are changed, and we most change with them; the nio^t 
reputabli rospectabilitics, when their day comes, must die, and t^.'^ 
claims of t\i3 past, however venerable, must yield to the urgent deman .-> 
of the prcs nt. 

To uudir.stand this matt'^r properly, we must S3e clearly that it is r.f* 
Grjck m-Tjly, as Greek, that is call-.d before the bar of public opinio:., 
but GrjL'k as the highafitfor:n of classical culture ; Greek as the goM > .' 
which Latin is the silver and the copper cuiTency. The raal question i . 
can, not Greek simply, but Greek and Latin as an intimatrlyrelat'dj*!/' 
closaly interlacing whol.'\ stand in the same relation to the culture of t^. • 
eightaeuth century that th^y did to the culture of th? sixteenth c ''- 
tury ? and the answer is plainly en oup:h that thoy cannot. New u.- 
cumstances have arisen, new tasks are to ba p -rforrnHd, new tools ar- 
to be providid, new training is necessary. Whoever denies thisisbli:.! 
both before and b hind ; great change's cannot take place in socii'y 
without corresponding changes taking place in the three great organs ff 
social life, the State, the Church, and the School. In the sixteenth c»-n. 
tury Latin was the only key to knowledge, while Greek, with the dis- 
advantage of a narrower range of currency, held the proud position of 


the Bnpremo court of appeal in aU important matters of t^icolo;-,', pliil- 
osophy, literature, and science. Latin in the day .s of Calvin and Uoorga 
Buchanan was as necessary to the exercise of any iutellec^tuai inliULneo 
among educated men, as English is to a Skye croftur, if he wouLl do 
business in any market outside his native village, or as French is to a 
Russian diplomatist, if he would make his voice heard with cii'oct at 
Berhn or Constantinople. And this diminished iniluence of tlie cla;i:: i- 
cal languages, as against the rich growth and influence of modem cul- 
ture, is asserting itself more and more every day, and will continue to 
assert itself. In tho faco of this fact, the inculcators of clasrslcai lord 
at school and college must in the nature of things abato th(^ir demands 
considerably ; and, if they wish to make this abatement less serious, 
they must by all means in the first place change their tactics, and im- 
prove their drill. In other words, whatever loss in certain directions 
may fall to the higher Enghsh culture froni the extrusion or subordin^i- 
tion of one or botii of the classical languages from school or college, 
may be reduced to its minimum by a d?xt?rous change of front and an 
improved practical drill. That such a tactical reform in the method of 
teaching the classical languages is both necessary and practicable, and 
with a view to impending dangers imperiously urgent, it is the object of 
the following remarks shortly to set forth. 

Everybody complains of the length of time occupied in tho study cr 
pretended study of the classical languages, and of the monopoly of 
cersbral exercitation claimed by classical teachers ; not a few persons 
also complain that with aU this sway of grammatical discipline the lan- 
guages are actually not learned, or learned so ineflfectually as to bo 
readily forgotten. Thcs3 complaints are just ; and the cause of tho 
tmprofitable consumption of time complained of is, to a considerable 
extent demonstrably, the prevalence of false and prrverse methods of 
teaching. It is a well-known fact that a young man of common abil- 
ities, placed in the colloquial atmosphere of some German school or 
family, will acquire a greater famiUarity with the German language in 
rix months than is commonly acquired of Greek, according to our 
usual scholastic method, in as many years. Hov/ is this ? Simply 
because tha young man rcsid2nt in the country, breathing the atmos- 
phere, and submitted continuous!}^ to the action of the straDge sounds 
which he wishes to appropr'at-*, learns the foreign language according 
to the method of Natur:) ; while your classical toachf^r in one of our 
grat English ^s-^hools s^ts that method flatly at d-ifiance, and substi- 
tats for it artiflcial methods of his own, which have no gcvm. of healthy 
vitality in them, and from which no vigorous growth, luxuriant blos- 
' ^ or rich fruitage can proceed. Let us analyze the method of 
^'atu^e, and see wherein it consists. It consists in the constant repe- 
titon of certain sounds in direct connection with certain interesting 
objects, and in the direct motion of the mind and the tongue on tho 
Difttirials thus supplied by the constant exercise of the ear and the 
eye, Observe here particularly,- also, that the organs primarily 


employed by Nature in the acquisition of language are the ear and the 
tongue ; and that the eye and the mind respond to or accompany the 
action of those organs, iu connection with interesting objects full of life 
and color, and not with uninteresting subjects it may be, or indifferei.t, 
certainly not always interesting subjects in grey books. Kow 
contrast this with some sahent points of our scholastic practice. "VS' 
it be believed ? — we do not appeal to the car in many cast s at all ; Ir.t 
we teach raw boys to commit to memory rules about how the ear oviiiht 
to be used, and then allow them systematically to violate these niks 
whenever they open their mouths — the teachers themselves showiii,' 
the example, by habitually disowning their own principles in the vt rv 
act of their inculcation. Worse than this, a painful process is reguljir y 
gone through, according to old and orthodox practice, of writing v£i> '^. 
or concatenating strings of words that sound Uke verses, not by iLo 
witness of the ear — which is the special guide in all rhythmical c ex- 
position- — but iu accordance with a rule inculcated with the har-h 
assiduity of continuous intellectual toil, but whose existence is altogeth* i* 
ignored except on the dead leaves of a sheet of paper. The perversity (. i 
tills method is only equalled by the loss of time which its operation cauf i '^, 
To say bonus and heney habitually, and then be compelled to write vei^/ -^ 
on the principle that we ought to say Idnus and bene, while we still t:o 
on Baying bonvs and &6wr, is a method of proceeding to inculcate tl.-^ 
elements of human utterance of which the most rude savage is t< .) 
inteUigent to comprehend the absurdity. And if Latin vocohzatioii /? 
treated in this unwholesome fashion by drill-masters of Latin vt r^ -. 
Greek accents have fared ev< n worse. From an imaginary difficulty ji 
pronounning Greek words, with both accent and quantity observed, o. r 
classical teachers have taken the liberty of transferring the whole Bvst* . i 
of Latin accentuation, inherited through the Roman Church, to Grt^k 
words which -ye know were and are accented on a totally diffcn 1 1 
principle ; and in this way, after ten years devoted to minute study • f 
Greek books, an accomplished Oxonian or Cantabrigian Hellenist ::'' 
rendered himself, or rather been sj-stematically made, utterly incap:il i'' 
of speaking a single centenceof intellif^ible Greek to any Greek-spt liki .: 
person whom in his Mediterranean travels, or nearer home in Londou < r 
Liverpool, he may chance to encounter. And here again, to crown thi^ 
absurdity with a proportionate loss of brain and time, the unfortuEate 
young Hellenist is to torture his memory with abstract rules aboiit a 
system of Intonation doomed to remain for ever as dead in the rual 
experience of the learner as a brown mummy in the British Museum ! 
So much for the ear, to whos"" p( rverse witness of course the tonjii' 
must correspond in such wise that in our scholastic practice it is seldtm 
or never exercised except in connection with a dead book, a]":.rt 
altogether from the direct interest and the vivid impression of immdi- 
ately siirrounding objects. The direct action of the mind also on Ibo 
object, through the direct instrumentality of the tongue, is altogctbtr 
left out of view. Your classical scholar never thinks in the langua^o 


which he -pretends to understand ; that which he ought to have com- 
msnced with as an inseparable element in the method of Nature, after 
tan years' study ha will not even attemp^. He can neither readily 
understand what is spoken to him in the language which he knows, nor 
can ha utter his thoughts readily when ho is called on to speak. He can 
neither think nor hear nor speak in the language which he professes to 
understand. All his linguistic knowledge hes stored \vp in the shapo of 
grammatical rules apart, to be consulted slowly, when need may be, Uko 
a lawyer's books, not ready for action like the swift steel of an expert 

In opposition to this stranga tissue of absurdities and perversities, 
in which our indoatrinators of the classical tongues have entangled 
themsalves, we must recur at once to the natural method, commencing 
not with abstract rules and paradigms, but with living practice from 
which the rules are to be abstracted and the paradigms gradually 
built up. The essential elements of this reform are a speaking teacher, 
witU a correct elocution, and a collection of interesting objects on 
which the thinking and speaking faculty of the learner shall be regularly 
and continuously exercised. And let no man say that this is learning 
language like a parrot and not like a man. A certain exercise of the 
parrot fa3ulty there must necessarily be in all learners of languages 
according to all methods; but a parrot, at all events, being an un- 
reasoning animal, is exempted from tho absurdity of repeating sounds 
which are in direct contradiction to the rules about sounds which in 
theory it acknowledges. There is not the slightest necessity for the 
ignoring of the rule, because you commence with thinking and speaking 
the thing which the rule inculcates. And as for the paradigms, 
they will be learn3d*limb by limb in tho train of a vivid practice mora 
easily and mora expeditiously, and not less accurately, tlim separately 
or with an inferior amount of practice. When I commence my Latin 
lesson by saying to a boy, Vides spleudidum solem f to which he replies, 
thinking and speaking from the first in Latin, Video splendidum solem, 
I tsash him that m in Latin is the sign of the objective case, and that 
active verbs govern the objective, as scientifically and much more 
eff:icfcively than if I had made him first con up the system of complete 
mles and paradigms, and then, after six months, set him to spell out 
his ralos and paradigms wholesale out of a dead book. A good 
8y3t3m of trashing according to the method of Nature implies a 
graduated Si;ries of rules and paradigms, increasing regularly in 
difficulty and complexity, as practice becomes more expert. But in 
all castas the practice should precede the rule. Tho use of lanGruaisfo is 
an art in the first start, as in its highest culmination ; a science like law 
and architecture, only in a second and subsidiary way, for the sai:e of 
giving a firmer grasp, and securing a more consistent application of the 
materials which a rich and various practice supplies. 

Observe now how the method here indicated will work in practice. I 
denuffid for the fair operation of the natural method two hours a day 


of direct teacliing at least, and as many additional hours, say t^^o Of 
three more, as the learner can spare ; and with a pupil willing to Lam 
— for this must be assumed as the typical case under all methods— I 
guarantee that he shall kafrn as much Greek in six months, as under lii j 
ordinarj'- scholastic method he may often learn in six years. At all 
events I guarantee to turn the learner out with double the amount of 
available Greek in half the time. Well, the first of these two hours i^ 
to bo si)ent in a deft linguistic fence in the conversational method, wiili 
direct reference to interesting surrounding objects, such as objects of 
natural history, art, and archaeology, pictures, drawings, &c., and if tliJ 
weather permit the hour might bo silent in the fields, with a hving de- 
scription of trees, plants, birds, mnning rivers, wimpUng brooks, farm- 
houses, old castles, and modem mansions, ail in, situ, as the botanists 
say. After this exercise, say in the forenoon, an afternoon hour is to 
be devoted to reading and analysing such books as to the. ago and char- 
acter of the generality of tho pupils might be most acceptable ; and 
along with this might be taken regularly a short sentence of Greek to 
be turned into English on the spot, written down and kept in a book fcr 
the sake of formal accuracy, and as an easy introduction to longer exer- 
cises in writing and composition. For accuracy of course is always to 
be aimed at in every department of good teaching ; only it is contrary 
to nature to smother all fluency in a punctilious anxiety to be accurate ; 
and, to use a homely illustration, we must have our nails first and thca 
pare them. 

Now note some consequences which will naturally flow from the carry- 
ing out of this method. 

(1.) If the main thing to be attended to in the first place is the sub- 
stitution of weU-exercised Uving functions for th« knowledge of dead 
rules and tho conning of dead books, the learners must congregato 
under one teacher only in such numbers as admit of their being daily 
put through individual drill ; and this cannot be, in my opinion, to any 
purpose if there itre more than a score or five-and-twenty in a class. 
The success of the exercise depends altogether on the frequency with 
which certain sounds in interesting connection with certain objects are 
repeated, not merely in the presence of, but by the hving organs of tlio 
learner j and therefore wo may assuredly say that the crowding together 
of some hundred or two hundred young men of all degrees of age and 
preparation into one class-room for an hour or two a day, as a palaBstra 
for learning tho Greek language, is one of tho most prominent, if not 
the most radical of tho reasons, why, as Sydney Smith said, Greeknev.r 
yet marched in great force beyond the Tweed. This is a method of teach- 
ing Greek which can boast of only one virtue, viz., cheapness ; a virtiio 
for which the Scottish people for the last two centuries in all scholastic 
and academical matters have always shown a very nice tasta and a very 
subtle appreciation. 

(2.) Note especially how admirably the method of teaching Greek 
\>j conyersatioxml descriptions of objects, whilo it immensely increast.3 


the rocabulary of the learner, and expedites the amotmt of necessary 
repetition, tends to break down that wall of partition wh ch has been 
artificially piled up betwixt classical scholars and the devotees of the 
physical sciences. As a matter of fact, at least B-jven-tenths of the 
technical phraseology used in natural history, anatomy, and medicine 
are pure Greek ; and how useful must it be for any student of the lan- 
guage of Aristotle, Theophrastus, Hippocrates, and Dioscorides, to 
vhatever other object his philological studies may be tending, to be 
able in the course of his linguistic progress to get a firm hold of ihat 
miiversal language of science, without some inkling of which technical 
langnage will always be more or less misty, r.nd the exercise of memory 
on the vocabulary of natural science more or less painful. I need 
Bcarcely add that Archaeology also, the ftur sister-science of Philology, 
\nll come in for her righteous share of attention in the schools, the 
moment that the descriptive method gives to objects their natural 
prominence in a scientific course of linguistic training. 

(3.) I have made no distinction in these remarks between living and 
dead languages, a difference which some teachers imagine to be of vital 
importance in the method of teaching. But this is a mistake. The 
conversational method is the most natural, and therefore the best, in 
both cases; only some persons in learning modem languages collo- 
quially have no further object in view than to bandy light prattle deftly 
at a railway station or a dinner table, as the nei d may be ; whereas to 
the scholar who studies Greek in order to make himself familiar with 
Christian theology in its early stages, or with Hellenic philosophy in its 
best models, conversation in the Greek tongue is a means to an end ; 
always, however, the best means, at once the most expeditious and the 
most effective, and infinitely more natural, rational, and easy, than forc- 
ing a series of painfully constrained syllables into the compass of six 
iambi, contrary to the witness in many cases of the composer's ear. 
"What the conversational method achieves, with signal success beyond 
rJl other methods, is familiarity ; and without this familiarity a cer- 
t^ strangeness and a feeUng of exertion will always attach to the use 
of a foreign language, which will cause it to be learned with pain 
and forgotten with ease. Another difference between living and 
dead languages, so far as the teaching is concerned, lies in the fact 
that in the former the speaker is always found ready at our call, while 
in the lattsr he requires to be produced by training ; that is, ho 
must teach himself, of course, before he attempts to teach others ; but 
in this there can be no practical difficulty to the accomplished scholar, 
as walking upon the plain ground of common colloquy must always be 
a much easier achievement than darujing upon the tight-rope of artificial 
meters ; and, as Greek, though a dead language in one sense, is a living 
language in another, any person or company of persons who wished to 
acquire fluency in modem Greek expression, merely for the purpose of 
liolding converse with the living Greeks on conamercial,poUtical and social 
iQatteis generally, might hire the services of a living Greek for the pur- 


pos9, and learn the language of Plato precisely as he learns thnt of 
Gosthe or Moliere. And there cannot be any doubt that it would he a 
wise thing in our merchants and our Government to have a regular 
training-school of modern Greek attached to the universities, the com- 
mercial guilds, or the foreign office ; it is impossible to say how muck 
commaroial traasaotions and diplomatic difficulties might ba smoothed 
if John BaU would condoscend to come down from his dignilied throue 
of dumb ciassicality, and speak in a fraternal way to the numerous 
Greeks with whom he may come in contact in Alexandria, Cairo, 
Bewout, Smyrna, Cyprus, and other corners of the Mediterranean, 
where tha Union Jack flaunts with most recognized respect, and the 
national Shibboleth "All right" most frequently answers to his call 

(4.) With regard to Greek specially if should be noted further that 
the colloquial style », beyond aU others, the national style ; the style 
of Plato, of Lucian and of Aristophanes. To comnaence with colloquy in 
this languaga is to render ear and tongue familiar from the very be- 
ginning with the style of the most perfect masters in the classical 
use of that most perfect of languages. 

(5.) In applying the principles of educational method here laid down 
to our present school and university system, two important modifica- 
tions would be required. In the first place, no young person during 
his school career should be expected in the regular routine of the school 
to learn more languages than- one, besides his mother-tongue, and this 
one might either be Latin or Greek amongst the ancient, French or 
German amongst the mod3rn ; a restriction which seems necessary, on 
the one hand, to make room for other and equally important subjects 
at present too often neglectad or unduly subordinated in our schools; 
and on the other, to give to th'3 learner that sense of progress and power 
over a strange instrument which he never acquires while painfully foot- 
ing his way through half-a-dozen unfamiliar paths, rough with stones 
below, and bristling with thorns on both sides. I have known schools 
of no moan repute, in which boys are taught a little Latin, a little Greek, 
a little French, and a little German, all at the same time (to make a 
respectable show perhaps to the public!) and which generally ends in a 
great deal of nothing. The ancient Romans contented themselves with 
two languages, Greek and their mother-tongue, but they knew boih 
thoroughly, and used them with efficiency ; we modern Romans pretend 
to learn half-a-dozen, and know how to use none. In the second plare, 
considering the double relationship of this country to a rich store pf 
inherited ancient learning on the one hand, and a large environment of 
existing European and Asiatic influences on the other, it should be pro- 
vided in our general university scheme, that no person shall receive a 
poU degree without showing a fair proficiency in two foreign languages, 
one ancient and one modem, with free option. Under such a scheme 
as this, and with a radically reformed system of linguistic indoctrination, 
I have not the slightest fear that Greek would continue to hold up its 
bead above all other languages, ancient or modem, proudly, like Aga- 


menmon among the chiefs. In fact it wonld be no appreciable loss to 
the highest culture of this oonutry if two-thirds of those who now pass 
through a compulsory grammatical drill in two dead languages, entered 
the stage of actual life without the knowledge of a siugle Greek lette^r : 
while the remaining third, who did study Greek according to the natural 
method, would know it at once free fiom the narrow formalism that too 
often cleaves to the present system, and accompanied with a kindly 
iutimacy, a human reality, and a vivid aj^reciation, to which the scho- 
lastically-traincd Hellenist, according to our perverse practice, will 
naturally remain a straugcr. 

John Sttjaet Blaceie, in Contemporary/ Review. 

[P. S.— It may be as -well to ohst'rve for the Piiko of oltir^ctors, tliat nothing con- 
tainid iu this papt-r is iiitcuded in the eiiphrrst di irrecio (liscoarage any of thoi?e 
highest exercises in Latin and Greek composition, vin'thc-r prose or verso, to 
hoDors are jnstly given in our nniversities. On the contrary, thea • excercipef will be 
facilitated in no pmall degree by the rich materials which a well-graduated practice 
of ear and toi.'gne inronnection with interesting objects will supply. 'J Le whole 
drift of thv'se remarks is simply to say, that familiarity with any lanuuaire us a living 
doxterity of ear and tongue, in the order of nature, ajways precedes ihe scientific ana- 
tomy of tliat langnsgc in prammar and comparative philolosn^', and mu»t always do 
60 In any art of teaching which shall do the greatest amount of efiicieut work in tho 
least possible time. It mnt=t also be borne in mind, what has been t<»o «r('neral]y for- 

gotten, that all men who learn Greek and Latin are not destined to be 
aad it isnnwise to submit to a curiously minute philOiOgical training 
of students who desire only the human culture, the ajt«thetical polish, and 
discipline which a fumUiar agqauhitauce with a foreign language is so well calcula- 
ted to afford. J. S.B.] 

ihiloloiT'Ts ; 

arge classes 

the healthy 


"What is the worth of a classical education ? Why should boys spend 
80 many years on the study of the Greek and Latin languagLS ? What 
results are obtained to compensate for so much time, labour, and expense 
consamed on such an occupation? Is it mere routine, or is it the 
recognition of solid and sufficient advantages derived from it, which 
makes so many generations of Englishmen persist in bestowing this 
traimng on their sons ? 

These are questions of the highest moment, and they were very dis- 
tinctly raised by the appointment of a Royal Commission to report on 
the education imparted by our public schools. Much has been said in 
the way of reply in the Report of the Commissioners and elsewhere, 
but the subject is far from being exhausted. It will easily bear a few 
more words; all the more so because a clear and succinct answer, such 
an answer as England in the nineteenth century is entitled to demand, 
has not, as far as I know, been given to this inquiry. The question is 
stiD heard on every side, ** What is the use of making a boy waste so 
many years on Greek and Latin ?" and it is anything but easy to refer » 


parent who puts it, if ignorantly, at any rate honestly, to such a state- 
ment as ought to satisfy him in the choice of his son's studies. It is no 
reply to say that there is no education so good as tliat of pubhu schools, 
and that Greek and Latin are the chitf staple of that education; fortlie 
question still recurs, ' ' Why should the public schools insist on the study 
of the classics ?" May not the sceptical parent complain with much force 
that if he cannot do bttttr than send his boy to a public school, it is very 
hard that he should be compelled to purchase that advantage at the cobt 
of a mischievous waste of time and energy? It is not enough to say, 
as is so commonly said, that the best and ablest men in England are 
trained at pubUc schools, and thence to argue that the c ducation muet 
be excellent ; there would be a sad illicit process in this reasoning. 
The course of education adopted at public schools must be defended on 
its own merits, if it is to be defended successfully; otherwise the great 
men that have issued from their wails might be turned into a justifica- 
tion of every conceivable abuse. On the vciy face of the inquiry, the 
classics, or Greek at kast, arc not needed for direct application to some 
positive want of society. Ko one is required to speak or to write in 
these languages; their virtues, whatever they may be, are expended on 
the general form.ation of the boy's mind and character, not on supplying 
him with knowledge demanded by any calling in hfe ; and consequently 
the burden of proof Hes plainly on the system which imposes on then- 
sands of English boys — not selected boys, but the general mass of the 
sons of the upper classes — the study of dead languages, and with the 
certainty, moreover, as demonstrated by experience, that a veiy few 
only of these students will ever acquire any but the most meagre ac- 
quaintance with these tongues. 

Is such a case capable of being defended? • I think that it is. I hold 
that the nation judges rightly in adhering to classical education: I am 
convinced that for general excellence no other training can compete 
with the classical. In sustaining this thesis, I do not propose to com- 
pare here what is called useful education with classical, much less to 
endeavour to prescribe the portion of each which ought to -be combined 
in a perfect system. "Want of space forbids m« to examine here a 
problem involving so much detail. Let it be tak^n for granted that 
every boy must bs taught to acquire a certain definite amoimt of know- 
ledge positively required for carrying on the business of life in its sevtral 
callings; and, if so it be, let it be assumed that there is a deficiency of 
this kind of instruction at the public schools. Let that defect be re- 
paired by all means : let Eton and Winchester be forced, by whatever 
means, to put into every one of their scholars the requisite quantity of 
arithmetic, modem languages, geography, and physical science. The 
adjustment of this quantity does not concern us now : let us recognize 
its necessity and importance. Let all interference of Greek and Latin 
with this indispensable qualification for after-life be forbidden ; but K't 
us at the same time maintain that both things may go on successfnliV 
together. The problem before us here is of a different kind The 


edacation of the boys of the tipper classes is necessarily composed of 
two parts, — general training, and special, or, as it is called, nsiful, 
training, — the general development of the boy's faculties, of the whole 
of his natnre, and the knowledge which is needed to enable him to fx^T- 
form certain specific functions m life. Of those two departments of 
education, the ^g3ne^al far transcends in importance the special : and 
finally I maintain that for the carrying out of this education, the Greek 
and Latin languages are the most efficient instruments which can be 

Their chief merits are four in number. 

I. In the first place, they are languages : they are not particular 
Bciences, nor definite branches of knowledge, but literatures. In this 
respect high claims of superiority have been advanced for them on 
the ground that they cultivate the taste, and give great powers of 
expression, and teach a refined use of words, and thus impart that 
refinement and culture which characterize an educated gentleman. 
But I cannot help feeling that too much stress has been laid on this 
particulM* result of classical training. In the first place it is realized 
only by a very few, either at school or college: the vast bulk of 
English boys do not acquire these high accomphshments, at least 
before their entrance on the real business of hfe. On the other hand, 
the great development which civihzation, and with it general inteUi- 
gence, have made in these modern days, produces in increasing 
numbers vigorous men who have acquired tiiese powers in great 
eminence without the help of Greek or Latin. The Senate, the bar, 
and many other professions, eihibit men whose gifts of expression, 
Vigour of language, neatness as weU as force in the use of words, and 
discrimination of all the finer shad3S of meaning, are fully on a par 
with those of men who have been prepared by classical and academical 
training. A Bright and a Cobden are good set-offs against a Marquis 
of Weliesley or even a Lord Derby, and with this advantage, more- 
over, that the growth of modem England is sure to to furnish an ever- 
expanding supply of men of the former class. There has been a vast 
amount of exceflent veriting in France put forth by men who knew 
nothing of Greek, and often very Httle Latin ; and there has been 
equally an incredible quantity of bad writing in Germany, which has 
flowed, or rather been jerked out of the pens of men whose heads were 
stuffed with boundless stores of classical learning. The educational 
value of Greek and Latin is something immeasurably broader than this 
single accomplishment of refined taste and cultivated expression. The 
problem to be solved is to open out the undeveloped nature of a human 
being ; to bring out his faculties, and impart skill in their use ; to set 
the seeds of many powers growing ; to teach as large and as varied a 
knowledge of human nature, both the boy's own and the world's about 
bim, as possible ; to give him, according to his circumstances, the larg- 
est practicable acquaintance with life, what it is composed of , morally, in- 
tellectually, and materially, and how to deal with it. For the perform- 



anee of this great work, what can compare with a language, or rather 
with a literature ? not with a language carried to soaring heights of phil- 
ologj'-, for then it becomes a pure science, as much as chemistry or asfax)- 
nomy, but with a language containing books of every degree of Tariity 
and difficulty. Think of the many elements of thought a boy comes in 
contact with when he reads Caesar and Tacitus in succession, Herodotus 
and Hcmjr, Thucydidcs and Aristotle : how many ideas he has perforce 
acquired ; how many regions of human life — how many portions of his 
own mind — he has gained insight into ; with how extended a familiarity 
with many things he starts with, when the duties of a profession call 
on him to concentrate these insights, these exercised and disciplined 
faculties, on a single sphere of action. See what is implied in having 
read Homer intr iligently through, or Thucydides, or Demosthenes; 
what light will have been shed on the essence and laws of human exis- 
tence, on political society, on the relations of man to man, on human 
nature itself. What perception of all kinds of truths and facts will 
dawn on the mind of the boy ; what sympathies will be excited in him ; 
what moral tastes and judgments established ; what a sense of what he, 
as a human being, is, and can do ; what an iiiid&rstanding of human 
life. Eveiy glowing word will call up a corresponding emotion ; every 
deed recorded, every motive unfolded, every policy explained, will be 
pregnant with instruction ; and that instruction must be valued, not 
only by its use when apphed to practice, or by the maxims or rules 
which it lays down for human action, but infinitely more by the general 
acquaintance with human natura which it has generated, by the readi- 
ness for action which it has produced in a world now become familiar, 
by the consciousness it has brought out of the possession of faculties, 
and the tact and skill it has created for their use. Knowledge is not 
abihty, cram is not power, least of all in education. A man may be 
able to count accurately every yard of distance to the stars, and yet be 
most imperfectly educated ; he may be able to reckon up all the kings 
that ever reigned, and yet be none the wiser or the more efficient for liis 
learning. But the unfledged boy, who starts with a mind empty, 
blank, and unperceiving, is transformed by passing through Greek and 
Latin : a thousand ideas, a thousand perceptions are awalcened in him, 
that is, a thousand fitnesses for life, for its labours and its duties. 

But is he able to reason ? asks the mathematician. Can he correctly 
deduce conclusions from premises ? Can he follow out step by step a 
chain of sequences ? Can he push his principles to just results ? He 
can, and necessarily must, if he has honestly worked through his books, 
if he has been properly handled by a competent teacher, if his progress, 
step by step, has been challenged and justified. Let it be gladly ac- 
knowledged that every large exercise of thought has its true and intrin- 
sic advantages : and the patient investigator of natural or mathematical 
science unquestionably uses and cultivates powers which are amongst the 
most valuable accorded to humanity. But, on the other hand, no one fam- 
iliar with education can have failed to perceive what immense stores ot 


arithmetio and algebra and the calculi may be piled up without calling 
forth scarcely a single conscious effort of ratiocination ; how completely 
the advance has been obtained by quickness of intelligence, sharpness 
of observation, and dexterity in the use of expedients. Excellent and 
valuable qualities, be it cheerfully granted ; but still not quEilities im- 
plying powers of sustained reasoning. George Stephenson, in working 
his way to vhe safety-lamp, and many a gardener aud sailor, have over 
and over again displayed capacities for reasoning which all but the high- 
est mathematicians might envy. The opportunities, the demands for 
reasoning, in a real and sound study of the classics are absolutely end- 
less, and in no field ht& a teacher such i, range for forcing his disciples 
to think closely and accurately, lio doubt a huge amount of continu- 
ous thought is needed by the mathematical or astronomical discoverer ; 
but this is a professional quality, and it is very questionable whether it 
exceeds in severity the demands made on the advocate or the moral 
philosopher. The question here raised is that of educational value ; 
and I confidently assert that for the purposes of making a youthful stu- 
dent think long and accurately, and of forcing upon him the percep- 
tions of the efficiency and the results of right reasoning, no better tool 
can be applied than a speech in Thuc^'dides, a discussion in Aristotle, 
or a chapter in the Epis^es of St. Paul. 

But is it so in practice ? it will be asked. Do boys realise all these 
fine things ? How many, as they emerge from Eton or from Oxford, 
would venture to be judged by such a test ? Is it not notorious rather 
that the great portion of either public school boys or undergraduates 
know Httle of the classics they have spent years upon, and can hardly 
be said to possess any real knowledge of any kind ? Can this be called 
education ? Many answers can be given to this reproach. First of all, 
it is quite its easy to teach ihi^ classics badly as anything else, and there 
is an immense quantity of bad teaching of the classics in England. A 
glaring proof of this is found in the great difference which separates 
school from school, and the proportioDate difference in the quaUty of 
the products. Then, though it is true that few of the many submitted 
to ckssical training iDecome scholars, in the full sense df the "#ord, it 
does not at all follow that they have gEiined liothing from their study of 
Greek and Latin ; just the contrary is the truth. The test of educa- 
tional success is not solely or even chiefly the amount of positively 
accurate and complete knowledge which has been acquired; but the 
eitent to which the faculties of the boy have been developed, the quan- 
tity of impalpable but not the less real attainments he has achieved, and 
his general readiness for life, and for his action in it as a man. Most 
unquestionably English education tnight be and ought to be a great deal 
better than it is ; but would the result have been more satisfactory if 
the boys of England had never touched Greek or Latin, and had been 
brought up either in the study of modem languages or of chemistry, 
astronomy, or mathematics ? This is the true issue, the true question 
to be debated. Each of these two methods would probably have yielded 


a larger product of positive knowledge, or, at least, of what is caH d 
useful information though even that is'not absolatdy certain. Htu1 
boys were entirely to linig asid. their Greek and Latiu books, em' 
surrounded by French, German, and mathematical, most of ih m 
would become tolewaly famihar with these modern tougues, and a v, . 
tarn amount of mathematical and natural science would be foimd in th-n 
also, ^ut would the gam thus made have compensated for th ■ Ifw 
incurred? It must not be said that the knowledge would have'b.^n 

»if^ "Tu"-^ ^'"^' ^"°''''^' "* *^"^ '"^'»''t I «*»rted with the admission 
that for the purposes of a satisfactory education a fitting portion of 

Orttr^r''';^*''' knowledge ought to be combined with the s^d" « 
Si !L K ^ff- .^* '" °" *'^- "^'^■^«* l'«y°^'i this, en the general trL- 
mg and broad development of the human being, that the dispute tm^- 

and FntliV^ °^ the matter I am profoundlf convinced th^at inSl^d 
and English men would be enormous losers. On modem lanmias^s ■« 

roortiit"?t win"".;'' r^' ^»f-' -°- -" '^» -id presTn UyTaS iV^ 
stndf of\anm7^. « f "T- ''*' °' "" ^'"^'^'^ *" *'« derived from t!..> 

to be obvious at oncefha^ittl^rf ^..e'J* -J^^^^^^^^^ 

v^lopT rd'o'nrhr/'TT?^ "'^ y''""''^ ^*"« absolut^y tld^! 
of intellect w^Mtfh!. ""** there would be any gain in the e/paasioa 
perXtionsdT: l!''L''°y ^'^^^^J'^^ """^^ out%mptyof countl..s 

x^^TK^^ft^ I hoid'fhL^r fi^^rLTpScM 

tect wTtS ?he hShlf '"'^m' to,^^^°P^°ed out and tnuned int^ con- 
Xa^K bv m.?„s'^f Pr"'^% '*^-^^-'"'* "' greatness. The rule of 
^ter k tooToftvTo^^ 5" "l^d'ocrity is to me purely detestable. No 

tTbfpk^ fn fheZnif'^A'l^^ *^"* ^' " ^''P'""^ °* ^eing understood, 
Bchc^hr^ter TW= of ^e young : no man too high to be fit for a 

?hXS Les andThl*™''"''","?^'"*'^ '"*''« ^'^^ universities of 
fromaN^ahX^ ^ it has received m our own days worthy homi'-e 

mZ M^nTfiZ^T^^-^ '^^' ^^""^^ ^^' excellence-the lofti.;, 
more vanea, and richer the influences brought to bear on the rnn.i..- 

dnSnTfor eaZ? "'1?'"^ '""^ ^'««- A g^eaT^tor Sds in 
the ^'ffLnce U In V T*^ times more powerful than an inferior cm. : 
awaklirr^ tL' w W • ""' '°, ^^'"'- ^ ™"d of the first orir 
on» «f L J ^'^° """^ ""der Its sway far many more ideas thvj 

^ lower defcf thr^'?. *^^°l ^"'^ g^^"^'*' tr^tC^h stlem 
iMO lower depths of the spirit of the recipient, kindles a mow fsrrid 


enthusiasm, calls forth a more ardent huitation, and reveals things 
mown only to its own genius. The society of the best and greatest 
meu is the most powerful educator down to the end of hfe: it never 
aases to train and to influence: and if it moulds elderly men, how 
much more youths when the mind is moru suscvpti'jle of impressions 
and tljie character more ready for imitation ? Every parent wishes the 
best companions for his son, and on that principle the greatness of the 
dassJcal writei-s acquires unspeakable importance. In no language can 
an equal numbrr of writers of the very tirst eminence be brought to 
bear on the formation of a youthful mind as in Greek. In poetry, 
history, philosophy, politics, page upon page of the most concentrated 
force, of the tti-sest expression, of the richest eloquence, of the nicest 
and most subtle discrimination, of the widest range and variety, strike 
successive blows on the imagination and the thinking faculty of the 
impressible student ; they disclose to him what hmiian natmre is capable 
of, what is waiting to be called forth in the boy's own si3irit, the 
heights which others have reached, the thoughts and feelings he may 
Lmseif create — in a word, all the wondrous powers of the human 
intellect, all the noble emotions of the human soul. What more 
direct and more efficient remedy against one of the most common and 
most damaging weaknesses — onesidedncss? Where can a boy be 
initiated into so many things, catch so many vistas, acquire, if not a 
profound, yet a most valuable and most fruitful famiharity with so 
many provinces of manly thought as in the study of Homer, ^schylus, 
and Sophocles, Aristotle and PJato, Herodotus and Thucydides, Aristo- 
phanes and Demosthenes? These men have been the fouudei-s of 
civilization ; they, have hewn out the roads by which nations and 
individuals have travelled and travel still : the Greek type is the form of 
the thought of modem Europe : their writings on most vital points 
are fresh and living for us now. And no more decisive proof can be 
given of tlieir genius, or, in other words, of their greatness. Homer 
and Thucydides are wonderful reading for us now ; and upon that single 
trnth the issue of this transcendent question might be staked. 

Nor must we leave altogether unnoticed the beauty of form which 
distinguishes these undying writings. They were composed in days 
yh^in there was no press ; when manuscripts were costly, rare and 
difficult of multiplication ; when writers were far more Ust^ned to 
than read ; and wh'^n consequently grace of language and attractive- 
nass of the form itself were mattei-s of extreme importance. The 
vf ry structure of the language, which admitted of such a large trans- 
pojiition of the words of a sentence, prompted care and skill in the 
elaboration of the style. It would be untrue to assart that modem 
languages do not also exhibit exquisite gra(;es of form ; but they are 
rare compared with the mass of writing, and they are not appreciated 
by the many readers. Many is, the book — nay, of such is the majority 
— wliich is greedily read in spite of the absence of the charm of com- 
position ; but, in ancient times, an ill-written book would have found 


it difficult to catch readers. But even supposing it not to have been 
so m fact,— as Horace would seem to hint,— stiU it remains true that it 
would be probably impossible to bring together, in any modem 
language an equal number of books which combine beautv of art and 
composition with exceUence of matter in the same deRree as those 

WrLL!fl« rt ''^'^'^'- ??^. *^l "^'*?^^" «^ «^«^ educational 
mstruments is a heavy .weight m the scale in favour of classical 
education. . v««m^*i 

UI This consideration brings us to the third head of merit which 
may be claimed for classical education, and merit of the very first 
order It IS Greek and Latin are dead languages : they are not ^^oktn 
tongues Tho hteratures they contain belong to the past; the nations 
to which they belong, the societies of which they speak, the social and 
political feelings they paint, have passed away ; and these are very 
great matters indeed for the purposes of education. Living langnages 
are learnt by the ear; they are imbibed without thought or effort; 
they need awaken little raflaction or judgment ; their possession does 
not necessarily imply any great development of mind or soul. Many a 
stupid, dull httle boy can speak two or three languages if he has had as 
many nurses ^ and his intellectual faculties may have been but shghtly 
caUed into exercise by the process of acquisition. A proposition in 
i.uchd can do more good, educationally, than many days spent in catch- 
ing a foreign tongue orally. There is a want of difficulty, an absence 
of effort, a lack of compulsion on the mind to bring its resources into 
action, which renders Hving languages a tool of small value and effi- 
ciency m opening out the understanding. They faU to do the work 
required. They may enable a lad to hve comfortably in France or 
Germany ; they may powerfully aid him to get his bread in emplov- 
ments for which thei power of speaking a foreign language may bo 'a 
strong recommendation; they may give him what is termed useful 
knowledge. Lord Clarendon attached much importance to young men 
destined for diplomacy being taught to speak French easily and grace- 
fully ; but this is a professional accomplishment— the useful ; it is not 
that general education which we are here discussing. As was said be- 
forv? there ought to beaa adequate amount in all training of these useful 
qualifications ; but what is now contended for is that there ought to be, 
that there must be, the general culture ako ; and that this general cultnre. 
i^^ . ? 1 development of a boy's whole nature, is incomparably better 
ellectcd by the dead languages, by Greek and Latin, than by anything 

The difficulty involved in 1-arning a dead lan^age is an excell^^nt 
l:aturem this discipline. Such languages must be learnt by rule. They 
call on the mind to perceive the relations of grammar at the very outsot 
A ornek or Latm sentence is a nut with a Ftrong shell concealing the 
I'^^y'^T""' ^T"^^' d'^manding reflection, adaptation of means to end, 
^T,'i/''''T'". I. ''^ R-^^-ition. and the educational value resides in the 
^n.u p.iid m th3 puzzlj. Euch a sentence compels a boy to think, 


whether he is toiling at the first page of the Delectus, or on the airy 
heights of Plato, and that is the solution — the Q.E.D. of thu problem. 
His Acuities are always strongly exercised. The necessity to have 
many tools in his workshop, and to employ many trials and much skill 
in their application, grows with every s