MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. VI.
PRINTED BY R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR,
LONDON.
MACM PLAN'S
EDITED BY DAVID MASSOK
VOL. VI.
MAY OCTOBER, 1862.
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND 23, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN,
CONTENTS.
PAOX
America, Our Special Correspondent in :
Washington during the War 16
Border States, Notes of a Tour through the 138
The Free West 177
The New England States 284
The Outlook of the War 408
American Presidency, The. By JOSEPH LEMUEL CHESTER 513
American Storm, The Brewing of the. By HARRIET MARTINEAU 97
Ascension, Hymn of the. By A. P. S 153
Barnes, William, The Dorsetshire Poet 154
Berkeley, The Eeal World of. By Professor FKASER 192
Burlington, On the Pier at 252
Chance Blessing, The. By the Hon. Mrs. NORTON 88
Clear Dream and Solemn Vision, In. By the Author of " RAB AND HIS FRIENDS." . 331
Clough, The Poems of Arthur Hugh. By the EDITOR 318
Columbia, British. By WILLIAM J. STEWART 29
Cotton-Weaving and Lancashire Looms 445
Electricity at Work. By Dr. T. L. PHIPSON 163
Fisher Folk of the Scottish East Coast, The 501
Five-and-Thirty. By ARTHUR J. MUNBY 220
Force, The Indestructibility of 337
Highlands, The, and the Hebrides : Glimpses from Oban . . .... ... . . . 421
Homer's Iliad, New Hexameter Translations of. By Dr. WHEWELL 297
Homes of the London Workmen. By PERCY GREG 63
Hospital, The History of a. By the Author of " JOHN HALIFAX " 252
Hunt's, Leigh, Poetry 238
"Iron Ships" 479
Irving, Edward 71
Italy, English Poets in. By A. WILSON 79
Italy, Women in, in 1862. By FRANCIS POWER COBBE 363
Kirkdale Cavern, The Hand of Man in the. By JOHN TAYLOR 386
Lerici, Lines Written in the Bay of. By P. B. SHELLEY 122
Library, The Royal, at Windsor Castle. By P. F. S. H 481
Marston Moor, May 1862, A Visit to. By HERMAN MERIVALE 260
vi Contents.
PAGE
Michael Angelo : A Dramatic Anecdote. Adapted from Friedricli Hebbel. By
EICHARD GARNETT 381
Montenegro, The Herzegovine, and the Slavonic Populations of Turkey 345
Nursery, Management of the. By ARCHIBALD MACLAREN. Part II. Clothing and
Exercise for Children 123
Over! 420
Paper, The Morning. By CHARLES ALLSTON COLLINS 375
Parricide, The. From VICTOR HUGO 33
Passing Events :
The Peace Ministers of Europe 89
The Conservatives and Ketrenchment . 170
Photography for Travellers and Tourists. By Professor POLE 248
Kestoration, The Morals and Literature of the. By ANDREW BISSET 35
Ravenshoe. By HENRY KINGSLEY :
Chapters LVII. to LIX 47
Chapters LX. to Lxm 107
Chapters LXIV. to LXVI 222
Roland, The Song of. By J. M. L 486
Song, The Growth of. By W. STIQANT 316
Statesman, Steps of a. By W. SKEEN 212
Vegetation, Human. By the Rev. HUGH MACMILLAN 459
Vincenzo ; or Sunken Eocks. By JOHN RUFFINI. Author of " DOCTOR ANTONIO," &c. :
Chapters I. in 1
Chapters iv. and v 128
Chapters vi. and vii 203
Chapters vni. and ix 804
Chapters x. and xi 399
Chapters xn xrv 468
Virgil, To 512
When Green Leaves Come Again. By the Author of " JOHN HALIFAX " .... 71
Water-Babies, The. A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. By CHARLES KINGSLEY :
Chapter i. 27S
Chapter 11 353
Chapter m 43a
ia fyiz
AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.
AUTHOR OF "RAB AND HIS FRIENDS."
BISSET, ANDREW.
CHESTER, JOSEPH LEMUEL.
COBBE, FRANCES POWER.
COLLINS, CHARLES ALLSTON.
DICEY, EDWARD.
FRASER, PROFESSOR. A. .C.
GARNETT, RICHARD.
GREG, PERCY.
KINGSLEY, PROFESSOR CHARLES.
KINGSLEY, HENRY.
LUDLOW, J. M.
MACLAREN, ARCHIBALD.
MACMILLAN, REV. HUGH.
MARTINEAU, HARRIET.
MASSON, PROFESSOR DAVID.
MERIVALE, HERMAN.
MUNBY, ARTHUR J.
NORTON, HON. MRS.
PHIPSON, DR. T. L.
POLE, PROFESSOR W.
RUFFINI, JOHN.
SKEEN, W.
STANLEY, PROFESSOR.
STEWART, WILLIAM J.
STIGANT, W.
STORY, REV. ROBERT.
TAYLOR, JOHN.
WHEWELL, REV. W., D.D.
WILSON, A.
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MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.
MAY, 1862.
VINCENZO ; OE, SUNKEN EOCKS.
BY JOHN' RUFFINI, AUTHOR OF "LORENZO BENONI," "DOCTOR ANTONIO/' ETC.
CHAPTEE I.
INTRODUCES THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.
HALF-hidden behind a tall hedge of
roses, which ran round a small piece of
artificial water, with a jet d'eau in the
centre, a peachy-cheeked young girl was
busy clipping withered blossoms and
dead leaves, singing cheerily the while.
When we say that the girl's business
was with decayed flowers and dry twigs,
we give her credit for a good intention ;
the doleful fact being that, along with
the old and faded ones, perfectly fresh
roses, and promising buds, not a few
strewed the ground wherever she had
passed. But could any one hold her
responsible for these trespasses who
contrasted the ponderous garden-scis-
sors in her grasp with the plump tiny
hands which tried to wield them 1
Meanwhile, a quaint-looking figure in
a striped cotton cap and green apron,
under cover of a row of mulberry- trees,
was limping stealthily along towards the
pond. Once there, the manfor a man
it was, and an old man, and certainly
one of the ugliest men alive well, the
man stood waiting a few seconds, then,
biding his time, crossed on tiptoe the
short open space between the row of
trees and the pond ; and, when only se-
parated from the girl by the thickness
of the hedge of roses, he roared out,
" I catch you at it again, Signorina."
The Signorina jumped back in great
alarm, and cried, " How rude of you,
Xo. 31. VOL. vi.
Barnaby you have startled me out of
my senses/'
" I wish I could startle you out of
your wicked ways, but that I can't.
How many times haven't I told you to
let the flowers alone ! You have a gar-
den of your own, haven't you, and scis-
sors of your own, haven't you 1 "
"I have lost mine," pleaded the
youthful offender.
" So much the better for these poor
things of God. Fine work you have made
of it," pursued the old gardener, pointing
to the hedge and to the "rosy way" on the
ground, with which she had marked her
progress ; "a hailstorm could not have
done worse. And who will have to bear
the blame when the whole town comes
up for the feast 1 Why, that old dotard,
Barnaby; that good-for-nothing Bar-
naby. Dotards and good-for-nothings
yourselves, confounded ignoramuses."
"You needn't bellow so, I am not
deaf," remonstrated the Signorina ; " you
are always in a rage with some one or
other. I don't wonder they call you
Eadetsky."
This cut on a bleeding wound brought
the old man's exasperation to a pitch of
fury. He opened his mouth to a fright-
ful extent, stood gasping for a moment ;
then, probably finding no words adequate
to his passion, he made a pull at his
cap, threw it on the ground, picked it
up, walked two steps away, came back,
and said solemnly, " Will you give me
my scissors ; yes or no, SignoraPadronaT
Whenever he called her
Signora
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
Padrona," Barnaby was in high dudgeon.
She did not seem to mind it much, as
she only said, " Presently," making in
the meantime the most of her short
presumed tenure of the scissors. Bar-
naby, without further parley, turned into
the green inclosure, and gave chase.
Will-c'-the-Wisp skipped along to avoid
pursuit, snipping right and left at ran-
dom, and laughing heartily. All at
once she stopped, gave a faint cry, and
lo ! the twist of keen merriment in her
face gave way to that particular and not
over dignified grimace about the mouth
which is a forerunner of tears. In her
precipitation to do havoc, Miss Eose had
caught one of her thumbs between the
handles of the scissors.
Here was a piece of poetical justice,
which one, even under smaller provoca-
tion than our old fellow, might well be
tempted to turn to account as a text for
a little moral lecture. But Barnaby was
a poor hand at moralising, and no
amount of poetical or unpoetical justice
could ever reconcile him to a consum-
mation which entailed pain on his young
mistress. For, be it said to his honour
or to his shame, cross-grained and grum-
bling, and full of sound and fury as he
was, the least of the little distresses of
this pet of his was enough to make him
as chicken-hearted as could be.
The echo of Miss Eose's faint cry had
barely died away ere Barnaby was by
her side, and, kneeling on one knee, his
two arms round her had drawn her close
to him. What is it ? where is it 1 "
" Here," sobbed Eose, showing the in-
jured thumb ; and, with the effort of
speaking, down dropped two big tears.
" Don't, don't, my darling," cried the
good old fellow, raising the small hand
to his lips, previous to its inspection.
" It's nothing ; it will be soon all right.
You see the skin is not broken only a
little pinch. We'll rub the pain away
in no time ;" and he began rubbing with
great care. There were coaxing and
caressing tones in his voice now, which
no one would have dreamed of finding
in it a moment before. Even the hotch-
potch of grimacing, tumble-down fea-
tures, which made him a remarkably
ugly man, had settled into something
almost agreeable to look at, so intense
was the gentle and tender feeling which
lighted them from within.
" There, the smart is over, isn't it 1
]STot quite yet? but almost well, we
must conjure it away by a little magic ;"
and, putting the thumb on a level with
his mouth, he first mumbled some inar-
ticulate sounds, and then blew noisily
over it. "There, it is gone now, and
we can smile again " In spite of some
effort to the contrary, the corners of the
pouting mouth had begun to relax, when
a shrill sound, something like a colt's
neigh, caught her ear. " Here is Yin-
cenzino," she said, disengaging herself
from the old man's arms ; " don't
tell him I have been crying/' And,
passing a corner of her long-sleeved
pinafore over her eyes, she answered the
signal in the same key. Well might
Miss Eose be ashamed of being found
out to have been crying, for, younger by
two years as she looked, she was not the
less fourteen years of age.
Presently hove in sight, capering
towards the pond, the slim figure of a
bare-headed and tonsured lad, in the
long and not over-graceful robe of a
Seminarist. " Is the rehearsal over 1 "
asked Miss Eose, the moment he was
close to her. He did not reply to the
question, but, with a sharp glance at her,
he said, " You have been crying;" and,
turning quickly on Barnaby, added, with
a significant stamp of the foot, " it is
.you who made her cry." Barnaby burst
into a contemptuous laugh, and, mimick-
ing the treble and gesture of the young
orator most pointedly, repeated word for
word the new-comer's address to him-
self ; then, resuming his natural gruff
voice, he went on cuttingly, " Of course,
it was I who made her cry ; who else
could it be, I should like to know ?
Whenever there is mischief done, de-
pend on it Barnaby is at the bottom of
it. Barnaby feeds on babies, three
weeks' old boys for breakfast, six weeks'
old girls for dinner, and so on. Nay,
now that I think of it, I had better
take to my heels, or for certain I shall
be whipped by his Eeverence. Ha ! ha !
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
ha ! confounded brats ! " was the ab irato
winding- up. " Their lips are still moist
with mother's milk, and they give them-
selves airs of authority. 1 have no pa-
tience with them." Having thus deli-
vered his opinion, Barnaby picked up
the shears, and walked away in sullen
majesty. To avoid misconception, let
us here state distinctly that, next to
Eose and Eose's father, Vincenzo was
Barnaby' s greatest favourite. But, by
laying at his door Eose's tears, Vincenzo
had stung him to the quick, and the old
fire-eater had instantly shown fight.
The lad looked after him and said,
" Ugly-and-Good seems uncommonly
touchy this afternoon."
" To tell the truth," replied Eose, " I
have worried him too much ; " and she
confessed her freaks with the scissors
and her mishap.
Ugly-and-Good (brutto e buono) is the
name given in Italy to an excellent sort
of winter pear, having a very rugged
exterior. It was Barnaby' s legitimate
nickname, and, to a certain extent, ac-
cepted by him, though with a slight
variante, viz. the modest addition of a
not before good. It was only lately that
a few scamps in the village had taken to
calling him " Eadetzky." The Austrian
field-marshal at that epoch (1848) was
acting a very prominent part in the
drama of contemporaneous events. This
foolish appellation, disapproved as it was
by the majority in the village, would
have fallen into disuse of itself, had not
Barnaby, by resenting it violently, given
it the whet that it wanted. Of all
pleasures, the one most rarely resisted
by young people, especially by boys, is
that of working an old man into a
passion.
" By-the-by," said Eose, " how did
the rehearsal come off?"
" Not come off at all," was the reply.
" The musicians are all at the Palazzo,
but the bass-viol is missing. The Signor
Avvocato has sent out scouts tQ meet
the porters, who are to bring it. Let us go
to the Belvedere, and watch for the men."
They skirted the row of mulberry-
trees which had masked Barnaby's
approach, went down a few steps, then
turned to the left into a vine-covered
walk, which led them straight to the
Belvedere. It looked over the village
and the zigzags of the gently rising
road, and commanded a pretty extensive
view of the plain, down to the red-tiled
roofs of the nearest town. Eose sat
down, and, producing from her pocket a
small box of vari-coloured beads, an
unfinished purse, and sewing materials,
said, " While we are waiting, I may as
well do a row or two of your purse.
It's pretty, isn't it, Vincenzo?" She
called him Vincenzo without ceremony,
speaking to him in the familiar second
person of the singular ; but he always
addressed her in the deferential third,
and as " Signora Padrona."
"Beautiful !" replied the lad; " yours
are very clever little fingers, Signora."
" And, you may add, very patient
ones also," said Eose. " I wouldn't do
it for any one but you. Quite extra-
ordinary the work there is in such small
things. Shall I do the initials in red
or white beads? Which should you
like best?"
" Eeally, I scarcely know," said per-
plexed Vincenzo ; "which should you
advise?"
" Eed, I should say."
" Then, let it be red," returned Vin-
cenzo, energetically.
" But, remember, you are not to get
the purse unless you sing your motet
next Thursday to perfection. Do you
quite know it ? "
" I think I do," said Vincenzo. " Shall
I sing it to you?"
" Yes, do." In a clear pleasing mezzo-
soprano voice, Vincenzo sang, without
once blundering or faltering, the " salu-
taris," which was his allotted part in the
religious festivity appointed for the fol-
lowing Thursday. "Bravo!" exclaimed
Eose, clapping her hands. " Papa will
be so pleased. You were so slow in
learning it, that he never thought you
would be equal to it."
" I was very slow," said Vincenzo ;
" but the fact is, this motet is too high
for my voice, which is no longer what it
was last year : and then I don't like it as
well as I did the other ones."
B2
Vincenzo or, Sunken Rocks.
" Don't tell papa so ; lie considers
this as one of his best compositions ;
and, if he knew that you didn't think as
highly of it as he does, he would be
downright angry ; and, as it is, he is
not too well pleased -with yon."
" I do not wonder at that/' said Vin-
cenzo, rather sadly. " I have not given
him any cause to be pleased with me.
When I recollect how miserably I failed
in my last examination, I am heartily
ashamed of myself."
" But how was it 1 Had you been
idle 1 " asked the girl.
" JSTo," returned Yincenzo. " Philo-
sophy was the rock on which I was
wrecked. I got clear of all other matters
with a bene."
" Is philosophy, then, so very hard to
learn V
" For me, very ; it bewilders me. I
can make neither head nor tail of it. It
is like reading an unknown language,
which, read and read for ever so long,
you can never catch the meaning of.
And, as to arguing in forma, and syllo-
gisms, it is of no use my trying to
master them."
" What 'is a syllogism 1" questioned
Rose,
" It is a form of argument made to
prove white to be black, and black
white, in so clever a way that one is at
a loss to discover where the flaw lies ;
at least, I never can. I'll give you an
example. Up to this day, you have be-
lieved that salt meat makes one thirsty.
Well, I am going to prove the contrary,
thus To drink assuages thirst; atqui,
salt meat makes one drink; ergo, salt
meat assuages thirst."
" But that is downright nonsense,"
cried Miss Rose, laughing ; " don't you
see that the flaw lies in the ergo ? "
" I dare say it does," assented the
lad ; " but affirmation is no proof, you
know, and you must prove your case in
formd ; there's the bog."
" My poor Vincenzo," said Rose, look-
ing at the melancholy face, half in merri-
ment, half in sorrow, " I wish I could
help you out of your bog, but I can't.
However, you must keep up your courage,
and try and try till you do succeed.
Just think ! a lad of seventeen, and
only to have got the minor orders. If
you go on at this rate, papa says, when
will you ever say your first mass 1 "
" Who knows if I shall ever say one
at all?" said Vincenzo, with a doubtful
shake of the head. " There are times
when I despair of ever being able to
acquire the amount of learning necessary
for a priest. I am afraid I am naturally
dull."
" Nonsense," put in Rose.
" Perhaps," he went on, " the want of
early education may have something to
do with it. Born a peasant, I was
brought up as a peasant I could almost
wish I were one now. When my father
bless his soul ! destined me for the
Church, I was already eleven years old,
and scarcely able to read or write; so
I had to begin at the beginning. I
suppose this want of ballast has kept
me back in my studies, besides my
being, as I said before, naturally thick-
headed."
This harsh judgment upon himself,
though passed in perfect good faith
who could doubt for a moment the lad's
honest face and voice ? was singularly
belied by the gentle earnestness with
which he spoke an earnestness beyond
his age and by the accompanying in-
telligent play of his features. Rose had
felt this when she had entered her
protest against Vincenzino's first self-
accusation of dulness, and ten to one
but she would have again protested, if
the missing bass-viol had not loomed in
sight at this very nick of time. Just
turning the corner of the Parish Church
Square appeared two men carrying the
cumbrous instrument, with a third per-
son somewhat ahead, who had the un-
mistakeable air of a priest. " Don
Natale, I declare," said Rose, springing
from her seat. " I wonder if he's come
to the rehearsal ; let us go and meet
him."
And, darting swift as arrows through
the vine-covered walk, and along a
terrace planted with walnut-trees, the
nimble pair cleared the gate in a twink-
ling, and were scampering down the
high road, when a lusty hail from Bar-
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Rocks.
naby made them stop and turn their
heads. The old man was running after
them, the young lady's straw hat in his
hand. " .Never mind the hat," laughed
Eose ; " I suppose I dropped it at the
pond."
" Ugly-and-Good means it as a peace-
offering," said the lad. " I'll run back
for it ; ; ' and, suiting the action to the
word, he raced away to Barnaby, and was
in no time again at Miss Kose's side.
Meanwhile Don Natale, a little ahead
of the men with the bass-viol, was jog-
ging on pretty fast, considering his short
legs and big round paunch. Don Natale
was the beau ideal of a parish country
priest fat, broad-faced, double-chinned,
red-nosed, good-humoured. Long use
had deprived his cassock of all gloss,
his three-cornered hat of every, even the
last vestige of nap gloss and nap re-
placed by a coat of grease. He shouted
and telegraphed with his head-gear to
the boy and girl, and, when within reach
of voice, bellowed out, " Here I am !
come in person to explain and make res-
titutioneui in integrum. Ouf ! Vincenzo
knows what that means. What do you
think that blockhead of a porter from
the town did 1 Ouf ! Why, he took the
double-bass to the parish church. And
what do you think that goose the clerk
did 1 He shut it up in the vestry, where
it has been standing for this hour and a
half."
Hose and Vincenzo were close to him
by this time, and, as in duty bound,
kissed the priest's hand. " Good day,
Eosa, Eosetta, Eosettina; good day,
Vincenzo bless my soul, what a sun for
the month of May ; it scorches one's skin,
it does. Hard work to climb up hill at
any time, but "
" I beg you will not call this gentle
slope a hill," remonstrated Eose, smiling.
" When you are past sixty-five, and
have to carry the weight I do, you'll find
it hill enough, my dear child. But, hill
or slope, let us move on. By-the-bye,
there's a hamper for the palace at Peter
the chandler's a hamper come by post,
as big as a babe, and exhaling such a fra-
grance ! if it were not out of season, I
should say of white truffles. Whatever
it is, thou wilt smack thy lips at it next
Thursday, Vincenzo, thou little rogue
while I I dine at the castle, you
know. It is traditionary that the parish
priest should dine at the castle on St.
Urban' s-day. Consuetudo est lex. Not
that I have anything to say against the
table at the castle; God forbid! but
they hate truffles there, can't bear the
smell of them quite an idiosyncracy.
Mine lies the contrary way ; I am over-
fond of truffles, I confess ; perhaps it is
a weakness, but there are worse ones, I
daresay. Ouf ! I am out of breath."
"No wonder you are," cried Eose,
laughing; "you do nothing but talk,
and talk, and talk."
" Do you hear her ? The lamb is
scolding the shepherd, I declare," pur-
sued Don Natale, with an arch look at
Eose. " You are like Job's friends,
fault-finding instead of helping. Come
to me, Eosinetta, dear, and be bacalus
senectutis mece give me the support of
your arm, I mean, and I'll tell you
why I go on talking, and talking, and
talking."
And, playfully drawing Eose's arm
under his own, Don Natale continued :
" I am making up for time lost. I have
been gagged these last three-and-thirty
years ever since 1815, my dear and,
now that the gag is removed, thanks to
immortal Pio Nono, thanks to magnani-
mous Charles Albert, thanks last not
least to that philosopher of all Christian
philosophers, Gioberti " and he raised
his greasy hat in succession to the three
names "now that an honest man, lay
or priest, can say his say without hin-
drance or fear, well, I use and abuse the
privilege, and I am rattling on for ever."
To this ingenious theory the young
lady might have opposed a sober fact, con-
firmed by her own experience namely,
that at all times Don Nataie had been
famous throughout the parish for his
superabundance of talkative powers ;
but she had discretion enough to hold
her tongue. They had passed the gate,
and were strolling up the long avenue of
poplars, which abutted upon the palace,
when another little party was noticed,
coming down the avenue towards them.
6
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Pocks.
It consisted of Rose's father (the Signor
Awocato, as he was called constantly)
and four or five of the musicians, who
had assembled there for the rehearsal.
The two groups, on espying each other,
accelerated their pace, and were not long
in meeting, when there followed such an
explosion of " oh's ! " and " ah's ! " and
"what good wind has blown you
hither?" and questions, explanations, and
wonderments, as the crows living on the
poplars had never witnessed tne like of.
However, time pressed ; and, after this
short halt employed in mutual greetings,
and giving and receiving information,
the now united column resumed its
march in good order. Rose and her
father (the Signor Awocato) headed it,
having Don Natale between them ; the rest
followed by twos and threes. Vincenzo
brought up the rear, by chance or by
inclination, all alone ; and, having no
better occupation for the nonce, he kept
sedulously kicking out of the way every-
thing in the shape of leaf, root, or stone,
which stood in relief enough to allow of
its being kicked away.
"What is the matter with thee?"
asked Barnaby, sallying suddenly forth
from behind a tree.
"Nothing is the matter, Barnaby,"
answered Yincenzo, with a little surprise.
" Art thou ill, I mean 1 "
" Not in the least."
" Hast thou had any words with the
Signorina 1 "
" God forbid !" said Yincenzo.
" Why then canst thou not hold up
thy head, like the honest lad thou art ] "
Upon this, Barnaby went his way,
and Yincenzo his.
CHAPTER II.
A VOCATION.
YINCENZO had no more been consulted
about the profession for which he was
being educated than is a bale of goods
about its destination. His father was a
trusty and meritorious servant of the
Signor Awocato, who eventually came
by his death, one might say, in his
master's service. He had the manage-
ment of some pretty extensive rice-
marshes which the Signor Awocato
possessed in the environs of Vercelli.
A sure and a productive concern this
rice cultivation, but very unhealthy !
Rice is raised in water, which stagnates
and corrupts and begets malaria. Well,
it so happened that, on a certain night,
the water was turned off one of the
pieces of ground under this man's con-
trol exactly a field that most particu-
larly required irrigation. Upon this,
Yincenzo's father, though sadly out of
health and spirits (J).e had just lost his
wife), in his zeal to ascertain which of
two neighbours was the offender at all
events, to prevent the repetition of the
offence kept watch in the swamps for
several nights, and then and there im-
bibed the germs of the malady which
was to cost him his life. He was imme-
diately attacked by ague, which resisted
every effort made to overcome it. His
master had him removed to a healthier
situation, gave him good medical advice,
but with little or no benefit. The poor
man continued to waste away. As he
grew weaker, his mind often wandered,
and he had what he and the people about
him dignified by the name of apparitions,
but which, in fact, were only the com-
mon hallucinations of fever. One of the
visions which most beset him was that
of a beautiful lady with a babe in her
lap, sitting on his bed, who said to him,
" Devote your Yincenzo to my service,
and you shall be cured."
Upon no stronger foundation than
this was the poor boy's future career
settled for him. There was a smack of
the miraculous in the matter which
tickled the fancies of the neighbourhood
amazingly. The rector of the parish in
which the sick man lived took up the
case warmly, of course, while the sick
man himself clung to his vision with all
the instinctive eagerness of self-preserva-
tion. A communication was speedily
made to the Signor Awocato ; and he,
knowing only too well that it was not
safe to interfere with real or imaginary
calls from on High, said, probably with
a shrug of the shoulder, " Why not 1 Let
it be so."
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Nocks.
The approbation of the Signer Avvo-
cato was the more important, because,
in his double character of Vincenzo's
godfather and avowed patron, he was
regarded, and was aware that he was so,
as the person from whose purse must be
drawn the sinews of war; in plain words,
as the one who would have to defray
the expenses of the superior education
necessary to qualify Vincenzo for the
priesthood.
While his fate was thus being sealed
for him, unconscious Yincenzo was gam-
bolling in the gardens of the palazzo with
his little playmate and padroncina, Miss
Rose, hunting for birds' nests or chasing
Jbutterflies for her a business he had
sedulously pursued for the last two years.
This will serve to explain the familiar
style in which we have heard him ad-
dressed by Eose, the priest, Barnaby, and
the rest. They had known him too long
as an urchin in a fustian jacket to change
their manners when he changed his
jacket for a long black robe. Miss Rose,
indeed, on his return after his first year
at the seminary, somewhat impressed by
the difference of dress, had made an at-
tempt to break through former habits,
and had actually in speaking to him used
the second person of the plural ; but
Vincenzo begged so hard that she would
still grant him his old privilege, that
she had willingly complied. But we
must not anticipate.
Well, then, one fine morning Vincenzo
was summoned to his godfather's study.
" Vincenzo, my boy/' began the Signer
Avvocato, " the time is come when you
must lay aside childish things and
begin to prepare yourself for the pro-
fession your father has chosen for you,
that of the Church. At his express
desire I have written to our Bishop, and
made arrangements with the superior of
the seminary at Ibella (so was named
the small red-tiled town visible from
the Belvedere), for your reception there.
I shall accompany you thither myself on
Monday ; to-morrow you shall go and see
your father and receive his blessing ;
next Sunday will be your last holiday
here, for the present. So long as you
are a good boy and do credit to those
interested in you, you may rely on me
as a friend. I regret that I cannot my-
self continue your musical education,
but I have expressly stipulated that you
shall have singing lessons at the semi-
nary. God knows what sort of a master
they have got there ; at all events, let
him be what he may, he will serve to
keep your fine voice and ear from
entirely rusting. You understand that
on Monday you are to go to Ibella;
now you may take yourself off. Go and
play."
"Yes, Signer Padrone, thank you,
Signer Padrone/' and, not slightly be-
wildered, Vincenzo ran forthwith to break
the great news to his young mistress.
ISTow let it be understood that Rose was
an ardent little church-goer, \vho de
lighted in the ringing of bells, silver-
cloth vestments, gorgeously decorated
altars, and every sort of religious show.
Priesthood was naturally associated in
her mind with all these things, and
farther with heading of processions, the
mighty gold cross and the violet stock-
ings of the bishop of Ibella. In short,
to belong to the priesthood was the
ne plus ultra of glory in her eyes. Had
he brought her word of his accession to
a throne, Rose would not have been half
so elated as she was at the announcement
that he was to be a priest. "Only
think ! why, one of these days he might
himself be a Bishop ! "
Vincenzo's vanity was not a little
inflated by this view of the matter.
There was, "however, a drawback too
close at hand to be overlooked birds'
nesting, chasing of butterflies, all such
merry doings were at an end. This
ugly side of the medal took the little
girl by surprise, and for a time made
her hostile even to the dignities of the
Church ; but, after the first alarm was
over, she recovered her spirits and her
allegiance, asserting that she would
be able to get leave for him often
to pay them a visit at the palazzo,
and,' when they went for the winter to
Ibella, what was to prevent his coming
to play with her every day 1 " Papa,"
she was sure, "would be very glad he
should do so." Thus did her eight
8
Vincsnzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
years' old wisdom dispose of the
difficulty.
For the rest of the day Vincenzo was
the lion of the household. The servants
within doors, the labourers in the fields,
vied with one another in complimenting
and congratulating him, just as if he
had won the great prize in the lottery
with one notable exception, however.
Barnaby kept aloof, and looked uglier
than ever. At that epoch, he was not
yet the victim of lumbago, that relentless
foe which had gradually sapped his
strength, and reduced him from general
manager of the Avvocato's estate, to the
honorific sinecure of head gardener, in
which capacity he made his appearance
in the foregoing chapter.
He was still an active, though not
straight-backed man, and on him de-
volved the honour of driving the
youthful catechumen the following day
to his father's cottage. It was a pleasant
drive, of some two hours' duration,
through a gently undulating, rich, maize-
growing country; but little joy had
Vincenzo of his drive, so outrageously
out of humour was his companion.
Barnaby growled the whole way, now at
the road, then at the tillage and the
crops, and, lastly, at the black mare he
was driving. "She was an ugly, good-
for-nothing beast ; a Jesuit."
These opprobrious epithets were the
more unaccountable to Vincenzo, as he
had always known Blackie to be a
favourite with Barnaby. At last, the
boy ventured to say, "I thought you
liked the mare, Barnaby."
" I ? " exclaimed the gardener, with a
snap and a snarl. " I ! I hate every-
thing that has a black coat, horse or
man.*'
On arriving at home, the lad had a
long conference with his father and the
priest of the parish, from which he
issued duly impressed with a sense of
the high mission confided to him. He
thought of nothing else, all the way
back to the palazzo, but the miraculous
apparition described by his father, every
now and then repeating to himself
the priest's parting words "that he
" might well feel proud and happy at
" having been chosen as God's instru-
" ment in a great work." And so proud
and happy was Vincenzo at that minute
that he felt up to anything and every-
thing, martyrdom included. Barnaby
neither growled nor snarled during the
return drive ; he whistled incessantly
instead.
There were many guests at the
palazzo on the Sunday following, and
Vincenzo had the honour of dining at
his patron's table. He sat between
Rose and Don Nataie the priest that
was improving the occasion by delivering
a little speech of mingled advice and
congratulation to the priest that was to
be. This raised the little peasant into
a personage, and drew all eyes upon
him. Every one present took more or
less notice of the boy during the
dinner, and Vincenzo went to rest that
night in a nutter of happy excitement.
But, when he got up in the morning and
saw the padrone's carriage at the door,
and was cautioned that he must be
ready to start in half an hour, he then
began to realize the blank awaiting him
beyond that half-hour. No more Rose,
no more freedom ! The young heart sank ;
and, had he known of any tribunal
before which he could bring an appeal,
he would have humbly prayed to be
allowed to renounce all hope or chance
of ever wearing those violet stockings,
so ardently admired by the signorina.
Tribunal there was none ; Vincenzo
stood committed on all sides. Shame
and pride drove back the tears which
welled up from his full heart as he
drove off from the palazzo. Shame and
pride kept his eyes dry when, a couple
of hours later, he sat down with passive
despair, among a number of strange
boys, in the great hall of the Seminary
of Ibella. But, once safe in his bed,
how those fountains of grief flowed !
And what a relief it was ! Eleven,
however, is not the age of despair ; so,
after the lapse of a few days, the poignant
feelings with which he had arrived had
subsided into a great yearning after the
past, and a great want of interest in the
present. Even this state had begun to
yield to the influence of time and
Vincenzo; or, Sunken Hocks.
habit, when an event took place which
revived all the pristine keenness of his
regrets.
Just three months after Yincenzo's
admission to the seminary, his father
died. Once the first shock of grief had
passed away, the boy could not help
thinking and hoping that, along with
the object which had dictated the
sacrifice for sacrifice he now confessed
it to be surely all reason for accomplish-
ing it had vanished also. His reasonable
anticipations were, however, doomed to
be disappointed. When the Signer
Awocato came, as he shortly did, on a
visit of condolence, far from making
any, the least, allusion to a possible
change in his protege's prospects, every
word he uttered made it clear that he
considered them irrevocably fixed ; in-
deed, so clear was this that Vincenzo
lacked the courage to give his patron a
hint of what had been occupying his
mind. The poor boy called himself all
sorts of names afterwards for having
been so cowardly, and took a solemn
vow to speak out boldly the next time
he saw his godfather. But the next
time was very long in coming, and,
when it did come, alas ! Yincenzo's
vow remained unfulfilled. He then
meditated on the possibility of entering
on the difficult subject by means of a
letter ; he penned many, and sent none.
Eleven is as little the age of indomitable
resolution as it is of settled despair, and
the only result of this contention of
mind was, first, a period of renewed
despondency, followed, secondly, by one
of dull resignation. Yet Yincenzo's lot,
as year succeeded year, if not exactly to
be set down as happy, could as little be
designated as unhappy. His masters
were, in the main, humane, even kind ;
and he received at their hands, as far as
his studies were concerned, that easy
indulgence which is generally conceded
to a pains-taking but naturally deficient
boy. His teachers' estimate of his
powers of mind was low indeed.
Though Yincenzo had no intimate
friends, he was on good terms with the
majority of his companions ; and, if there
was an abundance of lessons, chapel-
going, and classes, the allowance for
recreation was on a corresponding scale.
His visits to the Signor Awocato,
whether in town or country, were
much rarer, it is true, than Eose had
predetermined they should be; never-
theless, there was the make-weight of
that blessed holiday for a whole fort-
night spent at the palazzo to obtain
which privilege for his godson, the
godfather had had to use all his influence
with the reverend professors of Ibella.
Blessed holiday, indeed ! which renewed
the happy past of familiar companion-
ship with his padroncina. Nor was
the young seminarist insensible to the
figure he cut at church as solo- singer of
the mass in music, at Eumelli. It was
St. Urban's Feast which brought him
this bouquet of delights, and you can
fancy, therefore, what an ardent devotee
of St. Urban was Yincenzo. In his
morning and evening orisons there was
ever a special prayer to St. Urban.
Paradise had its drawbacks ; so had
these holidays. This was also the esta-
blished time for the return from school
to the castle of the son of the Awocato's
neighbour, the marquis a bigger and
an older boy than Yincenzo, and withal
a mischievous sprite. He was for ever
plaguing and bullying the seminarist,
was for ever inventing nicknames for
him, and making him the butt of end-
less practical jokes ; bad enough when
Eose was not present, intolerable when
she was. This quizzing and joking na-
turally led to fisticuff's ; and out of these
scuffles young Church generally came off
second-best, with the certainty of a severe
lecture from the Signor Awocato into
the bargain.
Amidst such drawbacks and compen-
sations rolled on the course of our hero's
clerical preparation, stormless, if not
cloudless, until 1848. If there was ever
a year calculated to unsettle people's
minds, 1848 was pre-eminently that
year. Wonders never ceased. A
national movement, initiated by a re-
forming pontiff; constitutions inaugu-
rated at Eome, in Tuscany, Piedmont,
and Naples ; a republic sprouting forth
from the Parisian barricades of February ;
10
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
revolution at Vienna; revolution at
Milan ; Radetzky driven into the Quad-
rilateral; the war of Italian inde-
pendence proclaimed ; Charles Albert
on the Mincio ! Such was the chain of
stupendous events, most of them com-
pressed within a few months, with which
that extraordinary year startled the
world.
Well might grown men's pulses ay,
and those of young lads in priestly
schools beat high and fast with excite-
ment. Vincenzo' s enthusiasm bordered
on frenzy. How he envied and burned
to emulate his heroic brother-seminarists
of Milan, who, as fame told, had con-
trived a moving barricade, fighting under
its cover another Macedonian phalanx!
The faint echo of the din and strife of
war which reached even the student of
Ibella, how welcome it sounded in his
ears ! The mere word " statute," as to
the meaning of which he knew about as
much as he did of the hieroglyphics of
Thebes, had a magic spell for him. To
watch passing events from near at hand,
to mix somehow in the current, to be
free to be free ! that became his waking
and sleeping dream. If we were to
write down all the little plots and con-
trivances which fermented in the youth's
brain of how to reach that ardently de-
sired goal, each and all winding up with
his enlisting for a soldier, and going to
the seat of war, we should have a long
story to tell. But the superiors were
more vigilant than usual, and flight
became an impossibility. As to an
appeal to his godfather and patron,
Vinconzo was not up to it. What he
had not dared to do at his father's
demise, when to do so would have been
a comparatively easy matter, he could
not muster sufficient courage to attempt,
now that six years of acquiescence on
his part had strongly rivetted the chain
round his leg. Yes, he felt that he
wore a chain a heavy and odious one ;
he was fain to break it ; but how 1
It may be as well to mention here
that the failure in his last examination,
to which we have heard him allude, was
mainly due to the excitement of the times.
Now, then, the reader understands the
frame of mind in which Vincenzo re-
turned to the palazzo, on the occasion
of our first meeting him. Had there
lurked in the lad's mind any atom of
intention to make his godfather the con-
fidant of his thoughts and A\ r ishes, it
would have been repelled by the frown of
displeasure which lay on that honoured
godfather's brow.
CHAPTER III.
THE CASTLE AND THE PALACE.
THE person who told us the story we
are about to relate, had, or believed he
had, his reasons for keeping back all
precise indication as to places and names,
and all that we could gather from him
about the situation of the village of
Rumelli a name not to be found in
maps, we believe was that it lay
in the north of Piedmont proper, at
the foot of the hill-country. Were it
worth the trouble, we might, by means
of deductions, render this description
less vague ; but we do not see the use
of so doing, and leave this easy task to
any sagacious reader who may be dis-
posed to undertake it.
Well, whatever its exact whereabouts,
Rumelli was a hamlet, with nothing
remarkable about it, except that it
possessed both a castle and a palace ;
this last, already mentioned more than
once, and neither of which the good
folks of Rumelli would have exchanged
for all the castles and palaces in Chris-
tendom. There was not much to be
proud of, though, in so far as the castle
was concerned. It was rather a respect-
able 'myth than a reality nothing re-
maining of its former splendour, save an
uninhabitable tower, a bit of the moat
used as a nursery for mulberry-trees,
and a drawbridge fast stuck in the earth,
and serving as a back way to the village.
The low heavy lump of bricks, with a
sugar-loaf shaped excrescence at each
end, which constituted the actual man-
sion, evidently of comparatively modern
construction, had no more character in
its architecture than has any substantial
farm-house. Such as it was, however,
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rods.
11
and no living man had seen it otherwise,
the castle had lorded it over, and made
the rain and sunshine of, Kumelli for
God knows how long. In all proba-
bility it would have continued to do as
much to this day, had not a rival
establishment sprung up as if by magic,
and advanced and enforced its claim to
a share in the sceptre. This is how it
happened.
Marquis Amadeus del Palmetto, the
present head of the family who owned
the castle, in obedience to the traditions
of his caste and race, had entered the
army at a very early age, and done his
part well in the gallant stand made by
Piedmont against republican France.
When all possibility of resistance was
over, and the French occupied the king-
dom as masters, the marquis broke his
sword, and returned to his Lares and
Penates at Rumelli. He had not been
there long, however, when it occurred to
him that, before settling down defini-
tively as a retired country gentleman,
he owed it to the name he bore, first to
go and pay his homage to, and take the
commands of, his king, whose all of
sovereignty at that moment was confined
to the island of Sardinia, But Marquis
Amadeus had more loyalty than ready
cash, and every endeavour to raise money
on his already deeply mortgaged estate
proved fruitless. The marquis, like
most of the Piedmontese aristocracy,
was hospitable and open-handed, and, to
gratify this amiable disposition, lived far
beyond his means.
Could his lordship so said his man
of business bring himself to consent
to part with some of his unentailed
land, and which, indeed, made scarcely
any return, there was, as he had already
had the honour of informing his noble
client, that same Barnaby Mele who had
brought home from his wanderings
some money, and was on the look-out
for a safe investment of his savings.
Besides the numberless objections to
parting with land which he had in com-
mon with every landed proprietor we
ever met, the Marquis had a special one
in this case. The castle was, as is the
wont of castles, built on a summit, and
overlooked the village ; but then all the
unentailed part of the Marquis's pro-
perty lay unfortunately on still higher
ground, and, to use a traditional phrase
of the family, the Del Palmettos wanted
no spy over their heads. However, as
we know, necessity has no law money
was wanted, money must be had, and
could be had in no other way than by
selling the hill land ; and, after all,
there was little danger of this poor
devil Barnaby, who had already a cot-
tage of his own, taking a fancy to build.
In short, after some demur, the Marquis
gave way, a tolerable bargain was made,
and the deed of sale signed. Barnaby
got a pretty slice of land, the Marquis
pocketed the price, and went his jour-
ney. On his return, after an absence
of only a couple of months, fancy his
horror and fury at finding, on the lately-
dissevered limit of his estate, the foun-
dations of a vast fabric which would
entirely command the castle. This
misfortune occurred at the close of the
year 1800. Barnaby, it was discovered,
was merely a man of straw ; the real
purchaser was a certain Pietro Stella, a
native of Eumelli, about whom the
tongues in his native place had been
busy more than once during the last
twenty years.
Pietro Stella had left his home at
sixteen years of age, with no other funds
than a strong will and a mason's trowel ;
had gone to Mexico, and there realized
a large fortune, as to the origin of which
two stories circulated in Rumelli, each
having its sect of believers. According
to one version, Pietro had married an
immensely rich lady, the daughter of a
grandee of Spain into the bargain ;
according to the other, he had dug out
of the ground a stocking full of jewels ;
whereas we can certify that Pietro had
married no one of higher rank than the
daughter of a builder, who was far from
wealthy, and had never had any other
jewels to trade with than a ready wit, an
enterprising spirit, and uprightness.
Pietro, after a long lapse of years,
returned to the place of his birth,
accompanied by wife and children.
Keeping out of sight himself, he made
12
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Rocks.
use of Barnaby, a fellow-villager, whom
lie had met in Mexico, and rescued from
starvation, to bring about the realization
of his most cherished scheme no other
than to build himself in his native
village a fine house in a commanding
situation. A sketch of such a mansion
had been lying in his desk for more
than ten years. Pietro had set his eyes
and heart on that part of the Marquis's
land which lay above the castle.
The enriched builder was too well
aware of the Del Palmetto crotchet, as
to having no one to overlook the castle,
not to be pretty certain that never would
the Marquis sell a foot of the land in
question to any man possessed of the
means of building on it, should it so
please him. Therefore it was that he
had employed Barnaby to make the pro-
posal of purchase, as if for Barnaby' s
self. The stratagem, as we know, was
crowned with success ; and no sooner
was the Marquis's back turned than
Pietro pounced on his prey at the head
of an army of workmen. Trees were
felled, ground levelled, a terrace raised,
materials collected; and in no time, as if
by magic, there rose breast-high the
walls of what was to be Pietro's dwell-
ing.
was the wrath of the young
Marquis when first he caught sight of
what was doing, loud his denunciations
of the base conspiracy by which he had
been entrapped. Had it not been for a
happy sense of his own dignity, he
would on the instant have ascended the
hill, and given a piece of his mind to
the beggarly chimney-sweep, as he called
Pietro, who had, in fact, to the perfect
recollection of the Marquis, a small boy
at the time, once mended one of the
castle chimneys. . But the swindlers
need not calculate on impunity; his
lordship would call in the aid of the
law, and force them to remove their
rubbish with their own hands ! On the
word of a Marquis, he would have them
punished, though he had to go to Turin
for that purpose !
No practical result ever followed these
and other similar threats. Signer
Pietro's position was legally unassail-
able, explained his lordship's lawyer
to his angry lordship. No law could
prevent Barnaby from selling what
he had bought and paid for to
Pietro ; no law could prevent Pietro,
become the actual owner of the soil,
from building on it. As to going
to Turin, a form of speech which
meant bringing the weight of court
favour to bear upon the matter, the
Marquis had probably forgotten, when
fulminating this menace, that Turin was
for the time being the head- quarters of
the French Department of the High
Alps, where those belonging to the
ancient nobility were far from possess-
ing any preponderant power. So nothing
was left to the fiery young nobleman he
was not more than seven-and-twenty
but to champ his bit and wait for the
day of reckoning ; that is, for the turn
of fortune's wheel which should bring
him and his class again uppermost, and
give him, and such as he, all their own
way again, law or no law.
In the meantime, Pietro, like the
man of tact and taste that he was, far
from manifesting anything approaching
to exultation, evinced a praiseworthy
spirit of conciliation. He never met the
Marquis in the road, the only place
where a meeting could occur, without
raising his hat, and showing, by his
manner, infinite respect and deference,
and that not a mere pretence, but a sin-
cere reality, Pietro having been brought
up in the orthodox faith of the right
divine of kings and aristocracies. His
mute attentions were ignored; nor did
the advances of the cure", the prede-
cessor of Don Natale, who had been
prevailed on by Pietro to undertake the
part of peacemaker, meet with any more
favour. A sharp " Don't mention thai
man to me," was all that the good priest
got for his pains.
It took full three years to complete,
decorate, and furnish the new building,
which the Eumellians had long before,
christened the 'Palazzo.' The appellation
may sound ambitious to the ears of the
English, who attach to the word Palace
an idea of almost royal magnificence.
But the title of Palazzo in Italy means
Vinc&nzo ; or, Sunken Hocks.
13
something far less, and is, indeed, gene-
rally bestowed on all detached mansions
which combine with a certain stateliness
of proportions taste and elegance of
design. In all these essentials, Pietro's
new house was certainly not deficient.
Pietro was by nature a man of taste,
and he had made himself an excellent
architect. The palace was three stories
high, comprising the attics, built on a
raised terrace, which, while enhancing
its appearance, helped to dwarf consi-
derably the underlying castle. One
access to the palace was by a flight of
steps, which led up from the avenue to
this terrace ; below and around which
last ran a carriage-road winding up an
ascent to an opposite entrance.
Well, then, in the month of March,
of the year 1804, Pietro and his family
took up their abode at the palace.
Pietro's family at that time consisted
of his wife, two children a boy and a
girl of the respective ages of twelve
and ten, and an aged aunt, the only one
of his relations he found alive on his
return to Rumelli. She, poor soul,
died shortly after her removal to her
nephew's grand residence. Barnaby, as
a matter of course, also went thither,
remaining what he had long been,
Pietro's confidential servant. The tenour
of life at the palace was simple and
unostentatious in the extreme. Pietro,
his wife, and children, all mixed fami-
liarly with the country folks, and were
on excellent terms with their neighbours,
always excepting the Marquis, with
whom they were on no terms at all.
Nevertheless, it had been remarked,
with sanguine expectations of a speedy
peace, that on the first appearance of
the lady of the palace at church, the
Marquis, in passing her seat to his
accustomed place in his own side-chapel,
had slightly bowed to her. Every fol-
lowing Sunday there was a repetition of
the same civility, and whenever also the
lady and the Marquis met in the roads.
But nothing more came of it than just
polite salutations. Pietro, who had
resumed his business as builder and
contractor for public works, was often
Irom home. Years rolled on, and at
last 1814 arrived the year of resto-
rations. Dispossessed sovereigns re-
ascended their thrones, the sovereign of
Piedmont among others ; and the aris-
tocracy had it all their own way again.
Here, then, was the day of reckoning
invoked some fourteen years ago by the
Marquis. He had waited long for it ;
here it was, and yet, strange to say, he
showed no signs of any wish to avail
himself of its advent, at least as re-
garded the palace and its builder. Per-
haps he had never wished to do so ;
men are often better than they them-
selves imagine. Perhaps the gentle
touch of sorrow had somewhat softened
the asperity of his lordship's temper.
The Marquis had married in the interval,
had become the father of two children,
and buried both of them. Perhaps he
acknowledged the full force of an accom-
plished fact, sanctioned also by time,
and felt unequal to cope with it. Cer-
tainly, many a thing was foolishly done
and undone at this epoch in Piedmont
and elsewhere, but few would have been
more difficult to undo than this one.
The palace had taken root in the
hearts and minds of the Rumellians.
Public opinion, without abandoning the
castle, had adopted the palace, was proud
of the palace, was grateful to the palace.
The palace had been the Pactolus which
had left some particles of gold at the
door of each and all of the cottages.
And, besides, a stream of a no less pre-
cious ore kindness had never ceased
flowing from thence. Everybody, like-
wise, found at the palace that which
Italians prize above everything what
they, as pithily as originally, style a
"dish of welcome" (unpiatto di buona
cera). The needy found ready employ-
ment and assistance, the sick relief and
medicines ; there was a whole apo-
thecary's shop at the palace. The priest,
the mayor, and the town council, who
had hitherto sworn in verba of the
castle, now swore also in verba of the
palace, thanks to which it was that the
roof of the parish church had been
repaired that the church could display
beautiful silver lamps and copes of cloth
of gold and that the village was en-
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Eccks.
dowed with a clean and spacious school-
house, instead of the barn which had
hitherto served as such. All these
benefits had made the position of the
palace strong indeed, and difficult to
carry. Had the difficulty of the enter-
prize anything to do with the Marquis's
forbearance? We will give him the
benefit of the doubt, and hope that he
was actuated by less personal and more
creditable motives. However this may
be, the political change in the kingdom
brought along with it a radical one in
his lordship's course of life. He was
soon after recalled to active service, and
left Rumelli to move in a higher and
wider sphere. During the succeeding
twenty-four years his visits to the castle
were few and far between ; and it was
not till 1838 that he came, as a colonel
on half-pay, accompanied by a second
wife and an only son, to settle again,
this time for good and all, at the family
seat. Of all those he had left inmates
of the palace, the only survivors were
SignorUrbano,Pietro's son, and Barnaby
Mele. Signer Urbano had taken his
degrees in law at the University of
Turin, and from that time forth was
known . by no other name than that of
his title of Avvocato. He was a widower,
with an only daughter, Rose at the
period of the Marquis's return, a child
of four years old.
Now that the principal offender had
gone to his last account, the Marquis felt
more disposed to leniency not to a state
however of friendliness with the Avvo-
cato, or any one belonging to him, but to
one of neutrality, a cessation in short of
all active hostility. Thus he was con-
descending enough, in a first chance
meeting, to return the Signer Avvocato's
mute salutation, and to stop and inquire
after his little daughter's health. "Upon
the strength of this courtesy, the Signer
Avvocato, a man of ultra-conciliatory
spirit, nay pusillanimous, turn of mind,
had allowed himself to be persuaded by
Don Natale, the cure" or rector of the
parish, into the belief that he was in
duty bound to go and call at the castle ;
and so he did. The Marquis received
him giaciously, but did not introduce
him to the Marchioness, nor did he ever
return the visit. Instead of so doing,
he established from that day a legal
fiction, to the effect that he was soon
about to do himself the honour of calling
upon the Signer Avvocato a legal fiction
which in the long run the Signer Avvo-
cato also adopted on his own account;
and, upon this reciprocation of kindly
intentions, the two neighbours never set
foot in each other's houses.
The young generation held less to
etiquette and social distinctions ; and
little Rose's calls to Federico to come
and play with her, and Federico's in-
roads into the gardens of the palace,
in compliance, were neither of them rare
occurrences. But, somehow or other,
these merry meetings too often ended, on
Rose's side, in red eyes and complaints
to Papa of Federico's rudeness. Papa
soothed his daughter without remon-
strating with the offender ; and, by thus
puttirg up with a slight now and then,
and accepting on the whole a secondary
position, the master of the palace
managed to live at peace with his noble
neighbour.
This noble neighbour was, it must be
confessed, as crafty as an old fox
deeply versed in the art which always
put appearances on his side quite
scientific in the process of gilding the
bitter pill for the one he meant to
swallow it. Thus, for instance, a few
years later, when, hard pressed for the
means of sending his son to the military
academy of Turin, he set on foot a
negotiation for the sale of another good
slice of the land he still possessed close
to the palace, he contrived it so artfully
as to make it appear a great concession
on his part, and to reap, besides his own
price, both credit and thanks.
And yet the Signer Avvocato, rich,
kindly, humane to his tenants, open-
handed as the day, ought to have been well
able to keep his own against any other,
let him be who he might, had he had
the spirit to do so. For, if less popular
than his father and he was perhaps too
much of a gentleman to be equally so
on the other hand he was more looked
up to, held in especial reverence on
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Hocks.
15
account of his legal knowledge, which he
ever willingly and gratuitously placed
at the service of those who came to
consult him. Illiterate people are apt
to make much of a man who under-
stands everything rekting to meum et
tuum, and holds in his hand the guiding
thread of the intricate labyrinth called
kw. But Hose's father was an indolent
man, and somewhat of an intellectual
sybarite. Strife was abhorrent to his
nature ; and, so long as he could undis-
turbedly enjoy his music (his predom-
inant passion was music), his gardens,
his daily gossip, he cared little or nothing
for what went on in the world. Let us
add, in justice to the Avvocato, that a
certain passage of his youth had placed
him, politically, in a false position, and
had contributed in a great degree to
keep him down in after life. The fact
is, he had been a Costipato. The sym-
pathizers with constitutional principles
were derisively styled Costipati by the
adverse party. When, in 1821, a liberal
constitution became for a moment the
kw of the knd, the Signer Avvocato,
then a young man under thirty, had, in
his father's absence, illuminated the
palace from roof to basement. This
public sign of adhesion to an order of
things shortly after abolished proved a
wasp's nest to both father and son.
Signer Pietro had difficulty enough to
clear himself of any participation in the
offence. His son, to avoid being arrested,
had no alternative but to quit Piedmont
and take refuge at Geneva. His exile
however ksted only a year ; thanks to
his father's interest with influential per-
sonages at Turin, he could without risk
return home at the expiration of that
period. A fear however of being called
to account for his unlucky demonstra-
tion of opinion had preyed on him ever
since. That a man so clearly designed
by nature to follow and not to lead should
awake one fine morning and find him-
self mayor of Rumelli, captain of the
national guard (that was to be), and the
official leader of the constitutional party
in the village, was certainly not one of
the least extraordinary tricks of that
extraordinary year 1848.
Leaving the path of partial reform
in which it had been for some time
creeping, Piedmont, at the bidding of
Charles Albert, began to walk frankly
and firmly in the high road of represen-
tative institutions ; and one of the first
acts of the new government had been to
pkce at the head of municipalities new
men known for their attachment to
liberty. The Signer Awocato's wealth,
local influence, and political antecedents
naturally marked him out to the min-
ister as the most eligible choice that
could be made for Rumelli The newly
elected mayor would have gladly de-
clined the honours heaped on him, had
he dared ; but on one side was the fear
of offending the powers that be, and on
the other were Don Natale's persuasions
and incitements to acceptance. In the
end, the Signer Avvocato donned the
authority offered to him, though still
much against the grain. !Not that his
self-love was not mightily tickled, or that
he was not a liberal at heart. Few had
more appkuded in petto than he had
the progressive march of the govern-
ment, and the grant of a free consti-
tution. It was the national tendency of
the movement that made him uneasy; and
besides, the attitude of Austria was far
from agreeable, and .... in short,
look where he would, he saw breakers
ahead. These and simikr misgivings
caused him to bear his new honours
meekly, nay humbly, with the concilia-
tory manner of one not at all certain he
may not be called on, at no distant time,
to answer for himself before some ini-
mical tribunal
The Marquis was smitten to the heart
by what he called the desertion of the
Government to the enemy ; and, as he
measured at a glance all the ground lost
to the castle, and consequently gained by
the pakce, by this change of men and
measures, no wonder he inwardly con-
signed to all the devils the Government,
the Statute, and the new mayor of
KumellL But, the more bitterly he felt,
the more carefully he disguised his
rancour under a great assumption of
equanimity ; above all, he solemnly dis-
avowed all intention of opposition. He
16
Washington during the War.
confessed lie was not a partisan of par-
liamentary institutions ; God did not
govern the universe by means of two
Houses of Parliament as far as he had
ever heard, at least ; however, he would
abide by the result of the experiment ; if
it were successful, so much the better for
all parties ! In the mean time, as he was,
above and before all other considera-
tions, a faithful subject, neutrality should
be his watchword ! There were not many,
indeed, in or out of Rumelli, who courted
the perilous honour of being the first to
attack an unknown creature, that might
bite, and kick, and scratch, for anything
any one knew. It was only at a later
period, when her peaceful and gentle
nature had been ascertained beyond a
doubt, that the opponents of Liberty
showed fight, when even boys thrust at
her with their rattles and wooden swords.
Our acquaintance, the rector of the
parish, as indeed the great majority of
the clergy throughout the land, frankly
adhered to a new order of things, which
the popular writings of one of their cleri-
cal brethren, the Abbe Gioberti, had so
much contributed to bring about, and
which furthermore had the sanction of
the Head of the Church. To listen to
them, was to hear it affirmed that a new
era had dawned, that liberty and religion
were at last married. Pity that the
honeymoon had not been of longer
duration ! Apart the incoming and the
outgoing members of the municipal coun-
cil the latter re-actionists, the former
constitutionalists by the force of circum-
stances the bulk of our small rural com-
munity only opened their eyes and ears
very wide, and waited for some tangible
sign by which to form their estimate of
the changes accomplishing. But, when
this sign came, in the shape of war, and
in a summons to the men on the reserve
to join their regiments (men, be it
understood, liable by the last conscrip-
tion to be called into active service if
required), when rumours of increased
taxation became rife, the good folks of
Rumelli began to protrude their lips in
ominous fashion, and augur ill of the
Statute. Fortunately their devotion to
the king knew no bounds, and their
loyalty to his person served as a counter-
poise to their dissatisfaction with the
Statuto. What his Majesty had willed,
what his Majesty had undertaken, must
be right ! This view of matters was
eventually strengthened by the news
from the camp, for the most part favour-
able. Such, then, the posture of affairs,
such the state of men's minds in Ru-
inelli on the eve of the fte of St. Urban,
the patron of the village. Such the
conditions under which the double
entertainment given on that day at the
castle and at the palace (representatives
for the nonce of opposite principles),
assumed the importance of a political
demonstration.
To be continued.
WASHINGTON DURING THE WAR.
BY OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT IN AMERICA.
IN a book too clever to have been so
soon forgotten, I remember, years ago,
meeting with a passage which at the
time struck me strangely. I speak of
the " Travels of a Roving Englishman."
The recollection of the words has passed
from me ; but the sense of the passage
was after this fashion : The writer told
you how he stood one day at the latticed
window of a high gable-roofed house,
looking out upon the lime-shadowed
market-place of a great city in the fair
German land, when the great, glorious
music of an Austrian band came crashing
by ; and how, as the music died away,
and was followed by the dull, heavy
tramp of the soldiers' feet, the thought
passed across him that this grand music
might have much to answer for in the
nation's historv ; that the strains of
Washington during the War.
17
glory and pomp and war, which the
band seemed to send thrilling through
you, were such as no people could listen
to, daily, without danger.
At the present time I recall this pas-
sage often. From the window, where I
am writing now, I look out upon the
mile-long Pennsylvania Avenue, leading
from the broad Potomac river, by the
marble palace of the Presidents, up to
the snow-white Capitol ; and, ever and
anon, as I write, I am called to the win-
dow by the sound of some military
band, as regiment after regiment conies
marching by. The Germans have brought
with them into their new fatherland the
instinct of music, and the bands are
line ones, above the average of those of
a French or English marching regiment.
The tunes are mostly those well known
to us across the water ; for the war has
brought out no war-inspired melody, and
the quaint, half grotesque, half passion-
stirring air of " John Brown's body lies
a-mouldering in the grave," is still under
martial interdict. But yet, be the tunes
what they may, the drums and fifes and
trumpets rouse the same heart-throbs as
in the old world, and teach the same
lessons of glory, and pomp, and war.
Can this teaching fail to work ? is the
question that I ask myself daily as
yet, without an answer.
Surely no nation in the world has
ever gone through such a baptism of
war as the people of the United States
have passed through in one short year's
time. With the men of the Eevolution,
the memories of the revolutionary wars
had died out. Two generations had
grown up and passed away, to whom war
was little more than a name. A year
ago there were not more than twelve
thousand soldiers in a country of thirty-
one millions. Once in four years, on
the 4th of March, two or three thousand
troops were collected in Washington to
add to the pomp of the Presidential
inauguration, and this was the one mili-
tary pageant the country had to boast of.
Now all that is changed. Our news-
papers at home have been so long telling
us what the North could "not" do how
it could not fight, nor raise money, nor
No. 31. VOL. vi.
conquer the South that they seem to me
to have quite forgotten to tell us what
the North " has " done. You need not
go further than my window to see the
working of the war. As the bands pass
out of hearing, you can watch the troops
as they come marching by. Whether
they are regulars or volunteers it is hard
for the unprofessional critic to discern,
for all are clad alike in the same dull
grey-blue overcoats; and most of the
regular regiments are filled with such
raw recruits that the difference between
volunteer and regular is not an
obvious one. Of course it is easy
enough to pick faults in the aspect of
the troops. As the regiment marches,
or rather wades, through the thick slush
and mud, you will observe many inaccu-
racies of military attire. One man has
his trousers rolled up almost to his
knees ; another has them tucked inside
his boots ; and a third has one leg of
his trousers hanging down, and the other
rolled tightly up. And (pardon the
enormity) I have seen, myself, an officer
with his shoulder-knots sewed on to a
common plain frock-coat. Then, too,
there is a slouching gait about the men,
not soldier-like to our eyes. They will
turn their heads round when on parade,
with an indifference to rule which would
make an old drill-sergeant's hair turn
grey with sorrow. There is an absence
also of precision in the march ; the men
keep in step, but you always wonder
how they manage to do so. The system
of march, it is true, is copied rather
from the French than the English
fashion ; but still it is something very
different from the orderly disorder of a
Zouave march. That all these, and a
score of other irregularities, are faults,
no one an American least of all will
deny ; but there are two sides to the
picture. There is no physical dege-
neracy about a race which can produce
such regiments as these.
Men of high stature and burly frames
are rare, except in the Kentucky regi-
ments ; but, on the other hand, small
stunted men are unknown. I have seen
the armies of most European countries,
and I have no hesitation in saying that,
c
18
Washington during the War.
as far as the raw material of the rank
and file is concerned, the American
army is the finest. The officers are,
undoubtedly, the weak point. They
have not the military air, the self-
possession, which long habit of com-
mand alone can give ; bnt they are
active, energetic, and constantly with
their men. Wonderfully well equipped,
too, are both officers and men. Their
clothing is substantial and easy-fitting ;
their arms are good; and their accoutre-
ments are as perfect as money can pur-
chase. It is remarkable how rapidly
the new recruits fall into the habits of
military service. I have seen a Penn-
sylvanian regiment, raised chiefly from
the mechanics of Philadelphia, which,
six weeks after its formation, was equal
to the average of our best-trained volun-
teer corps, as far as marching and drill-
exercise went. Indeed, I have often
asked myself what it is which makes
the American volunteer troops look, as
a rule, so much more soldier-like than
our own. I suppose the reason is that
here there is actual war, and at home
there was at most only a parade. I
have no doubt, any more than that I
am writing at this moment, that, in the
event of civil war or invasion, England
would raise a million volunteers, as
rapidly (more rapidly she could not) as
America has done, and that, when fight-
ing had once began, there would only
be too much of earnestness about our
soldiering ; but at present it is no want
of patriotism to say that the American
volunteers strike one as more soldier-
like than our own. There is no playing
at soldiering here ; no gaudy uniforms
or crack companies ; no distinction of
classes. From every part of the North
from the ports of New York and Bos-
ton, from the homesteads of New
England, from the factories of Phila-
delphia, from the shores of the great
lakes, from the Mississippi valley, and
from the far-away Texan prairies these
men have come to fight for the Union.
It is idle to talk of their being attracted
by the pay alone. Large as it is, the
pay of thirteen dollars a month is only
two dollars more than the ordinary pay
of privates in the United States army
during former times. Thirteen shillings
a week is poor pay for a labouring man
in this country, even with board. The
bulk of these volunteers are men who
have given up better situations in order
to enlist, and who have families to sup-
port at home ; and for such men the
pay is not inadequate. Of course, wher-
ever there is an army, the scum of the
population will always be gathered
together ; but the average " morale "
and character of the vast army round
Washington is extremely good. There
is little drunkenness, and less brawling
about the streets than if a single Eng-
lish militia regiment had been quar-
tered here. The number of papers read
by the common soldiers, and the num-
ber of letters which they write, is what
you would expect from an army where
every man, with the exception of a few
foreigners, can read and write ; and the
ministers, who go among them to preach
on Sundays, find large and attentive
audiences.
But, while I have been writing this
digression, the troops have marched out
of sight, towards the South. Still I
have not long to wait till the sound of
music tells me that another regiment is
marching past. All day, and every day,
the scene before me is one of war. I
see passing before my windows an end-
less military panorama. Sometimes it
is a line of artillery, struggling and
floundering onwards through the mud.
Sometimes it is a company of Texan
cavalry, rattling past, with the jingle
of their belts and spurs. Sometimes it
is a long train of suttlers' waggons,
ambulance vans, or forage carts, drawn
by the shaggy Pennsylvanian mules.
Orderlies innumerable gallop up and
down ; patrols without end pass along
the pavements ; and at every window,
and door-step, and street corner, you see
soldiers standing. You must go far
away from Washington to leave the war
behind you. If you go up to any high
point in the city, whence you can look
over the surrounding country, every hill-
side seems covered with camps. The
white tents catch your eye on every
Washington during the War.
19
side; and across the river, where the
thick brushwood obscures the prospect,
the great army of the Potomac stretches
miles away to the advance posts of the
Confederates, south of the far-famed
Manassas. The numbers are so vast here,
it is hard to realize them. Fifty thousand
men are said to have been transported
down the river within the last few days,
and yet the town and neighbourhood still
swarm with troops and camps, as it
seems, undiminished in number. And
here, remember, you see only one por-
tion of the gigantic army. Along a
line of two thousand miles or so, from
here down to the New Mexico, there
are armies fighting their way southwards.
At Fortress Monroe, Ship Island, Mobile,
and at every point accessible along the
Atlantic coast, expeditions, numbered by
tens of thousands, are stationed, waiting
for the signal to advance.
Try to realize all this, and then pic-
ture ft) yourself what the effect of all
this, seen in fact, and not by feeble de-
scription, must be upon a nation unused
to war. The wonder to me is, that the
American nation are not more intoxi-
cated with the consciousness of their
new-born strength. Still, the military
passion, the lust of war, is a plant of
rapid growth ; and that, when the war
is over, and the rebellion is suppressed,
this people will lay down their arms
and return to the arts of peace, is a
thing more to be hoped for than
expected. I see that a writer in
a recent English periodical talks of
the " essentially blackguardly charac-
ter " of the whole American war, and,
amidst some grave discussion about the
essence of a gentleman, pauses to point
a pretty paragraph by a sneer at the
whole Northern army. Children play
with lucifer matches amongst powder
barrels j and probably the class of writers
of whom this gentleman is a type have
not the faintest notion that by words
like these they are sowing the seeds of
war. Still, for the credit of their own
country, I wish* they would remember
that power, and strength, and will, are
never " essentially blackguardly," and,
that there is something in an army of a
million men worth thinking about as
well as sneering at.
I am wandering, I see, into political
discussion, an error I wish to avoid.
But really here, where nobody talks or
thinks, or, I believe, dreams of anything
but politics, it is difficult not to write
about politics and nothing else. Eefore,
however, I am drawn into the vortex
utterly, as I know I shall be before
this paper is ended, I must record my
impressions of Congress. In its exter-
nal shape, as a matter of bricks and
mortar, it is a constant wonder to me
that the Houses of Congress are not
grander than they are. The position,
design, and material of the Capitol are
all magnificent ; and yet, somehow or
other, it is not, to me at any rate, impres-
sive. The grand half finished front
fagade is turned away from the city,
owing to the fact that the building was
planned before the town was built, and
that, from a characteristic English quar-
rel between the State and a private
landowner, the town was in reality
raised on the side not destined for it.
So, as a matter of fact, nobody enters, or
ever will enter, by the front entrance,
except to see the building. The com-
pletion of the Capitol is stopped for the
present, because funds are short, and
the architect is away at the war. The
whole building has an untidy, unfinished
air. The immense iron dome, which
will vie in height with that of St. Peter's,
is still a confused mass of beams and
girders, surmounted by a crane, omi-
nously resembling its brother of Cologne
Cathedral. Blocks of unhewn marble
lie on every side, scattered about the
grounds ; the niches are still without
their statues, and the great entrance
without its doors ; while, in many places,
the red-brick walls are without their
marble facings. Still, even when the
building is completed, I think the effect
inside will always be disappointing.
Vast as the building is, there is a want
of great spaces in it, and you wander
through endless passages, and richly
roofed corridors, and splendid staircases,
without coming across one point of
view which leaves a strong definite
c2
20
Washington during the War.
impression on your mind There is, too,
a characteristic absence of artistic pro-
priety about the whole arrangements.
The great centre circular hall is blocked
up with a scaffolding, on which a num-
ber of pictures of little intrinsic merit
are exposed. Amongst them, by the way,
there used to be a picture of President
Buchanan ; but, when the troops were
quartered here last summer, for the
defence of the Capitol, the one sole
injury they did was to destroy the
portrait of the late President by squirt-
ing tobacco juice at it. "And a vile
indignity too, sir," said an abolitionist,
who told me the story, "that was for the
tobacco juice." Again, in the main
passages, there are fruit-stalls allowed
to stand, where apples and nuts and
ginger-beer are sold. In another hall
there is a stand for the sale of guide-
books and tokens ; and, further on, there
is a little bazaar of Indian curiosities.
In spite of these trifling defects, the
arrangements of the building are won-
derfully comfortable, and the rooms and
passages, though less gorgeous than
those of our own Houses of Parliament,
are, I think, really more comfortable
and luxurious. There is one great
charm too about the building that, from
its shape and its elevated position, every
room faces to the light, and commands
most lovely views of the surrounding
country.
With an Englishman's feelings about
the relative importance of the two
Houses of Parliament, my first visit was
to the House of Representatives. The
facility of access, to any one who recol-
lects the dreary waiting in the gallery
of our House with a member's order,
and the still more dreary discomfort
when at last you make your way into
the close inconvenient pen, is enough to
put you in good humour. Without any
one to stop you, or ask you your
business, you go up the long staircases,
and pass through folding doors into the
public gallery, where I should think
there must be room for some thousand
persons, and where you sit as luxuri-
ously, on stuffed benches with padded
backs, as if you were a favoured inmate
of our Speaker's gallery. It is true the
company you find around you, like that
in all public places of resort in America,
is mixed in its composition. Irish
workmen with ragged coats will be
sitting next New York dandies in elabo-
rate morning costume ; and, by the side
of officers in the brightest of uniforms,
you will see common soldiers in their
grey serge uniforms, with the roughest of
beards and the muddiest of boots. If
you are fastidious, however, you can
easily, supposing there is no great crowd
in the house, get admission to the
Ladies' gallery, where you have choicer
company and a better view of the
speakers. The room is oblong in shape,,
rather low in height for architectural
effect, and surrounded with a gallery
supported by iron pillars. With the
exception of two small compartments-
set apart for the press and diplomatic
body, the whole of this gallery is open
to the public. In the body of the
house, the seats of the members, with
desks before each of them, are arranged
in semi-circular rows round the raised
platform on which the speaker's chair is
placed, and in front of which the clerks
of the house sit. The defect of the
arrangement, as far as the public is con-
cerned, is that, as the speakers turn
towards the chair in speaking, it is
difficult to get a front view of their
faces, and it is by no means an easy thing
to follow a speaker whose back is
turned towards you. However, unless
the speaker is in a centre seat of the
semi-circle, you can always get a fair
view of him by changing your seat from
one part of the long galleries to another,
though, at the same time, the constant
buzz of conversation amongst the mem-
bers makes it difficult to hear a speaker
not near the place where you are
seated.
One's first impression is that there is
a want of life about the whole concern
compared with our House of Commons.
In the old days, and before the secession,
it was a matter of custom that the De-
mocratic members sat on the right of
the chair, and the Opposition, Whig,
Know-nothing, or Republican, on the
Washington during the War.
21
left. Since the Southern democrats
seceded, and the old parties were all
merged more or less in the party which
supports the Government and the Union,
this custom has fallen into abeyance ;
the seats have been extended to cover
the spaces left empty by the members of
the seceding states ; and members sit in
any part of the hall where their number
may happen to fall, without much re-
gard to party. This absence of any line
of division between the members, and
the fact that there is never any applause
permitted, gives a dull air to the house.
The scene looks like a lecture-room
where the class is paying no attention
to the lecture. Some of the members,
not many, have their legs sprawling
over the desks ; some are sleeping in
their chairs ; and the majority are writ-
ing, or talking in low voices to their
neighbours. The members have their
hats off, and are, for the most part,
dressed in the black suits Americans
affect so much. The majority are men
advanced in life. Young, boyish legis-
lators, and fashionably-dressed repre-
sentatives, are things unknown here.
The house seems composed of business
men, slightly bored at the waste of
time. Thus the ordinary demeanour of
the house is more quiet, if not more
dignified, than that of our Parliament.
The only distinct sound which interrupts
the speaker's voice is the constant clap,
clap, of the members' hands, as they
summon the boy-pages to run on errands.
These boys are, indeed, an institution of
the place. They come and go with won-
derful quickness ; and, when nobody
calls them, with that "sans gne" pecu-
liar to all American servants, they sit
upon the steps of the speaker's platform,
or perch themselves in any member's
seat that happens to be vacant.
With regard to the merit of the
oratory, it is difficult to judge. There
are no speakers of great eminence in
either house this session, and there has
been no debate since I have been here
of especial interest. In truth, a debate
in one sense of the word is not known
here. There being no ministry to turn
out or, rather, there being a ministry
which has no direct connexion with the
debates, and which cannot be turned
out the peculiar interest which at-
taches to a great debate with us, where
the fate of an administration depends on
the issue, is altogether wanting. Speeches
are delivered to be printed and circu-
lated amongst constituents rather than
to influence the audience to which they
are addressed ; and, indeed, the news-
paper reports of the speeches are so
meagre that any member who wishes
for a full report is obliged to have his
speech reprinted. Probably in conse-
quence of this, the custom of reading
one's speech, or referring constantly to
notes, is very common, and mars the
eifect of the discussions. There is an
amount, too, of unimpressive gesticula-
tion which becomes monotonous. I saw
one member who, during a speech of an
hour, kept advancing and retreating up
an open space of some twelve feet in
length, like the Polar bear at the
Eegent's Park Gardens; another, who
always sidled from one desk to another ;
and a third, who kept turning like a
teetotum towards every part of the
house in turn. Still the one remarkable
feature about the debates is the marvel-
lous fluency of the speakers. Everybody
seems to have the gift of speaking, the
power of stringing words together with-
out a hitch. I have never yet heard
an American member of either house
either stutter, or hem-and-haw, as nine-
teen-twentieths of our speakers do, in
want of a word. And this is not because
the speeches are prepared beforehand.
I have constantly heard members inter-
rupted in their speeches, and questions
put to them ; yet they always reply and
break the thread of their argument with
the same perfect self-possession and co-
piousness of words. If I have not
heard anything yet in the way of oratory
that rose to eloquence, I certainly never
heard so much average good speaking in
any English assembly.
The Senate, though probably the more
important of the two bodies, is not so
interesting to a stranger. In shape and
arrangement the building is the counter-
part of the Hall of the Representatives,
22
Washington during the War.
only smaller. With so small a number of
members at its fullest diminished, as it
is now, by the absence of the seceding se-
nators and with the widely-parted rows
of arm-chairs, fronted by the small ma-
nogany tables the aspect of the Senate
is not a lively one. It seems impossible
that, with such an audience, any orator
could work himself into a passion ; and
the whole look of the scene is so staid
and decorous that it is hard to realize
the stormy, passionate discussions which
have taken place within these walls. In
the chair is Mr. Hamlin, the Vice-Presi-
dent of the United States, a portly reso-
lute-looking man, who, if (and there
are many things more impossible) he
should be called to fill the Presidential
Office, will fill it, as far as manner and
appearance go, far better than his pre-
decessor. There is no limit, as in the
lower house, to the length of senatorial
speeches ; and a senator who has the
floor of the house is considered to have
possession of it pretty well for the sit-
ting. A Mr. Willey, of Virginia, was
reading, when I was last there, a speech
of portentous length to empty benches
and a crowded gallery. If he were not
constantly trying to jerk his arm out of
the socket, whenever he is not fumbling
amongst his papers, his speeches would
be more impressive. The speech was on
the abolition of slavery in the Columbia
district, but when I was present he had
wandered far away into the general ques-
tion of emancipation. Like all pro-
slavery orators, he proved too much.
The slaves have not the slightest desire
to be free ; and then they are on the eve
of a servile insurrection ! Emancipation
will ruin the whites, because black labour
will drive white out of the field ; and it
will destroy the blacks, because they
will not work, and must therefore starve !
And so on. However, the speech was
well written, and will, doubtless, read
well. I noted in the corner General
Jem Lane, of Kansas, the bugbear of the
Saturday Review; and Wade, of Ohio,
the strongest opponent of the Govern-
ment, who tells any one he meets "that, if
there was no officer in the army of higher
rank than a sub-lieutenant, the rebellion
would be suppressed in a month ; " and
Wilson, who ten years ago was a work-
ing shoemaker; and Sunmer, of whom
more anon.
When Mr. Willey had concluded his
oration, the discussion dropped, and the
house went into executive session. To
me it has been a surprise to learn how
very much of the business of both houses
is conducted secretly. On all executive
matters that is, on questions of the ap-
pointment or dismissal of public officials,
etc. the discussions are conducted with
closed doors. Then the real business of
both houses, of a deliberative character,
is conducted in the committee rooms,
where no strangers or reporters are ad-
mitted. Every bill must be referred,
before discussion, to the standing com-
mittee appointed to investigate the class
of subjects on which legislation is pro-
posed ; and, practically, the frame-work
and substance of every bill is regulated
in the committee rooms, not in the open
house. The party in power in either
house manages the selection of the com-
mittees, so that one of tlie party is
always chairman, and the majority of
the members should belong to their own
side. It is in the committee rooms that
the real work is done ; and members go
into the house, as I heard a leading
senator say, chiefly to write their letters.
With all this, with the early hours
(generally from noon to five), with the
fresh air and easy seats, the position of
a member of Congress must be, to niy
mind, a more comfortable one than that
of an English M.P., not to mention the
600. a year of salary, with the mileage,
stationery, and franking perquisites.
But, doubtless, you will want to hear
my impressions of the leading men here,
whose names have been of late so much
before our eyes. Let me speak, then, of
those I have had some opportunity of
judging of personally.
j$o man, we all know, is a hero to his
valet ; and thus, whatever there may be
of heroic amongst American statesmen
is hard to discern, from the proximity at
which you view them. American ma-
jesty has no externals to be stripped of,
and you see her public men al \vays en
Washington dutincj the War.
23
deshabille. So one's reminiscences are
of the nature of photographs, not of por-
traits ; and, possibly, the facility with
which ono catches the outoide aspect
destroys the correctness of one's impres-
sion as to the real character. Still, with
this reservation, I will give you my im-
pressions of some men of note here for
what they may be worth.
First, then, of the President. To say
that he is ugly, is nothing ; to add that
his figure is grotesque, is to convey no
adequate impression. Fancy a man six
foot high, and thin out of proportion ;
with long bony arms and legs, which
somehow seem to be always in the way ;
with great rugged furrowed hands, which
grasp you like a vice when shaking
yours ; with a long scraggy neck, and a
chest too narrow for the great arms at
its side. Add to this figure a head,
cocoa-nut-shaped and somewhat too
small for such a stature, covered with
rough, uncombed and unconibable hair,
that stands out in every direction at
once ; a face furrowed, wrinkled, and
indented, as though it had been scarred
by vitriol ; a high narrow forehead, and,
sunk deep beneath bushy eyebrows ; two
bright, somewhat dreamy eyes, that seem
to gaze through you without looking at
you; a few irregular blotches of black
bristly hair, in the place where beard
and whiskers ought to grow; a close-set,
thin-lipped, stern mouth, with two rows
of large white teeth, and a nose and ears
which have been taken by mistake from
a head of twice the size. Clothe this
figure, then, in a long, tight, badly-fitting
suit of black, creased, soiled, and puck-
ered up at every, salient point of the
figure (and every point of this figure is
salient) ; put on large ill-fi.tting boots,
gloves too long for the long bony fingers,
and a fluffy hat, covered to the top with
dusty puny crape ; and then add to
all this an air of strength, physical as
well as moral, and a strange look of dig-
nity coupled with all this grotesqueness ;
and you will have the impression left
upon me by Abraham Lincoln.
On the occasion when I had the
honour of meeting the President, the
company was a small one, with most of
whom he was personally acquainted.
I have no doubt, therefore, that he was
as much at his ease as usual. There
was a look of depression about his face,
which, I am told by those who see him
daily, was habitual to him even before
his child's death. It was strange to
me to witness the perfect terms of
equality on which he appeared to be
with everybody. Occasionally some of
his interlocutors called him " Mr. Presi-
dent," but the habit was to address him
simply as '"Sir." It was not, indeed,
till I was introduced to him, that I was
aware that the President was one of
the company. He talked little, and
seemed to prefer others talking to him
to talking himself ; but, when he spoke,
his remarks were always shrewd and
sensible. You would never say he was
a gentleman ; you would still less say
he was not one. There are some women
about whom no one ever thinks in
connexion with beauty one way or the
other ; and there are men to whom the
epithet of gentleman-like or ungentle-
man-like appears utterly incongruous ;
and of such Mr. Lincoln is one. Still
there is about him an utter absence of
pretension, and an evident desire to be
courteous to everybody, which is the
essence, if not the outward form, of
good breeding. There is a softness, too,
about his smile, and a sparkle of dry
humour about his eye, which redeem
the expression of his face, and remind
me more of the late Dr. Arnold, as a
child's recollection recalls him, than of
any face I can call to mind.
The conversation, like that of all
American official men I have met with,
was unrestrained in the presence of
strangers, to a degree perfectly astonish-
ing. Any remarks that I heard made,
as to the present state of affairs, I do
not feel at liberty to repeat, though
really every public man here appears
not only to live in a glass house, but in
a reverberating gallery, and to be abso-
lutely indifferent as to who sees or hears
him. There are a few u Lincolniana,"
however, which I may fairly quote, and
which will show the style of his con-
versation. Some of the party began
Washington daring the War.
smoking, and our host remarked, laugh-
ingly, " The President has got no vices :
he neither smokes nor drinks." " That
is a doubtful compliment," answered
the President ; " I recollect once being
outside a stage in Illinois, and a man
sitting by me offered me a cigar. I
told him I had no vices. He said
nothing, smoked for some time, and
then grunted out, 'It's my experience
that folks who have no vices have
plaguy few virtues.' " Again, a
gentleman present was telling how a
friend of his had been driven away
from New Orleans as a Unionist, and
how, on his expulsion, when he asked
to see the writ by which he was ex-
pelled, the deputation which called on
him told him that the government had
; made up their minds to do nothing
illegal, and so they had issued no illegal
writs, and simply meant to make him
go of his own free will. " Well," said
Mr. Lincoln, "that reminds me of an
hotel-keeper down at St. Louis, who
boasted that he never had a death in
his hotel ; and no more he had, for
whenever a guest was dying in his
house he carried him out to die in
the street." At another time the
conversation turned upon the discus-
. sions as to the Missouri compromise,
and elicited the following quaint remark
from the President. " It used to amuse
me some (sic) to find that the slave-
holders wanted more territory, because
they had not room enough for their
slaves, and yet they complained of
not having the slave-trade, because
they wanted more slaves for their
room."
Stories such as these read dull enough
in print ; but, unless you could give also
the dry chuckle with which they are
accompanied, and the gleam in the
speaker's eye, as, with the action habitual
to him, he rubs his hand down the side
of his long leg, you must fail in con-
veying a true impression of their quaint
humour. This sort of Socratic illustra-
tion is his usual form of conversation
amongst strangers ; but, I believe, in his
private life he is a man of few words,
and those simple ones. Let me close
my description witli one remark he
made of a more reflective character, and
which, though not perhaps of great
value in itself, is curious as coming
from a man who has achieved distinc-
tion. Speaking of the fluency of
American orators, he said, " It is very
common in this country to find great
facility of expression, and less com-
mon to find great lucidity of thought.
The combination of the two in one
person is very uncommon ; but, when-
ever you do find it, you have a great
man."
Of Mr. Seward, I can speak more
freely, from the fact that at the present
day he does not stand high in popular
favour. After all, explain it as you will,
the beau role in the " Trent affair "
was not that of the United States, and
the Americans are too sharp a people to
be able long to delude themselves with
the flattering unction that they had won
a great diplomatic victory. Hence, the
Secretary of State has suffered, perhaps
unjustly, as the scapegoat of the national
humiliation. Mr. Stanton has taken
his place in the favour of the people,
and, it is rumoured, of the President.
It is to the setting then, and not to the
rising sun, that I wish to do justice.
My first thought, at meeting Mr. Seward,
was one of wonder that so small a man
should have been near creating a war
between two great nations. A man, I
should think, under five feet in height,
and of some sixty years in age ; small-
made, with small delicate hands and
feet, and a small wiry body, scanty snow-
white hair, deep-set clear grey eyes, a
face perfectly clean-shaved, and a smooth
colourless skin of a sort of parchment
texture ! Such were the outward features
that struck me at once. He was in his
office when first I saw him, dressed in
black, with'his waistcoat half unbuttoned,
one leg over the side of his arm-chair,
and a cigar stuck between his lips.
Barring the cigar and the attitude, I
should have taken him for a shrewd
well-to-do attorney, waiting to learn a
new client's business. You are at your
ease with him at once. There is a
frankness and bcmhommie about his
Washington during the War.
25
manner, which renders it to my mind a
very pleasant one. In our English
phrase, Mr. Seward is good company.
A good cigar, a good glass of wine, and a
good story, even if it is tant soitpeu risque,
are pleasures which he obviously enjoys
keenly. Still, a glance at that spare
hard-knit frame, and that clear bright
eye, shows you that no pleasure, however
keenly appreciated, has been indulged
into excess throughout his long laborious
career. And, more than that, no one
who has had the pleasure of seeing him
amongst his own family can doubt about
the kindliness of his disposition. It is
equally impossible to talk much with
him without perceiving that he is a
man of remarkable ability. He has
read much, especially of modern litera-
ture travelled much, and seen much of
the world of man as well as that of
books. His political principles seem to
me drawn from the old Whig school of
the bygone Edinburgh Review days, and
you can trace easily the influence which
the teaching of Brougham and Jeffreys
and Sidney Smith have had upon his
mind. What strikes me most in con-
versation with him is a largeness of
view very rare amongst the American
politicians. The relative position of
America with regard to Europe, and
the future of his country, are matters
he can discuss with sense as well as
patriotism. That his intellect is prac-
tical rather than philosophical, and
that he is unduly impatient of abstract
theories, I am inclined to suspect. In
other words, he is a man of action
rather than of thought a politician, not
a reformer. It was by sheer vigour of
mind and force of will that he acquired
his pre-eminence in the ministry. Accord-
ing to the theory of the American con-
stitution there is no such a thing as a
ministry, and the ministers are only
heads of departments. One department
is equal to another, and the secretary at
the head of any department has no
power to issue orders to any other.
When the insurrection broke out, and
every department was in disorder, Mr.
Seward virtually assumed a temporary
premiership. His colleagues yielded,
because they felt the need of one direc-
ting head, or had not strength to resist
his superior energy. When the pressure
of danger was removed, the other de-
partments threw off the supremacy of
the Department of State'; and it was only
by his energy that Mr. Seward' held his
place after the reaction. It is reported
that, not long ago, some influential
politicians requested the President to
remove Mr. Seward on the ground of
inconipetency, to which application the
answer was made, that a man who
worked three times as many hours, and
did three times as much in one hour,
as any of his colleagues, could hardly
be incompetent, whatever else might
be his failings.
As to Mr. Sumner, he is too well
known in Europe to need much descrip-
tion. Many of my readers are acquaint-
ed doubtless with that great sturdy
English-looking figure, with the broad
massive forehead, over which the rich
mass of nut-brown hair, streaked here
and there with a line of grey, hangs
loosely, with the deep blue eyes, and
the strangely winning smile, half bright,
half full of sadness. He is a man
whom you would notice amongst other
men, and whom, not knowing him, you
would turn round to look at as he passed
by you. Sitting in his place in the
Senate, leaning backwards in his chair,
with his head stooping slightly over
that great broad chest, and his hands
resting upon his crossed legs, he looks,
in dress and attitude and air, the very
model of an English country gentleman.
A child would ask him the time in the
streets, and a woman, I think, would
come to him unbidden for protection.
You can read in that worn face of his,
old before its time, the traces of a life-
long struggle, of disappointment and
hope deferred, of ceaseless obloquy and
cruel wrong. Such a life-training as this
is a bad one for any man, and it has left
its brand on the senator for Massachu-
setts. There are wrongs which the best
of men forgive without forgetting ; and,
since Brooks's brutal assault upon him,
men say that they can mark a change in
Charles Sumner. He is more bitter in
26
Washington during the War.
denunciation, less tolerant of opposition,
just rather than merciful. Be it so. It
is not with soft words or gentle answers
that men fight as Sunnier has fought
against cruelty and wrong.
Probably the most striking-looking
of the ministers is Mr. Chase, the
Secretary for the Treasury. His head
would be a treasure to any sculptor, as
a model of benevolence. His lofty,
spacious forehead, his fresh smooth-
shaved countenance, his portly figure,
and his pleasant kindly smile, all seem
to mark the model benevolent old man,
created to be the victim and providence
of street-beggars. One wonders how so
kind-looking a man can find it in his
heart to tax any body ; and I believe
this much is true, that a man of less
ability and sterner mould would have
made a better financier than Mr. Chase
has proved. Mr. Blab?, though a Mary-
land man, is the only one of the minis-
ters, who has what we consider the
characteristic Yankee type of face, the
high cheek-bones, sallow complexion,
and long straight hair. Of Mr.
Gideon Welles, the Secretary for the
Navy, who expressed unfortunate ap-
proval of Captain Wilkes, there is little
to be said, except that he wears a long
white beard and a stupendous white wig,
which cause him to look like the stock
grandfather in a genteel comedy, and
that there is such an air of ponderous
deliberation about his face that you
wonder whether he has ever clearly
realized, in so short a time as one year,
that America is in a state of civil war.
With this I must close my portrait
gallery for the present. Americans
complain constantly that we know
nothing of their public men. The com-
plaint is hardly a fair one, as there are
barely half-a-dozen English statesmen to
whom Americans attach the slightest
individuality, and the names of our
minor celebrities, such as Lowe or
Layard, would convey as little to Ameri-
can ears as those of Colfax or Conkling
would do to us. It is, therefore, useless
for me to tell you whether Senator
Kufus G. Doodle (Mo.) has black hair,
or whether the honourable JS'ero II.
Boodle (Va.) has red whiskers. Let me
only add, in parting with this subject,
that, having frequently had the pleasure
of meeting Mr. Caleb Gushing known,
and not altogether favourably, to the
English public as Attorney- General
under President Pierce' s administration
during the Frampton difficulty I found
him to be a man of extreme acuteness
and immense and varied reading, and
indeed one of the pleasantest compan-
ions whom it has been my fortune to'
meet with in life. From his connexion
with the old democratic party, and the
Secession leaders, he is out of favour
with the country and the Government,
at present ; but I am much mistaken if
a man of his power and ability does not,
before long, play a great part again in
public life.
In truth, there is one great cliarrn to
me about American society in general,
and Washington society in particular,
and that is the extraordinary facility
with which you make acquaintances.
If you are stopping in an hotel, in a
very short time you may know any
male inmate to speak to if you choose.
If you are talking to any casual acquaint-
ance, and any other casual acquaintance
of his comes up, he immediately, as a
matter of civility, introduces you to
each other, and your new acquaintance
introduces you to his, and so on, in-
definitely. Probably a stranger is more
freely introduced than a native ; but,
amongst Americans themselves, I have
observed that the same custom prevails
as a rule. The only objection to the
practice is, that, if you have not a keen
memory for faces, you find it hard to
remember, amongst the multitude of
your acquaintances, what names to
attach to what faces. In a similar,
though a less degree, there is much of
the same free readiness to make acquaint-
ance in society. Your friend's friends
are yours also, and you are franked,
morally speaking, from one house to
another ; so that such society as there
is in Washington you see readily and
pleasantly enough.
I say "such society as there is," because
at present there is but little of any kind
Washington during the War.
27
here. The immediate presence of the
war is, in itself, a great check to social
festivity, and the mourning in the White
House has stopped all official parties.
Besides, the absence of the Southern
families, who were the leaders in social
life here, has made a marked difference;
and during the first year of an adminis-
tration people are new to the place, and
somewhat shy of making acquaintance.
Moreover, the Lincoln Government
brought a perfect shoal of new faces
into Washington. In its early days it
was called the " Carpet-bag Administra-
tion," because the town was crammed
with place-hunters, whose whole luggage
was contained in a small carpet-bag,
which never left their hands, and on
which they were popularly supposed . to '
sleep at night. Indeed, there is a story
confidently told here, that one western
backwoodsman who was in search of a
place, after vain endeavours to see " Ho-
nest Abe," went up to the AVhite House
with a blanket under his arm, and an-
nounced his intention of sleeping in the
hall until he could get what he wanted.
After two days' squatting, the place re-
quested was given, and the squatter
decamped. Two-thirds, in fact, of the
people I meet here seem to be new to
the place, and still to feel themselves
strangers in it.
But, in addition to all this, even at
the most orderly of times, Washington
society must have a strangely watering-
place character. The city is an over-
grown watering-place. Everybody is a
bird of passage here. The diplomatic
" corps " is transitory by virtue of its
nature. The senators and members of
Congress, and ministers, are here for two,
four, possibly six sessions, as the case
may be ; and the fact of their being in
the House, or in office, now, is rather a
presumption than otherwise, that they
will not be so again when their term
expires. The clerks, officials, and Go-
vernment employes, are all, too, mere
lodgers. The force of necessity compels
each Administration to re-appoint a good
number of the subordinate officials, who
understand the business of the office ;
but, still, every official may be turned
out in four years, at the longest, and
most of them know that they probably
will be There are no commercial or
manufacturing interests at Washington
to induce merchants or capitalists to
settle here ; and there is nothing attrac-
tive about the place to make any one,
not brought here on business, fix on it
as a place of residence. With the
exception of a few land- owners, who
have estates in the neighbourhood, a
few lawyers connected with the Supreme
Court, and a host of petty tradesmen and
lodging-house keepers, there is nobody
who looks on Washington as his home.
Hence nobody, with rare exceptions,
has a house of his own here. Many of
the members live in hotels and furnished
lodgings. The wives and families of the
married members come to Washington
for a few months or weeks during the
session, and during that time a furnished
house is taken. In consequence, there
is no style about the mode of living. The
number of private carriages is very few ;
and people are afraid of bringing good
horses to be ruined by the rut-tracks (for
they are not worthy of the name of roads)
which serve the purpose of streets in
Washington. Public amusements of any
kind are scanty and poor. There is a
theatre, about equal in size and merit to
those of Brighton or Scarborough; at
the Smithsonian Institute there are fre-
quent lectures, which, when they are
not political demonstrations, are about
as interesting or uninteresting as lectures
on the glaciers and geological forma-
tions, and hoc genus omne, are in other
places ; and there are occasional con-
certs, dramatic readings, and exhibitions
in Willard's Hall. So, if you want
recreation of any kind, it is to private
society you must look for it. In the great
hotels there are ladies' drawing-rooms,
to which those inmates of the hotels
who choose, or their friends, come down
in the evening, and where the staple
amusements of gossip and flirtation are
varied by singing and impromptu dances.
Private balls are rare, or, at least,
have been so during the past winter;
but there are dinner parties and recep-
tions without end. The French sys-
Washington during the War.
tern of calling prevails here a good deal,
and you can go in during the evening
to any house at which you are acquainted,
with the certainty of finding callers
there, in more or less numbers, accord-
ing to whether the night happens to
be a reception night or not. In JSTew
York, I always had an impression,
whether just or otherwise, that, though,
as a stranger, nobody cared or thought
about your position, yet, if you had
been a native, your standing in so-
ciety would depend a good deal on
whether you lived in Fifth Avenue or
in Sixth, and whether your name stood
well or ill with your bankers in Wall
Street. Of this money standard, com-
mon to all commercial capitals, there
seems to be nothing in Washington.
Of course, there are plenty of wealthy
people here, but there is no display of
wealth, not even in the ladies' dresses.
The attache's to the embassies, and the
young men of fashion from New York,
I believe, vote Washington the dullest
place in creation ; but, to a man with
quiet tastes, there are many capitals
less attractive.
The receptions here are, in hour
and customs, very like ordinary En-
glish "at homes," except that they
are less crowded and have less of stiff-
ness and formality. Evening dress,
stiff white neckties, varnished boots,
and sombre black suits, which form the
attire and curse of gentlemen in all parts
of the so-called civilized world, are the
rule here ; but great laxity is allowed in
the practice. I have met senators at
evening parties in brown shooting-coats,
and ladies in morning dresses ; and here
everyone seems perfectly indifferent as
to how you are dressed, if your taste or
your circumstances compel you to vary
from the ordinary costume. Generally,
the receptions end with stand-up sup-
pers, though sometimes tea and coffee
are the only refreshments provided. It
is not common, as far as I can perceive,
to speak to persons without being intro-
duced ; but the practice of introduction is
.so universal, that a stranger is not " alone
in a crowd " as he would be in London.
Card-playing I have never seen at a
Washington party, and there is hardly
any music, so that conversation is the
sole amusement of guests.
Fortunately, you may lay it down as
an axiom, that all Americans are always
ready to talk ; and therefore you rarely
see people standing still and looking
bored. I quite admit (I hope this ex-
pression of opinion is not ungrateful)
that I can conceive of a person becoming
tired of Washington society. You meet
constantly varying combinations of the
same set of people, and between one
party and another there is a distinction
without a difference. Moreover, all the
gentlemen talk about politics, and all
the ladies talk about the army, with
occasional lapses on both parts into
slavery discussions, more or less aboli-
tionist or anti-abolitionist, as the case
may be. There are also two camps of
M'Clellanites and the anti-M'Clellanites;
and between the two, especially amongst
the ladies, feeling runs so high, that a
prudent " Gallic " will take care not
to express any opinion whatever on the
subject of M'Clellan. Still, to any man
who has a dislike to originate subjects
of discussion, and who looks upon
having to invent your topics, as well as
your remarks, as a sort of intellectual
Egyptian bondage, in which you have
to find the straw as well as make the
bricks, this uniformity of topics has a
comfort. You know perfectly well
what to talk about, and you run no risk
of any American lady you are introduced
to answering your remarks with mono-
syllabic "yeses" or "noes." They all talk
always eagerly, and sometimes cleverly.
Besides, amongst the ladies, a knowledge
of current English literature is very, gene-
ral ; and the "Heir of Eedclyffe," or
"Great Expectations," or "A Strange
Story," are as safe subjects of conversation
as they would be in a London drawing-
room. How far the extraordinary free-
dom allowed to young unmarried ladies
may be desirable or not, is a question
too wide to enter on now. To our Old
World notions, it is strange when a
young lady you have just been intro-
duced to asks you to call upon her, or
offers you introductions to friends at a
British Columbia.
29
place you are going to visit. On the
other hand, I should state, as far as my
experience goes, that there is less " free-
dom of language " (using the expression
in its peculiar social signification) used
or permitted here than with us, and
that there are many remarks you might
make, if so disposed, in English society,
which you could not safely make here.
To a stranger, also, there is a never-
failing attraction in the fact that at
these evening parties you meet every-
body you want to see in Washington.
In London, you might go to respectable
houses every night in your life, and
never meet a Cabinet Minister ; and even
a member of Parliament provided he
were not a metropolitan one would be
something of a novelty. Here you can
meet half the Ministry, and all the
Senate, at any party you go to. Thus
the men you read of daily in the papers,
and whose names are become "house-
hold words" to you, are presented to
you in private life. Every American
literary man, too, of note, has been to
be met with some time or other this
winter in Washington. Very recently
we have had here Emerson and Haw-
thorne, and N". P. Willis and Bayard
Taylor; while the English world of
art and letters has been represented,
not unworthily, by W. H. Russell and
Anthony Trollope, and Mrs. Kemble.
Altogether, any one, I think, who, like
myself, has spent a few weeks this year
of the war in Washington, must look
back upon it with pleasant memories.
BRITISH COLUMBIA.
BY WILLIAM J. STEWART.
So much has been said and written,
recently, descriptive of British Columbia,
that, beyond doubt, a large number of
our surplus population will be attracted
to this great gold-field of the Pacific.
This is as it should be ; and no one
who knows anything of the depressing
poverty which prevails at all times in
the agricultural counties of England, or
of the uncertainties of artisan life in
our manufacturing districts and great
cities, will say one careless word which
should deter our suffering poor from
migrating to a land where, at least, the
day's bread is' ensured to every pair of
strong hands that choose to work for it.
But it has occurred to several who have
spent some years in British Columbia,
that a perusal of the newspaper articles
and letters, which have been written
recently about the country, is but too
likely to fire the imagination of the in-
experienced reader, and is calculated to
convey a false impression of the place
to the more wary inquirer. It was not
as if the advice to emigrate thither had
been addressed to the stout heart and
ready hand, that can make their way
wherever a tree has to be felled, a road
made, a spadeful of earth to be turned.
Not one word of remonstrance or warn-
ing would have been heard in that case.
But, when the inducements of cer-
tain occupation, and a hearty welcome,
are held out to such men as the tide-
waiter, pestering the representative of
his native borough for promotion ; the
banker's clerk, toiling on with the hope
of adding another ten pounds to his
scanty salary ; the University-man with
the world before him, an oyster he knows
not how to open ; when even married
men with families are encouraged to
start for the shores of the Pacific, it is
right that what they may expect to find
there should be simply set before them.
They will find there, in the first place,
the promise of one of the richest and
most flourishing countries the world has
ever seen. There is no exaggeration in
this statement. We all know by this
time the geographical position of British
Columbia. To say nothing of the ad-
jacent island of Vancouver, which
British Columbia.
shelters its coast from the drift of the
Pacific, and renders its inlets and rivers
safe and easy of navigation, it possesses
within itself the elements of a com-
plete and powerful empire. Harbours,
the most commodious ; rivers, even
where they are unnavigable, adapted
admirably to water and fertilize the soil
through which they run; large valleys
of rich fertile land stretching from the
base of the Bocky mountains that form
the back-bone of the great American con-
tinent to the sea ; timber enough to
stock the navy-yards of Europe for ages
to come; coal in sufficient abundance, and
easily worked ; with other mineral wealth
almost beyond the power of the imagi-
nation to conceive : this may seem an
extravagantly coloured picture, but it is,
in reality, the simple truth couched in
the simplest fitting words. A glance at
the geographical and geological charts
of British Columbia will satisfy the
least experienced inquirer, that here
nature has provided elements out of
which the Anglo-Saxon race can scarcely
fail to build a great and powerful nation.
But the work of making its foundation
is of the hardest, and the hands that are
put to the plough have need of more
than ordinary pith and muscle.
As yet the chief rendezvous for settlers
is Victoria, in Vancouver Island, a few
years back one of the out-of-the-way
stations of the Hudson's Bay Company.
Hither, when the Americans laid strong
hands on the Oregon territory, the head-
quarters of the Great Fur Company
were removed from Vancouver's Fort
on the banks of the Columbia, Here,
as there, Mr. Douglas continued to trade
with the Indians, winning their confi-
dence by his fairness and justice, and
commanding their respect by his firm-
ness and decision. The life of these
agents factors as they are called of the
Great Fur Company, in their detached
stations along the shores, and far up in
the mainland of British North America,
where they possess a power which they
seem rarely to have abused, is full of
interest and romance. Eecruited at
intervals from the home country, which
they leave at an early age, they marry,
frequently half-breeds, and rear families,
striking their roots so deep into the
soil that they rarely care to quit it.
Once a year a great Fur Brigade winds
its way from fort to fort, gathering the
collections of the year from each as it
rolls on, by dizzy mountain passes,
across swollen rivers, through dense
forests, to the coast. Whither once a
year also comes, from the Company at
home, the same familiar brig, with its
supply of fresh young English life, its
news of home, and cargo of muskets,
blankets, beads and toys, for which the
Indian hunters barter furs and skins.
It was from such a life as this that
Mr. Douglas, in 1858, was called upon
to act as Governor of one of the richest
gold-producing countries the world has
ever known ; from such a trading sta-
tion, with its rough stockade and wooden
bastion, that Victoria has grown into a
city. Mr. Douglas has proved himself
well equal to the work he was called
upon to undertake ; and the shrewd head
and firm hand that ruled the Indian
tribes were found as equal to the
management of the most heterogeneous
population imaginable among whom
many of the scamps of San Francisco,
whom the Vigilance Committee of that
city, from no unwillingness on their part,
had left unhung, figured conspicuously.
But we have to do with Victoria now
mainly in relation to the attractions
which it offers to the settler. Here, of
course, as in all places where the process
of transforming a town from canvass to
wood, from wood to stone, is being
carried on, artisans of all kinds will not
fail to find remunerative employment,
and capital will not be long in discover-
ing fit channels to flow in. But the
undergraduate, the tide-waiter, clerk, and
shopman, even if they have strong arms
which they are not ashamed to turn to
any honest work, will of a certainty pre-
fer pushing onward to the mines. Even
the agriculturist will find little induce-
ment to settle upon a coast so densely
wooded as this is. From this cause it is
that the population of Victoria is decidedly
migratory, flowing and ebbing with the
rush of the miners to and from the dig-
British Columbia.
31
gings. ' Last winter it was comparatively
depopulated, while this spring they are
expecting no less than 50,000 miners on
their way through to the Fraser.
The way to the mines lies up the
Eiver Eraser. To reach its mouth the
Gulf of Georgia must be crossed. "No
ocean ship or steamer can pass its bar,
so that the passage has to be made in
smaller vessels that ply at regular inter-
vals from Victoria. The way is pleasant,
by and through an archipelago of islands ;
of which San Juan, now a bone of con-
tention between our government and
that of the United States, is one of the
most important the smaller ones being
mere rocky islets, covered with pines to
the water's edge.
The entrance to the Fraser is, as I
have said, impassable to ships of con-
siderable freight, and to all uncertain.
But for the friendly shelter of Vancouver
Island, its bar of uncertain shifting
sands would be. as perilous as that of
the Columbia Eiver ; as it is, if a vessel
grounds, as often happens, she has only
to wait until the rising tide shall set her
free. The Fraser is the high, and,
indeed, at present, the only road to the
gold-fields. Hopes are entertained that
some day a way may be found at the
head of one of the numerous inlets that
indent the shore north of its mouth, by
which the upper country may be reached ;
and several explorations have been made
by officers of the navy, and enterprising
settlers, to discover such a route, but
hitherto without any practical result.
A way was forced inland, from Bur-
rard's Inlet, by Lieutenant Mayne, of
H.M.S. Plumper, in 1859 ; and, many
years ago, Sir Alexander M'Kenzie
reached the sea from Fort George, one of
the northernmost stations of the Hud-
son's Bay Company. But their way lay
over high mountains, and across swift
streams, in winter covered with snow, in
summer dangerously swollen by freshets
from the hills.
The banks of the Fraser, for some miles
from its mouth, are low, and liable in
summer to be flooded. There is no rising
ground until New Westminster, the
capital of British Columbia, is reached.
In writing of new countries, there is no
choice but to use the phraseology of old,
however much it may mislead the
reader. An American backwood's-nian
would be at no loss to form an accurate
conception of the city of New "West-
minster, while nothing that I can say
will help an English reader to imagine
it. Half-a-dozen wooden huts, a whiskey
shop, and a post-office, constitute a "city"
anywhere in America ; and New West-
minster, in addition to these, possesses
a church, a court-house, treasury, and
camp. That is to say, with extraor-
dinary efforts, some square yards have
been cleared of the vast over and under
growth of timber and roots, that line the
banks of the Fraser, and a few wooden
huts run up, to which these pretentious
names have been attached. Nothing
short of a photograph could give a proper
idea of the position of these little boxes of
houses, set in the midst of the fallen tim-
ber, with a dense background of impene-
trable forest in their rear. It is this vast
growth of timber, on the shores of Van-
couver Island, and upon the coast of the
mainland, that must for a time retard
colonization. There are rare stretches
of good land among the inland valleys
the Semilkameen country, for instance,
east of Fort Hope, is one of the richest
in the world and the day will no doubt
come when pleasant English farm-
houses will rise among them, and the
plains, clothed now with long sweet
grass, and the numberless wild flowers,
which in British Columbia grow so
luxuriantly, be white with bleating
flocks. But, until roads are made to
them from the towns, the agriculturist
who may be induced to settle there will
find his crops useless and embarrassing,
for want of a market at which he can
sell them.
Some twenty-five miles from the
Eraser's mouth, Langley, another town of
wooden huts, is reached ; and here the
river becomes so swift and shallow, that
the steamers which have crossed the gulf
can go no further, and have to transfer
their cargoes to shallow, flat-bottomed
boats, drawing a few inches only of water,
and propelled by huge wheels, projecting
British Columbia.
shelters its coast from the drift of the
Pacific, and renders its inlets and rivers
safe and easy of navigation, it possesses
within itself the elements of a com-
plete and powerful empire. Harbours,
the most commodious ; rivers, even
where they are unnavigable, adapted
admirably to water and fertilize the soil
through which they run; large valleys
of rich fertile land stretching from the
base of the Kocky mountains that form
the back-bone of the great American con-
tinent to the sea ; timber enough to
stock the navy-yards of Europe for ages
to come; coal in sufficient abundance, and
easily worked ; with other mineral wealth
almost beyond the power of the imagi-
nation to conceive : this may seem an
extravagantly coloured picture, but it is,
in reality, the simple truth couched in
the simplest fitting words. A glance at
the geographical and geological charts
of British Columbia will satisfy the
least experienced inquirer, that here
nature has provided elements out of
which the Anglo-Saxon race can scarcely
fail to build a great and powerful nation.
But the work of making its foundation
is of the hardest, and the hands that are
put to the plough have need of more
than ordinary pith and muscle.
As yet the chief rendezvous for settlers
is Victoria, in Vancouver Island, a few
years back one of the out-of-the-way
stations of the Hudson's Bay Company.
Hither, when the Americans laid strong
hands on the Oregon territory, the head-
quarters of the Great Fur Company
were removed from Vancouver's Fort
on the banks of the Columbia. Here,
as there, Mr. Douglas continued to trade
with the Indians, winning their confi-
dence by his fairness and justice, and
commanding their respect by his firm-
ness and decision. The life of these
agents factors as they are called of the
Great Fur Company, in their detached
stations along the shores, and far up in
the mainland of British North America,
where they possess a power which they
seem rarely to have abused, is full of
interest and romance. Recruited at
intervals from the home country, which
they leave at an early age, they marry,
frequently half-breeds, and rear families,
striking their roots so deep into the
soil that they rarely care to quit it.
Once a year a great Fur Brigade winds
its way from fort to fort, gathering the
collections of the year from each as it
rolls on, by dizzy mountain passes,
across swollen rivers, through dense
forests, to the coast. Whither once a
year also comes, from the Company at
home, the same familiar brig, with its
supply of fresh young English life, its
news of home, and cargo of muskets,
blankets, beads and toys, for which the
Indian hunters barter furs and skins.
It was from such a life as this that
Mr. Douglas, in 1858, was called upon
to act as Governor of one of the richest
gold-producing countries the world has
ever known ; from such a trading sta-
tion, with its rough stockade and wooden
bastion, that Victoria has grown into a
city. Mr. Douglas has proved himself
well equal to the work he was called
upon to undertake ; and the shrewd head
and firm hand that ruled the Indian
tribes were found as equal to the
management of the most heterogeneous
population imaginable among whom
many of the scamps of San Francisco,
whom the Vigilance Committee of that
city, from no unwillingness on their part,
had left unhung, figured conspicuously.
But we have to do with Victoria now
mainly in relation to the attractions
which it offers to the settler. Here, of
course, as in all places where the process
of transforming a town from canvass to
wood, from wood to stone, is being
carried on, artisans of all kinds will not
fail to find remunerative employment,
and capital will not be long in discover-
ing fit channels to flow in. But the
undergraduate, the tide-waiter, clerk, and
shopman, even if they have strong arms
which they are not ashamed to turn to
any honest work, will of a certainty pre-
fer pushing onward to the mines. Even
the agriculturist will find little induce-
ment to settle upon a coast so densely
wooded as this is. From this cause it is
that the population of Victoria is decidedly
migratory, flowing and ebbing with the
rush of the miners to and from the dig-
British Columbia.
31
gings. 'Last winter it was comparatively
depopulated, while this spring they are
expecting no less than 50,000 miners on
their way through to the Eraser.
The way to the mines lies up the
Eiver Eraser. To reach its mouth the
Gulf of Georgia must be crossed. No
ocean ship or steamer can pass its bar,
so that the passage has to be made in
smaller vessels that ply at regular inter-
vals from Victoria. The way is pleasant,
by and through an archipelago of islands ;
of which San Juan, now a bone of con-
tention between our government and
that of the United States, is one of the
most important the smaller ones being
mere rocky islets, covered with pines to
the water's edge.
The entrance to the Eraser is, as I
have said, impassable to ships of con-
siderable freight, and to all uncertain.
But for the friendly shelter of Vancouver
Island, its bar of uncertain shifting
sands would be. as perilous as that of
the Columbia Eiver ; as it is, if a vessel
grounds, as often happens, she has only
to wait until the rising tide shall set her
free. The Eraser is the high, and,
indeed, at present, the only road to the
gold-fields. Hopes are entertained that
some day a way may be found at the
head of one of the numerous inlets that
indent the shore north of its mouth, by
which the upper country may be reached ;
and several explorations have been made
by officers of the navy, and enterprising
settlers, to discover such a route, but
hitherto without any practical result.
A way was forced inland, from Bur-
rard's Inlet, by Lieutenant Mayne, of
H.M.S. Plumper, in 1859 ; and, many
years ago, Sir Alexander M'Kenzie
reached the sea from Fort George, one of
the northernmost stations of the Hud-
son's Bay Company. But their way lay
over high mountains, and across swift
streams, in winter covered with snow, in
summer dangerously swollen by freshets
from, the hills.
The banks of the Eraser, for some miles
from its mouth, are low, and liable in
summer to be flooded. There is no rising
ground until New Westminster, the
capital of British Columbia, is reached.
In writing of new countries, there is no
choice but to use the phraseology of old,
however much it may mislead the
reader. An American backwood's-man
would be at no loss to form an accurate
conception of the city of New West-
minster, while nothing that I can say
will help an English reader to imagine
it. Half-a-dozen wooden huts, a whiskey
shop, and a post-office, constitute a "city"
anywhere in America ; and New West-
minster, in addition to these, possesses
a church, a court-house, treasury, and
camp. That is to say, with extraor-
dinary efforts, some square yards have
been cleared of the vast over and under
growth of timber and roots, that line the
banks of the Eraser, and a few wooden
huts run up, to which these pretentious
names have been attached. Nothing
short of a photograph could give a proper
idea of the position of these little boxes of
houses, set in the midst of the fallen tim-
ber, with a dense background of impene-
trable forest in their rear. It is this vast
growth of timber, on the shores of Van-
couver Island, and upon the coast of the
mainland, that must for a time retard
colonization. There are rare stretches
of good land among the inland valleys
the Semilkameen country, for instance,
east of Fort Hope, is one of the richest
in the world and the day will no doubt
come when pleasant English farm-
houses will rise among them, and the
plains, clothed now with long sweet
grass, and the numberless wild flowers,
which in British Columbia grow so
luxuriantly, be white with bleating
flocks. But, until roads are made to
them from the towns, the agriculturist
who may be induced to settle there will
find his crops useless and embarrassing,
for want of a market at which he can
sell them.
Some twenty-five miles from the
Eraser's mouth, Langley, another town of
wooden huts, is reached ; and here the
river becomes so swift and shallow, that
the steamers which have crossed the gulf
can go no further, and have to transfer
their cargoes to shallow, flat-bottomed
boats, drawing a few inches only of water,
and propelled by huge wheels, projecting
32
British Columbia.
from behind the stern. These stern-
wheel steamers struggle up against the
stream with a great effort to Fort Hope.
But at this point the mountains so close
in upon the river that it becomes un-
navigable, at some seasons of the year
even for canoes, and the first settlers had
to land from them at Yale, some fifteen
miles higher up, and follow a trail which
ran, now by the water's edge, now high
by a dizzy path round the face of steep
precipitous rocks, many hundred, even
thousand feet above the swift and turbid
stream. All this portion of the river's
banks is highly auriferous ; and the tra-
veller following this trail might see below
him the figures of the miners washing
the gold "dirt," and hear the ceaseless
clatter of their rockers. Upon the Fraser
generally, before more secure trails were
made, and this route in particular, many
miners in 1858 and 1859 lost their lives.
But the richer gold-fields of British
Columbia lie many miles above this
rocky barrier, through which the Fraser,
reduced to a comparative thread of water,
works its tortuous way. And for those
bound to them, a route, not perhaps the
most direct, has been formed, by which
the necessity of ascending that part of
the Fraser I have just described may be
avoided. This is known as the Harrison
Lilloett trail. A few miles above
Langley, a smaller river meets the
Fraser ; following which the first of a
chain of lakes is reached, which extend,
with occasional intervals of forests and
mountains, in a northerly direction, until
the Fraser is struck again some 140
miles from where it had been parted
with. This route was well known to
the Indians, and, less familiarly, to the
factors of the Hudson's Bay Company;
and, when the rush to the diggings com-
menced, it was at once determined by
the Governor to open it. The task looks
easy enough on paper. It consisted
simply in opening communications from
the head of one lake to the nearest port
upon the succeeding one. But, to do
this, roads had to be carried over steep
mountain passes, across rivers as many
as sixty bridges were built and through
"bush," in some places so dense that
the hardiest pedestrian, walking ten hours
a day, might think himself lucky if he
made as many miles. The following
table of distances will show the nature
of this route :
From.
To.
Distance
by
Land trail.
Distance
by
water.
Fort Langley
Douglas
Port Douglas
Port Lilloett
8S|
75
LiUoett
Port Peinberton
13
Pembertoii
Port Anderson
M}
Anderson
East Port
15
East Port
West Port
14
West Port
Port Seton
16
Port Seton
Fraser River
4
Total from Langley to the Fraser
By land (trail) .... 64 miles.
By water 119
Entire distance
183
From this point of the Fraser River
roads are planned, but not made, and
the miner must be prepared to tramp it to
that part of the Quesnelle or Cariboo
gold-fields to which he may be bound.
A miner, having only himself to look to,
and carrying his baggage on his back,
may make his way from Victoria to Ca-
riboo in ten days, and at a cost of from
11. to 10. Of course, if he tramps it
from lake to lake, on the Harrison Lil-
loett route, he will do with less. But,
live hardly as he may, he can scarcely
spend less than two dollars (8s. 4c/.)
a day, on his journey up. All the way
he will now find, at intervals, huts re-
staurants is the name there given to them
open for his accommodation, where
a meal of bread, beans, and bacon, may
be had, and a soft plank secured for the
night. It is impossible to say at what
price provisions may be now, varying as
they do with the supply and the state of
the weather ; but they have been at times
very high, and, until the country is in
more certain communication with the
sea, will necessarily be so again. Last
year, it is said, the miner might live for
four or five shillings a day, and the
restaurants offered board and lodging at
the rate of 21. a week ; but letters lately
received from British Columbia tell a
somewhat diiferent tale.
The following facts relative to the
country may be interesting. It is peo-
The Parricide. 33
pled pretty thickly with Indians. ISTo mosquitoes excepted, is singularly free
apprehension need be entertained of them, from insects and reptiles. The climate
if treated justly and fairly. They hate resembles that of England closely. As
the Americans cordially, and not, it is with us, the winters are uncertain. For
believed, without good reason ; but King years together little snow will fall, or frost
George's men, as the British are every- be felt ; and then as was the case there
where called by them, are secure against last year, a season of more than ordinary
all but petty depredations. The fish-eating severity will set in, blocking up the
tribes by the sea-coast are morally and trails, and even closing the Eraser against
intellectually much inferior to the Indian the entry of ships or steamers. The
of the interior, who approaches closely land, where clear, is rich and fertile, and
to the red man whose noble qualities will produce abundantly the roots and
won Penn's respect and regard. The cereals familiar to the English farmer,
country is not rich in animal life, and,
THE PAERICIDE.
ABRIDGED FROM VICTOR HUGO.
AT that still hour when sleep folds up the sight
Of mortal men beneath the darkened sky,
~No witness near but the blind giant, Mght,
Canute beheld his aged father lie
Asleep, infirm : no guard, no dog was nigh.
"He, himself, will not know it," Canute said,
And killed him, and was monarch in his stead.
Ever a conqueror fortune on his side
He flourished like a corn-field in its pride ;
When through the conclave of old men he passed,
Their austere visages were lit with smiles.
He, by pure morals and wise laws, bound fast
To his loved Denmark twenty subject isles ;
Conquered Pict, Vandal, Saxon, Sclave, and Celt,
And savage tribes that in the forests dwelt ;
- Abolished idols and their hideous rites ;
Said, speaking of Borne' s Emperor, "We two."
Strongest of warriors, most renowned of knights,
Dragons and kings alike his right arm. slew :
His life, at once a terror and a glory,
Became his people's proudest theme of story;
The fate of Europe seemed with his allied
He had forgotten quite his parricide 1
He died. Coffined in solid stone he lay.
The Bishop came from Aarhus to pray,
To chant around the tomb a hymn, and say
That great was Canute, both as king and saint
His memory shedding fragrance through the land;
While they the priests discerned him, free fiom taint,
A prophet seated upon God's right hand !
31. VOL. vi. D
34 The Parricide.
Night came ; the mournful organ ceased its plaint ;
The priests passed slowly from the minster nave;
The king was left alone within his quiet grave.
Then he unsealed his darkened eyes, arose,
Took up his mighty sword ; no walls or doors
Mere mist to spirits might his course oppose ;
He crossed the sea that mirrors back the towers
Of Aarhus, Altona, Elsinore.
The darkness listened for the monarch's tread ;
But noiseless as a dream the foot-fall of the dead.
Mount Savo rose before him on the shore,
His gloomy ancestor, with ages hoar.
" Old Mount," he said, "round whom the whirlwinds blow,
Give me for shroud a portion of thy snow."
The mountain knew his voice, and thrilled with fear;
Then Canute drew his sword, and on the hill
Shaped out the shroud according to his will,
And cried again, " Death teaches little ; tell,
" Old Mountain, where does God Almighty dwell 1 "
The giant Savo from his yawning side,
Dark with the endless flight of clouds, replied,
"I know not, ghost; know only I am here."
So Canute left it in its chains of frost ;
And, front erect, in spotless shroud of snow,
Far beyond Norway's, beyond Iceland's coast,
Into the silent dark went pacing slow.
The world behind had vanished from his sight :
Bodiless spirit, king without a throne,
Confronted with the spectral Infinite,
He saw the awful porch of the Unknown,
"Where lightnings die like torches in a tomb,
And shapeless horror wanders through the gloom.
No star is there ; and yet a ghastly sense
Of some fixed gaze from out that night intense ;
No sound is heard, and yet is felt the sweep
Of wave on wave of darkness deaf and deep.
Canute advanced. " This is the tomb ! " he cried ;
" God is beyond." He called, but none replied.
He went on still, his shroud of spotless white
His only comfort, only guiding light ; ,
When all at once upon its livid folds
A dark spot form and widen he beholds.
His spectre hand, upraised to feel the stain,
Knows by the touch 'tis blood, and drops again !
His head, that fear had never bowed of yore,
Straightway he lifts more proudly than before.
Fierce-gazing through the night " I waver not !
Onward !" he cries ; when, lo ! near that first spot
Another falls and spreads but still in vain
The monarch's eyes against the darkness strain.
Gloomily he advances, when once more
The shroud is reddened by a drop of gore.
Canute has never fled, but yet he swerves;
A falling drop has stained his right hand now ;
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration, 35
His troubled course towards the left he curves ;
Again the shroud is spotted whence, and how *?
Canute shrinks back he dares not be alone ;
He will regain his sacred funeral stone ;
Another drop of blood upon the shroud !
He bends his head, and tries to pray aloud
A drop of blood upon his head ! The prayer
Dies on his lips he moves on in despair !
And still, implacable, from out the night
Pall the red drops upon the garment white ;
More, and yet more, and more a ghastly rain
Till in each fold there spreads a cloud-like stain.
Still on and on he moves ; he dares not stop
Still falls the blood in heavy drop on drop.
Alas ! who is it weeps these tears of doom 1
The Infinite ! On through the tideless gloom
Canute advanced; but he looked up no more.
At length he stood before a closed door,
'Neath which a strange effulgent glory pass'd ;
Then on his winding-sheet his eyes he cast.
It was the dread, the holy place at last !
Hosannas rose within the glory spread,
And Canute shuddered, for his shroud was red !
And therefore Canute still the daylight flies,
Nor dares confront the judgment-seat of Him
Before whose face the noonday sun grows dim ;
Therefore he deeper into darkness hies,
And, hopeless to regain his shroud's pure white
Since at each footstep tow'rds the dawn that tends
A drop of blood upon his head descends
Roams evermore beneath the black and boundless night.
K. C. S.
THE MORALS AND LITERATURE OF THE RESTORATION.
BY ANDREW BISSET.
THE extreme dissoluteness of morals upon the condition of English society,
which manifested itself in England on for at least forty years before the rise of
the restoration of Charles the Second, the Puritan domination,
has usually been attributed to the power- Writers of authority, such as Mrs.
ful reaction caused by disgust for the Hutchinson, expressly mention the pes-
measures adopted by the Puritans to tilential influence of the court of James
put down amusements, and enforce sane- the First, and of his personal character
tity by Act of Parliament. This hypo- on the English nobility and gentry
thesis may afford a partial, but it does The inundation of vice and licentious-
not furnish a complete, solution of the ness, which the Restoration seemed to
important social and historical problem bring with it, was not really an innova-
presented by the fact above mentioned, tion, as has been supposed, but only a
The more complete solution must, I restoration. The strictness of the Puri-
think, be sought in an examination of tans was, in fact, a reaction against the
the effect of the English government dissoluteness of the court of James, on
D2
36
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
the same principle that total abstinence
from all fermented liquors is resorted to
as a refuge against the habits of a
drunkard.
"We may read what is commonly
called History for a lifetime, without
learning so much about Athenian man-
ners and morals, as we may learn from a
few lines of the Acharnians, the Knights,
the Clouds, the Plutus, the Frogs, the
Lysistrata, of Aristophanes. If the
evidence from this source, respecting
the state of Athenian society in the
time of the Peloponnesian War, is of
great value, the evidence of the state of
society in England under the Stuarts, to
be derived from the contemporary litera-
ture, is of still greater value, from its far
greater completeness. And a compari-
son of the literature towards the begin-
ning, with the literature towards the
end of the Stuart dynasty, may also
afford a measure of the influence of that
dynasty upon morals and literature. For,
at the beginning of the Stuart dynasty,
English literature bore the stamp of the
government and morals of the Tudors,
particularly of those of Elizabeth, while
towards the end of the Stuart dynasty
it bore the stamp of the government
.and morals of the Stuarts.
In a monarchy, such as the English
government was at the beginning of
the seventeenth century, though the
monarch was not even then sovereign
in the strict sense of the word, his
morals naturally exercised a consider-
able influence on those of the nobility
and gentry the classes which came much
in contact with the court. The power of
the kings had increased greatly towards
the end of the fifteenth century, in
England as over the rest of Europe.
The power of the nobility was propor-
tionately depressed, and loss of power
brought with it the usual humiliations.
The old nobility, indeed, had, in Eng-
land, been very nearly annihilated in
the wars of the Roses ; and the new
nobility did not feel those humiliations
as they might have done if they had
been the representatives of those barons,
such as the De Montforts, the Percies,
the Xevills, in England, and the Doug-
lases in Scotland, under whose banners
had marched armies more formidable
than those, of kings. 1 Such men as
those warrior nobles, however numerous
and dark might be their own family of
vices, would have deemed it beneath
their dignity to import into it the vices
of their kings. The Kingmaker and
Bell-the-Cat might have pleasant vices of
their own, but they disdained to imitate
the vices of Edward the Fourth and
James the Third. "When the nobility,
however, had sunk into the mere attend-
ants of a court, when they had
changed their armed vassals into fine
clothes and fine furniture, into trinkets,
gold lace, and embroidery, they lost also
the independence of character, which
scorns to imitate another man's vices.
The favourite vices of the Tudors were in-
deed not such as they could conveniently
imitate. However much some of them
might be disposed to take up with
avarice, that "good old gentlemanly
vice," they could not amass money exactly
in the manner of Henry the Seventh ;
neither, if their taste lay in that direc-
tion, could they adopt, as a pleasant
pastime, Henry the Eighth's amuse-
ment of marrying a wife and beheading
her every two years. The son of Henry
the Eighth died a boy ; and, of his two
daughters, one was a cruel but decent
bigot, and the other, though she treated
her nobility no better than lackeys, and
spoke of them in terms ( u I will have no
rascal to succeed me, but a king") she,
the great grand-daughter of a Welsh
squire and a London citizen which
neither William the Norman nor the
most powerful of the Plantagenets would
have applied to the Anglo-Norman,
barons, yet set them an example of
decorum in her court. But with her
successor a strange change came over the
scene.
It was, according to all human fore-
sight, a black day for England on
which James succeeded to the throne of
1 The last Earl of Douglas brought into the
field, against the king's army, an army of forty
thousand men, the best soldiers in Scotland ;
and, if he had not been a blockhead, would'
have annihilated the king's army.
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
37-
Elizabeth. "The court of this king,"
says Mrs. Hutchinson, "was a nursery
" of lust and intemperance, . . . The
" honour, wealth, and glory of the nation,
" wherein Queen Elizabeth left it, were
" soon prodigally wasted by this thrift-
" less heir ; the nobility of the land was
" utterly debased by setting honours to
'* public sale, and conferring them on
" persons that had neither blood nor
" merit fit to wear, nor estates to bear
" up their titles, but were fain to invent
" projects to pillage the people, and pick
li their purses for the maintenance of
" vice and lewdness. The generality of
" the gentry of the land soon learned
" the court fashion." But all the gentry
did not follow the court example, as is
proved by the cases of Mrs. Hutchinson
herself, of her husband Colonel Hutch-
inson, of John Hampden, of Oliver
Cromwell, and many others. On the
contrary, the morals of the court stirred
up in many of the gentry, and in more
of the class below the gentry, a strong
deep feeling of disgust and indignation,
which at last burst forth into that memor-
able Puritan rebellion, which "bound
"kings with chains, and nobles with
" links of iron."
Let us now see how far the testimony
of Mrs. Hutchinson, supported as it
is by a vast body of other contemporary
evidence, by the published correspon-
dence of the foreign ambassadors at the
English court, and by MS. letters in
the English and French archives, is
borne out by the contemporary literature.
The writers of the age of James the
First would necessarily possess many of
the qualities of the age of Elizabeth in
which they had been bred ; and the in-
fluence for good or evil of the new
court would be first felt by those writers
who came most in contact with and
were most dependent on it. This is par-
ticularly observable in Ben Jonson, the
court poet in the time of James I. Mr.
Gifford having expressed some indigna-
tion at the charge brought by Sir Walter
Scott against Ben Jonson, of brutal
coarseness of conversation, and of vulgar
and intemperate pleasures, Sir Walter
signified his adherence to the opinion he
had before given. " Many authors of
" that age," he says, " are indecent \ but
" Jonson is filthy and gross in his
" pleasantry, and indulges himself in
" using the language of scavengers and
" nightmen. His ' Bartholomew Fair'
" furnishes many examples of this un-
" happy predilection, and his ' Famous
" Voyage' seems to have disgusted even
" the zeal of his editor." To this we
may add that there are passages in the
" Alchemist "which Mr. Gifford desig-
nates as " the noblest effort of Jonson's
genius " which come nearer to the Ly-
sistrata of Aristophanes, and the sixth
Satire of Juvenal, than anything that
it has been our fortune to meet with in
modern literature. Besides the gross-
ness of manners, amounting to filthi-
ness, that lies on the surface, there is an
ominous cloud made up in part of the
characters of frightful crimes distinctly
traced out, and in part of others still
more frightful, " deeds without a name,"
remaining in shadow, which imparts to
that court, and in some degree to that
time, a strange, repulsive, pestilential
air and aspect, hardly belonging in an
equal degree to any other period of
modern history. If Jonson had written
his tragedy of "Sejanus" towards the
end instead of the commencement of
James's reign, we might have expected to
find in it hints to help us on some dark
points j for there has been thought to be
some analogy between the fate of the
son of Tiberius and that of Prince
Henry.
The effect produced on the mind of
Ben Jonson by the moral contagion of
the court of James is the more remark-
able, inasmuch as he above all the dra-
matic writers of that time, except Shak-
speare, appeared to possess a healthiness
of mind that saved him from resorting
to the coarse stimulants that call up the
emotions of horror and disgust rather
than those of pity and terror. Jonson
himself refers to this in the lines which
he adopted from Martial as the motto of
" Sejanus,"
" Non hie Centauros, non Gorgonas/ Harpy-
iasque
Invenies : hominem pagina nostra sapit."
36
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
the same principle that total abstinence
from all fermented liquors is resorted to
as a refuge against the habits of a
drunkard.
We may read what is commonly
called History for a lifetime, without
learning so much about Athenian man-
ners and morals, as we may learn from a
few lines of the Acharnians, the Knights,
the Clouds, the Plutus, the Frogs, the
Lysistrata, of Aristophanes. If the
evidence from this source, respecting
the state of Athenian society in the
time of the Peloponnesian War, is of
great value, the evidence of the state of
society in England under the Stuarts, to
be derived from the contemporary litera-
ture, is of still greater value, from its far
greater completeness. And a compari-
son of the literature towards the begin-
ning, with the literature towards the
end of the Stuart dynasty, may also
afford a measure of the influence of that
dynasty upon morals and literature. For,
at the beginning of the Stuart dynasty,
English literature bore the stamp of the
government and morals of the Tudors,
particularly of those of Elizabeth, while
towards the end of the Stuart dynasty
it bore the stamp of the government
.and morals of the Stuarts.
In a monarchy, such as the English
government was at the beginning of
the seventeenth century, though the
monarch was not even then sovereign
in the strict sense of the word, his
morals naturally exercised a consider-
able influence on those of the nobility
and gentry the classes which came much
in contact with the court. The power of
the kings had increased greatly towards
the end of the fifteenth century, in
England as over the rest of Europe.
The power of the nobility was propor-
tionately depressed, and loss of power
brought with it the usual humiliations.
The old nobility, indeed, had, in Eng-
land, been very nearly annihilated in
the wars of the Eoses ; and the new
nobility did not feel those humiliations
as they might have done if they had
been the representatives of those barons,
such as the De Montforts, the Percies,
the Kevills, in England, and the Doug-
lases in Scotland, under whose banners
had marched armies more formidable
than those, of kings. 1 Such men as
those warrior nobles, however numerous
and dark might be their own family of
vices, would have deemed it beneath
their dignity to import into it the vices
of their kings. The Kingmaker and
Bell-the-Cat might have pleasant vices of
their own, but they disdained to imitate
the vices of Edward the Fourth and
James the Third. When the nobility,
however, had sunk into the mere attend-
ants of a court, when they had
changed their armed vassals into fine
clothes and fine furniture, into trinkets,
gold lace, and embroidery, they lost also
the independence of character, which
scorns to imitate another man's vices.
The favourite vices of the Tudors were in-
deed not such as they could conveniently
imitate. However much some of them
might be disposed to take up with
avarice, that "good old gentlemanly
vice," they could not amass money exactly
in the manner of Henry the Seventh ;
neither, if their taste lay in that direc-
tion, could they adopt, as a pleasant
pastime, Henry the Eighth's amuse-
ment of marrying a wife and beheading
her every two years. The son of Henry
the Eighth died a boy ; and, of his two
daughters, one was a cruel but decent
bigot, and the other, though she treated
her nobility no better than lackeys, and
spoke of them in terms ("I will have no
rascal to succeed me, but a king") she,
the great grand-daughter of a Welsh
squire and a London citizen which
neither William the Norman nor the
most powerful of the Plantagenets would
have applied to the Anglo-Norman
barons, yet set them an example of
decorum in her court. But with her
successor a strange change came over the
scene.
It was, according to all human fore-
sight, a black day for England on
which James succeeded to the throne of
1 The last Earl of Douglas brought into the
field, against the king's army, an army of forty
thousand men, the best soldiers in Scotland ;
and, if he had not been a blockhead, would
have annihilated the king's army.
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
37-
Elizabeth. "The court of this king,"
says Mrs. Hutchinson, "was a nursery
" of lust and intemperance, . . . The
" honour, wealth, and glory of the nation,
" wherein Queen Elizabeth left it. were
" soon prodigally wasted by this thrift-
" less heir ; the nobility of the land was
" utterly debased by setting honours to
" public sale, and conferring them on
" persons that had neither blood nor
" merit fit to wear, nor estates to bear
" up their titles, but were fain to invent
" projects to pillage the people, and pick
'* their purses for the maintenance of
" vice and lewdness. The generality of
" the gentry of the land soon learned
" the court fashion." But all the gentry
did not follow the court example, as is
proved by the cases of Mrs. Hutchinson
herself, of her husband Colonel Hutch-
inson, of John Hampden, of Oliver
Cromwell, and many others. On the
contrary, the morals of the court stirred
up in many of the gentry, and in more
of the class below the gentry, a strong
deep feeling of disgust and indignation,
which at last burst forth into that memor-
able Puritan rebellion, which " bound
"kings with chains, and nobles with
" links of iron."
Let us now see how far the testimony
of Mrs. Hutchinson, supported as it
is by a vast body of other contemporary
evidence, by the published correspon-
dence of the foreign ambassadors at the
English court, and by MS. letters in
the English and French archives, is
borne out by the contemporary literature.
The writers of the age of James the
Eirst would necessarily possess many of
the qualities of the age of Elizabeth in
which they had been bred ; and the in-
fluence for good or evil of the new
court would be first felt by those writers
who came most in contact with and
were most dependent on it. This is par-
ticularly observable in Ben Jonson, the
court poet in the time of James I. Mr.
Gifford having expressed some indigna-
tion at the charge brought by Sir Walter
Scott against Ben Jonson, of brutal
coarseness of conversation, and of vulgar
and intemperate pleasures, Sir Walter
signified his adherence to the opinion he
had before given. " Many authors of
" that age," he says, " are indecent ; but
" Jonson is filthy and gross in his
" pleasantry, and indulges himself in
" using the language of scavengers and
" nightmen. His ' Bartholomew Eair'
" furnishes many examples of this un-
" happy predilection, and his ' Eamous
" Voyage' seems to have disgusted even
" the zeal of his editor." To this we
may add that there are passages in the
" Alchemist " which Mr. Gifford desig-
nates as " the noblest effort of Jonson' s
genius " which come nearer to the Ly-
sistrata of Aristophanes, and the sixth
Satire of Juvenal, than anything that
it has been our fortune to meet with in
modern literature. Besides the gross-
ness of manners, amounting to filthi-
ness, that lies on the surface, there is an
ominous cloud made up in part of the.
characters of frightful crimes distinctly
traced out, and in part of others still
more frightful, " deeds without a name,"
remaining in shadow, which imparts to
that court, and in some degree to that
time, a strange, repulsive, pestilential
air and aspect, hardly belonging in an
equal degree to any other period of
modern history. If Jonson had written
his tragedy of "Sejanus" towards the
end instead of the commencement of
James's reign, we might have expected to
find in it hints to help us on some dark
points ; for there has been thought to be
some analogy between the fate of the
son of Tiberius and that of Prince
Henry.
The effect produced on the mind of
Ben Jonson by the moral contagion of
the court of James is the more remark-
able, inasmuch as he above all the dra-
matic writers of that time, except Shak-
speare, appeared to possess a healthiness
of mind that saved him from resorting
to the coarse stimulants that call up the
emotions of horror and disgust rather
than those of pity and terror. Jonson
himself refers to this in the lines which
he adopted from Martial as the motto of
" Sejanus,"
" Non hie Centauros, non Gorgonas/ Harpy-
iasque
Invenies : hominem pagina nostra sapit."
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
Jonson's "man," however, and his woman
too, it must be confessed, is rather a
repulsive animal. And how could an
artist paint otherwise who was the
court poet of James I. ? There was a
moral poison in the very atmosphere of
that court, from which there was no
escape but keeping out of its influence.
That poison has left an indelible stain
on the greatest name in English philo-
sophy ; and it was but by a happy and
providential escape that the same poi-
soned circle did not leave an indelible
stain on the greatest name in English
literature. Those persons who, on moral
and religious grounds, shunned the poi-
soned precincts, were branded with the
name of Puritans a name applied as a
term of ridicule and reproach. There is
evidence enough in his writings that
Shakspeare was far less inclined to the
side of the Puritans than to that of
their scoffers ; and we have seen manu-
script evidence, in the English archives,
that his patron, the Earl of Southamp-
ton, was deeply stained with the vices
of the court of the first Stuart vices
which, even more than all the selfish
policy of the Tudors had done, humbled
and dishonoured the English nobility
and gentry; among others, both the sons
of "Sidney's sister," the Countess of
Pembroke, who, it is said, wept and tore
her hair when she heard of her younger
son's having endured with patience an
insult offered to him by another courtier
the same whose ready hand had be-
fore murdered the Earl of Gowrie and
his brother, whom the king wished to
make a favourite,,but who preferred death
to that infamous honour. But Shakspeare
came little, if at all, into contact with the
court of James. Much of his work was
probably done before James came to the
English throne ; and what was done
afterwards was the produce of a mind
working amid' scenes more favourable to
the labours of either poet or philosopher
than the atmosphere of a court or a city.
It is impossible to conceive any associa-
tion, even in the slightest degree, be-
tween a court, the influence of which,
if long continued and widelir diffused,
would have been to reduce the highest
human intellects to the level of brutish
idiocy, and him whose mind has laid
open with intuitive truth the most
secret springs of the human heart, and
has left to after ages such marvellous
pictures of human characters and human
passions of ambition for which the
earth was too small a bound ; of policy
that would circumvent God ; of remorse,
with its worm that dieth not and its
fire that is not quenched ; of love strong
as death ; and jealousy cruel as the
grave.
The other dramatic writers of the
time of James I., though they all
contain a great deal too much both of
indecent and of otherwise repulsive
writing, afford abundant evidence that
they often wrote in a spirit quite inde-
pendent and quite unlike the servile
courtier spirit of the writers of the time of
Charles II., who set up the worst court
vices as models for the imitation of the
nation, while they held up to ridicule and
contempt such qualities as temperance,
industry, and conjugal fidelity. The dif-
ference in favour of the elder writers
could not be more strikingly illustrated
than by the example which Dryden has
selected to prove the contrary. In his
answer to Collier, Dryden, while he ad-
mits that in many things Collier has
taxed him justly, rests his defence
mainly on this, that there is more ob-
scenity " in one play of Fletcher's, called
" * The Custom of the Country,' than in
" all ours together." Now there are un-
doubtedly several whole scenes of ob-
scene writing in the play he refers to,
as there is also a great deal that is
reprehensible in many other plays of
Fletcher, and in Massinger, Ben Jonson,
and even in Shakspeare. But the pro-
fligacy of the older writers is distin-
guished from the profligacy of Dryden
and his contemporaries by a very im-
portant difference. In the very play
which Dryden has selected, the main
plot of the story is to save a married
woman from dishonour, and conse-
quently its tendency at least, if not its
professed object, as is that also of the
plays of Shakspeare as well as of Flet-
cher, is to strengthen those ties which
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
39
bind society together, and more than
anything else serve to distinguish men
from brutes.
One remarkable instance of the dif-
ference between the earlier writers and
those of the Eestoration is furnished by
Beaumont and Fletcher's play, called
"The Maid's Tragedy/' the representa-
tion of which must, one should sup-
pose, have been particularly unacceptable
to Dry den's patrons, Charles II. and
James II. James II. 's conduct towards
the sister of one of his subjects, a man
of the highest military talent, was simi-
lar to that of the king in the " Maid's
Tragedy" towards JSvadne, the sister of
his victorious veteran general. It would
seem that at that time the spirit was
extinct which moved a brother to speak
and act as Melantius spoke and acted.
Yet any of the barons of Magna Charta,
as well as the Kingmaker and the Black
Douglas, would have so spoken and acted.
Indeed, it has been supposed by some
writers that the final quarrel between
Warwick and Edward IV. was rendered
so deadly, in consequence of an insult
oifered by the royal libertine to a female
relative of the great earl, who, like
Melantius in Beaumont and Fletcher's
tragedy, was not a man to endure any
affront of that nature.
" 'Tis, to be thy brother,
An infamy below the sin of coward.
And I could blush, at these years, thorough all
My honour'd scars, to come to such a parley.
" Where be your fighters ?
mortal fool durst raise thee to
this
What
daring,
And I alive ! By my just sword, he had safer
Bestride a billow when the angry north
Plows up the sea, or make Heaven's fire his
" He that dares most,
And damns away his soul to do thee service,
Will sooner snatch meat from a hungry lion,
Than come to rescue thee
" King, I thank thee !
For all my dangers and my wounds, thoti hast
paid me !
In my own metal : these are soldier's thanks !
Come, you shall kill him."
And the outraged honour of the lady's
family is compensated by a bloody re-
venge ; the moral with which the play
concludes
" On lustful Kings
Unlook'd-for sudden deaths from Heaven are
sent."
being as widely opposed as possible to
this branch of morals as preached by
Dryden in his "Absalom and Achito-
phel," as well as in his dramatic works.
Whence came this change 1 Our ex-
planation of the matter is this. The
intense and hideous depravity of the
court of the first Stuart greatly increased
and embittered the spirit of Puritanism ;
and the spirit of Puritanism, partly by
its violence and excesses, partly by the
cant and hypocrisy of some who pro-
fessed to be governed by it, had a ten-
dency to increase the evil to which it
avowed such hostility. If we compare
the moral tone of the English drama at
the conclusion of the Tudor dynasty
with its moral tone after the restora-
tion of Charles II., we shall have some
measure of the effect produced on the
national literature and morality by the
influence of the Stuarts. It is difficult,
perhaps impossible, to trace the change
step by step ; and, if it be objected that
the plays of Fletcher we have referred to
were produced in the reign of James I.,
and not in that of Elizabeth, we may
answer that the change would be gra-
dual, and that it would first begin to
manifest itself in those writers who, like
Ben Jonson, would be most subjected to
the atmosphere of the court. Moreover,
the change would be further promoted
by the fact that the Puritans, when they
became powerful, committed nearly the
same error which the Stuarts and their
divine-right and passive-obedience pre-
lates had committed before, the error of
pressing too hard upon the conduct and
amusements of their neighbours.
But this was not all. While I admit
fully the view of Dr. Arnold, that such
men as Oliver Cromwell are " the won-
' ders of history characters inevitably
' misrepresented by the vulgar, and
' viewed even by those who in some
' sense have the key to them, as a mys-
' tery, not fully to be comprehended,
' and still less explained to others
' that the genius which conceived the
' incomprehensible character of Hamlet
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
" would alone be able to describe with.
" intuitive truth the character of Scipio
*' or of Cromwell," I must at the same
time remember that the later acts of
Cromwell's life had impressed on the
minds of many who had been once
among his most devoted friends and
followers men who had followed him
through a hundred battles and sieges
men w T ho had never turned back from
the sword or feared the face of a mortal
enemy a deep and bitter conviction
that their ancient comrade had played
them false, that he had betrayed and
ruined them and their cause, and that
he had done this with the name of the
God of Truth constantly on his lips.
When such was their conviction, right
or wrong, can we wonder that a revolu-
tion took place in the minds of many
even of the most sincere of the religious
enthusiasts, and that what had once
been religious feeling of no common
degree of strength became first cold in-
difference, and then intense disgust ?
Thus, as from the apotheosis of James
Stuart the refuge had been puritanism,
from the apotheosis of Oliver Cromwell
the refuge was atheism.
The Puritan legislature undoubtedly
committed a very grave error in inter-
fering with matters that lay out of their
province ; yet, if we are to believe some
of the contemporary writers, their inter-
ference had little effect in the way they
intended. Mrs. Afra Behn, in one of
her plays, " The City Heiress," in which
the character of Sir Anthony Meriurill,
if it be not the prototype of Sir Anthony
Absolute, would seem to have afforded
Sheridan a hint or two for that cha-
racter, thus describes the effect : " Well
fare, I say, the days of old Oliver; he
by a wholesome Act made it death to
boast. Eight, sir ; and then the men
passed for sober, religious persons, and
the women for as demure saints." And,
in another of her plays, "The Round-
heads; or the Good Old Cause," she
describes in similar terms the effect of
the Act against fornication and adultery.
Even if Cromwell had acted as Timoleon
or Washington did, there would, no
doubt, have been, in time, a strong re-
action against the more violent fever-
heat of Puritanism. But it was such
Puritans as the great success of Crom-
well brought forward as the bright day
does the adder, when hypocrisy became
epidemical, 1 that rendered Puritanism
so disreputable and odious, and made
the reaction against it run into such in-
decent excesses.
Prynne, in the dedication of that
strange performance, " Histriomastix,"
to " his much honoured friends, the
" right worshipful masters of the Bench
" of the honourable Society of Lincoln's
" Inn," insists on the ill effects on many
young students and others of stage plays.
He relates that he had himself, when he
first came to London, " been drawn by the
" importunity of some ill acquaintance
" to see, in four several plays, such wick-
" edness and lewdness as then made his
" penitent heart to loath, his conscience
" to abhor, all stage plays ever since." In
process of time, Prynne accomplished his
wish of expelling from the land the
unclean spirit. But, alas ! after an in-
terval, of some twenty years, he was
doomed to witness the return of the
object of his abhorrence, accompanied
by seven other spirits more wicked than
himself.
Dryden's first play, " The Wild Gal-
lant," was acted at the King's House, on
the 5th of February, 1662-3, and failed.
On the 23d of February, it was acted at
Court, under the patronage of Lady
Castlemaine, with no better success.
The audience did not find the play suf-
ficiently licentious to bear out the title
(a defect which the author in the pro-
logue promised to amend, and he kept
his promise) ; nor could they make out
with certainty which of the characters
was the " Wild Gallant." It seems to
me that the character in the play really
most deserving this appellation is the
young lady whom the author designates-
Madam Isabella, the cousin of Lady
Constance, Lord Nonsuch's daughter. It
will be observed that this play was first
acted two years after the Restoration ;
consequently the state of society which
1 Memoirs of Col. Hutchinson.
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
41
it depicts can hardly be considered as
the produce of those two years. It fol-
lows that, if the character of Madam, or
Mistress, or Miss Isabella can be regarded
as in any shape or degree an average
specimen of a young English gentle-
woman of that time, there must have
existed in England, even during the
reign of Puritanism, among the higher
classes, a state of manners and morals
coarse and licentious in no ordinary
degree. If it were not that there is
abundant other evidence bearing in the
same direction, it might be questioned
whether the characters of Dryden's plays
can be considered as making even any
moderate approximation to an accurate
representation of the characters of that
age. Dryden was evidently not the sort
of observer of human nature (or of
inanimate nature either) which a good
dramatist or novelist must be. Unless,
perhaps, he might take a touch or two
from such a boldly and coarsely marked
original as his patroness, Lady Castle-
maine, he was incapable of copying from
life the portrait of a young gentlewoman.
When he might intend to paint a toler-
ably selfish, but sprightly and intelligent
young woman, he only produces a por-
trait of a shrewd, coarse, licentious man.
At the same time it must be admitted
that the writings of Mrs. Afra Behn,
and the acts and deeds of Mrs. Eleanor
Gwyn, of Lady Castlemaine, of the
Countess of Shrewsbury, and of other
women of that time, prove that Dryden
had some originals to copy from, that
might w r ell give birth to portraits of a
very anomalous character a character
more epicene than Sir John Falstaff at-
tributed to Mrs. Quickly, or Mr. Canning
to Madame de Stael. But it can hardly
be believed that the average men and
women of England, out of the Court
circle, were represented by the men and
women of the plays of Dryden and his
contemporaries.
Whatever may be the claims of some
of those contemporaries in comedy,
Dryden's pretensions to dramatic talent,
either comic or tragic, cannot be rated
high. He pillaged, indeed, largely from
his predecessors ; but, unlike Shakspeare,
when using old materials, 1 Dryden
usually marred what he stole. The cha-
racter, for instance, of Justice Trice, in
the " Wild Gallant," is evidently taken
partly from Justice Greedy, in Massin-
ger's "New Way to Pay Old Debts,"
and partly, as Sir Walter Scott has re-
marked, from Carlo, in Jonson's " Every
Man out of his Humour/' Any jokes,
or rather attempts at jokes (for they are
no more), are thefts from the old dra-
matists, chiefly Shakspeare, marred in
the stealing, Thus we have, *' Swearest
thou, ungracious boy ? " "0 the father,"
and " 0, these little mischiefs are meat
and drink to me ; " which last is trans-
ferred from the mouth of the accom-
plished Master Slender to that of a young
lady of high birth. In short, Dryden
steals the plot from the Spanish, and all
he can steal from Shakspeare ; but the
morals and manners are his own, and
few, I think, will be disposed to rob him
of that part of his property. In " The
Rival Ladies," we have this line
" Hold, Sir ! I have had blood enough already."
Compare this with Shakspeare' s
" But get thee back ; my soul is too much.
charg'd
With blood of thine already."
The way in which Dryden has dealt with
this line, altogether destroying the beauty
and melody of the pause, by making the
word " already " end a line, shows that
he had really no ear for the music of
blank verse, and none of that power
over it, as an exponent of thought and
passion, in which Shakspeare was such
a master. It may be worth observing
that the character of Sir Timorous, in
" The Wild Gallant," may, perhaps, have
furnished Goldsmith with a hint for his
Tony Lumpkin, in " She Stoops to Con-
quer." But, if Goldsmith did borrow the
idea from Dryden, he improved greatly
on it, as any one who remembers Gold-
1 Dr. Johnson at one time had projected a
work to show how small a quantity of real
fiction there is in the world ; and that the
same images, with very little variation, have
served all the authors who have ever written.
BosweWs Life of Johnson, vol. viii. p. 230.
London : Murray, 1835.
42
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
smith's scene will perceive by comparing
it with, this :
" Tim. D, e, a, r, dear ; r, o, g, u, e, rogue.
Pray, madam, read it ; this written hand is
such a damned pedantic thing I could never
away with it."
Sir Walter Scott, in his introduction
to Dryden's "Indian Emperor," speaks
of " the beautiful and melodious verses
" in which Cortez and his followers de-
" scribe the advantages of the newly dis-
" covered world ;" and "the still more
" exquisite account which Guyomar gives
" of the arrival of the Spanish fleet." No
one can join in this admiration who has
ever watched from the shore the coming
in sight of ships at sea. Dryden's de-
scription does not agree with what is
actually seen, any more than it agrees
with the known figure of the earth.
This is his description :
" The object I could first distinctly view
Was tall straight trees, which on the waters
flew;
Wings on their sides, instead of leaves, did
grow,
Which gathered all the breath the winds
could blow :
And at their roots grew floating palaces."
Now, it would appear from this that
Dry den had never watched a ship coming
in sight, and gradually approaching the
shore; for, if he had, he would have
known that the object first distinctly
seen would not be tall trees, but short
trees, which would gradually become
taller and taller, till, last of all, the hulls,
or, as he phrases it, the " palaces grow-
ing at their roots," would become visible
also. When Dryden said of Shakspeare
(what is not true, at least but a half-
truth, though often quoted with ap-
plause), that he needed not to study
nature that he looked inwards, and
found her there we may suppose that
he was thinking of his own mode of
writing. It is evident that Dryden's
looking inwards for nature did not dis-
cover to him that the earth is a spheroid,
and therefore did not supply the want of
his looking outwards as well as inwards,
any more than Shakspeare would have
learned from looking inwards to describe
the cliffs of Dover, and a thousand other
forms of nature, animate and inanimate,
with such truth and spirit as he has
done.
When a general, in the night after a
battle, and in expectation of another
battle on the morrow, encamped in an
enemy's country, and surrounded by
hostile forces that outnumber his own
in the proportion of thousands to units,
comes to the door of his tent in a night-
gown (the night-gown is a brilliant
idea, which had not occurred to Shak-
speare under similar circumstances),
and delivers the following speech, as
Cortez is made to do in the " Indian
Emperor "
" All things are hush'd, as nature's self lay
dead;
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy
head ;
The little birds, in dreams, their songs repeat,
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew
sweat"
or when a man is represented as dying
in the utterance of such last words as
Dryden puts into the mouth of Maximin,
in his " Tyrannic Love "
" And, shoving back the earth on which I sit,
I'll mount, and scatter all the Gods I hit."
[Dies.-]
or as dying like Montezuma, in the
" Indian Emperor," with a simile in his
mouth
" And I grow stiff, as cooling metals do
Farewell, Almeria." [Dies.]
[the same hero had just before, when
hard pressed by pursuing enemies, and
when every moment was precious, found
time to deliver himself of two similes,
filling six lines], or praying for darkness
in such tropes as these used by Orbellan,
in the " Indian Emperor "
" Moon, slip behind some cloud, some tempest
rise,
And blow out all the stars that light the
skies "
and when such stuff as this is received
as poetry, even as " beautiful poetry"
[Eymer preferred the description of
Night in the " Indian Emperor " to
those of all other poets] we may con-
clude that the nation which so receives
it is in a rapid decline a decline which
will terminate in as utter a destruction
(if it be not stopped by a powerful re-
The Morals and Literature of the ^Restoration.
43
action that shall restore health both to
the political constitution and the popular
mind) as that of which the rant of
Statius was the prelude and the fore-
runner. But, farther, the deification of
the Eonian emperors by good writers
like Virgil and Horace was as sure a
precursor of the decay of literature, of
good taste, and good morals, public and
private, as the bad writing of such
writers as Statins, Seneca, and Claudian.
Now, Dry den in his own person united
these two signs ; for, while his unnatural
rant equalled that of the worst of the
writers of the decline of the Koman
empire, his fulsome adulation of those
he called " the Great " has never, per-
haps (as even Johnson has observed),
been equalled since the days when the
Eonian emperors were deified. In the
swollen and bloated phrase the bombast,
so untrue to nature, and so far removed
from the simplicity of taste in all the
arts, from literature to dress, which
denotes a healthy intellect in which
Domitian is deified, and in which is
celebrated the installation of Pandemo-
nium upon earth and its confusion with
heaven, may be seen the prototype of
the style of Behn and Dryden.
It was fitting that writers who had
attained such a phraseology quantas
robusti carminis offas and who would
have made gods of Domitian and
Heliogabalus, of James and Charles
Stuart, should also make a new heaven
and a new earth ; should give to nature
new laws laws in accordance with
which all the aspects of nature observed
and recorded by Homer and Shakspeare,
and all the operations of nature analysed
and explained by Galileo and Newton,
must be blotted out for ever from the
memory of mankind. And this new
world, in which the mountains at night
nod their drowsy heads, and the sleeping
birds sing madrigals in their dreams,
had to be furnished with new machinery
of every kind, physical and moral. In
fact the whole affair was like a modern
Christmas pantomime, the resemblance
being farther aided by the rhyme, ex-
cept that the pantomime is much the pre-
ferable performance, being a harmless
amusement for children, while the other
was a bloated pestilential burlesque of
what was meant to be grand and heroic.
Pope, in the "Dunciad," has forcibly
described the effect of such a meta-
morphosis, and has rapidly sketched
such a world as formed the materials of
the heroics of Statius and of Dryden.
" Hell rises, heaven descends, and dance on
earth
Gods, imps, and monsters ; music, rage, and
mirth ;
A fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball,
Till one wide conflagration swallows all.
Thence a new world, to nature's laws un-
known,
Breaks out refulgent, with a heaven its own :
Another Cynthia her new journey runs,
And other planets circle other suns.
The forests dance, the rivers upward rise,
Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the
skies ;
And, last, to give the whole creation grace,
Lo ! one vast egg produces human race."
In sad truth, these plays of the Resto-
ration, whatever they may have been to
write and to see, are a melancholy busi-
ness to read. The author of the Pro-
logue to the "Rehearsal" says of the
poets of his time
" Our poets make us laugh at tragedy,
And with their comedies they make us cry."
And we so far agree with him, that the
tragedies do excite in us a sort of labo-
rious laughter, and the comedies have
a much greater tendency to produce
melancholy than mirth. The men and
women of the tragedies belong almost
entirely to that " new world to nature's
laws unknown/' described in the " Dun-
ciad." On the other hand, the men and
women of the comedies, while they
possess some features more recognisable
as belonging to the world which we in-
habit, are not on that account more
attractive. Moliere describes his Don
Juan as passing his life " en. veritable
bete brute/' But it would be a libel
on the nobler kind of brutes to confound
them with Don Juan, or with the
dramatic heroes and heroines of the
Restoration. While the heroes and
heroines of the heroic tragedies have no
reality at all, the heroes and heroines of
the comedies belong to a world which, as
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
Lord Macaulay has observed, " is a great
deal too real." They are to be found even
in these days in more than sufficient
abundance by those who look for them,
and too often by those who do not wish
to see them. But the important differ-
rence between those days and these lies
in the fact of such people being then in
such a position as for a time to give law
to morals and manners in a nation at
least in some degree civilized.
The poison thus communicated to a
nation circulates through the veins of
several generations, producing a wide-
spread and deep-seated corruption of
historical truth, as well as of moral and
political justice. "When Dr. Johnson, in
" The Vanity of Human Wishes," ap-
plied the epithet "great" to that " un-
happy minion of court favour" (as Sir
Walter Scott more truly designates him),
who died by the knife of Felton, he
probably wrote rather in imitation of
his favourite Pope, who applies the
same epithet to the son of that person,
than from any well-considered apprecia-
tion of Buckingham's title to such an
epithet, which in his case is a sheer
abuse of language. When we contem-
plate such misapplications of the moral
lessons history may teach, as in this
and other cases in that of Laud for in-
stance, that of Wentworth, and that of
Hyde in the same vigorous poem, we
may well say in the words of Johnson
himself in the same poem
" See nations slowly wise, and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust."
It is indeed astonishing, when we con-
sider how much Johnson read in the
course of his long life that he never
travelled, or even went out almost, with-
out a book in his pocket ; that he con-
stantly read some book in stage-coaches,
and on all those occasions when people
that can see more than a yard before
them employ their eyes not in reading
but in looking about them how little he
knew either of ancient Greek and
Roman or of English history. Boswell
has preserved a report of a conversa-
tion, in which General Oglethorpe said :
" It was of the senate Caligula wished
" that it had but one neck. The senate
" by its usurpations controlled both the
" emperor and the people. And don't
"you think that we see too much of
" that in our own parliament ?" Every
schoolboy knows that it was of the
people Caligula wished that it had but
one neck (" Utinam populus Romanus
imam cervicem haberet." Suetonius,
Calig. xxx). And yet Dr. Johnson
made no remark on this a conclusive
proof of his profound ignorance of
Roman history. His ignorance of Eng-
lish history appears to have been nearly
if not quite as profound. The exam-
ples given in his "Vanity of Human
Wishes" prove this. What is philo-
sophy of any kind but the rationale of
accurately observed facts 1 A man who
presumes to set up a political philosophy
upon such data as Johnson had, is like
a man who builds a house on a quick-
sand. Johnson surely could never have
read Tacitus. Indeed, with all his
reading, such writers as Tacitus, Thucy-
dides, and Plato would seem to have
been absolutely unknown to him. And
in English history he had evidently
never examined any of the original
sources such as Strafford's Letters and
Despatches, the Clarendon or other
State Papers. Clarendon's History and
Clarendon's State Papers give very dif-
ferent results. His history is a romance ;
his state papers are a history.
The proximity in our minds of the
sublime to the ridiculous which acute
observers have noticed in all ages, which
Napoleon recorded with epigrammatic
brevity, " From the sublime to the ridi-
culous is but a step," and which had not
escaped Longinus, when at a degenerate
period of Greek literature he wrote his
treatise He/at "Yi^ovs " About Height," (e<
TOV <f>o(3epov KO.T oXiyov VTTOVUO-TZL Trpos TO
cvKaTa<j>p6vr)-ov) will account for the fact
of so many writers when in search of the
sublime, instead of it, achieving the
ludicrous. We know no writer who has
been so successful in this achievement
as Dryden. We have already given a
few examples from his plays ; we will
give another from his celebrated ode on
" Alexander's Feast :"
Tlie Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
" The Prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked,
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ;
At length, with love and wine, at once op-
pressed,
The vanquished victor sank upon her breast."
ISTow it will be observed that, as this
is not the true sublime, neither is it the
true burlesque. It belongs to the spe-
cies of writing referred to in the Pro-
logue to the " Rehearsal," which makes
us laugh, though to do that was far from
the intention of the writer. But the
effect upon the mind of this species of
false comedy is very imperfect when com-
pared to that of true comedy. Dryden's
Ode, is in this stanza, comic when it was
intended to be something by no means
comic, to be sublime or tragic or pathetic,
or all of them mingled or combined. ISTow
Burns's " Scots whahae wi' Wallace bled,"
was intended to be sublime, and it is sub-
lime ; his " Jolly Beggars" was intended
to be comic, and it is comic. In the latter
we have the image above quoted from
Dryden's Ode in its right place, and
performing its intended office, and the
difference between a poet and a rhymer,
however dexterous, could not be more
strikingly exhibited :
" The caird prevail' dth' unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,
And partly she was drunk."
It is a remarkable confirmation of this
view of Dryden's characteristics that,
though short passages may be quoted
from Dryden, which are parts or frag-
ments of descriptions, and which in
their fragmentary state appear good,
when the passages from which they are
taken are given complete, the merit of
the description will be found to disap-
pear. One case of this kind has been
made familiar to the reader by Sir Walter
Scott. In " Waverley' ; Scott says that
the voice of Fergus Mac-Ivor, especially
while issuing orders to his followers
during their military exercise, reminded
Waverley of a favourite passage in the
description of Emetrius :
" Whose voice was heard around,
Loud as a trumpet with a silver sound."
Again, in "Old Mortality," Scott
describes Claverhouse as possessing a
voice of that happy modulation, which
could alike melt in the low tones of in-
teresting conversation, and rise amid the
din of battle " loud as a trumpet with a
silver sound." Now, nothing, it will be
observed, could be more appropriate as
well as forcible than the sonorous simile,
forming one of Dryden's most resound-
ing lines, of the voice of a commander,
when it was important that every sylla-
ble he uttered should be distinctly heard,
to a trumpet with a silver sound. I
once heard an admirer of Pitt say, by way
of describing his wonderful powers, that
"his voice was like a big drum." It
may be supposed, however, that Pitt
was not so provided in the matter of
voice, but that he could not open his
mouth but out there flew, not a trope,
but, the sound of a big drum. There
would hardly be need for the big drum
to ask for another bottle of Speaker Ad-
dington's port, when Pitt supped with
his friend after the rising of the House.
And, in the case of Claverhouse, Scott
tells us^ that the voice could vary at
pleasure from the lowest to the loudest
tones. But, in Dryden's description of
Emetrius, it appears that Emetrius had
but one tone or pitch of voice, and that,
if such a heroic personage had occasion
to remember and call for that "poor
creature, small beer," he did so with the
voice of a trumpet.
" Whene'er he spoke, his voice was heard around,
Loud as a trumpet with a silver sound."
If Dryden's Emetrius had had to call
out, like Christopher Sly, for "a pot o' the
smallest ale/' he would, of course, have
brayed in precisely the same tone with
which he spoke amid the din of battle.
We do not wish to be unjust to
"glorious John," though not quite so
much impressed with a sense of his
"glory" as his admirer Claud Halcro.
There are good things in him, though
we fear they do not bear a very large
proportion to the bad. But on that
account there is more reason that he
should not be robbed of any of them.
One of the very best of Dryden's good
things is his description of Shadwell
11 from a treason-tavern rolling home"
The Morals and Literature of the Restoration.
" Round as a globe, and liquored every chink,
Goodly and great he sails behind his link.
With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og,
For every inch, that is not fool, is rogue."
Now those who trust to Mr. Mitchell's
translation of the Acharnians would
be led at once to conclude that this bit
of Dryden, however good, was not new,
but was borrowed from Aristophanes.
Mr. Mitchell describes Dicseopolis in the
Acharnians as saying of Miarchus, an
informer, on the Boeotian objecting to his
size, " He is small, I own, but there is
nothing lost in him. All is knave that
is not fool." Even if Aristophanes had
used these very words, we should not be
justified in affirming that Dryden took
his description of Og from, or that he
ever saw, the Acharnians of Aristo-
phanes, though men who spared others
so little as these wits of the Restoration
did might bear it to be said that, if this
was stolen, it was somewhat marred in
the stealing, as being more applicable to
a body of small than to one of great
bulk. But it appears that Mr. Mitchell
has rather borrowed from Dryden to
give to Aristophanes, than that Dryden
had borrowed from Aristophanes to
appropriate to himself; the words of
Aristophanes being these :
BOI. fj.iKK6s ya fiaitos OVTOS. AI. aAA 5 oarav KO.K.OV.
in which the distribution of the whole
bulk of evil into the alternatives of
rogue and fool is not made.
We may here mention another of
Dryden's best hits, which occurs in Sir
Martin Mar-all, and the force of which
will, we think, be admitted by lawyers,
as well as the rest of mankind, denomi-
nated by Plowden " lay-gents."
" Warner. Where are the papers concern-
ing the jointure I have heard you speak of 1
11 Rose. They lie within, in three great
bags ; some twenty reams of paper in each
bundle, with six lines in a sheet. But there
is a little paper where all the business lies."
Dryden's much praised satirical por-
traits, do not, however, give the truth,
even when he was attacking those whom
the court backed him in attacking. Their
deeper and darker vices he either did
not dare, or did not choose to assail.
Butler confined his elaborate attack to
those who could be then attacked with
safety. Oldham, indeed, appears to
have been both less timid and less venal
than Dryden. But Oldham died young,
and has left nothing that can be ranked
in the same class as the best efforts of
Dryden or Butler. Dryden, in his
generous lines to the memory of Old-
ham, has happily pointed to the cause,
where he says that, "advancing age"
" might (what nature never gives the
young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native
tongue."
But none of these made any approach
to an exhibition of those highest powers
of the satirist which render satire an
instrument of punishment to criminals
whose power enables them to defy all
other punishment.
At the very time when Dryden was
doing his utmost to bring men down to
the condition of " the bestial herds," by
such writing as might be expected from
the laureate of a prince of the South
Sea Islanders, as described by Cook and
Bligh, or of the Abyssinians as described
by Bruce, a certain old man, named
John Milton, who had known better
days, " though fallen on evil days" now,
in obscurity, in poverty, in blindness,
was doing his utmost to strengthen the
bonds of civilized society, and
" Founded on reason, loyal, just, and pure,
Relations dear, and all the charities
Of father, son, and brother."
Milton, indeed, was the highest lite-
rary type of the Puritan spirit, and,
therefore, was no example of the in-
fluence of the Stuarts on either morality
or literature. But, if we compare such
dramatic writing as that quoted from
Beaumont and Fletcher, in which we
see the English language in its greatest
strength and beaut} r , with the dramatic
writing of Dryden and his contempora-
ries, we shall obtain a tolerably accurate
measure of the moral and intellectual
decrepitude, the invariable consequence
of political degradation, to which Eng-
land had been reduced by the political
and personal influence upon morals and
literature of the dynasty of the Stuarts.
47
RAVENSHOE.
BY HENRY KINGSLEY, AUTHOR OP " GEOFFRY HAMLYN."
CHAPTER LVII.
WHAT CHARLES DID WITH HIS LAST
EIGHTEEN SHILLINGS.
CHARLES'S luck seemed certainly to have
deserted him at last. And that is rather
a serious matter, you see ; for, as he had
never trusted to anything but luck, it
now follows that he had nothing left to
trust to, except eighteen shillings and
ninepence, and his little friend the
cornet, who had come home invalided,
and was living with his mother in
Hyde Park Gardens. Let us hope,
reader, that you and I may never be
reduced to the patronage of a cornet of
Hussars, and eighteen shillings in cash.
It was a fine frosty night, and the
streets were gay and merry. It was a
sad Christmas for many thousands j but
the general crowd seemed determined
not to think too deeply of these sad
accounts which were coming from the
Crimea just now. They seemed inclined
to make Christmas Christmas, in spite
of everything; and perhaps they were
right. It is good for a busy nation like
the English to have two great festivals,
and two only, the object of which every
man who is a Christian can understand,
and on these occasions to put in practice,
to the best of one's power, the lesson of
goodwill towards men which our blessed
Lord taught us. We English cannot
stand too many saints' days. We de-
cline to stop business for St. Blaize or
St. Swithinj but we can understand
Christmas and Easter. The foreign
Catholics fiddle away so much time on
saints' days that they are obliged to
work like the Israelites in bondage on
Sunday to get on at all. I have as
good a right to prophesy as any other
freeborn Englishman who pays rates
and taxes ; and I prophesy that, in this
wonderful resurrection of Ireland, the
attendance of the male population at
church on week-days will get small by
degrees and beautifully less.
One man, Charles Ravenshoe, has got
to spend his Christmas with eighteen
shillings and a crippled left arm. There
is half a million of money or so, and a
sweet little wife, waiting for him if he
would only behave like a rational being ;
but he will not, and must take the
consequences.
He went westward, through a kind
of instinct, and he came to Belgrave
Square, where a certain duke lived.
There were lights in the windows. The
duke was in office, and had been called
up to town. Charles was glad of this ;
not that he had any business to transact
with the duke, but a letter to deliver
to the duke's coachman.
This simple circumstance saved him
from being much nearer actual destitu-
tion than I should have liked to see
him. The coachman's son had been
wounded at Balaclava, and was still at
Scutari, and Charles brought a letter
from him. He got an English welcome,
I promise you. And, next morning,
going to Hyde Park Gardens, he found
that his friend the cornet was out of
town, and would not be back for a
week. At this time the coachman
became very important. He offered him
money, houseroom, employment, every-
thing he could possibly get for him ; and
Charles heartily and thankfully accepted
houseroom and board for a week.
At the end of a week he went back
tc Hyde Park Gardens. The cornet
was come back. He had to sit in the
kitchen while his message was taken
upstairs. He merely sent up his name,
said he was discharged, and asked for
an interview.
The servants found out that he had
been at the war in their young master's
regiment, and they crowded round him
48
HavensJioe.
full of sympathy and kindness. He
was telling them how he had last seen
the cornet in the thick of it on the
terrible 28th, when they parted right
and left, and in dashed the cornet him-
self, who caught him by both hands.
"By gad, I'm so glad to see you.
How you are altered without your
moustache ! Look you here, you fellows
and girls, this is the man that charged
up to my assistance when I was dis-
mounted among the guns, and kept by
me while I caught another horse. What
a pip I went down, didn't I ? "What a
terrible brush it was, eh? And poor
Hornby, too ! It is the talk of Europe,
you know. You remember old Devna,
and the galloping lizard, eh 1 "
And so on, till they got upstairs ; and
then he turned on him, and said, " Now,
what are you going to do 1"
" I have got eighteen shillings."
"Will your family do nothing for
you?"
"Did Hornby tell you anything
about me, my dear sir 1 " said Charles,
eagerly.
"Not a word. I never knew that
Hornby and you were acquainted till I
saw you together when he was dying."
" JDid you hear what we said to one
another ] "
"Not a word. The reason I spoke
about your family is that no one who
had seen so much of you as I could
doubt that you were a gentleman. That
is all. I am very much afraid I shall
offend you "
" That would not be easy, sir."
"Well, then, here goes. If you are
utterly hard up, take service with me.
There."
" I will do so with the deepest grati-
tude," said Charles. "But I cannot
ride, I fear. My left arm is gone."
" Pish ! ride with your right. It's a
bargain. Come up and see my mother.
I must show you to her, you know,
because you will have to live here. She
is deaf. Now you know the reason
why the major used to talk so loud."
Charles smiled for an instant ; he did
remember that circumstance about the
cornet's respected and gallant father.
He followed the cornet upstairs, and
was shown into the drawing-room,
where sat a very handsome lady, about
fifty years of age, knitting.
She was not only stone deaf, but had
a trick of talking aloud, under the im-
pression that she was only thinking,
which was a very disconcerting habit
indeed. When Charles and the cornet
entered the room, she said aloud, with
amazing distinctness, looking hard at
Charles, " God bless me ! Who has he
got now 1 What a fine, gentlemanly-
looking fellow. I wonder why he is
dressed so shabbily." After which she
arranged her trumpet, and prepared to
go into action.
"This, mother," bawled the cornet,
" is the man who saved me in the charge
at Balaclava."
"Do you mean that that is trooper
Simpson 1 " said she.
"Yes, mother."
" Then may the blessing of God Al-
mighty rest upon your head ! " said she
to Charles. "The time will come,
trooper Simpson, when you will know
the value of a mother's gratitude. And
when that time comes think of me.
But for you, trooper Simpson, I might
have been tearing my grey hair this day.
What are we to do for him, James ? He
looks ill and worn. Words are not
worth much. What shall we do ? "
The cornet put his mouth to his
mother's trumpet, and in an apologetic
bellow, such as one gets from the skip-
per of a fruit brig, in the Bay of Biscay,
; when he bears up to know if you
will be so kind as to oblige him with
the longitude, roared out :
" He wants to take service with me.
Have you any objection ? "
" Of course not, you foolish boy," said
she. " I wish we could do more for him
than that." And then she continued
in a tone slightly lowered, but perfectly
audible, evidently under the impression
that she was thinking to herself : " He
is ugly, but he has a sweet face. I feel
certain he is a gentleman who has had a
difference with his family. I wish I
could hear his voice. God bless him !
he looks like a valiant soldier. I hope
EavensJioe.
49
he won't get drunk, or make love to the
maids."
Charles had heard every word of this
before he had time to bow himself
out.
And so he accepted his new position
with dull carelessness. Life was getting
very worthless.
He walked across the park to see his
friend, the coachman. The frost had
given, and there was a dull dripping
thaw. He leant against the railings at
the end of the Serpentine. There was
still a great crowd all round the water;
but up the whole expanse there were
only four skaters, for the ice was very
dangerous and rotten, and the people
had been warned off. One of the skaters
came sweeping down to within a hun-
dred yards of where he was a reck-
less, headlong skater, one who would
chance drowning to have his will. The
ice cracked every moment and warned
him, but he would not heed, till it
broke, and down he went, clutching
wildly at the pitiless, uptilted slabs
which clanked about his head, to save
himself, and then with a wild cry he
disappeared. The icemen were on the
spot in a minute ; and, when five were
past, they had him out, and bore him off
to the receiving-house. A gentleman, a
doctor apparently, who stood by Charles,
said to him, " Well, there is a reckless
fool gone to his account, God forgive
him!"
"They will bring him round, won't
they ? " said Charles.
" Ten to one against it," said the doc-
tor. " What right has he to calculate on
such a thing, either 1 Why, most likely
there will be half a dozen houses in
mourning for that man to-morrow. He
is evidently a man of some mark. I
can pity his relations in their bereave-
ment, sir, but I have precious little pity
for a reckless fool."
And so Charles began to serve his
friend, the cornet, in a way a very
poor way, I fear, for he was very weak
and ill, and could do but little. The
deaf lady treated him like a son, God
bless her ; but Charles could not recover
the shock of his fever and delirium in
No. 31. VOL. vi.
the Crimea. He grew very low-spirited
and despondent by day, and, worst of
all, he began to have sleepless nights
terrible nights. In the rough calcula-
tion he had made of being able to live
through his degradation, and get used to
it, he had calculated, unwittingly, on
perfect health. He had thought that
in a few years he should forget the old
life, and become just like one of the
grooms he had made his companions.
This had now become impossible, for
his health and his nerve were gone.
He began to get afraid of his horses ;
that was the first symptom. He tried
to fight against the conviction, but it
forced itself upon him. When he was
on horseback, he found that he was
frightened when anything went wrong ;
his knees gave way on emergency, and
his hand was irresolute. And, what is
more, be sure of this, that, before he
confessed the fact to himself, the horses
had found it out, and, as the ATnp.ricfl.ns
say, " taken action on it," or else, may I
ride a donkey, with my face towards the
tail, for the rest of my life.
And he began to see another thing.
Now, when he was nervous, in ill health
and whimsical, the company of men
among whom he was thrown as fellow-
servants became nearly unbearable.
Little trifling acts of coarseness, unno-
ticed when he was in good health and
strong, at the time he was with poor
Hornby, now disgusted him. Most
kind-hearted young fellows, brought up
as he had been, are apt to be familiar
with, and probably pet and spoil, the
man whose duty it is to minister to
their favourite pleasures, be he game-
keeper or groom, or cricketer or water-
man. Nothing can be more natural, or,
in proper bounds, harmless. Charles
had thought that, being used to these
men, he could live with them and do as
they did. For a month or two, while
in rude coarse health, he found it was
possible ; for had not Lord Welter and
he done the same thing for amusement ?
But now, with shattered nerves, he
found it intolerable. I have had great
opportunities of seeing gentlemen try-
ing to do this sort of thing. I mean, in
50
Eavenshoe.
Australia. And, as far as my experience
goes, it ends in one of two ways. Either
they give it up as a bad job, and assume
the position that superior education
gives them ; or else they take to drink,
and go not to mince matters to the
devil.
What Charles did, we shall see. No-
body could be more kind and affec-
tionate than the cornet and his deaf
mother. They guessed that he was
" somebody," and that things were wrong
with him ; though, if he had been a
chimney-sweep's son, it would have made
no difference to them, for they were
"good people." The cornet once or
twice invited his confidence ; but he was
too young, and Charles had not the
energy to tell him anything. His mo-
ther asked him to tell her once if any-
thing was wrong in his affairs, and
whether she could help him ; and possi-
bly he might have been more inclined
to confide in her than in her son. But
who could bellow such a sad tale of
misery through an ear-trumpet? He
held his peace.
He kept Ellen's picture, which he
had taken frm Hornby. He deter-
mined he would not go and seek her.
She was safe somewhere, in some Ca-
tholic asylum. Why should he re-open
her grief ?
But life was getting very, very weary
business. By day, his old favourite
pleasure of riding had become a terror,
and at night he got no rest. Death forty
good years away, by all calculation ! A
weary time.
He thought himself humbled, but he
was not. He said to himself that he
was prevented from going back, because
he had found out that Mary was in love
with him, and also because he was dis-
graced through his sister; and both of
these reasons were, truly, most powerful
with him. But, in addition to this, I
fear there was a great deal of obstinate
pride, which thing is harder to beat out
of a man than most things.
And now, after all this half-moralizing
narrative, an important fact or two. The
duke was very busy, and stayed in town,
and, as a consequence, the duke's coach-
man. Moreover, the duke's coachman's
son came home invalided, and stayed
with his father ; and Charles, with the
hearty approval of the cornet, used to
walk across the park every night to see
him, and talk over the campaign, and
then look in at the Servants' Club, of
which he was still a member. And the
door of the Servants' Club room had
glass windows to it ; and I have no-
ticed that anybody who looks through a
glass window (under favourable circum-
stances) can see who is on the other side.
I have done it myself more than once.
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE NORTH SIDE OF GROSVEINOR SQUARE.
THIS chapter must be written and read,
but it shall be very short as short as I
can make it.
John Marston's first disappointment
in life had been his refusal by Mary.
He was one of those men, brought up in
a hard school, who get somehow the
opinion that everything which happens
to a man is his own fault. He used to
say that every man who could play
whist could get a second if he chose.
I have an idea that he is in some sort
right. But he used to carry this sort of
thing to a rather absurd extent. He
was apt to be hard on men who failed,
and to be always the first to say, " If he
had done this, or left that alone, it
would not have been so ; " and he him-
self, with a calm clear brain and perfect
health, had succeeded in everything he
had ever tried at, even up to a double
first. At one point he was stopped. He
had always given himself airs of supe-
riority over Charles, and had given him
advice, good as it was, in a way which
would have ruined his influence with
nine men out of ten ; and suddenly he
was brought up. At the most important
point in life, he found Charles his^supe-
rior. Charles had won a woman's love
without knowing it, or caring for it \
and he had tried for it, and failed.
John Marston was an eminently noble
and high-minded man. His faults were
only those of education, and his faults
IlavensLoe.
were very few. When he found himself
rejected, and found out why it was so
when he found that he was no rival of
Charles, and that Charles cared naught
for poor Mary he humbly set his quick
brain to work to find out in what way
Charles, so greatly his inferior in intel-
lect, was superior to him in the most
important of all things ; for he saw
that Charles had not only won Mary's
love, but the love of every one who
knew him, whereas he, John Marston,
had but very few friends.
And, when he once set to work at this
task, he seemed to come rapidly to the
conclusion that Charles was superior to
him in everything except application.
"And how much application should I
have had," he concluded, " if I had not
been a needy man ? "
So you see that his disappointment
cured him of what was almost his only
vice conceit. Everything works to-
gether for good, for those who are really
good.
Hitherto, John Marston had led only
the life that so many young Englishmen
lead a life of study, combined with
violent, objectless, physical exertion,
as a counterpoise. He had never known
what enthusiasm was as yet. There
was a vast deal of it somewhere about
him ; in his elbows, or his toes, or the
calves of his legs, or somewhere, as
events prove. If I might hazard an
opinion, I should say that it was stowed
away somewhere in that immensely high,
but somewhat narrow forehead of his.
Before he tried love-making, he might
have written the calmest and most ex-
asperating article in the Saturday Re-
view. But, shortly after that, the tinder
got a-fire ; and the man who set it on
fire was his uncle Smith, the Moravian
missionary.
For this fellow, Smith, had, as we
know, come home from Australia with
the Vlying words of his beautiful wife
ringing in his ears : u Go home from
here, my love, into the great towns, and
see what is to be done there." And he
had found his nephew, John Marston.
And, while Marston listened to his
strange wild conversation, a light broke
in upon him. And what had been to
him but words before became glorious,
tremendous realities.
And so those two had gone hand in
hand, down into the dirt and the pro-
fligacy of Southwark, to do together a
work the reward of which comes after
death. There are thousands of men at
such work now. We have no more to
do with it than to record the fact, that
these two were at it heart and hand,
or, shall we say, " hammer and tongs 1 "
John Marston' s love for Mary had
never waned for one instant. When
he had found that, or thought that he
had found that, she loved Charles, he
had, in a quiet, dignified way, retired
from the contest. He had determined
that he would go away and work at
ragged schools, and so on, and try to
forget all about her. He had begun to
fancy that his love was growing cool,
when Lord Saltire's letter reached him,
and set it all a-blaze again.
This was unendurable that a savage,
from the southern wilds, should step in
this way, without notice. He posted
off to Casterton.
Mary was very glad to see him ; but
he had proposed to her once, and, there-
fore, how could she be so familiar with
him as of yore 1 Not withstanding this,
John was not so very much disappointed
at his reception; he had thought that
matters were even worse than they
were.
After dinner, in the drawing-room,
he watched them together. George
Corby was evidently in love. He went
to Mary, who was sitting alone, the
moment they came from the dining-
room. Mary looked up, and caught his
eyes as he approached; but her looks
wandered from him to the door, until it
settled 011 John himself. She seemed
to wish that he would come and talk
to her. He had a special reason for
not doing so ; he wanted to watch her
and George together. So he stayed
behind, and talked to Lord Hainault.
Lord Saltire moved up beside Lady
Ascot. Lady Hainault had the three
children Archy in her lap, and Gus
and Flora beside her. In her high and
E2
52
Ravenshoe.
mighty way, she was amusing them, or
rather trying to do so. Lady Hainault
was one of the best and noblest women
in the world, as you have seen already ;
"but she was not an amusing person.
Her intentions were excellent: she
wanted to leave Mary free from the
children until their bed-time, so that
she might talk to her old acquaintance,
John Marston; for, at the children's
bed-time, Mary would have to go with
them. Even Lady Hainault, determined
as she was, never dared to contemplate
putting those children to bed without
Mary's assistance. She was trying to
tell them a story out of her own head,
"but was making a dreadful mess of
it; and she was quite conscious that Gus
and Flora were listening to her with
contemptuous pity.
So they were disposed. Lord Saltire
and Lady Ascot were comfortably out
of hearing. We had better attend to
them first, and come round to the others
afterwards.
Lady Ascot began. "James," she
said, " it is perfectly evident to me that
you sent for John Marston."
" Well, and suppose I did ? " said
Lord Saltire.
"Well, then, why did you do so 1 "
"Maria," said Lord Saltire, "do you
know that sometimes you are intolerably
foolish ? Cannot you answer that ques-
tion for yourself 1 "
" Of course I can," said Lady Ascot.
"Then why the deuce did you ask
me?"
That was a hard question to answer,
"but Lady Ascot said :
" I doubt if you are wise, James. I
believe it would be better that she
should go to Australia. It is a very
good match for her."
"It is not a good match for her,"
said Lord Saltire, testily. "To begin
with, first cousin marriages are an in-
Tention of the devil. Third and lastly,
she sha'n't go to that infernal hole.
Sixthly, I want her, now our Charles
is dead, to marry John Marston; and,
in conclusion, I mean to have my own
way."
"Do you know," said Lady Ascot,
"that he proposed to her before, and
was rejected ? "
"He told me of it the same night,"
said Lord Saltire. "Now, don't talk
any more nonsense, but tell me this,
Is she bitten with that young fellow ?"
"Not deeply, as yet, I think," said
Lady Ascot.
"Which of them has the best
chance ? " said Lord Saltire.
" James," said Lady Ascot, repeating
his own words, "do you know that
sometimes you are intolerably foolish
How can I tell?"
"Which would you bet on, Mis&
Headstall?" asked Lord Saltire.
" Well ! well ! " said Lady Ascot, " I
suppose I should bet on John Mar-
ston."
"And how long are you going to>
give Sebastopol, Lord Hainault?" said
John Marston.
" What do you think about the Greek
Kalends, my dear Marston ? " said Lord
Hainault.
"Why, no. I suppose we shall get
it at last. It won't do to have it said
that England and France "
" Say France and England just now,"
said Lord Hainault.
"No, I will not. It must not be
said that England and France could not
take a Black Sea fortress."
"We shall have to say it, I fear,"
said Lord Hainault. " I am not quite
sure that we English don't want a
thrashing."
"I am sure we do," said Marston.
" But we shall never get one. That is
the worst of it."
"My dear Marston," said Lord Hain-
ault, "you have a clear head. Will
you tell me this ? Do you believe that
Charles Eavenshoe is dead ? "
" God bless me, Lord Hainault, have
you any doubts ? "
"Yes."
"So have I," said Marston, turning
eagerly towards him. " I thought you
had all made up your minds. If there
is any doubt, ought we not to mention it
to Lord Saltire."
" I think that he has doubts himself.
I may tell you that he has secured to
EavensJioe.
53
him, in case of his return, eighty thou-
sand pounds."
" He would have made him his heir,
I suppose," said John Marston ; " would
henotT'
" Yes ; I think I am justified in say-
ing yes."
"And so all the estates go to Lord
Ascot in any case ? "
" Unless in the case of Charles's re-
appearance before his death; in which
case, I believe he would alter his will."
"Then, if Charles be alive, he had
better keep out of Lord Ascot's way on
dark nights, in narrow lanes," said John
Marston.
"You are mistaken there," said Lord
Hainault, thoughtfully. " Welter is a bad
fellow. I told him so once in public, at
the risk of getting an awful thrashing.
If it had not been for Mainwaring, I
should have had sore bones for a twelve-
month. But but well, I was at Eton
with Welter, and Welter was and is a
great blackguard. But, do you know, he
is to some a very affectionate fellow.
You know he was adored at Eton.
" He was not liked at Oxford," said
Marston. " I never knew any good of
him. He is a great rascal."
" Yes," said Lord Hainault, " he is a
great rascal. Yes ; I told him so, you
know. And I am not a fighting man,
and that proves that I was strongly con-
vinced of the fact, or I should, have
shirked my duty. A man in my position
don't like to go down to the House of
Lords with a black eye. But I doubt
if he is capable of any deep villainy
yet. If you were to say to me that
Charles would be unwise to allow Ascot's
wife to make his gruel for him, I should
.say that I agreed with you."
"There you are certainly right, my
lord," said John Marston, smiling.
"But I never knew Lord Ascot spare
either man or woman."
" That is very true/' said Lord
Hainault. "Do you notice that we
have been speaking as if Charles Ravens-
hoe were not dead 1"
"I don't believe he is," said John
Marston.
"Nor I, do you know," said Lord
Hainault ; "at least only half. What
a pair of ninnies we are. Only ninety
men of the 140th came out of that
Balaclava charge. If he escaped the
cholera, the chances are in favour of his,
having been killed there."
" What evidence have we that he en-
listed in that regiment at all 1 "
" Lady Hainault and Mary's descrip-
tion of his uniform which they never dis-
tinctly saw for one moment," said Lord
Hainault. " Voilct, tout."
" And you would not speak to Lord
Saltire?"
" Why, no. He sees all that we see,
If he comes back, he gets eighty thou-
sand pounds. It would not do either
for you or me to press him. to alter his
will. Do you see 1
" I suppose you are right, Lord
Hainault. Things cannot go very wrong
either way. I hope Mary will not
fall in love with that cousin of hers,"
he added, with a laugh.
"Are you wise in persevering, do you
think 1 " said Lord Hainault, kindly.
" I will tell you in a couple of days,"
said John Marston. "Is there any
chance of seeing that best of fellows,
William Ravenshoe, here ? "
" He may come tumbling up. He has
put off his wedding in consequence of
the death of his half-brother. I wonder
if he was humbugged at Varna."
" Nothing more likely," said Marston.
"Where is Lord Welter 1 "
" In Paris plucking geese."
Just about this time all the various
groups in the drawing-room seemed to-
come to the conclusion that a time had
arrived for new combinations, to avoid
remarks. So there was a regular puss-
in-the-corner business. John Marston
went over to Mary ; George Corby came
to Lord Hainault ; Lord Saltire went to
Lady Hainault, who had Archy asleep
in her lap ; and Gus and Elora went to
Lady Ascot.
"At last, old friend," said Mary to
Marston. " And I have been watching
for you so long. I was afraid that the
time would come for the children to go
to bed, and that you would never come
and speak to me."
Ravenslioe.
"Lord Hainaulfc and I were talking
politics," said Marston. " That is why
I did not come."
" Men must talk politics, I suppose/ 5
said Mary. " But I wish you had come
while my cousin was here. He is so
charming. You will like him."
" He seems to be a capital fellow,"
said Marston.
"Indeed he is," said Mary. "He is
really the most loveable creature I have
met for a long time. If you would take
him up, and be kind to him, and show
him life, from the side from which you
see it, you would be doing a good work.
And you would be obliging me. And I
know, my dear friend, that you like to
oblige me."
" Miss Corby, you know that I would
die for you."
" I know it. Who better ? It puzzles
me to know what I have done to earn
such kindness from. you. But there it is.
You will be kind to him,"
Marston was partly pleased and
partly a little disappointed by this con-
versation. Would you like to guess
why 1 Yes. Then I will leave you to
do so, and save myself half a page of
writing.
Only saying this, for the benefit of
inexperienced novel-readers, that he
was glad to hear her talk in that free
and easy manner of her cousin, but
would have been glad if she had not
talked in that free and easy manner
to himself. Nevertheless, there was
evidently no harm done as yet. That
was a great cause of congratulation ;
there was time yet.
Gus and Flora went over to Lady Ascot.
Lady Ascot said, " My dears, is it not
near bed- time ? " just by way of opening
the conversation nothing more.
" Lawks a mercy me, no," said Flora.
" Go along with you, do, you foolish
thing."
" My dear ! my dear ! " said Lady
Ascot.
"She is imitating old Alwright,"
explained Gus. " She told me she was
going to. Lord Saltire says, Maria !
Maria ! Maria ! you are intolerably
foolish, Maria 1"
" Don't be naughty, Gus," said Lady
Ascot.
" Well, so he did, for I heard him.
Don't mind us ; we don't mean any
harm. I say, Lady Ascot, has she any
right to bite and scratch 1"
" Who ? " said Lady Ascot.
" Why, that Flora. She bit Alwright
because she wouldn't lend her Mrs.
Moko."
Oh ! you dreadful fib," said Flora.
" Oh ! you wicked boy, you know where
you'll go to if you tell such stories.
Lady Ascot, I didn't bite her ; I only
said she ought to be bit. She told me
that she couldn't let me have Mrs.
Moko, because she was trying caps on
her. And then she told nurse that I
should never have her again, because I
squeezed her flat. And so she told a story.
And it was not I who squeezed her flat,
but that boy, who is worse than Ananias
and Sapphira. I made a bogy of her
in the nursery door, with a broom and
a counterpane, just as he was coming in.
And he shut the door on her head and
squeezed a piece of paint off her nose
as big as half a crown.
Lady Ascot was relieved by being
informed that Mrs. Moko, aforesaid, was
only a pasteboard image, the size of life,
used by the lady's maid for fitting caps.
There were many evenings like this ;
a week or so was passed without any
change. At last, there was a move
towards London.
The first who took flight was George
Corby. He was getting dissatisfied, in
his sleepy semi-tropical way, with the state
of affairs. It was evident that, since John
Marston's arrival, he had been playing,
with regard to Mary, second fiddle (if
you can possibly be induced to pardon
the extreme coarseness of the expression).
One day, Lord Saltire invited him to
take him for a drive. They went over
to dismantled Eanford, and Lord Saltire
was more amusing than ever. As
they drove up through the dense larch
plantation, on the outskirt of the park,
they saw Marston and Mary side by
side. George Corby bit his lip.
" I suppose there is something there,
my lord ? " said he.
Eavtnshoe.
"Oh dear, yesj I hope so," said Lord
Saltire. " Oh, yes, that is a very old
affair."
So George Corby went first. He did
not give up all hopes of being successful,
but he did not like the way things were
going. His English expedition was not
quite so pleasant as he intended it to be.
He, poor fellow, was desperately in love,
and his suit did not seem likely to
prosper. He was inclined to be angry
with Lord Saltire. He should not have
let things go so far, thought George,
without letting him know, quite forget-
ting that the mischief was done before
Lord Saltire' s arrival.
Lord Saltire and John Marston moved
next. Lord Saltire had thought it best
to take his man Simpson's advice, and
move into his house in Curzon Street.
He had asked John to come with him.
" It is a very nice little house," he
said ; " deuced well aired, and that sort
of thing ; but I know I shall have a
creeping in my back when I go back
for the first week, and fancy there is a
draught. This will make me peevish.
I don't like to be peevish to my ser-
vants, because it is unfair ; they can't
answer one. I wish you would come
and let me be peevish to you. You may
just as well. It will do you good. You
have got a fancy for disciplining your-
self, and all that sort of thing ; and you
will find me capital practice for a week or
so, in a fresh house. After that I shall
get amiable, and then you may go.
You may have the use of my carriage,
to go and attend to your poor man's
plaster business in Southwark, if you
like. I am not nervous about fever or
vermin. Besides, it may amuse me to
hear all about it. And you can bring that
cracked uncle of yours to see me some-
times; his Scriptural talk is very piquant."
Lord and Lady Hainault moved up
into Grosvenor Square, too, for Parlia-
ment was going to meet rather early.
They persuaded Lady Ascot to come and
stay with them.
After a few days, William made his
appearance. "Well, my dear Ravens-
hoe," said Lord Hainault, " and what
brings you to town ? "
" I don't know," said William. " I
cannot stay down there. Lord Hainault,
do you know that I think I am going
cracked."
" Why, my dear fellow, what do you
mean 1 "
" I have got such a strange fancy in
my head, I cannot rest."
" What is your fancy ? " said Lord
Hainault. " Stay ; may I make a guess
at it 1 "
" You would never dream what it is.
It is too mad."
" I will guess," said Lord Hainault.
" Your fancy is this : You believe that
Charles Ravenshoe is alive, and you
have come up to London to take your
chance of finding him in the streets."
" But, good God ! " said William,
" how have you found this out ? I have
never told it even to my own sweet-
heart."
"Because," said Lord Hainault, lay-
ing his hand on his shoulder, "I and
John Marston have exactly the same
fancy. That is why."
And Charles so close to them all the
time. Creeping every day across the
park to see the coachman and his son.
Every day getting more hopeless. All
energy gone. Wit enough left to see
that he was living on the charity of the
cornet. There were some splinters in his
arm which would not come away, and
kept him restless. He never slept now.
He hesitated when he was spoken to.
Any sudden noise made him start and
look wild. I will not go on with the
symptoms. Things were much worse
with him than we have ever seen them
before. He, poor lad, began to wonder
whether it would come to him to die in
a hospital, or
Those cursed bridges ! Why did
they build such things 1 Who built
them 1 The devil. To tempt ruined
desperate men, with ten thousand
fiends gnawing and sawing in their
deltoid muscles, night and day. Sup-
pose he had to cross one of these by
night, would he ever get to the other
side ; or would angels from heaven
come down and hold him back 1
The cornet and his mother had a con-
56
RavensJioe.
versation about him. Bawled the cornet
into the ear-trumpet :
"My fellow Simpson is very bad,
mother. He is getting low and nervous,
and I don't like the looks of him."
" I remarked it myself," said the old
lady. " We had better have Bright. It
would be cheaper to pay five guineas,
and get a good opinion at once."
"I expect he wants a surgeon more
than a doctor," said the cornet.
" Well, that is the doctor's business,"
said the old lady. "Drop a line to
Bright, and see what he says. It would
be a burning shame, my dear enough to
bring down the wrath of God upon us
if we were to let him want for anything,
as long as we have money. And we
have plenty of money. More than we
want. And if it annoys him to go near
the horses, we must pension him. But
I would rather let him believe that he
was earning his wages, because it might
be a weight on his mind if we did not.
See to it the first thing in the morning.
Eemember Balaclava, John ! Eemember
Balaclava ! If you forget Balaclava, and
what trooper Simpson did for you there,
you are tempting God to forget you."
" I hope he may when I do, mother,"
shouted the cornet. " I remember Bala-
clava ay, and Devna before."
There are such people as these in the
world, reader. I know some of them.
I know a great many of them. So many
of them, in fact, that this conclusion
has been forced upon me that the
world is not entirely peopled by rogues
and fools ; nay, more, that the rogues
and fools form a contemptible minority.
I may become unpopular, I may be
sneered at by wiser men, for coming to
such a conclusion ; but I will not retract
what I have said. The good people in
the world outnumber the bad, ten to
one, and the ticket for this sort of belief
is " Optimist."
This conversation between the cornet
.and his mother took place at half-past
two. At that time Charles had crept
across the park to the Mews, near Bel-
grave Square, to see his friend the duke's
coachman and his son. May I be al-
lowed, without being accused of writing
a novel in the " confidential style," to
tell you, that this is the most important
day in the whole story.
At half-past two, William Eavenshoe
called at Lord Hainault's house in
Grosvenor Square. He saw Lady Ascot.
Lady Ascot asked him what sort of
weather it was out of doors.
William said that there was a thick
fog near the river, but that on the
north side of the square it was pleasant.
So Lady Ascot said she would like a
walk, if it were only for ten minutes, if
he would give her his arm ; and out they
went.
Mary and the children came out too,
but they went into the square. Lady
Ascot and William walked slowly up
and down the pavement alone, for Lady
Ascot liked to see the people.
Up and down the north side, in front
of the house. At the second turn, when
they were within twenty yards of the
west end of the square, a tall man with
an umbrella over his shoulder came
round the corner, and leant against the
lamp-post. They both knew him in an
instant. It was Lord Ascot. He had
not seen them. He had turned to look
at a great long-legged chesnut that was
coming down the street, from the right,
with a human being on his back. The
horse was desperately vicious, but very
beautiful and valuable. The groom on
his back was neither beautiful nor valu-
able, and was losing his temper with
the horse. The horse was one of those
horses vicious by nature such a horse as
Earey (all honour to him) can terrify into
submission for a short time ; and the
groom was a groom, not one of our
country lads, every one of whose virtues
and vices have been discussed over and
over again at the squire's dinner-table, or
about whom the rector has scratched his
head, and had into his study for private
exhortation or encouragement. !Not one
of the minority. One of the majority,
I very much fear. Eeared like a dog
among the straw, without education,
without religion, without self-respect
worse broke than the horse he rode.
When I think of all that was said
against grooms and stable-helpers dur-
Ravenshoe.
57
ing the Rarey fever, I get very angry, I
confess it. One man said to me, "When
we have had a groom or two killed, we
shall have our horses treated properly."
Look to your grooms, gentlemen, and
don't allow such a blot on the fair fame
of England as the Newmarket stables
much longer, or there will be a heavy
reckoning against you when the books
are balanced.
But the poor groom lost his temper
with the horse, and beat it over the
head. And Lord Ascot stayed to say,
"Damn it all, man, you will never do
any good like that ; " though a greater
fiend on horseback than Lord Ascot I
never saw.
This gave time for Lady Ascot to say,
" Come on, my dear Ravenshoe, and let
us speak to him." So on they went.
Lord Ascot was so busy looking at the
horse and groom, that they got close
behind him before he saw them. No-
body being near, Lady Ascot, with a
sparkle of her old fun, poked him in
the back with her walking-stick. Lord
Ascot turned sharply and angrily round,
with his umbrella raised for a blow.
When he saw who it was, he burst
out into a pleasant laugh. " Now, you
grandma," he said, " you keep that old
stick of yours quiet, or you'll get into
trouble. What do you mean by as-
saulting the head of the house in the
public streets ? I am ashamed of you.
You, Ravenshoe, you egged her on to do
it. I shall have to punch your head
before I have done. How are you
both?"
"And where have you been, you
naughty boy ? " said Lady Ascot.
"At Paris," said that ingenuous no-
bleman, "dicing and brawling as usual.
Nobody can accuse me of hiding my
talents in a napkin, grandma. Those
two things are all I am fit for, and I
certainly do them with a will. I have
fought a duel, too. A Yankee Doodle
got it into his head that he might be
impertinent to Adelaide ; so I took him
out and shot him. Don't cry, now. He
is not dead. He'll walk lame though,
I fancy, for a time. How jolly it is to
catch you out here. I dread meeting
that insufferable prig, Hainault, for fear
I should kick him. Give me her arm,
my dear Ravenshoe."
"And where is Adelaide?" said Lady
Ascot.
" Up at St. John's Wood," said he.
" Do steal away, and come and see her.
Grandma, I was very sorry to hear of
poor Charles's death I was indeed.
You know what it has done for me ;
but, by gad, I was very sorry."
"Dear Welter dear Ascot," said
Lady Ascot, "I am sure you were sorry.
Oh ! if you would repent, my own dear.
If you would think of the love that
Christ bore you when He died for you.
Oh, Ascot, Ascot ! will nothing save you
from the terrible hereafter ? "
"I am afraid not, grandma," said
Lord Ascot. " It is getting too cold for
you to stay out. Ravenshoe, my dear
fellow, take her in."
And so, after a kind good-bye, Lord
Ascot walked away towards the south-
west.
I am afraid that John Marston was
right. I am afraid he spoke the truth
when he said that Lord Ascot was a
savage, untameable blackguard.
CHAPTER LIX.
A CHAPTER WITHOUT ANY HEADING
AT ALL.
LORD ASCOT, with his umbrella over his
shoulder, swung on down the street,
south-westward. The town was pleasant
in the higher parts, and so he felt in-
clined to prolong his walk. He turned
to the right into Park Lane.
He was a remarkable-looking man.
So tall, so broad, with such a mighty
chest, and such a great, red, hairless,
cruel face above it, that people, when he
paused to look about him, as he did at
each street corner, turned to look at him.
He did not notice it; he was used to it.
And, besides, as he walked there were
two or three words ringing yet in his
ears which made him look less keenly
than usual after the handsome horses
and pretty faces which he met in his
walk.
r>8
Ravenshoe.
" Oh, Ascot, Ascot ! will nothing save
you from the terrible hereafter ] "
"Confound those old women, more
particularly when they take to religion.
Always croaking. And grandma Ascot,
too, as plucky and good an old soul as
any in England as good a judge of a
horse as William Day taking to that
sort of thing. Hang it ! it was unen-
durable. It was bad taste, you know,
putting such ideas into a fellow's head.
London was dull enough after Paris,
without that."
So thought Lord Ascot, as he stood in
front of Dudley House, and looked
southward. The winter sun was feebly
shining where he was, but to the south
there was a sea of fog, out of which rose
the Wellington statue, looking more
exasperating than ever, and the two
great houses at the Albert Gate.
" This London is a beastly hole," said
he. " I have got to go down into that
cursed fog. I wish Tattersalls' was any-
where else." But he shouldered his
umbrella again, and on he went.
Opposite St. George's Hospital there
were a number of medical students.
Two of them, regardless of the order
which should always be kept on her
Majesty's highway, were wrestling. Lord
Ascot paused for a moment to look at
them. He heard one of the students
who were looking on say to another,
evidently about himself :
"By Gad! what preparations that
fellow would cut up into."
"Ah!" said another, "and wouldn't
he cuss and d under operation
neither."
" I know who that is," said a third.
" That's Lord Ascot ; the most infernal,
headlong, gambling savage in the three
kingdoms."
So Lord Ascot, in the odour of sanc-
tity, passed down into Tattersalls' xyard.
There was no one in the rooms. He
went out into the yard again.
" Hullo, you sir ! Have you seen
Mr. Sloane?"
" Mr. Sloane was here not ten minutes
ago, my lord. He thought your lordship
was not coming. He is gone down to
the Groom's Arms."
" Where the deuce is that ? "
" In Chapel Street, at the corner of
the mews, my lord. Fust turning on
the right, my lord."
Lord Ascot had business with our old
acquaintance Mr. Sloane, and went on.
When he came to the public-house
mentioned (the very same one in which
the Servants' Club was held, to which
Charles belonged), he went into the bar,
and asked of a feeble-minded girl, left
accidentally in charge of the bar
" Where was Mr. Sloane 1 " And she
said, " Upstairs, in the club-room."
Lord Ascot walked up to the club-
room, and looked in at the glass door. And
there he saw Sloane. He was standing
up, with his hand on a man's shoulder,
who had a map before him. Right and
left of these two men were two other
men, an old one and a young one, and
the four faces were close together ; and
while he watched them, the man with
the map before him looked up, and Lord
Ascot saw Charles Ravenshoe, pale and
wan, looking like death itself, but still
Charles Ravenshoe in the body.
He did not open the door. He turned
away, went down into the street, and set
his face northward.
So he was alive, and There were
more things to follow that " and " than
he had time to think of at first. He had
a cunning brain, Lord Ascot, but he
could not get at his position at first.
The whole business was too unexpected
he had not time to realize it.
The afternoon was darkening as he
turned his steps northwards, and began
to walk rapidly, with scowling face and
compressed lips. One or two of the
students still lingered on the steps of
the hospital. The one who had men-
tioned him by name before said to his
fellows, "Look at that Lord Ascot.
What a devil he looks. He has lost
some money. Gad ! there'll be murder
done to-night. They oughtn't to let
such fellows go loose."
Charles Ravenshoe alive. And Lord
Saltire's will. Half a million of money.
And Charley Ravenshoe, the best old
cock in the three kingdoms. Of all his
villainies and, God forgive him, they
Ravenshoe.
were many the one that weighed
heaviest on his heart was his treat-
ment of Charles. And now
The people turned and looked after
him as he hurled along. Why did his
wayward feet carry him to the corner of
Curzon Street ? That was not his route
to St. John's Wood. The people stared
at the great red-faced giant, who paused
against the lamp -post irresolute, biting
his upper lip till the blood came. How
would they have stared if they had seen
what I see. 1
There were two angels in the street
that wretched winter afternoon, who had
followed Lord Ascot in his headlong
course, and paused here. He could see
them but dimly, or only guess at their
existence, but I see them plainly enough.
One was a white angel, beautiful to
look at, who stood a little way off, beck-
oning to him, and pointing towards Lord
Saltire's house; and the other was black,
with his face hid in a hood, who was
close beside him, and kept saying in his
ear, " Half a million ! half a million ! "
A strange apparition in Curzon Street,
at four o'clock on a January afternoon !
Gibbon lays great stress on no contem-
porary historian having noticed the
darkness at the Crucifixion. If you
search the files of the papers at this
period, you will find no notice of any
remarkable atmospheric phenomena in
Curzon Street that afternoon. But two
angels were there nevertheless, and Lord
Ascot had a dim suspicion of it.
A dim suspicion of it ! How could
it be otherwise, when he heard a voice
in one ear repeating Lady Ascot's last
words, "What can save you from the
terrible hereafter 1 " and in the other
the stealthy whisper of the fiend,
" Half a million ! half a million ! "
He paused only for a moment, and
then headed northward again. The black
angel was at his ear, but the white
one was close to him too so close, that
when his own door opened, the three
passed in together. Adelaide, standing
1 Perhaps a reference to " The Wild Hunts-
man " will estop all criticism at this point.
A further reference to " Faust " will also show
that I am in good company.
Tinder the chandelier in the hall, saw
nothing of the two spirits ; only her
husband, scowling fiercely.
She was going upstairs to dress, but
she paused. As soon as Lord Welter's
" confidential scoundrel," before men-
tioned, had left the hall, she came up to
him, and in a whisper, for she knew the
man was listening, said :
" What is the matter, Welter?"
He looked as if he would have pushed
her out of the way. But he did not.
He said :
" I have seen Charles Ravenshoe."
"When?"
" To-night/'
" Good God ! Then it is almost a
matter of time with us," said Adelaide.
" I had a dim suspicion of this, Ascot.
It is horrible. We are ruined."
" Not yet," said Lord Ascot.
" There is time time. He is obstinate
and mad. Lord Saltire might die "
"Well?"
" Either of them," she hissed out.
"Is there no"
"No what?"
" There is half a million of money,"
said Adelaide.
"Well?"
"All sorts of things happen to
people."
Lord Ascot looked at her for an in-
stant, and snarled out a curse at her.
John Marston was perfectly right.
He was a savage, untameable blackguard.
He went upstairs into his bed-room.
The two angels were with him. They
are with all of us at such times as these.
There is no plagiarism here. The fact
is too old for that.
Up and down, up and down. The
bed-room was not long enough; so he
opened the door of the dressing-room ;
and that was not long enough ; and he
opened the door of what had been the
nursery in a happier household than his,
and walked up and down through them
all. And Adelaide sat below, before a
single candle, with pale face and clenched
lips, listening to his footfall on the floor
above.
She knew as well as if an angel had
told her what was passing in his mind
60
Bavenshoe.
as he walked up and down. She had
foreseen this crisis plainly you may
laugh at me, but she had. She had seen
that if, by any wild conjunction of
circumstances, Charles Ravenshoe were
alive, and if he were to come across
him before Lord Saltire's death, events
would arrange themselves exactly as they
were doing on this terrible evening.
There was something awful and terrible
in the realization of her morbid sus-
picions.
Yes, she had seen thus far, and had
laughed at herself for entertaining such
mad fancies. But she had seen no
further. What the upshot would be
was hidden from her like a dark veil.
Black and impenetrable as the fog which
was hanging over Waterloo Bridge at
that moment, which made the squalid
figure of a young, desperate girl show
like a pale, fluttering ghost, leading a
man we" know, who followed her on
the road to hell.
The rest, though, seemed to be, in
some sort, in her own hands. Wealth,
position in the world, the power of
driving her chariot over the necks of
those who had scorned her the only
things for which her worthless heart
cared were all at stake. "He will mur-
der me," she said, "but he shall hear
me."
Still, up and down, over head, his
heavy footfall went to and fro.
Seldom, in any man's life, comes such
a trial as his this night. A good man
might have been hard tried in such
circumstances. What hope can we have
of a desperate blackguard like Lord
Welter ? He knew Lord Saltire hated
him ; he knew that Lord Saltire had only
left his property to him because he
thought Charles Ravenshoe was dead ;
and yet he hesitated whether or no he
should tell Lord Saltire that he had
seen Charles, and ruin himself utterly.
Was he such an utter rascal as John
Marston made him out? Would such
a rascal have hesitated long? What
could make a man without character,
without principle, without a care about
the world's opinion, hesitate at such a
time like this ? I cannot tell you.
He was not used to think about
things logically or calmly ; and so, as he
paced up and down, it was some time
before he actually arranged his thoughts.
Then he came to this conclusion, and put
it fairly before him that, if he let Lord
Saltire know that Charles Ravenshoe
was alive, he was ruined, and that, if he
did not, he was a villain.
Let us give the poor profligate wretch
credit for getting even so far as this.
There was no attempt to gloss over the
facts and deceive himself. He put the
whole matter honestly before him.
He would be a fool if he told Lord
Saltire. He would be worse than a fool,
a madman there was no doubt about
that. It was not to be thought about.
But Charley Ravenshoe !
How pale the dear old lad looked.
What a kind, gentle old face it was.
How well he could remember the first
time he ever saw him. At Twyford,
yes ; and, that very same visit, how he
ran across the billiard-room, and asked
him who Lord Saltire was. Yes. What
jolly times there were down in Devon-
shire, too. Those Clay comb hounds
wanted pace, but they were full fast
enough for the country. And what a
pottering old rascal Charley was among
the stone walls. Rode through. Yes.
And how he'd mow over a woodcock.
Fire slap through a holly bush. Ha !
And suppose they proved this previous
marriage. Why, then he would be back
at Ravenshoe, and all things would be
as they were. But suppose they
couldn't
Lord Ascot did not know that eighty
thousand pounds were secured to
Charles.
By Gad ! it was horrible to think of.
That it should be thrown on him, of all
men, to stand between old Charley and
his due. If it were any other man but
him
Reader, if you do not know that a
man will act from "sentiment" long,
long years after he has thrown "prin-
ciple" to the winds, you had better
pack up your portmanteau, and go and
live five years or more among Austra-
lian convicts and American rowdies, as
EavensJioe.
61
a friend of mine did. The one long
outlives the other. The incarnate devils
who beat out poor Price's brains with
their shovels, when they had the gallows
before them, consistently perjured them-
selves in favour of the youngest of the
seven, the young fiend who had hounded
them on.
Why there never was such a good
fellow as that Charley. That Easter
vacation hey ! Among the bargees,
hang it, what a game it was I won't
follow out his recollections here any
further. Skittle-playing and fighting are
all very well ; but one may have too much
of them.
" I might still do this," thought Lord
Welter ; " I might"
At this moment he was opposite the
dressing-room door. It was opened, and
Adelaide stood before him.
Beautiful and terrible, with a look
which her husband had, as yet, only
seen shadowed dimly a look which he
felt might come there some day, but
which he had never seen yet. The
light of her solitary candle shone upon
her pale face, her gleaming eyes, and her
clenched lip ; and he saw what was writ-
ten there, and for one moment quailed.
(" If you were to say to me/^said Lord
Hainault once, " that Charles would be
imwise to let Ascot's wife make his gruel
for him, I should agree with you/')
Only for one moment ! Then he
turned on her and cursed her.
" What, in the name of Hell, do you
want here at this moment 1 "
"You may murder me if you like,
Ascot ; but, before you have time to do
that, you shall hear what I have got to
say. I have been listening to your
footsteps for a weary hour, and I heard
irresolution in every one of them. Ascot,
don't be a madman ! "
" I shall be soon, if you come at such
a time as this, and look like that. If my
face were to take the same expression as
yours has now, Lady Ascot, these would
be dangerous quarters for you."
" I know that/' she said. " I knew
all that before I came up here to-night,
Ascot. Ascot, half a million of
money "
" Why, all the devils in the pit have
been singing that tune for an hour past.
Have you only endangered your life to
add your little pipe to theirs 1 "
" I have. Won't you hear me ? "
" No. Go away/'
" Are you going to do it 1 "
* " Most likely not. You had better
go away/'
" You might give him a hundred
thousand pounds you know, Welter.
Four thousand a year. The poor dear
fellow would worship you for your gene-
rosity. He is a very good fellow, Ascot."
" You had better go away," said he,
quietly.
"Not without a promise, Ascot
Think"
"Now go away. This is the last
warning I give you. Madwoman ! "
" But, Ascot"
"Take care; it will be too late finr
both of us in another moment."
She caught his eyes for the first time,
and fled for her life. She ran down into
the drawing-room, and threw herself
into an easy chair.";" God preserve me !"
she said, " I have gone too far with him.
Oh, this lonely house ! "
Every drop of blood in her body
seemed to fly to her heart. There were
footsteps outside the door. Oh, God!
have mercy on her ; he was following her.
Where were the two angels now, I
wonder ?
He opened the door, and came towards
her slowly. If mortal agony can atone
for sin, she atoned for all her sins in
that terrible half-minute. She did not
cry out ; she dared not ; she writhed
down among the gaudy cushions, with
her face buried in her hands, and waited
for what 1
She heard a voice speaking to her. It
was not his voice, but the voice of old
Lord Ascot, his dead father. It said :
"Adelaide, my poor girl, you must
not get frightened when I get in a
passion. My poor child, you have borne
enough for me ; I would not hurt a hair
of your head."
He kissed her cheek, and Adelaide
burst into a passion of sobs. After a few
moments those sobs had ceased, and
62
Ravenslioe.
Lord Ascot left her. He did not know
that she had fainted away. She never
told him that.
Where were the angels now 1 Angels !
there was but one of them left. Which
one was that, think you 1
Hurrah ! the good angel. The black
fiend with the hood had sneaked away
to his torment. And, as Lord Ascot
closed the door behind him, and sped
away down the foggy street, the good
one vanished too ; for the work was
done. Ten thousand fiends would not
turn binri from his purpose now. Hurrah !
* * * * *
"Simpson," said Lord Saltire, as he
got into bed that evening, " it won't last
much longer."
" What will not last, my lord ? " said
Simpson.
" Why, me," said Lord Saltire, disre-
garding grammar. "Don't set up a
greengrocer's shop, Simpson ; nor a
butter and egg shop, in Berkeley Street,
if you can help it, Simpson. If you
must keep a lodging-house, I should say
Jermyn Street; but don't let me influence
you. I am not sure that I wouldn't
sooner see you in Brook Street, or Con-
duit Street. But don't try Pall Mall,
that's a good fellow ; or you'll be getting
fast men, who will demoralize your
.establishment. A steady connexion
among government clerks and that sort
of person will pay best in the long run."
" My dear lord my good old friend,
why should you talk like this to-night?"
"Because I am very ill, Simpson,
and it will all come at once ; and it may
come any time. When they open Lord
Barkham's room, at Cottingdean, I
should like you and Mr. Marston to go
in first, for I may have left something or
another about."
An hour or two after his bell rang,
and Simpson, who was in the dressing-
room, came hurriedly in. He was sitting
up in bed, looking just the same as
usual.
" My good fellow," he said, " go down
and find out who rung and knocked at
the door like that. Did you hear it 1 "
" I did not notice it, my lord."
" Butchers, and bakers, and that sort
of people, don't knock and ring like that.
The man at the door now brings news,
Simpson. There is no mistake about the
ring of a man who comes with important
intelligence. Go down and see."
He was not long gone. When he
came back again, he said :
" It is Lord Ascot, my lord. He insists
on seeing you immediately."
" Up with him, Simpson up with
him, my good fellow. I told you so.
This gets interesting."
Lord Ascot was already in the door-
way. Lord Saltire's brain was as acute
as ever ; and, as Lord Ascot approached
him, he peered eagerly and curiously at
him, in the same way as one scrutinizes
the seal of an unopened letter, and won-
ders what its contents may be. Lord
Ascot sat down by the bed, and whis-
pered to the old man ; and, when Simp-
son saw his great, coarse, red, hairless,
ruffianly face actually touching that of
Lord Saltire, so delicate, so refined, so
keen, Simpson began to have a dim
suspicion that he was looking on rather
a remarkable sight. And so he was.
" Lord Saltire," said Lord Ascot, " I
have seen Charles Ravenshoe to-night."
" You are quite sure 1 "
" I am quite sure."
"Ha! King the bell, Simpson."
Before any one had spoken again, a
footman was in the room. " Bring the
major-domo here instantly," said Lord
Saltire.
"You know what you have done,
Ascot," said Lord Saltire. "You see
what you have done. I am going to send
for my solicitor, and alter my will/'
" Of course you are," said Lord Ascot.
" Do you dream I did not know that
before I came here 1 "
"And yet you came ? "
" Yes ; with all the devils out of hell
dragging me back."
"As a matter of curiosity, why ? "
said Lord Saltire.
" Oh, I couldn't do it, you know. I've
done a good many dirty things ; but I
couldn't do that, particularly to that man.
There are some things a fellow can't do,
you know."
" Where did you see him ? "
Homes of the London Poor.
63
"At the Groom's Arms, Belgrave
Mews ; lie was there not three hours ago.
Find a man called Sloane, a horsedealer ;
he will tell you all about him ; for he
was sitting with his hand on his
shoulder. His address is twenty-seven,
New Boad."
At this time major domo appeared.
" Take a cab at once, and fetch me
you understand when I say fetch Mr.
Brogden, c my solicitor. Mr. Conipton
lives out of town, but he lives over the
office in Lincoln's Inn. If you can get
hold of the senior partner, he will do
as well. Put either of them in a cab
and pack them off here. Then go to
Scotland Yard ; give my compliments to
Inspector Field; tell him a horrible
murder has been committed, accom-
panied by arson, forgery, and regrating,
with a strong suspicion of sorning, and
he must come at once.
That venerable gentleman disappeared,
and then Lord Saltire said :
" Do you repent, Ascot? "
" No," said he. " D it all, you
know, I could not do it when I came to
think of it. The money would never
have stayed with me, I take it. Good
night."
" Good night," said Lord Saltire ;
"come the first thing in the morning."
And so they parted. Simpson said,
"Are you going to alter your will to-night,
my lord 1 ? Won't it be a little too much
for you T
" It would be if I was going to do so,
Simpson; but I am not going to touch a
line of it. I am not sure that half a
million of money was ever, in the history
of the world, given up with better
grace or with less reason. He is a noble
fellow; I never guessed it ; he shall have
it by Jove, he shall have it ! I am going
to sleep. Apologize to Brogden, and give
the information to Field ; tell him I
expect Charles Ravenshoe here to-morrow
morning. Good night."
Simpson came in to open the shutters
next morning ; but those shutters were
not opened for ten days, for Lord
Saltire was dead.
The inspector was rapid and dexterous
in his work. He was on Charles
Ravenshoe' s trail like a bloodhound,
eager to redeem the credit which his
coadjutor, Yard, had lost over the same
case. But his instructions came to him
three hours too late.
To be continued. /A 9?
HOMES OF THE LONDON WORKMEN.
BY PERCY GREG.
MUCH envy has been expressed by Lon-
doners of the Imperial improvements of
Paris. We contrast our narrow pave-
ments, crooked streets, and mean irre-
gular buildings, with the magnificence of
the Boulevards, and grumble that " they
do things better in France." France,
if she were free to speak her mind,
might not be wholly of the same opinion.
Even the improvements of a despot are
costly ; and, as usually happens, the
outlay of the state only represents a small
part of their actual cost. Parisians of
small incomes clerks, employes, men of
letters, as well as artizans know too
well the effect of these vast operations
upon their own condition. They find
their expenses doubled, their house-rent
generally trebled; and, as they walk
along the magnificent new streets which
have swept away their once comfortable
dwellings, home to the wretched lodg-
ing which now costs all they can afford
to pay, it may be doubted whether they
bless the beautifying hand of their mag-
nificent Emperor. To us, who see only
what has been achieved, not what has
been destroyed, these victories of artistic
tyranny may naturally seem pure gain.
But we have had a few similar achieve-
ments to boast during the last ten years,
and we are promised some in the imme-
Homes of the London Workmen.
diate future, which may rival the triumphs
of Imperialism. We have palatial hotels
which are said not to pay ; and streets
of grand hut desolate houses, which
seem to he waiting for a population that
is yet to come. Our chief thorough-
fares have of late heen frequently "blocked
up by the works of a company which
promises to conduct a large part of the
London traffic, after the manner of the
London sewage out of sight and under-
ground. Although this he not a visible
improvement, it will doubtless be as
useful as many improvements above
ground, and do little mischief, beyond
the occasional subsidence of a few houses,
rather to the inconvenience of the sub-
terrene trains, or the disturbance of a
quiet dinner party, when an accidental
collision, some twenty feet below, sends
a portion of an unlucky locomotive
through the dining-room floor. An
achievement more akin to the Parisian
examples is that scheme which is to
unite half-a-dozen railways in various
parts of London in one grand station at
Tmsbury Circus. These are among actual
or potential realities ; we have heard of
yet more marvellous and more extensive
enterprises. But all the above-ground
schemes for the facilitation of business,
or the gratification of taste new build-
ings, new streets, new railways all
require space ; and, as all available space
is already occupied, they can be executed
only by the destruction of existing
buildings. Indeed, their promoters are
wont to claim it as a merit, that they
make an opening through districts un-
wholesomely crowded, or clear away
hundreds of those wretched nests of
disease, misery, and vice, in which live
and die hunolreds of thousands of the
London poor.
In all great cities squalor and wretch-
edness characterize the dwellings of the
poor. It can hardly be otherwise, where
the immense concourse of human beings
raises the value of space within certain
limits to a fabulous degree, while those
limits are so wide, that men whose work
lies in their midst cannot well live out-
side them. In a great commercial port,
this enormous costliness of mere space is
further aggravated by the close concen-
tration which is required for the conve-
nience of commerce. Trade-establish-
ments, warehouses, wharves, banks,
factories, naturally and necessarily grow
together, crushing into smaller and
smaller compass the mass of people
whom they employ; pressing some of
them into narrow areas within the circle
of commercial buildings, and pushing
the rest out of the commercial city alto-
gether, into the closely packed townships
which have grown up around it. In all
capitals, the mere aggregation of men
crowds the poor into misery and filth.
In all great commercial cities, and
especially seaports, warehouses and fac-
tories compress more closely, year by
year, the quarters allotted to those who
build them and work in them. In every
capital in Europe, in every great centre
of commerce, the dwellings of the poor
are miserable, their lives unhealthy, their
deaths unnaturally early. London, the
greatest capital in the world, the great
centre of the world's commerce, is not
the worst in this respect. Her death
rate is not higher than that of smaller
capitals and seaports. But it is fright-
fully high, and the condition of her
working classes, and of that order pecu-
liar to cities which underlies the working
classes, is almost indescribably miserable.
This is not because their incomes are
absolutely small. It is true that the
wages of women generally, and those of
men in one or two metropolitan trades,
are frightfully low. But, as a rule,
unskilled male labour is fairly paid, and
skilled labour highly paid very highly
in money, highly even in regard to the
London prices of the necessaries of life.
A peasant in Dorsetshire lives and
thrives, a peasant in Normandy thrives
and saves, on about half the wages of a
London artisan. The latter, it is true,
is prone to wastefulness and addicted to
drink. Most men are wasteful to whom
thrift would bring no comfort, and the
London workman is thriftless as much
by the necessity of his position, as by
want of sense or weakness of will Most
poor men, when they despair of domestic
comfort, fly to the poor man's club the
Homes of the London Workmen.
65
public house. Similar conduct is not
utterly unknown among their betters.
Instead of hastily concluding that the
working man is ill off because he is
reckless and drunken, might we not
inquire whether he does not become
reckless and drunken because sobriety
and prudence cannot ensure him even
tolerable comfort 1 Is it unreasonable
to believe, that the vice and improvi-
dence, which greatly aggravate the mis-
fortunes of the " lower orders 5 ' of the
London community, are, in great measure,
owing to the worst of those misfortunes
the want of decent homes 1 Perhaps,
if it were possible for their benevolent
censors to dwell for a short time where
they dwell, to breathe the air that they
breathe, to see the sights with which
they are familiar, a somewhat different
view might be taken of the relation be-
tween thriftlessness and discomfort, vice
and misery. It might appear that what
moralists think the cause of wretched-
ness is sometimes its effect that what
they consider the punishment of sin or
folly, has sometimes been their cause.
And if the destruction of large numbers
of those wretched dwellings really did
what the admirers of improvements seem
to imagine it does ; if it really removed
the evil instead of simply aggravating
it ; if it drove the expelled population
out of town, or into healthier diptricts,
our satisfaction in witnessing the clear-
ance would be great and unalloyed.
The Midland Eailway Extension, for
example, is about to sweep away a large
number of crowded and unwholesome
dwellings in A gar Town. No one who
has seen the places doomed to demoli-
tion, can have any wish to save them for
their own sake. That suburb is indeed
by no means pre-eminently objectionable.
Its roads are bogs, and its open spaces are
dunghills ; but it has wide streets, and
an abundance of waste ground. In fact,
the district is half a desert, and enjoys
the privilege, rare in London, of an
amplitude of room, and abundant access
for air in every direction. Yet, looking
at them without thought for the morrow,
without considering what it has cost to
build them, or what is to become of their
No. 31. VOL. vi.
inhabitants, street after street would be
pronounced by visitors only fit to bo
pulled down. Scores of the fated houses
seem unworthy to be converted into pig-
styes or cowsheds. Incapable of being
made, by any process of improvement,
fit habitations for cattle of any value ;
damp, low, dark, ruinous, and intolerably
filthy ; they offend the least fastidious
eye, and revolt the least sensitive nos-
trils. In one place unhappily, I believe,
beyond the range of the intended clear-
ance a row of two-roomed cottages is
let out to a fit tenantry by its proprietor.
One tiny wash-house, with etceteras,
serves some forty or fifty persons ; and
the population is at the rate of four
to a room, about the size of a decent
butler's pantry, but so low and dark,
that no butler would condescend to use
it. These cottages, I was told, are let
at 4s. a week. The access to them is
from the public road, along a narrow
footway, and they resemble nothing so
much as ill-kept cowsheds in a neglected
farm.
In another place, whole streets con-
sist of four-roomed cottages, with floors
resting on the earth, from three to six
feet below the level of the road, whose
walls bear unmistakeable indications of
damp and decay. These houses contain
only one or two families, and are let at
7s. or Ss. a week, chiefly to the well-paid
engineers, porters, and mechanics of the
neighbouring railway. It is difficult to
understand how such places can ever be
free from ague, fever, and cholera; or
how, if typhus once find entrance, there
can be any hope for any of the inmates
to escape it, or recover from it. Other
streets under sentence are of a different
type. Blocks of six-roomed houses, not
long built, present outside a very re-
spectable and comfortable appearance.
They are, it is true, built with thin walls
and inadequate foundations, but would
seem tolerable dwellings for clerks, and
the higher class of artisans, goldsmiths,
compositors, and so forth. They are
actually let out in floors of two rooms
each to railway employe's; and the rent
of each house is 11s. a week. Being
new, and not yet fallen into disrepair,
Homes of the London Workmen.
as possible. As his family increases, and
the cost of absolute animal necessaries
absorbs a larger part of his income, -he can
ill afford to pay twice as much as before
for mere shelter. And yet health and
decency require that he should have
two rooms, and sometimes three. Un-
happily, health and decency can be
neglected, while food and clothing are
imperative necessities, and drink is too
often an irresistible temptation. And
hence it is that too often the one room,
which was found enough for the newly-
married couple, is made to suffice
when they have three or four children,
and when these children are no longer
infants. Too often the same room and
even the same bed very possibly there
is not space for two contains father and
mother, growing boys and girls. Not
feequently is it thought necessary to
have three rooms, even when children
of both sexes have reached an age at
which, to instinctive as to educated pro-
priety, such accommodation would seem
indispensable. It is unnecessary to
dilate on the consequences. But it is
xight to call attention to two facts which
are apt to be overlooked. First, that
when landlords and agents, from a sense
of duty or of decency, expel from their
houses families who are too numerous
for one room and refuse to pay for two,
they are only aggravating the evil, by
over-crowding and degrading still lower
districts or houses more over-crowded
and degraded than their own that,
though such expulsion may be and often
35 a duty towards other tenants, it has
no tendency whatever to check the
habit against which it is directed.
Second, that so large a proportion of
the rising generation of the working
class are being brought up under these
circumstances as to influence for evil the
whole character of their order, and not
improbably the whole future of their
eountry. The mischief is more exten-
sive, and less easily remedied, than is
generally known. Neither landlords nor
law can effectually compel men to pay for
decent accommodation for their families ;
neither social nor educational influences
can effectually counteract the degradation
which the want of such accommodation
inevitably engenders. And the demo-
ralization of the artisans and labourers of
London cannot but exercise a pernicious
power over other destinies than their
own. The capital is not to the working-
classes what it is to the political or pro-
fessional, or even what it is to the com-
mercial classes. It is not in the same
sense the centre of industry as of com-
merce, law, literature, and politics. But
it is nevertheless invested, even as re-
gards the manual industry of the country,
with vast powers for good or evil. It
is the centre of great working-class
organizations whose ramifications be-
come yearly more extensive, and whose
relations with local trades seem to be-
come closer and more intimate with the
increase of education and the facilitation
of travelling and correspondence which
have been among the greatest achieve-
ments of late years. Depravity among
the working classes of London cannot
but have a depraving influence, greater
than even in proportion to their num-
bers and intelligence, over their fellows
in the country. Again, the political
strength of the metropolitan workmen,
however little used, is far from contemp-
tible. The progress of political events,
and the diffusion of information and
interest therein by the cheap press, can-
not fail to render the strength daily
greater and its use more probable. And
it will go ill with English society if it
should be used in blindness or passion ;
without regard to established rights or
veneration for time-honoured institu-
tions. And can we expect such regard
from men who have nothing to call
their own ; such veneration from men
to whose hearts no meaning is conveyed
by the name of the first and oldest
of English institutions the name of
home 1
This homelessness of our working
neighbours is to us all a danger, moral,
social, and political. Of its last aspect, I
shall for obvious reasons forbear to
speak. But those personal and social
virtues which we proudly associate with
the British name ; those sterling quali-
ties which give us confidence in the
Homes of the London Workmen.
essential rightmindedness of the average
Englishman, whatever his individual
feelings or class prejudices are they
not all "born of, and bound up in the
sentiments, associations, and recollections
that centre in his home ? Are they not
the fruit of home life and home educa-
tion, and can we confidently expect to
find them in those whose childhood has
been passed in a "tenement," whose
early manhood found shelter in a lodg-
ing-house, and who are content or com-
pelled to bring their brides " home" to
a bedstead and four walls, in such places
as those above described, or, at the best,
to lodgings in which privacy and comfort
are almost equally impossible 1 Home
affections, home virtues, the feelings
early acquired, the lessons learnt in
infancy by those who dwell under a roof,
however humble, of their own, are lost
to the homeless million who find shelter
where they can in the courts and alleys,
the back streets and the stables, of this
first city of the earth. You may build
schools for their children, and provide
them with able and most zealous
teachers ; but the most valuable part of
education you cannot give them. You
may send them missionaries and scrip-
ture-readers, tracts and sermons ; but the
strongest of religious influences is absent.
You may inquire into their condition,
and relieve their pressing bodily needs
in adverse times ; but their worst want
remains unredressed. You may make
every possible effort to reclaim from vice ;
but the most prolific cause of vice con-
tinues to poison their lives while their
abodes remain what they are human
burrows, and not homes.
Great exertions have been used to
meet this monster evil ; but, beside its
gigantic dimensions, the results are in-
significant, and almost invisible. The
" model lodging-houses," built by socie-
ties and individuals, are excellent in
themselves ; but as regards their inten-
tion, they are, I fear, total failures. They
do not reach the class who really need
them. Their inhabitants are of a differ-
ent sort from those for whom they were
built ; of a class generally not entitled
to assistance of this kind from others,
but sufficiently well able to take care of
themselves. Still, so far as they go,
they do some good ; they afford comfort-
able dwellings at a moderate rent to
somebody, if not exactly to the right
people. But as " models" they cannot
be thought successful, inasmuch as they
do not pay. Had they been able to-
show a tolerable return for their capital,
their example would have been most
encouraging, would have held out, in
fact, a fair prospect of great and speedy
improvement in the dwellings of the
London poor ; and of such improvement
they would have been the beginning and
the real "models." But as they only-
pay from one to four per cent, on the
original outlay, and as there seems no
reason to hope that they will ever pay
more, it is not easy to find in their his-
tory a hopeful augury for the future;
They are, in fact, simply charitable in-
stitutions, not only in the motives of
their projectors, but in their actual
position ; and to house the labourers of
London by charity would be a hope-
less scheme. What the benevolent
originators of these lodging-houses have
done is to show that, by no plan yet;
discovered, is it possible to provide*
decent dwellings in London for the
working classes, so as to combine the
two essential conditions a rent which-
working men can afford to pay, and a
profit which will fairly remunerate the
builder, say seven or eight per cent.
And out of London the London work-
man as yet refuses to go.
The dilemma seems, for the present,,
to defy all efforts at escape. The work-
ing classes, as a rule, are very insuffi-
ciently sensible to the evils amid which
they have been brought up. They will
not make a great effort, or a great sacri-
fice, to escape from them. They will
rather huddle together in one room in a
back street in town, than incur the
trifling expense and loss of time involved
in living out of London, and coming
in to their work by railway. They are
very often reluctant to submit to any
rule or shadow of control, in order to
enjoy the great advantages held out by
the model lodging-houses. While
Homes of the London Workmen.
is tlie case, the improvement of their
condition must go on gradually and at a
very slow rate. It is very hard to help
those who do not greatly care to help
themselves. Education is doing some-
thing to elevate the standard of comfort,
morals, and decency, among the rising
generation, and will, no doubt, in time,
create a demand for a better class of
dwellings, under conditions which will
make it possible to satisfy the want. In
the meantime, compulsory measures,
whether legal or otherwise, can do little
good, and may do not a little harm.
Even the modest demands of the sani-
tary inspectors tend to raise rents already
enormous, and, by enforcing the demoli-
tion of houses that can no longer be
tolerated, to crowd still more densely
those that remain. The railway clear-
ances have done, and will do, a great
deal of mischief in this way. The dis-
placed population is driven not outwards
but inwards ; not into more distant
suburbs, but into the already over-
crowded " rookeries" as yet undisturbed.
It will not be to be regretted, should
Parliament think it necessary to take up
the cause of the expelled inhabitants,
and oblige the railway companies to pro-
vide houses in suitable neighbourhoods,
to replace those they are permitted to
destroy.
The enormous disproportion between
London wages and London rents is
sufficient of itself to render the case of
the labouring man an exceedingly hard
one. A fairly-paid artisan must give for
one tolerable room about an eighth, for
two about a fifth or a fourth, of his in-
come. To do this, it is plain that he
must stint himself and his family in
everything else, in order to secure decent
house-room. It is hard that he should
have to do this, and it is a strong proof
of the reluctance to change of place or
habits which characterizes the working
man, that in spite of this he is averse to
quit London. A working family in
Lancashire have generally as large a
nominal income as in London, if not
larger ; and the chief necessaries of life
are cheaper in the North. But in popu-
lous country districts, in Lancashire and
Yorkshire, cottages with parlour and
three bedrooms are to be had for the
same rent that a London artisan pays
for a single room. Under these circum-
stances, it may be hoped that in time a
reaction may set in, which will either
raise the wages or diminish the num-
bers, and thereby lower the rents, of the
London labourers. There is another
hint they might take from Lancashire.
There, co-operation, after making the
operatives their own purveyors and their
own employers, is beginning to make
them owners of their own houses. Men
who will not be persuaded to settle by
themselves in a new neighbourhood, or
to submit to rules imposed upon them
by benevolent associations, might be
willing to take up their abode in a co-
operative lodging-house, or to cast in
their lot with a co-operative colony in
some accessible suburb. Is it possible
that the principle which has solved
other social perplexities may solve this
also ; that the organization, which, in
twenty years, has enabled a society of
forty men, with a capital of 281. to ex-
pand into three societies numbering
thousands of members, and worth more
than a hundred thousand pounds, may
prove itself within the lifetime of this
generation, capable of dealing success-
fully with the great problem of London
homelessness ? I dare not be sanguine
as to the possibility of such an achieve-
ment ; but this I do believe, that by no
other direct agency can so much be done
to raise the condition of the working man
as by one which begins by calling on
him to use his own will and his own
strength for his own redemption.
71
WHEN GKEEN LEAVES COME AGAIN.
SONG.
BY THE AUTHOR OP " JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.
WHEN green leaves come again, niy love,
When green leaves come again,
Why put on such a cloudy face,
When green leaves come again ?
" Ah, this spring will be like the last,
Of promise false and vain;
And summer die in winter's arms
Ere green leaves come again.
" So slip the seasons and our lives :
; Tis idle to complain :
But yet I sigh, I scarce know why,
When green leaves come again."
ISTay, lift up thankful eyes, my sweet !
Count equal, loss and gain :
Because, as long as the world lasts,
Green leaves will come again.
For, sure as earth lives under snows,
And Love lives under pain,
"lis good to sing with everything,
"When green leaves come again."
EDWAED IKVING.
IN these days of building the sepulchres at last disentangled, and that by the
of the prophets, it is strange we should touch of a tender hand, from the mean
have had to wait so long for a biography accidents, the stupidities, and deformities
of Edward Irving. Divers sketches of that had gathered round him.
his life and work there have been We confess to having felt a certain
among which Mr. Wilks's deserves misgiving when we learnt that this bio-
special praise ; but a full, detailed bio- graphy was to be written by the dis-
graphy we have not seen till now. In tinguished novelist who has now
Mrs. Oliphant's two volumes 1 we trace achieved her difficult task so successfully,
the history, and mark the aspect, the joy We doubted whether feminine genius,
and grief and conflict of his life, as we however versatile and keen, could rightly
have never before been able to do. He apprehend and set forth all the involved
moves before us along his grand and theologies and ecclesiastical contentions
stormy track, an antique, heroic presence which Irving's biographer must needs
chronicle and review. That any woman
i "The Life of Edward Irving; Illustrated by ghoilld have d(me SQ ^ thorougll l v
his Journals and Correspondence. By Mrs. , ,. , , , . ij
Oliphant. 2vols. London : Hurat and Blackett. methodical and exhaustive way would
1862. have been little short of a miracle. That
72
Edward -Irving.
Mrs. Oliphant has done it in a way
clear, reverent, and unaffected, is one of
her highest distinctions perhaps her
very highest literary distinction. Her
work is admirable : here and there a
little too detailed and lovingly minute,
as was natural in a female biographer ;
"but, on the whole, presenting a most
living, consistent, vivid picture of Irving.
The history of the whole theological con-
flict of the period in Scottish Church
Annals which embraces Irving's career,
detached from its mere personal and
biographic accidents, has yet to be
written. Those who know anything
of that period will know to whom we
refer when we say that there is but
one man now living who could do it full
justice whose personal engagement in
the struggle and knowledge of its heroes,
whose breadth of culture, and wealth of
historic and theologic lore, would enable
liini to describe it in all its manifold
relations to antecedent and subsequent
forms of speculation and belief. We
trust such a full and philosophic history
may yet be written. For that period in
Scotch Church History in the rather
obscure history of a small and poor
Church was one whose echoes are
Tolling still over Protestant Christen-
dom.
As it is, we accept, very thankfully,
Mrs. Oliphant's two volumes, and we
shall proceed to indicate the leading
points and aspects of the remarkable
history they chronicle.
Born in August, 1792, at Annan, hard
"by the swift-flowing Solviay, Edward
Irving grew up amid the shadows of
those green and grey Dumfriesshire hills,
where the martyrs of the Covenant
fought and fell, and where the lonely
cairn still marks their resting-place here
and there along the braes. The society
around was douce and orderly, with a
tinge of the old Covenanting gravity
about it, and still with the traditions of
the persecutions supplying the place of
grander epics or older story by the
homely ingles. Mrs. Oliphant draws a
pretty sketch, like one of Creswick's, of
the boy Irving wending, of a Sunday
afternoon, "amid the little band of
" patriarchs, through hodgerows fragrant
" with every succession of blossom, to
" where the low, grey hills closed in
" around that little hamlet of Ecclefechan,
" forgotten shrine of some immemorial
" Celtic saint a scene not grandly pic-
" turesque, but full of a sweet pastoral
" freedom and solitude ; the hills rising
" grey against the sky, with slopes of
" springy turf where the sheep pastured,
" and shepherds of an antique type
" pondered the ways of God with men \
" the road crossed at many a point, and
" sometimes accompanied, by tiny brook-
" lets, too small to claim a separate
" name, tinkling unseen among the grass-
" and underwood. . . . This country
" gleams with a perpetual youth. The
" hills rise clear and wistful through the
" sharp air this, with its Roman camp
" indented on its side, that with its
" melancholy Repentance Tower stand-
" ing out upon the height ; the moor
" brightens forth, as one approaches, into-
" sweet breaks of heather, and golden
" clumps of gorse ; the burns sing
" in a never-failing liquid cheerfulness
" through all their invisible courses ;
" the quiet hamlets and cottages breath-
" ing forth that aromatic betrayal of all
" their warm turf fires. Place in this
" landscape that grave group upon the
" way, bending their steps to the rude
" meeting-house in which their austere
" worship was to be celebrated, holding
" discourse as they approached upon
" subjects not so much of religious
" feeling as of high metaphysical
" theology, with the boy among them,
" curiously attracted by their talk, timing
" his elastic footsteps to their heavy
" tread, and always specially impressed
" by the grey fathers of that world
" which dawns all fresh and dewy upon
" his own vision."
From these placid landscapes and
from this patriarchal society, whence he
carried with him the germ of that Old-
World stateliness of speech and manner
which afterwards distinguished him,
Irving went to Edinburgh College,
whence Carlyle describes him returning,
after having travelled through a " whole
"wonder-land of knowledge, with cof-
Edward Irving.
73
" lege prizes, high character and pro-
" raise ; nothing but joy, health, hope-
" fulness without end, looking out from
" the blooming young man." We then
see him teaching mathematics in the
burgh school of Haddington, arguing
high theological problems with the or-
thodox minister, and provoking the pro-
phecy from the prescient medical man of
the town, " That youth will scrape a hole
in everything he is called to believe."
Then he goes to Kirkaldy, where he
opens a school, and, in the exercise of a
somewhat Spartan discipline, "skelps"
his pupils so atrociously that the shrieks
of their torment made day hideous in
the surrounding lanes. On one occa-
sion, indeed, a carpenter from over the
way is reported to have appeared at the
door of the school-room, with his shirt
sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and an
axe upon his shoulder, asking, with
dreadful irony, "Do ye want a hand
the day, Mr. Irving?" Notwithstanding
these inflictions, however, the school
prospered, and the teacher was loved
and honoured. Presently he enters the
Church, and begins to preach, but with-
out much " acceptance," as it is called
in Scotland the hard-headed Presby-
terian critics deciding that the " young
laud had ower muckle gran'eur." And,
though he gave up the school, and de-
voted himself to his new work, it was
not till after a long time that he found
a sphere of regular duty. He had, in-
deed, too much grandeur to suit the
common necessities of common life, and
after-years were only to make too pain-
fully plain the truth of the unconscious
Kirkaldy prophecy. At last, in autumn,
1819, he became "assistant" to Dr.
Chalmers, in Glasgow, and began his
duties in that mart of iron and cotton,
with an apostolic enthusiasm and air of
stately authority that disconcerted the
sober Glasgow idea of the minister's
"helper." The steady-going Glasgow
folk accorded him a certain measure of
respect and regard as the great Doctor's
assistant ; but it is evident they neither
liked his ways nor understood his preach-
ing. " I took him for a cavalry officer,"
said one, scandalized that the assistant
should be the grandest-looking man in
the town. " It was very peculiar," ob-
served another, " that, every house Mr.
" Irving went into, he should pause on
" the threshold, and say, * Peace be to
" this house ;' " while a kind of charity,
which made him melt down a legacy
he received into one-pound notes, one of
which he distributed in his perambula-
tions daily till the bequest was ex-
hausted, was far too practical to find
any better " acceptance " than the gran-
deur of his preachings.
After two or three years' labour in
Glasgow he was removed to the wider
sphere of London, and became minister
of the little Caledonian Chapel in Hatton
Garden. Here it was that, in an indepen-
dent position ordained priest and pastor
of his own Church and flock with a
loftier and purer enthusiasm for his Mas-
ter's cause, and grander estimate of the
dignity of his own office than had often-
stimulated the energies of Presbyterian
minister before, he began to utter his
messages. He flashed forth from the ob-
scurity of his small chapel and humble
office " the messenger," to use Carlyle's
words, "of truth in an age of shams ; "
one standing up amid the " crooked and
perverse generation," to speak to it of
the Eternal and Divine, "as the spirit
and power of Elias." Not only did he
speedily rally around himself a compact
body of Scottish hearers ; but the whole
of London was stirred to its depths
by his burning words. All that was
greatest, fairest, best in London, was
soon surging, in one eager weekly wave,
round Hatton Garden. "Sir James
" Mackintosh had been, by some unex-
" pected circumstance, led to hear the
" new preacher, and heard Irving in his
" prayer describe an unknown family
" of orphans belonging to the obscure
" congregation as now ' thrown upon
" the fatherhood of God.' The words
" seized upon the mind of the philoso-
" pher, and he repeated them to Canning,
" who ' started,' as Mackintosh relates,
" and made an instant engagement to
" accompany his friend to the Scotch
" church on the following Sunday.
" Shortly after, a discussion took place
Edward Irving.
11 in the House of Commons, in which
" the revenues of the Church were re-
" ferred to, and the necessary mercantile
" relation between high talent and good
" pay insisted upon. Canning told the
" House that so far from universal was
" this rule that he himself had lately
" heard a Scotch minister, trained in one
" of the most poorly endowed of Churches,
" and established in one of her outlying
" dependencies, possessed of no endow-
" ment at all, preach the most eloquent ser-
" mon that he had ever listened to. The
" curiosity awakened by this speech is
" said to have been the first beginning of
" that invasion of society which startled
" Hatton Garden out of itsel"
The spectacle is so strange of this in-
tellectual, critical, fashionable London
crowd pressing, Sunday after Sunday,
into the narrow pews of the little Scotch
kirk, listening to the plain Scotch
psalmody and the long Scotch prayers,
and with a rapt attention, for two hours
or so at a time, to the protracted preach-
ing (for Irving never had any notion of
measuring his message by time), that it
will be well to mark what was the actual
cause of this extraordinary attraction.
Without doubt, it was, primarily, Irving
himself the man just as he stood and
spoke in his pulpit, tall in stature, grand
in presence, raven-locked, with a voice
of wonderful music, and eyes, the one
of which, as some one said to his great
delight, had the gleam of the eye of
one of Salvator Rosa's Bandits, the other
of that of a Salvator Mundi. There he
stood, whole-hearted, apostolic-authori-
tative ; intensely human and earnest,
before earnest became the hackneyed
word it is now ; look and voice, tone
and gesture, all giving the world " as-
surance of a man."
But the attraction was owing to some-
thing more than this. In a time when
truth was but feebly spoken, when Chris-
tian faith was not too strong and vital,
he stood up, and spoke to his generation,
and (recognising his fit mission) to
the heads and leaders of his genera-
tion to the sages and peers and senators
who thronged round him out of the
fulness of an intense conviction. And
this conviction was the conviction of
that truth which, in his preface to the
"Doctrine of Sacrifice," Mr. Maurice
says he learnt from Edward Irving
a truth once held strongly by his old
Covenanting forefathers, but now feebly
overlaid with the formalities of a Cal-
vinistic creed that there was a " Living
" Being, the Ruler of the Earth, the
" Standard of Righteousness, the Orderer
" of men's acts in all the common rela-
" tions of life ; the want of which belief
" is the cause of all feebleness and immo-
" rality in our age." And, as he stood
forth to proclaim this, his was not the
dull doctrinal discoursing which went
by the name of " Evangelical " preach-
ing in the pulpits of those days, but the
outpouring of the soul of one who,
" spurred at heart with fieriest energy,' *
shot his " arrows of lightning " at what-
ever social, or intellectual, or religious
falsehood and disorder offended his lofty
sense of right and wrong. The vices
of the rich rather than the vices of
the poor, the time-serving of the poli-
tical world, the errors of the intellec-
tual, the shams of the religious all
were passed in stern review in those
high arguments and orations of right-
eousness and of judgment to come, which
roused London from its propriety and
indifferentism, and broke, with a specially
startling crash, upon the decorous slum-
ber of the " religious world."
But it was not only this conscious-
ness of a prophetic burden that chained
his hearers to Irving. They saw in
him. too a man who, with a faith above
that of bishop or patriarch, be-
lieved in his own apostleship, his own
divine commission. There was always
in him, curiously enough, even to the
last, a more than Presbyterian dogged-
ness of devotion to the Kirk of Scot-
land, combined with a higher than
most High Churchmen's belief in the
divine origin, character, and significance
of the Church, its priesthood, and its
sacraments. As regards the sacraments
indeed, his teaching was identical with,
and no doubt gave a great stimulus
to, that which was afterwards developed
among the " Tractarians " of Oxford.
Edward Irving.
And, in his own opinion, no bishop in-
herited a more undoubted episcopate
than he. He, the minister of the -Scotch
Kirk in Hatton Garden, was the bishop
of that " ecclesia ; " his kirk-session
the presbyters; his deacons as truly
deacons as Stephen and Philip of old.
The whole "threefold ministry" was
fully represented, and worked in perfect
harmony, and, as he believed, in unbroken
Apostolic Order, within the circle of his
own congregation. With the conscious-
ness of all this apostolic and episcopal
dignity and authority, he preached loftily
on the Sundays from the ungainly
pulpit, which his kingly imagination
sublimed into a throne as grand as that
of Athanasius ; and he moved in the
week-days through the streets and lanes
of London, on his ceaseless errand of
charity, not the poor minister of a strug-
gling Presbyterian chapel, but a brother
of bishops, and heir of the Apostles.
A man like this could not but speedily
make his impress felt, and win from his
generation " the scorn of scorn, the
love of love." He was a new power, a
new influence in London; and, when
people had a cause to gain, they tried to
enlist this mighty voice on their side,
thinking that its utterances could no
doubt be trained to the common uses
and expediencies of the world, and to
take its part in defending the popular
compact which even Religious Societies
do not disdain to make between God and
Mammon. But it would not do. They
take him to their Missionary Meetings,
where he hears an Evangelical orator
proclaiming that " the first requisite of
the modern Missionary is prudence^ and
the second prudence, and the third pru-
dence ; " and then they hear him, from
the pulpit where he is asked to plead
their cause, idealizing, in those stately
periods which he seemed to have learnt
to frame at the feet of Milton and
Hooker, the picture of no modern pru-
dent Missionary, but of the burning
Evangelist, the hero of the Cross, going
forth without staff and scrip, thinking
nothing of subscriptions, with no vision
of edified crowds in Exeter Hall, but
caring only " to spend and to be spent "
in the Master's cause. The man who
could thus disco urse (and that for three
hours and a half\ and who could then
publish his oration, inscribing it to "his
dear and honoured friend, Samuel
Taylor Coleridge," could clearly find
little sympathy in the fold of the ortho-
dox. He was cast in another mould
than that of the age he lived in. To its
prudent vision he seemed out of joint.
And yet, perhaps, imprudent and vision-
ary as he seemed, he was in harmony with
a higher truth, and sounder wisdom
than those of the world around him !
That world certainly in eighteen cen-
turies had made wonderful improve-
ments on the simple model to which his
soul was true.
That such a ministry as Irving's
should have continued, season after
season, to enjoy its first absolute and
uninterrupted influence and popularity,
would have been impossible. The
enormous length of his sermons was
enough to exhaust both. That it did not
do so earlier is a striking proof of his
unrivalled power in oratory. By-and-
by, however, we hear of mild remon-
strances from his elders silenced with
the absolute wilful authoritativeness
which was characteristic of him. " They
came to speak of time" he writes after a
meeting of his kirk-session, " and then I
" told them they must talk no more to me
" concerning the ministry of the word,
" for I would submit to no", authority in
" that matter but the authority of the
" Church, from which also I would take
" liberty to appeal if it gainsaid my
"conscience. I am resolved that two
" hours and a half I will have the
" privilege of."
But another fault than that of the
lengthiness came to be laid to the charge
of Irving's sermons ; which, by the time
he opened his new church in Eegent
Square, early in 1827, no longer drew
the fashionable crowds that used to
besiege Hatton Garden. The whisper of
heterodoxy arose. It was said he was
heterodox on a cardinal point of doctrine
the human nature of our Lord.
It would be interesting, were it pos-
sible, to trace a nexus of logical dove-
76
Edward Irving.
lopment in living's theological belief.
But it is impossible. He was not led by
logical sequences. " Oh," he said once
to his friend Campbell, " you see all the
angles of a subject ; but I have a great
instinct of truth" There was, indeed,
about much of Irving's action and belief
a lofty unreasonableness a vein, one
might almost say, of sublime madness
in which he vindicated to himself his
own consistency, but which was to com-
mon minds unintelligible. At all events
we do not see any natural development
in his views, or why one succeeded
another in the order they assumed. At
first, as we have said, an earnest preacher
of righteousness, he became, at the hint
of Mr. Hatley Frere, an enthusiastic
student of prophecy a member of the
Albury School of the Prophets, and a
foreteller of the speedy return of the
Lord. Then again, and with equal
fervour, he became the expounder
of the human nature of the Lord.
At this juncture the cry of heresy
was raised. Strange jealousy of ortho-
doxy ! He might indulge unchallenged
in any vagaries he chose in the field
of Prophecy unchallenged; but he is
pounced upon as soon as he touches what
was, to all his accusers, a point of ab-
stract scholastic theology, but to him the
very core and life of all his creed. What
Tie did hold was the perfect union of
Christ with man His assumption of our
very nature, and that He preserved that
nature sinless through the power of the
Holy Spirit, and not in virtue of any
exceptional sinlessness of its own. What
he was accused of holding was what was
called, with a wilful perverseness, " the
Sinfulness and Corruption of our Lord's
Human Nature." This was a misrepre-
sentation. What Irving in effect main-
tained was that, if our Lord's humanity
was not the same as ours, His sympathy
with man must have been a fiction.
He may for us, and in our nature, have
overcome the world and the devil, but
not the flesh. "This," says Mrs. Oliphant,
" was the very essence of Irving's belief."
And when, from unexpected quarters
everywhere round him, he discovered
that other men, that his fathers and
brethren in his own Church, disavowed
this central view which gave life and
reality to the Gospel, it went to his
heart like a personal affliction. It was
not that they differed from him on a
controverted subject. To him it appeared
that they denied the Lord the deepest
heart of Divine grace and pity. The
real, unspeakable redemption seemed to
Irving overlooked and despised when
this wonderful identity of nature was
disputed.
He was entering now into the thick
of the weary battle, from which, during
this life, he was to have no discharge.
The heresy cry assumed a more decided
tone. He is first brought to the bar of
the presbytery of London, and charged,
by the three or four nameless ministers
who constituted that court, with false
doctrine. He takes " the somewhat lofty
and wilful step" of denying their juris-
diction, since he had been ordained, not
by them, but by a presbytery within the
bounds of Scotland. This was in the
end of 1830. But the matter was not
to rest here. In May, 1831, his treatises
on Christ's Human Nature were formally
condemned by the General Assembly
the same court that had deposed Camp-
bell of Eow for preaching a free pardon
and a universal atonement. No heavier
blow could have fallen on one so loyally
devoted to his mother Church than this.
Here, perhaps, when we come in
direct contact with the great questions
which in those days the popular councils
of the Scottish Church so rudely and
rashly decided, we feel that our guide is
somewhat perplexed by the intricacies of
her way. Besides the lack of exact me-
thod inevitable, probably, in a feminine
biographer, who must needs digress from
the most abstract heights to chronicle the
birth of a baby, or the minutiaB of a
summer excursion we can see that Mrs.
Oliphant has been mildly discomforted
by the unwonted theological problems
that she has had to deal with. We, for
our part, have not space here to enter
into them ; and, looking at Irving's his-
tory as we wish to do from a broadly
human rather than from a simply theo-
logical point of view, it is not necessary
Edward Irving.
77
that we should investigate these gravest
matters.
Severed from his presbytery, con-
demned by the General Assembly, Ir-
ving still "was supported by his faithful
congregation and kirk-session, and
preached enthusiastically as ever the
Brotherhood of Christ. But even these
links were soon to be broken. The
stranger speculations and developments
out of which sprang that particular
" Church," which is now usually, but
quite wrongly, called by his name, began
to enthral him. He heard of the
so-called " gifts" of "healing," and
of " tongues," in the west of Scot-
land ; and he believed in them
with enthusiastic faith. Perhaps his
worn and harassed spirit clung, with a
sense of rest and satisfaction into which
others cannot enter, to the belief that
the Lord, in whose oneness with Himself
lie so fervently believed, was about again
to reveal Himself to his Church, " as
He did not unto the world ; " but it
seems strange that one who so lived by
faith and not by sight should have be-
lieved that such visible and audible mani-
festations of the Spirit could indicate a
loftier revelation, or a nearer union, than
His daily silent influences. No " revela-
tion" ever came through Irving' s own
lips no " gift " was ever vouchsafed to
him ; and yet, with a heroic self-forgetful
humility and faith, he believed in the
inspiration of the obscure men and
women whose prophesyings and speak-
ings in tongues filled his Church with
outcry and disorder. Their shoutings are
to him the veritable voice of the Eter-
nal Spirit ; and, when at last he foresees
that his kirk-session ^and his congrega-
tion are resolved to forbid these utter-
ances within the Regent Square Church,
it is on account of their blindness and
hardness of heart that he grieves, and not
because their resolution will result in
Ms being a beggared and excommuni-
cated man. " If I perish," he writes,
" I perish. Let me die the death of the
" righteous, and let my last end be like
" his."
He was driven from the church in
Eegent Square at the instance of the
trustees, and retired, with those who
stood by him, to an empty hall, where
he conducted a service of which the
" utterances in power " were now a re-
cognised part. Still he was not cut off
from the communion of the Church of
Scotland. But that last blow was about
to fall. In March, 1833, he was sum-
moned before the presbytery of Annan,
by which he had been ordained, 'to
answer to the old charge of heresy con-
cerning Christ's Human Nature. Vir-
tually the charge was not this, but the
fact of his having permitted, in his con-
gregation, the "utterances in power."
But on this charge he was arraigned,
and on this deposed, by the unknown
junta of country ministers to whom the
singular constitution of the Scottish.
Church committed the trial of her great
son, and the decision of an all-important
doctrine. And he was deposed, be it
observed, in spite of his solemn declara-
tion that he did not hold, and had never
held, the doctrine obstinately imputed to
him.
This was the beginning of the end.
Heart and flesh began to faint and fail
after this. He came back to London,
weary, worn out, exclaiming, like his
Lord, " Eeproach hath broken my heart :"
came back, not, as is popularly supposed,
to become the Angel of the new " Church"
the inspired head of a new apostolate
but to stand humbly and reverently
aside at the bidding of the "gifted,"
who forbade him even to exercise the
office of an evangelist in their new
society, and, with a sublime and forlorn
faith and patience, to wait on the Lord
if haply He might endue him, too, " His
faithful servant and soldier," with some
portion of the Spirit. " There he did
stand," says Mrs. Oliphant, and the
words paint his position, " absolute in a
primitive heroic faith." "Other men
'* have founded sects to rule them ;
'' Irving, no founder of a sect, came
' forth through repeated anguish and
( conflict, at the head of his community,
:t only to serve and to obey."
By-and-by, the "utterance in power"
comes forth, and he, the born priest
and prophet, is re-ordained by the self-
78
Edward Irving.
constituted apostle to be " angel " of the
Church, in London. He may open his
closed lips once more but only to be
rebuked and silenced whenever the
apostle shall deem fit. "It is plain to
" see that this great, natural, real soul
" was sadly in the way of those rapidly-
" growing new conventionalities to which
" only the conviction that they were
" ordained by God could make him bow
" his head, and was an embarrassing
" presence to the lesser men around,
" who knew not how to adapt their vest-
" ments to the limbs of a giant." At
last, in the autumn of 1834, he is
dismissed from London, being ordered
by "the Power" to go as a prophet to
Scotland, and to do a good work there.
He goes, and goes gladly. It must be
an unconscious relief to him to escape
from the entanglements of the London
" Church." The free air of his fatherland
will surely quicken his languid pulse;
and, besides, is he not going to help to
lay there the foundations of the city of
God that sublime unworldly Latter-
Day ideal in which he still believes 1
But he is to learn that his ideal is
not here, that the City of God is in
Heaven. Unknowing, he is coming
home to die. He reaches Glasgow, the
scene of his first earnest Christian
labours, and lies down on the bed of
death. The "prophets" prophesy that he
is not to die. Yet life is such a wasting
burden to him now that he murmurs
some sad words about " departing and
being with Christ, which is far better."
He is chidden for his lack of faith, and
answers, " I have expressed to you my
desire, not my expectation." Still, even
in the twilight of the endless day, he
clings with a desperate tenacity to what
he believes is the voice and will of God.
As the "wheels of being" grow slow, he is
heard murmuring to himself the Hebrew
measures of the twenty-third Psalm, "The
Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."
" As the current of life grew feebler and
feebler," writes Mrs. Oliphant, with the
direct simplicity of narrative and feeling
which is always most pathetic, " a last
" debate seemed to rise in that soul
"which was now hidden with God.
" They heard him murmuring to himself
" in inarticulate argument, confusedly
" struggling in his weakness to account
" for this visible death which, at last,
" his human faculties could no longer
" refuse to believe in perhaps touched
" with ineffable trouble that his Master
" had seemed to fail of His word and
" promise. At last, that self-argument
" came to a sublime conclusion in a
' trust more strong than life or death.
' As the gloomy December Sunday sank
' into the night-shadows, his last audible
' words on earth fell from his pale
* lips. The last thing like a sentence
4 we could make out was, ' If I die, I die
" unto the Lord. Amen ! ' And so, at
" the wintry midnight hour which
" ended that last Sabbath on earth, the
" last bonds of mortal trouble dropped
" asunder, and the saint and martyr
" entered into the rest of his Lord."
" Amen ! " He who had lived to God
for so many hard and bitter years, en-
during all the pangs of mortal trouble,
in his Lord at last, with a sigh of un-
speakable disappointment and consola-
tion, contented himself to die. I know
not how to add anything more to that
last utterance, which rounds into a per-
fection beyond the reach of art this
sorrowful and splendid life. So far as
sight or sound could be had of him, to
use his own touching words, he had
"a good voyage," though in the night
and dark. And again let us say,
"Amen!"
Thus his life-battle ended right
bravely and faithfully fought through
all those toilsome years in which he
had seen his sublime ideas of right and
truth gradually scorned and rejected by
the Church and the world. He had
preached righteousness in the great con-
gregation ; and Belial and Mammon
were as dominant as before ! He had
unrolled the dark and splendid web of
the Apocalypse ; and men had laughed
the revelation to scorn ! He had pro-
claimed his Lord's oneness with our
humanity; as the root and hope of all
humanity, and the Church of his love
had branded him as heretic and traitor !
He had seen the dawning glory of " the
English Poets in Italy : Mrs. Browning's last Poems.
79
latter day," and had heard with the out-
Ward ear the very voice of God ; and the
dawn had faded, and the voice had
spoken only to silence and wound and
trouble him ! It seemed all a failure ;
and so he died.
We have been led to speak so directly
of Irving that we have almost forgotten
his biographer ; and we believe she will
consider this her highest praise. Her
book sets him forth so clearly, in his
lofty individuality, that we think of him
only while we read. She has cleared
away many entanglements from around
him ; and, should the world forget, as it
may, the authoress of " Mrs. Margaret
Maitland," and "Zaidee," it will not
forget the name of one who has per-
formed so good an office for the great
son of the modern Scottish Church. We
wish we could enter more fully into the
results of his life and teaching. Could
we do so, we should see how wide these
results have been how his teaching re-
garding Sacraments and Church Orders is
reproduced in the High Churchism of
England at the present day ; how his
teaching regarding the restored "gifts"
created the possibility of that new " Ca-
tholic and Apostolic " Church, of whose
development we believe he was the vic-
tim, and to which his life was sacrificed ;
how his teaching regarding the Brother-
hood of Christ, along with that of Mr.
Campbell regarding the Fatherhood of
God, was the germ of all the deepest
teaching of the Broad Church now ;
above all, how the spectacle of his life,
his words and works, was a sign to his
generation, a witness that quickened the
religious life of Britain throughout all
its borders.
He sleeps now within the crypt of the
magnificent Cathedral of Glasgow. In
the narrow window that lights his rest-
ing place a relative has placed a figure
of the Baptist, portrayed with more of
Christian feeling and reality of life than
are common in Protestant religious art.
It is a fit mask for the grave of one who
spoke and lived " in the spirit and power
of Elias." Had he been laid there a
thousand years ago, his tomb would
have been a famous shrine. In the
nineteenth century, it is seldom gazed
at but with self-satisfied pity. We stood
by it six days ago. The Glasgow sight-
seers were stumbling about through the
sacred immemorial gloom of that ma-
jestic crypt, their hats on their heads;
careless, unimpressed. Without the
walls, the rush and whirl of the toiling
city echoed in the distance.
E. S.
ENGLISH POETS IN ITALY: MRS. BROWNING'S LAST POEMS.
BY A. WILSON.
IT is no wonder that so many great
poets have fled from the busy life and
dull skies of England to Italy, with its
brighter stars and deeper blue, its darker
sea and whiter waves, its wilder moun-
tains and more perfect valleys, its exqui-
site paintings, its grand ruins, its dread
memories, its mingled loveliness and
desolation. Ever the imagination of the
poet seeks after
" More pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams :"
ever it seeks to escape from ordinary
environment to the scenes of an intenser
life, where there are darker shades and
more dazzling light, where instead of
the grotesque there appears romance,
and mean cares are displaced by grave
tragedies.
The relationship between Italy and
English poetry has sometimes been very
powerful and strikingly characteristic of
the times in which it existed. In the
earlier part of the middle ages, the ex-
perts who went from this country to the
80
English Poets in Italy :
Italian schools could scarcely be called
bards, though they often expounded
their theses with a vehement, impas-
sioned logic. We soon find, however,
a first great link in the person of the
father of English poetry himself
" Chaucer, of all admired "
Than whom, said Francis Beaumont,
" A poet never went
More famous yet 'twixt Po and silver Trent."
Little is known about his visits to
Genoa, Lombardy, and Florence, except
that they were made specially for diplo-
inatico-conimercial purposes ; but it was
on these states of Northern Italy that the
dawn of letters first broke ; and Chaucer
could not fail to be moved by the poems
of Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch,
which were then in all Italian mouths.
The rhythm, as well as the subject-
matter, of many of the Canterbury Tales
was taken from Italy, and much also of
their bantering hostility to the clergy.
When Milton, in his prime of youth-
ful manhood, visited Italy, he had already
written the noble lines
" Yet some there be that with due steps
aspire
To lay their just hands on that golden key
Which opes the palace of eternity." *
It was in the spirit of that aspiration,
with the full consciousness of genius,
with his highly trained powers under
complete control, and with all the re-
sources of a ripe scholarship, that he
sought its august ruins, and mingled
with its living celebrities. No pas-
sionate poetic fervour drew him thither,
as was the case with Byron and Shelley,
but the deliberate resolve of a calm
majestic mind, desirous of completing
the culture which was necessary to the
just possession of the golden key. It
was in Italy that Milton perfected
himself for his great twofold work.
That " stranger from the shores of the
farthest ocean," with his calm English
eyes and great white brow, required to
mingle with Italian nobles, and learn
something of the subtlety of Machia-
velli, in order to carry out the designs
of the English ruler who made every
court of Europe tremble. It was well
that he whose own days were to close
in poverty and darkness had the oppor-
tunity of meeting blind Galileo, and so
anticipating the woes which form part
of a starry fate. He could never have
given such distinct visible form to the
beings who dwell in the "regions of
sorrow," and those who knew the " sanc-
tities of heaven," had he not seen and
loved the creations of Italy's poet-
painters.
The English poets who visited Italy in
the last century were scarcely able to bring
back anything from that country. Addi-
son was lucky, having obtained " a yearly
" pension of three hundred pounds from
" the Crown to assist him in his travels ; "
but his letters on Italy are simply those
of a scholar and graceful writer. It is a
wonder that no modern traveller has
availed himself of them in order to
make a classical reputation for himself.
Goldsmith was supposed to have taken his
medical degree at Padua, and seems to
have thoroughly understood the political
state of Italy in his day ; but, in all like-
lihood, his extreme poverty prevented
him from enjoying its more poetical
aspects. How admirably he hits off the
Italian character of that time in the
lines :
" Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive,
vain ;
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet
untrue ;
And even in penance planning sins anew ! "
He saw Italy in its very worst state, suf-
fering from all the evils
" That opulence departed leaves behind ; "
and the miserable spectacle appears to
have made a profound impression on his
mind ; for the most powerfu. passages
of his verse are employed in denouncing
the "plethoric ill" which commerce
brings, and pointing out
" How wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land."
The author of " Eoderick Eandom'" 7
also visited Italy, and was buried at
Leghorn, where the inscription on his
monument declares that he was an ex-
ample of the virtue of former times. It
was not likely that such an example
Mrs. Brownings last Poems.
81
could see much to admire in Italy and,
besides, poor Smollett was wretchedly ill
when there, and his " Travels " provoked
the satire of Sterne, who said that " the
learned Snielfungus" did not so much
describe the objects he saw as give an
account of his own miserable feelings.
Coleridge, though, as Mr. Mill says,
one of the great seminal minds of his
age, appears to be in a fair way of en-
joying the blessed privilege of "no
biography," and it is difficult to discover
how far his Italian travels extended.
Once in Malta, where he was secretary
to Sir Alexander Ball in 1804 and
1805, I tried to hunt up recollections
of him, and found an elderly gentleman
in a Government office who had known
him, and described him as of a dead-
white complexion, with flowing hair,
large brow and dreamy eyes. This
Maltese mentioned that on one occasion,,
when a frigate called for despatches and
Coleridge was instructed to write them,
Sir Alexander Ball sent several messages
for them, without getting any satisfactory
reply. At last my informant went, and
he found the dreamer with his coat off,
and a huge peacock's feather in his hand,
writing in a great heat "but poetry and
not despatches. Hardly could the mes-
sage be delivered ; for the bard, excited
by the presence of an auditor, started
up, waved the paper and cleared his
throat. "-But the despatches, sir?* 7
faltered out the horrified Maltese.
" Oh ! never mind the despatches," said
Coleridge ; "just listen to this poetry
I have been writing ; " so he waved the
paper again, advanced a step, and had
just commenced with a rotund voice,
when the door opened, and Sir Alexander
himself entered. Scenes such as these
soon led to the resignation of Coleridge's
secretaryship, and it was then that he
visited Italy. It is extremely unlikely,
however, that he got any farther than
Naples. I should like to have seen " the
rapt one of the godlike forehead" in
the hands of the Neapolitan doganieri,
guides, beggars and thieves of that
corrupt time. Fancy Coleridge, with his
dreamy eyes and classical recollections,
sauntering through the narrow streets of
No. 31. VOL. vi.
the city disinterred, with the crowd that
would follow him as surely as sharks
gather round a dilapidated ship ! We
know that in a short time he found
himself friendless and moneyless in
Naples, and Avas taken to England by an
American captain, who gave him a free
passage for the sake of his marvellous
conversation.
When Wordsworth was afloat on the
Italian lakes, his deeper thoughts still
remained by the side of Grasmere, and
his " Memorials " of Italy are scarcely
worthy of himself or of the subjects on
which he touched. For a moment his
fancy was awakened by Milan' s'lofty spire,
and he stood with earnest reverence by
the Sasso di Dante ; but the poetry which
he produced in Italy might, with the
exception of a few local colours, have
been suggested by almost any other
land. It is not among the ruins of
Rome or the galleries of art that we can
best conceive his presence ; but reclining
in Vallombrosa's shadiest wood, remem-
bering Milton's lonely vigils, or wander-
ing with elastic steps among the higher
Apennines, himself as sunburnt and
healthy as the athletic contadini whom
he met, trotting down the steepest paths
on their sure-footed steeds.
Passing over Sir Walter Scott's visit
to Italy in his dying months ; the grace-
ful, fastidious, but rather pale sketches
of Rogers ; Leigh Hunt's exquisite tale
of Rimini; and Lan dor's masculine but
classic productions ; we come to the three
great poets by whom Italy and England
have been indissolubly connected. Of
Keats in Rome, it can only be said that
he there became subject to the dread
king, who
" Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay; "
but his grave would always have
been dear to the many travellers
from this country, even had it not
been for the other and more precious
tomb beside it, where the ashes of
Shelley repose. All his poems breathe the
spirit of " the warm. South ;" and his
" languishment for skies Italian " indi-
cated a necessity of his nature, which
was gratified too late to save him. In
82
English Poets in Italy :
Byron and Shelley we have two English
poets, of the very highest order, inti-
mately connected with Italy by their
residence there, their sympathy with its
political movement, their love of its
scenery, their descriptions of its works
of art, the melancholy which consumed
their souls, and the sudden fate by which
they were early overtaken. In both
there was that intensity of thought,
feeling, and passion, which finds in Italy
a congenial environment, and which ex-
hausts the vital powers before the term
of middle life. Shelley, it is said, could
not have lived for two years more, had
he not been lost in the Gulf of Spezzia ;
and some time before Byron expired, at
Missolonghi, the rising mists of death
had " veiled the lightnings of his song."
"Che non arde, non incende," says an
Italian proverb. If the one poet stood
in closer relation to absolute truth and
was robed in purer and more dazzling
light, the other realized better the fierce
passions of humanity, and lit up the
facts of past history with the wild name
of his imagination. Shelley, who was
incapable of an envious thought, ex-
pressed his extreme admiration for
Byron, and associated him with Venice,
in the wonderful burst of music :
" Perish ! let there only be
Floating o'er thy breathless sea,
As the garment of thy sky
Clothes the world immortally,
One remembrance more sublime
Than the tattered pall of time
Which scarce hides thy visage wan ;
That a tempest-cleaving swan,
Of the songs of Albion,
Driven from his ancestral streams
By the might of evil dreams,
Found a nest in thee, and Ocean
Welcomed him with such emotion
That its joy grew his, and sprung
From his lips like music flung
In a mighty thunder- fit,
Chastening terror. What though yet
Poesy's unfailing river,
Which through Albion winds for ever,
Lashing with melodious wave
Many a sacred poet's grave,
Mourn its latest nursling fled ;
What though those, with all thy dead,
Scarce can for this fame repay
Ought thine own oh, rather say,
Though thy sins and sorceries foul
Overcloud a sunlike soul,
As the ghost of Homer clings
Round Scamander's wasting springs ;
As divinest Shakspeare's might
Fills Avon and the world with light,
Like omniscient power, which he
Imaged 'mid mortality ;
As the love from Petrarch's urn
Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp by which the heart
Sees things unearthly ; so thou art,
Mighty spirit ! so shall be
The city that did refuge thee."
It is questionable whether Byrori ever
understood the celestial younger brother
who flitted round him like a being
from, some more spiritual world ; and
no fit requiem can be sung for Alastor
till another messenger like himself
conies to earth from afar ; for
" Silence, too, enamoured of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her ragged cell."
As Shelley and Byron fitly found a
home, and one a grave, in Italy in its
darkest hour, so was it also well that
the poetical connexion between that
country and England was continued in
recent years by a poetess who had much
of their earnestness and grief without
their despair, who believed in God,
who trusted the people, and who was
allowed to see Italia in great part de-
livered and ennobled. Italy has had not
a few celebrated women of its own, who
united the attainments of the scholar
with the heart of the poet ; and the
burning pages of Corinne and Consuelo
have shown how it has inspired the
imagination of the most richly endowed
of the daughters of France ; but the
English poetess who has now found
there " a grave among the eternal,"
brought to it a purer and a loftier fame.
It would be easy to take exception to
the poems of Mrs. Barrett Browning ; but
no work is more unprofitable than that
kind of criticism, and no poet is raised
above it. It may be safely left to those
writers always themselves barren
who have taken upon themselves to
improve the race by finding fault with
the children of their neighbours. After
all reasonable, and not a few unreasonable
exceptions are taken, there indubitably
remain, in witness of Mrs. Browning's
powers, a few compositions almost perfect
Mrs. Browning's last Poems.
83
in themselves, and much high poetry
in which tender feeling and profound
thought are expressed in glowing, impas-
sioned imagery. Nor is any great effort
of criticism required to see that the
defects of her poetry are almost neces-
sarily associated with its most striking
beauties. Her readers will not forget
the touching references which occur
throughout her works to the suffering
and languor of her life, great part of
which was passed on beds of almost
fatal sickness. She literally had to live
" shouldering weights of pain," and de-
scribed herself as
"A poor tired wandering singer, singing
through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree."
In her dedication to her father many
years ago, she desires him to bear wit-
ness that, if the art of poetry had been
a less earnest object to her, it must have
fallen from her exhausted hands. Again,
she exclaims
" I count the dismal time by months and years
Since last I felt the green sward under loot."
With truthful pathos she addresses a
child
. " And God knows, who sees us twain,
Child at childish leisure,
I am near as tired of pain
As you seem of pleasure."
And she recorded some of the deepest
longings of her heart, when she penned
the exquisite lines commencing
" Of all the thoughts of God that are
. Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this
' He giveth His beloved sleep 1 ' "
Forbid that I should recall these pas-
sages in apology for Mrs. Browning's
poetry. She herself would never have
done so ; but they may serve to indicate
wherein the peculiar charm of that
poetry lies, and how far that was ne-
cessarily associated with what may be
considered its defects. Shakspeare un-
derstood that those speak truth "who
breathe their thoughts in pain ;" and it
was because Mrs. Browning suffered so
much, and was cut off from so many of
the enjoyments of life, that she pene-
trated so deeply into the inner, essential
meaning of the subjects on which she
touched, and expressed her thoughts
regarding them with so much compres-
sion, force, and fervour. On her bed of
pain and languor she turned with in-
tenser longing and stronger faith towards
the great ideas which underlie and sup-
port the efforts of humanity. The soul,
love, faith, nationality, man, the sacrifice
of Christ, the mystic power of the Holy
Spirit, and the benign but awful pre-
sence of the unseen Father, became
revealed to her as great living realities,
redeeming the troubled life of earth,
vindicating the ways of Providence, and
giving assurance of a more perfect future.
I do not mean to say that Mrs. Brown-
ing was at all perfect as an artist, or, as
a poetic thinker, occupied the highest
points of view. Her works are wanting
in that deep calm which floats like the
blue of eternity over the masterpieces
of Homer, Shakspeare, and Goethe. Her
mind was ever on the strain, to use a
familiar term ; there may have been in
it even a strong tinge of false romance ;
and the effort to express her conceptions
may have been at times spasmodic and
unequal. But these are characteristics
of all earnest poets of her class ; for, in
the dim and perilous region of ideas,
thought can light up the darkness only
by flashes of intense light.
It is not my design, however, to un-
dertake any general criticism of Mrs.
Browning's powers and poetical position,
much less to attempt to discriminate
between what is true and false in her
views of earth and heaven. Like the
"Little Mattie" of one of these Last
Poems
" She has seen the mystery hid ,
Under Egypt's pyramid :
By those eyelids pale and close
Now she knows what Rhamses knows."
Here the last products of her genius lie
before us, and I desire to speak of them
neither as a critic nor as a worshipper,
but yet, I trust, with something of that
love which it is always well to feel for
the last touch of a vanished hand, and
the last sound of a voice that is still.
If Mrs. Browning's Last Poems had
G 2
English Poets in Italy :
"been like the broken words and falter-
ing accents tliat usually come from those
who stand in the shadow of the greater
night, they would still have been dear ;
l)ut the truth is, that shadow hung so
over her whole life, that it does not
seem to have specially affected her powers
at the last. There is one poem in this
"volume, called " My Heart and I," which
may, perhaps, though not uttered in her
own person, be understood as confessing
to a feeling of exhaustion, and may have
teen called forth by the reception which
was accorded to her Poems before Con-
gress. One stanza runs
- M How tired we feel, my heart and I !
We seem of no use in the world ;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently ;
Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep ; our tears are only wet :
"What do we here, my heart and I ? "
A poet, however, is always liable to be
occasionally misunderstood or disre-
garded; and these last verses by Mrs.
Browning are not likely to meet with
such a fate, they contain so much true
poetry, and yet are often so clear and
simple. Who has not known a girl like
" My Kate," who is thus tenderly por-
trayed ?
" She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and
snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-
trodden ways,
While she's still remembered on warm and
cold days
My Kate.
41 Her air had a meaning, her movements a
grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her
face:
And when you had once seen her forehead
and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her
truth
My Kate.
*< Such a blue inner light from her eyelids out^
broke,
You looked at her silence and fancied she
spoke :
When she did, so peculiar, yet soft, was the
tone,
Though the loudest spoke also, you heard
her alone
My Kate.
" She never found fault with you, never im-
plied
Your wrong by her right, and yet men at
her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the
whole town
The children were gladder that pulled at her
gOWn
My Kate.
" None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in
thrall :
They knelt more to God than they used
that was all :
If you praised her as charming, some asked
what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt as
she went
My Kate."
The poem entitled " De Profundis "
is in Mrs. Browning's highest devotional
strain, and may compare favourably
with any passages in her " Drama of
Exile," and also with Tennyson's " Two
Voices," of which it sometimes recalls
the cadence, and to which it bears a
very distant resemblance. The speaker
has suffered one of those great losses
which make earth 110 longer our home ;
for
" The face which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away
And yet my days go on, go on."
Thus deprived of what alone made
life dear, she exclaims, in her great
agony
" The world goes whispering to its own,
' This anguish pierces to the bone ; '
And tender friends go sighing round,
' What love can ever cure this wound 1 '
My days go on, my days go on.
" The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. dreams begun,
Not to be ended ! Ended bliss,
And life that will not end in this !
My days go on, my days go on.
" Breath freezes on my lips to moan :
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.
" I knock and cry, Undone, undone !
Is there no help, no comfort, none ?
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains
Where others drive their loaded wains ?
My vacant days go on, go on."
Only the thought of Divine suffering
and love can relieve such woe
Mrs. Broioning's last Poems.
** A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.
" God's voice, not Nature's ! Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne,
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days I
The Day-spring He, whose days go on.
" He reigns above, He reigns alone,
Systems burn out, and leave His throne :
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around Him, changeless amidst all
Ancient of Days, whose days go on."
By that anguish which made pale the
sun, His creatures are charged never to
blaspheme against Him with despair ;
and before His supreme love and chief
misery, the widowed sufferer is enabled
to cry
41 1 praise Thee while my days go on ;
I love Thee while my 'days go on ;
Through dark and dearth, through fire and
frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank Thee while my days go on."
" Bianca among the Nightingales,"
the most perfectly artistic poem in the
volume, is in a very different strain
from the two just referred to. It treats
of impassioned love, driven to madness
by the unfaithfulness of its object, and
casting the dreadful light of that grief
and passion on all the surrounding ob-
jects of nature. This subject has had a
singular fascination for many great poets,
and is naturally treated in a lyric form,
as in the mad rhymes of Ophelia, Mar-
garet's pathetic songs in Faust, and
Tennyson's " Mariana in the Moated
Orange." In her expression of it Mrs.
Browning may compare, not disadvan-
tageously, even with these masters ;
and the following opening stanzas could
scarcely be surpassed
" The cypress stood up like a church
That night we felt our love would hold,
And saintly moonlight seemed to search
And wash the whole world clean as gold ;
The olives crystallized the vales'
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong ;
The fire-flies and the nightingales
Throbbed each to either, flame and song,
The nightingales, the nightingales.
" Upon the angle of its shade
The cypress stood, self-balanced high ;
Half up, half down, as double-made,
Along the ground, against the sky.
And we, too ! from such soul height, went
Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,
We scarce knew if our nature meant
Most passionate earth or intense heaven.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
" We paled with love, we shook with love,
We kissed so close, we could not vow ;
Till Giulio whispered, * Sweet, above
God's ever guaranties this now.'
And through His words the nightingales
Drove straight and full their long clear-
call,
Like arrows through heroic mails,
And love was awful in it all.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
" cold white moonlight of the North,
Refresh these pulses, quench this hell I
coverture of death drawn forth
Across this garden-chamber . . . well !
But what have nightingales to do
In gloomy England, called the free . . *
(Yes, free to die in !) when we two
Are sundered, singing still to me ?
The nightingales, the nightingales."
Bianca fondly believed that, as matt,
has only one soul, so it is intended he
should only have one love ; but then
11 souls are damned and love's pro-
faned " occasionally ; and an English,
lady, with white and pink, gold ringlets
and grace of linib, enters into her sor-
rowful dream
" My native Florence ! dear, foregone !
I see across the Alpine ridge
How the last feast-day of Saint John
Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.
The luminous city, tall with fire,
Trod deep down in that river of ours,
While many a boat with lamp and choir
Skinimeci bird-like over glittering towers',
1 will not hear these nightingales.
" I seem to float, ice seem to float
Down Arno's stream in festive guise ;
A boat strikes flame into our boat,
And up that lady seems to rise
As then she rose. The shock had flashed
A vision on us ! What a head,
What leaping eyeballs ! beauty dashed
To splendour by a sudden dread.
And still they sing, the nightingales."
As the song goes on Bianca becomes
wilder, but in the end her voice rises
faint and sick, while the nightingales
still follow her into the tomb
" Giulio, my Giulio ! sing they so,
And you be silent 'I Do I speak,
And you not hear ? An arm you throw
Round some one, and I feel so weak ?
Oh owl-like birds ! They sing for spite,
They sing for hate, they sing for doom t
88
THE CHANCE BLESSING.
BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.
'TWAS the first of cold Spring mornings
That had kindness in its look :
And my way, in London sunshine,
To, the garden straight I took :
For the hope of harmless pleasures
Fit for lives with dreary hours,
Soothing to tormented spirits
Children, birds, and early flowers.
Lone the garden ; few the blossoms ;
Scant the foliage on the trees ;
Stinted in their fresher growing
By the soot-encumbered breeze :
But I marked a rosy infant,
And I watched it for a while,
Looking out at earthly sunshine
With a glad celestial smile ;
With a look as though no sorrow
Gloomed within this world of strife,
But all summers must come brightly,
Like this dawning one of life.
"Sure," I said, that smile beholding,
"So the blessed angels gaze,
With clear joy that knows no shadow
In their world of cloudless rays."
And I blest the happy creature,
And I prayed " Oh, God of heaven !
May this world ne'er blight and darken
Looks serene which Thou hast given :
"May Thy holy angels guard it
Through all hours of joy's eclipse,
And in age that smile still tremble
Softly round the dying lips !"
So thus musing still I lingered,
Slackening yet my onward pace;
For I thought no babe had ever
Such a sweet attractive face;
Till I turned and asked what mother
Bore that earthly angel-child?
And the nurse looked up and answered-
( While again the baby smiled:)
Said it was the youngest darling
Of a house I knew full well : l
And I found that my chance blessing
On my Blanche's baby fell !
1 " The bonny house of Airlie."
89
PASSING EVENTS: THE PEACE MINISTERS OF EUROPE.
THE great Peace ministers of Europe
this year are its several ministers of
finance. The best hope of peace lies in
the feeling, which is everywhere gain-
ing ground, that financial retrenchment
is necessary. The world is not at war,
and yet the world is paying war prices
to its various governments. In france,
Austria, and Prussia, gigantic armies
are devouring the substance of the
country, at an inordinate and incredible
rate ; and England, at the cost of mil-
lions upon millions, is casing herself
in invulnerable armour. The liberal
party all over the Continent is beginning
to rebel against the monstrous waste
of the wealth of nations which this
state of things entails. Three years
ago all Europe started to its feet, and
nation after nation was compelled to
prepare for collisions and tumults, the
alarm of which is happily dying away.
This year opens with a decided reaction.
The generous idea of a common treaty
of disarmament has not, indeed, been,
and, perhaps, never will be realized.
But if there has been no common con-
sent on the part of Governments to
relax suspicion and preparations, at
least there has been a common incli-
nation on the part of the people to do so.
Let us do the French Executive whose
restless policy is the cause of much
anxiety to the Continent the justice of
confessing that they have shown signs of
returning to a better temper, by submit-
ting their budgets fairly to the criticism
of a national assembly. "We wish they
had done more. Though the effective
strength of the army is to be diminished,
the war estimates, and the naval estimates
this year are higher than usual, and the
French artillery and navy have yet to be
organized at an enormous expense. On
the other hand, the current of public
opinion in France is setting strongly,
as we believe, in the direction of peace
and of economy. Nor must the activity
in the French dock-yards and arsenals
be taken for more than it is worth. It
is not a proof of arriere pensee on the
part of the French Empire. All maritime
powers are involved just at present in
extraordinary expenditure, for the simple
reason that our old weapons of maritime
warfare appear to be of little use either
for offence, or for defence, and we are
groping in the dark for new ones. Forts,
guns, ships, have all to be rebuilt on the
latest method known, and every week
some new fact is discovered or published,
some new and expensive experience ac-
quired, which falsifies our previous calcu-
lations. For a long time it seemed as if
there was a practical limit to the power
of artillery. Scientific men now seem to
think that there may be none. "With the
introduction of the coil system in our
manufacture of guns a new and wonderful
era has commenced, and it is probable that
Armstrong cannon could be constructed
of any size, to burn any quantity of
powder, the only limit being when the
coiled wrought-iron itself begins to melt
in the intense white-heat which the
ignition of the charge generates. The
experiments of the last month at Shoe-
buryness, show that no vessel hitherto
launched or conceived can resist the
impact of the shot which could be hurled
against her, and forts reassurue their
ancient superiority over ships. Unfor-
tunately, costly problems still remain to
be solved. How to construct an iron
navy which, if not impregnable to mon-
ster guns, may yet be serviceable for the
use of the high seas, and how best to
mount the heaviest ordnance on that
iron navy, are questions of whose solu-
tion engineers need not despair, but at
the cost of solving which the country
may well shudder. It may not be ne-
cessary for self-preservation that we
should turn out a flotilla of Warriors or
Gloires; but at the very best we shall
have to cut down and case our old
wooden ships, and to manufacture float-
ing batteries, which may be capable of
engaging a Monitor or a Merrimac with
hopes of success. What we do France
90
Passing Events: The Peace Ministers of Ear ope.
must do, and vice versa. The great
maritime powers of the world seern con-
demned to a spendthrift race against
one another. The prospect is not a
cheerful one, and it seems bounded by
no visible horizon.
The consolation, as we have hinted,
consists in this : that the Liberals of
Europe are showing signs of a disposi-
tion to remonstrate against their financial
burdens. The Liberal party in Prussia
are not insensible to national honour, or
to national dangers, yet they have com-
pelled their reactionary Government to
retrench. Retrenchment is the order of
the day with France as well as Prussia ;
and for the first occasion, during many
years, the budget of an English Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer has called forth
a silent, but almost universal, feeling
that our expenditure must not be allowed
to remain on its present footing. Mr.
Gladstone, for a long time, has been of
that opinion. Annually he makes, with
impunity, to the House of Commons, the
somewhat ungracious insinuation, that
it is they, not he, who are responsible
to the country for the extravagance of
national administration. The reason
that he makes it with impunity is, that
it is tolerably true. When he last came
into office, he proclaimed his views upon
the subject of retrenchment too loudly
to please either his own constituents, or
the public. It was a time of panic and
of unrest. Everywhere we were forti-
fying, arming, volunteering. The mo-
ment was ill-chosen for an homily on
the blessings of economy. Mr. Glad-
stone was driven into his shell, and ever
since has acquiesced, with, reluctance, in a
financial outlay, which the enthusiasm
and anxiety of Englishmen demanded,
but which, in common with the Man-
chester school, he considers a financial
waste. Indirectly he is teaching the
public to be what it never yet has been
startled at the sums it yearly spends.
It has been of late the misfortune of
the Manchester school to injure the
cause of several noble principles which
they would be glad to serve. Mr.
Gladstone does not belong to the
Manchester school, but he has a firm
grasp on several political truths, which
are older than any school of the kind.
The most important for our purpose is,
that nations cannot be frightened into
peace by the mere clang of arms. We hope
that the day will never come when Eng-
land will measure a nation's strength by
the magnitude of her military establish-
ments. Mr. Gladstone's love of peace is
the true key to his finance. Strange to
say, the fact does not make him the more
popular. Political opponents have made
it a reproach and a burden to him, and,
thanks to the unfair clamour of a certain
portion of the educated classes, who en-
joy the excitement, without suffering
from the miseries of war, even the chi-
valrous Mr. Gladstone has been popularly
represented as a worshipper at the shrine
of Cotton.
The great Budget of 1860 has left
behind it a luminous trail that irradiates
all its author's later financial feats.
It may be considered as the inaugura-
tion of a new financial policy ; the finan-
cial policy of Peace. The Budgets of
1860 and 1861 are parts and parcels of
it ; and the ninepenny income-tax that
we are now paying is in reality the in-
terest of the investments made by us in
1860, which are to be returned to us
before long in other ways. The full
effects of the French treaty cannot be
realized for many years. Enough, how-
ever, has been shown to satisfy us that
the speculation was safe and lucrative
beyond our hopes. In the first place,
a general stimulus has been given to
commerce by the removal of injurious
restraints from several branches of trade.
In the second place, the consumption of
articles on which the duty was only
lightened, has increased so far as to
reimburse the revenue for the temporary
sacrifice which Parliament wisely made.
These benefits have made themselves
sensibly felt in spite of many causes
which have tended, during the last twelve
months, to decrease the consuming
powers of the country. Since the first
of September in the last year we have
received no cotton from America ; and, as
we are dependent on the Southern States
for more than two-thirds of our entire
Passing Events: The Peace Ministers of Europe.
91
supply, the blow which, our cotton-trade
has received can better be imagined than
described. At Liverpool, in the spring of
1861, the price of Uplands and Mobile
cotton ranged from about 5Jc2. to 7^d. per
pound. The present price at Liverpool is
nearly double. Besides the crisis in the
cotton-trade, our American market has
suffered considerably in other, though less
important, particulars. To crown all, the
harvest of last autumn, though not defi-
cient in quantity, was small, and bread
in consequence was not much cheaper
than it was in 1860. In spite of all
this, both our national trade and our
national revenue have felt the assistance
of the beneficent reforms carried out
by Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Cobden. In
the year just ended, as compared with
its predecessor, we parted with three
important items of revenue. "We gave
up a penny of the income-tax for three-
quarters of a year. "We abolished the
paper duty when six months of the year
had run out. We did not enjoy, thirdly,
in 1861-62, the advantage we derived in
1860-61 from shortening the time of the
malt credits. The revenue of 1861-62,
might, therefore, reasonably be expected
to fall short of the revenue of 1860-61 by
the amount of these three losses which
are estimated together at 2,637,0002.
Instead of this, it only fell short by
809,0002. The difference was made up
by increased returns from those branches
of trade "which had been relieved by the
measures of 1860. The revenue, there-
fore, has benefited this year to the
extent of no less than 1,828,0002. by
Mr. Gladstone's great budget of two
years ago. It would be no slight thing
even if all that had been done was merely
to lighten the taxation of the country
without reducing the income of the
Government. But the increase of
revenue implies also a magnificent im-
provement of international trade. In
the six months preceding the treaty,
the exports of British produce from the
United Kingdom to France amounted in
value to 2 ,19 6, 00 01. In the correspond-
ing six months, from September to
February last, the period given by the
newest returns, they had risen to
6,091,0002. From September to Feb-
ruary in the year 1859-60, our exports
of woollens and worsteds to the same
country ,were 134,0002. From Septem-
ber to February last, they had mounted
to 1,181,0002. Thus, the effect of the
great budget has been to create almost a
new branch of commerce. Communica-
tion and intercourse between the two
countries have developed in proportion.
The post-office authorities report that,
instead of an average increase of four
per cent, in the letters carried across the
channel, there has been an increase of
twenty per cent, in the last year. If
these things have been done in the
green wood, what shall be done in the
dry ? If a year of commercial distress
and panic has borne such fruit, to what
may we not look forward in future years
of prosperity and sunshine ! " The
history of the French treaty " said its
author, on a recent occasion, with justi-
fiable pride " I may now venture to
" say, is written in the history of the
" world. The commerce between these
" two great countries is at last about to
" approach a scale something like what
" nature intended it to be." Such -ere
the earliest consequences of Mr. Glad-
stone's policy. Instead of a mailed
glove, he holds out to the rest of the
world a richly laden hand. England,
strong as she seems when she is brist-
ling with cannon, is stronger still as the
emporium of the world. The French
treaty is then a noble contribution to
the defences of the country a financial
measure worthy of a great Peace-minis-
ter.
This year's Budget is not much more
than part of the tail of the financial
comet of 1860. There was very little
to be made of our estimated and doubt-
ful surplus of 150,0002. ; but, like a skil-
ful conjuror, Mr. Gladstone has managed
to perform an incredible number of little
feats out of this diminutive balance.
The alcoholic tests, which gave so much
trouble to ourselves, and so much vexa-
tion to the French, are simplified by
being reduced to two in number. The
practical result will be, that all Bur-
gundies and Clarets will come in at a
92
Passing Events : The Peace Ministers of Europe.
uniform duty of one shilling the gallon,
while the braiidied wines of Spanish,
Portuguese, and Madeira growth will
pay the higher tariff of half-a-crown.
The hop duty is also abolished a fitful
and fickle tax, which never could be
estimated with accuracy beforehand, and
which had the additional disadvantage
of being an unpopular agricultural bur-
den. Contrary to the delusive expecta-
tions which are at present making glad
the hearts of the hop-growers, the
amount of the tax will go into the pocket
of the large brewers, and ultimately
return to the Revenue in the shape of
a new impost which is to be levied on
brewers' licences. Threepence per barrel
will be allowed to the brewing interest as
.a drawback on exported beer a premium
which may serve as an encouragement
io exportation, and a consolation to the
brewer. Henceforward, moreover, beer
will be " preserved" as well as game, and
private individuals be prevented from
poaching on the privileges of Messrs.
Barclay. Around these minute details
the Chancellor of the Exchequer arrayed
.a multitude of shining figures, and a
silvery list of sonorous words. How-
ever barren and slight the theme, Mr.
Gladstone never falls upon it except in
a spray of light and sound, illuminated
by all the colours of the rhetorical rain-
bow. Still the method he has chosen,
.after a show of luminous discussion with
himself, for spending his questionable
surplus, involves no political principle.
The hop-growers of Kent and Sussex,
and the Burgundy wine-merchants, may
be left in peace to enjoy, the former an
imaginary, the latter a diminutive gain.
But there are one or two points of more
general importance about the estimates
of this year, that cannot be left with-
out comment by those who watch Mr.
Gladstone's career, as a liberal financier
and peace-minister, with interest and
admiration.
For the second time in the last three
.years, Mr. Gladstone meets the House
of Commons with the confession of a
deficit. In 1860-61 his income was
below both his estimated and his actual
.expenditure : that is to say, he provided
neither for what he did spend nor for
what he meant to spend. The same
mishap has befallen him in the last
year. Yet the last two years have been
remarkable for unparalleled remissions
of taxation. Some taxes he has flung
away, such as the paper duty. "With
respect to some, he has been content to
cast his bread upon the waters, knowing
that he cannot find it again for many
days. More than four millions have
been sacrificed in the shape of repeals.
Yet a third time he appears with a set
of estimates which allow only one
hundred and fifty thousand pounds to
meet the extraordinary casualties of the
coming twelve months. Fifty accidents
may intervene to rob us of this balance.
There may be a famine, a war, a finan-
cial crisis in Liverpool, a cotton crisis in
Lancashire. Mexico may require to be
invaded, New Zealand to be pacified,
Turkey to be assisted. Besides this,
there is the interminable and inexhaus-
tible question of national defences, which
is likely to revive with new vigour, in
consequence of the progress of mechani-
cal invention. Never was there a time at
which it was less safe to build one's hopes
upon an uneventful future. The Ameri-
can war alone may be a cause of serious
commercial and industrial suffering, and
make a difference to the revenue of a
vast sum. Mr. Gladstone is quite cor-
rect in saying that we are passing
through an exceptional period. "What
we should like to ask is bearing the
additional strain or stress of the times,
and liquidating also the annual interest
of these returns for Mr. Gladstone's in-
vestment in 1860, which are delayed by
reason of the bad financial season?
Simply the Income-tax. Anybody who
remembers the Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer's old denunciations of the prin-
ciple of this impost will see at a glance
that his views 011 the subject have been
considerably modified. It is not cer-
tainly by accident that he has of late
thrown the whole weight of taxation on
this source of revenue. He no longer
regards it as a fountain of all injustice.
He cruelly destroys in committee Mr.
Hubbard's proposal to readjust it on
Passing Events : The Peace Ministers of Europe.
93
a more equitable basis. The real truth
and explanation is, that he has found
a use for it. He means to employ it as
an instrument for lowering the national
expenditure. "We can hardly doubt but
that he has abandoned in despair his
project of preaching down financial ex-
travagance. He sees that, as long as
Englishmen do not feel that they are
taxed, they will not care about admini-
strative economy. An able writer in
the Spectator charges him with an in-
clination to cover over and conceal the
extravagance of Government. No charge
we say it with submission was ever
so unfounded. Mr. Gladstone's purpose
is precisely the reverse. Instead of
wishing to diminish the legitimate pain
of taxation, it is almost his mission
to make the most of it. We are not
inclined to defend the ^income-tax itself.
Its working is as unjust as the theory
on which it is based is unintelligible.
It is neither a property -tax, nor is it a
tax on the profits of property framed
on the sound principle that income can
only be measured by its supposed market
value, but an anomalous tertium quid
springing out of a logical cross-division
between the two. But there is something
to be said in favour of it from the point
of view of a Peace minister. The poorer
classes, who are not represented in Par-
liament, are not directly and immediately
touched by it. As a rule, it does not
fall on the heads of a multitude who
have no voice in voting it. In virtue
of this characteristic, the income-tax is
suited to the genius of the Constitu-
tion. But, above all, it is entirely laid
upon those classes who have in their
hands the arbitrament of peace and war.
The expense of enormous military and
naval establishments Mr. Gladstone has
actually contrived to throw on those
who clamour most for them. No
wonder that he is a finance minister
unpopular with the upper classes and
professional men. For all that, it is
difficult to say that he is not the minister
of Peace.
In his anxiety to liberate the trade of
the country from the incubus of war
charges, Mr. Gladstone probably finds a
justification for the unusual and dan-
gerous plan he has adopted, of relying
on extraordinary incomings to help him
through ordinary expenses. For the
last three years we have borrowed largely
from the floating balances in the Ex-
chequer. Two millions alone, or nearly
two millions, have been obtained from
malt credits, and Spain has paid 500,000.
of a long-standing debt. In all we have
had six millions and a half of unusual
resources. We can only explain the
perfect tranquillity with which Mr.
Gladstone applies these windfalls to the
payment of the expenditure of the year,
upon the theory we have suggested
above. In reality, if he takes advan-
tage of a loan from the Exchequer to
remit or repeal taxes, he is remitting or
repealing taxes on a speculation, trusting
to the income-tax to keep him above
water, until the proceeds of increased
consumption begin to drop in. It is
natural that he should be proud of his
achievements, as he sees tax after tax
fall from the poor man like scales. His
version of the celebrated passage in Syd-
ney Smith is accurate and just. "There
" were taxes," says Mr. Gladstone, " on
" the raw material ; now there are no
"taxes on raw material. There were
" taxes on every fresh value added to it
" by the industry of man ; now there are
" no taxes on the fresh value added to it
" by the industry of man. There were
" taxes on the sauce which pampers
"man's appetite; now there is no tax
" on sauce, and man may pamper his
"appetite as he pleases. There were
"taxes on the drug that restored him
" to health ; now there is no tax
" on drugs, and he may get well as
" quickly as he can. There were taxes
" on the poor man's salt ; now that salt
" is free. There were taxes on the rich
" man's spice; now that spice is free. There
" were taxes on the brass nails of the
" coffin ; now these brass nails are free.
" There were taxes on the ribands of the
"bride she winds up the procession
" and her ribands also are free." Every
relaxation of indirect taxation ; every
laudable effort to abstain from increas-
ing the funded debt, is accompanied by
Passing Events : The Peace Ministers of Europe.
a corresponding haul upon the rope of
the income-tax, which plays the part that
it did in 1842. Mr. Gladstone holds
on in hopes that we shall have been in-
duced to economize in the matter of
expenses before any casualty occurs. If
nothing happens to cause unnatural de-
pression on the revenue, the strain on
that unpopular burden will in a year or
so be lightened by incomings from our
growing trade with France. Perhaps
when that time comes as come it must
Mr. Gladstone will again endeavour to
spend what he receives in repealing and
remitting indirect duties. In all pro-
bability he will not be allowed to do so,
for there is a kind of tacit understand-
ing between the Government and the
public, that ninepence in the pound is
not to be a permanent infliction. A
year or two more of it, and the cry for
retrenchment will come from the upper
classes themselves ; though the growing
consumptive power of the country will
tend year by year to make indirect tax-
ation less onerous and more productive.
While Mr. Gladstone is endeavouring
to beguile us into sparing our own
pockets, M. Fould is employed in prun-
ing the extravagant outlay of the Im-
perial Government of France. Simul-
taneously with the appearance of the
English and French budgets, a financial
battle between the Executive and the
people has been waging in Prussia.
The Prussian army is an overgrown
and unwieldy force, destined to be
a melancholy instance of the truth,
that disproportionate military establish-
ments are a source of weakness, not
of strength, to a nation. A system
of shifting " credits " similar to that
so long in use in France, has enabled
the King and his ministers to hand over
to the Ministry of War sums of money
which belonged to other departments ;
and, in spite of a deficit, William I. was
mad enough to dream of adding fifty
thousand men to the army, and seven
million thalers to the annual debt. The
late cabinet proposed to find the ways
and means for this notable scheme by
increasing the income-tax a fourth,
and taxing still more highly certain
necessary articles. But at the last
elections the Fortschritt party raised
a violent opposition throughout Prussia
to the project. Twenty-five per cent,
additional income-tax, and twenty-
five per cent, additional on the meal
and butcher taxes, is an extraordinary
and oppressive burden, to which the
people under no circumstances would
submit without murmur. At this junc-
ture it seems monstrous to inflict it for
the mere purpose of making an -addition
to the army which is not wanted, and
against which the feeling of all classes
except the military court clique has been
decisively pronounced. A natural re-
luctance on the part of the Prussian
Ministry and their Corporal King to sur-
render military estimates to the amount
of 3,700,000 thalers accounts for the
tenacity with which they adhered to
their proposal in the teeth of an adverse
vote of the Chamber of Deputies. The
prospect of an ominous general election
has conquered their resolution, and
given the battle to the hands of the
Reformers. Yon der Heydt, who holds
the finance portfolio in the ultra-Con-
servative Cabinet, has at last been driven
on the European stage in an uncon-
genial character of an unwilling Peace
minister. In a letter surreptitiously
taken from his office, and published in
the newspapers, he is found one morning
proclaiming the virtues of retrenchment
in the ears of his colleague for war,
M. Von Roon. As yet all additional
taxes that have been levied in Prussia
have invariably been levied for the War
department, which has swallowed up its
own share of ordinary taxes, to say no-
thing of the shares of other depart-
ments, which have been obliged to starve
in consequence. No more can be ex-
tracted from these latter ; and, if the
additional taxes are cut off, there is no
help for it, and the bureau of war must
economise. Not merely is there no sur-
plus, but there is an actual deficit to be
met. The reorganization of the land-
tax will, in time, be a fruitful source
of increased receipts under that head,
which may serve to lighten the pressure
on the exchequer. But time must first
Passing Events : The Peace Ministers of Europe,
95
elapse ; and the floating debt of the public
treasury will inevitably be increased in
order to cover the current expenses in
which it finds itself, this spring and
summer, involved.
The Ministry have swallowed the leek,
and are ready to grant the concession,
which, according to M. Yon der Heydt,
" the force of circumstances imperiously
demands." We wish we could believe
that Yon der Heydt had become a Peace
minister upon anything but compulsion.
It is true that we frequently do injustice
to Prussian statesmen, from a want of
ability to understand the extraordinary
court atmosphere with which they are
surrounded, and to which the bulk of
the Prussian people, till the last few
years, have been accustomed to defer.
Von der Heydt, however, has gone
through more political variations than is
permitted even to financiers, that most
flexible class of politicians. When the
rest of the Manteuffel Ministry, in the
autumn of 1858, dropped like rotten
pears from office, M. Yon der Heydt,
with arithmetical sangfroid, managed to
retain his place upon the tree. The
ministerial crisis of this year did not
shake him down, and, as he has held
every shade of opinion by turns, it is
difficult to say what will end his tenure
of power. Still, he is a free-trader, and
a liberal by birth and training ; and
there can be little question but that he
mismanages the national finances with
considerable talent. His published let-
ter is a token that the moderate Re-
formers have won a distinct victory,
and driven the reactionary party from
their ground. The King, overcoming
the native prejudices of a martinet, has
endorsed the programme of retrench-
ment with a feeble protest in favour of
maintaining the military strength of
Prussia intact. It remains to be seen
whether the Liberals will be contented.
Certainly they ought not to be so, until
' the budgets are regularly and properly
submitted to them in detail. A nation
can hardly be said to tax itself which
is obliged to vote its budgets in a lump ;
and a people's right of self-taxation is
based on their instincts of self-pre-
servation. Prussia is entitled to ask that
a Prussian king will not lag behind a
French Emperor in useful and necessary
reforms. Yon der Heydt' s manifesto
is silent on this important subject of the
budgets. Moderate and orderly as are
the liberals of Prussia, ministerial silence
on this point will vitiate in their eyes
the ministerial concessions made upon
the rest. The history of 1852 shows,
indeed, what a bureaucratic Government
can do which is determined to tamper
with the national elections. But 1862 is a
happier year for the friends of order and
of progress ; and we may safely predict for
the constitutional party, first, electoral
success, and afterwards political triumph.
For it is, and always will be, on the
battle-field of finance that despotism is
finally defeated.
There is only one country in Europe
whose financial embarrassments are not
rather a relief to the friends of Peace.
Fortunately the finances of that country
are looking better than they did. We have
had an insight, during the last month,
into the financial health of the sick man
of Turkey. Fuad Pasha has undertaken
to restore the equilibrium of the Turkish
budgets, and to be the Peace minister of
Constantinople. The financial debility of
Turkey if it exists has not been
caused so much by heavy loans, or
inordinate taxation, as by the miserable
system on which the taxes are collected,
and by the patriarchal tendencies of an
amorous Sultan, who is fortunately dead.
It is now scarcely eight years since the
balance between the expenses and the
revenues of the empire were first dis-
turbed. The Crimean War rendered it
necessary, for the first time, to appeal to
public credit in Europe. Even now, the
total floating debt of the treasury is not
more than 18,285,000^., of which half is
represented by the paper-money in circu-
lation at Constantinople ; the other half
consists of loans, obtained at heavy loss
and on the most unjust terms. Curiously
enough, the date of the introduction of
paper coincides with that of admini-
strative reform. Certain delays took
place in the collection of the revenue,
which were due solely to the admini-
96
Passing Events: The Peace Ministers of Europe*
strative changes introduced at the time
throughout the empire. The Cabinet
was compelled to meet their liabilities
with treasury bills and notes a step
which Turkey has continually repented,
but which she has never been able to
repair. The Government paper does
not circulate in the provinces, nor is it
taken by foreign merchants, so that the
Constantinople money market has no
chance of recovering itself. On the
other hand, the money loans contracted
at the same period were unfortunately
guaranteed to the Government's creditors
by making over to them in advance
the current revenues a system which
increased the embarrassments of the
empire from day to day. Euad Pasha
is able, vigorous, and honest. He
has determined prudently upon a fo-
reign loan, which will enable him to
pay off some of the State creditors and
to recall the Constantinople paper.
The Turkish loan which has just been
negotiated in London gives him money,
though on hard conditions ; for he has
been obliged to borrow in six per
cent, stock at 68. This an increased
taxation for Turkey is capable of
sustaining increased taxation to a con-
siderable extent^will restore public
credit and financial order ; and the most
exorbitant claims of State pensioners
and creditors will be paid off at once.
Tobacco is to be subjected to an
agricultural impost, which will not be
large enough to affect its cultivation. Salt
also is made a Government monopoly ;
and, as in Turkey, the salt-pits belong
to the Government, the sale of salt will
be tolerably productive. The custom-
house duties are to be reorganized on a
better and more fertile basis. Among
other things, the odious and wasteful
system of farming the public revenues
has been abolished. The power of
making separate credits and issuing
paper-money will henceforward be con-
fined to a single minister, who thus
becomes the real finance minister of
Turkey, and one of the Peace ministers
of the world.
If any members of the old English
Liberal party of thirty years ago still
care to remember the battle-cry which
led them to victory, they may turn their
eyes upon the financial movement that
is setting, like a wave, through Europe
for a proof of the universal truth of the
noble maxim that Peace, Retrench-
ment, and Reform, go hand-in-hand.
Profaned as the three names have been
by charlatans, or over-zealous partisans,
they still are principles which, in these
days of comparative liberty and pros-
perity, are as valid as thirty years ago.
At a time when the din of the Cyclopes
is sounding through the world, and we
are all forging, at a vast outlay, the har-
ness and the thunderbolts of war, we
shall do well to remember them. "We
do not say, for we do not know, that we
can avoid entering on the terrible rivalry
in expenditure and armaments to which
we seem condemned by circumstances.
What would almost inspire a doubt as
to its wisdom would appear to be the
difficulty of discovering where it is to-
end. The fear of war seems likely to
eat up peace before war comes. What-
ever be the solution of the problem how
to combine economy and safety, we can-
not help thinking that it is the problem
of the day. We believe that the pre-
sent Chancellor of the Exchequer is as
likely as any man to solve it. With
his gorgeous subtleties, his splendid
rhetorical fallacies, and his hyper-
classical refinements, he unites the
consummate genius of a financier who
is capable of seeing his way to great
ends. It is said that he never will be
the leader of the Liberal party. His
education and taste may render him
crotchety on many questions of Reform,
for he represents both the virtues and
the foibles of an ecclesiastical university.
What he will be it is accordingly diffi-
cult to foretell ; but we know this, that
he is already, in one sense, the leader of
the Liberal party
" Hesperus,
That led the starry van, rode brightest."
A financial policy so enlightened and so
brave as his, is paving the way for substan-
tial progress. Give us Peace give us
Retrenchment, the Liberals may fairly
say and, when it is wanted, if ever it
is wanted, we shall know how to take
Reform.
MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.
JUNE,. 1862.
THE BREWING OF THE AMERICAN STORM.
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
THE abolition of slavery in the District
of Columbia is the greatest event in tHe
history of the American Republic. It
suits the policy of certain parties in this
country to conceal the importance of the
fact, if they cannot conceal the fact it-
self; but not the less will wise men
now, and all men hereafter, recognise in
the event of April 16th, 1862, the clos-
ing of a period of guilt and danger, and
the entrance upon one of genuine repub-
licanism. In the fewest words, the case
is this : The District of Columbia, a
space of ten miles square, is the only
portion of territory subject to the Fede-
ral Government. All the people of the
republic are, to a specified extent, the
subjects of the Federal Government;
but the inhabited lands are under State
rule, with the one exception of this
standpoint for the National Legislature
and Executive. While slavery existed
there, it was a national institution; now
that it is abolished there, slavery be-
comes a State institution, and the na-
tional government is as free to denounce
and condemn it as the government of
any other country. One more, and the
greatest, of the few powers of Christen-
dom which have been reckoned as
slaveholding nations, has come over from
the wrong side to the right. The same
sort of people who would have called
Luther's Theses a piece of paper with
writing on it, and the Ship-money Con-
troversy a question of a few shillings,
may now point out that the District of
Columbia is only ten miles square, and
No. 32. VOL. vi.
-that there were not nearly so many
slaves in it as formerly ; but not the
less will one of the great chapters of
history close, now and for ever, at the
date of April 16th, 1862, because on
that day the American republic ceased
to be a slaveholding power.
-For the same reasons that the magni-
tude of the event is concealed in
England, the tokens of its approach,
have been denied. We still see it as-
sumed that the civil war in America was
something sudden, unexpected, and even
absurd and revolting in its needlessness.
So far from this being true, it would be
difficult to point to any great event in
history more distinctly and confidently
anticipated by all public men in the
country, and by all well-informed ob-
servers abroad. From George Washing-
ton to Abraham Lincoln, every states-
man has seen what must happen, and
has done his part in bringing on the
catastrophe ; and, as the time drew near,
persons of. any political insight knew
and said, that the range of uncertainty
lay within five years. If the disruption
did not take plaice in 1856, it must in
1860. As it would be a serious falsifi-
cation of history to say that the civil
war was unnecessary, sudden, unex--
pected, and the like, it may be worth
while to record what one person can
testify to the contrary.
Of the first generation of the pub-
lic men of the republic, four .(and I
believe no more) were living when I
was in the United States, and I knew
98
The Brewing of the American Storm.
them all, more or less. They were
MADISON, GALLATIN, CHIEF JUSTICE
MAKSHALL, and the venerable BISHOP
WHITE. . Of these four, three were
unquestionably aware that the exist-
ence of the republic depended on the
extinction of negro slavery, in one way
or another ; and no one of them saw any
probability of the thing being done in
time. BISHOP WHITE " the Bishop of
all the Churches," as he was called
was as sensible as every good clergyman
must be of the ravage which the institu-
tion of slavery was making in the reli-
gion of the country ; but I do not know
what he supposed would be the result
of the fearful and growing hypocrisy.
Mr. GALLATIN described to me, with the
vividness of an eye-witness, the growth
of the three great sections of the re-
public; and, as the introduction of
slavery into the north-west was then
supposed to be precluded for ever, he
had the strongest confidence that, when-
ever the Southern section might be dis-
posed to try again to dominate the
Union by a threat of secession, the
accordance of the North and West on
the slavery question would overawe the
disturbers. At that date a year after
the Nullification struggle every states-
man's mind was impressed with the
importunate character of the danger, and
aware that it was disguised in every
political question of the day.
With the other two venerable sur-
vivors of the band of founders of the
republic, I had much conversation on
the subject which was always uppermost
in their minds. They had been, not
only friends, but coadjutors, in framing
the constitution ; though differing on
some points, they had carried it through
a host of dangers, and had seen it appa-
rently established and prosperous beyond
all controversy and all peril. Both
had received due honour from their
countrymen, and were passing their old
age in honour and ease ; yet they told
me the one, that he was " in despair,"
and the other, that he was " almost in
despair," about the future of the coun-
try ; and both on account of slavery.
CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL was a Vir-
ginian, the son of a planter, who found
it difficult to make his small estate
support his fifteen children. Father and
son fought in the Revolutionary War ;
and in contending almost hand to hand
with Lord Dunmore, they felt their
pride in their own State grow into a
passion. When I knew the Chief Jus-
tice he was eighty- three as bright-eyed
and warm-hearted as ever, while as
dignified a judge as ever filled the
highest seat in the highest court of any
country. But his love for his own
Virginia was not the proud adoration it
had been half a century before : it was
a mournful love, tenderest in adversity.
He said he had seen Virginia the lead-
ing State for half his life ; he had seen
her become the second, and sink to be
(I think) the fifth. Worse than this,
there was no arresting her decline, if
her citizens did not put an end to
slavery; and he saw no sign of any
intention to do so, east of the mountains
at least. He had seen whole groups of
estates, populous in his time, lapse into
waste. He had seen agriculture ex-
changed for human stock-breeding ; and
he keenly felt the degradation. The
forest was returning over the fine old
estates, and the wild creatures which
had not been seen for generations were
reappearing ; numbers and wealth were
declining, and education and manners
were degenerating. It would not have
surprised him to be told that on that
soil would the main battles be fought
when the critical day should come which
he foresaw. "Where else could the
battle be fought," he would have asked,
" if the Slave States persist in claiming
the control of the republic, by means
of, and for the sake of, their negro
slavery ? "
To Mr. MADISON despair was not easy.
He had a cheerful and sanguine temper ;
and if there was one thing rather than
another which he had learned to consider
secure, it was the constitution which he
had so large a share in making. Yet
he told me that he was nearly in de-
spair ; and that he had been quite so till
the Colonization Society arose. Rather
than admit to himself that the South must
The Brewing of the American Storm.
09
be laid waste by a servile war, or the
whole country by a civil war, he strove
to believe that millions of negroes could
be carried to Africa, and so got rid of.
I need not speak of the weakness of
such a hope. What concerns us now
is, that he saw and described to me,
when I was his guest, the dangers and
horrors of the state of society in which
he was living. He talked more of
slavery than of all other subjects to-
gether, returning to it morning, noon,
and night. He said that the clergy per-
verted the Bible, because it was alto-
gether against slavery ; that the coloured
population was increasing faster than
the white ; and that the state of morals
was such as barely permitted society to
exist. He did not see any way back to
decency, but by removing the lower
race ; and yet complained (as President
of the Colonization Society) of the diffi-
culty of getting an African colony to
receive batches of immigrants, at the
rate of two or three cargoes a year.
He described the unwillingness of the
negroes to go ; so that he had just sold
some of his slaves, instead of compelling
them to emigrate. He could not keep
them, because he had already sold as much
land as he could spare, to obtain the
means of feeding them. It was as pain-
ful as it was strange to listen to the
cheerful old man, as he proved that
there was no chance for his country,
except from a scheme which he, as its
President, found unmanageable. Of
the issue of the conflict, whenever it
should occur, there could, he said, be
no doubt. A society burdened with a
slave system could make no permanent
resistance to an unin cumbered enemy ;"
and he was astonished at the fanaticism
which blinded some Southern men to
so clear a certainty.
Such* were Mr. MADISON'S opinions in
1835 ; and the share he had in bring-
ing on the conflict which he foresaw
was, first, permitting a compromise
about slavery to be introduced into the
constitution ; next, inviting confidence
to a delusive scheme for getting rid of
danger, by getting rid of negroes ; and,
again, keeping up the traffic in slaves,
by sending his own to market. If we
desire to find an excuse for such con-
duct in a man so honoured and beloved,
we can only remember that he was
" almost in despair " of the fate of a
polity which he had mainly created, and
had administered during two Presiden-
tial terms. Not only is a statesman
attached to his own work, but Ameri-
can statesmen of his generation had that
attachment exalted to passion, by the
emotions of fear, hope, and pride, which
they had passed through. Mr. MADI-
SON knew what was then not so widely
known as now that a friend of Wash-
ington's found him one day thoughtfully
pacing the bank of the Schuylkill, me-
ditating, as he himself explained, whe-
ther it would not be better to give up
the project of the Union than to at-
tempt it with so little chance of any
durable accord between the Northern
and Southern sections. Mr. MADISON
had seen how the Union was made,
and had been so far preserved ] viz. by
the Southern policy of proposing to-
gether an encroachment and a bribe.
This method, of introducing measures in
pairs, had at first succeeded ; and it has
succeeded again, since Mr. MADISON'S
death, when the repeal of the Missouri
Compromise was coupled with the re-
moval of the Washington slave-market
to a spot outside of the District of
Columbia : but such a method must be
exhausted in time ; and the final quar-
rel could only be exasperated by the
preceding insolence of the South, and
abjectness of the North. His mind
being full of such remembrances and
such forecast, it is no wonder that Mr.
MADISON could talk to me of little but
slavery and its political retribution.
Of the next generation of statesmen
there were many more living ; and they
were, for the most part, active. I must
begin, of course, with GENERAL JACK-
SON, then President.
Of PRESIDENT JACKSON I need not
say much ; for nobody ever supposed
him a great statesman, or a man of dis-
tinguished forecast. He need not come
into the account at all, but for two
reasons : that the secession movement
100
The Brewing of the American Storm.
of his day was put down by him ;
and that he had practically countenanced
the citizenship of negroes, in the war of
1812.
It was a ludicrous idea to those who
conversed with GENERAL JACKSON, that
the preservation of the Union could de-
pend on his opinion in a matter per-
plexing to senators and judges. His
was, indeed, a mind not qualified to form
opinions at all. He expressed his will,
and the people about him supplied him
with reasons. With a grave, even me-
lancholy, countenance, and in few and
passionate words, the grey-headed and
haggard old man declared what could,
and what could not, be allowed ; and it
did not occur to him to reconcile op-
posite decisions. He had encouraged
the State of Georgia to break through
Federal decisions in a dispute with the
Cherokees about their lands ; but, when
South Carolina followed suit in the
matter of the tariff, he intimated to the
leaders at Charleston, that, if they dared
to nullify the decisions of the Washing-
ton authorities, he should know how to
punish them. He ordered the Federal
troops to march upon Charleston, sent
a sloop of war there to protect the port
officers, and issued a proclamation
warning South Carolina against re-
bellion. The Governor of the State
issued a counter proclamation ; and the
crisis of the Union was understood to
have arrived. Mr. CLAY'S Compromise
Bill averted the strife for the time : but
South Carolina justly claimed the vic-
tory of principle in regard to free trade,
and remained convinced that she could
have seceded if she had thought proper.
Almost every leading statesman told*
me, a year later, that the prospects of
the republic were entirely changed.
The use and value of the Union had
become a question. It was a question
which would be stirred again on any
occasion of rival pretensions between
the General and State Governments ; and
it would assuredly be decisively contested
whenever the settlement of the slavery
question could be deferred no longer.
From that hour the virtue and inde-
pendence of the North succumbed. The
South would not allow any question of
its " peculiar institution ;" and the
North was, at least, as eager for silence.
On that silence depended, as every
public man with whom I conversed
told me, the continuance of the Union.
GENERAL JACKSON believed it ; and for
this reason he was supported by the
South. Yet he had once so treated the
Southern negroes as to prepare great
difficulties for the slaveholders.
Before the battle of New Orleans, in
1814, he issued an address to the negroes,
in which he called upon them to fight by
the side of their " white fellow-citizens,"
and told them that he expected of them,
" a Americans, a valorous support" to
his defence of the country. After
the battle, he thanked them, still as
" citizens/' for their soldierly conduct.
As might be expected, those manifestoes
were kept in vivid remembrance by all
parties ; and to this day GENERAL JACKSON
is cited by the black race as their patron,
by the abolitionists as a witness to the
rights of the negro, and by the slave-
holders as an ignorant functionary, who
did a world of mischief without at all
intending it for he was a sound slave-
holder from Tennessee. He himself had
a high sanction to plead, at the time of
the Carolina quarrel. Lafayette had
expressed at Washington, and elsewhere
during his journey through the States,
his grief in witnessing the deterioration
of the negroes. In the revolutionary
war he had seen whites and blacks fight-
ing side by side, bivouacking round the
same fire, and eating out of the same
dish. In 1830 he found them so de-
pressed, and treated with such intolerable
insult, that a servile war, or a political
convulsion on their account seemed
inevitable.
At the close of GENERAL JACKSON'S
double term of presidentship,the common
sentence on his administration was that
it had unsettled every great question,
and settled none. Throughout the
Southern section, the predominant im-
pression was that secession had become
a question of policy. It had been averted
that once ; but it could be brought on
again when occasion should arise.
The Brewing of the American Storm.
101
This brings us to Mr. CALHOUN
then, and still, the greatest representative
of his section of the republic.
It was the pleasure of the chief
Nullifiers to wear an appearance of
mystery, both at Washington and in
their own cities. I was told that it
moved all hearts to see them at Washing-
ton, before the crisis, stalking about,
silent and stern gallant and intelligent
men, with the halter about their necks.
The vision of the scaffold was before
other men's eyes, and must have been
before their own ; and Mr. CLAY told
me that it was the spectacle of their
bearing, and the vision of their fate,
which inspired him with the idea of
saving them as he presently did. A
year after that crisis, when they came
about me at Washington, and invited
me to their cities and plantations, they
were as stern as ever on their special
question, but capable of a grim mirth
about their recent preparations for
secession. They were haughty beyond
description to Northerners ; but to a
stranger they would open out at a word ;
and I profited largely by that willing-
ness. Mr. CALHOUN himself, who had
the air of a possessed man, became al-
most like other men when telling me of
his earliest recollections, and describing
the impressions of his childhood. Courage
and military capacity were his objects
of worship. His father had been born
among the Cherokees, and had seen the
savages rise upon the Calhoun settle-
ment. That father had seen his father
and eldest brother head the defence ; and
in vain. The father fell : the mother and
several of her children were butchered
by the Indians ; and the boy of six,
who escaped, was likely to bring up his
own sons with strong feelings about the
virtues of physical force. JOHN C.
CALHOUN showed the effect in his aspira-
tion after "a Lacedemonian Govern-
ment " for the Southern States a con-
struction of society in which every free
man should be a soldier. At five years
old he stood between his father's knees,
listening to storj.es of the resistance to
England, and of all the heroes and all
the heroism of the revolutionary war.
He was full of ambition to be a soldier,
and to fight for a political question ; and
then his father died. Being then thir-
teen, he lived with a relative, in whose
library he ran riot. He read all the
historical works it contained ; and in a
few months he was half-dead and half-
mad with the excitement. He recovered
his health by means of country sports;
but he returned to study, and in time
sorely puzzled his tutors. Wherever he
went, all his life through, he commanded
everybody's belief in his being an irre-
fragable logician : yet, somehow, he was
always ultimately wrong. His mind
seemed to be altogether inaccessible,
from the time he left college and books.
He spent the rest of his life in think-
ing and announcing what he thought.
It was a memorable thing to sit and hear
him. A Northern friend of mine asked
me, years after, whether the portraits
which were in the shop windows after
Mr. CALHOUN'S death could be like him,
or like anybody. " I should say it is
the face of a fiend," was the remark.
The remark was natural ; the portraits
were like ; and yet CALHOUN was a
gentle and generous man. He was, in
fact, ridden by some half-dozen or more
theories very striking, very strange,
and wonderfully supported and illus-
trated by him, in the absence of all
opposition. Nobody wanted to oppose
him ; for it was impossible to decide
where to begin in so strange a field, so
crowded with arbitrary objects. And
he did not expect or desire to be op-
posed. Argument was not in his line.
By a visible effort, he could at times
listen ; but not to a political discussion,
except in the Senate, where there was.
no help for it. There his square fore-
head gathered more and deeper wrinkles,,
his stiff armour of hair stood up more
stiffly, his eyebrows grew into one, his
eyes sank deeper in his head, his shoul-
ders were squarer, his hand was more
firmly clenched, and his yellow silk
handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth,
as if he was suffering spasm. Thus we
may see how his portrait might give
strangers the impression of his face being
" that of a fiend." Such an expression of
102
The Brewing of the American Storm.
tension I never saw on any other face,
outside of a hospital or an asylum. Such
was his silence. His speech poured out
of him as if it came from some incarnate
intelligence or passion, of which he was
the mere vehicle. By the fireside it was
so rapid, and the matter required so
much concession at every step, that it
was difficult to follow till one had heard
it two or three times ; and the only
pause he allowed was the tenth or
twelfth second which he sacrificed for
spitting into the fire. In Congress his
style was different. He did not attempt
in that place to go back to the origin of
human society, or to classify all the
governments of the world, or to prove
that dark races of men are unfit for
social purposes in somewhat the same
way as baboons. He spoke more or less
to the point, but rarely to any practical
purpose. Passion always gleamed in his
eyes when he spoke in public ; and his
utterance became, I am obliged to say, a
sort of bark. This great representative
of his section was further removed from
the traditional character of the gay, care-
less, social, winning Southern Cavalier
than any Puritan New Englander I ever
saw. I did not understand that he was
more concentrated and serious after he
had brought himself into the position of
a rebel leader than before. He was not
a man whom we could have imagined
dying of heart-break. Yet, he so died.
"We should have supposed he had intel-
lectual idols enough to have served him
under any single baffling of his ideas, or
disappointment of his hopes ; but the
inevitable extinction of slavery became
clear to him ; he had always insisted
that the existence of the republic was
bound up with slavery ; and when he
saw that " all was over," he said so, and
died.
It was his fanaticism on this subject
which showed me how inaccessible his
mind was to evidence. While a vast
mulatto population of all shades was
growing up before his eyes, he insisted
that the two races could not mix. This
was the basis of his whole argu-
ment.. Nature had decreed that the
two races must be eternally separate;
and all the rest followed. At the same
time, it was a matter which must never
be called in question, or chaos would
ensue. He told me that the subject of
slavery would never be mentioned in
Congress. I believed otherwise ; but
he was peremptory. The republic would
last for ages ; and it would be by slavery
being never mentioned in Congress.
Southern members would take care that
it was not He did his best to stifle
speech. He was responsible for the
Gag Bill, by which postmasters were
empowered and required to stop all
publications and letters about which
there was ground of suspicion that they
treated unfavourably of slavery, and to
burn the documents thus abstracted from
the mail-bags. I saw him arrive, with
his family, at Charleston ; I saw how he
strode through the streets, receiving
homage as if he were the ruling prince ;
I saw him in the arsenal, handling the
little groups of weapons, and in a bar-
rack-yard, reviewing, and then address-
ing, ten or eleven recruits (the rest were
wanted as sentinels or patrols all over
the city) ; and I wondered what would
be the effect on him if he should ever
learn what the Free States had to say
to his pet institutions and defences.
He began with that sort of experience
the next year. The whole South could
not silence a voice in Congress which
claimed free discussion for the subject
of slavery. CALHOUN began then to
suffer and to sink. As the controversy
proceeded, despair took possession of
him; and, at last, he declared that "all
was 'Over." Slavery depended on not
being discussed ; and the republic de-
pended on slavery. So, when every
debate in Congress ended in a discus-
sion of slavery, everything was lost.
He told his family, from his dying pil-
low, that he had done his best to pre-
serve his country, but in vain. Slavery-
was doomed : and with it must go the
only liberties and privileges which made
the republic worth having.
Thus, the representative man of the
Southern section foresaw the present
revolution. His share in bringing it
on was larger, perhaps, than that of any
The Brewing of the American Storm.
103
other man. He taught the doctrine
and introduced the practice of secession,
and he led the profession of the South
(new at that time in those States), that
slavery was the indispensable basis of
republican liberty.
The voice which so appalled him, as
a voice of doom in Congress, was that
of the venerable ex-President, JOHN
QUINCY ADAMS, the father of the Ame-
rican minister now in London. Mr.
ADAMS did not propose to discuss
slavery in Congress : he was not an abo-
litionist : he applied himself simply to
preserve the right of petition guaranteed
by the Constitution. Petitions were
always arriving desiring the object now
at last attained the removal of the
national reproach by the abolition of
slavery in the District of Columbia. The
country was still trembling with the
alarm of Southern secession ; the South-
ern members made the most of their
position to terrify the Northern mem-
bers ; and it is but too well known what
their success was. The right of peti-
tion was actually lost for a time, and
there was certainly no doubt, at that
juncture, of the continuance of the
Union depending on the fate of slavery.
The Union must not be questioned :
therefore slavery must not be ques-
tioned ; and petitions must be thrust
under the table if people could not be
prevented from sending them. I re-
member a remarkable disclosure re-
markable to me of the peril of the
republic, from the unsoundness of the
popular mind about it in that crisis of
its political condition. I was walking
arm-in-arm with Miss Sedgwick, in the
valley of the Housatonic, when, convers-
ing about times to come, I spoke of the
inevitable rupture of the Union. She
snatched her arm from mine, and started
back, saying that I could not be aware
of the sacredness of the Union, which
precluded its dissolution from being even
imagined. I asked her if there was not
something more sacred still which she
herself admitted to be irreconcilable
with the existing constitution 1 ? "If
" the will of God is against slavery, and
"your constitution involves it, which
"must give way? " A dissolution of the
Union did not necessarily suppose civil
war ; but there must be civil war if the
JSTorth allowed the South to encroach.
too far. Some of the commonest and
most indispensable rights were already
lost, and every man who had eyes to
see must be aware that the nation was
even then far advanced on the road to
revolution. One sign of this was the
indecent violence shown to Mr. ADAMS
in Congress. "The most moral of
American Presidents," as he was de-
clared to be, was now standing up as a
representative from Massachusetts ; Ms
head white with age, his countenance
worn with grief for the death of his
eldest son, his business being simply to
present petitions from large bodies of
intelligent citizens; and, because Congress
was afraid to approach a certain set of
topics, this old statesman was over-
whelmed with insult. I will not record
those insults. The old statesman uttered
his warning of what must come of such
incursions of Southern despotism ; the
right of petition was at length regained,
and now the object of the petitions
themselves is secured. Our concern with
the matter is, that Mr. ADAMS foresaw
what must happen : and that he did his
part by vindicating a right which tb.e
preceding generation could not have
conceived to be, in any circumstances,
even threatened.
While speaking of one Northern
statesman, I may as well say what I hav#
to say of the rest. It is painful to look
back to that time ; but it is unavoidable,
if I am to show that the present convul-
sion has not been sudden, unexpected,
and unnecessary.
Mr. WEBSTER occurs first to all minds.
He won, and deserved, great distinction
as the ablest antagonist of the Nulliner&
in the crisis of 1832. On constitutional
questions he was, I believe, the best au-
thority in the country after the Supreme
Court ; and his speeches were as beau-
tiful as they were, on those subjects,
sound. Here his merits ended. He
was the most abject of the whole band of
Northern vassals, holding the stirrup to
the Southern " chivalry ." His ambition.
104
The Brewing of the American Storm.
for the Presidentship was a chain round
his neck ; and he taught the Southern
leaders how to handle it, and lead him
wherever they would . He wished people
would not he troublesome, and stir up
a disagreeable subject, compelling a man
to say something, when all he wanted
was to say nothing: but, when com-
pelled to speak, he declared that he
should certainly deliver up fugitive
slaves, if appealed to ; and should readily
fight, side by side with the South, for
the benefits of the compromise the con-
stitution gave them. Thus far an am-
bitious politician might be excused for
going ; but he would do nothing on the
other side. He was of no avail when
Northern citizens were deprived of
their plainest and most essential rights,
and satirical and discouraging in his
treatment of patriotic efforts. Further,
he sustained every new demand of the
South, and actually carried the repeal
of the Missouri Compromise, and the
Fugitive Slave Law.
If the civil war is to be laid to the
charge of any one man, that man is
assuredly DANIEL WEBSTER. No man
knew better than he the weakness of
the citizens of the republic and espe-
cially of the Northern section of it the
idolatry of ability which puts unlimited
power into the hands of a man of genius.
He availed himself of that weakness,
and of the vanity which the citizens
indulge about their public men, for
his personal purposes, when he might
have turned his influence to the account
of lifting his country out of its great
perplexity. He tried to the utmost the
power of admiration which he knew to
reside in the New England tempera-
ment, by immoralities which would not
have obtained a word of excuse in the
case of an ordinary man ; yet, while
capable of any degree of this kind of
audacity, he was a mere poltroon in his
relations with the South; and this
made him a hypocrite in his public
addresses at the North. There can never
"be any question of the power he might
have wielded if he had directed his
genius to the preservation of the liber-
of the citizens. Worshipped as he
was, he might have led the whole North
to withstand the encroachments of the
South, and have guided at will the genu-
ine republican force, which could have
easily controlled the oligarchical preten-
sions and operations of the slave-holding
minority. There should have been no
Gag Law, and no suspension of the right
of petition in DANIEL WEBSTER' s time . An
honest and intrepid course would have
led him to the highest honours. When
it was by far too late, he dishonoured him-
self for the sake of the Presidentship.
He might have had it by early sustaining
and guiding the best public opinion in
the North. Instead of this, he discour-
aged and betrayed it, in order to avert
collision, till his own purposes were
served ; he lost his independence by a
personal extravagance which kept him
always seething in debt ; and when
there was nothing to rely on in the
North, but the popular vanity about him
as a Northern man, he paid homage to
the South. After the insignificant tools
who had filled the highest seat for seve-
ral terms, he hoped that the two sections
might unite to elect the most eminent
public man in the country. The North-
ern pride in him, and the Southern
trust in his gratitude and obedience,
might, he believed, join in electing him.
So he courted the South, which he
should have long before taught its place
and its duty. He enabled the Missouri
Compromise to be repealed, and the
Fugitive Slave Law to be passed ; and
the immediate retribution broke his
heart. First, there was an outburst
of honest execration from his own sec-
tion which scared him ; and then came
the humiliation of his hopeless minority
in the convention which he had sup-
posed would have carried him into the
Presidential chair. All was over : the
revolution which he might probably
have averted, but which he had tam-
pered with, was still to be dealt with ;
and he had precipitated it. It was well
for him that he died at once.
The wonder was, that anybody put
any trust in him at all. It was a great
treat to hear such speeches as his
constitutional expositions in the Senate ;
The Brewing of the American Storm.
105
but his public speaking generally, and
his public manners, gave the strongest
impression of insincerity. While his
whole career was a hand-to-mouth course,
in regard both to money and reputation,
he had a set of professions which he put
on, like as many fancy dresses, according
to the supposed tastes of the persons he
was conversing with. If anything about
him was universally agreed upon, it was
his devouring ambition ; yet he expected
to make me bring home an account of
his taste for retirement and obscurity.
" My dear woman," he said, laying a strong
finger on my arm, to emphasize his
words, " don't you go and believe me
to be ambitious." And he went on to
extol the charms of privacy and dis-
regard of the opinions of men. His con-
stituents believed in him as long as they
could ; they followed his lead much too
far: and now, everybody sees how it
was. WEBSTER foresaw the revolution
which was preparing : he hoped to get
his Presidentship over first; and he
might possibly imagine that, by a great
Northern man ruling so as to please
the South, some accommodation might
be expected. If he thought so, he was
not a great statesman. The only doubt
is, whether he was most unworthy in
head or heart. It is so far from being
fair to instance DANIEL WEBSTER as an
illustration of the ingratitude of re-
publican society to its noblest members,
that his disappointment and humiliation
are a positive credit to the nation. The
sin was in trusting him too long, and in
admiring him after it became impossible
to trust him ; and not in refusing him
as a leader at last.
Mr. EVERETT'S career has been a
weak imitation of WEBSTER'S, as far as
the course of a literary man, who has
lost his way in public life, can be like
that of a lawyer to whom public life is
the natural path. As a scholar, Mr.
EVERETT might have been eminent,
even to the satisfaction of his own
restless ambition. As a politician, he
long ago sank below contempt. The
only part of his story which concerns
us is his view of the future, and his
share of preparation for it. That he did
foresee, from his first appearance in
Congress, the issue of the public trouble
in war, servile or civil, was plain to all
considerate eyes. His speech about the
alacrity with which he would buckle on
his knapsack to fight side by side with
the slaveholders against negroes or
negroes' friends was understood at first,
and has been always remembered, as a
disclosure of his devotion to the Union,
at all costs ; and that devotion has ever
since cost him everything. In Congress
he has shuffled, to avoid committing
himself in any respect against the
South. As Governor of Massachusetts,
he rebuked and discountenanced the
abolitionists on the declared ground of
the danger of offending the South. As
a member of the Government at Wash-
ington, he bullied England, in order to
gratify the South about the slave-trade
and the Monroe doctrine. It is true,
he had passed for a sort of abolitionist
in London, when minister here : but it
always was Mr. EVERETT'S way to let
bygones be bygones in regard to the
phases of his own opinion and conduct.
To the last moment he would not
recognise the character of the existing
struggle : when it could be ignored no
longer, he still ranted for the Union at
any cost ; and nobody doubts that he
would recover the appearance of it at
any sacrifice. Happily the case is not
in his hands, more or less. His public
appearances have long become a mere
wooing of the applause of the well-
dressed mob, whose applause is no
honour. Mr. EVERETT did, to my
knowledge, foresee the existing struggle
at least a quarter of a century ago.
Instead of defending the liberties of the
republic, he applied himself to propitiate
the aggressors on those liberties ; and
now, though he assumes the semblance
of patriotism, he can do nothing; for
everybody understands that he would
sacrifice liberty to purchase any sem-
blance of union. He would have done
more mischief than he has if his political
immorality had not ruined his many
graces. Those who remember what his
countenance, his voice, his manners,
and his conversation once were, may
106
The Brewing of the American Storm.
trace the havoc of disappointment and
an artificial course of life in his worn
face, his uncertain tones, his anxious de-
meanour, and elaborate discourse. All
that can be said for him is, that he
might have done more mischief if he
had been a more audacious and gay
deceiver. He has been flattered; but
he has not practically been followed.
JUDGE STORY so carefully avoided all
implication in politics that I will say
no more than that he certainly was fully
aware of what must happen. For hours
together we have discussed the inevita-
ble issue of accumulating compromises :
and he lost all hope as far as so san-
guine a man can lose hope when he
was passed over on the death of CHIEF
JUSTICE MARSHALL, and JUDGE TANEY
was appointed, in contempt of all consi-
derations but the pleasure of the South.
Some such act of the Supreme Court as.
the DRED SCOTT decision was sure to
follow on such a packing of the Supreme
Court as began with the slight to JUDGE
STORY.
There remains HENRY CLAY. Of the
whole company I knew him best. It
was impossible, as he was fully aware,
that I could avoid seeing the insincerity
to which his position committed him ;
but he hoped that much might be for-
given to a man so placed. He was
interesting from the contrariety between
his nature and the requirements of his
career. He was a man of impulse, even
of passion ; and he was the great Pro-
fessor of Prudence in the State. He
was the great mediator ; and he learned
to grow as proud of his compromises as
other men are of being above compro-
mise. It was as a means of postponing
revolution that he valued his compro-
mises ; and it was as the saviour of his
country from revolution that he was
idolized in the North and West. He was
thoroughly aware that it would not do
for ever ; and his hope for the republic,
such as it was, had two sources. If he
could be President, he might make one
grand, final compromise which would
last for as long as men need look for-
ward. This was one chance. The other
was (so he said, but I never could
believe that he had faith in it himself)
that the Colonization Society might,
in time, carry off the negroes out of
sight and out of mind. I pressed him
with the question, whether the whole
American marine could ever carry away
the mere annual increase of the blacks :
and he admitted that it could not, and
that he was only working on in a blind
and vague hope of the final convulsion
being somehow averted. 'He was never
President ; and he felt deeply the de-
cline of the republic, as shown in the
postponement of the claims of such a
man as himself to the convenience of
electing tools of the Southern faction.
The latter years of his life were dreary;
and so, he perceived, were those of the
republic. He was under a doom ; and
so was his country. He was applauded;
but he had no power. He was set up
as a candidate, often and often ; but
others gained the priza He lost all his
six daughters, between the ages of fifteen
and thirty ; and he had deep and vari-
ous griefs on account of his sons. When
the death of the last of his daughters
an excellent and devoted woman was
announced to him, he fainted ; and,
when he was once more thrust aside
from the Presidentship, his spirit fainted
within him. If he could not rule the
country for a time, all was over ; for no
one else could avert the collision ; and
either a servile war or a disruption of
the Union, or both, must arrive within
a few years. He naturally did not
desire to impress a foreigner with this
view : and I had occasion, more than
once, to show him that he went too far
in his attempts to lead me away from
it : but his anticipations of the cata-
strophe were too clear and precise to be
concealed. He knew that I understood
what the Colonization Society could and
could not do ; and there we left it.
As for what he did in regard to the
catastrophe, he aggravated its guilt and
bitterness by buying it off for a time by
sacrifices of liberty and honour. He
considered it patriotic to defer the crisis
by the use of his great powers of per-
suasion, coming in aid of the national
pride in the Union. When the South
Ravenshoe.
107
began to lose its pride in the Union,
the game was evidently nearly up ; and
then Mr. CLAY rejoiced that he was so
old as he was. He was not an aged
man ; but he was much worn. His
trembling hand, nervously playing with
his spectacles as he spoke in public ;
his voice, less sweet and steady than of
old ; his fading eye and relaxed frame,
told of the wear and tear of anxiety as
much as Webster's sunk eye, gaunt
brow, and rigid mouth. He let himself
be led about to make speeches, in which
he had to give stones to the hearers
hungry for bread. The time was past
for sound doctrine befitting normal
days j and it had not come for the
appeals to radical principles, and the
invitations to valorous conflict which
animate a revolutionary season. With
HENRY CLAY, compromise faded and
died out ; and the South, in the seats
of power at Washington, began to fleece,
out of the national stores, for the coming
revolution.
"All this is very dreary/' some will
say. " Is this the life of statesmanship
in America 1 " Yes ; for the last quarter
of a century. It is not the natural life
of republican statesmanship ; but it is
the experience of a generation of politi-
cal leaders who are one and all burdened
with the consciousness of a radical sin
and an impending retribution. Through-
out the whole period, every man of two
generations has known that the turning-
point of the national fortunes was the
fate of slavery in the District of Colum-
bia. While it lasted, the nation was
isolated in Christendom as a slavehold-
ing people a people holding slaves in
the very metropolis of the republic.
Whenever the offence was done away,
the nation would at once join company
with other Christian peoples, free to
reprobate and extinguish a barbarism
and a curse. That day has arrived, and
the American people and we are on the
s;ime.side.
It is needless, after what I have re-
lated, to dwell upon the absurdity of
saying and assuming that the American
conflict is unexpected, or, as I have re-
peatedly read, " undreamed of." It was
discussed with me, a quarter of a century
ago, by every man and woman I met in
the United States who had any political
knowledge or sense; and, as we have
seen, the forecast of it has clouded the
lives of statesmen of all sections and
degrees, from the founders of the re-
public down to their grandsons. If we
English have been thoughtless about
providing a supply of cotton from other
territory, let us say so ; but let us not
incur the charge of either ignorance or
hypocrisy by saying 11 , that the Second
American Revolution was not foreseen
long ago, and in the very time and
manner of its happening.
RAVENSHOE.
BY HENRY KINGSLEY, AUTHOR OP " GEOJFFRY HAMLYN."
CHAPTEE LX.
THE BRIDGE AT LAST.
THE group which Lord Ascot had seen
through the glass doors consisted of
Charles, the coachman's son, the coach-
man and Mr. Sloane. Charles and the
coachman's son had got hold of a plan of
the battle of Balaclava, from the Illustrated
London News, and were explaining the
whole thing to the two older men, to
their great delight. The four got en-
thusiastic and prolonged the talk for
some time ; and, when it began to flag,
Sloane said he must go home, and so they
came down into the bar.
Here a discussion arose about the
feeding of cavalry horses, in which all
four were perfectly competent to take
part. The two young men were opposed
in argument to the two elder ones,
and they were having a right pleasant
chatter about the corn or hay question
108
Ravenshoe.
in the bar, when the swing doors were
pushed open, and a girl entered and
looked round with that bold, insolent
expression one only sees among a certain
class.
A tawdry draggled-looking girl, finely
enough dressed, but with everything
awry and dirty. Her face was still
almost beautiful; but the cheekbones
were terribly prominent, and the hectic
patch of red on her cheeks, and the
parched cracked lips, told of pneumonia
developing into consumption.
Such a figure had probably never
appeared in that decent aristocratic public-
house, called the Groom's Arms, since it
had got its licence. The four men ceased
their argument and turned to look at her ; .
and the coachman, a family man with
daughters, said, " Poor thing ! "
With a brazen, defiant look she ad-
vanced to the bar. The barmaid, a very
beautiful, quiet-looking, London girl,
advanced towards her, frightened at such
a wild tawdry apparition, and asked
her mechanically what she would please
to take.
"I don't want nothing to drink, miss,"
said the girl; "leastways, I've got no
money ; but I want to ask a question.
I say, miss, you couldn't give a poor girl
one of them sandwiches, could you 1
You'll never miss it, you know."
The barmaid's father, the jolly land-
lord, eighteen stone of good humour,
was behind his daughter now. " Give her
a pork pie, Jane, and a glass of ale, my
girl."
" God Almighty bless you, sir, and
keep her from the dark places where
the devil lies awaiting. I didn't come
here to beg it was only when I see
them sandwiches that it come over me
I come here to ask a question. I know
it ain't no use. But you can't see him
can't see him can't see him," she
continued, sobbing wildly, " rattling his
poor soul away and not to do as he asked
you. I didn't come to get out for a walk.
I sat there patient three days, and would
have sat there till the end, but he
would have me come. And so I came ;
and I must get back get back."
The landlord's daughter brought her
some food ; and, as her eyes gleamed with
wolfish hunger, she stopped speaking.
It was a strange group. She in the
centre, tearing at her food in a way
terrible to see. Behind, the calm face of
the landlord, looking on her with pity
and wonder; and his pretty daughter,
with her arm round his waist, and her
head on his bosom, with tears in her
eyes. Our four friends stood to the right,
silent and curious a remarkable group
enough ; for neither the duke's coachman,
nor Mr. Sloane, who formed the back-
ground, were exactly ordinary-looking
men ; and in front of them were Charles
and the coachman's son, who had put his
hand on Charles's right shoulder, and
was peering over his left at the poor girl,
so that the two faces were close together
the one handsome and pale, with the
mouth hidden by a moustache; the other,
Charles's, wan and wild, with the lips
parted in eager curiosity, and the chin
thrust slightly forward.
In a few minutes the girl looked round
on them. " I said I'd come here to ask
a question ; and I must ask it and get
back. There was a gentleman's groom
used to use this house, and I want him.
His name was Charles Horton. If you,
sir, or if any of these gentlemen, know
where I can find him, in God Almighty's
name, tell me this miserable night."
Charles was pale before, but he grew
more deadly pale now ; his heart told him
something was coming. His comrade,
the coachman's son, held his hand
tighter still on his shoulder, and looked
in his face. Sloane and the coachman
made an exclamation.
Charles said quietly, " My poor girl, I
am the man you are looking for. "What,
in God's name, do you want with me ] "
and, while he waited for her to answer,
he felt all the blood in his body going
towards his heart.
"Little enough," she said. "Do you
mind a little shoeblack boy as used to
stand by St. Peter's Church 1"
"Do I?" said Charles, coming to-
wards her. " Yes, I do. My poor little
lad. You don't mean to say that you
know anything about him 1 "
' I am h ; s sister, sir; and he is dying;
Havenshoe.
109
and lie says he won't die not till you
come. And I come off to see if I could
find you. Will you come with me and
see him 1 "
" Will I come ! " said Charles. " Let
us go at once. My poor little monkey.
Dying, too ! "
" Poor little man," said the coachman.
" A many times I've heard you speak of
him. Let's all go."
Mr. Sloane and his son seconded this
motion.
" You mustn't come," said the girl.
" There's a awful row in the court to-
night ; that's the truth. He's safe
enough with me ; but if you come,
they'll think a mob's being raised. Now,
don't talk of coming."
" You had better let me go alone,"
said Charles. " I feel sure that it would
not be right for more of us to follow
this poor girl than she chooses. I am
ready."
And so he followed the girl out into
the darkness ; and, as soon as they were
outside, she turned and said to him :
"You'd best follow me from a dis-
tance. I'll , tell you why : I expect the
police wants me, and you might get into
trouble from being with me. Remember,
if I am took, it's Marquis Court, Little
Marjoram Street, and it's the end house,
exactly opposite you as you go in. If
you stands at the archway, and sings out
for Miss Ophelia Flanigan, she'll come
to you. But if the row ain't over, you
wait till they're quiet. Whatever you do,
don't venture in by yourself, however
quiet it may look : sing out for her."
And so she fluttered away through
the fog, and he followed, walking fast to
keep her in sight.
J.t was a dreadful night. The fog had
lifted, and a moaning wind had arisen,
with rain from the south-west. A wild,
dripping, melancholy night, without rain
enough to make one think of physical
discomfort, and without wind enough to
excite one.
The shoeblacks and the crossing-
sweepers were shouldering their brooms
and their boxes, and were plodding
homewards. The costermongers were
letting their barrows stand in front of
the public-houses, while they went in to
get sometliing to drink, and were dis-
cussing the price of vegetables there,
and being fetched out by dripping
policemen, for obstructing her Majesty's
highway. The beggars were gathering
their rags together, and posting home-
wards j let us charitably suppose, to
their bit of fish, with guinea-fowl and
sea kale afterwards, or possibly, for it
was not late in February, to their boiled
pheasant, and celery sauce. Every one
was bound for shelter but the policemen.
And Charles poor, silly, obstinate
Charles, with an earl's fortune waiting
for him, dressed as a groom, pale, wan,
and desperate was following a ruined
girl, more desperate even than he, to-
wards the bridge.
Yes ; this is the darkest part of my
whole story. Since his misfortunes he
had let his mind dwell a little too much
on these bridges. There are very few
men without a cobweb of some sort in
their heads, more or less innocent.
Charles had a cobweb in his head now.
The best of men might have a cob-
web in his head after such a terrible
breakdown in his affairs as he had
suffered ; more especially if he had
three or four splinters of bone in his
deltoid muscle, which had prevented his
sleeping for three nights. But I would
sooner that any friend of mine should
at such times take to any form of
folly (such even as having fifty French
clocks in the room, and discharging the
butler if they did not all strike at
once, as one good officer and brave fel-
low did) rather than get to thinking
about bridges after dark, with the foul
water lapping and swirling about the
piers. I have hinted to you about this
crotchet of poor Charles for a long time ;
I was forced to do so. I think the less
we say about it the better. I call you
to witness that I have not said more
about it than was necessary.
At the end of Arabella Row, the girl
stopped, and looked back for him. The
Mews' clock was overhead, a broad orb
of light in the dark sky. Ten minutes
past ten. Lord Ascot was sitting
beside Lord Saltire's bed, and Lord
110
RavensJioe.
Saltire had rung the bell to send for
Inspector Field.
She went on, and he followed her
along the Mall. She walked fast, and he
had hard work to keep her in sight. He
saw her plainly enough whenever she
passed a lamp. Her shadow was suddenly
thrown at his feet, and then swept in a
circle to the right, till it overtook her,
and then passed her, and grew dim till
she came to another lamp, and then came
back to his feet, and passed on to her
again, beckoning him on to follow her,
and leading her whither 1
How many lamps were there ? One,
two, three, four ; and then a man lying
asleep on a bench in the rain, who said,
with a wild, wan face, when the police-
man roused him, and told him to go
home, "My home is in the Thames,
friend ; but I shall not go there to-night,
or perhaps to-morrow."
" His home was in the Thames." The
Thames, the dear old happy river. The
wonder and delight of his boyhood. That
was the river that slept in crystal green
depths,, under the tumbled boulders fallen
from the chalk cliff, where the ivy, the
oak, and the holly grew ; and then went
spouting, and raging, and roaring through
the weirs at Casterton, where he and
Welter used to bathe, and where he lay
and watched kind Lord Ascot spinning
patiently through one summer afternoon,
till he killed the eight-pound trout at
sun-down.
That was the dear old Thames. But
that was fifty miles up the river, and
ages ago. Now, and here, the river had
got foul, and lapped about hungrily
among piles, and barges, and the but-
tresses of bridges. And lower down it
ran among mud banks. And there was a
picture of one of them, by dear old
H. K. Browne, and you didn't see at
first what it was that lay among the
sedges, because the face was reversed,
and the limbs were
They passed in the same order through
Spring Gardens into the Strand. And
then Charles found it more trouble-
some than ever to follow the poor girl in
her rapid walk. There were so many
like her there: but she walked faster
than any of them. Before he came to the
street which leads to Waterloo Bridge,
he thought he had lost her ; but when
he turned the corner, and as the dank
wind smote upon his face, he came upon
her, waiting for him.
And so they went on across the bridge.
They walked together now. Was she
frightened, too ?
When they reached the other end of
the bridge, she went on again to show
the way. A long way on past the
Waterloo Station, she turned to the
left. They passed out of a broad, low,
noisy street, into other streets, some
quiet, some turbulent, some blazing
with the gas of miserable shops, some
dark and stealthy, with only one or two
figures in them, which disappeared round
corners, or got into dark archways as
they passed. Charles saw that they were
getting into " Queer Street."
How that poor gaudy figure fluttered
on ! How it paused at each turning to
look back for him, and then fluttered on
once more ! What innumerable turnings
there were ! How should he ever find
his way back back to the bridge 1
At last she turned into a street of
greengrocers, and marine store-keepers,
in which the people were all at their
house doors looking out : all looking in
one direction, and talking so earnestly
to one another, that even his top-boots
escaped notice: which struck him as
being remarkable, as nearly all the way
from Waterloo Bridge a majority of the
populace had criticised them, either
ironically; or openly, in an unfavourable
manner. He thought they were looking
at a fire, and turned his head in the
same direction ; he only saw the poor
girl, standing at the mouth of a naurow
entry, watching for him.
He came up to her. A little way
down a dark alley was an archway, and
beyond there were lights, and a noise of
a great many people shouting, and talk-
ing, and screaming. The girl stole on,
followed by Charles a few steps, and
then drew suddenly back. The whole
of the alley, and the dark archway
beyond, was lined with policemen.
A brisk-looking, middle-sized man,
Ravenshoe.
Ill
with intensely black scanty whiskers,
stepped out, and stood before them.
Charles saw at once that it was the
inspector of police.
" Now then, young woman," he said,
sharply, "what are you bringing that
young man here for, eh 1 "
She was obliged to come forward.
She began wringing her hands.
"Mr. Inspector," she said, "sir, I
wish I may be struck dead, sir, if I
don't tell the truth. It's my poor little
brother, sir. He's a dying in number
eight, sir, and he sent for this young
man for to see him, sir. Oh ! don't
stop us, sir. Se'lp me "
"Pish!" said the inspector; "what
the devil is the use of talking this non-
sense to me 1 As for you, young man,
you march back home double quick.
You've no business here. It's seldom
we see a gentleman's servant in such
company in this part of the town."
" Pooh ! pooh ! my good sir," said
Charles ; " stuff and nonsense. Don't
assume that tone with me, if you will
have the goodness. What the young
woman says is perfectly correct. If
you can assist me to get to that house
at the further end of the court, where
the poor boy lies dying, I shall be
obliged to you. If you can't, don't
express an opinion without being in
possession of circumstances. You may
detain the girl, but I am going on.
You don't know who you are talking
to."
How the old Oxford insolence flashed
out even at the last
The inspector drew back and bowed.
" I must do my duty, sir. Dickson ! "
Dickson, in whose beat the court was,
as he knew by many a sore bone in his
body, came forward. He said, "Well,
sir, I won't deny that the young woman
is Bess, and perhaps she may be on the
cross, and I don't go to say that what
with flimping, and with cly-faking, and
such like, she mayn't be wanted some
day like her brother the Nipper was ;
but she is a good young woman, and a
honest young woman in her way, and
what she says this night about her
brother is gospel truth."
" Flimping " is a style of theft which
I have never practised, and, conse-
quently, of which I know nothing.
"Cly-faking" is stealing pocket-hand-
kerchiefs. I never practised this either,
never having had sufficient courage or
dexterity. But, at all events, Police-
constable Dickson's notion of " an honest
young woman in her way " seems to me
to be confused and unsatisfactory in the
last degree.
The inspector said to Charles, "Sir,
if gentlemen disguise themselves they
must expect the police to be somewhat
at fault till they open then* mouths.
Allow me to say, sir, that in putting on
your servant's clothes you have done
the most foolish thing you possibly
could. You are on an errand of mercy,
it appears, and I will do what I can for
you. There's a doctor and a Scripture
reader somewhere in the court now, so
our people say. They can't get out. I
don't think you have much chance of
getting in."
"By Jove!" said Charles, "do you
know that you are a deuced good fellow 1
I am sorry that I was rude to you, but
I am in trouble, and irritated. I hope
you'll forgive me."
"Not another word, sir," said the
inspector. "Come and look here, sir.
You may never see such a sight again.
Our people daren't go in. This, sir, is,
I believe, about the worst court in
London."
"I thought," said Charles, quite for-
getting his top-boots, and speaking " de
haut en las" as in old times " I thought
that your Rosemary Lane carried off
the palm as being a lively neighbour-
hood ?"
" Lord bless you," said the inspector,
" nothing to this ; look here."
They advanced to the end of the
arch, and looked in. It was as still as
death, but it was as light as day, for
there were candles burning in every
window.
"Why," said Charles, "the court is
empty. I can run across. Let me go ;
I am certain I can get across."
" Don't be a lunatic, sir," said the in-
spector, holding him tight ; " wait till I
112
Ravenshoe.
give you the word, unless you want six
months in Guy's Hospital."
Charles soon saw the inspector was
right. There were three houses on each
side of the court. The centre one on
the right was a very large one, which
was approached on each side by a flight
of three steps, guarded by iron railings,
which, in meeting, formed a kind of
platform or rostrum. This was Mr.
Malone's house, whose wife chose, for
family reasons, to call herself Miss
Ophelia Flanigan.
The court was silent and hushed,
when, from the door exactly opposite to
this one, there appeared a tall, and
rather handsome young man, with a
great frieze coat under one arm, and a
fire-shovel over his shoulder.
This was Mr. Dennis Moriarty, junior.
He advanced to the arch, so close to
Charles and the inspector that they
could have touched him, and then
walked down the centre of the court,
dragging the coat behind him, lifting
his heels defiantly high at every step,
and dexterously beating a "chune on the
bare head of um wid the fire-shovel.
Hurroo!"
He had advanced half-way down the
court without a soul appearing, when
suddenly the enemy poured out on him
in two columns, from behind two door-
ways, and he was borne back, fighting
like a hero with his fire-shovel, into
one of the doors on his own side of the
court. The two columns of the enemy,
headed by Mr. Phelim O'Neill, uniting,
poured into the doorway after him, and
from the interior of the house arose a
hubbub, exactly as though people were
fighting on the stairs.
At this point there happened one of
those mistakes which so often occur
in warfare, which are disastrous at the
time, and inexplicable afterwards. Can
anyone explain why Lord Lucan gave
that order at Balaclava? No. Can
anyone explain to me, why, on this
occasion, Mr. Phelim O'Neill headed
the attack on the staircase in person,
leaving his rear struggling in confusion
in the court, by reason of their hearing
the fun going on inside, and not being
able to get at it 1 I think not. Such
was the case, however ; and, in the midst
of it, Mr. Malone, howling like a de-
mon, and horribly drunk, followed by
thirty or forty worse than himself,
dashed out of a doorway close by, and,
before they had time to form line of
battle, fell upon them hammer and
tongs.
I need not say that, after this surprise
in the rear, Mr. Phelim O'Neill's party
had very much the worst of it. In
about ten minutes, however, the two
parties were standing opposite one an-
other once more, inactive from sheer
fatigue.
At this moment Miss Ophelia Flani-
gan appeared from the door of No. 8
the very house that poor Charles was
so anxious to get to and slowly and
majestically advanced towards the ros-
trum in front of her own door, and,
ascending the steps, folded her arms and
looked about her.
She was an uncommonly powerful,
red-faced Irish woman ; her arms were
bare, and she had them akimbo, a,nd
was scratching her elbows.
Every schoolboy knows that the lion
has a claw at the end of his tail with
which he lashes himself into fury. When
the experienced hunter sees him doing
that, he, so to speak, " hooks it." When
Miss Flanigan' s enemies saw her scratch-
ing her elbows, they generally did the
same. She was scratching her elbows
now. There was a 'dead silence.
One woman in that court, and one
only, ever oifered battle to the terrible
Miss Ophelia : that was young Mrs.
Phaylim O'Nale. On the present occa-
sion she began slowly walking up and
down in front of the expectant hosts.
While Miss Flanigan looked on in con-
temptuous pity, scratching her elbows,
Mrs. O'Neill opened her fire.
" Pussey, pussey ! " she began, " kitty,
kitty, kitty ! Miaow, miaow ! " (Mr. Ma-
lone had accumulated property in the
cats' meat business.) Morraow, ye little
tabby divvle, don't come anighst her,
my Kitleen Avoumeen, or yill be con-
varted into sassidge mate, and sowld to
keep a drunken one-eyed ould rapparee,
Ravenshoe.
113
from the county Cark, as had two
months for bowling his barrer sharp
round the corner of Park Lane over a
ould gineral officer, in a white hat and
a green silk umbereller ; and as married
a red-haired woman from the county
"Waterford, as calls herself by her maiden
name, and never feels up to fighting
but when the licker's in her, which it
most in general is, pussey ; and let me
see the one of Malone's lot or Moriarty's
lot ather, for that matter, as will deny
it. Miaow ! "
Miss Ophelia Flanigan blew her nose
contemptuously. Some of the low cha-
racters in the court had picked her
pocket.
Mrs. O'Neill quickened her pace and
raised her voice. She was beginning
again, when the poor girl who was with
Charles ran into the court and cried
out, " Miss Flanigan ! I have brought
him ; Miss Flanigan ! "
In a moment the contemptuous ex-
pression faded from Miss Flanigan' s
face. She came down off the steps and
advanced rapidly towards where Charles
stood. As she passed Mrs. O'Neill she
said, "Whist now, Biddy O'Nale, me
darlin. I ain't up to a shindy to-night.
Ye know the ray son."
And Mrs. O'Neill said, " Ye're a good
woman, Ophelia. Sorra a one of me
would have loosed tongue on ye this
night, only I thought it might cheer ye
up a bit after yer watching. Don't take
notice of me, that's a dear."
Miss Flanigan went up to Charles,
and, taking him by the arm, walked with
him across the court. It was whispered
rapidly that this was the young man
who had been sent for to see little Billy
Wilkins, who was dying in No. 8.
Charles was as safe as if he had been in
the centre of a square of the Guards.
As he went into the door they gave him
a cheer ; and, when the door closed be-
hind him, they went on with their fight-
ing again.
Charles found himself in a squalid
room, about which there was nothing
remarkable but its meanness and dirt.
There were four people there when he
came in a woman asleep by the bed,
No. 32. VOL. vi.
two gentlemen who stood aloof in the
shadow, and the poor little wan and
wasted boy in the bed.
Charles went up and sat by the bed ;
when the boy saw him he made an
effort, rose half up, arid threw his arms
round his neck. Charles put his arm
round him and supported him as
strange a pair, I fancy, as you will meet
in many long days' marches.
" If you would not mind, Miss Flani-
gan," said the doctor, "stepping across
the court with me, I shall be deeply
obliged to you. You, sir, are going to
stay a little longer."
" Yes, sir," said the other gentleman,
in a harsji, unpleasant voice ; "I shall
stay till the end."
" You won't have to stay very long,
my dear sir," said the doctor. "Now,
Miss Flanigan, I am ready. Please to call
out that the doctor is coming through
the court, and that, if any man lays a
finger on him, he will exhibit Croton
and other drastics to him till he wishes
he was dead, and, after that, throw in
quinine till the top of his head conies
off. Allans, my dear madam."
With this dreadful threat the doctor
departed. The other gentleman, the
Scripture reader, stayed behind, and sat
in a chair in the further corner. The
poor mother was sleeping heavily. The
poor girl, who had brought Charles, sat
down in a chair and fell asleep with her
head on a table.
The dying child was gone too far for
speech. He tried two or three times,
but he only made a rattle in his throat.
After a few minutes he took "his arms
from round Charles's neck, and, with a
look of anxiety, felt for something by
his side. When he found it he smiled,
and held it towards Charles. Well,
well ; it was only the ball that Charles
had given him
Charles sat on the bed, and put his
left arm round the child, so that the
little death's head might lie upon his
breast. He took the little hand in his.
So they remained. How long ?
I know not. He only sat there with
the hot head against his heart, and
thought that a little life, so strangely
Ravenshoe.
dear to him, now that all friends were
gone, was fast ebbing away and that he
must get home again that night across
the bridge.
The little hand that he held in his
relaxed its grasp, and the boy was dead.
He knew it, but he did not move. He
s at there still with the dead child in his
a rms, with a dull terror on him, when he
thought of his homeward journey across
the bridge.
Some one moved and came towards
him. The mother and the girl were still
asleep it was the Scripture reader.
He came towards Charles, and laid his
hand upon his shoulder. And Charles
turned from the dead child, and looked
up into his face into the face of John
Marston.
CHAPTEE LXL
SAVED.
WITH the wailing mother's voice in their
ears, those two left the house. The
court was quiet enough now. The poor
savages who would not stop their riot
lest they should disturb the dying, now
talked in whispers lest they should
awaken the dead.
They passed on quickly together. Not
one word had been uttered between
them not one but they pushed ra-
pidly through the worst streets to a
better part of the town, Charles clinging
tight to John Marston's arm, but silent.
When they got to Marston's lodgings,
Charles sat down by the fire, and spoke
for the first time. He did not burst out
crying, or anything of that sort. He
only said quietly,
" John, you have saved me. I should
never have got home this night."
But John Marston, who, by finding
Charles, had dashed his dearest hopes to
the ground, did not take things quite so
quietly. Did he think of Mary now ?
Did he see in a moment that his chance
of her was gone 1 And did he not see
that he loved her more deeply than
ever?
"Yes," I answer to all these three
questions. How did he behave now ?
Why, he put his hand on Charles's
shoulder, and he said, " Charles, Charles,
my dear old boy, look up and speak to
me in your dear old voice. Don't look
wild like that. Think of Mary, my
boy. She has been wooed by more than
one, Charles ; but I think that her heart
is yours yet."
" John," said Charles, " that is what
has made me hide from you all like this.
I know that she loves me above all men.
I dreamt of it the night I left Eavens-
hoe. I knew it the night I saw her at
Lord Hainault's. And partly that she
should forget' a penniless and disgraced
man like myself, and partly (for I have
been near the gates of hell to-night,
John, and can see many things) from a
silly pride, I have spent all my cunning
on losing myself hoping that you would
believe me dead, thinking that you would
love niy memory, and dreading lest you
should cease to love me."
" We loved your memory well enough,
Charles. You will never know how
well, till you see how well we love your-
self. We have hunted you hard, Charles.
How you have contrived to avoid us, I
cannot guess. You do not know, I sup-
pose, that you are a rich man ? "
" A rich man 1 "
" Yes. Even if Lord Saltire does not
alter his will, you come into three
thousand a-year. And, besides, you are
undoubtedly heir to Eavenshoe, though
one link is still wanting to prove that."
" What do you mean 1 "
"There is no reasonable doubt, al-
though we cannot prove it, that your
grandfather Petre was married previously
to his marriage with Lady Alicia Staun-
ton, that your father James was the real
Eavenshoe, and that Ellen and yourself
are the elder children, while poor Cuth-
bert and William "
" Cuthbert ! Does he know of this I
I will hide again ; I will never displace
Cuthbert, mind you."
"Charles, Cuthbert will never know
anything about it. Cuthbert is dead.
He was drowned bathing last August."
Hush ! There is something, to me,
dreadful in a man's tears. I daresay that
it was as well, that night, that the news
JRavenshoe.
115
of Cuthbert's death should have made
him break down and weep himself
into quietness again like a child. I am
sure it was for the best. But it is
the sort of thing that gftod taste for-
bids one to dwell upon or handle too
closely.
When he was quiet again, John went
on :
" It seems incredible that you should
have been able to elude us so long.
The first intelligence we had of you was
from Lady Ascot, who saw you in the
Park."
" Lady Ascot ? I never saw my aunt
in the Park."
"I mean Adelaide. She is Lady
Ascot now. Lord Ascot is dead."
"Another of them!" said Charles.
"John, before you go on, tell me how
many more are gone."
"jNb more. Lady Ascot and Lord
Saltire are alive and well. I was with
Lord Saltire to-day, and he was talking
of you. He has left the principal part
of his property to Ascot. But, because
none of us would believe you dead, he
has made a reservation in your favour
of eighty thousand pounds."
"I am all abroad/' said Charles. "How
is William?"
" He is very well, as he deserves to
be. Noble fellow ! He gave up every-
thing to hunt you through the world
like a bloodhound and bring you back.
He never ceased his quest till he saw
vour grave at Varna."
"At Varna!" said Charles; "why,
we were quartered at Devna."
" At Devna ! ISTow, my dear old boy,
I am but mortal; do satisfy my curi-
osity. What regiment did you enlist
in?"
"In the 140th."
" Then how, in the name of all confu-
sion," cried John Marston, " did you
miss poor Hornby?"
" I did not miss Hornby," said Charles,
quietly. "I had his head in my lap
when he died. But now tell me, how
on earth did you come to know anything
about him ? "
"Why, Ascot told us that you had
been his servant. And he came to see
us, and joined in the chase with
the best of us. How is it that he
never sent us any intelligence of
you 1 "
" Because I never went near him till
the film of death was on his eyes. Then
he knew me again, and said a few words
which I can understand now. Did he
say anything to any of you about
Ellen?"
"About Ellen?"
" Yes. Did Ascot ever say anything
either ? "
" He told Lord Saltire, what I sup-
pose you know "
"About what?"
"About Ellen?"
"Yes, I know it all."
" And that he had met you. Now tell
me what you have been doing."
"When I found that there was no
chance of my remaining perdu any
longer, and when I found that Ellen
was gone, why, then I enlisted in the
140th."
He paused here and hid his face in
his hands for some time. When he
raised it again his eyes were wilder, and
his speech more rapid.
" I went out with Tom Sparks and the
Eoman-nosed bay horse ; and we ran
a thousand miles in sixty-three hours.
And at Devna we got wood-pigeons ;
and the cornet went down and dined
with the 42d at Varna; and I rode the
Eoman-nosed bay, and he carried me
through it capitally. I ask your pardon,
sir, but I am only a poor discharged
trooper. I would not beg, sir, if I could
help it ; , but pain and hunger are hard
things to bear, sir."
"Charles, Charles, don't you know
me?"
" That is my name, sir. That is what
they used to call me. I am no common
beggar, sir. I was a gentleman once,
sir, and rode a-horseback after a blue
greyhound, and we went near to kill
a black hare. I have a character from
Lord Ascot, sir. I was in the light
cavalry charge at Balaclava. An angry
business. They shouldn't get good fel-
lows to fight together like that. I killed
one of them, sir. Hornby killed many,
i2
116
Ravenshoe.
and lie is a man who wouldn't hurt a
fly. A sad business ! "
" Charles, old boy, be quiet."
" When you speak to me, sir, of the
distinction between the upper and lower
classes, I answer you, that T have had
some experience in that way of late, and
have come to the conclusion that, after
all, the gentleman and the cad are one
and the same animal. Now that I am
a ruined man, begging my bread about
the streets, I make bold to say to you,
sir, hoping that your alms may be none
the less for it, that I am not sure that
I do not like your cad as well as your
gentleman, in his way. If I play on the
one side such cards as my foster-brother
William and Tom Sparks, you, of course,
trump me with John Marston and the
cornet. You are right; but they are
all four good fellows. I have been to
death's gate to learn it. I will resume
my narrative. At Devna the cornet,
besides woodpigeons, shot a franco-
lin "
It is just as well that this sort of
thing did not come on when Charles was
going home alone across the bridge ; that
is all I wished to call your attention to.
The next morning, Lord and Lady Hain-
ault, old Lady Ascot, William, Mary,
and Father Tiern ay, were round his bed,
watching the hot head rolling from side
to side upon the pillow, and listening
to his half-uttered delirious babble,
gazing with a feeling almost of curiosity
at the well-loved face which had eluded
them so long.
" Oh, Hainault ! Hainault ! " said
Lady Ascot; "to find him like this
after all ! And Saltire dead without
seeing him ! and all my fault, my fault.
I am a wicked old woman ; God for-
give me ! "
Lord Hainault got the greatest of the
doctors into a corner, and said :
" My dear Dr. B , will he die 1 "
"Well, yes," said the doctor; "to
you I would sooner say yes than no, the
chances are so heavy against him. The
surgeons like the look of things still less
than the physicians. You must really
prepare for the worst."
CHAPTER LXII.
MR. JACKSON'S BIG TROUT.
OF course, he did not die ; I need not tell
you that. B and P. H puUed
him through, and shook their honest
hands over his bed. Poor B is re-
ported to have winked on this occasion ;
but such a proceeding was so unlike
him, that I believe the report must have
come round to us through one of the
American papers probably the same
~one which represented the Prince of
Wales hitting the Duke of Newcastle in
the eye with a champagne cork.
However, they pulled him through ;
and, in the pleasant spring-time, he was
carried down to Casterton. Things had
gone so hard with him, that the prim-
roses were in blossom on the southern
banks before he knew that Lord Saltire
was dead, and before he could be made
to understand that he was a rich man.
From this much of the story we may
safely deduce this moral, "That, if a
young gentleman gets into difficulties,
it is always as well for him to leave his-
address with his friends." But, as young
gentlemen in difficulties generally take
particularly good care to remind their
friends of their whereabouts, it follows
that this story has been written to little
or no purpose. Unless, indeed, the reader
can find for himself another moral or
two ; and I am fool enough to fancy
that he may do that, if he cares to take
the trouble.
Casterton is built on arches, with all
sorts of offices and kitchens under what
would naturally be the ground floor.
The reason why Casterton was built on
arches (that is to say, as far as you and
I are concerned) is this : that Charles,
lying on the sofa in Lord Hainault's
study, could look over the valley and
see the river; which, if it had been built
on the ground, he could not have done.
From this window he could see the
great weirs spouting and foaming all
day; and, when he was carried up to
bed, by William and Lord Hainault, he
could hear the roar of them rising and
Ravenshoe.
117
sinking, as the night-wind came and
went, until they lulled him to sleep.
He lay here one day, when the doctors
came down from London. And one of
them put a handkerchief over his face,
which smelt like chemical experiments,
and somehow reminded him of Dr.
Daubeny. And he fell asleep ; and,
when he awoke, he was suffering pain
in his left arm not the old dull grind-
ing pain, but sharper ; which gradually
grew less as he lay and watched the
weirs at Casterton. They had removed
the splinters of bone from his arm.
He did not talk much in this happy
quiet time. William and Lady Ascot
were with him all day. William, dear
fellow, used to sit on a footstool, between
his sofa and the window, and read the
Times to him. William's education was
imperfect, and he read very badly. He
would read Mr. Eussell's correspondence
till he saw Charles's eye grow bright,
and hear his breath quicken, and then
he would turn to the list of bankrupts.
If this was too sad, he would go on to
the share list, and pound away at that,
till Charles went to sleep, which he
generally did pretty quickly.
About this time that is to say, well
on in the spring Charles asked two
questions : The first was, whether or no
he might have the window open 1 And
next, whether Lord Hainault would lend
him an opera-glass ?
Both were answered in the affirma-
tive. The window was opened, and
Lord Hainault and William came in,
bearing, not an opera-glass, but a great
brass telescope, on a stand a thing with
an eight-inch object-glass, which had
belonged to old Lord Hainault, who
was a Cambridge man, and given to
such vanities.
This was very delightful. He could
turn it, with a move of his hand, on to
any part of the weirs, and see almost
every snail which crawled on the bur-
docks. The very first day he saw one
of the men from the paper-mill, come to
the fourth weir, and pull up the paddles
to ease the water. The man looked
stealthily round, and then raised a wheel
from below the apron, full of spawn-
ing perch. And this was close time!
Oho!
Then, a few days after, came a tall,
grey-headed gentleman, spinning a bleak
for trout, who had with him a lad in
top-boots, with a landing-net. And this
gentleman sent his bait flying out here
and there across the water, and rattled
his line rapidly into the palm of his
hand in a ball, like a consummate
master, as he was. (King among fisher-
men, prince among gentlemen, you will
read these lines, and you will be so good
as to understand that I am talking of
you.) And this gentleman spun all day
and caught nothing.
But he came the next day to the
same place, and spun again. The great
full south-westerly wind was roaring
up the valley, singing among the bud-
ding trees, and carrying the dark, low,
rainless clouds swiftly before it. At
two, just as Lady Ascot and William
had gone to lunch, and after Charles
had taken his soup and a glass of wine ;
he, lying there, and watching this gen-
tleman diligently, saw his rod bend
and his line tighten. The lad in the
top-boots and the landing-net leaped up
from where he lay ; there was no doubt
about it now. The old gentleman had
got hold of a fish, and a big one.
The next twenty minutes were terri-
ble. The old gentleman gave him the
but, and moved slowly down along the
camp-shuting, and Charles followed
him with the telescope, although his
hand was shaking with excitement.
After a time, the old gentleman began,
to wind up his reel, and then the lad,
top-boots, and landing-net, and all, slip-
ped over the camp-shooting (will any-
body tell me how to spell that word ?
Campsheading won't do, my dear sir, all
things considered) and lifted the fish,
(he was nine pounds), up among the
burdocks at the old gentleman's feet.
Charles had the whole group in the
telescope the old gentleman, the great
trout, and the dripping lad, taking off
his boots and emptying the water out
of them. But the old gentleman was
looking to his right at somebody who
was coining : and immediately there came
118
Eavenshoe.
into the field of the telescope a tall man
in a velvet coat, with knee-breeches and
gaiters, and directly afterwards, from
the other side, three children, and a
young lady. The gentleman in the
knee-breeches bowed to the young lady,
and then they all stood looking at the
trout.
Charles could see them quite plainly.
The gentleman in velveteen and small-
clothes was Lord Ascot, and the young
lady was Mary.
He did not look through the telescope
any more ; he lay back, and tried to
think. Presently afterwards old Lady
Ascot came in, and settled herself in the
window, with her knitting.
"My dear," she said, "I wonder if
I fidget you with my knitting-needles.
Tell me if I do, for I have plenty of
other work."
" Not at all, dear aunt ; I like it.
You did nineteen rows this morning,
and you would have done twenty-two
if you had not dropped a stitch. When
I get stronger I shall take to it myself.
There would be too much excitement
and over-exertion in it, for me to begin
just now."
Lady Ascot laughed ; she was glad to
see him trying even such a feeble joke.
She said :
" My dear, Mr. Jackson has killed a
trout in the weirs just now, nine
pounds."
" I know," said Charles ; " I did not
know the weight, but I saw the fish.
Aunt, where is Welter I mean, Ascot 1 ?"
" Well, he is at Eanford. I suppose
you know, my dear boy, that poor Lord
Saltire left him nearly all his fortune.
Nearly five hundred thousand pounds'
worth, with Cottingdean andMarksworth
together. All the Eanford mortgages
are paid off, and he is going on very
well, my dear. I think they ought to
give him his marquisate. James might
have had it ten times over, of course ;
but he used to say, that he had made
"himself the most notorious viscount in
England, and that, if he took an eaii-
dom, people would forget who he was."
"I wish he would come to see me,
aunt. I am very fond of Welter."
I can't help it ; he said so. Remem-
ber how near death's door he had been.
Think what he had been through. How
he had been degraded, -and kicked about
from pillar to post, like an old shoe ;
and also remember the state he was in
when he said it. I firmly believe that
he had at this time forgotten everything,
and that he only remembered Lord
Ascot as his old boy-love, and his jolly
college-companion. You must make the
best of it, or the worst of it, for him, as
you are inclined. He said so. And, in
a very short time, Lady Ascot found
that she wanted some more wool, and
hobbled away to get it.
After a time, Charles heard a man
come into the room. He thought it was
William ; but it was not. This man
came round the end of the sofa, and
stood in the window before him. Lord
Ascot.
He was dressed as we know, having
looked through Charles's telescope, in a
velveteen coat, with knee-breeches and
leathern gaiters. There was not much
change in him since the old times; only
his broad, hairless face seemed redder,
his lower jaw seemed coarser and more
prominent, his great eyebrows seemed
more lowering, his vast chest seemed
broader and deeper, and altogether he
looked rather more like a mighty, coarse,
turbulent blackguard than ever.
"Well, old cock," he said, "so you
are on your back, hey 1 "
"Welter," said Charles, "I am so
glad to see you again. If you would
help me up, I should like to look at
you."
"Poor old boy," said Lord Ascot,
putting his great arm round him, and
raising him, " So ! there you are, my
pippin. What a good old fellow you are,
by Gad ! So you were one of the im-
mortal .six hundred, hey? I thought
you would turn up somewhere in Queer
Street, with that infernal old hook nose
of yours. I wish I had taken to that sort
of thing, for I am fond of fighting. I
think, now I am rich and respectable, I
shall subsidize a prize-fighter to pitch
into me once a fortnight. I wish I had
been respectable enough for the army ;
Mavenshoe.
119
but I should always have been in trouble
with the commander-in-chief for dicing
and brawling, I suppose. Well, old man,
I am devilish glad to see you again. I
am in possession of money which should,
have been yours. I did all I could for
you, Charles ; you will never know how
much. I tried to repair the awful wrong
I did you unconsciously. I did a thing
in your favour I tremble to think of
now, but which, God help me, I would
do again. You don't know what I
mean. If old Saltire had not died so
quick, you would have known."
He was referring to his having told
Lord Saltire that he had seen Charles.
In doing that, remember he had thought
that he was throwing half a million to
the winds. I only tell you that he was
referring to this, for fear you should not
gather it from his own brutal way of
speaking.
I wonder how the balance will stand
against Lord Ascot at last 1 Who ever
could have dreamt that his strong
animal affection for his old friend could
have led him to make a sacrifice which
many a more highly organized man
would have evaded, glossing over his
conscience by fifty mental subterfuges ?
" However, my dear fellow," he con-
tinued, "it comes to this : I have got
the money ; I shall have no children ;
and I shall make no will ; therefore it
all comes to you, if you outlive me.
About the title I can't say. The lawyers
must decide about that. No one seems
to know whether or not it descends
through the female branch. By-the-
bye, you are .not master of Eavenshoe
yet, though there seems no doubt that
grandma is right, and that the marriage
took place. However, whether the estate
goes to you, or to William, I offer the
same advice to both of you. If you get
my money, don't spend it in getting the
title. You can get into the House of
Commons easy enough, if you seem to
care about that sort of fun ; and fellows
I know tell me that you get much better
amusement there for your money than
in the other place. I have never been to
the House of Lords since the night I
took my seat. It struck me as being
slow. The fellows say that there is never
any chaff, or personalities, or calling to
order, or that sort of thing there; which
seem to me to be half the fun of the
fair. But, of course, you know more
about this than I."
Charles, in a minute, when he had
ineffectually tried to understand what
Lord Ascot had been saying, collected
his senses sufficiently to say :
" Welter, old boy, look here, for I am
very stupid. Why did you say that you
should have no children 1 "
" Of course I can't ; have they told
you nothing 1 "
"Is Adelaide dead, Welter?" asked
Charles, plucking at the buttons of his
coat nervously.
"They ought to have told you,
Charles," said Lord Ascot, turning to
the window. " Now tell me something.
Have you any love left for her yet 1 "
"Not one spark," said Charles, still
buttoning and unbuttoning his coat.
" If I ever am a man again, I shall ask
Mary Corby to marry me. I ought to
have done so sooner, perhaps But I
love your wife Welter, in a wa y ; and I
should grieve at her death, fo r I loved
her once. By Gad ! yes ; you know it.
When did she die?"
" She is not dead, Charles."
"Now, don't keep me like this, old
man ; I can't stand it. She is no more
to me than my sister not so much.
Tell me what is the matter at once ; it
can't be worse than what I think."
" The truth is very horrible, Charles,"
said Lord Ascot, speaking slowly. " She
took a fancy that I should buy back her
favourite old Irish mare, 'Molly As-
thore,' and I bought it for her ; and we
went out hunting together, and we were
making a nick, and I was getting the
gate open for her, when the devil rushed
it j and down they came on it, together.
And she broke her back Oh, God ! oh,
God ! and the doctor says she may Jive
till seventy, but that she will never
move from where she lies and just as
I was getting to love her so dearly "
Charles said nothing ; for with such a
great, brutal blackguard as Lord Ascot,
sobbing passionately at the window, it
120
RavensJioe.
was as well to say nothing ; but lie
thought, " Here's work to the fore, I
fancy, after a life of laziness. I have
been the object of all these dear souls'
anxiety for a long time. She must take
my place now."
CHAPTER LXIII.
IN WHICH GUS CUTS FLORA'S DOLI/S
CORNS.
THAT afternoon Charles said nothing
more, but lay and looked out of the
window at the rhododendrons just
bursting into bloom, at the deer, at the
rabbits, at the pheasants ; and beyond,
where the park dipped down so sud-
denly, at the river which spouted and
foamed away as of old, and to the right
at the good old town of Casterton, and
at the blue smoke from its chimneys,
drifting rapidly away before the soft
south-westerly wind ; and he lay and
looked at these and thought.
And before sundown an arch arose
in the west which grew and spread an
arch of pale green sky, which grew till
it met the sun ; and then the wet grass
in the park shone out all golden, and
the topmost cedar-boughs began to
blaze like burnished copper.
And then he spoke. He said,
"William, my dear old friend loved
more deeply than any words can tell
come here, for I have something to say
to you."
And good William came and stood
beside him. And William looked at
him and saw that his face was animated,
and that his eyes were sparkling. And
he stood and said not a word, but
smiled and waited for him to go on.
And Charles said, " Old boy, I have
been looking through that glen to-day,
and I saw Mr. Jackson catch the trout,
and I saw Welter, and I saw Mary, and
I want you to go and fetch Mary here."
And William straightway departed ;
and, as he went up the staircase, he met
the butler, and he looked so happy, so
radiant, and so thoroughly kind-hearted
and merry, that the butler, a solemn
man, found himself smiling as he drew
politely aside to let him pass.
I hope you like this fellow, William,
He was, in reality, only a groom, say you.
Well, that is true enough. A fellow
without education or breeding, though
highly born. But still, I hope you like
hi TIL I was forgetting myself a little
though. At this time he is master of
Ravenshoe, with certainly nine, and
probably twelve thousand a year a
most eminently respectable person. One
year's income of his would satisfy a
man I know, very well, and yet I am
talking of him apologetically. But
then we novel- writers have an unlimited
command of money, if we could only
realize it.
However, this great capitalist went
upstairs towards the nursery ; and here
I must break off if you please, and take
up the thread of my narrative in another
place (I don't mean the House of Lords).
In point of fact, there had been a
shindy (I use the word advisedly, and
will repeat it) a shindy, in the nursery
that evening. The duty of a story-
teller is to stick in a moral reflection
wherever he can ; and so at this place I
pitchfork in this caution to young
governesses, that nothing can be more
incautious or reprehensible, than to give
children books to keep them quiet
without first seeing what these books
are about.
Mary was very much to blame in
this case (you see I tell the truth, and
spare nobody). Gus, Flora, and Archy
had been out to walk with her, as we
know, and had come home in a very
turbulent state of mind. They had
demanded books as the sole condition
on which they would be good; and
Mary, being in a fidget about her meet-
ing with Lord Ascot, over the trout,
and being not quite herself, had promptly
supplied Gus with a number of BlacTc-
wood's Magazine and Flora with a
" Shakspeare."
This happened early in the afternoon.
Remember this ; for, if we are net par-
ticular in our chronology, we are nought.
Gus turned to the advertisements.
He read among other things a testimo-
Eavenshoe.
121
nial to a great corn-cutter, from a poten-
tate who keeps a very small army, and
don't mean any harm :
(Translation.)
"Professor Homberg has cut my corns
with a dexterity truly marvellous.
(Signed) " (NAPOLEON.) "
+
From a country baronet :
" I am satisfied with Professor Hom-
berg.
(Signed)
"PrrcHCROFT COCKPOLE, Bart."
From a bishop in the South Sea
Islands :
" Professor Homberg has cut my corns
in a manner which does equal honour to
his head and his heart.
(Signed) " KANGEHAIETA."
(His real name is Jones, but that is
neither here nor there) ; and in the mean
time Flora had been studying a certain
part of "King Lear."
Later in the afternoon it occurred to
Gus, that he would like to be a corn-
cutter and have testimonials. He pro-
posed to cut nurse's corns, but she
declined, assigning reasons. Failing
here, he determined to cut Flora's doll's
corns, and, with this view, possessed
himself of her person during Flora's
temporary absence.
He began by snicking the corner of
her foot off with nurse's scissors. Then
he found that the sawdust dribbled out
at the orifice. This was very delight-
ful. He shook her and it dribbled
faster. Then he cut the other foot off
and shook her again. And she, not
having any stitches put in about the
knee (as all dolls should), lost, not only
the sawdust from her legs, but also
from her stomach and body, leaving
nothing but collapsed calico and a bust,
with an undisturbed countenance of
wax, above all.
At this time Flora had rushed in to
the rescue. She felt the doll's body and
she saw the heap of sawdust ; where-
upon she, remembering her "King Lear,"
turned on him and said scornfully :
"Nero is an angler in the lake of
darkness." At this awful taunt, Gus
butted her in the stomach, and she got
hold of him by the hair. Archy, excited
for the first time in his life, threw a box
of ninepins at them, which exploded.
Mary rushed in to separate them, and at
the same moment in came William with
a radiant face, and he quietly took Mary
round the waist (like his impudence),
and he said, "My dear creature, go
jiown to Charles, and leave these Turks
to me."
And she left these Turks to him.
And he sat on a chair and administered
justice ; and in a very few minutes,
under the influence of that kind, happy,
sunny face of his, Flora had kissed Gus,
and Archy had cuddled up on his knee,
and was sucking his thumb in peace.
And, going down to the hall, he found
Lady Ascot hobbling up and down,
taking her afternoon's exercise, and she
said to him, " Eavenshoe, you best and
kindest of souls, she is there with him
now. My dear, we had better not move
in this matter any more. I tried to dis-
possess you before I knew your worth
and goodness, but I will do nothing
now. He .is rich, and perhaps it is
better, my dear, that Eavenshoe should
be in Papist hands at least, in such
hands as yours."
He said, " My dear madam, I am not .
Eavenshoe. I feel sure that you are
right. We must find Ellen."
And Mary came out and came toward
them j and she said, " Lady Ascot and
Mr. Eavenshoe, Charles and I are
engaged to be married."
To be continued.
122
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OP LERICI.
BY PEECY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
[THESE lines are from a volume of imprinted poems and other pieces by Shelley,
or relating to him, for the most part recently discovered, and about to be published
by Messrs. Moxon and Co. They were written at Lerici during the last few weeks
of the author's life, as appears from the character of the scenery described, as well
as from the correspondence of the paper with that on which " The Triumph of
Life " is written. The exact date of composition may, perhaps, be inferred from
the description of the moon, as
" Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovering in the purple night,"
which seems to imply that she was then near the full, with little or no declination.
These circumstances concurred on the 1st and 2d of May, 1822, but at no other
period during Shelley's residence at Lerici. R. G.]
She left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven's steep,
And, like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I staid alone,
Thinking over every tone
Which, though now silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,
Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill ;
And feeling ever too much !
The soft .vibration of her touch,
As if her gentle hand, even now,
Lightly trembled on my brow ;
And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her
That even Fancy dares to claim.
Her presence had made weak and tame
All passions, and I lived alone
In the time which is our own ;
The past and future were forgot,
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The daemon reassumed his throne
In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak
I sat and watched the vessels glide
Over the ocean bright and wide,
Like spirit-winged chariots sent
Management of the Nursery.
123
O'er some serenest element
For ministrations strange and far ;
As if to some Elysian star
Sailed for drink to medicine
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine.
And the wind that winged their flight
From the land came fresh and light,
And the scent of sleeping flowers,
And the coolness of the hours
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day
Were scattered over the twinkling bay.
And the fisher with his lamp
And spear about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,
Destroying life alone, not peace !
MANAGEMENT OF THE NUKSEEY.
BY ARCHIBALD MACLAREK, OF THE GYMNASIUM, OXFORD.
PAET II.
CLOTHING AND EXERCISE FOR CHILDREN.
FOR young children of either sex there
is no better material for the loose-fitting
upper garment, frock or tunic, than the
dyed flannels and French merinoes, or
" real plaids," which are all preparations
of wool, and are both light and soft.
Let it not descend below the knee, that
the action of the lower limbs may be
left unimpeded ; but let the little drawers
or trousers come a hand's-breadth below
it. A strange contradiction is here often
practised. During the comparatively
tender years of childhood the leg is kept
bare from ancle to knee, in summer or
winter, sunshine or snow, the rest of the
body being fairly protected ; but after
this period, when the child may be pre-
sumed to be stronger, the hitherto naked
limb is encased not only in thick cloth
trousers, but very frequently in thick
worsted drawers besides.
The covering for the head should be
selected on the same principles as that
for the rest of the -body. It should be
soft, light, and loose, so that no part of
the rapidly developing brain and its
yet open-seamed case may suffer from
pressure or confinement. But, unlike the
covering of the body, that for the head
should not be chosen for its non-con-
ducting power, but rather for the reverse ;
for the natural covering, the hair, so
well fulfils its purpose, and the brains
of young children are so active, the
afflux of blood to them so considerable,
that the local heat is great, and its free
and ready escape is the point to be
desired. It should be of as inexpensive
a material as possible, in order that there
may be no inducement to make it " last
long." The brain grows too fast its
healthy condition is too important to
admit of economy in this direction. The
little light straw hat, with brim of mode-
rate width, is the best covering for the
head ever invented.
And on the same principles, too, should
be selected the covering for the foot. It
should be soft, light, and loose. It
should be soft, that the prominences of
the sole of the foot may make their
impression on the inner sole of the shoe,
324
Management of the Nursery.
without which, the child walks but on a
part of its foot ; and that the action of
the toes, that contract and expand, and
grasp and relinquish their grasp at every
step, may do so without the impediment
of a stiff upper-leather. It should be
light, because a heavy shoe is a burden
to the ancle, a burden greater than it
can bear ; and the knee will come to its
relief, and then the foot will be dragged
along in the true plough-boy fashion,
from the same cause, because the ancle
must be retained stiff and unyielding to
enable the knee to act in this case. It
should be loose, because at every step
the whole foot expands, the toes sepa-
rate to take an individual grasp of the
ground, and, as the body is inclined
forward and its weight is removed from
the perpendicular line of the heel, the
instep rises and swells, and, after a few
minutes' active walking, the bulk of the
foot will be considerably increased by
the afflux of blood into its tissues, con-
sequent upon its movement. Equal
care should be given to the sock. A sock
too short or too narrow is almost as
destructive to the foot as a short or
narrow shoe ; and the opposite error is
often committed the socks are too long,
and the over-length is folded under the
toes. How can the toes, thus hampered
and encumbered, perform their functions ?
They cannot do so ; and their grasp of
the ground is essential to the fair lifting
of the heels by the muscles of the leg,
it is the fulcrum to the lever and so
the step loses its spring and elasticity,
and an imperfect and ungraceful gait is
acquired at the very outset of life.
But the loss is greater yet when we
examine the effects upon the general
health and habits of the child. Cripple
the feet, and the power as well as the
inclination for exercise is impaired the
very source of movement is impaired.
Moreover, the sensory nerves are not so
acute in childhood as in after life ; for it
is manifestly designed that much of the
protection afforded by the keen sense of
pain is to be supplied by the parent so
that, being less susceptible of pain, a
child will endure more injury without
complaint, almost without conscious-
ness. A child will soon become accus-
tomed to such injurious compression,
but it will naturally as much as possible
avoid using the crippled members ; it
will sit when it should be walking, and
walk when it should be running. Of
course every one will admit that the
principal purpose the shoe is designed
to fulfil, after warmth, is to protect the
foot from injury in its contact with ex-
ternal objects ; but this purpose can be
fully effected, and yet the action and
play of the foot be left almost as free as
if it were naked. For very young
children, of both sexes, there is nothing
so sanitary, so comfortable, or so suit-
able, or so elegant, as the well-known
nursery shoe, with uncovered instep and
narrow ancle-strap being, in fact, as
near an approach to the ancient sandal
as with modern tastes and opinions we
can go ; and for older boys, the little
low-heeled laced shoe, still leaving the
upper and higher portion of the instep
bare, and the ancle perfectly unfettered
and free.
How great, then, the folly of lacing
up the foot and ancle of a child in a
boot ! Ask the reason why it is done,
and the parents will complacently reply
that it is " to support the ancle." Has
God, then, made all children imper-
fectly 1 Does He (not to speak irreve-
rently) require the aid of a cobbler's
craft to support His imperfect work?
I say all children ; because the very per-
sons who assign this reason for crippling
and dwarfing the limbs of their children
would resent as an affront the supposi-
tion that their own children required
more cobbling than others. We speak
of swathing bands as a bygone monstro-
sity, of tight stays as another; but
neither was more injurious or absurd
than the practice of encasing the foot
and ancle of a child in a heavy or tight
boot. The Chinese do lace up the foot
in a similar contrivance ; but they do it
avowedly for the purpose of arresting
its growth and paralysing its energies
their phrase is, to kill it they are not so
foolish as to think they can so abuse it
and use it too.
There is no concealing of the fact that,
Clothing and Exercise for Children.
125
the higher we ascend in the scale of
civilization, and the more we surround
ourselves with material comforts, engage
in mental occupations, and indulge in
purely intellectual pursuits, the greater
is the risk of the enfeeblement and
enervation of our physical powers, and
therefore the greater need is there of our
watchfulness and care. Children deli-
cately nurtured, fed regularly on care-
fully prepared food, comfortably housed,
and put to sleep on soft and warm beds,
shielded from all extremes of heat and
cold, their minds carefully cultivated,
their nerves rendered sensitive, every
want supplied, foreseen, forestalled
run they not great risk of missing that
strength and power of endurance which
is their birthright] There is but one
way to secure it, and that is by adding
to the other agents of health, abundant
exercise, carefully selected for its fitness,
attractiveness, and variety, by which
strength, and vigour, 'and energy are
acquired. Then may be turned this
disadvantage of civilization into advan-
tage. The finer organization will show
itself. The gillie may climb the hill and
follow the forest track as stoutly as the
chief ; but will he scale so steep a preci-
pice, or leap so wide a scaur ?
But, as I often hear said, children
can find their own exercise ; no need to
trouble ourselves about that ! If we
look upon a child's exercise simply as a
means of amusing it that is, of keeping
it contented and freeing ourselves from
trouble by all means let us leave it to
its own resources. But, if we view it as
one of the main sources of present and
future health, as the only giver and
preserver of strength and beauty of form,
and as a powerful agent in the forma-
tion of character, let us give to it at
least as much attention as we give to
the proper cleansing of its skin as
much care as we give to what it shall eat,
or what it shall drink, or wherewithal it
shall be clothed.
All the exercise an infant receives or
requires is passive. The mere act of
breathing gives employment to> a large
portion of the trunk, and bathing and
dressing supply any farther want. But
the child can scarcely be too soon accus-
tomed to be laid on its back on a mat-
tress or rug on the floor, where it may
use its limbs freely as it gains the power.
It is wonderful how soon an infant will
learn to amuse itself, and find employ-
ment, not only for eyes and ears, but for
hands also, when left to this safest and
most sanitary mode of nursing. From
this position, too, it will soonest learn
that first recognised exercise of child-
life creeping. Encourage this pro-
long this. There is no physical art it
will ever learn in after-life from which
it will derive so much benefit as this.
Limbs and trunk, hands and feet, all
employed all equally; back and shoul-
ders, hip and loin ; many muscles
contracting and relaxing, many joints
turning, but none tried severely, none
unduly ; the weight of the trunk, the
burden to be borne, being distributed in
fair proportions to the four separate
limbs the four short outspread props,
at the four farthest points of the
burden ! There is no exercise in the
gymnasium, however thoughtfully and
skilfully prepared to meet the require-
ments of its votaries, children or adults,
more valuable than is the act of creeping
to the infant on the nursery floor.
When the child shows of itself an
irrestrainable desire to walk, let it be
permitted to do so, but not otherwise ;
and even then let it not be unduly sup-
ported or permitted to exert itself. If
it slip to the ground, let it rise of itself;
and encourage it to do so. The exercise
of getting -up again is better than that
of walking, and self-dependence is still
farther encouraged. Great care should
be taken -not to allow fat or heavy
children, or children who are growing
rapidly, to be too soon, or too long, or
too frequently on their feet ; or to be
insufficiently or unevenly supported du-
ring their early efforts ; or to drag or be
dragged on one side ; or to be led by one
hand too exclusively, or to have the
hand lifted high when being led. In
truth this is a most important and cri-
tical time for the well-being and well-
growing of the child; for the little
plastic frame will take any bias or bent
126
Management of the Nursery.
to which it may be subjected. And I
have seen nursemaids do in a day, in
their most goodnatured ignorance, what
it would require months of careful effort
to undo.
A child's toys are its books ; let them
be as carefully chosen as the printed
volumes in the after- time. Let them
be such as will keep it physically active
toys that require much catching and
picking up ; india-rubber balls of all
colours and all sizes, but of no weight,
that bound at the touch of an infant's
hand, and make the circuit of the nur-
sery before they can be caught again ;
spinning-tops, whipping-tops, hoops, and
the embryo paper-kites, that require
active running to sustain them in their
flight. Do not neglect variety. However
exhilarating and delightful a game may
be to-day, it will probably be "stale,
flat, and unprofitable," to-morrow; in-
vent new ones and new combinations,
and then return to the old ; they will be
welcomed as old friends, and greeted
with all the warmth of a first love.
I am daily asked the question, "At
what age should a child begin systema-
tized exercise?" And my answer is
generally determined by the answers
received to other questions put by my-
self "What is the state of the child's
health 1 ? What are its opportunities at
home for recreative exercise 1 To what
extent does it avail itself of them ? " If
these be satisfactory, systematized exer-
cise may be delayed till as late as the
tenth year ; but, if unsatisfactory, there
is no age too young for it to come to the
gymnasium ; for all children's exercises
should have the attractiveness of play,
the simplicity of play, the safety of
play and the variety of play should
strengthen the desire for play, while
they increase the capacity to pursue
it. A child's exercises should ever be
interesting, attractive, and amusing;
no exercise is good for a child- unless
it possesses these qualities, and those
which possess them in the highest
degree are, oceteris paribus, the best. '
I am always disposed to cultivate
most that exercise which elicits the
loudest shouts on completion, and the
most prolonged clapping of small hands.
I repeat, if children's exercises fail in
these qualities, they fail in their chief
good ; for it is not during the little time
that the child is at the gymnasium that
the principal benefit should be obtained.
The impulse of the exercise there should
be seen to influence the entire habits
and disposition of the child, mental as
well as physical. For, although there
the chief thing generally noted be the
physical advancement, yet with it are
many mental qualities of high order
cultivated caution, with its frequent
companion, courage ; presence of mind
and dexterity under apparent danger;
forethought and perseverance confront-
ing difficulty. Education, mental and
physical, began with life ; here they are
in close and inseparable fellowship.
Where do they part company 1 ?
But there is another aspect in which
systematized exercise must be viewed;
and that is as an agent for the rectifica-
tion of abnormal forms of growth and
development of the trunk and limbs,
arising from neglect, accident, or illness.
In infancy and early childhood the bones
are soft and pliant, their ligaments frail
and easily ruptured or strained, and the
muscles moving them or holding them
in their places as yet possessed of little
contractile power. This is specially ap-
plicable to the chest and the spinal
column. In many of the diseases inci-
dental to childhood, the whole process
of respiration is violently affected; its
organs labour under inflammation, and
the walls of the cavity of the chest are
subjected to extreme and frequent dis-
tension and collapse. In hooping-cough,
in the severe cough which sometimes
accompanies dentition, and also in that
which accompanies and remains after
measles and some fevers, violent fits of
coughing shake the chest, and seem
almost to rend it asunder. At these
times, even with the greatest care and
forethought, it is not always possible to
avert injury from this important part.
"Now is the time when tight straps over
the shoulders, and tight wrappings over
the chest, will inevitably cause displace-
ment or irregular growth ; will cause
Clothing and Exercise for Children.
127
the points of attachment of the ribs
to the sternum to protrude, and the
sternum itself to sink ; or will produce
an entirely different effect will cause
the ribs to be depressed and the sternum
to rise, in the form called pigeon breast.
Injury to the spine not unfrequently
springs from the same cause, taking the
forms of curvature, distinguished by
the direction of the deviation from the
true line of the column.
At first view it would appear that the
fact of these illnesses assailing the child
before the framework of its body is con-
solidated is a great misfortune. But a
moment's reflection shows not only that
the liability is a merciful one from
the fact that children feel pain and dis-
comfort much less acutely than adults,
and recover from their depressing effects
much more speedily, but that it is proba-
ble that the disease itself is greatly miti-
gated by the freedom and elasticity of the
unconsolidated frame. Moreover, from
the very fact that the chest was suscep-
tible of displacement from its yielding
and plastic character, we instantly per-
ceive that, with skilful and judicious
management, the evil can be remedied.
We reason, "If the elasticity of the parts
permitted the front of the chest to be
pushed forward by internal pressure or
by external lateral compression, cannot
a counter process be brought to restore
to their normal position and conforma-
tion these parts, still plastic, still yield-
ing, still changing in the growing child?"
And, when the question is put, the
answer can be fully given. Certainly,
if taken immediately or soon after the
act of displacement, before any process
of consolidation in the abnormal position
has begun to take place, and while the
elasticity of the parts remains, leaving
them as free to recede as they were to
advance judiciously selected and skil-
fully administered exercise will almost
infallibly restore them. I have known
children in whom the chest was so
affected by repeated colds and frequent
attacks of inflammation, that the sternum
stood out to such an extent that the
skin shone glazed and colourless almost
to bursting ; and I have known others
in whom from a similar cause repeated
local inflammation, with its necessary
remedies and in-door confinement the
displacement had taken the opposite
form of a cavity the child's hand could
be concealed in ; and I have seen both
restored to their normal shape.
Where the straining has been severe,
and where one side has, by partial use,
been rendered stronger than the other,
the displacement will sometimes present
both the prominence and the cavity;
the ends of the ribs and, perhaps, part
also of the sternum will be advanced,
and the remainder of the sternuln and
corresponding ribs on the other side will
be depressed. But the gravity of the
injury and disfigurement may be viewed
in each case as the same; and, as they
sprang from a similar cause, they can be
remedied by one and the same means
muscular movement, arranged to give
natural and special employment to all
the parts displaced, and to all others
adjacent to or connected with them.
I have spoken here but of the dis-
placements of the bones by sustained
compression or violent distension ; but
there are other cases (such as those
arising from rickets) lamentably frequent
among children, which I have found
equally susceptible of amelioration and
cure by carefully administered, system-
atized and localized exercise ; and more
powerful still have I found the curative
effects of such exercise in nervous affec-
tions as frequent with children as with
adults, and indicated by innumerable
painful signs, such as intermittent or
periodic squinting, stammering, involun-
tary twitching of the hands, jerking of
the limbs, and unconscious rolling of the
head. The nervous system is so inti-
mately allied to, and is materially so
closely connected with, the muscular,
that it can be directly and effectively
addressed through it by exercise.
When a child is healthy and strong
a few minutes of each day may be em-
ployed in learning to read, as early as
its fourth or fifth year. For its amuse-
ment it may have been read to, even
before it could well understand the
meaning of the words and this is valu-
128
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
able in teaching correct articulation ;
and it may have learned snatches of
ballads and songs and verses and rhymes
by the dozen ; and from picture-books it
may have learned the name and appear-
ance and something of the habits of
birds and beasts, wild and tame, and the
colours and shapes of flowers that grow
in garden and in field. But this learning
to read will now be a duty avowed and
expected, if for no other purpose than
thus early to acquire the habit of atten-
tion and the recognition of discipline.
But a few minutes each day are enough.
The little eyes are yet too tender to pore
long over black and white ; they are yet
too fond of shapes and colours, of looking
at objects near and far, to be fixed for
any length of time on a printed page.
And let there be no forcing, no com-
pulsion, but the gentlest guiding and
explanation. The child is badly taught
who requires to be compelled to learn.
But be more heedful of the rein than
the spur. There is more risk in going too
fast than too slow. Parents are yet to
be found who are proud of a precocious
child. What is it they are proud of?
What becomes of all the precocious chil-
dren 1 We can tell what has become of
some of the dunces ; but what has become
of the marvels of childhood, the prodigies
of the nursery ? Ask the gardener what
has become^of the trees forced into fruit-
ing before their time, and of the flowers
forced into blooming before their season.
VINCENZO j OE, SUNKEN BOCKS.
BY JOHN RUFFINI, AUTHOR OP "LORENZO BENONI," "DOCTOR ANTONIO/' ETC.
CHAPTEK IV.
CEDANT ARMA TOG^E.
IF the bell-ringer of the parish church
of Bumelli had hard work of it on this
particular St. Urban's day and he had
been ringing away ever since early dawn
at least he could satisfy himself from
his elevated position that he was not
labouring for nothing.
Not a soul in Bumelli but was abroad
by sunrise, and a variegated stream of
visitors, most of them from the neigh-
bouring hamlets, never ceased flowing
in from hill and plain. Those from the
hill were easily recognisable the men by
their breeches, their cocked hats, and the
considerable show of pigtails among
them; the women by the awkward
shortness of their waists. This anti-
quated costume was no longer that of
the inhabitants of the plain the lowland
men had generally adopted velveteen
pantaloons and round hats, and their
ladies long waists. The head-gear, how-
ever, remained the same for the fair sex
of both regions. It consisted of a
number of large silver pins stuck round
the back of the head in a semi-circle,
with two larger ones projecting suffi-
ciently to support a red or white veil, or
kerchief.
Every available place for such traffic
as the day authorized was taken up by
six o'clock. Mountains of gingerbread,
in all possible fantastic shapes, myriads
of strings of chestnuts, heaps of walnuts
and hazel-nuts, images of saints and
rosaries by the bushel, cheap pan-pipes,
and penny whistles made of the bark of
young saplings, solicited the attention of
amateurs.
We said that the good folk of Bumelli
were astir betimes, and we regret to add
that they had another reason for being
so, besides that of following the virtuous
maxim, that "the early bird gets the
worm." The village, in fact, had gone
to sleep the night before on a very
alarming report, propagated no one knew
by whom a report to the effect that the
Bishop of Ibella, who was to have
officiated at the parish church next day,
was ill, and would not be able to attend.
This would be a disaster, indeed, if it
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
129
turned out to be true, and what bad
news does not? as the good folks
learned by experience in this very in-
stance.
So late as ten o'clock of the previous
evening, an express from Ibella had
brought word to the rectory, and to the
castle, that his Reverence was slightly
indisposed, and would not be able for his
clerical duties. This confirmation of the
distressing rumours of the day before
was a thunderbolt to the castle, which
had thus lost its most illustrious guest.
The whole parish was under a cloud of
-disappointment, which did not, for all
that, prevent an observant eye being
kept on the rival establishments. The
interest in their proceedings, especially
in those of the castle, was, however,
languid in comparison to what it would
have been had the bishop been coming.
"What mattered it who did or did not
come, now that the great gun was missing !
Nevertheless a sharp reckoning was
made of the visitors to the potentates.
At a quarter to ten the service was to
begin at ten the state of the poll was
as follows : For the castle three car-
riages, eleven people ; big fishes among
them, a retired general (in regimentals)
and his lady, a half-pay major (also in
regimentals) with a wooden leg, Count
what's-his-name, a civilian and brother
to the Marquis's lately deceased wife,
two canons from the cathedral of Ibella
plus, three cavalry, viz. the Marchesino,
son of the Marquis, one of his brother
officers, and the Commandant of the
Carabineers stationed at Ibella.
For the palace six carriages, one-
and-twenty people ; big fishes among
them, the Intendente (first civil autho-
rity of the province) of Ibella, with lady
and sister, the first President of the
Court of Appeal, the Attorney-General,
the advocate of the poor of the same
place, a canon, the preacher for the
occasion, a young friar of the order of the
Barnabites, an order in odour of libe-
ralism, three gentlemen from Turin,
relations of the late wife of the Signer
Avvocato plus, one horseman, the Com-
mandant of the National Guard of
Ibella in uniform.
No. 32. VOL. vi.
While notes were thus being com-
pared out of doors, and auguries pro and
con drawn from the number and quality
of the respective guests, Vincenzo and
Barnaby were watching from the Belve-
dere the movements of the castle, with
the view to ascertain and let the Signor
Padrone know, when the Marquis and
his party set out for the church. The
Signor Avvocato had his reasons for
wishing to be the second to start. It was
an established custom at Rumelli, that the
ten o'clock mass, which the family from
the castle were in the habit of attending,
should not begin until the Marquis, or
his lady, when there was one, or some
representative of the family, should be
in their place in their own chapel. Don
Natale, when he was appointed to the
parish, had found this custom esta-
blished, and had seen no cause to interfere
with it. Truth to say, the persons who
enjoyed the benefit of this privilege had
never abused it ; on the contrary, they
were generally of a laudable punctuality
to the hour. But, somehow or other,
this good quality had suddenly failed
them, when a mass in music with
orchestra, under the auspices and
management of the Signor Avvocato,
had been substituted for the usual high
mass with accompaniment of organ, on
the day of St. Urban, the patron of
Rum'elli.
The fact is, that on the first year of
the innovation no one from the castle
was in the chapel at the appointed hour,
and the Signor Avvocato, pro tern con-
ductor of the orchestra, had the mortifi-
cation of waiting, roll of music in hand
to beat the time, for full twenty minutes.
In his capacity of leader of the band, he
might have taken the law into his own
hands, and, by giving the signal to the
orchestra, compelled, in a certain way,
the beginning of the service; but we
know that he was not the man for any
bold measure. He took, as his nature
prompted, a middle course; that is,
swallowed the bitter pill for the present ;
but, to prevent for the future any
possible repetition of the same slight,
he had the castle watched, so as to
make sure that its inmates were gone to
130
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Rocks.
church, before lie went thither himself.
Thus when Vincenzo, out of breath,
rushed from the Belvedere to announce
that " the castle was en route" then, and
then only, did the Signer Awocato give
the signal for the setting out of his
party.
He headed the march with the In-
tendent's lady on his right arm, and
holding his daughter with" the other
hand. If we were to say that he was
not a little elated, we should not be
telling the exact truth; but he tried only
to look benignant and happy. No great
effort was necessary for this, for nature
had unmistakably intended him to be
the one and the other, if the Govern-
ment and his neighbours would permit
him to be so. Eose's father was a tall,
florid-complexioned, still very handsome
man, with but a slight inclination to
corpulency. Had he not stooped a
s little the result of habit and not of
age few men could have been seen
who wore their fifty and six years more
lightly than he did. Well, had he not
stooped, and had his gait b'3|fc more
in proportion to the bulk of MB body,
in other words, had his "step been
longer, his would have been a very
commanding presence. As for his smile
and address, none could be pleasanter.
In glaring contrast to his was the
bearing and manner of the leader of the
other partjt "the storming party," as
the Signer Awocato could not help
"whispering to the lady on his arm.
Stiff, erect, and as martial-looking as
his undersize;-his loose regimentals, and
rather ludicrous codino (pigtail) would
allow, the Marquis ledibn|tLisftrain as if
to battle instead of to mass. A spare
old man, very thin, very shrivelled, and,
as a rule, looking daggers at manflfed
in general, such was the Marquis.
Hanging on his arm was Madame la
Generale, the only specimen of the fair
sex among the castle guests, and who
was supported on the other side by one
of the canons. " Beauty between army
and church," remarked some profane
joker in the opposite ranks. Certainly,
if glitter and noise could carry the day,
the castle might cry out victory before-
hand such ablaze of epaulets as it sent
forth, such a jingling of spurs and swords
as accompanied its procession.
The Black Coats "the undertakers,"
as the Marquis quizzically denominated
them looked tame indeed in com-
parison. They had, at any rate, the
advantage in numbers, which is some-
thing ; and then, black coats, when on
the back of a procurator fiscal, or an
advocate alflRhe poor, not to speak of
intendentes and presidents, have a close
connexion with sundry practical results,
which give to the said black coats
a serious importance in the ey^s of
rustics. Any* one, for instance, ' might
have, some day or other, a son, or
nephew, or friend, implicated in a
Sunday brawl, and there was no saying
how far the severe or lenient view
taken of the matter by the public
prosecutor might influence the fate of
son, nephew, or friend. Or, a poor
devil might have a clear legal case, and
no money to support it in court; in
which predicament a good word from
the advocate above named could do
much Towards the poor devil's being
admitted to the "benefit of the poor,"
as the phrase is that is, to have the
benefit of his suit cost free. These
and such-like considerations had, pro-
bably, their share in the warm reception
given to the Black Coats , throughout;
their passage ; even warmer, some said,
than the one bestowed on the glittering
epaulets, especially when, issuing from
opposite sides, both at the same moment
entered the church square, where the
majority of the local population had
long before taken their stand.
But how was it that the castle party,
which had had a good ten minutes' start
of the other, and a good third less of
road to traverse, should only reach the
square half a minute sooner than the
palace party ? There were more reasons
than one for this delay. First of all,
the sun being very hot, the Marquis, in
compliment to the Lady Generale, had
struck across some fields of his own,
that she might have the benefit of the
shade of trees and vine-covered walks
an act of gallantry which necessitated a
ifi
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
131
great deviation from the straight road \
then the Lady Generale was very fat,
the general asthmatic, the major had a
wooden leg, and the marquis himself,
full of fire for his age (seventy-five), had,
in Hamlet's words, " most weak hams."
To all these combined causes of slowness
add an acceleration of speed of the
palace party, afraid of being behind
time, and the simultaneity -of arrival is
readily accounted for.
At sight of the rival column, the
Marquis, who was perhaps fifteen feet
nearer the church door, slackened his
pace, and put on a gracious grin. The
Signer Avvocato, of course, could do no
less than quicken his step, and smile in
his turn. Another twenty seconds, and
there they are face to face a position
which two well-bred gentlemen and
close neighbours cannot, even if wearing
hostile colours, decently prolong without
exchanging salutations and polite in-
quiries. Consequently, there ensued a
general full stop. Cocked hats were
raised to the ladies, a finger, military
fashion, laid on shakoes. Round hats
were not slow in answering the compli-
ment. The general and intendente
advanced towards each other ; acquaint-
ances left their respective sides to shake
hands and greet each other ; and, every
one knowing every one, the two groups
soon coalesced into one.
Taking advantage of the momentary
confusion, Federico, the young Marche-
sino, stole behind the unwitting Vincenzo,
who was staring with all his might at
the row of crosses on the general's breast,
and, watching his opportunity, suddenly
sent both his knees into the back of
Vincenzo's legs, exclaiming, " How fares
it with you, Abbas Mirza ! ;: This was
one of the hundred nicknames with
which he pestered the young abbe", who
thus taken unawares would have lost
his balance, had not his tormentor,
unwilling to push the joke too far,
held him up by the waist. The
seminarist turned round as red as a
turkey-cock, and, forgetting in his
wrath that embryo priests must not
swear, sent after the retreating offender,
convulsed with laughter, a sonorous
"D the fool!" Fortunately for
Vincenzo's self-love, this little episode,
as far as he could perceive, had escaped
notice in the general press. Miss Rose,
most surely, had seen nothing of it.
By this time, the Signer Awocato
had made his condolences about the
untoward event, which had deprived the
castle, and indeed the whole community,
of the brightest ornament of the day ;
the Marquis, in his turn, had ex-
pressed his regrets, and a hope that
his reverence's indisposition was not a
serious one, and nothing remained to do
but to enter the church. But the Marquis
drew back, and would not hear of going
in first; the advocate mayor on his
side, persisted that not for his life
would he take precedence of the
Marquis, and the scene was verging on
the ludicrous, when three words of
Latin the only words of Latin his
lordship knew cut this gordian knot.
Cedant arma togce was the shibboleth
with which the Marquis conquered
the scruples of his opponent. For
truth's sake we must add, that an
impatient jerk, given by the Lady
Intendente to the Signer Avvocato' s
arm, came to lend weight to the laconic
Latin sentence. The Signor Awocato,
with a last apologetic flourish of his
hand, bowed his head, lowered his
shoulders, and passed on with his two
fair companions.
In despair of our ability to do it
justice, we renounce any attempt to
describe the splendour of the service,
and the perfect arrangement of all its
parts. I outshone, by universal consent,
all thet former displays on the same
festival. Nothing was left to desire in
all that appertained to the musical
department, and Vincenzo's execution
of the famous motet was so excellent as
quite to restore him to the good graces
of his godfather and patron. Let us
hope that the culinary efforts at palace
and castle were equally successful, and
that the respective guests far,ed the
better for the rivalry of the dinner
givers. All Rumelli knew beforehand
what was to compose the menu at both
places, as most of the dainties, coming
K2
132
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
from a distance, had passed through
Peter the chandler's shop, the post-office
of Eumelli, and had been discussed by
a competent jury, and pronounced upon,
before they had reached their final
destination. The general feeling inclined
towards the dinner at the palace.
At the proper moment, both factions
repaired again to the church, and from
church back to head- quarters, each
making it a point to take the longest
road through the village, stop here and
there to make small purchases, or to
converse with the bystanders ; in short,
to mix in some way in the merry-
makings. And everywhere, palace and
castle, met with a respectful and warm
welcome. So far, popular favour seemed
resolved to keep the balance pretty
steady between the two parties. No
signal advantage could be boasted of
by either. But as the day wore on, the
star of the castle paled, and that of the
palace was decidedly in the ascendant.
The absence of the bishop, in the end,
turned the scale, and the wherefore is
easily explained.
The grounds of castle and palace
were always thrown open to the public
on St. Urban' s day, and after vespers
crowds were used to congregate in both,
though undoubtedly those of the palace
attracted the greater multitude. The
palace grounds had a right to the
preference, seeing that they were by
far the most tastefully laid out, had
ornamental pieces of water, and jets
d'eau, brilliant parterres, and above all,
" bosky shades and cool, mossy retreats."
!N"o wonder such charms made it a
favourite resort, even before the time
when a band played on the terrace ;
but when, some ten or twelve years ago,
to all its other attractions was added
that of music, for one loiterer in the
castle alleys, ten might be found in
those of the palace. Still a certain
number of people, sufficient to maintain
a show of competition, haunted the
castle grounds, principally peasant
women from the hills, who had never,
perhaps, seen a bishop, or were in
particular want of the episcopal bene-
diction. Now, as it was well known
beforehand this magnet would not be
forthcoming, those piously-inclined in-
dividuals deserted the castle, and in
the evening solitude reigned undisputed
there, even long before the usual display
of fire- works at the palace.
All the Marquis's guests left at dark,
save the Count and Marchesino Federico ;
all the guests of the Signer Avvocato
but three the canon, the special
preacher, and the intendente remained
over the night. Long after the castle
was plunged in obscurity, lights gleamed
from every window of the palace. Thus
ended the proceedings of a day which
might wear for its appropriate motto
the Latin quotation of the Marquis,
Cedant arma togce.
CHAPTER Y.
VINCENZO GOES ON A FOOI/S ERRAND.
ABOUT three o'clock in the afternoon of
the next day, E.ose was sitting in the
Belvedere, her favourite place at that
hour, busy at work with the purse
which we have once before seen in
her hands. The excitement of the festa
had fatally interfered with the progress
of her intended gift, the completion of
which was the more pressing as he for
whom it was destined was to leave the
palace early next day to return to the
seminary at Ibella. Let us note here
that the Belvedere was the boundary of
her father's estate on this its eastern
side, and beyond it began the castle
grounds, sloping gently down to the
castle itself, a distance, perhaps, of two
hundred paces. Debouching into the
road, which ran belovv the Belvedere,
after traversing some of the Marquis's
fields, was a beaten track, which had
served to connect the lower and upper
land, when both still belonged to the
Del Palmetto family. This will explain
how it was possible for Rose in her
retreat to be startled by the tramp of a
horse. On looking up, she saw the
Marchesino riding along the footpath
just mentioned towards the road.
This young gentleman had left the
Turin Military Academy not long before;
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
133
and, having got a cornetcy in a light
cavalry regiment, stationed for the last
three months at Ibella, he had "been able
often to give Eumelli in general the
benefit of a sight of his dashing uniform
and red shako, and to Eose, in particular,
that of his tender glances and gallant
attentions. Not that he was or professed
to be in love Avith her ; but, as a spirited
youth, and an officer, he considered him-
self in duty bound to flirt with all the
pretty girls who came in his way and
Eose was very pretty indeed. Frederick
was of a good height, with a well-pro-
portioned active figure nevertheless, far
from handsome. He was red-haired and
freckled, and had no trace of the bloom
of youth on his countenance a disad-
vantage which often attaches itself to
the offspring of elderly parents. The
Marquis must have been full fifty-five,
when his second wife presented him
with this boy.
The moment he perceived he had
attracted the young lady's attention,
Frederick waved his foraging cap to
her ; and, putting his horse to a brisk
canter, he brought him up close to the
wall of the Belvedere.
"How do you do, Signorina? I was
on my way to the palace to bid you
good-bye."
"Thank you, Signer Federico," re-
turned Eose. " Are you going away ? "
" Yes, this very instant j have you
any commands for Ibella or for the
camp ? "
" What ! are you going to the camp 1 "
asked Eose in surprise.
"Yes ; we start to-morrow for Yigevano,
to join the rest of our regiment there,
and from thence we shall march into
Lornbardy. Have you no talisman, no
keepsake, to bestow on a poor soldier
going to the wars 1 "
"You have my best wishes, Signor
Federico," said the girl.
" A precious gift, indeed ; but which
would be enhanced still, if supported by
some tangible proof of your good will
that ribbon round your neck, or this
purse, for instance ; " and he took up
the purse from the window sill, on which
Eose had mechanically laid it when he
first accosted her. It must be under-
stood that, by raising himself a little in
his stirrup, the young officer could bring
himself on a level with the window of
the Belvedere.
" No, not that," said Eose, thrusting
out her hand to seize her work. " I
have promised that to some one else."
"So I see," said Federico, scanning
the initials upon it ; "promised to Priest-
in-the-bud. But such as these are pro-
fane gifts, unsuited to holy Churchmen
better give Yincenzo a rosary, and
allow me to keep this."
" Oh, no ! " cried the girl, eagerly ;
" give it back to me, pray, sir."
" Well, well, if it must be so," said the
young hypocrite, holding out the purse,
but at the same time slyly spurring his
horse, which, obeying the hint, so widen-
ed the space between the two hands as
to baffle the gentleman's kind intentions.
Every apparent attempt to get the animal
close to the wall had no other result
than that of making him more and
more restive.
" You see, I am doing my best," called
out the youth, shaking in his saddle in
an ominous way ; " indeed, it is not my
fault if I do not succeed."
" Throw it to ine," urged Eose.
* So I would, but I cannot it is all
I can do to manage Moretto with both
hands." Moretto t indeed, with his fore-
legs in the air, seemed bent on executing
a pirouette. " I feel he is getting the
better of me," exclaimed the Marchesino.
" I must let him have his way farewell,
Signorina ; " and off the rogue set at a
gallop down the road, Eose screaming
after him in every key of her voice to
stop and listen to her.
"What is the matter ? " asked Vin-
cenzo, coming up out of breath.
" Marchesino Federico has taken away
your purse," replied Eose, with a half
sob.
" Taken away my purse ! how ?
when 1 " inquired the seminarist.
" This instant, he rode away with it ; '*
and Eose gave a hurried account of the
whole transaction.
" It is too bad ! " cried Vincenzo, white
with anger ; then, looking ather earnestly,
134
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Hocks.
he added, "Am I to understand that
he took it against your express wish,
Signora?"
" Yes, indeed, in spite of all I could
say."
" Then you shall have it back again/'
affirmed the little man, with a stamp of
his foot by way of emphasis, and turned
away.
" Where are you going, Vincenzo ? "
asked Rose, rather frightened.
" To Ibella," answered Vincenzo, with-
out, however, stopping.
"Oh! pray, pray, don't!" entreated
the girl, running after him ; " it is of no
use. He will not give it up for the mere
asking, and you cannot take it from him
by force ; for he is the stronger of the
two. Besides, he is an officer ; and, if
papa should find out that you were
gone, and alone "
But Vincenzo's blood was up he was
past every consideration of prudence.
All that Eose obtained was a promise
that he would be back at eight o'clock,
the supper hour at the palace. He
picked up his hat, which lay at the foot
of a tree, and jumped over the gate.
Eose, hurrying to the Belvedere, was
just in time to catch sight of him as he
turned down the road. Once more she
called on him to stop, but this appeal
was as unheeded as the rest ; so she had
nothing to do but to sit down and watch
his progress down the hill through her
fast-falling tears.
It might be half-past three in the
afternoon; the sun was high in the
heavens, and broiling hot; but our
Paladin was indifferent to that fact,
being too much occupied with the young
lady's grievance to have perceptions for
aught else. He had no settled plan as
to how he was to achieve the recovery
of the stolen treasure ; or, to speak more
correctly, the wildest schemes towards
that end flitted across his brain such
as calling out Federico, applying for aid
to the intendente, or asking redress from
the colonel of the young officer's regi-
ment. In this state of excitement, he
strode on with such a will that in one
hour and a half he accomplished a dis-
tance which was considered handsomely
done by the best of pedestrians in two
hours.
The sight of houses and people some-
what sobered him. It brought with it
the consciousness of the danger he was
in, of being interfered with by the
authorities of the seminary, were they
made aware that he was parading the
streets alone a feat strictly forbidden to
Seminarists. Fortunately, the house he
was in search of, one on which he had
kept his eye for the last three months,
was on his road, being in those outskirts
of the town he had to pass. He went
there at once ; but, his loud knocking at
the street door, which was closed, not
being attended to, he came to the con-
clusion that there was nobody at home.
A neighbour, who was standing at a
window opposite, confirmed him in this
belief, informing him officiously that the
Marchesino del Palmetto was probably,
as this was his dinner hour, at the cafe
of the Post in the Piazza d'Armi.
Vincenzo knew perfectly well in-
deed, too well where the Cafe della Posta
and the Piazza d' Arrni were situated ;
that is, at the further end of the town,
and in quite an alarming proximity to
the Seminary. But, far or near, thither
he must proceed, and thither he did
proceed, looking straight before him,
and avoiding as much as possible great
thoroughfares. He reached his destina-
tion without hindrance ; and, after poking
his nose into three or four wrong rooms,
at last stumbled upon the right one.
Del Palmetto and two brother officers
were playing at billiards. Frederick,
bending over the table, was in the act of
striking the ball, when he caught sight
of the new comer, and exclaimed :
" Wonders will never cease. Sacerdos
secundum Melchisedech, I declare. Here
is a distich for thee, Priest-in-the-bud ;
see if I scan it rightly
Presbyter in sylvis tendebat retia grillis
Et tantum fecit that at last he got unum."
" Can't you talk and play at the same
time ? " asked the Marchesino's adver-
sary.
" Then here's a cannon dedicated by
special permission to his reverence,"
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Rocks.
135
wound up Del Palmetto, playing. The
stroke failed, and the bungler was made
sport of by his brother-officers.
" The intention was good, at all events ;
and good intentions help us on the way
to Paradise, do not they, Abbas?"
asked the Marchesino, walking up to
Vincenzo.
"Will you allow me to speak two
words ... to you in private at your
leisure 1 ?" said Vincenzo, sinking down
exhausted on a bench, and wiping the
moisture from his face and brow. The
sentence, short as it was, came forth
broken in half, owing partly to the
emotion of the speaker ; still more so to
the parched state of his lips. Vincenzo's
tongue literally clove to the roof of his
mouth.
"Not before you have had something
to drink/' replied Federico, taking a
glass full of some liquid off a table.
" Here, try this ; it was meant for me,
but I have not touched it."
" What is it 1 " inquired Vincenzo,
glass in hand.
" Orgeat," said Frederick, with a wink
to his companions. Vincenzo swallowed
the contents of the glass at one gulp.
He was aware the instant after that he
had not drunk anything so simple as
orgeat, but he took good care to say
nothing of his discovery, from the fear
Qf exposing himself to further mortifi-
cations.
\Glood, is it not?" asked Federico,
who \id again returned to his game.
Vincenzv could only nod assent ; the
beverage, whatever it was, had cut short
his respiration.
The success of his trick had driven
away the first impulse they say all
such are good which had moved the
Marchesino at sight of the lad's heated
face and troubled looks. Guessing the
errand on which the seminarist had
come, Del Palmetto had had half a
mind to draw the messenger aside, put
the purse into his hand, and so end the
matter ; but, now that he saw a chance
of fresh sport, he gave up as tame and
absurd the better course he had for a
moment contemplated, and instead
manoeuvred to gain time ; so, turning to
Vincenzo, he said, "You are not in a
hurry, are you?" There was that in
the tone of the question which prompted
an answer conformable to the wishes of
the questioner. Vincenzo returned a
laconic " Not in the least," accompanied
by a grand toss of the head.
" Because, you must know," continued
the Marchesino, " our stake is a dinner ;
and I hope nay, I insist that you
make one of our party. We are all of us
as hungry as hawks ; and, truth to say, I
have a superstitious objection to any
interruption of a game when the luck
is on my side, as it evidently is now."
These and such like explanations met
with nothing from Vincenzo but mono-
syllables of consent, or significant nods
and smiles, implying that he was ready
for anything and everything. He was
too much engrossed by his own novel
and unaccountable sensations to have
any attention to spare for other topics.
His being seemed to have expanded into
an engine of ten thousand horse-power,
and to be soaring through space witli
the speed of a winged dragon withal,
a delicious consciousness of unlimited
strength, and, along with this, a great
inclination to be merciful. If he did
not pound into atoms the little puny
Marchesino and Co., it was only that
he was a good fellow, and they were
good fellows also. Give an abstemious
and imaginative boy of seventeen a
strong dose of extract of absynth and
water, such as our Vincenzo had had,
and you will see that self-exaltation is
the characteristic of the intoxication it
produces. It is in this self-elevating
action that the great danger and attrac-
tion of the liquor just named lies,
scarcely inferior to the attraction and
danger of opium.
It was lucky for Vincenzo that the
game did not come to a conclusion before
the room had done spinning like a top ;
he was able to rise without any accident
ensuing ; and, at the friendly invitation
of Del Palmetto, who passed his arm.
under that of the seminarist, to walk
steadily enough to the end of a passage,
where there was a washhand-basin
stuck in the wall, and a very big and
136
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
very dirty jack-towel hanging by its
side. Here the young Marquis, while
washing his hands, said to Vincenzo, in
a confidential whisper, "You are sent
by Miss Eose for the purse, I know
all right I have left it at my lodgings.
Let us have a morsel to eat first, and
then we'll go together and fetch it."
"Very well/' said Vincenzo, "pro-
vided I have not long to wait."
"I won't keep you long," said the
other ; "so now wash your hands, and
let us join our friends and have dinner."
" But I have dined already, and I am
not hungry," objected Vincenzo, as in
his turn he washed his hands.
" Never mind that ; you needn't eat ;
only sit down for form's sake. The
lieutenant, who gives the dinner, would
take it amiss if you refused."
Upon this understanding, the two
newly made friends walked out of the
passage into a spacious court-yard, in
which were set, here and there, tables of
various sizes. At one, where the cloth
was laid for four, were already seated
Del Palmetto's two brother-officers. " So
here you are at last!" exclaimed he who
had lost.
" Your pardon for keeping you wait-
ing/' said the Marchesino, as he and
Vincenzo took their places.
Vincenzo had spoken the truth in
saying that he had dined, and also
spoken what he assumed to be the truth
when he had stated that he was not
hungry; but, at sight of an engaging
sausage, a fascinating cold roast chicken,
and a lovely fresh salad, spread out
before him, he discovered that he had
been under a mistake, and that he
-should prefer doing something more
than merely sitting down to table for
form's sake. In fact, he had dined as
early as one o'clock, and now it was
past six. Besides, his long walk, not
to mention the extrait d'ab&intJie, was
rather calculated to sharpen a naturally
good appetite. Accordingly, he did not
require much pressing to be induced to
try 'a leg of the chicken, the very first
moithful of which he was tasting, when,
lo and behold ! a slovenly-looking indi-
Tidual in shirt sleeves and slippers,
appeared in front of the table, and
addressed him familiarly in these words,
" So I have caught you at last ! Come
home this instant." Signer Vincenzo
raised his head haughtily, and said,
majestically, "Who art thou that comest
to give orders to me ? " The func-
tionary, who was no eagle, took this-
apostrophe ad literam, and replied ac-
cordingly, "Who am I? why, don't
you know me, Bastian, the porter of:
the seminary?" To which the quick
rejoinder was, " If that be thy unworthy
trade, go back to it, thou filthy gaoler."
The porter shook his fist threateningly
at the speaker, as much as to say, " You
dare speak thus to me, do you 1 Wait a
moment ! " and decamped.
"Bravo ! well done ! " cried Del Pal-
metto, filling all the glasses ; " here's to
the bravest spirit ever hid in a cassock ! "
One cannot decently decline a toast in
one's own honour; at least so thought
Vincenzo, and therefore he drank off'
the bumper at his side. " I wager any-
thing that some of the black robes will
be let loose on you before five minutes
are passed," said the Marchesino.
"Let them come," said Vincenzo,
with a motion of the head full of
meaning, and then once more turned
his attention to the leg of chicken. He
was excited, and felt equal to any con-
tingency. He ate heartily, drinking,
however, in moderation ; but even three
glasses of wine and he had had no
more up to that time began to tell
upon one so unaccustomed to take any
at all witness the twinkle in his eye
and his fast-growing talkativeness.
Things were at this pass, when the
waiter who brought in the dessert also*
brought in word that one of the reverend
prefetti of the seminary was waiting
without, and wished to speak to Signer
Vincenzo. A long-rooted habit of de-
ference, asserting its right even at thi
moment of excitement, prompted the-
young Abbe" to rise and obey his supe-
rior; but Del Palmetto interfered, saying,
"Why should you disturb yourself?
why couldn't his Reverence favour us-
with his company, and say what he
to say to you here 1"
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Rocks.
137
" Why not, indeed 1 " said Vincenzo,
reseating himself; and, addressing the
waiter, he added, rather pompously,
" Have the goodness to tell the Signer
Prefetto, with my compliments, that I
am at this moment at dinner with some
excellent friends of mine, and that I
should take it as a favour if he would
come to me, instead of my going to
him."
The waiter departed, and almost im-
mediately returned, ushering in a tall
and good-looking ecclesiastic, who must,
doubtless, have been a man of the
world, for he showed no symptoms of
displeasure at the scene before him ; but,
raising his hat to all present, he ad-
dressed the Marchesino by name, and
then said to Vincenzo, with great
amenity of manner, "How are you,
Vincenzo ? I am glad to see you again,
and in such excellent company."
"And heartily happy am I to see
your Eeverence looking so well," said
Vincenzo, standing up ; " and I shall be
still happier if you will take a glass of
wine with us."
The prefetto thanked him, but ex-
cused himself by saying that it was one
of his rules never to eat or drink except
at his regular meals.
"If so," resumed Vincenzo, with
much coolness, " we at least may have
the honour of drinking to your Reve-
rence's continued good health/' And,
smacking his lips after drinking the
toast, he added, "Now that this pre-
liminary is over, may I beg to know on
what business you wish to speak to
me?"
" Oh ! business. There is none I
know of, " replied the priest, carelessly.
" I heard you were here as I was
passing by, and came in to give you
a good day. But, as it is getting late,
I think we might as well walk home
together."
" Suppose I had all the inclination in
the world to do so, I could not. I am
not here merely for the sake of pleasure,
as superficial observers might take for
granted. I am here on a matter of
importance ; a matter connected with
never mind whom ; a matter which ad-
mits of no delay, as the gentlemen pre-
sent can tell you that is, not all the
gentlemen present ; but my excellent
friend, the young Marquis del Palmetto,
can. And so, this point being also satis-
factorily settled, I beg permission to sit
down ; but, previous to doing so, I shall
once more drink your very good health j"
and, having swallowed another bumper,
with infinite composure, Vincenzo re-
seated himself.
" Then I'll leave you to transact your
business," said the priest, turning away.
" Should you feel disposed to come home
by-and-bye, you will find Bastian wait-
ing for you."
" D Bastian ! " shouted the youth,
springing to his feet. " I'll have no-
turnkey dogging me, do you hear ?
Thank God, I am a free citizen of a free
country \ " and he roared out at the top
of his voice, " Long live the Statute ! "
The prefetto shook his head, bowed,
and departed.
" Bravo, Hector !" cried Del Palmetto,
who was himself a little heated. " Only,,
if you take the Statute in earnest, let
me warn you to make the most of it
while you can. The moment we come
back from the war, we'll put your
Statute into limbo."
"Into limbo V echoed Vincenzo,
staring vacantly at Federico. "Then,
are you not also for the Statuto ? "
" Not one of us," affirmed the young
nobleman. " Do you think the army is
going to submit to a batch of advocates,
whose only merit is their gift of the
gab?"
Vincenzo, after pondering a little, hit
the table with his fist, crying, " Have I,
then, been consorting all this while with:
Codini, with Jesuits, with traitors ? I
shake the dust of this vile place from-
my shoes ; " and, upsetting his chair in
his precipitation, rushed away.
Del Palmetto and his brother-officers-
were not slow in pursuing and over-
taking the fugitive.
" Don't you see it is a joke ? " cried
Frederick. " Come along, and let us
drink to our eternal friendship."
Vincenzo, easily pacified, allowed him-
self to be taken back to the dinner
138
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
The poor youth had now drunk too
much to stop short of any extravagance.
So, when Del Palmetto proposed that
they should go into the passage where
the washhand-basin was, and exchange
clothes, Vincenzo declared it was a capi-
tal idea, and immediately complied. It
is easy to imagine the bursts of laughter
elicited by the appearance of the semi-
narist in the uniform of a cavalry officer,
and of the cavalry officer in the garb of
a seminarist; this latter scamp improving
the occasion to deliver, in a nasal twang,
a short and most risible sermon. An
organ-grinder was next called in, and a
ball improvised; in which, as may be
expected, the hapless hero of . the fete
cut a prominent figure.
All this passed in the presence of a
crowd of people. The spectators, at first,
had been only the customers of the esta-
blishment ; but presently, as the rumour
of the wild doings at the cafe got wind,
people nocked thither from all quarters
of the town. The scandal was as great
as it could be ; and those having any
interest in the seminary who witnessed
it, Bastian among others, were not likely
to make light of it in their reports. All
this time, Vincenzo was haunted by an
indistinct notion of having something to
do, with which, in some way or other,
Miss Eose was concerned ; but what
this something was, do what he would,
he could not remember.
By dusk, the poor lad being past
making sport for anybody, Del Palmetto
and his companions had him removed
from the public gaze, and conveyed to a
room in the cafe, where he found the
only accommodation he stood in need of
for the present a bed ; and there they
left him snoring.
To be continued.
NOTES OF A TOUK THROUGH THE BOEDER STATES.
BY OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT IN AMERICA.
WASHINGTON was growing empty. Wil-
lard's Hotel was rapidly thinning, and
the managers were fast becoming oppres-
sively civil even to a single one-trunk-
and-carpet-bag traveller like myself.
Pennsylvania Avenue was no longer
crowded with artillery and luggage
wagons; officers had become few in
number; passes had ceased to be re-
quired for crossing the now-deserted
lines; and the weekly receptions of
senators and Congress-men were drop-
ping off" one by one. All these symp-
toms were hints to a traveller to move
elsewhere. The only difficulty was
where to move to. Naturally, my first
inclination would have been to go " on
to Richmond" with the grand army of
the Potomac ; but, unfortunately, there
were many objections to such a pro-
ceeding. In the first place, I had such
confidence in the " masterly inactivity,"
as the New York Herald styles it, of
General McClellan's tactics, that I
doubted whether I might not be kept
waiting at Fortress Monroe for weeks
to come ; in the second, I strongly sus-
pected that, if I followed the army, I
should see very little, but the smoke of
the cannon, in the event of a battle ;
and, thirdly But why should I go on,
unmindful of Queen Elizabeth's answer
to the magistrates of Falmouth in the
matter of their not ringing the town
bells, and enumerate the reasons why
I did not go with the Potomac army,
when there was one simple and decisive
reason, and that was, that I could not 1
I was supposed, rightly or wrongly, to
be connected with the English press,
and, as such, was denied access to- the
Eichmond expedition by orders of the
Secretary of War, It is useless trying
to conceal anything in America. Only
the other day, while I fancied that the
authorship of these articles was still a
profound secret except to the favoured
few who know the mysteries of Mac-
Notes of a Tour through the order States.
139
millan, I was startled at being shown,
in one of the Government departments,
a paragraph from an American paper,
giving the name, antecedents, and his-
tory of your special correspondent.
Under these circumstances, it was little
use seeking to obtain permission to visit
Fortress Monroe again ; and I had re-
ceived such uniform courtesy from all
American officials I had hitherto come
across, that I did not like to disturb the
pleasing tenor of my recollections by
exposing myself to the probability of a
discourteous refusal from Mr. Stanton.
So, in fact, my choice of directions in
which to travel was limited. The in-
surrection would not allow me to go
south ; the orders of the War Depart-
ment precluded my journeying east ;
and the cold forbade me to go north.
The only path open to me lay west-
wards, in the track of the war ; and it
was this path I resolved to follow. My
road took through Northern Virginia,
whence the Confederates had just re-
treated ; through Ohio, the great border
Free State ; through Kentucky, the
chief of the Union Slave States, whose
loyalty, to say the most, had been a
half-hearted neutrality; down to Ten-
nessee, the stronghold and battle-field
of the Confederates in the west. Such
notes as I have taken in this wandering
journey are recorded here.
WASHINGTON TO WHEELING.
Away from "Washington in the early
morning, on the day when the President
signed the measure for the emancipation
of the slaves in the district of Columbia
a bright promise, let us hope, of a
brighter future. By the way, the night
before I left, a Washington friend of
mine the most lukewarm of aboli-
tionists told me this incident, worth
relating. He had been driving that day
in a hired carriage, driven by an old
negro he had known for years. To his
astonishment, the driver mistook his
way repeatedly. At last my friend grew
angry, and asked the man what ailed
him. " Ah, massa," the negro answered,
"all this matter about the emancipa-
tion has got into my head, and I feel
tunned-like." Well, in Mrs. Browning's
words, " God's fruit of justice ripens
slow ; " and it is pleasant to me to think
that I, too, have seen the ripening of one
small fruit of justice. So, as we passed
that morning through the dull barren
fields of Maryland, I could not help
watching the coloured folk in the cars
with more than usual interest. I have
not been long enough in this country to
lose the sense of novelty with which
the black people impress a stranger.
To me they are the one picturesque
element in the dull monotony of out-
ward life in America. With their dark
swarthy skins, varying from the deepest
ebony to the rich yellow hue ; with
their strange love for bright colours in
their dress, no matter how soiled and
ragged; with their bright laughing
smile, and their deep wistful eyes,
they form a race apart a strange people
in a strange land. Probably, if you
lived amongst them, you would lose all
sense of their picturesqueness, just as
we in England should see little romance
about gipsies, if there was a Rommany
camp squatted down in every village.
As a gentleman, who had studied negroes
carefully, once said to me, "They are
just like a man you meet who is an
uncommonly pleasant companion for
half an hour, but whom you find a
monstrous bore when you are shut up
all alone with him for a long rainy day."
But, as yet, I am still in the early stage
of investigation, and can hardly appre-
ciate the evident distaste which even
the staunchest free-soilers have for the
negro race. A very strong republican
confessed to me lately, that he could
never shake hands with a negro without
instinctive repugnance ; and this feel-
ing is, I suspect, a very universal one
throughout the Free States. Here, in
Maryland, there is, as in all slave
countries, a more kindly feeling towards
the negro individually. In the car in
which I was sitting, negroes came in
and out freely, and the white passengers
seemed to have no objection to their
contact ; indeed, in one or two cases, I
saw men get up to make room for negro
140
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
women, who, in justice, I must add,
were neither young nor pretty. By one
of the barbarous laws of the old Mary-
land code, the Washington railroad is
forbidden to take free coloured people
as passengers, unless they can obtain a
bond from some responsible householder
for a thousand dollars, to indemnify the
company in case of their being claimed
afterwards as fugitive slaves. Of course,
this rule was always evaded when the
negro was personally known to the
railroad employes; and at the present day
everything is in such confusion that I
fancy it is rarely enforced. Barring this
provision, coloured people may pass freely
in the cars of the Baltimore and Ohio
line. There is not, indeed, the absolute
equality in American railway travelling
that we fancy in Europe. I dare say
the reader may have observed how, on
our penny river steamboats, where there
is no difference of fares, and no division
of classes, yet the working poor always
congregate in the bows of the vessel,
rarely in the more aristocratic stern.
The same thing happens here. Some-
how or other, there is always one car on
the American lines, generally the fore-
most one, where, without notice or order,
the common soldiers, the working men,
and the negroes, take their places. There
is nothing to hinder a rough-shod mud-
covered soldier from sitting in the hinder
cars amidst the ladies and their escorts ;
but they seldom do it. How far a
negro might be liable to insult if he
placed himself amidst the genteel society,
I cannot say. It is certain, he would
feel uncomfortable and does not do it.
But while I am speculating on the
Negro question, the train has carried us
to the famous Belay Bridge, the junction
of the Washington and the Western
Virginia lines, which the Confederates
tried in vain to blow up at the first out-
burst of hostilities. The country is in
look much the same as when I passed
through it some six Weeks ago. The
leaves are but little more forward, and
the fields and villages have still the
same dreary desolate aspect; but, in
one respect, there is a marked difference.
The camps along the line are removed ;
there are few roadside pickets ; and the
army has passed away. When I was
last here, too, the Baltimore and Wheel-
ing line, on which I am about to travel,
was in the hands of the enemy, and
Western Virginia was still, in great
part, subject to the Confederate Govern-
ment. Now, within the last few days,
the line has been reopened, and the
Confederate forces have been repulsed
far away towards the South. Still, the
route is not much in favour with the
public. The whole of the railroad
officials, like all inhabitants of slave-
holding states, are very lukewarm
Unionists ; and, a few days ago, a pro-
posal that all servants of the company
should be required to take the oath of
allegiance was rejected by the board of
directors at Baltimore by a majority of
sixteen to seven. There are stories, too,
of Southern "bush-whackers," wandering
about in the wild country, through
which the line runs, and trying to tear
up the rails and upset the trains. A
long Italian experience has utterly de-
stroyed my faith in brigands of any
kind, and I certainly had no intention
of going some hundreds of miles out of
my way to avoid a hypothetical " bush-
whacker." Distances are so enormous
in this country, that an Englishman
finds it hard to realize them. My
journey to-day, which was to take me
from the Eastern to the Western frontier
of Virginia, was 400 miles in length
as far as as from London to Edinburgh.
At the Eelay Bridge, then, we first
began our real journey into the quon-
dam dominions of Secession. Our train
was a short one of three cars in all,
filled chiefly with soldiers returning to
their regiments stationed along the line,
a good number of road passengers going
to revisit their property or friends in
the recovered districts, and a few tra-
vellers like myself journeying towards
the army of the West. There was not
much of political conversation in the
train. Every now and then, as we
passed a detachment of Union soldiers,
some Northern ladies in the car waved
their handkerchiefs ; but the bulk of the
passengers made no demonstration. A
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
141
Baltimore lady, who sat next me, and
rho assumed (as I see all Southern
eople do) that, being an Englishman,
was in heart favourable to the Con-
iderate cause, communicated to me her
idignation at the treatment of the
iouth, and informed me, inter alia, that,
f the women of Baltimore could only
a,tch Wendell Phillips, they would not
jave a bone UD broken in his body,
ihe was so perfectly frank in her state-
lents that I do not doubt her assertion
hat she had never been for secession,
nd had never been rich enough to have
Laves herself ; but the whole social creed
i which she had been reared and bred
ras in favour of slavery, and, woinan-
^ke, she never thought of doubting the
Dundations of the creed she had been
aught. Of all the foolish assumptions
see constantly made in discussions on
be slavery question, the most erroneous
eenis to me to be that, because there
,re only, say, 400,000 slaveholders in
he whole Slave States, this small number
aeasures the whole amount of persons
fho have any interest in, or care for,
he existence of slavery. You might
list as well argue that there are not one
housand persons in Great Britain who
an really feel any interest in the exist-
nce of the peerage.
Our route lay across the Alleghany
fountains, along the troughs of wind-
ng valleys, by the sides of rivers whose
r ery names the Patapsco and the Poto-
nac, the Shenandoah and the Monon-
;ahela leave the rhythm of music with
hem. Jefferson said that it was worth
voyage across the Atlantic to witness
uch scenery ; and, doubtless, it is a
cene of great beauty. Still, like all the
American scenery I have seen, it is
wearily monotonous. Some years ago,
'. remember, a Yankee brought to Lon-
Lon a panorama of the Mississippi, of I
Lon't know how many thousand yards
n length. . The first hundred yards or
o were extremely interesting ; but, when
r ou had seen the same scene unrolled
lowly, yard after yard, and hour after
lour, the sight became so wearisome,
hat I doubt if anybody ever saw the
>anorama to its close. So it is with
American scenery, in reality as well as
pictorially. One gets tired of the end-
less low hills of unvarying height ; of
the ceaseless forests, in which the tim-
ber is all of the same small growth ; of
the scattered houses, which never vary
in size or aspect. After a long journey
you have much the same feeling as the
pedestrian must have had who walked a
thousand times over one mile of road in
a thousand hours. Still, if you could
have compressed the journey into one-
tenth of its distance, it would have been
a very lovely one. From Baltimore
the road winds up a narrow gorge, with
wood-clad granite cliffs on either side,
and a deep mountain stream rolling
down the midst. Every few miles or
so you pass a cotton factory ; and the
high smoke-begrimed chimneys, the
river-side mills, and the stone-built,
slate-roofed houses, give it a strange
resemblance to a valley in the moun-
tain district of Lancashire. Then you
come upon the table land at the summit
of the Alleghany ridge wild, desolate,
and dreary and then down rapid in-
clines, under frequent tunnels, and over
countless bridges, into the rich valley
of the Ohio river. Such is the outline
of the journey. Fill it up with long
sketches of brushwood forest, with
stray fields, surrounded with tumble-
down snake fences, with high cliffs of
rock hanging over mountain torrents,
with scattered wooden houses standing
few and far apart, and with here and
there a glimpse of a wide rich cham-
paign country, stretching away in the
far distance repeat all this, ad infini-
turn, and you will know as much as I
can recall of the scenery of the Alleg-
hany pass.
The traces of the war were few. The
country is too poor a one, too thinly
peopled, and too scantily cultivated, to
leave much opening for destruction. Of
banditti, or bush-whackers, I need hardly
say, we saw nothing. There were a few
deserted camps along the wood, and a
few pickets of Union soldiers, looking
very desolate in that lone country. The
two points where you come across the
track of the war are at Harper's Terry
142
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
and Cumberland. The grand stone
bridge across the Potomac, at the former
spot, was blown up by the Confederates
when they evacuated the place a month
ago. "With true Yankee energy, a sort
of make-shift wooden bridge, of most
unsubstantial look, had been run up on
the old stone buttresses ; but, the day
before I crossed, this temporary bridge
had broken down, and our journey was
brought to an apparent standstill when
we arrived at the river side. However,
in a short time a rope was stretched
across the river, and passengers' and lug-
gage were guided over the rapid swollen
stream to proceed on our journey by the
return train from Wheeling. This stop-
page caused a delay of some hours, and
so I had time to wander about the
ruins of what once was the town of
Harper's Ferry. Here, a year ago, stood
the armoury of the United States, where
1,500 workmen were employed con-
stantly. Now everything is destroyed.
The walls alone are left standing, and
the town is half in ruins. There is
nothing grand about the ruins of small
red-brick buildings. Just after the fall
of Fort Sumter, when the Confederates
were expected to enter Washington, a
friend of mine was passing the Treasury
buildings with an "United States' officer,
now in prison at Fort La Fayette under
a charge of treason. He said something
to the officer about the beauty of the
marble columns, and the answer he re-
ceived in reply was, " Yes, the Treasury
will make a fine Palmyra." So it would
have done ; but there is nothing Pal-
myresque about the ruins of Harper's
Ferry. There is nothing but a look of
squalid misery, of wanton destruction.
The ground around the Arsenal is
strewed with the debris of the workmen's
cottages that surrounded it j and, amidst
the broken masses of brickwork, the
sign-post of a roadside inn, left by mere
chance still standing, rose gibbet-like,
with its sign-board riddled through with
cannon shot, creaking harshly on its
rusty hinges. The town itself, which
bore traces of once having been busy
and prosperous, was almost deserted.
Soldiers swarmed in every hole and
corner, and sentries were placed at every
turning ; but otherwise the town seemed
empty. There were few men visible,
and even the women and children stood
sullenly apart. Most of the shops
were closed, and the few that remained
open had little in them. There is no
resurrection, I fear, possible for Harper's
Ferry. I was shown the little outhouse
where John Brown was confined after
the failure of his mad attempt. It was
here, so I was told, that, lying wounded,
mangled, and at death's door, he was
tortured by the questionings of Mr.
Mason. And now two years have scarcely
passed, and Mr. Mason is in England,
owing his liberty to the strength of a free
country, begging in vain for help to an
unsuccessful insurrection, his slaves
escaped in a body, his house occupied
by Northern troops, and his property
ruined ; while a few nights ago I heard
the Northern regiments, as they marched
across the Potomac into Virginia,
shrouded by the dusk of the evening,
singing, as they marched, that " John
Brown's soul was marching on before
them ! "
After all, Harper's Ferry was the
property of the Federal Government,
and, therefore, the Confederates had, per-
haps, a right to destroy it. But, if I
were the staunchest of secessionists, and
also, unfortunately, a shareholder in the
Baltimore and Ohio line, I should find
it hard to excuse the wanton injury in-
flicted on private property in Cumber-
berland. This was the chief railway
depot of the line, and before the Con-
federates evacuated it they destroyed
every piece of railway property along
the road. For miles on either side I
passed burnt-up cars, shattered engines,
and coal trucks, which, being of iron,
could neither be burnt nor broken, and
had therefore been rolled into the river.
Fancy Wolverton burnt down, with
everything breakable in its sheds smashed
and battered, and you will know the
look of Cumberland.
As long as we remained in the manu-
facturing district near Baltimore, the
aspect of the houses and people was
comfortable and prosperous enough; and,
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
143
ideed, this region has been little directly
fifected by the war ; but, as soon as we
ot into Western Virginia, the scene
hanged. Here, for the first time in
le States, I saw the signs of squalid
Hd- World poverty. Miserable wooden
tianty hovels, broken windows stuffed
ith rags, and dirty children playing on
a.e dung-heaps before the doors, together
dth the pigs, gave an Irish air of decay
3 the few scattered villages through
rhich the line passed. The snow, too,
bill lay on the high bleak uplands ; and,
rhat with the cold, the weariness of
itting for hours on low-backed seats,
nd the constant delays arising from
tie necessity of proceeding with extreme
aution, our journey towards the end
ras a weary and a dreary one.
There is one fact for which I shall
Iways remember Wheeling gratefully
.amely, that it is the first place where I
lave been really hot since I left Italy,
ome eight months ago. Otherwise, it
3 a quiet, sleepy little town, without
luch to say about it. Like all the
Southern towns, too, I have yet seen, it
3 wonderfully English in appearance,
"he broad nagged High Street; the
mall narrow-windowed red-brick houses
rith their black chimney-pots j the
habby-looking shops, with the flies
luzzing about the dirty window panes j
he long wharves, and the tall factory
Mmneys, all made the place resemble
in English country town where the old
country people had died out and the
lew manufacturing element had not
>rospered. Still, Wheeling is a pros-
>erous place in its way, and has proved
oyal to the Union. It is now the capi-
ial of the new State of Western Vir-
ginia, and is the head-quarters of the
emancipation party in the State, pro-
mbly because its German population is
;onsiderable. General Fremont has his
lead-quarters here, and the town is
therefore filled with German officers.
i crowd of new arrivals had just come
n as I was making my way to bed, and
;here, sitting on the one hat-box which
comprised his luggage, composed, clean-
shaven, and serene, was my old ac-
quaintance major, colonel, general, or
whatever his rank now may be Trauben-
fass. My friend is a mystery to me as
to every one. What man about the
press does not remember Traubenfass,
years ago, in the great scandal case of
military Well, it is a long time ago,
and there is no good raking up old
scores ! Where, and in what strange
medley, has Traubenfass not been in-
volved 1 He has served, of course, in
the Spanish Legion, in the wars of the
Eio Grande, in the Schleswig-Holstein
campaign. He has been in the service
of half a dozen Indian princes, and
has a perfect galaxy of orders from de-
posed potentates. When I met him
last, he was a general unattached in the
Garibaldian army, and received (and,
what is more, was paid punctually) a
very handsome salary for his services.
Now, he is instructor of cavalry, or in-
spector of horses, or military commis-
sioner, in the army of the United States.
He informs me, with perfect equanimity,
that he supposes the war will not last
long, and then he shall be on his legs
again ; but, meanwhile, he is certain
that something else will turn up. Who
he has been, where he comes from, or
what his age is, are all questions I have
often asked in vain, and doubt if he
knows himself. He is perfectly quiet,
temperate, and frugal ; and the one weak-
ness to which I have ever known him
plead guilty is a belief in an infallible
system for winning at rouge et noir.
After parting with Traubenfass, and in-
dulging in a whisky cocktail, in augury
of our next meeting in some unknown
part of the globe, I retired to bed. What,
I wonder, is the connexion between
slavery and dirt, that in all slave states
the hotels and the .beds are always
dirty?
WHEELING TO CINCINNATI.
Across the mud-stained Ohio river,
down which great rafts of wood, covered
with huts, as in the old Rhine-land,
were floating lazily ; and then a long hot
day's journey through the length and
breadth of the Ohio State. The early
morning air was loaded with that dull,
144
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
still closeness which foretells a day of
sweltering heat, and the presage was
fully realized. The cars were crowded
with travellers, and though, for a won-
der, the stoves were not lit, yet the
closed windows served to maintain that
stifling warmth of temperature which
seems essential to an American's idea of
comfort. The car in which I happened
to take my seat was filled with soldiers,
most of them rejoining their regiments,
and a few escorting a batch of Southern
prisoners. They were bush-whackers,
taken in Western Virginia by some of
Fremont's flying columns, and were
being sent to Columbus for imprison-
ment. The party consisted of some half-
dozen or so, all well-dressed, quiet-look-
ing men, apparently of the rank of
small farmers. The younger men said
nothing, and declined all conversation
with their guardians ; but the oldest of
the band, a man long past sixty, I should
think, talked very freely, and assured
anybody who would listen to him, that
their share in the insurrection had been
entirely passive, and that the only rea-
son he had not fought for the Union
was, because civil war seemed such an
awful thing to him. " It's the same old
story, sir, they always tell," said a pri-
vate soldier to me, who had been one of
the capturing party ; and, I suspect, the
objection to civil war was one of late
adoption. The Federal soldiers, let me
add, were as quiet and well-behaved as
I have always found them. Many of
them were reading newspapers ; and
none talked loudly or offensively. In
fact, I should never wish for pleasanter
fellow-passengers ; but, pleasant as they
were, they still made the car uncom-
fortably hot ; and, before long, I, in
company with some confirmed smokers,
betook myself, in defiance of all rules,
to the broad steps fixed outside the
cars.
I don't know that there is more dan-
ger about sitting on the steps than in
sitting in any other part of the cars. If
there were a collision or a break-down,
you, sitting there, would be tossed into
the middle of the adjoining meadow,
instead of into the face of your next
hand neighbour. But, as a fact, the
great respect for law which prevails
throughout America hinders travellers
from availing themselves freely of the
seats upon the steps. At any rate,
sitting as I sat there, with my legs
dangling over the single line of rails,
the sight was a very pleasant one. Mile
after mile, and hour after hour, the
train carried us headlong through the
same pleasant, rich, flat country. You
seemed to pass, so to speak, through the
successive strata of the emigration era.
Sometimes there were long tracks of
forest land, where the axe was yet un-
known. Then you came to the half
redeemed lands, where, amidst an under-
growth of bushwood, the great trees
stood dead and leafless, ready for felling,
killed by the fatal rim notched around
their stumps. Then followed the newly
redeemed fields, with black charred
trunks still standing in their midst,
and marked out by the "snake fences,
with their unfastened rails, piled cross-
ways one upon the other. And then,
from time to time, you came upon a
tract of field land, hemmed in by tight
posts and cross-bar fences, with every
stump and trunk rooted out, and with a
surface as smooth and rich and green
as that of a Leicestershire stretch of
meadows. You could mark any stage
of the settler's life, from the rough
shanty, run up in the midst of the un-
broken brushwood, to the trim neat
farm-house, with its lawn and flower-
beds, and the children playing before
the door. The new world lay before
you, in the process of its creation : new
roads were making everywhere ; new
villages were springing up ; teams of
rough sturdy horses were ploughing up
the old fallow land ; the swamps were
being cleared of their dank reedy marsh
plants ; and the broad shallow streams
were being banked and dammed up
into deep quiet water-courses. It was
then that I first understood the poetry
of the emigrant world not romantic or
spasmodic ; but idyllic in its nature, of
the Hermann and Dorothea type. There
was nothing grand about the monotony
of the scene; not a house, in a track of a
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
1*5
imdred miles, of more than one storey
igh ; not a church spire, or a high hill
? any kind ; nothing that was old but
ie forest, and that was vanishing,
bill, throughout the whole district,
tere was the same unbroken air of
ugh comfort, and ease and plenty ;
id of want or poverty there was no
ace forthcoming. Years ago, I had
3ard the crew of an emigrant vessel,
nging the " Cheer, boys, cheer," as the
dp unmoored from its anchorage, and
rapped down the Mersey westwards,
id I had fancied that the promise of
ie song was as vain as most poet's
ramises j but now it seemed to me
lat the promise had come true, and
lat this rich western country was, in
3ry truth, "the new and the happy
nd."
A long summer day's journey carried
3 through that pleasant land ; and, as we
ime near Cincinnati, we passed again
ito. a settled country. For miles before
e reached the city, we rattled through
s suburb villages, with their broad,
ean streets, and their neat wooden
Duses, before whose doors the women,
ith their long stuff hoods, sat knitting
L the evening twilight. Eailroads
ranched out on every side ; no longer
>ugh single tracks, but smooth, broad,
Duble lines of rail. Neat brick-built
iations succeeded the wooden sheds
hich did duty for stations in the
ew districts ; and the slopes of the
w hills on either side were covered
ith green- shuttered stone villas,
hich looked as though they had been
ansplanted bodily from Kingston or
[ampstead.
Of Cincinnati, the "Queen City of
ie "West/' there is not much that I
eed say. One American city is very
ke another. It is strange, after travel-
ng for hundreds of miles through the
alf-settled country, to come in the far
^est upon a great city filled with every
ixury and comfort of Old- World civi-
zation. The stores, so it seemed to
ie, with their grand fronts and marble
icings, were handsomer even than those
P New York ; and the music shops, and
rint stores, and book stands, all told of
No. 32. VOL. vi.
wealth and taste and refinement. The
hilly slopes, too, on which the city
stands, the countless gardens, and the
rows of trees along the streets, with the
almond trees full in bloom, give the
city a brighter look than you see often
in the Northern capitals. There was an
air about the place, and I suppose not a
fallacious one, as though trade were not
thriving. The Mississippi is the great
artery of the whole Western country,
and, with the great river barred up, the
trade of Cincinnati is paralysed for the
time. Many of the stores and shops
were closed ; in many of those open
there being notices that, for the present,
business could only be done for cash.
The prices of the theatres and entertain-
ments were advertised as " reduced to
suit the times." Thefe was little ship-
ping about the wharves, and what goods
there were being shipped were mostly
military stores. Work was scarce, and
there was much poverty, I was told,
amongst the working classes, though the
country is too rich for actual distress to
be felt. The young men were gone to
the war, and the hospitals were crowded
with the wounded soldiers, Confederates
as well as Federals, from the battle of
Pittsburgh Landing.
But what struck me most was the
German air of the place and people. It
was hard, strolling about the streets, to
realize that you were not in some city
of the old German Vaterland. The
great thoroughfares and the fashionable
streets were American in every feature ;
and the only trace of Germany there
was in the number of German names
Hartmans, Meyers, Schmidts, and
so on written over the shop-doors.
When, however, you passed into the
sjiburbs and the poorer parts of the
city, everything, except the names of the
streets, was German. A sluggish canal
runs through the town ; and, with one of
those ponderous jokes, so clear to the
German mind, the quarter above the
canal, where the Germans mostly dwell,
is called " Ueber dem JKkein." Here,
" across the Rhine," the Germans have
brought their fatherland with them.
Everybody that you meet almost is
L
146
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
speaking in the harsh guttural German
accents. The women, with their squat,
stout figures, their dull blue eyes, and
their fair flaxen hair, sit knitting at
their doors, dressed, in the stupid
woollen petticoats of German fashion.
The men have still the woollen jackets,
the blue-worsted pantaloons, and the
low-crowned hats, one knows so well in
Bavaria and the Tyrol. There are
" Bier Gartens" " Restaumtions" and
"Tanz Saale" on every side. The
goods in the shop windows are adver-
tised in German, and the official notices
of sheriffs' sales and ward elections are
posted up on the walls, in English, it is
true, but with a German translation
underneath. There are German operas,
German concerts, and half a dozen Ger-
man theatres, the very play-bills of
, which are printed in the old plain small
German style, undebased by the aster-
isks and repetitions and sensation
headings which form the pride of an
American theatrical placard. Here, in
the free West, the Germans have asserted
their right to spend Sunday as they like ;
and so, " across the Rhine," the dancing
gardens are open, and the Turner feasts
take place, and the first representations
at the opera are given on the Sunday,
as in their native land. It was curious
to me to note the audience at one of the
small German theatres I dropped into
one evening. The women had brought
their babies and knitting with them ; the
men had their long pipes ; and both men
and women sat drinking the lager beer
and eating the inevitable sausages and
the " butter-brod und schinken " sand-
wiches. The play was full of true
German common-place moralities, and
the actors, inferior as they were, acted
with that conscientious laborious careful-
ness which supplies the place of talent
on the German stage. But more curious
than the resemblance to the old country
was the gradual development you would
notice in the audience, by which the
German element was being merged in
the American. The older comers had
already dropped the old-fashioned Ger-
man dress, 'and, when they talked to
each other, it was as often in English as
in German. With many, too, of the
younger generation, who had probably
been born in the New World, the placid
expression of the German face was al-
ready changed for the sharp anxious
look so universal in the native-born
American. The notion is, that the
heavy taxation which must follow this
war for years will stop the German
emigration. If so, and fresh German
blood is not poured into the old settle-
ment, the German breed will soon be
swallowed into the American ; and, fifty
years hence, the existence of the old
German quarter " across the Rhine " will
be a matter of tradition.
*THE OHIO RIVER.
"La Belle Rivtire" as the early French
settlers called the Ohio, must have been
a term applied rather to the river itself
than to the scenery through which it
runs. If you took away the villa
" chateaux " on its banks, and the pic-
turesque old Norman towns, with their
Gothic churches, I don't know that the
Seine would be a very interesting river ;
and the Ohio is not unlike the Seine,
without chateaux, or towns, or churches.
The broad rapid stream, the low sloping
hills on either side, the low waterside,
brick-built towns scattered along the
banks, form pretty well the only features
that strike a traveller passing down the
river. The first hour's sail is very
pleasant, the second is monotonous, the
third is cheerily dull ; and, after the
third, you devote your attention much
more to what is going on inside the
vessel than to the external scenery.
Happily, inside the steamer there is
plenty of interest for a stranger. The
boat itself, with its broad deck, on which
the freight is -stowed ; its long cabin,
raised on pillars above the deck, run-
ning from the bows to the stern j and
its engines, rising above the cabin, is a
strange sight in itself to an European.
The ladies, of whom we had few on
board, sat at one end of the cabin, and
the men, smokers, gathered round the
other, where they read newspapers,
liquored at the bar, and played the
Notes of a Tour through the, Border States.
147
nysterious game of " enchre." It was
rour own fault if you wanted com-
)anionship. I made a chance acquaint-
mce with a gentleman sitting beside me
,t dinner ; and, before an hour was over,
'. had been introduced to, and shaken
lands with, half of our fellow-pas-
engers, all of whom were strangers to
>oth of us. The sole objection to this
>romiscuous introduction is, that every
>ne you are introduced to asks you to
Irink as a matter of politeness. Happily,
American whisky is very weak, and, as
r ou are allowed to help yourselves from
he bottle, you can take as little as you
(lease. I was struck then, by the way,
s I have often been before, at the great
iberality in standing treat, to use a
ommon word, of the ordinary Ameri-
ans. Men to whom, from their dress
nd air, money must clearly be a matter
f consequence, will, spend many shillings
n paying for drinks to perfect strangers ;
nd, if any friend's friend, or friend's
riend's friend, is standing by, will press
dm to join them as a matter of course.
There is no ostentation, as far as I can
ee, about this custom, but a simple
eeling of rough hospitality, not over
efined, perhaps, but still creditable in
bself. I was struck, too, as I often am,
tith the extraordinary freedom with
fhicli, in the midst of this civil war,
uen of all opinions expressed their
entiments in public. We had many
Jnion soldiers on board, several Govern-
ment officials, and a good sorting of
Secessionists. We had various political
Liscussions, but all in perfect good
tumour and frankness ; and the only
pinion I did not hear expressed was
Lbolitionist either because there were
LO Abolitionists in the party, or because
Lbolitionist doctrines are too unpopular
n these border Slave States to be freely
xpressed. There was one old Kentucky
armer I was introduced to, who was
ust going home, after being kept two
aonths in prison as a Secessionist in
Columbus. He confessed openly that he
ras in favour of secession, but declared,
rhether truly or not, that he had taken
10 part for or against it, and that his
mprisonment had been due to a mali-
cious information given against him by
the Union doctor of his village, whose
conduct he had had to censure for im-
morality. "The only thing, sir," he
said, "I thought was hard, was, that I
was arrested on the very spot of ground
where our regiment was encamped in
1812, when we were drawn out to fight
the Britishers, begging your pardon,
sir." Yet this old man was conversing
in the most friendly way with another
old Kentucky backwoodsman, who had
sent three sons to fight in the Federal
army, and was asking everybody if they
could tell him whether his boys' regi-
ment had been in the battle of Pitts-
burgh Landing, and who, when he was
assured that the regiment had not been
under fire, made the comment, "Well,
I should have liked my boys to have
been in at the battle." A gentleman, by
the way, who had just returned from
the field of battle, assured me that,
amongst all the dead bodies lying
scattered over that hard-fought field, he
saw but one, rebel or loyal, who had r
been shot in the back. And this is
what my superfine friend I spoke of
last month denominates an essentially
blackguardly war, in which the officers
are cowards !
LOUISVILLE TO NASHVILLE.
There is one striking peculiarity of
a negative rather than a positive order
common to almost all American towns ;
and that is, that they have no sights.
When you have taken your first half-
hour's stroll about any town you happen
to pitch your tent in, you know as
much about it, externally, as though
you had lived there for a month. Every
town is built on the same system has
the same series of more or less extended
rectangular streets ; the same large,
spacious stores ; the same snug, un-
picturesque rows of villas, detached or
semi-detached, as the case may be ; the
same sombre churches, built in the
architectural style of St. Clement Danes,
or St. Mary's, Bryanston Square ; and the
same nomenclature of streets the same
Walnut, Chestnut, Front and Main
L2
148
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
Streets, with the same perpendicular
streets, numbered First, Second, and so on
to n th , n varying with the size of the town.
I have often wondered how, supposing
you could be put down unexpectedly in
an ordinary American town, you could
ascertain, by observation, that you were
not in England. Of course, the quantity
of mules used for the carts is not
English; the climate, at least within
the last few days, is not English; the
negroes you see loitering about the
streets, with the coloured silk handker-
chiefs, which in Slave States they wear
"bound round their heads, are, happily,
not English also ; and the street-railways
are, or rather were, un-English. Still,
the main difference is, that everything
about ycu looks so new and so unfinished ;
and this is a difference which it is easier
to understand than to describe. With
this much of mention, I have little more
to say of Louisville. There was a
sleepy, drowsy look about the place,
which I should fancy was not usual to
it. Trade was almost paralyzed by the
vicinity of the war ; and I gathered that
the heart of Louisville was not much in
the contest. Residents there, Unionists
as well as Secessionists, assured me, that
the number of sympathizers with Seces-
sion was very large in the city, though
it could number but few active partizans,
and that any reverse of the Federal
forces would be the signal for an Anti-
Union demonstration. The Confederate
prisoners whom I visited seemed in
good condition, and in high spirits ; and
the gaolers complained to me, that there
was much more charity shown by private
residents at Louisville towards the rebels
than towards the wounded Union
soldiers. If the charitable donations-
of the friends of secession included soap,
I regret to say that their " protege's "
made an unthankful return for the
kindness displayed. The Louisville
papers, though strongly Pro-Union in
language, were bitterly hostile to the
Republican party, and almost equally so
to the President, for not having vetoed
the Columbia District Emancipation Act.
In truth, Kentucky, like all the so-
called Slave States," is about equally
afraid of the triumph of its friends as
of its enemies. Let me add, that Ken-
tucky is the first state in the Union
where I have seen lottery offices in every
street, and where the old, well-known
notices in the office windows met my
eyes, requesting passers-by to try their
fortune, and win five thousand dollars at
the risk of one.
The road to Nashville lay right on
the track of the war, through Kentucky
and West Tennessee. The railroad had
only been reopened ten days or so ago ;
the Union forces had been in possession
of Nashville for little over a month ;
and the first great battle of the western
campaign was expected to take place
along the railroad, at Bowling Green
Station, and would doubtless have taken
place had not the Confederates evacuated
the position on the advance of the
Federal army. Still, the traces of the
recent war, and of the march and retreat
of great armies, were not so numerous
as I expected. Where houses are so
few and far between as they are in these
Western States, and where so much of
the country is uncultivated, it is diffi-
cult even for wanton destruction to pro-
duce much outward appearance of desola-
tion; and, besides, from the nature of this
civil war, both armies in these Border
States have proceeded on the assump-
tion that they were in a friendly country,
and have, therefore, as a rule, spared
private property. Yet, there are eviden-
ces enough of the war after all. Along
the line, of some 180 odd miles, there is
not a bridge that has not been burnt or
broken down ; ricketty wooden struc-
tures, which make a stranger tremble
at the idea of passing over them, have
been run up in their stead ; and small
detachments of Union soldiers are
posted by these makeshift bridges, to
preserve them from destruction. The
rails have often been torn up for many
hundred yards together, and the cars
run over a.newly-laid-down track-way,
side by side with the old line of rails.
There are broken-down engines too, and
burnt cars lying alongside the line tit
many of the stations ; and, wherever
there are the traces of a Confederate
Notes of a Tour through the Border States*
149
encampment, there the blackened ruins
of the roadside houses tell you of the reck-
less destruction worked by the retreat-
ing army in the despair of defeat. The
great Confederate fort of Bowling Green
struck me, on a rapid view, as of no
great military strength ; but long after
the war is over, the earthworks of the
camp on the Green Eiver, and the
shattered buttresses of the grand stone
bridges, will remain as tokens of the
great insurrection.
But, in truth, this Tennessee country
is so bright and pleasant a one, that it
would take years of war to make it look
other than prosperous now especially,
above all other seasons, in the early, and
shortlived bloom of a Southern spring.
My impression of Tennessee, like most
of one's impressions about the localities
of the Southern States, was taken from
the old nigger melody of the darkey who
fell in love with the lovely Rosa Lee,
"courting down in Tennessee." For
once the impression was a correct one,
and of all pleasant places to go court-
ing in, it would be "down in Ten-
nessee," in this pleasant April time.
As far as country goes, I should be hard
put to choose, if I had to fix my dwell-
ing-place in Ohio or in Tennessee. There
is less life, less energy, perhaps, about
the Slave State, less sign of rapid pro-
gress ; the fields are worked by negroes ;
every now and then, too, you see the
wretched wood-hovels, telling of actual
poverty things which you do not see in
Ohio ; and also, I grieve to say, when
you look closely into the Tennessee
paradise, the garden of Eden is some-
what of a dirty one.
Of all American cities which I have
seen, Nashville (or " Naisvill," as they
call it in the soft Southern accent) is the
most picturesque. Perched upon a high,
steep ridge, hanging over the Cumber-
land river, the "rocky city" is perforce
divorced from that dismal system of
rectangular regularity, so fatal to the
beauty of American towns. The streets
run up and down all sorts of slopes, and
at all kinds of angles. The rows of
houses stand terrace-like, one above the
other, and, highest of all, the capitol
towers grandly above the city. The
streets themselves are broad and bright,
shaded over pleasantly by the rows of
lime and chestnut-trees, which grow on'
either side. All round the city, on every
inequality of the broken ground, stand
well-built villas ; and the whole place
has a sort of a JSTew- World Bath air
about it, which strikes one curiously.
In happier days, Nashville must have
been a very pleasant dwelling-place ;
but now, even for a stranger, the whole
aspect of the city is a dreary and dismal
one. An American a staunch Union,
man himself described it as being like
Italian cities he had seen shortly after
the Austrians re-occupied them in '49.
But I own, to me, this description seems
externally rather over-drawn. I should
say myself that Nashville looks more
like a city still stunned by the blow of
some great public calamity. Outwardly,
it has not suffered much from its mili-
tary occupations. The Northern trains
now stop on the Edgefield side of the
river ; for the great railway-bridge, which,
spanned the Cumberland, was blown Up
by the Confederates on leaving. With
a reckless wantonness, a beautiful sus-
pension bridge was cut to pieces at the
same period, so that all communication
between Nashville and its suburb of
Edgefield has to be carried on by boats
and ferries. Otherwise, the city has re-
ceived no material injury. But, I think,
this absence of external ruin rather in-
creases the effect of the general depres-
sion visible throughout the town. When
Mr. Seward went over to Winchester the
other day, after its occupation by General
Banks' s division, a friend, who had often
disputed with him as to the existence of
a strong Union sentiment in the South,
asked him what he thought of the look
of things at the Virginian town. "Well,"
he answered, " all the men are gone to
" the wars, and all the women are she-
" devils." I suspect the same description
would not apply badly to Nashville.
The town has a deserted air. If you
took away the Union soldiers, there
would be very few people about the
streets at all. There are numbers of
negroes, apparently idling about the
150
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
town ; but the white population seems
scanty for the size of the place. Young
men you meet very seldom about, and
indeed the proportion of women to men
is unusually large. What is stranger
still is, that the children seem to have
been sent away. At any rate, contrary
to the custom of other American towns,
they are not visible about the streets.
The Union regiments quartered here are
from the neighbouring States, and one
would suppose would have many ac-
quaintances ; but there is said to be little
intercourse between the military and the
inhabitants ; while the soldiers complain
"bitterly of the manner in which the
^Nashville women express .their dislike
on every occasion. Half the shops are
closed ; and in the few of any size still
open the owners sit moodily among the
empty shelves. Trade, however, is gra-
dually reviving ; in every shop almost
you see a notice put up of " No Southern
money taken;" and the shopkeepers
are willing enough to sell what goods
they have, at exorbitant prices, to the
Union soldiers. On the walls you can
still see the half-torn-down notices of
the Confederate government; and on
a building, right in front of my hotel,
there still remains an inscription over
the door " Head quarters of the Con-
federate States Army ; " while, displayed
openly in the windows of a music shop,
I saw copies of patriotic Confederate
dance-music, such as the " Confederate
Prize Banner Quadrille," the "Lady
Polk Polka," and the "Morgan Schot-
tische." Of Pro-Union exhibition of
feeling, on the part of private indivi-
duals, I could see little trace. Over
the public buildings the stars and
stripes float gaily; but on no single
private dwelling-house have I seen a
Union flag. In the shop windows there
are no prints of Union victories ; no
display of the patriotic books and pam-
phlets, so common throughout the Union
States. In the way of business, indeed,
nothing seems stirring, except it be the
undertaking trade ; which, from the num-
ber of coffins I see about, ought to be
thriving at Nashville. Of the women
you meet, a majority are in deep mourn-
ing not, I fear, as an exhibition of poli-
tical feeling, but in memory of husbands
and sons and brothers who have fallen
on the slaughter-field of Pittsburgh
Landing. Martial law is not in force ;
but after dark the streets are almost
deserted ; sentries are posted at frequent
intervals ; and ever and anon the still-
ness of the town is broken by the jangle
of swords and spurs, as the mounted
patrols ride slowly past. All bar-rooms,
too, are closed by military orders a
circumstance which must, in itself, be
depressing to a liquor-loving, bar-fre-
quenting people ; and neither for love
or money can you obtain a drink more
intoxicating than lemonade within the
bounds of Nashville.
There is, indeed, no disguising the
fact, that the Federal government has
not received the sympathy it counted
upon in Tennessee. The belief was that
the Union armies would be hailed as
deliverers by a large portion of the
population; but hitherto, at the best,
they have been received with a sullen
acquiescence. It should be added, that
the Union party make no attempt to
represent things as more favourable
than they are, and confess the absence
of Union sympathy as frankly as they
admit all their other failures and short-
comings. The best sign,, nationally, I
see about the Americans is the resolute
fearlessness with which they look facts
in the face, even when telling against
themselves. Thus, here, the govern-
ment organ admits openly, that up to
the present time there has been no pub-
lic expression of any sympathy towards
the Union exhibited in this part of
Tennessee ; and, as proofs of returning
loyalty, the Nashville Union quotes,
with great pride, that one old lady has
sent a Federal flag to the Governor,
with the request it may be hung up in
some public spot, and that the city
council has, at last, after six weeks' occur
pation by the Federal troops, passed a
resolution : " That they cordially thank
" the officers and soldiers of the United
" States for the unexampled kindness
" and courtesy hitherto extended to
" their fellow-citizens ; and, that as
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
151
" men striving in the common work
" of re-establishing the government of
" their fathers, they pledge their most
" sincere and hearty co-operation." One
cannot help feeling that, if the Unionists
are gratified by demonstrations such as
these, they are easily contented.
However, this absence of Union feel-
ing is not so strange, or so disheartening,
as it may appear at first sight. It is
evident that the people of Tennessee, like
the people of all the Southern States,
believed sincerely that the " Lincoln
hordes" were coming down to destroy
their property, burn their houses, and
murder their wives and children. Strange
as such an illusion may be, it is accounted
for partially by the comparative isola-
tion of the South ; by the extent to which
the common people received all their
intelligence, and all their opinions from
their leaders ; and, still more, by the
morbid nervousness which the existence
of a slave population is sure to beget
amongst the dominant race. By degrees
the people of Tennessee are becoming
convinced that the Northerners have no
intention of interfering with their pro-
perty, or of treating them as subjects of
a conquered country, and that, in fact,
life and property are far safer under the
Federal Government than they were
under the Confederate rule. Again, the
war is too near at hand, and the danger
too imminent, for Tennessee to appre-
ciate fully that the battle has been
fought and lost. It is easy enough for
a spectator in the Northern States to see
that the Confederates are fighting a
losing fight, and that even a return of
fortune to their arms would only some-
what prolong a now hopeless struggle.
But, living here in Tennessee, it is not so
easy to take a wide view of the case.
If Beauregard had won the battle of
Pittsburgh Landing, or, what is still on
the cards, should defeat the Federals at
Corinth, it is quite possible, though not
probable, that Nashville might be re-
occupied for the time by the Confede-
rates ; and their return would be the sure
signal for a reign of terror, of which
all who had given in their adhesion to
the new government would be the vic-
tims. Moreover and I believe this to
be the chief explanation as long as the
war lasts there can be no cordial resto-
ration of Union feeling in any Southern
State. Men may grow convinced of the
folly of secession may even wish for the
victory of the Union ; but their hearts
must be, after all, with the side for
which their kinsmen and friends are
fighting. I suppose there is hardly a
family in Tennessee which has not some
one very near and dear in the ranks of
the Confederate army. It is this con-
flict of affections which makes all civil
war so hateful. How hateful it was, in
truth, had never come home to me till
I saw it actually. I have known, my-
self, of a wife whose husband was fight-
ing for the South, while her father and
brothers were in the Federal army. I
know, too, of a mother who has only two
sons, one in the North and the other in
the South, both fighting in the armies
that now are ranged opposite to each
other in front of Yorktown. So I, or
any one, could name a hundred instances
of father fighting against son, brother
against brother ; of families divided ; of
homes where there was mourning
whenever the news of battle came, no
matter which side had won the victory.
Let me tell here, by the way, a story,
which I heard the other day, of an inci-
dent in this war, which I have not seen
quoted elsewhere. When the news
came to old Commodore Smith that the
Cumberland, in which his son was officer,
had surrendered to the Merrimac, after
being raked by her broadsides, the only
comment that he made was, " Well, then,
my boy Joe is dead." So it proved to be ;
and shortly afterwards, Commodore
Smith received a message from his old
friend Captain Tatnall, now in command
of the Southern navy, with these words,
" I send you poor Joe's sword. I took
"it myself from the side of his dead
"body."- This was the same Tatnall
who, when the Chinese forts at the
Peiho were raking down the crews of
the English gunboats, went in to their
rescue, saying that "blood is stronger
than water after all"
I have dwelt thus somewhat at length
152
Notes of a Tour through the Border States.
on the reasons why I think the sullen
attitude of Tennessee may be accounted
for, because I am anxious not to convey
the impression, from my description, that
I believe in the Southern, or rather the
Confederate doctrine, of an innate and
unconquerable aversion between the
Southern and the Northern States.
When once the insurrection is sup-
pressed, and order is restored, I have
little doubt the Southern States will
acquiesce in what is inevitable. There
is no difference in race, or language, or
religion, to keep the two divisions of
the Union apart. Whether the differ-
ence in domestic institutions may prove
an insuperable cause of disunion, I can-
not sa$. If it should so prove, the
North will suppress or remove this cause,
before it consents to the separation of
North and South. But the time for
that is not yet.
In old English books of travel about
Switzerland, it used to be a stock remark,
that you could tell whether a canton was
Protestant or Catholic, by the relative
cleanliness or dirtiness of the towns.
How far the fact was true, or how far,
if true, it established the truth of the
Protestant religion, I could never deter-
mine ; but a similar conclusion may cer-
tainly be drawn with regard to the Free
and the Slave States. You may lay it
down as a rule throughout America,
that, wherever you find slavery, there
you have dirt also. Nashville, as I said
before, is one of the cleanest and bright-
est of towns at a distance ; but when you
come close the illusion vanishes. There
is no excuse here for want of cleanliness.
The position of the town makes drainage
easy; the stone used so plentifully is
clean of itself; and water is abundant.
The only thing wanting is energy to
keep the place clean. The hotel where
I am stopping is in itself an institution
(in American phrase) of the country.
It is the best in the city ; and Nashville
was always celebrated as one of the
most thriving and prosperous cities in
the South. Hotel-keeping is not suf-
fering, like other trading concerns, from,
the depression of the moment. This
.hotel is crammed with guests, and has
been crammed throughout the winter.
Outside, it is handsome enough ; but,
internally, I say without hesitation, it is
the dirtiest and worst-managed hotel it
was ever my fortune to stop in. The
dirt is dirt of old standing, and the mis-
management must be the growth of
years long preceding the days when se-
cession was first heard of. The bar, as
I mentioned, is closed by order; but the
habitues still hang about the scene of
their former pleasures. In the hall there
are a number of broken shattered chairs ;
and here, with their legs stretched in
every conceivable position, a number of
well-dressed respectable-looking persons
loaf all day long, smoking and chewing.
They don't seem to have anything to do,
or much to say to each other ; but they
sit here to kill time by looking at one
another. The floor is as dirty as succes-
sive strata of tobacco juice can make it;
and, at the slightest symptom of chill in
the air, the stove is kindled to a red-hot
heat, and the atmosphere is made as
stifling as the cracks in the doors will
permit it to become. The passages are
as dirty as want of sweeping can make
them; and dirty cloths, slop pails, and
brooms, are left lying about them, all
day and every day ; the narrow wooden
staircases are such as you would hardly
see leading to the poorest of attics ; and
the household arrangements are as primi-
tive as is consistent with the dirtiness pe-
culiar to civilized life. As to the meals,
their profusion is only equalled by their
greasiness, and by the utter nondescript-
ness of their component victuals. The
chicken-pie tastes uncommonly like the
stewed mutton, and both are equally
unlike any compound I ever ate before.
I can understand why it is thought un-
necessary for the negroes to waste soap
and water on washing ; but the same
reason does not apply to their jackets
and shirts, which I presume once were
white. The servants are all negroes,
and all, naturally enough, devote their
minds to doing as little work and taking
as long about it as possible. What is
more odd than all, none of the habitual
residents some of them persons of pro-
perty seem to be aware that the esta-
Hymn of the Ascension.
153
blishment is dirty and uncomfortable.
The heat of the house must be fearful
in summer, and the smells pestilential ;
for, with a southern climate, the style
of building maintained is that of the
small rooms and narrow passages of
England. Nor is this a single instance.
The other hotels in the city are worse ;
and my friends, who have travelled
through the Southern States, assure me
that, except in the very large towns, the
hotels are invariably of this order.
The truth is that, where the whites think
it beneath them to work, and where the
negroes will not work unless they are
forced, you cannot expect domestic com-
fort.
As I finish writing, a long procession
of private carriages passes by my window,
escorting a hearse to the grave. It is
the funeral of some Confederate officer ;
and this opportunity of paying respect
to the dead is always chosen by the
secessionists as the opportunity for
making a political demonstration. To
such an extent has this been carried in
Kentucky, that the Governor has issued
orders that no dead body of any Con-
federate soldier killed at Pittsburgh.
Landing should be buried in Kentucky ;
and, if the practice should continue, a
like rule will probably be enforced here.
For the present, the dead may bury their
dead in this sad Nashville city.
HYMN OF THE ASCENSION.
HE is gone beyond the skies,
A cloud receives Him from our eyes ;
Gone beyond the highest height "
Of mortal gaze or angels' flight ;
Through the veils of Time and Space,
Passed into the Holiest Place ;
All the toil, the sorrow done,
All the battle fought and won.
He is gone and we return,
And our hearts within us burn ;
Olivet no more shall greet
"With welcome shout His coming feet ;
Never shall we track Him more
On Gennesareth's glistening shore;
Never in that look or voice
Shall Zion's hill again rejoice.
He is gone and we remain
In this world of sin and pain ;
In the void which He has left,
On this earth, of Him bereft,
"We have still His work to do,
We can still His path pursue ;
Seek Him both in friend and foe,
In ourselves His image show.
He is gone we heard Him say,
" Good that I should go away."
Gone is that dear Form and Face,
But not gone His present grace ;
Though Himself no more we see,
Comfortless we cannot be
No ! His Spirit still is ours,
Quickening, freshening all our powers.
He is gone towards their goal,
"World and Church must onwards roll :
Far behind we leave the past ;
Forwards are our glances cast :
Still His words before us range
Through the ages, as they change :
Wheresoever the Truth shall lead,
He will give whate'er we need.
He is gone but we once more
Shall behold Him as before ;
In the Heaven of Heavens the same,
As on earth He went and came.
In the many mansions there,
Place for us will He prepare :
In that world, unseen, unknown, t
He and we may yet be one.
He is gone but, not in vain,
Wait, until He comes again ;
He is risen, He is not here,
Far above this earthly sphere ;
Evermore in heart and mind,
Where our peace in Him we find,
To our own Eternal Friend,
Thitherward let us ascend.
A. P. S.
154
WILLIAM BARNES, THE DORSETSHIRE POET. 1
THE Pension List of last year was
doubly memorable, as announcing the
award of an annual gratuity of 501. to
Mr. Close, in "consideration" of his
deserts as a poet; and of another,
scarcely larger in amount, to the
Reverend William Barnes, "in con-
sideration" of his acquirements as a
philologist that gentleman having given
to the world, many years ago, a collec-
tion of poems which, in the opinion of
certain good authorities, but somewhat
unscrupulous in the expression of
opinions which are not as yet those of
the public at large, are destined to
place the name of William Barnes at
the very head of the properly idyllic
poetry of England.
Mr. Barnes is now in the late autumn
of a long and usefully spent life of a
life hitherto almost without popular
distinction, and apparently well con-
tented that it should be so. As Master
of the Dorchester Grammar School,
lie has given the graver hours of his
leisure to the composition of school
books, and to philological studies which
have won for him something even
more honourable than a place by Mr.
Close on the Pension List, namely, the
notice of men like Max Miiller. His
times of lighter relaxation seem alone to
have been devoted to the composition
of those verses of which it is our opinion
that they constitute as sure a claim to
an abiding place among the British Poets
as any verses which have been produced
for a very long time past.
Some of our readers may ask, How is
it, then, that the world knows so little
of this poet ? The reply is, first, that
his poems are written in a dialect which,
while it is almost as different from
1 " Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dia-
lect." With a Dissertation and Glossary. By
William Barnes. Second Edition. London,
1847. 8vo.
" H worn el y Rhymes. A Second Collection
of Poems in the Dorset Dialect." By William
Barnes. London, 1859. 8vo.
ordinary English as that of Burns, is
spoken by a much smaller section of the
British population ; so that the number
of persons who can take up his books for
the first time, and read them off with
immediate satisfaction, is not large
enough to constitute anything like a
public capable of impressing its views
upon the larger public beyond it. If
Mr. Barnes had enjoyed the advantage,
for example, of being a Scotchman, our
present duty would have been done long
ago by others, and " Homely Rhymes "
would have been household words in
every cottage in England. As it is, this
remarkable poet has been condemned to
many years of obscurity as the penalty
of having written in a language to
which an ordinary English reader cannot
become well accustomed without some-
thing like half-an-hour's reading a
labour to which it is not to be expected
that such a reader should submit, in the
absence of compulsion from some critical
authority.
In the second place, the most essential
character of Mr. Barnes's poetry, though
precisely that which renders his ultimate
position, as a poet, most secure, is little
calculated to win immediate admiration
from any but the perfectly unsophisti-
cated in taste and the perfectly cultivated.
The improved condition of taste, in re-
spect of poetry, is a very common belief
and boast. It must be remembered, how-
ever, that, though time and disuse have
made obvious the faults of our pre-
decessors, our own corruptions of taste,
if different in kind, may be quite as
great in degree ; that exploded exor-
bitancies and conventionalities of lan-
guage may have been succeeded by
other exorbitancies and conventionali-
ties; and that, a hundred years hence,
the shortcomings and aberrations of the
school of Keats and of that of Pope
may be equally striking to the mind of
the then easily impartial reader. That,
at all events, the popular taste in poetry
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
155
is not better now than it was a hundred
years ago is a fact on which the really-
cultivated and carefully judging few are
probably agreed \ and this fact, we re-
peat, is strongly against the immediate
acceptance of a poet of whom it is sin-
gularly true that he is of no school but
that of nature.
In the third place, Mr. Barnes, in his
poems, is nothing but a poet. He does
not there protest against anything in
religion, politics, or the arrangements of
society ; nor has he the advantage of
being able to demand the admiration of
the sympathising public on the score
that he is a chimney-swee'p, or a rat-
catcher, and has never learned to read.
Mr. Barnes's poems may be divided
into Lyrics, Idylls, and Eclogues. We
shall transcribe specimens from each of
these classes, commencing with a love-
song, of which it would be difficult to
analyse the nevertheless obvious, and
very rarely equalled beauty :
JESSIE LEE.
Above the timber's bend&n shouds,
The western wind did softly blow ;
An' up above the knap, the clouds
Did ride as white as driven snow.
Vrpm west to east the clouds did zwim,
Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim' ;
Vrom west to east the stream did glide,
A-sheenen wide, wi' winden brim.
How feair, I thought, avore the sky
The slowly-zwimmen clouds do look ;
How soft the win's a-streamdn by ;
How bright do roll the weayy brook :
When there, a-passen on my right,
A-walken slow, an' treadd^n light,
Young Jessie Lee come by, an there
Took all my ceare, an' all my zight.
Vor lovely wer' the looks her feace
Held up avore the western sky :
An' comely wer' the steps her peace
Did meake a-walken slowly by :
But I went east, wi' beaten breast,
Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest,
Where rest wer' lost, vor Jessie gone
So lovely on, toward the west.
Blow on, winds, athirt the hill ;
Zwim on, clouds ; waters vail,
Down maeshy rocks, vrom mill to mill ;
I now can awverlook ye all.
But roll, zun, an' bring to me
My day, if such a day there be,
When zome dear paeth to my abode
Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.
If a test of the merit of love-poetry be
the power of recalling to the reader of
it how he felt when he too was a lover,
the whole of the above lyric, but more
especially the third stanza, must rank
very high among love-verses. Equally
charming in spirit, and even superior in
artistic completeness, is this idyll :
MILKEN TIME.
'Twer when the busy birds did vlee,
Wi' sheenn wings, from tree to tree,
To build upon the mossy lim',
Their hollor nestes' rounded rim ;
The while the zun, a-zink&n low,
Did roll along his evenen bow,
I come along where wide-horn'd cows,
'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs,
Did stan' an' flip the white-hoop'd pails
Wi' heairy tufts o' swingfcn tails ;
An' there wer Jenny Coom a-gone
Along the paeth a vew steps on,
A-bear&n on her head, upstraight,
Her pail, wi' slowly-rid^n waight,
An' hoops a-sheenen, lily-white,
Agean the evenen's slant&n light ;
An' zo I took her pail, an' left
Her neck a-freed vrom all its heft ; ^
An' she a-looken up an' down,
Wi' sheaply head an' glossy crown,
Then took my zide/an' kept my peace '
A-talken on wi' smilen feace,
An' zetten things in sich a light,
I'd fain ha' hear'd her talk all night ;
An' when I brought her milk avore
The geate, she took it in to door,
An' if her pail had but allow'd
Her head to vail, she would ha' bow'd ;
An' still, as 'twer, I had the zight
Ov' her sweet smile, droughout the night.
In this and other pieces which we
shall quote, we beg our readers to ob-
serve the poet's tact in the choice of
subjects, and his really extraordinary
moderation and artistic instinct in stop-
ping at once when enough has been
said.
It is almost the rarest quality of a
poet to be able to know a good subject
when he sees it. At least ninety-nine
poems out of a hundred even by good
writers have either too little subject,
or, what is far worse, too much. A good
poet can make good poetry out of little
or no subject ; but a preponderance of
subject an incident, or series of inci-
dents of great and obvious interest and
significance, independently of their
treatment by the poet is a difficulty
156
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
which no poet can overcome, but such
an one as appears every five hundred
years or so, with powers so transcend-
ent, that their exercise amazes and en-
grosses our minds, and all incidents
become insignificant in the presence of
the fact of such exalted human force.
Yet this is the very sort of subject
which, by the populace of writers,
readers, and critics, are alone considered
"good." The subjects, indeed, are
" good ; " but they are not good for
poetry, of which the one true subject
is the divine spirit of love and light,
which, pouring through the inspired
imagination, is reflected by everything,
and asks chiefly not to be interfered
with by foreign interests in the reflect-
ing medium. The things which supply
the true poet with his best subjects are
such as would be no subjects in the
hands of any one else. The event
which has occurred a thousand times,
the moral truism, the scene in which
we can see little or nothing, because we
have seen it so often these are the
themes which delight us most, and
most justly, when, by the poet's help,
we behold them as he, in his inspired
moments, beholds them. In the often-
revived discussion of the relative merits
of "objective " and " subjective" poetry,
both parties have been equally at fault ;
the half-truth held by each being in-
dispensable to the constitution of the
whole truth which they have missed.
" Objective " poetry, in the full sense
intended by the one party, and as in-
volving no transcendental or subjective
element, is not poetry at all, as any one
with the slightest tincture of poetic
feeling must admit. On the other
hand, purely "subjective" poetry is
an equally impossible thing, though
Wordsworth and Shelley have ap-
proached the impossibility, in some of
their pieces, almost as nearly as various
modern writers in the "old-ballad style "
have approximated to the opposite poetic
negation. The divine spirit of love
and light is, indeed, the subject of all
poetry, rightly so called ; but this
spirit is not in itself capable of being
contemplated by the human mind as a
separate entity. It ean only be mani-
fested by being directed upon other and
external things. " Light," says this
Spirit, speaking by a plenarily-inspired
tongue, "is that which maketh mani-
fest." Sensible events and objects,
then, manifested in their divine rela-
tions by the divine light, and expressed
in veise, are poetry ; and, whenever
the poet enables us to see common and
otherwise " commonplace " objects and
events with a sense of uncommon
reality and life, then we may be sure
that this divine light is present.
That " slight but perpetual novelty,"
which a gre'at critical authority has de-
clared to be the main characteristic of
poetic language, and which is only to be
obtained by the perpetual presence, in
the poet's heart, of this all-renewing
light, is, however, also the character
of the subjects which the true poet will
generally choose ; and, if we carefully
analyse any very successful lyric or
idyll which at first strikes us as being
simply a glorification of the " common-
place," we shall most often discover
that it has some " motif" as the French
well express it, which has this double
quality of novelty and slightness,
although the events and ideas which
are set in play by that "motif" are of
the most simple and ordinary kind.
In choice of subject, as well as in that
of language, the rule above indicated is
obeyed with rare felicity and uniformity
by Mr. Barnes. All true poets obey it
sometimes that is to say, when the tide
of poetical feeling runs high ; but most
poets, in the greater part of their writ-
ings, hide the absence of the feeling
which inspires this delicate poetic
novelty by " striking ideas," " magnifi-
cent images," or, at best, by imitations
and repetitions of themselves in their
few inspired moods. We warn the
thorough-going admirers of the modern
school that there is absolutely no finery
in Mr. Barnes's poetry, and that often
there is not a single line worth remem-
bering in what is, nevertheless, upon
the whole, a very memorable poem.
Take, for example, the following idyll,
called
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
157
HAVEN OON'S FORTUN A-TUOLD.
In liane the gipsies, as we went
A-milken, had a-pitch'd ther tent,
Between the gravel-pit an' clump
0' trees, upon the little hump :
An' while upon the grassy groun'
Ther smoken vire did crack an' bliaze,
Ther shaggy-cuoated hoss did griaze
Among the bushes vurder down.
An zoo, when we brote back pur pails,
The woman met us at the rails,
An' zed she'd tell us, if we'd show
Our ban's, what we shqo'd like to know.
Zoo Poll zed she'd a mind to try
Her skill a bit, if I woo'd vust,
Though, to be sure, she didden trust
To gipsies any muore than I.
Well ; I agreed, an' off all dree
A's went behine an elem tree ;
An' a'ter she'd a-zeed 'ithin
My ban' the wrinkles o' the skin,
She tuold me an' she must a-know'd,
That Dicky met me in the liane,
That I'd a-wa'k'd, an' shoo'd agie'n,
Wi' zomebody along thik ruoad.
An' then she tuold me to bewar
0' what the letter M stood var.
An' as I wa'k'd, o' Monday night,
Droo .flfead wi' Dicky auverright.
The Mil, the Mller, at the stile,
Did stan' an' watch us tiake our stroll,
An' then, a blabben dousty-poll !
Tuold Mother o't. Well wo'th his while !
An' Poll too wer a-bid bewar
0' what the letter F stood var ;
An' then, bekiase she took, at .Fiair,
A buzzom-pin o' Jimmy Hiare,
Young Cranky beat en black an' blue.
'Tis F var Fiair ; an' 'twer about
A .fiaren .Frank an' Jimmy fought,
Zoo I da think she tuold us true.
In shart, she tuold us all about
What had a-vell, or woo'd vale out ;
An' whether we shoo'd spend our lives
As maidens, ar as wedded wives ;
But when we went to bundle on,
The gipsies' dog wer at the rails
A-lappen milk vrom ouer pails,
A pirty deal o' Poll's wer gone.
If any of our readers are disposed to
value the poetry of the above at a' poor
rate on account of its rustic garb, we
beg them to attend more nearly to all
parts of this little piece which is, how-
ever, no better than the average of Mr.
Barnes's idylls to the liveliness of the
natural scene, as given in the first
stanza; to the poet's remarkable dra-
matic power of standing-off, as it were,
from his subject, and contemplating it
with what has been called "dramatic
irony/' in stanzas second to fourth ; and
finally, tp the moderation and force of
the conclusion, which has the effect of a
good "vanishing distance" in a land-
scape, of which the leading objects are
in a close foreground.
The following eclogue will not require
our praises to recommend it to an un-
corrupted taste, though its beauty
may remain an inscrutable mystery to
many perfectly sincere admirers of a
more highly- seasoned sort of verse :
FATHER COME HUOME.
John, Wife, an' Chile.
CHILE.
mother, mother ! be the tiaties done ?
Here's father now a-comen down the track.
'E got his nitch o' wood upon his back,
An sich a speaker in en ! I'll be boun'
E's long enough to reach vrom groun'
Tip to the top ov ouer tun j 1
'Tis jist the very thing var Jack an' I ,
To goo a colepecksen 2 wi, by an' by.
WIPE.
The tiaties must be ready pirty nigh ;
Do tiake oone up upon the fark, an' try.
The kiake upon the vier, too, 's a-burnen,
1 be afeard : do run an' zee, an' turn en.
JOHN.
Well, mother ! here I be, oonce muore, at
huome.
WIPE.
Ah ! I be very glad ya be a-come.
Ya be a-tired an' cuold enough, I s'pose ;
Zit down, an' rest yer buones an' warm yer
JOHN.
Why I be nippy : what is ther to eat ?
WIFE.
Yer supper's nearly ready. I've a-got
Some tiaties here a-doen in the pot ;
I wish wi' all my heart 1 had some meat.
I got a little kiake too, here, a-biaken o'n
Upon the vier. 'Tis done by this time,
though.
'E's nice an' moist ; var when I wer a-
miaken o'n,
I stuck some bits ov apple in the dough.
CHILE.
Well, father : what d'ye think ? The pig
got out
This marnen ; an' avore we zeed ar heard en,
'E runned about an' got out into giarden,
An' routed up the groun' zoo wi' his snout !
1 Tun, chimney.
2 Colepecksen, beating down apples.
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet
JOHN.
Now only think o' that ! You must contrive
To keep en in, ar else 'e'll never thrive.
CHILE.
An', ftther, what d'ye think ? I voun' to-
day
The nest wher thik wold hen ov our's da lay :
'Twer out in archet hedge, an' had vive aggs.
WIFE.
Lo'k there : how wet ya got yer veet an'
lags!
How did ye get in sich a pickle, Jahn ?
JOHN.
I broke my hoss, 1 an' ben a-fuossed to stan'
Al's dae in mud an' water var to dig,
An' miade myzelf so watshod as a pig.
CHILE.
Father, tiake off yer shoes, an' gi'e 'em to I :
Here be yer wold oones var ye, nice an' dry.
WIFE.
An' have ye got much hedgen muore to do ?
JOHN.
Enough to laste var dree weeks muore ar zoo ?
WIFE.
An' when y'ave done the job ya be about,
D'ye think ya'll have another vound ye out?
JOHN.
ees, there'll be some muore : when I done
that,
1 got a job o' trench&n to goo at ;
An' then zome trees to shroud, an' wood to
veil,
Zoo I da hope to rub on pirty well
Till zummer time ; an' then I be to cut
The wood an' do the trenchen by the tut. 2
CHILE.
An' nex' week, father, I be gwain to goo
A-picken stuones, ya know, var Farmer True.
WIFE.
An' little Jack, ya know, is gwain to yarn
A penny too, a-keepen birds off earn.
JOHN.
brave ! What wages do er mean to gi'e?
WIFE.
She dreppence var a day, an' twopence he.
JOHN.
Well, Polly ; thee must work a little spracker
When thee bist out, ar else thee wu'ten pick
A dungpot luoad o' stuones up in a wi'k.
CHILE.
Oh, ees I sholl. But Jack da want a clacker :
An', father, wull ye tiake an' cut
A stick ar two to miake his hut.
1 Hoss, horse, name of plank used by hedgers
and ditchers.
2 By the tut, by the piece.
JOHN.
Ya little wench ! why thee bist always
I be too tired now to-night, I'm sure,
To zet a-doen any muore ;
Zoo I shall goo. up out o' the w6y o' the
waggon.
For lovers of the pathetic, we extract
two little pieces, which, we confess, we
have never been able to read without a
degree of weakness into which the poetry
of recent times seldom betrays us :
ELLEN BRINE OF ALLENBURN.
Noo soul did hear her lips complain,
An' she's a-gonevrom all her pain,
An' others' loss to her is gain,
For she do live in heaven s love ;
Vull many a longsome day an' week
She bore her ailen, still, an' meek ;
A-worken while her strangth held on,
An' guiden housework, when 'twer gone.
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
Oh ! there be souls to murn.
The laste time I'd a-cast my zight
Upon her feace, a-feaded white,
Wer in a zummer's mornen light
In hall avore the smwold're'n vire,
The while the childern beat the vloor,
In play wi' tiny shoes they wore,
An' call'd their mother's eyes to view
The feats their little lim's could do.
Oh ! Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
They children now mus' murn.
Then oone, a-stoppen vrom his reace,
Went up, an' on her knee did pleace
His hair, a-looken in her feace,
An' wi' a smil&n mouth so small,
He zaid, " You promised us to goo
To Shroton feair, an' teake we two ! "
She heard it wi' her two white ears,
An' in her eyes there sprung two tears,
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Bid veel that they mus' murn.
September come, wi' Shroton feair,
But Ellen Brine wer' never there !
A heavy heart wer' on the meare
Their faether rod his hwomeward road.
'Tis true he brought zome feairens back,
Vor they two childern all in black ;
But they had now, -wi' playthings new,
Noo mother vor to shew em to,
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn
Would never mwore return.
MIARY-ANN'S CHILE.
Miary-Ann wer aluone wi' her biaby in yarms,
In her house wi' the trees auver head,
Var her husban' wer out in the night an' the
starm,
In his bizness a-twilen var bread ;
An' she, as the wind in the elems did roar,
Did grievy var Roberd all night out o' door.
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
159
But she voun' in the evemen the chile werden
well,
(Under the dark elem tree,)
in' she thought she coold gi'e all the wordle to
tell
Var a truth what his ailen mid be ;
in' she thought o'en laste in her prayers at
night,
in' she look'd at en laste as she put out the
light.
in' she voun' en grow woos in the dead o' the
night,
(Under the dark elem tree,)
in' she press'd en agen her warm buzzom so
tight,
An' she rock'd en so sorrafully ;
V.n' there laid a-nes'len the poor little buoy,
Dill his struggles grow'd weak, an' his cries
died awoy.
In' the moon wer a-sheenen down into the
pliace,
(Under the dark elem tree,)
Ln' his mother cood zee that his lips an' his
fiace
Wer so white as clean axen cood be ;
Ln' her tongue wer a-tied an' her still heart
did zwell,
?ill her senses come back wi' the vust tear
that veil.
Mr. Barnes's humour is as natural
nd effective as his pathos ; witness his
Lescription of the troubles of
THE SHY MAN.
Ah, good Measter Gwillet, that you mid
a-know'd,
Wer' a-bred up at Coom, an' went little
abroad ;
An' if 'e got in among strangers, ? e velt
His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to
melt ;
Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, 'e met
Wi' zome maidens a-tittren, 'e burn'd wi' a
het,
That shot all droo the lim's o'n, an' left a
cwold zweat.
The poor little chap wer' so shy,
He wer' ready to drap, an' to die.
But at laest 'twer' the lot o' the poor little
man,
To vail deeply in love, as the best ov us
can ;
An' 'twer' noo easy task vor a shy man to
tell
Sich a dazzlen feair maid that'e lov'd her so
well;
An' oone dae when 'e met her, his knees
nearly smote
Oone anothor, an' then wi' a struggle he
brote
A vew words to his tongue, wi' some mwore
in his droat.
But she, 'ithout doubt, -could zoon vind,
Vrom two words that come out, zix behind.
Zoo at langth, when e' vound her so smiten
an' kind,
Why, e' wrote her zome lains, vor to tell her
his mind,
Though 'twer' then a hard task, vor a man
that wer' shy,
To be married in church, wi' a crowd stan-
nen by.
But 'e twold her oone dae, " I have houses
an' lands ;
We could marry by licence, if you don't like
banns,"
An' 'e cover'd his eyes up, wi' oone ov his
ban's,
Vor his head seem'd to zwim as he spoke,
An' the air look'd so dim as a smoke.
Well ! e' vound a good neighbour to goo in
his pleace
Vor to buy the goold ring, vor he hadden
thefeace.
An' when 'e went up vor to put in the
banns,
'E did sheake in his lags, an' did sheake in
his ban's.
Then they ax'd vor her neame, an' her
parish or town,
An' 'e gied em a leaf, wi' her neaine a-wrote
down ;
Vor 'e cooden a-twold em outright, vor a
poun'.
Vor his tongue wer 7 so weak an' so loose,
When 'e wanted to speak 'twer' noo use.
Zoo they went to be married, an' when they
got there,
All the vo'k wer' a-gather'd as if 'twer' a
feair,
An' 'e thought, though his pleace mid be
pleasant to zome,
He cood all but a' wish'd that he hadden
a-come.
The bride wer' a-smilen as fresh as a rwose,
An' when 'e come wi' her, an' show'd his
poor nose,
All the little bwoys shouted, an' cried
" There 'e goes,"
" There 'e goes." Oh ! vor his peart 'e velt
As if the poor heart o'n would melt.
An' when they stood up by the chancel
together,
Oh ! a man mid ha' knock'd en right down
wi' a veather,
'E did veel zoo asheam'd that 'e thought 'e
would rather
He werden the bridegroom, but only the
father.
But, though 'tis so funny to zee en so shy,
Eet his mind is so lowly, his aims be so
high,
That to do a mean deed, or to tell oone a
lie,
You'd vind that he'd shun mwore by haef,
Than to stan' vor vo'ks fun, or their laef.
The moderation of the victim's wrath
in the following little history is ex-
tremely humorous :
160
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE
When 1 wer' still a bwoy, an' mother's
pride,
A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,
" If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride
In thease wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer'
blind-like
To what 'e had a-worken in his mind-like,
An' mounted vor a passenger inside ;
An' comen to a puddle, perty wide,
He tipp'd me in, a-grinnen back behind-
like.
Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-
like,
An' sheake my hand, where oonce 'e passed
me by,
An' tell me he would do me this or that,
I can't help thinken o' the big bwoy's trick-
like.
An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat
An' thank 'en, I do veel a little shy.
By this time, we trust that many of
our readers are satisfied that Mr. Barnes
is not only one of the few living poets
of England, but that, in one respect,
he stands out, in a remarkable way, from
other living English poets. Between all
the other poets there are more or less
intimate and visible relationships. They
might have written poetry, but not the
poetry they have written, had none of
their contemporaries or predecessors ex-
isted. But, had Mr. Barnes been himself
the first inventor of the art of writing
in verse, he could scarcely have written
verses less indebted to any other poet.
This is the more strange inasmuch as
Mr. Barnes is a scholar in many lan-
guages, and has, as we have understood,
his enthusiastic preferences for parti-
cular poets. Seldom before has the
precept " look in thy heart and write "
been followed with such integrity and
simplicity; and seldom before have
rural nature and humanity in its simpler
aspects been expressed in verse with
fidelity so charming. We breathe the
morning air while we are reading. Each
little poem is as good for the spirits as
a ramble through an unexplored lane in
the early spring. The faith we soon
acquire in the writer's sincerity is such,
that words and sentences, which would
pass for nothing in another poet, please
us. "A wise sentence 'in the mouth of
a fool is despised," but a commonplace
in the verses of Mr. Barnes is respected,
because we are sure that it was penned
by him with no commonplace feeling.
Judged by the laws according to which
the high-pressure poetry of the present
day is, for the most part, written, many
of Mr. Barnes's " Homely Khynies "
would not rank very high ; but, if that
is good writing which does us good,
this poet may compare with the best
and, after all has been said, we know of
no better general test of the merit of
prose or verse than that.
The foregoing extracts have been
selected partly with a view of showing
what Mr. Barnes is capable of doing
without the help of the ordinary de-
corations of modern poetry. The pieces
are, we think, "striking," each as a
whole, but there are few " striking
passages" in them. Intense descrip-
tion, out-of-the-way reflection, and
singular graces of diction and metre,
are but the accidents of Mr. Barnes's
poetry ; but, as accidents, they do occur,
and are the more delightful for their
sudden and unpremeditated appearance.
All these qualities, combined with an
enchanting naivete, which is all Mr.
Barnes's own, are to be found in
MINDEN HOUSE.
'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl
A vield o' hay a dae in June,
An' when the zun begun to vail
Toward the west in a'ternoon,
That only oone wer left behind
To bide indoors, at hwome. an' mind
The house, and answer vo'k avore
The geate or door, young Fanny Deane.
The air 'ithin the gearden wall
Wer deadly still, unless the bee
Did hummy by, or in the hall
The clock did ring a-hetten dree,
An' there, wi' busy hands, inside
The iron ceasement, open'd wide,
Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch
Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deane.
As there she zot she heard two blows
A-knock'd upon the runibl&n door,
An' laid azide her work, an' rose,
An' walk'd out feair, athirt the vloor ;
An' there, a-holden in his hand
His bridled meare, a youth did stand,
An' mildly twold his neame an' pleace
Avore the feace o' Fanny Deane.
He twold her that he had on hand
Zome business on his faether's zide,
But what she" didden understand ;
An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
161
Out where her faether mid be vound,
Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground ;
An' there 'e went, but left his mind
Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deane.
An' oh ! his hwomeward road wer gay
In air a-blowen whiff by whiff.
While sheen&n water-weaves aid play
An' boughs did sway above the cliff ;
Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim
The jay it had in store vor him,
An' when 'e went thik road agean
His errand then wer Fanny Deane.
How stranngely things be brought about
By Providence, noo tongue can tell,
She minded house when vo'k wer out,
An' zoo mus' bid the house farwell ;
The bees mid hum, the clock mid call
The Iwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,
But in behind the woaken door,
There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deane.
With a freshness of feeling and per-
ception which seems to belong rather
to the days of Chaucer than our own,
Mr. Barnes has a refinement in his
choice and management of metres which
is altogether of a later date. Those of
our readers who are in the habit of
noticing metrical effects will doubtlessly
have been struck with the beauty of
some of the movements in the foregoing
extracts, particularly in " Jessie Lee,"
and in the departures from the modulus
of the metre in tf Father come Hworne."
We will conclude this series of ex-
tracts from Mr. Barnes's two volumes,
which, after much meditating on what
we should say about those two volumes,
seemed the only means of doing them
justice with our readers, by a few short
passages taken from scores not less good
and characteristic.
FAIRIES.
Why, when the vo'kes were all asleep a-bed,
The viairies us'd to come, as 'tis a-zed,
Avore the vire wer cuold, an' dance an hour
Ar two at dead o' night upon the vloor ;
Var they, by only utteren a word
Ar charm, can come down chimley lik' a bird ;
Ar dra ther bodies out so long an' narra,
That they can vlee droo keyholes lik' an arra.
An' zoo oone midnight, when the moon did drow
His light droo winder roim' the vloor below,
An' crickets roun' the bricken heth did zing,
Tha come an' danced about the hall in ring ;
An' tapp'd, droo little holes noo eyes cood spy,
A kag o' poor ant's mead a-stannen by.
An' oone o'm drink'd so much, 'e coodden mind
The word 'e wer to zae to make en smal :
No. 32. VOL. vi.
'E got a-dather'd zoo. that a'ter al
Out t' others went an left en back behind.
An' a'ter he'd a-beat about his head,
Agen the keyhole till 'e wer hafe dead,
'Elaid down al along upon the vloor
Till gramfer, comen down, unlocked the door :
And then 'e zeed en ('twer enough to frighten
en)
Bolt out o' door, an' down the road lik' lighten&n.
THE WOODLANDS.
spread agen your leaves an* floVrs,
Luonesome woodlands ! zunny woodlands !
Here underneath the dewy show'rs
0' warm-air' d spring-time, zunny woodlands !
As when, in drong ar oben groun',
Wi' happy buoyisn heart I voun'
The twitt'ren birds a-builde'n roun'
Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny wood-
lands!
THE WHITE ROAD ACROSS
THE HILL.
" When hot-beam'd zuns da strik right down,
An' burn our zweaty fiazen brown ;
An' zunny slopes a-lyen nigh
Be back'd"by hills so blue's the sky ;
Then, while the bells da sweetly cheem
Upon the champen high-neck' d team,
How lively, wi' a friend, da seem
The white road up athirt the hill.
The zwellen downs, wi' chaky tracks
A-climmen up ther zunny backs,
Da hide green meads an' zedgy brooks,
An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks,
An' hearty vo'ke to lafe an' zing,
An' parish-churches in a string,
Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring,
An' white roads up athirt the hills.
THE STONE PORCH.
A new house ! Ees, indeed ! a small,
Straight, upstert thing, that, a'ter all,
Da tiake in only hafe the groun'
The wold oone did avore 'twer down ;
Wi' little winders straight an' flat,
Not big enough to zun a-cat,
An' dealen door a-miade so thin,
A puff o' wind wou'd blow en in,
Where oone da vind a thing to knock
So small's the hammer ov a clock,
That wull but miake a little click
About so loud's a clock da tick !
Gi'e I the wold house, wi'the wide
An' lofty-lo'ted rooms inside ;
An' wi' the stuonen puorch avore
The nail-bestudded woaken door,
That had a knocker very little
Less to handle than a bittle,
That het a blow that vied so loud
Droo house as thunder droo a cloud,
An' miade the dog behine the door
Growl out so deep's a bull da roar.
And there, when yollor evemen shol
His light agen the elem's head,
162
William Barnes, the Dorsetshire Poet.
An 7 gnots did whiver in the zun,
An' uncle's work wer all a-done,
His whiffs o' melten smoke did roll
Above his benden pipe's white bowl,
While he did chat, ar, zitten dumb,
Injay his thoughts as tha did come.
EVENING.
When crumpled leaves o' Fall do bound
Avore the wind, along the ground,
An' wither'd bennet-stems do stand
A-quiv'ren on the chilly land ;
The while the zun, wi' zetten rim,
Do leave the workman's pathway dim ;
An' sweet-breath'dchildern's hangen heads
Be laid wi' kisses, on their beds.
We might fill pages with the ex-
quisitely apt and simple epithets and
images with which Mr. Barnes's verses
abound such touches as " the moon
with her pale-lighted skies," " the high-
wound zongs o' nightingales," the "loose-
limbed rest of infants," the mill "wi'
whirlen stwone and streamen flour,"
cows "a-flingen wide-bow' d horns, or
slowly zwingen, right an' left, their
tufty tails ; " the squire's joints of beef
at Christmas "where oone mid quarry
till his hand did tire, an' meake but little
show;" the pond, whose "little play-
some weaves did zwim agean the water's
windy brim;" the "whitest clouds, a-
hangen high avore the blueness of the
sky ;" the fair, " where sellers buold to
buyers shy did holly roun' us, 'What
d'ye buy 1 ' " the hour " when evemen
zuns a-most a-zet, give goolden. light,
but little het." But we must devote
the small remainder of our space to
those of Mr. Barnes's verses which are
not to be found in either of his two
volumes. Here is one of the Dorset
Poet's latest idylls :
THE RWOSE IN THE DALE.
In zummer, leate at evenen tide,
I zot to spend a moonless hour
'Ithin the windor, wi' the zide
A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r,
Bezide the bow'r, vorzook o' birds,
An' listen'd to my true-love's words.
A risen to her comely height,
She push'd the swingen ceasement round ;
And I could hear, beyond my zight,
The win' -blown beech-tree softly sound,
On higher ground, a-swayen slow,
On droo my happy hour below.
An' tho' the darkness then did hide
The dewy rwoses blusheri bloom
He still did cast sweet air inside
To Jeane, a-chatten in the room ;
An', though the gloom did hide her feace,
Her words did bind me to the pleace.
An' there, while she, wi' runnen tongue,
Did talk unzeen 'ithin the hall,
I thought her like the rwose that flung
His sweetness vrom his darken' d ball,
'Ithout the wall ; an' sweet's the zight
Ov her bright feace, by mornen light."
The life of nature has seldom flowed
with more surprising and enchanting
freedom, within the strict and beauty-
making bounds of art, than in this and
some other pieces, written by Mr. Barnes
at an advanced age, and published by
him, with a quite unprecedented inno-
cence of his own standing as a poet, in
the poet's corner of a country newspaper !
We close our extracts as we commenced
them, with verses inspired by "Jessie
Lee,"
When high flown larks wer on the wing,
A warm-air* d holiday in spring,
We stroll'd, 'ithout a ceare or frown,
Up roun' the down at Meldonley ;
An' where the hawthorn-tree did stand
Alwone, but still wi' mwore at hand,
We zot wi' sheades o' clouds on high
A-flitten by, at Meldonley.
An' there, the while the tree did sheade
Their gigglen heads, my knife's keen bleade
Carved out, in turf avore my knee,
J. L., T. D ; , at Meldonley.
'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did mean,
T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deane ;
The " L" I scratch'd but slight, for he
Mid soon be D., at Meldonley."
The question whether Mr. Barnes
ought or ought not to have written his
poems in the Dorset dialect, instead of
London English, has, we trust, been
settled to the satisfaction of most of
our readers, by the poems which we
have laid before them. The rationale
of the advantage of a dialect, slightly
differing from the standard vernacular,
for the treatment of rustic subjects,
would occupy too much time in its ex-
position. The advantage has, however,
been felt and acted on by great poets,
ancient and modern, and seems too
manifest in the verses of Mr. Barnes to
require any further justification than is
supplied by the fact of the propriety of
Electricity at Work.
163
employing the actual phraseology in use
among the people whose feelings and
manners are the subject of illustration.
In our private endeavours to make pro-
selytes to our faith in Mr. Barnes, we
have more than once been amused by
hearing this twofold and contradictory
objection from the lips of one and the
same sceptic : " Why does not Mr.
Barnes write in ordinary English ? Is
not the charm, which certainly one does
feel in his verses, all owing to the
strangeness of the dialect in which they
are written 1 " The justification, how-
ever, which Mr. Barnes himself puts
forward, in his preface, for having written
in the Dorset dialect, is the perfectly
unanswerable one that his poems were
actually written by him for the edifica-
tion of the Dorset peasantry, and no
others. It is no fault of his if the
world should claim for its own abiding
treasure those effusions of which the
modest poet speaks thus :
" The author thinks his readers will find
Ms poems free of slang and vice, as they are
written from the associations of an early youth
that was .passed among rural families in a
secluded part of the county, upon whose sound
Christian principles, kindness, arid harmless
cheerfulness, he can still think with compla-
cency ; and he hopes that if his little work
should fall into the hands of a reader of that
class in whose language it is written, it would
not be likely to damp his love of God, or slacken
the tone of his moral sentiment, or lower the
dignity of his self-esteem ; as his intention is
not to show up tlie simplicity of rural life as
an object of sport, Hut to utter the happy emo-
tions with which tiie mind can, and he thinks
should, contemplate the charms of rural na-
ture, and the better feelings and more harm-
less joys of the families of the small farm-
house and happy cottage. As he has not writ-
ten for readers who have had their lots cast in
town occupations of a highly civilized com-
munity, and cannot sympathize with the rustic
mind, "he can hardly hope that they will un-
derstand either his poems or his intention;
since, with the not uncommon notion that every
change from the plough towards the desk, or
from the desk towards the couch of empty-
handed idleness, is an onward step towards
happiness and intellectual and moral excel-
lence, they will most likely find it very hard
to conceive that wisdom and goodness would
be found speaking in a dialect which may seem
to them a fit vehicle only for the animal wants
and passions of a boor. The author, however,
is not ashamed to say, that after reading some
of the best compositions of many of the most
polished languages, he can contemplate its pure
and strong Saxon features with perfect satis-
faction, and has often found the simple truths
enunciated in the pithy sentences of village
patriarchs, only expanded, by the weaker wordi-
ness of modern composition, into high-sounding
paragraphs." P.
ELECTRICITY AT WOEK.
BY DR. T. L. PHIPSON, F.C.S. LOND., MEMBER OF THE CHEMICAL SOCIETY OF PARIS, ETC.
Six hundred years before the Christian
era, Thales accidentally observed that
when a piece of yellow amber was rub-
bed, "it became," to use his own lan-
guage, " possessed of heat and life, and
attracted pieces of straw, as the load-
stone attracts iron." That was all the
ancients knew concerning electricity.
They did not observe, or rather they
made no experiments. JSTo one ever
dreamt of rubbing other. substances than
amber, or it would have been discovered
that the latter is by no means singular
in this respect.
In this obscure state did the nascent
science of electricity remain, until the
time when Dr. Gilbert, medical ad-
viser to Queen Elizabeth, discovered
that the attractive property observed by
Thales could be communicated to other
bodies besides amber, and established a
number of new and important facts by
a series of careful experiments. But
Dr. Gilbert, like most men of genius,
lived before his time ; his wonderful
work, "De Magnete," was enjoyed only
by the select few, nor did it create any
sensation till after the publication, in
1671, of Otto de Guericke's work,
" Experirnenta Magdeburgica." Then,
indeed, was the science of electricity
born. The learned burgomaster of Mag-
M 2
164-
Electricity at Work.
deburg, the inventor of the air-pump,
also invented the first electric machine,
in the shape of a globe of sulphur, about
the size of a child's head, mounted upon
a stand, and which rubbed, whilst re-
volving, against the hands of the experi-
menter.
In 1727, an English philosopher,
Grey, found that the electricity pro-
duced by rubbing glass can be communi-
cated by contact to other bodies, such
as cork, wire, &c. though the latter do
not become electric by being rubbed.
The machine invented by Otto de Gue"-
ricke gave small sparks visible in the
dark. Later, in 1 7 4 3, Winckler of Leipzic
was experimenting with a similar ma-
chine, in which he had replaced the
globe of sulphur by a glass globe, which
rubbed against an elastic cushion ; and,
in January, 1744, at the first meeting
of the Academy of Sciences of Berlin,
in presence of the Court, the sparks
from this machine were, to the astonish-
ment of all present, made to inflame a
quantity of ether in a glass cup. "Thus,"
says Professor Dove, "the light that
was kindled in Magdeburg determined
combustion for the first time, seventy-
three years later, and that in the town
of Berlin."
Experiments now multiplied unceas-
ingly, and it would require volumes to
enumerate even the more important of
them. Minerals, plants, animals, man
himself everything was submitted to
the action of this subtle " fluid," as it
was called ; and it was in attempting to
electrify the liquids, mercury and water,
that the celebrated Leyden jar and
other condensers of electricity were dis-
covered. Hence arose electric batteries
and their wonderful results. Metals
were fused and volatilized, animals and
plants killed, the nature of lightning
discovered, &c.
Already, in these earlier periods of the
science, the experiments of Benjamin
Franklin, Winckler, and Nollet, had
placed beyond doubt the true nature of the
lightning-flash ; and Franklin showed us
how we might avoid its terrible eflects,
by means of the iron rods now called
"lightning-conductors." At the same
time, a French physicist, Dalibard, desir-
ing to verify Franklin's opinion, actually
made the experiment at Marly, in 1752.
Franklin, who had recommended this ex-
periment to his fellow-labourer in Europe,
because he could not find means of accom-
plishing it in America, did not, however,
wait to hear the result. In 1753, he
took his son into a field, as a storm was
approaching, and flew a kite, to which
he had previously affixed a metallic
point. At first he got no results; but,
when the rain began, the string becom-
ing wet, and consequently a better con-
ductor of electricity, he obtained small
sparks upon a key, to his inexpressible
joy. But had Franklin used, as a string
for his kite, a thin wire of metal, or in-
troduced such a good conductor into the
string, it is probable that both he and
his son would have paid with their lives
the expense of this dangerous experi-
ment. Such a death, indeed, happened
to Eichmann, of St. Petersburg, whilst
experimenting on atmospheric electricity
by means of a long iron rod. But,
" no risk, no gain," as the saying
goes ; and from these observations arose
the useful application of lightning-
conductors, which of late years have
been brought to their greatest degree of
perfection for ships by Sir "W. Snow
Harris, of Plymouth. When a silken
string that has been gilt is submitted to
an electric discharge, the whole of the
gold is volatilized as a violet-coloured
vapour, but the silk remains unhurt.
So, in Sir Snow Harris's principle of
lightning-conductors, he puts into com-
munication, by copper conductors, all the
metallic elements of the ship, so that,
when a discharge occurs upon a vessel
thus protected, the electric vibration is
dispersed over a large space at once, and
its explosive power counteracted. Ex-
perience has taught us, indeed, that a
single iron rod, in such circumstances,
can have but little power in presence of
the electricity accumulated in some hun-
dred acres of clouds.
It appears to me and I believe Fran-
9ois Arago held the same opinion that,
if a few high towers, surmounted by very
long metallic rods, communicating pro-
Electricity at Work.
165
perly with the earth, were erected to the
south-west of our European towns, the
latter would rarely or ever be troubled
by storms. Such an arrangement would
prove especially beneficial to such towns
as Brussels, Dresden, or in the south of
France, where storms come on suddenly,
and sometimes with remarkable energy.
Indeed, it is said that the French phi-
losopher, Charles, amused himself more
than once in arresting the progress of a
storm already begun and approaching
Paris, by sending up a large kite with a
metallic string. The wooden stand to
which this kite was attached is still pre-
served in the Conservatoire des Arts et
Metiers, at Paris ; the wood seems to
have been literally roasted by the nume-
rous electric discharges that have rained
upon it. It is, indeed, evident that we
have at our command means of allaying
storms. Several experiments made by
Dr. Lining, at Charlestown, in America,
and by M. de Romas, at Nerac, in France,
place this matter beyond doubt. Arago
himself declared that the problem of
transforming thunder-clouds into ordi-
nary clouds had been solved. Now, by
subtracting their electricity, we prevent
such clouds from forming hail ; and, to
give some idea of what importance it
would be, in certain districts, to establish
a catching agency of balloons, kites,
or towers, with metallic rods, it will
suffice to mention that not a year passes
without a series of terrible storms
breaking over the south of France.
The hail damages the crops to such an
awful extent that at Rieux, Comminge,
Lombez, &c. it is not unusual to see
half, and sometimes three-quarters, of
the crops destroyed in this manner.
Some years ago an official report stated
the damage in the south of France,
after one storm, to amount to twenty-
five millions of francs (one million pounds
sterling). The kites which M. de Romas
flew at Ne"rac, the strings of which were
surrounded by fine copper wire, effec-
tually subtracted electricity from the
storm-clouds ; and, whilst his experi-
ments lasted, no lightning was seen nor
thunder heard. These kites rose only
160 yards, or thereabouts, into the air ;
and yet, in presence of comparatively
small thunder-clouds, M. de Romas drew
from the extremity of his cords flashes
of lightning, seven, nine, and ten feet in
length. Thirty such flashes were ex-
tracted by him in less than an hour,
besides a number of lesser ones about
two yards long.
Electric sparks have been very fre-
quently employed in medicine. It is
said that slight electric shocks, from a
weak battery, are beneficial in rheumatic
and paralytic affections ; and I have seen
them resorted to with beneficial (though
transient) effects in such cases. Several
cases of perfect cures in this class of
affections are, however, on record; as
well as cases of alleged cures of other
ailments.
The electric battery has been proposed
by a Belgian author, the late M. Jobard,
as an elegant substitute for the guillo-
tine !
Another useful application of the
electric spark is in the analysis of gases,
for which purpose it is frequently re-
sorted to by chemists. But numerous
and important applications of electricity,
such as the electric telegraph, electro-
metallurgy, &c. were not made until after
the discovery of Galvanism electricity
of contact, or electricity flowing in cir-
cuits.
The researches of Galvani were not
due to hazard, as the common legend
would make them ; they date from 1772,
as is seen by the MSS. deposited by
him at the Institute of Bologna, and
duly registered by the secretary. On
the 22d April, 1773, his paper "On the
Muscular Movement of Frogs " was pre-
sented to that academy. There also is
to be seen his first MS. upon the con-
traction of frogs' muscles by "artificial"
electricity : it bears the date 6th Novem-
ber, 1780, and in it he says "the frogs
were prepared as usual" an expression
which proves that this was not the first
time he had experimented with them.
Galvani found that when a nerve and
a muscle of a frog's leg are brought
into contact, a contraction ensues ; that,
when the nerve and the muscle are
connected by a metallic wire, a contrac-
166
Electricity at
tion likewise occurs ; and that, when
two different metah are used in these
experiments instead of one, the contrac-
tions are much stronger. Yolta was the
first to repeat these experiments; and
this last fact struck him so forcibly, that
it eventually led him to the discovery,
in August, 1796, of the instrument
which bears his name. The Voltaic
pile consisted, then, of plates of two
different metals brought into contact ;
by multiplying the number of these
plates (which was originally two only),
and separating them with pieces of damp
cloth, the pile was formed. The cloth
was soon replaced by an acid liquid, as
imagined by Yolta himself ; and, a little
later, Cruickshank gave the apparatus
the form of a trough, divided into cells
by a series of pairs of metallic plates,
into which was poured an acid solution.
In more recent times, the apparatus has
been modified and improved in a hun-
dred ways ; and we have Dani ell's pile,
Grove's battery, Bunsen's battery, and
many others capable of producing very
powerful effects. Economy has been
studied also in the construction of these
wonderful instruments.
By these successive discoveries man
was placed in possession of a new power
of extraordinary capabilities an agency
producing light and heat such as were
never before equalled in intensity, and
possessing a decomposing action upon
chemical compounds which he had never
before been able to separate into their
elements. Not long after Volta's dis-
covery, Xicholson and Carlisle decom-
posed water, by means of a pile of zinc
and silver plates, and saw hydrogen
gas evolved at one pole whilst oxygen
united with the metal at the other.
Then followed Davy's grand discovery
of the alkaline metals, and a host of
remarkable facts of great importance to
chemistry.
But another interesting discovery
remained yet to be made before we
realized the full benefits of this com-
paratively new agent. It was that made
by the Danish philosopher, (Ersted, in
1820, who found that wires which
carry an electric current have a curious
action upon magnets. If an electric
current passes over a magnet pointing
north-south, the latter immediately turns
east-west, and remains in that position
so long as the current lasts. Davy soon
found that the wires which carry an
electric current are in reality magnetic,
and capable of creating artificial mag-
nets (the* principle of the electric
telegraph). Then follow the remarkable
researches of Ampere, Faraday, and W.
Thomson, which bring our knowledge
of electrical force to its present advanced
state. The most powerful magnets are
produced instantaneously, by simply
causing the voltaic current to circulate
round a piece of soft iron; and, by the
aid of such powerful electro-motors, we
obtain the utmost effects that electricity
can realize.
It is curious to note the gradual rise
of electro-plating, after the chemical
properties of the Voltaic pile were
known. Long ago it had been observed
that, when an iron bar was plunged into
a solution of copper, the latter metal
was precipitated upon the iron. A Ger-
man, named Wach, appears to have been
the first to show that copper could be
thrown down from its solutions by the
electric current; and, in 1837, M. de la
Rive found that copper could, in this
manner, be made to cover bodies placed
in the solution, and model itself upon
their forms. However, the observations
of these authors seem to have been
little heeded ; and it was not until Spen-
cer, in England, and Jacobi, at Dorpat,
succeeded, almost simultaneously (and in
ignorance of each other's experiments),
in reproducing medals, &c. by means of
electricity, that this new and important
art sprang up. Electro-gilding is a little
older : it was discovered by Brugnatelli,
a pupil of Volta's, who, in 1803, found
that gold could be precipitated upon
objects in an alkaline solution of that
metal, by means of the Voltaic pile.
The process was afterwards perfected by
M. de la Rive, Elkington, Smolz, and
several others. The advantages of this
happy application are too well known to
need mention here. Before its discovery
gilding was performed by means of
Electricity at Work.
167
mercury, and the operation was both
costly and unhealthy. In the electric
process the quantity of gold deposited
is exceedingly minute, and adheres so
firmly that the object gilt presents the
same advantages as if it were of solid
gold. Upon a silver spoon, for exam-
ple, the quantity of gold deposited is
worth about threepence; and gilding
upon brass is cheaper still.
By the same active electric current
faithful copies, in metal, of statues, bas-
reliefs, medals, &c. are successfully
obtained. Not only can any one metal
be thus deposited upon another, but
they can be made to adhere, in thin
layers, to wood, porcelain, cloth, &c.
In Paris many of the large and appa-
rently bronze statues that decorate the
town are merely cast iron, which has
been covered with a layer of copper of
the required thickness, by means of the
electric current. M. Oudry, whose
workshops I visited not along ago, has
thus covei-ed several statues, fountains,
monuments, i'1-c. in France. The pro-
cess consists in covering the iron statue
with a sort of varnish, which appears
to be a mixture of plumbago and
some other matter, and immersing it in
a vast bath of sulphate of copper. The
statue is put in connexion with one
pole of the battery, whilst the other
plunges into the liquid. Copper is
uniformly deposited, and the coating
may be obtained of any thickness. Our
readers will readily judge of the enor-
mous difference between the costs of a
bronze statue and a cast-iron one cop-
pered by electricity. And yet the latter,
after being rubbed with a mixture of
plumbago and oxide of iron, is scarcely
distinguishable from real bronze, and is,
to all appearance, quite as durable as
the latter.
The roofing of houses, by means of
copper deposited by galvanism on linen,
is another ingenious application of the
useful electric current. The introduction
of flat roofs in modern edifices renders
the adoption of a metallic covering
necessary. Iron rusts too soon, lead is
too heavy, copper too expensive, and
zinc dangerous in case of fire, as it
ignites with violence. But, by soaking
linen in gas tar, covering one of its
surfaces with plumbago, and depositing
a thin layer of copper upon this coating,
by means of the electric current, we
have the very article we could wish for.
In like manner printing type, and blocks
for engraving, &c. are produced by
writing with varnish upon a metallic
surface, and then depositing copper
upon the parts not protected by the
varnish.
Calico-printers have also availed them-
selves of the electric current in various
ways ; for instance, in dyeing in figures
upon cloth. In this process the re-
quired pattern is engraved upon a me-
tallic block, and the cloth moistened
with a weak acid solution. The cloth
is then placed upon a sheet of tin foil,
or other conducting surface. The me-
tallic block is now connected with the
positive pole of the battery, and the
tin foil with the negative pole. As
soon as the engraved metal block
touches the acidulated cloth, the exposed
portions of its metallic surface are dis-
solved and incorporated with the cloth,
impressing on it the given pattern ; the
latter, though invisible, comes out, as if
by magic, when the cloth is afterwards
passed into the ordinary dyeing solu-
tions.
But I should never finish were I to
attempt to enumerate here even the
more important only of the useful ap-
plications of galvanism. When it was
discovered that a wire through which
an electric current circulates is capable
of magnetising iron immediately, the
electric telegraph became a possibility
which was not long in being realized
most completely, by the distinguished
Wheatstone. When such a wire, how-
ever long, circulates at one of its ex-
tremities round a piece of soft iron, the
iron instantly becomes a powerful mag-
net capable of attracting another piece
of iron. So that if I stretch a wire
from London to Edinburgh, and if at the
latter place this wire circulate round a
piece of iron, and then, in London, I send
a current of electricity into that wire,
the piece of iron at Edinburgh instantly
168
Electricity at Work.
becomes a magnet^ and will draw towards
it another piece of iron in its neigh-
bourhood. Such is the principle of the
electric telegraph. The motive-power,
set up in London and carried on, in an
instant, to Edinburgh, being once given,
it was the affair of the mechanic to
transform this motion into any shape
he might think proper, and so establish
a system of signals.
The electric clock is based entirely
upon the same principle ; and by means
of this ingenious apparatus and a suffi-
cient number of wires, the Observatory
of Greenwich might give the exact
Greenwich time to every town, or even
to every house, in Britain at once.
In the electric light we have another
useful effect of the galvanic current.
It is produced when the two wires of a
powerful battery terminate in charcoal
points, which are held in proximity one
to the other. As the electric current
passes from one of these points to the
other it produces an intense light.
When it was attempted to light shops
and streets by means of this powerful
luminosity, it was found too intense to
be borne with impunity by the eyes.
On the contrary, it is extremely useful
for illuminating large public works
carried on at night, or for signalling
through the dark, &c. For signalling,
Professor Way's mercurial light appears
to be preferable, on account of its steadi-
ness. It differs from the other only in
that the electric current flows over a
thin vein of running mercury instead
of from charcoal.
M. Jacobi, in Russia, M. Froment, in
France, and many others, have con-
structed a great variety of machines
worked merely by electricity. Some of
these are certainly very ingenious. I
have seen in Froment's workshops al-
most every description of machine, from
pumps and mills to pianos and organs,
all working admirably by means of a
single electric current. It is hoped, no
doubt, that the day will come when,
this force will be able to compete with
steam ; but that day has not yet arrived !
However ingenious the disposal of the
electro-magnets, not only the question
of cost, but that of power, has hitherto
been in favour of steam. In the latter
case, we burn coal to produce the steam ;
in the former, we consume zinc in the
battery to produce the current : but, as
we have already burnt coal to produce
the zinc, our readers will understand
that competition is impossible until we
have discovered a battery of great power
and slight cost. Such is the problem
which at present occupies more than
one electrician.
How would it be if we produced elec-
tricity by burning coal ] Such has, in-
deed, been recently effected. It is known
that, when the poles of a magnet are
made to revolve before the poles of
another magnet at rest, an electric cur-
rent is set up. Now, imagine a set of
enormous horseshoe magnets fixed in a
stand, and a wheel loaded with a number
of solid iron cylinders revolving before
them, and the motion being produced
by a small steam-engine. Sucl> is the
apparatus that, for some time past, has
darted the electric-light over the ocean
waves at South Foreland, under the su-
perintendence of Mr. Holmes ; and such
an one did I see in active operation at
Neuilly, near Paris, about two years ago.
The current thus produced is a very
powerful one, and the cost resides in
the amount of fuel consumed. But, even
in these advantageous circumstances, it
has been found that electricity cannot
compete with steam as a motive-power.
However, there is no cause to grumble.
How many things has electricity realized
that steam can never realize ?
The method generally used for blast-
ing rocks, or firing mines, by means of
a slow-match, is not only dangerous,
but uncertain. Now, many years ago,
Franklin had an idea that this operation
could be advantageously performed by
the electric current. Although this ap-
peared simple enough at first, it was
some time before the idea could be
turned to account practically. That the
thing is thoroughly practicable, however,
was amply seen when the submarine
cable was laid between Dover and Calais :
a cannon placed upon the cliffs of Dover
was shot off by the electric spark of a
Electricity at Work*
battery at Calais. But this wonderful
experiment could only be performed
with a battery composed of a hundred
and forty Bunsen's elements. At pre-
sent, Mr. Statham and Vicomte du
Moncel have invented apparatus, by
means of which mines can be exploded
with a very much smaller battery.
When no great obstacles lie in the way,
it is doubtful whether we need have
recourse to them ; for blasting rocks,
even under water, can be effected by
passing an extremely fine and short
piece of platinum wire through the body
of the charge, contained in a water-
tight cartridge. "When the current passes
through this wire, the latter glows with
an intense red-heat, and explodes the
charge.
Rheumatic and other patients have
received benefits from the electric cur-
rent flowing from a weak apparatus, so
as to deliver a series of mild shocks to
the parts affected j and recently elec-
tricity has been applied in an ingenious
manner, to extract poisonous metals,
such as mercury, lead, &c. from the
human body. To effect this, the patient
is placed up to his neck in slightly
acidulated water, in a zinc bath, isolated
by gutta-percha, and being isolated him-
self from the sides of the bath by a
gutta-percha seat. Holding in one hand
the positive pole of the battery, gold,
silver, mercury, &c. flow from the pores
of his body, and fix themselves on the
sides of the bath, which constitutes the
negative pole. These experiments were
tried in New York in 1852, and commu-
nicated to the Academy of Medicine at
Paris in 1853, by MM. Vergnes and
Poey. A patient that had taken mer-
cury fifteen years before the experiment
had a considerable quantity of that
metal extracted from his body in this
electric bath.
It has been proposed to extract silver,
gold, and mercury, from their ores in a
similar manner. Becquerel, in France,
has undertaken to treat this subject, and
has, indeed, resolved the problem, in a
scientific point of view ; but the process
has not yet been put in operation prac-
tically.
I pass over hundreds of experiments,
some of which have already had their
practical results, while others promise to
become useful hereafter. I shall con-
clude this paper, by relating briefly an
experiment of my own. Reflecting upon
the powerful decomposing chemical force
with which we are furnished by the
electric current, it occurred to me that I
might be able to render sea-water po-
table, by decomposing and extracting its
salt, by means of a moderately powerful
battery. The experiments were made
in Ostend a few years ago. My appa-
ratus consisted of three vessels contain-
ing sea- water ; the centre one contained
the water to be operated upon, the two
others communicated with the two poles
of the battery. The three vessels were
connected by two bent 1 tubes filled
with sea-water. As the only battery I
could procure in Ostend was rather
weak, I passed the current through the
water for about fourteen hours, after
which one of the outside vessels had
become acid and the other alkaline.
The sea-water was then filtered through
charcoal, and was nearly drinkable. It
would have been, I doubt not, quite
potable had the battery employed been
more powerful. As it was, I found it
difficult to extract the last particles of
salt ; and the water, after subsequent
trials, still presented a slightly brackish
taste. I have not had an opportunity
of repeating this experiment since ;
but, from the results obtained, I think
it probable that sea-water may be ren-
dered potable by means of the electric
current.
170
PASSING EVENTS : THE CONSERVATIVES AND RETRENCHMENT.
LAST month we had occasion to point
out that the end and crown of all Mr.
Gladstone's financial measures was peace,
and, in virtue of his noble purposes, we
took the liberty of dubbing him the
Peace-minister of Britain. Since we
last wrote, important events have hap-
pened in the British world of politics,
which prove that his title to the name
is not undeserved. Mr. Gladstone began
his march towards the goal that is so
near his heart, in windy and cloudy
weather, amidst the cold looks and the
discouraging prophecies of all but a few
of his own class. Already, the wind
has changed, the sky is clearing, and
omens of future victory have begun to
meet him on his way. The unpopular
creed of Manchester is growing into the
favourite religion of the Liberal party ;
and retrenchment of expenditure may,
possibly, before long, become a general
cry, even with educated Englishmen.
Such is the natural result of the inge-
nious and wonderful budgets of the last
few years. So long as indirect taxation
distributed the burdens of national extra-
vagance over the highest and the lowest
classes alike, those who virtually were
responsible for the amount of our expen-
diture scarcely knew and scarcely cared
what price the country was paying for
the measures that seemed to them so ne-
cessary. Our foreign policy was settled
by a polished and comparatively speaking
opulent minority. The upper classes alone
held the strings of the purse, while the
masses helped to fill it. The generosity
of the English gentry and the middle
classes is too well known to need
praise or apology here. Nor can the
most cynical observer doubt that the
feeling of national insecurity, during
the last six years, has been a real and
sincere one. The danger was considera-
ble ; and, had vast sacrifices been neces-
sary to avert it, vast sacrifices would
have been willingly made by all parts of
the community, and by none so gladly
as by those who have been the foremost
to proclaim the wisdom of war-taxes.
But of all ills, the greatest perhaps that
can befall a nation is that of having its
foreign policy carved out for it by its
upper classes only. The discomforts of
war and of that state of armed expec-
tation, which is nearly as bad as war,
are lightly felt by the luxurious, the
educated, and the refined. Strong sen-
timent, patriotic exaltation, the noble
instincts of pride, ambition, and devo-
tion, all assist them to bear the moderate
pressure put upon them at such times.
The war if war it be is probably a,
war which it has been in their power to
accept or to decline. The consciousness
that they are fighting, or preparing to
fight, for a cause of their own choosing,
gives them strength, patience, and even
pleasure. But beneath the level to which
the suffrage reaches far below the reach
of Parliamentary influence or power
lie the great masses, who in peace time
have few comforts^and in war time have
many miseries. The political virtues of
the "great unenfranchised" will not
be lightly spoken of by those who have
watched all through this last spring the
brave endurance of the Lancashire opera-
tives. Yet, whatever the extent of their
political virtues, it is not so easy for
" the people " to accept cheerfully the
privations imposed upon them by the
unhesitating patriotism of those above.
Few of the many writers and orators
who clamour so eagerly for a spirited
Foreign policy, are aware, indeed, of
what these privations are. The rich
man consents of his own free will to
give up luxuries : the poor man, despite
himself, is compelled to retrench in
necessaries. Nor does it alleviate the
keenness with which such hardships
are felt by the poorer classes, to know
that the country which expects of them
perpetual self-control, and occasional
self-sacrifice, denies them a share in her
counsels. However far-sighted and
honest the policy adopted, the only
thing they have to do with it is to dis-
i
Passing Events : The Conservatives and Retrenchment. 171
charge the bill, in the shape of increased
prices on articles of necessary consump-
tion and in diminished wages. Such a
state of things is neither good for the
nation nor for the temper of its labour-
ing classes. They have a right to say
what some day they will say as im-
petuously as those who now pretend to
speak for them "Give us a veto on
" your policy, or else take the financial
" burdens of that policy upon your-
" selves."
By throwing the strain both of the
war expenditure of the day, and of the
great financial changes inaugurated in
the Budget of 1860 upon the Income
tax, Mr. Gladstone has succeeded in
bringing home to the minds of the
upper, as well as of the lower classes, a
sense of the blessings of economy.
The country, at least, will henceforward
know what offensive and defensive
armour costs. ISTor does the lesson
seem libely to be wasted. The " milch
cow" of the landed interest begins to
feel that she is being overmilked, and
turns round to look her milkers in the
face. This change has been accomplished
suddenly and deftly. Six weeks have
scarcely elapsed since Mr. Gladstone
was a solitary missionary preaching in
the wilderness ; and lo ! the gospel of
economy is now proclaimed openly upon
the housetops by men of every shade of
opinion. Sir Stafford Northcote and
Mr. Disraeli take their place among the
prophets, and the secret cause of their
sudden conversion is not obscurely in-
dicated in the fact that, while both sing
the praises of retrenchment, one of them
incidentally inveighs against the late
I inopportune repeal of indirect taxes.
How long is it since Mr. Disraeli has
j been impressed with the impropriety of
I taxing the country to maintain " bloated
I armaments " ? A year ago, judging
from his own language, he certainly
; believed that our great military ex-
j penditure was fully justified by the state
i of Europe and of Britain. Towards
I the end of April, 1861, he distinctly
' defended "bloated armaments," and
officiously upheld what he imagined to
; be the views of one portion of the
i Cabinet, against what he [thought the
economising tendencies of the member
for the University of Oxford. It
was a time when scandal whispered in
all political circles of imaginary dissen-
sions between the Prime Minister and
his Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then
Mr. Gladstone's unpatriotic failings and
Lord Palmerston's patriotic virtues
were Mr. Disraeli's theme. " It is not
difficult/' he retorted, in answer to a
homily of Mr. Gladstone's, "to point
" out the author of this expenditure,
" and I believe that, in acting as he has
" done, he has been governed by a high
" sense of duty, and that he does not
" shrink from the responsibility of the
" course he has pursued. No doubt it
" is the Prime Minister of England."
Thus spake Mr. Disraeli on the 29th of
April, 1861. On the 9th of May, 1862,
we have arrived at a very different condi-
tion of affairs. Expenditure now is
"extravagant," and armaments are
"bloated." So long as the naval de-
fences and the military preparations of
the kingdom were to be at the expense
of paper manufacturers and trade, Mr.
Disraeli was all for arming and prepar-
ing. As soon as it seems clear that the
Income-tax is to carry us through this
" exceptional period " of national excite-
ment, Mr. Disraeli is anxious for the
" exceptional period " to be over. He
deftly strips himself of all his old prin-
ciples and views, and sets himself to
run a race of strict economy with his
great financial rival.
The increase in the naval expenditure
of Britain and of France in the last
twenty-five years has been so startling,
that no one who has observed it can fail
to regret the sad necessities ifj indeed,
they be necessities in which it has
originated. Twenty-five years ago, the
total amount spent on the British navy
was4,788,76U In 1859, it had mounted,
by successive stages, to 11,072,2432. The
French marine estimates rose in a like
manner from two and a half, to eight and
a half millions ; and the annual wealth,
of the world, accordingly, owing to the
mutual jealousies or suspicions of Britain
and of France, for many years has been
lessened by twelve millions of pounds.
The labour of nearly 80,000 English
172
Passing Events : The Conservatives and Retrenchment.
sailors is consumed in our Royal navy
alone : not counting the naval reserve.
In France half that number are em-
ployed in the task of watching over the
honour of the French flag. The French,
indeed, suffer more acutely than our-
selves from this embarrassing rivalry.
The whole merchant trade of that country
is paralyzed by it. The system of mari-
time inscription, devised by Colbert in
an evil hour for the commercial pros-
perity of France, virtually keeps every
sailor, fisherman, shipwright, and naval
workman at the disposal of the Govern-
ment for the whole of his life. Upon
the terrible Government inscription list
all are entered who either have served
on any sea-going vessel for eighteen
months, or who are employed as labourers
in the ship-yards. They are liable at
any moment to be impressed ; and, once
classed among the maritime reserves,
none can be removed from it without
making a written declaration that they
have abandoned for ever the sea and all
maritime pursuits. No officer of the
merchant service can hope to arrive at
the position of captain who has not spent
twelve months on board a man-of-war.
No naval contractor can ever be sure
that the greater number of his hands
may not be taken from him by official
requisition, at the very moment when
he is most in want of them. The pros-
pect, therefore, of maritime hostilities
makes itself felt all through the length
and breadth of the French seaboard. A
hardy, industrious, and seafaring people
by nature, the sea-coast population of
France is being taught to hate the sea.
They are driven to agriculture and other
inland occupations, in which, though
wages are lower, they will have the
happy compensation of knowing that no
official interruption is possible. It is
true that, with the increase of French
commerce, the strength of the maritime
inscription increases too. It does not
increase, however, as it would under
more favourable circumstances. The
beneficial effect of the certainty of a long
peace upon the trade of France would
be incalculable. The interests of the
two countries, therefore, are the same in
fact. Peace and retrenchment are the
desire of every French fisherman, ship-
builder, shipwright, and trader. Enough
has been done in their eyes to vindicate
the honour of the French eagles. It
remains to be seen whether this im-
poverishing contest of resources is to
last as long as there is a bare possibility
of war between the two natrons : a pos-
sibility which, from the nature of things,
must last as long as the world itself.
Can the naval expenditure of both coun-
tries be simultaneously cut down 1 "What-
soever nation," says Bentham, "should
get the start of the other, in making the
proposal to reduce and fix the amount of
its armed force, would crown itself with
everlasting honour." " There is a vacant
niche in the Temple of Fame," says the
statesman, who, of all statesmen living,
would have been most after Bentham' s
own heart, "for the ruler or minister
who shall be the first to grapple with
this monster evil of the day."
Mr. Cobden is of opinion that the
self-defence of this country is carried on
upon an exaggerated scale ; " that our
colonial possessions are an expensive
encumbrance to us ; and that the code
of maritime international law which we
uphold is full of dangerous quicksands,
on which the peace of the country may
any day be wrecked. Mr. Disraeli most
assuredly cannot agree with three articles
of faith which are distinct condemna-
tions of three fashionable Conservative
opinions. He has, however, something
in common with Mr. Cobden; and
Manchester, with surprise, may admire
its own ideas in the mouth of Bucking-
hamshire. If the leader of the Oppo-
sition, and his party, are anxious to take
up the cause of retrenchment, every-
body will hail with pleasure the accession
of such a crowd of interesting converts.
While we cannot but suspect that many
patriotic virtues flower and bloom on
the healthy soil of Opposition, which
wither as soon as they are transplanted
to the ministerial parterre, we may say
at once that we shall discuss the question,
without arriere pensee, on the assumption
that Mr. Disraeli is sincere.
The prospect of a continuation of our
present expenditure is so disagreeable,
that, if Lord Derby or his friends have
Passing Events : The Conservatives and Retrenchment.
173
a nostrum for ensuring perpetualpeace,
we shall be only too happy to hear
of it. Mr. Disraeli's recipe consists in
a closer adherence to the policy of the
French Emperor. Our self-defence, he
thinks, is adequate and complete. There
is no longer any fear in this country of
invasion. There is no desire for aggran-
dizement. If, therefore, we are still
arming, we must be arming to maintain
an offensive and anti-Gallican influence
at the Council Boards of Europe. Between
the ambassadors of the two nations at
the various capitals of the Old and of the
New World alike, there is dissension, not
harmony. Disunion between Britain
and France on the subjects of Italy and
America such is the fruit of a Whig
Administration. Instead of an entente
cordiale, we have suspicion and dissimu-
lation. In place of all this, the leader
of the Opposition offers us the happy
prospect of a Conservative Cabinet, and
we are bound to assume harmony
with France.
It is a serious question how far an
offensive and defensive alliance with
France is either possible or desirable.
France, by her restless temperament,
her pride, and her keen love of novelty,
is fitted to play a part on the Continent
in which no one who knows the charac-
ter of Englishmen can expect that they
will join her. The French nation, as
far as politics are concerned, appear to
possess the faculty, which is so peculiar
to Southern races, of carrying theory
boldly into action. It is an expensive
taste to cultivate. This country, for-
tunately for her pocket, has less of a
decided mission for reforming or recon-
stituting Europe. But, while our popular
habits lead us to abstain from the in-
terventions and expeditions of which
France is fond, we can afford both to
admire the courage and sympathize with
the liberality of the French foreign
policy. Whatever Napoleon III. may
be at home beyond his own frontiers,
at least, he is the champion of progress
and of liberal opinions. The approba-
tion with which the results achieved by
him are viewed in Britain is strongly
tempered, even in Liberals, by dislike
and fear of the man. But the Conserva-
tive party must perforce be the last to ap-
preciate a policy which is so diametrically
opposed to their own. In foreshadowing
a possible union between a Conservative
and a French Cabinet, Mr. Disraeli, ac-
cordingly, speaks of he knows not what.
These sounding promises are little better
than a fanfaronnade. Their author
ought to know by this time that the
Conservatives have it not in their power
to offer us what he professes they can.
There is as much in common between
Napoleon III. and the party to which
Mr. Disraeli belongs, as there is between
the iron and the silver age. Mr. Disraeli's
antiquated statesmanship is an appanage
of the past. With all its faults rest-
less and aggressive as it may not unna-
turally be deemed the foreign policy of
the French Emperor belongs to the pre-
sent and to the future. All Conservative
ideas are based upon a horror of Conti-
nental change. But the Imperial pro-
gramme is built upon a generous con-
fidence in the truth of Liberal principles,
and in the necessity for a reconstitution
of Europe. The Derbyite party is ready
to do battle for Austria, reaction, and
the treaties of 1815. The Emperor has
crushed the two former and torn the latter.
Darkness and sunlight cannot be more
thoroughly dissimilar than the European
views of Lord Malmesbury and of the
Cabinet of the Tuileries. Mr. Disraeli
who may not be unwilling to hold out
the hand of friendship to Sir George
Bowyer and the Catholics considers,
indeed, that the temporal power of the
Pope should not be interfered with, and
grounds his theory of a French entente
cordiale upon the extraordinary hypo-
thesis that the French Emperor is of a
similar opinion. In reality, the eldest
son of the Catholic Church is more anti-
Papal than the leader of the Protestant
Opposition. Shackled by the difficulties
of his own position at home, Napoleon
III. is not anxious to precipitate matters
on the Tiber, nor can he be expected to
invite upon the head of himself and his
dynasty the undying anger of the Roman
priesthood. But Mr. Disraeli must be
strangely blind if he does not see that
the Imperial Revolutionist has decided
on the Pope's downfall, though he is
Passing Events : The Conservatives and Retrenchment.
fully determined to bide his time. The
mills of the gods grind slowly at the
TuilerieSjbut they grind exceeding small.
In advocating the recall of the French
regiments, Lord Palmerston's Ministry
are not therefore urging a measure which
the Emperor regards with antipathy,
but simply a step which seems to him
to be premature. As for Mr. Disraeli's
& priori theory about the Pope's in-
dependence, it may safely be consigned
to that serene haven where the lunar
traveller in " Orlando Furioso " found
the charter by which Constantine first
granted it. Lord Palmerston, by one
happy gesture, disposed of the strange
suggestion that His Holiness enjoyed
more freedom under the protection of
foreign bayonets than he would do in
exile or in retirement. He may leave to
the common sense of the public to judge
whether, in adopting the opinions of the
French ultramontane bishops, Mr. Dis-
raeli and his followers are likely to gain
much favour with the French Emperor
himself. Past experience tells us that a
Conservative Cabinet, in times of Euro-
pean unrest, is not unlikely to be brought
into collision with the French empire.
After the recollections of 1859, it is curi-
ous that we should be informed that the
Tories must return to office if we wish
to be at peace and unity with France.
What the leader of Opposition offers,
amounts, then, in plain terms to this
that he is prepared to throw the weight
of Britain into the scale to prevent the
formation of a united Italy. But to
maintain Pio Nono in the Vatican is to
keep alive the seeds of a religious war
in Europe, to perpetuate the discontent
of all Italians, and to leave standing a
continual motive and excuse for the
interference of Austria beyond the Po.
The foreign policy which proposes to
effect this may be moulded upon the
mostfamous precedents, but it can hardly,
by the utmost stretch of fancy, be
thought either peaceable or cheap.
When he turns to America, Mr. Dis-
raeli's programme is equally to be con-
demned from his own point of view.
There, as in the Old World, he selects
some temporary interest which it is the
passing object of France to protect, and
reproaches us for not abandoning all
our political principles in order to pro-
tect it also. The gossip about M.
Mercier and Lord Lyons, which he has
reproduced in the House of Commons,
maybe dismissed here, with the more plea-
sure, because it has been twice formally
contradicted by the Premier. But, if
M. Mercier or Lord Lyons have been at
variance, it would not ease our position,
as Mr. Disraeli suggests, to follow
France into those pro-Southern pro-
clivities, which the growing distress in
her southern provinces has long been
tempting her to display. When Con-
servatives insist that Lord Lyons
should defer more completely to M.
Mercier, they either mean nothing, or
else, they mean that we should have
been prepared to lend more thorough
moral support to the Secession. It may
be asked again is this programme a
programme which would ensure us peace
or financial economy ? The great Ame-
rican war, which has attracted the atten-
tion and impoverished the commerce of
two hemispheres, is, at last, as many
believe, drawing to a conclusion. It
does not leave us where it found us.
The conduct of a large portion of the
English press, the insane blindness of
even the most noble of English states-
men, have, by this time, succeeded in
exasperating thoroughly the North.
From the beginning, the wish that the
South might be victorious has found
vent in ill-natured prophecies of dis-
comfitur.e to the Union party ; and it
must be remembered that, in times of
national convulsion, continual dis-
couragement, or predictions of coming
failure, may well seem, to a distracted
people, to be acts of distinct unfriend-
liness. We have been neutral in word,
but not in will. The consequence is,
that we have placed ourselves in real
danger of a proximate collision with
the restored Union. If we have to
fight for Canada we shall know whom
to thank. With this gloomy prospect
staring us in the face, we are told
virtually, if not in so many words, that
we should have followed more com-
pletely the lead of the French Emperor
in the American question. To have
Passing Events : The Conservatives and Retrenchment.
175
done so would have been to have
purchased a momentary unanimity with
France at the fearful price of the ani-
mosity of the New, and of the scorn of
the Old World. While we should have
for ever sacrificed the good will of
America, we should have reaped but
little benefit on the side of France.
To have encouraged Napoleon III. to
rake the blockade of the Southern
coast, on account of its many irregulari-
ties, would have been in reality to trade
upon his domestic difficulties. There is
a cotton party as there is an ultra-
montane party in France. In joining,
however, in this cry, we are not doing
our best to assist the Emperor. We
are only swelling his embarrassments.
It is not an essential part of
his policy to assist at the break-
up of the great American empire,
which hitherto has usually shown
a strong inclination to side with the
French, even against ourselves. The
Emperor has special and exceptional
reasons for interference at the present
moment which we have not. The
trade of France is smaller than our
own, and a commercial crisis in the
cotton trade falls most heavily upon a
manufacturing population which has few
resources except the miserable one of
complaint. It is a natural consequence
of the French system, that when the
people are out of work the Govern-
ment is blamed ; and the failure of
cotton reacts not merely on the popu-
larity but upon the stability of the
Executive. The present conflict be-
tween the Federals and the Confederates
damages the French- American trade as
much as it damages the trade between
America and England ; and the dis-
comfort at Eouen and Mulhausen has
been fully as great as in any of our
Lancashire towns. Nor is it only the
import of cotton that is affected by
the war. The French silk trade is
subject to great fluctuations originating
chiefly in the same cause. The silk
trade is the national trade of France.
Silks to the value of 160 million francs,
out of the 460 millions exported from
that country, go to America. On the
one hand the French silk trade has
been, for many years, in a ver} r cri-
tical condition. It has never recovered
the worm-disease of 1853 ; which, on
the contrary, has been assuming, year
by year, the most terrible proportions.
On the other hand, it is peculiarly the
trade of poor men. Power-looms are
very little used ; it being impossible,
in the opinion of the Lyons manu-
facturers, to produce rich plain silks
in perfection except by hand. The
looms themselves are the property of
poor owners ; and, as hand-looms weave
much more slowly than power-looms,
a larger number of workmen are kept
in pretty constant employ than, at
first sight, would seem reasonable, con-
sidering the amount of result produced.
While the weaving is carried on by
home hand-looms belonging to the
poorer classes, the silk-growing, too, is
chiefly in the hands of peasants. A
very large and needy class are, there-
fore, dependent entirely upon the trade.
Though there has been more ac-
tivity this spring in the Lyonnais
than could be looked for, the pros-
pects of the next silk crop are said
to be unfavourable. The Emperor is
therefore keenly interested in a speedy
termination of the Transatlantic contest.
But he is by no means interested, as
much as Mr. Disraeli supposes, in the
triumph of the South. His end would
be perfectly answered by their reduc-
tion, provided that the embers of revo-
lution are not permitted to smoulder
in the interior, and to disturb the
cotton crop for one year more.
The leader of the Opposition has
fallen into the error of confounding
accidents with essentials. French policy
seems, for the moment, to be in favour
of the maintenance of the Vatican and
the disruption of the Union. In
reality, the phase is a passing one in
both cases. Exceptional circumstances
prevent France from following her
natural bent in the opposite direction.
Mr. Disraeli seizes on the superficial
exceptions and forgets the great truth,
that the foreign policy of France, as a
whole, in spite of many shortcomings,
is not reactionary, but liberal from first
to last.
176
Passing Events : The Conservatives and Retrenchment.
With such a policy, how can those
sympathize who are wedded to the
treaties, the constitutions and the diplo-
macy of the past generation? Another
Italian war, a contingency which,
though remote, is not impossible, would
bring the Conservatives to the same
political confusion as that which over-
took them three years ago. Would
they fling Austria or Venice this time
to the winds'? Would they espouse
the cause of Yictor Emanuel or of
Antonelli? It is evident which they
must do, if they are to be led by the
counsels of their chiefs. Nor is the
Italian question the sole question that
may put them to a cruel choice. It is a
crucial test of their real political tenden-
cies, but it does not exhaust the book of
future chances. On all great occasions,
is it too much to prophesy that they
will be found in the opposite camp
to Csesar ? They will foment, though
they may not have the courage to join,
anti-French alliances. They will believe
and act as if national honour consisted
in upholding the prejudices of old
times. They will be friends with the
crowned heads and not .with the na-
tionalities ; with the priests and not
with the people. They will again (as
they have done before) allow Europe to
drift into war for the want of a bold
declaration that Britain is on the side
of justice and of right. They will
paralyze the sword of nations whose
missionary genius is more fervid than
our own. In the East, they will adhere
to that miserable policy of obstruction
which considers British interests in
the Adriatic a sufficient reason for
interfering with the natural decay of
barbarism, and, so to speak, for fighting
against God. By way of rendering
their foreign position more untenable,
they will at once insist upon maintain-
ing an invidious attitude on the sea-
board of the Mediterranean, and ref use to
accept the wise changes in international
law, which would render that invidious
attitude unnecessary. They will close
their eyes to all the commercial ad-
vantages of increased good feeling be-
tween this country and the Continent,
and adhere to the reserved and suspicious
tone, which has ended by isolating us
far more from the rest of Europe than
fifty British Channels need have done,
if we had been wise. Such, briefly, is the
vista which a Conservative Government
opens before our eyes. Is this the
policy, we have a right to ask, of Re-
trenchment ? Conservatives ! is this
Peace]
From such a policy, we should turn
with relief even to the alternative
offered us by men of less education and
refinement. The programme of Mr.
Cobden and Mr. Bright is not a popular
one, but it would be the wiser pro-
gramme to accept, if the choice were
limited to these. Under the shadow of
the Great Exhibition, which this last
month has been erected, the industry
of nations is collected together for
the second time in eleven years. The
building that so many have come to see
is bristling with cannons and implements
of war. Have the eleven years brought us
nothing but a sad disbelief in the
possibilities of general tranquillity?
What future lies before us in the next
eleven years to come ? We need not go
far for an answer which will be suffi-
cient to satisfy everything except an
idle curiosity. We shall have the
future that we carve out for ourselves.
Britain will secure the quiet of the
world as she shapes her own foreign
policy. In looking back on the late
decade, it is not difficult to see, or to
fancy one can see, many steps, which,
had they been taken, might have
averted the two great conflicts by which
the prosperity of the period has been
broken. It is in vain to cast the
Russian and the Italian war in the
teeth of philanthropy. They are only
a reproach to the sagacity and to the
courage of British statesmen. Wars
are the result, partly of human pre-
judice and passion, but mainly of
political indecision and mismanagement.
Then, and then only, when we have
exhausted every attempt to make our
foreign policy a wise and a temperate
one, shall we have a right to attribute
its disastrous consequences to the folly
and wickedness of mankind.
MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE
JULY, 1862.
THE FREE WEST.
BY OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT IN AMERICA.
LOUISVILLE TO CAIRO.
ALL railroad systems are perplexing to
a stranger ; but the American is about
the most. What with State divisions, and
impassable rivers, and competing lines,
and the enormous distances you have
to travel over, it would be hard to steer
one's course aright through the railroad
labyrinth, even if you had available
time-tables to steer by. But what makes
the matter worse is that not, except at the
railway stations, and very seldom there,
can you find any time-table at all.
There is no revealed evidence as to
American railroads, and so you have to
base your faith on natural laws, and sup-
port it by "undesigned coincidences"
from the reports of hotel-keepers and
fellow-travellers. Still, as in other
matters, knowledge so derived is not
conclusive, and you may possibly argue
falsely.
I myself am a case in point. On the
walls of my hotel at Louisville, there
was a glowing advertisement, that the
shortest route to Cairo, St. Louis, Kan-
sas, and the Pacific Ocean, was by the
Ohio and Mississippi and the Illinois
Central, and that the express train
started nightly at eight o'clock. The
report was confirmed by collateral testi-
mony on the part of the bar-keeper ; and,
trusting to it, I started on my road, under
the belief that barring accidents I
should be carried to my destination with-
out unnecessary stoppage. The train
was, in truth, an express one ; and,
No. 33. VOL. vi.
throughout the night, I slept luxuriously
in the sleeping cars, rocked to sleep, not
unpleasantly, by the swaying motion of
the train as we dashed onwards through
the level country.
But joy in this instance did not come
with the morning. It is not pleasant at
any time to be woke up at 5 A.M. ; still
less to be tumbled out, chilled, half-
awake, and out of humour, on the plat-
form of a lonely roadside junction ; and,
least of all, to be then and there in-
formed that the branch train does not
leave for fourteen hours. The fact is,
according to the appropriate American
phrase, "I had not made good con-
nexions " and the result of my error,
was that I had to spend a livelong broil-
ing day at Odin Junction. In the
" Dame aux Perles" of the younger
Dumas, there is a long account of how
the artist-hero, in his hunt after the
pearl-clad Duchess, was detained for some
awful period (if I remember rightly, by
want of funds), at a junction on the
plains of Gallicia. The story had well-
nigh faded out of my memory ; but, as I
stood there shivering on the platform of
Odin city junction, the whole scene rose
to my mind, and I recalled with dismal
distinctness how the luckless Oscar
loitered about that dreary lonely station,
where there was nothing to read, nobody
to speak to, nowhere to walk, nothing
to do, nothing even to watch for, except
the arrival and departure of the trains.
There may seem no great hardship in
being kept a day in a strange place where,
178
The Free West.
at least, you can spend some hours in
strolling about and making yourself ac-
quainted with it ; but the fatal pecu-
liarity of my case was that, when you
had walked once up and down the plat-
form you literally knew the whole coun-
try as well as if you had lived there for
years. It is impossible to conceiye a
country more hopelessly, irredeemably
flat and bare, and unbroken. As far as
the eye could stretch, the rich green
pasture land of Illinois stretched away,
unbroken by a single tree, like the sur-
face of a vast billiard board. I believe,
because I have been told so, that when
you stand on the sea-shore, you can see
fifteen miles of sea ahead ; if so, from
the platform of the station, which was
raised a foot or two from the ground,
you must have seen fifteen miles of plain
in any direction. In the far distance on
either side of the line there rose a grey
belt of trees, where the settlers had not
yet carried out the clearings ; but this
belt, and the telegraph poles, and a score
or two of scattered houses, were the only
objects which rose above the dead sur-
face. The narrow single track of the
railroad seemed to be drawn out, like a
line of wire, till it dwindled out of sight,
the two furthest points visible at either
end being in a straight line with the
spot on which I stood; and, for miles and
miles away, you could see the railway
trains after they had left the station.
In half a dozen years there will pro-
bably be a large town at Odin Junction,
and already, as the inhabitants told me,
the city had made a surprising start.
But, as yet, it requires an American's
faith in the doctrine of development to
foresee the greatness of Odin. At
present you can number its houses on
one hand. There is the station, the
hotel, one settler's house alongside, and
two shells of houses all wooden, by the
way in the process of building. Within
a walk, you see about as many more scat-
tered over the fields. And this is all.
The odd fact, however, about this, as
about all new American settlements, is,
that it has not to develop from a village
into a town, but that it starts into exis-
tence as the fragment of a town. So
here in Odin (why the junction
should be named after the Northern
hero god, I cannot guess) there is an
hotel large enough for a town of a
thousand inhabitants. The one com-
plete settler's house is as pretty and
comfortable a cottage " orne," with its
snow-white walls and green shutters,
and neat out-houses, as you would see in
Cincinnati ; and the two houses in the
course of building will be, when finished,
of a like size and look. The ground
is already marked out for the church
and school-house, and you can see that
the buildings are all arranged so as
to form the main street, with the rail-
road running through it. When that is
finished, there will run out Walnut and
Chesnut Streets parallel to it, intersected
by the numbered thoroughfares, and the
houses now built or building will take
their places naturally in Odin city.
It must not be presumed, however,
that the whole of these reflections were
made upon the platform. Odin Junc-
tion, like many other things in America,
turned out better on near inspection
than at first sight. The hotel, like all
hotels in the Free States, was clean and
comfortable, and, as the owners were
Germans, the cooking was wholesome.
Somehow or other, the day passed lazily.
We breakfasted at six, dined at twelve,
had tea at six, and supped at eight. All
these were strong substantial meals, each
the counterpart of each other, and con-
sisting of steaks, eggs, ham, cakes and
coffee. Our table consisted of one or
two travellers, detained like myself, of
the railway officials, guards, clerks, and
porters, of the workmen who were
putting up the houses hard by, and of
the landlord's family. Eating takes up
a good deal of time, and digesting takes
up a good deal more, and watching the
new house-building was a quiet and not
laborious amusement. The builder was
an Englishman, who had emigrated
young, had been a cattle-driver in
Kansas, had made money there, set up
a store in St. Louis and failed, and was
now beginning life again as an old man,
and as a carpenter. He had never
touched a tool, he told nie ; for twenty
The Free West.
179
years, and had never learnt carpentering;
but he had a knack that way, and, when
he came to Illinois, and found there was
no carpenter near Odin, he turned to
the trade, and seemed sanguine of build-
ing most of the city. He had orders,
he said, already for twelve houses on
hand. Most of the inhabitants in Odin
were Germans, and preferred talking
German to me, when they found I
understood it ; but the children talked
English, and hardly understood their
mother-tongue.
There was one beauty, and one beauty
only, about the scenery. On that flat
pasture prairie land, and beneath that
burning sun, the shadows cast by the
passing clouds swept to and fro in
deep dark masses. In our hilly, wooded,
hedge-divided country, you cannot see a
cloud's shadow thrown in its full glory,
as you could here, hour by hour.
Watching them pass lazily, I specu-
lated on a thought that has often crossed
my mind of late, What must be the effect
on a nation's character of being born
and reared and bred in a country like
this, where there is nothing grand about
its scenery ; where, even such beauty as
there is, is so protracted and extended,
that it becomes monotonous by repetition 1
One effect it has had already, and, I think,
inevitably. The one " grand " thing
about American scenery is its vastness j
and so, to the American mind, mere
size, simple greatness, has an attraction
we in the Old World can hardly realize.
There is much that is ludicrous about
the expression of this feeling, and
English critics have taken hold freely
of its ludicrous side ; but I am not sure
that there is not also something grand
about it. When a settler here boasted
to me of the future greatness of Odin,
the boast struck me at first as absurd ;
but I thought afterwards that it was
this belief and pride in future great-
ness which had settled and civilized the
new world whereon I trod. And so the
day passed by, and night came on,
almost at once, as it does in these
southern countries, after the sun's set-
ting.
A long night again, and then another
early waking, this time not on a platform,
but in the middle of a swamp. Some
eight miles above Cairo the whole
country was under water, and the line
was flooded. However, alongside the em-
bankment, in the midst of a forest stand-
ing knee-deep in water, there was a flat
platform-shaped barge, with a steam
engine in the middle, which, in some
mysterious way I am not engineer
enough to explain propelled the raft,
for it was nothing else. We were a
long time getting off, for the train was
loaded with medical stores on their road
to Corinth, in expectation of a battle.
It was hard work getting the unwieldy
cases down the steep embankment ; and
harder still, dragging on board the
coffins, of which there were numbers,
sent by friends far away, to receive the
remains of soldiers who had died at
Pittsburg Landing. Whatever may be
the faults of Americans, they work hard
when they are about it ; and in course of
time the raft was loaded till it sank
flush with the water's edge. Fortunately,
the water was not deep ; and, moreover,
I have impressed upon myself the
advice which an American friend gave
me, when I set out on my journey, that
the one thing needful in American
travelling is implicit faith.
I presume that in ordinary times a
road runs through the forest over whose
track we sailed. At any rate we fol-
lowed an opening through the trees.
Our raft, which was about as unwieldy
in steering as the Monitor (judging
from what I saw of that much-vaunted
miracle), had a way of jamming herself
in between trunks of trees, and then
had to be strained round by ropes back
into the current. At other times she
got aground, and had to be punted off
with poles ; and, when she was clear
afloat, she would run foul of floating
trunks of trees, and swing round the
way she wanted not to go. Happily
the current was so rapid that it carried
us over every difficulty ; and, somehow
or other, dodging our heads constantly
as we passed under the overhanging
branches, we made way slowly. It was
a pretty scene enough in the bright
N2
180
The Free West.
fresh morning, when the leaves wore the
first green tint of spring, and the sha-
dows of the great trees were reflected
in the water beneath the rays of the
rising sun. So winding our way through
the forest swamp, we came out on the
Ohio river, and there shipped ourselves
and our freight on board a steamer
which bore us down the rapid river to
where its waters join the Mississippi, at
the city of Cairo.
There are some places in the world
which when you get to, your first
thought is, How shall I get away again 1
and of these Cairo is one. There is a
Yankee legend that, when the universe
was allotted out between heaven, earth,
and hell, there was one allotment in-
tended for the third department, and
crowded by mistake into the second,
and that to this topographical error
Cairo owes its terrestrial existence.
The inhabitants boast with a sort of
reckless despair that Cairo is also the
original of the valley of Eden, in which
the firm of Chuzzlewit & Co. pitched
their location ; and a low hut is pointed
out, which Dickens is said to have had
in his mind when he described the
dwelling where Mark Tapley immor-
talized himself. The description of the
Chuzzlewit journey down the Mis-
sissippi is utterly inconsistent with this
hypothesis; but I felt it would be
cruelty to deprive my Cairo informant
of the one pleasant reminiscence which
the city could aiford. The Mississippi
and the Ohio meet at an acute angle,
and on the low, narrow neck of land
which divides the two, stands Cairo.
The whole town is below the level of
the river, and would be habitually
under water were it not for the high
dykes which bar out the floods. As it
is, Cairo is more or less flooded every
year ; and, when I was there, the whole
town was under water, with the excep-
tion of the high jetty which runs along
the Ohio. On this jetty the one great
street of the town the railroad runs ;
and fronting the railroad are the hotels
and stores, and steamboat offices. On
the further side of the jetty stretches a
town of low wooden houses, standing,
when I saw them, in a lake of sluggish
water. Any thing more dismal than
the prospect from my windows, out of
which I looked over the whole town,
can hardly be conceived. The heat
was as great as that of the hottest of
the dog-days with us, and the air was
laden with a sort of sultry vapour we
hardly know of in England. A low
mist hung over the vast waters of the
Mississippi and the Ohio, and stole
away over the long unbroken line of
forests which covered their fruitless
banks. The sun burnt down fiercely
on the shadeless wooden city; and,
whenever there came a puff of air, it
raised clouds of dust from the dry
mounds of porous earth of which the
jetty is formed. The waters were
sinking in the lagoon, and the inhabi-
tants paddled languidly in flat-bottomed
boats from house to house, looking to
see what damage had been done. A
close fetid smell rose from the sluggish
pools of water, and fever seemed written
everywhere. Along the jetty alone there
were signs of life, and even that life
was dismal. Long trains of empty lug-
gage-vans were drawn up on the rails,
in which the poorer settlers had taken
refuge when they were driven out of
their dwellings by the flood ; and in
these wretched resting-places whole
families of women and children were
huddled together miserably. The great
river steamboats were coming up con-
stantly from the camp at Corinth,
bringing cargo-loads of wounded and
sick and disabled soldiers, who lay for
hours along the jetty, waiting for the
means of transport northwards. There
were piles, too, of coffins not empty
ones, but with the dead men's names
inscribed on them left standing in front
of the railway offices. The smoke of the
great steamboat-chimneys hung like a
pall over the town ; and all day and all
night long you heard the ringing of
their bells, and the whistling of their
steam, as they came in and out. The
inhabitants were obviously too dispirited
to do what little they could have done
to remedy the unhealthiness of their
town. Masses of putrid offal, decayed
The Free West.
181
bones and dead dogs, lay within eye-
sight (not to allude to their proximity
to the nasal organ) of the best dwellings
of the city. The people in the street
seemed to loaf about listlessly, and the
very shopmen, most of whom were
German Jews, had barely energy enough
to sell their goods. And in all Cairo
there was not a newspaper printed a
fact which in an American city speaks
volumes for the moral, as well as phy-
sical, prostration of the inhabitants.
The truth is, that Cairo is a depot for
transhipping goods and passengers at
the junction of the Ohio, the Mississippi,
and the great Illinois central railroad.
There is money to be made here, and
therefore people are always found to
come and settle at Cairo for a time ;
but the time, either by choice or stern
necessity, is always a very short one.
At first the wounded soldiers from the
army before Corinth were sent up here ;
but the mortality amongst them was
found to be so great that the hospitals
were closed, and the sick shipped up
the river to Louisville and St. Louis, far
away as they are from the scene of
action.
RACINE CITY.
It had been my purpose to go on,
from Cairo, to the camp of the Western
army, and the battle-field of Pittsburgh
Landing. Shortly, however, before my
arrival I found that very stringent orders
had been issued by General Halleck
against allowing civilians to visit the
army ; and any attempt to obtain a pass
would have necessitated a reference to
head-quarters, and consequently a delay
of many days at Cairo. There was ague
in the bare idea, and so, unwillingly, I
turned my steps northwards to the Free
States of the West. A long day, and a
longer night (counting time by sensation,
and not by hours), brought me to the
shores of Lake Michigan. I had tra-
velled, straight almost as the crow would
fly, from the south to the north of the
State of Illinois, along the line of which
General M'Clellan was President, not
long ago, with less satisfaction to the
unfortunate shareholders than, I trust,
he will afford ultimately to the American
people. One day's scenery on a Western
railroad is the counterpart of another.
A track of forest, a vast space of open
prairie land, a marshy lagoon, a broad
river, a cluster of wooden houses, called
a city, and an endless series of fertile
fields, surrounded with snake fences
these are the elements of the scenery
through which you pass. Arrange tho
picture, day by day, in different order
fill it up with herds of cattle, teams
drawn by oxen, long stretches of rough,
unmade roads, and scattered homesteads
dot, here and there, at long intervals, a
fine stone mansion, a hotel, or seminary,
or charitable asylum throw over all a
clear, bright sky and a gorgeous sunlight
and you will have before you the
journey I took to-day, or yesterday, or
which I am going to take to-morrow.
So, too, day after day, the company you
meet with in the cars, and the incidents
of your journey, are inevitably the same.
You take your seat in a long open car,
about the length of two English railroad
carriages fastened together and with all
their compartments knocked down. The
seats are comfortable enough, except
that it is wearisome having no back
high enough to lean your head upon;
and what is a real luxury in a long
journey you can walk up and down in
the broad passage between the seats.
Every half-hour or so, a boy passes
through the car with a can of iced water,
from which you can have a drink for
nothing ; while at other times he brings
apples, oranges, and toffee for sale, toge-
ther with a bundle of papers and maga-
zines. It is an odd " trait," by the way,
of national character, that, if the sale of
his books is flat, the newsboy will come
and lay down a copy of his magazines or
illustrated papers alongside of every pas-
senger in the cars, and leave it with him
for half an hour or more. You may read
it meanwhile ; and, if you return it to
the boy, on his coming round again, he
will thank you all the same. M!ost of
the passengers, of course, reti rn their
copies j but, every now and then, some
one, who had no intention of purchasing
182
The Free West.
beforehand, becomes interested in a story
lie has taken up, and buys the maga-
zine. There is nothing to hinder any
one from appropriating the book without
paying for it ; but in this, as in other
small matters, it is the habit to repose
great confidence in the average honesty
of the public, and that confidence is
rarely found to have been misplaced.
Three times a day, you are summoned,
at some roadside station, by sound of
gong, to a meal, which is called break-
fast, dinner, or supper, according to the
hour, but which is the same everywhere,
and at all times. You eat plentifully of
beefsteaks, ham, poached eggs, pastry
without end, and cakes ; drink milk, or
tea, or water never beer or any spi-
rituous liquor ; and then take your seat
again, and sleep, or talk, or read, till the
next feeding-time arrives. At the inter-
mediate stations, you only stop for a few
seconds. The moment, almost, the train
has stopped, you hear the standard cry
of " All on board ! " and then the train
is again in motion. Indeed, all the
arrangements for taking tickets, letting
passengers in and out, and for loading
and unloading luggage, are more simple
and more perfect than those in use on
any of our European railroads ; all of
them being based very much on the
assumption that, as a rule, the passengers
don't mean to cheat the conductors, and
the conductors don't mean to cheat the
company.
Every traveller in every foreign
country must have remarked how very
like at first everybody you met was to
everybody else ; but in America this
sensation wears off less rapidly than in
other lands. Especially in the West,
this uniformity in the dress and ap-
pearance of your fellow-passengers is
wonderfully striking. If you took a
railway-train in England, entirely filled
with second-class passengers increased
largely the proportion of commercial
travellers, and of that class we hear so
much of and see so little of at home,
the "intelligent mechanic" utterly eli-
minated anybody who looked poor,
according to our English idea of poverty,
and added an unusual number of pretty
young girls and faded women you
would form an average car's company in
America. I don't mean to say far from
it that you never meet people in the cars
here who might ride in our English first
and third classes ; but there are certain
classes whom you never meet, or think
of meeting at home, except in a first or
in a third-class carriage, and to these
classes, there is nothing corresponding
to be found in the living freight of an
American car. There is not much con-
versation; the carriages are too noisy,
and there is too little privacy for confi-
dential communications. What talk
there is, is all about the war, or politics,
or on the local trade. Everybody,
however, is quiet, well-behaved, and civil,
almost without exception ; and there is
little or nothing of that offensive selfish-
ness so often displayed amongst English
railway travellers, in the attempt to
make oneself comfortable at the expense
of everybody else's discomfort. The
common politeness too, shown to women,
is very remarkable. It was pleasing to
me, also, to observe how kindly the
wounded soldiers, of whom we took up
and put down numbers during our
journey, were helped about, and looked
after, by their fellow-travellers, and how
eagerly the story of their battles was
listened to by the knot of passengers
collected round them. There was an old
man, seated in front of m, who had
just been down to Shiloh to fetch home
his son, a lad of seventeen or so, who
had fallen sick after the battle of Pitts-
burgh. I shall never forget the pride
with which the old man listened to his
son's story over and over again, and
how, as new passengers came in, he kept
suggesting anecdotes to the boy, which
he wished the new comers not to lose
the hearing of.
Meanwhile, I have been a long time
getting to Racine city. Very few of my
readers will probably be aware that there
is such a city as Racine in the world,
still less where it is placed. It must be
a map of pretty recent date to have the
name inscribed on it. It will be suffi-
cient, however, to say, that it is on the
western shore of Lake Michigan, sixty
The Free West.
183-
miles north of Chicago city ; and, if the
reader does not know where the lake
and the city are, he can find them by
looking. There is nothing remarkable
about Eacine, or worthy of description ;
and it is for that very reason pardon
the paradox I wish to describe it.
Years ago, there was a man who invented
a machine which turned out hexameters,
(real Latin ones, not nondescript ones
of the Clough or Longfellow cast).
There was no meaning in them, but
the words placed in the machine were
so arranged, that, in whatever order they
happened to turn out, they placed them-
selves in hexameters. Now, if you had
wanted to give a specimen of a machine-
made hexameter, you would not have
picked out a line in which, by some
strange chance, there was a faint glim-
mering of sense or poetry, but one with
the true ordinary meaningless monotony.
Now, all Western cities seem to have
been turned out by a city-making
machine, warranted to produce a city of
any size at the shortest notice; and,
therefore, in describing the cities of the
West, any average one will stand for
all the more average a one the better.
Private circumstances, moreover, caused
me to see a good deal of Racine, and,
indeed, made my stay so pleasant there
that I shall always think gratefully of
the dull little town on the shores of the
great inland sea.
Eacine stands upon the " Root" river.
Whether the town is named by trans-
lation from the river, or the river from
the town, is a moot point on which the
historians of the place are divided.
Some persons suggest that the con-
nexion between the names of the town
and river is purely accidental, and that
the city was named after the French
tragedian. It may well be so. There
is no limit to the eccentricities of
American nomenclature ; and there pro-
bably are a dozen towns in the United
States named after Eacine, andEousseau,
and Comeille. Whatever doubt there
may be about the reasons to which the
name of Eacine is due, there is no tradi-
tional uncertainty about its birth and
origin. There are men of middle age,
now living in Eacine, who have lived
through the whole life of the city, and
who yet came here as full-grown men.
A quarter of a century ago, when General
Jackson, as President, suppressed the
State Bank of the Union, hundreds
of new banks sprang into existence, and
flooded the country with an extemporized
currency. Then followed a period of
wild speculation, chiefly in the lands of
the North-western territories. Steam-
boats were then first coming into full
use, and through the chain of the great
lakes, hundreds of thousands of emi-
grants, from the Eastern States, were
carried by steamboats to the western
shores of Lake Michigan. The banks
failed ; there was a commercial crisis ; the
speculators were ruined ; but the emi-
grants remained. The prairie land was
fertile and required no clearing; the
Indians were few and peaceable; and
communication with the civilized world
was cheap and expeditious. In a few
years the country was colonized far and
wide, and towns sprang up on every
side. It was then that Milwaukee, and
Chicago, and Racine were founded.
"Veni, vidi, sedificavi," should be the
motto of Western settlerdom, so rapid
is the growth of cities in the West.
From some cause or other, of the three
sister cities, Eacine has been the least
prosperous. Chicago has gone a-head
so fast, that Eacine has been altogether
distanced in the race, and bears the
reputation in the West of a sleepy
humdrum place. To an Englishman,
however, its quarter of a century's
growth shows wonderful enough.
Along the shores of the lake there
stretches a low steep sandy cliff, and
upon its summit stands the city of
Eacine. Looking out on the great lake,
there is little at first to tell you that
you are not standing on the shore of
the ocean. There is no trace of tide,
and the air brings with it no savour of
the salt sea ; but the horizon on every
side is bounded by water alone. Great
ships with snow-white sails may be seen
passing into the far distance ; and, when
the wind blows from the lake, the waves
roll in upon the coast with a deep roar
184
The Free West
and splash, as though they had been
driven across the ocean. The Eoot
river, with its dock and warehouses, and
schooners and swing bridges, has a sea-
port air about it, which, if not the real
marine article, is a wonderful imitation
of it. Along the brow of the cliff runs
the Main Street of Racine ; and, as usual,
a series of streets, parallel with, and at
right angles to Main Street, completes
the town. The whole place looks very
new newer far than it should be, after
some six-and-twenty years of existence.
Houses in this part of the world are
short-lived. As fast as a settler makes
money, he pulls down his house and
builds up a new one. All "Western cities
hold to the earth by an easily snapped
cable. If a householder gets tired of
his position, he puts his house on wheels
and decamps to another quarter. The
lake has of late made inroads on the
cliffs of Eacine, and, when I was there,
many of the residents on the cliff were
moving their houses bodily to a safer
locality. What with frequent fires, and
the passion for house-building, there are
probably few houses in Racine which
remain such as they were when they
were first built; and the settlers are
now far older than, their houses. So
the Main Street of Racine is one of the
most straggling and irregular of streets.
Every now and then there is a block of
office buildings, which would not be
out of place in Broadway or in Cannon-
street ; next door, there is a photographic
establishment, consisting of a moveable
wooden hut ; then, in the aristocratic
extension of Main Street, a sort of sub-,
urban avenue, there is every style and
grade of building. The favourite order
of architecture is a kind of miniature
model of the " Madeleine," at Paris, in
wood. Even the office where the local
dentist tortures his patients is entered
beneath a Corinthian portico, supported
by fluted wooden pillars of six feet in
height. But amidst these wooden
dwellings, each standing in its own
garden, there are to be found stone
mansions, such as you might see in
Palace Gardens, or in the more aristo-
cratic terraces of Upper Westbournia.
Then there is a public square, a park, a
court-house, and a dozen churches and
chapels, and meeting-houses of every
denomination. The town is rather at a
stand-still at present, in the matter of
internal improvements, as, by different
jobs and speculations, the corporation
has contrived to run itself about 80,000.
into debt. The street-lamps, therefore,
are not lit, though there is a gas factory
in the town; and the roads are left
pretty much as Nature made them.
However, better times are expected for
Racine. In a few weeks a line will be
opened connecting it directly with the
Mississippi; and then it is hoped that it
will compete successfully in the grain
trade with its rival Milwaukee, and that
the harbour, on which 12, OOOZ. have been
expended by the town, may become the
great port for the Eastern trade.
It is curious, as you stroll about the
streets of Racine or, for that matter,
of any other small Western town to
notice the points of difference between
it and an English county town. The
differences are not very marked ones.
You never see in England a high street
like the Main Street of Racine ; but each
single house might stand in an English
street without exciting notice. There
are some slight features, however, about
the town which would tell you at once
you were out of England. The footpath
is made of planks. The farmers' carts,
with which the street is filled, are very
skeletons of carts, consisting of an iron
framework, supported by high narrow
wheels, on which a small box is swung,
barely large enough for the driver to sit
upon. Big names are in fashion for desig-
nating everything. The inns are 'Houses,'
or ' Halls ' ; the butcher's is the ' Meat
Market ' ; the dentist calls himself a
dental operator ; the shops are * Stores,'
1 Marts,' or * ' Emporiums ' ; and the
public-houses are ' Homes,' ' Arcades/
* Exchanges/ or * Saloons.' There is
nothing, indeed, corresponding to the
old-fashioned English public-house. The
bar-rooms, of which there is a large
supply, are externally like common
shops, except that the door is covered
by a wooden screen, so that the drinker
The Free West.
185
is not exposed to the gaze of the passers
in the street. Here, by the way, as
elsewhere in the States, you never see a
woman even in the poorest of bar-rooms.
The shops themselves are about as good,
or as poor, as you would find in a town
of the like size (Eacine has 12,000 inha-
bitants) at home. "What is un-English
about them is the number of German
labels and German advertisements ex-
hibited in the shop-fronts.
The amusements of Eacine are about
as limited as if it stood in our midland
counties. Judging from the posters of
ancient date which hang upon the walls,
a passing circus, an itinerant exhibition
of Ethiopian minstrels, and an occa-
sional concert, are all the entertainments
afforded to the inhabitants. Some of
the street-advertisements would be no-
velties to English townsfolk. A Mrs.
Frances Lord Bond is to lecture on
Saturday evenings on spiritualism; a
fancy fair is to be held for the
Catholic convent of Saint Ignatius ;
and a German " choral- verein " is to
meet weekly for the performance of
sacred music. Then, even in this remote
and far-away corner of the States, there
are the war advertisements. The Mayor
announces that a great battle is expected
daily before Corinth, and requests his
townspeople to provide stores before-
hand for the relief of the wounded. The
Ladies' Aid Committee informs the ladies
of Eacine, that there will be a sewing
meeting every Friday, in the Town Hall,
where all ladies are requested to come
and sew bandages for the Union soldiers
every lady to bring her own sewing-
machine. Then there is the requisition
of the Governor, calling for recruits to
fill up the gaps in the ranks of the Wis-
consin regiments who were cut to pieces
on the field of Shiloh.
Of course, a town of the importance
of Eacine must have a press. In more
prosperous times, there were three dailies
published here ; but times are bad, and
the dailies have collapsed into weeklies.
These are the Advocate, the Press, the
Democrat, and a German paper, the
Volks-Blatt. As a sample of a Western
country newspaper, let me take a copy I
picked up of the Racine Advocate. It is
of the regular four-page, unwieldy Eng-
lish size, and_costs six shillings annually,
or five half-pence a single number ; and
is headed with a poetical declaration of
faith, that,
" Pledged but to truth, to liberty, and law,
No favours win us, and no fear shall awe."
The advertisements, which occupy two
of the four pages, are chiefly of patent
medicines, business cards, and foreclosure
sales. The local news, as in all American
country papers, is extremely bare ; and
there are no law reports, or accounts of
county meetings. The politics of the
paper are staunch Eepublican and Anti-
Slavery; and the leading articles are
well written, and all on questions of
public, not local, politics, such as the
Confiscation Bill, General Hunter's pro-
clamation, and the taxation question.
There is a short article, headed " LL.D.
Eussell," which I will venture to say is
contributed by an Irishman. " It was
" with no little satisfaction," so the Ad-
vocate states, "that the loyal people of
" the North saw the announcement that
" ' Our Own Correspondent' had engaged
" passage back to England. . . . We pity
" the readers of the Times, who have
" got to unlearn all they have been
" taught to believe of us for a year past.
" We'll venture the prediction that, in
" less than six months, the Times will
" discharge the LL.D., and make him.
" the scapegoat of its malice and traitor-
" bought attacks on the Federal Govern-
" ment."
With the exception of this outburst
on the subject of Mr. Eussell, the lan-
guage of the Advocate is sensible and
moderate enough. There are letters
from the War copied from New York
papers, and lists of the killed and
wounded in the Wisconsin regiments;
but fully one page of the paper is occu-
pied by short tales and poems. When
I say that their headings are, " How the
Bachelor wasl won," "A Girl's Ward-
robe," " Gone before," and " Katie Lee,"
the reader will have no difficulty in
realizing to himself what the description
of intellectual varieties afforded by the
186
The Free West.
Advocate consists of. If lie cannot do
so by the light of his own experience,
let him read any number of the
Family Herald, and he will do so at
once without crossing the Atlantic.
Before I leave the Eacine Press, let me
mention one incident I learnt about it,
which is characteristic of the old, as
well as of the new, country. The
Eacine Advocate built a handsome block
of buildings which quite eclipsed the
office of the Press, unfortunately, the
Press discovered that the windows of
the Advocate's new printing-room could
be shut out from the light if a taller
store was built alongside ; and so the
Press is building an office next door to
the Advocate in order to block up its
windows. Country editors, it seems,
remain the same race of men in Eacine
as in Little Peddlington.
Society in Eacine is still in its pri-
mitive stage. Dinner parties are un-
known, and balls are events of great
rarity; but tea parties, to which you
are invited on the morning of the day,
are of constant occurrence. Probably
there is as much scandal and gossip, and
as many sets, here as in an Old- World
country town ; but there can hardly be
the social divisions which exist with us.
If you inquire the names of the owners
of the handsomest houses in the town,
you will find that one perhaps began
life as a stable-boy, another was a waiter
a few years ago in the hotel of the town,
and a third was a bricklayer in early
life. On the other hand, some of the
poorest people in the place are persons
who were of good family and good edu-
cation in their former country. A short
time ago the two least well-to-do mem-
bers of the Eacine community were an
ex-member of a fashionable London
club and a quondam English nobleman.
This very mixture of all classes, which
you find throughout the "West, gives a
freedom and also an originality to society
in Eacine, which you would not find
under similar circumstances in England.
If I were asked whether I should like to
live in Eacine, my answer would be an
emphatic negative; but, if the choice
were put to me whether I would sooner
live in Eacine or in an English county
town, I am afraid that nothing but
patriotism would induce me to decline
Eacine.
ON THE PRAIRIE.
We have all laughed, or by this time
ceased laughing, at the story of the
Irishman who brought a brick from the
Pyramids to show his friends what the
Pyramids were like. Yet I know not
that the Prairie could be described
better to those who have never seen it,
than by bringing home a spadeful of
prairie sod and telling the spectators to
multiply that sod in their minds by any
multiple of millions they choose to fix
upon. In truth, there is nothing to
describe about the prairie, except its
vastness, and that is indescribable. I
suppose most of us in our lifetime have
dreamt a dream that we were wandering
on a vast boundless moor, seeking for
something aimlessly, and that, in this
dreary search after we knew not what,
we wandered from slope to slope and
still the moor stretched before us end-
less and unbounded. Such a dream, I,
for my part, recollect dreaming years
ago ; and, as I drove the other day for a
mile-long drive across the prairies of
Northern Illinois, it seemed to me that
the dream had come true at last.
East, west, north, and south, on the
right hand and on the left, in front and
behind, stretched the broken woodless
upland. Underneath the foot a springy
turf, covered with scentless violets and
wild prairie roses. Overhead a bright,
cloudless sky, whence the sun shot down
beams that would have scorched up the
soil long ago, but for the fresh soft prairie
breeze blowing from the Far West.
Low grassy slopes on every side, looking
like waves of turf, rising and falling
gently.' Not a tree to be seen in the far
distance, not a house in sight far or near,
not a drove of sheep or a herd of cattle ;
no sign of life, except the dun-coloured
prairie chickens whirring through the
heather as we drove along. Nothing
but the broken, woodless upland. So
we passed on, coming from time to time,
, The Free West.
1ST
upon some break in the monotony of the
vast dream-like solitude. Sometimes it
was a prairie stream, running clear as
crystal between its low sedgy banks,
through which our horses forded knee-
deep, and then again the broken, wood-
less upland. Sometimes it was a lone
Irish shanty, knocked up roughly with
planks and logs, and wearing a look as
though it had been built by shipwrecked
settlers, stranded on the shore of the
prairie sea. Further on, we came upon
a herd of half- wild horses, who, as we
approached, dashed away in a wild
stampede ; then upon a knot of trees,
whose seeds had been wafted from the
distant forests, and taken root kindly
on the rich prairie soil ; now upon an
emigrant's team, with the women and
children under the canvas awning, and
the red-skirted and brigand-looking
miners at its side, travelling across the
prairie in search of the land of gold.
And then again the silent solitude and
the broken, woodless upland.
These breaks, however, in the mono-
tony of the scene are signs of the ap-
proach of civilization warnings, as it
were, that the days of the prairie are
well-nigh numbered. The friends with
whom I travelled were engaged in push-
ing a railroad right through the heart of
the prairie over which we crossed. To
my English ideas, the line in progress
looked like the realization of the famous
line which went from nowhere in gene-
ral to nowhere in particular ; but Ameri-
can experience has proved that a prairie
railroad creates its own constituency.
In three or four years' time, the prairie
over which I travelled will be enclosed,
the rich soil will be turned up, and will
bring forth endless crops of wheat, till,
as a settler said to me, the prairie looks,
at harvest time, like a golden carpet ;
and large towns will be raised on the
spot where the Irish shanty stands at
present. Every year the traveller has to
go further and further West to find the
prairie; but its extent is still so vast
that generations, perhaps centuries, must
pass away before the prairie becomes a
matter of tradition. Settlers in the
country tell one that it is necessary to
live for some time upon the prairie to
feel its charm, and that, when its charm
is once felt, all other scenery grows tame
to one. It may be so. I believe, without
understanding it, that there are people
who grow to love the sea, and feel a
delight in seeing nothing but salt water
round them for days and weeks and
months together. So, for some minds,
the endless sameness of the prairie may
have a strange attraction. For my own
part, the sense of vastness about the
prairie was rather overpowering than
impressive ; and I plead guilty to a feel-
ing of relief when we got out of the
prairie into the tilled fields, and country
villages, and pleasant woods, which
spread along the banks of the Missis-
sippi river.
UP THE MISSISSIPPI.
Of many pleasant river sails it has
been my lot to make, my two days' sail
up the great Western river, is, I think,
the pleasantest. I came upon it some
1,600 miles from its source, far away in
the ^orth West, where it forms the
frontier line between the States and
Wisconsin and Iowa. The spring
freshets this year had been unusually
high, and the floods were only beginning
to subside, so that the expanse of water
was grander even than it is in ordinary
times. The flat mud-bank islands which
the river forms year by year, from the
deposits of its rich soil, were covered
with water j and in many places, from
bank to bank, the waters spread for
three miles or more. How the steamer
found its way amidst the countless chan-
nels, between the thousand islands, all
covered with the rich rank forests, and
all the counterparts of each other, is a
mystery to me still. If ever there was
a river worthy of the name of the
" Silent Highway," it is the Mississippi.
The great saloon steamers glide along
so noiselessly that, to me, used to the
straining and creaking of an English
steamboat, it seemed difficult to believe
that the vessel was in motion. The
great shallow flood roll salong without
a swell, almost without a ripple. The
188
The Free West.
silence of the great forests along the
banks is unbroken by the sound of
birds or of any living thing. Tor miles
and miles together not a village or house
is to be seen, and the river flows on as
silent, and as solitary, as it must have
flowed when De Soto first struck upon
its course two centuries ago, and hailed
it proudly as the "Father of many
Waters."
On either side the river rise the high
cliffs, or bluffs as they are called here, of
reddish sandstone. At a distance, the
great masses of the rock, twisted into
all fantastic shapes by the action of the
water ages and ages ago, look like the
ruins of some old Norman castle. Some-
times the river rolls at the very foot of
the overhanging cliffs. At others, a
low swamp land, covered with close-set
forest trees, lies between the river and
the cliff. But to me the great beauty
of the scene lay in the richness of the
colouring. The green woodlands of Eng-
land are tame and dull compared with
the green forests of the Mississippi in
the first burst of summer ; and the
towering masses of rock, the patches of
bare sandstone, and the hill-sides of the
steep gullies that run into the river,
shone out with a depth and gorgeous-
ness of colour that I fancied was not to
be found under a Northern sun. As
for sunsets, you should see them on the
Mississippi, when the river, in one of its
hundred twists and twinings, bends for a
time Westwards. Then you seem to
be floating down the stream towards a
vast canopy of fire and flame and golden
glory. You may behold a sunset there,
such as the fancy of Turner might have
pictured, and sought in vain to realize !
Trade is dull on the Mississippi now.
At this early summer .season the boats
would have been much crowded but
two years ago, by hundreds of Southern
families flying from the deadly heat of
New Orleans ; but now we had scarce a
score of passengers on board. There
was not much life upon the river.
Two or three times a day, perhaps, we
passed a steamer going southwards ; and
sometimes we came upon a string of
huge lumber rafts, punted cautiously
along by gangs of wild-looking boat-
men. Every hour or so we came to
some small town on the river side.
They were all like each other, differing
only in size. A long street of low
houses, stores, and wharves fronting the
river ; a large stone building, generally a
hotel which had failed ; a few back
streets running towards the bluff; per-
haps a row of villas on the hill side, and
very often a railway depot, are the com-
mon characteristics of a Mississippi
town. The one beautiful thing about
them is their position, nestling as they
do at the foot of the cliffs ; and this a
beauty which even the ugliness of the
towns themselves cannot destroy. There
are still many traces hereabouts of the
French settlements : Prairie du Port,
Prairie du Chien, and Oubugne, are
names which bespeak their own origin.
Along the river there are several French
villages, or rather parts , of villages.
They are a queer race ; " Tumbos," as I
heard an American settler call them
half Indian, half negro f and half French.
In this admixture of half-breeds, the
French element has kept the mastery ;
and they still speak a broken French,
and are all devout Catholics. They also
retain the passion of the French peasant
for his land. No price will induce a
half-breed to sell his land, but he is con-
tent with possessing it without seeking
to improve it. Indeed, the develop-
ment of the half-bred race has not been
such as to strengthen the cause of the
advocates of amalgamation between the
white and the coloured race. They are
a wild, handsome race in look, though
not physically of sturdy growth. As
far as I could learn, there is no parti-
cular prejudice against them among the
American settlers any more than there
is against the Indians. Both races,
half-breeds as well as Indians, are so
obviously dying out, that the feeling of
the Americans towards them is rather
pity than jealousy. The half-breeds
are an inoffensive people ; but they are
dirty, ignorant, and indolent. They
live chiefly by fishing and hunting, and
die away gradually in the villages where
they are born. At Prairie du Chien, or
The Free West.
189
" doo-shane," according to the popular
Western pronunciation, stand the ruins
of a large barracks. It seems strange,
in this land of railroads and steamboats
and great cities, to learn that these bar-
racks were erected but thirty years ago,
to protect the soldiers of the United
States against the Indians in the great
Black Hawk war. The barracks are
useless already, for the Indian has
retreated hundreds of miles away. By
these ruins, I came upon the first party
of Indians I had seen. There were
four of them ; two men father and son
with their squaws. They were very
dirty, very ragged, and painted with all
kinds of colours. They had bows and
arrows with them of the rudest kind ; but
I suspect their chief livelihood was de-
rived from begging. They told us, in
broken English, that they were very
miserable, which I have no doubt was
true; and the only trace of dignity I
could see about them was, that they
took the small alms we gave with abso-
lute apparent unconcern. The one piece
of luggage belonging to the party was
carried by the younger squaw, and that
alas ! for Indian romance was a
teapot of Britannia metal.
THE CAPITAL OF THE NORTH-WEST.
"Whatever may be the merits or de-
merits of half-breeds or Indians, it is
certain that it needed a far other race to
produce the city of Chicago. Of all
American commercial cities, it is, to my
mind, the handsomest. Thirty years ago,
not a house was standing here, except a
mud fort. Now, Chicago, with its miles
of wharves and warehouses, its endless
canals and docks, its seventy churches,
and its rows of palace-like mansions, is
probably, in size and importance, the
third city in the States. There is some
uniformity about the buildings in the
streets, from the fact that they have all
been built almost at the same time ; and
the monotony of the straight rectangular
streets is somewhat relieved by the
canals which cut across them in every
direction. "When you have made, how-
ever, the stock remark, that, within a
quarter of a century, a trans- Atlantic
Liverpool has been raised upon the
swampy shore of Lake Michigan, you
have said pretty well all that is to be
said about Chicago. If a poor neighbour
becomes a millionaire, you think it a
remarkable occurrence, and possibly you
regard him with envy'; but I don't think,
judging from my own ideas, that you are
struck with a reverential awe. So, in
like manner, when you have once realized
the idea of how Chicago has grown out
of nothing in no time, you have about
exhausted the subject. Barges, and
drays, and steam-boats, and factories, are
much the same all the world over.
Goethe is constantly reported to have
said, (though I own, I never came
across the saying in any of his writings),
that there was more poetry in a spin-
ning-jenny than in the whole Iliad of
Homer. It may be so, but Goethe
never tried to write a poem about a
factory ; and so I defy anyone, except
a land-agent, to expatiate on the Ifeauty
and glories of Chicago. To me it is
remarkable and noteworthy, chiefly as
the centre of the new world, which is
growing up with a giant's growth, in
these free States of the North West. A
commercial panic, a change in the route
of traffic, might destroy Chicago ; but
no human power could destroy the great
corn-growing region of which, for the
time, it is the centre and the capital.
When Prince Napoleon passed, the
other day, through this Western country,
he said to a fellow-traveller that, in not
many years to come, the valley of the
Mississippi would be the centre of
civilization. The remark was probably
dictated, in part, by the natural polite-
ness of a Frenchman ; but in part, also,
by the far-sightedness of a Napoleon.
It must be an unobservant traveller
who goes through this region without
the thought being forced upon him, that
the West is destined to play a part, and
no insignificant part, in the world's
history. For days and days together,
for hundreds and hundreds of miles,
you pass through States larger than
European kingdoms. Everywhere rail-
roads are building, towns are growing up,
190
.The Free West.
and, above all, the wild soil of the
prairie is being turned, almost without
an effort, into the richest of corn-grow-
ing countries. Eapid as the progress
of railroads is, the growth of the soil
is more rapid still. In many parts of
the "West there are said to be three
years' crops of wheat stored up, waiting
only for delivery till the means of
transport are provided. Indian corn is so
plentiful that it may be had for asking ;
and on the prairie there is pasture land
for all the herds of cattle which the
world can boast of. Centuries well-
nigh must] pass, even with the astonish-
ing increase of population in these parts,
before absolute want is known in the
West by any class, or before the West
ceases to be the granary of the New
World, if not of the Old also. These
are the economical conditions under
which the West will rise into national
existence. The political conditions are
not less remarkable. The whole of
theseP North Western States have been
founded by individual enterprise. They
owe nothing to Government aid, or sup-
port, or patronage. Every farm and
town and state has been founded by the
free action of settlers, doing as seemed
best in their own sight. The West, too,
more than any part of the Union, has
been colonized by one uniform class.
There have been no aristocratic families
amongst the first colonists, as in Virv
ginia and Maryland ; no dominant reli-
gious leadership, as in the New England
States. In the West all men are equal,
as a matter, of fact, not at all of abstract
theory. The only difference between
man and man is that one man is richer
than another ; but fortunes are made
and lost so easily in this part of the
world that the mere possession of wealth
does not convey the same power or im-
portance as it would in an older and
more defined society. I quite admit
that this dead level of society has its
disadvantages. For a man of refined
tastes, and imbued with the teachings of
old-world civilization, the West must be
a wearisome residence. It would be so,
I feel, for myself. As the undergraduate
said, when he was asked to describe the
structure of the walls of Babylon, " I
am not a bricklayer." Not being a
bricklayer of any kind, social or politi-
cal, I have no taste for living in brick-
fields ; and the West is nothing more,
as yet, than a vast political and social
brickfield, upon which, and out of which,
some unknown edifice is to be raised
hereafter, or rather is raising now. Still
there are some lessons which may be
already learnt from the young history of
the West, and one of them is the power
of self-government. There is little
power to compel obedience to law. Still
less is there any superintending autho-
rity to tell men what they ought and
ought not to do ; but somehow or other
there is a general security, respect for
law, and a peaceable order, which seem
to grow up without any forcing process.
Wherever you have slavery, you have
rowdyism also ; but in the Free States
of the West the rowdy proper is as
unknown as the slave.
But the more pressing question, with
regard to the West, is, what its influence
is, and will be, on the civil war. We,
in Europe, look upon the struggle as
one between North and South, and can
scarcely realize the fact that the West
will in a few years be more powerful
than the North and South put together,
and is virtually the arbiter of the struggle
between the two. Now, about one fact
there is no doubt whatever, and that is
that the West has thrown its whole
power into the cause, not of the North,
but of the Union. The development of
the West requires two essential condi-
tions one, that it should have free
access through the Lakes to the Atlantic ;
the other that it should hold the Mis-
sissippi to the Gulf of Mexico. And
the only way by which these conditions
can be satisfied is by the whole country,
between the lakes and the river, being
held by one government, while the only
government which can so hold it, as a
matter of fact, is the Union. It requires
no great amount of thought or education
to understand these conclusions ; and the
West is sufficiently educated, by the free
school system, and the more important
teaching of political self-government, to
The Free West.
191
appreciate them fully. The West means
to preserve the Union, and is as deter-
mined as the North, perhaps more so,
though on different grounds. It is curi-
ous to note the difference of tone in the
West and in the North about the war,
as expressed both in the press and in
conversation. Here there is much less
of regard for the constitution as an
abstraction, much less of sentimental
talk about the Fathers of the country,
or the wickedness of Secession. On the
other hand, there is a greater regard for
individual freedom of action, a greater
impatience of any Government inter-
ference. The truth is, the enormous
German element in the population pro-
duces a marked difference in the state
of public feeling. To the German set-
tlers, the fame of Washington inspires
no particular reverence; the names of
Franz Sigel, and Karl Schurtz, and
Fremont carry more weight than those
of Jefferson and Hamilton and Madison ;
and the traditions of the war of Inde-
pendence are not as vivid as those of
'48 and the campaign of Schleswig-
Ho] stein. They are attached to the
Union because it has proved a good
Government to them, or rather has
allowed them the unwonted privilege
of governing themselves. The German
element, it is true, is absorbed with
wonderful rapidity into the dominant
American one ; but still, in the process
of absorption, it modifies the absorbent.
In like manner, it is easy to trace a
difference of feeling about the abolition
question in the Free West and in the
North. With the New England States,
abolition is a question of principle and
of moral enthusiasm. In the North, the
abolition feeling is checked and ham-
pered by the national reverence for the
Constitution. Even amongst the most
ardent professed abolitionists in the
North, there are few logical or sincere
enough to admit that the maintenance
of the Constitution may be incompatible
with the abolition of slavery; and Wen-
dell Phillips is the only abolitionist
I have met with who faces this dilemma
boldly, and asserts that, if it should arise,
then the sooner the Constitution perishes
the better. Now, in the West, the abo-
lition feeling is infinitely more practical,
though of less elevated character. There
is but little of sentimental sympathy
with the sufferings of the negro, and
perhaps little enthusiasm for abolition,
as an abstract measure. Two proposi-
tions, however, about slavery have esta-
blished themselves fully in the Western
mind. The first is, that slavery in the
West is fatal to the progress of the
country; the second, which has been
adopted chiefly since Secession broke
out, is, that the existence of slavery at
all is fatal to the peace and durability of
the Union. Given these propositions,
the West draws the conclusion, that
slavery must be abolished ; and, if aboli-
tion should prove inconsistent with the
Constitution, then the master-piece of
Washington must be modified. To do
the Germans justice, too, they are, with
the exception of the poorer Catholics,
anti-slavery on principle. In the school
in which they learnt democracy, the
doctrine of the "Eights of Man" was
not qualified by a clause against colour.
These remarks of mine must be taken
as expressing rather the general ten-
dency of what I have seen and heard in
the West, than as a description of the state
of public feeling at the moment. Like
all America, the West, though in a less
degree perhaps, is in a state of political
earthquake. Politics and parties and
principles vary, from day to day, with
the events of the war. The one point
on which all are agreed is, that the in-
surrection must, and will, be suppressed;
and the war, in every railway car and
tavern and house you enter, is the one
topic of talk and interest. You cannot
forget the war if you would. Every
carriage you enter in your travels
through the West has sick or wounded
soldiers in it, going home to be nursed,
and, if I can judge their faces right, to
die. So far the West has done the best
part of the fighting, and, if needed, will
fight on to the end.
I trust it may never be my fortune to
settle in a new country; but, if it should
be, may it be in the free West, on the
Mississippi river !
192
THE EEAL WOELD OF BEEKELEY.
BY PROFESSOR FRASER, OF EDINBURGH.
PERHAPS the world of sense, and our
life in it, has lost some of its original
freshness to the ' less exercised and
more burdened minds' of these later
generations. "We are compensated, how-
ever, in the many new points for con-
templating this scene in which we
find ourselves, which past specula-
tions provide. These invite us to look
at things with the eyes of departed
thinkers, and to realize the different
conceptions by which they tried to make
this strange world more intelligible to
themselves. In this way our intellectual
sympathies are expanded, our experience
is made broader and richer, and, if we
learn less about mere nature, we know
more about man and God. We have in this,
moreover, a moral exercise in candour
and charity, by means of which, as the
ages roll on, men are learning to appre-
ciate freedom, with its attendant discord
of opinion, as the best means for gradually
discovering truth, in the partial and frag-
mentary way that truth is disclosed to
finite minds. We are apt to take for
granted that problems can be solved only
at our own point of view, that they admit
of being stated only in one fashion, and
that, however our conclusions may be dis-
puted, our premises must not be meddled
with. The great magazine of thoughts
about things many of them very dif-
ferent in appearance at least from our
own thoughts about them which we
find in the history of metaphysical
opinion, is by far the most effectual in-
strument for breaking up these indi-
vidual incrustations.
Although England is sometimes said
to be poor in speculative genius, its
stores are ample and rich enough to
afford much nourishment of this sort.
We find proof of this in various strata
of Anglican opinion in the past. The
philosophical ability, for example, of
the dignitaries and other clergymen of
the Episcopal Church of England and
Ireland, in the period which immediately
preceded and followed the appearance of
Locke's "Essay," has bequeathed trea-
sures which, besides the service already
referred to, may be turned to more direct
account in the inquiries and aspirations
of this day. One of the earliest of these
episcopal metaphysicians was Joseph
Glanvill, rector of Bath, and chaplain
to King Charles, author of the " Vanity
of Dogmatising," who heralded the in-
ductive philosophy with his favourite
doctrine of ' confessed ignorance the way
to science.' Cudworth, More, and the
other Cambridge Latitudinarians are a
group of independent theological thinkers
to whom we owe the earliest philo-
sophical defence of theological toleration.
The " Essay " of Locke called forth Lee,
the rector of Tichmarsh, Lowde, the rector
of Settrington, and Norris, the recluse
rector of Bemerton, in Wiltshire the
English disciple of Malebranche. A
brother rector of Norris, in the same
county, Arthur Collier, produced some
of the most subtle speculations of his
time in metaphysics and philosophical
theology. Then we have Samuel Clarke,
whose correspondence witli Butler and
Leibnitz involves almost all the interest-
ing questions in abstract speculation ;
Jackson, the rector of Eossington, famed
for his controversies with Law ; and
Perronet, the vicar of Shoreham, one of
the most ingenious defenders of Locke.
The name of Butler, even if it stood
alone, would distinguish the episcopal
bench in England in the history of
eighteenth-century philosophy a period
in which the Irish hierarchy could pro-
duce King, and Browne, and Berkeley.
This list, which might be largely in-
creased, carries us back in imagination to
a period long before that in which Eng-
lish thought was modified by Kant,
Hegel, and Comte, or by Coleridge and:
The Real World of Berkeley.
193
Hamilton. The intellectual atmosphere
of that day was mainly formed by Bacon,
Hobbes, and Locke, with elements in-
troduced by the great cotemporary meta-
physicians Malebranche and Leibnitz.
Some thoughtful student of the vexed
questions and the questioners of our nine-
teenth century may, perhaps, like to
join us for a little in the less exciting
companionship which the names above
enumerated suggest.
The republication, a year or two ago,
of an almost forgotten tract by Bishop
Berkeley * draws our attention first to
the most subtle intellect in the com-
pany to contemplate the interior of
the beautiful intellectual temple to
which this incidental work may be re-
garded as a side-porch. It is true that
admission to it is reported to be difficult,
and the objects which it offers to obser-
vation are said to call for a mental
vision more than usually acute. It is
allowed that no modern metaphysician
has equalled Berkeley in the ability to
unite a simple, transparent style, and the
easy play of a graceful imagination, with
deep and uncommon thoughts ; yet the
history of his doctrine illustrates the in-
sufficiency of even the best-chosen words
for the circulation of metaphysical ideas, as
well as the manner in which speculative
teaching may be perverted from its
original design, when it becomes a watch-
word in controversy, or the symbol of a
sect. Berkeley is popularly conceived
as an unpractical dreamer, and a patron
of sceptical idealism, who denies the
existence of what we see, and hear, and
handle. He is supposed to have thus
maintained (as Beattie, the Scotch meta-
physician, alleges) that to be false which
every man must necessarily believe every
moment of his life to be true, and that to
be true which no man since the founda-
tion of the world was capable of believing
for a single moment. Now, the real
Berkeley was no idealist at all, L we
mean by the word one who lives in a
1 The Theory of Vision Vindicated and Ex-
plained. By the Rev. George Berkeley, D.D.
Lord Bishop of Cloyne. Edited with annota-
tions by H. V. H. Cowel, Associate of King's
College, London. London, 1860.
No. 33. VOL. vi.
world of illusory fancies of his own
creation, and not in the world of facts
which we find around us. His beautiful
life was earnest and practical in a very
high degree. His theory of life is per-
vaded by an intense sense of reality,
in the forms of the social and the Divine.
Separated from the paradoxical language
in which it was originally delivered, it
may help us when we are struggling with
the current intellectual perplexities of
our own day, regarding the historical
development of natural order, and the
relations of human and Divine agency
to the natural system. It was a practical
philosophy of religion and society that
Berkeley meant to teach, and his universe
is a social universe, supremely regulated
by God.
The reader who tries to think the
thoughts of Berkeley as they really were,
must remember that he was an inde-
pendent thinker, and not properly the
disciple of any philosophical sect. His
apparent paradox foreshadows a deep
and liberal religious philosophy of phy-
sical science and its methods. Its germ
appeared in 1709, in the "Theory of
Vision," and it reached its full growth
in 1744, in the "Philosophical Reflec-
tions on Tar Water." His aim in the
series which commences with the one
and closes with the other of these books,
was to lead philosophers back from meta-
physical abstractions to experience, and
at the same time to deepen and enlarge
the experience of the unreflecting multi-
tude, by guiding them from the narrow
world of m<-re sense to the truer and
grander world of sense looked at in the
light of what we find within. Most
metaphysical systems seem to him sys-
tems of phrases rather than interpreta-
tions of facts. Like Locke, his aim and
point of view are human, concrete, and
experimental. He makes the objects
or (as he and Locke call them) the ideas 2
2 " Idea " is with Locke and Berkeley the
genuine name for whatever we are conscious
of whether in sense or imagination, whether
fancies or feelings. The known universe of
both is limited to their " ideas." Berkeley's
theory of matter, as we shall see, is the
completion of Locke's book of ideas. Berkeley
recognises the marks of reality in one class of
O
194
The Real World of Berkeley.
of which we are conscious his starting
point. These he tries to interpret more
truly than Locke did, and in so doing
ascends from the changing type in
Sense, to the archetype in the heights of
Divine Science thus including Locke,
and Plato, and, in his last years, the
Neo-Platonists themselves, in his com-
prehensive embrace. But Berkeley, the
most subtle thinker of the Lockian era
in these islands, did not mean to be
an abstract metaphysician. Instead of
that, he meant all his life to struggle
against abstractions, on behalf of our
practical faith in the reality and free
agency of his fellow-creatures and of
God. He was no visionary dreamer, but
the most conspicuous man of his time in
doing all human and philanthropic work
in a large and generous way work
which he intended his scheme of religious
philosophy only to quicken and inter-
pret.
Even the external incidents of Berke-
ley's life are not to be overlooked by those
who try to see the real world in the
light in which he saw it. The son of an
Irish gentleman, and bom in 1684, he
entered Trinity College, Dublin, at a
time when through the influence of
Molineux, the celebrated friend of
Locke, 1 and the father of his own pupil
and friend the " Essay on Human Un-
derstanding" was of great authority in
the university. The mind of this Dublin
Locke's ideas those given in sense, and is
thus able to dispense with Locke's reasonings
on behalf of reality. Out of this recognition
Berkeley's system naturally grows.
1 The name of William Molineux of Dublin,
(1656 98), is familiar to the students of the
works of Locke, as the affectionate and ad-
miring correspondent of the English philoso-
pher, in an interesting series of letters, com-
menced in 1692, and terminated in 1693, by
the death of Molineux, immediately after his
return to Dublin from a first visit to Locke in
Essex. A study of this " Correspondence "
throws light on many passages in the "Essay on
Human Understanding." The son of Molineux,
afterwards Berkeley's pupil, was in part the
subject of it. As another incidental link be-
tween Locke and Berkeley, it may be noted
by the way that the chief philosophical work
of each is dedicated to the same person
the Earl of Pembroke.
student was formed in the opening years
of last century, in sympathy with that
antagonism to the verbal metaphysics
of the schools which was common to
Locke and Malebranche, with the steady
reference to sense-experience which dis-
tinguished Locke, and with the aspira-
tions of Malebranche, and, through Male-
branche, of Plato, after those Divine Ideas
of the true and the fair, of which the
things of sense are dim and distant adum-
brations. Before he reached his thir-
tieth year, he had published the three
books that contain the famous theory
about the World of Sense which inspired
his subsequent intellectual course. Like
Des Cartes, Spinoza, and Hume, and in
contrast to Locke, Eeid, Kant, and
Hamilton, the metaphysical "discover-
ies" of Berkeley were given to the
world in early life. Indeed, in his later
writings he ceased to discuss the doc-
trine popularly associated with his name,
which he then quietly assumed and
employed in his theological philosophy.
What interested him in this so-called
paradox, and in fact animated his life as a
philosopher, is very distinctly avowed in
the Preface (not published in later editions
of his works) to his immortal Dialogues
on Matter. Take the following declara-
tions. His aim, he says, is " to divert
" the busy mind of man from vain re-
" searches ... to conduct men back
" from paradoxes to Common Sense, in
" accordance with the design of nature
"and Providence that the end of
" speculation is practice, and the ini-
" provement and regulation of our lives
" and actions ... to counteract the
" pains that have been taken (by meta-
" physicians) to perplex the plainest
" things, with the consequent distrust
" of the senses, the doubts and scruples,
" the abstractions and refinements, that
" occur in the very entrance of the
" sciences ... to lay down such prin-
" ciples as, by an easy solution of the
" perplexities of philosophers, together
" with their own native evidence, may
" at once recommend themselves for
" genuine to the mind, and rescue phi-
" losophy from the endless pursuits it
" is engaged in ; which, with a plain
The Eeal World of Berkeley.
195
" demonstration of the immediate Pro-
" vidence of an All-seeing God, should
" seem the readiest preparation, as well
" as the strongest motive, to the study
" and practice of virtue ... If the
" principles," he adds, " which I en-
" deavour to propagate are admitted for
" true, the consequences which I think
" evidently flow from them are, that
" Atheism and Scepticism will be utterly
" destroyed, many intricate points made
" plain, great difficulties solved, several
" useless parts of science retrenched, spe-
" culation referred to practice, and men
" reduced from paradoxes to Common
" Sense. And although it may, perhaps,
" seem an uneasy reflection to some, that,
" when they have taken a circuit through
" so many refined and unvulgar notions,
" they should at last come to think
" like other men, yet methinks this
" return to the simple dictates of nature,
" after having wandered through the
" wild mazes of philosophy, is not un-
" pleasant. It is like coming home
" from a long voyage. A man reflects
" with pleasure on the many difficulties
" and perplexities he has passed through,
" sets his heart at ease, and enjoys
" himself with more satisfaction for the
" future."
Berkeley's subsequent course of theo-
logical and philanthropical activity was
the outgoing of the motive which gave
birth to his hypothesis about the real
world in which he found himself an
hypothesis which he describes as no
hypothesis at all, but a " revolt from
" metaphysical notions, to the plain dic-
" tates of nature and of common sense."
In the decade of his life (1713-23),
which followed the publication of his
philosophical manifesto, we find him
sometimes in London, the loved asso-
ciate of Pope and Steele, Arbuthnot and
Addison, and much in France and Italy.
His three juvenile books carried his
name beyond his native country. We
have all heard of his interview with
Malebranche in Paris, and its tragical
catastrophe, which touches the imagina-
tion more perhaps than any other inci-
dent in modern philosophical biography.
His life in Italy and Sicily produced
charming pictures of those classic lands,
contained in letters which make the
reader regret that fate has deprived us-
of all but a few. Except a curious tract
on Motion, and an economical essay oc-
casioned by the South Sea disaster, this
ten years added nothing to literature
from Berkeley's pen. In his fortieth
year, he was made Dean of Derry, and
the chief event of the following decade
was the promulgation and attempted
execution of a plan for spreading
Christian civilization in North America.
In 1725, he published a "Scheme for
" converting the Savage Americans to
" Christianity, by a College to be erected
" in the Summer Islands, otherwise
" called the Isles of Bermuda ; " to ac-
complish which, he spent several years
following on the other side of the
Atlantic, in self-sacrificing devotion to
the greatest missionary idea and enter-
prise of last century, which could not be
realized by an age over which the phi-
lanthropic diffusion of good and elevating
influences, and the sentiment of uni-
versal human brotherhood in Christ, had
little power. Baffled in the West,
Berkeley returned to Ireland in 1732,
to oppose the narrow theories of * minute
philosophers,' by applying the now mel-
lowed philosophy of his youth in the
illustration of Christian Theism to con-
secrate his office as Bishop of Cloyne,
in promoting the prosperity of all
sects and classes in his native country,
according to the enlightened and original
maxims of his ' Querist' and to indulge
the lofty contemplations of his last great
philosophical book, which so happily
confirms by example its own closing
words. " Truth," says Berkeley, in ter-
minating the curious speculative wind-
ings of his ' Siris,' " truth is the cry of
ff all, but the game of a few. Certainly,
" where it is the chief passion, it does
" not give way to vulgar cares, nor is it
" contented with a little ardour in the
" early time of life j active, perhaps, to
" pursue, but not so fit to weigh and
"revise. He that would make a real
" progress in knowledge, must dedicate
"his age as well as youth, the latter
"growth as well as the first fruits at
o2
196
The Real World of Berkeley.
"the altar of Truth." In 1752, his
long-cherished love for Oxford induced
Berkeley to repose his old age in medi-
tative retirement in the most academic
retreat in Europe ; which he enjoyed
only a few months, leaving his body in
the Chapel of Christ Church College,
and his name associated with the great
English university.
The intensity of Berkeley's social and
religious convictions and sympathies is
expressed all through his life. No phi-
losopher of that generation so habitually
recognised OTHER MINDS, as the real
powers which regulate all the changes
that appear in sense, and also in the
whole natural system of which sensible
changes afford us a faint glimpse. A
perpetually provident Supreme Spirit,
and present human spirits, subor-
dinate to the Supreme, are his real
world. His world is a living world,
uttering an intelligent language the
Divine language of Nature, and the arti-
ficial languages of men. This profound
recognition of Mind as the reality ap-
pears in his earliest metaphysical book,
published at five-and-twenty l The
" Theory of Vision, or Visual Language ;
" showing the immediate Presence and
" Providence of a Deity." To deter-
mine what we are immediately conscious
of in the act of seeing, is the problem of
that book. What is the real thing that
is present in visual sense 1 When we
open our now educated eyes, we seem at
once to apprehend in sense 'the choir
of heaven and furniture of earth.' But
when we do so, according to Berkeley,
we are not merely * seeing ; ' we are
also tracing the relations of arbitrary
signs. We are, to all intents, inter-
preting a language. We are reading a
book. We see only a variegated expanse
of colour present in consciousness. It
is through experience of the various
organic sensations connected with seeing
that in infancy we learn by degrees to
associate as signs the variations of colour
of which we are conscious with the
distance, size, and shape of the coloured
bodies. The organic sensations are the
'arbitrary signs' of the sizes, shapes,
and distances which they represent.
Thus, by means of what we see, we may
know and believe a great deal more than
can be seen ; in the same way as the
intelligent reader of the pages of a book,
or the intelligent listener to the words of
a discourse, is made, by means of ' arbi-
trary signs,' to understand a great deal
more than his senses actually present
in sense-consciousness. The principle
of the divine language of vision and
of the artificial languages of men is
the same. When certain organic sensa-
tions are present to us in vision, we learn,
by custom, to associate the meanings
or some of them which the Supreme
Mind has arbitrarily but constantly as-
sociated with these sensations. We also
learn, by custom, when the spoken or
written words of human language are
put before us, to interpret the meanings
which human beings have arbitrarily
but constantly associated with them.
The language of vision is a part of that
language of God, of which all physical
science is an attempted interpretation ;
Greek, German, and English, are some
of the languages of men, which they in-
terpret in their social intercourse.
It is Berkeley's favourite doctrine,
that we have in this way, " at least, as
" clear, full, and immediate certainty of
" the being of the infinitely wise and
" powerful Spirit, as of any human soul
" whatsoever besides our own ; " that,
" even as we are convinced of the ex-
" istence of other human beings by their
" speaking to us, so we have the very
"same evidence of God's personal pre-
" sence, viz. His speaking to us " in the
language of vision, and in every other
variety of that natural language which
is formed by the constancy of the arbi-
trary arrangements of nature. " God
" Himself," says Berkeley, " speaks every
" day, and in every place, to the eyes of
" all men. We have as much reason to
"think the universal agent, or God,
"speaks to our eyes, as we have for
" thinking any particular person speaks
" to our ears. . . . We can see God with
" our fleshly eyes, as plainly as we see
" any human person whatsoever, and
"He daily speaks to our senses in a
The Real World of Berkeley.
"manifest and clear dialect" that of
natural law or order. This language of
God is equivalent to " a constant crea-
"tion, betokening an immediate and
" perpetual act of power and provi-
" dence. ... It is. true," he adds, " that
" only things that rarely or irregularly
" happen strike vulgar minds, whereas
"frequency and custom lessen the ad-
" miration of things. Hence, a common
" man, who is not used to think or make
"reflections, would probably be more
" convinced of the being of God by a
" single sentence (in human language)
" once heard from the sky, than by all
"the experience he has had of this
" visual language, contrived with such
" exquisite skill, so constantly addressed
" to the eyes, and so plainly declaring
" the nearness, wisdom, and providence
" of Him with whom we have to do."
Is not, we may here ask, the essence
of practical Theism fully realized through
this faith in the presence always and
everywhere of the signs of mind and
moral order 1 ? Is not religion a pure
and loving communion with God and
men, which no more than secular life
requires a solution of unsearchable
speculative mysteries? "We can eat
and drink and subdue the material
world for the purposes of daily life,
while we are ignorant of the meta-
physical origin and essence of the bread
we eat or the machine we employ ; and
in like speculative ignorance regarding
the past and future of this world of
sense, we may surely maintain purity of
heart and religious intercourse with the
Supreme Mind, that is symbolised by
its constant order. If this be so, may
we not further ask, why men disturb
themselves in theology by vexed scien-
tific questions about the creation and
historical development of that material
world, which, for all that reason can
determine, may be a language in which
the Supreme is eternally revealing Him-
self 1 Our faith as Theists is not depen-
dent on our speculations regarding the
Eternity of Matter, or on our discoveries
regarding the laws of the orderly his-
torical development in time of those
things of sense of which Providence
is the soul. The present practical
significance of this and every other
Revelation of Supreme Intelligence,
rather than the date at which the
Revelation commences, or the question
whether it had any commencement at
all, is surely the proper object of in-
quiry to the pious mind, enlightened by
meditation. That mind is ready to con-
sign to science all questions of evolu-
tion or developmenthow long a natu-
ral language has been issuing ironi the
depths of Being, and whether it has
always been uttered in the same form of
speech. Perpetual moral Providence in
the material system, and not the abso-
lute creation of matter, is the object of
religious faith. The speculations of
Berkeley which commence with the
language of vision, and close in " Siris/'
in a spirit of philosophical tolerance for
ancient Theism, with its anima mundi,
perhaps suggest this issue. But it
was only dimly discerned by Berkeley
himself, whose most celebrated specula-
tion was meant to relieve his favourite
conclusion of a perpetually pervading
Providence in the universe from an
embarrassment in its premises, which he
attributes to men whose experience of
the facts of sense was clouded by their
own abstract speculations.
The simple faith of men is, in Berke-
ley's eye, perverted by abstractions about
Substance and Cause, very unlike the
matter-of-fact substances and causes
that we encounter in our daily experi-
ence. Phantoms of an Unconditioned
then as now carried men of a speculative
mind away from significant facts to in-
significant words. Berkeley saw the
illiterate mass of mankind, that walk
the high-road of plain common sense,
and are governed by the dictates of
nature, for the most part easy and un-
disturbed. To them nothing that is
familiar is unaccountable or difficult
to comprehend. They complain of no
want of evidence in the senses, and
are out of all danger of becoming
sceptics. But no sooner do we depart
from sense and instinct, to reason,
meditate, or reflect upon the nature of
things, than a thousand scruples spring
up in our minds concerning matters
198
The Real World of Berkeley.
-which before we seemed fully to com-
prehend. In order to ' satisfy our
convictions of reality,' metaphysicians
must retrace their steps, and, abandoning
their manufacture of artificial abstrac-
tions, try to read their human experience
of this strange universe in all its fulness,
and to interpret it exactly as it offers
itself.
Berkeley saw one huge abstraction
the Unconditioned of those days
interposed by metaphysicians between
himself and the real world of living
intelligences, human and Divine, with
which we have intercourse through
the signs given to us in sense.
"With the metaphysicians this huge
abstraction had become the one real
thing, and the scepticism of the age
was nourished by their difficulty in
finding reasons to vindicate a belief
in its existence. What was this meta-
physical phantom? It was the world
of sense or matter, as defined by meta-
physicians, which they put in place
of the real world of sense, as it is
actually presented in experience. A de-
finition that does not tally with facts
here gratuitously involves us in a thou-
sand perplexities. Locke and the phi-
losophers took for granted that what we
fire conscious of in sense is not at all tJie
real thing, They told men that they
could be conscious in sense of an idea
or resemblance only of the real thing,
which itself exists behind its merely
ideal representation in the consciousness. 1
Of the very reality we could never be
conscious at all. A world of merely
ideal representations is, they said, all we
can be conscious of when we see, and
hear, and handle. Nothing that is real
can ever be an object of sense-experi-
ence. By dint of reasoning they tried
to work their way to a reasonable belief
in the reality which lies behind what
we see, and hear, and 'handle ; but all
the reasoning that was offered seemed
not enough for the purpose. Thus our
early faith in God and in other minds
began to languish. Instead of inter-
1 Locke, for example, reiterates the dogma
that our ideas of the primary qualities of mat-
ter are resemblances of these qualities.
preting words (in the languages of God
and men) already given in sense, they
had to hunt beyond sense for the very
words themselves, if in sense no words
can ever be presented to us. " This," says
" Berkeley, "is the very root of scep-
" ticism ; for so long as men think that
" Real Things subsist without the mind,
" and that their knowledge is only so
" far forth real as it is conformable to
" Real Things, they cannot be certain
" that they have any knowledge at all.
" For how can itbe&ttowwthatthe things
" which are perceived are conformable to
" those that are not perceived or exist
" without the mind ? " We can test, in
short, the representations of imagina-
tion by the presentations of sense. But
if sense itself is essentially representa-
tive, how can we verify its representa-
tions 1
On this metaphysical assumption of
a double object in sense-experience,
human consciousness can never be face
to face with any real outward object.
Let something real, something from which
science may start on its course of inter-
preting natural signs, be only given to
us, and then, by interpretation (natural
interpretatio), we can work our way
to a reasonable belief in the existence
past, present, and future of many
other objects which never come within
our conscious experience. But how can
we extend the victories of science, or
even maintain our elementary convic-
tions, if we must begin by taking for
granted that no real facts at all ever
pass through our sense-consciousness?
Why not boldly deny that there is a
double object in sense ? Let us at least
try whether our life on this planet does
not become more simple and intelligible
to us, and our belief in surrounding
moral agents more deep and enlightened,
on the common-sense recognition of
only a single object on a return, in
short, to Facts, from verbal reasonings
and metaphysical theories which have
darkened them.
This was, in spirit, the suggestion of
two philosophers of the eighteenth cen-
tury, whose names are not commonly
associated as harmonious fellow-labour-
ers. These are Berkeley, the common-
The Real World of Berkeley.
199
sense metaphysician of Ireland, and
Reid, the common-sense metaphysician
of Scotland. Reid says that in early
life he embraced Berkeley's theory of
matter. It may be doubted whether
he did not (unconsciously) continue in
this faith to the last.
Berkeley, and those who are some-
times called the Scotch metaphysicians
are agreed in the abolition of the Mediate
Realism which puts a real object behind
the ideal object supposed to be given in
sense. They both virtually say, ' Why
not let go one of the two counterpart
objective worlds, and accept the one
which remains as the real thing, which
we then meet face to face in our sense-
experience 1 ' Both seek by this means
to restore the languishing faith of philo-
sophers in that which is beyond sense.
Both have thus helped to inaugurate a
new conception of the nature of my
sense-given medium of intercourse with
minds external to my own.
But, while Berkeley and the Scotch
metaphysicians discard the dogma that
the real world is behind the only world
of which we are conscious in sense
the dogma of two correlative worlds,
an external and real, and an internal
or ideal and representative they differ
(or seem to differ) as to which of them
is to be put aside. Berkeley sweeps
away, as an inconsistent or unintelligible
abstraction, the supposed unthinking or
archetypal world behind, and finds the
material reality in our very sense-ideas
themselves. By interpreting phenomena
in the system of our sense-ideas whose
orderly and significant changes reveal,
like the handwriting on the. wall, the
existence and activity of other minds
than ours we become en rapport with
these other minds. "We are able, as it
were, to look into other conscious experi-
ence than our own like our own more or
less, and yet not ours ; but we cannot
look into, or even imagine that which is
given in sense, when withdrawn from
all sense-consciousness. Our sense-ideas
which thus appear and disappear ob-
viously under the regulation of other
minds than our own, as we may reason-
ably infer from the manner of their
appearance and disappearance are
broadly distinguished from the mere
fancies which are formed and controlled
by the minds in which they appear.
The ideas of sense are more strong and
lively than those of imagination. They
are not excited at random, but in a
regular train or series, the admirable
connexion of which attests the wisdom
of its author. 1 Our sense-ideas are
our material world, and the rules ac-
cording to which they are excited in us
are the laws of nature. The existence
of this matter cannot be denied. Its
very esse is percipi. It is the only
material world which common-sense
demands. A supplementary real world
behind the Things or Real Ideas which
we experience in sense is a baseless
hypothesis a mere crotchet of the pro-
fessional manufacturers of abstractions,
which unsophisticated human beings
would laugh at, if they could only be got
to discern its meaning, or rather its want
of meaning. Such is the spirit of the
immediate realism of Berkeley.
Turn now from Berkeley to those
Scotch metaphysicians who are said
to be at the opposite intellectual pole.
The Irish and the Scotch philosophers of
Common-sense agree in recognising that
1 Berkeley put frequent stress on the dif-
ference as experienced by us between the real
ideas of sense and those ideas that are excited
in the imagination. These last, he adds,
"are more properly termed ideas or images/'
i.e. of the things (sense-ideas) "which they
copy and represent." See "Principles of
Human Knowledge," XXIX. XXXIII &c.
In this connexion the reader may refer to
a tract by Berkeley's great contemporary
Leibnitz : " De Modo Distinguendi Phenomena
Realia ab Imaginariis," in which Leibnitz
describes marks peculiar to the " well ordered
dream" of real life, as distinguished from
dreams commonly BO called. Take the follow-
ing extracts : " Potissimum realitatis phaeno-
menorum indicium, quod vel solum sufficit,
est successus prcedicendi phenomena futura ex
prceteriiis et prcesentibus .... Imo etsi tota
hsec vita non nisi somnium, et mundus ad-
spectabilis non nisi phantasma esse diceretur,
hoc, sive somnium sive phantasma, satis reale
dicerem, si ratione bene utentes nunquam ab
eo deciperemur .... Nee quicquam prohibet
somnia quondam bene ordinata menti nostrce ob-
jecta esse, quse a nobis vera judicentur, et ob
consensum inter se quoad usum veris equiva-
lent .... Quid vero si tota hsec brevis vita
non nisi longum quoddam somnium esset
nosque moriendo evigilaremus? " __
200
The Eeal World of Berkeley.
of which we are conscious in sense as- the
real thing. Eut they differ in the ac-
count they give of what that is. Berkeley
would arrest scepticism about all beyond
sense, by surrendering as a nonentity
the supposed unthinking world behind
our sense-ideas, to which the predicate
"real" had been exclusively applied,
and by energetically vindicating the
applicability of the terms "real,"
"thing," "matter," &c. to our sense-
ideas themselves. The Scotch metaphy-
sicians take the other alternative, and
with a like motive. Instead of surrender-
ing the unconscious world supposed by the
philosophers to lie behind our ideas of
sense, they surrender the ideas of sense
themselves, and sturdily assert that in
eense we are conscious of a world that
is independent of all ideas and of every
conscious act. Both rest our only faith
of vital interest that namely in OTHEE
MINDS human and Divine on the as-
sumption that in sense we are conscious
of something that is real. If external
objects are perceived immediately, we
have, according to Reid, the same reason
to believe in their existence that philoso-
phers have to believe the existence of
(sense) ideas. But sense-ideas them-
selves, Berkeley would say, are real,
and no other sort of external reality
than that of minds is needed, or can
even be imagined by us.
Thus, in this nineteenth century,
the state of this ancient question is
changed. Abandoning d priori theories
and reasonings about what is beyond our
sense-experience, we are invited to read
the facts of that very experience itself in
a reflective manner. We have not to
hunt up evidence that there is a real
world behind phantoms of which we are
conscious. W.e are asked to accept as
the reality, those of the supposed phantoms
which appear in sense - consciousness
itself. The very phenomena therein given
call them "ideas," or "things," as we
please, and assume that they are, or are
not, dependent on mind are real enough
to connect us with a system of universal
order, and with other minds. This orderly
system of sense-appearances we are in-
vited, as we can, to interpret; and
physical science, in responding to the
invitation, finds that each real appear-
ance is virtually a sign of other real
appearances, past, distant, and to come,
and thus a revelation of the Mind with
which they are collectively charged.
The problem of human intellect, in its
relations to the world of sense, is, to
interpret the meaning of the sense-given
world, and not to vindicate the exist-
ence of what is already given in fact.
The more concrete students of nature
try to unravel its subordinate laws, and
thus discoveries are accumulated in the
physical sciences. The more specula-
tive minds try to determine the most
general proposition in which sense-
presented reality may be defined as a
whole. They ask whether this " matter"
these solid, extended, coloured, and
odoriferous sense-appearances is merely
a collection of objects that appear and re-
appear in the system of nature only when
/ am conscious of them. Are they thus
only ideas real or sense ideas, it is true,
but still ideas, inasmuch as their very
essence consists in our being conscious
of them 1 ? Are they, on the other
hand, more than one order of my ideas ?
Are they phenomena in themselves
quite independent of my mind, and of
all minds, human and Divine which
are maintained in dependence on an
unthinking substance or cause 1
Berkeley and the Scotch metaphysicians
seem to differ in their answers to these
questions. Their difference may be
resolved into a dispute about the meta-
physical meaning of the words " matter"
and "sense-idea." Are the phenomena
which are presented in sense, and by
means of which I enlarge in physical
science my knowledge of the Supreme
Mind, and hold intercourse with other
minds are these merely phenomena
in me, although evoked and regulated
by other minds ; or are they things in-
dependent of me, yet still ultimately regu-
lated by other minds ? Berkeley assumes
that "perceived by me" implies "ex-
istence in me," or, existence in the
form of a mere mode of my conscious-
ness, and accordingly he concludes that
every sense-phenomenon is a sense-idea.
Reid assumes the independent existence,
in an unthinking Substance, of what I
The Real World of Berkeley.
201
see, hear, or handle, and of the Natural
System which the immediate objects of
perception enable me imperfectly and
tentatively to interpret. Are we not
more faithful to experience when we
abandon both assumptions, and accept
MATTEK as the otherwise unknown sys-
tem of phenomena or appearances,
through whose orderly changes we are
able to have intellectual intercourse with
other human minds, and with that Su-
preme Mind of whose mysterious exist-
ence these phenomena are a finite and
partially intelligible expression ?
In the Real World of Berkeley, each
man's own consciousness is the type of
the only sort of world that is external
to him. Other minds, with their re-
spective sense-ideas and interpretations
of the same, their actions, their feelings,
and their fancies, are his outward world.
He finds, experimentally, that he does
not himself regulate the order of his
own sense-ideas ; and he may reasonably
infer that he is not their original arche-
type, nor their only type. Other finite
minds supply other and similar types,
and the Divine Mind is the One
Archetype of all. The social realism of
Berkeley is at the opposite pole from
the ideal egoism of Fichte, with which,
though only nominally connected, it is
commonly identified in principle, and
distinguished from it only in as far as
the German is regarded as the more con-
sequential reasoner. Berkeley never aban-
dons those principles of common-sense
and probability, through which the mass
of mankind recognise other minds, in
the many orderly trains of sense-appear-
ances that indicate the voluntary move-
ments of human beings like ourselves,
and discern the Supreme Mind in that
universal order of the ideas of sense
which endows us with 'a sort of fore-
sight.' The material world of Berkeley
is produced in each man by a constant
Divine action ; which is to say, in other
words, that sense-ideas are so and in
such order produced in each, as that
each may, on every ground of common-
sense, infer, that certain sense-ideas are
to follow, or that certain others have
already happened, or that other conscious
agents like ourselves are thinking and
acting and feeling in a particular way.
These " inferences " constitute every
man's physical and social knowledge.
Each separate intellect, with its individual
line of conscious experience, is a micro-
cosm, made up of the interpretations
which it puts upon the appearances
given to it in sense by God the Supreme
Intelligence, according to His arbitrary
natural laws ; and these, as we find, are
more or less modified or interfered with
in their application by the free actions of
human agents like ourselves. The uni-
verse of matter is, to each mind, its
own interpretation of its own sense-
appearances.
But is this constant fermentation ol
sensations, or sense ideas in created minds,
with the consequent intellectual fer-
mentation induced in each, as each tries,
with more or less success, to interpret
their meaning is this infinity of micro-
cosms the only cosmos 1 Does it exhaust
all that we mean when we speak [about
the universe of matter 1 Does it satisfy,
for example, the glories of present
and possible disclosures in geology or
astronomy? Is the solar system, as
now disclosed to modern science,
only an advance made by the modern
astronomerinthe interpretation of certain
ideas which appear in the sense-con-
sciousness of men 1 Does it appear
and disappear with the appearance and
disappearance of astronomers? Is the
material world annihilated and recreated,
as there are created minds having ex-
perience or not having experience of
sense-ideas 1 Is there no " sense-ideal "
permanence, that is independent of the
fluctuations and imperfection of finite
minds 1 Is there no Macrocosm by which
these millions of microcosms niay be
measured no supreme and archetypal
system of ideas, to which men's highest
and most successful attempts to interpret
scientifically and practically their respec-
tive sense-consciousnesses are at least a
distant approximation ?
It is here that Berkeley passes from
Lockianism to Platonism, connecting
the human or empirical ideas of Locke
with, the Divine or Eternal Ideas of
Plato. All his works teem with allu-
sions to an Archetype, of which the
202
The Eeal World of Berkeley.
sensible ideas of finite minds, and the
intelligible ideas grounded upon them,
are only an imperfect type. But that
Archetype is not unthinking substance
behind sense, to which we have nothing
corresponding in our intelligent ex-
perience. It is the very thoughts of the
Supreme Mind, to which we may infer
from the "ideas" manifested in the
order of nature, that our mental experi-
ence is more or less in analogy. When we
interpret the material world in accordance
with the laws of nature, and thus suc-
ceed in extracting from its apparent
chaos the cosmos of human science,
we may describe ourselves as so far
virtually thinking the thoughts of God.
The Divine Ideas expressed in the laws
of nature are, through our physical
-discoveries, becoming, in the form of
similar ideas in ourselves, a part of the
experience of man. Every Scientific
discovery puts us more in sympathy
with the divine meaning. The method
of discovery, indeed, raises a deep ques-
tion. How are finite minds, on the
'Occasion of their sense-ideas, to be
brought into intellectual harmony with
the Supreme Mind? How may our
physical science be conformed to * His 1
How may our microcosms be rendered
more macrocosmic? Is it merely by
adding to the number and variety of their
sense-ideas by increasing the amount of
their experience of objects that are al-
ways changing? or may we, on the
other hand, assume a latent intellectual
sympathy between the created and the
Uncreated mind, which is to be elicited
in the former through reflective inter-
course with the things of sense? Is
scientific discovery the development in a
finite mind of elements of Divine Reason
common to all mind ; or is it only a
tentative guess, confirmed by a fragmen-
tary experience, of what in that case
can be only a probable community of
meaning between the human discoverer
and the Supreme Author or Thinker of
that which is thus only tentatively dis-
covered ?
These deep questions underlie our
philosophical speculations about the
methods by which sense-appearances are
to be interpreted. They go to form the
problem of any ' philosophy of the phy-
sical sciences/ It can hardly be said
that Berkeley has raised them, although
they are immediately suggested by man/
of the contemplations, especially of his
old age. These present his Theological
Theory of Matter as a link in the
chain of that modern theory of scientific
method, and of the nature of physical
causation, which commenced with Bacon,
and which, not excluding Malebranche,
has engaged, among others, Hobbes,
Glanvill, Locke, Hume, Leibnitz, Brown,
Conite, Mill, and Whewell. That the
changes in nature are, as revealed to
us at least, only arbitrarily related to
one another as the sign with the thing
signified is common to them all. They
are agreed that we can interpret nature
only as a system of arbitrary signs, and
that we cannot produce a demon-
strative science of natural changes.
And if, with Berkeley, we see in
universal nature only the operation of
free intelligence, the difference between
the changes which are due merely to
natural law and the changes which we
attribute immediately to the agency of
men, is not a difference between ne-
cessity and free-will, but between the
signs of perfect and imperfect mind.
The events of human history and bio-
graphy are less capable of prediction
than those of natural science, because
they are the product of a less steady and
reasonable will. We can predict neither
changes in matter nor changes in men
with perfect insight, because we have
only an imperfect comprehension of the
minds on which they respectively depend.
Matter itself exists eternally in the
Divine mind. It is constantly created,
after a fixed order of plan, in those
sense-ideas of men, which are the occa-
sions of the physical sciences in which
man endeavours to realize those Thoughts
of God that are themselves the Eternal
material archetype. The antagonism of
Faith and Science disappears, as each
deepening insight into natural law is
felt to bring our thoughts into nearer
harmony to those Divine Thoughts of
which our otherwise strange surround-
ings in this world of sense are found to
be the expression.
203
VINCENZO ; OR, SUNKEN ROCKS.
BY JOHN RUFFINI, AUTHOR OF "LORENZO BENONI," "DOCTOR ANTONIO/' ETC.
CHAPTER VI.
THE DAY AFTER A FROLIC.
VINCENZO awoke late next morning, in
a lamentable condition of body and
mind giddy, sick, aching from head to
foot, and thoroughly disgusted with
himself. He sat upon his bed, took
his poor throbbing temples between his
hands, and tried to recollect. Bastian
and the prefetto were the only images
which came out clear and distinct from
the nightmare of the last night. That
he had misbehaved to both, he had not
a shadow of a doubt; but he had no
clue by which to discover in what man-
ner, or to what extent. All the rest,
from the eclipse of the prefetto, down to
the present moment, was a pell-mell of
indistinct scraps, of which he might have
only dreamt, for aught he could tell ;
and as to the part he had possibly
played in this misty interlude, if not a
dream, it was a perfect blank.
One thing alone was certain that he
had shamefully disgraced himself. What
would the Signor Avvocato say, when
his godson's misdeeds came to his ears 1
"What would Miss Rose . . . and the
purse ! Oh, heavens ! ! The recollec-
tion of the purse, forgotten to that
moment, went like a shot through his
heart and brain. Lost past hope of
recovery. It was just what he deserved
he was not worthy of it, or of any
kindness from such an angel as Miss
Rose.
The small room, or, rather, closet, in
which he had passed the night, was
stiflingly hot and close. He got up and
opened the only window. A bit of glass
hung beside the window. He looked
into it, and started. What a hideous
face he saw ! All the lower part of it
besmeared with the burnt cork, which
had given him a moustache and chin-
tuft. A jug and basin were on the
table, but not a drop of water in either.
He looked for some signs of a bell
there was none. No other resource for
him. but to open the door and call ;
which he did, after flinging on his
cassock.
His summons was answered imme-
diately, by the same man who had
waited at dinner the day before.
"How do you. feel this morning,
sir?" asked the waiter, without the
least attempt to hide the smile called
up on his broad countenance by the
rueful figure before him.
"Like one who has made an ass of
himself overnight/' answered the peni-
tent lad.
"A little headache, probably? A
strong cup of coffee will remove that in
no time."
" First of all," said Vincenzo, " I want
plenty of water, so that I may wash
myself. And, if I could also have some
soap to get rid of these stains on my
face, I should be obliged to you."
The waiter promised he should have
what he required, and soon returned
with a large jug of water and a fine new
cake of soap. Vincenzo eyed the soap
with some perplexity, and said
"I am afraid that soap won't do for
me, my friend ; for, truth to say, I have
not a farthing of money. Can't you
give me some old common bit ? "
"You may use this all the same/'
said the obliging waiter. " First of all,
the soap belongs to me, and you are
welcome to it ; and then, the Marchesino
left orders that you were to have what-
ever you asked for, and he would pay
all expenses. When you are ready for
your .coffee, be so good as to call
Battista."
Vincenzo was touched by Del Pal-
metto's thoughtfulness more touched
than he would have deemed himself
204
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Roc7cs.
capable of being by any attention from
such a quarter. But, indeed, Del Pal-
metto's behaviour to him, as far as he
could remember the events of the pre-
ceding day, had left on Vincenzo' s mind
an impression altogether to the credit of
his late foe.
The waiter's double declaration having
now removed all his scruples about the
soap, he used it unsparingly in his ablu-
tions ; and, having put as much order as
he could into his attire, he called for
Battista, who presently brought him the
promised coffee.
" Has any one come for me from the
seminary ? " asked Vincenzo.
"Not that I know of," replied the
waiter. An answer which confirmed
Vincenzo in his preconception, that his
sins must be so entirely past forgiveness
in that quarter, that the sinner himself
was deemed unworthy of any notice.
This issue had nothing very appalling in
it to one who had yearned after it with
all his soul for the last two months.
" No ; nobody has called save the
Marchesino," went on Battista. " He
has been here twice, but you were asleep
both times ; and he would not allow you
to be disturbed. He said he might call
again, but he could not be sure, as he
had much to do, in consequence of the
regiment having received orders to leave
the town before noon."
"And what o'clock is it now?" in-
quired the lad, swallowing his coffee.
" Half-past eight."
" And what time was it when ... I
went to bed last night 1 "
"It was still daylight," said Battista ;
" a little past eight, perhaps."
" I was very unruly downstairs, was
I not?"
" Not so very bad ; rather funny, and
a little noisy, to be sure j but your friends
were not far behind you, I can tell you."
" If I recollect right," said Vincenzo,
" there was some music after dinner."
" Yes, a fellow with his organ came
and played in the court, and you took a
fancy to dance, and so did the other
three. The Signer Marchesino oh !
he is a merry gentleman went and
fetched Margaret, the cook, and oh ! dear,
it was as good as a play to see you, in
the Marchesino's uniform, whirling her
round and round like a top." The scene
must have been droll enough in reality,
for Battista burst into a laugh at the
mere recollection.
" Were there many people looking
on ? " asked Vincenzo, with a long face.
"Many people!" repeated Battista.
" Bless you, the yard was as full as it
could hold;" then, noticing the deep
blush on his listener's face, Battista's
eloquence of description came to a full
stop ; and he added, good-naturedly,
" there's no disgrace, you know, in
taking a glass too much once or so in a
man's life. Such a thing may happen
to the best of us."
Vincenzo, left to himself, had an in-
tense longing to go out and inhale a
little fresh pure air ; that which came in
from the courtyard was neither fresh
nor pure ; on the other hand, he was
afraid of missing Del Palmetto's pos-
sible visit, and with it all chance of
recovering the purse. In this state of
perplexity he mechanically took up the
two new rolls, which the waiter had
brought with his coffee, and had had
the delicacy to leave behind ; and, as he
was thrusting them into the pocket of
his cassock, he felt an obstruction, w r hick
had not been there the day before : he
turned the pocket inside out, and lo !
what should appear but the purse which
he had been so anxiously pursuing ?
The lad cut a caper of childlike de-
light, kissed the treasure ; then, wrapping
it carefully in the piece of paper in
which it had already been enveloped,
he hid it in the deepest corner of the
pocket of his cassock, wondering all the
while how it had come there. Had the
Marchesino willingly returned it 1 Vin-
cenzo, in thinking so, judged that young
man too generously. The fact admitted
of a more common-place explanation.
At the time Del Palmetto exchanged
clothes with the seminarist, he still pos-
sessed recollection enough to take the
disputed article out of his uniform
pocket, and transfer it to that of the
cassock he assumed ; but later that is,
when he took back his coat, and re-
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
205
stored the black robe to Vincenzo Del
Palmetto had left the clearness of his
memory at the bottom of many succeed-
ing bumpers, and so the purse remained
in the cassock-pocket. Vincenzo had
proved more lucky than wise.
Feeling now almost elated, and with
no further reason to wait for Federico,
our lad sallied forth into the street ; and,
keeping as close to the houses as pos-
sible, took the shortest way out of the
town ; that is, went out of it at the end
opposite to that by which he had come.
Leaving Ibella behind him, he followed
the main road for a little ; then struck
to the left, into a well-known meadow,
and stretched .himself at full length on
the thick soft grass, under the shade of
some wide-spreading walnut trees. It
was happiness to breathe the pure air,
to feel the cool grass beneath him, and
to look at the blue canopy of heaven
above. It seemed as though the im-
mensity of the azure dome reduced his
troubles to very small proportions. He
tried hard to think and deliberate upon
some course of action ; but he was not
equal to any mental exertion, he felt too
lazy; all that he could do, was to enjoy
the agreeable sensation of physical well-
being which ^tole over him.
After a time, this sweet heaviness re-
solved itself into a sound sleep, from
which he was suddenly startled by a
blast of trumpets, accompanied by an
outburst of loud shouts. It was the
squadron of Del Palmetto's regiment
leaving Ibella, amid the hurrahs of a
considerable portion of the population,
cheering and fraternizing with the sol-
diers. Vincenzo would fain have joined
in the cheers and the good wishes, at
least said farewell to Del Palmetto, but
the crowd deterred him. In his present
circumstances, he knew that the safest
course for him was to avoid attracting
notice. He ensconced himself behind
the large trunk of one of the trees ; and,
from that hiding-place, saw the whole
troop defile, Del Palmetto on his beau-
tiful Moretto, his big sword drawn.
Lucky Del Palmetto ! How Vincenzo
envied him ! AVhat would he not have
given to be in the Marchesino's place, at
least to be one of those brave fellows
going to the war.
When the last of them had passed,
the youth resumed his horizontal posi-
tion on the grass ; and, following up the
new train of thought called up by the
sight of the soldiers, he asked himself,
why he should not enlist also, and fight
for his country? Why not, in fact?
Enlisting and going to the seat of war
had been the denouement of all those
schemes for liberty he had been weav-
ing during these two last months. But
how was he to enlist 1 to whom apply ?
these were practical difficulties which
could only be solved, if solved at all, by
application to such acquaintances as he
had in the town the obliging waiter,
for instance but, at that moment, such
a step was impossible. After the little
enviable notoriety he had acquired, to
parade the streets of Ibella, in broad
day, in search of such information, was
out of the question. He had, indeed,
already made up his mind, should he be
driven to the dire extremity of return-
ing to the palace, not to traverse the
town until he could do so unseen that
is, after dark.
Like many another older and wiser
person, Vincenzo's cogitations ended
with a resolution to trust to the chapter
of accidents. Some one might pass a
military man, for instance with the look
of one able to give the information re-
quired, and from whom Vincenzo would
feel inclined to ask it. While thus
keeping watch for such an individual,
Vincenzo drew forth one of the fresh
rolls he had pocketed, and munched it
leisurely. It was the hottest hour of
the day, and passers-by were rare a
labourer now and then, or an artisan
going to his work ; a tardy market-
woman, trudging behind her donkey;
or dusty muleteers driving a string of
dusty mules.
As the shades of the trees began to
lengthen, the townsfolk who had accom-
panied the troopers began to return ; and,
for a whole hour there was plenty of
movement, and of dust in clouds, on the
highway. They were all people belong-
ing to Ibella, whom Vincenzo had best
206
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
let alone. Later, and later still, when
the sun's rays struck the road aslant,
some pertinacious promenader from the
town ventured as far as the meadow in
which our skulker lay an old lady with
her maid, a paterfamilias and his sons,
a couple of priests, a merry set of young
men none with a face in which Vin-
cenzo could descry any knowledge of
military matters.
Two uniforms at last loomed in the
distance. The seminarist's heart gave a
great thump two sergeants, arm in arm,
by Jove ! They came up opposite to the
lad's hiding-place, stood there a moment,
as if undecided whether to go on or not,
and then turned back. Vincenzo sprang
up, and was about to cross the meadow,
when he spied dangers ahead, and had
to squat down in a hurry. Three priests
one known to him but too well, and
to whom he was known but too well,
the prefetto of last night were sailing
down the road, cutting him off from the
sergeants. Crouching on all fours be-
hind a tree, he had the pleasure of
watching the soldiers gradually dwindle
down to mere specks in the distance.
He had probably lost his last chance.
Vincenzo's heart began to misgive him,
that he should be obliged after all to
swallow the bitter pill of taking refuge
at the palace, and becoming the laugh-
ing-stock of all Eumelli. To be an ob-
ject of ridicule to one's acquaintances is
a heavy punishment at any age, parti-
cularly so to a boy; but Vincenzo, to do
him justice, quailed less at the thought
of his own humiliation than at the idea
of the Signor Avvocato's anger, and Miss
Eose's disgust and displeasure. Little
exhilarating as was the prospect, it did
not prevent his feeling hungry, or eat-
ing his last roll ; after which he set him-
self to wait patiently for the now not
very distant moment when twilight
would make it easy for him to steal into
Ibella unnoticed, and ask a word of
advice from Battista as to enlisting.
Should that hope fail him, then there
would be nothing left for him to do but
turn his steps towards Kumelli.
Presently the tramp of a horse, and
the sound of a deep bass voice singing a
popular air, attracted his attention ; and,
looking in the direction of the highway,
he saw a man on a tall horse, riding-
leisurely along. The song, no other
than the, at that time hackneyed, hymn
of Pio Nono, augured well for the in-
quiry Vincenzo was meditating. He
accordingly crawled to the side of the
road to get a closer view of the horse-
man, that he might judge whether the
singer's physiognomy kept the promise
held forth by the choice of the song.
There was not much that was prepos-
sessing in the little that could be seen
of the rider's looks : a hawk nose, and a
pair of hungry grey eyes, being the only
features that emerged frqm the wilder-
ness of black hair, and double-pointed
beard, in which his face was framed.
His appearance, indeed, vividly recalled
to Vincenzo those similitudes of brigands,
which he had seen doing duty at the
entrance of waxwork exhibitions : they
were not a whit more forbidding than
the man before him. The Calabrese hat,
encircled by a broad green band, in
which was stuck a plume of cock's
feathers, finished the resemblance. To
complete the stage effect of the costume,
a large red cross was embroidered on
the left breast of the short military
tunic he wore ; and a long cavalry sword
dangled from a white leather belt buckled
round his waist.
The red cross was encouraging. Vin-
cenzo had heard that the volunteers in
the present holy war of independence
had adopted that sign in imitation of
the crusaders of old. The red cross
outweighed the ill-favoured counten-
ance and, therefore, ere the rider
passed, the lad stood up, and, raising his
three-cornered hat most respectfully,
said, " Good evening, sir ; will you allow
me to ask you a question 1 "
The horseman halted, surveyed the
speaker, then answered, " Certainly,
my young reverend ; put as many queries
as you like. Pray, what may it be
you wish to know 1 "
" Can you tell me what it is neces-
sary to do, in order to enlist for a
soldier?"
" Enlist ! " repeated the horseman, in
Vincenzo / or, Sunken Rocks.
207
surprise ; " is it for yourself, or for some
friend, that you want tlie information 1 "
" For myself," replied Vincenzo.
" Where do you come from 1 " asked
the stranger.
"From the .... from a seminary,"
stammered Vincenzo.
" Oh ! oh ! I see how it is," said the
rider, dismounting, and leading his
horse to the edge of the road, that it
might have the benefit of some mouth-
fuls of grass during the colloquy. Vin-
cenzo stared in amazement at the tall,
long-legged, lanky figure striding towards
him : the very figure of a Don Quixote
but Vincenzo had never read Cervantes.
" I see how it is," repeated the man,
sitting down, and looking his young
interlocutor full in the face ; " you are a
victim of the Jesuits."
"Indeed, I am not," protested the
youth.
" No use denying it ; I read it in your
eyes," insisted the other. " They tell me
that you are an innocent boy driven to
desperation by that wily sect, but who
won't admit it, so great is the terror
they have managed to inspire him with.
I know their ways ; but never fear ; the
reign of the Jesuits is over. Pio Nono
and Colonel Eoganti are too many for
them. Surely, you have heard of Colonel
Eoganti, haven't you ? "
Vincenzo confessed in all humility
that he had never heard of Colonel
Eoganti,
"Is it possible?" cried he of the
double -pointed beard ; " never heard of
the man who has filled the world with
his name, who has fought Austria and
the Jesuits all his life long ? Then, what
do they teach you in your seminary 1 "
"They don't teach modern history
there," pleaded the youth.
" I thought so ; just like them," sneered
the colonel. " Well, I am the man,"
(with a great thump on his chest,) " I
have already got together six thousand
picked men at Novara, my head-quarters ;
I want six thousand more before I begin
operations; and, to find them, I ride about
rousing the country, preaching the holy
war, enlisting, recruiting, playing the
very devil. You are a lucky dog to
have met me; that you are. I have just
the very thing for you a vacant chap-
laincy in one of my regiments."
" Thank you very much," said the
lad, overflowing with gratitude, "but I
am no priest ; I have only got the minor
orders."
"What does that matter ?" said the
colonel ; " you have got the tonsure and
the cassock j that is enough and to
spare."
" But I can't say mass ; I can't con-
fess, or preach ; I can't do one of the
things that a chaplain is expected to
do. Let me be a soldier, will you 1 "
" Be it so, then," assented the colonel,
whose sense of fun was so greatly tickled
by the naive earnestness of the youth
that he had much ado not to laugh.
"Which shall it be infantry or ca-
valry ? "
Vincenzo meditated for an instant ;
then modestly said, " Infantry."
" Very well now let me give you a
word of caution. A soldier, understand,
has no will of his own passive obedi-
ence is his motto, blindly to do what
he is bidden, his duty. For instance,
suppose you see me act, or hear me
speak, in a way that may seem ques-
tionable ; well, your duty is to hold your
tongue, and take it for granted that all
I do or say is for the good of the country.
Otherwise, farewell discipline ; and, this
being a time of war, discipline must be
strictly enforced. It would cost me a
pang to have you put in irons or shot ;
but I would have it done, if necessary,
for the sake of discipline. I am for
fair play, and so I warn you."
" Thank you," said Vincenzo, full of
a deep, almost solemn emotion ; " I may
sin through ignorance, but not from,
want of good-will. I know that the
first duty of a soldier is self-abnegation,
and I am determined to do my duty to
the best of my power. Indeed, my wish
will be to give you every satisfaction,
sir."
"Sensibly and honourably spoken,"
observed the colonel ; " now then, no-
thing more remains to be settled between
us than that you give me your hand,
and repeat after me the form of your
208
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
engagement. I, ... your name and
age,, if you please ? ; '
" Vincenzo Candia, aged seventeen/'
prompted the youth, adding, u Perhaps
I ought to make known to you that I
have no money."
"Never mind the money," said the
colonel; "we shall find plenty at head-
quarters. Now, repeat carefully after me
I, Vincenzo Candia, seventeen years
old, engage myself, of my free will, to
serve as a soldier all through the pre-
sent campaign, under the orders of his
Excellency Colonel Roganti." Vincenzo
repeated this formula word for word.
There, you are enlisted, and now en
route," said the great man, rising and
throwing his long legs across his Rosi-
nante. "We shall not go far this evening,
and a morsel to eat and a bed wait for
us at the first resting-place." Vincenzo
was quite ready to proceed, and followed
his new commander in silence.
CHAPTER VII.
BEGINNING OP THE EXPEK1ENCES OF A
RAW RECRUIT.
THE day was on the wane, and in ano-
ther half hour it would be dark enough
to shelter Vincenzo from observation.
After all, he cared little now whom he
might meet; he was in the service of
H. Majesty, and under the protection
of one who would not allow him to be
molested. In his candour and inexpe-
rience, the imaginative boy had no more
doubt of the reality of his enlistment
than if King C. Albert had enlisted
him in person. And, had any one come
and told him at that moment that the
man whose every word he had listened
to, and believed to be true as Gospel
writ, was no colonel, but a quack and a
cheat, bent on drawing capital from the
boy's honest face, and evident respec-
tability, the odds are that Vincenzo
would have laughed to scorn accuser
and accusation, and acquired new faith
in the charlatan.
Vincenzo felt and looked grave, as a
conscientious youth well may, and ought
to do, who has taken the first import-
ant, nay, decisive step, in life, and is
fully alive to its responsibilities. His
thoughts dwelt long and fondly on the
inmates of the palace. Perhaps he should
never look on their faces again a knot
formed in his throat at such a possi-
bility perhaps he was destined before
long to fall in battle ! Well, let it be so ;
they should have no cause at least to be
ashamed of him. In the meantime, he
must not leave them any longer in the
dark as to his present fate : he was sure
they must feel uneasy about him Miss
Rose in particular, aware as she was of
the errand on which he had gone to
Ibella. He would write the first oppor-
tunity that offered beg them to for-
give him, tell every thing, not forgetting
to say that he had found the purse, and
had it safe in his pocket ; that would
please Miss Rose and, as he walked, he
began mentally to indite his epistle.
" Vincenzo," called the horseman.
" Sir," replied the youth, as if awaken-
ing.
"Now that you are a soldier, and that
I am your colonel, you must address me
by the title of my military rank."
" Yes, colonel," said the recruit.
" What are you thinking of ] " re-
sumed the elder.
" Of many things," answered Vin-
cenzo, in some embarrassment.
" Of home, perhaps 1 "
" Yes, sir ... colonel, I mean; at least,
if not exactly of home for I am an or-
phan, and have no home of that which
stands me in lieu of one."
" A disheartening subject for a soldier
to dwell upon," remarked the colonel ;
" but, if you cannot help thinking of
home, think of it in connexion with the
day of your return, wearing a great star
on your breast, and alike the pride and
envy of all your old intimates."
"I will try to follow your advice,"
said the lad, submissively.
"Do you know the hymn of Pio
Nono ? "
" Yes, colonel."
" Can you sing it ? "
"Yes, colonel."
" Well, then, let us sing it together."
They did so, and the colonel, after ex-
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Eocks.
209
pressing great satisfaction with Vin-
cenzo's voice and performance, added,
" I never begin operations recruiting
operations, I mean without first singing
this composition, and in future I shall
always expect you to join me. It draws
the audience up to the proper pitch for
my purpose. Men, my good boy, must
be taken as they are. The peasants I
have to address, the best stuff for my
corps, are most of them ignorant, mate-
rial creatures, and must be dealt with
like children. I shrink from no means,
however personally unpalatable to me,
so long as they are honest, by which I
hope to attain my aim, my sole aim the
deliverance of my country. For this
end, of which I never lose sight, I dis-
tribute, wherever I go, copies of Pio
Nono's hymn, and portraits of him
printed on cloth, that can be worn
round the neck, like scapularies. I give
you this explanation, not alone to pre-
vent your possible misconception of my
actions, but also to let you know that it
will be part of your duty to assist me in
the dissemination of both these arti-
cles ; trifles in themselves, but having a
weighty effect, I assure you, on the sim-
ple mind of country folks. I charge a
penny for the hymn, and twopence for
His Holiness's portrait less than the
first cost ; but those who are able and
willing, may, of course, be asked to give
more. My commission includes the
power to receive offerings for the benefit
of the country. The country, I need
scarcely inform you, is equally in want
of money and men. Is not money the
great sinews of war 1 "
There was in these, and suck-like con-
fidences, something jarring to the lad's
feelings, something degrading in the
notion of having to go about, and, as it
were, beg, even though the good of the
country was the motive. But then, if
a man of the colonel's importance, sta-
tion, and experience (near at hand he
looked full fifty), saw no objections to
such proceedings, why should ayoungster,
who was nobody, be more squeamish?
Add to this argument, that the general
propositions laid down by his chief,
seemed, to Vincenzo's judgment, fair
No. 33. VOL. vi.
and sound. There was no denying that
men must be taken as they are, and no
means be shrunk from, provided they
were honest,' by which the salvation of
the country might be wrought out.
Neither was there any denying, that the
country was in want of money, nor that
money was the great sinews of war.
These were truisms that no one could
impugn. Vincenzo came out of this
debate with himself with a strengthened
conviction that he had a clear duty be-
fore him, and that, the greater his anti-
pathy to that duty, the more reason for
his discharging it conscientiously, and
like a man.
An opportunity of testing this bond
fide conclusion was not long in present-
ing itself. Ten o'clock was striking at
some town, or village, or whatever it
was, near at hand. They had long left
the highway for a cross-road, and Vin-
cenzo was entirely out of his depth as
to local geography, when the colonel
stopped at an isolated house, a roadside
inn, in full activity ; that is, full of light,
and sound, and bustle " the tail of a
wedding," as the hostler graphically
explained. Having, with his own eyes,
seen to the proper accommodation of his
nag, and himself removed the saddle,
the long-legged man put a small valise,
hitherto unremarked by Vincenzo, under
his arm, and then led the way to a large
room on the first-floor, which had an
open gallery stretching along the full
length of its front. There was a great
gathering of people there, most of them
farmers and peasants, eating, drinking,
and talking.
After giving his instructions to the
waiter, the colonel stationed himself at
one of the empty tables in the centre of
the room, the small valise by his side,
filled a glass for himself, and one for his
companion, brimful with wine, stood up,
and, waving his glass, cried, in a stento-
rian voice, "Here's a bumper to Pio
Nono ; long live the Pontiff Eeformer ! "
Nearly every head in the room turned
to look at the speaker. He, with another
flourish of his hand to the company, dis-
posed of the contents of his glass ; then,
profiting by the half silence produced by
210
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Eocks.
his toast, he struck up the hymn, Vin-
cenzo joining in it, as in duty bound.
The singing, it must be allowed, was
capital ; it was listened to in relative
silence, and with evident pleasure. That
it was a seasonable diversion, reviving
the flagging spirits of many -a guest, was
certain from the salvo of bravos, and
loud clapping of hands, which saluted
its conclusion. The experienced colonel
struck the iron while it was hot; he
bowed, and made the following pithy
speech :
" Gentlemen desirous of procuring the
hymn that has just been sung, also sca-
pularies coming direct from Rome, bear-
ing the likeness of His Holiness, and
blessed by him, can be supplied with
them very cheaply. My young pupil and
friend here will hand the one and the
other round for inspection." (Vincenzo,
on hearing these words, felt the blood
rising to his face.) " No one is obliged
to buy ; but those who do, will be doing
a good turn to their own souls, and also
to their country. The times, gentlemen,
are difficult, and money is the great
sinews of war. Offerings to be appro-
priated to the equipment of volunteers
will be received with gratitude ! "
A mist rose before Vincenzo' s eyes as
the colonel consigned to him the valise,
with its lid now thrown open, and
directed him to carry it round. He set
his teeth fast, and resolutely performed
the task. Meanwhile, the tall man was
favouring a limited, but select, circle of
admirers, who had gathered round him,
the hostess foremost, with a few choice
scraps of a fancy biography. " A most
interesting boy ... a victim of the
Jesuits ; it required all my energy to
rescue him from their grip. No father,
no mother, no relations. You can have
no conception of what he has had to
endure. I found him starving, literally
starving. I'll stand by him ; protect
him to the last. I am not rich, but
never mind; so long as I have a morsel
of bread he shall have the half of it.
No lack of benevolent people, thank
God, to help me in my charitable under-
taking."
These broken confidences' serve to
initiate us into the secret motives, which
had induced the soidisant colonel to
attach Yincenzo's fortunes to his own
namely, to endorse his own roguishness
on the lad's youth and honest looks, and
turn the interest aroused by them, and
by a forged tale of persecution and des-
titution, into a well-supplied mint for
himsel
Presently, the unconscious object of
this puffing returned to his large asso-
ciate with a handful of small coin ; and,
pale and worn out with emotion what
he had been doing was so very like
begging he sank into a chair in a
corner. But the colonel, with a covetous
glance at the money, desired the youth
to come by him, and have something to
eat. A plentiful supper by this time was
served on the little table in the centre of
the room. Yincenzo felt faint and hun-
gry enough to need but little encourage-
ment to eat ; but, much as he relished
his meal, he would have relished it still
more without the exaggerated parental
fondness lavished on him by the colonel,
and the obtrusive marks of sympathy
and interest showered on him by the
landlady and company a sympathy and
interest so pointed as to be scarcely justi-
fiable, even in the case either of a conva-
lescent, or of one who had had a very
narrow escape from some great peril.
These attentions were the more puz-
zling and unaccountable to Yincenzo, for
being interspersed with hints and refer-
ences to something which the speaker
clearly took for granted had happened
such as, " Cheer up, my boy, and don't
think of the past; it is all over they
won't come now, and take you from your
friend you are quite safe with him;
he will protect you don't spare the
chicken, have another leg the supper
is gratis et amore Dei, you know would
to God we could do more ! "
Such snatches of speeches as these
were Sanscrit to Yincenzo, and made
him feel ill at ease. However, he turned
to account the good will of his hostess,
to ask her to procure him writing ma-
terials a commission which she readily
undertook, but which must have had its
difficulties from the time it took to
Vincenzo ; or, Sunken Rocks.
211
.accomplish. Pen, ink, and paper, were
found at last, and carried by the obliging,
hostess to the little room allotted to
Vincenzo, next to that of his chief and
guardian.
The youth felt dizzy, wearied, and
sleepy ; the bed looked very tempting ;
but he roused himself valiantly, and
resolved not to go to rest until he should
have achieved his epistles. Who could
tell whether he might find time to write
them on the morrow 1 The task proved
easier the further he advanced in it ;
the rising tide of feeling, as he poured
out his heart on paper, helped him on
wonderfully. The letter to the Signor
Avvocato proved rather long, that to
Miss Rose consisted of but a few lines.
They ran thus :
"DEAR SIGNORINA, For all that relates
to my late disgraceful conduct, my sin-
cere repentance, and my present prospects,
I must refer you to my letter to your good
father. I venture to write to you only to
say that the purse is safe with me not,
however, through any merit of mine ; for
I must confess, with sorrow, that its re-
covery is due to a mere lucky chance.
I keep it as a precious deposit, to be
returned to you at our first meeting, if
God grant me so much happiness, when
I hope to have so behaved as to deserve
your forgiveness, and the confirmed
possession of the promised dear gift.
Should I never see you again I feel sure
that your kind heart will not disapprove
of the way I shall have disposed of it;
that is, should the knowledge ever reach
you."
To make this last phrase clear to the
reader, it is necessary to add that, as he
finished writing it, Vincenzo drew the
purse from his pocket, and wrote, in his
clearest hand, on the outside of the paper
on which it was wrapped, " May 27th,
1848. Should I fall in battle, I, the
undersigned, beg, as a last favour of those
who may find my body, to bury with it
the inclosed purse. VINCENZO CANDIA."
This done, he put the note for Rose,
open, into that for the Signor Awocato,
directed and sealed this last, placed it
under his pillow, and went to bed.
The colonel was no early riser, fortu-
nately for Vincenzo; who thus had a
pretty long sip of the Lethean waters,
even till seven in the morning, when a
twofold summons, from the knuckles
and the double-bass voice of the occu-
pant of the next room, came to warn him
that it was time for him to rise and make
ready for departure. The night had
not cooled the landlady's interest in the
youth, as shown by the substantial
breakfast she had provided for him, her
constant exhortations to eat heartily, and
be of good cheer, and also by sundry
greasy parcels, with which she crammed
his pockets. Vincenzo was a good deal
touched by all this great demonstrative-
ness, but also a little bored. Of course
he did his utmost to veil this, while he
gave full vent to his really grateful
feelings.
" By-the-by," said Vincenzo, as he
was bidding adieu to her, "can you
inform me where is the nearest post-
office ? "
"At the next village," replied the
hostess, naming it, " a short quarter of
an hour's walk, the third shop after you
pass the baker's ; you can't help seeing
the baker's; it has just been fresh painted.
Though, now that I think of it, why
not leave your letter with me 1 The
letter-carrier for Ibella passes this way
at eleven o'clock every day, and always
calls in here. It will be a saving of
time, if your letter goes at once to
Ibella."
" Thank you very much," said Vin-
cenzo ; " but "
" You may trust it to me, I assure
you," insisted the warm-hearted woman.
" I would rather go on foot with it to
Ibella myself than disappoint you of its
being forwarded."
Vincenzo gave her the letter, though
with a lingering reluctance ; even had he
been sure that the letter would be lost,
he could not have had the heart to hurt
the good soul by any appearance of dis-
trust. By this time Rosinante was at
the door, and Don Quixote in the saddle
a few more last thanks and good
wishes, and the travellers disappeared
in a cloud of dust.
212
Steps of a Statesman.
" A thoroughly kind-hearted woman,
and a staunch patriot to boot," said the
colonel ; " I have taken a note of the
house and the innkeeper's name ; both
shall be mentioned to his Majesty the
first time I see him. ]STo one does a
good turn to Colonel Roganti, but finds,
sooner or later, his due reward."
Vincenzo wondered how his chief had
managed to discover the landlady's
patriotism. As to the goodness of her
heart and kindness, no one was better
able to bear witness to both than Vin-
cenzo, or more disposed to give her all
the credit she deserved.
To be continued.
STEPS OF A STATESMAN.
BY W. SKEEN.
THERE are few passages of English his-
tory more curious or instructive than
the measures adopted by Sir Robert
Peel for effecting the transition in our
commercial system from protection to
free trade. They were deeply laid, cle-
verly contrived, long masked, and, when
the proper time arrived, executed with
extraordinary promptitude and courage.
There have been instances before of in-
dividual tergiversation, of abandonment
of previously professed principles, of
desertion of party ; but these occurred
for the most part in revolutionary times,
when public opinion itself swayed vio-
lently and rapidly from side to side ;
and even then the deserters rarely car-
ried over to the hostile camp more than
their own swords. It was the rare
fortune of Sir Robert Peel, not simply
to change the political principles he had
professed from his first entrance into
public life, but so to time his change
as to carry with him the more influen-
tial members of his own party ; to find,
in his own lifetime, his bitterest oppo-
nents compelled reluctantly to admit the
wisdom of his course ; and, finally, to go
down to the grave amid a nation's tears,
honoured as a confessor to truth rather
than as an apostate to principle. Much
of this is, no doubt, owing to the fact,
that he hit on the right moment for his
new policy that the nation was chang-
ing at the time, and he had the saga-
city to discern, and the courage to head
the movement. Even if that were all,
it would be no mean praise; but it is
not all. Not only was Sir Robert Peel
the first of his party we may add, the
first of public men to discern the great
revolution that was then fermenting
deep down in the national heart ; but to
him belongs the merit of quietly, but
effectually, encouraging the movement,
while he affected to oppose it; of re-
moving obstacles out of its path, as well
as of finally securing its success. Whe-
ther in these deep and secret courses he
conformed in all respects to the obliga-
tions of good faith whether he did not
abuse the confidence reposed in him by
the party who still acknowledged him
as their head, while he was scheming
the overthrow of their most cherished
policy we must leave our readers to
decide, after we shall have laid before
them some of the more salient features
of his management.
In 1841, the ministry of Lord Mel-
bourne was in extremis. It had never
shown the symptoms of a healthy exist-
ence, and it expired at last of financial
inanition. One experiment after another
was attempted to replenish the ex-
hausted treasury ; and, one after another,
they all unaccountably failed. One
vigorous effort was made, which proved
to be the last flicker of the lamp be-
fore it expired in the socket. Cus-
toms duties had been increased with
the effect of only diminishing their
aggregate produce ; it was at last re-
solved to see what would come of reduc-
ing them. In the spring of that year,
the Whig Chancellor of the Exchequer
Steps of a Statesman.
213
announced his scheme of finance to be
a large reduction of the duties on foreign
timber, an equalization of the duties on
colonial and foreign sugar, and a fixed
duty of 8s. per quarter on foreign wheat.
The announcement was received by the
Protectionist party with mingled anger
and alarm. The Anti Corn-Law League
had then commenced that course of
agitation which was afterwards of so
much service in the overthrow of mono-
poly. Public attention was beginning
to be roused to the consideration of
politico-economical questions, and the
Protectionists felt that, without a vigo-
rous opposition, there was every pro-
spect that the financial scheme of the
Government would be adopted. It was
determined that strenuous efforts should
be made for its defeat ; and the heads
of the party met in conclave to mark
out the ground on which the battle
should be fought. There did not at
first sight seem to be much room for
hesitation on this point. The most
offensive feature in the scheme was the
corn duties, and it was most natural that
the opposition should be concentrated
against it as confessedly the key of the
position. If the corn duties could
be defeated, the other portions of the
Budget would not be worth struggling
for ; whereas it by no means followed
that the rejection of the other duties
would save the sliding scale. There was
another reason for adopting this course.
'It must have been apparent to the most
obtuse member of the party that the
Corn-Law struggle was only in its in-
fancy, and that, before the strife began
in earnest, it would be materially for
their advantage to have a decisive de-
claration from Parliament in favour of
the existing system. It might even be
well though none of them could have
anticipated the coming desertions that
their leaders should be committed to an
approval of their policy, from which
there should be no retreat hereafter.
What would arise from repeated discus-
sions we now know better than could
then have been foreseen ; but obvious
policy dictated that every member should,
as soon and as decisively as possible, be
pledged, in the face of the country, to a
Protectionist policy, by negativing the
main article in the Whig budget the
substitution of a low fixed duty for a
high sliding scale.
But there was one man who had
made up his mind that neither he nor his
party should be so committed. There
can now be no doubt that, even so early,
Sir Eobert Peel was more than half a
convert to free trade, and that, with this
secret conviction in his heart, he used
his great influence to persuade his friends
to evade the main question, and to join
issue on the comparatively secondary
point of the sugar duties. His argu-
ments for this course were undoubtedly
plausible. They could not be sure of
victory in a fair stand-up fight between
a fixed duty and a sliding scale, involv-
ing the vital question of a cheap or a
dear loaf ; but, if that contest were
avoided, and issue taken on the collateral
question of the sugar duties, the ranks
of the Protectionists were certain to be
reinforced by that influential section of
politicians who were known as the friends
of the negro, and who dreaded the
reduction of the differential duties on
foreign sugar, as a fresh stimulus to the
curse of slavery. With the assistance
of that section they were sure of success
without it, they were all but certain
of defeat. So reasoned Sir Eobert Peel,
and his arguments and influence pre-
vailed. He took care not to remind his
party and they were not quick-sighted
enough to see that by this course the
controversy was only adjourned ; that
success at best could be only temporary,
and that the struggle would be sure
to be renewed on some future day at
every disadvantage, when the doctrines
of free trade would have made more
progress, and all the members of the
party would be free to choose new
courses. Future security was sacrificed
to present success.
That success, indeed, was brilliant and
complete. Ministers were thoroughly
beaten on the battle-ground forced on
them. The anti-slavery men and the
colonial party joined with the home
Protectionists, and, by their united
214
Steps of a Statesman.
efforts, the Ministerial scheme was shi-
vered to fragments. The debates of that
period, as read by our present lights, are
full of curious interest. The amendment,
as we have said, related to the colonial
question alone. But the speakers were
far from confining themselves to that
point. Protectionists and Free-traders,
Liberals and Conservatives, the colonist
and the home-trader, the agriculturist
and the manufacturer all based their
speeches on the question of the corn
duties. The sugar question was before
the House ; but in men's hearts and on
their lips, and colouring their whole cast
of thought, was the Corn Law. They
were too much in earnest to be logical ;
they spoke not so much according to the
rules of debate as out of the fulness of
their hearts ; little was heard of the pro-
duce of Cuba or Brazil, but the House
resounded with the fertility of the plains
of Poland and of the prairies of America.
One man there was, however, who all
through this turmoil adhered closely to
the question. Sir Eobert Peel was fluent
and eloquent, and brimful of statistical
information, as was his wont; but his
speeches related to sugar and not to corn.
It was not that the question did not
occupy as much of his thoughts as it
did those of other men ; but, while they
thought only of expressing their emo-
tions, he was intent on concealing his,
and he managed it with consummate
dexterity. It required no ordinary
strength of purpose to remain steady
amid the surging masses ; to avoid
being carried away by the strong ex-
citement that was boiling and eddying
around him. But his task was harder
still ; he had to affect to be borne along
on nay, to keep ahead of the current,
while all the time he moved not from
his own position. His zeal appeared
fully equal to that of the most impulsive
of his followers ; but it was wrapped up
in vague and general phrases that after-
wards, when his designs were unmasked
and he stood forth to the world the
chief and champion of free trade, defied
the minutest criticism of his most ran-
corous foes to fix on a single phrase in
which the great Protectionist leader had
plainly and in so many words committed
himself to the principles of protection.
It was a marvellous feat of sleight of
intellect ; but, clever as the conjuror
was, it could never have been accom-
plished unless the bystanders, like those
before more regular performers, had been
dazzled by the excitement of the scene,
and their own readiness to lend them-
selves to the delusion.
So far all went well. Sir Eobert's
advice to his party was justified by suc-
cess. The Whigs were beaten by the
combination of interests formed against
them ; and, though no vote directly
affecting the Corn Laws had been re-
corded, yet all, or at least all but one,
accepted the division as a defeat of the
opponents of the Corn Laws.
The struggle was now transferred
from the House of Commons to the
wider arena of the nation. A dissolu-
tion of Parliament took place ; and the
country was divided into two hostile
camps, where free trade and protection
again appeared to be pitted against each
other. But again the same tactics were
repeated on a larger scale. The broad
question which occupied all men's
thoughts was again evaded, and issue
was again joined on the minor question.
A manifesto was issued from Tarn worth,
under the modest guise of an address to
the constituents of the Conservative
leader ; but it was well understood that
the topics on which Sir Eobert there
dilated were intended as the cue to be
taken up by his followers. In that ad-
dress there was much about the weak-
ness, the incapacity, the misgovernment
of the Whigs; and much about the
threatened breach of faith with the ne-
groes and the West India planters. The
enormity of a proposal for a fixed duty
on corn was dwelt on too, but in terms
that admitted of explanation. In the
heat and bustle of the election, nothing
could read more satisfactorily as a con-
fession of Protectionist principles ; but,
scanned in calmer moments, it certainly
did appear as if the fault of the pro-
posers lay in adopting it as a desperate
clutch for the retention of office, rather
than in any wickedness inherent in the
Steps of a Statesman.
215
scheme itself. This document answered
its purpose, however. In the counties,
no doubt, both electors and elected were
too full of their own question to talk of
anything else ; but, in the towns and
amid all doubtful constituencies, the
wrongs about to be inflicted on the
West Indians, especially the negro por-
tion of them, were again put in the fore-
front of the battle, and all remonstrances
were stilled by the assurance that it was
necessary, if they would consolidate their
victory, to keep together the party by
whom it was won. And again success
crowned this policy. A majority hostile
to the Whigs was returned to the House
of Commons, almost as large, and to all
appearance more compact than that
which rallied round Earl Grey at the
first election after the Eeform Bill.
Here, then, it might have been sup-
posed the time had come for decisive
action, and for bringing the whole weight
of the newly acquired majority to bear
on an authoritative declaration in favour
of the sliding scale. But no ; finesse
was still to be the order of the day.
Still Sir Eobert Peel counselled caution ;
and it is needless to say how much his
authority had been raised by the recent
events. His genius had elevated them
from their prostrate and hopeless con-
dition of some eight or ten years before,
to stand again on the threshold of office,
with the nation at their back ; and this
was not the time to discard his counsels,
if they wished to consummate their
victory. So, by his advice, the coup de
grace was given to the moribund Whigs,
not by a direct attack on any portion of
their commercial policy, but on the
general and comprehensive ground of
want of confidence. Again, therefore,
the motion before the House expressed
one thing, and the general current of
the debate another. Again there was a
fierce and vehement Corn- Law debate ;
but again there was a loophole left in
the motion, by which any one who chose
could escape from committing himself
to Protectionist opinions. Of this Sir
Eobert Peel, and a few like-minded
with himself, were not slow to avail
themselves. The division took place :
the Whigs were condemned by a decisive
vote; and every Protectionist throughout
the country fully believed that, with
their expulsion, the poison of free trade
was also expelled from the high places
of the nation. Nevertheless, to those
who could look more narrowly, it
was plain that the ground of Whig
expulsion was not that they had dared
to tamper with the great country in-
terest, but because of their general
incapacity.
Now, however, the Protectionists
could breathe in peace. They had
defeated their opponents, as they and
at that time the whole country believed,
in fair and open fight. The nation, no
less than the House of Commons, had
pronounced in their favour. The Go-
vernment was placed unreservedly in
their hands. The foremost place was of
right assigned to the man who had ral-
lied them in defeat, disciplined them in
opposition, and led them to victory;
and his first steps as Prime Minister
were all that the Protectionists could
desire. He formed a Protectionist cabi-
net. There was not a man admitted
into the ministry whose principles had
the slightest suspicion of free trade
even breathed upon them. One or two
members did, indeed, afterwards boast
that they had carefully abstained from
ever either making a monopolist speech,
or giving a monopolist vote ; but these
boasts, made at a time when such boast-
ing was safe, brought little honour on
the men who made them ; for their
dissimulation 'had been so complete as
to impose on the closest observers. But
Sir Eobert did not content himself with
the appointment of merely unsuspected
persons. He went out of his way to
proclaim his devotion to the agricultural
interest. Whatever the other qualities of
the late Duke of Buckingham may have
been, no man ever dreamt of him as a
statesman, or thought of his being en-
titled, from any services he had rendered
to the State, to have a seat in the cabinet.
But he was believed to possess the confi-
dence of the country interest ; he was
popularly known as the farmer's friend ;
and, therefore, he was placed in one of
216
Steps of a Statesman.
those cabinet offices where little or no
work is required, and where his presence
was regarded as a satisfactory pledge of
the minister's intentions. Other appoint-
ments, equally significant, were made.
The head of the old Tory interest in
England was the late Duke of New-
castle. His grace was not, indeed, the
wood out of which a Cabinet, or, indeed,
any other kind of minister could be
made ; but the next best thing was
done ; his son and heir was pitchforked
into the ministry. It may raise a smile
to be told that the present duke, the
impersonation of modern liberal opinions,
should be considered as a pledge of
stedfast adherence to the opinions of
Sidmouth and Eldon ; but the Earl of
Lincoln of 1842 was a very different
personage from the Duke of Newcastle
of 1862. So with Ireland. 'The Pro-
testantism and Protectionism of the
Earl of Rqden rendered him the darling
of his co-religionists and co-politicians
across the channel ; but they were
pitched on too high a key to suit the
more sober English tastes. He was,
therefore, inadmissible; but his son and
heir, the late Lord Jocelyn, was cast in
a milder mould, and his appointment
was therefore equally satisfactory, and
more business-like than that of his
father would have been.
These appointments irritated the Free-
traders as much as they gratified the
Protectionists. By both parties they
were accepted as pledges that the long
reign of Liberalism was at an end, and
that Tory and Protection dominancy was
to be revived. Never was there a greater
delusion. They were appointed for a
very different purpose. They confirmed
the confidence of the party at the time ;
they confused their counsels afterwards.
The time was coming when the Protec-
tionists, doubtful and distrustful, began
to ask whither they were tending, and
to mutter ominous words about the
necessity of making a stand. But who
was to head them 1 Their most trusted
friends were, themselves, or as repre-
sented by their nearest relations, con-
nected with this inscrutable Government.
Could treason be meditated while such
a staunch Protectionist as the Duke of
Buckingham was by to see fair play 1 If
there was danger threatened to the old
English Constitution, as it was under-
stood by their grandfathers, would not
such sons of uncompromising Tories
as Lord Lincoln and Lord Jocelyn be
quick-sighted enough to discern the mis-
chief, and faithful enough to sound the
alarm ? And even when the honest, but
rather muddle-headed Duke of Buck-
ingham, perplexed and annoyed by the
tendencies of things all around him,
without being able to lay his finger on
any precise cause of complaint, testified
at least his honesty of purpose by the
resignation of his office, he was soothed
and most effectually muzzled by the
offer of the Blue Ribbon, which he was
weak enough to accept. From him,
therefore, no condemnation of his former
colleagues was to be expected. The
younger branches of this extreme party
quietly retained their places, thereby
seriously compromising in the eyes of
their party the principles of those peers
of whom they were the representatives.
The Duke of Newcastle was, himself,
above suspicion ; but how acutely he
felt the taint which his son's dereliction
appeared, at least in his own eyes, to cast
on his boasted incorruptibility, may be
gathered from the stern and unforgiving
feeling with which he ever after re-
garded him a feeling which drove him
from the representation of his native
county, and ceased not even when the
father drew near to the edge of the
grave.
In this manner the position of Sir
Robert Peel grew more and more as-
sured. He was at the head of the most
powerful, and at the same time the most
compact party, that had been seen in
England since the days of Walpole.
The aristocracy bowed themselves to do
his bidding ; the representatives of the
most powerful families in England were
his colleagues and subordinates. The
rank and tile of the party regarded him
as the chosen leader who had -guided
them out of their bondage into the pro-
mised land of office. It seemed as if
his course were so clearly marked out
Steps of a Statesman.
217
that he could not mistake it, and his
power assured for the term of his life.
But he had not been long in office
till this fair scene began to overcloud.
His career began to be marked by vari-
ous strange and eccentric movements,
needlessly so his followers thought
straying out of the Protectionist orbit,
but yet so slightly, and on such plau-
sible pretexts, that suspicion was crushed
almost as soon as it was engendered.
The herd so recently admitted into the
fat pastures of place and power raised
their heads for a moment or two, looked
alarmed and sniffed around, but, unable
to detect any palpable sign of danger,
quietly dropped their heads again to
browse in peace. We need say nothing
here of the imposition of the income-tax.
That impost was justified at the time, in
the eyes of every good Conservative, by
the contrast of its bold and decided
character with the previous peddling of
Whig financial incapacity. Had not their
chief declared from the first that he
could prescribe for the patient, but that
he must first be regularly called in and
receive the official fee ; and was he not
now in the most brilliant manner re-
deeming his pre-official pledge 1 That
step, therefore, excited no alarm in the
Protectionist mind ; and yet we now
know, from the confessions of the
minister himself, that that measure was
the keystone of all his subsequent
policy. There were other measures of
a less reassuring nature. There was
the revision of the tariff, by which the
customs duties were materially reduced
on an immense number of articles, some
of them closely affecting the agricultural
interest. The English grazier was for
the first time subjected to competition
from abroad, by the imposition of pro-
tective instead of prohibitory duties on
foreign cattle ; but then butcher's meat
had become so dear, and the duty was
still fixed so high, no harm was meant
to the grazier's profits ! Then came an
attack on that palladium of the consti-
tution 'itself the sliding scale ; which
was considerably lowered. This was
alarming ; but then, on second thoughts,
the old scale was admitted to be rather
clumsy in its operation. The height of
its duties in ordinary times invited at-
tack, and exposed the system to scandal ;
and, when prices at home ran high, the
scale fell so rapidly as to deprive the
farmer of any chance of profits. No ;
there could be no harm in a reduction
of the sliding scale, which rather tended
to a consolidation of monopoly, by giving
up a prohibition that was valueless for a
protection that could easily and at all times
be worked ! Then came another measure
that did look ominous. It was proposed
to treat wheat grown in our Canadian colo-
nies as the produce of the subjects of the
same Crown ought to be treated, and to
admit it into this country wholly free of
duty. To this the party, though with
reluctance, assented. The colonists were
our fellow-subjects after all ; and, be-
sides, if they were admitted to share in
the privileges of the British farmer, they
would be a reinforcement to., the ranks
of protection. So it was agreed to take
in the Canadians as partners. But then
came out the startling accompaniment
to the scheme, that no effectual means
were to be taken to prevent the produce
of the United States from entering this
country as of genuine Canadian growth.
The Colonial Office had long ago given
up the hopeless task of drawing a Cus-
tom House cordon across the long and
exposed boundary between Canada and
the States ; and yet, if that were not
done, the English farmer might be
ruined by an inundation of wheat grown
in the Mississippi valley, and entering
England under the guise of its being the
produce of the St. Lawrence. The party
now really began to feel alarmed. They
spoke of the measure as the rat-hole in
the dyke that would in the end flood
the province. Discontent and alarm per-
vaded their ranks; and from the flock
of followers was heard the mutinous cry,
" Peel or Stanley, who shall lead us ?" '
The answer of the Premier to that
cry- was, perhaps, the master-stroke of
his whole policy. His cabinet had not
been long formed when whispers of
a disunion between those two emi-
nent statesmen began to circulate. The
mounting spirit of Lord Derby would
218
Steps of a Statesman.
not, perhaps, have brooked a superior
under any circumstances. His generous
impulses were damped, and his impe-
rious temper was chafed under the cool
and wary, and in all respects anti-chi-
valric policy of his chief. More than
once, acute observers in the House of
Commons noticed the Secretary for the
Colonies taking notes of an opponent's
speech, with the evident intention to
reply, and as often his being baulked of
his purpose by the Premier starting up
before him, and first catching the Speaker's
eye. For all this, the fiery young noble-
man was fain to take his revenge when-
ever a discussion on a private Bill
allowed him decorously to take an op-
posite side from his cold-blooded supe-
rior. Old members of the House still
tell of the sensation produced when, on
one such occasion, Lord Stanley, with
marked emphasis, and a vehemence that
showed the feelings working within,
warned the House against being led
away by the solemn plausibilities of his
right honourable friend, who was well
known to be unrivalled in the art of
so dressing up a case as to make the
worse appear the better reason. Every-
thing, in fact, foreboded an open rup-
ture between these leaders, when the
dexterous Premier, ever fertile in re-
source, bethought him of a plan for
removing his rival from his path by
transferring him to the House of Peers.
The excuse, as usual, was of the most
plausible kind. The authority of the
Duke of Wellington in that House was,
and was likely long to remain, without
a rival ; but age was creeping on him,
and it was his own desire to be relieved
from the responsibilities which fall upon
a leader. There was no one then in
that assembly qualified to take his place.
Would not Lord Stanley undertake the
task? The bait seems to have been
too tempting to be resisted. To lead
the House of Lords was not, indeed,
equal to leading the House of Commons ;
but still it was a leadership. Besides,
the transfer was only anticipating, by a
few years, the change that would take
place in the course of nature by his
father's death. He therefore accepted
the proposal; and, from that hour, Sir
Eobert Peel stood in the House of
Commons without a competitor for the
confidence of his own party. And that
was the least of the advantage-ground.
Among other points of difference between
these ministers, the question of Protec-
tion was always prominent The mono-
polists doubted Peel, but they were sure
of Stanley. If the abolition then con-
templated were to be pressed on the
House while Stanley was a member, the
Protectionists would have had a formid-
able leader round whom to rally. His
removal to the Upper House did not,
indeed, prevent him from resisting the
fiscal revolution ; but it deprived his
resistance of more than half its weight.
All he could do in the Upper House,
compared with what he might have
done in the Lower, was like the appli-
cation of purchase-power to the short
instead of the long end of the lever.
It will thus be seen how carefully Sir
Eobert Peel prepared his ground, and
how cautiously he felt his way towards
the change in the national policy he had
long been meditating. He had gathered
together a following such as rarely before,
and never since, gathered round an Eng-
lish statesman a following animated by
a vehement attachment to one principle,
but animated also by unbounded con-
fidence in him, as the statesman who
alone^ could assure to that principle suc-
cess. With masterly adroitness he played
off one of those emotions against the
other. Without committing himself to a
single definite enunciation of opinion, he
contrived to persuade his followers that
he shared their convictions, and longed
for the consummation of their hopes ;
and he took advantage of their confi-
dence to prevent them from committing
themselves to any vote in favour of the
principles which they took every other
means to proclaim they entertained. The
Eree-traders were dislodged from office,
and the Protectionists took their place,
without one word being placed on the
records of Parliament approving of, or
condemning, the principle for which the
two were battling. Having thus secured
a clear stage for future discussions, he
Steps of a Statesman.
proceeded in the same ingenious manner
to mask, while he forwarded, his pur-
pose, by calling to his assistance the
most notorious of the Protectionist
champions, calculating, on what after-
wards occurred that some would veer
round along with him, and that those who
would not move at his bidding would
hesitate to denounce, and would be
hampered by their connexion with him.
Another step yet. "Whilst Protection
continued to be the rallying cry of the
party, Protection itself was tampered
with. There was nothing to alarm in
the changes as they were successively
presented. The farmers' friends could
not deny that they were improvements
on the old system. Little, indeed, would
the nation have benefitted had the
changes stopped there ; but not the
less they did the work for which they
were intended. They accustomed the
popular mind to the idea of change ;
the coherence of the fabric of Pro-
tection was loosened ; the new duties
could not command the respect with
which men regarded the old ; the thin
end of the wedge was inserted, and it
only waited for a favourable opportunity
to be driven home.
That opportunity came even sooner
than the minister anticipated. It seemed
as if Providence itself were working in
concert with the calculating statesman,
and, by a sharp but needful stroke of dis-
cipline, opening up a way for the accom-
plishment of that design, to accomplish
which all these stealthy feline movements
had been made. The prospect of dearth,
arising out of the bad harvest of 1845,
and the total failure of the potato crop
in that year, supplied the opportunity
for" which the minister was watching,
and supplied it at the right time when
his measures were taken, his friends or-
ganized, his opponents scattered, dis-
mayed, and uncertain, amid the general
dereliction, on whom they might rely.
At the decisive moment, indeed, he ap-
peared to waver, and offered, by his own
resignation, to make way for the states-
men who had just proposed a radical
change in the Corn Laws to complete
their work. But Lord John Eussell
soon satisfied himself that, whatever the
Conservatives might do under the guid-
ance of their own leaders, it was certain
that they would not repeal the Corn
Laws at his bidding ; and he resigned
the honour and the arduousness of the
task into the hands of his great rival.
This result also, it is not too much to
assert, had been foreseen by the minister,
as well as the additional power which
his resignation, to be so soon recalled,
unfettered by conditions, put into his
hands. The power thus gained he
strained to the utmost in the work.
The repeal of the Corn Laws he regarded
as the crown and glory of his public
life ; and, when it was accomplished, he
felt that his task was done. He gave
up office almost without a struggle on
the day the measure was secured beyond
the possibility of defeat ; and from that
time onward to his death he made no
secret of the resolution he had formed
never again to accept office.
It is curious to reflect what would
have been the reputation of Sir Robert
Peel with posterity, had the accident
which deprived the country of his valu-
able life in 1851 happened in 1844. He
would have gone down to the grave with
"a wounded name" as the last of the
monopolists ; and yet there can now be
no doubt that, from his first entrance on
office in 1842, or even sooner, he had
made up his mind and prepared his
plans, though with so much secresy that
it may be doubted whether he would
have left behind him any record to ex-
plain his conduct or to vindicate his
fame. Some of these plans we have thus
endeavoured to enumerate. Judged by
the standard of party morality, as it is
usually understood in England, it is im-
possible wholly to justify them. That he
deceived his party to their own advantage
is a palliation rather than a defence.
He judged for them more wisely than
they could have judged for themselves ;
but they gave him their confidence, not
as their prophet, but as their leader.
Something may be said of the duty he
owed his country as paramount to all his
party could claim of him. And it must
be admitted that even now, looking back
220
Five-and- Thirty.
on the past with all the advantages of
the light shed on it by subsequent
events, it is not easy to see how the
blessed result could have been otherwise
secured. On this point it is instructive
to mark the course taken by his Whig
rival. Lord John Russell openly an-
nounced his purpose to break down
monopoly, marched straight up to the
fortress, summoned the garrison, and
sustained a decisive defeat at the hands
of the troops whom he had taken the
pains to warn of his attack. Sir Robert
Peel, having the same end in view,
carefully concealed his purpose, smoothed
down suspicion, made his approaches
only by slow, gradual, and almost imper-
ceptible steps. Like the sagacious ele-
phant, he proved the strength of every
plank on the bridge before he trusted on
it his full weight. In approaching to
his object he moved with the stealth
of the wild cat, and had the prey fairly
within his grasp before he made the
decisive spring. We admire even where
we cannot wholly approve. He damaged
his reputation for frankness ; but he
saved his country.
FIVE- AND -THIRTY.
GEORGE LAMBERT, you have woo'd me
long;
You singled me from out the throng
By every sleight of speech and song,
To make me yours.
I cannot tell why you should care
To win me ; for I am not fair ;
My bloom is not so fresh, my hair
So bright, as yours.
And truly, when at first I saw
Your eyes were on me, and the law
Magnetic had begun to draw
My own on yours,
I found therein no lordly grace
To make a grown-up woman place
Her love on such a boyish face
As this of yours.
'Tis said in sadness, not in blame ;
For women who are worth the name
Love more the wrinkled mouth of fame
Than lips like yours.
And even I, though I could see
That, when you sang, you sang of me,
Was never touch' d as girls would be
By songs of yours,
Till once, with too melodious breath,
You told how great Elizabeth,
Or such as she, had done to death
Young hearts like yours.
Then, I remember, in the pause,
When faces brightening with applause
Of which I only knew the cause
Were turn'd on yours,
I only silent sat, and thought :
I wonder' d if this thrill were nought,
Or if indeed my presence wrought
High change in yours.
For, with that song, the light I prize
Had come at last into your eyes,
And I could think them deep and wise,
Though they were yours !
So, when you met me otherwhere
And said the words that needless were
After so sweet a prelude, there
You thought me yours,
'Tis true, I said a woman's No,
And spoke of ages, and the slow
Still-widening fissure that would grow
'Twixt mine and yours ;
But you, with that keen ear of youth,
That instinct of respectful ruth
For women, had perceived the truth,
And crown'd me yours.
Ah, sjiall I tell you how it was ?
I am not all so feeble as
A girl whose yielding soul might pass
Straight into yours ;
Five-and- Thirty.
221
I weigh' d and ponder'd what I did :
Our hearts would not be always hid,
And there's a vein in mine, would thrid
The depths of yours,
And with its iron bind the clay
The white unmoulded mass, that may
(I thought) become to mine a stay,
As mine to yours.
For, though my years are nigh the full,
And though a drooping lid may dull
In me the gleams that gazers cull
From eyes like yours ;
Yet, being a woman, I am weak
Toward beauty, and the nurture meek
Whose symbols are a brow and cheek
As clear as yours.
Therefore, as some stern man, whose
prime
Has caught the roughness and the rime
Wherewith a long tempestuous time
Would crust e'en yours,
Wears on his bosom, like a rose,
The wife whose childlike fondness shows
To him more charming than she knows
So I wore yours.
You and your love, I thought, would be
The glad revival unto me
Of that serene simplicity
Once mine, now yours :
And I would build you up to all
The height of things heroical,
My stronger nature as a wall
Confirming yours ;
Till you, half-feminine though brav ,
And I, though worn, yet true and grave,
Would fit at last like hand and glaive
And both be yours.
George Lambert, what a dream was this !
I wake to old analysis,
And question every smile and^kiss
Of mine or yours,
And feel upon me such a stress
Of sad mature self- consciousness,
That I no more have heart to bless
This suit of yours.
George, what was that of "like to like?"
It seems to me that, as a shrike
Wounds callow birds, my lips must strike
The warmth of yours.
You want a life of richer tone ;
A heart full-blooded as your own
Should loose its ample maiden-zone .
To take in yours :
But I I am too lean for love ;
The day is past when I could move
With equal aspect, arm inwove
In arm of yours :
Too many sober thoughts attend
My age how joy may have an end,
But sorrow never : could I blend
Such thoughts with yours ?
Old scenes you cannot understand,
Old lives, are ever with me ; and,
Perhaps, old memories of a hand
That was not yours.
" I should have seen all this before ? "
I did j but winds of pride outbore
My craft, that should have hugg'd the
shore,
To follow yours.
Forgive me then the words I've said ;
If I had known its youth was dead
I would have crush' d my heart, instead
Of cleaving yours.
Forgive me : I am cold, but what
Have I to do with life 1 My lot
May make me yet a Bride ; but not
Alas ! not yours.
ARTHUR J. MUNBY.
222
RAVENSHOE.
BY HENRY KINGSLEY, AUTHOR OP " GEOFFRY HAMLYN."
CHAPTER LXIY.
THE ALLIED ARMIES ADVANCE ON
RAVENSHOE.
How near the end we are getting, and
yet so much, to come ! Never mind.
"We will tell it all naturally and straight-
forwardly, and then there will he nothing
to offend you.
By-and-by it "became necessary that
Charles should have air and exercise.
His arm was well. Every splinter had
been taken out of it, and he must lie on
the sofa no longer.
So he was driven out through pleasant
places, through the budding spring, in
one of Lord Hainault' s carriages. All
the meadows had been bush-harrow T ed
and rolled long ago, and now the
orchises and fritillaries were beginning
to make the grass look purple. Lady
Hainault had a low carriage, and a pair
of small cobs, and this was given up
to Charles ; and Lady Hainault J s first
coachman declined to drive her ladyship
out in the day-time, for fear that the
second coachman (a meritorious young
man of forty) should frighten Charles
by a reckless and inexperienced way of
driving.
Consequently Lady Hainault went
a-buying flannel petticoats and that sort
of thing, for the poor people in Cas-
terton and Henley, driven by her second
coachman ; and Charles was trundled all
'over the country by the first coachman,
in a low carriage with the pair of cobs.
But Lady Hainault was as well pleased
with the arrangement as the old coach-
man himself, and so it is no business of
ours. For the curious thing was, that
no one who ever knew Charles would
have hesitated for an instant in giving up
to him his or her bed, or dinner, or car-
riage, or any other thing in this world.
For people are great fools, you know.
Perhaps the reason of it was that
every one who made Charles's acquaint-
ance knew by instinct that he would
have cut off his right hand to serve
them. I don't know why it was. But
there is the fact.
Sometimes Lady Ascot would go with
him, and sometimes William. And, one
day, when William was with him, they
were bowling quietly along a by-road on
the opposite side of the water from
Hurley. And, in a secret place, they
came on a wicked old gentleman, break-
ing the laws of his country, and catching
perch in close time, out of a punt,
with a chair, and a stone bottle, and a
fisherman from Maidenhead, who shall
be nameless, but who must consider
himself cautioned.
The Rajah of Ahmednuggur lives close
by there ; and he was reading the
Times, when Charles asked the coach-
man to pull up, that he might see the
sport. The Rajah's attention was
caught by seeing the carriage stop ; and
he looked through a double-barrelled
opera glass, and not only saw Charles
and William in the carriage, but saw,
through the osiers, the hoary old pro-
fligate with his paternoster pulling the
perch out as fast as he could put his
line in. Fired by a virtuous indigna-
tion (I wish every gentleman on the
Thames would do likewise), he ran in
his breeches and slippers down the
lawn, and began blowing up like Old
Gooseberry.
The old gentleman who was fishing
looked at the rajah's red-brick house,
and said, " If my face was as ugly as
that house, I would wear a green veil ;"
but he ordered the fisherman to take up
the rypecks, and he floated away down
stream.
And, as Charles and William drove
along, Charles said, "My dear boy,
there could not be any harm in catch-
Eavenshoe.
223
ing a few roach. I should so like to
go about among pleasant places in a
punt once more."
When they got home, the head keeper
was sent for. Charles told him that he
would so much like to go fishing, and
that a few roach would not make much
difference. The keeper scornfully de-
clined arguing about the matter, but
only wanted to know what time Mr.
Eavenshoe would like to go, adding that
any one who made objections would be
brought up uncommon short.
So William and he went fishing in a
punt, and one day Charles said, " I
don't care about this punt-fishing much.
I wish I wish I could get back to the
trout at Eavenshoe."
"Do you really mean that?" said
William.
"Ah, Willy !" said Charles. " If I
could only see it again ! "
" How I have been waiting to hear
you say that ! " said William. " Come
to your home with me ; why, the people
are wondering where we are. My dar-
ling bird will be jealous, if I stay here
much longer. Come down to my wed-
ding."
" When are you to be married,
William ?"
" On the same day as yourself," said
William sturdily.
Said Charles, " Put the punt ashore,
will you ? " And they did. And
Charles, with his nose in the air, and
his chest out, walked beside William
across the spring meadows, through the
lengthening grass, through the calthas,
and the orchises, and the ladies' slippers,
and the cowslips, and the fritillaries,
through the budding flower-garden
which one finds in spring among the
English meadows, a hale strong man.
And, when they had clomb the pre-
cipitous slope of the deer-park, Charles
picked a rhododendron flower, and put it
in his button-hole, and turned round to
William, with the flush of health on his
face, and said
" Brother, we will go to Eavenshoe,
and you will be with your love. Shall
we be married in London ? "
" In St. Petersburgh, if you like, now
I see you looking your old self again.
But why ? "
" A fancy of mine. When I remem-
ber what I went through in London,
through my own obstinacy, I should
like to take my revenge on the place, by
spending the happiest day of my life
there. Do you agree ?"
" Of course."
" Ask Lady Ascot and Mary and the
children down to Eavenshoe. Lady
Hainault will come too, but he can't.
And have General Mainwaring and the
Tiernays. Have as many of the old
circle as we can get."
" This is something like life again,"
said William. " Eemember, Charles, I
am not spending the revenues of Eavens-
hoe. They are yours. I know it. I
am spending about 400 a year. When
our grandfather's marriage is proved,
you will provide for me and my wife ;
I know that. Be quiet. But we shall
never prove that till we find Ellen."
"Find Ellen!" exclaimed Charles,
turning round. "I will not go near
Ellen yet."
"Do you know where she is?" asked
William, eagerly.
" Of course I do," said Charles. " She
is at Hackney. Hornby told me so
when he was dying. But let her be for
a time."
"I tell you," said William, "that I
am sure that she knows everything.
At Hackney ! "
The allied powers, General Mainwar-
ing, Lady Ascot, Lord Hainault, and
William, were not long before they
searched every hole and corner of Hack-
ney, in and out. There was only one
nunnery there; but, in that nunnery,
there was no young lady at all resem-
bling Ellen. The priests, particularly
Eather Mackworth's friend Butler, gave
them every assistance in their power.
But it was no good.
As Charles and William were in the
railway carriage going westward, Charles
said
" Well, we have failed to find Ellen.
Mackworth, poor fellow, is still at Ea-
venshoe."
"Yes," said William, "and nearly
224
Eavenshoe.
idiotic. All his fine-spun cobwebs cast
to the winds. But he holds the clue to
this mystery, or I am mistaken. The
younger Tiernay takes care of him. He
probably won't know you. But, Charles,
when you come into Eavenshoe, keep a
corner for Mackworth."
" He ought to be an honoured guest
of the house as long as he lives," said
Charles. "You still persist in saying
that Eavenshoe is mine."
" I am sure it is," said William.
And, at this same time, William wrote
to two other people telling all about the
state of affairs, and asking them to come
and join the circle. And John Marston
came across into my room and said,
" Let us go." And I said, " My dear
John, we ought to go. It is not every
day that we see a man, and such a
man, risen from the dead, as Charles
Eavenshoe."
And so we went.
CHAPTEE LXV.
FATHER MACKWORTH PUTS THE FINISH-
ING TOUCH ON HIS GREAT PIECE OF
EMBROIDERY.
AND so we went. At Eavenshoe were
assembled General Mainwaring, Lady
Ascot, Mary, Gus, Flora, Archy and
nurse, William, Charles, Father Tiernay
and Father Murtagh Tiernay, John
Marston, and Tommy Cruse from Clo-
velly, a little fisherboy, cousin of Jane
Evans's Jane Evans who was to be
Mrs. Eavenshoe.
, It became necessary that Jane Evans
should be presented to Lady Ascot. She
was only a fisherman's daughter, but she
was wonderfully beautiful, and gentle,
and good. William brought her into
the hall one evening, when every one
was sitting round the fire ; and he said,
" My dear madam, this is my wife that
is to be." Nothing more.
And the dear old woman rose and
kissed her, and said, "My love, how
wonderfully pretty you are. You must
learn to love me, you know ; and you
must make haste about it, because I "am
a very old woman, and I shan't live
very long."
So Jane sat down by Mary, and was
at home, though a little nervous. And
GeneraKMainwaring came and sat beside
her, and made himself as agreeable as very
few men besides him know how to do.
And the fisherboy got next to William,
and stared about with his great black
eyes, like a deer in a flower-garden. (You
caught that face capitally, Mr. Hook,
if you will allow me to say so best
painter of the day!)
Jane Evans was an immense success.
She had been to school six months in
Exeter, and had possibly been drilled in
a few little matters : such as how to ask
a gentleman to hold her fan ; how to
sit down to the piano when asked to
sing (which she couldn't do) ; how to
marshal her company to dinner ; how to
step into the car of a balloon ; and
so on. Things absolutely necessary to
know, of course, but which had nothing
to do with her success in this case ; for
she was so beautiful, gentle, and win-
ning, that she might have done anything
short of eating with her knife, and it
would have been considered nice.
Had she a slight Devonshire accent ?
Well, well ! Do you know, I rather
like it. I consider it aqually so good
with the Scotch, my dear.
I could linger and linger on about this
pleasant spring at old Eavenshoe, but I
must not. You have been my compa-
nion so long that I am right loth to part
with you. But the end is very near.
Charles had his revenge upon the
trout. The first day after he had re-
covered from his journey, he and
William went out and did most terrible
things. William would not carry a rod ;
but gave his to the servant, and took
the landing-net. That Eavenshoe stream
carries the heaviest fish in Devonshire.
Charles worked up to the waterfall, and
got nineteen, weighing fourteen pounds.
Then they walked down to the w r eir
above the bridge, and then Charles's
evil genius prompted him to say,
" William, have you got a salmon fly in
your book ? " And William told him
that he had, but solemnly warned him
of what would happen.
Charles was reckless and foolish.
fiavenshoe.
225
He, with a twelve-foot trout-rod, and
thirty yards of line, threw a small sal-
mon fly under the weir above the
bridge. There was a flash on the water.
Charles's poor little reel began scream-
ing, and the next moment the line came
" flick " home across his face, and he
said, " By gosh, what a fool I was ; "
and then he looked up to the bridge,
and there was Father Mackworth look-
ing at him.
"How d'ye do, my dear sir?" said
Charles. "Glad to see you out. I
have been trying to kill a salmon with
trout tackle, and have done quite the
other thing."
Father Mackworth looked at him, but
did not speak a word. Then he looked
round, and young Murtagh Tiernay
came up and led him away ; and
Charles got up on the road and watched
the pair going home. And, as he saw
the tall narrow figure of Father Mack-
worth creeping slowly along, dragging
his heels as he went, he said, "Poor old
fellow, I hope he will live to forgive
me."
Father Mackworth, poor fellow, drag-
ged his heels homeward ; and, when he
got into his room in the priests' tower,
Murtagh Tiernay said to him, " My
dear friend, you are not angry with me 1
I did not tell you that he was come
back ;. I thought it would agitate you."
And Father Mackworth said slowly,
for all his old decisive utterance was
gone, " The Virgin bless you ; you are
a good man."
And Father Mackworth spoke truth.
Both the Tiernays were good fellows,
though papists.
"Let me help you off with your
coat,"said Murtagh, for Mackworth was
standing in deep thought.
"Thank you," said Mackworth.
"Now, while I sit here, go and fetch
your brother."
Murtagh Tiernay did as he was told.
In a few minutes our good jolly old
Irish friend was leaning over Mack-
worth's chair.
" Ye're not angry that we didn't tell
ye there was company ? " he said.
" No, no," said Mackworth. " Don't
No. 33. VOL. vi.
speak to me, that's a good man. Don't
confuse me. I am going. You had
better send Murtagh out of the room."
Father Murtagh disappeared.
"I am going," said Mackworth.
"Tiernay, we were not always good
friends, were we ? "
" We are good friends, any way, now,
brother," said Tiernay.
" Ay, ay, you are a good man. I have
done a wrong. I did it for the sake of
the Church, partly, and partly well. I
was very fond of Cuthbert. I loved
that boy, Tiernay. And I spun a web.
But it has all got confused. It is on
this left side, which feels so heavy.
They shouldn't make one's brain in
two halves, should they 1 "
" Begorra no. It's a burnin' shame,"
said Father Tiernay, determining, like a
true Irishman, to agree with every word
said, and find out what was coming.
" That being the case, my dear friend,"
said poor Mackworth, "give me the
portfolio and ink, and we will let our
dear brother Butler know, De profundis
clamavi, that the time is come."
Father Tiernay said, "That will be
the proper course," and got him pen and
ink, fully assured that another fit was
coming on, and that he was wandering
in his mind ; but still watching to see
whether he would let out anything. A
true Irishman.
Mackworth let out nothing. He wrote,
as steadily as he could, a letter of two
lines, and put it in an envelope. Then
he wrote another letter of about three
lines, and inclosed the whole in a larger
envelope, and closed it. Then he said
to Father Tiernay, " Direct it to Butler,
will you, my dear friend; you quite
agree that I have done right 1 "
Father Tiernay said that he had
done quite right; but wondered what
the dickens it was all about. We soon
found out. But we walked, and rode,
and fished, and chatted, and played
billiards, and got up charades, with Lady
Ascot for an audience ; not often think
ing of the poor paralytic priest in the
lonely tower, and little dreaming of the
mine which he was going to spring
under our feet.
Q
226
Bavenshoe.
The rows, (there is no other expres-
sion) that used to go on between Father
Tiernay and Lady Ascot were as amus-
ing as anything I ever heard. I must
do Tiernay the justice to say that he
was always perfectly well bred, and, also,
that Lady Ascot began it. Pier good
temper, her humour, and her shrewd-
ness were like herself; I can say no
more. Tiernay dodged, and shuffled,
and went from pillar to post, and was as
witty and good-humoured as an Irish-
man can be ; but I, as a staunch
Protestant, am of opinion that Lady
Ascot, though nearly ninety, had the
best of it. I daresay good Father
Tiernay don't agree with me.
The younger Tiernay was always in
close attendance on Mackworth. Every
one got very fond of this young priest.
We used to wait until Father Mackworth
was reported to be in bed, and then he
was sent for. And generally we used to
make an excuse to go into the chapel,
and Lady Ascot would come, defiant of
rheumatism, and we would get him to
the organ.
And then Oh, Lord ! how he would
make that organ speak, and plead, and
pray, till the prayer was won. And
then, how he would send aggregated
armies of notes, marching in vast bat-
talions one after another, out into space,
to die in confused melody; and then,
how he would sound the trumpet to
recal them, and get no answer but the
echo of the roof. Ah ! well. I hope
you are fond of music, reader.
But one night we sent for him, and
he could not come. And, later, we sent
again, but he did not come; and the
man we had sent, being asked, looked
uneasy, and said he did not know why.
By this time the ladies had gone to bed.
General Mainwaring, Charles, William,
John Marston, and myself, were sitting
over the fire in the hall, smoking, and
little Tommy Cruse was standing be-
tween William's knees.
The candles and the fire were low.
There was light outside from a clouded
moon, so that one could see the gleam of
the sea out of the mullioned windows.
Charles was stooping down, describing
the battle of the Alma on the hearth-
rug, and William was bending over,,
watching him, holding the boy between
his knees, as I said. General Main-
waring was puffing his cigar, and say-
ing, " Yes, yes ; that's right enough ; "
and Marston and I were, like William,
looking at Charles.
Suddenly the boy gave a loud cry,
and hid his face in William's bosom.
I thought he had been taken with a fit.
I looked up over General Mainwaring's
head, and I cried out, " My God ! what
is this 1 "
We were all on our legs in a moment,
looking the same way at the long
low mullioned window which had been
behind General Mainwaring. The
clouded moonlight outside showed us
the shape of it. But between us and it
there stood three black figures ; and, as
we looked at them, we drew one towards
the other, for we were frightened. The
general took two steps forward.
One of the figures advanced noise-
lessly. It was dressed in black, and its
face was shrouded in a black hood. In
that light, with that silent even way of
approaching, it was the most awful figure
I ever saw. And from under its hood
came a woman's voice, the sound of
which made the blood of more than one
to stand still, and then go madly on
again. It said :
" I am Ellen Eavenshoe. My sins and
my repentance are known to some here.
I have been to the war, in the hospitals,
till my health gave way; and I came
home but yesterday, as it were, and I
have been summoned here. Charles, I
was beautiful once. Look at this."
And she threw her hood back, and
we looked at her in the dim light.
Beautiful once ! Ay, but never so
beautiful as now. The complexion was
deadly pale, and the features were
pinched, but she was more beautiful
than ever. I declare I believe that, if
we had seen a ring of glory round her
head at that moment, none of us would
have been surprised. Just then, her
beauty, her nun's dress, and the
darkness of the hall, assisted the illusion,
probably ; but there was really some-
Havenshoe.
227
thing saintlike and romantic about her,
for an instant or so, which made us all
stand silent. Alas ! there was no ring
of glory round her head. Poor Ellen
was only bearing the cross ; she had not
won the crown.
Charles was the first who spoke or
moved. He went up to her and kissed
her, and said, " My sweet sister, I
knew that, if I ever saw you again,
I should see you in these weeds. My
dear love, I am so glad to see you.
And oh, my sister, how much more happy
to see you dressed like that "
(Of course he did not use exactly
those words, but words to that effect,
only more passionate and even less
grammatical. I am not a short-hand
writer. I only give you the substance
of conversations in the best prose I
caa command.)
" Charles," she said, " I do right to
wear weeds, for I am the widow of
(Never mind what she said ; that sort of
thing very properly jars on Protestant
ears.) I am a sister of the Society of
Mercy of St. Bridget, and I have been to
the East, as I told you : and more than
once I must, have been into the room
where you lay, to borrow things, or talk
with English Catholic ladies, and never
guessed you were there. After Hornby
had found me at Hackney, I got leave
from Eather Butler to join an Irish
sisterhood ; for our mother was Irish in
speech and in heart, you remember,
though not by birth. I have something to
say something very important. Eather
Mackworth, will you come here? Are
all here intimate friends of the family?
"Will you ask any of them to leave the
hall, Charles 1 "
" Not one," said Charles. " Is one of
those dark figures which have frightened
us so much Eather Mackworth 1 My
dear sir, I am so sorry : come to the
fire. And who is the other 1 "
" Only Murtagh Tiernay," said a soft
voice.
" Why did you stand out there these
few minutes ? Eather Mackworth, your
arm."
William and Charles helped him in
towards the fire. He looked terribly ill
and ghastly. The dear old general
took him from them, and sat him down
in his own chair by the fire ; and there
he sat looking curiously around him,
with the light of the wood fire and
the candles strong on his face, while
Ellen stood behind him, with her hood
thrown back, and her white hands folded
on her bosom. If you have ever seen
a stranger group than we were, I should
be glad to hear of it.
Poor Mackworth seemed to think that
it was expected of him to speak. He
looked up to General Mainwaring, and
he said
"I hope you are the better of your
wound, sir. I have had a sharp stroke
of paralysis, and I have another com-
ing on, sir, and my memory is going.
When you meet my Lord Saltire, whom
I am surprised to find absent to-night,
will you tell him that I presented my
compliments, and thought that he had
used me very well on the whole 1 Had
she not better begin, sir ? or it may be
too late ; unless you would like to wait
for Lord Saltire."
Eather Murtagh Tiernay knelt down
and whispered to him.
"Ay! ay!" he said, "Dead ay!
so he is ; I had forgotten. We shall all
be dead soon. Some of us will to hell,
General, and some to heaven, and all to
purgatory. I am a priest, sir. I have
been bound body and soul to the Church
from a child, and I have done things
which the Church will disapprove of
when they are told, though not while
they are kept secret ; and I tell them
because the eyes of a dead man, of a man
who was drowned bathing in the bay,
haunt me day and night, and say, Speak
out ! Murtagh ! "
Little Tiernay was kneeling beside
him, and called his attention to him.
" You had better give me the wine ;
for the end is getting very near. Tell
her to begin."
And, while poor Mackworth was taking
some wine (poor fellow, it was little
enough he had taken in his life-time),
Ellen began to speak. I had some no-
tion that we should know everything
now. We had guessed the truth for a
Q2
228
Havenshoe.
long while. We had guessed everything
about Petre Eavenshoe's marriage. We
believed in it. We seemed to know all
about it, from Lady Ascot. No link
was wanting in the chain of proof,
save one the name of the place in which
that marriage took place. That had
puzzled every one. Lady Ascot declared
it was a place in the north of Hamp-
shire, as you will remember ; but every
register had been searched there, with-
out result. So conceive how we all
stared at poor Ellen, when she began to
speak, wondering whether she knew as
much as ourselves, or even more.
" I am Miss Eavenshoe," she said
quietly. " My brother Charles there is
heir to this estate; and I have come
here to-night to tell you so."
There was nothing new here. We
knew all about that. I stood up and put
my arm through Charles Eavenshoe's,
and William came and laid his hand
upon my shoulder. The general stood
before the fire, and Ellen went on.
"Petre Eavenshoe was married in
1778 to Maria Dawson ; and his son was
James Eavenshoe, my father, who was
called Horton, and was Densil Eavens-
hoe's game-keeper. I have proof of
this."
So had we. We knew all this.
What did she know more 1 It was in-
tolerable that she was to stop just here,
and leave the one awful point un-
answered. I forgot my good manners
utterly; I clutched Charles's arm tighter,
and I cried out
" We know about the marriage, Miss
Eavenshoe ; we have known of it a long
while. But where did it take place,
my dear young lady ? Where 1 "
She turned on me and answered,
wondering at my eagerness. / had
brought out the decisive words at last
the words that we had been dying to
hear for six months ; she said
" At Einchampstead, in Berkshire ; I
have a copy of the certificate with me."
I let go Charles's arm, and fell
back in my chair. My connexion with
this story is over (except the trouble of
telling it, which I beg you won't men-
tion, for it has given me as much plea-
sure as it has you ; and that, if you look
at it in a proper point of view, is quite
just, for very few men have a friend
who has met with such adventures as
Charles Eavenshoe, who will tell them
all about it afterwards). I fell back in
my chair, and stared at poor Father
Mack worth as if he were a copper disk,
and I was trying to get into a sufficiently
idiotic state to be electrobiologized.
" I have very little more to tell," said
Ellen. " I was not aware that you knew
so much. From Mr. William Marston's
agitation, I conclude that I have sup-
plied the only link which was missing.
I think that Father Mackworth wishes
to explain to you why he sent for me to
come here to-night. If he feels himself
able to do so now, I shall be glad to be
dismissed."
Father Mackworth sat up in his chair,
and spoke at once. He had gathered
himself up for the effort, and went
through it well, though with halting
and difficult speech.
"I knew of Petre Eavenshoe's mar-
riage from Father Clifford, with all the
particulars. It had been confessed to
him. He told it to me the day Mrs.
Eavenshoe died, after Densil Eavenshoe
had told me that his second son was to
be brought up to the Protestant faith.
I went to him in a furious passion, and
he told me about this previous marriage
which had been confessed to him, to
quiet me. It showed me that, if the
worst were to happen, and Cuthbert
were to die, and Eavenshoe go to a
Protestant, I could still bring in a
Catholic as a last resource. For, if
Cuthbert had died, and Norah had not
confessed about the changing of the chil-
dren, I should have brought in James,
and. after him William, both Catholics,
believing him to be the son of James
and N~orah. Do you understand 1
" Why did I not ? I loved that boy
Cuthbert. And it was told under seal of
confession, and must not be used save
in deadly extremity ; and William was a
turbulent boy. Which would have been
the greater crime at that time ? It was
only a choice of evils, for the Church is
very dear to me.
fiavensJioc.
229
" Then Norah confessed to me about
the change of children ; and then I saw
that, by speaking of Petre Ravenshoe's
marriage, I should only bring in a Pro-
testant heir. But I saw, also, that, by
using her confession only, I could prove
Charles Ravenshoe to be merely a game-
keeper's son, and turn him out into the
world. And so I used it, sir. You
used to irritate and insult me, sir," he
said, turning to Charles, " and I was
not so near death then as now. If you
can forgive me, in God's name say so."
Charles went over to him, and put
his arm round him. " Forgive you 1 "
he said ; " dear Mackworth, can you
forgive me ? "
" Well, well ! " he continued, " what
have I to forgive, Charles ? At one
time, I thought that if I spoke it would
be better, because Ellen, the only daugh-
ter of the house, would have had a great
dower, as Ravenshoe girls have. But I
loved Cuthbert too well. And Lord
Welter stopped my even thinking of
doing so, by coming to Ravenshoe.
And and we are all gentlemen here.
The day that you hunted the black hare,
I had been scolding her for writing to
him. And William and I made her
mad between us, and she ran away to
him. And she is with the army now,
Charles. I should not fetch her back,
Charles. She is doing very good work
there."
By this time she had drawn the black
hood over her face, and was standing
behind him, motionless.
"I will answer any more questions
you like to-morrow. Petre Ravenshoe's
marriage took place at Finchampstead,
remember. Charles, my dear boy, would
you mind Jdssing me 1 I think I always
loved you, Charles. Murtagh Tiernay,
take me to my room."
And so he went tottering away through
the darkness. Charles opened the door
for him. Ellen stood with her hood
over her face, motionless.
" I can speak like this, with my
face hidden," she said. "It is easy
for one who has been through what
I have, to speak. What I have been
you know; what I am now is (she
used one of those Roman Catholic
forms of expression which are best not
repeated too often). I have a little to
add to his statement. William was
cruel to me. You know you were. You
were wrong. I will not go on. You
were awfully unjust you were horribly
unjust. The man who has just left the
room had some slight right to upbraid
me. You had none. You were utterly
wrong. Mackworth, in one way, is a
very high-minded honourable man. You
made me hate you, William. God for-
give me. I have forgiven you now."
" Yes ; I was wrong," said William,
"I was wrong. But Ellen, Ellen ! be-
fore old friends, only with regard to
the person."
" When you treated me so ill, I was
as innocent as your mother, sir. Let
us go on. This man Mackworth knew
more than you. We had some terrible
scenes together about Lord Welter.
One day he lost his temper, and became
theatrical. He opened his desk and
showed me a bundle of papers, which he
waved in the air, and said that they
contained my future destiny. The next
day, I went to the carpenter's shop and
took a chisel. I broke open his desk,
and possessed myself of them. I found
the certificate of Petre Ravenshoe's mar-
riage. I knew that you, William, as I
thought, and I were the elder children.
But I loved Cuthbert and Charles bet-
ter than you or myself, and I would not
speak. When, afterwards, Father But-
ler told me, while I was with Lord
Welter, before I joined the Sisters, of
the astounding fact of the change of
children, I still held my peace, because
I thought Charles would be the better
of penance for a year or so, and because
I hesitated to throw the power of a
house like this into heretic hands,
though it were into the hands of my
own brother. Mackworth and Butler
were to some extent enemies, I think ;
for Butler seems not to have told Mack-
worth that I was with him for some
time, and I hardly know how he found
it out at last. Three days ago I received
this letter from Mackworth, and after
some hesitation I came. For I thought
230
jRavenshoe.
that the Church could not be helped
by wrong, and I wanted to see that he
concealed nothing. Here it is. I shall
say no more."
And she departed, and I have not
seen her since. Perhaps she is best
where she is. I got a sight of the letter
from Father Mackworth. It ran thus
" Come here at once, I order you. I
am going to tell the truth. Charles
has come back. I will not bear the
responsibility any longer."
Poor Mackworth ! He went back to
his room, attended by the kind-hearted
young priest, who had left his beloved
organ at Segur to come and attend to
him. Lord Segur pished and pshawed,
and did something more, which we won't
talk about, for which he had to get
absolution. But Murtagh Tiernay stayed
at Eavenshoe, defying his lordship,
and his lordship's profane oaths, and
making the Eavenshoe organ talk to
Father Mackworth about quiet church-
yards and silent cloisters ; and some-
times raging on until the poor paralytic
priest began to see the great gates
rolled back, and the street of the ever-
lasting city beyond, crowded with glo-
rious angels. Let us leave these two to
their music. Before we went to town
for the wedding, we were sitting one
night, and playing at loo, in the hall.
(Not guinea unlimited loo, as they used
to play at Lord Welter's, but penny loo,
limited to eighteen pence.) General
Mainwaring had been looed in miss
four times running, making six shillings
(an almost impossible circumstance, but
true) ; and Lady Ascot had been laughing
at him so that she had to take off her
spectacles and wipe them, when Mur-
tagh Tiernay came into the hall, and took
away Charles, and his brother Father
Tiernay.
The game, was dropped soon after
this. At Eavenshoe there was an old-
fashioned custom of having a great
supper brought into the hall at ten. A
silly old custom, seeing that every one
had dined at seven. Supper was brought
in, and every one sat down to table.
All sorts of things were handed to one
by the servants, but no one ate anything.
ISTo one ever did. But the head of the
table was empty. Charles was absent.
After supper was cleared away, every
one drew in a great circle round the fire,
in the charming old-fashioned way one
sees very seldom now, for a talk before
we went to bed. But nobody talked
much. Only Lady Ascot said, " I shall
not go upstairs till he comes back.
General, you may smoke your cigar ; but
here I sit."
General Mainwaring would not smoke
his cigar, even up the chimney. Almost
before he had time to say so, Charles
and Father Tiernay came into the room
without saying a word, and Charles,
passing through the circle, pushed the
logs on the hearth together with his foot.
" Charles," said Lady Ascot, " has
anything happened 1 "
" Yes, aunt."
" Is he dead 1 "
" Yes, aunt."
" I thought so," said Lady Ascot; " I
hope he has forgiven me any hard
thoughts I had of him. I could have
been brought to love that man in time.
There were a great many worse men
than he, sir," she added in her old clear
ringing tones, turning to Father Tiernay.
" There were a great many worse men
than he."
" There were a great many worse men,
Lady Ascot," said Father Tiernay.
"There have been many worse men with
better opportunities. He was a good
man brought up in a bad school. A good
man spoilt. General Mainwaring, you
who are probably more honoured than
any man in England just now, and are
worthy of it ; you who can't stop at a
street corner without a crowd getting to-
gether to hurrah to you ; you, the very
darling of the nation, are going to Oxford
to be made an honorary Doctor of Laws.
And, when you go into that theatre, and
hear the maddening music of those
boys' voices cheering you, then, general,
don't get insane with pride like Herod,
but think what you might have been
with Mackworth's opportunities."
I think we all respected the Irish-
man for speaking up for his friend,
although his speech might be extrava-
HavensJioe.
231
gant. But I am sure that no one
respected him more sincerely than our
valiant, humble, old friend, General
Mainwaring.
CHAPTER LXYI.
GUS AND FLORA ABE NAUGHTY IN CHURCH,
AND THE WHOLE BUSINESS COMES TO
AN END.
CHARLES'S purpose of being married
in London held good. And I need not
say that William's held good too.
Shall I insult your judgment by
telling you that the whole story of Petre
Ravenshoe's marriage at Finchampstead,
was true ? I think not. The register
was found ; the lawyers were busy down
at Ravenshoe ; for every one was anxious
to get up to London, and have the
two marriages over before the season
was too far advanced.
The memorabilia about this time at
Ravenshoe, were The weather was glo-
rious. (I am not going to give you any
more about the two capes, and that sort
of thing. You have had those two
capes often enough. And I am reserv-
ing my twenty-ninth description of the
Ravenshoe scenery for the concluding
chapter.) The weather, I say, was glo-
rious. And I was always being fetched
in from the river, smelling fishy, and
being made to witness deeds. I got
tired of writing my name. I may have
signed away the amount of the national
debt in triplicate, for anything I know
(or care. For you can't get blood out of
a stone). I signed some fifty of them,
I think. But I signed two, which gave
me great pleasure.
The first was a rent- charge on Ravens-
hoe of two thousand a year, in favour of
"William Ravenshoe. The second was a
similar deed of five hundred a year in
favour of Miss Ravenshoe. We will
now have done with all this sordid
business, and go on.
The ladies had all left for town, to
prepare for the ceremony. There was a
bachelors' house at Ravenshoe for the
last time. The weather was hot. Charles
Ravenshoe, General Mainwaring, and
the rest, were all looking out of the
dining-room windows towards the sea,
when we were astonished by seeing two
people ride up on to the terrace, and stop
before the porch.
A noble-looking old gentleman, in
a blue coat and brass buttons, knee-
breeches and gaiters, on a cob, and a
beautiful boy of sixteen on a horse.
/ knew well enough who it was, and
I said, Ho ! But the others wondered.
William would have known, had he
been looking out of window just then ;
but, by the time he got there, the old
gentleman and the boy were in the
porch, and two of Charles's men were
walking the horses up and down.
" Now, who the deuce is this 1 " said
Charles. " They haven't come far ; but
I don't know them. I seem to know
the old man, somehow ; but I can't re-
member."
We heard the old gentleman's heavy
step along the hall; and then the door
was thrown open, and the butler an-
nounced, like a true Devonshire man
" Mr. Humby to Hele !"
The old gentleman advanced with a
frank smile and took Charles's hand, and
said, " Welcome home, sir ; welcome to
your own ; welcome to Ravenshoe. A
Protestant at Ravenshoe at last. After
so many centuries."
Everybody had grown limp and faint
when they heard the awful name of
Humby that is to say, every one but
me. Of course, I had nothing to do
with fetching him over. Not at all.
This was the first time that a Humby
had had friendly communication with
a Ravenshoe, for seven hundred and
eighty-nine years. The two families
had quarrelled in 1066, in consequence
of John Humby having pushed against
Kempion Ravenshoe, in the grand rush
across the Senlac, at the battle of Has-
tings. Kempion Ravenshoe had asked
John Humby where he was shoving to,
and John Humby had expressed a wish
to punch Kempion Ravenshoe's head (or
do what went for the same thing in those
times : I am no antiquarian). The
wound was never healed. The two
families located themselves on adjoining
232
HdvensJioe.
estates in Devonshire immediately after
the conquest, but never spoke till 1529,
when Lionel Humby bit his thumb
at our old friend, Alured Eavenshoe,
in Cardinal Wolsey's antechamber, at
Hampton, and Alured Eavenshoe asked
him what the devil he meant by that.
They fought in Twickenham meadow,
but held no relations for two hundred
and fourteen years that is to say, till
1745, when Ambrose Eavenshoe squeezed
an orange at Chichester Humby, at an
election dinner in Stonnington, and
Boddy Fortescue went out as second to
Chichester Humby, and Lord Segur to
Ambrose Eavenshoe. After this the
families did not speak again for one hun-
dred and ten years that is to say, till
the time "we are speaking of, the end of
April, 1855, when James Humby to Hele
frightened us all out of our wits, by
coming into the dining-room at Eavens-
hoe, in a blue coat and brass buttons,
and shaking hands with Charles, and
saying, besides what I have written
above
" Mrs. Humby and my daughters are
in London for the season, and I go to
join them the day after to-morrow.
There has been a slight cloud between
the two houses lately " (that is to say,
as we know it, for seven hundred and
eighty-nine years. But what is time 1) ,
" and I wish to remove it. I am not a
very old man, but I have my whimsies,
iny dear sir. I wish my daughters to
appear among Miss Corby's bridesmaids ;
and do you know, I fancy, when you get
to London, that you will find the whole
matter arranged."
Who was to resist this 1 Old Humby
went up in the train with all of us the
next day but one. And if I were asked to
pick out the most roystering, boisterous,
jolly old county member in England,
Scotland, or Ireland, I should pick out
old Humby of Hele. What fun he
made at the stations where the express
stopped ! The way he allowed himself
to be fetched out of the refreshment-
room by the guard, and then, at the
last moment, engaged him in a general
conversation about the administration
of the line, until the station-master was
mad, and an accident imminent, was
worthy of a much younger man, to say
the least. But then, in a blue coat
and brass buttons, with drab small-
clothes, you may do anything. They
are sure to take you for a swell. If I, Wil-
liam Marston, am ever old enough, and
fat enough, and rich enough, I shall
dress like that myself, for reasons. If my
figure does not develop, I shall try black
br ch s and gaiters, with a shovel
hat, and a black silk waistcoat buttoned
up under my throat. That very often
succeeds. Either are better than pegtops
and a black bowler hat, which strike no
awe into the beholders.
When we all got to town, we were, of
course, very busy. There was a great
deal of millinery business. Old Humby
insisted on helping at it. One day he
went to Madame Tulle's, in Conduit
Street, with his wife and two daughters,
and asked me to come too ; for which I
was sorry at first, for he behaved very
badly, and made a great noise. We were
in a great suite of rooms on the first
floor, full of crinolines and that sort of
thing ; and there were a great many peo-
ple present. I was trying to keep him
quiet, for he was cutting a good many
clumsy jokes, as an old-fashioned country
squire will. Everybody was amused
with him, and thoroughly appreciated
his fun, save his own wife and daughters,
who were annoyed ; so I was trying to
keep him quiet, when a tall, brown-
faced, handsome young man came up to
me and said
" I beg a thousand pardons ; but is
not your name Marston ? "
I said, "Yes."
" You are a first cousin of John Mars-
ton, are you not 1 ? of John Marston,
whom I used to meet at Casterton ? "
I said, " Yes ; that John Marston was
my cousin." But I couldn't remember
my man, for all that.
" You don't remember me ! I met
you once at old Captain Archer's, at
Lashbrook, for ten minutes. My wife
has come here to buy fal-lals for Charles
Eavenshoe's wedding. He is going to
marry my cousin. My name is George
Corby. I have married Miss Ellen
Ravenshoe.
233
Blockstrop, daughter of Admiral Block-
strop. Her elder sister married young
Captain Archer of the merchant ser-
vice."
T felt very faint, but I congratulated
him. The way those Australians do
business shames us old-country folk. To
get over a heavy disappointment and bo
married in two months and a week is
very creditable.
"We bushmen are rough fellows/'
he said. (His manners were really
charming. I never saw them beaten.)
"But you old-country fellows must
excuse us. Will you give me the
pleasure of your acquaintance 1 I am
sure you must be a good fellow, for your
cousin is one of the best fellows I
ever knew."
"I should be delighted." And I
spoke the truth.
"I will introduce you to my wife
directly," he said; "but the fact is, she
is just now having a row with Madame
Tulle, the milliner here. My wife is a
deuced economical woman, and she
wants to show at the Ravenshoe wed-
ding in a white moire-antique, which will
only cost fifty guineas, and which she
says will do for an evening dress in
Australia afterwards. And the French-
woman won't let her have it for the
purpose, because she says it is incorrect.
And I hope to Gad the Frenchwoman
will win, because my wife will get quite
as good a gown to look at for twenty
guineas or so."
Squire Humby begged to be intro-
duced. Which I did.
" I am glad, sir," he said, " that my
daughters have not heard your conver-
sation. It would have demoralised them,
sir, for the rest of their lives. I hope
they have not heard the argument about
the fifty-guinea gown, If they have,
I am a ruined man. It was one of you
Australians who gave twelve hundred
guineas for the bull ' Master Butterfly,'
the day before yesterday 1 "
"Well, yes," said George Corby, "I
bought the bull. He'll pay, sir, hand-
somely, in our part of the world."
"The devil he will," said Squire
Humby. You don't know an opening
for a young man of sixty-five, with a
blue coat and brass buttons, who under-
stands his business, in your part of the
country, do you ? "
And so on. The weddings took place
at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. If the
ghost of the little shoeblack had been
hovering round the wall where he had
played fives with the brass button, he
might have almost heard the ceremony
performed. Mary and Charles were not
a handsome couple. The enthusiasm of
the population was reserved for William
and Jane Evans, who certainly were. It
is my nature to be a Jack-of-all-trades,
and so I was entrusted with old Master
Evans, Jane's father, a magnificent old
sea-king, whom we have met before.
We two preferred to go to church
quietly before the others; and he, re-
fusing to go into a pew, found himself a
place in the free seats, and made him-
self comfortable. So I went out into the
porch, and waited till they came.
I waited till the procession had gone
in ; and then I found that the tail of it
was composed of poor Lord Charles
Herries' children, Gus, Flora, and Archy,
with their nurse.
If a bachelor is worth his salt, he
will make himself useful. I saw that
Nurse was in distress and anxious ; so I
stayed with her.
Archy was really as good as gold till
he met with his accident. He walked
up the steps with nurse as quiet as
possible. But, even at first, I began to
get anxious about Gus and Flora. They
were excited. Gus wouldn't walk up
the steps; but he put his two heels
together, and jumped up them one at
a time, and Flora walked backwards,
looking at him sarcastically. At the top
step but one Gus stumbled; where-
upon Flora said, " Goozlemy, goozlemy,
goozlemy."
And Gus said, "You wait a minute,
my lady, till we get into church ; " after
which awful speech I felt as if I was
smoking in a powder magazine.
I was put into a pew with Gus, and
Flora, and Archy. Nurse, in her mo-
desty, went into the pew behind us.
I am sorry to say that these dear
234
Ravenshoe.
children, with whom I had had no pre-
vious acquaintance, were very naughty.
The ceremony began by Archy getting
too near the edge of his hassock, falling
off, pitching against the pew-door, burst-
ing it open, and flying out among the
free seats, head foremost. Nurse, a
nimble and dexterous woman, dashed
out, and caught him up, and actually
got him out of the church-door before
he had time to fetch his breath for a
scream. Gus and Flora were left alone
with me.
Mora had a great scarlet-and-gold
church-service. As soon as she opened
it, she disconcerted me by saying aloud,
to an imaginary female friend, " My
dear, there is going to be a collection,
and I have left my purse on the piano."
At this time, also, Gus, seeing that
the business was well begun, removed to
the further end of the pew, sat down on
the hassock, and took from his trousers'
pocket a large tin trumpet.
I broke out all over in a cold per-
spiration as I looked at him. He saw
my distress, and, putting it to his lips,
puffed out his cheeks. Flora adminis-
tered comfort to me. She said, "You
are looking at that foolish boy. Perhaps
he won't blow it, after all. He mayn't if
you don't look at him. At all events,
he probably won't blow it till the organ
begins ; and then it won't matter so
much."
Matters were so hopeless with me
that I looked at old Master Evans. He
had bent down his head on to the rail
of the bench before him. His beautiful
daughter had been his only companion
at home for many years ; for his wife had
died when Jane was a little bare-legged
thing, who paddled in the surf. It had
been a rise in life for her to marry Mr.
Charles Kavenshoe's favourite pad-groom.
And just now she had walked calmly
and quietly up the aisle, and had stopped
when she came to where he sat, and
had pushed the Honi ton-lace veil from
her forehead, and kissed his dear old"
cheek : and she would walk back directly
as Mrs. William Eavenshoe. And so
the noble old privateer skipper had bent
down, and there was nothing to be
seen there, but a grey head and broad
shoulders, which seemed to shake.
And so I looked up to the east end.
And I saw the two couples kneeling
before the clergyman. And when I,
knowing everything as I did, saw Charles
kneeling beside Mary Corby, with Lord
Ascot, great burly, brutal giant, stand-
ing behind him, I said something which
is not in the marriage service of the
Church of England. After it all, to see
him and her kneeling so quietly there
together ! We were all happy enough
that day. But I don't think that any one
was much happier than I. For I knew
more than any one. And also, three
months from that time, I married my
present wife, Eliza Humby. And the
affair had only been arranged two days.
So I was in good spirits.
At least I should have been, if it had
not been for Lord Charles Herries's chil-
dren. I wish those dear children (not
meaning them any harm) had been, to
put it mildly, at play on the village
green that blessed day.
When I looked at Gus again, he was
still on the hassock, threatening pro-
priety with his trumpet. I hoped for
the best. Flora had her prayer-book
open, and was playing the piano on each
side of it, with her fingers. After a
time she looked up at me, and said out
loud
"I suppose you have heard that
Archy's cat has kittened?"
I said, "No."
II Oh, yes, it has," she said. " Archy
harnessed it to his meal cart, which
turns a mill, and plays music when the
wheels go round ; and it ran downstairs
with the cart ; and we heard the music
playing as it went ; and it kittened in the
wood-basket immediately afterwards ;
and Alwright says she don't wonder at
it; and no more do I; and the steward's-
room boy is going to drown some. But
you mustn't tell Archy, because, if you
do, he won't say his prayers ; and if he
don't say his prayers, he will, &c. &c."
Very emphatically, and in a loud tone
of voice.
This was very charming. If I could
only answer for Gus, and keep Flora
Ravenshoe.
235
busy, it was wildly possible that we
might pull through. If I had not been
a madman, I should have noticed that
Gus had disappeared.
He had. And the pew door had never
opened, and I was utterly unconscious.
Gus had crawled up, on all fours, under
the seat of the pew, until he was oppo-
site the calves of his sister's legs, against
which calves horresco referens he put
his trumpet and blew a long shrill blast.
Flora behaved very well and courage-
ously. She only gave one long, wild
shriek, as from a lunatic in the padded
cell in Bedlam, and then, hurling her
prayer-book at him, she turned round
and tried to kick him in the face.
This was the culminating point of my
misfortunes. After this, they behaved
better. I represented to them that every
one was just coming out of the vestry,
and that they had better fight it out in
the carriage, going home. Gus only made
an impertinent remark about Flora's
garters, and Flora only drew a short,
but trenchant, historical parallel between
Gus and Judas Iscariot, when the brides
and bridegrooms came down the aisle,
and we all drove off to Charles's house
in Eaton Square.
And so, for the first time, I saw all
together, with my own eyes, the prin-
cipal characters in this story. Only one
was absent Lord Saltire. I had seen
him twice in my life, and once had the
honour of a conversation with him. He
was a man about five feet eleven, very
broad shouldered, and with a very deep
chest. As far as the animal part of him
went, I came to the conclusion, from
close and interested examination for
twenty minutes, that he had, fifty or
sixty years before, been a man with
whom it would have been pleasanter to
argue than to box. His make was mag-
nificent. Phrenologically speaking, he
had a very high square head, very flat
at the sides : and, when I saw him, when
he was nearly eighty, he was the hand-
somest old man I had ever seen. He
had a florid, pure complexion. His face
was without a wrinkle. His eyebrows
were black, and his hair seemed to re-
fuse to be grey. There was as much
black as grey in it to the last. His eye
was most extraordinary a deep blue-
grey. I can look a man as straight in
the face as any one ; but, when Lord
Saltire turned those eyes on me three
or four times in the course of our inter-
view, I felt that it was an effort to meet
them. I felt that I was in the presence
of a man of superior vitality to my
own. We were having a talk about
matters connected with Charles Ravens-
hoe, which I have not mentioned, be-
cause I want to keep myself, William
Marston, as much out of this story as
possible. And, whenever this terrible
old man looked at me, asking a ques-
tion, I felt my eyebrows drawing to-
gether, and knew that I was looking
defiantly at him. He was the most ex-
traordinary man I ever met. He never
took office after he was forty. He played
with politics. He was in heart, I be-
lieve (no one knows), an advanced Whig.
He chose to call himself a Tory. He
played the Eadical game very deep,
early in life ; and, I think, he got dis-
gusted with party politics. The last
thing the old Eadical 'atheist did in
public life was to rally up to the side of
the Duke in opposition to the Reform
Bill. And another fact about him is, that
he had always a strong personal affection
for Sir Francis.
He was a man of contradictions, if
one judges a man by Whig and Tory
rules ; but he was a great loss to the
public business of the country. He
might have done almost anything in
public life with his 'calm clear brain.
My cousin John thinks that Lord
Barkham's death was the cause of his
retirement.
So much about Lord Saltire. Of
the other characters mentioned in this
story I will speak at once, just as I
saw them sitting round the table at
Charles and William Ravenshoe's wed-
ding.
I sat beside Eliza Humby. She was
infinitely the most beautiful, clever,
and amiable being that the world ever
produced. (But that is my business,
not yours.) Charles Ravenshoe sat at
the head of the table, and I will leave
236
Ravenshoc.
him alone for a minute, I will give
you my impressions of the other cha-
racters in this story, as they appeared
to me.
Mary was a very charming-looking
little person indeed, very short, and
with small features. I had never seen
her before, and had never heard any
one say that she was pretty. I thought
her very pretty indeed.
Jane Evans was an exceedingly beau-
tiful Devonshire girl. My eye did not
rest very long on her. It came down
the table to William, and there it
stopped.
I got Eliza Humby to speak to him,
and engage him in conversation while I
looked at him. I wanted to see whether
there was anything remarkable in his
face, for a more remarkable instance of
disinterested goodwill than his deter-
mining to find Charles and ruin himself
I never happened to have heard of.
Well, he was very handsome and
pleasing, with a square determined look
about the mouth, such as men brought
up among horses generally have. But
I couldn't understand it ; and so I spoke
to him across Lizzy, and I said, casting
good manners to the winds, " I should
think that the only thing you regretted
to-day was that you had not been
alongside of Charles at Balaclava ;" and
then I understood it for, when I men-
tioned Charles and Balaclava, I saw for
one instant not a groom but a poet.
Although, being a respectable well-con-
ducted man, he has never written any
poetry, and probably never will.
Then I looked across the table at
Lady Ascot. They say that she was
never handsome. I can quite believe
that. She was a beautiful old woman
certainly, but then all old women are
beautiful. Her face was very square ;
and one could see that it was capable of
very violent passion, or could, knowing
what one did, guess so. Otherwise
there was nothing very remarkable about
her, except that she was a remarkably
charming old lady. She was talking to
General Mainwaring, who was a noble-
looking old soldier.
Nothing more. In fact, the whole
group were less remarkable and tragical-
looking than I thought they would have
been. I was disappointed, until I came
to Lord Ascot, and then I could not
take my eyes off him.
There was tragedy enough there.
There was coarse brutality and passion
enough, in all conscience. And yet that
man had done what he had done ! Here
was a puzzle with a vengeance.
Lord Ascot, as I saw him now, for
the first time, was simply a low-bred
and repulsive-looking man. In stature
he was gigantic, in every respect save
height. He was about five feet nine,
very deep about the chest. His hair was
rather dark, cut close. His face was
very florid, and perfectly hairless. His
forehead was low. His eyes were small,
and close together. His eyebrows were
heavy and met over his nose, which
was short and square. His mouth
was large ; and when you came to his
mouth, you came to the first tolerable
feature in his face. When he was
speaking to no one in particular, the
under lip was set ; and the whole face, I
am very sorry to say, was the sort of
face which is quite as often seen in the
dock as in the witness box (unless some
gentleman has turned Queen's evi-
dence). And this was the man who had
risked a duke's fortune, because " There
were some things a fellow couldn't do,
you know/'
It was very puzzling till he began
to speak to his grandmother ; and then
his lower lip pouted out, his eyebrows
raised, his eyes went apart, and he
looked a different man. Is it possible
that, if he had not been brought up to
cock-fighting and horse-racing, among
prize-fighters and jockeys, he might
have been a different man 1 I can't say,
I am sure.
Lord and Lady Hainault were simply
a very high-bred, very handsome, and
very charming pair of people. I never
had the slightest personal acquaintance
with either of them. My cousin knows
them both very intimately, and he says
there are not two better people in the
world.
Charles Ravenshoe rose to reply to
Ravenshoe.
General Mainwaring's speech proposing
the brides and bridegrooms, and I
looked at him very curiously. He was
pale, from his recent illness, and he
never was handsome. But his face was
the face of a man whom I should fancy
most people would get very fond of.
When we were schoolfellows at Shrews-
bury, he was a tall dark-haired boy,
who was always laughing and kick-
ing up a row, and giving his things
away to other fellows. Sow he was
a tall, dark, melancholy-looking man,
with great eyes, and lofty eyebrows.
His vivacity, and that carriage which
comes from the possession of great
physical strength, were gone ; and, while
I looked at him, I felt ten years older.
Why should I try to describe him
further 1 ? He is not so remarkable a
man as either Lord Ascot or William.
But he was the best man I ever knew.
He said a few kind hearty words and
sat down ; and then Lord Ascot got up.
And I took hold of Lizzie's hand with
my left ; and I put my right elbow on
the table and watched him intensely,
with my hand shading my face. He
had a coat buttoned over his great chest ;
and, as he spoke, he kept on buttoning
and unbuttoning it with his great coarse
hand. He said
" I ain't much hand at this sort of
thing. I suppose those two Marstons,
confound them, are saying to them-
selves that I ought to be, because I
am in the House of Lords. That John
Marston is a most impudent beggar, and
I shall expect to see his friend to-
morrow morning. He always was, you
know. He has thwarted me all through
my life. I wanted Charles Eavenshoe
to go to the deuce, and I'll be hanged if
he'd let him. And it is not to be borne."
There was a general laugh at this, and
Lord Ascot stretched his hand across
General Mainwaring, and shook hands
with my cousin.
" You men just go out of the room,
will you 1 " (The servants departed, and
Lord Ascot went to the door to see they
were not listening. I thought some
revelation was coming, but I was mis-
taken). " You see I am obliged to notice
strangers, because a fellow may say
things among old friends which he don't
exactly care to before servants.
" It is all very well to say I'm a fool.
That is very likely, and may be taken
for granted. But I am not such a fool
as not to know that a very strong preju-
dice exists against me in the present
society."
Every one cried out, " No ! no ! " Of
all the great wedding breakfasts that
season, this was certainly the most re-
markable. Lord Ascot went on. He
was getting the savage look on his face
now.
" Well, well ! let that pass. Look at
that man at the head of the table the
bridegroom. Look at him. You won-
der that I did what I did. I'll tell you
why. I love that fellow. He is what
I call a man, General Mainwaring. I
met that fellow at Twyford years ago,
and he has always been the same to me
since. You say I served him badly
once. That is true enough. You
insulted me once in public about it,
Hainault. You were quite right. Say
you, I should not talk about it to-day.
But, when we come to think how near
death's gates some of us have been since
then, you will allow that this wedding-
day has something very solemn about it.
" My poor wife has broken her back
across that infernal gate, and so she
could not come. I must ask you all to
think kindly of that wife of mine. You
have all been very kind to her since her
awful accident. She has asked me to
thank you.
" I rose to propose a toast, and I have
been carried away by a personal state-
ment, which, at every other wedding
breakfast I ever heard of, it would be a
breach of good manners to make. It is
not so on this occasion. Terrible things
have befallen every one of us here pre-
sent. And I suppose we must try all
of us to hey ! to hah ! well, to do
better in future.
" I rose, I said, to propose a toast. I
rose to propose the most blameless and
excellent woman I ever knew. I pro-
pose that we drink the health of my
grandmother, Lady Ascot."
238
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
And oh ! but we leapt to our feet and
drank it. Manners to the winds, after
what we had gone through. There was
that solemn creature, Lord Hainault,
with his champagne glass in his hand,
behaving like a schoolboy, and giving us
the time. And then, when her dear
grey head was bent down over the table
buried in her hands, my present father-
in-law, Squire Humby, leapt to his feet
like a young giant, and called out for
three times three for Lord Ascot. And
we had breath enough left to do that
handsomely, I warrant you. The whole
thing was incorrect in the highest degree,
but we did it. And I don't know that
any of us were ashamed of it afterwards.
And, while the carriages were getting
ready, Charles said, Would we walk
across the square. And we all came
with him. And he took us to a piece
of dead white wall, at the east-end of St.
Peter's Church, opposite, the cab-stand.
And then he told us the story of the
little shoeblack, and how his comical
friendship for that boy had saved him
from what it would not do to talk about.
* * *
But there is a cloud on Charles
Eavenshoe's face even now. I saw him
last summer lying on the sand, and
playing with his eldest boy. And the
cloud was on him then. There was no
moroseness, no hardness in the expres-
sion ; but the face was not the merry
old face I knew so well at Shrewsbury
and Oxford. There is a dull, settled,
dreaming melancholy there still. The
memory of those few terrible months
has cast its shadow upon him. And
the shadow will lie, I fancy, upon that
forehead, and will dim those eyes, until
the forehead is smoothed in the sleep
of death, and the eyes have opened to
look upon eternity !
Good-bye.
LEIGH HUNT'S POETEY.
THE public, since it came to be a read-
ing public, has grown familiar with the
idea that the courts critical have no
better claim to infallibility than any
other human tribunal. They are hap-
pier, however, than more authorita-
tive judicatories in this, that their sen-
tences are not so completely irrevocable.
Often the best critics of one genera-
tion find their greatest pride and plea-
sure in paying homage to writers
whose early claims to honour the best
critics of the preceding generation re-
jected with contempt. We have seen
many instances in our own day of this
kind of reaction, but none more con-
spicuous than in the case of the poets
whom the givers of reputation forty
years ago, classifying several men of
very dissimilar character and genius
together, so wickedly nicknamed " The
Cockney School." All readers of poetry
now know that there are not more than
one or two English poets greater than
Keats ; and Leigh Hunt, also, we are
'glad to see, has at length taken his
place among the acknowledged worthies
of English literature.
Since, of all poets, Leigh Hunt is the
one whom it is most essential to ap-
proach with sympathy, we should pro-
bably have attejnpted to reach the true
point of view by glancing, in the first
place, at the life and character of the
man, if accident had not enabled us
to accomplish that object much more
effectually. Fortunately, there have
fallen into our hands certain documents,
in which a great writer speaks of Leigh
Hunt in a tone so warm, and yet so
discriminating, that no greater service
can be done to his memory than by
their publication. With all respect
therefore for private papers, we do not
scruple " if not with leave given, then
with leave taken " to print them here.
It must, as we conjecture, be about
fifteen years since Mr. Carlyle wrote
the following :
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
239-
MEMORANDA
CONCERNING ME. LEIGH HUNT.
" 1. That Mr. Hunt is a man of the most
indisputedly superior worth ; a Man of Genius
in a very strict sense of that word, and in all
the senses which it bears or implies ; of bril-
liant varied gifts, of graceful fertility, of clear-
ness, lovingness, truthfulness; of childlike
open character ; also of most pure and even
exemplary private deportment ; a man who
can be other than loved only by those who
have not seen him, or seen him from a distance
through a false medium.
" 2. That, well seen into, he has done much
for the world ; as every man possessed of such
rilities, and freely speaking them forth in
abundance of his heart for thirty years
long, must needs do : how much, they that
could judge best would perhaps estimate
highest.
" 3. That, for one thing, Ms services in the
cause of reform, as Founder and long as Editor
of the Examiner Newspaper, as Poet, Essayist,
Public Teacher in all ways open to him, are -
great and evident : few now living in this king-
dom perhaps could boast of greater.
"4 That his sufferings in that same cause
have also been great ; legal Prosecution and
Penalty (not dishonourable to him ; nay
honourable, were the whole truth known, as it
will one day be) : unlegal obloquy and calumny .
through the Tory Press ; perhaps a greater
quantity of baseness, persevering, implacable
calumny, than any other living writer has
undergone. Which long course of hostility
(nearly the cruellest conceivable, had it not'-
been carried on in half, or almost total mis-
conception) may be regarded as the beginning
of his other worst distresses, and a main cause
of them down to this day.
" 5. That he is heavily laden with domestic
burdens, more heavily than most men, and his
economical resources are gone from him. For
the last twelve years he has toiled continually,
with passionate diligence, with the cheerfullest
spirit ; refusing no task ; yet hardly able with
all this to provide for the day that was passing
over him : and now, after some two years of
incessant effort in a new enterprise (The London
Journal} that seemed of good promise, it also
has suddenly broken down ; and he remains in
weak health, age creeping on him, without
employment, means, or outlook, in a situation
of the painfullest sort. Neither do his dis-
tresses, nor did they at any time, arise from
wastefulness, or the like, on his own part (he
is a man of humble wishes, and can live with
dignity on little) ; but from crosses of what is
called Fortune, from injustice of other men,
from inexperience of his own, and a guileless
trustfulness of nature : the thing and things
that have made him unsuccessful make him in
reality more lovable, and plead for him in the
minds of the candid.
" 6. That such a man is rare in a Nation, and
of_high value there ; not to be procured for a
whole Nation's Revenue, or recovered when
taken from us : and some 200Z. a year is the
price which this one, whom we now have, is
valued at ; with that sum he were lifted above
his perplexities, perhaps saved from nameless
wretchedness ! It is believed that, in hardly
any other way, could 200. abolish as much
suffering, create as much benefit, to one man,
and through him to many and all.
" Were these things set fitly before an Eng-
lish Minister, in whom great part of England
recognises (with surprise at such a novelty) a
man of insight, fidelity, and decision, is it. not
probable or possible that he, though from a
quite opposite point of view, might see them
in somewhat of a similar light ; and, so seeing,
determine to do in consequence ? Ut fiat I
" T. C."
Some years later, in the "mellow
evening" of a life that had been so
stormy, Mr. Leigh Hunt himself told
the story of his struggles, his victories,
and his defeats, with so singularly
graceful a frankness that the most super-
cilious of critics could not but acknow-
ledge that here was an autobiographer
whom it was possible to like. Here is
Mr. Carlyle's estimate of Hunt's Auto-
biography :
Chelsea, 17 June, 1850.
" Dear Hunt, I have just finished your
Autobiography, which has been most pleasantly
occupying all my leisure these three days ; and
you must permit me to write you a word upon
it, out of the fulness of the heart, while the
impulse is still fresh to thank you. This good
book, in every sense one of the best I have
read this long while, has awakened many old
thoughts which never were extinct, or even
properly asleep, but which (like so much else)
nave had to fall silent amid the tempests of
an evil time Heaven mend it ! A word from
me once more, I know, will not be unwelcome,
while the world is talking of you.
" Well, I call this an excellent good book, by
far the best of the autobiographic kind I re-
member to have read in the English language ;
and indeed, except it be Boswell's of Johnson,
I do not know where we have such a picture
drawn of a human life as in these three volumes.
" A pious, ingenious, altogether human and
worthy book ; imaging, with graceful honesty
and free felicity, many interesting objects and
persons on your life-path, and imaging through-
out, what is best of all, a gifted, gentle, patient,
and valiant human, soul, as it buffets its way
through the billows cf time, and will not
drown though often in danger ; cannot be
drowned, but conquers and leaves a track of
radiance behind it : that, I think, comes out
more clearly to me than in any other of your
books ; and that, I can venture to assure you,
is the best of all results to readers in a book
240
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
of written record. In fact, this book has been
like a written exercise of devotion to me ; I
have not assisted at any sermon, liturgy or
litany, this long while, that has had so religi-
ous an effect on me. Thanks in the name of
all men. And believe, along with me, that this
book will be welcome to other generations as
well as ours. And long may you live to write
more books for us ; and may the evening sun
be softer on you (and on me) than the noon
sometimes was !
" Adieu, dear Hunt (you must let me use
this familiarity, for I am now an old fellow too,
as well as you). I have often thought of com-
ing up to see you once more ; and perhaps I
shall, one of these days (though there are
such lions in the path, go whitherward one
may) : but, whether I do or not, believe for ever
in my regard. And so, God bless you,
Prays heartily,
"T. CARLYLE."
That which Mr. Carlyle tells his
friend comes out more clearly in the
Autobiography than in his other books,
is perhaps less apparent in the poetry
than in any of the rest. It is not the
struggles of a valiant soul so much as
the enjoyment of a singularly happy
one, that we are to look for in Leigh
Hunt's poems. He quotes, somewhere,
with approbation, from Coleridge or from
Charles Lamb we do not ourselves
remember to have met with it in either
a definition of poetry as " geniality sing-
ing." We are not quite sure that this
phrase is fully descriptive of all poetry :
one hardly conceives of the Inferno as
" geniality singing ; " but, at all events, it
is singularly applicable to his own.
That is nothing so much as the musical
expression of his own sympathy with
the beauty and harmony of the world.
But he has himself described most
felicitously the kind of feeling which it
most frequently expresses, in some verses,
called '' Sudden Fine Weather " :
" Where Spring has been delayed by winds
and rains,
And, coming with a burst, comes like a show,
Blue all above, and basking green below,
And all the people culling the sweet prime,
Then issues forth the .bee to clutch the
thyme,
And the bee-poet rushes into rhyme.
For lo ! no sooner has the cold withdrawn,
Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn :
The merry sap has run up in the bowers,
And burst the windows of the buds in
flowers ;
With songs the bosoms of the birds run o'er,
The cuckoo calls, the swallow's at the door,
And apple-trees, at noon with bees alive,
Burn with the golden chorus of the hive.
Now all these sights, these sounds, this
vernal blaze,
Is but one joy, expressed a thousand ways :
And honey from the liowers, and song from
birds,
Are from the poet's pen his overflowing
words."
No other words could at once describe
and illustrate so happily as those sweet
and flowing verses, the gaiety of heart,
which, after all, was Hunt's best inspira-
tion. His distinguishing characteristic
among modern English poets is his animal
spirits. There is a great deal of feeling
in his poetry, and the feeling is not
always gay ; but its principal motive is
the thorough enjoyment of all sorts of
beautiful sights and sounds, and of
some sorts of beautiful actions. And,
if this should seem to imply a some-
what limited range of poetical power,'
we ought to remember that the inspira-
tion of some of the greatest singers of
the world, the Homers and Chaucers,
might be described in very much the
same words. To express enjoyment is
not the highest function of poetry ; but
the feeling of enjoyment has been the
creative impulse which has produced
much of the poetry which all the world
agrees to call the highest. We do not
rank Leigh Hunt among the greatest
poets, even of the second order ; but in
this respect he bears a closer resemblance
than any of them to the great poets of
the first.
Hunt himself frequently shows an
inclination to claim kindred with such
poets of the highest order as Chaucer
and Shakespeare though he does so
with all due modesty and reverence
by virtue of his possession of a quality
which we are not quite so willing to
concede. The characteristic of great
poets, which he is most anxious to
attain for himself, and inculcate the
desire of on others, is their universality:
meaning by this word, not the univer-
sality of genius, which enables them
there to represent all the varieties of
human nature ; but the universality of
the heart, which enables them to feel
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
241
for, and make allowance for all. But
unluckily, in his anxiety to be universal,
lie shuts out from the range of his
sympathies the very efforts of thought
and struggles of nature, by which alone
less happily- constituted men are able to
attain to so comprehensive a humanity,
if they can attain to it at all. It is curious
to remark, when he is discussing this
favourite theme, that almost the only
persons he excludes from his easy toler-
ance are those whose reflective and
spiritual capacities are greater than their
sensibilities for beauty. The constitution
of his own nature was precisely the
reverse. He is not, indeed, except in
dealing with some very great questions,
superficial. He is too tender, loving,
and pious to be called so, in general ;
but it is impossible not to see that it is
owing to his ignorance, and not his
experience, of the compass of our nature,
that he supposes himself to be taking
a more wide and generous view of man
and his destinies than that of others,
who all the while may be yearning for
a higher universality than is dreamt
of in his kindly philosophy, Even
in poetry, he never finds his way to
the deepest and most sacred springs
of emotion \ and, when these are
touched by other more serious, if not
sadder hands, he is far more inclined
to blame than to admire the melancholy
which brings the depths of our nature
within our knowledge. He is angry
with "Wordsworth, for example, because
he feels too heavily the burdens of the
world. It seems to him that a poet
should enjoy things more. The muse
should have a more thorough and per-
fect sympathy with our pleasures and
her own ; and, if Urania descends from
heaven, it ought to be to give vent to her
animal spirits on earth ; " otherwise,
" she is wanting," says Leigh Hunt,
" in universality." And, if universality
is synonymous with cheerfulness, it is,
of course, undeniable that the only way
of attaining that virtue is to be happy,
and enjoy this rich, sunny, beautiful,
and musical world. But, if this word
implies a more comprehensive habit of
thought than is common with the mass
Ko. 33. VOL. vi.
of men, then to talk of mere cheerful-
ness as the highest result and object of
a* wide experience of human life, is
surely as far from universality as the
most splenetic peevishness could possibly
be. It may be cheerful, but it cer-
tainly is not, in this sense, universal,
to imagine John Knox dancing with
the queen's Maries, and sigh for the
contrast between that pretty picture
and the actual portrait of the stern
preacher, schooling the nobles and
sovereign of the realm. And what are
we to think of the universality of the
writer who can talk of Christian flying
from the City of Destruction, as if he
were a cowardly, ungenerous fellow,
who took care of himself alone, and
left his wife and children in the lurch ?
The truth is, that when Hunt was
driven to confront the great problems
of human existence, it was simply
because his "universality" failed him
that his cheerfulness remained as tri-
umphant as ever. The first editor of
the Examiner cannot be supposed to
have seen no cause for lamentation in
the actual condition of things in this
world ; but, however individual dis-
tresses, or the general miseries of man-
kind, might move his benevolence, they
did not in the least affect his kindly
and pleasant conviction that there was
going to be a new world soon, when
everything would assuredly come right.
There was a certain degree of vagueness
about this doctrine ; but a great deal of
love and goodwill : and it had sustained
himself so thoroughly, under all the
troubles which vexed his career, that
he could not understand why it should
not be an equally sufficient answer to
the doubts and difficulties of other men.
His heart did not sink under feelings
which have embittered the souls of
many poets, and purified and exalted
many more, because it had scarcely been
touched by them at all. He had no
very deep comprehension either of the
purely intellectual, or of the purely
spiritual side of our nature ; and, there-
fore, he proposed to soothe their deepest
wounds by gentle and pleasant emotions.
He had little patience for a more pro-
R
242
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
foundly reflective, or a deeper religious
nature than his own. The endless specu-
lations of the philosophic Coleridge be
took to be mere mental luxury, and idle
dreaming.
It is evident that such a poet's writ-
ings will not be very deeply coloured
by the more abstruse thought of his
age. The reader, therefore, must not
expect to find in Leigh Hunt, either
the transcendental subtlety and some-
what melancholy introspection by which
some of his contemporaries are cha-
racterised, or the deep philosophical
spirit of meditation which has made
some others the best and highest guides
and teachers of their day and our own.
We do not call him an unthinking
person. If he were so, it would hardly
be worth our while to examine the
merits of his poetry at all ; but it is
undeniable that the natural bent of his
mind led him to see what was emotional,
far more clearly and readily than what
was, strictly speaking, intellectual, in
any subject of his contemplation. This is
very like saying that he was a poet ; but
while all poetry occupies itself with the
emotions of men rather than with their
thoughts, the highest is concerned as
often and intimately with the emotions
that are mingled with thought or
passion, as with those that are mingled
with sentiment. Leigh Hunt, on
the other hand, generally neglects both
the passionate and reflective emotions
for the sentimental. But, although he
leaves the deepest part of our nature
untouched by any verse of his, he still
remains a genuine poet. He has a
thorough poetic insight into that part of
the human mind with which he deals.
His own feeling is that of a singularly
genuine and healthy mind, if not a very
deep-rooted one; and his delicacy of touch
in expounding that of others is exquisite.
His sympathy, indeed, with the most
intricate workings of feeling is so true,
and so admirably does he often penetrate
to the source in human nature of its
complexities, as almost to atone for his
deficiency in fervour of passion.
If a poet abandons the vigorous out-
ward life of the world for the delineation
of an inward and spiritual life, he must
be content with a comparatively small
band of admirers ; for he will find them
only among those who are not altogether
incapable of reflection. If, like Leigh
Hunt, he chooses delicate feeling for
his province, he necessarily limits his
audience still more narrowly. It was
one of the earliest achievements of
criticism, to trace the pleasure which the
imitative arts produce in the represen-
tation of what the spectator is conscious
of as actually or possibly existing on
himself. It is clear, therefore, that, the
more universal the emotion with which
a poet is dealing, the more general is
likely to be the appreciation of his
work. .But the readers are rare indeed,
who are able to perceive, in their own
bosoms, the kind of sentiment which
Leigh Hunt delineates most fondly, and
most successfully. It is curious, for ex-
ample, to compare Sir Walter Scott's Lay
of the Bloody Vest with Hunt's treatment
of the same theme in the Gentle Armour.
Our readers will probably remember that
the subject is one of those strange fan-
tastic feats of chivalry which to a
sensible common-place period are quite
unintelligible. Sir Walter does not try
to interest his readers by giving any
modern colouring to the motive : but
thews, and sinews, and fighting are
universal. He knows better than any
one since Homer how to make these
effective ; and then he throws himself
and us so thoroughly into the character
of the time and the story, that we have
no temptation to think of anything that
is fantastic in the nature of the theme.
Certainly it never occurred to Sir
Walter, in his gallant chivalrous sym-
pathy for a "good lance," to regret that
the cultivation of brute force should be
uppermost in his lay, or to be shocked
at the disposition of his princess, who
could speculate on such a tribute to her
vanity. But these are precisely the
points in the story which offend Leigh
Hunt. In order to avoid them, he gives
a different " turn to the incidents and
a new colour to the sentiment." Leigh
Hunt's knight is loyal and brave, and his
lady-love is beautiful and good. The lady
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
243
has a cousin, who possesses the former
of these qualities, but not the latter. This
cousin has been "blazoned for what
" indeed she was, by a young lord
" over his hippocras," and is so un-
fortunate as to fail in persuading her
kindred to avenge the insult. The
lady applies to her knight, and en-
treats him to chastise the slanderer ;
but he, unluckily, is a great deal too
truthful to draw sword in any cause
but a good one. He gives his beloved
to understand that, since he believes the
charge against her relation to be true,
it is impossible for him, with any regard
for his own veracity, to challenge the
accuser as if it were false ; and, with
many sighs, and prayers for a good con-
struction of his conduct, he is forced to
decline the combat. The lady does not
appreciate such nicety as this, accuses
him of cowardice, and, with great grief
and humiliation, contemptuously dis-
misses him. Both of them of course
are properly miserable. The slanderous
young lord is equally unable to under-
stand the matter ; and at length begins
to talk of one cousin almost as disre-
spectfully as of the other. The knight
hears this new scandal with anger,
but with anger not unruingled with joy.
He is now able to fight, for he is not
fighting for a lie ; he challenges the young
lord, and implores his lady's pardon,
and a token of her grace. She is still
contemptuous, and sends him in return
no word or sign, but a packet, which he
finds, on opening it, to contain a shift.
This he wears instead of armour at the
tournament that follows ; he performs
prodigies of valour, slays three antago-
nists, and is wounded almost to death :
the lady tends and restores him ; and,
at length, by no ungenerous command
of her lover, but from the sweetness
and nobleness of her own nature, she
wears, in a self-imposed penance, the
tattered shift for her bridal dress.
Now the sentiment of all this is true,
and, as we have already said, it is deli-
cately and skilfully evolved: but it is
curious and subtle ; mankind are not gene-
rally moved by considerations so nice ;
and we suspect that neither the courage
and truth of our knight, nor the delicate
generosity of the lady, are likely to find
much sympathy, or, indeed, any perfect
comprehension in the coarser natures
of most readers. The Gentle Armour,
it is right to add, is not among the best
of Hunt's poems ; but it illustrates,
aptly enough, his habit, in treating such
themes, of approaching human nature
on the side that will seem to the gene-
rality of men the least interesting and
the least effective.
A still more striking example of the
same turn of mind is to be found in
the most widely known, and most am-
bitious, though not the most successful
of Hunt's poems the Story of Rimini.
A poet's success or failure must .be
estimated by his own aim, and not by
another's. It is no blame to Hunt that
he has not attained what it was not his
object to attempt. Even when he takes
a subject from the Inferno, it is no
blame to Hunt that he is not Dante.
If he is careless of the one precept
semper ad eventum festina which no
tale-teller in verse or prose can ever
disregard with, impunity; if he now
and then forgets his story altogether,
for the sake of a pretty description if
he perpetually withdraws our minds
from his lovely, miserable, betrayed
bride, to the pleasant man of letters
who is talking about her ; it is fair
criticism to point out these faults, and
to condemn them. But if, in dealing
with a story such as this, he elicits
the sentiment of the theme only, and
does not seek to pourtray the passion,
that is a characteristic of his manner :
it is not a blemish. It is true that he
has little of that dramatic intensity
which is almost inseparable from our
associations even with the title of his
poem so little, that he actually pauses
in the very height of his catastrophe to
explain to us why he keeps the most
terrible circumstances of the tragedy out
of sight. Nay, it is true that any one
who would weep or tremble at the story
of Francesca must hear her tell it
herself in the Second Circle. No reader
of Leigh Hunt will swoon for very grief,
or fall down even as a dead body falls.
244
Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
But he lias merits of a different kind,
that are not less admirable; and only
dulness of sensibility can hide them from
the readers of the Story of Rimini. His
treatment of the old triad husband,
wife, and lover is original and touch-
ing : no other writer has disposed or
coloured that time-honoured group in
precisely the same way ; and, if more
powerful pictures have occasionally been
produced from similar materials, there
is none more graceful or tenderly
melancholy. We are interested in
Francesca, not merely by the influence
of her own charms and sweetness in
contrast with the hideousness and harsh-
ness of her lord, but by the miserable
wrong she suffers from at the opening
of the tale. There is no use in asking
how far the moral aspect of the threefold
group we have just mentioned is affected
in this way. The important thing is,
that the reader's sympathy is enlisted
from the first in Francesca's favour.
The elaborate cunning with which she
is snared into an unhappy marriage
disarms the severest moralist ; and her
grace, and gentleness, and sensibility,
her resignation, and sense of injury and
wounded pride, are combined so skil-
fully, and the growth of the fatal love
so delicately indicated, that even when
the mention of Launcelot, and the
famous " That day they read no more,"
remind us t for the first time of the
great and unapproachable original, the
only reflection that dangerous memory
brings with it excludes at once all idea
of comparison. For this is a different
Francesca, we are fain to assure our-
selves, from her who wails in those
dolorous regions where Helen, and Semi-
ramis, and Cleopatra, are scourged for
ever by black winds, and where Dante
listened with such pity to her tale. But
the portrait of Francesca, beautiful as it
is, is not more successful, certainly not
more characteristic, than that of her
husband. Much as we may admire
them, we cannot be surprised at the fine
and ethereal lineaments of the heroine.
.This is what any poet would have
aimed at producing. But none but
Leigh Hunt would have thought of
touching springs of character that are
equally delicate in the violent and
unlovely assassin. No less sensitive
intelligence than his could possibly have
detected the features out of which he
constructs the character of Giovanni.
" Not without virtues was the Prince. Who is 1
But all were marred by moods and tyran-
nies.
Brave, decent, splendid, faithful to his word,
Late watching, busy with the first that
stirred,
Yet rude, sarcastic, ever in the vein
To give the last thing he would suffer
pain,
He made his rank serve meanly" to his gall,
And thought his least good word a salve
for all.
Virtues in him of no such marvellous weight
Claimed towards themselves the exercise
of great.
He kept no reck'ning with his sweets and
sours
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleased to cheer himself a space,
Look for th' immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience, so designed to keep
Stern central watch though fancied fast
asleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there
lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,
That no suspicion touched nis temper more
Than that of wanting on the generous score :
He overwhelmed it with a weight of scorn,
Was proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In sport ungenerous for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turned
merit,
But not the patience, or the genial spirit ;
And so he made, twixt daring and defect,
A sort of tierce demand on your respect,
Which, if assisted by his high degree
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the small,
Left him at last unloveable with all."
The sensibility to all that is refined
in human feeling and character, rather
than to what is strong and passionate,
which shows itself so curiously in thus
assigning the worst qualities of this villain
to those more delicate regions of human
nature which were most comprehensible
to himself, betrayed itself not quite so
happily in the original catastrophe of
his poem. The prince, whose worst
wickedness is made to spring from an
entire want of generous feeling, be-
Leigh Hunfs Poetry.
245
comes generous, courteous, and noble
in his revenge, and pronounces, with
great feeling, over the corpse of the
brother he has just slain, a very beauti-
ful and touching parody of the lamen-
tation of Sir Bors over Sir Lancelot.
No doubt this is very pretty ; but it is
false to his own view of the character :
and, even if it were otherwise, the
attempt to treat murderous frenzy with
grace and elegance is hopelessly feeble.
The catastrophe, as it now stands, is
Dante's, and it is true ; and even the
grace and elegance are not altogether
wanting, when, passing beyond the
actual murder, we come to the pathetic
conclusion of the whole. Here, these
qualities are in their place, and there-
fore they are touching. Nothing of
this nature is finer or more pathetic
than the sad procession with which the
poem closes, when the two lovers, borne
on one bier, "towards Eavenna hold
their silent road" through the dreary
autumn weather their company a
melancholy remnant of the sprightly
and glittering train which had followed
them in that other procession, so dif-
ferent in its splendour, and so like in
its misery, with which the poem begins.
But this is only the external manifesta-
tion of the true tragic irony which
redeems the Story of Rimini from the
charge of being merely a pretty poem.
The piteous contrast between the re-
joicings with which the old man, Fran-
cesca's father, celebrates the triumph of
his policy, and the terrible calamity that
policy has brought upon himself and
his child, springs from a true feeling
of what is deepest and saddest in the
course of human things the blindness
and presumption of men and the
mockery of fate.
But, after all, it is not on the Story
of Rimini that we rest Hunt's claims
to the bay. A judicious admirer is
certain to talk and think with far more
affectionate familiarity of Abou Ben
Adhem, Godiva, Jafaar, and the like.
These poems, in the first place, are
comparatively free from small faults
and petty mannerisms ; but that is a
trivial advantage. They are the fruit
of a riper intellect, a wider knowledge,
and a deeper humanity, and are re-
markable also for a manly simplicity
which is rare in modern poetry, and
not very common in Leigh Hunt.
Abou Ben Adhem is fresh for ever in
the memory of all who have once read
it. Godiva it may appear rash to
quote ; for Godiva has been treated by
Tennyson, and it is dangerous to place
Hunt's workmanship by the side of his.
In the present case, however, we think
that the comparison is by no means
disadvantageous to the inferior poet.
It is certain that Hunt himself had
some such impression. In writing
to the friend to whom his own poem
is dedicated, he says, after praising
"The Lord of Burleigh," that Mr. Ten-
nyson has not, as he conceives, been
so successful with the subject of Go-
diva. " That, I conceive with won-
" derful error for so true a poet he
" mistook the spirit of, substituting
" indeed the gross letter instead, and
" parading the naked body. And, as
" one mistake brings another, he violated
" even the most obvious probability and
" matter-of-fact, making poor Godiva ab-
" solutely come naked down the stairs of
" her own house, and sneak, without any
" necessity, irom pillar to post in conse-
" quence, when it is clear that she would
" have done as anybody would do in like
" circumstances, or as she herself does
" when she goes to bathe, keep herself
" wrapped in something till the last
" moment. Pardon this most involuntary
" difference with a fine writer, and accept
"my little inscription." We do not
agree in this criticism. It seems to
Hunt that Tennyson and his readers are
most perversely imitating Peeping Tom
in this case, and misusing the faculty of
vision. We do not think so. We dare
affirm that no picture more touching, or
appealing more purely to the imagina-
tion, has been painted even by Mr.'
Tennyson. Nevertheless, we do not
fear to print the following beautiful
lines, even with Tennyson fresh in our
memory :
246 Leigh Hunt's Poetry.
GODIVA.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN HUNTER.
" John Hunter, friend of Leigh Hunt's verse,
and lover of all duty,
Hear how the boldest naked deed rises clothed
in saintliest beauty.
" Earl Lefric by his hasty oath must solemnly
abide ;
He thought to put a hopeless bar, and finds
it turned aside ;
His lady, to remove the toll that makes the
land forlorn,
Will surely ride through Coventry naked as
she was bora.
She said, ' The people will be kind ; they
love a gentle deed : y, ^fa
They piously will turn from me, nor shame
a friend in' need.'
" Earl Lefric, half in holy dread, and half in
loving care,
Hath bade the people all keep close in peni-
tence and prayer.
The windows are fast boarded up, nor hath
a sound been heard
Since yester eve, save household dog, or latest
summer bird.
Only Saint Mary's bell begins at intervals
to go,
Which is to last till all be past, to let obe-
dience know.
" The mass is said ; the priest hath blessed
the lady's pious will :
Then down the stairs she comes undressed,
but in a mantle still.
Her ladies are about her close, like mist
about a star ;
She speaks some little cheerful words, but
knows not what they are.
The door is passed ; the saddle pressed ; her
body feels the ah- ;
Then down they let, from out its net, her
locks of piteous hair.
" Oh, then how every listener feels the pal-
frey's foot that bears !
The rudest are awed suddenly, the soft and
brave in tears ;
The poorest that were most in need of what
the lady did,
Deem her a blessed creature, born to rescue
men forbid.
He that had said they would have died for
her beloved sake,
Had rated low the thanks of woe. Death
frights not old heart-ache.
" Sweet saint ! no shameless brow was hers
who could not bear to see,
For thinking of her happier lot, the pine of
poverty.
No unaccustomed deed she did, in scorn of
custom's self,
She that but wished the daily bread upon
the poor man's shelf.
Naked she went to clothe the naked. New
she was and bold,
Only because she held the laws which Mercy
preached of old.
" They say she blushed to be beheld e'en of
her ladies' eyes ;
Then took her way with downward look and
brief .bewildered sighs.
A downward look ; a beating heart ; a sense
of the new, vast,
Wide, open, naked world, and yet of every
door she passed,
A prayer, a tear, a constant mind, a listening
ear that glowed,
These we may dare to fancy there on that
religious road.
" But who shall blind his heart with more ?
Who dare, with lavish guess,
Refuse the grace she hoped of us in her
divine distress 'I
In fancy still she holds her way, for ever
pacing on,
The sight unseen, the guiltless Eve, the
shame unbreathed upon ;
The step that upon Duty's ear is growing
more and more,
Though yet, alas ! it has to pass by many
a scorner's door."
From some other poems, quite as
remarkable for nobility of thought, and
power, and grace of expression, we se-
lect one inscribed to Mr. Forster :
THE INEVITABLE.
" The royal sage, Lord of the Magic Ring,
Solomon, once upon a morn in spring,
By Cedron, in his garden's rosiest walk, "
Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk,
When they beheld, approaching, but with
face
Yet undiscerned, a stranger in the place.
"How he came there, what wanted, who
could be,
How dare, unushered, beard such privacy,
Whether 't was some great spirit of the
Ring,
And if so, why he so should daunt the King
(For the Ring's master, after one sharp gaze,
Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze)
All this the courtier would have asked ; but
fear
Palsied his utterance as the man drew near.
" The stranger seemed (to judge him by his
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress ;
Or some poor pilgrim ; but the steps he took
Belied it with strange greatness: and his
look
Opened a page in a tremendous book.
Leigh Hunfs Poetry.
247
"He wore a cowl, from under which there
shone
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone,
; A face, not of this earth, half veiled in gloom
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of
doom,
Which, ever as they came, before them sent
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment,
With sense of change, and worse of change
to be,
Sore sighing and extreme anxiety,
And feebleness, and faintness, and moist
brow,
I The past a scoff, the future crying 'How?'
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the
hair,
All that makes dying vehemence despair,
Knowing it must be dragged it knows not
where.
" Th' excess of fear and anguish, which had
tied
The courtier's tongue, now loosed it, and
he cried,
' royal master ! sage ! Lord of the Ring !
I cannot bear the horror of this thing ;
Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray,
On the remotest mountain of Cathay.'
" Solomon wished, and the man vanished.
Straight
Up comes the Terror, with his orbs of fate.
' Solomon ,' with a lofty voice said he,
' How came that man here wasting time
with thee ?
I was to fetch him, ere the close of day,
From the remotest mountain of Cathay.'
" Solomon said, bowing him to the ground,
' Angel of Death, there will the man be
found.' "
The other poems we have alluded to
as peculiar are, of all he has written,
the most unalloyed with imperfection.
Hunt appears to have united two gifts
which are rarely, we suspect, possessed
in common ; for he had what is called a
fine ear for music, as well as a fine ear
for the harmonies of words and verses.
The result is that his poems of
which music is the subject are not,
perhaps, unrivalled for the wonderful
" Music's Duel," of Crashaw, is worthy
to be named with them but, at all
events, unsurpassed in the force and
reality with which they express the
variety, power, and beauty of musical
sound. We have not forgotten Milton
and his far-off curfew
" Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar ;"
but, with the exception of these and one
or two other exquisite lines, he has con-
tented himself, like other poets, with
describing the effect of music. He has
not thought of reproducing it in words,
and making the music itself present to
the ear of his readers as, in his picture
of Dalilah, she is presented to their
eyes. This is the almost impossible
task which Crashaw in the poem we
have named, and Leigh Hunt in the
Fancy Concert, have attempted ; and in
which both of them have admirably
succeeded.
A young author's first work, it has
been said, indicates his previous studies
and pursuits. Putting the uncongenial
politics of the day out of the ques-
tion, the favourite subject of Hunt's
meditation had been literature, and
especially poetry ; and therefore, when
he came to write a poem for himself, he
chose both persons and theme from the
world with which he was most familiar
not from England and the nineteenth
century, but from the land of romance
and of the poets. These are regions
into which, if we except some unhappy
persons who are ignorant of their own
misery, most men are permitted to
make some short and flying incursions.
Here was one who lived there con-
stantly and familiarly ; more constantly
and more familiarly than many a loftier
bard who had penetrated more deeply
than he into that world of marvel. For
what is most striking in the life and the
works of Leigh Hunt is this that the
feelings which move him to express
himself in poetry are just those which
he carries with him always through the
cares and enjoyments of daily life. No
one can read much of his prose, no one
can read his Autobiography, without
becoming certain that he differs from
other men, even from great poets, when
we contemplate their lives, and not
their work ; principally in that
" their better mind
Is like a Sunday's garment then put on
When they have nought to do : but at their
work
They wear a worse for thrift."
With him it is otherwise. Other
poets may soar higher ; but his highest
248
Photography for Travellers and Tourists.
and purest feelings are not confined to
the upper air. They do not desert him
upon earth. Shut up in prison, or
loitering in Pall Mall, or in a garden of
flowers, or contemplating a noble action,
he is always the same ; his fancy and
his sympathy equally lively. The best
illustration, therefore, and by far the
best criticism of his poetry is to be
found in his prose. There we acquire
a friendly familiarity, which discloses
to us a thousand beauties which even
an attentive reader of the poetry
merely is too certain to miss : nay, we
acquire a dangerous familiarity, which
makes the very mannerisms which
criticism condemns neither unmeaning
nor altogether unlovely.
There is still another reason, and a
better one, for reading Hunt's prose
along with his poetry. The great lesson
to be learned from him, is that which is
indicated in the quotations we have
made from Mr. Carlyle. A refined, if
not a very vigorous imagination, an
exquisite sensibility and susceptibility,
a certain southern warmth and colour,
a brilliant, beautiful harmonious nature,
strangely united with the manly energy,
the " passionate diligence " which, in his
case, ennobled the life which presents
most temptation to effeminate idleness,
the trying and difficult career of litera-
ture ; this is the character we see mani-
fested in the writings of Leigh Hunt.
Some of these qualities are charmingly
displayed in his poetry. The highest
and noblest can be seen nowhere but
in the Autobiography.
K.E.
PHOTOGRAPHY FOR TRAVELLERS AND TOURISTS.
BY PROFESSOR POLE, F.R.S.
'!T is the natural wish of most persons
who visit a new locality to bring back
pictorial representations of the scenery ;
and this want is usually met in one of
two ways either by published views
or by sketching. In well-frequented
places, published views are generally to
be had, and command a large sale ; and
the accuracy of these publications has of
late been much increased, and their cir-
culation much promoted, by the more
general introduction of landscape pho-
tography, and the great increase of its
professional practitioners.
But the facility of obtaining views in
this way is not without its drawbacks. In
the case of engravings, both the accuracy
and the artistic merit may be anything
but satisfactory ; ordinary photographs,
though they must be tolerably true,
may not represent the particular objects,
or show them in the particular way
the purchaser may desire ; and it need
hardly be said that there are vast
numbers of localities visited by both
travellers and tourists, particularly the
former, where neither engravings nor
photographs are to found, and of which
it is, for that very reason, most pecu-
liarly desirable to get accurate views.
To meet these difficulties, the only re-
source has usually been hand-sketch-
ing. Now, the power to sketch well
is undeniably one of the greatest ad-
vantages that a traveller can possess ;
but, unfortunately, though drawing is
now one of our stock school accomplish-
ments, only a small minority of those
who travel are able to transfer efficiently
to paper what they see ; and even in
favourable cases, though clever and
artistic pictures may be produced, the
faithfulness of the representations must
always be more or less uncertain.
Doubtless, the idea must often have
occurred to almost every traveller, what
an advantage it would be if he could
himself take photographs, where he
likes, of what he likes, when he likes,
and how he likes. But such an idea
must soon have been dismissed, from
the supposed incompatibility of this
Photography for Travellers and Tourists.
249
with ordinary travelling arrangements.
The usual notion of photographic opera-
tions comprehends a fearful array of
dark rooms, huge instruments, chemical
paraphernalia, water, and mess, which
no sane person, out of the professional
photographic guild, would think of bur-
dening himself with on an ordinary
journey, and which only a practised
adept could use if he had them ; and
so the idea of a traveller's taking views
for himself on his tour is generally
dismissed at once as an impracticable
chimera.
Now, it is the object of this article to
show that such a view of the matter is
a delusion, and that any traveller or
tourist, gentleman or lady, may, by about
a quarter of an hour's learning, and with
an amount of apparatus that would go
into the gentleman's coat pocket, or the
lady's reticule, put himself or herself into
the desirable position we have named.
It is not our intention to write a trea-
tise on photography ; but we must state
generally what the operations are, in
order to make our explanations intelli-
gible.
The process, then, of taking a pho-
tographic picture consists essentially of
three main divisions, namely 1. Pre-
paring the plate ; 2. Taking the picture ;
and 3. Developing the image ; and the
most common and best known arrange-
ment of these is as follows: A glass
plate of the proper size is coated with
collodion, and made sensitive to light by
dipping in a bath of a certain solution.
It is then, while it remains moist, placed
in the camera obscura, and exposed to
the image formed by the lens ; after
which, but still before the plate has had
time to dry, it is taken out, and treated
with certain chemicals which have the
property of developing the image so ob-
tained. The plate is then what is called
a "negative;" from which, after it has
been secured by varnish, any number of
impressions, or " prints," may be taken
at any time.
Now, it will be seen, by the words we
have printed in italics, that, according to
this method of operation, the whole of
the three parts of the process must be
performed within a very short space of
time j and, since the first and third re-
quire to be done in a place to which
daylight cannot enter, a dark room, sup-
plied with a somewhat extensive assort-
ment of chemical apparatus, must be
provided close to the place where the
picture is taken. This method, from the
necessity of the plate remaining moist,
is called the wet process. It is always
employed for portraits, and has the ad-
vantage not only of great beauty of finish,
but of extreme sensitiveness, requiring
only a few seconds' exposure in the
camera.
The wet process was the first, and, we
believe, for some time, the only collo-
dion process in use. But, in a happy
moment, it occurred to somebody to
inquire whether it was really indis-
pensable that the plates should be kept
moist during the whole operation ; and
it was found that, by certain modifica-
tions of the process of preparing them,
they might be allowed to dry, and
that some time might elapse between
the preparation and the exposure, as
well as between this and the develop-
ment. The immense advantage this
promised to landscape photography led
to extensive .investigation; and several
processes have now been perfected
which will secure this result. Plates
may be prepared at any convenient time
and place, and may be carried about for
months, ready for use at a moment's
notice ; and, after the picture is taken,
they may also be kept some time before
development. The only price we pay
for this advantage is the necessity for
a little longer exposure in the camera ;
which, for landscapes, is of no moment
at all.
The bearing of this discovery on our
more immediate subject will be at once
apparent, as it gets rid of the necessity
of providing, on the journey, for the pre-
paration and development, with all their
cumbersome and troublesome apparatus,
and limits what is necessary to the simple
exposure, or taking of the picture. And
another advantage of still more import-
ance follows from this namely, that the
plates may be prepared and developed,
250
Photography for Travellers and Tourists.
not only in another place, but by another
person. The knowledge, care, and skill
required for photography, as well as the
stains and all other disagreeables attend-
ing it, refer almost exclusively to the
preparation and development ; the ex- .
posure to take the view is an operation
of the simplest kind, which anybody
may learn in a few minutes, and which
is attended with DO trouble or incon-
venience whatever.
Limiting, therefore, the traveller's
operation to the taking of the picture,
let us consider what this involves.
The first question which affects mate-
rially the portability of the necessary
apparatus, is the size of picture to be
taken. We are accustomed to see very
large and beautiful photographs of
scenery and architecture ; but these
would be impracticable for the traveller,
as the dimensions of the plate increase
so materially every portion of the appa-
ratus. Differences of opinion and of
taste may exist as to the degree of
inconvenience it is worth while putting
up with ; but the writer of this paper,
after considerable experience, has come
to the conclusion, that the smallest size
in ordinary use namely, the stereoscopic
plate is by far the most eligible one for
travelling. The object is not to make
large and valuable artistic pictures that
we must always leave to the professional
man but it is simply to preserve
faithful representations ; and this may
be done as well on the small as on the
large scale, and with infinitely less
trouble. For, though the size is small,
the delicacy of detail procurable with
well-prepared plates, even in a large ex-
tent of view, is something marvellous, as
may be easily seen in some of the
magnificent stereoscopic views that are to
be had in the shops ; besides which, the
stereoscopic effect gives an air of reality
to the view which greatly enhances the
value of the representation.
The camera for taking stereoscopic
views has now been reduced, by in-
genious contrivances, to a very portable
size. The one used by the writer is
nine inches long, five and a half inches
wide, and three inches high about
the dimensions of a good-sized octavo
book. It weighs a little over two
pounds, and hangs by a strap round the
neck in walking with no inconvenience.
The stand folds up into a straight stick,
which is carried easily in the hand. A
stock of eight plates, in slides ready for
use (sufficient generally for a day's opera-
tions), go into two folding pocket cases.
The tourist can thus walk about with-
out the slightest sense of incumbrance,
and is prepared, at any moment, to take
a perfect stereoscopic view of anything he
sees an operation which will occupy him
from five to fifteen minutes, according to
the light, and the time he may take to
choose his position.
Considered as adding to the baggage
of the traveller, these things are hardly
worth mentioning as, with the excep-
tion of the stand (which travels well in
company with an umbrella), they will all
lie snugly in a spare corner of a port-
manteau. Of course, however, a stock of
plates must be added. A dozen of these,
with appropriate packing, will occupy
about eight inches long, four inches
wide, and one and a half inches high;
and from this the space occupied by any
number it is proposed to take on the
journey may be easily estimated. Sup-
pose there are five dozen a pretty fair
allowance these, with camera and all
complete, will go into a very portable
hand-box, or into one of the small
black leather bags now so common.
If the operator chooses to go to a
little extra trouble, it is highly satis-
factory to be able to develop the plates
on the journey which may conveniently
be done in the evenings, at a hotel or
lodging ; and the apparatus for which
adds very slightly to the bulk of the
preparations. A small case of bottles,
5 inches square and 2^ inches thick,
together with one or two small loose
articles, are all the author takes with
him. The development of a plate
takes five or ten minutes, and is a pro-
cess easily learnt ; and the satisfaction
of being able to see, the same even-
ing, what one has been doing in the
day, is quite inducement enough to
do it. But still, we repeat, this is not
necessary, as the development may be left
to another person and to another time.
Photography for Travellers and Tourists.
251
We think we have shown how every
traveller or tourist may be his own pho-
tographer, with much less trouble and
dilficulty than is generally supposed ;
and we must add that this is no untried
plan. The writer of this article has been
much in the habit of travelling ; and,
for years past, when he has gone on a
journey, the little camera has been put
into the portmanteau, as unassumingly
and as regularly as the dressing-case. It
has travelled in all sorts of countries, and
has cast its eye on scenes which camera
never looked at before ; it has been
a never-failing source of interesting
occupation and amusement, and has re-
corded its travels in hundreds of interest-
ing views, some of much excellence, and
very few otherwise than successful.
But it may be asked, Since the advan-
tage and usefulness of this plan are
so undeniable, how is it that we do not
see it in more frequent use 1 ? Simply
for the reason that the dealers in pho-
tographic apparatus have never yet had
the enterprise to establish a manufacture
and sale of dry prepared plates, in such
a way as to insure their popularity.
The manufacture and sale of pho-
tographic apparatus and chemicals is
now becoming a very large branch of
commerce ; but many of the large num-
bers of tradesmen who prosecute it
appear to have a much more earnest
view towards the profits of the business
than to the advancement of the art for,
since the death of poor Mr. Archer (to
whom we owe almost entirely the pre-
sent state of photography, and who lost
a fortune in its improvement), nearly
every advance made has been by private
individuals. We must not be mis-
understood. There are many people
who profess to sell dry plates, and these
may often be found to possess many
of the requisites they should have ;
but few can be depended on, and none
combine all the qualities which are
necessary to give the system the full
benefit of its inestimable value. Some
will not keep long enough before ex-
posure ; some will not keep at all
after exposure ; some fail in sensitive-
ness; some spoil soon after they are
opened ; to say nothing of the constant
liability to stains, irregularities, blisters,
and all sorts of troublesome and annoy-
ing defects, which not only spoil the
operator's work, but what is of more
importance destroy all reliance on his
operations, and so discourage him from
undertaking them. We are not sure
whether some dealers may not be obtuse
enough even to encourage defects, from
the short-sighted notion of increasing
the sale ; but this we can say that we
know no maker who will guarantee the
sincerity of his wish to make good
plates, by consenting to allow for them
if they turn out bad ones. If this state
of things arose from imperfection in the
art, we should not grumble, but could
only urge improvement ; but this is not
so. It is well known that dry plates can
be made, satisfying all the conditions we
have named, and which, with care and
system in the manufacture, might be
rendered thoroughly trustworthy. It is
only the indolence or obstinacy of the
trade that prevents their becoming
regular articles of commerce.
We do not wish, however, to dis-
courage the traveller who may wish to
adopt this admirable aid to his wan-
derings ; for the object to be gained is
so important that it is worth striving
a little for. In the present state of the
matter, he must either learn to prepare
his own plates which, after all, is no
great exertion or, if he buys them, he
must at least learn to develop them, and
must, at the same time, lay in with them
a certain stock of patience and temper ta
meet disappointment ; and we can assure
him that, even at this price, he will find
himself amply repaid. But we again
urge that the case ought not to stand
thus. The application of the dry pro-
cesses to portable photography offers a
boon almost inestimable to, but yet quite
unappreciated by, the traveller and the
tourist; 'and it only needs the zealous
and earnest co-operation of the dealer,
by so conducting the manufacture as to-
render it perfect and trustworthy, to
raise this application into a branch of
commerce of an extent, importance, and
profit, little inferior to any in the trade.
252
Sonnet. The History of a Hospital.
SONNET.
EVENING ON THE PIER AT BURLINGTON.
A LITTLE gladsome world was gathered there
To watch the sun down, breathe the generous air,
And spend a careless hour. Amongst them one
Sullen at heart for something evil done :
He felt no love, no joy. The scene so fair
Taunted his very soul ; it said, " Despair ! "
He sat or walked, quite sick of life, alone.
Just then he saw a stir What might it be ?
He looked. A pilot-boat came bounding by
From the stone-locked pool forth to the broad gray sea ;
He saw the steady hand, the forward eye
0' the brave steersman. Then was he glad again
To live, a man amongst his brother-men !
THE HISTORY OF A HOSPITAL.
BY' THE AUTHOR OF " JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN."
" Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least
of all these little ones, ye have done it
unto Me."
THOUGH this paper is headed with a
text> it is by no means meant as a ser-
mon, least of all a charity sermon ;
being simply a record and state-
ment of facts, which, in their sharp
unvarnished outline, preach their own
homily. It is intended to give, without
any embellishment of fancy or glamour
of sentimental emotion, the history of a
hospital, of sufficiently recent date to
make that chronicle possible, credible,
and capable of proof, by any who will
take the trouble of investigation.
Previously, however, let a word be
said about hospitals in general. Many
persons are in the habit of viewing
them solely as charities, which is a great
mistake. Charitable purposes they un-
doubtedly fulfil to the individual, but
they are of equal importance to the
community at large. Would that every
poor rich sufferer, lying in as much ease
as can be given him on his restless bed,
knew how much he owes of relief pos-
sibly even life to the skill and experi-
ence learned at those forlorn hospital
beds, where all the mysterious laws of
disease are carefully studied, worked
out into theories, and tested by incessant
observation of cause and result, on a
scale much wider, more complete and
satisfactory, than any private practice
could ever supply! Would that all
of us, who at some time or other,
either for ourselves or those dearer
than ourselves, have known what it
was to live upon every look of "the
doctor " to recognise him as the
one human being who is all-important
to us, on whose talent, decision, caution,
tenderness, hangs everything most pre-
cious to us in this world -would that all
could understand how much of that
which makes him what he is, has
been gained within those long dreary
The History of a Hospital.
253
ranges of many-windowed walls, dedi-
cated to physical suffering, and conse-
crated by its hopeful and merciful alle-
viation !
But the hospital now to be written
of has remarkably few of the painful
characteristics of its class, as will be
shortly shown. But, first, we have to
do with its history, beginning from the
very beginning.
On the 30th of January, 1850, nine
gentlemen, two of whom were of the
medical profession, met to consider
whether it was not possible to establish
in London a Hospital for Sick Children.
They believed that, besides the great
benefit of such an institution to a class
which could with difficulty find admis-
sion to ordinary hospitals, it would
supply a desideratum long wanted in
London, though well provided for in
foreign cities namely, an opportunity
for studying infantile diseases. These
every mother and nurse knows, or
ought to know are so sudden, so fluc-
tuating and mysterious in their nature,
so difficult of diagnosis and treatment,
and often so fearfully rapid in their
fatality, that they furnish a distinct
branch of medical science, the import-
ance of which can hardly be sufficiently
recognised. For people forget that on
the health of the growing-up generation
hangs that of generations more ; also
that it is not merely the alternative
between life and death, but between
wholesome, happy, enjoyable life, and
the innumerable forms of death in life,
which an unhealthy or neglected child-
hood entails upon the innocent sufferers
to the end of their days.
These nine gentlemen, deeply con-
scious of this fact, and anxiously desirous
to remedy it, prepared an appeal, which,
appendixed by letters from various
eminent physicians, should, it was
agreed, be disseminated as widely as
possible. Afterwards, to satisfy inquiries
and answer objections, a second meeting
was held, and a second appeal prepared.
This, signed, by several well-known
members of the medical profession, was
forwarded to all their brethren in town
or country.
For a whole year they laboured
silently; laying carefully the founda-
tion-work of their plan by observation
and inquiry in all directions, at home
and abroad one of their number spend-
ing some time in investigating similar
hospitals in foreign cities. At length
the result of all this came to light in a
public meeting, which was held on
March 19, 1851, Lord Shaftesbury
then Lord Ashley being chairman.
Within a fortnight afterwards the
committee found and took a large old-
fashioned house in Great Ormond Street
once the residence of the notable Dr.
Meade. But "festina lente" was still
their wise maxim ; and it was eleven
months more before the Hospital for
Sick Children was definitely opened, to
admit one little girl !
" She was the first that ever burst
Upon that unknown sea,"
across which so many frail little vessels
were afterwards to be safely piloted.
Poor little girl ! Her name and what
became of her, history chronicleth not.
Imagination might paint the forlorn wee
face in its neat bed, sole occupant of
the magnificent room which beauties
swam through, and gallants danced
through, in the old days when Blooms-
bury was the fashionable part of London.
But, as we said, we do not mean to
deal either with the poetical or the
picturesque.
After this, many influential people
took up the children's cause. Charles
Dickens brilliant as large-hearted
advocated it by tongue and pen; the
Bishop of London and Lord Carlisle
said many a good word for it. Little
money was gained thereby, but much
sympathy and kind encouragement :
also the best impetus that can be given
to a really good cause, aware of its own
value, publicity. By-and-by the first
annual report appeared, announcing as
patroness of the Children's Hospital the
highest mother in the realm, and then
definitely stating its objects. These
were : " 1. The medical and surgical
" treatment of poor children. 2. The
254
The History of a Hospital.
" attainment and diffusion of knowledge
" regarding the diseases of children. 3.
" The training of nurses for children."
It is a notable report, inasmuch as it
so frankly states the imperfections and
difficulties of the scheme.
" At first it seemed as if a Children's
" Hospital were not needed ; for so few
" were the applicants, that during the
" first month only twenty-four were
" brought as out-patients, and only eight
" received as in-patients. The hospital
" had its character to make among the
" poor. Before long, greater numbers
" of children were brought as out-
" patients, but their mothers often re-
" fused to let them be taken into the
" hospital ; and only by degrees learned
" to place full confidence in its manage-
" ment, and to believe that those who
" asked for their suffering little ones
" were indeed to be trusted with so
" precious a deposit."
This answers an objection that has
been urged against children's hospitals,
infant schools, public nurseries, and the
like ; namely, that the mother is the
only and best guardian of the child, in
sickness and in health. Undoubtedly,
when such care is possible. But a sick
child in a rich man's well-ordered com-
fortable nursery, or even in an ordinary
middle-class house, is in very different
circumstances from a sick child in a
poor man's one room inhabited by
-other children and adults full of noise,
confusion, and dirt, with perhaps a
drunken father, or a mother so worn
"with want, and passive with misery,
that "if it please God to take it, poor
lamb ! " seems rather a desirable possi-
bility than not. There can be no ques-
tion that the quiet clean ward of a
hospital, with a good skilled nurse,
instead of a broken-down, ignorant, or
careless mother, is a good exchange
under the circumstances ; and in that,
as in many other conjunctures of human
life, we have to judge, not by possibili-
ties, but actual circumstances to choose,
alas ! not an unattainable good, but the
least of two evils.
Year by year the history of the hos-
pital progresses. Out-patients increase
enormously : in-patients are still limited
by the wa 
