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THE 


NEW     MONTHLY 
MAGAZINE. 


...rfftB"-"!: 


SDITED  BT 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTE 


VOL.  99. 


LONDON : 
CHAPMAN    AND    HALL,    193,    PICCADILLY. 

1853. 


^ONATW    BV    THfc 


THE  BEW  YOP.K 
PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

ASTOR.  LENOX  AND 


•  •     •,  •     •    • 


••••••         • 


» •         •   •••  •     •    •• 


•      •.••       J         ••••• 
•   •••     -v     »•••*• 

•      •    •  •         ••     •   ••>   ♦• 


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CONTENTS. 


The  Bowl  and  the  Duty.    By  Ctkus  BsDDiMa 1 

A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land.    Bt  the  Authos  of  "  The  Uhholt  "Wish*  .    10 

liiTEBABT  LsASLsxa.  Bt  Sol  Naihanibl.  Ha  XL—Sm  Thomas  Nook 
TALFomuo 27 

A  Month  AT  ViCHT   ..'. .SS 

A  Night  in  California •       •        •    44 

The  Tents  OF  THE  TusKi •       ...    57 

The  Doomed  Houeb.  A  Tale.  From  the  Danish  of  B.  S.  IkaEMANir. 
BtMRS.  BOSHBT €€ 

Amerxcan  AirrH<vssHiF.  Br  Sol  Kathanibi..  Ko.  VL— Outsk ITxiiDiEiab 
Holmes  ; *....•    77 

Stort  ov  the  CUdi  and  the  BoBBonu  From  the  Abamic.  Br  A  H. 
Blbegk,  Esq. 85 

Kino  Wenzbl's  Escape.  Fbom  the  Qmxaux  or  Mobitz  Habxmabn.  Bt 
JohnOxbnford ••92 

A  GeBXAN'B  iMFRBSftlOWS  Off  EBaLAND 95 

Macluba.    a  Legendart  Tale  of  Malta.    Br  a  WmsK  Besexmnt    .    .  101 

Chronicles  OP  A  CoTTNTRT  Town Ill,  28€y  915,466 

The  Military  Bbsoitrces  Of  Bussia        ........  127 

^An  Event  in  the  Life  op  Lord  Btron.    By  the  Author  of  "  The  Un- 
holy Wish*'    138 

Literary  Leaflets.  By  Sir  Nathaniei  No.  XIL— Professor  E.  C. 
Trench 151 

Discovery  op  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  Isle  op  Capri      ....  159 

A  Day  at  the  Barricades        ....••....  172 

The  Chinese  Bevolution 180 

Tales  op  my  Dragoman.  By  Basil  May.  No.  L— The  Hadj  Marabou's 
Judgment 199 

Wine  Adulterations  and  Duties^  By  Cyrus  Bedding    ....  201 

Besignation.    By  W.  Brailsford,  Esq. 211 

The  Pair  who  Lost  their  Way;  or.  The  Day  of  the  Duke's  Funeral. 
A  Sketch.    By  Charles  Mitchell  Charles       .        .        .        ...  212 

American  Authorship.  By  Sir  Nathaniel.  No.  VII. — Henry  Wads- 
worth  Longfellow 228 

A  BoMANCE  OF  Carlton  Gardens.    By  Dudley  Costello         .       .        •  253 

The  Age  op  Gold.    By  Cyrus  Bedding 266 

«  : 


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IV  CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

An  Impebial  Visit 267 

LiTBRAsr  Leaflets.    By  Sm  Nathaniel.    No.  XlH. — " Positive"  Phi- 
losophy: CoMTB  AND  Lewes 275 

Trayels  in  the  Nobth 282 

Walks  Up  Hill.    By  H.  Spiceb,  Esq.,  Author  of  "  Sights  and  Sounds"  .  292 

Sea-side  Becbeations 29S 

American  Authorship.  By  Sir  Nathaniel.  No.  VJLLL — ^William  Cullen 
Bryant 306 

The  French  Almanacks  for  1854 :        .        .    .  312 

St.  Martin's  Eve.    By  the  Author  op  "  The  Unholy  Wish"  .       .        .  327 

A  Political  Conversazione  of  the  Tear  1848. — ^Metternich,  Quizot, 
Louis  Philippe,  Palmerston 343 

The  North- West  Passage 350 

Babali  and  the  Pacha.    Being  the  Second  Tale  of  my  Dragoman.    By 
Basil  May 359 

Extracts  from  the  Commonplace-Book  of  a  lately  Deceased  Author,  363, 422 

The  War  in  the  East • 379 

Palace  Tales;  The  White  Lady;  and  the  Story  of  Pale  Sophie      ,    ,  400 

A  Voice  to  the  Sad.    By  G.  W.  Thornbury 421 

American  Authorship.    By  Sir  Nathaniel.    No.  IX.— -N.  P.  Willis      .  425 

The  Lady's  Well.    By  the  Author  of  "The  Unholy  Wish"      .        .    .  430 

GrOSSrP  FROM  FLORENCE.      A  LETTER  ADDRESSED   TO   THE  EdITOR   OF  THE 

"  New  Monthly  Magazine" .  442 

Tales  of  my  Dragoman.    No.  IH.    How  Muftifiz  rose  to  Greatness. 
By  Basil  May 450 

Literary  Leaflets.    By  Sir  Nathaniel.    No.  XTV.— Mrs.  Jameson       .  467 

McCarthy's  Calderon 487 

The  Elf-King's  Bride.    From  the  Danish  of  Hans  Christian  Ander- 
sen.   By  Mrs.  Bushby 4^ 

The  Epilogue  of  1853 491 


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NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


THE  BOWL  AND  THE  DUTY. 

BY  CTBUS  REDDING. 

Where  is  <mr  natiotial  symposiarchos,  oar  wine-master  of  the  oeremo- 
Eoes  ?  We  are  still  hx  from  thinking  we  shall  not  soon  require  such  an 
official.  Our  ministers  are  not  men  of  taste,  or  they  would  have  given 
us  the  opportunity  of  electing  such  an  officer  long  ago.  They  are  tea- 
sops,  aiKl  make  the  land  nervous  with  Hong-Kong  decoctions.  We 
tl^ught  to  have  had  wine  at  a  more  reasonable  rate  tibis  session  ;  but  we 
languid  still  under  the  want  of  the  *^  universal  panacea,"  or  as  a  great 
phyndan  styled  it,  *^  that  to  the  body  which  manure  is  to  trees."  The 
anient  Greek  chiefe  secured  their  wine,  not  as  Solomon  is  said  to  have 
done  his  tempie,  with  Bramah's  patent  lock,  but  with  a  trusty  sentinel 
of  lifiledan  origin,  who  introduced  whisky  into  the  court  of  the  Pharaohs, 
according  to  Vdlancy  in  his  histcny  of  Irish  dvilisation.  The  Cui^ms 
keep  ours  for  us. 

Commend  us  to  Pitt,  who,  though  not  a  jester  nor  a  wit,  did  honour  to 
liie  elixir  of  life.  Let  it  be  poured  over  his  ashes  with  an  "  Ave !  vale!" 
What  else  could  have  enabled  him  "  to  speak  off  a  king's  speech  ?"  as 
Windham  said  he  could  have  done — what  but  his  libations  with  his  £nend 
Lord  Melville.  To  this  llie  diffierent  state  of  eloquence  in  the  House  of 
Commons  in  his  time  said  our  ovm.  is  mainly  owing.  Wine  cherisheg 
eloquence  in  politics  as  well  as  in  divinity.  In  proof  of  the  latter  ob- 
servation, a  great  clerical  autiiority  asserts  that  ^^it  maketh  sermons  to 
abound  for  edification  ;**  gives  "visions  of  poetic  zeaL" 

Lord  Aberdeen  may  be  assured  that  no  purple  clusters  vrill  rise  to 
grace  his  tomb^  unless  he  thinks  of  moving  a  little  fsuiter  upon  this 
matter.  While  the  Russian  bear  hungers  for  the  flesh^ots  of  Constan- 
t^[K^e  to  accompany  his  rye-meal  and  water,  his  sour  quass,  the  Porte 
may  become  more  cordial  in  its  alliance  witii  France.  Sultan  Mustapha 
told  Cromwell's  ambassador  that  if  he  ever  changed  his  reHgion  he 
should  tiffn  Catholic,  "  because  iliere  was  no  good  wine  in  any  Protestant 
country."  Who  «an  b^eve,  judging  fix)m  the  veisdom  of  his  ancestor-— 
Aat  most  convincing  species  of  evidefice — that  his  present  Turkish  Sub- 
limity will  prefer  gin  and  whisky  to  Burgundy,  Champagne,  and  claret  ? 

Why,  then,  are  we  denied  tiie  use  of  good  wine?  "J^e  adulteration 
oi  our  port  vnne  has  just  been  sanctioned  by  the  Treasury.  Gerupiga  is 
permitted  to  be  introduced  into  wine  in  the  docks  in  certain  proportions. 
V«iiy  we  retrograde.     Shame  to  the  land  of  our  fathers. 

Why  are  we  denied  c^eap  vrine  ?     The  en<»rmous  4nty  of  six  hundred 

Sept — ^voL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcin.  b 

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2  The  Bowl  and  the  Duty. 

per  cent,  is  a  denial — a  prohibition  to  nine-tenths  of  the  people  of  Eng- 
land, and  prevents  an  access  of  revenue  to  the  Exchequer.  All  other 
nations  enjoy  wine  at  a  reasonable  cost  '^  The  public  do  not  agitate 
about  it."  How  should  it  do  so,  when  the  mass  of  the  people  know 
no  more  about  wine  than  the  public  did  of  tea  in  the  reign  of  King  John, 
when  wine  was  three-halfpence  per  quart  ?  Adam  did  not  trouble  him- 
self about  his  own  character  in  Paradise  Lost. 

We  stand  in  need  of  something  to  stimulate  us  in  conversation.  What 
are  modern  dinings-out  compared  to  the  old  conversational  times  of 
Johnson,  Reynolds,  and  Burke  ?  All  dinner-parties  now  are  lifeless 
things — "  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable."  A  tolerable  allowance  of 
wine  is  swallowed  with  dinner  at  wealthy  tables — wasted ;  but  there  is 
no  more  conversational  wit,  none  of  the  seasoning  of  the  past  time.  We 
are  a  dull  people  now,  mere  money-grubbers;  what  has  wit,  hilarity, 
good  fellowship  to  do  with  such  ?     Hence  the  need  of  cheap  good  wine  ilt 

Elace  of  stomach-burning  brandy-wine  and  spirits.     We  do  not  want 
eaviness  over  the  eyebrows,  but  liveliness  to  counteract  our  cares. 
Wine  was  once  accessible  to  all  here,  as  it  has  been  to  other  nations  in 
all  times.     We  find  corn,  wine,  and  oil,  terms  used  to  designate  fer- 
tility in  the   first  ages  of  the  world.     From  the  deluge — ^&om  the 
Egyptian  captivity  of  the  Israelites  to  the  reign  of  the  wisest  of  men,  we 
find  mention  of  it.    Sculptures  of  the  expression  of  the  juice  of  the  grape 
may  yet  be  seen  upon  the  walls  of  the  great  temple  of  ELamac  in  the 
Thebaid,  emblematic,  it  is  probable,  of  the  wine  of  Meroe,  which  has 
caused   disputes  in  relation  to  the  wine-wisdom  of  antiquity  among 
learned  pundits ;  some  denying  the  existence  of  a^y  wine  in  that  climate 
where  it  was  known  twenty  centuries  before  the  Christian  era.     The 
young  captive  Joseph,  interpreting  the  dream  of  the  chief  butler  of 
rharaoh,  represents  him  as  squeezing  the  juice  of  the  grapes  into  the 
goblet  of  his  royal  master,  the  representation  still  to  be  seen  on  the 
temple  of  Karhac  thus  corresponding  in  a  singular  manner  with  the 
custom  described  by  the  sacred  historian.     These  delineiations  can  only 
be  understood  as  emblematic  of  wine.     The  must  of  the  grape  taken  in 
that  climate,  sweet,  cloying,  and  warm,  could  hardly  be  intended.     To 
make  wine  that  will  keep  well,  fermentation  is  necessary,  and  that  this 
process  was  known  in  the  early  ages,  is  evident  from  the  account  of 
Noah's  inebriety.  The  institutes  of  Moses,  and  the  customs  of  contempo- 
rary nations,  show  that  wine  was  common  to  them  all,  and  was  considered 
one  of  Heaven's  choicest  gifts.    Sacred  and  profane  writers  laud  it  alike. 
Amphorss  havb  been  recently  discovered  by  Layard  in  the  mounds  time 
has  accumulated  over  the  ruined  palaces  of  the  luxurious  Sardanapalus, 
after  twenty-seven  centuries  of  inhumation.    The  excavations  amidst  the 
indurated  lava  of  Vesuvius  afford  similar  evidence  of  the  abundance  and 
care  bestowed  upon  that  which  **  makes  glad  the  heart  of  man.*'     Pure 
wine  has  a  very  distinctive  character,  through  its  effect  on  the  animal 
economy ;  but  in  this  country  the  unadulterated  juice  of  the  g^pe  is  met 
with  only  at  the  tables  of  the  fashionable  and  opulent.    The  wines  intro- 
duced early  into  England  were  of  a  less  artificial  character  than  in  later 
times.  France,  Spain,  and  the  Levant,  were  formerly  all  laid  under  contri- 
bution by  British  merchants.     It  appears  that  as  far  back  as  the  reign 


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The  Bowl  and  the  Duty.  $ 

of  Richard  III^  the  wine  called  Cbalybonion,  or  Chalibon,  grown  near 
Damascus,  was  imported  to  England  from  Tyre  in  Venetian  ships ;  each 
cask  of  wine  accompanied  with  ten  yews  for  making  hows.  Thb  wine 
was  the  Helbon  of  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  sold  at  the  fairs  in  Tyre. 

There  is  no  denying  that  wines  were  once  made  in  the  southern 
counties  of  England  in  considerable  quantities,  previous  to  and  subseouent 
to  the  Norman  conquest^  and  even  down  to  the  fifteenth  century.  Bede 
alludes  to  them  in  plain  terms,  and  they  are  alluded  to  in  the  laws  of 
Alfred.  Edgar  is  stated  to  have  made  a  present  of  a  vineyard  and  vine- 
dressers ;  and  there  are  rude  but  unmistakable  representations  of  vine* 
yards  and  vine-dressers  in  the  British  Museum  of  the  Saxon  date.  In 
Westminster,  "  Holeborne,"  and  other  parts  of  Middlesex,  and  in  nine 
counties  south  of  Cambridgeshire,  north  of  which  last  county  vines 
would  not  give  fruit  fit  for  vnne,  there  are  traces  of  vineyards.  Glouces- 
tershire was  noted  for  the  excellence  of  its  vinous  productions.  ^  Vine- 
yards'' occur  thirty-six  times  in  Doomsday  Book,  and  the  tithes  of 
lincombe  vineyards,  near  Bath,  have  been  long  upon  record. 

We  are  not  among  those  who  discredit  this  evidence  on  account  of  the 
present  character  of  the  climate  of  these  islands.  Wine  is  now  made  oa 
the  Rhine  north  of  51  deg.  of  latitude.  There  has  been  a  change 
of  temperature ;  cold  east  winds  now  prevail  to  the  midsummer-day  of 
the  olden  time.  M.  Arago,  of  the  French  Institute,  says  that  in  the 
sixteenth  century  the  muscadine  g^pe,  which  requires  the  warm  sun  of  the 
south,  ripened  well  at  Macon,  in  the  department  of  the  Seine  and  Loire— ^ 
a  circumstance  now  thought  impossible..  The  vineyards  of  Etampes 
and  Beauvais  once  grew  good  wine ;  all  they  make  now  is  meagre  and 
miserable. 

Our  fathers  were  men  of  good  taste ;  they  introduced  fifty-six  French, 
and  no  less  than  thirty  kinds  of  Spanish,  Italian,  Greek,  and  lakmd 
wines,  and  in  large  quantities  too.  Elizabeth's  court  and  symposiacs, 
where  the  cup  went  round  in  the  debate,  made  men  merry  and  wise  to- 
gether. Once  there  came  into  England,  Gascony,  Osey,  Clarry,  Romania, 
Bastardb,  Malvasia,  Lepe,  Vemage,  Malmsey,  Cyprus,  Candian,  and 
many  other  wines,  whose  names  are  quite  a  catalogue.  Sometimes  they 
were  perfumed,  at  others  aromatic  herbs  and  spices  were  infused  into 
them,  when  they  were  called  '^  piment,"  or  made  '^  hippocras"  of,  as  the 
writers  of  those  times  inform  us.  The' quantity  of  wine  consumed  for- 
merly in^  England  was  very  large.  The  Archbishop  of  Yoik,  in  the 
reign  of  Edward  II.,  dispensed  a  hundred  tuns  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
gallons  each  on  his  enthronement.  His  predecessor  in:  the  see  consumed 
eighty  tuns  of  claret  annually  in  his  household — an  expenditure  that  would 
stagger  a  very  wealthy  man  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Whether  wine 
or  ale,  the  Church  always  patronised  them.  Our  total-abstiaence  sup- 
porters must  read  this  portion  of  the  history  of  vinolog^  with  due  respect. 
Our  old  divines  found  they  marvellously  improved  their  spiritual  functions 
by  wine.  From  Walter  de  Mapes  to  Sidney  Smith,  its  virtues  have 
found  a  much  more  unanimous  support  than  points  of  doctrine.  Who 
could  doubt  the  orthodoxy  of  such  pillars  of  the  Church  as  showed  by  ex- 
perience the  value  of  wine,  or  of  aJe  by  the  less  presuming  clergy,  con- 
tented  with  the  home-made  beverage,  but  sensible  of  the  inspiration  &om 
both^ 

B  2 

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4  The  Bawl  and  ^  Duty. 

Then  take  up  this  tankard  of  rongh  massy  plate. 
Not  for  fashion  preferred*  but  for  yalue  and  wei^t ; 
When  you  lift  up  the  cover  then  think  of  your  vicar. 
And  take  a  hard  pull  at  the  orthodox  liquor, 
That  keeps  hale  and  hearty  in  every  climate. 
And  makes  the  poor  curate  as  proud  as  the  primate. 

There  was  »  cordiality  about  those  old  square-ioet  looked  for  now  in 
rain.  The  Methuen  treaty  of  1703,  adnoilting  p(nrt  wiaae  at  oDe-^uxd  of 
the  duty  of  most  other  kinds,  drove  away  Tariety,  and  forced  a  taste  f(Hr 
wtne  01  a  secondary  claM  inereasingly  adohers^  dawn  to  the  wiaa 
abroffatkm  of  the  differential  duties. 

We  have  a  hatred  for  all  tyrants  whkh  n»  langsnge  we  know  has 
words  sufficiently  vituperative  to  delineate^  but  oi  all  tyrants,  from  Nero 
to  the  King  of  Ashantee,  we  detest  most  oar  Henry  VIII^  the  rriestless 
btttcherer  of  female  loveliness,  the  heartless  apostate  in  fai^  who  favoured 
the  Reformation  he  had  first  opposed,  because  it  oeeurred  to  him  that  he 
could  plunder  the  existing  hospitab,  charities^  and  zeH^om  establish- 
mentt  of  their  wealth,  and  put  it  into  his  own  pnrse,  under  the  plea  of 
supporting  what  the  march  ci  intellect  would  soou  have  done  witiiout  his 
tiolenee.  If  one  gleam  of  sun^ine  breaks  through  the  ^oom  of  that 
BQonaroh's  character  in  our  view,  it  was  ins  bringing  into  notice  a  good 
wine — rather  a  selfish  virtue  to  be  sure,  but  we  fvdly  believe  the  only  <me 
be  possessed.     He  procured  a  vineyard  at  Ay  for  hims^^  or  in  eon- 

1 'unction  with  Francis  I.  of  France.  Henry  was  not  alcme  in  his  taste,  if 
ke  led  the  &shion :  Charles  V.  of  Spain,  and  the  Pope,  whom  Henry 
set  at  defiance,  were  all  unanimous  up<m  this  cardinal  point  of  doctrine, 
that  Champagne  was  an  unrivalled  wine,  and  they  too  kept  vineyards. 
Posterity  has  confirmed  the  sentence,  with  the  understancting  that  the  wine 
be  always  used  ^  in  the  present  tense."  Thus  did  *'  honey  come  out  of 
the  mouth  of  the  lion" — no,  that  is  a  noble  beast — out  of  &e  moudi  of  the 
ravenous  wolf.  This  vrine  the  differential  duties  excluded  firom  all  but  per- 
sons of  wealth,  until  those  duties  were  equalised*  For  this  alone,  Paul  Me- 
thuen  deserved  to  be  drowned  in  his  own  Porti^al  black  strap  I  Who 
oaa  state  the  amount  of  human  exyoymOTt  he  thus  abstracted  ?  Wfaea 
our  army  was  in  France  at  the  conclusion  of  the  last  war,  Champagne 
was  drunk  before  dinner,  with  dinner,  and  afW  dinner.  It  was  so  highly 
estimated,  as  we  witnessed  ourselves,  that  in  a  large  dty  only  one  b^e, 
by  aceideDt>  was  obtainable— the  English  ofiBc^rs,  they  tcdd  us,  had  drank 
all  the  rest.  We  even  suspect,  from  what  we  heard,  that  some  of  them 
wwe  ready,  v^en  they  could  take  no  more,  to  <»y  out  vrith  the  young 
sailor  in  the  same  plight,  ^<  Pour  it  over  me." 

A  floorishinff  epoch  in  our  commerce  in  vrine  with  France  took  j^ace 
under  Charies  II.,  soon  after  Uie  restoration.  The  trade  was  wisely  en* 
oouraged  by  the  court,  which  saw  its  mamfold  advantages.  MorchMadise 
of  all  sorts,  as  vrell  as  wines,  came  in  extenrively,  particularly  firom  France. 
But  the  landed  interest  of  that  time  became  jealous  of  the  mercantile,  and 
too  obtuse  to  pero^ve  how  much  trade  contributes  to  enhance  ^  value  of 
estates,  by  the  most  Intimate  of  all  means.  Accordingiy,  ^  adverse 
•pix^  so  w^  WMntsd  out  in  its  effects  upon  trade  b^  the  late  Sir  Heuj 
nmelL  was  men  omnii^otent.  Anxious  for  itsdf,  in  die  first  place,  it 
sounded  the  tocsin  of  rum  to  the  agriculturists.    It  was  the  custom  thoi^ 

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Tks  Baul  a^  ik€  Duty.  & 

aa  k  was  in  times  of  a  wmth  later  date,  to  diarge  eferjrilwiig  uofayward 
upon  French  influenee*  Thtre  is  a  tale  of  an  Eagiish  eocmty  which  gnrn 
a  great  ^pantitjr  of  beans,  and  the  agncaltuial  in^rest  there  got  up  a 
petittOK  to  parinunent^  praying  that  a  coonly  a^oining  shovkl  be  pro- 
faibited  from  growing  broad  WindK>i8 ;  thus  lowering  the  prke  of  that 
in^gestible  esculent  to  Ae  pctitieBers'  manifest  injury.  Just  so  stanch 
to  tfanr  prejudices,  and  seeing  nodmig  hot  popeey  asd  wooden  shoe* 
whm  France  was  naaied,  iiiar  petitioned  &r  a  piohtbitiTe  law,  and  mt^ 
stated  tibait  no  more  Galhc  goods  ef  any  kind  shoidd  come  into  the  com tiy» 
The  priced  land  had  £Ulen  in  the  market;  and  this,  tiiey  averred,  war 
owing  to  the  balance  of  trade  wiA  France  bemg  j^^aonst  us^  They  had 
no  i£a  that  the  aggregate  balanoe  of  trade  might  be  in  our  fiHrovr,  and 
lluKt  in  place  of  paying  the  dififerenoe  to  France  in  coin,  we  might  have 
paid  it  in  bills  on  other  eovntries  gireii  in  retvm  for  ear  eaqports*  Thej 
were  not  to  be  pacified.  Nodiing  less  ^baa  a  total  prahihition  of  wine, 
beandy,  and  all  lands  of  French  merchandise  and  prodnee  would  appease 
tiasflb  Thej  were  all-powerfiil  with  the  national  antipathieaen  tbeirsidsw 
The  act  was  passed  just  when  oar  oommerekd  transactions  had  reached  m 
state  of  ^o^pmty  unequi^ed  before.  At  once  an  import  of  wine%  whidi 
£»r  many  oentones  it  had  till  then  been  the  usi^  of  the  coastry  t» 
receiYe,  and  to  which  the  people  had  long  been  bafattuated,  whoMy  ceased. 
hi  some  years  neaily  twenty  thousand  ttms  had  heeik  imported  ;  it  now 
became  an  illegal  trade.  A  vote  of  the  House  of  Commons  declared  that 
**  trade  with  France  was  detrimental  to  the  kingdom." 

The  effect  of  this  sudden  prdftibition  upon  those  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed, like  their  fathers  before  them,  for  six  or  seven  hundred  years  to 
the  wines  of  France,  must  have  been  a  public  calamity.  Smuggling  was 
encouraged  to  a  great  extent,  and  the  wines  of  Portugal,  of  a  very  infe- 
lior  character  to  those  of  France  in  purity,  were  introduced  under  the  cir- 
cinnstanees  oi  the  restnction. 

But  the  prohibition  of  the  pure  wines  of  France  was  not  the  oidy  con- 
sequence of  the  erroneous  notion  about  land  being  k>wered  in  price  by  a 
oommereeof  any  kind  withTrance.  The  larmers  were  gcatified ;  brandj 
bemg  no  longer  imported,  distyiation  from  malt  was  left  almost  unre- 
stoicted.  Any  person  mi^it  distil  by  giving  ten  days'  notice  to  the  Ex- 
cise^ This  was  a  boon  to  the  landholder,  who  had  most  probably  calcu*- 
laied  upon  saeh  a  result  in  aiding  the  prohibition.  The  Vintners'  Com^ 
psny  in  London  had  before  kept  the  management  of  distillation  almost 
wholly  under  its  own  control,  but  it  was  now  foiled;  distillation  eoatin»ed 
to  be  encooraged  for  the  pr(^;ection  of  the  landed  interest  down  to  1^ 
leign  of  Cieorge  I.  Then  began  that  system  of  drunkenness  among  the 
poor,  from  the  dieapness  of  spurits,  tliat  has  deteriorated  thw  health 
and  morals  so  fearfully  to  this  hour.  The  government  now  took  the 
alarm  at  its  own  impolicy.  It  ran  into  the  opponte  extreme,  and  forbade 
anj  compound  spirits  to  be  made.  Tlus  was  followed  by  the  imposition  of 
a  duty  of  five  shillings  per  gallon,  with  a  license  costing  twenty  pounds, 
to  be  paid  by  all  dealers  in  English-made  spirits. 

The  suddenness  of  this  legislation,  without  the  slightest  redect^n  that 
the  government  had  been  the  cause  of  the  evil  it  sought  to  remedy  so 
abn^ly,  drove  the  people  to  illicit  distillation  and  eirasions  of  the  law, 

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ff  The^Bowl  and  the  Duty. 

ifaer  natural  consequences  of  an  ill-judged  exercise  of  tlie  legislative  power.. 
The  ret£uling  of  spirits  was  then  prohibited  altogether. 

Scarcely  nad  the  general  importation  been  once  more  permitted,  and"^ 
French  wines  nearly  recovered  their  former  amount  of  importation,  than: 
the  accession  of  William  III.  and  a  new  war  occulted,  tantamount  to  a 
second  prohibition.  The  plea  of  exchanging  woollen  goods  for  Portugal; 
wine,  under  a  differential  duty  which  operated  as  a  bonus,  was  in  every 
sense  impolitic  and  unjust.  The  halt  was  eagerly  swallowed  by  the  lead- 
ing party.  Spanish  wines  as  well  as  French  were  rejected,  although  the 
duty  was  little  different  between  the  wines  of  Spain  and  Portugal  An 
importation  of  eleven  thousand  tuns  of  Spanish,  in  1701,  sank  to  seven 
thousand  in  the  following  year,  and  in  the  next  to  thirteen  hundred ; 
nor  did  the  Spanish  importation  increase  again  until  1709,  so  deeply 
did  the  pseudo  appeal  to  patriotism  in  the  shape  of  our  woollen  manu- 
fiactures  and  the  British  fleece  carry  away  the  sense  of  the  country. 

The  introduction  of  the  wines  of  Portugal  did  not  occur  without  con- 
siderable opposition  from  those  who  were  accustomed  to  the  wines  of  other' 
countries.  The  feeling  of  those  who  were  for  rejecting  everything  French 
had  aroused  the  jealoiisy  of  the  lovers  of  the  wine  of  that  country.  This 
was  shown  in  periodical  publications  circulated  as  early  as  1693.  The 
tastes  of  the  wine-drinkers  and  of  the  majority  in  the  legislature  were 
opposed..  The  "  Farewell  to  Wine,"  published  in  that  year,  treats  the 
hJack. strap  of  Portugal  very  unceremoniously : 

Mark  how  it  smells-^rnethinks  a  real  pain 
Is  by  its  odour  thrown  upon  my  brain : 
I've  tasted  it — ^*cis  spiritless  and  flat, 

And  has  as  many  different  tastes. 

As  can  be  found  in  compound  pastes. 

This  refers  to  the  lack  of  the  true  vinous  bouquet  in  port  wine.  We: 
learn,  too,  that  its  modem  virtue  of  spirituousness' was  at  that  time  not 
among  its  failings.  Prior  makes  several  references  to  port  wine,  which 
^ow  the  dislike  entertained  towards  it  subsequently  to  the  above  date. 
Even  as  late  as  1733,  "  muddy  Portugal  wine  "  was  contrasted  with, 
daret,  to  the  great  disadvantage  of  the  former.  The  addition  of  brandy 
was  early  noticed.  There  is  no  reason  to  think  this  spirit  was  added  in 
any  great  quantity  until  the  Oporto  Company  was  established,  and 
adulteration  and  monopoly  had  been  system atised.  It  was  said  that 
without  brandy  port  wine  would  not  suit  the  English  palate,  which  had 
taken  pure  growths  for  centuries.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  the 
spirit-drinking,  encouraged  for  the  sake  of  consuming  the  produce  of  the 
land  by  distillation,  had  now  in  some  degree  raised  the  temperature  of 
the  stomachs  of  Englishmen,  so  that  the  drinker,  no  longer  able  to  select 
a  wine  as  cheap  as  port,  it  became  necessary  for  the  merchant  to  adapt 
the  cheap  growth  to  the  high-seasoned  taste,  or  rather,  as  at  present, 
keep  a  variety  of  the  same  wine  artificially  concocted,  to  suit  the  taste 
of  all  inquirers  after  any  particular  flavour,  a  great  convenience  to  the 
dealer  rather  difficult  to  effect  with  pure,  natural  wine.  This  was  con- 
fessed in  suhstance  in  the  late  evidence  before  the  House  of  Commons. 
We  are  there  told  how,  imder  the  well- sustained  monopoly  of  the 
company  at  Oporto,  wine  is  mingled  with,  the  adulterating  Hquid,  called 


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The  Bowl  and  the  Duly.  f 

Gbrupiga,  to  suit  all  tastes  and  all  hues,  from  **  black,  sweet,  and  strong," 
to  the  true  colour  of  the  blood  of  the  grape,  and  a  drv  taste  of  the 
most  approved  character.  We  are  also  told  how  many  pipes  of  this 
mixture  of  elderberries,  treacle,  sugar,  brandy,  and  must,  are  sent  to  this 
country  for  the  same  base  purpose.*  The  Lusitanian  adulterations  have 
been  more  barefaced  than  ever  of  late  years. 

Claret  was  once  the  favourite  wine  throughout  Scotland,  and  the 
disrelish  for  port  was  shown  by  making  the  neutral  ground  of  the  Isle  of 
Man  a  grand  dep6t  for  the  wines  of  the  Gironde.  From  thence  the 
French  wines  were  covertly  introduced  in  such  a  way  by  the  intricacies 
of  the  western  rocks  and  isles,  that  the  "  eyes  of  the  guager  saw  them 
not."  This  contraband  trade  was  continued  there  to  a  much  later 
period  than  in  England.  The  lines  of  Home,  which  Sir  Walter  Scott 
used  to  repeat,  conveyed  the  spirit  of  the  people  upon  the  exclusion 
of  French  wine : 

Bold  and  erect  the  Caledonian  stood. 

Old  was  his  mutton,  and  his  claret  good  ; — 

**  Let  him  drink  port,"  the  English  statesmen  cried. 

He  drank  the  poison,  and  his  spirit  died ! 

No  less  than  five  thousand  hogsheads  of  claret  are  said  to  have  been 
smuggled  into  Cornwall,  Devon,  and  Dorset,  at  the  time  of  its  total 
prohibition.  It  is  clear  that  port  wine  was  forced,  in  the  first  instance, 
upon  the  public  in  the  way  ot  "  Hobson's  choice ;"  that  in  a  generation 
or  two  it  became  naturalised,  and  as  that  occurred,  the  abuses  and  adul- 
terations of  the  wine  continued  to  increase,  while,  after  1820,  they  have 
become  much  greater  than  before.  Since  the  peace  and  the  wine- 
market  of  the  world  is  once  more  opened  to  us,  the  wine  of  Oporto, 
which  at  one  time  was  a  seventy-fifth  per  cent,  of  all  consumed,  has 
fallen  in  consumption  to  less  than  the  fortieth.  Notwithstanding  its 
acclimation,  here  we  are  just  beginning  to  receive  again  a  variety  of 
wines  of  the  existence  of  which  a  few  years  ago  we  were  in  total  igno- 
rance, but  the  resistance  to  their  introduction  is  great  on  the  part  of 
those  attached  to  the  old  system. 

We  dwell  upon  this  part  of  the  subject  the  more,  because  it  conveys 
a  true  picture  of  the  evils  of  a  system  which  was  so  long  and  strenuously 
advocated,  to  the  protraction  of  an  opposite  commercial  policy,  and  of  a 
wiser  course  in  rabing  the  revenue.  Yet  this  very  system,  namely,  a 
free  interchange  of  commodities,  was  offered  by  France  to  England  at 
the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  under  the  auspices  of  De  Torcy,  the  French 
minister;  but  it  was  regarded  by  the  ruling  party  in  parliament  as  an 
insidious  attempt  to  injure  Great  Britain.  It  did,  in  fact,  carry  an 
appearance  of  equity  too  evidently  not  to  be  suspected  by  the  influential 
party  in  the  government  of  that  time,  with  its  strong  feeling  of  private 
interest,  and  its  crude  notions  of  the  true  principles  of  traffic. 

De  Torcy  desired  a  commercial  treaty  in  the  spirit  of  that  concluded 
with  Charles  II.,  the  tariffs  of  the  two  nations  to  be  the  same.  But 
rents  had  fallen  subsequently  to  that  treaty,  and  it  became  the  imputed 
cause,  as  already  stated,  in  alluding  to  the  prohibition  of  French  pro- 

*  The  adulterous  mixture  is  56lbs.  of  dried  elderberries,  60  of  treacle  or  coarse 
brown  sugar,  78  gallons  of  unfermented  grape-juice,  and  39  of  brandy.. 


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8  The  Rml  and  tie  Duty. 

dace — rents,  it  was  inferred  erroneously,  must  £ftU  ^sin  if  sueh  a  treaty 
wore  concluded.  The  noble  author  of  the  picture  of  a  Patriot  Kii^ 
treated  De  Torek's  offer  with  unwonted  disdain.  His  metaphysics  and 
philosophy  did  not  enable  him  to  foresee  the  inevitable  results  ef  the 
Methuen  treaty  concluded  ten  years  bef<»e.  It  cost  more  than  a  oentuvy 
\  and  a  quarter  of  time  to  force  the  natk>nal  tasto  by  the  argument  of  thc^ 
pocket,  and  to  rivet  a  [urejudiee  another  o^itury  may  not  obliterate.  The 
magio  lay  in  the  wovd  ^^wooL,"  the  manu^Mtiires  of  which  were  ta 
floiuriah  the  more  the  longer  they  were  steeped  in  the  Uood  of  the 
Portugal  grape,  fevered  with  brandy.  Yet,  in  1801,  a&d  in  the  time  of 
the  largest  import  of  the  wine  of  Portugal,  we  received  only  ftom 
seven  to  eight  million  pounds  of  fereign  wool,  our  own  not  sufficing^ 
under  the  &med  differential  duties,  and  io  1849  we  imported  nearly 
seventy-seven  millions. 

The  old  wine  company  was  formed  at  Oporto  under  the.  pretence  ei 
correcting  abuses  in  making  and  exporting  wines.  The  true  ground  of 
its  formation  was  to  create  a  monopoly  to  keep  up  prices  which  had 
before  been  low,  and  regulated  in  the  open  maricet.  The  first  natural 
result  of  the  Methuen  treaty,  made  when  the  Portuguese  were  ignorant 
of  the  shortest  way  of  preparing  wine  for  exportation  to  Ei^land,  waa  the 
neglect  of  all  improvement.  The  second,  the  best  part  of  twenty  yeara 
aliterwards,  was  that  the  Portuguese,  to  save  trouble,  deteriorated  the 
wine  by  mingling  at  first  a  small  quantity  of  l^randy,  about  three  gaUona 
to  the  pipe,  while  fermentation  was  proceeding.  Before  this  die  wine 
was  a  pure,  natural,  sound  growth,  wholesome  and  vinous.  The  poafi^ 
tiee  was  then  styled  '^  diabolical"  by  the  English  merdiants;  what 
epithet  it  now  deserves,  when  twenty-nve  gallons  of  Sfnrit  are  added  t^ 
the  pipe,  displacing  the  same  number  of  wine  gaUons,  in  place  of  that 
amount  in  wine,  it  is  not  difhcult  to  imagine* 

Oporto  was  in  future  to  be  the  only  plaee  of  export  for  the  district 
specified,  including  all  the  vineyards  in  which  the  Methuen  wine  waa 
grown.  The  place  of  exit  was  under  the  absolute  ccuktrol  of  the  coow 
pany.  They  made  specious  excuses  for  the  monopoly  in  professing  how 
they  would  correct  abuses.  There  was  to  be  no  bad  vine-dressing,  no 
elderberry  colouring,  and  a  just  classificaticMi  of  wines.  The  market  waa 
to  be  opened  at  a  fixed  day.  It  need  not  be  remarked  that  the  whole  waa 
an  odioua  monopoly  tosustain  prices  artificially,  which  the  excellent  elima^ 
of  the  Douro  and  tne  zeal  of  the  farmer  would  have  kept  down.  They  sue- 
eeeded  in  getting  up  the  prices,  and  in  maintaining  them,  there  is  every 
reason  to  think,  with  inferior  wine  to  what  had  beai  before  made.  Den 
Pedro  wisely  abolished  this  shameful  monopoly  in  1834.  Habits,  coa- 
nexions,  and  capital  interlocked  for  above  a  century,  it  required  time  to 
disunite  and  change  from  injurious  to  beneficial  action.  Oporto  was 
declared  a  free  port.  The  dd  system  was  still  powerful  when,  in  1842, 
the  con^pany  was  restored  with  an  influence  irresistible.  Attached  to 
it  was  the  right  of  exacting  most  oppressive  exp<Hrt  duties  firom  the 
English  merchants.  Those  duties,  and  a  permit  to  pass  wine  out  <^ 
Oporto,  raised  the  cost  of  wine^six  ox  seven  pounds  a  pipe ;  so  that  it  is 
now  worth  the  trouble  to  export  the  wine  via  America  to  England.  The 
export  duties  are  all  included  in  the  small  sum  of  rixpence  to  ex- 
porters anywhere  out  of  Europe,  where  Httle  wine  of  Oporto  will  he 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Bawl  and  the  Duty.  9 

swallowed  except  by  EnglishmeD,  to  whom  it  is  peculiar.  It  is  evident, 
therefore,  agaiust?  whom  the  impost  is  directed.  The  imposition,  too,  is 
in  violation  oi  the  express  words  of  a  treaty,  the  object  of  which  was  to 
secure  j&ee  and  unrestrained  permission  to  Englishmen  to  buy  and  seU, 
without  preference  or  favour  shared  by  others,  throughout  the  realm  of 
Portugal.  The  shufflings^  eraaioDS)  and  tntkeaj  difl[^ayed  in  the  evi- 
dence, however  disgusting,  zender  its  perusal  usem  to  show  how  far  tke 
piaUie  may  be  abused  by  exchnive  trading  privileges.  The  adulteratiooi 
oi  the  firk  company  soma  to  have  iacrcmed  notoriously  after  1820^ 
whence  the  remark  of  maoj  elderly  persons  who  are  fond  of  povt  is  well 
foanded,  that  they  are  obKged  to  leave  it  off,  ^  for  it  is  not  like  what 
&ey  were  aecnstomed  to  take  formerly." 

With  a  coatiiiual  increase  of  produce,  ahhough  some  estates  aie 
not  half  eultiTated,  the  monopoly  keeps  prices  higher  dow^  when  only 
three  millioiis^  of  gallons  and  a  httle  more  are  consumed,  in  En^aiM^ 
than  in  the  begiBOimg  of  the  century,  when  we  consumed  five  or  wol 
mtllionft.  B  ia  the  only  mercantile  commodity  in  which  increase  of 
quantity  is  powerless  to  lessen  price.  Let  us  see  how  Portuguese  inge* 
Bidty  maaages.  In  1861,  it  appeared  that  ninety-five  thousand  pipes 
had  been  grown.  Of  this  the  company  declared  forty-one  thoosand  odd 
hundreds  to  be  of  prime  quality.  Thu  was  too  much  to  maintaiQ  prices,  and 
the  oooipany  ordered  Uiat  no  more  than  twenty  thousand  should  be 
exported  in  Emrope!  The  difiference  of  the  forty-one  thousand  first- 
dass  p%w8  they  added  to  another  class  of  eighteen  thousand  out  dE  the 
quantity  they  had  rated  second,  thus  falsely  deiu)minatmg  second  more  than 
one-half  of  the  first  quality,  knowing  that  not  more  than  five  Utousand 
could  be  disposed  of.  This  rortuguese  trick  is  not  repeated  evcfy  year  in 
this  p(re<nse  mode^  because  sometimes  the  second  class  is  transferred  to  tiM 
first,  if  it  be  necessary  to  increase  the  quantity  of  what  they  call  firsts  or 
for  vjsj  otb^  cause;  the  infiirion  of  bnnidy  and  colouring  matter  equalis- 
ing differences  in  taste.  Nor  was  this  all,  because  the  mediant  who 
wanted  to  export  the  best  wine  was  only  allowed  to  export  that  whi<^  the 
company  had  adulterated,  unless  he  had  recourse  to  stratagem.  He 
therefin^  pun^iased  a  permit  as  for  the  company's  wine  to  go  out,  giving 
three  pounds  steriing  for  the  document,  and  substituting  the  wine 
he  wished  to  send  in  place  of  that  which  it  was  only  legd^  undn  the 
company's  auspices,  to  send  away.  Thus  eminent  merchants  here 
managed  to  get  a  little  good  wine  out  of  the  country  by  smugglings  the 
company  itsd^f  winking  at  the  breach  of  its  own  reguTationB,  in  order  to 
extort  money  from  the  EInglish  merchant  exdtsiv^y. 

Such  are  some  of  the  effects  of  the  difierential  duty  in  favour  of  Por- 
tagtl  whidi  are  still  in  full  action.  The  Methoen  treaty  drove  away  the 
wines  imd  the  consequent  exchanges  of  goods  with  other  countries.  Port 
and  shen^^  have  been  the  staple,  with  a  little  claret  and  Champagne  to 
oUige  a  raahionable  customer.  Some  oommercial  houses  affoct  to  ac- 
knowledge no  other  ^[)ecies  of  wine  than  p(»rt  and  sherry,  and  many 
have  heiud,  but. never  really  known,  any  other  quaUties. 


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(     10    ) 


A  TOMB  IN  A  FOREIGN  LAND. 

BY    THE   AUTHOB  OF  "THE  UNHOLY  'WISH." 

X  Had  they  been  on  the  parched,  arid  shores  of  India,  with  all  the  force 

of  its  burning  sun  concentrated  on  their  heads,  the  heat  could  scarcely 
have  been  more  intense.  There  was  no  place  to  turn  to  for  shade  ;  no 
green  spot  on  which  the  aching  eye  could  rest:  the  glare  was  unbroken 
and  terrible,  as  it  always  is  there  in  the  brilliant  days  of  summer.  The 
town  itself,  with  its  white  houses,  was  anything  but  grateful  to  the  sight, 
and  though  the  sky  was  dark  blue,  to  that  the  eye  could  not  raise  itself 
through  the  universal  glare.  The  sands  burnt  with  heat ;  the  rays  of 
the  sun  recoiled  from  ^e  white  hathing-machines ;  the  sea  glittered  to 
the  eye  only  in  an  inferior  degree  to  the  white  sails  of  the  vessels  passing 
up  the  Channel ;  and  on  the  water  in  the  harbour  the  eye  dared  not  and 
could  not  rest,  for  it  was  like  gazing  on  molten  gold,  destroying  the  sight 
it  dazzled. 

On  the  terrace  at  the  bathing-rooms,  or,  as  it  is  there  styled,  the 
Etablissement  des  Bains,  sat  a  bevy  of  girls  of  various  lands — for  crowds 
of  many  nations  flock  in  summer  to  &at  gay  French  watering-place. 
They  were  idly  gossiping  away  the  mid-day  heat,  and  longing  for  the 
cool  hours  of  night,  and  for  the  dancing  they  would  bring — that  they 
might  make  themselves  hot  again.  Near  to  one  of  the  doors  opening  to 
the  large  room  sat  an  English  girl.  Not  tall,  but  stately  as  the  young 
American  at  her  side;  dreamy  and  imaginative  as  the  Italian  before 
her;  calm  and  self-possessed  as  the  West  Indian,  who  stood  making 
marks  with  her  parasol  upon  the  gravel  beneath ;  graceful  and  easy  as 
were  the  French,  and  beautiful  as  befitted  her  birthplace,  was  this 
English  maiden.  Listless  enough  the  group  all  seemed,  save  the  French, 
who,  as  usual,  were  sitting,  clustered  in  a  heap,  chattering  and  gesticu- 
lating away.  She  held  a  newspaper,  this  English  girl,  and  glanced  at 
its  pages  from  time  to  time. 

"  Have  you  anything  interesting  there?"  inquired  one  of  the  French. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply  of  Miss  Chard,  raising  her  eyes  from  the  journal, 
and  offering  it  to  the  fair  questioner. 

"  Ah  bah  I  merci  to  you,  mademoiselle,  all  the  same,  but  I  never 
touch  a  newspaper,"  answered  the  coquettish  Gaul. 

"  The  Dibats  /"  remarked  the  haughty  West  Indian,  with  a  badly- 
concealed  sneer.  ^'  You  are  fond  of  political  discussions  possibly,  Miss 
Chard ;  the  English  mostly  are." 

"  England's  men,"  broke  in  the  American  lady,  **  but  not  its  females, 
I  thiDk.  Their  minds  are  not  formed  for  such,  their  talents  are  not  equal 
to  it" 

A  quiet,  proud  smile  sat  on  the  beautiful  lip  of  the  English  girl, 
though  politics  were  as  a  sealed  book  to  her ;  and  the  American's  sen- 
teuce  was  cut  short  by  an  exclamation  from  one  of  the  French. 

"  Ma  foi !  but  the  English  have  talents !  talents  and  pride.  Though 
in  all  the  social  conditions  of  life — a  ball-room,  for  instance,  or  a  morn- 
ing visit — ^you  may  just  as  well  see  so  many  dancing  bears.'* 

As  she  spoke,  a  gentleman  stepped  out  upon  the  terrace  from  the 


> 


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A  Tomb  in  a  Fare^n  Land.  11 

rooms,  and  the  prevailing  listlessness  was  gone.  A  tall,  slender  man,  of 
symmetrical  proportions ;  with  one  of  those  beautiful  (aces  often  sung  of 
but  seldom  seen;  featuril  exquisitely  chiselled,  and  pale  almost  to  a  fault. 
It  was  impossible,  whe6  looking  on  his  courtly  mien  and  digptiified  bear- 
ing, to  mistake  him  for  anything  but  an  English  gentl^an ;  and  a 
consciousness  of  his  own  attractions  might  be  read  in  his  sleepy  eye, 
blended  with  much  vanity.  Glances  of  admiration  stole  towards  him, 
but  he  seated  himself  by  the  side  of  the  young  English  lady  :  and  her 
eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  whilst  the  crimson  flush  of  love  rose 
to  her  features. 

"  I  have  been  to  your  house,  Lucy,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper :  "I 
thought  the  heat  would  have  kept  you  at  home.  Pardon,  mademoiselle,'' 
he  continued,  picking  up  the  handkerchief  which  one  of  the  French  girls 
dropped  in  passing  him. 

The  curtseying,  grinning  Gaul,  bold  from  her  infancy,  with  more 
apologies  and  bows  than  an  Englishwoman  would  make  in  a  month, 
received,  as  she  expected,  the  property  which  the  handsome  young 
Englishman  tendered  her,  and  the  conversation  became  general. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  exclaimed  the  West  Indian,  directing  their  attention 
to  a  fresh  comer,  who  now  appeared  upon  the  scene — a  young  lady 
seemingly  not  more  than  eighteen  or  nineteen. 

*'  How  very  beautiful !"  exclsumed  Mr.  Ravensburg. 

"  Handsome  to  a  degree !"  murmured  Lucy  Chard. 

"  She  is  too  tall :  and  so  very  pale !"  dissented  one  of  the  envious 
French  girls. 

"  But  look  at  her  eyes  and  features  !"  cried  the  Italian.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  such,  save  in  sculpture?  and  then  you  cannot  have  the 
colouring." 

"  It  is  the  Baroness  de  Laca,"  exclaimed  the  American.  "  She  is  a 
widow." 

"  A  widow  ?  Nonsense !"  said  Mr.  Ravensburg.  "  She  is  a  mere 
girl." 

"  A  widow  for  all  that,"  continued  the  young  American,  decisively. 
"  They  marry  in  Spmn  when  they  are  little  better  than  infants ;  though 
she  was  chiefly  reared  in  England,  her  parents  having  adopted  your 
country  for  their  own.  They  are  with  her  here.  We  were  introduced 
to  them  last  night.     She  is  very  rich,  and,  it  is  said,  very  wilful." 

"  And  very  fascinating,"  continued  Mr.  Ravensburg,  eagerly  watching 
the  graceful  figure  of  the  Spaniard  as  it  retired  from  view. 

"  Smitten !"  laughed  the  West  Indian,  with  a  sneer  of  mockery  on 
her  lip. 

The  gentleman  laughed  in  return — a  laugh  quite  as  shallow  as 
her  own. 

*'  Not  smitten  so  easily  as  you  imagine,  fair  lady,"  he  rejoined.  "  Old 
birds  are  not  caught  with  chafP,  though  they  may  admire  it  at  a  distance." 

At  this  moment  Lucy  Chard  raised  her  eyes,  and,  standing  opposite  to 
her  on  the  lower  terrace,  appeared  a  singular-looking  man.  His  dress 
might  have  befitted  some  remote  Indian  prince,  or — a  member  of  that 
fraternity,  the  "  Swell-Mob."  Chains,  rings,  watchguards,  seals,  studs, 
and  diamond  pins  shone  conspicuously  all  over  him.  His  looks  were  of 
that  style  that  is  not  unfrequently  mistaken,  by  a  perverted  taste,  for 
beauty.    What  a  complexion  was  his !  the  lily  blending  with  the  carna* 

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12  A  Tomb  in  a  ForeiffH  Lemd. 

tion-rose ;  teedi  even,  and  white  as  ivory — so  wiiite  and  even,  that  ib 
ONrtaia  iloubt  might  arise  in  the  mind  of  a  bystander;  his  coarsely 
handsome  laatures  (the  nose  alone  an  exoeptien  to  the  adjective,  ana 
that  turned  up  to  the  skies)  were  ornamented  by  a  profusioa  of  jet-hiaok 
ringlets,  whiskers,  and  a  fierce  moustache ;  all  these  formed  part  of  hia 
attractions.  His  figure  was  about  the  middle  height,  porUy  and  upright, 
and  his  age  uncertain.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  small  hunting-whip,  its 
handle  set  in  g^ld,  or  some  metal  that  looked  like  it,  tapping  the  tip  of 
his  highly-varnished  boot,  and  fixing  Ins  bold,  round,  rolling  eyes,  with 
a  stare  of  admiration,  on  Lucy  Chard.  She  rose  from  her  fieat»  and 
spoke  to  her  companion. 

'^  Frandis,  I  think  mamma  must  be  waiting  for  me." 

^  Do  you  know  that  man,  Lucy  ?"  he  inquired. 

^'  Not  at  all,"  she  replied,  a  supercilious  gesture  of  the  eyelids  darting 
involuntarily  towards  the  stranger.  Mr.  Raveusburg  eyed  him  atten- 
tively ;  but  Lucy  was  waiting,  sokd.  he  rose  and  drew  her  hand  within  bis 
arm,  gracefully  doffing  his  hat  to  the  party  around  them. 

*'  How  vain  the  British  are  f  exclaimed  the  American  girl,  grazing 
after  Mr.  Ravenshurg's  receding  form,  ^'  and  he  exemplifies  me  nationsd 
Ming.'* 

''  She  has  the  greater  vanity,  that  Miss  Chard,''  rejoined  the  West 
Indian,  "  to  think  she  ean  secure  the  whde  attention  of  such  a  man. 
He  constant  to  one,  indeed !" 

<'  That  Spanish  girl  can  hear  all  we  are  saying.  What  brings  her 
so  near  ?" 

"  She  drew  up  when  they  left ;  as  if  she  would  watch  the  departure  of 
Mr.  Ravensburg." 

The  carriage  of  Mrs.  Chard  waited  round  at  the  outer  entrance,  and 
that  lady,  having  scanned  all  the  newspapers  she  cared  to  see,  passed 
towards  it,  followed  by  Lucy  and  Mr.  Ravensburg ;  when  there,  almost 
dose  to  them,  stood  the  bedizened  stranger.  He  must  have  made  his 
way  round  the  building :  he  certainly  had  not  gone  through  the  rooms. 

"  Do  you  see  that  fellow  ?*'  inquired  Ravensburg,  directing  Mrs. 
Chard's  attention  to  the  imposing-looking  man  in  question,  as  he  {daoed 
Lucy  in  the  carriage  by  hex  side. 

*'  Goodness  me  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chard,  who  would  never  have  be- 
come a  read^  o£  cha^racter  had  she  studied  Lavater  for  a  lifetime, 
^'  what  a  magnificent  man !    He  must  be  somebody  of  oonsequenee." 

^'  He  puzzles  me,"  added  Ravensburg,  checking  the  smile  that  rose  to 
his  lips.  <<  His  face  seems  familiar  to  me,  yet  I  cannot  call  to  mind  where 
or  when  I  saw  it." 

The  chafed  horses,  driven  into  restiveness  by  the  heat  and  the  insects, 
would  wait  no  longer,  but  sprang  away,  fretting  and  foaming  ;  and  when 
Lucy  looked  from  ihe  carriage  after  Francis  Ravensburg,  the  unhallowed 
gaze  of  the  stranger  was  again  riveted  upoa  her. 

The  extreme  heat  had  passed  away  with  the  daylight.  The  bathing- 
rooms  were  lighted  up  to  receive  the  crowds  pouring  into  them,  and  the 
strains  of  the  music  were  already  heard.  One  apartment,  a  small,  squaue 
room,  had  but  few  people  in  it,  peihi^s  a  dozen.  It  was  the  room  ap^ 
propriated  to  gambling.  Under  the  plea  of  innocent  amusement,  ^'  merely 
a  hand  at  cards  to  while  away  an  evening  hour,"  play,  to  an  excess,  was 
permitted  aad  carried  on,  in  the  yeax,  and  at  the  place,  <f  which  tlua 

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A  !E9mb  in  a  Foreign  Land.  IS 

story  treats.  Imoieiise  Bums  were  lost  and  won  nighdy,  and  wovcfai 
ladies  of  g<ood  family  were  so  in^fttoated,  so  fsr  ^^rgot  tlie  retiring  man* 
ners  befitting  an  English  gentlewoman,  as  to  take  part  in  ilie  divemon. 

At  one  of  the  saiiJl  tdiles  sat  Mrs.  Chard.  Her  opponent  was  Cok>nd 
Dioxsy,  and  they  were  playing  ecarte.  Several  bettors  stood  around. 
Cc^onel  Darey  was  lonng,  as  he  had  been  ever  since  he  sat  down ;  but 
Mrs.  Chaid  was  lliis  night  in  Inck,  The  lady  had  mariced  four ;  the 
colonel,  none. 

**  I  propose,"  said  the  latter,  taking  up  a  fresh  hand. 

^  Play,"  replied  Mrs.  Chard.     And  he  ^yed  the  knave  of  dtamonds. 

^^  King  and  game !"  said  the  lady,  throwing  down  the  king  <^  trumps. 
The  colonel  rose  and  moved  away,  observing  that  the  eards  were  against 
him. 

"  Will  you  permit  me  the  honour  of  playing  a  game  with  you,  ma- 
dam ?"  inquired  a  very  imposdng  voice,  all  mooth  and  consequence,  at 
Mrs.  Chard's  elbow.  And,  locking  up,  she  h^ield  i^  ^  mi^^nifioMit^ 
stranger,  who  had  stood  near  her  doriage  in  the  morning. 

^<  My  name  is  Carew,  madam,"  began  the  stranger,  seathig  himself  in 
ihe  vacated  xhsas.  ^  My  friend,  Mi^i^ — Mrs.  Chard  did  not  catch 
the  name — ^  was  to  have  introduced  me  to  you  to-night,  but  he  is  un- 
avoidably absent.     Captain  Carew." 

^  Major  foho  f*  demanded  Mrs.  Chard,  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the 
diowy  stranger's  unceremonious  mamier. 

**  Terrible  weather,  is  it  not  ?"  remarked  Captain  Carew,  i^perently 
not  hearing  Mrs.  Chard's  question.  "  I  left  London  on  my  way  to  Italy, 
to  join  my  finend.  Lord  Seymour,  but  this  exaggerated  heat  has  caused  a 
ludt  in  my  jomney.  I  out  to  you,  madam,"  he  concluded,  laying  down 
five  napoleons. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Chard,  "  those  stakes  are  higher  than  I  play  for." 

^'  Fear  not,  madam :  my  life  on  it,  you  win.  I  am  but  an  indifferest 
player,  an  almost  invariable  loser;" 

Mrs.  Chard  played,  and  did  win.  Other  games  followed  vrith  the 
same  result ;  i^  the  stranger  laid  down  ten  napoleons. 

"  Money  seems  of  little  value  to  you,"  observed  one  of  the  admiring 
bystanders. 

'^  I  am  a  rich  man,  and  can  afford  such  trifles  as  these  losses— when  I 
do  play,  winch  is  not  often — without  a  ruffled  temper,*'  was  the  complai- 
sant answer. 

Outside,  in  tl^  little  garden  attached  to  the  lower  terrace,  hidden  from 
the  moonbeams  by  the  trees  and  shrubs,  stood  Francos  Ravensbmg.  The 
sweet  face  of  his  betrothed — betrothed  Icmg  ago  in  heart,  if  not  in  words 
— rested  close  to  his.  He  loved  her  but  with -(he  ordinary  love  of  man — an 
episode  in  the  drama  ctf  man's  life.  It  was  ehared  with  the  worid's 
pleasures;  the  pursuits  of  youth ;  with  admiration  for  others  of  her 
sex  and  station.  Yet  he  made  the  rapture  and  Ekien  of  her  existence; 
and  she  stood  there  with  him  in  the  shade,  her  heart  beating  with  its 
excess  of  happiness.  The  scene  itself  was  lovely.  Upon  the  terrace,  but 
unseeing  them,  were  many  forms  of  youth  and  beauty,  who  had  escaped 
from  the  heat  vrithin;  perhaps  lovers,  as  they  w^re.  Innumerable 
fishing-boats  were  putting  out  to  sea;  tii^  pier  was  crowded  with  evemng 
promenaders;  the  eli£Gs  around,  contrasting  their  %ht  and  diade,  lodi^ 

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14  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land. 

majestic  enoqgh  at  that  hour ;  the  bright  moonbeams  were  playing  on 
the  waves  which  the  tide  was  sending  rapidly  up,  and  the  music  from  the 
ball-room  swelled  harmoniously  on  the  distance.  And  there  she  re- 
miuned:  his  arm  thrown  round  her,  and  her  cheek  resting  passively  on 
his  shoulder,  listening  to  the  sweet  vows  he  was  ever  ready  to  whisper. 

Just  then,  leaning  over  the  terrace  at  a  little  distance,  appeared  the 
face  of  the  Spanish  lady,  her  features  clearly  discernible  in  the  bright 
moonlight. 

''  Beautiful!  beautiful!''  murmured  Francis  Ravensburg,  as  he  gazed 
upon  her,  unconscious,  probably,  that  he  spoke  aloud  :  and  Lucy  drew 
away  from  her  lover. 

"  Lucy,  my  dear,**  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chard,  coming  up  as  they  re- 
appeared in  the  dancing-room,  *'  allow  me  to  introduce  Captain  Carew. 
He  desires  to  dance  a  quadrille  with  you.'' 

With  an  appealing  glance,  Lucy  clung  to  the  arm  of  Francis  Ravens- 
burg: but  who  could  interfere  with  a  mother's  introduction?  And  the 
pro^sely-jewelled  man  bowed,  with  evident  admiration  and  some  grace, 
over  the  hand  of  his  lovely  partner. 

'^  Your  friend  appears  to  be  interested  in  his  companion,"  observed 
the  captain,  as  he  crossed  over  to  Lucy,  after  figuring  away  in  one  of 
the  quadrilles. 

Lucy  looked  round,  and,  but  a  few  paces  from  her,  stood  her  lover, 
conversing  animatedly  with  the  Spanish  girl.  A  rush  of  pain  passed 
through  her  heart,  but  she  answered  her  partner  with  a  cold,  haughty 
gesture. 

Mrs.  Chard  left  the  rooms  early,  for  their  heat  was  intolerable,  and 
Lucy  looked  for  Francb  Ravensburg  to  accompany  them  as  usual  to  the 
carnage.  But  he  did  not  notice  weir  departure ;  he  was  amongst  the 
dancers,  his  arm  encircling  the  waist  of  the  young  baroness,  and  his  eyes 
bent  on  her  with  admiration,  as  he  whirled  her  round  the  room  to  the 
strains  of  the  most  exquisite  waltz  ever  composed  by  Strauss. 

^' What  an  acquisition!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chard,  as  she  settled  herself 
in  her  carriage,  and  they  drove  away.  "  Do  you  like  him,  Lucy — Cap- 
tain Carew?" 

*'  Not  at  aU,"  said  Lucy,  rousing  herself ;  ^'  he  is  extremely  dis- 
agreeable." 

"  What  ?"  cried  the  astonished  Mrs.  Chard.  "  He  is  the  most  de- 
lightful man  /ever  saw — full  of  general  information.  But  you  are  so 
tdcen  up  with  that  young  Ravensburg,  Lucy,  you  have  eyes  and  ears  for 
no  one  else.     He  hates  cards,  too !" 

^'  Your  new  acquidntance,  mamma  ?" 

'^  I  mean  Frank  Ravensburg.  He  hate  them  indeed !  he  lost  his 
money  to-night  like  a  prince — ^as  I  do  believe  he  is  one  in  disguise.  I 
never  won  so  much  in  my  life,  Lucy,  at  one  sitting.  I  hope  and  trust  he 
will  make  some  stay  in  the  town." 

n. 

A  MONTH  or  two  passed  away,  and  little  alteration  had  taken  place  in 
the  position  of  the  parties  mentioned  above.  The  youthful  Baroness  of 
Laca  was  turning  the  heads  of  half  the  men,  and  exciting  the  envy  and 
jealousy  of  all  the  women.     But,  beyond  all  doubt,  her  favoured  cavalier 


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.  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land.  16 

was  Frank  Ravensbarg.'  It  was  imposnble  he  could  be  otherwise  than 
gratified  at  the  preference  he  excited,  even  if  love  for  her  found  no 
admission  to  his  vain  heart  He  was  still  attentive  to  Lucy  Chard,  still 
enacted  the  part  of  her  lover;  but  hour  after  hour  was  spent  by  the  side 
of  Isabel  de  Laca;  he  would  often  leave  Lucy*s  side  for  hers,  and  his 
sweetest  words  were  breathed  to  her.  The  truth  was,  he  was  fascinated 
with  her— ^which  is  a  different  thing  from  love :  though,  in  the  height  oz 
tbe  delusion,  it  may  appear  wondrouslv  like  it.  But  how  was  Lucy, 
looking  on  with  a  jaundiced  eye,  to  distinguish  the  difference  ?  And 
there  were  times  when  she  was  well-nigh  stung  into  madness. 

The  jewelled  stranger,  too,  had  risen  into  no  little  favour  and  import- 
ance with  the  migpratory  inhabitants  of  the  gay  French  watering-place. 
He  had  served  in  the  Indian  army,  it  was  understood,  but  had  for  years 
retired  from  it,  to  enjoy  an  ample  fortune,  descended  to  him  from  a 
relative.  And  he  was  on  the  most  intimate  terms  (when  he  lived  there) 
with  all  the  dons  of  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  East.  These  oft-talked-of 
pieces  of  information,  coupled  with  the  imposing  richness  of  the  gallant 
captain's  attire,  the  costly  ornaments  which  adorned  his  pseudo-handsome 
person — and  anybody  implying  a  doubt  of  their  being  genuine  would 
nave  been  consigned  to  Coventry  on  the  spot— a  dashing,  off*-hand, 
pushing  manner,  which  in  a  great  man  is  cried  up  as  proper  assumption, 
and  in  an  inferior  one  is  resented  as  insolence,  were  not  without  their 
effects  on  the  worshipping  minds  of  the  bath-taking  public,  and  he 
became  their  passing  idoL  Men  and  women  alike  courted  him ; '  and 
even  Frank  Ravensburg,  with  all  his  attractions,  was  neglected,  by  the 
ladies,  for  the  glaring  stranger.  But  he  cared  not  for  their  admiration.: 
Lucy  Chard  alone  occupied  his  thoughts,  and  his  attentions  were  con- 
tinually lavished  upon  her,  in  spite  of  her  shrinking  rejection  of  them. 
His  leisure  time  was  devoted  to  gambling ;  he  seemed  to  have  grown 
wonderfully  fond  of  it,  and  fortune  invariably  favoured  him,  as  if  in 
defiance  of  his  former  depreciating  assertion  to  Mrs.  Chard.  Had  he  not 
been  so  immensely  above  such  a  suspicion,  people  might  have  begun  to 
doubt  whether  his  playing  was  quite  on  the  square.  Heavy  sums  had 
been  lost  to  him  in  more  quarters  than  one,  and  it  was  whispered  that 
Mrs.  Chard  was  his  debtor  to  a  frightful  amount. 

Equipages  were  passing  to  and  fro  on  the  crowded  port,  amongst  them 
Mrs.  Chard's :  and  during  a  momentary  stoppage,  caused  by  a  blockade 
of  fish-carts,  a  horseman,  superbly  mounted,  reined  in  by  its  side,  and 
placed  his  delicately-gloved  hand  on  its  panels.  It  was  Francis  Ra- 
vensburg. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  the  rooms  to-night,  Lucy  ?"  he  whispered. 
"  Mamma  will.  But — Francb" — she  seemed  to  grow  strangely  agitated 
— "  I  have  things  to  say  to  you,  and  would  remain  at  home  if  you  can 
come  in.     Will  you  sacrifice  this  one  evening  to  me  ?" 

"  Sacrifice !  It  is  a  strange  term,  Lucy,  when  applied  to  us.  I  will 
be  with  you  early  in  the  evening." 

She  sighed  deeply.  Unfortunately,  another  person  had  heard  the  last 
sentence,  even  Captain  Carew,  who  stood,  unseen,  close  to  the  elbow  of 
the  young  horseman. 

When  the  stoppage  on  the  road  was  removed,  the  carriage  rolled  on, 
and  Frank  Ravensburg  continued  by  its  side ;  but,  in  the  crowded  state 
Sept, — VOL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcni.  c 

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16  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land. 

of  the  port,  to  retain  this  post  became  a  work  of  difficulty ;  and,  with  a 
word  of  adieu  to  Lucy,  he  drew  away.  On  the  return  of  the  carriage 
soon  afterwards,  Mr.  Havensburg  had  resigned  his  steed  to  his  groom, 
and  was  pacing  the  port,  side  by  side,  with  Isabel  de  Laca. 

^*  This  night  shall  end  it,'*  murmured  LuCy,  closing  her  acluDg  eyes 
when  the  unwelcome  vision  had  passed.  ^'An  explanation  shall  take 
place  between  us,  and  I  will  return  his  love^gifto  to  hini,  or — retain  ihem 
for  ever." 

In  the  evening,  accordins^  to  his  promise  to  Lu^,  Francis  Ravoisburg 
was  on  his  way  to  the  chateau  occupied  by  JMbs.  Chard,  which  was 
situated  about  half  a  mile  from  the  town,  when  he  encountered  Ci^ptain 
Carew :  the  captain  having  been  a  dinner*  g^est  at  the  diateau* 

'<  A  day  too  late  for  the  £Eur,  Mr.  Ravensburg,  if  you  are  bound  fiv 
Mrs.  Chard's,"  was  his  accosting  salutation.  '''Hiey  have  left  the  houee 
for  the  rooms.  There  goes  the  earrii^^'*  he  added,  pomtmg  to  the 
upper  road. 

<<  Who  have  left  it?*'  demanded  Frank,  haughtily. 

'^  Mrs.  Chard  and  Lucy,  with  Madame  de  Larme.  I^e  dined  with  us." 

"  Misi  ChardT  uttered  Frank,  interrogatively,  looking  as  if  he  would 
willingly  have  cut  the  gallant  captain  in  two. 

<^  Didn't  I  say  so  ?"  retorted  the  captain.  '^  She  seemed  inclined  to 
remain  at  home — ^blooming  for  a  whole  evening  alone,  like  the  Last  Rose 
of  Summer — ^but  I  persuaded  her  out  of  the  romantic  idea." 

'^  Coxcomb  I*'  muttered  Frank  between  his  closed  teeth.  ^'  But  ii  is  a 
shame  of  Lucy  to  be  so  changeable." 

Retracing  his  steps,  he  called  in  at  his  apartments,  to  make  some 
alteration  in  his  dress  for  the  rooms,  whither  he  now  determined  to  pro- 
ceed. And  there  he  found  a  letter  waiting  for  him,  summoning  him  to 
England  on  urgent  business.  His  first  care  was  to  ascertain  at  what 
hour  the  first  steamer  for  England  quitted  the  port  He  found  one 
would  leave  for  London  at  three  in  the  morning,  and  secured  a  berth  in 
it.  Some  few  other  preparations  w^«  necessary,  and  by  the  time  they 
were  completed,  it  was  hard  upon  ten  o'clock.  He  then  took  his  way  to 
the  rooms,  where  he  expected  to  find  Lucy. 

''  By  the  way,"  he  soliloquised,  as  he  walked  on  with  a  quick  step, 
^^  did  not  Isabel  say  something  on  the  port  to-day  about  their  leaving  to- 
morrow for  England  ?  It  was  just  as  that  bustle  occurred  when  little 
Judd  was  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  I  lost  her  af^rwards.  I  do  hope  it 
is  so :  she  is  the  sweetest  girl  (I  can  never  think  of  her  as  a  married 
woman)  I  know — ^next  to  Lucy.  By  Jove !  to  have  her  as  compagwm 
de  voyage  would  reconcile  one  to  all  its  customary  inconveniences." 

With  the  last  consoling  reflection  he  reached  the  rooms,  and  giving  his 
hat  to  an  attendant,  entered  the  heated  dancing-apartment.  But  his  eyes 
roved  round  it  in  vain  in  search  of  Lucy,  and  he  made  his  way  to  the 
card-room. 

"  Where  is  Lucy  ?"  he  inquired  of  Mrs.  Chard,  ^Ao  was  of  course 
amongst  the  players ;  her  anxious  countenance  betokening  that  her  luck 
was  not  great. 

"  Do  procure  me  an  ice,  Mr.  Ravensburg,"  was  her  answer ;  "  I  am 
dying  for  one.  Those  servtmts  never  come  into  this  room,  where  they 
are  most  wanted." 

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A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land,  17 

'^  Bat  where  can  I  find  Lucy  ?'* 

'^  The  king  again!"  exdaimed  the  agitated  woman.  ^'  Captain  Carew, 
what  luck  you  hare !     The  ice,  pray,  Mi".  Ravensburg," 

"  And  Lucy?"  repeated  Frank,  bringing  her  the  ice  with  all  speed. 

^'  Lucy?  Oh,  she  would  not  pome  to-night;  she  remained  at  home. 
Some  whim,  I  suppose.     You  deal,  captain." 

'^  You  told  me  Miss  Chard  was  on  her  way  hither,"  cried  Ravensburg, 
darting  a  ferocious  look  at  the  sparkling  player. 

'<  My  good  fellow,  I  thought  she  was.  But  who  is  to  be  answerable 
for  a  woman's  mind?  It  shifts  as  often  as  a  weathercock.  Game,  Mrs. 
Chard." 

'^  I  would  give  a  trifle  if  I  could  recoUect  where  it  was  I  saw  that 
walking  jeweller,"  ejaculated  Frank.  ^*  I  know  it  was  at  nothing  credit- 
able. The  remembrance  haunts  me  like  a  nightmare,  and  yet  I  can 
make  of  it  notiiing  tangible.  I  must  write  to  Lucy  £rom  London  and 
explain,"  thought  ne ;  *^  it  is  too  late  to  go  there  now." 

^^  Isabel  I"  he  exclaimed,  seeking  out  the  young  baroness,  ^^  did  yoa 
tell  me,  or  not,  that  you  thought  cf  going  to  £ngland  ?" 

"  To-morrow,  by  the  Dover  boat." 

"  And  I  start  to-night  at  three." 

"  Nay,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  joking." 

"  I  never  jest  with  you,  Isabel.     I  am  called  to  London  on  business." 

^'  Then  d^y  your  voyage  until  to-morrow.  It  would  be  so  delight- 
ful for  us  to  travel  together." 

The  very  words  he  had  previously  uttered  to  himself. 

'^  Pi^a  and  mamma  can  take  care  of  each  other,  and  you  can  take  care 
of  me,"  she  laughed.     "  DiMi't  say  No^  Mr.  Ravensburg." 

'^  It  will  make  but  little  difference,  oidy  a  few  hours,  in  the  time  of 
iny  arrival  in  town,''  he  soliloquised,  "  and  I  shall  escape  that  horrid,  long 
passage  as  welL  I  will  wait— and  in  that  case  I  can  see  Lucy  to- 
morrow." 

And  commnnieating  his  decision  to  Madame  de  Laca,  just  as  the  music 
struck  up  a  waltz,  he  placed  his  arm  on  her  delicate  waist,  round  which 
glittered  a  zone  of  jewels,  and  whirled  her  away  imtil  her  head  was 
dizzy. 

And  there  stood  Lucy  Chard  on  the  balcony  of  her  mother's  chateau  ^^ 
there  had  she  stood  ever  since  seven  o'clock,  watching  the  road  that  led 
from  the  town,  with  a  flushed  cheek,  and  a  heart  sick  with  expectation. 
Every  firesh  footstep,  sounding  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  was  listened 
to ;  but  long  before  its  owner  came  in  iHght,  the  strangely-fine  ear  of 
love  had  told  her  it  was  not  that  of  Francis  Ravensburg.  The  stars 
came  out,  shining  brilliantly.  Lucy  looked  up  at  the  constellations :  she 
knew  their  places,  where  they  were,  or  would  be  later  in  the  year.  The 
l^p'eat  bear,  creeping  on  ;  the  giant  Orion,  with  its  rapid  strides  ;  the  lady 
in  her  chair ;  tae  united  Pleiades,  and  the  many  others ;  some  were 
there,  aonie  not :  but  she  turned  to  look,  in  vain,  for  Sinus,  beautiful 
amongst  the  stars.  The  sound  of  the  church  clocks,  telling  nine,  was 
borne  towards  her  on  the  breeze.  ^^  This  is  the  impatience  of  a  lover  V* 
A»  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of  anguish.  She  took  a  costly  trinket  from 
her  bosom,  which  he  had  placed  there  but  three  little  months  before,  re- 
ci^lmg  his  words  as  he  did  sa    And  she  began  reasoning  with  herself 

c2 


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18  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Lan4* 

that  he  could  not  be  false  to  her— oh  never,  never  !  And  so  the  moments 
dragged  by  until  the  bells  told  ten,  and  then  she  laid  her  aching  forehead 
upon  the  cold  iron  of  tiie  balcony.  Had  she  ever  heard  the  old  Chinese 
proverb  ? 

*'  To  expect  one,  who  does  not  come  t  to  lie  in  bed,  and  not  to  sleep :  to 
serve,  and  not  to  be  advanced,  are  three  things  enough  to  kill  a  man." 

7*0  expect  one  who  does  not  come:  and  he  more  to  her  than  earth; 
to  dread  that  even  then,  whilst  she  was  watching  in  vain  mockery,  he 
was  with  her  rival :  shedding  upon  her  the  heaven  of  his  presence ;  whis- 
pering passionate  vows  that  once  were  hers,  in  her  ear ;  pressing  his 
coveted  kisses  on  her  lips !  Reader,  if  you  have  never  experienced  this, 
do  iiot  attempt  to  guess  at  the  anguish  of  Lucy  Chard. 

Her  mother's  voice  aroused  her  long  after,  scolding  her  for  being  out 
there  in  the  cold.  Lucy  entered.  She  could  not  avoid  observing,  in 
spite  of  the  painful  anxiety  of  her  own  feelings,  that  Mrs.  Chard  seemed 
to  be  unnaturally  excited,  pacing  the  room  with  a  troubled  step.  But 
^11  of  suspense  and  suspicion  about  her  lover,  wishing,  perhaps,  to  know 
the  worst,  she  nerved  herself  to  the  task,  turned  her  face  from  her  mother^ 
and  spoke. 

"  Did  you  happen  to  see  Mr.  Ravensburg  ?" 

'^  See  him,  yes.  He  was  at  the  rooms,  waltzing  away  with  Isabel  de 
Laca  when  I  left." 

A  cold  shiver  ran  through  Lucy's  veins,  and  her  sight  seemed  to  leave 
her ;  but  save  for  the  terrible  paleness  of  her  features,  no  outward  emo- 
tion was  visible.  All  her  fearful  doubts  were  realised  ;  her  worst  jea- 
lousy was  confirmed :  Francis  Ravensburg  had  deserted  her  for  another. 

"  Lucy,  you  do  not  look  weU,"  observed  Mrs.  Chard ;  "  you  must  have 
been  out  of  your  mind  to  stand  on  that  balcony.  The  nights  are  chilly 
now.     Take  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  Not  any,  thank  you,"  she  replied*  "  I  am  tired,  and  will  go  to  bed. 
Good  night " 

"  Oh,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Chard,  "Mr.  Ravensburg  told  me  he  was 
going  to  England  to-night." 

Lucy  let  fall  the  handle  of  the  door,  and  turned. 

^'  I  think  he  said  so.  I  hardly  know.  My  luck  has  been  wretched^ 
Lucy.  I  wish  to  heaven  I  had  never  touched  a  card !  I  wish  to  heaven 
I  had  never  played  with  Captain  Carew !" 

"  But  Mr.  Ravensburg?"  uttered  Lucy. 

"  I  don't  recollect  much  what  he  said.  Going  upon  business,  I  think 
it  was.  Go  and  ask  the  baroness  to-morrow;  no  doubt  she  can  tell  you 
all  about  it." 

"  Good  night,  mamma,"  said  the  unhappy  girl. 

The  steamer  for  Dover  was  to  start  at  one  o'clock  the  following  day, 
but,  previously  to  that,  Mr.  Ravensburg  went  to  the  chateau.  Lucy  was 
but.  Mrs.  Chard,  alarmed  at  Lucy's  pale  cheeks  and  absent  manner 
when  she  rose,  had  hurried  her  out  for  a  drive,  sorely,  sorely  against  her 
will.  He  waited,  hoping  they  would  return;  but  at  length  he  was 
obliged  to  go,  for  time  pressed.  Not  with  a  quick  step,  however,  for  he 
still  hoped  to  meet  her,  if  but  to  have  one  single  parting  word  ;  and  upon 
encoimtering  a  great  bathing-omnibus  on  his  way  he  leaped  upon  its 
step,  thinking  it  might  contain  Lucy^  to  the  untold-of  scandal  of  its  chief 


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A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land,  19 

occupant,  a  ^*  sister  "  firom  the  conrent  <^  the  Dames  Ursoliaes,  who  was 
conducting  some  younger  ^'  sisters "  to  take  thdr  daily  plunge  in 
the  sea. 

But  RavensbuTg  jumped  off  the  step  quicker  than  he  had  leaped  on 
it,  for  the  bell,  giving  notice  of  the  starting  of  the  steamer,  was  sounding 
in  his  ear.'  He  tore  along,  and  halloed  with  all  his  might*  The  steamer 
was  putting  off  firom  the  side,  and  its  captain  was  already  on  the 
paddle-box. 

"  Heigh!  boat!  Stop,  caption!**  cried  the  bedizened  Carew,  who 
stood  close  to  the  steamer,  his  chains  and  his  shining  stones  glittering  in 
the  sun.     "  Here's  a  passenger  coming  full  tear.     You  d  better  wait" 

"  We  are  behind  our  time  already,"  grumbled  the  detain.  "  Shove 
away  there !     Take  care  of  them  cords." 

'^  But  here  he  is,"  screamed  Carew ;  *<  it  is  Mr.  Ravensburg.  Just 
wait  half  a  moment.     I  know  he  has  important  business  in  England." 

'*  Make  haste,  then,"  roared  the  captain,  directing  his  voice  to  the 
distance.     ^'  Hold  hard  a  minute,  lads." 

<'  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  panted  Ravensburg  to  Carew,  as  he  tossed 
his  permit  to  the  police-officer,  and  leaped  on  to  the  paddle-box. 

^<  Yes,"  added  the  sailor-captain,  '^  you  may  thank  that  gentleman  for 
being  taken  to  England  to-day,  Mr.  Ravensburg.  I  should  have  been 
some  yards  up  the  harbour." 

Ravensburg  looked  to  the  quay,  and  again  nodded  his  thanks  to  Cap- 
tain Carew;  but  on  the  latter's  countenance  was  so  strange  an  expres- 
sion of  triumph — of  triumph  over  him — that  he  stood  aghast.  But  he 
thought  it  might  be  the  glare  that  deceived  him,  and,  descending  to  the 
deck,  he  clasped  the  offered  hand  of  Isabel  de  Laca,  and  seated  himself 
beside  her. 

^'  Do  you  see  that  steamer?"  demanded  Captain  Carew,  an  hour  after- 
wards, of  Lucy,  pointing  to  the  Dover  boat,  which  had  now  traversed 
half  her  distance,  as  he  stood  at  the  north-western  window  of  Mrs. 
Chard's  drawing-room,  which  commanded  a  wide  expanse  of  sea. 

Lucy  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  Channel. 

"  You  are  looking  at  the  wrong  one — ^what  a  beautifully  clear  day  it 
is  ! — the  one  on  the  left  is  coming  from  Dover ;  the  one  on  the  right  is 
nearing  it :  it  is  the  latter  I  mean." 

"  What  of  it  ?"  questioned  Lucy. 

"It  cont£uns  Frank  Ravensburg  and  his  lady-love,"  whispered  the 
captain,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Lucy's  crimsoned  and  rebellious  countenance, 
as  he  seized  her  hands.  "  He  is  there  with  Isabel  de  Laca  ;  his  dearest 
Isabel,  as  I  heard  him  call  her  last  night.  Such  terms  can  only  exist 
between  the  closest  and  sweetest  ties :  even  I  have  not  yet  addressed 
such  to  you." 

The  words  were  bad  enough,  but  to  be  thus  kept  face  to  face  with  that 
man  was,  to  Lucy,  horrible. 

"  Unhand  me,  Captain  Carew,"  she  indignantly  exclaimed.  "  How 
dare  you  so  address  me  ? — how  dare  you  touch  me  ?" 

He  dared  to  do  more,  for  he  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  still  keeping 
her  a  prisoner. 

"  Msary  first,  Lucy,"  he  said,  imheeding  her  anger — "  marry  first, 
and  the  triumph  will  be  yours.  We  will  go  forth  and  blazon  our  happi- 
ness in  his  face ;  we,  the  loving  bridegroom  and  bridf^f^^ed  byCjOOQlC 


20  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land 

But  the  cUmax  of  indignation  g^ave  Lucy  unnatural  strength ;  she 
-wrenched  her  hands  from  him,  and  pulled  the  hell-rope  violently. 

"  Begone,"  she  cried,  spuming  him  with  her  foot ;  "  another  nuHnent, 
and  I  oroer  the  servants  to  thrust  you  forth." 

He  seized  again  her  tremhling  hands,  he  looked  in  her  agitated,  in- 
digpoant  countenance,  and  spoke  in  slow  and  measured  terms  : 

"  Do  so,  Lucy  Chard ;  hut  know,  that  hy  so  doing,  you  destroy  your 
mother." 

There  was  truth,  terrible  truth,  in  his  words  and  aspect ;  and  Lucy, 
with  a  sensation  of  fear  that  approached  to  suffocation,  motioned  the 
coming  servants  from  the  room,  and  sinking  on  a  chair,  signed  to  him  to 
explain  himself,  but  to  approach  her  not. 

It  was  a  humiliating  position — a  violation  alike  of  human  and  of  na- 
ture's laws— for  a  modier  to  be  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  her  only  child, 
suing  for  forgiveness,  praying  to  be  saved  from  poverty  and  exposure ; 
yet  in  the  autumn  we  are  writing  of,  in  the  chateau  inhabited  by  Mrs. 
Chard,  that  scene  was  enacted. 

.  "  Take  all,  take  all !"  cried  die  ill-fated  girl,  clasping  her  hands  in 
agony,  and,  in  her  tinn,  kneeling  to  her  mother.  <^  Sacrifice  my  fortune 
to  his  rapacity ;  I  will  never  think  of  it,  never  ask  for  it ;  but  oh,  g^are 
mel" 

**  He  holds  bonds  for  all^  Lucy,"  returned  the  miserable  woman.  **  I, 
your  sole  guardian,  have  violated  my  trust.  Money,  estates,  jewels,  fur- 
niture, all  have  long  been  his ;  but  God  knows  that  when  I  in  my  mad- 
ness staked  yours,  I  did  it  with  the  hope  that  I  might  redeem  what  I 
had  lost" 

"  Oh  this  play ! — ^this  infatuation!"  moaned  Lucy.  "  How  can  people 
so  Mindly  rush  on  to  their  ruin  ?" 

"  Make  the  worst  of  it,  Lucy :  you  cannot  know  half  its  horrors,  the 
heU  it  creates.  Reproach  me^spurn  me— it  will  be  relief  compared 
with  what  I  have  c^late  endured." 

'*  I  would  give  my  venr  life  for  you,  mother,  to  ensure  your  happiness," 
she  faintly  said ;  ^  but  I  eannot  sacrifice  myself  to  this  man." 

^'It  would  be  no  sacrifice,  Lucy,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Chard:  "did  I  think 
so,  I  would  never  urge  it.  Your  girl's  thoughts  have  been  wound  round 
Francis  Ravensburg,  and  all  others  appear  to  you  distasteful.  But  now 
that  he  has  forsaken  you,  g<me  to  England  with  that  Spanish  woman, 
whom  he  is  about  to  make  his  wife,  would  you  be  so  lost  in  respect  to 
yourself  as  to  let  him  retain  his  hold  upon  your  heart  ?  Would  you"  let 
the  world  su^>ect  it  ?" 

Lucy  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  eyes  ;  upo»  her  throbbing  temples  :  ^ 
it  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  a  mercy  could  she  shut  out  for  ever  the  light 
of  day. 

"  Unless  you  consent  to  many  Ai/w,  Lucy,  when  he  will  return  all  my 
bonds,  retaining  only  such  as  belong  to  you,  there  must  be  an  exposure," 
she  exclaimed,  passionately ;  "  no  earthly  help  can  avert  it.  For  the 
poverty  I  should  care  comparatively  little,  but  I  loUl  not  survive  ex- 
posure. Lucy !  I  speak  calmly,  rationally,  firm  in  my  own  purpose. 
Child !  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  deliberately  destroy  a  mother." 

Captain  Carew  entered,  an  accepted  suitor,  Mrs.  Chard  had  mur- 
mured some  heartfelt  words  of  thai^s  to  Lucy,  and  Captain  Caresv  ad- 


A  Towh  in  a  Foreign  Land.  21 

vanced  towsrds  his  future  bride,  a  speech  of  love  or  congratuladon  on 
his  lips,  when  Lucy,  who  was  trembling  as  if  she  had  the  ague,  fell  for- 
ward iu  a  funting  fit 

A  strange  tale  went  about  the  town.  Of  a  man's  covetous  eyes  cast 
upon  a  ga\  and  resolving  to  win  her,  though  she  was  promised  to  an- 
other ;  of  a  mother's  being  inveigled  into  play  until  she  had  staked,  and 
lost,  all ;  until  shame  and  ruin  stared  her  in  the  f&ce ;  and  of  the  child 
being  offered  up  as  the  proptiatory  sacrifice.  But  when  names  came  to 
be  mentioned,  people  lauyghed  at  the  tale.  A  sacrifice  to  marry  him !  to 
share  his  riches,  his  jewels  I  Lucy  Chard  was  to  be  envied  for  the  honour 
done  her.  And  as  to  Mrs.  Chard's  having  lost  her  fortune — why,  she  was 
still  living  at  her  chateau ;  in  the  same  style,  at  the  same  expense. 
Nonsense,  nonsense !  the  tale  was  one  of  the  usual  fabricated  scandals  of 
an  English-frequented  continental  town.  But  what  would  that  town 
have  said,  could  it  have  known  that  Mrs.  Chard  suppressed  letters  written 
to  her  daughter,  from  London,  by  Francis  Raven^mrg? 

Lucy's  consent  to  the  marriage  being  once  wrung  from  her,  Mrs. 
Chard  took  care  that  no  time  should  be  allowed  her  to  retract  it.  She  at 
once  took  her  to  Dover,  where  the  ceremony  was  to  be  performed.  The 
captain  had  strenuously  urged  that  the  wedding  should  take  place  in 
Paris,  but  Mrs.  Chard  as  strenuously  refused ;  observing,  that  one  never 
knew  whether  those  foreign  marriages  would  stand  good.  So  the  cap- 
tain had  to  yield,  and  it  was  arranged  that  he  should  follow  them  to 
Dov^  in  thriee  weeks.     The  affair,  meanwhile,  was  kept  a  secret 

IIL 

In  an  elegantly-furnished  drawing-room  in  Cavendish-square  sat  Isabel 
de  Laca.  A  visitor  was  heard  ascmiding  the  staircase,  and  the  strange 
light  of  excitement,  at  the  presence  of  a  beloved  one,  sat  in  her  e^'e. 
It  was  Francis  Ravensburg  who  entered. 

He  advanced  to  her;  not  exacUy  as  a  lover,  for  no  endearment  was 
offered ;  but  the  tender,  earnest  regard  with  which  he  looked  at  her,  and 
the  lingering  retention  of  the  hand  held  out  to  him,  told  that  he  was  not 
many  degrees  removed  from  one. 

"  I  have  some  news  for  you,*'  she  said,  in  a  quiet  tone,  but  which,  in- 
different as  it  was,  betrayed  a  cause  for  triumph,  though  Mr.  Bavensburg 
detected  it  not     "  I  had  a  letter  this  morning  from  Madame  de  Larrae. 

^  Ah !  some  continental  news,*'  he  answered,  a  faint  colour  rising  to 
his  cheek. 

**  You  remember  that  extraordinary-looking  man,  who  played  so  high ; 
he  has  gone  over  to  Dover  to  be  married." 

"  The  wadking-jeweller,"  returned  Frank.  "  And  who,  pray,  has  been 
dazzled  by  his  perfections  ?" 

«JMfos  Chard." 

**  Absurd !"  he  exclaimed,  starting  from  his  seat,  whilst  the  indignant 
blood  rushed  over  his  features.  "  My  dear  baroness,  you  ought  not  to 
^ve  credit  to  the  malicious  fabrications  of  that  Madame  de  Larme." 

"  She  says,"  continued  Isabel,  unheeding  his  interruption,  "  that  Mrs. 
Chard  has  lost  frightfully  to  Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  and  dared  not  refuse 
him  h^  daughter.'^ 


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22  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land. 

'^Oh  God,  Isabel !"  he  exclaimed,  his  emotion  taking  away  all  his 
self-possession,  "  there  surely  can  be  no  truth  in  this  ?" 

She  turned  from  him  coldly. 

•*  Have  you  any  objection  to  my  seeing  the  letter?"  he  inquired. 

She  tossed  it  to  him,  and  walked  indifferently  about  the  room  while  he 
perused  it,  humming  a  scrap  of  an  old,  translated  Spanish  ballad.  The 
first  words  audible  were  the  following : 

" behold, 

A  baron,  all  covered  with  jewels  and  gold, 
Arrived  at  fair  Imogine's  door. 

His  treasures,  his  presents,  his  spacious  domain, 

Soon  made  her  untrue  to  her  vows  ; 
He  dazzled  her  eyes,  he  bewildered^er  brain, 
He  caught  her  affections,  so  light  and  so  vain, 

And  carried  her  home ** 

"  By  Heaven,  I  have  found  it !"  exclaimed  Ravensburg,  dashing  his 
hand  with  such  force  on  the  centre  table,  that  the  lady's  song  was  cut 
short,  in  terror. 

"  That  man — that  demon,"  he  continued,  in  answer  to  her  gaze  of 
inquiry.  "  You  know,  Isabel,  I  have  often  said  how  he  puzzled  me.  And 
to  think,"  he  pursued,  in  strange  excitement,  "  that  Lucy  Chard  should 
have  been  insulted  by  a  companionship  with  him  !  There  is  contamina- 
tion in  his  touch — infection  in  his  very  presence !" 

"  Who  or  what  is  he  ?"  inquired  the  astonished  girl.  "  Do  you  allude 
to  Captain  Carew  ?" 

"  Captain  Carew !"  was  the  ironical  answer.  "  The  fellow's  name  is 
plain  Charles  Johns.  He  is  an  outcast  from  society — whose  conduct  drew 
upon  him  the  eye  of  the  police — whose  success  in  a  certain  swindling  trans- 
action, in  the  spring,  only  became  know  to  them  coeval  with  his  disap- 
pearance. But  they  shdl  not  long  remain  in  ignorance  of  his  being  in 
England.     At  Dover,  eh!" 

"  These  are  serious  charges,  Francis." 

"  They  are  true  ones.  How  could  I  be  so  long  deceived  by  him !  But 
I  see  it  all  now :  false  hair,  false  whiskers,  false  teeth,  the  paint  on  his 
face,  and  so  altered  a  style  of  dress.  Captain  Carew,  indeed!  the 
impudent  fellow !" 

"  But  how  came  you  acquainted  with  such  a  man  ?"  was  the  next 
inquiry. 

"  Before  he  relapsed  into  worse  crimes,  he  held  a  discreditable  situation 
at  a  West-end  gambling-house,"  was  Mr.  Ravensburg's  answer,  "  and  I 
,have  seen  him  there.  That  he  should  have  been  brought  into  contact 
with  Lucy  Chard!" 

It  was  the  morning  subsequent  to  the  above  conversation  that  a  break- 
fast party  sat  in  a  private  room  of  the  Ship  Hotel  at  Dover.  Mrs.  Chard 
was  next  the  fire,  doing  the  honours  of  the  table :  opposite  to  her,  in  a 
flowery,  gaudy,  stiffened-out  silk  dressing-gown,  with  more  baubles  about 
him  than  ever,  bloomed  Captain  Carew :  and  between  them,  pale,  inani- 
mate, as  much  like  an  automaton  as  a  living  being,  drooped  Lucy.  She 
was  plainly  attired  in  a  white  morning  robe,  and,  as  if  in  contrast  to  the 
resplendent  appearance  of  the  captain,  she  wore  no  ornament.  Not  a 
precious  stone,  or  a  bit  of  gold  was  about  her,  except  the  wedding-ring. 

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A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Laiii.  23 

She  bad  been  a  bride  tbree  days — dejected,  suffering,  heart-broken ;  but 
so  silent,  so  uncomplaining,  that  the  mother  who  had  sacrificed  her, 
looked  on  her  with  a  bleeding,  if  not  with  a  remorseful  heart 

^*  A  delightful  morning !"  exclaimed  the  captain,  helping  himself  to  a 
third  plateful  of  spiced  beef.  **  We  shall  have  a  favourable  trip,  Lucy. 
With  this  wind,  we  shall  be  at  Ostend  in  seven  hours.  I  am  sure  jou 
will  like  Brussels,  and  Baden-Baden's  delightful." 

^'  You  look  very  cold,  Lucy/'  said  Mrs.  Chard.  ''  I  fear  I  keep  the 
fire  firom  you." 

**  I  wish  you  would  try  an  ^^^  my  love,"  gobbled  the  captain.  "  And 
a  slice  of  this  beef  would  do  you  an  immense  deal  of  good,  if  you  would 
but  eat  it." 

A  servant  entered  with  a  letter  and  two  newspapers,  all  of  which  he 
placed  before  Mrs.  Chard. 

**No  letter  for  me,  waiter?"  demanded  Captidn  Carew. 

**  None,  sip." 

There  never  were  any  for  him,  but  he  regularly  made  the  same  inquiry. 

Mrs.  Chard  glanced  at  the  address  of  the  letter,  and  hastily  thrust  it 
into  her  apron  pocket.  "  Will  you  look  at  the  TimeSy  captain,"  she 
said,  handing  him  the  journal  in  question :  ^<  and  there's  the  Morning 
Post  for  you,  Lucy." 

The  captain  was  busy  with  his  breakfest,  but  his  wretched  wife 
mechanically  opened  the  paper.  At  this  moment  there  was  a  slight 
bustle  and  talking  outside  the  room  door,  which  suddenly  opened,  and 
the  face  of  the  head  waiter  was  thrust  in. 

"  Captain  Carew,  if  you  please,  can  you  step  here  for  a  moment  ? 
Now  don't,"  he  added,  in  an  aside  to  somebody  behind  him,  "don't 
come  in  sight  of  the  ladies :  they  would  be  frightened  out  of  their  wits. 
He'll  come  out  in  a  minute,  fast  enough,  and  then  you  can  do  the  job 
without  any  bother." 

**  What  is  it  ?"  asked  the  captain.     "  I  am  at  breakfast." 

"Won't  detain  you  a  moment,  sir,"  added  the  waiter,  kicking  out  his 
feet  at  the  legs  of  those  behind,  vrith  the  view  of  keeping  them  at  a 
distance. 

The  captain  rose,  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  swinging  his  break^Etst- 
napkin  majestically  in  his  hand.  Ranged  against  the  wall  was  an  officer 
from  Bow-street,  backed  by  a  couple  of  Dover  pohcemen.  The  head 
waiter  shut  the  door. 

Lucy  was  engaged  with  the  newspaper,  and  Mrs.  Chard,  turning 
away,  opened  her  letter.  A  note  was  inside  it,  addressed  "  Miss  Chard." 
The  lady  stirred  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  popped  it  in,  and  read  her  own : 

**  My  dear  Madam, — I  have  just  heard  that  you  are  staying  at  Dover, 
and  that  the  party,  calling  himself  Captain  Carew,  is  also  there.  It  has 
been  discovered  who  this  man  is.  You  may  remember  I  said  he  puzzled 
me  ;  but  his  disguise  was  so  complete — false  hair  and  whiskers,  false 
teeth,  a  false  complexion,  and  so  altered  a  style  of  dress,  would  deceive 
the  detectors  themselves.  His  true  name  is  Charles  Johns :  his  career 
has,  for  long  past,  been  most  disreputable,  and  a  successful  swindling 
transaction,  in  which  he  was  recently  engaged,  put  him  into  funds,  and 
sent  him  flying  over  the  water,  out  of  the  reach  of  Bow-street.     Ere  you 

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24  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Latkd* 

receive  thk,  he  will  be  io  custody.  I  write  in  haste,  and  will  g^  joa 
further  particulars  when  we  meet.  Deeply  annoyed  that  this  Tidain. 
should  ever  have  come  into  contact  with  you  and  Lucy,  believe  me, 
yours  very  fiEuthfully,  Fkancis  Ravensbuiig." 

With  an  exclamation  of  horror,  Mrs.  Chard  threw  down  the  letter.  One 
fearful  confirmation  of  its  contents  rushed  to  her  mind :  he  had  married 
in  the  name  of  Charles  Jolms  Caa^ew.  She  darted  to  the  door ;  and 
there,  handcuffed,  supported  by  the  officers,  and  gazed  at  by  half  ^e 
servants  of  the  house,  was  her  gallant  son-in-law,  his  terror  visible  even 
i&rough  his  cannined  cheeks.  Lucy  took  up  the  letter,  and  read  it,  every 
word. 

"Not  one  mention  of  me,"  murmured  the  unhappy  girl,  **not  one  word 
of  remembrance :  yet,  for  all  he  knows,  I  am  still  free  as  air.** 


IV. 

Autumn,  winter,  spring  rolled  away,  and  the  summer  was  quickly 
passing.  Mrs.  Chard  had  returned  at  once,  with  her  daughter,  to  her 
residence  on  the  French  coast.  Who  can  describe  the  care  that  had  been 
bestowed  upon  Lucy :  who  shall  imagine  the  soothing  tenderness  of  h&r 
remorseful  mo&er  to  win  her  back  to  health  ?  But  all  in  vain.  Her 
star  of  happiness  had  set,  and  that  of  life  was  on  the  very  verge  of  the 
horizon. 

OccaEttonally  they  took  her  to  the  terrace  at  the  bathing-establishment, 
hoping  that  the  gay  scene  and  groiros  of  visitors  might  be  productive  of 
amusement,  and  draw  her  thou^ts  m)m  herself.  She  was  now  growing 
almost  too  weak  to  go,  but  they,  one  warm,  lovely  morning,  prevailed 
upon  her,  and  she  assented  apathetically,  observing  that  it  would  probably 
be  for  the  last  time.  Mrs.  Chard,  dismissing  the  carriage,  placed  Lucy 
on  one  of  the  terrace  benches,  and  went  herself  to  the  newspaper-room. 

Not  long  had  Lucy  sat  there  when  a  party  entered  the  large  room, 
and  approached  the  window  nearest  to  Lucy :  two  ladies,  and  a  tall, 
stately  yoimg  man  of  extreme  beauty.  He  was  the  husband  of  the 
younger  lady.  They  were  Madame  de  Larme,  the  Baroness  de  Laca, 
who  did  not  resign  her  title  widi  her  second  marris^,  and  Francis 
Ravensburg.  He  strolled  from  the  room,  and  seated  himself  outside.  A 
veiled,  shnnkin^  form  was  at  the  end  of  the  bench,  hidden  from  those 
within,  and  his  nice  was  turned  towards  his  young  wife  and  her  compa- 
nion, so  that  he  observed  her  not. 

"  Do  they  play  here  as  much  as  ever  ?"  asked  Mr.  Ravensburg  of  Ma- 
dame de  Larme. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  non  !"  answered  madame,  shrugging  Iher  shoulders. 
"  Sudi  odd  things  were  said  last  season,  about  people  being  ruined,  and 
tiie  like.  I  don't  know  whether  they  were  true.  However,  cards  have 
been  interdicted." 

"  The  place  seems  little  changed,"  remarked  the  baroness,  looking 
round.  "  I  remember  well  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  it :  it  was  also  the 
first  time  I  saw  you,  Francis.  And  though  I  was  what  you  English  call 
*  taken'  with  you,  I  little  thought  I  was  looking  on  my  future  husband." 


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A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land.  25 

"  I  never  beUeved  you  would  be  his  wife,**  said  the  Frenchwoman^ 
bluntly,  "for  I  took  it  for  granted  he  was  engaged  to  Lucy  Chard. 
Quite  a  sad  thing,  was  it  not,  for  her  husband  to  be  called  out  so  soon 
to  his  Indian  possessions  ?** 

"  Indian  possessions !"  echoed  Ravensburg.  "  Oh,  ah,  yes  !  I  under* 
stand.  He  is  on  his  Indian  possessions  now — or  on  some  otiiers.  How 
£d  you  hear  that,  madame  T* 

"  How  did  everybody  else  hear  it  ?"  retorted  madame.  "  Tliey  had 
been  married  but  three  days,  when  the  captain  received  news  wluch 
caused  him  to  embark  for  India.'' 

**  And  from  whence  he  is  not  likely  to  return,**  added  Mr.  Ravensburg. 

**  His  wtfe,  poor  young  thing,  has  moped  herself  into  something — it  is 
not  consumption,  I  believe ;  but  she  is  dying." 

^'  She  was  an  angel !"  interrupted  Ravensburg,  passionately.  His  wife 
laughed  a  little  affected  laugh  of  irony,  and  the  two  ladies  moved  away. 
He  was  about  to  follow  them,  when  a  low,  suffocating,  ill-suppressed  sdb 
broke  upon  his  ear.  He  took  no  notice  of  it ;  it  was  notlung  to  him  ; 
and  at  that  moment  the  well-known  equipage  of  Mrs..  Chard  bowled 
suddenly  up  to  the  terrace-entrance,  turned,  and  waited.  The  lady  on 
llie  boDch  arose,  and  tottered,  rather  than  walked,  towards  it. 

**  Good  God  !**  he  articulated,  clasping  his  hands.  There — seated  by 
him — that,  being  of  whom  he  had  taken  no  notice,  was  Lucy  Chard. 

**  Forgive  me,  Lucy,"  he  murmured,  springing  towards  her ;  *'  forgave 
rae,  but  I  recognised  you  not.     You  are  so  fearfolly  idtered." 

She  was  indeed.  A  shrunken,  wasted  form,  white  attenuated  features, 
on  which  coming  death  had  set  its  shadow  and  its  colouring,  were  all 
that  remt^ned  of  Lucy  Chard.  A  powerful  agitation  impeded  her 
utterance,  but  she  motioned  him  towards  the  carriage.  The  servants 
touched  their  hats  as  they  recognised  him ;  the  footman  held  the  door 
open,  and  Francis  helped  her  in. 

"  Drive  home  quickly,"  she  gasped  to  the  servants :  "  you  can  return 
for  my  mother." 

"  Lucy,  are  we  thus  to  part  ?" 

She  resigned  to  him  the  hands  he  would  have  taken,  and  he  stood 
there,  leaning  towards  her.  The  remembrance  of  former  days  came  over 
him :  mem^y  leaped  back  to  the  time  when  he  was  last  in  mat  carriage, 
and  €he,  his  best-beloved,  at  his  side.  He  recalled  the  vows  he  had  then 
made  her,  so  confident  in  the  endming  faith  of  his  own  weak  heart :  he 
forgot  their  separation ;  he  forgot  his  own  marriage,  or  remembered  it 
but  with  a  passing  execration,  and  unconsciously  he  addressed  words  of 
endearment  to  her  as  of  old. 

"  I  am  dying,  Francis,"  she  said,  "  and  you  are  shocked  to  see  me. 
I  can  speak  freely  to  you  now,  almost  as  I  would  to  myself,  because  I 
know  that  in  a  few  days,  perhaps  hours,  time  for  me  will  be  no  more. 
You  made  me  what  I  am." 

"Lucy!" 

"  You  know  the  wretched  marriage  I  was  forced  into — ^you  have  heard 
its  details?" 

"  Some  of  them." 

**  That  was  your  work.  Had  it  not  been  for  your  conduct  towards 
me,  I  never  should  have  fallen  into  it.     You  professed  to  love  me." 

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26  A  Tomb  in  a  Foreign  Land. 

"  It  was  no  profession,  Lucy." 

^*  And  /  worshipped  yott — I  lived  but  in  your  presence — I  clung  to 
you  as  to  life*  And  you  left  me  for  another.  In  the  evening,  in  the 
morning,  at  noon-day  you  were  with  her ;  riding,  walking,  vimispering' 
by  her  side." 

**  Oh,  Lucy,  believe  me  I  had  no  love  for  her !  I  did  it  without 
thought.  She  was  an  attractive  woman,  and  I  was  willing  to  amuse 
away  an  idle  hour.     I  never  loved  her." 

^*  It  may  have  been  so,"  she  feebly  articulated.  "  Want  of  thought 
causes  more  misery  than  does  want  of  heart  I  could  not  read  your 
secret  feelings :  I  only  knew  you  were  ever  with  another." 

He  acknowledged  it  had  been  as  she  said,  and  would  have  poured 
forth  his  vain  repentance.  Repentance !  what  availeth  it,  when  there 
can  be  no  atonement  ? 

^'  Forgive  me,  Lucy,"  he  murmured,  as  he  liud  his  cheek  upon  her 
pale  young  face,  "  forgive,  forgive  me.  Oh  that  I  could  as  readily  for- 
^ve  myself !  Had  I  taken  care  to  keep  you  for  my  own,  jou  never 
would  have  been  brought  to  this." 

The  scalding  tears  were  coursing  down  her  face,  and  lingeringly  she 
withdrew  her  hands  from  his.  ''  I  have  forgiven  you  long  ago,  Francis  : 
may  you  be  happy  with  the  wife  you  have  chosen.  Farewell !  Fare- 
well!" 

He  closed  the  door;  the  footman  sprang  up  behind;  the  carriage 
rolled  away,  and  Lucy  sank  back  in  it.  The  excitement  caused  by  thus 
suddenly  meeting  him  had  been  too  great.  A  fearful  oppression,  almost 
as  of  coming  death,  was  upon  her :  she  dreaded  that  life  was  about  to 
depart  there  and  then  ;  and  when  she  would  have  spoken  to  the  coach- 
man to  drive  faster,  her  strength  suddenly  failed  her. 

When  the  carriage  reached  the  chateau-gates,  there,  heated  and 
breathless,  stood  Francis  Ravensburg.  He  opened  the  door  himself,  and 
would  have  lifted  her  out.  But  she  remained  in  the  corner,  huddled  up, 
it  seemed,  half  sitting,  half  lying.  He  turned  his  colourless  face  to  the 
servants,  and  there  was  something  in  it  which  caused  them  hastily  to 
approach.     She  had  died  in  the  carriage. 

Not  in  the  cemetery  attached  to  the  gossiping  French  seaport,  with  its 
numerous  groups  of  summer  idlers,  but  in  that  of  a  retired  country 
hamlet,  a  few  miles  distant,  in  the  narrow  corner  of  it  consecrated  to 
Protestant  interments,  is  a  plain,  white-marble  tomb.  The  inscription 
on  it  consists  of  only  two  initial  letters,  and  the  date  of  a  year.  It  is  the 
grave  of  Lucy  Chard. 


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(    27     ) 


LITERARY     LEAFLETS. 

BY  SIR  NATHANIEL. 

No.  XI. — Sir  Thomas  Noon  Talitourd. 

To  win  golden  opinions  (we  speak  not  of  fees)  from  all  sorts  of  men, 
in  and  out  of  Westminster  Hall,  as  Mr.  Seijeant  and  as  Mr.  Justice,  is 
good.  To  win  renown  in  literature — such  renown  as  comes  not  of 
sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal — is — well,  out  with  it! — better. 
To  win  the  loving  esteem  of  all  one's  associates,  as  a  man  with  heart 
large  enough  for  them  all,  is  best  This  g^ood,  better,  best,  hath  Sir 
Thomas  Noon  Talfourd.  His  it  is  to  enjoy  at  once  the  three  degrees 
of  comparison — the  positive  forensic,  the  comparative  literary,  and  the 
superlative  humane.  A  case  in  Rule  of  Three  with  a  splendid  quotient. 
To  "  take  a  rule"  of  that  sort,  is  not  allowed  to  many.  But  Sir  Thomas 
has  it. all  his  own  way — "rule  absolute."  And  probably,  were  his  good 
wishes  for  his  brethren  as  efficacious  as  they  are  cordial  and  general, 
there  would  be  hardly  an  instance  of  *'  rule  refused."  But  there  is  no 
surplusage  of  instances  of  combined  literary  and  forensic  success.  To 
him  who  would  be  at  once  a  great  lawyer  and  a  great  poet,  and  would 
bind  up  together  in  his  book  of  life  the  studies  of  Blackstone  and  the 
dreams  of  Coleridge, — to  him  Experience,  harsh  monitor,  whispers,  or  if 
need  be  screams,  Divide  and  conquer.  Eminence  in  both  departments 
is  of  the  rarest.  Scott  retained  his  clerkship  at  the  Court  of  Session, 
but  who  ever  heard  of  the  Wizard  of  the  North  as  a  law  authon^  ? 
Jeffrey  is  one  of  the  select  inner  circle  to  which  Talfourd  belongs.  Wil- 
son and  Lockhart — "  oh  no,  we  never  mention  them"  in  wig  and  gown. 
Sir  Archibald  Alison  and  Professor  Aytoun,  Mr.  Procter  and  Serjeant 
Kinglake,  Lords  Brougham  and  Campbell,  Mr.  Ten  Thousand-a-Year 
Warren  and  a  few  others,  are  not  all  unexceptionable  exceptions  to 
prove  the  rule.  And  yet  there  has  ever  been,  more  or  less,  a  hankering 
after  the  Muses  and  the  Magazines  on  the  part  of  Messieurs  of  the  long 
robe.*  Very  natural,  too,  if  only  by  a  law  of  reaction.  But  very 
hazardous,  notwithstanding ;  and  alarmingly  symptomatic  of  a  fall  be- 
tween two  stools.  One  thing  at  a  time  the  ambiguously  ambitious 
avocat  may  do  triumphantly ;  but  to  drive  Pegasus  up  and  down  an  act 
of  parliament,  whatever  may  be  done  with  a  coach-and*six,  is  no  every- 
%  sight,  no  anybody's  feat.  Lofd  Eldon,  when  plain  Jack  Scott, 
keeping  his  terms  at  Oxford,  obtained  the  prize  of  English  composition, 
"  On  the  Advantages  and  Disadvantages  of  Foreign  Travel ;"  and  it  has 
been  remarked,  we  believe  by  Mr.  Justice  Talfourd  himself, f  that  since 
the  subject  of  this  essay  was  far  removed  from  John's  Newcastle  ex- 
perience, and  alien  from  his  studies,  and  must  therefore  have  owed  its 

*  For  example  (though  one  swallow  proves  not  summer),  the  French  lawyers 
^  the  sixteenth  century.  A  biographer  of  Etienne  Pasquier,  after  relating  his 
debut  as  avocat  at  the  barredu  de  Parity  proceeds  to  say :  "  Et  en  m^me  temps,  pour 
occQper  ses  loisirs,  il  se  livra  k  la  poesie,  k  la  composition  lit^raire,  caractere  qui 
dtstingue  sa  gMration  (Tavocats,  et  Pasquier  entre  tons  les  autres." 

t  Unless  we  err  in  attributing  to  his  pen  the  very  pleasant  notice  of  the  Lives 
of  Lord  Eldon  and  Lord  Stowel^  in  the  Quarterly  Review  for  December,  1844. 


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28  Sir  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 

success  either  to  the  ingenuity  of  its  suggestions,  or  to  the  graces  of  its 
style ;  and  that  as,  in  after-life  the  prize  essayist  was  never  distinguished 
for  felicity  of  expression  or  fertility  of  illustration,  and  acquired  a  style 
not  only  destitute  of  ornament,  but  unwieldy  and  ponderous ;  this  youth- 
ful success  suggests  the  question,  **  Whether,  in  devoting  all  his  powers 
to  the  study  of  the  law,  he  crushed  the  faculty  of  graceful  composition, 
with  so  violent  an  effort^  that  Nature,  in  revenge^  made  his  ear  dull  to 
the  music  of  language,  and  involved,  though  she  did  not  darken,  his 
wisest  words  ?"  Happily  no  such  qu<Bre  affects  the  career  of  the  author 
of  "  Ion."  He  J  indeed,  is  not  Lord  High  Chancellor ;  which  makes  a 
difiPerence.  But  neither  did  the  great  Eldon  write  a  triumphant  tragedy; 
and  that  again  makes  a  difference  in  the  Puisne  Judge's  favour.  Fancy 
Lord  Eldon  editing  the  Reliques  of  Elia,  ox  measuring  Macready  for 
blank  verse ;  and  if  that  is  not  extravagant  enough,  then  fancy  yourself 
reading  the  one,  or  squeezing  into  the  pit  to  see  the  other. 

Sir  Thomas  was  not  far  gone  in  his  teens  when  he  woo'd  and  woa 
publicity,  it  is  said,  by  a  "  poem**  on  the  liberation  of  Sir  Francis  Bur- 
dett  from  durance  vile.  While  still  a  schoolboy  at  Beading,  he  published 
a  volume  of  "  poems,''  including  a  sacred  drama  on  the  "  Offering  of 
Isaac  "  ^spired  by  that  admiration  of  Mistress  Hannah  More,  of  wfich 
lingering  traces  survive  in  the  prefeu^  to  "  Ion"),  "  An  Indian  Tide," 
and  some  verses  about  the  Education  of  the  Poor,  suggested  by  a  visit  to 
Beading  of  Joseph  Lancaster.  School-days  over,  he  came  to  London, 
and  fagged  under  the  famous  Chitty,  in  whose  Criminal  Law  he  aided 
and  abetted.  Then  we  find  him  fertile  in  the  production  of  pamphlets, 
on  toleration,  on  penal  institutions,  ^c.,  and  taking  a  gallant  stand  on 
the  side  of  Wordsworth,  at  a  time  (1815)  when  to  do  so  was  to  be  in  a 
scouted  and  flouted  minority.  Anon  he  is  on  the  list  of  contributors  to 
the  periodical  literature  of  the  day — ^to  the  Retrospective  RevieWy  the 
EncyclopcBdia  Metropolitanay  and  the  London  Magazine.  This  kind 
of  work  he  engaged  in  for  love  and  money.  Himself  is  our  authority 
for  making  lucre  a  part  of  his  motive  :  for  when  old  Godwin  toddled  into 
the  young  advocate's  chambers,  the  very  morning  af);er  an  introduction 
at  Charles  Lamb's,  and  then  and  there  '^  careless^  observed  that  he  had 
a  little  bill  for  150Z.  falling  due  on  the  morrow,  which  he  had  forgotten 
till  that  morning,  and  desired  the  loan  of  the  necessary  amount  for  a  few 
weeks," — the  flattered  and  regretful  Talfourd  "was  obliged,  with  much 
confusion,"  he  tells  us,  "  to  assure  my  distinguished  visitor  how  glad  I 
should  have  been  to  serve  him,  but  that  I  was  only  just  starting  as  a 
special  pleader,  was  obliged  to  write  for  magazines  to  help  me  on,  and 
luid  not  such  a  sum  in  the  world."*  The  articles  contributed  to  the 
Encyclop<Bdia  are  the  most  notable  of  his  labours  at  this  period,  and 
well  deserved  their  recent  republication  in  a  compact,  collected  form.f 
Foremost  among  these  is  his  history  of  Greek  Literature.  Here  he 
contrives  to  press  a  large  amount  of  information  into  very  narrow  limits 
— as  they  seem,  at  least,  when  compared  with  those  defined  for  himself, 
on  the  same  classical  ground,  by  Colonel  Mure.  We  are  told  all  that 
is  known,  and  of  course  a  trifle  more,  about  such  early  birds  as  Linus— 

*  Final  Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb. 

t  In  the  series  of  rejnints  by  Messrs,  GrifiSn,  in  crown  octava  commenced  in 
1849. 


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Sir  Thomas  Noon  Tal/ourd.  29 

be  he  singular,  dual,  or  plurimal-^-^akd  Orpheus,  who  brought  Wisdom 
into  Greece,  and  married  her  to  immortal  verse,  and  by  his  music  sub- 
dued V Inferno  itself,  "  creating  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  death" — and 
Musseus,  priest  of  the  mysteries  of  Orpheus,  and  perhaps  his  son.  Homer 
is  amj^y  discussed — large  place  bdng  ^ven  to  what  Hartley  Coleridge 
calls  the  Wolfi^  and  Heinous  point  of  yiew,  and  due  stress  laid  on  we 
good  old  conseryadve  creed,  which  believes  in  the  strict  mdividoahty  of 
uie  bard.  To  divide,  the  standily  orthodox  feel,  is  to  destroy : — ^'  that 
£mie  which  has  so  Icmg  resisted  time,  change,  and  mortal  accident,  would 
crumble  into  ruins — an  immense  blank  would  be  left  to  tiie  imagination, 
an  aching  void  in  the  heart — the  greatest  light,  save  one,  shining  from 
the  depth  of  time,  would  be  extinguished,  and  a  glory  pass  away  from 
the  earth."  Homer,  therefore,  is  assmned  to  be,  not  a  class,  birt  a  man  ; 
not  an  abstract,  impersonal  Un-Self  and  Co.,  but  our  familiar  childhood- 
honoured  Homer's  own  Self ;  the  man  we  came  to  know  in  connexion 
with  Dmmegan's  obsolete  lexicon,  and  Pope's  sonorous  verse  ;  the  well- 
known  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle — ^who  was  bom  in  one  of  the 
seven  states  hexametrieally  immortalised, 

Smyrna,  Rhodiis,  Colophon,  Salamis,  Chios,  Argos,  Athens^ 

and  not  in  all  seven  at  once,  not  in  seventy  times  seven,  as  the  German 
theory  would  imply. — Hesiod  is  designated  the  most  unequal  of  poets ; 
sometimes  daringly  and  ardently  imaginative,  at  other  times  insufiferably 
low,  creeping,  tame,  and  prosaic;  in  his  didactic  poetry,  rising  occasionally 
into  a  high  and  plulosophical  strain  of  thought,  but  commonly  giving 
mere  trite  maxims  of  prudence,  and  the  most  common-place  worldly 
cunning ;  without  any  of  Homer's  refined  gallantry,  and,  indeed,  some- 
thing very  like  a  misogynist  and  a  croaker. — The  three  great  tragic  poets 
of  Greece  are  ably  portrayed,  though  without,  perhaps,  any  very  original 
criticism  or  subtle  discrimination :  the  ^'  intrepid  and  fiery  ^oiylus,  on 
whose  soul  mighty  imaginations  trooped  so  fast,  that,  in  the  heat  of  his 
inspiration,  he  stopped  not  to  accurately  de6ne  or  clearly  develop  them — 
like  his  own  Prometheus,  stealing  fire  from  heaven  to  inspire  and  vivify 
his  characters — ^however  mighty  his  theme,  always  bringing  to  it  a 
kindred  emotion,  but  never  losing  his  statehness  in  his  passion,  nev^  de- 
nuding his  terrors  of  an  unearthly  grandeur  and  awe.  Sophocles  :  always 
perfect  master  of  himself  and  his  subject;  conscious  of  the  precise  measure 
of  his  own  capacities;  maintaining,  undisturbed,  his  mi^estic  course,  in 
calm  and  beautiful  progression ;  in  everything  hicid  and  clear,  nev^  for- 
getting the  harmony  and  proportion  of  the  whole,  in  the  variety  and 
complexity  of  the  parts — his  philosophy  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute — his 
wisdom  made  visible  in  the  form  of  beauty.  Euripides  :  appealing  less 
to  the  imagination  than  to  the  sensibiHties  and  the  understanding — ^loving 
to  triumph  by  involving  us  in  metaphysical  subtieties,  or  by  dissolving  us 
in  tears,  and  scarcely  ever  labouring  to  attain  the  great  object  of  the  other 
tis^dians,  a  representation  of  serene  beauty ; — a  mind  more  penetrating 
and  refined  than  exalted ;  holding  up  to  nature  a  mirror  rather  micro- 
scopic than  ennobling ;  intent  on  depicting  situations  the  most  cheerless 
and  externally  desolate^  so  that  "  Electra  appears  tottering  not  only  be- 
neath the  weight  of  affliction,  but  of  a  huge  pitcher  of  water ;  and  Mene- 
laus  momns  at  onee  the  mangled  honour  of  bis  wife  and  the  tattered  con- 


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30  Sir  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 

dition  of  his  garments.*^  To  the  same  Encyclopcddia^  Sir  Thomas  con- 
trihuted  the  notices  of  the  Lyric  Poets  of  Greece,  of  Thucydides,  sections 
of  the  history  of  Greece  and  of  Rome,  the  Arts  and  Sciences  of  the 
Ancients,  &c 

He  stood  well,  too,  on  the  once  brilliant  staff  of  the  London  Magazine^ 
that  bright-starred,  thickly-starred,  ill-starred  rival  of  Old  Ebony.  Re- 
membering how  noble  an  army  of  coadjutors  it  once  maintaiDed,  we  may 
well  concur  in  Hood*s  saying,  that  perhaps  no  ex-periodical  might  so  ap- 
propriately be  apostrophised  with  the  Irish  funeral  question,  "  Arran, 
honey,  why  did  you  die?"  "  Had  you  not,**  he  continues  (and  as  poor 
John  Scott's  successor  he  speaks  feelingly),  *^  an  editor,  and  elegant  prose 
writers,  and  beautiful  poets,  and  broths  of  boys  for  criticism  and  classics, 
and  wits  and  humorists, — Elia,  Gary,  Procter,  Cunningham,  Bowring, 
Barton,  Hazlitt,  Elton,  Hartley  Coleridge,  Talfourd,  Soane,  Horace 
Smith,  Reynolds,  Poole,  Clare,  and  Thomas  Benyon,  with  a  power  be- 
sides ?  Hadn't  you  Lions'  Heads  with  Traditional  Tales  ?  Hadn't  you 
an  Opium-eater,  and  a  Dwarf,  and  a  Giant,  and  a  learned  Lamb,  and  a 
Green  Man  ?  Arrah,  why  did  you  die  ?"*  To  that  longer-lived  Maga- 
zine which  the  reader  now  holds  in  his  hand,  was  Mr.  Talfourd  also  a 
steady  contributor;  and  he  has  amusingly  recorded  his  sense  of  the  utter 
unfitness  of  the  then  Editor  (Campbell)  for  his  office— alleging  that  he 
regarded  a  magazine  as  if  it  were  a  long  affidavit,  or  a  short  answer  in 
Chancery,  in  which  the  absolute  truth  of  every  sentiment  and  the  pro- 
priety of  every  jest  were  verified  by  the  editor's  oath  or  solemn  affirma- 
tion; that  he  stopped  the  press  for  a  week  at  a  comma,  balanced  con- 
tending epithets  for  a  fortnight,  and  at  last  grew  rash  in  his  despair,  and 
tossed  the  nearest,  and  often  the  worst  article,  "  unwhipp'd  of  justice,"  to 
the  impatient  printer.  Both  the  great  Quarterlies,  we  believe,  may  also 
claim  the  name  of  Talfourd  on  their  respective  lists  of  critical  allies. 

But  though  periodical  literature  had  provided  his  labours  with  a 
"local  habitation,"  a  "name"  of  prominent  import  and  illuminated 
letters  was  first  secured  to  him  by  the  production  of  **  Ion."  The  play 
was  privately  printed  in  1834,  and  reviewed  in  the  Quarterly ;  its  per- 
formance at  Covent  Garden  in  1836  was  one  of  the  memorabilia  of  the 
modern  stage.     Miss  Mitford  has  told  us  of  one  brilliant  gathering  con- 

*  Hood's  Own  (1846).  The  pathetic  Why  in  this  inquest  touching  the  "  dear 
deceased"  seems  to  find  its  answer  in  the  mismanagement  of  new  proprietors,  and 
the  falling  off  of  old  contributors.  Thus  we  read  in  a  letter  of  Lamb's  to  Words- 
worth (1822):  "Our  chief  reputed  assistants  have  forsaken  us.  The  Opium- 
eater  crossed  us  once  with  a  dazzling  path,  and  hath  as  suddenly  left  us  dark- 
ling:**—and  again,  to  Bernard  Barton  (1823J:  "  The  London,  I  fear,  falls  off.  I 
linger  among  its  creaking  rafters,  like  the  last  rat;  it  will  topple  down  if  they 
don't  get  some  buttresses.  They  have  pulled  down  three;  HazUtt,  Procter,  and 
their  best  stay,  kind,  light-hearted  Wainright,  their  Janus."  (Of  the  last  men- 
tioned [Janus  Weathercock],  Justice  Talfourd  disclosed  a  lamentable  history  in 
the  Final  Memorials.)  Thomas  Hood  thus  sketches  the  catastrophe  of  the  declin- 
ing Magazine:  "  Worst  of  all,  a  new  editor  tried  to  put  the  BeUes  Lettres  in  Utili- 
tarian envelopes;  whereupon  the  circulation  of  the  Miscellany,  like  that  of  poor 
Le  Fevre,  got  slower,  slower,  slower, — and  slower  still, — ^and  then  stopped  for 
ever!  It  was  a  sorry  scattering  of  those  old  Londoners!  Some  went  out  of  the 
country;  one  (Clare)  went  into  it.  Lamb  retreated  to Colebrooke.  Mr.  Gary  pre- 
sented himself  to  the  British  Museum.  Beynolds  and  Barry  took  to  engrossing 
when  they  should  pen  a  stanza;  and  Thomas  Benyon  gave  up  literature." 


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Sir  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd.  31 

g^'egated  to  watch  the  fortunes  of  the  tragedy  on  its  opening  night ; 
and  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  has  pictured  the  dazzUng  coup  dceil  of  the  theatre, 
where,  "  ever  and  aye,  hands,  stung  with  tear-thrilled  eyes,  snapping  the 
silence,*  burst  in  crashing  thunders" — and  where  the  proud,  glad- 
hearted  dramatist  might,  amid  thick-clustered  intellectual  bevies, 

see  his  high  compeers, 

Wordsworth  and  Lander— see  the  piled  array. 
The  many-visaged  heart,  looking  one  way, 
Come  to  drink  beauteous  truth  at  eyes  and  ears. 

Of  "  Ion  "  we  may  say,  as  its  author  has  said  of  the  "  Ion  "  of  Euri- 
pides, that  the  simplicity  and  reverence  inherent  in  the  mind  of  its  hero 
are  no  less  distinct  and  lovely  than  the  pictiu*e  of  the  scenery  with  which 
he  is  surrounded.  His  feelings  of  humble  gratitude  to  the  power  which 
has  protected  him — his  virtue  unspotted  from  the  world — and  his  cleaving 
to  the  sacred  seclusion  which  has  enwrapped  him  from  childhood,  are 
beautifully  drawn.  The  picture  seems  sky-tinctured,  of  an  ethereal 
purity  of  colouring.f     lon^s 

life  hath  flowed 

From  its  mysterious  urn  a  sacred  stream, 

In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 

Alone  are  mirror'd. 

Love  is  the  germ  of  his  mild  nature,  and  hitherto  the  love  of  others  hath 
made  his  life  one  cloudless  holiday.  But  a  curse  smites  the  city — ^pesti- 
lence stalks  there  by  noonday,  and  its  arrows  fly  by  night,  and  there  is 
not  a  house  in  which  there's  not  one  dead — 

*€v  y  6  wvpcfyopoi  0€os 
^Kiplras  cXauyct,  \oifios  ix^i-droSf  TroXii/.J 

And  with  this  crisis  in  the  history  of  Argos  opens  a  crisis  in  the  nature 
of  Ion — his  soul  responding  mysteriously  to  the  public  affliction,  and 
conscious  of  strange  connexion  with  it :  his  bearing  becomes  altered ; 
his  smile,  gracious  as  ever,  wears  unwonted  sorrow  in  its  sweetness ; 
"  his  form  appears  dilated  ;  in  those  eyes  where  pleasure  danced,  a 
thoughtful  sadness  dwells ;  stern  purpose  knits  the  forehead,  which  till 
now  knew  not  the  passing  wrinkle  of  a  care."  All  this  is  touchingly  and 
tenderly  brought  out ;  and  indeed  the  whole  tragedy  is  touching  and 
tender.  Beautiful  passages,  feelingly  thoughtful,  ana  in  a  dulcet  strain 
of  rhythmical  expression,  enrich  its  scenes.  But  that  it  has  massive 
power,  as  some  allege,  or  that  it  is  an  outburst  of  ardent  genius,  or  that 
it  is  true,  first  and  last,  to  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Greek  drama,  and  is 
indeed  the  one  solitary  and  peerless  specimen  in  modern  times  of  that 
wondrous  composition — when  we  hear  this  sort  of  thing  dogmatically  re- 
iterated, we  are  stolidly  infldel.  The  very  atmosphere  of  Attica,  is  it  ? — 
we  cannot  "swallow "  it,  then.     Byron  tells  us  how  John  Keats 

tvithout  Greek 

Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late. 

Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 

The  author  of  "  Ion,*'  with  Greek,  has  made  his  Argives  talk  as  the  real 
"  old  folks  "  may  be  supposed  not  to  have  talked.     Medon  and  Agenor, 

*  AH  this,  by  the  way,  is  rather  difficult  to  construe,  Mr.  Hunt. 
t  Tra^c  Poets  of  Greece.  J  (Edip.  Tyr.  27—8 

Sept, — ^voL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcm.  D 

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82  Sir  ThamoB  Noon  Talfourd. 

Ion  md  IrH9j  are  a  whit  too  good  to  be  true,  and  a  little  too  metrical, 
smooth,  and  p(^hed,  to  be  Tigorously  effeetiye.  We  will  not  go  so  £Eur  as 
to  assert  with  a  recent  writer  (famous  in  the  Anti^Church  and  State  cir- 
cuit, and  not  unknown  on  the  "  floor  of  The  House")  that  ancient  cirili- 
sation  not  only  exhibits  little  benevolence,  and  wants  tenderness,  but  also 
shows  none  of  die  healthier  moral  sensibilities — that  *'  it  is  not  humane — 
nor  can  it  be  pretended  that  the  most  intimate  conyerse  with  it  through 
the  medium  of  its  literature  tends  to  elicit  or  to  cultiyate  our  more 
.  generous  sympathies;"*  but  we  may  pretty  safely  ignore  in  the  venerable 
Argive  heathens  the  benevolence,  tenderness,  h^ll£y  moral  sensibilities, 
humanities,  and  generous  sjonpathies,  which  their  histrionic  doubles  on 
the  boards  of  Covent  Garden  displayed  so  winsomely.  Evidently  they 
haye  had  the  schoolmaster  abroad  and  the  missionary  among  them.  They 
have  been  handsomely  evangelised,  and  gone  through  the  curriculum  of  a 

Elite  education.  Ion  especially  is  good  and  wise  enough  to  deserve 
nefit  of  clergy,  whatever  parricidal  or  suicidal  fireak  he  may  indulge  in. 
He  has  plainly  read  the  Bible  and  the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  and  moulds 
his  manners  and  eloquence  accordingly.  But,  after  all,  it  ^oes  against  the 
grain  to  affect  levity  in  speaking  of  one  so  finely  and  dehcately  wrought 
as  this  royal  orphan  of  the  temple,  some  of  whose  words  so  penetrate  the 
soul.     Witness  his  logic  on  the  Immortality  of  man : 

Cle.  0  unkiud ! 

And  shall  we  never  see  each  other  ? 
Ion  {after  a  pause).  Yes  ! 

I  have  ask*d  that  dreadful  questioa  of  the  bills 

That  look  eternal ;  of  the  flowing  streams 

That  lucid  flow  for  ever ;  of  the  stars, 

Amid  whose  fields  of  azure  my  raised  spirit 

Hath  trod  in  glory ;  all  were  dumb  ;  but  now 

While  I  thus  gaze  upon  thy  living  face, 

I  feel  the  love  that  kindles  through  its  beauty 

Can  never  wholly  perish  ;  we  ihallmei^t 

Again,  Clemanthe ! 

Witness,  too,  his  description  of  love  triumphing  over  death  in  the 
plague-blighted  homes  of  Argos,  and  his  appeal  from  Adrtuiui  the 
ruthless  tyrant  to  AdrastuM  the  sportive  child,  and  his  compact  with  his 
old  playmate  Fhocion^  when  the  latter  would  ante-date  the  coming 
sacrifice.  The  framewcnrk  of  the  tragedy  is  not,  perhaps,  very  artfully 
constructed,  nor  the  exigencies  of  stage  effect  carefuUy  studied,  nor  the 
subordinate  actors  indivviualised  in  any  memorable  degree :  but,  on  the 
whole,  ''  Ion"  is  surely  a  fine  play,  and  a  moving — a  thing  of  beauty, 
mid  therefore  a  joy  for  ever.  Or  if  ^^  for  ever  "  will  not  stand  as  a  logioid 
sequent  to  such  an  aesthetic  and  Kcatsian  antecedent — if  literary  immor- 
tality be  too  infinite  a  conclusion  to  deduce  from  such  a  premise— 4et  us 
at  least  give  the  will,  which  is  penes  nos,  for  the  deed,  which  is  not ;  and 
take  up  our  parabole,  and  say,  in  eastemly  devoutness,  O  Ion,  live  for 
ever  !  and  may  thy  shadow  never  be  less ! 

''  The  Athenian  Ci^tive*'  is  thought  by  some,  in  the  face  of  that  stub- 
born thing,  fact,  to  be  a  better  acting  play  than  '<  Ion."  It  is  generally 
allowed  to  be  inferior  in  poetry  and  style.     Passages  and  lines  there  are, 

*  Bases  of  Belief.    By  Edward  Miall,  M.P.    P.  41— 2. 

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Sir  lYiomcts  Nom  Talfawrd.         j  99 

boweTer,  of  strength  and  beaaty — moce  than  most  barris^n  eoold  ^nd 
brains  and  time  to  insert  in  the  product  of  a  Christmas  yacation.  The 
description  d^  hmene^s  death  recals  that  of  Lady  Randolph  in  Home's 
now  unacted  drama  :  the  lines  that  tell  how  the  frenzied  queen,  at  the 
eanre's  month, 

Toss'd  her  arms 

Wildij  abroad ;  tiien  draw  tliem  to  her  breast, 

As  if  she  clasp*d  a  vision'd  infant  there — 

add  reflex  energy  and  padiof  to  her  own  fine  uttoance, 

Listen !  I  was  pluck'd 
From  the  small  pressure  of  an  only  babe  ; — 

and  her  destisy  is  wrooght  out  with  highly  impressive  art,  ''as  fits  a 
matron  of  heroic  line" — Ear  majestic  form  lost  fiaaUy  in  clouds  and  my#- 
t^y,  departed  like  (Edipui^  where  ncMie  may  follow  cur  inqaire*  TkooM 
dechunu  witii  glowing  rfaetone,  and  pl*yfl  the  high-souFd  warrior  ahnost 
grandty— cleaving  in  captinty  to  *'  the  loveliness,  the  m%ht,  the  hope  of 
Athens" — one  that  is  '^  foe  to  Con&th — not  a  traitw,  nor  one  to  league 
with  treason"— ^hose  bearing  and  qieech  under  the  pressare  of  thraldom 
are  shaped,  ''  with  a  difference,"  after  those  of  the  lultonic  Agonistes. — 
'^  Glencoe"  is  more  peremptorily  repudiated,  as  a  Highland  tragedy,  by 
Nort^  Britishers,  than  the  ''Athenian  Captive"  and  " Ion,"  as  Grtek  trag^ 
dies,  by  Bdilenising  Southrons.  Lord  Jeffirey  penmtted  it  to  be  inscribed 
to  hhn,  but  his  countrymen  protest  against  the  stage  massacre,  as  "  murder 
most  fiml  and  most  mmaturied,"  committed  on  their  unapproachable  terri- 
tory; so  perilous  is  it  to  meddle  with  the  national  property  of  a  people  cha- 
ractefised,  according  to  £3ia,  by  such  "  Imperfect  Sympathies"  with  the 
rstiseale  of  homage  ab  exirit.  Thus,  one  Edinburgh  critic — Professor 
Aytom,  was  it  not  ? — was  sp<dcesHiaa  for  a  phalanx  <^  others,  all  armed 
to  the  teeth,  when  he  declared  that  a  more  lamentaUe  failure  thaa  this 
attempt  to  found  a  tragedy  on  the  woful  massacre  of  Glencoe — "  a  grosser 
jumUe  of  nonsense  ab^t  ancestry  and  diieftainshq»" — ^was  never  perpe- 
trated. As  though  even  in  Glencoe's  ashes  lived  their  wonted  fires, — 
nemo  me  in^fmne  laoessethemg  practically  syBOoymous  with  fwU  me  tan- 
gere — for  "  off  at  a  tangent*  m  the  tenderest  quality  flies  the  genus  tm- 
tabUsj  and  "  take  that,  you  pock-pudding  I"  (illustrated  by  the  adminis- 
tration of  a  "  conker")  is  the  reward  of  any  such  "  ordeal  by  touch."  We 
fear  that  had  this  particular  tragedy  been  a  stage  triumph,  it  would  have 
been  "damned*'  with  something  else  than  "£unt  praise,"  across  the 
Tweed.  But  even  sturdy  Cis-Tweedites  are  constriuned  to  own  that 
"  Glencoe"  is  flat  and  feeble,  and  that  no  mountain  breeze  freshens  it,  no 
mountain  cataract  chants  a  wild  obligato  to  the  stem  theme,  no  swelling 
pibroch  utters  its  wail,  no  heather-legged  son  of  somebody  diows  us 
where  we  are,  to  the  oblivion  of  an  accomplished  Londoner  in  his  study, 
inspired  by  Macready  as  model  of  Celtic  heroism,  and  content  with  the 
stage  of  the  Little  Theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  as  a  tolerable  approxima- 
tion to  the  romantic  fastness  of  the  Macdonalds. 

Thus,  by  public  judgment,  both  from  the  closet  and  from  the  play- 
house, Sir  Thomas  Talfourd's  second  dramatic  venture  was  pronounced  a 
decline  from  the  first,  and  still  more  decidedly  the  third  from  the  second. 

d2 

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34  Sir  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd. 

He  18  said  to  have  now  **  on  the  stocks"  another  tragedy,  which  we  hope 
to  g^eet  as  an  emphatic  reaction  from  this  scale  of  descents.  May  it 
take  precedence  as  unquestioned  of  the  existing  trilogy,  as  Mr.  Justice 
on  the  bench  does  of  Mr.  Serjeant  at  the  bar. 

In  his  "  Vacation  Rambles'*  we  find  the  hearty  glee  of  a  fagged  counsel 
at  escaping  from  work,  not  indeed  to  take  his  ease  at  his  inn,  but  to  bustle 
about  guiltless  of  horsehair  coronal  and  defiant  of  common  law— steam- 
ing from  Havre  to  Houen,  whizzing  along  the  St.  Germain  Railway, 
playing  the  gourmand  at  Meurice's,  and  the  critic  at  the  Parisian  theatres 
and  the  galleries  of  the  Louvre,  pUgrimising  to  Geneva  and  the  Alps — 
Mont  Blanc  reminding  him,  as  he  saw  it,  of  ^*  nothing  so  much  in  nature 
or  art  as  a  gigantic  twelfth-cake,  which  a  scapegrace  of  Titan's  *  enor- 
mous brood,'  or  *■  younger  Saturn,'  had  cut  out  and  slashed  with  wild 
irregularity."  His  frank  expression  of  so  unsentimental  a  thought,  is  one 
characteristic  of  this  book  of  rambles ;  another  is,  the  zest  with  which  he  so 
frequently  records  his  appreciation  of  creature-comforts — such  as  the  "we 
sat  down  to  an  excellent  breakfast,"  on  "  a  large  cold  roast  fowl,  broiled 
ham,  eggs,  excellent  coffee,  and  a  bottle  of  good  Rhenish,"  followed 
"  about  two  o'clock"  by  an  "  admirably  dressed  Tittle  dinner,"  made  up  of 
"  a  thin  beefsteak,  thoroughly  broiled  (or  fried,  as  the  case  might  be), 
with  a  sauce  of  parsley  and  butter,  and  a  cold  cream-chicken-salad,  &e., 
&c.,"  "  accompanied  by  a  bottle  of  Asmanshauser  wine."  Even  in  the 
family  bivouac  at  the  Grands  Mulcts,  we  are  conducted  through  the  de- 
tails of  the  dinner,  joyously  protracted  **  till  it  merged  in  supper"  — 
though  the  Head  of  the  Family  feelingly  says,  "  I  regret  to  confess  that 
I  could  not  eat  much  myself ;  but  I  looked  with  a  pleasure  akin  to  that 
with  which  the  French  king  watched  the  breakfast  of  Quentin  Durward, 
on  the  activity  of  my  younger  friends" — who  with  Homeric  intensity 
tore  asunder  the  devoted  chickens,  and  left  the  bones  there,  to  be  matter 
of  speculation  to  aspiring  geologists  and  scientific  associations  in  friture 


The  "  Life  and  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb,"  and  the  "  Final  Memorials," 
are  household  treasures.  Exception  may  be  taken  to  occasional  passages 
— but  the  net  result  is  delightful,  as  every  memorial  of  Elia  must  be — 
that  *^  cordial  old  man,"  whose  lot  it  was  to 

— leave  behind  him,  freed  from  griefe  and  years, 

Far  worthier  things  than  tears.* 
The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe : 

Unequalled  lot  below ! 

♦  Addressed  by  Mr.  Lander  to  "  The  Sister  of  Elia** — ^whom,  mourning,  he 
would  fain  comfort  with  the  reminder — "  yet  awhile !  again  shall  Elia's  smile 
refresh  thy  heart,  where  heart  can  ache  no  more." 


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(    35     ) 


A  MONTH  AT  VICHY. 


^*  Where  shall  we  go  this  autamn  ?"  we  hear  some  hypochondriacal 
head  of  a  fsunily  say ;  ''  I  am  tired  of  Baden.  Hombm*f|^  md  me  no  good. 
The  emperor  has  given  np  his  intended  visit  to  the  Eaux  Bonnes  and 
Bagnerre.  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  Spa  are  gone  by  !"  "  Try  Vichy,"  we 
answer  ;  '^  the  efficacy  of  its  waters,  the  picturesque  and  sanitary  advan- 
tages of  the  site,  and  its  resources  as  a  water-drinking  and  bathing-place, 
are  £Eur  from  generally  known  in  this  country,  and  are  still  less  gene- 
rally appreciated." 

Vichy  and  its  neighbourhood  constitute  a  real  basin  of  mineral  waters. 
There  are  at  Vichy  itself  no  less  than  seven  different  springs — all  effer- 
vescing with  an  excess  of  carbonic  acid,  all  more  or  less  thermal  and 
alkaline,  and  all  more  or  less  ferruginous  and  tonic  at  the  same  time. 
The  medical  qualities  of  these  springs  vary  much  with  one  another,  but 
they  are  all  exceedingly  comprehensive.  They  contain  an  average  of 
from  4  to  5  grains  (4*98 14  to  5*3^40)  of  carbonate  of  soda  to  the  quart, 
besides  smaller  proportions  of  carbonates  of  lime  and  magnesia,  some 
common  salt  and  sulphate  of  soda,  and  sufficient  iron  to  tone  down  the 
whole.  Hence  the  importance  of  these  waters,  more  especially  the  spring 
of  the  Celestins,  to  the  dyspeptic,  the  rheumatic,  the  gouty,  and  the 
calculous.  Let  such  by  all  means  try  the  waters  of  Auvergne,  if  only  for 
one  season.     They  will  not  repent  the  experiment. 

A  pleasanter  spot  than  Vichy  can  scarcely  be  imagined.  The  town 
itself  is,  like  Boulogne,  composed  of  two  distinct  parts  :  one  with  great 
old  houses  and  narrow,  irregular  streets,  its  long  dark  roofs  overtopped 
b^  an  old  feudal  tower :  the  other,  of  modem  construction,  light  and 
any,  with  straight,  wide  streets,  handsome  and  commodious  public  edifices, 
and  hotels  that  rival  in  convenience  and  splendour  the  best  in  the  valley 
of  the  Rhine^  the  whole  backed  by  a  handsome  park,  a  gift  of  Napoleon, 
made  from  the  backwoods  of  Lithuania.  Vichy  stands  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  AUier,  a  tributary  to  the  Loire— /a  jolie  riviere  cTAttier,  as 
Madame  de  Sevign6  justly  designated  it— close  to  its  junction  with  the 
smaUer  Sichon,  and  not  far  from  the  old  town  of  Cusset,  celebrated  in  the 
religious  wars  of  France. 

And  Vichy  itself,  standing  as  it  does  in  advance  of  Auvergne,  its 
bridge  being  the  key  to  the  central  highlands  of  France,  is  a  site  not  void 
of  historicad  importance.  It  was  first  fortified  by  Louis  XL,  Duke  of 
Bourbon,  about  1410;  but  of  its  three  gates  every  vestige  has  disap- 
peared, and  of  its  seven  towers  only  one  remains.  That  one  has  some 
chance  of  stability,  not  because  the  tricolored  flag  waves  from  its  sum- 
mit, but  because  it  supports  the  municipal  clock.  Vichy  was  besieged 
by  Charles  VIL  in  1440,  during  the  civil  wars  called  De  la  Praguerie, 
because  the  then  prevalent  heresy  was  an  offset  of  the  Hussite  movement 
at  Prague.  Considering  discretion  the  better  part  of  valour,  the 
Vichites  surrendered  without  striking  a  blow,  only  bargaining  that  they 
should  neither  be  pillaged  nor  murdered.  The  town  was  destined  to 
suffisr  again  from  religious  dissensions.  In  1568  the  Protestants  took 
the  city,  and  broke  down  the  bridge  on  their  way  to  the  plains  of  Cognac, 
renowned  for  stronger  waters  than  those  of  Vichy,  and  where  they 

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36  A  Month  at  Vichy. 

administered  a  signal  drubbing  to  tbeir  Roman  Catholic  brethren.  The 
Prince  Palatine,  going  to  the  help  of  the  Protestants  in  1576,  also  took 
possession  of  this  pass  on  the  Allier,  and  Vichy  had  to  undergo  a  real 
aege^  and  saffer  from  a  potitive  caanoiiade,  when  recaptured  bv  the  Grand 
Prior  of  Franee  in  1590.  Stidi  are  iiie  chief  erentt  of  its  history,  mod 
tiiey  mw  ^te  tafficfent,  wi^  the  loeai  interest  of  its  ocmvent,  to  unrest 
the  plaiee  with  claims  to  respeet  ircnai  the  contemfdative  Taletudkttnan. 

The  eoQTient  or  monastery  of  Cd^tnis  here  aUuded  to  was  founded  hj 
Loais  XL  in  1410^  who,  it  is  sa[^osed,  intended  to  retire  to  this  fau 
Isfoorite  spot.  As  it  enjoyed  the  privileges  of  an  inriolahle  |^ace  of 
refuge,  all  the  rich  and  noble  families  of  the  neighbouffaood,  as  the 
BocdiMns  Caieneey,  the  Laiayettes,  and  others,  son^  a  last  heme 
widML  its  waUs.  The  monks  hed  ako  the  monopoly  of  the  waters,  snd 
M  they  gave  ^Iter  to  invalided  clergy  and  abhe^  they  soon  became 
immeiisdy  rich,  which  eiqKMsed  them  to  the  perilons  Imqimies  of  an  oeea- 
sional  sacking ;  bat  stiM  the  place  flourished  under  monkish  pnto>nage 
tiUtibe  year  1774,  when  Louis  XV.  suppressed  the  eonvent,  of  whsok 
tiiote  now  only  remains  a  few  insignificant  fragments :  the  hist  of  tiie 
Celestins  is  said  to  have  died  in  1802.  A  Inlliard-room  and  saloon  new 
occupy  a  portion  of  the  nte.  There  W9&  also  a  oonrent  of  CiqracfauH^ 
who  tendered  to  the  infirmities  of  llieir  brethren,  uid  the  remains  of  their 
Monastery  are  now  used  as  the  bottling  department.  The  other  lelkse 
in  old  Vichy  are  the  FontatMe  des  Tnns  Comets,  which  bears  tJse  date 
of  1583,  and  presents  to  the  eye  a  triangular  oolamn  tsi  exquisite  Mgfa^ 
ness,  terminated  by  a  cross,  weU  browned  by  ihe  lapse  of  ages ;  the 
dmrch  of  Satat  Blaise,  adoroed  widi  curious  paintings,  ckefd^oBUvroM 
of  some  genius,  appreciated  apparently  by  the  good  pec^le  of  Vidbyv  h«t 
mcomprehensible  to  ^  rest  of  the  workL  Within  ^  <^  town  are  ako 
8i»)wn  the  rooms  tenanted  by  Madame  de  Serign^,  and  by  Fledder,  iha 
panegyrist  of  Turenne,  who  wrote  of  Vichy : 

Je  n*estimerais  pas  un  cbou, 
Le  paysage  de  Saiot-Ctoud, 
Non  pkis  que  ceiui  de  Sur^ne, 
Arrofi6  des  eauz  de  la  Seine ; 
£t  qui  vaote  Montmorenci, 
Se  tairait  s'il  eut  vu  ceci. 

The  c<»npeaison  of  Sunt-Cloud  to  a  cabbage  is  not  yery  dignified ;  but 
something  must  be  allowed,  as  has  been  done  to  Gaihe  poets  of  greater 
renown  than  Iteehier,  for  the  necesnties  of  rhyme.  Madame  de  Sevign^ 
writing  to  her  daughter,  Madame  de  Grignau,  aftier  extolling  the  beauties 
of  the  place,  says  :  '^  I  took  the  waters  thb  morning,  dearest— oh  \  ara 
they  net  bad?  People  go  at  six  in  the  morning  to  the  fbnntun;  every- 
body goes  there.  They  drink  away,  and  make  wry  fiices ;  for  yo«  maist 
know  that  they  are  boiling  hot,  and  have  a  most  disagreeable  taste  of 
sahfetre.  Inen  they  turn,  and  go  and  come,  and  attend  mase  om  rend 
MB  eamxy  on  parle  cor^dentieUement  de  la  mamere  dont  on  k$  rend. 
This  is  4he  only  subject  of  conyersstion  till  mid-day.  Then  they  dine; 
alt^  dinner  somebody  receives— to*day  k  was  mj  turn.  Young  kdtea 
of  the  place  come,  who  dance  ia  bourree  in  perfection.  Tlie  gipteys  also 
pttt  £orw9id  their  clsums  to  admiration.  They  g^  through  oectain 
I  (depognades),  which  the  priests  <kdare  to  be  ohjectbnahie.  At 

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A  Month  at  Vkky.  i1 

fi^e  o'doek  all  go  and  walk  in  tbia  deliooui  coantry,  at  seren  a  light 
sapper,  and  at  ten  to  bed.'' 

Madame  de  Sevign^  admired  the  baurrSes,  or  dances  of  the  oountiyj, 
Yery  much«  In  another  letter  she  wrote  *.  *^  There  are  very  pretty  womett 
here ;  they  danced  yesterday  the  baurrees  of  the  country,  which  are  the 
pvetfciest  in  the  workL  There  was  one  great  fellow  disguised  as  a  woman, 
who  amused  me  much,  for  his  petticoats  were  always  im,  iisfAmng  his 
great  legs/'  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  manners  have  unproved  in  New 
Vichy  which  did  not  exist  at  that  time.  The  use  oi  the  douche  has  no 
douhty  at  the  same  time,  increased,  as  extreme  hydropathic  measures  are 
the  passion  of  Ae  day.  Madame  de  Sevigne  tried  the  douche  in  her 
time,  and  declared  it  to  be  ^'  a  pretty  good  rehearsal  of  purgatoay/' 

In  1787,  Mesdames  Adelaide  and  Yietoire  de  France,  having  repaired 
to  Vichy  fbr  the  benefit  of  their  health,  many  ameliorations  in  the  edifices 
connected  with  the  baths,  and  in  the  general  arrangements,  took  place^. 
Napolecm  added  the  park,  but  the  Duehess  of  Angoul^me  laid  the  first 
stone  of  the  existing  establishment,  which  was  erected  chiefly  dirough  h&B 
exertions.  In  1821,  Madame  Adelaide  d'Orleans,  aeteat  of  Louis  Piulipp^ 
purchased  the  neighbouring  chateau  of  Bandan,  and  erected  the  little 
Caudal  hunting-hox  of  Maumont  for  her  n^hews,  the  Prince  de  Jcnn- 
vflle  and  the  Duke  of  Montpensier,  the  latter  of  whom  inherited  the  pro^ 
perty,  which  passed  with  the  ReTolution  into  the  hands  of  a  public  com* 
missary.  Lastly,  in  1846,  M.  Cunin  Gridaine,  at  that  time  Minister  oC 
Commerce,  and  one  of  the  most  regular  frequenters  of  Vichy,  added  coa- 
sideraUy  to  the  capalulities  oi  the  place,  which  he  at  <mce  enlarged  aod 
embellished,  and  at  the  same  time  thought  it  more  closely  under  the 
control  of  government. 

There  are  now  five  first-rate  hotels,  the  prices  at  which,  £w  the  day's 
board  and  lodgii^,  vary  firom  eight  to  twelve  franes^  to  wUch  must  be 
added  ten  sous  for  attendance.  Th^:e  is  one  hotel  (Montaret)  at  from 
eight  to  ten  francs ;  another  (Burnol)  at  from  six  to  e^t  Thme  are 
two  at  the  fiixed  price  of  six  fruncs  per  diem,  and  nine  at  five  francs.  It 
would  be  thought  that  this  was  plenty  of  accommodation,  but  it  is  &r 
from  sufficing  for  the  hosts  that  rush  to  a  spot  as  much  frequented  for 
recr^tion  as  for  health  dinring  the  height  of  the  season.  At  such  times 
it  is  often  difficult  to  obtain  a  bed,  and  as  difficult  to  get  a  bath.  There 
are,  however,  plenty  oi  lodging-houses  in  boA  the  old  and  the  new  town. 
La  Bob  des  Thermes  is  the  select  street.  A  lodger  is  admitted  to  the 
hon(»izB  of  the  table  ethoie  and  the  saloon  till  successive  departures  shall 
have  conferred  upon  him  the  rights  and  privileges  of  a  reg^ukr  menyber 
of  the  culinary  establiriiment. 

The  stranger  is  expected,  on  arriving  at  Vichy,  to  visit  Dr.  PmndUe, 
the  mspector  of  the  waters,  or  Dr.  Petit,  assistant  inspected:  These 
official  disciples  of  Galen  are,  as  is  generally  the  case,  at  utter  variance 
with  <me  another^  but  that,  as  far  as  we  can  gather,  upon  only  one  point. 
Both  agree  as  to  the  efficacy  of  the  Cdestin  source  in  eases  of  gout,  and 
in  calculous  disorders,  but  Dr.  Petit  also  insists  upon  the  waters  being  o£ 
use  in  articular  gout,  even  if  hereditary.  Considering  the  alkaline  cha- 
racter of  the  said  waters,  there  is  reason  to  bdieve  that  Dr.  Petit  is  in 
the  right     He  is  also  c(m8idered  as  the  most  scientific  of  the  two.    Be 


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38  A  Month  at  Vicky. 

this  as  it  may,  so  great  is  the  acrimony  of  the  gouty  question,  that 
according  as  the  visitor  places  himself  under  one  banner,  he  may  expect  a 
proportionate  amount  of  hostility  from  the  followers  of  the  other.  Luckily 
all  are  not  gouty  patients  at  Vichy,  as  the  perpetual  succession  of  music 
and  dancing  will  soon  attest  to  the  most  determined  hypochondriac. 

An  order  for  the  baths  having  been  duly  obtained  from  one  of  these 
rival  doctors,  the  stranger  repairs  to  the  grand  etablissement  thermal^  as 
it  is  called,  where  he  is  introduced,  at  the  bottom  of  the  corridor,  to  a  fat 
and  fresh-looking  personage,  with  a  happy  physiognomy,  whose  words 
are  listened  to  by  candidates  for  bathing  as  if  pronounced  by  the  Delphic 
oracle.  This  is  the  chief  bather,  the  amiable  Mr.  Prin,  who  after  having 
inscribed  in  a  register  your  name,  surname,  and  qualities,  announces  with 
great  regret  that  all  the  baths  are  preoccupied,  but  that  in  a  few  days 
your  turn  to  have  one  at  the  hour  you  may  wish  for  will  inevitably  come 
round.  In  the  mean  time  you  are  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  taking 
advantage  of  want  of  punctuality  on  the  part  of  some  titled  bathers,  or  to 
get  up  some  time  before  daylight — for  at  Vichy,  phantoms  light  as  sylphs 
are  seen  in  the  mysterious  alleys  of  the  parks  wending  their  way  to  the 
baths  at  the  very  first  break  of  day.  Others  repair  to  the  springs,  and  the 
crowd  of  old  and  young  men,  of  women  and  girls,  some  pale  and  sickly- 
looking,  who  go,  tumbler  in  hand,  from  one  spring  to  another,  drinking 
every  quarter  of  an  hour  the  quantity  that  is  prescribed  for  them,  presents 
a  curious  spectacle.  A  lively  Frenchman  remarked  that  it  would  be  a 
little  more  encouraging  to  the  bibulous  visitors  if  the  dispensers  of  fluids, 
the  naiads  of  the  spot,  were  metamorphosed  from  ugly  old  women,  as 
they  really  are,  into  young  and  fresh  Bourbonaises,  whose  coquettish  hats 
are  their  least  ornament. 

At  ten  o'clock  precisely  breakfjist  is  proclaimed  by  the  bells  of  all  the 
hotels,  whose  deafening  peal  is  far  from  being  as  harmonious  as  those 
rung  by  the  churches  of  Liege  or  of  M  alines.  The  appetite,  sharpened 
by  the  waters,  the  morning  air,  and  a  long  walk,  this  signal  is  generally 
anxiously  waited  for,  and  every  one  takes  his  place  at  the  immense  table 
d'hdtes  with  military  precision,  the  rule  being,  as  elsewhere,  that  the  last 
comer  occupies  the  end  of  the  table*  If  little  is  said,  so  much  the  more 
is  eaten — often,  indeed,  a  little  more  than  is  prescribed  by  the  doctors. 

After  breakfast,  the  habitue  fait  une  demi  toilette,  and  then  adjourns 
to  the  saloon  of  the  hotel,  where  ladies,  politicians,  and  the  infirm,  assem- 
ble together  to  read  the  newspapers,  talk  of  the  weather,  or  of  one 
another.  The  dealers  in  lace  from  Clermont  and  Puy  de  Dome  also  pay 
diurnal  visits,  and  afford  a  subject  for  conversation  to  the  ladies.  There 
are  tables  for  Wisth  and  Boston,  and  above  all  there  is  music.  At  Vichy 
there  are  pianos  everywhere,  and  perpetual  concerts.  Violins,  flute,  key- 
bugles,  pianos,  and  voices  are  always  at  work,  and  many  are  driven  away 
by  the  din  to  the  billiard-room  or  the  park. 

But  there  are  other  matutinal  resources  at  Vichy,  and  there  are  pic- 
turesque excursions,  which  are  accomplished  by  means  of  carriages  which 
never  fail  to  be  in  attendance  after  breakfast,  and  still  more  commonly  by 
means  of  the  modest  steed  of  Balaam,  which  is  kept  in  great  order,  and 
is  in  great  requisition  at  Vichy. 

At  five  o'clock  the  dinner-bell  collects  together  the  scattered  popula- 


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A  Month  at  Vichy.  39 

tion  as  if  hy  enchantment,  and  many  bring  from  Randan,  Busset,  or 
£ffiat,  appetites  that  would  throw  the  purveyors  into  despair,  if  it  was  not 
that  they  were  accustomed  to  these  daily  razzias. 

Af^er  dinner  another  petite  toilette  is  made,  followed  hy  a  walk  in  the 
park,  and  a  cigar.  This  park  is  a  true  French  garden,  with  straight 
walks  and  a  central  hasin,  and  chairs  are  placed  under  the  shady  avenues 
as  in  the  Tuileries.  The  crowd,  among  whom  are  to  be  observed  groups 
from  perfidious  Albion,  a  few  Spaniards,  and  an  occasional  Russian,  is 
chiefly  composed  of  French  provincials,  with  a  sprinkling  of  Parisians — 
elegantes  et  lionSy  as  the  latter  designate  themselves — and  after  walking, 
talking,  and  sitting  till  darkness  comes  on,  they  go  away  to  another 
toilette  previous  to  the  ball,  which  takes  place  Sundays  and  Thursdays  at 
the  grand  etablissement  On  other  days,  the  band  of  the  Strauss  of 
Vichy  plays  from  eight  to  ten  o*clock.  This  from  the  1st  of  June  to  the 
1st  of  September.  There  are  also  frequent  subscription  balls  given  at 
the  hotels. 

The  so^salled  grand  etablissement  thermal^  it  is  but  just  to  say,  is 
worthy  of  the  renown  and  the  prosperity  of  Vichy.  The  bathing  cabinets, 
decorated  with  tiles  of  painted  porcelain,  and  adorned  with  mirrors,  are 
alike  clean,  comfortable,  and  ornamental.  There  is  a  fa9ade  of  seven- 
teen arches,  crowned  with  a  monumental  clock,  an  immense  corridor, 
biHiard-room,  reading  and  card-rooms,  and  a  vast  rotunda,  which  is  used 
as  the  concert  and  ball-room.  Needless  to  say  that  all  this  magnificence 
and  all  this  luiLury  would  still  be  dull  and  inanimate  if  the  baton  of 
Strauss  of  Vichy  did  not,  like  that  of  his  namesake  on  the  Danube,  and 
of  JuUien  on  the  Thames,  impart  to  it  movement  and  life. 

One  of  the  most  frequented  and  most  agreeable  walks  near  Vichy  is 
that  of  the  C6te  Saint- Amaud.  The  lower  part  of  the  slope  is  clothed 
with  vineyards,  and  a  magnificent  prospect  is  obtained  from  the  crest  At 
Hauterive,  about  five  miles  from  Vichy,  there  are  alkaline  springs,  from 
which  carbonate  of  soda  is  derived  by  a  simple  process.  The  nfsA  to 
these  springs  lies  along  the  banks  of  the  Allier,  past  the  old  Chateau 
d'Abret,  to  a  ferry  worthy  only  of  Mohicans,  and  thence  by  a  sandy  shore 
to  the  village  of  Hauterive. 

A  peculiarly  wild,  rocky,  and  picturesque  road  leads  from  Saint  Yon, 
a  hamlet  on  the  road  to  Nismes,  to  the  village  and  Ch&teau  de  Busset, 
which,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  belonged  to  the  powerful  house  of 
Vichy,  then  to  that  of  Allegre,  and,  lastly,  to  that  of  Bom*bon  Busset, 
one  of  the  members  of  which,  Peter  of  Bourbon,  married  Margaret  d' Al- 
legro. This  branch  of  the  house  of  Bourbon  had  for  its  originator  Louis 
of  Bourbon,  son  of  Charles,  firA  Duke  of  Bourbon,  who,  although  Bishop 
of  Liege,  was  not  the  less  induced  to  take  a  widow  of  the  Duke  of 
Gttddres  in  marnage,  which  irregular  proceeding  was  afterwards  legiti- 
matised  by  Louis  XIII. 

Randan  is,  however,  the  great  gun  of  Vichy.  To  see  Randan  is  a 
thing  indispensable  to  every  water-drinker  who  respects  himself.  In  the 
language  of  the  local  table  (ThdteSy  to  say  that  you  have  been  to  Vichy 
and  not  to  Randan,  is  to  say  that  you  are  a  CrStin.  An  excur»on  to 
Randan  is  got  up  with  great  solemnity.  To  our  lively  neighbours  even 
the  picturesque  is  dull  without  company — so  Randan  is  visited  in  crowds; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


40  A  Mmith  at  Vtdty. 

tilbvurys,  chariots,  onmibuges,  and  donkeys,  are  oilisied  on  the  oceasion, 
the  wat«r-drinkera  hvny  over  their  raatntinal  doses,  and  all  Vichy  is 
agitated  and  excited. 

This  country  mansion  bdonged,  we  hare  before  said,  to  Madame  Ade- 
hude,  is  a  modcam  building,  mod^tly  but  ekgantly  furnished,  with  a  col* 
lection  of  curiosities,  part  brought  by  the  Prince  de  JmnviUe  firom  the 
Cananes  and  Braiil^  part  by  Lord  Bentinck  from  India^  and  part  pre- 
sented by  Abd  al  Kader  and  Reshid  Pasha.  The  grounds  ace  mudk 
broken  up  and  divecs^edy  and  t^  view  firom  the  terraces  and  shady 
avMiues  is  Tery  striking  and  extensive.  This  modem  building  roae, 
however,  upon  the  ruins  of  a  feudal  chateau  oi  some  historical  int@!est, 
and  cl  a  stiU  more  aneamt  monast^,  much  oelebn^ed  in  its  time  for  its 
Sft¥ere  dkciplinc^  as  attested  by  the  fi>llowiug  tradition  related  by  Gre- 
gory of  Tours : 

^'  A  young  man  anrivedone  day  at  the  monastery,  and  presented  him- 
self to  the  abbot,  with  a  request  to  be  allowed  to  devote  himsdf  to  th* 
service  of  God.  The  abbot  endeavoured  to  dissuade  him  hoax  his  pur- 
pose, telling  him  that  the  rules  of  the  establislmient  were  vary  severe, 
and  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  accompli^  all  that  would  be  required 
of  him.  The  youth  promised,  however,  with  the  help  of  God,  to  aceoaa- 
plish  aU  that  should  be  asked  of  him,  and  so  he  was  adn^tted.  A  iew 
days  aftorwards,  when  he  had  already  made  himself  remarkable  for  hi« 
sanctity  and  devotion,  the  monks  hsd  occasion  to  put  out  a  large  qpan." 
iaiy  of  com  to  dry  in  the  sun,  and  the  novice  was  set  over  it  U>  keep 
watch. 

^<  Suddenly  the  heavens  were  daricened  with  douds,  and  a  heftvy  rain, 
with  the  noise  <^  a  roaring  wind,  was  heard  n^pidly  f^proaching.  The 
mcmk  seeing  this,  was  mi^  embarrassed  what  to  do,  £or  he  thoi^ght  that 
if  he  ran  away  ta  call  tiie  others,  thare  was  so  mudi  com  that  they  could 
never  get  it  safs  into  the  bam.  So  giving  up  all  chance  <^  escape,  he 
sat  about  devoutly  praying  to  God  imk  not  a  drop  of  rain  should  £dl 
upon  the  monks*  wheat  and  barley.  While  he  was  thus  engaged  in 
prayer  the  clouds  opened,  and  the  rain  poured  in  tcHT^Eits  all  around  the 
com,  without  wetting  a  single  grain  of  it. 

^^  The  other  monks  and  ^  abbot  having  hastened  in  great  tref^dation 
to  the  spot,  in  carder  to  save  aa  mnch  of  tiie  com  as  possible,  they  became 
witoesses  ef  this  mirad^  and  seeking  itxt  the  watch»,  they  found  hisa 
pwistinta  on  the  ground,  bunly  engs^ed  in  prayer.  The  aU>ot  sedi^ 
tills,  kndt  b^ind  him  and  joined  in  prayer ;  but  the  rain  having  gone 
by,  he  called  the  novice  to  him,  aad  ordered  tiiat  he  diould  b^  well 
flogged,  sajnng,  '  My  son,  it  is  fitting  and  proper  tiiat  you  should  grow 
up  humbly  in  the  fear  and  reverence  dP  God,  and  not  gloryTy  yourself  hif^ 
die  perfimnainee  of  prodigies  and  mirades  ;  and  it  is  further  enjoined  to 
you,  tiiat  after  tiie  said  wholesome  discipline  which  has  been  prescribed 
£>r  you,  that  you  shall  be  further  confined  to  your  cell  for  a  week,  and 
that  you  shidl  there  keep  fast,  so  as  tiae  more  cfectuftlly  to  prevent  what 
has  taken,  place  engendering  any  vaii^^ry  in  your  mind,  gs  creating 
otiier  obstacles  to  the  practices  of  virtue.' " 

It  is  quite  evid^it  that  the  abbot  did  not  intend  that  any  one  should 
perfoim  mixades  ai  Bandan  except  himself.     As  to  tiie  medieval  castle> 


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A  Mmih  at  Vichy.  41 

after  bong  a  long  time  in  poisenum  of  the  feudal  kwds  of  Randui,  it 
paifed  into  the  hand  of  tbe  Polig;nae8,  and  in  1518  into  that  of  tito 
liSrodiefiMMaalds,  one  ^  whose  members,  Francois,  Prtnee  of  MaiciOa^ 
irodded  An^e  of  Polignac,  widow  of  Co»it  de  Saneerre^  kiHed  at  the 
battle  of  Marignan.  It  was  this  lady  who,  accoiding  to  the  chfoaiclei  of 
the  di^,  reeei^  the  nightly  visits  of  the  Cherafier  Bayard. 

Tke  Chftteaa  d'££fiat,  in  die  same  neighboiffhood,  is  s^i  ridier  in 
artistic  raeniorials  and  hbtorieal  reminisoenees  than  Randan.  Here  a 
monumental  gsteway,  bening  the  arms  of  the  Effiat  family,  and  of  the 
time  of  Louis  XIV.,  leads  ih»  way  past  the  now  usdess  ditdi  into  a  vast 
ooort-yard,  in  die  centie  <^  which  stands  the  chateau,  a  strange  groop  of 
boildings  in  ail  ^  yarioos  series  of  arditteeture  tliat  haye  socoeeded  to 
ono  anodier  for  tbe  last  two  oenturies.  Witlun,  however,  are  hals  widi 
painted  glass;  saloons  with  roo£i  diyernfied  by  exqmeite  carved  wood- 
work asM  ardbesqne  paintings ;  tapestries  illustrative  of  the  lustory  of 
2>Mi  Qoizote  ;  tro  paiadin  Roland ;  arm-chairs  and  so&s  of  ^  time  of 
Loub  Xiy.,  with  pastond  scenes  painted  on  their  backs;  no  end  of 
gydiag,  painting,  medidfioos,  scoiptnres,  carvings,  and  tapestry,  mie 
principal  rooms  are  the  saloon,  the  $dUe  des  gardes^  and  tiie  ektun^frt  de$ 
e^Squei;  but  the  most  curious  is  the  bedroom  of  tiie  Mar^id  d'Effiat, 
whi^  is  religiously  preserved  as  it  existed  two  centuries  ago.  There  is 
the  great  s^pare  bed  of  the  old  governor,  with  crimson  sUc  and  velvet 
curtains,  bmered  widi  gold  and  silver,  and  bi^kn!^  by  four-cohtnns 
sonMOunted  by  leathers;  great  diurs,  with  backs  enriched  with 
esentx^eons,  wrought  in  gold  and  silver  ;  tapestry,  wi^  animated  hunt- 
ing scenes,  in  adimrable  preservation,  yot  in  costumes,  and  painted  wt^ 
a  disregard  of  perfective,  that  remind  one  only  of  tlie  Gennan  Gothic 
school 

Although  &e  ChUtean  dIBffiat  existed  in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenA  cen- 
tunr,  it  r^idly  ow«a  its  celebrity  to  Antoine  Coifller,  tUuiS  Rui^,  Marquis 
of  Effiat,  of  Chilly  and  (^  Loojumean,  Marshid  of  France.  The  grand- 
son of  ^k  first  marquis  and  squire  to  Momieur,  the  brother  of  Louis 
XIY.,  has  been  atrosgly  susneeted  of  being  coacCTned  with  the  Chevalier 
de  Lorraine  in  tiie  deam  of  me  Duchess  of  Orleans.  Paul  Louis  Couri^, 
in  ii»  elections  of  1823,  revived  this  scandal  against  i^  funily : 

^  This  D'Effiat,'-  exclaimed  die  demagogue,  ^  ^eeted  deputy  instead 
of  me^  is  great  grandson  of  Bxaik  d'Effiat,  wbo  administered  chicory^ 
water  to  Madame  Henrietta  of  England.  Their  fortune  arose  from  that: 
Monsdeur  lived  with  the  Chevalier  de  Lorraine,  whom  madame  did  not 
hke;  tins  broi^l^  l^ouble  in  &e  hous^M^  D'Effiat  eet  aM  to  rights 
with  chicoryrwater ;  these  are  services  which  the  great  cb  not  lorget,  and 
which  serve  to  enneye  a  fiua3|y.'' 

Another  sen  of  the  first  marquis  w«s  &e  unfortunate  Cinq  Mars,  be- 
headed at  Lyons,  widi  his  friend  Hion,  the  12th  of  September,  1642, 
both  vietkns  of  llie  hatred  of  Rich^ieu.  Anodic  son,  Charles  d'Effiat, 
Ahhot  of  Saint  Semin,  Toulouse,  and  Trob  Fontaines,  also  rendered 
hbns^  equally  fiuniliar  to  tbe  chronicles  of  tiie  day  by  his  Hai$(m  wkh 
Kinoo  de  I'Endee. 

The  dynasty  of  tibe  D'Effiats  survived  the  first  revolution,  but  f^ 
property  fell  befm  that  into  the  hands  of  the  well-known  ftumcier  Law, 


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42  A  Month  at  Vichy, 

was  sold  to  his  numerous  creditors,  and  passed  through  various  hands 
into  those  of  the  present  proprietor,  who  has  the  reputation  of  being  a 
wealthy,  harmless  personage,  as  much  surprised  at  finding  himself  in  the 
Chateau  d'Effiat,  as  the  emissary  of  the  Doge  of  Venice  was  on  the  day 
of  reception  at  Versailles. 

Besides  these  remnants  of  the  middle  ages  still  inhabitable,  there  are 
more  ruinous  and  picturesque  relics  around  Vichy,  among  which  BiHy, 
with  its  ancient  gateways,  its  crumbling  walls,  and  its  old  castle,  of  which 
four,  towers  still  exist,  stands  prominent,  and  is  well  worthy  of  being 
embalmed  in  either  artist's  or  amateur's  album. 

Then  there  is  Cusset,  once  a  fortified  town  of  high  repute,  and, 
although  now  poverty-stricken  and  ruinous,  the  Cussetois  is  as  proud  of 
his  birthplace  as  the  Marseillais  is  of  his  Cannebi^re.  If  the  obelisk  of 
Luxor,  as  Balzac  said,  looks  as  if  innocent  of  being  a  monument,  Cusset, 
on  the  contrary,  parades  by  every  means  in  its  power  its  fallen  great- 
ness. CrumbUng  ramparts,  a  medieval  market-place,  a  church  dedi- 
cated to  St.  Satumin,  of  monumental  aspect,  and  the  tower  of  Notre 
Dame,. now  used  as  a  prison,  with  narrow,  irregular,  silent  streets,  are, 
however,  all  that  remain  to  attest  this  former  importance. 

Yet  it  was  here  that  the  Dauphin,  afterwards  Louis  XL,  made  his  sub- 
mission, the  24th  of  July,  1440,  to  Charles  VII.,  his  father,  which  act 
of  filial  duty  put  an  end  to  the  war  of  the  Praguerie.  Jean  Doyac,  a 
Cussetois,  and  favourite  of  Louis  XL,  and  who  fortified  the  town  by 
order  of  the  king,  was  rewarded  for  his  labours  by  being  publicly  whipped 
by  the  common  executioner  both  at  Paris  and  Montferrand,  and  having 
his  tongue  pierced  and  his  ears  cut  ofi^,  by  order  of  Anne  of  France. 

It  is  a  mere  stroll  from  Vichy  to  Cusset,  and  the  high  road  may  be 
agreeably  avoided  by  following  the  valley  of  the  Sichon,  a  sparkling 
tributary  to  the  AUier,  which  flows  through  pleasant  meadows,  decorated 
with  an  umbrageous  walk  of  poplar-trees,  planted  by  Mesdames  Adelaide 
and  Victoire  in  1785,  and  still  called  the  Allee  de  Mesdames, 

Then,  again,  there  is  the  once  fortified  hamlet  of  St.  Germain  les 
Fosses,  picturesquely  situated  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  which  played  a  part 
in  the  reli^ous  wars  ;  the  small  town  of  Chateldon,  with  mineral  sources ; 
the  modern  chateau  of  Lafont,  the  pretty  church  of  Chatel  Montague, 
two  towers  of  a  stronghold  of  the  Templars  on  the  summit  of  Mount 
Perou,  the  only  volcanic  hill  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  a  kind  of  ad- 
vanced sentinel  of  the  more  extensive  eruptions  of  the  Mont  d*Or  and 
the  Puys  de  Dome  and  De  Cantal. 

To  those  who  love  the  picturesque  as  much  as  works  of  art  and  ruins 
of  olden  time,  there  are  also  resources  of  no  mean  order  abound  Vichy. 
Flechier  sajd :  ''  II  n'y  a  pas  dans  la  nature  de  paysage  plus  beau,  plus 
riche,  et  plus  varie  que  celui  de  Vichy."  Situated,  indeed,  as  it  is,  at 
the  extremity  of  that  district  of  Auvergne  which  is  called  La  Limagne, 
whose  fertility  is  as  proverbial  as  Touraine — the  garden  of  France — the 
bridge  upon  the  Allier  being  one  of  the  keys  to  the  mountain  district 
beyond  ;  with  Cusset,  limitrophal  fortress  of  Auvergne  and  Bourbonnfus, 
the  valleys  of  the  Allier  and  the  Sichon  unitiug  between ;  the  host  of 
pretty  villages  and  castellated  residences  that  are  scattered  around  and 
above,  which  rise  in  every  direction ;  rocky,  hilly  districts,  their  slopes 


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A  Month  at  Vichy,  43 

covered  with  long  expanses  of  light  green  vineyards,  which  again  shade 
off  in  the  distance  into  dark  forests ;  there  are  contrasts  and  comhina- 
tions  that  almost  warrant  the  high-flown  compliment  of  the  old 
predicator. 

There  are  amidst  this  profusion  localities  that  particularly  claim  notice, 
and  which  yet,  if  not  pointed  out,  would  certainly  be  passed  over.  Such 
is  the  glen  through  which  the  road  is  carried  from  Saint  Yon  to  Busset ; 
such  also  more  particularly  is  the  valley  of  the  Sichon  beyond  Cusset. 
Confined  in  a  narrow  rocky  bed  in  a  precipitous,  and  yet  woody,  defile, 
the  torrent  has  to  force  its  way  through  all  kinds  of  impediments,  the 
more  stubborn  of  which  force  it  to  fall  in  many  a  turbulent  cascade.  At 
one  point  the  rocks  approach  so  closely  as  to  have  received  the  inevitable 
name  of  leap — in  this  case  not  a  lover's,  but  a  goat's  leap.  A  poor  old 
lady  had  only  one  goat  for  all  her  fortune.  Her  whole  occupation  all 
summer  was  to  lay  in  grass  sufficient  for  her  pet's  winter  consumption. 
One  winter,  however,  was  cruelly  long ;  the  wolves,  harassed  by  prolonged 
frost  and  snow,  had  come  down  from  the  mountains ;  the  stock  of  hay 
was  exhausted,  yet  the  old  lady  did  not  dare  to  take  out  her  goat  to  feed. 
At  length  its'  plaintive  cries  for  food  prevailed,  the  old  dame  took  it 
out,  and  almost  as  soon  a  famished  wolf  made  its  appearance.  The 
goat  in  its  fright  took  the  leap,  and  landed  on  the  other  side  in  safety ; 
the  wolf  followed,  missed  its  footing,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces.  Such  is 
the  legend  of  the  place ;  to  which  it  is  added,  that  lovers  come  there,  not 
to  leap,  but  to  throw  stones  across  the  gap ;  if  they  settle  quietly  on  the 
rocky  point  opposite,  the  omen  is  good ;  out  if  they  tumble  down,  good 
by  to  all  ideas  of  marriage,  and  St  Catherine  wins  the  day.  Next 
comes  the  rocky  defile  called  Les  GrivatSy  where  is  a  cotton  manufacture ; 
then  Za  Qoure  saiUant,  a  diamond  edition  of  the  waterfalls  of  Reichen- 
bach,  well  wooded  and  very  pretty;  and  lastly,  and  just  beyond,  a  wild, 
slaty  district,  designated  as  IjArdoisiere,  although  put  to  little  or  no 
commercial  use,  and  near  to  which  an  old  hermi^  known  as  Frere  Jean, 
once  dwelt  Between  Cusset  and  Mont  Ferou  is  a  chapel  dedicated  to 
Sainte  Madeleine,  who  has  the  regulation  of  the  weather,  and  is  invoked 
accordingly  for  wet  or  dry,  as  the  peasant  particularly  desires,  sometimes 
for  both  at  the  same  time.  There  is  a  still  wilder  district  beyond  Cusset 
called  Malavaux,  or  the  "  Cursed  Valley,"  where  is  a  hole  called  the 
Fuits  du  Diable,  both  which  names  attest  to  the  bandit-like  horrors  of 
the  place.  To  return  to  gay,  lively  Vichy,  after  visiting  these  rocky, 
sterile,  yet  picturesque  scenes,  is  like  a  sudden  change  from  nightmare 
and  darkness  to  sunshine  and  smiles. 


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A  NIGHT  IN  CALIFORNIA. 

In  tlie  farthest  east  of  Ae  Cafiforniaa  gold-miBes— ^Mt  k,  as  fiir  as 
the  daring  miners  had,  in  diat  day,  penetrated  towairds  the  east  and  femid 
gold,  and  at  the  root  where  the  waters  of  ihe  sovthem  streans,  Ae  M»- 
calome  and  the  Calayeres,  divide — a  little  mountain  torrent  rashes  tfarovgh 
^  centre  of  the  romantic  scenerj  beneath  the  leafy  covering  of  gigantic 
trees,  and  a  lit^  further  below,  though  always  prec^itous  and  IcMoning, 
dashes  down  into  the  southern  arm  (^  the  Maodome,  whidi  folkiws  its 
noisy  coarse  at  a  great  depth  beneath  it. 

Tim  little  creek,  or  ^  Guleh,"  the  Califomian  name  which  sudi  strsflms 
have  gradoalir  acqubed,  though  the  word  <<Giddi^  leaHy  means  ihe 
ravine  through  wfardi  the  s^eam  rushes,  had  been  named  by  its  first 
diseorerers,  Germans,  '^Mosqmto  Gnldi;"  for,  in  the  wildly  overgrown 
thicket  that  fQled  the  lower  part  oi  the  giddi,  and  mainly  consisting  o£ 
a  species  of  wild  cherry  and  hazel  trees,  a  very  ren>eetaUie  nmdber  oi 
these  charaaine  little  creatures  took  c^  their  abode  dming  the  sommer, 
and  spttrred  m  woricmen  to  fresh  activity  whenever  th^  rested  for  a 
Httle  while  in  the  cool  i^de  of  the  really  gigantic  cedars  and  pines^ 
and  wished  to  let  tfadr  shovels  and  pikes  ^  grow  cold,"  as  they  called  it. 
The  mosquitoes  make  capital  overseers. 

But>  speaking  parenthetically,  they  were  not  so  bad  after  all ;  the  &ct 
was,  that  the  people  who  christened  tiie  dear  merry  stream  thos,  and  so 
gave  it  a  bad  name,  had  not  seen  any  places  where  the  mosqmtoes  reaHy 
swanned ;  they  had  not  visited  the  hades  of  the  Mississippi,  for  instanee. 

About  half-vroy  down  the  mountain  stream,  at  about  me  same  distance 
from  its  source  and  its  mouth,  and  on  the  sh^  <^  the  hill,  which  was 
bounded  on  three  sides  by  deep  ravmes — in  the  nordi  b^  the  Macakme 
itself,  while  from  the  hill  a  ^orious  view  could  be  enjoyed  of  its  fir^ 
dad  banks,  and  horn  the  d^ths  below,  its  hollow  roar,  as  it  leaped  over 
masses  of  ro<^s  and  trunks  of  trees,  reached  the  ear  of  the  spectator ; 
on  the  east  by  a  littie,  dry  ravine,  and  on  the  west  by  &e  de^ly-^ut 
Mosquito  Gulch-— down  to  which  a  precipitous  paih  of  about  200  yards 
in  length  led-^  stood  a  small  camp,  as  it  is  called  in  miners*  parlance, 
consnting  of  four  tents,  three  white  and  one  blue,  nestled  together  closely 
and  comlnrtaUy  under  tali  pines  and  dwarf  oaks,  while  at  night  a  tre- 
mendous fire  crackled  in  the  centre. 

These  four  tents  were  inhabited  by  just  so  many  companies  (as  ihe 
two,  three,  four,  or  more,  who  work  together,  are  called),  and  they  were, 
with  the  exception  of  a  single  American,  all  Germans,  the  greater  part 
of  whom  had  come  with  the  Bremen  ships  Talisman  and  Reform^  but 
some  from  Australia  and  other  parts  of  the  globe,  and  had  met  together 
here,  in  true  Califomian  fashion,  on  the  retired,  but  exquisitely  situated, 
mountain  slopes. 

At  about  a  hundred  yards  distance  stood  another  tent,  in  which  a  com- 
pany of  English  and  Irish  miners  lived ;  and  still  further  back  a  Pole 
and  a  German,  who  had  both  come  from  Texas,  camped  under  the  open 
sky ;  for  the  rainy  season  had  not  yet  set  in,  and  the  nights  were  gene- 
rally bright. 


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A  Night  in  California.  45 

If  joa  hare  an  incHimtton,  reader,  and  nothing  better  to  do,  we  will 
spend  the  present  evening — it  is  Sunday — among  them ;  we  shall  find  a 
hearty  lot  of  fellows,  good  company,  and  most  assuredly  a  kind  wdoome. 

It  18  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  camp  rema^^bly  still :  what 
can  haye  become  of  all  the  men  who  nsoally  make  it  so  animated  ? 

Yes,  fiiend,  we  live  here  at  a  distance  of  aboat  fire  English  miles  from 
the  nearest  store,  and  so  at  least  one  of  each  company,  but  usually  sereral, 
goes  <m  a  Sunday  on  horse,  mule,  or  donkeyback — for  these  three  modes 
of  transport  exist  here  together — to  *<  Charles'  store,"  a  place  weU  known 
in  the  whole  neighbourhood,  to  buy  tiie  necessary  provisions  in  the  shape 
of  flour,  potatoes,  meat,  sugar,  onions,  &c.,  for  the  next  week,  and  he* 
qnently  return  in  a  remarkaUe  state  of  beer  on  this  particular  evening. 
These  usually  y^  jolly  fellows  seldom  come  back  before  dusk,  and  it's 
<^en  ten  or  eleven ;  and  if  the  donkeys  were  not  more  sensible— —but  I 
am  gc^tting  on  too  finst. 

In  fiiet,  till  now,  only  a  single  fig^ure  had  been  moving  about  the  tents, 
a  man  in  a  cleanly,  but  old  and  repeatedly  patdied  red  woollen  risrt, 
and  grey  linen  trousers,  with  dark  brown  curiy  hair,  small  but  sparkling 
eyes,  and  broad  hands  well  used  to  woik — we  might  almost  call  them  fists. 
He  worked  with  another,  of  the  name  of  Panning.  Panning  had  been 
coachman  in  Germany  to  a  Count  So-imd-so,  and  had  come  to  Califomia 
to  make  his  fortune.  Albert  had  driven  a  team  of  oxen  over  the  Sierra 
Nevada  for  Unde  Sam — he  was  fond  of  talking  about  this  journey;  after* 
wards,  I  believe,  he  had  "  left  of  his  own  accord,"  as  deserters  usually 
called  it,  or  had  been  dismissed ;  in  shorty  he  was  here  on  Mosquito 
Ghikh,  and  ^<  made  good  out"  Dear  reader,  you  will  have  to  accustom 
yourself  to  many  mining  expressions,  and  must  not  begin  shaking  your 
head  over  them  aheady. 

Albert  was  busily  engaged  in  carrying  his  mattresses  and  blankets, 
which  had  been  fying  in  the  sun  during  the  day,  back  into  the  tent,  and  in 
taking  down  the  articles  of  clothing  he  had  washed  in  the  morning,  firom 
a  line  expresBlj  fastened  between  two  young  oaks,  and  was  now  carrying 
in  wood  for  the  evening.  He  had  been  sewing  and  repairing  the  whole 
day,  and  was,  in  the  bargain,  a  very  industrious  man  and  excellent 
workman. 

Panning  and  Albert  possessed  a  white  mule  as  joint-stock  property. 
In  the  blue  tent  some  one  was  also  stirring ;  its  solitary  inhalntant,  to 
whose  clothes  a  couple  of  stitches  of  grey  cotton  would  have  done  no  harm, 
was  lying  rather  la^y  on  his  blanket  before  the  tent,  and  looking  at  ^e 
green  masses  of  fblif^e  above  him.  The  tent  was  inhabited  by  three 
Grermans — Renieh,  Haye,  and  Muller — so  we  will  call  the  third  man, 
as  my  own  name  is  so  preciously  long.  Renieh  and  Haye  had  gone  to  the 
storey  one  upon,  the  other  by  the  side  of,  Mosquito  (as  we  had  christened 
the  donkey  belonging  to  the  tripartite  society,  in  honour  of  the  gulch), 
and  Miiller  might  certainly  have  got  up  and  made  a  fire,  for,  when  his 
two  companions  came  home,  they  would  be  hungry  and  want  something 
to  eat.  In  the  first  place,  however,  there  was  nothing  ediUe,  for  the  last 
four  potatoes  and  two  onions — the  whcde  remains  of  tiie  previous  week's 
provisions,  with  the  exception  of  some  home-made  bread — had  just  fur- 
nished out  his  last  dinner ;  and  besides,  he  ^^  knew  his  Pappenheimer ;" 
they  would  not  come  home  so  early,  and  when  they  did,  would  be  suffer- 

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46  A  Night  in  California. 

ing  more  from  thirst  than  hunger.    ^<  Where  there  is  a  hrewerj,  a  baker's 
shop  cannot  exist,"  is  a  good  old  proverb. 

Before  the  great  tent,  "  Forsterling,"  the  only  one  who  had  remained 
behind,  was  collecting  dry  wood  and  leaves,  to  keep  up  the  nearly  ex- 
tinguished fire ;  but  even  here  selfishness  seemed  the  predominant  passion 
(if  the  apathetic  calmness  with  which  he  did  it  may  be  called  a  passion), 
for  he  was  hungry  himself,  and  had  kept  a  few  cold  potatoes  from  bis 
very  frugal  dinner,  which  he  intended  to  fry  for  his  own  delectation. 

The  sun  was  fast  sinking  behind  the  gigantic  firs  and  cedars :  it  was  a 
glorious  sight.  The  hills  across  the  stream  were  bathed  in  its  magical 
rays;  it  sported  in  the  dark  summits  of  the  pines,  and  gave  its  last  lin- 
gering kiss  to  the  tops  of  the  most  magnificent  trees  my  eye  had  ever  seen. 

Holy  silence  lay  upon  the  forest ;  the  gentle  evening  breeze  only 
whispered  in  the  glistening  foliage ;  thin,  airy  cloud  shadows  floated 
athwart  the  sky,  and  the  hollow,  distant  murmur  of  the  stream  below,  too 
far  removed  to  disturb  or  interrupt  the  sweet  calmness  of  the  whole, 
sounded  like  the  solemn  peals  of  an  organ. 

"  Well,  confound  it,  Miiller,  you'll  be  lying  there  the  whole  evening,*' 
Albert  at  length  broke  out ;  '*  don't  you  mean  to  get  a  fire  ready  for 
Haye  and  Renich  ?" 

^'  Bah !  they  will  not  be  back  ior  a  long  time,*'  Miiller  said,  with  con- 
siderable decision^  but  with  some  moral  contrition,  for  they  might  return 
at  any  moment.  He  soon  sprang  up^  threw  his  blanket  into  the  tent, 
and  went  to  work  seriously  to  collect  some  wood  before  it  became  dark, 
and  make  the  other  necessary  preparations. 

Albert  had  in  the  meanwhile  finished  his  supper — ^he  and  Fanning 
divided  their  provisions  in  such  a  way  that  they  always  had  something 
left  for  Sunday — and  now  waited  impatiently  for  his  companions,  who 
usually  returned  at  this  time. 

"  Not  a  drop  of  brandy  in  the  bottle,"  Forsterling  at  length  said ;  and 
as  he  came  out  of  the  tent,  and  held  it,  first  to  the  last  rays  of  the  setting 
sun,  and  then,  as  if  he  would  not  believe  it,  to  the  now  brightly  burn- 
ing fire — '*  haven't  you  got  any,  Miiller  ?" 

"  Not  a  drop,"  was  the  unsatisfactory  reply ;  "  brandy  does  not  keep 
here,  Forsterling  ;  the  bottles  are  shaken  too  often." 

^^  Oh,  the  shaking  doesn't  hurt  it,"  said  Foi*sterling,  as  he  took  the 
empty  bottle  by  the  neck,  and  threw  it  as  far  as  he  could  into  the  dry 
gulch,  which  was  overstrewn  with  broken  glass,  and  consequently  most 
carefully  avoided  by  the  Indians,  who  frequently  paid  it  a  visit — *'it's 
only  the  confounded  turning  bottom  upwards,  for  brandy  can't  bear 
standing  on  its  head.  I  wish,  though,  that  Meier  and  the  Blacksmith 
were  come :  where  the  deuce  can  they  have  got  to  so  late  ?" 

Half  an  hour  passed,  however,  before  the  least  was  heard  of  them  ;  in 
the  meanwhile  it  had  grown  as  dark  as  pitch,  while  the  spot  where  they 
must  cross  the  gulch,  about  half  a  mile  higher  up,  with  their  laden 
beasts,  was  rendered  far  from  pleasant  travelHng  at  night  through  the 
thick  bushes  and  the  holes  that  had  been  dug  all  around. 

At  length  Forsterling  listened  attentively. 

"  So  leben  wir,  so  leben  wir,  so  leben  wir  alle  Tage  I" 

"  In  der  allerschonsten  Saufcompagnie,"  sounded  clearly  and  distinctly 
through  the  bushes. 

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A  Night  in  CaBJbrma.  47 

"  Idi  bin  liederlicBy  du  bist  Hederlidiy  sihd  wir  nidit  liederliche  Leate^" 
a  teDor  voice  was  heard  cheerily  singing  between  whiles. 

^That's  that  scamp  the  Blacksmith !"  Forsterlings^d^  with  a  shake  of 
his  head ;  "  he's  come  home  in  a  nice  state  again." 

**  I  only  hope  he's  brought  the  donkey  wiUi  him,''' Albert  said';  ^*  and 
I  don't  hear  Panning^s  voice  among  them." 

**  BumsfiBlleray  bmnsfidlera !"  another  vmce  stmck  op,  which  had  not 
been  heard  till  then. 

**  That's  Haye !"  saiJ  MuUer ;  **  we  shall  have  a  jolly  evening." 

^  So  leben  wir,  so  leben  wirj  so  leben  wir  alle  Tage,"  was  now  heard, 
with  the  regularly  intervening  chorus  of  "BumsraUeray"  nearer  and 
nearer;  and  while  the  bright  flame  sprung  up  through  the  dry  wood 
that  had  been  thrown  on  it^  and  was  saluted  by  hearty  cheers  by  the 
new  arrivers,  the  long-expected,  highly-delighted  group  made  its  ap- 
pearance. 

In  £ront  came  the  donkeys,  Mosquito  at  full  trot,  for  he  knew  that  he 
would  now  get  rid  of  his  load,  and  have  bread  to  eat ;  Hans,  the  other 
donkey,  at  a  more  gentle  pace  behind ;  and,  last  of  all,  the  horse — ^a 
very  good-tempered  animal. 

The  beasts  aid  not  require  any  further  guidance,  but  moving  quickly 
along  the  narrow  path,  which  had  till  then  wound  through  a  species  of  wild 
coffee  bushes  and  then  entered  the  cleared  field,  each  walked  to  its  own 
tenty  in  order  to  be  unloaded  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  then  enjoy  its 
ease  for  the  rest  of  the  week. 

^  So  leben  wir,  so  leben  wir;  so  leben  wir  alle  Tage  !"  Meier  shoutedl 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  a  pretty  story !"  Forsterling  expressed  his  opi- 
nion ;  "  we  should  feel  mucn  obliged  to  you." 

"  But  where's  Panning  ?**  Albert  asked,  with  blighted  hopes.  That 
is,  he  asked  for  Panning,  but  meant  the  white  mule  with  the  provisions. 

**  Isn't  Panning  here  yet  P"^  Haye  asked,  with  a  laugli.  •*  Donher- 
wetter,  he  rode  away  with  us — i.  e.  he  was  on  foot,  and  was  dose  be- 
hind us." 

^^  Has  he"  got  anything  ?"'  Albert  asked,  with  a  meaning  movement  of 
his  hand. 

^  Anything?"  Haye  said,  merrily.     "  BumsfeJlera!  BumsfiJlera!" 

For  a  moment  utter  confiision  seemed  to  prevail  in  the  little  camp. 
All  ran^and  shouted  together,  and  the  only  sensible  beingps  appeared  to 
be  the  donkeys  who  stood  motionless  and  patiently  before  their  respec- 
tive tents,  widting  to  be  unloaded.  While  one  party  attended  to  this, 
another  arranged  the  fire,  and  produced  pots  and  pans ;  Meier  and  the 
Blacksmith  fell  on  each  other's  necks,  both  declared  that  they  were  very 
good  fellows,  and  the  other  confounded  rogues  were  altogether  not  worth  a 
dump,  and  then  laid  themselves  on  their  blankets  in  the  tent  to  rest  for 
half  an-  hour,  after  the  fatigues  they  had  undergone.  Albert,  in  the 
meanwhile,  asked  in  vain  for  Panning  ;  no  one  knew  what  had  become  of 
him ;  and  he  seated'  himself  at  letig^h  to  devour  his  supper^  in  soHtary 
despair,  as  suddenly  several  voices  exclaimed  together : 

"  There's  Panning!"  and  in  truth  the  mule  at  least  made  his  appear- 
ance in  the  bright  light  of  the  fire,  and  walked  with  a  joyful  bray 
towards  the  well-known  tent. 

Sept. — VOL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcm.  u 


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48  A^^  i»  Coitfnrnia. 

There'a  the  donlsey  then,  but  wbere'^  Pbnjuog*?  Certaialy  W  had  dis- 
appeared ;  and  as  the  only  being  who  could  fucnish  any  e^axuition  oa 
the  subject^  the  mole  namely^  was-  obatmately  silent^  nothing  more*  could 
be  done  in  the  matter. 

MosqfLiito  had^  in*  the  maaawhile,  eanpbyed  his  timff  fiamously.  The 
provisions  he  had  brought  with  him  had  beea  tdken  off  him  aid  lay 
par%  iuy  partly  befove,  the  tent,  and  Mosquito  x«cei»«d  bia  mial  reward 
after  every  Sunday's  excursion — a  whole  ship*s  biscuit^  wladi  ha  inune^ 
diately  devoured^  and  thea  slowly  walked  round  tiia  tent  to  join  hia  com- 
.  paniona..  This,  at  leaft,  was  his  usual  hehavioui^  but.  lidbs^Jiiita  wa*  per- 
fectly well  aware  what  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  had  n*  idea  ofkayii^ 
the  nice  things  that  were  strewed  about  without  at  leaat  making  an  at- 
tempt to  obtam  some  of  them*  Befiasetha  tent  lay  a  bag  with  dried  apples 
and  onions— (in  conseqiience^  of  the^  paucity  of  sacks^  we  wera  always 
obliged  to  pack  several  things  together,  and  dried  apples  and  onions  agreed 
fiMHoualy  together).  Mosquito  was  well  acware  of  it,  and  when  hia  ouuters 
tuxned  their  backs,  he  brought  his  head  gently  round  the  aide  of  the  tent 
and  into  the  sack,  picked  the  dried  apples  care&Uy  firom  among  the  onooos 
—for  he  was  not  partial  to  the  latter — and  tiben  noiadessly  diaappeaied 
in  the  gloomy  forest,  without  ahowing  himself  in  the  firelight* 

Stewing  andfirving  were  going  on  at  all  Ae  fire&  Some  of  the  men 
were  cookings  others  singing  \  n&  one  troubled  himself  about  his  ne^h- 
bour  till  the  cry  of  <^  Work,  work,"  which  they  brought  into  the  moun- 
tains from  shipboard,  collected  several  round  the  rov^  tables.  The  fire 
was  then  provided  with  dry  wood,  in  order  to  fumishi  a  decexU;  ligbt^  and 
the  meal  commenced. 

FOrsterling,  however,  had  some  trouUe  in  wakiag  h]8:peo|^e« 

^  Smith — ^Meier — get  up,  supper's  ready." 

The  smith  gave  a  deep  grunt ;  Meier  made  na  reply. 

^^  Smith,  coafbumd  it,  how  long  do  you  want  me  to  shaika  you  ;  supper's 
ready  ;  you  can  sleep  afterwards." 

The  blacksmith  at  length  raised  himself  up,  and  looked  round  in  sur- 
prise. He  evidently  fancied  it  was  moraiiig.  ''  Confound  it,**  he  said, 
m  his  soft  voice,  ''it's  quite  dark  yet — ^what's  the  matter  with  the 
Landrath  thia  momixig  ?"  ForsterlEng  waa  univexaally  called  by  this 
name  on  board  ship. 

While  the  others  laughed,  FttrsterliBg  made  a  fresh  attack  on  Meier. 

'^  Meiex^  I  tell  you  for  the  last  time,  if  you  don't  come  diceetly  w*  wiU 
not  wait  any  longer — Meier  I"  and  he  shook  the  sleeps  witL  aU  his 
itrei^^. 

''  Landrathy"  Meier  muttered,  for  ha  appeared  to  have  some  fiunt  idea 
fixxn  the  voice  who  it  was  that  disturbed  hu%  ^  take  care,  it'a  penbua  to 
rouse  the  lion." 

''Weill"  the  Landrath  s^d,  as  he  made  a  new  attempt  to  wake  him, 
**  I  can't  say  that  precisely,  but  it's  precious  di£Bcult." 

At  last  they  were  aU  awake,  and  the  table-talk  conuoanced,  which  had 
reference  mainly  to  the  events  that  had  oocurred  during  the  day  at  the 
"  store»"  Meier  philosophised.  "  Yea,"  he  said,  "  such  are  the  delights 
of  CaHfomia,  the  same  thing  has  no  doubt  happened  to  Panning  that 
occurred  to  me  this  day  week.  A  fellow  goes  down  in  the  morning  to 
the  store,  drinks  his  glass  or  two— that  makes  him  tbirstyy  and  he  aets 

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A  Niifkt  in  Cal^imia,  48 

ist  wQsk  oBr  Chanpiigfi*  aod  porter ;  by  the  tima  it's  tirmaag  ih^  aAii 
00^  hiiot  hb  thir^  doBars  up*  tP  twa  ouncoi^  and  when  he^  wakos  in  ibft 
morning  he  finds  himself  lying  in  the  bush,  and  doafi  not  haom  ivbara  ba 
m^  savch  lafla>b(nr  ha^gai  ihmeJ' 

'^ButthtA  waaa battel!  joka^of  Smith's  a  moalb  \mk,**  Bam  sai^ 
with  alaiigh.  '^  I  am  aaly  aosry  Vm  not  aa  aatiaty  iiir  li  woida  fiuniab 
ajfitmons  niatiireJ'' 

^  Yoa  be  qeaej^"  said  1i»  smithy  as  ha  worked  awaj  a4  a  dali^aite 
bee&teak  with  fried  onions;  **  it  migAt  have  hafpened  to  any  on^of  jouJ* 

^Whai  was  ii^  tbea?''  said 'V^^Uganrnth,  a  young  maa  who  had 
cam^  frost  Calaoraias  to  ^'prospect/'  aod  who  was  rathai!  daaf>  aad  hM 
his  hand  to  hii  ear. 

**  Ah,  don*t  bring  up  an  old  story,"  the  sm^ii  apramUad^ 

^ChA  «ith>it,"  Meiar  cried,  boweyer^  <'l£at  it  may  sarre  as  a 
waniog  aaampW  for  a  careless  young  fellow  like  Wohlgamutk" 

^  Ohv  tha-  stcny  is  simplB  enough,"  Haye  said*  ^  Smith  waa  coaMng 
from  Chariaa'^  steve^  and  drimg  his  doiucey  before  himu  Of  aouxaa^ 
aa  usual*  he  waa  tha  last»  and  half  driank  in  tha  bargaii^  thmgh  aat  so 
bad  but  tki^.  ha  ooald  foUow  tha  path»  oi?  at  bast  the  doidbmry.  whiak 
fa»w  hisi  road  wall.  It  waa>  ccmfouodedlr  dark  ia  tha  foseat^  howavei^ 
and  about  half  a  mila  ai  more  &am  Charlas'  store  a  tnsa  lies  aceoaa 
the  pastih,.  or  to  speak  aaore  correctly,  it  fell  oa  ana  ade^  and  the  roots 
Uocdk  up  tha  roaoi.  The  donkey  na^rally  want  round  tha  roots,  struck 
the  paui  again,  and  caoM^  hoaia^  at  die  proper  tima*  Smiiht  tbough^ 
-whmi  be  came  teithe  teea^  thought  it  was  tha  d^nkay^  and  b^gan:  pitching 

ItttoitL 

<<  <  Gome^  JEbma  ■  aome,  my  good  beast  t  Itmy  Satao^  does  ha  mean  to 
aftfl^  att  nig^  in  tha  middle  of  idba  path  ?  and  than  ha  bagaa  hammaria» 
into  the  elaatic  roota  of  ike  treey  wbadi^  whan  ha  ilruok*  felt  Taiy  much 
like  the  rear  of  n  patiaBt  dbak^- 

^^  Ini  sfke  al  South'^  wall  meant  adrica  and  wacnin«,  the  usuallj 
so  obedbat  donkey  woidd  noti  move  firom  the  spot,  and  the  drirer^  at 
length  more  fatigued  by  his  exertions  than  all  the  preyious  ^  drops,'  sat 
down  near  hiahaan^  as  na  tfaM»ught»  to  let  it  ra«t.a  Itttfe^  and  then  makea 
second  attempt  Whan  Smitii  woke  again  it  was  hxoud  day>  and  ha^  was 
sitting  in  front  dT  the  laota.'^ 

^¥ani  waoldaat  hanre  knonnk  anything  about  kif  Ihadaot  told  yoii^" 
die  Bkalsmidii  said^  aa  Iba  adieralaoeh^ 

^  And  waa  tha  donkey  really  there- tho-  next  mormng?'*  aakad  Wohlga* 
mnd»».  whor  bad  oal^  heaid  half  tho  storys 

^'  Confound  it,  tlmt's  too  bad,**  Meier  cried,  and  the  smith  now  buigMi 
akmg  USUI  tiMtn*. 

Fbrstariing  bad  bnaad  te  bako  dte  saia»  aTeniag^  and  iha  dkwgh  was 
all  ready';  befm Ua tent tlM  largest  fisa waa  ther^ora  nM^de^  to  p^^ 
the  rafoiiate  haal^  as  we  wara^  forced  to  bake  our  bread  in.  open  pans  in 
want  i  i3k»  nacaaoary  artiale^,  aad  tha  wh(^  HtUa  camp  genevaUy  as* 
8aacd)lad  thate  ajrary^  aveakig.. 

The  paraon  who  faaleMl  broad  nndartoA  at  the  same  timo  the  duty  of 
praiidis^  the*  whole  company  with  Ughta  aad  fise,,  and  aa  thia  was  so 
aaraDgad  diat  tm(t  at  the  most  baked  on  tha  same  ayaning^  and  dwiag 

e2 

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&0  A  Night  in  Cdlifirnitu 

^h  week  each  compaDj  baked  twice,  every  eyemng  there  wae  one 
IJEimous  fire  as  a  meetmg  place,  which  flared  up  among  the  pines  and 
quivering  oak  branches. 

The  evening,  however,  was  not  far  enough  advanced  to  collect  all  at 
one  spot;  and  hence  the  most  various  groups  were  formed,  for  the  most 
part  so  arranged  that  they  all  turned  their  h/aes  to  the  ruddy  flame; 

Have  had  now  discovered,  on  going  to  remove  the  things  he  had 
brought^  the  trick  which  Mosquito  had  played  us,  and  wanted  to  take  the 
donkey  to  task ;  hut  where  was  Mosquito? 

In  his  rage  he  could  not  be  restrained  from  examining  all  the  provi* 
mons  and  finding  out  what  the  donkey  had  really  eaten,  so  he  fighted 
one  of  the  candles  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  read  the  bill  of  fiire. 

It  was  intended  to  last  three  persons  a  week. 

'^25 lbs.  flour,  4  dls.  25 cts.,  still  there  ;  dibs,  su^r,  1  dL  ^  cts.,  be- 
hind in  the  packet ;  1  lb.  coffee,  75  cts.,  here,  the  cneese  must  be  with  it 
' — all  right;  2\  lbs.  cheese,  2  dls.  93|  cts.,  by  Jove!  that's  careful  reckon- 
ing ;  6|  lbs.  salt  pork,  2  dls.  53  cts.,  that's  in  the  bag  with  the  potatoes 
— here  it  is;  10 lbs.  potatoes,  at  25  cts.,  2 dls.  50  cts. ;  4 lbs.  dried 
apples,^  2  dls.  50  cts.,  are  running  about  somewhere  in  the  gulch — it'a  only 
a  blessing  that  the  Satan  doesn't  like  onions ;  4  lbs.  beans,  2  dlsl  25  ots.^ 
— ^here ;  2  boxes  lucifers,  25  cts. — ^well,  that's  sensible,  we've  wanted  them 
a  long  while;  2 lbs.  soap,  1  dl.  26  cts. ;  ^Ib.  candles,  1  dl.  25 cts.,  not 
there—oh,  yes,  they  must  be  there,  they're  in  with  the  flour — well,  it 
will  make  them  look  nice,  but  still  they'll  bum ;  4  lbs.  ship  biscuit,  1  dl. 
---the  glutton  is  fonder  of  apples — here ;  2  lbs.  onions,  2  dls. — ^they're  with 
the  apples :  no !  God  be  praised,  here ;  18  lbs.  fresh  meat,  5  dls.  50  cts.^ 
— hang  up  in  the  bag  :  we  had  better  have  hung  the  apples  up  and  left 
the  meat;  3  bottles  of  brandy,  4  dls.  50  cts.— ah !  some  of  that  old  famous 
1792,  what  a  respectable  number  that  is,  that  makes  altogether—" 

" Come,  give  up  your  bothering  accounts,"  Meier  cried — "come  here 
with  it.  This  is  Sunday  evening,  and  the  devil  may  fetch'  calculations 
and  all.  You,  Landrath,  what  a  miserable  fire  you've  got  for  a  fellow  to 
see  by!" 

Meier  was  the  chief  person,  and  had  even  been  previously  appointed 
Alcalde  in  the  German  camp,  to  settle  all  disputes  tnat  occurred,  whichy 
however,  not  unfrequently  originated  with  himself.  He  wore  a  straw 
hat  with  a  narrow  brim,  but  of  what  dimensions  it  would  be  difficult  to 
decide,  for  on  the  crown  it  had  been  so  pressed  in,  vrith  more  strength 
than  artistic  skill,  that  the  crown  had  retired  like  a  snail  into  his>  shell, 
almost  down  to  Uie  fabulously  narrow  brim,  and  formed  a  de^  groove  all 
around. 

His  Sunday  clothes  were,  in  miner's  fashion,  simple,  but  strong  and 
clean ;  his  week-disiy  or  working  clothesj  on  the  other  hand,  would  have 
created  a  ykrore  at  any  masquerade.  The  first  pair  of  trousers  he  had 
worn  at  his  certainly  very  laborious  work  in  the  gulch  had  gone  the  way, 
if  not  of  all. flesh,  of  all  trousers;  and  not  to  1^  bothered  with  the  toil 
of  performing  some  very  difficult  repairs,  he  had  put  another  pair  over 
them,  which  were  not  torn  in  precisely  the  same  places  as  the  others. 
In  the  morning  and  evening  he  wore  a  wide  palet6t,  which  looked  like  a 
broken  down  gentleman  in  very  low  company ;  the  fashion  of  the  coat 

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I  good^  but  miAing  farther  oodd  be  laid  about  it»  tor  material  and 
odour  bdoDged  to  iuch  a  long  past  aeafooy  that  both  bad,  in  a  mea* 
sore,  disappeared. 

^loes  he  certainly  had,  and  they  had  been  formerly  sewn — at  least  the 
threads  and  hdes  coold  be  seen  in  the  seams  which  tne  cobbler's  awl  had 
.  produced  in  them — and  now  they  only  hung  together  by  a  thread,  and, 
perhaps,  to  ^mre  the  soles  he  waJhed  by  the  side  of  them. 

This  is,  boides,  the  sorest  sign  of  a  miner — that  his  right  shoe  or  boot 
is  trodden  on  one  side,  which  comes  from  repeated  stamping  on  the 
^ade.  On  his  hat  Meier  wore,  besides,  as  an  omamait,  an  old  bronae 
brooch  with  foor  or  Are  artifidal  and  partially  broken  pearls. 

The  miners,  by  the  way,  are  rery  fond  of  decorating  themselTcs  in 
this  ^hioo;  ^e  Landrath's  hat  was  brilliantly  adorned  with  an  old 
ostrich  feather,  which  he  had  {»ocored,  heaven  knows  how ;  and  with  an 
^H^<iff^i  formed  of  a  tin  plate,  most  artistically  set  in  a  row  of  glass  pearls ; 
and  those  who  could  not  procure  such  decorations  wore  at  least  a  broodi 
in  their  hat  or  cap. 

The  rest,  p^haps  with  the  exc^ytion  of  Panning,  Albert,  and  Haye, 
were  dressed  mucn  in  the  same  style  as  I  have  described  Mder;  they 
ibrmed  a  wild,  strange  band. 

Mder,  at  any  rate,  appeared  the  nerve  that  gave  life  to  the  whole,  and 
whmiever  he  had  worked  himself  up  a  litUe,  there  was  no  thinking  of 
sleep.  When  it  got  to  twelve  or  one  in  the  morning,  and  the  rest  went 
4)ff  one  by  one  to  roost,  he  would  lie  for  two  or  three  hours  all  alone  by 
the  fire  and  regard  the  flames. 

"  Now,  Landrath/'  Meier  said,  when  supper  was  over,  and  nearly  all 
-the  campers  were  collected  round  the  fire,  '*  how  did  you  sp^id  the  day, 
eh  ? — slept,  of  course  ?'* 

^'Ne !"  said  Forsterling,  by  trade  a  tinker,  but  a  jdly  companion  and 
^ood  soul,  '*  I've  been  out  shooting  to-day." 

"With  the  rifle?" 

"  Of  course ;  it's  a  famous  piece ;  the  bullet's  difficult  enough  to  drive 
in,  but  it  comes  out  again  precious  quick ;  it  went  off  twice  of  its  own 
accord." 

"  But  the  shot-barrel's  no  use,"  said  Klaussen ;  *^  I  wouldn't  have  the 
old  thing  as  a  present." 

Meier  and  Klaussen  had  come  together  from  Adelaide. 

'*  The  shot-barrel  no  use !"  Forsterling  exclaimed ;  '^  you've  never  seen 
such  a  gun  in  your  life,  Klaussen.  1£  I  fire  at  a  tree,  and  have  got  a 
.good  charge  in,  there's  not  a  leaf  from  top  to  bottom  that  doesn't  get  its 
share." 

One  of  the  Americans  and  Have  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  seated  them- 
^ves  at  the  fire,  and  were  playing  a  ^^ame  of  "Mxty-six."  The  Pole 
and  the  German  from  Texas  had  also  come  to  the  fire,  and  were  lying 
right  oppomte  to  Meier. 

The  Pole,  whose  name  I  believe  none  of  us  knew,  was  only  called 
^'the  Pole"  (he  spoke  German  very  well,  and  came  from  one  of  the 
German-Polish  provinces,  but  from  the  lowest  classes),  or  ^^the  poor 
man,"  because  he  complained  incessantiy,  and  asserted  that  if  a  fellow 
was  once  poor,  he  would  never  have  a  chance  of  getting  on  in  the  world. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


al  ^CSiarkHs'  «tore  ttHdaty ;  was  ^ae  last  if(i«ek  a  bad^ife  agi^f^ 

/'Oh,  as  usual,"  the  Pole  said,  with  a  gloomy,  hal{*4«Big&ed  coctli- 
tekaniee ;  ^  a  Maw  fike  me  80<hl  gms  tned  to  it--«^e8  ledi:  ^md  eight  feet 
fleep,  add  aftcorwardB  two  or  ikaee  dollars  in  liiein.  Bift  who  ean  4t6% 
itP     Ilie  Almighty  win  not  li^w.    Oedd it." 

^*  Have  the  Americmis  found  anytiyng  this  w«ek  ?"  «&«tker  inqobtBd. 

^  I  ^o  not  ikskow — they've  gtme  4iown  the  Cre^^  httt  tliei>e'ds  netiiing 
exeept  g^  <diiBt  th^w.     I  donNi  think  it's  worth  iiie  trouble.'' 

<<x^ftt^s  all  nonsense,"  tAie  Ciantbaith  said;  '^tlat's  the  <^rd  conqMOiy 
that's  gone  4awn,  itnd  i^e  oiiher  two  hmve  held  on  btaveiy ;  if  lliey 
didn^  e«m  liheir  'day's  wage,  they  woddnH;  stop  then.** 

*^  Higher  up  the  gold's  certainly  coarser,"  Meiw  <expreflBed  hn  <^inie«. 

**  We've  found  it  so  up  to  the  present,  b«t  t^t's  no  reason  wlrr  we 
should  say  l^taA  coarse  gold  ha»  not  feund  it's  way  >down  iAMore ;  the  Ptile, 
for  instance,  has  got  a  good  plaoer  now,  f or  he  cob^Ubs  iiwettaostly,  and 
that's  a  sure  sign." 

<*The  -devil  fetch  me,  if  I  earn  my  fdofl !"  the  Pole  said,  who  liad 
been  hstening  attentively,  and  stribing  his  hands  togef^er. 

^*  The  two  Englishmen,  under  the  fallen  toee,  found  a  ftmotts  "pMoe  *t^ 
^uarti:  yesterday,"  said  ^e  Gemxttn  from  Texas;  ^ brown  qnartz,  with 
VrOttd  veins  of  gold  across  zt — a  gddsn^tii  oould  not  have  made  it  mor^ 
fegcdarly.** 

^How  ha^e  yon  two  been  gettoag  on  down  4fhere,  Klaossen?  Aire 
things  looking  up?" 

^^  Ok,  it's  notMng ;  %nd  we  get  'dred  at  kst  of  digging  •one  hole  after 
die  tyl^r  useies^.  We've  not  got  quite  •down  yet,  tiboagh,  sad  in  one 
corner  we  found  rocks,  and  some  gold." 

«  What  «ort  of  rocks  ?"  Meier  a^ed. 

<<  Strange  stuff;  it  looks  for  sAl  the  woi4d  like  oosree  salt,  aad  indeed 
I  was  forosd  to  put  my  tongue  to  it,  to  see  whether  it  was  sidt/' 

.*** Those  are  good  rocks,".lite  Blacksmith  cried.  ^*  We  ifoa^  Ihe  "best 
gtM  among  l£em ;  bat  you  most  go  a  ^tle  dewier,  «nd  Ti&t  merely 
scratch  about  the  surface.^' 

<'  Yes !  it^s  a  pretty  game  wit^  ^  rooks,  h«re  about  Mosquito  Gnlch," 
the  Pole  growled ;  **  one  time  the  gold  lies  on  the  top,  and  whwi  me  g<o 
deeper  there's  nothii]^*-*at  another  time  we  are  for^  >lo  sfUtt  tkeToeks, 
If  we  want  to  get  at  &e  gold." 

*<  it's  certainly  very  strange  how  the  'goLd  «an  have  gilt  iwve,"  «d^d 
KlansMen.  •**  At  iihis  gideh,  for  instanoe,  we  are  idl  jalnoad ;  and  the 
only  thing  that  appears  possible  is,  that  a  volcanic  eruption  strewed  tin 
melted  metai  so  wiidly  aromid.*^' 

•** It's  very  Strange,  too,'*  said  Mmr,  "how  we  are  actiuifly able  ifb 
feSow  iSm  eruption  ;  and  those  very  spcrts  where  no  gold  lies  m  ikm  deep 
holes  and  chasms  in  the  rock,  are  a  proof  of  it,  for  we  always  "find  ^tirase 
vdaces  fified  witli  £rm  gny  volcank  scoria,  so  diat  it  seems  as  xfthese  ashes 
fcad  been  thrown  out  ^t,  and  ^eaxaried  down  here  by  the  mienntain  strenn, 
ften  pressed  'firmly  down  by  die  power  and  weight  (Of  the  water,  and  that 
tiie  gold  foDewed  afterwards  ;  hixt  where  it  oameirom  I  lE^ottld  Hke^ta 
know;  for  aft  one  moment  we  lemcy  tiuit  the  vein  vans  froaa  the 


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nSst,  fit  ttnotiier  from  ibe  lefit^  'and  yetilieie  wn  no  hi^TolcsiBe  moan- 
tarns  about" 

«  Yes,  I  shofddfiketo  know  tiiat,  too,*  iHae  Fole growled ;  «  afterwards, 
we  should  not  want  to  ijg  so  many  holes  to  no  pni'pose ;  hi!itilbat's  the 
nnsrortenie. 

^  What  do  you'eal  ^amonds  in  German?'  Hhe  Amenean  asked  Havtf^ 
)ndth  whom  he^was  hndljr  eagaged  in  playmg  aixtynx. 

^  Care,"  was  tfc»  answer. 

"  And  spades?" 

«Piqne/' 

^^  Hm !"  the  Aonmm  muttered,  ibr  he  did  not  seem  q«te  lo^om* 
prehend  it ;  ''the  Ciermans  «re  a  strange  people,  fb^  eaA  a  vpade  a 


^'Ob,  ^fKre  vf  jvmr^^tupid  'game  and  jonoi  oar  eirde,^  Ifeier  now  died, 

**  You,  KJaussen,  just  sing  us  a  song,  that  will  cause  some  life  amon^TA;* 

MDIi,  yes,  I  am  jast  in  the  humour  for  singing,"  Khmssen  said;  **  Tve 

felt  queer  all  the  evening.     K  Fm  notlbfetter  to-morrow  I  shall  tfldkevooao 

mfodreiBe.'* 

*^  You're  only  seedy,"  said  the  Landratb. 

"^it^  a  pity  mar  «ild  doctor  at  hoBM  is  not  here,**  Mmraaid^  ''he 
would  fiffve  saved  you  taking  medicine — he  had  a  famous  TOmedy.** 

*^  Well,  he  could  not  cure  me  without  giving  me  medicine." 

'^'tSometihmg  oFlhe  sort,"  Muer  said,  with  a  laugh;  ^^'he  was  a  doctor 
of  &e  gOodfiM  school,  who vrouM  nether  give  up  \m4>\i  broad-bailed  coat 
or  Ins  pgtml;  and,  in  *foct,  libe  'latter  was  «  necessaiy  as  his  right  hand, 
for  %is  TBoivenal  remedy  consrated  in  titat.*" 

^  Jkm^  tell  la  any  more  eif  your  nonsense,"  the  Bladksnnth'oried ;  *^  tm 
ff  9ie  g:a?e  his  pittieirts  the  pigtail  to  takel" 

■^Qinet,  Smith— 'go  to  kemwl,*'  Meier  smd;  "he  eertaiidy  gave 
them  his  pig^tail,  for  if  any  one  was  unwell,  instead  of  ordering  him  an 
emetic,  'Hke  our  present  i^sidans,  who  have  retrograded  in  cultivation, 
he  puiftied 'the  pigtail  into  lus  throat.  Yei^!  you  need  not 'laugh  at  it, -imt 
this  was  not  necessary  in  all  cases,  for  his  memod  was.so  well  Imewn— <aind 
he^  could,  naturally,  only  employ  one  pigtail — ^that,  in  many  instances,  he 
only  required  to  snow  ms  patient  the  pig^tail  in  order  to  produce  precisely 
the  same  e£Fect  as  if  he  had  adhered  most  strictly  to  his  prescription." 

^'  Was  that  the  doctor  with  the  £at  nose?"  Klaussen  asked,  while  the 
others  were  laughing. 

*"  Yes,"  Meier  said,  '<  and  Kkussen  wiU  not  believe  that  either.  The 
little  fellow  had  suqh  a  flat  nose  that  my  msole  often  assured  me  he  was 
obliged  to  use  a  pair  of  pinoers  imrtead  of  a  pocket  handkerchief." 

'<  Is  the  donkey  here  ?"  a  loud  voice  asked  at  this  moment  in  the  midst 
of  the  laughter. 

The  silence  of  death  prevmled  instantly,  but  at  the  next  moment  the 
shouts  broke  out  afresh,  for  behind  the  circle,  where  he  had  made  his  ap- 
pearance quite  unnoticed,  stood  Panning,  lodking  somewhat  disconcerted 
at  the  terrible  noise,  and  regarding  one  after  the  other  in  astonishment. 

It  was  a  good  quarter  4>f  An  hour  before  any  one  ^x>uld  calm  his  fears 
about  the  mule. 

"JBut,  confound  it,  you're  sitting  here  so  dry,"  Panning  cried,  when 
tfasuKuse  had  «ligh%  ceased,  and  Albert  got  ^  to  look  for  some  supper 
for  the  new  comer,  and  warm  hb  tea — "  no  brandy,  no  grog'T^ 

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54  ,A  ^igh$  in  Ckhfifrma. 

.  <<  IiiMUybelieTe  that's  the  first  seonble  idea  Panmng's  had  to-day/* 
Meier  said. 

^  And  where  have  yon  been  this  evemng  ?**  Albert  asked ;  ^'  and  wluch 
of  you  two  was  the  cleverer  ?" 

"  The  donkey,  most  assuredly,  Albert,  my  boy,"  said  Panmng,  with 
a  laugh,  for  he  was  in  much  too  good  a  humour  U>  quarrel  about  a  word ; 
*'  the  donkey,  most  assuredly — ^as  he  always  gets  home  first** 

^^And  how  are  they  getting  on  at  Charles*?**  Meier  asked;  ^-all 
jolly?    The  truth  is,  we  left  two  hours  too  soon  to-day." 

<^  Yes,  and  I  should  have  been  home  lone  ago,**  Fanning  said,  '*.bnt 
I  had  to  wut  for  the  meat;  they  were  slaughtering  an  ox." 

**  But  our  meat  was  on  the  donkey  ?**  Albert  retorted. 

"  Indeed,**  said  Panning,  looking  very  cunmng ;  "  well  then,  Albert, 
there*s  another  proof  that  the  donkey  was  in  the  ri^t;  but  still,  I  waited 
for  the  meat.** 

"  Yes,  Panning^s  a  capital  fellow,"  said  the  smith;  *' he*s  been  knock- 
ing about  in  die  world  since  he  was  a  huL** 

^<  You*d  better  be  quiet,  you  scamp  !**  said  Panning;  ^^  if  I  like  to  tell 
something ^** 

<<  If  you  tell  that,  1*11  tell  the  other,**  said  the  Blacksmith,  tauntingly. 

<<  Hurrah!  two  new  stories,**  cried  the  Landrath;  *^ out  with  it,  Pan- 
ning. 

But  there  must  have  been  something  queer  about  the  matter,  for 
neither  cared  to  begin.  Meier,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  placed  water  to 
boil  on  the  fire,  brandy  bottles  were  produced  from  various  sides,  and  a 
famous  bowl  of  grog  brewed ;  the  anecdotes,  laughing,  and  shouting, 
became  constantly  louder.  Forsterling  had  finished  his  baking,  and 
<<  The  Pope  he  leads  a  happy  Life,'*  *'  Rmaldini's  haughty  Robbers,**  and 
'<  Prince  Eugenius,**  had  echoed  through  the  silent  Califomiui  forest, 
when  Meier  at  leng^  cried : 

"  Stop— empty  your  glasses :  confound  it,  Smith,  that's  my  cup.  And 
now  for  my  song ;  but  you  must  all  join  in  the  chorus.**  And  in  a  loud, 
hearty  voice  he  sang 

THE  GOLI>-DIGGER*S  SONG.* 

With  the  shovel,  pick,  and  pan. 

Diggers  hurrah ! 
And  a  knapsack  to  each  man. 

Carried  from  afar ; 
Little  guard  for  heat  or  cold. 

Diggers  hurrah ! 
In  the  mountains,  men  of  mould. 

Bring  we  from  afar. 

Where  the  gnomes  their  treasure  bright, 

Diggers  of  the  gold, 
Hid  in  chasms  from  the  light, 

Here  in  some  dark  hold, 
Dig,  and  wash,  and  grope  about, 

Lusty  and  bold, 
Though  it's  deep,  weMl  have  it  out, 

Diggers  of  the  gold; 

*  Translated  lirom  the  German  bj  O.  W.  Thornbury,  £sq^  author  of  "Ballsds 
of  the  New  World." 


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A  Night  in  Cahfmtia.  Si 

Care!  Who  talks  ofcare  or  sorrow? 

Sorrow,  by  my  fay ! 
.    The  luck  may  come  to-morrow. 

Though  it  8  missed  to-day. 
Let  IIS  never  cark  or  pine. 

Good  hearts  and  bold. 
There  is  stuff  shall  soon  be  thine. 

Diggers  of  the  gold. 

Still  a  whbper*s  in  my  ear. 

Diggers  hurrah ! 
Wilt  thou  tarry  ever  here. 

From  thy  home  so  far? 
Canst  thou  careless  revel  keep, 

Lusty  and  free, 
When  diy  love  does  sit  and  weep. 

Digger  for  thee? 

Heart,  thy  fruitless  whispers  cease. 

Diners  hurcah! 
Can  isit  at  home  in  peace. 

When  I  should  be  far? 
Man  must  labour,  rend,  and  rive. 

Stout  heart  and  bold. 
And  in  storm  and  sunshine  strive. 

Diggers  for  gold. 

But  there  soon  shall  come  a  day. 

Diggers  hurrah ! 
When  we'll  bear  rich  spoil  away 

Coming  from  afar ; 
Homeward  hieing,  heavy  laden. 

Stout  hearts  and  bold, 
Then  for  father,  mother,  maiden. 

Diggers  for  gold. 

The  chorus  was  sung  with  gfreat  effect,  and  in  the  last  verses  it  became 
a  species  of  Dutch  melody,  for  they  seemed  to  forget  the  tune  utterly, 
and  all  sorts  of  possible  and  impossible  songs  were  now  heard.  Haye 
even  sang  <<  Bumsfidlera"  once  more,  and  the  Blacksmith  his  ^'  Ich  bin 
liederliclv"  while  the  neighbouring  Americans  and  Englishmen  had  come 
down  from  the  hill  to  hear  the  songs.  Meier  now  sang  the  serenade 
"  I  am  beneath  thy  window,  dearest,"  with  all  the  proper  gesticulations, 
and  beneath  an  oak-tree  instead  of  his  beloved's  window.  Klaussen  had 
drunk  a  little  too  much,  and  had  become  harmonious.  Wohlgemuth  took 
Albert  into  a  comer,  and  told  him  a  frightfully  long  story  ^  his  school- 
days ;  how  they  had  placed  a  bone  under  the  master^s  chmr,  and  with 
what  presence  of  mind  he  had  extricated  himself  from  the  affair.  Renich 
bad  made  fast  to  the  Landrath,  who  was  singing,  though,  between  whiles, 
and  told  him  a  story  from  ancient  B^man  history,  doubtlessly  very 
important  in  itself,  but  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  Forsterlin^, 
which  he  afterwards  brought  into  connexion  with  later  history,  althougn 
liis  shouting  victim  did  not  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  him. 

In  the  meanwhile,  fire  and  grog  drew  to  an  end ;  one  after  the  other 
retired  to  his  tent.  Renich  as  well  as  Wohlgemuth  had  both  lost  their 
kearers,  and  Renich  had  also  gone  to  bed.     Meier  and  Wohlgemuth  still 

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i6  A  NigM  in  CaRj^ia. 

held  out ;  the  former,  because  he  never  reared  ear^sr ;  the  latter,  because 
he  felt  a  necessity  to  have  his  say.  out. 

Naturally,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  not  lapsed  before  the  two  were 
up  to  the  ears  in  politics.  W^Mgeumih  had  been  btmerly  in  the  United 
States,  and  defended  the  forty  Boms  'grant.  Mder,  on  the  other  hand, 
abused  Germany ;  and  wiwtlwr  they  £d  not  wodev^and  one  another,  or 
found  sufficient  points  of  collision,  1  -cannot  say,  but  they  became  heated, 
and  Haye  looked  a  couple  of  times  out  of  the  tent  to  see  whether  they 
were  not  fighting. 

As  Wohlgemuth  was  very  haid  of  heanae,  JImr  was  forced  to  shout; 
and  as  Meier  spoke  very  loudly,  Weh%amuui  «ffild  not  support  hb  argu- 
ments in  a  very  gentle  toiie^  eonoe^p^fltly,  sndh  a  Asturbance  soon  arose 
between  the  two  that  the  sleepers  were  'aroised,  and  grumbling  voices 
heard.     At  length  Fcnr^terling  could  not  stand  it  any  longer. 

"  Confound  it,  Meier,"  he  cried  from  the  tent,  "  you're  both  in  the 
right;  but  now  come  to  bed." 

'<  Hold  your  row,  Landrath ;  you  dm^  mndBBsitend  it>"  Meier  eried,  in 
his  zeal. 

However,  if  the  Landrath  did  not  Imow  how  to  damp  the  dispute,  he 
was  clever  enough  to  do  so  with  the  fire.  It  had  burnt  to  a  litUe  pomt, 
and  as  the  night  was  very  cool  the  debaters  had  'drawn  quite  close  to  it, 
and  the  Landrath  managed  so  cleverly  to  saoiifice  the  jug  of  water, 
which  he  had  fetched  for  the  morrow's  coffee,  that  in  a  moment  not  a 
trace  of  burning  wood  <»rald  be  seen. 

The  quarrellers  would  not  allow  fhemsdlvEs  to  l)e  baulked  by  this,  and 
continued  their  dispute  in  the  dark ;  but  the  animus  was  wanting,  and  in 
half  an  hour  all  were  sileni^  after  munnuriiig,  ^'  Thank  the  Lord." 

The  cayotas,  little  wolves,  or  wild  dc^  akme  commenced  howling, 
and  now  and  then  an  owLcnnked  its  mcmotonous  night  sone. 

With  the  break  of  day  fresh  life  flfwuted  ihB  sleepers.  Those  who  had 
*'  the  week"  ^ot  up  and  prepared  breakfeist,  then  woke  the  restr;  and  an 
liour  later  {he  several  parties  waiiked  with  thdr  pans  and  water-bucket^ 
for  iheir  tools  had  been  left  at  the  spot  where  they  had  struck  work  on 
the  "Saturday  evening,  to  the  diffierent  places  at  which  th^  intended  to 
try  their  luck  during  the  week. 

Immediately  after,  the  machines  began  datterii^gln  Hie  ravine  beloifi^ 
tihe  axes  removed  trees  and  roots  from  their  way,  {he  pick  was  driven 
'with  powerfid  strokes  into  the  hard  ground,  and  the  working  life  of  the 
miners  had  recommenced. 


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<    87    ) 


THfi  TE»TS  OF  THE  TUSKL* 

^  Who  are  the  Tuski?"  we  hear  some  kind  reader  ioquiring.  ^  Peo- 
ple who  dwell  in  the  country  whence  Captain  ^now  Admiral)  Beeokey 
Dvoi^lit  home  the  tvsks  of  antediluvian  mammoths  and  elephants  of 
colossal  dimenaons  7**  ^*  ^o,  the  Tnsld  are  the  Tchutsld  of  the  maps,  a 
^ongoEaQ  brotherhood  wlio  dwell  at  that  extreme  point  of  Aaa  lAick 
18  separated  from  the  Amenean  continent  hy  Behring  s  StraBts.**  ^'  And 
what  are  tihe  tents  T'  "  Ay,  there  is  the  cunosi^  of  the  thing.  Footively 
and  indiirputahly— if  kept  clean — ^the  most  commodious  tents  in  the  worid 
-—tents  of  transhioent  walrus  skins — etretohed  on  giganfie  Whalebonety 
and  heated  by  moss  dipped  in  oil,  that  gives  off  the  most  pleasaflt  and 
taiiy-like  light  imaginable,  and  transforms  an  Arctic  domicile  into  a 
palm-house  at  Kew !" 

It  wav^m  -Aie  first  going  adt  of  the  Fltwer—^  gallant  Httie  Tessel^  to 
whose  doiiigs  in  l3ie  Aicoc  Seas  we  have  ^frequently  lad  occasion  to 
refer — ^in  1848,  that  a  combination  of  untoward  drcumstances  drove  4ihe 
vessel  and  fovoed  it  to  winter  on  a  oeaet  and  among  a  pecwie  raicihr 
nsitod.  Cook  was  the  &Bt  «he  touched  on  tlus  shores  and  Bdiring^  m* 
lewedlnm,  but  meither  went  beyond  Tchutskm  <or  Taaki  lioM ;  Bifingi^ 
N^dbo^  «ad  one  or  two  otber  Russian  navigsim,  iwve  kft  an  toooa- 
Bknudnotice  of  the  Tusid  themselves.  Wiiii^;c31  and  ins  expedition  only 
nw  them  at  the  fair  of  Ostronowie,  hvA  that  was  suffident  to  creacte  an 
intense  desire  for  further  acquaintance,  which  was  not  destined  to  l)egra* 
t^ed.  Lieutenant  Hocqser^s  wodc  fills  up  then  what  has  Utherto  been  a 
dendeBsttum  in  ^  liistonr  of  the  Imaan  raoe.  He  had  no  languid  at 
iesst  till  he  made  himsett  acquainted  with  a  low  weidi  witii  wUdi  to  lA* 
dress them<ir*obtnn  inefemniition ;  most Iwd  to  be  dene  with  aigas-;  'bat 
fltill  tlie  results  are  m  satu^Kstmy  as  they  are  curious.  A  veiy  %rirfae- 
qmuntanoeship  at  the  outset  satisfied  our  author  as  to  die  general  honesty 
of  the  people,  and  that  these  existed  among  them  even  a  sense  of 
honoor. 

I  made  an  essay  this  nieht  upon  the  honesty  of  our  friends ;  aiflneyomis 
man  named  Ahmoleen,  belonging  to  a  &mily  which  jpleased  me  more  ihan 
any  of  the  rest,  sold  me  his  outer-coat  of  reindeer  skm  ;  but  fearful  that  he 
would  feel  the  loss  of  bis  garment  during  the  night,  I  restored  it  to  him, 
mddng  signs  that  it  was  to  be  returned  on  the  morrow.  Busy  next  day  whh 
my  duties  I  did  not  heed  the  a{)proBChing  departure  of  my  favourites,  and -am 
deK^hted  to  record  thaft  my  friend,  as  I  am  proud,  from  after  experience,  to 
cdl  bim,  sought  me  out  and  delivered  up  the  borrowed  dress  with  many  signs 
of  acknowledgment  for  the  favour.  This  fixed  him  in  my  esteem,  nor  had  I 
ever  afterwards  cause  to  aiher  my  opinion  of  his  probity. 

When  a  first  visit  was  made  to  the  native  habitations  the  vkitoxs  were 
recmed  mtk  joyliil  hospitality,  being  at  the  same  time,  althon^  in  Kop 
'nakoy  Tkewtfy  roasted,  as  mm  the  Tusld  the  increase  of  boat  is  ihe  in- 
^!i«ue  ^  honour.     In  fotum,  th«  Tuski  -mted  the  Fkwnry  then  houied 

*  Tten  Montl»  among  ibe  H^ts  of  the  Tm^  with  Incideute  of  an  AnslaelBoat 
Expedition  ia  Seaidi  of  &  John  Franklin,  ae  far  at  the  MadMBzie  rBiner  and 
Cape  Bathurst.  By  Xient  W.H.  Hooper,  lUL  With  a  Mq^  andHlnstraAieBS. 
Johnliiun^ 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


58  The  Tints  cfiht  Tuski. 

in  for  the  winter,  and  became  quite  domestioated ;  they  were  allowed  to 
visit  the  mess-room,  and  go  £rom  cabin  to  cabin,  and  to  eat  and  drink 
with  the  officers  and  men.  They  behaved  upon  these  occasions  with 
uniform  good  nature,  and  evinced  an  almost  mvariably  obliging  dispo- 
sition. 

The  dress  of  the  Tuski  is,  witb  the  wealthier  sort,  composed  almost  en- 
tirely of  deer,  fawn,  and  dogskin,  beautifully  dressed  by  the  women  ^tb  the 
ba^  on;  the  poorer  people  often  substitute  shoes  and  breeches  of  sealskin. 
Their  country  is  desolate  in  the  extreme.  Ranges  of  hills,  chiefly  of  volcanic 
origin,  cross  and  recross  each  other  with  little  variety  of  appearance;  a 
few  stunted  twigs  of  andromeda,  and  mosses  and  lichens,  are  almost  tbe 
whole  flonu  llie  Tuski,  it  is  almost  needless  to  savy  live  chiefly  by 
fishing,  and  tbey  travel  in  sledges  drawn  by  dogs  of  difl&rent  breeds  and 
by  reindeer.  And  now  for  one  of  the  first  visits  paid  by  our  author  to 
the  natives: 

We  started  from  tbe  ship  on  a  splendid  morning,  with  the  temperature  at 
20  deg.  below  zero,  nearly  calm.  I  had  the  honour  of  conducting  the  really 
pretty  wife  of  Mahkatzao,  who  seated  herself  astride  behind  me  on  the  sledge  1 
while  mv  companion  was  placed  with  our  wortliy  hoslt.  I  was  of  course  de- 
sirous or  acquitting  myself  creditably  as  a  Jehu ;  but  the  first  essay  in  doe- 
driving  will  scarcely  be  a  successful  one.  Reins  there  are  none ;  the  animals 
are  to  be  guided  almost  entirely  by  the  whip,  particularly  with  strangers,  their 
masters  alone  having  power  by  the  voice ;  and  herein  great  management  ^and 
watchfulness  are  necessary,  and  an  unpractised  hand  will  be  quite  unable  to 
run  the  dogs  off  a  beaten  track,  or  prevent  their  returning  to  tlieir  homes. 
Portunately  for  my  escape  from  total  discomfiture,  Mahkatzan  led  the  way,  and 
our  canine  steeds  were  going  homeward,  so  we  dashed  along  without  any  mote 
than  an  occasional  overturn,  my  fair  companion  holding  me  in  a  vigorous 
grasp  in  any  such  case  of  danger ;  consequently  a  double  effort  of  clinging  to 
our  sledge  was  of  course  necessary  on  my  part.  After  a  rapid  drive  of  four 
hours,  during  which  my  companion  bad  his  face  slightly  frost-nipped,  we  arrived 
at  Kavgwan,  where  our  conductor  resided,  and  were  scarcely  permitted  to  look 
round,  so  eager  was  be  to  press  upon  us  tlie  hospitable  snelter  of  his  rooC 
Kaygwan  is  a  very  small  place ;  I  cannot  even  call  it  a  hamlet,  since  it  con- 
sisted only,  if  my  memory  serve  me  right,  of  five  huts,  of  which  that  of  our 
entertainer,  though  greatly  larger  than  the  others,  was  not  of  extraordinary 
dimensions. 

And  then  for  the  tents,  or  buts: 

As  tbe  buts  of  the  Tuski  are  all  of  similar  form  and  materials,  and  differ  only 
in  size,  cleanliness,  and  convenience,  I  shall  here  describe  them  generally,  noting 
peculiarities  in  their  proper  places.  Around,  and  resting  upon  one  or  two  props, 
are  ranged  at  equal  distances  ribs  of  the  whale,  their  number  and  tbe  area  of 
the  hut  or  tent,  which  is  mostly  circular  or  oblong  spheroidal  in  shape,  depend- 
ing upon  the  dimensions.  Over  these,  tightly  stretched  and  neatly  sewn,  is 
drawn  a  covering  of  walrus  skin,  so  beautimlly  cured  and  prepared  as  to  retain 
its  elasticity,  and  to  be  semilucent.  Some  of  these  skins  are  of  an  enormous 
size ;  I  saw  one  in  tbe  roof  of  Metre's  tent  at  Wootair,  which  could  not  have 
contained  less  than  between  seventy  and  eighty  square  feet,  and  tbe  whole 
^lear  as  parchment.  So  much  light  being  admitted  by  tbe  roof,  no  windows 
are  necessary ;  an  aperture  on  the  most  sheltered  side  serves  as  a  door,  over 
.which,  when  not  in  use,  a  screen  of  walrus  skin  is  drawn ;  snow  is  heaped  to 
the  height  of  about  eighteen  inches  round  tbe  tent,  to  keep  wind  or  drift  from 
penetrating  beneath,  and  the  outer  shell  is  complete,  with  the  addition  of 
-cords  of  hide  sometimes  passed  over  and  across  the  roof  to  secure  the  skin. 

Tbe  yaranga  (plural  of  yarang),  as  these  huts  are  called,  are  constructed  of  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


2%e  Tents  of  the  TuiU:  S9 

fimnded  form,  to  prevent  snowdrift  from  collecting  at  the  gables*  and  to  oppose 
few^  points  to  the  fierce  winds  whicli  sweep  remorselessly  over  these  treeless 
r^ons ;  the  same  rule  is  not  observed  with  regard  to  the  interior.  As  the 
yaranga  vary  so  much  in  size,  some  being  only  ten  or  a  dozen  feet  in  diameter, 
while  the  largest  measure  from  thirty  to  forty,  the  internal  arrangements  also 
differ  much.  In  the  smaller,  a  single  apartment — frequently  scarce  large 
enough  for  two  persons — runs  across  the  hut  opposite  to  the  door,  while  in 
the  habitations  of  chiefs,  who  have  generally  three  or  four  generations  living 
under  their  roofs,  the  sleeping  places  extend  in  a  front  and  two  sides  nearly 
lound  the  walk  of  the  dwelling.  These  extraordinary  chambers  are  formed  by 
posts  let  into  the  soil  at  a  distance  from  each  other,  and  from  six  to  eight  feet 
uom  the  exterior  walk,  on  which,  at  heights  varying  from  three  to  five  feet,  a 
roof  of  skins  and  laths  is  supported;  thick  layers  of  dried  grass  are  placed 
over  all  to  exclude  the  cold ;  deerskins  dressed  with  the  hair  on,  and  closely 
sewn  together,  hang  from  the  edge  of  this  roof  on  the  inside,  and  can  be 
drawn  aside  or  closed  at  will ;  when  shut  they  entirely  exclude  the  external 
air.  On  the  ground  are  stretched  more  well-cured  walrus*  skins,  over  which, 
when  repose  is  taken,  those  of  the  reindeer  and  Siberian  sheep,  beautifully 
prepared,  are  laid ;  above,  close  under  the  roof,  against  the  sides  of  the  hut, 
small  lattice  shelves  are  slung,  on  which  mocassins,  fur  socks,  and  the  dried 
grass,  which  the  more  prudent  place  in  the  soles  of  their  boots  to  absorb  mois- 
ture, are  put  to  dry.  A  species  of  dish,  oval  and  shallow,  manufactured,  as  I 
understood,  by  themselves,  of  a  plastic  material  and  afterwards  hardened,  but 
from  its  appearance  possibly  cut  out  of  stone,  serves  as  a  lamp  ;  against  a 
ridge,  running  along  the  middle,  and  nearly  an  inch  high,  fibres  of  weet-o-weet, 
or  moss,  are  neatly  arranged,  only  their  points  showing  above  the  stone  edge : 
the  dkh  is  filled  with  train  oil,  often  hard  frozen,  and  a  light  of  peculiar  beauty 
produced,  giving  enormous  heat,  without,  when  well  trimmed,  either  smoke  oV 
smell,  and  certainly  one  of  the  softest  lights  I  ever  saw,  not  the  slightest  glare 
distressing  the  eyes ;  around  the  outer  wall  are  ranged  any  trifling  articles  of 
ornament  which  may  be  possessed.  Wooden  vessels  .scooped  from  drifl-wood 
are  placed  in  the  comers :  they  contain  ice  and  snow,  of  which  the  Tuski  con- 
sume vast  quantities ;  indeed,  snow-munching  appears  to  occupy  the  principal 
part  of  their  time  between  the  important  periods  of  food  and  repose.  The  area 
of  the  yarang  not  occupied  by  the  salons  is  used  quite  as  an  antechamber  or 
hall  of  entrance;  here  food  is  deposited  previous  to  preparation  for  cooking, 
much  of  which  is  also  done  here  over  larger  lamps  than  those  inside.  Here 
are  unloaded  sledges,  and  the  porters  of  ice  and  snow ;  the  former  being  after- 
wards placed  on  the  roof  of  the  sleeping  apartment.  Here  too  the  dogs  feed 
and  sleep,  the  faithful  creatures  ever  seeking  to  lie  close  to  theii  masters  at 
the  edge  of  the  inner  rooms,  and  even  thrusting  their  noses  into  the  heated 
atmosphere. 

The  atmosphere  was,  indeed,  to  the  feelings  of  our  countrymen^  over- 
heated, and  is  described  as  being  painfully  oppressive  after  the  pure,  cold 
m  outside..  '^  I  cannot  understand,''  says  the  author  elsewhere,  '^  how 
the  natives  can  endure  these  great  extremes  of  heat  and  cold ;  I  have 
quitted  an  outward  temperature  of  — 20°  (that  is  to  say,  fifty-two 
degrees  below  freezing  point)  to  enter  yarangas  where  die  thermometer 
registered  +100°.  A  change  of  120  degrees  in  one  day  seems  almost 
enough  to  kill  one ;  but  this  is  experienced  by  the  Tuski  pretty  well 
during  their  entire  lives,  and  they  are  certainly  hardy  and  robust  enough/' 
The  last  circumstance  is  partly  accounted  for  by  the  information  received 
by  Wrangell,  that  all  weakly  and  deformed  children  are  destroyed,  and 
although.  Mr.  Hooper  did  not  see  anything  to  corroborate  this  statement, 
and,  on  the  contrary,  a  parent's  love  for  his  offspring  is  more  than 
usually  exemplified  among  the  Tuski,  still  he  says  it  is  probable  that 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


WsangeU's  mjEoyination  was  cerreel,  9a  ke  never  nmembers  b^Mg*  mam 
a  dB&rmitj^  nor  eliildven  of  ».  sicldjr  ocmatitniioft.  Ob  tbe  otkar  ham^ 
matnoide,  wfaere  tbe  parent  has  becoaie>  so  eld  andi  weak  aa  to  be  hapless, 
18  an  erent,  we  are  tol<^  of  fireqnent,  mdeed  hab^bual,  oecnrrence. 

There  is  one  more  point  connected  with  the  tents  of  the  Tuski  that 
cannot  be  passed  orer.  It  is  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture,,  hut  essentiat 
to  its  completeness: 

.  Tbe  persons,  ck>tbes,  habitetions,  votd  ewem  dogs  of  the  TUsfci,  were  coivei^ 
with  vermin,  not  in  a  sli^t  degree,  b«it  ahsolutefy  swavming;  and  it  is  deuh^ 
le8»  horn  this  cause  that  they  c&p  the  Mr  on  the  liead.  The  first  dbys  oTovk 
jouraej  hrouj^t  tbe  horrible  coovictioa  that  it  was  hopeless  to  avoid  the 
plagve  while  10  contact  with  the*  people.  In  vaio  oar  clothe»  weve  changed 
and  washed  pepeatedly ;  in  vain  we  attempted  to  isolate  ourselves  as  mncb  as 
possible ;  the  evil  increased  each  day ;  ai»d  at  last  our  coodftien  became  in^ 
supportably  tormenting ;  those  of  excitable  temperemea*  being  dei^ed  ^eep 
or  rest  by  theeoastant  nvitstien,  and  reaehiuff  a  stale  borderibg  upon  madness^ 
it  was-  pavticulariy  when  repose  waa  courted  that  our  torment  was  greatest. 
When  travelHng^  out  of  doors  the  cold  checked  the  attaoks  of  the  foe,  whicii 
only  resumed  their  onslaught  witla  new  vigour  when  reanimated  by  the  great 
heat  of  tile  ywraagas.  This  was  the  most  fear&l  ioiictbn  experienced  during 
oiTT  slay  in  Tuski  land,  and  far  suvpessed  anything  I  ever  sufl^red;  producnig 
in  me  an  agitation  of  the  nerves,  like  St.  Vitas*  dance. 

The  Tuski,  living  chiefly  on  fish,  seal^  whale,  blubber,  a  Ettf e  reindeer 
flesh,  and  pemmican,.  demised  the  edibles  of  their  visitors ;  the  ^ioes 
employed  ia  the  prepara^oa  of  the  preserved  meats  Imng^  partic(tisa% 
^agreeable  to  tiieir  palates.  Theiir  passion  lor  sngar,  and  indeed  any- 
thing  sweet,  was,  on  the  other  hand,  general;  and  they  were  eqnaUy 
partiid:  to  the  use  of  tobaeeo  and  of  strong  drmks  when  they  could  get 
^em.  The  best  idea  of  the  food  of  tbe  Tusk^  and  of  their  culinary  atj- 
tainments,  is  to  be  obtained  from  an  account  of  a  feast,  given  to  the 
officers  of  the  Flover^ 

I  propose  now  to  set  before  3rou  in  detail  the  history  of  a  Tuski  rqiast  of 
the  most  sumptuous  nature^  as  myself  and  oompanicms  partook  of  it,  and  trust 
you  may  &nd  it  as  much  to  your  taste  as  they  do  to  thehrs.  It  is,  I  b^ieve^ 
with  nearly  all  people  in  a  primitive  condition,  tbe  first  and  paramount  duty 
of  hospitahty  to  provide  the  visitor  with  food  immediately  on  his  entrance ; 
and  such  was  the  rule  in  Tuski  customs.  First  was  brovght  in  on  a  huge 
wooden  tmy  a  number  of  small  fish,  uncooked,  bttt  intensely  ftt>zen.  At 
these  all  the  natives  set  to  work,  and  we  essayed,  somewhat  ruefulty,  it  must 
be  confessed,  to  follow  their  exanqple,  but,  being  all  unused  to  such  gastro- 
nomic process*  found  ourselves,  as  might  be  expected,  rather  at  a  loss  how  to 
commence.  From  this  dilemma,  however,  our  host  speedily  extricated  us,  by 
practical  demonstration  of  the  correct  mode  of  action,  and  under  his  certain^ 
very  able  tuition  we  shortly  became  more  expert.  But,  alas  I  a  new  difficulty 
was  soon  presented  ;  our  native  companions,  we  presume,  either  made  a  hasty 
bolt  of  each  noisel^  or  had  peshaps  a  relish  for  tke  flavour  of  tbe  viands  now 
under  consideration.  Not  so  ourselves;  it  was  sadly  repngmant  to  our 
palates,  for,  aided  by  the  newly-acquired  knowledge  that  the  fish  were  in  the 
same  condition  as  when  taken  from  the  water,  uncleaned  and  unemhoweiled, 
we  speedily  discovered  that  we  could  neither  bolt  nor  retain  the  fragments 
which,  by  the  primitive  aid  of  teeth  and  nails,  we  had  rashly  detadied  from  our 
piscatorial  share. 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  our  host  pressed  us  to  **  fall  to  ;**  we  could  not 
manage  the  conssnptton  of  this  i&vourite  preparation  (or  rather  lade  thereof)^ 
and  succeeded  ^h  difficulty  in  evading  his  earnest  soludtations. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  oext  course  was  a  nesft  of  green.  stiuS^  looking  as  if  caiefuUy  c^pfMd 
np,  and  this  was  also  hard  frozen.  To  it  was  added  a  lump  of  blubber,  wmcb 
the  lady  presiding,  who  did  aH  the  carving,  dexterously  cut  into  slices  with  a 
knife  ISte  a  eheesemonger^s,  and  S4>portioned  out,  at  ^ffbrent  quarters  of  the 
hage:  tmy  befoie  ncntioDtd,  which  was  nsed  thronghoot  the  meaY,  together 
wid^  a  mpdiTiit  o£  tkegras»JikB  stuS,  to^  tke  eoMoanj;  Ihe^  onljrdistinctton 
iafkvQurof  the  stnngees  and  guests  •f  high  de^ee  being  thai  tkeir  stiees  were 
cut  much  thinner  than  for  the  rest.  We  tasted  this,  compoaadl  asik  .  •  . 
we  didn't  like  it ;  at  this  no  one  will  wonder ;  the  blubber  s|^eak»  lor  itself^ 
and  the  other  stuffy  which  really  was  not  very  unpalatable,  we  disco?ered  in 
aftev'^nie*  to  bv  tA«  tminrndnoMfoodofremdeer  which  had  been  shiughtered  i 
at  leaafc  so  we  were^  toM,  bat  I  an  not  quite  clear  on  this^  point.  Our  disfike 
le  the  dish  bad  no  oft  naive  e£^et  trpon  our  host,  who  onl^r  seemed  to  be  asto- 
niskeil  at  cnrsliange  want  of  taste,  and,  with  the  rest  of  the  guests,  soon 
dearaA  th«  board,  the  mmagitag  dame  putting  the  finishing  stroke  by  a  rapid 
sweep^of  ber  no*  «o»  scrupulonsly  dean  fingers  over  the  dish,  by  way  of  clear- 
m^  ctf  .the  fragnvBts,  to  prepare  for  the  rece^on  of  the  next  delicacy.  After 
&1S  Mtorcpdng^  operation  she  conveyed  hes  digits  to  her  month,  and,  engulfing 
Aem  kff  a  bridP  period  withdrew  them  quite  in  apple-pie  order  once  more. 

The  hoacd  was  now^  again  replenished,  this  time  with  viands  less  repellent 
to  onr  lUMraetttred  tastes.  Boiled  seal  and  walrus  flesh  appeare<^  and  our 
kospitablelnenda  wwe  greatly  veliered  when  they  beheld  ns  assist  in  the  con* 
aamptton  of  these  kenn^  which,  being^utteriy  devoid  of  flavour,  were  distaste- 
ful only  from  their  extreme  toughness  and  mode  of  presentation,  but  we  did 
not,  of  ceuise,,  desire  to  appear  too  singular  or  squcamisb.  Next  came  a  por- 
tion of  whale's  flesh,^  or  rather  whale's  skin ;.  this  was  perfect  ehoay  in  hue^aiid 
we  discovered  some  apprehensions  respecting  its  fitness  as  an  article  of  ibod; 
but  our  fears  were  groundless.  It  was  cut  ai^  recut  crosswise  into  dimuuitive 
eakes  t  venturing  upon  one  of  which  we  were  agreeably  surprised  to  find  it 
pnoomiig  a  eocoa-attt  ftaveur,  Kke  which  also  it  ate,  **  rery  short  i*  indeed  so 
BHicfab  afitofiisl»d  viere  we  on  this  occasion  that  w^  had  consumed  a  very  con- 
skienble  numbar  of  these  cubes,  and  with  great  relish  toe,  belbro  we  recovered 
from  our  wonder^  This  dish  was  ever  afterwanfe  a  faYomite  with  Me.  Oa 
its  disappearance  a  very  limited  quantity  of  boiled  reindeer  meai^  h&At 
and  fat,  was  served  up,  to  which  we  did  ainple  justice ;  then  came  portions  of 
the  gum  of  the  whale,  in  which  the  ends  of  the  bone  lay  still  embedded,  and 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  this  was  perfectly  delicious,  its  flavour  being, 
as  nearly  a»  1  can  ^wdk  a  paraM,  Kke  that  of  cream  cheese.  This,  which  the 
TiidLi  esM  thdr  sugar,  was  the  wind««p  to  the  repast  and  ourselves,  and  we 
were  fiitt  to  a<init  that,  after  the  ntlm  unpleasant  aaapices  with  whieh  our 
ieaat  commenced^  the  fiaak  was  by  no  means  to  be  contemned^ 

The  T^kis  in  loaM^  no  belter  thaa  imtutored  savagesr,  are  st29  not 
deficseat  in  ii^^inty  and  ^il!!,  even  as  applied  to  the  arts.  Their  in« 
-ventLve  geaaua  is  parHculaxly  dkplayed  in  the  mani^aetare  of  frocks  and 
breeches  of  reindeer,  fawn,  seal,  and  dogskin;  also  of  eidei>di»k^ 
(^nijies  or  OTer-dorts,  tKpSy  mocasam',  mitts,  and  such  Kke.  T%ey 
embroider  xenj  prettily^  and  to  a  great  esten^  with  the  hair  of  the  rein* 
deer  and  poeces  of  leather  cvA,  oat  in  the  required  form  and  sewn  on. 
They  ak»  joia  xaasxy  parti^eoloured  peees  of  skin  together,  which  have 
frequently  a  xeiy  pretty  efieet.  It  wa9  ctnioos  to  notice  how^  with  them 
as  in  more  cayiHsed  conmtunities,  certain  persons  were  famed  for  their 
akill  in  particniar  branekes  of  mam^eiuio.  Some  women  were  remark-' 
able  fordresskigskina  in  a  superior  nNmner ;  others  were  noted  for  em- 
ploying better  iye&  than  usoaL  One  man  made  wlnp-handfes  well ;  an- 
9met  prodoeed  tJio  best  thongs.  Tbrir  skill  in  cutting  ivory  was  also 
Modds  of  sledges  and  of  household  Aumiture,  pipes,  aztd 


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$S  The  TmU  of  the  TmkL 

toys  of  ivory,  among  wh^ch  were  ducks,  seals,  dogs,  &c,  evidenced  great 
taste  and  variety  ;  fishing-lines  of  whalebone,  with  hooks  and  sinkers  of 
ivory,  sealskin  bags,  coils  of  rope,  of  walrus,  or  seal-hide,  cut  without  a 
join  for  full  fifty  fathoms,  and  of  all  thicknesses ;  skdges  and  harness 
were  also  among  the  products  of  their  industry.  Tlwre  was  (me  arti^  a 
very  Tuski  Cellini,  whose  skill  in  sculpturing  ivory  was  the  theme  of 
praise  throughout  the  country. 

It  appears  that  even  dandies  are  not  unknown  in  Tuski  land : 

I  suppose  it  is  an  inevitable  provision  of  all  societies  that  some  few  among 
their  components  are  doomed  to  act  the  popinjay,  and  seek  to  be  esteemed  l^ 
their  outward  show.  The  votary  of  Bond-street,  the  petU^maUre  of  the  Boule- 
vards, were  here  fitly  represented  by  our  Tuski  friend ;  his  dress  was  cut  and 
donned  in  a  manner  entirely  differing  from  the  mode  adopted  by  his  fellows  ;^ 
pendant  taes  of  leather*  each  strip  having  a  bead,  and  scraps  of  dyed  fur  aptly 
mimicked  Sie  frogs  and  braids  of  his  more  advanced  brother  in  fashion.;  nor 
was  he  blind  to  the  indispensable  qualifications  of  the  fop  ;  his  cap  and  mo- 
cassins w^re  as  carefully  selected  as  hat  and  boots  elsewhere.  Thus  bedecked 
and  bedizened,  he  strutted  on  the  scene  with  an  air  of  self-satisfaction  and  of 
admiration,  which,  while  it  provoked  a  smile,  incited  rather  melancholy  reflec^ 
tions  on  the  likeness  of  man  here  and  ebewhere.  Our  guests  were  as  much 
diverted  as  we  could  desire,  and  night  was  far  encroached  upon  ere  they  were 
all  disposed  in  slumber. 

The  Tuski  are  naturally  a  very  courageous  people,  and  full  of  en- 
durance. They  attack  the  fierce  polar  bear  singly  without  hesitation, 
and  sanguinary  contests  are  of)«n  the  result 

**  We  met  one  man,"  Mr.  Hooper  relates,  "who  was  said  to  have 
encountered  a  huge  and  savage  beiu*  with  only  a  species  of  large  dagger- 
knife,  and  to  have  succeeded  in  despatching  it.  He  was  frightfully  in- 
jured in  the  contest  in  his  breast :  five  huge  scars,  caused  by  the  claws 
of  hia  adversary,  were  visible ;  a  terrible  seam  appeared  on  one  side  of 
his  face,  and  he  was,  moreover,  crippled  for  life." 

It  is  quite  manifest,  from  Lieutenant  Hooper's  narrative,  that  the 
officers  and  men  of  the  Plover  were  solely  indebted  for  the  hospitality 
and  kind  treatment  they  received  at  the  nands  of  these  people  to  their 
own  exceeding  civility  and  forbearance.  The  whole  work  is,  in  this 
respect,  a  lesson  of  the  good  that  can  be  obtained  by  kindly  intercourse 
with  semi-savages.  Mr.  Hooper  is  himself  a  most  remarkable  example 
of  the  combination  of  a  tender,  susceptible  temperament,  with  daring 
courage  and  endurance.  These  peculiarities  are  nowhere  made  more 
manifest  than  on  the  journey  to  East  Cape,  performed  on  snow-shoes, 
with  dog-sledges  for  provisions. 

Lieutenant  Hooper,  accompanied  by  Messrs.  Martin  and  W.  H. 
Jioore,  and  some  fnendly  natives  for  guides,  started  on  the  morning  of 
February  8th — a  clear  and  beautiful  day,  with  the  temperature  ranging 
from  20  deg.  to  23  deg.  below  zero  (that  is,  52  to  55  below  freeamg- 
point).  The  first  night  they  reached  tents  where  only  a  few  fish  were 
set  before  them  both  frozen  and  boiled.  A  blinding  snowdrift  detailed 
them  the  9th,  hut  getting  impatient,  they  set  off,  notwithstanding,  on  the 
10th.  With  such  discomfort,  the  fine  fiercely  driven  snow  blowing 
directly  in  their  faces  and  nearly  blinding  them,  they  only  got  to 
Noowook,  a  miserable  fishing-station,  but  where  hospitality,  accordii^  to- 
the  means  of  the  poor  people,  was  at  once  shown  them.    Here  one  of 

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The  Tents  of  the  Tushi.  63 

iihmr  dogs  departed  firom  diero,  but  they  bought  anoth^  the  next  day  for 
ox  ounces  of  tobacco.  The  1 1th  was  still  misty,  with  dazzling  snow  ;  and 
passing  Tchaytcheen — five  small  huts  upon  a  splendid  harbour — ^they 
crossed  to  the  opposite  shore,  and  struck  off  to  the  westward  of  a  ridge 
of  hills,  where  they  stopped  to  refresh  themselves : 

The  day  had  been  robty  throughout,  and  while  we  thus  tarried  for  a  space, 
fioe  snow  comroeoced  to  fall  thickly,  and  obscure  our  path ;  increasing  heavily 
as  we  continued  on  our  way.  All  surrounding  country  was  now  completely 
bidden  from  view^;  it  was  ^ven  difficult  for  myself,  who  always  brought  up  the 
rear,  to  distinguish  with  clearness  the  form  of  our  guide,  Mooldooyah,  who  not- 
withstanding pursued  his  way  unhesitatingly  until  the  brief  daylight  began  to 
decrease,  when  be  showed  ominous  signs  of  wavering  and  doubt,  stopping  at 
times  to  consult  with  his  wife,  and  peering  anxiously  into  the  fast  thickening 
gloom .  At  last,  after  descending  a  hill,  and  proceeding  for  a  short  time  along 
a  level  surface,  Mooldooyah  came  to  a  determined  halt,  and  realised  our  fears 
of  his  having  been  misled  by  telling  us  that  we  were  now  on  salt-water  ice, 
probably  only  an  inlet  of  the  sea,  but  he  did  not  know  what  or  where — in  fact, 
that  he  had  lost  his  way  in  the  snowfall  and  darkness,  and  that  we  must  wait 
until  rooonrise  for  light  and  guidance.  This  would  not  happen  for  four  or  five 
hours,  so  we  sat  ourselves  down  contentedly  to  wait  for  the  advent  of  the  queen 
of  night  to  relieve  us  from  our  difficulties.  We  proposed,  indeed,  to  show  the 
direction  of  the  land  by  compass ;  but  Mooldooyah  rejected  the  offer  as  of 
little  use,  as  even  then  he  would  be  unable  to  find  the  road.  Fortunately  the 
&11  of  snow  had  brought  a  moderation  of  the  cold,  from  which,  therefore,  we 
suffered  little :  and  so  slightly  did  the  condition  of  affairs  depress  our  spirits, 
that  several  favourite  songs  were  sung  in  chorus,  and  Martin  and  myself  had  a 
dance  in  the  snow,  which  deserves  the  name  of  theTuski  Polka.  It  was,  how- 
ever, rather  too  laborious  an  amusement  to  be  long  continued,  as  we  were 
heavily  encumbered  with  onr  clothes,  and  the  snow  was  three  feet  deep  :  re- 
course was  then  had  to  smoking,  and  stire  I  am  that  the  severest  condemners  of 
this  practice  would  withhold  their  strictures  in  our  case,  where  its  indulgence 
was  so  great  a  solace. 

The  rising  of  the  moon  brought  no  alteration  in  their  condition  ;  the 
heavy  snow-flakes  fell  so  thickly  that  they  could  barely  tell,  by  a  faint 
glimmering,  in  which  direction  she  lay,  and  they  were  perforce  induced 
to  arrange  their  sledges  for  repose,  following  in  that  the  movements  of 
their  Tuski  friend  Mooldooyah,  and  aided  by  the  suggestions  of  his  good 
wife  Yaneenga,  who  was  ever  watchful  for  their  comforts — ^not  more 
anxious  perhaps  than  her  husband,  but  more  alive  to  their  wants. 

Mooldooyah  and  his  wife  were  evidently  in  a  state  of  terrible  anxiety  for 
our  safety  ;  for  themselves  they  could  have  little  fear,  inured  as  they  were  to 
the  rigour  of  the  climate,  although  even  the  natives  occasionally  suffer  dread- 
ful, and  even  fatal  injuries  by  such  accidents  as  the  present.  But  the  case  was 
different  as  concerned  the  strangers,  whose  power  to  resist  the  cold  they  were 
unacquainted  with.  In  this  extremity,  recourse  was  had  to  thy  powers,  dread 
Shamanism!  and  whatever  people  may  think  of  it,  I  freely  confess,  that 
although  by  no  means  a  man  of  weak  nerves,  the  manner  of  conducting  the 
ceremony,  notwithstanding  the  simplicity  of  its  details,  struck  me  with  a  sen- 
sation of  awe,  and  first  opened  my  eyes  to  the  real  danger  we  were  in.  Quit- 
ting their  sledge  with  slow  and  measured  step,  the  pair  removed  to  a  distance 
from  us,  where  Yaneenga  prostrated  herself  in  the  snow,  her  hands  upraised 
above  her  buried  face ;  the  roan,  turning  first  to  the  west,  then  to  the  north 
and  south,  omitting— I  know  not  why,  perhaps  accidentally — the  fourth  point, 
bowed  himself  to  each  repeatedly  ;  like  Yaneenga's,  his  hands  and  arms  were 
upraised  above  his  head,  and  he  gave  forth  a  succession  of  cries,  which  still 
Sept. — VOL.  XOIX.  NO.  CCCXCIII.  F 

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64  The  Tents  ef  the  Tuski. 

sound  in  my  ears  as  I  write  of  them — long,  wailing  shouts,  loud,  unearthly, 
and  despairing,  each  exhausting  the  lungs  in  their  emission,  like  a  thund^- 
roll  at  first,  and  sinking  by  degrees  to  a  melancholy  fiiintness.  In  all  my  life  I 
never  heard  any  sounds  to  equal  these  for  horrible  impressiveness ;  the  death- 
wail  of  the  Irish,  the  shout  of  the  Red  Indian^  both  of  which  I  have  heard  in 
force,  fall  far  short  of  Mooldooyah's  appeal  to  his  fates.  They  presently  re- 
turned to  their  sledge,  where  I  joine^i  them,  and  found  Yaneenga  weeing 
profusely,  but  quietly,  while  her  husband  sat  in  moody  silence,  and  readied  only 
briefly  to  my  questions.  Ere  long  I  regained  my  own  sledge,  and  redined  • 
against  it  until  morning,  but  sleep  came  tardily,  and  then  only  in  broken, 
fitful  portions. 

Glunmering  daylight  brought  no  relief,  the  snow  sUll  falling  in  enor- 
mous flakes,  and  they  only  made  a  little  progress  along  shore,  the  view 
being  circumscribed  to  a  few  yards*  extent.  At  night  the  wind  rose  and 
the  temperature  fell  condiderfd)ly,  so  they  were  glad  to  dig  holes  in  the 
snow  and  to  lay  therein  in  a  crouching  position.  Thus  a  little,  very 
little,  miserable  slumber  was  obtained,  idtfaongh  two  days'  weariness 
courted  repose.  Mr.  Moore  was  unfortunately  at  the  same  time  attacked 
with  violent  diarrhoea. 

Tliis  was  a  miserable  night ;  darkness  surrounded  us  without  relief,  for  we 
had  neither  fuel  nor  means  of  obtaining  light ;  the  snow,  penetrating  our 
outer  garments,  thawed  upon  the  under  clothing ;  gauntlets  and  oqw,  tre- 
quently  dropped  ormislaid«  were  full  of  snow  when  recovered,  and  little  round 
crystal  balls  frtngins  our  inner  caps  and  hair«  greatly  increased  our  discomfort. 
It  may  thus  be  imagmed  how  truly  wretched  was  our  situation,  that  of  our  poor 
messmate  particularly,  aggravated  as  it  was  by  illness  and  extra  exposure. 

Another  day  dawned,  but  brought  no  comfort  to  our  now  chilled  souk  as 
well  as  bodies.  Think,  dear  friends,  of  the  utter  desolation  and  dreariness  of 
uninterrupted  snow ;  the  livelong  day,  the  weary  night,  snow,  only  snow,  now 
billing  perpendicularly  in  broad  and  massive  flakes,  now  driven  by  the  freezing 
blast  in  slanting  sheets  which  sought  each  nook  and  cranny  for  a  re8tii^«place. 
In  scenes  of  stirring  excitement  there  is  much  to  blind  one  to  possible  contin- 
gencies, or  at  least  they  are  congenial  to  the  spirit,  but  this  oiur  miserable  con- 
dition, desolate  and  monotonous,  called  for  all  the  quicksilver  in  one*s  veins. 

A  partial  clearance  towards  noon  stimulated  to  new  efforts,  but  the 
sledges  broke  down  or  turned  over. 

The  snowfall  decreased  slightly  -towards  evening,  and  this  trifling  improve- 
ment favoured  an  illusion,  whose  dissipation  was  a  cruel  disappointment  to  us 
in  our  jaded  and  dispirited  state.  We  were,  unconsciously,  again  approaching 
the  sea,  and  suddenly  hailed  with  transports  of  delight  what  we  took  to  be  a  col- 
lection of  yarangas.  Strange  to  say,  the  dogs  manifested  equally  joyous  symp- 
toms of  recognition,  and  needed  little  persuasion  to  make  them  quicken  their 
speed  towards  the  so  welcome  objects.  Alas,  we  might  have  spared  our  |^ad 
hurrahs  ;  the  fiincied  yarangas  were  but  the  bare  abrupt  feces  of  the  sea  cliffs, 
and,  as  we  neared  them,  seemed  to  grin  derisively  at  our  bitter  delusions. 

So  great  a  fall  of  snow  had  rendered  travelling  exceedingly  difficult,  particu- 
larly with  such  heavily  laden  sledges ;  the  dogs  could  scarcely  flounder  along, 
and  we  were  constantly  obliged  to  lift  one  or  the  other  runner  from  its  deep 
furrow.  These  continued  efforts  were,  in  our  exhausted  plight,  painfully  lalK>- 
rious  ;  and  the  entire  helplessness  of  Mr.  Moore,  who  still  suffered  from  his 
complaint,  added  greatly  to  our  fatigue. 

We  stopped  at  last,  from  sheer  inability  to  proceed,  in  the  mouth  of  a  sms31 
inlet,  bordered  by  steep  banks,  and  passed  a  night  of  misery  and  suspense,  far 
worse  than  any  of  the  preceding.     The  wind,  sweeping  remorselessly  through 


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The  Tents  of  the  Tuski.  65 

the  gorge,  covered  us  with  snow-drift,  and  sought  to  freeze  the  very  marrow  in 
our  bones,  the  temperature  having  again  fallen  considerably. 

Tiiat  night  is  imprinted  indeliblv  upon  my  memory :  never  do  I  recal  its 
tardily  passing  moments  without  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  what  might 
have  been  our  state  next  morning.  That  we  were  not  all  frozen  to  death  will 
ever  be  a  matter  of  wonder  to  me,  for  our  under  garments  had  been  completely 
saturated  with  melted  snow,  and  our  outer  dresses  were  rigid  as  boards.  The 
morning  of  the  14th  presented  little  to  justify  more  than  a  faint  hope  of  re- 
lief. A  heavy  mist  hung  around,  obscuring  the  scene  as  much  as  ever ;  and 
although  we  journeyed  on,  it  was  in  a  circle,  for  we  crossed  our  old  track. 
Between  nine  and  ten,  however,  the  mist  cleared  off,  and  gave  us  a  consider- 
able yhew,  by  which  fortunate  chance  both  Martin  and  Mooldooyah  recognised 
a  headland  afar,  and  then  knew  that  we  were  in  Oong-wy-sac  Uoy-ee-mak,  or 
Oongwysac  harbour,  and  consequently  could  reach  the  village  of  Oongwysac 
ere  night.  We  directly'  took  bearings,  in  case  the  weather  should  again 
tliicken,  but  it  cleared  as  the  day  wore  ou  ;  and  using  all  the  very  moderate 
despatch  we  could  exert,  Oongwysac  was  reached  after  a  laborious  travel  of 
ten  iiours.  We  arrived  at  the  yarangas  in  a  condition  of  complete  exhaustion  ; 
and  here  our  first  cry  was  for  water.  For  water  I  with  snow  in  such  profusion 
arotmd  I  £veo  bo,  good  friends.  Thirst  was  one  of  our  greatest  sufferings, 
which  eating  snow  only  increased,  from  its  inflammatory  effiect.  Our  poor  dogs 
were  almost  &mi&hed. 

The  okoneh  of  the  natives  n  mvaluftble  as  a  proteetion  against  snow. 
It  is  made  of  the  iirteirttnee  of  whales  and  othm  marine  animals,  slit  open 
and  sewn  very  neatly  together  on  a  doable  edge.  This  species  of  shirt 
is,  when  good,  quite  impervioos  to  water,  and  exceedingly  light,  weighing 
ooly  a  few  ounces.  It  is  manifest  what  a  boon  such  a  protection  most  be 
in  snow,  particnlarly  heavy  drifik,  the  fine  particles  of  which  will  penetrate 
into  the  smallest  crevice,  and  so  completely  fill  the  hair  of  this  dress  that 
its  weight  becomes  unbearable. 

We  have  limited  ourselves  in  this  notiee  to  the  Tuski  and  their  tents, 
as  tfae  nu)re  novel  subject ;  but  Mr.  Hooper's  vforik  contains  also  a  very 
interesting  narrative  of  a  boat  expedition  along  the  Arctic  shores  of 
North  America ;  of  interviews  with  Esquimaux  by  no  means  of  so  plea- 
sant a  character  as  those  with  the  Tnski ;  of  an  ascent  up  the  Mackenzie 
and  Peel  Riveors,  and  of  winterings  at  tiie  forts  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Com- 
pany ;  whieii  narnitive  is  farther  enlivened  by  sundry  tales  of  starvation  in 
those  desolate  regions  of  a  troly  appallii^  character,  comprehending  as  they 
do  notiees  of  an  old  Indian  who  devoured  eleven  or  thirteen  persons, 
among  whom  (chariiy  begins  at  home)  were  his  parents,  one  wife,  and 
the  diildren  of  two ;  and  another  rather  work^-up  story  of  an  European 
:who  |)0nshed  firom  a  surfeit  over  the  liver  of  his  friend  in  distress.  These 
paii^^  episodes  of  Arctic  wintering  are  fnrdier  diva!Bified  by  accounts  of 
eowacdly  fights  between  the  Indians  and  the  Esquimaux.  Both  narra- 
tives are  illustrated  hy  a  map,  in  whidi  Mr.  Hooper  oarms  out  Wrangell's 
landio  Wollaston's — a  totaDy  improbable  view  of  the  case — and  by  seve- 
ral pr^tily  tinted  lithographs,  whioh  give  a  good  idea  of  die  tents  of  the 
Tnddg  of  ih&i  interiors,  and  of  the  people  themselves ;  as  also  by  a  very 
animal  picture  of  the  winter-quarters  <^  the  Hover  in  the  sameiegionSy 
and  a  charactaistic  view  of  Cape  Bathiffst,  vnt^  Esqmmaux,  tents,  and 
btats,  and  of  the  ice  pressing  down  on  that  most  remote  and  inhospitable 
shore. 


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(    66    ) 


THE  DOOMED  HOUSE. 

A  TALE. 

From  the  Danish  of  B.  S.  Inoemann. 

by  mrs.   bushby. 

*^  The  house  near  Christiansbavn's  canal  is  again  for  sale-— your  worthy 
uncle*s  house,  Johanna  !  And  now  upon  very  reasonaUe  terms,"  said 
the  young  joiner  and  cabinet-maker,  Frants,  one  morning  to  bis  pretty 
wife,  as  he  laid  the  adyertisement  sheet  of  the  newspaper  upon  the  cradle, 
and  glanced  at  his  little  boy,  an  infant  of  about  three  months  old,  who 
was  sleeping  sweetly,  and  seemed  to  be  sporting  with  heavenly  cherubs 
in  his  innocent  dreams. 

<<  Let  us  on  no  account  think  of  the  dear  old  house,"  relied  his  wife, 
taking  up  the  newspaper  and  placing  it  on  the  table,  without  even  look- 
ing at  the  advertisement.  '*  We  have  a  roof  over  our  heads  as  long  as 
Mr.  Stork  will  have  patience  about  the  rent.  If  we  have  bread  enough 
for  ourselves,  and  for  yon  little  angel,  who  will  soon  begin  to  want  some, 
we  may  well  rest  contented.  Notwithstanding  our  poverty,  we  are,  per- 
haps, the  happiest  married  couple  in  the  whole  town,"  she  added  gently, 
and  with  an  i^ectionate  smile,  '*  and  we  ought  to  diank  our  God  that 
he  did  not  let  the  wide  world  separate  us  from  each  other,  but  permitted 
ou  to  return  from  your  distant  journey  healthy  and  cheerful,  and  that 
e  has  granted  us  love  and  strength  to  bear  our  little  cross  with 
patience." 

^'  You  are  ever  the  same  amiable  and  pious  Johanna,"  said  Frants, 
embracing  the  lovely  young  mother,  who  reminded  him  of  an  exquisite 
picture  of  the  Madonna  he  had  seen  abroad,  *'  and  you  have  made  me 
better  and  more  patient  than  I  was,  either  by  nature  or  habit.  But  I 
really  cannot  remain  longer  in  this  miserable  garret ;  I  have  neither  room 
nor  spirits  to  work  here;  and  if  I  am  to  make  anything  by  my  handicraft, 
I  must  have  a  proper  workshop  and  space  to  breathe  and  move  in.  Your 
good  uncle's  house,  near  the  canal,  is  just  the  place  for  me;  how  many 
jovial  songs  my  old  master  and  I  have  sung  there  together  over  our 
joiner's  bench !  Ah  !  there  I  shall  feel  comfortable  and  at  home.  It  was 
there,  also,  that  I  first  saw  you ;  there  that  I  used  to  sit  every  evening 
with  you  in  the  nice  little  parlour  with  the  cheerful  green  wainscoting, 
when  I  came  from  the  workshop  with  old  Mr.  Flok.  I  remember  how,  on 
Sundays  and  on  holidays,  he  used  to  take  his  silver  goblet  from  the  cup- 
board m  the  alcove,  and  drink  with  me  in  such  a  sociable  way.  And  when 
my  piece  of  trial- work  as  a  journeyman  was  finished,  and  the  large  hand- 
some coffin  was  put  out  in  state  in  the  workshop,  do  you  remember  how 
glad  the  old  man  was,  and  how  you  sank  into  my  arms  when  he  placed 
your  hand  in  mine  over  the  coffin,  and  said :  ^  Take  her,  Frants,  and  be 
worthy  of  her  I  My  house  shall  be  your  home  and  hers,  and  everything 
it  contains  shall  be  your  property  when  I  am  sleeping  in  this  coffin,  await- 
ing a  blessed  resurrection,' " 

*'  Ah !  but  all  that  never  came  to  pass,"  sighed  Johanna.   ^<  The  coffin 


I 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Doomed  House.  67 

lies  empty  up  in  yonder  loft,  and  frightens  children  in  the  dark ;  the  dear 
old  house  is  under  the  ban  of  evil  report,  and  no  one  will  buy  it,  or  even 
hire  it  now,  so  many  strange,  unfortunate  deaths  have  taken  place  there.'* 
'^  These  very  circumstances  are  in  our  fiivour,  Johanna ;  on  account  of 
this  state  of  tning^  Mr.  Stork  will  sell  it  a  great  bargain,  and  g^ve  a 
half*year's  credit  for  the  purchase-money.  In  the  course  of  six  months, 
surely,  the  long-protracted  settlement  of  your  uncle's  afijGurs  will  be 
brought  to  a  close,  and  we  shall  at  least  have  as  much  as  will  pay  what 
we  owe.  The  house  will  then  be  our  own,  and  you  will  see  how  happy 
and  prosperous  we  shall  be.  Surely  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  poor  house 
that  three  children  died  there  of  measles,  and  two  people  of  old  age,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  months ;  and  none  but  silly  old  women  can  be 
frightened  because  the  idle  children  in  the  street  choose  to  scratch  upon 
the  walls  '  The  Doomed  House.'  The  house  is,  and  always  will  be, 
liked  by  me,  and  if  Mr.  Stork  will  accept  of  my  offer  for  it,  without  any 
other  security  than  my  own  word,  that  dwelling  shall  be  mine  to-day, 
and  we  can  move  into  it  to-morrow." 

"  Oh !  my  dear  Frants  !  you  cannot  think  how  reluctant  I  am  to  in- 
crease our  debt  to  this  Mr.  Stork ;  believe  me,  he  is  not  a  good  man, 
however  friendly  and  courteous  he  may  seem  to  be.  Even  my  uncle 
could  not  always  tolerate  him,  though  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  dislike 
any  of  God's  creatures.  Whenever  Mr.  Stork  came  and  began  to  talk 
about  business  and  bills,  my  uncle  became  silent  and  gloomy,  and  always 
gave  me  a  wink  to  retire  to  my  chamber." 

"  I  knew  very  well  Mr.  Stork  was  looking  after  you  then,"  said  Frants, 
with  a  smile  of  self-satisfaction,  ''  but  /  was  a  more  foi*tunate  suitor.  It 
was  a  piece  of  folly  on  the  part  of  the  old  bachelor ;  all  that,  however,  is 
forgotten  now,  and  he  has  transferred  the  regard  he  once  had  for  you 
to  me.  He  never  duns  me  for  my  rent ;  he  lent  me  money  at  the  time 
of  the  child's  baptism,  and  he  shows  me  more  kindness  than  any  one  els* 
does." 

^'  But  I  cannot  endure  the  way  in  which  he  looks  at  me,  Frants,  and  I 
put  no  faith  either  in  his  friendship  or  his  rectitude.  The  very  house 
that  he  is  now  about  to  sell  he  scarcely  came  so  honestly  by  as  he  gives 
out ;  and  I  cannot  understand  how  he  has  so  large  a  claim  upon  the  pro- 
perty my  uncle  left.  I  never  heard  my  uncle  speak  of  it.  God  only 
knows  what  will  remain  for  us  when  all^these  heavy  claims  that  have  been 
brought  forward  are  satisfied ;  yet  my  uncle  was  considered  a  rich  man.'* 

"  The  lawyers  and  the  proper  court  must  settle  that,"  replied  Frants. 
**  I  only  know  this,  that  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I  did  not  buy  the  house 
now.^' 

,  **  But,  to  say  the  truth,  dear  Frants,"  urged  Johanna,  in  a  supplicating 
tone,  ^'  I  am  almost  afraid  to  go  back  to  that  house,  dear  as  every  comer 
of  it  has  been  to  me  from  my  childhood.  I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to 
the  reality  of  the  painful  circumstances  said  to  have  attended  my  poor 
uncle's  death.  And  whenever  I  pass  over  Long  Bridge^  and  near  the 
dead-house  for  the  drowned,  with  its  low  windows,  I  always  feel  an  irre- 
sistible impulse  to  look  in  and  see  if  he  is  not  there  still,  waiting  to  be 
placed  in  his  proper  coffin,  and  decently  buried  in  a  churchyard." 

"  Ah  !  your  brain  is  conjuring  up  a  parcel  of  old  nursery  tales,  my 
Johanna !     We  have  nothing  to  fear  from  your  good,  kind  uncle.     It> 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


68  7%e  Doomed  House- 

indeed,  his  spkit  could  be  near  us  here  on  earthy  it  would  only  bri^  U8 
blessings  and  happiness.  I  am  quite  easy  on  that  score;  he  was  a  {mous, 
Gk>d-£e»2ring  man,  and  there  was  nothing  in  his  life  to  disturb  his  repose, 
afiber  death.  Beport  said  that  he  had  drowned  himself}  but  I  am  quite 
convinced  that  wa&  not  true.  If  I  had  not  unluckily  been  away  on  my 
travels  as  a  journeyman,  and  you  with  your  dying  aunt — ^your  motheor's 
sister — we  would  most  likely  have  had  him  vdth  us  now.  How  ohea 
I  have  warned  him  i^inst  sailing  about  alone  in  Kalleboe  B^.  But 
he  would  go  every  Sunday.  As  long  as  I  was  in  his  employ  I  always 
made  a  point  of  accompanying  him ;  and  when  I  went  away,  he  promised 
me  never  to  go  without  a  boatman." 

'^  Alas  I  that  was  an  imfortunate  Christmas !"  nghed  Johanna.  "  It 
was  not  until  he  had  been  adv^^ised  in  the  newspapers  as  missings  and 
lUir,  Stork  had  recognised  his  corpse  at  the  dead-house  §ot  the  drowned, 
and  had  caused  him  to  be  secretly  bumd  as  a  suicide, — ^it  was  not  until 
all  this  waft  over,  that  I  knew  he  had  not  been  put  into  his  own  eo&Hf 
and  laid  in  consecrated  ground.'' 

^  Let  us  not  grieve  Icmger,  dear  Johanna,  for  what  it  was  not  in  our 
power  to  prevent.  But  let  us  rather,  in  respect  to  the  memory  of  our 
kind  benefactor,  put  the  house  which  he  occupied,  and  where  he  worked 
for  u%  in  order,  inhabit  it  cheerfully,  and  rescue  it  from  mysterious 
accusations  and  evil  reports.  Our  wel^Are  was  all  he  thought  of  and 
laboured  for." 

"  As  you  will,  then,  dear  Frants,"  said  Jolianna,  yielding  to  his  argu^ 
ments.  She  hastened  at  the  same  moment  to  take  up  £rom  its  cradle 
the  child  who  had  just  awoke,  and  holding  it  out  to  its  young  &th^,  she 
added,  <<  May  Grod  protect  this  innocent  in&nt>  and  spare  it  to  us !" 

Frants  kissed  the  mother  and  the  child,  smoothed  his  brown  hair,  and. 
taking  his  hat  down  from  its  peg,  he  hurried  off  to  oonckide  the  pur^ase 
oa  which  he  had  set  his  heart.  He  returned  in  great  spirits ;  and  t^e 
next  day  the  little  family  removed  to  the  house  which  had  belonged  to  Mr. 
Flok.  Frants  was  rejoiced  to  see  his  old  master's  furniture,  vrhaxh.  he 
had  bought  at  an  auction,  restored  to  its  former  place ;  wad  he  fdt 
almost  as  if  the  easy-chair  and  the  bureau,  fimnerly  in  the  immediate 
use  of  the  old  man,  must  share  in  his  gladness. 

But  the  baker's  wife  at  the  comer  of  the  street  shrugged  her  shoul-- 
ders  and  pitied  the  handsome  young  couple,  whom  dhe  considered 
doomed  to  sickness  and  misfoirtune,  because  five  corpses  within  the  last, 
six  months  had  been  carried  out  of  that  house,  and  because  thare  wajs  an 
inscription  (m  its  walls,  that,  however  often  it  had  been  e/Sacedy  had* 
always  re-appeared :  "  The  Doomed  House"  stood  there,  vmtten  in 
red  characters,  and  all  the  old  crones  in  the  neighbouiiiood  affirmed  that 
the  words  were  written  in  blood, 

"  Mark  my  words,"  said  the  baker's  wife  at  the  comer  of  the  street 
to  her  daughter,  ^'  before  the  year  is  at  an  end  we  shall  have  another 
coffin  carried  out  of  that  house." 


Frants  the  joiner  had  bestirried  himself  to  set  ail  to  rights  in  the  lo»g^ 
neglected  workshop,  and  Johanna  had  put  the  house  in  nice  order,  and 
accanged  everything  as  it  used  to  be  in  days  gone  by.     The  little  parlour 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Doomed  Mouse.  69 

witk  tiie  green  wftioscotiiig^  and  tbe  old-fashimied  alcove,  had  its  former 
diairs  and  tables  replaced  in  it  The  bvreaa  occa{»ed  its  anciaat  comer, 
and  the  easj-i^iair  again  stood  near  the  stove,  and  seined  to  avait  its 
mast^'s  return.  OftNiy  as  the  joung  efHxpLe  sat  together  in  the  twilight, 
whilst  the  blaae  of  the  fire  in  the  stove  east  &  che^ful  glare  throng^  its 
little  gprated  dow  on  ike  hearth  beneath,  they  missed  the  old  man,  and 
talked  of  him  willi  sadness  and  affection.  But  Johanna  would  sometimes 
glance  tiimdl  j  at  the  empty  leather  um-chair ;  and  when  the  moon  shone 
in  throi^  the  small  window-panes,  she  would  at  times  er&i  £&ncj  that 
she  saw  her  undo  sitting  there,  but  pale  and  bloody,  and  with  dripping 
wet  hair.  She  would  then  exclaim,  <<  Let  us  have  fights — the  baby  seems 
restless ;  I  must  see  what  is  the  matter  with  it." 

One  evenii^  there  w^e  no  candles  down  stairs — she  had  to  go  for 
^kem.  up  to  the  storeroom  in  the  garret.  She  lighted  a  small  taper  that 
was  in  the  lantern,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  while  Frants  rodced  the 
in£&nt's  cradle  to  lull  it  to  sleep.  But  she  had  Only  been  a  few  minutes 
gone  whoi  he  heard  a  noise  as  if  of  some  one  having  £dlen  down  in  the 
lofb  above,  and  he  also  thought  he  heard  Johanna  scream.  He  quitted 
tl^  cradle  instantly,  and  rushine  im-stairs  after  her  he  found  her  lying  in 
a  swocm  near  the  cofBn,  with  tJbe  lantern  in  her  hand,  though  its  light 
was  extinguished.  Exceedingly  alarmed,  he  carried  her  down  stairs^ 
relighted  the  tap^,  and  used  every  effort  to  recover  her  from  her  £unt- 
ing  fit.  When  she  was  better,  and  somewhat  composed,  he  adced,  in 
mudi  anxiety,  what  had  happened. 

^<  Oh,  I  am  as  timid  as  a  fooli^  child,"  said  Johanna.  *^  It  was  only 
my  poor  node's  GO/Baxt  up  yonder  that  frightened  me.  I  would  have 
b^ged  you  to  go  and  fetch  the  candles,  but  I  was  ashamed  to  own  my 
silly  fears,  and  when  the  current  of  air  Uew  out  the  lio^  in  my  lantern 
up  there,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  spectre's  death-cold  breathing  passed 
ower  my  fiice,  and  I  fismcied  that  I  saw  amidst  the  gloom  the  fid  oi  the 
coffin  rising — so  I  fainted  away  in  my  childish  terror." 

<^  That  coffin  diall  not  frighten  you  again,"  said  Frants ;  '^  I  will  adver- 
tise it  to-morrow  for  sale." 

He  did  so,  but  ineffectually,  for  no  one  bought  it.  One  day  Mr.  StoHc 
made  his  appearance,  bringing  with  him  the  contract  and  deed  of  sale. 
He  was  a  taU,  strongly-built  man,  with  a  countenance  by  no  means  plea- 
sant, though  it  almost  always  wore  a  smile  ;  but  this  smile,  if  narrowly 
scrutinised,  had  a  sinister  expression,  and  seemed  to  convulse  his  features* 
He  ^ported  a  gaudy  wustcoat,  and  was  dressed  like  an  old  bachelor  who 
was  going  on  some  matnmonial  expedition,  and  wished  to  conceal  his  age* 
This  day  he  was  even  nuMre  compkisant  than  usual ;  praised  the  beauty 
of  the  in£uit,  remarked  its  likeness  to  its  lovely  mother,  and  <^Eered 
Frants  a  loan  of  money  to  purchase  new  fiuniture,  and  make  any  im^- 
pro^pements  he  might  wish  in  the  interior  of  the  house. 

Fxants  thanked  him,  but  declined  the  offer,  assuring  Inm  that  he  was 
quite  satisfied  with  the  house  and  furniture  as  they  were,  and  wished 
everything  about  him  to  wear  its  former  aspect.  However,  he  siud,  he 
certainly  wwM  like  to  enlarge  the  workshop  by  adding  to  it  the  old 
lumber-room  at  the  back  of  &e  house^  the  enteance  to  which  he  found 


Mr.  Stork  tiien  informed  him  that  tliere  was  a  door  on  tiie  opposite 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


70  The  Doomed  House. 

side  of  the  lumber-room  which  opened  into  the  house  he  occupied,  and 
that  he  had  lately  been  using  this  empty  place  as  a  cellar  for  his 
firewood  ;  but  he  readily  promised  to  have  it  cleared  out  as  speedily  as 
possible,  and  to  have  the  entrance  into  his  own  house  stopped  up. 
"  Yet,"  he  added,  in  a  very  gracious  manner,  "  it  is  hardly  necessary 
to  have  any  separation  between  the  two  houses,  when  I  have  such  re« 
spectable  and  agreeable  neighbours  as  yourselves/' 

"  What  made  you  look  so  crossly  at  that  excellent  Mr.  Stork,  Jo- 
hanna V^  asked  her  husband,  when  their  visitor  was  gone.  "  I  am  sure 
he  is  kindness  itself.  He  cannot  really  help  that  he  has  that  unfortunate 
contortion  of  the  mouth,  which  gives  a  peculiar  expression  to  his  counte- 
nance." 

'^  I  sincerely  wish  we  had  some  other  person  as  our  neighbour,  and  had 
nothing  to  do  with  him !"  exclaimed  Johanna  ;  **  I  do  not  feel  safe  with 
such  a  man  near  us.'' 

Frants  now  worked  with  equal  diligence  and  pleasure,  and  often  re- 
mained until  a  late  hour  in  the  workshop,  especially  if  he  had  any  order 
to  finish.  He  preferred  cabinet-making  to  the  more  common  branches 
of  his  trade,  and  was  always  delighted  when  he  had  any  pretty  piece  of 
furniture  to  construct  from  one  of  the  finer  sorts  of  wood.  But  he  was 
best  known  as  a  coffin-maker,  and  necessity  compelled  him  to  undertake 
more  of  this  gloomy  kind  of  work  than  he  liked.  Often,  when  he  was 
finishing  a  coffin,  he  would  reflect  upon  all  the  sorrow,  and  perhaps  cala- 
mity, which  the  work  that  provided  him  and  his  with  bread  would  bring 
into  the  house  into  which  it  was  destined  to  enter.  And  when  he  met 
people  in  high  health  and  spirits  on  the  public  promenades,  he  frequently 
sighed  to  think  how  soon  he  might  be  engaged  in  nailing  together  the 
last  earthly  resting-places  of  these  animated  forms. 

One  night  he  was  so  much  occupied  in  finishing  a  large  coffin,  that  he 
did  not  remark  how  late  it  had  become,  until  he  heard  the  watchman  call 
out  "Twelve." 

At  that  moment  he  fancied  he  heard  a  hollow  voice  behind  him  say, 
"  Still  hammering !  and  for  whom  is  that  coffin  ?"  He  started,  dropped 
the  hammer  from  his  hand,  and  looked  round  in  terror,  but  no  one  was  to 
be  seen.  "  It  is  the  old  gloomy  thoughts  creeping  back  into  my  mind 
and  affecting  my  brain,  now,  at  this  ghostly  hour  of  midnight,"  said  he  ; 
but  he  put  away  the  hammer  and  nails,  and  took  up  his  light  to  go  to  his 
bedroom.  Bemre  he  reached  the  door  of  the  workshop,  however,  the 
candle,  which  had  burned  down  very  low,  quite  in  the  socket  of  the 
candlestick,  suddenly  went  out.  He  was  left  in  the  dark,  and  in  vain  he 
groped  about  to  find  the  door ;  at  any  other  time  he  would  have  laughed 
at  the  circumstance,  but  now,  it  rather  added  to  his  annoyance  that  three 
times  he  found  himself  at  the  door  of  the  lumber-room  instead  of  getting 
hold  of  the  one  which  opened  into  his  house.  The  third  time  he  came  to 
it  he  stopped  and  listened,  for  he  fancied  he  heard  something  moving 
within  the  empty  room ;  a  light  also  glimmered  through  a  chink  in  the 
door,  which  was  fSastened ;  and  on  listening  more  attentively  he  thought 
he  distinctly  heard  a  sound  as  of  buckets  of  water  being  dashed  over  the 
floor,  and  some  one  scrubbing  it  with  a  brush.  ^'  It  is  an  odd  time  to 
Bcoor  the  floor,"  he  thought ;  and  then  knocking  at  the  door,  and  raising 
his  voice,  he  called  out  loudly  to  ask  who  was  there,  and  what  they  were 

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The  Doomed  House.  tl 

doing  at  so  late  an  hour.     At  that  moment  the  light  disappeared,  and  all 
became  as  still  as  death. 

^'  I  must  have  been  mistaken,"  thought  Frants,  as  he  again  tried 
to  find  the  door  he  had  at  first  sought.  In  spite  of  himself,  a  dread  of 
some  evil,  or  of  something  supernatural,  seemed  to  haunt  him,  and  the 
image  of  his  old  master,  who  was  drowned,  appeared  before  him  in  that 
dark  workshop  where  they  had  spent  so  many  cheerful  hours  together. 
At  last  he  found  the  door,  and  retired  as  quickly  as  possible  to  his 
chamber,  where  his  wife  and  child  were  both  fast  asleep.  He,  too,  at 
length  fell  asleep,  but  he  was  restless  in  his  slumbers,  and  disturbed  by 
strange  dreams.  In  the  course  of  the  night  he  dreamed  that  his  wife  s 
uncle,  Mr.  Flok,  stood  before  him,  and  said,  "  Why  was  I  not  placed  in 
my  coffin  ? — why  was  I  not  laid  in  a  Christian  burying-ground  ?  Seek 
and  you  will  find.     Destroy  the  curse  before  it  destroys  you  also  !** 

In  the  morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  looked  so  pale  and  ill  that 
Johanna  was  quite  alarmed ;  but  he  did  not  like  to  frighten  her  by  telling 
her  his  dreams  ;  and,  indeed,  he  was  ashamed  at  the  impression  they  had 
made  upon  himself,  for  notwithstanding  all  the  confidence  he  had  ex- 
pressed in  coming  to  the  house,  he  could  not  help  feeling  nervous  and 
micomfortable. 

Nor  did  the  unpleasant  sensation  wear  off;  his  gay  spirits  vanished, 
and  he  was  also  unhappy  because  the  time  was  approaching  when  the 
purchase-money  for  the  house  would  become  due,  and  the  settlement  of 
the  old  man's  affairs,  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  in  expectation  of 
obtaining  his  wife's  inheritance,  seemed  to  be  as  far  off  as  ever.  He 
found  it  difficult  to  meet  the  small  daily  expenses  of  his  family,  and  he 
feared  the  threatening  future.  *' '  Seek  and  you  will  find  !* "  he  repeated  to 
himself.  "  '  Destroy  the  curse  before  it  destroys  you !'  What  curse  ?  I 
begin  to  fear  that  there  really  is  some  evil  doom  connected  with  this 
house." 

It  was  also  a  very  unaccountable  circumstance,  that  however  often  he 
scratched  out  the  mysterious  inscription  from  the  wall,  <*  The  Doomed 
Hotise,*'  it  appeared  again  next  day  in  characters  as  fresh  and  as  red  as 
ever.  His  health  began  to  give  way  under  all  his  anxiety,  and  the  child 
also  became  ill.  One  evening  he  had  been  taking  a  solitary  walk  to  a 
spot  which  had  now  a  kind  of  morbid  fascination  for  him — the  dead- 
house  for  the  drowned — and  when  he  returned  home  he  found  Johanna 
weeping  by  the  cradle  of  her  suffering -infant. 

"  You  were  right,"  he  exclaimed.  "  We  were  happier  in  our  humble 
garret  than  in  tUs  ill-fated  house.  Would  that  we  had  remained  there  I 
Tell  me,  Johanna,  of  what  are  you  thinking?  Has  the  doctor  been 
here?     What  does  he  say  of  our  dear  little  one?" 

"  If  it  should  get  worse  towards  night,  yonder  lies  our  last  hope,"  she 
replied,  pointing  towards  the  table. 

Frants  took  -  up  the  prescription,  and  gazed  on  the  incomprehensible 
Latin  words  as  if  therein  he  would  have  read  his  fate.  The  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes. 

"  And  to-morrow,"  said  Johanna — "  to-morrow  will  be  a  day  of 
misery.     Have  you  any  means  of  paying  Mr.  Stork  ?" 

''None  whatever!     But  that  is  a  small  evil  compared  to  this"  he 


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72  The  Doomed  Houae. 

answered,  as  he  pointed  to  the  feverish  and  moaning  infSont.  '*  Have  yen. 
heen  to  the  workshop  T*  he  continued,  after  a  pause;  '^  the  laige  oofim 
i»  finished;  perhaps  it  may  be  our  own  kst  home-— it  would  hold  us 
afl.'* 

'<  Oh!  if  Oiat  ooaU  oiity  beT  eielaiaMd  JohsMia,  as  the  Ifarew  her 
«mi  mmd  hiia — *^  eoidd  we  (ml  j  all  thre&  be  removed  together  to  & 
better  world,  Uiere  wodd  be  no  more  sorrow  for  us !  But  the  hour  <^ 
aqiaration  is  dose  at  huid ;  to-mcnrrow,  if  you  cannot  pay  Mr.  Stork, 
you  will  be  cast  into  rarison,  and  I  shall  sit  alone  here  wiw  that  dyiiMr 

<<  What  do  you  say  ?  Cast  into  prison  I  How  do  you  know  that  ? 
Has  that  man  been  here  frightening  you  ?  He  has  not  hinted  a  syllable 
of  such  a  threat  to  me." 

Johanna  then  related  to  him  how  Mr.  Stork  had  latterly  <^ten  called 
under  pretence  of  wishing  to  see  Frants,  but  always  when  he  was  out. 
He  had  made  himself  very  much  at  home,  and  had  overwhdmed  her 
with  compliments  and  flattering  speeches;  he  had  also  declared  fre- 
quently that  he  would  not  trouble  Frants  for  the  money  he  owed  him  if 
ihe  would  pay  the  debt  in  another  manner.  At  first,  she  said,  A»  did 
not  understand  him,  and  when  she  did  comprehend  his  meaning  she  did 
not  like  to  mention  it  to  Frants  for  fear  oi  his  taking  the  matt»  up 
warmly,  and  quarrelling  with  Stork,  which  would  bring  ruin  on  himselfl 
Mr.  St<nk,  however,  had  become  more  bold  and  presuming;  and  that 
yery  evening,  on  her  repdling  his  advances  and  desiring  him  to  quit  her 
presence,  he  had  threatoied,  that  if  she  mentioned  a  syUable  of  what  had 
passed  to  her  husband — nay,  further,  if  she  were  not  {oepared  to  change 
her  behaviour  towards  himself — b^ore  another  sun  had  set  Frants  should 
be  thrown  into  prison  for  debt,  and  mig^t  congratulate  himself,  in  that 
pleasant  abode,  on  the  fidelity  of  his  wi&. 

"  Well!"  said  Frants,"  with  forced  composure,  "he  has  got  me  in  hia 
toils,  but  his  pitiful  baseness  shall  not  crush  me.  I  have  indeed  been 
blind  not  to  detect  the  vilhmy  that  lay  behind  that  satanic  smile,  and 
improvident  to  let  myself  be  deluded  by  his  pretended  friendship.  But 
if  the  Almighty  will  only  spare  and  protect  you  and  that  dear  child,  I 
shall  not  lose  courage.     Be  comforted,  my  Johanna  !*' 

It  was  now  growing  late — ^the  diild  awoke  from  the  restless  sleep  of 
feyec — it  seemed  w<ase,  and  Frants  ran  to  an  apothecary's  with  the 
prescription.  ^' The  last  hope!"  sighed  he,  as  he  hurried  along;  ^^and 
if  it  should  iaSXy  who  will  console  poor  Johanna  to-morrow  evening,  when 
I  am  in  a  prison,  and  she  has  to  clad  her  clnld  in  its  grave-dothes !  Oh ! 
how  we  shall  miss  you,  sweet  little  angel !  Was  M»»  the  happiness  I 
dreamt  of  in  the  old  house  ?  Yes,  people  are  right — it  is  accursed  !'* 
The  apothecary's  shop  was  closed,  but  the  prescription  had  been  taken 
in  through  a  little  aperture  in  the  door,  and  Frants  sat  down  on  the  stone 
steps  to  wait  until  the  medicine  was  ready.  It  was  a  dear,  starry, 
December  night,  but  the  sorrowing  fiither  sat  shivering  in  the  cold,  and 
grazing  gloomily  on  the  frozen  pavement — ^he  was  not  thinking  of  the 
stars  or  the  skies.     The  watchman  passed,  and  bade  him  good  morning. 

"  It  will  be  a  good  morning  indeed  for  me,"  thought  poor  Frants — ^  a 
morning  fraught  widi  despair."    At  that  moment  the  ck)ck  of  a  neigh- 


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The  Doomed  House*  73 

boming  church  strode  ome^  «nd  the  watchman  sang  in  a  full  boas  Tmce 
these  aLmple  words: 

"  Help  us,  oh  Jesus  <tear  I 

Our  earthly  cross  to  bear  ; 

Oh  grant  us  patience  here, 

And  be  our  Saviour  there  /" 

Fronts  heard  the  pious  song,  and  a  change  seemed  to  come  over  his 
spirit;  he  raised  his  saddened  eye  to  the  magnificent  heavens  above^ 
gazed  at  the  calm  stars  which  studded  the  deep  blue  vault,  dasped  his 
hands,  and  jcnned  in  the  watchman's  concluding  words: 

"  Redeemer,  grant  thy  blessed  help 
To  make  our  burden  liglit !" 

A  small  phial  witih  the  medicine  was  just  then  handed  out  to  him 
through  the  littie  sliding  window ;  he  paid  his  last  coin  for  it,  and  fiill  of 
hope  that  his  burden  would  be  lightened,  hastened  to  his  home. 

*^Did  you  hear  what  the  watchman  was  singing,  Johanna?*'  asked 
Frants,  when  he  entered  the  little  green  parlour,  where  die  young 
mother  was  watching  by  her  child. 

"  Hush,  hush  !'*  she  whispered ;  "  he  has  fallen  into  an  easy  and  quiet 
sleep.     God  will  have  pity  upon  us— our  child  will  do  well  now.** 

'^  Why,  Johanna,  you  look  as  happy  as  if  an  angel  from  Heaven  had 
been  witn  you  telling  you  blessed  trutlis.'* 

"  Yes,  blessed  truths  have  been  communicated  to  me  from  Hearen  V* 
replied  Johanna,  pointing  to  an  old  Bible  which  lay  open  upon  the  table. 
"  Look  !  this  is  my  good  uncle's  Bible,  that  I  have  not  seen  since  he 
£ed  ;  and,  God  forgive  me  !  I  have  thought  too  little  lately  about  any^ 
Bible.  I  found  this  one  to-night  far  back  on  the  highest  shdf  of  tTO 
alcove,  and  its  holy  words  have  given  me  strengdi  and  comfbrt.  Read 
this  passage,  Frants,  about  putting  our  whole  trust  in  the  Lord,  what- 
ever evils  may  befal  us." 

Frants  read  the  portion  pointed  out  to  him^  and  then  began  to  turn 
over  the  leares  of  the  well-worn,  silver-clasped  book.  He  found  a  num- 
ber of  pieces  of  paper  here  and  there,  but  as  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  they 
were  only  accounts  and  receipts,  he  did  not  care  to  examine  them;  but 
his  attention  was  suddenly  caught  by  a  paper  which  appeared  to  be  part 
of  a  journal  kept  by  the  old  man  the  last  year  of  his  life.  He  looked 
throng  it  eagerly,  and  Johanna  observed  with  surprise  that  his  counte- 
nance was  darkening.     At  length  he  started  up,  and  exchumed : 

**  R  is  horrible — iorrible,  Johanna  !  Some  one  must  have  sought  to 
take  your  uncle's  life.  See,  here  it  is  in  his  own  handwriting — listen  f* 
And  ne  read  aloud : 

•*  Crod  grant  that  my  enemy's  wicked  plot  may  not  succeed ! — Why 
£d  r  let  my  gold  get  into  such  iniquitous  hands,  and  place  my  life  at  the 
mercy  of  one  more  ferocious  than  a  wild  beast^?  He  has  cunningly  plun- 
dered me  of  my  w^th — he  has  bound  my  tongue  by  an  oath— and  now 
he  seeks  to  tBKe  my  life  in  secret.  But  my  money  will  not  prosper  in 
his  unworthy  hands ;  and  accursed  be  the  house  over  whose  threshold  his 
foot  passes.  There  are  human  beings  who  can  ruin  others  in  all  worldly 
matters  ;  but  mortal  man  has  no  power  over  the  spirit  when  death  sets 
it  free." 


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74  The  Doomed  House. 

<*  What  can  this  mean  ?'^  cried  Frants,  almost  wild  with  excitement. 
**  Who  is  the  mortal  enemy  to  whom  he  alludes,  hut  whom  he  does  not 
name  ?  Who  has  got  possession  of  his  house  and  means  ?  The  same 
person,  no  douht,  who  hound  him  hy  an  oath  to  silence,  and  threatened 
Ids  life  in  secret — ^who  proclaimed  to  the  world  that  he  had  drowned 
himself,  and  caused  him  to  be  buried  like  a  suicide.  Why  was  no 
other  acquaintance  called  to  recognise  the  body  ?  We  have  no  certainty 
that  the  drowned  man  was  he.  Perhaps  his  bones  lie  nearer  to  us  than 
we  imagine.  Ha !  old  master,  in  my  dream  I  heard  you  say,  '  Seek, 
and  you  shall  find.  Why  was  I  not  put  into  consecrated  g^und  V  Jo- 
hanna, what  do  you  think  about  that  old  lumber-room  ?  There  have 
been  some  mysterious  doings  there  at  midnight ;  there  are  some  stilL 
That  floor  is  washed  while  we  are  sleeping.  Before  to-morrow's  sun  can 
rise,  I  shall  have  searched  that  den  of  murder  from  one  end  to  the 
other.'' 

"  Oh>  dearest  Frants,  how  wildly  you  talk !    You  make  me  tremble.** 

But  as  Frants  was  determined  to  go,  she  sat  down  by  the  cradle  to 
watch  her  sleeping  child,  while  he  took  a  light  and  proceeded  to  the 
workshop.  There  he  seized  a  hatchet  and  crowbar,  and  thus  provided 
with  implements  he  approached  the  door  of  the  locked  chamber.  ''  The 
room  belongs  to  me,"  said  he  to  himself ;  "  who  has  a  right  to  prevent 
me  from  entering  it  ?"  To  force  the  door  by  the  aid  of  the  iron  crow- 
bar was  the  work  of  an  instant,  and  without  the  slightest  hesitation  he 
went  in,  though  it  must  be  confessed  he  felt  a  momentary  panic.  But 
that  wore  off  immediately,  and  he  began  at  once  to  examine  the  place. 
Nothing  appeared,  however,  to  excite  suspicion  ;  there  were  some  sacks 
of  wood  in  a  corner,  and  he  emptied  these,  almost  expecting  to  see  one 
of  them  filled,  with  the  bones  of  dead  men.  But  there  was  no  appear- 
ance  of  anything  of  the  kind.  The  floor  appeared  to  have  been  recently 
washed,  for  it  was  yet  scarcely  dry.  He  theu  began  to  take  up  the 
hoards. 

At  that  moment  he  heard  the  handle  of  the  door  which  led  into  the 
neighbouring  house  turning;  holding  the  hatchet  in  one  hand,  and 
the  light  high  above  his  head  in  the  other,  he  put  himself  in  an  atti- 
tude of  defence,  while  he  called  out,  "  Has  any  one  a  desire  to  assist 
me?" 

Presently  all  was  still.  Frants  put  down  his  light  and  began  hammer- 
ing at  the  boards ;  almost  unconsciously  he  also  began  to  hum  aloud 
an  air  which  his  old  master  used  always  to  sing  when  he  was  engaged 
in  finishing  any  piece  of  work. '  But  he  had  not  hammered  or  hummed 
long  before  the  handle  of  the  door  was  again  turned.  This  time  the 
door  opened,  and  a  tall  white  figure  slowly  entered,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  countenance  as  hellish  as  if  its  owner  had  just  come  from  the 
ahode  of  evil  spirits. 

''  What,  at  it  again,  old  man  ?  Will  you  go  on  hammering  and 
nailing  till  doomsday  ?  Must  that  song  be  heard  to  all  eternity  ?"  said  a 
hollow  but  well-known  voice;  and  Frants  recognised  with  horror  the 
ehastly  pale  and  wild-looking  sleep-walker,  who,  with  eyes  open,  hut 
fixed  and  glazed,  and  hair  standing  on  end,  had  come  in  his  night- 
gear  from  his  sleeping-chamber. 


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I%e  Doomed  House,  75 

''  Where  didst  thou  lay  my  hones  ?"  said  Frants,  as  if  he  had  hecome 
suddenly  insane.  ^^  Why  was  I  not  placed  in  my  coffin  ?  Why  did 
I  not  enter  a  Christian  hurying-ground  ?" 

''Your  hones  are  safe  enough,"  replied  the  pallid,  terrihle-looldng 
dreamer.     "  No  one  will  harm  them  under  my  pear-tree.*' 

''But  whom  didst  thou  hury  under  my  name,  when,  as  a  self- 
murderer,  thou  didst  fasten  on  me  the  stain  of  guilt  in  death  ?*'  asked 
Frants,  astonished  and  frightened  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  for  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  a  spirit  £N>m  the  other  world  were  speaking  through 
his  lips. 

"  It  was  the  heggar,"  replied  the  wretched  somnamhuHst,  with  a 
frightful  contortion  of  his  fiendish  face,  a  sort  of  triumphant  grin.  ''  It 
was  only  the  foreign  heggar,  to  whom  you  gave  your  old  grey  cloak  — - 
hut  whom  I I drove  from  my  door  that  Christmas-eve." 

"  Where  he  lies,  shalt  thou  rot — by  his  side  shalt  thou  meet  me  on  the 
great  day  of  doom  I"  cried  Frants,  who  hardly  knew  what  he  was  saying. 
He  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  when  he  heard  a  fearful  sound — 
something  between  a  shriek  and  a  groan — and  he  stood  alone  with  his 
light  and  his  hatchet,  for  the  howling  figure  had  disappeared. 

"  Was  it  a  dream ?*'  gasped  Frants,  "or  am  I  mad  ?  Away,  away 
from  this  scene  of  murder  !  But  I  know  now  where  I  shall  find  that 
which  I  seek." 

He  returned  to  Johanna,  who  was  sitting  quietly  by  the  still  sleeping 
child,  and  was  reading  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Frants  did  not  tell  her 
what  had  taken  place,  and  she  was  afraid  to  ask  ;  he  persuaded  her  to 
retire  to  rest,  while  he  himself  sat  up  all  night  to  examine  farther  the 
pi^rs  in  the  old  Bible.  The  next  day  he  carried  them  to  a  magistrate, 
and  the  whole  case  was  brought  before  a  court  of  justice  for  legal 
inquiry  and  judgment. 

"  Was  I  not  right  when  I  said  that  a  coffin  would  come  out  of  that 
house  before  the  end  of  the  year  ?"  exclaimed  the  baker*s  wife  at  the 
comer  of  the  street  to  her  daughter,  when,  some  time  after,  a  richly- 
ornamented  coffin  was  borne  out  of  Frants*  house.  The  funeral  pro- 
cession, headed  by  Frants  himself,  was  composed  of  all  the  joiners 
and  most  respectable  artisans  in  the  town,  dressed  in  black. 

"  It  is  the  coffin  of  old  Mr.  Flok,"  said  the  baker's  daughter  ;  "  he  is 
now  going  to  be  rcaZ/y  buried,  they  say.  I  wonder  if  it  be  true  that 
his  bones  were  found  under  a  tree  in  Mr.  Stork's  garden  ?" 

"  Quite  true,"  responded  a  fishwoman,  setting  down  her  creel  while 
she  looked  at  the  funeral  procession.  "  Young  Mr.  Frants  had  every- 
thing proved  before  the  judge,  and  that  avaricious  old  Stork  will  have 
to  g^ve  up  his  ill-gotten  goods." 

"  Ay,  and  his  ill-conducted  life  too,  perhaps,"  said  the  man  who  kept 
the  little  tavern  near,  "  if  all  be  true  that  folks  say — ^he  murdered  the 
worthy  Mr.  Flok." 

''  I  always  thought  that  fellow  would  be  hanged  some  day  or  other ; 
he  tried  to  cheat  me  whenever  he  could,"  added  the  baker's  wife. 

''But  they  must  catch  him  first,"  said  another;  " nothing  has  been 
seen  of  him  these  last  three  or  four  days." 


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^6  The  Doomed  House. 

On.  Christmas  eve  there  sat  a  cheerfbl  &mily  in  Ae  late  Mr.  Flok's 
house  near  the  canaL  llie  child  had  quite  recovered^  and  Frants,  filling 
the  old  silver  gohlet  with  wine,  drank  many  happy  returns  of  the  season 
to  his  dear  Johanna. 

"  How  little  we  expected  a  short  time  ago  to  be  so  comfortable  now !" 
he  exclaimed.  *'  Here  we  are  in  our  own  house,  which  was  intended 
ibr  us  by  your  kind  uncle.  I  am  no  longer  compelled  to  nail  away  alone 
at  coffins  until  midnight,  but  can  undertake  more  pleasant  wo»,  and 
keep  apprentices  and  journeymen  to  assist  me.  My  good  old  master's 
name  is  freed  from  reproach,  and  his  remains  now  rest  in  consecrated 
ground,  awaiting  a  blessed  and  joyful  resurrection.^ 

The  lumber-room,  with  its  fearful  recollections,  was  shut  up,  the  out- 
side of  the  house  was  painted  anew,  and  the  mysterious  inscription  on  tiie 
wall,  thus  obliterated,  never  reappeared. 

One  day,  shortly  alter  this  favourable  turn  in  their  affiurs,  Frants  had 
occasion  to  cross  tne  Long  Bridge,  and  as  he  passed  near  the  dead-house 
for  the  drowned,  he  went  up  to  the  little  window,  saying  to  himself, 
**  Now  I  can  look  in  without  any  superstitious  fears,  for  I  know  that  my 
old  master  never  drowned  himself.  That  io\A  stain  is  no  longer  attached 
to  his  memoiy,  and  his  remains  have  at  length  obtained  Christian 
burial.** 

But  when  he  glanced  through  the  window  he  started  back  in  horror, 
for  the  diseolom%d  and  swollen  iBeatures  of  a  dead  man  met  his  view ;  and 
in  the  dreadful-looking  countenance  before  him  he  recognised  that  of  die 
murderer  Stork,  who  had  been  missing  for  some  time. 

"  ItCseraHe  being!"  he  exclaimed,  "  and  you  have  ended  your  guilty 
career  by  the  same  crime  with  whidi  you  charged  an  innocent  man ! 
None  will  miss  you  in  this  world,  except  the  executioner,  whose  office  you 
have  taken  on  yourself.  I  know  that  you  had  planned  my  death;  but^ 
enemy  as  you  were,  I  shall  have  you  laid  decently  in  the  grave,  and  may 
the  Alm^hty  have  mercy  on  your  soul!**. 

Prosperity  continued  to  attend  the  young  couple;  but  the  leflscois  of 
the  past  had  tax^t  them  how  imstable  is  all  earthly  good.  The  old 
famUy  Bil^e— now  a  frequent  and  favourite  study — became  the  guide  of 
their  conduct;  and  when  their  happiness  was  clouded  by  any  misfortune, 
as  all  the  happiness  of  this  passing  life  must  sometimes  be,  they  resigned 
themselves  williout  a  murmur  to  the  will  of  Providence,  reminding  each 
other  of  the  watchman*s  song  on  the  memorable  night  when  all  hope 
seemed  to  have  abandoned  them  : 

Redeemer,  grant  thy  blessed  help 
To  make  our  burden  light ! 


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(    77    ) 


AMERICAN    AUTHORSHIP. 

BY  SIB  KATHAKIEL. 

No.  VL — Oliveb  Wendell  Holmes. 

Professor  Holmes  is  distinguished  in  materia  medica  as  well  as  in 
lays  and  lyrics.  He  is  famiHar  with  the  highways  and  hyways  of 
those 

Realms  unperfumed  by  the  breath  of  song, 
Where  flowers  ill-flavoured  shed  their  sweets  around, 
And  bitterest  roots  invade  the  ungenial  ground, 
Whose  gems  are  crystals  from  the  Epsom  mine. 
Whose  vineyards  flow  with  antimonial  wine, 
IHiose  gates  admit  no  mirthful  feature  in. 
Save  one  gaunt  mocker,  the  Sardonic  grin* — 

and  with  rare  devotion  he  pursues  the  sternly  prosaic  calls  of  the  healing 
art — ^unable  as  lus  poetic  temperament  sometimes  may  be  to  repress  a 
sigh  for  the  beautiful,  or  a  sonnet  on  the  sublime,  and,  in  passing  disgust 
St  the  restraints  of  professional  study,  to  ask  himself, 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging  walls. 
Deaf  to  her  voice  while  blooming  Nature  calls  ; 
Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 
Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying  books  ?t 

But,  resisting  temptation,  and  cleaving  with  full  purpose  of  heart  to 
M.D.  mysteries,  with  leech-like  tenacity  to  tiie  leech's  functions,  he 
secures  a  more  stable  place  in  medical  annals  than  many  a  distinguished 
medico-literary  brother,  such  as  Goldsmitli,  or  Smollett,  or  Akenside. 
Nor  can  the  temptation  have  been  slight,  to  one  with  so  kindly  a  pen^ 
chant  towards  the  graces  of  good  fellowship,  and  who  can  analyse  with 
such  sympathetic  gusto  what  he  calls  "  the  warm,  champagny,  old- 
particular,  brandy-punchy  feeling" — and  who  may  arrogate  a  special 
mastery  of  the 

Quaint  trick  to  cram  the  pithy  line 
That  cracks  so  crisply  over  bubbling  wine. 

Evidently,  too,  he  is  perfeetiy  alive  to  ihe  pleasure  and  pride  of  social 
applause,  and  accepts  the  ^*  three  times  three"  of  rotrad-table  glorifica- 
tion as  rightly  bestowed.  Indeed,  in  more  tiian  one  of  his  morgeauXy 
he  plumes  himself  on  a  certain  irresistible  power  of  waggery,  and  even 
thinks  it  expedient  to  vow  never  to  give  his  jocosity  the  mSi  lenfftii  of  its 
tether,  lest  its  side-shaking  violence  implicate  him  in  unjnstinable  ho- 
micide* 

His  versification  is  smooth  and  finished,  without  being  tame  or  strait- 
laced.    He  takes  pains  with  it,  becanse  to  the  poet's  paintings  'tis 

Verse  bestows  the  varnish  and  the  frame — 

and  study,  and  a  naturally  musical  ear,  have  taught  him  diat 

♦  Urania.  t  Astraea. 


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78  Oliver ,  W^dell  Holmes. 

Our  grating  English,  whose  Teutonic  jar 
Shakes  the  racked  axle  of  Art*s  rattling  car^ 
Fits  like  mosaic  in  the  lines  that  gird 
Fast  in  its  place  each  many-angled  word. 

In  his  own  '^  Poetry:  a  Metrical  Essay/'  he  marks  how 

The  proud  heroic,  with  its  pulse-like  beat. 
Kings  like  the  cymbals  clashing  as  they  meet ; 
The  sweet  Spenserian,  gathering  as  it  flows. 
Sweeps  gently  onward  to  its  dying  close. 
Where  waves  on  waves  in  long  succession  pour. 
Till  the  ninth  billow  melts  along  the  shore. 

His  management  of  the  '^  proud  heroic/'  in  serious  and  sustained  efforts, 
reminds  iis  more  of  Campbell  than  any  other  poet  we  can  name.  Bat  it 
is  in  that  school, of  graceful  badinage  and  piquant  satire,  represented 
among  ourselves  by  ^uch  writers  as  Frere,  and  Spencer,  and  Idackworth 
Praed,  that  Dr.  Holmes  is  most  efficient.  Too  earnest  not  to  be  some- 
times a  gprave  censor,  too  thoughtful  not  to  introduce  occasionally  didactic 
passages,  too  humane  and  genial  a  spirit  to  indulge  in  the  satirist's  scowl, 
and  sneer,  and  snappish  moroseness,  he  has  the  power  to  be  pungent 
and  mordant  in  sarcasm  to  an  alarming  degree,  while  his  will  is  to 
temper  his  irony  with  so  much  good-humour,  fun,  mercurial  fiancy,  and 
generous  feeling,  that  the  more  gentle  hearts  of  the  more  gentle  sex  pro- 
nounce him  excellent,  and  wish  only  he  would  leave  physic  for  song. 

In  some  of  his  poems  the  Doctor  is  not  without  considerable  pomp  and 
pretension — we  use  the  terms  in  no  slighting  tone.  <'  Poetry :  a  Metrical 
JEssay,**  parts  of  "  Terpsichore,"  "  Urania,"  and  "Astraea,"  "Pittsfield 
Cemetery,"  "  The  Ploughman,'*  and  various  pieces  among  the  lyrical 
effusions,  are  marked  by  a  dignity,  precision,  and  sonorous  elevation, 
often  highly  effective.  The  diction  occasionally  becomes  almost  too 
ambitious — verging  on  the  efflorescence  of  a  certain  English  M.D., 
yclept  Erasmus  Darwin — so  that  we  now  and  then  pause  to  make  sure 
that  it  is  not  the  satirist  in  his  bravura,  instead  of  the  bard  in  his 
solemnity,  that  we  hear.  Such  passages  as  the  following  come  without 
stint: 

If  passion's  hectic  in  thy  stanzas  glow. 
Thy  heart's  best  life-blood  ebbing  as  they  flow  ; 
If  with  thy  verse  thy  strength  and  bloom  distil, 
Drained  by  the  pulses  of  the  fevered  thrill ; 
If  sound's  sweet  effluence  polarise  thy  brain, 
And  thoughts  turn  crystals  in  thy  fluid  strain — 
Nor  rolling  ocean,  nor  the  prairie's  bloom. 
Nor  streaming  cliffs,  nor  rayless  cavern's  gloom, 
Need'st  thou,  young  poet,  to  inform  thy  line ; 
Thy  own  broad  signet  stamps  thy  song  divine!* 

Fragments  of  the  Lichfield  physician's  "  Botanic  Garden,"  and  "  Loves 
of  the  Plants,"  seem  recalled — revised  and  corrected,  if  you  will — in  lines 
where  the  Boston  physician  so  picturesquely  discriminates 

The  scythe's  broad  meadow  with  its  dusky  blush  ; 
The  sickle's  harvest  with  its  velvet  flush  ; 


*  Urania. 


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Oliver  Wendell  Holme$.  79 

The  creen-haired  naize,  her  silken  tresses  laid, 

In  soft  luxuriance,  on  her  harsh  brocade ; 

The  gourd  thai  swells  beneath  her  tossing  plume; 

The  coarser  wheat  that  rolls  in  lakes  of  bloom — 

Its  coral  stems  and  milkpwhite  flowers  alive 

With  the  wide  murmurs  of  the  scattered  hive ; 

The  glossy  apple  with  the  pencilled  streak 

Of  morning  painted  on  its  southern  cheek ; 

The  pear's  long  necklace,  strung  with  golden  drops. 

Arched,  like  the  banyan,  o*er  its  hasty  props ;  &c.» 

Many  of  the  more  laboured  efforts  of  his  Muse  have  an  imposmg 
eloquence — ^rather  crude  and  unchastened,  however,  and  to  be  ranked 
perhaps  with  what  himself  now  calls  his  *'  questionable  extravagances." 
To  the  class  disting^hed  by  tenderness  of  feeling,  or  a  quietly  per- 
Tading  pathos,  belong — with  varying  orders  of  merit — the  toucmng 
stanzas  entitled  ^*  Departed  Days,"  the  pensive  record  of  '^  An  Evening 
Thought,"  "From  a  Bachelor's  Private  Journal,"  " La  Grisette,"  "The 
Last  Reader,"  and  "A  Souvenir."  How  natural  the  exclamation  in  one 
fcr  the  first  time  conscious  of  a  growing  chill  in  the  blood  and  calmness 
in  the  brain,  and  an  ebbing  of  what  was  the  sunny  tide  of  youth: 

Oh,  when  love's  first,  sweet,  stolen  kiss 

Burned  on  my  boyish  brow, 
Was  that  young  forehead  worn  as  this  ? 

Was  that  flushed  cheek  as  now  ? 
Were  that  wild  pulse  and  throbbing  heart 

Like  these,  which  vainly  strive. 
In  thankless  strains  of  soulless  art. 

To  dream  themselves  alive  ?t 

And  again  this  mournful  recognition  of  life's  inexorable  onward  march, 
and  the  "disUmning"  of  what  memory  most  cherishes: 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean's  arms, 

We  strive  against  the  stream. 
Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore, 

Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam  ; 
Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields. 

And  wider  rolls  the  sea ; 
The  mist  grows  dark — the  sun  goes  down — 

Day  breaks^and  where  are  we?t 

An  interfusion  of  this  pathetic  vein  with  quaint  humour  is  one  of 
Dr.  Holmes's  most  notable  "qualities:"  as  in  the  stanzas  called  "The 
Last  Leai^"  where  childhood  depicts  old  age  tottering  through  the  streets 
•— contrasling  the  shrivelled  weakness  of  the  decrepit  man  with  the  well- 
vouched  tradition  of  his  past  comeliness  and  vigour: 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets. 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan ; 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"They  are  gone." 

♦  Pittsfield  Cemetery.  f  -^  Evening  Thought  t  Departed  Days. 

Sept. — ^VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCIII.  o 


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80  OUver  Wendell  Hobnes. 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom. 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said, — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,— 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chiii 

Like  a  staff, 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back. 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  siq 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat. 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that» 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spnng, — 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

These  admirable  verses — set  in  so  apity  firamed  a  metre  too— woukl 
alone  suffice  to  make  a  reputation.  la  a  like  spirit,  dashed  with  a  few 
drops  of  the  Thackeray  essence,  are  the  lines  headed  "  Questions  and 
Answers," — among  the  queries  and  responses  being  these  sarcastic  senti- 
mentalisms: 

Where,  O  where  are  the  visions  of  morning, 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 

Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warning, 

Down  the  back  entry  of  time* 

Where,  O  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  eolden  dawn's  smile  ? 
Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 
Loving  and  lovely  of  yore? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers, — 
Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 

In  such  alliance  of  the  humorous  and  fanciful  lies  a  mmi  charm  in 
this  writer's  productions.  Fancy  he  has  in  abundance,  as  he  proves  on 
all  occasions,  grave  and  gay.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  indulges  in  similes 
that  may  be  bought  raUier  curious  than  felicitous  t  as  where  he  sgetkB 
of  the  '*  hal£-built  tower,**  wUch,  thanks  to  Howe's  vHlkiryr 


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Olker  Wendea  HobntM.  /  81 

\ 
\ 

Wears  on  its  boBotn,  as  a  bride  might  do,  s^ 

The  iron  breast-pin  which  the  "  Rebels*'  threw.* 

A  steam-boat  is  likened  to  a  wild  nymph,  now  yeiling^  her  diadowy 
form,  while  through  the  storm  sounds  the  beating  of  her  restless  heart  — 
now  answering, 

like  a  courtly  dame. 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame. 
The  Pharos  of  the  shore.f 

CbuiDg  into  a  lady's  eyes^  he  sees  a  matter  of 

Ten  thousand  angeb  spread  their  wings 
Within  those  little  azure  rings.^ 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  he  bidis 

Come  from  the  bowers  where  summer's  life-blood  flows 
Through  the  red  lips  of  June^s  half-open  rose.§ 

In  his  summary  of  metrical  forms : 

The  glittering  lyric  bounds  elastic  by. 
With  flashing  ringlets  and  exulting  eye. 
While  every  image,  in  her  airy  whirl,' 
Gleams  like  a  diamond  on  a  dancing  girl.|[ 

We  are  tdd  how 

Health  flows  in  the  rills. 
As  their  ribands  of  silver  unwind  from  the  liills.1I 

Aodagain,  of  a 

Stream  whose  silver-braided  rills] 
Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the  hills.** 

In  such  guise  moves  the  Ariel  fancy  of  the  poet.  In  its  more  Puck- 
like, tricksy,  mirthful  mood,  it  is  correspondingly  sportive.  A  comet 
wanders 

Where  darkness  might  be  bottled  up  and  sold  for  ^  Tyrian  dyc^ff 

Of  itinerant  musicians — the 

Discords  sting  through  Bums  and  Moore,  like  hedgehogs  dressed  in  lace,  j:^ 

A  post-prandial  orator  of  a  prononce  facetious  turn,  is  warned  that — 

All  the  Jack  Homers  of  metrical  buns, 

Are  prying  and  fingering  to  pick  out  the  puns.$$ 

A  strayed  rustic  stares  through  the  wedged  crowd, 

Where  in  one  cake  a  throng  of  £ices  rans. 
All  stuck  together  like  a  sheet  of  buns.  ||  || 

But  toe  are  getting  Jack-Homerish,  and  nmst  forbear;  not  for  lade  of 
plians,  tk>iigfa. 

The  wit  and  himiour,  the  ven  de  sociSti  and  iibejeuX'd*  esprit  of  Dr. 
Holmies,  bespeak  the  gentleman.     Not  that  he  is  prim  or  particular,  by 

*  Urania.       f  ^^  Steam-boat        t  Stanzas.       §  Fittsfield  Cemetery. 

II  Poetry.  ^  Song  fiir  a  Temperance  Dinner; 

**  Plttofidd  Cemetery.  tt  *^®  Comet.  It  The  Music-grinders. 

§§  Yenes  for  After  Dumer.  ng  u&rpsichore. 

q2 


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82  OBoer  WendeU  Holmes. 

aoy  means;  on  the  contrary,  he  loves  a  bit  of  racy  diction^  and  has  no 
.  ob|eetion  to  a  sally  of  slang.  Thus,  in  a  lectore  on  the  toilet^  he  is  strict 
alxmt  the  article  of  ^oves : 

Shave  like  the  goat,  if  so  your  fancy  bids. 
But  be  a  parent^^don't  neglect  your  kids.  * 

A  soperlative  Mr.  Jolly  Green  is  shown  up. 

Whom  schoolboys  question  if  his  walk  transcends 
The  last  advices  of  maternal  frieodsf — 
which  polite  periphra^  is  discarded  where  Achilles'  death  is  monmed, 
Accursed  heel  that  killed  a  hero  stout !  ' 
O,  had  your  mother  known  that  you  were  out, 
Death  had  not  entered  at  the  trifling  part 
That  still  defies  the  small  chirurgeon*s  art 
With  corns  and  bunions.^ 
The  last  passage  is  from  a  protracted  play  upon  words,  in  which  poor 
Hood  is  emtdated — though  the  author  owns  that 

Hard  is  the  job  to  launch  the  desperate  pun, 
A  pun-job  dangerous  as  the  Indian  one" — 
in  unskilful  hands  turned  back  on  one's  self  '^  by  the  current  of  some 
stronger  wit,"  so  that, 

Like  the  strange  missile  which  the  Australian  throws. 
Your  verbal  boomerang  slaps  you  on  the  nose. 
A  punster,  however,  Dr.  Holmes  will  be — and  already  we  have  had  a 
taste  of  his  quality  in  the  kid-glove  case  ;  so  again,  the  '^  bunions"  an- 
nexed to  the  Achilles  catastrophe  reminds  him  to  explain,  that  he  refers 
not  to 

The  glorious  John 
Who  wrote  the  book  we  all  have  pondered  on,— 
But  other  bunions,  bound  in  fleecy  hose. 
To  '*  Pilgrim's  Progress"  unrelenting  foes  !$ 
A  gourmand,  sublimely  contemptuous  offcasts  of  reason,  argues  that 
Milton  to  Stilton  roust  give  in,  and  Solomon  to  Salmon, 
And  Roger  Bacon  be  a  bore,  and  Francis  Bacon  gammon.|| 
And  the  irresistible  influence  of  collegiate  convivial  associations  is  thu^ 
illustrated: 

We're  all  alike ; — Vesuvius  flings  the  scorise  from  his  fountain. 
But  down  they  come  in  volleying  rain  back  to  the  burning  mountain; 
We  leave,  like  those  volcanic  stones,  our  precious  Alma  Mater, 
But  will  keep  dropping  in  again  to  see  the  dear  old  crater.^ 

As  a  satirist,  to  shoot  Folly  as  it  flies,  Dr.  Holmes  bends  a  bow  of 
strength.  His  arrows  are  polished,  neatly  pointed,  gaily  feathered,  and 
whirr  through  the  air  with  cutting  emphasis.  And  he  hath  his  quiver  full 
of  them.  But,  to  his  honour  be  it  recorded,  he  knows  how  and  when  to 
fta^  his  hand,  and  dbecks  himself  if  about  to  use  a  shaft  of  undue  size  and 
weighty  or  dipped  in  gall  of  bitterness.  Then  he  pauses,  and  says  : 
Come,  let  us  breathe ;  a  something  not  divine 
Hi:s  mingled,  bitter,  with  the  flowing  line — 

■f  ■    " 

*  Urania.        f  Astrna.  %  A  Modest  Bequest.  $  Ibid. 

g  Nnx  Postcfsnatica.  f  Ibid. 


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Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  83 

for  if  he  might  lash  and  lacerate  with  Swif^  he  prefers  to  tickle  and  titil- 
late with  Addison,  and  therefore  adds,  in  such  a  case, 

If  the  last  target  took  a  round  of  grape 
To  knock  its  beauty  something  out  of  shape. 
The  next  asks  only,  if  the  Ibtener  please, 
A  schoolboy's  blowpipe  and  a  gill  of  pease.* 

Genial  and  good-natured,  aocorchngly,  he  s^pears  throughout — using 
bis  victims  as  old  Izaak  did  his  bait,  as  though  he  bved  them — ^yet  taking 
care  that  the  hook  shall  do  its  work.  Among  the  irksome  shams  of  the 
day,  he  is  *'  smart"  upon  those  cant-mongers  who 

With  uncouth  phrases  tire  their  tender  lungi. 
The  same  bald  phrases  on  their  hundred  tongues ; 
"  Ever"  "  The  Ages"  in  their  page  appear, 
**  Alway"  the  bedlamite  is  called  a  "Seer;" 
On  every  leaf  the  '*  earnest**  sage  may  scan, 
Portentous  bore  I  their  '*  many-sided**  man, — 
A  weak  eclectic,  groping  vague  and  dim. 
Whose  every  angle  is  a  half-starved  whim, 
Blind  as  a  mole  and  curious  as  a  lynx. 
Who  rides  a  beetle,  which  he  calls  a  "  Sphinx.**t 

Here  is  another  home-thrust : 

The  pseudo-cri tic-editorial  race 
Owns  no  allegiance  but  the  law  of  place  ; 
Each  to  his  region  sticks  through  thick  and  thin. 
Stiff  as  a  beetle  spiked  upon  a  pin. 
Plant  him  in  Boston,  and  his  sheet  he  fills 
With  all  the  slipslop  of  his  threefold  hills. 
Talks  as  if  Nature  kept  her  choicest  smiles 
Within  his  radius  of  a  dozen  miles. 
And  nations  waited  till  his  next  Review 
Had  made  it  plain  what  Providence  must  do. 
Would  you  believe  him,  water  is  not  damp 
Except  m  buckets  with  the  Hingham  stamp. 
And  Heaven  should  build  the  walls  of  Paradise 
Of  Quincy  granite  lined  with  Wenham  ice.} 

Elsewhere  he  counsels  ihm^festina  lente^  his  impetuous  compatriots  : 

Don't  catch  the  fidgets ;  you  have  found  your  place 
Just  in  the  focus  of  a  nervous  race. 
Fretful  to  change,  and  rabid  to  discuss. 
Full  of  excitements,  always  in  a  fuss ; — 
Think  of  the  patriarchs ;  then  compare  as  men 
These  lean -cheeked  maniacs  of  the  tongue  and  pen! 
Run,  if  you  like,  but  try  to  keep  your  breath ; 
Work  like  a  man,  but  don't  be  worked  to  death ; 
And  with  new  notions, — let  me  change  the  rule, — 
Don't  strike  the  iron  till  it's  slightly  cool.f 

Once  more :  there  is  pithy  description  in  a  list  he  furnishes  of 

Poems  that  shuffle  with  superfluous  legs 
A  blindfold  minuet  over  addled  eggs, 

^Astraea.  f  Terpsichore.  X  Astrsea.  §  Urania. 

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84  OUver  Wendell  Hobnes. 

Where  all  the  syllables  that  end  in  hd, 

Like  old  dragoons,  have  cuts  across  the  held ; — 

Essays  so  dark  Champollion  might  despair 

To  guess  what  mummy  of  a  thought  was  there, 

Where  our  poor  English,  striped  with  foreign  phrase, 

Looks  like  a  Zebra  in  a  parson^s  chaise 

Mesmeric  pamphlets,  which  to  facts  appeal. 

Each  fact  as  slippery  as  a  fresh-caught  eel ;  &c.,  &c.* 

liiere  is  pleasant  and  piquant  nuUery  in  the  stanzas  to  "  My  Aunt," 
who,  mediSBYal  as  she  is,  good  soul !  still  *^  strains  the  aching  clasp  that 
binds  her  virgin  zone :" 

I  know  it  hurts  her,— though  she  looks  as  cheerful  as  she  can ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life,  for  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt!  my  poor  deluded  aunt!  her  hair  is  almost  grey : 
Wliy  will  she  train  that  whater  curl  in  such  a  spring-like  way? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down,  and  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens,  she  just  makes  out  to  spell? 

Que  de  jolts  vers,  et  de  spiritueUes  malices! 

And  so  again  in  "  The  Parting  Word,"  which  malkaously  predicts, 
stage  by  stage,  in  gradual  but  rapid  succession,  the  feelings  of  a  shallow- 
hearted  damosel  after  parting  with  her  most  devoted — from  tearing  of 
jetty  locks  and  waking  with  inflamed  eyes,  to  complacent  audience  of  a 
new  swain,  three  weeks  after  date.  We  like  Dr.  Holmes  better  in  this 
style  of  graceful  banter  than  when  he  essays  the  more  broadly  comic — as 
in  "  The  Spectre  Pig,"  or  "  The  Stethoscope  Song."  The  lines  «  On 
Le  nding  a  Punch-bowl "  are  already  widely-known  and  highly-esteemed 
by  British  readers — and  of  others  which  deserve  to  be  so,  let  us  add  those 
entitled  "Nux  Postcoenatica,"  "The  Music-grinders,"  "The  Dorchester 
Giant,"  and  "  Daily  Trials," — which  chronicles  the  acoustic  afflictions  of 
a  sensitive  man,  beginning  at  daybreak  with  yelping  pug-dog's  Memnonian 
s«n-ode,  closing  at  night  with  the  lonely  caterwavJ, 

Tart  solo,  sour  duet,  and  general  squall, 

of  feline  miscreants,  and  including  durmg  the  day  the  accnmulated 
eloquence  of  women's  tongues,  "  like  polar  needles,  ever  on  the  jar,"  and 
drum-beating  children,  and  peripatetic  hurdy-gurdies,  and  child-crying 
bell-men — an  ascending  series  of  torments,  a  sorites  of  woes ! 

On  the  whole,  here  we  have,  in  the  words  of  a  French  critic,  "  un 
poete  d'^lite  et  qui  comte :  c'est  ime  nature  individuelle  tres-fine  et  tres- 
marqu6e" — one  to  whom  we  owe  "  des  vers  gracieuz  et  aimables,  vifs  et 
lagers,  d'une  gaiet6  nuanc6e  de  sentiment."  And  one  that  we  hope  to 
meet  again  and  ag^. 

♦  Terpsichore. 


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(  85  ) 


STORY  OP  THE  CADI  AND  THE  ROBBER. 

FBOH  THE  ARABIC.     BY  A.  H.  BLEECK,  ESQ. 

It  is  related  that  there  was  in  the  time  of  Haroun  ar-Raschid,  a  cadi 
named  Mohanmied  hin  Mokatil,  who  was  celebrated  for  his  learning  and 
good  breeding,  and  well  skilled  in  divinity  and  jurisprudence. 

And  on  a  certain  night  he  was  reading  on  his  couch,  and  he  read  till 
he  alighted  on  the  surat*  in  which  the  Prophetf  (The  blessing  and  peace 
of  Allah  be  upon  him)  saith,  <*  Most  acceptable  is  prajer  in  the  ereen 
places  and  in  the  gardens."  And  the  cadi  said  in  his  soul,  "  It  wiO  not 
be  proper  unless  in  this  yery  night  I  mount  my  mule  and  ride  to  my 
garden,  and  pray  in  it."  And  the  distance  between  him  and  the  garden 
was  a  leagfue. 

And  the  cadi  arose  and  put  on  his  clothes,  and  mounted  his  mule, 
and  set  out.  And  as  he  was  on  the  road,  behold  a  robber  shouted  out 
to  him  and  said,  '*  Halt  in  thy  place." 

And  the  cadi  stopped,  and  lo!  a  man  who  was  a  thief  and  a  highway- 
man; and  he  called  to  the  cadi  with  a  loud  yoice  to  terrify  him.  And 
the  cadi  said,  '^  Art  thou  not  ashamed  before  me,  and  I  a  cadi  of  the 
Mussulmans  ?" 

And  the  robber  replied,  ^'  Are  not  you  afraid  of  me,  and  I  a  robber  of 
the  Mussulmans  ?  Oh,  wonderful  cadi !  wherefore  have  you  come  forth 
alone,  dothed  in  this  rich  apparel,  and  mounted  on  such  a  beautiful  mule, 
and  have  set  out  on  the  road  without  a  companion  ?  This  arises  firom 
your  small  sense  and  great  ignorance." 

And  the  cadi  said,  '<  Wullahy !  I  thought  that  certainly  the  dawn  ap- 
proached." 

And  the  robber  answered,  ^^  This  is  wonderful  again ;  how  can  you  be 
a  cadi  and  not  know  the  hours  of  the  night-watches,  nor  the  constella- 
tions, nor  the  planets,  nor  the  position  of  the  moon,  and  have  no  know- 
ledge of  the  stars?" 

And  the  cadi  replied,  '^  Have  you  not  heard  the  saying  of  the  Pro- 
phet, '  Whoso  believeth  in  the  stars  is  an  infidel  V  " 

And  the  robber  answered,  '^  The  Prophet  hath  spoken  truly ;  but  as 
for  you,  oh  cadi,  you  have  taken  one  saying  of  the  Prophet,  and  have 
omitted  the  words  of  the  most  high  Allah  in  his  holy  book,  '^  Verily  we 
have  placed  the  stars  in  the  heavens,  and  adorned  them  before  the  eyes  ' 
of  the  beholders.*  And  in  another  verse,  ^  And  signs,  and  they  have 
believed  in  the  Pleiades.'  And  ag^,  ^  We  have  placed  the  stars  n>r  you 
to  guide  you  in  the  darkness  both  by  land  and  by  sea.'  In  short,  there 
are  other  well-known  passages  respecting  the  knowledge  of  this  science, 
and  you  pretend  to  be  a  cadi  of  the  Mussulmans,  and  do  not  know  the 
hoars  of  prayer!  Cease  to  display  your  ignorance,  nor  with  your  small 
wit  attempt  to  dispute  with  me,  but  dismount  from  your  mule,  strip  off 
your  garments,  and  cut  short  your  discourse,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

*  A  verse  of  the  Koran. 

t  The  Mussulmans  never  mention  their  Prophet  without  immediately  subjoin- 
ing the  ahove  formula,  which  occurs  so  often  in  the  text  that  I  have  for  the  most 
part  omitted  it,  to  avoid  endless  repetitions. 


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86  Story  of  the  Cadi  and  the  Robber. 

And  the  cadi  was  astonished  at  his  words,  and  at  the  eloquence  of 
his  tongue,  and  said  to  him,  ''  By  Allah  the  most  high,  what  hour  of 
the  night  is  this  in  which  our  meeting  has  taken  place?*' 

And  the  rohher  answered,  "  It  is  the  hour  when  the  moon  is  in  Scor- 
pion, and  the  planet  Jupiter,  in  the  cusp  of  Mars,  and  this  hour  ia  suit- 
able only  for  theft;  and  if,  oh  worshipful  cadi,  you  desired  to  rob,  you 
could  not  have  chosen  a  more  favourable  time  than  this;  but  if  you 
wished  to  travel,  you  should  not  have  started  till  the  third  liour  of  tbe  day 
was  past,  and  should  not  have  set  out  to  your  garden  till  the  sua  had 
risen." 

And  the  cadi  laughed,  and  said,  *^  Wullahy  I  I  should  not  have  set  out 
in  this  hour  but  for  the  words  of  the  Prophet, '  Most  acceptable  is  prayer 
in  the  green  places  and  in  the  gardens.' " 

And  the  robber  returned,  *'  Alas  for  you !  you  have  taken  one  text 
and  left  another." 

And  the  cadi  asked,  ''  What  text  is  that  which  I  have  left?" 
And  he  replied,  '^  Have  you  not  heard  His  saying,  *  Seek  a  companion 
before  journeying  ?.'  If  there  had  been  a  companion  with  you  I  sbould 
not.  have  approached  you  or  spoken  to  you ;  but,  because  ot  yoiur  foraak- 
ing  this  holy  text,  AUah  has  cast  you  into  my  net.  But  come,  descend 
from  your  mule,  strip  off  your  clothes,  and  cut  short  your  words,  for  day 
draws  near,  and  I  must  be  gone." 

The  cadi  said  to  him,  "  Do  you  possess  any  learning  ?"* 
The  robber  said  «  Yes." 

The  cadi  continued,  ^^  Have  you  not  heard  the  saying  of  the  Prophet^ 
upon  whom  be  the  blessing  of  Allah  ?" 
"What  saying?"  returned  the  thief. 

The  cadi  said,  " '  The  true  believer  is  he  from  whose  hands  and  tongue 
all  men  are  safe.' " 

And  the  robber  answered,  "  The  Prophet  has  spoken  truly,  but  as  for 
you,  you  pretend,  oh  cadi,  to  be  a  doctor  of  theology,  yet  have  no 
learning."! 

The  cadi  said,  «  How  is  this  ?" 

And  the  thief  replied,  "You  imagined  that  prayer  would  be  acceptable 
widiout  alm^,  though  AUah  has  said,  ^Pray,  and  bestow  alms.''  And 
again  the  Prophet  says,  '  He  who  prays  and  bestows  not  alms  is  like  a 
tree  without  fruit.'  Now,  you  have  wealth,  and  give  no  alms,  wherefore 
I  desire  to  take  away  your  clothes  and  your  mule  for  the  sake  of  charity. 
You  are.  aiji  avaricious  man,  and  some  day  you  will  die,  and  be  raised 
again,  and  God  will  call  you  to  account.  Have  you  not  heard  the  words 
of  Allah,  ^  In  that  day  we  will  seal  their  mouthy,  and  their  hands  shall 
confess,  and,  their  feet  shall  bear  witness  of  what  they  have  amassed?' 
But  come,  strip,  and  descend  &om  the  back  of  thy  mule,  and  cut  short 
thy  words,  for  1  am  in  haste." 

And  the  cadi  said,  "  For  the  sake  of  Allah  injure  me  not,  since  of  a 
truth  he  who  does  harm  to  the  Mussulmans  is  a  devil." 

And  the  robber  made  answer,  "  If  I  am  a  devil,  thou  art  an  infidel." 
And  the  cadi  said,  "  Where  is  the  proof  of  my  infidelity  ?" 

*  By  learning  (  i    )  the  cadi  means  especially  theological  knowledge, 
t  V.  supra. 

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Story  of  the  Cadi  and  the  Robber.  a7 

Tlie  robber  answered,  ''Allah  hath  said,  'Verily  we  hare  sent  defib 
against  the  infidels  to  torment  them  with  torments.   ' 

And  the  cadi  sud,  "  Are  you  not  ashamed  before  me,  who  am  caidi  oif 
ihe  Mussulmans?'' 

The  robber  answered,  "  Are  not  you,  rather,  ashamed  before  ine,  who 
am  a  thief  of  the  Mussulmans  ?" 

And  the  cadi  said  to  him,  "  Woe  to  you !  have  you  not  heard  the 
saying  of  the  Prophet,  '  Shame  is  a  part  of  £uth  ?  " 

The  robber  replied,  ''  Oh,  marvel  of  marvels !  Oh,  cadi  without 
knowledge  and  without  learning  !  Do  you  not  know  that  '  Shame  is  a 
hindrance  to  gidning  a  livelihood?'  and  are  not  you,  a  learned  man, 
ashamed  in  the  presence  of  one  as  learned  as  yourself  ?  Truly  the  Pro* 
phet  has  declared,  '  The  learned  are  the  heirs  of  the  prophets,  and  the 
people  of  the  Koran  are  the  people  of  God ;'  and  I  am  of  the  people  of 
God,  for  I  have  read  the  Koran  according  to  the  seven  readuigs  and 
the  seven  editions." 

The  cadi  said,  ''  Tell  me  the  seven  editions." 

And  thie  thief  replied  to  him,  "  I  will ;  but  I  will  by  no  means  forbear 
to  take  thy  clothes  and  thy  mule.  The  seven  editions  are  those  of 
Nafa',  Ibn  Katheer,  Abu  'Omr  bin  el-Ala,  Abu  'Amir  es-Shafi,  Hamzah, 
and  Al-Kasai."* 

And  the  cadi  was  astonished  at  the  robber  when  he  found  him  to  be 
the  most  learned  of  his  age.  Then  the  cadi  said  to  him,  "  Dost  thou 
know  all  this,  and  yet  knowest  not  the  fear  of  Grod  ?  You  wish  to 
despoil  me  of  my  clothes  and  my  mule  unjustly;  but  God  has  said,  'The 
curse  of  Allah  is  on  the  unjust ;'  do  thou  take  heed  to  thy  soul,  lest 
thou  be  of  the  accursed." 

The  robber  answered,  "  Allah  has  spoken  truth ;  but  tell  me  whidi  of 
us  is  unjust,  you  or  I  ?" 

And  the  cadi  said  to  him,  "  Thou  art  unjust  in  thy  soul ;"  and  he  eon- 
tmued,  "  Fear  God,  and  put  away  covetousness,  for  AUah  has  said,  '  Oh, 
man,  reverence  thy  Lord  ;*  and  again,  'Fear  AUah,  for  Allah  is  with 
them  that  fear  him.' " 

And  ihe  thief  replied,  "Allah  hath  said  tndy  ;  but  in  another  verse 
He  saith, '  Say,  oh  my  servants,  who  have  incmred  guilt  upon  your  souls, 
do  not  despair  of  the  mercy  of  Allah,  for  He  pardons  all  sins,  because  He 
is  merciful  and  forgiving ;'  and  I  will  not  let  thee  &;o  till  I  have  taken 
away  thy  clothes  and  thy  mule ;  and  after  that  I  will  turn  to  Allah,  and 
He  will  accept  my  repentance.  Have  you  not  heard  the  saying,  '  It  is 
He  who  receives  the  repentance  of  his  servants,  and  pardons  their  crimes  ?* 
And  again  the  Prophet  hath  said,  '  He  who  repents  of  his  misdeeds  is 
as  one  in  whom  is  no  sin  ;'  so  strip  off  your  clothes,  alight  from  your 
mule,  and  cut  short  idle  words,  otherwise  I  will  kill  thee,  for  day  draws 
near." 

'  And  the  cadi  said  to  him,  "  Have  you  not  read  the  saying  of  ihe  Most 
High,  '  Whosoever  shall  kill  a  Mussulman  designedly,  hdl  shall  be  his 
portion  for  ever,  and  the  wrath  and  the  curse  of  Allah  shall  be  upon  him, 
and  I  will  punish  him  with  a  mighty  punishment  ?' " 

And  the  robber  answered,  "  The  words  of  Allah  are  true ;  but  in 
anodier  verse  He  saith,  '  He  who  turns  from  his  injustice  and  amends^ 

*  The  seventh  name  it  omitted  in  the  Arabic  text 

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88  Story  ofilie  Cadi  and  the  Robber. 

behold  Allali  will  turn  to  him,  for  He  is  merciful  and  compudonate.' 
And  He  saith,  ^  Yenlj,  whoso  repents  and  believeB  and  does  good  works, 
Grod  will  change  his  (former)  evil  deeds  into  good  ones,  for  He  is  merctfiil 
and  gracious;'  and  I  will  not  alter  my  purpose  of  taking  awaj  thy  dbthes 
and  thy  mule." 

And  the  cadi  said  to  him,  '*  Have  you  not  heard  the  words  of  the. 
Prophet,  ^  AUah  has  forbidden  to  touch  the  property  of  Mussuhnans  ^en 
as  He  has  forbidden  to  touch  their  lives  ?'  and  again  He  saith,  <  It  is  not 
lawful  to  take  the  goods  of  a  Moslem,  save  with  his  consent,' " 

And  the  robber  answered,  *^  We  two  are  brethren,  and  is  it  lawful  ioit 
you  to  heap  up  wealth  and  costly  garments  while  I  am  poor  and  naked, 
weary  and  hungry  ?     But  dismount  and  strip,  and  cut  short  ^our  talk.'' 

And  the  cadi  replied,  ^^  Allah  does  not  (Jiange  the  oonditioiL  of  meB 
till  they  haviQ  changed  their  hearts." 

The  thief  said,  "  Allah  hath  spoken  truly,  but  you  changed  your  heart 
when  you  were  lying  on  your  couch,  and  came  out  in  tiie  night,  aad 
Allah  has  been  wrath  with  you,  and  has  thrown  you  into  my  net,  so 
alight  and  strip,  and  hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  blame  me,  out  Uame 
yourself." 

And  the  cadi  said  to  him,  '<  Fear  Grod — ^have  you  not  heard  tbat  the 
wrath  of  God  is  terrible  ?" 

The  robber  answered,  <<  He  hath  said  true  ;  but  do  not  yon  fear  Allah, 
who  devour  the  property  of  orphans  ?  Have  you  not  heard  re^ectioig 
those  who  devour  the  substance  of  orphans,  that  the  fire  of  bell  shall  cobl- 
sume-  thdr  entrails,  and  they  shall  pray  to  their  own  hurt?  And  you,  oh 
cadi,  devour  ^e  goods  of  orphans,  wherefore  Allah  has  cast  thee  into  my 
net;  but  I  will  not  slay  thee,  only  I  will  take  away  thy  clothes,  and  ti^ 
mule,  and  will  not  leave  tl^m  to  thee." 

And  the  cadi  said,  "  Wherefore  wilt  thou  not  be  merciful  towards 
me  ?  The  Prophet  hath  said,  '  Be  merciful  and  you  ^all  obtain  marcy ;' 
and  Allah  inspired  David  (the  blessing  and  peace  of  God  be  npon  him) 
to  say  '  Be  merciful  to  the  dweller  upon  earth,  and  He  who  dwelleth  in 
the  heavens  will  be  merciful  to  you ;'  wherefore,  oh  robber,  have  compas^ 
non  on  me,  and  Allah  will  have  compassion  on  thee." 

The  thief  replied,  "  Allah  £md  his  prophet  have  spoken  truly,  hut  I 
wiU  not  show  mercy  to  thee,  for  no  ont  has  shown  mercy  to  me^  save 
Allah  ;  and  I,  oh  worshipful  cadi,  have  need  of  your  ololjies  and  yovx 
mule,  and  you  are  rich." 

And  the  cadi  said,  '^  What  is  there  between  me  and  between  thee  ? 
I  am  a  cadi  and  you  are  a  robber,  notorious  for  your  thefts :  but  &tea 
to  the  words  of  the  Most  High,  '  Your  riches  are  in  heaven,  and  tM 
that  has  been  promised  you.' " 

And  the  robber  answered,  '^  Allah  has  spoken  truly ;  but  have  yon  not 
read  in  another  verse,  *  We  have  divided  the  means  of  subsistence  in  tho 
life  of  this  world  among  them,  and  we  have  placed  some  in  a  higher  xank 
than  others  ?  and  as  for  me,  oh  venerable  cadi,  God  has  given  me  no 
portion  save  theft,  wh«:efore  dismount  and  strip,  and  cut  shcdrt  yovr  ooii* 
versation." 

And  the  <^  said,  '^  Let  me  go,  and  incur  not  this  blame  and  this  xe- 
{ooach,  for  by  Allah  thou  art  near  to  perdition,  and  this  arises  sdely  from 
thy  small  reverence  for  Allah,  and  for  me  who  am  cadi  of  the  Faith&d, 
wherefore  you  desire  to  strip  me  unjustly  of  my  clothes  and  mule." 

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Siory  of  the  Cadi  and  the  Robber.  89 

Ajid  thb  robber  Huide  answer^  \^  I  havQ  jMjr^C^et  with  a  more  fiM^iab 
person  than  you ;  nor  since  I  haye  been  a  thief  have  I  leen  any  one 
trayeUing  wiu  such  (fioe)  clothes,  at  such  an  hour  of  the  night ;  but  diis 
arises  from  your  small  sense  and  great  ignorance,  so  dismount  and  ftrip^ 
and  escape  with  your  h£e  in  safety.  Have  you  not  heard  the  saying  of 
the  Prophet,  *  Whoso  explains  the  Koran  vnthout  understanding  it,  truly 
bis  abode  shall  be  in  the  fire  of  hell  ?'  and  know  that  theft  is  a  means  oif 
subsiBtence,  and  if  I  abandon  it,  know  that  I  shall  be  more  foolish  ihaa 
you,  for  truly  the  blessed  Prophet  has  said,  ^  He  who  does  not  turn  his 
knowledge  to  account  reaps  loss  £rom  his  ign<»rance.'  And  He  saith, 
'  The  sleep  of  the  wise  is  a  pious  action  ;'  and  again,  '  The  sleep  of  the 
learned  is  better  than  the  good  works  of  the  ignorant,'  and  if  you,  oh 
worshipful  cadi,  had  slept  in  your  bed  and  prayed  on  your  mtujtd,  or  in 
your  closet,  it  would  have  been  better  for  you  ;  but  come,  diainount  and 
strip,  and  cease  talking,  for  time  presses." 

And  the  cadi  was  unable  to  reply,  so  he  said,  ^^  There  is  nothing  good 
in  theft.'* 

And  die  robber  laughed,  and  sidd,  '*  Oh  yenerable  magistrate,  how 
can  you  pretend  to  be  a  cadi,  who  are  so  defective  in  wisdom  as  to  know 
nothing  ?  K  you  had  said,  '  The  blessing  of  Allah  is  not  with  theft, 
you  would  have  n>oken  truly ;'  but  how,  oh  cadi,  am  I  not  to  steal,  when 
every  year  I  need  thirty-six  yards  of  cloth  ?  If  I  had  ai^  money  to  pur- 
chase it,  I  would  never  steal." 

The  cadi  replied,  '*  AUah  does  not  bless  ihe  deeds  of  the  widced." 

And  the  robber  said,  ''  It  is  you  who  are  a  sinner,  and  a  great  one, 
for  coming  out  alone  in  the  night  and  injuring  your  own  sel^  and  Allah 
has  thrown  you  into  my  net,  and  were  you  to  repeat  to  me  a  thousand 
sayings  and  a  thousand  verses,  from  the  Koran,  the  Pentateudi,  the 
Gospel,  and  the  Psalms,  I  would  not  leave  you  your  clothes  or  your 
male." 

And  when  the  cadi  saw  his  vehemence,  he  knew  that  he  would  infal* 
Hhly  take  his  clothes  and  his  mule,  so  he  said  to  him,  ^'  Well  then,  by 
the  blessing  of  Allah,  come  vrith  me." 

And  the  robber  said,  "  Where  do  you  widi  me  to  go  ?" 

The  cadi  replied,  "  I  wish  you  to  come  with  me  to  the  garden-gate, 
that  I  may  give  you  my  clothes  and  my  mule." 

And  the  robber  said,  ^'  Cut  short  such  language  to  me,  oh  reverend 
cadi,  for  you  desire  to  make  game  of  me  by  leading  me  to  the  garden- 
gate^  mnce  you  would  call  out  to  your  slaves  and  domestics  to  smze  me 
and  guard  me  till  the  morning,  and  then  you  would  sit  down  on  your 
seat  (^  judgment,  and  would  pronounce  sentence  against  me,  aecotding 
to  ihe  words  of  Allah,  ^  And  as  for  thieves,  both  male  and  £smale,  thou 
shalt  cut  off  their  hands ;'  for  I,  oh  cadi,  have  read  the  Koran,  and  hare 
sat  in  ^e  assonblies  of  the  learned.  Have  you  not  heard  the  saying  of 
the  Most  High,  *  Do  not  go  to  meet  your  own  destruction  ?' " 

'^  I  swear  to  you,"  said  the  cadi,  ^*  that  I  will  give  you  a  nlemn 
pledge  and  make  a  &ithful  compact,  and  never  break  it." 

3ne  robber  answered,  '^  My  father  told  me  that  my  grandfather  told 
him,  on  the  authority  of  Abu  Horairah  (may  Allah  be  pleased  with  him), 
tbat  the  Prophet  said,  '  Whoso  changeth  my  commandments,  my  curse 
and  the  curse  of  Allah  shall  be  upon  him,  and  I  vrill  not  answer  for  him 

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90  Story  of  the  Cadi  and  the  Robber. 

on  the  day  of  iesi]rre<$iion.'.    Now  I,  ob^^Tenerable  cadv  do  not  desisa  to 
be  of  the  company  of  tbe  accursed.^  - 

*    "I  swear  to  you,'\B8dd  the  cadi,  " an  inviolable  oath,  that  I  will  not 
act  treacherously  to  you." 

And  the  robber  said  to.  him,  <<  I  have  heard  from  my  father,  who  had 
it  from  my  g^randfather,  who  had  it  from  Ali  bin  Abu  Talib,(may  Allah 
be  gracious  to  him),  who  had  it  from  our  blessed  Prophet^  that  to  break 
an  improper  (t.  e.  extorted)  oath  is  no  crime — but  come,  dismount  and 
strip." 

And  the  ca^  was  unable  to  find  an  answer,  so  he  dismounted  from  the 
back  of  his  mule,  and  stripped  off  his  clothes,  and  delivered  them  to  the 
robber,  and  there  remained  to  him  only  his  shirt. 
'    And  the  robber  asked  him,  <<  Have  you  another  shirt  at  home  ?** 

And  he  said,  "Yes." 

The  robber  sidd,  "  My  father  told  me  that  my  grandfather  told  him 
that  Abu  Horairah  (may  Allah  reward  him)  related,  that  the  blessed 
Prophet  has  said,  *  The  prayer  of  a  naked  man  is  good.' " 

And  the  cadi  said  to  him,  '<  How  ?     Must  I  strip,  and  pray  naked  ?' 

The  robber  answered,  "  This  arises  from  your  ignorance.  What  do 
you  say  of  a  man  who  has  been  shipwrecked,  and  who  escapes  from  the 
sea  naked  ?— is  his  prayer  good  or  not  ?'* 

He  replied,  "  It  is  good.*' 

The  thief  rejoined,  "  Your  condition  is  the  same  as  his." 

And  the  cadi  took  off  his  shirt,  and  gave  it  to  the  robber. 

Then  the  robber  saw  on  his  hand  a  signet-ring  worth  five  mithkals, 
and  he  said  to  him,  "Oh  reverend  cadi,  give  me  the  dgnetrring, 
that  I  may  remember  you  gratefully,  according  to  the  saying ,  of :  the 
Prophet,  '  Verily  let  deeds  be  sealed.'  "* 

And  the  cadi  replied,  "  This  is  the  ring  of  prayer.'* 

The  thief  rejoined,  "This  is  not  correct — and  how  can  a  cadi  dare 
to  lie  ?  The  ring  is  on  your  right  hand,  whereas  if  it  were  the  ring  of 
prayer  it  would  be  on  your  left  hand." 

And  the  cadi  was  unable  to  make  any  reply ;  but  after  a  moment's 
thought  he  said,  "  Can  you  play  chess  ?" 

The  robber  answered,  "Yes. 

And  the  cadi  said,  "Let  us  make  a  match,  and  if  you  beat  me  the 
ring  is  yours,  but  if  I  beat  you  it  remains  mine," 
-    The  thief  replied,  "  I  am  content." 

And  they  played,  and  the  robber  won ;  so  the  cadi  took  off  his  ring, 
and  said  to  the  tnief,  "  Thou  art  the  doctor  of  law,  and  I  (only)  a  learned 
man ;  thou  art  the  reader  of  the  Koran  and  I  the  questioner,  'and  it  is 
you  who  are  the  (better)  player."  And  he  threw  him  the  ring,  and 
said,  "May  the  blessing  of  AUah  not  go  with  it." 

And  the  robber  took  it,  and  said,  "  May  Allah  not  aco^t  the  sacrifice 
from  thee." 

Then  the  cadi  went  to  his  house,  naked  and  vexed  in  mind,  and  he 

*  It  is  difficult  to  give  the  Arabic  pun  any  force  in  English,  but  it  will  rend^ 
it  more  intelligible  to  observe  that,  in  the  East,  every  man  of  property  has 
his  name  engraved  on  a  signet-ring ;  and  no  document  can  be  authenticated  by 
him  unless  he  sedlit  with  this:  a  signature  in  his  own  htmdwriting  merdy,  BOl 
being  valid. 

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Story  of  the  Cadi  and  the  Robber.  91 

entered  his  house,  and  slept  till  the  day  appeared.  And  he  said  to  his 
wife>  ^*  Bring  me  some  clothes,"  and  she  broueht  them.  And  he  made 
the  morning  prayer,  and  when  he  had  finished  nb  prayer  he  sat  down  on 
his  seat  of  judgment  g^eved  at  heart. 

And  his  wife  said  to  him,  '*  Why  art  thou  sorrowful,  oh  my  lord  ?" 

And  he  related  unto  her  the  story  from  the  be^ning  to  the  end,  and 
said  to  her,  "  If  this  robber  had  disputed  with  Malik,  or  Abu  Hanyfeh, 
or  Es-Shafai,  or  the  Imam  Ahmed  bm  Hambel,  he  would  hare  oyercome 
ihem,  and  ti^en  away  their  clothes,  with  his  arguments  and  traditions.'* ' 

And  while  they  were  talking,  behold  a  knock  at  the  gate ;  and  he  sud, 
"  Oh,  wife !  see  who  is  there." 

And  she  said  to  him,  **  A  man  riding  on  a  mule  with  some  clothes.'' 

And  he  said,  '*  Shut  the  door,  that  the  robber  may  not  enter  into  us." 

And  he  had  not  finished  speaking  when  the  robber  entered,  and  sat 
down  in  the  seat  of  honour  without  giving  the  salam. 

And  the  cadi  said,  ^'  Why  have  you  not  g^ven  the  salam  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  the  proof  of  a  true  believer  is  the  salam  ?" 

The  robber  answered,  ''The  salam  presents  one  of  two  aspects,  either 
fear  or  covetousness ;  now  I  neither  fear  or  covet." 

And  the  cadi  said, ''  Why  have  you  come  to  me,  and  what  do  you  want 
with  me?" 

**  I  am  come,  oh  worshipful  cadi,"  replied  the  thief,  "  on  account  of 
something  which  you  have  forgotten." 

«  What  is  that?"  said  the  cadL 

And  the  robber  answered, "  When  I  parted  from  you  and  returned  to 
my  house  I  lit  a  lamp,  and  turned  oter  some  of  my  books,  and  I  found, 
oh  reverend  sir,  that  a  cadi  is  a  slave.'*    (A  Mamluk.) 

And  the  cadi  said,  ''  Refrain  your  tongue  from  these  words,  and  tell 
me  what  you  want  of  me,  and  what  is  your  intention." 

And  the  robber  answered,  '*  After  I  )iad  left  you  last  night  I  bought 
a  house  for  fifty  dinars,  and  your  ring  was  only  worth  five  dinars,  so  I 
am  come  to  you  that  you  may  giro  me  the  remainder ;  and  if  you  will 
g^ve  them  to  me  I  wUl  write  you  a  quittance  with  my  own  hand,  that 
Qiere  shall  be  no  lawsuit,  and  no  demand  between  me  and  thee." 

And  the  cadi  said,  "  With  all  my  heart." 

And  he  gave  him  the  money,  and  the  robber  went  out  and  left  him 
and  departed. 

And  the  cadi^s  wife  came  to  him  and  said,  '*  Was  it  not  sufficient  what 
he  did  to  you  yesterday,  but  he  must  come  again  to-day  ?" 

And  the  cadi  said,  '*  Be  silent,  lest  he  hear  your  words  and  return, 
and  claim  you  as  his  wife,  and  prove  it  by  demonstrations  and  arguments 
from  the  traditions  and  the  Koran." 

And  this  is  what  has  reached  us  of  the  story  of  the  cadi  and  the 
robber. 

Praise  be  to  Allah,  the  Lord  of  the  universe  ! 


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(     92     ) 

KING  WENZEL'S  ESCAPE. 

from  the  german  of  morktz  habtmann. 

By  John  Oxenfobd. 

[According  to  history,  Wenzd  YI.,  King  of  Bohemia,  better  known  aa  the 
Empexor  Wencetlas,  haying  been  impriaoned  for  his  miadeeda  by  the  insnzgeat 
dtizena  of  Prague,  effected  his  escape  through  the  assistance  of  a  woman  of  lav 
origin,  named  Susan,  who  took  him  into  a  fishing-boat  while  he  was  bathing,  and 
rowed  him  across  the  Moldau.  The  version  of  the  story  given  in  the  following 
poem  differs  from  the  common  account,  inasmuch  as  Wenzel  is  represented,  not  as 
a  prifonar,  but  as  in  peril  from  a  mob  while  he  is  taking  a  bath.] 

Extended  in  his  bath  King  Wenzel  lies ; 

About  his  limbs  the  tepid  water  plays. 

As  soothing  as  the  sound  of  am'rous  lays. 

Or  sleep  that  follows  dninken  revelries. 

King  Wenzel  is  so  wrapped  in  tranquil  joy, 

That  with  the  flood  he  sports  like  any  boy ; 

The  fluid  o*er  his  back  and  neck  he  flings, 

And  yields  himself  to  thoughts  of  pleasant  things, 

As  softly  sweet,  as  though  all  strife  were  past. 

And  endless  peace  had  come  to  reign  at  last, 

As  though  the  holy  £mpire  was  no  more 

One  spacious  field  of  battle,  stain'd  with  gore ; 

As  though  the  citizen  was  free  from  dread, 

And  blood  of  Hebrews  was  no  longer  shed  ;* 

As  though  the  traveler  could  receive  no  wrong. 

From  force  unbridled,  wielded  by  the  strong ; 

As  though  the  stream  of  life  no  more  was  flowing 

From  hearts  of  brave  Bohemians,  wildly  glowing ; 

As  though  wan,  pale-faced  hunger  no  more  stood 

In  Prague's  throng*d  streets,  and  shriek'd  aloud  for  food. 

'Tis  only  such  a  King  can  have  such  dreams. 
When  rocking  like  a  boat  his  kingdom  seems ; 
A  king,  who  often  plung'd  in  inebriety^ 
Looks  on  a  hangman  as  the  best  society  rf* 
A  kine  who  to  the  dogs  his  queen  can  fling,;^ 
And  then  a  dulcet  strain  of  love  can  sing. 

Yes,  WenzeFs  a  musician,  and  he  oft — 
Luxurious  wight— can  tell  a  tale  full  soft» 
Which  falls  persuasively  upon  the  ear,— 
No  holy  bell's  more  soothing  or  more  clear ; 
While  thus  in  pleasant  slumber  he  reposes. 
Perhaps  a  song  he  &shions  as  he  dozes. 

A  noise  arouses  him — a  distant  cry^ 
Now  voices,  wildly  menacing,  draw  nigh  ; 
Then  comes  a  thump  of  clubs— a  clash  of  swords, 
A  shout  triumphant— angry  mutter'd  worda, 

♦  A  massacre  of  Jews  was  one  of  the  horrors  of  this  horrible  period  of  Bohemian 
history,— J.  O. 

t  This  favourite  executioner,  whom  Wenzel  called  his  gossip,  he  afterwards 
beheaded  with  his  own  hand.— J.  O. 

I  This  is  probably  an  exaggeration,  though  Wenzel's  queen,  Johanna,  was 
attacked  and  killed  by  one  of  Ms  dogs.— J.  O. 


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^ng  WenzeVs  Escape.  93 

Blended  together  in  a  tempest  dread. 
King  Wenzel,  much  amaz*d,  lifts  up  his  head. 
And  from  the  bath  thrusts  forth  his  potent  beard. 
*•  Were  those  the  Moldau's  billows  that  I  heard? 
The  storm  ^nst  the  planks  makes  such  a  dio, 
It  seems  as  if  oesolv'd  to  break  them  in." 

The  words  grew  plainer  as  the  sound  increased: 

"  Long  live  John  Huss,  and  down  with  evW  priest  !*' 

**  Nay ;  is  that  all? -pray  take  the  priests/  quoth  he  ; 

•*  John  Huss  for  ever !— there  we  both  agree." 

"  Down  with  the  king^s  advisers  I"  says  a  shout, 

"  They  starve  our  bodies  till  the  soul  flies  out" 

*'  With  all  my  heart,  if  such  is  your  fond  pleasure," 

Says  W«izel,  "  I  detest  them  beyond  measure." 

Forth  now  the  storm  with  greater  fury  breaks, 
The  house  beneath  the  people's  anger  shakes ; 
One  voice  cries—"  Lazy  Wenzel,  give  us  bread !" 
Another—"  Men  be  free,  and  strike  him  dead!" 

The  ponderous  clubs  against  the  portals  knock. 
And  words  of  death  the  monarch's  senses  shodc. 
King  Wenzel  trembles— no  escape  he  hath. 
Here  is  the  Moldau— there  the  people^s  wrath. 

A  strapping  servant^girl  darts  in  and  brings 

A  cloth,  which  round  the  royal  form  she  flings ; 

Then  firmly  seizes  him — then  drags  him  out-^ 

Then  thrusts  him  m  a  boat  (her  arm  is  stout). 

"  Off  and  away,"  the  damsel  cries,  "  before, 

To  shed  your  blood,  these  wretches  burst  the  door." 

She  takes  the  oar,  which  readily  she  plies, 
Across  the  stormy  waves  the  vessel  flies ; 
Till  the  harsh  voices  of  the  rebel  rout 
Fade  in  the  distance,  and  at  last  die  ouL 
Their  way  lies  up  the  stream,  and  as  they  go. 
The  billows  rock  the  vessel  to  and  fro. 
As  though  it  were  a  pleasure  with  them  all 
To  play  with  royal  life  as  'twere  a  ball. 

But  stout  Susanna,  with  her  steady  oar. 
Batters  the  wat'ry  traitors  as  they  roar  ; 
Making  a  sound  with  her  incessant  splashine; 
As  when  a  sword  with  helm  or  shield  is  clashiDg. 

Quick  by  the  islands,  edg'd  with  verdant  grass. 
And  by  the  rocks  of  Wissebad  thev  pass ; 
With  band  of  pow'r  the  fragile  bark  she  drives, 
And  m  the  open  country  soon  arrives. 

ELing  Wenzel  on  his  bench,  with  all  his  care. 
Scarce  keeps  the  water  from  his  shoulders  bare. 
The  waves  press  near,  and  as  he  wards  them  off, 
Appear  to  stretcli  out  human  hands  and  scoff. 
Yet,  though  the  billows  toss  him  to  and  fro. 
But  little  can  they  of  King  Wenzel  know. 
Who  think  that  mobs  or  floods  his  soul  engage ; 
He  eyes  the  maid,  who  braves  the  water's  rage, 

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94  King  WenzePs  Escape. 

With  love-sick  glance,  and  thinks  her  |^ing  fair, 
While  she  stanch  proudly  with  her  flowing  hair, 
Which  in  rude  sport  the  breezes  wildly  fling — 
The  sight,  in  short,  has  quite  bewitch'd  the  king. 

The  royal  face  grows  brighter  with  a  smile 
As  still  she  rows,  and  moves  her  limbs  the  while ; 
Wave-like  herself ;  and  as  the  crimson  plays 
Over  her  cheeks,  at  last  the  monarch  says : 

"  Maiden,  who  art  so  lovely,  brave,  and  stout. 
Within  whose  veins  flows  Wlasta's*  blood,  no  doubt, 
I  thank  thee,  and  I  will  in  velvet  dress 
And  ermine  robe  that  form  of  loveliness ; 
Henceforward  at  my  court  thou  shalt  be  seen. 
The  glory  of  thy  sex— nay,  more — the  queen. 
With  gold,  and  pearls,  and  diamonds,  I'll  deck. 
As  fitting  ornaments  that  charming  neck. 
Among  my  raptur*d  songsters  thou  shalt  shine, 
And  live  immortalis'd  by  verse  divine." 

Susanna's  face  with  wrath  is  redden'd  o'er, 
And  with  a  shock  she  brings  the  boat  ashore ; 
Then  leaning  on  her  oar,  with  flashing  eyes. 
Thus  to  the  monarch's  off*er  she  replies : 

**  The  people's  child  I  am,  and  will  remain. 

What  by  thy  gems  and  ermines  should  I  gain  ? 

To  thee  I  leave  thy  curse-encumber'd  court. 

Thy  subjects'  cries  of  misery  for  sport ; 

I  could  not  live  upon  thy  people's  blood. 

And  sweat,  and  marrow,'  as  a  dainty  food. 

Seated  at  one  of  thy  right- royal  feasts 

Among  thy  songsters  and  thy  lordly  guests. 

Hearest  thou  not  thy  nation's  miseries. 

How  for  a  scanty  crust  it  groans  and  cries — 

Nay,  for  the  crumbs  thou  scatter'st  from  thy  table  ? 

Thmkst  thou  to  join  such  feasts  I  should  be  able  ? 

I  curse  thee—ay,  as  deeply  as  the  rest. 

And  something  like  repentance  fills  my  breast, 

That  1  so  weak,  so  womanish  could  feel, 

As  from  their  hands  their  lawful  spoil  to  steal. 

Now  quickly  fly,  or  I  perchance  may  rue. 

That  to  my  brethren  I  have  prov'd  untrue  ; 

And  once  more  wielding  this,  my  trusty  oar. 

Across  the  billows,  which  now  wildly  roar. 

That  I  have  let  the  people  rage  in  vain. 

May  bear  thee  to  their  vengeance  back  again." 

Into  the  open  country  flies  the  king, 
The  scanty  cloth  his  limbs  scarce  covering ; 
While  floating  down  the  river,  like  a  queen. 
To  join  the  rebel  band,  is  Susan  seen. 

*  Wlasta  is  an  important  personage  in  the  old  mythic  history  of  Bohemia. 


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{   96  y 


A  GERMAN'S  IMPRESSIONS  OF  ENGLAND.* 

It  is  a  melancholy  though  true  fact,  that  our  Teutonic  brethren, 
whom  we  might  call  our  cousins-German,  did  we  not  disdain  making  so 
execrable  a  pun,  ever  take  a  peculiar!  delight  in  picking  out  English 
foibles,  and  resolutely  close  their  eyes  against  any  merits  innerent  in  John 
Bull's  character.  The  '<  Fliegende  Blatter"  take  the  lead  in  holding 
him  up  to  ridicule,  and  try  to  smash  him  with  the  ponderous  hammer  of 
their  wit  Whenever  "  Fra'  Diavolo"  is  performed.  Lord  AUcash  is 
made  the  cynosure  of  admiring  eyes.  Be  the  singing  ever  so  bad,  the 
acting  ever  so  miserable,  all  this  is  redeemed  if  his  lordship  is  held  up  to 
laughter.  En  regie  he  must  be  dressed  in  a  long  g^at  coat,  an  extraor- 
dinary hat,  something  like  the  one  placarded  "  the  stunner"  in  the  vici- 
nity of  Leicester-square,  wear  green  spectacles,  and  have  round  his  neck 
a  nondescript  sort  of  cushion,  formerly  employed  in  leaning  against  the 
comer  of  a  creaking  diligence,  but  long  smce  forgotten.  T^s  is  the 
more  absurd,  as  the  Germans  are  now-a-days  well  acquainted  with  the 
"English  as  they  are,"  and  ought  to  entertain  better  feelings  with  regard 
to  them,  were  it  only  through  gratitude  for  the  impulse  given  to  tiieir 
industry  by  the  countless  swarms  who  flock  to  their  country.  , 

We  do  not,  however,  find  this  feeling  so  commonly  displayed  against 
the  French,  who,  by  position  and  character,  are  their  national  enemies. 
This  may  be  accounted  for  on  two  grounds.  In  the  first  place,  the 
pseudo-republicanism  of  France  possesses  an  irresistible  charm  in  the  eyes 
of  the  liberty-desiring  Germans ;  and,  secondly,  they  are  apt  to  decline 
a  contest  in  which  they  are  sure  to  get  the  worst.  A  wordy  battle 
between  French  and  German  is  remarkably  like  the  struggle  between  a 
bull  and  a  matador.  While  the  first  is  lowering  his  head  to  rip  up  his 
opponent,  the  latter,  with  a  few  graceful  entrechats,  runs  him  through 
with  his  small  sword. 

Such  bemg  the  case,  we  are  delighted  to  find  a  German  literat  doing 
the  amende  honorable,  in  a  handbook  for  travellers  to  England.  Dr. 
Gambihler  is  apparently  a  man  of  education  and  sense,  and  a  residence 
hi  England  has  enabled  him  to  appreciate  the  many  sterling  qualities  of 
our  national  character.  He  has  broken  through  the  crust  of  reserve  that 
usually  covers  John  Bull  as  with  a  mantle  when  he  has  to  do  with 
foreigners,  and  has  found  beneath  it  the  true-hearted,  generous  Briton. 
He  has  for  the  nonce  assumed  English  spectacles  to  view  us  through, 
and  does  not  appear  to  have  been  injured  by  the  exchange.  While  find- 
hig  much  to  approve,  he  is  sufficiently  open-hearted  "  not  to  damn  with 
fcint  praise"  when  occasion  required  censure^  and  we  have  to  thank  him 
sincerely  for  the  fair  and  honest  way  he  has  faced  his  subject. 

Our  paper  must,  necessarily,  be  a  series  of  extracts,  as  we  desire  to 
give  the  cream  of  this  straightforward  German's  remarks,  and  recommend 
him  to  our  readers  as  one  who  has  deserved  well  at  our  hands,  and,  not 
Hke  other  writers,  stung  the  bosom  that  nursed  him.  With  tiiese  preli- 
.r—  — „— — -^_ — . ______ 

*^  *  Br.  Gambihler,  Gemalde  von  London.    Miinchen,  1850.    Zweite  verbesserte 
Ansgabe. 

Sept — ^VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  cccxcin.  H 


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96  A  GermaviS  Impressions  of  England, 

minaiy  remarks  we  introduce   the  Doctor  on   the   scene   in  propria 
persona, 

^'  As  a  preparative  for  9  journey,  let  me  recommend  that  prejudice  be, 
as  far  as  possible,  laid  on  one  side.  This  prejudice  is  very  frequently 
found  entertained  ag^ainst  England  and  the  English.  Why  the  French 
are  given  to  such  a  fallacy  we  may  easily  comprehend  :  history  ^imi^es 
us  the  key.  The  French  and  English  are  n^ghbours  who  do  not  fed 
comfortable  in  one  another's  presence :  prejudice  is  very  natural  between 
such  neighbours.  In  this  respect,  however,  the  Briton  stands  in  a  freer 
position  towards  the  German.  The  latter  has  no  reason,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  trade  questions,  to  entertain  such  a  feeling  towards  ii» 
English ;  but,  spite  of  this,  prgudice  has  hardened  the  hearts  of  many 
Germans  against  them.  It  is  the  mother  of  injustice.  It  is  true,  eveiy 
man  tries  to  justify  it — speaks  against  the  egotism,  obstinacy,  pride, 
avarice^  spleen,  and  rudeness  of  the  English,  altliough  their  judgment  m 
based  on  no  more  valid  grounds  than  those  of  tradition.  Many  condemn 
all  Englishmen  through  the  individual  ^cimens  they  have  seen  on  their 
travels  in  Germany,  It  has  almost  become  the  fa^on  in  Germany  to 
abuse  everything  English.  One  exclaims,  '  See  how  they  treat  the 
operatives;  'Look  at  the  distinction  between  the  aristocracy  and  the 
bourgeoisie,'  says  a  second  ;  a  third  refers  to  the  conduct  of  tne  English 
towards  Ireland;  a  fourth,  finally,  through  a  certain  cosmopolitan  sym- 
pathy, abused  the  whole  Britbh  nation  on  accouirt  of  the  war  against 
China.  The  most  universal  exponent  of  prejudice  lies  in  Napc^eon's  re- 
mark, '  a  nation  of  shopkeepers.'  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  h^e  to  oon^ 
fute  these  opinions  singly :  tiie  question  must  stand  on  a  broader  basis. 
li^t  the  German  nation,  by  some  magic,  be  suddenly  placed  in  t^  situa- 
tion of  the  English,  and  the  best  thing  they  could  probably  do  would  be 
to  act  precisely  like  the  English  now  act.  Such  prejudices  call  to  mind 
the  fable  of  the  '  Fox  and  the  Grapes.'  If  we  cannot  readi  our  neigfa^- 
bour's  pre-eminence,  we  are  apt  to  criticise  it,  or  thrust  it  on  one  side,  to 
bring  his  faults  into  a  prominent  position.  It  is  not  absolutely  necessaiy 
to  see  the  light  side  everywhere  ;  but  to  wish  purposely  only  to  look  on 
the  dark,  is  unjust.  Let,  then,  every  traveller  to  England  be  endued  widi 
the  humane  principle,  to  think  well  of  everything  tUl  he  be  convinced  of 
the  contrary.  Through  the  unbounded  liberty  in  England,  the  evil 
element  displays  itself  more  than  in  any  other  country ;  but  the  good, 
die  excellent,  the  opportune,  not  less  so.  This  truth  must  be  elearly  un- 
derstood before  treading  on  British  soil — at  least  let  the  traveller  dedare 
an  amnesty  with  his  prejudice  for  an  undetermined  space  of  time ;  per- 
haps then  he  may  arrive  at  a  perfect  truce,  after  the  first  aspect  of  men 
and  things." 

These  be  brave  words,  my  masters,  and  may  furnish  a  valuaUe  lesson 
to  others  besides  Germans.  We  as  a  nation  are  not  entirely  fi^ee  from  the 
same  felling,  though  the  many  lessons  we  have  lately  received  have 
knocked  a  good  deal  of  conceit  out  of  us,  and  shown  us  it  is  never  too 
late  to  learn.     But  let  the  doctor  proceed  with  his  discourse. 

'<  The  next  best  advice  I  can  give  is  to  accommodate  onesdf  to  enr* 
cumstances.  The  traveller  in  England  must  do  as  the  English  do.  The 
Englishman  is  not  so  much  mistrustful  as  circumspect^  He  lets  W6 
stranger  follow  his  own  road ;  he  gives  fi:ee  play  to  bis  fellow-man.     He 

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A  GermarCs  Impresnons  of  Engtand.  97 

^068  not  addresB  him  when  not  acquainted  widi  him,  or  when  not  Intro* 
daced  to  lum.  This  trait  astonishes  the  €rennan,'who  is  so  fond  of 
makkig  acquaintances.  The  latter  is  open-hearted  with  any  man  whom  he 
has  reason  to  consider  req>ectaUe  ;  he  talks  with  him,  forms  eternal 
friendship  widi  him;  in  short,  gives  full  scope  to  his  honhcmimie.  He 
e^qiects  tjie  same  in  return,  but  this  expectation  is  usuaUy  deceiyed  in 
England.  He  finds  coldness,  repelling  behaviour,  a  realfy  painful,  or 
vrhtit  appears  more  insolent  sdU — no  reply  at  all.  The  shock  given  to 
die  feelings  by  such  a  reception  easily  changes  to  bitterness,  the  simplest 
consequences  of  which  are  to  regard  everything  in  a  false  light,  and  pour 
out  the  most  unjust  and  frequently  ridiculous  abuse  on  things  excellent  in 
diemsehra. 

*^  The  Englishman  most  not  be  bored.  When  once  gained,  he  is 
worth  preserving.  He  does  not  affect  the  vapid  phrases  of  ceremony  or 
poUtesse.  Whoever  is  accustomed  to  these— and  unluckily  nearly  every 
German  belonging  to  the  educated  classes  is  so— is  badly  o£P  in  England : 
the  commonest  phrase  of  this  nature  is  repugnant  to  the  Briton :  he  can 
scarce  put  up  with  it  (mee.  If  necessary,  on  the  first  visit  he  is  about 
one-half  as  polite  and  fiiendly  as  the  German  is  accustomed  to  expect 
from  his  countryman  or  a  Frenchman.  On  a  second  visit,  when  he  ex- 
pects to  find  himself  quite  at  home,  the  plainness  of  his  reception  terrifies 
him.  The  Englishman  receives  the  stranger  as  a  countryman,  for  Vhom 
he  has  no  occasion  to  put  himself  out  of  his  way,  and  from  whom  he  ex- 
pects the  same  service.  The  German  desires  to  be  received  with,  *  I  am 
immeasurably  pleased  to  see  you,'  and  a  long  et  cetera  of  polite  formulae 
which  the  Englishman  considers  absolute  nonsense.  The  Grerman  is 
astomided  at  Ms  plain  reception,  and  cuts  a  comical  figure  before  the 
Englishman,  who  cannot  understand  the  meaning  of  it.  The  estrang^ 
person,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  often  stays  away  altogether,  and  a  pro- 
bably very  valuable  acquaintance  is  broken  off  in  consequence.  Let  each 
^rd  on  inmpHcity  before  venturing  to  England,  and  leave  his  stock  of 
polite  phrases  at  home." 

Apropos  de  hottes,  we  remember  hearing  or  reading  somewhere  a 
somewhat  laughable  anecdote,  which  deserves  repeating.  An  English^ 
man  and  a  German  were  travelling  together  in  a  ^igence,  and  both 
smoking.  The  German  did  all  in  his  power  to  draw  his  companion  into 
conversation,  but  to  no  purpose ;  at  one  moment  he  would,  with  a  super- 
abundance of  politeness,  apologise  for  drawing  his  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  ash  of  his  cigar  had  fallen  on  his  waistcoat,  or  a  spark  was 
endang^nng  his  neck-handkerchief.  At  length  the  exhausted  En^ish- 
man  exclaimed,  **  Why  the  deuce  can^t  you  leave  me  alone  ?  your  coat- 
tail  has  been  burning  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  but  I  didn't  bother  you 
about  it^ 

In  truth,  our  coldness  is  something  too  bad.  We  cannot  condescend  to 
step  down  from  the  pedestal  on  which  popular  vanity  has  planted  us, 
even  when  by  doing  so  we  might  do  a  stranger  a  kindness.  We  trust, 
however,  this  is  wearing  on,  thanks  to  the  great  firatemal  festival 
held  in  Hyde  Park.  A  Frenchman  may  now  walk  through  our  streets 
^pmolested,  be  he  bearded  like  the  pard ;  he  no  longer  need  fear  having  a 
^  queue"  of  ragged  boys  at  his  heels,  honouring  him  with  the  epithets  of 
"  scaly  mounseer,"  and  the  other  flowers  of  eloquence  appertaming  to  our 

h2 

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9Q  A  GermarCs  Impressions  of  England. 

street  phraseology.  We  are  decidedly  becoming  daily  more  cosmopoUtan. 
We  must  not  for  our  own  credit  omit  relating  an  anecdote  mentioned  by 
our  author  in  the  course  of  his  amusing  work.  He  was  one  day  outside 
the  Observatory  at  Greenwich,  and.  expressed  his  regret  to  a  gentleman 
he  met  there,  at  not  being  able  to  enter  it.  The  gentleman  told  him  he 
was  not  acquainted  with  Professor  Aii^ey,  but  knew  Faraday,  who  was  a 
finend  of  the  professor's.  A  few  hurried  words  written  on  a  leaf  of  his 
note-book  procured  the  German  a  meeting  with  Faraday,  and  through 
him,  admittance  to  the  Observatory.  We  widi,  for  our  own.sakes,  such 
anecdotes  were  more  common,  but  are  afraid  the  rule  lies  in  the  excep- 
tion. 

Let  us  now  see  the  opinion  Dr.  Gambihler  entertains  of  that  splendid 
jargon,  as  some  one  termed  it,  the  English  languag^ : 

''Many  learn  English  only  through  the  desire  of  once  visiting  England. 
These  must  be  instructed  in  a  very  different  method  from  that  usually 
practised  ;  they  cannot  succeed  in  the  customary  philological  schoolmaster 
fashion,  or  at  least  will  not  gain  the  end  they  assigned  themselves.  It  is 
very  easy  to  form  a  perfect  philological  acquaintance  with  v^  language; 
many  may  be  able  to  understand  the  Engli^  classics,  read  Shakspeare 
and  Byron,  Scott  and  Bulwer,  readily,  and  in  consequence  of  the  studies 
they  have  made,  speak  English  fluently;  but  the  greatest  mistake  lies 
in  this  very  fact  They  speak  in  a  way  they  should  not  do :  in  common 
conversation  they  are  irresistibly  repugnant  to  a  native  ear  through  their 
Byronising.  They  can  scarce  address  the  Boots  at  an  inn  in  anything 
but  high-flown  language.  The  conversational  language  is  a  very  pecu- 
liar one ;  it  is  marked  and  stereotyped ;  the  Englishman  expects  in  the 
course  of  conversation  this  or  that,  but  no  other  form  of  expression  :  he 
is  more  ready  to  pardon  vulgarity  than  classicality.  (?)  A  man  taught  phi- 
lologically,  out  of  twenty  phrases  or  words  will  apply  all,  or  the  gpreater 
part  of  them,  falsely  or  ridiculously.  The  most  perfect  acquaintance 
with  English  is  displayed  in  the  proper  selection  of  words :  without 
this  all  grammar  and  all  fluency  is  half  lost.  The  English  language,  in 
consequence  of  its  historical  origin  and  formation,  for  it  contains  all 
the  elements  of  German  and  French,  is  very  copious — I  may  say,  in  com- 
parison with  monetary  wealth,  rich  as  an  Englishman.  It  possesses  a 
whole  g^up  of  synonymes,  the  application  of  which  is  the  result  of  great 
practice ;  tney  are  usually,  not  as  in  other  languages,  sentences  approxi- 
matively  contained  in  themselves :  no,  they  absolutely  bear  the  same 
significance  through  their  historical  descent.  Let  us  take  any  word :  it 
is  originally  found  among  the  Britons:  then  the  same  word  was  intro- 
duced from  Germany  by  the  Apglo- Saxons :  afterwards  by  the  Normans 
under  William  the  Conqueror:  at  another  time  the  same  word  was 
brought  in  by  the  Danes  :  last  of  all  it  springs  from  good  Latin  soil,  for 
instance,  through  the  theologians,  jurists,  or  physicians :  in  no  case  is 
the  word  dead ;  it  lives  everywhere,  but  cannot  be  applied  arbitrarily. 
One  style  demands  the  word  m  the  early  English  shape;  another  in  the 
German ;  a  third  in  the  French,  and  so  on.  Any  one,  therefore,  who 
does  not  attend  to  these  variations,  speaks  incorrectly.  .  Under  such 
<nrcumstances,  what  an  amount  of  accuracy  is  required  in  speaking,  and 
how  few  have  been  taught  under  the  supposition  of  this  necessity. .        V 

'*  A  great  portion  o£  our  philologians  have  to  do  penance  for  a  great 

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A  GermafiS  Impresmns  of  England.  9# 

rill -in  regard  of  the  above  circumstance.  They  foniish  a  very  improper 
example  in  their  method  of  teaching  languages.  Did  Cicero,  who  spoke 
Greek  so  gk>riously  in  Athens  that  the  most  distinguished  Athenians,  it 
is  said,  almost  wept  because  a  stranger  excelled  them  in  eloquence,  learn 
the  language  in  the  same  manner  as  our  philologians  wish  to  teach  it  ? 
He  must  have  acquired  it  practically.  This  practical  method  does  not, 
however,  exclude  grammar ;  merely  the  manner  and  circumstances  differ. 
In  modem  languages  a  certain  copia  verbarum  must  be  acquired  before 
grammatical  elegances  need  be  thought  of.  These  are  not  wanting  in  the 
English  language.  However  simple  grammatical  etymology  may  be,  just  so 
difficult  is  me  syntactical  portion,  when  a  person  wishes  to  speak  or  write 
like  an  educated  Englishman,  especially  as  the  English  language  contains 
80  many  classical  elements,  and  in  later  years  has  brought  them  so  pro- 
minently forward.  I  may  mention  the  difficult  and  artistical  construction 
of  the  accusative  and  infinitive,  verbs  governing  a  double  accusative,  the 
absolute  case  resembling  the  Latin  ablative  absolute,  and  finally  the  ele- 
gant elision  of  sentences  through  the  use  of  the  participle.  The  greatest 
and  last  difficulty  in  the  English  language  is  the  variety  of  absolutely 
logical  thinking,  in  which  the  English  excel  every  nation  in  the  world. 
To  this  I  may  add  the  most  severe  demand  of  clearness  in  ideas.  In  Eng- 
lish it  would  be  considered  a  great  fault  if  it  were  necessary  to  ask  oneseUP, 
in  prose  or  verse,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  The  word  furnishes  the 
meaning,  and  reasoning  consequence  has  g^ven  the  word  this  and  no  other 
meaning.  These  are  certainly  honourable  distinctions  for  the  English 
language,  which  give  grammar  and  logic  full  employment.  How  many 
Germans  could  employ  such  a  style  of  language  who  have  formed  them- 
selves on  the  model  of  certain  native  writers,  who  to  be  understood  must 
be  translated  into  conventional  German  ?" 

Gur  author,  as  is  natural  for  a  German,  speaks  in  high  terms  of  our 
liberty  of  the  press,  and  even  finds  praise  for  our  law  of  libel,  evidencing 
the  case  of  the  Times  when  prosecuted  by  a  gang  of  sharpers,  whom  it 
had  exposed  when  trying  to  pass  forged  letters  of  credit  on  the  Continent. 
We,  however,  cannot  quite  agree  with  him  in  finding  our  English  law  of 
libel  faultless  ;  it  affords  too  many  facilities  for  a  scamp  to  display  his  liti- 
giousness ;  and  even  if  unsuccessful,  he  puts  his  victim  to  great  and  un- 
necessary expense. 

One  of  the  occupations  a  German  in  London  may  usefully  indulge 
himself  in,  is  to  try  and  find  the  end  of  London :  this  is  to  be  accom- 
plished by  taking  an  omnibus  to  Shoreditch  Church,  and  thence  walking 
on  through  Hackney.  We  fancy  this  would  be  no  bad  amusement  for 
Englishmen  as  well ;  for  our  own  part,  we  cannot  tell  where  London 
begins  or  where  it  ends,  and  did  not  even  know  it  was  thirty-two  miles 
in  circumference,  or  six  more  than  the  city  of  Pekin. 

Dr.  Gambihler  speaks  also  in  very  high  terms  of  Murray's  "  Handbook 
for  Travellers."     He  says  : 

"  What  accuracy,  what  fidelity,  and  what  historical  treasures !  Through 
this  travelling  literature  our  way  of  living  has  been  revealed  to  the  Eng- 
lish in  the  most  minute  details  ;  and  we  must  not  be  angry  if  they  tell  us 
the  truth  a  little,  do  not  take  everything  for  gold  that  glitters,  point  out 
our  want  of  comfort,  our  uncleanliness,  our  disgusting  use  of  tobacco,  our 
literary  phantasms,  want  of  union,  and  other  unamiable  weaknesses.     If 


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m%r 


100  A  Gtmhuvkt  Impressiofis  (^  England. 

they  are  now  and  then  nnjust)  have  we  not  hea»  so  to  them  ?  We  will  noi 
beheve  that  the  injustice  is  intentionid  and  'errare  est  humamim.'  ^ 

He  speaks,  too,  with  all  becoming  admiration  of  our  domestic  arrange- 
ments  ;  and  among  them  none  seem  to  please  him  more  than  the  portioa 
concealed  beneath  the  pavement,  namely,  the  water,  gas,  and  sewer  japes. 
He  recommends  no  traveller  to  leave  unnoticed  any  repairs  that  are  g^ng* 
on  in  the  streets,  which  shows  our  customary  abuse  of  them  is  somewhat 
too  widely  extended.  We  knew  there  were  sermons  in  stones,  but  must 
confess  we  never  thought  of  this  i^lication  of  the  apothegm.  The -doctor 
calls  it  anatomising,  for  veins  and  arteries  are  laid  We  during  the  work. 
We  have  known  many  Germans  in  London,  and  our  great  delight  has 
been  to  ask  them  what  caused  the  most  vivid  impressi(Hi  upon  them 
among  the  countless  objects  of  interest  they  witnessed  for  the  mst  time  ? 
With  Mie,  it  was  the  bridges ;  with  another,  the  splendid  horses  and  ear- 
TiAges  ;  with  a  third — gently  be  it  spoken — the  extracMrdinary  number  of 
beggars ;  in  short,  we  seldom  found  two  struck  by  the  same  thing,  except 
in  the  matter  of  comfort  This  we  bdieve  is  conceded  to  us  by  every 
nation  in  the  world.  So  much  is  this  the  case,  that  the  Frendi,  to  express 
a  feeling  they  could  not  by  any  possibility  understand,  were  obliged  to 
coin  the  word  con/or  tabic  But  in  what  does  the  secret  consist?  We 
agree  with  our  author  in  allowing  it  to  arise  from  our  extraordinary 
domesticity,  and  that  inherent  feeling  of  religious  respect  l^t  fortunately 
distinguishes  us.  A  French  or  German  is  never  hs^py  t^ez  lui;  his  first 
wish  is  to  rush  off  to  the  eMtaminet  as  soon  as  he  has  swallowed  a  hmr- 
ried  meaL  He  does  not  understand  the  feeling  that  animates  an  English- 
mim  when  he  sees  his  dive -branches  round  about  his  table.  This  it  is 
that  makes  Dr.  Gambihler  write  as  follows,  when  alluding  to  the  diver- 
sions to  be  found  in  London  : 

**'  In  St.  James's  Park,  in  the  centre  of  a  pleasant  landscs^,  nature  is 
more  fully  revealed,  especially  on  Sunday  afternoons.  The  healthy  chil- 
dren roll  about  on  the  velvety  grass,  under  the  eye  of  their  affectionate 
parents  and  Mends.  The  imagination  cannot  form  a  more  pleasing 
jncture.  The  £nglidiman,  surrounded  by  his  children,  represents 
domestic  virtue  and  unspeakable  happiness — it  is  a  sight  that  fills 
the  heart  with  joy.  A  stroll  through  such  groups  is  surely  balsam 
to  a  mentally  suffering  stranger ;  for  the  sound-minded,  perfect  delight. 
Let  no  stranger,  then,  neglect  visiting  this  park,  if  he  wish  to  form  the 
acquaintance  of  the  English.  Here  too  it  is  easy  for  him  to  induce  the 
usually  roost  unbending  E^lbhman  to  commence  a  friendly  amd  vcduntary 
conversation.  Nature  and  feelings  expand  the  heart  and  loosen  tli^ 
tongue." 

The  author  strongly  advises  his  compatriots  to  be  diligent  in  their 
visits  to  our  theatres  for  the  sake  of  learning  the  language.  This  we 
consider  sage  counsel,  and  have  ourselves  found  the  benefit  ci  it  in  learn- 
ing foreign  tongues.     His  remarks  about  our  stage  are  worth  quoting  : 

'^  It  seems  that  generally  the  French  are  greater  friends  to  theatres 
than  the  English.  A  visit  to  the  seven  playhouses  in  Paris  is  more  fre- 
quently made  than  in  London.  The  Sunday  holiday  furnishes  an  occa- 
sion in  the  former  city  for  visiting  a  theatre.  Many  thousands  during 
the  week  have  no  time  in  England  for  theatres,  and  on  Sunday  they  are 
dosed.     It  is  true,  half-price  furnishes  some  help,  for  plenty  may  be  seen 

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Machba.  101 

£rom'  nine  to  twelve ;  but  that  is  not  all,  labour  in  Paiis  is  not  so  widely 
extended.  Besides,  in  the  latter  town,  there  is  a  great  population  of  do* 
noughts,  whose  eveoing  occupation  is  the  theatre.  The  London  idlers  are 
usually  too  high  to  enter  a  theatre  when  at  certain  seasons  unvi^ted  by 
the  nobility.  Only  the  extraordinary  population  of  London  fills  the 
^eatres ;  more  than  we  might  imagine  under  the  circumstances  we  have 
mentioned.  The  managers  must  frequently  have  recourse  to  extraordi- 
naiy  measures  to  get  full  houses.  Something  especially  good  must  be 
presented,  either  pleadng  the  eye  or  ear,  or  eke  fuU  of  spectacle.  In 
this  ladt  the  £Inglish  are  inexhaustible  ;  everything  is  there  exagg^erated, 
and  even  caricature  is  cancatured.  All  the  elements  and  tl^  animal 
kingdom  must  come  to  the  aid  of  the  spectacle.  Menagerie  heroes  display 
themselves  in  some  grandly* terrible  fashi<m ;  the  police  do  not  interfere  witk 
such  things ;  their  task  is  to  prevent  public  immorality.  It  would  be^ridicu- 
kms  to  lay  .dovm  an  aesthetic  standard ;  if  you  do  not  like  it  you  can  stay 
away,  is  the  word  here.  It  would  be  pure  sentimentidity  to  speak  of  degrad- 
ing the  stage  by  allowing  animals  to  appear  upon  it.  The  expression  that  a 
theatre  is  a  temple  that  should  not  be  desecrated,  is  ignored.  The  Eng- 
lishman only  sees  a  temple  in  his  church,  and  in  the  playhouse  what  it 
really  is — a  place  where  life  should  be  represented  as  closely  as  possible ; 
to-day  Carter  and  his  animals  quit  the  theatre — ^to-morrow  other  artistes 
make  their  appearance.  This  is  Ekiglish.  Who  would  wish  to  quarrel 
with  the  £Eishion  of  the  country  ?" 

We  must  really  cbse  the  book,  or  our  extracts  from  it  wiU  go  on  adin» 
finitum.  There  is  something  immeasurably  refreshing  in  reading  a 
stranger  s  impressions  of  our  glorious  country,  for  glorious  it  is,  spite  of 
all  the  snarling  attacks  of  would-be  liberals.  Let  them  talk  as  they  please 
about  our  foreign  policy  degrading  us  in  the  eyes  of  strangers,  or  swear 
that  unless  the  five  points  are  conceded  a  terrible  revolution  is  impending. 
A  £co  for  such  trash !  It  is  the  greatest  nation  in  the  world,  and  th& 
more  it  is  abused,  the  more  we  love  it.     Hurrah  for  Old  England ! 


MACLUBA. 

A   liEQENDART   TALE   Ol"   MALTA. 

By  a  Winter  Resident. 


It  was  very  early  in  the  year  1852  that  the  hope  of  finding  in 
Malta  a  friend  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  years,  together  with  a  kind  of 
"  cacoethes"  for  travelling,  and  the  non-existence  of  any  positive  obstacle 
to  its  indulgence,  incited  me  to  leave  England,  traverse  France,  following 
the  most  ordinary  route  to  Marseilles,  and  thence  to  Malta,  where  I 
arrived  on  the  25th  of  January.  The  climate  there  was  very  enjoyable 
to  one  who  came  from  northern  latitudes,  even  though  the  season  had 
been  mild  in  England,  and  was  considered  a  somewhat  stormy  and  windy 
one  in  Malta.  Tlie  peculiarities  of  the  island — its  beauties  and  defects — 
its  histoiy  and  inhabitants — its  curiosities  and  productions — have  been  so 
often  and  so  w«ll  described  and  painted  both  by  pen  and  by  pencil,  that  I 
win  not  here  enlarge  upon  them,  but  proceed  to  give  an  account  of  some 
events  that  occurred  to  me  there. 

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IQ2  Maeluba. 

On  the  25th  of  January  ve  anchored  in  the  Great  Harhour,  and  gladly 
did  we  quit  our  vessel  for  the  stone-land.  We  soon  found  lodgings  (mine 
were  in  the  Strada  Vescovo),  and  I  proceeded  to  seek  my  friend. 
■  He  hadj  I  was  informed,  passed  on  to  Greece  a  fortnight  hefore,  and 
would  return  in  March  or  April.  Uncertain  what  might  be  his  future 
career,  I  resolved  to  wait  for  him,  and  to  occupy  and  amuse  myself  as  I 
best  might  during  his  absence. 

There  was  no  great  difficulty  in  doing  this  in  Malta,  where  everything 
supplies  pictures  of  Eastern  life,  even  to  the  bright  eyes  that  peep  out 
from  the  faldetta,  reminding  one  of  the  glances  that  form  the  mtchery 
of  the  Mahometan  Yashmak j  more  than  of  those  that  laugh  brightly 
and  fearlessly  under  an  European  bonnet,  hat,  or  wide-awake.  The  lan- 
guage, too — last  link  in  the  chain  of  Arabic  dialects,  though  harsh  and 
exclamatory,  and  wanting  the  soft  cadences  of  the  Persian,  or  the  spark- 
ling fluency  of  the  Frank  languages— would  awaken  many*  a  train  of 
thought,  and  give  birth  to  many  a  fancy  sketch,  as,  lying  back  in  a 
boat,  and  crossing  to  Piet^  or  Sliema  from  Sa  Maison,  or  from  the 
Marsa  Muscetta  stairs  across  the  still  bosom  of  the  Quarantine  Harbour^ 
we  shot  past  a  native  boat,  or  one  laden  with  the  produce  of  Gozo,  and 
heard  the  busy  tongues  of  its  crowded  occupants  ;  or,  when  riding  list- 
lessly through  the  streets  of  Valetta,  I  watched  an  eager  colloquy  be- 
tween two  or  more  Maltese,  each  appearing  in  a  state  of  extreme  sur- 
prise, expressed  in  unconnected  sounds,  aided  by  livfely  gesticulations.  But 
to  him  who  loves  the  Arabic  unmixed  with  European  words,  the  villages 
offer  more  attractions  than  the  town. 

In  one  of  these  villages,  not  very  far  from  Valetta,  there  exists  a 
population  so  very  remarkable  in  appearance  that  they  could  not  be  un- 
noticed. The  peculiar  blue  of  their  eyes,  and  pleasant  expression  of  their 
countenances,  particularly  excited  my  observation;  the  more  so,  that 
the  whole  village  appeared  infected  with  a  most  violent  desire  to  laugh 
as  soon  as  an  Englishman  looked  at  them.  The  children  playing  ^vith 
melon-rinds  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  a  hoof-tread,  and  ran  away  laugh- 
ing. The  old  crone  at  the  fountain  watering  her  mule,  and  the  man 
washing  his  feet  there,  gave  the  same  inquisitive  look,  and  burst  into  fits 
of  laughter.  The  pretty  girls  (for  a  Maltese  girl  is  pretty,  and  a  coquette 
also),  picking  garlic  and  opening  pomegranates,  glanced  up,  and  hiding 
their  faces  all  but  the  roguish  eyes,  started  away,  making  the  air  ring 
with  their  merriment ;  and  this  not  on  my  account  only,  but  on  that  of 
every  Englishman— every  Frank  I  believe — ^passing  through  Crendi.  And 
every  one  does  pass  through  Crendi.  After  seeing  Citta  Vecchia,  the 
ancient  capital  sitting  so  proudly  on  the  heights  in  the  centre  of  the  island, 
and  one  or  two  other  great  sights,  they  pass  through  Crendi,  for  it  is  on 
the  road  to  a  very  curious  scene.  Every  one  visits  Hagiar  Chem  and  its 
remarkable  ruins,  and  every  one  visits  also  that  very  extraordinary  place, 
"  Macluba:"  an  almost  circular  area,  supporting  ruins  of  which  tradition 
relates  that  they  were  once  part  of  a  stately  palace,  wherein  dark  deeds 
wiere  committed — deeds  of  so  deep  a  dye  that  the  palace  was  cursed,  and 
suddenly  sunk  fifty  feet  lower  than  the  level  of  the  surrounding  surface, 
leaving  its  former  site  like  the  crater  of  a  volcano  yawning  over  it. 

Certain  it  is  diat  you  descend  by  many  steps  to  visit  ruins,  among 
which  trees  have  grown  up,  whose  heads  are  lower  than  the  rent  banks 
standing  around  this  fallen  tract,  presenting  a  very  striking  scene,  and 

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MaclvAa.  103 

redly  looking  like  a  spot  Yisited  by  some  sore  jadgment.  I  came  often  to 
see  it,  aod  was  always  greeted  by  women  and  ebildren  witb  handftils 
of  the  perfumed  narcissus  that  gprows  wild  there,  and  which  carried  bade 
my  thoughts,  by  one  breath  of  its  sweetness,  to  the  April-face  of  England 
in  spring-time.  To  the  credit  of  these  guides  be  it  said,  that  whether 
I  gave  them  reward  or  not,  they  w^*e  idways  courteous,  and  ready  to 
welcome  me  the  next  time ;  never  making  any  demand,  but  appearing 
quite  pleased  with  a  ^'grazie,  tajjeb,  tajjeb"  (thank  you,  yery  much, 
very  much),  in  my  Anglo-Maltese. 

Having  visited  this  curious  place  often  on  one  side,  I  began  to  be 
a  little  curious  to  approach  it  on  the  other,  and  to  examine  it  more 
closely.  Accordingly,  one  day  I  made  a  circuit,  so  as  to  approach  it 
unobserved  by  my  usual  entertainers,  who  all  lived  in  wretched  huts  on 
the  entrance-side  of  Macluba.  Dismounting  from  my  little  Arab  horse, 
and  tying  him  to  a  carob  (or  locust-tree),  I  sat  down  upon  a  loose  Augment 
of  stone,  and  pondered  awhile  upon  the  scene  before  me.  I  had  cUmbed 
up  the  rugged  and  stony  bank,  and  now  looked  down  into  the  abyss— 
the  island  of  ruin  that  had  sunk  so  singularly.  It  was  in  vain  to  attempt 
descending  on  this  side,  and  I  had  therefore  nought  to  do  but  to  give  my 
thoughts  way,  and  yielding  myself  to  the  bent  of  my  nature — ever  prone 
to  seek  or  to  seize  upon  an  opportunity  for  a  quiet  reverie — ^let  it  lead 
me  into  some  fanciful  speculations  as  to  the  history  of  the  place.  I  had 
a  volume  of  Goethe  with  me,  and  on  sitting  down  had  taken  it  out  to  read. 
But  I  found  myself  wandering  even  from  "  Faust"  among  speculations 
more  wild,  and  far  less  concentric  than  the  mystic  gambols  of  the  fearful 
black  dog. 

How  had  that  house  been  peopled  ?  How  decorated  ?  How,  oh  how 
destroyed  ?  By  what  fearful  crimes  had  its  white  stone  floors  been  pol- 
luted ?  Horrors  greater  than  those  of  which  the  Capella,  the  Medici,  the 
Borgia  palaces  might  tell,  rose  before  my  imagination  ;  and  die  voices, 
the  footsteps,  and  the  cries  of  other  days,  were  sounding  in  mine  eara, 
when  I  suddenly  perceived  a  small  crevice  in  the  rock,  a  little  way  below 
where  I  sat,  and  by  a  kind  of  fascination  was  compelled  to  look  at  it. 

I  tried  to  look  elsewhere,  to  think  of  returning  home,  to  occupy  myself 
with  the  tangible,  but  neither  would  my  eyes  rest  upon  any  other  object, 
nor  my  mind  suggest  anything  but  my  own  visions  of  the  past,  strangely 
combined  with  a  shuddering  idea  of  the  Spirit  of  Evil  and  hb  spells. 
In  vain  did  I  endeavour  to  look  at  the  brilliant  sky,  or  the  sea ;  my 
eyes  still  turned  towards  this  crevice,  and  to  my  horror  I  saw  it  open — 
gradually — -very  gradually  ;  and  out  of  its  first  faint  outline  was  shaped 
a  door — a  low  door.  I  felt  it  was  no  marvel  that  this  side  should  be 
inhabited  as  well  as  the  other.  But  I  own  my  heart  did  bound  with  a 
wild  throb  when  I  saw  the  little  door  open,  and  a  black  dog  escape 
firom:  it ! 

•  Folly ! — and  yet  it  was  one  of  those  follies  which  sprin.g  from  the 
deep  source  of  imagination,  and  therefore  of  superstition,  in  almost  every 
human  heart ;  and  perhaps  a  general  who  has  faced  Aflghan  or  Caffre 
warfare  unalarmed,  might  yet  feel  as  I  did  under  precisely  similar  cir- 
cumstances. But  to  proceed  :  I  was  firmly  convinced  that  this  was  all 
mere  fancy,  heated  by  the  vivid  imagery  of  Goethe.  I  still  gazed  like 
one  possessed,  and  saw  that  the  door  was  truly  a  door,  and  that  a  hand, 
a  head,  a  figure,  were  protruding  firom  it!   And  I  heard  a  long,  low  wail. 

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104  Maduia. 

endiDg  in  a  shriek.  Fascinated,  I  stiH  gazed  on,  wkila  horn  the  openii^ 
door  Siere  emerged  a  wild-looking,  aged  being,  clad  in  wondrous  robes  of 
every  imaginable  hue^  yet  han^g  somewhat  picturesquely  around  ita 
MmM.  It  stared  at  me,  uttered  a  sarage  growl,  followed  by  many  heart- 
rending shrieks,  and  tossed  wi^  ^ntic  arms  ike  covering  that  concealed 
its  head  horn  side  to  side,  but  without  getting  rid  of  it.  Utter  nlence 
i^ned  around,  until  a  scream  firom  my  horse  suddenly  attracted  my 
attention.  Apparently,  he  had  been  bitten  by  the  black  dog,  for  h^ 
struggled  violently  until  his  bridle  hroke,  and  he  bounded  away.  Ify 
knees  trembled,  and  my  senses  seemed  to  leave  me.  I  snatdied  up  my 
stick  and  flung  it  down  (a  mad  thing  to  do,  for  I  had  no  other  means  of 
defence  if  attacked) ;  it  broke  with  the  fail  a  few  paces  short  of  the 
malevolent  being,  who,  however,  took  no  notice  of  it.  Still  fur^er  dis- 
mayed, I  now  saw  the  black  dog  ready  to  attack  me,  and  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish between  the  real  and  the  unreal — unable,  too,  to  keep  my  foot- 
ing on  the  slippery  ground  without  more  attention  than  I  could  now  pay 
to  it — I  fell  down  the  precipice. 

When  I  recovered  my  senses,  I  found  myself  lying  in  a  thicket  of 
prickly  pear-trees,  supported  by  the  thick  and  fleshy  leaves  that  con- 
stitute i^e  stem,  branch,  and  foliage  of  this  great  cactus.  And  I  was 
calm  enough  to  observe  this  long  before  I  recollected  how  I  came  there, 
and  before  any  sound,  except  the  sweeping  of  the  wind  down  the  hollow, 
had  fallen  upon  my  ear. 

Presently,  however,  I  heard  a  voice  near  me.  I  could  not  recognise 
the  tongue  in  which  the  words  were  spoken,  but  they  carried  my  thoughts 
to  the  events  preceding  my  fall. 

Methoi:^t  I  heard  a  gentle  voice  say,  somewhat  in  a  low  mysterious 
tone,  words  that  sounded  like — '*  X'handek,  xliandek"  (in  English — 
"  Shandeck,  shandeck"),  as  if  in  reply  to  the  former  harsh  accents  of  one 
who  had  spoken  faster  in  an  unintelhgible  dialect.  To  my  horror  I  now 
heard  something  move  as  if  approaching  me,  and  rustle  among  bushes ; 
but  I  was  f»r  ^m  having  a  clear  idea  of  anything  being  real  or  actual, 
except  my  being  in  the  dominion  of  some  power  of  evil.  I  cast  my 
eyes  helplessly  upwards  as  I  lay,  and  beheld  a  dog — the  dog — blade  as 
Erebus,  and  with  piercing  eyes,  moving  nimbly,  and  with  strong,  elastac, 
rapid  step,  along  the  high  ridge  of  ground  above  me.  I  now  saw  that  I 
had  fsdleii  many  feet  on  the  inside  of  the  hig^  bank  whereon  I  had  been 
standing,  and,  consequently,  I  must  be  lying  among  the  ruins,  though  my 
position  prevented  me  from  looking  around  beyond  the  «actus  leaves. 

The  dog  at  length  perceived  me,  and  uttered  a  howl  of  rage.  This 
was  answered  by  a  long,  peculiar,  shrieking  whistle,  which  chilkd  me  to 
the  very  souL  The  animal  bounded  forwards;  I  made  a  spasmodic 
spring,  and  lost  at  once  my  balance  and  my  consciousness.  The  last 
sounds  I  heard  were  those  of  the  dog's  howl  and  the  wild  shriek ;  the 
last  sensation  I  recollected  was  that  of  falling;  my  next  was  one  of 
alarm,  as  I  opened  my  eyes  and  found  myself  in  almost  total  daiAniiess. 
A  huge  outline,  dimly  distinguished  at  a  short  distance,  moved,|  and  I 

nned  as  I  recognised  the  shape  of  the  aged  being  I  had  seen  Jbefore. 
^yproached  me— I  tried  to  start  up ;  the  agony  of  the  attemA  made 
me  groan  again,  and  I  felt  a  hand  upon  my  arm,  small  and  ligbft,  and  a 
ray  of  light  beamed  in  from  some  opening  behind  me,  so  wkik  when  I 
looked  towards  it,  it  Ughted  up  a  lovely  apparition  by  my  side,    f 

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Maclubcu  105. 

Jair  and  yavthfiil,  in  a  Hadji  dress  of  white,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
mj  good  genius  had  suddenly  come  to  defend  me.  An  ine£Eable  calm 
stole  oyer  me  as  I  looked  upon  those  wondrously  beautiful  features  and 
ethereal  mien. 

I  dared  to  ask  no  questions.  The  Hadji  lighted  a  lamp,  and  I  saw 
that  I  was  in  a  cave.  I  knew  that  in  the  centre  of  the  island,  at 
Citta  Vecehia,  there  were  catacombs,  said  to  ext^ad  fifteen  miles,  bat  I 
knew  of  no  other  caveSi  except  upon  the  coast,  not  even  in  the  unequal. 
stEata  of  the  rodcy  ralley  which  transects  the  island  from  north-west  to 
south-east  (and  which  is  called  by  geologists  sl  faulty  and  Macluba  was 
not  in  the  Hoe  of  this  valley,  but  to  the  west  of  it.  I  eould  pursue  this 
train  of  thought  with  some  calmness  since  the  arrival  of  my  good  genius 
the  Hadji,  so  that  even  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  movements  of  the 
aged  shape,  I  could  also  notice  those  oi  the  pilgrim ;  and  could  perceive 
that  I  was  incessantly  watched  by  both. 

The  younger  eyes  expressed  kindly  protection,  and  though  I  knew  such 
appearances  might  be  deceitful,  I  could  not  fail  to  iind  their  glances  a 
relief  from  the  gleaming  fire  of  the  mysterious  being's  eyes.  And  this 
inexplicable  figure  which  had  been  so  quiet  in  one  comer,  now  began  to 
move.  A  sort  of  agitation  seemed  to  pervade  its  whcde  frame ;  it  uttered 
a  Icmg,  low  shriek,  and  the  dog  came  bounding  in.  Both  rushed  upon 
me,  but  the  Hadji  interposed,  waved  a  wand  in  front  of  me  several  times, 
making  a  mesmeric  circle,  which  seemed  to  overpower  the  fiendlike  dog : 
be  slunk  aside,  and  after  a  few  low  growls  dropped  down,  while  the 
aged  shape,  as  if  baffled,  mingled  extraordinary  evolutions  with  horrid 
shrieks,  and  at  length  crouched  near  us,  and  sunk  into  a  kind  of  stupor. 
This,  lK>wever,  did  not  last  long,  and  it  now  began  to  speak  in  broken 
l^ianish,  with  some  Maltese  woids.  My  earliest  days  having  been  spent 
among  the  peasants  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and  my  youth  in  travel  in 
the  East,  I  did  not  find  the  language  an  obstacle  to  the  comprehension 
oi  the  words,  but  listened  to  the  following  narrative. 


THE  •  liEGEND. 

"Ah  !  it  was  splendid  once  I  The  beautiful  flowers  grew  fairiy,  the 
trees  waved  majestically,  the  locust  and  the  palm,  the  pepper  and  the 
Koman  pine,  the  orange  and  the  medlar,  waved  their  perfumed  tresses  like 
the  lovely  young  girls  glancing  among  the  proud  and  glorious  galleries, 
or  like  sunbirds  in  a  bower. 

**  Generation  after  generation  passed  away.  In  every  one  were  many 
sons  amd  daughters,  with  treasures  of  gold,  and  gems,  friends  and  followers, 
and  lo<^s  of  gladness. 

*^  Generation  after  generation.  In  eaoh,  prosperous  births,  marriage 
feasts,  all  joyous — but  sad  and  sudden  deaths. 

"  Frequently,  the  hurried  burial  by  the  clear  moonlight.  No  mourn- 
ing, no  sadness.  No  journeys  to  the  home  for  tlie  dead.  No  gifb 
to  the  brotherhood  oi  death. 

^^  Greneration  after  generation.  At  last  Ix'hulje*  came.  Fair  Ix'hulie, 
oh  why  did  thine  hour  come  so  soon  ?    Why  was  thy  bright  face  sent 

*  Pronounced  like  Isciulia  in  Italian. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


106  Macluba. 

here  ? — Here  to  a  household  steeped  in  crime  of  every  hue.  A  house 
where  shame  was  glory,  and  glory  shame.  Where  the  sudden  self-murder, 
or  the  knife  plunged  into  woman's  hreast,  or  infant's  heart,  wore  no 
startling  horrors.     A  house  where  there  were  no  grey  old  men ! 

"  Generation  after  generation,  until  fair  Ix'hulie  came. 

"  Ix'hulie  was  heautiful  as  the  day,  hright  as  the  sea  in  the  morning 
light,  soft  and  gentle  as  the  hreeze  at  noon.  Her  mother's  first-born, 
and  dearly  loved.  Little  children  clung  to  her  like  small  hananas  round  the 
riper  ones.  Her  love  encompassed  them  like  the  delicate  network  of 
the  Malta  berry.     She  was  a  very  pomegranate  blossom. 

"  At  fifteen  she  was  betrothed  to  a  gdlant  and  splendid  bridegroom — 
a  relation  of  her  house.  But  another  was  there,  the  daughter  of  a  different 
mother,  equally  young,  but  not  equally  innocent,  not  equally  beautifuL 
Jealous  of  the  towering  heights  of  Ix'huUe's  fortunes,  she  resolved  to 
blight  the  light  and  graceful  bamboo  in  its  springing  growth. 

"  Ix'hulie  was  gone  with  her  mother  into  the  town  to  choose  the  bridal 
dress,  the  silks  for  her  faldettas,  and  the  whole  of  her  new  lace  wardrobe. 
Meantime,  a  knight  of  the  Spanish  house,  who  had  desperately  loved 
her,  but  in  vain,  came  to  Macluba,  met  Zoraiba,  and  made  her  swear  to 
help  him  to  seize  Ix'hulie,  by  persuading  her  to  go  to  Valetta  the  next 
day.  Zoraiba  swore  the  more  willingly  that  it  suited  her  to  get  Ix'hulie 
far  from  her  splendid  and  gift-giving  bridegroom,  though  ner  jealous 
heart  yet  kindled  anew  to  see  how  Ix'hulie  was  on  all  sides  beloved. 

"Ix'hulie  returned  from  Citta  Vecchia  weary  and  dispirited.     The 

le  gold  and  crimson  fillets  for  her  hair  could  not  be  found.     And  her 

ir,  of  the  hue  of  the  pisatelli  g^pe,  would  be  so  beautiful  in  pale  gold ! 

"  Zoraiba  consoled  her.  *  Go  then  to  Valetta,  where  the  Turkey  mer- 
chant's hidden  stores  are  held.  He  will  have  the  true  pale  gold — pale  as 
thy  cheek,  sister !' 

"  On  the  morrow,  forth  they  went,  Ix'hulie  and  her  mother,  but  the 
bridegroom  would  not  go ;  and  Zoraiba  rejoiced  that  there  would  be  fewer 
to  protect  Ix'hulie. 

"  She  sat  long  in  anxious  thought.  At  last  the  mother  and  her  maidens 
alone  returned,  and  said,  '  They  have  stolen  away  my  child.' 

"  Great  was  the  anger  of  Zoraiba  and  her  mother.  The  mother  of 
Ix'hulie  could  only  speak  the  before-mentioned  words.  The  maidens, 
however,  said  that  a  monk  had  come  near  and  begged  of  Ix'hulie,  but 
they  being  of  no  church,  gave,  as  usual,  nought;  whereupon  the  monk 
did  seem  to  plead,  and  Ix'hulie  to  listen,  when,  in  a  moment,  at  the  eom^ 
of  a  street,  Santa  Ursola,  they  both  vanished,  and  were  seen  no  more ! 

"  The  mother  of  Ix'hulie  was  frantic,  her  father  desperate.  In  vain 
did  he  daily  ride  forth  around  to  seek  her — ^he  found  her  not.  In  vain 
did  be  seek  the,  by  his  house,  oft-contemned  rule  of  the  knights,  and 
obtain  orders  to  have  the  port  watched — he  found  her  not. 

"  At  last  one  told  him  that  his  child  was  in  the  depths  of  the  earth, 
and  that  if  he  would  swear  her  conqueror  should  possess  her  and  her 
dowry,  he  should  embrace  her  again.  He  spoke  to  the  bridegroom,  and 
by  his  counsel  they  besieged  the  entrance  to  the  subterranean  way  in 
Citt^  Veqchia ;  but  the  defences  were  strong,  and  they,  fearful  of  injuring 
her,  gave  way.  Then  their  hearts  throbbed,  for  they  saw  that  she  must 
be  for  ever  lost  to  them,  and  they  mourned  over  her  as  one  doomed ;  for 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Macluba.  107 

the  knight's  vow  against  marriage  would  not  let  her  live  in  sight.  So 
they  mourned  over  her  hitterly. 

^<  But  whilst  they  mourned,  a  messenger  came  to  demand  her  dowry^ 
or,  said  he,  *  Your  house  shall  bum !  To-morrow  night  give  me  tpe 
money,  or  your  house  shall  perish.     I  leave  you  this  time  to  decide.' 

"  Full  well  knowing  his  power,  for  he  was  high  in  favour  with  the  grand 
master,  the  father  of  Ix'hulie  was  overwhelmed  with  dismay.  The  chiefs 
of  his  family,  except  the  bridegroom,  would  not  aid  him  in  any  wild 
attempt  at  resistance.  While  they  sat  in  council,  a  noise  was  heard  in 
the  subterranean  passages  of  the  house,  and  the  fair  Ix'hulie  stood  before 
them. 

"  *  Father,' cried  she,  'save  me  from  the  power  of  the  knight.  Oh! 
I  have  passed  through  fearful  caves  and  darkness.  I  knew  not  that  the 
passages  extended  thus  far,  but ^ 

**  *  Speak !'  said  her  father ;  *  who  revealed  it  unto  thee  ?' 

"  '  It  was  told  me,'  said  Ix'hulie ;  *  and  I  resolved  to  try  if  the  hidden 
passes  of  the  rock  were  indeed  open  to  the  foot  of  man.  The  way  was 
difficult,  but  I  am  here !  Oh,  my  father,  send  me  not  away — send  me 
not  back  again !' 

"  *  And  knowest  thou  at  what  price  we  shall  retain  thee  ?'  said  Zoraiba. 

"  *  She  is  worth  any  price,'  quoth  her  father,  and  the  rest  of  the  as- 
sembled. 

''  ^  She  is  worth  Paradise,'  said  her  betrothed,  springing  towards  her. 

'^  Zoraiba  saw  that  there  was  no  way  to  get  rid  of  her ;  but  she  knew  of 
a  maddening  poison,  and  she  presently  brought  Ix'hulie  coffee,  and  wine, 
and  fruit  to  refresh  her;  the  coffee  and  the  wine  were  not  poisoned,  but 
she  pressed  upon  her  sister  a  glorious,  bursting,  custard-apple,  and  in  its 
£Edr  semblance  was  death  concealed.  Ix'hulie,  heated  and  excited,  would 
^oon  feel  its  power,  and  this  her  wicked  sister  well  knew.  Her  purposes 
were  not  complete,  however.  When  her  father  was  reposing  sfter  the 
banquet,  she  worked  upon  his  drunken  senses,  and  revived  his  fears  of  an 
attack,  until  he  swore  Ix'hulie  should  not  linger  and  destroy  them  all. 
Then  she  passed  on  to  a  harder  task,  that  of  persuading  the  betrothed. 
By  cruel  art,  pretending  pity,  she  made  him  doubt  that  Ix'hulie  was  still 
his  own — she  hinted  that  she  had  not  resisted  the  captor.  In  vain  did  he 
strive  to  confute  her.  Skilled,  skilled  indeed,  taught  such  acts  long  be- 
fore by  her  mother,  did  she  loosen  his  belief  in  Ix'hulie,  and  lure  him  on 
to  adore  herself,  until  he  was  well  prepared  to  hear  and  enter  into  her 
father's  fears.  He  was  again  addressing  his  council,  when  Ix'hulie 
fell  into  convulsions,  and  in  her  delirium  called  upon  her  captor,  the 
knight,  to  *let  her  out.'  These  ravings  confirmed  the  evil  work  pf  Zo- 
raiba, and  the  wavering  of  her  bridegroom's  heart.  He  gave  his  vote 
against  her,  and  she  was  condeinned  by  all.  Forced  back  into  the  nar- 
row entrance,  in  spite  of  her  cries  and  struggles,  Zoraiba  standing  by, 
and  witnessing  her  agony  unmoved ;  i^e  was  firmly  fastened  in,  and  her 
faithless  sister  and  betrothed  sought  their  guilty  bower,  and  gave  them- 
selves joy  of  their  £Euicied  security. 

^'  But  not  for  long  this  wicked  joy.  A  long,  loud  shriek  rent  the  air, 
th^i  all  was  silent  as  the  grave. 

^^  li  was  Ix'hulie's  last  shriek,  and  at  the  sound  her  frantic  mother 
died,  and  Zoraiba's  mother  rushed  from  the  house. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


108  Machtba. 

"  There  came  a  roar  like  thunder,  afnd  the  mighty  house — mighly  and 
wretched — ^wentdown  into  the  earth  many,  many  feet,  with  a  shock  that 
crumbled  it  to  ruins,  burying  every  inhabitant,  and  blocking  up  the  en- 
trance to  the  subterranean  passages  for  a  mile. 

"  When  the  knight  came  to  seek  the  dowry,  he  found  ruins  in  a  deep 
pit  with  one  miserable  being  wandering  round  it,  instead  of  the  magni- 
ficent and  populous  house  he  had  sworn  to  bum  down.  The  miserable 
one  was  Zoraiba's  mother,  who  only  lived  to  tell  the  tale,  and  then  stricken 
with  intolerable  agony,  fell  convulsed  into  the  dread  chasm,  and  expired. . 

"O,  beautifdl  Ix'hulie,  snatched  by  death  from  living  sorrow!  O, 
fair  bride,  cruelly  torn  from  thy  bridegroom — ^yea,  condemned  even  by 
himself — guileless  and  beautiful  I^hulie  I  Star  of  thy  home,  moon  of  the 
stormy  night,  sunshine  of  the  morning,  all  lovely  things  in  one,  thou  art 
overwhelmed  with  the  blackness  of  night  for  ever ! 

"  And  ye  cruel  and  unnatural  parents !  Ye  that  delighted  in  blood 
and  murder !  Zoraiba,  steeped  to  the  lips  in  malice,  child  of  a  wretched 
mother,  thou,  too,  and  all,  are  included  in  the  miserable  overthrow  of  a 
guilty  household !  But  (fid  none  survive  ?  Did  none  escape  ?  Did  none 
transmit  to  futurity  the  evil  knowledge,  the  store  of  wicked  and  cunning 
arts,  the  transcendant  talents  for  crime  ? 

"Yea,  young  as  Zoraiba  was,  she  had  a  babe  in  Valetta, 

*'  This  babe  was  born  in  a  chapel  of  St  John's  Church.  Its  mother 
had  gone  thither  to  look  upon  one  of  the  priests,  who  was  the  father 
of  her  child.  Strange!  she  was  suddenly  taken  ill,  and  her  babe 
was  .  bom  there.  She  never  brought  it  to  be  baptised.  This  child, 
fated  inheritor  of  the  stain  of  her  race — this  wretched  offspring  of 
unseen  powers — ah,  woe  is  me!  ah,  woe  is  me!— why  was  she  not 
trampled  under  foot  by  the  worshippers  rather  than  carried  out  tenderly 
from  a  temple  she  was  never  more  to  enter  ?  Child  of  a  fated  line !  Who 
dares  to  enter  here  and  ask  her  history  ? — the  tale  of  her  horrible  end  ? 
Away !  away !  cursed  Christian  spy,  away  f* 

The  tone  of  the  aged  being  had  gradually  become  more  and  more 
excited.  She  reeled  and  tottered,  yet  rushed  angrily  towards  me,  and 
I  gave  myself  up  for  lost.  I  tried  to  move,  but  a  cry  of  agony  burst 
from  me  as  I  made  the  futile  attempt.  Suddenly  a  light  step  sounded,  a 
strong  and  aromatic  perfume  reached  even  my  oppressed  senses,  and  my 
fearful  foe  lay  unconscious  upon  the  ground,  while  my  good  genius  stood 
between  me  and  it,  waving  a  long  moist  plume  before  its  face.  The 
Hadji  mourned  the  consequences  of  a  moment's  absence,  inquired  ten- 
dcriy  of  my  wounds,  and  said  that  I  must  have  suffered  terribly  in  that 
last  encounter.  The  pilgrim  spoke  in  soft  and  varied  inflexions,  touched 
my  fluttering  pulse  with  a  light  finger,  and  placed  upon  my  Kps  a  rose- 
coloured  crystal  of  cordial  virtue  to  restore  me, 

"  Tell  me  where  I  am,"  I  exclaimed.  "  What  is  this  place  ?  And  who 
is  that  fearful  being?" 

"Ask  not,"  replied  my  Hadji,  "where  thou  art  j  the  tale  thou  hast 
heard  tells  thee  that  thou  art  upon  the  condemned  spot !" 

These  words  made  me  shudder.  "  And  what  then  was  the  Hadji  ?  The 
ipriest  of  an  avenging  spirit,"  thought  I.  Though  I  spoke  not,  my 
guardian  read  my  thoughts :  "  Ask  no  more — anon  thou  shalt  know  aU 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


MaebAa.  109 

*-*iiow  sleep,  I  (^mmand  thee !"  And  sleep  I  did,  in  obedience  to  certain 
mystic  mgna,  and  knew  not  even  tiiat  I  existed,  daring  many,  manj 
hours.  On  my  awaking;  the  Hadji  felt  my  pulse,  assured  me  tmit  I  was 
better,  and  seemed  disposed  to  allow  me  to  coBverse.  I  was,  indeed, 
more  than  ever  anxious  to  hear  somewhat  of  my  real  position  aad  prc^ 
bable  fate. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  tell  me  why  I  am  here  ?"  I  inquired. 

The  Hadji  coldly  replied,  "  You  must  surely  know  that.  Why,  how* 
ever,  do  you  speak  of  mercy  here  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  received  mercy  from  you.  I  came  hither  to  view  the 
ruins  of  the  fated  house.     Further  I  know  not." 

"Did  you  not  fall  ?^*  asked  my  Mendly  genius. 

^  I  did,"  repHed  I,  "  both  in  courage  and  in  feust  ;*'  and  I  felt  ashamed 
to  confess  this  to  a  superior  being,  for  such  I  doubted  not  my  seeming 
Hadji  to  be,  and  the  more  lo  as  I  felt  myself  strangely  moved  by  his 
speech. 

"  Be  not  disturbed,"  was  the  reply ;  ^  you  were  assailed  by  extraordi- 
nary difficnlties.  No  one  but  yourself  ever  trod  tiie  ridge  uriience  you 
must  have  fallen.  From  the  prickly  pear-tree  to  the  ground,  was  not^ 
indeed,  an  awful  descent,  but  the  mrat  fall  was  enough  to  destroy  most 
men  of  your  people." 

This  was  said  somewhat  disparagingly,  but  every  word  of  the  speaker 
formed  an  echo  in  my  heart. 

"Ah!"  replied  I,  "no  doubt  you  despise  our  race,  but  though  we 
cannot  cope  with  supernatural  powers,  we  are  not  easily  daunted  by 
tangible  foes." 

A  long,  low  laugh  followed  this  speech,  and  my  guardian  seemed  to  be 
quite  unable  to  subdue  the  temptation  to  derision  whiah  my  words  had 
f^orded,  and  I  must  own  that  the  sounds  fell  not  unmusically  upon  my 
ear,  though  I  was  somewhat  vexed  to  have  my  vauntings  thus  received. 

"  Supernatural ! — tangible  foes ! — when  you  have  recovered,"  said 
my  dernSng  Hadji,  "  I  will  tell  you  all." 

"  Nay,  may  I  not  hear  it  now  ?  I  am  well,  and  must  depart.  I  could 
walk  araroad  with  ease." 

"  Say  you  so  ?  then  try  your  powers." 

I  tried  to  rise,  and  found  I  could  do  so  without  pain,  though  trembling 
with  weakness.  My  good  genius  put  forth  a  hand  to  help  me  ;  I  took  it 
with  an  eager  grasp,  whereat  it  was  half  plucked  away,  and  a  flush 
mounted  to  the  brow  of  the  Hadji. 

"  A  mortal  hand,  and  a  mortal  flush,"  thought  I,  and  my  own  heart 
beat  £u9ter,  and  an  indefinite  sensation  glided  pleasantly  into  my  souL  I 
felt  as  if  I  might  make  m<»«  inquiries  in  the  free  air,  and  urged  my 
Storing  steps  towards  the  «x!h  that  served  as  a  door.  The  idr  gave  me 
fresh  vigour,  and  I  found  myself  in  a  wilderness  of  plants,  among  which 
roeks  and  ruins  were  profusely  scattered.  The  uneven  ground  niade  my 
steps  uncertain,  and  a  hand  was  immediately  ready  to  seaport  me.  As  I 
took  it  I  grew  courageous^  or  rath^  desperate,  and,  anxiously  looking  at 
the  Hadji,  our  eyes  met,  and  I  saw  a  deep  confusion  rise  upon  the  coun* 
tenance.     I  still  clung  to  the  hand,  and  asked  once  more, 

"In  pity,  say,  who  are  you  ? — what  are  you  ?" 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


110  Macluba. 

The  benigpi  eyes  were  lowered,  the  hand  aceoally  trembled,  but  no 
angiy  flush  as  before,  no  sudden  movement  checked  my  inquiries. 

"I  amtCinxica." 

The  voice  was  low  and  melodious,  but  what  of  that  ?  It  was  the  soft 
and  gentle  sigh  with  which  the  words  were  uttered  that  told  me  that  the 
Hadji,  my  g^d  genius,  was — a  woman ! 

Now,  her  disguise  dropped,  my  fair  genius  was,  indeed,  shy  and  startled 
to  find  herself,  confessed. 

Recovering  herself,  she  explained  that  her  strange  companion  had  been 
kind  to  her  family  before  her  birth,  that  her  fsEither  was  now  in  Spain,  had 
left  this  poor  being  to  her  good  offices  ;  that  a  sudden  desire  on  the  part 
of  this  companion  to  flee  to  this  lonely  spot,  with  only  the  fiend-like  dog 
as  a  protector,  had  induced  Cinxica  to  accompany  her  £riend,  notwith- 
standing the  objections  of  her  relatives ;  and  that  the  Hadji  dress  had 
been  adopted  to  avoid  molestation,  as  it  is  well  known  to  be  a  kind  of  safe 
conduct. 

^^  And  you  submit  to  this  banishment  ?" 

*^  No  one  has  such  claims  upon  me  as  Ayesha,*'  replied  Cinxica,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  I  thought  her  superhuman,"  replied  I ;  ^'  and  you  a  good  spirit  sent 
by  Allah." 

Cinxica  looked  grave. 
-  "  I  do  not  bow  to  Allah,  but  to  your  God,"  said  she. 

"AndAyesha?" 

"  She  worships  no  god — ^but  Allah  sometimes.  To  none  for  the  most 
part  does  she  bow,"  said  she,  sadly. 

^*  What  was  the  wild  tale  she  told  me  ?" 

"  One  generatiy  believed  to  be  true.  She  is  descended  from  the 
vncked  2iOraiba.  Sometimes,  she  thinks  herself  her  actual  daughter,  but 
that  is  impossible." 

^^  How  long  has  she  been  mad — ^for  so  I  suppose  she  is  ?" 

'^  She  is  mad,  and  has  been  so  some  months.  She  dreads  pursuit,  and  is 
furious  if  she  sees  a  stranger.  When  the  fit  is  on  her  she  tells  the  tale 
you  heard,  then  springs  upon  her  victim.  I  had  great  difficulty  in  keep- 
ing her  from  killing  you  the  moment  you  began  to  recover,  and  only  by 
strong  opiates  succeeded." 

*'  Has  she  ever  committed  a  crime  ?" 

*^  Ask  me  not,"  said  Cinxica,  turning  pale. 

I  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  she  blushed.  I  have  already  said  she  was 
beautiful  and  very  young — her  English  prettily  mixed  with  Spanish  and 
Maltese,  exhibiting  evidently  a  cultivated  tone  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression. Is  it  wonderful  that  I  should  draw  her  hand  closely  within 
mine,  and  upon  seeing  the  blush  that  said  so  much,  I  should  kiss  it 
vehemently  ? 

When  my  friend  arrived  in  March,  he  found  me  just  married,  per- 
fectly happy  witb  my  lovely  and  gifted  Cinxica,  and  one  of  our  first 
rides  together  was  to  visit  Ayesha  in  her  home  near  the  now  doubly- 
interesting  ruins  of  Macluba. 


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(  111  ) 


CHRONICLES  OF  A  COUNTRY  TOWN. 


Agnbs  Oakland  was  the  daughter  of  a  respectable  tradesman  at  St. 
Bennett's,  a  town  in  Cornwall ;  but,  though  she  was  an  only  child,  her 
£Either  found  it  impossible  to  make  any  pecuniary  provision  for  her 
future  support :  sickness,  losses  in  business,  and  competition  in  the  line 
in  which  he  was  engaged,  kept  him  throughout  his  life  a  poor  and  broken- 
spirited  man.  All  that  he  could  do  for  his  darling  he  did :  he  gave  her 
a  good  education,  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  support  herself  as  a 
governess ;  but  scarcely  had  it  been  completed,  when,  before  a  situation 
could  be  procured  for  her,  the  poor  man  was  called  on  to  lay  down  the 
heavy  burden  of  his  earthly  cares,  and  to  pass  to  that  world  where  care 
shall  be  no  more. 

Poor  Agnes  was  now  alone,  for  she  had  lo^  her  mother  while  an  iq- 
&nt,  and  yet  she  did  not  feel  entirely  desolate — there  still  existed  for 
her  a  hope,  and  even  in  her  first  agony  of  grief  the  voice  of  one  whom 
she  had  known  from  childhood  whispered  gently  words  of  sympathy  and 
kindness,  which  brought  comfort  in  their  every  tone.  Henry  Selby  was 
also  an  oiphan :  he  had  been  educated  for  the  Church  by  a  distant  rela- 
tive, who  died  almost  suddenly  before  Henry's  collcfge  duties  could  be 
completed  ;  and  the  selfi^  heirs  refused  to  carry  out  the  rich  and  good 
man's  well-known  intentions.  Wl£hout  money  and  without  friends,  Henry 
Selby  gladly  accepted  the  situation  of  third,  master  in  the  grammar 
school  of  his  native  town,  fit  a  salary  of  eighty  pounds  a  year.  On  this 
income  the  young  man  would  not  have  ventured  to  offer  marriage  to 
Agnes  had  her  father  lived  ;  but  now — what  could  he  do  ?  Portionless, 
friendless,  houseless,  whither  could  poor  Agnes  turn,  but  to  him  ?  It 
were  needless  to  repeat  a  lover's  reasoning,  suffice  it  to  say — they  were 
married.  They  took  a  pretty  little  cottage  a  short  distance  out  of  the 
town  ;  one  little  girl  was  bom  to  them  ;  and  for  four  years  they  enjoyed 
all  the  happiness  possible  to  people  situated  as  they  were.  They  were 
careful,  self-denying,  industrious;  but  eighty  pounds  a  year  will  not  keep 
the  most  deserving  from  enduring  many  of  the  harassing  cares  of  poverty. 
Cares  are  they  which  never  can  be  forgotten,  which  follow  us  wherever 
we  go,  walk  with  us,  dream  with  us,  whisper  when  we  talk,  stare  at  us 
when  we  laugh,  and  tug  at  our  heart  strings  when  we  weep.  Henry 
Selby  did  not  endure  them  very  long  ;  sickness  came  upon  hiim — not  a 
sharp  sickness  which  must  be  met  by  active  measures,  but  a  slow,  con- 
suming, blighting  sense  of  depression.  He  did  not  seek  relief  from 
medicine — a  doctor's  bill  must  be,  if  possible,  avoided  ;  already  he  owed 
seven  pounds  for  indispensable  aid  for  his  wife  and  child,  and  how  should 
he  ever  be  able  to  pay  that  ?  School  duties,  too,  could  not  be  neglected ; 
for  where,  if  he  lost  his  situation,  could  his  loved  ones  find  a  home  ? 
So  he  struggled  on,  hoping  that  when  the  vacation  came  he  should  find 
a  cure  in  the  rest  which  it  would  bring.  Agnes  saw  that  her  husband 
vas  far  from  well,  but  there  really  did  not  seem  to  be  any  alarming 
symptoms,  and  she  hoped  that  he  would  soon  recover. 

One  day,  as  he  returned  from  the  school,  where  some  unusual  excite- 

Sept^YOL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcni.  I 


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112  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

ment  had  agitated  him  heyond  his  wont,  Agnes  was  waiting  for  him, 
with  her  child,  at  their  little  garden-gate.  Her  first  exclamation  was 
one  of  pleasure. 

"  Dear  Henry,"  she  said,  "  you  art  looking  so  well !  What  a  brilliant 
colour  you  have  on  your  cheek !  Why  really,"  she  continued,  laughingly, 
"  little  Nelly's  newly-blown  China-rose,  of  which  she  is  so  proud,  would 
look  pale  beside  it !" 

Little  Nelly  was  now  about  t^ee  or  fbur  years  old,  and  a  more  perfectt 
picture  of  cmldish  beauty  has  seldom  been  seen.  There  she  stoo^ 
stretching  her  round  dimpled  arms  up  to  her  &dier,  and  pursing  up  her 
pret^  cherry  lips  to  be  kissed. 

^  Kiss  me,  dear,  good  papa,'*  slie  said.  ^  Kiss  your  own  fitde  Nelly !" 
But  the  kiss  was  scarcely  given  before,  catching  her  mother's  words,  she 
dai^d  away  with  joyous  laughter,  ezolaiming,  **  Papa's  cheeks  like  mj 
beautiful  rose !     I  will  go  and  see." 

'^  And  1  will  go  and  see  whether  Jane  has  your  tea  ready,  dear  Henry,'' 
said  his  wife ;  "  already  T  fancy  you  are  growing  pale." 

*^  God  bless  you  both,"  he  sai^  ^^  my  darlings  t*  and  turned  into  the 
little  parlour,  where  his  easy-chair  was  drawn  to  its  accustomed  place,  just 
where  he  could  see  the  setting  sun  fling  its  rosy  light  on  the  wood-cloUieci 
hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley. 

In  a  few  minutes  little  Nelly  returned  with  her  full-blown  rose  in  her 
hand,  and  leaning  on  her  father's  knee  as  he  sat,  held  it  up  to  his  face. 
But  her  look  of  childish  glee  changed  strangely ;  the  colour  which  was 
to  match  her  rose  was  gone !  The  eyes  were  open,  but  looked  not  at 
her — ^they  appeared  to  be  fixed  on  the  door;  the  mouth,  too,  was  open, 
but  it  spoke  not.  The  child  did  not  rise  feom  the  posture  which  she  had 
assumed,  but  turned  her  eyes  also  on  the  door,  with  an  inquiring  and 
startled  gaze.  At  this  instant  Mrs.  Selby,  with  her  servant,  reached  the 
threshold;  one  look  at  her  child's  awe-struck  eyes,  a  glance  at  h«r  hus- 
band, and  then  followed  that  wild  cry  which  told  that  she  was  a  widow, 
and  her  child  fatherless. 

Who  can  paint  the  agony  of  the  spirit  when  it  first  beeomet  oonsckwa 
that  the  soul  of  one  bdoved,  peiiiaps  too  fondly,  has  departed  \  Even 
where  death  has  come  gradually,  and  its  progress  has  been  plunly  seen^ 
the  trial  is  hard  to  be  borne  at  the  last ;  but  when  there  has  been  litde 
or  no  preparation — ^when  the  stroke  fells  sudd^y,  and  the  eyes,  wlach 
we  have  seen  beaming  with  love  and  life,  are  in  an  instant  o^htless  and 
glazed,  unconscious  of  all  earthly  objects,  and  speaking  only  of  the  dark- 
ness of  death — ^then  how  terrible,  how  inexpressibly  awfel  is  the  shock  \ 

^<  Take  her  away,**  said  poor  Mrs.  Selby,  pmnting  to  hev  diiki ;  but 
the  tones  in  which  she  spoke  were  hoarse  and  strange — so  different  feon 
her  own  low,  sweet  voice  that  the  servant  looked  at  het  to  see  tiiat  she 
had  indeed  spoken,  befere,  snatching  up  the  screaming  child,  she  ran  t» 
the  next  house  to  call  assistance.  When  she  was  gone,  Mrs.  Selby  ap* 
preached  her  husband.  ^  Henry,**  she  said,  '^  in  mercy  speak !  Make 
some  sign  that  you  hear  me.  Oh  God !  he  is  dead,  he  n  dead !"  she 
repeated.  Then,  with  trembling  hands,  she  loosed  his  neckcloth,  and 
endeavoured  to  give  him  air ;  but  there  was  no  hope  in  her  heart,  and 
she  kept  on  repeating,  *'  He  is  dead,  he  is  dead!'^ 

People  soon  came  to  her  asristance.    Her  nearest  neighbour,  Mr. 

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Chronicles  &f  a  Country  Town.  \VS 

Coodi,  a.  darky  cold,  stem,  bat  really  kind-hearted  man,  hastened  into 
the  room ;  he  approached  the  corpse,  and,  pressing  down  the  e^relidsy 
sffld,  dowly  and  solemnly,  ^  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken 
away;  Uessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord !" 

The  words,  wkh  the  doting  of  the  eyes  she  lored  so  dearly,  realised  at 
once  to  Mrs.  Selby  the  event  which  before  she  coold  scarcely  compie- 
head.  Ilaiaing  hsr  hands  wi^  a  conTulsive  effort  to  her  throat,  as  n  to 
tear  away  some  cord  which  was  strangling  her,  she  fell  back  senseless 
into  the  arms  of  the  pitying  neighbours. 

If  there  be  indeed  a  '^  luxury  of  woe,"  it  must  rank  among  those 
luxuries  which  the  poor  and  friendless  hare  neither  means  nor  leisure  to 
&!aaj.  To  be  up  and  doing  is  with  them  a  stem,  though  perhaps  merci- 
ful neeesaty;  they  have  no  time  to  waste  in  Tain  regrets.  Mrs.  Selby, 
howeyer,  was  at  first  physically  incapable  of  exertion.  The  night  follow- 
ing bar  loss  was  spent  in  a  soccesaon  of  hunting  fits,  then  there  were  a 
few  homrs  of  forgetfulness  procured  by  opiates,  and  then  her  fi&theriess 
diild  was  brought  to  heir  arms,  with  the  hope  diat  the  si^t  of  it  might 
bring  her  the  relief  of  tears. 

"  Mamma,  dear  mamma!"  said  the  child,  throwing  its  arms  around 
her  neck,  "  Crod  has  taken  away  papa's  own  face,  and  given  him  a  white 
£iee  instead  !  Oh  !  do  not  look  so  white  too,  or  perhaps  you  will  be  Hke 
poor  papa."  A  gush  of  tears  from  her  child  unlocked  the  fountain  of 
grief  in  the  widow,  and  after  a  period  o£  bitter  weeping  she  arose  com- 
puativelY  calm. 

Seated  in  the  chair  in  which  her  husband  had  died,  Mrs.  Selby  en* 
deavoured  to  arrange  her  thoughts ;  but  a  dull  sense  of  8u£ferine,  a 
weight  of  unspeakable  woe  was  all  of  which  het  mind  was  as  yet  sensmle* 
Presently  Mr.  Coodi  was  announced :  he  was  a  member  of  the  Medio* 
dist  socte^,  and  partook  largely  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  body,  whidi 
is  throughout  Cornwall  a  very  numerous  and  influential  one.  Among 
these  people  may  be  found  many  good  men  and  zealous  Christians,  aad 
now  and  then,  m  the  more  remote  districts  of  Cornwall,  may  be  met 
^th,  in  rude,  unlettered  men,  instances  of  wikl  and  fisrvid  eloquence,  and 
of  h»oic  self-devodgn,  which  remind  us  of  the  old  Covenanters :  but 
the  formal  and  stiff  manners  of  the  miij(Hrity,  thor  measured  tones,  the 
almost  ^miliar  way  in  whidi  some  of  them  speak,  neverthdess,  ci  divine 
tiungs,  and  their  habit  of  mixing  up  sacred  sul^ts  with  the  common 
and  every-day  business  of  life,  make  them  ofW  se^on  unpleasant  and 
Almost  repnlffive.  AJfi»r  a  few  kindly-meant  words  of  inquiry,  Mr« 
Cooeh  asked,  somewhat  abruptly : 
^Have  you  any  Mend,  'i&is.  Selby,  to  whom  it  is  your  dn^  to  write 
this  oecasiony  and  who  might  be  disposed  to  render  you  some 
rtanoe?'* 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  relied  the  widow.     '^  I  have  no  friend,  no  one  to  oace 
*  me  or  my  child.    Now  he  is  gone  we  are  utterly  desolate." 
Mr.  Coows  reply  was  in  a  tone  of  stem  reproof: 
/"Hush,. hush!"  he  said;  ''joa  forget  that  thmre  is  Oii«  who  is  the 
Eiend  of  all  who  trust  in  Him.     Your  trial  is  from  Him.     He  has  per- 
aps  seen  fit  to  take  your  idd  fxom  you,  that  you  may  turn  to  Him  and 
esttred." 
<'My  child!  my  poor  diild!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Selby,  in  a  fresh  bunt 

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I 


114  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

of  passionate  grief.     **  What  will  become  of  us  ?     We  are  homeless  and 
friendless  indeed !" 

'^  You  are  young,  Mrs.  Selby,  and  must  work  for  her  and  yourself," 
stdd  Mr.  Cooch.  "  There  is  work  for  all  who  are  willing  to  gain  an 
honest  livelihood.  We  are  told  to  pray  for  our  daily  bread,  but  I  am 
not  aware  that  we  are  directed  anywhere  in  the  Scriptures  to  pray  for 
superfluities.  You  must  cease  to  struggle  against  the  Divine  will,  and 
learn  to  bear  your  loss  in  a  spirit  of  resignation.  You  say  you  have  no 
friend  in  the  flesh  :  I  have  written  to  your  rich  aunt,  Mrs.  Burrow,  in 
your  behalf^  stating  your  position,  and  asking  her  to  come  forward  and 
aid  you  in  this  season  of  affliction." 

Mrs.  Selby,  even  in  her  moment  of  trial,  shrank  from  this  step, 
which,  though  kindly  meant,  she  thought  wanting  in  delicacy  :  she  did 
not  say  so,  however,  but  merely  explained  to  her  friendly  neighbour  that 
she  scarcely  knew  Mrs.  Burrow,  who  had  never  forgiven  her  father  for 
having  induced  her  to  embark  a  little  money  in  a  mining  speculation, 
which  had  proved  unsuccessful ;  that  she  herself  had  rarely  been  noticed 
by  her  aunt,  who  had  not,  when  her  father  died,  come  forward  to  offer 
even  sympathy. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Cooch,  "  it  is  our  duty  to  use  all  lawful 
means  to  help  ourselves.  If  Mrs.  Burrow  refuses  to  assist  you,  on  her 
be  the  sin." 

He  then  entered  on  matters  connected  with  the  approaching  fune- 
ral, said  his  wife  would  select,  if  Mrs.  Selby  wished,  the  mourning  garbs 
which  the  customs  of  the  world  prescribed  for  herself  and  her  child,  but 
which,  in  her  case,  he  would  do  without ;  and,  after  promising  to  attend 
to  all  other  details,  left  Mrs.  Selby  alone  with  her  dead. 

No  sooner  was  Mr.  Cooch  gone,  than  a  thought,  which  had  not 
before  assumed  a  distinct  form,  struck  poor  Mrs.  Selby  with  a  thrill  of 
new  and  unspeakable  anguish.  Money !  What  should  she  do  for  money 
even  to  pay  for  her  husband's  funeral  ?  With  trembling  hands  she 
unlocked  the  drawer  in  which  all  their  worldly  riches  had  been  kept ; 
andj  pouring  ^e  contents  of  the  little  silk  purse  into  her  lap,  counted 
ten  sovereigns.  She  had  before  known  the  amount,  but  now,  somehow, 
it  seemed  less  than  she  expected.  Five  of  those  precious  pieces  had 
been  intended  by  herself  and  Henry  to  supply  all  Jnousehold  wants  for 
the  next  four  or  five  weeks  ;  and  the  other  five  to  pay  in  part  the  half- 
year  s  rent  for  their  small  cottage  at  the  coming  Midsummer.  There 
was  no  lack  of  tears  now,  as  she  recalled  all  the  self-denial  they  had 
practised  to  make  up  and  keep  together  that  small  sumi!  When  they  I 
marriedj  poor  young  things !  they  had  agreed  to  give  up  all'  expensive  J 
pleasures ;  one  in  the  year  was  to  be  all  they  would. indulge  in,  and  that 
was  to  be  a  day  spent  among  the  rocks  and  beaches  of  their  own  most 
romantic  and  beautiful  coast.  This  year  they .  had  been  compelled  to 
give  up  the  thoughts  of  their  one  pleastire,  that  one  day  of  freedom  from 
care  and  toil;  for  they  could,  not  afford  a  journey  of  fifteen  miles  in  a 
hired  carriage  ;  they  liad  yet  to  add  two  pounds  to  the  sum  required  for 
the  rent.  Then  there  came  the  recollection  of  poor  Henry's  somewhat 
shabby  suit  of  clothes,  which  had  been  made  to  last  some  months  longer 
than  usual ;  and,  worst  of  all,  the  thought  that  he  had  denied  himsielC 
medical  aid,  rather  than  break  in  on  the  treasured  sum. 

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.  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  115 

At  length  the  day  of  final  separation  came,  and  the  widow,  leading 
her  child,  and  supported  hy  Mr.  Cooch,  followed  Henry  to  his  last  home. 
She  had  promised  him  once  that  if  he  died  before  her,  she  would  not 
leave  him  until  the  last  sod  was  laid  on  his  narrow  bed.  Poor  fellow ! 
Some  presentiment  of  coming  doom  had  perhaps  induced  him  to  make 
the  request.  There  were  no  hired  mourners,  no  state,  no  ceremony,,  at 
diat  simple  funeral ;  but,  as  is  always  the  case  in  Cornwall,  there  was 
plenty  both  of  outward  respect  and  of  inward  sorrow:  neighbours, 
acquaintances,  even  strangers  were  there,  eager  to  show  «yery  mark  of 
reverence  to  the  dead,  from  a  mixed  feeHng  of  sympathy  for  the  living, 
regret  for  the  departed,  and  a  religious  awe  of  death  itself.  When  the 
young  widow  had  taken  her  last  look  of  all  which  had  made  life  happy 
in  this  world,  many  weeping  tenderly,  or  gazing  solemnly,  pressed  towaras 
the  edge  of  the  humble  grave,  to  take  a  last  fareweU  of  one  who  had 
moved  among  them  respected  and  beloved.  The  earth  was  then  cast  on 
the  coffin,  and  all  was  over. 

On  the  day  after  the  funeral  Mr.  Cooch  called  to  see  the  widow,  and, 
laying  two  sovereigns  on  the  table  before  her,  put  into  her  hand  a  letter 
which  he  had  received  from  her  rich  aunt,  in  answer  to  his  communica- 
tion. Mrs.  Burrow  said,  "  She  was  sorry  for  her  young  niece's  misfor- 
tune, but  what  but  trial  could  be  expected  in  this  world  if  young  people 
would  marry  so  early  ?  She  had  always  thought  that  no  woman  should 
ever  marry  until  she  was  forty  at  least :  that  was  quite  early  enough  to 
get  into  trouble."  (The  old  lady  herself  had  married  a  widower  with  a 
large  family  when  she  was  fifty.)  Then  she  went  on  to  say  that  ^'if 
Mrs.  Selby's  father  had  taken  her  advice,  and  saved  the  money  spent  in 
teaching  his  daughter  a  parcel  of  music,  and  drawing,  and  trash,  she 
would  have  been  better  off ;  but  he,  poor  man,  never  would  take  advice, 
and  so  he  had  died  insolvent.  However,  she  had  enclosed  two  pounds, 
which,  she  hoped,  would  enable  Mrs.  Selby  to  bury  her  husband  decently ; 
she  could  not  do  more,  for  times  were  very  bad,  and  she  could  scarcely 
get  in  a  farthing  of  her  rents,  and  was  afraid  she  never  should." 

There  was  a  postscript  which  ran  thus : 

'•  I  suppose  Agnes  Selby  will  keep  a  school  or  something  of  that  sort. 
I  hope  she  will  bring  up  her  child  differently  from  herself,  so  as  to  be 
useful,  and  able  to  struggle  through  the  world.  It  would,  perhaps,  be  a 
happy  thing  if  the  child  were  taken  too.  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from 
Agnes  when  she  is  settled.     Please  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  this." 

As  Mrs.  Selby  began  to  read  the  letter,  Mr.  Cooch,  with  an  uneasy,  un- 
settled movement,  took  up  a  book  and  appeared  to  be  examining  the  title- 
page  very  minutely ;  but  when  the  little  hand  which  was  holding  the  paper 
dropped,  and  the  other  was  pressed  over  her  eyes,  he  laid  down  the  book 
and  gazed  earnestly  at  her.  There  were  tears  trickling  through  the 
white  slender  fingers ;  but  in  a  moment  they  were  brushed  hurriedly 
away,  and  Mrs.  Selby  raised  her  brimming  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  I  am  wi"ong  to  feel  thus,"  she  said ;  **  Mrs.  Burrow  means  kindly, 
and  I  have  no  right  to  dictate  what  assistance  she  ought  to  afford.  I 
will  try  to  write  and  thank  her  gratefully  for  this." 

*'  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven !" 
said  Mr.  Cooch.  "  I  was  afraid  that  the  old  Adam  which  ever  dwells  in 
the  carnal  heart  would  triumph,  and  that  you  would  desire  to  return  this 

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116  ChronieleM  of  a  Cowitry  Town. 

mite  from  the  rich  man's  treasury :  but  jou  are  quite  right.  And  now 
tell  me,"  he  continued,  '*  what  you  intend  doing.  I  suppose  you  are  iK)t 
over  well  stocked  with  money,  and  this  has  been  a  time  of  expense  as  well 
as  of  trial  lo  you.'' 

Mrs.  Selby  did  not  shrink  from  the  direct  questioning;  but,  bringing 
forward  all  her  little  store,  now  reduced  to  eight  pounds,  told  him  bow 
it  was  to  have  been  used.  Mr.  Coooh  heard  the  account  without  appa- 
rent emotion,  and,  at  the  widow's  desire,  took  the  money  with  him; 
first,  to  pay  for  the  colBn  and  other  expenses,  and  then,  if  any  were  left, 
for  the  fdain  mourning  worn  by  Mrs.  Selby,  her  servant,  and  dakl.  In 
the  evening  he  came  back  with  the  Inlls,  wliich  were  all  receipted,  and 
which  amouidied  to  thirteen  pounds. 

"  Five,"  he  said,  "  I  have  advanced  mysdf ;  if  you  can  ever  repay 
me^  do  so ;  for,  as  you  know,  I  am  not  a  rich  man ;  if  not,  is  it  not 
written,  *  He  that  giveth  to  the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord  ?'  In  all  tbk," 
he  continued,  "  it  seems  unfortunate  that  Dr.  Barfoot,  the  head-mastw 
of  the  school,  is  not  at  home;  but  all  is  ordered  for  the  best  in  this  world; 
we  will  wait  a  little  before  we  decide  on  anything  for  the  future— the 
doctor  may  suggest  something.  Mrs.  Barfoot  has  written  to  faim,  and 
is  rather  surprised  that  there  is  no  answer.  Did  you  tell  me  there  was 
,  a  quarter's  salary  due  P' 

"  Oh,  no  !"  replied  Mrs.  Selby,  "  not  until  Midsummer;  and,  p«*- 
baps,  now  we  have  no  right  to  expect  it." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Mr.  Cooch  ;  "  though  I  differ  in  many  pcwntB 
of  discipline  from  the  doctor,  I  believe  him  to  be  a  good  and  a  just  mra. 
My  wife,"  be  added,  with  some  slight  hesitation,  ^'  will  call  on  you  to- 
morrow, if  you  have  no  objection,  and  will  tell  you  tirat  if  you  should 
find  the  way  made  plain  before  you,  and  be  led  to  open  a  school,  we  shall 
be  pleased  to  place  our  two  young  daughters  under  your  care.  Good 
jiight,  Mrs.  Selby  ;  and  may  He,  who  hath  promised  to  be  a  husband  to 
the  widow,  and  a  father  to  the  £Ediierless,  guide  and  support  you." 

II. 

The  morrow  came,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Cooch;  a  plain  woman,  plainly 
dressed — after  the  fashion  of  the  more  strict  members  of  the  body  to  whidi 
she  belonged.  She  spoke  in  a  high-pitched,  crying  tone,  very  different 
from  her  husband's  deep  and  stem  accents :  but  their  voices  were  not 
more  dissimilar  than  their  natures ;  fo^  while  a  strong  spirit  of  kindness 
beneath  the  rough  exterior  made  him  really  estimable  and  respected,  in 
his  wife  all  was  little,  selfish,  mean,  and  hypocritical. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  Mrs.  Selby ;  my 
heart  bleeds  for  you  and  your  poor  little  girl ;  but  then  such  dispensa- 
tions are  sent  for  our  good ;  you  must  bear  your  troubles  patiently,  for, 
no  doubt,  you  have  well  deserved  a  chastening.  And  then,  as  I  said 
to  my  husband,  '  Mrs.  Selby  is  better  off  than  thousands.'  See  to  me, 
with  six  children  1  If  I  should  lose  my  husband,  what  could  /  do  ?  As  it 
is,  with  the  small  salary  he  earns  as  an  attorney's  clerk,  I  assure  you  / 
have  my  share  of  trials.  Mr.  Cooch  says  that  if  you  keep  a  school,  he  will 
send  you  our  two  girls ;  but  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  the  money 
is  to  codne  from  to  pay  for  them.     It  is  well  for  you,  I  alh  surey  that 

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Chronicle  of  a  CaufOry  Torni.  117 

yon  were  educated  to  be  a  govemess  ;  if  I  were  you  I  would  get  a  situa* 
tion ;  anybody  would  take  your  little  girl  to  board  for  28.  or  2s.  6d. 
a  w^k,  and  that,  in  my  opinion,  would  be  the  best  plan  for  you.  You 
do  not  like  parting  with  the  child  ?  Well,  you  can  do  as  you  please,  but 
tfiat's  what  /think  you  ought  to  do,**  &c,  &c. 

No  sooner  had  Mrs.  Cooch  taken  her  leaye  than  two  ladies  were 
announced,  who,  though  Hriug  in  the  same  town,  had  never  before 
honoured  Mrs.  Selby  by  any  notice.  As  is  too  often  the  case  in  small 
towns,  an  extremefy  jealous  distinction  was  kept  up  in  St.  Bennett's 
between  different  ranks — a  distinction,  indeed,  which  it  would  puzzle  any 
strmger  to  de£ne.  In  some  places  it  is  on  aristocracy  of  wealth,  in 
.  others,  an  aristocracy  of  birth ;  the  stock  of  either,  on  which  the  assump- 
tion of  superiority  is  founded,  being  in  most  cases  so  very  smidl  as  to  be 
invijnble  to  any  but  the  fortunate  possessors.  In  St.  Bennett's,  the 
party  considering  themselves  the  gentry  of  the  town  consisted  princi- 
paHy  of  the  professional  men  and  their  families.  The  society,  perhaps, 
was  somewhat  of  the  dullest,  but  Mrs.  Sdby  had  nothing  to  do  with 
that ;  for,  though  well  educated,  and  improved  by  companionship  with 
her  bishtmd — who  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman — she,  as  the  daughter 
^  a  tradesman  and  wife  of  an  usher,  had  not  the  open  sesame  into  the 
"  first  circles,"  as  they  called  themselves.  She  heard,  then,  with  some 
siffprise,  that  Mrs.  Stoneman  and  Mn.  Carthew,  the  ladies  of  a  siu*geon 
and  an  attorney,  had  called  to  see  her ;  but  genlJe  and  lady-like,  she 
leceived  them  quietly,  and  waited  patiently  to  hear  the  object  of  their 
visit.  Mrs.  Stoneman  bowed  stiffly,  and  ^oke  not;  Mrs.  Carthew, 
however,  talked  fast  enough  for  both. 

**  How  d'ye  do,  Mrs.  Selby  ?  Hope  you  are  tolerable.  How  is  your 
sweet  Kttle  girl?  We  have  called  on  you,  Mrs.  Selby,  to  tell  you  that 
Mrs*  Stoneman  and  myself  have  been  consulting  with  several  other 
ladies  about  your  melancholy  position,  and  we  have  come  to  ask  you  to 
<^n  a  day-school.  A  school  is  so  very,  very  much  wanted  here,  and  we 
think  you  would  be  just  the  sort  of  person  to  suit  us." 

^Indeed,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Selby,  '<I  had  feared  that  there  was  no 
opening  here  for  any  effort  of  mine  in  that  way ;  there  are  already  two 
good  schools,  and  St.  Bennett's  is  not  a  large  town." 

«Oh!"  replied  Mrs.  Carthew,  "we  know  that.  There  is  Miss  Brad- 
fdwd's  establishment:  she  is  a  very  nice  sort  of  person,  to  be  sure,  and  I 
believe  ^e  ground  children  very  well;  but  then  she  takes  farmer's 
dau^ters ! — (Mrs.  Carthew  was  herself  a  feuroer's  daughter) — she  takes 
the  daughters  of  small  farmers  and  tradesmen.  Of  course  we  wish  to 
avoid  such  companionship  for  our  children.  And  as  for  Miss  Smyth, 
she  keeps  school  oi^  as  a  sort  of  lady-like  amusement,  and  does  not 
consider  it  as  a  matter  of  business,  I  assure  you.  Indeed,  I  may  say  to 
you,  in  confidence,  that  ladies  don't  like  to  find  their  school-mistresses 
afiecting  equaHty  with  them.  No ;  what  we  want  is  a  person  who  will 
pledge  herself  not  to  take  any  but  gentlemen's  children,  and  who  is 
d^Ue  of  instructing  them  in  the  usufJ  routine  of  an  English  education, 
French,  music,  drawing,  ornamental  work,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing. 
A  Kttle  dancing  might  be  added  before  they  take  lessons  from  a  regular 
master.  They  could  pick  that  up,  you  know,  Mrs.  Selby,  as  a  sort  of 
amusement,  out  of  school  hours ;  that  would  not  give  you  much  trouble, 

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118  .  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town* 

it  would  be  rather  a  pleasure  to  you;  with  only  one  child  of  your  own, 
you  will  have  nothing  else  to  do. ' 

A  short  pause  in  Mrs.  Carthew's  discourse  was  filled  by  Mrs.  Stone- 
niftti,  who  said,  slowly  and  proudly : 

"  If  you  undertake  this,  Mrs.  Selby,  we  will  engage  to  give  you  three 
gmneas  a  year  for  each  single  pupil :  where  two.  or  three  are  sent  from 
one  family,  you  will,  of  course,  make  some  abatement." . 

**N6w  do  consider  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Carthew,  "  that's  a  g^d  soul! 
We  can  promise  you  ten  pupils — ^very  well  for  a  beginning,  I  think.** 

*'  You  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Stoneman,  "  we  expect  a  promise  that 
you  will  confine  yourself  to  the  children  of  professional  men  ;  it  really 
IS  shocking  to  see  the  neglect  of  such  distinctions  which  is  creeping  in 
amongst  us." 

Poor  Mrs.  Se}by  thought  of  kind  Mr.  Cooch,  who  had  promised  to 
send  his  daughters,  and  had  made  no  conditions ;  but  she  merely  replied 
that,  her  affliction  having  been  so  recent,  she  had  as  yet  had  no  time  to 
consider  what  had  best  be  done,  but  would  send  an  answer  in  a  few  days. 
The  ladies  then  took  their  leave,  Mrs..  Carthew  chattering  as  they  went 
about  the  situation  of  the  house,  the  weather,  and  other  nothings ;  at  the 
gate  of  the  little  garden  they  paused,  and,  after  a  minute  or  two  spent  in 
whispering,  Mrs.  Carthew  pattered  back  to  add : 

"  We  think  it  right  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Selby,  that  if  you  accept  our 
offer,  we  consider  it  necessary  for  you  to  take  a  larger  house :  your  rooms 
are  so  small  that  we  fear  they  would  be  close  and  unhealthy  for  the  chil- 
dren. Remember,  you  will  have  ten  to  begin  with,  and  a  large,  lofty, 
airy  room  would  be  desirable.     Good-by  I   Good-hy !" 

Mrs.  Selby  sat  down  to  reflect.  The  incessant  chattering  of  Mrs. 
Carthew  had  jarred  upon  her  nerves,  and  now  to  her  other  troubles  was 
added  that  most  wretched  feeling-— doubt  and  indecision  as  to  how  she 
should  act.  She  felt  very  miserable  ;  but  she  would  not  murmur— rshe 
tried  not  to  be  as  one  without  hope.  "  I  will  struggle,  dear  Henry,** 
she  said,  as  if  addressing  him ;  ^'  for  our  child's  sake,  I  will  try  to  be 
comforted."  And  then  a  fresh  and  uncontrollable  burst  of  weeping  shook 
the  frail  frame  almost  to  dissolution.  Jane,  her  old  servant,  hearing  the 
bitter  sobs  of  her  mistress,  came  into  the  parlour : 

**  Oh,  don't  cry  so,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Agnes  !'* — she  had  lived  veith  Mrs. 
Selby  and  her  father  from  the  time  the  former  was  born — '^  don't  cry  so, 
ford  ear  little  Nelly's  sake !" — the  poor  woman  was  sobbing  as  she  spoke. 
— ^'  Poor  dear  little  Nelly,  is  lookmg  quite  ill :  I  am  afraid  she  will  die 
too — dear,  sensible  little  darling! — if  you  do  not  get  better." 

"  You  are  very,  very  kind,  Jane,"  sobbed  her  mistress,  "  but  what 
can  I  do  ?  Even  you  may  have  to  leave  me :  how  can  I  keep  a  ser- 
vant ?" 

'^  Even  /,  mistress,  have  to  leave  you  ?"  said  Jane,  indigently. 
"  Haven't  I  lived  with  you  ever  since  you  were  born  ?  Leave  you  ? — I 
should  think  not  indeed !  Besides,  I've  saved  up  in  your  service  and  your 
father's  a  matter  of  forty  pounds :  I've  given  notice  to  the  savings  bank 
to  draw  it  out,  a  little  at  a  time,  for  we  shall  want  it  now.  Leave  you 
indeed,  and  dear,  darling  little  Nelly!  I  should  think  not !  Whatever 
could  you  do  without  me,  mistress  ?  You,  so  young  and  so  pretty,  and 
without  friends  or  relations !  No,  no !  you  vnll  vrant  your  old  Janey  now 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Thwn.  119 

mdre  ihan  when  you  were  a  child."  And,  pntting  her  arms  around  Mrs. 
Selbj's  neck,  she  drew  her  head  to  her  bo«oni,  and  kissed  her,  and  spok^ 
to  her  with  words  of  fond  endearment,  such  as  she  had  used  to  soothe  her 
with  when  an  in£uit.  A  few  moments,  and  the  tears  flowed  silently, 
and  then  the  tired  mourner  had  fallen  asleep  on  her  old  resting-place. 
'  Jane  stood  motionless  as  a  statue  ;  the  evening  was  drawing  on,  and  the 
moonbeams  fell  on  the  pair,  and  bathed  them  with  their  holy  light.  Mrs. 
Selby  did  not  sleep  long,  but  when  her  eyes  opened,  she  smiled  sweetly 
hut  sadly  on  her  old  servant.  *'  I  said  I  had  no  friend,  Jane,"  she  said ; 
**  I  was  ungrateful  to  forget  you — I  have  found  two  already.  I  will 
pray  for  resignation,  and  mUl  not  say  again  that  we  must  part : — I  trust 
that  trial  may  he  spared  me." 

With  the  morrow  came  a  letter  from  Dr.  Barfoot.  He  wrote  in  a 
kind,  fatherly,  and  Christian  ton^,  regretjting  that  the  account  of  Mr. 
Selby 's  death  had  not  reached  him  earlier;  the  delay  was  owing  to  his 
having  left  the  place  where  he  had  been  staying,  so  that  the  letter  did 
not  find  him  for  some  days.  He  sympathised  with  Mrs.-  Selby,  spoke  of 
her  husband  in  terms  of  the  highest  re^>ect,  and  begged  her  not  to  for- 
get that/the  parting  was  only  for  a  season.  He  requested  that  she  would 
not  decide  on  anything  until  his  return,  which  would  be  in  a  fortnight, 
and  enclosed  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds,  the  amount  of  the  quarterns 
salary. 

Can  we  wonder  that  Mrs.  Selby  felt  this  relief  as  a  direct  answer  to 
her  prayers  ?  She  sent  for  Mr.  Cooch,  showed  him  the  letter,  and  begged 
him  to /take  back  his  five  pounds. 

*'  Not  yet,  not  until  you  are  better  able  to  repay  them,"  he  said,  as  she 
placed  them  timidly  on  the  table  before  him.  **  You  have  other  credi- 
tors, not,  perhaps,  so  able  or  willing  to  wait  as  I  am.  And  now,  Mrs. 
Selby,  can  I  do  more  for  you  ?  Or  as  Dr.  Barfoot  will  soon  be  here, 
would  you  prefer  refenring  to  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Cooch !"  A^es  replied,  "  do  not  withdraw  your  fnend- 
ship  !  I  can  never  repay  you,  never  even  thank  you  as  I  ought :  but  allow 
me  to  look  to  you  in  my  loncdiness  for  the  advice  and  kindness  which  I  feel 
I  so  much  need." 

''  So  be  it  then,"  he  said ;  ^'  it  will  be  a  privilege  to  me  if  I  am  per- 
mitted to  be  of  service  to  you." 

A  fortnight  passed  slowly  and  wearily;  the  time  seemed  to  Mrs. 
Selby  to  go  by  on  leaden  wings,  but  when  it  was  past,  it  had  left  no 
trace  on  her  memory:  it  seemed  a  blank,  a  moment  only  since  .that  even- 
ing when  she  had  drank  so  deeply  of  the  bitter  cup  of  affliction.  Even 
the  care  of'  the  child  now  became  almost  wearisome  to  her :  she  would 
sit  for  hours  in  the  same  place,  apparently  without  the  power  of  moving 
or  of  thinking,  save  on  the  one  subject ;  and  when  Dr.  Barfoot  returned, 
he  was  shocked  as  well  as  grieved  at  seeing  the  ravages  which  sorrow 
had  made. 

Tears  sprang. to  Mrs.  Selby 's  eyes  when  he  first  greeted  her,  but  they 
quickly  ceased,  and  she  sat  beside  him  with  an  air  of  abstraction  which 
he  found  it  difficult  to  meet.  If  he  remained  silent,  she  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  his  presence ;  if  he  spoke,  he  had  to  repeat  what  he  said  many 
times  before  she  appeared  to  understand  it.  He  asked  for  her  child;  she 
hurriedly  called  for  Jane  to  bring  her,  and  when  the  little  girl  sprang  to 

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120  Chronicks  of  a  Country  Ttfwn. 

the  doctor's  knee^  vnd  nestled  her  &ir  head  on  fab  bosom,  tbe  mother 
-seemed  to  torn  her  thoughts  to  something  dse,  and  almost  to  forget  ibst 
they  were  diere.  The  doctor  tried,  at  length,  what  speakine  of  her 
hushand's  death  wonld  effect  This  was  the  <^n]y  theme  on  mich  her 
heart  dwelt ;  ^e  recalled  emy  word,  ereiy  look  of  the  departed,  and 
tiie  good  doctor  led  her  on,  both  from  tbe  interest  he  really  f<^  on  the 
subject,  and  for  the  sake  of  giving  her  all  the  rdief  that  his  sympathy 
could  afftMrd,  until  she  bad  n^riy  exhaisted  herself.  Then  he  led  her  to 
:flpeak  of  her  child,  and,  finally,  mentioned  his  own  plans  for  thdr  ftrture. 
They  were  as  follows : 

He  said  that,  Mrs.  Barfoot's  health  was  ddicate,  and  that,  before  Mr. 
Selby's  death,  he  had  formed  an  intention  of  reducing  his  number  of 
boarders,  and  offering  him  the  advantage  of  receiving  them.  He  now 
proposed  that  Mrs.  Sh^by  i^ould  take  them. 

'^  I  cannot  see,"  he  said,  ^'  why  you  should  not  do  it :  tbe  gentlemaa 
I  have  engaged  in  your  poor  husband's  place  is  a  young  man,  and  I  have 
made  arrangements  for  your  receiving,  if  you  please,  three  boys,  afber 
Midsummer,  as  boarders,  at  thirty  poimds  a  year  each.  I  have  also  an- 
other plan,  for  my  own  advantage,  in  view,  in  ^^ch  you  may  very  wdl 
help  me.     But  tell  me  what  you  think  of  this." 

How  gladly  and  gratefully  Mrs.  Selby  accepted  the  dSsx  may  be  eaafy 
imagined.  She  th^mked  Dr.  Barfoot  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  aiM 
then  g«ve  him  an  account  of  the  proposal  made  to  her  by  Mrs.  Stone- 
nan  and  Mrs.  Carthew. 

''  Those  ladies  are  excellent  bargainomakers  P  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
laugh.  *^  Thirty  pounds  a  year  to  educate  ten  giris,  and  take  a  large 
house  for  their  accommodation  !  I  am  i^raid  you  wovdd  scarcely  havei 
made  it  pay,  Mrs.  Selby.  But  now  for  Ihe  second  part  of  my  plan,"  he 
«dded :  <<  Mrs.  Barfoot  is  too  unwell  to  undertake  the  education  of  her 
daughters,  and  they  are  as  yet  too  young  to  go  to  scho(^  Will  you 
obBge  me  by  attenmng  ^e  three  eldest  as  wly  governess — say  for  two  or 
three  hours  a  day  ?  You  can  bring  your  Httle  girl  vrith  you,  so  that  she 
may  reap  some  oenefit  from  your  lessons  at  die  same  time.  I  will  pav 
you  six-and-thirty  pounds  a  year  for  the  three,  so  that  your  income  wifl, 
I  trust,  be  sufficient  for  at  least  a  year  or  two,  until  Isomething  better 
turns  up.  We  will  not  call  upon  you  to  get  large,  k^,  airy  rooms  for 
die  accommodation  of  the  young  gentlemen  %  the  present  pretty  little 
cottage  win  do  very  well."  The  doctOT  rose  to  depart,  and  then  said, 
iriih  some  slight  hesitation,  '*  But,  Mrs.  Selby,  you  are  very  mudi  ak»e ; 
have  you  no  friends  or  acquaintances  ?" 

**  No,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Selby ;  "  while  Henry  was  with  me  I  required 
nene ;  I  beKeve  yours  viras  almost  the  only  house  we  ever  went  to,  and, 
indeed,  our  income  would  not  haye  allowed  us  to  indulge  much  in  com- 
pany, even  if  we  had  been  in  a  position  to  command  sodety." 

"  And  besides,"  said  the  doctor,  impatiently,  <^in  our  little  insignificant 
town  people  live  as  if  they  were  afraid  they  diould  compromise  their 
dignity  by  sociability.     Empty  pride  is  our  besetting  sin." 

^^  People  have  been  very  kind  to  me  in  my  affliction,"  said  Mn. 
Selby. 

"  I  dare  say — I  dare  say,"  replied  the  doctor.  ^ Thank  heaven!  put 
our  fiantastio  pride  out  of  the  way,  and  we  should  do  very  weiL     I  see 

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drat  there  is  kindnera  er^ywhere  for  the  sick  and  sorrowful.  We  thofold 
i;et  on  nieely  if  we  were  not  mad  enough  to  deek  ourselves  with  rags 
sod  straw,  and  swear  we  are  kings  and  princes.  But  you  will  come  i^ 
and  see  Mrs.  Barfoot  as  soon  as  you  can  ?  She  is,  you  know,  unable  to 
come  to  you.  I  would  allow  you  until  after  Midsummer  before  enter- 
mg  on  your  new  duties ;  but,  u  you  look  so  pale  and  miserable,  I  shall 
not  indulge  you  with  so  long  a  holiday."  Then  placing  little  Nelly,  vibo 
had  fallen  asleep  on  his  knee,  in  her  mother's  arms,  he  shook  han^  widi 
the  widow,  and  departed,  to  carry  pleasure  and  cheerfulness  wherever  his 
Tcnce  was  heard. 


IIL 

NoTWiTHSTANDiNO  ike  feeling  of  hope^  and  the  prospect  of  providing 
comfortably  for  her  daughter,  which  the  proposal  of  Dr.  Barfoot  bad 
afforded,  Mrs.  Selby  could  not  so  soon  recover  from  tbe  numlnng  shock 
of  her  husband's  deatL  The  comparative  cheerfohiess  caused  by  the 
kindness  of  the  doctor  soon  passed  away,  in  spite  of  her  struggles  to 
prevent  it.  The  load  on  her  heart  had  been  only  lifted,  not  removed, 
and  it  feU  back  again  with  crushing  weight.  Her  gloom  seemed  to  in- 
crease rather  than  diminish.  Hour  after  hour  she  would  sit  in  the  little 
parlour,  or  at  her  little  girl's  bedside— ^nerally  tearless — ^recalling  the 
past,  thinking  over  days  of  happiness  gone  by ;  and  from  tiie  recollections 
of  those  days  all  the  daik  shades  of  care  and  anxiefy  had  disappeared, 
the  bright  spots  only  remained — ahnost  questioning  God's  mercy,  and 
yet  struggling  against  the  sinful  impatience  which  arose  within  her. 

These  feelmgs  she  endeavoured  to  conceal  from  aD,  even  fran  her  old 
servant  Jane ;  she  would  smile  on  her,  speak  kindly  to  her,  and  even  try 
sometimes  to  talk  cheerfully  of  the  future ;  but  Jane's  affection  was  not 
so  easily  blinded,  and  she  sought  Dr.  Barfoot  to  tdl  him  what  she 
feared. 

*^  If  she  goes  on  like  this  she  will  die,  poor  young  creatuse !"  said  Jane. 
'<  She  doesn't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  baby  alive,  and  I'm  sure  she  never 
goes  to  bed  till  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  nunmiDg.  Once  or  twiee 
I  have  heard  her  sob  so  piteously — just  as  if  her  poor  heart  was  breaking; 
but  that  I  would  rather  liear  than  know  she  is  sitting  by  the  HtUe  gii^'s 
side,  not  crying  and  sobHng,  but  looking,  Dr.  Barfoot,  as  Tiiiite  and  <kad 
as  a  marble  image  on  a  tombstone.  Now  and  then  she  tries  not  to  give 
way  so,  but  that  never  lasts,  and  she  is  generally  in  a  sort  of  stupor  Hke. 
She  wants  something.  Dr.  Barfoot,  just  to  rouse  her  up  a  bit." 

"  Thank  you,  Jane — thauk  you !"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  will  Bpewk  to 
Mrs.  Barfoot,  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

The  result  of  this  was  a  pressing  invitation  to  Mrs.  Selby  to  call  at  the 
Briary,  as  Mrs.  Barfi>ot  wmed  to  consult  her  about  some  arrangements 
previous  to  the  arrival  of  the  youug  gentlemen  after  Midsummer.  The 
call  led  to  a  great  many  trifling  changes  suggested  by  Dr.  Barfoot ;  a 
room  at  Mrs.  Selby  s  cottage,  which  had  never  been  used  except  as  a 
Inmber-^room,  was  ntted  up  as  a  dormitory  for  the  boys,  three  neat  little 
beds  and  other  furmture  were  sent  horn  the  Briary  to  complete  it,  and 
Mrs.  Selby  was  employed  and  intwested.  Then  came  the  boys  them- 
idves,  young  delicate  children  who,  as  Dr.  Barfoot  thought,  needed  a 


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122  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

mother's  care  for  a  year  or  two ;  and  soon  the  attention  which  they  re- 
quired, together  with  the  instruction  she  gave  to  Dr.  Barfoot's  litde  girls, 
and  the.  care  of  her  own  child,  filled  every  moment,  until  at  length  time 
had  done  its  work,  completed  its  certain  cure,  and  left  Mrs.  Selby  re- 
sigpied  and  almost  cheerful. 

And  then  a  holy  peace  rested  on  the  cottage  of  the  widow.  Time^ 
which  we  are  apt  to  regard  as  our  most  insidious  foe,  is  after  all  our  most 
gentle  comforter,  our  most  true  friend.  We  cry  out :  "  Time  robs  us  of 
our  best  enjoyments,  steals  from  us  our  dearest  pleasures."  We  forget 
then  that,  though  he  may  rob  us  of  many  worldly  joys,  he  abo  takes 
from  us  many  a  weary  woe,  whose  weight  would  press  us  down  to  the 
g^ve  did  not  he  relieve  us,  by  slow  deg^rees,  from  the  burden  too  heavy 
to  be  borne.  If  with  one  hand  Time  plucks  the  flowers  from  our  path, 
with  the  other  he  removes  the  thorns  and  briars  which  wound  us  on  our 

At  the  end  of  the  first  half  year,  Mrs.  Selby  had  paid  off  all  the  littie 
debts  she  had  incurred ;  even  Mr.  Cooch's  five  pounds  were  thankfully 
returned.  Poor  Jane's  money  was  not  required,  out  she  was  soothed  by 
the  assurance  that  it  should  be  regarded  as  a  fund  to  be  used  in  case  of 
need.  Thanks  to  the  constant  kindness  of  the  good  doctor,  the  house- 
keeping ezpeuses  were  much  less  than  might  be  supposed,  and  indeed 
money  matters  were  so  far  prosperous  that  a  woman  was  hired  to  assbt 
Jane  in  her  increased  duties. 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Selby,  one  day  gently  to  Mr.  Cooch,  "I 
want  you  to  grant  me  another  ^Eivotir.  You  know  how  much  I  live 
alone  even  now ;  the  boys  are  little  home  in  the  day,  except  at  meal 
times,  and,  as  Dr.  Barfoot  wishes  them  to  learn  their  evenino^  lessons 
with  their  schoolfellows,  they  do  not  come  home  more  than  half  an  hour 
before  bedtime.  From  ten  toone,  daily,  I  am  at  Dr.  Barfoot's,  giving 
lessons  to  his  children.  .  Nelly  goes  with  me,  but  then,  you  know,  a  child 
of  her  age  wants  playmates ;  she  will  grow  old  in  mind  and  body,  if  she 
has  no  associates  but  Jane  and  me." 

"  True,"  said  Mr.  Cooch,  with  a  grave  smile;  "but  how  can  I  help 
you,  Mrs.  Selby  ?  Your  little  girl  would  scarcely  choose  me  for  a  play- 
feUow." 

"No,  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Selby,  "but  I  have  been  thinking  that,  as  you 
live  so  near  me,  your  two  little  girls  might  come  in  the  evenings  to  play 
with  Nelly,  and  perhaps  help  me  in  my  sewing;  or,  when  they  get  tired 
of  that,  we  might  have  a  little  music  or  drawing." 

"  I  understand  you,  Mrs.  Selby,  and  thank  you  for  tiiis  real  kindness.  I 
am  not  able  to  educate  my  girls  as  I  vnsh,  and  Mrs.  Cooch  has  many 
household  cares  to  attend  to.     I  do  indeed  thank  you." 

With  all  these  things  to  do,  Mrs.  Selby's  time  now  flew  swiftly  by,  and 
the  long  winter's  evenings,  which  at  a  distance  had  seemed  so  formidable, 
were  frill  of  cheerfrd  occupation.  Mr.  Cooch's  daughters,  two  nice,  well- 
behaved  children,  several  years  older  than  Nelly,  came  every  evening  with 
books  and  work,  and  diligentiy  improved  the  opportunity  thus  afforded 
them  of  becoming  well-educated,  pleasant  girls.  Indeed,  their  lessons 
were  not  heavy;  Mrs.  Selby  was  well  informed,  and  had  the  art  of  im- 
parting knowledge  to  the  young  pleasantly,  and  almost,  to  them,  uncon- 
feioualy.     One  of  the  girls,  who  had  a  good  ear  and  sweet  voice,  she 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  123 

taaght  to  play  and  sing  ;  the  other,  who  had  a  taste  for  drawing,  she  in- 
structed  in  that  delightfiil  art ;  hut,  that  they  might  not  he  unfitted  for 
their  position  in  life,  these  studies  were  kept  subordinate  to  more  useful 
pursuits ;  and  when  Mr.  Cooch  saw  their  improvement,  and  heard  their 
young  voices  lifted  in  sacred  song,  he  blessed  in  his  heart  the  goodness  of 
Providence  which  had  thus  provided  for  his  daughters  instruction  that  he 
could  not  have  afforded  them. 

Mrs.  Selby  seldom  left  her  quiet  cottage,  except  to  attend  to  her  duties 
at  Dr.  Barfoot's,  to  go  out  with  the  children  for  an  evening*s  stroll,  or  to 
call  on  a  sick  neighbotir  to  whom  her  visits  might  afford  comfort.  She 
walked  through  the  world  quietly  and  unobtrusively,  doing  her  duty  as  a 
Christian,  respected  and  beloved.  But  she  did  not  accomplish  an  impos* 
sibility — she  did  not  please  all,  Mrs.  Carthew  remarked  to  Mrs.  Stone- 
man  that  Mrs.  Selby  was  "  a  queer  woman." 

"  She  is  certainly  very  conceited,"  she  said.  "  You  know,  Mrs.  Stone- 
man,  she  owes  us  some  g^titude,  for  we  thought  of  her  in  her  affliction  ; 
we  were  the  very  first  that  did  so,  but  I  really  believe  she  has  never  been 
sufficiently  grateful  for  it.  You  know  that  last  week  I  had  a  juvenile 
party.  Young  people  are  all  for  dancing  now — forfeits,  and  all  mat  sort 
of  thing,  are  quite  gone  out — they  won't  hear  of  them  now.  Very  right, 
perhaps ;  but  then,  you  know,  Mrs.  Stoneman,  a  young  party  is  become  a 
very  troublesome  affftir.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  to  do  with 
them,  or  how  iio  amuse  them — one  cannot  always  have  a  baU,  you 
know." 

"No,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Stoneman  ;  "I  have  quite  a  dread  of  my 
vrinter's  party.  Carpets  to  be  taken  up,  musicians  to  be  hired,  and  I 
know  not  what  all.  It  is  exceedingly  troublesome,  and,  besides,  it  is  ex- 
pensive." 

"  Well,  that*s  what  /  say,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Carthew;  "  and  whenever 
they  go  away  I  can't  help  saying  to  myself,  *  Thank  heaven !  Fm  glad 
that's  over!'  But,  as  I  was  saying  just  now,  last  week  I  had  a  few  yoirag 
people  to  tea,  and,  as  they  must  do  something,  I  thought  I  would  just  in- 
vite Mrs.  Selby ;  she  coidd  make  tea  in  the  lobby,  you  know,  and,  as  she 
plays  nicely,  sne  could  sit  at  the  piano  while  the  young  folks  danced — for 
I  fmd  that  the  girls  are  all  for  dancing,  and  not  one  of  them  is  willing  to 
sit  at  the  instrument;  besides,  they  don't  play  very  well  yet.  Well,  any- 
body but  Mrs.  Selby  would,  in  her  position,  have  been  glad  to  accept  such 
a  compliment;  but  no— ^Ae  returned  a  decided  refusal,  civil  enough,  cer- 
tainly, but  still  very  decided.  I  was  vexed  with  myself  that  I  had  conde- 
scended to  ask  her." 

^^  I  am  glad  you  have  named  this,"  said  Mrs.  Stoneman,  '*  for,  as  the 
Barfoots  receive  Mrs.  Selby  as  a  friend,  I  thought  she  might  be  mad« 
useful  occasionally ;  but  I  shall  remember  this.  I  fancy  Mrs.  Selby 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  herself ;  I  suppose  she  is  too  proud  to  make  herself 
of  any  service.*' 

**  Oh,  no  doubt !"  replied  Mrs.  Carthew ;  **  she  never  sends  anything 
for  our  bazaars,  will  hot  go  out  collecting,  nor  would  she  help  to  make  the 
aprons  which  we  sent  out  to  the  poor  Hottentots,  and  that,  I  think,  was  a 
thing  which,  for  the  sake  of  common  decency,  to  say  nothing  of  humanity, 
everybody  ought  to  have  assisted  in ;  indeed,  she  will  not  do  any  one 
thing.     She  says  her  time  is  occupied  in  attending  the  children  at  Dr. 

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124  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town, 

Barfooi's^  m  domestic  arrangementB,  and  so  on ;  bttt  I  happen  to  knoiw 
that  (^  throws  away  hours  every  evening  in  teaching  that  man  Coodi^s 
children  to  play,  and  sing,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing — ^and  he  only  a  derk 
in  my  husband's  office  I  I  tell  Mr.  Carthew  that  he  should  speak  to  him 
of  the  impropriety  of  having  his  girls  brought  up  like  ladies,  and  if  he  con- 
tinued ity  I  would  turn  him  off." 

About  the  time  when  this  conversation  todk  place,  some  people  oi  ^ 
somewhat  different  description — the  same  in  the  main,  perhaps,  but  modi- 
fied by  circumstances — had  met  at  Mrs.  Cooch's.  They  were  the  mem- 
bers of  what  is  called  a  ^<  Dorcas  Society,"  that  is,  a  party  of  ladies,  gene- 
rally Methodists,  who  meet  at  each  other's  houses  in  rotation,,  at  staibed. 
times,  for  the  purpose  of  making  garments,  &c^,  for  the  poor.  These 
meetings  are  not  only  beneficial  to  those  for  whom  the  garments  aie 
made,  but  pleasant  to  the  makers,  for  the  ladies'  tongues  are  often  as  weil. 
employed  as  thdr  fingers,  and  little  pieces  of  news  are  told,  and  fittle  bits 
of  intelligence  about  their  Mends  and  neighbours  commnmicatedin  a  con- 
fidential manner  quite  ddightfnl  to  Hsten  to.  Sometimes,  however,  they 
have  a  treat  which  is  still  greater  than  this^  especially  i(x  the  unmamed 
ladies,  and  that  is  when,  as  was  the  case  on  the  evening  in  question,  the 
young  preacher  can  be  got  to  read  to  them  while  they  sew.  (In  small 
towns  there  are  generally  two  Methodist  preadiens  one  married,  the  otiior- 
single,  and  the  latter  is  always  emphatically  called  '^  our  ^r^mis^  preacher.") 
T)]Ne  {dan  seems  a  very  gfood  one,  and  worthy  of  more  extensive  adoption. 

The  tea  was  over,  the  young  preacher  had  not  yet  arrived,  and  the 
ladies — about  eight  or  ten  in  nun^r — were  seated  around  a  large  table ; 
a  good  fire  was  burning  cheerily  in.  the  gprate,  and  mould  candles,  m 
candlesticks  c^  various  shapes  and  sizes,  were  on  the  table.  There  had 
been  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  the  cutting  out  and  putting  together  of  the 
work  which  was  scattered  about ;  there  had  been  a  silence  of  nearly  a 
whole  minute,  broken  only  by  the  stkch-stitching  sound  of  needles  and 
the  clicking  of  thimbles,  when  one  of  the  workers  looked  up  suddenly, 
with  the  ques^on,  "  Where  are  your  dai:^hters,  Mrs.  Cooch  ?" 

'^  Oh,  dear  me !"  replied  the  lady  addressed,  in  her  usual  crying  tcme, 
"  you  need  not  ask  where  our  childrraa  are :  they  are  at  Mrs.  ^lby's> 
tf  course.  You  never  find  our  children  at  home  of  an  evening.  As  I 
tell  Mr.  Cooch,  he  has  v^  littie  r^^ard  fi>r  my  ccmifort^  or  he  would  not 
persist  in  sending  my  girls  away  from  me  every  evening  learning  music^ 
and  drawing,  and  nobody  knows  what :  but  tiiere,  he  will  have  his  own 
way  in  everything — I  am  never  thought  of.  He  thinks  a  great  deal  too 
much  of  Mrs.  Selby ;  she  is  one  of  his  none-suches,  and  all  that  she  does 
must  be  right." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  so  highly  of  Mra  Sdiby  as  your  husband 
does,  then,"  said  one  of  the  viators ;  '^  she  seems  to  me  to  do  very  little 
for  anybo^  but  haself.  She  never  distributes  tracts,  nor  takes  a  table 
at  any  puolic  tea;  and  never  goes  to  chapeL  I  declare  it  is  quite 
awful!" 

^  Mrs.  Selby  always  goes  to  church,  I  bdiere,"  said,  gently,  a  littie 
pale  woman,  witii  a  black  gown,  pinched  white  cap  drawn  witii  white 
ribbons,  white  hair,  and  very  white  tee^ 

^  And  suppose  i^e  does,"  rej^ed  Mrs.  Cooch,  in  a  voice  pitched  a  note 
ot  two  even  mgher  than  usual— <^  and  sufrpoie  she  doa%  what  good  is 

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Chronieks  of  a  Camdry  Tamn.  125 

tbat  ?  That  is  but  a  wfaite-waahiiig  of  the  sepolchre ;  a  ckansiiig  of  Am 
oataide  of  the  platter,  J*m  sure.  Better  she  would  go  to  diapel ;  hot 
ew&i  when  the  great  Mr.  Hollow  was  dowa  fiom  Londoo,  she  never  went^ 
though  I  sent  to  say  that  she  might  sit  in  our  seat/' 

<(  On  that  evening/'  said  the  quiet  little  lady,  '^  I  haj^wn  to  know  tbat 
Mrs.  Selby  was  with  &e  poor  woman  whose  child  met  widi  so  dreadfiil 
an  acddent  from  the  fire." 

'<  Wdl,  I'm  sore,'*  said  Mrs.  Cooch,  ''I  would  not  be  nncharitaU% 
but  I  mutt  say  it  was  an  opportunity  w^ch  /  would  no^  hare  missed  for 
worlds.  I  was  so  happy !  I  was  in  sudi  a  heavenly  frame  of  mind,  thai 
I  seemed  to  foiget  toe  world  and  all  behmging  to  it  I  Oh,  he  ii  a 
wonderful  man !  How  anybody  can  refuse  to  go  and  hear  Mr.  HoUow^ 
Tm  sure  I  don't  know !     And  his  manner  in  the  pulpit  is  so  good  !^ 

<'  Well>"  replied  the  little  white  lady,  '^  I  mutt  allow  that  I  think  Mxa. 
Se&y  might  go  to  diapei  tonutimes,  even  if  Ae  prefers  going  to  diurdi. 
As  for  me^  I  am  happy  to  say  I  have  not  entered  a  church  fbr  more  than 
forty  years,  and  I  always  feel  sorry  to  see  people  preferring  the  cold, 
formal,  printed  pray«»  used  there,  to  the  outpourings  of  the  spirit  in  our 
places  of  worship." 

'^  /think  it  is  awfidi"  said  Mrs.  Coodi ;  ^  but,  as  I  say  to  my  hoe- 
basd»  I  trust  no  eddness  will  creep  into  our  little  favoured  Zinn  that 
we  shall  have  no  backsliders  among  us^  As  1  tell  Mr.  Coodi,  I  hope 
we  shall  have  a  rattling  of  dry  bones  among  us  soon,  for  it  is  time.  The 
last  time  I  called  at  £at  IVlrs.  SeUVs,''  3ae  continued,  ^  I  found  her 
leading  a  sinful  bodk,  called  the  liew  MonMy  Magazme!  I  told 
h»  I  hoped  ^e  would  not  put  such  things  into  the  hands  of  my  dul- 
dren ;  for  no  one  ever  came  to  any  good  niio  read  such  carnal-minded 
books  as  those ;  and  she  smiled,  and  said  she  always  attended  to  ]\Le. 
Cooch's  wishes  with  regard  to  their  education.  I — I  suppose — am  of 
no  ooDseqfuence ; — my  c^inions  are  not  to  be  considered!  Onty  last 
week,  too^  I  found  a  piece  of  music  in  Emily's  drawer,  called  ^Tbe 
Overture  to  Der  Frnschutz,'  or  some  such  worldly  thing,  with  a  most 
awfully  sinful  picture  i^n  it  of  little  imps  and  evil  Eqpints  dancing ! 
But  I  cut  it  out — ^yes,  I  cut  off  the  picture,  and  burnt  it  before  Miss 
Emily's  fooe!  Sheened,  and  said  it  was  Mrs.  Selby 's,  and  that  I  had 
destroyed  a  gpreat  part  of  the  music  with  the  picture ;  and  I  irsA  pleased 
that  I  had ;  for  I  was  not  at  all  sorry  to  give  Mrs.  Selby  a  hint  of  what 
I  thought  (tf  her." 

^  T(m  were  quite  right— quite  right,"  said  the  ladies.  And  one  or 
im%  heaving  deep  si^ba  very  much  like  groans,  said,  ^  It  b  a  sinful 
woild ;  it  is  awful  to  see  the  hardness  of  hearty  the  spiritual  blindness 
around  us." 

"  But  where  can  Mr.  Thomas,  our  young  preacher,  be  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Cooch;  "  I  never  knew  him  so  late;  he  rarely  misses  the  tea-hour.  What 
a  gifted  young  man  he  is  I  How  beautifully  he  reads,  and  how  grace- 
folly  he  hands  the  bread  and  butter !  I  declare,  I  could  scarcely  help  cry- 
ing at  hearing  him  read  about  the  hardships  that  our  missionary  and  his 
wife  went  through  in  the  East  Indies,  and  how  the  lions  and  tigers  go 
roaming  about  the  streets  all  night  in  Madras,  and  how  the  poor  slaves 
have  never  anything  to  eat  but  boiled  rice,  without  even  salt,  and  how 


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126  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Towti, 

iiie J  cannot  ^  ont  all  day  long  for  fear  of  being  roasted  in  tbe  sun,  or 
stung  by  adders!  If  Hrs:  Selby  would  only  have  grace  to  read  such 
books  as  that,  it  might  tend  to  wean  her  from  the  things  of  this  world. 
But  here  he  comes." 

And  a  tall,  fat,  pale-faced,  whiskerless  young  man,  with  great  eyes 
and  a  very  tight  white  neckcloth,  entered  the  room,  and  was  gfreeted  as 
Mr.  Thomas.  The  younger  ladies  simpered  and  bridled,  the  elder  ones 
made  quite  a  bustle  in  getting  the  young  man  the  most  comfortable  seat 
by  the  fire,  the  book  was  produced,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
Mrs.  Selby's  name  was  left  at  rest. 

Happily,  Mrs.  Selby  knew  nothing  of  the  kind  things  which  these 
ladies  said  of  her;  her  time  passed  quietly  but  contentedly  away,  and 
month  after  month  glided  on  with  but  one  or  two  events  of  any  import- 
ance to  mark  their  progress.  One  of  these  was  the  removal  of  the  ooys 
who  had  been  entrusted  to  her  care,  and  the  arrival  of  others  in  their  places ; 
the  other  was  a  visit  which  Mrs.  Burrow,  the  rich  aunt,  paid  to  a  friend 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  St.  Bennett's.  She  called  to  see  Mrs.  Selby, 
dined  with  her  once  or  twice,  frightened  little  Nelly  by  the  deep,  rough 
tones  of  her  voice,  scolded  her  for  stooping  and  for  laughing  too  loud,  and 
accused  Mrs.  Selby  of  extravagance  in  getting  fordinner  a  couple  of  roast 
duck«,  with  green  peas.  In  vain  did  Mrs.  Selby  explain,  in  an  apologetic 
tone,  that  poultry  was  cheap  and  plentiful  in  Cornwall. 

"[J call  it  extravagance,  said  Mrs.  Burrow,  in  reply;  "  /never  dream 
of  such  indulgences — J  can't  afford  them." 

Mrs.  Selby  certainly  did  feel  much  put  out,  but  she  did  not  show  it,  and 
when  the  visit  was  over,  she  returned  to  her  usual  habits,  and  could  de- 
scribe laughingly  to  Dr.  Barfoot  what  pains  Mrs.  Burrow  had  taken  to 
assure  her  that  she  should  leave  all  her  wealth  to  her  late  husband's  rela- 
tives. 

"  She  was  quite  right  to  tell  you  of  it,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  I  was  almost 
a&aid  that  my  little  Nelly  might  be  led  to  consider  herself  an  heiress." 

"Oh !  there  is  no  fear  of  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Selby;  "Mrs.  Burrow 
took  great  care  that  we  should  be  dispossesses}  of  the  notion  if  we  had 
ever  entertained  it.  She  said,  *  My  husband's  relations  are  all  rolling  in 
riches,  and  don't  want  my  money  ;  but  they  know  how  to  take  care  of  it, 
and  they  will  have  it  among  them.'  " 

^'  I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Dr.  Barfoot — "  I  am  glad  my  little  Nelly  will 
not  be  spoiled  by  expectations  of  inheriting  wealth,  which  might,  af%er 
all,  be  disappointed.  I  would  rather  teach  a  child  to  beg  its  bread  than 
to  look  forward  to  riches  which  can  only  be  attained  by  the  death  of  a 
fellow-creature.  .  Mrs.  Burrow  did  very  wisely  to  guard  against  such  an 
evil." 


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> 


THE  MILITARY  RESOURCES  OF  RUSSIA. 

Peter  the  Gbeat  had  only  one  boat  as  a  nucleus  for  a  fleet,  which, 
at  the  time  we  write,  consists  of  forty-flve  ships  of  the  line  and  thirty 
frigates.  The  same  creative  genius  had  only  one  company  of  regular 
soldiers — the  Potiaschni — who  mounted  guard  at  the  palaces  of  Moscow,  as 
a  nucleus  for  the  enormous  army  of  Russia  as  it  has  since  gp^wn  up. 
But  while  Napoleon  adopted  as  a  device  '^  After  me  the  deluge,"  Peter 
laboured  avowedly  for  posterity.  Hence  the  ever  increasing  power  of 
Russia ;  everything  is  done  with  a  view  not  so  much  to  the  present  as  to 
the  future.  Russia  does  not  nuse  a  militia  because  a  warlike  cloud  over- 
hangs a  neighbouring  country ;  Russia  does  not  extend  and  diminish  her 
military  resources  according  to  the  political  aspect  of  Europe.  From  her 
eyrie  in  the  Neva  she  has  to  watch  over  Europe,  Asia,  and  part  of  Ame- 
rica<  Chinese,  Tartars,  Persians,  Turks,  are  as  much  to  her  as  Germans, 
French,  and  English.  Her  army  is  ever  increasing  in  niunbers,  and  her 
power  is  ever  developing  itself  further  and  further  in  the  acquisition  of 
new  terntones,  the  colonisation  of  old,  the  subjugation  of  populations, 
and  above  all,  as  Mr.  David  Urquhart  explains  at  length  in  his  work  on 
the  '^  Progress  of  Russia,''  by  opening  the  sources  of  opinion,  and  appro- 
priating the  channels  of  wealth  and  power.*  Long  and  not  uninterest- 
ing would  be  the  duster  we  could  devote  to  the  latter  subject ;  perchance 
we  may  have  an  opportunity  of  doing  so  yet. 

What  a  development,  then,  has  the  kernel  sown  by  the  boatman  of 
Saardam  assumed!  It  has  produced  a  tree,  which  now  spreads  its 
branches  over  three  continents.  Who  will  venture  to  lop  off  one  of 
those  branches  ?  The  Turks  are  pr^ared  to  try :  it  will  be  soon  seen 
with  what  little  chance  of  auccess.  reter  the  Great  had,  before  found- 
ing the  old  guard,  to  disembarrass  himself  of  a  feudal  army  of  irregulars, 
strongly  imlmied  with  the  military  manners  of  Asia,  and  gathered  around 
a  smalf  body  of  perman«at  troops — ^the  redoubtable  Strelitz — the  Parae- 
torians  of  Russia*  An  act  of  decisive  energy,  such  as  was  afterwards  put 
in  force  by  Muhammad  Ali  against  the  Mamluks,  and  by  Mahmud 
against  the  Janissaries,  carried  into  execution  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the 
moat  difficult  wars  Russia  had  till  that  time  been  engaged  in,  rid  him 
for  ever  of  this  arrogant  and  domineering  soldiery.  The  very  successes, 
of  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden  served  to  instruct  Peter  and  to  aggrandise 
the  army.  Even  disasters  with  such  a  nation  only  turned  to  the  profit 
of  their  patron  deity,  Ruski-Bog  ;  and  in  nine  years*  time  they  were 
prepared  to  take  their  reveuge  at  Pultava  for  their  defeat  at  Narva. 

After  the  death  of  Peter  and  of  his  great  general,  Gordon,  the  Russian 

*  Progress  of  Russia  in.  the  West,  North,  and  South,  &c.  By  David  Urquhart. 
Trabn^  jnd  Ca 

Oct — VOL.  XCIX.  KO.  CCCXCIV.  K 

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123  The  Military  Resources  of  Russia. 

army  found  in  Keith,  Munith,  and  Mentschikoff,  men  equal  to  the  task 
of  continuing  the  work  of  the  g^at  founder.  But  eyen  in  the  time  of 
Frederick  the  Great,  the  Russian  aqny,  with  its  yast  bodies  of  Cos- 
sacks roving  around  the  regular  troops,  was  still  looked  upon  as  some- 
thing like  those  great  Asiatic  hordes  which,  from  the  tame  of  Xerxes,  had 
ever  been  more  formidable  to  the  people  among  whom  they  moved,  than 
to  the  trained  bands  of  more  civilised  nations.  The  battle  of  Zomdorf 
first  showed  the  conqueror  of  RossbsEch  and  of  Leuthen  which  of  his 
enemies  vere  the  most  formidable  on  the  field  of  battle.  Keith  vn:^te  to 
Frederick  :  <'  To  conquer  the  Russians,  you  must  make  a  breach,  and 
then  demolish  them  as  you  would  a  fortress."  The  reputation  for  an 
almost  invincible  obstinacy  has  ever  since  remained  to  the  Russians,  and 
that  reputation  was  only  increased  by  the  great  ^defensive  battles  fought 
against  Napoleon.  Suwaroff  hgs,  however,  shown  that  the  Russians  are 
also  capable  of  taking  the  offensive.  The  assaults  of  Ismail,  of  Praga, 
and  of  Urnerloch,  as  well  as  on  the  lines  of  Warsaw,  and  the  march  across 
Switzerland,  sufficiently  attest  what  can  be  done  with  Russian  troops 
under  a  good  general. 

No  trouble,  no  expense,  have  been  spared  since  the  great  wars  of 
Europe  to  strengthen  and  discipline  the  army  of  Russia.  For  twenty- 
five  years  has  the  present  energetic  and  soldier-like  emperor  toiled  at  that 
great  object.  Even  the  expedition'  into  Hungary  taught  the  Russians 
that  some  little  modifications  might  be  introduced  into  their  system  with 
advantage,  and  they  were  at  once  adopted.  The  Russian  army  is  now, 
in  consequence,  in  point  of  number,  organisation,  and  instruction,  a  totally 
different  force  to  what  it  was  in  the  time  of  the  great  wars.  Nor  in  any 
other  country  of  Europe  have  the  militaiy  forces  increased  since  the 
peace  of  Paris  as  they  have  in  Russia.  The  bravery  and  the  discipline 
have  remained  the  same,  while  the  efficacy  in  organisation  and  science 
has  become  quite  a  different  thing. 

The  Russian  army  is,  in  the  present  day,  composed  of  regular  troops 
and  of  a  feudal  militia,  which  comprises  the  Cossacks  and  other  similar 
troops,  that  mainly  constitute  the  light  cavalry.  The  regular  %rmy  is 
disposed  according  to  the  geographical  and  political  necessities  of  so  vast 
an  empire.  This  is  one  of  the  most  important  points  in  the  organisation 
of  the  Russian  army,  and  it  is  the  more  interesting  to  the  stranger,  as  it 
is  the  one  to  which  the  existing  emperor  has  mx)st  pai'ticularly  devoted 
his  attention.  Every  regiment  is  divided  into  battalions,  or  squadrons,  on 
active  service,  and  form  part  of  an  organised  corps  d'arm^e  (Deistvouiou- 
schtschiia),  and  of  battalions  of  reserve  (Sapasniia),  or  d^p6ts — a  gather- 
ing-point alike  for  veterans  and  for  young  recruits.  Other  troops,  be- 
longing to  the  local  garrisons,  or  to  the  irregular  militia,  are  also  attached 
to  the  great  corps  d'arm^e. 

Every  corps  d'arm^e  is  completely  org^sed,  has  its  own  staff,  engi- 
neers, artillery,  and  waggon-train.  It  is  composed,  vidth  th§  exception  of 
the  guard,  which  constitutes  a  corps  of  itself,  of  a  corps  of  grenadiers, 
of  six  corps  of  infantry^  and  of  two  corps  of  cavalry  of  reserve.  A 
corps  so-ciuled  of  infantry,  corresponds  to  what  Napoleon  understood  by 
a  corps  d'armee,  that  is  to  say,  it  is  a  corps  composed  of  troops  of  all  arms, 
but  of  which  the  infantry  constitute  the  major  part.  The  corps  of  cavalry 
in  reserve  is  composed  of  cavalry  and  of  horse  artillery.  The  second  of 
these  corps  is  peculiar  to  Russia.     It  is  composed  of  dragoons,  which  an 

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The  MiUtary  Resources  of  Russia.  129 

called  upon  to  perform  the  service  of  infantry,  of  cavalry,  and  of  :artillery 
at  the  same  time.  By  means  of  ^s  peculiar  corps,  it  is  in  the  power  of 
ihe  commander  to  direct,  with  the  utmost  despatch,  eight  hattalions  of 
600  men  each,  with  48  guns,  upon  the  most  distant  points.  The  corps 
of  the  g^ard,  and  that  of  the  grenadiers,  is  composed  of  picked  men,  and 
comprise  the  same  number  of  battalions. 

Id  general  the  army  is  dispoi^  as  follows :  Four  corps  of  infantry, 
under  Prince  Paskiewitsch,  in  Russian  Polandu  commonly  called  ^e  Polish 
army ;  the  5th  corps  of  infantry,  on  the  J^ck  Sea ;  the  6th  corps,  at 
Moscow,  ready  to  reinforce  the  Pdlish  or  the  Black  Sea  army ;  the  corps 
of  the  guard  and  that  of  the  grenadiers,  stationed  at  St.  Petersburg 
and  at  Novgorod ;  the  c&valiy  in  reserve  is  stationed  chiefly  in  the  military 
colonies  of  Kherson  and  of  Kharkoff.      # 

The  guard  comprises  3  divisions  4if  infantry,  subdivided  again  into 
6  brigades,  12  regiments,  and  37  battalions ;  3  divisions  of  cavalry,  com- 
posed of  6  brigades,  and  12  regiments,  with  60  squadrons  of  regular,  and 
17^  squadrons  of  irregular  horsemen.  Add  to  this  1  division  of  artillery, 
of  6  brigades,  and  16^  batteries,  44  guns  horse  artillery,  72  foot  artil- 
lery, 1  battalion  of  sappers  and^  miners,  and  2  squadrons  of  horse  engi- 
neers, with  pontoons,  &c.  The  infantry  of  the  g^nadier  corps  is  the 
same,  but  it  has  only  1  division  of 'cavalry,  of  2  brigades,  or  4  regi- 
ments, comprisii)g'  32  squadrons  of  regular  cavalry;  also  4  brigades 
of  artillery,  with  14  batteries,  and  88  g^ns;  imd  1  battalion  of  sappers. 

Each  ii^antry  corps,  or  more  properly  speaking,  each  corps  d  arm^e, 
comprises  18  divisions  of  infantry,  36  brigades,  72  regiments,  and  294 
battalions  ; '6  divisions  of  cavalry,  12  brigades,  24  regiments,  and  192 
squadrons  of  regular  horsemen.  To  these  are  attached  6  divisions  of 
artOlery,  comprising  24  brigades,  and  84  batteries,  96  mounted  guns, 
576  foot  artillery,  and  6  regiments  of  sappers.* 

The  1st  corps  of  cavalry  in  reserve  comprises  3  divisions  of  6  brigades, 
12  regpiments,  and  80  squadrons,  with  1  division  of  artillery,  comprising 
6  batteries,  and  48  guns.  The  2nd  corps  of  cavjdry  in  reserve — the 
hybrid  mounted  infantry — and  dragoon  artillery,  is  composed  of  2  divi- 
sions, 4  brigades,  8  regiments,  and  80  squadrons,  with  6  batteries,  and 
48  guns.  The  division  of  light  cavalry  is  also  subdivided  into  2  brigades, 
4  reghnents,  and  24  squadrons,  with  3  batteries,  and  24  guns. 

Total  Russian  force:  24  divisions,  48  brigades,  96  regiments,  368 
battalions  of  infantry ;  16  divisions,  32  brigades,  64  regiments,  468 
squadrons  regular,  and  17-i- irreeular  cavalry.  Artillery:  11  divisions, 
33  brigades,  128^  batteries,  276  horse,  720  foot,  or  996  guns. 
'  It  would  result  from  this,  that  Russia  can  employ  in  an  European  war 
368  battalions  of  infantry,  468  squadrons  of  cavalry,  and  996  guns, 
without  the  reserve,  the  local  garrisons,  or  the  army  of  the  Caucasus 
bemg  in  an^  way  reduced.  These  troops,  therefore,  comprise  neither 
veterans  nor  recruits. 

What  is  much  more  difficult  to  determine  satisfactorily,  is  the  nume- 
rical force  of  these  divisions.     Some  writers  go  to  an  extreme  in  one 

*  When  we  read,  then,  that  since  the  rejection  of  the  Vienna  note  the  third 
corps  of  the  Russian  army,  under  General  Osten-Sacken,  has  received  orders  to 
march  on  the  prineipalities,  the  reader  will  be  able  to  understand  that  no  less 
than  72  regiments  of  infantry,  24  of  cavalry,  with  96  guns,  are  meant* 

k2  i  \ 

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ISO      "  The  Military  Besovrcen  ofBussin. 

directioii  when  they  say,  <'  The  Russmn  army  cmly  exists  on  paper.*' 
Others,  as  our  present  authority,  the  Baron  Auguste  de  Haxtliaasen,* 
with  strong  imperii^  tendencies,  may  he  considered  as  unsafe  in  an 
opposite  direction.  These  tendencies  are  made  pretty  manifest  when  we 
read  such  a  passage  as  this :  '^  Napoleon's  sapng  upon  the  future  of 
Europe,  fifty  years  hence  (of  which  less  than  thirty  remain  to  he  aocoms' 
pHshed),  produces  the  greater  effect,  itom  every  one  attributing  to  that 
axtraor^nary  man  the  faculty  of  being  able  to  giye,  on  such  matters,  wf& 
only  a  mere  competent  opinion,  but  a  positive  prophecy.  Thus,  then, 
Europe  will  be  delivered  over  to  democracy  or  the  Cossacnss.  Now,  sinee 
the  Republican  system  is  in  manifest  decline,  are  we  not  brought  to  think 
that  we  are  likely  to  see  the  second  half  of  this  oracle  realised !" 

The  Baron  de  Haxthausen,  thftn,  allowii^  for  deductions,  non-combat- 
ants, superior  officers,  waggon-traio,  musicians,  &c.,  estimates  the  Rusaan 
infantry  at  383,600  men ;  if  leave  of  absence  was  in  operation,  at  3S2,100 
men ;  or,  including  deaths,  desertion,  hxi^  at  260,000 ;  and  the  cavahy 
at  82,800  men,  or,  with  losses  as  before  flowed,  at  70,000. 

Thus  at  the  present  moment  Russia  can  bring  into  active  operation  a 
force  of  380,000  infantry,  87,000  cavaby,  and  more  than  1000  guns, 
widiout  reckoning  100,000  Landwekr  raised  since  1848.  Adding  die 
Cossacks,  Russia  can,  in  the  eventuiUity  of  an  European  war,  operate 
without  its  own  territory  with  500,000  men  without  la^g  itself  open  to 
Great  Britain,  to  Sweden,  or  to  the  CaucasiB. 

Taking  the  system  of  reserve  into  consideration,  the  official  statiraient 
would  be  as  follows  : 

Active  army 486,000  men,  with  996  guns 

1st  reserve,  or  levy 98,000    „        „     192     „ 

2nd  reserve,  or  levy 115,000    „        „    280     „ 

699,000    „       „  1468     „ 
to  which  must  be  added  the  corps  of  engineers,  waggon-traio,  and  tlit 
light  irregular  cavalry. 

But  while  in  other  countries  the  troops  destined  to  foam  the  active 
army  are  employed  in  times  of  peace  in  services  that  are  performed  in 
time  of  war  by  militias  or  national  guards,  diese  services  are  performed 
in  Russia  by  a  special  army  <^  regular  troops.  Thus  we  have  in  additioa 
to  the  troops  fdready  enumerated  50  battalions  of  interior  guard,  12 
battalicms  of  Finnish  troops,  10  battalions  of  Orenbom^  troops^  and  15 
battalions  or  Siberian  troops.  To  this,  agiun,  must  be  added  ^  army 
of  the  Caucasus,  which  comprise  ^^  battcdions  of  infietntry,  10  squadrons 
of  cavalry,  and  180  guns.  Lastly,  we  have  26,000  reserve,  22,000 
veterans,  13,800  invalids,  40,000  en^yed  in  works ;  total,  299,800  men. 
If  to  these  we  add  15,000  f(Mr  the  reserve  of  the  line,  we  have  a  total  of 
315,000  men. 

We  have  before  seen  that  the  active  army  presented  a  grand  total  ef 
699,000  men ;  if,  then,  we  add  to  this  the  other  reserves,  including  the 
Cossacks,  the  Russian  army  could  be  made,  from  the  wganisatton  eos- 
forred  upon  it  by  the  Emperor  Nicholas,  to  furnish  in  case  of  a  great 
war  ONE  iaLXK)N  of  combatants,  with  1800  guns  ready  hamcised! 
This  is  said  to  be  the  estimate  of  a  Prussian  officer  of  great  experience 

*  Les  Forees  Militakes  de  la  Rassie,  sous  ks  Bapports  Higtoriques,  Statistiqiieii, 
Ethnographiques,  et  Folitiques.    Par  le  Baron  Auguste  de  Haxthausen. 

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The  MUkary  Rewurces  €fRus$ia.  131 

on  the  point  in  qaeftbn,  as  wdl  as  that  of  the  Baron  Augoste  de 
Haxthaosen. 

The  esprit  de  eorpSj  neeessarr  in  all  armies,  is  kept  np  in  lius  Tsst 
SBBemblage  of  armed  men — ^the  largest  the  worid  e^er  yet  saw — hy  giving 
to  the  regiments  the  names  of  soccessfbl  chiefii  and  enmerors,  or,  as  with 
lis,  ci  ihs  towns  or  provinces  where  Uiey  were  chiefly  recruited.  To 
this  is  superadded  a  system  of  nmnhering,  which  facilitates  the  dassifica- 
tkm  of  the  regiments.  This  system  is  so  perfect,  and  the  mechanism — 
more  especially  of  brigading  troops — ^is  tmonghont  so  simple,  that,  i( 
well  and  e£fectaally  caocried  oat  in  active  op^^tions^  if  the  springs  work 
w^  and  nothing  encombers  the  wheels  or  impedes  the  harmonious 
working  of  every  detail  into  a  perfect  ^vHiole,  this  enormous  machine  only 
wants  the  sHghtest  impulse  m>m  a  skilful  hand  to  woric  with  unex- 
ampled force  and  rapidi^. 

Mudi  has  be^i  said  against  the  Russian  ^stem  of  uphdkling  the  in- 
tegrity of  this  vast  force,  by  making  the  children  of  soldiers  soldiers  by 
biiih.  But  the  system  has  at  least  this  advantage,  that  it  encourages 
wddierB  to  marriage ;  and  what  English  or  French  soldier  would  not  be 
glad  to  marry  if  he  knew  that  ms  children  would  be  educated  and 
povided  for  hy  the  stale,  as  m  Russia  ?  Haxdiausen,  a  Crerman,  says, 
how  many  Garman  soldiers  are  incapacitated  by  bad  disorders,  how  many 
seductions  and  illeg^mate  children  have  tiietr  origin  in  die  prohibi- 
tion oi  msurriage !  ''  Proud  inhatntants  <^  the  West,"  he  exclaims,  '^  you, 
irbo  pride  yourselves  that  your  civilised  government  does  not,  like  Russia, 
treat  sc^diers  and  their  diildren  as  a  property,  Hke  so  many  cattle,  or 
^leep,  go  to  some  seaport  of  that  free  England  and  listen  when  an 
En^ish  re^ment  is  embarking  for  the  colonies  to  the  lam^itations  of 
^  misMiMe  beings  who  have  been  honest  enough  to  marry.  See  that 
wcmian  and  her  children  left  on  die  ^re  a  prey  to  the  most  grievous 
despair."  It  is  not  separation  only  that  causes  such  excessive  grief.  There 
is  no  provimn  for  her  or  for  her  children,  and  her  husband  and  her 
diildien*s  protector  is  taken  away  from  her.  In  Russia,  wh^re  soldiers' 
doldien  are  the  property  of  the  atate,  so  also  is  the  married  woman  and 
her  ofi&pring  tenderly  eared  for.  All  the  corps  have  their  fixed  stations, 
and  even  £timiture  for  the  married.  In  barracks  alone  the  beds  of 
married  coupks  are  simply  marked  off  by  green  curtains.  In  the  military 
eekxues  they  have  their  private  habitations.  The  children  are  brought 
tip  by  subsidies  giv^i  to  die  parents,  or,  if  the  latter  wish  it,  by  govern- 
ment.  Aceordmg  to  the  invariable  Russian  rule  of  classifying  every- 
l^ng,  there  are  25  battalions  and  20  squadrons,  with  five  batteries  of 
wooden  g^ns,  of  these  children  of  the  state. 

The  Russian  army,  it  will  be  readily  understood,  is  made  up  of  very 
heterogeneous  materials,  the  aptitude  of  which,  for  military  service, 
diffexs  ooBsideraUy.  Thus,  ^e  offie^ng  of  the  army  is  mainly  in  the 
hands  of  Germans  and  Grei^  Russians.  The  Muscovites,  known  by  the 
ktttt  designation,  have  much  aptitude  for  infsintry  tactics,  but  they  are 
Wutalised  by  frequent  corporeal  punishmeM.  The  White  Russians,  when 
sabjected  to  the  vegukir  life  and  diet  of  a  soldier,  become  too  fat.  The 
Lettonians  are  a  cowardly  race,  who,  after  a  time,  affect  the  Frenchified 
airs  of  a  Russian  soldier.  The  Sarmatians,  Little  Russians,  Tartars,  and 
Cossacks,  on  the  other  hand,  all  take  delight  in  war — the  greater  part  as 

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132  Jihe  Military  Resources  ofBiasia. 


horsemen.  The  Fins  furnish  a  few  good  ri6emen ;  they  are  the  otAj 
good  siulors  of  the  empire.  The  Jews  are  also  recruited ;  hut  they  are 
only  used  as  workmen.  They  are  said,  however,  to  make  good  siulors. 
Out  of  65  to  70  millions  of  men,  subjects  of  the  Tsar,  40  to  45  millions 
(of  whom  34  millions  are  Great  Russians)  are  subjected  to  conscription. 
AH  these  Great  Russians  are  not  only  innocent  of  all  bellicose  ardour, 
but  they  hold  the  military  profession  in  positive  horror. 

Looked  upon  in  a  purely  ethnographical  point  of  view,  Russia,  from 
the  tendencies  of  it^  predominant  race,  and  of  the  great  majority  of  those 
who  are  allied  to  it,  would  appear  to  be  destined  by  nature  to  consti- 
tute a  pacific  nation  of  industrious  and  commercial  habits,  of  peasants 
and  of  herds,  rather  than  a  military  nation  called  upon  to  domineer  over 
the  world.  What  a  pity  that  the  successive  heads  of  such  a  nation 
should  have  mistaken  their  mission !  Even  in  most  cases  De  Hax' 
thausen  will  have  it  Russia  has. as  yet  only  fought  on  the  defensive  side; 
and  in  the  case  of  the  Poles  and  the  Tartars,  it  is  only  just,  he  argues, 
that  the  restless  warrior  races  should  be  subjected  by  a  more  powerful 
'<  pacific"  nation !  Let  us  hope  that  this  is  the  case  also  with  regard  to 
the  position  of  Russia  and  Western  Europe,  although  it  is  evident  that 
Haxthausen  himself  is  in  momentary  dread  of  an  advance  of  the  Rus- 
sians into  the  heart  of  Germany ;  but  even  if  so,  it  certainly  is  not  the 
case  with  regard  to  the  position  of  Russia  in  relation  to  Turkey.  The 
possession  of  Constantinople,  the  resuscitation  of  the  Gredk  worship 
at  St.  Sophia,  and  the  holding  the  keys  of  the  Bosphorus  and  of  the 
Dardanelles,  is  an  undying  traction  with  the  Russian,  be  he  Tsar  or  be 
he  serf.  Nor  with  inflexible  perseverance  opposed  to  a  degenerate  semi- 
barbarous  race,  and  the  erroneous  policy  of  western  nations  in  opposing 
tiiemselves  to  the  enormous  power  of  Russia,  instead  of  availing  them- 
selves of  the  obstacles  presented  by  the  intervening  prindpalities  of  the 
Danube,  will  the  day  of  success  be  long  delayed. 

Although  the  Russian  army  is  recruited,  like  that  of  other  nations, 
from  vagabonds,  idlers,  and  bad  subjects,  more  particularly  malefeustors 
and  criminals,  it  is  still  acknowledgedly. deeply  imbued  with  religious  fed- 
ing.  The  strange  way  in  which  ideas  of  God,  of  the  Tsar,  and  of  the  country 
are  mixed  up  together  in  the  mind  of  the  Russian  boor,  ensure  an  enthu- 
siasm in  the  soldiery  as  great  almost  as  that  which  inspired  the  first  fol- 
lowers of  Muhammad.  If  the  Russian  does  not  fight  from  any  chivalrous 
inspiration,  he  fights  for  his  God  and  the  Tsar,  for  the  love  of  Holy 
Russia  and  the  Russian  nationality.  As  was  the  case  with  the  Jews  in  olden 
time,  the  Russians  are  strongly  imbued  with  the  religious  conviction  that 
they  are  the  chosen  of  God.  The  stoicism  shown  by  the  Russian  solditf 
in  the  hour  of  danger  rests  on  his  deep  faith  in  his  mission,  and  the  celes- 
tial reward  that  awaits  him.  These  religious  sentiments,  and  the  cha- 
ractek'  of  the  Slavonian  nationality,  also  produce  a  marked  antipathy  for 
all  that  is  foreign — an  antipathy  which  is  one  of  the  great  features  of 
Muscovite  character,  and  which  tends,  no  doubt,  to  fortify  the  military 
Opirit.  The  Slavonian  elasticity,  the  vanity  and  pliability,  the  spirit  oi 
association,  and  the  very  physiciEd  aptitudes  of  the  Russian,  furnidi  ma- 
terials for  what  is  called,  m  its  ensemble^  esjpril  de  corps. 

The  subjection  of  the  Russian  soldier  is  so  perfect,  that  it  is  impossible 


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2%f  MHUary  Resources  of  Russia.  133 

to  contemplate  anything  more  nnifbrm  than  Russian  troops.  Their 
dress,  their  march,  Uieir  manners,  nay,  their  very  physiognomieiSy 
bear  the  same  impression  eyerywhere.  This  is  almost  ridicdonsly 
prominent  in  the  g^ard,  where  they  put  the  men  with  light  hair 
and  blue  eyes  into  one  company,  and  the  men  with  dark  hiur  and  dark 
eyes  into  anoUier.  The  excessive  discipline  enforced  in  the  Russian  army 
nas  no  parallel  since  the  time  of  the  Romans.  The  Russian  soldier  is 
not  allowed  to  think  for  himself,  still  less  to  criticise.  This  passive 
obedience  has  given  rise  to  many  stories  of  the  spirit  of  an  order  being 
sometimes  confounded  with  the  letter.  One  day,  a  ship,  having  many 
officers  and  soldiers  on  board,  went  down  in  the  Neva.  The  oi^er  was 
passed  to  the  soldiers  to  save,  in  the  first  place,  the  officers  of  the  guard. 
So  of  each  person  they  succeeded  in  getting  hold  they  anxiously  in- 
quired if  he  was  an  officer  of  the  guard  ?  The  water  filling  the  mouths 
of  these  unfortunates,  *they  could  not  answer;  so  they  were  allowed  to 
drown.  Another  time,  it  being  very  dusty,  the  soldiers  were  ordered  to 
water  the  field  for  exercise.  While  engag^  on  this  duty,  it  came  on  to 
rain  heavily,  but  the  soldiers  continued  their  labour  notwithstanding.  It 
was  sufficient  that  it  was  ordered  !  At  the  time  of  the  destruction  of  the 
winter  palace  by  fire,  a  priest  succeeded,  with  great  difficulty,  in  getting 
into  the  chapel  to  rescue  the  sacramental  plate.  As  he  was  returning,  he 
saw  a  soldier  in  the  corridor  enveloped  in  smoke.  *'  Come  with  me,"  he 
shouted  out,  "  or  you  will  perish  in  the  flames.**  "  No,"  answered  the 
soldier ;  **  but  give  me  your  blessing."  Another,  caught  in  an  inunda- 
laon,  allowed  himself  to  be  drowned  rather  than  leave  his  post.  The 
military  purposes  of  this  wonderful  subordination — ^probably  in  great 
part  the  result  of  the  frequent  application  of  the  stick,  a  weapon  which 
plays  a  most  important  part  in  the  formation  of  the  Russian  soldier — will 
be  best  understood  from  another  anecdote.  At  the  siege  of  Warsaw,  a 
young  g^nadier,  addressing  himself  to  an  old  soldier,  and  pointing 
towards  the  Polish  entrenchments,  said,  **  What  do  you  think,  comrade 
— do  you  think  we  shall  take  those  entrenchments  ?"  "I  scarcely  think 
we  shall,"  answered  the  other ;  **  they  are  too  strong.'*  **  But,"  added 
the  young  soldier,  *' suppose  we  are  ordered  to  take  them?**  "  Oh! 
then  it  will  be  another  thing ;  if  we  are  ordered  to  take  them,  we  will 
take  them.** 

The  religious  feeling  is  entertained  in  the  Russian  regiments  by  a  num- 
ber of  papas,  or  popes,  attached  to  each.  Every  soldier  has  his  amulets 
and  images  of  saints.  The  emperor  gives  the  example  of  devotion.  On 
£aster  Monday  he  issues  forth  from  the  palace  and  embraces  the  sentinel 
posted  at  the  gate,  saying,  <'  Christ  is  risen  again  !'*  to  which  the  soldier 
answers,  "  Yes,  truly,  he  is  risen  again."  It  is  said  that  one  day  the 
soldier  on  duty  replied,  "Yes,  so  they  say."  He  happened  to  be  a 
Tartar,  who,  by  the  chances  of  conscription,  had  got  into  the  guard. 
Ever  since,  the  post  at  the  palace  has  been  entrusted  to  none  but  ordiodox 
Russians. 

The  Russians  have  a  first  g^nadier.  His  name  was  Archippe  Ossi- 
poff,  and  he  sacrificed  himself  in  1840  in  blowing  up  the  fort  of  Mik- 
hailofF  rather  than  let  it  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Circassians.  When 
the  first  grenadier  of  the  first  company  of  the  regiment  of  Teng^nsk  is 

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134  The  Military  Meaauren  t/  Busmu 

oalledy  the  existing  fint  grenadier,  who  ia  reekoned  as  second^  has  t^ 
axiswer,  ''Dead,  for  the  honour  of  the  Russiaa  arms  in  die  fort  of 
Mikhaiiloff.*^  The  regimoiiy  of  Tscheroigoff  has  die  privil^;e  of  weariag 
red  stoddngs,  because  at  die  baide  of  Pultaya  it  waded  vp  to  the  kaeea 
in  blood. 

The  Cossacks,  or,  as  they  eall  themselves,  Tscherkesses,  or  Cireaasians, 
are  of  canons  races,  diieflj  of  pastoral  or  nomadic  habits,  dwelling  <»k 
the  steppes  or  plains  of  Southern  Russia,  and  united  together  in  demo* 
eratie  associatioBS  for  the  purposes  of  war  and  plund^ — war  being 
looked  upon  as  a  means,  plunder  as  the  invariable  object.  The  CossaidEa 
of  Litde  Russia  dwelt  on  the  Dniepr — the  Cossacks  of  Great  Russia  oa 
the  Don.  The  Cossack  is,  however,  no  longer  now  what  he  was  in 
olden  times ;  the  fuing  of  a  neighbouring  stanitzi  no  longer  cidls  him  to 
hoBse.  Roused  from  dieir  slumbers,  they  no  longer  hurry  to  the  fords  of 
the  Donetz.  or  the  Don  to  carry  off  die  booty  and  prisoners  made  by 
Tartar  tribes.  They  ciui  no  longer  make  plundering  expedidons  into< 
die  Criffiea,  or  along  the  i^Knres  of  the  sea  of  Aaoff.  The  Cossacks  are 
now  in  great  part  embodied  among  the  regular  troops ;  soch  as  are  not 
SD  are  still  regularly  organised  fbr  service.  Among  a  Iftrge  portion  the 
sword  has  taken  the  place  of  the  lance,  and  they  now  have  evmi  their 
artillery.  It  is  questionable  whether,  luider  such  a  system,  and  debarred 
of  their  aneient  privileges  of  plund^,  the  Cossack  has  not  lost  some  of 
diase  qualities  which  once  made  him  so  formidaUe  to  the  enemy.  Their 
OMorage  became  doubtful  in  Poland,  and  more  than  doubtful  in  die 
Caucasus.  It  is  said  diat  they  somewhat  retrie^red  tbdo:  cfaaraoter  in 
Hungary ;  but  still  the  Cossack  of  the  present  day  is  no  longer  the  fear- 
less, indefiatigable,  chivalrous  cavalier  that  never  ceased  to  sweep  the 
skirts  of  la  grande  ctrmee.  The  Cossacks  of  the  present  day  are  those  of 
the  Don,  comprising  58  regiments  of  cavalry,  and  14  batteries  of 
hocse  artillery.  Those  of  Azoff,  with  30  gun-boats.  The  Cossacks  of 
•  the  Danube,  widi  2  regiments  of  cavalry.  Those  of  the  Black  Sea, 
eompaising  12  regiments  of  cavalry,  9  battalions  of  rifiemen,  3  horse 
and  1  foot  batteries.  The  Cossacks  of  the  Caucasus,  with  18  regi- 
ments of  eavi^  and  3  horse  batteries.  Those  of  the  Ural,  eoaiprising 
\2  cavalry  regiments.  Those  of  Orenbourg,  10  regiments  of  cavalry. 
Those  of  Siberia,  9  regiments  of  cavalry  and  3  batteries  of  horse 
artillery.  Tlie  Cossaeks  of  the  firoatiers  of  China,  8  aotni.  The  Cos- 
sacks of  Astrakhan,  3  regiments  of  cavalry  and  1  battery  of  horse 
artillery.  The  eitixen  Cossacks  of  Siberia,  8  foot  regiments,  or  battalions.. 
Totali  124  regiments  of  126,200  men  and  224  guns.  A  tolera% 
effective  army  of  itself,  but  a  portion  of  which  is  permanendy  i^sodbed 
in  the  war  in  the  Caucasus. 

To  these  must  be  added  the  Tartars  of  the  Crimea,  who  once  boasted 
of  their  Xhaas  at  the  head  of  150,000  horsemen,  and  now  only  contribute 
one  squadron  of  fine  troops  to  the  Imperial  Guard.  The  Circassians  and 
Georgians  furnish  a  squadron  of  the  guard  forming  the  personal. escort  of 
the  emperor,  and  wid&  die  squadron  of  Cossaeks  of  the  Guard,  the  so- 
ealkd  ^^  Tscherkesse  Guard,"  also  one  re^ment  of  cavalry  to  the  Pdiah 
army,  and  one  regiment  of  infantry  employed  against  the  Leagbis.  The 
Basubra  and  Metscheriadksof  Pevra  and  Orenbourg  also  furnish  small  con* 


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Th€  Military  Se$ourees  &f  JRusaia*  135 

trngmitB;  and  lastly  iha  Bumts  and  Ttmqraes  fonmlft  five  ivgiments  of 
eavairy  to  aid  the  CoMackB  in  guardbg  the  Chineae  fimntier. 

The  Coflaacks  are  still  armed  with  bows  and  arrows,  so  that  diey  can 
kill  a  sentind  withont  the  least  noise ;  their  whde  war  is  a  straggle  cf 
itill,  personal  coorage,  and  daring,  against  which  a  German  peasant, 
or  a  Parisian  tailor,  turned  soldier,  has  no  more  chanoe  than  he  wonld 
lia?e  against  a  Bedouin  And>.  The  system  of  phmder  is  so  organised 
amoDg  them,  that  when  in  Paris  in  1812 — 14,  they  had,  by  dint  of  riding 
hog  stages,  a  regalar  line  of  Cossack  posts  extending  from  the  Seine  to 
the  Don,  and  along  which  ^e  booty  was  daily  transmitted.  This  lime 
was  established  and  kept  uf  by  themselres! 

It  is  but  fiur  to  remark  of  this  force,  which  is  at  once  everywhere  and 
BOwh«e — of  this  soldier,  who  with  his  arms  so  tight  as  not  to  make  the 
atightest  noise,  steals  upon  his  enemy  like  a  t^er^-^who,  spread  oat  like  a 
swarm,  defy  dike  great  g^s  and  musketry,  and  wait  dieir  moment  to 
rash  ^ke  lightning  upon  the  foe^— -that  k  has  also  bcenjsaid  of  them  that 
by  their  devastations  tliey  often  ooaipromiee  the  safoty  of  their  own  army 
withoiit  in  any  way  contributing  to  the  general  results  oi  the  war. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Rossian  army — the  most  numesooa 
body  of  men  ever  yet  coQeoted  together  by  one  nation  for  puiposes 
of  war^— has  its  deficiencies  and  its  shoit-eomkigs ;  one  of  die  chief  of 
which  is,  that  which  is  almost  ins^Monbie  from  so  vast  an  organisation, 
the  difiermee  between  the  nominal  and  the  really  effective  sum  totaL  But 
stBl  the  existence  of  such  an  army,  greater  than  that  of  all  the  other  Eu- 
ropean powers  put  together,  cannot  be  looked  upon  without  fediags  of 
apprehension  not  unmingled  with  awe.  There  have  ever  been  upon  this 
point  two  classes  <^  thiakers,  both  having  an  exb«me  tendency,  one  to 
underrate  the  power  of  Russia,  the  other  to  make  too  much  of  it  The 
loiddle  is  at  once  the  safest  and  most  rational  position  in  which  to  stand 
in  a  discussion  which  has  had  no  small  amount  of  asperity  thrown  into  it. 

One  of  the  best  proo6  of  what  tiiat  power  is,  cannot  be  better  shown 
than  at  the  present  moment,  when  all  the  power  of  the  Porte,  seeonded 
by  its  vassals  of  Egypt  and  Tunis,  and  badced  by  its  fanatic  and  vrariifae 
hordes  from  Arabia,  Kurdistaa,  and  Aflwnia,  has  been  unable  to  ndae  an 
army  that  can  combat  more  than  one-tenUi  of  the  army  which  the  Tsaor 
eould  bring  i^;unst  the  devoted  empire.  It  has  been  found,  also,  at  a 
convenient  moment,  that  even  the  possession  of  the  seas  would  not  iofiuence 
the  march  of  armies  by  land.  Nothing  can  better  show  the  necessify  of 
neither  tmdenating  nor  tampering  with  ihe  power  of  Russia. 

The  heterogeneous  composition  of  the  Rusnan  army;  its  wide  dissennna^ 
tioo,  and  the  difficulties  of  assembling  its  various  corps;  the  want  of  sinews 
of  wai;  or  the  means  of  crippling  these;  the  inherent  weakness  of  the  an* 
toeratic  government,  and  the  insubordinate  relations  of  Tsar,  m^lity,  and 
■erfilom,  have  all  alternately  been  held  fortkk  as  drawbacks  upon  its  noonasd 
•trength.  But  many  of  these  points,  as  its  wide  dissemination,  might,  in 
another  sense,  be  looked  upon  as  Russia's  strength.  For  example,  if 
Rosna  eould  not  afford  to  have  a  separate  avmyin  the  Caucasas,  it  oould 
aot  vSotd  to  go  to  war  with  Turkey;  as  if  it  could  not  afford  an  army  in 
Poland,  it  could  also  not  affi>rd  to  beard  France  and  Glieat  Britado.  Ai 
te  the  mmt  tf£  sinews,  the  yeaiiy  increasing  value  of  the  Ural  and  Sibv* 

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136  The  Military  Re$ovree$  of  Russia. 

nan  nunes  must  have  gone  on  for  some  time  past  dimimshing  any  cfaances 
of  accident  on  that  score;  add  to  which,  the  Russian  commissariate  is  noto- 
riously the  cheapest  (proportionally)  in  the  world — so  also  with  the  poli- 
tical weakness  inherent  in  an  autocracy.  The  emperor  himself  entertains 
a  precisely  opposite  opinion,  and  rates  the  divided  and  dilatory  counsels 
of  a  representative  system  at  a  very  low  figure. 

Events  alone,  in  the  words  of  M.  de  Haxthausen,  can  give  an  answ^ 
as  to  how  this  immense  military  force  may  be  brought  to  act.  The  mili- 
tary power  of  Russia  is  almost  as  untried  as  is  its  navaL  In  the  last  war 
with  Turkey,  the  notoriously  deficient  and  straggling  fortifications  of 
Varna  were  sufficient  to  hold  the  Russians  in  check  for  months.  The 
natural  and  artificial  defences  of  the  Balkan,  at  every  point,  whether  in 
Servia,  Bulgaria,  or  at  Shumla,  are  not  to  be  sneered  at.  When  we  read, 
dien,  that  the  advance  of  Russia  to  Constantinople  will  be  little  better 
than  a  military  promenade,  we  may  be  permitted  to  doubt  it  There  is 
the  Danube  to  pass,  which  cannot  be  done  without  some  loss  from  the 
Turkish  irregulars  encamped  on  its  banks.  The  Balkan  may  be  turned, 
but  not  without  a  struggle.  This  is  supposing  that  no  opposition  pre- 
sents itself  from  the  west,  and  that  Austria  is  gained  over  by  the  bribe  of 
Croatia,  Bosnia,  and  Hertzegovina. '  But  the  advance  of  the  Russian 
army  would  be  further  impeded  by  the  allied  fleet  holding  the  coast.  If 
the  Russians  ventured  to  engage  that  fleet,  all  the  chances  of  war  are  in 
Cavour  of  the  allies.  The  capture  of  Constantinople  might  also  be  for  a 
long  time  thwarted  by  such  a  success  on  the  part  of  the  fleet.  But  still 
the  grand  results  would  ultimately  (without  unforeseen  elements  coming 
into  operation,  and  complications  arising,  which  it  would  be  more  tedious 
than  difficult  to  discuss  here)  be  in  favour  of  the  colossal  Christian  power 
that  would  hold  Adrianople  on  the  one  side,  and  advance  through  Asia 
Minor  on  the  other.  The  very  guns  of  the  Bosphorus  and  of  the  Dar- 
danelles might,  if  no  land  force  was  brought  into  co-operation,  be  made 
to  revenge  any  probable  disaster  on  the  Black  Sea. 

The  war  now  entered  upon  is  a  war  of  religion ;  it  is  a  last  and  final 
crusade  of  Christianity  against  barbarous  Islamism.  The  proclamation 
of  the  Russian  commander-in-chief,  which  concludes  with  the  following 
words — **  Russia  is  called  upon  to  annihilate  Paganism,  and  those  who 
would  oppose  her  in  that  sacred  mission  shall  be  annihilated  with  the 
Pagans.  Long  life  to  the  Tsar !  Long  life  to  the  God  of  the  Russians" 
— leaves  no  doubt  upon  the  subject. 

There  is  every  reason  to  presume,  from  the  manner  in  which  diplo- 
matic proceedings  have  been  made  to  march  side  by  side  with  the  con- 
tinuous pouring  in  of  troops  into  the  principalities  on  the  Danube, 
that  the  Emperor  of  Russia  never  intended  to  be  stopped  in  the 
line  of  conduct  which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself.  The  hasty 
acceptance  of  the  note  prepared  by  the  conference,  before  it  had 
been  accepted  by  the  chief  party  in  question,  as  also  the  aggrieved 
party — Turkey — was  a  refined  piece  of  diplomacy.  It  enabled  the 
emperor  to  say  to  the  conference,  *'  You  dictated  terms  such  as 
you  deemed  it  honoiurable  and  just  for  Russia  and  Turkey  to  accede 
to.  I,  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russians,  hastened  at  once  to  give  in  my 
adhesion  to  the  arrangement  proposed  by  your  honourable  conference. 


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The  Military  Resources  of  Russia*  137 

Turkey  refused  to  accede  to  these  proposals,  but  insisted  upon  impossible 
modifications.  Turkey  has  tlierefore  only  herself  to  blame^  and  the 
European  powers  having,  through  the  Vienna  conference,  pledged  them- 
selves to  an  arrangement  which  Russia  accepted  and  Turkey  alone 
rejected,  the  said  powers  must  feel  that  they  can  no  longer  in  honour 
lend  their  material  support  to  the  disaffected  Muhammadans." 

We  have  never  shrunk  from  expressing  our  opinion  that  Great  Britain 
and  France  would  place  themselves  in  a  wrong  position  in  entering  upon 
a  war  in  favour  of  a  decrepit,  barbarous  race  ana  an  unenlightened  faith^ 
against  a  young  and  colossal  Christian  power.  This  feeling  is  only  in- 
creased by  a  sense  of  the  difficulties  of  the  case.  A  cowardly,  inefficient 
ally  in  the  field,  an  incongruous,  discordant  population  on  all  sides,  an  in- 
capable, profligate  administration  to  guide  all,  and  an  enemy  with  almost  ex« 
hausUess  resources  to  combat.  The  Anglo-French  fleet  is  totally  unequal, 
with  such  an  ally  and  such  odds,  to  bring  the  strus^gle  to  a  successful  issue 
for  Muhammaaanism.  It  is  now  acknowledged,  even  by  those  parties 
who  would  have  had  us  g^  to  war  upon  the  first  occupation  of  the  princi- 
palities by  the  Russians,  that  the  result  of  that  war  could  never  be  the  up- 
holding of  Turkey  in  Europe.  Its  fate  is  decreed  within  its  own  bosom,  and 
are  those  countries  prepared  to  throw  their  whole  power  into  the  balance? 
Tet  once  beg^n  it  might  be  dangerous  to  the  ultimate  safety  of  all 
Europe  to  leave  off  in  disgrace.  In  the  presence  of  so  imminent  a  danger, 
and  in  the  presence  of  such  manifest  pohtical  perplexities,  how  much  more 
reasonable  it  would  be  for  the  four  powers  to  wait  their  time  for  throw- 
ing their  united  influence  into  the  balance  to  determine  the  future  of  the 
East;  to  see  that  the  Tsar  does  not  rule  at  once  at  St.  Petersburg  and 
at  Constantinople;  to  assure  the  independence  of  the  Danubian  provinces, 
and  to  establish  an  independent  Christian  dynasty  at  Byzantium  ;  in  fact, 
to  look  after  their  own  interests  and  the  interest  of  all  Europe  that  is  not 
Russian,  instead  of  hurrying  into  a  hasty  war  for  a  bankrupt  faith  and 
race,  £rom  which,  unless  imited  in  a  common  cause,  they  may  not  be  able 
to  extricate  themselves  without  difficulty  or  disaster.  Such  is  the  position 
Great  Britain  and  France  would  be  placed  in  almost  inevitably  after 
war:  better,  then,  that  they  should  stand  in  that  position  previous  to  war 
being  commenced.  They  would  at  least  have  uninjured  resources  to  back 
their  diplomacy,  unquestionable  rights — those  of  a  conmion  interest,  a 
common  religion,  and  a  common  civilisation — would  then  be  with  them, 
and  the  sympathies  of  all  mankind  that  is  not  Russian  or  Muhammadan 
would  also  be  on  their  side. 


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(  1^38  ) 


AN  EVENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON* 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP  "  THE  UNHOLY  ^WTISH.** 


It  was  early  on  a  summer's  morning,  many  years  ago,  that  a  party  of 
five  or  six  persons,  most  of  whom  were  in  the  bloom  of  yt)ntli,  stood  on 
the  shores  of  the  Adriatic  Gulf,  about  to  embark  in  a  four-oared  gondola, 
which  was  moored  to  its  banks.  Gondoliers — ^boatmen,  as  we  should  caS 
them — ^bustled  around.  Some  inspected  the  oars,  some  were  getting  the 
gondola  in  rowing  order,  some  were  standing  guard  over  the  provisions 
and  other  articles  about  to  be  stowed  away  in  it ;  and  one,  whose  coun- 
tenance wore  a  peculiar  expression,  chiefly  because  it  possessed  but  one 
eye,  stood  close  to  the  principal  group,  waiting  for  orders. 

It  may  be  well  to  notice  this  group  before  proceeding  further.  Fore- 
most and  most  conspicuous  of  it  was  a  man  of  distinguished  appearanee, 
and  noble,  intelligent  features.  He  looked  about  thirty  years  of  ag«,  but 
he  may  have  been  a  year  or  two  older,  or  yoimffer.  His  personal  diarae- 
teristics  need  not  be  more  particularly  descnbed,  since  his  ^Eune  has 
caused  them  to  be  familiar  to  most  classes.     It  was  Lord  Byron. 

A  little  away  from  him  stood  an  Italian  woman,  young,  and  passaMj 
lovely.  Her  features  were  not  classically  beautiful,  but  ihe  daucnng  bloc 
eyes  that  lighted  them  up,  and  the  profusion  of  fair  ringlets  that  adorned 
them,  rendered  the  face  more  than  pleasing.  There  is  no  necessity  for 
mentioning  her  name  here  :  it  has  been  coupled  with  Lord  B3rron's  too 
long,  and  too  publicly,  for  any  familiar  with  the  records  of  his  life  to  be 
at  a  loss  to  supply  the  deficiency.  To  call  her  Madame  h,  Contessa,  w31 
be  sufficient  for  us.  Her  brother,  the  Count  G.,  was  standing  near 
her :  but  where  was  the  old  lord,  her  husband  ?  Never  you  inquire 
where  a  lady's  liege  lord  may  be,  when  referring  to  Italy :  be  very  sufe 
that  it  is  anywhere  but  by  the  side  of  his  wife.  Two  more  gentl^en 
completed  the  assemblage :  one  was  the  Marquis  F. ;  the  other  a  French- 
man, Monsieur  H. ;  passing  acquaintances  of  Lord  Byron. 

They  had  been  staying  for  a  tew  days  at  one  of  the  inhabited  islands 
of  the  Adriatic.  It  had  been  a  suddenly-g^-up  little  party  of  pleasure, 
having  started  one  fine  morning  from  Ravenna,  in  the  gondola,  and  had 
proceeded  by  easy  sails,  now  touching  at  one  point,  now  at  another,  to  the 
place  where  they  were  for  the  moment  locatCKl.  Their  object  this  mofii- 
ing  was  to  gain  one  of  the  uninhabited  isles,  spend  the  day  on  it,  and 
return  back  in  the  evening.  Some  of  these  little  solitary  islands  were 
luxuriant  and  beautiful,  well  worth  the  trouble  of  a  visit,  when  within 
reach. 

The  gondoliers,  the  same  who  had  accompanied  them  firom  Ravenna, 
continued  their  preparations  for  departure,  but  so  dreamily  and  lazily, 
that  only  to  look  on  would  put  a  Thames  waterman  into  a  fever.'    Lord 

*  It  is  believed  by  the  author  of  these'  pages,  that  the  incident  they  relate 
is  scarcely,  if  at  all,  known  in  England.  Tet  this  little  episode  in  the  career  of 
Lord  Byron  is  surely  worthy  of  being  recorded  in  the  poet's  own  land,  and  in  his 
native  tongue.  It  is  pretty  generally  known  abroad,  not  only  in  Italy :  the  author 
has  heard  it  spoken  of  more  than  once,  and  has  also  met  with  it,  minutely  detailed, 
in  a  French  work.   It  occurred  during  the  poet's  last  sojourn  abroad. 


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An  Event  in  &e  Life  of  Lard  Byrm.  136 

Bjvm  was  aceistoined  to  Italian  idleness  and  Italian  maaners,  nerer^ 
theless  he  would  sometimes  get  impatient — as  on  this  morning.  He 
leaped  into  the  gondola. 

^  Do  yoa  think  we  shall  get  away  to-day  if  yoa  go  on  at  this  pace  ?" 
he  cried,  in  ItaMan.  ^'  And  who  is  going  to  he  subjected  to  the  bob's 
force  through  your  laziness  T* 

^^  The  sun's  ^aroe  is  not  on  yet,  signor,*'  one  of  the  men  yentured  to 
remonstrate. 

<<  But  it  will  be  soon,"  was  the  answer  of  his  lord^p,  with  an  ItaEan 
expletive  which  need  not  be  translated  here.  "  Cydops,  hand  in  thai 
fewling-piece :  give  it  me.  Mind  the  lines— don  t  you  see  you  are 
getting  them  entangled.  Madame  la  Contessa,  what  has  become  of  your 
dcetch-book  ?* 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  gay  blue  ^es,  and  pointed  to  the  book  in 
question,  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  ki^hed  at  Ins  mistake,  as  he 
threw  it  down  beside  him  m  the  boat. 

**  You  are  forgetful  this  morning,"  she  observed. 

<'  My  thou^its  are  elsewhere,"  was  his  reply ;  ^  lliey  <^ften  are.  hsA 
more  so  to-day  than  ordinary,  for  I  have  had  news  from  England." 

"  Received  news  to-day ! — here  ?"  was  the  exclamation. 

<<  Yes.  I  left  orders  at  Ravenna  that  if  anjrthing  came  it  should  be 
sent  on  here." 

At  length  the  party  embarked.  Count  G.  took  his  place  at  the 
helm,  and  the  four  others  arranged  themselves,  two  on  either  side* 

"  Which  isle  is  it  the  pleasure  of  the  signer  l^iat  we  make  for  ?"  in- 
quired one  of  the  gondoliers,  wit^  a  glance  at  Lord  Byron. 

He  was  buried  in  abstraction,  and  did  not  answer,  but  the  Frenchman 
spoke. 

"  Could  we  not  push  on  to  Cherso  ?" 

^  Oberso !"  reiterated  the  count,  opemng  his  oyes  to  Ijieir  utmost 
width.  ^  Much  you  know,  my  dear  friend,  of  tlie  localities  of  these 
islands.  It  would  take  us  twelve  months,  about,  to  get  to  Cfaerso  in  this 
gondola." 

^  They  were  telling  us  about  the  different  merits  of  these  i4es  last 
night.     What  do  you  say,  mi-lord  ?" 

^  I  care  nothing  about  it ;  only  settle  it  between  yourselves,"  was 
Lord  Byron's  listless  r^y. 

^'Dio!  but  you  are  polite,  all  oi  you!"  uttered  the  marquis.  ^' La 
Co&tessa  present,  and  you  would  decide  wilJiout  consulting  her !" 

**  If  you  ask  me,"  rejoined  the  lady,  "  I  diould  say  Ae  wker  plan 
would  lie  to  leave  it  to  toe  men.  They  are  iniKsh  better  acquainted  with 
the  isles  than  we  are." 

The  men  bid  on  their  oars,  and  looked  up. 

**  Where  are  we  to  steer  to  ?" 

'*  To  whichever  of  the  islands  vnthin  reach  yoa  think  best,"  replied 
Loitl  Byron ;  and  thm  oars  again  stm^  the  vrater. 

"  Yo«  say  you  have  had  news  firom  England,"  observed  Count  6.  to 
Lord  Byron,     "Good,  I  hope." 

"  Nothing  but  newspsmers  and  reviews." 

«No  letters?" 

^Nboe.     Tiuxse  I  left  in  England  lure  stnu^y  negleetful  of  me. 

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140  An  Event  in  the  Life  of  Lord  Byrcn. 

Fofgotten  that  I  am  alire  perhaps.  Well — ^why  should  they  remem- 
ber it?" 

'<  The  letters  may  have  miscarried,  or  heen  detained.*' 

"  May  I  Out  of  sights  out  of  mind)  G.  Yet  there  are  some  one  or 
two  from  whom  I  was  fool  enough  to  expect  different  conduct." 

"  What  do  the  newspapers  say  ?"  inquired  the  signora. 

<^  I  have  scarcely  looked  at  them.  There's  the  average  dose  of  pariia- 
mentary  news,  I  suppose ;  a  quantum  suf  of  police '' 

"  No,  no,**  she  interrupted,  <*  you  know  what  I  mean.  What  do  they 
say  ahout  you — the  reviews  ?" 

^<  Complimentary,  as  usual,"  was  the  poet's  reply.  '*  I  wonder,"  he 
continued,  with  a  smile,  half  of  sadness,  half  of  mockery,  <<  whether  my 
enemies  will  ever  he  convinced  that  I  am  not  quite  a  wild  heast.*' 

''  You  are  hitter,"  exclaimed  the  countess. 

"  Nay,"  he  returned,  "  I  leave  bitterness  to  them.  It  is  the  epithet 
one  of  them  honours  me  with,  <  caged  hyena.!  Were  it  not  for  a  mix- 
ture of  other  feelings,  that  combine  to  keep  me  away,  I  would  pay  old 
England  a  speedy  visit,  and  convince  them  that  a  wild  beast  may  bite,  if 
his  puny  tormentors  go  too  far.  By  Heaven !  I  feel  at  times  half  re- 
solved to  go  !" 

*•'  Would  you  take  such  a  step  lightly  ?"  inquired  the  countess. 

"  England  and  some  of  her  children  have  too  deeply  outraged  my 
feelings  for  me  lightly  to  return  to  them,"  he  replied. 

"  How  is  it  that  they  abuse  you  ?  How  is  it  that  they  suffer  you, 
who  ought  to  be  England's  proudest  boast,  to  remain  in  exile  ?" 

"  Remain  in  exile  !"  was  his  ejaculation :  "  they  drove  me  into  it" 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  was  her  next  remark,  "  that  they  coidd  not 
know  you,  as  you  really  are." 

"None  have  known  me,"  was  his  answer.  "  It  is  the  fate  of  some 
natures  never  to  be  understood.     I  never  have  been,  and  never  shall  be." 

Lord  Byron  could  not  have  uttered  a  truer  word.  Some  natures 
never  are  and  never  can  be  understood.  The  deeply  imagfinative,  the 
highly  sensitive,  the  intellect  of  dreamy  power ;  a  nature  of  which  these 
combined  elements  form  the  principal  parts,  can  never  be  comprehended 
by  the  generality  of  the  world.  It  knows  its  own  superiority ;  it  stands 
isolated  in  its  own  conscious  pride.  It  will  hold  companionship  with 
others,  apparently  but  as  one  of  themselves,  in  carelessness,  in  sociality, 
in  revelry :  but  a  still  small  consciousness  is  never  absent  from  it,  whis- 
pering, even  in  its  most  unguarded  moments,  that  for  such  a  nature  there 
NEVER  can  be  companionship  on  earth:  never  can  it  be  understood,  in 
life,  or  after  death.     And  of  such  a  one  was  Lord  Byron's. 

The  lady  by  his  side  in  the  boat  that  day,  remarking  that  his  own 
countrymen  could  not  have  understood  him,  perhaps  thought  that  she 
did ;  in  fact,  the  observation  would  seem  to  imply  it  The  noble  poet 
could  have  told  her  that  she  knew  no  more  of  nis  inward  nature,  his 
proud  sad  heart,  his  shrinking  sensitiveness,  than  did  those  whose  delu- 
sion she  deplored.  Of  such  men — and  God  in  His  mercy  to  thanselves 
has  vouchsafed  that  they  shall  be  rare — there  are  two  aspects,  two 
natures ;  one  for  themselves,  the  other  for  the  world :  and  they  know 
that  in  all  the  ways  and  realities  of  life,  they  are  i^pearing,  involun- 
tarily, in  a  fidse  chiuracter.     You  who  are  not  of  this  few,  who  have  been 

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An  Event  in  the  Life  of  Lord  Byron-  141 

blessed  with  a  mind  fitted  to  play  its  practical  part  in  the  drama  of  life, 
will  prohahly  not  understand  this ;  neither  can  you  understand  the  hitter 
feeling  of  isolation  that  forms  part  of  such  a  nature  at  knowing  it  can 
never  be  understood,  never  be  appreciated. 

Madame  la  Contessa,  in  answer  to  Lord  Byron  s  last  remark,  spoke 
out  with  all  the  heat  and  fervour  of  her  native  land.  '^  I  ^ould  bum 
with  impatience,  I  should  scarcely  live  for  fever,"  were  the  passionate 
words,  '^  until  1  had  convinced  them  of  their  error,  and  shown  them 
that  you  are  one  to  be  loved  aod  prized,  rather  than  hated  and  shunned." 

A  sad  smile  passed  over  the  celebrated  lips  of  Lord  Byron.  "  It  is 
not  my  fate,"  he  saud,  in  a  tone  that  told  of  irony.  "  Love — as  you  call 
it — and  I,  were  not  destined  by  the  stars  to  come  into  contact.  Not  one 
human  being  has  ever  looked  upon  me  with  an  eye  of  love." 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  deprecatory  exclamation. 

"  Never,"  he  persisted;  and  if  she  could  have  read  the  darit  feeling  ot 
desolation  that  his  own  words  awoke  within  him,  she  would  have  mar- 
velled at  his  careless  aspect,  and  the  light  Italian  proverb  that  issued 
from  his  lips.     "  Bacio  di  bocca  spesso  cuor  non  tocca." 

''  But  these  wicked  men  in  England  who  rail  at,  and  traduce  you," 
resumed  the  countess,  **  why  don't  you  throw  it  back  on  their  own  evil 
hearts  ?    You  have  the  power  within  you." 

''  /  bide  my  time,*'  was  his  answer.  "  If  I  live^  they  may  yet  repent 
of  the  wrong  they  have  done  me." 

"  But  if  you  Ae,"  cried  the  Italian,  in  her  passionate  impatience — "  if 
you  die  an  early  death  ?" 

"  Then  God  s  will  be  done !"  he  answered,  raising  his  straw  hat,  and 
leaning  bareheaded  over  the  side  of  the  gondola,  as  he  looked  down  at 
the  water.  They  were  much  mistaken,  those  who  accused  Lord  Byron, 
amongst  other  heinous  faults,  of  possessing  no  sense  of  religion. 

The  gondoliers  were  applying  themselves  vigorously  to  their  oars,  and 
the  party  g^ve  their  minds  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  dreamy  indolence, 
as  they  quickly  glided  over  the  calm  waters  of  the  Adriatic.  At  length 
they  reached  tiie  island,  one  especially  lauded  by  the  men.  The  gondola 
was  made  fast  to  the  shore,  and  Lord  Byron,  stepping  out,  gave  his 
hand  to  the  countess.  It  was  indeed  a  lovely  place.  Scarcely  half  a 
mile  in  length,  and  iminhabited,  the  green  grass  was  soft  as  velvet ;  tall 
bashes,  and  shrubs  of  verdure,  were  scattered  there,  affording  a  shade 
from  the  rays  of  the  sun ;  beautiful  flowers  charmed  the  eye ;  various 
birds  flew  in  the  air  ;  a  small  stream  of  water,  abounding  in  fish,  ran 
through  the  land,  and  all  seemed  loveliness  and  peace. 

The  gondoliers  proceeded  to  unload  the  boat.  Two  good-sized 
hampers,  one  containing  vnne,  the  other  provisions,  lines  for  fishing, 
gmis,  a  book  or  two,  the  contessa's  sketch-book,  crayons,  &c.,  were 
severally  landed.  Added  to  which,  there  were  some  warmer  wrapperings 
for  the  lady,  lest  the  night  should  come  on  before  their  return ;  and 
there  was  also  a  large  cask  of  spring  water,  for  although  the  island  they 
had  landed  on  contained  water,  some  of  the  neighbouring  ones  did  not, 
and  when  they  started,  the  gondoliers  did  not  know  which  they  should 
make  for.  The  gondola  was  emptied  Of  all,  save  its  oars,  and  was  left 
secured  to  the  banL 

Oct. — ^VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCIV.  L 

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14&  An  Event  in  the  Life  ef  Lord  Byron, 

"  And  BOW  for  oar  pTogranime^^'  ^xdakned  Lord  ByiOD.  "  Wkst  is 
to  fee  Ae  order  of  Ae  day  T* 

'^  I  shall  haTe  an  honr'fl  angling,"  ofeserved  Coont  G.,  beginmng  to  set 
in  order  the  fishing-tackle.  '^  By  die  hody  of  Baoehns,  -diovgh  !  I  hmt 
forgotten  the  bait." 

^  Just  like  you,  G.  T  laughed  Lord  Byron. 

^'Tliere  is  some  bait  here,"  obserred  one  of  the  gonddierB.  "Ify 
lord  had  it  brought  down." 

^  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,"  «aid  the  count  to  Lord  B3nron,  jej- 
^Uy  taking  up  the  bait.     '^  I  fetnember  mm  where  I  left  it." 

"  Ay,  I  have  to  think  for  all  of  you,"  was  his  observation.  "  Marqms, 
flow  do  you  mean  to  kiU  time  ?" 

"  In  killing  bbds.  H.  and  I  propose  to  ha?e  a  shot  or  two.  Wifl 
you  join  us  ?" 

"  Not  I,"  answered  Lord  Byfon  :  "  I  have  broioglit  Bay  English  papers 
widi  me.  You  must  ky  the  repast  in  the  best  spot  you  can  find,"  he 
continued  to  liie  men.     **  We  shall  be  ready  for  it  soon,  I  suppose." 

The  party  dispersed.  Oount  G.,  with  chm  of  the  gondofiers,  to  ^ 
stream  ^  the  marquis  and  the  Frenchman  to  the  remotest  parts  of  the 
idand,  fully  intending  to  kiH  all  they  oaime  in  s^ht  of ;  die  countees 
seated  herself  on  a  low  bank,  her  sketolHbo(^  on  \m  knee,  and  prepared 
her  drawing  materials ;  whilst  the  ill-starred  English  nobleman  op^ied  a 
review,  and  threw  himself  on  the  grass  dose  by. 

Do  not  cavil  at  the  word  ^  ill-0t«rred :"  for,  ill<^stiaTed  he  eminently 
was,  in  all,  save  his  genius.  It  is  true  that  compensates  for  nxudi,  bci 
in  the  social  conditions  of  life,  f^w  have  been  so  unhappy  as  was  Lord 
Byron.  It  was  a  scene  of  warfare  with  hknsetf,  ojt  with  others,  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave.  Asa  child,  he  was  not  loved ;  for  it  is  not  the  ^ 
and  the  passionate  who  make  themselves  fiiends.  His  mother,  so  we 
may  gather  from  tiie  records  left  to  us,  was  not  a  judkious  trainer  :  now 
indulging  him  in  a  reprehensible  degree ;  now  thwarting  htm,  and  wiA 
fits  of  violence  that  terrified  him.  His  greatest  n^ortnne  was  his  de- 
formity, slight  as  it  was,  for  it  was  ever  present  to  has  mind  nig^t  and 
day,  wounding  his  sensitiveness  in  the  most  tender  point.  An  imagina- 
tive, intellectual  nature,  such  as  his,  is  always  a  vain  one  :  not  the  vaniiy 
of  a  little  mind,  but  that  of  one  conscious  of  its  superiority  over  the 
general  multitude.  None  can  have  an  idea  <^  the  blight  such  a  personal 
defect  iivill  i^row  over  1^  mmd  of  its  sufferer,  rendbring  the  manners, 
in  most  cases,  awkward  and  reserved.  Before  his  boyhood  was  over, 
came  his  deep,  enduring,  unrequited  love  for  Miss  Ohaworth — a  love 
which,  there  is  no  doubt,  cdoured  the  whole  of  his  £ature  •existence,  even 
to  its  last  hour.  A  few  years  of  triumph  foQowed,  ^vhen  all  bowed  down 
to  his  surpassing  genius  :  a  triumph  which,  however  gratifying  it  may 
have  been  to  his  vanity,  touched'  not  Ins  heart ;  for  that  heart  was  pre- 
maturely seared,  and  the  only  one  whose  appveciation  could  have  set  it 
throbbing,  and  in^ose  praise  would  h«f e  been  Mstened  for  as  the  greatest 
bliss  on  earth,  was,  to  him,  worse  than  notinng.  Then  eaane  his  manis^fe, 
and  that  need  not  be  commented  xm  here :  few  umons  have  brought 
less  happiness.  His  affairs  abo  became  embarrassed.  None  can  read 
those  lines  touching  upon  this  fact,  without  a  painful  throb  of  pity :  and, 
be  assured,  that  when  he  penned  them,  the  gveatest  anguish  was  seated 

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An  Event  in  the  Life  of  Lord  Byron.  148 

HI  has  heart    I  f^g^t  what  poem  i^  lines  are  in,  neither  can  r^ie- 
member  them  correctly,  but  they  run  something  in  this  fashion :  "^ . . 

And  he,  poor  fellow,  had  enough  to  wound  him. 

It  was  a  trjTiDg  moment,  that  which  found  him 
Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth, 

WhilrtaU  his  household  gods  lay  8hiTer*d  round  him. 

They  may  be  in  **  Childe  Harold" — they  may  be  in  "  Don  Juan** — they 
may  be  in  a  poem  to  themselres:  no  matter :  tney  refer  to  a  very  nnhappy 
period  of  Tms  chequered  life.  Abandoned  by  those  he  may  have  expected 
to  cherish  him;  s^bused  and  railed  at  by  the  public,  who  took  upon  them- 
selres to  judge  what  they  knew  nothing  of;  stung  to  the  quick  by  aecusa-* 
tions,  most  of  which  were  exaggerated,  and  some  wholly  false,  he  once 
more  went  into  exile.  A  foreign  land  became  his  home,  and  there,  far 
from  aH  he  cared  for,  he  led  a  solitary  and  almost  isolated  existence.  His 
Kfe  had  but  one  hope  that  erer  cheered  it ;  but  one  event  to  look  forward 
to,  as  a  break  to  its  monotonous  outline,  and  that,  was  the  arrival  of  letters 
and  news  from  England.  Lord  Byron,  above  aU  others,  required  the  eit^ 
citement  of  fame  to  sustmn  him:  his  vanity  was  constitutionally  great^ 
and  he  had  been  brought,  in  many  ways,  before  the  public.  Only  this 
one  break — and  how  poor  it  was  f — to  fill  the  void  in  his  life  and  heart! 
He  EteraWy  yearned  for  England — he  yearned  to  know  what  was  said, 
what  thought  of  him — he  yearned  for  the  hour  that  should  set  him  right 
with  his  accusers.  It  has  been  said  that  he  met  abuse  with  contempt, 
scorn  with  indifference  :  yes,  but  only  to  the  world. 

That  an  hour  would  come  when  he  should  be  compensated  for  his  harsh 
treatment,  when  England  would  be  convinced  he  was  not  the  fiend  she 
described  him,  Lwd  Byron  never  doubted.  But  those  dreams  were  not 
to  be  realised.  The  unhappy  nobleman  lived  on,  in  that  foreiffn  country, 
a  stranger  amongst  strangers.  There  was  nothing  to  bring  him  excite- 
ment, there  was  no  companionship,  no  appreciation :  it  was  enoug^h  to 
make  him  gnaw  his  heart,  and  die.  He  formed  an  acquaintance  with  one, 
whom  the  world  was  pleased  to  declare  must  have  brought  him  all  the  con- 
solation he  required.  They  spoke  of  what  they  little  understood.  It  may 
bave  served  to  y/h^e  away  a  few  of  his  weary  hours,  nothing  more :  all 
passion,  all  power  to  love,  had  passed  away  in  that  dream  of  his  early 
life.  A  short  period  of  this  unsatisfactory  existence,  and  the  ill-£!kted 
poet  went  to  Greece — to  die.  As  he  had  lived,  in  exile  from  his  own 
land,  where  he  had  so  longed  to  be,  so  did  he  die.  Could  he  have  fore- 
seen this  early  death,  he  probably  would  have  gone  home  long  before — 
or  not  have  quitted  it. 

And  there  he  reclined  on  the  grass  tihisday,  in  that  uninhabited  island, 
poriug  over  the  bitter  attacks  of  the  critics  on  his  last  work— drinldng  in 
the  remarks  some  did  not  scruple  to  make  upon  Inmself  personally,  and 
upon  the  Hfe  he  was  lea^g.  The  lady  there,  busy  over  her  sketching, 
addressed  a  remark  ix>1iim  from  time  to  time,  bulb  foimd  she  could  not  get 
an  answer. 

At  length  fhey  were  cafied  to  dine.  Ere  they  sat  down,  all  articles, 
not  wanted,  were  returned  to  the  gondola.  Guns,  fines,  books,  news- 
papers— everything  was  put  in  order,  and  placed  in  the  boat,  the  sketdh- 
book  and  pencils  of  the  signora  alone  excepted. 

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144  An  Event  in  the  Life  of  Lord  Byron, 

"  What  sport  have  you  had?"  inquired  Lord  Byron,  sauntering  towards 
his  shooting  friends. 

"  Oh,  passable — very  passable." 

'*  Butwhere's  the  spoil?" 

^^  Everything's  taken  to  the  gondola,"  replied  the  marquis,  speaking 
very  rapidly. 

"  I  saw,  borne  towards  the  gondola,  a  bag  full  of — emptiness,"  observed 
Count  G.  .  "I  hope  that  was  not  the  spoil  you  bagged." 

*'  What  fish  have  you  caught  ?"  retorted  the  marquis,  who,  bemg  a 
wretched  sportsman,  was  keenly  alive  to  all  jokes  upon  the  point. 

"  Not  one,"  grumbled  G.  "  I  don't  mind  confessing  it.  I  have  not 
had  a  single  bite.  I  shall  try  a  different  sort  of  bait  next  time:  this  is 
not  good." 

They  sat  down  to  table — if  a  cloth  spread  upon  the  grass  could  be 
called  such.  A  party  carre  it  might  have  been,  for  all  the  interest  Lord 
Byron  seemed  to  take  in  it.  He  often  had  these  moody  fits  after  re- 
ceiving news  from  England.  But,  as  the  dinner  progressed,  and  the 
generous  wine  began  to  circulate,  he  forgot  his  abstraction;  his  spirits  rose 
to  excitement,  and  he  became  the  very  life  of  the  table. 

"  One  toast !"  he  exclaimed,  when  the  meal  was  nearly  over-—"  one 
toast  before  we  resign  our  places  to  the  gondoliers !" 

"  Let  each  give  his  own,"  cried  Count  G.,  "  and  we  will  drink  them 
together." 

"  Agreed,"  laughed  the  party.     "  Marquis,  you  begin." 

*•  By  the  holy  chair!  I  have  nothing  to  give.  Well:  the  game  we 
did  not  bag  to-day." 

A  roar  of  laughter  followed.     "  Now  H.  p" 

"  France,  la  belle  France,  land  of  lands!"  aspirated  the  Frenchman, 
casting  the  balls  of  his  eyes  up  into  the  air,  and  leaving  visible  only  the 
whites,  as  a  patriotic  Frenchman  is  apt  to  do,  when  going  into  raptures 
over  his  native  country. 

'^  II  diavolo,"  continued  young  G.,  in  his  turn. 

''  Order,  order,"  cried  Lord  Byron.    '. 

"  I  loiU  give  it,"  growled  G.,  who  had  not  yet  recovered  his  good 
humour.     "I  owe  him  something  for  my  ill-luck  to-day.     II  diavolo." 

"  And  you  ?"  said  Lord  Byron,  turning  to  her  who  sat  on  his  right 
hand. 

"What!  am  I  to  be  included  in  your  toast-giving?"  she  laughed. 
"  Better  manners  to  you  all,  then." 

"  G.,  you  deserved  that.     We  wait  for  you,  my  lord." 

"  My  insane  traducers.  May  they  find  their  senses  at  last."  And 
Lord  Byron  drained  his  glass  to  the  bottom. 

The  party  rose,  quitted  the  spot,  and  dispersed  abo\it  the  island. 
The  gentiemen  to  smoke,  and  the  lady  to  complete  her  sketch,  which 
wanted  filling  in.  The  gondoliers  took  the  vacated  places,  and  made  a 
hearty  meal.  They  thenr  cleared  away  the  things,  and  placed  them  in  the 
gondola,  ready  to  return. 

It  may  have  been  from  one  to  two  hours  afterwards,  that  Lord  Byron 
and  the  Frenchman  were  standing  by  the  side  of  the  contessa,  who  was 
dreamily  enjoying  the  calmness  of  an  Italian  evening.  They  were  in- 
quiring whether  she  was  ready  for  departure,  for  the  time  was  drawing 

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An  Event  in  the  life  of  Lord  Byron.  145 

on,  when  Count  6.,  her  brother,  appeared  in  the  distance,  running,  shout* 
ing  and  gesticulatiug  violently,  as  he  advanced  towards  them. 

**  Of  aJl  the  events,  great  and  small,  that  can  happen  on  this  blessed 
world  of  ours,  what  can  have  put  an  Italian  into  such  a  fever  as  that  ?" 
muttered  Lord  Byron.     "  What's  up  now  ?"  he  called  out  to  G. 

''The  gondola!  the  gondola!"  he  stuttered  and  panted;  and  so  great 
was  his  excitement,  that  the  countess,  unable  to  comprehend  his  meaning, 
turned  as  white  as  death,  and  seized  the  arm  of  Loid  Byron. 

"  Well,  what  of  the  gondola?"  demanded  the  latter,  petulantly.  **  You 
might  speak  plainly,  I  think  ;  and  not  come  terrifying  the  contessa  in 
this  manner.     Is  it  sunk,  or  blown  up,  or  what?" 

**  It's  worse,"  roared  the  count.  **  It  has  gone  away — broken  firom  its 
moorings.     It  is  a  league  and  a  half  distant  by  this  time." 

Lord  Byron  took  in  the  full  meaning  of  his  words  on  the  instant,  and 
all  that  they  could  convey  to  the  mind — the  embarrassment  of  their  posi- 
tion, its  unpleasantness,  and — ay — perhaps  its  peril.  He  threw  the  arm 
of  the  lady  from  him,  with  much  less  ceremony  than  he  would  have  used 
in  any  calmer  moment,  and  flew  towards  the  shore,  the  Frenchman  and 
the  Italian  tearing  after  him. 

Oh  yes,  it  was  quite  true.  There  was  the  gondola,  nearly  out  of  sight, 
drif^g  majestically  over  the  Adriatic.  It  had  broken  its  fastenings,  and 
had  gone  away  of  its  own  accord,  consulting  nobody's  convenience  and 
pleasure  but  its  own.  The  four  gondoliers  stood  staring  after  it,  in  the 
very  height  of  dismay.     Lord  Byron  addressed  them. 

**  Whose  doing  is  this  ?*'  he  inquired.  "  Who  pretended  to  fasten  the 
gondola  ?" 

A  shower  of  exclamations,  and  gestures,  and  protestations  interrupted 
him.  Of  course  "  nobody"  had  done  it :  nobody  ever  does  do  anything. 
They  had  all  fastened  it ;  and  fastened  it  securely  :  and  the  private 
opinion  of  some  of  them  was  g^ven  forth,  that  nobody  had  accomplished 
the  mischief  save,  U  diavolo, 

"  Just  so,"  cried  Lord  Byron.     "  You  invoked  him,  you  know,  G." 

**  It  would  be  much  better  to  consider  what's  to  be  done,  than  to  talk 
nonsense,"  retorted  the  count,  who  was  not  of  the  sweetest  temper. 

And  Lord  Byron  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  not  at 
him,  but  at  beholding  how  the  false  teeth  of  the  marquis  (Shattered,  when 
he  now,  for  the  first  time,  was  made  acquainted  with  the  calamity. 

"  We  shall  never  get  away  again !  We  shall  be  forced  to  stop  on 
this  dreadful  island  for  ever — and  with  nothing  to  eat!"  groaned  the 
marquis.     "  Milord,  what  is  to  be  done  ?" 

Lord  Byron  did  not  reply ;  but  one  accustomed  to  his  countenance 
might  have  read  the  deepest  perplexity  there ;  for  wild,  undefined  ideas 
of  famine  were  flitting  like  shadows  across  his  own  brsun. 

Their  position  was  undoubtedly  perilous.  Left  on  that  uninhabited 
isle  without  sustenance  or  means  of  escape,  the  only  hope  they  could  en- 
courage was,  buat  some  vessel  might  pass  and  perceive  them  :  perhaps  a 
pleasure  party,  like  their  own,  might  be  making  for  the  islands.  But 
this  hope  was  a  very  forlorn  one,  for  weeks  might  elapse  ere  that  was  the 
case.  They  had  no  covering,  save  what  they  had  on;  even  the  wrapper- 
ings  of  the  countess  were  in  the  unlucky  gondola. 

"  Can  you  suggest  no  means  of  escape  ?"  again  implored  the  marquis 
of  Lord  Byron,  to  whom  all  the  party,  as  with  one  accord,  seemed  to  look 

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140  An  JEwent  in  dke  Uft  ef  Lord  Byron. 

for  suecour,  as  if  conacioas  Ikey  were  ia  the  presence  of  a  8i;qpeti0r  nmd« 
They  thought  that  if  any  eonld  devise  a  way  of  escape^  it  most  he  bs* 
Sttt  there  they  erred^  They  had  yet  to  learo  that  for  all  the  praetieal 
uses  of  every-day  life,  noaie  we  so  entirely  helpless  as  these  minis  o£ 
inward  pride  and  power*  There  was  probably  not  a  single  person  thca 
present,  who  could  not,  upon  an  emergency,  have  acted  far  more  to  Ihe 
purpose  than  could  Lewd  Byron. 

'*  There's  nothing  to  be  suggested/'  interrupted  one  or  two  of  tbe 
boatmen*.  "  We  cannot  help  ourselves :  we  have  no  means,  of  help*  We 
most  watch  for  a  sail,  or  an  oar,  passh^,  and  if  none  see  ns,  we  mnt 
stay  here  and  die." 

IxHrd  Byron  turned  to  the  men,  and  spoke  ia  a  low  voice.  ^'  Do  aot 
be  discouraged/'  he  said :  **  if  ever  there  was  a  time  when  your  o^ 
quoted  saying  ought  to  be  practically  remembered,  it  is  now.  ^  Asutato, 
eDioTasutera.'" 

The  first  suggestion  was  made  by  the  marquis.  He  proposed  that  a 
raft  should  be  constructed,  sufficient  to  carry  one  person,  who  might  thea 
go  in  search  of  assbtance.  This  was  very  good  in  theory,  but  when 
they  came  to  talk  of  practice,  it  was  found  that  if  there  had  besa  aoj 
wood  on  the  island  suitable  for  the  purpose,  which  there  waa  not^  they 
had  neither  tools  nor  means  to  fashion  it. 

''  At  all  eventSy"  resumed  the  marquis,  ^^  let  us  hoist  a  signal  of  ^ 
tress,  and  then,  if  any  vessel  should  pass,  it  will  see  us." 

"  It  may,  you  mean,"  returned  Lord  Byron.  "  But  what  are  we  to  do 
for  a  pole  ?     Si^>po8e,  marquis,  we  tie  a  mg  to  you :  you  are  the  (attest'' 

"Where  are  you  to  find  a  flag?"  added  the  count,  in  perpisxiiy. 
"  All  our  things  have  gone  off  in  that  cursed  gondola." 

<*  Dio  mioT'  utt^ed  the  half-crazed  marquis. 

"  I  onee^"  said  Lord  Byron,  musingly,  "  swam  across  the  Hellespont 
I  might  try  my  skill  again  now,  and  perhaps  gain  one  of  the  neighbour- 
ing isles." 

''  And  to  what  good  if  the  signor  did  attempt  it  ?"  inquired  one  of 
the  gondoliers,  "  since  the  inmiediate  isles  are,  like  this,  uninhabited. 
That  would  not  further  our  escape,  or  his." 

"  Can  none  of  you  fdUows  think  of  anything?*'  asked  the  coumt,  im- 
patiently,  of  the  gondoliers.     '^  You  should  be  amply  rewarded." 

"  The  signor  need  not  speak  of  reward,"  answered  Cydops,  the  one- 
ejred  boatman :  and  it  may  be  stated  that  '^  Cyelope"  was  m^^y  a  nvm 
bestowed  upon  him  by  the  public,  suggested  by  his  infinmty.  **  We 
are  as  anxious  to  escape  as  he  is^  for  we  have  wives  and  families,  who 
anisi  starve,  if  we  perish.     Never  let  the  signor  talk  about  reward." 

*^  The  gondda  must  have  been  most  carelessly  fastened,"  growled  the 
marquis. 

'^  Had  it  sunk,  instead  of  floated,  we  should  have  known  it  was  caused 
by  the  weight  oi  your  birds,"  cried  Lord  Byron. 

"  There  was  not  a  single  bird  in  it,"  rejoined  the  marquis,  too  much 
agitated)  now,  to  care  for  his  renown  as  a  sportsnaan. 

^  Then  what  in  the  world  did  you  do  with  them  ?  There  nuist  be  a 
whole  battue  of  dead  game  down  yonder." 

"  You  are  merry !"  uttered  the  lady,  reproachfully,  to  Lord  Byron. 

'<  What  is  the  use  of  being  sad,  and  showing  it  ?"  was  his  answer. 
^'  AIL  the  groans  extant  won't  bring  us  aid." 

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An  Event  in  the  life  ^  Lcvd  Byron.  Ml 

The  B%ht  was  drawing  on  apa€e«  and  the  ifueation  was  raiaed^  how 
they  to  paaa  it?  The  geHtlemeBy  thoii^h  a  little  extua  olothmg 
would  have  been  a«eflf>table,  might  have  numaged  without  any  senoua 
incon^eaiMice  t  but  theie  waa  the  lady  I  They  seated  her  ae  comfortably 
aa  ciraomalaneea  pennitted^  undmr.  shelt^  of  some  bashes^  with  hat.  heaid 
vpon  a  low  bank,  and.  L(»d  B^:on  took  off  his  ooat^  a  light  suramer  one^ 
and  wrapped  her  in  it.  She  earnestly  protested  against  this*  arguing 
Aat  all  ought  to  &ffe  alik^  and  that  not  one,  even  herself,  shoidd  be 
aided  at  die  incoavenienee  of  am^er*  And  the  last  aigiun^it  she 
brought  in  was,  that  he  might  cateh  hie  death  of  cold^ 

<<  And  of  what  moment  would  that  be  ?"  was  hie  reply.  "  I  shoold 
leave  nobody  behind  to  mourn  oc  miss  me," 

Few  of  them,  probably,  had  ever  spent  sneh  a  nig^  as  that.  Ter* 
m«Eited  by  phyncal  diacomfort  without^  by  imzious  suspense  within,  for 
die  greater  portion  of  them  thaw  waa  no  sleep*  Morniflg  dawned  at 
last — sueh  a  dawn !  It  found  them  aa  the  night  had  left  them,  fbodless^, 
shelterless,  and  with  hope  growing  less  and  less.  It  was  a  mevey,  they 
said  amcmgst  themselves^  that  there  waa  water  in  the  island  And  so 
it  waa ;  for  an  un^^uenehed  thirsty  uader  Italia's  sun,  is  grievous  to  be. 
borne. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  this  day,  that  a  loud,  joyful  ory  h&m 
Cyclops  caused  every  living  aoul  to  rusk  towards  him,,  with  eyes  full  of 
brightness,  and  hearts  beating,  for  they  surely  thought  that  a  sail  waa  m 
sight*  And  there  were  no  bounds  to  the  anger  and  sarcasm  showered 
upon  poor  Cyclops,  when  it  was  found  that  his  cry  of  joy  proceeded  only 
&3m  the  stupid  fact  of  his  haviog  found  the  watar-cask. 

*^  You  are  a  fool,  Cyclops,"  observed  the  Count  G.,  in  Ins  own  em- 
phatic language. 

''  I  supposed  it  had  gone  off  in  the  gondola,"  apologised  Cyclops^  <<  I 
never  thought  of  looking  into  this  overshadowed  little  creek,  and  there  il 
has  been,  ever  since  yesterday." 

*'  And  what  if  it  has  ?"  screamed  the  count.  '<  Heaven  and  earth, 
man  I  are  you  losing  your  senses  ?     We  cannot  eat  that." 

"  And  we  can't  get  astride  it  and  swim  off  to  safety,"  added  the  max»- 
quis,  fully  joining  in  his  Mend's  indignation.  But  the  noore  praetieal 
Frendunan.  caught  Cyclops'  hand: 

I    ''  My  brave  fellow  \"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  see  the  project.     You  think 
that  by  the  help  of  this  cask  you  may  be  enabled  to  bring  us  succour." 

"  I  wiE  try  it,"  uttered  the  man ;  and  the  others  comprehended,  with 
some  di£lieidity,  the  idea  that  was  agitating  Cyclops'  brain.  He  thought 
he  could  convert,  the  cask  into  a  *'  sort  of  boat,"  he  explained. 

''A.  sort  of  boat !"  tiiey  echoed 

"  And  I  will  v«iture  in  it,"  continued  the  gondolier.  "  If  I  can  get 
to  oae  of  the  inhabited  isles,  our  peril  will  be  at  an  end." 

"  It  may  cost  you  your  life,  Cyclops,"  said  Lord  Byron* 

"  But  it  may  save  yours,  signor,  and  that  of  all  here.  And  £6r  my 
own  life,  it  is  being  risked  by  famine  now." 

'^  Yoa  are  a  noble  fellow !"  exclaimed  Lord  Byron^  ^^  If  you  can 
oommand  the  necessary  courage " 

"  I  will  oommand  it,  ognor,"  interrupted  the  man.  "  Which  of  you 
£^wsy"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  gondoliers,  *'  will  help  me  to  hoist 
this  cask  ariiere  ?" 

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148  An  Event  in  the  life  of  Lord  Byron. 

"  Stay !"  urged  Lord  Byron.  **  You  will  have  need  of  all  your  energy 
and  strength,  Cyclops,  if  vou  start  on  this  expedition,  therefore  husband 
them.     You  can  direct,  if  you  will,  but  let  others  work.'' 

And  Cyclops  saw  the  good  sense  of  the  argument,  and  acquiesced. 

There  were  two  large  clasp-knives  among  the  four  boatmen,  and,  by 
their  help,  a  hole  was  cut  in  the  cask,  converting  it  into — well,  it  could 
not  be  called  a  boat,  or  a  raft,  or  a  tub— converting  it  into  a  something 
that  floated  on  the  deep.  The  strongest  sticks  that  could  be  found,  were 
cut  as  substitutes  for  a  pair  of  oars :  the  frail  vessel  was  launched,  and  the 
adventurous  Cyclops  hoisted  himself  into  it. 

They  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  island,  nobles  and  gondoliers,  m 
agonising  dread,  expecting  to  see  the  cask  engulfed  in  the  waters,  and 
the  man  struggling  with  them  for  his  life.  But  it  appeared  to  move 
steadily  onwards.  It  seemed  almost  impossible  that  so  small  and  frail  a 
thing  could  be'ar  the  weight  of  a  man  and  live.  But  it  did,  and  pursued 
its  way  on,  on ;  far  away  on  the  calm  blue  sea.  Perhaps  God  was  pros- 
pering it. 

Suddenly  a  groan,  a  scream,  or  something  of  both,  broke  from  the  lips 
of  all.  The  strangely-constructed  bark,  wmch  had  now  advanced  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  well  follow  it,  appeared  to  capsize,  afber  wavering  and 
struggling  with  the  water. 

^'  It  was  our  last  chance  for  life,"  sobbed  the  countess,  sinking  on  the 
bank  in  utter  despair. 

'^  I  do  not  think  it  went  down,  signorina,"  observed  one  of  the  gondo- 
liers, who  was  remarkable  for  possessing  a  g^ood  eyesight.  "  The  waves 
rose,  and  hid  it  from  our  view,  but  I  do  not  believe  it  was  capsized." 

**  I  am  sure  it  was,"  answeied  several  despairing  voices.  "  What  does 
the  English  lord  say  ?" 

"  1  fear  there  is  no  hope,**  rejoined  Lord  Byron,  sadly.  "  But  my  sight 
is  none  of  the  best,  and  scarcely  carries  me  to  so  great  a  distance. 

n. 

The  small,  luxuriant  island  lay  calm  and  still  in  the  bright  moonlight. 
The  gondoliers  were  stretched  upon  the  shore  sleeping,  each  with  his  face 
turned  to  the  water,  as  if  they  had  been  looking  for  help,  and  had  fallra 
asleep  watching.  Near  to  them  lay  the  forms  of  three  of  their  employers ; 
and,  pacing  about,  as  if  the  mind's  restlessness  permitted  not  of  the  body's 
quietude,  was  Lord  Byron;  dreamily  moving  nither and  thither,  musing 
as  he  walked,  his  brow  contracted,  and  his  eye  dark  with  care.  Who 
can  tell  what  were  his  thoughts — the  thoughts  of  that  isolated  man? 
Stealthily  he  would  pass  the  sleeping  forms  of  his  companions:  not  caring 
so  much  to  disturb  their  rest,  as  that  he  might  have  no  witnesses  of  his 
hour  of  solitude.  Had  they  been  sleepless  watchers,  the  look  of  sadness 
would  not  have  been  suffered  to  appear  on  his  brow.  Not  far  off,  reclined 
the  contessa,  her  head  resting  on  the  low  bank.  She  had  fallen  asleep  in 
that  position,  overcome  with  hunger  and  weariness,  and  her  features 
looked  cold  and  pale  in  the  moonlight.  Lord  Byron  halted  as  he  neared 
her,  and  bent  down  his  face  till  it  almost  touched  hers,  willing  to  ascer- 
t{un  if  she  really  slept.  Not  a  movement  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  the 
features,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  soft  breathing,  he  might  have  fancied 
that  life  had  \eh  her.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  island  to  disturb  her 
sleep;  all  around  was  still  as  death;  when,  suddenly,  a  sea-bird  flew 

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across  orer  their  heads,  ufcterine  its  shrill  scream.     Her  sleep  at  once 
became  disturbed :  she  started,  £ivered,  aod  finallj  awoke. 

"  What  was  that  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Only  a  sea-bird,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  sorry  it  disturbed  you,  for  you 
were  in  a  sound  sleep." 

'<  And  in  the  midst  of  a  delightful  dream,"  she  answered,  '<  for  I 
thought  we  were  in  safety.  I  dreamt  we  were  all  of  us  back  again :  not 
where  we  started  from  to  come  here,  but  in  your  palace  at  Ravenna,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  some  cause  for  rejoicing,  for  we  were  in  the  height  of 
merriment.  And  Cyclops  was  sittbg  with  us ;  sUHng  with  us,  as  one  of 
ourselves,  and  reading---don't  laugh,  when  you  hear  it—one  of  your 
great  English  newspapers." 

He  did  not  laugh.     He  was  not  in  a  laughing  mood. 

*'  Do  you  believe  in  dreams  P"  she  continued.  "  Do  you  think  this 
one  is  an  omen  of  good,  or  ill  ?     Will  it  come  true,  or  not  ?" 

He  smiled  now.  *^  Those  sort  of  dreams  are  no  omens,"  he  replied. 
"  It  was  induced  only  by  your  waking  thoughts.  That  which  you  had 
be«i  ardently  wishing  for,  was  re-pictured  in  the  dream." 

'*I  have  heard  you  say,"  she  continued,  'Hhat  what  influences  the 
mind  in  the  day,  influences  the  dreams  in  the  night.     Is  it  so  p" 

**  When  the  subject  is  one  that  has  continued  and  entire  hold  upon  us, 
most  probably  a  sad  one  ;  never  absent  from  our  heart,  lying  there  and 
cankering  it ;  never  told  to,  and  never  suspected  by  others :  then,  oat 
dreams  are  influenced  by  our  waking  thoughts." 

"  You  discovered  this,  did  you  not,  in  early  life  ?"  she  asked. 

'*  Ay,  ay !"  he  answered,  turning  from  her  sight,  and  dashing  the 
hair  from  his  troubled  brow.  Need  it  be  questioned  whose  form  rote 
before  bim,  when  it  is  known,  though  perhaps  by  few,  for  the  fact  was 
never  mentioned  by  himself  but  once,  that  bis  dreams ^br  years  had  been 
of  Mary  Ann  Chaworth. 

*'  Ob,  but  it  will  be  horrible  to  die  thus  of  famine !"  she  exclaimed,  her 
thoughts  reverting  to  all  the  frightful  realities  of  their  position. 

"  Do  not  despair  yet,"  he  replied.  "  While  there  is  life,  there  is 
hope.  That  truth  most  indisputably  applies  to  our  position  here,  if  it 
ever  applied  to  any." 

He  resumed  his  restless  pacing  of  the  earth,  leaving  the  countess  to 
renew  her  slumbers,  if  she  could.  And  she  endeavoured  to  do  so,  re- 
peating to  herself,  by  way  of  consolation,  the  saying  which  he  had 
uttered,  "  L'ultima  che  si  perde  ^  la  speranza." 

The  long  night  passed ;  the  first  hours  of  morning  followed ;  and,  still, 
the  means  of  escape  came  not.  They  had  been  more  than  forty  hours 
without  food,  and  had  begun  to  experience  some  of  the  horrible  pangs  of 
fiunine.  The  only  one  of  all  the  party  now  asleep,  was  Lord  Byron- 
He  was  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  vain  expectation.  The  remiunder  of 
the  unfortunate  suiferers  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  isle,  straining  their  eyes 
over  the  waters,  for  the  hundredth  time. 

Gradually,  very  gradually,  a  speck  appeared  on  the  verge  of  the 
horizon.  It  looked,  at  first,  like  a  little  cloud,  so  faint  and  small  that  it 
might  be  something,  or  it  might  be  delusion.  The  gondolier,  he  with 
the  quick  sight,  pointed  it  out.  Then  another  gondolier  discerned  it, 
then  the  thwd,  then  Count  G.  Finally,  they  all  distinguished  it.  Some- 
thing was  certainly  there  :  but  what  f 

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15&  An  Event  in  the  Life  of  L(^  Byron. 

A  Icmg  tine— or  it  seemed  lon^ — of  tg^fonised  dmibt;  snspeme;  Ik^^ 
and  they  saw  it  dearly.  A  vtmel  of  aam%^  sort  was  beacing*  dkeet  to* 
wards  them.  The  lady  walked  away^  and  araused  Lend  B^d  feom  his 
beaTY  deep^ 

<^  You  haye  boTDe  i:^  better  than  any  of  us,"  she  said,  '^ihaugh  I  da 
believe  your  nonchalance  was  cml j  put  on.  Bat  year  mast  not  pr^iend 
now  to  be  indifferent  to  joy." 

^  Is  anything  raakiag  for  the  idand  V*  he  inquired.  But  he  speka 
with  gpreat  coolness.     Perhaps  that  was  '^pat  on  "  too. 

"  Yes.     They  are  coming  to  our  rescue." 

**  You  are  sure  of  this  ?"  he  said. 

"  Had  I  not  been  sure,  you  should  have  slept  on,'*  was  her  wfly*  "A 
vessel  of  some  description  is  bearing  direct  towasds  us." 

He  started  up,  and,  giving  her  his  arm,  proceeded  to  join  the  rest. 

It  was  full}'  in  view  now.  And  it  proved  to  be  a  galley  oi  six  oai% 
the  gallant  Cydops  steering. 

So  he  and  his  barrel  were  not  turned  over  and  drowned  then !  No; 
the  distance  and  their  fears  had  deceived  tiiem.  Thecmrent  hadbome 
himself  and  his  cask  towards  an  inhabited  island,  lying  in  die  direction  of 
Ragusa.  A  terrible  way  off,  it  seemed  to  him,;but  the  adventuroua  gon- 
doUer  reached  it  with  time  and  patience,  greatly  astonishing  the  natives 
wHh  the  novel  style  of  his  embarkation.  Obtaining  assistance  and  jmh 
VttioBS,  he  at  once  proceeded  on  his  return,  to  rescue  those  he  had  lA 
behind. 

The  galley  was  made  fast  to  the  ^lore — leister  than  the  gondoia  had 
been  ;  and  Cyclops^  springing  on  land^  amidst  the  tha^s  and  cheers  of 
ihe  starving  group,  proceeded  to  display  the  coveted  refredunents.  A 
mere  welcome  sight  than  any,  save  the  galley,  that  had  ever  met  tiieir 
eyes. 

"  Oh  God  be  thanked  that  we  have  not  to  die  here !"  murmured  the 
countess  to  Lord  Byron.  <<  Think  what  a  horrible  fate  it  would  have 
been— shut  out  from  the  world !" 

"For  me  there  may  be  even  a  worse  in  store,'*  he  answered.  "We 
were  a  knot  of  us  here,  and  should  at  least  have  died  together.  It  may 
be  that  I  shall  yet  perish  a  solitary  exile,  away  from  aii.*' 

"  Do  put  such  ideas  away,"  she  retorted.  "  It  would  be  at  sad  &te, 
that,  to  close  a  career  such  as  yomrs.** 

"  Sad  enough,  perhaps :  but  in  keeping  with  the  rest,"  was  his  reply,,  a 
melancholy  smile  rising  to  his  pale  features,  as  he  handed  her  into  the 
boat,  preparatory  to  their  return. 

Up  to  a  very  recent  period,  there  was  an  old  man  still  living  m  Itaift 
a  man  who,  in  his  younger  days,  had  been  a  gondolier.  His  name — at 
any  rate,  the  one  he  went  by — was  Cyclops.  It  was  pleasant  to  sit  W  his 
side  in  the  open  air,  and  hear  him  talk.  He  would  tell  you  filty  anec- 
dotes <f£  the  generous  English  loid,  who  lived  so  long,  years  ago^  at 
Ravenna.  And  if  he  could  persuade  you  to  a  walk  in  the  biasing  sin> 
would  take  you  to  tile  water^s  edge,  and  display,  with  pride  and  delight, 
a  haodsome  gondola.  It  was  getting  the  worse  for  wear  then,  in  the 
way  of  paint  and  gilding,  but  it  had  once  been  tiie  flower  among 
the  gondolas  of  the  Adriatic.  It  was  made  under  tiie  orders  of  Lord 
Byron,  and  when  presented  to  Cyclops  was  already  christened— The 
Cask. 

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LITERARY    LEAFLETS. 

BT  SIR  NATHAHIKL. 

No.  XIL— Fbotsssob  K*  CL  Tmxscb. 

The  CIiTinch  hath  its  poets,  as  the  world  hath,  and  ProlesBor  Trench  b 
of  them.  Perhaps  the  most  Wordsworthian  of  them.  His  strains  have 
not  the  melodious  chime  of  KeUe's  **  solemn  church  music,"  as  Thackeray 
reyeringly  characterises  the  "  Christian  Year;"  nor  have  they  the  g^sten- 
ing  decorations  of  Milraan,  or  the  sonorous  dignity  of  Croly,  or  perfai^ 
the  gentle  tenderness  of  Monhrie,  or  the  cathedral  awe  and  dim  religious 
light  of  Isaac  WiUiams.  Bat  they  have  deptii  without  hathos,  while  Ae 
vastly  more  popukr  verses  cf  Robert  Montgomery  have  bathos  witkaut 
depth ;  and  if  inferior  in  picturesque  diction  and  vivid  suggesdveness  to 
the  best  things  of  Charles  Kingsley,  they  have  none  of  that  *'  Keepsake" 
prettiness,  and  "  AnnuaF*  efflorescence,  which  mark  the  lyrics  of  the  Dale 
and  Stebbing  order.  '<  Justin  Martyr,"  and  "  Poems  from  Eastern 
Sources,"  "  Sabbation,"  "  Honor  Neale,''  and  other  his  more  elaborate 
metrical  essays^  are  dear  to  a  select  audience  of  thinking  hearts — they 
are  truthful  and  refined,  the  effusions  of  a  benign,  spiritual  nature — 
healthy  and  pure  in  tone,  and,  though  pensively  attuned  to  the  still  sad 
music  of  humanity^  they  are  inspired  with  the  gladdening,  elevating 
evangelkm  of  Christianity.  Mr.  Trench  has  his  mannerisms,  and  now 
and  then  his  seeming  obscurities,  which  pertain,  however,  only  to  the 
surface  of  his  composition.  Thus,  in  his  "  Century  of  Couplets,  will  be 
found,  as  the  terse  requirements  of  the  subject  might  imply,  many  a  line 
that  asks  to  be  scanned  as  well  as  read — scanned  for  the  sake  both 
q£  sense  and  metre ;  and  though  the  result  will  prove  that  the  poet  has 
thought  himself  clear,  it  may  sometimes  leave  doubts  as  to  the  delicacy 
of  his  ear.  This  defect  in  the  matter  of  rhythmical  beauty,  is  more 
patent  in  the  blank  verse  of  his  longer  pieces,  which  usually  wants  relief 
and  colour — albeit  Christopher  North  has  praised  it  as  excellent  of  its 
kind.  Mr.  Trench  is  probably  most  effective  in  stanzas  of  the  description 
we  are  about  to  quote — where  some  historic  incident  or  biographic  tra- 
dition is  graphically  told,  and  made  the  text  of  a  quietly  emphasised 
joementOy  addressed  to  the  universal  conscience.  Tne  following  lines 
were  suggested  by  a  passage  in  Elphinstone's  "  History  of  India :" 

Lo  I  as  hundred  proud  pe^^odas  have  tlie  Moslem  torclies  biimed, 
Lo  I  a  thoittand  monstrous  idols  Mahmoud's  zeal  has  overturned. 

He  from  northern  Ghuznee  issuing^  thro'  the  world  one  word  doth  bear, — 
^  God  is  Oni  ;  ye  shall  no  o titer  with  the  peerless  One  compare  I" 

Tilt  in  India's  furthest  comer  he  has  reached  the  cosdiest  shrine 
Of  the  Bl*alunin*s  idol-tendiog — which  tl»ey  hold  the  aiost  divine. 

Protfes  not  the  wild  resistance ;  stands  the  victor  at  the  gate, 
With  this  hugest  idol's  ruin  all  iiis  work  to  consummate. 

Ransom  vast  of  gold  they  offer,  pearls  of  price  and  jewels  rare, 
llViU  he  hear  their  supplication,  and  that  only  image  spare. 

Then  he  answered :  "  God  has  armed  me,  not  to  make  a  shameful  gain, 
Trafficking  for  hideous  idols,  with  a  service  false  and  vain ; 


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162  Professor  R.  (7.  Trench. 

«  But  to  count  my  work  unfinished,  till  I  sweep  them  from  the  world : 
Stand  and  see  the  thing  ye  sued  for,  by  this  hand  to  ruin  hurled." 
High  he  reared  his  battle-axe,  and  heavily  came  down  the  blow : 
Reeled  the  abominable  image,  broken,  bursten,  to  and  fro ; 
From  its  shattered  side  revealing  pearls  and  diamonds,  showers  of  gold ; 
More  than  all  that  proffered  ransom,  more  than  all  a  hundred  fold. 
Thou  too.  Heaven's  commissioned  warrior  to  cast  down  each  idol  throne 
In  thy  heart's  profaned  temple,  make  this  faithful  deed  thine  own. 

Still  they  plead,  and  still  they  promise,  wilt  thou  suffer  them  to^tand. 
They  have  pleasures,  they  have  treasures,  to  enrich  thee  at  command. 

Heed  not  thou,  but  boldly  strike  them ;  let  descend  the  faithful  blow;] 
From  their  wrecks  and  from  their  ruin  first  will  thy  true  riches  flow. 

Thou  shalt  lose  thy  life  and  find  it ;  thou  shalt  boldly  cast  it  forth ; 
And  then  back  again  receiving,  know  it  in  its  endless  worth. 

Professor  Trench  excels  in  this  species  of  didactic  symbolism,  which 
indeed  is  characteristic  of  all  his  writingfs,  prose  and  verse — be  it  lecture 
or  lyric,  sermon  or  song. 

His  collection  of  "Sacred  Latin  Poetry"  is  tasteful  and  comprehensive 
^though  it  omits  the  thrilling  Stabat  Mater^  and  certain  other  rhymed 
Latin  hymns  which  are,  rightly  or  wrongly,  objectionable  to  Protestant 
students  of  hymnology.  Some  of  these  can,  however,  be  as  ill-spared 
in  such  a  collection  as  the  lovely  Consolator  opttme,  or  the  subhme  Dies 
ircB.  But  this  little  volume  is  too  rich  with  sweet  concords  to  allow  of 
critical  discords,  harsh  and  grating,  and  no/ of  ample  power  to  suhdae  its 
attraction. 

Of  Professor  Trench's  theological  writings  this  is  not  the  place  to 
speak,  except  en  passant  His  Hulsean  Lectures,  and  his  Notes  on  the 
Miracles  and  on  the  Parables  of  the  New  Testament,  are  held  in  high 
esteem  within  and  without  the  pale  of  his  own  Church.  He  belongs  to 
the  Coleridgean  school  of  divines,  if  such  a  description  is  allowable  in  re- 
ference to  a  group  of  pastors  and  teachers  representing  somewhat  diverse 
as  well  as  divers  opinions— comprehending  an  Arnold  and  a  Hare,  Kings- 
ley  and  Maurice,  Derwent  Coleridge  and  Arthur  Stanley.  His  every 
work  is  pervaded  by  true  earnestness,  instinct  with  spiritud  thought,  and 
animated  by  a  refined,  chastened,  effective  eloquence.  His  weak  side  is 
a  rather  crotchety  fancy  and  love  of  analogy. 

"The  Study  of  Words"  is  a  right  winning  little  volume,  designed  to 
awaken  attention  to  the  riches  that  lurk  in  language.  It  is  marked  by 
extensive  reading  and  a  genial  spirit  of  investigation ;  but  its  chiefest 
value  lies  in  its  suggestiveness — ^its  provocative,  stimulant,  "  educational** 
tone.  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  open  to  objection  on  the  side  of  its  frequently 
sermonising,  and  Sunday  didactic  manner ;  sometimes  haling  in  rather 
irrelevant  matter,  and  verging  on  a  disposition  to  prose  in  the  way  of 
"  practical  inferences  from  this  subject."  This  is  explicable,  by  the  fact 
that  the  book  consists  of  a  series  of  lectures  delivered  before  the  pupils  of 
a  diocesan  training  school ;  and  although  we  could  have  wished  to  see  them 
printed  in  a  revised  form,  others  may  (indeed  others  do)  find  an  additional 
value  in  the  characteristic  to  which  we  have  taken  exception.  So  let  that 
pass.  The  book  is  a  jewel  of  a  book — not  spoilt  in  the  setting.  Its  sub- 
ject, what  has  been  called  "fossil  poetry.''     For,  says  Emenon,  ^^as 

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Professor  R.  C  Trench.  153 

the  limestone  of  the  contiDent  consists  of  infinite  masses  of  the  shells  of 
animalcules,  so  language  is  made  up  of  images,  or  tropes,  which  now,  in 
their  secondary  use,  have  Ion?  ceased  to  remind  us  of  their  poetic  origin.'*'* 
Hence  the  value  of  a  book  which  is  framed  to  remind  us  of  this  nobihty  of 
pedigree,  and  with  the  lofty  sanctify  the  low,  and,  as  it  were,  recal  the 
baptismal  time  of  these  garment-soiled,  time-stricken  words,  when  the 
iresh.  dew  of  their  morning-tide  was  upon  them,  and  they  were  pledged 
to  a  vocation  long  since  neglected  or  forgotten.  Winged  words  deserve 
scrutiny  in  their  flight.  '<  On  words,"  says  Landor,  ^*  rests  the  axis  of 
the  intellectual  world.     A  winged  word  hath  stuck  ineradicably  in  a 

million  hearts On  a  winged  word  hath  hung  the  destiny  of 

nations.  On  a  winged  word  hath  human  wisdom  been  willing  to  cast  the 
immortal  soul,  and  to  leave  it  dependent  for  all  its  future  happine8S."t 
Alluding  to  Emerson's  expression,  Mr.  Trench  happily  observes  that 
language  may  be,  and  indeed  is,  *^  fossil  poetry" — but  is  also,  and  with 
equal  truth,  rossil  ethics,  or  fossil  history.  He  calls  it  the  embodiment, 
the  incarnation  of  the  feelings,  thou^ts  and  experiences  of  a  nation, 
often  of  many  nations,  and  of  all  which  through  centuries  they  have 
stained  to  and  won — standing  like  the  pillars  of  Hercules,  to  mark  how 
AT  the  moral  and  intellectual  conquests  of  mankind  have  advanced,  only 
not  like  those  pillars,  fixed  and  immovable,  but  ever  itself  advancing  with 
the  progress  of  these,  and  even  itself  a  great  element  of  that  advance.  He 
calls  it  the  amber  in  which  a  thousand  precious  and  subtle  thoughts  have 
been  safely  embedded  and  preserved.  He  reserves  the  dictum  which  pro- 
nounces words  the  wise  man's  counters  and  the  fooFs  money ;  for  in 
words  he  descries  a  reality,  a  living  power,  not  merely  an  arbitrary  sym- 
bolism ;  to  his  eye  they  are  not  like  the  sands  of  the  sea,  innumerable 
disconnected  atoms,  but  growing  out  of  roots,  connecting  and  inter- 
twining themselves  with  all  that  men  have  been  doing  and  thinking  and 
feeling  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  until  now. 

And  thus  he  regards  language  as  a  moral  barometer,  which  indicates 
and  permanently  marics  the  rise  or  fall  of  a  nation's  life.  ^'  To  study  a 
people's  langruage  will  be  to  study  them,  and  to  study  them  at  best  ad- 
vantage, where  they  present  themselves  to  us  under  fewest  disguises, 
most  nearly  as  they  are."  It  will  bear  the  stamp  of  national  frivolity, 
shallowness  and  triviality,  or  of  high  sentiment  and  superiority  to  every- 
thing mean  and  base.  And  though  it  may  be  lost  labour  to  seek  for  the 
parentage  of  all  words,  yet  all  have  an  ancestry,  or  descent  of  some  kind. 
^'  There  is  no  word  which  is  not,  as  the  Spanish  gentleman  loves  to  call 
himself  an  hidalgo,  the  son  of  somebody" — so  that,  when  a  word  entirely 
refuses^  to  give  up  the  secret  of  its  origin,  it  can  be  regarded  in  no  other 
light  but  as  a  riddle  which  no  one  has  succeeded  in  solving,  a  lock  of 
which  no  one  has  found  the  key— but  still  a  riddle  which  has  a  solution,  a 
lock  for  which  there  is  a  key,  though  now,  it  may  be,  irrecoverably  lost. 

♦  Emerson's  Essays.    Second  Series.     ("  The  Poet.") 

t  Imaginary  Conversations  (Lucian  and  Timothetia). 

X  Among  words  whi^ch  are  but  of  yesterday,  and  yet  with  a  marvellous  rapidity 
have  forgotten  the  circumstances  of  their  origin,  Mr.  Trench  refers  to  the  terms, 
Roundheads,  Cannibal^  Huguonots,  Canada,  and  a  word  which  the  Anglo-Americans 
might  be  supposed  quite  able  to  explain,  since  it  plays  so  prominent  a  part  in  tfa^ 
dectionf, — ^viz.  Caucus, 


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154  Pr^€88ar  R.  C.  Tremdi. 

To  l>e  Hidi£femnt  to  the  Stody  of  Wofds  is  like  ^^ inomious  dolaais"  to 
the  image  and  st:^per8mptio&  of  ancieot  -coinft;  ^sasaeat  'words  beuig  Hoe 
tsursent  coina^,  with  this  A^lition  in  the  latter  eiue,  that  eftdi  pieoe  of 
anooey  passing  tiirou^  oitr  hands  has  something  of  its  own  €li«raoieiis& 
and  note-worthy — one,  stamped  with  some  striking  nMudm,  aaoidier  widi 
«>me  important  faet,  anodier  with  some  monorable  date — some  pieeM 
lieing  works  of  finest  art,  graven  with  rare  and  beautifol  devices,  oar  bear* 
ing  Uie  head  of  immortsd  si^  ^  heroic  king — others  again  hemg  the  sole 
flurviving  moomments  of  mi^ity  naticms  tmit  once  filled  the  YiotM.  vUh 
'their  fame. 

Great  are  the  cariosities  of  etymcdogy.  We  rememher  to  have  sew 
sn  inerednlous  smile  excited  by  Professor  Manrioe  on  the  &ees  of  a  gnap 
of  ^steoers,  when  he  mentioned,  as  an  instance  Kii  this  cariosity,  the  radical 
identity  <d  llie  Grreek  ht^le  (^vhj)  and  the  Engli^  tavape  ;  although  be 
liad  bat  to  supply  the  few  and  satisfactory  links  of  relivbiofiahip  to  eoar 
vinoe  the  most  scepticaL  Even  within  the  compass  of  our  aaotliier'-tongve,  ^ 
ike  reialianslnps  of  words  are  often  unsuspected.  Thus  Mr.  Treodi 
shows  how  from  the  ome  Anglo-Saxon  word  io  sbeer^  eomes  a  family  so 
seemingly  unrdated  as  shire,  ehmfef  share,  sheers,  dwed,  eherd.  Tbs 
multiform  usages  of  the  wordpo^^  may  he  brou^tt  to  a  oommum  eeaatrt^ 
post  heing  the  Ladn  poiiHu^  ^'  that  which  is  placed^'-^usxd  thus  a  pieoe 
of  timber  is  "  placed"  in  ihe  ground,  and  so  a  post— a  military  rtatioB  ts 
A  '*  post,"  for  a  man  is  "  plaeed"  in  it,  and  must  not  quit  it  mtoout  orders 
— to  travel  ^^post,"  is  to  have  certain  relays  of  horses  ^^  ^ced ''  at  k- 
tervals,  so  that  no  delay  on  the  road  may  occur — die  **  post^-office  is  ik^ 
wiueh  avails  itsdf  of  this  mode  of  communication — ^to  ''post"  a  ledger  is 
to  ^'  place"  or  register  its  s&iFeral  items.  We  are  reminded  that  *^  beavsa'' 
is  only  ihe  perfect  of  te  heave^  being  properly  the  sky  as  it  is  raised 
aloft ;  the  '^  smith"  has  his  name  from  the  blows  he  smites  4m.  ihe  anvfl; 
*'  wrong"  is  the  perfect  partidple  of  to  wrmg, — dnt  whkik  is  wrung  «r 
wrested  horn  the  right;  the  ^*  brunt "  of  a  battle  is  its  heat,  where  it 
btams  the  most  fiercely ;  the  ^'  haft"  of  a  kzdfe  is  liiat  wheeeby  you  hfwe 
or  hold  it ;  the  ^*  left"  hand  k  the  hand  we  leave,  inasmueh  asf[»r  tweaty 
^mes  we  use  the  right  hand,  we  do  not  once  employ  it.  In  the  aac^ 
entitled  "  On  the  History  in  Words,"  we  find  numerous  intei«8iaiig  reaote 
of  philol(^ical  study,  t^iding  to  ^ow  hpw  far  such  a  study  may  go  ia 
helping  to  reproduce  the  past  history  of  Ei^and — for  instanee,  wiiil^ 
the  statelier  superstructure  of  tike  language  (almost  all  artieles  of  loisifly* 
all  that  has  to  do  with  the  >cha8e,  with  chivahy,  with  p^sonal  adcnmBeiit} 
is  Norman  throughout,  die  hroad  basis  of  l^e  language,  and  there&ve  « 
tiie  life  (the  great  features  of  nature,  all  die  pime  social  Tcktions),  ^ 
Saxon — the  stable  elements  of  Anglo-Saxon  life,  however  overlaid  for  * 
while,  still  making  good  their  claim  to  be  the  solid  groundwork  of  the  after 
nation  as  of  the  afk«p  language.  A  suggestive  history  in  words  is  pointed 
out  in  fmscreant,  a  term  apfdied  hy  the  Crusaders  to  the  Mahometan^ 
and  meaning  at  first  simply  a  misbeliever^  and  then  as  apf^ieaUe  to  the 
royal-hearted  Saladin  as  to  the  most  infamous  wTetdi  that  fought  in  his 
armies ; — in  saunter,  and  saunterer,  derived  from  ^*  la  Sainte  Terre^ 
whither  wended  at  last  every  idler  that  Hsed  strolling  about  better  thaa 
performing  the  duties  of  his  callwDg  ;— in  poltroom,  die  supposed  deriva* 
tive  from  pollice  truncus,  one  who  has  deprived  himself  oi  his  thumb,  ^ 

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Professor  R.  C.  Trenek.  166 

shirk  ha  share  in  military  senriee ; — ^in  oattig^^  oae  wbo  suffers  iamself  to 
be  taken  '^  eaptive,"  and  cra/vemy  one  wbo  has  *^  ennred ''  his  life  at  the 
eaeimeB'  liand,  instead  of  renstbg  to  the  death  ; — in  dunce^  L  e.  dbn^ 
tmoHy  fiom  i^tioM  Scotus  (though  he  was  '*  oertainly  one  of  the  keenest 
and  most  suhtle-i^ted  of  men");  — in  $ncummetry^  from  Mahometfy 
(anodier  curiously  perverted  usage) ; — ^in  tariffs  irom  tiie  Mooikh  fortveas 
Taz!i&,  from  which  all  mendiaint  ships  passing  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar 
were  watched,  and  taxed  according  to  a  fixed  scale  ; — ^in  kigot^  fnun  the 
Sp«ush  '^  higote,"  or  mostaehio — the  Spaniard  being  in  old  times  the 
standii^  representative,  -to  English  Fcotestantisra,  of  the  bigot  and  per- 
seentcffv  as  we  see,  for  exam^e,  in  the  pictures  of  the  early  editions  of 
Fox's  ^^  Book  of  Martyrs,"  where  ^  ^  p^gaa  persecutors  of  the  £rrt 
CSxristiiuis  are  Usually  arrayed  in  the  armour  of  Spanish  soldims,  and 
sometimes  graoed  wim  tremendous  higoiesJ^  Trust  Mr.  Trench  for  a 
slap  at  Popoy,  whenei^er  within  reach. 
^  In  illustration  of  the  truth  that  many  a  single  word  is  in  itself  a  con- 
centrated poem,  baling  stores  of  poetical  thought  and  imagery  laid  up  in 
it,  Mr.  Tresich  adduces  the  word  ^'  dilapidated ;"  observing  that  he  who 
spake  first  of  a  dilapidated  fortune,  must  have  had  before  1^  mind's  eye 
impressiYe  imagery  of  some  falling  house  or  ^palace,  stone  detaching  itself 
ifem  atone,  till  all  had  gradually  sunk  into  desolation  and  ruin.  ^'  Many 
a  man  had  gased,  we  may  be  sure,  at  the  jagged  and  iiidented  mountain 
ridges  of  Spain,  before  one  called  them  *  sierras,'  or  saws,  the  name  l^ 
which  they  are  now  known,  as  Sserra  Morena,  Sierra  Nevada;  but  that 
man  coined  his  imag^natimi  into  a  word  whi(^  will  endure  as  long  as 
the  everlasting  hills  which  he  named."  There  are  some  valuable  hints, 
too,  on  the  manner  in  which  new  words  arise  in  a  kmg^uage — ^how  the 
phUosophic  is  superadded  on  t^  picturesque ;  with  apt  referenoes  to  the 
plnblog^cal  contrilmtions  or  expositions  of  suoh  Stodeots  oi  Words  as 
fiome  Tooke,  De  Quinoey,*  and  Coleridge.  The  diapter  on  Syncmyms, 
agam,  is  rich  with  erudition,  conveyed  chiefly  by  hint  and  suggestion. 
When  he  does  develop  his  meaning,  it  is  wim  a  fdieitous  completeness 
which  leaves  Bothing  to  be  desired,  but  more  of  the  same  kind.  For 
examine,  turn  to  the  distinotioQ  drawn  between  ^'  invention'^  and  '^  dis- 
covery**-^-4>etweett  "  opposite"  and  "  contrary *'-—WEid  betwewi  "  abandon" 
and  **  desert" — which  last  dirersity  is  memoraWy  associated  with  Lord 
Somers'  speech,  that  **  masterly  specimen  of  synonymous  discrimination, 
cm  the  abdication  of  James  II. 

Stffl  better  caleulated  for  pepular  acceptance,  wide  and  hearty,  was 
the  little  treatise  on  the  ^'  Lessons  in  Proverbs/'     What  though  Lard 

*  In  quoting  a  passage  from  the  Opium-Eater's  **  Letters  to  a  Young  Man  whose 
Education  has  been  neglected,"  Mr.  Trencb  obsenres, "  Though  it  only  says  over 
again  what  is  said  above  [on  Wordsworth's  great  philosophic  distiaetion  between 
Fancy  and  Imagination],  yet  it  does  this  so  much  more  forcibly  and  fully,  that  I 
shall  not  hesitate  to  quote  it,  and  the  more  readily  that  these  letters,  in  many 
respects  so  valaabte,  have  never  been  reprinted,  but  lie  buried  in  the  old  numbers 
of  amagaeine,  like  so  many  otber  of  the  disjecta  membra  of  this  illustrious  mazier 
of  Ei^ptiah  prese."  Yes;  but  we  do  hope  at  length  to  see  these  letters,  and  all  his 
contiibiriMais  to  the  London  Magazine,  leprinted  in  the  edition  of  his  writings  now 
in  progress.  Could  you  but  hare  seen  us,  domine  illustrimme  I  many  a  time  ana 
oft,  besiegii^book-stalki  during  broiling  deg-diyirs  and  under  pitiless  snow»showers, 
in  quest  of  your  disjecta  membra,  surely  we  had  not  waited  jo  long. 

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156  Professor  R.  C.  Trench. 

Chesterfield  superbly  declared  that  no  man  of  fashion  would  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  proverbs?  Aristotle  collected  them;  Plautus  rejoiced 
in  them  ;  and  so  did  Rabelais  and  Montaigpse,  Shakspeare  and  Cervantes, 
Fuller  and  Butler.  Whole  nations  love  them.  Indeed,  however  they 
may  be  defined,  popularity,  or  popular  recognition,  is  an  essential  condi- 
tion to  their  being;  for  without  it,  no  saying,  as  Mr.  Trench  rifi^htly 
affirms,  however  brief,  however  wise,  however  seasoned  with  salt,  how- 
ever worthy  on  all  these  accounts*  to  have  become  a  proverb,  however 
fulfilling  all  its  other  conditions,  can  yet  be  esteemed  as  such.  As  an 
instance,  he  cites  a  mot  of  Goethe's  (or  Schiller's  ?) :  "A  man  need  not 
be  an  architect  to  live  in  a  house,"  which  seems  to  have  every  essential  of 
a  proverb,  except  only  that  it  has  not  passed  over  upon  the  lips  of  men, 
not  received  the  stamp  of  popular  acceptance;  and  however  wise  it  may 
be,  still  it  is  not  (at  least  in  this  form)  the  wisdom  of  many  ;  it  has  not 
stood  the  test  of  experience  ;  nor  embodies  the  consenting  voice  of  many 
and  at  different  times  to  its  wisdom  and  truth;  it  has  not  the  value,  be-j^ 
cause  it  has  not  the  currency  of  the  recognised  coin  of  the  realm.f  Not 
however  that  proverbs  are  mostly  to  be  traced  to  the  populace  as  their 
author  as  well  as  authority.  "  They  spring  rather  from  the  sound 
healthy  kernel  of  the  nation,  whether  in  high  place  or  in  low;  and  it 
is  surely  worthy  of  note,  how  large  a  proportion  of  those  with  the  genera- 
tion of  which  we  are  acquainted,  owe  their  existence  to  the  foremost  men 
of  their  time,|  to  its  philosophers,  its  princes,  and  its  kings ;  as  it  would 
not  be  difficult  to  show."  Lord  Bacon's  saying,  that  the  genius,  wit,  and 
spirit  of  a  nation  are  discovered  in  its  proverbs,  is  enforced  and  illus- 
trated, briefly  but  satisfactorily,  by  Mr.  Trench.  He  shows  that  we  may 
learn  from  the  proverbs  current  among  a  people  .what  is  nearest  and 
dearest  to  their  hearts,  the  aspects  under  which  they  contemplate  laky 
how  honour  and  dishonour  are  distributed  among  them,  what  is  of  good 
and  what  of  evil  report  in  their  eyes.  He  passes  in  review  the  proverbs 
of  the  Greeks,  which  testify  of  a  people  leavened  through  and  through 
with  the  most  intimate  knowledge  of  its  own  mythology,  historjr,  and 
poetry — ^teeming  with  an  infinite  multitude  of  slight  and  fine  allusions  to 
legend  and  national  chronicle,  with  delicate  side  glances  at  Hesiodic 
theogony  and  Homeric  tale; — those  of  the  Romans,  comparatively  fe'' 

♦  One  definition  of  a  proverb  being,  that  it  is  a  synthesis  of  shortness,  senseja^ 
salt—i,  e.  it  must  be  (1)  succinct,  utterable  in  a  breath;  (2)  shrewd,  and  not  the 
mere  small-talk  of  conversation ;  (3)  pointed  and  pungent,  having  a  sting  in  it> 
a  barb  which  shall  not  suffer  it  to  drop  lightly  from  the  memory.  With  this  ex- 
planation of  the  proverb,  Mr.  Trench  aptly  compares  MartiaVs  admirable  epigr*"^ 
.upon  epigrams: 

*<  Onme  epigranuna  sit  instar  apis;  sit  aculeus  illi, 
Sint  sua  mella,  sit  et  corporis  exigui;** 
which  he  thus  renders: 

"  Three  things  must  epigrams,  like  bees,  have  all^ 
A  sting,  and  honey,  and  a  body  smalL'* 
t  Mr.  Trench  believes  the  explanation  of  the  word  "  proverb"  to  lie  in  the  con- 
fidence with  which  a  man  appeals  to  it,  as  it  were  from  his  mere  self  and  singic 
fallible  judgment,  to  a  larger  experience  and  wider  conviction.  He  uses  itfjj 
verba;  he  employs  for  and  instead  of  his  own  individual  word,  this  more  genew 
word  which  is  every  man's. 

X  Lord  John  Russell  is  said  to  have  defined  a  proverb  thus:  "  The  wit  of  one 
man,  the  wisdom  of  many." 

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ProfetMor  R.  C.  Trench.  157 

and  unrefined,  bat  often  expressmg  a  vigorous  moral  sense — bonness-like 
and  practica],  frugal  and  severe ;— those  of  Spain,  foremost  in  both  quan- 
tity and  quality — so  rich  in  humour,  so  double-shotted  with  sense — 
gravely  thoughtful,  too,  and  breathing  the  very  spirit  of  chivaby  and 
honour  and  freedom ; — those  of  Italy,  too  offcen  g^ori^ring  artifice  and 
cunning  as  the  true  guides  and  only  safe  leaders  tbough  the  labyrinth  of 
hhf  but  sometimes  not  only  delicately  beautiful,  and  of  a  subtle  wisdom 
not  yet  degenerated  into  cunning  and  deceit,  but  also  noble  and  elevating; 
— ^those  of  modem  Egypt,  besp^ddng  the  selfishness,  the  utter  extinction 
of  all  public  spirit,  the  poor,  mean,  sordid,  and  ignoble  stump  of  the 
whole  character  of  the  people,  with  only  a  few  faintest  glimpses  of  that 
romance  which  one  usually  attaches  to  the  East  And  so  on  with  other 
ethnological  groups. 

His  comments  on  some  of  the  proverbs  he  selects  for  elucidation  are 
generally  thoughtful  and  interesting.  In  the  German  saying,  One  foe 
^  is  too  many :  an  hundred  friends  are  too  few^  he  points  out  the  sense 
of  the  scHTy  truth  that  hate  is  often  a  mudi  more  active  principle  than 
love— the  hundred  friends  will  tcish  you  well,  but  the  one  foe  will  do  you 
ill — their  benevolence  will  be  ordinarily  passive,  his  malevolence  will  be 
constantly  active,  will  be  animosity,  or  spiritedness  in  evil.  He  quotes. 
Where  me  devil  cannot  come^  he  vnll  send,  as  setting  out  to  us  the 
penetrative  character  of  temptations,  and  Uie  certainty  that  they  will 
£(^ow  and  find  men  out  in  their  secretest  retreats,  and  so  rebuking  the 
absurd  supposition  that  by  any  outward  arrangements,  closet  retirements, 
flights  into  the  wilderness,  sin  can  be  kept  at  a  dbtance — for  temptations 
will  inevitably  overleap  all  these  outward  and  merely  artificial  barriers. 
In  the  French  proverb,  It  is  easy  to  go  irfooty  when  one  leads  one^s  horse 
by  the  bridle,  we  are  taught  how  easy  it  is  to  stoop  from  state  when  that 
state  may  be  resumed  at  will — ^how  easy  for  one  to  part  with  luxuries  and 
indulgences,  which  he  only  parts  with  exactly  so  long  as  may  please 
himself.  ^'  No  reason  indeed  is  to  be  found  in  this  comparative  easiness 
for  the  not '  going  afoot ;'  on  the  contrary,  it  may  be  a  most  profitable 
exercise ;  but  every  reason  for  not  esteeming  the  doing  so  too  highly, 
nor  setting  it  in  value  beside  the  trudging  upon  foot  of  him,  who  has  no 
horse  to  fsJl  back  on  at  whatever  moment  he  may  please."  In  another 
French  proverb,  Tahe  the  first  advice  of  a  woman^  and  not  the  second^ 
we  are  certified,  that  in  processes  of  reasoning,  out  of  which  the  second 
counsels  would  ^ring,  women  may  and  will  be,  inferior  to  men  ;  but  in 
intuitions,  moral  ones  above  all,  they  surpass  them  far — ^having  what 
Montaigne  ascribes  to  them  in  a  remarkable  word,  V esprit  primesatUier^ 
that  winch,  if  it  is  to  take  its  prey,  must  take  it  at  the  first  bound.  Our 
own,  A  burnt  child  fears  thefire,  good  as  it  is,  is  shown  to  be  inferior 
to  that  proverb  of  many  tongues,  A  scalded  dog  fears  cold  water  ; — ^for 
while  the  former  expresses  only  that  those  who  have  once  su£Pered  will 
henceforward  be  timid  in  respect  of  that  same  thing  from  which  they 
have  suffered,  the  latter  adds  the  tendency  to  exaggerate  such  fears,  so 
that  now  they  shall  fear  even  where  no  fear  is — a  fact  which  clothes  itself 
in  a  rich  variety  of  forms :  thus,  one  Italian  proverb  says,  A  dog  which 
has  been  beaten  with  a  stich^  is  afraid  of  its  shadow ;  and  another,  which 
could  only  have  had  its  birth  in  the  sunny  south,  where  the  glancing  but 

Oct — VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCIV.  M 

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158  Pn^M&r  R.  a  Trrne/k 

]MirmleMli«urd  lo  often  dsrts  wmma  ymm  podi^  Mi  wkm  hM  bem  bit^tm 
^  a  sefpeutk  mimrmed  bt^m  lizard — anoAagittidWig  e£  ufatAft  Jewaeb 
RabbiA  had  add  long  befiufe.  Me  wko'  bos  beem  biUen^  iy  «  je^rjMK^  m 
a^rtiid  of  a  rope*$  end;  eren  tliai  whiA  beaxs  so  i*mokr  &  iwinnmhlMMWi 
to  a  serpent  aa  thia  does,,  abalL  now  ioBpiie  kim  wkk  toner;  maidt  mtA- 
hrlj  tite  Qngaleae^  widi  imegoy  bemyired  firom  theiv  own  ki>|^  eHma^. 
ssy,  JA«  nam  wha  hm  reaemed  a  btatimgfrom^  ajfirebmmdf.  inm$  awmy 
a*  sigfkt  of  ajire-fy. 

Aaa&ar  prenrerb  o£  mvaj  tengaes,  Ome  moord  heep&  mmotbetr  m  Ae 
scidf&ardy  fimishea  Mr.  Trenefa.  wiih  a  text  againrt  the  "  puling  yet  noia^ 
diiefiroMS  babUfr  of  eat  diallow  Peace  Soeietiea,  whic^  while  ih^  pio&w 
toi-embodj,  and  tfiey  only  to  embody,  tbe  true  apirat  of  GhzMtiaaitj,.  pf»- 
claim  themselves  in  fact  ignorant  of  all  which  it  teachea;  for  iimy  diaaaa 
ef  haviog  peaee  the  fruii,  wl^  the  e? tt  root  out  of  whieh  haye  gr^wtt  all 
tke  wars  and  fightings  that  have  eyer  beeai  m  the  worid,  nairly,  tibekieta 
whieh  stir  in.  men's  members,  remain  aa  ligoreiia  aad  strong  aa  ewer  J* 
Anid  another,  Far "off*  water  wiU  nei  qttemek  near  fite^  ia  his  metto  for 
ai»  appeal  to  keep  our  English  oMMta  gmided  by  aa  KngMsh  fleet  i^— 
^  lor  let  US  only  su|^>06e  tluit  a  bk>w  weore  strack  at  the  empiee's  beart^at 
ibe  home  and  sanctuary  of  its  gveatneaa — so  imprebdlftte  suppositifiiv 
when  force  and  finuod  are  met  tc^ethov  and  are  watdiing  thesr  offK»^ 
tnnity  to  strike  it — what  profit  would  it  be  then  that  her  mighty  anoattr- 
ments  covered  the  distant  seaa,  that  her  si^diers  were  winaidBg  eon^ara^ 
tively  bacreii  yietories  ia  AMea  aad  India?"  By  the  wajr^  Mv.  Trexieh 
loses  no  opportunity  of  '^  taking  a  rise*^  out  of  a  eertain  imperial  par- 
sonage— bidding  us  obaerre,  for  inataaee,  in  eonfirmalaen  of  tin  prorerb^ 
Spiremes  meei^  bow,  '^  as  lately  in  France^  a  wild  and.  feaobic  demeecac^ 
may  be  transformed  by  the  base  trick  of  a  conjuror  into  an  alrockMia 
aniMtary  tyranny;" — and  agai%  still  more  bitteriy,  m  notidag  the  too 
diaractenstic  Egyptian  proverb,  If  ^  monkey  reigme,  donee  befiome 
htm,  he  proceeds  to  say,  ^'  The  monkey  may  r^gn  ia  o^er  lands  besidea 
tiiose  of  ^e  East ;  but  the  examples  in  a  nttghbouriag  lead,  not  meroltj 
of  statesmen  and  warricnai,  of  men  such  as  Ckiiaot  and  Chaagamier^  b«t 
of  many  more  in  ev^  dass,  erect  amid  a  too  general  prostraticat, 
abundantiky  testify  ^t  reign  as  tiie  monkey  may^  nmup  in  purpuric  aU 
will  not  therefore  count  it  thekr  part  and  their  wisdom  to  dance  beficnra 
hiDu"  If  NapoMon-le-petit  ahoidd  settk  in  Buckingham  Palaeey  let  me/k 
Mr.  Tren^  count  on  a  private  ehs^kincy :  indeed,  aa  a  matter  c£  ^  prtL- 
dential  mozahty,"  it  might  be  well  {verbum  Mp»}  to  eschew  a  toa  frequesiA 
discussioa  of  so  ill-esteemed  a  i^sra^t^,  if  regard  be  had  to  the  pro^vecb^ 
Talk  of  So-and-so  ia  Blad^,  and  he's  sure  to  appear.  Fancy  1^  Fremtdi 
Imperator^s  ^sure  appearance,"  press-censors  en  mitg^  and  Mr.  Trenah 
withm  i^iot«*-or  invited  to  dinner^  wUhoui  a  long  spoesi^ 


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(     158    > 


DISCOVERY  OF  THE  BLUE  GROTTO  IN  THE  ISLE  OF 

CAPRL 

Ohx  sumitier  dftj  I  landed  wi^  my  Mend  Ernest  Fnes  ta  thft 
bettutiftil  baj  on  the  Jiorik  coast  of  CaprL  The  Mm  was  fast  ap» 
proBching  ^  dtstuit  Isehia  as  we  sprang  on  the  rattting  shuigis, 
and  ne^er  will  I  iosget  the  pleasing  emotkmf  I  then  experienced^  an^ 
vhicb  caase  eieiwding  on  me  now  tha^  mj  long  cherished  desire  to  tread 
this  lov^j  island  was  at  length  fiilfiUed.  The  waves^  lashing  wi^  bois- 
terous thongh  harmoinoos  fior  on  ^se  wondrous  masses  of  rock  wfaids 
had  already  excited  my  admiring  attention  from  Naples,  seemed  to  me 
to  he  -singing  of  my  departure  from  a  lively  town  to  thk  kumhie  cCff, 
inhabited  only  by  simj^  fishermen  imd  gardeners,  where  the  hone's 
hoof  neret  roveorberates,  and  brilliant  e<|inpages  are  unknown. 

The  island^  widi  its  roeks  and  oaves,  its  weather-beatea  ruins  and 
newly^xeeted  towns,  its  hanging-gardens  and  st^  boldty  cut  in  the 
fiiee  (^  the  rock,  had,  however,  from  a  distance,  almost  impressed  me 
with  tbe  idea  i^at  it  was  a  little  worid  in  itself  filled  wi&  wonders^  and 
surrounded  with  traditionary  loie  ;  and  as  I  was  by  no  means  limited  tv 
time^  I  resolved  thoroughly  to  search,  ea^  nook  and  comer,  and  antici- 
pated DO  small  degree  of  pleasure  in  the  reanlt 

The  beach,  shortly  aftcor  our  antval,  was  erowded  with  the  inhabitants 
of  both  towns,  who,  by  their  pleasing  aspect,  strongly  reminded  us  of 
their  ancestors  the  Greeks,  by  whom  the  place  was  originally  peopled* 
They  received  the  small  cargo  c^  the  market-boat  in  which  we  had 
crossed,  and  widi  wonderful  activity  carried  part  up  the  steps  hewn  in 
tlw  rodi,  to  the  town  of  Aniicapri,  and  the  remainder  to  Caipn  by  a  move 
gentle  ascent.  A  Imsk  lad  idioaldered  our  valise,  and  we  fc^wed  slowly  in 
^e  latt^  course.  We  soon  foimd  ourselves  in  what  bore  the  appearance 
9i  a  vast  amphidieatrcw.  In  front  was  a  row  of  white  flat-roofed  houses^ 
over  which  was*  raised  terrace  above  teirace  clad  with  ike  goaceful  vine^ 
aiNdl  a  bold  rods  crowned  with  ^  overhanging  town  shut  out  all  frur- 
ther  view.  Our  path  wound  along  these  terraces,  which  were  oma*- 
nented  here  and  there  with  myrt^y  laurds,  and  luxurioim  evergreens, 
iBt^rapersed  with  graceful  palms  and  mastioh-trees.  A  frw  Inids  passed 
as  on  tiie  way  to  their  nests  in  the  surroimding  defits  ;  and  the  cheerM 
though  monotoneus  hum  of  briMiant  insects  which  abounded  in  the  c^ve-' 
tress  lend^^d  tibe  path  kss  wearisome  than  we  diould  otherwise  have 
foBod  iL  It  was  a  deHghtfol  evening,,  and  all  that  I  had  heard  of  this 
beautiful  spot  was  recalled  to  my  memory  by  the  lovely  scfflse  before  me. 
On  casting  our  eyes  behind,  the  enchanting  Bay  of  Naples,  Isehia,  Pro- 
cida,  and  all  the  Pontina  islffiids,  bathed  in  the  glowing  colours  of  the 
setting  sun^  w«:e  presented  to  our  gaze,  and  combined  to  enhance  a  pros- 
pect seldom  exeeUed. 

We  at  ki^tk  readied  the  heighti^  and  passed  through  a  gateway  into 
die  saaS.  town  of  Capri,  whidi  is  built  somewhat  after  the  Oriental  style, 
and  were  eonducted  by  tbe  youth  who  bore  onr  luggage  to  the  ckan<' 
hQ\3Bag'heanda(^  Don  Gmse^fio  Pagano,  wh^e,  for  a  moderate  remu- 
neration, we  vecsiyed  a  hearty  wdcome* 

M  2 


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160        Discover}/  of  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  hie  of  Capri. 

Our  host,  a  little,  hale  man,  some  fifty  years  of  age,  led  us  step  by 
step  through  his  quaintly  hut  comfortahly  huilt  dwelling  ;  and,  as  he 
ohserved  me  glancing  over  a  small  coUection  of  old  books  I  found  in  one 
of  the  rooms,  informed  me  that  he  had  obtained  them  in  Naples  when 
studying  there,  and  represented  himself  to  be  the  notary  of  the  place.  I 
was  not  a  little  delighted  to  find  in  him  a  well-informed  man,  and  to  see 
that  several  of  his  books,  written  in  Latin  and  Italian,  treated  of  the 
island  of  Capri.  On  discovering  that  it  was  my  intention  to  examme 
the  island  narrowly,  he  in  the  most  friendly  manner  handed  me  all  his 
books  that  would  assist  me  in  my  research,  and  promised  me  to  obtain, 
on  the  following  morning,  further  information  from  his  neighbours. 

Nothing  now  remained  to  complete  our  object  but  to  sail  round  the 
island  and  examine  the  coast;  and  as  we  had  hidierto  been  prevented  from 
doing  this  in  consequence  of  the  heavy  swell  which  had  prevailed,  we 
resolved  to  devote  the  first  calm  morning  to  the  purpose.  A  serene 
evening  seemed  at  last  to  prognosticate  the  desired  opportunity,  and  we 
made  our  hope  known  to  our  host,  who  participated  in  it,  and  promised 
to  secure  the  aid  of  an  experienced  boatman,  who,  to  use  his  expression, 
would  row  a  man  from  yonside  the  Styx  in  the  face  of  Charon.  "  He 
is  old,"  said  he,  ^'  but  has  the  eye  of  a  hawk,  a  firm  heart,  and  a 
powerful  arm."  Such  unqualified  approbation  quite  prepossessed  me  in 
the  man's  favour,  and  he  was  accordingly  sent  for.  We  had  subse- 
quently much  reason  to  be  pleased  with  him,  as  he  was  the  means  of 
saving  our  lives  on  two  occasions. 

During  the  absence  of  the  messenger,  I  employed  myself  in  asking 
the  notary  for  every  possible  intelligence  respecting  the  proposed  expedi- 
tion, and  took  notes  of  what  I  thought  would  be  likely  to  interest  us  most. 
As  an  old  islander,  he  gave  me  detailed  information  as  to  those  places  which 
were  most  worthy  of  a  visit,  and  which  were  very  incorrectly  given  on 
the  maps  I  had  before  me.  After  finishing,  I  g^ve  him  the  paper  for  his 
perusal,  and  observing  him,  after  a  short  time,  screwing  up  his  moudi, 
and  nodding  his  head  in  a  very  shrewd  manner,  inquired  if  anything 
occurred  to  him. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  he,  after  considerable  hesitation,  **  something  does 
occur  to  me,  but  there  are  some  strange  circumstances  connected  with  it 
I  have  now  seen  fifty-six  summers,  and  have  not  yet  been  able  to  per- 
suade any  one  to  it — but  I  think  I  had  better  drop  the  subject." 

With  that  he  stopped  short,  but  my  curiosity  being  now  awakened,  I 
inquired  what  he  referred  to,  and,  after  repeating  my  question  more  than 
once,  he  continued  : 

**  Yes,  I  am  fifty-six  years  of  age,  and  for  the  greater  part  of  that  time 
I  have  entertained  a  desire  which  I  have  earnestly  wished  to  see  carried 
into  effect.  Allow  me  to  explain  it  to  you.  On  the  north-west  point  of 
the  island  there  is  a  tower  called  Damecuta,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
which  there  are  inany  Homan  remains  ;  and  there  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  Tiberius  had  a  palace  in  that  quarter.  There  is  a  tradition 
current  that  the  place  was  originally  termed  ^  Daine  Chiusa,'  or  the 
Ladies'  Prison,  because  the  emperor  is  supposed  to  have  here  confined  not 
a  few  of  the  fairer  sex  for  the  furtherance  of  his  base  designs." 


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Discovery  of  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  Isle  of  Capri.        161 

I  hinted,  by  way  of  jest,  that  he  surely  did  not  contemplate  the  idea  of 
releasing  knd  letting  these  antiquated  dames  loose  upon  society. 

'^  Oh  no  r  answered  he,  smiUng.  '^  But  a  palace  of  Tibierius  certainly 
stood  there.  Now  attend,"  continued  he,  seriously :  *'  at  the  foot  of  those 
ruins,  on  the  shore,  there  is  a  place  called  Grotella,  where  the  action  of 
the  waves  has  worked  out  several  caves,  which  penetrate  more  or  less  into 
the  rock.  One  of  these,  with  an  extremely  confined  opening,  is  held  in 
bad  repute,  and  even  in  broad  daylight  the  fishermen  avoid  the  place, 
imagfining  that  it  is  tenanted  by  a  host  of  evil  spirits ;  I,  however^ — and 
he  glanced  round  to  see  if  any  of  the  family  were  within  hearing,  and 
added  in  an  under  tone—"  I,  however,  give  no  ear  to  these  tales,  although, 
should  it  be  known  in  the  island,  I  would  be  held  for  little  better  than  a 
Pagan';  but  as  an  educated  man,  you  will  allow  that  piety  consists  in  more 
tbm  a  belief  in  goblins.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  since  my  youth  I  have 
cherished  a  strong  desire  to  swim  into  the  place  and  look  about  me.  I 
confess  to  you,  however,  frankly,  that  a  dread  has  always  attached  itself 
to  the  idea,  and  that  never,  nor  now,  as  father  of  a  &mily,  for  still  greater 
considerations,  would  I  dare  to  enter  it  alone.  God  forbid !  But  as  man 
and  boy,  many  are  the  powerful  swimmers  I  have  asked  to  accompany 
me,  in  vain !  The  fear  of  the  devil  was  too  strong  in  them  to  allow  of 
my  gaining  them  over.  My  desire  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  the 
cave  was  much  increased  about  thirty  years  ago  by  a  circumstance  con* 
nected  with  it  related  to  me  by  an  aged  fisherman  in  whose  feunily  a  tra- 
dition was  handed  down,  that  upwards  of  two  hundred  years  before  some 
priests  had  resolved  to  brave  the  terrors  of  the  place,  ana  actually  swam  a 
short  distance  in,  when  they  were  simultaneously  seized  with  sudden 
fear,  and  hastened  back.  According  to  their  account  the  grotto  has  the 
appearance  of  a  large  temple,  in  which  there  is  a  high  altar,  surrounded  by 
figures  representing  the  heathen  deities.  They  stated  also,  that  the  water 
in  the  interior  was  of  such  peculiar  properties  that  it  filled  the  minds  of 
those  swimming  in  it  with  an  indescribable  perturbation.  In  all  the  books 
which  refer  to  the  island  notice  is  taken  of  the  grotto,  and  writers  agree 
that  for  several  centuries  no  individual  has  had  the  temerity  to  visit  it. 
To  this,"  said  our  host,  grasping  my  hand,  "  I  have  only  to  add  my  firm 
belief  that  the  ruins  above  decidedly  formed  a  palace  of  Tiberius ;  and  as 
the  emperor  had  no  palace  without  a  secret  outlet,  I  maintun  that  the 
passage  from  the  ruins  leads  through  the  grotto.  In  this  case,  the  grotto, 
if  of  considerable  dimensions,  might  well  have  been  employed  as  a  temple 
of  Nereus  and  the  nymphs;  and  this  idea  is  confirmed  by  tne  classics,  from 
whom  we  learn  that  Tiberius,  in  many  instances,  made  use  of  the  caves  in 
the  island,  and  ornamented  them  with  much  taste.  All  strangers  with 
whom  I  have  hitherto  conversed  on  this  subject  have  derided  my  opinion 
as  a  fanciful  dream.  I  feel  assured,  however,  that  from  the  kind  attenr 
tion  you  have  bestowed  upon  my  story,  you  will  grant  I  am  right  in 
asserting  that  the  matter  is  one  worthy  of  strict  research." 

"  My  worthy  host,"  said  I,  "  the  strangers  who  laughed  at  your  con- 
clusions appear  to  me  nearly  as  weak  as  the  fishermen  with  their  fear  of 
the  devil.  Everything  you  have  mentioned  bears  so  plausible  an  aspect, 
that  I  am  burning  with  curiosity  to  visit  the  haunted  temple  with  you." 

'^  It  can  only  be  entered  swimming,''  said  the  notary,  in  a  doubtful 
tone,  *^  and  the  water  in  the  interior  is  deep." 

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162        Discavejy  of  the  Situ  Grotto  iti  ffie  Isk  ^ffiJapri. 

^^  So  much  the  better,"  Imt^posed;  ''we  can  duck  imder  if  iiie  fieiy 
breath  of  the  B^rhx  shoold  tcnwieiit  vs.** 

^  Yott  «pe  jCBting,"  said  he. 

^'  Not  I,"  I  an8>vrered.  ^  In  me,  alber  fifty  years,  you  have  at  kst  ib«ad 
the  man  n4io  is  wiMing  to  undertake  the  ad^entme  witbi  you ;  and  to  «on- 
Tince  you  that  lam  in  earnest,  I  invite  you  toaecompany  us  to-morrofr.  As 
we  intended  unoler  any4»rcuni9taBeeB  to  bathe,  k  w^  make  little  ^i^^Breooe 
to  us  if  we  take  onr  b«th  in  the  waiter  tlut  so  much  terrrfied  Ske  piietts.'' 

*^  Agreed !"  osned  lOie  notary,  and  a  beam  o(  delight  ^t  over  hm 
manly  oountenanee.  ^  I  can  tell  yon,  that  old  as  I  am  I  will  swim  wiith 
the  best  of  you.  But  let  us  9ptik  <quietly,  that  none  in  the  house  teoj 
hexr  of  it,  or  t^ey  would  not  sufiScr  me  to  go,  so  great  is  their  amdefy  on 
ttfus  head.** 

We  now  consulted  as  to  what  armngements  we  i^ould  make;  and  as 
the  opening  to  the  cavern  was  birt  small,  I  oonduded  that  the  interisr 
would  be  ixtk,  and  that  it  would  be  advisaUe  for  ns  to  take  torches  witlh 
x».  The  notary  agreed  with  this  euggesttoo,  obserring  that  we  oould 
push  them  before  us  l^nrougk  the  «fntranee  on  floats,  and  thns  see  the 
s^tto  to  great  advantage  on  entering,  and  promised  that  Ang^,  the 
hoatman,  shonld  have  everylAiing  m  rcKuiiness  for  ns  <m  tfce  morrow* 

My  fe^vellmg  companion,  who  Imd  hidierto  been  merely  a  listener, 
now  observed,  that  in  his  opinion  the  affair  was  one  which  wouH  ooa- 
snme  much  time  that  migm  be  more  advantageously  «pent  ihsa  in 
hunting  for  such  a  mare's  nest,  «s  he  termed  it.  He  was,  therefore, 
apposed  to  our  going.  At  this,  a  cloud  passed  over  the  ^tme  of  the 
notary,  which,  however,  was  dispelled  on  my  assuring  him  th^  the 
Bdventure  should  certainly  be  carried  out  1  now  represented  to  lay 
friend  that  (as  we  intended  -under  any  cirenmstanoes  to  bathe  ^  w 
morrow)  a  bath  in  the  grotto  would  nd  consume  more  lime  than  in  nay 
49ther  pkce,  and  that  W'C  coisdd  easily  combme  this  widi  our  proposed  tr^ 
round  the  island.  After  no  little  trouble,  I  at  length  succeeded  in 
inducing  him  to  meet  our  wishes,  and  he  promised  to  accompany  us. 
Our  host  was  now  in  ecstasy,  and  a  period  was  only  put  to  his  joyfid 
exclamations  by  the  arrival  of  Angelo  Ferraro,  the  boatman,  an  >MeAj 
man,  whose  skin  was  bronzed  with  exposure  to  the  sun  and  seft-^breeseB, 
und  who,  hat  in  hand,  stood  respectfnUy  before  us.  Wo  asked  if  he 
wouM  venture  to  take  us  round  the  island. 

"  As  soon  as  another,  gentlemen,"  was  his  ready  answer. 

The  notary  now  gave  him  instructions  as  to  the  preparations  to  %e 
'made  for  our  visit  to  the  grotto.  At  iMa  the  man  stared,  and  asksd 
whether  the  gentlemen  were  determined  to  enter  the  grotto. 

"  Yes;  and  I  too  I"  OKckimed  the  notary.  "  Will  you  not  acoompaiiy 
US,  Angelo?" 

"  You,  too  ?"  *oried  <ihe  astonished  boatman,  starting  bads,  ***  Well," 
added  he,  "  since  that  is  the  case,  I  will  enter  with  you.  Yesi  Angek) 
^goes  with  you !" 

«<  Bravo,  Angelo !"  said  the  notary. 

Angelo  continned : 

^  (Sien  have  1  wished  to  see  the  plaoe,  but  could  never  venture  in 
alone;  now,  however,  there  are  fovr  of  us,  and  ^the  devil  flees  from 
four,'  as  the  proverb  goes.     I  will  take  a  small  bostt  and  row  in  £nt, 

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Bmaomy  tf  tke  Blue  GroUoin  the  Me^ffCapn.       US 

«biviii|^  Hm  tosdws  befeve  iw;  you  will  thra  be  Mm  to  look  about  you 
«Hich  aaore  oonfertably  than  if  you  had  liieiii  undefr  yoor  nose." 

**  'Brwf%  Asag^ !"  repeated  ovr  worthy  liost. 

^*  BmTO,  Angdo !"  w«s  eclioed  sofdy  and  ironiciAy  from  a  corner  of 
liie  iioon,  towank  wiiich  o«r  eyes  were  i&staotiy  tamed. 

^  Alas!  alasf  «aid,  or  rather  eighed,  the  notary,  ^my  brother,  tte 


Tke  caaomco  appioadied  widi  annmed  politeness,  boiimg  OTer  with 
i^-disguMed  rage. 

^^  £seiise  me,  gentkneii,  ^  iatrwUi^  in  so  indeoorous  a  maimer;  I 
idioald  ne^ier  have  thought  of  doing  so,  had  my  brodier  acted  as  beseems 
A  good  Christian.  I  stood  for  some  time  behind  that  glass  door,  fixed 
^vidi  astoaidimeat  at  the  pranks  this  old  man,  who  should  by  this  time 
iopre  known  better,  proposed  aotmg  with  you  strangers  and  Angela" 

^  Oh !  to  think  l£at  he  should  come,"  said  the  notary,  shrugging  his 
f^ulders ;  ^  there's  an  end  of  it  now.  Pray  leave  us,  my  dear  brcMther ; 
i  -m^  to  speak  to  these  gentlemmi.'' 

*^  Oh,  indeed !  to  spei^ ?  What  then?  Nothing  but  eTQi— notlmg 
but  evil !  Look,  gentlemen,  here  is  my  broi^ier,  the  esteemed  notary  of 
liie  pfause,  I>on  Gcraeppo  Pagano,  a  studied  man,  a  learned  man  (our 
host  raised  his  hat  at  every  sentence,  in  scorn),  a  good  father  to  his 
€ui^,  a  worthy  husband,  a  discreet  instructor  <^  his  children,  honoured 
and  Mored  by  e^iy  one ;  but— «  bag  of  wind  and  a  vessd  of  foUy, 
boiling  OTOT — ^yes,  boiling  over  I"  repeated  he,  warmly. 

**  Go,  Angelo  !**  said  the  notary — ^  go  and  do  as  I  bid  you." 

Ai^io  went ;  the  oanonioo,  howerw,  turned  to  us,  and  continued : 

'^  Yem,  gentlemen  (excuse  me  for  saying  so),  as  strangers  here,  have 
afiow«d  yours^ves  to  be  drawn  into  an  affair,  by  the  talkativeness  of  my 
brotiier,  whkh  is  more  dangerous  than  it  appears  to  you.  To  swim  into 
a  ewre  may  seem  easy  to  those  who  have  breasted  rapid  rdling  rivers,  or 
mounted  the  waves  oi  the  ocean ;  but  are  you  aware,  on  that  account,  of 
the  peooliarities  of  the  water  in  that  grotto  ?  Do  you  know  whedier  the 
water  vnll  sustain  you  ?  or  whether  it  is  not  a  deceit  of  the  devil,  and 
Ihat  you  may  sink  into  eternal  flames  ?  You  cannot  know  it.  You  may, 
perhaps,  not  have  heard  that  the  waters  round  the  idand  swarm  widi 
ravenous  monsters,  in  consequence  of  which  it  is  only  safe  to  bathe  under 
sh^ter  of  rocks.  Good,  you  may  say ;  when  we  are  in  ihe  grotto  we  are 
sheltered  by  rocks,  and  need  not  fear  sharks.  But  do  you  believe  that 
the  devil  does  not  fost^  other  monsters  therein,  compared  with  which 
they  are  but  as  lambs  ?  Do  not  smile.  What  I  say  is  not  mere  imagt- 
natran.  It  is  corroborated  by  facts — undoubted  facts !  You  must,  doubt- 
Jess,  have  frequently  read  of  syrens  and  tritons.  Now,  these  are  nothing 
but  evil  ones,  which  assume  m)se  and  other  shapes  to  injure  men,  and 
eeduee  them  firem  eternal  v^elfare  !*' 

^  My  dear  nr,"  I  inteijaculated,  ^'those  are  nothing  but  old  GrecMU 
^Ues,  not  vrordiy  of  beMef !" 

'*  Old  Grecian  fibles  ?"  exdaimed  the  esnonico,  ntisittg  his  arms  in 
-astonislnient.  ^^  Would  to  God  th^  wero  only  fables,  and  that  men 
sow-a-days  were  not  doomed  to  see  them !  HW  long  ago  is  it  sinoeoae 
of  our  fishermen,  I  forget  his  name " 

**  Nobody  ever  faoew  it,"  cried  the  notary,  angrily. 

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164        Discover j/  of  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  Isle  of  Capri. 

*^OhI  indeed!  many  know  it,"  continued  the  priest ;  ^<  suffice  it  to 
say,  then,  that  the  fisherman  died  of  a  horrihle  and  painful  disease,  be- 
cause he  had  seen  a  merman.  And  how  was  it,  think  you,  that  it  took 
place  ?  He  had  steered  in  the  direction  of  that  very  grotto  to  spear 
fish.  The  morning  was  beautiful,  and  the  water  so  calm  and  dear,  tbat 
he  could  see  the  muscles  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  which  is  twenty 
fathoms  deep  there.  Suddenly  he  beheld  the  fishes  below  him  dart  £roiE 
the  spot,  leaving  only  one,  at  a  great  depth,  which  kept  circling  round 
his  little  bark,  and  rising  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  surface.  As  the  fisk 
appeared  to  him  to  be  of  a  considerable  size  he  seized  the  largest  of  his 
harpoons,  adjusted  the  line,  and  poising  the  weapon  in  his  right  hand, 
his  left  on  an  oar,  anidously  awaited  the  near  approach  of  the  fish, 
which  still  kept  rising,  and  assumed  at  times  a  reddish  or  a  g^enish  hue. 
At  this  the  fisherman,  who  had  never  before  beheld  such  a  thing,  b^;aQ 
to  lose  courage,  but,  instead  of  repeating  a  pater-noster  like  a  good 
Christian,  to  drive  away  the  monster,  he  took  heart,  as  the  men  of  the 
world  say,  and  with  a  fearful  oath  drove  the  harpoon  into  the  badt  of  the 
fish.  The  water  was  immediately  so  much  discoloured  with  blood  that 
he  could  no  longer  see  the  bottom,  and  as  the  line  was  not.  taut  he 
imagined  that  he  had  killed  the  fish,  and  commenced  hauling  up,  when 
lo  !  he  brought  the  harpoon  to  the  surface  divided  in  the  middle,  not 
hroken,  but  as  it  were  melted !  Terror  now  seized  the  man  ;  he  dropped 
the  fragment  of  his  weapon  in  the  boat,  seized  both  oars,  which  he  plied 
vnth  all  his  strength  to  bear  him  from  the  place.  In  vain— the  boat 
would  only  move  in  that  dread  circle  formerly  described  by  the  fish;  at 
length,  however,  it  stood  quite  still,  and  a  bleeding  man  rose  fi:om.the 
purple  water,  the  end  of  the  harpoon  projecting  m>m  his  breast,  and 
rushed  with  threatening  mien  towards  the  fisherman,  who  sunk  uueon- 
scious  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  which  drifted  on  shore.  There  he  was 
speedily  assisted  by  his  friends,  but  remained  for  some  time  in  a  state  of 
stupor,  and  it  was  not  until  the  fourth  day  after  this  occurrence  that  he 
was  able  to  explain  these  circumstances  to  them.  A  sudden  and  won- 
derful change  then  came  over  him.  The  hand  with  which  he  had  thrown 
the  harpoon  dried  up  and  withered  like  a  leaf  in  autumn,  as  also  did  his 
arm  and  the  rest  of  his  members,  and  death  at  last  terminated  his  ex- 
cruciating agonies.  His  body,  after  death,  bore  little  resemblance  to  a 
human  corpse,  hut  looked  more  like  a  dried  root  from  some  apothecary  s 
shop." 

"  Like  the  tail  of  my  wig !"  exclaimed  our  host,  starting  from  his  8e«t 
and  padug  the  room  impatiently.  The  canonico,  however,  did  not  allow 
himself  to  be  disturbed,  but  continued  talking  on,  and  seemed  to  have  an 
inexhaustible  store  of  tales  respecting  the  grotto,  all  of  which  he  firmly 
believed  in.  He  told  us  that  fires  were  sometimes  seen  within,  and  that 
at  other  times  animals  like  crocodiles  peeped  out.  That  the  entrance 
changed  daily  seven  times,  and  twas  now  large,  then  small ;  that  the 
voices  of  syrens  were  heard  therein  during  the  night  singing  to  ap 
audience  of  skeletons.  Now  and  then  children's  cries  were  heard,  and 
nothing  was  more  common  than  groans  and,  sighs ;  and  it  was  no  i»j 
usual  circumstance  to  hear  that  young  fishermen  had  suddenly  disappeared 
in  that  neighbourhood. 

"  All  nonsense !  pure  invention  !**  cried  the  notary, .  whose  patieo<* 

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Discovery  of  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  Lie  of  Capri.        166^ 

was  now  exhausted.     <<  Pray  leave  us,  brother !     We  have  come  to  a  de- 
termination, and  nothing  in  the  world  shall  move  us  from  it !" 

The  canonico  now  endeavoured  to  work  upon  the  mind  of  his  broths 
by  spiritual  admonitions  ;  mildly  at  first,  but  as  the  notary  only  offered 
more  opposition,  the  dispute  at  last  waxed  so  warm,  and  toey  spoke  so 
loud,  that  the  wife  of  the  notary,  with  the  whole  &mily  at  her  heels, 
rushed  into  the  room  to  learn  what  had  set  them  thus  at  variance. 

**  listen,  my  dear  nster,"  said  the  priest,  solemnly — <<  listen  to  what 
your  husband,  my  brother,  is  about  to  do.  Listen,  my  dear  children,  to 
what  your  father  purposes.  He  intends  to  swim  into  the  cave  to-morrow 
with  mese  gentlemen !'' 

'<  Into  the  cave  ?  What  cave  ?  Not  the  haunted  cave  ?*'  said  the 
wife.     *^  My  husband  will  surely  not  do  that." 

"  Yes,  now  I  totU  /**  said  the  notary.  "  Will  you  come  with  me^  my 
son  ?"  said  he,  addressing  hb  eldest,  a  fine  boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen. 

*'  Yes  !  where  &ther  goes  I  will  go,"  was  the  reply ;  and  the  boy  sprang 
to  his  father's  knee. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  good  canonico,  who  departed  to  his  chain- 
ber,  prating  for  the  welfare  of  nis  brother's  soul. 

*^  Quiet  at  last !"  exclaimed  the  notary.  *'  Now,  wife,  prepare  supper, 
whilst  I  fetch  some  of  our  best  wine."  With  that  he  left  the  room,  and 
our  hostess,  with  a  deep  sigh,  made  the  necessary  arrangements.  His 
daughters,  however,  drew  near  to  us,  and  asked  whether  we  really  in- 
tended to  stake  both  soul  and  body  in  what  appeared  in  their  eyes  so 
dangerous  an  undertaking,  and  were  not  at  all  satisfied  with  our  making 
light  of  their  fears.  Their  father  entering  with  a  liberal  supply  of  the 
juice  of  the  grape,  and  observing  their  sad  looks,  ordered  them 
to  depart  for  the  night,  and  invited  us,  now  that  we  were  atone,  to  be 
seated.. 

We  responded  willingly  to  his  call,  and  commenced  a  vigorous  attack 
on  the  wholesome  repast,  drinking  more  than  once  success  to  our  pro- 
posed adventure.  The  notary,  now  that  he  saw  his  long-cherished  desire 
on  the  point  of  being  fulfilled,  could  hardly  find  woi^s  to  express  his 
joy,  and  entertained  us  with  no  brief  recital  of  his  golden  anticipations. 
My  firiend,  however,  who  was  less  inspired  with  the  affair,  cut  short  his 
discourse,  by  saying  that  all  he  expected  to  find  was  a  damp,  disagree- 
able and  gloomy  grotto,  and  finished  by  suggesting  that  we  should 
retire  for  uie  night  Tli^  notary  rose,  and  embraced  us  in  the  excess 
of  his  gladtiiessv  and  we  hastened  to  repose. 

I  passed  half  the  night  in  dreams.  My  thoughts  naturally  led  me  to 
the  grotto :  we  had  landed  there,  and  discovered  long  passages ;  here 
and  there  wete  chained  skeletons  in  all  attitudes,  one  of  which,  me- 
thought,  was  abusing  me  in  no  measured  terms  in  Latin.  Suddenly, 
steps  were  heard  aj^roaching,  and  Tiberius  stood  before  us,  attended  by 
an  old  soldier  of  the  imperial  city,  ^ho  demanded  the  reason  of  our 
intrusion ;  when,  deliberating  as  to  my  reply,  I  awoke.  Sleep,  however, 
again  conducted  me  to  the  grotto.  We  were  before  a  brazen  door ;  we 
had  levers  with  us,  which  we  immediately  applied,  and  saw  through  the 
crevices  of  the  yielding  hinges  that  we  were  on  the  threshold  of  a  splen- 
did saloon.  The  door  at  last  burst  open,  and  we  were  immediately 
overpowered  by  a  violent  storm  which  threatened  to  annihilate  us. .  The 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Ifi6        Discovery  tf  the  Blue  Grotto  m  the  Me  if  Capri. 

■&Bk  ttwe  aiso  into  ibe  gorgeous  haU,  aad  with  mbricUed  r&ogwaoe 
whelmed  thrones,  statues,  and  tripods,  ihtoIvid^  ^lem  m  ieeirtsiosMe 
esnfoiios,  tlie  imlin^  waves  dashing  us  against  the  paiotod  walk.  At 
"kui,  thrown  Tiolently  against  the  roof,  I  grasped  an  iron  liag,  wliieh 
yielded  to  asy  hold,  and  the  gilded  eMiing  Mbwing  with  a  horrid  wash, 
jtgain  awoke  me.  MomBig  at  length  dawned ;  I  roiaed  lAy  friend^  and 
we  dressed  in  aU  haste.  On  leavkig  ^mr  rotnns  we  found  the  notary  in 
^bli  trim,  eootemphrting  Ins  preparations  for  the  trip,  amongst  which  a 
wdl-filled  pMirinon-lNdket,  and  an  inunense  hmtem,  whidh  he  ^mki^ 
would  be  oseAil  in  case  we  were  aUe  to  land  in  the  groMo,  were  «est 
conspicuous.  After  partaking  of  a  hurried  breakfast,  we  set  <Mit,  ae- 
oempaaied  by  our  host  and  his  little  son,  flowed  by  the  aad  and 
anxious  looks  of  his  family. 

We  arri?ed  in  half  aa  hour  at  the  famding-pkce  Ivom  whidi  we  were 
to  embasie,  where  we  found  Angelo  and  omr  muleteer  M iehele  Furerieoy 
who  were  awaiting  tm.  We  took  oar  pk^es  in  Angele's  boat,  tewing 
after  us  a  smaller  one  containing  torches,  a  large  iron  ▼essel  fiUed  wim 
-pitdi,  besides  laatenss,  and  some  yards  of  small  but  Strang  rope.  Aweb 
and  his  companion  plied  their  oars,  however,  so  vigorously,  that  wie  had 
to  leanest  diem  occasionally  to  lessen  thor  •exertions,  that  we  might 
have  a  better  view  of  the  wonderful  coast.  We  kept  the  shore  en  ear 
left,  and  paraiag  over  against  the  Neptune  villa  of  Tiberias,  soon  fomid 
euMlres  under  i^  hM  and  almost  overiiaa^g  preoipioe,  at  the  fsot  of 
which  we  diserved  mKoy  hdee  and  caves,  ornamented  wtdi  stalaotites  ef 
every  possiUe  shape.  I  now  looked  out  impatiently  for  that  we  weie 
aeekmg ;  my  frieod,  lioweveiv  ihe  nearer  we  approached,  showed  less 
dasire  to  m^er  it,  supposing  that  our  host  intended  to  laugh  at  us.  I 
eoavisoed  him,  however,  that  we  should  have  the  hMigh  ati  on  och*  nde 
when  we  got  into  the  grotto,  if  we  found  such  were  the  case.  We  now 
began  to  cast  off  our  encumbering  garments,  and  exhoarted  tiie  sotarj, 
who  in  the  aMan  time  had  become  n^her  grave,  to  f>llow  omr  example. 

**  In  one  Hunute — I  am  rather  too  warm  at  present,"  said  he,  withoat 
•tirrifig.  The  rowers,  who  vp  to  this  time  had  been  very  loqaaeions, 
BOW  grew  remarkably  quiet.  Not  long  after  we  ^ot  past  the  extreaiily 
«f  a  small  headland,  the  oars  were  drawn  in,  and  oar  boat  remained  at 
Ksat    Not  a  %  moved. 

^  WeM,  what  are  we  stopping  for  ?"  ssud  L 

**  Here  is  the  grot^,^  replied  Angelo,  after  a  little  hesHa^n ;  and  be 
pointed  out  the  small  entrance  to  me,  in  and  out  of  which  the  deep  blue 
water  was  roUiag.  All  were  sileit — Don  Pagano  had  become  rather 
neditattve. 

**  Now  then,  Ang^,"  cried  I,  breaking  sHenee,  **  look  alW  Ae 
torches ;  we  ha^Fe  not  much  time  to  lose,  and  must  be  sharp." 

Angelo  stuped  into  the  smidl  boa^  struck  a  light,  and  m  a  dhert 
time  we  had  the  pitch  tn  the  iron  dish  bkang  ftunously.  The  fumes 
and  heat  vpere  so  great,  that  the  worthy  boatman,  in  setting  the  fire-pan 
on  to  dK  cttf&oe  of  the  water,  screwed  up  his  faee  miiaA.  it  looked  mote 
Mke  a  eqaeeaod  lemon  than  a  human  visage,  eaudng  a  hearty  laugh  on 
-ihe  part  oi  «  strangers;  ike  notary,  however,  lod&ed  more  eerieas 
lium  ever. 

"  Qoidk,  Mr.  Notary  1  qwiok !"  said  I;  «  we  vrantto jump  ».*• 

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Baccver^if  the  BlmGromm  the  hk^  Capri.        167 

'^  I  am  BtSH  ra^er  -warn,"  was  his  replj ;  ^  Imt  do  not  kt  me  hinder 
yoo.     Swim  in,  I  will  Mlow  mmediately." 

^  No,  AOy^  I  «Bswe]»d ;  ^  iiiat  is  not  as  we  arranged.  We  imBt  all 
eater  tog«<^ter.'* 

^  Beeanse  it  woaM  otherwise  appear  as  if  you  were  afraid,  my  devnr. 
Oome,  let  «e  assist  3^0  to  undrcss." 

<'  Oh  no.     But  pray  leave  me  alone  ;  I  rtaHy  am  too  heated.** 

^'  V«ry  weMj-tiien,  we  wiM  wait  a  little.^ 

The  votary  at  last  began  to  remove  Ins  n^pw  dothing. 

-**  Ga  in/' said  he;  ^  I  will  certunly  foHow  immediately.*' 

*^  No,  Mr.  Notary ,"  I  replied,  seiaing  him  by  the  shonldevB ;  *^  if  yon 
do  not  preparo  for  ^e  waiter  immediatdy,  IH  4in*ow  yofi  inf* 

The  wovds,  spoken  \aS&  in  earnest  and  half  in  jest,  had  liie  dowrod 
'^feet,  and  he  was  speedily  "freed  from  aH  srtifieial  eovering.  Jnrap  ia, 
however^  he  woidd  not  I  araiied  myself  of  a  fa^CRRsMe  oppor- 
tunity, gave  him  a  slight  push,  and  plump !  he  lay  in  tin  water^  mm 
which  he  hnmediat^  «nie%ed,  shooing  up  1^  a  coii:.  He  w»  oiie  of 
those  who  by  nature  can  scarcely  sink  in  water.  We  straugera  now 
spra^  in,  koA  brisked  mernly  round  him.  He  had  taken  wy  sport  in 
^9od  part,  bat  felt  by  no  means  indiaed  to  join  in  emr  aaiitn,  for  llhe 
erentM  moment  was  now  approadting.  Angelo,  squatting  down  in  the 
httie  boat  something  alker  the  custom  of  the  Tmrl^,  drove  the  bhaiBg 
pitch  towards  1^  opening.  Not  one  of  us,  I  believe,  was  perfeetly  free 
from  faar.  Not  itet  I  was  terrified  at^he  iabidous  reports  I  had  heard; 
hat  I  eertainfy  t^iougtht  of  liie  horrid  slna^s  referred  to  by  the  ceaeoiee, 
and  asked  Angelo  S  he  thought  we  were  ia  danger  frwa  ^lem  ?  His 
answer,  ^'  Thme  is  no  cause  for  fear — they  never  come  between  rocks," 
did  not  affsrd  me  mrach  satisfaction  ;  for  it  was  ail  vety  weH  for  him  to 
say  so  with  ^  lega  in  the  boat,  and  mine  in  the  water.  Now,  however, 
he  bad  reached  tm  opening,  and  groped  his  way  in  by  ihe  side  of  ihe 
cavern,  l^e  ikkSk  ^noke  of  the  burning  ptt^  vras  extremely  oppressive 
both  to  him  and  me  as  we  made  our  way  ander  the  4ow  arclied  rcK^  and 
I  was  compelled  to  shut  my  eyes  to  avoid  the  ^agreeable  sensalion.  Qii 
reopening  them,  everything  was  dark  around  me  except  where  Ang^ 
was  gropn^  his  way  along  the  humid  wall,  and  it  was  oftAy  by  the  rever- 
beration of  the  breaking  waves  that  I  could  ^srm  some  idea  of  the  extent 
of  the  place.  1  swam  on  in  strange  and  anxious  expectation,  •straming 
my  eyes  in  vsun  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  looked-for  antiqaities,  when  I 
observed  my  friend  and  ^  notary,  who  followed  me,  both  turn  at  the 
same  time  to  make  their  exit,  and  glanced  round  hooting  at  their  Csars ; 
hat — good  Heavens  !  what  a  sight  met  my  eyes.  I  sprang,  invoiuntmily, 
almost  out  of  the  liquid  element,  overcome  by  the  most  h©rrM:^e  feefiagt; 
lor  I  tiow  peroeived  i^at  the  water  beneath  me  bore  tiie  iqipearance  of 
inflamad  spirits,  burning  fearfully  blue.  For  the  moment,  <kisried  with 
4he  briMiancy  of  the  cobur,  I  imagined  that  it  was  a  volcanic  pheno- 
vienon;  as  I  became  sensible,  however,  l^at  the  temperature  ^  the  water 
ddll  remained  the  same,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  roof,  supposing  that 
the  beaiftifid  spectacle  must  have  its  origin  in  reflection;  but  -^ere  the 
dark  and  fr?owning  rode  alone  met  my  gaze,  and,  with  my  back  tamed  to 

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168       Discovery  of  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  hie  of  Capri. 

Angelo's  pitch  fire,  I  began  at  last  to  make  out  its  sombre  shape.  The 
water  still  remained  wonderful  in  its  properties,  and  when  the  waves  were 
for  an  instant  quiet,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  swimming  in  the  clear  blue  sky, 
and,  almost  intoxicated  with  delight,  I  cried  to  my  companions,  '^  By  all 
that  is  lovely,  come  here !  Were  there  nothing  in  the  grotto  but  this 
beautiful  water,  it  would  still  l^main  a  world's  wonder.  Come,  fear  not; 
there  are  neither  sharks  nor  devils  to  be  seen,  but  the  most  splendid  dis- 
play of  colouring  ever  beheld !" 

Emboldened  by  my  words,  the  two  worthies  took  fresh  courage,  and 
again  entered,  and  participated  in  my  transport.  We  were  not,  how- 
ever, able  to  comprehend  the  wonder  which  caused  us  so  much  astonish- 
ment. We  could  now  understand  the  origin  of  the  terror  experienced 
by  the  priests  who  had  entered  the  cavern  some  two  centuries  before  us. 
Angelo  had  in  the  mean  time  reached  the  background,  and  discovered  a 
favourable  point  for  landing,  whither  we  accordingly  swam,  and  disco- 
vered, on  stepping  on  shore,  that  the  cavern  extended  considerably  further 
into  the  island. 

^<  There's  the  emperor's  passage !"  shouted  the  notary,  before  he  was 
'well  out  of  the  watw. 

I  thought  it  was  not  unlikely,  took  a  lantern  from  Angelo  in  which  a 
small  lamp  was  burning,  and  went,  shivering,  onwards.  The  ground  was 
very  uneven  and  slippery,  and  pointed  stalactites,  hanging  from  the  roof 
on  every  side,  threw  perplexing  shadows  on  the  curiously-shapeu  walls, 
and  made  me  think  every  now  and  then  that  I  saw  something  moying. 
My  phantasy,  excited  by  the  incomprehensible  phenomenon  of  the  water, 
conjured  up  innumerable  thoughts  and  shapes,  and  the  idea  seiaed  ine 
that  we  had  stumbled  upon  the  residence  of  a  horde  of  pirates.  I  nov 
suddenly  observed  the  reflection  of  my  lamp  grow  paler,  and  stopped 
to  regard  it  more  attentively.  My  friends  asked  me  the  reason  of  mj 
shrinking  back.  I  had  almost  replied  <'  that  I  saw  a  skeleton  ;**  but,  on 
throwing  the  light  of  the  lamp  full  on  the  object,  I  perceived  that  it  was 
only  a  stalactite  to  which  my  imagination  had  assigned  so  horrible  a 
^pe.  I  stepped  forward,  but  again  my  heart  was  almost  in  my  mouth 
as  I  found  my  shadow,  not  behind  me,  as  before,  but  at  my  side.  '^  What 
can  cause  trntt  ?"  thought  I ;  "  some  door  must  open  this  way,  and  1 
stand  a  chance  of  being  set  upon  by  murderers,  with  little  hope  of 
assistance  from  my  companions."  I  turned  round,  and  perceived  an 
opening,  evidently  artificially  made,  which  looked  towards  the  entrance 
of  the  grotto  from  which  the  light  streamed  in. 

"  Here  is  a  sign  of  man's  hand,"  cried  I  to  my  friends — **  a  window 
hewn  in  the  rock." 

The  notary,  followed  by  Fries,  scrambled  towards  me  as  fast  as  the 
slippery  rock  would  permit 

'^  A  hewn  window,  certainly,"  said  the  notary,  in  a  self-satisfied  tone. 
"  My  head  for  it,  this  is  the  emperor's  secret  way."  , 

From  the  window  the  grotto  was  visible  in  all  its  splendour ;  and  we 
could  perceive  the  large  and  deep  basin,  vaulted  over  with  picturesque 
masses  of  rock,  from  which  elegantly-formed  stalactites  were  pendant 
on  all  sides,  glittering  in  the  fidnt  blue  light  of  the  water  rolling  like  a 
heaven  beneath,  wmlst  the  waves,  bresddng  on  the  landing-place,  to 

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Discovery  of  the  Blue  Grotto  in  the  Isle  of  Capri.        169 

which  animal  remains  had  imparted  a  deep  red  tinge,  dashed  up  showers 
of  sparkling  brilliants,  and  the  bright  daylight  gleaming  through  the 
entrance  shed  a  moon-like  light  over  its  narrow  path. 

Forgetting  both  the  emperor  and  his  passage  in  the  beauty  of  the 
scene,  we  sprang  into  the  water  for  our  drawing  materials,  to  make  a 
sketch  of  the  grotto,  with  the  view  of  endeavouring  at  some  future  period 
to  commit  it  to  canvas.  Returning  with  the  needful  articles,  we  seated 
ourselves  in  the  window,  one  holding  the  lantern  to  the  other,  and  com- 
pleted two  views  of  the  place.  In  ^e  mean  time,  little  Paeano  and  the 
muleteer  had  given  our  boat  in  charge  of  some  other  which  had  ap- 
proached, and  swam  shouting  in,  darting  about  in  the  splendid  water 
Hke  imps  of  darkness,  and  throwing  fiery  sparks  on  all  sides.  Our  host, 
however,  who  had  business  to  transact  m  Capri,  was  compelled  to  leave 
us,  much  against  his  inclination.  On  the  outside  he  found  the  owner  of 
the  property,  who,  having  heard  our  shouts,  had  sprung  down  the  rocks 
Hke  a  goat,  and  with  open  mouth  and  inquisitive  .gaze  was  peering  into 
the  cavern  when  he  made  his  exit.  Not  a  little  astonished  to  see  a  well- 
known  face,  he  exclaimed : 

"  Can  that  be  vou,  Mr.  Notary,  coming  out  ?  What  shouting  is  that 
within?" 

"  The  devil's  within !"  cried  the  now  courageous  notary,  waggishly. 
"  Look  in  yourself^  and  you  will  see  him.'* 

The  astonished  proprietor  soon  gathered  courage,  threw  off  his  gar- 
ments, and  swam  in,  meeting  with  a  hearty  reception  from  the  muleteer 
and  the  landlord's  son.  The  huzzaing,  the  cave,  the  water,  the  fire,  and 
oor  arrangements  for  sketching,  all  combined  to  increase  his  astonish- 
ment ;  and  he  more  than  once  gave  utterance  to  his  feelings  of  wonder 
at  our  temerity  in  entering  a  place  which  he,  although  the  owner  of  it, 
whose  life  had  been  spent  on  ihe  spot,  had  never  dared  to  explore. 

Having  now  completed  our  sketches,  we  resolved  to  penetrate  farther 
into  the  cave,  and,  lantern  in  hand,  I  led  the  way  along  a  passage  on  our 
left,  the  path  winding  like  a  labyrinth,  in  consequence  of  the  position  of 
the  stalactites,  and  frequently  leading  us  over  a  surface  of  stony  incrus- 
tation scarcely  half  an  inch  thick,  which,  however,  bore  us  safely.  This 
passage  brought  us  at  last  through  an  entrance,  evidently  formed  by 
miman  hand,  again  into  the  large  grotto.  We  retraced  our  steps,  and, 
a  little  more  to  the  right,  discovered  a  longer  passage,  along  which  we 
proceeded. 

In  our  way  we  stumbled  on  some  stones,  which  bore  the  appearance  of 
masonry,  and  on  which  the  proprietor  immediately  threw  himself,  ex- 
claiming, "  Here  is  a  treasure !  It  is  mine !"  Nothing  was,  however, 
discovered,  and  we  enjoyed  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  expense  of  the  poor 
man,  who,  however,  was  not  to  be  discouraged  on  that  account,  for  the 
scene  was  repeated  several  times,  to  our  great  amusement,  until  at  length 
a  little  circumstance  bereft  him  of  all  courage.  He  had  been  eagerly 
skipping  on  before  me, '  when  he  suddenly  stopped  short  and  turned 
taO,  almost  dashing  the  lantern  from  my  hand  in  his  unexpected  retreat. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  asked,  astonished  at  his  movement. 

"  Listen !"    said   he,   in   a  whisper,  pressing  on   me,  and   grasping 

'  my  arm ;  and  I  could  feel  how  he  trembled.    The  muleteer  and  the  little 

Pagano  laid  their  fingers  on  their  lips,  and  were  silent.  We  now  heard  a 

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170       Diacofiery  cf  the  Blue  Grotte^  in  the  IsU  ef  Capri. 

omte  like  dn^puig  water  sounding  oui  of  di6  piteliy  daricaeflb  of  thfr 
pmmige,  and  fiuding  this  wm  the  caese  of  our  treastue-se^kar's  £mup  w» 
stepped  forwards.  The  lantern,  however,  now  homed  strangelj,  qnita 
£mly  when  held  near  the  ground,  and  bnghdy  when  held-  dbove  our 
heara*  This  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  uie  three  Capraecs,  who  cs- 
ofaiimetl^  erossing  thems^ves^  that  there  must  oertaialj  he  aomethiag 
i^r(»g  in  the  place,  and  h^ged  <^  us  to  return.  To  thia  we  asseated,  as 
heing  enly  prudei^ ;  hut  hefore  doing  so  I  stepped  a  little  fiutiier  fotwaidy 
holding  the  lantern  on  hi^  and  ohserved  a  thick  heavy  vapour  ottog  oui 
of  the  groiuidy  which  I  knew  must  be  ''  fire-dMnp."  Never  having  sera, 
this  phenomenon  hefore,  we  strangers  stood  for  an  instant  to  regard  i^;. 
the  islanders,^  howevery  besought  us  to  returo,  and  were  already  making 
the  best  of  th^  way  out  in  the  darimess^  not  one  of  them  wishing  to  he 
last.  Amaising  as  this  hasty  retreat  appeared  to  u^  we  grew  zaAhcr 
smoos  on  diseevering  that  we  were  no  longer  in  the  passage  we  bad  at 
fiifit  penetrated.  The  oonfiised  groping  about  of  those  yiho  preeeded  aie 
distracted  my  attention,  and  prevented  my  dbsevving  our  error,  ey«i  bj 
the  light  of  the  lantern,  until  the  spot  we  at  lei^^  reached  was  stnkiBgi)r 
Afferent  &om  any  we  had  b^ore  seen.  '^Heaven  save  us!"  esdakned 
the  islanders,  on  perceiving  from  its  greater  size  and  regularity  l^iat  wa 
were  in  a  new  passage. 

At  the  point  where  we  had  discovo^d  our  naistake  I  now  laid  seme 
stones  in  a  certain  position  as  a  mark,  and  begged  of  them  all  to  search 
thisy  which  I  concluded  was  the  principal  passage,  the  other  appearhig 
to  mC'  too  small  for  a  Roman  work,,  expecting  by  the  lud  of  tbe  stones  to 
be  enabled  to  retrace  our  stepa  easily.  The  islanders,  however,  entreated 
me  to  give  up  my  new  adv^iture,  and  my  Mend  was  on  the  point  of 
doling  my  attention  to  the  small  suroly  of  oil  remaining,  when  the  light 
suddenly  became  extinguished,  and  we  were  left  env^ped  in  impene- 
trable dariines&  Thus  lost  in  the  thick  gloom,  without  any  knowle^e 
of  the  loeaUty — ^for  it  was  now  impossiUe  to  find  the  mark  I  had  Boade— 
1^  islanders  lost  all  heart,  tremblmg  with  fear,  and  looking  <mly  ht  a 
death  of  starvation,,  and  crying  to  all  the  saints  %x  hdp.  Aa  I  laid  A 
the  blancie  of  our  unfortunate  »tuation  on  mysdi^  my  utmost  ^^Mrts  woe 
alone  requisite  to  enable  me  to  preserve  my  presence  of  mind. 

''  Thm^is  nothing  now  left  for  us  but  trust  in  Providence,"  I  cried. 
^'  One  of  us  must  stand  still  whilst  the  other  four  seaidi  about  for  pas- 
sages. By  calling  to  each  other  we  shall  easily  keep  together^  and  set 
oiu^elves  right  by  the  one  who  remains  here." 

This  idea  was  improved  of  by  my  German  friend,  and  we  were  about 
CMcryiag  it  into  execution,  when  a  terrible  cry  resen^^ing  the  roar  of  a 
wild  beast  penetrated  through  the  darkness,  causmg  us  tdi  to  hnddte 
together  in  fear.     The  cry  was  repeated. 

^*  God  be  praised  1"  exdaimed  Midiek),  the  di»Jcey-diiyer,  "  it  is  An* 
g^'s  voice  which  the  echo  renders  so  fearful— he  is  shouting  Michdo !" 

'^  He  IS  in  truth  an  angel  l"  I  cried.  "  He  is  not  far  distantf  and  wo 
shaU  soon  find  the  wi^  out." 

We  moved  cautioudy  forwwd,  now  shouting,  then  listening  in  the 
directicm  of  the  sound,  and  had  hardly  gone  fifty  paoes  when  we  per- 
ceived a  faint  hgbt,  and  shortly  after  the  hewn  window*  Afibei  the  thidc 
darkness,  the  wond^rftd  illumination  of  tha  wat^  ahena  upon  ua  with 

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Discovery  of  4Ae  Srln^  Grotto  m  tie  hie  of  Capri.        171 

torifaU  na|piufi€«ictt  sni  ^  all  kailed  good  Ai^feki  Wtha  jojo«  ^Ek 
ma  P  He  wa^fltitt  paddling  about  ia  his  i^a&i  ikm  fiiN^  hoirever^  had 
btoni  e«t^  aiid^aa  we  bad  be^  ao  h»^  a  tima^  absent  he  fiaared  we  might 
have  mei  witii  an  aeeide nt»  aad  had  ahomtcd  flo  kstily — half  ia  isof^  for 
himfiriff  aad  half  £»  w.  Gladlj  we  planged  t^^edier  into  the  sdbtaop- 
naeas  flky*  and  aa  it  was  now  laffled  bj  a  fiDsoh  bieeze  Aagdo  begged 
(^  us  to  quit  the  grotto,  observing  that  we  must  hurry  if  we  hoped  to 
Qin^lete  the^  etsciat  of  the  islaad.  We  onee  more  laoded,  tiaeew  our 
portfolios  and  camp-stools  into  the  ddff  whidi  had  caczied  tiie  ira^ 
ifigained  the  beau<3&l  ^ment,  and  swam  oat  fall  of  delight^  bat  without 
die  sHghtest  idea  as  to  the  eabae  o£  the  eolour  of  tiie  water,  fatty  detn*^ 
ipkied,  <m  my  part  at  Ieast»  to  investigate  thetansa  ef  it  thosoughly  at 
another  time.  The  islanders  tliought  themselyes  heroes,  and  kioked  wadi. 
&di^is  of  pride  en  the  entrance  to  tha  giotto,  JhaaJdng  St  Antfwmy, 
howeir^^  tbit  tiiey  had  at  length  emerged.  The  donkey-driyer  an^ci- 
pated  a  ^noas  leoeptien  on  the  part  ef  the  inhahitanta  ef  d^m^  put 
the  ddff  into  the  smaller  ef  the  two  boats^  and  went  on  board  himssif 
with  the  younger  Pagano  (the  eidar  had  already  gone  witk  a  fisbctman 
in  another  boat  to  Capri),  whilst  we  embarked  with  Angelo  in  the 
larger. 

"  Does  no  one  row  us  but  yon  ?**  I  asked. 
,  "  Be  comforted,"  replied  Angelo ;  ^^  I  am  as  good  as  two." 

He  then  seized  the  oars,  hung  on  the  pegs,  and  rowed  us  out  of  the 
small  bay,  turning  to  the  left,  round  the  north-west  part  of  the  island. 
We  obfifiTved  move  small  eaves  in  that  direetioo,  and,  as  die  wind  became 
£reth^  Ttuy  beautiful  bceakera  on  the  numberiess  locks.  In  awedge- 
aiwiped  opening  the  waves  hurried  in,  daahiag  up  on  high  in  a  fnllar  of 
water,  and  descending  in  dasaltng  qpray,  refolgeat  with  all  the  eoloors  o£ 
die  zamhow.  As  we  passed  the  namoroos  ^£Ps  steering  southward^  die 
waves  rose  h^her  and  higher,  and  the  shore  becasM  more  bold  and  pie^ 
cipitOQS.  With  a  firm  grasp,  Angrio  batded  widi  die  foaming  water% 
whilst  our  light  baric  with  its  pamted  eyes  danced  over  die  sea  hke  a 
ddphin.  My  companioa  could  not  enjoy  the  ]^easing  spectacle  of  An- 
gek>'s  daving;  having  but  recendy  reomred  mmk  a  fever,  the  tosraag  of 
oar  boat  brought  on  a  severe  headache. 

^  Saint  Amtbony  T  suddenly,  however,  shrieked  Angelo.  One  of  die 
oav-^puia  had  given  in  die  hard  struggle^  and  Angelo^  losing  his  balance, 
alk^wed  the  oar  to  slip  througk  his  hand,  when  it  was  borne  on  die 
boilmg  wsves^  and  was  dadbed  against  the  ragged  shcHe.  I  was  tend^ 
fied;  &r  with  a  ain^^  ear  iriiat  could  we  do  ia  soch  raging  watars. 
Swimmifig  would  prove  of  litde  avail,  for  the  ji^ed  lo^  mounted 
abneet  p^rpendicBlarly  to  a  height  of  1000  feet.  Our  danger  was  m^ 
eieased  by  submerged  clif&,  who«  presence  die  broken  watN»  aad 
kshednip  foam;  too  plainly  indicated.  On  a  f»ojectiBg  ledge  I  observed 
a  man,  who  had  lowered  hiiMdf  by  a  rope  to  collect  pknts.^  On  seeing' 
ua  he  flt^  down  hia  staff,  and  raised  his  hai^  heavenward  at  b^(difing 
the  danger  we  were  in»  To  descend  fnrdier  was  imposnble,  and  to 
ei^eet  asnstaaeefiKXtt  him^  ahhongh  he  iqppaaared  meat  aaxioos  to  aid  u^ 
waa  therefoi*  «it  of  the  question. 

Aiig^  didnot  an&c  our  embanawsmmt  to  defirivr  him  of  hia  ipn^ 


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172  A  Day  at  the  Barricades. 

sence  of  mind.  With  the  ooe  oar  he  so  guided  our  baric  as  to  «mble 
me  to  regain  our  lost  oar  and  hand  it  to  him.  Before  he  ooidd  fix 
another  pin,  however,  a  swelling  wave  bore  us  on  its  crest  towards  ^e 
firowniog  rock,  but  he  skilfully  succeeded  with  both  oars  in  stemmiag 
oar  course,  although,  in  anticipation  of  the  shock,  I  recoiled  with  horror, 
when  rolling  back  with  tremendous  force  it  carried  us  away  from  the 
dreaded  shore. 

**  Braro,  Angelo  !  bravo !"  shouted  the  man  on  the  rock ;  and  widi 
rejoicing  hearts  we  repeated  the  cry. 

It  was  truly  a  masterpiece  of  skill.  Angelo's  figure  rose  at  the  mo- 
mentous period ;  the  oars  grew  suddenly  under  his  hands,  his  eyes  flashed 
fire,  his  whole  frame  seemed  suddenly  rooted  to  the  bottom  of  our  host, 
and — we  were  saved. 

Our  approbation  produced  but  little  effect  on  his  features  ;  he  wo^ed 
quietiy  on,  but  after  a  few  seconds  he  gazed  upon  the  rocky  wall  and 
exclaimed,  ''  God  be  praised  !  Had  you  not  given  me  the  oar,  we  should 
all  have  been  lost.''  Then  striking  in  the  new  pin  with  his  homy  hand, 
he  bent  with  renewed  strength  to  the  oars. 


.    A  DAY  AT  THE  BARRICADES. 

FoRTUNATSLY  for  themselves,  few  Englishmen  are  in  a  capaaty  to 
join  with  me  in  saying  that  they  have  also  spent  a  day  at  the  barricades ; 
the  inhabitants  of  this  happy  island  are  still  blessedly  igfnorant  of  even 
the  first  principles  of  their  erection,  and  none  of  our  generals  have  been 
yet  compelled  to  exchange  the  sword  for  the  pen,  and  explain  the  proper 
method  of  scaling  them.  The  only  barricades  we  ever  see  are  those 
raised  in  our  thoroughfeures  when  repairs  are  going  on,  to  the  profit  of 
our  cabmen;  and  the  only  weapons  with  which  they  are  assailed  are 
winged,  but  not  death-dealing,  consisting,  as  they  do,  of  a  volley  of  ob- 
jurgations on  the  heads  of  the  leaders  of  the  destructive  and  constructive 
band. 

Our  political  excitement  ends  in  a  very  different  fashion  from  that 
which  was  formerly  en  vogue  on  the  Continent :  when  a  thing  grievously 
annoys  us,  and  cannot  by  possibility  be  endured  any  longer,  we  even  join 
together  in  a  peaceful  conspiracy,  and  abolish  it  by  the  employment  of 
moral  force — a  more  powerful  weapon  than  all  the  warlike  equipments  to  be 
fi)und  in  Woolwich  Arsenal.  For  all  that,  though,  our  cousins-german  must 
not  be  utterly  blamed  for  their  appeal  to  the  sword :  they  never  were  in 
a  position  to  understand  the  reai  blessings  of  liberty,  and  persons  und^ 
such  circumstances  are  only  too  prone  to  be  seduced  by  the  meretricious 
blandishments  of  that  painted  lady,  Democracy. 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  led  to  comprehend  the  delights  of  revolution 
by  a  very  peculiar  process  :  at  the  first  outbreak  of  hostilities  I  may 
safely  avouch  that  there  was  not  a  more  peaceful  Civts  Britanntcus  in  the 
whole  territory  of  Baden  than  myself;  but  I  presume  the  enjoym^t  of 
revolution  is  something  like  that  of  opinm— the  first  taste  is  inexpresribly 


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A  Day  at  the  Barricades.  173 

xtanseous,  but,  by  degrees,  it  becomes  a  necessity  to  existence.  At  least, 
it  was  so  in  my  case ;  when  the  news  arriyed  across  the  frontier  that  Louis 
Piulippe  had  scented  the  danger  and  betaken  himself  to  England,  under 
the  vnlgar  name  of  Mr.  Smi£,  I  felt  rather  more  than  curious  to  know 
what  would  be  the  result  of  the  movement  in  the  ducal  residence  of 
Cmrlsruhe.  Thither  I  went,  and  had  the  distinguished  honour  of  forming 
one  of  the  body-guard  hurriedly  raised  to  protect  the  grand  duke  from 
any  hostile  attack.  Fortunately  for  myself,  the  only  opportunity  I  found 
of  exhibiting  my  prowess  was  in  wielmng  my  knife  and  fork,  and  drink- 
ing several  botdes  of  the  celebrated  white  wine  from  Eberstein,  which, 
though  heretofore  exclusively  kept  for  the  grand  ducal  table,  was,  by  the 
levelling  process  going  on,  considered  not  a  whit  too  good  for  his  gallant 
defenders. 

As  the  political  excitement  waxed  fiercer,  in  equal  rado  did  mine,  and 
I  gradually  found  myself  shouting  vehemently  for  Hecker  and  other 
worthies,  who  have  smce  left  their  country  for  their  country  *s  good, 
although  up  to  that  time  their  names  were  almost  unknown  to  me,  and 
it  was  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  whether  the  National  Guard  were 
formed  or  not.  But  here  I  must  correct  myself;  for,  after  it  came  into 
existence,  the  unlucky  drums  \\3ed  to  beat  tne  reveUli  every  morning  at 
four  o'clock,  and  I,  consequmitly,  lost  a  considerable  portion  of  my  natural 
rest. 

The  first  great  popular  meeting  that  was  held  took  place  at  Offenburg, 
and  an  ominous  sign  of  the  times  was  rendered  by  Hecker's  reply  to  the 
request  that  he  would  accept  office  as  minister  of  justice,  *^  Ich  kann  kein 
Fiirsten  Diener  seyn ;"  words  which,  although  placed  by  Schiller  in  the 
mouth  of  the  Marquis  Posa,  had  a  terrible  si^ificance  here,  as  they  left 
the  people  to  choose  between  a  grand  duke  'vmo  was  indifferent  to  them, 
and  a  man  like  Hecker,  who  was  bom  to  be  the  darling  of  a  mob. 

The  popular  ferment  increased  instead  of  becoming  diminished ;  armed 
meetings  g^w  into  fuhion  through  the  whole  length  of  the  land,  from 
Heidelberg  to  Basle,  and,  to  my  sorrow  I  must  confess,  I  went  regularly 
to  all  of  them.  Hecker  and  his  friends  retired  to  Switzerland  after  the 
breaking  up  of  the  Vor  Parliament,  and  all  threatened  a  very  lively 
episode  in  the  history  of  Baden. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  month  of  May,  the  polidoal  refugees,  wearied 
of  the  monotony  of  peace,  thought  it  high  time  to  have  their  inniogs, 
and  word  was  soon  brought  that  they  were  moving  on  the  Rhine,  as 
some  said,  with  half  a  dozen  red-trousered  French  regiments  at  their 
back.  The  excitement  was  of  course  intense,  and  a  popular  armed 
meeting  was  immediately  convened  at  Freyburg,  to  see  (in  the  words  of 
the  programme)  what  encouragement  should  be  given  to  the  progress  of 
the  Republic.  But,  before  temng  you  what  they  said  and  did  there,  I 
may  as  well  give  a  short  description  of  this  most  interesting  town. 

Freyburg  is  situated  in  an  exquisite  valley  in  the  Black  Forest,  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  Swiss  frontier  and  the  Rhine.  It  contains  a 
population  of  about  10,000  souls,  and  enjoys  the  usual  gentle  dulness  of 
collegiate  towns.  It  is  the  seat  of  the  Catholic  University  of  Baden, 
and  would  scarcely  ever  be  visited  by  strangers  were  it  not  for  the  very 
splendid  cathedral  it  boasts.  It  is,  in  feust,  the  finest  specimen  of  Gothic 
architecture  in  a  complete  state  to  be  found  in  Germany,  or,  I  might 

Oc^.— -VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCIV.  N 

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174  A  Day  at  the  Barrimiet^ 

almost  say,  im  Europe.  At  least  I  cannot)  at  the  noment,  nooUect  any 
other  great  cfanrdi  eonpleted  in  aoeordanoe  wi4k  the  origiQal  design^ 
escept,  perhaps,  tiie  Maddeioe  in  Paris,  w  our  own  St  Paul's.  The 
cathedral  of  Cologne  may  be  grander  in  eonoqptioD,  but  it  is  not  yet 
finished,  and  ne¥er  will  he,  unless  they  progress  eonsiderably  fiister  thaa 
iliey  are  doing  at  present  ^  Besides  this,  Freybuig  Cathedral  is  remaik- 
able  from  being  the  result  of  the  united  energies  of  the  people  for  thej 
oompleted  it,  afW  kings  aad  prinoes  had  given  up  the  ta^  in  despair. 
Houses  «id  lands  were  mortgaged  to  raise  the  money ;  and  where  a  man 
had  neither,  he  Toluntarily  gare  his  days  and  labour  to  complete  the 
Doble  work :  the  result  w»s  ooe  of  the  most  beautiful  buildings  it  is  pos- 
sible to  imagine.'' 

The  presence  of  the  cathedral  in  Freyburg  has  had  considerable  influ* 
ence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  town;  the  inhidntants  are  perfectly  well 
acquainted  with  the  current  rakie  of  Ekighsh  aorereigBS,  and  do  not 
OTince  the  slightest  objection  to  reoeiye  any  quantity  their  distinguished 
witors  may  feel  inclined  to  exchange  for  Dutch  dodcs  and  straw  hati, 
Ae  staple  articles  of  barter  drawn  from  the  Black  Forest.  From  these 
data  it  might  be  inferred,  natundly,  that  the  pc^ulatioa.  of  the  towa 
would  be  disinclined  towards  revc^ution  or  refadHon,  if  you  like  to  call  it 
so;  and  so  they  would  hare  been,  if  the  season  had  commenced.  As  it 
was,  they  felt  dull  after  a  severe  winter — their  blood  had  been  put  in 
active  circulation*  by  the  various  imeutes  mH  around  them — strangers  had 
not  yet  begun  to  appear,  tiwt  is,  diose  mho  were  worth  shearing,  and 
tiie  consequence  was,  the  »>od  people  c£  Freyburg  thought  that  thcj 
would  hafe  their  fun  as  w^  though  it  might  be  death  to  others :  nor 
w«re  the  means  and  i^spHances  wanting. 

At  the  close  of  May,  then,  the  long-talked-of  armed  pc^idar  meeting 
took  plaoe^  and  thousands  flocked  to  Freyburg,  myself  among  them. 
My  knowledge  of  such  assemblies  was  becoming  rather  extensive,  and  I 
aoon  saw  that  there  was  some  mischief  in  the  wind,  through  the  number 
of  strange  faces  I  perceived,  aad  which  could  only  belong  to  Poles,  those 
carrion  crows  of  revolution.  It  was  a  most  peculiar  fact  that,  during  the 
whole,  progress  of  the  outbreaks  in  Vienna,  Berlin,  Frankfort  &c.,  roles 
were  immediatelyfound  in  the  front  ranks  as  soon  as  the  first  gun  was 
fired  in  anger.  Whence  they  came  nobody  appeared  to  know,  or  how 
they  disappeared ;  as  soon  as  hostilities  ceased  they  modestly  retioed, 
without  waiting  to  recMve  the  meed  of  valour  at  the  hands  of  a  grateM 
mob,  or  anticipating  it  by  carrying  away  wx^  them  a  iem  doaen  alfsr 
spoons,  and  such  unconsidered  tri^s,  as  a  reminiacenoe. 

As  for  ^  rest  of  the  assembly,  they  were  the  old  familiar  faces;  the 
detachment  of  blouse,  or  scythe,  men,  as  they  were  indiscriminately 
termed,  I  had  seen  before,  'but,  m  my  readers  may  not  have  ei^joyed  that 
peculiar  good  fortime,  I  may  as  well  devote  a  few  lines  to  them.  They 
were  a  corps  of  picked  men,  of  herculean  fcmns,  dressed  in  blue  linen 
blouses  and  grey-fdt  sombreros,  adorned  with  red  feathers,  and  carried  a 
most  extraordinaiy  weapon,  formed  of  a  combiDation  of  scythe  and  reap- 
ing-hook, fastened  to  the  end  of  a  pde  about  five  feet  long.  This  cuiions 
instrument  was  a  vendaisoence  of  the  last  Polish  war,  and  was  intended 
to  be  employed  in  repulsing  cavaby  attacks:,  the  reapinff-hook  serving 
to  catdi  the  rider  by  the  n^  and  drag  hkn  fi?om  the  saddle;,  when  the 

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A  Day  at  the  Barrieadei.  17S 

sejthe  eSeehaSiY  letUed  faim.  I  believe,  however,  its  vmlm  wat  never 
properiy  estaUishedy  at  least  bj  a  fair  trial,  for  when  it  eame  to  eavalij 
attacks  the  rebels  used  to  remember  the  adage  ci  ^romiing  away''  in 
order  to  ^Kve  to  %ht  another  day,"  and  very  speedily  took  themsehei 
out  of  harm's  way. 

The  remainder  of  the  mob  coUeeted  on  ^  market-plaee  of  I^eybuig 
consisted  of  Tomer,  or  members  of  AiB  gynmastic  societies,  drened  m 
their  white  Hnen  jadcets  and  trousers,  and  armed  widi  mnskets  the  grand 
duke  had  been  good  enough  to  give  tiiem,  at  eonadenble  expense  to  the 
country,  and  a  vast  number  cl  loog-booted,  red-wusteoated  peasants, 
i^iose  armament  was,  to  use  the  mildest  term  lor  it,  extraordinary.  As 
antiquarian  woold  have  gloated  over  the  gons  and  pistols,  swords  and 
daggers  there  faronght  to  light,  widi  intense  satisiaction.  There  were 
the  k>ng  rifles  with  whidi  their  fore^i^ers  had  rep«dsed  tiie  Frwieh  m 
1794,  now  quite  disabled  by  rust,  and  weapons  oi  sueh  quaint  and 
peculiar  form  that  it  would  not  have  required  any  great  stretch  of  imagi- 
nation  to  suf^pose  diat  they  had  been  employed  in  the  tonftle  peasant 
war  of  1525.  Add  to  these  a  quantity  ci  hi  citixens  from  the  towns 
of  the  Underiand,  some  dragging  huge  sabres  rattling  at  their  heel% 
others  tri]^>ed  up  by  their  straight  court  swords,  and  the  reader  may  fem 
a  toleraUy  correct  idea  of  the  components  of  a  German  armed  meetb^ 
in  those  days. 

As  heterogeneous^  however,  as  the  assen^^ly  was,  it  wu  just  the  same 
with  tiieir  ofunions.  Tlie  majority  of  the  peasants  was  qjoIj  animated 
with  one  wish,  that  of  ekii^  th^  revenge  upon  the  Jews,  woo  certainly 
deserved  punkhmmit  if  all  braved  in  the  same  way  as  one  of  whose 
viUaDy  I  was  onoe  witness.  I  had  been  out  shooting,  and  in  the  after* 
noon  turned  into  a  village  inn  to  have  some  refreshment.  The  only  in* 
mates  of  the  room  where  I  sat  were  an  old  peasant  and  two  diildren  of 
Israel,  money-lencters  or  oom-dealers,  for  in  Germany  th^  graerally 
unite  both  professions.  The  peasant  vranted  to  borrow  ^  sum  oi  forty 
fl(mns,  or  about  three  pounds  ten,  on  mortgage  of  hb  frrm,  to  which  tfa^ 
Jews  consented,  but  ^e  main  difficulty  app^ured  to  be  that  they  had  not 
80  much  money  with  them,  tfieir  united  capital  only  amounting  to 
twenty-six  florins.  They,  however,  drew  i^  a  lull,  handed  over  the 
twenty-six  florins  to  ihe  peasant,  inserted  the  amount  in  the  document, 
and  all  appeared  to  be  going  on  correctly.  One  of  the  Jews,  however, 
i^ddenly  recollected  that  he  had  aome  money  to  receive  in  ihe  villi^p^ 
and  promised  Ae  peasant  that,  if  he  succeeded,  he  woidd  let  him  have 
the  otiier  fourteen  florins,  fie  vrent  out  for  a  time^  and  returned  witli 
the  money,  whi^  he  handed  over  to  At  peasant,  and  duly  inserted  in 
the  docummit.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  aflair,  when,  aome  three 
months  afterwards,  the  old  peasant  came  to  call  upon  me  in «  state  of 
terrible  tribula^n,  and  begged  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints  tliat  I  would 
help  him.  It  appeared  that  the  Jews  had  b^^n  an  action  agains^  him 
for  2614  florins,  which  they  swore  th^had  lent  him,  and  which  was 
borne  out  by  the  bill  he  had  i^ned.  lliey  had  put  down  the  first  26 
florins  ihey  had  given  him,  and  added  the  oth^  14  close  by  their  side 
afterwards,  so  that  it  read  2614,  and  had  it  not  been  for  my  active  inter* 
ferenc^  and  after  an  mfinity  of  trouble,  eansed  by  the  Jewr  peijury  (for 
they  would  not  give  in  until  theohief  rabbi  of  Carlsrohe  was  summoned  to 

n2 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


176  A  Day  at  the  Barricades. 

take  their  oath  by  some  dreadful  process  peculiar  to  themselyes),  the  poor 
old  peasant  would  indubitably  naye  been  sold  out.  Nor  was  this  an 
isolated  case ;  but  as  it  occurred  in  my  own  presence,  I  can  vouch  for  the 
fact.  Indeed,  in  Alsace  many  of  the  Jews  were  terribly  maltreated  about 
this  time,  and  even  the  great  Israelite,  Baron  von  Rothschild,  according 
to  popular  rumour,  was  glad  to  remove  his  treasures  to  the  strong  fortress 
of  Mayence,  not  deeming  them  sufficiently  secure  in  Frankfort.  By  the 
way,  I  wonder  what  his  mamma,  Madame  Rothschild,  if  she  be  still 
living,  thinks  about  the  complication  with  Russia.  It  is  said  that,  at  the 
time  when  a  war  was  apprehended  between  France  and  GermaQj, 
several  years  ago,  one  of  her  commeres  ran  in  to  tell  the  old  lady  the 
terrible  news ;  she  was,  however,  speedily  consoled  by  the  reply :  "  Pah, 
pah !  my  son  won't  permit  it — he  won't  lend  them  any  money."  Surely 
Mr.  Cobden  must  have  derived  his  notions  of  finance  from  this  worthy 
dame,  when  present  at  the  Peace  Congress  at  Frankfort.  After  this  long 
digression,  let  me  return  to  the  good  town  of  Freyburg. 

The  balcony  of  the  first  floor  windows  in  the  Hotel  zum  Ritter  was 
selected  as  the  oratorical  tribune,  and  it  was  soon  densely  crowded  with 
students,  newspaper  editors,  and  other  dissatisfied  heroes,  who  wished  to 
make  a  little  noise  in  the  world.  The  usual  turbulent  speeches  were 
held,  the  flags  were  waved  from  below,  g^ns  and  pistols  were  continuallj 
fired,  regardTess  of  danger  and  expense,  and  I  breathed  somewhat  more 
freely,  for  I  iFancied  things  would  end  in  the  accustomed  manner.  In 
this,  however,  I  was  lamentably  mistaken,  for  a  horseman  came  suddenly 
riding  in  Vho  brought  the  news  that  Hecker  and  Struv6  -had,  that  after- 
noon, passed  tlie  Rhine  at  Lorrach,  and  were  hurrying  with  forced 
marches  to  Freyburg,  fully  determined  to  do  or  die.  It  was  surprising 
how  this  intelligence  inflamed  the  hearers.  Hecker's  name  was  idolised 
by  the  people,  and  the  feeling  had  been  maintained  by  many  artful 
rumours.  One,  for  instance,  I  remember,  was  universally  circulated  and 
believed,  that  he  was  the  second  son  of  the  Grand. Duchess  Stephanie  of 
Baden,  and  carried  oflF,  when  born,  by  the  White  Lady  from  the  palace 
of  Garlsruhe.  This  was  an  adaptation  of  the  Caspar  Hauser  legend, 
which  had  never  been  satisfi&ctorily  cleared  up,  but  was  so  fully  credited 
that  reputable  persons  pointed  out  to  me  the  actual  murderer  of  the  boy, 
who  was  a  gentleman  held  in  high  repute,  and  personallv  received  at  the 
grand  ducal  court.  But  this  is  ever  a  misfortune  contingent  on  abso- 
lutism, that  the  most  outre  stories  obtain  credence  through  the  exertions 
of  the  police  to  suppress  them.  For  my  own  part,  I  succeeded  in  pro- 
curing the  secret  history  of  Caspar  Hauser,  and  studied  it  carefully,  and 
I  have  no  doubt. that  the  suspicions  cast  on  the  Grand  Duke  Leopold 
could  have  been  easily  dissipated  at  the  time  ;  he,  however,  dared  public 
opinion,  and  has  gone  to  the  grave  with  the  unenviable  reputation  of 
having  been  implicated  in  an  assassination.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  ori- 
ginal story  had  been  so  successful,  that  it  was  thought  advisable  to  spread 
reports  that  Hecker  was  the  younger  brother  of  Caspar  Hauser,  and  re- 
moved by  the  same  process ;  and  it  was  not  at  all  a  bad  scheme,  for  it 
reconciled  many,  who  would  have  shrunk  firom  rebellion,  to  an  armed  in- 
terference in  &vour  of  the  legitimate  heir. 

As  I  said  before,  the  arrival  of  the  messenger  caused  the  greatest  ex- 
citement in  Freyburg,  and  the  armed  meeting  formed  the  groupdwork 


Digitized  by 


Coogk 


A  Day  at  the  Barricades.  177 

fer  a  Teiy  suocessfol  attempt  at  rebeltion.  A  student  of  the  name  of 
VoQ  Langsdorft  proposed  that  the  town  should  be  held  on  behalf  oi 
the  *'  Apostles  of  Liberty, "  and  the  regular  tro<^  kept  in  check  undi 
Hecker  and  his  merry  men  threw  their  weight  into  the  scale.  This  pro- 
position was  unanimously  ag^reed  to,  and  a  "  rider'*  was  appended  in  the 
shape,  that  no  one  be  allowed  to  quit  the  town,  but  all  be  tmed  with  the 
same  brush.  I  now  thought  it  time  to  beat  my  retreat  gracefully,  but 
on  wending  my  way  to  the  gate  that  led  to  the  railway  station,  I  found 
it  already  held  by  a  party  of  the  scythe  men,  who  would  not  allow  me  to 
pass.  My  attempts  at  the  other  gates  were  equally  unsuccessful,  and  I 
found  the  rather  unpleasant  conviction  forced  upon  me  that  I  must  stay 
in  Freyburg  and  be  witness  to  a  real  contest,  my  only  experience  in  that 
line  having  been  hitherto  confined  to  theatrical  combats  of  two — up  to  a 
—dozen. 

The  night  was  passed  in  various  preparations  for  the  anticipated  fight, 
for  two  regiments  of  infantry  and  a  field-battery  lay  within  twenty 
miles  of  the  town.  The  plates  were  pulled  up  for  some  distance  on  tho 
railway,  the  omnibuses  and  various  carriages  confiscated  and  formed  into 
barricades  in  certainly  a  very  practical  manner  by  filling  them  with 
paving-stones,  but  the  great  achievement  consisted  in  carrying  two  four- 
ponnders  to  the  top  of  the  Schwaben  Thor.  The  citiiens  of  Freyburg 
nad  amused  themselves  in  happier  times  by  playing  at  soldiers,  as  is  the 
case  in  every  German  town,  and  their  scarlet-fever  broke  out  in  the  form 
of  an  artillery  corps.  The  grand  duke  had  very  kindly  made  them  a 
present  of  four  little  field-pieces,  which  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
limber  and  unHmber,  load  and  fire,  at  every  possible  opportunity.  These 
guns,  when  not  in  active  service,  were  kept  in  the  town-hall,  together 
with  the  fire-engines,  and  thence  the  rebels  carried  them  off  in  triumph, 
after  intimidating  the  porter  by  holding  a  pistol  at  his  head.  I  may  as 
well  state  that  it  was  unloaded,  and  the  official  was  perfectly  well  aware 
of  it ;  but  then  it  is  just  as  well  to  go  through  the  proper  form,  and  I 
beh'eve  the  worthy  janitor  received  afterwards  the  2iahringer  order  of  the 
twenty-ninth  class  for  his  heroic  conduct.  Ahet  this  affecting  scene,  two 
of  the  cannon  were  planted  in  the  centre  of  a  barricade  at  the  Schweizer 
Thor,  and  the  other  two  dragged  by  sheer  strength  to  the  top  of  the 
Schwaben  Thor,  where  they  were  loaded  with  old  iron,  nails,  and  stones, 
in  readiness  for  the  morrow. 

I  retired  for  the  night  to  the  Zahringer  Hof,  where  I  found  quarters 
at  the  very  top  of  the  house,  whence  I  could  enjoy  a  view  over  a  broad 
expanse  of  country.  The  town  remained  in  a  state  of  great  confusion 
during  the  whole  of  the  night,  as  the  insurgents  ransacked  eve^  house 
from  top  to  bottom  for  arms,  and  even  stripped  part  of  the  lead  m>m  the 
roof  of  the  cathedral  to  melt  into  bullets.  I  obtained  an  hour  or  two  of 
broken  sleep,  and,  as  soon  as  day  dawned,  I  posted  myself  at  the  window, 
to  see  if  anything  fresh  had  turned  up.  The  first  thing  I  noticed  was  a 
hody  of  about  600  men,  as  it  seemed  to  me  at  a  rough  calculation,  col- 
lected in  a  narrow  valley,  about  three  miles  from  the  town,  but  strange 
to  say,  in  a  remarkable  state  of  inaction.  I  soon  found,  however,  on 
looking  to  the  other  side,  what  it  was  that  held  them  in  check.  Two 
regiments  of  Hessians,  and  a  field-battery  of  six  guns,  were  drawn  up 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


178  A  Day  at  ike  Bmrrkades. 

dose  to  the  railway  statioii,  and  evidently  meant  mischief.  I  had  not 
much  time,  though,  to  watch  thran,  for  the  door  of  my  hedroom  was  sud- 
denly hurst  open,  and  a  party  (^  armed  men  rushed  m,  who,  with  many 
fierce  oaths,  insisted  on  my  coming  down  and  helping  to  remoye  the 
barricade  at  the  Schwahen  Thor,  so  that  their  friends  might  come  in. 
With  much  repining  at  ray  folly  at  running  my  bead  into  such  unneces- 
sary danger,  I  went  down  stairs,  and  betook  myself  under  a  guard  to  the 
gate,  where  I  found  sev»«l  more  inroluntary  revolutionists  assemUed. 
The  policy  of  the  insurgents  was,  however,  far  horn  being  despicable : 
ihe  iMUTicade  was  the  most  exposed  place  in  the  whole  town,  being  only 
£6ur  feet  high,  and  covered  by  the  enemy's  guns ;  only  those,  therefore, 
were  to  be  employed  in  its  tempcnrary  removal  by  whose  fiedl  the  ranks  dF 
the  fighting  men  would  sxsSer  no  loss.  At  it  we  went,  then,  and  very 
rapidly  cleared  away  the  paving-stones,  carts,  &c.,  of  which  the  barricade 
was  formed,  being  much  hastened  in  our  movements  by  the  dropping  fire 
of  one  of  the  Elessian  regiments,  who  seemed  to  make  us  thdir  especial 
target.  Fortunately  though,  t^ey,  in  all  probability,  aimed  at  us,  and 
this  accident  saved  our  lives,  for  regulation  muskets  are  notorious  for  not 
carrying  straight.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  barricade  was  very  speedily 
removed,  and  all  the  neighbouring  houses  lined  wil^  tirailleurs  to  repu^ 
the  soldiers  if  they  attempted  a  storm.  It  was  all  of  no  avail ;  th^  in- 
surgents in  the  valley  either  would  not,  or  dared  not,  ha&  ^e  enemy's 
fire,  and  they  could  not  be  induced  to  make  a  bold  rush,  and  enter  the 
town.  In  fact,  we  were  again  driven  to  rebuild  the  barricade  ;  Mid  I  may 
as  well  mention  h^^,  that,  although  we  carried  it  away  three  consecutive 
times,  the  heroes  without  had  too  much  r^ard  for  their  skins^  and  gra- 
dually retired  farther  and  farther  up  the  valley. 

This,  of  course,  inspired  the  soldiers  with  fresh  coun^,  uid  they  soon 
commenced  a  tremendous  cannonade  upon  the  barricade  at  the  Schwahen 
Tiior.  Myself  and  a  few  others  mounted  the  cathedral  tower,  whence  we 
had  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  whole  engagement.  The  soldiers  soon 
gave  up  the  use  of  their  artill^  through  fear  of  injuring  the  cathedral, 
and  prepared  for  a  storm.  They  were  twice  repulsed  with  considerable 
loss  by  the  insurgents,  who  w&te  materially  aided  by  the  two  litUe  cannoe 
on  the  top  of  the  gate,  whidi  were  served  with  very  great  precision* 

At  length  the  barricade  was  captured,  and  the  soldiers  rushed  in ;  the 
fellows  on  the  gate,  with  a  courage  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  would 
not  desert  their  guns,  but  were  cut  £wn  to  a  man.  This,  I  must  candidly 
state,  I  was  not  an  eye-witness  of;  for  being  tolerably  well  acquainted 
with  the  amiable  disposition  of  soldiers  after  an  engagement,  and  th^ 
proneness  to  shoot  people  first  and  inquire  into  th^  guilt  afterwards,  I 
had  gradually  found  my  way  to  the  top  of  idie  castle  hill,  whenoe  I 
hurried  ofp,  with  several  other  co-revolutionists,  into  the  recesses  of  the 
Black  Forest. 

I  was  not  at  all  deceived  in  my  anticipations  as  to  the  conduct  of  the 
soldiery,  for  I  afterwards  learned  that  they  had  killed  everybody  they 
found  m  the  street,  without  any  compunction.  They  merely  requested 
them  to  hold  out  their  hands,  and  the  least  trace  of  dirt  upon  them  was  a 
proof  of  complicity  in  the  rebellion.  The  victim  was  thm  planted  against 
a  doorway,  and  either  impaled  (m  a  bayonet  or  else  shot.     An  old  £ng- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQlC 


A  Day  at  the  Barricades.  179 

Ikh  gentleman,  so  the  story  ran,  who  was  very  hr  from  feeling  charitably 
disp^ed  to  the  insurgents,  opened  his  shutters  to  cheer  the  soldiers,  but, 
in  doing  so,  had  two  of  his  fingers  shot  off. 

After  we  had  succeeded  in  placing  some  six  good  miles  of  ground  be- 
tween ourselves  and  the  soldiers,  we  held  a  consultation  as  to  our  future 
pogpress.  We  w^re  six  in  number,  and  if  it  be  true  that  ^*  poverty  makes 
us  acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows,"  I  am  sure  it  may  be  said  witk 
equal  justice  of  rerolution.  The  party  consisted  of  two  students,  two 
kindwei^bursdie — a  tailor  and  a  shoemaker — the  editor  of  a  Mannheim 
newspaper,  and  myself.  Our  united  property  amounted  to  seventeen 
florins,  and  the  only  persons  laden  with  luggage  were  the  journeymen, 
whose  knapsacks  were  arranged  on  little  trucks  for  the  purpose  of  easy 
locomotion.  We  lit  our  pipes,  had  a  pull  at  the  ^^  Sdmaps  budel,*'  and 
ti&ed  about  our  future  prospects.  The  world  was  certainly  before  us^ 
but  not  where  to  choose :  behind  us  were  the  Badenese  troops — before  us 
Switzerland,  where  we  well  knew  it  would  be  no  use  for  us  to  go  in  the 
present  state  of  our  finances.  After  a  long  deliberation,  it  was  agreed 
that  we  should  separate  and  shift  for  ourselves  ;  so,  after  fairly  dividing 
our  money,  ik»  students  went  off  for  the  Rhine,  in  order  to  take  refuge 
at  Strasburg  ;  the  journeymen  determined  on  going  to  Switzerland ;  and 
the  editor  cmd  myself  decided  on  trusting  to  our  good  fortune  to  return 
home  safely.  We  had  not  much  to  iesar  as  long  as  we  kept  out  of  the 
way  of  the  soldiers ;  our  passpcnrts  were  en  regie,  and  our  only  i^prehen- 
sion  was  that  we  might  starve  on  the  road.  As  it  was,  we  remained 
nearly  six  weeks  in  ^e  Black  Forest,  where  we  were'  most  hospitably 
treated  by  the  peacouits,  and  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  for  my  comrade 
was  a  famous  singer,  and  that  was  enough  to  secure  him  a  hearty  wel- 
come among  the  unsophisticated  sons  of  the  mountains.  At  length  we 
were  reluctantly  compelled  to  quit  this  liappy  spot,  for  detachments  of 
soldiers  were  sent  into  the  Black  Forest  to  rout  out  the  refugees,  and  we 
trudged  off  to  the  Lake  of  Constance,  stopping  at  Schaffhausen  by  the 
way  to  "  do  the  falls"  as  long  as  our  finances  would  permit  us,  which 
was  no  great  length  of  time,  for  we  indulged  rather  too  extensively  in 
wine,  after  having  been  subjected  during  nearly  six  weeks  to  the  annoy- 
ance  of  drinking  potato-brandy — ^the  most  horrible  decoction  that  can  be 
conceived.  How  we  eventually  got  to  Stuttgardt  has  ever  been  a  mys- 
tery to  me,  for  we  positively  walked  upwards  of  one  hundred  miles  with- 
out a  penny.  We  did  get  there,  however,  and  our  troubles  were  at  an 
end ;  we  procured  money  and  clothes,  and  set  off  leisurely  on  our  home- 
ward route  to  Heidelburg.  By  the  time  I  got  back  to  Baden-Baden, 
tiiough,  I  had  l^d  quite  enough  of  revolutions  for  some  time  at  least, 
and  1  consequently  soon  packed  up  my  portmanteau  and  returned  to 
England,  where  I  had  no  fear  of  being  forced  to  build  barricades,  or  be- 
come a  firing  mark  for  soldiers. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


(     180     ) 


THE  CHINESE  REVOLUTION. 

The  revolution  in  China — unquestionably  the  most  important  event 
of  the  times  we  live  in — the  greatest  revolution,  it  has  been  justly  re- 
marked, the  world  has  yet  seen,  comprking  in  mere  magnitude  a  popula- 
tion equal  to  that  of  all  Europe  and  all  America  put  together — has  had 
its  origin  in  the  same  causes  that  brought  about  the  w&r  with  Great 
Britain — the  stubborn  ignorance  and  the  insufferable  pride  of  the  Tartar 
dynasty.  On  ascending  his  throne,  Ta-u-kuang,  or  Tau-wang,  entrusted 
the  conduct  of  public  affairs  to  statesmen  who  were,  in  the  eyes  of  all, 
the  mere  guardians  of  superannuated  Chinese  traditions.  Every  nation 
that  has  institutions  of  any  duration  has  its  conservative  party.  During 
times  of  little  excitement,  the  government  may  be  safely  left  in  the  hands 
of  such  representatives  of  the  old  national  faith ;  but  when  the  time  for 
modifying  ancient  guarantees  comes,  as  it  inevitably  will,  their  tenacity 
in  upholding  a  state  of  things  no  longer  compatible  with  Uie  new  circum- 
stances and  new  opinions  that  have  come  into  existence,  becomes  a 
source  of  extreme  danger.  This  political  truth  has  at  length  made  itself 
as  manifest  in  the  history  of  the  Celestial  Empire  as  it  has  in  our  own 
history  and  that  of  neighbouring  countries.  The  servants  of  Ta-u-kuang, 
in  mere  wanton  contempt  of  barbarous  nations,  involved  their  country  in 
a  disastrous  war. '  They  did  not  understand  that  the  moment  was  come 
when  they  must  step  down  from  the  diplomatic  heights  to  which  their 
ignorant  presumption  had  raised  them,  and  in  which  European  forbear- 
ance had  so  long  upheld  them. 

Hian-fung,  the  son  and  successor  of  Ta-u-kuang,  derived  no  benefit 
from  the  lesson  so  justly  inflicted  on  his  imperial  father.  Mu-chang-ha 
and  Ki-in,  ministers  who,  during  the  latter  years  of  Ta-u-kuang,  had 
been  unusually  zealous  in  the  cause  of  a  liberal  and  progressive  state  of 
things,  were  rudely  dismissed,  and  successors  were  appointed,  distinguished 
by  their  inveterate  hatred  to  Europeans.  This  change  was  accompanied 
by  other  violent  reactionary  measures,  which  only  increased  the  mischief. 
Notwithstanding  the  obstinacy  and  perversity  of  the  successive  emperors, 
the  war  of  China  with  Great  Britain  had  the  effect  of  opening  the  eyes 
of  a  large  portion  of  the  population  to  the  advantages  of  European 
civilisation ;  and  this  movement  received  a  further  impulse  from  the 
progress  of  secret  societies,  more  especially  the  "  Chinese  Union,"  by 
the  founding  of  militar)'  and  naval  stations,  by  throwing  open  the  com- 
merce previously  monopolised  by  the  East  India  Company  to  the  vessels 
of  all  nations,  by  the  increase  of  consular  and  mercantile  agencies,  by 
the  labours  of  missionai  ies,  and  by  the  emigrations  of  the  Chinese  than* 
selves  to  other  countries,  more  especially  the  East  Indies,  the  Indian 
Archipelago,  and  California ;  also  by  the'  aid  given  by  Great  Britain  to 
its  new  ally  in  extinguishing  piracy  from  its  seas  and  rivers.  By  a*l 
these  circumstances  combined,  the  way  for  China  (Shin-wah,  like  the 
French  Chinois)  entering  into  the  community  of  nations  was  inevitably 
prepared,  and  woe  to  the  dynasty  that  cannot  move  with  the  people  1 

No  sooner  were  the  hopes  of  the  Chinese  patriots  crushed  by  the  dis* 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Chinese  RevoltUioii.  181 

missal  of  Mu-chaDg^-ha  and  of  Ki-in,  than  a  rnmour  spread  far  and  wide 
that  prophecies  of  old  had  predicted  the  re-establishment  of  the  Ming 
dynasty  in  the  forty-eighth  year  of  the  cycle,  corresponding  to  our  1851. 
To  this  general  prophecy  one  of  a  more  definite  character  was  added :  it 
was,  that  he  who  should  raise  the  standard  of  Ming,  preserved  by  an 
iqpocryphal  patriarch,  who  lived  at*  the  time  of  the  last  of  the  dynasty, 
should  ascend  the  throne.  This  movement  soon  assumed  a  formidable 
character ;  people  discussed  the  downfal  of  the  Tartar  dynasty  at  their 
secret  societies — ^the  higher,  the  middle,  and  the  lower  classes  ahke,  came 
under  the  dominion  of  the  new  opinions  that  were  so  industriously 
spread  abroad,  and  the  public  mind  was  everywhere  prepared  for  revo* 
lotion.  But  that  not  before  a  small  body  of  insurgents,  averaging 
probably  a  few  hundreds,  and  over-estimated  by  Messrs.  Gallery  ana 
Tvtn  at  100,000  men,*  had  collected  together  in  the  province  of 
Kuang-si,  a  province  immediately  north-west  of  Canton. 

The  two  Kuangs,  Kuang-si  and  Kuang-tung,  of  which  latter  Canton 
is  the  chief  city,  constitute  the  two  great  south-westeriy  provinces  of 
China.t  The  first  is  a  hilly,. rocky,  woody,  and  in  parts  desert  and 
mountainous  country.  The  inhabitants  are  poor,  hardy,  and  adventurous; 
they  have  plenty  of  time  on  hand,  being  only  for  a  short  period  of  the 
year  engaged  in  collecting  the  products  of  the  cinnamon  and  aniseed* 
bearing  plants — and  of  such  components  was  the  nucleus  of  the  revolution 
made  up.  The  same  district  is  highly  metalliferous,  and  a  quantity  of 
lead  nuggets  miraculously  discovered,  when  the  insurgents  were  engaged 
in  erecting  a  monument  to  commemorate  the  upnusing  of  the  revolu- 
tionary standard,  served  at  the  onset  to  procure  the  necessaries  of  life  for 
the  patriot  army. 

It  was  not  till  August,  1850,  that  the  official  Gazette  of  Pekin  conde* 
scended  to  notice  the  Chinese  insurrection.  According  to  the  official  paper, 
it  had  its  origin  in  a  body  of  pirates  who  had  escaped  the  shot  of  the  Eng- 
lish on  the  coasts  of  Fu-kian.  The  insurrectionists,  strengthened  in  the 
mean  time  by  the  adhesion  of  the  Mia-u-tsi — a  race  of  hardy,  warlike 
mountaineers,  who  have  never  been  completely  subjected  by  the  Tartars, 
and  whose  very  name  is  a  source  of  terror  to  all  pacific  Celestials — opened 
a  campaign,  destined  to  be  of  such  long  duration  and  of  such  vital  im- 
portance to  the  future  of  China,  by  an  attack  upon  Ho,  or  Hu,  one  of  the 
most  commercial  cities  of  the  province.  The  two  Kuangs,  it  is  necessary 
to  observe,  form  one  vice-royalty,  and  one  Siu,  an  officer  in  no  way- 
adapted  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  case,  held  at  that  time  the  vice- 

*  LTnsurrection  en  Chine  depuis  son  origine  ju^qu'a  la  prise  de  Nankin.  Par 
MM.  Gallery  et  Yvan. 

t  There  are  certain  terminable  syllables  constantly  repeated  in  the  Chinese,  a 
knowledge  of  the  meaning  of  which  facilitates  the  memory  of  the  word.  Thus  fti, 
or  foojis  a  town  of  the  first  magnitude,  or  of  a  canton  averaging  a  population  of 
i»00O,OOO.  Chu,  or  choo,  a  town  of  second  magnitude,  averaging  500,000  souls. 
Hin,  a  township  of  third  magnitude.  Tung  is  east;  si,  west ;  nan,  south;  pe,  or 
Pi,  north.  Others,  as  wang,  kin,  &c.,  are  titles,  as  Pakin,  or  Pekin,  north  king; 
Nan-kin,  south  king;  Wang-si,  king  of  the  west;  Wang-tung  (Canton),  east  king. 
Tong-fti,  east  city;  Nan-chu,  south  town  ;  Si-nin,  west  town,  &c.  Wang  is 
JMriously  written  Kuang,  Quang,  Kouang,  as  Kuang-si,  or  Wang-si,  the  west 
king,  and  Kuang,  or  Wang-tung,  east  king,  whence  Canton.  Curious  enough, 
Europeans  call  the  town  Canton,  the  province  Kouang,  or  Quang-tung.  The 
proper  name  for  Canton  is  Kuang-chu,  "  king  town  of  second  class." 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


182  TU  Chimae  Riftolution. 

leffal  ooeptre.  This  Sia  sent  troops  to  disperse  the  rebels,  bmt  they  were 
defeated,  and  for  the  most  part  exterminated.  The  tactics  of  the  insor- 
gents  has  always  heen  to  feign  a  retreat  before  the  Manchus,  to  draw  the 
latter  by  such  a  feint  into  a  difficult  country,  and  then  to  exterminate 
them  ;  for,  as  f&r  as  the  war  has  yet  gone  on — ^it  is  grieTOus  for  the  sake 
of  humanity  to  have  to  relate — it  has  heen  one  of  extermination  of 
a  Tartar  or  Manchu  race  by  Chinese  insurrectionists  or  patriots. 

Encouraged  by  these  6rst  successes,  the  Chinese,  under  the  two  chie& 
Chang-kia~sung  and  Chang-lda-fu,  advanced  into  Kuang-tung,  where 
they  were  met  by  the  Manchu  troops,  towards  whom  they  adopted  their 
usual  tactics,  and  every  single  individual  of  the  enemy,  it  is  said,  no 
doubt  with  the  exag^ration  of  success,  was  slain. 

Siu,  terrified  by  these  reverses,  fled  to  Pekin,  and  Lin,  the  impracti- 
cable, obstinate  old  mandarin,  who  invdved  the  emperor  in  war  with 
Great  Britain,  was  sent  to  disperse  the  ziebek.  To  an  imperial  edict 
which  was  issued  at  the  commeneement  of  these  more  serious  hostilities, 
iJie  Chinese  gave  an  answer,  which  at  once  declared  their  objects  and 
made  their  intentions  manifest. 

"  The  Manchus,"  said  they,  "  who  for  now  two  centuries  have  enjoyed 
an  hereditary  usurpation  of  the  throne  of  China,  sprung  from  a  smati 
foreign  population.  Aided  by  a  warlike  army,  they  seized  upon  our  trea- 
sures, our  lands,  and  the  government  of  the  country,  which  shows  that  to 
vsurp  the  empire  it  only  requires  to  be  the  strongest.  There  is,  there- 
lore,  no  difier^ice  between  us  who  levy  contributions  from  the  towns 
which  we  gain  possession  of,  and  the  au&orities  sent  from  Pekin  to  levy 
the  same.  What  is  good  to  take,  is  just  as  good  to  keep.  Wherefore^ 
then,  do  they  send  troops  against  us  without  'reason  ?  Such  a  step 
appears  to  us  to  be  very  unjust.  What!  the  Manchus,  who  are 
foreigners,  have  the  right  to  levy  the  tribute  of  eighteen  provinces,  and 
to  name  the  officers  who  shall  enforce  those  very  acts  of  oppression,  while 
we,  being  Chinese,  are  forbidden  to  levy  any  money  whatsoever  from  out 
of  the  public  revenues  !  Universal  sovereignty  belongs  to  no  individual 
to  the  exolusbn  of  all  oth^^  and  a  dynasty  has  never  yet  been  seen  that 
counted  a  hundred  generations  of  emperors.  The  right  of  governing  Ues 
in  possession." 

The  Mandarin  Lin  died  on  his  way  to  the  insurgent  province,  and  he 
ma  succeeded  by  Li-sing-uan,  who  endeavoured,  with  true  Manchu 
astucy,  to  inculpate  Siu,  while  Siu,  on  his  part,  threw  the  responsibility 
of  past  disasters  upon  the  governor  of  the  province  of  Kuang-sL  The 
young  emperor,  puzzled  by  these  contradictory  reports,  left  each  in  the 
enjoyment  of  his  authority.  The  patriots,  who  in  the  mean  time  had  dis- 
carded the  tail  imposed  upon  the  Chinese  by  their  Tartar  conquerors, 
and  had  exchanged  the  Tartar  cloak  for  the  open  garment  worn  by 
their  ancestors  in  the  time  of  the  Ming  dynasty,  captured  in  March, 
1851,  the  town  of  Lu-nan,  and  levied  the  usual  contribution  from  the 
inhabitants.  The  next  day,  the  Manchu  troops  arriving  in  strength,  the 
latter  succeeded  in  expelling  the  Chinese  patriots,  and  aJso  levied  a  large 
contribution.  The  citizens,  struck  with  the  injustice  of  such  a  proceed- 
ing, rose  to  a  man,  cut  off  their  tails,  and  opened  the  gates  to  the  in- 
surgents, who  came  in  in  the  dead  of  night  and  massacred  the  imperial 
troops.     At  this  very  time  the  official  papers  were  publishing  bulletins 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Tke  Chimse  Revolutiom.  18S 

of  imaginaiy  Tictories  won  by  the  ^  great  army/'  and  dedarin^  ihtA  the 
insarrection  was  stifled  at  every  point. 

The  Imperial  Commissioiier  Li  had  established  his  head-quarters  at 
Kuai-lin,  wad  appointed  for  his  lieutenant  the  terrible  Chang-tian-dn, 
notorious  for  cutting  off  the  lower  lips  of  all  opium  smokers.  Thk  foro- 
eions  mandarin  put  to  death  thirty-six  suspected  persons  in  one  day,  as  a 
Idad  of  precautionary  measure,  and  to  strike  terror  among  the  disaffected. 
Such  sanguinary  measures,  howeyer,  not  sufficing  to  arrest  the  progress 
of  the  insurrection,  the  prime  minister,  Sai-«hang^ha,  was  sent,  accom- 
panied by  two  other  Manchus,  Ta-hing  and  Ta-tung-ha — the  latter  in* 
calpated  in  the  massacre  of  the  crew  of  the  Nerhuddhm — to  Kuai-liii,  and 
Canton  was  put  under  contribution  to  assist  in  tJie  expenses  of  the  war, 
which  was  opened  by  marching  sev>eral  bodies  of  troops  into  the  insur- 
gent province  of  Kuangp-si. 

The  patriots  replied  to  these  hostile  manifestations  by  proclaiming 
that  a  descendant  of  the  Ming  dynasty  was  at  their  head,  that  he  was 
the  rightful  Emperor  of  China,  and  that  his  name  was  Tian-ta,  or  Tien- 
te,  that  is,  Celestial  Virtue.  The  portrait  of  Tian-ta  was,  at  the  same 
time,  distributed  throughout  the  empire,  and  the  Anglo-Chinese  journals 
declared  that  he  was  a  Christian  ;  s<Mne  said  a  Cathdic,  others  that  he 
was  a  Chang-ti,  that  is  to  say,  a  Protestant.  The  insurrection  spread  at 
the  same  time  in  the  west  of  Kuang-tung,  and  the  patriots  obtained 
possession  of  Ka-u-chu-fu,  a  nwritime  town  and  chief  city  of  a  depart* 
ment.  The  districts  of  Nan-hai  and  Tung-koan  refused  at  the  same 
time  to  pay  the  imperial  taxes.  Siu  sent  a  mandarin  to  compel  the  ktt^ 
to  submission,  but  they  dragged  the  official  from  his  palanquin,  and 
neariy  tore  him  to  pieces.  The  renowned  Tartar  general,  U-lan-tai, 
was  then  despatched  from  Canton  to  attack  the  patriots  at  the  pass  near 
IfU-ul,  when,  as  usual,  the  imperial  forces  were  defeated,  many  were 
slain,  and  the  general  lost  his  arm  in  the  engagement. 

Upon  hearing  <^  this  disaster,  and  that  the  Chinese  were  assembled  in 
force  at  U-chu-fu,  one  of  the  most  easterly  cities  of  Kuang-si,  the  Vice- 
roy Siu  marched  out  of  Canton  at  the  head  of  three  thousand  soldiers, 
with  a  numerous  retinue  of  attendants,  palanquin- bearers,  and  coolies^  the 
latter  of  whom  had  charge  of  a  treasure-chest  of  imposing  magnitude. 
Having  occasion  to  pass  a  narrow  bamboo  bridge,  this  chest  was  one 
evening  unfortunately  tumbled  into  a  river.  Great  was  the  ire  of  the 
rieeroy.  He  would  have  bastinadoed  the  coolies  on  the  spot,  but  he 
wanted  their  services  to  recover  the  chest.  This  was  not  effected  with- 
out a  long  delay  and  much  labour,  but  at  length  the  chest  was  recovered, 
no  longer  recognisable  from  its  coating  of  mud,  but  intact,  and  as  heavy 
as  ever.  Arrived  at  Cha-u-king,  where  the  rieeroy  established  his 
head-quarters,  the  chest  was  opened,  and  found  to  be  full  of  stones  and 
lumps  of  lead  carefully  wrapped  in  tissue  paper  [  Needless  to  say  that 
the  coolies  had  taken  themselves  off  to  the  patriot  army  prerious  ta 
the  examination  of  the  chest.  One  of  the  patriot  generals,  Chu-l»-ta^u, 
endeavoured  to  entice  the  viceroy  to  an  engagement  without  the  widls  of 
the  city  :  but  the  old  mandarin  was  too  wily  to  try  his  prowess  in  aught 
save  the  usual  policy  of  bribery  and  dissimulation.  Add  to  this,  it  was 
well  known  that  the  soldiers  of  Tian-ta  treated  the  Manohus  widi 
barbareus  severity,  giring  no  quarter  to  rank  or  file,  and  Siu  was  for  too 

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184  The  Chinese  Revolution. 

prudent  a  general  to  trust  his  valuable  person,  or  that  of  his  followers^  to 
such  an  unceremonious  enemy.  The  gallant  viceroy  contented  himself, 
therefore,  with  sending  despatches  to  Pekin,  which  duly  appeared  in  the 
official  Gazette,  and  recorded  extraordinary  exploits  of  courage,  victoriefli 
hard  won,  and  personal  feats  of  valour  unexampled  in  Chinese  history, 
more  especially  one  instance  of  a  great  gun  so  skilfully  used  that  it 
destroyed  at  a  single  discharge  a  whole  file  of  the  enemy,  and  a  reward 
was  claimed  for  the  imaginary  gunner! 

In  July,  1851,  a  new  incident  came  to  increase  the  general  apprehen- 
sion that  prevailed  throughout  the  empire.  The  young  emperor  was 
walking  in  his  gardens,  when  a  stranger  rushed  upon  him,  and  would 
have  assassinated  him,  but  for  the  intercession  of  an  attendant,  who  re- 
ceived the  blow  intended  for  his  imperial  master.  It  was  never  known 
if  the  assassin  belonged  to  the  party  in  insurrection  ;  but  certain  it  is, 
that,  according  to  the  laws  observed  under  such  circumstances,  eighteen 
mandarins  were  put  to  death,  as  were  also  all  the  members  of  their  &mily ; 
not  so  much  for  their  connivance  in  the  crime,  as  for  their  gpuilty  igno- 
rance of  such  a  conspiracy  being  in  existence. 

Nor  did  afiPairs  prosper  better  in  the  provinces.  True  that  the  patriots 
had  been  unable  to  subdue  Kuai-lin,  the  capital  of  Kuang^si,  but  a  great 
number  of  towns,  and  a  vast  booty,  had  fallen  into  their  hands.  Lu- 
ting-chu  and  Li-ning-hian  were  carried  by  assault ;  and  Chu-lu-ta-u, 
the  patriot  chief,  followed  up  these  conquests  by  despatching  a  flotilla 
mounted  with  6000  men  to  besiege  U-lin-chu.  The  Tartar  general, 
U-lan-tai,  went  out  to  g^ve  the  insurgents  battle,  but  his  troops  were 
caught  in  an  ambuscade,  and  the  greater  part  of  them,  among  whom 
many  chief  mandarins,  were  put  to  death.  Before  the  expiration  of 
1851,  the  victories  of  the  patriots  succeeded  to  one  another  so  rapidly 
that  the  Gazette  of  Fekin  was  obliged  to  supersede  its  encomiums  of  the 
imperial  forces  by  accounts  of  the  progress  of  the  rebels. 

It  was  after  all  but  a  war  of  skirmishes.  Neither  party  seemed  either 
willing  or  prepared  to  throw  the  chances  of  the  campaign  upon  the 
events  of  a  general  battle.  One  of  the  most  decisive  engagements  of 
1851  took  place  on  the  29th  of  September,  in  the  district  of  Yun-gan, 
when  the  imperialists  were  defeated  with  great  slaughter;  and  the  patriots 
followed  up  their  success  by  the  capture  of  Yung-gan-chu,  Huan-mu,  and 
the  city  of  Ping-lu.  All  mandarins  and  official  personages  who  refused 
to  acknowledge  the  supremacy  of  Tian-ta  in  the  newly- captured  towns, 
were  mutilated  or  put  to  death.  The  property  and  persons  of  the  in- 
habitants were,  on  the  other  hand,  respected  and  held  inviolable.  Those 
of  the  inhabitants  who  would  not  recognise  the  supremacy  of  Tian-ta 
were  allowed  to  retire  elsewhere  with  their  property.  Many  availed 
themselves  of  this  privilege,  and  on  joining  the  impermlists  were  invari- 
ably robbed  and  subjected  to  all  kinds  of  ill-treatment.  The  unfortunates 
are  said  to  have  exclaimed  in  their  indignation  to  the  Tartars,  *'  You  are 
but  mice  before  the  rebels,  you  are  tigers  before  us !" 

Siu,  in  the  mean  time,  upon  whose  head  the  patriots  had  placed  a  re- 
ward of  10,000  piastres,  advertised  80,000  taels  as  the  honorarium  to 
whosoever  would  bring  in  a  sack  the  heads  of  Tian-ta,  of  Tian-ta's  father, 
and  of  his  prime  minister.  Siu  thought  everything  could  be  done  with 
money,  and  having  offered  20,000  taels  more  for  each  of  the  chief  rebds 

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The  Chinese  Revolution.  185 

than  had  been  set  on  his  own  head,  he  quietly  awmted  their  being  laid 
at  his  feet. 

After  waiting,  however,  a  long  time,  and  nobody  bringing  the  heads 
of  the  offenders,  Siu  got  tired,  and  wrote  to  the  emperor  for  permission 
to  withdraw  to  Canton,  which  he  said,  in  a  letter  published  in  the  Pekin 
Gazette,  was  threatened  by  the  troops  of  Donna  Maria  da  Gloria,  Queen 
of  Portugal !  Served  by  lyiog,  incapable  mandarins,  and  defended  by 
mercenary,  cowardly  troops,  the  whole  of  this  gigantic  empire  was,  in- 
deed, threatened  with  dissolution  from  the  moment  that  the  insurrection 
declared  itself ;  and,  except  in  the  occasional  holding  out  of  a  walled 
city  or  stronghold,  the  Tartars  appear  never  to  have  offered  auy  very 
serious  obstacle  to  the  progress  of  the  rebellion  from  the  first  moment  of 
its  existence,  till  from  Kwang-si  it  had  spread  to  Kiang-nan,  and  the 
patriots  became  masters  of  Nankin,  the  capital  of  the  ancient  dynasty, 
and  the  hereditary  seat  of  a  Chinese  as  disting^hed  fit>m  a  Manchu 
empire. 

The  Manchu  emperor  actually  aided  the  cause  of  the  insurrection  by 
his  pride  and  his  cruelty.  Generals  that  allowed  themselves  to  be  de- 
feated were  at  once  degraded,  or  still  more  frequently  put  to  death ;  and 
governors  who  could  not  stay  the  insurrection  were  deposed,  degraded, 
or  exiled.  There  was  no  chance  of  escape  except  by  a  lying  despatch, 
or  that  frequeut  resource  of  a  Chinese  official,  self-immolation.*  U-lan- 
tai,  being  deposed,  wrote  an  account  of  an  imaginary  victory,  and  was 
restored  to  his  dignities.  This  Tartar  general  was  one  of  the  few  effi- 
cient Manchu  dignities,  and  the  Homers  and  Ariostos  of  the  empire 
spoke  of  him  as  a  hero  and  a  conqueror ;  even  the  young  emperor  him- 
self is  said  to  have  composed  a  poem  descriptive  of  liis  feats  of  valour  and 
paladin-like  prowess. 

The  patriots,  in  the  mean  time,  contented  themselves  with  simple 
prose,  and  with  acts  instead  of  despatches  and  proclamations.  They  aid 
not  care  even  to  keep  the  cities  or  citadels  that  fell  into  their  hands. 
Fu  Cha  or  Hin  was  alike  indifferent  to  them  ;  they  thought  of  nothing 
but  marching  forward  in  the  career  of  conquest.  They  knew  that  when 
Pekin  fell  into  their  hands,  all  the  rest  of  the  empire  would  acknowledge 
the  supremacy  of  the  conqueror.  This  has  been  the  principle  upon 
which  all  barbarian  chiefs  have  acted  in  those  great  invasions  which  are 
recorded  in  the  pages  of  history. 

Thus  two  more  towns  IT-Hian  and  Cha-u-ping  soon  followed  the  fate  of 
Ping-lu-fu  and  Yung-gan-chu.  The  emperor  was  so  much  annoyed  at 
the  ^I  of  the  latter  city,  that  he  sent  orders  to  Sai-chang-ha  to  retake  it 
before  the  lapse  of  a  fortnight,  or  to  send  the  heads  of  the  generals 
Hiang-ing,  U-lan-tai,  and  Tian-san  to  Pekin.  The  zeal  of  these  brave 
Tartars  was  singularly  animated  by  this  edict ;  they  marched  against 
the  insurgents,  and,  it  is  almost  needless  to  add,  were  signally  defeated. 
This  new  disaster  was  followed  up  by  a  proclamation  from  the  city  of 

*  The  Manchu  mandarins,  in  a  spirit  of  retaliation  that  cannot  be  wondered 
at,  practised  the  same  cruelties  upon  the  people  that  the  court  pursued  towards 
them.  Upwards  of  700  suspected  individuals  were  put  to  death  in  Canton— one 
of  the  few  places  where  Europeans  could  get  at  positive  information  as  to  what 
was  going  on — ^and  not  a  day  passed  hut  prisoners  were  removed  from  thence 
like  wild  beasts  enclosed  in  hamhoo  cages  to  the  province  of  Kuang-ai. 

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IM  TAe  Ckinm  Revolution. 

U-chu-^fb,  in  wkich  the  diviskMi  of  the  empire  into  several  soTeraigpnties, 
and  several  princes  of  the  dynasty  of  Han  or  Ming,  was  more  plainly 
ipdien  of  than  heretofore.  The  proclamation  was  dbo  no  longer  signed 
hj  Tian-ta  hut  hy  Tian^i-u.  It  called  upon  the  peo{4e  of  the  proirince  of 
Canton  to  join  the  insarreciionary  party.  It  also  spoke  of  the  decrees  dL 
Heaven,  of  (Nrostration  hefore  the  Su{Hreme  Bebg,  aiiter  having  learnt  to 
worship  God.  These  were  formula  unknown  to  the  idobtroos  Chinese^ 
and  foreign  according  to  our  two  Catholic  historians,  Messrs.  Callery  and 
Yvan,  to  the  language  of  the  Catholics ;  it  is  to  Protestantism  that  the 
honour  is  due  of  having  introduced  them  into  China,  and  it  appears  that 
a  Protestant  ^sciple  of  Gutzlaff  enjoyed  liigh  rank,  and  ezerosed  almost 
paramount  authority  among  the  patriots.  This  personage  was  a  wdl- 
Jmovm  memh^  of  the  secret  somety  called  the  '*  Chinese  Union,"  which 
was  founded  hy  Gutzlaff  hefore  his  death,  and  which  had  for  objects  the 
eoBversion  of  ^  Chinese  to  Christianity  by  the  Chinese  themselves.  It 
does  not,  indeed,  appear  certain  if  this  disciple  of  Gutzlaff 's  is  not  Tian-ta 
himself! 

The  Tartar  gMieral,  U-lan-tai,  bent  upon  rev^aging  these  disasters, 
onee  more  married  against  the  insurgents  at  the  head  of  13>000  men. 
The  two  armies  met  upon  the  borders  of  the  Kuai-kiang.  The  im- 
perial troops  advanced,  as  usual,  to  the  sound  of  gongs,  hearing  their 
diields,  decorated  with  all  kinds  of  hideous  paiotings,  in  front,  making 
horriUe  grimaces,  and  yelling  the  most  discordant  criea.  The  insurgents 
appeared  to  be  terrified  by  so  frightful  a  demonstration.  They  abandoned 
their  positions  on  the  hills,  and  took  refuge  among  some  groves  (^ 
bamboos.  Unfoartunately,  the  Manchus  deem^  it  proper  to  pursue  th^n 
there,  and  bo  sooner  were  thev  entangled  in  the  wood,  than  a  new  force 
made  its  appearance  on  the  heights,  with  a  strong  detachment  of  artilL^. 
U-lan-tai  found  himself  surrounded,  and  the  gongs  beat  a  retreat  It  was 
too  late,  however,  and  the  hero  of  the  Pekin  lyrists  returned  to  his  camp 
with  only  half  his  troops ;  many  had  been  slain,  still  more  had  prudently 
gone  over  to  the  enemy. 

The  Viceroy  Siu  swore  hy  his  moustache  to  take  summary  vengeanee 
fer  this  defsat,  and  to  this  effect  he  matured  a  plan  which  reminds  one  of 
the  wooden  horse  of  Troy  and  the  foxes  of  Samson.  Collecting  four 
thousand  bufialoes,  he  had  torches  of  pine  attached  to  their  long  boms, 
and  these  being  lighted,  they  were  driven  by  four  thousand  solc&rs  into 
the  enemy's  camp,  where  tliey  were  to  produce  the  most  frightful  dis- 
order, kiUing  ^  eskemy  and  firing  their  hahitati<»s.  The  insurgents 
allowed  the  bofiUoes  a  free  passage,  and  waiting  for  the  Tartar  cowherds, 
£EUP0ured  by  the  vice-regal  illumination,  they  put  upwards  oi  two  thousand 
of  them  to  the  sword.  This  ingenioas  stratagem  of  the  prudent  Siu  wouU 
scarcely  be  credited  had  it  not  been  related  at  length  in  the  columns  of 
the  Frimd  of  China. 

The  strategetic  system  of  the  patriots  served  them  to  better  purpose. 
A  Tartar  chief  having  ventured  to  pursue  a  body  of  insurgents  amid  the 
rocks  of  Hai-aan,  the  great  i^ands  south  of  the  province  of  Canton,  his 
troops  were  never  afterwards  seen.  The  general  alone  vras  found,  in  a 
state  of  starvation,  with  his  ears  and  nose  cut  off. 

The  news  that  the  insurrection  had  spread  into  the  provinces  of  Ha- 
nan  and  Hn-pa,  sometimes  spoken  of  together  under  t&  name  of  Ho- 

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The  Chhme  tUoohtum.  187 

koaDg^,  OT  Ho-wmng,  prodaoed  a  deep  sensation  at  Pekin.  The  leaden 
of  tiie  new  insoirection  were  said  to  be  independent  of  those  in  Knan^ 
si,  and  the  ^ties  of  Ta-n-chn  and  Kiang-hna  were  at  once  takan  pos- 
session of.  A  chief  from  Kuan-si,  called  Tai*ping-wang,  soon  effected 
a  junction  widi  the  new  insorgents,  and,  notwithstanding  that  all  the 
disposable  forces  of  ^e  ndghbouring  provinces  were  directed  agaiBtt 
tbem,  they  seized  upon  three  more  ot  die  chief  cities  of  the  province, 
acquiring  thereby  immense  additional  resources.  They  still,  however, 
always  respected  private  property,  contenting  themselves  with  iqipropR- 
ating  the  public  revenue  and  the  riches  of  official  personages. 

The  mysterious  lian-ta  was  all  this  time  holding  hb  court  in  a  Terr 
strong  position  on  the  mountain  of  6i-hing,  not  far  from  Kuai-lin,  and 
the  governor  of  Kuang-si  decided  upon  opening  a  diplomatic  corre- 
spondence. With  this  view  an  embassy,  composed  of  Siu,  lieatenant- 
govemor,  and  of  two  men  of  letters,  was  despatched  to  seek  an  interview 
with  the  pretender.  It  i^pears  that,  after  much  ceremony,  and  beii^ 
oUiged  to  exchange  the  Tartar  for  the  Chinese  costume,  they  weie 
admitted  to  an  audience.  The  results  were  that  Tian-ta  reiterated  hb 
daim  to  being  an  eleventh  descendant  of  the  Emperor  Sung-<^ngo£tiie 
great  dynasty  of  Ming,  and  sud,  that  strong  in  hb  right,  he  intended  io 
seize  by  force  of  arms  the  inheritance  of  hb  ancestors.  '<  Tou,"  and 
Tian-ta  to  the  ambassadors,  ^*  understand  the  doctrines  of  Confucius  and 
of  Meneius,  how  can  you  then  disavow  the  legitimate  prince,  and  remain 
peaceably  the  subjects  of  strangers  ?^  When  the  governor  heard  of  1^ 
results  of  hb  embassy,  it  put  him  into  such  a  passion  as  for  a  time  to 
endanger  hb  life. 

Immediately  after  thia^  interview,  Tian-ta  descended  from  ihe  moon- 
tain  unto  the  plains,  and  taking  possession  of  Lu-chu,  once  mere  assailed 
Kuai-Kn,  but  without  success.  Thb  city,  the  capital  of  Kuangf»si,  stands 
upon  a  great  river  called  Kuai-kiang,  and  the  same  as  the  river  of 
Canton,  it  is  defended  by  lofty  walls,  weU  provided  widi  guns,  llie 
population  b  sud  to  amount  to  400,000.  To  the  north  b  a  range  of 
mountains  with  a  peculiarly  sharp  outline,  and  ^e  rocky  environs  of  the 
dty  constitute  one  of  the  delights  of  Chinese — let  us  hope  also  one  day  of 
European  tourists.  Close  by  the  banks  of  the  river  b  an  enormous  rook, 
called  by  the  Celestiab  Siang-pi-chan,  "  rock  of  the  dephant's  nose." 
The  pachydermatous  quadruped  b  half  covered  with  bamboos,  and 
carries  on  its  back  a  round  tower,  roofed  with  porcelain,  and  surmounted 
by  dragons.  At  another  point  a  great  cone  of  ro^  rises  out  of  the  eoil, 
a  pathway  is  carried  up  in  a  circular  ascent,  with  little  oratories  at  each 
turning,  while  on  the  summit  are  two  lofty  masts,  ornamented  witii 
streamers.  Thb  rock  b  called  by  the  Chinese  the  Isolated  Wonder,  and 
according  to  the  same  authorities  Kuai-lin  abounds  in  marvels. 

U-lan-tai  was  wounded  in  hb  gallant  defence  of  thb  remarkable  place. 
Tlie  advice  of  I>r.  Parker,  of  the  United  States'  mission  at  Canton,  was 
sought  for,  but  as  the  laws  of  the  Celestial  Empire  would  not  allow  tiie 
doctor  to  go  to  U-lan-tai,  the  Tartar  general  was  obhged  to  go  to  Doctor 
Affker,  and  so  the  hero  of  an  imperial  epic  died  on  hb  way  to  Canton. 

Siu  vras  busy  in  the  mean  time  concocting  a  new  stratagem,  still  mere 
ingenious  than  the  renowned  onslaught  of  fiery-horned  buffaloes.  Having 
caught  a  petty  chief  of  the  Chang-ti,  or  Protestant  rebels,  as  tiiey 

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188  The  Chinese  Revolution, 

were  generally  designated,  he  sent  him  off  to  Pekin,  carefully  packed  up 
m  an  iron  cage,  and  ticketed  as  Tian-ta.  This  unfortunate  captive 
was  put  to  death,  and  a  long  confession,  which  incriminated  the  Chris- 
lians  and  Gutzlaff*s  ''  Chinese  Union,"  was  indited  for  him.  This  con- 
fession produced  a  great  sensation,  and  the  judicial  death  of  the  renowned 
Tian-ta  was  in  everybody's  mouth,  when  it  was  suddenly  succeeded  by 
another  report  of  a  totally  different  character,  which  was,  that  Tian-ta 
had  gone  with  his  followers  into  the  Hu-kuang  district,  where  he  had 
commenced  the  erection  of  a  temple  to  the  Supreme  Being.  Certsun  it 
was  that  Tian-ta,  executed  at  Pekin,  was  apocryphal;  but  Messrs. 
Gallery  and  Yvan  also  reject  the  last  rumour,  for,  say  they,  had  such  a 
thing  occurred,  the  Catholics  would  sooner  or  later  have  united  them- 
selves to  the  insurrectionary  party. 

The  mandarins,  at  the  same  time,  did  everything  in  their  power  to 
prejudice  Tian-ta  with  the  Europeans  ;  they  declared  that  his  intentions 
were  hostUe  to  their  interests,  that  he  would  shut  the  ports,  and  expel 
them  from  the  country.  All  this  Sir  George  Bonham's  expedition  in  the 
JEermes  has  shown  to  be  lies,  the  Chang-ti,  or  Protestant  insurgents^ 
being  most  anxious  to  establish  the  closest  relations  with  Christian 
nations.  Many  missionaries  dwell  in  the  provinces  held  by  the  insur- 
gents, and  they  have  had  reason  already  to  congratulate  themselves  upon 
we  change  of  rulers. 

While  Hung  and  Ki,  two  young  patriots,  were  drinking  their  own 
blood  mingled  in  a  marriage-cup,  preparatory  to  an  invasion  of  Formosa, 
Siu  had  given  battle  to  the  insurgents  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lu-king- 
chang,  and,  as  usual,  the  "  tiger  troops,**  as  they  are  called,  from  the 
most  common  device  on  their  shields,  were  vanquished.  But  the  time 
had  come  when  the  patriots  were  to  have  their  turn  of  disasters.  The 
viceroy  of  Hu-kuang  had  raised  a  body  of  four  thousand  northern 
warriors ;  the  insurgents  attacked  at  Cha-u-chu-fu  lost  two  hundred 
men,  and  as  many  were  made  prisoners.  A  few  days  afterwards  they 
were  as  rudely  treated  at  Yung-chu-fu.  Their  fleet  also  engaged  in 
pursuing  the  enemy,  with  fire-boats  in  advance,  had  the  latter  turned 
against  themselves  by  a  sudden  change  in  ihe  wind,  and  numbers  of 
their  own  junks  were  devoured  by  the  flames.  But  they  took  a  cruel 
revenge  for  these  disasters.  Having  taken  the  city  of  Kuai-yang  by 
assault,  it  was  delivered  over  to  fire  and  sword  ;  all  the  public  buildings 
were  burnt  down,  ten  mandarins  had  their  heads  cut  off,  and  the  prin- 
cipal inhabitants  were  only  spared  on  condition  of  a  heavy  ransom. 
I^^g'g^  which  surrendered  without  firing  a  shot,  was  simply  amerced 
in  a  sum  of  200,000  taels. 

In  September,  1852,  Tian-ta  established  himself  with  his  suite  and 
personal  guard  in  the  city  of  Hing-gan,  not  far  from  Kuai-lin  before 
described.  He  was  thus  almost  face  to  face  with  the  ingenious  and 
prudent  Siu.  Tian-ta,  on  his  side  also,  as  king  of  kings,  could  not  take 
part  in  the  progress  of  the  war ;  that  was  left  to  his  captains  ;  so  for 
different  apparent  reasons,  yet,  perhaps,  not  so  different  in  reality,  the 
two  chie&  were  satisfied  with  each  respecting  the  position  held  by  his 
adversary.  The  new  monarchy  had  been  everywhere  proclaimed,  dating 
from  the  first  year  of  Ming-ming.  Attached  to  this  monarchy  there 
were  three  Kungs,  nine  Kings,  twenty-seven  Chu-hus,  and  eighty-one 

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The  Chinese  Revolution.  189 

Sis.  This  ^ves  some  idea  of  the  value  of  these  terminal  and  honoraiy 
syllables.  Independent  as  a  federal  monarchy,  still  Hu-nan  acknow- 
ledged the  imperial  rights  of  the  descendant  of  the  Mings.  Ming-ming 
being,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  equivalent  to  Tian-ta,  or  rather  Tian-ta 
represented  the  Ming  of  the  Mings.  Other  leaders  began  at  this  time, 
and  after  the  example  thus  set  to  them,  also  to  claim  the  rights  of  federal 
sovereigns. 

The  year  1852  closed  with  a  long  list  of  disasters  to  the  imperial 
troops ;  wherever  they  had  ventiured  to  rive  battle  they  had  been  defeated, 
and  the  number  of  towns  captured  by  the  Chang-ti  had  swelled  up  to  a 
long  and  monotonous  length.  Only  once  had  40,000  imperialists  assailed 
a  town  in  the  possession  of  the  insurgents,  and  they  had  been  repulsed 
with  a  loss  of  3000  men  killed  and  500  taken  prisoners  to  the  patriots. 
This  happened  at  Ta-u-chu,  which  the  imperialists  being  unable  to  reduce, 
they  turned  into  it  the  waters  of  the  Ta-u-kiang,  to  the  great  discomfi- 
ture of  the  rats,  the  only  sufferers  by  this  unusually  ingenious  stratagem 
of  the  tigers. 

Kuai-lin  still  held  out.  Su-ming-hu,  the  governor,  attributed  this 
impunity  to  the  god  Kuan,  who  supplied  the  garrison  with  additional 
artillery,  fought  in  person  in  defence  of  the  city  mounted  on  a  gigantic 
charger,  brandishing  a  fiery  sword;  and  betrayed  a  night-surprise  by 
means  of  an  immense  lantern  suspended  in  the  clouds,  and  bearing  for 
motto,  "  Great  Felicity."  For  all  these  services  the  governor  claimed  of 
ihe  emperor  new  titles  for  the  god.  Kuan,  King  of  the  Great  Felicity. 

Notwithstanding  these  happy  omens,  the  emperor  degraded  Sai-chang- 
ha,  and  Siu  was  appointed  to  his  place ;  a  single  lettered  mandarin,  Y, 
succeeding  to  the  governorship  of  Canton.  The  old  servants  of  the 
crown,  Ki-chan,  who  had  been  disgraced  for  negotiating  with  the  Eng- 
lish, and  Ki-in  and  Hing-gan,  both  dismissed  for  their  partiality  to  the 
barbarians,  were  called  to  the  imperial  councils,  but  unfortunately  without 
afiecting  the  imperial  policy. 

Our  ingenious  friend  Siu  made  a  brilliant  start  in  his  new  capacity. 
He  actually  relieved  the  capital  of  Hu-nan,  celebrated  for  its  annual  re- 
gatta— a  race  of  boats,  gilt  and  coloured  to  represent  dragons,  serpents, 
reptiles,  and  all  kinds  of  antediluvian  monsters,  from  a  close  siege,  and 
obliged  Tai-ping-wang  to  take  refuge  in  a  fleet  of  junks  on  the  Siang,  a 
tributary  to  the  Yang-si-kiang,  or  Blue  River.  This  slight  advantage  was 
of  no  avail  to  the  Chinese.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems  purposely  or  other- 
wise to  h&ve  established  the  insurgents  on  the  great  artery  of  Central  China 
— the  mighty  Blue  River.  The  imperial  government  was  cramped  by  the 
greatest  financial  embarrassments :  the  governor  of  the  insurgent  pro- 
vinces refused  to  give  any  further  accounts  of  the  public  revenues,  but 
demanded  more  money  to  carry  on  their  war.  Under  these  difficulties 
an  extraordinary  edict  was  published,  advertising  for  sale  all  descriptions 
of  places  and  titles.  Crovemorships,  magistracies,  seats  on  the  bench, 
titles,  peacocks'  feathers,  were  announced  for  sale;  exile,  degradation, 
imprisonment,  and  all  other  punishments,  save  death,  could  now  be  bought 
off  by  money ! 

The  insurgents,  however,  were  now,  we  have  seen,  in  their  junks  on  the 
Blue  River,  and  before  the  month  of  February  had  expired  they  were 
masters  of  U-chang-fu,  capital  of  Hu-pa.      This  city  is  one  of  three 

Oct — ^VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCIT.  O 

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190  The  Ckmeae  Revolution. 

bailt  at  t^e  confiueaee  o£  the  riyer  Han  with  the  BlueRivw.  The  latter 
is  at  this  point  a  real  inland  sea,  its  waters  are  fvrrowed  hj  from  6000 
to  6000  junks,  around  which  imiumerahle  porp<»0es  sport  about  as  in  tb 
open  sea.  The  aspect  of  the  three  cities,  U-chang,  Han-yang^,  and  Haii-k% 
the  first  of  whicA  alone  hoasts  of  a  popc^tion  of  400,000  souls,  mnd 
situated  <m  the  opposite  banks  of  the  riYecs,  is  one  of  the  most  imposii^ 
in  the  world.  Pagodas  of  nine  stories  tower  up  above  the  ro<^  turned 
iq>  at  their  edges,  and  flags  of  a  thousand  colours  flioat  in  the  air  above  a 
whole  forest  ef  masts.  This  is  one  of  the  great  comm^dal  centres  ef 
the  Celestial  Empire :  the  manufactiges  of  Manchester  and  Glasgow  aie 
exchanged  here  for  teas  of  Momng,  porcelain  of  Y»-u-chaiig,  vooda  of 
Kiang-si,  salt  and  smugg^  goods,  more  especially  opium. 

Great  was  the  dismay  at  Pekin  when  it  was  known  that  the  insurgents 
were  at  U-chang-fu,  and  Eun^teaji  merchants  began  for  the  first  tin^  to 
tremble  for  the  safety  of  the  empire.  Nankin  was  put  in  a  state  of  de- 
fence, and  levies  were  made  from  every  town  in  Kiu^nan  and  Kiang-si; 
but  with  what  effect  may  be  judged  of  from  the  fact  that  the  eonscdar 
city  of  Chang-hai,  or  Shanghai,  with  a  population  of  200fiOO,  only  fiir- 
nished  a  contingent  of  100  regular  soldiers  and  100  volunteers. 

An  appeal  was  now  ako  made  £oit  the  first  time  to  the  magnaBsmiiy 
of  the  English  and  Americans;  this,  with  the  usual  astuteness  of  m 
Chinese,  by  the  Ta-y-tai,  or  Intendant  of  Shanghai,  in  the  first  place  as 
a  feeler,  so  that  in  case  of  refusal  the  dignity  of  any  of  the  great  mea  of 
the  empire  should  not  be  ruffled  by  bsurbanan  insolence.  The  tcme  of 
the  request  was,  at  the  same  time,  anyUiing  but  suppliant,  demanding 
rather  than  entreating  that  sh^s  of  war  should  be  despatched  at  onee,  to 
act  in  concert  with  the  Lorchas  that  were  already  at  Nankin,  and  wl^ek 
city  was  at  that  moment  threatened  by  the  patriots.  All  those  most 
intimate  with  Chinese  diplomacy  aver  that  if  the  Biriti^  and  Ajmeriean 
plenipotentiaries  bad  acceded  to  this  request  so  couched,  the  empo^r 
would  for  ever  afterwards  have  numbered  those  nations  among  such  as 
are  tributary  to  the  Celestial  Empire. 

The  Chang-ti,  in  the  mean  time,  after  having  reduced  the  ci^ital 
of  Hu-pa,  continued  their  descent  of  the  Blue  Biver,  successively 
occupying  Kiu-kiaog,  Gran-king,  and  U-hu,  and  at  length  appearii^ 
before  Nankin  with  a  formidable  fleet  and  an  army  of  fifty  thousand  vneOf 
commanded  by  five  chiefs,  each  of  whom  claimed  the  insignia  of  royalty. 
The  news  of  the  arrived  of  the  insurgents  at  the  second  city  of  the 
empire  caused  the  greatest  sensation,  not  unmingled  with  alarm,  at  the 
Chinese  cities  of  the  north  that  were  frequented  by  Europeans^  and 
attempts  were  now  first  made  to  enter  into  communications  with  the 
mysterious  patriots  of  the  iuterior.  With  this  view  Mr.  Mandiall,  the 
representative  of  the  United  States,  sailed  up  the  Blue  River  in  the 
Smquehaima,  Unfortunately,  when  the  active  co-operation  of  the 
English  and  Americans  was  requested,  and  not  acceded  to,  the  Intendant 
of  Shanghai,  who  had  already  enrolled  some  Portuguese  Lorchas  of  Macao 
under  the  yellow  banner,  bethought  himself  of  purchasing  sundry  Euro- 
pean vessels  and  guns,  and  among  others  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  an  old 
American  receiving-ship,  called  the  Science^  belonging  to  the  house  of 
Russell,  which  let  it  out  £br  5000  piastres  a  month. 

This  old  ship  was  in  reality  hired  for  purposes  of  Chinese  diplomacy, 
and,  therefore,  worth  in  reality  more  than  appeared  on  the  sur&oe  of 

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The  C^inem  RevbUiw.  191 

tUngs ;  ^  BO  80(HieEr  waf  it  obtained  possessioii  oi  than  it  was  sent  up 
•  tke  Blue  Biver,  with  the  report  that  it  was  but  the  first  <^  an  European 
fleet  whidi  was  saiUng  to  the  succour  of  the  Maodiu  dynasty.  This 
sd^terfuge  had  an  unfortunate  effect,  as  it  roused  the  ire  of  the  Chang-ti 
against  Europeans,  and,  as  a  consequence,  when  they  saw  the  Susgue-- 
bmima  eoming  up  the  river  they  dosed  the  mouth  of  the  canal  leading 
firoim  the  Blue  River  to  Nankin,  and  cutting  off  the  head  of  a  mandarin 
siqpposed  to  be  in  communication  with  the  Europeans,  they  stuck  it,  as  if 
in  warning,  at  the  end  of  a  bamboo.  The  Stisguekamia,  thus  hostilely 
recdved,  was  obliged  to  retrace  its  steps,  Mr.  Marshall  announcing  on 
lus  return  that  sufficient  water  had  not  been  found  to  get  as  &r  as  the 
^piartears  of  the  insurgorts. 

The  insurgents  had,  it  is  to  be  observed,  made  themselves  masters  of 
NanHn  as  early  as  the  19th  of  Mardi.  The  details  of  the  sieg^  and 
eaptore  of  the  imperial  city  of  the  Mings  are  little  known,  but  it  is  re- 
ported that,  on  the  day  anove  mentioned,  the  Chang-ti  sprung  a  mine 
under  the  wall  near  the  northem  angle,  which  effected  a  b'each  of  about 
twenty  or  tiiirty  yards  in  extent.  They  immediately  rushed  in  by  this, 
eacountmng  only  a  sfight  resistance  from  some  of  the  hereditary  garrison 
of  Tartar  Bannermen  and  a  few  Shan-tung  and  Kuai-diu  troops,  who 
attempted  to  dispute  their  progress  to  the  inner  city. 

The  strength  oi  the  Chinese  imperialists  was  redconed  at  5106  men, 
and  that  of  the  Bannermen  at  7000  to  8000  men.  It  was  expected  that 
these  Tartars  would  have  fought  desperately  in  self-defence.  They  were 
well  armed  and  trained,  and  they  wdl  knew  that  the  '^  Heavenly  Prince" 
had  openly  declared  that  the  first  duty  of  his  mission  was  the  utter 
extermination,  not  only  of  themselves,  but  also  of  their  women  and  chil- 
dren ;  yet  they  are  said  scarcely  to  have  raised  an  arm  in  defence  of  theb 
wives  and  fiBumlies,  but  to  have  thrown  themselves  on  their  faces,  and 
implored  mercy  in  the  most  abject  terms,  submitting  to  be  butdiered 
Mke  so  many  sheep.  Only  100  are  said  to  have  escaped  oat  of  a  Tartar 
popcdatioii  of  mcxe  than  20,000 ;  the  rest,  men,  women,  and  children, 
were  put  to  the  sw(»rd ! 

On  the  31st  of  March  the  insurgent  fleet  of  river-craft  sent  down 
from  Nankin  approached  Chin-kiang.  Only  the  Macao  Lordias,  de- 
spatched up  the  river  by  the  Shanghai  intendant,  attempted  resistance, 
the  rest  of  the  imperial  fleet  flying  in  dismay  at  the  sight  of  the  enormous 
number  of  vessds  moving  against  them.  The  Lorchas  were  also  soon 
Forced  to  retreat,  and  were  pursued  as  far  as  Silver  Island.  From  this 
the  insurgents  returned  to  Chin-kiang,  which  they  occujued  witliout 
resistance,  the  g^arrison,  among  whom  w«:e  400  Northem  Manchus, 
having  fled  without  firing  a  shot.  The  fEunilies  of  the  resident  Tartars, 
wim^  by  the  fate  of  their  compatriots  at  Nankin,  had  also  evacuated 
tile  place  to  ^be  numb^  of  20,000  ;  only  a  few  hundreds  were  caught 
and  slain  in  the  surrounding  villages.  On  the  following  day,  the  1st  of 
April,  the  insurgents  occupied  Kua-chu,  or  Kwa-chow,  and  the  large 
city  of  Yang-chu,  on  the  northern  bank  of  the  Blue  River,  also  without 
resistance.  A  long  batt^  c^  three  miles  of  guns  that  lined  the  river- 
bank  fell  into  their  hands — not  one  had  been  discharged  against  them. 
By  the  last  accounts,  Tai-ping-fu,  a  city  of  great  s^^rength  to  the  west- 
ward of  Nankin,  had  fallen,  as  had  also  Yang-ping-fu,  close  to  the  great 

o  2 

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192  The  Chinese  Revolution, 

city  of  Fu-chu-fu,  or  Foo-chow-foo,  in  the  direction  of  Su-cba.     At 
Canton,  also,  everything  was  ready  for  a  general  rising,  and  a  siraul-  • 
taneous  attack  upon  the  Tartar  encampment  and  the  officers  of  goyem- 
ment  was  to  be  their  death-knell,  and  a  signal  that  the   work  was 
begun. 

Amoy,  one  of  the  consular  cities^  was  taken  on  the  19th  of  May  with- 
out much  loss  of  life.  The  public  offices  were  gutted,  and  the  mandarins 
fled.  Not  a  single  private  residence  was  molested.  The  European  resi- 
dents were  treated  with  civility,  and  a  guard  sent  to  protect  th^ 
residences.  The  insurgents  in  possession  of  Amoy  are  said  not  to  be  of 
the  same  party  as  the  g^at  body  of  Chang-ti,  but  members  of  a  secret 
society,  called  "  Short  Knife  Society,"  and  to  be  acting  on  their  own 
account.  As  they  agree  in  one  point— the  overthrow  of  the  Tartar 
dynasty — ^no  doubt  the  minor  insurrections  in  the  south  will  be  swallowed 
up  ultimately  in  the  greater  successes  of  the  Chang-ti,  especially  when 
the  latter  are  at  Pekin,  and  a  head  monarchy  is  finnly  established. 
Shortly  after  the  &11  of  Amoy,  a  much  larger  city  in  the  same  neigh- 
bourhood, Chang-chu,  to  which  Amoy  is  but  as  a  port,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  another  party  of  insurgents.  Some  slight  dissensions  that 
arose  among  the  insurgent  cluefs  at  Amoy  induced  the  Chinese  admiral 
to  make  an  attempt  to  recover  the  place ;  but  the  imperial  forces  were 
driven  back,  and  tnose  that  were  made  prisoners  were  tried  by  courts- 
martial,  at  which  Europeans  were  allowed  to  be  present.  All  the  Tartars 
taken  were  immediately  beheaded,  but  the  Chinese  soldiers,  being  gene- 
rally pressed  men^  were  usually  acquitted.  Thus  whatever  dissensions 
may  exist  among  the  insurgents  themselves  as  to  the  right  to  command, 
none  at  all  events  exbts  as  to  the  determination  to  exterminate  the 
Tartar  race. 

Shortly  after  the  unsuccessful  expedition  of  the  Susgtiehanna,  a  man 
of  remarkable  courage  and  most  enterprising  spirit  presented  himself  as 
an  envoy  to  the  insurgent  camp,  in  order  to  ascertun  what  sentiments 
the  Chang-ti  really  entertained  towards  Christian  nations.  Mr.  Meadows, 
interpreter  to  the  English  consulate,  started  alone  on  the  9th  of  April 
for  Su-chu-fu,  from  whence  he  intended  descending  the  Great  Canal,  and 
joining  the  insurgents  at  or  near  Nankin. 

Unfortunately  the  news  that  a  further  lying  proclamation  had  just 
been  issued  by  the  intendant  of  Shanghai,  to  the  effect  that  a  fleet  of 
foreign  steam-ships  of  war  were  preparing  to  act  against  the  insur- 
gents, obliged  the  envoy  to  retrace  his  steps,  the  report  having  increased 
the  irritation  against  Europeans  which  had  been  already  created  by  pre- 
vious misrepresentations,  tinder  these  circumstances  Sir  George  Bonham 
determined  at  once  to  proceed  in  person  to  Nankin,  to  explain  to  the 
chiefs  of  the  insurrection  our  perfect  neutrality.  The  Hermes  steamer 
was  got  in  readiness  for  the  purpose,  and  it  proceeded  without  difficulty 
to  Chin-kiang-fii,  where  the  Grand  Caoal  crosses  the  Blue  River.  The 
insurgents  were  in  great  force  at  this  point,  and  had  possession  of  both 
sides  of  the  river.  Leaving  Chin-kiang-fu,  the  Hermes  got  to  Nankin 
without  any  further  trouble,  and  on  arriving  there  Mr.  Meadows  was 
allowed  to  communicate  with  the  leaders.  The  letter  sent  by  Sir  G. 
Bonham,  as  well  as  the  very  satisfactory  answer  given  by  the  Chang-ti 
leaders,  have  been  published  at  length  in  the  daily  papers. 

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The  Chinese  Revolution.  193 

Mr.  Meadows  was  introduced  to  the  second  in  rank,  Pa-wane,  King  of 
the  North,  who  said  no  one  was  permitted  to  see  the  chief,  Tai-ping-wang, 
and  who,  Mr.  Meadows  was  duly  informed,  was  considered  hy  the 
Chang-ti  as  a  brother  of  Jesus.  With  the  usual  inconsiistency  of  a  false 
and  impious  claim,  although  asserting  his  divine  origin,  it  being  believed 

Sf  his  followers  that  he  had  visited  heaven,  and  ihat  the  Ruler  of  the 
niverse  had  condescended  to  visit  him  on  earth,  it  is  stated  that  the 
mysterious  leader  of  the  insurgents  will  not  allow  the  title  of  '*  holy,''  or 
"  Celestial,"  to  be  applied  to  bun,  but  he  is  styled  plainly,  Tai-ping-wang, 
or  Prince  of  Peace.  We  have  no  longer  here  any  notice  whatsoever  of 
Tian-ta,  or  had  Tian-ta  become  Tai-ping-wang  ?  The  insurgents  were 
said,  at  the  same  time,  to  be  Christians  of  the  Protestant  form  of  worship, 
but  on  what  grounds,  except  that  they  were  strict  anti-idolators,  does  not 
clearly  appear.  If  they  acknowledge  a  younger  brother  of  Jesus,  they 
must  be  Christians  of  an  entirely  new  order.  They  are  said  to  acknow- 
ledge one  God,  the  Heavenly  Father,  the  All-wise,  All-powerful,  and 
Omnipresent  Creator  of  the  world ;  with  him,  Jesus  Christ  as  the  Saviour 
of  mankind,  and  also  the  Holy  Spirit  as  the  last  of  the  three  persons  of 
the  Trinity.  If  to  this  Trinity  they  add  a  fourth  member,  their  idea  of 
a  triad  or  triune  faith  must  be  very  latitudinarian.  Their  moral  code,  or 
as  they  call  them  Heavenly  Rules,  are  said  to  be  the  Ten  Commandments. 
They  attribute  all  good  to  the  glory  of  Grod,  as  also  all  evil  as  chastisement 
for  sins.  They  refrain  from  smoking,  the  use  of  opium,  and  all  other 
rices.  They  insist  on  the  adoption  of  the  new  religion  by  all  adherents. 
During  a  long  ride  of  ten  or  twelve  miles  into  the  city  of  Nankin  and 
back,  along  the  streets  of  a  large  camp,  Mr.  Meadows  did  not  hear  one  of 
those  abusive  and  derogatory  epithets  applied  to  himself  or  his  compa- 
nions which  have  always  been  hitherto  so  liberally  bestowed  on  passmg 
foreigners  by  the  Chinese. 

On  her  return  from  Nankin,  and  while  passing  Ching-kiang-fu,  the 
Hermes  was  fired  upon  from  two  forts  garrisoned  by  the  insurgents,  and, 
after  receiving  four  or  &ve  round  shot  in  her  rigging  and  bull,  she  opened 
fire,  which  quickly  quieted  the  forts.  Mr.  Taylor,  an  American  mis- 
nonary,  who  subsequently  visited  Lu,  *'  the  fifth  arranger  of  the  forces,"  at 
Ching-kiang-fu,  ascertained  that  these  acts  of  hostility  arose  from  a  mis- 
take. Lu  adverted  especially  to  the  Hermes  being  ^*  followed  by  a  fleet 
of  impish  vessels  belonging  to  the  false  Tartars,"  the  said  "  impish 
vessels  of  the  Tartars  following  in  the  wake  of  European  ships." 

Most  truly  may  the  Chinese  insurrection  be  looked  upon,  whatever  may 
be  the  results — a  worship  to  the  glory  of  God  and  a  true  regard  for  tlie 
Trinity,  or  the  superaddmg  of  another  divinity  of  human  origin— as  the 
greatest  religious  movement  since  the  days  of  Muhammad;  and,  it  is  much 
to  be  feared,  as  another  colossal  example  of  the  vagaries  of  the  human  mind* 
This,  however,  is  by  no  means  certam  yet,  and  there  are  many  reasons  for 
hoping  better  things.  The  insurgents  have  the  Bible,  and  that  will  not 
teach  them  to  worship  Tai-ping-wang.  It  is  even  asserted  that  the  Great 
Padficator  does  not  wish  to  be  worshipped ;  but  if  so  whence  the  impious 
title  claimed  by  him,  or  the  sanctity  attributed  to  him  by  his  followers  ? 
It  is  curious,  too,  that  the  mysterious  Han-ta,  the  representative  of  Celes- 
tial Virtue,  who  never  made  his  appearance,  has,  since  the  capture  of 
Nankin,  been  totally  superseded  by  Tai-ping-wang,  the  Great  Pacificatory 

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194  The  Chatet  BewoUtUn. 

1^19  alone  looked  upoo  as  tfaefvtoie  io?emgii  of  CkuHU  It  seems 
piobeUe,  ttien,  as  was  somnsed  ai  first,  that  Tian-ta  k  a  mytfa,  an 
'apocryphai  penooage,  sfooBd  wilom  the  first  inangarators  of  the  iosnme- 
tion  groaped  tiwMwl¥es^  as  a  poioi  of  uni^  itsdf  bj  Tirtoe  of  its  intea- 
gil^  and  ided  dMuraoter,  BOt  liable  to  defeat  or  disai^  of  any  kind.  la 
each  a  case  it  was  Tai-pii^-wang  whe  removed  lumself  to  tiie  BMaDtain, 
aod  represented  Tian-ta  bdTore  ^  enroys  of  Sin. 

^  John  Daris  pointed  oat  twenty  years  ^o  the  importance  of  the  jnv 
•tion  of  the  Grand  Canal  aod  the  Btne  River  in  a  strategetical  point  of 
-new.  ^  A  bk>ckade  of  the  Great  Canal  and  of  the  Yang-n-ldang,"  be  sai^ 
**  would  aieet  the  whole  empire,  and  more  especially  the  capital,  which  \& 
prorisioned  from  dw^  southern  prorinees."  When  the  British  forces  took 
possession  of  tlm  leadiog  posttioii,  the  mandarins  came  and  made  sobmis- 
non,  for  they  knew  that  the  enemy  hM  the  keys  of  the  empire. 

The  Chang-ti  msnrgents  have  acted  eridently  upon  a  Iraowledge  of 
the  same  fact.  They  have  pnt  a  total  stop  to  the  provisioning  of  Pekia 
— abeady  in  a  slate  of  gi«at  ^stress— and  t^  paid  garrison  of  wfaidi 
alone  comprises  100,000  Manehas  and  their  ^Mnilies.  Notwithstanding 
the  confiscation  of  the  property  of  many  former  ministers,  chiefs,  and 
wealthy  indtvidnals — measures  of  a  perfoetly  suicidal  character — the 
government  treasuries  Mre  said  to  be  qinte  empty. 

As  to  Tartar  chiefifcains  moving  down  from  the  north  with  their  people 
at  their  own  cost,  such  offers  can  only  ha?e  emanated  froai  some  <^  the 
'  herecKtaiy  Mongol  princes,  of  whom  no  one  knows  better  than  the 
nerabefB  of  the  Manchu  court  they  have  never  forgotten  ^eir  descent 
from  Genghis  Khan  and  his  associates,  the  former  rulers,  not  of  China 
anti^ly,  bat  of  all  Asia,  md  tiie  east  of  £ur(^>e.  They  have,  indeed, 
always  been  olijects  of  apprehension  and  jealousy  to  t^  rngnkig  dynasty. 

It  is  by  DO  means  improbable  that  they  and  ^eir  followers,  fared  in  the 
saddle,  and  accustomed  to  the  hardy  life  of  nomadic  herdsaien  in  sterile 
regions,  would,  if  now  brought  in,  be  able  to  hold  all  that  portion  of  Chioa 
Bort^  of  ^e  Yellow  River  for  years  against  a  dynasty  e^ablished  in  iSOt 
south ;  but  it  is  equrily  probable  that  they  would  hold  it  for  themselTts, 
and  not  fi>r  the  Manchu  sovereign. 

Such  a  Tartar  sovereignty  would  form  an  excellent  frontier  between 
tile  Chinese  and  Russian  empires.  The  ktter,  it  is  well  known,  have 
long  been  preparing  to  take  part  in  ^  struggle  of  the  Chinese  f^  theb 
emancipation.  A  Rosso-Greek  monastery  has  been  establi^ied  in  Pekin 
ever  since  the  time  of  Peter  the  Great ;  and  akboogfa  the  reverend  mb- 
sionaries  are  said  to  be  also  commissioned  officers  in  the  Russian  army, 
who  are  changed  eveiy  ten  years,  they  boast  of  their  4,000,000  of  con- 
*rerts,  who  had  formed  themselves  into  secret  societies^  ramificadoos  of 
which  had  extended  themeekes  throughout  the  whole  empire ;  and  it  has 
even  been  suggested  ^t  the  words  Xam  ti  houoei,  *'  the  religion  of 
tiie  great  emperor,"  borne  on  the  banners  of  the  insurgents,  have  reference 
to  the  Tsar,  and  not  to  Tian-ta.  The  BiUe,  however,  in  4ise  with  the 
insurgents  has  been  found  to  be  Gutzla^rs  translation ;  their  catechisia 
m  Dr.  Medhorst's.  They  call  themselves  Chuig-ti,  or  Protestants,  ani 
they  have  i^r  own  great  emperor  and  great  pacificator;  although 
as  the  kUter— Tai-ping-waag^ — 1ms  diosen  to  declare  binteel^  smce  tibe 
capture  of  Naifddn,  to  be  a  younger  brother  df  Jesus  Christ,  it  is  not 

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The  Chimse  Bmelution.  195 

pvolmUe  diftt  ai^  sect  m  denominatica  of  Christiuif,  Greek  Ordiodox^ 
Ijatin  Apostoiie,  er  Protestant  dissentient,  will  kave  ONwh  to  botst  of  ia 
their  Chinese  allfes :  more  fnrobftbly,  as  kislory  has  too  ofiten  sbown  us  to 
be  tlie  ease,  tlie  repirtation  of  the  Redeemer  will,  among  the  poor  ^orant 
people  of  ^  Cei€»tkil  Empire,  he  traaseended  by  that  of  his  imptoof 
iirouier,  and  with  the  ]NY)gres8  of  time  the  same  niTetefaey  will  ^pnag 
jtp  between  the  followers  of  the  jmnor  prophet  and  those  of  the  olden 
SShivioar,  as  exists  between  the  ^^wers  of  Afi  and  Muhammad,  or  aaj 
two  socoessiTe  foonders  of  regions  do^^as. 

To  muderstaad  the  tree  poskion  of  Rossia  with  respect  to  China,  a  re* 
lationsbip  which  has  been  much  misenderstood,  it  is  neeessary  to  take 
into  consida^aticm  where  the  vast  popokrtion  of  Syn-wah  luis  spnmg 
mto  being.  That  idea  will  not  be  gained  by  eontempiating  any  ordinary 
map ;  it  w31  by  a  glance  at  Petermaan's,  or  other  orographical  maps. 
On  die  banks  of  the  g^reat  Bkie  aiMl  Ydkyw  and  oth*  gieai  rivers,  and 
l^eb  nmnberiess  tributaries— on,  in  &Mt,  what  is  almost  a  delta—- one 
great  and  cootiniioas  hydrographical  basin,  witii  its  ootlyii^  i^ets — ^ii 
where  tlus  vast  popola^on  is  concentrated.  This  country,  so  constituted, 
is  separated  from  most  others  by  chains  of  lofty  and  ¥^  nigg^  moun- 
tains (Yim-ling,  Ala-Shan,  and  Khin-gan),  whidi  pass  off  b^ond  into 
^e  high  t^^nds  or  plateaus  of  Thibet,  Gobi  or  Shamo,  and  HanhaL 
The  Chinese,  strictly  speaking,  are,  by  reason  of  this  configuration  of 
tlieu'  kmd,  brought  more  under  the  influence,  and  mto  closer  relationship, 
with  maritime  nations,  as  Great  Britain  and  America,  than  with  Russia. 
Manehura,  Kirin,  Mongolia,  Thtan-^ian,  Thsiang-hai,  Greater  and  Lesser 
Thibet,  will,  in  case  of  the  dedaration  of  a  Chinese  as  distinguished  from 
a  Tartar  Empire,  of  neeesaty  detach  ^^lemselves  from  a  power  to  which 
they  owe  no  idlegiance  1^  race  cnr  by  custom,  and  constitute  independent 
elates,  wfaic^  will  dways  oppose  a  barrier  to  the  encroachments  of  Rusm 
in  China  Proper,  miwh  more  formidable  than  what  is  presented  by  tl^ 
wide  ocean.  On  l^e  other  hand,  there  is  little  ^anoe  of  the  IfongoKan 
or  Tartar  races  overrunniag  China,  if  once  brought  into  contact  wiUi 
European  civilisation,  so  ei«ly  as  they  have  done  of  yore.  How  low  and 
effiste  the  Tartars  have  become  in  China,  experience  has  just  shown  ;  and 
as  for  the  horsemen  of  the  north,  the  low  canal  and  river-intersected  dis- 
tricts of  China  Prop^  would  preset^  most  formidable  obstacles  to  races  to 
whom  a  junk  must  be  somewhat  of  a  curiosity,  and  a  steam-boat  an 
diljeet  of  apprehenraon,  if  not  ef  positive  terror. 

It  has  been  supposed  by  some  that  the  Mongoliaa  and  Tartar  tribes  of 
Central  Asia  woald,  having  no  bonds  of  poetical  unity,  be  likely  to  iall 
trader  the  ii^kience,  if  net  the  d(Hninion,  of  Russia,  as  the  paraanoant 
andiority  of  Northern  Asia,  which  woidd  t^u  bring  that  eotossal  power 
in  immediate  contact  with  Hindustan.  &it  such  a  suppoeition  is  quite 
out  of  the  question.  The  Tartars  have  a  bond  of  nmty  in  a  common 
race,  faith,  language,  and  religion ;  similar  habits  of  life,  pmrsuite,  and 
empathies.  They  are  not  an  indoleirt,  eubmisBiTe,  yielding  peo^e,  like 
dhe  Hindus  and  the  Chinese ;  they  would  he  as  iudep^lent  in  Mongolia 
ss  they  are  in  Bokhara,  where  they  have  long  been  in  preeonee  of  the 
hughear  of  Western  Eun^.  Mudh  m<Re  ehimce  of  mischief  might  be 
nntieipated,  ri  a  false  poMcy  were  to  dictate  to  ikm  Angk>-Indhm  gwenft- 
naeat  an  advance  into  Thibet,  or  an  attempt  to  eitahysh  pc^tioal  lektionB 

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196  The  Chinese  Revobilion. 

with  the  countries  hejond  or  within  the  Himma-leh.  Then  the  uhiqnitoos, 
wary  Russian  would  form  alliances  that  would  he  a  perpetual  thorn  in 
our  side,  and  a  source  of  unceasing  apprehension  and  irritatioii. 

We  may  for  the  present,  however,  fairly  turn  our  attention  to  conn- 
derations  of  a  far  more  promising,  more  cheerful,  and  more  hopeful  (dia- 
racter — and  these  present  themselves  in  the  wonderful  adaptability  of  the 
country  to  locomotion,  whether  by  steam-boat  or  by  rail.  It  is  not  un- 
reasonable to  anticipate  that  China,  once  •  opened  to  civilisation,  with  so 
vast  a  population,  so  much  native  ingenuity  and  educability,  sneh. 
great  pecuniarv,  a^icultural,  and  mercantile  resources,  its  rivers  and 
canals  will,  witnin  the  space  of  a  very  few  years,  be  covered  with  steam- 
boats, which  will  at  once  serve  for  the  intercommunication  of  natives, 
and  will  convey  the  curious  stranger  to  the  innermost  recesses  of  the 
empire.  Rails,  for  which  the  greater  part  of  the  country  is  peculiarly 
adapted,  will  ultimately  complete  these  facilities.  It  will  no  longer  re- 
quire the  intrepidity  of  a  Fortune  to  visit  the  strange  freaks  of  nature 
and  art  displayed  by  the  Sung-lu  and  Bohea  hills.  Thousands  of  tourists 
will  annually  trudge  across  the  long  bridge  of  Fu-diu-fu  and  the  bridge 
of  boats  at  Ningpo.  The  regattas  of  Chang-cha  will  be  open  to  all  t£e 
world.  Golden  pheasants,  mother-of-pearl  partridges,  and  gigantic 
edible  bats,  await  the  sportsman. ,  The  jonquil  Aspasias  of  Su-chu-fu  will 
alone,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  be  kept  in  the  background. 

No  nation  can  present  works  to  be  compared  with  the  Great  Wall 
and  the  Great  Canal,  the  latter  extending  in  a  continuous  line  from 
Pekin  to  the  Blue  River,  a  distance  of  500  miles.  Nothing  in 
Europe  can  give  an  idea  of  the  fertility  of  Kian-nan,  where  two  har- 
vests reward  the  labourer  annually,  and  the  soil  gives  forth  vegetables, 
£ruit,  and  flowers,  uninterruptedly.  Apricot-oil  wUl  succeed  to  olive-oil, 
and  li-chi,  lung-yan,  wang-pi,  and  other  delicious  fruits,  will  come  into 
fashion.  The  disciple  of  Walton  may  hook  fish  in  armour  (tetrodron) 
which  eat  like  veal,  whip  the  lakes  for  gold  fish  as  he  does  here  for 
trout,  or  net  fish  like  crocodiles  with  inflammable  fat! 

What,  again,  will  the  tourist  think  of  pleasure- groimds  which  extend 
over  60,000  acres,  and  comprehend  thirty  separate  palaces  as  at  Yuan- 
min-Yuan? — what  displays  of  squibs,  crackers,  gongs,  and  trumpets, 
hail  the  ^1  moon  ?  A  constant  succession  of  large  villages,  towns,  and 
cities,  with  high  walls,  lofty  gate9,  and  more  lofty  pagodas,  will  present 
to  the  traveller  an  animated  picture  of  activity,  industry,  and  commerce^ 
almost  without  a  parallel.  What  an  outlet  for  manufactured  goods,  firoi^i 
broadcloth  to  glass,  does  this  dense  population  lay  open !  In  the  lakes  and 
morasses,  every  little  islet  is  crowned  with  villages  and  hovels.  There 
birds  are  used  for  catching  fish ;  while  men  in  the  water,  with  jars  on 
their  heads,  are  fishing  for  birds.  Shoals  of  ducks  may  be  seen  issuing 
firom  floating  habitations,  obedient  to  the  sound  of  a  whistle;  while  carts 
<m  the  land  are  driven  by  the  wind. 

The  meanest  hut  is  constructed  of  blue  bricks,  and  its  tiled  roof  is 
supported  on  pillars;  the  luxury  of  glass  is  alone  wanting.  Almost 
every  terraced  hill  is  terminated  with  a  dump  of  trees  or  a  pagoda. 
Bridges  of  evexy  variety  of  fanciful  shi^pe — circular,  elliptical,  horse-shoe, 
and  Gothic,  attract  notice  by  their  variety  and  novelty ;  the  monwnental 
architecture  that  adorns  the  cemeteries  under  every  form  is  as  peculiar 


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The  Chinese  Revolution.  197 

as  eveiyihing  else.  Within  the  great  cities  the  traveller  fancies  himself^ 
from  the  low  houses  with  curved,  overhauging  roofe,  the  pillars,  poles, 
flags,  and  streamers,  to  have  got  into  the  midst  of  a  large  encampment. 
The  gutter  arising  from  the  gilding,  the  varnishing,  and  the  painting  in 
yivid  colours,  that  adorn  the  front  of  the  shops — and  in  particular  the 
gaily-coloured  lanterns  of  horn,  muslin,  silk,  and  paper — the  husy  multi- 
tude, the  confused  noise,  the  numerous  processions,  the  itinerant  vendors 
and  workshops,  the  musicians,  mountebanks,  quack-doctors,  and  come- 
dians, will  be  enough  to  dazzle  even  the  Titmarshes  of  ComhiU. 

Then,  again,  without,  on  the  Great  Canal  or  g^at  rivers,  the  multitude  of 
vessels  of  vXi.  descriptions — ^the  banks  covered  with  towns  and  villages  as  fiEir 
as  the  eye  can  reach — ^the  vast  number  of  light  stone  bridges — ^the  temples, 
with  their  double  or  triple  tiers  of  roofs,  if  not  destroyed  by  the  Chang- ti 
—the  Pai-lus,  or  triple  gateways,  in  commemoration  of  some  honest  man 
or  chaste  virgin— the  face  of  the  surrounding  country,  beautifully  diversi- 
fied with  hiU  and  dale,  and  every  part  of  it  in  the  highest  state  of 
cultivation — and  lastly,  but  not  least,  the  apparent  happy  condition  of 
the  numerous  inhabitants,  indicated  by  their  cheerful  looks,  and  improved 
by  a  new  clothing  and  the  removal  of  the  odious  Manchu  tail— will 
present  altogether  a  scene  magnificent  beyond  description. 

China  will  require  something  more  than  the  scanty  notices  g^ven  to  us 
by  a  Du  Halde,  a  Grosier,  a  De  Guignes,  a  Barrow,  a  Staunton,  an  Ellis, 
an  Abel,  a  Gutzlaff,  a  Mailla,  a  Bell,  a  Morrison,  a  Remusat,  a  Fortune, 
a  Hue,  or  a  Davis.  The  cookery  will  also  require  correction.  Rice, 
garlic,  and  cabbage  fried  in  oil  are  not  artistic'  The  flesh  of  horses 
and  asses  is  objectionable,  and  worms,  frogs,  rats,  dogs,  and  ofiul  of  all 
kinds  are  not  sympoeiac.  Soyer  must  remove  to  Pekin.  The  cordon 
bleu  must  be  exchanged  for  a  cordon  jaune.  As  the  Chinese  had  boats 
propelled  by  wheels  loog  before  us,  so  it  is  worth  mentioning  they  not 
only  hatch  ducks  artificially,  but  also  the  spawn  of  fish,  a  piscatorial  pro- 
ceeding much  vaunted  of  late  as  a  new  discovery  in  Europe.  The 
habitue  of  Baden-Baden  will  find  cards  and  dice,  and  may  add  tsoi-moi 
to  his  resources.  There  is  cock,  quail,  and  even  locust  fignting  for  those 
who  take  pleasure  in  such  things.  The  public  festivals,  the  feast  of  lan- 
terns, and  the  fireworks,  rival  the  displays  of  the  French  imperial/e^^.  The 
concerts  are  not  first-rate.  Noise  and  rapidity  are  the  great  criterions  of 
excellence.  There  will  be  a  decided  opening  at  Pekin  and  Nankin  for  a 
few  adventurous  Philharmonic  Societies. 

Su-chu-fu— the  Venice  of  China— is  the  resort  of  the  fashionable  and 
the  voluptuous.  "  Paradise,"  say  the  Chinese,  "  may  be  in  heaven,  but  Su- 
ehu-fu  is  on  earth  V*  Among  the  show  places  of  the  Flowery  Empire  may 
ako  be  mentioned  the  mountain  cemetery  of  the  princes  of  the  Tai-ming- 
chau  family ;  the  fine  tower  of  Yang-chu,  erected  in  the  sixth  century ; 
the  warm  baths  and  mineral  springs  of  Fuan-ho ;  the  octagonal  porcelain 
tower  of  Lin-chin-chu,  like  all  the  rest,  a  temple  of  the  now  bygone  Fa 
or  Fo,  whose  image  is  placed  in  the  highest  chamber ;  Hu-nan,  the  navel 
of  the  worid ;  ihe  observatory  of  Chu-kong,  an  astronomer  who  Kved 
1000  years  before  Christ ;  Tung-wa,  "  the  central  flower ;"  the  Nestorian 
monument  at  Sin-gan ;  the  tomb  of  Fu-hi  on  the  mountains  of  Kung- 
dan,  and  that  of  Kung-fu-su  (Confucius)  at  Riu-fu;  the  military  road 


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198  Tke  Cidmne  ReoBlution. 

cfShao-si;  tiienaAinadaadwIifiMl  foeastuiofHuig-clw;  theBuu^^ 
Kwu-liii ;  die  sacred  snakes  of  Nan-chang;  ^e  regattas  «£  Hu-ium  ;  tbe 
pyramidal  tetnples  o£  Soaa-chn  ;  the  monast^Mi  (^  the  Bonaes  ;  afid  ths 
Sj^eodid  temples  of  Fa.  But  lilctle  is  as  yet  knenm  of  t^  ounoaitses, 
nataral  and  artificial,  of  China ;  die  trayek  of  Hoc  and  Fartma  Iwfa 
Bnde  known  a  host  unheard  of  before,  bat  aanch,  vety  nm^  mint  se- 
main  that  has  as  yet  to  be^escrihed.  Chiaa  is  oertualy  not  *^  dooe"  yet^ 
nor  can  Cockney  crkies  repeat,  as  they  do  ooce  a  week  of  the  Nile,  d» 
Amazon,  and  the  Ganges,  that  the  Bkra  Rtrer  and  its  Y^ow  eoBgeiiMr 
are  as  &miliar  to  th^  as  the  Thames!  There  is  somedung  new  in 
China — somethntg  genuiae  and  vndisoovered.  It  is  imdoubtedly  greats 
ancient,  curious,  and  originaL  Let  the  Eoropeans  «fdy  assist  to  swell 
up  those  continuous  streams  of  trav^Uers,  on  horse,  on  foot,  and  in  fitten, 
lAnch  Hue  and  Fortaae  describe  to  us  as  some  fifteen  hnn^^d  miks  in 
length  without  a  break,  erer  and  continuously  pouring  on  under  avenues 
of  trees,  with  coffee  and  tea-shops,  restaurants,  pleasure-gardens,  and 
guard-houses  every  £ew  steps ;  and  truly,  tiU  steam-boats  and  railways 
operate  a  Ktde  clearance,  China  wfli  be  the  gmatest  wonder  «f  m 
world! 

The  most  remarkable  feature  in  the  latest  news  £rom  CSiina  is  thi^  dw 
ittsurgefits  weie  moving  soodi,  towards  Canton,  through  the  prindpal 
tmrdistricts,  instead  of  northw«ds,  towuds  Pekin.  Tins  we  should 
oansider  to  have  driginated  in  some  erroneous  rumour,  as  it  b  o^»09ed 
to  the  system  pursiMMi  &tmi  the  beginning  by  the  insurgents,  who  have 
idways  gone  onwards, '  looking  to  I^kin  as  the  gosd  of  their  ambition. 
I^  for  *' insurgents  moving  south,"  we  were  to  read  ^  die  insumction  is 
spreading  southwards,''  the  origin  of  the  rumonr  would  be  at  onoe 
niderstood. 

From  ^uinghai  die  statement,  cm  die  eoptrary,  was  diat  a  l«g»  fi»«e 
was  movkig  to  die  north,  towards  Pddn.  It  was  also  positivdy  asserted 
that  the  progress  of  the  insurgents  to  die  westward  had  extended  ts 
Nan-chang,  the  capital  of  die  Kiang-si  province,  the  most  ottitral  e^  ^sf 
die  Chinese  Empire,  and  next  in  importance  to  Peldn.  Mr.  Meadows  had 
been  up  die  Blue  Biver  again,  with  an  officer  of  the  Hermes,  Fu-efau 
was  in  a  state  of  riot  and  oonfusion,  and  there  was  also  fightiie^  g®^  ^ 
at  Yao-ping-fu. 

It  hs^  been  known  that  the  go<vem<H-  of  Shanghai  has  been  aome 
dme  past  organising  a  fleet  at  Canton,  with  which  to  atteoapt  dM  re- 
eovery  of  dw  mouths  of  the  Grand  CanaL  The  attempt  is  said  to  have 
been  actnally  made,  and,  as  was  to  have  been  aatidpated,  to  Intve  been 
ngnally  ddearted.  A  considerable  imperialist  force  is  ako  said  to  have 
nnde  a  similarly  unsocoessfiil  attempt  to  lecover  Amoy ;  and  die  insor- 
gmit  and  impenalist  fleets  are  reported  to  have  come  to  sm  engagement  in 
die  same  neighbouihood,  to  the  disadvantage  of  die  latter.  The  chief 
ef  the  insurgents  at  Amoy  has,  as  we  have  anticipated,  prociaimed  himr 
self  a  general  in  die  service  of  the  Ming  party.  Tian-ta  is  still  asserted 
by  some  to  be  no  myth,  and  is  said  to  be  CHuy  abiding  his  time  to  oome 
iarwmid  and  take  Ins  position  as  lawful  sovereign  of  the  empire. 


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(     19«    ) 

TAXES  OF  MY  DRAGOMAN. 

By  Basil  May. 

No.  I. 

THE  HADJ  marabou's  JUBOMBNT. 

Ik  contradistinction  with  the  usuid  custom  of  the  East,  where  one  man 
takes  unto  himself  many  wives,  a  certain  Moorish  lady  of  Algiers  took  it 
into  her  head  to  hare  two  hushands.  One  was  a  porter,  the  other  was  a 
baker.  The  porter's  business  kept  him  out  during  the  day ;  the  baker 
was  never  at  home  at  night.  Thus  the  reader  sees  there  was  no  fear  of 
the  cart  sposi  coming  in  contact  with  each  other. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  lady  was  as  ladies  like  to  be  when  they  love 
their  lords,  and  the  approaching  event  was  looked  forward  to  by  both 
husbands,  in(£vidually  and  separately,  with  mutual  feelings  of  unmvidei 
satisfaction. 

"  It  shall  be  a  holiday,''  sakl  the  porter. 

*^  Were  the  whole  community  dependent  on  my  night's  labour  for  their 
next  day's  bread,  they  should  fast,'*  affirmed  the  baker. 

And  they  kept  their  word. 

The  hoped-lbr  day  arrived.  They  met,  and,  strange  to  rdate,  both 
were  grateful ;  and  both  believing  in  their  claim  to  the  tiUe  of  father,  both 
insisted  on  their  nght  to  exercise  parental  authority  over  the  child.  How 
should  this  difficult  question  be  settled.  They  would  go  to  the  cadi,  and 
lay  the  matter  before  him. 

^^  Mustapha,"  said  the  ca£,  addressing  the  baker,  *<yoa  say  the  child 
is  yours  ?" 

**  As  I  live,  by  the  grace  of  the  true  prophet,  your  most  sublime  per- 
sonification of  the  effervescence  of  wisdom  hath  spoken  truly." 

"  Mahmoud,"  continued  the  cadi,  addressing  the  other,  "  thou  mmn- 
tainest  that  the  brat  is  thine  ?" 

''  Rather  so,  Joseph,"  answered  Mahmoud,  who  had  heard  English 
sailors  make  use  of  the  expression,  and  who,  from  tlie  fact  of  the  cadi 
haying  frequently  to  decide  between  them  and  the  Algerine%  thought  ha 
was  paying  a  tribute  of  admiration  to  the  cadi's  knowledge  of  modem 
languages. 

But  the  cadi  frowned.     "  Let  him  receive  twenty  stripes,"  said  he. 

The  eunuchs  prepared  to  seize  upon  him,  but  the  unfortunate  Mah- 
moud prostrated  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  cadi,  crying,  ^^  Allah !  Allah ! 
and  Mannikin's  his  brother  !*' 

The  cadi  bowed ;.  the  attendants  threw  themselves  upon  their  faces,  and 
Mahmoud  was  saved. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  the  whole  assembly  seemed 
to  be  digesting  the  solemn  effect  that  Mahmoud's  appeal  had  had  upon 
them,  and  then  the  cadi,  addressing  him  again,  said,  **  Thoii  sayest  the 
brat  is  thine  ?" 

**  The  moon,"  answered  Mahmoud,  reverently,  "  lights  the  pilgrim  on 
his  way,  and  shows  him  the  precipice  ;  but  thy  words,  oh  !  son  of  Allah, 
are  like  the  sun's  rays,  which  not  only " 

"  Cut  it  short,"  interrupted  the  cadi.     "  Yea,  or  nay  ?" 

"Yes,  oh  Allah!" 

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200  Tales  of  my  Dragoman. 

'^  Listen,  then,  for  this  is  my  judgment/'  siud  the  cadi.  *^  If  the  child 
was  horn  during  the  day,  Mahmoud  is  the  father,  but  if  the  child  came 
into  the  world  at  night,  then — (here  he  looked  round  as  if  in  search  of  a 
third  claimant) — then 

From  infant  lips  a  Miistapha, 
Rejoicing,  shall  be  calPd  rapAa  ;*' 

and  with  this  horrid  attempt  at  a  poetical  pun  the  cadi  dismissed  the 
parties. 

As  fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them,  they  rushed  towards  home  to 
hear  the  truth  from  the  sage-femme.  Of  course  she  could  tell.  But  here 
another  difficulty  occurred,  for  the  child  was  born  neither  during  the  day 
nor  during  the  night,  but  at  twilight,  which  is  neither  day  nor  night. 

<<  Holy  Prophet !"  ejaculated  Mahmoud,  as  soon  as  he  heard  this. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?"  inquired  Mustapha. 

^^  Go,"  said  the  nurse,  **  and  consult  the  wise  man  of  the  hills — ^the 
Kebur  Hadj  Marabou."  Marabou  implying  that  he  had  gone  on 
a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  which  probationary  undertaking  was  supposed 
to  mipart  to  those  who  accomplished  it  the  supernatural  powers  of  the 
diviner.  *'  I  shall  accompany  you,"  she  added,  *'  and  take  the  child  with 
me.     It  may  be  wanted." 

The  Hadj  Marabou — the  anchorite,  or  wise  man  of  the  hills — dwelt 
upon  the  highest  of  a  clump  known  as  the  Khorzarrah.  There  his  days 
were  spent  in  worshipping  the  true  prophet,  and  settling  for  the  Algerines 
those  knotty  points  which  were  beyond  the  wisdom  of  the  cadi. 

Having,  in  the  present  case,  heard  both  sides  of  the  question — as  all 
impartial  judges  should  do — the  Hadj,  from  his  dwelling,  which  happened 
to  be  a  stupendous  rent  in  the  mountain's  side,  brought  foHh  three  walnut 
ahells,  which  he  placed  in  a  pair  of  small  scales  and  reduced  to  equal 
wei|^t. 

<'  Mustapha,  my  son,  bare  thy  arm,"  said  he. 

Mustapha  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  the  Hadj,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a 
small  and  well-pointed  lancet,  proceeded  to  open  the  vein,  from  whence 
he  drew  as  much  blood  as  would  fill  one  of  the  nut-shells.  Having  sub- 
jected Mahmoud  to  the  same  operation  and  filled  the  second  shell,  he 
took  the  child  from  the  nurse,  bled  it  in  the  same  manner,  and  filled  the 
third  shell.  He  then  alternately  weighed  the  shell  containing  the  blood 
of  the  child  against  each  of  the  shells  containing  that  of  the  men,  and 
him  whose  blood  the  child's  more  nearly  equalled  in  weight  he  declared 
to  be  the  fietther. 

We  are  not  told  whether  Mahmoud  won  the  day,  or  whether,  in  die 
words  of  the  cadi, 

**  From  infant  lips  a  Mustapha, 
Rejoicing,  shall  be  caird  Pap^" 


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(    201    ) 


WINE  ADULTERATIONS  AND  DUTIES. 

BT  CYRUS  BEDDING. 

Froissabt  charged  us  with  getting  drunk  very  sorrowfully.  He  thus 
wrote  as  long  ago  as  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  We  had  some  idea  that 
this  melancholy  hibaciousness,  so  different  from  that  of  all  other  nations, 
arose  either  from  the  weight  of  duty  paid  for  the  wine,  or  from  the  adul- 
terations viciously  administered  by  the  dealer.  It  does  not  appear  that 
we  were  correct  in  this  our  view  as  regards  the  reign  of  Edward  III. ; 
the  question  must,  therefore,  remain  somewhat  obscure.  The  adultera- 
tion of  wine  in  later  times  practised  under  the  old  company  of  1756,  has 
since  1820  enormously  increased.  The  legalising  adulteration  by  the 
Treasury,  under  an  order  to  the  Board  of  Customs,  was  reserved  for  the 
present  day  as  a  grace  ''  beyond  the  reach  of  art.^  A  duty  of  six  hun- 
dred per  cent,,  with  the  addition  of  sanctioned  adulteration,  just  at  the  era 
of  free  trade,*  is  what  Lord  Liverpool  would  have  called  ''  too  bad.** 
Queen's  College  horn,  Oxford,  once  filled  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  now — 
the  bowl  oftener  replenbhed,  still  contained  wine— let  the  university 
now  look  to  its  Latin  that  it  does  not  deteriorate  too : 

And  when  that  he  well  drunken  had  the  win, 
There  would  be  spoken  no  word  but  Latin. 

Old  Chaucer  is  certainly  valid  evidence — ^but  now!  Again  we  say,  let 
Oxford  look  to  the  care  of  her  Latin ;  we  have  pure  wine— port  wine  at 
least— no  longer,  under  a  Treasur}*  order. 

O  for  a  bowl  of  fat  Canarie, 
Rich  Palermo,  sparkling  Sherry ! 

must  no  longer  be  read  so;  we  must  substitute  for  the  distich  of  our  fathers : 

O  for  a  bowl  of  Gerupiga— 
Elderberries,  treacle,  brandy ! 

in  place  of  port.  During  this  day  of  fair-trading  pretension,  when  the 
goods  in  grocers*  shops  are  analysing,  when  other  adulterations  are  justly 
exposed,  wine  adulterators  are  to  be  specially  indulged.  ^'  John,  have 
you  sanded  the  sugar  ?" — "  Yes,  sir.'*  "  Have  you  watered  the  to- 
bacco ?" — **  Yes,  sir."  "  Have  you  gerupiga'd  the  wine  ?"— "  Yes,  sir." 
"  Then  come  in  to  prayers.*'  Can  this  sort  of  game  long  be  played  in 
a  great  nation  ?  Why  condemn  adulteration  in  any  article  ?  Let  us, 
by  all  means,  have  coculus  iudicus  in  porter,  chalk  in  flour,  potatoes 
in  arrowroot — the  State,  to  which  we  pay  enormous  duties  on  wine,  will 
not  let  us  have  it  pure.     Can  it  be  so  ? 

In  regard  to  the  duties,  the  chairman  of  the  committee,  Mr.  Anstey, 
prepared  an  elaborate  table  of  them  from  1660  down  to  the  present 
time.  The  honourable  chairman  doubtless  feared  he  should  shock  the 
Chancellor  of  the'  Exchequer  by  going  farther  back  than  a  period  when 

*  We  do  not  believe  that  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury  were  at  all  aware  of  what 
they  conceded.  Some  intriguing  adulterator,  perhaps,  had  made  false  representa- 
tions to  them.  Had  their  lordships  read  the  evidence  of  the  witness  first  ex- 
amined before  the  committee  last  year,  that  of  an  eminent,  and  what  is  more,  an 
honest,  plain-spoken  wine-merchant,  they  would  have  seen  the  tricks  played  with 
port  wine  to  bring  all  qualities  to  a  level :  a  thmg  getting  fatal  to  its  consump- 
tion. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


202  Wine  AduUeratiens  and  Duties. 

the  duties  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  shiUings  per  tun  in  London,  and  a 
hundred  and  twenty  in  the  outports,  imported  m  BriticAi  vessels — only 
three  pounds  fifteen  shillings  per  pipe,  in  Lovdon,  to  thirty-three  pounds 
at  present.  But  even  takii^  into  consideration  the  ditterenGe  in  the 
value  of  the  money,  the  duty  in  the  first  year  of  Charles  I.  was  large  to 
that  which  preceded,  and  must  have  shocked  our  excellent  chancellor 
8^  move  had  it  heen  detailed.  Port  and  sherry  at  four  or  five  £urthing8 
a  hottle  duty  might  well  make  the  reign  of  Charles  "  merry."  £v«i  ia 
his  &ther^s  time,  according  to  Sir  John  Suckling,  the  satire  of  Froissart 
was  hardly  applicahle.  *^  My  lads,"  says  he,  ^'come  to  the  Bridge  Foot 
— eome  aod  meet  Colonel  Young,  with  some  few  troops  of  Canary,  some 
few  of  sherry,  two  or  three  regiments  of  claret  to  follow,  and  the  rear  to 
he  hrought  up  with  Rheni^  and  white  !"  Not  a  word  of  g^erupigi, 
sugar,  elderherries,  or  the  treacled  wine  of  Portugal  and  Londosi — all 
was  the  pure,  exhilarating,  healthy,  merry-making  juice  of  the  grape,  if 
it  were  French,  Spanish,  or  Portuguese,  K>r  the  wine  of  the  latter  coun- 
try is  excellent  when  it  can  he  smuggled  out  pure,  hut  its  honest  visits 
partake  of  the  angelic  character  at  our  tables,  '*  few  and  far  between." 
Many  quaff  a  mixture  for  the  pure  wine,  and  think  they  have  it — illusions 
in  this  life  constitute  with  many  the  great  portion  of  their  enjoyment : 

O  ibrtunatos  nimiura,  sua  si  bona  norint  I 

Nothing  moved  by  the  consideration  that  might  have  moved  the 
chairman  of  the  committee  in  relation  to  the  n^-vous  system  of  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  we  shall  run  the  hazard  of  a  charge  of 
contumacy,  if  we  fill  the  retrospective  hiatus  fixMoa  ihe  reign  of  Charles  II. 
to  that  of  John  Lackland.  John,  though  not  a  very  wise  nor  very  pru- 
dent prince,  nev^  dreamed  of  laying  a  duty  <^  six  shillings  upon  an 
article  that  cost  but  one,  although  he  had  no  more  idea  of  free  trade  than 
of  the  Great  Western  Railroad.  He  was  a  stanch  protectionist,  too,  to 
which  colour  we  owe  the  present  duties,  but  here  he  was  reasonable. 
Wines  of  Poitou  and  Anjou  were  twenty  shillings  the  tun  of  two  pipes 
when  he  came  to  the  throne,  and  the  best  French  wines  one  pound  sue 
and  eightpence — a  pound  sterling  then  being  equal  to  four  pounds  at 
present.  This  monarch  claimed  prtsage  of  wine,  or  a  tun  before  and  one 
behind  the  mast,  when  a  ship  had  twenty  tuns  on  board.  But  some 
assert  that  this  claim  was  only  taking  wine  at  what  was  called  the 
**  king's  price,"  or  twenty  shOlings,  let  the  cost  be  what  it  would  to 
the  merchant.  Wine  was  retailed  by  royal  order  at  fourpence  and  sixpence 
the  gallon,  until  raised  to  sixpence  and  eightpence,  on  account  of  the  op- 
pressive character  of  the  regulation  upon  the  merchant.  The  duty 
called  gtuige,  of  a  penny  a  gallon,  was  levied  by  Henry  IIL  The  impor- 
tation of  wine  in  this  reign,  in  about  thirteen  months,  was  equal  to  sevens 
teen  thousand  ^ve  hundred  pipes  in  the  ports  of  London,  Southampton, 
Portsmouth,  and  Sandwich  only.  The  scanty  population  of  England  at 
that  time  compared  to  the  present,  the  extensive  contraband  traffic,  and 
the  reedpts  at  the  outports,  render  this  a  very  large  quantity,  when  the 
country,  too,  was  in  a  state  of  villanage.  Our  nobles  must  have  drank 
Kke  so  many  Cyclops.  The  next  duty  upon  wines  was  denominated 
tunnage,  and  was  generally  coupled  with  poundage,  a  different  impost  on 
merchandise  alone.     It  was  first  granted  by  parliament  in  the  reigii  of 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


WvH  AAdtmttitau  mtd  Duties,  201 


Edvardi  nL,  to  defray  tine  expenses  ef  Ub  ii«s.  TiMie  di^MB  were  eepa- 
nte,  being  two  ghillmgn  on  tbe  tan  of  wtuOy  aad  sixpenee  on  tlie  poiitti 
aterlkg*  spoA  all  nen^ABclise  for  two  yeftrs.  In  tke  6  Ridiard  II.,  two 
lAiiliBgs  per  t«B  OA  wkw.  Tkis  was  granted,  according  to  Sir  Edward 
CelEe,  for  one  year  only ;  and  it  was  granted  again,  7  Richard  IL  Li 
thiB  reign  the  amonnt  of  these  grants  was  Taried,  f<»r  leor  the  kxng 
sbrald  daim  them  of  right  as  dnties,  and  place  them  in  his  own  pane. 
They  were  first  two  shillings^  then  one  and  sixpence.  In  11  «id  IS 
Bi^Murd  IL,  thvee  shilln^,  and  14  Richard  II.,  two  shiflines,  so  jeakw 
^Kis  early  was  parfiameat  of  the  crown,  fleory  IV.  hid  a  tonnage 
of  two  shillings,  and  then  one  of  three  ^ullings  for  three  yean. 
Whea  the  term  expired  it  was  renewed  for  one  year,  npon  conditioM^ 
6  &Biy  IV.  In  1413,  Henry  Y.  had  the  grant  of  three  shillings  lor 
£b«ur  years,  and  after  that  for  li£s.  In  1422,  Henry  VL  had  the  sanw 
fef  two  years,  renewed  erery  two  years  down  to  1453,  for  two  and  ibr 
five  years  together.  In  the  next  reign  the  sovereign  obtained  the  grairt 
for  life — the  very  concession  which  parliament  had  carefolly  avmded 
laaking  in  earlier  reigns.  The  aTar|eioas  character  of  Hemry  VII^  it 
nay  wdl  be  eoBJe^ored,  did  not  omit  to  demand  a  similar  lease  of  ^  tax 
itx  Inm,  and  he  appears  to  haye  had,  or  taken,  with  the  old  three  shil- 
lings  levied  upon  the  wines  of  native  Engli^unai,  six  shillings  the  t«a 
QSBL  that  which  was  imported  by  the  fcnreigner.  His  successor  was  not 
likely  to  meet  with  any  want  (^  subserviency  in  the  paiUaments  of  his 
reign.  We  know  that  they  voted  as  if  there  wa*e  neither  reason,  honour, 
nor  eonscienee,  extant.  Not  only  was  tunnage  fi>r  life  confirmed  to  this 
sovereign,  but  he  levied  two  shilHngs  a  tun  for  the  first  ^me  under  ^ 
head  of  ''  butlerage."  Edward  VI.  obtained  the  same  grant,  and  be 
enacted  that  the  wines  of  Guienae  and  Gascony  Aould  not  be  sold  lor 
more  than  twopence  the  quart,  and  no  other  French  wine  for  more  than 
threepence.  James  I.  obtatned  a  similar  grant  oi  the  duty,  but  abused  it 
in  his  firaatic  extravagances  with  his  fiiTouriies.  He  added  to  the  tun- 
nage duty  without  consent  of  parliament,  which  rendered  it  discontented 
at  the  vic^tion  of  one  of  its  fundamental  privileges,  so  that  when  his  son 
ascended  the  throne  ^e  legislature  wouU  not  vote  the  doty  for  more 
than  one  year.  The  legislature  was  right,  because  its  previous  grants 
had  heeo  abused.  In  1626  the  king  took  ^e  duty  in  defiance  of  the 
parliament  and  country,  but  he  paid  a  dear  price  for  the  outrage.  It 
xemaiaed  a  heavy  and  just  charge  against  him  when  he  was  dbom  oi  his 
power. 

During  the  Commonwealth,  from  1640  to  1669,  we  find  that  tiie  tun- 
nage and  poundage  togeUier  reached  annually  tiyree  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  There  was  also  at  that  time  a  return  of  twenty-two  thou- 
sand three  hundred  pounds  annually  into  the  treasury  under  the 
dencMninadon  of  ^'  wine  lieenees" — very  similar,  it  is  probable,  to  those 
at  present  granted  to  dealers  in  retaiL  The  civil  war  appears  to  have 
been  hastened  by  the  determination  of  Charles  I.  to  follow  the  unconstttu- 
ti<»aal  example  of  his  father  in  this  regard.  He  even  issued  a  prodamation 
from  York,  as  late  as  1642,  for  levying  tunnage  by  his  own  authority. 
This  was  fourteen  years  after  the  Commons  had  declared  that  these 
duties  were  free  gifts  of  the  subject  to  farmer  sovereigns,  and  that  receiv- 
m^  them  like  Ins  father  with  his  own  additional  impositions,  was  abroach 
oi  the  fimdamental  laws  of  the  realm. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


204  If^ine  JduUeratiottsand  Duties. 

Ti>e  sygtem  of  daties  adopted  in  1660,  io  which  year  it  was  first  taken 
np  by  the  chairman  of  the  committee,  being  the  first  year  of  Charles  IL, 
now  took  effect.  This  is  ^ven  in  the  shape  of  a  return  appended  to  the 
recent  evidence,  simplified  by  Mr.  Pitt  in  17B7,  the  duties  the  year  before 
having  been  nearly  a  hundred  pounds  on  French,  and  about  half  that 
sum  on  Portugal  wine  per  tun.  After  continual  fluctuations,  the  diffe- 
rential duties  were  swept  away  in  1831,  and  all  wine,  except  Cape, 
charged  a  duty  of  five  shillings  and  sixpence,  to  which  threepence  was 
subsequently  added.  With  this  change  of  duty  the  increased  consamption 
of  French  wine  was  considerable;  port  declined,  and  Spanish  wines  in- 
creased in  use  rapidly,  until  they  exceeded  port.  A  new  vdne  from  Sicily, 
called  Marsala,  came  into  the  market,  its  importation  rapidly  increasing. 
This  wine,  naturally  strong,  received,  after  the  Portuguese  custom,  a  por- 
tion of  brandy.  The  strong  loaded  wines  go  much  further,  in  an  eco- 
nomical point  of  view,  than  the  light  and  purer  kinds,  owing  to  the  high 
duties.  The  temperature  of  the  stomach  has  not  yet  become  a  revenue 
consideration. 

In  glancing  retrospectively  at  t^e  opinions  of  difierent  individuals  in 
the  last  century  upon  the  question  of  trade,  we  are  astonished  to  perceive 
how  long  ago  most  of  the.  principles  upon  which  we  are  at  present  acting 
were  promidgated  by  insulated  and  neglected  individuals.  The  imme- 
diate and  lesser  interest  prevalent  kept  the  grater  out  of  view  with  the 
short-sighted  multitude,  as  a  small  object  close  to  the  organ  of-  vision 
conceals  a  mountain  at  a  distance.  Then  there  are  old  habits  to  be  over- 
come, and  the  whole  brood  of  prejudices,  as  well  in  trade  as  in  other 
things.  A  maiden  lady  is  said  to  have  been  so  loyal  to  George  IIL  at 
the  treaty  of  Amiens,  that  she  would  not  touch  a  French  egg  lest  she  should 
imbibe  Jacobinical  principles.  One  cannot  but  suspect  that  our  heredi- 
tary antirGallican  taste,  in  regard  to  open  trade  with  all  the  world  until 
the  other  day,  arose  from  its  having  been  originally  the  French  proposi- 
tion which  Lord  Bolingbroke  scouted — ^in  £EU$t,  the  reciprocal  tariff  ten- 
dered us  in  171 3.  In  those  days  the  cry  was  "Our  woollens  are  in  danger.** 
Restrictions  on  French  wines  and  goods,  with  the  Methuen  treaty  and 
a  market  for  our  woollens,  were  considered  a  triumph  in  commercial 
science,  a  notable  piece  of  trading  diplomacy  worthy  the  ablest  nego- 
tiator, showing  the  true  insight  into  the  secret  of  commercial  great- 
ness. It  was  pronounced  a  well-considered  policy  not  to  be  too  dose  in 
contact  with  any  people  who  could  export  goods  of  which  England  in  like 
manner  could  make  a  profit  by  the  exportation.  The  receipt  of  French 
wines,  and  the  non  sale  of  certain  bales  of  woollen  gfoods,  were  looked 
upon  as  productive  of  the  worst  consequences  to  the  nation.  Our  fathers 
would  shun  us  vnth  an  expression  of  horror  could  they  know  that  we 
were  at  this  moment  upbraiding  the  French  vnth  that  policy  which 
they  consumed  their  lives  in  impressing  upon  their  children  as  of 
invaluable  service — ^nay,  as  the  great  foundation  of  our  superiority  in 
commerce ! 

The  reasons  urged  for  and  against  a  reduction  of  the  duties,  apart  from 
all  considerations  in  regard  to  the  imperial  revenue,  judging  from  the 
evidence,  should  be  well  sifted.  Traders  are  wary  people.  Thus  indi- 
viduals, in  no  way  connected  with  the  public,  in  the  course  of  their  exa- 
mination were  too  transparent  in  urgmg  the  fear  of  a  diminished  dulr 

^  cover  private  objections.     Such  a  motive  must  be  duly  i^preciatea. 

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Wine  AduUeraitOM  and  DuHet.  205 

The  coDnd^ration  of  revenue  belongs  ezdnsivelj  to  ihe  goreroment^ 
iHiich  takes  evidence  to  guide  its  own  decisions.  That  this  is  not 
erroneonsi  may  be  judged  from  perusing  the  evidence.  One  witness 
stated  that  a  f[>nner  reduction  in  the  wine  duties  had  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  his  own  fortune.  He  was  a  holder  of  six  thousand  pipes  of  wine ;  he 
should  not  much  object  to  a  reduction  of  the  duties  for  himself;  he  should 
gain  from  five  to  ten  pounds  a  pipe  by  such  a  reduction,  but  then  the 
revenue  would  sufier  hy  any  change.  How  patriotic!  Translate  this 
into  plfdn  English,  and  it  means,  '^  I  cannot  on  any  account  hazard  a  loss 
to  the  revenue,  though  it  is  no  business  of  mine.  I  therefore  refuse  to 
accept  of  forty-two  thousand  pounds  furly  obtained,  out  of  a  considera- 
tion ci  the  ride  the  revenue  would  run  through  the  inexperience  of  the 
government."  We  may  imagme  a  general  cachinnation  mm  the  Docks 
to  the  Exchange  at  the  perusal  of  such  sophistry.  It  is  positively  con- 
soling that  we  have  wine-merchant  Hampdens  in  these  degenerate  days. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  censure  official  men  tot  errors  in  fulfilling  their  pumic 
duties,  afWr  we  see  the  difficulty  of  getting  at  fects.  The  labour  they 
have  to  encounter  in  ferreting  out  plain  truths  on  which  to  frame 
legislative  measures,  renders  venial  a  multitude  of  sins,  and  too  often 
gives  an  appearance  of  wilful  misjudg^ent  where  none  really  existed. 

The  reasons  urged  by  the  friends  of  the  reductions  of  these  duties  con- 
^st,  first,  in  the  decrease  of  consumption  since  1801,  with  an  increase  of 
population,  to  the  extoit  of  seven  hundred  thousand  gallons  annually, 
spirits  and  malt  consumption  having  increased  cent,  per  cent. ;  secondly, 
Mr.  Pitt,  finding  the  duties  falling  off,  made  an  important  reduction,  and  m 
three  years  doubled  the  consumption.  In  tiie  present  instance  the  wine 
consumption  has  decreased  forty-eight  per  cent.,  and  in  twenty  years  the 
duties  have  been  increased  nineteen,  while  on  all  other  articles  they  have 
been  reduced !  The  increase  on  some  is  out  of  proportion  to  the  incre- 
ment of  the  population.  Tea  three  parts  out  of  nve,  paper  tripled,  soap 
tiie  same,  coffee,  cocoa,  all  showing  similar  results.  Another  argument 
is  the  enormous  disproportion  of  these  duties  to  the  cost  of  the  wine  in 
the  country  of  its  production.  This  prevents  an  interchange  of  our  ma- 
nufiu^tures  to  a  very  large  amount  with  countries  that  have  nothing  besides 
to  offiar  us.  It  is  therefore  for  our  advantage  that  all  kinds  of  wine 
should  be  imported  which  the  foreigner  may  tender  in  exchange  for  Eng- 
lish produce  and  manufactures  at  a  reasonable  rate  of  duty.  The  public 
have  an  undoubted  right  to  select  the  species  they  may  prefer.  Let  it 
have  the  opportunity. 

The  advocates  of  the  reduction  of  the  duties  assert  that  good  French 
wines  would  be  consumed  to  a  considerable  extent  by  those  who  vrill  not 
touch  spirits  or  malt  liquors,  and  by  those  who  now  consume  a  million 
of  gallons  of  those  extraordinary  compounds  called  British  wines,  of  as 
little  benefit  to  the  revenue  and  to  commerce  as  to  the  consumer's 
stomadi — why  should  not  grocers,  for  example,  sell  foreign  vrines  in  place 
of  these?  It  is  contended,  too,  that  the  duties  press  heavily  upon  the 
poor  and  the  hospitals;  medical  men  assert  that  they  cannot  administer 
wine  in  necessary  quantities — although  it  is  worth  all  the  materia  medica— 
to  the  poor,  on  account  of  its  costliness.  The  objection  that  the  intro- 
duction of  wines  at  a  low  rate  of  duty  would  diminish  the  consumption  of 
oiher  articles  from  which  large  duties  are  now  derived,  the  friends  of 

Oc/.— VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  OCCXCIV.  P 

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;S06  Wuu  Aiyhme^fmsOifd  Jkfms. 

the  .mMMMire  meet  lay  the  e^l^erieDoe  of  the  laat  raduotiea^cf  r^uiy  4^011 
ibsandy,  which  increaadd  thetCon«amptioiij  but  did  Jietttfffect  other  ^kjuts 
.in  the  slightest  4ec^  •  That  inosease  itfose  ;eiiher  £roBi  those  who  had 
.befoxe  ta^n  it  adding  tostheir  use  of  the  ^pisitycur  £rem  iis  adoption  faj 
..thpse  who  had  hefiure  lefrained  from  the  hob  of  any  ^iiit  wbatener. 
TheJate  Mr.  Porter,  o£  the  £oavd  of  Trade,.  ga¥e  thisjas.a  fiu)t  in  ins 
remdeam  before  the  oommittee.  The  additions  made  to  tconsun^ptian 
.£Eom  these  "who  had  before  refrained  wnre  owing  U>  ithe  tffltpense  'Of  .the 
article  h^g  removed :  thus,  whan  duties  ^are  .lawersd,  there  would  «be 
£>und^o  smft  £rem  the  old  acf wstomed, -article  teethe  (new»  hut  new-con- 
.swneisi  of  the  article  would  eome  in.  Jn  the  .oase  vof  wine,  ihe^^t 
idiinker  will  not,  go  to  the  weaker  .potaUe, it  is  ioo«odhd  forchis^sise.  Tlie 
.new  conouaeys  of  wine,  when  rendered  cheap,  wiU  not  hare  jcaeoxuBse  to 
.ardent  spints^  as  they  will  eonslst  of  those  ifnio  only- desive  .something  ef 
A  less  injurious  .nature  to  the  stcmiaeh — something  wholesome  and  .harm" 
Jess.  Then  come  the  moral  .reasons.  The  tpaevention  nf  frandi^  adid- 
.teralaons^iminglings,  and  monopolies,  Theaomsttmer andiTQwenae  wauid 
be  alike  benefitfd ;  the  latter,  if  .not  >immediatelydn  the  incroased  amomit, 
atill  ultimately*  llie  troublesome  system  of  dmwbaoks  would- eeaie»  and 
the  payment  of  the  duties  be  iastantar.  Suob  high  dutiesas  ihose-  on  .wine 
are  thejremnants  of  the  oM  system.  High  dnties  are  great,  immoralities, 
.generating uniformly  more  or  less^of  enme.  Theirade  w(mld<aad  ahould 
be. ae. free  and  open  as  with  ^ly  other  article  of  inmort,  under  the  aup«f- 
intendenoe  of  the  customs  alone.  Nor,  say.the«a¥Ocatfs  of  a  chtt^gs, 
,must  theempl^ymimt  of  nearly  <throe  hundsed  «ul  oftmarohant  «h%>pn|g 
more,  nor  the  iai^e  amoimt •  of  businees  that  would  ,be  Jvanaaoted in  JSng- 
%land,  be  omitte4,  in  place  of  the  preparadon  andeellaw^gin  foreign  d^6ts. 
Jersey,  Guernsey,  and  other  plaeestvrauld  no  im^er  be  made  ii^oots 
•for  wine  to  acquire  1^  in  bottle  before  the  ,pranent  q£  the  deities, 
or  for  fiaandulent  blendings  here  to  ripen  in  tiiose  plaoe^,  ms  is  die  oaseat 
present.  The  ^supporters  of  a  reductien  alsa  assert  that  .the  diminished 
-<K»sumpti0n  of  wine  arises aolely  ima  the  enoimous  joate.i^  dutjiE,  whidii 
has  made  .that  consumption  at  the  present  timeiess  than  it  wasm  180}, 
with  a  population  double  in  amount.  The  equalissttion  of  the  duties  in 
.1 832  was  a  proper  measure,  hut  it  was  no  leduotion  of  duty,  Sot  .it  raised 
•one  class  of  wine — rthat  most  in  use — while.it  lowesed  .another  of  whioh 
much  less  was  imported.  Sir  Heniy  Pamdl  at  thai  time  etated,  alludii^ 
tto  the  Iiish  revenue  from  win^  that  it  returned  fl5P,000/.  in  1796,  that 
the  duties  were  doubled  in  amount,  and  the  consumption  ifell  one  .half,  w^ 
turning  to  the  revenue  but  130,000/. 

It  would  appear  that  .on  all  ariteles  .consumed  at  the  iable  the  jduties 
should  be  low,  and  the  imoone  :refy  for  inevease  upon  angaaented  eon- 
sumption.  /Beople  in  .these  grasping  times,  muoh  more  than*eTer  the^  did 
before,  because  wealth  rapidly  acquired  in  traffic  renders  die  e^geneis 
for  fresh  aeoumulation  atronger,  regard  the  money  they  eat  jmd  drink  4ts 
a  species  of  waste,  because  it  oai^  no  more  fructify,  while  about  thstt  ex- 
pended, in  other  things  tbey  hesitate  ^less,  because,  thoij^hinot  a.  means  of 
profit,  suob' things  are  «till  tangible  pnqpeity — ■something  *to  .show  in  the 
way  of  return.  This  is  a  trait  of  thetimo,  and  should  have  weight  ^ 
oousideang'di^fffpportionate .dutieson .tranffitoryautioles of  d<miestic  use. 
The  fcifisids  pfraduotjonallege  fiirthe]^  diat  the^pepple  of  F.qgiand  liad  Ji 

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Wme  AduU^raiwm  anilhifms.  M7 

'Mtm  to  bepkeed  ^n  a  ^footm^  df  iadepeadenee  in  Ifae  ohoioe  lioiiirof.^dnir 
'fMcesMrieB  «iid  kBories.  TluEt  if  tkefioil nf  othtr  eonnteies  MweiavouMd 
pTodueeB'wiHe,  and  they  ican  exchange  fordt  iheprodao&ftf  ikmr  industry, 
-thtB  ^nalidn^  the  ineqiudity  of  mmste,  iimt  it  is  a  dutyjof  tihmr  g^ 
irarament,  under  the  priaeiple  upon  whieh  it  now  regakita  conneree, 
to  afford  all  desseB^^jf  lire  pec^lBtmU;  wfaidi  kpleararable  and  aisfid  at^a 
yeasopoble  eost,  no  )longlBr<  juicing  for  them,  but 'gixiii^ diem  a  ofaeioe,  T>f 
"ii^eh  ^tibey  fore  not  less  wottfay  than  Ingal  in  tibe  jdoini,  Sttrope  oifvr- 
rflowing^^with  ifae  ehoicest  wineB  onknown  here. 

Of  t^e  f(H<egoing  (^)tn]ioos,  judging  horn  the  ei^denee,  were:the  wat- 
■otBca  exsmmed, •who  were  dealers  in  a.variety  of  wines,  and  had  tvardled 
into  the  w»e  eountries,  as  well  as  those  who,  not  of  theitrade,  had  eon- 
flMierad  ihe  sulneet  upon  the  greund  of  eoonomy  and  veveoiie  oombincd. 
flbe  evidence  orthose  ^o  imposed  ^a»  measure  coasirted  for  the  most  port 
«^  merchants,  ^ho  rested  their  opinion  of  the  duuige  apon  ^  desire  to 
leave  ^the  duties  as  they  were,  niader  the  maadc  of  anxiefy,  as^ahready  ob- 
^sorved,  lest  there  ^oiud  he  a  diminution  of  ^  revenue,  which  wocdd  be 
tcansed  by  tmy  reduction  of  the  duties.  They  pwferred  that  'to  winoh 
eastom  iKdntaated  them.  The  tea-deaters  did  not  hbe  to  hear  of  the  m- 
dvctioQ  of  ^ir  duties  the  other  day.  The  Tedoetion  of  the  duties  to  ^one 
or  two  i^iillingB  per  gafion,  they  said,  would  preduee  a  dear^,  if:the  eoa- 
sumption  increased  here  too  far.  Some  declared/ in  ignorance  of  feusts, 
that  Europe- did  not  grew  wine-  enough  £ofr  Englidi  consumption ;  and  as 
J^at  whkh  would  be  most  in  demand,  aceordii^  to  their  conehsisions, 
would  be  the  wine  of  Portugal,  in  the  teeth  of  ^e  -feet  .that  we  eonsnme 
atpresoot  more  Spanish  thui  Portuguese  wine,  the  quaattly  (imder  the 
eempany^s  system  of  monopoly  no  doubt)  rvnxdd  faemadequate.  New 
vifieyards  might  he  planted,  but  that  was  the  work  of  time.  The  present 
half-cultivated  grounds  might  he  permitted aiiill  hearing,  hut^not -enough. 
Frarase  produced  strong  full  wines^in  a  large  quantify,,  bat  in  geaaBal  the 
evidence  of  ^ose  who  were  dealers  principally  in  the  two  -well  known 
wii^s  of  Portugal  and  ^am,  exhibited  a  d^alorablewantof  infisnnation 
TOgarding  other  wines  and  countries  throughcRit  the  evidence-^ why  should 
^&ey  visit  where  they  did  not  trade  ?  T^iey  seem  to  have:  been  satbfied 
with  one  or  two  solitary  species  of  wine  upon  whidi  to  operate,  and  gave 
their  evidence  according^.  This  is  a  proof  how  much  the  monopoly  of 
1703  changed  tho  commerce  in  wines,  ^m  the  time  when  fifty-six  French 
vrines,- and  thirty  kinds  from  other  nations,  entered  the  eellars  of  the  me- 
tropolis, as  idready  noticed.  The  sensitive  character  of  this  branch  of 
oommeroe,  theaervousness  of' the -trade — how  ladicrous  against  ihe  public 
advantage  in  argument— 4s  thus  comprehensible.  One  iaitividual'alleged 
as  an  argument  against  reduction,  that  he  had  always  considered  the 
trade  one  ^we  coidd  carry  to  market  to  get;  a  ben^tin^sehan^forit 
from  some  one > of  the  wine  countries;  in' this  way  we^had  «old  it  to 
Portugal  in  1703,  and  ab<^t  eight  or  nine  years  ago  there  was  a  nego- 
tiation set  on  foot  for  a  similar  sale  to  the  same  country.^  That  is  to  soy 
in  substance,  that  the  dilferential  duties  idsolished  fay  the  government  ^in 
1882  were  to  be  restored;  the  public  was  to  heirensold  by  a. ministerial  in- 
trigtte,'aadto  pay^mony  millions  more  for  an  artac^e  binder  a  new  moao|Kdy 
tbmi  it  would  pay  nnder  a  ^ree  and  open  trade.  We  do  notroredit  this  .mis- 
representation.     Sir  ^hert  Peel  mi»t  have  indeed  veversed^iiisfomer 

p2 

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208  fVine  Adulterations  and  Duties. 

opinioiiSy  between  1842  and  1846,  if  such  were  reallj  the  case.  It  is  trae, 
negotiations  were  pending  for  a  time,  but  they  ended  in  nothing ;  nor 
can  it  be  believed  any  modem  minister  would  restore  the  stipulations  of 
the  Methuen  treaty.  The  differential  duties  were  the  fovounte  duties  of 
the  close  traders.  The  ministry  of  1832  consulted  some  of  the  heads 
of  houses  of  this  class,  who  recommended  strongly  their  continuance,  not 
wishing  to  be  turned  into  new  paths  in  their  trade,  or,  as  the  phrase  was^ 
to  have  ''  thmr  trade  unhinged,"  or  have  their  ''  sensitiveness  wounded. 
The  ministry  was  too  wise  and  just,  and  answered  the  recommendation  by 
equalising  the  duties.  It  is  well  known  that  French  wines  now  go  for 
port,  or  are  mingled  in  large  proportions  with  port,  and  the  cheat  passes 
without  detection.  Some  witnesses  feared  their  cellars  would  be  glutted 
with  low  wines,  against  which  the  public  were  protected  by  the  eidstin&^ 
duties.  These  wines  were  not  so  &;ood  for  Englishmen  as  those  to  which 
they  had  been  accustomed.  But  this  was  not  for  them  to  judge ;  leave  the 
choice  to  the  consumer.  One  or  two  sadly  driven  and  very  stolid  wit- 
nesses asserted  that  we  had  no  ri^ht  to  lower  duties  to  promote  an  ex* 
change  of  wine  for  manu£Eictures,  because  malt  and  beer  were  our  propet 
liquors,  to  which  we  owed  our  physical  superiority  to  foreigners — ^'  beer- 
dnnking  Britons"  would  become  children  if  they  did  not  stick  to  malt  and 
hops;  but  our  field  labourers  would  hardly  forsake  their  old  liquor  for 
wine  if  they  did  for  gin,  English  labour  would  hardly  thus  pass  away. 
This  argument,  not  new,  was  the  resource  of  inveterate  mental  imbecility. 
The  number  of  persons  who  dealt  in  wine,  too,  would  be  increased;  a  ikang 
not  desirable  among  the  merchants ;  one  of  the  witnesses  observing  that 
they  were  too  numerous  as  matters  stood  at  present,  in  his  opinion ;  and 
no  doubt  of  it,  because  competition  benefits  the  public,  exclusion  the  in- 
dividuaL  We  had  until  then  imagined  that  the  extension  of  the  sale  of 
an  article  benefited  the  merchant,  revenue,  and  consumer. 

In  answer  to  such  areuments  on  the  side  of  those  opposed  to  reduc- 
tion, came  the  formidsuble  one  of  the  low  scale  of  morality  existing  in 
the  traffic,  abundantly  displayed  throughout  the  evidence.  The  strata- 
ffems  and  frauds  to  which  recourse  is  had ;  delay  in  the  payment  of  the 
duties ;  the  mixtures  of  low-priced  with  m)od  wine  ;  these  were  matters 
of  common  occurrence.  But  these  and  other  dishonest  doings  some  of  the 
parties  examined  treated  as  fabulous  ;  others  had  heard  of  them,  but  were 
never  acquainted  with  any  direct  instance  of  such  frauds.  The  custom  &nd 
dock  officers  examined  confirmed  the  existence  of  these  deceptions,  and 
several  eminent  merchants  admitted  their  existence.  Under  a  process 
called  blending  or  vatting,  to  give  an  instance :  A  merchant  is  required 
to  send  to  a  customer  htdf  a  dozen  pipes  of  a  wine  exactly  the  same  in 
flavour.  He  empties  his  half  a  dozen  pipes  of  the  same  growth  into 
one  vat,  and  then  returns  them  to  the  casks,  by  which  means  a  uniform 
flavour  is  attained,  which,  despite  care,  can  be  obtained  no  other  way. 
This  is  done  in  the  docks,  and  is  perfectly  justifiable.  Let  us  see  how 
this  process  is  abused.  Port,  French,  Sicilian,  and  Spanish  red  wines, 
the  latter  two  at  half  or  a  fourth  the  price  of  the  former,  are  blended, 
and  if  it  suits,  the  gerupiga  mixture  also.  The  wine  is  then  exported, 
because  the  customs  will  not  let  it  come  out  for  home  consumption. 
It  goes  perhaps  to  the  Channel  Islands,  where  it  remains  a  few  years  to 
mellow,  and  is  then  re-imported,  and  passes  off  here  for  port  wine! 

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Wine  AduHeraiions  and  Duties.  209 

This  is  one  of  the  more  ionocent  of  the  frauds  practised.     Sizty-fiTe 
thousand  gallons  of  this  mixed  wine  are  known  to  have  been    thus 
treated  in  a  year.     The  custom-house  officers,  when  the  wine  is  re- 
tamed  to  this  country,  cannot  re&ise  it  admission.     The  officers  may 
give  a  shrewd  euess  as  to  the  real  foot,  but  they  cannot  identify  tfaie 
wine;  besides,  they  have  only  to  look  after  the  revenue.     To  examine 
into  the  genuineness  of  imported  goods,  where  the  task  is  by  no  means 
an  easy  one  even  to  the  initiated,  would  be  to  obstruct  trade  generally, 
and  to  depart  from  their  more  immediate  public  duties.     Twenty  thou* 
sand  gallons  of  port  thus  increased  to  sixty  thousand,  must  give  a  large 
illicit  pro£t.  The  Portuguese  monopoly,  defying  nature,  varies  the  flavour 
and  strength  of  the  wine  by  adulteration  accordmg  to  the  demand,  render- 
ing fraudfrd  imitations  more  &cile.      One  of  the  witnesses,  who  seemed 
aware  of  much  more  tiian  he  stated  of  these  deceptions,  and  who  ob- 
served the  aSected  ignorance,  the  virgin  coyness  of  some  of  the  witnesses 
in  the  trade,  remarked,  in  reply  to  a  Question  frt>m  the  chairman,  that 
any  merchants  who  exhibited  it  **  could  not  know  their  business,  and 
were  surely  not  London  wine-merchants.**     This  obliquity  in  morals  is 
but  too  distinctive  a  feature  in  the  evidence,  and  is  justly  charged  in  a 
great  degpree  upon  the  high  duties  by  their  opponents.    Of  tiie  commercial 
integrity  which  has  been  the  boast  of  the  traders  of  tiiis  country  in 
times  past,  Httie  can  be  said  in  relation  to  wine.     There  is  corruption 
at  the  core.     The  evidence  in  this  respect  is  very  painful,  and  too  con- 
du^ve.     The  matter  has  not  been  meiKled  by  the  enhanced  cost  placing 
wines  out  of  the  reach  of  the  great  mass  of  tiie  people.     While  im- 
provement in  cultivation  was  stopped  abroad  from  want  of  popular 
action  upon  the  article,  there  was  no  interest  in  dragging  to  lignt  mal- 
versations which  only  affected  a  limited  number  of  consumers,  whose 
palates  in  the  case  of  port  were  too  often  regulated  not  by  the  natural 
wine,  but  the  wine  by  the  unnatural  palates. 

The  main  point  to  be  considered  m  a  reduction  of  tiiis  duty  to  sudi 
an  extent  as  to  take  the  traffic  out  of  the  old  protective  system  of  trade 
and  place  it  on  a  footing  with  other  interchanges  in  the  new,  is  the 
chance  of  a  defalcation  of  the  revenue  in  the  first  instance  —  the 
mere  circumstance  of  a  deficiency  of  half  the  duties  for  a  year  or  two. 
That  amount  would  not  exceed  what  the  government  has  had  to  refund 
more  than  once  on  the  repayment  of  the  duties  to  the  merchant,  when 
they  have  been  reduced.  But  there  are  other  obstacles  mainlv  arising 
out  of  that  complication  of  duties  which  was  formerly  considered  the 
lifespring  of  the  revenue.  Mr.  Pitt  removed  a  number  of  these  when 
he  consolidated  the  duties  in  1787,  but  he  left  those  which  remained 
still  divided  between  the  customs  and  excise,  in  place,  as  at  present,  of 
giving  their  control  entirely  to  the  former :  hence  the  bad  system  of 
r^>ayments  of  duty.  These  we  really  believe  are  already  abolished  de 
facto.  Time  will  prove  it.  The  system  of  licences  must  be  altered  and 
^tended,  those  for  wine  alone  bemg  given  to  the  inland  revenue  de- 
partment to  dispense ;  the  duties  on  wine  for  home  consumption  being 
paid  at  once,  there  must  be  different  arrangements  in  regard  to  bond- 
mg ;  different  rates  of  duty  have  to  be  considered,  a  difficult  if  not 
impracticable  measure  in  regard  to  wine.  Thus,  though  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  stated  that    '*  he  knew  no  article  burdened  with  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


2  CO  Wtm  Aduk€mti€m  amd  Duties. 

fitKKd  ^efaakt,  uiidkr  oui^  finaneial  sys^emji  mAi^  TeBp9e^<^l^iikMktiiavp 
strongeirreaBQBflFfbr  a  ofaftnge  eovld  be  give%*'  ii  lM(»iBio»4H^pestioii  fi^ 
decent*  consid^raliioa  oa  the  pari  of)  die  government,  steogtboned  by 
tb#4Me<i^bilioii  that  such  a.  decision  should  bafiiml,  in  order  that  no 
uMttirtaiiity  and  afifu'ehension  may  hx»ak  ixt  upon  the  feiir  working  o£ 
the  laroffie  under  anoth^  adaptation  to  improved  fiscal  purposes^  and  to 
the '^tension  o£<mr/iiiaBufaotures  aaBcoml^ined  objects** 

Aher^bte  tmoiph  of jOur  Mhend^ooaofnymdlpoucy)  it  is  satisfactory  tp 
disoov^,.  that  in  pkiee:ofr^temtin^ta''1?eari9aesS' those  irre&utiJ^le  prioro 
ciplev  whick  have-  juii  piostsated  alL  wiov^y  <^>p0S]tion,  we  have  little 
more  lek  to  do  than»  apply  ouiaa^es  to  the  temovaL  of  inoumbranoes,  and 
amoangst  ihmn  such  as  these  overloaded  dutiesi.  The  curious  may 
esamine-wfae^er  the  advoeaites  of  the  old  system  piled  their  arms'  through 
an  honest  sensa  of  die  h^lessness  of  thdr  cause^  or  whether  their  sub- 
nnsstonta  reason  was- not  the  result  of  a  oonvietien  efieoted.by  the  sedne- 
tive  charms  of  political  power.  These  are  abstract  questions  which,  may^ 
be  legitimately  sub^ected^to  ethioal  ezaminafeian  by  those- whose  incUna* 
tion*  tends  to  the  amustog^  rather  than,  ihe^  usefuL  The  mona  earnest 
and  active  ttnnds  will  be  dinaeted  to  tiie  consolidation  of  the  measarea 
which,. in  the  nerm  state  of  things^  are  so  obviously  oakulated  to  augment 
the  national  prosperity. 

The-  committee:  on  the  wine  duties,  in  the  course  of  its  laboursy 
disclosed:  many'  circumstaBces,.  independentiy  of  tiie  •  floain  question^ 
which  show  that  tiiere  is  gneat  room%  fi>r  impoovement.  in^  our  mode 
of*  conducting  our^  fiscal  buskieSB.  >  A.  revision  here  seems^  necessary. 
Some  leg^atioas*  are.^tverrt  iand  unmeaning  imder  a  new  system  o£  things^ 
wi^our.  fi»eign^aDd(dome0tie  relations  so  much  more  oompcehe^ve  than 
before.  Others 4)log  the  wheels  of  our  vast  and  rapidly  advancing,  com*^ 
meroe..  In  revising  and  remodeling,  the  old  modes  of  investigating  and 
judging  must  be  discarded;  amendment  must  no  loag^r beiBsisted  be* 
cause  it  is  innovatiDn*  Reason  and  fact  must  guide  us  in  plaqe  of  policy 
supported  by  inexpeiienee. 

The  security  of  the  revenue  was  not  the  sole  object  of  the  legishutuie 
in^days  gone  by.  It  took  upon  itself  officiously  the  guardiaaship  of  the 
merohant,  and  prescribed  rules  fi)r  the  condi^ct  of  his  business. of  which.it 
practically  understood  nothing.     The  excise,  for  example,  anrested  the 

*  The  minister's  or  politician's  objection  to  reducing  the  duties  is  met  "by  the 
fact  that  lessening  price  increases  consumption,  and  that  the  heavy  duties  have* 
caused  tiie  fbllewing  astoandiiig  resultsi  Bopulation  of  EngfaBnri  and.  Ire^andf 
iaair~ldy342,64€  ;  in  18&l--27,435^5.  We  consumed,  1801—6,876,710  gaUcHW 
of:wine;  iu  1851r— 6,280,653  gallons  only!  We  had  augmented  our  populatioiL 
12,192,679 !  and  we  consume,  by  one  account,  annually,  725,657  gallons,  by 
another,  596^057  gallons  less  than  we  consumed  fifty  years  a^.  All  other' 
article  have  increased  in  the  same  period ;  tobacco^  from  16,904^7^2  lbs*  ta 
27,553,15d Ibsi ;  malt,  fh»m  19,643,346  bushels  to  38,935,460  bushels;  soap,  from 
52^47,037  lbs.  to  197,632,280  lbs.  j  tea,  from  20,237,753  lbs.  to  50,021,576  lbs. ;. 
paper,  from  31,699,537  lbs.  to  132,132,657  lbs.;  spirits,  home  made,  from 
9,338,036^  gallons  to  22,962,012  gdlons.  Rum  and  brandy  hare  also  laigely  in-^ 
criaased,  as'  wdl  as  a^  otlser  articlee  but  wine,  proving  tiust  Hxe  da&ee  ase 
inimiflal  to  the  consumption. — [From  the  returns  of  the  *'  Committee  foe  1^  Ber- 
duotion  of.  the  Wine  Duties^'*  which  has  met  weekly  since  August,  1852,  at  the 
Boyal  Exchange  Buildings :  T.  C.  Anstey,  Esq.,  chairman.  §ee  also  the  cheap 
Abstract  of  the  Evidence  published  under  the  authority  of  this  committee  by 
Skipper  ancF  East.] 


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Best^rmtioTu  211 

progress  of  improvement  in  arts  and  manufactures.  It  followed  goods 
ibsA  had  passed  the  oustom^-house  into  the  private  senetnarj  of  ^e  mer- 
chant's dwelling.  Its  duties  y^ere  net  confined  to  the  workshops  of  do- 
mestic manufactures,  but  to  levy  taxes  upon  goods  that  had  already  un- 
dergone the  vigilant  scrutiny  of  the  customs,  to  which  department  they  are 
now  wisely  confided^  and  to  which  estabMshment  alone  they  pay  duty. 
The  necessify  of  ri{^ning  wine  before  it  was  .fit. for  the.  market.suggested 
the  idea  of  re-taxing  the  duty-paid  stock  additionally  upon  any  change  of 
impost  through  excise  agency.  The  nnnisterwho  so  greedily  planned  this 
injustice  upon  trade  sh(nild  have  known  how  fiittle  all  attempts  are,  even 
in  maUers  of  revenue,  (hat  are  based  upon  injusttoe,  for  it  greatly  enhanced 
the  price  to  the  public  If  he  levied  the  new  duties  upon  the  merchant's 
home  and  duty-paid  stoek  when 'he  raised  the  duty  generally  upon  impor^ 
tation,  he  was  bound  to  refund  when  he  lowered  the  duty;  "[Hie  balance 
upon'  the  pajunents  and  repaym^its  wa»  thus  00  trifling,  if  the  expenses 
attending  the  system  were  included,  that  it  seemed  rath^  a  useless  vexation 
than  an  advantage  to  ibe  xevenue.  Thil^prineiple  has  been  changed,  but 
it  left  difficulties  in  the  way  of  future  ministers  who  may  seek  to  establish 
sound  principles.  The  excise  is  become  more  correctly  an  inland  revenue. 
Its  supervision  has'been  wisely  narroifed  from  its  incompatibility  with  fi*ee 
acUon  in  those  with  whom  it  is  connected.  Let  us  have  -  the  wine  duties 
reduced  to  render  our  pi-oceedings  consistent.  We  must  no  longer  tole- 
rate those  who  support  a  dying  system — a  system  for  a  hundred  and  fiflEy 
yeare  past  resemblmg,'  in  the  praise  of  its'  restrictions  t^on  the  free  ez- 
<^iange  of  monufiEtctures  for  foreign  productions,  the  turnkey*?  comment 
dationof  his  irons  in  the  play:  ^'Do  but  examine  them,  sir^— never  bett^^ 
work,  sir — how  genteely  they  are  made  I  Sit  as  easy  as  a  glove,  and 
the  nicest  man  in  £nglsnd  need  not  be  ashamed  of  them." 


RESIGN  ATIOK. 

BT  W.  BEAILS]W)HD,  ESQ. 

Wb  are  too  angry  with  our  illsy  and  stray 
Ouiof  the  raoerd  to  {B-odaiiB  our  grief, 
As  if  the  human  haart  could  find  relief 

In  every  weary  moan  and  idle  \ay^ 

We  underrate  our  sti»ngth,3nd  seem  a  piey 
To  hapless  anguith^  past  all  men's  beliefi. 
This  ift  the  worstsofsorrow,  and  the  chief 

Sad  stittnblibg  on  our  short  and  toilsome  wi^. 

It  were*  a  fav  more  noble  pert  to  bear 
Our  sufferings  meekly,  even  as  we  know 

The  gentle  birds  will  work  and  peraevere, 
When  cruel  hands  have  wrought  the  overthrow 

Of  home  and  love.     To  labour  and  forget 

SliowB  higher  nature  than  to  pine  and-frct. 


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IHB  PAIR  WHO  LOST  THEIR  WAY ;  OR,  THE  DAY  OF  THE 
DUKE'S  FUNERAL. 

A  SKETCH. 

ef  Br  Charles  Mitchell  Charles,  p. 

AUTHOR  01P   *^  HAMON  AND  CATAB". AlfD  ^  dt^ittSfllOir.*' 

At  four  o*clook  in  the  mornfaig  of  lljirida^,  November  18,  1852, 
James  French  was  violently  arouw4  ^f<ff^  Jms  ?|^P>  He  had  gone  to 
bed  early  in  order  to  be  able  to  mb^H  that  ittliiccustomed  b^,  W  sad 
and  irritating  thoughts  had  kept  hip  awake  till  long  past  m|£i^^^wid 
he  had  only  fallen  mto  a  kind  <^  preliminary,  restless,  .)inrefr^nin^^<^p^^, 
when  he  was  thus  awoke.      \,  '    ,  ,^ ,,         "       i 

**  What  sort  of  a  morning  is  it,  Vl^lliam?"  h^^  siucl,  sitting  up  in  his 
bed,  but  making  no  motion  to  leave  it 

^  Horrid,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  **  Runing.  like  mad — a  very  high 
wind,  and  raw  cold.*^  <  i  ui  ,  '^     ' 

« It's  vwy  dark  I  thfak,"  he  saWl'  dW^sily.  . ,    . 

<^  Yes,  At — ^very.  Better  turn  out,  please,**  said  the  old  servant^  light* 
ing  his  young  master's  candle. 

James  did  not  reply ;  in  &ct,  he  leaned  hack  among  the  pillows  to 
reflect  a  little.     William  looked  rbirdd.' '  He  was  asleep  again. 

The  man  was  provoked/  He  hh  dispdsied  to  leate  the  young  gentle- 
man to  sleep  on.  But  hi|(  order^^bVe^-n^t  ha<£  lieen  stnct  He  must 
try  again.  He  did  so,  and  by  ctint  df!v%orou^jshiking  expelled  sleep> 
once  more  from  th^  iv^ai^  fltoine.  «, 

<<  I  must  open  itle'Wmdow  if  you  don't  wake,  sir,"  he  exclaimed,  desp 
perately.  ^*  Mr.  James !  Mr.  James,  I  Say!  Then,  in  a  totally  dif-; 
xerent  tone  of  voice — **  Mr.  James !  it's  time  to  get  up." 

«  Eh  ?"  said  James  French. 

*^  Do  throw  them  dothes  off.  Youll  get  up  quite  easy  if  you  wiD, 
nr,"  said  the  elderly  man. 

*^  Yes,  yes ;  all  right,"  answered  James,  spasmodically.  And  he  did  so. 

He  got  up,  but  md  not  at  once  dress.  Care  returned,  now  that  he 
was  thoroughly  awake.  Why,  after  all,  should  he  go  to  this  sight  ?  He 
did  not  want  to  see  it— with  such  weather  it  would  be  a  failure;  but 
even  if  it  went  off  well,  what  had  he  to  do  with  it  ?  Had  not  he  lost 
his  hopes  of  happiness?  And  though  Eliza  was  to  be  of  the  party, 
would  not  Phillips  be  there  too  ?     He  would  not  go. 

He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  his  bed.  Would  lie  let  her  know  then 
that  he  took  her  coldness  so  much  to  heart  that  he  was  careless  about 
seeinsf  this  grand  funeral  pageant  ?  Let  her  know  ?  She  might  attri- 
bute his  ab^nce  to  a  hundred  other  causes.  Well,  then,  would  he  shrink 
from  &cing  his  rival  ?  Ah !  perhaps  Frank  Phillips  would  not  be  there 
—-why,  he  might  have  her  to  himself  in  that  case — perhaps  her  coldness 
had  been  assumed  after  all.  He  might  conquer  his  rival — might  defeat 
Phillips !  So  he  might !  He  would  not  give  her  up  yet !  He  would 
go !     And  he  began  to  dress. 

He  heard  William  in  the  next  room  amung  with,  and  trying  to  talk, 
his  sleepy  brothers  into  wakefulness — with  very  little  apparent  success. 

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Th€  Pair  who  Last  their  Way.  '  Hi 

And  be  detc(rinme4,  .to  be  out  of  tbe  bouM  before  tbey  imte*  iomu . 
Tbej  ^^  no(4anb6  (larty  of  wbicb  be  was  one.    Tbey  were  to  take 
bb  mUn  to  a  good  place  in  Fleet-street     His  party  bad  bired  a  room 
in  the  Strand. 

But  be  could  not  evade  bis  eldest  sister.  Sbe  was  anxious  about  binny 
and  be  found  ber  in  tbe  dining-room,  wben  be  descended,  making  tea. 

'<Is  it  nuning  stiU?"  she  Mid,  mfter  some  brief  chat. 

<<  111  see,''  be  said.  <<  Not  .^i^i^uf^jAS  ii;  did,"  be  repotted,  returning ; 
"but  it  is  very  dark."  J; 

'^  It  must  he  pear  day,  then  ".sIm  said.  "  Tbe  proyerUal  dark  hour 
which  preoedes'the  dawn." 

^Precedes  tbe  dawn?"  be  echoed,  despondingly ;  for  bis  heart  bad 
sunk  again.  "Ah,  Maria!  this  is  a  dark  time  to  me^  but  it  seems  to 
fellow,  not  precede  day ;  for  I  did  hope         " 

''My  dear  James,  that's  nonsense,"  said  bis  common-sense  sistw* 
"Darkness  does  not  come  after,^wiiv  till  the  death  of  day,  at  nigfat&U; 


and  you're  not  dead  yet.  You  re  disappointed,  and  see  things  through 
cc^ured  glasses.  But  nature  is  unohav^ped..  i  TfA^fpff  tb»  speotaeles, 
and  put  yourself  into  sympathy  with  reality,  by  using  your  aatoral  eyes» 
and  you'U  soon  recoyer.     Do  now,  throw  away  your  glasses." 

"\n«t  do  you  mean ?"  be  said. 

"  Why,  look  at  Eliza  as  if  she  were  no  more  to  you  than  Miss  O'Leary, 

the  old  fruit-woman.     Critjcjuie^eir  as  your  friend would  criticise  a 

book  by  a  new  author  foiv  ti»e^#^AfiSKPli|iVt>.Pon't  let  your  heart  in- 
terfere.    You  know  my  opinion  ojT^if^.*'   ;;,    ,;  |    .^  n, 

"  Yes,"  be  said,  hotly.    "  But  you're  wrong ;  ypi^'it  ^i^vni. that  one  day." 

"If  I  am  wrong,  I  will,"  sfaie  answered.    ;"j ^t^/jwci  what  you  will^ 
see  if  you  will  look — a  hollow  heart,  a  y«n,  flirting*— ^^"^ 

"Enough,  enough!"  be  exclaimed.  "Don't  torture  me.  I  will  try. 
to  criticise  ber  as  you  say;  but  love  is  aho?e  reason.  If  I  were  eyen  to 
jemise  ber — ^and  everybody  is  despicable  in  some  reqpect — I  cannot  help 
it,  I  should  love  ber  still." 

"  Well,  look  now,  fairly  and  judicially,  without  your  spectacles,"  said 
his  sister. 

He  kissed  ber,  And  soon  after  started. 

It  was  a  dreary  morning.  Much  rain  had  fedlen  during  tbe  night ;  it 
drixsled  still.  There  was  a  high  wind,  too,  driving  me  small  drc^ 
against  the  foce ;  %nd,  above  all,  the  darkness  was  as  yet  unbroken  by 
the  fointest  indi<»B,tion  of  dawn. 

The  gas-lamps  burned  dimly;  to  bis  eyes  tbey  seemed  weary  of  their 
lugfat-watching.  But  a  strange  sentiment  of  life  was  nrevalent  m>  every 
house.     lagbts  shone  upon  the  blinds  of  tbe  upper  windows  in  them  all^ 

"  What  various  reasons  these  people  must  nave  for  turning  out  of 
tibeir  beds  at  this  uncommonly  early  hour,"  said  James  French  to  himself 
yawning.  "  Do  many  of  them  care  about  the  dead  wankxr?  Do  any 
of  them  ?  I  don't  suppose  that  that  man  (and  be  looked  iip  at  a  window 
where  the  shadow  of  a  bead  being  violently  brushed  was  thrown  upon 
the  blind)  would  have  paid  the  money  which  he  has  g^ven  for  a  seat  in  a 
ihop  front,  to  a  subscription,  if  such  a  thing  had  beeaset  on  foot  and  couldr 
be  paid,  for  the  purpose  of  bribing  Death  to  spare  tbe  veteran.  He  i» 
tittrndng  more  of  the  line  of  procession  than  of  the  lines  of  Torres 


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ffl4^  The  Pair  who  Lostlkeir  Wag.^ 

VediaB;  more  of  himml^  and  hoirlie  will  see  and  famr,  aa^  abo^  iStf 
baseeiH  tinm  of  payiBg*  respect  to  tbe  Gveatr  Duke.  W^  v^  no42 
What  do  J  care  about,  the  business?-  Lwant  to-  ase  the  sol^ac^  and* 
hear  the  '  Dead  Maren,'  and  the  drums ;  but  more  than  all^  tO'  aae-  if  L 
qan  yet  win  Eliaa-— to  hear  herringmg  voice  again." 

Ab  he  turned  into  the  Ingk  road  an  omnihut  came  xs^  Itwaa  greati^ 
overcrowded,  inside  and  out,  but  tina  was-  aot  a  morning  to  be  particular. 
The  ooodnctor  hailed  him,  and,  as  there  ware  four  horses,  he  ^  net  he- 
sitate— the  only  animals  ill-treated  were  the  riders.  He  tried  to  get 
ti|pon  theroo^  but  it  was*  covered  with  humaoiity  as  doss  as  th^  oould 
be  stowed.  Men  on  the  knifeboard — ^men  on  the  edge,  iifnrlbMdangiii^ 
oiper  the  wheefe — man  between  their  backs  and  die  knifeiMMra,  lying  on 
ibe  roof.     He  had-iherafore  to  stand  by  the  conduotor. 

Everyone  seemed  in  the  highest<  spirits ;  many  of  dtem  aggwssively' 
nmcal.  One  youngster  wns  pre-^Hunent.  He  wotdd  sing.  ^<  Look 
always  on  the  sanny  side^  'tis-  wise,  and  Jietter  ftr,"  he  Wonted,  astke 
vehicle  moved  on.  It  was  a»  d««k  as  ever.  Another  requested  his; 
fdbw-passengers  to  behold  hew  brightly  breaks^  the  morBittg> — the  rain 
rmining  off  his  oilskin  cap  the  while.     At  last,  assereiid  joined  in  a 

flee  of  which  thetowu'has  had  cpnte  toe  much — "  Oh,  who  will  o'er  tfaet 
owns  so  free?" — the  driver,  a  gruff  and  surly  man,  turned  round  and 
^poke  to  them. 

^  You  don't  seem  to  know  as  you're  going  to  a  ftm^al,  gendeaaen," 
he  said. 

^'  We're  not  gcMog  to  be  mutes  toit,"  was  Ad^  answer,  and  theg^ 
reoomioeaoed. 

It  would  be  untrue  to  say  that  our  despondent  friend  sympathised  with 
all  this,  but  it  drew  his  attention  from  himself.  ^^  Surely  all^thesepeopk 
must  harve  had  carea  and  disi^pointmevts  in  life,"  he  thought*— '^  no  one 
escapes  that  fate;  and  yet  hero  ^j  are  as  Jovial  and^  nodepoovecof  th«r 
darkness,  as  noi^  as  if  dieir  liiPea  had*,  been  one  long  schoclboy'sholida^ 
Why  should  I,  who  have  succeeded  in  almost  every4^iing  tO'whiieh  Ihava 
put  my  hsuid,  plunge  into  misanthropy  and  despondenoy  at  tha  px>spect 
of  a  single  £ulure?" 

At  last  they  were  on  the  stones*  The  onmibus  professed  to  go  to  l^e 
Bank,  viA  Hdbom ;  but  in  deference  to  the  wishes  of  the  passengo^  it 
Haade  for  the  Strand.  The  streets  weie  already  crowded  with  i/i^noli& 
and  pedestrianst  A  belf^that  ih^aee  would  be  no  roomt  anywhere  seemed, 
to  possess  everybody.  All  was  excitement  and  hurry^-H^range  enough  at 
any  time,  but  more  so  in  the  darkness* 

When  t^iey  readied  Wellington^stiieet  the  omnibus  stopped,,  and  its. 
living  oa^go' was-diseharged.  James  hastened  to  find  the  house  whoa 
Bis  party  had  a  roem^  and  pushed  his  way  tbrough  the  crowds  which 
Uoeked  i^  the  gKat  thoroughfare  as<  quicky  as  he  coald.  The  beliflC 
seemed  to  havie  tidcen  possession  of  him,  too,  that  he  \nould  be  too  lata. 
At  last  he  reatdied  it.  Some  of  the  party  had  oome.  He  ran  upiihar 
narrow  stairs* 

He  entered  the  rcx>mi  It  wasof'some  sise — a  talde  in  dMoentn^  oa. 
which  were  8<Nnebonnel0^  and  doaks;  and  i^awls.,  His  heart  beat  as  hat 
seanned  the  feces  assemliiiBd. 

It  wa^hard  to  reeognise  tkem«     One  sad  candle  on  thetable  droi^pad 

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Tl^l^etir who  Lost  their  Way.  SS 

its  misindM  mck;  as'if  ftdnmiMl  «f  its  ooRdition^     It  gave  out  verys  fittk^ 
l%ht;  it  watitod  asgietonce'  bofere  it  eould  do  so,  like  a  fricBdliw  aatfaqr.- 
By  degrees,  however,  James  made  out  who  was  present.     Eliza  wst^xiot: 
Phillips  ^tna  not. 

The  people  whaweret^ie  are  not  important  to  this  narrative.  Ibmm 
Wtts  a  painter,  who*  would  faflrre  been-  a  pre^Adamite  if  Adam  had  paintbd^ 
8S  violently  ^vtas'  he  enaMenred  of  what  waa  ancient.  There  ww  an  ama*- 
teur  musician,  who  doted' on  compositions  which  nobodj  ever  seened  ta» 
have  heatd,  and  who  t^erOi^Uy:  despised  what  waspepular;  he  admired 
dlatstyie  o^nrasio  espeeiallvrwlddi,  Uke  tin  house  of  Ofay's  a«nt>  is  fidl' 
of  pafiBage»  tha6  knd  to^— iMtlnng;  The«e  were  several  young  human 
ben^  in  men's'  dresses  and  women's  dresne,  remarkable  for  nothing 
beyond  the  fmsb  that-  ^ley  wefe  nebedies.  «hifnes  vrae  aeoostomed  to 
meet  them  at  ^e  partiee  ef  their  set,  and  see' them  pvrsne  theeRnobHng^ 
and  mefyi  e(^6apations  of  danomg  silently,  and^--eating  anddimkiag;  S» 
did  not  oare  for  any  of  these,  and  as  he  was  now  sore  dmtke  should 
Isve  a  seat^  he  determined-  to  get  rid  of  some  of  Iw  kapattMice  and 
afixiety  by  a  stroll  in  te  streets^ 

k  was  now  begiflniag  togrow  l%ht;  day  was  bveakkig,  and  die  rain 
bad  ceased.  The  crowds  increased  with  every  moment  drivers  wen 
shouting,  pottoe  trying  to  keep -the' people  to  the  pavementa-^all  a  oen* 
fused  order.  Ouraequaintanee,  Jiames  French,  elbowed  his  way  down  to 
lemjAe  Bar^  he  desu^to^  seethe  deeorations  of  that  s^hth^  edifice — it 
itas  an  ol^ect  fbshis  mind.  Workmen  were  still  eodployea  in  hang^ing* 
the  drapery,  and  arranging*  the  gigantio  and  mysterious  omatnentSi 
Hie  fiaring  t&rchef  of  gas  flung  a  strange  light  ov^  them  and  their 
works,  and  the  crowds  of  men- and  cairiages  below.  He  stood  andieonteaa* 
plated  t^scMie  for  some  time  ifilAi  wonder ;  and  then,  as  daylight  g0ew, 
and  the  gas-l^hts  became  usdess — they  were  not  ex^nguished  all  day^— 
he  suddenly  betfaoaght  himself  of  his  room  in  the  Strand,  and  retuised 
thither  with  all  possible  speed. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt's  party  come  yet?"  he  askedi 

«  Yes,  sir.'' 

Hk  heart  beat  even  more  violently  than  it  had  on  entering  before.  He 
was  uneertain  then — ^he  knew  now.     She  was  up'^tairs; 

He  did  not  hurry  up  thb  tim^  he  went  quite  leisurely.  A  bevy  of  oW 
women  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  all,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  speaking* 
at  once.  Mrs*  Tyrwhitt  was-among  themi  She  hastened  to.  shdl^  hands 
wife  him. 

Be  fek  very  oold^— hi»hands  were  absolutely  clammy.  Ho  was  angty 
wi^  himself  for  Ums- yielding^ to  nervous  feeling;  He  entered  the  room; 
^e  candle  sttU  stood'  on  t^e  table  burnings  its  wick  with  a»  great  head: toe 
it:  liierewere  mere  bonnets^  and  shai^s,  and  furs.  There  she  was-!' 
talking  to — no,  not  to  Phillips— he  did  not  seem  to  be'  there — talking-' 
tn  the  painter.     He  advanced  to  her. 

She  was  certainly  a  lovely  giri:  Rather  short,  her- figure* was  ezqui>» 
sitely  rounded,  and  her  waist  not  too  small.  Her  hair  was  dark  aubmn^ 
yrom  in  shorts  nnglets  idl*  round  Her  face  was  oval^  her  eyes  were  blue, 
hsr  lips  red,  and'  with  a  dimple  always  waiting  their  instructtoaas;  abors- 
all,  however,  her  complexion  was  the  most;  trans||^at,  delioate,  and  jei 
Wltht>tmted^  that  ever  crossed  a  poet  in  his  dreams.     If  the  mmd 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


21«  The  Fair  who  Lo$i  their  Way. 

^Uftlled  itf  prison  in  beauty,  what  a  treasure  was  here !  No  wonder 
James  loTed--generou8  natures  attribute  loveliness  of  mind  to  loveliness 
Afbody. 

She  greeted  him  warmly.  He  was  in  the  seventh  heaven — ^when 
breakfiist  was  brought  in.  He  had  never  known  her  so  kind  before. 
Criticise  her  I  Nonsense  I  He  had  been  a  fool  to  despond  \  she  had  not 
meant  to  wound  him  ;  there  was  nothing  to  find  £ftult  with  in  her ;  he 
was  sure  she  loved  him. 

Elisa  Thomhill  was  an  heiress.  Her  mother  was  of  good^unily,  bat 
poor.  She  was  sent  out  to  Madras — a  very  distant  aidctoisp  wanted  a 
mendly  face  from  home.  She  was  ensfaged  to  a  dvilii[a^4iiere  within 
three  months  ;  he  had  a  fortune ;  was  neh  enough  to  be  unde  in  India 
to  a  dozen  heroines ;  was  on  the  whole  a  pleasant,  steady,  easy  man.  Li 
diree  months  more  she  married  him ;  in  twdve  she  IwnvAiiim,  and  came 
with  her  in&nt  daughter  and  fortune  to  England  imMedlatefy  aftorwards. 

Unhappily  she  did  not  remain  long  a  widow.  A  liaid^^  excellent  man, 
Mmselfpossessed  of  large  fortune,  met  and  loved,  am  ere  long  nuuried 
her.  The  match  was  not  altogether  to*  iMilliking  ;  but  she  did  not  find 
that  out  till  afterwards.  She  was  a  ptetly,  <empty-headed  thing,  and  did 
not  £ui€y  hb  exactness  and  rigidity.  There  were,  therefore,  cbfforeooes 
of  opinion  between  them,  and  the  youngs  Elixa  (there  wm«  no  other 
ckilmmi)  had  to  study  and  suit  herself  to  both.  She  Qked  to  be  petted 
and  loved,  and  spared  no  pains  to  secure  the  heart  of  hm  step»^ftther,  as 
well  as  to  keep  that  of  her  mother.  Thus,  though  tbey  qoartefied,  she 
was  "  friends  "  with  both — a  little  flirt  at  twelve. 

The  table  had  be^i  cleai^  for  breakfast,  and  all  sat  down  round  it^ 
James  neoct  to£lisi|^  '"A#'il}iproceeded,  several  additions  were  made  to 
the  party-^^ne'ihiit  JiSkx[«s^a4P>lMst  did  no{  notice.  As  the  nseal  con- 
ciudedy  nowever,  atid^h^^^iisj^ptttfed  Uo  UUme99w<£fr«im  his  bii^t  com- 
panion, he  saw  fixed  upon  him  the  eyes^  dP-ri^FiilililtoFliMlipftr 

<<  Then  he  is  here !"  he  exclaimed.  a,<M^:i.{" 

« He?  who,  Mr.  French?" 

"PhilUps." 

<'  Ah!  so  he  is.  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Frank,**  said  Eliia,  »  PhiHms 
came  to  her.  Mr.  Frank  ?  Could  James  believe  his  ears?  Frank  I 
Why  she  called  AftM>%%is  surname :  Mr.  French.     Frank ! — OoflAmod 

Mr.  Phillips  was  a  tall,  well  made  young  man,  with  a  laive  liffhtMX)in- 
plexioned  fiice,  erey  eyes,  and  sandy  moustache.  His  dotoes  med  hkn 
well,  abd  he  had  tne  whitest  of  hands.  We  may  obtain  some  glimpses 
of  his  life  presently ;  enough  to  say  here  that  he  was  one  tA  those  men— 
numerous  enough  in  our  metropolis — whom  everybody  seems  to  know, 
but  whose  history  nobody  knows.  He  had  a  good  address,  hved  well, 
appeared  to  have  money;  but  his  dearest  friend  was  ignorant  of  his 
fiunily;  never  heard  of  his  father  or  mother  ;  woidd,  in  iaet»  have  had  to 
acknowledge,  if  pressed,  that  on  reflection  he  was  evto  to  him  a  living 
n^stery. 

To  James's  vexation  he  found  himself  coc^y  supplanted  by  this  haad- 
somci  serene  intruder ;  without  any  opportunity  of  beinff  angry,  toa 
The  num  did  evervthiqg  calmly,  and,  worse  than  all,  Ehsa  H>0¥id  not 
snub  him^    Indeed  if  he  had  not  been  very  much  in  love,  and  therefofe 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Tlte  Pair  who  Lai  their  Way.  217 

▼ery  j^nd,  he  wodd  have  seen  that  he  did  not  get  even  a  finr  share  of 
her  oonversatkni. 

The  breakfast  being  over,  the  party  assembled  round  the  windows,  and 
began  to  amuse  themselves  by  watchmg  the  crowds  below.  It  was  now 
ag^t  o'clock:  broad  day,  and  the  rain  had  altogether  ceased.  j 

James,  Eliza,  and  Phillips  joined  one  of  the  groups,  and  a  sort  c^ 
general  oouTersation  ensued.  But  James  could  not  snkie.  Somehowi 
Phillips  took  the  wind  out  of  his  sails. 

''  What  a  wonderful  career  this  has  been,'*  said  a  very  stout  gentleman, 
who  had  made  his  fortune  in  Aiistrdian  shares  lately.  <<  fiuty<e^  course^ 
it  waa  t^  good  luok-^the  Duke  had  talent  no  doubt,  but  his  successes 
weref  luchl    Success  always  is." 

'' Permit  me  to  doubt  that,"  said  the  pre-Raphaelite  painter.  <'I 
believe  that  suodaii  comes  ^m  attention  to  rainutis — hard  woric,  and  im 
eyeito  ideteiliio  j  nBk  ^oes-  in  painting." 

'*■  It  do^sn^^fe»iii8ic,*'  said  the  amateur ;  and  he  was  proceeding  to  give 
tome  rea80iiing%  wUch  would  have  been  more  interesting  to  himself  than 
to  others^  ^heb  Jaihes  French  spoke. 

\    <'  You  may  set  down  the  Duke>s  success  to  what  you  fike,"  he  said. 
^  He  had  such  a  combination  of  gifts  that  every  sect  may  claim  him.*' 

*'  You  seem  to  speak  of  the  Duke's  success,  ail  of  you,"  said  Frank 
Phillips.  ^'  I  don't  admire  him  sb  mu^sb  for  hia  success  as  for.  his  cha- 
racter, because  he  always  did  his  duty  !" 

'<Bah!"  coned  i  the  musician,  provdted  at  having  been  silenced. 
^'  Duty !  That's  the  wrong  card  played  by  the  press,  and  followed  up  by 
those  who  respeot  die  press.  I  don't.  Duty  I  We  admire  the  Duke 
because  he  was  sucoessnil,  not  because  he  did  his  duty.  If  he  had  &iled 
he  would  have  done  his  duty  all  the  same^  and  we  should  not  have  ad* 
mbed  him.  Paganini  succeeded  ;  Fortdni  fails,  yet  Fortini  is  the  greatest 
artist.     Success  is  everything,  I  say." 

"  Fortini  ?"  said  Phillips,  as  if  puzzled.     *f  I  never  heard  of  him." 

«  Very  likely  not.  Unsuccessral,  I  say.  Not  the  less  a  great  artist ; 
greater  than  Paganini." 

*'  Pray  where  is  he  to  be  heard  ?"  asked  Phillips.  '<  I  should  like  to 
hear  Mm." 

<^  Why,  just  now,  he  has  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door ;  be  is 
playing  somewhere  in  Surrey,  I  believe,"  stammered  the  musician. 

'Mn  ^  streets,  I  suj^Kise,?"  And  Phillips  laughed.  The  musician 
reddened,  but  as  the  othMfoJaugked  too,  he  joined  them. 

James  felt  that  while  Philips  %fAked  about  duty,  hie  talked  without 
eonvietion ;  but  how  was  he  to  cap  the  popukur  expression  of  admiration 
for  dko'Duke?    He  could  only  be  silent 

Attracted  by  ^  lau^ter,Hrs.  Tyrwhitt  bustled  from  the  next  windoi^^ 
to  that  where  our  party  stood*  ? 

**'  Are  yoi^looldng  at  the  man  in  the  blue  comforter  too  ?*'  she  said. 

"Whataaan??/ 

'^  There.  On  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Next  to  the  lamp-post. 
That  man  is  perfectly  immovable.  He  has  stood  in  that  attitude  for  the 
last  ten  minutes ;  he  intends  to  stand  so  till  l^e  procession  comes,  no 
double  W^  he's  a  wise  man,  for  he'll  see  as  well  as  we  shall,  and  pays 
nothing  for  it." 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


:21B  Tim  Pair  mho  Lemt  their  Wc^. 

^'.kcmpiai.  Ou^  tbaimsn !''  said  tbe  pamivr.  ""^tall,  wcU-HmU, 
massive  fellow ;  that  blue  comforter  too !  What  blue  would  you  ea&  it: 
it  w«dbd  duyw  well,  ihat  comforter/' 

^'  Hit  worsted  .glovBB  and  Msk  l>ootB  'Wonld  be^oo-boaify  ii»r «.pia- 
ture,"  saidJPhilHpSyjiieeiiiig. 

^'  Heavy  ?  why  heavy  ?  Net  heavier  for  apieture  than  they  axe.  for 
iiiiB.  I'd  have  tkem^  as  well  as  the  oomforter.  We  JdeaJiae  toe  -iB^esb, 
Mr.  Phillips ;  we  ought  to  copy  moeo-  *«epy  aatuie,  w.  Oae  temeh  ef 
oatore  makes  &»  vkole  werld  kin." 

^  Boots,  and  comSocteB^  and  gloves  «ie  not  ia  uateBt,"  answered  (the 
^o^er^  smfling.  *^  ilf  you  iaioad.  only  to  copy  .'nature,  my  fisrand,  yea 
must  take  off  the  boots,  and  gloves,  and  other  artides^ef  dress,  and  pM- 
eent  man  as  wild  in.woeds  the— eavege  ran." 

^  What «  bng  -chat  yuMi  and  our  deur  girl  had,"  Mm.  Tyrwhsbt  .said, 
drawing  James  a  little  aside.  '^  I  watohed  yen.  Sudi  a  sweet  girl— 4i 
fieifecttreesiiiel  So  good,  too!  I  wish  your  moibsr  had  oome  wi^  us, 
dear,"  ehe  added  aleud^to  £lim. 

'^  A  good  thing  she  hasn  t,"  Phillip  said,  in  a  iow  tone  te  the*p«£Bet 
treasure.  She  langbcd,  and  loeked  up  in  his  &ee.  James  eould  not 
hear,  hot  he  .saw  and  dicdiked  the  fiance.  But  did  hejeieemher  hispro- 
mise  to  his  sister  to  criticise  Eliaa  ? 

^^  Ay,  my  dear  Mis.  Tyrwhitt,"  he  answered.  <^  You  say  truly.  ^ 
is  a  perfect  girl." 

''  Get  that  sofib-keaded  fellow  out  of  the  way  fw  a  minute,**  miA  Phil- 
lips, in  ji  low  vniae,  to  the  horess.  "  We  can  s%  inte  that  huck  room 
tiben.  I  want  to  tell  you  my  scheme ;  we  ean't  i^eak  while  he  watehss 
lis  so.  Send  him  to  hjxj  yon  a  newspaper ;  he's  sure  to  go>  and  will  he 
away  «>me  mhrates  before  he  finds  that  none  of  the  shops  ape  q#en." 

J^iea'e  brilliant  eyes  twinkled  with  meniment  at  the  ideai  «f  seediog 
her  lover  on  a  fool's  errand. 

<<  l&r.  Preneh,"  i^e  said,  presently,  as  aeon  asMri.  TyrvAitthad  re- 
turned to  the  other  wmdow;  and  she  took  James  apart  '^  Will  you 
oblige  me  ?"  she  said,  with  a  long  soft  look  from  her  fine  eyes. 

«Yes,yes.     Whateanldo?" 

"  Well,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  ask  Mr.  Phillips,  beaan|err><r 
But  the  fket  is,  papa  told  me  to  be  sure  and  take  him  home  a  newspaper 
with  a  pragnunmeof  the  procession.  JOo  you  liunk  yon  could  get^nie 
4>ne?  I  hardly  like  to  ask  you;  hut — Mr.  Phillips — I  wouldjnthernotask 
him:' 

*^  No,  Bo.  Allow  me  to  de  it.  How  kind  ef  you  to  prefer  my  set- 
vices,"  he  ezdaimed,  in  a  breath.  '<  I  knew  it,  I  knew  we  loved  one,'' 
thought  the  sanguine  young  man  as  he  sprang  -dowa  staixs.  *^  Papers? 
^Bless  her !  I  would  subscribe  for  life  to  eveiy  papev  Jm  Xiondon,  if  she 
asked  me." 

He  had  readied  ^  bottom  of  the  naanw  staioease,  aad  was  about  to 
open  the  little  trap  which  was  called  by  courtei^  the  pnvaie  doer,  and 
vdhieh  was  dose  to  the  shop  iront,  when  he  suddenly  diseovered  that  in 
his  eageneasiie  had  forgotten  to  put  on  his  hat.  Hehostmed  back,  fihe 
irill  dunk  Pm  a  fool,  he  reflected. 

As  he  aeeended  tiiestairs  he  saw  the  swaep  ef  a  petiieoat.  A  moossa- 
tary  flutter,  just  from  one  room  to  another ;  but  it  sufiraad.    It  ms 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


HhtPmir.wboLmttheir  Way.  219 

filial  Thttahe^hoiiddgetliiisfaitinadioiitlwiag^seeabyJ^  Be  was 
«tibe  1y^  ^'the  tttiiB  »>beqt  i»'«n(ter  lhe:firont  loom  agam,  wImq— ^ 
4beught  lie  hoard  aJight  kogih  Mnnd  him,  in  ikat  littie.dari:  cupboard- 
mom— «  light  lauffh--^it  wai  hers— ai^  an  ezdamation  of  deli|^  £«t 
ihe  exclamatioa  of  delight  was  not  hons—'no—mr  that  aowsd  -which  floa- 
ceeded  it.     Why,  that  was  a  kiss,  and  the  voice  ivas  Phillips's. 

For  a  moment  he  stood/ like  one  stunned.  Was-sadi  pemlfy  ponible  ? 
No,  no.  His  ears  "  were  made  the  fools  of  the  other  senses."  Wece  th^? 
What  wore  tiiose  voices  saying? 

Almost  without ixeflacting  on  the  heae  part  he  j^yod,  he  listened;  he 
tecmld  not  help  it ;  it  wae  not  in  human  nature  to  help  it.  And  as  he 
did eQ  his  &ce ^worked  fieieoly  ibe  denched  his  hands— -he .  felt  all  ifae 
passion  of  a  warm  and  ingenuous  nature  di^ed  by  keactlessnoflH. 

But  he  instantly  returned  to  himself.  ''  I  will  not  eaveadrop,"  he 
muttered.  <<  Cbroat^Heaven !  -Can  what  I  haivaheBsd-— -No.  I  nSl  hear 
.no  more.''  .And  he  rushed  into  the  front  looaEi,  iack  his  hat,  and 
boundeddown  the  stairs. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  flying  altogether.  He  would  not  return 
to  the  house — he  did  not  want  to  oee  t&  pageant— ^but  then  braver 
ihoqghts  suoeeeded.     Surely  he  could  eomjoer  himself.     He  would  try. 

He  opened  the  private  door.  As  he  <tid  so  he  eaw  more  plainly  the 
man  with  the  blue  comforter,  and  remembered  what  had  pMsed  about 
him  up-«tairs.  The  man's  eyes  seemed  fixed  ;  they  met  his.  His  atti- 
tude was  the  same  as  ever — ^his  hands,  with  their  worsted  gloves,  crossed 
hefc^e  him.  Why  did  Jacaies  Fren(^  notice  him  ?  He  kiMW  not,  except 
on  aeeonnt  of  what  had  heen  said. 

The  Strand  was  now  shut  to  carriages,  and  the  pavement  was  a  so^ 
AasB of :peofJe,. there  bduig  just  room  enoi:^  lefbforeinniiation  close  to 
the  houses.  As  J«aiedwopeiQiM|  4ho  door^he  saw  an  old  acqaatntaoae 
standing  dose  to  it,  smoking.  He  would  hate  avmded  him,  hut  Foneit 
would  not  be. avoided. 

"Ah,  French!  how  do?  How  are  you?"  he  cried.  **  You  in  that 
house? — I'm  next  door.  It's  horrid  dow  there.  My  seat's  high  im 
in  the  baek  part  of  the  staircase  of  seata  erected  in  ^  window.  There% 
no  light  theze^  nobody  to  talk  to,  no  back  to  lean  against,  and  they  say 
the  procession  hasn't  started  yet;  so  I'm  out  heie  taking  a  cigar,  and 
shall  just  go  on  smoking  for  the  next  hour.     Are  you  with  a  party?" 

''  Yes,"  eaid  James,  absently.  He  was,  in  fact,  thinkii^  what  he 
should  da  If  so  long  a  time  was  to  elapse  before  the  pagaant  arrived, 
how  should  he  apeod  it  ?  He  cared  icx  nobody  in  those  rooms  np-staiiB 
hut  Eliza,  and  she  Why  not  stop  down  here  and  smoke  too  ?    He 

would  not  leave  the  field  of  batde ;  he  would  make  himself  sure  that 
he  was  really  beaten  before  he  did  so ;  but  as  for  passmg  all  the  inteii- 
venidg time  in  her  society — rimposedble !  No,  he  eovlA^rmt  eritiebe  her. 
If  he  was  not  to  love  and  win  her,  the  only  other  thing  wae  to  iaxget  hei. 
(He  would  taV^  a>oigat  with  Forrest. 

It  so  happened  that  not  many  houses  distant  was  a  shop  kept  by  an  old 
woman  for  the  sale  of  newspapers.  It  was  open  too.  He  went  in  and 
got  a  Times ^  mid  then  returned  and  lit  .a  tfigar,  ^md  stood  for  three- 
quarteos  of  an  hour  with  Forrest,  smoking. 

i>fovv^  .whedisr  ^  i;abaoco  was  very  good,  or  whelher  Forrest^  great 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


220  The  Pair  who  Lost  their  Way. 

schoolboy  Toioe  and  manner,  and  style  of  observation,  brought  back 
younger  feelings  to  the  wounded  heart,  we  know  not.  We  da  know, 
however,  that  James  was  in  the  middle  of  his  second  cigar,  and  Foirest 
was  in  the  most  interesting  part  of  a  long  story  about  a  cricket-match, 
when  the  former  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  great  excitement  of  manner — 

"  I  won't  believe  it !" 

*^  Not  believe  it,  French  ?  Why,  what  the  plague  do  you  mean  ?*  cried 
Forrest. 

<*  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  fellow.  I  was  thinking  of— of 
something  else.     Excuse  me — I  must  go  now.     Good-by." 

And  flmging  away  his  half-burnt  cigar — Forrest  afterwards  sud  it 
£ell  on  the  rim  of  a  policeman's  hat,  and  burnt  a  hole  in  it,  much  to  the 
rage  of  the  peace  oftcer^^he  turned  from  his  astonished  companion,  and 
rushed  up-stanib 

Mewwhfle^  E&a  had  long  since  re-entered  the  front  room. 

^  What  an  open-hearted,  kindly  young  man  James  French  is,"  said 
Tfkn,  l^whitt  to  her  presently,  passmg  her  arm. affectionately  round  her 
waist    ' 

<'  Yes,  dear  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt,"  answered  the  heiress. 

''  Naugh^  girl !  how  it  blushes  !*'  whispered  the  old  woman.  "  I  saw 
it  talking  aU  by  itself  to  him " 

'<  Whom  ?"  exclaimed  Eliza,  suddenly. 

'^  Never  mind  roe,  dear ;  I  shall  be  quiet.  I  won't  prevent  two  young 
hearts " 

**  Why,  what  has  become  of  Mr.  French?"  said  Eliza.  "I  asked 
him  to  get  me  a  newspaper  an  hour  ago.  What's  that  noise  in  the 
streetr 

'^  Only  the  people  laughing  at  a  dog  racing  down  the  middle  of  the 
carriage-way,"  answered  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt,  who  evidently  liked  the  excite- 
ment of  the  scene,  and  left  her  fair  charge  to  go  to  the  window. 

«  Open-hearted ! — ^kindly !"  muttered  Eliza,  seating  herself  on  the 
so^  *'  Oh  yes ;  no  doubt  of  it.  A  thorough  bore.  What  a  difiference 
between  him  and  Frank!  A  bold,  chiva&ous,  handsome  fellow— all 
manliness,  and  yet  so  loving.     James  ? — ^pooh !  he's  a  milks#p." 

Frank  Phillips  rather  studioudy  separated  himself  from  her.  '  lb  M 
not  returned  to  the  front  room  till  long  after  she  had  done  40.  9i 
seoned  very  happy. 

'  **  It's  all  right,'''  he  said  softly  to  lumself,  rubbing  his  white  hands. 
••  My  bachelor  days  are  over.  I  see  my  way  at  last.  With  such  a  for- 
tune i  shall  clear  off  ever}'thing,  and  begin  again!  Begin  agfun,  by 
Jove,  with  no  debts !" 

^  Has  Meroiiry  sot  returned  yet  ?"  he  said  pfsjstttly,  sauntering  to 
her  as  she  still  sat  on  the  sofa. 

^'  Mercury !"  she  said,  staring.  She  evidently  daitviet  know  any  pe^ 
son  of  Ae  name. 

'*  The  man  you  sent  for  a  newspaper,"  he  e]qpittned ;  ''the  messenger 
of  the  Goddess  of  Beauty." 

He  had  not  done  so. 

''  You  must  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  that  old  dragon,"  he  pursued, 
indicating  Mrs.  ISnrwhitt,  who  was  busily  engaged  at  one  of  the  windows. 
'<  I'm  almost  afraid  she  suspects  us.     If  she  only  knew  that  your  fathe^ 

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The  Pair  who  Lost  their  Way.  221 

in-law  had  prohibited  you  from  seeiDg  me — ^whafc  would  she  say  ?  Well, 
I  think  your  mother  is  at  heart  my  friend.  Somebody  else  is  at  heart 
— isn't  she  ?"     And  he  bent  over  her. 

'*  When  Softhead  comes  back,  be  kind  to  him,"  he  pursued  presently  ; 
"that  will  throw  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt  off  the  scent  I  won't  be  jealous.**  And 
he  laughed  and  walked  away. 

Not  long  after,  James  came  into  the  room  very  hurriedly.  Eliza  was 
still  on  the  so& ;  a  girl  friend  with  her  now.  As  she  saw  him,  her  bright 
face  seemed  to  grow  even  brighter  than  it  had  been  before.  Could  he 
doubt  that  P    He  must  have  been  mistaken  in  supposing  she  could  have 

been  in  that  room  with  Phillips,  and  yet He  would  not  believe  it* 

He  would  hope  against  belief:  hope  and  watch. 

"  I*m  afraid  you've  had  an  immense  deal  of  trouble  p**  she  said,  as  he 
presented  the  newspaper  to  her^  "  It  was  very  though^eis  in  me  to  ask 
you  to  get  it** 

"  Trouble  !'*  he  exclaimed,  ea^r  to  assure  her  that  he  had  had  none. 
But  he  stopped.  What  could  he  say,  then,  he  had  been  doing  all  tbui 
time  P  He  was  too  anxious,  to  think  of  the  obvious  assurance  which 
he  might  have  given  her,  that  no  labour  is  trouble  when  yielded  ta 
Love. 

''The  procession  will  be  here  soon,  they  say  down  stairs,**  he  con* 
tmued,  utterly  passing  away  from  the  subject  in  hand.  ''  I  smoked  a 
rigar  while  getting  your  newspaper.  You  do  not  object  to  the  scent 
of  tobacco,  do  you  ?'*  he  continued,  wandering  away  from  the  subject  in 
band  again. 

"  Oh  no.     Oh  dear  no.    I  like  it,'*  she  replied. 

''  I  hope  you  have  not  found  this  long  time  of  waiting  pass  ver^ 
slowly,'*  he  went  on,  breaking  once  more  from  the  last  subject. 

**  Why,  I*ve  been  nearly  alone  some  part  of  the  morning,**  she  replied, 
with  a  pert  toss  of  her  pretty  head  and  a  tolerably  steady  look  3,%  him. 
Then,  as  if  eager  not  to  seem  to  pay  him  a  side  compliment^  ''  Mrs.  Tyr* 
whitt  Hkes  to  watch  thos6  dreadful  crowds,'*  she  added;  '^  but  we  have  had 
a  long  pic-nic  luncheon,  and  Mary  has  been  a  dear  companion.  Won't 
jou  take  something?" 

«  JSJo — no  thank  you,"  he  said,  confused;  "  I*m  sure — Fm  very  sorry 
j^tt've— you've  been  alone  at  all.** 
*"'  And  ne  looked  round  for  Phillips.  Where  was  that  serene  rival  ?  There 
he  stood  in  the  farthest  window  joking  with  Miss  Rugg,  and  holding  her 
wine-glass.  What  could  it  mean  ?  Mean  ?  why  he  hsid  been  mistaken. 
He  }m  been  anxious  to  suspect  Eliza  in  consequence  of  his  sister's  edvice.  . 
He  had  tormented  himself  causelessly.  Determining  that  all  thi|,  yiaa 
the  truth,  he  resolutely  flung  his  doubts  aside.  His  self-possession. re- 
turned ;  h6  bcNBame^e  warm,  credulous,  somewhat  tiresome  lover  agaxA^ 
y-^'  Mary"  slipped- away;  he  took  her  place,  and  all  ideas  of  criticism  ana 
judicial  severity  ofinvestigation  were  rorgotten. 

So  some  time  passed ;  aconnderable  time;  how  much  he  did  not  know. 
He  took  no  note  of  it.'  He  was  very  happy  ;  intoxicated  with  that  potent 
spirit  of  love  which  derives  its  strength  mainly  from  its  victim.  Alas ! 
W  many  of  us  fall  down  before  the  creations  of  our  own  imaginations. 
We  yearn  to  love^  and  look  on  outward  beauty,  and  beHeve  that  what  a 

Oc^..r-VOL.  XCIX,  NO.  CCCXCIV.  Q 

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2i2  The  Pair  who  Lost  tk^  Way^ 

cold  spectator  lees  is  eommopest  dajr ,  k  ihe  embodioieiit  of  all  that  we 
hdd  high  and  hdy. 

But  as  he  was  thus  yehemently  giving  himsdf  up  to  in^atuatioiiy  tiiere 
was  suddenly  a  slight  stir  and  murmur  among  tibe  crowd  onteide,  £ollowed 
by  deep  silence.  And  then,  at  a  dbtance,  were  heard  the  wrfema  (Open- 
ing notes  of  the  <^  Dead  March"  £rom  Saul,  followed,  or  rather  tnokeii  in 
vp<»i,  by  the  never-to-he-foigotten  roll  of  the  muffled  dmma.  Neaser  it 
came,  Teiy  slowly,  but  nearer  sttli,  aad  eyer  as  iiie  brief  divisioiiB  of  the 
melody  were  ccMtduded,  those  drums  swept  in  with  their  low,  heart-aeareh- 
lag  thunder— dj^ng  away  at  once  agam — giTuig  flace  to  the  jenewed 
waolmg  of  the  trumpets. 

'<  Let  me  see!  let  me  see  T  exdaimed  Eliza,  i^riiigu]^  up,  and  pushing 
among  her  party  ^  one  of  the  windows.  Theie  were  tans  rows  of 
people  to  earn  window,  die  third  andfourUi  on  a  raised  platform.  JaoBMS 
followed  her.  He  became  suddenly  unreasonable,  for  her.  He  wa«  not 
satisfied  until  he  had  madie  old  l£ss  Hayday  give  up  her  place  in  the 
£roQt  row  to  hw;  Miss  EHza  taking  the  same  i^out  scrupfb— w^  she 
Bot  an  hmress,  and  was  not  poor  old  Hayday  ^^  treated"  to  die  sight? 
In  fiict,  if  the  secrets  of  Eliza's  heart  could  nave  been  dragged  to^j,  the 
discovery  made  patent  would  have  been,  that  (/'there  was  any  one  human 
being  with  whom  dhe  was  really  and  honestly  in  lore,  that  being  was 
-^herseE 

And  now  it  came  slowly,  slowly  into  a^i^  that  ademn  pzooesoon, 
which  so  k)Dg  as  the  heart  beats  must  nnnaia  ia  the  memory  of  all  who 
saw  it,  as  the  most  superb,  yet  simple,  tribute  which  it  was  possible  &r 
England  to  pay  publicly  and  outwardly  to  her  Great  Son«  .^oid  onward 
it  passed  slowly,  alowly  still,  the  biillianey  of  the  military  array  toned 
down  by  the  solemn  slowness  of  the  step--by  the  subdued  sad  muae  of 
the  marches  and  hymns — by  the  sdllneas  and  reyerence  of  the  ^lonnous 
masses  of  people  m  the  streets  and  windows,  and  on  the  roob.  At  last  it 
was  oyer;  to  us  it  had  yanished — it  was  a  thing  of  history.  Tha  Adeste 
Fideles  which  closed  the  solemn  pamp  was  beard — hkmj — ht  the  last 
time.  We  heard  the  rocommenoemi^t  of  liie  aacred  aab>--the  first  lineof 
it  just  reached  the  ear — ^we  listened  intently — ^it  became  quite  indiaianct^ 
it  was  searcdy  au£ble — ^it  was  gone. ' 

James  French  turned  aside  for  a  few  moments.  Hk  laelmga  had  bsen 
wound  up  to  a  lo£ty  piteh  i  he  ooold  not  hear  te  retusn  to  common  life  at 
OKiee— even  to  the  oompanionshipof  her  whooa  be  lovedL  A  young  autibor, 
he  looked  on  the  magnifieent  aeene  as  the  very  hig^iest  reaUsation  <tf  hb 
idea  of  £ame — and  it  wae  everi  Thia  ^o^ui  the  yery  dsaoax  and  culmina- 
ting point  of 'a  great  earner — ^to  be  Iwaied  m  saeh  state  fay  ike  mightiest 
nation  of  eartb— boats  of  Heibw-aiea  aympatiiking  in  reiuleiing  the  last 
honour  in  their  power  to  the  ddiell  of  itbat  maater-^mit  But  k  w^a0; 
and  it  was  over^'-^aiid  the  maetmri^izk  was — 

where,  as  well  as  bun  of  finnest  soul, 
The  raeanly-onnded,  and  the  coward  are-*- 

reckless  of  it  ail,  pedbaps  igttocant  of  it  all.  "^  Ahr  he  v^keteJ,  ^^  wbat 
then  18  Fame?  A  thing  ofeardi;  YikaUe  fOnly  ^nAiile  we  ^iDia  ;  is  it  to 
bedeffivedaonMiehasLoye?''  Hie  ahonjd  have  gwie  further;  dioold ham 
asked  if  that  kind  of  fame  should  be  pwsned  &r  xtselU^  at  aU^  or  posraed 

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The  Pair  who  Lo$t  their  Way.  223 

so  much  as  Duty.  Hie  Doke  did  not  watdi  Aid  nurse  his  fame.  But 
James,  abiiougii  }aa»  nature  was  generous,  was  yet  somewhat  yain,  and 
selfish  too.  To  him,  Lore  was  mostly  ddight,  and  Fame,  praise  iiiat  he 
could  hear.  Life  and  its  objects  were  not  standing  before  him  with  that 
dread  signifieauee  wlddi  they  wear  to  the  matorer  mind — when  Love  is 
nio8%  sympadiy,  and  Fame  iim  approbation  of  eonscienoe.  But  he  was 
young  yet,  reader,  and  as  yet  successful.  It  is  only  as  we  gpx>w  old,  and 
meet  with  sorrows  and  foil,  that  we  turn  from  the  &lse  idols  ci  youth — 
after  we  hare  had  them  smitten  down  before  our  eyes. 

He  was  suddenly  recalled  to  the  scene  around  him  by  an  exclamation 
from  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt. 

^  Why,  my  good  gradous,''  she  cried  out,  '^  there's  that  man  in  the 
blue  comforter  standing  there  s^l  m  the  same  attitude  as  eyer." 

Most  of  the  party  had  left  the  windows  immediately  af^the  procession 
had  passed,  but  they  now  retmmed.  James  looked  up.  He  had  resolyed. 
Lore  before  Fame !  He  looked  up,  we  say.  Frank  PhiMips  was  at  Eliza's 
side,  and  they  were  talking  hurriedly  together,  while  the  rest  of  the  party, 
as  curious  to  see  the  man  in  the  comforter  as  the  funeral  pageant,  laughed 
aad  joked  about  him — '<  What  could  Eliza  and  Phillips  be  talking  a£>ut? 
so  eamesdy  too !     Hardly  about  the  man." 

As  we  have  seen,  James  had  altogether  dismissed  certain  suspicions 
from  his  mind,  fisunded  on  what  he  imagined  he  had  overheard.  But 
OB  he  saw  tiie  earnestness  of  conversation  now  taking  place,  these  suspi- 
cions retnmed.  He  struggled  against  them,  but  there  they  were;  and 
if  they  were  true  I     Love  ?     If  she  could  be  guilty  of  such  perfidy 

as  die  must,  in  diat  ease,  have  practised  all  through  tiieir  late  inter- 
course— who  was  worthy  to  be  loved  ? 

But  he  had  thought  himself  mistaken  before  ;  he  might  have  cause 
to  th^c  fio  again.     He  resolved  to  act  at  onee. 

^'  Do  you  wait  to  see  the  car  go  back,  Miss  Etisa  7*  he  sidd,  walking 
up  to  tiiepur. 

**  I  tlnnk  not,"  Ae  repUed. 

'^Somebody  was  saymg,  that  afiber  a  military  frmeral  the  soldiers 
always  retmn  to  quarters  with  tiie  bands  playing  '  Oh,  dear,  what  can 
the  naatter  be  P  "  said  Phillips.  <' That  would  oe  worth  stoppng  for, 
Idlss  ThomhilL'' 

^  About  as  appitypriate  as  it  would  be  for  LodovicOj  Cassio,  and  the 
dScers  to  stake  up  a  dance  immediately  after  OtheUds  death,**  said 
James. 

Philfips  lotted  angry. 

*^  This  b  not  a  s^taiy  (bnecal,  but  a  nsEtkmal  one,^  sail  James,  in 
continuation. 

''  We  shall  not  stop,''  said  Eliza.^ 

<*How  do  you  propose  returning  home?**  smd  James.  *'lJa  Mrs. 
Tyrwhitt's  carriage,  or  your  faltiier*s  ?* 

"  Oh,  in  Mrs.  Tyrwhfetfs.  Fm  Kving  with  her  just  now,  you  know/' 
die  ^^^*     ''  If  s  to  be  wvitnig  lor  us  in  Leicester-square.'* 

^  When  you  go,^' pursued  French,  <<  omy  I  have  the  pleasure  of  taking 
yo«  tob?*' 

"Nay,"  said  PWlKps,  «  Miss  Thomhill  has  given  you  so  much  of  her 
time  to-^y  that  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  her  to  allow  me  to  Iwre 
that  privilege  and  pleasure." 

Q2  Digitized  by  CjOOgle 


224  Tlie  Pair  vxho  Lost  their  Way. 

''  Which  of  course  she  declines,"  said  James,  fiercely. 

The  two  were  astounded.  They  had  never  expected  fierceness  in 
this  quarter.     Phillips  was,  howerer,  instantly  cool. 

"  And — why  of  course  ?"  he  said,  serenely. 

'^  Because — ^hang  it,  sir,  I'm  not  bound  to  give  you  my  reasons,'^ 
exclaimed  French,  feeling  that  he  was  losing  his  temper  without  assign- 
able cause. 

'^  Haven't  got  any,  I  suppose,"  sneered  the  other. 

"  There — you're  going  to  quarrel  about  me,"  said  Miss  Eliza.  "  I 
shall  go." 

"  One  moment,"  said  James.     "  Decide  between  us." 

"  Why,  I'd  hdf  promised  Mr.  Phillips  before  you  asked  me,"  she 
answerea.     And  she  tripped  away,  leaving  them  face  to  fi&ce. 

"  What  the — -what  do  you  mean,  Mr.  French  ?"  exckumed  Phillips,  as 
cool  as  ever,  but  appearing  to  be  seriously  moved. 

"  I've  nothing  whatever  to  say  to  you,"  answered  James,  very  angry, 
"  further  than  to  ask  if  her  mother  or  her  fEither-in-4aw  will  allow  you 
to  enter  their  doors  ?" 

<<Bah!"  said  PhUlips,  as  if  contemptuously;  but  his  lip  quivered. 
He  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away,  as  much  to  conceal  his  emotion 
as  to  express  scorn. 

James  French  felt  stung  as  to  the  very  quick.  All  his  worst  fears 
were  confirmed  then.  She  was  false  and  heartless ;  she  had  dec^ved 
and  trifled  with  him.  What  should  he  do?  Do? — why,  forget  her; 
that  was  the  best  thing. 

He  gave  himtolf  no  time  for  reflection.  At  once,  without  bidding  any 
one  good-by,  he  left  the  room,  he  left  the  house,  and  plunged  into  the 
vast  crowd  outside. 

*<  Blockhead  !"  muttered  Phillips,  taking  a  long  breath,  as  if  relieved, 
when  he  saw  that  he  had  gone.  '^  If  he  had  only  stopped  and  told  Mrs. 
Tyrwhitt  what  he  seems  to  know  about  me,  my  game  would  have  heen 
lost.  He  might  have  taken  my  queen  and  checkmated  me  in  one  move, 
and  he  has  tnade  an  absurd  retreat  instead." 

In  fact,  Phillips,  who  had  first  met  Eliza  Thomhill  at  a  party  in  Eaton- 
square,  where  he  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  her,  had  so  warmly 
followed  up  his  game  that  her  father-in-law  (stem  and  unromantic  man!) 
had  interfered.  He  required  Mr.  Frank's  '^  references,"  and  not  being 
at  all  satisfied  with  them,  requested  him  to  give  up  the  chase — ^in  a  word, 
forbade  him  the  house.  These  were,  of  course,  but  incitements  to  8*^1 
like  Eliza  to  continue  her  acquaintance  with  Phillips,  and  he  had  so 
wrought  upon  her  that  (her  fortune  being  her  own)  she  had  resolved  to 
escape  with  him  to-day  from  the  "  chains  and  severities"  of  home. 

''  The  sooner  we  get  away  the  better,"  Phillips  whispered  to  Eliza  as 
he  passed  her  at  the  window.     "  Make  Mr.  Jennings  walk  with  Mrs. 
Tyrwhitt  and  old  Hayday,  and  I  will  follow." 
'  She  nodded,  and  proceisded  to  put  on  her  bonnet 

Meanwhile  James  hurried  away.  Quite  unconsciously  he .  walked  in 
tiie  direction  of  Leicester-square.  His  thoughts  were  bittw ;  but  not 
wholly  so.  He  could  not  but  own  that  although  his  vanily  had  been 
severely  wounded,  he  had  made  a  fortunate  di^overy  in  r^^ard  to  the 
value  of  his  late  idol.  To  marry  such  a  girl  as  that !  O^  Heaven ! 
'he  thought  was  a  horror. 

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The  Pair  who  Lost  their  fTay.  225 

He  reproadied  himself  for  haviDg  shut  his  ears  to  what  he  had  over- 
heard. He  ODght  never  to  have  doubted  that  the  voices  were  those  of 
£liza  and  Phillips.  And  her  very  behaviour  to  him  ought  to  have  been 
confirmation  ;  the  girl  who  was  capable  of  (me  part  of  such  a  business 
was  capable  of  it  all.  It  was  a  sign  of  dangerous  weakness  of  character 
in  him  that  he  had  allowed  his  hopes  and  love  to  silence  the  voice  of  his 
reason. 

But  to  all  his  thoughts  about  himself  succeeded  a  sentiment  of  deep 
pity  for  her.  She  was  so  young,  and  he  had  loved  her.  Could  he  not 
save  her  from  the  misery  which  it  was  evident  she  was  about  to  bring 
upon  herself? 

Suddenly  the  idea  struck  him  that  had  struck  Phillips.  He  ought  to 
have  told  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt.  She  was  tenderly  attached  to  Eliza,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  She  was  a  stupid  match-making  old  person, 
but  she  would  never  assist  in  an  elopement  of  a  girl  under  her  care  with 
a  man  who  could  not  bear  the  scrutiny  of  the  girl's  £&ther-in-law.  For 
himself  he  had  no  object  to  serve  in  stopping  the  matter;  now  that  he 
had  found  out  how  true  his  sister's  judgment  was — ^what  a  hollow  and 
deceitful  soul  was  in  that  exquisite  body,  he  would  never  seek  Eliza's  love 
any  more.  But  he  might  save  her  irom  a  life  of  misery.  Yes ;  he 
ought  to  tell  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt.  He  might  stiU  have  time  to  do  so.  He 
would  do  his  best  at  all  events. 

He  turned  at  once,  and  began  hastily  to  retrace  his  steps.  Running 
down  St.  Martin's-lane,  he  reached  Chandos-street — passed  along  it^ 
was  about  to  go  down  Bedford-street  into  the  Strand — when,  at  a  little 
distance,  he  saw  several  persons  together,  a  scuffle  evidently  going  on  in 
the  midst  of  them— one  face  there  that  he  knew.  For  the  moment  all 
thoughts  of  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt  were  forgotten,  and  he  hurried  to  the  scene. 

fie  would  not  have  found  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt  at  the  house  if  he  had  gone 
on  straight  to  it,  for  Eliza  had  pressed  the  departure  of  the  party,  and 
Mrs.  Tyrwhitt  and  Miss  Hayday  started  almost  at  once,  with  Mr. 
Jennings. 

**  You'U  follow  us  with  Mr.  PhiUips?"  said  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt.  «  What 
has  become  of  Mr.  French  ?" 

**  Hell  be  back  directly ;  I'm  goinc^  to  wait  for  him.  He  asked  me  to 
let  him  take  me  to  th6  carriage,"  whispered  the  perfect  treasure.  Her 
match-making  old  chaperon  laughed,  and  patted  her  cheek. 

^^  But  you'll  keep  the  carriage  ?*'  she  said. 

**  No,  no ;  not  a  moment,"  was  the  answer ;  and  the  old  people. 
Btaxted. 

<<  Why,  there's  that  man  with  the  comforter  standing  there  still," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt,  as  the  private  door  opened. 

'^  Quite  a  character,"  said  Mr.  Jennings  plunging  nervously  with 
them  into  the  crowd,  and  beginning  to  get  angry  as  people  md  not 
make  way  at  once  for  him.  '^  The  police  ought  to  clear  tiie  streets," 
he  exclaimed.  On  which  some  of  his  fellow-pedestrians  laughed  at  him, 
and  put  themselves  pmrposely  in  his  way. 

As  soon  as  Phillips  thought  they  had  got  fairly  o£P,  he  beckoned  Eliza, 
and  the  private  door  was  again  thrown  open,  and  they  went  out. 

<*  Well,  I  declare  that  man  with  the  blue  comforter  has  moved  at  last," 
exclaimed  the  pre-Raphaelite.  "  He's  going  home,  I  think.  Good-by, 
old  fellow ! — he's  gone." 

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22C  The  Pair  who  LoU  their  Way. 

FhilEpg,  with  Eiiia  clinging  to  his  arm,  turned  to  the  left  oo  qmttiDfi^ 
the  house,  and  pushed  wrough  the  crowd  as  quiddy  as  he  eoi^ 
He  left  the  Strand  the  first  street  he  came  to,  and  ws&ed  up  it> 
quickly  stilL 

'<  We  must  he  quick^  or  we  may  he  caught,"  he  said.  He  started,  £01^ 
as  he  spoke,  a  hand  was  laid  upon  him.  He  turned.  It  was  the  msn 
with  the  hlue  comforter. 

^<  Well^"  he  said,  '^  what  do  you  want  with  me,  my  good  man?" 

The  other  stepped  up  to  him,  and  whispered  a  word  in  his  ear.  ISA 
turned  pale,  but  instantiy  mastered  any  emo^on. 

'' Parcel  of  nonsense,"  he  exclaimed.  ^' Dont  try  any  tridc upon  m^ 
Of        '* 

<<  Oh !  if  that's  your  dodge,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  other,  produeing 
a  stafif.     '*  I'm  a  detectiYe,  and  you  must  go  with  me." 

^<  What  s  the  matter  ?"  exclaimed  Eliza. 

*^  Nabbed  at  last,"  answered  tlie  officer.  The  next  moooeot  he  by  ai 
full  length  on  the  pavement  With  a  well-directed  Uow  Phillqw  had 
knocked  him  down. 

But  he  could  not  get  oE  The  man  was  up  at  ooce^  aad  attacked  hkn, 
while  Miza,  screaming,  flew  out  of  the  way.  Seeing  a  mileey  a  crowd 
instantly  collected.  Phillips  had  no  option  but  to  fight  on  or  to  be  taken ; 
and — at  this  moment  James  came  up. 

^<  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  exclauaoied  to  Eliza. 

'( Oh,  that  dreadftd  man !  Mr.  Phillips  will  be  killed !  Take  im 
away — ^take  me  away !"  she  cried  ^  *'  I  can  depend  on  you." 

'<  Where  shall  I  take  you  to  ?"  said  James,  pitil^Mly>  as  he  walked 
die  trembling  girl  away. 

^<  To  Leic^er-square,"  she  exdiumed.  '*  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt's  carnage  is 
there." 

^^  You're  not  on  the  way  to  Leicester-square  from  die  houae  m  the 
Strand  where  you  saw  the  nmeral,"  said  James. 

"No.     I  know.     It— Mr.  Phillips How  can  I  tell  yo«  ?•  Ae 

said. 

"  I  do  not  require  to  be  told,  Eliza,"  he  answered,  very  gmvelyy  '^  I 
think  I  know  enough.  The  police  having  got  Mr. — Phillipi,  or  what- 
ever his  name  is — ^you'll  not  see  him  again,  I  suppose,  in  a  hurry  ;  you 
need  not,  therefore,  tell  me,  ot  any  one.  May  you  pn^t  by  the  lesson 
you  have  received — that  is  all  I  wish.  For  the  rest — you  mwt  hatte  lost 
your  way,  I  presume^"  he  added,  in  a  cool,  di£Eerent  voioeu 

She  did  not  answer  at  once ;  and  James  even  began  to  feel  want 
sentiments  of  satisfiaction  at  having  saved  her — of  returning  admhratbn 
for  the  beautiful  rirl  beside  him ;  he  pitied  her,  aoid  pity  is  akin  to  love* 
But  all  this  utterly  vanished  whoa  she  looked  up  at  hbn  with  her  hdght 
smile,  and  said: 

«  You  don't  speak  so  kindly  as  you  did  in  the  room,  Mr.  JamesL^ — 
Mr.  James !  She  had  never  called  him  so  before.  Mr.  Frank  being  a 
failure,  she  vnshed  to  whistle  back  her  other  admirer. 

"  Don't  I  ?"  he  said,  coldly.  <<  Perhaps  I  have  received  a  leflacm  too. 
At  all  events — ^we  are  in  Craaboume-street  now ;  there  is  the  caixiage 
Mr.  Jennings  has  gone  away,  i^pparendy." 

^  Where  have  you  been,  naughty  I"  cried  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt.  ^  I  tkoegkt 
you  were  lost" 

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The  Pair  who  Lost  their  Way.  227 

"  The  very  tiimg/'  answered  Eliza.     "  We — we  lost  onr  way." 
"  What,  you  and  Mr.  French  T 

"  No.     Mr.  Phillips  and  I — I  mean There,  it  doesn't  matter 

now,"  she  answered,  pettishly,  and  tears  of  vexation  stood  in  her  eyes. 
She  got  into  the  carriage.  '^  Good-by,"  she  said  to  James.  *  He  moved 
his  hat,  and  the  carriage  drove  away. 

<<  Welly  my  dear,"  cried  die  old  lady,  drawing  up  the  window.  <<  Did 
he  propose  ?" 

"  mo  ?" 

"Mr.  French.'' 

^Ohno." 

**  Not  ?     Why  I  thought  you  had  made  so  much  way  with  him." 

Eliza  sighed. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  We — I  have— I  lost  my  way."  And  mysterious 
as  the  answer  seemed  to  Mrs.  Tyrwhitt,  she  could  get  no  other.  And 
the  next  day  Eliza  went  home. 

But  little  more  remains  to  be  said.  Mr.  Plullips  found  that  he,  too, 
had  lost  his  way.  He  had  fully  resolved  to  walk  to  the  Bowers  of  Bliss 
with  Eliza  and  6000/.  a  year ;  instead  of  which  he  went  to  a  station- 
house,  and  thence  to  some  place  of  detention,  with  nothing  a  year  and 
hard  labour. 

When  James  and  his  sister  met,  she  saw  that  something  had  occurred. 
He  did  not  tell  her  all ;  but  he  said  enough  to  show  that  his  dream  was 
over :  and  he  said  in  his  despondency  that  Fame  was  a  delusion  and  Love 
a  cheat. 

She  checked  him  as  she  had  done  before. 

'*  We  go  through  trials  for  our  good,^^  she  siud,  ^'  and  have  suffering 
in  order  that  we  may  learn.  Take  care  that  you  do  not  misread  your 
lessons.  As  to  Fame,  none  is  true  that  is  not  awarded  by  conscience  as 
well  as  by  other  people — that  is  not  a  delusion ;  and  as  to  Love — if 
selfishness  (excuse  me)  mingles  in  it,  it  is  not  the  love  that  will  bear 
transplanting  to  another  woud." 

He  kissed  her. 

"  You  always  speak  out,"  he  sdd. 

"  Ah,  by  the  way,"  she  r^oined,  "  Fve)  made  such  an  acquaintance 
to-day — such  a  charming  girl.  Don't  shake  your  head.  You  shaQ  like 
her  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  No,  no.  Fve  had  enough  of  your  sweet  sex  for  [^the  present,"  he 
replied,  cynically. 

She  laughed. 

«'  We  shall  see,"  she  said. 

Perhaps,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  will  like  to  see  too. 


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(     228     ) 

<  ,  ,  ,  •  •  , 

AMERICAN    AUTHORSHIP. 

BY  SIB  NATHANIEL. 

No.  VII. — Henby  Wabswobth  Lonofellow. 

The  juste  milieu  it  may  be  hard  for  critical  appraisers  to  hit.  But, 
between  two  extremes,  to  mnt  with  Sir  Roger  that  much  may  be  said  on 
both  sides,  is  easy  enough  ;  and,  to  indolent  or  incompetent  judges,  an 
agreeable  observance  of  the  maxim,  In  medio  tutissimus  ibis.  Our  own 
indolence,  or  incompetence,  disposes  us  to  steer  in  this  middle  course 
in  a  notice  of  the  works  of  Professor  Longfellow.  Mr.  Coventry  Pat- 
more  may  assure  us  he  is  hugely  overrated,  and  Mr.  George  Gilfillan 
may  assert  that  his  reputation  is  hitherto  only  nascent,  and  his  depth  but 
partly  fathomed.  Benignly  regarding  the  adverse  factions,  we  accept 
neither  allegation  to  the  fuU,  and  pronounce .  neither  a  true  bill  (in  the 
sense  of  speaking  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth),  and  by 
adding  to  and  diminishing  from  both,  and  putting  this  and  that  together, 
and  letting  the  negative  signs  of  the  one  cancel  the  plus  signs  of  the 
other,  we  do  our  best  to  sustain  a  judicial  centre  of  gravity,  and  to  work 
out  an  equation  of  terms,  a  composition  of  forces.  A  month  or  two  ago, 
we  were  taken  to  task  in  a  contemporary  journal  for  implying,  in  what 
the  writer  was  pleased  to  call  (and  we  equally  pleased  to  recognise)  our 
"  strange  admiration  of  Wordsworth,"  that  Professor  Longfellow  was  not 
a  poet  of  the  same  calibre  as  the  Bard  of  Rydal.  For  the  life  of  us  we 
cannot  understand  how  any  one  admiring  Wordsworth  at  all,  could  put 
the  professor  in  competition  with  him : — assuredly  the  professor  himself 
would  shrink  from  the  comparison.  On  the  other  hand,  we  avow  a  most 
cordial  and  lively  admiration  of  the  author  of  the  "  Golden  Legend"  and 
*^  Evangeline,"  of  the  noble  Excelsior  strains,  that  stir  even  sta^ant 
souls  as  with  the  sound  of  a  trumpet — echoes  of  silver  trumpets  heard 
from  the  battlement  of  a  Temple  not  made  with  hands, — and  of  the 
"  Psalm  of  Life,"  so  invigorating,  elevating,  and  seasonable, — and  of  the 
**  Voices  of  the  Night,"  so  sweetly  solemn,  so  tender  and  true.  God  bless 
the  minstrel  of  verses  like  these,  and  increase  his  influence  a  hundred-fold! 
This  benediction  is  sincere,  and  worth  whole  chapters  of  criticism — ^such 
as  we  could  write. 

Professor  Longfellow's  poems  have  been  described  as  "  rather  golden 
recollections  than  present  vision'* — giving  us  the  "  elegiac  words,  and 
tender  mien,  and  mellow  music,"  which  record  some  loved  memory  of 
bygone  youth,  than  the  '*  poet*s  outcry  at  things  seen,"  or  the  poet's 
gesture  significant  of  words  he  may  not  utter — dpprjra  prffurra,  a  wk  i^p 
dy^poDTTo  XoXi/otu.  But  he  sings  emphatically  with  a  purpose,  and  a  high 
one.     He  is,  to  adapt  Tennyson's  words,  one 

bravely  fumish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 
The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 
Of  hope  and  youth. 

Like  Wordsworth's  Wanderer,  he  is  "  rich  in  love  and  sweet  humanity;** 
and  like  Wordsworth  himself,  he  would,  by  excelsior!  strains,  and  ^'  psahns 

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Henry  Wadstoorth  Limgfellaw.  229 

of  life,"  and  yoices  of  the  night,  hasten  the  coming  of  a  holier,  happier 

age,  and  / 

— — long  before  that  blissful  hour  arrives, 
Would  chaDt,  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  verse 
Of  this  great  consummation ; — and,  by  words 
Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 
Would  he  arouse  the  sensual  from  the  sleep 
Of  Death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 
To  noble  raptures. 

At  the  same  time,  he  is  gay  and  sprightly  in  his  movements  ;  some  of 
his  verses  are  almost  Mvolous  in  tone  and  nnical  in  form  ;  he  plays  with 
his  theme,  when  so  disposed,  and  seasons  his  compositions  with  liberal 
spicery  of  quaint  phantasien  and  scholarly  concetti.  He  may  be  said  to 
luive  two  publics— one  which  comes  for  strong  meat,  to  strengthen  and 
sustain — another,  for  "  trifle"  and  confectionery,  to  tickle  an  epicurean 
.  palate. 

In  simile-making,  Mr.  Longfellow  is  au  fait.  Like  Cocker,  he  is  a 
"  dab  at  figures."  Figurative  he  loves  to  be,  sometimes  at  too  great  an 
expense.  His  similes  do  not,  indeed,*  arise  with  the  impetuous  unrest, 
the  exhaustless  creativeness  of  Alexander  Smith  and  ouiers, — ^nor  are 
they  so  "  rich"  in  quality,  though  in  quantity  more  **  rare."  But  they 
are  plenteous  enough  to  make  some  readers  account  simile-making  his 
forte,  while  quaint  enough  occasionally  to  make  others  call  it  his  foible. 
Ofiien  sweet  and  significant,  diey  are  not  unfrequently  forced  and  far- 
fetched. Take  the  following  excerpts,  metaphorical  and  figurative,  in 
illustration  of  the  poet's  manner : 

The  day  is  done ;  and  slowly  from  the  scene 
The  stooping  sun  upgathers  his  spent  shafts, 
And  puts  them  back  into  his  golden  quiver.* 

— The  consecrated  chapel  on  the  crag. 
And  the  white  hamlet  gathered  round  its  base, 
Like  Marjr  sitting  at  her  Saviour's  feet. 
And  looking  up  at  His  beloved  face.f 

*-And  within  the  woodlands  as.he  trod. 
The  twilight  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  carcj 


-Yonder  lies 


The  Lake  of  the  Four  Forest-Towns,  apparelled 
In  light,  and  lingering,  like  a  village  maiden. 
Hid  in  the  bosom  of  her  native  mountains. 
Then  pouring  all  her  life  into  another's. 
Changing  her  name  and  being.§ 

Under  the  single  arched  Devil's  Bridge,  built  for  pilgrims  to  Bome, 

Buns  the  river,  white  with  foam, 

Like  a  thread  through  the  eye  of  a  needle.|| 

See  yonder  little  cloud,  that,  borne  aloft 
So  tenderly  by  the  wind,  floats  fast  away 
Over  the  snowy  peaks !  It  seems  to  me 
The  body  of  St.  Catherine,  borne  by  angels  I  % 


*  Golden  Legend,  L  t  B)id,  •  t  Ibid.  11. 

J  Ibid.  T,  II  Ibid.  tibid. 


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130  H^nrtf  Waiswortk  Longfelbm. 

^Whik  I  tpesk, 

A  sheeted  spectre  white  and  tall, 
The  cold  mist  climbs  tlie  castle  wall. 
And  lays  his  hand  upon  thy  cheek  I* 

To  the  poet,  walking  in  the  solemn  and  nlent  woodhmda, 

Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  tibere, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer.t 

Flowers  are  said  to  be  everywhere  about  us  glowing, 

—Some,  like  stais,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  bom ; 
Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o*eraowing. 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  com4 

Hera  is  one  of  the  ^  effects"  of  the  rising  moon : 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropped  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low.§ 

Harvests  were  gathered  in ;  and  wild  with  the  winds  of  September 
Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old  with  the  Angel.| 

Bent,  like  a  labouring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf  of  the  ocean. 
Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of  the  notary  public ; 
Shocks  of  ydJow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the  maixe,  hung 
Over  his  sboolders,  Scc% 

Silently,  <me  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven, 
Bloasom'd  the  lovdy  stars,  the  forget-me-nots  of  the  angels.** 

And  as  she  gazed  from  the  window  she  saw  serenely  the  moon  pass 
Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  doud,  and  one  star  follow  her  footsteps. 
As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  3roung  Ishmael  wander'd  with  Hagar.f  f 

Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden  glimmering  vapours 
Veird  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  prophet  (kscending  from  Sinai.|t 

Out  of  the  prairie  grass,  the  long  white  horns  of  the  cattle  "  rise  like 
the  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents  of  ocean.**  Stars  are  "  the 
thoughts  of  God  in  the  heavens."  Bears  are  *^  the  anchorite  monks  of 
the  desert"     Swinging  from  the  great  arms  of  a  cedar-tree, 

the  trumpet-flower  and  the  grape-vine 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  steps  the  angels  ascending,  descending. 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from  blossoai  to  blossom. 

Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of  the  fever, 

As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had  besprinkled  its  portals, 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign,  and  pass  aver.§§ 

This  penchant  for  Scripture  similitudes  would  have  made  the  poet  dear, 
two  centniies  ago,  to  the  lovers  <^  Donne  and  George  Herbert,  whatever 
we,  now-a-days,  may  think  of  such  concetti.  But  it  is  time  to  pass  from 
particulars  to  generals.     And  first  of  the  so-called  American  <^  Faust" 

Drama  the  **  Golden  Legend"  is  not ;  dramatic  poem,  hardly.  More 
fitly  than  Tennyson's  longest  work,  it  might  be  styled  a  "Medley." 
Whoso  swears  by  the  Unities,  and  aUiors  Teutonic  romanticisms,  and 

*  €k)lden  Legend,  vi.  f  Prelude  to  Voices  of  the  Night. 

1  Voices  of  &&  Night  §  Endymion.  i|  Evangeline,  ii. 

^  Ibid,  ilL  ♦♦  Ibid.         ff  Ibid.  Jt  Ibid.  iv.  $§  IWd. 


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Htnrf  Wad$wcTik  LongfMwh  23t ,  > 

prefers  the  prim  proprieties  of  elasneal  common-place  to  rough  diamonds 
of  the  first  water,  will  hold  in  supreme  dislike  this  medise?al  mosaic.  He 
will  complain  that  what  spinal  column  it  has  is  crooked  and  out  of  joint, 
and  that  on  a  frail  incompetent  skeleton  are  huddled,  in  most  admired 
disorder,  vestments  the  most  incongruous,  as  though  motley  were  the 
onW  wear.  Spirits  more  genial  and  germane  will  take  the  Legend  for 
sach  as  it  is,  and,  admitting  the  presence  of  alloj,  will  call  it  Grolden  in 
the  grumbler's  teeth.  How  a  pure  and  simple-hearted  maiden  gives  up  her 
life  to  save  the  life  of  a  selfish,  sere-hearted  prince,  makes  perhaps  a  scanty 
Ubretto;  but  the  composer  has  inwoven  it  with  a  profusion  of  accompani- 
ments, variations,  quamt  melodies,  and  descriptive  harmonies.  The  most 
onheroic  hero^  Prince  Henij,  however  disagreeable  (and  so  far  prejudi- 
cial to  the  success  oi  the  poem),  is  portrayed  with  artful  excellence — a 
mind  oscillating^  unsteadfast,  and  thi^  cannot  find  its  centre  of  rest  and 
hanDony-— one  who  is  fain  to  purchase  length  of  days  by  ^  death,  not 
of  sweet  Elsie  alone^  but  of  aU  that's  good  and  true  and  noble  in  himself 
all  manhood,  self-respect,  love,  faith,  hope,  heart  Him  the  Devil  is  con- 
tent to  let  live,  to  corrupt  his  race, 

Breathing  amooff  them  with  every  breath, 
Weakness,  selfiwness,  and  the  base 
And  pusiUanimous  fear  of  death. 

One  seaicely  Hkes  to  see  his  highness  walk  ofi^  at  the  exnmi  omnesj 
with  the  mariyr^maiden,  in  dinging  confidence,  under  his  arm,  although 
die  »to  be  the  Lady  AUcia  (quite  a  decadraoce  from  Elsie),  and  he  a  re- 
^eetaUe  pater  familias.  Neverthdess,  there  are  such  touches  of  nature 
m  this  portraiture^  that  a  humiliating  sense  of  kin  should  not  make  us 
ksi  than  kind  ;  aiid  we  own  to  a  decided  and  sustained  interest  in  the  dis- 
tm^ht  prince.  Elsie  is  a  visicm  of  delight — a  ministering  angel — who 
ahall  say,  not  too  bright  or  good  for  human  nature's  daily  f<wd  ?— a  guile- 
less,  earnest  creature,  inspired  by  a  conviction  that  ^at  Salerno,  fat 
swaj,  oyer  the  mountains,  over  the  sea,  it  is  appointed  her  to  die" — and 
who  hears  in  the  summons  a  voice  not  harsh  or  grating,  hot  soothing 
Bnwc,  as  though  the  Spirit  and  the  Bnde  said,  **  Come," — so  that  she  is 
sthirstto  come,  at  the  bidding  of  God  and  Mary  Mother,  and  would  faiii 
eomequidEly.  How  heautifol  her  child-logic  about  death,  when  h^ 
pnents  warn  her  against  rashly  acquunting  herself  with  what  she  knows 
Qotof! 

Tis  the  cessation  of  our  breath. 

Silent  and  motionless  we  lie : 

And  no  one  koowetb  more  than  this — 

tod  then  recalling  a  little  sister's  death-bed— and  how  the  quiet  corpae 
^  there  more  beautiful  than  before— ^and  how  the  test  of  death  was  that 
^  like  violets  faded  were  her  eyes" — and  how  the  skies  lodged  sunnily  ia 
{bnn^h  the  open  window,  <'  and  the  wind  was  like  the  sovnd  of  wings,  as 
if  sngek  came  to  bear  her  away  ;"  and  so  she  passes  on  to  dieer  her 
>u>thcr  with  the  suggestion,  in  the  event  she  persistently  anticipates. 

And  it  will  seem  no  more  to  thee 

Than  if  at  the  village  on  market-day 

I  should  a  little  longer  stay 

Than  I  am  used ; — 

mote  tondnng  still  than  which  is  the  mother's  outburst  of  feeKng  in 
repfy— 

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S32  Henry  fFddswarA  Longfellom. 

Even  as  thou  gayest, 
And  how  my  heart  beats,  when  thou  stayest ! 
I  cannot  rest  until  my  sight 
Is  satisfied  with  seeing  tliee. 
What,  then,  if  thou  wert  dead  ?» 

Most  sweetly,  too,  the  maiden  consoles  her  attendants,  in  the  instant  con* 
templation  of  death,  with  the  Vords, 

I  sliall  not  feel  the  pain,  but  shall  be  gone, 
And  you  will  have  another  friend  in  heaven. 
Then  start  not  at  the  creaking  of  the  door 
Through  which  I  pass.     I  see  what  lies  beyond  it. 

And  so  she  bids  her  friends  to  have  her  in  pleasant  remembrance — ^to  let 
her  memory  linger  as  something  not  to  trouble  and  disturb,  but  to  soothe 
and  gladden — that  if  at  times  beside  the  evening  fire  they  see  her  fiice 
among  the  other  faces,  it  may  not  be  regarded  as  a  ghost  that  haunts 
the  house,  but  as  a  guest  that  loves  them — nay,  even  as  one  of  their 
own  family,  without  whose  presence  there  were  something  wanting. 

If  Elsie  and  her  history  are  full  of  pathos,  there  is  a  man-of-i3l-woik 
in  humour  and  almost  feroical  comedy  in  the  person  of — ^Lucifer  !  How 
art  thou  fallen,  son  of  the  morning  !  to  be  so  void  of  dignity,  so  bereft  of 
the  tragic  element,  so  shorn  of  the  awful  and  the  mysterious,  as  in  this 
Mephistophelean  merry-andrew.  So  sharp  and  caustic,  so  shrewd  and 
versatile,  so  mercurial  and  jocose,  so  flippant  and  gaiUard  even,  seems 
this  Gentleman  in  Black,  that  we  tacitly  ignore  his  antecedents,  and  the 
bad  character  he  is  supposed  to  have  from  his  last  place.  He  seems 
innocent  of  sulphur.  Horns,  like  growing  pains,  he  has  outgrown. 
That  vestige  of  his  natural  history,  the  tail,  is  unobtrusive.  We  care  not, 
in  so  jovial  and  debonnaire  a  presence,  to  ^'  look  down  towards  his  feet,** 
— ^for  ^^thcU*8  a  fable."  Altogether,  he  disarms  apprehension,  and 
though  by  no  means  transformed  into  an  angel  of  light,  he  manages  to 
make  himself  acceptable  in  most  companies.  His  look  would  hardly 
have  inspired  Goethe  s  Margaret  with  the  aversion  she  felt  at  the  aspect 
of  Faust's  patron.  There  is  a  story  of  a  Scottish  pastor  saying  to  an 
aged  female  parishioner,  ^'I  trust,  Luckie,  that  you  fear  the  Lord:** — 
to  which  the  crone's  candid  reply  was,  ^'  'Deed,  sir,  and  I'll  no  say  muckle 
o'  that ;  but  I'm  unco*  feared  for  the  deil."  Had  she  known  him  as  im* 
personated  in  the  '^  Golden  Legend,"  probably  this  fear  also  had  vanished. 
Seriously,  the  Lucifer  of  Mr.  Long^eUow's  poem  is  calculated  to  dispel 
whatever  remnant  of  dread  may  still  attach  to  popular  conceptions  of 
the  Evil  One.  Mephistopheles  was  a  strange  and  significant  decline 
from  the  Miltonic  Satan,  but  Mephistopheles  is  grave,  tragic,  dignified, 
beside  the  humorist  of  this  legend,  who  jests  as  mirthfully  solus  as 
when  bent  on  entertaining  others.     For  he  is  nothing  if  not  comical. 

There  is  a  spice  too  much,  again,  of  the  flippant  and  irreverent,  not  to 
say  the  coarse  and  profane,  in  such  descriptions  as  that  of  the  Miracle 
play  at  Strasburg,  and  the  drinking-scene  in  the  refectory.  Not  that 
the  details  are  overcharged  in  point  of  historical  truthfulness,  but  that 
they  are  somewhat  too  broadly  given  in  a  work  of  art.  The  smartness 
and  quick  sense  of  ther' ludicrous  with  which  they  are  <' shown  up,"  are, 
nevertheless,  so  imdeniable,  and  realise  so  amusingly  the  ways  of  the 

♦  So  Wordsworth :— "  Absence  and  death  how  differ  they  I**— ifalema/  Grkf, 

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Henry  Wadsworth  Longfdlow.  233 

monks  of  old,  in  iheir  least  f&Tourable  point  of  view,  that  one  could  ill 
spare  these  portions  of  the  poem. 

As  perpetaal  change  is  the  cue  in  the  movement  of  the  *^  Golden 
Legend," — the  scene  shifting  from  princely  castle  to  peasant's  homestead, 
from  village  church  to  stately  cathedral,  from  miracle-play  to  pilgrimage, 
from  convent-cellar  {(capitally  done,  too)  to  scriptorium,  from  clobters  to 
chapel,  from  monkish  refectory  to  sacred  nunnery,  firom  the  Covered 
Bridge  at  Lucerne  (its  walls  grimly  emblazoned  wit n  the  Dance  of  Death) 
to  the  St.  Gothard  Pass,  from  an  inn  at  Genoa  to  a  light  felucca  at  se% 
from  the  School  of  Salerno  to  the  last  scene  of  all  that  ends  this  strange 
if  not  eventful  history, — so  perpetual  variety  of  metre,  to  suit  all  moods, 
and  chime  in  with  all  vicissitudes,  has  been  adventurously  attempted. 
Professor  Longfellow  has  evidently  paid  great  attention  to  the  study  of 
metrical  laws,  and  is  endowed  with  a  quick  ear  for  the  capabilities  of 
rhythm.  But  he  is  too  fond  of  experimentalising,  and  of  trying  to 
tnrn  unwieldy  forms  into  plastic  graces  ;  nor  can  we  discover  that 


his  musical  finesse  is  such, 
So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch, 

as  to  justify,  by  the  stamp  of  success,  his  hazardous  essays  in  metrical 
novelty.  The  dialogue  of  the  pilgrim  pair  on  the  road  to  Hirschau*  is, 
almost  literally,  *^  no  end  of ''  a  measure,  and  one  in  which  it  is  superla- 
tively easy  for  poet  and  patient  to  lose  their  way.  The  adoption  of  such 
an  elongated  inelegance — a  sort  of  wounded  (sea)  snake  ^*  floating  many 
a  rood" — ^a  most  needless  Alexandrine  run  to  seed — a  mile  and  a  bittock 
— a  lane  without  a  turning — implies  the  professor's  persuasion  of  his  apt- 
ness to  cope  with  greater  difficulties  than  the  hexameter,  and  his  dissent 
from  the  common  cry  of  critics  which  pronounced  the  use  of  that  metre 
all  but  fatal  to  "  Evangeline." 

^'  Evangeline "  is  so  fair  and  good  that  it  would  require  something 
more  deadly  than  hexametersf  to  be  fatal  to  her  beaming  vitality.  We 
love  her  for  the  dangers  she  has  passed,  amid  these  periIo\^  breakers,  as 
well  as  others  not  to  be  scanned  and  measured.  It  is  asserted,  indeed, 
that  this  calumniated  metre  is,  after  all,  highly  relished  by  persons  of 
good  ear  and  unprejudiced  taste — such  as  most  women  who  are  lovers  of 
poetry,  and  who  have  not  to  contend  against  traditions  from  the  Latin 

*  Hexameters  are  apt  to  take  an  English  reader's  breath  away;  but  who  shall 
find  wind  for  octameters,  in  which  this  dialogue  is  cast  ?    As  thus : 

Onward  and  onward  the  highway  runs  to  the  distant  city,  impatiently  bearing 

Tidings  of  human  joy  and  disaster,  of  love  and  of  hate,  of  doing  and  daring. 
Six  beats  phis  a  bonus  of  two,  make  up  a  beating  hard  to  bear. 

t  **  We  not 'long  since,"  says  2k  ymXet  in.  the  Prospective  JReview  (No.  xxxiv.), 
**  pot  Wy  Ihe  test  the  most  successful  English  hexameters  which  have  lately  been 
written— those,  namely,  in  Loagfellow's  'Evangeline.'  If  read  with  regard  to 
stnse,  the  ear  could  catch  no  metre.  If  read  with  express  view  to  metre,  it  was 
difficult  to  apprehend  the  sense."  He  holds  that  as  we  know  nothing  of  the  Latin 
accent,  and  are  therefore  imable  to  realise  to  ourselves  an  hexameter,  as  it  was  to 
the  Bomans,  so  our  imitation  of  it  results  in  an  awkward,  scrambling,  thite^ 
legged  metre—**  as  like  the  sonorous  rapidity  of  Homer's  verse,  or  the  stately 
migesty  of  Virgil's  line,  as  a  plonghboy  striding  over  the  furrows  is  like  the 
graceful  motion  of  the  Tragic  Muse."  For  the  pro  and  con.  of  English  hexameters, 
&e  reader  may  consult  with  profit  the  sensible  and  agreeable  Dialogues  in  Fraser^s 
Magazine.  Also  the  letters  of  M.  Philar^te  Chasles  in  the  Aihenavm,  and  a  recent 
essay  of  ability  in  the  Norlh  British  Review. 

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234  Heary  WadnocrA  LongfeUxno. 

and  Gfedc  fie  thif  as  it  may,  the  destiny  oH ^'  Efang^ne^  u 
for  an  age,  if  not  for  all  time — ^for  the  story  of  die  miudeB  and  ber  be- 
trothed,  croelly  sundered,  and  strangely  and  too  briefly  re-<anited,  has 
come  with  poww  to 

Thousands  of  throbbiog  hearts,  while  theirs  are  at  rest  and  for  e?er, 
Tboutands  of  aching  btains,  when  theirs  no  longer  are  busy. 

And  not  alone  for  maidens  in  Norman  caps  and  homespun  Mrtles  is  it  to 
repeat  by  the  evening  fire  Evangeline's  story — ^not  for  a  few  Aca£aii 
peasants,  yet  left  in  the  forest  primeval,  to  recount  the  tender  tradition  ; 
for  it  is  imprinted  now  among  the  household  words  of  two  hemispheres, 
and  is  dear  to 

All  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and  endiures,  and  is  patient. 
All  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of  woman's  devotion. 

But  if  ^  Evangeline  "  shall  live,  there  are  shorter  pieces  from  the  same 
hand  that  shall  outlive  her.  Among  a  crowd  of  poetical  mieceDanies  we 
may  name  **  Excelsior  "^-of  which  one  well-known  critic  has  enthusiasti- 
cally declared,  that  he  can  no  more  conceive  of  a  world  without  it  than  of 
a  world  without  the  chefs  d^omvre  of  Homer,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton. 
^'  That  figure,  climbing  the  evening  Alps,  in  defiance  of  danger,  of  man's 
remonstrance,  and  the  far  dewier  £ucination  of  woman's  love^  is  a  type 
of  man  struggling,  triumphing,  pmified  by  suffering,  perfected  in  death." 
Who  has  not  been  stirred  and  bettered  by  cet  appd  heroique  qui  dU  A 
VJmmaniii:  Montans  au  CapUoUe!  Each  stanza  is  a  pieture,  and  by  s 
master — hy  one  iAlo  is  at  once  the  consecaated  teacher,  and  the  sympm- 
thisiog  man  and  \aaik&t,  ""  The  Psahn  of  Life,"  ''  The  Light  of  Stan,'' 
"  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,"  '^  It  is  not  always  May,"  are  ail  betto- 
tiful — some  of  them  iEolian  harp-like  in  airy  harmony,  and  sinkiBg  into 
the  soul  like,  what  they  profess  to  be,  voices  of  the  night. 

Passing  over  not  a  few  works  oi  varied  merit  and  power,  in  poetry  and 
in  prose, — ^the  ^  Bdfiy  of  firugee,'*  ^^Outre-Mer,"  the  transh^aons  from 
different  European  languages  (especially  Tegn^'s  <'  Childroi  of  the  Lord's 
Si:^^r  "),  &a — a  few  words  may  be  devoted  to  Mr.  Longfellow's  tipo 
novelets,  "  Hyperion :  a  Romance,"  and  "  Kavanagh." 

With  all  its  beauties,  '<  Hyperion"  reads  like  a  disorderly  series  of 
anaUcta  feom  the  proflMSor's  common-place  bode.  Everythmg  smadcs 
of  second-hand — the  sentiment,  the  story,  the  philosophy,  the  criticiam, 
the  style.  The  entire  romance  might  have  been  made  up  of  translations 
from  German  authorship— now  a  rhf^Mody  feom  Jean  Paul,  the  '^  On^ 
One" — now  an  excerpt  fiom  Goethe,  the  Many-sided — in  this  chapter 
an  adaptation  firom  the  transcendentalism  of  Fichte — in  tiie  next  an 
abstract  of  some  CaUoi  onriosity  by  Hoffinann — ballad  fragments  from 
Uhland  interwoven  with  persiflage  from  Heine,  and  legends  in  the 
manner  of  Tieck  interspenied  with  lachxymodties  from  Matthison*  But 
the  book  is  highly  aoeeptaUe  to  tourists  in  G«*many,  always  provided 
tiie  said  tounsts  have  souls  above  Westoludia  hams  and  Bdogna  sausage^ 
and  have  heard  of  the  prose-poet  of  fiaireuth  and  the  constellated  poets 
of  Weimar.  Paul  Flemming,  the  ''hero,"  is  two  or  three  removes  at 
least  from  originality ;  but  ne  interests  us — as  an  open  sonl,  travelliag 
and  travaifing  in  sorrow  deep  and  strongs — whose  househdd  gods  have 
been  broken,  and  his  home  imed,  and  who  goes  abroad  that  the  sea  nu^ 
be  between  him  and  the  grave,  altlunigh  '' between  him  and  his  sonow 

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Henry  Wndswerth  Longfellow.  235 

there  could  be  no  sea,  but  that  of  time"— one  whom  experience  disci- 
plines into  the  resolve  to  live  in  the  present  wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the 
past  and  uncareful  for  the  shronded  fktiire ;  to  be  a  man  among  men, 
and  no  longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows,  and  to  record  upon  the 
leaves  that  still  remain  of  the  book  of  life  a  more  noble  history 
titan  the  diild's  story  with  winch  the  book  began.  Interesting,  too,  is 
tlie  Baron  of  Hohemels,  that  *' miscellaneous  youth,**— ^verywiing  by 
tarns,  but  nothing  long,  or  great — ^his  masternlefect  the  amiable  one  dF 
tfunlong  too  well  of  human  nature.  And  so  is  the  Englishman,  Berkley^ 
— the  baas  of  his  character  ^  good,  sound  common  sense,  trodden  down 
and  smoothed  by  education,**  forming  a  level  groundworiL  which  his 
^  strange  and  whimsical  fancy  uses  as  a  dancing-£oor,  whereon  to  ez- 
lubtt  b^  eccentric  tricks'* — ^who  eats  his  breakfast  sitting  in  a  tub  of 
cold  water,  and  reading  a  newspaper — who  has  a  kiss  for  every  child  he 
meets,  and  a  henedieite  (in  plain  English)  for  every  old  man — who  pro- 
nounces the  Bighi  sunrise  a  confounded  humbug — and  writes  in  tlie 
traveller's  book  at  Schaffhausen, 

Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Zurich !  *tis  a  bird  of  omen  ill ; 
With  a  noise  and  an  unclean  nest,  and  a  very,  very  long  bilL 

GliK^pses  of  German  life  and  manners  we  find  scattered  here  and  these, 
not  without  their  attraction, — whether  a  touchin|^  sketdi  of  home  cha* 
ritieSy  or  a  rough  draft  of  a  ^  fox  commerce"  and  <'  beer  scandaly"  wiib 
its  slang,  its  boisterous  practical  jokes,  its  choruses,  beer-bibluDgs  extra- 
ordinary, and  duels  infinite. 

'^  Kavanagh"  is  a  tale  more  delicately  and  artistically  wrought-— con- 
taining passages  of  beautiful  tenderness  and  earnest  thou^t,  together 
with  intezesting  studies  of  chturacter  and  minutely-finished  pictures  of 
life.  But  a  certain  shadowy  medium  intervenes  between  reader  and 
book — ^the  latter  is  bookish,  and  has  the  impress  of  the  man  of  letten 
rather  than  tlw  man  conversant  with  life.  This  ^ves,  ^^eriiaps,  an 
additional  charm  to  certun  phases  of  his  subject,  but  it  impairs  the 
effect  of  the  story  as  a  whole,  and  the  reality  of  the  actors.  Emphati- 
ctUky  individualised  as  these  are — Kavanagh,  ever  planning,  never  com- 
pletiiu^ ;  anotiier  Coleridge  in  sanguine  speculation,  and  eke  in  infirmity 
ef  wili^ — Alice  Archer,  too  exquisitely  sensitive,  too  fragile  alike  in  person 
and  oharacter, — Cecilia  Vaugnan,  dreamily  poetic,  indefinably  fascinating, 
— still  do  we  miss  in  each  portraiture  the  vivifying  touch  of  creative  art. 
But  nothing  can  be  more  delightfd  of  its  kind  than  the  pervading  style 
of  lliia  fiction ;  nothing  more  happily  expressed  than  the  i^phthegms 
and  aphorisms  with  which  it  abounds ;  nor  were  it  easy  to  excel  in 
afifecting  beauty  the  scenes  between  Cecilia  and  Alice,  or  in  strange 
eflbctiveness  that  of  the  camp-meeting  by  night. 

From  one  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  who  has  made  sudbi  a  marked  and 
nqpid  advance  in  literary  development,  we  may  justiy,  and  do  heartily^ 
look  for  fiiture  performances,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  decndedly  superior 
to  the  best  of  his  present  aehievements.  He  will  yet,  we  trusti  produce 
^<  metal  more  attractive**  than  even  the  gold  of  the  *^  €r(dden  Legend**-— 
and  sua  himself  in  a  sunnier  ^*  Hyperion** — and  act  '^  Excelsior*  as  well 
as  fling  it,  in  his  minstrel  vocation,  which  is — 

So  to  set  that  eadi  to-morrow 
Find  him  £utber  than  to-day. 

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.-  (    236     ) 

CHRONICLES  OF  A  COUNTRY  TOWN. 
Part  II. 

I. 

Four  years  of  Mrs.  Selby's  widowhood  passed  away,  and  little  Nelly 
was  seven  years  old ;  tall  for  her  age,  and  so  beautifully  formed  ihit 
every  action,  every  unstudied  movement,  was  full  of  grace.  Her  mother's 
love  was  not  witnout  a  feeling  of  gratified  vanity,  and  poor  old.  Jane 
absolutely  doted  on  her ;  and  yet  she  was  not  spoiled.  She  was  a  merry- 
hearted,  gentle  little  creature,  that  every  one  admired  and  loved;  and 
people  often  proudly  pointed  out  little  Eleanor  Selby  to  strangers,  as  if 
the  unrivallea  beauty  of  the  child  reflected  some  honour  on  the  town  and 
on  themselves. 

About  this  time  a  great  event  occurred  in  Mrs.  Selby's  establishment. 
Dr.  Barfoot  told  her  that  an  old  friend  of  his  had  written  to  him  from 
India,  to  say  that  he  had  sent  his  only  son,  a  boy  of  twelve  years  old,  to 
England,  for  his  education,  and  hoped  that  he  could  receive  him. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Selby,"  said  the  good  doctor,  "you  must  take  charge  of 
Master  Charles  Howard  for  me.  I  don't  know  whatever  I  should  do 
¥rithout  you,  for  his  parents  are  full  of  anxiety  about  him.  They  fear 
the  change  of  climate,  exposure  to  the  night  air,  wet  feet,  colds,  damps, 
chills,  and  a  whole  catalogue  of  evils.  I  will  not  tell  you  all  at  once,  for 
fear  of  frightening  you;  but  say — will  you  take  him,  and  relieve  me 
from  all  this  responsibility?** 

"  Surely,"  replied  Mrs.  Selby,  "  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  do  so." 

"  Well,  well,^  said  the  doctor,  "  you  are  to  nave  additional  trouble, 
atid  so  you  will  have  additional  remuneration ;  the  young  gentleman  will 
pay  you  forty  pounds  a  year  instead  of  thirty,  and  you  wiU  in  return  get 
him  a  spare  bedroom,  if  you  can." 

"All  this  was  soon  arranged,  and,  before  long,  Charles  Howard  arrived. 
He  was  a  tall,  well-made  boy,  with  crisp  curly  black  hair,  black  eyes,  and 
a  complexion  of  so  dark  a  hue,  that  little  Nelly  at  first  shrunk  from  him, 
because  he  was  "  a  black  boy."  But  she  did  not  look  shily  upon  Charles 
Howard  long:  indeed  no  one  could  do  so,  for  he  was  the  most  frank, 
free,  good-natured,  reckless  fellow  that  ever  lived;  always  in  mischief 
and  mishap,  but  never  guilty  of  a  mean  or  cruel  deed;  utterly  uns^fishi 
and  ever  ready  to  give  up  his  own  gratification  for  the  sake  of  others,  or 
to  join  in  the  laugh  against  himself,  when  his  thoughtlessness  had 
broup^ht  him  into  mischief.  Charlie  Howard,  as  he  was  soon  called  by 
all  his  companions  and  acquaintances,  had  not  been  long  in  Mrs.  Selby  s 
house  before  its  quietness  vanished.  Jane  scolded,  and  tried  to  be  angry 
about  dirt  and  disorder ;  but  she  was  not  proof  against  the  unconquerable 
good- humour  of  the  cheerfrd  boy,  and  a  sentence  begun  with  a  scold 
would  generally  end  with  a  laugh,  and  a  "  Really  now.  Master  Charlie, 
but  you're  too  bad !"  He  soon  became  a  favourite  with  all ;  but  little 
Nelly,  especially,  made  him  the  very  idol  of  her  heart.  All  her  childish 
love  was  lavished  upon  Charlie  Howard ;  she  could  think  of  nothing  else; 
and  he,  on  his  part,  was  absolutely  crazy  about  her.  He  would  have 
•pent  all  his  pocket-money  in  sweets  and  presents  for  her  if  Mrs.  Selby 
would  have  permitted  it,  but  this  she  had  always  prohibited,  and  would 
not  now  relax  her  rule ;  still,  in  spite  of  all,  Nelly  had  never  been  so  rich 
in  dollfl^  dolls'  houses,  toys,  and  picture-books,  as  she  was  afber  Charles 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Ikmn.  237 

Howard's  arriyal;  and,  in  return,  she  would  mend  lus  gloves,  or  take 
care  of  bis  flute,  or  do  anything  she  could  for  Charlie,  with  the  prettiest 
little  air  of  importance  in  the  world. 

Mrs.  Selby  nad  not  thought  it  possible  that  such  cheerfulness  as  now 
shone  through  her  dwelling  could  have  again  visited  it.  Charlie  Howard ' 
was  the  spirit  that  prevailed  throughout:  he  would  play  the  flute,  dance, 
mngy  tell  Nelly  stories,  take  her  out  for  a  run,  or  do  anything  in  the 
world  to  please  or  to  amuse.  His  spirita  never  fla^^,  and,  always 
cheerful  and  happy  himself,  he  made  otners  cheerful  and  happy  too. 

One  day,  rather  more  than  three  years  after  his  arrival,  Charlie  came 
running  into  the  house,  crying: 

^*  I  have  got  a  holiday  for  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Selby.  You  know  it  is 
the  2nd  of  September,  and  I  shall  be  fifteen !  It  is  fair-day,  too,  and  I 
iliall  take  my  sweetheart  to  the  fair.    Will  you  be  my  sweetheart,  Nelly  ?" 

•*  Oh,  yes,  yes !"  cried  Nelly,  dapping  her  hands,  "  I  will  be  your 
sweetheart,  Charlie,  and  will  go  with  you  to  the  fair,  if  mamma  will  let 
me.     Shall  I  go,  mamma?" 

^<  You  must  not  refuse,  Mrs.  Selby,**  said  the  boy.  <'  I  can  take  care 
of  her ;  and,  besides,  there  is  to  be  a  lar^  collection  of  wild  beasts  here, 
and  I  want  to  introduce  Miss  Eleanor  Selby  to  the  lions,  and  the  tigers, 
and  the  leopards,  and  the  monkeys.  I  will  promise  that  the  lions  and 
tigers  shall  not  eat  her  up,  nor  tne  monkeys  take  her  for  a  playmate." 

After  some  slight  demur  the  desired  permission  was  given,  on  Charlie's 
pledging  his  woid  that  she  should  not  visit  any  other  show,  and  that  he 
would  g^ve  her  no  sweetmeats. 

The  next  morning  was  a  bright  and  sunny  one,  and  Nelly  could 
scarcely  keep  quiet  a  moment,  for  the  thought  of  the  fiur  and  the  show. 
At  three  in  the  afternoon  she  was  allowed  to  seek  Jane,  in  order  to  get 
ready  for  going;  and,  as  she  left  the  room,  clapping  her  hands  and 
shouting  with  glee,  Charles  Howard  turned  to  Mrs.  Selby,  and  said, 
earnestly: 

«<  Is  she  not  beautiful,  Mrs.  Selby  ?  Did  you  ever  in  your  life  see 
anything  half  so  lovely  as  our  darling  little  Nelly  ?'* 

<<  She  is,  I  think,  a  pretty  child,"  replied  Mrs.  Selby ;  ''  but  do  not  tell 
her  so,  Charlie.  I  tmnk  you  would  not  like  to  see  her  formal  and 
conceited." 

<<  Formal  and  conceited !"  exclaimed  Charles.  *'  Our  little  Nelly 
formal  and  conceited  ? — that  is  quite  impossible." 

"No,  not  impossible,  I  fear,"  said  Mrs.  Selby,  "if  you  continue  to 
flatter  her  by  your  praise.  Yesterday  I  saw  her  at  the  glass  admiring 
her  glossy  lindets,  and  when  I  asked  her  what  she  was  doing,  she 
exdauned :  '  Oh,  mamma !  Charlie  says  my  curls  are  so  beautifm !  I 
am  very  glad  they  are  beautiful ;  and  they  must  be,  you  know,  mamma, 
or  Charlie  would  not  say  so.'  Generally,  my  boy,"  added  Mrs.  Selby, 
*'a  girl's  first  vanity  is  her  hair;  so,  pray  do  not  awaken  the  love  of 
admu*ati(m  in  our  little  ^rl's  bosom  so  early.  She  is  certainly  very 
beautiful,  but  we  must  not  tell  her  so;  and  we  must  guard  against 
prizing  so  perishable  a  gih  too  highly." 

At  this  moment  Nelly  came  in,  sparkling  with  animation,  and  dancing 
with  excitement  and  pleasure.  Away  went  she  and  Charlie,  and,  as 
Mrs.  Selby  turned  from  the  window,  sue  sighed  to  herself  a  regret  that 
her  Henry  was  not  there  to  see  with  her  the  lovelmess  of  their  diild. 

OC/.-TOL.  JLCUL  NO.  CCCXCIV.  ^.^.^^.^^^^  by^^OOglC 


236  C&tomebs  ^  a  Country  Toum. 

Two  or  three  hours  aoon  slipped  i^way,  and  thea  a  joaog  gendemaa 
was  announced,  who  had  brought  Mrs.  Sdiby  a  hrace  of  partridges*  The 
joung  man  had  not  long  left  Dr.  Barfix>t*s,  and  knowing  and  liking  Mak 
Selby,  as  all  the  doctor's  pupils  did,  he  had  kindly  hrovght  her  a  part  of 
Ae  produce  of  his  first  day's  shooting.  A  few  minutes  had  passed  in 
pleasant  chat,  when  Nelly's  voice  and  merry  lat^h  ra^g  through  the 
house.  How  sweet — how  yeiy  sweet  is  the  laugh  of  childhood !  Among 
the  thousands  of  grown  peo[ue  we  meet,  yery,  very  few  laugh  sweetly: 
the  sound  too  ofken  seems  with  them  a  laboured  and  unnatural  effort; 
but  in  childhood  it  is  a  dear,  ringing,  happy,  musical  sound,  bursting 
spontaneously  &om  the  heart,  and  seeming  to  the  £uieifid  ear  as  if  it 
were  an  echo  from  a  more  pure  and  happy  world. 

Well,  on  they  came — beautiful,  happy  Nelly,  and  her  Idad-hearted, 
npble-looking  playfellow.  They  had  been  accosted  by  many  ladies  and 
gentlemen  on  theu:  way,  and  Ndly  had  been  ^^yery  good,"  as  she  oaUed 
it ;  and  Charlie  had  been  quite  flwshed  with  gratified  pride  at  the  admira- 
tion his  little  companion  had  excited.  When  near  itmr  own  gate,  Ndly 
sprai^  suddenly  away — she  waA  tired,  pQ<Mr  child,  of  bang  *^  good" — 
and  bounded  into  the  garden ;  for  an  instant  she  croudied  behind  a  rose- 
tree;  then,  as  Charlie  hastened  idBker  her,  she  jumped  out  with  a  mimie 
roar,  aying,  <'  I'll  be  a  tiger,  and  eat  you  up^"  and,  with  the  words,  she 
placed  her  rosy  lips  and  peariy  teeth  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  as  if  to 
bite. 

*^  Oh,  you  will,  ^mll  you?"  cried  Charlie;  *^  ihen  111  hunt  you»  JGse 
Tiger." 

And  away  she  ran,  wi^  Charlie  pursuing  h^,  around  the  grass  plot, 
around  the  garden,  through  the  house,  and  into  the  back  yard. 

^'NowrU  shoot  you.  Miss  Tiger  I"  said  CharliO}  snatchii^  up  die 
gun,  which  the  young  sportsman  had  incautiously  left  resting  in  a  coraet 
—"now  ril  shoot  you!" 

There  was  a  report — a  loud  shriek.  "  My  God  !"  cried  the  young 
sportsman.     "  The  gun !  the  gvai !" 

He  and  Mrs.  Selby  rushed  to  the  spot  Alas  !  alas  I  Beautiful  little 
Nelly  was  lying  bathed  in  blood  1  Chariie  had  flown  to  lift  her,  but  had 
toppled  over  just  as  they  came,  and  lay  beside  her  in  a  dead  faint. 

There  was  smoke — confusion — a  cry  of  agony.  Mr.  Cooch^  hearing 
that  poor  Eleanor  Selby  was  shot,  again  hurried  to  the  Bpoi ;  but  he  was 
not  now,  as  at  her  father's  death,  calm  and  collected — ^the  strong  man 
shook  with  terror,  the  muscles  of  hb  &ce  worked  powerfully,  and  he 
wrung  his  hands  as  he  cried, 

''  Oh  Lord,  have  mercy  on  us!     This  is  terrible,  most  terrible  I" 

n, 

Whenob  or  what  is  that  voice  which  carries  so  swiftly  and  mysteriously 
the  news  of  any  tragical  event  ?  Scarcely,  it  seemed,  had  the  gun  been 
fired  before  the  sad  tidings  became  known  throughout  the  town.  People 
rushed  fix>m  every  quarter  towards  the  house,  mm  feelings  of  mingled 
sympathy  and  curiosity  :  only  Mr.  Cooch  and  Dr.  Barfoot  entered,  but 
numbers  remained  outside  to  learn  as  early  as  possible  wheth^  there  was 
any  hope  of  the  child's  life.  Mrs.  Selby  was  the  first  to  think  of  and  care 
feir  poor  Charles  Howard. 

"  Poor  boy  I"  she  said.     "  He  will  feel  this  bitterly." 

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Chronicles  cfa  Country  Toum.  ^9 

^  Shall  I  vemove  faim?"  atked  Dr.  fivfoot 

^  Ohy  no!  not  yet,^  r^ied  Mrs.  Selby.  *'  Let  me  see  and  eomfort  lum 
fist ;  peiliapB  he  is  more  to  be  pitied  than  any  of  us." 

The  smgeon  soon  arrnred,  and  the  blessed  asswrance  was  given  that 
Mttle  Nellj^s  hurts  were  notinlhemselyes  at  all  daagerous :  the  fair  chedc 
-was  punctured  in  many  places,  as  were  the  hands  and  arms,  but  the  shots 
laid  not  penetrated  deep,  as,  ImppSLj,  the  gan  had  been  6red  from  some 
litde  distance.  After  extraeting  them,  the  surgeon  prescribed  quiet,  b«t 
the  child  would  not  rest  without  first  seeing  Cfaaiies  Howard. 

^  fie  did  not  mem  to  hurt  me,  marnma,**  she  said,  "  and  you  must  not 
he  angry  with  poor  Charlie.'' 

Airs.  Selby  fetched  him  herseli^  she  soothed  his  grief,  gare  him  hope 
4kat  the  aoddent  woidd  leave  no  ill  effects,  as  the  hurts  were  not  in  them- 
selves very  severe,  and  togediw  they  sat  hy  Nelly's  side  throughout  the 
night. 

The  monung  ibond  ike  watchers  hopeful,  and,  if  not  quite  cheerful, 
yet  happily  unconscious  of  coming  evil ;  but,  aa  time  wore  on,  it  be- 
came mamfest  that  the  healA  of  the  poor  child  had  suffered  a  grievous 
shock.  A  krw  nervous  fever  saied  upon  her,  and  she  grew  thin,  peevish, 
and  irritdble  ;  there  was  no  sleep  for  her  by  night,  no  rest  nor  appetite 
by  day.  She  would  seek  to  get  up  at  five — ^four  o'dock  in  the  morning;  and 
then,  pillowed  in  an  easy-ohair,  from  which  she  had  not  strength  to  move, 
she  would  sit,  coiled  up,  hour  after  hour,  watching  a  distant  comer  of  the 
room,  in  whidi  she  fanoed  she  saw  a  small  dull  spftrk,  which  would  grow  and 
giDw  and  xoU  towards  her,  widi  a  silent,  dreamy,  indistinct  motion,  until  it 
was  dose,  qdte  close:  end  then  it  would  seem  to  shrink  in  sise,  and  increase 
in  lustre,  and  separate  itself  into  two  little  points  of  dazzling  brightness, 
whidK  would  dart  through  her  ^es  into  her  head,  and  then  join,  and 
grow,  and  grow  again,  and,  atkist,  burst  with  a  duU,  dead  sound — i£ ^at 
may  be  called  a  sound  whidi  to  her  outward  ears  was  not  audible — and 
ker  birnin  would  turn  and  dance  in  a  giddy,  confused  whirl,  and  she  would 
£orget  where  die  was,  and  all  around  ner ;  and  then,  again,  like  one 
awaking  from  sleep,  she  wouM  xeodOlect  the  spark,  and  once  more  watdi 
the  ccmer,  and  once  more  go  through  the  same  fearful,  indescribable 
suffering. 

'And  then,  as  winter  came  en,  and  poor  Eleanor  ooirtinaed  still  strug- 
gling with  disease,  a  startling  fear  presented  itself.  Her  eyes  were  seen 
to  be  inflamed,  the  sight  was  weakened,  and  soon  the  light  of  day,  even 
of  a  November's  day,  was  too  much  for  her  to  bear.  The  malady  grew 
worse  and  worse ;  and  at  length,  as  she  sat  on  her  chair,  or  lay  moaning 
on  a  little  bed  made  up  on  a  sofa  in  the  parlour,  she  had  to  be  screened 
from  the  fitfrd  light  of  the  coal  fire;  and  the  curtams,  or  sometimes  even 
ihe  shutters  of  ike  windows,  were  obliged  to  be  kept  dosed. 

Weaiy  and  sad  was  the  long  winter  to  the  inmates  d  ike  Hitle  cottage. 
Of  Mrs.  Selby's  four  boarders,  three  had  been  removed-^(»^  Cfaaries 
Howard  remdned ;  and  he,  though  the  doctor  wished  him  to  come  to  his 
house,  poskively,  iiay,  almost  fiercely,  refused  to  leave  the  ruin  which,  he 
said,  he  had  mode.  For  a  time  he  neglected  all  his  school  duties ;  but 
when  Dr.  Barfi>ot,  after  ^e  la^se  of  some  weeks,  remoi^trated  with  him, 
and  said  that  he  must  write  to  his  father,  and  gethkn  removed  altogether, 
if  he  p^sistedin  this  neglect  of  his  studies,  he  suddenly  changed :  all  the 
lessonsaod  exeidses,  strictly  required  of  him,  were  got  dizoi^h  promptly 

B   2  Digitized  by  CoOgle 


240  Chronichs  of  a  Country  Town. 

and  rea^y ;  but  tbe  moment  he  was  released,  he  would  hasten  to  poor 
Nelly's  darkened  room,  to  watch  over  her,  to  moisten  her  parched  lips, 
and  to  tempt  her,  if  possible,  to  take  her  medicine,  or  the  refreshment 
which  hunting  nature  required.  The  glad  spring  came  at  length,  and 
poor  Nelly — no  longer  beautiful,  but  pide,  and  wan,  and  suffering — was 
carried  by  Charlie  into  the  little  garden.  Alas  I  alas!  she  could  no 
longer  see  the  bursting  leaf,  the  blushing  blossom ;  birds  and  butterflies, 
and  all  the  living  things  which  had  been  so  dear  to  her,  existed  for  her  eyes 
no  more.     Poor  Eleanor  Selby  was  blind  I 

Could  pity,  could  sympathy  and  kindness  have  softened  the  blow  to 
Mrs.  Selby,  die  would  have  had  no  cause  to  complain.  Nor  did  she 
murmur :  she  had  learned  that  even  in  judgment  God  remembers  mercy, 
and  she  submitted  in  silence  to  His  chastening  hand;  she  communed  with 
her  heart,  and  was  still.  Not  so  poor  Chariie  :  while  Nelly  slept,  or  when 
alone  with  Mrs.  Selby,  he  would  wring  his  hands,  and  weep  bitterly. 

"  You  must  hate  me/'  he  would  say,  *'  dear  Mrs.  Selby,  for  I  hate  my- 
self. Dear,  darling  Nelly  !  How  plainly  I  can  see  her  now,  just  as  she 
was  on  that  dreadyFul  day !  How  lovely  she  looked,  with  her  beautifbl 
glossy  curls,  her  rosy  cheeks,  and  her  laughing  eyes  !  And  how  every- 
body admired  her!  And  /—/have  destroyed  it  all!  Oh,  Mrs.  Sdby, 
how  you  must  hate  me !" 

One  day  in  the  latter  end  of  May,  Mrs.  Selby  spoke  to  Dr.  Barfoot 
about  him.  With  a  trembling  voice  and  quivering  lip,  she  said,  *'  I 
think  you  must  remove  poor  Charlie  at  Midsunmier,  Dr.  Barfoot;  I  get 
alarmed  for  his  health,  both  of  body  and  mind.  You  must  have  re- 
marked the  change;  all  his  cheerfulness  has  disappeared,  and  he  thinks 
only  of  my  poor  little  girl.  He  will  not  join  his  companions  in  their 
sport,  and  is  abrupt,  gloomy,  and  even  morose  to  all  but  to  Nelly,  me,  and 
tf ane.  Even  to  me  he  is  sometimes  captious,  but  then  he  mourns  for  his 
fftult  as  soon  as  it  is  committed,  and  promises,  with  every  expression  of 
remorse,  never  to  be  so  again.  In  short.  Dr.  Barfoot,"  she  added,  with 
a  burst  of  uncontrollable  weeping,  ^<  he  is  everythii^^  to  me,  next  to 
Eleanor;  but,  for  his  own  sake,  he  must  go." 

^^  You  are  right,  my  dear  madam,"  said  the  doctor.  '^  My  judgment 
has  told  me  this  for  some  time,  but  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  act 
upon  it.  You  know  Charlie  is  to  go  to  Addiscombe,  preparatory  to  en- 
tering the  Indian  army ;  at  Midsummer,  or  as  soon  after  as  possible,  he 
shall  go.    But  how  will  you  and  poor  Nelly  bear  to  part  with  him?** 

<^  We  must  do  our  best,"  said  Mrs.  Selby ;  '<  but  indeed  the  change  in 
Charlie  is  most  painful  to  me.'* 

Dr.  Barfoot  rose,  and,  looking  out  of  the  window,  saw  Charles  Howard 
drawing  Nelly  in  a  small  hand-carriage.  He  was  plucking  flowers  for 
her,  taking  to  her,  even  laughing  with  her  when  he  could  win  a  smile, 
but  all  with  such  a  sorrow^  heartbroken  eimression  of  countenance, 
such  a  look  of  melancholy  sadness,  that  the  good  doctor  felt  the  tears  fast 
coming  to  his  eyes. 

*^  Charlie  has  grown  very  tall  this  winter,"  he  said,  ''  and  is  pale,  thin, 
and  careworn ;  we  must  indeed  remove  him,  but  we  must  deial  gently 
with  feelings  such  as  his.  And  you,  Mrs.  Selby,  you  will  then  be  without 
any  resource  but  what  you  can  find  in  teaching  my  girk." 

<^  Do  not  consider  my  interest,"  she  replied ;  <<  God  has  supported  me 
hithertOi  and  will  not  desert  me  now.    I  fear  I  have  not  suffidently  at- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Chronicles  of  a  Cowitry  Town.  24l 

tended  to  your  daaghten  lately,  Dr.  Barfoot;  but  you  know  the  reason, 
and  Mrs.  Barfoot  has  been  very,  yery  kind.'' 

^^  Ob,  the  giris  have  done  very  weH,"  said  the  doctor;  ^  but  I  have  been 
thinking,  Mrs.  Selby,  or  rather  Mrs.  Barfoot  has  been  saying  to  me,  that 
ihej  would  be  better  out  of  our  house  now  than  in  it,  and  we  talk  of  send- 
ing  diem  off  altogether.  The  two  eldest,  you  know,  are  getting  g^reat 
giris — Mary  is  fourteen,  and  Jessie  only  fimen  months  younger.  They 
cannot  be  always  kept  in  the  schoolroom  or  nursery,  and  Mrs.  Barfoot 
wishes  them  to  be  sent  fix>m  home.  We  have  so  many  youog  gentlemen 
domesticated  with  us  that  it  would  be  better  so." 

During  this  speech,  Mrs.  Selby  had  grown  deadly  pale.  The  doctor 
observing  it,  paused  suddenly.     *^  What  is  the  matter?    he  said. 

*'  Indeed,  Dr.  Barfoot,  I  am  ashamed  of  this  weakness,  but  I  believe 
the  thought  struck  me  that  all  would  now  be  lost  to  me  at  once.  I  am 
not  ungrateful  to  you,  but  I  am  selfish  and  weak.  I  will  struggle 
against  it.'' 

<<  Why,  bless  me !"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  **  did  I  not  ask  you  to  take 
my  girls  altogether  ?  How  stupid  I  am !  Why,  we  want  you,  Mrs. 
Selby,  to  give  up  taking  our  boys — we  will  board  them  all  again — and  to 
take  in  exchange  our  five  girls.  Five  giris!  Only  think!  Whatever  I 
shall  do  with  (hem  by-and-by  I'm  sure  I  don*t  know.  But,  for  the 
present,  will  you  relieve  us  of  the  grievous  burden  ?" 

^<  I  have  certainly  no  objection.  No  objection !  Oh,  how  shall  I  ever 
repay  you  for  your  goodness  to  me  ?" 

"  Itou  have  done  more  for  me,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  than  I  can  ever 
do  for  you.  I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for  the  good  seed  which  you 
have  sown  in  the  minds  of  my  children ;  they  are  almost  all  I  could 
wish." 

<'  But,"  said  Mrs.  Selby,  with  some  hesitation,  '*  what  can  I  do  with  the 
two  Cooches?  Since  Eleanor's  accident,  they  have  come  in  alternately  to 
stay  witii  her.  But  for  their  assistance,  I  could  not  even  have  attended 
imperfectly,  as  I  have  done,  to  my  duties  at  the  Briary." 

«  The  Cooches  ?  Mr.  Cooch's  little  giris  ?"  said  the  doctor.  "  Pooh, 
pooh!  Mrs.  Selby;  you  think  I  am  a  second  Mrs.  Carthew  or  Mrs. 
Stoneman,  I  see.  I  honour  that  man,  Mrs.  Selby,  and  feel  his  kindness 
to  you  as  if  you  had  been  my  sister.  Let  his  children  come ;  I  only  hope 
mine  may  turn  out  as  well  as  I  think  they  will." 

Midsummer  came,  and  with  it  a  summons  to  Charles  Howard  to 
repair,  after  the  vacation,  to  Addiscombe.  At  first  he  rebelled;  but 
when  all  else  had  failed  to  reconcile  him  to  the  change,  old  Jane  found 
means  which  others  had  not  thought  of.  One  night,  after  he  had  gone 
to  bed,  riie  tapped  at  his  door.  "  Master  Charles!"  she  said,  **  Master 
Charlie !     May  I  come  in  ?" 

<'  Yes,  Jane,  come  in,"  said  the  poor  boy ;  and  the  kind-hearted  old 
woman  almost  wept  at  finding  that  her  favourite  had  not  slept,  but  tiiat 
his  pillow  was  wet  with  tears. 

''  Don't  cry,  dear  Master  Charlie,'*  she  said.  '<  I  can't  abear  to  see 
you  take  on  so.  This  last  winter  has  been  the  dreariest  mshtest  time  I 
ever  remember.  It  seemed  bad  enough  when  poor  dear  master  died  all 
of  a  sudden,  without  warning,  or  regular  illness,  or  anything  to  prepare 
us  like  for  loring  him.  I  thought  that  was  bad  enough,  but  now  to  have 
this  too  is  wiihty  suce  'nough.     StiU,  you  know,  if  it  pleases  God  that 

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242  Chrdniaha  of  a  Conntry  Tomn. 

IifisB  N^y  should  gaia  strength  to  bear  aa  operation — po<Mr  dear  little 
soul! — the  doctors  say  she  may  see  again." 

*^  Yes,  Jane,"  sa»i  Charlie;  ''but  Nelly  does  not  get  better;  she 
gets  thinner  attd  weaker  every  day.  I  am  a£raid  she  wHi  die  afiter  ali  l'^ 
''  I  hope  m^ — I  trust  not !"  said  Jane;  *•*-  but  that  was  not  what  I 
wanted  to  say.  While  mistress  liyes  and  has  strei^h,  Miss  Ndly  -wSl 
not  want;  bat  if  we  should  lose  mistress^  what  would  beeome  <^  hor? 
Mrs.  Burrow  ought  to  have  been  more  of  a  Mend  tiuui  die  has  been,  for 
we  are  the  only  ones  of  her  own  kith  and  kin  that  idie's  got  left  in  tiw 
world.  To  be  sure  she  did  send  a  kind  ktter  and  a  fiTe-poond  note  whea 
the  acmdent  hi^ened,  but  she's  going  to  leave  all  hsx  moatj  to 
strangers ;  she  told  me  so  herself,  so  Uiere  is  no  hope  there.  Now  Ftt 
tell  ^ee  what  you  must  do^  Master  Chariie :  yon  must  go  and  learn  to 
be  a  soldier  officer,  and  whoa  you  have  made  your  fortin  in  the  West 

lagees ^' 

''The  East  Indies,"  interrupted  Charlie,  who  had  been  listening 
eagerly. 

"  WeU^  weU,  west  or  east,  'tisn't  much  odds — they  can't  be  iast  apart 
As  I  was  saying,  money  is  made  very  fast  in  them  parts.  Why,  I've 
known  ever  so  many,  who  went  out  poor  enough^  and  have  come  bade 
great  men — colonels,  and  cap'ns,  and  majon,  and  ind^ven^eat  geni'men, 
and  I  don't  know  what  all.  Why,  there  was  that  young  wizaen^^GMsed^ 
lanky-haiiedy  warty^fingered  Joe  Tonkin — a  son  of  old  Tonkin,  the 
master  builder — ^not  very  long  ago  he  got  a  eadetship,  as  they  calls  i^ 
given  him  (though  whi^  they  want  smps  th^re  i^n  dry  land  flnr  Fm 
sure  I  can't  teU^perhape,  though,  'tis  the  ships  they  go  out  in).  W<^ 
now  they  telL  me  he's  a  cap'n  I  Only  last  week  his  mother  was  telling 
me  about  him.  She  had  just  had  a  letter  from  him,  and  she  said  he 
had  rode  to  Booge  Pooge  (that's  the  capital  o£  jdl  Ingee,  Master 
Charles)  upcHi  a  dbmbledory,  and  sat  down  to  his  wine  every  day  a£teir 
dinner,  lil^  any  other  English  gentleraan !  Now,  Master  Chadli^  yoa 
go  and  learn  to  be  a  cap'n^  and  make  your  f<»tin  too,  and  then  you  can 
oome  back  and  take  care  of  poiur  Nelly.  And  you  need  not  make  your- 
self uneasy.  Master  Charlie;  I  am  strong  yet,  and  can  work  fbr  them 
and  myself.  And  besides,"  added  Jane,  in  a  oonfidential  wh^»eiv  "  I 
have  saved  nigh  up<m  sixty  pounds — tiie  young  gen'l'men  that  have 
boarded  here  have  been  vesry  kind — and  so,  you  see,  they  are  provided 
£9r,  if  need  h^  for  some  time  yel" 

The  motive  was  supplied.  Charlie  consulted  to  go ;  and  though  not 
without  much  grief  at  parting,  he  stasted  on  the  appointed  day  for 
Addiscomhe,  with  a  {promise  to  NeUy  that  he  would  spend  all  his  vaea^ 
tions  with  her,  and  an  earnest  entreaty  that  she  would  take  care  of  her* 
self,  and  do  all  that  the  doctors  prescribed  for  her  good. 

Afiter  this  but  little  change  occurred  in  Mrs.  Selby's  establidmient 
It  was  long  before  Eleanor  could  be  reconciled  to  &e  loss  of  her  Mend 
Charlie,  but  the  alteration  in  the  domestic  arrangements  around  her 
fffoved  most  beneficiaL  The  young  Barfoots  were  not  as  strangers — ^they 
all  loved  and  pitied  poor  Nelly,  and  all  united  in  imparting  such  amuses 
ment  and  instruction  to  the  stricken  dnld  as  die  could  bear. 

When  Charles  paid  his  periodical  visits  to  Mrs.  Selby's,  he  found 
Eleanor  still  an  invalid,  pide  and  thin,  and  singulariy  tall  ^  h&c  age* 
The  marks  which  she  had  receiired  from  the  shot  were  scaredy  pero^ 

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Ckr&uteies  rfa  Comttiy  Town.  248 

tible,  but  all  trace  of  dal&h  beauty  had  fled  ;  the  ejef,  too,  still  eon* 
lanned  red  and  iaflamed,  and  that  b  in  its^  a  great  enemy  to  beauty. 
Charlie  laTished  on  her  all  he  eoold  think  of,  which  might  soften  the 
wetameas  of  p^petual  darkness^;  above  all,  she  pnaed  an  .£olmn  ^harp 
wkidi  he  had  given  her^  and  iii^iich  soaaded,  she  said,  as  if  kmd  pitying 
as^els  were  hovering  over  and  singing  to  hen*. 

Charles  Howard's  stay  at  Addiscorabe  soon  passed  away :  he  acquitted 
kimself  most  CTeditably,  and  received  an  appointment  in  the  Company's 
service  highly  honoorable  to  himself.  Before  leaving  for  India  he  paid 
a  last  visit  to  Mrs.  Selby's.  Like  most  last  things,  the  visit  was  a  pain- 
fdl  one,  but  at  last  the  parting  was  over,  Jane  had  said  ^  Good-by," 
and  had  tried  to  stand  in  the  doorway  and  lo<^  dieerful,  but  had  been 
oWged  to  rush  back  into  the  house,  and  indulge  in  a  hearty  fit  of 
crying;  and  Nrity  and  Mrs.  Selby  had  given  their  fuewell  kisses,  and 
stood  at  the  little  garden-gate  to  wave  yet  another  adieu  to  Charlie. 
K^^  could  not  see  mm,  but  he  turned  at  a  short  distance  to  take  a  last 
lock,  at  her.  Long,  long  after  would  he  reeal  that  last  look  I  Sh#  was 
just  pasmg  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  was  tall,  thin,  and  awkward-look* 
ii^ ;  her  hce-  was  pale,  her  sightless  eyes  were  red,  her  dark  luir  was 
poshed  back  hom  her  brow,  sod  as  her  mother  led  her  away,  Charles 
thoaght,  mA  Sk  deep  sigh,  on  the  beautiftil  fiiiry-Hke  little  croature  she 
had  beai  only  three  wrour  short  years  before,  and  contrasted  the  picture 
widi  iviuLt  she  was  now.  As  he  thought  of  it,  he  walked  on  dowly  to 
Dr.  Barfoot's,  whence  he  was  to  start,  and,  for  the  first  time,  felt  that  he 
could  never  fancy  this  quite  the  same  Nelly  ;  the  lovely  child  appeared 
to  lus  imaginatkm  to  have  perished  in  that  sad  acddent,  and  this  to  be  a 
being,  the  same  and  yet  anothw,  who  had  sprung  from  the  a^es  (^  the 
dead — a  being  to  be  loved  as  a  sister,  to  be  pitiod,  to  be  guarded  from  all 
evil,  but  not  to  be  admired.  '<  Yet,"  he  said,  ^  it  was  I  who  destrc^ed 
her!  But  I  will  make  up,  as  far  as  in  me  lies,  for  the  injury  I  mve 
done  ;  I  will  take  care  that  she  shall  never  need  the  charily  of  strangers." 

The  same  morning  Charles  Howard  started  for  Falmouth,  whence  he 
sailed,  almost  immediately,  for  India ;  but  before  he  1^  St.  Bennett's,  he 
soii^t  Mr.  Cooch,  not  only  to  bid  him  adieu,  but  also  to  beg  him  to 
watdi  over  Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor,  to  write  to  him  if  any  evil  occurred 
to  either,  and  to  draw  on  him  for  thirty  pounds  a  year,  which  he  woidd 
set  apart  for  their  use. 

'*  1  vrill  do  more  when  I  can,  Mr.  Cooch,*'  he  said,  '^  but  at  first  I  an 
•  afraid  to  go  beyond  that." 

*^  Tlutnk  you,  thank  you,  Mr.  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Cooch ;  ^  you  may" 
d^>end  on  my  friendship.  I  owe  much  to  Mrs.  Selby,  which  I  can  never 
ho^  to  repay ;  but  I  will  do  all  I  can,  and  while  I  am  spared,  I  wiH 
not  neglect  their  interests  when  I  see  a  way  of  doing  them  good." 

it  may  be  as  wdl  to  say  here  that  Charles  Howard's  offered  asnstance 
was  gratefully  but  firmly  refused  by  Mrs.  Selby. 

''Do  not  reproach  me,  Mr^  Coodi,"  she  said;  '*  Charfie  means  kindly, 
but  he  is  young,  may  c^iange^  and  even  if  he  does  not,  I  will  not  mtke 
Eleanor  a  pensioner  on  his  bounty.  There  is  no  natural  tie  between 
them,  and  though  Charlie  ^dnks  that  die  owes  her  Mindness  to  his 
tlioughtlessness,  such  may  not  have  been  the  case — it  might  perhaps  have 
come  <m  even  without  tiie  acoident,  and,  at  all  events,  it  has  been  God's 
win.     Besides,  we  reaHy  do  not  want  the  mco^ ;  though  net  zidi,  we 

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244  .Chronicles  qfa  Country  Town. 

get  oa  yery  comfortably ;:  besides  what  he  pays  us  for  hb  daughters,  Dr. 
Barfoot  helps  us  in  a  thousand  kind  ways  ;  and  were  I  to  be  taken,  I 
feel  certain  that  the  wind  would  be  tempered  to  the  shorn  lamb." 

*^  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Cooch,"  resumea  Mrs.  Selby,  after  a  short  pause, 
'^  I  fancy  Nelly  will  yet  regun  something  of  what  she  lost  from  that  sad 
accident  and  i^r-sickness.  Sometimes,  when  she  is  looking  better,  and 
always  when  she  sleeps,  I  can  trace  the  beauty  she  had  when  a  little 
child ;  when  sleeping,  dear  girl,  she  looks  again  our  own  little  Ndly. 
You  must  look  at  her  one  night,  Mr.  Cooch,  and  say  whether  I  am  not 
right*! 

"We  must  not  covet  beauty,*'  said  Mr.  Cooch;  "it  is  a  snare  and  a 
stumbling-block :  a  gift  that  &deth  away,  even  as  the  flower  of  the  field. 
And  yet,"  he  added,  '^  I  must  confess  that  I  should  rejoice  to  see  her 
again  as  she  was  ;  she  was  indeed,  as  Jane  says,  '  a  peifect  sunbeam  ia 
the  house.'  "       . 

Mrs.  Selby's  hopes  were  not,  at  first,  very  speedily  realised :  Eleanor 
had  entered  on  her  seventeenth  year,  before  any  eye  but  her  mother's 
saw  grounds  for  hoping  that  she  would  live,  much  less  be  restored  to 
health  and  beauty.,  But,  about  that  time,  a  change  became,  plainly 
visible  to  all:  she  gradually,  but  surely,  lost  the  appearance  of  debili^, 
tjhe  colour  returned  to  her  cheek,  the  poor,  thin,  white  hands  lost  their 
sickly  look,  the  limbs  were  once  more  soft  and  rounded,  and  the  height 
she  had  attained  at  an  early  age — which,  with  h^r  extreme  emaciation, 
had  made  her  look  ungainly — was  soon  no  disadvantage.  She  was  above 
the  ordinary  height,  but  not  too  tall ;  her  hair  of  dark  brown  was 
banded  back  phumy  over. her  brow,  and  fell  in  rich  curls  on  her  finely- 
formed  white  neck  $  her  lips  were  agsdn  ruby  red  ;  the  look  of  inflamma- 
ti(m  disappeared  from  her  eyes  ;  and,  in  a  word,  in  her  eighteentii  year> 
Eleanor  Selby  was,  notwithstanding  her  blindness,  one  of  the  loveliest 
girls  that  cotdd  be  seen. 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Burrow  wrote  to  Mrs.  Selby  that  she  had  a  great 
desire  to  see  her  native  place  (St.  Bennett's)  once  more,  and  also  wished 
to  look  at  her. property,  of  which  she  bad  a  good  deal  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. .  "I. will  come  to  you  in  a  fortnight,"  she  wrote,  ''if  you  can 
receive  me  ;  if  not,  take  lodgings  for  me  near  you.  I  am  growing  old 
now,  and  have  been  suffering  long  from  a  painful  disease.  My  time 
cannot  be  much  longer  in  this  world,  and  I  think  I  cannot  die  in  peace 
unless  I  see  St  Bennett's  onc^  more."  A  kind  invitation  was  the  replpr 
to  this  letter,  and  Mrs.  Burrow  came.  A  sort  of  feeling  of  dread  of  their 
expected  guest  prevented  Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor  from  anticipating 
much  pleasure  firom  Uie  visit — the  remembrance  of  the  scoldings  they  had 
received  about  the  roast  ducks  and  the  stooping,  was  still  vivid  in  their 
minds ;  but  when  Mrs.  Burrow  arrived,  all  feelings  of  the  kind  vanished. 
She  was  ^till  eccentric,  and  sometimes  rude,  but  time  and  sickness  had 
softened  her  much ;  a  great  deal  of  the  rough,  outer  crust  had  been 
i;ubbed  off,  and  some  sparks  of  real  native  kindness,  which  shone 
tbroug)i,  soon  ^on  the  hearts  of  both  mother  and  daughter.  She  im- 
proved, too,  on  acquaintance  ;  and  to  Eleimor,  ii^  particular,  her  manners 
were  almost  uniformly  even  fi;entie.  She  was  especially  fond  of  walking 
about  with  her,  '^usmg  her/'  as  she  said,  ''for  a  walking-stick,  while 
die  was  herself  eyes. to  the  blind."  ludeed,  she  seemed  as  much  pleased 
with  her  hosts  as  they  were  with  her ;  and  even  weQt  so  far. as  to  say  to 

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Chromcks  of  a  Country  Toion.  24$ 

NeUy  that,  she  was  ^*  wynj  she  had  heen  formerly  so  harsh  to  her  mother 
-—she  had  been  prejudiced  against  her,  but  knew  her  better  now/' 

She  was  very  communicatiYe  on  all  matters  connected  with  her  money 
affiurs,  and  often  repeated  the  old  story  that  she  had  made  her  will,  and 
g^ven  all  her  property  to  her  late  husband's  relatires.  Of  this  she  spoke 
80  firequently  that  people  began  to  talk  of  it ;  some  blamed  her  and 
pitied  Mrs.  Selby  and  her  daughter  ;  others,  among  whom  the  chief  were 
Mrs.  Carthew  and  Mrs.  Stoneman,  were  glad  of  it.  "  It  is  better  so,** 
ihey  said,  .**  for  if  the  Selbys  had  money  there  would  be  no  living  for 
thrai ;  they  are  quite  proud  enough  as  it  is."*  Old  Jane  longed  to  tdl 
Mrs.  Burrow  that  it  was  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  forget  her  own  flesh  and 
blood,  and  ^ve  to  strangers;  but  she  did  not  venture  to  go  beyond 
ihinldng  it.  £1ean<nr  and  Mrs.  Selby  agreed  that  they  were  very  glad 
Mrs.  Burrow  had  been  so  candid,  *'  for  now,"  said  the  former,  '^  I  shall 
be  able  to  love  her,  and  show  my  a£Fection  for  her,  wiliiout  b^ng  afraid 
that  my  motives  may  be  misconstrued." 

After  Mrs.  Burrow's  return  home,  Mrs.  Selby  heard  frequently  from 
her  ;  and  one  day  a  letter  arrived,  which  enclosed  a  cheque  for  no  less  a 
sum  than  fifty  pounds.  Mrs.  Burrow  wrote :  '^  I  have  been  thinking 
lately  that  I  should  like  to  leave  some  token  of  affection  to  you  and  dear 
Nelly ;  but,  as  I  hate  that  nonsensical  plan  of  giviug  mourning-rings 
and  brooches,  which  is  only  an  idle  waste  of  money,  I  have  determiiiMl 
on  trying  to  do  you  some  good  while  I  live  (by  which  means,  too,  the 
leg^y  duty  wil  1  be  saved).  1  therefore  enclose  you  the  sum  of  fifty 
pounds,  begging  that  it  may  be  employed  in  taking  Eleanor  to  London, 
and  having  the  first  advice  about  her  eyes.  Sight  is  very  precious,  and, 
if  hers  should  be  restored,  a  great  anxiety  woiidld  be  removed  from  your 
miad.  Eleanor  would  then  be  able  to  assist  you  in  your  employment^ 
and,  perhaps,  together  you  might  be  able  to  do  more  than  you  can  now 
— at  all  events,  she  would  be  able  to  earn  her  own  livelihood,  if  you 
iliould  be  taken  from  her.  I  would  ask  you  to  come  and  see  me  on  your 
return  from  London,  but  I  am  too  old  and  feeble  now  for  vbitors,  and 
lodgings  are  expensive  ;  besides,  I  must  be  economical  for  a  time,  that 
I  may  not  exceed  my  usual  expenditure  this  year.  But  do  not  hesitate 
to  accept  the  money ;  I  can  do  without  it,  and  my  heirs  will  not  find  it 
wanting.'' 

A  postcript  said,  ^'  If  this  sum  should  not  be  sufficient,  draw  on  me  to 
any  necessary  amount ;  I  can  trust  you,  and  am  determined  not  to  spare 
any  expense,  if  there  is  a  hope  held  out  that  the  deared  object  may  be 
attained."  * 

It  was  i^^reed  that  nothing  should  be  written  to  Charles  Howard  of 
iheb  journey,  unless  the  result  proved  favourable ;  and  a  fortnight  aiflter 
the  receipt  of  Mrs.  Burrow*s  generous  present,  Mrs.  Selby  and  her 
daughter  were  in  London,  where  a  celebrated  oculist  pronounced  a  most 
fisivourable  opinion  of  the  cascf.  Mrs.  Selby's  letters  to  her  friends  at 
home,  tliough  anxious,  were  hopeful ;  and  at  length  the  welcome  news 
arrived  that  an  operation  had  been  performed,  whidi  had  proved  per* 
fectly  successful.  Then  came  the  accounts  of  the  darkened  room,  the 
gradual  admission  of  light,  and  last,  and  best  of  all,  that  Eleanor  had 
once  more  seen  and  recognised  her  mother. 

SuQuner  had  attained  its  full  glory  of  leaf  and  flower  when  the  widow 
and  her  daughter  returned  from  this,  to  thiem,  most  important  errand  ; 

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240  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

and  when  they  amved  at  their  little  gaidea^gate,  and  pansed  tor  a  no* 
ment  to  look  at  the  front  of  thehr  modest  home,  covered  witii  its  laxnriint 
-veil  of  jesBamiue,  passion-flower,  myrtle,  and  roses,  their  hearts  were 
lifted  to  the  Giver  of  all  Good  for  the  great  mercy  voudisaifed  to  then* 
Dr.  Barfoot,  IV&r.  Cooeh,  and  Jan^  were  waiting'  to  receive  and  ooo' 
gratulate  thinaa;  and,  after  the  first  words  of  alfeeldonate  greeting,  the 
doetor  invited  tiiem  to  kneel  with  him,  in  thankfulness  for  the  great 
hlessing  they  had  received.  N^ly,  who  was  ^Atigoed  with  her  journey, 
soon  retired  to  resk, ;  and  when  ^  laid  down  her  head  upon  the  pittow, 
ii  was  with  a  feeling  of  happiness  and  contentment  too  perfect  to  bst 
long  in  this  wodd  6i  trial. 

Mrs.  Selhy  entered  her  daughter's  chambw  before  retiring  for  t&e 
night ;  and  as  she  stood  at  her  bedside,  she  felt,  in  the  fulness  of  her 
heart,  that  great  indeed,  next  to  her  God,  was  the  gratitude  she  owed 
Mrs.  Burrow.  While  she  stood  gaaing  vA  her  beautiful  girl,  Eleanor 
c^ned  her  eyes,  and,  after  looking  ftt  her  for  an  instant,  said,  fadf 
availing  her  uice, 

^  Oh,  mamma  1  when  do  yon  think  Charlie  will  come  home  1^ 

m. 

On  the  very  day  on  which  Eleanor  and  her  mother  returned  from 
London,  there  were  seated  in  a  room  in  Calcutta  (for  tlnther,  by  a  quicker 
way  than  even  by  the  overland  route,  must  the  reader  be  for  a  short  time 
tiBiisported)  two  young  ladies,  whose  fair  skills,  and — at  least  in  one 
case-T-fresh  blooming  cheeks,  would  have  satisfied  any  one  acquainted  with 
the  change  which  female  beauty  soon  undergoes  in  the  East,  diat  they 
were  recmit  importations.     The  apartment,  which  was  large,  lofty,  snd 

rions,  was  well,  indeed  degantly  famished  though,  in  accordance  with 
demands  of  the  cMmate,  the  principal  objects  of  attention  had  been 
coolness  and  shade.  Various  musical  instruments  were  scattered  about 
the  room ;  a  half-^aished  piece  of  fancy-work,  which  a  small  Italiaa 
greyhound,  unheeded,  was  mercilessly  pulling  to  pieces,  lay  on  the  matted 
floor ;  and  the  table  was  strewn  with  songs,  music-books,  water-cc^wnS 
aoid  drawings  in  various  stages  of  incompleteness.  The  eider  of  the 
sisters — for  such,  though  there  was  but  very  little  resemblance  betweeS 
them,  was  the  relationdnp  of  the  two  occupants  of  the  apartment— was 
a  ddicate  and  rather  pretty  young  lady,  of  about  two  or  ttee-and- 
twenty,  fair,  blue-eyed,  and  gentle,  though  rather  melancholy  in  expw^ 
sion  ;  she  was  half  sitting,  half  reclining  on  a  sofa,  and  turning  ovet 
the  leaves  of  a  book  with  a  listless  air,  whidi  seemed  to  show  either 
that  she  was  in  delicate  health,  or  that  the  enervating  influence  of  th^ 
dimate  was  beginning  to  have  its  efifeot  upon  her.  The  other  lady,  whd 
mip^t  have  beoi  two  or  three  years  younger,  was,  though  not  perfwi* 
strietW  beautiful,  a  fine,  handsome  girl,  with  luxuriant  Wack  haff,  bril- 
liant Uack  eyes,  ivory  teeth,  and  a  rich  blooming  cheek ;  her  face  wai 
rather  proud  than  winnii^,  but  one  that  might  be  made  very  wiomn^ 
nevertheless.  I%e  wm  seated  at  ^  piano,  but  did  not  appear  W» 
intent  open  it  than  her  sister  was  upon  her  book ;  fer  though  to  ^ 
gers  occasionally  strayed  over  the  keys,  ihtj  c^peared  to  do  so  rathtf 
■Mchanically  than  firom  an  action  of  the  will ;  but  this  seemed  to  proceed 
^more  fsomahaeBse  of  the  mind  than  from  Kstlessness^  lor  there  was  fl  hx^ 

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Ckronlcks  of  a  Cour^ry  Town.  84? 

of  <feep  thought  about  the  ejes — a  look  that  would  have  struck  one  as 
being  ratlier  out  of  place,  for  the  &ce  did  not  altogether  seem  a  thought- 
fol  one.  Hiere  was  a  smile,  too,  around  the  mouth,  but  neitiier  that  nor 
^ezpres^on  of  the  eyes  was  altogether  pleasant.  The  smile  was  evi* 
dmtlj  one  of  tiiumpn,  but  there  was  somelMng  else  in  the  look :  it 
might  have  been  calculation  ;  it  might  have  been  regret ;  it  might  hai^ 

been It  is  always  difficult  to  read  the  meaning  of  the  eyes,  espe* 

fiiSfy  when  they  belong  to  a  young  lady. 

AH  at  once  she  started  frcmi  her  rererie,  cast  a  half-glance  around  at 
her  sister,  and  then,  as  if  from  a  sudden  thot^ht,  first  running  her  fing«n 
oyer  the  instrument  in  a  l^;ht^  airy  prelude,  burst  fortliwith  into  the 
Mowing  song.  The  voice  was  one  ci  great  sweetness  and  power,  and 
had  evidently  been  highly  cultivated ;  and  the  young  lady  as  evidently 
possessed  great  skill  as  a  pianist.  The  music  itself  was  light  and  tri- 
ffing,  and  did  little  to  test  l^e  abilities  of  the  performer ;  yet  a  musician 
would  have  listened  with  pleasure,  and  with  the  knowledge  that  much 
more  might  be  accomplished ;  while  an  ordinary  hearer  would  have 
paused^  not  only  for  the  song,  but  to  look  again  at  the  singer,  every 
feature  (^  whose  face  seemed  to  express  the  feeling  of  the  words.  The 
look  and  tones  were  arch,  spirited,  and  somewhat  mi^dous — rather  too 
maHcious,  perhaps,  to  be  called  playful : 

"  Bend  low  to  your  lover,  my  lady. 

With  blushes  and  blandishments  sweet ; 
Bend  low  to  your  lover,  my  lady, 
Till  you  see  him  a  slave  at  your  feet. 

**  Bend  low  to  your  lover,  my  lady, 
•Till  the  altar  you  leave,  as  a  bride : 
Then  be — what  you  please,  my  fair  lady, 
To  tbecaptiye  that  stands  at  your  side. 

•*  Bend  not  to  your  husband,  my  lady ; 
Be  haughty  and  cold,  as  a  wife : 
The  bridegroom  you've  won,  my  fair  lady. 
Is  chained  in  youi  fetters  for  life." 

^  Really,  Faimy,  a  new  song,  and  sung,  to(^  with  great  spirit  and 
&^g  !"  exclaimed  the  elder  of  the  two  yocmg  ladies.  ^  May  I  ventort 
to  ask  whether  Captain  Howard  inspired  the  strain  ?" 

As  her  sister  spoke,  the  smger  turned  half  around  on  her  munc^rtoo^ 
aad  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  ;  but  she  did  not  answer,  and  the  cthec 


^'  I  caiBMt)  of  course,  suppose  that  poor  Robert  Sinclair  taught  joa 
that  soQg,  Fanny;  pray,  did  you  leaam  it  from  your  ncsw  admirer,  Captain 
Howard?" 

^  Captain  Howard  has  not  heard  it  yet,  Louisa,"  replied  her  mkat  t 
'^  I  do  not  tMnk  I  shall  sing  it  to  himjusCyet"    And  she  sang  agam.-*-* 

**  Bend  low  to  your  lover,  my  lady, 

'Till  the  altar  you  leave,  as  a  bride." 

^  Suiely^  surely,  Fanny,"  said  the  dder  sister,  ^you  caiiDot  be  going 
to  take  in  Ca^ain  Howard  too  !  You  know  ti^at  you  are  engaged  to 
Robert  Smdair,  and  that  ho  wiii  £»llow  ui^  to  India  in  a  &w  months  ta 
fosaj  you." 

^I  do  not  call  it  'takingin'  Captain  Howard,  as  yo«  poiitcfy  tem 

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246  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

it^"  teplidd  the  young  lady  addressed  as  Fanny;  ^^  if  I  ^ve  up  Robert 
Sinclair,  and  marry  him,  he^  I  flatter  myself,  has  no  reason  to  complain.*' 

'^  No  reason  to  complain  ?  Why,  I  suppose  you  will  lead  him  to  he- 
lieve  that  you  love  hiqri — you  that  have  heen  attached  to  Robert  Sinclair 
ever  since  you  were  children,  and  he  to  you !  Why,  you  know,  almost 
from  your  cradle  you  two  have  been  looked  on  as  lovers ;  and,  what  is 
more,  Fanny,  you  do  love  him,  as  well  as  you  can  love  any  one/' 

*'  Well,  and  suppose  I  do,"  said  Fanny,  <'  there  are  more  substantial 
realities  in  this  world  than  '  Love's  young  dream.'  Louisa  !  young  as  I 
am,  I  have  learned  to  look  on  love  as  the  great  He  of  life !" 

''  It  is  a  falsehood,  then,"  replied  the  elder  sister,  <*  which  we  all  wish 
to  helieve  in  at  some  time.'*  And  the  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone  of 
much  $adne6s. 

;^*  Yes,  Louisa,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  contemptuous  smile — <^  yes,  as  you 
believed  in  it,  until  even  you  could  believe  no  longer.  Nay,  do  not  look 
80  frightened,  and  colour  so  violently ;  I  will  not  whisper  to  any  one  that 
you  have  been  disappointed  in  love,  lest  the  birds  of  the  air  should  cany 
the  matter,  and  your  market  should  be  spoiled." 

<<My  market  should  be  spoiled!"  exclaimed  Louisa,  in  a  tone  of 
pique.  '*  You  are  singularly  coarse  in  your  language !  Could  Captain 
Howard  overhear  you,  perhaps  mine  might  not  be  the  only  market 
spoiled  to-day." 

^'  Perhaps  not ;  but,  as  I  suppose  we  are  safe  for  the  time  from  eaves- 
droppers, I  intend,  Louisa,  to  speak  for  once  very  plainly — coarsely^ 
if  you  please;  but  I  do  not  intend  to  deceive  you,  for  I  see  no  reason 
why  I  should.  Captain  Howard,  I  believe,  never  i^peared  to  be  con- 
quered by  your  more  matured  attr$u;tions,  though  he  does  seem  smitten 
by  mine. 

"  I  doubt,  Fanny,"  replied  her  sister,  "  whether  such  would  have 
been  the  case  had  you  appeared  in  your  proper  character  ;  but  I  must 
allow  that  you  are  a  finished  actress." 

^'  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  replied  Fanny ;  "  I  desire  no  better. 
Now  listen  to  me.  Bobert  Sinclair  is  very  much  in  love  with  me,  I 
believe  ;  and  T,  under  some  circumstances,  might  have  fuicied  myself  so 
with  him ;  but  he  is  poor,  very  poor,  and  though  he  is  of  good 
family,  has  no  prospect  of  being  much  better  off  than  he  is  now. 
When  our  good,  venerable  old  fool  of  a  father  thought  proper  to  many 
a  young  wife,  you  and  I,  Louisa,  had  no  choice  but  to  go  to  our  cross, 
stingy,  maiden  aunt,  Miss  Sarah  Somerville  ;  to  come  out  to  India  to 
our  married  sister,  Mrs.  Major  Ponsonby,  and  try  to  get  hushands  for 
ourselves ;  or,  as  a  last  resource,  to  remun  at  home,  the  overgrown 
daughters  of  a  young  mother-in-law — ^younger,  indeed,  than  you  are, 
Louisa,  and  not  so  many  months  my  senior  as  to  make  it  pleasant  or 
gracefbl  for  me  to  play  the  dutiful  daughter.     Now,  is  not  this  true?" 

^'  I  cannot  deny  it ;  but  why  repeat  all  this  ?  I  know  it  far  too  wdl 
already." 

"  I  repeat  it  partly  to  enlighten  you,  and  partly  that  I  may  put  my  own 
thoug^^'-"^--^---     -^     --^    ^-- '    .1    .  T  i    /  t       .1-.- 

sound 

when:    „  „  „ 

our  old  nurse  use  to  say  in  her  storied  <  wlbere  was  I  ?'  Oh,  at  the  pre<fica- 

ment  our  venerable  £Eiuier*s  youthful  blood  got  us  into.     We  determined 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Toum,  249 

then  to  come  out  on  speculation  to  India,  as  many  a  hopeful  damsel  has 
done  before ;  and  here  we  are,  and  here  we  have  been  for  three  months. 
Now  you  may  not  wish  to  observe,  or  may  not  be  really  very  observing, 
but,  in  spite  of  blindness,  natural  or  artificial,  it  must  be  very  apparent 
to  yovL  that  our  kind  sister  Ponsonby  and  her  martial-lo<^dng  husband 
Would  both  be  very  grateful  to  the  powers  above  or  the  powers  below  if 
they  would  kindly  send  us  a  husband  each.'' 

**  All  this  applies  to  my  lot,  I  am  sorry  to  say,**  answered  the  elder 
sister,  ^^  but  not  to  yours ;  you  are  engaged,  and  might  have  remained 
home  a  few  months,  and  then  have  come  to  India  provided  with  a  husband, 
instead  of  coming  in  search  of  one." 

**  And  so  spoiling  your  chance — eh,  Loo  ?  But  mind  you,  I  have  given 
yon  the  first  chance  of  the  market,  and  have  even  allowed  you  to  report 
privately  that  your  younger  sister,  ^  who  was  too  unwell  to  accept  invita- 
tions or  receive  company*  for  a  whole  month,  was  engaged :  I  am  not  to 
blame  if  you  have  not  made  the  most  of  your  opportunity.  I  might  teH 
you  that  I  did  this  out  of  pure  sisterly  afrection,  but  you  would  not  be- 
lieve me ;  and  as  I  am  in  a  truthful  humour,  I  will  allow  that  I  had 
other  and  selfish  motives,  which,  as  far  as  I  can  now  see,  were  wise  ones. 
But,  to  return  to  Robert  Sinclair.  You  say  that  had  I  waited  a  few 
months,  I  might  have  come  out  as  his  wife ;  but,  as  he  was  to  come  to 
India  at  all  events,  it  was  as  well  for  me  to  set  off  with  my  dear  sister 
somewhat  before  him,  and  just  look  about  me  a  bit  first.  Besides^ — do 
you  remember  the  baU  at  Alverley  the  week  before  we  left  ?  Well,  Mr. 
Sinclair  gave  himself  great  airs  on  that  occasion,  and,  among  the  rest, 
found  fault  with  my  dress,  which  he  dared  to  call — ^yes,  I  fear  that  was 
the  word — '  meretricious.'  You  need  not  be  told,  Louisa,  that  I  resented 
ilus  insolence.  He  said,  too,  that  I  flirted  with  every  gentleman  I  met* 
That  I  did  not  care  mu6h  about^  but  the  word  he  used  when  speaking  of 
my  dress,  filled  me  with  rage.  I  did  not  conceal  my  indignation,  and  we 
parted  in  anger.  We  met  again,  indeed,  and  exchanged  forgiveness,  but 
1  remember  and  resent  it  still." 

The  speaker  paused,  with  a  heightened  colour  and  flashing  eyes.  Her 
aster  then  said : 

<'  I  have  observed,  Fanny,  a  change  in  the  s^le  of  your  dress,  but  I 
had  no  idea  that  you  owed  the  improvement  to  Kobert  Sinclair." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other,  recovering  her  ordinary  man- 
ner ;  ^'  perhaps  the  hint,  though  rather  broadly  ^ven,  was  worth  attend- 
ing to.  I  have  told  you  that  I  still,  in  my  heart,  resent  what  he  said, 
but  I  would  not  recur  to  it,  if  Robert  Sinclair  could  offer  me  the  advan- 
tage I  covet;  but  he  comes  to  India  to  seek  his  fortune,  whilst  Captain 
Howard  has  already  highly  distinguished  himself,  and  is  a  most  rising 
man  in  the  service;  his  father  holds  a  high  official  situation,  and  has 
great  interest  as  well  as  great  wealth,  and  Captain  Howard  is  an  only 
son — altogether,  the  temptation  to  break  faith  with  Robert  is  very 
strong. 

<<  You  forget,  Fanny,*'  said  her  sister,  *'  that  Rob^t  Sinclair  has  an 
unde  a  baronet" 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  forget  it,"  replied  Fanny;  "  neither  do  I  forget  that 
the  said  uncle  has  two  sons,  and  that  one  of  them  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried. No,  no,  there  is  no  hope  of  my  ever  being  Lady  Sinclair ;  if  there  were, 
I  should  not  think  it  worth  while  to  assume  any  character  but  my  own 

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850  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

to  Captaiti  Howaid,  but  I  perceive  that  he  raiher  admires  the  aeatiffleBtal 
aad  delicatei  and — as  you  say — I  am  a  pretty  good  actress.'' 

^*  Still,"  persisted  iJouisa,  '^  I  cannot  approve  of  all  this.  What  wffl 
you  M^  to  Robert  when  he  eones?" 

<'  I  hope  duity  when  he  comes,  he  will  find  that  the  bird  has*  flowik 
Captain  Howard  proposed  to  me  last  nifffat,  Louisa,  and  will  speak  ta 
Ponsonby  to-day.  Give  him  a  hint  how  the  matter  staads,  will  you  ?  I 
don't  think  he  will  much  care,  so  he  can  be  rid  of  his  sweet  sister-m-law." 

'<  I  will  speak  to  Sophy,  if  you  wish,''  said  Louisa,  ''  and  desire  heat  to 
name  the  sdbjeot  to  her  husband.  But  let  me  beg  of  you,  Fanny,  ts 
re4Snsider  this.  How  can  you  hope  ever  to  be  h»ppy,  if  you  marry  in  this 
way — with  a  decided  preference  too  for  another  r  You  may  be  a  good 
actress,  but,  however  gifted,  you  cannot  go  on  acting  for  a  whole  life- 
time." 

'<  No  <Hie  does  so  for  &  whole  married  lifetime,  I  suppose;  but,  as  m^ 
SOBgsays, 

*The  bridegroom  you've  won,  my  fair  lady. 
Is  chained  in  your  fetters  for  life.' 

Once  fi>r  all,  Louisa,  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind  on  this  point ;  it  wifi 
be  something  to  secure  so  soon  one  of  the  best  settlements  in  Calcutta. 
People  say,  that  even  Miss  Crewe — ^tfaat  proud,  detestabfe  girl,  so  fall  of 
her  nigh  birth  and  her  great  expectations,  who  has  refused  so  many  ofifeni^ 
because  she  can  find  nobody  good  enough  f(H*  her — ^they  say  tint  eyea 
she  would  be  glad  to  catdi  Ci^>tain  Howard;  but  I  shall  have  the 
triumph  of  disappointing  her,  whidi  in  itself  will  be  np  slieht  grati&a- 
tioD.  She  dares  to  rival  me^  or  even  to  assume  some  airs  of  superi(»ity! 
She  has  the  vanity,  too,  to  think  she  can  sing !  Oh,  it  will  be  glorious  to 
annoy  her  I  But  here  comes  Sophy;  just  give  her  a  hint  of  what  my  in- 
tentions are."    And,  humming  an  air,  she  walked' carelessly  firom  ^e  reooL 

A  long  conversation  concerning  Fanny  then  ensued  between  Louisa 
SomerviUe  and  her  married  sister.  After  the  suliject  had  been  discuased 
for  some  time,  Mrs.  Ponsonby  said : 

^^  Do  not  distress  yourself,  Louisa,  but  let  Fanny  act  as  she  pleases. 
No  doubt,  soon  after  her  marriage  she  will  beg^n  to  siiow  what  her 
temper  is;  but  if  Howard  is  the  spirited  fellow  I  think  Inm,  he  will  con- 
quer her,  if  not,  she  will  conquer  him :  eith^  way  they  will  get  along,  I 
hope,  passably  together.  And  perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  right,  for  Captain 
Howard  is  certainly  a  better  match  than  Robert  Sinclair.  But  now, 
Louisa,  for  your  aiffair.  Ponsonby  says,  the  offer,  you  have  recrayed 
from  Mr.  Colman  is  quite  unexceptionable,  except,  mdeed,  as  regards 
i^e.  You  are,  I  beUeve,  my  dear,  twenty-three — he  is  twenty-five  yesis 
oMer;  and  Ponsonby  says,  ne  is  sure  you  may  do  as  well,  or  better,  if 
you  will  wait.  Tou  may  stay  with  us  until  you  have  a  more  eligiUs 
opportunity,  especially  as  Fanny  may  be  considered  as  positively  dis- 
posed of." 

^'  I  thank  you,  dear  Sophy,  for  your  kindness,"  said  Louisa,  ^^  but  Hr. 
Colman's  age  is  no  ol^ection  to  me.  After  I  was,  as  Fanny  calls  it, 
'  disappoint^  in  love,'  1  did  not  think  to  marry,  but  looked  forward  to 
devoting  myself  to  our  father's  comfort,  to  nurse  and  soothe  him  in 
sickness  and  old  age ;  but  he,  as  you  know,  sought  happiness  at  the  hands 
of  another,  and  when  he  did  so,  he  told  me  he  had  made  arrangements 
for  sending  me  out  to  you,  for  he  thought  it  qmte  absurd  to  keep  me 

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GkromdtB  of  a  Country  Town.  251 

bene  wbk  «  yoim;  inotiier4ii**]ftw.  I  bad  no  ohoioe,  Sof^ j,  but  to 
come,  and  now  that  I  am  here,  I  feel  no  metination  to  leek  «  yowig 
hadbfiad.  Mr.  Cokaaa  has  made  me  an  oSm^  I  have  explamad  to  him 
most  candidly  my  position,  part  and  present,  and  ke  has  consented  to 
tdce  ipe  as  I  am.  You  tell  me  h»  bears  an  exoettent  character,  and,  if 
TBB  and  Major  Ponsonhy  see  no  objection,  I  will  keep  my  pmtnisfr. 
Mot  do  nei  name  this  afiair  to  Fanny — I  dread  her  sarcasm." 

IV. 

.  JBuT  we  most  now  retrograde  a  little,  in  order  to  say  a  few  words  mose 
c^  Ci^tain  Howard's  aigagement  to  Miss  Fanny  SomerviUe  than  we  have 
heard  fram  that  lady's  own  lips.  During  the  few  years  which  had  elapsed 
siiiiee  Charles  had  come  to  India,  Ihe  reoolleddon  of  his  boyish  home  at 
St  Bennett's,  of  Mrs.  Selby,  and  of  dear  Nelly,  had  never  Uii  him.  At 
first,  he  felt  mach  mortified  at  Mrs.  Selby's  rejection  of  all  pecuniary 
assistanoe ;  but  tibough  he  repined,  and  even  spoke  oi  her  refusal  as  a 
slighting  of  the  filial  love  he  bore  her,  yet  still  somehow  he  xespected  her 
tbe  vkote  for  it.  **  She  may  be  right,"  he  said  to  himself;  ^*  for  ^diough 
poor  Nelly's  misfartune  prevents  any  shadow  of  im{NN^riety,  still  it  mi^pt 
be  thought  by  some  to  be  a  payment  accepted  for  the  injury  done  to  the 
poor  child  by  my  means."  Then  he  would  picture  NeUy  as  he  had  last 
aeen  her  at  the  garden-gate  on  the  morning  of  his  departure— pale,  diin, 
spiritless,  and  woe-begcxie.  He  generally  thought  oi  her  in  this  light, 
seldom  comparatively  loddng  back  upon  her  as  she  was  before  iim 
accid»[it,  and  never  winking  of  her  as  anything  more  than  a  child ;  for 
though  he  bad  heard  of  late  that  her  healui  was  much  restoredt  he  could 
never  realise  her  to  his  mind  except  as  he  had  last  seen  her; — ^that  last 
look  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  memory.  '^  I  will  go  to  England," 
be  would  say,  as  the  picture  assumed  reality  heS(xe  his  mind's  eye^"  I 
will  go  to  England  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  see  what  money  can  do  to 
repair  the  mischief — I  will  not  be  denied  by  any  one." 

During  all  this  time,  Charlie  had  continued  just  the  same  in  heart  as 
he  was  when  first  introduced  to  the  reader,  though  the  good-natured, 
manly  boy  had  merged  into  the  fine,  high-spirited,  handsome  man.  As 
Miss  Fanny  Som^rville  had  said,  he  was  looked  upon  by  husband-hunting 
young  ladies  as  one  of  the  best  matches  in  Calcutta;  but  Captain 
Howard  had  never  felt  tempted  to  make  an  offer  of  bis  hand  and  heart 
to  any  lady  engaged  in  that  pursuit;  his  whole  soul  revolted  from  what 
be  con^dered  ^  gross  indelicacy  of  young  girls  going  openly  to  marked 
and  though  he  had  admired  many,  and  even  flirted  witii  some,  yet  he 
had  never  paid,  ot  £elt  disposed  to  pay,  what  is  called  "  marked  attention" 
to  any.  His  friends  had  pointed  out  Miss  Crewe,  the  great  heiress,  as  a 
fitting  altar  on  which  to  lay  the  first  offering  of  his  affections,  and  the 
lady  herself  seemed  by  no  means  averse  to  the  sacrifice — ^which  fact  was 
the  nu»e  flattering,  as  she  had  already  numberless  suit(»»,  though,  per- 
haps, from  a  scMnewhat  too  high  sense  of  her  own  merits,  she  had  as  yet 
fftYOured  none — ^but  she  was  evidently  a  mere  woman  of  the  world,  and 
when  Charles  compared  her  vdth  the  ideal  which  he  had  formed  of  what 
woman  should  be,  ne  found  her  lamentably  defici^t 

Thus  unscathed  was  Charlie's  heart  when  he  returned  to  Calcutta, 
after  an  abs^ice  of  some  littib  duratbn  in  the  interior. 

"  But  have  you  seen  the  new  arrivaJs,  Howard  ?"  was  one  ^^^^glp 


252  Chronicles  of  a  Goyntry  Town. 

questions  put  to  him  l>y  a  bn^&r*officer-^^<  the  two  Miss  Somemlles— 
Mrs.  Major  Pousonby's  sisters  ?"  >    '^  i  .'. 

<<  Why,  no,": replied  Charles;  '^  I  have; neither  seen  nor  heard  of  them 
until  now.     Is  there  anything  extraordinary  about  them  ?" 

'<No,  nothing  very  extraordinair ;  except  that  they  have  come  out  to 
India  without  so  direct  a  purpose  of  selling  themselves  to  the  best  bidder 
as  many  have.  They  are  obliged  to  leave  home  in  consequence  of  ^the 
marriage  of  their  father  to  a  young  girl  far  beneath  him  in  society,  and 
only  a  few  months'  older  than  his  youngest  daughter.  Mrs.  Fonsonby 
tells  me  that  Miss  Somerville  has  come  out  sorely  against  her  own  wish, 
and  Miss  Fanny  is  engaged  to  a  gentleman  who  will  soon  follow  her. 
Miss  Somerville  is  a  pretty,  quiet-looking  young  woman ;  her  sister  did 
not  make  her  appearance  in  public  for  a  niU  month  after  her  arrival; 
she  was  unwell,  I  believe— -at  all  events,  it  seemed  by  ^at  as  if  there 
were  no  desire  for  display — but  since  she  has  come  out,  all  the  men 
have  been  raving  about  her,  and  nursing  feelings  of  the  deadliest  hatred 
against  the  coming  man  who  is  to  marry  her.  You  will  be  delighted 
with  her,  Howard.  She  is  a  very  fine  g^rJ,  and  a  splendid  musician,  plajfl 
divinely,  and  sings  But  why  should  I  tell  you  about  her  singing? 

There  is  to  be  a  small  music  party  at  Fonsonby *s  to-night ;  you  are  at 
home  there,  and  I  am  invited ;  let  us  go  together  V* 

Fond  of  music  as  he  had  ever  been,  Charles  Howard,  wanted  no  far- 
ther inducennent.  He  went,  saw  Fanny  Somerville,  repeated-  his  visit, 
saw  her  lai^  dark? eyes  sparkling  with  subdued  fire,  and  soon,  idas! 
felt  that,  when  turned  upon  himself  (for  Charles  Howard  was  a  good 
match),  they  show-ed  a  softness,  a  shrinking  delicacy,  a  half-conscious 
timidity,  which  they  wore  to  no  other.  Day  after  day,  Chartes,  uncon- 
scious of  danger — ^for  was  she  not  engaged  ?— drank  deeply  of  the 
poisoned  cup  presented  by  this  Circe,  until,  with  his  imagination  ex- 
cited, and  his  vanity  gratified  by  her,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  innocent 
partiality,  he  partly  declared  the  passion  which  he  felt. 

Almost  expecting  an  indignant  rejection  of  his  half- proffered  suit,  he 
was  surprised  to  find  that  the  hand  which  he  hdd  was  not  withdrawn ; 
and  that  the  large  full  eyes  were  turned  for  a  moment  upon  him,  and 
then  timidly  averted. 

<'  Tell  me/'  he  exddmed,  '^  Miss  Somerville— -is  not  your  heart  en- 
gaged?'' 

'*  No,"  she  said,  half  turning  away — "  not  until  now." 

Enraptured  and  intoxicated  with  love  and  gratified  pride — ^^for,  thoagh 
he  had  mixed  mui;h  with  the  worid,  his  heart  was  warm  and  fiesh  as 
ever — poor  Charies  Howard  was  in  a  perfect  fool's  paradise  of  happiness. 
It  were  needless  to  dwell  minutely  on  the  reminder  of  the  interview: 
sufiice  it  to  say,  that  Fanny  Somerville  succeeded  in  persuading  him 
that  the  report  of  her  pre-engagement  had  no  other  foundation  than  the 
earnest  vrisnes  of  her  friends. 

"  When  I  was  obliged  to  come  to  India,"  she  said,  *<  I  allowed  the 
report  to  remain  uncontradicted,  for  I  could  not  bear  that  it  should  he 
supposed  I  could  be  so  wanting  in  delicacy  as  to  come  out  on  a  matn- 
monial  speculation.  Until  I  knew  you,  Captain  Howard,  I  did  not  re- 
gret that  this  rumour  had  the  effect  of  keeping  me  firee  from  suitors ; 
since  then  I  have  learnt  to  feel  differently." 

Charles  drew  her  towards  him,  kissed  with  rapture  her  dewy  lips,  vtA 
went  home  to  dream  of  happiness.  /-   .^  ^.^  i  ^ 

^^  ■  Digitized  by  VjOOgle 


NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


A  ROMANCE  OF  CARLTON  GARDENS. 

BY  DUDLEY  COSTELLO. 
I. 

A  BED  jacket  and  a  birch-broom  by  day,  a  loose  great-coat  and  a  thick 
worsted  comforter  by  night,  a  quick  eye,  a  sharp  ear,  and  a  hoarse  voice 
at  all  times,  go  a  g^at  way  towards  maldng  up  the  individual  whom  the 
policemen,  caJbmen,  and  watermen  of  the  West  End  consent  to  call  by 
the  name  of  "  Gruflfy." 

But  he  has  other  characteristics  which  have  made  him  well  known  to 
more  distinguished  patrons.  The  loss  of  an  arm  is  only  an  external 
sign ;  Gruffy  has  that  yithin  which  passeth  show.  No  one  in  London 
can  deliver  a  letter  or  convey  a  message  more  deftly  than  Gru%.  He  is 
the  prince  of  street-Mercuries,  and,  in  the  regular  exercise  of  his  voca- 
tion, a  model  of  swiftness  and  discretion.  His  personal  appearance  is 
not,  perhaps,  very  suggestive  of  the  *'  delicate  Ariel,"  but  he  is  almost  as 
rapid  in  Ins  movements,  and  unlike  the  tricksy  spirit  in  that  respect,  he 
never  grumbles.  He  has  had  plentiful  cause,  however,  for  grumbling 
during  the  forty  years  of  existence  by  which  he  has  been  buffeted; 
but  the  ills^of  me  seem  to  affect  him  little  more  than  they  do  the  cast- 
iron  post  at  the  street-comer  agtunst  which  he  is  in  the  habit  of  leaning. 
He  quarrels  with  nothing,  not  even  with  the  weather — on  which  account 
he  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  pattern  Englishman — ^because,  as  he  observes, 
**  If  it  wam't  for  wet  and  dirt,  how  should  I  get  a  livin'  ?" 

**  Wot's  the  objick,"  says  Gru%,  "  of  fine  wether  to  a  pore  feller  like 
me  ?  If  it  didn't  never  rain  I  should  pretty  soon  have  nuthin'  to  do  ! 
Where'd  be  the  use  of  crossings  ;  wot  'ud  become  of  birch-brooms?  I 
mite  as  well  chain  mine  up  all  day — ^as  I  doos  sometimes  when  I  goes  of 
errins — a^  this  here  post !  Fine  wether's  only  fit  for  oldin'  osses — 
and  there's  a  deal  less  o'  that  than  there  used  to  oe.  One  never  sees  no 
idle  wizzitin'  gents  about  now ;  they've  all  gone  to  South  Orstraly.  Put 
the  case,  too,  as  it  was  auleys  moonlite  nites.  I  shouldn't  have  half  the 
carridges  to  call ;  there  wouldn't  be  no  stoppin'  the  way  wuth  speakin' 
On  J  no  '  Take  care  o'  the  weal,  my  lady  ;*  nuthin'  o'  the  sort !  Why, 
I've  known  a  good,  thick,  yaller  fogg — them  as  you  may  cut  with  a 
knife,  and  can't  see  thro'  nohow — I've  known  sitch  nites  wuth  a  matter 
o'  ten  bob;  ah,  and  more  too,  when  parties  has  lost  theirselves.  I  aint 
got  no  spite  a^n  the  farmers,  but  the  'arder  the  rain  comes  down  the 
more  I  likes  it ;  then's  my  'arvest !" 

Taking  this  practical  view  of  the  question,  Grufiy  shakes  hands  with 
foul  weather.  Exposure  by  day  and  night,  the  easterly  winds  of  spring 
and  the  searching  mists  of  winter,  have  somewhat  damaged  that  tuneful 
oigan,  his  voice,  but  he  is  reconciled  to  this  too. 

"  If  it  wam't  for  my  woice,"  he  says,  "  nobody  wouldn't  know  as  I  was 

Nov.— YOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCV.  Digitized  b^gV^OOglC 


254  A  Romance  of  Carlton  Gardens. 

on  the  spot,  when,  p'raps,  I  was  most  wanted.     Now  they  hears  me. 
*  There's  Gruflfy,'  says  they  ;  and  then  they're  satisfied." 

Few  people,  of  any  condition,  hare  a  wider  circle  of  acquaintance  than 
Gruffy  I  iluit  is  to  aa^i,  !•  knows  •yeryfaodj^  hy  tight,  -who  is  worth 
knowing,  and  a  great  maay  whoaiw n«t.  Iii4ng sA  the  West £nd, his 
tendencies  are,  of  course,  aristocratic,  though — not  heing  proud — ^he  can 
descend  to  the  inferior  classes.  His  sympathies,  however,  are  chiefly 
with  the  great,  and  he  has  a  hahit,  if  people  are  not  horn  to  greatness^ 
of  thrusting  it  upon  ^em. 

«  Wycount"  and  "Rite  ODXi^n^>le"  are  the  titles  he  prefers  hestow- 
ing  ;  and  he  appears  to  dwell  upon  the  latter  with  as  much  satisfaction 
as  Sir  Giles  Overreach  himself.  If  he  can  have  the  opportunity  of 
pointiogont  a  cabinet  minister  to  some  aferang^  in  Iiimdoii»  who  has^jost 
paid  Ub  footing— a  cenntry  member  of  paidiamenty.  or  gone  mfk.  vam- 
eent,  we  may  swppose — Gru%  is  happy  for  the  daju  Xhuing  the  lattflr 
port  of  Sir  ilobert  PeeTs^  hip  that  statesman  was  an  et^cial  £vreiint9 
with  him.  Now  and  then  the  question  would  he  put  to  him,  by  some  oot 
if»ho  was  aware  of  his  predikotion,  if  he  knew  m  late  Prnnakr  ? 

^ Do  /know  Sir  Bofain  Peel,  air  ?"  would  Gimffy  exclaim,  ''IsbeoU 
tbink  I  did.  Why,  sir,  there  now,  just  oast  yonr^yes  aJittle  that  wi^f— ' 
more  to  your  left,  sir — you're  a  loddn'  at  the  couum*— these,  thafis  Sif 
Robin  Ped  faissel^  ^e  tall,  stout  gent  just  a  tumin'  tbe  comer  by  Dram* 

monda — es — oo     os     oe ."     Gmfiy  has  a  difficidty  wiih  Ais  proper 

name ;  it  sticks  to  him  like  a  leech ;  he  can't  shakft  itoS.  At  last  h« 
gets  rid  of  it  with  an  e£brt^  ga^ps  for  a  few  momMits,  and  then  slowly 
says:  ^Yes,  sir,  that's  1^  Rite  OnnecaUe  Sir  Robin  Peel,  PrinM 
Mmistei^  thatiSk 

In  ear  out  of  o&ei^  it  made  no  di£GBreiice  to  Gruff^ ;  he  alwi^  caM 
Sir  Rob^  ^^  the  Prime  Minister/'  attaching  perhaps  a  peculiar  sigaifi- 
eanoe  to  the  word  <'  piime." 

Of  all  the  London  summers  that  had  passed  ever  Gruffy's  head  ffiioi 
first  he  called  a  coach  or  swept  a  orassbg,  the  one  thai  kat  went  W  iw 
the  most  eongoiial  he  had  ever  known.  As  surdt^  aa  tho  simdldfio^ 
shine  throughout  the  greater  part  of  it,  and  as  eertainly  aa  it  poured  oato 
and  dogs  every  day,  Gruffy  went  to  bed  wet  through — ^aiid  bi^py.  Tie 
mn  upon  him  was  pei^petual ;  his  multi&iaous  servioes  waie  m  coastent 
demand,  and  he  tlm>ve  accordingly ;  so  much  so,  tharii  be  b^paa  to  £m1 
uncomfortelriy  well  off. 

<<  Blest,"  he  was  oi«rheard  to  say  to  hia  firiend  J^  Sco)»*er^  A^ 
Haymarket  wateraaan,  as  they  wene  taking  a  pot  at  ^  The  Ai^^IeMk" 
togetimr — ^^  blest  if  I  knows  wet  to  do  with  my  money !" 

<*  I  shoidd inwest  it, Gaxj&yy*  replied ha.of  the badgeaodkatlier-aproO) 
giavoty,  **  in  Con-sols." 

"^  What's  Coo-eois  ?"  asl«$d  Gcu%. 

Mr.  Scowcraft  scratched  hia  head  aa  if  he  wfaan't  quite  ^pamd  wSk  a 
satisfactory  answer — a  prediaameQt  whidi  aometimcMi.  bwk  adviss* 
givers ;  at  last  he  said : 

^  Con«sols  has  summot  to  do  with  earn." 

«' Oh !"  ^aenlatal  €ku%. 

"Andso,"  confcinBed  Mx.  Scewcofi;^  ndlyiog,  '<  this  hem  bain' about 
the  wettest  season  as  IVe  ever  seen"  (Gitu%  nodded  assent)^  *'I  aheaU 
inwest  in  Con-eola  and  bay  up  com ;  it's  safe  to  rise." 

C  Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


A  Bomafwe  ef  Carkm  GmAni.  tSM 

The  (ndv  of  prooeedieg  xa«0Bimen4ed  liy  Ife.  Scoworaft  wm  xatker 
iiMadidffiiit,  bat  the  piiiunpb,  inthe  ai>ftraet,  was  goed. 
^  Wot  Mrt  o'  com  weohl  yoa  adme  ?"  asked  Givffj, 
^  Gate,  in  couFBey"  jeplied  Ins  friend ;  ^'tiiero  mi  no  other  kmd  as  I 
knows  of  as  London  bosses  can  do  tbeir  work  on;  beans  aint  to  be  named." 
The    *'  A&giesea "  be«  and  i^.    Soonorofili's  saggeetion  working 
together  gare  birth  in  Grab's  mmd  to  a  Teiy  pleasant  aeries  of  day« 
dreams,  as  he  bandied  his  broon  that  altenioon  somewhat  more  meoham- 
eaUy  tiumneaaL 

*'  I  wonder  bow  much  com,"  be  kept  saying  to  Imnself — ^^  how  modi 
eom,— and  coof^sels,"  ha  added — ior  be  saemed  instniotively  to  feel  that 
they  lepesented  the  same  ^iing, — were  joined  together  in  hohr  matri- 
moay,  and  coald  not  be  separated — *^  I  ooiild  bt]^  f(n*ser7en-pun-ten  and 
fourpence  ha'penny!"  that  being  the  sum  which  be  bad  temporarily  "  in* 
wested"  in  the  crown  ef  bis  ba^  wrapped  up  in  a  ragged  red  handker- 
chief. And  then  visions  arose  of  bis  supplying  all  the  cabs  on  the  rank 
with  bay  as  well  as  oats,  and,  how  in  tiine,  he  migiit  make  his  fortune. 

^  There  was  old  Crocky,"  be  said,  as  he  cast  his  eyes  up  ihi&  street 
w^ere  his  daily  pursuit  caDed  him,  ''  he  began,  as  I've  heerd  tetl,  upon  a 
wed.  errin',  and  see  wot  be  was  wu(^  afore  he  died." 

When  oooe  you  beg^  to  build  castles  ia  the  air,  it  is  impossible  to 
mBy  wtbere  yom  will  stop.  One  thinks — hairing  barely  just  enough  to 
make  both  ends  meet — ^how  comfortably  one  could  get  on  if  **  somebody^ 
woidd.  ieaveooe  a  thousand  pounds.  This  is  the  first  thoi^bt ;  but  with 
BMm^—- 4deal  tiioag^  it  be — comes  the  desire  for  more.  A  thousand 
pounds  ?  Yes;  diat  is  all  very  well :  but  why  not  a  thousand  a  yearf 
The  unknown  ^  somebody"  might  leave  one  as  easily  as  the  other.  With 
a  dmuaiid  a  year — say  two — or  five,  while  yon  are  about  itr-«  «ountry- 
lunae  aoid  setiro  land— 4t  might  as  well  be  a  paork,  with  deer  ia  it — seme 
ready  money  at  the  bankers' — a  few  railroaa  shares,  and^^  coiirse— 
soBie  fimded  property — why  not  twenty,  or  ¥rfaat  iif  it  were  thirty  or 
sixty  thousand  pounds  ?  You  see  there  is  no  limit ;  imagination  has 
taken  ^e  bit  between  her  teeth,  and  away  you  go,  oyer  every^ng ; 
pulM  op  at  last,  though,  by  a  double  ditdi  and  rail — a  tap  at  the  door : 
'^I^eacse,  sis^"  says  the  servant,  ^^it's  the  water-rate — two  quarters!" 
The  eld  story  of  Alnasdiar  ! 

"Bom  ha:  GmSj  had  adxranced  in  the  unattainable  land  of  Cocagnte^ 
we  have  no  means  of  knowing,  but  wherever  be  bad  reached  be  was  very 
mdeiy  dnven  o«t  of  it,  fivr  in  the  midst  of  his  speculaticms  a  eabridet, 
driven  by  a  gentleman,  came  hastily  round  the  comer  before  he  was 
mnre  ef  its  approaeh,  and  the  near  wheel  caught  htm  on  the  shoulder, 
and  sent  him  %ing  f nU4ength  on  the  pavement,  Us  broom  being  whaled 
in  caB  dimotion  and  his  hat  rolKng  ia  anothra;.  The  geatlemaa,  shocked 
at  the  aoeident,  ptdled  up  as  quickly  as  be  could,  and  jumped  out  to 
assist  bia  viotim,  but  before  he  «oidd  set  to  him,  Gru£Py,  who  hiekily  was 
only  half-stunned,  bad  recovered  his  legs. 

*'  Vhere  8  my  bnxna  and  my  att?"  said  be^  ndibiag  the  m^id  off  his 
fooo  and  the  sleeves  of  his  red  jacket 

The  broom  was  brought  by  a  bystander,  hut  the  bat  was  nowbete  to 
be  seen;  samebody— the  day-dnam  fiend,  perhi^M — had  taken  a  foacy 
taiA,  and  Mt  ftsaganniffiii  cap  in  ezduMige.    As  thena  were  two  or  thnee 

s2 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


256  A  Romance  of  Carlton  Gardens, 

narrow  courts  close  to  the  spot  where  the  accident  occurred,  the  individual 
who  made  the  exchange  had  found  no  difficulty  in  making  off  unperoeived. 

Gruffy  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  the  crowd,  to  see  if  the  hat  had — by 
mistake— been  transferred  to  any  one  else's  head,  but  it  was  nowhere 
yisible. 

"  There  goes  seven-pun'-ten-and-fourpence-ha'penny-wuth  o'  com  and 
con-sols,"  he  ejaculated ;  '^  one  comfort  is,  it  aint  left  off  rainin' !'' 

And  this  was  all  he  said  about  the  matter. 

"  Are  you  much  hurt,  my  poor  fellow  ?"  inquired  the  owner  of  the 
cabriolet,  now  coming  up. 

"  Only  a  little  shook,  yer  onner !"  replied  Gruffy,  giving  a  pull  to  the 
peak  of  the  cap  which,  in  default  of  his  own  precious  beaver,  he  now  wore. 

"  Wuss  than  that,"  said  one  of  the  crowd ;  "  I  b'leeve  he's  lost  all 
his  munney!*' 

"'Taint  no  odds,"  said  Gruffy;  *'I  mite  'ave  lost  it  a  spekilatin'. 
People  does." 

The  gentleman's  porte-monnate  was  immediately  in  his  hand. 

"  I've  nothing  more  about  me,"  he  said,  pressing  a  couple  of  sovereigns 
into  Gruflfy's  homy  palm,  "  but  here's  my  card.  Can  you  read  ?  Very 
good.  Call  on  me  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock ;  the  address  is 
there.     Now,  take  care  of  yourself,  and  don't  get  run  over  ag^n  !" 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  gent !"  shouted  a  baker's  boy.  "  I  s'pose 
Gru£^  will  stand  sumthin'  all  round." 

"  You  be  blowed,"  said  the  benevolent  character,  who  had  already 
commiserated  the  crossing-sweeper ;  "  Gmffy  'ad  better  go  home  and 
rest  his  nerves.     I'll  see  you  part  of  the  way  at  any  rate,  Gruffy  1" 

The  speaker  was  as  good  as  his  word ;  he  went  with  him  to  the  nearest 
public-house,  where  he  drank  a  glass  of  hot  rum-and-water  at  Gruffy's 
expense,  and  then,  finding  that  Gruffy  was  what  he  called  "  obsteameros," 
took  his  leave. 

When  this  accidental  fnend  had  retired,  Gruffy  took  out  the  card,  and 
spelt  it  over : 

"  Sir  'Ennery  Wernon — a  nob  at  all  ewents ! — twenty-four,  Vestbum- 
terriss.  He's  a  nice-spoken  gent,  and  iree-'anded.  One  pun'-nineteen,'* 
continued  Gruffy,  counting  Us  change  as  he  paid  the  reckoning;  "well, 
that's  a  good  bit  to  begin  with.  I'm  sorry  tho'  I  lost  the  ankercher,  and 
the  att  wam't  a  bad  un !  I  akes  a  little ;  however,  I  s'pose  I  shall  sleep 
it  off." 

In  this  philosophical  frame  of  mind,  Gruffy  withdrew  to  his  dormitory. 

*'  And  what's  your  name,  my  man  ?"  asked  Sir  Henry  Vemon,  when 
at  the  appointed  hour  the  crossing-sweeper  stood  again  before  him. 

"  My  reg'lar  name,  yer  onner — leastways  the  one  as  I  was  babtised— 
is  Campkin — that's  to  say,  James  Campkin.  The  last  was  my  father's ; 
but  the  one  as  I'm  auleys  known  by  is  Gmffy ;  folks  g^ved  it  me,  and  I 
answers  to  it  more  readier  than  any  other." 

"  Well,  then,  Gruffy — as,  I  suppose,  I  too  must  call  you,"  said  wr 
Henry,  "  before  we  speak  of  anything  else,  didn't  I  hear  something  yo^ 
terday  about  your  having  lost  some  money?" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Gruffy  could  be  brought  to  answer  this 
question.  He  evaded  it ;  said  there  was  no  harm  done ;  there  he  wss, 
able  to  sweep  and  go  of  errands  just  the  same ;  his  honour  had  giv®^ 

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A  Romance  of  Carlton  Gardens.  257 

him  more  than  he  had  any  right  to  expect  for  such  a  trifle  as  an  apset— 
and  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

«  That  would  be  all  very  well,  QmSy,*'  replied  Sur  Henry,  « if  I  had 
done  nothing  worse  to  you  than  knock  you  down ;  but  from  what  I  heard 
I  suspect  I  was  the  cause  of  your  being  robbed  somehow.  Now,  tell  me 
all  about  it" 

Thus  pressed,  and  haying  no  comer  left  for  his  honesty  to  hide  in, 
Gru£^  owned  to  the  particulars  of  the  deposit  in  hb  hat,  and  Sir  Henry 
felt  sure  he  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"  You  shall  be  no  loser  by  the  transaction,"  he  said,  when  Grufly  had 
made  an  end  of  his  unwilling  confession ;  ^<  but  as  a  bat  is  not  the  safest 
sayings-bank  in  the  world,  FU  find  some  other  place  for  you  to  keep  your 
money  in.     Can  you  do  anything  about  a  house,  or  in  a  stable  ?** 

GmSy  pointed  to  hb  empty  sleeye. 

"  God  bless  me !"  exclaimed  Sir  Henry ;  "  I  never  noticed  that  before. 
Poor  feUow  I  so  you've  only  one  arm !    This  is  really  distressing." 

"  I  manages  worry  welt  yer  onner,"  said  Gruflfy,  che^ully ;  "  my 
broom's  a  light  'un ;  it  pretty  nigh  does  all  the  work  of  itself;  and  then, 
for  taidn'  of  letters  and  such  like,  one  hand's  plenty." 

A  little  more  discussion  on  both  sides,  and  it  became  clear  to  Sir 
Heniy  Vernon  that  Gruffy  would  rather  remain  as  he  was  than  ^'  better 
himself"  by  becoming  "  domestical  "—a  position  which,  with  scarcely 
anything  to  do,  the  young  baronet  was  inclined  to  place  him  in.  They 
separated,  however,  on  the  very  best  terms,  Gruffy's  neart  being  rejoiced 
bj  the  assurance  that  as  long  as  Sir  Henry  lived  he  should  never  want  a 
mend. 

'^And  that,"  said  Grufify,  when  he  talked  the  matter  over  with  Mr. 
Scowcrofib — "  that's  better  than  all  the  Con-sols  in  the  world,  yvotever 
thej  is,  and  all  the  com  that  grows  in  it  into  the  bargm." 

n. 

Sir  Henry  Vernon  was  one  of  those  young  men  whom  all  the  world 
call  'Mevilish  lucky."  He  had  succeeded  to  the  baronetcy  on  the  sudden 
death  of  a  cousin,  of  about  the  same  age  as  himself.  A  good  estate 
accompanied  the  title,  but  his  fortune  had  been  greatly  increased  by  an 
unlooked-for  bequest  from  an  old  gentleman  with  whom  he  was  not  in 
the  sUghtest  degree  connected,  and  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  he  was  a 
child ;  to  crown  his  position,  he  was  spoken  of  as  engaged  to  be  married 
to  the  beautiful  Adelaide  Maynard,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Lord  and  Lady 


The  two  first  of  these  "  lucky  "  events  came  oflF,  with  the  interval  of 
two  or  three  years  between  them,  while  Vernon  was  in  the  East ;  and, 
on  his  way  home  to  take  possession,  he  had,  in  Paris,  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  third — Lord  Hermitage  being  at  that  time,  with  his  family,  on  a 
ysit  to  the  French  capital.  In  Paris,  too,  he  had  renewed  an  old  Oxford 
intimacy  with  George  Musgrave,  from  whom  he  had  been  separated  since 
the  day  they  left  the  University  together:  Vernon  to  join  the  Embassy 
^  Constantinople,  Musgrave  to  enter  the  Life  Guards. 

Of  his  Mend's  career,  in  the  interim,  Vernon  had  heard  littie  or  nothing, 
the  pursuits  of  a  diplomatist  and  a  fashionable  warrior  lying  somewhat 
^^y  apart.     He  only  knew  that  Musgrave  had  gone  through  the  usual 

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tSt  A  B»maneecf  CarltOH  Gardetts. 

niliterj  eareer  of  tbe  Ca^iy  HonMehold  Brigade^  wfaM,  for -the  meet  pv^ 
consists  in  getting^  a  troop  and  then  selling  out;  but  wkj  he  had  soU  mi 
Vernon  remanied  profbtmNUy  ignoraaA..  Had  he  beem  an  haintuS  of  the 
didbt  instead  of  a  wanderer  bevond  the  Boaphoraf^  the  knowledge  vMiild 
apeedify  have  readied  Imn,  hr  Af  usgnnre'alondnesa  lor  pk^  was  no  leefefc 
in  St.  James's.  He  found  him,  then,  a  ruined  man,  according  to  the 
uaual  parlluioe;  ^  ndn"  aigni^ng^  amoi^^  thoea  who  ave  highly  oon- 
Beetod,  oalj  the -means  of  oresaing  and  lirnig  bo  worae  tkaa  henr^  w^ 
this  difference  that,  instead  of  drawing  upen  your  own  hankei^  yen  iam 
vmfui  another  person^  or,  to  apeak  without  paniphraae,  depend  npon  an 
auaiwaBoe  fimn  yoiar  £ienda»  Musgrave  had  been  hit  Terj  hard,  faut^  ia* 
dependantly  of  the  gambier's  mTanabb  hope  of  a  ehai^  of  kdc  ikd 
should  one  day  fedeem  him,  he  had  cakulafted  on  the  auecessioB  to  a 
large  property  on  the  death  of  a  very  distant  rdation. 

But  lu  WiBirahain,  from  whom  he  had  espeeted  ao  nmeh,  had  bis 
own  reaaona  fin*  leaving  hkn  only  a  ooople  oi  himdreds  a  year,  beqaeadit 
tng  the  bidk  of  bis  fintune  to  the  son  of  an  old  fiiend^^fiir  Heniy 
VemoB-^who^  surpriaed  at  the  legacy,  would  have  been  still  m9n  mxt- 
prised  had  he  been  aware  of  the  relationship  which  eziated  betweea.  the 
testator  and  Mnt^nMre.  But  what  was  known  to  eirezybody  about  tovo, 
the  fact  hawing  been  loudly  prodaimed  by  Muagcerve  on  raoeiviDg  Ik 
news  of  hia  dwappointmeiit,  remained  a  complete  aeered^  to  Sir  fiaaiy 
Vernon,  and  whtm  the  intuna^  between  the  two  was  reneived  in  tfaeftn*" 
bowgSt  Honor6,  the  latter  l^e  thought  he  had  taken  to  his  baioiB  Us 
deadi^stlbe* 

Musgrave  was  naturally  a  proud  man,  of  a  bittei^  linfor^ving  spmt, 
wUch,  under  all  chmimstancee  aave  one,  would  have  kept  him  aLoafiroin 
hie  ^uenjiMn  fiieiid.  But  ihe  aaer^ce  o£  bos  aelf-esteen^  that  wont  of 
all  moral  abasements,  tai^^  in  the  wretched  adioel  in  i^ieh  he  hadkii^ 
graduated,  had  made  money-getting  the  only  object  of  his  life,  and  he 
cared  not  what  were  the  means  he  employed  to  recover  that  of  which,  he 
tried  to  persuade  himself,  he  had  been  so  unjustly  deprived,  as  well  by  the 
:Aait>ers  whose  dope  he  had  first  been,  and  then  their  eonfederata,  as  by 
^^  ^  mfemid  old  seoundreT — so  he  calied  Mr.  Wilbrtihaaa  who  bad  oat 
iam  off  wfth  ^  such  a  beggarly  pittanee." 

Beaidea  akyi  ait  play»  and  no  tenderness  >of  oonseieace  to  nadifir  tint 
dkifl,  Mii0gi«ve  had,  he  fanded,  yet  another  string  to  his  bow  fer  toe  aa* 
Crieyal  of  hia  iaHen  fortunes.  He  had  still  the  raoniiia  of  a  TOfy  haad^ 
aeme  peraon— w«a  M  in  diasipation  only,  not  in  yeara-^hia  ooentxioitt 
wefe  hi^  and  the  etUrSe  into  some  ef  the  beat  houaea  waa  not  rAui 
him ;  wl^  then  should  he  doubt  about  making  an  advantageoos  atf^ 
liage?  Belbre  t^  Henry  Vernon's  arrival  in  Faiia,  he  had  ao^Dad  a  good 
deal  in  the  socnely  of  Lord  and  Lady  Hennttage,  aul  hadfallen  violeady 
in  love  with  Adelaide  Maynard,  whoae  fortune,  even  more  than  b« 
beauty,  r^dmed  her  in  hia  eyea  a  moat  eligible  partis  He  bad  abaady 
begun  to  flatter  himaelf,  though  upon  no  better  aamraitfta  1&a&  hiS'  aan 
ksagination,  that  he  Ittid  made  some  prognai  in  the  lad/a  tSetA^ 
when  Vernon  waa  enddeniy  thrown  in  ma  waf  . 

Musgrave  had  long  yearned  for  the  chance  of  ^  pickiiM^  op''  aoew  oaa 
wUk  i^ty  of  money,  whom  he  might  keep  all  to  hinaawf ;  and  ba  did 
net  neglect  the  importunity  wkniek  now  ofiBwad.  When  first  d»  ^ 
Baet,  Vernon  knew  no  one  in  Paris,  and  he,  tfaeoefore,  wiilijigly  aataded 

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A  BemoMee  of  Carlton  Gardent.  2S9 

to  Mofgnkve's  proposal,  that  tfaey  sliould  live  togeliier  dmring  Ae  tibne  fat 
sfeaijred.  YcBBoa's  hakku  irare  not  greganoua,  and  Mu^praire  took  vary 
good  eare  that  nobody  else  ^oidd  ^eot  in."  He,  aoeoxdingly,  ^^gnw 
bimaelf  n^"" — as  he  said — *^  entiiely  "  to  his  finend,  perfoocmed  the  part  o£ 
emermte  in  the  meet  amiable  and  £aiiterested  mamra^  and  soon  became 
4^te  indispensable.  However  eager  to  coosmenee  operations  after  ikm 
fashion  he  meditated,  Mnagrave  was  eareM  not  to  break  grovnd  too 
soon ;  but  as  soon  as  he  perceived  that  Vernon  was  beginnii^  to  weaajr 
of  the  ofdinary  amusements  of  the  place,  he  cautiously  made  his  ap- 
pvoaefaes.  An  accidental  cireumstance  also  came  to  his  assistaaeeu  One 
B^y^  as  tiiey  weie  entenbg  their  hotel,  Vernon's  foot  slipped  fioom,  the 
trottoir^  and  he  grained  his  ankle.  He  was  consequently  oblig»ed  to 
ke^  hk  room^  and,  dunng  his  eonfinenient,  Musgrave'e  attention  was 
most  devoted.  He  brought  Vernon  the  newest  novels  aad  earicataes, 
sat  and  talked  with  him  half  the  morning;  and  when  he  leff  him  lor  an 
hour  or  two,  to  perform  some  neeessaiy  oommbsion,  never  setaned 
niihaut  a  store  of  aneodote  wherewith  to  enliven  t^  evening. 

Bid;  iSlaB  best  ruemUewr  in  the  world  may  sometimes  %MBg^  snd  a  male 
tke-^'^ie — ^perhaps  evien  a  composite  one — cannot  endure  €v  evec,  on 
conTersation  alone.  In  mercy  to  lus  friend,  thereAnre,  who  nnist  be 
tired,  Musgrave  said,  of  hearing  his  tongue  go  for  ever,  what  if  theji 
were  to  tiy  and  vary  the  t^ii^  a  htde  by  a  quiet  gfame  at  eoariie.  Did 
VenMm  understand  the  game  ?  No !  Well,  Musgrave  would  tneh  him/ 
It  was  very  simple ;  any  child  could  learn  all  about  it  in  the  first  hand  ^ 
you  had  only  to  follow  one  or  two  very  easy  roles,  which  yon  oonki  not 
Ibrget  when  onoe  you,  had  learnt  them,  and  the  players  were  at  enoe  on 
an  eqnahty.  Ifiot  that  that  ogn^ed  mu<^,  as  they  ^Muld  oidy  play  Ssm 
amnseaient.  Neither  did  they  at  first,  till  Sir  Henry  began  almost  to 
tire  of  beating  his  master.  A  bright  thought  then  siruek  Mnsgim^. 
He  paroeiTed  that  Vernon  wanted  something  more  to  ex^te  htm.  A 
saall  stake  would  do  that;  it  wouki  create  am  object  Unlesi  eae  has 
some  object  in  this  world  everything  ends  in  ennuL  So  a  tiiffing  anm 
was  set  upon  the  issue,  and  the  amusement  entered  upon  a  new  phase. 

It  was  by  no  stale  device  of  suffering  his  friend  to  win  in  the  outset 
(with  the  view  of  suddenly  reversing  the  position),  that  Musgrave  in- 
duced Vemon  to  play.  His  purpose  was  to  make  bdm  Uke  ]^y,  as  well 
hoBi  the  cheeks  whioh  he  received  as  finm  the  advantages  he  gainML 
Tbne  wevdd  be  time  enoQ^  to  make  ihib  grai^  eoup  when  the  ennte- 
ment  of  gancMnc  had  b^ome  the  necessity  of  his  life.  This  vesalt 
seemed  of  pvobi^  attainment,  fbr  tiie  cure  of  the  sprain  was  a  tediouB 
process,  and,  nothing  appeared  to  while  away  the  time  so  pleasantly  as 
ecarie.  The  stakes,  of  course,  increased,  and  with  their  incnease  the 
flactnaticws  of  the  game;  hut  these  wove  so  skilfolly  managed  that  it 
was  negst  to  imposnble  to  imagine  anything  like  pre-arrangement.  Ai 
the  end  of  six  weeks  ikea — ^  Vernon's  eonfinewent  lasted  so  lonfl"*^ 
the  baianoe  between  the  ^o  payers  was  almost  ev^y  strvek.  A  ma^kk, 
advantMe  was,  peihaps,  on  MUsgrave^s  side;  hut  that  went  for  nothmg 
in  his  owmkitaoa-<-4ns  leal  socoess  <x)nsisted  in  haviog  fanititarised  Vemsa 
with  ^  praodoe  of  risking  large  eums,  and  findii^  a  pleasmein  doing 
m*     ¥et.a  UtHie  loofifer^  and  the  pear  woidd  be  ripe. 

It  happened,  at  '£is  juncture,  <m  the  day  Vemon  €rrt  went  out  alona 
aftcir  hb  aeeidei^  thatt  ^«raaenoo«ntered  in  tSie  street  bjran  oiki  htvdier 

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260  A  Romance  of  Carbon  Gardens^ 

attache,  with  whom  he  had  served  in  Fera,  and  who,  in  the  absence  of 
his  chief,  was  charge  d'affaires  in  Paris.  Manners,  that  was  his  name, 
pressed  Vernon  so  earnestly  to  come  to  the  Embassy,  that  he  consented 
to  dine  there  the  same  day,  and  the  acceptance  of  the  invitation  led 
to  consequences  fatal  to  the  schemes  which  Musgrave  had  so  artfully 
contrived,  for  the  Hermitages  were  of  the  party,  and  Vernon  found,  in 
Adelaide  Maynard,  an  object  that  was  indeed  worthy  the  dedication  of 
all  his  thoughts. 

Musgrave  did  not  immediately  perceive  that  his  prey  had  esci^d  him, 
but  ascribed  Sir  Henry's  absence  from  their  usual  tete-a-tete  dinners,  for 
the  first  few  days,  to  the  desire  for  variety  which  was  natural  after  having 
been  shut  up  so  long. 

"He  vrill  come  back  of  his  own  accord,"  thought  Musgrave,  "and 
then  I  shall  have  him  fEister  than  ever ;  when  once  he  has  fciirly  taken 
the  bait  ag£n,  I  will  hook  and  land  him." 

But  when  a  week  had  gone  by,  and  Vernon  made  no  sign  ;  when  he 
declined  every  proposition  for  amusement,  either  out  of  doors  or  in  ;  and 
when,  by  his  pre-occupation  at  home,  and  his  eagerness  to  go  forth  alone, 
Vernon  made  it  clear  to  a  much  less  acute  or  interested  observer  than 
Musgrave  that  some  great  change  had  been  wrought  in  him,  the  latter 
set  about  at  once  to  discover  the  cause. 

To  his  bitter  mortification  he  found  that  Vernon  was  in  love,  and, 
worse,  that  she  who  had  won  his  heart  was  the  lady  whom  he  had  selected 
as  his  own  prize.  He  secretly  cursed  his  own  folly  in  having,  as  he 
phrased  it,  given  his  intended  victim  "  so  much  line  ;"  but  he  sirred  no 
outward  token  to  show  how  deeply  he  felt  the  blow.  He  would  bide  his 
time :  if  he  could  not  prevent  his  friend  from  following  "  this  new  fancy," 
he  might  find  the  means  of  destroying  his  hopes,  and,  that  accompHshed, 
he  felt  sure  of  getting  him  once  more  within  his  toils  and  more  securely 
then  than  ever.  So  Musgrave  stood  apart  for  the  present,  watching  the 
progress  of  events,  and  meditating  a  deeper  revenge  on  the  man  who  had 
now  for  the  second  time  crossed  his  path. 

HI. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  that  the  one-armed  crossing-sweeper 
departed,  rejoicing,  from  the  presence  of  his  new  patron.  Lady  Hermitage 
gave  a  grand  ball  at  her  house  in  Carlton  Gardens.  It  was  the  event  of 
the  season,  and  all  the  fashionable  world  thronged  to  it,  including  Grufiy, 
who  attended,  not  so  much  on  account  of  the  halo  of  fashion  that  sur- 
rounded him,  as  of  the  utility  of  his  services  on  the  pavement. 

A  treacherous  interval  of  two  fine  days,  about  the  middle  of  July, 
had  deluded  the  public  mind  into  the  belief  that  summer  had  come  at 
last,  and  meant  to  stay.  Lady  Hermitage  fell  into  the  prevailing  error, 
and  resolved  upon  making  her  ball  as  much  of  sifete  champetre  as  the 
garden  attached  to  her  house  would  admit  of,  and  the  camp-fever  being 
then  at  its  height,  Mr.  E^lgington's  capabilities  were  put  in  requisition, 
and  the  horticultural  space,  by  dint  of  marquees  and  other  tented  con- 
trivances, was  made  very  nearly  to  resemble  the  royal  pavilion  at  Chob- 
ham.  If  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  Lady  Hermitage,  yjbu  will 
know  that  her  garden  is  not  divided  from  the  street  by  one  of  thcJae  aris- 
tocratic brick  walls  which  there  is  no  seeing  through^  but  is  sepaJ&ied  by 

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1 


A  Romance  of  Carlton  Gardens.  261 

Un  iron  railing,  lined,  on  the  inside,  by  such  shrubs  as  London  allows  to 
grow.  This  condition  of  things  does  not  appear  fieiTOurable  to  alfreico 
party-giving,  which,  in  high  life,  aims  at  ezclusiveness ;  but  Lady  Her- 
mitage was  what  is  called  **  popular,"  and  rather  liked  the  idea  of  sharing 
her  entertainment  with  the  public ;  not  that  the  outsiders  had  much, 
after  all,  to  rejoice  in. 

Lady  Hermitage's  '^  camp^dansant/*  as  the  fSte  was  called  on  the  in- 
vitation cards,  would  no  doubt  have  .been  perfect  in  its  way,  but  for  a 
slight  contretemps:  the  glass  fell  on  the  morning  of  the  party,  and 
shortly  afterwards  the  rain  fell  with  it,  to  the  extreme  disgust  of  every- 
body in  London,  Grufiy  and  the  cab-driving  community  of  course  ex- 
cepted. Rain,  as  we  have  said,  was  the  crossing-sweeper's  element,  and 
with  even  more  than  his  wonted  alacrity,  he  turned  out  ^'  for  dooty  "  in 
Carlton  Gardens. 

As  there  is  nothing,  however,  that  keeps  people  away  from  a  first-rate 
London  party  in  the  height  of  the  season,  Lady  Hermitage  was  disap- 
pointed of  scarcely  a  single  guest.  Every  kind  of  condolence  was  natu- 
rally expressed  and  laughed  off  in  the  usual  way,  and  except  the  glimpse 
you  got,  as  you  entered,  of  a  number  of  dim  lamps  doing  their  best  to 
illumine  a  long  vista  of  striped  canvas  and  flowering  plants,  there  was 
nothing  to  remind  you  of  the  nature  of  the  projected  entertainment. 
Lady  Hermitage,  notwithstanding,  was  not  willing  that  all  the  pains  she 
had  taken  should  be  utterly  thrown  away ;  so  the  marquees  were  lit  up, 
and  the  flowers  left  to  show  what  might  have  been  had  the  skies  only 
proved  propitious.  There  the  place  was,  if  you  liked  to  take  a  peep  at  it; 
if  not,  brilliant  saloons  awuted  you,  ^^  with  no  alloying"  damp  and 
rheumatism — the  ordinary  concomitants  of  out  of  doors'  amusements  in 
England. 

Amongst  the  "  everybody"  present  were,  of  course,  the  principal  per- 
sonages already  mentioned  in  the  course  of  this  narrative.  Sir  Henry 
Vernon  and  Captain  Musgrave.  They  had  seen  very  little  of  each  other 
since  the  former  became  intimate  at  the  Hermitages',  but  Musgrave 
having  kept  his  own  counsel,  no  cause  existed  why  Sir  Henry  should  cut 
his  friend,  except  the  simple  one  that  when  a  man  is  in  love  he 
avoids  everybody  but  the  object  of  his  affections.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
Musgrave  refrained  from  throwing  himself  in  Vernon's  way,  he  was  far 
from  having  lost  an  interest  in  his  proceedings.  He  knew,  through  an 
assured  channel,  the  exact  condition  in  which  matters  stood  with  Miss 
Maynard.  They  were  not  quite  so  far  advanced  as  the  world  supposed, 
but,  unless  some  untoward  event  occurred,  there  seemed  every  likelihood 
that  out  of  the  many  who  sighed,  Vernon  would  be  the  happy  man.  It 
was  to  get  up  *'  the  untoward  event"  that  Musgrave  secretly  laboured. 

Sir  Henry  Vernon  was  an  excellent  fellow,  but  he  had  m  his  disposi- 
tion a  spice  of  that  quality  without  which,  they  say,  true  love  cannot 
exist — ^he  could  not  help  being  more  or  less  jealous  of  all  who,  like  him- 
self pretended  to  the  hand  of  Mies  Maynard.  The  individual  who  en-» 
grossed  the  greater  part  of  this  feeling  was  a  handsome  yoimg  French- 
man called  the  Comte  Alexis  de  Clerval,  who  numbered  Musgrave 
among  his  most  intimate  associates.  With  a  candour  which  did  him 
honour,  Musgrave,  in  encouraging  Clerval  to  pay  his  addresses  to  the 
young  English  beauty,  told  him  that  any  fancy  which  he  might  have 
once  entertained  for  Adelaide  Maynard  had  long  since  past  away,  and 

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262  A  Rammice  of  Cca^m  Crordem. 

diat,  in  poiiit  of  ht^  he  was  engaged  to  In  mamed  ebei^re;  Ai 
Mwgiraspe  added  iAoA  it  was  to  some  one  ^'  beatwwip  pku  riche/'  the 
FoBncbman  readity  believed  liim,  and  omitted  no  opportnoitj  ef  mnJiaa^ 
htmself  agDoeabie  to  the  daughter  of  Lord  HeinntagsB.  It  most  be 
obferred,  par  pareniheae,  that  Monsiomr  de  Clerwd's  noraiky  wu  set 
of  a  much  higher  standard  than  that  of  the  ex-Lifeguardsman;  tb^  had, 
indeed,  too  many  pursuits  in  common  for  sneh  to  be  ihe  ease. 

*^  Man  cber  Alexi%"  whiif>ered  Mnsg^ve  to  the  ooHOft,  (fotainii^  bim 
by  the  deeve,  as  he  was  making  his  way  through  tiie  crowd,  '^b^re  yea 
danee  again  with  that  beantiful  girl,  I  wi^  to  say  a  hw  words  to  yoo. 
Fdlow  me.** 

At  the  foot  of  the  Urease  he  w»  joined  by  De  ClerYal»  all  anxiety 
to  know  what  was  meant  by  this  abrupt  oommunicatiofi. 

^'  Not  here,"  said  Musgrave ;  ^'  we  must  be  still  more  pnvade;"  and  be 
led  ihe  way  towards  the  tents. 

<<But  I  idiall  catcdi  m^  death  of  cold,"  exclaimed  the  eomit;  ^M 
what  a  dampness  there  is  m  this  place." 

"  Nonsense,"  returned  Mnsgrave,  '^  come  on." 

And  on  he  went,  along  the  corndor  of  azaleas,  through  the  principal 
narqnee,  and  down  another  passage  to  a  small  tented  boudoir  aft  ihe  very 
eKtremity  of  the  Hermitage  encampment. 

^<^In  iaim  plaoe,"  said  Musgrave,  ^  we  are  safe  not  to  be  ovevbeard ;  »t 
down  and  let  me  tdl  yon  what  my  plans  are." 

With  a  deis^airtng  shrug  and  sweeping  glanoe  that  took  in  all  the  ^ 
comfort  of  the  apartment,  for  the  rain  pelted  hard  against  the  amvta 
and  the  wind  came  in  through  more  than  one  ill-£A6tened  apertwe,  AIsxb 
de  Ckrval  resigned  himself  to  hb  fate. 

''  You  must  make  a  push  for  it  to-night,"  said  Musgrave,  as  soom  as 
they  nwre  seated* 

^  To-night !"  readied  his  companion ;  ^  for  why  in  such  a  hnrry  T 

^*  For  £e  best  of  aE  leasons,  Alexis.  If  yon  don't,  soindiDdy  cise 
wiH." 

^  Snnebody  dsel  who  yon  mean?     Not  Sim  Henri  Yemom!* 

^'  Sir  Heniy  YemoB,"  returned  Mnsgrave,  slowly  and  em^pbaticaUy. 
Then  suddenly  <dianging  his  tone  and  maoBer^  *'  What  tbe  devil  was 
that  noise?  SouKthiiig  wheezed  like  ft  brcH&en-winded  bcae.  Stay,*^ 
what  makes  the  wall  of  the  tent  bulge  so?  An  infeimal  dog  lyin^ 
againrt  it,  I  st^pose.  Thoie, — ^take  that  you  bnite,  and  don't  disturb  us 
agatni"  So  saymg,  Mui^nwre  bestowed  a  Tiolent  kick  on  someoiijeet 
flat  yielded  to  his  foot  with  a  low  growl  and  then  seemed  to  mofV 
away. 

Sqtridae  \  Masgrayei     Let  sleep  thai  dog,  and  tail  me,  aie  ^a  i> 


^As  ever  I  was  in  my  bom  dajn.  Listen.  Vernon  and  I  dkid 
together to^^Eay, — ^  fint  time  since  we  were  in  Pans.  For  osce iaiu 
lifie  hft  wea  comBuniieatiye, — the  Champagne  perhaps  unlocked  bua,— ani 
the  sum  and  substance  of  what  be  told  me  wa»  that  he  neaat  to  profose 
ID^  Adelaide  Majmard  this  very  evening." 

"Doable!"  ejaeukted  Alexis ;  <'tl»n  i^em  is  no  more  of  tinae  to  kse. 
It  mnBt  &iish  with  this  Sire  Qenti.     I  go  at  onoe." 

^  Stay  a  moanciit.  Alexia,"  aaad  Musgrave;  «^  yon  recoOeet  our  eoa- 
ditions.     Five  thousand,  you  know,  out  of  the  set^iements." 

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A  Romomee  of  Carlton  Gardens  26S 

**  TkaA  is  mnck  of  moony !"  was  ti»  Frenchnwm'g  xefdjr* 

^^  Yt&j  likftlj;.  thevgh  it's  «alj  a  fovvth  past  of  wliat  yxm  vnXL  g«t 
3emsbm3£'' 

'^  But  you  say  that  you,  too,  are  going  to  marry  a  more  rich  persomme^ 
Whyasknv^iMriiey?" 

''  Something  in  hand,  mon  cher,  Vernon  may  not  tut  op  so  soml  m 
I  expect ;  thoogh,  if  your  affair  succeeds  to-ni§^  ihe  ohancea  are  that 
laioe  ^nll  also.^ 

"  You  mean  to  try  him  then,  hy-and-hye  V* 

'^  Just  so.  If  you  pl!U)r  yofur  wds  figntly,  I  diink  I  can  gtt  kbn  into 
my  clutches.     At  all  events,  everything  is  prepatred*'' 

«  Where  is  it  to  be  ?" 

*^  At  the  old  place — die  Ledge,  in  Jerrayn-stmet.  If  I  can  ploek  him 
first  and — hocus  him — ^that's  it,  mm  okery^—hoeaB  him  afterwards,  ih$ 
deuce  is  in  it  if  he  don't  bleed/' 

^<  And  what  you  mean  to  give  ne  out  of  the  piitkinp  ?" 

<' We'll  SetUe  that,  Alexis^  when  you've  made  it  i^  right  in  die  odier 
quarter.  Now  then,  as  you  say,  no  time  is  to  be  lost.  '  Finish  hina!! 
t*€9i bikn  le  mot ! — finish  him  I    I>  him!" 

The  confederates  disappeared,  and,  as  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Orufi^ 
— the  supposed  dog — ^withdvew  bis  ear  £rom  the  alk  in  the  tMit  at  lAiak 
he  had  becm  listening. 

'"Ibis  'ere'a  a  pretty  go !"  said  he;  ''Ludi^  for  Sir  Bnnesy  ilnv 
workmen  left  the  garmng-gate  ajar;  lucky,  too,  the  nun  pelted  dawB 
is  it  did;  I  shouldn't  else  ha?e  jammed  n^self  up  agin  this  have  precious 
toQt  to  get  a  snooze  afore  the  quality  eome  out ;  I  shouldn't  mnre  got 
ihat  kidc  ni^jfther.  Hew  shdl  I  manage  to  put  my  iite  onnoEable  Mend 
v^  to  this  'eaie  dodge?" 

Wl^  Gruffy  is  turning  this  matter  over  in  his  mind  we  will  go  book 
to  the  house. 

With  the  purpose  which  he  had  avowed  to  Musgpranre-vnchanged,  the 
Bsarcr  the  time  oame  for  deelaring  himself  die  greater  gnew  Sir  Henry 
Temon's  agitation.  This  nervousness  had  tadcen  possession  of  bam  from  the 
moment  he  entered  the  ball-room,  and  prevented  him,  indeed,  finm  mttesuag 
more  than  a  £ew  onbarrassed  words  on  first  seeing  Miss  Maynard,  which, 
so  far  from  resembling  the  greeting  of  a  lover,  had  in  diem  an  ur  of  oon- 
straint — even  of  coldness — ^had  made  her  imagine— Hhough  why,  she  was 
atterly  unconsoious—- that  he  was  offBuded  mth  her.  This  supposidon 
was  strangthened  by  his  contkumig  to  keep  aloof-— (the  poor  fellow  wtti 
mnstering  up  his  ooumge  all  the  time) — and  her  temper  (we  are  soibdv'  to 
K^  it  of  a  young  lady  ao  near  marriage)  was  mqued,  and  she  nsolml^  if 
he  persisted  in  tdong  no  notice  of  ho:,  to  do  the  same  by  him.  She 
even — ^as  women  sometimes  have  been  known  to  &>•— went  a  tfttle  lapdier, 
and,  patting  on  much  more  gaie^  than  she  felt,  appeusd  to  give  hetmii 
up  antmly  to  the  ^ijoyment  oi  the  hour.  Temon  noticed  diis,  aad 
b^pan  to  ask  himself  die  queatkm,  whether  die  step  which  he  was  alxMit 
to  take  were  not  premature;  thai  he  shook  off  die  ilioi^;bt  and  jemAmBt, 
to  adhere  to  his  first  decision ;  vacillated  again;  and,  finally,  had  re*- 
•ours^  to  more  than  one  tinnbier  of  Champagne  to  ke^  npnis  fiattiBg 
spirits. 

It  was  while  he  was  dius  occupied  that  Mm^mrre,  having  seen  Alexis 
de  Cherval  claim  and  receive  Miss  Maynaid's  hand  for  anodier  dwwnj 

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264  A  Romance  of  Carlton  Gardens, 

entered  the  re&esbment-room.  He  had  studied  Yernon  at  all  times  too 
closely,  and  watched  him,  that  evening  in  particular,  too  nanowly,  not 
to  feel  sure  that  what  he  was  going  to  say  must  make  a  strong  impres- 
sion. 

^^  There's  many  a  slip,  Vernon,  between  the  cup  and  the  lip,''  said  he, 
raising  his  own  glass. 

"  Take  care  you  don't  verify  the  proverb,"  returned  his  friend. 

"  That  would  be  a  mere  literal  accomplishment,"  replied  Musgrave. 
"  I  was  not  speaking  of  myself." 

"  What  did  your  newly-discovered  oracle  mean  then  ?" 

"  Something  that  concerns  you." 

«MeI     What  is  it?" 

"You  recollect,  Vernon,"  continued  Musgrave,  lowering  his  vmce, 
"  what  you  told  me  after  dinner  to-day?" 

'« What  then?" 

"  Only  this :  you  have  been  forestidled." 

"  Be  a  little  more  explicit,  if  you  please ;  I  am  in  no  humour  for 
joking." 

"  Neither  am  I.  Since  you  must  know  the  state  of  the  case,  here  it 
is.  I  thought  to  have  offered  you  my  congratulations ;  as  it  happens,  I 
have  been  obliged  to  congratulate  another  person." 

"  You  surely  are  not  in  earnest,  Musgrave  ?"  said  Vernon,  turning 
very  pale ;  ^'  and  yet  I  cannot  think  you  would  trifle  with  me  on  such  a 
subject." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  replied  Musgrave,  with  an  air  of  commiseration, "  I 
thought  it  was  better  you  should  Team  it  from  me  than  from  a  stranger; 
for  I  dare  say,  by  this  time,  it  is  knovm  all  over  the  house.  But  the 
truth  is" — and  here  his  voice  would  have  been  inaudible  to  uiy  but  Ver- 
non— "  the  truth  is,  Alexis  de  Clerval  has  j\ist  been  accepted  by  Mss 
Maynard;  he  told  me  so  himself." 

"  I  will  hear  it  from  her  own  lips  then,"  cried  Vernon,  with  such 
emphasis  that  even  the  methodical  rnaitre  d*k6tel  behind  the  buffet 
was  startled  from  his  propriety,  and  nearly  let  fall  a  decanter  with  which 
he  was  officiating. 

^^  Mais  les  bienseances,  my  dear  Vernon.  You  can't  exact  such  a 
thing,  at  such  a  time,  in  her  father's  house." 

Vernon  trembled  with  passion. 

"  Come  up-stairs,"  continued  Musgrave,  "and  judge  for  yourself  how 
the  thing  looks ;  but  don't  make  an  esclandre.     Ca  serait  trap  Mte" 

Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  Vernon  thrust  his  arm  into  Mas- 
grave's,  and  ascended  with"  him  to  the  ball-room.  It  was  a  critical  in- 
stant. Miss  Maynard  and  Alexis  de  Clerval  were  seated  on  a  sofa  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  apartment.  No  one  was  near  them,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent to  Vernon,  from  the  earnestness  with  which  the  count  was  speaking, 
and  the  attention  which  Miss  Maynard  paid  to  his  words,  that  the  sub- 
ject of  their  conversation  was  deeply  interesting  to  both.  A  flight  cir- 
cumstance confirmed  this  belief.  De  Clerval,  who  had  been  looking 
down  while  he  spoke  with  an  air  of  profound  humility,  accidentally  raised 
his  eyes ;  they  met  Musgrave's  glance,  and  sparkled  with  an  expression  in 
which  he  read  intelligence,  and  Sir  Henry  success. 

Vernon  could  bear  the  sight  no  longer ;  he  tore  his  arm  abruptly  away 
from  Musgrave  and  quitted  the  room.- 

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A  Romance  of  Carlton  Gardens.  265 

**  Where  are  you  soiug?^*  called  Mnsgrave,  quickly  following. 

"Anywhere — to  the  devil,**  exclaimed  the  other. 

What  next  ensued  may  he  briefly  told.  Excited  by  passion  and  the 
wine  he  had  already  drunk,  Vernon  became  the  easy  victun  of  his  friend's 
artifice.  The  old  maitre  (Thdtel  was  once  more  astonished  by  the  im- 
petuosity of  Vernon's  manner  as  he  again  put  his  services  into  requisi- 
tion, at  the  bitter  vehemence  with  which  he  pledged  Musgrave  in  a  an- 
gularly expressed  toa$t^  and  at  the  eager  haste  with  which  the  two  gentle- 
men left  the  refireshment-room  together. 

"  Cret  up  my  brougham,  you  scoundrel,"  cried  Musgrave,  giving  his 
name  to  Gru%,  whose  head  appeared  just  inside  the  portico  as  the  door 
was  opened. 

''  Capt'in  Musgray's  broom,"  was  the  hoarse  response  of  the  crossing- 
sweeper,  not  observing  just  then  who  was  the  captain's  companion. 

The  carriage  was  quickly  brought  up,  this  being  the  earliest  depar- 
ture, and  Vernon  and  Musgrave  advanced.  The  light  flashed  full  in  the 
iace  of  the  former,  and  Gn^y  lecognised  his  patron. 

<<  Bless  yer  art,  Sir  Ennery,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  yer !"  was  the  poor 
fellow's  joyful  exclamation ;  and  he  laid  hold  of  Vernon's  cloak  to  arrest 
his  progress. 

'^  Don't  pester  me,  now,"  siud  Sir  Henry,  shaking  him  off  somewhat 
roughly. 

"  But  I've  sumthin*  to  say  as  you  must  'ear,  Sir  Ennery  1" 

They  were  already  in  the  brougham,  and  the  slamming  of  the  door 
prevented  Grufly*s  last  words  from  being  heard. 

"  He's  a  goin'  to  be  put  through  the  mill  as  sure  as  my  name's 
Gruffy,"  soliloquised  the  crossing-sweeper.  **  I'll  be  off  to  Scotling- 
yard!"  

To  use  the  language  of  Superintendent  Fellox  of  the  G  division,  there 
was  a  "  tremendous  shine"  that  nifi^ht  at  the  establishment  in  Jermyn-^ 
street  known  as  "  The  Lodge."  The  police,  g^ded  by  Grufiy,  broke 
into  the  house  and  captured  a  saloon  full  of  gamblers,  a  round  dozen  of 
them,  as  low  a  set  of  scoundrels  as  ever  wore  pins  and  watch-chains. 
They  did  more :  in  an  inner  room,  with  a  box  of  loaded  dice  in  his  hand, 
and  playing  with  an  antagonist,  who  was  in  a  state  of  strange  stupefac- 
tion, if  not  drunkenness,  they  made  a  seizure  of  a  gentleman  who  gave 
the  name  of  Tomkinson,  but  who  was — ^as  the  Morning  Fost  of  the  next 
day  delicately  and  obscurely  worded  it^  "  C — pt — ^n  M— s^ — ^ve, 
formerly  of  the  L — fe  G — rds."  Without  being  much  less  explicnt,  we 
may  add  that  the  victun  whom  he  had  drugged,  and  was  caught  plunder- 
ing, was  Gruffy's  patron,  "  the  Rite  Onnerable  Sir  Ennery  Wemon." 

How  Grufi^"  continues  to  prosper,  though  he  tmU  stick  to  his 
crossing  m  a  new  red  jacket,  and  with  a  nice  little  pot  of  money  accu- 
mulating in  the  "  Simmertons "  Savings-bank ;  how  Captain  Musgrave 
lives  on  his  wits  in  Brussels,  with  "the  crank"  in  perspective  if  he 
ventures  to  return  to  England ;  how  Alexis  de  Clerval  consoles  himself 
without  Miss  Maynard's  fortune ;  and  how  happy  Sir  Henry  and  Lady 
Vernon  are — all  explanations  over — may,  in  the  words  of  a  very  dis- 
tingfuished  writer  for  the  newspapers,  be  "more  easily  conceived  than 
described."  ^ 

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(    286     ) 


THE  AGE  OF   GOLD. 

Life  cries  to  its  waning  years  for  gold— 

To  aTarice  being's  sdf  is  sold ; 
Men  are  daily,  hourly  wrangliiig, 
Till  the  stars  the  heaven  be^n^fiif , 

Dreams  once  picturing  heartfelt  blisa^ 

Chanfe  to  the  Judas-coloured  kiss: 

Ever  grasping,  and  clasping,  and  eravinf. 
Each  nobler  thought  braving,  enslaving, 
The  cry  is  still  of  gold. 
More  ten  times  told. 
Ten  times  doubled  let  it  be, 
from  over  land,  and  over  sea  ; 

Buy  it  with  worth,  or  fahfa,  or  ^ory. 

Humanity's  or  honour's  stoiy. 

But  keep  a  mite  to  mask  the  juggling 

The  hurrying,  skurrying,  fretting,  stniggliBg» 

Of  lives  that  weary,  worn,  and  old. 

On  the  grave's  verge  still  cry  out—"  Gold! 

More'goldr 

Oh !  sweet  the  sound  metallic  chinking. 

To  man's  vain  ear  and  venal  thinkings 
Welcome  the  mving  and  the  rattling. 
Where  jobbers  are  with  jobbers  battling — 

Where  &rthings  noisy  m«i  are  splittiogr 

And  neighbours  are  at  neighbours  hittiog» 
FrantiCy  angry  if  in  vain- 
Hell  not  greedier  after  gain, 

Tet  though  oftentimes  self-sold. 

Crying  insatiate  still  for  gold — 

"More  gold  r 

HaHowed  the  stone,  sublime  the  sound — 
"  Hie  jacet — ninety  thousand  pound !" 

What  epitaph  with  that  compares. 

Save  the  nore  glorious  mlUioimaire^  ?— * 
Hide  apostles,  prophets,  sages. 
Patriots,  beroe%  of  all  ages. 

Whether  learned,  wise,  or  bold, 

Yonr  mistake  is  stale  and  old^ 

Better  had  you  cried,  "  Gk)ld !  gold  1 

More  gold!" 

Then  bless  the  goldman  midst  his  piled-up  treasure. 
Though  a  sea  of  toilsomeness  his  anxious  cares  may  mcasore ; 

TOW  it  ffittera,  how  it  glitters. 
How  it  twinkles,  how  k  winkles  as  it  dazzles  Im  week  sight, 

While  his  thoughts  are  stiU  descending 
Deeper  in  the  mists  of  night. 
With  the  low  things  of  earth  ever  blcoidiiig! 
Awaking,  or  asleepinc. 
Proud  as  Satan's  selfwhile  creeping 
To  his  ingots  safely  stored — 
Still  crying  at  the  chinking  and  the  glitter  of  his  hoard—- 

"More  gold r 


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(    267     ) 


AN    IMPERIAL    VISIT. 

The  (act  of  the  Emperor  of  the  French  and  his  consort  having  gone 
to  sojourn  at  Dieppe,  seems  to  have  turned  the  heads  of  various  towns  ia 
the  north  of  France.  "  Of  course  they  will  come  to  us !"  argued  Bou- 
logne; Calais  repeated  the  same,  and  Dunkerque  echoed  it  It  was 
known,  or  supposed,  that  his  Imperial  Majesty  would  visit  the  Camp  at 
St.  Omer:  *'  A  good  opportunity,"  put  in  Calais  and  Dunkerque,  *^  for 
his  visiting  us,**  Boulogne  took  it  into  its  head— rnobody  is  able  to  find 
out  upon  what  grounds — that  Monday,  the  6th  September,  was  the  day 
fixed  by  the  Emperor  and  Empress  for  their  arrival  in  that  town  from 
Dieppe  by  sea.  No  end  of  preparations  were  made  to  receive  them: 
people  flocked  into  Boulogne  from  miles  round:  the  streets  were  crowded 
as  with  a  fab :  the  whole  day  was  passed  on  the  tip-toe  of  agitated  ex- 
pectation: and  behold!  the  Imperial  pair  were  quietly  remsdmng  at 
Dieppe,  having  9W  idea  they  were  expected  elsewhere. 

Other  towns,  meanwhile,  were  votmg  large  sums  of  money,  and  levy- 
ing contributions  on  their  inhabitants  to  amass  them,  for  the  purpose  of 
making  preparations  for  the  Emperor's  reception.  But  when  it  was 
known  that  their  Majesties  had  returned  to  Paris  from  Dieppe,  fears 
arose  that  the  sanguine  expectations  had  been  indulged  in  vain.  Soon> 
however,  telegraphic  despatches  arrived  from  the  Emperor,  to  the  effect 
that  upon  his  approaching  visit  to  the  Helfaut-Camp  at  St.  Omer,  he 
would  gratify  them  all ;  and  the  embellishing  processes  went  on  with  un- 
diminished ardour. 

In  no  town  were  the  loyal  feelings,  to  judge  by  the  preparations,  more 
extensively  displayed  than  in  Dunkerque.  For  many  weeks,  various 
alterations  and  arrangements  had  been  going  on  at  the  Sous  Prefecture. 
Two  bedrooms  and  dressing-rooms  had  been  luxuriously  fitted  up  for  the 
Emperor  and  Empress;  for,  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  if  they  came 
at  all  to  the  town,  they  would  sleep  in  it.  The  municipal  council  had 
met,  and  decided  upon  the  manner  of  the  reception;  a  committee  had 
been  formed  to  superintend  the  decorations  of  the  streets;  and  nothing 
was  heard,  thought,  or  dreamt  of  in  the  city,  but  the  arrival  of  their  Ma- 


A  sudden  damper  came  to  it.  It  was  announced,  upon  authority,  that 
the  Empress  would  not  make  one  in  the  royal  tour.  The  Dunkerque 
Iwies  were  au  desespoir.  Twenty  of  these  French-Flemish  dames,  and 
twttity  demoiselles,  nad  been  fixed  upon  to  form  the  Empress's  "  court " 
dorm?  her  stay,  and  the  unwelcome  news  that  no  Empress  was  to  come, 
8nd  that  there  would  be  no  court  to  form,  drove  them  nearly  wild.  They 
rushed  to  the  Sous  Prefecture. 

*|  Is  it  true  ?"  they  gasped. 

"  Mon  Dieu.  oui !  on  craint  que  c'est  vrai,"  responded  the  wife  of  the 
Soii8Pr6fet.  -^        r 

*  And  all  our  expensive  new  dresses !"  murmured  the  dames.  "  They'll 
"^  ^ijite  useless  to  us !  We  can  never  hope  for  any  other  occasion  of 
^eanng  them.  Court  dresses  in  Dunkerque!  ma  foil  Point  d'es- 
Perance!" 

Our  lovely  white  costumes  and  our  wreaths  and  our  flowers  P  la- 

Ao».-.-VOL,  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCV.  T 

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268  An  Imperial  Visit 

mented,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  the  demoiselles,  who  were  to  have  beea 
the  demoiselles  d'honneur.  ^'  What  was  the  use  of  haying  the  dresses, 
if  we  are  not  to  use  them  ?" 

'^  CanH  we  form  a  court  for  the  Emperor,  if  her  Majesty  does  not 
eome?"  uttered  one,  in  the  very  excess  of  desperation. 

It  was  a  bright  idea.  A  few  of  die  more  calm-thinking  heratated; 
but  who  could  long  think  calmly  in  such  a  dilemma  ?  So  it  was  decided 
that  the  suggestion  should  be  iK^ted  upon,  and  the  Emperor  furnished 
on  his  arrival  (to  his  probable  unbounded  astonishment)  with  a  court  iA 
ladies  and  maids  of  honour.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  perpleidty,  there 
arrived  down  another  despatch. 
"  The  Empress  was  coming.^' 

On  went  me  preparations :  nothing  could  equal  lihe  activity  of  the 
town  ;  nothing  exceed  its  importance  and  bustle ;  and  the  hopes  of  tbe 
dames  and  the  demoiselles  were  again  exalted  into  the  seventh  heaveo. 
The  ball,  on  the  evening  of  the  eventfid  day,  was  to  be  on  a  scale  of 
unusual  magnificence.  The  theatre,  where  it  was  to  take  place,  was  in 
acdve  preparation  ;  the  pit  was  boarded  over  on  a  levd  with  the  stage ; 
a  flight  of  steps,  leading  to  the  centre  box,  from  the  arena,  was  coo- 
Btructed,  the  box  was  removed,  and  a  dais  ^:«cted,  on  which  were  placed 
two  luxurious  fauteuils,  the  letter  N,  emblazoned  on  the  one,  E,  on  the 
other.  Everybody  expected  an  invitation  to  the  ball,  and  everybody  got 
it — all  the  French  and  all  the  English.  There  was  some  constematioa 
and  discussion  as  to  how  the  invited  were  to  get  in — if  they  all  went: 
invitations  b^ng  out,  it  was  declared,  for  3000,  and  the  theatre  hold- 
ing, at  a  cram,  1200.  "  Don't  go  in  flounces  to  your  robes,  especiidly 
of  lace,"  echoed  one  lady  to  another ;  **  they'll  get  torn  to  atoms  ia  the 
crush."     And  the  advice  was  good. 

Monday,  the  26th  of  September,  was  the  day  fixed  upon  by  the 
Emperor  to  be  in  Dunkerque.  Four  days  previously,  the  decorations  in 
^ciQ  streets  were  commenced.  Such  a  waste  of  time  and  money!  No  two 
streets  were  to  be  alike.  A  double  line  of  poles,  or  masts,  in  the  streets, 
with  flags  and  streamers  flying — to  erect  which  poles,  the  pavement  had 
to  be  partially  taken  up — were  the  first  symptoms  that  gladdened  the 
eyes  of  the  curious  pedestrians.  Some  of  the  poles  were  painted  white 
and  grey;  some  were  completely  covered  with  evergreens;  others  onty 
partially  so ;  a  few  with  green  branches  and  white  calico,  mixed,  and 
twisted  round.  There  were  some  streets  that  presented  quite  a  sue- 
cesdon  of  green  bowers — ^wherever  all  the  trees  and  the  boughs  and  the 
shrubs  came  from,  remains  a  puzzle  yet :  green  wreaths  and  festoons 
and  flowers  were  drooped  from  pole  to  pole,  and  across  the  stx^eet  fipom 
window  to  window ;  whole  trees  were  ti*an8planted  for  the  occasion  ;  and 
large  street-chandeliers,  peculiar  to  Dunkerque,  composed  of  little  pieces 
of  thick  glass,  which  wave  and  rattle  pleasantly  in  the  breese,  were  sus- 
pended in  the  streets.  The  air  was  a  perfect  mass  of  flags,  mostly  of  the 
tri-colour,  not  only  flying  from  the  poles  and  the  cords  and  the  festoons, 
but  waving  from  every  window.  From  three  or  four  houses  inhabited 
by  loyal  Englishmen,  the  glorious  British  flag,  large  and  powerftUy 
towCTed  conspicuously.  The  Place  Jean  Bart,  the  Place,  par  excellence, 
of  Dunkerque,  intended  itself  to  be  especially  elegant.  Tri-coloured 
draperies  of  calico,  blue,  whiter  and  red,  were  hung  completely  xxmnd  it, 

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An  Imperial  Visit  269 

on  the  walls  <^  the  houses:  flags  flew  in  abimdaiioe,  and  coloured  lamps 
were  with  them,  side  by  side,  ^o  end  of  eagles,  ia  all  the  occurs  of  the 
lainbow,  and  as  hraien  as  gilt  could  make  them,  were  hoisted  atop  of  the 
houses  and  at  die  corners  of  streets.  A  beautiful  tnamphal  ardi,  with 
a  cc^ossal  eagle  for  its  summit,  was  «rected  on  the  Place,  at  the  com- 
jQiMicement  of  the  street  leading  to  the  Park :  it  looked  lUce  a  slufting 
scene  in  a  playhouse.  Close  by  it  wayed  an  enormous  flag  or  banner, 
green,  with  gold  stars,  the  handsomest,  people  said,  amongst  ^e  flags. 
From  the  top  of  the  high  tower,  opposite  the  Grande  E^ise,  streamed 
out  four  or  six  long  lines  of  little  flags,  carried  out  to  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, almost  at  a  right  angle,  and  there  fastened  to  the  ground.  It  had 
a  wonderfully  pretty  e£Fect,  extending  out  like  wings.  What  with  the 
flags  and  tile  house  draperies,  the  oilico  consumed  must  have  been  a 
quantity  diat  never  yet  was  consumed  in  any  town  before,  and  probably 
never  will  be  again  :  for  one  street  alone,  and  that  not  a  very  long  one, 
3000  metres  were  used  ;  and  French  metres,  remember,  are  longer  diaa 
English  yards.  At  the  end  of  the  Rue  de  TEgHse,  leading  on  to  the 
pori^  the  fishermen  erected  a  triumphal  arch»  the  component  parts  of  the 
structure  being  barrels  and  fishing-nets.  On  the  pwt  where  the  Em- 
peror would  proceed  to  view  the  new  worics,  was  another  archway,  raised 
by  the  harbour  workmen ;  and  this  was  constructed  of  whedWrrows, 
shovels,  and  pumps  ;  not  your  housdiold  yaid-pumps,  but  chain-pumps : 
streamers  of  whidi  were  mrought  down  and  fastened  out  on  either  side, 
afber  the  manner  of  the  flags  from  the  tower.  It  looked  ci^tal,  and  so 
tiie  Emperor  thought. 

Sunday,  the  25th,  was  a  most  bustling  day,  as  it  always  is  in  France, 
and  the  workmen  were  busy  with  their  preparations  in  all  parts  of  the 
town.  But  a  gloom  hung  around,  for  the  day  was  cold,  windy,  and 
pouring  wet  In  spite  of  the  pretty  streets,  and  the  green  shrubs,  and 
the  draperies,  and  lae  dusters  of  coloured  lamps,  and  toe  fine  arches,  and 
the  chandefiers,  and  the  flags,  and  the  streamers,  everybody  looked  glum ; 
for,  with  this  weather,  what  pleasure  would  there  be  on  the  morrow  ? 

The  Emperor  and  Empress  had  arrived  that  morning  at  St.  Omer,  from 
lalle,  and  many  people  flocked  from  Dunkerque  to  see  them.  They 
rode  to  the  camp  at  Helfaut  in  a  close  carriage.  The  Emperor  mounted 
a  superb  charger  to  review  the  troops ;  the  Empress,  with  two  of  her 
ladies,  remained  in  the  carriage.  Crowds  upon  crowds  rushed  to  the 
camp,  and  enjoyed  themselves  there  on  foot,  ladies  as  well  as  gentlemen, 
the  rain  coming  down  in  torrents,  and  the  slop  knee  deep.  A  worse  day 
could  not  be  imagined.  Shoes  were  lost  in  liie  mud  atid  abandoned ; 
boots  had  to  be  cut  off  the  foot  piecemeal,  and  dresses  and  bonnets,  the 
greater  portion  of  them,  will  never  go  on  again.  "  Never  mind  our- 
selves," cried  the  excited  and  loyal  spectators;  ^'if  we  are  wet^  the 
Emperor's  dripping — look  at  him !"  Why  could  not  the  people  keep  in 
the  carriages  tiiat  conveyed  them  thidier  ?  inquires  the  English  reader. 
Because  the  camp  is  situated  on  the  plateau  of  a  high  and  lofty  hill, 
what  many  would  call  a  mountain;  the  ascent  to  which  is  somewhat 
lonnidable;  and  French  hired  horses,  and  French  hired  vehicles,  and 
French  hired  coachmen,  not  being  cast  in  the  adv^iturous  mould,  they 
flatly  refused  to  go  up  it  So  they  remained  comfortably  at  the  bottom, 
9nd  the  company  they  had  conveyed  thither  toiled  to  the  top  on  foot, 

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270  An  Imperial  Visit 

and  walked  about  the  field  till  the  rain  streamed  off  them  in  buckets, 
and  they  were  soaked  through  and  through — ^like  so  many  geese.  The 
St.  Omer  doctors,  and  those  of  the  neighbouring  towns,  have  been  called 
out  since  to  no  end  of  cases  of  rheumatism.  '<  Why  did  you  stay  there 
in  such  weather?"  was  asked  of  a  lady  who  had  formed  one  of  a  party 
of  several.  "  Because  everybody  else  did,'*  was  the  doleful  reply,  "  though 
I  thought  we  were  all  catching  our  deaths." 

But,  to  return  to  Dunkerque.  Independently  of  the  rain,  another 
cause  arose  to  damp  the  general  ardour.  The  wind,  which  had  been 
desperately  high  all  day,  increased  violently  towards  Sunday  evening; 
from  about  seven  or  eight  o'clock,  it  increased  with  every  hour  and  every 
minute.  The  town  went  to  bed  at  its  usual  time,  but  not  to  sleep :  there 
were  few  eyes  closed  in  Dunkerque  that  night,  for  it  was  one  of  terror. 
Scarcely  has  a  storm  of  wind  been  heard  more  violent.  Little  children 
flew  shivering  into  their  parents'  rooms  for  protection,  as  windows  were 
blown  in.  Heads  of  fsimilies  rose,  and  visited  the  di£Ferent  parts  of  their 
houses  several  times  in  the  night,  expecting  to  see  the  panes  of  glass 
in  shatters  on  the  floors.  Numbers  upon  numbers  never  attempted  to 
sleep,  but  got  up  in  the  morning  from  their  rocking  beds,  unrefreshed  as 
they  had  sought  them  the  previous  night.  Bricks  were  hurled  flx)m 
chimneys,  trees  torn  up  by  the  roots,  shutters  and  windows  rent  flx)m 
their  fastenings :  scarcely,  in  the  remembrance  of  the  oldest  inhabitant  of 
Dunkerque,  has  such  a  hurricane  been  known.  With  the  going  down 
of  the  morning  tide  the  storm  a  little  abated,  but  it  still  blew  aw^y. 

Out  went  the  people  into  the  streets,  and  oh !  what  a  sight  the  unfor^ 
tunate  decorations  presented !  It  was  nothing  but  a  scene  of  desolation. 
The  house-draperies  had  nearly  all  disappeared,  nobody  knew  where, 
unless  into  the  air,  like  balloons ;  a  few  torn  odds  and  ends  were  clinging 
round  the  chimneys,  here  and  there,  and  flapping  away  in  the  wind ;  die 
houses  were  stained  blue  and  red  where  the  draperies  had  been,  for  die 
rain  had  soaked  out  their  colours ;  the  eagles  had  come  down  on  the 
wing ;  some  of  the  flags  fluttered  in  ribbons,  like  a  furious  cat-o'-nine- 
tails ;  the  leaves  were  torn  o£P  the  once  lovely  green  boughs,  and  were 
whirling  about  in  the  air  like  a  storm  of  snow,  whilst  the  streets,  from 
the  heaps  settled  down  on  them,  looked  like  a  forest  in  autumn ;  the 
festoons  were  blown  to  pieces ;  the  greater  part  of  the  taumphal  arches 
were  destroyed  ;  the  much-admired  barrel-arch  had  demolished  itself, 
with  a  noise  and  fury  seldom  heard  before,  to  the  excessive  terror  of  the 
neighbouring  houses,  who  said  they  had  thought  '*  the  street  was  cooung 
down  *,'*  and  the  beautiful  triumphal  arch  leading  to  the  Park  was  a  heap 
of  ruins,  its  colossal  eagle  lying  on  the  ground  with  its  head  o£F,  and  its 
gilt  wings  gone  away. 

Some  of  the  disasters  could  not  be  remedied,  for  time  pressed,  and  the 
wind  was  still  in  its  tantrums,  as  an  English  lad  phrased  it ;  but  all  that 
could  be  done,  was  done ;  and  in  the  more  sheltered  streets,  through  whidi 
the  cartage  would  pass,  little  real  damage  had  been  effected.  Fortunately 
the  rain  kept  off. 

But  the  people,  &om  another  cause,  felt  ang^  and  vexed.  The  town 
had  gone  to  an  enormous  expense ;  it  really  had ;  and  rumours  had  ooied 
out,  two  or  three  days  before,  that  the  Imperial  pair,  instead  of  remaining 
a  night  in  the  town,  dining  at  the  Prefecture  and  <<  assisting^  at  the  ball, 

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An  Imperial  Visits  27  X 

would  only  stay  three  hours.  The  people  refused  to  belieye  it,  and  the 
mayor  went  up  to  Lille  to  represent  the  circumstances  of  the  case  to  the 
Emperor,  and  to  entreat  their  Majesties  to  prolong  their  intended  stay. 
He  was  most  graciously  received,  and  invited  to  dine  at  the  royal  tahle ; 
but,  upon  his  return  to  Dunkerque,  brought  word  that  the  Emperor's 
arraneements  having  been  decided  upon,  he  could  not  change  them,  and 
that  Uiree  hours  must  be  the  limit  of  his  stay  in  Dunkerque.  What  a 
disappointment  I  everybody  cried.  And  what  a  useless  expense  has  been 
gone  to !  everybody  thought. 

The  Imperial  train  was  to  arrive  at  half-past  eleven,  but  long  before 
that  hour  every  window  in  the  line  of  procession  was  crammed.  Troops 
in  their  gay  uniform  were  pouring  up  to  the  railway  station,  the  music  of 
their  fine  bands  echoing  around ;  conspicuous  for  tneir  attire  marched  the 
sapeurS'pompiers  in  their  brazen  helmets ;  bodies  of  decorated  men,  de- 
putations from  the  neighbouring  towns,  followed ;  the  municipal  council 
of  Dunkerque  loomed  by,  in  all  the  grandeur  of  their  official  robes ; 
walking  with  them  was  a  lady,  decorated  with  two  medals,  for  services 
rendered  formerly  in  the  town ;  old  soldiers  of  the  Empire ;  ancient 
sailors;  children  of  the  public  institutions,  all  advanced;  the  Imperial 
carriages,  which  had  arrived  the  previous  evening,  followed,  in  the  midst 
of  an  escort ;  and  not  the  least  picturesque  of  the  different  objects  was  a 
deputation  of  fishwomen,  bearing  aloft  a  net,  containing  a  fish  made  of 
silver*  They  were  charmingly  attired  in  their  peculiar  holiday  costume ; 
tbeir  light,  clear-looking  caps  spotless  as  snow,  their  gold  ornaments, 
and  long  pendent  earrings ;  and  their  dresses,  mostly  of  chintz,  looped  up 
in  festoons  like  a  court  lady's  of  former  times,  displayed  petticoats  of 
damask  moreen,  some  blue,  some  red,  and  other  colours. 

The  royal  train  punctually  arrived,  the  ringing  of  bells  and  firing  of 
cannon  announced  it ;  and,  the  various  forms  and  ceremonies  usual  upon 
such  an  occasion  having  been  gone  through  between  the  authorities  and 
their  sovereign,  the  Emperor  and  Empress  made  their  state  entrance 
into  the  town.  It  was  a  gracious  act,  on  that  fearfully  windy  day,  to 
use  an  open  carriage,  leaving  the  close  ones  to  their  attendants.  Louis 
Napoleon  seemed  excessively  cool,  scarcely  noticing  the  admiring  crowds 
through  which  he  passed,  but  the  Empress  bowed  repeatedly.  She  looked 
pale  and  tired,  but  so  far  as  a  Hasty  view  of  one  in  a  carriage,  and  with 
her  veil  down,  may  be  trusted,  she  has  a  most  pleasing  expression  of 
countenance,  and  is  very  beautiful.  She  was  handsomely,  but  plainly, 
attired  in  a  silk  dress  with  flounces,  a  warm  shawl,  and  a  fancy-straw 
bonnet.  The  Emperor  was  of  course  in  uniform ;  and  he  looked,  in  his 
cocked  hat,  as  unlike  his  portraits  as  he  could  well  look.  There  was 
little  cheering ;  and  perhaps  that  may  account  for  the  Emperor's /rowfettr; 
I  think  the  people  were  so  pre-occupied,  looking  for  the  Empress,  that 
they  did  not  recollect  to  cheer.  The  cortege  proceeded  at  a  slow  pace 
to  the  Sous  Prefecture,  which  was  made  the  mairie  and  the  Imperial 
Palais  for  the  day.  It  is  situated  close  to  the  Place  du  Th^Htre,  and  its 
^proach  was  one  scene  of  banners,  arches,  and  flags.  As  the  Imperial 
carriage  was  turning  in  at  its  g^tes,  an  English  lady  at  an  adjoining 
window  called  out,  in  her  own  tongue,  *<Long  Hve  the  Emperor!*' 
and  Louis  Napoleon  looked  laughingly  up,  nodded,  and  bowed. 

Meanwhile  the  dames  and  the  demoiselles  d'honneur  had  arrived  at  the 

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^l 


272  An  Imperial  Visit. 

Sons  Prefecture  with  numbers  of  other  French  ladies,  residents  of  tiie 
town,  and  ware  waiting  to  be  presented  to  the  Empress.  If  iAi/t  stately 
carriages,  attending  a  coort  at  St  James's,  coukl  but  ha^e  seen  the 
Yehides  brought  into  requisition  for  this !  Omnibusses  aniyed  in  abun- 
dance. But  the  poor  Empress,  whose  high  lot  cannot  exempt  her  from 
the  fatigue  e(»nmon  to  other  mortals^  was  completely  worn  out  wiUi  all 
the  journeying  and  the  sight-sedng,  and  was  much  more  thankful  to  re- 
pose a  little  while  upon  her  bed,  than  to  do  the  honours  of  a  court.  Tlie 
ladies,  however,  did  get  presented. 

The  Emperor,  after  the  presentations  to  himself  were  ot^,  qmtted  the 
Sous  Prefecture  in  his  carriage,  attended  by  M.  de  Piaillard  the  Sous 
Prefet,  the  authorities,  and  his  suite,  and  went  to  inspect  the  Ezpositikm 
of  Dunkerque.  From  thence  he  proceeded  to  the  port,  on  foot,  braving 
the  wind,  where  he  examined  the  works  going  on  in  Uie  harbour. 
Nothing,  it  is  said,  could  equal  his  astonishment  when  ^  ^ctensive 
harbour  and  its  mass  of  fleets  were  exposed  to  his  view.  He  had  no  idea 
(it  is  a  yerw  (nrevalent  delusicm)  that  the  port  and  town  of  Dunkerque 
were  of  half  the  size  and  importance  that  tney  really  are.  English  ships^ 
American  ships,  Russian  ships,  Turkish  ships,  besides  native  vesseb, 
crowded  in  the  harbour,  some  three  hundred  of  them,  all  canying  their 
national  colours.  But  the  Emperor's  expressions  of  surprised  pleasure 
were  suddenly  interrupted. 

The  deputation  of  fishwomen,  in  their  handsome  costume,  came  up  at 
this  moment,  more  than  thirty  of  them,  and  joining  th^r  hands,  enclosed 
his  Mi^ty  in  the  midst  <^  their  circle.  It  is  an  old  custom  of  the  town, 
when  honoured  with  the  presence  of  its  sovereign. 

"  What  would  you?"  inquired  the  Emperor,  in  surprise. 

"  We  would  offer  to  your  Majesty's  acceptance  a  silver  fish,"  repHed 
the  spokeswoman  by  right,  a  portly,  black-eyed  dame,  looked  upcm  as  the 
^  que^i  *'  of  the  fish-market,  producing  a  pretty  silver  fish  enclosed  in  a 
net  of  gold  wire  and  green  silk.  The  Emperor  graciously  accepted  i^ 
offering. 

^<  What  next  ?"  he  continued,  good-humouredly,  finding  he  was  not 
released. 

^'  There  is  another  custom  of  the  town,  sire,"  said  the  bold  dame. 
**  Before  you  can  leave  the  circle,  you  must  embrace  me.  When  your 
uncle,  the  Great  Ni^eon,  was  here,  he  followed  it.  I  had  the  honour 
of  a  kiss  from  him,  and  I  must  have  the  same  fnxn  you." 

What  could  the  Emperor  do?  He  behaved  as  a  gallant  Emperor 
ought,  and  laughingly  gave  the  kiss,  amidst  the  cheers  and  roars  of  the 
assemblage. 

"  That  is  not  all  yet,"  proceeded  llie  gratified  dame.  ^  We  wish  to 
see  your  beautiful  Empress.  We  have  a  second  fish  for  her.  Will  your 
Majesty  courteously  give  the  orders  for  our  admission  to  her  at  the  Sous 
Pii§fecture?" 

The  Emperor  hesitated,  remembenng,  probably,  the  fatigue  of  his  con- 
sort ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment ;  and  he  told  the  drde  dpeckeuies 
that  the  Empress  would  be  happy  to  comply  with  t^eir  wishes.  So 
away  the  lot  started  to  the  Sous  Pr^ecture. 

The  Emperw  then  went  to  the  Bdved^re,  at  the  gates  of  the  port ;  it 
was  aU  garnished  and  covered  with  flags,  and  running  up  its  many  steps, 

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Am  Imperial  Vint.  273 

be  e(mtempli^ed  in  Alenee  iat  some  momeots  the  scene  befi>re  hiiKL  On 
the  rampftris  also^  whkh  he  next  mounted,  it  was  more  ooDspicttoas.  The 
ini^;nifioent  harboor,  with  its  rioh  freight,  rocldDg  about  as  if  they  were 
xidmg  at  anchor ;  the  fine  old  town  b^iind  it ;  and  the  roaring  sea  oppo- 
site, extending  into  the  distance^  the  waves  running  mountains  high  { 
Not  a  vessd  was  to  be  seen  at  sea.  The  Cherbourg  fleet,  signalled  to 
approach  the  {ureviotts  evening,  was  unable  to  obey,  but  had  been  driven 
towards  the  Downs:  the  Heine  Hortense  alone  was  at  her  post,  and  she 
had  arrived  before  the  IxMsterous  weather  set  in. 

The  Emperor  examined  every  point  in  the  harbour  with  pn^ound 
attention,  ee^>eeially  the  in^Nrovements  in  process  of  construction,  and 
list^ied  eag^ly  to  the  remarks  and  explanations  of  the  engineer-in- 
diie^  M.  Decharme.  It  is  asserted  diat  the  Emperor  frankly  declared 
had  he  possessed  a  knowledge  of  the  extent  of  the  city  and  the  im- 
p<Mrtance  <^  its  port,  he  would  have  made  arrangements  to  remain  within 
its  gates  a  longer  period ;  and  he  hinted  that  it  was  not  impossible  he 
should  again  visit  it  at  no  vary  distant  period  of  time. 

But  the  fish  ladies  had,  ere  this,  found  their  way  to  the  Sous  Pre- 
fecture, and  demanded  to  see  the  Empress. 

^^  ImpossiUe !"  replied  one  in  authority;  ^^you  can't  see  the  Empress. 
And,  besides,  her  Majesty  is  fatigued,  and  is  lying  down." 

^^  We  are  to  see  h^,"  retorted  the  spokeswoman.  *^  You  cannot  act 
fl^;ainst  the  cttders  of  the  Emperor." 

How  long  the  dispute  would  have  continued  is  uncertain,  for  both 
parties  held  out,  had  not  the  Emperor  drivai  up,  and  confirmed  the 
women's  statement 

^^  ./^  these !"  cried  a  renowned  general,  lookii^  at  the  thirty  peebeuses 
in  dismay ;  ^'  they  will  frighten  the  Imp^ratrice.  Could  not  three  or  four 
of  them  enter,  as  a  deputation  from  the  rest  ?" 

^'  We  don't  understand  anything  about  your  deputaticms,"  interrupted 
the  in(Hgnant  ladies ;  ^*  we  have  come  to  see  our  sovereign,  with  his 
Majesty's  pamussion,  and  we  mean  to  see  her."  And  elbowing  their 
way  right  and  left,  through  generals,  ofiBcers,  prefets,  municipal  autho- 
rities, 8ta£P  and  all,  they  marched,  without  further  ceremony,  up  to  the 
audience-<^mber,  and  from  thence  were  admitted  into  the  presence  of 
the  Emperor  and  Em{H*e6s. 

Their  greetings  of  her  Majesty  were  far  more  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  hearty  good-will,  than  with  those  of  etiquette.  They  pushed  up 
and  danced  about  her,  full  of  praises  and  admiration.  The  En^ess 
would  fun  have  danced  too,  and  nearly  did ;  she  was  almost  as  delighted 
as  they  were,  and  laughed  and  enjoy ^  the  scene  like  a  happy  young 
girL  **  O  comme  t'es  belle !  comme  t'es  belle !"  uttered  diey,  in  their 
nuniHar  patois. 

<^  It  is  a  pretty  present,"  exclaimed  her  Majesty,  acc^ting  the  silver 
fisl^  and  playine  with  it.  ^^  How  frequently,  pray,  do  you  catch  these 
tori  of  fishP'  she  asked,  laughing* 

**  Jutt  as  often  as  your  Majesty  comes  to  Dnnkerque^"  they  promptly 
replied.  ^<  Comme  tu  es  bellotte,  mon  Impetrice  I"  uttared  their  bold 
and  joking  leader :  ^  tu  es  vraiment  b^otte ;  et  je  te  souhaite  un  gros 

The  Empress  laughed  out,  a  ringing  laugh,  as  she  would  have  done 

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274  An  Imperial  Visit. 

with  an  equal ;  the  Emperor  joined  in^  heartily ;  and  the  women^  laugh- 
ing in  concert,  retired :  the  Empress  ordering  them  1000  francs. 

A  tremendous  crowd,  meanwhile,  as  mauy  as  could  push  in,  had  col- 
lected in  the  cathedral,  where  a  large  hody  of  priests  waited  in  state  for 
their  sorereign ;  the  church  heing  decorated  inside,  and  its  entrance- 
doors  hung  with  crimson-velvet.  But  while  they  waited  and  waited, 
thinking  his  Majesty  was  a  long  while  coming,  the  hour  struck  half-past 
two,  and  a  loud  discharge  of  cannon  announced  the  unwelcome  fact,  that 
the  Imperial  couple  had  left  the  town  agun,  on  their  route  to  Calais, 
without  going  near  the  church  at  all.  It  was  very  provoking  for  those 
who  had  heen  closeted  there  for  hours,  pushing  and  scrambling  in  the 
dense  crowd,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  them.  On  the  Emperor's  departure, 
he  shook  warmly  the  hand  of  M.  MoUet,  the  Mayor  of  Dunkerque,  and 
expressed  a  lively  sense  of  satisfaction  at  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
been  welcomed.  And  Dunkerque  deserved  as  much  :  for  it  had  bestowed 
a  deal  of  money  and  anxiety  and  time  to  entertain  his  Imperial  Majesty, 
for  the  short  and  unsatisfactory  space  of  three  hours.  The  mayor  and 
two  other  gentlemen  received  the  insignia  of  the  Le^on  of  Honour. 

The  next  event,  in  rotation,  was  the  ball :  and,  the  crowding  excepted, 
it  was  a  very  delightful  one.  The  theatre  was  beautifully  decorated  and 
fitted  up :  but  the  French  ladies  asserted  that  it  was  ^'  p6nible  "  to  see 
the  d^  and  the  two  fauteuils  unoccupied.  There  was  many  a  pretty 
woman  there,  many  a  pretty  girl ;  some  of  the  toilettes  were  exquisite, 
and  the  uniforms,  civil  and  military,  glittered  in  all  parts  of  the  throng. 
The  quadrille  d'honneur  was  formed  as  well  as  it  could  be  formed,  for 
the  crowd ;  the  Sous  Pr^fet  taking  the  first  place,  in  the  absence  of  his 
Majesty.  Re^eshments  were  given  in  abundance ;  not  a  common  fea- 
ture at  French  balls  ;  and  the  Champagne  and  the  ^^  ponche"  were  in 
great  requisition.  « 

Tuesday  morning  rose  beautifully ;  the  wind  had  greatly  abated,  and 
the  second  day  of  the  f&te  promised  to  take  the  palm  from  the  first, 
bringing  further  regret  that  the  Emperor  had  not  stayed  longer.  The 
street  decorations  were  remodelled  and  replenished,  and  countless  num- 
bers of  coloured  lamps  hung,  to  be  illuminated  at  night.  An  estrade 
was  erected  on  the  Place  Jean  Bart,  all  lamps  and  flags  and  festoons  of 
flowers  and  evergreens,  intended  for  the  arena  of  the  trial  of  skill  in 
music  ;  and  active  preparations  were  making  for  the  fireworks,  which 
promised  to  be  truly  magnificent.  In  the  afternoon,  the  musical  bands 
of  Dunkerque  and  of  the  neighbouring  communes,  with  that  of  the  33rd 
Regiment,  assembled,  each  performing  two  pieces,  chosen  at  will,  and  a 
prize  was  presented  to  the  band  adjudged  the  best. 

With  dusk,  the  streets  were  lighted  up ;  the  illuminations  also  were 
very  general ;  they  had  been  only  partially  so  the  previous  night,  on 
account  of  the  tempest.  A  prize  was  to  be  given  to  the  most  tastily 
decorated  of  the  streets,  and  the  one,  deemed  best  deserving  of  it,  pre- 
sented more  the  appearance  of  a  grove  at  Vauxhall,  in  old  times,  than  a 
street,  so  profuse  were  its  evergreens  and  its  clusters  of  fanciful  and 
many-coloured  lamps;  whilst  at  its  extreme  end,  the  eye,  roaming 
through  verdant  arcades,  caught  a  view  of  the  ancient  Convent  des  Peni^ 
tentes,  brilliantiy  lighted  up  :  the  Place  Napoleon,  too,  had  an  admirable 
eflect,  it  being  entirely  hung  round  with  Venetian  lanterns.     Never  in 

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"  Positive''  Philosophy;  Comte  and  Lewes.  275 

England  could  you  see  such  a  sight  as  was  presented  that  night  hy  the 
streets  of  Dunkerqu^  for  the  English  do  not  understand  these  tmngs : 
and  if  they  did,  they  would  not  hestow  the  energy  necessary  to  accom- 
plish them.  We  spend  money  upon  in-door  amusements  :  the  French 
upon  out 

It  is  asserted  that  the  fireworks  cost  8000  francs.  The  crowd  as- 
sembled to  witness  them  was  immense,  and  several  individuals  were  ren- 
dered insensible  by  the  pressure.  They  commenced  just  before  nine,  and 
were  indeed  magnificent.  To  give  an  adequate  description  of  them 
would  be  impossible.  Now,  the  air  would  be  filled  with  balls  of  the 
most  brilliant  and  varied  colours ;  now,  would  descend  showers  of  golden 
rain ;  now,  jets  of  silver.  Ere  one  device  had  faded  away,  its  b^uties 
presenting  a  succession  of  wonders,  ever  changing,  another  would  break 
forth.  Now,  would  be  discovered  the  letter  N,  stationary  in  the  midst 
of  revolving  stars  and  prisms  of  vivid  brilliancy;  now,  as  you  looked,  the 
letter  dissdved  itself  into  £ :  here,  would  be  shining  forth  a  resplendant 
crown;  there,  towering  alofit,  the  Imperial  eagle:  and  the  last  scene,  the 
<*  bouquet,"  rising  into  the  air,  and  almost  seeming  to  touch  the  pale  stars 
of  ANOTHEB  hemisphere,  was  a  sight  worth  having  crossed  the  Channel 
to  see.  Never  will  that  night,  and  its  many  beauties,  be  erased  from  the 
memory's  eye  of  the  amazed  and  delighted  spectators. 

May  the  Emperor  and  Empress  come  again  to  Dunkerque !  is  the 
sentence  in  everybody's  mouth :  and  we  heartily  echo  it.  Never  mind 
the  money ! 


LITERARY     LEAFLETS. 

BT  SIR  NATHANIEL, 

No.  XIII. — "  Positive"  Philosophy  :  Comte  and  Lewes.* 

Highly  versatile — or  rather,  "  comprehensive,"  to  adopt  Sir  E.  Bulwer 
Lytton's  verbal  amendment — is  the  talent  which  has  been  manifested, 
TToKvfAeptDs  KM  voXvrpoirm,  by  Mr,  G.  H.  Lewes,  "  Je  voudrais,"  once 
said  Voltaire,  in  his  familiar  correspondence,  "  que  Newton  ^ut  fait  des 
vaudevilles,  je  Ten  estimerais  davantage.  Celui  qui  n'a  qu'un  talent  pent 
^tre  un  grand  genie ;  celui  qui  en  a  plusieurs  est  plus  aimable."  Voltaire 
would  have  pronounced  the  lively  author  of  "Blanche,  Rose,  and  Violet," 
very  atmable.  That  tale,  and  "  Ranthorpe,"  are  las  ventures  as  a  no- 
velist. His  play,  "  The  Noble  Heart,"  has  elicited  tears  and  plaudits  on 
the  stage,  nor  needs  to  deprecate  reviewal  in  the  closet.  In  biography 
he  is  recognised  by  his  Life  of  Robespierre — ^in  criticism,  by  his  "  Spanish 
Drama,"  and  a  large  miscellany  of  contributions  to  the  quarterly  and 
weekly  press — in  metaphysics,  by  his  "  Biographical  History  of  Philo- 
sophy," by  far  the  best  compendium  of  the  land  in  the  language,  what- 

*  Comte't  Philosophy  of  the  Sciences  :  being  an  Exposition  of  the  Cours  de  Phi- 
hsopkk  Positive  of  AugoatQ Comte.  ByG.H.Lewes.  London:  H.  G.  Bohn.  1863« 

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276  ''Positive''  PhUosaphy:  Qnmte  and  Lewes. 

ever  we  may  think  of  his  owb  anU-metaphyneal  stend-poiiit — in  natiml 
scieaee^  by  his  discuasiMiB  on  the  ^'  paesage  firom  Ae  orgtBic  to  iiit  inor- 
gamcy"  OQ  the  "  Vestiges' "  theofy,  on  the  possibility  d  spontaneoas 
combustion,  and  many  another  gmesiio  vexata.  The  Fieoch  %klaes8  of 
his  style  makes  whatever  he  indites  highly  readable — ^nor  do  we  find  in 
his  manner  so  much  of  ^'  flippancy''  and  ''  sparkling  shaUowness,"  as  to 
impel  us  to  sympathy  with  Madame  d'Ossoli*s  wrath  at  Act  undertakii^ 
the  life  of  Goethe.  At  the  ivesent  time  he  appears  to  be  the  ruling 
spirit  of  that  noticeable  nondescript  among  weekly  jaar&als>  the  Leader 
! — a  pretty  vehicle  of  propagandism  in  the  cause  of  firee-thiDking  and 
firee-spealang — a  perfect  repertory  of  the  new  cariosities  ci  literatnre 
in  matters  political,  theological,  social,  scientific,,  and  sesthelic.  The  aim 
of  that  jounial  would  se^oi, 

As  &r  as  might  be»  to  canre  out 
Free  space  for  eirery  human  doubt. 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about* — 

Yet  (is  this  ffd  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of  P)  we  will  plead  gmlty  to  a 
hj^  of  consulting  some  at  least  of  its  cohimns,  with  inmutely  greater  in- 
terest (they  are  so  fresh  and  suggestive,  so  piquant  in  their  veiy  aadadty !} 
than  we  do  those  of  other  papers,  of  time-honoured  ji^r^s^'^tf,  and  unim- 
peachable orthodoxy.  And  we  remember  how  ooe  of  ike  most  .distia- 
guishcd  critics  of  the  age — himself,  observe,  a  stanch  Tory,  a  good  High 
Churchman,  and  indeed  a  kind  of  cydopsedie  antidiesis  to  the  Leader — 
once  recorded  as  follows  his  testimony  to  its  drift :  "  a  journal,''  he  called 
it,  "  distinguished  by  its  ability,  by  its  hardihood  of  speculation,  by  its 
comprehensive  candour,  but,  in  my  eyes,  still  more  advantageously  dis- 
tinguished by  its  deep  sincerity."  Its  Htmry  department  is  conducted  by 
Mr.  Lewes,  and  in  other  sections  his  "  fine  French  hand"t  is  probably 
traceable — making  it  the  organ  of  his  assaults  on  conservatism  in  faith 
and  practice,  and  especially  of  his  enforcement  of  the  "  positive"  philoso- 
phy which  seems  to  hold,  with  Ryron,  that 

our  days  are  too  brief  for  affbrding 

Space  to  dispute  what  no  one  ever  could 

Decide,  and  everybody  one  day  will 

Know  very  clearly — or  at  least  lie  still. 

And  therefore  would  it  leave  off  fn€topfaysical 
Dneuasion. 

To  that  journal  Mr.  Lewes  contributed,  some  months  since,  a  series  of 
articles  expositorv  of  the  Positive  Philosophy  of  Auguste  Comte,  and 
which  forms  the  first  part  of  the  volume  of  Bohn's  Scientific  Library  now 
before  us.  The  English  reader  who  desires  a  fuller  presentment  of  f£e 
subject,  win  of  course  consult  Miss  Martineau's  two  volumes.  But  pro- 
bably, most  English  readers  will  find  quite  enough  to  "  give  them  pause* 
in  Mr.  Lewes^s  compact  epitome — ^wlnch  has  the  ad<£tional  attraction  of 
being  conv^ed  in  a  clear,  and  lively,  and  highly  readable  form — never 
too  diffuse  to  be  heavy  (the  original  sin  of  the  original  author),  nor  too 
condensed  to  be  easily  intenigH)le;  the  Very  bool^  in  fact,  to  secure  a 

*  Temtysctt:  The  Twq  Voices, 

t  By  the  way,  how  comes  it  that  so  eajBj  and  practised  a  writer— versed,  one 
would  think,  in  the  philosophy  of  ne  quid  ii0Mt^--dioald  be  so  lavish  of  marks  of 
admiration?    Wlmtafiuidbehasof  mtra6t£ta  dietul 

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"  PosHwe^^  PhiloBophy :  Comte  and  Letoes.  2Tt 

hemring  for  M.  Comte,  if  le  is  to  have  one  at  all  among  our  coontiTmen 
en  masae.  A  brief  biographical  introducfioii  is  prefixed,  from  whoch  it 
appears  ihmi  the  foimder  of  PositiTism  as  a  science  was  bom  in  1797,  of 
an  ''  eimnCTitly  Catholic  and  monarchical"  fiunily — iixat  while  at  college, 
in  his  firarteenth  year,  he  first  ith  ^*  the  necessity  of  an  entire  renoration 
in  plnloeophy^'^  inTolviag  the  application  (si  the  sdentific  Method  to  Txfcal 
and  social  problems,  as  well  as  to  the  phenomena  of  the  inorgaoiio  world — 
that  be  sahseqaently  co-(^>erated  for  some  time  with  St.  Simon-— that  ia 
his  twenty-nin&  year  insanity  (with  which  his  enemies  would  taunt  fakiL 
to  this  day)  was  the  transient  result  of  a  ^^trannant  cerebral  disorder^' — 
that  he  hecBone  professor  at  the  Ecole  Polytechnique^  but  lost  that  and 
other  posts  by  die  systematic  hostility  of  some  brother  professors,  and  is 
now,  indeed,  a  needy  and  dependent  man.  One  year  of ''  chaste  and  ex- 
quisite a£Pection,"  of  ample  power  to  soften  and.  subdue  the  angularities^ 
and  aspeniies  of  his  too  exclusively  intellectual  system,  gave  him  a  new 
g^limpse  into  man's  destiny,  and  taught  him  the  predominance  due  to  the 
afifections.  His  writings,  composed  with  singular  rapidity,  already  amoimt 
to  twelve  portiy  tomes. 

Let  us  hastily  glance  at  some  of  the  salieilt  points  of  M.  Comte's 
philos<^ifay. — Its  fundamental  law  is,  th^  passage  of  Humanity  through 
three  successive  stages — the  the<^ogical,  the  meti^ysical,  and  the  posi- 
tive. These  three  phases  of  intellectual  evt^ution  characterise  the  pro- 
gress of  the  in£vidual  as  wdl  as  of  ihe  race^  of  the  unit  man  as  weM  aa 
of  the  mass  of  men.  The  preparatory  phase— called  the  theological,  or 
supernatural — is  that  in  wmch  the  mmd  seeks  causes,  asks  the  how  of 
every  phenomenon,  the  ultimate  whence  of  every  feict,  the  wherefore  of 
every  why.  In  it,  the  mind  ascribes  every  event  to  an  immediate  divine 
agent,  and  every  unusual  or  exceptional  i^pearance  to  the  express  feivonr 
or  displeasure  of  that  extra-mundane  agent.  The  mind  regards  Nature 
^'  as  uie  theatre  whereon  the  arbitrary  wills  and  momentary  caprices  of 
Sf^iicff  Powers  [^ay  their  varying  and  variable  parts.  Men  are  startled 
at  unusual  occurrences,  and  explain  them  by  fanciful  conceptions.  A 
sdar  eclipse  is  understood,  and  unerrin^y  predicted  to  a  moment,  by 
Positiye  Science ;  but  in  the  theological  epoc^  it  was  bdieved  that  some 
dragon  had  swallowed  the  sun."  Such  is  phase  the  first.  And  observe : 
not  one  honest  English  Churdiman,  not  one  plain  English  Christian,  to 
this  very  hour,  has  advanced  beyond  this  phase.  For  tibe  former  has  not 
expunged  from  his  prayer-book,  supplications  for  rain  or  for  fair  weather ; 
nor  has  tiie  latter  cea»ed  to  brieve  in  a  particular  providence ;  things 
ifhoUy  set  aside  as  old  wives'  fables  by  the  poative  philosophy.  So  thi^ 
every  father's  son  amongst  us  who  holds  to  the  creed  of  '^ancestral 
voices,"  and  so  worships  the  God  of  his  fathers,  and  still  abides  by  the 
&ith  of  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John,  must  be  prepared  for  the  c<mi- 
tempt,  uttered  or  unexpressed,  inalienable  from  a  positivist  in  the  matu- 
rity (^  stage  the  third,  towards  a  sup^naturalist  in  the  groping  babyhood 
of  stage  the  first. 

Now  for  tiie  second  phase — ^the  metaphysical.  Here,  a  niodifieatiosk 
has  taken  place.  The  supernatural  agents  have  merged  in  certain  abstract 
forces,  which  are  si^posed  to  inhere  in  various  substances,  and  to  have  a 
capacity  of  engendering  phenomena.  The  gods  are  ignored,  or  disfribteed 
by  metaphysical  entities.     The  divine  personalities  have  given  way  to 

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278  "  Positive'*  Philosophy :  Comte  and  Lewes. 

certain  hypothetical  principles^  Metaphysical  philosophy  differs  from 
theological,  in  its  admission  of  the  notion  of  constancy  or  invariableness 
in  the  movements  of  Nature ;  and  from  positive,  in  its  hypothesis  of  an 
agency  superadded  to  the  phenomena — ^in  its  declining  to  confine  itself  to 
the  observed  fact,  and  its  pertinacious  suggestion  of  an  explanation  for 
the  fact — in  its  imagining  an  entity  inhering  in  substances  as  an  inva- 
riable real  presence.  Thus,  the  metaphysical  physiologist,  for  example, 
instead  of  contenting  himself  as  the  positivist  does,  with  observati<»2s 
restricted  to  biolo^cad  phenomena,  with  a  view  to  apprehend  the  laws  of 
their  action,  proceeds  to  speculate  on  the  vital  essence,  on  the  causes  of 
life,  on  the  principle  of  existence, — ^pronouncing  the  subject  of  lus  research, 
"  chemical  affinity,"  or  "  electricity,"  or  "  nervous  fluid,"  or  what  not 
And  again  observe :  no  man  who  still  affects  even  so  abstract  a  phrase  as 
'*the  Laws  of  Nature,"  has  yet  emerged  from  this  second,  or  metaphy- 
sical, stage,  into  the  positive  third.  For,  Law  is  the  subtle  but  super- 
subtle,  the  delicate  but  supposititious  *^  abstract  entity,"  which  metaphydcs 
gratuitously  sjaperadds  to  concrete  fact,  and  which,  as  imaginary  and 
potentially  misleading,  is  nehushtan  to  the  iconoclastic  protestantism  of 
positive  science. 

What,  then,  is  the  third  phase — what  is  this  posidve  philosophy,  so 
revolutionary  in  its  policy,  so  exterminating  in  its  decrees  ? 

It  is  that  phase  in  the  development  of  Humanity,  social  and  individual, 
in  which  the  mind,  rejecting  as  futile  all  speculation  about  cause  and 
principle  and  essence,  limits  its  inquiry  to  phenomena,  and  to  their  un- 
varying relations,  simply  with  a  view  to  the  mastery  of  their  laws. 
Positive  Philosophy  is,  tnerefore,  defined  to  be,  the  Explanation  of  the 
Phenomena  of  the  Universe,  The  Why  it  declines  to  scrutinise,  as 
something  far  above  out  of  its  reach.  The  How  it  sedulously  and  solely 
investigates.  "  The  positive  stage,"  says  Mr.  Lewes,  "  explains  pheno- 
mena by  ascertained  laws,  laws  based  on  distinct  and  indisputable  certi- 
tude gathered  in  the  long  and  toilsome  investigation  of  centuries ;  and 
these  laws  are  not  only  shown  to  be  demonstrable  to  reason,  but  accordant 
with yac^;  for  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  science  is,  that  it  sees 
Bni/oresees.  Science  is  prevision.  Certainty  is  its  basis  and  its  glory.'' 
In  this  "recognition  of  invariableness"  lies  the  ^*germ  of  science," 
because  on  it  alone  can  prevision  of  phenomena  depend — ^prevision  being 
the  test  of  knowledge. 

Now,  all  the  sciences,  physical  and  social — this  is  a  capital  charac- 
teristic of  M.  Comte's  philosophy— a//  are  to  be  regarded  as  branches  of 
one  Science,  and  so  to  be  investigated  on  one  and  the  same  Method. 
The  student  must  therefore  arrange  the  sciences  according  to  their 
dependence  on  each  other ;  beginning  with  the  '^  simplest  (most  general) 
{phenomena,  and  proceeding  successively  to  the  most  complex  and  par- 
ticular." By  which  rule,  the  following  will  be  the  order  in  wluch  he  studies 
the  five  sciences  involved  in  the  positive  method — for  it  is  peremptorily 
enforced,  as  a  fundamental  condition  to  success  in  such  study,  that  the 
sciences  should  be  learned  in  this  their  natural  order,  to  the  infringement 
of  which  rule  is  ascribed  the  present  incoherent  aspect  of  scientific  culture 
("  some  sciences  being  in  the  positive,  some  in  the  supernatural,  and  some 
in  the  metaphysical  stage,"  with  minute  self-contradictory  subdivisions). 
Mrst:  the  Mathematical  sciences — since  in  them  the  ideas  dealt  with  are 

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^^ Positive"  Philosophy:  Comte  and  Zetoes.  279 

the  most  entirely  abstract  possible  in  positive  pbilosophj,  ^'  for  nowhere 
else  are  questions  resolved  so  completely,  and  deductions  prolonged  so 
far  with  extreme  rigour'* — these  deductions  involving  the  greatest  pos- 
sible number  of  results  from  the  smallest  posdble  number  of  imme^te 
data.  Astronomy  comes  under  this  section,  and  is  the  only  fundamental 
science  (out  of  the  five)  which  is  allowed  to  be  really  and  finally  pureed 
of  all  theological  or  metaphysical  considerations — the  only  one  thoroughly 
established  as  positive,  and  satisfactorily  fulfilling  the  axiom  that  every 
science  has  prevision  for  its  object.  Second:  the  science  of  Physics, 
which,  says  Comte,  did  not  begin  definitely  to  disengage  itself  from 
metaphysics,  and  become  really  positive,  until  after  the  great  discovery 
of  Galileo  on  the  fall  of  heavy  bodies,  and  which  is  therefore  considerably 
behind  Astronomy  (positive  so  many  centuries  ago)  in  its  scientific  pre- 
cision. The  positivists  enlarge  on  the  conception  of  a  ^'  luminiferous 
ether,"  that  "  prevfdling  hypothesis,**  almost  universally  accepted  by  men 
of  science  in  Engluid, — as  illustrating  the  adulteration,  by  metaphysical 
myth,  of  the  study  of  Physics — any  such  assumed ^t^t^  being  in  reality 
no  more  than  one  of  the  old  entities  materialised,  a  mere  personified  ab- 
straction, a  trifle  lighter  than  air,  and  only  to  the  dreamer  giving  ^'  con- 
firmation strong,*'  while  to  the  waking  man  it  is  obnoxious  as  standing, 
a  shadowy  pretence,  between  him  and  the  sun.  Third :  Chemistry— 
a  science  where  the  complexity  of  phenomena  is  greatly  augmented — ^its 
aim  being,  to  find  the  properties  of  all  the  compounds  of  all  (given) 
simple  substances — ^its  study,  especially  interesting  as  compensating  for 
deficiency  in  the  **  prevision  of  phenomena"  by  "  the  power  of  modifying 
them  at  our  pleasure."  Here,  too,  metaphysical  parasites  are  denounced, 
in  the  shape  of  "  inherent  vital  forces,'*  &c.,  hypotheses  which  positivism 
cannot  away  with.  Fourth :  Physiology,  or  Biology,  or  the  science  of 
Life — the  necessary  basis  of  psychology,  and  to  the  development  of  which 
M.  Comte  contributes  "  a  new  cerebral  theory."  MJih  :  Social  science 
•*— its  principle  being,  that  social  phenomena  are  inevitably  subjected  to 
natural  laws,  in  accordance  with  the  axiom  of  Leibnitz,  '^  The  present  is 
pregnant  with  the  future  ;'* — ^as  a  statical  science,  investigating  the  laws 
of  co-existence  (which  characterise  the  idea  of  social  Order),  and  as  a 
dynamical,  the  laws  of  succession  (which  pertain  to  the  theory  of 
Progress).  ^'  Sociology  thus  imites  the  two  equally  fundamental  ideas  of 
Order  and  Progress,  the  radical  opposition  of  which*'  constitutes  *'the 
principal  characteristic  symptom  of  the  profound  perturbation  of  modem 
society.'*  And  whereas  hitherto  there  has  been  a  division  kept  up  be- 
tween physical  laws  and  moral  laws — the  former  being  monopolised 
by  one  set  of  teachers,  and  the  latter  by  another — ^M.  Comte  claims  to 
have  healed  the  breach,  and  identified  the  interests,  by  his  foundation  of 
social  science. 

Such,  in  rough  and  ragged  outline,  is  Positivism.  Such  the  philosophy 
which,  if  destined  to  dominion,*  must  sweep  away  the  landmarks  of  our 

*  In  reply  to  the  damaging  resmark  by  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  that  it  is  rather  sur- 
prising Comte  should  begin  to  be  taken  up  in  England  just  as  he  is  being  given 
up  in  his  own  country,  Mr.  Lewes  asserts,  that,  so  far  from  his  reputation  de- 
clining in  France,  it  is  now  beginning  to  assume  importance,  and  to  attract  the 
adhesion  of  France's  most  markworthy  physiologists,  B^aud,  Bobin,  Littr^ 
Yerdeil,  &C., — ^wfaile  the  demand  for  his  volominoos  works  of  itself  speaks 

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280  ^*  Positwe"  Philosophy :  Comte  and  Lewes; 

old  clieridied  c<niTictkmB  in  theology,  metaphysfcs,  and  heaven  (to  q^eak 
anti-positiTely)  knows  what.  It  ii  called  hy  Mr.  Morell,  an  enomioia 
system  of  materialism,  grounded  on  great  research — rejecting  ail  causes 
fts  useless  and  Tain — ^making  the  idea  of  power  the  lingering  relic  of  an 
age  of  hypothesis ;  that  of  mmd  or  sptrti  but  a  continuous  attempt  to 
personify  the  law  of  man's  intellectual  b^g ;  and  i^iat  of  Ood,  when 
▼iewed  Geologically,  a  fruitless  attempt  to  account  for  the  existence  of 
the  unirerse, — when  viewed  philosophically,  but  the  highest  abstraction 
of  causality,  which  must  give  way  in  this  age  of  positive  science  to  the 
nmple  idea  oi  a  general  law. 

Is,  then,  M.  Comte  an  adieist  ?  So  affirm  ^  the  generaL"  "While 
some  **  positively"  call  him  very  religious,  and  his  system  the  only  truly 
religious  science.  What  says  Mr.  Lewes  to  the  imputation  of  atheism  ? 
Most  '^positively"  he  denies  it.  An  incautious  r^der,  he  allows,  di^ 
pmg  here  and  there  into  M.  Comte's  deep  places,  might  suppose  him  an 
athi^st — ^but  an  attentive  read^  must,  on  the  contrary,  be  ^'  strongly  im- 
pressed by  the  forcible  and  scomfal  rejection  of  atheism  so  ofiben  there 
recurring.''  And  Mr.  Lewes  quotes  a  passage  to  show  that  Comte  re* 
gards  atheism  aa  the  dregs  of  the  meta^^ysicdi  period,  a  period  for  whixk 
his  scorn  is  incessant.  But  does  that  passage,  does  any  passage  in  the 
maestro's  opera  omnia,  imply  any  r^aixl  less  scornful  for  theism  ?  Is 
not  the  idea  of  a  God*  as  obnoxious  to  him,  as  the  lexical  di^roof  of 
One<— both  schemes  being  equally  removed  from  positive  science,  and  by  it 
scouted  as  futile  waste  of  time,  and  mischievous  waste  of  brains  ?  A^eist 
may  be  a  hard  name  in  our  terminology ;  in  Mr.  Comte's,  it  is  only  aa 
unmeaning  one,  and  one  not  worth  the  puns  of  earning.  Theism  is  not 
^poative"  enough.  Atheism  is  a  great  deal  too  negative.  In  shorty 
the  whole  subject  had  better  be  dropped — it  pertains  to  the  two  first 
phases  of  progress,  the  theological  and  metaphysical,  and  they  are  pre- 
sumed to  be  *^  shelved"  for  ever  and  a  day. 

With  reference,  however,  to  Mr.  Lewes,  we  we  not  at  liberty  to  over- 
look his  protest  against  the  charge  oi  atheism ;  nor  should  we  omit  to 
mention  ins  eam^y  enforced  and  consistently  iterated  tenet,  that  ^  Ae 
Intellectual  aspect  is  not  the  noblest  aspect  of  man,"  and  that  never  will  there 
be  a  Philosophy  capable  c^  satisfying  the  demands  of  Humanity,  until  the 
truth  be  recognised  that  '^  man  is  moved  by  his  emotions,  not  by  his 
ideas;  using  his  Intellect  only  as  an  eye  to  see  the  way"-^^iis  IntdUeet 
being,  in  a  word,  the  servant,  not  llie  lord  of  the  Heart, — and  Sdenee  a 
dull  bagatelle,  '^  unless  it  subserve  some  grand  religious  aim — unless  its 
issue  be  in  some  enlaa^d  conception  of  man's  life  and  destiny."  He  he- 
sitates not  to  declare  his  preference  of  the  primitive  spontaneous  concep- 
tions of  the  Deity  to  the  modem  deification  of  Int^ect,  which  is  but  a 
gart,  and  that  not  the  noblest  part,  of  our  nature.  There  is  genuine 
eart  in  most  of  what  Mr.  Lewes  indites,  whidi  is  scarcely  true,  so  hx 
as  we  can  judge,  of  the  discussions  of  his  ^  guide,  philosopher,  and 

yolmnes.  The  circulation  of  Mr.  Lewes's  epitome,  and  of  Miss  Martineaa's 
ampler  performance  (in  Jc^  Chapman's  Series),  will  be  some  criterion  oi  the 
Interest  England  takes  in  positivism.    Is  the  game  to  be.  Follow  the  Leader  f 

*  The  only  Eire  Supreme  considered  possiUe  by  M.  Comte  is— what  ?  "  T%e 
Collective  Life  of  Hnmamty.**    Venite  exuUemusJ 

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^^  Posit ive^^  Philosophy  :   Comte  and  Lewes.  281 

friend,"  the  ex-professor  of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique,  or  of  the  lucubra- 
tions in  general  of  his  company  of  disciples. 

Whatever  be  the  tendencies  of  Positivism,  however  fatal  to  all  our 
fondest  and  firmest  opinions  and  sentiments,  by  all  means  give  it  a  frank 
and  full  hearing — although  it  cannot  surdy  r^iroach  diose  who  woold 
Cfj  it  down,  with  the  warning,  fAqirorf  kol  OEOfuxxoi  IwpfOijrt*  To  caU 
attention  to  a  little  volume  which  ably  and  succinctly  portrays  its  aoc^ 
and  character,  is  the  simple  object  of  this  paper,  whi<^  wholly  repu* 
diating  pretence  to  criticism  (perhaps  an  absuzdiy  imoaUed-fbr  i^oma- 
&m\  ^^  hath  this  extent,  no  more."  To  Positivism  as  a  great  fact,  and 
to  Mx^  Lewes's  exposition  of  it  as  a  small  one,  we  may  all  do  well  to  give 
heed,  among  the  signs  of  the  times.  Be  Positivifim  studied,  then^  as  a 
protest  against 

Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 
Our  human  nature^  and  assume  we  have 
Such  a  prerogative  in  our  radoaal  soul,* 

as  qualifies  it  to  understand  f  all  mysteries,  and  to  hypothesize  aafely  to 
Ihe  top  of  its  hent.  Be  it  studied,  at  any  rate,  before  it  is  answered ;  for 
this,  in  the  end,  may  save  trouble ;  although,  with  that  view,  the  converse 
process  may,  prima  Jactey  appear  more  promidng« 

*  Shirley:  The  Brothers. 

t  There  is  a  strong  smack  of  Positivism  in  the  confession  of  John  Marston's 
Sebdar  (in  «  What  You  Will"),  who  had  deflowered  «  seven  useftil  springs'*  in 
studying  '*  cross'd  (^timons  iMut  the  aoul  <^  man;"  and  who  *^  the  more  he  leam'd, 
the  more  he  leam'd  to  doubt'' — ^the  while  his  spaniel  slqpt: 

Hot  philosophers 
Stood  handing  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt, 
I  stagger'd,  knew  not  which  was  finoer  part, 
But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observed,  and  pryed, 
StufTd  noting-books :  and  still  my  spaniel  slepC. 
At  lei^;&  he  waked  and  yawn'd;  and  hj  joa  tk^t 
For  aught  I  know  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 

The  same  old  dramatist,  in  another  play  ("  Antonio's  Bevenge")  intxodnoes  a 
"  fling"  at  those  "  wiflards,"  or  wise-acres. 

Who  making  curious  search 
For  nature's  secrets,  the  First  Innating  Cause 
Lau^is  them  to  scorn,  as  man  doth  busy  Apes 
When  Uiey  will  zany  men. 

Which  Torses  we  wiH,  however  incongruoudy,  tag  with  13iose  of  lidton's  **  god- 
Hke  angel  mild,"  who  taught  our  first  father  that  there  are  problems  insotnUe  by 
sndi  as  he — ''  supj^ress'd  in  night,  to  n<»ie  communicable  in  earth  or  hoMen," 
though  quite 

Enough  is  left  besides  to  search  and  know. 

But  ^owledge  is  as  fbod,  and  needs  no  less 

fier  temperance  over  appetite,  to  know 

In  measure  what  the  mind  maj  wdl  contain ; 

Oppresses  else  with  surfeit,  and  soon  turns 

Wisdom  to  folly,  as  nourishment  to  wind. 


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(    282     ) 


TRAVELS   IN    THE    NORTH.» 

There  is  one  portion  of  Europe  which  has  heen  treated  in  somewhat 
a  discourteous  fashion  hy  travelling  authors :  we  allude  to  the  small  ter- 
ritory of  Lapland.  In  vain  may  we  search  through  Mr.  Murray's  broad- 
sheet, or  Mr.  Bentley's  literary  announcements;  we  find  there  any 
quantity  of  books  giving  us  more  or  less  interesting  accounts  of  all  the 
quarters  of  the  world,  but  nought  about  Lapland.  It  is  our  pleasing 
task  to  efface  this  blot  from  the  literary  escutcheon,  by  introducing  the 
readers  of  the  New  Monthly  to  the  very  pleasant  pages  of  Gastrin,  a 
Swedish  gentleman,  who  has  traversed  Lapland  and  Siberia  in  his  search 
for  traditionaiy  and  archaeological  matter. 

On  the  present  journey,  M.  Gastrin  started  with  another  learned 
Swede,  of  the  name  of  Lonnrot,  from  the  town  of  Kenie,  and  they  set  oat 
at  the  commencement  of  the  month  of  November  on  a  water-excursion  up 
the  river  of  the  same  name.  Gontrary  to  their  expectation,  the  winter 
was  remarkably  mild,  and  they  were  soon  compelled  to  leave  their  boatfi^ 
in  consequence  of  the  masses  of  floating  ice  impeding  their  progress. 
After  a  very  tedious  journey  of  nearly  a  fortnight,  chiefly  accomplished 
on  foot,  they  arrived  at  Salla,  whence  they  had  originally  intended  to 
make  excursions  into  Russian  Lapmark,  as  no  traveller  had  before  exa- 
mined this  country  linguistically  or  ethnographically,  and  a  rich  harvest 
might  naturally  be  expected.  The  Lapps  of  the  villafi^  of  Akkala  formed 
the  principal  object  of  interest  to  them,  as  the  Fmnish  peasants  and 
fishermen  bad  informed  them,  that  these  Lapps  kept  themselves  entirely 
estranged  firom  Russians  and  other  nations,  and  retained  their  language 
and  customs  in  their  primitive  purity.  An  unexpected  incident,  however, 
frustrated  their  plans.  They  found  the  people  of  Salla  to  be  crafty  and 
avaricious,  and  by  no  means  inclined  to  lead  them  through  the  deserts 
separating  AkksJfa  from  Salla,  and  nearly  140  versts  in  extent,  for  any 
moderate  amount  They  were  compelled  to  wait  the  course  of  events 
patiently  in  Salla,  and,  as  they  had  anticipated,  some  Akkala-Lapps 
came  to  Salla  in  a  few  days,  in  order  to  dispose  of  their  wares,  whence 
they  would  return  home  with  empty  sleighs.  Our  travellers  were,  how- 
ever, completely  taken  in  by  the  cunning  of  the  Sallites.  They  met  the 
Lapps  some  distance  on  tne  road,  and  induced  them  to  return  home 
without  seeing  the  strangers,  by  persuading  them  that  they  were  emis* 
saries  sent  to  preach  the  Gospel  to  them,  and  force  them  to  alter  their 
habits.  Gastrin  and  his  companion  were  so  disgusted,  that  they  gave 
up  their  meditated  journey,  and  proceeded  in  the  nrst  instance  to  Enaie. 
They,  consequentiy,  quitted  Salla  at  the  commencement  of  December, 
in  sledges,  along  the  icy  bed  of  a  littie  stream,  which,  however,  was  so 
covered  with  water,  that  the  travellers  were  continiially  wet  through* 
They  at  length  reached  the  littie  farm  of  Korwanen,  about  half-way  to 
Enare,  where  they  were  blocked  up  by  a  most  terrific  storm  for  twelve 
days  and  nights.  Here  they  expenenced  some  of  the  special  comforts  of 
travelling  in  Lapland.     The  chimney  was  so  large  that,  after  every  time 

*  Matthias  Alexander  Castro's  ^  Beisen  im  Norden,*'  aus  dem  Schwediscben 
iibersetzt  von  Heinrich  Hehns.    Williams  and  Norgate. 


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Travels  in  the  North.  283 

thejr  had  a  fire  kindled,  some  one  was  obliged  to  climb  on  the  roof  and 
stop  the  orifice  with  hay.  The  smi  had  disappeared,  and  the  atmosphcure 
was  so  thick  and  gloomy,  that  they  were  obliged  to  bum  candles  in  the 
daytime.  As  soon  as  the  weather  cleared  np  a  little^  people  thronged 
in  from  east  and  west,  all  bound,  like  themselves,  for  the  diurch  of 
Enare.  On  the  day  bdbre  Christmas  eve,  they,  at  length,  started  once 
again.  It  would  have  been  only  reasonable  for  all  to  leave  at  the  same 
moment,  but  the  new  arrivers  cleverly  waited  till  the  next  day,  in  order 
to  take  advantage  of  the  track  that  would  be  made  for  them  over  the 
terrific  Sombio  rocks.  Our  travellers  were,  however,  nothing  daunted, 
but,  trusting  to  their  famous  reindeer  and  hedges,  they  started  in  com- 
pany with  three  Finns  and  two  Lapps.  Our  author  takes  the  oppor- 
tunity, while  telling  how  his  brains  were  nearly  knocked  out  by  coming 
in  contact  with  a  tree,  to  instruct  us  in  the  proper  management  of  a 
sledge: 

My  reindeer  took  it  suddeulv  in  his  head  to  leave  the  track,  and  run  with 
all  his  strength  against  a  birch-tree,  with  which  I  came  in  such  unpleasant 
contact,  that  the  blood  streamed  from  my  nose  and  mouth.  Though  this  did 
not  put  me  in  the  best  of  tempers,  I  was  obliged  to  laugh,  when  Lonnrot  ex- 
pressed a  hope  that  my  nose  could  still  be  saved,  however  badly  it  had  been 
treated.  As  it  is  naturally  everybody's  wish  to  protect  this  part  of  his  person 
as  much  as  possible,  I  determined  on  not  exposing  it  to  any  hazard  in  future. 
This  precaution  may  be  usually  taken,  that  is,  if  you  like  to  leave  your  legs  in 
the  lurch,  and  employ  them  more  especially  in  guiding  the  oscillating  move^ 
meats  of  the  sledge.  Still,  in  that  case,  you  must  take  care  not  to  plant  your 
heel  firmly  on  the  ground,  for  fear  of  breaking  your  leg  ;  the  latter  must  be 
placed  one  on  each  side,  with  your  knees  well  pressed  in,  and  the  feet  must  be 
used  to  prevent  the  sledge  from  running  up  against  trees  and  rocks.  This 
theory  is  certainly  simple,  but  the  practice  is  difficult,  as  the  reindeer  gives 
ydto  very  little  time  for  reflection  at  the  moment  when  it  is  most  required, 
and  that  b  in  going  down  hill.  He  oflen  races  over  the  rocks,  at  such 
speed  that  the  objects  around  cannot  be  distinguished,  even  if  you  have  the 
courage  to  keep  your  eyes  open  and  have  them  filled  with  the  quantity  of 
snow  the  reindeer  continually  kicks  up  behind  him.  It  is  an  advisable 
scheme  to  upset  the  sledge  where  the  snow  lies  deep,  for  the  back  part  sinks 
in  l^e  snow  and  immediately  checks  the  reindeer's  career ;  but  on  the  hills 
and  rocks  this  cannot  be  practised,  because  the  snow  is  continually  swept 

away  by  the  violent  winds The  best  plan,  however,  is  to  let  tnc 

reindeer  do  as  he  likes,  and  you  reach  the  level  ground  in  tolerable  safety. 

After  spending  Christmas  in  Enare,  our  travellers  set  out  on  their  long 
and  dangerous  journey  to  the  Russian  town  of  Kola ;  and  while  stopping 
for  the  night  in  a  hut,  takes  the  opportunity  of  giving  us  the  following 
account  of  the  Enare  Lapps  : 

As  regards  the  domestic  life  of  the  Enare  Lapps,  civilisation  has  so  far  pro- 
gressed that  they  possess  houses,  though  they  only  make  use  of  them  in  the 
winter.  During  the  summer  the  fishermen  lead  a  nomadising  life,  and  remove 
from  one  hut  to  the  other.  When  fishing  is  at  an  end,  they  retire  to  their 
huts,  which  are  built  in  some  solitary  spot,  where  all  they  care  for  is  good 
grazing  ground  for  their  reindeer,  the  requisite  bush  for  their  own  support, 
and  the  necessary  firewood.  If  any  of  these  requirements  fall  off,  they  choose 
a  new  place  of  residence.  Hence  it  is  natural  that  the  Lapp  does  not  ex- 
pend much  time  or  trouble  on  the  structure  of  his  house.  It  is  usually  only 
large  enough  to  shelter  the  members  of  his  family  and  a  few  sheep,  which 
latter  lie  under  the  beds.    In  the  centre  the  hut  is  about  the  height  of  a  tall 

Nov, — VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  cccxcv.  u 

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^264  Travels  m  the  Nortli. 

mmij  but  at  the  sides  it  ig  not  poBsible  to  ttaad  upright.    The  only  articlea  of 
luxnry  are  a  few  pieces  of  glass,  which  are  ixiserted  is  the  walls  to  act  as  win- 
dows.   Tables  and  chairs  are  rarities,  and  even  spoons  are  not  universaL     . 
As  for  their  food,  it  chiefly  consists  of  fish,  though  in  the  winter  the  Lapp  is 
not  satisfied  with  this  light  food  alone.   He  has  one  great  meal  in  the  course  of 
the  daj,  but  at  that  he  prefers  to  have  meat ;  at  ot£er  meals  he  satisfies  him- 
self with  fisb.    Many  Lapps  also  possess  stores  of  bread,  reindeer  or  sheep 
milk  cheese,  and  dainties  of  the  berry  species.    His  meat  be  chiefly  obtaiiis 
by  bunting  wild  reindeer,  drawing  on  his  own  flock,  or  else  purchasing  from 
the  BMMmtain  Lapps  in  the  vicinity.     The  latter,  it  is  true,  are  disindmed  to 
part  witli  their  reindeer,  as  their  herds  are  almost  daily  thinned  by  tbe  wolves, 
who,  to  use  the  words  of  a  mountain  Lapp,  '^  are  as  dangerous  to  the  reindeer, 
as  the  devil  is  to  man ;"  but  brandy  is  a  seductive,  an  all-powerful  agent. 
When  a  traveller  arrives  in  a  mountam  village,  and,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  country,  offers  his  hosts  a  couple  of  glasses  of  scbnaps,  be  receives  plenty 
of  roast  reiocieer  meat,  tongues,  marrow-bones,  &c.,  in  return.     It  would  be 
regarded  as  an  insult  if  he  did  not  accept  them,  but,  as  soon  as  he  bra  dope 
so,  it  is  his  duty  to  pay  for  them  in  brandy,  according  to  the  proverb,  "present 
for  present.**    If  he  neglect  to  do  so,  he  will  be  very  speedily  reminded  of  bis 
laches,  and  fresh  presents,  and  treating  continue,  till  the  traveller  has  not  a 
drop  left.     It  may  be  easily  seen  what  profit  a  calculating  trader  may  make 
with  the  mountain  Lapps. 

Our  travellers  at  last  arrived  at  Kola,  after  many  d^cnlties  and  priva- 
tions, just  before  the  MasFmitza,  or  Butter  week,  in  Russia  a  season  of 
joy  and  festivity,  before  the  commencement  of  Lent  They  were  received 
in  the  most  ho^itable  fashion,  and  found  much  that  interested  them.  One 
of  the  most  ohmrming  sights  was  a  ^'  Montagne  Rnsse,''  down  which  the 
ladies  and  geniHemen ^descended  in  little  r^deer  sledges;  but  the  week 
is  too  soon  at  an  end,  and  we  will  follow  the  author  on  a  tour  of  infroedtaoa 
through  the  town,  and  see  how  the  great  people  find  themselves  mer  ^ 
delights  of  the  Maslinitza.  Alas !  the  doctor  is  stretched  out  on  his 
broad  so£E^  complaining  of  the  oppressive  atmosphere,  and  stating  that  lie 
must  protect  himself  agdnst  the  scurvy — the  Custom-house  officer  abuses 
the  hard  times,  when  an  honest  man  cannot  smoke  his  tobaeoo  doty  &ee 
— ^ihe  pedagogue,  his  Mend,  consdes  him,  and  advises  lum  to  smoke 
away,  for  God  forgives — ^the  pedagogue  himself  is  suffering  firom  a  tioa- 
blesome  rash — the  Isprawnik  is  tormented  with  rheumatism — the  SasS- 
datel  displays  his  chest,  which  is  covered  with  yellow  spots — the  Crorod- 
nitz,  the  Capuchin  monk,  and  many  others,  are  tortured  with  headache 
*-the  ladies  alone  sit  at  home,  and  (may  we  say  it)  eat  cabbage.  Thus 
fatigue  and  exhaustion  supervene  on  an  abundance  of  ddigfat. 

Our  travellers  had  originaUy  intended  to  make  Kola  a  sort  of  eentre 
for  their  excursions  into  Russian  Lapmark,  and  go  thrice,  as  soon  as  tbe 
sea  was  open,  through  Mesen,  among  the  Samoiedes ;  hut  news  diey 
received  from  Petersburg  caused  them  to  go  in  the  first  instaooe  to 
Archangel,  where  they  intended  to  study  the  Samoie&n  language. 
Hence  they  could  not  give  so  much  time  as  they  desired  to  Ae  Russian 
Lapps,  and  left  many  villages  to  the  north  of  Kola  unvisited,  contendng 
themselves  by  staying  a  short  while  with  the  Lapps  they  found  between 
Kola  and  Kandalaks.  At  the  different  post-stations  there  are  always 
several  Lapp  families  residing,  and  where  they  would  have  had  many 
opportunities  of  stud3ring  the  Russo-Lappish  dialects,  had  not  misfortime 
caused  them  to  fall  in  with  the  Murmen,  who  afforded  them  no  slight 
obstacles  in  their  literary  undertakings. 

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Truveh  in  the  North.  285 

These  Murmen  are  partly  Russians,  partly  ELaxelians  and  Lapps,  who 
moye  at  the  end  of  March  to  the  shores  di  the  Arctic  Ocean,  and  fish 
there  during  fi|>riQg  and  summer.  They  even  come  from  the  nelghhour- 
liood  of  the  Onega  and  Kem,  and  tiieir  march  lies  through  Ksmdakks 
and  Imandra  to  Hasnayolok,  a  post-station  eleven  leagues  to  the  south  of 
Kola,  where  t^ey  divide  into  two  branches.  Those  Murmen,  who  fish  in 
the  gul&  between  Kola  and  the  Norwegian  frontier,  continue  their  journey 
to  Kola,  and  thence  northwards ;  the  others,  who  fish  between  Kola  and 
Svja^oi-Nos,  travel  directly  to  their  grounds,  wiUiout  touching  at  Kola. 
The  whole  seaboard,  from  the  Norwegian  frontier  to  Svjatjoi-Nos,  is 
known  by  the  appellation  of  the  Murman  Coast  The  above-mentioned 
hand  consists  chiefly  of  servants  and  daily  labourers ;  their  masters  do 
not  sail  till  Jmie  or  July  to  fetch  the  fish.  A  few  stop  at  the  fisheries 
till  the  end  of  August,  but  others  continue  their  voyage  to  Badso,  Ham- 
m^e^  and  other  Norwegian  havens,  taking  meal,  groats,  tow,  hemp, 
fish-oil,  soap,  and  other  goods  with  them,  which  they  barter  for  tea, 
coffee,  rum,  fox  skins,  and  other  articles,  which  meet  with  a  ready  sale 
at  home* 

Afiber  being  much  tormented  by  these  Murmen,  who  were  rough  and 
uncourteous  in  th^  manners,  our  travellers  at  length  arrived  at  Rik- 
kat^Tal,  where  they  bade  adieu  to  the  Murmen,  greatly  vexed  at  having 
the  puipose  of  i^eir  journey  spoiled  by  this  fortuitous  obstacle.  On 
their  road  to  Sashdka  our  author  met  with  the  following  little  adventure : 

A  young,  half-broken  reindeer  had  been  attached  to  my  sledge.  While  I 
was  sitting  carelessly,  regarding  the  Northern  Lights,  the  animal  began  bound- 
ing backwards  and  frnwards  on  either  side  of  the  road.  It  may  be  supposed 
that  I  tried  to  prevent  the  animal  carrying  on  such  tricks  by  a  proper  punish- 
ment, but,  unfortunately,  the  rein  was  caught  in  one  of  the  antlers.  Through 
this  the  deer  was  driven  quite  wild,  and  his  leaps  only  entangled  the  rope 
more  and  more.  I  rose  at  last  to  disentangle  the  rein ;  but  the  beast  did  not 
comprehend  my  well-meaning  move,  but  bounded  more  furiously  than  ever. 
The  end  was  still  twisted  round  my  arm,  but  I  found  myself  in  such  proximity 
to  the  reindeer,  that  his  movements  began  to  grow  quite  insupportable.  I  was  at 
length  forced  to  go  on  without  a  bridle,  as  the  animal  commenced  the  offensive. 
With  his  ^arp  antlers  pointed  against  my  person,  he  would  soon  have  put  an 
end  to  me,  had  I  not  seized  his  horns  with  both  hands,  and  held  liis  head  . 
down.  Naturally  the  reindeer  was  not  pleased  with  this,  and  a  struggle  com- 
menced, which  would  have  had  a  poor  end  for  me,  had  I  not  taken  advantage 
of  the  right  moment  to  spring  back  into  the  sledge.  Even  this  experiment, 
however,  was  dangerous  ;  for  on  the  great  lake  of  Imandra,  which  was 
traversed  by  many  other  sledge  tracks,  I  might  have  easily  gone  astray,  as  I 
had  DO  guiding  rein.  Still  necessity  compelled  me  to  put  up  with  it ;  and 
fortune  was  so  favourable  to  me,  that  I  caught  up  my  companions  in  a  short 
while. 

Kem,  the  town  to  which  our  travellers  were  bound,  is  a  place  of  no 
great  importance,  containing  neiiiier  governor,  nor  bishop,  nor  other 
great  gentlemen ;  but  the  chief  curiosity  is  the  seat  of  Raskolniks,  who 
are  what  we  may  call  the  Pietists  of  Russia.  They  are  zealous  for  the 
old,  primitive,  if  not  exactly  apostolic  doctrine  ;  spend  most  of  their  time 
in  prayer,  and  are  of  opinion  that  divinity  is  as  fer  removed  fix>m  things 
terrestrial,  as  the  earth's  surface  from  the  vault  of  heaven.  To  please 
God,  consequently,  a  man  must  turn  his  back  entirely  on  the  world,  con- 

u  2 

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286  Travels  in  the  North. 

temn  hatred  and  persecution^  and  gain  in  that  wise  a  martyi^s  crown  in 
heaven.  They  bear,  also,  an  especial  animosity  agsdnst  all  pleasure  and 
amusement.  The  Raskolniks  are  so  far  tolerant,  that  they  display  as 
little  wish  to  condemn  as  to  convert  5  but  they  take  great  care  not  to 
have  the  slightest  communion  with  those  of  a  mfferent  £odth.  If  parents 
and  children  are  of  a  different  belief,  they  do  not  eat  at  the  same  table 
or  out  of  the  same  dish,  and  do  not  go  into  the  bath-room  at  the  same 
time  with  them. 

Our  travellers  were  forced  to  remain  nearly  a  whole  month  in  Kem, 
until  th^  at  length  succeeded  in  continuing  tneir  journey  on  the  19th  of 
May.  They  were  forced  to  trust  themselves  to  the  stormy  waves  of  the 
White  Sea.  They  therefore  determined,  by  the  advice  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  town,  on  going  across  to  the  monastery  of  Solovezkoy,  on 
an  island  about  fifty  yersts  from  Kem,  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  cast  horn 
there  to  ArchangeL  On  their  voyage,  they  were  forced  to  leave  their 
boat  and  betake  themselves  to  the  ice,  in  carts  procured  from  the 
monastery. 

When  they  arrived  there,  they  found,  to  their  great  annoyance,  that  it 
was  not  possible  to  get  across,  as  the  lumps  of  ice  prevented  ships  from 
sailing.  This,  with  other  causes,  induced  Dr.  Ldnnrot  to  give  up  all 
idea  of  visiting  the  Samoiedians,  but  our  author  adhered  to  his  plan,  and 
on  the  27th  of  June,  set  sail  in  a  large  vessel  to  visit  the  Murman  Coast 
Unfortunately,  however,  he  was  attacked  by  a  terrible  illness,  which, 
with  a  succession  of  violent  storms,  compelled  him  to  land  again  at 
Simnija  Gora,  where  he  was  left  with  his  luggage  on  a  desolate  coast, 
his  only  neighbours  being  some  fishermen,  who  Hved  at  a  distance  of  some 
eight  versts.  In  his  sickly  condition,  it  took  him  half  a  day  to  traverse 
this  distance,  and  then  the  firshermen  had  the  inhumanity  to  refrise  to 
fetch  his  luggage.  He  was  obliged  to  carry  it  himself,  which  occu- 
pied him  the  whole  of  the  night.  After  undergoing  the  misery  of  three 
nights  spent  in  a  wretched  cabin,  under  a  violent  attack  of  fever,  he 
tried  to  induce  the  fishermen  to  carry  him  to  Kuja,  a  village  about 
twenty-two  versts  distant,  but  they  demanded  100  rubles  banco  for  the 
job.  As  this  sum  far  exceeded  his  resources,  he  had  no  other  choice  but 
to  remain  in  the  hut,  from  which  an  unexpected  incident  rescued  him. 

On  returning  to  the  hut  after  a  solitary  walk,  he  found  two  soldiers 
posted  there,  who  roughly  stated  that  they  had  been  sent  by  the  customs' 
officer  at  Kuja  to  examine  his  luggage.  Our  author  submitted  without 
a  murmur,  and  gave  them  money  in  the  bargain,  in  the  hopes  that  they 
would  carry  him  in  their  boat  to  Kuja.  This  did  not  at  all  suit  the 
fishermen,  who  tried  their  best  to  ruin  this  plan,  and  opened  their  ears 
to  the  frdl  extent,  to  listen  to  his  discourse  with  thMioldiers.  The  latter 
.  at  first  were  very  mistrustfrd,  but,  with  the  help  ofnis  passport,  Castren 
at  length  succeeded  in  proving  to  them  that  he  was  a  Russian  subject, 
and  travelling  as  an  officer  of  the  crown.  These  arguments,  and  the 
circumstance  that  he  was  not  only  a  "  well-bom  sir,"  but  also  in  posses- 
sion of  as  high  a  rank  as  the  customs'  officer,  had  the  desired  effisct  on  the 
soldiers,  and  they  gladly  took  him  into  their  boat,  and  carried  him  for  a 
moderate  sum  to  Kuja.  The  customs'  officer  fortunately  possessed  some 
sudorifics,  and  with  their  assistance  our  traveller  cured  his  fever,  and  set 
out  again  for  Archangel,  in  a  boat  manned  by  four  soldiers,  whom  the 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Traveb  in  the  North.  287 

officer  nobly  put  at  his  disposal.      Such  was  the    mysterious  end  of 
Castren's  scientific  journey  to  the  Murman  Coast. 

In  Archangel  he  contrived  to  fall  in  with  a  Samoiedian,  who  was  so 
delighted  with  his  generosity  that  he  offered  to  follow  him  to  the  end  of 
the  world.  This  man  he  nused  to  the  rank  of  his  instructor  in  the 
Samoiedian  language,  and  went  to  live  with  him  in  a  village  called  Uima, 
about  seventeen  versts  from  Archangel,  where  he  remained  all  the  autumn, 
busily  engaged  in  studpng. 

Towards  the  end  of  November  M.  Castren  quitted  Archangel  £otJ^% 
third  time,  with  the  firm  determination  of  not  returmng  to  this  town 
again,  whatever  might  be  the  result  of  his  impending  journey  to  the 
Samoiedian  Tundra.  Nor  were  his  friends  sparing  of  their  advice,  and 
painted  in  the  most  gloomy  colours  the  dangers  to  which  he  would  be 
exposed ;  but  his  enthusiasm  in  the  cause  of  science  was  so  sincere  that 
nothing  would  have  stopped  him  at  that  time.  His  route  led  him,  in 
the  first  instance,  to  Cholmogory,  formerly  a  renowned  fortress  but  now 
a  poor  town.  This  would  be  a  fine  field  for  archaeoloflosts,  as  there  .is 
an  ancient  temple  and  cemetery  attached,  which  would  well  repay  ezca-^ 
vation.  Thence  he  proceeded  to  Pinesa,  and  afterwards  to  Mesen,  the 
last  abode  of  civilisation  to  the  east  of  Europe.  Up  to  this  spot  the 
country  is  inhabited  by  Russian  Christians,  but  'beyond,  the  Samoiedian 
population  commences,  still  greatly  infected  with  paganism.  Our  author 
tried  to  get  on  friendly  terms  with  some  Samoiedes,  but  their  conduct 
was  so  bad  that  he  was  compelled  to  go  forty  versts  further  to  the  village 
of  Somsha,  the  head-quarters  of  the  Samoiedes  at  that  time.  Unfor- 
tunately, his  exertions  were  frustrated,  for  he  found  the  poor  people 
attacked  by  an  tmiversal  mania  of  dnmkenness.  As  Castren  could  not 
procure  an  interpreter  by  ffidr  means,  he  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to 
his  ministerial  papers,  and  insisted  on  a  sober  and  respectable  interpreter 
being  procured  him  instanter.  The  Samoiedes  are  an  obedient  and  easily 
daunted  people,  and  found  him  a  man  who  was  in  the  enviable  reputa- 
tion of  being  the  cleverest  Samoiede  in  the  whole  Tundra  of  Kanin.  He 
tried  him,  but  in  a  few  hours  the  Samoiede  grew  tired  of  answering 
questions,  and  pretended  to  be  ill.  He  threw  himself  on  the  ground, 
and  begged  fpr  mercy,  till  our  author  became  so  exasperated  that  he 
eventudly  kicked  him  out  of  doors.  Soon  after  he  saw  him  lying  in  a 
state  of  intoxication  before  the  public-house  in  the  snow. 

The  following  description  will  give  our  readers  a  fair  idea  of  the  hor- 
rible spread  of  intoxication  among  the  Samoiedes : 

The  whole  snow-field  round  this  temple  of  Bacchus  was  covered  with  pros- 
trate heroes  and  heroines.  They  all  lay  with  their  faces  imbedded  in  snow, 
and  had  become  partially  sober.  The  silence  of  the  grave  prevailed  in  this 
circle,  which  renderc#*the  noisy  yells  from  the  house  still  louder.  For  all 
this  no  fighting  took  place,  but  all  were  jolly  together.  Now  and  then  a  half- 
intoxicated  man  came  out  of  the  house  with  a  coflfee-pot  in  his  hand,  and 
walked  very  cautiously  through  the  snow,  lest  any  of  the  precious  contents 
might  be  spilled,  examining  each  fallen  comrade,  and  evidently  searching  for  a 
mother,  a  wife,  or  some  beloved  relative.  As  soon  as  they  discovered  the 
object  of  their  search,  they  turned  the  slumberer's  face  upwards,  put  the 
Sfout  of  the  coffee-pot  in  their  mouths,  and  let  the  pleasant  nectar  run  down 
his  or  her  throat.  After  this  the  patient  was  returned  to  the  old  position, 
care  being  taken  to  cover  the  countenance,  lest  it  might  be  frozen. 

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288  Travels  in  the  North. 

On  the  19th  December,  a  kibitka,  drawn  by  two  horses,  was  standifig 
before  the  house  of  the  director  of  police  at  Mesen.  A  crowd  of  men  a»d 
women,  old  and  youngs,  speedily  collected,  waiting  anxiously  for  the 
moment  vhen  the  travcllCT  would  appear,  and  speculating  compasscm- 
ately  on  the  causes  of  his  emigration  to  Siberia.  When  Gastrin  made 
his  appearance,  he  was  attacked  by  a  swarm  of  beggars,  who  implored 
alms.  An  old  woman  was  specially  importunate.  "Give  the  poor  a 
dianeschka,  she  will  then  pray  for  you,  and  the  Mother  of  €iod  will  pro- 
te^^ou  on  the  journey  ;  she  listens  to  the  prayer^  of  the  poor !"  This 
supplication  unloosed  his  purse-strings,  and  on  starting  he  saw  a  row  of 
old  men  and  women  with  their  faces  turned  to  the  church,  crossing  them- 
selves, and  praying  for  the  traveller's  welfare.  Under  such  auspices 
Gastrin  commenced  his  Sam oiedian  journey.  His  route  was  far  from  an 
agreeable  one  ;  a  distance  of  700  versts  over  the  desolate  steppes  of  the 
Tundras  of  Kanin  and  Timan,  to  the  Russian  village  of  Postoser^,  at  Ae 
mouth  of  the  Petchora,  where  he  would  have  to  resign  all  the  comforts  of 
Efe,  sleep  at  times  in  the  open  air  on  the  storm-ridden  Tundras,  or  in  tike 
frail  tent-huts  of  the  Samoiedes,  where  the  snow  finds  its  way  throt^h  the 
crevices  of  the  walls,  the  flame  of  the  candle  flickers  in  the  winds,  and  the 
wolf-skin  affords  the  sole  protection  against  the  cold.  But  it  is  the  first 
duty  of  a  scientific  travlUer  to  make  himself  at  home  under  all  circum- 
stances, and  not  give  in  to  discomforts,  when  the  olgect  is  to  make 
valuable  discoveries.  We  are  sure  no  savan  ever  behaved  more  conscien- 
tiously in  this  respect  than  M.  Gastrin. 

These  Tundra,  over  which  the  route  led,  are  the  most  desolate  stej^ 
that  can  be  conceived  :  as  barren  as  their  mother  the  sea.  If  the  winds 
did  not  ofl&ciously  disperse  the  snow,  which  Heaven  in  its  charity  scatters 
over  this  gloomy  country,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  on  which  element 
the  traveller  found  himself.  Here  and  there  a  thin  pine  forest  may  be 
descried,  or  a  small  wood  of  low  willows,  which  point  to  the  presence 
of  some  stream  forcing  its  way  lazily  through  the  flat  Tundra.  On 
more  careful  inspection,  little  elevations  may  be  everywhere  seen,  winch 
in  their  external  form  resemble  the  rocks  of  Lapland,  but  during  Ae 
winter  they  can  be  scarcely  distinguished,  as  the  hollows  all  around  tiiem 
are  then  mled  with  snow.  At  the  spot  where  such  inequality  may  be 
traced  on  the  surface,  the  ground  is  naked,  or  at  the  most  covered  with 
a  thick,  hard  crust  of  snow,  through  whose  crevices  the  reinde^  moss 
may  be  seen  in  its  luxuriance.  This  was  all  our  author  could  see  on  his 
northern  journey  from  Somsha.  The  earth  was  desolate  and  cmpty,^ 
as  at  the  commencement  of  creation,  and  even  the  sky  was  £d£* 
At  length  they  saw  a  tent,  and  Castren  purposely  remained  without,  to 
see  what  manner  of  reception  he  would  meet  with.  To  his  surprise,  how- 
ever, he  was  not  invited  into  the  tent,  but  was  at  length  forced  to  enter 
sans  ceremonie.  The  only  inmate  he  found  was  a  young  lady,  busily 
engaged  in  gnawing  a  lump  of  raw  meat,  that  was  frozen  perfectly  hard. 
After  handing  round  the  brandy  bottle,  our  author  was  forced  to  con- 
tinue his  journey  to  the  village  of  Nes,  which  he  reached  in/thib  night, 
after  being  exposed  to  a  terrible  storm. 

This  village,  situated  on  a  river  of  the  same  name,  was  formerly  a 
brandy  depot,  and,  consequently,  a  g^eat  place  of  resort  for  the  Sa- 
moiedes of  the  Tundra  of  Kanin.     In  the  year  1825  a  mission  was 

^  Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TratteU  m  tlu  North.  289  4 

eabMiaiied  fov  tiie  pu^>Qse  o£  oonveiting  the  Sammedes,  wfaiek  met 
widi  great  sueeess ;  and  a  chcorch  was  erected  in  NeSi  Tke  dep6t  was 
tlierefore  removed  to  Somsha,  and  Nes  quite  deserted  by  i^  Samoiedes. 
Under  these  circumstances  our  author  thought  Nes  a  fetmous  place  for  lus 
fiugual  studies,  and  remained  there  over  Chnstmas. 

With  the  clergyman's  lady  he  had  the  peculiar  good  f(»rtune  pf  seeing 
liow  tiie  Samoiedes  celebrate  their  marriage  festivities,  at  a  spot  about 
tfairty  versts  from  the  ^nurch.  When  a  Samoiede  wishes  to  many,  he 
first  looks  ioT  a  ^kesman,  and  goes  with  him  to  tiie  dwelling  o^he 
parents  of  the  lady  he  has  sheeted.  When  they  arrive,  it  is  the  cuKom 
far  the  bridegroom  to  remain  in  his  sledge  without,  while  the  spokesman 
goes  in  and  executes  his  commission.  If  the  answer  be  in  the  negative, 
they  return  home ;  if  the  father  give  his  consent,  the  spokesman  inquires 
when  the  marriage  can  be  consummated.  This  by  no  means  presumes 
tiiat  t^e  marriage  will  really  take  place,  for  the  Inidegrpom  must  agree 
as  to  l^e  amount  he  will  give  for  his  bride.  The  swain  has  already 
decided  as  to  the  value  of  the  lady,  but  if  the  fsither  sets  a  higher  price 
upcHi  her,  the  spokesman  returns  to  his  client,  and  consults  with  him  a& 
to  whether  they  may  venture  to  add  a  reindeer  or  two  to  the  price 
offered.  If  they  eventually  agree,  the  spokesman  leads  the  loving  swain 
with  him  into  the  tent. 

Afbw  the  betrothal  the  bridegroom  does  not  visit  his  bride,  but  leaves- 
all  arrangements  in  the  hands  of  the.  spokesman.  Shortly  before  the 
wedding  tiie  bride's  relatives  pay  a  visit  to  the  bridegroom.  After  eating^ 
and  drinking  to  their  heart's  content,  the  spokesman  binds  two  male  ana'' 
tw0  £emale  mndee:|^  together,  in  such  wise  that  they  walk  behind  ^each 
odier,  covets  Idie  two  first  with  red  cloth,  fastens  a  bell  to  the  leader, 
drives  them  thrice  round  the  bridegroom's  tent,  and  then  fastens  tiiem  to 
lu&  ski^f  After  that  they  go  to  visit  the  bride.  When  they  reach  her 
heeoe,  the  spokesman  drives  thrice  roimd  her  tent,  and  t^en  leaves  die 
bndegroom,  who  remains  seated  in  his  sledge.  On  the  bridegroom's 
anival  the  reindeer  is  killed,  a  glass  of  brandy  is  swallowed,  and  die 
banquet  commences,  at  whidi,  however,  the  bridegroom  must  not  be 
preset:  the  spokesman  carries  him  out  food  and  brandy,  ^ich  he 
devoiua  in  his  sledge.  When  the  meal  is  over  the  spokesman  at  lengdu 
conducts  die  bridegroom  into  the  tent.  Here  the  relatives  of  the  bride^ 
groom  are  seated  on  cme  side  of  the  hearth,  those  of  the  bride  on  die 
ether.  The  spdcesman  sits  at  the  feet  of  the  happy  conple.  After 
everybody  has  taken  his  seat  the  host  b^^s  regaling  the  guests  widi 
biaiMiy.  The  first  glass  he  hands  to  the  bridegroom,  who  half  empties 
it,  and  gives  the  other  half  to  the  bride ;  '  s^rwards  boiled  meat  is 
deveiured,  and  the  bridegroom  receives  the  heart.  After  diis  all  ceremony 
is  aves^  and  they  drink  as  much  as  diey  like.  With  these  peliminary 
remado,  we  will  go  widi  M.  Castren  to  the  wedding  he  assisted  st» 

It  was  an  act,  or  properly  speaking,  only  a  scene  of  the  romantic  drama,  at 
which  I  was  present.  On  our  arrival  the  incidents  were  so  far  advanced,  that 
afl  the  guests  had  been  well  treated :  some  of  them  were  already  lying  Twrs  de 
combat  on  the  field.  They  lay  there  with  bare  heads,  pressed  into  the  snow, 
and  so  protected  from  the  wind.  But  see !  there  comes  the  husband,  moves 
from  one  carcase  to  the  other,  at  length  recognises  his  bride,  seizes  her  by  the 
head^  turns  her  with  her  back  to  the  wind,  and  then  throws  himself  down  by 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


290  Traveh  in  the  North. 

ber  side,  nose  to  nose.  Another  runs  about  with  a  coffee-pot,  looks  for  his 
beloved^  finds  her,  and  pours  some  brandy  down  her  throat.  Here  some  one 
finds  an  enemy,  gives  him  a  few  treacherous  blows,  and  crawls  off.  While 
regarding  this  l^cchanalian  scene,  1  was  surrounded  by  a  whole  swarm  of 
guests :  each  had  something  to  say  or  ask,  and  I  had  great  difficultjr  in  escaping 
from  them,  and  reaching  the  open  air.  Here  I  saw  a  number  of  girls  playing : 
they  iiad  divided  into  two  bands,  each  of  seven,  and  pla3dng  with  a  cap,  which 
was  thrown  from  one  to  the  other.  The  group  that  had  the  cap  turned  their 
backs  to  the  others,  and  tried  to  hide  it  in  the  snow ;  the  others  then  fell  upon 
them,  and  strove  with  all  their  strength  to  gain  possession  of  the  cap.  After 
loonng  at  them  for  some  time  I  returned  to  the  tent,  where  the  host  invited 
me  to  a  cup  of  tea.  After  tea  a  splendid  reindeer  was  killed,  by  a  blow  on 
tiie  head ;  a  knife  was  then  driven  into  the  heart,  the  skin  was  stripped 
off,  the  stomach  cut  open,  and  the  entrails  taken  out.  The  interior  resembled 
a  huge  oval  vessel,  in  which  the  heart,  liver,  and  other  dainty  morsels,  were 
floating  in  a  mass  of  blood.  The  host  took  my  hand,  led  me  up  to  the  animal, 
and  begged  me  to  fall  to.  Though  this  request  was  so  distinctly  expressed  I 
was  simple  enough  not  to  comprehend  it,  but  remained  in  a  state  of  inaction 
by  the  side  of  the  animal.  In  the  mean  while  the  guests  assembled,  pulled 
out  their  long  knives,  cut  off  pieces  of  the  quivering  meat,  and,  after  dipping 
them  in  the  blood,  carried  them  to  their  mouths.  The  liver  and  heart  were 
eaten  as  dessert.  ...  It  would  now  be  high  time  to  say  something  about  the 
married  couple ;  but  little  more  need  be  said  about  the  bridegroom,  except 
that  he  lay  drunk  at  the  entrance  of  the  hut,  and  remained,  there  during  the 
whole  of  my  stay.  The  bride  was  a  child  of  thirteen,  and  considered  a  real 
beauty  among  the  Samoiedes.  A  little  round  face,  pouting  red  lips  and  cheeks, 
a  white  forehead,  black  locks,  little  gleaming  eyes,  are  the  characteristics  of  a 
Samoiedian  fair  one. 

Soon  after,  the  commencement  of  hostilities  among  the  guests  caused 
our  author  to  quit  the  scene  precipitately  with  the  clergyman's  vnfe  ;  and 
as  he  could  not  make  much  progress  in  his  study  of  Samoiedian,  he 
quitted  Nes  shortly  after.  His  difficulties  in  this  respect  were  not 
tnfling,  for  the  first  teacher  he  obtained  left  him  very  speedily,  through 
dislike  of  the  confinement,  and  the  second  was  a  perfect  idiot.  For  in- 
stance, when  Gastrin  asked  him  to  translate  the  phrase  "  My  wife  is  ill,^ 
he  converted  it  into  ^'  Thy  wife  is  ilL"  If  he  asked  him  to  translate 
"  Thy  wife  is  ill,"  he  would  reply,  "  If  you're  talking  of  my  wife,  she  is 
perfectly  well."  "  But  suppose  you  wanted  to  come  and  tell  me  that 
your  wife  was  ill,  how  would  you  say  it  in  your  language  ?"  The 
Samoiede  replied,  *  '^  When  I  came  to  you  my  wife  was  quite  well,  and  I 
cannot  know  whether  she  has  been  taken  ill  in  the  mean  while."  This 
was  truly  a  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  difficulties  ! 

Among  tne  other  delights  of  these  Tundra,  it  may  be  menldoned 
en  passant  that  they  are  far  from  safe  travelling,  as  Russian  vagabonds 
are  continually  prowling  about  them  on  predatory  forays,  seeking  what 
they  can  devour.  One  of  them  our  ftuthor  fell  in  with,  hut  by  firmness 
he  managed  to  escape  with  a  whole  vskin.  Another  unpleasantness  too, 
to  which  the  author  was  repeatedly  exposed,  was  the  continued  reports 
spread  to  his  injury  among  the  Samoiedes,  that  he  was  sent  out  to  tax 
the  inhabitants,  and  would  carry  those,  who  refused  to  pay,  in  chains  to 
ArchangeL 

The  village  of  Pustoserkz,  on  the  lake  of  Pustoie,  is  one  of  the  most 
desolate  plains  our  author  ever  saw.  Not  a  trace  of  forest  or  vegetation 
is  to  be  seen  here ;  not  even  rocks  and  stones ;  there  is  nothing  bat  a 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


TrttoeU  in  the  North.  291 

boundless  snow-plain,  on  wluch*  the  storms  carry  on  their  wild  sport  un- 
restrained. The  wind  frequentlj  strips  the  roo&  of  the  huts,  and  piles 
up  masses  of  snow,  which  rise  above  the  tops  of  the  tents.  In  this 
horrible  hole  M.  Gastrin  remained  several  months,  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
tinuing his  studj  of  the  Samoiedian  language  and  customs,  and  for  this 
it  was  an  excellent  spot,  as  it  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  Samoiede  tribes. 
It  was  true  that  he  never  met  with  a  sober  individual,  but  for  all  that  it 
was  a  great  advantage  for  him  to  hold  daily  intercourse  with  people  of 
various  lands,  who  gave  him  much  valuable  information.  After  remain- 
ing at  Pustoserkz  as  long  as  any  Samoiedes  were  to  be  found  vi.  the 
neighbourhood,  our  author  set  out  for  a  village  that  lay  160  versts  to  the 
south,  up  the  banks  of  the  Petchora.  The  country  was  so  desolate, 
that  the  priests  then  said  it  had  not  formed  any  part  of  the  creation,  but 
had  merged  into  existence  afi;er  the  deluge.  In  this  village,  which  was 
known  by  the  calliphonous  name  of  Ustsylmsk,  our  author  was  in  consi- 
derable peril,  through  the  obstinate  behaviour  of  a  sect  of  Raskolniks, 
and  he  was  eventuaUy  forced  to  quit  in  all  haste,  or  he  might  have  paid 
the  penalty  of  his  life.  After  leaving  this  inhospitable  spot  he  proceeded 
up  the  river  Petchora  to  the  little  village  of  Kolwa,  where  a  church  has 
been  lately  erected,  and  here  he  remained  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and 
was  forced  to  continue  his  studies  in  an  underground  cellar,  as  the  heat 
and  damp,  flies  and  vermin,  were  so  oppressive. 

On  the  18th  of  September  M.  Carsten  at  length  started  once  more  on 
his  travels,  and  after  a  tedious  imd  fatiguing  journey,  eventually  came  in 
sight  of  the  Ural  Mountains,  and  a^er  passing  trough  one  of  the 
"  Gates,"  reached  Obdorsk  on  the  9th  of  November.  Our  author 
states  that  this  expedition,  that  lasted  two  whole  months,  was  the  most 
dangerous  and  unpleasant  of  all  the  journeys  he  undertook. 

Obdorsk  is  a  place  of  considerable  trade,  founded  by  the  Russians 
nearly  a  century  back.  It  is,  however,  still  a  most  uncultivated  spot, 
where  nothing  is  thought  of  but  profit,  made  by  cheating  the  open- 
hearted,  simple  natives  of  all  they  have  earned  oy  the  sweat  of  meir 
brow.  On  our  author  taking  up  ms  quarters  at  the  house  of  a  person 
who  had  lately  immigrated  from  Tobolsk,  he  found  the  whole  family 
sitting  on  the  ground,  and  devouring  a  raw  fish,  which  the  house-feither 
himself  cut  up  and  divided.  When  he  afterwards  called  on  the  most 
educated  man  in  the  town,  a  subaltern  official,  he  boasted  only  of  having 
eaten  raw  meat  for  half  a  year.  Even  a  Polish  exile,  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  formed  here,  and  who  had  once  been  a  celebrated  cook  in 
Petersburg,  told  him,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  his  profession  brought 
him  in  but  little  in  Obdorsk,  as  the  people  lived  there  a  la  Samoiede.'' 
They  certainly  possessed  houses,  some  of  them  two  stories  high,  but  they 
were  built  of  old  ship  timber,  and  afforded  but  poor  protection  in  the 
winter  against  the  cold  and  pierciog  wind.  But,  to  do  justice  to 
Obdorsk,  our  author  found  there  something  reminding  him  of  civilised 
society,  such  as  brilliant  shawls,  rustling  dresses,  good  wine,  and  famous 
tobacco,  Suwarrow  No.  1.  He  found  himself,  however,  but  scurvily 
treated  by  the  inhabitants,  who  decidedly  turned  the  cold  shoulder  to 
him,  and  this  was  not  surprising,  as  they  thought  he  intended  to 
poach  on  their  manors,  as  he  paid  so  much  attention  to  the  natives. 

It  was  not  long  before  all  his  attention  was  challenged  by  the  swarms 

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299  fVaiks  Up  ma. 

of  Ostmkand  Siamoiediaii  fimulies,  vrho  came  in  t»nnt  tiie  fw,  Md 
from  the  commencement  of  winter  mit^  FebniflirY)  during  which  time  the 
natiyeg  pitch  their  tents  around  the  Russian  coloity.  It  did  not  seem, 
however,  that  they  had  come  to-  sefl,  fw  they  never  exposed  any  wans. 
This  arises  from  die  fact  Ihat  they  aJl  »ne  deeply  indebted  to  Ae  taradkfs, 
and  dare  not  sell  any  goods  to  strangers,  for  fear  of  having  €tmr  ^perty 
seized,  and  Aemselres  made  slaves. 

Although  the  merchants  of  Obdorsk  complaint  that  the  mad&et  grew 
worsQ  every  year,  M.  Gastrin  found  it  crowded  widi  traders,  ehapmeo, 
citizens,  peasants^  and  Cossacks.  The  most  of  these  were  inhabitants  of 
Beresow,  and  our  author,  on  conversing  with  them,  was  struck  by  ^ 
veneradon  they  displayed  for  Mentsch^ow,  whose  memory  was  conse- 
crated,  and  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  saint.  Whatever  ikaa  exile  had 
said  or  done,  was  remembered  as  articles  of  befief.  They  kaew  his  mo- 
notonous Hfe  during  his  banishment  and  humiliation  by  heart.  A£b&t  his 
banishment,  he  had  begun  to  think  seriously  ef  his  salvation,  and  con- 
fossed  evenly  that  he  had  deserved  the  heavy  punishment  inflicted  upen 
him.  "To  gain  forgiveness  of  his  sins,  he  consecrated  tl^  rest  of  hb  Kfe 
to  penitence,  and  built  a  church  at  Beresow,  in  the  erecdon  of  whi^  he 
worked  like  any  other  artisan.  When  it  was  completed,  he  undertook 
the  duties  of  sexton  in  it,  and  punctutdly  fulfilled  them.  Each  day  he 
was  the  first  and  last  in  the  temple,  and  afber  divine  service  was  Ofer,  he 
gave  the  whole  community  instruction  in  reKgious  matters.  Thus,  then, 
for  more  than  one  hundred  years  had  tite  good  deeds  of  this  fErvonrite  of 
Feter  the  Great  smdit  sweet  and  blossomed  in  the  dust. 

But  we  must  make  an  end  to  ihis  ^  longae  chartse  que  viae  que,"  and, 
wMfe  expressing  our  regret  that  our  readers  cannot  have  the  benefit  of 
the  map  by  which  M.  Castren  has  rendered  hk  route  perfectly  inteHigil^t 
we  may  answer  the  question,  with  which  we  started,  why  we  possess  no 
account  of  travels  in  Lapland  ?  &c.  The  above  fragments  are  a  lecj 
satisfoctory  reply,  and  we  need  not  expect,  until  the  coimtry  grows  a 
Kttle  more  agreeable,  any  book  under  the  seductive  ^e  of  "  Seida— a 
Siberian  Pffgrimage." 


WALKS      UP     HILL. 

BY  H.  SPICEB,  ESQ.,  AUTHOR  OP  "  SIGHTS  AND  SOUNDS." 

Thebe  are  hills  in  life,  and  there  are  hills  in  Grermany.  The  credit 
of  having  detected  this  remarkable  c(Hncidenee  is  not  mine,  and  dthougo 
I  might  easily  have  thrown  out  the  observation  as  origiiml,  and  passed 


^r  on  to  other  matter,  I  prefer  the  more  honourable  course  of  s^^S 
that  to  Theodore  Gertum  alone  is  the  credit  due.  FurthermOTC,  I «° 
in  a  position  to  add,  by  referring  to  my  journal,  that  it  was  on  the  very 
sidtiy  afternoon  of  August  18th,  1849,  that  the  discovery  m  question 
was  made,  and  communicated  to  me,  as  we  walked  up  the  Ml  ^J 
Lahneck,  by  the  individual  aforesaid,  my  excellent  servant-courfer. 

"I  wish,  sir,"  said  Theodore,  respectfully  towshing  his  hat— "I  ^ 
I  had  three  hundred  donkeys." 

"  Three  himdred  donkeys,  man !     And  why  ?" 

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fTalks  Up  mU.  293 

^  rd  make  my  forhme  bcEre,  sir,  in  fiye  monAff^  and  many  Charbtte, 
ff  you  please,  sir." 

^Fye  not  tibe  least  inteniaon  of  forbidding  the  banns,  Theodore,  who- 
ever the  fair  lady  may  be;  but  how  would  you  make  your  fortune  here  ?** 

"  By  walking  up  mils  wiz  people  on  the  donkeys,  sir.  Zat  is  better," 
said  Theodore,  whose  English  always  degeneratea  as  he  became  excited, 
^zan  walking  up  hills  in  London,  and  never  getting  to  ze  top.  But 
life's  like  zis  Germany—all  hills."    And  Theodore  sighed  and  was  mute. 

The  road  between  Ems  and  Wiesbaden  is  certainly  an  excellent  illus- 
tration of  Nature^s  £sfike  to  that  worst  of  defunct  things — die  ^  dead 
level."  From  the  gentle  acclivity,  characterised  by  your  postilion  as  a 
^mountain,"  to  the  almost  mtermmable  rise  for  whidi  his  language  ap- 
parendy  fimishes  no  term  sufficiently  strong,  irregularities  are  of  such 
frequent  recurrence  as  to  make  a  fair,  even  trot  of  ten  minutes'  duration, 
a  i£ing  to  be  remembered;  and  most  who  have  travelled  those  now 
familiar  paths  will  remember  one  especial  eminence,  at  whose  foot  your 
horses  generally  come  to  a  sullen  stop,  your  driver  glances  back  with  a 
sort  of  mqutring  or  suggestive  look,  intended  to  convey,  "  Wouldttkt  you 
like  to  stretcb  your  legs  ?*'  and  the  courier  touches  his  hat. 

Accepting  me  multiplicity  of  hints,  you  descend,  and,  marching  on 
ahead  to  escape  the  dust,  move  along  the  winding  slope^ — a  bank  on  ihe 
left  hand,  a  low  stone  wall  on  the  right.  Beyond  the  latter  are  myriads 
of  apple-trees,  laden,  probably,  with  rich  fruitage,  exactly  out  of  your 
reach,  and  again  beyond  the  trees,  whose  peculiar  formation  cannot  ex- 
clude it,  as  sweet  a  German  landscape  as  fair  Nassau  can  produce.  All 
elements  of  beanty  are  here — forest,  valley,  rock,  field,  vineyard,  and 
last,  but  far  from  least, 

the  swift  and  mantling  river 
That  flows  triamphant  through  these  lovely  segions. 
Etched  with  the  shadows  of  its  sombre  mfirgent. 
And  soft,  reflected  clouds  of  gold  and  argent. 

Three  times  has  it  been  my  lot  to  ascend  this  individual  bill — (it  is  a 
m3e  and  a  half  in  length) — and  on  each  occasion  in  the  society  of  my 
aforesaid  squire,  Theodore.  As,  in  the  first  instance,  I  happened  to  ask 
Imn  for  a  fight  for  my  cigar,  it  appeared  to  Theodore  a  simple  matter  of 
course  that  I  should  on  every  succeeding  occasion  make  j^tne  same  de- 
mand. Consequently,  though  years  might  have  elapsed  in  the  interval, 
whenever  the  horses  made  the  usual  stop  at  the  usual  spot,  and  the  driver 
gave  his  usual  backward  glance,  Theodore  was  ready  with  cigar  and  lighi^ 
and  on  we  trudged  in  company. 

Theodore  was  an  indefatigable  talker ;  the  life  and  soul  of  the  couriers' 
room ;  holding  his  associates  there,  at  the  same  time,  in  a  sort  of  bro- 
therly contempt  that  rather  increased  than  diminished  his  popularity. 
He  was  a  genius  of  the  most  versatile  character.  He  cooked,  he  sang, 
he  plajred  the  guitar  and  violin  (the  latter  mstrument  made  by  himself 
from  the  remains  of  an  old  tea-chest)  ;  he  spoke  every  language  under  the 
sun — and  more^  for  he  had  words  that  certainly  belonged  to  none,  in* 
chiding  patois,  which  generally  resembles  its  original  tongue  as  much  as 
Coptic.  He  was  accomplished  in  the  lighter  arts  of  shooting,  fishing, 
fnmards,  and  skittles ;  and,  lastly,  told  excellent  stories,  which  latter,  if 
they  did  occasionally  borrow  a  tint  or  so  from  his  fervid  German  imagi- 
nation, were  at  least  innocent  of  any  deception — ^the  little  deviations  from 

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294  Walks  Up  HOI. 

rigid  tniih  beingof  the  moet  lucid  and  tranopareiit  kind.  Theodore  had 
but  one  &ult.  He  oould  never  master  Enghsh  surnames ;  and  at  leogth 
introduced  such  a  revolution  into  the  nomenclature  of  British  society^  as 
ought  to  have  driven  Boyle  and  Webster  distracted. 

"  What  English  are  in  the  house,  Theodore  ?**  I  inquired,  at  Schwal- 
bacL 

^'  Lor  Dembinck,  ze  Doctor  Spleek,  Count  Jacoobson^  and  SirPloom, 
sir,"  said  Theodore,  without  hesitation. 

I  have  mentioned  that  Gertum  was  an  able  raconteur.  He  liked  it, 
and  I  him.  I  therefore  encouraged  his  confidences,  and  was  frequentlj 
well  rewarded ;  for  there  was  something  in  the  earnest  manner,  and  often 
expressive  language,  of  the  man,  that  never  fiuled  to  create  an  interest 
in  his  tale.  I  had  a  suspicion  that  Theodore  was  in  love ;  and,  by  sun- 
dry dark  insinuations  that  I  was  more  intimately  aoqufunted  with  his 
'^  state  and  prospects"  tiian  he  had  perhaps  imagined,  elicited  the  fdlow- 
ing  littie  love-tale : 

She  ^pas  a  very  most  resspectable  woman,  I  assure  you,  sir.  I  wrote  to 
my  father  as  this  :  <*  Sir,  I  find  a  diamond  in  a  dust-hole."  She  had  an 
unoorrupted  mind,  and  her  brain  well  cultivated.  She  had  lived  wiz  her 
mistress,  Miss  T.,  ten  years,  and  did  everything  about  the  house  for  her. 
Poor  thing !  it  is  too  much.  Miss  T.  sit  always  on  her  shoulders~hnt 
if  ever  there  was  an  angel  in  human  sldn,  it  is  Charlotte — Charlotte  Hud- 
sonne. 

So  I  thought,  as  she  had  save  a  little  money,  we  could  be  married,  and 
I  ask  her,  and  she  like  me.  Yes.  Though  there  was  a  man  that  was  a 
valet  to  Sir  Sydney  Herbert,  of  Grosvenor-square,  who  has  saved  3000t 
and  a  house  in  Belgrave-square.  ( !)  Yes,  he  want  to  marry  her;  but 
she— hem — ^she  prefer  Theodore,  for  she  say,  "  Theodore,  I  like  you. 
You  are  resspectable,  and  make  broths,  and  I  hold  confidence  in  you, 
Theodore.'* 

Yes,  sir,  but  it  was  so  unfortunate — that  poor  Charlotte!  She  quarrel 
wiz  Miss  T.,  and  leave  her.  Miss  T.  behave  shocking;  for  when 
Charlotte  went  to  live  wiz  her.  Miss  T.  promise  her  aU  her  silk 
gowns  that  she  leave  off,  and  yet,  in  the  last  twelve  months.  Miss  T.give 
fifteen  silk  gowns  to  ze  hotisemaid II! 

Blood  and  skins  could  not  stand  it,  so  Charlotte  say,  "  Ma*am,  you 
break  my  heart  You  break  everybody's  heart  that  live  wiz  you.  I  not 
live  here  to  be  made  discomfortable.     I  go." 

"  Very  well,  Hudsonne,"  Miss  T.  say.  "  I  am  sorry  you  didn't  like 
it.     Go:' 

^  So  Charlotte  went ;  but  it  was  a  great  shame,  poor  thing !  for  she  lire 
wiz  her  ten  years,  and  not  take  off  her  dothes- 


"  Not  take  off  her  clothes !     For  ten  years !     Nonsense, : 

I  mean,  sir,  when  her  mistress  was  ill  wiz  her  rheumatism.     And 
though  Miss  T.  was  so  bad  and  painful,  poor  Charlotte  never  once  com- 

Elain.     Well,  sir,  soon  Miss  T.  get  nervous,  and  iU,  and  could  not  be 
erself  wizout  Charlotte;  and  she  sent  for  Sir  Chambers,  ze  great  doctor, 
and  he  felt  her  tongue,  and  looked  at  her  pulses,  and  tiien  he  say: 

*'  You  nonsense !    There  nozing  at  all  the  matter  wiz  you.     Why  you 
send  for  me?" 

'«  Well,"  said  Miss  T.,  « I  pay  you.  Sir  Chambers.    Ah  r 

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Walks  Up  HUl  295 

**  There  sometluDg  in  you  heart,  milady,"  he  say  then.  *^  Ha  I  ha ! 
yon  in  love !''  he  say,  alily. 

Then  she  laugh,  and  he  go  away* 

But  Mr.  T.,  her  brother,  he  come  to  visit  her,  and  ask  her  why  she  so 
nervous  and  sad,  and  she  tell  him  all  about  Charlotte,  and  she  say : 

^^  Henry,  I  am  miserable  wizout  Hudsonne,  but  I  am  too  proud  to  write 
and  ask  her  to  come." 

"  Well,  well,"  say  Mr.  T.,  "  don't  feet  yourself  ill,  my  dear.  That's  a 
fool  thing— a  5c^e.    Poof!" 

But  ze  next  day  Mr.  T.  took  a  pen  in  Us  hands,  and  he  wrote  to  Char- 
lotte: 

*^  Chablotte,^!  hope  you  not  refuse  to  come  back  to  your  mistress ; 
for  it  is  a  £Eunily  wish,  and  she  ill,  and  not  get  on  wizout  you.    Ah ! 

"HetotT." 

So  Charlotte  write  backwards,  and  say  she  would  come,  if  Iffiss  T. 
would  pay  her  for  the  time  she  lose,  not  in  place,  since  she  1^  ^  and 
Mr.  T.  say,  «  Oh,  you  shall." 

So  she  came,  and  Miss  T.  receive  her  very  kind,  and  say, 

*'  Oh,  Charlotte— is  it  you  ?  And  I  am  glad  to  see  your  back,  Char- 
lotte." 

And  Charlotte  say  she  very  sorrowed  to  go,  but  if  TlShs  T.  make  it 
comfortable,  she  stay  iill — ^tiU  no  time!  Yes,  she  stay — ^though  she 
want  to  go  and  take  a  little  house,  with  a  little  business,  and  a  servant- 
msdd,  and  chickens,  and  a  husband. 

And  Miss  T.  say,  '^  Charlotte,  you  stay  wiz  me,  and  never  mind 
marrying  (which  is  nozing,  believe  me),  and  I  leave  you  some  provisions 
in  my  wm 

So  Charlotte  stay.  But  TlShs  T.  ask  her,  while  she  dress  her  hairs, 
who  she  wanted  to  marry;  and  when  Charlotte  not  answer,  she  say 
again: 

"  I  suspect  it  Theodore — eh  ?" 

And  she  seem  not  to  like  it,  though  she  would  before  speak  well  of 
me.     And  afterward  she  do  very  bad — as  I  shall  tell  you,  sir. 

IN  THE  CELLAB. 

Well,  sir,  there  was  one  malfortunate  thing.  That  Flannery — Kitty 
Flannery — ^the  under-housemaid.  She  was  a  great  tale-talker,  and  I 
think  she  spy  upon  me.  I  once  pass  three  hours  in  a  white  waistcoat,  on 
ze  top  of  a  coal! 

It  was  this : 

Miss  T.  say  to  Charlotte  while  she  dress  her,  *'  Charlotte,  why  Theo- 
dore never  come  to  see  you?  You  say  he  love  you,  and  he  come  not 
Poof!" 

"  Madam,"  say  Charlotte,  quiet,  "  you  know  no  followers  allowed — 
Theodore  knew  your  rule,  and  he  spare  your  feelings." 

(And  so  I  did,  sir,  for  I  always  tie  my  handkerchiefs  round  my  foot, 
and  steal  down  the  back-area.) 

"Oh,"  say  Miss  T.,  **that  no  matter.  Love  get  through  all  holes, 
and  play  snap-fingers  at  regulations." 

"  bid  he,  ma'am  ?"  say  Charlotte,  innocent.  **  Very  welL  You  know 
more  about  him  than  I  do." 

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2»6  WaiksUpHUL 

Well,  air— ^and  so,  next  nigbt,  I  come  to  the  area,  and  thai  &ol 
Flanagan,  the  Irish  footman  (a  g^eat  rogue,  and  my  friend),  forget  to  oil 
the  lock,  and  only  rub  the  chain  ;  so  the  lock  go  cfc-tf-cA,  and  Miss  T. 
hear  him,  where  she  sit  tea-ing  wiz  Lord  Jones  and  Hiss  Augusta,  who 
should  marry  Ms  lordship,  and  ^  get  up  and  come  down.  But  we  get 
notice — and  oh !  what  a  row ! 

<*  Here,  Theodore — ^the  scullery  T 

^  No,  no^  the  ddmney!     Quicks !  quicks !" 

"  No,  she  look  there !  The  oven,  Theodore.  It  nearly  cooL  Yoh 
won't  care,  for  ten  minute." 

"  Here,  Theodore,  the  coal-hole — that's  the  place,"  said  that  spiteful 
Flannery.  And,  wiz  my  white  waistcoat,  and  new  black  coat  and  wiist- 
bands,  I  go  down  to  the  coals. 

Miss  T.  eirter. 

"  Who  isat  r 

^'  If  you  please,  'm,  it  wae  not  any  person  at  all,  'm." 

'^  I  say,  who  zere  f    I  heard  the  area-gate  squeak." 

"  Please,  'm,"  said  cook,  all  grave,  "  it's  the  cat  She  makes  a  noise 
for  all  the  world  like  that  ere  area-gate.  'Ad  rat  that  cat  I  It's  my 
belief  she  does  it  a-puppies  to  tease.  We're  runned  off  our  legs,  we  are, 
a-going  to  that  area  to  let  nobody  in." 

"  It's  very  odd,"  say  Miss  T.  "  Well,  leave  these  doors  ^pen.  I 
don't  mind  the  noise.     I  like  to  hear  your  cheei£il  vmcea.^ 

"  Yes,  please,  'm." 

And  Miss  T.  go ;  and  she  sit  up  till  half-past  twelve.  Lord  Jones  go 
away ;  and  Miss  Ai^gusta  to  bed ;  and  I,  in  my  white  wai«tcoai^  coimfing 
my  thumbs,  for  three  hoars,  on  the  top  of  a  tsoal ! 

But  I  grow  tired  at  last.  All  the  servants  go  to  bed,  except  Char- 
lotte and  that  Flannery,  and  still  Miss  T.  sit  up.  Then  I  hear  her  call 
for  fresh  candles,  and  achJ  I  know  she  suspect  me.  So  I  get  up,  o^ 
the  coal-door,  and  walk  out  like  a  gentleman  come  to  take  my  teas. 
Miss  T.  look  up  quiet,  not  surprise ;  and  she  say : 

"  Oh,  Theodore !  how  you  do  ?  I'm  afraid  you  find  my  cellar  dull 
Why  you  in  such  haste  to  leave  us,  Theodore  ?" 

I  was  mad,  and  I  say,  bowing : 

"  Madam,  you  know  love  get  through  all  holes,  even  coal-holes— but 
perhaps  he  not  Mke  to  stay  there  always." 

And  I  go. 

SABIiY  STBUGGLES. 

Yes,  sir:  and  so,  at  last,  Charlotte  resolve  to  go  hands  and  feet, 
and  we  fix  the  day ;  but  she  promise  to  stay  wiz  Miss  T.  W.  the  very 
morning.  I  take  her  from  Miss  T.'s  house  to  the  church,  and  thea  to 
her  own. 

Now,  Charlotte  fortune  was  180/.,  and  of  that  we  pay  130f.  lor  the 
goodwill  of  the  cafe,  and  30/.  for  rent,  and  20/.  we  put  by  for  a 
showery  day. 

Before  Charlotte  leave  Miss  T.,  she  say  to  her,  sj^tefid,  "  If  you  ^^ 
not  marry  a  German,  Charlotte,  I  give  you  a  wedding-breakfast  cost  me 
100/.  Now,  you  take,  if  you  wish,  ze  old  stair-carpet ;  and  I  promise 
you  I  look  sharp  after  my  plate-chest,  for  I  think  you  rent  get  m 
Arrear,  and  Theodore  pay  it  in  silver-spoons.     Poof  T 

Yes,  sir ;  and  I  wrote  to  Miss  T.  when  I  hear  tiiis,  and  I  say: 

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WalkM  Up  Hill.  297 

"  Miss, — You  say  I  take  you  spoon  to  pay  my  rents.     My  rent  is 
paid!    What  you  say  to  zat ?     You  no  need  to  say  I  take  you  spoon. 
'^  I  remain,  Miss>  respectfully,  your  oblige  humble  servant, 

"  Theodoke.'* 

Bat  I  thought  it  too— what  you  say — >8harp^  fiv  a  lady,  sir^  so  I  burned 
my  letter. 

Well,  we  were  married  ;  and,  ze  oext  day,  when  we  get  up,  I  say  to 
Caiarlotte : 

^  Welly  my  dears,  we  must  get  up  and  beg^  die  world.  Where  is 
the  money,  di  ?    How  much,  Charlotte,  my  £arsP" 

(But  I  only  laughed  in  my  sleeves.) 

She  look  up  and  say,  wis  a  smile  that  made  her  look  so  pre^^  ihan 
even  she  is  : 

<<  Eighteenpence,  Theodore.''        * 

^  Ah,"  I  say,  <'zat  not  much,  eh  ?  Lend  me  your  watch,  my  dear, 
^re,  too,  is  mine.     I  go  to  my  bank." 

And  I  go  to  a  place  in  Oxford-street  where  I  know,  and  I  say  to  the 


^'  Can  I  have  4/L  on  these?" 

The  man  looked  at  the  watch,  and  then  he  look  i^  in  my  eyes,  and 
say  directly, 

"You  can  have  8/. 

So  I  run  back,  and  pour  de  mcmey  into  Charlotte  lap,  and  I  say : 

"  Charbtte,  don't  mind.  We  are  honests  ai^  we  are  resspectables, 
and  loyal  to  each  other.  Our  Lord  will  care  for  us,  and  we  shall  walk 
up  ze  M/." 

That  day  we  open  our  cafL  It  was  painted  nice,  aad  &mished,  and 
outside  was : 


Znm 
DRACHENFELS: 

THEODOBE     GERTUM. 
EUr  Mem  dnmkt,  \  Id  an  loge. 

Good  lodgements  for  beasts  and  tnTeUers. 

N3. 

All  languages  spoken  natively  inside.— T.  G. 


Before  twelve  o'clock  that  day,  there  came  a  nng^  and  a  party  of 
German  foreigners. 

"  Haben  sie  Platz  T 

"  O  ya — ya  wohL** 

«  Sechs  r 

"Ya— ya." 

So  that  very  night  we  had  six  of  our  twelve  beds  occupied-— everybody 
paying  8s.  a  day  for  food  and  rest  and  firements. 

Pretty  well  to  begin  with.     Ah  ! 

*'  There's  Wiesbaden — thank  you,  sir.     H6  P* 

Thus  it  happened  that  I  arrived  at  the  top  ci  my  hill,  and  Theodore 
at  the  first  platform  of  his^  at  the  same  moment. 

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(    298     ) 


SEA-SIDE  RECREATIONS  * 

It  is  daily  becoming  more  and  more  sensibly  felt  that  &esh  air,  salt- 
water bathing,  long  walks,  and  lovely  and  romantic  scenery,  by  no  means 
constitute  aU  the  resources  of  the  sea-side.  Collectmg  a  few  briglit- 
coloured  shells,  searching  for  pebbles,  and  gathering  what  wrack  and 
weeds  and  stray  forms  of  animal  life  are  thrown  up  by  the  tide— thanks 
to  Harve/s  beautiful  little  Sea-side  book  and  to  the  Aquce-Tivaria  at  the 
different  zoological  wardens — ^are  becoming  to  a  great  extent  superseded 
by  a  still  more  delightful  occupation — the  study  of  the  curious  forms,  and 
still  more  curious  habits,  of  the  animated  beings  that  abound  on  our 
coasts. 

Few  persons  are  fully  aware  of  the  many  strange,  beautiful,  jmd 
wondrous  objects  that  are  to  be  found  by  searching  those  shores  which 
every  season  are  crowded  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  that  is  perpetually 
vanishing,  when  thought  to  be  actually  withm  the  grasp ;  while  to  the 
humble  lover  of  nature,  a  true  and  legitimate  source  of  recreation  is  erer 
present,  ever  renewing  itself,  ever  springing  up,  even  at  his  feet,  m  new 
and  fascinating  shapes.  Most  curious  and  interesting,  indeed,  are  the 
forms  of  animal  life  dwelling  often  neglected  within  a  few  yards  of 
where  the  idler  stands,  whose  lovely  forms  and  hues,  whose  exqmsitely 
contrived  structures  and  amusing  instincts,  would  not  fail  to  atteact  his 
attention  and  afibrd  him  interest,  were  he  only  cognisant  of  their 
existence. 

Here  is  Mr.  Gosse,  a  naturalist  who  has  before  earned  distinction  hj 
a  careful  study  of  the  wonders  of  creation  in  inter-tropical  countries ;  he 
comes  home,  studies  too  hard,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  loses  his 
health  ;  he  is  ordered  change  of  air  and  exercise  ;  he  repairs  to  the  coast 
of  Devonslure,  and  finds  on  his  own  shores  as  much,  if  not  more,  to 
amuse  him,  to  occupy  his  time  in  healthful  recreation  and  to  write 
about,  as  if  he  had  spent  the  same  time  on  the  unexplored  shores  of 
Africa. 

This  is  the  tone  of  mind  with  which  to  enjoy  the  sea-side.  How 
popular  will  these  delightful  rambles  on  the  sea-coast  become!  One 
glance  on  arrival  at  the  bluff  red  headlands  marshalled  out  by  Petit  Tor, 
the  white  houses  of  Exmouth  shining  in  the  full  afternoon  sun  on  the 
blue  hazy  shore,  irregular  rocks,  with  strong  iron  bars  driven  in  here  and 
there  as  a  fastening  for  herring  nets,  sand  and  shingle,  with  young  dog- 
fish putrefying  as  useless,  a  wilderness  of  boulders  beyond,  and  then 
down  we  go  among  the  rocks  and  amid  the  boulders  to  peer  into  the 
pretty  tide-pools,  full  of  pure  sea-water,  quite  still,  and  as  clear  as 
crystal  From  the  rocky  margins  and  sides  of  these  little  tide-pools  the 
puckered  fironds  of  the  sweet  oar-weed  {Laminaria  saccharina)  spring 
out,  and  gently  drooping,  like  ferns  from  a  wall,  nearly  meet  in  the 
centre  ;  while  other  more  delicat^f  sea- weeds  grow  beneath  their  shadow. 
Sea-anemones,  with  slender  tentacles  set  round  like  a  fringe,  of  an  olive 
colour  or  a  deep  rich  red,  sometimes  brightening  into  blood-red,  are 

*  A  Naturalist's  Rambles  on  the  Devonshire  Coast.  By  Philip  Henry  GosiCi 
A.L.S.,  &C.    John  Van  Voorst. 


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Sea-side  Recreations.  299 

scattered  about  the  sides.  The  bottom  is  paved  with  small  muscles,  and 
fringed  with  dwaif  fuci^  ulvcBy  and  corvine — ^representatives  of  the 
olive,  green,  red,  and  stony  sea-weeds.  Under  the  great  boulders  are 
found  whole  colonies  of  the  smooth  sea-anemones  and  curious  dense 
sponges.  Beyond  these,  again,  are  g^reat  blocks  of  stone  invested  with  a 
clothing  of  shppery  sea-weeds,  or  covered  at  the  edges  with  shells  of 
serpulae,  which  cruelly  cut  the  fingers  in  turning  them  over — ^yet  what  a 
harvest  below !  whole  colonies  of  those  elegant  creatures,  &e  naked- 
gilled  mollusca,  are  there  awsuting  the  return  of  the  tide.  There  is  the 
large  grey  Eolis  papUlosay  there  the  little  Doris  bUamellata^  there  the 
pretty  green  Polycera  oceUata,  and  the  most  lovely  of  all,  the  exquisite 
Eolis  coronatOy  with  tentacles  surrounded  by  membranous  coronets,  and 
with  crowded  clusters  of  papillae,  of  crimson  and  blue  that  reflect  the  most 
gem-like  radiance.  When  these  pretty  captives  are  taken  home  and 
placed  in  what  might  be  called  a  compensating  vase,  that  is  to  say,  a 
vase  of  sea- water,  in  which  there  is  just  so  much  vegetable  life  as  will 
compensate  for  the  consumption  of  aeriform  gases  by  animal  life  (and  all 
young  naturalists  should  know  how  to  make  their  own  aquae-vivaria), 
they  will  live  almost  any  time.  Place  among  these  active  Bolides  a 
large  but  sluggish  Anthea,  or  a  helpless  Actinia,  and  they  will  attack 
them  at  once,  eat  holes  in  their  sides,  or  actually  devour  their  tentacles. 
Thus,  even  in  these  apparently  placid,  tranquil  tide-pools,  there  is  the  same 
war,  the  same  system  of  compensations  going  on  as  everywhere  else,  and 
one  portion  of  the  humblest  creatures  that  are  endowed  with  organic  life 
are  busy  destroying  another  portion.  So  it  is  in  the  whole  scale  of  creation 
up  to  man,  who  is  never  long  happy  without  an  occasional  onslaught  of 
races  against  races — ^families  of  men  madly  destroying  other  families  of 
men. 

To  turn,  however,  to  topics  suggestive  of  more  agreeable  ideas,  we 
have  on  the  Devonshire  coast  the  rock  honey-combed  into  a  thousand 
little  cavities  by  a  stone-boring  shelled  mollusk,  Saxieava  rtigosa,  which, 
as  it  only  attacks  limestone,  is  probably  assisted  in  its  operations  by  an 
acid  secredve  power,  and  these  honey-combed  structures  extending  to 
beyond  the  reach  of  present  tides,  so  it  would  appear  that  the  rocks  have 
been  elevated  since  the  existence  of  these  stone-borers. 

In  the  larger  and  lower  tide  pools,  that  are  separated  from  the  sea  only 
at  spring  tides,  large  prawns  swim  at  freedom  among  great  oar  weeds 
and  tangles.  It  is  curious  that  in  the  aquae-vivarium  the  prawn  loses  his 
fine  zebra-like  colours  in  a  few  hours  :  he  cannot  bear  the  light,  living  as 
he  does  in  a  state  of  nature  in  the  obscurity  of  deep  holes  and  rocky 
pools.  At  Brixham,  a  handsome  shell,  very  regularly  conical,  Trochus 
ziziphtmis,  is  found  under  the  large  stones  at  low  water,  as  is  also  the 
beautifid  scallop  Pecten  opercularis.  Mr.  Gosse  ascertained  that  the 
animal  of  this  shell  possessed  the  power  of  leaping.  At  Petit  Tor  is  found 
also  the  Rosy  Feather  Star,  and  at  Watcombe,  the  Sea  Lemon,  Doris 
tuberctclata,  the  largest  of  our  naked-gilled  moUusca. 

Mr.  Gosse's  great  natural  vivarium  at  this  part  of  the  coast  was  a  cer- 
tain rock-pool  at  Oddicombe,  which  he  thus  graphically  describes  : 

I  took  another  look  at  my  pretty  little  rock-basin  at  Oddicombe.  It  is  a 
deep,  oval,  cnp-hke  cavity,  about  a  yard  wide  in  the  longest  diameter,  and  of 
the  same  depth,  hewn  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  solid  limestoue,  with  as  clean  a 

Nov. — VOL.  xcrx.  wo.  cccxcv.  x 

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300  Sea-side  Secreatiome. 

surfiu^e,  M  if  a  stoaemasoo  had  been  at  work  there.  It  is  alwafs^  of  oMirae, 
full  of  water,  and,  except  when  a  heavy  sea  is  rolling  in,  of  brilliant  deameas. 
All  round  the  margin  are  growing  tufra  of  the  common  Coralline,  forming  a 
whitish  bushy  fringe,  reaching  from  the  edge  to  about  six  inches  down  :  a  few 
plants  of  the  Bladder  Fucus  are  scattered  around  and  d)ove  Uie  brim ;  and 
the  archinc  fronds  of  the  Sweet  Laminarh,  that  I  before  sp<^e  of,  hang  down 
nearly  to  me  bottom,  closely  resembling,  except  in  their  deep  brown  hoe,  tiie 
hart's  tongue  fera  that  so  profusely  adorns  the  sides  of  oar  green  bmes.  Bdow 
the  CoralUne  level  are  a  few  small  red  sea^weeds,  as  Rhod^uenia  paimmtm ;  and 
the  dark  purple  Chondna  crispus  growing  in  fine  tufits,  reflecting  a  rich  steel- 
blue  iridescence.  But  all  the  lower  parts  of  the  sides  and  the  bottom  are 
almost  quite  free  from  sea-weeds,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  Ulva  or  two, 
and  a  few  incrusting  patches  of  the  Coralline-base,  not  yet  shot  ap  into 
branches,  but  resembnng  smooth  pink  lichens.  The  smooth  snrface  of  the 
rock  in  these  lower  parts  is  quite  clean,  so  that  there  b  nothing  to  intercut 
the  sight  of  the  Aetmios,  that  project  from  the  hollows,  and  sprad  oat  didr 
broad  circular  disks  like  flat  blossoms  adhering  to  the  fiice  o£  the  interior. 
There  are  many  of  these,  all  of  the  species  A,  belUt,  and  all  of  the  dark 
chocolate  variety,  streaked  with  scarlet ;  and  they  are  floe  in  the  ratio  of  the 
depth  at  which  they  live ;  one  at  the  very  bottom  b  fully  three  inches  in 
diameter. 

There  is  something  exceedingly  charming  in  such  a  natnral  vivarium  as  this. 
When  I  go  down  on  my  knees  upon  the  rocky  margin,  and  bring  my  fiiee 
nearly  close  to  the  water,  the  whole  interior  is  distinctly  visible.  The  Tarions 
forms  and  beautiful  tints  of  the  sea-weeds,  especially  the  purple  flush  of  the 
Chcmdruij  are  well  worthy  of  admiration ;  and  1  can  see  the  little  shrimps 
and  other  CrusUicea  busily  swimming  from  weed  to  weed,  or  pursuing  their 
instinctive  occupations  among  the  fronds  and  branches — an  ample  forest  to 
them.  Tiny  fishes  of  the  Blenny  genus  are  also  hiding  under  the  shadow  of 
the  tufts,  and  occasionally  darting  out  with  quivering  tail ;  and  one  or  two 
Brittlestars  are  deliberately  crawling  about,  by  means  of  their  &ve  long  and 
flexible  arms,  in  a  manner  that  seems  a  ludicrous  caricature  of  a  man  climbiiig 
up  by  his  hands  and  feet—- only  you  must  suppose  an  additional  arm  growing 
from  the  top  of  his  head.  The  variety  of  their  colours,  and  the  singular  but 
always  elegant  patterns  in  which  they  are  arranged,  render  these  liule  star- 
fishes attractive. 

Such  a  calm  clear  little  well  as  this,  among  the  rugged  rocks,  stored  with 
animal  and  vegetable  life,  is  an  object  well  calculated  to  attract  a  poet's  &ncy. 
The  following  description  must  have  been  drawn  from  just  such  a  rock<^>ool, 
and  most  true  to  nature  it  is : 

In  hollows  of  the  tide-worn  reef, 
Left  at  low  water  g^tening  in  the  son. 
Pellucid  pods,  and  rocks  in  miniature, 
With  their  sniall  fry  of  fishes,  crusted  shells, 
Rich  mosses,  tree-like  sea-weed,  sparkling  pebbles. 
Enchant  the  eye,  and  tempt  the  eager  hand. 
To  violate  the  fiiiry  paradise. 

MOHTOOMBSX'. 

Hundreds  of  dye-bearing  moHusks,  Purpura  lapiHus,  are  £ouni  ad- 
hering to  the  rocks  between  tide-marks,  and  as  the  Saxicava  burrows  the 
limestones,  so  at  Tor  Abbey  the  Pholas  burrows  the  sandstones.  Both 
these  stone-boring  moUusks  breathe  by  means  of  double  siphonsd  tubes, 
the  currents  from  which  keep  the  nole  open  behind  them — another 
instance  of  those  beautiful  and  wise  contrivances  common  to  the  humblest 
forms  of  animal  life,  and  in  this  case  essential  to  the  health  and  comfort 
of  a  poor  shell-fish  that  spends  its  whole  life  buried  in  a  sepuldire 
of  stone. 


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Sen'side  Secreatimis.  301 

It  would  take  ^psges  to  record  a  tidie  of  tiie  yarions  eaptares  of  more 
or  less  rare  creatures  made  by  Mr.  Gosse.  One  day,  it  is  a  rich-coloiired 
Pkurobranchus  plumula;  another,  a  Dead-man's-fingers,  Alcyonium 
dtgitcOum,  much  more  elegantly  called  by  Sir  John  Ddyell,  Mermaid*s 
Glove.  Next  it  was  the  Laomedea  genicukUOy  a  forest  in  itseli^  with 
slender  ^gsag  stems  shooting  up  in  crowded  rows,  like  trees  in  a  wood, 
from  a  creeping  root  that  meanders  over  the  sea^weed,  every  angle  of  the 
stem  bearing  a  glassy  cell  inhabited  by  a  many-tentaded  polype.  Nume- 
rous other  little  creatures,  as  small  Mantis  shnmps,  Eolides,  and  Derides, 
are  found  in  these  forests.  The  habit  of  the  Mantis  shrimp  is  to  take  a 
firm  hold  of  the  zoophyte  with  its  hindermost  feet,  and  to  rear  its  long 
spectre-like  form  in  the  free  water,  through  which  it  sways  backward  and 
forward,  catching  with  its  singularly-constructed  fore  feet  for  any  strag- 
gling prey  that  nuiy  be  passing.  Add  to  these,  numerous  rare  anemones, 
among  which  one  Idthc^  undeseribed,  and  which  Mr.  Grosse  calls  the 
Rosy  Anemone,  Actinia  rosea,  with  rose-red  tentacles,  dive  disk,  and 
rich  umber-brown  body. 

From  Marychurch,  on  the  south  coast,  Mr.  Gosse  repaired  to  Ilfra- 
eombe,  on  the  north  coast,  from  whence  one  of  his  first  excursions  was  in 
search  of  the  rare  CaryophyJUa  Snuthii,  which  he  succeeded  in  finding,  as 
well  as  a  rare  anemcme,  Actinia  gemmacea,  and  which  immediatdy  be- 
came new  and  interesting  pets,  domiciled  in  a  home  vivarium  for  inspec- 
tion and  study.  A  next  pet  was  a  very  pretty  zoophyte,  Eucratea  chelata, 
which  was  again  supplanted  by  a  snaJie-headed  coraUine  and  some  less 
interesting  parasitic  animals.  So  persistent  a  partiality  for  Actinias, 
Eolides,  D<mdes,  and  other  marine  creatures,  coidd  not^  however,  satisfy 
itself  with  a  simple  examination  of  their  habits  and  structure  in  ghai 
vessels ;  after  a  time  Mr.  Gosse  determined  upon  cooking  and  devouring 
some  of  his  pets.  The  process  was  not  quite  so  easy  to  put  into  execu- 
tion as  to  watch  them  in  an  aqiuB-vivarium.  The  expenmoit  was  first 
made  with  the  common  Actinia  crtxssicomisy  and  is  thus  described : 

In  a  few  minutes  I  collected  some  half  a  dozen  of  different  sizes  at  low 
water  near  Wildersmouth,  and  having  rubbed  them  with  my  fingers  in  a  tide- 
pool  till  the  coating  of  gravel  was  pretty  well  got  rid  of,  brought  them  home. 
I  put  them  into  a  pan  of  sea^water  for  the  night  to  cleanse  them,  and  most 
beautiful  and  gorgeous  was  the  appearance  they  presented  when  expanded  ; 
no  two  alike  in  colours,  and  yet  all  so  lovely  that  it  was  difficult  to  say  which 
excelled.  Perhaps  one  with  the  tentacles  partly  cream-colour  and  partly 
white  was  as  beautiful  as  any. 

The  next  morning,  however,  I  began  operations.  As  it  was  an  experiment, 
I  did  not  choose  to  commit  my  pet  morsels  to  the  servants,  but  took  the 
saucepan  into  my  own  hand.  As  I  had  no  information  as  to  how  long  they 
required  boiling,  I  had  to  find  it  out  for  myself.  Some  I  put  into  the  water 
(«ea-water)  cold,  and  allowed  to  boil  gradually.  As  soon  as  the  water  boiled, 
I  tried  one :  it  was  tough,  and  evidently  undone.  The  next  I  took  out  after 
three  minutes'  boiling :  this  was  better ;  and  one  at  five  minutes*  was  better 
still ;  but  not  so  good  as  one  which  had  boiled  ten.  I  then  put  the  remaining 
ones  into  the  boiBig  water,  and  let  them  remain  over  the  fire  boiling  (ast  for 
ten  minutes,  and  these  were  the  best  of  all,  being  more  tender,  as  well  as  of  a 
more  inviting  appearance. 

I  must  confess  that  the  first  bit  I  essayed  caused  a  sort  of  lumpy  feeling  in 
my  throat,  as  if  a  sentinel  there  guarded  the  way,  and  said,  **  It  shan't  come 
here."    This  sensation,  however,  I  felt  to  be  unworthy  of  a  philosopher,  for 

x2 

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302  Seu'side  Recreations. 

there  was  nothing  really  repugnant  in  the  taste.  As  soon  as  I  had  got  one 
that  seemed  well  cooked,  I  invited  Mrs.  G.  to  share  the  feast ;  she  courage- 
ously attacked  the  morsel,  but  I  am  compelled  to  confess  it  could  not  pass  the 
vestibule ;  the  sentinel  was  too  many  for  her.  My  little  boy,  however,  voted 
that "  'tinny  was  good,'*  and  that  "  he  liked  'tinny ;"  and  loudly  demanded 
more,  like  another  Oliver  Twist.  As  for  me,  I  proved  the  truth  of  the  adage, 
Ce  rCest  que  U  premier  pas  qui  coute;  for  my  sentinel  was  cowed  after  tbe  first 
defeat.     I  left  little  in  the  dish. 

In  truth,  the  flavour  and  taste  are  agreeable,  somewhat  like  those  of  the  soft 
parts  of  crab  ;  I  ate  them  hot,  with  the  usual  crab  condiments  of  salt,  pepper, 
mustard,  and  vine^r,  mixed  into  a  sauce.  The  internal  parts,  including  the 
ovaries  and  the  tentacles,  though  from  their  mottled  appearance  rather  repelling 
to  the  eye,  were  the  most  agreeable  in  taste;  the  integuments  somewhat 
reminded  me  of  the  jelly-like  skin  of  a  calf's  head.  I  wonder  they  are  not 
commonly  brought  to  table,  for  they  are  easily  procured,  and  are  certainly  far 
superior  to  cockles,  periwinkles,  and  muscles.  After  a  very  little  use,  I  am 
persuaded  any  one  would  get  very  fond  of  boiled  Actinias. 

A  next  experiment  was  still  more  successful.  The  anemones  were 
fried  in  eg^  and  bread-crumbs,  and  were  declared  to  be  equal  to  the 
most  epicurean  dish  of  Newfoundland — the  tongues  of  the  cod  taken  out 
as  soon  as  the  fish  are  brought  on  shore,  and  fried  immediately.  Really, 
considering  the  abundance  of  these  anemones  on  some  shores,  Mr.  Gosse 
ought  to  be  looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  public  benefactor.  We  shall 
assuredly  try  fried  anemones  our  very  next  visit  to  the  sea-coast,  despite 
of  the  popular  superstition  as  to  their  poisonous  qualities. 

The  stem  iron-bound  coast  of  North  Devonshire  presents  a  peculiarly 
rich  and  tempting  hunting-ground  to  the  naturalist.  The  excessive  pro- 
ductiveness of  the  coast,  to  those  who  know  how  and  where  to  look,  may 
indeed  be  judged  of  by  the  description  of  the  diverse  kinds  of  organic  life 
detected  on  a  single  small  fragment  of  rock. 

It  is  (writes  Mr.  Gosse)  a  bit  scarcely  bigger  than  a  penny-piece,  which  I 
detached  the  other  day  from  a  little  rock-pool  near  low-water  mark  on  the 
seaward  side  of  Capstone  Hill.  One  single  polype  on  it  attracted  my  notice 
by  its  beauty;  and  when  I  applied  my  chisel  to  the  fragment,  I  did  not 
suspect  that  it  was  particularly  rich  in  animal  life ;  nor  is  it  richer  than 
usual  in  the  amount  of  animal  life  that  it  supports,  but  the  variety  certainly 
struck  me  as  remarkable  on  so  small  a  surface,  when  I  came  to  examine  it. 

First  of  all,  the  surface  is  largely  encrusted  with  the  cells  of  a  Lepralia,  the 
species  of  which  I  shall  probably  better  know  when  the  development  of  some 
of  its  granules  that  I  am  watching  is  further  advanced.  Over  these  cells  a 
yellow  Sponge  has  spread  itself,  very  thin,  and  profusely  spiculous ;  and 
patches  of  a  scarlet  Sponge  of  another  kind  occur.  Another  portion  of  the 
surface  is  occupied  by  the  rose-coloured  crust  of  the  common  Coralline,  over- 
spreading like  a  beautiful  smooth  lichen,  but  without  a  single  shoot  or  many- 
jointed  stem  as  yet  thrown  up,  to  indicate  its  true  character. 

These  then  may  be  called  the  groundwork,  for  we  have  not  yet  got  higher 
than  the  surface.  From  this  spring  up  two  or  three  tiny  sea-weeds.  That 
very  elegant  plant,  Bryopsis  plumosat  is  represented  by  several  of  its  fronds,  of 
a  most  lovely  green  hue,  pectinated  on  each  side  like  a  comb,  with  perfect 
regularity.  Then  there  is  a  little  specimen  of  Ptilota  sericea,  also  a  pectinated 
species,  something  like  the  Bryopsis  in  delicacy,  but  of  a  brownish-red 
colour,  and  much  less  beautiful.  Besides  these,  there  are  growing  parasitically 
on  one  of  the  polypes  presently  to  be  mentioned,  several  very  minute  ovate 
fronds,  not  more  than  one-eighth  of  an  inch  in  length,  of  a  rose-red  hue, 
which  are  probably  very  young  specimens  of  some  of  the  Khodymenice, 

Now  let  us  Idok  at  the  Zoophytes.    Most  conspicuous  are  several  of  the 

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Sea'side  Recreations.  303 

corkscrew  funnels  that  first  caught  my  eye  while  undisturbed  in  the  quiet  pool, 
and  induced  me  to  secure  the  fragment  of  supporting  rock — the  spiral  polypi- 
doms  of  Cellularia  avicularia,  one  of  the  most  curious  of  our  native  zoophjrtes. 
The  specimens  are  particularly  fine ;  the  cells  tenanted  with  healthy  polypes 
in  great  numbers,  protruding  their  crystal  stars  of  tentacles,  and  covered  with 
scores  of  birds'  heads  nodding  to  and  fro  their  bald  heads  like  so  many  old 
men  sleeping  at  church,  and  opening  and  shutting  their  frightfully  gaping  jaws 
like  snapping  turtles. 

Up  the  stem  of  one  of  these  Bird's  head  Corallines  a  colony  of  PedicdUna 
Belgica  has  entwined  its  creeping  clinging  roots,  and  is  displaying  its  chibbed 
polypes  with  unfolded  tentacles  in  every  direction.  This  is  a  very  common 
species  in  our  rock-pools,  parasitic  on  many  sea-weeds  and  calcareous  polypes. 

The  most  abundant  thing  of  all  is  Crista  aculeata,  a  delicate  and  pretty 
species,  easily  recognised  by  its  long  slender  spine  springing  from  the  margin 
of  every  cell.  The  multitude  of  these  spines  gives  a  peculiar  lightness  to  the 
little  shrubs  in  which  this  species  delights  to  grow. 

Several  other  species  are  parasitic  on  the  Crisia.  I  detect  the  curious  tiny 
snake-heads  of  Anguinaria  spaiulata,  entwined  about  its  stems.  A  stalk  of 
Bowerbankia  imbricata  also  is  here,  studded  with  little  aggregations  of  cells  in 
dense  clusters,  set  on  the  slender  thread-like  stem  at  wide  intervals.  And  a 
few  of  the  pitcher-like  cells  of  that  singular  zoophyte,  Beania  mirabilis,  set 
with  hooked  prickles,  I  find  ;  in  one  of  which  I  can  see  the  polype  snugly 
packed,  though  I  cannot  get  him  to  display  his  beauties  outside  his  door. 

Besides  all  these,  there  are  at  least  two  kinds  of  Hydroid  polypes,  both 
species  of  the  family  Corynidce.  The  one  is  a  minute  sessile  Coryne,  I  believe 
undescribed;  the  other  is  either  Clavamvlticornis  or  a  Hydractinia,  for  though 
two  specimens  occur  of  it  (as  well  as  of  the  former)  I  cannot,  from  their 
youth,  determine  to  which  genus  it  is  to  be  referred. 

When  I  first  looked  over  the  fragment  with  a  lens,  I  was  sure  that  I  saw 
Eucratea  chelata,  with  active  polypes ;  but  as  [  cannot  by  close .  searching 
again  find  it,  it  is  possible  I  was  mistaken. 

But  even  at  this  moment  I  discover  something  new  ;  for  two  little  Balani 
have  just  opened  their  valve-like  shells  from  amidst  the  yellow  sponge,  and 
are  now  throwing  out  their  curled  fans  of  most  exquisitely  fringed  fingers,  with 
precise  regularity. 

The  minute  Crustacea  that  hide  and  play  among  the  tangled  stems  of  the 
zoophytes  I  will  not  mention,  because  their  presence  there  may  be  considered 
as  only  accidental.  But  I  cannot  reckon  as  transient  visitors  a  brood  of  infant 
Brittle-stars  which  I  find  creeping  about  the  bases  of  the  CeUularia,  because 
1  perceive  that  they  have  quite  made  the  spot  their  home,  and  though  they  ' 
have  been  now  several  days  in  a  vessel  of  water,  free  to  leave  their  tiny  frag- 
ment and  visit  others,  or  to  roam  over  the  expansive  bottom  of  the  glass,  if 
they  will,  they  have  no  such  desire  ;  but  cling  to  the  circumscribed  limits  of 
their  native  rock,  with  as  unconquerable  a  partiality  as  if  they  were  Swiss, 
and  these  fragments  of  stone  were  their  own  dear  Alps.  They  crawl  and 
twine  over  the  surface  and  round  the  edges ;  but  it  is  with  the  utmost  reluct- 
ance, and  only  by  the  use  of  force  and  stratagem  combined,  that  I  can  get  one 
off  from  the  nold  to  which  he  tenaciously  clings.  I  am  watching  the  develop- 
ment, and  I  may  say  metamorphosis,  of  the  little  brood  with  interest,  and 
cannot  yet  say  what  they  are ;  but  I  think  they  will  turn  out  to  be  either 
OpTiiocoma  rosula,  or  0.  minuta^  probably  the  latter. 

Now  is  not  this  a  very  pretty  list  of  the  tenantry  of  a  bit  of  slate-rock  two 
inches  square  ?  And  does  it  not  read  us  an  instructive  homily — one  of  those 
"  sermons  in  stones*'  that  the  poet  speaks  of— on  the  beneficent  care  of  Him 
who  *'  openeth  his  hand  and  satisfieth  the  desire  of  every  living  thing?" 

Mr.  Grosse  added,  by  his  researches  on  this  coast,  two  new  species  of 
JSqtiorea  to  the  British  Fauna,  and  a  magnificent  species  of  Chrysaora. 
He  ascertained,  in  addition  to  the  quantity  of  information  accumulated 

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304  Sett-gide  SecreatiaHS, 

upon  the  strueture  and  habits  of  these  little  ereatoies,  that  a  gieat 
portion  of  the  luminoosness  of  the  sea  in  the  same  district  is  to  be  attri* 
bated  to  the  presence  of  the  Noctiluca  MiUario, 

Nor  were  ue  scenic  beauties  of  the  coast  lost  upon  our  ardent  loTer  of 
marine  zoology.  He  describes  in  living  and  admiring  terms  all  that  coq- 
cems  U&acombe  and  the  Hitle  villages  in  its  neighbourhood.  He  sketehes, 
with  an  eye  alive  to  the  picturesque,  Hele  and  its  lion  rodi^  die  prospect 
£rom  Hillsborough  and  uie  Torr  Clif&. 

He  justly  remarks  of  the  sea-side  taken  altogether : 

The  sea-side  is  never  dull :  other  places  soon  tire  us  ;  we  cannot  always  he 
admiring  scenery^  though  ever  so  beautiful,  and  nobody  stands  gazing  into  a 
field,  or  on  a  hedgerow  bank,  though  studded  with  the  most  lovely  flowers,  by 
the  half-hour  together.  But  we  can  and  do  stand  watching  the  sea,  and  feel 
reluctant  to  leave  it :  the  changes  of  the  tide  and  the  ever  rolling,  breaking, 
and  retiring  waves,  are  so  much  like  the  phenomena  of  life,  that  we  look  on 
with  an  interest  and  expectation  akin  to  that  with  which  we  watch  the  pro- 
ceedings of  living  beings. 

^e  deaeends  to  particularities  of  a  still  more  interesting  charaeter 
when  describing  favourite  locaHties,  as  the  Smallmoul^  Caves,  Morte 
Stone,  Ciq>stone  Hill  and  Spout-holes,  Rapparee  Cove^  Wildersmoutb, 
the  Vale  of  Lee,  Langley  Open,  Braunton  Cam  Top,  Samson's  Bay  and 
Cave,  Smallmouth  Tunnel,  Brier  Cave,  The  Hangman,*  and  a  host  of 
other  interesting  spots.  Few  of  these  on  such  a  rock-girt  coast  but  have 
.  their  legends  of  wreck  and  disasters,  some  with  claims  to  interest  of  qmte 
a  domestic  character.     Here  is  an  example: 

Some  years  ago  a  party  of  nine  ladies  went  down  to  the  rocks  at  Wilders- 
moutb, at  the  part  bdow  the  Capstone,  which  is  rather  secluded  by  means  of  the 
more  than  usually  large  masses  of  rock  that  rise  there.  One  of  the  ladies  was 
the  aunt  of  another,  the  latter  a  little  girl,  whose  parents  were  in  India.  The 
child  was  to  be  bathed,  but  the  sea  was  high,  and  she  did  not  like  it.  When 
she  had  been  dipped  twice,  she  begged  that  it  might  suffice,  but  all  protested 
that  she  must  have  her  full  allowance  of  three  dips.  The  aunt  accordingly 
plunged  her  a  third  time,  but  at  that  instant  a  heavy  wave  coming  in  toc^  the 
child  out  of  the  grasp  of  her  relative,  and  bore  her  back  beyond  reach.  The 
tide  was  setting  down,  and  the  party  bad  the  agony  of  seeing  their  little  com- 
^  panion  carried  rapidly  away  across  the  month  of  the  cove  towards  the  Tunnd 
rocks. 

A  young  man,  a  relative,  I  believe,  of  one  of  the  ladies,  instantly  stripped 
and  swam  after  the  diild,  who  still  floated.  He  succeeded  in  catching  her,  foot 
so  fast  had  the  tide  swept  her  down,  that  he  had  to  land  on  the  Tunnel  side 
of  the  cove,  and  then  to  climb  the  precipitous  cliffs  with  his  helpless  burden 
in  one  arm.  She  was  found,  however,  to  be  quite  dead,  and  no  appliances 
could  restore  her. 

The  aunt  was  like  a  maniac ;  crying  and  tearing  her  hahr  in  distraction. 
They  put  her  into  one  of  the  bathing-machines  until  the  first  paroxysm  of  grief 
had  exhausted  itself;  but  she  never  recovered  the  shock.  She  used  long  after- 
wards to  come  down  to  the  fetal  spot,  and  gaze  out  upon  the  sea  in  hopeless 
and  speechless  melancholy — a  melancholy  that  never  left  her. 

To  complete  the  sad  story,  the  parents  of  the  child,  who  had  not  heard  of 
the  event,  were  returning  from  India  shortly  after,  when  the  ship  was  wrecked, 
and  they  too  were  both  drowned. 

*  It  is  not  a  little  curious,  as  illustrative  of  the  propagation  of  legendary  lore, 
that  there  should  be  a  <<  Hangman's  Stone  "  at  Bottiagdean,  near  Brighton,  witli 
precisely  the  same  legend  attached  to  it  as  to  the  stone  on  the  coast  of  North 
Devon. 

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Sea-side  Recreations.  305 

There  is  another  stoiy  of  a  similar  character  associated  with  a  steep 
flight  of  steps  at  the  north-east  comer  of  Capstone  Promenade: 

Four  or  five  years  ago  the  large  house  from  which  these  steps  descend  was 
temporarily  occupied  by  two  ladies  of  rank^  one  of  whom,  among  other  accom- 
plishments not  very  common  to  her  sex,  was  distinguished  as  an  expert  and 
fearless  swimmer.  She  was  accustomed  to  plunge  from  these  private  steps 
when  the  water  was  high,  and  swim  out  to  sea,  over  yonder  belt  of  horrid 
rocks,  in  all  weathers.  On  the  occasion  I  speak  o(  a  morning  in  autumn,  she 
had  boldly,  nay  rashly,  sought  her  favourite  amusement,  though  a  gale  of 
wind  was  blowing  and  the  foaming  sea  was  breaking  in  furious  Tiolence  almost 
to  the  very  top  oT  the  wall. 

The  fishermen  and  idlers  on  the  quay  were  just  going  to  their  breakfasts, 
when  the  sister  of  the  swimmer  rushed  out  of  the  house  with  a  scream  of  dis- 
tress. "  A  lady  is  drowning  behind !  who  will  save  her  T*  was  her  eager  de- 
mand, as  she  passed  one  ^oung  man  after  another.  None  replied,  for  the 
weather  was  tremendous ;  till  a  poor  shoemaker  offered  himself.  **  111  save 
her,  if  I  can,"  said  be;  and  he  followed  her  swiftly  through  the  house  and  yard 
to  the  head  of  the  steps. 

There  indeed  was  me  lady  still  bravely  breasting  the  rolling  waves ;  she  had 
taken  her  outward  range,  and  was  returning,  but  the  rebound  of  the  sea  from 
the  cli£&  was  so  powerful  that  she  could  not  come  in  to  the  steps ;  her 
strength  too  was  failing  fast,  and  it  failed  all  the  faster  because  she  was 
thoroughly  frightened. 

The  young  cordwainer,  throwing  off  his  coat  and  shoes,  and  taking  a  rope  in 
his  hand,  leaped  at  once  into  the  waves,  and  being  himself  a  skilful  swimmer, 
he  quickly  reached  the  drowning  lady.  He  managed  to  pass  the  noose  of  the 
cord  round  her,  by  means  of  which  she  was  presently  drawn  up  by  other  men 
who  had  congregated  on  the  steps.  "Take  care  of  the  poor  man!**  was  her 
first  exclamation,  even  before  her  own  feet  had  touched  the  firm  ground.  But 
**  the  poor  man"  was  past  their  care  ;  he  had  saved  her  life  chivalrously,  hot  it 
nas  with  the  sacrifice  of  his  own. 

As  soon  as  he  had  secured  the  lady's  hold  of  the  rope,  he  sought  the  shore 
for  himself,  but  scarcely  had  he  swam  half  a  dozen  strokes,  when  the  spectators 
on  shore  beheld  his  arms  suddenly  cease  their  vigorous  play  and  hang  down  ; 
his  legs,  too,  sank  into  the  same  pendent  posture,  and  his  head  dropped  upon 
his  breast  with  the  face  submerged.  Thus  he  continued  to  float  for  a  short 
time,  but  moved  no  more.  He  had  been  subject  to  occasional  swooning  fits, 
from  a  severe  blow  which  he  had  received  on  the  head  some  time  before,  and 
his  brother,  from  whose  mouth  I  received  these  details,  conjectured  that  one  of 
his  attacks  had  suddenly  come  upon  him,  his  predisposition  being  perhaps' 
aggravated  by  his  having  gone  out  without  having  broken  his  fast. 

The  tide  soon  carried  the  body  away  out  of  sight ;  efforts  were  made  as  soon 
as  practicable  to  recover  it  by  dragging  ;  and  it  was  once  hooked  and  brought 
to  the  surface,  but  before  it  could  be  hauled  into  the  boat  it  sank  again,  and  it 
was  not  till  more  than  a  fortnight  after  that  it  vras  found  at  Comb-Martin, 
some  five  miles  to  the  eastward. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  distress  of  the  lady  at  the  death  of  her  courageous 
deliverer  ;  for  awhile  she  appeared  inconsolable,  and  the  efiect  of  the  whole 
transaction  is  said  to  have  been  a  permanent  melancholy.  Her  gratitude  was 
shown  in  providing  for  the  widow  and  children  of  her  benefactor,  who  continue 
to  this  day  her  pensioners. 

And  with  this  we  must  conclude  our  notice  of  Mr.  Gosse's  charming 
work,  which  is  well  calculated  to  render  the  pursuit  of  natural  history 
more  popular  than  cfver,  to  show  to  sea-mde  yintors  i^at  they  hare  odier 
resources  at  hand  besides  the  monotonous  promenade,  and  to  open  their 
hearts  by  the  contemplation  of  the  excellence  impressed  on  everything 
which  God  has  created. 

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(    306     ) 


AMERICAN     AUTHORSHIP. 

BT  SIR  NATHAIOEL. 

No.  VIII.— William  Cullen  Betart. 

Poetry  has  been  pronounced  by  Wordsworth,  the  spontaneous  over- 
flow of  powerful  feelings — taking  its  origin  from  emotion  recollected  in 
tranquillity  ; — "  the  emotion  is  contemplated  till,  by  a  species  of  re-action, 
the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that 
which  was  before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is  gradually  produced,  and 
does  itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind."  In  such  a  mood,  according  to  the 
great  poet,  successful  composition  generally  begins,  and  in  a  mood  similar 
to  this  it  is  carried  on.*  This  species  of  re-action,  this  revival  of  powerful 
emotion,  this  living  over  again  the  passionate  experience,  between  which 
in  its  historical  reality  and  the  present  time  a  tranquillising  medium  has 
been  interposed, — this  revivification  of  olden  sensibilities,  in  all  their 
quick  energy  and  moving  influences,  we  seem  to  miss  in  the  poetry  of  Mr. 
Bryant.  The  tranquillity  somewhat  overlays  the  emotion.  The  philo- 
sophic mind,  brought  by  rolling  years,  somewhat  over-rides,  checks,  con- 
fines the  soul  of  poesy,  and  sometimes 

lies  upon  it  with  a  weight 

Heavy  as  frost. 

Thirty  years  ago,  Mr.  Bryant  was  cavalierly  characterised  by  a  Black' 
wood  critic  as,  "  in  fact,  a  sensible  young  man,  of  a  thrifty  disposition, 
who  knows  how  to  manage  a  few  plain  ideas  in  a  very  handisome  way  — 
but  wanting  fire,  wanting  the  very  rashness  of  a  poet — the  prodigality 
and  fervour  of  those  who  are  overflowing  with  inspiration.  The  smartest 
of  American  satirists  thus  delineates  him : 

There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as  cool,  and  as  dignified, 

As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is  ignified. 

Save  when  by  reflection  'tis  kindled  o'  nights, 

With  a  semblance  of  flame  by  the  chill  Northern  Lights. 

He  may  rank  (Griswold  says  so)  first  bard  of  your  nation, 

(There's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in  supreme  ice-olation) 

Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his  heel  on. 

But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  following  peal  on, — 

He's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang  any  zeal  on  : 

Unqualified  merits,  I'll  grant,  if  you  choose,  ne  has  'em,t 

But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling  enthusiasm ; 

If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,  on  my  soul, 

Like  being  stirred  up  with  the  very  North  Pole.J 

Tuckerman,  who  is  so  decided  an  admirer  of  this  bard,  admits  a  remark- 
able absence  of  those  spontaneous  bursts  of  tenderness  and  passion,  which 

*  See  Preface  to  the  Second  Edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads, 
t  We  can  fancy  the  "'too  smooth  and  too  polished"  poet  looking  grim  horror, 
or  blank  perplexity,  at  the  scansion  of  this  rough-shod  line  of  his  critic's. 
X  A  Fable  for  Critics. 


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William  Cullen  Bryant.  307 

constitute  the  very  essence  of  a  large  portion  of  modem  verse — ^and  allows 
that  he  has  none  of  the  spirit  of  Camphell,  or  the  narrative  sprightliness 
of  Scott ;  and  that  love  is  merely  recognised  in  his  poems,  rarely  forming 
the  staple  of  any  composition;  and  that  even  sentiment,  except  that 
which  springs  from  benevolence,  seldom  lends  a  glow  to  his  pages.  We 
remember,  however,  Wilson's  quoting  "A  Song  of  Pitcaim's  Island" with 
the  remark,  "  This  is  the  kind  of  love-poetry  in  which  we  delight" — and 
his  eulogising  ''  The  Hunter's  Serenade"  as  ^'  a  sweet  love-lay,"  and  the 
'^  Song  of  Marion's  Men"  as  a  spirit-stirring,  beautiful  ballad,  instinct 
with  the  grace  of  CampbeU  and  the  vigoxur  of  Allan  Cunningham.  Nor 
has  Mr.  Bryant  ever,  perhaps,  been  more  justiy  appraised  than  by  the 
same  renowned  critic,  when  he  defines  the  chief  charm  of  the  poet's 
genius  to  consist  in  a  tender  pensiveness,  a  moral  melancholy,  breathing 
over  all  his  contemplations,  dreams,  and  reveries,  even  such  as  in  the  main 
are  glad,  and  giving  assurance  of  a  pure  spirit,  benevolent  to  all  living 
creatures,  and  habituaUy  pious  in  the  felt  omnipresence  of  the  Creator. 
The  inspiration  of  many  of  his  poems  is  traced  to  ^'  a  profound  sense  of 
the  sanctity  of  the  affections.  That  love,  which  is  the  support  and 
the  solace  of  the  heart  in  all  the  duties  and  distresses  of  this  life,  is  some- 
times painted  by  Mr.  Bryant  in  its  purest  form  and  brightest  colours,  as 
it  beautifies  and  blesses  the  solitary  wilderness.  The  delight  that  has 
filled  his  own  being,  from  the  faces  of  his  own  family,  he  transfiises  into 
the  hearts  of  the  creatures  of  his  imagination,  as  they  wander  through  the 
woods,  or  sit  singing  in  front  of  their  forest  bowers."  The  tenderness 
and  pathos  which  mark  *'  The  Death  of  the  Flowers,"  "  The  Indian  Girl's 
Lament,"  "  The  Bivulet,"  and  other  pieces,  produce  in  the  reader  a  feel- 
ing not  exactiy,  not  even  approximately,  like  that  (if  we  may  dogmatise 
at  all  on  so  indefinite  a  sensation)  of 

—being  stirred  up  by  the  very  North  Pole. 

Bryant  loves  to  put  into  simple  verse  some  simple  story  of  the  heart, 
or  fragment  of  legendary  lore.  For  instance,  the  ^^  Afiican  Chief,"  which 
tells  how  a  captive  prince  stood  in  the  market-place,  *^  all  stem  of  look 
and  strong  of  limb,  his  dark  eye  on  the  ground," — and  there  besought 
his  elated  conqueror  to  accept  ransom,  for  the  sake  of  those  who  were 
weeping  their  loss  in  the  shade  of  the  cocoa- tree;  and  how,  when  the  con- 
queror spumed  that  petition,  the  conquered  became  at  once  broken  of 
heart  and  crazed  of  brain,  and  wore  not  long  the  chain  of  serfdom — ^for 
at  eventide  "  they  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sands,  the  foul  hyaena's  prey." 
Or  again,  "  The  Hunter's  Vision," — which  describes  the  slumber  of  a 
weary  huntsman  upon  a  rock  that  rose  high  and  sheer  from  the  moun- 
tain's breast — and  how  he  dreamed  of  a  shadowy  region,  where  he  beheld 
dead  friends,  dear  in  days  of  boyhood,  and  one  fair  young  girl,  long  since 
housed  in  the  churchyard,  but  now  bounding  towards  him  as  she  was  wont 
of  yore,  and  calling  ms  name  with  a  radiant  smile  on  that  sweet  face  which 
the  death  damps  have  so  dishonoured — and  how  the  dreamer  started  for- 
ward to  greet  the  rapturous  delusion,  and,  plunging  from  that  craggy 
height,  ended  dream  and  life  at  once  !  Or  again, — "  The  Murderea 
Traveller" — a  touchingly  moumfrd  elegy  on  one  who  died  a  fearful  death 
in  a  narrow  glen,  and  whose  bones  were  found  and  buried  there  by  un- 


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806  WaUam  CuUen  Brymt. 

weepbg  strangers^'tlie  fragrmt  birch  hanging  her  toBsek  abore  hbn,  and 
the  blofisoms  nodding  oarekflsly,  and  the  z^broast  wadbHng  cheerily  :* 

but  there  was  weeping  far  awayj 

And  gentle  eyes  for  him, 
With  watching  many  an  anxious  day 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 

They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so. 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  bard  beset ; — 

ITor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red. 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead. 
.  .  •  •  . 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wq>t. 

Within  his  distant  home; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

These  lines  are  a  fine  spedmen  of  the  condensed,  pthy,  dbaste  |»cta- 
resqoeiness  of  expression  in  which  Mr.  Bryant  exc^.  A  correspoDdii^ 
terseness  as  well  as  delicacy  distinguishes  his  simihtudes,  which  if  sparaety, 
are  almost  ever  effectively  introduced,  and  evidence  tme  feeling  and  taste. 
The  breeze  at  summer  twilight  he  bids 

go  forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  faintii^  earth.f 

The  intellectual  prowess  of  man  he  suggests  by  the  discoTeries  of  the 
astronomer — 

he  whose  eye 
Unwinds  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky.{ 

To  a  maiden  sinking  under  a  decline  he  says — 

Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then  ;  Death  should  come 

Gently  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee^ 
As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of  bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree.§ 

When  ^  frosts  and  shorieaing  days  portend  the  aged  year  is  near  his 
end,"  then  does  the  gentian  flower's 

Sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Bhie— blue— as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall.|| 

Man,  a  probationer  between  two  eternities,  is  thus  apostrophised: 

•  The  couplel;, 

'*  And  fearless  near  the  fatal  spot 
Her  young  the  partridge  led," 
is  deservedly  admired, 
t  To  tlie  Evening  Wind.  %  The  A^.  $  SonaetB. 

II  To  the  Fringed  Gentian. 


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ffUUam  CuOen  Bryant.  309 

So  lire,  that  iphm  thj  snmflioM  comes  to  join 
The  inniiBiefable  canvaB*  that  Bu>ve8 
To  that  mjrsterious  raaliD,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unftdtering  trust,  approach  thy  grave. 
Like  (me  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pkasant  dreams.* 

The  poem  whicli  concludes  witli  these  Hues,  ^*  Thanatopsis,"  is  slight- 
iDgly  said  by  a  popular  critic  to  have  for  its  main  thought  the  world  as 
a  huge  sepmchre^  rolling  through  the  heavens,  while  its  moral  is  to  incul- 
cate iqK>n  the  death-devoted  dust,  which  we  call  man,  the  duty  of 
dropping  into  its  kindred  dust  as  quietly  and  gracefully  as  possible.  So 
to  **  sacrifice  to  the  graces  "  is  hardly,  however,  the  poet's  wont.  And 
this  particular  poem  merits  a  higher  estimate,  mingling  as  it  does  so 
finely,  a  '^  mild  and  healing  Enrmpathy,  that  steals  away  iheir  sharpness** 
with  man's  ^  darker  musings  on  the  wormy  grave,  and  widi  thoughts 
of  the  last  bitter  hour  that  ^^  come  fike  a  blight  over  lus  spirit,^  and 
with  ^  sad  images  of  the  stem  agony,  and  shroud,  and  paS,  and  breath- 
less darkness,  and  the  narrow  house."  Not  a  few  of  Mr.  Bryanfs  ad- 
mirers admire  *^  Thanatopsis''  beyond  the  rest  of  his  poems;  and  ^'  Tha- 
natopsis  "  it  is  which  Natnaniel  Hawthorne,  in  his  dreamf  of  a  genera- 
tion to  come,  beheld  **  gleaming^  over  the  dead  and  buried  bard,  **  like 
a  Bculptared  marble  sepulchre  by  moonlight."  And  ^  Thanatc^iffls"  it 
is,  of  which  we  are  told  that  Dana,  and  other  critics  to  whom  k  was 
shov^n  in  MS.,  affirmed  that  it  could  xMit  have  been  written  by  an  American 
— there  being,  says  Mr.  Griswold,  *^  a  finish  and  completeness  about  it, 
added  to  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  ideai^  to  which,  it  was  supposed, 
none  of  our  own  writers  had  attained."  America  owns  another  guess 
sort  of  critics,  now. 

As  a  descriptive  poet,  with  the  oatiooal  characteristics  of  his  country's 
scenery  for  a  theme,  those  who  are  fiamiHar  wi^  such  characteristics, 
accord  to  Mr.  Bryant  lofW  pnuse.  Cis- Atlantic  readers  are  apt  to  com- 
plain of  a  seeming  lack  ot  nationality  in  his  pictures  of  lake  and  prairie, 
and  to  find  them  tame  and  colourless  beside  the  impressive  and  vivid 
studies,  firom  the  same  objects,  of  Femmore  Cooper.  But  Trans- Atlantic 
critics  assure  us,  that  any  of  our  ^'  auld  warld  "  selves,  ^^  gifited  with  a 
small  degree"  of  common  imagination  and  sensibility,  and  free  firom  a 
vary  large  degree  of  pvc^udiee  and  chronic  amaorosis,  may  derive  firom 
Bryant's  poems  ^*  the  very  awe  and  delight  wi^  which  the  first  view  of 
one  of  America's  majestic  fiffests  would  strike  his  mind."  We  are  to 
iae|B^«rd  him  with  the  respect  due  to  one  who,  in  Wordsworth's  language, 

Having  gained  the  top 
Of  some  commanding  eminence,  which  yet 
Intruder  ne*er  behel^  from  thence  surveys 
Begions  of  wood  and  wide  savannah,  vast 
Expanse  of  unapprenmted  earth. 
With  imnd  that  sheds  a  light  on  what  he  8ees.:|: 

•  Thanatopsis.  f  See  "  P/s  Correspondence,**  in  the  Mosses, 

X  Excursion.    BooklV. 


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310  William  CuHen  Bryant. 

He  has  caught,  according  to  Tuckerman,  the  very  spirit  of  American 
scenery,  as  well  as  faithfiiUy  pictured  its  details — '^  his  best  poems  have 
anthem-like  cadence,  which  accords  with  the  vast  scenes  they  celebrate" 
— "  his  harp  is  strung  in  harmony  with  the  wild  moan  of  the  ancient 
boughs" — his  forest  studies  are  not  English  parks  formalised  by  art,  not 
legendaiT  wilds  like  Ravenna's  pine-grove,  not  gloomy  German  forests 
with  their  phantoms  and  banditti — but  they  realise  those  ^'  primal  dense 
woodlands"  of  the  New  World  (whose  title  of  New  seems  a  libel  on  their 
hoary  eld)  where  ^'  the  oak  spreads  its  enormous  branches,  and  the  froet- 
kindled  leaves  of  the  maple  glow  like  flame  in  the  sunshine;  where  the 
tap  of  the  woodpecker  and  the  whirring  of  the  partridge  alone  break  the 
silence  that  broods,  like  the  spirit  of  prayer,  amid  the  interminable  usies 
of  the  verdant  sanctuary."  And  Washington  Irving  claims  for  his 
friend's  descriptive  poetry,  the  power  of  transporting  us  at  will  into  the 
**  depths  of  the  solemn  primaeval  forest,  to  th^  shores  of  the  lonely  lake, 
the  banks  of  the  wild  nameless  stream,  or  the  brow  of  the  rocky  upland, 
rising  like  a  promontory  from  amidst  [a  wide  ocean  of  foliage."  Neve^ 
iheless,  we  own  to  a  sense  of  general  dulness  and  disappointment  when 
doing  our  best  to  catch  the  inspiration  of  the  "  Forest  Hymn,"  nor  do 
we  find  in  his  picture  of  '^  The  Prairies,"  those  Gardens  of  the  Desert, 
those 

Unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 

any  such  '^  proof  impression"  of  the  poet's  art,  as  the  subject  seems  capable 
of.     Very  graphic,  however,  are  the  lines— 

Lo!  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell. 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed. 
And  motionless  for  ever. — Motionless  ? — 
No— they  are  all  unchained  again.    The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath. 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye  ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges. 

Mr.  Bryant's  residence  in  Queen* s  County,*  as  described  by  pencillew 

*  His  house  is  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  facing  Hempstead  Harbour,  to  wbidi 
the  flood  tide  gives  the  appearance  of  a  lake,  bordered  to  its  very  edge  with  trew. 
The  house  itsdf,  surrounded  with  "  square  columns  and  a  heavy  cornice,"  which 
help  to  shade  "  a  wide  and  ample  piazza,"  is  described  ("  Homes  of  American 
Authors,"  1852)  as  "one  bower  of  greenery,"  July's  hottest  sim  leaving  the  inner 
rooms  ^  cool  and  comfortable  at  all  times."  The  library,  as  the  haunt  of  the 
poet  and  his  friends,  is  "  supplied  with  all  that  can  minister  to  quiet  and  re?^ 
pleasure,"  in  addition  to  books.  *'  Here,  by  the  great  table  covered  with  periodi- 
cals and  literary  novelties,  with  the  soft,  ceaseless  music  of  rustling  leaves,  and 
the  singing  of  birds  making  the  silence  sweeter,  the  sununer  visitor  may  &Bfff 
himself  in  the  very  woods,  only  with  a  deeper  and  more  grateful  shade;  and  yr\m 
*  wintry  blasts  are  piping  loud,*  and  the  whispering  trees  have  changed  to  whin- 
ing ones,  a  bright  wood-fire  lights  the  home  scene,  enhanced  in  comfort  hy  the 
hospitable  skv  without,  and  the  domestic  lamp  calls  about  it  a  smiling  or  n^°"^ 
cirde,  for  whose  conversation  or  silence  the  shelves  around  afibrd  ezoelient 


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miliam  Cullen  Bryant  311 

by  the  way,  would  appear  £EtTOurable  to  the  *^  consecration  and  the  poet's 
dream,"  without  excluding  the  <*  common  things  that  round  us  lie"  in 
active  practical  life.  But  he  leaves  now  to  others  the  ''  accomplbhment  of 
verse,"  and  reposes  on  such  laurels  as  he  has  long-ago  won,  be  they 
ever-greens  or  not. 

His  prose  writings  are  numerous,  but  chiefly  scattered  among  reviews, 
magazines,  and  newspapers.  The  "  Letters  of  a  Traveller,"  collected 
for  English  publication  two  or  three  years  ago,  form  an  agreeable  mis- 
cellany, but  without  pretension  to  novelty  in  matter  or  any  distinctive 
excellence  in  style.  The  subjects  are  trite,  the  treatment  so-soish.  The 
repast  is  a  sort  of  soup'tnaigrCy  presented  in  no  very  lordly  dish.  En- 
thusiasm of  description  is  as  much  awanting  as  singularity  of  incident. 
But  to  those  who  love  quiet  communications  on  quiet  topics,  these  letters 
have  an  interest  and  value  not  to  be  gainsaid.  The  subjects  range  over 
a  pretty  wide  surface  of  time  and  space ;  horn  1834  to  1849,  and  from 
New  Ehigland  to  Old,  plus  France  and  Holland,  Austria  and  Italy.  If 
there  is  a  deficiency  of  colouring  and  warmth  in  the  traveller's  sketches 
of  Italian  scenery  and  arts — of  what  is  picturesque  in  Shetland  life— of 
England's  home  beauties — and  of  the  swamps  of  Florida,  and  the  rugged 
wilds  of  Canada,  and  the  tropic  vegetation  of  Cuba, — at  least  they  are 
free  from  the  showy  verbiage  and  fustian  neologisms  in  which  some 
New  Englanders  so  profusely  indulge.  Nevertheless,  they  are  distinc- 
tively American  ;  for  Mr.  Griswold  is  right  in  affirming,  as  respects  the 
poet  3  prose  writings,  especially  the  political  part  of  them,  that,  whatever 
is  in  uiem  of  intrinsic  truth,  his  views  on  eveiy  subject  disputed  inter- 
nationally, are  essentially  American,  bom  of  and  nurtured  by  his 
country's  institutions,  experience,  and  condition,  '<  and  held,"  it  is  added, 
^^only  by  ourselves  and  by  those  who  look  to  us  for  instruction  and 
example."  The  Evening  Post  has  been  the  main  channel  of  the  ex- 
poet's  political  effiisions.  Prose  belles  lettres  he  seems  to  have  abjured, 
together  with  verse — ^though  once  so  welcome  and  prominent  a  con- 
tributor to  the  North  American  Review,  the  New  York  Review,  and 
other  home  journals.  As  in  the  case  of  James  Montgomery,  Thomas 
Aird,  and  others,  in  the  old  country,  this  devotement  to  newspaper 
partisanship  is  held  a  thousand  pities  by  most  who  pay  homage  to  his 
muse. 

materials.  The  collection  of  books  is  not  large,  but  widely  various ;  Mr.  Bryant's 
tastes  and  pursuits  leading  him  through  the  entire  range  of  literature,  from  the 
Fathers  to  SheUey,  and  from  Courier  to  Jean  Paul.  In  German,  French,  and 
Spanish,  he  is  a  proficient,  and  Italian  he  reads  with  ease;  so  all  these  languages 
are  well  represented  in  the  library.  He  turns  naturally  from  the  driest  treatise 
on  politics  or  political  economy,  to  the  wildest  romance  or  the  most  tender  poem 
— Chappy  in  a  power  of  eigoying  all  that  genius  has  created  or  industry  achieved 
in  literature." 


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(    312    ) 


THE  FRENCH  ALMANACKS  FOR  1854. 

^^Educationj  ameUoratioriy  progre^* — such  is  the  motto  of  the  French 
ALnanacks  for  1854,  which  reflect,  we  hardly  dare  say  how  hxaily,  the 
q>irits  which  they  invoke.  Astrology,  prophecy,  devilry,  and  magic, 
with  frivoHties  of  ultra-Gallican  insigmficance,  are  still  the  order  of  the 
day  ;  and  to  these  are  added,  tms  year,  table-tmning,  hat-tumiog, 
and  man-moving,  concerning  which  phenomena  our  lively  nei^^iboiirs 
appear  to  entertain  ideas  indicative  of  anything  hut  progress  in  a  sound 
and  inductive  philosophy. 

Literature,  to  judfi^e  from  M.  Jules  Janin's  annual  exposition,  has 
received  but  slender  additions.  '^  Like  Homer,"  says  the  spvrUuelfemUe" 
tomsty  *^  who,  according  to  Horace,  goes  sometunes  to  sleep,  so  also 
French  wit  is  found  to  be  occasionally  somnolent."  Exceptions  are  per^ 
haps  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  M.  Eugene  Pelletan,  entitled  "  The 
Profession  of  Faith  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,"  said  to  be  a  marvel  of 
piety,  poet^,  and  philosophy ;  in  the  ^'  Histoire  de  Madame  de  Longue- 
ville,**  by  Victor  Cousin,  an  episode  of  the  Fronde,  related  in  die  most 
spirited  manner ;  in  Aug^uste  Thierry's  '^  Elssai  sur  Thistoire  de  la  forma- 
tion et  du  progr^s  du  tiers  ^tat  en  France ;''  Theophile  Gauthier's 
"Voyage  en  Orient;"  Gerard  de  Nerval's  "Chateaux  de  Bch^me;^* 
Eugene  Sue's  "  Gilbert  et  Gilberte ;"  Maxime  Ducamp's  '*  Livre  Post- 
hume ;"  Alexis  Blondel's  "  rinimitable  Falambelle ;"  and  lastly,  in 
Madame  Emile  de  Girardin's  '^  Marguerite,  ou  les  Deux  Amours."  Amid 
such  poverty  of  national  literature,  ^'  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  had  a  succes 
de/ureur*  Janin  cleverly  designates  Uncle  Tom  as  the  modern  F^c- 
tetus,  whose  earthen  lamp,  we  may  add,  arohsBologists  have  as  yet  fieuled 
to  recover.  Of  Mrs.  Stowe  he  says,  if  France  faued  in  imitation  of  the 
English  to  prostrate  itself  at  her  foet,  it  is  because  it  is  not  the  custom 
in  France  to  admire  persons  who  write,  so  much  as  a  performer  on  the 
piano,  or  a  travelling  opera-dancer.  This  is  also  the  case  in  England, 
M.  Janin* 

One  or  two  tales  are  also  noticed,  so  brief  in  their  narration  that  they 
might  be  read  between  courses,  the  "  Vase  Etrusque,"  and  "  I'EnfiEUit 
Maudit ;"  which  are  yet  siud  to  have  created  such  a  sensation  as  that  the 
dates  of  their  publication  have  become  literary  events ;  and  Eiaenne 
Bequet,  since  dead,  is  declared  to  have  earned  immortality  by  a  story  o£ 
only  four  pages  in  length,  called  "  Le  Mouchoir  Bleu.**  Nor  must  we 
oimt  to  mention  that  a  young  man  with  a  great  name,  M.  Albert  de 
^^..^-^roglie,  has  thrown  himself  into  the  breach  now  so  long  open,  in  defence 
of  antiquity,  and  has  joined  himself  to  the  Villemains,  Remusats,  and 
Cousins  of  the  day,  in  opposing  the  repeated  onslaughts  of  a  corrupt 
and  narrow  bigotiy,  as  represented  by  the  Abb6  Gaume  and  his  fiu- 
lowers. 

Apart  from  these  literary  passes,  repubUcationhas,  as  with  us,  assumed 
formidable  proportions  in  France,  to  the  serious  injury  of  the  literature 
of  the  day.  Janin,  however,  applauds  the  system,  which  certdlnly  has  its 
advantages.  "  This  reproduction,  or  rather  resurrection,"  he  says,  "  of 
so  many  beautiful  works,  which  were  the  spoilt  children  of  our  youth,  is  a 
happy  symptom  full  of  hope.     It  gives  courage,  and  it  is  worthy  of  giving 


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The  French  Almanacks  Jbr  1854.  313 

ocNiiage  to  new  ^Sarta*  It  is  IbU  of  coiia<^mdoii  for  honest  and  ^  well-cotf 
pens :  it  resembles  life,  g^ofy,  and  fortone."  The  pcHnt  <^  the  last  ^- 
gxammatic  sentence  is  not  very  dear.  It  rfflninds  ns  of  an  iUustratioii 
of  the  learned  discussions  on  table-turning  in  one  of  the  almanacks — a 
yawning  gul^  dark  as  Erebus,  leading  only  to  darkness  still  more  intense 
^HAothmg  could  illustrate  more  emphaticEdly  ihe  exceeding  obscurity  of 
ibe  subject 

The  ^^  Repertoire  du  Th^itre"  has  been  far  more  prolific  ihsai  that  of 
pnUicadons.  At  least  300  new  pieces  have  been  brought  before  the 
public  ;  auKHig  &e  most  remarkable  of  which  were  "  Le  Coeur  et  la 
Dd,"  by  M.  Fdicien  Mall^iUe,  and  "Lady  Tartuffe,"  by  Madame 
Emile  de  C^rardin,  both  produced  at  the  Th6^e  Fran9ais.  The  first  is 
a  comedy  of  the  most  legitimate  description,  the  scene  of  which  is  placed 
at  Vichy ;  the  second  is  a  bit  of  spite,  a  repidstve  idea  carried  tlm>ugh  * 
by  dint  of  combined  skill  and  audacity.  The  great  scuxsess  of  the  year 
hias^  however,  be^i  achieved  by  M.  Ponsard,  in  his  comedy  called 
^L'fik>nneur  et  T Argent."  This  successful  piece  was  refused  by  the 
Th^tre  Frangass,  ai^  accepted  without  reading  at  the  Od6on.  Then 
there  were  lots  of  small  thii^,  among  which,  ^  Jean  le  Cocher,"  the 
**  Lundis  de  Madame,"  the  "  Souvenirs  de  Voyage,"  the  "  Tante  Ursule," 
the  ^*  Loup  dans  la  B^rgerie,"  were  the  most  applauded.  None,  how- 
ever, equalled  in  success  the  "  Filles  de  Marbre,"  which,  when  we  say 
diat  it  is  universally  admitted  to  be  twin-sister  to  the  "Dame  anx 
Cam^lias"  of  last  year,  we  give  a  sufficient  idea  of  its  tendencies  and 
character.  The  "marble  fair^'  being,  however,  at  once  heartless  and 
rapacious,  they  ai?e,  in  reality,  the  opposite  of  the  &ir  one  with  the 
camelias,  but  still  the  social  circle  in  which  both  move  being  the  same, 
they  Mly  authorise  Jules  Janin's  exclamation,  "  Is  it  possible,  just 
Heavai,  that  the  Tarpeian  Rock  shall  always  be  so  near  to  ^e  Ci^tol ! 
'  A  woman,  an  asp  !  a  worm,  a  god !'  said  Pascal."  It  only  remains  to 
add,  that  the  dramatic  success  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  cut  ^ort  the 
career  of  m£my  a  piece  which  otherwise  might  have  had  a  ftar  run  ;  wit- 
ness ihe  "  Lys  dans  la  Valine,"  and  the  resuscitation  of  Prudhomme — 
like  Paturot,  the  acknowledged  representative  of  the  bourgeois — the 
bliiid,  &t,  national  guard,  victimised  by  boys  and  troc^ers,  by  the 
"  marble  feur,"  and  by  his  own  wife,  and  uien  laughed  at  by  the  pid>lic. 

In  connexion  with  a  more  general  progress,  of  all  the  marvels  of  the 
past  year,  after  table-turning,  the  one  which  appears  to  have  created  the 
greatest  sensation  is  the  propagation  of  fish,  or  pisciculture  as  they 
designate  it  on  the  Continent.  The  said  fat  of  pisciculture  was  well 
known  to  the  Romans,  and  has  been  practised  fixnn  time  immemorial 
by  the  Chinese.'"'  Messrs.  Van  Voorst  published  a  treatise  on  the 
subject  in  this  country  years  ago  ;  and  we  know  a  gentleman  who  under- 
takes for  tai  pounds  sterling  to  stock  a  pond  wi&  choice  fish  within  a 
giy^i  time.  &t  the  secret  was  apparently  new  to  the  French,  and 
therefore  a  discovery.  A  poor  fisherman  of  Bresse  had  found  time  to 
alternate  hours  devoted  to  the  capture  of  fish,  to  studies  relative  to  the 
mode  of  propagation  of  the  same.  After  prolonged  observations,  and 
many  fiulures,  he  succeeded  in  discoveriog  the  secret  of  artificial  propa- 
gation, and  he  laid  the  result  of  his  researches  before  government,  ofPer- 

*  Spallanzani  and  De  Golstein  have  written  on  the  artificial  incubation  of  fish. 

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3 14  The  French  Almanacks  for  1854. 

ing  not  only  to  replenish  the  exhausted  stock  of  rivers  and  lakes,  hut  also 
to  introduce  more  particularly  into  them  the  rare  and  most  esteemed 
descriptions  of  &esh-water  fish.  Government,  as  is  customary  in  France, 
shrugged  its  shoulders — in  this  country  it  would  have  pooh-poohed  the 
project — till  the  suhject  having  heen  mooted  in  public  and  attracted 
attention,  a  commission  of  inquiry  was  instituted.  The  result  vfas  pro- 
pitious. Thirty  thousand  francs  were  voted  for  a  model  pond  at 
Huningue,  and  it  is  said  that  there  are  now  nearly  a  hundred  piscicultural 
establishments  in  France.  The  joy  of  the  Parisians  at  the  prospects 
held  out  to  them  of  a  glut  of  matelotes  is  boundless.  Their  imaginations 
soar  far  beyond  the  more  common  kinds  ;  they  aspire  to  filling  the 
Seine  with  trout,  salmon,  and  sturgeon.  A  professor  of  the  Grarden  of 
France  repaired  to  Prussia  in  search  of  living  specimens  of  a  fish  much 
esteemed  in  that  country  ;  unfortunately,  they  all  perished  in  the  ponds 
of  Versailles — possibly  they  degeneratcKl  into  another  species,  as  the 
roach  becomes  a  rudd  in  tidal  and  other  ponds.  Thousands  of  little 
trouts  and  salmon  have  been  cast  into  the  Rhone  from  the  reservoirs  at 
Huningue ;  had  thev  been  thrown  into  the  Thames,  they  would  have 
been  devoured  as  whitebait.  The  Parisians  glorify  themselves  no^  only 
in  anticipation  of  a  glut  of  fresh- water  fish,  but  also  in  the  £Eu;t  that  they 
alone  know  how  to  cook  the  same.  "  The  Frenchman,"  writes  one  con- 
tributor, "  clever  by  nature,  created  the  matelote  !  And  he  did  not  stop 
even  at  this  splendid  creation  ;  he  suggested  that  turbot  should  be  eat 
with  capers,  and  pike  should  be  disguised — brocket  au  bleu,  Colbert — 
the  great  Colbert  himself — did  not  consider  it  beneath  his  genius  to 
invent  a  new  method  of  dressing  soles,  let  it  be  said  to  his  eternal 
honour !" 

The  art  of  directing  balloons — which  was  to  attun  perfection  each 
succeeding  year,  according  to  the  prophecies  we  have  recorded  for  years 
past — ^bas  made  no  progress.  A  M.  Henri  Giffard  made  an  experi- 
mental ascent  from  the  Hippodrome  on  the  24th  of  September,  1852, 
in  a  machine,  from  which,  as  usual,  marvellous  results  were  anticipated, 
but,  as  usual  also,  nothing  resulted.  The  progress  of  aerial  navigation 
will  receive  a  further  blow  by  the  establishment  of  stationary  balloons  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  where  piscicultural  reservoirs  are  also  to  be  exca- 
vated, and  other  sources  of  recreation  are  to  be  founded  under  imperial 
patronage. 

A  M.  Jussienne  having  invented  a  machine,  not  larger  than  a  man's 
hat,  which  by  means  of  compressed  air  can  be  made  to  draw  a  chariot 
with  two  persons  in  it,  horses  we  are  told  are  to  be  suppressed.  Eveiy 
one  will  have  his  carriage  in  his  house,  and  his  locomotive  in  hia  pocket 
Every  workman  vfdU  have  in  his  workshop  a  little  machine  that  will 
spare  him  the  use  of  his  arms.  The  Messrs.  Barrat  have,  it  is  said  also,  in- 
vented a  machine,  which,  by  means  of  steam,  will  plough  the  land  as  quickly 
as  a  steam-boat  ploughs  the  ocean.  Others  have  invented  machines  for 
mowing,  hoein?,  cutting,  thrashing,  &c.,  &c.  Wonderful  France^  it  can 
dispense  vnth  me  more  numble  inventions  of  its  neighbours  ;  everything 
there  is  an  ori^nal  creation  ! 

Add  to  thi^  the  French  have  discovered  during  the  past  year  a  new 
rat-trap,  and  a  new  method  of  getting  rid  of  flies ;  they  have,  however, 
Heen  much  terrified  by  mad  dogs,  but  have  discovered  no  core ;  and  ex- 

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The  French  Almanacks  for  1854.  315 

perienced  serious  pecimiaiy  losses  by  disease  in  the  grape  (Oidium 
Tuckert)y  and  have  as  yet  found  no  remedy,  but  flowers  of  sidphur  blown 
on  the  grape  in  the  shape  of  a  fine  powder  by  means  of  a  pair  of  bellows, 
or  used  in  solution  with  any  common  watering  apparatus. 

A  new  application  of  the  electric  fluid  has  also  been  discovered  for  the 
detection  of  house-breakers.  To  do  this  it  is  made  to  ring  certain  bells, 
and  if  well  paid  for,  can  even  be  made  to  play  tunes,  agreeable  to  all 
except  to  burglars.  It  will  also  indicate  by  a  telegraphic  apparatus 
where  the  thief  is  hidden,  whether  in  a  cupboard  or  a  butter-pot.  How 
all  these  wonderful  results  are  to  be  arrived  at  we  are  not  told,  for  the 
secret  is  in  the  hands  of  a  company  called  La  Vedette,  who  only  want 
2,000,000  francs  to  bring  it  into  general  use.  The  shares  are  issued  at  200 
francs,  but  may  be  paid  up  by  instalments  of  twenty-five  francs  a  month ; 
and  if  you  can  prove  that  you  are  the  father  of  a  family,  an  artist,  or  a 
literary  man,  you  will  be  let  off  for  fifteen  francs  every  three  months. 
Rumours  of  robberies  have  alarmed  the  timid  very  frequently  since  the 
company  have  issued  their  prospectus,  and  caused  a  great  aemand  for 
shares. 

The  marvels  of  table-turning  have,  however,  surpassed  all  others. 
The  Parisians  have  from  all  times  been  partial  to  phenomena  of  all  kinds 
and  descriptions.  This  they  tell  us  was  introduced  from  Bremen,  and 
excited  at  once  the  greatest  enthusiasm.  To  every  card  of  invitation 
was  added  :  "  The  tables  vdll  be  made  to  dance,  and  hats  to  turn."  And 
a  peculiar  aptitude  in  the  art  was  essential  to  social  distinction.  The 
success  met  with  was  proportionate  to  the  enthusiasm  created.  A  M. 
Mangolfier  caused  hats  to  turn,  simply  by  ordering  them  to  do  so — 
without  any  apposition  of  hands.  The  same  experiment  was,  it  is  said, 
tried  with  success  upon  a  table.  M.  Sequin  wrote  to  the  Academy  that 
he  had  seen  a  table  raise  one  or  two  legs  to  the  sound  of  a  piano,  and 
beat  time.  M.  Yauquelin  de  Mortagne  assured  the  same  learned  body 
that,  in  his  hands,  the  tables  imderstood  French,  and  answered  questions. 
The  Academy  smiled;  the  Academy  does  not  laugh.  The  Academy 
declared  that  the  whole  of  the  phenomena  depended  upon  insensible  and 
involuntary  impulsions  communicated  by  the  experimenters  to  the  objects 
experimented  upon.  Paris  rejected  the  explanation  tendered  by  the 
sayans,  and  declared  unanimously  that  there  was  an  utter  discrepancy 
between  the  magnitude  of  the  presumed  cause  and  the  intensity  of  the 
effects  produced.  Archaeologists  declared  that  the  phenomena  were 
known  to  TertuUian,  and  had  been  from  time  immemorial  practised  by 
the  gymnosophists  of  India.  The  possibility  of  moving  objects  without 
touching  them  was,  at  the  same  time,  attested  by  a  whole  army  of  news- 
paper correspondents.  Some  of  the  most  curious  among  these  contri- 
butions to  modem  magic  are  given  in  the  Almanack  PropkeHque, 

The  first  experiments  in  human  rotation  were  made  at  Aranjuez,  in 
Spain.  The  experiment  was  soon  repeated  in  France,  and  one  of  the 
most  determined  sceptics  was,  by  his  own  avowal,  made  to  turn  round  and 
round  and  back  again  in  whatsoever  direction  he  was  ordered !  A  boy 
at  Prague  has  turned  every  morning  since  being  first  experimented  upon. 
German  physicians  say  he  is  affected  with  the  VeitstanZy  or  St.  Vitus's 
dance.  We  wonder  it  has  not  struck  our  lively  neighbours  that  the 
dancing  dervishes  pass,  after  the  lapse  of  a  short  time,  under  the  influence 

Nov. — VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  cccxcv.  T 

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3L6  The  Fnuck  Jhmmutkifsr  1864. 


o£  aame  impolae  o£  an  analogoos  ckaraoter.  Tlie-AmFergnati,  the  wirto^. 
QMBiera  o£  Pari%  wsserfDund  ta  alKMind  m  ai  flni  o£  a  difftrcnt  desenp- 
tian,  and  esaantial  to  the*  sncceaa  of  the  expeaimeii<L  Tbnr  ssobtjr  ww 
sought  for,  cultiyated^  pmchaaed  at  a  high  rate  r  the-  Ao'vragiiats  reaped^ 
a.  splendid  hardest  by-  the  new  mattia^  Heads  were*  turned,  as  wett  as 
taUes,  and  it  became  a  rnatt^  o£  serious  coosidecataon  ii«4edier  esUw 
had  souk os  not.  Tables  were  consulted  inobseuse  medical  eases— the n^ 
piagemade  themselves  heavd  to  some  people  ul  tiio  silenoe  and  daikiNssof 
ni^^  to-  their  very  great  diaeemfikuie.  A  chembt,  yaiik  ymj  litde 
businees^  dedaced  tnat  he  had  got  firom  Ninon  de  TEndos  herself  th^ 
seeret  of  pefpetueting  the  chaxms  of  joadu  The  prodigious  sale  of  fair 
okitmeirt  emboldened  other  specultEdnrs  to  search  mto  th»  secrete  of  aor 
ti^putj.  The  poisons  used  hj  Agrippina,  Tophani%  and  BrinviUfien,  are 
said  to  be  no  longer  secrete  We  nope  antiquity  will  be*  consulted  for 
seesets  of  a  more  agreeable  and  useful  dbaraoter,  or  he  wbo  ezplakia^tb 
rafpittga  ma j  be  made  answerabk  fer  the  rosidts.  It  is  one  tlnng  tO'  flay, 
<at  is  Peter  t^  Great  who  raps !"  The  diadeof  F^terdie  Gveatnu^be 
rec^iyed  with  due  respect.  But  it  is  quite  another  thing  to  say,  ^'  Toor 
husband  may  be  sent  to  the  shades  by  a  dose  of  the  ^  succession  powder.' " 
The  tables  may  thus  be  made  to  revive  the  Choanhre  Ardente,  Meantlne^ 
M.  Tazile  Delord  treats  us.  to  an  innoenoua  and  amusii^  history  of  s 
Chapeau  toumanty  wludi,  after  being  claimed  by  a.  distinguished  aetress, 
con^ibutiBg*  to  an  elopement,  travelling  with,  the  celebrated  palet6t  of 
Mensch&off,,  winning  the  golden  favours  of  a  Sir  John  Turdest^i 
causing  an  insucreoidon  in  Todbuse,  and  decorating  the  head  of  a  hag^ 
man^  was  smashed  by  a  dbappotnted  PortHre  for  misinfiofrming  to  on 
the  ddicate  subject  o£  a  lucky  lattery-number  upon  whidi  she  had  lisiMd 
her  little  all.. 

The  Parisians  are  more  susceptible'  on  the  point  of  cnlinaiy  inveotioiis 
than  upon  thoc(&  of  sueh  minor  importance  as  pibughing  and  thradui^ 
machii^ss^  and  other  insignificant  aids  to  human  industry.  An  audur 
complains  aa  follows : 

I  went  yesterday  to  V^fours. 

"Gar9on?" 

«  Sir." 

"  AJilet  tram  a  la  Scribe:' 

"  Don't  know  it." 

I  adjourned  to  Vary's. 

«  Gar^on  ?" 

•'  Sir." 

•*  A  kidney  a  la  sauce^HalevyJ^ 

"  No  such  a  thing  in  the  carte.'* 

I  hastened  away  to  the  Frferes  Provenyaux. 

*'Gar(?on?*' 

*'  Sir." 

"  A  croiistade  Shakspearienne:^ 

"  We  do  not  make  any." 

Same  answer  at  Chevet^s  for  cutlets  a  la  purie  Lahlache,  It  is  with  tue 
deepest  concern,  the  most  bitter  humiliation,  that  I  make  known  these  facts  to 
my  countrymen. 

The  English  have  just  invented  one  after  the  other  four  new  dishes.  The 
fUt  braise  a  la  Scribe ;  Rognon  d  la  sattce^HalSvy ;  cotelettes  a  la  puree  La- 
hlacJie ;  and  croustade  Shakspearienne*  \ 


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2%e  FtetychAlmaaacUfwp  1854.  317 

Afid  thestt  fouB  dish^  ace  afi  yet  luikoowD  ia  Puis,  No  one  ba&  thr^ig^  q£ 
importing  tbem. 

Tliere  is,  then,  no  more  culinary  art  in  France. 

'Riese  ftmr  dishes  sttfficientfy  attest  the  feet.  "WouH  the  English  ataay 
other  time  have  thought  of  inventing,  I  will  not  say  a  filet,  a  eotelette,  a  ptir6e, 
a  rog9aii,«a  crouatade,a  sauce»  hut  evea  a  simple  gravy  ? 

The  English  ate,  but  they  did  not  dine.  The  Sixon  roast  beef,  the  Scandk^ 
navian  pluDappuddinn^  constituted  the.  basis  of  tiie  antique  cookery  of  En^nd. 
They  had  never  soared  beyond  these  dishes  from  the  time  of  Edward  the  Cod*^ 
fessor,  and  now  they  invent  Shakspearian  custacd&I 

I  expect  soon  tolhear  that  they  nave  given  a  banquet,  in  which  figujred  4^00 
^Us  Byr omens  and  2000  ^foges  Waitev  Scottiens. 

And  in  fece  of  such  progress  we  remain  statiouary<.  For  now  n^  ten  years 
French,  cookery  is  in  a  state  of  atrophy ;  the  French  oooks  invent  nothing 

I  shall,  perhaps,  be  answered  by  an  appeal  to  the  cotskttes  a  la  purie 
(Tananas  du  gouvernement  provisoire^  That  dish,  it  is  now  known,  is  puftly 
apocryphal,  it  has  never  existed,  it  is  utterly  impossible  ;  it  is  as  fabulous  as 
the  unicorn,  the  plicenix,  the  roc,  the  white  thrush,  and  the  seal  that  said 
*'  Papa.'*  **  Mamma." 

And  yet  in  what  consists- our  supremacy  over  other  nations: ?  In  the  first 
place  in  tragedies,  in  the  second  in  dishes;  all  the  tragedians  and  all  the  cooks, 
who  spread  themselves  over  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  are  Freneh..  The 
tmgpdy  remains  for  us,  but  cookery  is  gone. 

I  would  rather  that  it  should  liave  been  tragedy. 

As,  to  what  concerns  illustjrated  dishes,  we  are  still  at  our  coteletteS'Sottbise, 
our  hifiecks- Chateaubriand,  and  our  poulet-Marengo.  We  have  no  eravr' 
stade  Byronienne, 

Cooks  of  France,,your  honour,  and  the  glory  of  France  are  concerned :  reply 
to  this  croustade  by  a  Charlotte  Cornelienne,  which  shall  make  perfidious 
Albion  gixiwpale  with  jealousy*  Cooks  of  France,  not  one  of  yon  tell  upon 
his  sword  on  learning  that  the  English  had  conceived  four  new  dishes. 

Do  you  wish  that  your  indifierence  should  be  pardoned?  Invoke  Vatel, 
invoke  Car^me,  study  Brillat-SavaTin,and  produce  a  new  chef'^CBiwre  or  blow 
your  brains  out. 

If  the  least  particle  of  spirit  remains  in  you,  you  have  no  other  alternative. 

If  the  cooks  have  been  wanting  during  the  past  yeai:,  the  confectioners, 
anotliear  ofmtnbntov  informs  us,  have  been  tnuraphant.  They  have  sent 
forth  five  new  cakes,  whose  birth  vraa  saUited  by  a  hundred  trumpets 
of  renowni  The  gitemt  des  tvois  Jreres  is  due  to  the  united  labours  of 
the  hrothers  Julien,  who,  however,  are  only  two  in  pumber.  Le  Cussy 
is  so  called  because  it  is  manufactured  by  Bourbonnehx,  Place  du  Havre. 
La  Matkilde  owns  for  father,  Sinot,  pastrycook  in  the  Rue  St.  Honor6. 
La  Pen&ee.  is  indebted  for  its  name  to  being  sold  in  a  hox^  and  Le.  Sokil 
wa^  so  baptiaed  for  reasons  unknown  to  us. 

Each  of  these  eaieefi  is  the  most  delicious  thing  ever  produced  by  ^ 
art  of  confectionary.  It  is  satisfactory  to  hear  that  they  do  not  devour  one 
another.  They  improve,  like  Madeira,  by  long  journeys.  Formerly 
cakes,  and  notoriously  buns,  were  no  longer  esteemed  when  stale;  so  par- 
ticular were  some  that  they  would  ask  for  the  buns  of  to-morrow;  but  now 
everything  is  manufactured  pour  les  voyages  de  long  cours,  comprising 
Havre  and  Dieppe. 

Father  Aymes,  inventor  and  propagator  of  the  Bazaar  Proven9al,  con- 
tinmes^  to  adv^eiiise^hss  tunny  pies,  the  crust  of  which  melts  like  a  flake  ot 
snow  in  the  sun ;  but  he  has  met  with  a  rival  in  certain  PMs  de  Chasse 

T  2 

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318  The  French  Almanacks  for  1854. 

de  Careme^  which  are  said  to  enclose  wells  of  jelly  and  boneless  turkeys 
still  palpitating ! 

The  reports  of  the  courts  of  correctional  police  continue  to  furnish  life- 
like sketcnes  of  the  lower  orders : 

Peter  and  Martin  were  seated  in  an  inn  drinking  white  wine.  **  When  I 
drink/'  said  Martin,  "  it  gives  me  an  inclination  to  eat" 

Peter.  "  And  when  you  eat  it  gives  you,  I  suppose,  an  inclination  to 
drink." 

Martin.  "  Precisely  so ;  what  do  you  say  if  we  should  eat  a  bit  ?" 

Peter.  **  I  have  no  objection.     What  shall  we  have  ?" 

Martin.  "  Sausages  by  all  means ;  I  dote  upon  them." 

Peter.  "  Sausages  ?     Well,  they  are  not  bad ;  but  they  fill  too  much."* 

Martin.  '*  Sausages  fill  one !  What  a  joke.  Why  I  could  eat  a  dozen  with- 
out drinking  a  glass  of  wine." 

Peter.  *?  I  bet  you  you  could  do  no  such  thing." 

Martin.  "  I  bet  you  I  could." 

The  bet  was  taken  ;  each  put  down  two  francs,  and  twelve  sausages  were 
ordered.  Martin  was  like  a  horse  champing  its  bit,  and  kept  hurrying  tbe 
cook.     At  last  the  sausages  came,  and  Martin  seized  a  fork. 

"  Are  you  ready,"  he  exclaimed.    "  Shall  I  begin  ?" 

"  Go  on,"  replied  the  other. 

Martin  attacked  the  sausages.  The  first  went  down,  the  second  followed, 
the  third  a  little  more  slowly,  the  fourth  with  visible  delay,  at  the  fifth  he  be- 
came as  red  as  a  cock,  nevertheless  he  swallowed  the  sixth,  but  only  by  great 
efforts. 

"  It  won't  do,"  said  Peter ;  "  I  shall  get  the  forty  sous." 

Martin,  annoyed,  made  another  attempt.  He  grappled  with  the  seventli 
sausage,  but  his  breath  failing  him  half-way,  he  rose  nastily,  ran  to  the  pump, 
filled  his  glass  with  water,  (bank  it  ofl^,  and  returned  to  finish  ofi^  his  seventh 
sausage  at  his  ease. 

"  You  need  not  stuff  yourself  any  more,"  said  Peter ;  "  you  have  lost." 

"How  lost?" 

"You  have  drunk!" 

"What  did  I  bet?" 

"  You  bet  that  you  would  eat  twelve  sausages  without  drinking!" 

"  A  glass  of  wine  I — ^without  drinking  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  That  means  without  drinking.  We  did  not  speak  of  water,  because  we 
never  drink  any ;  but  that  was  understood." 

"  Not  at  all;  we  said  without  drinking  wine,  therefore  I  had  a  right  to  drink 
water." 

The  discussion  grew  animated,  and  from  words  came  to  blows^  when  Martin 
succeeded  in  planting  such  a  vigorous  argument  on  his  friend's  eye,  that  it  re- 
mained yellow  and  painful  for  a  week  afterwards. 

He  was  accordingly  summoned  on  the  complaint  of  Peter,  and  he  attempted 
to  explain  away  the  misadventure  as  he  had  his  bet.  The  court,  however,  con- 
demned the  truculent  sausage-eater  to  a  fine  of  thirty  francs. 

Imagine  yourself  Madame  Margot,  and  suppose  some  one  called  you 
"  an  old  buffet,"  what  would  you  say  ?  You  would  say  nothing,  if  a  lady, 
for  such  an  injurious  epithet  dries  up  the  mouth  in  womankind^  and  not 
being  able  to  express  your  feelings,  you  would  do  like  her — ^you  would  bite 
Monsieur  Pitache.  Hence  it  came  that  M.  Pitache  appeared  to  depose 
to  personal  injuries  inflicted  on  him  by  Madame  Margot 

President.  "  Plaintiff,  you  have  been  bitten  by  Madame  Mai^ot,  but  you 
provoked  her  by  insults  T^ 
Pitache.  "  She  insulted  me  grossly.    I  only  retorted.** 


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The  French  Almanacks  for  1854.  319 

Madame  Margot.  **  Did  he  not  call  me  a  piece  of  old  furniture  ?" 

PiTACHE.  "  To  be  sure  he  did." 

Madame  Margot.  *'  He  called  me  an  old  buffet.** 

PiTACHE.  "  If  I  said  so,  I  was  justified." 

Madame  Maboot.  "  He  picked  up  some  dung  to  throw  at  me." 

PiTACHE.  "  Bah !  it  was  for  inv  chilblains.  Do  you  think  I  would  pick  up 
good  manure  to  throw  at  you.     You  are  not  wanting  in  conceit  at  all  events. 

Madame  Margot.  "  And  he  beat  me  like  a  lump  of  butter." 

President.  "  But  come,  defendant,  did  you  not  bite  him?* 

Madame  Margot.  "  It  was  only  when  he  had  agonised  me." 

President.  "  Plaintiff,  you  ask  for  damages?" 

PiTACHE.  "  I  demand  that  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  be  paid  to  my  widow 
during  her  life." 

Madame  Margot.  '*  Twelve  hundred  francs !  Does  he  think  people  make 
money  as  easily  as  he  does  ?" 

President.  "  Twelve  hundred  francs  is  a  serious  demand." 

PiTACHE.  **  She  bit  me,  and  if  I  die  mad !  The  dread  of  such  a  catastrophe 
extends  to  the  very  end  of  my  nose." 

Madame  Margot.  "  What  an  infamous  calumny !  I  have  bitten  my  hus- 
band twenty,  nay,  a  hundred  times,  and  he  drinks  like  a  sponge — like  you,  you 
drunkard !  I  drive  you  mad !  Oh !  if  Charles  was  only  here !" 

Madame  Margot  was  condemned  to  pay  a  fine  of  sixteen  francs. 

And  now  for  two  silhouettes  of  the  Parisian  vagabond. 

Legrand  is  a  child  of  Paris,  one  of  the  cast-offs  of  the  dust-heap  and  the 
gutter,  pale  and  haggard,  with  hollow  eyes,  that  have  never  known  youth  or 
joy,  for  they  have  never  looked  upon  mother  or  friendly  relative. 

President.  "  Your  pursuit  ?" 

Accused.  "  Manufacturer  of  copper  instruments,  so  says  my  livret,  but  I 
don't  believe  it." 

President.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Accused.  "  That  I  don't  work  ja  m*embete,** 

President.  "  How  old  are  you  ?" 

Accused.  **  Seventeen  years,  nine  months,  and  three  days." 

President.  "  How  then  do  you  gain  your  livelihood  ?" 

Accused.  "  I  do  nothing.    Sometimes  I  pretend  to  cMffoner*^  (gather  up 

President.  "  Without  permission.     That  is  illegal." 

Accused.  "  Good!  had  I  known  that.  I  would  have  gone  into  the  hand- 
kerchief line.  If  every  branch  of  industry  is  illegal,  one  cannot  be  much  worse 
than  another." 

President.  "  Is  there  no  one  here  to  speak  for  you  ?" 

Accused.  "Oh  dear  me  no!  so  do  not  put  yourself  to  any  trouble; 
serve  it  up  like  little  onions !" 

The  court  condemned  the  outcast  to  three  months*  imprisonment  for  va- 
grancy. 

The  next  was  a  great  fellow,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  vdth  a  grey 
beard,  and  a  genendly  repulsive  aspect. 

**  You  are  charged,"  said  the  president,  **  with  having  been  found,  on  the 
28th  of  December,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  laying  in  a  shed  on  the 
Boulevard  Beaumarchais." 

Accused.  "  It  was  ten  minutes  past  four,  if  you  will  excuse  me." 

President.  "  The  police-sheet  says  half-past  three." 

Accused.  "Well,  I  only  know  it  was  half-past  four  by  my  chrono- 
meter." 

President.  **  By  your  chronometer  ?" 

Accused.  "  A  manner  of  speaking.  I  mean  the  clock  at  the  police- 
station." 

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320  Tite  Frenth  Atmtxnaeks  f&r  1854. 

President.  '*  What  were  you  doingtrtsnch  an  honr,  in  sndia  jfeceT 
Accused.  "  I  was  going  to  fetch  my  wife  at  Montronge.'^ 
Pees  I  DENT.  "  You  were  sleeping." 

Accused.    *'  That  is  a  calumny ;  one  does  not  sleep  v^en  one  is  mar- 
ried." 

President.  "When  you  were  taken    np,  yon  stated  that  you  "bad  no 


Accused.  **I  live  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli." 

President.  "  What  number  ?*• 

Accused.  "  Oh,  the  house  has  tumbled  down." 

President.  "  I  understand.  Ton  skep  in  the  houses  that  are  being 
iiewTy 'built." 

Accused.  "  Well,  I  air  the  plaster.  That  is  an  act  of  consideration  on 
wy  part." 

President.  "  Is  that  your  only  profession  ?" 

Accused.  "  One  must  do  what  one  can."^ 

TThe  accused  was  condemned  to  two  months' Tmprisotnneiit. 

The  hiatory  of  Major  Jean  Daniel- Abraham  Davel,  £>rmeilj  milkaiy 
ocmuaaandant  of  the  department  of  Vaux,  canton  of  Vaud*  in  SwitgeHamii, 
is  remarkable  as  an  example  of  the  chvralrous  fdelio^  of  oUen  tiae 
brought  down  to  nearly  our  own  days,  and  still  mere  so  as  a  iwre  ex- 
ample of  that  exoeeduDg  faith  whidi  is  the  first  of  tdneolo^oal  Tirtoes  or 
.graces,  hut  which,  when  undirected  by  adequate  inteUeotual  and  reafianing 
£EU»iltie8,  too  ofben  superadds  to  its  legitimate  tdevelopmeaito  of  lfli?e, 
trust,  worship,  obedience,  and  resigiifttiou,  a  proneness  to  simeradtioa, 
which  is  carried  even  into  matters  of  almost  ridiculous  insigTiifieaDoe. 

Davel  was  the  son  of  a  Protestant  minister  in  the  parish  of  Morrens,  in  the 
Jorat,  and  he  received  a  purely  religious  education^  not  at -all  tending  to  unfold 
his  future  career.  Having,  however,  lost  his  Either  at  an  early  age,  he  decided 
for  a  military  life,  and  went  with  his  mother  to  reside  in  the  steep  ftcaet  called 
La  Mercerie,  at  Lausanne,  till  be  was  old  enough  to  enter  the  service.  A  mar- 
vellous incident  happened  to  him  at  this  period  of  his  life,  of  which  he  has  left 
an  account  tn  his  owd  words.  '* 

One  day  a  house  near  the  cathedral  caught  fire;  he,  being  a  little  boy,  was 
locked  up  while  his  friends  went  to  give  what  help  they  coukL  Thmking 
that  the  church  was  in  danger,  he  resolved  to  go  also,  and  help  m  extinguishing 
the  flames^  but  being  unable  to  get  out  by  the  door,  he  was  obliged  to  juiap 
out  of  the  window,  which  stood  at  a  considerable  elevation,  and  that  without 
considering  what  might  be  the  results  of  his  imprudence.  Luckily  that  Provi- 
dence was  there  to  protect  him.  Instead  of  falling  perpendicularly,  he  was 
carried  as  it  were  away,  lifted  for  a  distance  often  or  twelve  paoes  hi^er  up 
the  Bteep  ascent  of  the  street,  and  thus  brought  down  without  the  slightest 
injury.  A  servant  who  was  coming  back  after  the  fire  had  been  put  out,  was 
filled  with  astonishment  on  finding  him  there. 

Young  Davel  was  soon  after  exchanged,  having  been  sent  to  the  house  of  a 
pastor  of  Interlaken  to  continue  his  studies,  while  tlie  son  of  the  pastor  took 
his  place  in  order  to  improve  his  French.  Whilst  he  was  in  Oberland,  there 
ocomrred  another  singular  manifestation  of  Div'me  intervention  exevcised  in 
his  particular  favour,  or  of  a  profound  faith,  amounttng  ahnost  to  the  «Bl^a- 
siasm  of  a -monemaniac,  which  prompted  him  to  refer  all  occidental  anattors  to 
such  a  source. 

I  read  (he  relates)  one  day  on  the  wall  of  one  of  my  host's  jqaartments, 

that  on  such  a  day  of  such  a  year  the  fishermen  of  the  place  had  captuped^i 

'  great  number  of  fish.    A  short  time  after  that  I  went  to  see  tiie  fi8bing,and 

it  BO  happened  4that  tbe  nets  brought  in  more  fi^  during  the  tnne  that  I  was 

there  than  had  occurred  even  at  the  period  recorded  on  the  wall  of  our  hosie. 


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The  French  Ahnanaeksfor  1854.  321 

The  ngbt  «f  thig  sucoeasful  baul  having  grveti  me  imich  pleasure,  I  repaired 
frequebtly  to  the  same  place,  and  the  fisbennen  soon  perceived  that  good  la^ 
attended  iipoD  ny  beioc  there,  and  that  my  presence  ensured  a  good  haul. 
After  they  bad  nade  this  discoTeiy,  they  used  to  come  and  fetdi  me  every 
time  that  they  went  out  upon  the  lake.  Another  youth  of  the  country,  who 
^as  also  :geiiendly  a  spectator  Df  the  fishing,  wished  to  attribute  to  bimseflf  the 
merit  of  these  successes— if  any  ancfa  there  was.  In  order  to  determine  if  that 
fwas  the  case  or  not,  I  let  him  go  oat  several  times  alone  with  the 'fishermen, 
who  took  on  such  oceaaons  few  or  no  ^h  at  idl.  I  Tetumed  to  tbe  lake,  and 
good  luck  attended  me  as  usuaL 

Tbe  year  after  this,  and  the  one  which  preceded  that  tq^on  vi^hich  I  entered 
the  army — it  was  my  eighteenth  year — being  with  my  mother  at  CuHy,  an 
.tBCideot  -occurred  which  decided  upon  my  future. 

It  was  at  or  about  the  year  1688,  at  which  time  deplorable  superstitions  were 
prevalent  in  tbe  oountry  districts.  The  devil  had  filled  the  minds  of  the 
peasants  ivith  terror,  till  It  assumed  the  form  of  a  panic ;  nothing  but  sorcerers, 
magicians,  evil  spirits,  and  apparitions,  were  tiuked  about.  I  on  my  part 
•argued  wibb  idl  my  power  against  what  I  then  believed  to  beai^eakness. 

The  season  for  gathering  grapes  was  just  commencing,  and  there  'was 
amoofg  Ibe  foreigners  employed,  a  young  woman  of  great  beauty  and  irre- 
pnoachable  ^conduct,  who  was  called,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  "  the 
Unknown.* 

One  morning  my  mother  came  into  ray  room  in  great  grief,  and  tcfld  me 
idaat.  ^  the  Unknown'^  bad  apprised  her  that  I  should  die  in  the  space  of  three 
days,  and  had  begged  that  she  would  acquaint  me  with  the  feet,  in  order  that 
i  might  duly  prepare  mysdf. 

Til  is  piece  of  information  oaosed  ne  very  Kttle  uneasiness.  I  received  it 
with  peitect calmness;  and  I  employed  the  three  days  that  remained  to  me, 
in  prayer  and  medit^ution.  Whibt'l  was  thus  engaged,  the  Unknown  came 
to  me  in  a  familiar  mamer,  extolled  my  piety  and  resignation,  advised  me  to 
.pmy  froBi  tbe  heart  rather  than  from  the  Hps,  and  recommended  me  to  change 
any  Jinen,  because,  she  said,  it  was  proper  to  be  careful  in  one's  dress  when 
about  to  appear  before  the  Creator — a  recommendation  that  I  have  followed 
ever  since.  She  added,  that  I  might  go  and  take  air  and  exercise  in  a  secluded 
spot,  where  I  should  meet  with  no  frivolous  distractions,  and  that  I  ramst  by 
JK>  means  discontiune  to  support  my  body  with  wholesome  food. 

Tbe  three  days  passed  by.  The  night  when  I  expected  to  die  having 
jnrived,  I  went  to  bed  in  a  kiiid  of  ecsta^,  a  delicious  languor,  and  an  in- 
eflable  sense  of  pleasure.  It  appeared  to  me  that  I  feh  a  gradual  annihilation 
-of  my  facuSties  creeping  over  me,  and  the  sensation  was  more  agreeable  than 
otherwise.  The  curtains  of  the  bed  were  shut,  as  were  also  my  eyelids.  Snd- 
idenly  my  ey«s  opened,  and  I  saw  two  angels,  one  on  each  side  of  my  bed. 

W^hilst  I  was  enjoying  this  celestial  vision,  a  slight  knock  made  itself  heard 
.at  &e  door,  and  a  low  voice  called  out  **  Daniel  T  My  mother,  who  always 
fcalled  me  by  that  name,  which  she  preferred,  had  been  s^it  by  the  Unknown 
tto  eee  how  i  was. 

I  did  not  answer,  and  my  mother  being  terrified,  hastened  down  to  the 
Unknown,  "who  had  remained  by  tbe  fire^de.  The  fair  stranger  remamed  for 
a  short  time  silent,  and  then  she  said,  *'  Go  back  to  his  door,  speak  to  him, 
.but  do  not  go  io.    I  thiak  he  will  answer  this  time.^* 

J^y  mother  came  back  accordingly,  jmd  I  replied  to  her  question  as  to  how 
J  was,  **  Oil,  mother,  I  am  ^ell ;  I  pray  you  leave  me  alone.^ 

My  mother  related  'what  I  bad  said  to  the  Unknown.  '"'Since  he  has 
answered  you,*'  said  the  latter,  "he  will  not  die  yet.  Ood  preserves  him 
±hat  be  may  accomplish  great  things.  But  you  must  give  him  something  to 
eat  in  order  to  support  his  strength." 

Asdrsayimg  this,  the  Unicnown  set  about  preparing  a  rotie  au  vm,  which  she 
|daeed  on  a  dish  cmre&illy  washed  by  herself,  and  then,  followed  by  my  mother. 

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322  The  French  Almanacks  for  1854. 

she  took  it  up  to  me.  I  tasted  the  roast,  and  finding  that  it  possessed  an 
exquisite  flavour,  I  wished  my  mother  to  partake  of  it  with  me ;  but  the 
Unknown  said :  *'  That  is  not  permitted,  and  I  must  oppose  such  a  proceed- 
ing ;"  then,  addressing  herself  to  me,  she  said :  **  Now  you  will  not  die.** 

They  then  left  me  alone,  and  I  fell  into  a  most  delicious  slumber. 

The  Unknown  remained  six  days  with  us.  She  scarcely  ever  left  the  house, 
but  helped  my  mother  to  prepare  the  repasts. 

The  morning  after  my  vision,  I  went  out  at  an  early  hour.  The  stranger 
seeing  me,  seized  my  hand,  as  if  to  examine  it  **  It  is  well,'*  she  said,  '*  that 
you  should  know  your  destiny,  since  you  are  about  to  travel." 

•*  Leave  me,"  I  said  ;  "  I  have  no  faith  in  these  practices."  And  withdrawing 
my  hand,  I  placed  it  behind  my  back. 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  girl,  "  I  will  examine  your  forehead."  So  saying, 
she  tilted  up  my  hat,  but  I  immediately  thrust  it  down  again. 

*'  It  is  of  no  use,"  said  she ;  "  I  have  seen  everything.    I  know  all." 

And  in  order  to  convince  me  and  gain  my  confidence,  she  repeated  to  me, 
with  extraordinary  exactitude,  all  the  circumstances  of  my  residence  in  the 
Oberland.  Imagine  my  surprise— my  astonishment:  I  had  confided  those 
details  to  no  one,  not  even  to  my  mother  1 

Slie,  perceiving  my  surprise,  said :  **  Fear  nothing ;  let  me  speak ;  you  have  a 
happy  physiognomy,  happier  than  you  think.  Prepare  yourself  to  undertake 
a  great  work,  which  Heaven  has  ordained  that  you  should  accomplish." 

Having  thus  spoken,  she  took  an  egg,  broke  it  on  my  forehead,  and  said, 
"  You  shall  see  something  which  will  give  you  pleasure ;  it  is  necessary  that 
you  should  know  it." 

She  then  opened  the  egg,  and  pouring  the  contents  thereof  into  a  glass  of 
water,  she  showed  me  several  little  figures  upon  the  surface.  The  first  that  I 
saw  had  a  pen  in  his  hand  ;  the  second  was  that  of  a  dead  person ;  which 
prophesied  that  I  should  perform  in  the  first  place  the  duties  of  secretary  to 
one  who  would  die  soon.  The  third  figure  held  a  flag,  which  prophesied  that 
I  should  be  an  ensign.  The  fourth  showed  me  myself  on  horseback,  which 
promised  me  a  military  command.  The  difierent  ranks  I  have  since  passed 
through  have  since  fully  confirmed  these  prophecies. 

The  Unknown  informed  me  with  the  most  circumstantial  details  of  all  that 
has  since  happened  to  me  In  my  career  as  a  soldier.  '*  These  events,"  she  said, 
"  should  only  be  considered  by  me  as  a  supernatural  sign,  a  preparation  for 
greater  things  (the  attempt  against  Lausanne).  She  exp&ined  my  future  pro- 
ceedings, and  told  me  that  I  should  be  sustained  by  a  superior  force,  which 
would  bid  me  act  and  execute. 

One  day  I  perceived  at  the  bottom  of  my  hat  three  drops  of  oil,  a  circum- 
stance that  annoyed  me  for  the  moment.  I  attributed  them  to  my  brother, 
who  denied  having  had  anything  to  do  with  them.  The  Unknown,  hearing  our 
recriminations,  exclaimed,  "  Show  me  these  drops  !"  I  accordingly  showed 
them  to  her,  when,  placing  my  hat  upon  her  head,  she  said :  "  It  is  nothing ; 
they  will  have  disappeared  now.*'  I  verified  the  fact,  and  at  the  same  time 
passed  my  hand  through  my  hair,  which  was  moist  with  oil.  The  Unknown 
smiled,  and  asked  me  to  smell  the  oil,  which  emitted  a  delicious  fragrance. 
The  perfume  remained  for  several  days,  and  I  felt  convinced  that  the  young 
girl  had  anointed  me  without  my  knowing  it. 

The  fair  Unknown  recommended  me  to  give  my  hat  to  some  poor  man,  and 
to  see  what  effects  would  follow  upon  the  gift.  I  did  as  she  bade  me,  and 
chose  a  beggar  in  Vaux,  called  Abraham  L^errey ;  the  same  man  is  now  a 
wealthy  landowner,  and  one  of  the  councillors  of  the  parish  of  Villette. 

Everything  that  liappened  to  me  when  in  the  army  proved  to  me,  to  the 
minutest  point,  that  the  Unknown  had  seen  clearly  into  my  destiny.  Marveb 
accompanied  me  at  every  step. 

I  was  at  first  sent  into  Piedmont,  in  the  Val  d*  Aosta,  where  I  became  secre- 
tary to  the  company  of  M.  d'Aubrecan,  who  died  shortly  afterwards.    I  then 


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The  French  Almanachsfor  1854.  323 

received  a  commission  as  ensign,  as  had  been  predicted  to  me  by  the 
Unknown. 

During  my  detention  in  that  country,  I  Iiad  occasion  to  remark,  in  a  thou- 
sand circumstances,  that  I  was  looked  upon  as  a  young  man  in  whom  there  was 
something  particular.  One  day  that  the  Catholics  of  Aosta  were  going  through 
the  usual  ceremonies  of  the  dead,  the  fancy  took  me,  although  I  was  a  Pro- 
testant, to  join  in  the  procession.  I  cannot  say  why,  but  in  doing  so,  I  became 
impressed  with  the  idea  that  the  dead  would  raise  his  hand  if  anything  lucky 
was  to  be  expected,  and  I  communicated  the  impression  to  others.  Every  one 
in  his  turn  went  up  to  the  corpse,  without  its  making  the  slightest  movement, 
but  when  my  turn  came,  it  raised  its  hand.  All  who  were  present  were  panic- 
struck  ;  but  as  for  myself,  I  thought  that  some  deceit  had  been  practised,  and  I 
distincty  said  so  ;  but  I  was  wrong,  there  was  no  mistake  in  the  matter,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  Heaven  had  effected  a  miracle  to  strengthen 
my  faith. 

My  regiment  had  been  lent  by  King  William,  to  whom  it  belonged,  to  the 
Duke  of  Savoy  j  but  it  was  soon  called  back  to  Holland.  As  we  were  tra- 
velling in  Germany,  having  to  cross  a  little  lake  in  Swabia,  we  were  assailed 
by  so  violent  a  hurricane,  that  every  one,  except  myself,  thought  that  they 
would  be  destroyed,  and  lost  all  confidence.  Nevertheless,  we  reached  the 
shore  in  safety.  Many  people  had  hurried  to  our  aid.  Every  one  threw 
himself  hastily  upon  the  shore,  but  I  remained  in  a  boat,  the  last  to  land, 
firmly  convinced  that  my  happy  star  had  much  to  do  with  our  deliverance. 

One  night  that  we  were  in  garrison  at  Gorcum,  in  Holland,  the  inhabitants 
were  thrown  into  the  greatest  possible  state  of  alarm  by  an  unusually  high 
tide,  which,  being  accompanied  by  a  high  wind,  threatened  the  town  with  de- 
struction ;  but  nothing  came  of  it.  The  Burgomaster  and  his  council,  seeing 
a  miracle  in  this  event,  attributed  it  to  the  presence  of  a  man  fearing  God,  and 
the  names  of  all  the  strangers  at  that  time  inhabiting  the  town  were  collected. 
The  knowledge  which  my  companions  had  obtained  of  my  antecedents,  caused 
them  to  attribute  the  prodigy  to  the  influence  that  accompanied  me. 

Another  adventure  which  happened  at  Gorcum  deserves  to  be  related.  I 
was  dining  with  some  other  officers  at  a  gentleman^s  house,  when  the  host, 
having  caused  two  bottles  of  a  very  old  and  high-priced  wine  to  be  brought, 
asked  the  butler  how  many  there  still  remained  in  the  cellar.  The  latter 
answered  that  there  were  eight.  Our  host  appeared  to  be  much  surprised  at 
this  statement ;  and  somebody  said,  laughingly,  "  What,  are  you  astonished, 
sir,  at  the  despatch  with  which  we  empty  your  bottles?**  "  On  the  contrary, 
gentlemen,**  he  replied ;  "  I  had  only  six  bottles  of  this  particular  wine,  I  had 
two  brought  up,  and  yet  they  tell  me  that  eight  remain ;  that  is  what  con- 
founds my  aritnmetic.**  The  butler  was  again  sent  down  to  count  the  bottles, 
and  there  were  really  eight.  Our  host  was  perfectly  convinced  that  he  had 
only  six  when  the  repast  began.  "The  multiplication  of  your  bottles  need 
not  surprise  you,**  said  M.  Lubar,  one  of  my  comrades,  to  the  master  of  the 
house  ;  **  there  is  a  guest  among  us  upon  whom  marvels  attend  everywhere." 
And  in  proof  of  his  assertion,  he  narrated  a  fact  of  which  he  had  been  an  eye- 
witness  only  a  short  time  previously.  We  were  at  sea ;  the  sailors,  foreseeing 
a  tempest  by  certain  in&llible  signs,  came,  according  to  their  custom,  to  request 
all  present  to  pray  for  safety.  When  I  had  terminated  my  prayer,  I  went  on 
deck  to  see  how  matters  looked,  and  seeing  no  signs  of  a  storm,  I  said  to  the 
sailors,  "  Why  did  you  vnsh  to  terrify  us  ?**  '*  We  never  saw  anything  like  it,*' 
they  answered ;  "  the  heavens  changed  at  once  the  moment  that  you  appeared." 
When  we  landed  at  Dordrecht,  the  master-pilot  came  and  took  my  hand,  a 
crowd  of  sailors  gathered  round  me,  looking  at  me  and  loading  me  with  atten- 
tions, and  they  followed  me  even  to  my  lodgings.  I  could  not  understand 
why  so  much  respect  was  shown  to  me,  till  being  alone  with  M.  Lubar,  he  told 
me  that  the  sailors  were  persuaded  that  they  owed  tlieir  safety  to  me. 

Another  time  that  I  was  at  supper  with  a  few  friends,  I  heard  very  dis- 

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Qftt  The  French  Aiaumaoksfar  L654. 

iinctlj  a  voice  that  announoed  to  me  my  latt  e^pediticci,  th«t*of 

It  began  io  these  words  :  '^  May  heaven  aid  you  !**  and  finished  with  :  ^  fieavea 

will  aid  you.** 

Those  who  were  pieseiit  heard  the  voice,  and  thinking  tbat  it  was  a  mysA- 
.fioatioti,  they  set  abwU  exploring  aU  parts  of  the  house.  They  bowever 
ibmd  no  one,  and  were  filled  with  wonder  at  what  tbnr  bad  faesnL 

Whilst  in  HoUaiid,  I  sucoessivehr  attained  the  rank  4tf  oaptain^eirteDaDt 
under  M.  de  SacMinay — whom  the  Unlnowsi  had  mentiooed  to  me — after- 
wards that  of  quaotermaster  and  of  ad(iuAant.  I  was  looked  opon  as  oae 
xonaexioQ  with  whom  was  salutary— ^as  one  who  brought  good  iuck  with  bim ; 
4iiid  M.  Litberd,  surgeon-major  •of  our  regiment,  being  stffongfy  im^eBsed  with 
the  same  oonviotioD,  did  «veiytbing  in  his  power  to  induoe  me  to  go  wkih 
iiim  whenever  he  went  Io  see  the  siok.  It  was  aatd  tlnit  I  had  nuitorii£y  otm- 
tribiited  ito  the  cure  of  a  M.  Achard,  who  had  been  given  over  by  die  ^imihy. 

I  was  not  without  my  afflictions,  which  besides  had  been  predicted  tomeJvy 
my  £ur  vallate  necromancer.  I  was  ill  up  to  the  poiat  of  death  at  Tfidnse,  io 
Flanders ;  those  who  nursed  me  thought  that  I  was  geoe. 

Loni  Albemarle,  the  king^s  favourite,  having  dene  mean  act  of  igross ii- 
justioe  in  disposing  to  another  of  a  company  to  whioh  I  was  entililed  by  or^ 
of  succession,  I  lea  die  service  of  Holland  and  went  into  that  of  Fmnoe.  I 
was  appointed  a  refiarmed  captain  in  the  regincnt  of  Spaar,  and  ao«ooner  iud 
I  entered  upon  the  campaign  than  there  cisne  upon  me,  as  if  by  jflspieatito, 
the  idea  of  a  little  expedition,  which  would,  undoubtedly,  liave  sanooaded,  but 
the  Frendi  generals  to  whom  I  commoBioafted  it  woidd  not  aoeede  to  its 
ibekig  put  into  practice.  I  only  asked  for  ^M  resolute  men,  asid  with  theiraki 
I  premised  to  put  Fianee  in  possession  of  TEchise,  and  to  bnng  Priace 
£iigkie  a«Kl  Majiborough  dead  or  alive.  Jealousy,  or  want  of  apprdiension 
ion  the  part  of  my*chiefe,  put  obstacles  in  the  way,  whldi  I  could  not  oveDooaie ; 
j$od  as  I  had  taken  the  thing  flcmch  tohent,  i  grieved  piFopoitionately  about  it 

iiaviog  a£ter  this  taken  charge  of  a  recruiting  business,  which  did  not  suc- 
ceed as  I  anticipated,  I  fell  into  disgrace,  became  disgusted  widki  the  service, 
and  TBtunied  to  my  native  country,  after  twesity-five  years'  absenee.  I  had  not 
received  a  single  wound  in  all  the  engagements  I  had  beoi  coacemed  in,^ 
had  been  predicted  by  the  Unknown. 

Davel,  however,  subsequent  to  his  retirement,  offered  his  sword  to  Becae, 
ifn  Ihe  intor^cantonal  war  of  1712,  which  was  finished  by  the  battle  of  W^ 
jnergbea  and  the  defeat  of  the  Catholic  army. 

The  major  lived  after  this  several  yean  teaaquiUy  at  CuHy,  loved  and 
honouited'by  everybody,  till  172S,  when,  having  got  together  a  small  body  of 
jBien,  he  marched  on  the  18th  of  March  upon  Lausanne,  in  order  to  dehfwr 
that  town  from  the  tyranny  of  the  Bernese ;  but  heing  aniious  to  avoid  aay 
useless  shedding  of  blood,  he  gave  thne  to  the  council  of  the  town  to  foepaoe 
a  soceessful  opposition,  and  heing  taken  prisoner,  the  major  died  upon  the 
floafiUd. 

He  had  ^lomposed  the  followmg  prayer,  wincli  he  recited  morning  and 
owBumgi 

**  Eternal,  great  God,  all  powerful,  creator  of  heaven  and  earth,  than  iriio 
gaimms  all  things  by  thy  Divme  Providence,  who  disposes  i»f  events  aocordiog 
as  thou  judgest  them  to  be  expedient  for  thy  glory  and  the  good  of  tter 
iohildreh  J  1  psostrate  nn^f  with  the  deepest  humility  to  adore  thee  wi^au 
the  force  and  tspaoity  of  my  fnmd,  and  to  obey  those  ^decnees  of  thy  diviae 
will,  whidi  'du>n  hast  man^ested  by  the  nmistry  of  thy  lioly  senaats  ^geb). 

**F0rtify  me,  O  my  God!  in  all  the  duties  of  my  vocation, bo  that  I  mm 
ac({uit  myself  with  an  eatire  zeal,  finaoess,  courage,  taad  ipaisevenuaee.  Mnr 
yonr  ^lory  be  reflected  in  my  whole  ooadiict,  and  amy  my  aeighbonr  be  edified, 
consoled,  aad  improved,  by  the  purity  of  my  wocdb,  so  that  tcgether  we  amy 
magnify  thy  holy  name  abovo  all  things,  with  all  oar  hearts,  ear  streo^,  aad 
lar  undentandings.    We  place  oursehres  in  the  arms  of  thy  Diviae  Piovi- 

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The  French  Almanacks  for  1654.  325 

3«ice,  with  a  firm  (iSibj  and  tm  -entire  confidenoe.  Preserre  us  from  all  illu- 
sions -and  temptations  of  ^e  deril,  and  do  so  that  we  shall  embrace  and 
practise  the  pure  truth  of  thy  sacred  ordersJ* 

.  Davel  "would  appear  throughont  io  have  oibeyed  supernatural  powers,  as 
Tesirae  d*  Arc  dad  'before  htm  ;  and  be  was  as  pious  as  the  heroic  ^pherdess 
eft  Oomremy.  He  perished  on  the  platn  of  VMj,  ejAlbiting  the  same  courage 
and  resignation  that  the  French  maid  did  on  the  pile  at  Rouen. 

The  Canton  of  VmnSi  neglecled  for  ti  long  time  the  man  who  had  offered 
%iaasc3f  up  as  a  •sacrifice  for  its  independence ;  bnt  at  last  such  ungrateful 
obfirion  was  repnred  by  putting  urp  a  taftyiet  of  marble  in  the  Cadiedral  of 
Lausanne,  upon  which  is  the  fcdiowing  inscription : 

To  the  memory 
Of  Major  Dave], 
Who  perished  on  the  scaffold  in  1729,  the  24th  of  Apiil, 
Martyr 
To  the  rights  and  liberty  of  the  Vaudois  people. 
The  vote  of  the  Provisional  Assembly  of  1798, 
The  generosity  of  Frederick  Ccesar  de  la  Harpe, 
The  gratitude  of  the  Canton  of  Vaud« 
Have  consecrated  this  monument, 
Erected 
In  the  year  1839,  the  month  of  April,  the  5^th  day. 
To  God  alone  be  all  honour  and  glory. 
The  village  of  Cully,  situated  on  the  borders  of  the  late  nearTevey,  re- 
solved also  to  pay  its  debt  to  Davel,  and  raised  an  obelisk  of  white  stone 
under  the  trees  or  the  promenade  on  the  shore,  upon  which  are  inscribed  the 
following  lines,  written  by  M.  Juste  Olivier,  Vaudois  poet,  and  author  of  a  life 
of  Davel : 

**  A  son  pays  esclave  offrant  la  liberty, 
Comme  un  h^ros  antique  il  raourut  seal  pour  elle ; 
Et,  pieux  pr^curseur  de  notre  ere  nouvelle, 
II  attendit  son  jour  dans  Pimmortalit^** 

The  revelations  of  Davel,  enclosed  in  an  iron  bo^  w«re  deposited  under  the 
foot  of  the  obelisk. 

Owr  biogcaphers  do  not  make  mention  of  the  life  of  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished men  of  Frencb-Switzedand. 

The  Pastor  Vinet,  of  Lausanne,  a  man  of  great  abilities,  who  died  but  a  few 
years  ago,  alone  conseccated  a  few  lines  to  his  memory  in  the  seventh  volume  of 
^e  journal  Ze  Semeur : 

••*Davel,who  has  no  peer  in  the  past,  and  to  Whom  tbefbture  pronrwes  nwie 
ttet  shall  be  eqoal ;  wnrrior  greedy  of  all  other  blood  except  fans  own ;  calm 
and  mild  alike  in  Ids  enterprises,  his  perils,  and  his  catastrophes;  foo&h,if 
you  so  will  it,  but  sublime  and  affecting  in  his  folly,  and  whose  motives,  prin- 
ciples, and  means  would  put  to  shame  many  who  would  be  tempted  to  invoke 
his  example— a  man  whose  memory,  if  it  cannot  be  the  guide  of  our  actions, 
at  least  teaches  us  a  religious  patriotism  and  a  Christian  citizenship,  the  only 
ones  which  can  save  us.'* 

Gibbon,  the  great  English  historian,  writes : 
^      *^  Davel,  an  enthusiast  it  is  true,  but  an  enthusiast  for  the  public  welfare.'* 

Lastly,  M.  Gleyre,  a  Parisian  artist,  but  a  native  of  French-Switzerland,  to 
which  country  we  are  indebted  for  Pradier,  Topffer,  and  so  many  other  great 
artists,  has  painted  for  the  town  of  Lausanne  a  large  picture,  which  represents 
Davel  addressing  the  people,  in  whose  cause  he  suffered,  from  the  scaffold  at 
Vidy. 

To  turn  to  somethinf^  more  lively,  here  is  a  lesson  in  morality  from  a 
quarter  from  which  such  would  be  least  expected : 


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326  The  French  Almanacks  for  1854. 

A  friend  of  ours,  living  in  the  Faubourg  du  Temple,  went  out  at  a  late 
hour  of  a  winter  evening  to  take  a  pistol  without  lock  to  the  gunsmith's. 

Turning  the  corner  of  the  canal,  he  was  stopped  by  a  man  of  ferocious 
aspect,  who  demanded  his  life  or  his  piirse.  It  is  related  that  Odry  escaped 
when  placed  in  a  similar  predicament  by  a  pun  ;  our  friend  adopted  the  readier 
plan  of  taking  his  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  placing  it  on  the  highwayman's 
breast. 

"  Follow  me  to  the  next  guard-house,  or  I  pull  the  trigger !"  he  exclaimed. 

As  it  was  dark,  the  robber  did  not  perceive  that  he  was  threatened  by  an 
imaginary  lock.     He  had  recourse  to  the  supplications  usual  in  such  cases. 

"  Sir,  do  not  ruin  me !" 

"  It  is  to  save  vou,  on  the  contrary,  that  I  lead  you  to  the  guard-house." 

"  I  am  the  father  of  three  children." 

"  I  have  six." 

*•  I  have  a  wife  who  depends  upon  me  for  support." 

"  And  so  have  I." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not  in  reality  a  wicked  man." 

"  Neither  am  I.  Come,  it  is  late,  and  rather  cold  by  the  water-side.  March, 
or  I  shall  fire." 

The  robber  was  obliged  to  follow  our  friend  to  the  guard-house.  They  ar- 
rived there  j ust  as  a  patrol  came  in.  Our  friend  related  his  history.  The  rob- 
ber was  examined,  and  discovered  to  be  an  escaped  convict,  of  whom  the  police 
had  for  a  long  time  been  in  search. 

Our  friend  was  next  duly  congratulated  upon  his  presence  of  mind,  and  the 
energy  which  he  had  displayed. 

"  But,"  added  the  officer  in  command,  "  I  regret  to  say,  I  shall  be  under  the 
necessity  of  bringing  an  action  against  you." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  it  appears,  from  your  own  avowal,  that  you  carry  arms  upon  your 
person  without  the  authority  to  do  so." 

Our  friend  then  exhibited  his  pistol,  and  showed  to  the  officer,  that  without 
a  cock,  it  was  no  arm  at  all. 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  officer ;  **  a  pistol  is  always  a  pistol.  I  must  put  your 
name  on  the  charge-sheet." 

The  robber,  turning  round  to  our  friend,  then  said  to  him  : 

"  Sir,  you  have  deceived  me.  May  what  happens  to  you  now  teach  you 
that  bad  faith  and  lies  always  receive,  sooner  or  later,  their  punishment." 

And  here  we  must  conclude  our  notice  of  the  French  Almanacks. 
Politics,  that  fertile  subject  for  caricature  and  ridicule,  being  now  care- 
fully eschewed,  little  remains  in  domestic  manners  to  turn  to  humorous 
account  year  after  year.  Add  to  which,  the  very  fact  of  an  inexorable  e^- 
sorship  weighs  heavily  upon  the  spirits  of  a  once  volatile  people. 


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(     327     ) 


ST.   MARTIN'S  EVE. 

BT   THE  AUTHOB  OF  "THE  UNHOLY  WISH," 
I. 

The  dull,  sombre  light  of  a  November  afi;ernooD,  was  giviDg  place 
rapidly  to  twilight.  The  day  had  been  wet  and  cold,  and  the  s^dened 
leaves  that  strewed  the  park  of  a  fair  domain  in  England,  did  not  con- 
tribute to  the  cheerfulness  of  the  scene.  But  if  the  weather  rendered  the 
outward  demesne  desolate,  it  seemed  not  to  affect  the  stately  house  per- 
taining to  it ;  for  lights  gleamed  from  many  of  its  windows,  passing  and 
repassing  from  room  to  room,  from  passage  to  passage,  and  fires  werct 
casting  their  blazing  glow  around.  A  spectator  might  have  said  that 
some  unusual  excitement  or  gaiety  was  going  on  there.  Excitement  in 
that  house  there  indeed  was,  but  of  gaiety  none  ;  for  grim  death  was 
about  to  pay  a  visit  there :  not  to  call  one,  waiting  for  him  in  a  green  old 
age,  but  to  strike  the  young  and  lovely.  The  servants  of  that  mansion 
were  gathered  in  groups,  sorrow  and  consternation  imprinted  on  their 
faces  :  or  they  moved,  with  noiseless  tread,  attending  to  the  wants  of  two 
physicians,  who  were  partaking  of  refreshment  in  a  reception-room  :  or 
they  stole  along  an  upper  corridor,  pausing  and  holding  their  breath,  in 
awe,  at  the  door  of  one  of  its  chambers,  for  there  lay  their  lady,  at  the 
point  of  doom. 

In  an  adjoining  chamber  to  this,  standing  over  the  fire,  was  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  more  intelligent-looking  than  are  many  of  her  class.  The 
fire-glow  shone  full  in  her  eyes,  showing  that  tears  were  glistening  in 
them.  Strange  sight !  for  tne  continuous  scenes  of  sickness  and  some- 
times of  death  in  which  these  monthly-nurses'  lives  are  spent,  tend  to 
render  them  partly  callous  to  outward  emotion.  The  family  medical 
attendant  was  pacmg  the  room,  his  footsteps  falling  noiselessly  on  the 
soft  carpet.  His  hands  were  clasped  behind  him,  resting  on  his  back  as 
he  walked,  and  his  £Eu:e,  worn  and  anxious,  was  never  lifted  from  the 
ground. 

"  This  will  make  the  second  case  we  have  lost  this  year,"  suddenly 
observed  the  woman,  in  a  whispered  tone.  ^'  What  can  have  made  it  so 
unlucky  a  year  ?" 

The  doctor  gave  no  answer.  Perhaps  he  did  not  like  the  **  we"  in  her 
sentence.  But  he  knew  that  his  duty  was  always  performed  to  the 
utmost  of  his  skill  and  power,  and  his  conscience,  on  tnis  point,  stood  at 
peace  before  God. 

"There  are  no  further  means  that  can  be  tried?"  exclaimed  the 
woman,  using  the  words  more  as  an  assertion  than  a  question,  as  she 
glanced  towajds  the  partially-opened  door  connecting  the  apartments. 

"  None,"  was  the  conclusive  reply  of  the  surgeon.  "  She  is  going 
rapidly." 

The  fire  had  burnt  down  to  embers  in  the  sick  chamber ;  a  pale  light 
was  emitted  from  the  shaded  lamp ;  and  perfume,  almost  to  &intness, 
was  perceptible  in  the  atmosphere.  They  had  been  sprinkling  essences 
about  in  profusion:  as  if  that  would  make  pleasant  the  way  to  death. 
The  heavy  velvet  curtains  were  thrown  up  from  the  bed;  and,  lymg  there, 


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328  St.  Martmls  I^e. 

was  a  form  young  and  &ir,  with  a  pale,  exhausted  £sice.  Every  appurte- 
nance in  the  chamher  spoke  of  wealth  :  hut  not  all  the  world's  wealth 
and  luxury  comhined,  couid  have  amSeel  to  arrest  that  fastly-fleetin^ 
spirit.  Close  hy  stood  a  cradle ;  an  infeuit,.  who  had  seen  the  light 
scarcely  two  days,  quietly  sleeping  in  it. 

Leaning  over  the  hed  was  a  young,  man,  howed  down  with  grief,  of 
attractive  features  and  gentlemanly  Bearing.  Not  long  had  they  heen 
man.  and  in£»,  hot  a  ywx  at  mofAi  sa^  now-  it  wasi  \mA  ta  pavt^.  dodllly 
hard  witb  tMs  hmv  tie^  wlucb  had  been,  bom  ttt  theou  llei  tlMy  footib 
knew  it  mmt  bar  a» ;.  and  he^  hadthmwn  his  avmt  li^ti^  atfresft  her^  and 
laid  htft  eliaeh,  wet  yMm  teast^  agaMnst  hers,  uma^  wishiii^  that:  1m 
p*2^er8  emdd  scnsw  her  life.  Theiie  hed  bees  %  LaBg^  agpaioag  frikinfft 
between:  tikeuLi  eadk  heart' was  full  of  paiaU  thooghAs;,  yet.it  seemed^, 
in  l^t  last  Imubj  aa  i£  tbey  oodd  not  giv«^  them  utteaaeeb.  B«t  an 
anxious  au«e,  on&of  the  raasij  she  must  leMMi  oa  earthy  waa  preaoDg  ufoa 
that  laiiy's  bcaii,  and  she  broW  the  nleiic& 

^Whefi  the  mooi^s^  the  yeai%go  by/'  sha  panted;  feeUy  elaiq^ag  h^ 
haiida  tegethev  in  the*  attitude  o£  prao^^  '^  and  you  l^i&k  of  nnotkar 
wi£e>  oh  cheose  one  tba/t  will  be  a  m^thev  to  my  child  t  Be:  not  eaanared 
by  beauty,  bn  oot  ensBaaedby  wealth,  be  not  ensataced  by  speaioua  decMt^ 
bat  tadse*  cine  YJha  will  be  tO'  him  tbe^  metheo  that  I  weald. have;  been." 

<'  I  ^lali  neiver  marry  agakt,"  he  pass^nately  interrupted.  ''  Yoo^nLy 
first,  and  dearest  love^  shsdl  be  the  only  wile  I  wiBtake  to<  my  boseui. 
Netfer  shatt  anoidieF  uswrp*  youv  place  %  and  her&  I  swear        " 

'•'  Hush !  hush !"  she  murmured,  laying  her  hand  upon  hie  life.  "  It 
wotdd  be;crad[  of  me  to  exact  such  a  pr^nise  £rom:  youy  and  it  would  be 
meless  for  you  to  make  it  ^  ionjon  would  never  keep  it,  save  mthi  sb]£- 
upbiaiding^  The  renenabcaoce  of  this  soene^  of  me-,  vpSI  pass  afway,  aad 
you  will  begim  to*  ask  yoiua^f,  why  should  yoiu  life  be  condenined  to 
soHtude.  '^^  now  To  ranaia  iuiMsk  to  the  dead,  is  net  in  maa's 
nature." 

He  thought;  in  hia  own  heaxit,  honestly  dieught  it  thcai^  that  her 
ofBUiOBt  waa  at  nustaiBen  eiMe^  and  i^t  he.  atuDuld  pnover  a  Irving  sefiitsMiaii 
of  it. 

"  Yet  oh  forget  me  not  wholly  T'  she  whispered.  "  Let  there  be  braef 
moments,  when  my  rensembnuice  shall  return  to  you ;.  whea  you  will 
dwell  upMn  me;  as  having  been  die  oua  you  once  b»st  loved  on  eadlL  T 

Another  deep  silence,  but  the  pulses  of  his  heart  mig^  hove  been 
heard^  beating  wildly  in  itaangui^.     She  spoke  not  from  exhaustioa. 

<^What  will  you:  haflret  lum  naoaed?"  he*  asked  akniptly,  pojating 
towards'  the  evadle. 

"Call  him  Benjamin,"  she  replied  with  difficulty,  vihest  a  minute's 
thought..  *^  Me  cost.  Rachel  her  life,  aa  tins  ehild  has.  cost  ma  mine. 
And  (^  may  he  ba  the  solaee  to  you  that:  Benjamin  waa  to  old  Jacob,  and 
may  you  loiatand  chmsh  this  child  as  he  did  his  I" 

Her  voiee  suddenly  fuled  her,  a  spasm  smote  her  features^  and  she  lay 
more  heavily  on  the  pillow.  Her  husband  raised  her;  he  clasped  her  flat- 
tering  heart  to  Ins^  and  wildly  kissed  her  pallid  £aae.  But  liiat  face  was 
losBag^itS"  lo^  o£  eonscieoaneas,  and  no  tecuiearniessi  could  racal  the  depaetr 
ing  spirit.     Hoi  called  tO)  the  me&al  man  in  the  adjoining  ehaoibeE. 

The  latter- came  focwaBd.  He  gave  one  gplance  at  the  bed,,  and  th^ 
whofKreddianiirsftts  sraQaion  the  physieiaoi..    Hetknew  their  pseseno^ 

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Si.  Martin^ &  Eve.  32f 


was  naeiamz  hmt,  alrswh times^  nnndetms  it  iv«tt  to>ftitfl  tbese<»atward 
£eraiSi 

la  tiie  licaii  nciw^pns,  limv  tqipeared  ti»k^w«ek  two  paragn^h^: 
one,  announciog  a  birth ;  the  other,  a  death. 

"^OmiSaB  iMi  iart.,  a«' Alnwick  Hall^  the'  wife  of  George  Carkon, 
Xsq.y  of  a  MAaiid:  heir.^ 

^  On  lie  12&  iHt»  at  Alawic^  EbJi,  in  her  twvntj-third  jear^  Caro- 
lk%  tha  b^imd  wife  of  George  Carlton,  Esq.*' 

IJ. 

^  To  iwmaia  fisUfalal  to  tho  dead,  is  not  in  man^9  naitare.''  Sucb  were 
dre  words  nsed  by  Mrs.  Cariton  in  dying,  and  a  greater  tmtii  was  ne^er 
uttered  or  written  b]r  So^mon. 

It  was  is  the  ndddle  of  Septenber,  but  ten  montlH  aUker  the  decease  of 
Mrs.  Carlton,  that  Alnwiek  Halt  was  the  seene  of  great  festivitgr.  Bril* 
Hant  groups  were  in  the  park,  in  the  temporary  marquee  on  the  lawn,  an<t 
in  ihe  house  itself;  a  sort  Cfifite  ckcempeirv.  Whether  to  escape  the  sad 
sefieeticus  lefb  by  the  de»th  of  his  m^,  or  that  he  found  his  own*  house 
monotonously  dull,  it  was  seen  that  Mr.  Carlton  had  thait  summer  jomed 
ixL  maay^  of  tihe  festal  meetings  of  his  eounty  neighbours,  and  he,  in  his 
tum^  waS'  new  beading  a  /efe,  -  Rumour,  wi^  its  mainy  tongues^  had 
likewise  begun  to  whisper  that  he  was  already  seeking  a  second  wife. 

In  a  pleasant  room^  <^)efiing  to  ^e  conservatory,  several  ladies  were 
gathered.  Th^  were  of  yarieus  ages  and  degrees  of  beauty.  One  stood 
conqpieuous  amidst  the  rest:  not  ikar  hev  beauty,  though  that  was 
great;  not.  f<^  her  dress,  though  that  was  all  tl^  can  be  imagined 
of  ^egance ;  but  for  a  certain  haughty,  imperious  manner,  and  a  ma* 
licious  glance  that,  in  unguarded  moments,  would  gleam  from  her 
countenance.  She  was  tdl  and  finely  formed;  a  profusion  of  laven 
hair  was  bra»ied  over  her  pale,  regukr  Isatui^s ;  but  in  the  jet-bta<^ 
eye  and  compressed  mouth,  might  be  read  an  expression  strangely 
disagreeable.  Beautiful  she  undoubted^  was,  but  not  pleasing.  She 
carried  her  age  wdl :  few  wouM  ^ake  her  to  be  four-aajd-twenty,  yet  she 
had,  in  reality,  seen  nearly  thirty  summers.  Her  mother,  Mrs.  Norris, 
stood  by  her<  side,  a  showy  woman  still.  Could  report  speak  truth  in 
asserting  that  the  fii'st  match  in  all  the  county  was  about  to  be  IsM  at 
Charlotte  Norris's  feet  ?  If  so,  it  would,  indeed,  be  a  triumph  f6r  herj 
Mtherto  so  proud  and  portionless. 

In  the  centre  of  these  Isidkes  stood  a  young  woman^  holding  a  fine  hsky- 
He  was  not,  indeed,  what  eould  be  called  a  pretty  child,  but  a  pleasing 
look  of  intelligence,  unusual  for  one  so  young,  pervaded  hi»  features/ 
And  had  he  possessed  all  the  beauty  that  since  the  creation  of  msm  has 
been  s^  or*  sung,  those  fair  won^,  now  gadiered' round,  could  not  have 
bestowed  on  him  uKire  courtly  praise — for  he  was  the  heir  of  Alnwick. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  fine  fellow  for  his  age,"  observed  Mr.  Carlton,  with  a 
flushed  cheek  and  gratified  eye,  as  he  listened  to  the  flattery,  §or  he  was 
fondly  attached  to  his  chikl. 

"  Pray  is  that  his  nurse  ?"^  inquired  Mrs*  Noiris,  seanning  the  nudd 
through  l»r  glassi     "  What  is  your  name,  young  vroman  ?" 

^^  I  have  had  the  charge  of  him  since  his  birth,  madam,"  said  the  ^1, 
looking  pleased  and  curtseying,  "  And  my  na^  is  Ilon<ma,  but  mey 
call  me  Honour,  for  shortness." 

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330  St  Martin's  Eve. 

"  And  what  is  the  name  of  this  dear  child  ?"  asked  Miss  Norris. 

^^  Well,  his  name  gets  ahhreviated  for  the  same  reason,"  laughed  Mr, 
Carlton.  <'  He  was  christened  Benjamin,  hut  is  universallj  known 
amongst  us  as  Benja." 

A  sharp,  angry  feeling  of  jealousy  shot  through  the  heart  of  the  beau- 
tiful Miss  Norris  as  she  stood  there,  for  Mr.  Carlton  had  taken  his  infant 
and  was  fondly  caressing  it.  She  liated  the  child  fix)m  that  hour. 
*'  Will  he  ever  love  another  child  as  he  loves  this?"  was  the  thought  that 
rose  involuntarily  to  her  mind.  No,  never,  Miss  Norris ;  you  need  not 
ask  or  wish  it :  man  never  loves  another  as  he  loves  his  first-horn. 

Miss  Norris  composed  her  features  to  the  smoothness  of  glass,  and 
drew  near  to  Mr.  Carlton.  '^  Do  let  me  nurse  him,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
tone.     "  I  adore  children,  and  this  one  seems  made  to  be  loved." 

He  resigned  it  to  her,  and  she  carried  it  to  a  distant  seat,  out  of  sight, 
and,  letting  it  rest  on  her  knee,  amused  it  with  her  gold  neck-cludn.  Mr. 
Carlton  foUowed  her. 

^'  Look  at  him,"  she  excl^dmed,  as  if  in  raptures,  glancing  up  to  Mr. 
Carlton's  face ;  '^  look  at  his  nimble  little  fingers  and  bright  eyes. 
How  happy  he  is  !" 

"  Happy  in  all  things,  save  one,"  whispered  Mr.  Carlton,  leaning  over 
the  child,  but  gazing  at  her.  *'  He  has  no  mother  to  love  and  guide 
him." 

Those  black,  unpleasing  eyes  of  hers  were  cast  down,  so  that  the  eye- 
lids entirely  hid  them,  and  a  crimson  flush  rose  to  her  usually  pale  cheek. 

"He  wants  a  mother,"  proceeded  Mr.  Carlton;  "he  mtist  have  a 
mother.  Not  now  will  I  urge  it,  when  so  many  are  near ;  but,  Charlotte, 
you  know  whom  I  would  entreat  to  be  that  mother,  and  my  bdoved 
wife.'' 

"  Ought  you  to  talk  of  a  beloved  wife  ?"  she  asked,  glancing  up  for  an 
instant,  and  speaking  in  an  impassioned  tone.  "  She  who  lies  buried  in 
her  grave  was  yours." 

"I  did  not  love  her  as  I  now  love  you,"  he  hastened  to  avow.  "  Had 
I  known  you  better  then,  I  never  should  have  chosen  her." 

"  Yet  see  how  you  love  her  child  I" 

"  And  I  will  passionately  love  yours,  Charlotte,"  he  whispered,  suffering 
his  face  to  rest  against  hers,  as  it  had  once  rested  against  that  of  his 
dying  wife.  She  resisted  not :  but  when  a  host  of  intruders  came  flocking 
in,  she  raised  her  haughty  head,  and  swept  on  with  a  scornful  step,  as  she 
resigned  the  infant  into  the  arms  of  its  nurse. 

George  Carlton  had  loved  his  first  wife  with  the  &esh,  rapturous  feel- 
ings that  he  could  never  know  again,  and  he  loved  her  memory.  Yet 
here  he  was,  ere  twelve  little  months  had  elapsed,  willing  to  swear  to 
another  that  she  was  the  first  object  who  had  ever  awakened  passion  in 
his  heart !  But  Caroline  Carlton  had  faded  away  firom  his  sight,  and 
Charlotte  Norris  stood  before  him  in  all  her  beauty.  To  remain  faithful 
to  the  deady  is  not  in  marCs  nature. 

But  a  little  while,  and  again  an  announcement,  as  connected  with  this 
history,  went  forth  to  the  world  in  the  county  papers.     E«ad  it : 

"  Married.  On  the  2nd  January,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Graves,  George 
Carlton,  Esq.,  of  Alnwick  Hall,  to  Charlotte  Augusta,  only  daughter  of 
the  late  Herbert  Norris,iEsq." 


Digitized  by  VjOOQlC 


St.  Martin's  Eve.  331 

in. 

Thb  time  passed  on.  Mr.  Carlton  was  now  in  parliament,  and  con- 
sequently spent  part  of  his  time  in  London.  But,  when  sojourning  at 
Alnwick,  it  seemed  that  he  never  wanted  an  excuse  for  heing  away  horn 
home.  He  would  go  out  shooting,  or  coursing,  or  to  visit  his  neigh- 
hours,  or  to  attend  public  meetings  in  the  county  town,  or  would  be 
riding  over  the  land  with  some  of  his  tenants,  superintending  improve- 
ments— in  short,  he  was  always  out.  What  his  wife  thought  of  these 
firequent  absences,  was  not  known ;  but  the  dark  cloud  was  rarely  re- 
moved horn  her  brow.  It  was  whispered  that  Mr.  Carlton  had  not 
found  her  the  angel  he  had  anticipated — ^how  many  men  have  secured 
angels,  in  marrying  for  beauty  ?  A  child  had  been  bom  to  her  in  due 
time  after  her  marriage,  yet  she  had  shaken  over  it  in  an  agony  of 
pasdon,  for  Alnwick  and  its  broad  lands  were  entsdled  on  Benja,  and 
ners  was  but  a  younger  son.  Her  selfish  love  for  her  own  child  made 
her  unjust,  and  she  actually  began  to  regard  him  as  the  rightful  heir, 
and  that  other  as  a  usurper.  The  servants  were  not  deceived:  they 
saw,  ^m  the  first  period  of  Mrs.  Carlton's  entrance  to  the  house,  that 
she  hated  Benja  with  a  deep  and  bitter  hatred.  It  aroused  in  Honour^s 
heart  a  rebellious  feeling  of  indignation,  and  this  sometimes  peeped  out 
in  her  manner.  There  was  never  sufficient,  however,  for  her  mistress  to 
find  open  fault  with :  and  she  thought  the  girl  had  a  quick  temper. 
Mrs.  Carlton,  in  her  husband's  absence,  was  cruelly  unjust  to  Benja :  and 
indeed  we  will  describe  one  scene  that  took  place  in  his  presence. 

It  was  the  Thursday  in  Passion  week.  Mr.  Carlton  was  expected 
from  town  to  spend  the  Easter  holidays,  and  the  pony-carriage  had  gone 
to  the  railway  station  to  meet  him.  It  was  a  warm,  brilliant  April  day^ 
one  of  those  lovely  days  that  sometimes  come  in  spring,  raising  many  a 
heart  to  Heaven.  The  two  nurses  with  their  charges,  Honour  leading 
Master  Benja,  and  the  other  one  carrying  Mrs.  Carlton's  in£Emt,  were 
strolling  in  the  park,  whilst  Mrs.  Carlton  sat  at  an  open  window,  having 
them  full  in  view.  Presently  the  carriage  came  rattling  along,  Mr. 
Carlton  driving;  but,  upon  meeting  the  children,  he  threw  the  reins  to 
the  groom,  and  leaped  out.  Little  Benja  danced  about  his  father  in  an 
ecstasy  of  joy,  and  Mr.  Carlton  clasped  him  in  his  arms. 

He  turned  to  the  baby  to  caress  it,  but  his  voice  and  face  were  strange, 
so  of  course  it  set  up  a  loud  cry,  and  Mr.  Carlton  walked  on  with  Benja, 
leaving  it  far  behind.  The  boy  was  sometimes  caught  up  in  his  arms 
for  a  ^s,  sometimes  flittmg  before  him  alon^  the  grass,  ^e  buttons  of 
steel  on  his  bright  green  velvet  dress  gleaming  in  the  sun.  He  had 
taken  off  his  cap,  and  thrown  it  to  Honour,  and  his  hair  waved  aside 
with  his  every  movement,  displaying  that  winning  look  of  feeling  and  in- 
telligence of  which  his  features  had  given  promise  in  his  in&ncy. 

To  many  a  woman  this  might  have  been  a  pleasant  sight,  but  to  Mrs.. 
Carlton  it  simply  presented  cause  for  jealousy.  She  remained  at  the 
window,  looking  on,  anger  and  passion  working  in  her  mind.  All  she 
saw,  all  she  felt,  was,  that  her  husband  was  betraying  his  affection  for 
Benja,  and  passing  by  her  child.  During  her  girlhood  she  had  been 
subject  to  fits  of  ungovernable  rage,  so  violent,  that  they  seemed  to 

Nov, — VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  cccxcv. .  z 

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S38  Si.  Martin's  JSae. 

fall  little  short  of  insanity.     And  it  would  seem  that  one  was  coming 
on  now. 

Mr.  Carlton  «Mne  in  with  littk  Ben^  fondly  lemlSmg  ham ;  tai,  ad- 
vancing to  his  wife,  would  have  enhraoed  ho*.  To  say  ezaetl^  whai 
next  oecnrrtd,  he  eouM  not.  A  fiendish  expression  of  face,  a  toneiit  of 
inveetivefl^  sueh  as  he  had  neTer  heard  fimaa  the  Hps  of  tefioed  woman, 
lams^f  thrust  mdely  aside,  aad  Bei^  hurled  to  ihe  grcMmd  with  a  Ubv, 
was  ail  he  ooald  afterwards  remember.  And  when  ^  violenee  had  ex- 
pended itseli^  she  smik  upon  a  sofa,  pale,  tremhling,  and  ligisitoicaL 

Mr.  Caihon  raised  his  ehild,  soothed  him  to  tomxposaa^  and  sent  him 
to  Honour.  He  uttered  no  reproaeh  to  his  wife,  but  atood  in  silenee, 
his  back  tamed  towards  her,  and  his  forehead  pressed  againafe  one  of  tibe 
window-panes,  as  if  looking  at  dn  outside  prospeet 

She  began  to  utter  reproadies  now,  sobbing  violently — ^that  all  Ik 
alfecdcm  was  lavished  upon  Benja,  and  he  possessed  none  for  her  dhiki 
He  replied  coldly,  without  turning -round.  That  his  aflfeotion  was  as  livelj 
lor  one  efaald  as  for  the  other :  he  was  conscioaB  of  no  difference^  sod 
hoped  he  (^loidd  never  make  any  :  but  an  in&nt  of  five  months  M,  who 
cried  at  hb  approach,  oould  not  yet  be  made  to  him  the  companifm  that 
Benja  was. 

She  retorted  by  impassioned  words.  P&rtly  of  regr^  &r  dw  vkdence 
her  ^  ffvatk  ^oelii:^''  had  caused  her  to  di^ay,  of  ejquressions  of  love  for 
him  and  for  thor  child,  and  of  reproaeh  that  he  did  not  regard  it  so 
tende]4y  as  he  ought.  But  Mr,  Carlton  heaid  her  not :  his  dioaghts 
were  far  awi^,  cast  back  into  Ihe  past 

The  injunction,  nay,  ihe  pray^,  of  his  dying  wife  was  present  to  lubn: 
^  When  the  months,  the  years,  go  by,  and  you  think  ^  anotker  vi^ 
oh  choose  one  that  will  be  a  mother  to  my  d^udd  I  Be  not  aunaied  bj 
beauty,  be  not  ensnared  by  wealdi,  be  not  ensnared  by  speeioiis  deceit; 
but  take  one  who  will  be  to  him  the  mother  diat  I  would  have  been." 

Bitt^y,  bitterly  the  prayer  came  back  to  him.  How  had  he  &lfilled 
it  ?  He  glanced  round  at  the  form  lying  there  behind  him,  dbixirted 
widi  evil  passions,  and  could  have  wailed  aloud  in  tiie  anguish  of  ln> 
remorseful  heart. 

IV. 

Agaik  the  years  went  by,  bringing  diangcB  to  Alnwick.  Oo  a 
gloomy  November  day,  in  the  general  sitting-room,  sat  Mis.  CaiHon. 
But,  alas !  she  wore  widows'  weeds,  betraying  the  melancholy  fact  that 
her  husband,  so  universally  loved  and  respected  during  fife,  was  no  more. 
Ahiwick  Hall,  with  all  its  wealth  and  dignity,  had  become  iiie  fto^ 
of  Master  Bei^;  and  A»,  itfte,  the  arrogant  Charlotte  Carlton,  was  only 
there  on  su£Rnraace ;  a  home  accorded  h«r  in  it  as  the  personal  goBidtfQ 
of  the  child.  It  was  a  tiwai  that  eat  into  her  iU-regubted  hetft,  aid 
rankled  there.  Anoth^  thought  also  had  pbce  in  it— *a  wicked  thoi^H 
a  diabolical  thought,  carrying  danger  in  its  train.  In  the  &st 
waking  of  the  eariy  moaming,  in  ^  broad  glare  and  bustle  of  noondaj? 
and  in  the  midnight  solitude,  it  was  ever  trusting  itself  forward—^ 
if  Benja  were  no  longrer  living,  her  child  would  be  the  inheritor. 

Let  us  hope  that  ycident  was  the  first  suggestor  of  this  idea  to  ^ 
Carlton.     She  would  whisper  to  herself  that  it  was^&r  she  could  not 

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St  Miirtuis  Eve.  333 

oenceal  from  ber  own  lieaiit  the  errors  that  were  suffered  to  fiod  ad- 
mittance there.  About  twelve  months  previouslyy  or  rather  mor^ 
Senja  had  fallai  into  ilie  lake^  when  a  party  of  them  were  in  the 
pleasure-boat.  He  was  insensible  when  he  was  rescued,  and  several 
voices  called  out  that  he  was  dead.  The  wild  beating  of  Mrs.  Carlton^s 
bosom,  not  with  swroWy  at  this  announcement,  lud  bare  a  tale  that  per- 
h£^  she  had  not  understood  before. 

She  sat  there  now  in  her  drawiug-room,  waitiog  for  the  two  boys.  It 
was  their  birthday,  the  10th  of  November.  A  somewhat  singular  co- 
incsidenoe  it  was,  that  both  children  should  have  been  bom  on  the 
same  day  c^  the  year ;  but  the  fact  was  so.  They  came  into  the  room 
together;  Benja,  with  his  nobly  intelligent  countenance,  and  George, 
with  his  shower  of  fair  curls,  and  pretty  ways.  He  was  a  lovely  chud, 
but  spoiled  and  wilful,  his  mother  so  doted  on  and  indued  him. 
Benja  was  five,  George  three,  that  day ;  and  they  were  attired  alike,  in 
mourning  dresses  of  a  handsome  make  and  texture.  They  were  to  dine 
srt  two  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Carlton  had  promised  to  forego  her  usual  late 
dinner  aud  to  mak«  it  with  them. 

A  present  had  arrived  for  Benja  in  the  mcmiing ;  a  handsome  gold 
watch,  which  must  have  cost  twenty  or  thirty  guineas.  It  was  from  one 
of  his  guardians,  old  General  Carlton,  who  was  also  a  distant  relation. 
The  general  had  never  married,  and  knew  far  leas  about  children  than 
he  md  about :  Hottentots,  so  no  doubt  thought  a  gold  watch  was  a 
suitable  plaything  for  a  young  gentleman  of  five.  Benja,  however,  was 
highly  pleased  with  the  costly  toy,  and  he  came  in  to  £nner  displaying 
it  itixxi  his  belt,  Honour  havmg  hung  it  round  his  neck  with  a  piece  of 
black  watered  ribbon.  The  key,  serving  also  for  a  seal,  and  on  which 
Master  Benja's  crest  and  initials  were  engraved,  was  attached  to  it  by  a 
short  gold  chain.  Benja  thought  he  should  never  be  tired  of  rattling  it. 
Things  went  on  smoothly  during  dinner,  but  when  the  dessert  had 
been  some  time  on  the  table,  and  the  boys  had  eaten  as  much  as  they 
couldy  they  slipped  fi:om  their  chairs,  never  at  rest,  child-like,  and  began 
to  look  out  for  some  amusement.  Mrs.  Carlton  was  cracking  walnuts,  a 
&vourite  fruit  of  hers,  and  drinking  port  wine.  She  had  partaken  of 
two  sorts  with  her  dinner ;  sherry,  her  usual  drink  at  that  meal ;  and 
Champagne,  in  honour  of  the  boys'  birthday.  She  was  become  fond  of 
wine,  and  it  was  whispered,  in  the  servants'  hall,  that  she  sometimes  in- 
dulged in  it  more  than  was  seemly. 

"  Let  me  have  the  watch  on  now,"  began  Georgie. 
'^  You  will  break  it,"  answered  Benja. 

^Me  shan't  break  it,'*  lisped  George.  ^^  Mamma,  Benja  won't  let 
me  have  his  watch." 

'<  Don't  ask  him,  my  darlings"  said  the^  mother.  ^'  I  will  buy  you  a 
better  one  than  his.'' 

^<  But  me  want  that,"  ret(Mrted  Master  George,  resolutely,  who  had  a 
win  of  his  own.     **  Me  won't  break  it,  Benja." 

Benja  possessed  one  of  the  kindest  hearts  breathiBg.  He  looked  at 
his  watoh,  thinking  he  should  not  like  it  to  be  broken,  and  then  he 
looked  at  Georgie,  who  stood  turning  up  his  pretty  face,  eagerly  declaring 
he  would  take  care  of  it.  In  another  moment,  he  had  hung  the  watch 
round  Geoige's  neck. 

z2 


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334  St.  Martin's  Eve. 

This  did  for  a  time,  but,  presently,  the  little  Mow  took  the  watch  off, 
and  tried  to  open  it. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  interposed  Benja,  "  you  will  spoil  it.  Give  it  back 
to  me." 

"  No,"  said  Master  George,  positively. 

"  Give  it  back  to  me,  I  tell  you,  Greorgie,"  reiterated  Benja. 
)  **  Give  him  his  watch,  George,  my  dearest,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Carlton, 

'  lookin?  with  a  most  evil  expression  at  Benja.     *^  Let  him  keep  it  to  him- 

self if  he  chooses :  he  is  made  up  of  selfishness." 

Benja,  child  as  he  was,  knew  this  to  be  unjust,  but  he  uttered  no  far- 
ther remonstrance  ;  he  was  always  timid  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Carlton. 
So  Georgie  thought  he  could  go  further,  with  impunity,  and,  taking  firm 
hold  of  i£e  short  gold  chain,  swung  the  watch  round  and  round,  after  the 
manner  of  a  rattle. 

'^Oh  mamma,  mamma!"  cried  Benja,  in  an  agony,  running  to  Mis. 
Carlton,  and  laying  his  hands  upon  her  knee,  *^  do  not  let  him  spoil  my 
watch !     See  what  he  is  doing  with  it !" 

She  pushed  him  rudely  from  her,  with  a  gesture  of  dislike  and  con- 
tempt. And  Benja,  finding  he  could  get  no  redress  where  it  ought  to 
have  been  afforded,  ran  back  to  Georgie,  and  caught  hold  of  him  as  he 
was  flying  to  his  mother  for  protection.  Baffled  and  angry,  the  naughty, 
spoiled  cMld  dashed  the  watch  far  from  him,  on  the  floor,  shattering  the 
glass  to  atoms. 

Benja  was,  by  nature,  a  sweet-tempered  child,  and  he  had  been  kept 
under  by  Mrs,  Carlton,  but  this  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  bunt 
into  a  loud  fit  of  weeping,  and  struck  at  Master  Georgie  with  all  las 
might :  now  his  face,  now  his  chest ;  anywhere,  in  fisict,  tiiat  his  in&n^e 
pugilistic  skill  could  hit. 

Up  rose  Mrs.  Carlton,  her  face  inflamed  and  her  voice  shrieking. 
Never  had  Benja  seen  her  in  so  violent  a  passion  since  ih&t  ever- 
remembered  day  when  she  had  hmled  him  to  the  ground  in  the  presence 
of  his  fsither.  She  shook  him,  she  struck  him,  ^e  tore  his  hair,  she 
kicked  him,  she  battered  his  head  against  the  table,  and  his  beautiM 
birthday  dress  she  tore  nearly  to  pieces.  The  boy  screamed  with  pain, 
Georgie  screamed  with  terror;  and  Honour,  who  happened  to  be  pasang 
the  door,  came  rushing  in.  Mrs.  Carlton  had  probably  controlled  her 
temper  better,  had  she  partaken  of  less  wine. 

"  Good  Heavens !"  uttered  Honour,  in  alarm,  "you  will  kill  him! 
What  is  it?  what  has  he  done  ?" 

"  I  did  nothing,"  sobbed  Benja,  hysterically,  struggling  desperately  to 
release  himself  from  the  violence  of  Mrs.  Carlton.  ^'  Georgie  spoilt  my 
watch  for  the  purpose,  and  I  hit  him  for  it." 

"  How  can  you  for  shame  treat  him  in  such  a  manner,  ma*am?''  ex- 
claimed Honour  indignantly,  her  own  passion  rising,  and  speaking  to  her 
mistress  as  she  had  never  dared  to  speak  before.  "  Poor  orphan  child ! 
with  nobody  to  protect  him !  How  can  you  reconcile  it  to  the  memory 
of  my  dead  master?" 

"  Take  him  out  of  my  sight,"  utterfed  Mrs.  Carlton,  imperiously,  "and 
to-morrow  morning  you  quit  my  service.  I  never  permit  insolence,  and 
you  have  been  tolerated  here  too  long." 

She  thrust  Benja  toilr|^  Honour  as  she  spoke,  the  pieces  of  glass 

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St  Martin's  Eve.  335 

cracking  under  her  feet.  The  servant  picked  up  the  watch,  with  a  jerk, 
and  clasping  the  sohhing  boy  tenderly  in  her  arms,  qmtted  the  room  and 
Trent  up-stairs. 

"  It's  a  burning  shame  !**  she  broke  forth,  sitting  herself  down  by  the 
nursery  fire,  and  dashing  the  coals  about  with  the  poker,  as  if  she  would 
have  dashed  them  all  out  of  the  grate,  whilst  she  held  Benja  to  her  with 
tile  other  hand — "  it's  a  burning  shame  that  he  should  be  so  treated ! 
If  she  does  turn  me  away,  I'll  go  every  step  of  the  way  to  London,  and 
tell  all  I  know  to  your  guardians,  Benja :  if  I  don't  do  it,  may  the  Lord 
never  prosper  me  I" 

Poor  little  ill-treated  child !  He  lay  there  in  her  lap,  smarting  with 
the  pain  of  the  blows,  his  trembling  heart  feeling  as  if  it  would  burst. 

"  Let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  my  precious  lamb,  it  can  only  be  for 
a  few  years,"  beg^n  Honour  again.     "  I  know  master  left  orders,  in  his 
will,  that  at  ten  years  old  you  were  to  go  to  Eton." 
"  What's  Eton  ?"  sobbed  Benja. 

"  Something  very  good,"  returned  Honour,  who  had  no  definite  idea 
upon  the  point  herself.     "  And  when  you  are  of  age,  my  darling,  all 
Alnwick  will  be  yours,  and  she  and  Master  Georgie  must  turn  out  of  it." 
**  Where  will  they  go  ?"  asked  Benja. 

**  I  don't  know  where,  and  it  don't  matter  where,"  continued  the  kind- 
hearted  but  most  injudicious  servant.     "  You  will  be  the  master  of  all 
Alnwick,  and  nobody  can  live  here,  unless  you  choose  to  let  them." 
"  Who  is  the  master  now  ?"  questioned  Benja. 

"  You  are,  my  pretty  boy,  and  have  been,  ever  since  your  papa  died ; 
only  she  lives  in  it,  and  ^ves  orders,  because  you  are  not  old  enough.  I 
think  master  must  have  sent  his  wits  a  wool-gathering,"  added  the 
exasperated  Honour,  in  a  sort  of  soliloquy,  "  to  have  left  her  with  any 
power  over  the  child  at  all." 

Honour  was  right  in  the  main.  But  Mrs.  Carlton  had  played  her 
cards  well,  during  the  long  illness  that  had  preceded  her  husband's  death : 
she  had  made  herself  appear  a  perfect  angel  of  gentleness  to  Benja : 
and  Mr.  Carlton  had  no  female  relatives  with  whom  he  could  entrust 
the  boy. 

*' Don't  I  hope  she'll  turn  me  out  to-morrow!"  ejaculated  Honour, 
*'  and  won't  I  go  to  London  in  double-quick  time !  I'U  tell  them  the 
truth  too — that  she  would  commit  murder  upon  him  if  she  dared ;  and 
that  it  is  not  safe  for  him  to  be  left  here  without  somebody  to  look  after 
him,  and  be  a  check  upon  her." 

Benja  remained  in  her  lap,  his  sohs  gradually  subsiding.     He  lay 
thinking  of  many  things,  such  as  occur  to  children ;  his  ideas  running 
from  one  point  to  another.     Presently  he  spoke. 
"  Honour,  when  is  my  church  to  be  finished  ?" 

*'  Suppose  I  finish  it  this  afternoon !"  cried  Honour,  starting  up. 
"There's  scarcely  anything  left  of  it  to  do:  and  if  I  am  turned  away, 
it  may  never  get  done/* 

Opening  a  closet  door,  she  took  from  it  what  seemed  to  be  a  model  of 
a  pretty  country  church,  with  its  spire.  The  framework  was  of  wood, 
and  the  walls,  as  Honour  called  them,  of  thin  white  paper.  Some 
coloured,  transparent  windows  had  to  be  pasted  on,  which  was  all  there 
was  left  to  do  to  it,  and  with  a  bit  of  lighted  candle  inside  it  at  night, 

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336  St.  Martins  Eve. 

tBe  place  to  hold  which  was  already  made,  it  woufdf  really  have  a  pretty 
effect.  The  idea  was  not  Honour's,  but  taken  from  something  similar 
she  had  seen  in  a  threepenny  show,  recently  exhibiting  in  the  village, 
purporting  to  be,  as  the  biHs  expressed  it,  an  **  Emporium  of  foreign 
cunosities." 

Honour  collected  her  materials  about  her,  and  soon  accomplisbed  her 
task,  and  little  Benja  forgot  his  troubles  in  watching  her.  She  had 
taken  off  Benja's  costly  dreas,  with  many  a  lamentation  over  its  torn 
state,  and  had  put  him  on  a  new  tunic  of  brown-holland,  handsomely 
trimmed  with  black  silk  braid,  and  a  white  pinafore  over  that ;  for  she 
knew  he  would  be  getting  his  hands  amongst  the  paste. 

It  was  dusk  before  all  was  completed,  and  this  famous  church  lighted 
upl  Benja  clapped  his  hands  with  delight.  It  was  an  ingenious,  pic- 
turesque sight,  especially  to  a  child.  There  was  no  Ught  in  the  room, 
save  what  was  emitted  from  the  fire,  and  that  had  burnt  Iqw,  so  the 
church  was  shown  off  in  perfection. 

"  There  ought  to  be  moss  all  round  here,"  observed  Honour,  pointing 
to  the  projecting  board  on  which  the  church  rested,  "  but  it  is  too  late  to 
do  it  to-night ;  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  I  have  no  moss.  If  I  stop, 
we  will  ask  the  gardener  to  get  some." 

Benja  did  not  care  for  the  moss  :  to  his  admiring  eyes,  nothing  could 
improve  its  present  state.  He  gazed  at  it  on  tbe  high  drawers,  he  danced 
before  it  as  it  stood  on  the  table,  and  he  carried  it  to  and  fro  in  the  room, 
obeying  Honour's  directions  to  keep  it  upright  and  steady.  In  this  man- 
ner some  time  passed,  and  Honour  quitted  the  nursery  to  fetch  up  some 
things  she  wanted  from  the  kitchen. 

Honour  was  a  great  gossip,  and  the  scene  she  had  been  a  partial 
witness  to  in  the  dining-room,  was  now  related  to  the  eager  servants. 
Questions,  comments,  and  lamentations  resounded  from  all  sides.  Hononr 
seemed  quite  unable  to  tear  herself  away,  and  when,  with  a  final  effort, 
she  did  run  up-stairs  again,  she  found,  by  the  hall  clock,  that  she  had 
been  away  more  than  half  an  hour.  Turning  the  handle  of  the  nursery- 
door,  to  enter  hastily,  she  was  surprised  to  find  she  could  not  pull 
it  open* 

"Master  Benja,"  she  called  out,  "why  have  you  fastened  the  door. 
Come  and  open  it.." 

There  was  no  reply.  .  , 

"  He  must  have  got  upon  a  chair,  and  slipped  the  button,"  soliloqnjseff 
Honour.  But  at  that  moment  she  became  conscious  of  a  strong  ^"^^'*/Jj 
burning,  particularly  of  wool;  amd,  letting  the  things  she  carried  ra" 
down  with  a  crash,  she  flew  to  her  mistress's  dressing-room,  that  sne 
might  obtain  entrance  that  way,  for  a  door,  which  Mrs.  Carlton  had  bad 
made  when  her  child  was  born,  communicated  the  two  apartments.  ^"® 
reached  it ;  it  was  bolted  on  the  dressing-room  side  ;  but  that  was  n 
unusual  occurrence,  and  Honour  opened  it.  % 

When  Honour  left  the  nursery  on  her  way  to  the  kitchen,  she  pla^ 
the  church  on  the  table,  telling  Benja  to  look  at  it  until  she  came  wc*^ 
but  not  to  touch  it.     Now,  to  look  at  a  new  toy,  and  not  touch,  is  ph^ 
sophy  beyond  a  child.    Benja  soon  took  the  church  in  his  hands,  and 
parading  it  carefully  before  him  up  and  down  the  room,  thinking  ss 
did  so  of  what  Honour  had  said  about  the  house  being  all  hb,  when  M"' 

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CadLtoa  (^ned  lier  diessmg-sooin  door  and  looked  in*  Site  aetudUj 
started  back  at  the  sight  of  the  lighted  chnrek;  it  was  a.  «oo8fM<moi» 
object  in  tliat  darkened  roomy  and  A&  stood  oonteanphUang  it,  in  sikAee. 

^^  111  tell  you  idiat^  Honour,"  began  Baija,  lupposing  it  was  his  mnae 
ulio  had  entered,  and  too  mudk  oecnpied  widi  the  toy  to  turn  his  head 
nmnd  and  lode — ^'  I'll  tell  you  what  I  shall  do  when  I  am  master  (^ 
Alnwick.  Yon  shall  he  mistress  and  give  all  the  (Nrders,  and  we'll  have 
a  s^ceat  wall  built  up,  so  that  mamma  can't  come  near  us.  Birt  w«'U 
have  Georgia,  and  keep  him  to  oors^ves." 

Mrs.  Carlton  heard  the  irritating  words — doubly  irritating  to  her  in  her 
present  state,  for  the  wine  was  now  taking  its  full  effect  upon  her.  She 
gfided  towards  the  ill-&ted  diild,  rai^g  her  hand,  as  she  went,  to  turn  the 
button  of  die  door  opening  to  the  passage,  so  that  Honour  might  not 
come  suddenly  upon  her,  as  die  had  done  in  the  dining-nxHii.  She  com* 
menoed  the  onslaught  with  a  ^rious  blow  on  his  ear.  The  startled  child 
dropped  the  church,  and  its  paper  walls  took  fire. 

A  short  struggle  ^isued.  Instinct  caused  Benja  to  endeavour  to  spring 
i»>Fay  from  t^e  flames,  but  Jdrs.  Carlton  held  him  with  a  firm,  revengeful 
hand,  beating  him  about  the  head  and  ears,  and  the  blaze  caught  his 
pk&afore. 

Tiie  flames  rose  and  spread,  now  to  his  dress,  now  to  Ins  under  clotiilng^ 
fflid  the  diild  flew  shriekiDg  about  the  room  in  hb  terrified  agony :  but 
diey  were  &r  away  from  the  part  inhabited  by  the  servants,  and  the 
sounds  could  not  reaeh  them.  There  was  no  one  to  aid  him,  no  <»e,  no 
one;  for  a  demon  had  taken  possessicm  of  Mrs.  Carlton. 

Oh,  wicked  woman !  She  slipped  away  from  him  into  her  own  apart* 
m«d»,  bolting  die  door  as  Honour  found  it,  leaving  l^e  ill-fated  child  to 
bia|Blowly  av0ay  to  death.  She  stc4e  a  last  look  at  him  as  he  flew  ^het 
her/  imd  prayed  her  to  save  him :  she  heard  his  awful  cries  and  moans, 
resoonding  in  her  ears,  louder  than  any  other  shall  echo  th^^e,  until  ^ 
sounding  of  the  Last  Trumpet 

She  passed  down  the  stairs  with  a  noiseless,  stealthy  step,  and  entered 
the  dining-room,  her  heart  fluttering  awfully.  Georgie  was  asleep,  lying 
where  she  kfib  him.  It  may  be,  that  she  would  then  have  given  all  she 
possessed  to  undo  her  woi^  but  it  was  too  late.  A  dock  was  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and,  as  ^e  stood  before  it,  it  struck  the  hour — sixr  She 
deliberately  counted  the  strokes :  they  were  the  knell  of  the  murdered 
boy  up-«tairs.  She  began  to  pace  the  room  widi  a  frantic  stqi,  the  effect 
of  remorse,  terror,  or  exdtement,  almost  as  the  unhappy  child  above  had 
paced;  she  went  to  the  sideboard,  and  poured  out  a  quantity  of  neat 
brandy,  and  drank  it :  now  she  would  sit  down  for  a  moment,  quivenng  in 
ecvery  limb  ;  now,  tear  about  the  apartment;  now,  lay  her  ear  to  the  door 
and  listen.  ThaJt  awfiil  half-hour  of  suspense  whidi  ensued,  was  m(x» 
terrible  than  all  the  horror  she  had  ever  heard  or  dreamt  of. 

V. 
The  iir(][uest  was  held  at  the  Carlton  Arms.  It  was  umversally  be- 
lieved that  liie  child  had  fastened  the  door  in  sp(n*t,  and  had  afterwards 
accidentally  set  himself  on  fire  by  means  of  the  light  in  the  church.  He 
was  cpiite  dead  when  Honour  found  him^ — ^a  black  mass  lying  ^i^  the 
carpet,  whidi  was  smouldering  under  hinu     The  verdict  of  the  jury  was 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


338  St.  Martin's  Eve. 

*^  Accidental  death,'*  with  a  severe  censure  upon  Honour  for  having  left 
the  child  alone  with  so  dangerous  a  toy.  Honour  fully  shared  in  it,  and 
a  remorse  as  great  as  that  of  her  mistaress,  though  of  a  different  nature^ 
seated  itself  in  her  heart,  to  remain  there  for  ever.  She  was  attacked  with 
hrain  fever,  and  during  the  days  of  delirium  she  raved  wildly  of  the  oc- 
currence, and  accused  Mrs.  Carlton  of  the  murder.  The  ravings  were 
known  to  be  the  effects  of  a  diseased  brain;  nevertheless,  the  servants 
would  look  at  each  other  significantly  ;  and  Honour,  upon  her  recovery, 
had  no  recollection  of  having  uttered  them. 

VI. 

Months  passed  away.  Mrs.  Carlton  had  quitted  the  Hall  immediately 
after  the  funeral  with  her  child,  now  the  heir.  She  was  travelling  about 
on  the  Continent,  travelling  about :  now  hither,  now  thither ;  now  in  one 
place,  now  in  another ;  ever  restless,  ever  changing.  France,  Flanders, 
Belgium,  Germany :  it  seemed  that  some  power  impelled  her  forward, 
for  no  sooner  was  she  settled  down  in  one  spot,  than  she  would  suddenly 
start  away  from  it  for  another.  Her  attendants  doubted  whether  she 
was  deranged,  and  indeed  there  were  moments  when  her  conduct  seemed 
inexplicable,  unless  by  that  affliction.  A  fearful  remorse,  a  remorse  that 
few  can  form  an  idea  of,  rent  her  heart.  Would  this  remorse  have  been 
less  felt,  had  her  wicked  desire  for  power  and  possessions  been  accom- 

Slished  ?  It  is  difficult  to  say.  But  she  knew,  now,  that  she  had  perilled 
er  soul  for  worse  than  nought;  for  the  halls  of  Alnwick  and  their  rich 
lands  were  passing  rapidly  away  from  her  into  the  hands  of  strangers ; 
passing  away  with  her  child's  me. 

Whether  Georgie  had  eaten  too  much  at  that  memorable  birthday- 
dinner,  or  whether  the  shock  at  seeing  his  brother's  lifeless  body  was  too 
much  for  him,  for  in  the  wild  alarm  raised  by  Honour  he  had  flown  up- 
stairs unnoticed,  certain  it  is,  the  child's  health  declined  firom  that  night. 
The  doctors  said  he  had  a  flt  of  indigestion,  and  treated  him  for  it.  He 
seemed  better  in  a  few  days,  and  his  mother  took  him  abroad  with  her, 
but' he  was  never  again  the  healthful,  merry  boy  he  had  been.  What 
could  be  the  matter  with  him?  Mrs.  Carlton  asked.  And  she  soon  knew. 
Consumption.     A  disease  which  had  proved  fatal  to  his  father. 

It  was  in  Belgium  that  the  disease  came  rapidly  to  a  crisis.  She 
could  not  move  about  then,  lest  it  should  prove  fatal  to  the  child  :  it 
would  prove  fatal  soon  enough,  even  with  all  the  rest  that  could  be 
afforded  him.  Mrs.  Carlton's  anguish,  who  shall  tell  of  it  ?  She  loved 
this  child  with  a  flerce,  raging  love ;  he  was  the  only  being  who  had 
filled  every  crevice  of  her  proud  and  passionate  heart :  it  was  for  his  sake 
she  had  jealously  hated  Benja ;  it  was  to  benefit  him,  she  had  committed 
the  crime  that  clung  to  her  now  like  a  nightmare.  She  called  in,  one 
after  the  other,  all  the  medical  men  of  the  town  she  was  located  in :  she 
summoned  over,  at  a  great  expense,  more  than  one  physician  from  the 
British  metropolis ;  and  they  all  told  her  that  they  could  not  save  his 
life.  She  watched  his  fair  face  grow  paler,  his  feverish  limbs  wsate  and 
become  weaker.  She  never  shed  a  tear.  The  servants  thought  she  was 
only  kept  in  her  senses  by  the  aid  of  brandy-^a  strange  help  to  sanity. 
To  dridc  that  had  now  become  habitual  to  her.  She  would  be  attacked 
with  bursts  of  anguish,  fearfully  painful  to  witness,  in  which  she  would  > 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


St  Martin's  Eve.  339 

• 
tear  her  hair,  and  fling  aboat,  as  one  insane,  and  call  upon  her  boy  to 
live— to  live. 

**  Mamma,  don't,  don't  T  panted  the  little  lad,  one  day,  when  his  end 
was  drawing  near,  and  he  was  a  witness  to  one  of  these  paroxysms, 
"don't  be  so  sorry  for  me.     I  am  going  to  heaven  to  be  with  jBenja." 

She  started  up  firom  her  position  beside  him,  and  darted  about  the 
room  like  one  possessed,  her  hands  to  her  temples. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  don't  frighten  me,"  moanea  the  child,  in  terror.  "  I 
shall  be  glad  to  go  to  Benja." 

Cease,  Georgie,  cease !  for  every  innocent  word  that  you  utter  is  tor- 
tare  to  your  mother.  Look  at  her,  as  she  sinks  down  there  on  the  floor^ 
and  groans  aloud  in  her  sharp  agony. 

The  time  came  for  the  child  to  die,  and  he  was  laid  in  his  little  grave 
in  Belgium.  What  would  be  Mrs.  Carlton's  career  now  ?  It  would 
seem  that  restlessness  at  least  would  form  a  portion  of  it,  for,  the  instant 
the  child's  remains  were  hid  from  her  sight,  the  old  eagerness  for  removal 
came  on.  Who  can  describe,  or  imagine,  the  life  that  was  hers  ?  All 
her  j^ans  were  defeated,  her  hopes  in  this  world  blasted,  while  she  dared 
not  cast  a  thought  to  the  next :  he,  who  was  more  precious  to  her  than 
heaven,  gone,  and  her  soul  loaded  with  a  never-to-be-atoned-for,  and 
now  unprofitable  crime  I  Let  us  be  thankful  that  the  terrors  of  such  a 
state  of  mind  can  only,  by  the  innocent,  be  faintly  pictured.  A  fresh 
thought  was  now  added  to  her  remorse :  it  was,  that  if  she  had  su£Pered 
the  Dl-fated  Benja  to  live,  she  would  still  be  revelling  at  the  much- 
coveted  Alnvrick,  as  its  mistress.  No  human  care  or  skill  could  have 
prolonged  the  life  of  her  own  child,  for  it  was  the  will  of  God  that  he 
should  die ;  but  Benja  ? — God  did  not  call  him. 

Never  was  Benja  Carlton's  image  absent  from  her ;  and,  strange  to 
say,  it  was  not  the  burning  figure,  flying  about  and  screaming,  that 
liaunted  her  brain,  but  the  happy  child,  marching  along,  all  pleased  and 
contented  with  his  pretty  church.  The  lighted  toy  was  before  her  eyes 
night  and  day  :  its  form,  its  windows,  its  aspect,  its  blaze  of  light ;  not  a 
point  but  was  engraven  on  her  memory  in  characters  of  fire.  She  dared 
not  be  in  the  dait ;  she  dared  not  wake  up  alone  at  night ;  she  scarcely 
^Med  to  be  alone  at  mid-day,  lest  the  form  of  Benja  and  that  lighted 
church  should  palpably  appear  to  her.  Think  not  tms  description  of  the 
woman's  mind  is  exaggerated  :  believe  me,  it  presents  of  its  terrors  but  a 
&int  outline. 

The  first  anniversary  of  the  day  was  approaching,  the  10th  of  Novem- 
ber. How  Mrs.  Cariton  dreaded  it,  can  never  be  told.  It  would  occur 
wut  the  period  of  her  departure  for  England,  where  business  demanded 
^^  presence.  How  should  she  pass  it  ?  Would  it  be  more  tolerable  to 
spend  it  in  travelling,  or  to  remain  where  she  was,  at  rest,  until  it  was 
^er?  At  rest !  Oh,  anything  but  that  mockery !  Let  her  whirl  over 
the  earth  night  and  day— but  never  let  her  think  again  of  rest,  for  there 
'^as  no  rest  for  her. 

The  nearest  port  of  embarkation  to  where  she  was  staying  was  Dun- 
•^'jue;  except  Ostend,  to  which  place  she  had  a  dislike  ;  and  upon  re- 
lemng  to  the  time-bills  of  the  steamers,  she  found  that  the  City  of 
*^ndim  would  leave  Dunkerque  for  London  on  the  night  of  the  10th  of 
November.     She  gave  orders  that  things  should  be  in  readiness  for  their 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


340  St.  Martin's  Eve. 

joamey  Mrly  on  the  roorniiig  of  the  10th*  Three  servante  weie  with 
ner:  her  maid,  George's  nurse,  and  one  man.  The  day  fixed  upon  caoie 
Mmnd,  and  thej  eonuneneed  ^eir  joiim«T»  traveHmg  to  LiUe^  »id  from 
thence  to  Duokerqae,  hy  tram  ;  whidi  tetter  phbce  they  reMhed  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  put  np  at  the  H6tel  de  Flandie. 

**  wan  madame  dine  in  her  room,  or  at  the  table-d1i6te  ?"  mqoired 
the  head  waiter,  an  old  man  who  had  served  in  t^  house  more  than 
thirty  yean. 

"  At  the  table-d'h6te,"  replied  the  servant  addressed.  "  Madame  i» 
in  had  spirits,  from  having  lost  two  children,  and  does  not  like  to  be 
alone."    The  servant  thou^t  he  spoke  but  the  truth. 

At  five  o'clock,  when  the  bell  rang  for  the  table-d'h6te.  Mrs.  Carlton 
entered  the  diniug-room.  Four  or  five  gentlemen — ^the  hot^  are  empty 
at  that  seasons-came  stra^ling  in,  one  by  one,  and  the  repast  began. 
The  dinner  was  excellent,  but  it  did  not  last  long:  die  would  have 
a^ven  mueh  could  it  have  lasted  until  the  hour  of  h^  departure  fior  the 


She  was  seated  facing  the  mantelpiece,  consequentiy  the  clock  was  in 
front  of  her.  Coward,  coward  that  she  was  !  She  watched  its  hands 
move  slowly,  but  surely,  round  to  the  hour  of  six — ^the  exact  lame  that, 
twelre  months  before,  she  had  stood  before  ihe  clock  in  her  own  dinii^ 
room  at  Alnwick,  hoping  that  Benja  Carlton  was  huming  away  to 
death.  Her  agitation  became  painful  to  herself,  and  she  dreaded  kst 
other  eyes  should  perceive  it :  her  brain  throbbed,  her  head  vms  con- 
frised,  her  hands  trembled.  The  gentlemen  withdrew,  one  by  one,  as 
liiey  had  entered :  they  had  gazed  at  her  as  she  sat  before  them,  in  h& 
severe  beauty,  and  haa  wondered  that  one  so  young  could  be  so  wan  and 
careworn.  In  vain  she  drank  plentifully  of  wine ;  it  did  not  drovm  her 
agitation  :  upon  one  whose  habitual  drink  has  for  some  time  been 
hrandy,  French  wines  can  make  but  little  impresnon.  A  choking  sensa- 
tion oppressed  her  ;  her  throat  seemed  to  swell  with  it ;  and  that  sure 
minute«hand  grew  nearer  and  nearer.  Suddenly  she  addressed  ihe 
waiter — anything  to  break  the  painful  silence ;  but  tiiere  was  no  answer, 
and  then  she  became  aware  tlmt  the  old  man  was  absent,  and  she  was 
idone  in  that  dreary  room.  Mlth  a  cry  of  horror,  she  flew  from  it  iqp 
the  hroad,  lighted  staircase,  to  seek  her  ovm  room  and  the  presence  <» 
kermaid* 

What  is  it  that  comes  over  us  in  these  moments  of  dread  ?  We  have 
sot  the  guilty  conscience  of  Mrs.  Carlton,  yet  we  have  surety  aH  ex- 
perienced the  same  sensation — a  dread  of  looking  behind,  us  in  thesft 
minutes  of  superstitious  fear.  Yet  look  we  knust  and  do.  The  msienible 
woman  had  taken  but  a  few  steps  up  the  stairs,  when  she  turned  her 
head,  in  the  impulse  of  desperation,  and  there — there — at  the  opensd 
doors  leading  into  the  court-yard,  stood  a  form,  heari^  &  lighted 
diurch,  the  very  one  it  seemed  that  the  boy  had  carried  on  hs  hirthds^- 
night ;  and,  apparently  issuing  from  the  same  figure,  a  dull,  wild,  un- 
earthly sound  smote  upon  W  ear.  What  the  form  was,  v^iat  the 
dreadful  cry  was,  she  will  never  know  ;  but  her  guilty  imagination 
whi^ered  it  was  the  apparition  of  Benja. 

She  was  unconscious  how  she  got  up  the  stairs,  she  was  unconscioiis 
how  she  burst  into  her  room — the  first  on  tiie  rights  at  the  commence-' 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


St.  Martin's  Eve.  341 

ment  of  the  long  corridor.  Her  maid  was  not  there,  as  she  expected, 
but  two  wax  H^ts  were  huming  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  a  fire  hlazed  in 
Ae  grate. 

She  stood  there  for  a  moment,  her  senses  deseri^g  her  in  her  terror,  when 
dowly,  ^owly,  the  clock  before  her  struck  the  fest  stroke  of  six.  Twelve 
months  be£bre — twelve  months  before !  at  that  dread  honrf  Mrs.  Carl- 
ton, with  a  smothered  cry,  pressed  her  hands  upon  her  eyes,  and  flew — 
it  was  a  habit  she  had  taken  to — flew  about  the  chamber. 

But,  at  the  same  moment,  there  arose  a  strange  noise;  the  wildest 
sounds  that  ever  struck  upon  the  ear  of  man.  They  seemed  to  come 
from  the  street ;  the  very  air  resounded  with  them :  louder,  louder  they 
grew;  loud  enough  to  make  a  deaf  man  hear,  and  to  strike  even  an  inno- 
cent heart  with  terror.  The  same  impulse  that  had  caused  Mrs.  Carlton 
to  look  behind  her  on  the  staircase,  drew  her  now  to  the  window.  She 
opened  it  in  the  height  of  desperate  fear,  and  leaned  out.  What  was  it 
she  beheld? 

In  all  parts  of  the  street,  in  every  comer  of  it,  distant,  hr,  near, 
nearer,  pouring  into  it  from  all  directions,  as  if  they  were  making  for  the 
hotel,  making  /or  her,  pouring  into  it  in  crowds,  from  the  Place,  from 
the  Rue  de  I'Eglise,  from  the  Rue  Nationale,  from  the  Rue  David- 
d' Angers,  from  the  Place  Napoleon,  came  shoals  upon  shoals  of  these 
lighted  toys,  like  the  one  she  had  seen  in  the  hotel  yard,  like  the  one 
carried  by  that  unfortunate  child  when  she  had  hurled  him  into  eternity. 
Of  all  sizes,  of  all  forms,  of  various  degrees  of  deamess  and  lig^t,  came 
on  these  conspicuous  things:  models  of  cottages,  of  houses,  of  towers,  of 
lanterns,  of  eastles,  and  many  models  of  churches,  on  they  pressed;  but 
Mrs.  Carlton  saw  but  the  latter,  and,  to  her  diseased  and  terrified  mind, 
they  all  bore  but  that  one  form.  Accompanying  them,  were  these  hor- 
rible and  unearthly  sounds,  making  a  din  to  confrise  the  calmest,  and 
suggesting  ideas  not  of  this  world.  Mrs.  Carlton  had  read  tales  in  her 
Aildhood  of  demons  appearing  and  dragging  away  a  living  murderer: 
will  it  be  credited  that  she,  an  educated  woman,  remembered  the  idle 
tales  now,  and  feared  them  ?  The  forms  in  the  street,  to  her,  were  but 
the  spirit  of  the  murdered  boy,  multiplied  into  thousands,  accompanied  by 
evil  spirits  howling  and  shrieHng :  were  they  coming  for  her,  she  ravedy 
in  that  dread  anniversary  hour  ?  Marvel  not,  marvel  not  that  these 
fears  rushed  over  her:  you  know  not  the  fantastic  terrors  of  a  guilty 
conscience. 

With  a  succession  of  low  sounds,  as  of  one  in  convulsions,  Mrs.  Carlton 
fell  on  the  floor,  her  limbs  contorted,  and  her  mouth  foaming. 

In  the  next  room,  stood  her  maids,  leaning  over  the  little  balcony,  and 
paring  out  upon  all  this  light  and  din.  To  them,  with  a  conscience  at  rest, 
^e  scene  presented  a  most  novel  and  pleasing  appearance:  though  the 
MsQ  was  frightful,  and  they  kept  petulantly  stopping  their  ears  and 
aughing,  wondeAng  what  in  the  name  of  wonder  it  could  all  mean.  The 
interns,  or  whatever  the  lighted  things  might  be,  were  of  various  forms, 
mostly  composed  of  paper,  the  frames  of  wood;  a  few  only  being  of  glass. 
A  square,  or  half-oblong  shape,  open  at  the  top,  seemed  to  predominate. 
They  were  mounted  on  the  top  of  long  poles  or  sticks,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
all  the  population  of  Dunkerque,  rich  and  poor,  old  and  young,  must 
«ave  turned  out  to  carry  them ;  as  indeed  it  had.     The  uproar  proceeded 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


842  St.  Martin's  Eve. 

from  horns  ;  cows'  horns,  clay  horns,  any  horns,  one  of  which  every  lad, 
from  twenty  downwards,  held  to  his  lips,  blowing  with  all  his  might. 
The  maid  servants  sought  at  once  for  some  explanation  of  the  strange 
sight ;  and  the  reader  would  like  it  also. 

When  the  holy  saint,  Martin,  was  on  earth  in  the  flesh,  and  sojourning 
at  Dunkerque,  the  legend  runs  that  his  ass  got  lost  one  night  on  the 
neighbouring  downs.  The  saint  was  in  despair,  and  called  upon  the 
inhabitants  to  aid  him  in  the  search.  So,  all  Dunkerque  turned  out  to 
seek  the  ass  with  horns  and  lanterns,  a  dense  fog  prevailing  at  the  time; 
and,  the  account  says,  they  were  happily  successful!  Hence  commenced 
this  annual  custom,  and  most  religiously  has  it  been  observed  ever  since. 
On  St.  Martin's  eve,  and  St.  Martin's  night,  the  10th  and  11th  of  No- 
vember, as  soon  as  dark  comes  on,  the  principal  streets  of  Dunkerque 
are  perambulated  by  crowds,  carrying  these  fanciful-shaped  lanterns,  and 
blowing  the  horns.  It  is  looked  upon  almost  as  a  religious  fete.  Police 
keep  the  streets  clear;  carriages,  carts,  and  horses,  are  not  allowed  to 
pass  ;  and,  in  short,  everything  gives  way  to  the  horns  and  lanterns  on 
St.  Martin's  eve  and  night.  But  as  to  the  extraordinary  din  these  horns 
create — I  can  only  say  that  if  anybody  wants  to  hear  a  noise  such  as  he 
never  heard  before,  one  to  last  his  remembrance  for  life,  and  perhaps  turn 
him  permanently  deaf,  he  had  better  pass  the  next  10th  of  November  at 
Dunkerque. 

We  hear  and  talk  of  strange  coincidences,  but  none  can  deny  that  it 
was  indeed  a  most  strange  one  which  took  the  unhappy  Mrs.  Carlton  to 
Dunkerque  on  that  particular  night,  of  all  nights  in  the  year :  in  no  other 
part  of  the  habited  world  could  she  have  met  with  the  sight  that  thus 
struck,  and  told,  upon  her  guilty  remembrance. 

Her  servants  remained  at  tne  window,  enduring  the  awful  din,  ad- 
miring some  peculiarly  tasty  church,  or  castle,  and  laughing  at  others 
that  took  fire  and  so  burnt  away,  to  the  intense  irritation  of  their  bearers. 
Presently  the  lady's  maid  passed  into  her  mistress's  room,  wondering 
that  she  had  not  come  up  from  dinner.  Mrs.  Carlton  was  lying  on  the 
floor,  and  it  seemed  that  she  had  been  stricken  with  a  fit  of  epilepsy. 

She  revived  sufficiently  to  be  conducted  that  night  on  board  the  steam- 
packet,  and  was  conveyed  safely  to  England.  But,  as  the  hours  and 
days  advanced,  she  was  found  to  be  a  lunatic,  uttering  things  her  at- 
tendants shuddered  to  hear,  and  which  seemed  to  be  but  a  repetition  of 
the  ravings  of  the  unhappy  Honour  in  her  delirium. 

She  was  quiet  at  first,  Mrs.  Carlton,  except  for  these  wanderings  of  the 
mind,  but  paroxysms  of  violence  came  on  with  time,  and  the  phyddans 
declared  her  malady  to  be  confirmed  and  hopeless. 

In  one  of  the  private  asylums  contiguous  to  the  metropolis,  she  has 
been  for  some  time  placed ;  to  remain  there,  in  all  probability,  for  the 
whole  of  her  remaining  life,  be  it  short  or  long.  Strange  rumours  are 
whispered  in  Alnwick  Hall  and  its  neighbourhood,  and*  were  are  some 
who  scruple  not  to  assert  that  it  was  his  unhappy  stepmother  who  wil- 
fully destroyed  the  young  heir  of  Alnwick. 


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(    343     ) 


A  POLITICAL  CONVERSAZIONE  OF  THE  YEAR  1848.— MET- 
TERNICH,  GUIZOT,  LOUIS  PHILIPPE,  PALMERSTON. 

Metternigh.  Yes,  tlie  first  and  primary  error,  sir  ex-minister  of 
France,  was  yours.  You  have  precipitated  all.  Why  neglect  to  give 
Rossi  more  prudent  instructions,  or  orders  more  in  accordance  with  the 
urgency  of  cmnimstances  at  the  moment?  The  election  of  Mastai  should 
never  have  heen  hurried  through  so  hastily.  In  my  secret  despatches  I 
moreover  told  you  this  man  was  a  hot-headed  suhject,  who  would  have 
compromised  us  all  and  himself  into  the  bargain. 

GmzoT.  And  who  would  ever  have  believed  that  firom  Rome  would 
arise  the  dreaded  conflagration  ?  No  pope  of  modem  times  has  ever  de- 
serted the  cause  of  kings.  Inasmuch  as  the  temporal  sovereignty  of 
Rome  is  the  moving  spring  of  all  other  monarchies,  so  is  theruinof  tnese 
a  consequence  of  the  decay  and  the  ruin  of  that. 

LotTis  Philippb.  But  you,  Prince  Mettemich,  why  attempt  half- 
measures?  You  well  know  that  in  state  affairs  half-measures  are  the 
ruin  of  those  who  adopt  them,  and  the  salvation  of  those  against  whom 
they  are  directed.  "Why  compromise  yourself  in  the  a£fair  of  Ferrara? 
And  then  why  grow  alarmed  and  draw  back  ?  During  thirty-four  years 
you  made  no  grosser  error  than  this.  You  have  alienated  from  rehgion 
thrones  and  crowns,  and  have  conjoined  it  with  radicalism.  Are  you 
ignorant  that  the  policy  of  Italy  was  always  that  of  maint^ing  for  aUies 
the  monks,  the  priesuood,  and  the  bescottinisti  f  Why  set  yourself 
against  this  moral  movement,  so  ancient,  but  ever  ^eat  and  powerful  ? 
I  do  not  say  that  of  itself  papal  influence  may  now  be  of  great  weight  in 
European  flairs.  But  I  say  that,  united  with  liberal  principles,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  and  more  especially  in  Italy.  It  is  for  us  to  divide  it.  Be  also 
assured  that  when  the  Pope  becomes  united  with  the  people,  the  cause 
of  kings  is  lost. 

Mbttebnich.  That  is  an  observation  worthy  of  the  exalted  per- 
sonage by  whom  it  was  made.  Either  I  ought  not  to  have  attempted 
these  measures,  or  I  should  have  carried  them  through.  A  new 
pope,  like  Gregory  XVI.,  of  pious  memory,  would  have  agreed  to  all. 
The  reason  is  plain.  Upon  the  petty  princes  of  Italy  and  Germany, 
who  managed  to  maintain  themselves  behind  our  support,  and  with- 
out any  moral  principle,  it  was  easy  to  impose  silence,  and  prevent 
them  from  relaxing  the  bit  or  making  concessions  to  the  people.  But 
the  Pope,  puffed  up  with  a  great  European  popularity,  was  unwilling  to 
listen  to  advice,  nor  would  he  hearken  to  reason.  In  a  word,  he  has 
placed  himself  in  a  false  position.  I  acknowledge  my  error.  But  why 
was .  I  not  supported  by  all  other  monarchs  ?  Why  did  the  voice  of 
England  interrupt  me?  Why  suffer  me  to  be  disparaged  by  the  public 
loumals  ?  Why  did  France  maintain  a  doubtful  position?  Why  was  I 
left  alone  in  the  lists  ?  Against  our  union,  and  opposed  to  our  bayonets, 
ihe  Pope  would  have  been  forced  to  humble  his  tones. 

Palmebston.  These  events  were  but  natural  consequences.  They  were 


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344  A  Political  Coirver9azione  of  the  Year  1848. 

in  the  nature  of  things.  They  might,  perhaps,  have  been  protracted, 
but  could  not  have  been  prevented.  But  you  exasperate  Italy  with  a 
senseless  policy.  You  alienate  the  King  of  Piedmont.  You  have  placed 
the  supreme  government  of  Venetian  Lombardy  in  the  hands  of  fools,  of 
wretdies  incapable  of  any  fsresight,  deaf  to  -efery  counsel,  and  who  de- 
ceived you  a«  to  thd  nonu  tonditiep  ef  the  QOfontry.  l!hey  kaded  with 
ignominy  and  insolence  a  people  who  were  ever  the  prop  of  your  ruined 
dances,  and  gave  them,  in  a  word,  the  sole  alternative  of  death  or  sal- 
vation. The  least  imbecile  of  all  of  them  was  the  ex-viceroy,  upon  whos 
you  reckoned  the  least.  He  sold  in  time,  and  escaped  in  time.  He  pos- 
sessed foresight,  and  with  a  clever  hypocnsy  he  managed  to  keep  the 
Lombards  in  good  temper,  and  even  to  the  last  sought  to  palliate  the 
cruelties  of  the  police  and  the  army.  I  should  ly^e  much  to  read  your 
secret  correspondence  widi  Torresani  and  Fiequehnont,  who  wished  to 
ensnare  the  JEHilaiwse  with  a  Yiennese^uraTi^e,  took  serious  notice  of  the 
boys  who  scribbled  Pio  Nbno  at  the  street  comers,  wore  buckles  and 
hats,  and  allowed  themselves  to  be  taken  unawares,  whilst  alarming  indi- 
cations clearly  showed  the  general  conflagration  which  was  ^mouldering 
under  the  ashes.  The  boastings  of  your  eenerals,  their  inc^aciWy  their 
vile  barbarity,  and  that  of  the  army^  are  things  wUch  are  pemct  horrors. 
The  dominion  of  1^  house  of  Austria  has  ceased  in  Italy. 

Mettesnicb.  If  Austria's  dominion  has  ceased  in  It^y,  the  exclusive 
sovereignty  of  £ngland  on  the  seas  is  at  an  end.  We  Imow  the  canc» 
that  gnaws  her;  it  is  a  colossus  with  the  gambe  di  creta.  She  has 
£uled  in  the  policy  of  kings,  in  the  general  interests  of  Europe.  You, 
my  Lord  Palmerston,  you,  sir  ex-minister  of  England^  have  abandoned 
us,  have  even  betxayed  us  at  the  most  critical  moment  And  vrhy,  on 
what  grounds,  aad  for  what  natianal  interests,  did  you  favour  the  convul- 
•ions  of  the  revolutionary  rulers  in  Switzerland  and  Italy  ?  They  saw 
well  the  desire  of  the  English  merchants  to  get  rid  of  the  superabundance 
of  their  productions  in  Italy  at  the  expense  of  Austrian  commerce.  They 
saw  well  to  what  end  your  negotiations  tended.  But  what  profit  have 
you  derived?  You  have  kindled  the  firebrands  which  were  to  bum  your 
wings.  People  once  emancipated  become  themselves  the  £Ed>ricator8  of 
mercontiie  commodities.  They  load  with  prolubhions  imports  £rom 
alnroad,  and  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  English.  Good  treaties  of  com- 
merce can  only  be  made  with  princes,  who  (to  save  themselves)  should 
impede  the  enriching  of  the  people^  or  that  division  of  substance  which, 
m>  to  a  certain  point,  brings  commerce,  and  causes  the  nnn  of  monarchs. 
Too  late  did  I  discover  it  even  at  Vienna.  The  ports  of  Ulyria  and  Dal- 
matia  ruined  the  imperial  chest.  Why,  then»  did  not  England  support 
our  threats  in  Switzerland?  What  interests  had  she  mr  the  Swiss 
jaation?  I  z^teat,  and  shall  ever  repeat,  that  the  nadonality  of  the 
people  is  the  ruin  of  England^  of  its  foreign  commerce,  and  its  m^irine. 
Pitt  and  Castlereagh  were  never  favourable  to  the  people.  Thc^  flat- 
tered them,  aided  than  in  Spain  and  in  Germany  to  overthrow  Napo- 
leon, but  it  was  when  they  bad  no  longer  need  of  them«  If  the 
allied  sovereigns  in  1815  had  so  ruined  France  that  she  eould  not  again 
rise,  they  would  not  find  themselves  in  their  present  position.  HistoiT 
therefore,  no  less  than  political  knowledge,  indicated  the  path  whida 
England  should  have  kept,  and  should  still  keep,  in  European  turmoils. 

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Metktnieh^  Ghnzot^  Louis  PAiiippe,  PaJmers^on.         M6 

GrUizoT.  Bnivo,  Mettiernich !  By  your  talk  tbeve  is  uo  difteiiH^  in 
tstogtoMog  yoa  as  the  first  {Hilar  of  absc^afeism — the  mottb  hoary-headed 
and  consummate  diplomatist  of  European  cabinets. 

MsTTEB^ctf.  Well!  and  was  my  policy  in  any  w«y  ambig^novs?  It 
has  been  erer  one  and  the  esaosy  aa  its  end  is  one  and  the  same — that 
of  ne^er  yielding.  I  always  said  tha^  we  never  could  relax  in  severity 
or  dissdlYe  our  union,  without  being  lost  Yo«,  in  your  timic^ty  and 
embarrasameats,  still  wanted  to  aet»  but  yeu  did  not  dare.  You  feared 
ihe  jouKBalifitB  and  the  idle  stcnies  of  the  day ;  and  lost  yourselres  ia. 
acrawliag  long  i%rade$  in  your  Dehati,  winch  caused  me  real  eon- 
^m.  In  the  Switzerland  and  Sunderbu]^  questions  you  aUamed  to  the 
acme  of  folly.  Why  despatch  notes  to  the  courts?  Why  so  many  rain 
threats  against  radicalism?  Why  propose  a  eoalition  of  prinoe^  and  an 
araied  intervention  in  Switacffland,  wh^i  you  were  assured  ^  nothing? 
You  have  compromised  us ;  you  have  revealed  our  .inifM>tence.  Theae 
dungs  ought  to  be  done>  but  secretly ;  seek  the  (^portunity,  put  on  the 
wQlfs  hide,  and  show  the  lion's  claws  only  at  the  proper  mcnnent, 

Louis  Phujppe.  Our  infirm  policy  was  an  effect  of  our  false  posituMi. 
We  could  not  act  dtffer^iitly.  To  have  stood  out  (m  this  last  oeeasion 
w(»dd  have  conducted  us  to  more  spee^  and  certain  ruin.  For  aovdn^ 
teen  yean  I  held  ^le  hau^ty  pe<^le  of  France  in  external  nuffity,  I 
sought  to  direco  towards  Africa  the  national  effervescence;  I  did  my 
utmost  to  establish  my  dynasty  upon  the  throne;  I  surreunded  myself 
with  pundwsed  nobility,  sinee  mild  uKmarchies  cannot  exist  withouit 
nobility;  I  ousted  &om  the  national  representation  l^e  middle  clas% 
wfaicb  is  tiie  great  prop  of  liberty  in  all  times;  I  bought  over  the  heads 
of  the  army  and  placed  my  sons  at  its  head ;  by  cavils  of  every  hind  I 
weakened  tiae  National  Guard,  always  the  guarantee  df  liberty ;  I  entered 
into  intri^iies,  proposed  marrii^es  in  Spain — fiimily  ayianees.  CoUir 
&0B8  arose  between  the  pec^le  and  the  princes  in  Giermany,  in  Italy, 
Switieiland,  and  Greece,  in  the  west  aod  in  the  east.  I  ^ugned  to 
cajole  the  people,  but  I  speedily  {daeed  my  hand  upon  the  scale  dP  kings, 
^  forced  it  to  kick  the  beam  f(u?  ua.  But»  in  a  word,  I  had  nath^  uie 
love  no9r  the  esteem  of  the  Fr^seh,  and  on  the  first  bel  trarre  we  went 
together  into  the  air. 

Mettebnic^.  When  I  think  of  the  pitiful  manner  in  which  you 
effected  your  escape  firom  the  soil  of  France,  I  cannot  refrain  from 
laughter*  I  have  been  told  that  you  arrived  in  London  costomed  as  if 
you  had  issued  from  one  of  Dante's  cav^:iui. 

Louis  PHiurrE.  You  have  no  cause  to  laugh  at  me.  The  populaet, 
^  they  had  caught  you,  would  have  made  a  fine  figure  of  you.  Con- 
^dering,  then^  that  i^  Parisians  had  every  reason  to  4rive  m^  ooA  ef 
France,  and  that  the  Viennese,  perhaps,  were  wrong  in  ousting  yon  hom 
^e  eoapire^  I  rather  ccmgratukte  mysdlf  i:qp<m  my  mishapa. 

Mettbanioh.  But  I  was  not  king. 

Guiaox.  A  truce  to  jests,  whieh  are  unwotihy  of  the  exaltod  person- 
^^  we  ajre  or  have  been.  BiMi  do  you  bdyieve^  sir  ex-mimster  of 
^stria,  that  it  is  actually  ovot  with  kings  ? 

^TTESNiCH.  You  wUl  excuse  me^  but  I  have  never  regarded  you  as 
&  profound  diplomatist  You  were  the  right  arm  of  Louis  Philippe,  Ins 
8^  servant)  and  nothing  more.  Are  theae  ^umes  of  your  own 
«Qikfieit? 

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346  A  Political  Conversaziofie  of  the  Year  1848. 

GinzOT.  A  truce,  I  say,  to  idle  jesting.  Already  must  the  FreD<ji 
bare  repented  of  their  repubHc.  They  see  the  abyss,  the  disorder,  tiie 
misery  which  it  produces. 

Mettebnich.  Follies  again.  What  has  misery  to  do  with  the  mo- 
narchy or  republic  ?  The  present  distress  is  the  effect  of  neither ;  but  of 
agitation  and  the  general  uncertiunty.  The  rich  do  not  occupy  them- 
selves in  commerce  or  industry,  nor  in  monied  enterprise^  because  they 
fear  communism  and  war ;  wmlst  for  the  artisans,  who  needs  must  eat, 
employment  should  be  found  for  them  either  in  manufiustories  or  in 
^ghling  on  the  plains  of  Europe.  As  for  France,  which  you  ought  to 
know  more  of  than  I,  I  have  no  questions  to  ask.  With  reference  to 
Italy  and  Germany 

Louis  Philippe.  Permit  me.  I  allow  that  in  France  all  is  lost  If 
France  were  in  the  present  position  of  England — if  the  number  of  jwo* 
letariiy  of  artisans,  and  of  paupers,  were  as  great  as  they  are  there,  it 
would  not  be  difficult  for  me,  by  dint  of  corruption  and  gold,  to  place 
myself  at  the  head  of  such  a  party,  and  to  hold  the  throne  by  means  of 
the  people  and  of  the  impoverished ;  while  I  could  not  hare  succeeded  in 
retaining  it  by  means  of  the  great ;  but  France  is  not  yet  in  the  position 
of  England.  Enough:  we  shall  see  in  what  way  general  events  torn 
out.  If  the  French  remain  quiet,  I  shall  easily  find  means  to  excite  them 
amongst  themselves;  either  through  the  socialists  and  the  starving  arti- 
sans, or  by  means  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  and  cordons.  But  if  they 
leave  their  own  domestic  matters — ^if  they  manage  to  turn  towards  foreign 
affairs  their  restless  activity  and  ambitious  views,  all  is  lost  for  me !  But 
tell  me  what  you  would  say  of  Italy,  of  Grermany,  and  of  the  agony  of*^ 
of  kings. 

Metternich.  I  believe  that  for  the  present  it  were  better  to  allow 
our  salvation  to  come  from  those  who  now  banter  us  with  caricatures, 
journals,  libels,  and  the  like.  I  say  that  the  salvation  of  princes  shonld 
spring  from  the  follies  of  their  subjects.  Do  you  believe  that  I  should 
wish  this  ferment  against  kings  to  last?  It  vdll  endure  until  the  people 
shall  first  have  experienced  anarchy,  radicalism,  and  dictatorship.  His- 
tory nowhere  tells  us  that  a  people  passes  thus  dryshod  from  slavery  U> 
liberty  without  first  falling  into  these  extremes. 

Palmerston.  But  under  the  kings  the  people  were  slaves. 

Mettebnich.  I  do  not  say  they  should  be  slaves ;  but  I  say  that  order, 
and  even  a  little  absolutism,  is  always  better  than  disorder  and  anarch;^. 
In  cabinet  affairs  there  is  no  talk  of  evil  and  of  good.  The  question  is 
to  choose  of  two  evils  the  lesser — that,  in  fact,  which  is  the  best. 

Louis  Philippe.  Proceed  with  the  argument  which  you  undertook  to 
explain,  and  do  not  interrupt  the  thread  of  ideas  with  misplaced  inter- 
rogations. 

Mettebnich.  K  the  Austrians  have  good  sense — ^if  they  are  not  the 
imbeciles  which  they  have  shown  themselves  by  turning  me  out,  and 
constructing  a  borrowed  constitution,  which,  in  the  manner  it  has  been 
made^  can  never  last,  and  by  making  a  revolution  at  a  moment  when 
there  was  the  greatest  need  of  internal  concord — if  the  Austrians  had 
sense,  I  sav,  they  ought  to  defend  themselves,  but  not  fight  in  Lod^ 
bardy;  rather  allow  wings  to  come  of  themselves  to  maturity*  ^^*^ 
all,  everything  must  be  yielded  to  Hungary  and  Bohemia — an  enhghtened 
view  taken  of  intemid  affairs.     The  finances  are  one  vast  chaos.  1 

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Mettemichy  Guizot,  Louis  Philippe^  Palmerston.         347 

A  coalition  should  be  formed  under  the  rose  with  the  Prussians,  the 
English,  and  all  the  kings  £silling  or  fallen ;  Italy  and  Germany  be  put 
into  collision  with  each  other ;  and  the  German  bishops  alarmed  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Pope.  Finally,  a  new  synod  at  once  erected  in  opposition 
to  Rome,  whilst  the  Pope  should  be  declared  a  decayed  Jacobite — the 
destroyer  of  the  spiritual  and  temporal  power  of  the  papacy,  &c.,  &c. 

Palmerston.  I  think  you  will  not  succeed.  In  me  first  place,  be- 
cause the  Pope  has  too  much  popularity  in  Europe ;  and  these  synods  do 
not  succeed.  You  have  an  example  in  Napoleon.  Secondly,  Germany 
and  Italy  have  interests  too  analogous  to  come  into  collision  with  each 
other.  Both  desire  a  centralisation,  both  wish  emancipation  from  their 
leaders.  Both  are  exasperated  with  the  tyranny  they  have  suffered,  from 
vain  promises,  from  nominal  constitutions. 

Mettebnich.  If  I  do  not  get  an  opening  from  this  side,  I  shall  look 
for  it  with  more  probability  in  another  quarter.  When  the  Italians  shall 
find  themselves  in  proper  authority,  when  they  shall  imagine  they  have 
driven  out  the  Austrians,  for  I  believe  that  (new  to  European  affairs)  they 
are  not  far-sighted ;  what  will  they  do  ?  the  Unitarians,  the  Republicans, 
the  Radicals,  who  are  the  strongest,  and  those  who  (with  reason)  desire 
a  general  union,  or  at  least  a  certain  centralisation  of  the  various  Italian 
governments,  since,  on  the  other  hand,  with  disunion,  independence  and 
Hberty  do  not  predominate  in  the  face  of  France  and  other  great  nations, 
what  will  they  do  ?  Certainly,  in  the  general  medley,  it  will  be  necessary 
to  restore  the  temporal  monarchy  of  the  popes,  it  will  be  requisite  to 
throw  off  the  King  of  Piedmont,  and  to  alienate  from  each  other  these  two 
principal  promoters  and  supporters  of  the  common  cause  against  foreigners. 
The  Roman  monarchy,  aUied  with  the  King  of  Piedmont,  will  raise  its 
head,  because,  having  redeemed  Italy,  the  Radicals  owe  him  gratitude  and 
obedience.  The  Radicals  will  then  have  the  stage  to  themselves,  and 
with  their  sacrifices,  their  unity,  their  Italian  independence,  and  animo- 
sity unloosed  against  all  the  monarchs  of  the  world,  whatever  their  race, 
whether  Legitimists  or  Ecclesiastics,  anarchy  they  cannot  avoid.  If  the 
Italian  cause  disconnects  itself  from  the  cause  of  Rome  (which  cannot  re- 
mahd  united)  then  I  triumph  {salto);  I  declare  myself  inmiediately  for 
the  Pope,  and  for  religion,  and  will  create  myself  a  strong  party  in 
Italy. 

Palmerston.  Others  may  do  so,  perhaps,  but  not  you.  You  are  now 
getting  into  the  vale  of  years,  and  have  no  right  to  think  of  new  dis- 
orders in  this  world.  You  are  so  hated  by  all  people,  that  it  is  impossible 
for  you  to  exercise  any  influence  over  them.  Yet  you  still  speak  as  a 
minister  of  Austria,  and  the  first  candidate  of  the  councils  of  the  Powers. 
You  forget  your  present  downfal. 

Metternich.  Whether  I  or  others,  it  matters  not.  I  say  that  the 
tendency  of  general  events  is  this:  Austria  will  soon  fall^npon  Italy, 
which  will  then  be  torn  to  pieces  between  the  two  pardes,  wno  meddle 
only  to  eclater.  I  have  never  read  in  any  history  that  a  people  can  be 
overcome  without  a  strong  party  being  maintained  amongst  themselves. 
Our  present  intention  should  be  to  unite  all  monarchs  great  or  small, 
constitutional  or  absolute,  to  vow  discord  iu  France,  in  Gei-many,  in  Italy, 
wherever  the  people  are  dominant,  republics,  or  anarchy.  I  still  maintain 
in  Italy  vast  connexions — money — emissaries. 

Louis  Philippe.  But  might  not  Pio  IX.  be  one  of  the  greatest  legis- 

Nov. — VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCV.  2  ^      ^  ^^1^ 

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a48  A  Pdkkal  Comferaazume  of  At  Ymr  1848* 

lalors  in  die  world  ?  imghfe  ke  not  be  able  te  grve  -die  \uA,  shake  te  the 
abeacly  deeaying  piracy,  te  cDeate  againor  revive  a  gseat  people? 

Mbttsbmsom.  JKe^  no;  he  has  entered  a  labyum^  Besides,  itap« 
pean  to  me,  fimnAiany  indieatioos  that  I  have  pei«eivedy  iiiat  IHo  Naa& 
may  y^  be  too  tender  of  t&e  tenpc^al  and  ponlsfical  premgflrtives,  wldob 
are  so  easily  coi^sunded  with  thoee  of  oel^on.  Tbid^  g^^  theek^iaii^. 
Gioberti,  has  in  politics  lamched  great  thmderbcdtB  {sbmmkttrie)  at 
the  Pjnmate  of  Italy.  He  makes  me  lai^.  His  woiks  have,  perlu^ 
mdeoeived  the  Pontiff  and  die  King  of  Piedmont^  who  weve  the  met 
to  make  eonoesdons  to  die  pe<^le  in  osder  te  aeqmiB*  pepnlarky  fer 
diemsdves,  or  torn  ambitieiis  amns.  But  die  times  ase  ik>  looger  these 
when  vuea  trnsted  in  the  infalklnlity  and  dtvimty  of  popes.  Those  timss 
of  the  moral  pontifical  power  will  be  Tenevred  when  die  ptesent  o^nioss 
ef  men.  skall  nadeigo  a  diange,  when  theoeraey  retmros,  and  tbe  si^r- 
stitious  re|>vbtioanism  of  the  middle  ages* 

Louis  P&dusips.  And,  tberefero,  do  you  believe  that  in  kermon^ 
political,  and  financial  dissehition,  thai  Anstna  can  ev«r  set  fisot  in  Italy 
again? 

MsTiSEBaiiCB.  Widi^xdosive  dominion,  perhaps  not.  But  if  anancky, 
die  genesal  dissehidon,  and  a  i^x  in  Foknd  should  be  excited,  if  Russia 
diidl  be  oonstsained  to  aUy  kerself  widi  Austria,  and  with  the  kings  sup* 
planted  by  l^r  people,  th^war,  an  European  waz^  beii^die^sonseqiieiioe, 
the  Genaan,  Italian,  and  Polisk  people,  &c,  wiU  never  be  aUe  to  acqnite 
nationaiity  or  independence,  because  they  will  never  be  able  to  act  of 
thems^vesaloDe.  They  w^  be  deponent  on  Fvendi  assistance,  and  wiH 
be  sul^eot  (as  the  progressists  say)  to  then*  infinenoe.  fineiagh,  that  kaiy 
will  D<»t  be  left  to  itsdf  ,  wbedier  France  or  another  may  possess  it,  and 
diat  in  this  -oase  Austna  shonkl  ha^e  oompepsatien  elsewnere. 

ijrUiBOT.  Indeed,  yon  are  a  Mse  prephet.  Yon  foretold  nesdier  the 
iasurMctbn  of  Paris  nor  of  Vienna,  nor  mine  nor  your,  own  disgrace^  I 
hav«  litde  faidi  in  your  prophecies. 

METTBBsriCH.  These  are  particular  eases.  They  have  no  Jniuenoeon 
geneeal  events.  As  £or  me,  I  have  alwi^s  said  diat  it  was  xe^uisite  to 
hold  out ;  komrever,  litde  was  yielded  in  my  case;  for  me  all  Ym^  over.  If 
any  such  oonoessioDS  would  content  d^se  people,  it  should  be  fair  dttding 
on  the  part  of  the  king  {sarelhe  hello  fare  il  re  ed  il  mintstro),  but  they  ass 
insatiable  and  ungratefuL  Undl  diey  saw  us  utterly  despoiled,  aiid.w>id 
of  all  authority,  they  were  not  contented.  The  Pope  commenced,  the 
Buke  of  Tuscany  and  die  King  of  Piedmont  followed^  tbe  King  of  Naples 
was  constsained  t0  3deld.  The  ItaHans  made  a  great  to  do  about  the  con* 
eessioDS  they  had  obtained.  The  pride  of  the  French  was  put  to  too 
severe  an  experiment ;  there  the  Italians  had  the  superiooity  over  them. 
Then  (as  you  are  awaie)  was  played  At  fine  game  you  ksDnv^  Eosope 
is  (in  fact)  a  chaos. 

GuizoT.  But  the  end  of  these  questions  of  ours,  what  is  it  ?  Will 
kings  continue  to  gorem  people,  or  will  the  people  begin  to  rule  oper  the 
kings? 

Pjllmebston.  The  reasoning  of  the  matter  has  two  aspects.  1st.  If 
France  does  not  cross  the  Rhine,  if  Russia  does  not  (»ross  the  Vistula^  if 
the  Polish  war  and  a  general  bonieversement  does  not  arise,  if  Getnumy 
and  Italy  are  left  alone  in  their  disorder,  then  after  hot  civil  strife,  per* 
haps  war,  an  Ekirqpean  war  being  imminent,  the  ousted,  or  at  least  di- 

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Metternich^  Gutzot,  Lotm  Philippe^  Palmerston,  349 

minished  (ecltpati)  kings,  will  come  forth  with  some  nationality  (Austria, 
be  it  understood,  bekig  repulsed  firom  Italy),  and  fer  the  future  will  be  a 
barrier  for  Russia  and  for  France.  2nd.  If  the  Polish  revolution  breaks 
cmt,  or  general  wai^  then  the  qaestbn  of  natioattlity  (da  namonale)  be- 
eoooMs  European,  as  in  the  dmyfs  of  Napoleon.  Rossia,  to  avoid  hems 
hgmmed  in  anmigst  her  deserts,  fihonld  unite  wilii  Aostrim  and  with  afi 
the  fidlMgv  or  :fidlen  kings,  Franoe  should  join  with  t^  cause  of  the 
peo|ile,  ooci^the  mountaina  of  SwkKerkend  and  the  Tyrol  as  her  bd- 
waricsj  interfeie  in  the  affims  of  Swkzerlsnd  and  Italy,  and  deal  terrific 
tiowB  on  Idle  Russians  in  the  camps  oi  Germany,  The  war  terminated, 
Kaly  and  Ckrmany  should  be  coatented  with  the  mderstanding  wfaicfti 
will  at  ODoe  be  grven  to  diem  in  the  general  a^'ustment.  In  this  case, 
better  days  wall  simle  upon  kings ;  and  good,  or  odierwise,  will  be  the 
condition  of  idie  people,  according  to  ihe  foroe,  the  unioQ,  or  the  disunion 
of  tiiese.  Inasmuch  as  refers  to  l^e  noble  Polish  nation,  its  strength  will 
not  foe,  perhaps,  crver  proportioned  to  llie  dangers  to  which  she  will  be  sub- 
jected. Napeieon  was  wont  to  say  that  Polish  independence  oeuld'only  be 
t^oKoaghly  obtained  at  Moscow.  Who  will  support  the  Poles— France  ? 
Bnt  are  the  interasts  of  France  for  independmice  and  the  Polish  unity 
in  proportion  to  ike  8a<nifiees  to  be  made  ?  Will  Rnssia  see  l^e  keys  of 
the  nordi  lost  with  Poland,  become  Asiatic,  and  diminish  in  importance 
with  Europe,  without  a  long  and  bitter  war-^ without,  peihaps,  immense 
cempensatton  on  the  side  of  the  Dardanelles  and  Greece  ? 

MsTTCitKlCH.  Tlie  wh(^  question,  then,  is  reduced  to  the  monairdiy 
0E  the  peo^e;  ike  greater  and  more  extended  the  anarchy  shall  be, 
the  greater  and  more  extended  the  hopes  of  kings.  Let  oar  primary 
ohjeet  be  to  Ibster  civil  war,  and  neurit  dissensions.  The  elements  are 
not  wanting.  Of  Italy  I  have  spoken  to  yo«.  Of  France  you  know,  or 
ovgiit  to  know,  more  than  myself.  Germany  contains  dissolving  elements 
not  less  powerftd  than  Italy.  Divided  amongst  petty  prmces,  ^own 
between  Austria  and  Prussia — ^between  a  ooi^titiition  and  anardiy^— 
bgtwoen  the  veoious  powers  of  kings,  nobles,  the  middle  class,  Catholicism 
ssd  P!rotestantism — ^how  will  she  be  enabled  to  establii^  a  central  and 
stnmg  government,  without  passing  t^irov^  long  and  vieient  convulsiens 
««d  a  oivil  war  ?  Many  will  have  recourse  to  (the)  kii^s,  and  will  be- 
lieve thems^ves  happy  in  being  able  for  a  while  to  repose  imder  the 
ataimgt^  of  their  arm ;  allowing  tiiat  which  before  they  had  denied,  and 
diesiring  tiiat  wlnoh  now  they  would  renounce.  But  Jready  as  regards 
3^00,  sir  ex-king  of  France,  and  you,  Monsieur  Guizot,  it  is  a  settled 
thing.  Y^u  are  no  longer  necessary  in  European  politics.  You  can 
atxrase  yoursdves  happily  in  writing  tiie  story  of  your  disgrace.  As  for 
me,  my  long  ei^ierienee  will  still  indiid)itaJbly  make  me  much  in  request 
amongst  the  northern  courts  as  an  instrooient  to  establish  the  equilibrium 
of  the  powers  and  forces.  Gentlemen,  I  sidute  yon  aiKl  go  to  my 
lubours. 

Gcizorr.  I,  to  read  the  French  papers. 

LotJis  PmiiiFPB.  I,  to  pay  a  visit  to  WestmiiBter  with  my  family. 

Palmbasvok.  I,  to  draw  up  with  the  stenografrfier  the  summary  of 
this  our  first  conference,  m  order  to  inscribe  it  in  the  soeret  acts  to  be 
•sent  to  the  covrts. 

2a2 

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(     350     ) 


THE  NORTH-WEST  PASSAGE. 

It  is  possible  at  length  to  head  a  few  pages  devoted  to  the  record  of 
Arctic  discovery  by  the  long-coveted  phrase — the  North-West  Passage. 
Not  that  such  a  passage  has  in  reality  been  opened — that  a  British  ship 
has  as  yet  passed  through  from  Pacific  to  Atlantic,  or  vice  versd^  by  the 
Polar  Seas;  but  that  the  fact  of  a  sea-communication  has  been  established 
to  exist  between  the  two  ;  only  it  is  blocked  up  by  what  appears  to 
assume  the  form  of  almost  permanent  ice.  As  far,  therefore,  as  the 
discovery  of  a  passage  for  purposes  of  navigation  is  concerned,  we  are  in 
reality  no  further  than  when  Mr.  Kennedy,  of  the  Prince  Albert  (Lady 
Franklin's  private  Arctic  expedition),  discovered  a  passage  leading  from 
Prince  Regent  Inlet  to  the  Western  Sea,  and  the  gallant  and  unfortunate 
Bellot  gave  his  name  to  another.  These  were,  as  far  as  navigability  is 
concerned,  just  as  much  north-west  passages  as  the  Prince  of  Wales  or 
Parry's  Straits.  For  the  north-west  passage  now  determined,  is  not  at  the 
western  termination  of  Wellington  or  Queen's  Channel,  to  which  attention 
has  been  so  much  directed  since  Captain  Penny's  discoveries,  but  where 
every  common- sense  man  would  have  persevered  in  searching  for  it,  in 
Parry's  Strait,  which  is  the  westerly  prolongation  of  Barrow's  Strait. 

Captain  Sir  Edward  Parry,  the  discoverer  of  this  strait,  foimd  it  occupied 
by  a  fixed  body  of  ice  as  far  back  as  1819.  Since  that  time  the  way  evdn 
to  the  strait  has  never  been  open  to  navigation.  When  the  news  first  came 
to  this  country  of  the  further  exploration  of  Wellington  Channel,  and 
the  discovery  of  a  north-westerly  passage  also  in  that  direction,  as  well 
also  as  by  Jones's  Sound,  while  granting  all  due  importance  to  those  dis- 
coveries, we  still  upheld  the  paramount  importance  of  the  acknowledged 
Arctic  highway.  We  never  sided  with  the  decisive  opinion  given  by 
Captain  Austin  and  his  companions,  that  their  researches  had  decided  toe 
question  that  Sir  John  Franklin's  expedition  had  not  taken  a  westerly  or 
south-westerly  direction  from  Barrow's  Strait.  We  discussed  that  ques- 
tion at  length  in  the  October  number  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine 
for  1851,  as  comparing  more  particularly  the  results  obtained  by  Cap- 
tain Austin's  sledge  parties,  and  the  instructions  given  to  Sir  John 
Franklin,  which  decidedly  pointed  out  the  route  now  followed  by  Captain 
M'Clure,  of  the  Investigator.  We  returned  to  the  charge  in  December 
of  the  same  year.  Arrowsmith's  map,  then  published,  enabled  us  to  say 
still  more  positively,  that  the  opinions  that  we  emitted  of  the  insufficiency 
of  the  data  obtained  by  Ommaney,  Osborne,  Browne,  and  M'CHntocK, 
to  determine  whether  or  not  Sir  John  Franklin  was  frozen  up  in  westerly 
or  south-westerly  ices,  was  further  corroborated.  We  particularly  in- 
sisted upon  the  fact,  that  the  whole  extent  of  country  frt>m  Cape  Walker 
and  the  most  westerly  shores  explored  by  Captain  Ommaney  to  Banks's 
Land,  had  been  left  unexamined,  and  it  is  precisely  in  that  region  that 
Prince  of  Wales'  Strait  has  been  discovered.  Our  hopes  then  lay  in  the 
progress  of  the  Enterprise  and  Investigatory  which  we  said  (p.  484) 
woidd,  on  their  way  from  Behring's  Straits  to  Parry  Islands,  have  to 
cut  through  a  portion  of  these  unexplored  regions.  In  April,  1852,  we 
again  repeated  (p.  451) :  "  Our  greatest  hopes  are,  at  the  present  moment 
centred  in  the  progress  of  Commander  M'Clure  and  his  party  in  her 


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The  North'  West  Passage.  351 

Majesty's  ship  Investigatory  now  frozen  in  somewhere  between  Behring's 
Straits  and  Melville  Island."  And  so  it  has  really  turned  out  to  be  ^e 
case. 

Curious  enough,  lieutenant  M^Clintock  must  have  been  with  the  sledge 
Perseverance,  when  he  attained  his  extreme  westerly  point  of  1 14  deg. 
20  min.  in  lat.  74  deg.  38  min.  in  May,  1851,  within  fifty-five  geogra- 
phical miles  distance  of  the  Bay  of  Mercy,  where  the  Investigator  was 
frozen  in  in  September  of  the  same  year.  Captain  M*Clure  and  his  party 
had  to  travel  some  150  geographical  miles,  or  more,  before  they  could 
coDvey  despatches  from  the  Bay  of  Mercy  in  Baring  Island,  to  "Winter 
Harbour  in  Melville  Island  ;  but  in  reality  some  sixty  geographical 
miles  from  shore  to  shore  is  all  that  remained  to  be  passed  over  to  esta- 
blish the  existence  of  this  frozen  in  "  North- West  Passage." 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Investigator  was  last  seen  on  the  6th 
of  August,  1850,  running  to  the  north-eastward,  with  studding-sails  set. 
It  appears  that  she  rounded  Point  Barrow,  on  the  north  coast  of  America, 
with  great  difficulty,  and  that  the  ship  was  also  detained  in  its  further 
progress  along  the  same  coast  by  thick  weather,  fogs,  and  contrary  winds, 
in  addition  to  the  ordinary  difficulties  presented  by  shallow  water,  and 
the  necessity  of  working  to  windward  between  the  Polar  Pack  and  the 
gradually  sloping  shore.  On  the  21st  of  August,  however,  the  Investi- 
gator made  the  Pelly  Islands,  off  the  river  Mackenzie,  and  on  the  24th, 
oommunicated  with  some  Esquimaux  a  little  to  the  westward  of  Point 
Warren,  still  on  the  coast  of  Arctic  America. 

The  Esquimaux  at  this  place  are  said  to  have  shown  great  apprehen- 
sion as  to  the  object  of  the  Investigator's  visit,  fearing,  according  to  their 
own  statements,  that  the  ship  had  come  to  revenge  the  death  of  a  white 
man  they  had  murdered  some  time  ago.  They  related  that  some  white 
men  had  come  there  in  a  boat,  and  that  they  built  themselves  a  house, 
and  lived  there ;  at  last  the  natives  murdered  one,  and  the  others  escaped 
they  knew  not  where,  but  the  murdered  man  was  buried  in  a  spot  they 
pointed  out.  A  thick  fog  coming  on,  prevented  Captain  M*Clure  examining 
this  locality,  which  is  much  to  be  regretted,  as  this  is  just  the  point  that 
a  boat's  party  from  the  expedition  under  Sir  John  Franklin,  who  was  inti- 
mate with  the  geography  of  the  coast  of  Arctic  America,  from  his  over- 
land expedition  in  1819,  would — supposing  the  Erehus  and  Terror  to 
have  been  wrecked  in  the  intricate  passage  of  the  archipelago  south-west 
of  Cape  Walker,  or  in  the  pack  west  of  Baring  Island — have  sought  to 
gain  the  Mackenzie,  and  which  presented  to  them  the  most  favourable — 
mdeed,  under  their  circumstances,  almost  the  only  route — by  which  they 
could  hope  to  reach  the  settlements  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Fur  Company. 
This  notice,  then,  of  the  destruction  and  dispersion  of  a  party  of  white 
men  who  came  there  in  a  boat,  now  some  time  back,  obtains,  in  the 
absence  of  all  other  clue  to  the  fate  of  our  gallant  countrymen,  a  very 
deep  and  melancholy  interest.  Captain  M*Clure,  for  reasons  which  do  not 
appear  in  the  information  as  yet  conveyed  to  us,  does  not  attach  any  im- 
portance to  the  circumstance  here  alluded  to  ;  for,  after  visiting  another 
party  of  Esquimaux  at  Cape  Bathurst,  on  the  same  coast,  he  says  :  "  We 
nowtook  our  final  leave  of  the  Esquimaux  upon  the  American  coast,  frdly 
convinced  that  neither  the  ships  nor  any  of  the  crew  of  Sir  John 
Franklin's  expedition  have  ever  reached  their  shores."     It  would  cer- 

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332  The  NorA^W^est  Fu^Mge. 

tamly  i^ypear  strange,  if  such  had  been  the  case,  &8t  nsi&er  Sir  Jokn 
Bichardflon,  nor  the  boat  parties  under  Captains  PuBen  and  Hooper, 
should  have  heard  anything  about  it.  Still  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  1^^ 
Sae*8  attention  will  he  called  to  the  &ct,  to  which  it  is  mdent  Captain 
loglefield  attaches  moveinteFest  than  Captain  M^Chire* 

On  the  6th  of  September^  being  to  the  northwsHtd  of  Cape  Parry,  the 
noxt  most  lemarkahle  oape  of  Arctic  America,  east  of  Cape  Batnimt^ 
they  discovered  some  high  land,  upon  ^idubh  they  landed  the  ensuing^ 
day,  naming  it  Baring  filand.  On  the  9th  they  disoorered  more  land, 
which  thfiy  named  Prince  Albert's  Land,  and  which  is  said  to  be  ^die 
weirterly  prolongation  of  Wollaston  and  Victoria  Lands.  The  nortdiem 
part  of  Baring  Island  also  corresponds  to  Banks'  Land  of  the  Arctic  ex- 
plorers from  the  East.  This  multiplication  of  names  appears,  theiefoFe, 
nery  unnecessary :  Prince  Albert's  Land  being  part  of  Wollaston  Land, 
and  Baring  Island  part  of  Banks'  Land.  Baring  Island  is  separaited  &om 
Prince  Albert  Land  by  a  strait  which  was  called  Prince  of  Wales'  Strait, 
and  which  Captain  M'Clure  satisfied  himself,  by  travelling  parties,  com- 
nuinicated  with  Barrow's  Strait,  thus  establidiing  the  existenoe  of  ft 
northf^west  passage  (when  free  from  ice)  in  that  direction. 

Prince  Albert's  Land  was  found  to  be  inhabited,  in  its  sontiieca  por- 
tions, by  a  primitive  people,  described  as  being  of  quiet,  simple^  and 
inoffensive  habits.  They  nad  never  seen  white  men  before,  and  weve  at 
first  naturally  much  alarmed.  There  were  also  musk  oxen,  five  of  which 
formed  a  welcome  addition  to  the  stock  of  the  Ifwestigator. 

The  ice  did  not  break  up  till  the  14di  of  July,  1851,  when  ^e  (^ip 
was  allowed  to  drift  with  the  pack  towards  Parry's  or  Barrow's  Straits 
till  August  14th,  when,  having  attained  lat.  73  deg.  14  min.  19  sec, 
long.  115  deg.  30  min.  30  sec.,  or  a  distance  of  only  fifteen  miles  from  the 
previously  discovered  entrance  to  Parry's  or  Barrow's  Strmts  {ihe  said 
entrance  being  in  lat.  73  deg.  30  min.  north,  long.  114  deg.  14  min. 
west,  and  according  to  the  map  attached  to  the  Parliamentary  Blue-book 
printed  in  1852,  forty -five  miles  distant  from  the  nearest  coast  of  MelvBle 
Island,  whidi  is  therefore  the  width  of  Parry's  Strait  at  that  point),  thear 
further  progress  was  unfortunately  arrested  by  a  north-east  wind  setting 
in,  which  set  large  masses  of  ice  to  the  southward,  and  carried  them  bade 
with  them.  Had  tlie  Investigator  been  suppHed  with  a  screw-propeUer, 
it  is  possible  she  might  have  confronted  this  difficulty,  and  have  eff^sted 
the  north-west  passage,  and  been  in  England  in  1851. 

Thus  driven  back,  however,  Captain  M'Clure  bore  i^  to  the  south- 
ward of  Baring  Island,  and  ran  up  with  clear  water  as  far  as  to  lat. 
74  deg.  27  mm.  K,  long.  122  deg.  32  min.  15  sec.  W.,  within  a  mile 
of  the  coast  the  whole  distance,  when  his  progress  was  impeded  by  ice 
resting  upon  the  shore,  and  the  ship  was  at  the  same  time  in  graat 
dangw  of  being  crushed  or  driven  on  shore  by  the  ice  coming  in  with  a 
heavy  pressure  from  the  Polar  Sea.  The  InvesHgator  was  detailed  by 
these  difficulties  from  the  20th  of  Aug^t  to  the  19^  of  September^  or  a 
moniih  within  a  day,  when  observing  clear  water  along  shore  to  the  eastr 
ward,  she  was  cast  off  from  a  large  grounded  floe  to  which  she  had  baod 
secured,  and  worked  in  that  direction,  with  occaaonal  obatructaons  from 
ioe  and  mud  banks,  and  several  narrow  escapes  from  the  stupendous 
Polar  .ice,  till  the  24th  of  September,  when,  being  in  lat  74  d^.  6  nmb 

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The  Nnri/i'  West  Passage.  338 

SL,  and  loug^.  1)7  deg.  54  nun.  W.,  or  fifty -dre  mHes  h&m.  die  nearort 
shoTOs  of  Mfilvilie  Island,  and  at  or  near  the  entrance  to  Parry's  Strait, 
they  observodthe  said  stndt  to  be  full  of  ice,  large  masses  of  whidi  wece 
aet£tQg  down  towards  them.  So  finding  a  weU^-sheltered  spot  upon  the 
south  side  of  a  shoal  upon  which  they  had  grounded  the  night  before, 
and  which  was  protected  iram  the  heavy  ice  by  the  projection  of  the 
vee^  th^raa  in  and  anchored  in  four  falJiomsL  That  -very  same  night 
they  were  £?02en  in,  and  the  Imvestigaior  has  remained  ever  since  in  the 
cnme  apot,  which  has  very  appropriately  been  desigpiated  by  its  gallant 
commander  the  Bay  of  JMeircy. 

Baring  Island,  or  Banks'  Land,  was  luckily  found  to  abound  in  rein- 
deer and  hares,  wloeh  remained  the  entire  winter,  and  tiie  officers  and 
crew  wean  enabled  to  add  upwards  of  4000lbs.  to  their  stock  of  provisions 
during  their  first  year's  detention.  Captain  M^Clure  states  that  in  these 
latitudes  a  ship  stands  no  chance  of  gettiog  to  the  westward  by  entering 
the  Polar  Sea,  the  wind  being  contrary  and  the  pack  impenetrable ;  but 
this  does  not  apply  to  higher  latitudes,  supposing  Sir  John  Franklm's 
expedition  to  'have  gone  to  the  westward  by  Queen's  Channel  Prince 
of  Wales'  Strait  he  conceives  to  be  more  practicable,  but  that  apparontly 
only  to  ships  going  westward  or  south-westward. 

A  party,  consisting  of  Captain  M'Chire,  Mr.  Court,  second  master,  and 
fflx  others,  went  over  the  ice  in  April,  1852,  to  Winter  Harbour,  Mel- 
ville Island,  were  they  deposited  a  record  of  their  proceedings  up  to  that 
time.  This  despatch  was  discovered  by  a  party  firom  the  Resolute, 
Captain  Kellett,  which  wintered  the  same  year  at  Dealy  Island,  Melville 
J^aad  ;  and  as  fin*  as  we  can  make  out,  the  gallant  Lieutenant  Pirn,  the 
fiame  who  proposed  the  Siberian  expedition  of  succour,  was  despatched  at 
once  to.  eonununicate  with  their  long  lost,  frozen  in  countrymen. 

The  af2Count  of  Lieutenant  Pim's  arrival  at  the  Bay  of  Mercy,  as  given 
liy  :Ciqitaui  Kellett  in  a  private  letter,  is  one  of  the  most  affecting  inci- 
dents that  has  yet  sprung  out  of  the  Arctic  expeditions.  The£e  is  only 
oasi  oiher  possible  event  of  a  similar  kind  that  would  exoeed  it  in  -that 
JWBpect. 

M<Unie  and  his  first^lieutenant  were  walking  on  the  ice.  Seeing  a 
pawon  eoming  very  fast  towards  them,  they  supposed  that  it  was  one  of 
&mr  pacfy  being  chased  by  a  bear.  They  accordingly  walked  towards 
lum,  but  had  not  got  above  a  hundred  yards  when  they  could  see  by  his 
proportions  that  he  was  not  one  of  them.  Pirn  was  at  this  time  tnrow*- 
>^g  up  bis  hands  and  hallooing  out,  his  face  being  described  as  appearing 
^  black  as  his  hat — ^we  must  suppose  firom  running  and  excitement. 

At  length  Pim  reached  the  two  lonely  strollers  quite  beside  himself 
ttd  yet  under  the  circumstances  he  exhibited  an  amusing  specimen  id 
navad  eti^piette,  still  more  amusing  if  we  comiider  the  position  of  the 
.paBties,  two  of  them  ice-imprisoned  for  two  long  winters,  the  third  coming 
<»rer  the  desolate  ice  £mm  no  one  knew  where.  '^  Who  are  you,  and 
'Aere  do  you  come  from  B"  hiquired  Captain  M'Chtte.  '^Lieutenant 
f  hn,  Herald,  Captain  Kellett,"  was  the  miswer  stammerod  out  by  the 
happy  sailor.  ^^  This  was,"  says  Captain  Kellett,  '^  more  inaxpltoaDle  t9 
-U^Cluve,  as  I  was  ^  last  person  he  shook  hands  with  in  Behring^ 
£tmts."  fHe  at  length  found  that  this  solitary  strange  was  a  true 
^^ishman—''' an  angel  of  light.''     The  mnrival  of  a  strainer  had  also 

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354  The  North-  West  Passage, 


'O^ 


by  iliis  time  been  made  out  by  the  ship's  crew,  and  the  news  had  spread 
line  lightning.  There  being  only  one  hatchway  open,  the  men  got  fairly 
jammed  in  their  attempts  to  get  up  one  before  the  other.  Strengu 
and  health  suddenly  returned  to  the  sick,  who  are  described  as  jumping 
out  of  their  hammocks — every  one  forgot  his  previous  despondency ;  "in 
fact,  all  was  changed  on  board  the  Investigator  r 

It  does  not  appear  why  Lieutenant  Pim  should  have  been  '^  a  soUtaiy 
stranger."  It  is  not  likely  that,  however  adventurously  disposed,  Captain 
Kellett  would  have  let  him  start  on  foot  a  journey  of  some  hundred  miles 
over  the  ice  alone.  We  must  suppose  that  he  ran  on  in  advance  of  his 
sledge  party. 

This  opportune  and  welcome  visit  was  soon  returned  by  Captain 
M*Clure,  and  Captain  Kellett  describes  the  arrival  of  his  gallant  friend 
with  delightful  enthusiasm : 

"  This  is  really  a  red-letter  day  in  our  voyage,  and  shall  be  kept  as  a 
holiday  by  our  heirs  and  successors  for  ever.  At  nine  o'clock  of  this  day 
(April  19th,  1853)  our  look-out  man  made  the  signal  for  a  party  coming 
in  from  the  westward ;  all  went  out  to  meet  them  and  assist  them  in. 
A  second  party  was  then  seen.  Dr.  DomviUe  was  the  first  party  I  met. 
I  cannot  describe  my  feelings  when  he  told  me  that  Captain  MClure 
was  among  the  next  party.  I  was  not  long  in  reaching  him,  and  giving 
him  many  hearty  shakes — no  purer  were  ever  given  by  two  men  in  this 
world.     M*Clure  looks  well,  but  is  very  hungry." 

No  wonder  !  He  had  at  the  time  Lieutenant  Pim  arrived  at  the  Baj 
of  Mercy  thirty  men  and  three  officers,  fully  prepared  to  leave  for  the 
depot  at  Point  Spencer.  "  What  a  disappointment,"  says  Captain 
Kellett,  "  it  would  have  been  to  go  there  and  find  the  miserable  Mary 
yacht  with  four  or  five  casks  of  provisions,  instead  of  a  fine  depot !" 

Another  party  of  seven  men  were  to  have  gone  by  the  river  Mackenzie, 
with  a  request  to  the  Admiralty  to  send  out  a  ship  to  meet  them  at 
Point  Leopold  in  1854.  Captain  Kellett  adds,  he  had  ordered  the 
thirty  men  over  to  the  Resolute.  The  captain  had  also  sent  his  surgeon 
to  report  upon  the  health  of  the  crew.  He  had  further  desired  that, 
should  there  not  be  among  them  twenty  men  who  would  volunteer  to 
remain  another  winter,  Captain  M'Clure  was  to  desert  his  vessel. 
Lieutenant  Cresswell,  of  the  Investigator^  has  returned  to  England  with 
Captain  Inglefield,  of  the  Phoinix,  who  brought  home  the  news  we  now 
transcribe. 

According  to  a  letter  written  on  board  the  Investigator^  and  dated 
April  10th,  1853,  Captain  M*Clure  states  it  to  be  his  intention,  should 
the  ice  break  up  in  the  Bay  of  Mercy  sufficiently  early  to  permit  of  his 
getting  through  Parry's  Strait  this  season,  to  push  forward  at  once ;  but 
if  the  ice  does  not  permit  this,  he  still  hopes  that  it  will  break  up  suffi- 
ciently to  enable  him  to  take  the  ship  to  Port  Leopold  in  Barrow's  Strait, 
and  complete  a  twelvemonth's  provisions,  and  he  will  then  risk  wintering 
in  the  pack,  or  getting  through  in  preference  to  remaining  at  that  port. 

If,  however,  the  Investigator  should  not  be  able  to  get  out  of  the  Bay 
of  Mercy,  it  was  his  intention  to  leave  towards  the  end  of  April,  1854, 
and  make  for  Port  Leopold,  where  there  is  a  good  boat,  a  house,  and 
supplies ;  and  with  this  he  would  try  to  make  the  whalers  in  Pond's  or 
Baffin's  Bays.     But  it  is  evident  that  the  Admiralty  will  not  allow  our 

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The  North'  West  Passage.  855 

gallant  countrymen  to  be  driven  to  such  extremities.  If  the  Investigator 
cannot  ^t  out  the  present  season,  parties  can  supply  the  crew  with  pro- 
yisions  from  Sir  Edward  Belcher's  squadron,  and  by  leaving  one  or  more 
vessels  in  Barrow's  Strait  to  ensure  the  safe  return  of  the  crew,  they 
could  remain  on  board  the  Investigator  till  another  chance  presented 
itself  for  the  liberation  of  the  ship  in  the  summer  of  1854 ;  and  such 
chance  failing,  the  officers  and  men  could  then  desert  the  vessel,  and 
reach  a  ship  in  Barrow's  Strait  in  time  to  get  to  England  the  same 
season.  It  may  also  be  a  matter  of  consideration  with  the  Admiralty, 
whether  it  may  not  be  worth  while  to  re-man  and  re-provision  the 
Investigator  J  to  find  her  way  back  the  same  way  she  came. 

Hope  is  said  to  live  upon  less  than  will  sustain  anything  else ;  but  there 
are  very  few  grounds  for  expecting  that  the  Investigator  will  be  saved 
hy  getting  through  Parry's  Strait.  When  discovered  by  the  distinguished 
navigator  whose  name,  as  the  westerly  prolongation  of  Barrow's  Strait, 
it  justly  bears,  it  was  blocked  up  by  a  fixed  body  of  ice,  and,  excepting 
in  sledge  parties,  not  one  of  the  numerous  expeditions  of  succour  has 
smee  been  able  to  get  even  so  far  westward  as  Captain  Parry  did. 
Captain  M*Clure  has  now  arrived  and  knocked  at  the  same  icy  gate,  but 
from  an  opposite  direction — firom  the  eastward. 

When  die  Investigator  got  so  far  as  it  has,  it  must,  as  in  Sir  Edward 
Parry's  instance,  have  been  under  the  auspices  of  an  unusual  open 
season,  as  is  shown  by  its  being  frozen  in  ever  since ;  yet,  on  this  occasion, 
Parry's  Strait,  when  approached  by  Prince  of  Wales'  Strait,  and  by  the 
west  shores  of  Baring  Island,  was  apparently  as  permanently  frozen  up 
as  on  all  former  occasions.  What,  therefore,  but  the  most  unreasonable 
hopes  can  we  entertain  that  that  strait  wiU  be  opened  in  1853  or  1854, 
wrach  has  never,  that  we  are  aware  of,  being  seen  open  since  first  dis- 
covered in  1819? 

If  the  results  of  recent  Arctic  exploration — ^however  anxious  we  may 
he  for  the  fate  of  those  engaged  in  them — have  been  of  a  brilliant 
description  as  far  as  geographical  discovery  is  concerned  in  the  south- 
west and  west,  they  have  not  been  less  so  in  a  northerly  direction. 

Sir  Edward  Belcher  quitted  Beechey  Island  on  the  14th  of  August, 
and  steamed  direct  up  Wellington  Channel,  determined  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  any  land  which  could  have  been  seen  and  named  by  Penny's 
people.  He  thus  pushed  on  direct  for  Cape  Becher,  which  he  reached 
ahout  midnight  of  the  16th,  and  leaving  a  cache  at  that  point  he  at  once 
proceeded  to  the  extreme  land  called  Cape  Sir  John  Franklin  by  Ci^tain 
Penny,  but  which  he  designated  as  Mount  Percy,  calling  the  territory 
"Northumberland  of  North  Britain,"  and  the  "islet  covered  sea"  beneath 
him,  "Northumberland  Sound."  And  here,  in  lat.  76  deg.  52  min. 
north,  long.  97  deg.  west,  the  Assistance  passed  the  winter  of  1852-53. 
The  warrant  for  this  change  of  names  was  found  in  the  fact  that  this 
land  was  quite  differently  disposed,  and  in  a  totally  different  latitude  and 
longitude  to  what  has  been  described  by  the  bold  pioneer,  but  not  very 
scientific  explorer,  Penny.  From  this  point  Sir  Edward  Belcher  could 
see  Cape  Lady  Franklin,  Captain  Penny's  extreme  point  westward ;  but 
as  he  had  reached  the  extreme  land  north  of  Cape  Becher,  he  transposed 
the  name  of  Sir  John  Franklin  fi'om  where  it  stands  on  the  chart  in  the 
Blue-book  to  the  foot  of  Mount  Percy,  giving  to  an  island  next  to  him 

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a56  The  NoHh-We^  Ftismsfe. 

the  Bfime  of  Point  Sophia,  from  die  same  mftp.  Sir  Edward  BeldHr 
considered  himself  as  wii^iing  in  the  Pohir  Se%  which,  he  adds  is 
prohably  composed  of  a  gveat  aielupelago  of  idbte  aad  sondrhanksf-a 
Taidier  hasty  deduction. 

The  ship  heiog  &oaen  in^  boat  and  aMge  pasties  were  aib  once  aei;  to 
work.  One  started  under  Sir  Edward  Beldier,  another  under  Com^ 
mander  Bichards,  and  a  third  under  lieutenant  Osbomie.  On  the  2^ 
of  August  Sir  Eldwsurd  Belcher  describes  hmiself  as  landing  on  a  iov 
point,  where  die  coast  suddenly  turned  to  the  eaatwwcd,  and  discoven^ 
the  remains  of  several  well-built  Esquimaux  houses,  not  simply  aisles 
of  small  stones,  hut  two  lines  of  well-laid  widl  in  escarated  ground,  filled 
in  between  by  about  two  feet  of  fine  gravel,  well  paved,  and  withal  pre- 
senting the  appearance  of  great  care — '^  more,  indeed,"  adds  Sir  Ediraid, 
*'  than  I  am  willing  to  attribute  to  the  rude  inhabitants,  or  migrating^ 
Esquimaux."  What  is  meant  to  be  conveyed  by  thk  ?  K  the  in^res- 
sion  was  that  these  were  traces  similar  to  what  were  £ound  at  Beeshej 
Island,  why  not  say  so ;  but  if  so,  some  fragments  of  Eurcqiean  art 
would  also  have  been  inevitably  found.  Coal  was  diseoveied  in  ^ 
neighbourhood,  and  bones  of  deer,  walmis,  seals,  &c.t  wens  ^brewed 
around. 

On  the  evening  of  the  27th  of  August,  ^r  Edward  Bebher  took  pos- 
session of  a  large  island^  which  he  named  Exmouth  Mand^  and  its 
summit  Milne  Peak,  in  lat.  77  deg.  15  miu.  north,  tiiat  is  to  saynortbr 
ward  of  anything  discovered  by  Cs^tain  Peony.  From  hence  he  nsfi* 
gated  with  great  danger  to  land  still  &rther  noiidi,  in  lat  77  d^ 
33  min.,  long,  about  97  deg.,  and  which  he  named  North  Cornwall 
This  was  the  extreme  point  reached  upon  this  occadon ;  and  the  part(f 
returned  to  the  ship  on  the  8th  of  September,  having  been  absent  asr 
teen  days. 

In  a  Rubsequent  despatch,  dated  Beech^  Island,  July  26th,  1B53, 
Sir  Edward  Bdcher,  who  had  before  g^ven  it  as  hb  opinion  that  the  so- 
called  Smith  and  Jones's  Sounds  were  connected  with  the  sea  he  was 
then  exploring,  describes  hintself  as  having  discovered  the  outlet  of  the 
latter  in  about  lat.  76  d^g.  30  min.,  and  90  deg.  west  long.,  the^lai^ 
Sea  open,  and  extending  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  This  was  on  the 
26th  of  May.  A  de^atch  of  Sir  Edward  Belcher's,  written  in  tbe 
month  of  April,  has  not  appeared,  and  thus  renders  it  difficult  to  fite 
the  gallant  officer's  poroee^Dgs  between  the  winter  of  18^5^  9sd  v» 
spring  of  1853  ;  but  it  appears  from  this  last  despateb  that  he  named 
other  portions  of  the  region  around  him  Prince  Alfred  Bay  and  Pi^ 
eess  Royal  Island,  and  that  he  discovered  a  whole  group  of  islands  inwe 
yeaj  high  latitude  of  78  deg.  10  min. !  which  he  called  Victoria  Ai^ 
pelago.  The  easternmost  of  these  islands,  which  is  said  to  ^om  toe 
channel  to  Jones's  Strait,  he  called  North  Kent,  in  honour  of  his  B«yw 
Bighnass  the  late  Duke.  The  Victoria  Archipdago  is  Iherefore  m 
most  northerly  land  knawn,  as  Victoria  Land,  is  4ie  mort  souAer^yj  ^ 
t^e  limiiB  of  Queen  Victoria's  dommions  has  new  been  made  to  tsei^ 
very  nean^  mdsedfr&m^pole  to  pole  1  ^»^ 

Sir  Edward  Beleher  returned  to  his  slup  from  this  jemaakable  e^pefir 
tionon  the  22nd  of  June,  after  an  absence  of  fifty-two  dajw.  Commitf^ 
Biohards  had,  in  the  same  interval,  eH>fsed  ftom  the'  Polar  Sea  to  Jb»* 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Mfrth^  Wett  Passage.  3&7 

Titte  IsUmd,  eaploBing  in  his  way  Sabine  Island  and  Heda  and  Griper 
G«ll^  aod  deteramnng  the  connezbn  of  Byam  Martin  Channel  wkh  tlm 
Polar  Sea.  Lieotenaat  Osborne  was  e3q»lorii^  the  coast  of  tiie  Fidar 
Sea  st  the  same  time,  on  its  western  side. 

The  North  Star,  Captain  Pullen,  passed  the  winter  of  1852-53  on 
Beecbey  Island,  in  a  most  dangerous  position.  She  was  driyen  on  shore 
bj  a  violent  gale,  and  remained  there  the  whole  winter,  and  was  only 
g^  off  last  apxmg;  ku^y,  it  is  said,  without  mueh  difficulty  or  damage. 

As  late  as  ihe  month  of  Augcot^  this  year,  M.  Bellot  liaving  Tohmr 
teered  to  lead  a  small  party  with  despatches  for  Sir  Edward  Belcher, 
to  gallant  ofilcer  left  the  North  Star  with  four  men,  a  sledge,  and  an 
in^-rubber  boat,  the  ice  being  at  that  time  still  heavy  in  WeOington 
Channel.  A  sudden  and  imforeseen  disruption  of  the  ice  took  place, 
howerer,  veiy  soon  after  the  departure  of  tiie  party,  and  on  the  third 
day  ihey  came  to  open  water,  supposed  to  be  off  Cape  GrinnelL  M. 
BeHot  tried  to  fetch  land  twice  in  the  infia-rubber  boat,  but  without 
success.  William  Harvey,  boatswain's  mate,  and  William  Madden,  A.B., 
were  more  successful,  taking  a  line  with  them  in  order  to  estabHsh  a 
comnnmication  with  iise  shore.  By  this  means  three  loads  were  landed 
from  the  sledge,  when  unfortunately  the  ice  began  to  break  up,  moving 
from  the  shore,  and  M.  Bellot,  two  men,  and  the  boat  and  sledge,  were 
drifted  rapidly  away.  The  men  left  on  the  floe  with  M.  BeUot  were 
Johison  and  Hook.  Johnson's  account  of  what  followed,  under  such 
fearful  circumstances,  must  be  given  in  his  own  words : 

We  commenced  trj^ing  to  draw  the  boat  and  sledge  to  the  southward,  but 
found  the  ice  driving  so  fast ;  we  left  the  sledge  and  took  the  boat  only,  but 
the  wind  was  so  strong  at  the  time  that  it  blew  the  boat  over  and  over.  W« 
then  took  the  boat  wiSi  us  under  shelter  of  a  piece  of  ice,  and  M.  Bellot  and 
Qttnelves  commenced  cutting  an  ice-house  with  onr  knives  for  shelDei:. 
M.  BeUnt  sat  for  half  an  hour  in  conversation  with  us,  talking  on  the  danger 
of  our  position.  I  told  him  I  was.  not  afraid,  and  that  the  American  expedi* 
tion  were  driven  up  and  down  this  channel  by  the  ice.  He  replied,  **  I  know 
tliey  were ;  and  when  the  Lord  protects  us  not  a  hair  of  our  heads  shall  be 
touched.*'  1  then  asked  M.  Bellot  what  time  it  was?  He  said,  "About" 
a  quarter*past  eight  a.m."  (Thursday,  the  18th)  ;  and  then  lashed  up  his 
hooks  and  said  he  would  go  and  see  how  the  ice  was  driving.  He  had  only 
heen  gooe  about  four  minutes  when  I  went  round  the  same  hummock  under 
which  we  were  sheltered  to  look  for  him,  but  could  not  see  him,.and  on  re- 
^uiQUig  to  oiur  shelter  saw  his  stick  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  crack,  about  five 
^oms  wide,  and  the  ice  all  breaking  up.  I  then  called  out  "  Mr.  Bellot !" 
hut  DO  answer  (at  this  time  blowing  very  heavy).  After  this  I  again  searched 
^und,  but  could  see  notliing  of  him.  I  believe  that  when  he  got  from  the 
j^elter  the  wind  blew  him  into  the  crack,  and,  his  south-wester  being  tied 
■°^»  he  could  not  rise.  Finding  there  was  no  hope  of  again  seeing  Lieute- 
•"■*  BeUot,  I  said  to  Hook,  "  I'm  not  aftaid ;  I  know  the  Lord  will  alwa^ 
nstain  us.'*  We  commenced  travelling,  to  try  to  get  to  Cape  de  Haven,  or 
*ort  Phillips ;  and,  when  we  got  within  two  miles  of  Ciqje  de  Haven,  could 
iQt^et  on  shore,  and  returned  for  this  side,,  endeavouring  to  get  to  the  south- 
JMO,  as  the  ice  was  driving  to  the  northward.  We  were  that  night  and  the 
feUowing  day  in  coming  across,  and  came  into  the  land  on  the  eastern  shore,  a 
rong  way  to  the  northward  of  the  place  where  we  were  driven  off.  We  got 
*to  the  knd  at  what  Lieutenant  Bellot  told  us  was  Point  Hogarth.  (?) 

«i  answer  to  a  question  as  to  how  the  survivors  got  on  shore,  John- 
^  replied: 

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358  The  North-  West  Passage. 

In  drifting  up  the  Straits  towards  the  Polar  Sea  we  saw  an  iceberg  lying 
close  to  the  shore,  and  found  it  on  the  ground.  We  succeeded  in  getting  on 
it,  and  remained  for  six  hours.  I  said  to  David  Hook,  "  Don't  be  afraid,  we 
must  make  a  boat  of  a  piece  of  ice."  Accordingly  we  got  on  to  a  piece  passing, 
and  I  had  a  paddle  belonging  to  the  india-rubber  boat.  On  being  asked 
what  became  of  the  india-rubber  boat,  he  replied,  '*It  was  left  where 
Lieutenant  Bellot  was  lost."  By  this  piece  of  drift-ice  we  managed  to  reach 
the  shore,  and  then  proceeded  to  where  the  accident  happened.  We  reached 
it  on  Friday.  Could  not  find  our  shipmates,  or  any  provisions.  We  then 
went  on  for  Cape  Bowden,  and  reached  it  on  Friday  night.  We  found 
Harvey  and  Madden  there.  They  told  us  they  were  going  on  to  the  ship 
with  the  mail-bag.  We  rested  that  night  in  a  miserable  state,  and  in  the 
morning  got  some  bread  and  pemnican  out  of  the  cache^  and  after  we  had 
refreshed  ourselves  proceeded  to  the  ship. 

Thus  it  was  that  M.  Bellot,  who  had  endeared  himself  to  every  mem- 
ber of  the  Arctic  expedition  by  his  zeal,  his  gallantry,  and  his  cheerful- 
ness, and  more  especially  to  the  officers  and  crew  of  the  North  Star^  who 
had  most  of  them  served  with  him  under  the  extraordinary  difficulties 
which  accompanied  the  exploring  expedition  of  the  Prince  Albert^  pre- 
viously detailed  in  these  pages,  was  lost  to  his  country  and  to  Europe. 
It  is  by  such  united  labours  in  the  cause  of  humanity  that  the  cause  of 
general  peace  and  civilisation  is  best  served.  The  men  looked  up  to 
M.  Bellot,  although  a  foreigner,  as  a  man  they  were  always  ready  to 
follow  ;  and  such  an  example  of  mutual  confidence  and  friendly  union 
ought  never  to  be  forgot  by  both  nations. 

The  PhaniXy  Captain  Inglefield,  which  has  happily  reached  our  own 
shores,  had  also  its  share  of  disasters.  Being  with  its  consort,  the 
Breadalbane,  oflf  Cape  Riley,  on  the  20th  of  August — a  day  which  is 
noticed  by  Captain  PuUen  of  the  North  Star,  lying  at  the  time  off 
Beechey  Island,  as  one  of  exceeding  boisterousness  —  the  ice  clofflng 
obliged  both  ships  to  quit  the  cape  before  midnight,  and  in  endeavouring 
to  push  the  ships  into  a  bight  in  the  land  floe  the  Phcenix  touched  the 
ground,  but  came  off  again  immediately,  without  damage.  The  whole 
night  was  spent  in  struggling  to  get  the  ships  into  a  place  of  secunty, 
but  the  ice  drove  both  vessels  fast  to  the  westward,  when,  at  3.30  A.M.  of 
the  21st  of  August,  the  ice  closing  all  round,  both  vessels  were  secured  to 
a  floe  edge,  but  with  steam  ready  to  push  through  the  instant  the  ice 
should  loosen. 

Shortly,  however,  a  rapid  run  of  the  outer  floe  to  the  westward  placed 
the  Phanix  in  the  most  perilous  position.  Captain  Inglefield  ordered 
the  hands  to  be  turned  up,  not  that  aught  could  be  done,  but  to  be  readyi 
in  case  of  the  worst,  to  provide  for  their  safety;  the  ice,  however,  easing 
ofiF,  having  severely  nipped  this  vessel,  passed  astern  to  the  Breadamf^ 
which  ship  either  received  the  pressure  less  favourably,  or  was  less  eqo» 
to  the  emergency,  for  it  passed  through  her  starboard  bow,  and  in  1^ 
than  fifteen  minutes  she  sank  in  thirty  fathoms  of  water,  ^ving  t"® 
people  barely  time  to  save  themselves,  and  leaving  the  vmjck  of  a  boa* 
only  to  mark  the  spot  where  the  ice  had  closed  over  her.  Anticipating 
such  a  catastrophe.  Captain  Inglefield  says  he  got  over  the  stem  of  the 
Phcenix  as  soon  as  tne  transport  was  struck,  and  was  beside  her  when 
she  filled ;  and  he  unhesitatingly  states  that  no  human  power  could  Ija^ 
saved  her.  Fortunately,  nearly  the  whole  of  the  Government  stores  had 
been  landed.  .•  / 

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Babali  and  the  Pacha.  359 

HaTing  taken  on  board  the  shipwrecked  crew,  every  precaution  was 
used  Tvith  regard  to  the  safety  of  her  Majesty's  steam-vessel ;  font  it  was 
not  till  the  morning  of  the  22nd  of  August  that  they  succeeded  in  getting 
her  to  a  safe  position  in  Erebus  and  Terror  Bay,  where  the  s£p  was 
again  secured  to  the  land  floe. 

Captain  Inglefield  describes  himself  as  having  obtained  information  on 
his  way  home  of  the  existence  of  a  most  productive  coal-mine,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  twenty-five  miles  from  the  Danish  settlement  of  Lievely  Disco. 
The  importance  of  such  a  discovery  cannot  be  over  estimated.  With 
this  wre  must  conclude  our  notice  of  these  recent  brilliant  discoveries ; 
but  we  shall  wait  for  further  details,  more  especially  in  connexion  with 
the  fate  of  her  Majesty's  ships  Enterprise^  Captain  Collinsou,  and  the 
Investigator  and  its  gallant  crew,  with  anxious  interest.  As  it  is,  the 
record  of  the  doings  of  the  latter,  and  of  the  privations  of  her  crew, 
as  well  also  of  the  explorations  of  Sir  Edward  Belcher  and  his  assistants, 
will  add  some  most  remarkable  and  heart-stirring  pages  to  the  now 
long  annals  of  progress  in  Arctic  discovery  and  research.  Alas,  that 
we  cannot  also  say  of  succour  to  the  long  lost  expedition !  All  the  chances 
are  increased  by  the  negative  results  obtained  by  Captain  M'Clure, 
that  that  expedition  entered  into  the  Polar  Sea  by  Welling^n  Channel, 
and  the  habitations  discovered  on  the  shores  of  that  sea  by  Sir  Edward 
Belcher  might  possibly  turn  out  to  be  a  continuation  of  the  traces  dis- 
covered at  Beechey  Island. 


BABALI  AND  THE  PACHA. 

being  the  second  tale  of  my  diugoiun. 

By  Basil  May. 

Babali  the  poet,  philosopher,  and  dreamer,  took  a  stroll,  bent  on  star- 
gazing. Babali  was  in  advance  of  his  age,  had  outstepped  the  Maynooth 
doctors  who  said  that  the  stars  were  so  many  balls  of  fire,  and  that  the 
moon  was  no  larger  than  a  Dutch  cheese.  Babali  had  gone  deeper  into 
the  matter ;  vdth  head  thrown  back  almost  at  right  angles  with  his  heels, 
arms  crossed  on  his  chest,  and  eyes  distended,  he  had  studied  the  moon, 
had  been  charmed  with  the  good-natured  expression  of  its  broad  phy- 
siognomy, grinning  mouth,  and  benignant  nose.  From  those  signs  he 
drew  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  a  jolly  world  that  smiled  so  pleasantly 
upon  mankind.  Babali  was  in  one  of  his  humours,  ecstatic,  foreign,  de- 
tached from  the  outer  world.  Heedless  of  the  deepening  shades  of  night, 
not  caring  a  pistachio  for  the  khamsy  which  might  surprise  and  over- 
whelm him,  he  pursued  his  course.  How  long  he  might  have  done  so  it 
is  hard  to  say,  but  all  of  a  sudden  a  violent  pain  of  cramp  at  the  nape 
of  the  neck  dispelled  his  visionary  speculations,  and  recalled  him  to  him- 
seE 

''  Allah!  Allah!"  he  exclaimed,  wincing  under  it,  and  trying  to  bring 
his  head  forward  to  a  perpendicular;  but  it  had  remained  so  long  thrown 
back,  the  nerves  had  contracted,  and  it  was  some  time  before  be  could 
get  it  xifi^ht  agab|  or  felt  entirely  £ree  from  a  sensation  of  pain. 

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360  Babak  ami  the  P^ao^. 

♦*All«k!  Alkh!  ^i^iereawwer 

Where  w»  Babali  indeed?  Above,  the  bewretis ;  \itikm  mi  afi 
sromid,  a  desert — «nd,  wide.  BiJiaiti  bad  lostbcis  waj.  He  iwdraoed  InB 
^^s,  walked  back  again,  dmrged  to  1^  rigbt»  te  ike  left*;  went  noHkf 
south,  east,  and  west,  all  to  no  purpose;  he  eouU  not  fbd-  the  nzk 
track.  Bewildered^  exhausted,  liaifthig,  tlie  nmoes^  mom  l!o«iii  Sim 
lying  on  t^  giWid,  Ins  head  restimg  on  a  mound  of  sasnd.  BhbalFs  • 
hands  were  ok^ed,  hts  trsvel-senled  and  torn  brodeqoins  sefflt»ly  hM^ 
his  feet,  bleeding;,  Sflpre.  The  blood  had  flown  to  hss  head,  his  fips  wbr 
8nvH3fllen,  his  tongue  was  parched,  his  e^'es  distended  and  fished.  Tkre 
was  a  giittm<al  scmnd  in  bis  throat — Babali  was  dioldng.  Htm  be  ei^ 
perienoed  a  spasmodic  sensation;  bis  head  rdled  off  the  mennd,  sod 
struck  heavily  on  the  ground,  fnoe  downwards.  Bb  bled  ffohatfy^ih 
nose,  and  t^is  fortonate  circumstance  saved  him.  Hie  sstt  t^  gat^endm 
his  knees,  and  jovned  hands  around  tihem. 

♦*  Oh,  if  I  had  but  a  donkey  T'  he  exclnm^d. 

"  Mhh  is  mevoiful,"  said  a  deep  yoice  behind  him. 

BabaH  pironetted  m  the  draection  of  the  sound,  and  behsM  tkMpsa^ 
tieman,  wilii  a  k>ng  beard  and  many  tails^  leading  a&  ass  witii  a  ftal  0ft 
cnmpe. 

Now  this  £at  gentleman  happened  to  be  a  padha,  who  was  takft^  a& 
esorly  lide,  and  it  chanced  tiract  the  animal  he  rode,  befng  enoeinii,  fittere^ 
pn  the  way.  This  sorely  perplexed  the  wordiy  man,  w4io  valaed  his 
new-got  treasure,  so  he  placed  it  on  its  parent's  back,  and  was  fam  him- 
self to  lead  the  elder  beast. 

Babali,  believing  in  the  interposition  of  a  kind  Providence,  prepared 
to  take  his  place  by  the  side  of  die  youngest  member  of  the  party,  but 
the  pacha,  with  a  nervous  hamd,  grasped  .him  l^  the  broadest  part  of  his 
pan^loon,  and  held  him  back. 

"Ah,  dog!  wfcat  wouidst  thou?  Art  mad,  to  think  of  bestriding 
this  poor  ass.  Take  thou  the  feal  on  thine  own  shoulders  and  relieye 
the  dam,  or  by  Mobammet  thou  Bvest  not  to  see  to-morrow's  sun." 

Aghast,  terrified,  BabaH  staggered  Imck^ 

<<  Hi^ness!"  he  cried,  "  I  am  worn  c«t  unik  ixoffd — I  cm  sesndj 
stttndr— ^im  shado^vs  flit  before  mine  eyes ;  '  pky  t^e  poor  Uind  ioul 

"Pity  me  no  pities!"  answered  the  paeha.  ^On  with  yo«;  ^ 
<t««Tyyetawi»lt?"' 

Now  it  was  known  £Etr  and  near,  thait  when  the  paeha  quoted  hm  wt 
North  Limd  «ivi^es  it  was  no  joking  matter,  amd  Babai^  learing  ts  pn* 
voke  1^  ire  sfaoukiered  the  youag^  ass  and  staggvMd  onvrasds,  as  best  be 
could,  at  the  padm's  heek.  Lr  dme  i^me  tixey  reaelied  ^  cify*  ^ 
having  S0t  down  his  bnndea  at  the  pacha's  doer,  the  latter  vewsrdedhiB 
fiar  lus  pains  and  great  ssffeitng  with  a  kick  in  his  iMPeeoh,  addiflf  ^ 

^  Babali,  <^  tbon  fool !  When  thou  callest  upen  Allah  to  send  diff 
ah^  ass,,  a^  fn:  a  donkey  that  thou  canst  ivie." 

Poor  Babali  made  the  best  of  his  way  heme,  wbef<e  he  hrnid  Ua  ^ 
standing  on  tiM  threshold  of  die  door.  He  had  s^jreagdi  enoi^^^ 
throw  himself  into  her  arms,  from  whose  embrace  he  was  removed  to  » 
lauL  upon  his  bed,  from  w^ich  be  did  not  lise  for  many  days. 

It  w»  a  fine  nigirt,  jnst  such  another  as  diat  whii^  iatiodiiced  Bwii 
to  the  readeK.    He  inas^Mn^a&caeent,  and  Ittd  gone  oat  to  teei^  ^ 

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J^abali  and  th9  Facha.  361 

soft  n%fat  air.     Babaii's  eifaedc  ms  pile,  Mid  step  Brnmwkui  mmtetAfj, 
ysb  he  fe^a  Btmag  moluBittimi  to  roam. 

^  If  I  kad  Imt  a  dcmioej  that  I  coidd  r^le !''  fae  ejmcttloted,  as  lie 
smelted  upon  the  square. 
^  BabaH,  as  I  live !"  eselamed  smtie  one  -who  heard  the  mak, 
^  That's  true,  fmnd  Mustapha,''  rejoined  BabaH. 
^Methodgte  I  heard  tiiee  vmla.  t^a  kidst  a  drnkey?"  oootnraei 
Ifostapha. 
"Verily  l^ioii  bejodest  arigbt" 
^  And  whitlier  wotildst  thou  go  ?"  inquired  Musta^ia. 
**  Merely  aHroaming." 

^  listen  to  me,  friend,"  ssad  Mustapha,  fsklltng  into  BabaK's  step,  ancl 
waUoiig  by  faie  side.  ^  Thou  art  a  dreamer,  and  passest  thy  life  in  vaio 
«nde«voar8  to  unra¥el  tiie  mysteries  which  encompass  us  on  every  side, 
hppimg  to  obtain  a  solution  which  will  remove  the  veil  flpom  befbre  ih» 
(^  of  iliy  fellow-m«i.  Hast  thou  never  heard  of  that  North  Land<3om- 
pomider  of  drags,  w4iose  wise  maxim  it  was  tiiat  ^  where  ignontnoe  is 
bisB  'las  IbHy  to  be  wise  ?'  If  a  patient  i«eovered,  it  wm  attributed  to  the 
mtw  of  bis  pills;  ^  tiie  patient  died,  it  was  that  his  time  had  come. 
Thcfse  -diere  were  who  would  know  of  what  the  pills  wero  made,  and  then 
they  lost  all  fkildi,  and  were  never  sa'^ed*  Take  my  adviee :  aeeept  the 
ivorM  and  its  snomalies  as  it  is.  Thy  measm^  of  Hfe  is  llireesoore  and 
ten.  It  will  soon  come  round,  friend;  think  of  that,  and  let  not  1^ 
reflection  int»^iide  on  thee  at  t^e  eleventh  horn*  that  thy  Hfe  has  been  a 
dream.'* 

But  BsMi  heeded  him  not;  his  eyes  were  mised  to  lihe  oanopy  of 
heaven;  his  whole  soul  was  absorbed  in  its  contempktien. 

^  If  I  had  but  a  donkey  that  I  could  Jide !" 
•  "  Allah  hears  the  prayer  of  his  faithfid  servant,"  said  Mostapha.  **  "Mj 
ass  has  been  at  grass  for  the  last  mouth.     Commasd  thy  ^send,  and  it 
shall  bear  thee  whithersoever  thou  wouldst  go." 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  Mustafa's  dwelling,  who  took  Babali 
^  l&e  arm  and  led  him  to  the  back  of  the  pr^nises,  whcro  thene  was  an 
enclosed  piece  of  ground  whereon  the  donkey  had  ei^yed  a  month  of 
rwal  freeaom. 

^An  anring  will  stretch  its  legs,"  said  Mustapha;  ^moont  thou  kim, 
t^nefere,  and  1^  ^nrit  of  the  true  Prophet  attend  and  watch  over  thee." 
Babali  did  not  require  a  second  bidding,  but  accepted  the  offer  at  once, 
8Bd  in  a  £sw  msnutes  was  journeying  wrthout  the  city. 

*^  1  will  not  stPSfy  from  the  path,"  said  Babali  to  himsetf ;  ^'  but  besng 
G&  assback  will  indulge  in  a  kmg  ramble.  There  is  no  fear  of  my  ge^^g 
tired." 

So  saying,  h«  tokened  the  rmn  on  the  donkey's  back,  lettmg  ham  go 
his  own  pace,  and  gave  hiiasdf  up  en&ely  to  tlie  rtudy  of  the  stars* 

We  are  not  quite  sure  that  he  had  not  made  some  satis^KJtory  discovery^ 
withoB*  t^e  help  of  a  telescope,  tendmg  to  prove  that  the  end  g£  the  worid 
would  be  brought  about  by  our  running  foul  of  one  of  the  planet^  when 
^should  inevitably  be  ^it  to  pieces,  not  larger  than  liiose  so*called 
^^derfoohsB  whi^  are  occasionally  picked  up  in  tiie  fi^ds,  but  which 
never  by  any  chance  honour  crowded  cities  with  their  presence.  Baftmli's 
Pagination  had  soared  thus  far  above  sublunary  matters,  when  the  cold 

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362  Babali  and  the  Pacha. 

night  air  taking  effect  on  his  prominents,  he  was  Mn  to  remember 
that  he  still  fonned  part  and  parcel  of  the  known  world ;  hut  he  had 
derived  such  gratification  ^m  his  ride,  that  his  first  impulse  was  to  get 
off  his  ass,  mrow  himself  down  on  his  knees,  and  offer  up  a  prayer  of 
thanks  to  the  Prophet.  Having  thus  solaced  his  exuberant  spirit,  he  got 
on  assback  again,  but,  wonder  of  wonders !  the  beast  would  not  stir.  No, 
let  him  try  what  he  would,  patting,  thumping,  it  was  all  to  no  purpose; 
the  brute  was  steeled  alike  to  coaxing  and  beating.  He  remember^  the 
well-known  strophe  which  the  popular  North  Land  poet  addressed  to  his 
own  donkey,  deprecating  in  soul-stirring  language  the  employment  of 
rigorous  measures  in  the  event  of  his  meeting  with  a  stubborn  animal, 
nobly  insisting  on  '<  persuasion  better  than  force;"  and  Babali  repeated 
the  original  words  in  melodious  strain  to  Mustapha's  ass,  but  it  was  not 
to  be  charmed.  Evidently  Mustapha  had  not  cultivated  in  the  animal  a 
taste  either  for  poetry  or  music.  Morning  dawned,  and  found  Babali 
a  victim  still  to  his  companion's  stubborn  disposition.  He  had  given  up 
the  struggle  in  despair,  and  sat  down ;  but  now  he  resolved  to  try  again. 
Standing  before  the  brute,  he  was  endeavouring,  with  outstretched  arm, 
to  pull  him  iXong  by  the  bridle.  With  fore  feet  stoutly  planted,  the  brute 
stood  firm  as  a  rock,  not  to  be  moved.     Babali  rampant.     Ass  reposant. 

A  loud  laugh  at  his  back  caused  Babali  to  start  and  turn  his  head : 
there,  at  his  elbow,  stood  his  old  acquaintance  the  pacha,  as  before  on 
assback,  whilst  at  his  side  walked  his  aga. 

"  Holy  Prophet !  what  ails  his  faithful  servant  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Highness,"  answered  Babali,  "  'tis  Mustapha's  ass  has  brought  me 
here :  Sie  stubborn  brute  since  noon  of  night  has  stood,  and  nought  that 
I  can  do  will  move  him." 

The  pacha  chuckled.  The  aga  stooped,  and  rubbed  his  hands  be- 
tween his  knees. 

^'  Aga,"  said  the  pacha. 

"  Thy  slave  is  here,  O  Sublime  Essence  of  Truth." 

*'  Hast  thou  the  bundle  of  thistles  ?" 

The  aga  made  no  reply,  but  from  the  spacious  pocket  of  his  panta- 
loon drew  forth  the  required  bundle,  and  presented  it  to  the  pacha,  who 
got  off  his  ass,  and  commanded  the  aga  to  take  his  place.  Then  bid- 
ding Babali  stand  on  one  side  and  keep  his  eyes  open,  he  tied  one  end  d 
a  piece  of  string  round  the  bundle  of  thistles,  and  the  other  end  m 
fastened  to  his  bamboo.  Then  getting  astride  the  stubborn  donkeys 
back,  he  rested  the  cane  on  its  head,  with  the  thistles  dangling  about  an 
inch  from  its  nose.  No  sooner  did  the  beast  feel  the  propinquity  of  the 
thistles,  than  it  stretched  out  its  neck,  and  bit  at  them ;  but  with  his 
cane,  which  he  managed  Hke  a  rudder,  he  first  allowed  them  to  hump  up 
against  its  nose,  and  then  thrust  them  out  of  its  reach.  Tantalised, 
teased,  the  ass,  losing  all  patience,  set  off  at  a  tremendous  gallop  vi 
pursuit  of  provender  which  it  was  not  destined  to  reach.  Evidently  the 
pacha's  neck  was  in  danger,  so  his  faithful  aga  clapped  heels  to  his  ass, 
and  both  master  and  man  had  soon  disappeared. 

"  Verily,  verily,"  stud  Babali,  as  despondingly  he  bent  his  steps  home- 
wards, "  are  our  wishes  ever  realised,  or,  being  realised,  are  we  ever 
satisfied  P" 


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(     363     ) 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  COMMONPLACE-BOOK  OF  A 
LATELY  DECEASED  AUTHOR. 

BISTRXrST  A  fool's  PBAISES. 

Thomas  be  Ybiabte,  an  old  Spanish  fabulist,  describes  a  bear  as 
pleased  when  hb  dancing  was  approved  of  by  the  ape,  but  relinquishing 
the  exercise  when  the  pig  applauded,  and  concludes  by  drawing  this 
moral: 

Si  el  sabio,  no  aprueba  malo. 

Si  el  necio  aplaude,  peor. 

Your  work  is  bad  if  wise  men  blame. 
But  worse  if  lauded  by  a  fool. 

I  never  hear  one  fool  praise  another  without  thinking  that  the  very  bray 
of  the  ass  is  sweetest  music  to  his  kinsmen ;  and  their  conversation  over 
their  thistles  doubtless  turns  upon  its  tone  and  richness. 

ANTIPATHIES. 

There  are  some  persons  so  hateful  to  me,  that  I  should  turn  away 
though  I  met  them  arm-in-arm  with  a  seraph  in  the  shining  streets  of 
heaven. 

GOUT. 

It  is  not  every  vice  that  has  its  badge  as  gluttony  has  in  the  flanneled 
Hmb,  but  this  deadly  sin  ruddle-marks  his  foUowers  like  a  butcher  does  his 
sheep.  I  never  see  a  gouty  foot  limp  up  the  pulpit  stairs,  but  I  expect 
anon  to  hear  a  thundering  denunciation  of  epicurism.     No  wonder  the 

Rev. denounces  the  sins  of  the  flesh  with  such  an  even  flow  of  pious 

Billingsgate,  for  every  one  talks  on  the  subject  with  which  he  is  most 
conversant. 

ASPmATION. 

"  Aim  high,  my  boy,"  my  father  used  to  say ;  "  if  you  miss  the  sun 
vou  may  hit  the  eagle.     Better  paint  a  bad  cartoon  than  a  good  minia- 
jture.     It  is  something  to  be  even  stupid  on  a  large  scale." 

FAME. 

The  other  day  as  I  was  rambling,  after  breakfast,  through  a  leafy 
lane  in  Kent,  I  met  three  children  seeking  the  haunt  of  an  echo.  How 
Hke  man  seeking  fame !     Fame !  'Tis  but  a  footprint  in  the  dew  after  all. 

OUR  POETS. 

Shelley's  heart  leaps  up  into  music  like  a  fountain  in  one  perpetual  jet 
of  liquid  silver,  ascending  noiselessly,  fading  away  in  melody.  Byron's 
poetiy  is  fierce  and  fitful  as  a  cataract.  Wordsworth  is  like  a  mountain 
rivulet.  Southey  flows  on  calm  and  equable  as  a  river.  Shakspeare 
alone  is  the  great  weltering  flood  of  brightness,  crimson  in  perpetual 
sunset.  Men  copy  St.  Peter's,  but  they  never  reproduce  the  Pyramids. 
No  one  imitates  Shakspeare. 

JV(W.— VOL.  ZCIX.  HO.  CCCXCV.  2  B 


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364  Extracts  from  a  Commonplace- Booh 

STYLE. 

How  differently  men  handle  controversial  matters.  There's  Johnson, 
with  his  two-handed  sword,  striking  with  the  edge,  while  he  pierces 
with  the  point,  and  stuns  you  with  Sie  hilt,  hitting  right  and  1^  with 
antithesis,  and  wielding  the  ponderous  weapon  as  easily  as  you  could  a 
flail.  Then  there's  Burke,  with  his  glittering  rapier,  all  rhetorical  role 
and  polish  according  to  adiool — passado^  montanto,  staccato — one,  two, 
three,  the  third  in  your  bosom.  Then  comes  Maoaulay,  who  ruos  in 
under  your  guard,  anii  stabs  you  to  the  heart  with  the  hcMMry  dagger  of  a 
short  epigrammatic  sentence ;  Jeffery,  who  first  kills  then  acu^ ;  ani 
Carlyle,  who  advances  armed  with  an  antique  stone  axe,  with  whid  he 
mashes  his  foes  as  you  would  drugi»  in  a  pesAb  and  mortar. 

HABIT. 

'Tis  only  great  minds  who  retain  the  freshness  of  perpetual  boyhood. 
Wordsworth  kept  it  eminently,  but  in  him  it  occasionally  sinks  into 
second  childhood.  Habit  deadens  the  intensest  feelings.  Hear  a  child's 
dioughts  on  the  sea  or  the  sky,  and  hell  talk  better  ^)etry  than  Tenny- 
son. If  an  angel  was  caught  in  a  man-trap  to*-morrow,  and  exhibited  in 
London,  he  wouldn't  draw  a  house  in  six  months.  Men  flock  to  see  a 
comet,  but  they  never  look  up  at  the  stars.  Tell  them  there  is  a  way 
to  phiok  those  fires  horn  heaven  to  light  iheir  &ctory,  and  they  listen; 
but  there  they  blaze,  burning  on,  supplying  their  own  gas,  and  needing  no 
lighting,  and  who  cares  ?  I  have  often  gone  up  the  Strand,  with  my  back 
to  the  west,  about  sunset,  and  seen  every  fiEice  that  met  me  crimsoned  as 
with  the  glare  of  a  great  conflagration,  but  no  one  looked  up.  There  will 
be  many  men  go  to  heaven  without  ever  having  known  anything  eiiiwr 
of  love  or  the  {Measures  of  nature.  When  we  get  accustomed  to  heairen, 
we  shall  begin  to  criticise  the  very  songs  of  the  angels,  and  call  that  too 
^arp,  and  this  a  quarter  of  a  note  too  flat.  If  dragons  ever  became  na- 
merous  again,  in  a  month  they  would  be  harnessed  to  the  higglers'  carts. 

A  TEST  OP  AFFBCTIOBT. 

Was  there  ever  yet  a  son  who  looked  for  five  minutes  at  his  dead&tber 
without  thinking  of  the  still  sealed  will? 

MEDIOCRITY. 

Mediocrity  ie^  afier  al)»  tbo  best  thing  in  life.  The  tasteless  com- 
monplaces are  the  standardB — bvead  and  water,  and  good,  dufl,  «teidj 
people.     I'd  as  soon  lodge  over  a  powder-magazine  as  live  with  a  genins* 

There's  M ,  whose  poems  are  like  sparkling  champagne  at  the  first 

reading,  and  like  a  second  day's  claret  at  the  next.  I'd  rather  drink 
water  than  nectar  for  a  continuance.  Leaves  are  nmtfaer  cnsisoa  i^ot 
gold  colour,  but  plain  sober  green. 


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(     365     ) 

CHRONICLES  OF  A  COTOSfTRY  TOWN. 
Pabt   III. 


This  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  time  when  the  ladies  were  intco- 
duced  to  the  reader.  On  that  day,  Captain  Howaid  called  to  speak  on 
the  suhjeet  to  the  major,  who»  having  been  previously  prepared  for  the 
yisit  by  his  wife,  and  being  himself  not  averse  to  the  connexion,  imme- 
diately gave  his  consent.  Charles  nether  saw  nor  suspected  that  his 
happiness  was  resting  on  a  frail  foundation ;  he  never  dreamt  of  false- 
hood or  deceit ;  and  when,  a  day  or  two  aft^,  in  a  long  and,  to  him, 
most  interesting  oonveraation  with  his  betrothed,  he  spoke  of  the  years  he 
had  spent  at  school,  of  Mrs.  Selby,  and  dear  little  Nelly,  and  related  tiie 
cruel  accident  which  had  deprived  the  poor  child  of  s^ht,  health,  and 
beauty — when  Fanny  heard  him,  with  every  appearance  of  de^  feeling 
and  interest,  and  when  she  breathed  gently  a  wish  tiiat  he  would  go  to 
England,  and  see  what  could  be  done  to  repair  the  injury,  how  could  he 
do  other  than  ask  her  to  go  with  him  ?  How  could  he  feel  oi^rwise 
than  that  the  pleasure  would  be  doubled,  trebled,  to  him  if  shared  with 
so  gentle  a  partner,  so  sympathising  a  companion  ?  Fanny  seemed,  at 
first,  startlea  at  the  idea  of  so  short  a  preparation,  but  she  nevertlielees 
led  him  on  so  artfiiUy,  that  at  length  the  request  was  earnestly,  passion- 
atdiy  pressed ;  and  then,  with  every  appearance  of  maidenly  modesty,  it 
was  granted  ;  and  she  had  promised  to  maxry  him,  and,  if  he  could  get 
leave  of  absence— of  which  there  was  little  doubt— to  go  with  him  to 
England  in  less  than  a  month. 

By  Fanny's  wish,  the  engagement  was  kept  afi  private  as  possible, 
and  all  went  smoothly  on  to  the  appointed  day^  the  time  passing  away 
in  an  almost  uninterrupted  succession  of  scenes  of  pleasure  and  gaiety* 
On  die  ven^  evening  before  l^e  day  fixed  for  the  wedding,  there  was  to 
be  a  grand  ball  at  the  Government  House,  to  which  the  sisters  and  Ca{>* 
tain  Howard  were  invited.  Charles  was  most  unwilling  to  go  at  such  a 
time ;  but  it  was  voted  that  the  invitation  could  not  be  refused,  and  so 
they  prepared  to  set  out.  Fanny  was  dressed  betimes,  and,  while  waiting 
for  the  carriage  which  was  to  convey  her  to  the  scene  of  pleasure,  she 
stood  ccmtemplating,  vi4th  infinite  satisfaction,  the  image  n^ected  in  the 
minor  before  her ;  and  indeed  she  might  well  feel  satbfied  widi  the  re- 
suit  of  die  labours  of  herself  and  her  maid. 

"  Miss  Crewe,"  she  thought,  "  may  be  there,  loaded  with  diamonds, 
but  I  do  not  think  that,  even  with  them^  she  can  look  like  this.'* 

At  this  moment,  Louisa  entered  the  room,  and  as  she  stood  by  her 
sister's  side,  the  expression  of  her  countenance,  as  seen  in  the  glaas^ 
caused  Fanny  to  turn  around  with  surprise,  and  to  exclaim : 

'<  Why,  Louisa,  what  is  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a 
ghost  I" 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had,"  replied  Louisa.  "  Look  here  I  This  has  just 
been  brought  to  me  by  mistake,  instead  of  to  you." 

And  she  gave  Fanny  an  unsealed  note  written  in  pencil ;  it  merely 
bo»e  the  woras — 

2b2 

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366  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

"  They  tell  me,  dearest  Fanny,  you  are  going  to  a  ball.  Spare  me 
only  ten  minutes  before  you  set  out — Yours, 

**  RoBEBT  Sinclair." 

As  Fanny's  eyes  fell  on  the  words  her  face  and  neck  flushed,  for  an 
instant,  to  a  crimson  hue,  which  again  faded  rapidly  away  to  a  deadly 
paleness. 

"  This  is  most  unfortunate,"  she  said ;  "  where  is  he  ?" 

'^  As  he  asked  to  see  you  alone  he  has  been  shown  into  the  breakfast- 
room." 

"  So  far  well.     And  where  is  Howard  ?" 

"  Captain  Howard  has  not  yet  arrived." 

^  Go,  Louisa,  into  the  drawing-room,"  said  her  sister,  afber  a  moment's 
thought,  and  when  Howard  comes  amuse  him  there  until  I  join  you.  I 
will  go  to  Robert." 

"You  go!"  exclaimed  Louisa.  "What  will  you  say  to  him?  How 
ean  you  see  him?" 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  replied  Fanny,  steadily  enough ;  "  I  will  go,  or 
there  may  be  mischief." 

As  she  entered  the  room  Robert  Sinclair  flew  to  meet  her. 

"  Fanny !  dearest  Fanny!"  he  cried;  "  my  own  beloved,  my  promised 
bride !  I  am  come  sooner  than  you  expected — say  I  am  not  unwel' 
come." 

"  Unwelcome ! — no,"  said  Fanny ;  "  but  why  did  you  not  write  to  say 
your  plans  were  altered  ?  This  sudden  arrival  has  surprised  me  greatly." 
And  she  trembled  as  she  spoke. 

'^  I  wished  to  see  you,  Fanny  :  I  had  much  to  tell  you,  and  preferred 
saying  it  to  writing  it.     But  must  you  go  to  this  ball  to-night  ?" 

"  I  must  indeed,"  she  said ;  "  my  sisters  would  be  very  angry  if  I 
refused  ;  they  are  ready  to  go.  You  must  come  to-morrow,  and  then  I 
can  hear  all  you  have  to  tell." 

"  Well,"  replied  her  lover,  **  I  suppose  I  must  submit.  I  regret  the 
delay ;  but  I  should  wish,  when  I  speak  to  you,  to  have  a  little  time  to 
ourselves.  But  how  very  beautiful  you  are  looking,  my  own  Fanny !  I 
trust  the  rumour ^* 

"  When  did  you  arrive?"  asked  Fanny,  abruptly. 

"  I  have  landed  only  a  few  hours,  and  already  I  have  heard  that  the 
world  of  Calcutta  has  been  busy,  as  the  world  is  everywhere  on  those 
matters,  in  cutting  out  a  match  for  you,  dear  Fanny.  I  could  afford  to 
smile  at  the  report ;  but  tell  me,  love,  that  there  is  no  foundation 
for  it." 

"No,  Robert,"  she  said,  "none  whatever.  But  you  must  go  now; 
come  again  to-morrow.  We  shall  be  later  than  usual ;  for  we  shall  be 
up  late  to-night.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  my  dearest  I"  said  the  lover ;  and  drawing  her  gently 
towards  him,, he  pressed  the  lip  of  her  whom  he  looked  upon  as  soon  to  be 
his  bride. 

Fanny  Somerville  was  that  night  the  undisputed  belle  of  the  ball- 
room, though  she  made  less  display  than  ordinary,  and  though,  not- 
withstanding her  efforts  to  repress  it,  there  was  evidently  a  restless 
uneasiness  in  her  manner ;   but  the  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  the  dax- 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  367 

ding  brightness  of  her  eyes,  rather  heightened  her  beauty,  and  people 
said  they  had  never  seen  her  to  such  advantage.  Charles  Howard 
watched  every  glance.  He  saw  that  she  was  agitated,  and  remarked 
that  there  was  less  self-possession  than  usual  in  her  manner ;  but  he 
could,  and  did,  account  for  this  in  a  way  most  pleasing  to  himself. 

The  evening  passed,  as  such  evenings  usually  do,  and  when  the 
asters  were  once  more  at  home,  they  remarked  that  Fanny  had  grown 
very  pale. 

'*  I  have  a  bad  headache,"  she  said ;  and,  wishing  them  good  night 
rather  abruptly,  she  retired  to  her  own  chamber.  She  had  not  been 
gone  more  than  five  minutes,  when  Louisa,  who  felt  very  unea^  about 
her,  followed  her  to  her  room.  She  found  her  sister  seated  berore  the 
toilet ;  the  Ught  fell  strongly  on  her  &ce,  and  Louisa  started  at  seeing 
that  it  was  white  as  that  of  a  corpse,  and  almost  as  rigid. 

"  Why  do  you  come  here?"  Fanny  exclaimed,  starting  up ;  "  do  you 
want  to  see  my  misery?" 

"  Oh,  Fanny,  dear  Fanny,  what  can  we  do  ?"  cried  Louisa,  weeping. 
*' I  feared  something  like  this.  But  it  is  not  too  late  now:  give  up 
Captun  Howard ;  tell  him  the  truth  at  once — anything  is  better  than 
this." 

"  Give  up  Captain  Howard  ? — tell  him  the  truth  ?  Oh,  Louisa,  it  is 
too  late  for  that !  Think ! — if  I  were  to  do  so  now,  all  my  prospects  in 
life  would  be  blighted.  The  very  boys  would  hoot  me,  as  the  false  mis- 
tress of  two  lovers  and  the  wife  of  neither !  No,  no,  no !  that  may  not 
be ;  I  must  go  on  with  it  now." 

"  But,"  said  Louisa,  "  consider  the  sin !  You  will  take  on  you  solemn 
duties ;  you  will  pronounce  at  the  altar  the  most  solemn  vows.  Can 
you  do  so  deliberately,  and  know  that  you  are  devoted  to  another?" 

"  What  are  you  about  to  do?"  said  Fanny — **  what  are  you  about  to 
do  p  How  many  women  every  day  do  the  same  ?  I  must  throw  off 
tlus  weakness,  and  be  myself  again  :  Robert's  coming  so  unexpectedly 
has  upset  me  sadly.  I  will  go  to  bed  ;  and,  Louisa,  promise  me  to  say 
nothing  of  this.     Good  night,  once  more." 

And  dismissing  her  gentle  sister,  with  something  like  recovered  com- 
posure, she  retired  to  bed ;  but  not  before  she  had  taken  a  miniature 
from  a  small  casket,  and  looked  at  it  long  and  sadly.  She  then  sought 
lepose,  but  little  was  found. 

The  next  morning  saw  Fanny  Somerville  the  bride  of  Charles 
Howard. 

What  was  the  disappointment,  the  agony,  the  rage,  the  contempt  of 
Robert  Sinclair,  when  he  heard  the  astounding  intelligence  of  Fanny 
Somerville's  marriage  to  another !  The  shock  brought  on  a  severe  ill- 
ness ;  two  months  had  elapsed  before  he  was  sufficiently  recovered  to 
leave  Calcutta ;  and  when  he  took  his  passage  back  to  Europe,  Captain 
and  Mrs.  Howard  were  fiar  on  their  watery  way  to  England. 

Sinclair  betook  himself  to  France,  and  became  a  sojourner  in  its  gay 
capital 


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W6  Ckronieles  qfa  Country  J  own. 

IL 

It  wag  a  glocHmy  November's  eyening.  The  dark  clouds,  whi^  had 
ibr  some  time  kung  over  the  little  town  of  St.  Bennett' s^  ealling  Mtt 
various  sagacious  opnuons  from  old  veterans  who  bad  seen  a  wmter 
or  two  in  ikeir  time — some  to  the  effect  that  there  was  going  to  be  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow,  others  tlrat  there  was  not  "  heart"  enough  in  tJie 
weather  for  that — had  at  length  settled  the  matter  by  pouring  down  oae 
eontinuovSy  soaking,  fimilj-resolved  deluge  of  rain.  It  had  rained  all 
the  day  before,  it  had  rained  all  night,  it  had  rained  aXL  the  morning,  and 
it  was,  though  in  a  less  degree,  raining  stilL  The  world  was  loolang  ai 
if  there  had  been  an  universfd  washing-day — cold,  sloppy,  and  coadartlm; 
llie  trees  were  dripping  with  moisture ;  the  houses  were  stored  with  mt 
umbrellas :  the  streets  were  damp,  dirty,  disagreeable,  and,  except  for 
the  occasional  dick  of  a  patten,  silent;  the  lamp-lighter — unattended 
by  the  half-dozen  little  boys  who  usually  made  it  Aew  business  to  fdiow 
him,  and  shout  exnltingly,  as  each  successive  lamp  was  lit— was  noise- 
lessly making  his  rounds,  gliding  through  the  streets,  placing  his  ladder, 
scampering  up,  and  sliding  down  again,  with  inconceivable  vdocity;  and 
people  were  drawing  down  blinds,  closing  window-shutters,  and  gwi^ 
the  knob  of  coal  on  the  fire  a  smart  rap  with  the  poker,  to  make  it 
blaie.     In  a  word,  it  was  five  o'clock. 

Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor  were  sitting  alone  in  the  Kttle  pavlomr  of  tbe 
old  cottage  :  they  had  just  finished  their  tea,  and  each  had  turned  sroand 
towards  the  fire,  and  was  gazing  into  the  glowing  ooab,  absorbed  in  her 
own  thoughts.  Since  Eleanor's  return  ^m  London,  all  had  gone  well 
with  her ;  ^e  was  in  perfect  health,  and  the  sight,  so  mercifully  restened, 
seemed  to  have  quite  regained  its  former  power.  Time,  too,  had  per- 
fected her  childhood's  promise  of  beauty,  and  now  m.^  succeeding  day 
seemed  to  add  a  new  grace  to  her  person  and  manner ;  almost  all  agseed 
that  they  had  never  seen  so  lovely  and  elegant  a  girl.  Neither  had  the 
eukure  of  her  mind  been  neglected,  althongh  she  had  S8t  f or  so  manj 
years  in  darkness  and  suffering  ;  for  though  she  had,  necessaonly,  muc^y^ 
to  leain,  and  was,  indeed,  busily  employed  every  day  in  ao^^iiring  know- 
ledge and  accomplishments  which  mi^t  be  of  use  to  hmelf  and  her 
mo&ier,  yet  even  during  the  period  of  her  blindness,  her  mother's 
anxious  care,  and  the  kind  teaching  of  her  companions,  had  stored  her 
mmd  with  information,  the  more  solid,  perhaps,  and  weH-remeodbered, 
because  her  attention  had  not  been  distracted  by  outward  objects. 

"  Well,  N^ly,"  said  her  mother,  suddenly,  "  what  are  you  thinkings 
80  deeply  about  ?** 

Eleanor  looked  up,  with  a  start  and  a  half  bludi,  but  she  answered, 
artlcntyy 

^  I  was  ^dnking  of  Charlie,  mamma." 

"  Do  you  think  you  should  know  Charles  Howard  agadn,  by  sigh^ 
Eleanor  ?"  asked  her  mother,  af^er  a  moment's  pwuse ;  ^  it  is  many 
years  since  you  have  seen  him." 

"  Know  him,  mamma  ? — know  Charles  Howard  ?  I  should  think  so ! 
When  I  was  blind,  I  used  to  try  to  think  I  saw  you  all,  when  I  beard  you 
moving  about  me ;  and  I  then  stamped  your  faces  quite  firmly  on  my 
mind.     I  used  to  have  such  pleasant  dreams,  too,  at  times — such  bright 

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Chronicles  (fa  Country  Town.  869 

SMSnoiMs  of  the  {hmN;  !— -espeoially  when  I  heard  Chariie's  M^Yvm  harp ; 
and  sometimes  I  codd  see  yon  all  neariy  as  plainly  ae  I  see  y©o  now." 
Sfae  pmised  a  moment,  and  then  contimied :  '<  When  Grod  restored  me 
nay  sight,  I  mm  yon,  and  Dr.  Barfoot,  and  Mr.  CJooch,  and  old  Janey, 
just  what  I  rememhered.  You  were  but  little  altered,  and  the  others 
were  changed  still  less ;  but  aU  the  Barfoots  and  Cooi^ies— tJie  girls,  I 
ineai»— -were  strangely  different  from  what  I  remembered  them ;  they 
were  so  mndi  talleor  and  mwe  womanty  than  I  had  imagined.  Yon 
will  laugh  at  me,  mamma,  bat  I  cannot  tell  you  how  startled  I  was, 
idien  I  saw  myself,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  glass.  I  had  heard  people 
say,  when  they  saw  me  in  the  streets,  *  Poor  child  !  how  very  pretty  she 
was  before  Charlie  Howard  shot  her  ;  one  can  hardly  beliere  her  to  be 
the  sasm  !'  And  others  would  say,  *  Poor  thmg !  what  a  melancholy- 
keking  ehild  she  is  now !  Her  mother  will  never  rear  her;  and  it  woidd 
be  a  mercy  if  she  w^e  taken  at  once,  for  she  wfll  never  be  anything 
i^ain !'  I  did  not  like  to  tell  you  all  this ;  but  it  used  to  make  me  fret, 
and  be,  I  fear,  very  cross :  but  you  bore  all,  my  dear,  good,  kind 
xnamaoa ;  and  now  I  am  longiug  to  be  able  to  pay  you  back  isiome  of 
the  debt  I  owe  you." 

"But,"  said  her  mother,  inquiringly,  "you  do  not  tell  me,  Nelly, 
iHiat  you  thought  of  yourself  when  you  looked  in  the  glass." 

^*  I  scaveely  know  how,  mamma,  but  I  will  try.  As  my  health  grew 
better,  the  poor  people,  who  are  generally  i^e  most  ready  to  teU  the 
troth,  would  compliment  me  on  my  improved  looks ;  and  I  was  so 
gratified,  because  I  knew  that  Charlie  would  be  glad  to  find  me  some^ 
thing  Hke  what  I  had  been.  When  I  could  see  again,  there  was  quite  a 
dtn^gle  in  my  mind  between  hope  and  fear,  and  it  was  almost  with 
dread  that  I  thought  of  looking  in  the  glass.  When  I  at  last  ventured 
to  ta^  a  peep,  I  actually  started  with  surprise !  '  Could  that  be,'  I 
!tiK)i^lit,  ^  little  Eleanor  Selby  ?  Mamma,  1  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but 
my  heart  boonded  with  joy,  at  seeing  myself  so  much  better  than  I  had 
ci^ected,  and  for  days  I  could  not  ^ill  the  trinmph  of  my  own  V£un 
heart.  But  now  I  feel  differently :  I  am  grateful  to  my  heaTenly  Fadiea: 
for  taking  £pom  me  the  deformity  which  had  been  my  portion,  and  am 
CMtented  to  be  no  better,  in  other  respects,  than  those  I  see  around  me." 
Theiis  was  a  minute  of  silence,  and  then  Eleanor  again  spoke : 
^  Mamma,"  she  send,  "  I  should  think  Charlie  must  surely  have  had 
^^  letter  by  this  time.  How  glad  he  will  be  to  knecw  that  I  ean  «ee  I 
^y  I  just  open  i^e  window  a  little  bit,  £or  five  minutes,  mamma,  to 
hear  the  iBolmn  harp  ?  I  don'^t  think  it  rsons  much  now.  As  time  goes 
V^  and  I  become  acquainted  with  the  realities  aroand  me,  I  find  diat 
the  visions  which  cheered  me  through  years  of  darkness,  grow  liEunter.  I 
t^^^d  not  like^to  forget  Charlie  Howard,  and  when  I  hear  the  tones  of  the 
^ohan  harp,  Ins  voice  seems  to  mingle  with  them ;  and  sonMstimeS)  I 
^iOcy,  I  eatoh  i^gain  die  very  surs  he  played  long  ago  on  Ms  dote." 

**  Do  so,  if  yon  please,  Etesmor,"  replied  her  mother;  "  but  I  fear  we 
1^  our  mnds  dwell  too  much  on  Charlie  Howaid..  We  do  not  know 
^10^  oontadt  with  the  world  may  ha;ve  changed  him." 

Elewaor  made  no  answer,  but  she  placed  the  ^dian  havp^  afid>  seating 
herself  by  tk^  window,  closed  her  eyes  that  she  might  teoai  more  di»- 
^ii^ly  tlie  visimis  ^  the  past ;  whilst  her  mother  iutt  gasnng  oft  h«  with 

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370  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

a  somewhat  sad  and  anxious  look.  For,  perhaps,  five  minutes  they  htd 
remained  perfectly  still,  when  suddenly  the  r^K>se  of  Eleanor^s  counte- 
nauce  was  changed  to  an  expression  of  eager  listening ;  then,  springing 
to  her  feet,  before  her  mother  could  speak,  she  clasped  her  hands,  and 
exclaimed, 

<<  Mamma^  mamma!  that  is  like  CharUe^s  footstep  /" 

Mrs.  Selby,  accustomed  to  rely  on  the  acuteness  of  heanng  which  had 
been  remarkable  in  her  daughter  since  her  loss  of  sight — ^though  she  had 
but  little  expectation  of  her  being  right  in  this  instance— opened  the 
parlour-door  quickly,  and  was,  in  an  instant,  clasped  in  the  arms  of 
Charles  Howard! 

**  My  dear,  dear  Mrs.  Selby  !**  he  cried,  "  where  is  Nelly  ?  where  is 
our  own  little  Nelly  ?''  And  his  eye  rested  doubtfully  on  the  beautifbl 
&ce  and  perfect  figure  of  the  young  lady  near  the  window.  Eleanor  had 
not  moved — she  had  seen,  not  only  Charlie,  but  also  a  strange  lady,  who 
had  entered  with  him,  and  who  was  gazing  around  the  room  and  at  her- 
self with  no  very  pleased  air  of  surprise. 

"  Charlie,"  at  last  said  Nelly,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  do  you  not 
know  me  ?" 

Nq  consideration  stopped  Charles  Howard :  in  a  moment  Eleanor  was 
clasped  in  his  arms,  and  he  was  kissing  her  blushing  cheek.  But  Mrs. 
Selby  saw  dark  clouds  passing  over  the  brow  of  the  stranger  lady,  and 
hastened  to  recal  his  attention,  by  requesting  an  introduction. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Charles.  '*  Mrs.  Selby,  this  is  my  wife— my 
bride,  Mrs.  Charles  Howard.  We  came  to  England  together  to  see  yoa 
and  Nelly,  and  try  what  could  be  done  to  repair  the  mischief  which  I  had 
so  recklessly  caused  :  but  I  find  that  the  g^ood  work  has  been  completed 
without  me." 

"  Captain  Howard  thought  to  have  given  you  an  agreeable  surprise** 
s£ud  his  wife  ;  ^*  but  it  would  seem  that  the  tables  had  been  turned :  the 
surprise  appears  to  have  been  rather  on  our  side  than  on  yours." 

An  agreeable  surprise !  What  a  mockery  is  the  phrase !  Who  is  thwe 
that  has  ever  tried  the  experiment,  but  has  found  how  sure  is  the  disap- 
pointment which  follows  ?  Time  may  have  changed  those  with  whom  the 
anticipated  pleasure  was  to  have  been  shared;  or  circumstances  may  mar 
the  effect ;  or  we  may  be  annoyed  merely  because  every  little  trifle  does 
not  occur  exactly  as  we  had  pictured  it ;  or  there  may  be  a  thousand 
causes  why  an  ^'  agreeable  surprise"  should  turn  out  to  be  a  most  dis- 
agreeable affiur :  something  is  sure  to  occur  to  prove  how  v^n  was  the 
hope  of  drinking  one  cup  of  earthly  pleasiu'e  without  its  bitter.  Charles 
Howard  had  for  years  indulged  the  dream  of  going  back  to  his  old  home 
at  St.  Bennett's,  and  of  surprising  Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor  by  his  unex- 
pected arrival ;  for  years  had  Eleanor  listened  for  his  voice  or  his  foot^ 
step ;  and  often  and  often  had  she  started  and  blushed  and  trembled  at 
some  passing  sound  which  had  cheated  her  into  the  hope  that  Charies 
was  near  ;  and  Mrs.  Selby  and  old  Janey,  unromantic  as  they  were,  had 
also  had  their  dreams  of  their  favourite's  return  to  his  old  home.  Now 
he  was  come — and  a  sense  of  blank  disappointment  took  the  phice  of  their 
highly- wrought  expectations  of  pleasure.  Charles  himself  was  unchanged 
in  heart,  but  an  uncongenial  spirit  had  come  with  him,  and  all  their 
bright  visions  were  overclouded.     Mrs.  Selby  struggled  against  the  fed- 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  371 

ing,  and  spoke  gently  and  kindly  to  Mrs.  Howard ;  but  that  lady  ap-, 
paired  by  no  means  inclined  to  make  herself  agreeable — ^her  manners 
T?ere  stiff^  and  her  answers  somewhat  of  the  shortest :  Jane  was  called  in 
to  see  her  old  fiiend,  but  she  too  was  oppressed  by  the  presence  of  the 
stranger ;  and  Charles,  on  his  part,  was  disappointed  at  what  he  consi- 
dered her  coolness.  After  a  rather  brief  stay,  Mrs.  Howard  rose,  saying 
that  she  was  too  much  fatigued  to  remain,  and  that  she  must  return  to 
the  hotel  where  they  had  put  up.  In  vain  Mrs.  Selby  proffered  the  ac- 
commodation which  her  house  afforded,  and  begged  that  Mrs.  Howard 
would  take  some  refreshment :  she  refused  all  coldly,  though  politely,  and 
yery  soon  Eleanor  and  her  mother  were  again  alone. 

They  scarcely  uttered  a  word  until  old  Jane  entered  with  the  bed- 
candles  somewlmt  before  the  accustomed  hour,  and  said,  as  she  threw 
them  down  with  an  unusual  demonstration  of  spleeii, 

"  Master  Charlie  might  as  well  have  written  and  said  he  was  going  to 
bring  that  proud,  ill-tempered  looking  thing  with  him ;  or  he  might  as  well 
have  stayed  away — and  better — if  he  could  not  come  without  her.  But 
you,  mistress,  and  you.  Miss  Nelly,  had  better  go  to  bed ;  there  is  no  use 
in  staying  up,  thinking  about  it.*' 

Eleanor  took  Jane's  advice,  but  Mrs.  Selby  sat  long,  buried  in  thought. 
What  her  reflections  were  she  did  not  say,  but  she  sighed  deeply  as  she 
rose  to  go  to  her  room ;  and  she  sighed  again  as  she  stood,  according  to 
her  nightly  wont,  by  Eleanor  s  side,  and  saw  that  the  long,  dark  eyelashes 
were  wet  with  tears. 

Charles  Howard  took  lodgings  in  St.  Bennett's,  with  the  avowed  in- 
tention of  residing  there  for  some  time ;  and  Mrs.  Howard  wrote  to  her 
father,  and  to  her  old  maiden  aunt.  Miss  Sarah  Somerville ;  and  heard 
from  the  latter,  in  reply,  that  her  father  and  his  young  wife  were  just 
gone  to  the  Continent,  where  they  intended  to  remain  for  a  year  or  two. 
The  old  lady's  style  was  concise  and  cold ;  she  sent  her  compliments  to 
Captain  Howard,  made  no  mention  of  Robert  Sinclair,  and  expressed  no 
wish  to  see  her  niece.  Fanny  was  much  discontented  at  the  idea  of  re- 
maining any  length  of  time  in  St.  Bennett's,  spoke  sneeringly  of  the 
place  and  its  inhabitants,  and  declared  that  she  must  die  of  enntU; 
but  Charles,  though  he  treated  her  with  untiring  good  natiure  and  good 
humour,  did  not  yield  to  her  caprice,  but  remained  among  his  early 
friends,  enjoying  the  renewal  of  old  affections  and  old  associations. 
Mrs.  Howard  occasionally  visited  at  Dr.  Barfoot's,  add  some  of  her  hus- 
band's other  friends,  and  astonished  them  by  her  magnificent  voice  and 
musical  abilities;  but  this  was  all — for  though,  when  she  chose,  she 
seldom  failed  to  dazzle,  yet  she  never  seemed  entirely  to  please;  nor 
were  the  little  triumphs  she  gained  among  the  good  people  of  St.  Ben- 
nett's by  any  means  sufficient  to  satisfy  her  own  ambition,  and  she  soon 
began  to  pine  for  the  glitter  and  display  of  Indian  society. 

It  is  astonishing  how  soon,  in  country  towns,  the  mysteries  of  the  most 
secluded  hours  are  penetrated  by  surrounding  gossips  !  Their  organs  of 
^on  seem  strengthened  by  some  of  the  magic  ointment  which  made  the 
dervish  in  the  Eastern  tale  see  through  solid  rocks.  At  least,  if  they  do 
iiot  see  through  solid  rocks,  they  seem  able  to  penetrate  the  thickest  of 
^ne  waUs,  and  the  most  carefully  closed  blind  and  shutter;  so  that,  in 
St  Bennett's,  where  the  talents  of  people  in  this  way  were  somewhat 

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372  Ckronicle9qfa  Coantry  Town. 

above  the  average,  it  soon  became  whispered  about  tint  Gisptani  fio^mod 
was  not  very  happify  marned ;  and  tales  were  told  of  fiolenee  of  temper 
in  his  young  wife,  whieh  caused  amusement  to  some,  and  sevrowto 
most. 

liirs.  Howard  was  generally  in  trouUe  about  her  servant ;  none  c^okl 
remain  with  her  long ;  she  was,  they  said,  so  diiffioult  to  be  pleased,  and 
80  imperious  and  exacting.  They  generally  took  tiiemselves  off  at  ik 
end  of  their  month,  or,  if  they  did  not,  their  mnstress  was  pretty  sm 
soon  to  dismiss  them  for  some  trifling  offbnee. 

**  I  must  send,  Captain  Howard,"  she  said  one  day,  "  to  try  if  I  caa  g«t 
Mary  Smith,  the  young  woman  I  used  to  have  at  home.  Those  stupid 
girls  here  are  not  fit  to  wait  on  a  lady ;  they  may  do  well  enoagh  for 
your  St.  Bennett's  people,  but  will  not  suit  me." 

"You  can  please  yourself,  Fanny,"  said  her  husband;  •^peihi^sjou 
had  better  write  at  once." 

A  few  days  after  this,  Mrs.  Howard  being  out  yrkh  Mrs.  Car&ew,  wbo 
was  her  most  frequent  companion,  Charles  was  told  that  a  woman,  cMt 
Mary  Smith,  had  just  arrived  by  the  coach.  He  directed  that  she  sheold 
be  sent  in,  and  presently  a  slightly  formed,  careworn-looking  ycmng 
woman  stepped  timidly  into  the  room.  She  was  dressed  entirely  in 
bkkck,  even  to  her  bonnet,  which  was  tied  closely  around  a  very  pale 
fece ;  her  ^es  were  dark,  and  exceedingly  restless,  her  cheeks  were 
hollow,  and  her  thin,  bloodless  lips  were  pressed  closely  t€gethel^  ^ 
curtsied  as  she  entered,  and  Captain  Howard  said : 

"  You  are  Mary  Smith,  I  suppose,  the  young  person  that  Mrs.Ho<ward 
ea^ected?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  **  I  am.     How  is  my  d«u:  young  lady  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Howard  is  well,"  he  replied ;  **  she  is  out  at  present,  but  wi 
return  shortty.  You  were  with  her,  I  believe,  heiore  she  weirt  to 
In^a?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mary  Smith,  "  I  Kved  with  Miss  Fanny  Soffimfflc 
from  the  time  I  was  four  years  old.  My  mother  vwis  left  a  widow,  id 
lost  her  little  baby  just  as  Miss  Fannys  mother  died;  Miss  Faany  was 
os^  a  month  old  then,  and  my  mother  went  to  nuxve  her,  and  took  me 
with  her." 

^  You  must  be  much  attached  to  her?"  sdd  Captaan  Howard* 

**  Oh)  yes,  str !  very  much,  indeed.  She  is  such  a  sweet,  kind-heaW 
good-tempered  young  lady !"  and  her  eyes  were  fised,  for  a  mcanent,  wi© 
a  watehing  curious  gaze  upon  Captain  Howard's  laoe. 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Howard  entered  the  room,  and,  seeing  wko  was , 
^re,  said  abruptty : 

**  So  you  are  come  at  last.  Why,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  y*»*^ 
8tM  since  I  saw  you  last  ?     You  have  grown  old  and  ugly !" 

"  I  have  been  ill.  Miss  Fanny,"  said  the  young  woman,  in  a  «»*■*• 
twie ;  mdeed,  her  whole  demeanour  to  her  mistress  wa»  espna^n  ot 
xespeet,  amounting  to  fear. 

Mrs.  Howard  rang  the  beU. 

"  %ow  thisyoang  person  iio  my  room,"  she  said  t#  At  seFW«*w» 
answered  the  summons*  *<  And,  Mary  Bmith,  open  iihe  dwss  whk*  J^ 
will  find  on  the  chair,  and  prepare  it  against  I  come ;  I  wifl  be  with  yw 
in  a  minute  or  two." 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town,  873 

**  Fanny,"  said  her  bosband,  "  the  yonng  woman  looks  Dl,  and  intist 
be  fatigued  ;  let  her  rest  and  refresh  herself  first." 

"  Go  and  do  as  I  order  you,  Mary  Smith,"  said  the  lady,  imperionsiy; 
**  and  let  me  beg  you,  Captain  Howard,  not  to  interfere  between  me  and 
my  servant." 

**  A  9weet,  kind-hearted,  good-tempered  young  kdy !"  thought  poor 
Charlie,  with  a  sigh;  but  he  merely  said,  as  the  young  woman  left 
the  room,  ^  Tins  girl  tells  me  she  lived  with  you  frcmi  her  ehil<fiiood, 
Fanny." 

"  Yes,  she  did.  Her  mother  was  my  nurse,  and,  after  she  died,  Mary 
Smith  lived  on  with  me,  as  a  sort  of  playfellow ;  and  being  four  years 
older  than  I  am,  she  had  to  take  care  of  me  when  the  child's  maid 
was  otherwise  engaged.     Afterwards  I  took  her  for  my  maid." 

*'  There  is  something  unusual  in  her  expression,"  remarked  Captain 
Howard.     "  Why  did  she  not  go  to  India  with  you  ?" 

*'  You  are  very  curious  in  your  inquiries,"  said  Fanny ;  "  but  the 
truth  is  this.  Mary  Smith  became  engaged  to  a  young  man  in  her  tfwtL 
station  of  life ;  they  were  both  too  poor  to  marry,  and  the  lov«r,  whd 
was  a  carpenter,  went  to  London  in  search  of  work,  and  there  he  died  in 
less  than  a  month.  Unfortunately,  it  soon  appeared  that  the  girl  was 
likely  to  become  a  mother;  of  course  I  dischafrged  her,  and  she  went  to 
the  workhouse.  However,  I  took  pity  upon  her,  and  had  her  back 
again ;  for,  before  this,  I  had  found  her  useful  enough,  but  she  -was  o€ 
very  little  service  afterwards.  She  thought  of  nothing  but  her  child  ; 
dhe  was  perfectly  mad  about  him ;  and  every  moment  was  making  and 
mending  for  her  Willie,  as  she  called  the  brat.  The  week  before  I  left 
for  Induk  the  chihi  died,  almost  suddenly,  and  since  then  I  have  never 
seen  her  until  new.  I  scarcely  expected  that  my  letter  would  have 
found  her  when  I  wrote.  I  trust  that  she  is  more  reasonable  than  she 
was  ;  else  we  shall  soon  part  again." 

•*  Fanny,"  said  Captain  Howard,  after  a  minute  of  silenee,  "  will  you 
go  ¥ath  me  to  Mrs.  Selby's  this  evening  ?  They  must  think  it  strange 
that  you  so  seldom  go  to  see  them.  I  believe  you  -never  h»ve  gone  at 
aU,  except  for  a  formal  morning  call." 

**  I  cannot  to-night,"  answered  Fanny.  "  I  am  engaged  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Carthew's,  and  they  expect  you  with  me." 

"  I  detest  that  woman,"  said  Charles,  **and  must  say  that  I  wondwr  at 
yofup  taste,  in  being  so  much  with  her." 

"  I  might  echo  back  your  words,  perhaps,"  said  his  wife,  "  but  I  caa- 
not  stay  to  quarrel." 

Chatles  took  up  his  hat  with  a  wgh,  and  left  the  house  ;  and  Fanny 
went  to  her  dressing-room,  where  she  found  Mary  Smith  ffwwting  \m 
coming. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  she  said,  **v«fi»e  you  surprised  to  hear  ctf  ray  nttu^ 
ri^e?" 

^  I  was.  Miss  Fanany ;  and  so,  I  believe,  was  everybody.  Old  master 
was  in  a  great  rage,  and  Miss  Sarah,  I  hear,  could  not  sleep  for  nights 
after.  It  was  not  because  you  were  married,  but  somehow  we  did  not 
expect  to  hear  you  called  Mrs.  Howard ;  yet,  to  be  sure.  Captain  Howard 
is  as  fine,  handsome,  soldier-like-lookin^^  a  man  as  I  ever  saw,  and  seems 
*very  kind-hejsei;ed." 

"  But  why  were  jrm  M  so^tcryimidi  surprised  at  my  mawyinrg  Ciap- 

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374  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town, 

tain  Howard?  I  suppose  you  thought  I  ought  to  be  called  Mn. 
Sinclair ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  Mrs.  Captain  Howard  sounds  the  better  of 
the  two." 

"  Perhaps  it  does,"  said  Mary  —  "  Mrs.  Howard !  —  Mrs.  Captam 
Howard! — Mi's.  Captain  Charles  Howard!  It  is  a  pretty  name,  but 
not  so  grand-like  as  Lady  Sinclair ! — Lady  Robert  Sinclair !  I  should 
have  liked  to  have  been  able  to  call  you  *  My  lady  I' " 

^'I  certainly  should  have  had  no  objection  myself,"  replied  Mn. 
Howard;  "  but  as  I  had  not  the  choice,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be 
surprised  that  I  did  not  accept  that  title." 

"  Not  the  choice.  Miss  Fanny  ? — not  the  choice  ?  Did  you  not  see 
Sir  Robert,  then,  before  you  married  Captain  Howard  ?  We  heard  tbat 
you  had,  and  that  he  was  very  dangerously  ill  after  your  marriage." 

''  See  Sir  Robert  ?*'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Howard,  turning  suddenly  around. 
"  What  does  the  girl  mean  ?     Is  she  mad?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  know,  Miss  Fanny,  that  old  Sir  Robert  is  dead,  and 
both  his  sons?  and  that  the  title  and  all  the  money — not  less,  they  saj, 
than  twelve  thousand  a  year — ^have  gone  to  our  Mr.  Robert  Sinclair, 
whom  the  old  Sir  Robert  never  could  abide,  because  his  mother  was  not 
a  lady?" 

Mrs.  Howard  stood  for  some  time  as  if  she  were  stunned. 

'<  And  this,  then,"  she  muttered  at  length,  '^  was  what  he  wanted  to 
tell  me  that  night  when  he  came  to  see  me  in  Calcutta!  Fool,  mad- 
woman that  I  was !"  and  she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  Mary  began 
to  explain  how  Sir  Robert's  sons  had  been  drowned  by  the  upsetting  of 
a  yacht,  and  how  the  shock  had  brought  a  seizure  on  the  old  man,  from 
wnich  he  died,  almost  immediately  ;  but  Mrs.  Howard  did  not  hear  her: 
her  ungovernable  feelings  of  disappointment  and  mortification  had  thrown 
her  into  violent  hysterics. 

Mary  did  all  she  could  to  recover  her,  without  calling  assistance,  but 
the  cries  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  people  in  the  house.  Charl^, 
who  had  not  gone  far,  was  sent  for.  He  returned,  and,  hastening  to  bis 
wife,  kindly  endeavoured  to  soothe  herj  but  she,  pushing  him  ruddy 
away,  exclaimed, 

**  Don't  touch  me,  don't  touch  me  I— oh,  how  I  hate  you!— oh,  that  I 
had  never  seen  you!"  And  another  paroxysm  of  hysterical  we^wg 
came  on. 

Charles  turned  away,  inexpressibly  shocked.  There  was  that  in  the 
tone,  in  the  action,  in  the  look,  whicn  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  tned 
to  think  that  she  knew  not  what  she  said ;  but  no,  the  impression  was 
too  strong  to-be  erased.  He  felt  in  his  very  soul  that  the  woman  whom 
he  had  married  did  not  love  him — never  had  loved  him.  He  questioned 
Mary  Smith  somewhat  sternly  as  to  what  had  caused  the  attack;  but 
the  girl  asserted  steadily  that  she  did  not  know — probably  Mrs.  Howards 
situation;  for  there  was  a  prospect  of  Fanny's  being  a  mother,  anj 
Charles  had  borne  much,  thinking,  poor  fellow,  that  when  a  child  claimed 
her  love,  the  faults,  which  he  could  not  but  see,  would  be  conquered. 

HL 

It  was  midnight  before  Mary  Smith  left  her  mistress  and  retired  w 
her  sleeping-room.     When  she  had  entered  the  chamber,  and  bolted  the 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  375 

door,  she  put  down  her  candle,  and,  standing  like  a  statue  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  said  to  herself,  in  a  low,  hollow  tone  : 

**  Alone ! — once  more  alone ! — that,  at  least,  is  some  comfort.  Alone 
again,  with  my  own  thoughts !" 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  again  muttered  : 

**  *  Old  and  ugly !' — I  am  grown  *  old  and  ugly  !'  An4  whose  fault 
is  it  if  I  am  ?     Does  she  think  I  can  forget  what  I  owe  to  her  ?" 

The  girl  looked  wild  and  strange,  as  she  thus  stood,  with  her  hlack 
dress,  her  hlack  hair,  her  full  restless  hlack  eyes,  and  her  deadly  pale 
face;  sometimes  her  lips  were  still,  sometimes  they  moved  rapidly,  hut 
gave  forth .  no  sound,  and  sometimes  she  spoke  audibly,  either  in  a  low, 
hollow  voice,  or  in  a  hissing  whisper. 

**'Tis  as  I  thought — she  does  not  love  him.  Did  she  love  Robert 
Sinclair  ?  Oh !  no,  no,  no ! — not  as  I  loved  my  William.  Oh,  could  he 
but  know  what  I  have  suffered,  the  grave  would  not  hold  him !  She 
would  not  let  me  manr  him,  though  she  knew  my  condition.  *  She 
would  not,'  she  said,  with  her  proud  sneer,  *  keep  a  married  lady  near 
her.'  She  knew  I  had  no  home  to  go  to,  no  Mend  to  shelter  me;  and 
when  poor  William  left  me  to  seek  a  home,  and  when  he  died  in  that 
strange  place,  with  none  but  strangers  near  him,  she  turned  me  forth, 
in  my  shame  and  agony,  to  bring  forth  my  baby  in  a  workhouse.  She 
called  me  *  strumpet!' — *vile  strumpet!'  Fanny  Somerville! — shall  I 
ever  hurl  back  that  name  in  your  face  ?  Shall  I  ever  brand  you,  as  you 
did  me,  with  that  foul  word  ?" 

She  walked  quickly  up  and  down  the  room,  with  hw  brow  knit,  and 
her  hands  clenched;  and  then,  pausing  once  more — "  This^  this"  she 
said,  her  features  working  convulsively,  ^' this  I  might  have  forgiven; 
but  when  I  went  back  to  her,  that  I  might  earn  something  to  keep  my 
boy,  my  darling  Willie,  from  the  parish — how  was  I  treated  then  ?  Oh, 
my  Willie !  my  Willie !  when  they  came  to  say  that  you  were  ill,  and 
calling  for  me,  she  would  not  let  me  go  until  I  had  dressed  her  for  that 
gay  ball;  and  when  my  trembling  hands  broke  the  string  of  pearls  that  I 
was  putting  in  her  hair,  she  struck  me,  and  told  me  that  I  might  go,  for 
I  did  nothing  but  mischief,  and  '  she  should  be  glad  if  the  base-bom  brat 
were  dead  !'  And  when  I  came  to  him,  his  little  hands  were  clenched, 
his  teeth  were  set,  his  beautiful  curls  were  matted  and  damp  with  the 
death-sweat!  My  Willie !  my  Willie !  my  beautiful !  my  darling !  You 
had  died,  calling  for  the  motner  that  could  not  come  to  you !  I  ran — I 
struggled  to  get  over  those  two  weary,  dark  miles ;  but  I  could  not 
come  until  you  had  been  called  away  from  your  miserable  mother. 
You,  the  only  creature  that  loved  me — the  only  thing  I  had  to  love !" 

She  flung  herself  on  the  bed,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  that  her 
sobs  might  not  be  heard ;  and  there  she  lay — the  stricken,  the  bereaved 
one — until  the  convulsive  heavings  of  her  frame  subsided  in  a  death-like 
sleep.  The  candle  burned  d9wn  in  the  socket,  the  bright  light  of  the 
morning  sun  streamed  through  the  window,  and  Mary  Smith  awoke  to 
wash  the  traces  of  tears  from  her  eyes,  to  change  her  dress,  and  to  go 
forth  to  attend  Mrs.  Howard  with  the  most  assiduous  attention,  and  with 
the  most  submissive  deference  to  her  capricious  wants. 

For  a  fortnight  Mrs.  Howard  kept  her  room,  and  saw  no  one.  Charles 
said  nothing,  but  was  grave  and  silent.  He  did  not  neglect  her;  on  the 
contrary,  he  was  kind  and  attentive,  but  she  evidently  disliked  his  pre- 

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379  Chromcki  of  a  Coutitry  Toum. 

aeoee.  Hie  evil  spiiit  widua  her  made  her  ve^pard  him  as  one  who  bad 
marred  her  fortune,  and  she  purposely  diut  her  eyes  to  the  wroBg  she 
had  done  him.  She  ssud  often  to  Mary  Smith,  "  iBut  foe  him,  I  should 
have  heen  Lady  Sinclair,  the  happy  wife  of  the  only  maa  I  eY&  oarad 
for." 

All  the  people  of  the  little  tovni  of  St  Beooett's  vied  widi  each  oAer 
in  attention  to  Mrs.  Howard  during  her  illness  (for  she  was  really  ill); 
some  for  Charles's  sake,  many  because  she  was  regarded  as  a  great  lady. 
When  she  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  see  visitors,  Mrs.  Carthew  and 
Mrs.  Stoneman  were  the  first  admitted. 

"  Well,  really,"  said  Mrs.  Curthew,  "  I  am  vwy  glad  your  owa 
maid  was  with  you.  As  for  Captain  Howard,  I  don't  know  what  h 
would  have  done  but  for  his  old  friends  the  Selbys.  By  Idie  way,  the 
Selbys,  I  hear,  wene  dreadfully  disappointed  at  Captain  Howard's  bdng- 
ing  a  bride  with  him.  They  hoped,  I  fancy,  that  he  mi^it  take  it  ii^ 
his  head  to  marry  Miss  Eleanor.     He!  he !  he !" 

"  Marry  Eleanor  Selby !"  exalaimed  Mrs.  Howard.  '^  Really,  Mi& 
Carthew,  that  is  an  extraordinary  idea !  Captain  Howard's  family  would 
scarcely  have  thought  the  daughter  of  an  usher  in  a  eountry  school  a 
£l4iDg  match  for  him." 

^  That's  what  I  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Carthew ;  "  but  folks  say  that 
when  a  young  man  is  very  much  in  love,  all  these  obstacles  are  soon  fof* 
gotten.  As  ht  Mrs.  Selby  and  her  daughter,  I  believe  they  think  theiB- 
selves  quite  good  enough  for  anybody ;  and  whi^;ever  else  may  be  said 
about  the  matter,  1  believe  it  is  certain  that  Miss  Eleamor  would  hare 
had  no  objection.     He!  he!  he!" 

^^  Whatever  may  be  said,"  remarked  Mrs.  Stoneman,  with  soooe  sense 
of  justice,  '^  I  believe  people  have  never  had  any  reason  to  accuse  tha 
Selbys  of  impropnety." 

.^'  That  depends  on  what  people  call  '  impropnety,' "  sa^  Mrs.  Ca^ 
thew,  snappishly.  "  For  my  part,  I  [do  not  consider  it  proper  foraay 
maixied  man  to  des^i;  his  w^e's  sick-room,  and  spend  all  his  time  with  a 
young  girL  That's  what  folks  say.  Mrs.  Howard  will  guess  whetheK  it 
IS  true  or  not." 

Mrs.  Howard  replied  rather  haughtily,  for  her  pride  did  not  altogether 
relish  Mrs.  Carthew's  manner. 

"  Captain  Howard  has  certamly  spent  verf  litde  of  his  tiaw  w 
me  latdy,"  she  said;  "  I  have  be^  too  unw^  to  wah  it." 

Suty  as  she  made  tibe  acknowledgment^  she  felt  angry  that  he  had 
fonnd  solace  with  another,  even  for  one  solitary  hour  ;  and,  as  she 
observed  with  irritation  to  Mary  Smith,  after  her  vbitors  were  goi^^  ^  *^ 
provoked  h^  to  think  that  she  had  refused  a  baronet  for  a  man  who 
cared  so  little  iov  bar.  And  yet,"  she  said,  **  the  very  notion  of  a 
common  country  girl  like  Eleanor  Selby  being  preferred  to  hertdf  was 
ratiier  too  ridieulous." 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  "  I  do  wonder  to  hear  people  say  she  is  more 
beautiful  than  you  are — you,  who  are  so  v«ry  beautiful !  You  cant 
think,  Miss  Fanny,  how  often  I  hear  people  say  that  Captain  Howaro 
ought  to  have  married  Miss  Selby,  and  how  sorry  they  were  when— — 

"  Leave  the  room  instantly,"  cried  JJfos.  Howard.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
insult  me  ?" 

Not  many  minutes  aflt^.  Captain  Howard,  quite  onocmsciaQB  <^  "^e 

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Ckronicke  of  a  Country  Town.  877 

BusebidE  which  hsA  heen  goiog  <m  daring  his  ahsenoe,  entened  wii^  Mri; 
Sett>j  ftod  Eleaaoc  Meeting  them  near  hts  lodgings,  he  had  invited 
them  in  to  see  Fanny,  and  jyirs.  Selby  had  accepted  the  invitatum,  glad 
of  iim  opportunify  of  making  some  inquiry,  without  the  cold  formality 
which  Mrs.  Howard's  manner  had  produced.  They  were  received  very 
dirtandy,  Imt  the  leoent  indispontion  formed  some  excuse,  and  tdiey  got 
on  as  wdl  as  they  could.  At  first,  Eleanor-*-as  indeed  dhe  had  gene* 
iaM||r  been  sinoe  her  old  playfellow's  return — ^was  somewhat  timkl  smd 
siient ;  hut  Chades,  anxious  to  throw  off  the  feeling  of  restraint  which 
hns^  oyer  them,  rattled  on,  asking  her  whether  she  i^emembered  this 
or  that  advenizure  of  his  bc^hood,  until  at  last  they  both  almost  forgot 
the  present,  and  Mns.  Selby,  finding  it  impossible  to  draw  Mrs.  Howard 
inta  «onyenBation,  sat  listraing,  with  a  somewhat  mdancholy  smile.  In 
reply  to  some  reminiscence  of  her  childhood,  Eleanor  said,  laugiungly, 
^  C«>  yei^  dear  Charlie !"  the  term  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
vse  in  the  time  so  vividly  recalled,  to  her  memory — ''  Oh,  yes,  dear 
Chai^ !" — and  was  going  on,  when  Mrs.  Howard  started  up  suddenly, 
her  £eu)e  crimsoned  with  pasnon,  and  ei^laimed: 

^'  Thi»is  too  bad !  Miss-  Selby,  are  you  not  ariiamed  to  address  a  mam 
lied  man  in  such  terms  of  familiarity  before  his  wife  ?  And  are  not 
you  ashamed,  madam,"  addressing  Mrs.  Selby,  *'  to  encourage  your 
dau^tev  in  sudi  unwarrantable  freedoms  ?  Surely  it  is  not  too  much 
to  expect  ev^i  Mms  Sell^  to  call  my  husband  '  Ciuptain  Howard'  in  my 
ence.  I  am  his  wife,  and  will  not  suffer  any  one  to  make  love  to 
hef(»re  my  face^" 

Fanny,  are  you  mad  ?"  exclaimed  Captain  Howard. 
^  No,  sir,  neither  mad  nor  blmd;  though  had  I  been  l]^nd,  perhaps  I 
might  have  pleased  you  better.  I  can  and  tio  see  what  10  going  on ;  and  . 
even  if  I  were  blind,  I  could  not  avoid  being  made  acquainted  widi  it» 
uleSB  dec^  too.  The  whole  town  is  ringing  witii  your  shameless  con- 
duct. They  say  that  Mrs.  Howard's  sick  room  is  deserted  by  her  hns^ 
Wod^  and  that  all  his  time  is  spent  with  Ms  mutrtat — Miss  Eleanor 
Selby/? 

^  Manunai"  gasped  Eleanor,  who  was  as  pale  as  deaA,  ^'  let  us  go 
home." 

^  By  Heaven  I  Fanny,"  cried  Charles  Howard,  ^  dib  is  too  had !  I 
]»re  home  with  3Rnir  temper  almost  ever  since  ^e  day  when  I  was  so 
unfortunate  as  to  marry  you ;  but  this  I  will  not  bear.  Mrs.  Selby— 
B^  dear  Miss  Selby,  come  with  me.  I  de^ly  regret  tiiat  through  my 
means,  you  have  been  exposed  to  such  undeserved  calumny  from  ^at  in- 
solent woman." 

We  Uu^  to  write  it,  but  as  Charles  approached  Mcs.  Howaird,  to  tsdbe 
his  hat,  which  lay  on  a  chair  near  her,  she  snatched  up  a  glass  of  water 
iiiat  stood  on  the  taMe,  and  flung  it  in  his  face !  His  features,  which  had 
been  before  flushed  with  anger,  in  an  instant  feuled  to  a  deathlike  hue ; 
he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  wiping  the  water  from  his  fiace,  ofifered 
an  arm  each  to  Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor,  and  left  the  room  in  silence. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken^  until  diey  reached  the  quiet  little  cottage,  in 
which  poor  Charles  had  passed  so  many  happy  days ;  but  then^  givmg 
way  to  his  feelings,  he  even  wept  before  those  whom  he  regarded  as  his 
mother  and  edster.  Nelly's  tears  flowied  too,;  only  Mrs.  £^lhy  retained 
any  appearance  of  composure : 
"  I  grieve  at  this,  Charles,"  she  sjud;  "  but  I  fear  you  must  leave  St 

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378  Chronicks  of  a  Country  Town. 

Bennett^s.  Mrs.  Howard  must  have  heard  some  unpleasant  remark,  aod 
for  our  sakes,  you  must  leave ;  Eleanor's  name  must  not  be  made  the 
theme  of  scan&l." 

"And  do  not  be  angry  with  poor  Mrs.  Howard,  Charles,**  said  Eleanor; 
"  she  has  been  ill,  is  not  well  now,  and  then — she  loves  you." 

"  Loves  me !"  replied  Charles.  "  That  dream  was  soon  over — she  de- 
ceived me — bitterly  deceived  me.  But  I  was  in  fault  too.  Oh,  how  I  regret 
my  precipitancy  now !  Had  I  but  seen  you — I  believe  you  are  right,  Mrs. 
Selby — I  must,  for  your  sake,  leave  St.  Bennett's  ;  for  your  sake,  I  came, 
but  it  would  seem  as  though  I  were  doomed  only  to  bring  misery,  where 
I  would  give  the  world  to  confer  happiness.  My  mother — my  darling 
sister,  farewell !  Ptay  for  me,  Nelly — ^I  shall  need  your  prayers." 

In  another  moment,  the  garden-gate  had  closed,  and  Charles  Howard 
was  gone. 

Hours  had  sped  by  before  Charles  could  summon  sufficient  composure 
and  self-command  to  return  to  his  wife.  Shall  we  attempt  to  trace  his 
musings  ?  No—"  The  heart  alone  knoweth  its  own  bitterness*' — and,  we 
fear,  regret  and  sorrow  on  Eleanor's  account  mingled  largely  with  his 
feelings  of  disgust  and  shame  for  his  own  wife — not  unaccompanied  by 
some  thoughts — resisted  but  irrepressible — which  caused  more  setf-re- 
proach  than  either. 

"  I  have  but  myself  to  blame,*'  he  thought ;  "  when  my  own  little 
Nelly's  beauty  was  destroyed,  and  by  my  hand  too,  I  thought  of  her  only 
as  an  object  of  pity  and  compassion.  I  nave  returned  to  find  h^  glorious 
in  her  loveliness  and  her  unsullied  purity.  She  might  have  been  taught 
to  love  me  better  than  as  a  brother.  Had  she  been  maimed,  and  halt,  and 
blind,  she  would  still  have  been  a  treasure !  But  I  must  not  think  of  that 
— for  the  sake  of  the  unborn  babe,  I  will  be  patient.  I  wiU  leave  St. 
Bennett's  at  once — to  stay  here  now  were  torture." 

When  Charles  reached  his  dwelling,  he  found  Mrs.  Howard  still  in  the 
room  where  he  had  left  her ;  and  spoke  to  her  calmly,  but  firmly,  re- 
specting her  recent  conduct.  The  first  ebullition  of  passion  over,  she 
had  herself  felt  ashamed  of  her  behaviour ;  but  pride  would  not  allow  b* 
to  confess  this,  and  she  listened  to  her  husband  in  silence :  at  leogA^ 
however,  she  said^ 

"  Mrs.  Carthew  had  been  here  telling  me  that  your  attentions  to  Mm 
Selby  had  attracted  general  remark,  and  I  was  vexed  beyond  endur- 
ance." 

^^  And  you  suffered  that  mischievous  woman  to  ^>eak  in  this  way  of 
one  whom,  as  you  well  know,  I  so  much  respect!  Fanny !  I  must  not  say 
all  I  feel — but  you  must  conquer  your  temper,  or  we  must  separate:  I 
cannot,  and  win  not  endure  such  an  indignity  a  second  time  fioni  any 
one.     Go  to  your  room  now,  and  send  Mary  Smith  to  me." 

There  was  that  in  Charles's  eyes  which  would  not  be  disobeyed,  as 
Fanny,  somewhat  subdued,  withdrew. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  was  spent  by  Captain  Howard,  with 
Mary  Smith's  assistance,  in  packing  ;  and  early  next  morning  he  went 
to  take  leave  of  Dr.  Barfoot,  Mr.  Cooch,  and  some  of  his  other  fiiends. 
He  paused  for  a  moment  to  look  at  his  former  home — ^tears  dimmed  his 
sight,  and  he  turned  away. 

In  an  hour  after,  Captain  and  Mrs,  Howai^  were  roffing  f^^^ 
towards  London. 

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NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


THE  WAR  IN  THE  EAST. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  allow  that  the  policy  of  Great  Britain  in  the 
present  crisis  in  the  East,  so  far  as  it  has  yet  gone,  has  been  simple  and 
straightforward.  It  has  been  directed  by  all  possible  efforts  to  obtain  a 
peaceful  arrangement  of  the  differences  that  have  arisen  between  the 
Saltan  and  his  powerful  neighbour,  to  oppose  the  aggrandisement  of 
RusMa,  and  to  preserve  the  integrity  of  Turkey.  Failing  in  peaceful  mea- 
sures to  ensure  these  objects,  England  is  prepared  to  go  to  war  with  the 
greatest  military  power  m  the  world  in  concert  with  her  chiyalrous  and 
warlike  ally — France.  This,  however,  not  till  every  possible  means  of 
bringing  about  an  adjustment  shall  have  been  exhausted ;  even  to  tran- 
quilly permitting  the  occupation  of  the  Danubian  Provinces,  or  allowing 
the  Russians  and  Turks  to  fight  out  the  battle  themselves,  until  some 
great  catastrophe  happening  to  the  latter,  or  a  triumphant  march  upon 
the  Sultan's  capital,  shall  actually  force  the  allies  to  more  energetic  steps. 

The  reason  of  this  policy  is  as  simple  as  the  policy  itself;  it  is  ad(^ted 
because,  were  the  Crimea  occupied  by  British  or  French  troops,  Sebasta- 
pol  taken  by  land,  the  Black  Sea  fleet  destroyed,  Odessa  blockaded, 
and  Russia  placed  in  the  last  straits,  should,  indeed,  probably  any  reverse 
occur  to  the  Russian  arms,  Austria  would  come  forward  to  the  help  of 
one  to  whom  she  is  largely  indebted  for  her  own  integrity.  Russia 
crippled  would  be  the  signal  for  an  uprise  in  Poland,  which  will  involve 
the  interference  of  Prussia,  otherwise  friendly  disposed  towards  us  and  the 
cause  of  Turkey,  in  favour  of  Russia.  Thus  England  and  France  would 
soon  iSnd  themselves  at  hand  with  three  of  the  most  powerful  states  in 
Europe,  the  whole  Germanic  Confederation  would  be  brought  into  the 
trouble,  and  a  battle  originally  begun  on  the  Bosphorus  might  be  con- 
cluded on  the  Rhine.  Any  necessity  imposed  upon  Austria  to  interfere 
in  favour  of  Russia  would  involve  insurrection  in  Hungary,  to  whom  any 
Masters  happening  to  either  power  are  so  many  opportunities.  Indeed, 
It  would  be  ^fficult  to  say  if  the  Himgarians  are  not  prepared  to  rise  at 
the  first  turn  of  fortune  that  should  happen  to  Russian  arms,  for  the 
results  of  the  last  war  satisfied  them  tmit  they  could  cope  with  the 
Austrians  single-handed.  Again,  Austria  engaged  in  subjugating  Hun- 
gary in  insurrection,  the  Lombard's  would  seize  the  opportunity  to  assert 
their  nationality.  Thus  Russia,  Austria,  and  Prussia,  would  have,  in 
^^^se  of  a  general  war,  enough  on  their  hands  without  the  threatening 
aspect  of  things  in  the  East.  It  would  also  be  difficult,  in  the  actual 
state  of  things  in  Russia  itself  to  determine  that  the  commerce  and  well- 
"®^  of  the  vast  populations  which  compose  that  empire,  could  be 

Dec— VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  cccxovi.  2  c 

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380  The  War  in  the  East. 

perilled  without  danger  to  the  existiog  dynasty.     Yet,  in  the  mean  time, 
the  Tsar,  relying  on  his  million  of  troops,  is  weakening  his  centre  to 
carry  out  the  most  desultory  projects.     He  has  a  very  large  army — an 
army  of  not  less  than  70,000  men  in  Poland ;  he  has  hitherto  heen  con- 
centrating troops  in  the  Principalities,  the  actual  centre  of  war ;  he  is 
stripping  Odessa  and  the  Crimea  to  reinforce  Prince  Woronzow  in  the 
Caucasus,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  he  is  advancing  in  forced  marches 
on  Khiva,  Bokhara,  Samarkand,  and  the  Balkh,  to  stir  up  disorder  in 
Persia  and  Afighanistan,  and   threaten  British  India  from  the  west. 
Nor  is  he  without  one  claw  of  his  g^rasping  eagle  fixed  on  the  frontiers  of 
the  land  of  the  yellow  people.    This  is  tar  from  strengthening  his  position. 
The  Anglo- Indian  army,  reinforced  as  it  is  now  by  the  warlike  Sikhs,  is 
fully  competent  to  encounter  the  hosts  of  Russia,  wearied  out^  if  not  de- 
cimated,  by   a  long  march   through  the  desert   and   the  wilderness. 
Indeed,  it  is  quite  out  of  question  that  the  Russians  could  ever  do  any- 
thing while  engaged  in  war  elsewhere  on  the  frontier  of  India.    They 
would  hold  out  the  threat  which  would  suffice  for  their  Machiavellian 
policy,  and  to  which  the  natural  susceptibilities  of  the  British  lend  them- 
selves far  too  readily.     The  Affghans,  whatever  might  be  their  feelings 
towards  the  Anglo-Indians,  would,  as  Mussulmans,  side  to  a  man  [with 
Turkey ;  they  have  already  intimated  as  much  to  the  Shah  of  Persia, 
who  was  supposed  for  a  moment  to  waver  as  to  what  party  he  would 
embrace.     If,  then,  we  are  now  by  force  of  circumstances  the  ally  of  the 
Islam,  so  Afighanistan  and  Bokhara  are  now  our  allies^  and  not  those  of 
Russia. 

This  is  aU  very  trite,  and  must  have  passed  throu&^h  the  minds  of  all  in- 
telligent persons;  but  is  it  aU  right  and  just?  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  all  and  every  sacrifice  ought  to  be  made  for  the  sake  of  peace— not 
the  kind  of  sacrifice  demanded  by  the  so-called  peace  societies— men 
without  character  or  patriotism,  who  would  disarm  the  nation— leare 
our  colonies  and  shipping  without  protection — ^hug  the  good  ter- 
nunus  to  their  breasts  like  many  a  recreant  Roman  at  the  decline  of  the 
Empire,  and  expose  their  altars,  their  hearths,  and  their  homes  to  the  de- 
secration of  any  foreign  invader,  be  he  French  or  Russian;  but  sacrifices 
of  a  natural  resentment,  of  a  ready  will  and  the  power  to  avenge,  of  an 
ally's  first  interests,  almost  of  our  national  honour,  so,  at  all  events,  many 
of  the  ultra-warlike — the  extreme  of  the  other  party — would  have  it. 
Still,  any  ministry,  we  do  avow,  is  justified  in  making  almost  any  sacrifice, 
except  that  of  positive  defeat^  humiliation,  and  subjugation,  to  preserve 
that  union  of  states,  that  long  existing  state  of  things,  and  that  peace  of 
the  world  which  we  have  seen  to  be  threatened  and  involved  by  the  confla- 
gration of  war.  The  dearest  interests  of  religion  demand  such  sacrifices, 
and  therefore  on  such  a  principle  the  Aberdeen  pohcy — reviled  as  it  uss 
been — is  the  only  just  and  true  one. 

But  an  equally  important  question  presents  itselt  Supposing  ^^ 
policy  of  peace  to  be  a  just  and  a  good  one,  what  of  our  active  measures, 
supposing  such  policy  no  longer  tenable  ?  To  prevent  the  aggranmse- 
ment  of  Russia,  we  go  to  war  for  Muhammadan  interests  as  opposeato 
Christian — ^there  is  no  mincing  the  matter,  it  is  an  infidel  warfare.  W 
Turkey  in  Europe  alone,  accor&ig  to  Bou6,  the  best  authority,  ^^^Ift 
upwards  of  13,000,000  Christians  of  different  denominations  to  1,700,0W 

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The  War  in  the  East  381; 

Mussulmans,  of  whom  only  700,000 — we  speak  in  roynd  numbers — are 
of  the  dominant,  or  ruling  Turkish  or  Osmanli  race. 

Next,  do  we  the  better  secure  European  peace  by  combating  in  the 
cause  of  the  Turks?  Yes,  it  will  be  answered,  by  preventing  the  aggran- 
disement of  the  Russians  we  preserve  the  status  quo.  Not  at  all,  we 
cannot  prevent  the  ultimate  aggrandisement  of  Russia  without  either 
backing  the  Turks  in  subduing  her,  or  helping  them  in  their  onward 
career  of  success  ourselves  and  our  martial  allies.  Yet  by  doing  so  we  at 
once  entail  the  explosion  of  all  those  political  catastrophes  which  we  have 
before  marshalled  forth  in  due  array.  Suppose,  on  the  contrary,  Russia 
conquered  the  Turks,  the  fleets  of  Great  Britain  and  France,  and  the 
peaceful  interference  of  Austria  and  Prussia,  as  dictated  by  their  own  in- 
terests, could  arrange  for  the  future  government  of  Turkey,  as  was  for- 
merly done  for  Greece,  on  terms  that  would  be  satis&ctory  to  all  parties, 
and  yet  would  not  endanger  the  peace  of  the  world.  If  we  have  made 
two  sacrifices  already — the  looking  on  during  the  occupation  of  the  Prin- 
cipalities and  the  commencement  of  hostilities  in  Europe  and  Asia — we 
may  make  a  third,  and  wait  till  the  concentration  of  forces  on  the  part  of 
the  Tsar  has  entailed  a  first  dismemberment  of  the  Muhammadau  hosts 
to  enable  us  to  make  something  like  permanent  arrangements  in  the  cause 
of  humanity  and  civilisation  at  large. 

When  the  Turks  made  war  in  Montenegro  (says  a  well-informed  Austrian 
officer  in  the  Allgemeine  Zeilung),  it  seemed  impossible  that  they  could  ever 
collect  a  well-appointed  army  of  100,000  men,  and  much  less  could  it  be  sup- 
posed that  such  an  array  would,  within  the  short  period  of  six  months,  be  as- 
sembled in  Bulgaria.  It  seemed  as  if  the  Turkish  Empire  was  in  the  last  stage 
of  its  existence.  Popular  enthusiasm  has  for  the  moment  triumphed  over  the 
weakness  of  the  body  politic.  It  is  the  last  gleam  of  the  candle  in  the  socket. 
But  the  result  of  this  last  gleam  is,  that  about  200,000  Osmanlisare  in  arms  ; 
that  the  fortresses  on  the  Danube  and  the  Balkan  are  actually  in  a  state  of 
defence,  and  that  the  war  fleet,  well  armed  and  manned,  is  now  stationed  in 
the  Upper  Bosphorus. 

The  Osmanlis  have  crossed  the  Danube,  and  driven  the  Russians,  de- 
moralised by  sickness,  discontent,  and  surprise,  before  them,  it  may  now 
be  added.  Disease  is  decimating  the  Russian  ranks.  Cholera,  typhus, 
dysentery,  malaria,  and  a  new  and  formidable  malady,  something  between 
plague  and  carbuncle,  ravage  the  Muscovite  hosts.  If  12,000  men  are  in 
hospital,  what  debility  and  demoralisation  there  must  be  in  the  army  gene- 
rally !  Under  other  circumstances,  and  supposing  General  Osten  Sacken's 
corps  cTarmee  to  get  up  in  time,  the  Danube  might  still  be  passed,  co- 
lumns be  pushed  forward,  and  an  important  point  occupied  on  the  Black 
Sea,  before  the  French  and  English  could  act.  Considering  the  strategetic 
position  of  the  Russian  forces,  all  military  men  felt  that  Turkey  would 
be  compelled  by  that  disposition  to  operate  against  the  front  of  the 
Russian  advances,  and  partly  against  the  furthest  part  of  their  right 
flank.  But  few  anticipated  even  the  partial  success  that  has  been  at- 
tendant upon  so  bold  and  courageous  a  movement. 

Some  portions  of  the  press  have  been  honest  enough  to  avow  all  along 
that  they  only  looked  with  favour  on  the  material  aid  given  by  Great 
Britain  and  France  to  Turkey  as  a  means  for  securing  the  nationality  of 
Hungary,  Poland,  and  Lombardy.     The  Examiner  has  spoken  of  the 

2c2 

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382  The  War  in  the  East. 

certainty,  which  no  sane  man  has  ever  doubted,  "that  war  upon  the 
Danube  is  synonymous  with  insurrection  in  Hungary."  It  is  impossible 
to  deny  the  probabiUty  of  such  a  result,  and  fate  seems  in  farour  of  the 
oppressed  nationalities,  by  eyery  onward  move  that  is  made.  Kossuth 
very  naturally  traced  the  backwardness  of  Great  Britwn  to  let  the  Turks 
move  in  self-defence,  or  to  move  themselves  in  idd  of  their  cause,  to 
apprehension  of  such  popular  risings.  Justly  so,  we  may  entertain  every 
good  feeling  towards  Hungarian,  or  Polish,  or  Italian  nationality ;  bat 
could  Kossuth  himself  aver  for  a  moment  that  it  would  be  statesman- 
like, or  even  humane,  to  fan  the  flames  of  insurrection?  Were  the 
executive  government  of  the  day  to  be  guided  by  the  resolutions  adopted#rJ5 
at  some  of  the  public  meetings  that  have  been  held  to  discuss  the  Eastern^  ' 
question,  they  would  "  take  measures  to  drive  the  Russians  out  of  the 
Principalities,  and  to  prevent  their  ev^  invading  them  again  !"  Such  a 
spirited  resolution  was  much  admired  nn  sundry  quarters,  and  is  a  good 
sample  of  the  capacity  of  such  meetings  to  deal  with  such  questions. 
By  all  means  let  us  do  all  these  thing v  and  a  great  many  more,  ^we 
can.  Let  us  redress  the  wrongs  of  all  mankind,  past,  present,  and 
'  future.  Why  not  drive  ihe  Russians  out  of  Poland — ^the  Austrians  out 
of  Cracow,  and  Milan,  and  Venice — the  Prussians  out  of  Posen — ^the 
French  out  of  Rome  and  Algiers — ^the  Americans  out  of  Texas,  Mexico, 
California,  and  the  Oregon  ?  Great  Britain  and  France,  and  Austria 
and  Prussia  altogether,  could  not,  from  the  national  antagonism  of 
opposing  faiths,  and  the  numerical  inferiority  of  Turks  over  Christians 
in  their  own  territory,  secure  Turkey  from  future  Russian  aggressions,  at. 
least  not  without  the  dismemberment  of  that  colossal  enapire,  no  more 
than  they  could  from  the  inevitable  downfal  that  awaits  Turicey  within 
her  own  self. 

War  will  only  hurry  that  inevitable  result — the  Kismet ,  or  doom  of 
Turkey,  as  Mr.  Macfarlane  has  it;  and  the  press,  even  that  portion  which 
has  been  most  in  favour  of  measures  tending  to  preserve  general  peace, 
has  been  overshadowed  by  the  dark  side  of  the  results  of  the  present  war. 
,  *"  Though,"  says  the  Times,  "the  united  forces  of  Europe  may  suc- 
"^ce^sfully  defend  Turkish  territory  from  Russian  aggression,  it  does  not 
follow  that,  in  the  event  of  extremities,  the  Ottoman  Empire  will  be  pre- 
served for  the  Ottomans.  One  of  the  surest  results,  indeed,  of  a  general 
war  and  a  redistribution  of  Europe,  would  be  the  disappearance  of  the 
Turks  from  its  territories.  At  present  the  Divan  may  certainly  appear 
to  be  staking  little  on  the  issue  of  a  Danubian  campaign,  but,  if  this 
campaign  should  acquire  the  dimensions  of  a  continental  conflagration, 
the  Turkish  question  will  soon  perish  in  the  flames." 

The  French  press  have  given  utterance  to  similar  sentiments.  Witness 
the  AssemhUe  Nationale,  which  says : 

If  peace  be  necessary  for  the  whole  of  Europe,  it  is  more  particularly  so  for 
the  Ottoman  Empire,  which  can  alone  be  checked  in  its  downward  course  by 
peace.  To  speak  truly,  the  preservation  of  Turkey  is  completely  artificiali 
and  its  independence  is  an  empty  word.  If,  up  to  the  present  time,  the 
powers  have  succeeded  in  keeping  alive  this  tottering  empire,  it  has  only  been 
by  skilful  management  and  reciprocal  concessions.  It  is  useless  to  insist  on  a 
fact  whicii  is  so  evident,  and  to  call  to  mind  the  history  of  the  last  thirty  years. 
But,  let  war  break  out,  and  everything  will  change.     With  war,  wise  and 

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The  War  in  the  East  383 

moderate  combinations  are  no  longer  possible;  with  war,  each  one  resumes 
his  pretensions,  his  views,  and  his  particular  cupidity^  and  seeks  to  satisfy 
them  in  the  chance  of  events.  In  such  a  conflict  what  would  become  of  the 
Ottoman  Empire  ?  It  would  be  no  one's  business  to  prevent  its  ruin,  and  the 
formidable  question  of  partition,  so  long  postponed,  would  weigh  on  every 
one's  head.'  It  would  be  impossible  any  longer  to  elude  it,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  no  one  could  proceed  to  solve  the  question  without  precipitating  himself 
into  an  unknown  path  full  of  danger  to  every  one. 

Dr.  Alton,  Faber,  Gumming,  and  others,  have  argued  the  downfal  of 
Mubanimadanism  upon  religious  grounds :  and  what  a  blessing  it  would 
be !  In  half  a  century  after  the  overthrow  of  Islamism  we  should  have 
open  roads,  if  not  railways,  to  Calcutta,  perchance  to'Pekin,  and  the  seeds 
wotM  be  sown  for  the  revival  of  the  great  nations  of  antiquity. 

We,  as  our  readers  well  know,  have  contented  ourselves  with  ur^g  the 
claims  of  the  existing  Christian  c^ces,  Romani  or  Wallachian,  Servian, 
Greek,  Bulgarian,  Syrian,  Armenian,  and  Chaldean,  placed  in  unison  or 
separaterftincipalities,  under  the  safeguard  and  protection  of  the  more 
civilised  states.  Others  would  partition  out  the  Sultan's  empire  among  the 
belligerent  states  of  Europe,  according  to  an  arbitrary  pkm  of  their  own. 
Of  this  we  have  a  remarkable  example  in  a  pampnlet  now  before  us,* 
written  by  one  who  is  evidently  perfectly  intimate  with  the  internal  con- 
dition of  the  Turkish  Empire,  and  au  fait  to  the  real  state  of  things  in 
the  very  heart  of  that  vast  seat  of  petty  tyranny  and  of  base  comiption 
and  degeneracy,  but  who  allows  his  sense  of  what  is  necessary  to  the 
welfiEU^  of  the  country  to  carry  him  into  a  theoretical  partitioning  oflF  of 
regions — a  grand  result,  in  which  Providence  may  be  called  in  to  play  a 
part  as  well  as  man. 

Our  author  starts  by  saying  : 

Now,  setting  aside  for  a  moment  this  said  barrier  theory,  we  would  ask  the 
following  questions  :— Since  we  have  thought  fit  practically  to  stand  by  Tur- 
key, has  that  country  taken,  or  attempted,  any  such  step  towards  improvement 
as  might  at  all  invite  or  even  warrant  the  continuance  of  our  favours  ?  Have 
the  changes  there,  of  which  we  have  heard  such  boast,  tended  in  the  least 
degree  to  exalt  the  character  of  the  Turkish  executive,  the  very  power  we 
seem  so  bent  on  maintaining  ?  Has  the  condition  of  those  of  its  subjects,^ 
who  '*  profess  and  call  themselves  Christians,"  become  so  ameliorated,  and  so 
happy,  as  to  induce  us  to  waste  our  money  and  shed  our  blood  in  the  support 
of  their  oppressors  ?  On  these  points  great  ignorance  generally  prevails 
amongst  us  here  at  home.  But  facts  are  stubborn  things,  and  of  these  we  will 
proceed  to  quote  more  than  one. 

He  then  proceeds  to  give  some  revolting  instances  of  tyranny  and  ex- 
tortion on  the  part  of  Turkish  officials  which  have  come  under  hb  own 
cognisance,  which  it  would  be  well  for  some  of  the  out-and-out  firiends  of 
the  Turks  to  peruse  carefully. 

That  the  nephews  of  the  Sultan  are  even  now  regularly  destroyed  in  their 
infancy — let  the  trumpeters  of  Turkish  civilisation  say  what  they  will — is  well 
known  ;  and  the  sad  tragedy  in  the  house  of  the  late  sister  of  the  present 

♦  The  Partition  of  Turkey,  an  indispensable  feature  of  the  Present  Political 
Crisis;  or,  a  Series  of  Ideas,  the  result  of  experience  gained  by  one  who  has  been 
long  resident  in  the  East;  and  reduced  to  their  present  form  by  a  Graduate  of 
the  University  of  Cambridge.    Chapman  and  HalL 


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384  The  War  in  the  East: 

monarch,  who  was  even  a  second  time  robbed  of  her  ofispring,  has  been 
pathetically  described  in  the  Illustrated  London  News  of  the  24tli  of  September 
last. 

Wherever  the  Ottoman  power  has  been  established,  ruin  and  desolation  have 
speedily  appeared  as  the  sole  fruits  of  conquest.  "  Where  the  Sultanas  horse 
has  trod  there  grows  no  grass,"  is  a  Turkish  proverb,  which  only  too  well  ex- 
presses the  fatal  truth.  From  the  banks  of  the  Danube  to  the  shores  of  the 
Propontis  the  traveller  may  behold  whole  provinces,  which,  in  the  hands  of 
civiUsed  beings^  would  yield  an  abundant  harvest,  lying  uncultivated,  and  void 
of  inhabitants.  Many  a  city  of  the  dead  dots  the  desert  around  him  ;  but 
as  to  the  abodes  of  the  living,  they  are  "few  indeed,  and  far  between.** 

That  this  is  not  a  coloured  picture,  we  would  appeal  to  any  one  per- 
sonally acquainted  with  the  Turkish  dominions.  We  could  give  a  hun- 
dred instances  from  our  own  personal  knowledge,  of  towns  and  territories 
once  flourishing  and  prosperous,  which  are  now  mere  villages,  or  not  in- 
habited at  all,  and  around  which  all  is  wilderness  and  tenantless.  We 
could  quote  similar  instances,  with  the  painful  thoughts  inevitably  sug- 
gested by  them,  from  Layard's  last  work.  In  Assyria,  Mesopotamia, 
and  Babylonia,  there  is  indeed  little  doubt,  from  the  pages  of  historians, 
that  from  the  time  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  through  Persian,  Macedonian, 
Roman,  and  Saracenic  rule,  there  never  was  such  desolation  as  exists  in 
the  present  day  under  the  Osmanlis. 

It  may,  we  think,  be  safely  said,  that  the  Turks  are  a  people  to  whom  > 
history  at  large  presents  no  parallel.  Surrounded  by  nations  who  have,, 
from  century  to  century,  made  rapid  strides  in  civilisation,  tliey  have  them- 
selves remained  sunk  in  all  their  ancient  ignorance  and  fanaticism;  while 
each  ruler,  great  or  small,  is  alternately  the  agent  and  victim  of  injustice  and 
oppression.  The  Sultan  extorts  money  from  the  pashas,  who  in  turn  oppress 
the  beys;  these  again  pounce  upon  the  effendis;  and  so  on,  through  every 
class  of  both  the  civil  and  the  military  departments. 

And  further  on  he  writes  of  the  same  irreclaiinable  race : 

In  short,  what  has  he,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  whereof  to  boast? 
He  has  simply  the  good  fortune  to  be  in  the  unlawful  possession  of  acountiy 
that  is  one  of  the  fairest  in  the  world,  the  "  bone  of  contention"  amongst  his 
neighbours,  which  he  is  permitted  for  a  while  to  gnaw,  while  they  are  dis- 
puting as  to  who  shall  in  the  end  be  its  real  owner.  The  Turks  appear  conr 
scious  of  their  own  instability,  and  they  often  wonder  at  their  being  allowed,  as 
they  are,  to  beard  powers  that  could  ride  roughshod  across  their  territory,  and 
blot  out  their  very  existence  with  but  little  more  than  the  stroke  of  the  pen. 
Not  a  whit  the  less,  however,  do  they  avail  themselves  of  their  suffered  posi- 
tion ;  and,  as  the  moments  of  impunity  present  themselves,  repeated  are  the 
acts  of  insult  and  humiliation  to  which  their  protectors,  in  the  persons  of  the 
European  representatives,  are  subjected.  With  a  hypocritical  excuse,  based  on 
some  point  of  his  so-called  faith,  the  very  poorest  Turk  will  not  rise  on  the 
entrance  of  the  most  distinguished  European.  And  herein,  comparing  great 
things  with  small,  we  see  a  true  picture  of  the  superstition  and  mean  arrogance 
which,  as  a  nation,  we  seem  so  pertinaciously  inclined  to  maintaui ;  a  perfect 
incubus,  crushing  the  liberties  and  energies  of  a  Christian  population  of  twelve 
millions. 

Then,  again,  as  to  the  misconceptions  existing  in  English  minds  upon 
Turkish  affairs  ;  it  arises  from  a  fact,  the  very  relation  of  which  would 
hardly  be  credited  by  those  accustomed  to  anything  in  the  way  of 
honesty : 


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The  War  in  the  East.  386 ; 

For  the  last  twenty  years  there  have  been  journals  published  at  Constanti- 
nople, and  in  the  pay  of  the' government,  the  business  of  whose  editors  is, 
from  time  to  time,  to  put  forth  to  the  world  certain  state  propositions,  the  off- 
spring of  their  own  &ncy  alone,  and  represent  them  as  matters,  not  merely  in 
contemplation,  but  already  carried  into  execution,  and  bearing  fruit  to  the 
manifest  advantage  of  all  concerned. 

The  indiguation  of  European  residents  has  repeatedly  been  roused  by  such 
false  announcements,  and  their  friends  at  home  have  been  well  acquainted  with 
the  real  fact,  without,  however,  any  success  against  the  influence  of  the  press. 
A  remarkable  fatality,  moreover,  seems  to  have  attended  all  efforts  to  propound 
the  truth.  The  pro-Turkey  prejudice,  so  rife  amongst  us,  has  stamped  the 
candid  authors  of  such  communications  as  calumniators  of  a  young  "  rising  go^ 
vemment^'^  and  thrown  them  aside  in  disgrace. 

You  may  dress  the  Turk  in  any  other  than  his  national  costume  ;  you  may 
substitute  the  wide  trousers  for  the  wider  sharwals  ;  you  may  lead  him  into  the 
vortex  of  what  are  essentially  European  vices,  such  as  gambling  and  drinking, 
where  he  will  willingly  learn  anything  that  is  new  to  him  in  the  way  of  evil ; 
you  may  thus  divest  him  of  tlie  only  good  qualities  he  ever  possessed  :  but  to 
change  his  real  nature  is  an  attempt  utterly  beyond  the  ingenuity  or  power  of 
man.  It  is  universally  acknowledged,  that  under  the  wide  heaven  there  is  no 
greater  fanatic,  as  to  his  hatred  of  Europeans,— no  man  more  entirely  witliout 
the  pale  of  anything  like  order,  than  a  pasha  who  has  been  to  Europe  for  his 
education.  Unconverted  as  respects  Christianity,  he  has  learnt  enough  to  lead 
him  to  laugh  at  the  so-called  faith  of  his  fatherland  ;  his  moral  senses  have 
suffered  a  total  wreck,  and  a  boldly-acknowledged  infidelity  sweeps  away  the 
last  barrier  of  restraint  which  even  superstition  might  have  served  to  maintain. 
If  you  could  by  any  means  really  civilise  the  Turk,  his  very  identity  would  be 
destroyed ;  he  has  never  yet  mingled  with  those  whom  he  has  conquered ;  he 
and  bis  are  a  separate  class  from  all  others  on  the  same  soil,  and  regard  the 
latter  but  as  the  slaves  of  their  indolence  or  pleasure.  Tliough  mixing  daily 
with  those  who  are  more  advanced  than  himself,  he  is  what  he  ever  was — a 
Tartar  to  the  last.  His  mind  is  that  of  the  mere  wanderer,  and  we  are  from 
experience  convinced,  that  at  the  present  moment  any  Turk  in  Constantinople 
could,  at  an  hour's  notice,  if  circumstances  should  invite,  mount  his  horse, 
and,  with  his  few  chattels  bound  on  a  mule's  back,  and  his  family  on  foot 
bringing  up  the  rear,  proceed  to  the  plains  of  Tartary,  as  though  he  had  but 
lately  left  them.  To  those  same  plains  we  would  gladly  give  him  a  ticket  of 
perpetual  leave  with  the  least  possible  delay,  and  bid  him  seek,  beneath  a 
Russian  rod,  an  education  with  which  we  would  promise  never  to  interfere ! 

Having  demonstrated  that  under  Osmanli  domination  no  living  thing, 
except  jackals  and  hyaenas,  can  thrive,  our  author  proceeds  to  argue  that 
the  Christians  in  Turkey  are  so  debased,  by  continued  sufferings  under 
Turkish  despotism,  that  they  are  utterly  incompetent  for  the  task  of  self- 
government.  **  At  best,"  he  says,  "  the  exalted  slave  would  be  but  a 
tyrant  in  his  turn ;  and,  while  liberty  itself  would  at  first  be  a  strange 
possession  in  their  hands,  the  idea  of  legislation  could  be  only  an  unan- 
swerable enigma." 

Turn  the  matter  over  which  way  we  will,  we  can  but  plainly  see  that 
Turkey  is  falling :  yes !  whether  we  will  or  no,  this  empire  of  cruelty  and 
superstition  must  see  its  end.  Why,  then,  attempt  to  delay  an  event  so  much 
to  be  desired,  at  all  events,  per  se,  by  every  nation  of  Christendom  ?  The 
power  of  the  Porte,  as  we  have  already  argued,  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  inde- 
pendent :  it  is  thus  useless  to  us  under  any  circumstances  :  while,  if  it  were  to 
have  any  success  against  its  Northern  foe,  that  success  must  be  through  our  in- 
strumentality. A  war  between  Turkey  and  Russia  is,  after  all,  only  an  imder- 
hand  and  unbecoming  resistance  offered  by  England  and  France  to  the  designs 

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386  The  War  m  the  East 

of  the  Czar.  If  we  most  oppose  him,  let  us  honestly  tell  him  the  quarrel  is 
our  own,  quite  apart  from  Turk  and  Sultan  ;  let  us  show  ourselves  the  sole 
agents  in  the  matter,  and  hid  him  understand  that  he  is  to  retire  before  m  at 
once,  and  that  south  of  the  Pruth  we  intend,  as  two  united  nations,  to  hold 
full  sway.  Away  with  the  nonsense  of  a  puppet  swinging  in  mid-air,  supported 
by  two  giants,  who  would  gladly  be  supposed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  its 
various  antics  I  Any  plain,  straightforward  course,  would  be  better  than  nailing 
to  our  own  honoured  mast-heads  the  hideous  crescent-flag  of  the  superstition 
of  the  false  prophet!  And,  moreover,  what  moral  right  connects  itself  with 
this  Moslem  rule,  about  which  we  see  and  hear  so  much  pretended  squeamish- 
ness  ?  How  came  the  Turk  to  the  throne  of  Constantinople  ?  Simply  borne 
on  the  arms  of  an  unjust  and  barbarous  invasion.  For  400  years  he  has  defiled 
the  seat  to  which  he  never  had  a  lawful  claim  :  against  improvement  he  has 
almost  uniformly  set  his  face :  not  one  of  his  Christian  subjects,  the  chief  of 
his  population,  has  he  rightly  treated.  It  is  perfectly  sickening,  to  those  who 
know  the  merits  of  the  case,  to  hear  of  its  being  maintained  by  any  rational 
Englishman,  that  the  Christians  of  Turkey  are  satisfied,  or  have  any  just  reason 
for  being  satisfied,  with  their  present  rulers,  or  tyrants. 

The  question  which  next  proposes  itself  is  : 

Are  we  to  prevent  the  consummation  of  the  emperor's  plans^  seriously  re- 
solved to  enter  into  a  tremendous  and  doubtful  war — a  war  involving  we 
know  not  what  and  how  many  interests  ere  it  end— and  one,  too,  on  the  side 
of  the  Infidel  verxz^  Christianity?  Are  we  really  willing  to  appear  in  the 
arena  with  such  an  ally  as  Turkey,  or  rather,  with  such  a  tin-kettle  tied  to  our 
tail,  making  all  the  noise,  while  unable  to  inflict  any  great  damage  on  the  foe? 
Will  our  one  idea  of  jealousy  with  respect  to  Russia  serve  to  carry  us  through 
campaign  after  campaign,  merely  to  retrieve  the  cause  of  a  helpless  tyrant,  and 
prop  up  his  already  ruined  towers  ?  If,  indeed,  England  has  lost  her  self- 
respect  sufficiently  for  this,  be  it  so  !  What  then  ?  As  it  is,  we  know  some- 
thing of  taxation.  In  spite  of  extensive  emigration,  the  rapid  increase  of  our 
population  has  brought  each  senator  to  his  wits*  ends,  as  to  how  we  are  to 
answer  the  demands  on  the  public  purse.  Are  we,  under  such  circumstances, 
determined  to  add  million  upon  million  to  our  national  debt,  sinaply  on 
behalf  of  this  thrice  troublesome  Ottoman  Empire  ?  The  question  really 
comes  to  this :  for,  as  we  have  already  said,  and  as  we  think  our  readers  must 
liave  allowed,  the  idea  of  Turkey,  under  its  present  rulers,  forming  any  inde- 
pendent breakwater  to  stem  the  ocean-swell  of  Russian  progress,  is  a  fiction 
beyond  the  necessity  of  explanation.  Let  us,  then,  be  wise  in  time,  and  keep 
our  money  for  a  better  purpose. 

This  "  better  purpose"  is  to  unite  with  others  in  raising  a  real  barrier 
against  encroachment  on  the  part  of  Russia,  and  such  is,  according  to 
our  author,  only  to  be  effected  by  the  partition  of  Turkey.  We  believe 
it  could  be  effected  by  establishing  the  independence  of  the  Christian 
nationalities,  under  civilised  and  adequate  guarantees,  as  in  the  instance 
of  the  Hellenic  Greeks,  at  the  time  of  their  emancipation,  as  debased  as 
Syrian,  or  Bulgarian,  or  Thracian  Greeks,  but  we  quite  agree  with  the 
author  that  the  Turks  can  never  be  made  to  foriii  a  permanent  barrier. 
However,  the  difference  between  real  and  protected  states  is  very  sl^t ; 
and  where  such  important  interests  are  at  stake  as  the  welfiire  of  so 
many  Christians,  not  worth  disputing  about.  Providence  will  probably 
deciae  the  question,  as  it  must  now  come  to  a  solution,  one  way  or  the 
other. 

"  Let  the  Ottoman  Empire  be  divided,"  writes  our  sanguine  par- 
titionist, '*  and  the  equilibrium  of  Europe  will  be  no  more  disturbed  thaa 

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The  War  in  the  East.  387 

it  was  by  the  unfurimg  of  the  tricolor  on  the  plains  of  Algeria,  or  the 
planting  of  the  union-jack  on  the  citadel  of  Lahore.  We  have  just 
taken  to  ourselves,  without  a  word  of  argument,  half  the  dominions  of 
the  Ejng  of  Burmah ;  why,  then,  make  a  fuss  about  a  sUce  of  Turkey  f" 
Premising,  then,  that  Russia  in  the  Mediterranean  could  never  affect  a 
transit  conmierce,  the  author  takes  knife  in  hand  to  cut  up  the  said 
Turkey,  and  that  after  the  following  fashion.  Let  those  who  take  a 
pride  in  their  carving,  read  attentively : 

First  of  all,  liaving  handed  over  to  the  Emperor  Nicholas  the  whole  of 
Moldavia,  for  the  further  increase  of  his  share  we  draw  a  line  from  the  south- 
western extremity  of  that  province,  through  Bucharest,  Kopotzani,  and  Rust- 
chuk,  to  lanboli  on  the  river  Moritza ;  from  which  point  we  take  the  course 
of  this  river  as  our  boundary,  till  it  falls  into  the  Gulf  of  Enos.  Hence,  to 
the  south  and  east,  we  naturally  allow  the  sea-coast  to  mark  the  limit  of  the 
Czar's  additional  authority,  till  we  reach  the  southernmost  mouth  of  the 
Danube,  and  join  the  new  link  to  his  present  chain.  Here  he  will,  as  we 
firmly  believe,  have  fully  gained  his  point,  and  will  be  able  to  throw  his  shel- 
tering aegis  over  millions  of  Christians  now  ground  down  beneath  an  Infidel 
sway. 

In  the  second  place,  we  would  assign  to  Austria  the  provinces  of  Bosnia, 
Servia,  Croatia,  Herzagovina,  and  Montenegro,  as  also  those  parts  of  Wal- 
lachia  and  Bulgaria  which  lie  west  of  the  line  we  have  already  drawn. 

In  order  to  give  Greece  its  proper  infiuence,  we  would  throw  into  its  scale 
Albania,  Macedonia,  and  Thessaly,  together  with  the  portion  of  Rumilia  that 
we  have  left  untouched  by  Russia. 

We  have  now  done  with  Turkey  in  Europe,  and  turn  our  eye  eastward 
across  the  Hellespont.  And  here  we  would  suggest  the  desideratum^  over 
the  non-existence  of  which  our  politicians  have  been  so  long  lamenting:  As 
a  real  barrier  between  ourselves  and  Russia  we  place  a  province  of  an  iwrfe- 
pendent  kingdom,  by  putting  France  in  possession  of  Asia  Minor.  The  large 
number  of  Roman  Catholics  in  Anatolia  would  find  a  congenial  form  of 
government  beneath  the  eagles  of  the  Gallic  Empire ;  and  the  exertions  of 
our  enterprising  neighbours  would  have  full  scope  for  display  in  the  cultiva- 
tion and  improvement  of  this  fertile  country.  Here,  at  Scutari  in  Asia,  on 
the  Dardanelles,  France  would  look  Russia  calmly  in  the  face,  and  with  her 
immense  army  ever  at  her  beck,  tell  the  Czar — were  there  any  necessity — 
"  You  shall  come  no  further  V*  Should  she,  moreover,  be  at  all  disposed  to 
grumble  over  her  allotted  sliare — which,  by  the  way,  would  be  no  mean  ac- 
quisition, being  as  vast  as  France,  and  much  more  fertile — let  the  Governor  of 
Algeria  set  the  matter  at  rest  by  extending  his  conquests,  right  and  left,  over 
Morocco,  Tunis,  Tripoli,  and  Barca.  In  such  deeds  of  war  he  would  surely 
satisfy  the  desire  of  his  restless  fellow-countrymen  after  martial  glory,  and 
enlarge  the  dominions  of  his  imperial  master  to  a  gigantic  size. 

We  have,  last  of  all.  to  survey  the  portion  that  remains  for  England  ;  and 
contend,  that  she  will  here  find  what  will  more  than  counterbalance  the 
amount  of  territory  that  we  have  supposed  to  be  assigned  to  her  associates  in 
occupation.  Syria,  Egypt,  and  Mesopotamia,  are  lands  of  promise,  stretching 
before  us  in  the  distance,  and  worthy  of  cultivation  at  the  hands  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race.  Under  our  mild  rule,  Palestine  might  once  more  "  flow  with  milk 
and  honey  ;*'  its  resources  would  be  developed  ;  its  ancient  owners,  the  Jews, 
might  be  encouraged  to  return  to  the  home  of  their  forefathers,  and  mingle 
the  wealth  gathered  in  those  pecuniary  transactions  for  which  they  are  so 
celebrated  with  the  agricultural  labours  of  the  native  landholder  and  British 
emigrant :  while,  further,  with][regard  to  a  point  that  has  lately  been  a  vexa- 
tion with  certain  diplomatists,  "  the  holy  places"  would  be  in  safe  and  quiet 
keeping  in  our  Protestant  hands.    Of  the  advantages  to  be  gained  from  the 

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388  The  War  in  the  East: 

possession  of  Egypt  we  feel  no  description  need  be  added.  To  say  nothing  of 
the  immense  fertility  of  the  regions  of  the  Nile»  we  should  have  our  way  defi- 
nitely cleared  to  our  Indian  territories,  unconnected  with  flimsy  engagements, 
the  whims  of  a  despotic  governor,  and  the  peace  or  commotion  of  a  badly- 
governed  state.  Should  we  again  be  practically  inclined  to  change  our  route, 
we  should  have,  in  Syria  and  Mesopotamia,  the  very  localities  for  the  al- 
ready proposed  railway  to  the  valley  of  the  Euphrates.  In  neither  of  these 
provinces  should  we  find  a  hostile  spirit  on  the  part  of  the  inhabitants  with 
which  to  contend, ~a  fact,  this,  which  is  amply  demonstrated  in  Mr.  Layard*s 
works.  In  the  former  of  the  two,  indeed,  we  should  meet  with  a  people  in  no 
small  degree  disposed  to  accept  the  Protestant  creed  ;  while  in  the  latter,  we 
should  have  but  little  difficulty  in  subduing  and  gaining  the  confidence  of  the 
Arab  tribes.  Let  us  only  assist  them  in  procuring  grass  and  water  for  their 
flocks  and  horses,  and  place  tliem  under  a  strong  and  conciliatory  government, 
and  such  a  change  in  their  condition  will  in  itself  serve  to  win  tliem  over  to 
our  side. 

In  further  proof  of  what  is  stated  by  this  partitionist  advocate,  of  the 
predisposition  of  the  natives  of  Syria  and  Mesopotamia  to  English  rule,  it 
may  be  mentioned  that  at  the  time  of  the  expedition  for  the  survey  of 
the  rivers  Euphrates  and  Tigfris,  some  of  the  more  peaceful  and  indus- 
trious Arab  tribes,  wearied  by  the  extortions  of  the  Turks,  who  levy  taxes 
yet  give  no  security  to  property,  expressed  their  most  earnest  wishes  that 
the  commander  of  the  expedition  would  take  possession  of  their  territory 
and  give  them  a  real  protection. 

The  Rev.  S.  Lyde,  in  his  recent  work  on  the  Ansyreeh  and  Ismaeleeh, 
bears  his  testimony  to  the  same  feeling  existing  among  the  mountaineers 
of  North  Syria : 

The  two  European  powers  of  which  they  know  most  are  the  English  and 
the  Russians.  Of  the  power  of  the  latter  they  have  a  high  opinion,  but  it  is 
to  the  English  that  they  look  with  respect  and  hope.  They  imagine  that  the 
English  area  part  of  themselves,  or  of  the  same  race  ;  and  they  ask  continually 
about  the  Beni  Asfar  and  the  Melek-il-Mudaffer,  whom  they  suppose  to  be  of 
the  iuhabitants  of  England.  They  declare  that  their  books  prophesy  of  the 
coming  of  the  English  very  shortly.  Tliey  are  acquainted  with  the  power  of 
the  English  from  the  fact  that  in  a  very  short  time  they  expelled  Ibrahim 
Pasha  from  the  country  ;  and  in  Syria  every  commodity  which  lays  claim  to  be 
of  a  superior  quality  is  called  English. 

......  The  Turks  they  detest  and  curse  for  their  pride  and  op- 
pression ;  from  the  Franks,  especially  tlie  English,  they  look  for  justice  and 
protection,  and  therefore,  as  they  told  me  over  and  over  again,  they  wish  to 
become  English. 

Colonel  Churchill  gives  still  stronger  evidence  in  his  work  on  the  Le- 
banon of  the  existence  of  the  same  anxious  desire  being  entertained  by 
the  most  warlike  and  independent  populations  that  now  remain  in  the 
country.  All  travellers  from  the  interior,  not  those  of  European  ports 
and  the  corrupted  outskirts  of  the  regions  of  Muhammadanism,  concur  in 
the  same,  giving  similar  opinions — to  which  at  the  same  time  it  is  almost 
needless  to  remark  that  success  in  arms,  on  the  part  of  the  Turks,  and 
that  unaided  by  any  European  power,  will  tend  very  much  to  revive  the 
fanaticism  of  religion  and  the  old  Mussulman  spirit.  Already  has  a 
Vienna  correspondent  sounded  the  tocsin  of  alarm  as  to  the  real  position 
in  which  Turkey  and  its  allies  are  likely  to  be  placed  by  any  unaided 
successes  obtained  by  the  Mussulmans.     '^  Should  any  permanent  suc- 

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The  War  in  the  East,  J® 

cesses,'*  says  the  writer  in  question,  "  be  obtained  by  Turkey  imaided,  a 
change  of  policy  with  regard  to  Christians  generally  may  be  anticipated, 
since  this  question  with  Russia  has  much  exasperated  the  Mussulmans, 
and  thoroughly  aroused  their  olden  fanaticism.  The  fact  is,  that  such 
successes  will  be  fatal  to  the  few  advantages  gained  by  long  exertions  of 
European  diplomacy  to  the  poor  Christian  rayah  in  Turkey  ;  nor  will  it 
advance  the  influence  of  Great  Britain  or  France,  or  strengthen  the  ima« 
ginary  cordiality  that  is  supposed  to  exist  between  the  acknowledged 
head  of  the  Munammadan  faith  and  the  two  Christian  powers. 

Among  other  works  to  which  the  crisis  of  the  moment  imparts  a 
peculiar  interest^  Mr.  Oliphant's  "  Russian  Shores  of  the  Black  Sea"* 
deserves  particular  mention.  The  author  travelled  by  rail  from  St. 
Petersburg  for  Nijni  Novgorod — only  one  train  starting  daily,  and  that 
only  after  interminable  delays  and  formalities,  every  one  in  military 
garb  having  preference  of  seats,  and  no  extra  carriages  if  there  are  too 
many.  There  he  attended  the  great  fair,  of  which  he  favours  us  with  a 
pretty  pen-and-pencil  sketch.  He  next  descended  the  Volga  in  the 
Samson  steamer,  with  a  Dutch,  not  a  Russian,  captain,  four  drunken 
pilots,  and  a  shrivelled  old  woman  for  cook,  stewardess,  and  waiteress. 
This  descent  of  the  Volga  by  steam  is  a  new  and  interesting  feature  in 
travel ;  the  steamer  was  continually  sticking  on  banks  call^  pericarteSy 
which  the  first  steamer  that  navigated  the  Euphrates  did  not  do  half  a 
dozen  times  in  an  untried  navigation  of  1700  miles.  The  Euphrates  is 
therefore  superi(Jr  to  the  Volga  in  point  of  navigability.  What  with 
grounding,  wooding,  tugging,  and  other  delays,  there  was  no  end  almost 
to  the  journey  from  Nijni  to  Astrakan,  so  our  traveller,  attacked  with 
ague,  gave  it  up  at  Dubovka. 

Mr.  Oliphant,  however,  sums  up  concerning  this  great  river : 

Few  towns  in  Russia  are  better  worth  a  visit  than  Kazan,  while  the  Jigoulee 
offers  the  finest  scenery  I  had  as  yet  seen  in  the  country.  Saratov  vies  with 
Nijni  in  beauty — the  latter  owing,  perhaps,  all  to  its  lofty  position  ;  the  for- 
mer to  its  gay  and  handsome  churclies  and  buildings ;  but  the  cities  on  its 
banks,  or  those  banks  tliemselves,  rocky  or  wooded,  fail  to  inspire  feelings 
equal  to  those  suggested  by  this  monarch  of  European  rivers  itself. 

A  sense  of  grandeur  and  magnificence  seemed  to  grow  upon  one  daily  ;  and 
now,  though  our  experience  had  extended  over  more  than  a  thousand  miles  of 
its  winding  course,  I  gazed  with  unabated  wonder  and  admiration  on  its  broad, 
rapid  current,  which  swept  away  from  us  the  Samson  and  its  barges,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  desolation  was  induced,  which  reminded  us  that  our  recent  home  having 
departed  from  us,  it  was  time  to  seek  another. 

After  all  the  desagrements  du  voyage^  Mr.  Oliphant  regretted  his 
"  affable  captain"  and  "  the  good-natured  old  woman"  of  the  Samson, 
when  on  board  the  Boreas  on  the  Danube.  Matters  seem  to  have  altered 
much  for  the  worse  on  the  Danube  steamers ;  the  Austrian  officers  were 
haughty  to  the  English  wayfarer,  the  waiters  contemptuous,  the  boats 
crowded,  sleeping  places  a  matter  of  nightly  struggle,  provisions  wretched, 
gendarmes  on  board,  espionage  rife,  and  the  whole  terminating  in  an 
arrest  at  Orsova.     How  sadly  despotism  interferes  with  the  progress  of 

♦  The  Bussian  Shores  of  the  Black  Sea,  in  the  Autumn  of  1852,  with  a  Voyage 
down  the  Volga,  and  a  Tour  through  the  Country  of  the  Don  Cossacks.  By 
Lawrence  Oliphant.    William  Blackwood  and  Sons. 

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390  The  War  in  the  East 

civilisation !  At  the  onset  the  steamers  were  as  well  appointed  as  any  in 
the  world,  the  tahle  well  senred,  the  wines  exedlent,  the  waiters  empressesy 
the  captains  joyial,  and  the  whole  voyage  a  merry  panorama. 

The  Volga,  not  the  Danube,  was  exdhanged  for  the  Steppe  ;  and  with 
the  latter  came  Calmuck  Tartars,  Nogays,  and  Don  Cossacks,  execrable 
roads,  bone-dislocating  carriages,  drunk^ti,  obstinate  drivers,  sullen  post- 
masters, and  post-houses  without  any  resources,  and  full  of  filthy  abomi- 
nations. Such  are  the  well-known  penalties  every  traveller  has  to  pay 
for  the  pleasure  of  a  peep  at  the  Tsar's  dominions. 

The  Moravian  settlement  at  Sarepta^  and  the  Armenian  colony  at 
Nakhitcbivan,  are  little  oases  in  this  desert  of  prairie,  bright  spots  in  a 
vnldemess  of  despotism ;  but  the  Crimea  presents  a  relief  to  alL  H^e  we 
have  Oriental  and  Western  life  commingled,  Tartars  and  Moscoys, 
camels  and  horses,  inns  and  caravanserais,  sepulchral  caves  by  the  side  of 
yawning  embrasures  for  cannon,  and  silent  cities  of  the  dead  and  die 
departed,  by  the  side  of  the  bustie  of  life  and  a  new  race  of  people.  Mr. 
Oliphant's  aescriptions  of  Baghti  Sarai,  Inkurman,  Kertch,  and  tiie  other 
curiosities  of  the  Crimea,  are  not  so  detailed  as  those  of  Dr.  Clarke, 
Lyall,  Pallas,  or  Homaire  de  Hell,  but  tiiey  have  the  advantage  of  bdng 
sketchy,  pleasant  to  read,  and  are  nicely  illustrated. 

Of  the  renowned  Sebastopol  Mr.  Oliphant  says : 

Nothing  can  be  more  formidable  than  the  appearance  of  Sevastopol  from 
the  seaward.  Upon  a  future  occasion  we  visited  it  in  a  steamer,  and  found 
that  at  one  point  we  were  commanded  by  twelve  hundred  pieces  of  artillery : 
fortunately  for  a  hostile  fleet,  we  afiterwards  heard  that  these  could  not  be 
discharged  without  brmging  down  the  rotten  batteries  upon  which  they  are 
placed,  and  which  are  so  badly  constructed  that  they  look  as  if  they  had  been 
done  by  contract.  Four  of  the  forts  consist  of  three  tiers  of  batteries.  We 
were,  of  course,  unable  to  do  more  than  take  a  very  general  survey  of  these 
celebrated  fortifications,  and  therefore  cannot  vouch  for  the  truth  o(  the 
assertion,  that  the  rooms  in  which  the  guns  are  worked  are  so  narrow  and  ill 
ventilated,  that  the  artillerymen  would  be  inevitably  stifled  in  the  attempt  to 
discharge  their  guns  and  their  duty;  but  of  one  fact  there  was  no  doubt,  that 
however  well  fortified  may  be  the  approaches  to  Sevastopol  by  sea,  there  is 
nothing  whatever  to  prevent  any  number  of  troops  landing  a  few  miles  to  the 
south  of  the  town,  in  one  of  the  six  convenient  bays  with  which  the  coast,  as 
far  as  Cape  Kherson,  b  indented,  and  marching  down  the  main  street  (pro- 
vided they  were  strong  enough  to  defeat  any  military  force  that  might  be 
opposed  to  them  in  the  field),  sack  the  town,  and  bum  the  fleet. 

So  also  of  the  ships  and  the  men  that  man  them.  Most  of  the  former 
are  rotten,  eaten  up  by  the  worm  of  Inkurman,  or  the  more  formidable 
worm  of  official  corruption ;  and  the  officers  and  crews  are  described  as 
being  only  fit  to  figure  in  the  naval  retinms  so  ostentatiously  paraded. 
This,  however,  it  vnll  be  observed,  is,  as  vdth  the  state  of  the  batteries- 
all  hear-say,  but  very  likely  to  be  true. 

Mr.  Oliphant  also  not  only  agrees  with  all  who  have  gone  before  him 
as  to  the  extent  and  depth  of  the  universal  demoralisation  of  oB^ 
Russia,  but  he  even  exceeds  them  in  his  pictures  of  the  extent  of  to 
all-pervading  corruption.  '*  From  the  prince  on  the  steps  of  the 
throne  to  the  post-boy,  almost  every  man  will,"  he  says,  "He,  and  take 
bribes.* 

IN'othing  (he  tells  us)  bears  looking  into  in  Russia,  from  a  metrop(^  to  a 

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The  War  in  the  JEaet.  3»1 

police-office :  io  either  case,  a  sli^t  acquaintanceship  is  sufficient ;  and  first 
impressions  should  never  be  dispelled  by  a  too  minute  inspection.  No  state- 
ment should  be  questioned,  however  preposterous,  where  the  credit  of  the 
country  is  involved ;  and  no  assertion  relied  upon,  even  though  it  be  a 
gratuitous  piece  of  information — such  as,  that  there  is  a  diligence  to  the  next 
town,  or  an  inn  in  the  next  street. 

The  picture  painted  by  Mr.  Oliphant  of  the  universal  demoralisation  of 
Russia— of  the  sickness  and  inefficiency  of  its  army — of  the  decline  of 
counimerce — the  inutility  under  such  a  system  even  of  railroads,  except 
to  transport  troops — the  incapability  of  the  navy ;  in  fact,  of  a  nation 
rather  resolving  itself  into  military  barbarism  than  emerging  from  it,  is 
not  supported  by  the  same  writer*s  political  resume  at  the  conclusion,  in 
which  he  points  to  Russian  troops  in  Italy,  in  Germany — nay,  even  in 
France — if  her  onward  progress  is  not  resisted.  The  impression  of  her 
faults,  her  deficiencies,  her  corruptions,  and  her  short-comings,  seem  to 
have  been  one — his  impression  of  her  power  and  resources,  another. 

One  thing  is  certain  from  these  pictures — which  is,  that  a  power  which 
so  disregards  the  gifts  of  nature  and  perverts  the  conquests  of  art,  as 
Russia  does — ^her  people,  her  soil,  her  rivers,  her  railways,  her  steam-navi- 
gation, her  very  position  in  the  world,  and  the  advantages  and  responsi- 
bilities which  such  entail  to  commerce,  to  civilisation,  and  to  the  well-being 
of  the  human  race — is  not  the  power  with  which  to  entrust  the  welfiEure  of 
the  Christians  of  the  East,  nor  of  the  finest  countries  in  the  world. 

M.  Frandsque  Bouvet's  "Turkey,  Past  and  Present,"*  contains  pre- 
cisely that  kind  of  information  which  every  political  dilettante  should 
make  himself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  before  he  ventures  to  discuss 
the  vexata  qucestio  of  the  Ekist.  It  is  one  continuous  picture  of  Russian 
aggression,  assuming  every  variety  of  forms  and  phases,  ever  since  the 
treaty  of  Carlowitz.  The  record  is  at  once  brief  and  clear,  and  written 
in  the  statesmanlike  language  of  extreme  moderation.  The  ex-repre- 
sentative justly  depicts  Navarino  as  a  most  untoward  incident,  in  which 
France  and  England  were  made  the  tools  of  Russia ;  and  he  merely  ex- 
presses a  just  regret  that  England  did  not  consult  the  then  friendly 
cabinet  of  the  Timeries,  before  entering  into  a  treaty  of  alliance  with 
Russia  to  expel  the  Egyptians  from  Syria— an  alliance  which  very  nearly 
brought  about  an  European  war.  The  fact  is,  that  England  was  just  as 
much  made  a  cat's-paw  of  by  Russia  in  her  operations  against  Muham- 
mad Ali  as  she  was  at  Navarino,  and,  in  1807,  when  she  insisted  on 
Moldavia  and  Wallachia  being  ceded  to  the  universal  autocracy.  Will 
experience  of  the  past  in  any  way  influence  her  now  ?  Alluding  to  the 
conquest  of  Constantinople  by  the  Turks,  M.  Bouvet  says  :  *'  A  Christian 
general  was  known  to  have  wept  in  engaging  in  battle,  while  Mussulman 
soldiers  were  seen  to  shed  tears  of  rs^^  on  learning  that  their  general 
had  concluded  a  truce.  It  may,  then,  be  easily  imagined  what  would 
happen  between  two  rival  nations  of  such  contrary  dispositions  and 
sentiments."  This  observation  is  not  without  its  application  to  our  own 
times. 

*  Turkey,  Past  and  Present  Authorised  Translation  from  the  French  of 
Francisque  Bouvet,  late  Bepresentative.  By  James  Button,  Esq.  Clarke,  Beeton, 
and  Co. 


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392  The  War  in  the  East. 

M.  Leouzon  le  Due's  ^'  Russian  Question''*  is  by  no  means  so  interesting 
or  so  instructive  a  pamphlet.  The  sketch  of  Prince  Menschikoff,  by  whose 
name  it  is  now  fashionable  to  swear  in  Paris,  is  good ;  but  of  the  sketch  of 
the  Russo- Greek  Church  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  the  writer  calls  it,  after 
Father  Lacordalre,  '*  the  Catholic  Church  reduced  to  a  state  of  petrifac- 
tion,'* to  testify  to  its  absur  dbias;  the  chapter  on  **  The  Position  of  Russia" 
is  mainly  borrowed  from  a  German  pamphlet  on  the  **  Eastern  Question;** 
and  in  it,  taking  a  German  point  of  view  of  the  subject,  all  reciprocal 
arrangements  with  Russia,  as  to  the  partition  of  the  East,  are  scouted, 
and  war  to  the  knife  of  all  Europe  against  the  autocrat  is  advocated. 

"Sketches  of  the  Hungarian  Emigration  into  Turkey"t  are  not  quite 
relevant  to  the  subject;  and  yet,  considering  (notwithstanding  the  denials 
of  the  Philo-Turkish  press)  the  number  of  Hungarian  refugees  who  are 
engaged  in  the  present  struggle,  the  narrative  is  not  without  its  political 
bearing  as  well  as  its  general  interest.  And  a  clever,  heart-riveting 
narrative  of  suffering  and  endurance  it  is.  We  wish  the  spirit  which  dic- 
tated the  following  passage  were  more  general : 

The  feeling  of  discouragement  was  propagated  likewise  by  drawing-room 
officers,  who  had  entered  the  army  for  the  pleasure  of  wearmg  a  ^word  and  a 
fine  uniform,  and  who  were  disgusted  with  the  real  perils  and  privations  of 
war.  I  cannot  express  the  emotion  I  felt  on  hearing  one  of  those  popinjays 
speak  thus  in  German  to  a  common  soldier :  "  Is  it  not  horrible  to  be  kept 
marching  night  and  day,  and  to  be  starved  when  we  reach  our  bivouac  ?**  My 
blood  boiled,  and  my  temper  got  the  upper  hand.  I  drew  him  aside,  and  said 
to  him :  "  Sir,  I  ask  you,  as  a  soldier  and  as  a  brother-officer — for  by  right  I 
might  pass  my  sword  through  your  body— under  what  delusion  was  it  that  you 
entered  the  military  service?"  The  answer  I  received  was  as  follows:  "Sir, 
I  have  neitlier  the  honour  to  know  you  as  belonging  to  our  brigade,  nor  even 
as  an  officer,  nor  am  1  bound  to  give  you  any  explanation.^'  The  tone  in 
which  this  speech  was  uttered  introduced  some  sad  presentiments  into  my 
mind  :  I  felt  that  he  had  not  spoken  his  individual  opinion  alone.  The  cha- 
racter of  the  man  was  known  to  me.  I  replied,  "  You  are  happy,  sir,  that  we 
are  unhappy  ;  under  other  circumstances  I  would  have  killed  you  on  the  spoU 
tliat  the  Hungarian  army  might  have  one  bad  officer  the  less,  and  that  you 
might  not  wear  laurels  which  you  do  not  deserve.  You  are  fortunate,  too,  in 
not  belonging  to  my  brigade;  otherwise,  not  even  our  misfortunes  should  iiave 
saved  you.*' 

Here  is  a  method  of  getting  rid  of  vermin : 

The  obvious  manoeuvre,  namely  of  condemning  your  wardrobe  to  the  fire» 
and  shaving  as  clean  as  a  razor-strop,  is  rather  too  expensive,  especially  ify^^ 
happen  to  have  only  one  suit  of  clothes.  It  is  better,  therefore,  to  adopt  the 
following  plan  :— In  the  first  place  undress,  then  bury  your  garments  in  the 
earth,  leaving  one  comer  of  your  shirt  projecting,  or  rather  a  piece  of  rag,  as 
a  conductor ;  then  light  a  fire  above ;  the  heat  draws  out  the  pestiferous 
beasts,  and  they  stupidly  crawl  forth  to  be  consumed.  The  fox  gets  rid  of 
fleas  somewhat  in  the  same  manner  ;  but  as  he  cannot  undress,  he  goes  into 
the  water  tail  foremost,  holding  a  piece  of  wool  between  his  teeth ;  by  degrees 
the  colonists  of  his  fur  ascend,  fall  into  the  trap,  and  go  floating  down  the 
stream. 

This  little  record  will  one  day  be  a  page  in  the  history  of  the  past 

♦  The  Russian  Question;  or,  the  Crisis  in  the  East.  Authorised  translation 
fipom  the  French  of  Leouzon  le  Due,  late  Charge  de  Mission  to  the  Courts  oi 
Bussia  and  Finland.    By  J.  H.  Urquhart.    Clarke,  Beeton,  and  Co. 

t  Sketches  of  the  Hungarian  Emigration  into  Turkey.  By  a  Honved.  Chap- 
man and  Hall. 

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7%e  War  in  the  East.  393 

To  pass  from  descriptiTe  and  argumentary  matter  to  matters  of  fact. 
The  Turkish  army  in  the  Danubian  Provinces  might  be  taken,  previous  to 
the  invasion  of  the  Principalities,  in  round  numbers,  and  with  no  allowance 
for  sick  and  laggers,  as  amounting  to  100,000.  It  consisted  of  45,000 
Nishan  or  regulars,  including  artillerymen  and  the  Egyptian  contingent 
at  Varna ;  8000  cavalry,  Bashi  Buzuks  (no  heads  or  cfiiefs),  included ; 
and  57,000  Radiff  or  militia,  and  Albanians.  The  Egyptian  contingent 
was  under  Sulaiman  Pasha  (Colonel  Selves),  an  old  soldier  of  Napoleon's, 
to  whose  military  skill  Muhammad  Ali  was  more  indebted  than  to  Ibra- 
lum  Pasba's  personal  prowess  for  the  victory  of  Nizib,  and  was  stationed 
at  Varna.  The  head-quarters  of  the  Turkish  army  was  at  Schumla, 
bat  brigades,  of  greater  or  less  strength,  occupied  various  stations  along 
the  Danube.  Among  these  were  Tultsha,  Isaktchi,  Matschin,  Hirsova, 
Rasuva,  at  the  extremity  of  Trajan's  entrenchment,  Silistria  (a  remark- 
ably strongly  fortified  place),  Rutschtik,  Sistov  or  Sistowa,  Nicopolis, 
Rdiuva,  Widdin,  and  the  Iron  Gates.  The  veteran  Pasha,  Izzet,  was 
sent  to  secure  the  fortresses  of  Belgrade  and  Semendria,  in  Servia,  from 
any  coup  de  main  horn  unanticipated  quarters.  The  Hungarian  General 
Elapka  is  supposed  to  have  commanded  the  brigade  at  Rutschuk,  which 
was  s^d  to  be  15,000  strong. 

The  Russian  army  consisted  of  the  following  troops,  which  have  crossed 
the  Pruth  this  summer : 

1.  The  4th  anny-corps,  under  General  of  Infantry  Danenberg,  consisting 
of— A.  The  10th,  11th,  and  12th  Infantry  Divisions,  under  Lieutenant- 
General  Simonoff,  Major-General  Perloff,  and  Lieutenant-General  Liprandi. 
B.  A  division  of  light  horse,  under  Lieutenant-General  Count  Nirod.  C.  An 
artillery  division,  under  Major-General  Sixtel. 

2.  A  brigade  of  the  5th  army-corps  (Liiders'),  belonging  to  the  14th 
Infantry  Division,  under  Lieutenant-General  MoUer,  commanded  by  General 
Engelhardt. 

3.  The  5th  division  of  light  horse,  belonging  to  the  5th  army-corps,  under 
Lieutenant-General  Fischback. 

An  in&ntry  division  has  two  brigades  ;  a  brigade,  two  regiments ;  a  regi- 
ment, 4000  men  ;  a  cavalry  regiment,  1000. 
Number  of  troops  which  entered : 

3  infantry  divisions,  each  16,000  men 48,000 

1  cavalr}' division,  4th  corps 4,000 

1  infantry  brigade •    8,000 

1  cavalry  division,  5th  corps 4,000 

1  battalion  Chasseurs  4,000 

10  regiments  of  Cossacks,  each  600  men . . .    6,000 

74,000 

and  the  artillerymen.  Each  regiment  has  a  battery  of  12  guns,  so  that  the 
artillery  which  accompanied  the  above-mentioned  troops  must  have  been  264 
guns. 

Of  Liiders' army-corps,  two  divisions  and  a  half,  or  40,000  men,  remained 
at  Ismail,  Odessa,  and  Sebastopol,  but  it  is  presumed  that  the  greater  part  of 
these  troops  have  been  sent  to  Asia.  It  is  also  probable  that  some  7000  or 
8000  men  passed  the  Pruth  in  August. 

K  we  supposed  that,  previous  to  the  war,  the  regiments  were  as  oom- 
Dcc— VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  cccxcvi.  2  D 


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394  The  War  in  the  Eaet 

pkte  as  they  are  on  paper,  the  Russian  army  was  little  less  iiian  80,000 
strong ;  hut  deducting  the  losses  hy  cholera  and  other  iUneeses,  des^r- 
tionSi  and  deMcations  of  various  kinds,  it  was  not  profad[>ly  more  than 
60,000  strong  at  the  time  of  the  onslaught  of  the  Turks. 

The  Russian  troops  at  that  epoch,  with  their  head-quarters  at  Bucha- 
rest, occupied  Ismail,  Gralatz,  and  Brailow,  especially  GalatK,  in  great 
strong^  A  second  detachment  occupied  Giurgero,  opposite  Klapka's 
hrigade  at  Rutschuk,  and  entrenched  themselves  there.  The  extreme 
right  wing,  under  General  Danenherg,  occupied  Slatina  and  Krs^ova 
in  Little  Wallachia,  and  contented  itself  with  throwing  out  advanced 
posts  of  Cossacks  to  Kalafi&t  and  Tchemetz,  to  watdl  the  movements  of 
the  Turks. 

Agreeably  to  a  wish  expressed  by  Colonel  Magnan,  an  officer  of  the 
French  staff  sent  to  as^  Omar  rasha  with  his  counsel,  that  general 
sent  Shaikh  Bey  to  examine  whether  an  island  on  the  Danube,  opposite 
Widdin,  and  somewhat  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  English  mile  in  length, 
tsaght  be  made  use  o^  as  a  fortified  point  cPappuiy  from  whence  to  effect 
a  passage  of  the  riv^.  The  detachment  met  with  a  squad  of  Cossacks, 
and  both  parties  being  mutually  in  terror  of  one  another,  retired  with 
equal  precipitancy.  The  Turks  soon  returned,  and  landii^  a  body  of 
4000  men,  at  once  proceeded  to  fortify  the  idand. 

Colonel  Magnan  was  of  opinion  that  the  Russian  troc^s  were  not  com- 
pletely concentrated,  and  strougly  recommended  the  immediate  com- 
mencement of  operations ;  but  Omar  Pasha,  depending  no  doubt  on 
superior  orders,  contented  himself  with  sending  over  a  summons  to  Prince 
Gortschakoff  to  evacuate  the  Principalities,  di3y  forwarded  by  the  Porte, 
to  which  the  prince  made,  considering  that  he  was  in  military  occupation 
of  the  Sultan's  territories,  the  following  remarkable  answer: 

^^  My  nmster  is  not  at  war  with  Turkey,  but  I  have  orders  not  to  leave 
the  Principalities  until  the  Porte  shall  have  given  to  the  Emperor  ihe 
moral  satisfaxstion  he  demands.  When  this  point  has  been  obtained,  I 
will  evacuate  the  Principalities  immediately,  whatever  the  lime  or  the 
season.  If  I  am  attacked  by  the  Turkish  army,  I  will  confine  myself  to 
the  defensive." 

How  much  these  peaceful  pretensions  and  assumption  of  forbearance 
accord  with  the  issue  of  the  imperial  manifesto,  announcing  that  nothing 
was  left  but  recourse  to  arms,  published  on  ^e  1st  of  November,  and 
before  the  passage  of  the  Danube  by  the  Turks  could  be  known  at  St. 
Petersburg,  we  need  scarcely  remark.  It  is  in  accordance  only  with  the 
usual  diplomatic  proceedings  of  Russia. 

In  the  mean  ^aoe  hostilities  were  precipitated  by  an  attempt  made  on 
the  part  of  the  Russians  to  force  a  small  flotilla  of  two  steamers,  with 
eight  gun-boats,  past  the  Turkish  fort  of  Isaktchi,  on  the  23rd  of  October. 
Although  the  Turks  fired  vrith(»it  intermission  for  an  hour  and  a  half 
from  twenty-seven  guns,  the  flotilla  succeeded  in  reaching  its  destination, 
not,  however,  without  loss;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  town  of 
Isaktchi  was  set  on  fire  by  the  shells  thrown  into  it.  Russian  vessels  of  war 
had  by  treaty  no  right  to  go  higher  up  the  river  than  Reni,  at  the  junc- 
tion of  the  Pruth. 

The  Turks  had  previously  to  this  occujned  an  island  on  the  Danube 


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The  War  in  the  JEa$t  395 

opposite  to  Matscbin  (the  papers  said  Brailow,  whioh  is  on  the  Wallachiaii 
doe,  and  was  held  by  a  Roissiaii  detachment  under  General  Engelhardt), 
wbich  placed  iJiem  within  600  yards  of  the  opposite  bank,  and  they  could 
hsve  ^sily  stopped  the  progress  there  of  any  small  flotilla  attempting  to 
ascend  the  Danube  beyond  Galatz. 

The  first  pmnt  at  which  the  Danube  was  crossed  by  the  Turks  was  ail 
Widdin,  on  l^e  27^  of  October.  The  operation  was  rendered  more  ea^ 
by  the  occupation  of  the  small  island  previously  deseribed,  but  still  it  took 
some  days  to  accomplish.  The  Russians  appear  to  have  offered  little  or 
no  opposition^  and  Omar  Pasha  was  thus  enabled  to  entrench  Kalafat,  so 
as  to  establish  a  kind  of  tete  de  pont,  in  case  of  retreat  Orders,  it  is  to 
be  observed,  had  at  this  crisis  been  de^atdied  from  Constantinople  to 
Omar  Pasha  to  delay  die  commencement  of  hostilities  till  the  8 1st.  The 
Tangaard  under  Jhz  Pasha  and  Sami  Pasha  secured,  in  the  mean  tune^ 
a  free  passage  £ot  the  reinforcements  duly  advancing  along  the  Servian 
frontier  from  Sophia. 

The  passi^  of  the  Danube  at  Turtukai  (Turtukan  of  Boat's  map)  was 
begun  on  the  night  of  the  1st  of  November.  The  ou^>osts  nearest  the 
river  were  Poles  and  Wallachians,  who  not  only  permitted  the  Turics  to 
cross  without  giving  notice  of  their  approach,  but  assisted  them  in  thcur 
operations.  The  Turks  are  said  not  to  have  numbered  more  than 
9000,  and  their  movements  to  have  been  directed  by  General  Prim* 
They  were  attacked  by  General  Perloff,  or  Paulo£^  and  a  most  ob* 
stanate  combat,  partly  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  is  sud  to  have 
ensued.  The  Turks  were  covered  by  the  artillery  of  the  fortress  of 
Turtukai,  vtiiich  is  said  to  have  done  much  execution  among  the  Rus- 
sians. The  contest  lasted  till  the  3rd,  when  the  Rusaans  withdrew, 
with  a  loss  which  we  have  seen  estimated  at  from  600  to  3000,  the  first 
b^g  the  most  probable,  and  among  them  were  several  field«offioers,  said 
to  have  been  shot  by  the  Turkish  chasseurs,  who  are  armed  with  Vin- 
cennes  rifles.  The  Turks  were  then  enabled  to  entrench  themselves  near 
Oltenitza,  which  consists  only  of  a  few  houses  and  a  ruined  fort.  It  was, 
However,  an  important  station  to  hold,  as  it  formed  the  base  of  the  Rus- 
aan  operations  in  Wallachia.  l^e  Russians  felt  this,  and  a  second  en- 
gagement took  place  at  the  same  place,  General  Danenberg  having  come 
^  with  reinforcements  on  the  4tii,  and  expelled  the  Turks  from  their 
eutrenched  positions ;  but  the  latter  having  also  received  reinforcements, 
returned  to  the  charge  under  cover  of  the  batteries  of  Turtukai,  and, 
after  a  sanguinary  fight,  regained  possession  of  their  entrenchments.  On 
the  11th  of  tiie  month  General  Danenberg  came  to  the  attack  once 
more  with  a  body  of  24,000  troops,  determined  to  avenge  past  disasters, 
Hot  it  does  not  appear  that  the  Turks  witiistood  the  <mslai4^t  of  such  a 
Buperior  force,  but  that  they  wisely  took  themselves  off  on  its  s^proach  to 
Ae  right  bank  of  Ae  river. 

The  Turks  crossed  the  river,  at  or  about  ilie  same  time,  from  Silistria 
to  Ealaratsh,  in  a  division  400O  strong,  and  from  Rutschuk  to  Giurgevo, 
these  being  the  two  points  from  which  Bucharest  is  directiy  threatened^ 
Previous  to  the  attack  on  Giurgevo,  which  we  have  seen  above  was 
^^i^gly  garrisoned,  some  800  Turks  crossed  the  Danube  between  Sis- 
^'^^^^  and  Simmtza,  and  advanced  straight  along  ike  road  leading  to 

2d2 


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896  The  War  in  the  East 

Giurgevo.  Othen,  it  would  appear,  crossed  oyer  to  the  town^  which  is 
on  an  island,  and  connected  with  the  fortress  on  the  left  bank  by  means 
of  a  dam,  and  from  thence  they  bombarded  the  latter,  although,  accord- 
ing  to  the  Russian  bulletins,  an  attacking  party  attempting  to  i^proad 
the  fortress  by  the  dam  was  driven  back  with  considerable  loss.  Rdn- 
forcements  are  also  said  to  have  reached  the  same  place,  and  skirmishes 
took  place  almost  daily,  till  at  last  the  island  was  finally  evacuated,  and 
the  Turks  withdrew  to  the  right  bank  of  the  Danube,  under  circum- 
stances of  which  we  have  as  yet  had  no  satisfeustory  account 

On  the  17th  of  November  news  came  to  this  coimtry  irom.  Vlemui 
that  the  Turks  had  defeated  the  m^n  body  of  the  Russian  army  in  the 
Principalities,  that  Bucharest  was  in  flames,*  and  the  Muscovites  in  M 
retreat  beyond  the  Carpathians  to  Kronstadt,  in  Transylvania.  This 
supposed  that  they  had  oeen  cut  off  from  a  retreat  through  Moldayis, 
and  therefore  also  presupposed  that  the  Turks  had  crossed  the  Danube 
at  Brailow  or  Galatz.  Needless  almost  to  say  that  this  ^^  startling  de- 
spatch "  turned  out  to  be  a  mere  fiftbrication — a  *^  canard  "  of  the  Danube, 
where  they  appear  to  assume  extraordinary  dimensions. 

More  correct  intelligence,  which  came  upon  slower  but  surer  wings 
than  telc^graphic  wires,  brought  definite  word  that  the  Turks  had  been 
forced  to  abandon  their  entrenchments  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Danube 
near  Oltenitza ;  and  that,  after  blowing  up  their  works  there,  they  had 
withdrawn  to  die  other  side  of  the  river  in  Bulgaria.  According  to  a 
letter  of  Prince  Gortschakoff's,  dated  Bucharest  the  Idth  inst.,  this  wise 
measure  was  adopted  at  the  moment  that  steps  were  about  being  taken 
to  expel  them  from  their  position.  It  was  also  stated  that  they  had  re- 
tired from  the  positions  held  by  them  on  the  island  opposite  Giuige?o^ 
and  at  Kalaratsh;  so  that  there  now  only  remains  on  the  left  bank  d 
the  Danube  the  troops  which  crossed  at  Kalafat,  and  which,  being  thus 
left  without  support,  will  have  to  retrace  their  steps  to  Wddin,  unless 
they  would  run  the  chance  of  a  disastrous  engagement,  with  the  riTer  in 
iheur  rear. 

Success  has  at  the  (mset  attended  upon  the  arms  of  the  Mussulmans 
in  the  Caucasus,  as  it  did  in  the  Danubian  Principalities.  The  least  di^ 
ciplined  are  there,  but  they  are  of  the  most  warlike  races  in  the  Sultan's 
dominions— men  stout  of  neart  and  limb,  and  expert  in  the  use  of  anns, 
although  untrained  to  military  evolutions.  There  is  a  regular  amy 
under  Abdi  Pasha,  as  Mushir,  and  Selim  and  Hassan  Pashas,  as  FeriH 
or  lieutenant-generals;  there  are  contingents  from  the  pashaliks  of 
Baghdad  and  Mosul,  of  Damascus  and  Aleppo^  of  Marash,  Siwas,  and 
Dyarbakir ;  then  there  are  the  redoubtable  Kurds,  the  ever  rebellions 
men  of  Buhtan,  imder  princes  directly  descended  from  the  Abbasside 
Khalifs ;  the  Hakkiyari,  slaughterers  of  the  poor  persecuted  Chaldeans; 
the  robber  tribes  of  Bahdinan  and  Rawanduz;  Kurds  and  Turknums 
from  Betiis,  Gharzan,  Mush,  Wan,  Bayazid,  and  Kars — the  lofty,  cold 
uplands  of  Armenia ;  mountaineers  from  Lazistan,  the  Juruk,  and  Tie- 
bizond,  whose  almost  only  profession  from  childhood  is  to  rob,  hunt,  at 
make  war.  These  motley  troops  are  well  officered  by  such  men  as 
Greneral  Guyon,  now  ELhurshid  Pasha ;  Stein,  now  Pursnat  Pasha  (little 
Pasha);  Cohnan,  now  Fuhti  Bay;  Zashitzkjr,  now  Osman  Bay,  «» 


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TTie  War  in  the  East.  397- 

others.  There  cannot  be  less  than  80,000  of  them  altogether,  regular 
and  irregular,  and  reinforcements  are  constantly  on  ^e  move,  and  will 
increase  in  uumbers  with  an  early  success. 

Opposed  to  them  is  a  strong  Russian  army,  consisting  of  three  diyi-* 
nons  of  infantry,  with  the  reserve  brigade  of  Caucasian  grenadiers,  H 
complement  of  engineer  and  rifle  battalions,  and  a  division  of  artillery, 
besides  colonised  Cossacks,  militia,  &c. ;  making  a  total  of  55  battalions, 
10  squadrons,  and  180  pieces  of  artillery,  or  60,000  troops  of  the  line, 
and  10,000  irregulars.  To  this  has  since  been  added  another  division, 
the  13tb,  shipped  from  the  Crimea  to  Redut  Kalah,  the  usual  steam- 
packet  port  on  the  coast,  amounting  to  some  20,000  men,  and  who  were 
to  be  replaced  by  MuUer's  infantry  division  &om  Odessa. 

These  troops  are,  by  the  necessities  of  the  case,  divided  into  three  bri- 
gades ;  one  engaged  in  keeping  open  the  coast  line  from  Anavka  to  Redut 
Kalah;  another  is  with  Prince  Woronzow  at  Tiflis,  opposed  to  the  main  body 
of  the  Circassians  under  Schamyl,  and  who,  with  the  native  Mingrelians, 
Imeritians>  Georgians,  and  owers,  are  all  in  favour  of  the  Mussul- 
man cause ;  and  the  last  is  on  the  Juruk  Su,  opposed  to  the  Turkish 

llie  river  Juruk  (called  Churuk  and  Ciorock  in  the  papers)  is  one  of 
ihe  larger  rivers  of  Armenia,  uniting  the  waters  of  the  Ivulah  or  Agerah, 
and  the  Marsat  Darah,  or  "  valley,"  near  the  town  of  Baibut,  renowned 
in  the  last  Turko-Russian  war.  r^ear  its  mouth,  and  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  delta  of  the  river,  is  Batum,  with  a  well-sheltered  bay,  where  we 
had  a  vice-consul  till  lately,  who,  with  most  of  the  inhabitants,  was 
obliged  to  quit  this  otherwise  promising  port,  from  July  to  October,  on 
account  of  the  prevalence  of  fever. 

Fifteen  miles  beyond  this,  on  the  same  coast,  is  another  and  smaller 
Jurok  river,  distinguished  by  the  Turks  from  the  larger,  as  Juruk  Darah, 
or  "  valley"  (Ciorock  dere  of  the  papers) ;  and  in  this  is  a  market-town, 
larger  than  Batum,  called  Juruk  Su  Bazar,  or  the  market  on  the  river 
Juruk.  This  bazar  is  built  on  a  steep  bank  of  shingle ;  and  the  house 
^  the  Bay  is  on  the  shore  close  by  the  bazar,  and  was  intended  to  have 
l>een  enclosed  in  a  fort,  which  was  begun  after  the  conclusion  of  the 
last  Russian  war,  but  was  never  proceeded  with  beyond  the  founda- 
tions. 

Siz  miles  beyond  Juruk  Darah  is  the  river  called  Shafkatil  Su,  which 
18  the  frontier  of  the  Russian  dependencies ;  on  the  south  side  is  the 
Turkish  village  or  town  of  Shafkatil,  on  the  north  the  Russian  fort  of 
St.  Nikolai,  or  Nicholas,  with  a  quarantine  station. 

It  will  now  be  understood  where  it  was  that  Mastar  Bay  fell  in  with 
"•he  Russians  on  the  20th  of  October  last.  It  was  not,  as  is  supposed  by 
tjie  papers,  on  the  great  Juruk,  but  the  little  Juruk ;  but  still  the  Rus- 
sians were  some  six  or  seven  miles  beyond  their  frontier.  Mastar  Bay  is 
said  to  have  defended  himself  gallantly,  and  to  have  held  his  position, 
^d  sent  to  acquaint  Selim  Pasha  with  the  circumstance  of  the  Russian 
^^foopa  having  crossed  the  frontier. 

The  latter  then  advanced  with  all  the  troops  at  his  disposal,  and  the 
Russians  having  been  reinforced  by  a  body  of  troops  from  Redut  Kalah, 
estimated  at  15,000,  an  engagement  of  some  importance  took  place,  in 

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898  The  Witr  in  the  East 

wbioh  the  Torks  are  said  to  haYe  been  successful,  so  much  so  that  Selim 
Pasha  was  enabled  to  take  up  his  position  at  Shafkatil  (the  Chevkedj  or 
Seerkedil  of  the  papers,  there  being  no  such  places,  ot  anything  like 
them,  in  the  proyince  of  Gurial)  and  storm  Uie  fort  of  St  MkolaT, 
where  he  is  said  to  have  captured  100  prisoners,  four  guns,  and  2000 
muskets — ^very  likely  a  fi^ross  exaggeration,  as  the  fort  was  a  mere  Uock- 
hoose,  held  by  a  handful  of  military  colonists,  possibly  upon  this  occasion 
slightly  reinioroed.  The  son  of  rrince  George  Gurial  is  among  these 
prisoners. 

The  Circassians  had,  with  their  usual  active  and  energetic  habits,  been 
busy  before  this.  Eivly  in  October  they  advanced  direct  upon  Prince 
Woronzow's  head-quarters  at  Tiflis,  which  they  are  said  to  have  ap- 
proached to  within  forty-five  English  miles.  The  prince  had  not  above 
15,000  men  to  oppose  to  these  gallant  mountaineers.  Fortunately  £Dr 
bim,  Generab  Nesterow  and  Bajatinsky  came  up  with  a  reinforcement  of 
15,000  men  ;  the  battle  was  renewed,  and  Schamyl  was  obliged  to  retire 
into  his  mountains.  The  Circassians  are  also  known  to  have  attacked 
bodies  of  troops  on  their  way  to  the  Turkish  provinces  with  considerable 
loss  to  the  Russians.  In  the  defiles  of  Zakartala  the  Russians  are  said 
to  have  been  completely  routed. 

The  operttdons  of  the  Circassians  were  followed  by  like  success  on  the 
borders  of  the  Black  Sea,  where  they  are  said  to  have  taken  no  less  than 
five  fortified  places,  among  which,  Toprak  Kalah,  a  place  of  some  import- 


The  fort  of  Khartum  is  said  at  the  same  time  to  have  been  captured 
by  the  Kurds,  that  of  Fuhla  by  the  troops  from  Damascus,  and  mose  of 
Surminah  Istrat  and  Kuchat  by  the  Bashi  Buzuks.  The  fortress  of 
Dariel,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Terek,  between  Mesdok  and  Ti^  was 
besieged  by  the  Circassians  and  Ossetes  ('Usitis).  Each  of  these  motley 
corps  d'arm^es  appears  then  to  be  acting  on  its  own  account,  no  doubt 
with  the  sole  view  to  plunder;  a  mode  of  proceeding  which  argues 
af  badly  for  the  result  of  the  campaign  in  uie  Caucasus,  as  has  al- 
ready attended  upon  the  somewhat  more  orthodox  proceedings  on  the 
Danube. 

The  reports  of  the  march  of  the  Russian  army  upon  Urgunji,  or 
Oorg^nge,  the  commercial  capital  of  Khiva,  and  of  an  alliance  between 
Dost  Muhammad  of  KAbul  and  Russia,  have  occasioned  great  excitement 
in  India.  Dost  Muhammad  having  invaded  and  annexed,  about  two 
years  ago,  the  portion  of  independent  Tartary  which  lies  north  of  the 
Hindhu  Kush,  around  Balkh,  it  is  supposed  to  be  his  interest  to  assist 
Russia  in  its  views  on  Khiva  and  Bokhara,  while  his  apprehensions  firom 
the  Anglo-Indian  army  at  Peshawur  lead  him  to  seek  an  alliance  with  a 
rival  power.  It  is  most  probable  that  this  is  all  surmise.  That  Russia  is 
marching  on  Khiva,  and  intriguing  with  Dost  Muhammad,  is  possibly 
perfectly  correct,  with  the  view  of  effecting  a  diversion,  if  not  of  bringing 
about  the  old  mistake  of  a  premature  advance  into  Affghanistan  on  our 
part ;  but  Russia  cannot  even  threaten  India  till  Khiva,  Bokhara,  Persia, 
and  Affghanistan  are  subdued,  or  in  alliance,  and  it  is  against  aU  proba- 
Inlity  that  a  stanch  old  Mussulman  like  Dost  Muhammad  wiU  enter  into 
any  sincere  alliance  with  the  Russians ;  on  the  contrary,  the  news  firom 

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The  War  in  the  East.  399 

the  Persian  side  is,  that  he  has  heen  instigating  the  Shah  to  take  the 
part  of  the  Turks,  and  regain  his  own  long-lost  provinces.  Under  any 
circumstances,  there  is  at  present  no  danger  whatsoever  to  our  Indian 
possessions  to  be  entertained  from  that  quarter. 

Thus,  then,  ends  the  first  act  in  this  politico-theological  drama  of  such 
complicated  and  sanguinary  aspect,  and  in  which  war  and  disease  have 
aheady  begun  to  play  parts  of  sad  significance.  Whether  the  Russians 
will  be  able  to  take  measures  of  reprisal  at  this  advanced  period  of  the 
year,  and  attempt  an  invasion  of  Bulgaria,  must  be  a  matter  of  great 
doubt.  The  pontoons  are  said  to  be  on  their  way,  and  the  long-expected 
corps  of  Osten  Sacken  is  slowly  advancing.  Circumstances,  however, 
far  more  favourable  to  Russian  progress  than  such  as  have  hitherto 
occurred — such  as  reinforcements,  a  better  commissariat,  improved 
sanitary  condition  of  the  army,  and  continuous  mild  weather — must  be 
propitious,  before  it  can  be  attempted,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  to  ad- 
vance towards  the  central  uplands  of  Turkey  in  Europe,  which  attain  an 
elevation  at  Sophia  of  2000  feet,  and  at  Philippopolis  of  1100  feet,  with 
the  Balkhan  to  cross,  and  the  climate  of  which  (laying  aside  the  tremen- 
dous difficulties  presented  by  easily- defended  passes,  and  strong  strate- 
getical  positions  in  the  hands  of  the  Turks)  is  in  winter  peculiarly  severe; 
while  the  resources  of  the  country  are,  thanks  to  Osmanli  misrule,  ex- 
ceedingly trifling ;  so  much  so,  that  if  his  Majesty  the  Sultan,  his  court, 
and  personal  guard,  attended  by  the  diplomatic  corps,  remove  to  Adria- 
nople,  they  may  fairly  be  expected  to  exhaust  the  miserable  resources  of 
the  country  before  the  Russians  could  have  reduced  Schumla  and  Varna. 
It  is  perfectly  useless,  however,  to  speculate  upon  the  fiiture,  where  there 
are  so  many  personal  feelings  engaged,  so  many  interests  concerned,  and 
so  many  nations  ready  to  s^ike.  One  thing  alone  is  certain,  that  nothing 
could  have  been  more  fatal  to  the  interests  of  peace  than  the  victorious 
prog^ress  of  the  Turks.  It  would  have  aroused  the  ire  of  the  Tsar  to  a 
point  that  would  have  been  unappeased  save  by  a  war  of  extermination. 
As  it  is,  the  Turks  and  Russians  have  both  had  a  short  but  sharp  lesson; 
the  former  will  probably  become  more  open  to  amicable  negotiations,  and 
the  latter  more  accessible  to  conviction.  There  are  still  hopes  under 
existing  circumstances;  there  would  have  been  none  under  those  so 
devoutly  vnshed  for  by  some  short-sighted  politicians.  As  to  the  cause 
of  Christianity  in  the  East,  it  would  have  been,  had  the  Turks  met  with 
imaided  success,  to  use  an  expression  borrowed  from  another  race-course 
than  the  political,  nowhere. 


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(    400    ) 


PALACE     TALES. 

INTRODUCTIOK. 

DuBlNO  a  lengthened  residence  in  Germany,  I  insensibly  fell  into  the 
habits  of  the  country — one  of  them  being  that  of  visiting  an  inn  eveiy 
night,  where  I  drank  my  choppin  and  smoked  my  pipe.  Among  the 
usual  guests  were  several  who  especially  attracted  my  attention,  for  they 
had  been  formerly  court  servants,  and  I  thought  it  very  possible  that 
ihey  might. possess  some  curious  anecdotes  about  those  sinks  of  iniqaity, 
the  smaller  German  courts  of  fifty  years  ago.  Nor  were  my  expectations 
deceived,  for  I  heard  the  two  following  stories  from  them,  which  made  so 
deep  an  impression  on  me,  that  I  carefully  noted  them  down  at  the  time. 
I  have  let  the  old  gentlemen  speak  in  the  first  person,  in  order  that  there 
might  be  no  alteration  on  my  part,  which  was  to  be  deprecated,  as  the 

stories  are  facts^  and  the  events  really  occurred  at  the  Court  of  H ^ 

not  very  many  years  ago. 

L 

THE  YTHITE  LADY. 

You  all  know,  as  well  as  I,  that  our  late  most  gracious  master  was  at 
length  left  with  only  one  daughter,  as  his  sons  died  one  after  the  other 
at  an  early  age.  Through  this  the  throne  devolved  on  a  collateral 
branch,  who,  thirty  years  ago,  would  not  have  even  thought  of  ever 
being  able  to  pay  their  debts ;  but  man  proposes,  and  God  disposes. 

At  the  time,  nowever,  of  which  I  am  now  speaking,  the  princes  were 
still  living,  and  the  royal  family  flourishing.  But,  ^though  every  one 
of  us  knew  that  one  of  the  princes  would  eventually  mount  the  throne, 
the  whole  court  paid  much  less  attention  to  them,  than  it  did  to  the 
Princess  Marie. 

I  was  at  that  time  only  a  footman,  and  had  to  follow  behind,  whenever 
the  young  lady  went  out  walking  with  her  governess.  I  was  always 
well  pleased  at  it,  though  I  felt  very  nervous  at  times,  for  the  child  gave 
way  to  the  most  extraordinary  fancies,  and  was,  at  the  same  time,  on  such 
jfriendly  terms  with  everybody,  that  a  number  of  children,  and  even 
grown  up  persons,  would  follow  us. 

Our  troubles,  however,  were  incessant.  At  one  moment  she  would 
give  away  everything  she  had  upon  her  person ;  then  she  saw  a  stream, 
and  wished  to  bathe,  or  a  grass-covered  terrace,  and  wanted  to  roll  down 
it.  Mademoiselle  de  Noel  might  well  say  that  this  was  all  very  impro^r ; 
and  I  occasionally  was  forced  to  interfere,  and  remind  her  of  her  graaoitf 
father.  The  child  would  entreat  so  prettily,  and  dance  round  us,  and 
flatter,  and  play  all  sorts  of  mad  tricks,  so  that  at  last  we  were  compelled 
to  yield  one  thmg,  to  keep  her  fix)m  doing  all  the  rest.  Whenwer^w 
home  again,  I  used  to  receive  plenty  of  abuse ;  but  the  next  time  Mane 
would  do  just  as  she  pleased,  for  even  the  duke  himself  could  refuse  her 
nothing,  when  she  looked  at  him  with  her  gentle  brown  eyes,  or  threw 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

All  this  may  be  very  charming  in  a  child^  but  when  the  princess  gww 


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The  WhUe  Lady.  401 

up  and  became  daily  more  beautiful,  it  caused  ber  much  sorrow,  that  she 
was  forced  to  put  those  restraints  upon  herself  which  she  would  never 
learn.  She  wore  one  dress  to-day  and  another  to-morrow,  and  fancied 
herself  most  charming  in  each ;  in  the  same  way  she  imagined  that  she 
could  changne  her  lovers  as  she  pleased,  as  if  she  did  not  know  that  the 
poorest  girl  and  a  princess  are  equal  in  two  things:  in  their  last  journey, 
and  in  their  first  love.  The  difference  of  ran^  of  course,  has  a  great 
deal  to  do  in  the  matter ;  all  of  you,  I  dare  say,  when  you  were  young, 
thought  that  you  could  make  love  to  any  pretty  girl ;  hut  not  one  of  you 
would  have  dared  to  talk  about  such  things  to  a  princess,  even  if  you 
were  convinced  that  she  was  dying  of  love  for  you. 

At  court,  though,  there  are  always  people  enough  who  will  run  any 
risk,  and  try  to  seize  the  whole  hand,  when  a  princess  wishes  to  have  a 
whim  and  only  offers  a  single  finger. 

Thus  it  came  then,  that  the  Princess  Marie,  before  she  was  seventeen 
years  of  a^e,  had  had  all  sorts  of  intrigues,  and  acquired  through  them  a 
considerable  amount  of  chagrin. 

I  do  not  know  the  details  intimately,  for  I  was  no  longer  near  her 
person,  having  been  appointed  porter  at  the  old  palace  in  ^q  re»dence  ; 
the  duke  and  the  prince,  however,  resided  in  the  new  palace.  Still  things 
of  this  nature  are  talked  about  among  servants,  if  only  in  whispers,  ror 
no  one  dared  or  would  speak  openly  about  it,  for  we  all  loved  the  princess 
too  much ;  she  was  always  a  kind  mistress  to  us,  and  troubled  herself 
about  us,  if  matters  did  not  go  as  well  with  us  as  they  should. 

I  could  see  it  all ;  for  if  she  had  any  sorrow  on  her  heart  she  would 
sit  at  the  veindow  and  look  .out  into  the  garden  like  a  caged  bird,  the 
tears  would  then  course  down  her  burning  cheeks,  and  her  heart  would 
try  to  burst  from  her  bosom.  Poor  thing !  when  I  saw  her  in  this  state, 
I  could  not  have  betrayed  her  to  the  duke,  even  if  she  had  done  much 
worse,  or  he  had  questioned  me,  himself. 

We  all  entertained  the  same  sentiments,  and,  strange  to  say,  the  ladies 
of  the  court  as  well.  These  women  are  assuredly  to  be  pitied,  for  envy 
gnaws  incessantly  at  their  heart;  and  yet  they  screened  the  princess, 
through  her  kindness  and  condescension  to  them. 

In  the  town  itself,  not  a  word  was  said  about  it ;  the  citizens  would 
have  esteemed  it  simple  calumny ;  and  although  they  often  grumbled 
about  the  duke,  especially  about  his  love  for  sporting,  yet  I  would  not 
have  advised  anybody  to  say  a  word  against  the  princess,  for  he  would 
certainly  have  repented  it. 

What  the  duke  thought  about  it  all  I  never  clearly  discovered ;  he 
probably  entertained  his  own  views  on  the  subject.  Still  he  must  have 
been  acquainted  with  it;  for  when  a  too  scandalous  affair  occurred,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  it  was  stated  that  the  princess  would  be  shortly 
affianced  to  a  crowned  head,  he  certainly  said  nothing  further,  but  he 
placed  her  again  und^r  strict  surveillance,  and  she  was  forced  to  live  in 
the  old  palace  with  the  first  lady  of  the  bedchamber. 

Nothmg  more  was  heard  for  months,  and  her  life  was  made  bitter 

enough  to  her;  for  at  that  day  there  was  a  deep  moat  round  the  old 

palace,  and  the  only  road  led  over  a  bridge  past  me,  and  I  knew  every  one 

who  came  in  and  out,  and  indeed  had  to  write  their  names  in  a  book. 

At  the  same  time,  too,  the  court  was  very  quiet.     The  crown  prince 

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402  Palace  Tales. 

had  died  very  suddenly,  and  although  the  other  two  yoong  gentiem^ 
were  still  happy  and  cheerful,  a  fear  and  a  weight  lay  upon  everybody,  and 
doubtleasly  on  the  princess,  as  if  they  had  a  foreboiding  that  the  old 
family  was  hastening  towards  its  end. 

It  was  no  joke  to  have  anything  to  do  with  our  illustrious  duke  th^ ; 
jbr  misfortune  did  not  suit  him  at  all,  but  caused  a  great  alt^raitioQ 
in  him. 

Christmas  had  passed  silently  and  mournfully,  and  a  terrible  winter 
had  commenced.  I  sat  sorrowfully,  too,  at  my  \^ndow  in  the  gateway, 
for  I  dare  not  go  away,  and  yet  had  nothing  to  do.  I  assure  you  I 
could  have  counted  the  footsteps  in  the  snow,  so  few  people  had  gone 
in  and  out  during  the  whole  day. 

It  was  growing  dark,  and  they  were  beginning  to  light  the  lamps  in 
the  corridors,  when  the  Chamberlain  Vogel  went  past  and  stepped  into 
my  room  for  a  moment. 

**  Of  course  you  have  heard  it,"  he  said,  as  he  took  a  seat. 

"  What?"  I  asked  him  ;  **  I  know  nothing  new." 

<<  Well,  that  the  White  Lady  began  showing  herself  in  the  palace 
again  yesterday," 

This  startled  me.  I  sprang  up,  and  exclaimed,  ''  That  was  all  we 
wanted  to  settle  it.  Now  the  little  life  at  court  will  entirely  cease,  and 
each  of  the  royal  personages  fancy  that  the  appearance  of  the  White 
Lady  forebodes  his  speedy  death.  I  am  only  sor^  for  the  poor  prineess; 
they  have  already  deprived  her  of  her  liberty,  and  now  she  will  lose  both 
light  and  air." 

*^  Yes,  and  the  worst  is,**  the  chamberlain  said,  '<  that  the  White  Lady 
disappears  in  the  apartments  of  the  first  lady  of  the  bedchamber.  She 
comes  from  the  top  of  the  corridor,  near  the  plate-room  and  the  court 
marshal's  office,  then  descends  the  narrow,  steep  staircase  into  the  corridor 
which  leads  on  the  left  to  the  rooms  which  his  highness  formerly  inha- 
bited, and  on  the  right  to  the  Princess  Marie's  present  abode.  There 
she  sinks  into  the  ground." 

I  trembled  all  over  as  I  asked  him,  <<  Does  his  highness  know  it  yet  T 

^^  I  fancy  not,"  the  chamberlain  replied,  as  he  stood  at  the  window, 
and  played  the  tattoo  on  the  panes ;  ^'  but  there  I  see  a  person  coming 
over  the  bridge,  who  will  be  able  to  tell  us,  if  he  will.  You  know  him 
better  than  I  do— call  him  in." 

It  was  Baron  Bilgram,  who  was  at  that  time  page  to  his  highness, 
and  whom  I  had  often  enough  let  in  and  out  by  night  without  writing 
his  name  in  the  book. 

He  came  in  quickly  when  I  called  him,  and  we  hurriedly  told  him 
the  whole  story.  I  thought  to  myself  that  he  would  laugh  at  it,  for  he 
was  still  young  and  careless.  At  the  same  time,  he  had  been  at  a  had 
school  for  the  last  half  year,  and  had  a^ached  lumself  to  Count  Revel, 
who,  though  many  years  older  than  him,  was  only  three  or  four-and- 
thirty,  and  reckoned  the  handsomest  gentleman  at  court.  The  count 
^as  a  very  haughty  man,  and  wore  an  expression  as  if  he  found  no 
{Measure  in  anything.  He  was,  however,  very  clever,  and  a  great 
fftvourite  of  his  highness,  to  whom  he  was  first  adjutant,  so  that  nobody 
liked  to  say  aught  against  him. 

As  the  page  laughed  too  loudly  at  our  superstition^  as  he  called  it, 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  White  Lady.  403 

X  at  length  became  vexed,  and  gave  vent  to  my  anger,  which  is  not  ofiben 
the  case  with  me :  for  I  said :  <^  If  the  gracious  gentleman  uttered  his 
own  sentiments,  I  should  have  nothing  to  say  against  ii^  for  the  affair 
vnll  prove  itself.  But  what  he  now  says,  is  only  what  he  has  heard  £rom 
Coimt  Revel,  who  always  boasts  of  his  free  thinking,  that  he  may  not 
be  compelled  to  call  his  faults  by  their  right  name.  I  am  onlv  one  of  the 
lowest  at  court,  but  the  gracious  gentleman  would  do  better,  if  he  would 
listen  more  to  the  advice  of  a  humble  man,  than  to  the  finesses  of  the 
count.  Without  God  there  is  no  real  honour,  and  when  I  see  |iow  pale 
the  gradous  gentleman  now  looks,  and  remember  how  healthy  he  ap- 
peared half  a  year  ago,  it  seems  to  rae  as  if  the  count  did  not  make  the 
best  instructor  for  youth." 

The  chamberlain  was  terribly  alarmed  at  my  remarks,  and  secretly 
nudged  me :  but  I  knew  the  baron  better,  for  if  he  was  not  precisely 
handsome,  he  had  the  most  honest  countenance  in  the  world,  aod  was  a 
true,  worthy  German.  Not  was  he  at  all  angry  ;  he  only  laughed  still 
more,  and  said,  **  Donnerwetter,  Mathies,  are  you  a  preacher's  son  ?'* 

*^  The  gracious  gentleman  tries  to  make  the  affair  ridiculous,"  I  replied^ 
:i^thout  suffering  myself  to  be  frightened ;  "  but  still  I  am  in  the  right ; 
we  should  not  laugh  at  such  a  thing,  for  no  one  knows  what  lives  between 
heaven  and  earth.  And  besides,  it  is  our  duty  to  trouble  ourselves  about 
such  things,  and  see  whether  it  is  a  ghost,  or  flesh  and  blood;  and  doubly 
so  for  the  gracious  gentleman.  For  what  would  the  princess  say,  if  I 
were  to  tell  her  that  Baron  Bilgram  laughed  heartily,  because  the  White 
Lady  had  disappeared  in  her  apartments,  and  must  have  terrified  her  to 
death?" 

I  knew  very  well  that  the  page  was  devoted  to  the  princess,  and  pur- 
posely spoke  thus ;  for  he  was  almost  of  the  same  age  as  herself,  and  had 
been  bar  favourite  plin^ellow  when  a  child.  She  was  very  fond  of  him 
too,  and  was  always  the  same  with  him ;  I  really  believe  more  so  than 
wiUi  other  men,  for  he  was  not  handsome,  and  never  flattered,  but  was 
just  what  he  was. 

Still  I  could  not  account  for  the  terror  which  my  last  words  caused 
hinu  He  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  his  eyes  sparkled,  and  his  voice 
3hno«t  failed  him,  as  he  said,  "That  is  the  case,  then !  1  will  find  it  out, 
«vea  if  a  legion  of  devils  rose  to  prevent  me  !  Trust  to  me,  Mathies,  I 
wiU  not  be  so  careless  any  longer." 

The  good  boy !  I  did  not  know  that  he  at  that  time  loved  the  princess  more 
ihan][his  life,  that  he  had  grown  so  pale  and  thin,  because  he  was  too  ho- 
nourable to  have  love-passages  with  his  sovereign's  daughter,  and  could  not 
endure  the  idea  that  his  wishes  could  never  be  fulfilled.  Years  after, 
however,  he  told  me  so,  when  he  came  back  woimded  from  Russia,  and  I 
nursed  him ;  this  and  a  great  deal  more  of  my  story,  which  I  will  repeat 
4»  you  in  his  words,  when  I  do  not  know  it  from  my  own  experience. 

Thus  matters  stood. 

Days  and  nights  passed  in  this  way.  At  one  time  the  White  Lady 
showed  herself,  lit  another  she  remained  away ;  still  the  story  was  becom- 
ing known  in  1^  town  with  all  sorts  of  additions,  and  the  sentinds 
crossed  and  blessed  themselves  when  the  apparition  entered  the  corridor, 
and  pressed  themselves  close  to  the  wall  to  make  room  for  it  to  pass. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


404  Palace  Tales. 

Nothing  bad  been  yet  said  to  the  duke ;  but  when,  on  the  eighth  or 
mnth  morning,  the  sentry  who  stood  in  the  narrow  corridor  near  the 
plate-room,  was  found  dead  and  dashed  to  pieceSi  sixty  feet  below  in  the 
palace  moat ;  when  all  cried  unanimously,  although  not  a  soul  had  wit- 
nessed it,  that  the  White  Lady  had  hurled  him  down  ;  when  the  oldest 
and  best  grenadiers  refused  to  face  the  ghost ;  they  were  at  length  com- 
pelled to  tell  his  highness  all  the  circumstances. 

After  a  long  consultation  at  the  court  marshal's,  it  was  at  length  decided 
that  Count  von  Revel,  who  remained  perfectly  cool  in  the  whole  affair, 
and  was  only  vexed  at  the  disgrace  of  the  military,  should  inform  the 
duke  of  the  occurrence. 

The  audience  lasted  a  considerable  time ;  the  count,  however,  csane 
back  fully  satisfied,  for  the  announcement  had  been  received  with  perfect 
calmness.  The  gossip  in  the  town  appeared  disagreeable  to  the  duke, 
whence  the  conversation  had  principally  turned  on  the  method  to  be  em- 
ployed, by  which  best  to  prevent  it.  Even  when  the  duke  heard  of  the 
panic  among  his  soldiers,  ne  was  at  first  silent,  though  he  turned  as  red 
as  fire,  and  then  dismissed  the  adjutant  with  strict  orders  to  recal  all  the 
sentries  from  the  corridors  and  front  passages,  and  leave  them  quite  tm- 
guarded  for  the  present.  He  then  seated  himself  at  his  writing-table, 
and  employed  himself  with  other  work. 

I  have  often  reflected  why  princes  grow  so  clever  and  learn  to  see 
through  people  so  well,  although  at  first  starting  they  are  not  a  Int 
cleverer  than  other  men's  children.  They  certainly  possess  every  advan- 
tage. They  have  all  they  want  at  their  command,  and  may  follow  the 
first  impulse  ;  besides,  everybody  only  brings  his  best  and  cleverest  ideas 
before  them.  But  it  cannot  result  from  tl^  alone,  for  at  the  same  time 
men  guard  themselves  before  them  more  than  they  do  before  their 
equals.  The  main  thing  in  the  matter  is,  that  the  prince  regards  every- 
thing, even  other  beings,  as  his  own  property ;  mine  and  thine,  however, 
makes  their  eyes  clear,  just  as  with  a  jeweller  who  distinguishes  true  from, 
frdse  at  a  distance,  and  will  not  su£Eer  himself  to  be  deceived,  if  there  ia 
the  slightest  flaw  in  the  brilliancy  of  a  jewel. 

In  this  our  master  was  an  excellent  judge.  He  had  seen  at  a  glance 
that  the  count  must  have  something  in  the  background  which  he  would 
not  express.  What  it  was,  he  of  course  could  not  so  easily  discover  ;  but 
there  were  all  sorts  of  intrigues  at  court,  which  crossed  one  another  in 
such  a  way,  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  cautious  enough. 

Such  noble  gentlemen  do  not  like  free-spoken  persons  about  them  at 
all  hours  of  the  day,  and  ihey  cannot  do  so,  or  else  it  would  be  terribly 
difficult  to  govern.  In  a  serious  case,  however,  like  this,  those  people 
rise  in  value  into  whose  very  heart  they  can  see. 

The  duke  was  disquieted,  as  little  as  he  allowed  it  to  be  perceived.  He 
walked  for  a  long  while  up  and  down  his  room,  as  gloomily  and  irregu- 
larly as  if  something  were  driving  him  to  do  it  involuntarily.  At  last 
he  rang  for  the  page. 

The  baron  entered,  and  remained  standing  on  the  threshold,  not  to 
disturb  his  master  in  his  thoughts ;  he,  however,  looked  him  firmly  and 
boldly  in  the  face  when  he  advanced  towards  him. — "  Are  you  afrad  of 
spirits  ?"  the  duke  asked,  and  looked  at  him,  half  jestingly,  ludf  seriously. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  White  Lady.  405 

The  page*8  mouth  revealed  a  slight  smile,  hut  he  replied,  aflter  a  little 
reflection,  **  I  do  not  know,  your  highness ;  I  never  saw  one  yet ;  but  I 
believe  that  if  a  shadowless  being  were  to  cross  my  path,  I  should  avoid 
it,  could  I  do  so  with  honour.'' 

'*  But  if  the  spectre  were  to  meet  you  when  on  duty?"  the  duke  in- 
quired further. 

The  page  blushed,  and  was  silent. 

'^  I  would  not  insult  you,  young  man.  A  thing  which  is  surprising 
can  move  the  heart  of  the  bravest,  and  you  yourself  confess  that  you 
do  not  yet  know  the  invisible  net  in  which  mortals  are  entangled,"  the 
duke  sjud,  very  seriously. 

"  I  dare  not  say  anything  to  the  contrary,  for  only  a  trial  would  prove 
the  truth  of  my  words,'*  the  page  replied.  "  In  the  end,  a  man  can  only 
die  once,  and  I  do  not  think  that  my  heart  would  quake  more  at  invisible 
hands,  than  at  the  bullet  whose  path  I  cannot  see  either." 

The  duke  regarded  him  kindly*  '^  You  are  in  the  right.  Good  nerves 
and  a  good  conscience  render  a  man  coldblooded.  I  believe  what  you 
say  of  yourself.  We  will,  however,  render  it  certain :  for  you  will  be 
posted  to-night  in  the  corridor — ^you  already  know  the  reason.  You  will 
not  be  annoyed  by  company  :  I  have  withdrawn  all  the  sentinels  from 
this  part  of  the  palace.  No  one,  however,  must  know  what  you  have 
to  do." 

Joy  beamed  in  the  young  man's  eyes  ;  a  weight  was  taken  off  his 
overburdened  heart,  for  he  had,  during  the  last  eight  days,  been  yearn- 
ing to  meet  the  ghost,  which  disappeared  in  the  princess's  apartments. 
But  he  had  nearly  always  been  on  duty,  and  on  those  nights  when  he 
was  disengaged,  and  had  been  on  the  watch,  the  spectre  had  accidentally 
not  made  its  appearance. 

He  uttered  Ins  thanks  to  the  prince  for  the  confidence  he  placed  in 
him,  but  remained  in  the  room,  although  the  duke  had  appeared  to  dis- 
miss him  with  the  words : 

"  At  eleven  o'clock,  then,  to  your  post,  baron.  From  now  till  then 
you  have  leave  to  prepare  yourseli.  The  countersign  in  the  old  palace  is 
*  Calmness,'  and  to-morrow  morning  at  six  report  yourself  to  me.  But 
stay,"  he  added,  as  the  page  remained  standing  bemre  him  ;  *<  you  have 
perfect  carte  blanche — if  it  is  an  impostor — dead  or  alive.  If  it  is  a 
shadow^,  you  must  ban  it,  for  it  must  not  come  again.     "Well  ?" 

"  I  have  two  requests  yet  to  make,  if  your  highness  will  grant  them," 
the  page  at  length  said.  ^'  I  have  already  carefully  examined  the  path 
the  apparition  follows  several  times :  on  the  upper  corridor  there  is  not 
space  enough  to  stand  man  to  man  ;  I  would  prefer  taking  my  post  on 
the  broad  passage  on  the  first  floor,  where  the  apparition  must  come 
down  the  narrow  staircase.  And  in  the  next  place,  I  should  wish  your 
highness  to  allow  me  to  wear  a  common  grenadier's  uniform ;  it  will 
be  safer,  for  the  ghost  will  not  be  able  to  recognise  me  at  a  distance." 

<<  Consented,"  the  duke  said,  after  reflecting  a  little  ;\''  a  good  idea!" 
He  even  oflered  him  his  hand,  and  called  to  him  as  he  quitted  the  room : 
*'  Bilgram,  do  not  forget ;  you  will  do  me  a  great  service,  and  can  employ 
any  method — any — but  no  disturbance." 

Soon  after,  I  saw  the  young  man  come  towards  the  old  palace  and  enter 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


406  Palace  Taks. 

my  room.     He  seemed  quite  delighted,  had  r^^ed  his  ruddy  cheeks, 
and  he  saluted  me  in  his  old  hearty  way. 

"  Can  any  one  hear  us  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  How  could  they  through  these  walls  ?"  I  swd. 

^^  Well,  then,  Mathies,  ^e  duke  has  sent  me.  You  must  hring  me  a 
grenadier's  uniform,  with  the  accoutrements  and  musket,  into  the  little 
anteroom  before  the  apartments  his  highness  formerly  resided  in,  by  half- 
past  ten.  A  light  is  not  required  ;  I  shall  see  as  much  as  I  want  by  the 
lamps  in  the  broad  passage.  It  will  cost  us  our  heads,  though,  if  any  one 
but  yourself  learns  anything  about  it.*' 

^  At  your  service,"  I  said, 

A  minister  might  have  come  to  me,  and  I  would  not  have  done  it 
without  the  duke's  written  order.  But  the  young  man's  word  was  worth 
more  to  me  than  a  hundred  pieces  of  paper.  Consequently  I  did  "whsA 
he  requested,  and  no  one  knew  anything  about  it,  so  cleverly  had  I  con- 
trived to  procure  the  uniform  ;  and  I  carried  it  in  broad  daylight,  when 
no  one  would  be  surprised  at  seeing  me  enter  the  palace  wiih  a  bundle^ 
to  the  duke's  former  apartments. 

Afterwards,  on  my  return,  I  stopped  to  speak  to  the  page.  He  pre- 
tended, however,  not  to  be  at  home,  and  only  opened  tne  door  when  f 
mentioned  my  name  ;  he  then  double  locked  it  behind  us. 

He  had  a  damascened  dagger  and  his  pistol-case  before  him,  and  wfls 
cleaning  the  arms  most  carefully.  We  examined  every  screw-bolt,  and 
employed  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  selecting  the  best  flints.  At 
last  we  had  fioished  our  task 

*'  So,"  he  said,  "  now  I  will  sleep  for  a  few  hours,  and  then  eat  and 
drink,  that  I  may  have  all  my  strength,  for  I  have  a  trouUesome  task  to- 
night." 

"  I  can  think  it,"  I  interrupted  him. 

"  But  you  must  not  think,"  he  sdd,  "  and  then  none  of  your  thoughts 
will  rise  to  your  lips  ;  but  you  can  listen.  Something  noay  happen  to 
me— is  not  that  the  expression  when  running  a  mortal  risk  ? — ^wefl,  ihen^ 
I  have  no  fortune,  so  I  need  not  make  a  vrill ;  but  you  shall  have  mj 
pistols,  and  you  can  tell  the  duke  that  I  leave  my  debts  to  him ;  my 
mother  thinks  of  me  at  all  times,  but  to  the  princess  you  can—"  He 
paused  for  a  time  :  "  Well,  then,  you  can  teU  her  frsmkly  that  her  name 
will  be  the  last  word  on  my  lips.  And  now  make  haste  and  be  off,"  he 
added,  merrily,  and  pushea  me  out  of  the  door  as  if  I  had  been  a  child 
— so  powerful  was  the  young  baron. 

Precisely  at  eleven  the  page  went  from  the  ducal  apartments,  dressed 
as  a  grenadier,  into  the  broad  passage,  which  was  only  dimly  lighted, 
for  the  lamps  were  at  some  distance  apart 

In  the  first  place,  he  again  exammed  the  ground,  and  tried,  for  at 
least  the  tenth  time,  whether  die  stairs  down  which  the  apparition  most 
descend  were  not  wider  than  to  allow  him  to  touch  both  wsdls  with  his 
outstretched  arms,  if  he  placed  himself  on  the  lowest  stair. 

Th'en,  however,  his  only  care  was  to  keep  himself  warm  and  awake, 
for  it  had  become  bitterly  cold.  He  placed  his  musket  in  the  corner,  as  it 
would  be  of  no  service  to  him,  and  walked  up  and  down.  At  times  he 
stopped  before  the  flight  of  stairs  which  led  from  the  upper  floor,  and 
looked  up ;  then  he  walked  twenty  or  thirty  steps  further  than  there  was 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  White  Lady.  407 

any  occasion  to  do  down  the  broad  passage  towards  the  apartments  in 
wmch  the  princess  resided,  and  thought  all  sorts  of  possibilities  and  im- 
possibilities, just  as  soch  a  yonng  man  is  wont  to  do. 

The  princess,  however,  was  not  in  the  palace^  bat  at  a  party  at  the 
French  ambassador's,  who,  at  that  time,  and  there  were  good  groonds  £Dr 
it,  was  the  most  important  of  all  the  foreign  envoys. 

Shortly  before  twelve  her  carriage  drove  np.  When  I  had  torn  tiie 
gates  open,  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  hors^  hoo&  re-echo  from  the 
gateway  below,  and  he  smiled  at  his  own  folly  as  he  quickly  seised  his 
musket^  for  he  had  wished  the  doors  of  empty  apartments  to  open  before  him. 

As  he  feared  that  the  princess,  who  was  now  coming  up  the  passage 
with  her  ladies,  might  recognise  him,  he  pulled  the  collar  of  his  cloak 
higher  up,  and  pressed  his  bearskin  schako  more  firmly  over  his  eyes. 
He  groimded  his  musket,  and  drew  up  dose  to  the  wall,  in  the  maimer 
prescribed  when  the  royal  £uni]y  passed  a  sentry  in  the  passages,  for 
presenting  arms  would  have  been  awkward. 

He  had  no  necessity  to  conceal  himself,  for  the  piinoess  hurried  past, 
without  even  looking  at  the  sentry,  or  hearing  his  heart  beat  She 
seemed  to  be  vexed,  and  in  a  great  hurry,  for  dark  rings  shaded  her 
eyes,  and  her  mouth  was  contracted,  as  if  she  were  more  ready  to  weep 
than  laugh. 

The  page  heard  several  doors  open  and  shut,  and  when  he  looked  out 
into  the  court-yard,  saw  the  last  lights  extingmshed  in  the  garret-rooms. 
All  was  quiet :  he  could  only  hear  the  clang  of  his  own  footsteps. 

In  this  way  midnight  was  long  passed.  The  page  thought  at  one 
moment  on  the  princess,  at  another  on  his  annoyance  if  the  apparition 
did  not  present  itself,  and  the  long  looked-for  opportunity  be  deferred. 

Fortunately  the  cold  always  aroused  him  from  his  reveries,  and  com- 
pelled him  to  think,  before  all,  how  he  should  keep  his  hands  and  feet 
warm. 

Still  he  did  not  take  his  eye  off  the  stairs,  and  that  which  he  expected 
really  took  place,  when  he  had  nearly  resigned  all  hope. 

And  yet  a  cold  shudder  seized  upon  him  when,  without  the  slightest 
previous  sound,  a  white  figure  appeared  at  the  stair-head,  and  began 
descending,  without  the  least  noise. 

The  page  quickly  roused  himself  loosed  the  dagger  in  the  sheath, 
threw  his  cloak  bemnd  him,  walked  to  the  stairs,  and  stood  with  out- 
stretched arms  in  such  a  position  that  the  apparition  must  necessarily 
walk  into  his  arms,  unless  it  turned  back. 

It  came  down  slowly,  step  by  step,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
though  it  must  have  seen  the  grenadier  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  long 
before.  The  page  repeatedly  told  me  that  all  the  blood  in  his  body 
seemed  to  have  rushed  to  his  head,  and  a  shower  of  sparks  dazzled  Yob 
eyes.     He  did  not,  however,  quit  his  portion. 

When  the  figure  was  six  steps  above  him,  he  cried,  '^  Halt !  in  the 
duke's  name !" 

The  figure  stopped,  and  motioned  to  him  with  its  hand.  He  did  not 
trouble  himself  about  this,  for  he  had  regained  his  self-possession  and  his 
coolness.  "  You  will  not  pass  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "  imtil  I  know  who  or 
what  you  are  V 

The  page  must  have  been  well  prepared,  for  he  had  scarce  uttered  the 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


408  Palace  Tales. 

words  before  the  figure  leaped  upon  him  like  a  tiger  on  its  prey,  and 
tried  to  hurl  him  to  the  ground. 

It  did  not  succeed,  however.  The  page  seized  the  man  in  his  arms, 
almost  without  yielding  a  step,  and  a  silent  struggle  commenced,  about 
which  he  never  liked  to  speak  ai^rwaids,  for  he  felt  from  the  commence- 
ment that  his  assailant  was  the  stronger,  and  determined  on  having  his 
enemy's  life  for  his  own ;  he  did  not  hope  to  gain  the  victory,  and  he 
was  too  proud  to  call  for  assbtance. 

His  only  ^ood  fortune  was,  that  his  assailant  must  have  walked,  some 
distance  in  the  cold,  so  that  his  fingers  were  benumbed,  and  he  was  not 
able  to  draw  his  dagger,  which  the  baron  plainly  felt  beneath  his  dress, 
when  he  pressed  him  closely  to  him  in  the  death-struggle. 

Thus  they  at  length  fell  to  the  ground,  one  above  the  other  alternately, 
so  that  the  page  felt  the  warm  breath,  which  streamed  out  itora  behind 
his  enemy's  silken  mask.  At  lengthy  however,  the  page  managed  to 
draw  his  dagger,  and,  in  his  unbounded  fury,  was  about  to  strike,  when 
his  opponent  suddenly  quitted  his  hold,  and  whispered,  as  if  ashamed  to 
beg  his  life — ^'  Bilgram,  I  am  Revel ;  I  give  myself  up  on  my  word,  but 
listen  to  me !" 

The  page  heritated  a  moment  before  vnthdrawing  the  dagger  from  his 
breast;  but  a  sudden  attack  of  trembling  assailed  him;  he  loosed  his 
hold  and  rose  to  his  feet.  Quite  exhausted,  he  leaned  agamst  tiie  wall, 
the  strangest  thoughts  flit^  across  his  mind,  like  swcdlows  round  a 
chiu'ch  tower,  where  one  is  no  sooner  gone  than  another  arrives  ;  until, 
at  length,  the  duke's  words  occurred  to  him,  ''  He  must  not  come 
again." 

His  opponent  had,  in  the  mean  while,  also  risen,  and  they  stood  oppo- 
site one  another  for  a  while,  gasping  for  breath. 

At  length  the  page  said,  *'  I  must  know  what  you  do  here,  if  I  am  to 
help  myself  and  you." 

"  A  short  question — a  short  reply,"  the  count  rejoined  j  "  I  love  the 
Princess  Marie,  and  she  loves  me  in  return.  They  have  shut  her  up,  so 
tiiat  I  can  only  reach  her  by  employing  this  superstitious  tale.  She  and 
I  are  both  lost  if  you  speak." 

**  She  loves  him,  and  she  is  lost."  A  sharp  pidn  pierced  the  page's 
heart ;  but  after  long  reflection,  he  sidd,  *^  You  have  broken  your  oath 
to  your  master,  Revel — I  dttpise  you  for  it — ^and  yet  I  will  risk  my  word 
and  trust  to  yours.  Promise  me,  on  your  honour,  that  you  will  never 
attempt  this  again,  and  never  tell  the  princess  who  or  what  is  the  cause 
of  it,  then  I  \nll  save  you  for  her  sake." 

The  count  promiseo.  The  baron  led  him  hurriedly  into  the  anteroom, 
where  he  changed  his  own  dress,  and  silently  intimated  to  the  coimt,  that 
he  should  put  on  the  grenadier's  cloak  and  follow  him.  Then  he  acccwi- 
panied  him  to  the  gate,  and  said  to  me,  when. I  had  let  the  count  out, 
and  was  again  fastening  the  bolt — '^  The  Count  von  Revel's  name  must 
not  be  entered  in  the  book ;  everything  else  is  in  order,  Mathies.  I  will 
go  and  have  a  sound  sleep:  nund  that  I  am  called  precisely  at  five 
o'clock,  for  I  must  take  in  my  report  at  six." 

He  must  have  been  tired  to  death,  he  looked  so  sad,  and  hb  eyes  were 
quite  dim.  In  consequence,  I  did  not  ask  him  any  further  question^ 
but  wished  him  '^  Good  night/' 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Story  of  Pale  Sophie.  409 

'  The  next  morning  > the  duke  admitted  him  directly,  though  his  high- 
ness had  hardly  lef^  his  bed,  and  received  him  with  a  meaning  inquiry, 
"  And  now,  my  dear  baron  !" 

"  It  will  not  return,  your  highness,"  the  page  replied,  and  was  then 
silent. 
^^  But  what  was  it  ?"  the  duke  asked,  with  evident  pleasure. 
"  It  will  not  return,  your  highness,"  the  page  repeated.  '  "  I  pledge 
you  my  word.  That  I  may  be  allowed  to  pass  over  the  details  is  a  favour 
which  my  prince,  as  first  gentleman  of  the  land,  will  not  refuse  me,  for 
my  honour  closes  my  lips." 

The  duke  was  astonished ;  still  thoughts  may  have  occurred  to  him, 
to  which  he  did  not  like  to  give  way,  and  which  it  were  better  to  veil  in 
mystery.  He  walked  hurriedly  to  the  page,  and  said  :  "  Your  word  is 
•^ough — have  you  any  favour  to  ask  ?  If  so,  it  is  granted  you  before- 
hand." 

*^  Your  highness's  kindness  has  prevented  a  request  which  I  hardly 
dared  ask.  I  hear  that  the  2nd  Regiment  of  Hussars  has  received  orders 
to  march,  and  I  should  desire  to  be  appointed  to  it." 

The  prince  looked  at  him,  and  nodded ;  he,  however,  made  no  other 
reply  to  this  request,  although  he  dismissed  the  page  very  kindly. 

In  the  anteroom,  Count  von  Revel  was  waiting  as  usual.  He  and  the 
page  saluted  one  another,  because  the  other  adjutants  were  standing 
around ;  but  from  that  time  they  never  spoke  again,  nor,  I  believe,  did 
they  ever  meet. 
Now  they  are  all  gone,  and  their  restlessness  has  become  peace. 
The  best  of  them  all  death  carried  off  first.  The  page  entered  on  the 
campaign  as  captain,  and  returned  a  colonel  and  a  cripple.  There  was  no 
hope  that  the  invalid  would  recover,  although  the  duke  did  everything  in 
his  power  to  save  him.  The  colonel  stopped  one  summer  with  us  in 
Monplaisir,  and  the  duke  entrusted  him  to  my  care.  I  do  not  think, 
though,  that  he  would  have  lasted  so  long  had  not  Queen  Marie  been 
paying  a  visit  to  her  father  at  the  time.  He  only  lived  by  the  sunshine 
of  the  heavens  and  the  light  of  her  eyes,  and  when  the  brown  leaves  fell, 
they  fell  upon  a  grave. 

The  queen  was  never  happy ;  the  Count  von  Revel  alone  enjoyed  him- 
self all  his  life,  for  he  understood,  better  than  any  one  else,  how  to  be 
cautious  and  careless  at  the  same  time,  and  tliitt  is  always  the  safest  on 
slippery  ground.  At  last  they  say  he  became  a  Catholic,  and  according 
to  Uie  old  proverb  this  would  be  very  possible.  Well !  God  be  merciful 
to  his  soul !     I  never  could  bear  him. 

11. 

THE  STOBY  OF  PALE  SOPHIE. 

I  POSSESS  an  old  telescope,  through  which  I  must  look  a  long  time 
before  seeing  anything  except  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow ;  but  all  at 
once  I  get  me  nght  focus,  and  the  furthest  tree  stands  so  near  and  dis- 
tinctly before  me,  that  I  might  fancy  I  could  catch  hold  of  it. 

It  seems  to  me  always  as  if  I  were  looking  through  this  telescope 
when  I  think  of  my  childhood's  years  ;  all  rises  before  my  mind  in  a 
thousand  various  hues,  till  a  few  things,  important  and  unimportant, 

Dec.— VOL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcvi.  2  e 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


410  Fiahee  Tak^. 

flUnd  out  as  diitinctij,  as  if  I  had  se^n  and  eaqpMenoed  tben  trat 


My  clearest  recollectioii  is  of  a  tall,  veiled  vonany  who  Hyed  feratime 
near  us  in  a  baric  hat  in  the  beedi  wood  bdiind  ftba  foiest,  whidi  the 
father  of  our  deceased  duke  had  built,  but  which  was  afterwards  pdU 
down,  although  it  formed  a  capital  shooting  paTiliony  as  tha  finny  did 
not  like  to  be  raminded  by  it  of  what  had  ocSmed.  there* 

Bound  this  hut  was  a  plantation  of  beedi-trees  endrding  a  flol«^ 
gardeo,  whidi  the  forester  at  the  pheaaantry  had  to  keep  m  Qrder. 

On  this  account  we  children  were  strictly  forbidden  to  pass  tbooffa 
the  gate;  hot  moeh  more  so  when  the  stranger  resided  Aere.  ii, 
however,  she  hardly  ever  quitted  the  garden,  a^  when  she  did  so  ^m 
dosely  veiled,  we  were  almost  afraid  of  hcs^  and  did  not  know  irivft 
answer  to  give,  when  she  accidentally  met  ua  and  spoke  to  ua  in  the  &i«it 

One  afternoon,  however,  I  was  standing,  without  thinking  of  the  Ut, 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  between  the  forestry  and  the  paiviBon,  so  badly 
engf^;ed  in  plaiting  a  new  lash  to  my  whip,  that  I  dBd  not  see  ^ 
approaching,  until  she  roughly  seized  me  by  the  am  and  Arost  me  en 
one  side,  sayings  ^^  Away,  away!  when  you  are  grown  np,  yonwil  also 
be  my  enemy !" 

I  stood  as  if  atruek  by  lightnings  I  did  not  shout  torn  assistaiK^  nor 
cry,  nor  run  away;  I  could  only  look  at  her-4Mit  what  Isaw, Idull 
never  foarget  were  I  to  live  a  hmidred  yean  kiwer. 

Thus  must  a  Bad  Angel  look  when  driven  from  Heaven.  Her  liioa! 
forehead^  her  fiery  blade  e3re8,  are  still  vividly  befinre  me  ;  her  fine  was  as 
pale  aa  marUB,  said  the  colour  had  deserted  her  pooting  ]%6 1 

She  had  been  long  gone,  and  s^  I  saw  her  oonstanUy  before  as;  i^ 
was  all  so  extraordinary  to  me,  that  when  I  readied  hooie  I  eosU  not 
even  tell  what  had  happened  to  me,  but  hid  my  tearfid  fikce  m  ay 
mother's  lap,  as  she  sat  in  the  fiiont  of  the  house,  w]&  a  party  of  fim^ 

I  did  not  learn  the  exjdanaUcm  of  it  until  I  was  giown  ux  and  made 
asdstant  lo  my  £M;her,  with  a  prospect  o£  noceeding  mm  at  the 
pheasantxy. 

My  old  fi^nilemaD,  when  he  told  a  story,  liked  ta  draw  a  monl 
from  i^  and  thus,  one  day  as  we  were  passing  ihet  hedge  behind 
which  the  pavilion  formerly  stood,  and  where  a  plantation  ir  dsv 
formed^  he  said,  '^Whenever  I  pass  hen,  I  must  always  laugh  at  oar 
dergyxna^  who  ocntmually  fffeachea  ihat  misfortune  brings  a  Uenafgf' 
It  is,  howev^,  only  healthy  fcnr  those  who  know  the  adrantagea  of  \^ 
patient.  But  when  misfortune  presses  too  heatfily  on  a  man,  aad  moie, 
especially  on  a  young  one,  so  that  he  at  length  gives  way  to  despair,  we 
may  consider  it  a  blessing  if  he  bears  up  manfully  against  it,  and  an  evil 
spirit  does  not  gain  possession  of  him  and  convert  a  good  heart  into  a 
bad  one.  Had  the  dergyman  only  seen  what  I  experienced  within  this 
hfidgey  be  would  he  g^ad  to  give  up  his  caviUiiu^.'' 

•'How  son  asked. 

You  must  be  wdl  aware  (he  rejoined),  that  Duke  MaxisdiaiV  tibe 
father  of  our  presoit  sovereign,  was  well  in  years  before  he  named,  and 
in  consequence^  at  his  deat^  Prince  Leopold  was  appointed  ngeo^  ^ 
the  crown  prince  was  still  a  nunor. 

uy  it  had  been  Duke  MaxiBnliaa*a  intentioa  offtr  to  flstaf) 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Story  cf  Pale  Sophie.  .411 

£er  he  was  a  very  easy  gentkouui,  and  did  not  possess  the  sl^ihtesi  am- 
bition. His  brother  Lec^pddy  who  was  at  least  twenty  years  younger, 
and  in  the  prime  of  life,  he  determined  should  be  his  successor,  for  he 
waa  married,  and  afforded  every  prospect  of  hating  a  large  fsunily, 
although  his  wife  had,  till  now,  only  made  hiia  the  happy  faUiier  oi  two 
daughters. 

But  these  plana  were  all  conrerted  into  water  when  it  was  proved,  by 
the  story  I  am^  going  to  tell  you,  how  unhappily  Prince  Leopold  lived 
with  his  wife,  because  he  was  faithless  and  she  jealous.  In  thw  imme- 
diate ndghbourhood  this  dissensbn  was,  naturally,  well  known;  but  flo 
open  breach  took  place  as  long  as  the  prince  hved  at  his  chateau  of 
Sdiarffeneck,  for  he  was  very  £cmd  of  spcxrting,  and  probaUy  did  not  cafe 
to  reside  under  the  immediate  surveilhmce  <^  his  brother  and  lord  m  the 
.  residence. 

At  that  time  I  was  attadied  to  die  forestry  <^  Schar£Eeneck.  We 
foi^sters,  however,  did  not  live  in  the  chateau,  but  about  two  miles  c^, 
at  Wuxzaoh,  wh^re  you  only  stayed  till  your  fif^  year,  because  at  that 
time  we  were  removed  to  the  pheasantry. 

When  tiiere  was  nothing  doii^  in  planUn^  or  shootii^,  this  Wurzach 
was  the  most  tedious  place  in  the  woM  to  uve  in.  Besides  Ourselves, 
there  was  only  on^  educated  man,  the  elergyman  Geier>  and  he  was  not 
accessible,  for  he  pbyed  the  pietist,  and  ccmsidered  our  {^x)lesaon  suffi- 
ciently damnable ;  besides,  ms  large  £unily  claimed  the  greater  part  of 
his  time,  although  at  present  all  cares  for  them  were  removed.  He  had 
only  a  boy  and  a  girl  left  at  home,  lus  other  daughters  were  all  well 
married,  and  one  supported  the  odier  so  powerfully  that  they  were  all 
highly  esteemed,  and  I  £d  not  daze  say  openly  how  much  their  eternal 
humility  and  their  eternal  tenderness  disgusted  me. 

This  clerical  haugjbi^nesB  pleased  me  the  less  ^e  mcare  I  saw  of  it,  so 
that  at  hist  &e  parson  and  myself  only  met  when  bu^tess  brought  us 
together ;  and  once  each  year  at  the  Feast  of  the  Founfeun,  vibesk  ire, 
according  to  old  custom,  were  bound  to  be  merry  together. 

This  festival  took  place  every  year  on  the  third  hcdiday  after  Whit- 
suntide^ on  widch  al^  youi^  aad  old,  gretA  aod  small,  eame  together, 
from  a  circle  of  ten  miles,  in  Wurzach,  so  that  fioequently  2000  people 
congregated  in  this  nam>w  mountain  gorge* 

In  ,&  first  plac^  the  trough  was  cleansed  al  an  early  hour,  which 
bef^ns  at  the  end  of  the  viUi^^  and  was  purchased  isOBt  the  peasants  a 
hundred  years  or  more  back  by  the  seigneurie,  to  feed  tibe  £6untains  at 
the  chateau  of  Scharff^iieck.  Thm  the  lads,  who  k^  the  source  ciean, 
fetched  thdr  present  from  the  diatea%  and  i^nt  it  again  direetl^.  It 
was  the  cuMom  that  these  feUows  shoi:dd  have  fools'  holiday  on  ihis  day, 
•to  do  what  they  pleased,  and  say  what  they  liked,  without  anv  one  findmg 
ihe  least  cause  of  offence  iis  it*  In  resoemlmmee  of  the  first  worismen 
who  had  formed  the  watercourse^  and  hod  stood  foe  days  in  wet  and  dirt, 
it  was  the  £uAiioA  that  the  lads  should  wear  their  oldest  dotheS,  p«t  on 
jnasks^  take  branches  of  Aby  in  th^  haadsy  and  marth  with  a  bcttd  of 
musie  through  the  vilh|g^  smd  ov^  th^  springs  meadow.  This  caused 
much  laughter,  hr  here  and  there  there  wcnud  be  one  anumg  ^lem 
whose  tongue  was  not  properly  hung,  and  who  eoold  not  make  usa  of 

2£2 

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412  Palace  Tales. 

hb  mother  wit ;  but  all  of  them  had  sense  enough  to  lay  hold  of  the 
young  girls  they  met,  and  to  steal  a  kiss  from  them. 

The  parson  preached  most  zealously  every  year  on  the  preceding  day 
against  this  immoral  custom,  and  yet  always  appeared  most  punctually 
at  the  feast,  which  the  bailiff  &;aYe  at  the  Lion ;  he  also  came  regularly 
with  his  youngest  children  on  his  arm  down  upon  the  meadow,  in  order 
to  meet  nis  relations,  or  because  he  prided  himself  that  his  presenqe  k^ 
the  lads  within  proper  bounds.  No  doubt  he  also  remembered  that  he 
had  found  his  daughters  husbands  at  this  festival,  although  they  had  no 
fortime  except  a  pretty  face,  and  the  linen  they  had  spun  for  themselves. 

He  always  had  a  new  reason  for  his  appearance.  On  this  occasion  he 
had  no  necessity  to  search  far.  He  knew,  when  he  met  me  at  table, 
that  I  had  already  had  my  appointment  to  the  pheasantiy  in  my  pockety 
and  only  intend^  to  let  the  holidays  pass  before  leaving  m^  present 
abode.  I  was  very  well  aware  that  he  was  delighted  to  get  nd  of  me, 
and  I  consequently  almost  laughed  in  his  face  when  he  assured  me  that 
he  had  only  come  down  to  be  merry  with  me  for  the  last  time.  The 
hypocrite ! 

But  wine  makes  up  many  cUfierences :  we  drank  together,  and  after 
dinner  I  even  went  with  him  down  to  the  meadow,  when  the  pranks  and 
dances  of  the  disgfuised  lads  were  already  in  full  swing. 

When  we  had  been  standing  there  a  littie  while,  the  parson's  youngest 
daughter  came  towards  us  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

I  nardly  knew  her  again.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  her  she  was  a  half- 
grown  thmg,  who  would  probably  grow  into  a  tall  and  pretty  girl,  to 
judge  by  the  graceful  feet  and  hands  which  peeped  out  from  her  frided 
and  outgrown  calico  frock.  Formerly  Sophie  had  been  as  shy  and  timid  as 
a  roe :  now  she  had  come  back,  after  stopping  for  three-quarters  of  a  year 
with  her  sister,  the  wife  of  the  farmer  on  ue  Schar£feneck  estate,  and 
saluted  me  as  boldly  as  if  she  had  been  a  countess.  To  tell  the  truth, 
though,  she  had  grown  into  a  very  beautiful  girl. 

From  our  first  acquaintance  I  had  liked  to  tease  the  girl,  for  she  was 
the  only  one  of  the  ramily  who  had  any  sense  about  her — ^loved  pleasure 
merely  because  it  was  pleasure,  and  had  not  always  the  Scripture  in  her 
mouth.  Consequentiy  I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  be  daunted  by  her  cere- 
monious manner,  but  said,  laughingly,  ^'  You  have  learned  good  manners 
in  the  poultry-yard,  Sophiechen :  that  is  all  very  g^d  and  proper ;  but 
you  must  remember  that  even  princesses  do  not  behave  haughtily  to  their 
old  acquaintances." 

The  rogue  peeped  out  from  every  dimple  in  her  face,  and  she  was  just 
going  to  open  her  ruddy  lips  to  answer  me,  when  one  of  the  masked  lads 
came  out  of  the  tiurong,  embraced  her,  and  kissed  her  delicious  lips.  He 
disappeared  again  like  the  wind,  for  the  whole  band  seemed  joined  in 
the  plot,  and  laughed  loudly,  while  the  pastor,  paJe  with  anger,  threatened 
the  wicked  fellow  with  the  wrath  of  God. 

Their  laughter,  however,  soon  came  to  a  speedy  end :  for  one  of  the 
twelve  maskers  (for  this  was  the  number  from  the  village)  suddenly  per- 
ceived that  they  were  all  together,  and  yet  they  had  seen  the  culprit  just 
before  run  down  the  meadow  and  disappear  in  the  bushes.  He  must^ 
consequently,  be  a  supernumerary*    This  altered  the  whole  afiair :  for 


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Story  of  Pale  Sophie.  413 

sucL  a  liberty  could  not  be  allowed  a  stranger.     The  most  yiolent  among 
tHem  ran  with  sticks  towards  the  spot,  where  he  had  been  last  seen. 

Although  they  traversed  half  the  hill  of  the  chateau  like  bloodhounds, 
iheir  expedition  was  fruitless.  When  they  at  length  returned,  they  had 
met  nobody,  except  some  girls,  who  were  going  to  gather  wood,  and 
Prince  Leopold,  who  was  taking  his  customary  walk  with  his  two  wolf 
dogs  along  the  brow  of  the  hill  to  the  Swiss  chsuet. 

Anger,  which  has  no  object,  does  not  endure  long  :  in  half  an  hour 
afiterwards  there  was  no  one  on  the  whole  meadow  who  thought  seriously 
of  the  matter,  except  myself,  for  the  clergyman's  rage  had  rendered  him 
blind.  1  took  care  not  to  breathe  a  syllable,  although  1  had  clearly  seen 
that  the  masquer  whispered  a  word  to  the  girl  and  placed  a  hand  round 
her  waist,  which  was  very  white  and  thin.  Besides,  she  had  kissed 
him  heartily  in  return,  which  she  would  not  have  done  to  a  perfect 
stranger. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  some  love  affair  in  progress,  and  as  I 
liked  the  girl,  I  wished  to  know  whether  there  were  anything  reasonable 
in  it. 

The  pastor  was  thundering  away,  for  he  considered  it  a  mere  excuse  on 
the  part  of  the  lads,  that  they  tried  to  throw  the  blame  on  a  stranger. 
He  had  at  last  found  the  bailiff  in  the  crowd,  and  while  telliug  his 
wrongs,  sawed  his  hands  about,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  let  go  of  the 
girl. 

I  therefore  walked  up  to  her  and  looked  sharply  at  her.  She  did  not, 
however,  let  her  eyes  fall,  but  only  smiled,  and  carelessly  plucked  a  wreath 
of  flowers,  which  the  peasant  girls  had  hung  over  her  arm. 

"  Take  care  of  your  wreath,  Sophie,  lest  it  fade,"  I  said,  half  seriously, 
half  laughingly. 

"  Flowers  are  made  to  fade,"  she  replied. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  at  the  right  season  and  in  the  right  place,"  I  said. 
"  I  saw  it  all,  and  do  not  think  much  good  will  come  of  it." 

She  turned  pale  and  red,  looked  timidly  round  to  her  father,  and  made 
me  a  sign  with  her  hand,  as  if  she  begged  me  in  Heaven's  name  to  be 
silent. 

If  she  had  had  a  sensible  father,  I  should  not  have  been  silent.  But 
there  is  no  talking  to  a  fool,  who,  through  his  vanity,  will  not  listen  to 
the  truth  ;  consequently  I  let  matters  rest,  and  only  whispered  in  her 
ear: 

"  Take  good  advice  from  an  old  friend,  and  let  it  drop." 

These  were  the  last  words  I  spoke  with  her  alone.  It  is  true  she 
helped  my  vnfe  in  packing;  but  then  there  were  always  others  about,  and 
I  am'not  one  of  those  who  like  to  say  too  much  in  such  love  afiairs.  For 
through  such  behaviour,  a  poor  creature,  when  her  heart  is  once  gone, 
only  becomes  more  confusei^  and  throws  herself  head  foremost  into  the 
danger,  be  it  only  to  know  at  least  what  it  is,  for  which  she  is  so  constantly 
chided  and  upbraided. 

The  following  summer  and  winter  I  sat  in  clover  at  the  pheasantry,  for 
my  income  was  greatly  improved,  and  I  had  very  little  to-do.  The  reign- 
ing prince  was  too  lazy  to  shoot  much,  and  Prince  Leopold,  who  usually 
kept  all  the  foresters  on  the  trot,  had  been  away  since  the  previous 
October  with  the  army,  and  afterwards,  when  the  troops  were  recalled. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


414  Palace  Tale%. 

Ind  printed  several  conris  in  a  diplomaiac  eapacity.  Tbe  leal  leason  hi 
his  abseaee,  howerer,  was  that  he  did  not  care  to  be  with  his  evil  gemoi, 
our  gracious  princess,  as  long  as  he  had  a  yalid  excuse.  Yes,  it  was  even 
said  that  he  did  not  intend  to  return  at  all,  and  desired  a  separation ;  but 
those  at  all  versed  in  ooiurt  matters  did  not  believe  it,  more  especially  as 
the  piincess  was  again  in  the  expectation  of  becoming  a  mother. 

The  winter  had  therefore  seemed  very  long  to  me,  the  more  so,  as  we 
did  not  have  any  real  winter  weather.  Warm  and  ccdd,  nun  and  snow, 
varied  every  hour,  and  at  last,  in  March,  an  aflber  winter  fell  upon  us, 
which  caused  g^reat  injury  to  the  woods  and  the  crops. 

Thus  it  came  that  X  sat  a  good  deal  at  home,  and  made  up  my  books, 
or  studied  the  paper,  which  several  of  us  took  in  together.  I  was  pleased 
with  myself,  for  by  degrees  I  became  a  decent  politidan,  and  could  form 
my  own  ideas,  and  even  explain  how  affairs  would  end. 

Saturday  was  always  the  principal  day  in  the  week,  for,  in  the  evening, 
the  woman  brought  the  papers,  and  my  wife  would  then  come  into  the 
room  with  the  packet  and  the  light  at  the  same  time. 

The  last  day  of  March,  1793,  was  also  a  Saturday.  I  had  got  my 
pipe  all  in  readiness,  the  light  was  placed  in  the  room,  but  no  messen- 
ger arrived.  In  truth  there  was  such  a  storm  without,  that  I  would  not 
have  driven  a  dog  out  into  it ;  and  though  I  longed  for  the  newspaper, 
I  was  r^isonable  enough  to  content  myself  with  spelling  over  the 
old  ones. 

My  wife  was  in  the  back  buil^gs,  attending  to  a  sick  (^ild  of  die 
keeper,  and  I  had  already  sle^  in  my  eyes,  when  the  dogps  began  bark- 
ing, and  the  newsps^er  woman,  as  I  thought,  knocked  at  the  door.  I 
sprang  up,  seized  the  light,  and  hurried  down  stairs  to  draw  bade  the 
bolt. 

"  Make  haste  and  come  in  out  of  the  witches'  weather,*'  I  cried  to  the 
woman,  as  she  seemed  to  hesitate ;  '^  the  dogs  are  chained  up,  and  will 
not  hurt  you  when  I  am  by,  stupid  thing!*'  I  stretched  my  hand  out 
into  the  darkness,  and  drew  her  in  by  the  arm,  while  closing  the  door 
with  my  foot. 

An  angler,  however,  would  not  be  more  terrified  if  he  were  to  pullont 
a  snake  when  fishing  for  a  carp  than  I  was  when,  instead  of  the  mes- 
senger, I  saw  Sophie  before  me,  though  hardly  to  be  recognised,  for  her 
hair  and  clothes  were  dripping  wet,  and  she  trembled  from  cold  and 
terror. 

"  Oh,  Herr  Dietrich,  do  not  spurn  me.  I  will  tell  you  all.  I  m^ 
not  wicked!"  ^e  exclaimed,  and  tried  to  throw  herself  at  my  feet 

I  raised  her,  however,  and  soon  perceived  what  was  the  matter.  The 
afiair  did  not  appear  to  me  quite  right ;  for  I  do  not  like  to  enter  a 
stream  without  first  knowing  how  deep  it  is ;  and  though  I  had  sened 
great  gentlemen  faithfully  all  my  life,  yet  I  never  had  voluntarily 
plucked  cherries  with  them,  or  known  any  of  their  secrets. 

Yet  what  could  I  do,  when  the  unhappy  creature  was  already  standing 
on  my  threshold?  I  said,  therefore,  as  I  raised  her  on  her  feet  agam, 
"  You  must  first*  get  calm  and  dry,  Sophie,  and  do  not  play  any  stage 
trieks;  they  will  be  of  no  use  here." 

I  took  her  by  the  arm,  led  her  into  the  room,  and  after  drawing  my 
arm-chair  to  the  stove,  placed  her  in  it     Hw  eyes  were  almost  dosed, 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Story  of  Pah  Sophie.  415 

i^thoogh  die  did  her  irtaiost  to  look  me   in  the  £ek^  mnd  lead  my 
thoughts. 

She  looked  so  mihapp j  that  the  tears  eren  filled  my  eyes ;  I  felt  so 
sonry  for  the  hmidle  of  misery  hefore  me.  I  dier^re  consoled  her  a 
little,  and  looked  h^  kindly  in  the  &oe.  **  Only  keep  yonr  head  shore 
water.  Many  a  thing  seems  worse  than  it  really  is,  and  you  know  that 
I  am  yonr  friend,  and  one  of  those  who  say  die  hest  of  past  matters,  as 
tliat  is  the  only  way  of  deriving  any  benefit  from  them.  Only  calm 
yourself  first." 

She  tried  to  smile,  bnt,  instead  of  it,  broke  out  again  into  a  torrent  of 
tears.  I  am  no  great  lumd  at  such  things,  so  I  said,  **  Tes,  have  your 
cry  out  first;  in  the  mean  while  I  will  fetch  my  wife,  that  die  may  get  yon 
a  ba^  (^soup  and  a  bed  ready." 

^With  these  words  I  quitted  the  room,  and  did  not  let  myself  be  seen' 
again  all  that  night.  For  in  such  a  case  two  women  will  sooner  come 
to  an  understanding  when  the  husband  is  away;  and  I  was  well  aware 
what  a  kind,  compassicmate  heart  your  mother  possessed. 

We  gave  the  poor  girl  the  upper  room,  and  let  her  rest  for  a  couple  of 
days;  for  when  a  horse  is  determined  to  bolt,  whistling  and  flogging  are 
of  no  avail ;  afterwards  they  are  of  service. 

In  this  we  were  both  agreed;  but  I  should  not  like  to  have  to  pass 
such  a  time  again,  for  your  mother^s  eyes  were  red  with  dying  the 
whole  day,  and  she  complained  bitterly  of  the  misfortune  that  Sophie 
should  be  so  handsome. 

At  lei^^,  however,  a  bright  spring  day  arrived :  th^*e  was  plenty  of 
snow  stall  Ijing,  it  is  true,  in  the  drains  and  among  the  rocks ;  but  the 
-sun  shone,  and  the  birds  were  tuning  their  throats  on  the  bare  branches, 
all  along  the  sandy  road  which  passes  by  the  pheasantry. 

I  called  the  girl  and  requested  her  to  take  a  walk  with  me  :  she  was 
soon  ready,  although  at  first  lightened,  for  she  knew  the  time  was 
come  for  her  to  confess. 

I  did  not  beat  about  the  bush  long :  but  when  we  had  walked  some 
distance  up  the  alleey  I  said : 

<'  We  should  not  fancy,  on  looking  at  the  leafless  trees  all  round,  that 
within  a  few  weeks  they  will  be  green  once  more !  In  the  same  way,  you 
now  imagine  that  you  are  the  most  unhappy  being  in  the  world ;  yet, 
within  a  year  and  a  day  you  will  laugh  and  be  merry  again.  Be  only 
smeeie,  that  I  may  know  how  to  help  you,  and  tell  me,  before  all,  w1k> 
yomr  lover  is.** 

She  seized  me  impetuously  by  the  hand,  then  stopped,  and  said  : 

**  My  misfortune  is  that  I  cannot  forget,  either  in  evil  or  good  estate. 
Yes,  if  you  had  been  still  living  in  Wurzach,  I  should  perhaps  have  been 
able  to  speak,  and  things  might  have  been  different ;  but  now  it  is  all 
over.  I  know  that  I  cannot  die  immediately ;  but  my  heart  does  not 
beat  for  any  one,  save  him ;  and  the  light  of  my  life  is  extinguished." 

*^  You  must  not  evade  my  question,  Soplue,  but  tell  me  who  your 
lover  is,  for  that  is  the  main  thing,"  I  said. 

"  You  must  not  be  angry,  Herr  Dietrich,  because  this  name  cannot 
pass  my  hpe.  If  I  had  wished  to  betray  him  three  montln  back,  they 
had  not  dared  to  trample  on  me.  But  my  secret  has  now  been  deariy 
bought  with  suffering.     I  dare  only  reveal  it  to  you,  if  you  will  give  me 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


416  Palace  Tales. 

a  sacred  promise  not  to  speak  with  any  one  about  it,  not  even  with  my 
dear  husband.  He  has  enough  to  endiure  ahead j;  and  my  sufferings 
would  not  be  alleviated  were  I  to  throw  half  the  burden  upon  him." 

The  g^l's  determination  for  silence  was,  however,  more  powerful  than 
her  good- will,  to  speak  candidly  with  me.  She  ceased,  and  then  said, 
"  I  cannot !" 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  help  you,"  I  replied,  "  for  the  ice  must  be  broken 
sooner  or  later.  Your  lover  is  the  illustrious  prince.  And  now  tell  me 
liow  he  formed  your  acquaintance." 

She  looked  at  me  again  and  again  with  astonishment.  Then  she 
beg^D,  hurriedly  and  monotonously,  like  a  child  repeating  its  hymn 
ijrhen  the  teacher  has  helped  it  to  remember  the  first  word : 

"  When  I  was  at  my  sister's,  at  the  Sharffeneck  farm.  Our  kitchen- 
sarden  joined  the  park,  and  when  I  walked  up  and  down  there  last  year, 
m  the  first  spring  sunshine,  with  my  knitting  in  my  hands,  I  saw  him 
wandering  about  mournfully  in  the  park.  My  brother-in-law  had  told 
me  how  unhappy  their  life  was  in  the  chateau,  and  1  could  not  under- 
stand it.  He  could  not  have  had  a  single  friend,  except  his  great  dogs, 
which  gambolled  about  him  with  such  glee,  that,  at  times,  he  ndsed  his 
weary  eyes  and  looked  at  them. 

"  I  was  so  sorry  for  him,  that  tears  filled  my  eyes  the  first  time  he 
spoke  to  me  over  the  wall,  about  indifferent  matters.  He  asked  me  why 
I  was  crying,  and  1  told  liim,  ^  for  his  sake.'  And  when  he  came  again 
and  agam,  and  at  last  confessed  to  me  that  I  could  render  him  happy,  1 
believed  him.  Then  1  heard  all  his  sufferings,  and  1  saw  nothing  wrong 
in  my  conduct,  for  1  am  free  and  he  is  free,  while  such  a  wife  has  no 
daim  upon  him  in  the  sight  of  God." 

*'  H'm,  h'm  !"  I  said,  but  she  would  not  be  disturbed. 

"  It  was  he,  too,  who  kissed  me  at  the  festival,  and  he  met  me  each 
evening  in  the  wood  till  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  wars. 

"  Then  I  was  all  alone,  and  I  became  frightened.  I  told  my  mother  my 
fears  just  before  Christmas,  but  did  not  say  a  word  about  my  dear  hus- 
band, and  my  mother  told  father,  and  father  my  brothers-in-law,  and 
they  held  a  council. 

"  The  next  evening,  when  it  had  grown  dark,  my  father  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  led  mo  into  his  study.  He  wished  to  know  for  the  last  time 
who  my  lover  was,  but  I  was  silent.  Then  he  gave  me  my  bundle,  and 
two  crowns  wrapped  up  in  paper,  opened  the  house  door,  and  thrust  me 
out,  saying,  *  I  have  no  daughter,  remember  that,  and  if  you  are  not 
quite  lost  to  shame,  you  will  change  your  name  and  bury  your  disgrace 
in  obscurity.' " 

"  The  barbarian !"  I  exdfdmed. 

"  Oh !  I  did  not  cry,"  she  continued,  "  and  went  down  the  village 
into  the  fields.  When  I  came  to  the  trough  my  brother  suddenly  stood 
before  me,  and  fell  upon  my  neck. 

"  '  I  will  remain  by  you,  he  consoled  me,  *if  the  others  are  unmerri- 
ful,  and  will  take  care  that  you  do  not  starve.' " 

"  What  ?"  I  cried,  in  amazement.  "  Stupid  Fritz— if  I  had  known 
that  he  had  such  a  heart  in  his  body  1  would  not  have  refused  to  take 
him  as  apprentice  when  your  father  asked  me— now  I  am  really  sorry 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Story  of  Pale  Sophie.  417 

'^  I  had  the  same  opinion  as  yourself  of  the  boy,  for  he  was  reckoned 
ihe  fool  of  the  family,  because  nothing  could  be  made  of  him,  for  he  can 
do  nothing  but  write  well  and  play  the  piano,  and  no  two  ideas  fitted 
together  in  his  head,  although  they  were  all  excellent  separately.  But 
on  this  night  I  believed  all  he  said^  and  found  it  perfectly  correct. 

*^  He  must  haye  been  thinking  about  it  a  long  while,  for  he  brought 
me  father's  fur  gloves,  a  lantern,  and  a  shawl  from  my  mother,  and 
said,  when  I  began  weeping  bitterly  and  wished  to  send  him  back : 
*  You  need  only  be  calm ;  if  we  go  along  the  footpath,  over  the  Landen- 
berg,  we  shall  cross  the  frontier  in  three  hours.  There  is  a  post-house 
close  by,  where  we  will  pass  the  night,  and  to-morrow  we  will  go  to 
Hohenburg.  That  is  a  large  town,  where  no  one  will  nodce  us ;  and 
besides,  our  organist,  who  taught  me  the  piano,  is  much  respected  there, 
and  first  teacher  at  the  girls'  school.  He  will  procure  me  pupils  and 
papers  to  copy,  for  he  is  the  only  person  who  loves  me.  You  can  sew 
and  knit,  and  so  we  shall  manage.  I  am  tired  of  our  family,  and  will 
not  be  looked  upon  always  as  a  useless  bread-eater.  When  a  fellow  is 
seventeen  years  old,  like  me,  he  is  no  longer  a  child.' 

'^  I  derived  hope  when  I'  heard  him  speak  thus  ;  and  all  turned  out  as 
he  anticipated.  After  the  first  few  weeks  we  had  no  occasion  to  starve 
in  Hohenburg ;  day  after  day  passed  away ;  the  prince  would  soon  return 
to  help  us. 

"  My  father,  however,  must  have  been  making  inquiries  about  us. 
Two  days  before  I  came  to  you  the  police  entered  our  room  and  dragged 
my  brother  off,  to  send  him  home  as  a  runaway  apprentice ;  but  they 
told  me  that  I  must  leave  the  town  within  twelve  hours,  or  I  should  he 
sent  to  the  house  of  correction." 

"  Cross  and  lightning !"  I  exclaimed,    "  could  your  father  be  such 

a man  ?    But  so  it  is,  the  pietists  behave  the  worst,  for  they  are 

barbarous  for  the  sake  of  Heaven  !" 

"  Then  I  did  not  know,"  Sophie  said,  as  she  began  to  weep,  "  what  I 
should  do,  except  come  to  you,  Herr  Dietrich,  for  you  told  me  formerly 
that  you  were  my  sincere  friend." 

"  Yes  !  and  your  family  shall  not  torment  you  any  more,"  I  answered, 
and  passed  my  hand  over  her  black,  glossy  locks.  "  I  have,  God  be 
thanked,  fooa  enough  in  the  house,  and  courage  enough  beneath 
my  coat.  I  only  beg  you,  when  the  prince  returns,  to  leave  me  alto- 
gether out  of  the  affair.  It  cannot  be  long  first,  for  I  read  in  the  paper 
that  he  would  reach  the  Residence  by  the  1st  of  May.  You  must  mmd 
and  not  go  too  far  away  from  the  house  ;  and  it  will  be  better  for  you  to 
live  in  the  pavilion.  Besides,  when  I  go  to  town  to-day  to  deliver  the 
game,  I  will  buy  you  a  thick  veil,  so  that  no  one  can  recognise  you,  if 
tiiey  meet  you  by  accident." 

Her  face  grew  quite  bright  when  she  heard  of  the  prince's  speedy 
arrival,  and  from  that  time  she  employed  herself  all  through  April 
diligently  in  sewing  and  reading,  did  not  weep  so  much,  and  her  cheeks 
^tgam  became  smooth  and  bloomiug.  The  only  thing  I  had  to  complain 
i£out  was,  that  busy  with  her  thoughts,  she  would  wander  fiurther  into 
the  wood  than  I  liked,  for  the  devil  might  play  some  trick.  There  was 
something  on  her  mind  which  drove  her  out,  although  she  wished  to  obey 
xne;  and  at  last  I  said  no  more  about  it,  for  in  other  respects  she  was 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


418  Palace  Tales. 

inoft  qmet  end  retired,  and  did  erecythmg,  ^^en  befiore  my  ^nfe  or 
m jidf  oould  ask  her. 

Tbe  news  diat  Uie  prince  would  return  on  the  Ist  of  May,  and  hcin^ 
ilhutrious  guests  mth  him,  was  correct  enovgh;  4be  head  forester  toUl 
me  so  himself,  when  I  to<^  my  hooks  up  to  Monplaiab  on  the  80th  of 
A{ffil. 

In  coQseqoeBea,  when  I  returned  home,  I  proposed  to  my  wife  that 
she  i^uld  mvite  all  our  friends  in  the  neighbourhood  to  oome  to  us  oa 
the  1st  of  May,  as  we  had  not  seen  them  for  some  time.  On  this  day 
we  were  certain,  in  consequence  of  Prince  Leopold's  return  to  tiie  Retn- 
dence,  that  none  of  tiie  royal  fomily  would  come  up,  and  when  tiie  duke 
had  once  removed  to  Monplaisir,  we  should  not  have  an  hour  at  liberty. 
She  was  willing.  As,  however,  we  did  not  wish  any  chattering,  or 
inquiries,  I  ordered  Sophie  to  remain  the  whole  day  in  the  pavilicm,  and 
lo(^[ed  the  door  myself  upon  her,  in  order  to  be  <]pute  c^iiain,  after  I  had. 
taken  her  some  food. 

In  those  days  we  used  to  be  merrier  than  we  are  now,  as  we  did  not 
spend  so  much  in  dress  and  that  sort  of  nonsei^e.  As  tiie  1st  of  Maj 
was  a  glorious  day,  my  wife  had  put  <he  dinner-table  under  Ihe  chestnut 
trees  before  the  house,  and  we  were  all  in  charming  humour. 

We  had  finished  dinner :  the  men  were  sitting  over  their  cofiee,  while 
the  women  and  girls  were  runniug  about  and  having  their  gossip  out.  I 
had  not  spared  we  wine,  and  we  were  already  begimune  not  to  care  for 
afiything  tiiat  took  place  within  fifty  yards  of  us.  Certain  things,  though 
never  escape  a  sportsman's  ear,  even  if  he  is  half  deaf.  The  peasant 
waggons  rolled  past  the  house,  without  a  soul  turning  to  look  at  them  ; 
but  suddenly  your  godfather,  the  forester  Von  EBingen,  said:  "By 
Jupiter!  I  hear  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofe  behind  us,  wMch  must  bdong^ 
to  some  royfd  'equipage." 

He  was  quite  right ;  almost  before  we  could  wipe  our  beards  and  rise 
from  our  seats  an  open  carriage  drove  up  with  two  ladies,  without  any- 
further  escort  than  a  livery  servant  behind. 

We  drew  up  in  rank  and  file ;  but  I  thought  I  should  have  a  stroke^ 
and  my  hce  must  have  looked  s^auge  enough,  when  the  Princess  Leopold 
gGt  down,  walked  straight  to  me,  and  said; 

"  You  need  not  disturb  yourself,  Monsieur  Dietrich;  I  had  a  fimcy  to 
spend  the  pleasante^  day  of  the  year  under  the  forest-trees.  You  can. 
remain  with  your  guests ;  only  give  me  the  keys  of  the  pavilion,  that  we 
may  rest  thare  a  little  while.  Your  wifo  will  perhaps  be  kind  enough  ta 
bring  us  a  glass  of  milk  and  some  black  bread,  with  some  of  her  ezodlent 
hotter;  we  mean  to  live  like  countiy  folk  to-day." 

The  princess  was  really  a  pretty  woman,  and  codd  be  very  affid^ 
when  she  pleased;  but  the  thought  that  she  was  a  king^s  dau^it^  left 
her  no  peace,  and  jealousy  had  made  her  cold  as  ice.  No  one  ever  knew 
ezactlv  how  to  take  her,  least  of  all  on  tins  day. 

StiU  I  did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  taken  by  storm,  and  tdd  her  that 
I  was  proud  of  tiie  honour  d<me  to  my  house ;  but  that,  with  ail  posdhle 
devotion,  I  would  advise  her  not  to  go  to  the  pavilion,  as  the  garden  was 
not  dry  yet,  and  the  walls  and  atmosphere  might  be  cUunp. 

She  had  got  the  idea  in  her  head  once  -for  all,  and  insisted  upon  it. 

<' Then,  at  least,  I  will  go  first,  and  (^n  the  shutters,  so  that  the  warm 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Story  of  Pak  Sophie.  419 

air  maj  blow  dmmgb  it  for  faatf  an  hour,"  I  nid,  and  was  going  to  Irany 
away. 

raie  held  me  ^ndj  by  flie  arm,  boireyer :  **  I  am  Bure  it  is  not  neces- 
sary, dear  forester.  I  will  go  with  you  at  once ;  I  will  only  speak  a 
couple  of  words  to  your  wife." 

She  was  remazlcably  gradons  widi  my  Catharine,  who  had  now  hm*- 
xied  np,  and  had  not  luilf  finished  her  curtseys,  llien,  howeyer,  t^ 
princess  motioned  me  to  precede  her,  and  followed  close  at  my  heels. 

I  did  not  know  whethier  I  should  walk  fast  or  slow,  lor  I  deafly  per- 
ceived that  she  must  have  gained  some  scent  of  Sophie's  affi&ir,  for,  at 
other  times,  she  was  so  anxious  about  her  beauty  and  healtii ;  and  her 
present  sitiudion  rendered  such  precautions  doubly  necessary. 

I  fdt  about  as  cheerfid  as  a  sinner  on  his  Toaid  to  the  gaUows,  when 
he  at  length  knows  that  there  is  no  escape  for  him.  And  still  less  was  I 
£n^tened  about  the  disgrace  which  mnst  £all  upon  me,  than  about  the 
noise  which  two  women  would  make  who  meet  on  this  battle-field';  for, 
when  the  question  is  about  sneh  a  mine  and  thine,  all  reject  and  rank 
are  foigotten. 

Still,  fiMT  all  that,  I  did  not  lose  my  head,  but  hurried  on  like  light- 
ning ;  when  we  reached  the  garden-gate,  qinddy  unlocked  the  pavUion 
door,  but  pretended  to  be  greatly  surprised,  as  if  I  had  found  it  open, 
and  begged  the  princess,  who  hastily  followed  me,  to  pardon  it,  Ihat  a 
yoimg  woman,  a  relation  of  ours,  was  in  the  pavilion  before  we  eame^ 
who  had  retired  here  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one,  because  we  had 
been  too  noisy  for  her. 

The  princess  nodded  graciously,  as  if  to  iniiniate  that  it  was  of  no 
consequence ;  but  I  saw  that  she  assumed  her  royal  countenance. 

I,  like  a  fool,  had  forgotten  that  she  must  necessarBy  know  the  girl, 
iar  Sophie  had  be^a  ten  months  at  <he  Sdmrffeneck  farm,  every  window 
of  which  can  be  seen  &om  the  chateau. 

"Ah,  indeed!  the  dergyman's  pretty  daughter  €rom  WunachP  the 
princess  said,  as  she  walked  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  "  I  did  not 
know  that  she  was  married.     Who  is  the  fortunate  b^g  ?" 

What  would  I  not  have  giv^i  to  prompt  Sophie  with  some  fab^ood  I 
I  made  signs  to  her  secretly  that  she  should  answer  in  this  way;  ihe 
affair  could  have  been  hushed  up,  for  the  moment  at  least. 

But  the  girl  either  did  not,  or  would  not  imderstand  me.  I^ie  re- 
mained for  a  while  fixed  like  a  statue,  but  at  leng^  said  in  a  low  voice, 
without  raising  her  eyes,  **  I  am  not  married.'* 

The  princess  attacked  me. 

"  How  can  he  dare  to  bring  me  near  such  a  creature  !  It  is  most  &- 
graceful,  and  more  especially  so  in  this  case.  What  will  become  of  our 
subjects  if  the  daughters  of  the  clergy  thus  openly  ridicule  morality  and 
propriety?" 

I  have  had  one  firm  principle  ever  since  I  was  a  lad.  If  I  am  in  the 
wood,  and  a  shower  commences,  I  run  as  hard  as  I  can  to  get  under 
shelter.  When  the  storm,  however,  has  got  me  firmly,  I  walk  slowly, 
and  let  it  pour  over  me;  for  I  must  become  wet,  and  what  is  the  use  of 
troubling  myself  in  the  bargain? 

I  thought  the  same  on  tins  occasion:  <^  Keep  quiet  and  1^  it  pour  P  In 
consequence,  I  made  no  re^y,  but  made  a  motion  towards  the  giil  to 
lead  her  away. 

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420  Palace  Tales. 

But  Sophie  walked  up  close  to  the  princess,  and  looked  so  boldly  la  her 
face  with  her  black  eyes  that  I  was  quite  pleased  at  it,  since  matters  Had 
gone  so  far,  for  the  princess  could  not  support  her  glance,  howeyer  much 
she  forced  herself  to  do  so. 

Sophie  was  pale  as  marble,  and  remained  so  during  her  whole  life 
fix>m  that  hour ;  her  lips  quivered  and  trembled  as  she  said  : 

"  Too  much  is  too  much !  How  dare  the  princess  upbraid  me,  when 
she  herself '* 

*< Impudent  creature!"  the  princess  exclaimed  in  her  anger,  "jojx 
would  insult  my  husband !" 

"  Your  husband  who  hates  you — ^your  husband  who  loves  me,**  Sophie 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper;  but  contempt  spoke Jn  her  every  feature. 
"  Trample  on  me,  tortm-e  him,  and  then  I  swear  to  you  your  husband  will 
become  mine !" 

The  girl  rushed  out,  and  the  princess  sank  without  a  word  into  the 
chair  upon  which  her  rival  had  so  lately  been  sitting. 

When  we  at  length  brought  the  princess  to  her  senses,  and  the  convul- 
sions ceased,  we  carried  her  in  a  half  dying  state  to  her  carriage.  I 
blessed  God  that  she  was,  at  least,  gone,  apologised  to  my  guests,  who 
stood  stupidly  around,  and  could  not  understand  it  at  all,  and  after 
saddling  my  best  horse,  galloped  at  full  speed  to  Prince  Leopold  in  the 
Residence. 

I  found  him  still  dressed  in  travelling  costume,  and  perfectly  furious 
that  his  wife  had  gone  out  secretly  this  morning,  not  to  be  found  to  greet 
him  on  his  return.  Still  he  listened  to  me  calmly,  when  I  told  him  all, 
how  it  happened  from  the  commencement,  first  with  Sophie  and  then 
with  the  princess. 

He  then  gave  me  directions  to  bring  the  girl  that  same  evening,  as 
soon  as  I  reached  home,  with  great  secrecy  to  the  house  of  his  physician 
in  ordinary  at  the  Residence,  where  he  would  have  everything  prepared  in 
the  mean  while.     He  then  dismissed  me  very  kindly : 

"  Adieu,  Dietrich ;  you  are  an  honest  fellow,  and  no  one  shall  do  you 
any  harm.  But  I  fear,  greatly,  that  Sophie  is  in  the  right ;  she  will  be- 
come my  vrife.  I  will  not  be  condemned  to  unhappiness  all  my  life 
merely  because  I  am  a  prince.  Remember  me  to  my  angel,  and  console 
her  till  I  can  do  so  myself." 

I  was  happy  as  a  prince  when  I  had  delivered  the  girl  that  same  even- 
ing to  Dr.  Klein,  for  she  was  entirely  altered  since  the  terrible  scene. 
If  ever  I  believed  in  an  evil  spirit,  it  was  during  this  night's  drive,  for 
Sophie  said  nothing  but,  "  She  or  I — she  or  I!  If  I  knew  a  spell  by 
whkh  to  kill  her,  I  would  utter  it  with  joy !" 

From  this  point  I  do  not  know  the  rest  of  the  story  so  exactly,  for  I 
even  avoided  inquiring  about  it. 

The  separation,  however,  could  not  be  efifected  so  easily.  The  reign- 
ing duke,  who  alone  could  grant  permission,  was  very  angry  about  the 
scandal,  and  because  he  was  disturbed  in  his  own  comfort  and  forced  to 
marry,  that  he  might  have  an  heir  to  the  throne. 

We  cannot,  either,  blame  the  princess,  because  she  did  not  make  room 
for  the  parson's  daughter,  or  let  herself  be  condemned  in  her  youthful 
days  to  perpetual  widowhood,  for  a  princess  is  to  be  pitied  in  such  a  case ; 
in  the  first  place  she  is  often  married  against  her  will,  and  even  if  she 


Y 


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A  Voice  to  the  Sad.  421 

separates  from  her  husband  afterwards,  that  does  not  ^ye  her  her  liberty 
again  as  it  does  other  women. 

An  accident  is  the  best  thing  to  solve  such  a  difficulty.  Thus,  very 
fortunately,  the  princess  expired  within  a  year,  and,  soon  afterwards,  iim 
prince  was  united  to  Sophie  with  the  left  hand,  by  permission  of  Duke 
Maximilian,  who  had,  in  the  mean  while,  been  blessed  with  a  son. 

The  married  couple  lived  quietly  and  happily,  as  everybody  said,  but 
nearly  always  in  foreign  parts,  until  Duke  Maximilian  himself  died,  and 
Prince  Leopold  was  compelled  to  undertake  the  regency. 

Though  at  court  and  in  town,  the  imperial  Countess  von  Geierstein, 
as  Sophie  was  now  called,  was  not  beloved,  however  much  good  she  did, 
and  however  little  she  interfered  in  matters  which  did  not  concern  a 
woman.  The  common  people  never  saw  her  smile,  and  at  court  all  was 
as  quiet  as  in  a  monastery,  or  in  a  house  where  some  one  had  lately  died. 
The  blame  was  abo  attached  to  her,  that  the  prince  regent  took  away  so 
much  money  from  the  country,  to  spend  it  in  his  eternal  travels  through 
Europe. 

From  these  reasons  folks  were  also  disposed  to  say  evil  of  Sophie,  and 
the  story  was  long  current,  that  she  had  never  been  tcheerftd  since  the 
cook  to  the  former  princess  confessed  on  his  dying  bed,  '*  that  he 
had  given  the  princess  something  to  render  the  countess  well  disposed 
towards  him." 

Even  at  the  present  day  I  can  form  no  clear  idea  on  the  subject,  and 
it  is  a  difficult  task  to  do  so.  For  whenever  any  one  who  is  in  the  way 
dies  suddenly  at  court,  people  cry  "  Poison !"  directly,  though  it  may 
have  been  the  most  ordinary  disease. 

However,  a  true  blessing  and  real  joy  never  rested,  most  certainly, 
on  this  branch  of  the  family. 


A  VOICE   TO   THE   SAD. 

BY  G.  W.  THOBNBUET. 

There's  always  sunshine  somewhere  in  the  world. 

For  when  'tis  night  with  us  'tis  well  nigh  day 

Where  Tamerlane  his  flame-dyed  flag  unfurled. 

Casting  a  shade  o*er  Indus  ages  past, 

Leaving  the  deserts  thrilling  with  his  blast. 

The  cloud  that's  dark  to  us  hath  silver  lining 

That  tips  with  azure  frost  our  neighbour's  roof; 

'Tis  often  but  a  thousand  dyes  combining 

That  woven  from  the  tempest's  dusky  woof. 

And  when  we  fear  it's  heaven-molten  fire 

Will  fuse  our  city  to  one  common  pyre. 

It  bursteth  like  the  seed-pod  of  a  flower, 

And  'stead  of  death  comes  down  the  balmy  shower— 

Our  long-expected  wish,  and  our  desire. 


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(  ^  ) 


FURTHER  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  COMMOMPLACEinBOOK  OF 
A  LATELY  DECEASED  AUTHOR. 

SHAJ>OWS  OSf  OHUBCH  "WALLS. 

Tn&  Bar,  Robert  Conglomery  snatches  up  the  last  tnm^^  with  irre- 
verent hand,  and  plays  upon  it  the  most  ^Bishionabk  hynon^twies^  with 
the  richest  roulades  and  the  newest  TariatioQ%  and  all  to  ticiJe  the  ean  of 

bis  hearers  and  to  fill  his  pews.    Then  there's  the  Rev.  Curius  W , 

that  ecclesiastical  son  of  Anak,  whose  sermons  are  almost  as  loi^  as  him- 
self and  embrace  as  many  subjects  as  ye^rdays  Timet,  Be  speaks  as 
if  each  word  was  accompanied  by  a  blow  ^  his  wh's  whistle  like  a  swosd 
cutting  the  aii^  his  s^iitences  conclude  with  an  emnhatic  compresHcn, 
like  the  last  twkt  of  a  thumb-screw,  and  he  mounts  the  polpit-stairs  asif 
he  was  mounting  a  Papist  scaffold.  Add  to  these  the  Bey.  C— —  of 
Cheltenhami  the  apostle  of  Pump-rooms,  to  whom  the  ladies  erected 
a  pyramid  of  worked  slippers  in  we  city  of  waters^  wh^re  they  discuss 
the  Po^  between  the  tea  and  the  muffins;  and  last  cornea  Dr.C- — t 
who  one  month  writes  a  book  to  ejqpound  the  Apocalypse,  and  next  mot^ 
writes  another  to  refute  his  own  argumente^ 

TH£  PSBVECT  HEK. 

In  the  middle  ages,  great  m^Di  united  a  dozen  diflbrcnt  sdeoees,  tad 
excelled  in  alL  Now  we're  puny,  and  talent  is  subdivided.  JkCcfaiel 
Angelo  was  sculptor,  architect,  pau^^,  and  poeii.  Now,  we  bs^e  the 
education  of  parts;  the  harper's  finger,  the  jocL^'s  knee»  the  engrater's 
eye,  the  dancer's  foot.  We  prune  a  tree  back  to  one  branch  to  get  sdj 
fruit  at  all,  and  when  it  comes  'tis  stunted. 

80BBIQUXTS. 

The  English  poor,  in  spite  of  their  dulness,  are  often  happy  in  their 
nicknames.  I  remember  an  old  commodore  at  Dover  who  was  called  by 
the  sailors  '^  Admiral  Wholebones,"  because  he  always  escaped  danger  bj 
never  running  into  it ;  and  during  a  very  severe  engagement  with  two 
French  frigates,  off  Cherbourg,  unfortimatsly  could  not  find  his  slippers 
till  just  as  the  enemy  sheered  off.  A  usurer's  house  in  Gloucestershire 
was  known  as  *'  Pinchpooir  Castle ;"  and  I  have  heard  of  a  doctor  famoi^ 
for  decimating  the  in&nt  population,  who  got  the  same  of  ^^ Herod'' 
horn  his  constant  ^^  massacre  ol  the  InnoceatSL" 

•WJLTEWniQ'WjACESk. 

A  facetious  friend  of  mine^  whye  spending  a  season  at  Ems,  [ 
and  actually  earned  into  oparatioD,  a  plan  of  das^fying  tbe  company  at 
the  dail^  table  cThote  accaraing  to  the  rank  of  their  disease.  Thus:  A 
severe  Iwer  complaint  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  carved,  while  bb 
vis-a-vis  was  a  (Hsordeied  sjdeen ;  St.  Yitus'a  Dance  ^>ened  the  ball,  and 
a  very  respectable  palsy  pr^ided  at  the  teaptable.  Whan  I  last  beard 
from  nim  he  was  trying  to  obtain  a  patent  for  a  new  sort  of  waistcoat 
for  aldermen,,  with  an  india-rubber  back,  adapted  £ar  civic  dinners^ 
warranted  to  expand  to  any  size,  but  to  burst  at  a  si^  distance  from 


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FuTtker  Eatmeis  from  a  CommonplaeerBook.  4^ 

apoplexy,  as  a  safety  ngxial  to  the  wearer.  My  fneDd  is  a  man  who  rides 
seveial  noblHes  at  <mce^  like  your  down  at  the  circoa — he  is  mathema- 
tical, li^droStatUMJ^  ^Ntsyikkii^  but  practieal — ^kis  hornse  is  Inmlbered  rx^ 
with  disordered  air-pumps  and  broken  Lejden  pkiids.  The  other  day  be 
invented  a  fire-engine  on  an  entirdy  new  principle.  You  were  to  poll  a 
wire,  whidk  reka^d  a  spring,  which  let  a  whecdigoipog,  ^Aicfa  turned  a 
tap,  which  let  out  gas,  which  put  out  the  fire;  The  old  engine  was  wM 
aa  antiquated,  and  the  new  favourite  solemnly  installed  in  its'plaee.  Two 
days  aft^  a  dreadful  fire  broke  out  in  the  old  fionibr  house.  The  wonder 
<^  science  was  hauled  forth.  Nothing  coidd  work  better  than  qoing, 
"wheel,  wire,  and  tap;  but,  unfortunatdy,  by  the  lioae  the  whole  machinery 
was  fidrly  set  a-gmngv  the  house  was  entirely  burnt  to  the  ground. 

8EA-SrCKIiSS& 

There  is  an  amu^ng  old  legend  I  have  read  in  some  moukly  chs^ 
nicle,  of  an  island  that  long  remained  unconquered,  from  a  rumour  that 
gained  ground  amongst  die  people  of  the  mainland  that  it  was  sur- 
rounded by  an  enchanted  sea;  for  wheoerer  their  canoes  put  forth  to 
breach  its  coast,  the  crews  were  instantly  seised  with  unn^trdlable  Yomit- 
ing,  yea,  almost  imto  death,  loathiT^  their  food,  and  caUing  on  those 
round  them  to  slay  them  with  knives  or  spears ;  and  believii^  this  the 
effect  of  some  sea  god's  vengeance,  they  always  put  back,  and  so,  for 
two  centuries,  the  idand  remained  free.  To  me  it  seems  clear  that  this 
IS  sea^siekness. 

THE  FBODIGAL  HEIB. 

There's  young  Post-obit — I  won't  mention  names — whose  ears  are 
filled,  day  and  ilight,  with  no  sounds  but  thre^  and  those  musical,  but 
bad — ^the  gurgling  of  wine,  the  rattfing"  of  dice,  and  the  susurrus  of  an 
opera-dancer's  whisper.  Isn't  his  coffin  already  growing  in  the  fkmily 
elms  ?  Isn't  there  a  niche  feat  him  in  the  fiunily  vault— an  empty  place  for 
his  leaden  coffin  on  the  shrif  wider  his  great  grandfitthery  woo  was  run 
through  the  body  in  WilFs  CoflSee-housey  in  Dryden's  time^  by  a  Tityre 
Tu,  and  over  his  grandfather,  who  died  of  dropsy?  Isn't  there  a 
vacancy  for  him  in  the  family,  portrait-gallery,  where  nis  hollow  eyes  and 
sensual  fip  wiU  soon  figure  among  ^e  nmSi,  and  frdfing  banos,  and 

cuirasses,  with  Sir  Marmaduke ^  who  fell  atNaseby,  and  oM  Admiral 

• ,  who  boarded  Van  Tromp'a  ship  ;  and,  above  all,  isn't  there,  sirrah, 

three  inches  of  marble  slab  left  for  his  degenerate  name  on  the  c^d  flat 
alabaster  monument,  where  a  lady  prays  etemalfy  in  stone  opposite  to  the 
cross4egged  knight  who  died  at  Joppa  ?  Were  be£es  transparent,  he 
might  see  that  it  is  a  skeleton  who  draws  his  Champagne  cork,  who 
whirls  the  roulette,  who  bets  him  two  to  one  on  the  favourite,  who  lips 
lum,  and  asks  for  a  set  of  diamonds ;  who  befools  him  ^  who  drags  him 
swift  down,  down,  down  to  helL 

MODEBN  rOSTBY.  ** 

It's  all  landscape  painting ;  all  the  seventh,  heaven ;  like  Shelley,  with 
BO  sympathy  for  earth ;  or  all  versified  newspaper,  Iil»  Tupper  s  rnymed 
didactics,  with  our  five  senses  forgotten.  Poetry  is  written  now  for  the 
images,  not  images  for  the  poetry.  They  are  separate  thoughts  welded 
together  and  showing  the  join. 

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424  Further  Extracts  from  a  Commonplaces-Book^ 

THE  TBUTHS  OF  OLD  M7TH0L0OT. 

I  once  began  a  work  with  this  title,  intending  to  review  all  creeds, 
past  and  present,  and  to  show  the  universal  existence  of  primitive  post- 
<liluvian  tradition;  the  Hindoo,  the  Grecian,  and  the  Scandinaviaa 
Trinities ;  the  Deluge,  remembered  in  Mexico  and  Hindostan  ;  even  to 
the  dove  and  the  number  saved.  I  should  have  reviewed  the  degraded 
worship  of  the  race  of  Ham  ;  cannibalism,  as  a  religious  rite ;  devil 
homage,  and  serpent  adoration,  which  still  exists  in  India  and  Africa, 
and  was  visible  in  Greece,  in  the  emblems  of  deities,  as  Mercury  and  ^Ss- 
culapius.  But  I  felt  my  health  going ;  and  one  day  in  autumn — ^it  was 
about  six  o'clock,  and  sunset  beginning — I  bound  up  my  MSS^  and 
threw  them  into  an  old  chest  I  have  in  my  study,  closing  it  again  as  one 
would  a  coffin-lid  on  a  beloved  face,  leaving  the  shaped  stones  to  be 
formed  (perhaps)  into  a  palace  by  other  hands.  I  couldn't  go  on  writing 
when  I  saw  Death's  bony  finger  following  my  pen,  and  obHterating  as  I 
wrote. 

COBCPENSATION. 

It  does  not  relieve  me  to  know  it  was  a  golden  knife  that  amputated 
my  arm ;  if  you  iami  have  a  wooden  leg,  it's  all  one  whether  it  be  of 
deal  or  mahogany. 

▲NCESTRY. 

Our  Others'  diseases  are  hereditary ;  their  virtues  die  with  them. 

THB  8EXX8. 

"  Fve  a  sort  of  feeUng,"  says  the  woman.  "  I  begin  to  think,'*  says 
the  man.  Female  vanity  finds  a  mirror  even  in  the  clasps  of  her  prayer- 
book. 

EYERYTHING  HAS  A  BEOINNma. 

Newton  was  once  a  child,  and  often  got  whipped ;  Alexander  ran  in 
leading-strings  ;  and  Caesar  was  thrashed  for  stealing  a  top. 

HAYDOK. 

Haydon  was  one  of  those  men  who  always  talked  as  if  there  was  a  fiery 
chariot  waiting  to  take  him  up  at  the  next  cab-stand. 

THE  JEWS. 

It  is  a  singular  thing  that  for  forty  years  in  the  wilderness  their 
clothing  waxed  not  old,  nor  knew  they  sudi  a  thing  as  cast-off  raiment ; 
and  now  for  hundreds  of  years  they  have  lived  by  trading  on  the  sloughs 
of  civilised  Europe. 

CASUISTRY. 

It  is  rather  a  Jesuit's  question,  whether  flinging  a  crown  at  a  bald 
beggar,  and  cutting  his  head  open  with  it,  is  charity. 

A  BULLY. 

Bullies  go  through  society  with  the  impunity  that  a  sweep  or  a  brimming 
dung-cart  passes  along  the  streets. 


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(    425    ) 


AMERICAN    AUTHORSHIP. 

BY  SIE  NATHANIEL. 

No.  IX.  — N.  P.  Willis. 

That  eminent  N.  P.  Willis !  Eminently  the  poet  of  good  society, 
says  Griswold,  who  loves  (ornare)  to  adorn  him.  Eminently  amusing, 
whatever  he  may  write  about,  says  Thackeray,  who  loves  (subridere)  to 
genteelly  flout  him.  Eminent  in  pencillings  and  poetisings,  as  feuille' 
toniste  and  as  attache^  in  romantic  inklings  of  adventure  and  in  the  con- 
ventionalisms of  salon  life.  Eminently  the  Representative  Man  of  Ame- 
rican cockneyism ;  for,  in  the  lines  of  his  compatriot,  Mr.  Lowell, 

He^s  so  innate  a  cockney,  that  had  he  been  bom 
Where  plain  bare-skin's  the  only  full  dress  that  is  worn. 
He'd  have  given  his  own  such  an  air  that  you'd  say 
'T  had  been  made  by  a  tailor  to  lounge  in  Broadway. 

This  jaunty,  pert,  (j^iSi&i-distingue  air  appertfdns,  more  or  less,  to  all  the  emi- 
nent man's  writings.  Not  that  it  is  substituted  for  good  sense,  or  sagacious 
reflection  at  times,  or  dashing  cleverness  of  description.  No ;  Mr.  Willis 
is  a  clever  writer,  and  can  produce  really  smart  sayings,  and  even  tasteful 
fancies,  almost  a  discretion.  But  in  reading  him  you  never  lose  sight, 
for  a  couple  of  pages  together,  of  the  writer's  intense  self-consciousness 
— of  his  precautions  against  being  merged  in  his  subject — of  his  resolve 
to  haunt  you  with  the  scent  of  his  perfumed  kerchief,  and  the  glitter  of 
his  jewelled  attire,  and  the  creak  of  his  japanned  boots :  never  do  you 
escape,  as  it  were,  the  jingle  of  rings  on  his  Angers  and  rings  on  his 
toes,  wherewith  he  makes  music  wherever  he  goes — be  it  to  Banbury 
Cross  or  the  Boulevards,  Niagara  or  Chamouny,  Auld  Reekie  or  the 
literal  Modem  Athens. 

While  yet  in  statu  pupillari  at  Yale  College,  Mr.  Willis  appeared  in 
print  as  a  ^'  religious"  poet,  and  made  something  of  a  sensation  it  is 
said.  Thus  encouraged,  volume  followed  volume — a  good  sprinkling  of 
"  religious"  verses  in  each.  There  are  some  excellent  tihings,  too,  among 
these  miscellanies ;  nor  let  it  be  supposed  for  a  moment  that  we  speak 
scoffingly  of  poetry  often  distinguished  by  touching  beauty  and  simple 
purity  of  tone.  Most  readers  of  verse  are  familiar  with  that  flne  scrip- 
tural study,  the  **  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of  Jairus," — though  even 
that  somehow  reminds  one,  with  a  saving  difference,  of  the  scriptural 
studies  of  certain  Parisian  conteurs,  "  Melanie"  is  a  melodiously  ac- 
cented and  feelingly  rendered  tale  of  brotherly  devotion — for  an  acquaint- 
ance with  which  many  English  lovers  of  poetry  felt  grateful  to  its 
English  editor,  Barry  Cornwall — though  Bon  Gaultier  and  other  critics 
express  their  gratitude  somewhat  ironically,  and,  while  accusing  the 
poet  of  perpetually  quoting  and  harping  on  his  poem,  love  to  cap  his 
die-away  verses. 

The  moon  shone  cold  on  the  castle  court. 
Oh,  Melanie  I  oh,  Melanie ! 

with  some  such  uncomplimentary  complement  as  this. 

And  the  baron  he  called  for  something  short, 
Ob,  villany  1  oh,  villany  I 

Dec, — VOL.  XCIX.   NO.  CCCXCVI.  2  R  ^^^^T^ 

Digitized  by  V^OOv  IC 


426  IT.  P.  mills. 

**  The  Dying  AlchymiBt"  is  another  of  his  most  successful  pieces — a 
very  effectively  told  story  of  an  aged  suidde— one  who,  sent  hlindfold  on 
a  path  of  light,  had  turned  aside  to  perish — *^  a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
from  his  high  soaring  down-^an  instrument  broken  with  its  own  com- 
pass." The  dramatic  poem  entitled  "  Lord  Ivon"  has  also  won  large 
approval — containing  as  it  does  passages  of  more  sustained  vigour  and 
less  finical  pretence  than  is  the  author^s  wont  Some  of  his  shorter 
fragments,  devoted  to  household  ties  and  the  domestic  affections,  are 
however  his  likeliest  ckdms  to  anything  beyond  ephemeral  repute- 
marked  as  these  are,  sometimes  in  a  memorable  degree,  by  a  tenderness 
and  sincerity  of  emotion  that  at  once  conciliate  censorship,  and  that  haye 
probably  made  more  than  one  hostile  critic  shed  '*  some  natural  tears," 
however  scrupulous  his  highness  may  have  been  to  wipe  them  soon. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Willis  can  hardly  be  ranked  very  high  among  poets, 
and  those  American  poets.  His  strains  are  too  glib  and  fluent,  too 
dainty-sweet  and  prettily-equipped,  too  evidently  the  recreation  of  an 
easy-minded  essayist,  instead  of  being  fraught  with  sighs  from  the  depths 
of  a  soul  travailing  in  the  greatness  of  its  strength.  He  sings,  and  we 
listen  as  to  one  who  has  a  pleasant  voice,  and  can  play  well  upon  an  in- 
strument ;  and  having  heard  lum,  we  pass  on,  and  forget  the  melody, 
though  we  do  not  forget  what  manner  of  man  he  was.  Speaking  of  a  lyrical 
minstrel — some  say,  the  eminent  N.  P.  Willis  himself — Emerson  describes 
his  head  as  a  music-box  of  delicate  tunes  and  rhythms,  and  his  skill  and 
command  of  language  as  never  to  be  sufficiently  praised.  To  whom- 
soever this  may  refer,  what  follows  will  apply  to  ms  Eminence :  "  But 
when  the  question  arose,  whether  he  were  not  only  a  lyrist,  but  a  poet, 
we  were  obliged  to  confess  that  he  is  plainly  a  contemporary,  not  an 
eternal  man."  Yes ;  that  is  unmistakably  true  of  N.  P.  Willis.  Plainly 
a  contemporary — a  nineteenth-century  being — coeval  with  Grore  House — 
synchronous  with  the  fashion  of  "  Hurrygraphs."  Not  at  all  an  eternal 
man — although  the  North  American  Meview^  in  its  pride  and  pleasure, 
did  dub  him  the  American  Euripides,  and  thereby  gave  the  cue  to  a 
thousand  wittols  to  exclaim,  A  very  American  one  indeed !  Emerson 
goes  on  to  say  of  his  lyrist,  that  he  does  not  stand  out  of  our  low  limita- 
tions, like  a  Chimborazo  under  the  line,  running  op  from  the  torrid  base 
through  all  the  climates  of  the  globe,  with  belts  of  the  herbage  of  every 
latitude  on  its  high  and  mottled  sides  ;  but  is  rather  the  landscape  gar- 
den of  a  modem  house,  adorned  with  fountains  and  statues,  with  well- 
bred  men  and  women  standing  and  sitting  in  the  walks  and  terraces. 
"  We  hear,  through  all  the  varied  music,  the  ground-tone  of  conven- 
tional life.  Our  Poets  are  men  of  talents  who  sing,  and  not  the  chil- 
dren of  music.  The  argument  is  secondary,  the  finish  of  the  verses  is 
primary" — in  disregard  of  the  truth  that  it  is  not  metres,  but  a  metre- 
making  arg^ument,  that  makes  a  poem — that  in  the  order  of  genesis  the 
thought  is  prior  to  the  form — "  a  thought  so  passionate  and  alive,  that, 
like  the  spirit  of  a  plant  or  an  animal,  it  has  an  architecture  of  its  own, 
and  adorns  nature  with  a  new  thing."  How  plainly  Mr.  Willis  is  thought 
a  contemporary,  not  an  eternal  man,*  by  the  scribe  of  the  Biglow  Papers^ 
Miss  Bremer's  Apollo's  Head,  let  these  Unes^  testify : 

•  In  appraising  himself  by-the-by,  Mr.  Willis  has  characteristically  said,  **I 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


N.  P.  Willis.  427 

There  is  Willis,  so  natty  and  jaunt}r  and  gay, 

Who  says  his  best  things  in  so  foppish  a  way, 

With  conceits  and  pet  phrases  so  thickly  o'erlaying  'em. 

That  one  hardly  knows  whether  to  thank  him  for  saying  'em  ; 

Over-ornament  ruins  both  poem  and  prose, 

Just  conceive  of  a  muse  with  a  ring  in  her  nose ! 

Conception  is  a  blessing,  is  Hamlet's  general  proposition.  But  here  the 
poet  iviU  think  its  quatity  strained,  not  blessing  lum  that  gives  and  him 
that  takes.     Rather  he  will  quote 'Hamlet's  subsequent  words,  Slanders* 

sir ;  for  the  satirical  rogue  says  things 

All  which,  interpose  we  old  folks,  we  most  powerfully  and  potently 
believe.  Under  protest,  however,  from  a  few  missy  admirers  of  the 
Penciller's  flourishes — to  whom  his  patron  Muse  would  be  in  shabby 
deshabille  without  the  nasal  circlet  ut  supra. 

But  it  is  to  his  prose  that  N.  P.  Willis  owes,  after  all,  the  epigraph 
of  Eminent.  Who  has  not  whiled  away  an  hour  in  pleasant  light  reading 
of  his  purveying  p  Who  has  not  heard  of  the  amusement  and  eke  the 
bad  blood  excited  by  his  "Pencillings  by  the  Way  ?"  That  "famous 
and  clever  N.  P.  Willis,"  as  Mr,  Titmarsh  calls  mm,  "  whose  reminis- 
cences have  delighted  so  many  of  us,  and  in  whose  company  one  is 
always  sure  to  find  amusement  of  some  sort  or  the  other.  Sometimes  it 
is  amusement  at  the  writer's  wit  and  smartness,  hb  brilliant  descriptions,, 
and  wondrous  flow  and  rattle  of  spirits ;  sometimes  it  is  wicked  amuse- 
ment, and,  it  must  be  confessed,  at  Willis's  own  expense — amusement  at 
the  immensity  of  N.  .P.'s  blunders — amusement  at  the  prodigiousness  of 
his  self-esteem."  ^'  There  would  be  no  keeping  our  wives  and  daughters 
in  their  senses,"  adds  Mr.  Titmarsh  (in  the  sixth  number  of  The 
Proser)y  "  were  such  fascinators  to  make  frequent  apparitions  amongst 
us ;  but  it  is  comfortable  that  there  should  have  been  a  Willis ;  and 
(since  the  appearance  of  the  Proser)  a  literary  man  myself,  and  anxious 
for  the  honour  of  the  profession,  I  am  proud  to  think  that  a  man 
of  our  calling  should  have  come,  should  have  seen,  should  have 
conquered,  as  Willis  has  done."  The  illustrious  stranger's  resumes 
oi  tbe  table-talk  and  drawing-room  doings  of  his  illustrious  hosts  and 
hostesses,  were  amazingly  relished,  notwithstanding  the  outcry  elicited. 
Indeed  it  is  curious  to  observe,  to  this  day,  how  reviewers  and  critics, 
big,  little,  and  middle-sized,  after  indignantly  ciying  shame  on  those 
imitators  (tf  Mr.  Willis,  who  jot  down  in  their  journals  and  books  of 
travel  personal  anecdotes  and  descriptions  touching  the  notables  they 
may  have  dined  withal, — proceed  forthwith  to  select,  fpr  quotation,  the 
raciest  bits  of  domestic  gossip,  the  very  essential  oil  of  the  personality 
just  denounced.  This  should  never  have  been  seen  in  print,  they  swear, 
in  their  first  colunm.  In  their  second,  they  give  it,  whole  and  entire, 
the  benefit  of  their  own  extended  circulation. 

Not  that  we  are  pleading  for  Mr.  Willis's  achievements  as  Gossipry's 
**Own  Corr^pondent"  and  envoy  to  the  privacies  of  literary  and  fashion- 
able life.     On  the  contrary,  in  reading  his  reports  of  what  he  heard  and 

would  willingly  take  a  chance  for  ImmOTtality  sandwiched  between  Cooper  and 
CampbelL"  This  was  said  apropos  of  his  going  to  reside  between  Cooper's  abode 
and  poetic  Wyoming. 

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428  N.  P.  Willis. 

saw  said  and  done  there,  we  find  it  indispensable  to  hare  in  remembranoe 
the  caution  of  that  high  literator,*  whom,  of  all  others,  Mr.  WillU 
seemingly  hates  with  most  perfect  hatred, — viz.,  that  to  report  coaver- 
sations  fiEurlv,  it  is  a  necessary  prerequisite  that  we  should  be  completely 
familiar  with  all  the  interlocutors,  and  understand  thoroughly  all  their 
minutest  relations,  and  points  of  common  knowledge  and  common  feeling, 
with  each  other ;  and  that  he  who  is  not  thus  qualified,  must  be  in  per- 
petual danger  of  misinterpreting  sportive  allusion  into  serious  statement; 
and  may  transmute  what  was  some  jocular  phrase  or  half-phrase,  intel- 
ligible only  to  an  old  companion,  into  a  solidified  opinion  which  the 
talker  had  never  framed,  or  if  he  had,  would  never  have  giyen  words  to 
in  any  mixed  assemblage — ''  not  even  among^  what  the  world  caX\sfrientU 
at  his  own  board."  But  again,  we  fancy  that  a  vast  deal  of  the  abuse 
showered  down  on  the  American  attaches  head,  was  sham  sentiment, 
and  that  he  was  made  something  like  the  scapegoat  in  this  matter. 
Somebody,  however,  behoved  to  be  the  scapegoat ;  and  while  the  hapless 
individual  suffered,  the  general  public  benefited  by  the  protest  thus 
uttered,  whether  on  the  whole  sincerely  or  not,  against  what  was  tending 
to  become  an  intolerable  nuisance.  Accordingly,  when  it  was  last  an- 
nounced that  N.  P.  Willis  had  again  arrived  in  England,  that  vigilant 
wag  Punch  thought  it  a  duty  to  say  as  much : — "  We  mention  this  fact 
for  the  benefit  of  those  would-be  literary  gentlemen  who  are  anxious  to 
appear  in  print,  as  an  invitation  to  Mr.  Willis  for  dinner  will  be  certain 
to  secure  uiem  the  advantages  of  publication  without  any  risk  or  expense. 
Literary  gentlemen  are  cautioned,  however,  against  speaking  too  freely 
in  their  conversation  after  dinner,  as  mistakes  have  been  known  to  occur 
in  the  best-regulated  memories — even  in  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis's.  For  testi- 
monials, apply  to  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly  or  any  one  mentioned  in 
Mr.  Willis's  American  works,  when  he  was  last  in  England."  Happily, 
Mr.  Willis  is  a  lively  rattle,  not  easily  abashed,  or  liable  to  be  put  out  of 
spirits  by  the  dull  jokes  of  British  malcontents.  They  will  not  put  him 
out  of  countenance  by  allusions  to  brass,  or  his  nose  out  of  joint  hy 
piercing  a  ring  through  it.  A  liberal  public  has  been  found  to  patronise 
his  lucubrations ;  and  so  he  has  gone  on  writing,  and  re-writing,  and 
patching  together  odds  and  ends,  and  dressing  up  faded  beauties  with 
new  cuffs  and  collars,  and  cramming  crambe  repetita  into  new  spicdeguiy 
and  entertaining  easy  souls  with  a  rapid  succession  of  "  People  I  have 
Met,"  "  Hurry  graphs,"  "Summer  Excursions  in  the  Mediterranean," 
"Life  Here  and  There,"  "A  Health  Trip  to  the  Tropics,"  and  many 
another  excurstssy  related  with  what  Theseus  calls 

The  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 

Seneca  is  a  great  deal  too  heavy  for  Mr.  Willis,  but  Plautus  not  a 
whit  too  light.  He  is  effervescent  with  animal  spirits,  and  dashes  you 
off  a  gay,  buoyant  aphorism  with  the  bonhommie  of  Harold  Skimpole 
himself.  Trifles  light  as  air  float  beamingly  through  his  volumes— the 
flimsy  texture  whereof  almost  justifies  at  times  the  satire  of  Tom  Moore, 
on  book-making  tactics : 

*  "This  reptUe  of  criticism,"  Mr.  Willis  calls  him:  adding,  "He  has  turned 
and  stung  me.  Thank  Grod!  I  have  escaped  the  slime  of  his  approbation.**  Tb** 
Deo  gratias  is  a  masterstroke  in  its  way. . 

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N.  P.  Willis.  429 

No  matter  with  what  their  remembrance  is  stock*d, 
So  they'll  only  remember  the  mutntum  desir'd ; — 

Enough  to  fill  handsomely  Two  Volumes,  oc/., 
Price  twenty-four  shillings,  is  all  that's  requir'd. 

They  may  treat  us,  like  Kelly,  with  old  jeu-d^esprittt 
Like  Dibdin  may  tell  of  each  farcical  frolic ; 

Or  kindly  inform  us,  like  Madame  Genlis, 
That  gingerbread-cakes  always  give  them  the  colic. 

But  then  our  Penciller  is  not  prosj,  and  has  the  art  ever  to  keep  the  at- 
tention simmerins^.  Never  hum-drununing  himself,  he  never  lets  you 
snore.  Only  let  him  suspect  you  of  a  preliminary  yawn,  or  an  incipient 
drowsiness,  and  he'll  soon  mend  that  by  a  playful  poke  in  the  costal 
regions,  or  some  such  coup-de-main  of  infallible  virtue.  The  style  he 
can  command  when  at  his  best — which,  probably,  is  when  he  is  least  am- 
bitious of  effect* — is  a  capital  vehicle  for  the  chatty  coxcombries  it  hur- 
nes  along. 

His  prose  had  a  natural  grace  of  its  own, 
And  enough  of  it,  too,  if  he'd  let  it  alone  ; 
But  he  twitches  and  jerks  so,  one  fairly  gets  tired, 
And  is  forced  to  forgive  where  he  might  have  admired ; 
Yet  whenever  it  slips  away  free  and  unlaced. 
It  runs  like  a  stream,  with  a  musical  waste, 
And  gurgles  along  with  the  liquidest  sweep  : — 
'Tis  not  deep  as  a  river,  but  who'd  have  it  deep  ? 
In  a  country  where  scarcely  a  village  is  found 
That  has  not  its  author  sublime  and  profound. 
For  some  one  to  be  slightly  shoal  is  a  duty. 
And  Willis's  shallowness  makes  half  his  beauty. 

It  is  in  fact  just  the  style  for  his  public — the  public  of  magazine-readers, 
railway  students,  first-of-the-month  folks — who  gallop  through  an  article 
of  smooth  trim  surface  as  swiftly  as  Camilla  scours  the  plain,  but  who 
are  not  equal  to  your  cross-country  work,  and  are,  after  all,  most  at  home 
when  ambling  along  macadamised  road  and  wooden  pavement. 

*  After  declaring  that  Willis's  nature  is 

*'  A  glass  of  champagne  with  the  foam  on't. 
As  tender  as  Fletcher,  as  witty  as  Beaumont," 

Mr.  Lowell  adds,  what  would  read  as  well  without  the  questionable  compari- 
son with  our  dramatic  Dioscuri, 

*<  So  his  best  things  are  done  in  the  flush  of  the  moment; 
If  he  wait,  all  is  spoilt;  he  may  stu:  it  and  shake  it. 
But,  the  fixed  ah:  once  gone,  he  can  never  re-make  it." 


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(  430  ) 


THE  LADY'S  WELL. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  UNHOLY  WISH.' 


In  a  very  retired  part  of  Wales,  one  Kttle  frequented  and  little  koaBm, 
are  to  be  seen  the  remains  of  an  ancient  weU,  or  f<  tuntain.  y^hrubs, 
withered  and  stunted  now,  and  dark  with  age,  but  once  green  a|nd  beauti- 
ful, cluster  round  the  brink,  and  though  it  is,  and  has  been  for  ages,  dry, 
it  still  bears  the  name  of  '*  The  Lady's  Well."  A  stately  castle  once 
rose  near  the  spot ;  all  rem^uns  of  it  have  long  passed  away,  but  that  it 
must  have  been  of  some  repute  and  beauty  in  its  time,  an  ancient  guide- 
book of  the  locality  will  bear  witness  to.  A  copy  of  this  guide-book  is 
rare  now.  One  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  author,  and  from  that  book  we 
will  quote,  with  the  reader's  permission,  part  of  its  description  of  this 
same  Castle  of  Chillingwater.  It  must  be  premised,  however,  that  this 
account  is  but  the  copy  of  another  copy,  for  the  ancient  book  states  that 
all  traces  of  the  Castle  of  Chilling  having  long  passed  away,  the  com- 
piler had  been  indebted  for  his  information  to  some  manuscripts  of 
vellum,  yellow  with  age,  found  in  the  archives  of  a  neighbouring" 
monastery  when  it  was  destroyed  in  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  And  so 
antiquated  was  the  language  of  this  parchment,  that  much  difficulty  oc- 
curred in  translating  it  into  more  modem  English. 

"  From  the  pile  of  ruins  alone  visible  to  us  now,"  quotes  the  guide- 
book, "  none  can  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  strength  and  might  of 
the  Castle  of  Chillingwater,  when  it  was  in  the  height  of  its  glory.  Its 
many  turrets  and  proud  battlements;  its  lofty  terraces  and  well-appor- 
tioned halls ;  its  marble-pillared  reception  rooms  and  magnificent  cham- 
bers ;  its  spacious  courts  and  ramparts  of  defence.  Its  domains  stood  un- 
rivalled in  the  land.  Think,  children  (so  runneth  the  record  on  the 
vellum),  of  the  sunny  land  of  the  East,  whose  beauties  seem  to  us  but  as 
some  gorgeous  painting.  Picture  to  yourselves  the  delicious  Cashmere, 
the  described  wonders  of  which  lovely  valley  sound  to  us  but  as  a  fable  : 
where  the  sweet  air  is  one  ineffable  essence  of  perfume,  the  flowers  spread 
the  earth  as  of  an  embroidery  of  many  colours,  and  the  nightingales  with 
their  sweet  voices  never  tire ;  where  the  grateful  clime,  more  generous 
than  Italia's  balmy  one,  is  of  no  capricious  brightness,  and  the  ever-blue 
sky  sheds  joy  around.  Not  inferior  to  these  foreign  fables  was  the  valley 
of  Chilling.  It  will  be  well  if  our  poor  description  can  ^ve  to  posterity 
an  adequate  notion  of  its  loveliness ;  of  its  orangeries,  which  had  no  end; 
of  its  conservatories,  so  extensive  that  they  seemed  to  have  no  beginning; 
its  grottoes  of  curious  devices ;  its  intricate  mazes,  or  labyrinths ;  its 
splendid  aviaries ;  its  groves  of  pines  and  acacias  ;  its  clusters  of  Eastern 
shrubs  and  flowers,  where  the  brilliantly-plumaged  birds,  imported  from 
other  climes,  thinking  themselves  in  their  own  sunny  country,  flew  not 
away ;  and  its  far-famed  Holy  Well,  the  which  was  said  to  possess  heal- 
iog  properties  to  those  who  would  drink  of  its  waters.  And  who  shall 
tell  of  the  splendours  of  the  surrounding  landscape,  daily  rejoicing  the 
eye  of  the  gladdened  spectator  ?  The  mountains,  with  the  varied  hues 
of  their  luxuriant  herbage,  on  which  the  flocks  grazed;  the  dark  woods 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Lady's  Well.  431 

and  the  bright-green  plains;  the  cascades  and  waterfalls  that  pleased  the 
eye  and  soothed  the  ear ;  and  the  picturesque  cottages  of  the  serfs  and 
TSUBsals !  Who  shall  describe  all  this  for  a  later  age  ?  who  shall  enlarge 
upon  the  glories  of  the  once-famed  stronghold  of  Chilling  ?  Surely  the 
pen  of  a  solitary  and  humble  monk  is  insidequate  to  it." 

Now  this  holy  monk,  however  inadequate  his  pen  was  to  his  task, 
must  have  been  a  man  of  vivid  imagination,  and  must  have  drawn  largely 
upon  it,  when  enumerating  the  praises  of  this  long-passed-away  Welsh 
domain.  When  the  reader  shall  have  perused  the  legend,  to  which  we 
now  pass  on,  a  question  may  arise  in  his  mind  whether  the  recording 
monk  may  not  have  beei>  Geoffry,  the  Baron  of  Chillingwater :  whiling 
away  the  hours  of  his  old  age  m  his  long-endured  solitude,  and  garru- 
lous over  the  glories  that  once  were  his. 

It  was  as  far  back  as  the  twelfth  century,  at  the  close  of  the  reign  of 
iixat  Plantagenet  whose  history  is  connected,  in  schoolboys'  minds,  with 
Fair  Rosamond,  a  bowl  of  poison.  Queen  Eleanor,  and  the  rebellious 
princes,  that  a  lovely  child,  scarcely  yet  twelve  years  old,  reclined  on 
one  of  the  terraces  of  the  Castle  of  Chillingwater.  It  was  the  Lady 
!EUana  de  Chilling,  the  only  daughter  of  that  ancient  house.  *  She  was 
being  reared  at  home,  contrary  to  the  very  common  custom  at  that 
time,  of  bringing  young  ladies  up  in  nunneries.  Pacing  the  same 
terrace,  at  a  distance,  were  her  father  and  mother,  the  old  baron 
grey  with  years,  and  his  still  young  and  handsome  wife.  Their  only 
son,  several  years  older  than  the  Lady  EUana,  was  away  from  home, 
engaged  in  some  one  of  the  many  petty  wars  that  disturbed  this  period. 
The  baron  had  opposed  his  departure,  representing  that  he  was  yet 
full  young  to  engage  in  these  fiery  conquests,  and  hinting  that  some  of 
the  nobility  had  been  thus  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  their  youth.  But  the 
lad  refused  to  listen,  and  had  rushed  off,  boy-like — ooy-like  1 — full  of 
excitement  and  ardour,  his  head  and  his  tongue  running  wild  with 
visions  of  glory  and  renown. 

"  I  shall  come  home  with  my  sword  all  reeking  with  the  blood  of  our 
enemies,  Ella,"  he  had  boasted  to  his  sister,  when  on  the  eve  of  de- 
parture ;  "  and  it  shall  be  hung  up  in  our  hall  of  trophies.  /  will  show 
them  what  a  De  Chilling  is  made  of.  Wilt  thou  not  wish  me  good 
luck,  Ellana  ?' 

"  I  will  wish  thee  God  speed,  brother  dear,"  she  answered,  in  a  sad- 
dened tone.     "  But  who  will  be  my  companions  when  thou  art  gone  ?" 

"  Tush !  tush !"  returned  the  hot  young  warrior ;  "I  am  too  old  to 
waste  my  time  in  companionship  with  a  girl ;  even  vdth  thee,  Ella.  I 
am  above  it  now.  A  youth  who  goes  forth  to  fight  for  his  king  and 
country,  would  blush  to  think  of  it.  Our  cousins  must  be  thy  com- 
panions now." 

"  But  Edgar  is  always  away  with  his  hawks  and  his  £alcons,"  sighed 
the  Lady  Ellana. 

"  Geoffry  is  not,"  retorted  the  lad. 

"  Geoffry  never  stirs  from  that  book-reading  of  his,"  resumed  the 
maiden,  with  a  curl  of  her  lip.  "  It  would  give  me  the  headache  only  to 
look  at  his  parchments,  Reginald." 

The  cousins  spoken  of  by  the  heir  of  Chillingwater  were  the  orphan 
sons  of  the  baron's  only  brother.     They  were  being  educated  in  the 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


432  The  Lady' 9  Well. 

castle,  and  had  no  inheritance,  save  their  father's  honoured  name  and  \o& 
good  sword.  The  younger,  Edgar,  would,  to  all  appearance,  wield  it 
hravely ;  hut  the  elder,  Geoffry,  promised  to  be  that  most  despised  dia- 
racter  in  the  barbarous  ages,  a  bookworm.  Even  the  old  baron,  his 
uncle,  who  was  by  no  means  of  a  fierce  nature,  as  natures  went  then,  used 
to  rate  him  angnly,  fling  his  written-book  out  of  his  hand,  and  tell  him 
he  would  be  fit  for  nothing  but  a  puny  monk.  Geoffiry,  after  these 
scenes,  would  arouse  himself,  and  for  a  whole  week,  perhaps,  accompany 
his  brother  to  his  fierce  out-door  sports :  hunting  boars,  tracking  game, 
or  join  in  his  martial  exercises ;  returning  then  to  his  clerkly-studies  with 
more  zest  than  ever.  You  cannot  change  a  boy's  nature.  Education 
and  circumstances  may  do  much,  but  they  will  never  wholly  change  it: 
and,  as  it  is  in  these  days,  so  it  was  in  those. 

The  younff  baron  in  prospective  departed  from  his  father's  house,  at 
the  head  of  his  squires  and  his  pages,  and  his  retinue  of  retainers,  as  it 
was  the  custom  for  young  barons  in  prospective  to  do.  And  the  Lady 
Ellana,  sitting  on  the  terrace,  as  we  have  seen  her,  was  wondering^  when 
they  should  hear  news  of  him.  He  had  been  gone  two  months,  and 
rumours  had  reached  them  of  a  petty  engagement  having  been  fought,  in 
which  it  was  probable  he  had  been  engaged.  The  young  girl  was  pic- 
turing to  herself  happy  dreams— of  her  brother  Reginald  coming  hack 
victorious,  thundering  across  the  drawbridge,  and  waving  his  sword  over 
his  head  in  token  of  laurels  and  victory :  dreaming  that  he  flew  to  her 
with  embraces,  whispering  that  he  had  nad  enough  of  glory  for  the  pre- 
sent, and  would  stay  at  home  and  be  her  companion  as  before.  Uncon- 
sciously she  drew  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  and  looked  down,  perhaps 
with  the  hope  of  seeing  him.  The  strong  bridge  was  drawn  secittely  up, 
and  there  were  no  signs  in  all  the  landscape  of  Reginald  and  his  followers. 
But  in  a  shady  nook  of  the  luxuriant  gardens  was  stretched  her  cousin 
GeoflEiy  de  Chilling,  poring  over  a  roll  of  his  learned  parchment ;  and  the 
good  monk,  his  tutor,  looked  on  by  his  side.  There  was  a  wide  difierence 
in  the  personal  appearance  of  the  two  brothers.  Geoffry  was  slight  and 
fair,  with  a  mild,  thoughtful  countenance,  and  a  look  of  delicate  health ; 
whilst  Edgar  was  a  tall,  active  boy,  possessing  noble  features  glowing 
with  youth,  and  eyes  dark  and  brilliant. 

The  Lady  Ellana  saw  her  cousin  sitting  there,  idly  studying  away  his 
hoiu^:  further  away,  she  could  catch  the  form  of  his  brother  Edgar,  and 
her  eyes  and  thoughts  rested  on  the  latter.  He  was  never  still :  boys  of 
fourteen  being  much  the  same  then,  that  they  are  now.  Now,  coaxing  his 
dogs  ;  now,  teazing  them,  till  nothihg  but  barks  and  howls  were  heard; 
now,  vaulting,  leaping,  and  flinging  stones  at  every  object  within  reach ; 
and  now,  darting  into  the  stables.  With  his  disappearance,  the  little  gin 
returned  to  her  thoughts  about  her  brother,  and  as  her  eyes  once  more 
ranged  over  the  domain,  she  caught  sight  of  some  horsemen  advancing  at 
a  quick  pace.  So  engaged  had  she  been,  watching  Edgar,  that  they  nsd 
advanced  passably  near,  unperceived.  She  bent  her  head  down  and 
strained  her  eyes,  for,  in  the  form  of  the  first,  she  thought  she  recognised 
her  brother's  squire.  In  another  moment,  she  had  darted  up  to  her 
parents,  and  taking  a  hand  of  each,  was  dragging  them  forward  that  they 
might  see  the  horsemen. 

"  They  brmg  news  of  Reginald !    I  know  they  bring  news  of  Be- 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


The  Lady's  Wett.  433 

giiMdd  !**  die  exclaimed.     "  Note  you  not,  sir,  tlie  device  in  the  sqmre's 
helmet?     But  he  rides  with  his  visor  down." 

The  old  haron  trembled  as  the  horsemen  drew  near  enough  for  recog- 
nition. They  were  in  complete  armour,  but  he  saw  their  badges  as  re- 
tainers of  his  house.  And  they  still  kept  their  helmets  closed !  This,  in 
those  olden  times,  was,  in  some  cases,  looked  upon  as  a  token  that  the 
messengers  had  bad  news  to  tell.  Had  those  gentlemen  brought  good 
tidings  to  the  baron,  who,  they  knew,  was  hoping  for  them,  they  would 
have  thrown  back  their  closed  helm'ets,  and  joyfidly  waved  their  swords 
as  they  drew  near  to  him. 

Poor  Reginald  de  Chilling!  he  who  had  gone  forth  in  all  the  enthu- 
dasm  of  his  youth,  had  met  with  death  on  his  first  battle-field.  The  old 
baron  seated  himself  in  his  hall  of  audience,  his  nephews  standing  by  his 
side,  and  his  gentlemen-attendants  gathered  behind  him.  The  baroness 
had  retired  vnth  her  daughter :  she  was  not  less  anxious  to  hear  the 
tidings  than  her  husband,  but  much  needless  form  and  ceremony  was 
observed  in  the  days  of  the  Plantagenets. 

The  chief  of  the  messengers  came  in,  the  instant  he  lefb  his  horse,  his 
armour  clanking  as  he  walked,  and  his  visor  still  down.  He  raised  it  as 
he  approached  the  baron,  displaying  a  feu^  working  vnth  emotion.  He 
was  a  white-haired  man  of  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  had  been  page 
to  the  baron  in  his  early  life.  He  knew  not  how  to  break  the  news  to 
his  revered  master. 

*'  My  son  ?"  gasped  the  old  noble  to  him,  holding  out  his  hand,  '^  what 
tidings  of  my  son?" 

The  squire  spoke  slowly,  but  he  accomplished  his  sentences  at  last,  and 
the  baron  knew  the  worst.  His  boy  was  left  dead  on  the  battle-field. 
With  a  low  moan  of  pain,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  laying  his  hand  upon 
the  shoulder  of  his  elder  nephew,  to  support  himself,  passed  from  the  room, 
in  search  of  his  lady-veife.     Edgar  followed. 

"  What  of  my  son?"  uttered  the  baroness,  starting  forward,  and 
trembling,  as  she  saw  the  pained  countenance  of  her  husband. 

**  Madam,"  was  his  answer,  pushing  €reoffry  slightly  forwards,  "  we 
have  no  heir  now  but  this.  Our  glorious  boy  nas  died  his  death  on  the 
engagement-field." 

The  little  girl,  EUana,  heard  the  words,  and,  giving  a  sudden  cry, 
burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping.  The  baron  was  occupied  m 
soothing  his  shocked  and  startled  vnfe ;  the  new  heir  of  Chillingwater, 
bewildered  with  grief  and  amazement,  wept  silently,  and  chafed  the  lady's 
hands ;  but  Edgar  de  Chilling  folded  the  sobbing  g^rl  to  his  breast,  and 
whispered  that  he  would  be  her  brother  now,  in  the  lost  one's  stead,  her 
loving  brother  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

The  old  baron  passed  away  to  his  forefathers,  dying  more  of  grief  than 
of  age,  and  the  castle,  with  all  its  honours,  became  the  property  of 
Geoffipy,  now  the  Baron  of  Chillingwater.  A  very  small  portion  indeed 
of  its  revenues  demised  to  the  baroness  and  her  daughter,  for  incomes  in 
that  early  period  could  not  be  bequeathed  as  they  can  now.  The  lady  re- 
tained  her  place  in  the  castle  as  its  mbtress,  constituting  herself  guardian 
of  the  young  baron  and  his  brother.  As  the  heir  advanced  towards  man- 
hood, nis  character  and  inclination  for  martial  or  boisterous  pursuits  did 
not  seem  to  strengthen.     His  mood  was  invariably  so  kind  and  gentie. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


AM  The  lady's  fFett. 

his  heart  fo  pliant,  and  his  health  so  fragile,  that  th^  would  have  best 
become  a  woman.  He  would  recline  for  hours  together  by  the  side  of 
his  cousin,  in  listless  idleness,  telling  her  dianning  stones,  twisting 
wreaths  for  her,  listening  to  her  girlish  songs.  But  she— oh  p^rerse 
woman's  heart!  penrerse  in  those  days  as  in  these !-^would  better  vidoe 
five  minutes  spent  with  her  by  the  daring  and  handsome  Edgar,  than  all 
the  hours  wasted  with  her  by  his  inert  brother.  The  lady-mother  had  a 
project  in  her  head^-^and  the  reader  has  no  difficulty  in  divining  it.  She 
would  have  despatched,  with  all  speed,  the  younger  brother  from  the 
castle,  for  she  dreaded  his  influence  over  the  heart  of  ^e  Lady  Ellaiia, 
and,  when  the  fitting  time  came,  she  would  marry  her  daughter  to  the 
baron.  But  to  drive  Eklgar  out  of  the  castle  in  ms  boyhood,  was  more 
than  the  Baroness  of  ChiUingwater,  with  all  her  influence,  could  accom^ 
plish,  for  th&  brothers  were  deejdy  attached  to  each  other,  and  the  young 
baron  vrould  as  soon  have  thought  of  turning  out  her  lad3rship  as  of  team- 
ing out  Edgar. 

n. 

The  years  passed  on.  Bi<^iard  Coenr  de  Lion  sat  on  the  throne  of 
his  father,  and  England  was  alive  with  the  excitement  of  the  Cneade 
war.  The  king  was  on  his  way  to  join  it,  and  the  young  Mid  the  cH- 
yalrous  amongst  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  Norman  noluHty  were  flocking 
after  his  steps. 

The  Baron  of  Clulliogwater  had  now  attained  his  majority,  and  the 
Lady  Ellana  was  growing  towards  womanhood.  The  li^ht  of  a  sum- 
mer s  evening  shone  down  upon  her  parted  hair,  and  its  waving  curls 
were  reflect^  in  the  waters  of  the  Holy  Well,  on  the  brink  of  which 
she  stood,  though tfolly  leaning  against  a  tree.  What  were  her  thoughts 
gathering  on  ?  On  the  clerk-like  baron,  who  wras  now  in  his  room  in 
the  western  turret,  deep  in  his  stupes  ?  We  cannot  say  ;  but  as  a  quick 
and  light,  though  manly  step,  was  heard  approaching,  a  colour,  as  of  the 
richest  damask-rose,  flew  to  her  cheek.  He  was  a  handsome  knight, 
Edgar  de  Chilling,  and  as  he  stood  there  by  her  dde  and  rattled  on, 
talHng  of  any  subject  that  took  his  fancy,  it  may  be  fair  to  infer  thtt 
Ellana  thought  him  one. 

Suddenly,  the  bell  rang  out  for  the  evening  meal.  He  gallantly 
offered  her  his  arm,  and  they  slowly  walked  together  to  the  castib.  The 
baroness  saw  them,  and  her  face  became  black  as  night. 

"  What  meaneth  this  inertness  ?"  suddenly  broke  forth  the  hidy- 
mother,  as  the  spice-cup  went  round  after  supper;  "know  you  not, 
young  sirs,  that  I  shall  have  to  blush  for  my  kinsmen  ?" 

The  baron  looked  dreamily  up,  but  young  Edgar,  hot  and  passionate, 
asked  what  he  had  done  that  she  should  blush  for  him. 

"  It  is  what  you  have  fwt  done  that  I  blush  for,"  returned  the  lady, 
with  a  cheek  as  fiery  and  a  tongue  as  hasty  as  his  own.  "  The  huronB 
pursuits  lie  in  a  different  way,  and  his  place  is  here,  but  that  a  young«r 
scion  of  the  house  of  Chilling  should  hold  back,  when  it  is  the  pleasiffe 
of  the  king,  and  the  glory  of  England,  that  her  youth  should  engage  m 
the  holy  wars — that  you,  Edgar  de  Chilling,  rfiould  remain  here,  perhaps 
in  cowardice '' 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Th€  Lady's  Wdl  436 

*^  HcJdy  madam  1"  exclumed  Edgar,  starting  up,  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  sword,  in  anger. 

^  The  ladj-mother  means  not  that,"  interposed  the  baron,  with  his 
quiet,  persuasire  yoice.  "Something  has  angered  you,  madam,  and 
your  words  must  have  sounded  harsUy  in  my  brother's  ear,  but  I  know 
you  meant  them  not.     Be  calm,  be  seated,  Edgar." 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  repeated  the  baroness,  her  temper  rising  with 
her  words.  '^  The  good  name  of  Chilling  is  becoming  a  reproach  in 
the  land.  Whwe  is  thec«  a  noble  house  who  has  not  a  son,  if  old 
Plough,  engaged  in  the  holy  war  ?  But  Edgar  de  Chilling  keeps  aloof. 
My  brave  son  was  away  from  home  in  his  early  youth." 

^*  And  lost  his  life  !  mterposed  the  Lady  ElJana,  whoi,  hitherto  pale 
with  surprise  and  terror,  now  burst  into  a  £k>od  of  tears. 

^^  You  are  right,  madam,"  called  out  Edgar  to  the  baroness.  "  I  see 
now  that  I  am  one  too  many  here :  but  I  have  truly  been  unpardonably 
supine,  and  I  take  shame  to  myself  iJiat  you  should  have  had  to  point 
out  to  me  my  duty  to  my  king  and  to  my  religion.  With  to-morrow's 
sun,  I  shall  he  on  my  way  to  the  Holy  Land." 

"  Not  so,"  interrupted  the  baron,  eagerly  clasping  the  young  knight's 
hand — **not  until  you  can  go  as  befitteth  Edgar  de  Chilling  and  my  bro- 
ther. If  you  indeed  wish  to  join  diese  holy  wars  whither  so  many  of  our 
nobles  are  flocking,  I  will  not  say  you  nay ;  but  you  shall  not  leave  until 
your  equipage  and  retinue  are  complete." 

"  I  will  go  with  my  own  good  sword,  nothing  more,"  returned  Edgar. 
^  Nothing  else  belongs  to  me,  by  gain  or  by  inheritance,  and  mithing 
else  will  I  take.  If  I  win  myself  a  name  and  station,  I  will  wear  them. 
To-morrow,  at  break  of  day,  I  bid  adieu  to  Chillingwater." 

They  were  standing  within  the  porch  of  the  little  cha^>el,  near  to  the 
eaatem  gate,  Edgar  de  Chilling  and  the  Lady  EUana.  She  had  wan- 
dered tluther,  after  that  turbulent  supper-scene,  and  he  had  followed  her. 
The  lady-mother,  elate  at  having  accomplished  her  purpose,  and  know- 
ing that  the  baron's  dreaded  rival,  dreaded  by  her,  would  now  be  removed, 
sent  her  vigilance  to  sleep,  and  sat  discussing  matters  with  the  baron  and 
her  confbs^. 

As  they  stood  there  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  twilight,  Ellana  thought 
her  heart  was  breaking.  Dreams  of  Edgar  de  Chilling  had  interwoven 
themselves  with  every  later  year  of  her  existence,  and  now  he  was  going 
away,  perhaps  for  ever,  like  her  dead  brother.  Impassioned  vows  were 
utte3*ed  between  them.  Never  before  had  Edgar  spoken  to  her  of  his 
love ;  but  enough  was  spoken  then. 

"  You  will  be  my  brother's  wife,  Ellana,"  was  his  passionate  exclama- 
tion.    **  Ere  I  can  return,  you  will  be  my  brother's  wife." 

She  turned  from  him  in  her  hasty  anger. 

"  Yes,"  he  Tepeated.  "  Not  perhaps  of  your  own  free  consent ;  but 
look  at  the  lady-fmother  s  imperious  control :  what  she  will,  she  accom- 
plishes. For  what  else,  think  you,  I  am  sent  away?  She  dreads  my 
presence  here :  she  knows  I  love  you.  No,  no,  Ellana !  we  may  say 
adieu  this  night  for  ever,  for  I  repeat  that  you  wiQ  be  cajoled  into  be- 
coming the  baron's  wife ;  and  when  once  that  has  taken  place,  I  shall 
never  return." 

"  I  never  will !"   she  cried,  clinging  to  him  in  her  tempest  of  anger 

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436  The  Lady's  WeU. 

and  de^air.  ^<  Edgar !  I  will  be  your  wife  if  you  will — joxa  wife  this 
night     Who  shall  part  i;i8  then  ?" 

Great  blame  attached  to  them  both :  to  one  as  much  as  to  the  oiiher. 
The  Lady  EUana,  whose  will  and  temper  were  as  ungovemable  as  her 
mother's,  made  the  suggestion  in  a  moment  of  ezcitement,  and  Edgar  de 
Chilling  seized  upon  it,  and,  on  the  instant,  sought  means  to  carry  it  out. 
Fate  seemed  to  favour  their  plan. 

A  monk,  Father  Thomas,  half  childish  with  age,  who  had  the  entr^ 
to  the  castle  at  all  hours,  like  many  of  his  brethren,  passed,  as  they  were 
speaking,  the  little  chapel,  on  his  way  to  the  adjoining  monastery.  He  had 
known  and  loved  them  both  from  their  early  years.  It  did  not  take  much 
persuasion  to  induce  him  to  unite  them.  The  moonlight  fell  in  upon 
them  from  the  Gothic  openings,  called  windows,  as  they  stood  before  the 
altar  of  the  chapel — that  child-bride  of  seventeen  summers,  and  her 
cousin,  who  had  barely  numbered  two  years  more.  In  spite  of  her  ex- 
citement and  her  resolution,  the  Lady  Ellana  was  agitated  and  trembling^. 
She  scarcely  knew  that  she  spoke  the  required  vows ;  her  fears  of  an  in- 
terruption were  overwhelming,  and  her  head  was  perpetually  turning^  to 
see  that  the  chapel  entrance  was  not  darkened  by  any  unwMcome  form. 
Marriages  concluded  in  haste  such  as  this,  cannot  be  stopped  for  ceremony : 
the  Lady  Ellana  happened  to  have  on  her  hand  a  ring  set  with  a  single 
garnet  stone,  and  tins  was  made  to  serve  for  i^e  nuptial  one.  But  it  was 
too  large  for  the  third  finger,  and  as  she  turned  from  the  altar  after  re- 
ceiving the  aged  priest's  benediction,  it  dropped  from  her  hand  upon  the 
chapel 'floor.  She  stooped  to  feel  for  it ;  it  was  too  dark  to  see ;  Edg^ 
stooped ;  the  priest  stooped.  But  they  could  not  find  it,  and  after  wait- 
ing as  long  as  they  dared,  were  leaving  the  chapel,  when  the  Lady 
Ellana  set  her  foot  upon  it.  She  picked  it  up,  and  they  took  it  outside, 
and  examined  it,  in  the  moonlight.  The  garnet  stone  was  gone,  and 
although  the  Lady  Ellana  looked  for  it  times  upon  times  afterwards,  it 
was  never  found  again.  Edgar  de  Chilling  took  her  hand,  and  replaced 
the  ring  on  it,  but  she  burst  into  tears,  and  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 
"  It  is  a  bad  omen,"  she  whispered. 

He  kept  his  word  to  the  lady-mother,  and  departed,  on  the  following 
day,  for  the  wars. 

IIL 

Who  so  gay  as  the  Lady  Ellana  de  Chilling?  who  so  lauded  in  ballad, 
praised  in  song?  who  so  beautiful,  who  so  courted?  She  had  seemed 
strangely  sad  and  abstracted  after  the  departure  of  her  cousin  Edgar;  a 
smile  was  scarcely  to  be  seen  on  her  face  for  months,  no,  not  for  months 
upon  months.  The  baroness,  her  mother,  became  irritated,  if  not  alarmed, 
at  her  continued  gloom,  and  began  to  fear  that  her  love  for  Edgar  de 
Chilling  was  deeper  than  she  had  suspected.  So  she  took  her  to  court, 
where  the  graceless  Lackland  reigned  for  his  brother,  and  she  took  her 
out  to  visit  amongst  the  nobles  of  the  land,  and  she  filled  the  castle  of 
Chillingwater  with  courtly  guests :  and  the  Lady  Ellana,  at  twenty  years 
of  age,  looked  back,  repentingly,  upon  the  one  rash  act  of  her  life,  and 
said  to  her  own  heart  that  she  had  done  a  foolish  thing. 

She  had  loved  and  mourned  her  husband  for  a  long  while  after  his  de- 
parture, but  as  the  months  bxi^  years  succeeded  each  other,  and  she  heard 
no  news  from  him,  her  affection  began  to  die  away.     She  was  fond  of 

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The  Lady's  Well.  437 

show  and  expense,  she  delighted  in  display,  she  was  vain  of  her  beauty, 
and  now  that,  through  her  more  intimate  knowledge  of  the  outer  world, 
she  had  been  shown  how  necessary,  to  her  happiness  it  was,  that  she 
should  enjoy  all  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  life,  she  trembled  lest  Edgar 
de  Chilling  should  return,  and  proclaim  that  she  was  but  the  wiLfe  of  a 
poor  soldier. . 

The  lady-mother  looked  on  with  a  vigilant  eye ;  but,  with  all  her  clear- 
sightedness, she  never  suspected  the  truth.  She  did  believe  that  vows, 
the  vows  of  lovers,  constant  fidelity  and  all  that,  had  been  exchanged  be- 
tween her  daughter  and  Edgar  de  Chilling;  and  she  suspected  that  the 
Lady  EUana  now  repented  of  those  vows,  but  that,  for  her  word's  sake, 
she  scrupled  to  release  herself  from  them.  And  she  laid  her  plans  ac- 
cordin^y. 

The  Castle  of  ChiUingwater  was  alive  with  gaiety,  crowded  with  visi- 
tors. The  baron  was  the  great  focus  of  attraction.  Some  admired  his 
learning ;  many,  his  suavity  of  temper ;  all,  his  magnificent  pomp  and 
state.  Splendid  entertidnments,  sumptuous  feasts,  brilliant  pageantry  ; 
for  all  these  was  the  Castle  of  ChiUingwater  celebrated.  Now  there  would 
be  a  grand  hunting  party,  now  a  tournament :  and  his  guests  were  not 
slow  to  ask  themselves  for  whom  these  pleasures  were  kept  up.  Surely 
not  for  himself,  with  his  simple  tastes  and  book-lore  ?  No,  no :  the 
baron's  heart  and  the  baron's  hopes,  his  lavish  expenditure  and  far-re- 
nowned pageantry,  were  cast  at  die  feet  of  the  gaiety-loving  Lady 
Ellana. 

It  was  when  one  of  these  festive  meetings  was  at  its  height,  that  a  ser- 
vitor whispered  the  lady-mother  of  a  newly-arrived  minstrel,  who  desired 
speech  of  the  baron.  The  same  imperious  command  which  distinguished 
the  baroness  when,  in  her  lord's  lifetime,  she  was  indeed  mistress  oi  the 
castle,  was  displayed  still :  she  controlled  the  household;  tbe  supine  baron 
had  but  secondary  authority.  Hence,  probably,  arose  her  ardent  desire 
of  seeing  her  daughter  wedded  to  him,  for  she  was  aware  that  should  he 
bring  home  any  other  wife,  her  reign  there  would  be  at  an  end. 

*'  Do  you  dare  to  disturb  me  now,  with  your  idle  tales  ?"  she  exclaimed 
to  the  servitor.  *'  A  minstrel,  forsooth !  are  not  visits  from  such,  common 
enough  ?     Send  him  about  his  business." 

**  Lady,"  answered  the  man,  "  he  is  fresh  from  Palestine.  His  anxiety 
to  see  the  baron  is  great,  and  I  misdoubt  me  that  he  brings  news  of  my 
lord's  brother." 

The  lady's  tone  was  changed  now.  "  Conduct  him  to  my  private 
audience-chamber,"  she  whispered.  ^^  And,  hark  ye,  sirrah  !  speed  and 
silenceJ* 

"  What  want  ye  with  me?"  inquired  the  lady-mother,  as  she  reached 
her  audience-chamber,  and  the  minstrel  bent  low  before  her. 

"  Lady,  I  would  crave  speech  of  the  renowned  Baron  of  ChiUing- 
water." 

^^  The  baron  grants  not  audiences.  I  am  as  himself — as  his  mother. 
Speak  out,  an  ye  are  from  Palestine.  What  tidings  bring  you  of  Edgar 
de  ChUling?" 

"  Glad  tidings,  good  my  lady,"  answered  the  harper,  with  a  lowly 
reverence.  "  Foremost  in  the  field,  bravest  in  the  fight,  wisest  in  the 
counsel,  is  Sir  Edgar  de  ChUling.  Conspicuous  is  he  amongst  knights 
for  all  princely  qualities;  his  name  is  renowned  through  aU  the  land  of 

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438  Tfte  Lady' 8  WklL 

FalestiQe,  the  handsome,  the  gay,  ike  fearleui.  And  he  diarged  me  to 
see  hk  hrother,  the  learned  £iron  of  Chillingwater,  should  mj  life  be 
spared  to  penetrate  so  far  as  this,  and  to  tell  him  that  when  Sir  Edgar 
came  home,  it  should  he  with  the  honours  he&ting  a  knight  of  the  an- 
cient house  of  Chilling." 

The  lady-mother  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand.  Her  perplexity  and 
ahstraction  were  great. 

<<  The  hrave  Sir  Edgar  also  charged  me  with  a  word  to  the  fair  daughter 
of  the  house,  the  Lady  Ellana,  I  hethink  me  he  called  her." 

<*  Peace,  man  I''  interrupted  the  haroness  fiercely;  and  the  harper 
bowed  his  head  to  the  ground,  and  was  silent. 

'^  Are  you  very  poor?*'  she  asked,  at  length;  ^ are  yon  in  distress?" 

"  Scarcely  in  distress,  good  my  lad^,  but  few  can  be  poorer.  Save  my 
harp,  I  have  nothing.  Not  a  cmn  m  the  T^iole  worid,  not  a  change  of 
raiment  do  I  possess.  And  thankful  to  our  blessed  Lady  am  I,  when  my 
minstrelsy  obtains  for  me  a  sustaining  meal :  at  the  stately  castie^  or  the 
humble  hut,  I  am  alike  grateful  for  it" 

"  This  must  be  a  precarious  mode  of  existence,"  rejmned  the  barooess. 
**  If  you  consent  to  do  me  a  trifling  service,  I  will  bc^w  upon  you  what 
will  ensure  you  full  meals  for  twelve  months  to  c<Mne." 

'^  I  would  do  anything  for  that,'*  uttered  the  minstrel,  eagerly  nosing 
his  half-fEunished  looks. 

And  that  night  it  was  told,  all  over  the  castle,  that  Sir  Edgar  de 
Chilling  had  lost  his  life  in  the  Holy  Land. 

'^  And  so,"  cried  the  Baroness  of  Chillingwater  to  her  daughter,  as 
they  sat  alone  some  time  during  the  period  of  the  mourning  for  Sir 
Edgar,  '^  our  kinsman  seeks  a  bride  in  the  Norman  house  of  Fitzosbome. 
It  is  as  I  prophesied." 

'*  Madam,  what  mean  you?"  inquired  the  Lady  EUana,  hastily. 

"  Are  my  words  incomprehensible,  daughter  ?  The  Baron  of  Chillmg- 
water,  your  cousin  and  my  nephew,  brings  home  the  Lady  Millicent 
!Pltzosbome.  A  lovely  Norman,  but  portionless.  But  the  nead  of  the 
De  ChiUings  requires  not  a  dowry  with  his  wife*  Thou  hast  been  a  very 
fool,  EUana." 

Perhaps  the  Lady  Ellana  thought  so,  for  she  bent  her  head  over  the 
tapestry  she  was  working,  and  answered  not. 

"  Think  of  the  home  you  enjoy  here ;  look  from  the  turret  windows, 
and  scan  the  rich  domain ;  remember  the  life  of  gaiety  that  you  have 
passed ;  and  then  picture  the  existence  we  must  drag  on  in  some  obscure 
retreat,  in  a  convent,  mayhap,  when  by  the  baron's  marriage  we  are 
turned  from  here.     Thou  hast  been  a  bitter  fool,  EUana." 

And  ere  many  days  had  elapsed,  it  was  known,  in  the  household,  that, 
.not  MiUicent  Fitzosbome  was  to  be  the  bride  of  the  young  baron,  bat 
the  Lady  Ellana  de  Chilling. 

IV. 

The  Lady  Ellana  stood  before  h&f  mirror  on  her  bridal  morning, 
brightly  blushing  at  the  lovely  form,  enshrined  in  aU  its  veils  and  laces, 
that  was  reflected  there. 

Her  favourite  attendant  handed  her  her  gloves ;  but,  before  she  put  them 
on,  edie  drew  from  one  of  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  a  stoneless  ring. 

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The  Lady's  WeU.  439 

Her  mother  had  onee  maryelled  at  her  wearing  an  old  broken  jewel,  bat 
the  yoong  ladj  relied  that  she  chose  to  wear  it,  for  it  was  a  charm.  A 
blush,  far  deeper  than  any  her  vain  feelings  had  conjured  up,  rose  to  her 
cheeks  now,  as  she  dropped  the  stoneless  ring  into  her  jewel-bag.  It 
was  the  first  lame  it  haa  left  her  finger. 

<<  This  is  a  joyous  morning,  my  lady,"  whispered  the  attendant,  speak- 
ing with  the  privilege  of  a  faiwful  and  valued  servant.  ^*  I  did  once 
fear  that  you  were  waiting  for  Sir  Edgar,  who,  noble  though  in  qualities 
he  was,  was  not  in  a  position  to  win  the  Lady  Ellana  de  Chilling." 

'^  He  was  my  dear  cousin,"  exclaimed  the  lady.  '^  And  you.  Bertha, 
need  not  have  brought  up  his  name  to  excite  sad  thoughts  to-day.  We 
shall  never  see  him  more." 

''  Do  not  make  sure  of  that,  lady,*'  exclaimed  the  woman,  significantly. 

<^  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  the  startled  girl. 

^^  I  have  said  more  than  I  ought,"  murmured  the  woman.  <<  I  think 
my  tongue  has  run  mad  this  morning." 

But  it  was  not  a  vain  excuse  that  could  satisfy  the  Lady  EUana.  Now, 
she  used  passionate  entreaty ;  now,  imperious  command ;  and  -the  serving- 
woman  at  length  disclosed  iJl  she  knew.  The  minstrel,  it  appeared,  had 
partaken  too  freely  of  the  baron's  good  ale  ere  leaving  the  castle ;  and 
had  disclosed  to  Mistress  Bertha,  who  had  closeted  herself  with  him  to 
learn  full  particulars  about  her  favourite  Sir  Edgar,  that  the  knight  was 
no  more  dead  than  she  was. 

<<  Did  you  tell  my  mother  of  this  ?"  gasped  the  Lady  EUana. 

Bertha's  private  opinion  was,  that  the  lady-mother  knew  it  all  without 
her  telling,  and  so  she  hinted  to  her  young  mistress.  She  had  attempted 
to  tell  her,  she  observed^  but  had  been  stopped  by  a  torrent  of  passion  on 
the  part  of  the  baroneas,  who  forbade  her  ever  to  allude  to  tiie  subject 
again. 

'^  Do  you  think  Sir  Edgar  is  dead  or  alive  ?"  asked  the  Lady  Ellana, 
every  nerve  in  her  body  shaking.  j 

"  I  truly  believe  that  Sir  Edgar  is  alive,"  answered  the  tire-woman.     ^ 

The  Lady  Ellana  swept,  in  her  flowing  bridal  attire,  and  with  her  face 
white  as  ashes,  into  an  inner  room,  where  she  was  alone.  What  was  to 
be  her  course  ?  Should  she  fling  off  these  rich  clothes,  these  sparkling 
jewels,  and  go  and  proclaim  to  the  baron,  and  his  lofty  guests,  that  she 
was  already  a  wife  ?  ^'  He  may  be  dead,"  she  argued  to  herself,  in  agony 
— '<  this  dreadful  fear  may  be  but  a  drunken  dream  of  that  gabbling 
minstrel's.  Or,  if  not  deadr--he  is  in  the  thick  of  the  battle-field,  and  may 
never  return  hither." 

Manners  and  morals,  in  those  early  times,  were  infinitely  less  exalted 
than  they  are  now ;  nevertheless,  the  Lady  Ellana  sinned  deeply,  so  they 
said  aftmirards,  when  she  went  down,  that  day,  as  the  young,  unwedded 
maiden  Ellana  de  Chilling,  and  knelt  at  the  altar,  and  vowed  to  be  unto 
the  baron  a  true  and  faithful  wife. 


LoNa  were  the  wedding  festivities  kept  up— for  weeks.  The  baron 
held  open  house:  noble  guests  crowded  in  the  spacious  chambers,  inferior 
visiUnrs  revelled  in  the  servants'  hall.     But  one  evening  a  guest^  different 


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440  The  Ladys  WeU. 

from  any  the  castle  had  yet  receired,  rattled  over  the  lowered  drawbridge, 
followed  by  his  squire  and  other  retainers.  His  horse  was  caparisoned 
sumptuously,  and  ids  armour  was  that,  only  worn  by  knights  of  noble 
degree.     It  was  the  brave  Sir  Edgar  de  Chilling. 

*'  Our  Lady  be  good  to  us !"  screamed  one  of  the  andent  servitors, 
trembling  violently  as  he  recognised  the'  badge  of  the  young  knight 
*^  Is  it  the  apparition  of  your  noble  self,  Sir  EMgar,  or  did  you  not  fall,  as 
we  heard,  in  the  wars  ?" 

**  Fall  in  the  wars  !'*  echoed  Sir  Edgar,  with  his  own  cheery  laugh. 
"  If  I  fell  in  them,  my  good  Stephen,  I  rose  ag^in.  How  is  the  baron, 
my  noble  brother  ?  and — ^and  the  Lady  EUana  ?  You  seem  to  be  in  the 
height  of  revelry  here." 

"  All  are  well,  good  Sir  Edgar.  And  for  the  sound  of  revelry  that 
you  hear,  the  festivities  held  in  honour  of  our  lord's  marriage  are  not 
yet  over." 

"  Ah,  ah !"  laughed  the  knight ;  "  so  my  good  brother  has  mated,  has 
he !     And  pray  with  whom  ?" 

"With  none  other  than  the  fairest  flower  in  the  land,  the  Lady 
Ellana,"  returned  the  servitor. 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  old  man,  you  are  growing  deaf  and  childish,"  interrupted 
Sir  Edgar,  with  his  old  impetuosity.  "  I  asked,"  he  continued,  raising 
his  voice,  "  with  whom  it  is  that  my  brother  has  wedded." 

"  Gramercy,  good  Sir  Knight,  I  heard  your  question,"  replied  the 
servitor,  deprecatingly.  '*  My  lord  has  wedded  his  cousin,  die  Lady 
EUana  de  Chilling." 

Sir  Edgar  stood  speechless  for  an  instant,  and  then  strode  on.  The 
outhful  Baroness  of  Chillingwater,  lovely  in  her  costly  white  robes  and 
er  flowing  ringlets,  was  the  centre  of  a  Icnot  of  guests,  when  he  entered. 
He  threw  back  his  helmet  and  advanced  to  her,  his  handsome  features 
white  with  agitation.  She  gave  a  shrill  scream,  and  made  as  if  she 
would  have  rushed  away,  but  he  held  her  with  an  iron  grasp. 

"  My  brave  brother  !  my  lost  brother !"  uttered  the  baron,  advancing 
to  embrace  him.  "  Our  Lady  be  praised  for  this !  We  mourned  vou 
dead." 

"  Edgar  de  Chilling  alive !"  stammered  the  lady-mother.  "  Sir  Edgar 
de  Chilling !  Sir  Edgar  de  Chilling  !'*  reiterated  the  guests ;  and  nothing 
but  rejoicing  and  confusi(m  reigned  around. 

Sir  Edgar  raised  his  arm  to  command  silence,  and  there  was  that  in 
his  rigid  face  which  hushed  the  clamour  instantaneously.  '^  I  have  come 
home,  as  you  see,"  he  spoke,  "alive  and  well.  Of  my  deserts  and  ray 
honours  I  can  leave  others  to  speak — they  are  widely  known.  And  I 
have  come  home  to  claim  my  wife." 

"  If  you  mean  the  late  Lady  Ellana  de  Chilling,"  uttered  the  baroness- 
mother,  beside  herself  with  passion,  "  you  are  too  late,  and  your  bold 
speech.  Sir  Edgar,  becomes  you  not.  My  daughter  is  the  Baroness  of 
Chillingwater." 

"  Your  daughter,  madam,"  he  answered,  calm  with  concentrated  in- 
dignation, "  is  the  Lady  Ellana  de  Chilling,  and  my  wife." 

'*  Peace,  peace,  boy !"  uttered  the  lady-mother,  contemptuously;  ^'  your 
brain  is  hot  with  folly.  Ere  you  went  to  the  wars,  you  may  have  in- 
duced my  child  to  exchange  love-vows  with  you — inexperienced  as  she 

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T 

h( 


The'Jxdy's  Well.  441 

3 !  But  how  dare  you  presume  to  insult  the  Baroness  of  Chillingwater 
by  calling  her  wipe  ?" 

"  And  how  dare  you  presume  to  deny  my  right  ?"  retorted  Sir  Edgar, 
his  fiery  indignaidon  mastering  him.  *'  You  are  the  first  that  ever  douhted 
the  word  of  a  De  ChilKng.  Your  daughter,  madam,  hecame  my  wife  in 
the  sight  of  God,  kneeling  in  His  presence,  at  His  holy  altar ;  and  my 
wife,  she  is,  so  long  as  we  both  shall  live.  Stand  forth,  wretched  womanJ' 
he  continued,  throwing  the  young  baroness  into  the  circle — '*  stand  forth, 
guilty  bride  of  two  husbandsy  and  own,  before  high  Heaven,  whose  wife 
you  really  are  !** 

With  a  half  scream,  half  moan  of  pain,  the  Lady  Ellana,  the  instant 
she  was  released,  darted  from  the  hall.  She  might  have  been  seen 
speeding  along  the  terraces  outside,  like  one  possessed,  her  dark  hair 
flowing  behind  her.  Her  face,  in  its  shame,  was  never  raised  fix)m  its 
cowering  position,  and  the  dreadful  words,  that  had  made  public  her 
crime,  rang  in  her  ears,  "  guilty  wife  of  two  husbands  !"  And  they 
brothers  I  She  could  never  more  hold  up  that  once  proud  fsuce^  never 
more  hold  it  up  again,  on  earth. 

The  commotion  that  ensued  in-doors  was  terrific.  A  fierce  quarrel 
took  place  between  ihe  baron  and  his  brother ;  the  lady-mother  playing 
her  part  in  it,  and  loading  Sir  Edgar  with  sundry  opprobrious  epithets. 
The  guests  espoused  the  cause,  some  on  one  side,  some  on  the  other,  as 
it  was  common  for  guests  in  those  fierce  periods  to  do ;  and,  altogether, 
it  was  a  considerable  time  before  the  Lady  Ellana  was  sought  for.  They 
searched  in  her  own  apartments,  as  Baroness  of  Chillingwater;  they 
searched  in  those  formerly  occupied  by  her ;  finally,  they  searched  the 
castle  from  turret  to  basement ;  and  they  could  not  find  her.  But  when 
they  came  to  visit  the  grounds,  and  some  looked  in  the  Holy  Well,  there 
lay  the  ill-fated  Lady  Ellana,  her  drowned  body  contrasting  horribly 
with  her  rich  white  garments  and  sparkling  jewels,  and  her  unhappy  soiu 
winging  its  shadowy  flight  to  purgatory — ao,  at  least,  her  confessor 


And  never,  from  that  hour,  was  the  spot  again  called  the  Holy  Well 
»-how  can  that  be  holy  whose  waters  nave  been  polluted?  But,  in 
time,  it  acquired  the  name  of  the  ''  Lady's  Well,"  and,  as  such,  is  it 
known  unto  the  present  day. 

Wretchedness  and  ruin  fell  upon  the  Castle  of  Chillingwater.  A  re- 
conciliation was  eflected  between  the  brothers,  but  the  baron  retired  at 
once  into  the  neighbouring  monastery,  devoting  his  young  years  to  the 
ascetic  duties  of  a  monk  ;  and  Sir  Edgar  de  dulling  returned  to  the  holy 
wars,  and  lost  his  life  in  Palestine.  The  lady-mother,  whose  haughty 
pride  nothing  could  subdue,  remuned  in  the  castle,  imperiously  swaying 
there  until  her  death.  It  was  then  left  uninhabited,  to  go  to  rack  and 
ruin,  and  during  the  civil  war,  in  the  time  of  the  first  Edward,  it  was 
razed  to  the  ground. 


Dec. — ^VOL.  xoix.  NO.  cccxcYi.  2  o 

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(    442    ) 


GOSSIP  FROM  FLORENCE. 

A  LBTTEB  ADDBBSSED  TO   THE    EDTTOB  OF  THE 
**  KEW  MONTHLY  MAOAZmS." 

•  While  you,  good  Mr.  Editor,  together  with  every  native  of  "La 
perfide  Albion,"  are  warming  yourselves  over  huge  fir^  of  smutty  ooal, 
or  shivering  in  the  cold,  moist,  foggy  streets  of  London,  where  Phoebus 
rarely  indulges  you  by  even  a  glimpse  of  his  cheerful  countenance,  and 
your  vision  is  constantly  circumscribed  by  the  lamp-post  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  little  do  you  dream  how  we  are  Mijoying  ourselves  in 
the  lovely  **  City  of  Flowers'* — where  perennial  summer  reigns — sweet, 
poetic,  middle-age  Florence ! 

I  must  insist  on  telling  you  all  we  are  about,  in  the  amiable  int^oition 
of  making  you  utterly  miserable  and  discontented  in  your  boasted  city 
of  the  modem  Babylon,  and  by  the  time  I  have  done  giving  you  the  last 
gossip  from  the  Tuscan  capital,  if  you  have  not  a  fit  of  envious  ^leen, 
it  wiU  not  be  my  fault.  London  indeed  I  I  wouldn't  be  there  if  yon 
gave  me  a  palace  in  Belgrave-square,  unlimited  credit  at  Howell  and 
James's,  and  an  opera-box  to  boot — not  L  So  here  goes  for  the  sanny 
south—"  List,  O  list  I" 

This  same  2nd  of  November  is  a  glorious  day  ;  the  sun  streams  out 
in  all  the  power  of  July,  and  as  one  traverses  the  Lung  'Amo,  beats 
down  in  such  thumping  rays,  one  trembles,  and  contemplates  a  coup  de 
soleU.  All  around  is  bathed  in  the  glorious,  radiant  light ;  the  blue  sky 
above,  azure  as  a  canopy  of  turquoise,  unbroken  by  a  single  cloud.  The 
antique,  richly-tinted  houses,  bordering  the  river,  stand  out  in  the  clear 
light  with  a  distinctness,  professionally  speaking,  only  to  be  compared  to 
stereotype  :  the  tile  roo^,  of  that  deep  colour  peculiar  to  southern  climes, 
project  over  the  white  walls,  and  the  bright  green  jalousies  making  the 
only  perceptible  shade  on  the  huge  fa9ade  of  those  huge  palazzos — once 
glorious  feudal  fortresses — each  furnished  with  its  lofty  tower,  but  now, 
alas!  mostly  in  this  quarter  converted  into  hotds  or  lodgings,  with 
glaring  boards  stretching  across,  announcing  them  as  being  of  "  Les  Isles 
Britanniques,"  or  "  Del  Nuovo  York." 

How  I  love  this  beautiful  Lung  'Amo,  quaint  and  confined  as  it  seems, 
and  yet  so  grand,  when  viewed  horn  a  distance.  The  yellow-muddj 
Arno  (which,  after  once  seeing,  one  can  never  rave  or  be  enthusiastical 
about  again,  spite  of  the  shades  of  Dante,  Cellini,  and  MUton,  who  all 
loved  its  banks)  is  now,  nevertheless,  a  noble  stream,  as,  swollen  by  the 
late  rains,  it  rushes  in  huge  waves  through  the  bridges,  threatening 
destruction  to  the  graceful  arches  of  the  classical  Ponte  della  Trinity 
The  Lung  'Amo  would,  if  perfect,  be  the  most  beautiful  promenade  in 
the  world  ;  but,  spite  of  all  its  suggestive  charms,  how  can  one  like  to 
gaze  on  the  backs  of  the  opposite  houses,  with  all  the  hideous  excres- 
cences, mis-shapen  windows,  and  deformed  projections,  thereto  belong- 
ing ?  If  each  side  corresponded,  and  the  opposite  bank  were  adorned 
with  the  same  magnificent  mansions,  and  furnished  with  a  street  and 
pave  similar  to  the  one  on  which  I  am  now  standing,  it  would,  I  repeat^ 


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Gossip  from  Florence.  443 

be  perfect.  But  it  is  far  otherwise  ;  and  the  finest  part  of  Florence  is 
oonsequently  a  fulnre,  and  only  redeemed  by  the  rich  colouring  and 
grotesque  deformity  of  those  very  houses  from  being  hideous.  It  is  not 
one  part  alone,  but  everything  is  strangely  unfinished  in  this  city :  the 
sturdy  citizens  were  too  occupied  in  domestic  broils  to  carry  out  any  of 
the  majestic  plans  formed  for  its  embellbhment.  The  Duomo,  that 
stupendous  piece  of  mosaic,  inlaid  like  a  monstrous  cabinet,  has  no 
fagade ;  whitewash  and  mortar  alone  indicate  the  principal  entrance,  &nd 
meet  the  eye  as  it  surveys  the  beautiful  baptistery  close  by.  Santa  Croce 
— ^that  venerable  church  where  repose  the  ashes  of  Michael  Angelo, 
Galileo,  and  Alfieri,  and  the  noblest  monument  of  modem  times  is 
reared  to  the  memory  of  Dante — Santa  Croce  wants  an  entrance.  San 
Lorenzo  and  the  Medicean  Chapel,  with  its  marbles  and  rich  stones,  and 
great  dome  vieing  with  the  cathedral,,  is  in  no  part  completed.  The 
works  of  Michael  Angelo  that  adorn  its  walls  are  in  the  same  condition  ; 
mere  sketches  of  what  they  were  to  be — all  unfinished. 

But  we  won't  tdk  of  the  churches  now,  but  turn  towards  that  delicious 
old  mediaeval  Ponte  Vecchio,  covered,  like  old  London-bridge,  with 
small  shops,  and  surmounted  by  a  long  passage,  tiled  at  the  top,  and 
pierced  by  windows,  leading  from  the  Uffigi,  with  its  Medicean  Venus 
and  all  its  other  fabled  treasures,  to  the  Pitti  palace,  the  residence  of  the 
grand  duke,  boasting  a  rival  collection  almost  as  rich  and  rare — ^those 
Raphaels,  those  Murillos,  those  Titians ! 

Everybody  who  ever  passed  a  day  in  Florence  knows  the  Ponte  Vecchio 
and  its  tempting  jewellers'  shops  ranged  on  either  side  of  the  street — 
such  places  of  sweet  temptation !  Bracelets  fit  for  a  princess — ^brooches 
worthy  to  clasp  the  girdle  of  a  sultana — studs  that  might  confine  the 
transparent  muslin  on  a  Guiccioli's  bosom !  What  a  display  there  always 
is  on  that  dear  old  Ponte  Vecchio.  They  never  seem  to  sell  anything,  or 
their  stores  are  legion,  for  the  treasures  are  like  the  widow's  cruise — ever 
undiminished. 

Crowds  are  leaning  over  the  parapets,  gazing  at  the  swollen  river,  and 
speculating  on  all  the  mischief  it  will  do,  as  it  rolls  by  in  turbid,  angry 
waves,  darkened  by  lines  of  tremendous  currents  at  either  side.  Above, 
to  the  left,  is  the  beautifully-situated  church  of  San  Miniato,  crowning 
its  graceful  hill,  enveloped  like  a  flower  amid  large  leaves  by  a  grove  of 
dark  cypress-trees,  whose  tall  stems  rise  towards  the  deep  blue  sky.  A 
perfect  emerald  setting  to  the  venerable  old  church  of  black  and  white 
marble  is  that  cypress-grove  and  long  avenue  shooting  up  the  hill-side  to 
the  great  portico.  Beyond  are  the  blue  hills,  dotted  with  villas  and 
casinos,  a  shade  fainter  in  colour  than  their  neighbour  the  sky,  with 
which  they  blend  in  one  sweet  harmonious  whole  under  the  mellowing 
influence  of  the  bright  sunshine. 

On  the  other  side,  at  a  little  distance,  the  elegant  bridge  of  the 
Trinita  spans  the  river,  which  widens  considerably  below  it,  and  stretching 
along  in  a  graceful  bend  displays  the  deep  woody  shades  of  the  Cascine, 
now  just  tinted  with  the  ruddy  hue$  of  autumn,  deepening  the  tints  of 
the  branches  that  overhang  and  dip  into  the  yellow  Amo. 

Those  Cascine  so  redolent  of  gossip,  where  every  leaf  might,  if  audible, 
tell  some  separate  tale,  and  every  branch  of  those  old  elms  relate  a  per- 

2g2 

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444  Gossip  from  Florence. 

feet  eoropendium  of  seandal — where  so  many  characters  are  lost  and  so 
few  won — ^where  beauty  and  not  idrtue — ^Venus  rather  than  Diana — has 
long  reigned, — how  beautiful  they  look  as  I  lean  over  the  bridge,  gazing 
at  their  lengthening  lines  of  forest  scenery,  with  the  light  graceful  sus- 
pension-bridge marking  the  entrance  to  this  mysterious  and  fatal  wood — 
tis  dangerous  as  the  gardens  of  Armida,  and  scarcely  less  beautiful 
Bordered  by  the  river,  edged  with  deep  shady  avenues,  impenetrable 
thickets,  broad  grassy  spaces,  and  pretty  central  square,  where  the  gay 
heart  of  Florence  palpitates  in  audible  pulsations — of  faultless  drs^, 
unexceptionable  dog-carts,  g^y  equipages,  dashing  chasseurs,  brilliant 
britschkas,  gay  cavaliers,  elegant  Amazons,  forming  an  ensemble  infinitely 
more  sprightly,  picturesque,  and  enchanting  than  our  old  jog-trot  Hyde 
Park,  where  people  drive  round  and  round  with  all  the  solemnity  and 
melancholy  of  criminals  undergoing  punishment  on  a  treadmill. 

Nothing  interrupts  the  gay  throng  at  the  Cascine  unless  the  grand 
duke  and  duchess  make  their  appearance  in  an  open  carriage,  which  they 
do  nearly  every  day  when  at  the  Pitti  Palace.  Then  there  is  a  pause 
and  a  hush,  and  people  take  off  their  hats  and  look  askance  at  the  sove- 
reign, who  is  quite  hated  by  his  subjects  since  he  has  imported  1500  Aus- 
trian troops  to  keep  himself  firmly  seated  on  the  throne,  and  g^ven  up  to 
them  as  a  barrack  the  superb  palace  of  Poggio  Reale.  Gavazzi's  trial  has 
done  him  no  good  in  every  one's  opinion,  for  imprisoning  the  poor  man 
until  he  was  half  dead,  and  then  letting  him  go  by  way  of  an  act  of  mercy 
when  he  had  never  done  any  harm  at  all.  roor  Gravazzi !  no  one  could 
ever  forget  his  face  of  suffering  as  he  appeared  at  the  trial  and  pleaded 
bis  own  cause  with  such  consummate  eloquence  and  tact.  The  late 
affair  of  Miss  Cunninghame,  who  was  arrested  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  has 
been  thoroughly  unpopular.  She  was  denounced  at  the  English  church 
there,  being  pointed  out  by  the  contadina  to  whom  she  gave  some  Italian 
tracts  while  attending  divine  service.  The  very  priests  at  the  Baths 
cried  shame;  but  she  was  taken  off,  ill  and  alone,  to  the  prisons  at  Lucca, 
and  confined  in  Rosa  Madiai's  cell !  Spite  of  the  illustrious  Leopold,  she 
is  now  free;  and  he  may  bite  his  nuls  in  impotent  rage  at  his  failure  in 
oppressing  British  subjects!  To  be  sure,  he  is  the  most  hideous  man  one 
ever  beheld :  his  face,  the  index  of  his  mind,  is  overgrown  wiUi  grey 
hair,  something  after  the  fashion  of  a  white  polar  bear.> 

The  Grand  Duchess  Antonina  of  Naples  b  a  handsome,  buxom, 
smiling  dame,  who  looks  as  if  she  fed  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  and  enjoyed 
it ;  a  striking  contrast  to  her  consort,  the  lugubrious  Leopold,  weU  be- 
named  the  Tuscan  Morpheus.  Their  carriage  is  generally  followed  by 
t>ne  or  two  others  filled  with  fiftt,  chubby  princes  and  princesses,  and  still 
fatter  ladies  in  wdting.  Indeed,  the  whole  court,  with  the  exception  of 
the  grand  duke,  are  as  jolly  and  convivial-looking  a  circle  as  can  well  be 
conceived. 

As  to  remaining  long  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio — "  in  meditating  musm? 
rapf* — ^the  thing  is  impossible ;  such  a  crowd  perpetually  pushes  and 
elbows  one,  to  say  nothing  of  being  momentarily  run  over  by  the  baroc- 
cios  and  their  peasant  dnvers,  who  dash  along  regardless  even  of  the 
Austrian  officers  who  are  lounging  about  the  shops — which  is  being  veiy 
i>old  indeed.      Then  there  are  Sie  voUures  de  place,  swarming  with 


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Gossip  from  Florence.  445- 

strangers,  all  bound  to  the  gallery  of  the  Pitti,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river,  the  English  all  distinguished  by  their  red-bound  Murray's  **  Guide," 
become  quite  a  national  badge,  yclept  "  the  Englishman's  Bible."  There, 
too,  are  the  ambulating  vendors  of  cakes  and  roasted  chestnuts,  all  scream- 
ing, shouting,  cursing,  and  gesticulating  in  an  animated  chorus  perfectly 
meridional  in  passion  and  vehemence. 

Just  as  I  tium  from  contemplating  the  enchanting  distance,  I  am  stopped. 
"  Signora,  comanda,  un  mayetto,"  says  in  a  melodious  voice  a  Fiorinaja, 
or  flower-girl,  her  handsome  face  and  bright  eyes  turned  towards 
me  with  a  beseeching  look,  an  immense  flapping  Leghorn  hat  placed  on 
the  back  of  her  head,  her  hair  beautifully  braided,  with  long  gold  ear- 
rings dangling  from  her  ears,  and  a  large  cross  suspended  round  her 
neck — "comanda,  signora,"  she  repeats,  "vedi  che  son  belli,  ne  vuole?" 
as  she  uncovers  her  basket  and  displays  the  treasures  it  contains.  What- 
lovely  flowers !  Huge  bouquets  of  carnations,  gaudy  in  varied  tints,^ 
mixed  with  heliotrope  and  geranium  leaves  in  tl^  most  artistic  fashion; 
sprigs  of  orange-flowers  and  myrtle  leaves;  piles  of  magnificent  tuberoses, 
scenting  the  air  with  overpowering  perfume  ;  hanzias  lying  beside  them, 
contrasting  their  waxy  blossoms  with  the  marble  whiteness  of  the  graceful 
lily-form  of  the  tuberose.  Then  the  roses,  the  lovely  roses  of  every  colour,, 
every  shade  from  white  to  red,  from  red  to  yellow  and  buflp.  I  declare  I 
must  buy  them  all.  To  think  we  are  in  the  month  of  November  makes 
them  all  the  sweeter,  and  that  the  poor  girl  will  gladly  make  over  to  me 
ber  whole  morning's  stock  in  trade,  enough  to  perfume  an  entire  garden, 
for  about  two  shillings !  O  Italy,  thou  art  a  glorious  land !  Well  might 
old  Sam  Rogers,  in  his  ecstasy  at  finding  himself  on  the  classical  side  of 
the  Alps,  exclaim,  "  How  beautiful  thou  art !"  for  every  creature  who 
ever  followed  in  his  footsteps  has  echoed  the  same  sentiment  from  thdr 
very  souls! 

But  I  must  not  forget  the  fruit  in  my  rhapsodies  about  the  flowers ; 
and  to  fill  up  the  sum  of  your  discontent,  good  Mr.  Editor,  which  I  see 
increasing  with  every  line  I  write,  "  that  you,  too,  are  not  in  Arcadia," 
I  must  give  you  a  word  on  that  subject.  On  the  bridges  in  the  Loggie, 
or  arched-covered  spaces  in  the  various  markets,  at  the  comer  of  every 
street,  behold  choice  altars  raised  to  the  fair  Pomona,  loaded  with  exqui- 
site grapes,  as  luscious  as  ever  grew  on  the  Thessalian  plains,  figs,  peaches,, 
fine  pears,  apples,  medlars,  and  numbers  of  other  kind  of  fhiit  quite 
strange  to  me.  *'  And  all,"  as  Hamlet  says,  "  for  nothing," — yes,  abso- 
lutely nothing. 

When  in  the  morning  I  wend  my  way  to  the  Piazza  Gran  Duca, 
which  I  never  enter  without  a  feeling  of  awe  as  I  glance  at  the  mighty 
monuments  around — Michael  Angeio's  David,  so  imposing  in  its  grand 
simplicity,  unlike  the  usual  anatomical  ^'  poses"  the  great  artist  usually 
preferred.  Beside  it  the  exquisite  bronze  statue  of  Perseus  holding  Me- 
dusa's head,  just  severed  from  the  body  aloft,  blood  streaming  from  the 
neck,  which  statue  proves  what  a  rival  to  Michael  Angelo  would  Cellini 
have  been  had  he  followed  the  natural  bent  of  his  genius,  instead  of  carv- 
ing cups  and  goblets  for  the  imperious  Grand  Duchess  Eleanor,  of  whom^ 
in  his  memoirs  he  so  bitterly  complains ;  this,  his  solitary  statue,  being 
an  earnest  of  the  finished  execution  and  original  design  of  which  he  wa& 
capable.      Then  there  is  his  great  rival  Bandinelli's  Hercules,  keeping 

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446  Gossip  from  Florence. 

^trard  with  the  Dayid  over  the  entrance  to  the  huge  frowning  palazzo 
itself,  covered  with  escutcheons,  at  once  the  fortress  and  die  residence  of 
the  mighty  Medicean  line,  with  its  great  halls,  and  cortiles,  and  frescos, 
such  a  charming  old  medisBval  specimen,  each  room  suggesting  some 
historical  reminiscence.  In  a  comer  of  the  piazza,  hard  hy  the  palace,  is 
the  great  foimtain,  Dei  Giganti,  about  which  Cellini  nearly  broke  his 
heart,  when  the  imperious  Eleanor  and  her  husband  Cosimo,  the  first 
grand  duke,  gave  the  commission  to  Ammanati,  and  rejected  his  own 
desig^.  In  this  piazza  was  Savonarola  burnt;  and  here,  on  the  1st  of 
May,  some  who  stUI  believe  the  doctrines  he  preached,  spread  violets  on  the 
pavement  in  memory  of  his  death;  but  that  must  be  done  very  eariy  in 
the  morning  indeed,  for  fear  of  the  Austrian  soldiers. 

But  how  I  am  running.  I  began  about  the  fruit,  and  somehow  or 
other  have  wandered  to  Savonarola.  When,  as  I  was  saying — when  in 
the  morning  I  cross  this  fabled  region,  the  Gran  Piazza,  in  my  way 
to  the  Distribuzione  delle  Corrispondenze  (the  pompous  name  given  to 
the  post-office  in  the  high-sounding  Italian),  occupying  one  entire  side  of 
the  square,  with  its  sloping  roof  and  shady  curtains,  under  which  *^  the 
foresters,"  bent  on  the  same  errand  as  myself,  daily  congr^^ate,  and  the 
Saxon  tongue  is  heard  in  every  dialect — I  always  return  laden,  if  not 
with  letters,  at  least  with  fruit,  for  which  indiscretion  I  am  diumally 
reprimanded  by  papa,  who  sternly  inquires  ^*  why  I  load  myself  like  a 
fisicchino." 

Now,  Mr.  Editor,  methinks  at  this  distance  I  hear  you  grumbling — 
although  to  be  sure  the  Apennines,  and  the  Alps,  and  the  Mediterranean, 
all  France,  and  the  horrid  Channel,  "  that  dreary  sea  that  flows  between" 
— divides  us.  Still  editors'  voices  are  loud  and  awful,  like  the  muffled 
roar  of  Etna  in  its  present  active  state — and  they  reach  a  prodigious  way, 
too — so  I  really  quite  fancy  I  hear  you  saying,  "  What  is  the  use  of  all 
this  trash  to  me  ?  What  do  I  care  for  all  this  jargon  about  glorious 
sunshine,  jewellers'  shops,  flowers,  roses,  lovely  Italy,  and  the  fruit? 
Confound  the  fruit !  I  don't  eat  fruit.  I  am  afraid  of  it  in  these  chol^a 
times.  What  does  the  girl  mean  by  all  this  rambling  ?  She  promises 
me  news  from  Florence,  and  then  gives  me  this  rhodomontade  instead. 
I  want  to  hear  about. the  opera  society,  the  winter  visitors — that  is  what 
I  bargained  for." 

Softly,  now — softly,  Mr.  Editor;  don't  be  angry ;  you  shall  have  it  all, 
only  be  patient.  I  have  given  you  the  outward  and  visible  of  our  lovely 
city  at  the  beginning  of  winter,  and  having  done  so,  proceed  to  what  is 
going  on  amcmg  those  modern  Sybarites — its  inhabitants.  First,  let  me 
mention,  it  is  not  likely  to  be  a  brilliant  season,  as  people  are  all  afraid  of 
war,  and  Florence,  with  that  stupid  old  grand  duke,  with  his  popish  pre- 
judices and  his  Austrians,  would  not  be,  under  those  circunistances,  quite 
agreeable.  Rome  is  the  place  for  safety — Rome,  garrisoned  by  our  dear 
brothers  the  French.  They  must  take  care  of  the  poor  Pope,  and  so  the 
English  will  come  in  for  their  chivalrous  protection.  Two  operas  are, 
however,  open,  and  various  minor  theatres.  ^'  Rigoletto"  has  had  a  pro- 
digious run,  and  is  even  now  drawing  immense  houses  at  a  small  theatre. 
It. is  the  sweetest,  most  entrainante  music  ever  written,  and  full  of  the 
finest  dramatic  situations  ;  with  the  exception  of  "  Macbeth,"  decidedly 
Vferdi's  latest  chef-d'omvre.    Whenever  that  song,  "  La  donna  e  mobile" 

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Gossip  from  Florence^  447 

is  «iii^  a  perfect yf^rore  is  inyariably  created.  If  the  English  have  anj 
mnsiecd  souk  lef^  their  insane  prejudice  against  modern  Italian  music 
will  yield  to  the  sparkling  charm  of  this  fasdnating  opera. 

All  the  world  lately  has  been  ballet  mad,  for  and  because  of  a  certain 
ycnzng  American  danseuse,  a  Miss  May  wood  by  name,  who  has  literally 
taken  the  city  of  the  Medici  by  storm— -«a  feat  many  a  great  commander 
baa  failed  in  effecting.  She  certainly  has  the  merit  of  great  originality, 
being  imlike  Ferraris,  Carlotta  Grisi,  or  Cerito,  and  yet  combining  many 
perfections  peculiar  to  them.  Her  style  is  bold,  daring,  and  impassioned, 
appealing  more  to  the  senses  than  aspiring  to  the  poetry  of  motion,  which 
I  presmne  is  the  reason  the  Florentines  are  so  wild  about  her.  In  face 
she  is  far  from  pretty ;  her  pantomime  is  marvellously  graphic  and  ex- 
pressive, and  would  be  remarkable  even  for  a  Neapolitan ;  how  American 
limbs  and  features  can  ever  have  acquired  such  speaking  eloquence  is 
quite  an  enigma.  The  roaring  and  shouting  when  she  appears  attitudi- 
nising at  the  back  of  the  stage,  seen  between  parting  clouds  of  misty 
obscurity,  are  really  deafening,  and  the  recals,  and  the  bouquets,  and  the 
garlands  at  the  conclusion,  positively  wearisome.  The  ballet,  well  put  on 
the  stage,  at  the  Pergola,  is  the  story  of  Faust,  with  alterations— «told  as 
the  dream  of  an  old  man,  who,  in  a  series  of  effective  tableaux,  has 
his  renowned  life  represented  to  him  by  the  wand  of  Mephistophiles, 
to  whom  he  afterwards  sells  himself  in  order  to  obtain  the  invigo- 
rating elixir  vitae,  and  realise  the  agreeable  dream.  This  same  wicked 
Mephistophiles  (who  in  his  red  cloak,  outstretched  arms,  and  wonderful 
contortions  of  countenance,  reminds  one  of  Formes,  as  Beortrand,  in 
^^EobrartleDiable")  induces  Margaret,  by  mistake,  to'poison  her  mother, 
by  which  means  he  acquires  infernal  rights  over  her  soul. 

The  acting  of  the  Maywood,  in  the  scene  where  she  discovers  what 
she  has  done,  is  really  something  not  to  be  forgotten — a  union  of 
dancing  and  pantomime,  horrific  in  its  vivid  and  picturesque  passion, 
altogether  dis^^ying  powers  unrivalled  by  any  other  liidng  dancer. 
In  ^e  last  scene  she  and  the  respectable  Dr.  Faustus  are  united  in  the 
lower  regions,  after  the  audience  have  witnessed  her  decapitation  on 
terra  firma  for  the  murder  of  her  mother.  An  infernal  dance  takes 
place,  which  is  very  effective,  and  forms  a  spirited  ^»aZe ;  but  is  not  to 
be  compared  in  suggestive  expression  and  grace  to  a  ''  pas  de  fascination" 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  ballet,  when  she  solicits  and  obtains  the  love  of 
the  venerable  doctor,  not  yet  vivified  into  the  gay  young  cavalier,  by  a 
series  of  attitudes  and  t&ars  deforce^  trenching  on  the  extremest  confines 
of  the  aUowable,  executed  with  a  passionate  voluptuousness  all  her  own. 

I  fancy  if  she  comes  to  London  the  Lord  Chamberlain  will  oblige  the 
young  lady  to  reform  altogether,  or  certainly  modify  her  style,  as  also  to 
wear  more  ample  clothing,  before  she  displays  her  charms  to  the  sternly 
moral  subjects  of  Queen  Victoria.  These  little  omissions  and  commis- 
sions may  pass  current  in  the  modem  Pompeii,  but  will  hardly  do  at  home, 
Mr.  Editor,  where,  at  least,  "  people  assume  a  virtue  if  they  have  it  not." 
So  much  for  Miss  Maywood,  who  is  certainly  a  great  fact  in  her  depart- 
ment. It  is  an  odd  jumble  that  Donizetti's  version  of  the  sufferings  of 
the  early  Christians,  in  the  opera  of  "  Poluito,"  should  preface  Miss  May- 
wood's  attitudinisings ;   but  so   it  is,   and  the  same  evening  beholds 


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448  Gompfrom  Florence. 

that  personage  destroying  the  altars  of  the  £Eilse  gods,  and  bong 
burnt  alive  in  consequence,  while  ovatbns  are  afterwa^  offered  by  an 
unreflecting  public  to  the  Pathian  Yenui,  in  the  person  of  her  worthy 
delegate  the  young  American.  The  music  is  solemn,  and  somewhat 
lugubrious — ^the  story  dull — there  is  no  love,  and  little  hate.  Poluito,  in 
the  grand  scena,  knocks  down  a  pasteboard  tripod,  and  puts  out  six 
tin  censers  filled  with  lighted  tow,  placed  in  the  centre  of  a  very  seedy- 
looking  temple ;  after  performing  which  feat^  he  sings  a  solo  to  the  priest 
of  Jupiter,  who  is  present,  and  listens  to  his  roulades  with  an  attention 
perfectly  polite  and  gentlemanly.  A  Roman  govemor  flourishes  about 
in  gold  boots  and  a  red  toga,  and  Paulina,  the  heroine,  is  finally  led  off 
to  execution  in  company  with  the  obstreperous  Christian,  a  very  Roman 
Chartist,  in  a  very  unbecoming  kind  of  brown  bombazine  bathing ,  dress. 
The  said  lady  rejoices  in  the  name  of  Bendazzi  in  her  normal  state,  and 
is  nothing  extraordinary ;  but  as  Italians  always  act  well,  one  never  has 
the  infliction  of  seeing  the  sticks  that  disgrace  the  English  stage.  Why 
don't  they  have  good  modem  Italian  operas  in  London,  instead  of  that 
everlasting  "  Lucia,"  and  sickly  "  Somnambula,"  which  year  aflter  year  are 
repeated,  and  give  one  the  notion  there  is  no  new  music  existing  ?  Whereas, 
in  Italy,  there  is  a  never-ending  change  and  novelty. 

Beaucarde  has  been  singing  quite  lately  at  the  Pergola,  too,  in  the 
"Favorita."  His  voice  is  charming — a  real  tenore  robusto,  and  yet 
sweet  and  malleable  as  a  flute ;  very  superior  in  my  mind  to  Mario,  who 
now  generally  angs  but  one  song  well  in  a  whole  opera.  Apropos  of 
Mario,  he  has  been  in  Florence,  looking  as  much  like  a  fine  Titian  as 
ever ;  his  indeed  being  one  of  those  classically  beautiful  countenances, 
partakmg  largely  of  that  antique  type  perpetuated  by  the  great  masters. 
In  Italy,  Mario  ceases  to  be  a  stage  actor,  and  is  restored  to  his  proper 
sphere,  being  in  rank  a  duke,  son  of  a  former  governor  of  Nice,  and,  as 
such,  is  treated  with  the  highest  distinction.  Florence  has  been  reioicing 
over  him  as  the  man  she  ^^  delighteth  to  honour,"  particularly  as  he  has 
flattered  the  vanity  of  the  city  by  purchasing  a  splendid  villa,  formerly 
occupied  by  Mr.  Vansittart,  just  out  of  the  Porta  San  Gallo,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  beautiful  orange-terraced  hill  of  Fiesole,  crowned  as  with 
a  mural  diadem  by  the  ancient  Etruscan  capitoL 

Although  Mario's  visits  are  generally  brie^  some  splendid  feies  were 
given  in  his  honour.     I  was  present  at  one  given  at .  our  great  English 

banker's,  Baron  F ,  so  well  known  and  esteemed  as  the  Torlonia  of 

Florence.  The  whole  of  the  superb  apartments  of  the  Palazzo  Covoni 
were  thrown  open  to  the  beau  monde,  who  came  in  shoals,  all  hoping 
and  expecting  to  hear  Mario  sing,  which,  strange  to  say,  he  never  has 
yet  done  in  Italy.  The  great  tenore  was  too  much  fatigued  by  a  rapid 
journey  to  gratify  the  company ;  and,  although  he  looked  blooming  with 
health  and  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  kept  provokingly  hovering  about 
the  piano,  not  one  note  did  we  hear  of  his  honey-like  voice.  The  Pope's 
nuncio  at  the  Tuscan  court,  after  being  introduced  to  him,  added  hb  soli- 
citations to  the  others,  but  was  alike  refused. 

This  same  nuncio  amused  me  extremely ;  he  was  the  veriest  eccleaastical 
dandy  I  ever  beheld  ;  nothing  could  exceed  the  finical  neatness  and  ele- 
gance of  his  costume,  and  the  evident  satisfaction  with  which  he  displayed 


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Crmxtpfrom  Floretice.  449 

the  beauties  of  lus  dress  and  person.  As  to  anything  reverend  or  sacred 
ahout  him,  one  might  as  well  have  looked  for  clerical  gravity  in  poor  Lord 
Cantalupe.  His  comitenance  was  spirituel  and  animated,  with  fine  large 
speakmg  eyes,  of  which  he  made  good  use.  He  was  dressed  in  hlack^ 
with  a  light  silk  mantle  of  the  same  colour,  similar  in  shape  to  those 
always  worn  by  the  priesthood.  The  front  of  his  shirt  was  covered  with 
violet  silk,  his  stockings  were  of  the  same  colour,  and  the  nattiest, 
tiniest  little  feet,  of  which  he  appeared  not  a  little  vain,  were  encased  in 
delicate  shoes  with  large  buckles.  In  his  hand  he  carried  his  hat  of  the 
regular  padre  form,  only  garlanded  by  a  crimson  cord  and  tassels.  A 
more  dapper,  lively,  talkative  little  gentleman,  somewhere  on  the  borders 
of  forty,  I  never  had  the  pleasure  of  encountering.  He  talked  to  every 
one,  specially  to  some  recent  English  converts,  with  g^at  empressementy 
and  lapped  about  the  rooms,  chatting  by  turns  in  French  and  Italian 
with  equal  fluency,  like  an  emancipated  schoolboy.  He  was  particularly 
disappointed  that  Mario  would  not  sing,  and  seemed  very  curious  about 
his  private  history,  asking  ^^If  he  were  married  f*  with  the  utmost 
naivete.  And  so  the  chirruping  little  coxcomb  is  one  of  the  Sacred  Col- 
lege, a  reverend  father  in  God,  and  possibly  may  hve  to  be  his  Holiness 
and  have  his  toe  kissed  !  O  misericordia !  I  am  glad  I  am  a  Protestant. 
He  has  at  least  the  merit  of  exacting  none  of  the  servility  insisted  on 
by  our  own  nuncio,  Cardinal  Wiseman,  who  compels  people  to  kiss  his 
hands  and'  bow  down  before  him,  as  if  he  were  the  great  graven  image 
Nebuchadnezzar  the  King  had  set  up. 

Although  Mario  did  not  sing,  there  was  some  excellent  amateur  music. 
Miss  H ,  a  young  English  lady,  sang,  with  an  execution  and  sweet- 
ness quite  astonishing,  the  most  complicated  soprano  music,  in  a  style  alto- 
gether Italian,  but  with  a  graceful  modesty  essentially  English.  She  was 
supported  by  Prince  Guiseppe  Poniatowski,  who  has  a  flne  barytone 
voice,  and  sings  like  a  perfect  musician.  Other  performers  there  were 
also,  whose  names  I  did  not  catch. 

Among  the  company  were  many  celebrities.  The  clever,  witty  Lever, 
who  has  long  taken  up  his  abode  in  Florence,  with  his  pretty  wife  and 
handsome  daughter,  who  looks  so  thoroughly  Venetian,  with  her  rich 
auburn  hair,  fine  radiant  complexion,  and  sparkling  black  eyes,  one  could 
swear  she  had  sat  for  a  model  to  Gior^one  or  Paolo  Veronese,  and  that 
one  had  seen  her  picture  twenty  times  in  the  galleries  of  Venice.  Mrs. 
Trollope  was  playing  whist  in  a  comer  in  stem  and  rigid  silence, 
looking  as  interested  in  her  game  as  if  she  had  never  handled  aught  but 
cards  all  her  life.  If  you  had  been  there,  Mr.  Editor,  she  \^ould,  I  am 
certain,  have  been  more  gracious  to  you;  but,  as  it  was,  all  the  company 
seemed  beneath  her  attention,  and  she  heeded  no  one,  and  looked  furiou^ 
if  interrupted. 

The  celebrated  Lady  was  seated  on  an  ottoman  in  the  centre 

of  the  largest  room,  surrounded  by  a  court  of  gentlemen,  all  anxious  to 
gain  a  word,  a  look,  a  smile  from  this  fair  ruler  of  the  Florentine  beau 
monde.  She  is  no  longer  young,  but  her  countenance  possesses  that  true 
type  of  English  aristocratic  beauty  which  may  almost  defy  age,  like  the 

Countess  of  J ^y,  or  the  Duchess  of  S ,  and  she  will  still  bear  off 

the  palm,  even  when  younger  and  fresher  beauties,  in  all  the  zenith  of 

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450  Tale$  ^f  my  Dragwmmn.^ 

tbeir  charms,  aie  present.  Delicately  fak,  with  mekiiig  yet  lirely  bliie 
eyes,  the  most  silky  hair,  and  a  neck  and  arms  and  shoulders  of  waxy 
smoothness,  there  is  a  high-bred  charm  about  her  maanw  and  address 
quite  irresistible.  She  condescends  so  gracefully,  none  could  have  the 
heart  to  dispute  her  sovereignty ;  and  when  she  intends  to  please,  were 
it  a  CkiUban  she  is  certain  of  success,  for  who  could  resist  that  ang^l  smile 
and  sweet  though  dignified  address  ?  One  could  hardly  believe  that  this 
delicate  creature  is  a  great  smoker,  and  nightly  rec^ves  a  large  circle  of 
gentlemen  expressly  for  the  purpose  of  indulging  in  the  noxious  weed ; 
yet  such  is  the  case,  and  that  miely-formed  mouth  is  but  too  ofi;ea  on 
those  occasions  disfigured  by  a  cigar. 

But  she  is  just  one  of  those  privileged  persons  who  may  do  what  they 
please  and  stUl  be  charming  and  irresistible,  as  is  proved  by  the  absokite 
sway  the  fair  lady  exercises  over  all  the  world  here.  The  men  especially 
are  her  abject  slaves,  and  her  nightly  reunions  are  literally  social  parlia- 
ments, where  measures  and  resolutions  are  proposed  and*  discussed  as  to 
what  is — or  is  not  to  be — and  who  is,  or  who  is  not,  to  be  received  within 
the  city  over  which  the  fitir  sultana  reigns.  Long  may  she  live  to  exer- 
cise her  gentle  sway,  enforced  by  the  eloquent  expression  of  those  match- 
less eyes — as  absolute  as  the  veriest  tyranny  of  the  middle  ages  I 

But  it  is  growing  late,  good  Mr.  Editor,  and  we  mi»t  take  our  leave 
of  the  brilliant  circle  at  the  Palazzo  Covoni,  who  will  talk  and  sing,  and 
fan  themselves,  and  eat  ices,  fiu;  too  late  into  the  night  for  your  taste.  I 
have,  too,  exhausted  all  my  present  news,  and  must  bid  you  farewdl ! 

FlOB£RTIA. 


TALES  OF  MY  DRAGOMAN. 

No.  III. 

how  muftipiz  b08e  to  gbeatne8s. 

By  Basil  Mat. 

Now,  there  v^as  in  a  certain  Turkish  province  a  pacha  much  beloved  of 
the  people  for  his  condescension  and  impartiality.  Daily,  almost,  accom- 
panied by  his  officers  of  state,  he  visited  the  bazaars  and  stalls,  and 
though  not  always  a  purchaser,  he  invariably  addressed  some  pleasing 
remark  to  the  dealers.  A  great  favourite  of  his  was  a  certain  Muftifiz,  a 
jeweller,  whose  shrewdness  had  attracted  his  notice. 

"  By  Bruin's  ultimatum !"  exclaimed  the  pacha,  "  a  rare  brooch,  a  very 
rare  brooch;  and  thou  say  est,  Muiibifiz,  'tis  genuine  tribute  gold ;  that 
these  bright  sparkling  gems  symbolise  the  frankness  and  liberality  of  the 
North  Land  Gaiour.  By  Muckenough's  passport,  I  like  the  sllegory. 
What  say  the  faithful  servants  of  the  Prophet  V*  he  inquired,  turning  to 
his  officers,  who  had  gathered  round  him  at  his  first  words. 

There  was  the  kiaya,  a  host  in  himself.  There  was  Achmet  Benali, 
Achmet  Ali  and  Bibi ;  severally,  the  grand  master  of  the  mules  and 
whipper-in  in  ordinary  to  the  seraglio,  the  master  of  the  pantaloons  and 


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How  Muflifiz  rose  ta  Greatness.  451 

dispenser  in  extraor&iary  of  otto  of  rosee^  tl^  commander«'iB-ohie£fof 
all  the  forces. 

Various  were,  the  ejaculations  of  astonishment  and  delight  which  pro- 
ceeded from  these  t  great  men  on  beheading  this  wonderful  combination 
of  nature  and  art. 

The  kiaya  looked  greedy,  Achmet'  Benali  was  wistful,  Achmet  All 
^ave  a  glance  at  his  person,  and  Bibi  swore  by  the  fumes  of  his  chibouk. 

^'  Such  an  appropriate  trinket  must  not  belong  to  any  other  but  ota:* 
self,"  said  the  pacha ;  '<  friend  Mdtifiz,  let  it  be  carefully  packed  and  sent 
to  the  palace/' 

*'  Your  highness's  will  be  done,*'  answered  Mufdfiz,  bowing  gradously, 
and  with  satisfaction  beaming  on  his  countenance  he  laid  the  jewel  on 
one  side.  "  His  faithful  slave,*'  he  continued,  "  prays  his  highness  will 
look  at  these  wares,"  and  he  directed  the  attention  of  the  pacha  and  his  at* 
tendants  to  the  contents  of  a  riiahc^^y-case,  in  which  was  a  variety  of 
articles,  from  a  gold  Geneva  watch  to  a  silver  Sheffield  toothpick. 

Each  bot^ht  something.  The  pacha  a  signet  ring,  the  kiaya  a  pair  of 
earrings,  the  master  of  the  mules  a  jockey-cap  and  whip  coat-studs,  the 
dispenser  in  extracHrdinary  of  otto  of  roses  a  scent  bottle,  and  Bibi  a  paper* 
kn^e  made  like  a  dagger. 

Whilst  so  engaged,  a  fakir,  or  reli^ous  mendicsmt,  happened  to  pass, 
and  seeing  the  illustrious  company  in  the  jeweller's  shop,  stepped  in  and 
solicited  alms,  and  Bibi,  who  was  also  almoner,  put  some  loose  coins  in  a 
piece  of  paper  and  handed  them  to  him. 

"  The  spirit  of  the  true  Prophet  be  vnth  you,"  said  the  beggar,  and 
disappeared. 

The  padia  and  his  attendants  had  been  gone  about  ten  minutes,  and 
were  about  to  enter  into  one  of  the  bazaars,  when  Mufbifiz,  breathless, 
pale,  and  greatly  agitated,  presented  himself  before  the  pacha,  and  begged 
he  would  grant  him  a  few  moments  in  private.  The  pacha,  who  per- 
ceived his  favourite's  scsured  looks,  and  saw  at  a  glance  l^at  some  matter 
of  importance  alone  could  so  disturb  his  usual  equanimity,  bid  his  officers 
retire  to  a  distance  whilst  he  conversed  with  him. 

^'Highness,"  said  Mufdfiz,  and  he  stammered  as  he  spoke,  ''the 
brooch  is  gone." 

"  Gone — ^the  brooch  gone — where  ?" 

**  I  know  not,  highness.  I  laid  it  on  one  side  whilst  you  inspected  my 
other  wares ;  no  one  has  been  into  my  shop  since,  and  now  I  cannot  lay 
hands  on  it.     Allah  !  Allah!  be  merciful,  or  his  servant  is  lost." 

''  Calm  thyself,  friend  Muftifiz,"  ssdd  the  pacha  ;  and  calling  to  his  at- 
tendaaxts,  he  bade  them  retrace  their  steps  to  the  jeweller's. 

Nothing  but  looks  occurred,  not  a  single  word  was  spoken,  for  every 
one  felt  there  was  something  unusual  had  happened. 

''  Faithful  and  honest  servants,"  said  the  pacha,  as  soon  as  they  were 
all  in,  and  the  door  was  closed,  ''  somebody  has  prigged  a  brooch.  It 
isn't  me,  here's  tl^  proof;"  and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  pacha 
turned  out  the  pockets  of  his  pantaloon,  and  held  them  out  by  the  ends 
between  his  forefinger  and  thumb.  This  was  both  an  example  and  a 
command. 

The  kiaya  turned   out  his  pockets  and  slipped  off  his  pantalooa; 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


462  Taku  of  my  Dragoman. 

Achmet  Benaii  took  off  pantaloon  and  vest;  Achmet  AH  pantalooo^ 
vest,  and  brodequins ;  ana  Bibi  undressed.  But  no  one  took  off  his 
turban.  The  kiaya  the  pacha  kindly  requested  to  uncover  ;  Benaii  was 
told  to  follow  his  example ;  Ali  was  reminded  that  the  pacha  waited  ; 
and  Bibi  got  a  look.  However,  no  brooch  was  to  be  found,  and 
Muftifiz,  bewildered  and  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  stammered  out  an  apology, 
which  the  pacha  graciously  accepted,  and  placing  a  heavy  purse  upon 
the  counter,  went  away. 

Muftifiz  gave  a  good  hunt  for  the  missing  brooch,  and  dismissed  the 
matter  from  his  mind,  which  he  was  the  more  disposed  to  do  as  the 
pacha  had  contributed  largely  to  the  reparation  of  his  loss  by  the  weU- 
Slled  purse  he  had  left.  Indeed,  tradition  says  that  the  pacha's  partiality 
was  signally  exemplified,  and  Mufdflz's  loss  more  than  compensated. 
Mufiifiz  was  grateful,  but  he  ^regretted  that  so  kind  a  ruler  should  be  a 
victim  to  the  trust  he  reposed  in  others,  for  he  had  no  doubt  in  his  mind 
that  some  one  of  hb  officers  could  have  accounted  for  the  missing  jewel ; 
and  his  suspicions  were  strengthened  when  vague  rumours  reached  ms  ears 
that  other  dealers  had  missed  different  lurticles,  and  at  all  times  on  the  occa- 
sion of  their  marts  being  honoured  by  the  visits  of  the  pacha  and  the  court, 
but  which  losses  were  passed  over  in  silence,  as  it  could  not  be  supposed 
for  an  instant  that  such  august  company  could  know  anything  about  the 
matter.  At  length  these  whispers  taking  the  form  of  accusations,  the 
worthy  Muftifiz  thought  it  would  but  be  doing  his  duty  to  inform  the 
pacha  on  the  subject,  and  this  he  promised  himself  he  would  do  the  very 
next  time  he  honoured  him  ynih  a  visit.  He  had  not  long  to  wait.  The 
pacha  came,  and  as  chance  would  have  it,  unattended,  except  by  an 
eunuch,  who  held  his  mule,  and  half  a  dozen  mamalukes  to  gpiard  his 
august  person. 

^'  Good  day,  friend,"  said  the  pacha. 

Mufbifiz  prostrated  himself. 

'^  Has  our  faithful  servant  a  gold  padlock  and  key  which  will  resist 
the  skilfulest  contrivances  of  the  ablest  lock  picker  ?" 

"  How  happy  is  his  faithful  servant  to  have  it  in  his  power  to  serve 
his  highness,"  said  Muftifiz.  <<  Here  are  locks  and  keys  from  the  reputed 
depositories  of  Chubb,  and  Bramah,  and  Cupid's  forges,  which  wiH 
baffle  the  keenest." 

<^  Ah  !  Muftifiz,"  sighed  his  highness,  whibt  he  selected  several, 
which  he  alternately  tried,  so  as  to  find  one  easy  to  his  hand. 

"  What  sHa  your  highness  ?" 

"  Oh !  that  we  should  find  it  difficult  to  trust  even  those  we  love,"  an- 
swered the  pacha.  ^'  There,  Muftifiz,  I  think  this  one  will  do ;  it  is  small, 
yet  to  all  appearance  beautifully  complicated." 

It  was  the  habit  of  the  pacna  to  indulge  in  long  and  familiar  chats 
with  his  favourite,  and  on  this  occasion  the  latter  soon  found  an  opportunity 
to  allude  to  the  above-mentioned  rumours.  The  pacha  was  much  shocked; 
he  could  scarcely  credit  that  his  faithful  liegemen  had  been  the  victims 
of;  a  system  he  ignored.  In  his  first  impulse  he  would  have  returned  to 
the  palace  immediately,  assembled  his  ministers,  and,  on  pain  of  instant 
bow-strin^ng,  summoned  the  cidprit  to  declare  himself;  but  then  he  re- 
flected that  he  should  be  acting  unjustly  towards  the  innocent,  in  case 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


How  Muf&fiz  rose  to  Greatness.  463 

the  guilty  proved  obstinate,  and  for  a  moment  he  smcerely  regretted  he 
vms  not  himself  pacha,  kiaya,  and  body-diplomatic,  all  in  one. 

"  Allah !  Allah !"  he  exclaimed,  "  who  shall  solve  this  mystery  ?" 

«  That  wiU  I,"  s^d  Muftifiz. 

"  Thou,**  rejoined  the  pacha  ;  "  and  how  ytM  thou  proceed  ?" 

Muftifiz  told  the  pacha  as  much  of  the  line  of  conduct  he  meant  to  pursue 
as  answered  his  purpose,  which  tended  to  obtain  the  pacha's  authorisation 
to  proceed  in  the  matter  exactly  as  his  impulses  should  prompt  him, 
with  a  guarantee  that  whatever  he  did  should  receive  the  pacha's  as- 
sent. 

In  the  course  of  his  investigation,  Muftifiz  discovered  many  secrets 
and  learnt  many  things.  For  instance,  he  learnt  that  the  kiaya  was 
very  friendly,  too  friendly,  perhaps,  with  the  fair  Barbarosa,  his  fellow- 
labourer,  Pupmoud's  Tnfe.  He  knew  exactly  what  jewellery  she  had, 
how  long  she  had  had  it,  and  from  whence  it  came ;  and  recog^nising  hb 
own  wares  which  had  been  legitimately  sold,  though  not  regularly  paid 
for  by  the  kiaya,  he  got  nothing  from  that  quarter.  He  learnt  how 
Achmet  Benah,  as  grand  master  of  the  mules,  and  whif^r-in  in  ordinary 
to  the  seraglio,  had  presumed  upon  his  influence  to  bestow  all  the  vacant 
stidls  on  his  own  fEunily,  and  turned  the  feminine  chit-chat  to  his  personal 
benefit.  He  learnt  how  Achmet  Ali,  as  master  of  the  pantaloons  and 
d^enser  in  extraordinary  of  otto  of  roses,  had  let  out  on  hire  the  sove- 
reign breeches  for  masquerade  nights,  and  spilt  the  perfume  to  destroy 
the  public  scent.  But  what  was  infinitely  more  to  the  purpose,  he  learnt 
that  Bibi  indulged  in  solitary  walks  wmlst  his  fellow-ministers  were  at 
their  clubs,  or  pleasantly  engaged  on  their  own  special  pet  business. 
That  Bibi,  the  son  of  Mars — ^Bibi,  of  all  men — should  take  solitary  walks, 
bore  something  so  strange  on  the  face  of  it,  he  determined  to  watch  him 
closely.  Assuming  the  costume  of  an  Armenian,  and  putting  powder  on 
his  beard  and  hair,  to  make  them  look  grey,  and  placing  a  pair  of  green 
spectacles  on  his  nose,  Muftifiz  took  up  a  position  in  front  of  the  palace. 
Presently,  Bibi  came  out,  twirling  a  cane  round  his  fingers,  and  looking 
very  bold.  It  being  dark,  Muftifiz  pretended  not  to  see,  and  ran  up  vio- 
lently against  him. 

^^  Dog !"  exclaimed  Bibi,  strildng  him  a  severe  blow  across  the  shoulders 
with  his  cane. 

Muftifiz  was  profrise  of  excuses,  but  the  ruse  had  succeeded ;  Bibi  did 
not  recognise  him.  Closely  and  pertinaciously  he  hung  on  his  steps 
that  night,  followed  him  into  the  bazaars,  stopped  with  him  at  the  stalls, 
watched  him  into  different  marts,  but  Bibi  did  nothing  but  what  was 
quite  correct.  Once  or  twice  even,  Muftifiz  noticed  that  he  bestowed 
alms  on  the  fakirs  who  solicited  his  charity ;  and  recognising  in  a  sub- 
sequent application  the  same  fakir  who  had  been  a  previous  recipient, 
he  felt  quite  grieved  that  this  charitable  man  should  be  so  imposed  upon. 
They  had  now  reached  that  quarter  of  the  city  which  no  true  follower  of 
the  Prophet  was  ever  supposed  to  enter — the  domain  of  the  Graiour — and 
Muftifiz,  like  all  true  believers,  havinfi^  the  stench  in  his  nostrils,  was 
about  to  leave  Bibi  to  his  fate,  when,  fer  the  tMrd  time,  standing  in  the 
reflection  of  the  light,  he  saw  the  falor  who  had  twice  received  chiuity  de- 
liberately make  a  sign  to  Bibi,  who  followed  in  his  steps,  and  turned  down 
a  dark  comer,  where  they  entered  into  conversation  together.     From 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


454  Tales  of  my  Dragoman* 

thenee  he  traced  them  to  the  house  of  «n  infidel  general  dealer,  wh^re  he 
thought  it  adyisahle  to  leave  them,  but  promised  himself  to  renew  his  in- 
yestigatbn  on  ihe  morrow,  not  doubting  for  a  moment  but  that  he  now 
had  a  clue.  The  following  night,  Muftifiz  havkig  applied  for  and  obtuned 
the  assistance  of  a  guard  of  mamalukes,  posted  them  in  that  same  dark 
comer,  with  strict  iustructions  to  their  c^ef  not  to  leave  the  spot,  and 
proceeded  to  his  own  watdi  in  front  of  the  palace,  isam  which  Bibi  soon 
issued.  He  followed  him  into  a  bazaar,  where  Bibi  stopped  at  a  stall, 
and  requested  to  look  at  some  trinkets.  Several  were  shewn  to  him — 
rings,  bracelets,  earrings,  brooches,  and  pins  for  the  hair.  Whilst  hamd- 
ling  some  of  these,  ^  fakir  of  the  preceding  night  solicited  alms. 
Huftifiz  now  drew  up  quite  dose,  and  saw  Bibi  put  his  right  hand  iato 
his  pocket,  from  which  he  drew  a  small  square  piece  of  paper,  in  which 
from  his  left  hand  he  wrapped  up  something,  which  he  tossed  to  the 
beggar.  This  diort  comedy  was  r^>eated  some  three  or  four  times  at 
difi^rent  places,  and  then  ^i  directed  his  steps  to  <^e  spot  wh«re  he  had 
met  the  mendicant.  There  the  latter  had  preceded  him.  Mufdfiz 
diverged  round,  and  as  soon  as  thej  turned  the  o^ner  gave  the  word  to 
the  mamalukes,  who  sprang  upon  the  pair,  s^ed  them  despite  of  Bibi*s 
expostulations  and  threats,  bound  them  wi^  cords,  and  took  them  before 
the  pacha.  There  the  mendicant  was  searched,  and  in  his  gabardine 
were  found,  not  well-bestowed  alms,  but  many  of  the  ridiest  gems  of  the 
fnovinoe. 

The  poor  pacha  was  greatly  shocked  that  Bibi,  one  of  his  household, 
under  the  cloak  of  rel^ion,  should  have  conspired  to  rob  his  people, 
thereby  provoking  their  suspicions  and  animosity  against  himself,  whose 
only  wish  was  to  be  entirely  free  from  cares  of  any  Mnd.  He  determined 
to  make  an  example,  and  commanded  that  Bibi  and  his  confederate 
should  be  immediately  put  to  death.  Muftifiz  he  handsomely  rewarded 
for  this  signal  piece  of  service ;  indeed,  he  became  so.  great  a  favourite, 
that  scarcely  a  day  passed  he  was  not  sent  for  to  attend  at  the  palace  on 
some  piece  of  business  or  other.  The  pacha  even  admitted  him  to  his 
secret  conferences  with  the  kiaya,  and  now  and  th^i  appealing  to  him, 
would  say :  "  What  thinks  our  faithful  servant  Muftifiz  ?"  or,  "  We  shall 
talk  it  over  at  our  leisure  with  friend  Muftifiz.'' 

Time  flew  on  apace.  The  pacha,  worthy  man,  leaving  state  matters 
entirely  to  his  ministers,  continued  to  lead  an  easy,  careless  life,  which 
however  was  not  destined  to  run  smooth.  Vague  rumours  reacdied  the 
palace  of  a  formidable  conspiracy  against  the  state,  and  by  an  anonymous 
intimation,  the  pacha  was  apprised  that  an  important  member  of  his 
government  was  at  the  head  of  it. 

**  What  can  it  mean  ?"  said  the  pacha,  who,  with  his  two  familiars,  was 
squatted  on  tiger  skins  in  the  divan,  sipping  his  ooffee  and  puffing  his 
chibouk. 

The  kiaya  emitted  thick  volumes  of  smoke,  which  might  be  taken  io 
imply  that  he  felt  quite  as  puzded  as  his  worthy  master. 

'^  Hast  observed  nothing  to  exdte  thy  suspidons,  faithful  Muftifiz  T 
asked  the  pacha. 

<^  To  suspect,  oh !  excdlence,"  said  Muftifiz,  who  had  conversed  with 
Marrin  Topper  on  his  projected  **  Proverbial  Philosc^hy,"  *Ms  not  to  reap 
in  the  furrows  of  my  brain  good  harvest  of  right  reasons." 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


H&w  Muftyiz  rose  to  Greatness.  455 

<*  Wdm  flaid,  friend,"  answered  the  pacha;  ^^  still  wilt  thou  lend  thine 
aid  to  our  &ith&l  servant  the  kiaya  ?" 

'^  His  hmnUe  servant  will  not  hide  from  his  beloved  master  that  the 
matter  may  prove  intricate." 

^'  Dk>  thy  best,  friend  Muftifiz,  do  thy  best ;  we  place  entire  confidence 
in  the  wisdom  of  our  servants." 

We  said,' in  the  matter  of  the  BU)i  conspiracy,  tiiat  Muftifiz  had  learnt 
how  the  kiaya  was  very  friendly  with  the  fair  Barbarosa.  Now  tiiis 
worthy  dume,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  had  her  littie  failings — ^an  inordi- 
,  nate  vanity  and  love  of  adtdation.  She  had  married  Pupmoud  at  a  time 
of  life  when  she  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  importance  of  the  step  she 
took  ;  and  in  later  years  discovered  it  was  much  against  her  inclination. 
Beii)^  a  remarkably  handsome  woman,  she  had  been  so  fortunate,  or  un- 
fortunate, as  the  case  may  be,  as  to  attract  the  notice  of  the  kiaya,  who 
fed  upon  her  smiles  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  thoroughly  fascinated  man. 
She  felt  her  strength,  and  her  chains  became  doubly  burdensome  to  her. 
What  would  Ae  not  have  given  to  have  had  it  in  her  power  to  snap 
them!  But  though  Pupmoud' was  but  a  simple  burgess,  still  he  be- 
longed to  an  influential  corporation,  in  offending  which  the  kiaya  would 
have  run  great  risks,  this  class  being  specially  favoured  by  the  pacha,  who 
moreover,  in  cases  of  matrimonial  peccadilloes,  was  known  to  exercise 
great  severity.  Pupmoud,  who  did  not  feel  the  least  flatt^^d  by  the 
homage  paid  to  his  better  half,  tiiough  compelled  to  devour  his  anger  in 
secret,  would  have  risked  the  salvation  of  his  soul  almost  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  be  revenged.  This  soon  occurred.  Barbarosa  talked  in  her 
sleep,  and  though  she  made  no  distinct  statement,  she  said  enough  to  in- 
duce her  husband  to  send  that  anonymous  intimation  to  the  pacha  of 
whidi  we  have  spoken. 

One  morning  that  the  pacha  had  listened,  through  his  interpreter,  to 
a  glowing  account  of  one  of  those  tremendous  batties  fought  by  the 
North  Land  savages  amongst  themselves,  and  was  still  wondering  how  it 
happened  that  such  raging  warfare  resulted  only  in  Sergeant  Tightstrap's 
horse  being  blinded  of  one  eye  by  an  adverse  ramrod,  which  had  not  been 
vidthdrawn  from  the  barrel,  and  in  Private  Cookspet  having  sprained  his 
ankle  in  leaping  into  the  enemy's  trenches,  he  was  informed  that  his 
faithful  MuftiBz  craved  a  private  audience.  He  commanded  that  he 
should  be  admitted  at  once. 

"  Hast  discovered  anything,  friend  Muftifiz  ?"  eagerly  asked  the  pacha. 

"  Highness,"  answered  Muftifiz,  in  a  desponding  tone  of  voice,  "  all 
other  means  have  failed.  I  have  but  one  resource  left."  And  he  pro- 
ceeded to  inform  the  pacha  that  he  wished  he  would  have  him  arrested 
as  the  originator  of  the  conspiracy,  aaid  express  his  intention  of  having 
him  executed  in  eight-and'-forty  hours ;  and  perceiving  the  pacha's  undis- 
guised astonishment  at  such  a  demand,  he  added :  "  Your  excellency's 
faithful  servant  believes  this  will  be  the  means  of  obtaining  a  solution, 
and  begs  youc  highness  will  grant  his  request." 

It  was  therefore  agreed  between  them  that  it  should  be  as  Muftifiz 
wished — that  he  should  leave  the  palace,  and  proceed  to  his  own  house  ; 
in  the  mean  time,  the  pacha  should,  give  the  order  for  his  arrest  and 
execution ;  but  that  no  one  shoidd  be  allowed  to  visit  him  in  prison 
without  a  warrant  from  the  pacha,  who,  from  a  hidden  place,  should 
watch  the  interview  himself.     Accordingly,  the  next  moxxung  it  was 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


466  Tales  of  my  Dragoman. 

generally  known  ihrougliout  the  city  that  Mnfiafiz  had  been  arrested  for 
conspiracy,  and  would  be  executed  the  following  day ;  but  that  the  pacha, 
in  his  g^at  clemency,  not  wishing  to  deprive  Mafidfiz's  heirs  of  his  immense 
wealth,  had  allowed  him  to  make  his  will,  which  gracious  condescension 
he  had  avidled  himself  of,  by  bequeathing  it  all  to  his  fellow*citizen 
Pupmoud. 

Now  the  kiaya  happened  to  be  Muftifiz's  debtor  to  a  considerable 
amount  for  jewellery  bought  and  monies  lent,  and  he  naturally  argued 
that  Pupmoud  would  inherit  the  credits  as  well  as  the  real  propertv. 
He  knew  that  Pupmoud  hated  him  with  all  an  injured  husband's  strength^ 
hence  he  drew  the  conclusion  that  Pi^moud  would  not  leave  a  stone 
unturned  to  effect  his  ruin.  It  was  quite  out  of  his  power  to  cancel  the 
debt,  and  therefore  he  was  at  his  mercy.  Of  two  evils,  he  chose  what 
appeared  to  him  to  be  the  lesser.     He  sought  Muftifiz. 

As  soon  as  he  was  introduced,  '^  Vanish!"  said  he  to  the  janisary  who 
had  admitted  him.  The  official  closed  the  door  upon  him  and  disappeared. 
Then  addressing  Muftifiz,  the  kiaya  said,  '^  I  have  come  to  offer  thee  life." 

"  My  life !  to  me !  Tamper  not  with  my  misfortunes,  your  greatness." 

'^  Listen  to  me,"  continued  the  kiaya.  ^'I  owe  thee  10,000  zechins  ; 
dost  thou  value  freedom  at  that  sum  ?" 

"  Can  you  ask  it,"  answered  MuMfiz. 

'<  Wilt  thou  give  me  a  quittance  in  good  form  for  that-  amount,  agfunst 
a  warrant  that  I  shall  bring  thee  of  pardon,  and  enjoyment  of  all  thy 
former  rights  and  privileges  ?" 

^<  You  jest,  greatness,"  said  Muffcifiz,  with  a  sickly  smile. 

^^  Thou  art  arrested  for  conspiracy  ?"  asserted  the  kiaya. 

Muftifiz  bowed. 

'<  Whether  justly  or  unjustly  I  will  not  pretend  to  say  ;  his  sublime 
highness  keeps  the  matter  to  lumself." 

Muftifiz  looked  surprised. 

^'  But  what  I  have  to  say  to  thee,  to  thee  alone,"  continued  the  kiaya, 
going  up  to  him,  placing  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  lowering  his 
voice,  ^'  is,  that  there  is  a  second  conspiracy." 

"  Ah  !  what  says  your  excellency  ?" 

<<  There  is  a  second  conspiracy,"  repeated  the  kiaya. 

^'  And  your  greatness  has  discovered  it  ?" 

"Discovered  it!  pshaw  !"  he  exclaimed,  betrayed  by  his  feelings  into  a 
louder  tone  of  voice,  "  I  am  the  man  who  pulls  the  wires,  O  Muftifiz  !" 

No  sooner  had  the  last  words  escaped  his  lips  than  the  end  of  the  cell 
seemed  to  disappear  as  if  by  mag^c,  and  it  became  filled  with  soldiers, 
widi  the  pacha  at  their  head.  The  kiaya  was  surrounded  in  a  moment, 
and  whilst  he  was  being  held,  the  pacha,  addressing  him,  said : 

"  O  thou  wicked  man,  on  whom  so  many  benefits  have  been  bestowed, 
not  content  with  the  indulgence  of  thy  passions,  thou  hast  sought  to 
remedy  their  evil  consequences  in  the  accomplishment  of  a  crime.     Let» 
thy  end  be  an  example  to  all  men." 

At  these  words  the  mamalukes  plunged  their  scimitars  into  the  body 
of  the  kiaya,  who  ceased  to  exist. 

<^  And  thou,  nry  faithful  servant,"  resiuned  the  pacha,  linking  his  arm 
with  that  of  Muftifiz,  ^^  thou  shalt  occupy  the  post  that  unworthy  man 
80  lately  filled,  and  thy  talents  and  discernment  shall  aid  and  enlighten 
tiie  comicils  of  thy  sovereign." 

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(    457    ) 


LITERARY    LEAFLETS. 

BY  SIR  NATHANIEL. 

No.  XIV. — Mrs.  Jameson." 

**  Accident  first  made  me  an  authoress,"  says  Mrs.  Jameson,  in  one 
of  her  captivating  books.     Something  higher,  deeper,  better,  qualified 
her  to  be  an  authoress,  and  ensured  for  her,  as  such,  a  position  second  to 
hardly  one  of  her  contemporaries  in  grace  of  style,  correctness,  and 
refinement  of  taste,  keenness  of  observation,  and  freshness  of  thought. 
Acquaintance  with  such  a  writer  would  have  been  an  invaluable  argu- 
ment and  support  to  Charles  Ferrault,  when  he  indited  his  Apologie  des 
Femmes^  in  answer  to  Boileau^s  spiteM  satire,  and  there  maintained  the 
supremacy  of  true  womanly  opinion  in  matters  of  taste,  saying,  in  his 
preface :  '^  On  sait  la  justesse  de  leur  discemement  pour  les  choses  fines 
et  delicates,  la  sensibilite  qu'elles  ont  pour  ce  qui  est  clalr,  vif,  naturel  et 
de  bon  sens,  et  le  d6goilt  subit  qu  elles  temoignent  ^  Tabord  de  tout  ce 
qui  est  obscur,  languissant,  contraiut,  et  embarrass^."     Mrs.  Jameson 
stands  unsurpassed  among  the  literary  women  of  England  for  critical 
culture;  for  instinctive  accuracy  of  taste,  and  ability  to  give  a  reason  for 
the  faith  that  is  in  her,  with  elegance  and  precision  of  language.     And 
it  is  beautiful  to  mark  in  this  capacious,  deep,  highly-cultivated  and  ever- 
active  intellect,  so  utter  an  absence  of,  and  so  hearty  a  disrelish  for, 
whatever  is  akin  to   the  satirical  and  the  censorious.     This  gracious 
nature  holds  no  tie  with  carping,  crabbed,  captious  ways  and  means. 
"  I  can  smile,"  she  says,  "  nay,  I  can  laugh  still,  to  see  folly,  vanity, 
absurdity,  meanness,  exposed  by  scornful  wit,  and  depicted  by  others  in 
fictions  light  and  brilliant.     But  these  very  things,  when  I  encounter  the 
reality,  rather  make  me  sad  than  merry,  and  take  away  all  the  inclina- 
tion, if  I  had  the  power,  to  hold  them  up  to  derision."  And  she  contends 
that  no  one  human  being  has  been  made  essentially  better  by  satire, 
which  excites  only  the  lowest  and  worst  of  our  propensities ;  the  spirit  of 
ridicule  she  abhors,   because  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  mild  and 
serious  spirit  of  Christianity — and  at  the  same  time  she  fears  it,  because 
wherever  it  has  prevailed  as  a  social  fashion,  and  has  given  the  tone  to 
the  manners  and  literature,  it  has  marked  the  moral  degradation  and 
approaching  destruction  of  the  society  thus  characterised ; — and  further- 
more, she  despises  it,  as  the  usual  resource  of  the  shallow  and  the  base 
mind,  and,  when  wielded  by  the  strongest  hand  with  the  purest  intentions, 
an  inefficient  means  of  good.     "  The  spirit  of  satire,  reversing  the  spirit 
of  mercy  which  is  twice  blessed,  seems  to  me,"  she  says,  "  twice  accursed ; 
evil  in  those  who  indulge  it— evil  to  those  who  are  the  objects  of  it." 
In  her  every  volume  the  jaded  sufferer  under  literary  fever  and  firetfulness 
•is  sure,  in  Wordsworth's  language,  of 

One  enclosure  where  the  voice  that  speaks 
In  envy  or  detraction  is  not  heard  ; 
Where  malice  may  not  enter  ;  where  the  traces 
Of  evil  inclinations  are  unknown. 

In  the  writings  of  women  generally  is  remarked  a  tone  of  greater 
Dec. — ^voL.  xcix.  NO,  cccxcvl  2  h 


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458  Mrs.  Jameson, 

generosity  than  in  those  of  men:  hence,  "commend  us,"  says  Mr. 
Gilfillan,  '^  to  female  criticg.  The  principle  nil  admirari  is  none  of 
theirs ;  and  whether  it  he  that  a  sneer  disfigures  their  beautiful  lips,  it  is 
seldom  seen  upon  them."  The  sneer  may  nevertheless  be  translated  into 
print,  and  sometimes  is,  by  those  whose  Ups  are  innocent  of  aught  but 
smiles  (and  kisses) — ^for  in  a  book,  even  a  beauty  may  sneer  away,  if  so 
diqK)8ed,  without  peril  to  her  £Bcial  muscles,  whateyor  the  peril  to  her 
heart ;  but  Mnu  Jameson  is  incompetent  in  the  art,. though  her  generosity 
IS  anything  but  indiscriminate,  anything  but  common  and  o^esa  to  all 
comers.  For,  as  a  veteran  authority  remarks  of  another  lady-scribe, 
"  on  CFoit  sentir"  (and  the  eroyance  is  not  mere  credulity)  '^  mi  esprit 
ferme  et  presque  viril,  qui  abarde  les  sujets  ^\ew^  avee  une  sabtilit^ 
misoimeuse,  et  qui  en  comprend  tons  les  ^vers  aspects."  Whatever 
tke  die  may  be — crotchety,  as  some  allege, — speculative,  daring,  dets*- 
mined,  paradoxical,  or  what  not, — she  is  not  insipid,  nor  given  to  pkti- 
tndinary  prosing. 

Mrs.  Jameson's  productions  have  been  too  many  to  allow,  in  this  place, 
of  separate  comment, — and  too  good  to  be  curtiy  discussed  in  a  hunied 
summary.  Some  must,  thereforo,  be  pretermitted,  and  the  rest  inade- 
quately, but  respectfully,  '^  touched  upon" — and  would  l^t  our  ordeal 
by  toiu^  could  command,  as  this  lady  can,  the  omavii  as  an  iavariaUe 
sequent  to  the  tedgttJ  Greeting  with  a  passing  mention  h^  ^^Yiots 
and  Sketdies  at  Home  and  Abroad,"  '^Diary  of  an  Ennuyee,"  and 
^'  Celebrated  Female  Sovereigns,"  we  come  to^  a  full  stop,  jdus  a  note  of 
admiration,  at  that  ever  delightful  book,  "  Characteriidcs  of  Women." 
The  success  which  hailed  this  chcnee  performance,  was,  it  seems,  to  the 
author,  "  so  entirely  unlocked  for,  as  to  be  a  matter  of  surprise  as  well 
as  of  pleasure  and  gratitude."  It  was  undertaken  without  a  thoii^t  of 
&me  or  money ;  it  was  written  out  of  the  fulness  of  her  own  heart  and 
soul,  and  already  she  felt  amply  repaid,  ere  ever  a  page  was  in  type,  by 
the  new  and  various  views  of  numan  nature  its  compositicm  opened  to 
her,  and  the  beautiful  and  soothing  images  it  placed  before  hear,  and  ihe 
conscious  exermse  and  improvement  of  her  own  fiskculties.  The  purpose 
of  these  volumes  is,  to  illustrate  the  various  modificaticms  of  which  the 
female  charactw  is  susceptible,  witii  their  causes  and  results — not  indeed 
formally  expounding  the  writer's  c(mviction,  that  the  modem  social  con- 
dition of  her  sex  is  hlae  and  injurious,  but  implying  certain  poations  of 
this  nature  by  examples,  and  leaving  tiie  reader  to  deduce  tiie  moral  .and 
to  draw  the  inference.  The  chaxacteirs  best  fitted  to  her  purpose  she 
finds  among  those  whom  Hist(M*y  ignores — ^women  being  iliustrioos  in 
History,  not  from  what  they  have  been  in  tiiemselves,  but  generally  in 
proportion  to  tiie  mischief  they  have  done  or  caused,  or  else  presented 
under  seenungly  irreconcilable  aspects* — it  is  to  Shakspeare  ^e  turns 

*  The  Duchesse  de  Longueville  being  instanced,  as  one  whom  History  repre- 
sents, in  her  relation  to  the  Fronde,  as  a  fury  of  discord,  a  woman  without 
modesty  or  pity,  '*  bold,  intriguing,  profligate,  vain,  ambitious,  factious ;"  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  in  her  protection  of  Amauld, — an  angel  of  benevolence,  and  a 
worshipper  of  goodness.  History,  it  is  contended,  provides  nothing  to  connect 
the  two  extremes  in  our  fancy.  Whereas,  if  Shakspeare  had  drawn  the  duchesse's 
character,  he  would  have  shown  us  the  same  individual  woman  in  both  situations 
^—since  the  same  being,  with  the  same  faculties,  and  passions,  and  powers,  it 
surety  was. 

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Mrs*  Jameson.  459 

for  charmctera  thftt  combine  histoiy  mod  real  life,  fer  compiete  indiyidnalfl^ 
whose  hearts  and  souls  are  hud  open  before  us, — while,  in  History,  certain 
isolated  foets  and  actions  are  recorded,  widiout  any  relation  to  causes  ot 
motives,  or  c(Hinecdng  foeHngs;  and  pctures  exmbited,  from  whidi  ibe 
considerate  mind  is  averted  in  disgust,  and  the  feelii^  heart  has  no  rdief 
but  in  postdve  and  justifiable  incredulity.  The  prevalent  idea,  that 
^lakspeare's  women  are  inferior  to  his  men,  Mrs.  Jameson  assents  to  at 
once,  i£  inferiorky  in  power  be  meant ;  for  she  holds  that  in  Shakspeare 
the  male  and  female  characters  bear  precisely  the  same  relation  to  mA 
other  that  they  do  in  nature  and  in  society* — but,  taking  the  strong  and 
essential  distinction  of  aex  into  consideration,  she  maintains,  and  goes 
v^cy  for  to  prove,  that  Shakspeare's  women  are  equal  to  his  men  in 
truth,  in  variety,  and  in  power.  The  classification  adopted,  in  treating 
of  this  splendid  portrait-gallery,  is  almost  of  course  arbitrary  and  open 
to  exception ;  but  the  skill  di^^l^yed  in  critical  interpretation,  poetical 
sympathy,  psychological  analysis,  and  studious  comprehensiveness,  is 
most  excellent.  To  every  duigcart  student  of  Shakspeare,  tiie  aid  of 
Mrs.  Jameson's  commentaries  is  invaluable;  to  tiie  cdleetor  of  criticisms 
on  his  peerleds  dramas,  her  ^*  Charactmstics"  must  no  more  be  overkxdLed 
than  tiie  contributions  of  Coleridge  and  HazHtt,  of  Lamb,  George  Moir,t 
De  Quincey,!  Hartiey  Cc^erid^§  Wilson,||  Knight,  Hallam,  Fktdier, 
Campbdl,  Goethe,  A.  W.  Schlegd,  Tiedc,  Ubid,  and  others.  1^ 
divides  h^  characters  into  classes,  under  the  heads  of  Intellect  and  Wit 
— Fancy  and  Passion — Sentimeit  and  A£B&ction.  The  historical  cha- 
rteters  are  considered  apart,  as  requiring  a  different  mode  of  illustration, 
and  their  dramatic  delineation  is  illustoited  by  all  the  hifitorio  testimeny 
the  industrious  author  could  collect. 

The  four  '^  representative  wom^i"  oi  Intellects-Portia,  faabella,  Bea- 
trice, and  Rosaund — ace  ddicately  discriminated.  Portia  is  intdleot 
kindled  into  romance  by  a  poetical  imagination ;  Isabel,  inteBeet  elevated 
by  re%iou8  principle;  Beatrice,  intellect  animated  by  raixtt;  Rosalind, 
intellect  sofitoaed  by  senribility.  The  wit  of  the  fiivt  is  compared  to 
attar  of  roses ;  of  the  second  (who,  however,  seems  a  littie  eut  of  place 
in  this  category),  to  incense  wafi»d  to  heaven ;  of  tiie  ihkd,  to  sal- 
vokltile ;  of  tiie  fourtii,  to  cotton  dipped  in  aromatic  vinegar.  To  Portia, 
Mrs.  Jameson  assigns  the  first  rank  among  the  four,  as  more  CToinentiy 
embodying  idl  tiie  noblest  and  most  loveabb  qualities  tiiat  ever  met 
togetiier  in  woman  (albeit  we  must  own  to  some  diare  in  fiaslitt's  con* 
fessidn  that  tiie  Lady  of  Belmont  was  '^  no  great  fovourite  of  his" — 
comparatively,  that  is,  when  Imogen,  Ccnidelia,  Miranda,  and  otiiers  are 
remembered).  Besides  lavidi  «>dowm«its  of  womanly  digraty,  sweet* 
ness,  and  tenderness,  Portia  is  here  individualised  by  hi^  mentu  powers, 

*  ThuB:  Juliet  is  the  most  impassioned  of  Shakspeare's  '^ heroines;"  but  what 
are  her  passions  compared  to  those  which  shake  the  soul  of  Othello? — **  even  as 
the  dewdrop  on  the  myrtie-leaf  to  the  vexed  sea."  Constance,  frantic  fin:  the 
loss  of  her  son,  is  to  Lear,  maddened  by  the  ingratitude  of  his  daughters,  as  the 
wesi;  wind  bo^g  the  aspen  tops  to  the  tropic  huiricane. 

t  "  Shakspeare  in  Germany,**  &c. 

:^  '<  On  the  Knocking  at  the  Boor  in  Macbeth,**  Life  of  Shakspeare  in  EncycUh- 
pmdia  Britannica,  &c 

§  ** Shakspeare  a  Tory  and  a  Gentleman,**  "The  Character  of  Hamlet,**  &c. 

II  In  his  reviews  of  Mrs.  Jameson,  Dies  Boreaks,  &c 

2h2 

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460  Mrs.  Jameson. 

enthusiasm  of  temperameDt,  decision  of  purpose,  and  buoyancy  of  spirit. 
There  is  seen  a  commanding  grace,  a  high-bred,  wy  elegance,  a  spirit  of 
magnificence  in  all  she  does  and  says :  she  is  full  ofjpenetrative  wisdom, 
and  genuine  tenderness,  and  lively  wit ;  her  unruffled  life  has  lefb  this 
wisdom  without  a  touch  of  the  sombre  or  the  sad — this  tenderness,  with- 
out peril  to  £uth,  hope,  and  joy — this  wit,  without  a  particle  of  maleyo- 
lence  or  causticity.  Her  strength  of  intellect  ^' takes  a  natural  tioge 
from  the  flush  and  bloom  of  her  young  and  prosperous  existence,  and 
from  her  fervent  imagination."*  If  Portia  is  like  the  orange-tree,  hung 
at  once  with  golden  fruit  and  luxuriant  flowers,  which  has  expanded  into 
bloom  and  fragrance  beneath  fevouring  skies,  and  has  been  nursed  into 
beauty  by  the  sunshine  and  the  dews  of  heaven, — Isabella  is  like  a  stately 
and  graceful  cedar,  towering  on  some  alpine  cliff,  unbowed  and  unscathed 
amid  the  storm.  Isabella  combines  natural  grace  and  grandeur  with  the 
habits  and  sentiments  of  a  recluse— of  austerity  of  life  with  gentleness  of 
manner — of  inflexible  moral  principle  with  humility  and  even  bashfulness 
of  deportment ;  her  fine  powers  of  reasoning  are  allied  to  a  natural  up- 
ri^tness  and  purity,  which  no  sophistry  can  warp  and  no  allurement 
betray. .  A  strong  under-current  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  flows  beneath 
this  calm  and  saintly  self-possession — the  impressiveness  of  her  character 
is  indeed  created  by  the  observed  capacity  for  high  feeling  and  generous 
indignation,  veiled  beneath  the  sweet  austere  composure  of  the  reUgieuse. 
Beatrice,  again,  is  treated  as  wilful,  not  wayward ;  volatile,  but  not  un- 
feeling; exuberant  not  only  in  wit  and  gaiety,  but  in  heart,  and  soul, 
and  energy  of  spirit — a  fsuthful  portrait  of  the  fine  lady  of  Sbakspeare's 
time,  but  as  unlike  the  head-tossing,  &n-flirting,  fine  ladies  of  modem 
comedy  as  Sir  Philip  Sydney  was  unlike  one  of  our  modem  dandies. 
Rosalind ; — superior  to  Beatrice  as  a  woman,  though  inferior  in  dramatic 
force ;  a  portrait  of  infinitely  more  delicacy  and  variety,  but  of  less 
strength  and  depth ;  a  being  playful,  pastoral,  and  picturesque — breath- 
ing of  "  youth  and  youth's  sweet  prime  " — afresh  as  the  morning,  sweet 
as  the  dew-awakened  blossoms,  and  light  as  the  breeze  that  plays  among 
them ;  her  volubility,  like  the  bird's  song,  the  outpouring  of  a  heart  filled 
to  overflowing  with  life,  love,  and  joy,  and  all  sweet  and  afifectionate  im- 
pulses; her  mixture  of  plajrfulness,  sensibility,  and  naivete^  like  a  deli- 
cious strain  of  music. 

Of  the  characters  of  Passion  and  Imagination,  comes  Juliet  first.  Love, 
in  its  poetical  aspect,  is  the  union  of  passion  and  imagination;  and 
Juliet  is  Love  itself.  It  is  her  very  being ;  the  soul  within  her  soul,  the 
pulse  within  her  heart,  the  life-blood  along  her  veins,  f  In  her  it  is  ex- 
hibited under  every  variety  of  aspect,  and  every  gradation  of  feeling  it 
could  possibly  assume  in  a  delicate  female  heart.  In  Helena,  there  is 
superadded  to  fervent,  enthusiastic,  self-forgetting  love,  a  strength  of 

*  Mrs.  Jameson's  **  moral,"  in  the  instance  of  Portia,  is,  that  suph  a  woman, 
placed  in  this  age,  would  find  society  armed  against  her ;  and  instead  of  being, 
like  Portia,  a  gracious,  happy,  beloved,  and  loving  creature,  would  be  a  victiiD, 
immolated  in  fire  to  that  miUtitudinous  Moloch  termed  Opinion. 

t  Mrs.  Jameson  warmly  protests  against  likening  Shakspeare's  Juliet  to  Boos- 
seau's  Julie — that  impetticoated  paradox — that  strange  combination  of  youth  and 
innocence,  philosophy  and  pedantry,  sophistical  prudery  and  detestable  ^fros5tere<^ 
She  does  well  to  be  angry  at  the  comparison,  common  as  it  is. 

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Mrs,  Jameson.  461 

character  which  in  Juliet  is  awanting.  Helena's  love  is  cherished  in 
secret,  hut  not  self-consuming  in  silent  languishment ;  it  is  patient  and 
hopefial,  strong  in  its  own  intensity,  and  sustained  hy  its  own  fond  faith. 
Her  position  in  the  play  is  shocking  and  degrading,  and  yet  the  beaut}' 
of  the  character  is  made  to  triumph  over  all,  Jby  its  internal  resources,  and 
its  genuine  truth  and  sweetness.  Perdita  is  the  union  of  the  pastoral 
and  romantic  with  the  classical  and  poetical,  as  if  a  dryad  of  the  woods 
had  turned  shepherdess — a  creature  signalised  by  perfect  beauty  and  airy 
elegance  of  demeanour,  by  natural  loftiness  of  spirit  and  upright  sim- 
plicity, or  conscientiousness,  which  disdains  all  crooked  and  indirect  means. 
Viola  is,  perhaps,  a  degree  less  elevated  and  ideal  than  Perdita,  but  with 
a  touch  of  sentiment  more  profound  and  heart-stirring.  Ophelia!  so 
sanctified  in  our  thoughts  hy  the  last  and  worst  of  human  woes,  that  we 
scarcely  dare  to  consider  her  too  deeply : — ^her  love,  a  secret  which  we 
have  stolen  from  her,  and  which  ought  to  die  upon  our  hearts  as  upon 
her  own ; — a  being  far  too  soft,  too  good,  too  fair,  to  be  cast  among  the 
briars  of  this  working-day  world,  and  fall  and  bleed  upon  the  thorns  of 
life ; — a  character  before  which  eloquence  is  mute — ^though  Mrs.  Jame- 
son's eloquence  finds  for  her  sweet  similitudes  in  a  strain  of  sad  dulcet 
music  floating  by  us  on  the  wings  of  night  and  silence,  rather  felt  than 
heard,  and  in  the  exhalation  of  the  violet  dying  even  upon  the  sense  it 
charms,  and  in  the  snow-flake  dissolved  in  air  before  it  has  caught  a 
stain  of  earth,  and  in  the  light  surf  severed  from  the  billow,  which  a 
breath  disperses.  So  young,  that  she  is  unaware  of  the  nature  of  her 
own  feelings,  which  are  prematurely  developed  in  their  full  force  before 
she  has  strength  to  bear  them;  for  love  and  grief  together  rend  and 
shatter  the  frsul  texture  of  her  existence,  like  the  burning  fluid  poured 
into  a  crystal  vase.  And  Miranda — so  perfectly  unsophisticated,  so  deli- 
cately refined,  that  she  is  all  but  ethereal ;  yet  who,  beside  Ariel,  that 
creature  of  elemental  light  and  air,  appears  a  palpable  reality,  a  woman 
**  breathing  thoughtful  breath,"  a  woman,  walking  the  earth  in  her  mortal 
loveliness,  with  a  heart  as  frail-strung,  as  passion-touched,  as  ever  fluttered 
in  a  female  bosom. 

Hermione  leads  on  the  characters  of  the  Affections,— queenly  instance 
of  the  proverb,  "  Still  waters  run  deep  " — ^her  deportment,  her  every  word 
breathing  a  majestic  sweetness,  a  grand  and  gracious  simplicity,  an  easy, 
unforced,  yet  dignified  self-possession — one  whose  passions  are  not  vehe- 
ment, but  in  whose  settled  mind  the  sources  of  pain  or  pleasure,  love  or 
resentment,  are  like  the  springs  that  feed  the  mountain  lakes,  impene- 
trable, unfathomable,  and  inexhaustible.  Her  sweet  child  Perdita,  again 
— in  whom  conscientiousness  and  firmness  mingle  with  picturesque  deli- 
cacy ;  and  Desdemona,  not  weak,  with  all  her  timid  flexibility  and  soft 
acquiescence ; — and  Imogen,  model  unsurpassable  of  conjugal  tenderness, 
marred  by  nothing  jealous  or  fantastic  in  its  devotion ; — and  lastly,  Cor- 
delia,— characterised  by  absence  of  all  display,  by  sobriety  of  speech 
veiling  the  most  profound  aflections,  by  quiet  steadiness  of  purpose,  and 
shrinking  from  all  display  of  emotion. 

It  will  enhance  the  value  of  Mrs.  Jameson's  Shaksperean  criticisms,  to 
think  of  what  might  be  expected  from  other  and  "  distinguished  "  autho- 
resses, were  they  to  undertake  the  theme.  As  a  Scottish  reviewer  has 
suggested  in  the  instance  of  the  popular  Mrs.  Ellis  (in  whom,  however, 

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482  Mrs^Jmnemn^ 

we  conftffl  oundivtra  all  but  entirely  lunread) — ^^wfast  eoM  she  haT« 
said  of  Juliet?  bow  wodLd  fht  hare  eootrived  to  twist  Beatrice  into  a 
pattern  JMSss  ?  Perdita !  would  she  hare  sent  her  to  a  boardii^-school  ? 
or  insisted  oajtmshin^  according  to  the  Hannah  More  pattei^  the 
divine  Ifiran^  ?  Imagine  her  criticimn  on  Lady  Macbeth,  or  oo  O^^wliaV 
dying  speech  and  confession,  or  her  revelation  of  the  ^  Family  Secrets '' 
of  the  *  Merry  Wires  of  Windsw  !* " — But  even  this  ironical  query  jars 
on  die  ear,  in  a  piq>er  devoted  to  so  stanch  a  protester  against  mb  faantest 
show  oi  scorn  or  satire  as  Mrs.  Jameson. 

Apropos  of  her  wcn^  on  Canada,  Dr.  Cbanning  said,  ^  I  do  not  know 
a  writer  whose  works  breathe  more  of  the  spontaneous^ — theyree.  Beauty 
and  truth  seem  to  come  to  her  unsought"*  Of  the  ^^  Diary  of  aa 
l&mDxxyiey**  and  ^'  Loves  of  the  Poets,"  t^  Ettrick  Shepherd  (Amfareee's 
improved  edition)  is  made  to  sar>  ^  Oh !  nr,  yon  mete  maist  beantyn' 
speciment  o'  eloquant  and  impasnonat  prase  composition  as  ever  trapped 
luce  hinny  firae  woman's  lips.  We  maun  hae  Mrs.  Jameson  amang  ua — 
we  maun  indeed. "t  Her  very  numerous  productions  in  the  service  and 
illustration  of  Art,  we  must  dismiss  with  a  passing  salutetion  —  her 
^ Handbook^  and  '<  Companion "  to  Private  Galleries^  her  aertheskie 
*<  Essays,''  "  Early  Italian  Painters,"  "  Spanish  School  <£  Paintws,'" 
<<  Washington  Allston,"  &c.,  &c.  In  her  ""  Beauties  of  the  Court  oi 
Charks  II.**  she  has,  says  Christopher  N(»1^  ^'  nought  extenuated  nor 
set  down  aught  in  malice,'*  when  ^peaking  of  the  frail  and  vkious ;  and 
bar  own  dear  spirit  kindles  over  ^tae  record  of  iheir  lives^  who^  in  tha 
pcdhiied  m  of  tnat  courts  spite  of  all  trials  and  temptations,  preserved 
without  flaw  w  stain  ibe  jewel  of  their  souls,  their  virtue.!  ^^  Sooal 
life  in  Germany  "  comprises  able  translations  c^  the  acted  dramas  of  the 
Princess  Amelia  of  Saxony — rendered  with  spirit  and  grace^  and  com-* 
mented  on  with  unfailing  tact  and  inteHigenoe. 

The  ^'  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art "  series,  including  ^  Legends  ^  tiie 
Monastic  Orders,*'  is  a  worthy  contribution  to  so  in^rtant  a  theme  by 
one  whO)  if  ^  has  not  much  sympathy  with  modem  imitation  of  me- 
diaeval art,  can  still  less  sympathise  with  that  '^  narrow  puritanical 
jealou^  which  holds  the  monuments  of  a  real  and  earnest  £ntii  in  eon- 
tempt.  '  In  this  field  is  finely  displayed  her  remarkable  critical  prowess — 
her  fiumlty  of  genial,  pictorial  expositicm — her  enthusiasm,  which  y^  cBs- 
criminates  when  at  summer-heat — her  judicial  temperateness,  whidk  sa 
happily  avoids  whatever  is  captious.  Of  the  subjects  composing  this  in«- 
terestii^  series,  we  select,  f(»r  such  hasty  notice  as  may  be  available  here> 
the  section  devoted  to  ^'  Legends  of  the  Madonna." 

One  of  Hawthorne's  pensive  people  is  made  to  say,  '*^I  have  always 
envied  the  Catholics  their  faith  in  that  sweet,  sacred  Yirg^  Mother^  who 
stands  between  them  and  the  Deky,  intercepting  somewhat  of  his  awM 
splendour,  but  permitting  his  love  to  stream  upon  ihe  worshipper  more 
intelligibly  to  human  comprehension  through  the  medium  of  a  woman's 
tenderness^"  This  is  the  sentiment  of  a  much-meditating  man,  who 
declares  he  had  never  found  it  possible  to  suffer  a  bearded  priest  so  near 
his  heart  and  conscience  as  to  do  him  any  spiritual  good,  hat  who  recog- 

*  Memoirs  of  W.  E.  Channinj?.  f  Nodes  Amb.y  No.  47  (1829). 

t  Ibid.  No.  59  (18S1). 


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Mt$.  JamesQU.  463 

loses  in  womaa  the  leKg^ioos  fed&ig  in  a  quite  otk^  aspect,  in  its:  ntmosl 
d^th  and  poritj,  '^  refined  horn  that  gross,  intdleetual  alloy  with  which 
erery  masoidiiie  theologist — save  only  One,  who  merely  veiled  hamself  in 
mortal  and  masenline  shape,  hut  was,  in  truth,  divine — ^has  been  prone  to 
mingle  it»"  A  writer  who  had  composed  sadi  a  vFork  as  the  *^  Charac^ 
tcristics  of  Woman,''  and  sudi  another  as  ^'  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,'' 
was  right  aptly  qualified  to  undertake  such  a  third  as  '^  L^nds  of  the 
Madonna.** 

"  I  could  never,"  says  Sa  Thomas  Browne,  "  hear  the  Ave-Mary  beU 
without  an  elevation,*  or  thmk  it  a  sufficient  warrant,  because  they  erred 
in  (me  drcmnstance,  for  me  to  err  in  all — that  is,  in  silence,  and  dumb 
contempt.  Whilst,  therefore,  they  directed  their  devotions  to  her,  I 
oSered  mine  to  €rod" — a  practice  wor^y  of  the  devout  philosopher  {Sot 
SQch  was  the  author  of  ^  Religio  Medici"),  who,  stanch  Protestant  as  he 
was,  could  dispense  with  his  hat  at  the  sight  of  a  cross  or  crucifix,  and 
weep  abundantly  at  a  solemn  procession,  while  his  "  consorts,  blind  with 
opposition  and  prejudice,  fell  into  an  excess  ol  scorn  and  laughter."t  In 
such  a  matter,  antipodean  as  we  are  to  Rome,  we  wodd  rather  err  with 
Sir  Thomas  (not  the  sort  of  man  to  fall  in  with  ^^  vulgar  errors^'),  than  be 
in  rigid  right  (without  curve  or  flexibility  in  its  Protestant  spine)  with 
the  over-ri^teons.     Wordsworth,  to<^  we  can  quote  <m  the  same  side : 

Yet  some  I  ween. 
Not  unfbrgiven,  the  suppliant  knee  might  bend, 
As  to  a  visible  Power,  in  which  did  bl^id 
All  that  was  mix'd  and  reeoncird  in  thee» 
Of  mother's  love  with  maiden  purity. 
Of  high  with  low,  celestial  with  terrencj 

Evmi  so  extreme  a  dissend^ai  from  aught  that  is  Romish  in  £uth  or 
practice  as  Mr.  W»  J.  Fojx,  the  free-thinking  member  for  Oldham,  has 
emphatically  pronounced  the  very  worship  of  the  Madonna  to  be  '^  this 
least  objectionable  of  all  iddatries,"  the  ^^  most  lovely  azul,  in  its  ten- 
dencies, most  useful  of  all  superstitions. "§  Now,  Mrs.  Jameson  is  no  rash 
zealot  in  anything  she  handles — critical^  theologk^  or  aestheticaL  Be  it 
true  or  not,  th^U;  the  way  to  Rome  is  throng  Geneva,  dhe,  at  least, 
abides  at  a  salubrious  distance  irtaa  both.  So  far  is  she  from  b£indly 
venerating  every  phase  of  Madonna  art,  that  she  sees  fit  to  ask  for  the 
gen^ous  construction  of  those  to  whom  every  aspect  of  the  subjeet  ia 
sacred — alleging  that,  in  her  investigations,  she  1^  had  to  ascend  most 
perilous  heights,  and  to  dive  into  terribly  obscure  depths;  and  that 
although  not  for  worids  would  ske  be  guilty  of  a  seeing  allusion  to  any 
belief,,  or  any  object  hallowed  by  sincere  and  eamesc  hearts,  yet  was  it 
not  possible  for  her  to  write  in  a  tone  of  acquiescence,  where  her  fe^ng 
and  o(»nion  were  shocked.  On  the  other  hand,  she  stands  vi^womanfidly 
for  what  there  is  of  elevating  and  refining  influence,  or  of  historical  and 
ecclesiastical  value,  in  Madonna  portraiture.  She  holds  that  i^  in  the  old 
times,  it  was  a  species  of  idolatry  to  regard  these  beautiful  represemtatioQS 
as  endued  with  a  specific  sanctity  and  power;  so,  in  these  days,  it  is  & 

*  Some  MSS.  read  Oraison,  f  Keligio  Medid,  i.  §  3. 

:|:  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets,  No.  25. 

§  See  (or,  if  you  are  jealous  of  your  orthodoxy,  do  riot  see)  Fox  on  •^The 
Sdi^u>«s  Ideas.**  1849 


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464  Mrs.  Jameson. 

sort  of  adieism  to  look  upon  them  reckless  of  their  signi&ance,  r^ard- 
less  of  the  influences  through  which  they  were  produce^  without  ac^ow- 
ledgment  of  the  mind  which  called  them  into  heing,  without  refer^ice  to 
the  intention  of  the  artist  in  his  own  creation.  She  acknowledges  that 
the  Madonna  and  Child  is  a  subject  so  consecrated  by  its  antiquity,  so 
hallowed  by  its  profound  import,  so  endeared  by  its  assodations  with  the 
softest  and  deepest  of  our  human  sympathies,  that  the  mind  has  never 
wearied  of  its  repetition,  nor  the  eye  become  satiated  with  its  beauty. 
Those,  she  affirms,  who  refuse  to  give  it  the  honour  due  to  a  religions 
representation,  yet  regard  it  witii  a  tender,  half-unwilling  homage ;  and 
when  the  gloriBed  type  of  what  is  purest,  loftiest,  holiest  in  womanhood, 
stands  before  us,  arrayed  in  all  tiie  majesty  and  beauty  that  accomplished 
Art,  inspired  by  faith  and  love,  could  lend  her,  and  bearing  her  divine 
Son,  ratiier  enthroned  than  sustained  on  her  maternal  bosom,  ''  we  look, 
and  the  heart  is  in  heaven !"  and  it  is  difficult,  very  difficult,  to  refrain 
from  an  Ora  pro  Nobis, 

And  where,  amid  the  varieties  and  succesnve  presentments  of  Art,  does 
she  find  the  '^  highest,  holiest  impersonation"  of  this  glorious  type  of 
womanhood  ?  She  reviews  the  separate  schools,  and  points  out  their  dis- 
tinctive features — the  stem,  awful  quietude  of  the  old  Mosaics— the  hard 
lifelessness  of  the  degenerate  Greek — the  pendve  sentiment  of  the  Siena, 
and  stately  elegance  of  the  Florentine  Madonnas — the  intellectual 
Milanese,  with  their  large  foreheads  and  thoughtful  eyes — the  tender, 
refined  mysticism  of  the  Umbrian — ^the  sumptuous  loveliness  of  the  Vene- 
tian— ^the  quaint  characteristic  simplicity  of  the  early  German — ^the 
intense  life-like  feeling  of  the  Spanish — the  prosaic,  portrait-like  nature 
of  the  Flemish  schools ;  and  so  on.  The  realisation  of  Mrs.  Jameson's 
ideal  she  finds  not  in  the  mere  woman,  nor  yet  in  the  mere  idol :  not  in 
*'  those  lovely  creations  which  awaken  a  sympathetic  throb  of  tenderness; 
nor  in  those  stem,  motionless  types,  which  embody  a  dogma ;  not  in  the 
classic  features  of  marble  goddesses,  borrowed  as  models ;  nor  in  the 
painted  images  which  stare  upon  us  from  tawdry  altars  in  flaxen  wigs 
and  embroidered  petticoats."  For  anything  of  the  latter  class  she  has 
a  proper  ultimatum  of  contempt,  artistic  and  religious  both.  Nor  is  she 
very  tolerant  of  that  seventeentii  century  school,  from  whose  studies  every 
trace  of  the  mystical  and  solemn  conception  of  antiquity  gradually  dis- 
appeared, till,  for  the  majestic  ideal  of  womanhood  was  substituted  merely 
inane  prettiness,  or  rustic,  or  even  meretricious  grace,  the  borrowed 
charms  of  some  earthly  exemplar — and  thus  in  depicting  the  "  Mourning 
Mother,"  the  sentiment  of  beauty  was  allowed  to  predominate  over  that 
of  the  mother's  agony — "  and  1  have  seen,"  she  says,  "  the  sublime 
Mater  Dolorosa  transrormed  into  a  merely  beautiful  and  youthful  maiden, 
with  such  an  air  of  sentimental  grief  as  might  serve  for  the  loss  of  a 
sparrow."  Once  then,  and  once  only,  has  Mrs.  Jameson  seen  realised  her 
own  ideal — ^in  Raphael's  Madonna  di  San  Sisto — in  which  she  recognises 
the  transfigured  woman,  at  once  completely  human  and  divine,  an  ab- 
straction of  power,  purity,  and  love,  poised  on  the  empiu^led  air,  and 
requiring  no  other  support;  looking  out,  with  her  melancholy,  loving 
mouth,  her  slightly-dilated,  sibylline  eyes,  quite  through  the  universe,  to 
the  end  and  consummation  of  all  things — sad  as  if  she  beheld  afar  off  the 
visionary  sword  that  was  to  reach  her  heart  through  HiBf,  now  resting 

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Mrs.  Jameson.  465 

as  enthroned  on  that  heart ;  yet  ahready  exalted  through  the  homage  of 
the  redeemed  generations  who  were  to  salute  her  as  blessed.*     But  it  is 
refreshing  to  follow  Mrs.  Jameson  in  her  genial  criticism  of  other  pain- 
ters, at  once  enthusiastic  and  discriminating ;  and  indeed  she  purposely 
sets  aside,  in  a  great  measure,  individual  preferences,  and  all  predilections 
for  particular  schools  and  particular  periods  of  Art.     A  few  pointed  words 
serve  to  hint  her  estimate  of  the  several  examples  under  review — the 
dignified  severity  of  the  Virgins  of  Botticelli,  Lorenzo  di  Credi's  chaste 
sinnplicity,  and  Fra  Bartolomeo'sf  noble  tenderness — the  imposing  majesty 
of  the  true  Caracci  style  —  the  Asiatic  magnificence  of  Paul  Veronese, 
•  Titian's  truth  to  nature  combined  with  Elysian  grace,  and  the  natural 
afiectionate  sentiments  pervading  the  Venetian  school — the  soft,  yet  joy- 
ful maternal  feeling  portrayed  so  well  by  Correggio  —  Albert  Durer's 
homely  domesticity  and  fertile  fancy — the  sumptuous  and  picturesque 
treatment   of  "  that  rare  and  fascinating  artist,"   Giorgione — Guido's 
grand  but  mannered  style — the  purity  and  simplicity  of  Bellini,  whose 
every  Madonna  is  "  pensive,  sedate,  and  sweet" — the  homely,  vigorous 
truth  and  consummate  delicacy  in  detail  of  Holbein's  happiest  efforts — 
Murillo,  par  excellence  the  painter  of  the  Conception,  and  embodying 
spotless  grace,  ethereal  refinement,  benignity,  repose,  "  the  very  apotheosis 
of  "womanhood" — Michael  Angelo,  so  good,  so  religious,  yet  deficient  in 
humility  and  sympathy,  semi-pagan  in  some  of  his  imaginations,  and 
sometimes  most  un^Christian  in  his  conception  of  Christ — and  Rubens, 
■with  his  Pcenic  effect  and  dramatic  movement,  his  portraiture  of  coarse 
hearty  life  and  domestic  affectionate  expression,  and  his  occasionally 
daring  bad  taste.     An  edifying  chapter  might  be  devoted  to  an  exposi- 
tion of  "  bad  taste"  in  the  history  of  Madonna  Art — a  few  illustrations 
of  which  Mrs.  Jameson  alludes  to  ;  Caravaggio's  Death  of  the  Virgin 
for  instance,  pronounced  wonderful  for  its  intense  natural  expression, 
and  in  the  same  degree  grotesque  from  its  impropriety^ — ^Andrea  del 
Sarto's  habit  of  depicting  the  features  of  his  handsome,  but  vulgar  and 
infamous  wife  (Lucrezia)  in  every  Madonna  he  painted — and  indeed  the 
introduction  at  all  of  historical  personages  into  devotional  subjects,  espe- 
cially when  the  models  were  notoriously  worthless.  §     More  amusing  are 
such  conceits  as  the  introduction  of  the  court-dwarf  and  the  coiu:t-fool  in 
the  train  of  the  adoring  Magi,   themselves  booted  and  spurred — the 
swollen-cheeked  bagpiper  in  Caracci's  Nativity — St.  John  carrying  two 
puppies  in  the  lappets  of  his  coat,  and  the  dog  leaping  up  to  him  (in 
Salimbeni's  Holy  Family) — the  maliciously  significant  presence  of  a  cat 


'*'  Legends  of  the  Madonna,  p.  44. 

t  All  these  three  FloreDtine  artists  were  the  disciples  and  admirers  of  Savana- 
rola,  who  distinguished  himself  inter  alia  periculosa  hy  thundering  against  the 
offensive  adornments  of  the  Madonna,  as  encouraged  by  the  Medici  family.  An 
interesting  passage  in  Mrs.  Jameson's  Introduction  relates  to  this  procedmre  of 
Savanarola,  and  Ms  influence  on  the  greatest  Florentine  artists  of  his  time. 

X  Mrs.  Jameson  quotes,  without  demur,  the  saying  that  "Caravaggio  always 
painted  like  a  ruffian  because  he  was  a  ruffian.'* 

§  As  in  one  of  the  frescoes  in  the  Vatican,  where  GiuliaFamese  appears  in  the 
Character  of  the  Madonna,  and  Pope  Alexander  VI.  (Borgia)  kneels  at  her  feet  as 
a  votary. 


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4M  Chronicler  of  a  dnrntry  Town. 

and  dog  in  the  yery  fiie-fim^  of  tlie  Mairiage  at  Cana,  by  Ldm — the 
l^anish  fancj  for  seating  the  'Virgin  under  a  tree,  in  gmae  of  an  Area- 
diaa  paBtoielia>  i&  a  broad-brimmed  bat^  a  crook  in  her  hand,  and  in  the 
act  of  feeding  her  flock  with  the  mysticid  roses,  &c.  The  yagariea  c^ 
symboHsm  in  certain  stages  of  the  Art  are  quite  infinite  and  nondescript. 

If  this  graceful,  tast^ol  book  exhausts  not  the  soljeet  it  illustrates, 
'tb  beeaose  the  subject  is  sim^^y  inexhaustible.  As,  indeed,  Ri^hael 
9fm  and  said.  For,  when  his  fino^,  Marc  Antonio^  discovered  him  (we 
ghe  Mr.  Curtis's^  yersicm  of  the  story)  engaged  upon  the  Sistine  pcture, 
and  ezdaimed — '^  Cotpetto!  another  Madonna?"  Baphael  gravely  an- 
swered, ^  Amieo  mioj  were  all  artists  to  paint  her  portrait  for  ever,  they 
oould  never  exhaust  her  beauty."  And  on  Raphad's  principle  the  prac- 
tice of  Art  in  Christendom  has  been  founded. 

By  the  time  this  pi^ier  is  in  print,  the  concluding  vcdume  of  this 
^  Sacred  and  Legendary"  series  will  probably  be  b^re  the  pubhc  To 
it,  as  to  aught  besides  from  the  same  authority,  we  look  widi  unaated 
appetite^ 


CHRONICLES  OF  A  COUNTRY  TOWN. 

Part  IV. 

I. 
Chablxs  HowiJU)  had  left  Calcutta  with  high-nused  expectatii»&s  of 
hap^^ness — ^he  returned  to  it  a  disappointed,  almost  heartbrdcen  man. 
His  vision  of  married  love  had  been  dispelled,  and  though  he  still  treated 
Fanny  with  every  outward  mark  of  attentioo,  she  knew  that  her  empire 
ever  his  affection  had  ceased — that  he  had  never  foi^etten,  nor  finrgiven, 
that  last  miseraMe  evoung  at  St  Bennett's.  Hers  was  not  a  temper  to 
try,  with  gentle  patience,  to  win  back  his  love  ;  ot,  by  tender  kindness^ 
to  wme  away  the  mem(»y  of  the  disgraceful  part  she  had  acted.  Had 
die  done  so,  with  a  temper  so  affectionate,  so  forgiving,  as  Charles 
Howard's,  she  might,  in  time,  have  succeeded ;  and  the  little  girl  too, 
who  was  now  hofsn  to  them,  might  have  proved  a  bond — an  olive  branch, 
indeed,  between  them.  But  no !  she  had  never  loved  her  husband  ;  she 
cared  neither  for  his  happiness  nor  for  that  of  his  child.  She  saw  the 
£Either's  fondness  for  the  infant,  and,  though  feeling  no  affection  for  him, 
she  soon  regarded  it  as  a  troublesome  rival,  a  something  whidi  made 
henelfoi  less  consequence — and  she  had  ever  a  great  regard  for  her  own 
in^ortance.  Mary  Smith  at  first  shared  Captain  Howard's  interest  in 
her  child,  and  indeed  took  an  opportunity  of  soliciting  Mrs.  Howard  to 
allow  her  to  take  diarge  of  it.  ^  You  can  easily  get  another  waitingr 
mwd,"  she  said,  '^  and  I  will  take  care  of  the  baby— such  care  that  you 
shall  never  know  a  moment's  anxiety  about  her.  Do,  do  let  me,  my  dear 
MnL  Howard !"  she  cried,  dasping  her  hands  imploringly.     ^'  Oh,  do 

*  See  the  dedication  prefixed  to  the  "  "Wanderer  in  Syria.** 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


Chranieks  ef  a  Counity  Towtl  467 

net  refiiae  me  I  I  sImU^  perhaps^  Bot  grieve  so  modi  about  my  own  little 
Willie's  cruel  deatb  if  you  will  ki  me  love  tlos  ddld." 

*<  How  dare  you  ?"  exetaimed  Mrs.  Howard — "  how  dare  yaa  speak  of 
your  base-born  child  to  me,  and  propose  to  love  my  cbUd  instead  ?  I 
must  iai»st  upon  it  that  I  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense.  Capiain 
Howard  is  ab^rd  ^lough — you  ace  not  wanted  to  sp(»l  it  toow" 

"  It  is  better  so,  it  is  better  so,"  said  Mary  Smith ;  "  I  was  wrong." 

That  nighty  when  *'  alone  again  with  her  own  thoughts^"  she  whispered 
to  herself  '^  I  am  glad  of  it — I  mi^t,  perhaps,  have  forgiven  her,  if  she 
would  have  allowed  that.  My  Willie !  my  own  little  Willie !  I  might, 
perhaps,  have  even  forgiven  your  death  I  But  she  will  not  let  my  heart 
be  softened  to  her  or  hers."  And,  from  that  day,  !B^ry  Smith  never 
evineed  any  afiSdction  for  the  little  gal^  nor  paid  it  any  of  tkose  attentions 
wluck  young  women  love  to  shower  on  cluldren,  but  ^  continued  to 
Aaw  as  much  deference  to  her  mistress  as  at  first. 

By  ius  old  acquaintances  in  Calcutta,  the  change  on  Captain  Howsrd 
was  soon  commonly  remarked.  Among  the  rest,  Fanny's  sisters  observed 
it,  and  Louisa,  now  Mrs.  Colman,  named  the  subject,  with  a  hint  that 
she  feared  aE  was  not  right;  but  Fanny  laughed  at  her,  and  said: 

^^  I  alwa\^  told  you  that  we  should  make  a  very  fashionable  couple 
one  day.     We  need  not  all  live  like  turtle  doves,  you  know." 

Ci^^tain  Howard's  house  soon  became  the  resort  of  the  i&  and 
£»shi<mable  in  Calcutta.  Mrs.  Howard,  its  dashing  mistress,  eagerly 
entered  into  all  the  eiq^endve  amusements  of  the  place,  and  gaiety  suc- 
ceeded gtdety,  as  thoi:^  li&  itself  had  been  intended  §ac  one  loi^ 
holiday,  with  nothing  but  the  pursuit  of  amusement  and  pleasure  to 
occupy  the  holiday  keepers.  If  Mrs.  Howard  felt  weariness  and  dis- 
oontiKEit  amid  these  jittering  scenes,  sjle  did  not  anS&t  them  to  ap^ar ; 
and>  on  looking  at  W^  radiant  witii  youlh^  health,  ai»l  beauty^  a  bus- 
pbcion  that  all  was  hollow  beneath  would  scarcely  have  entered  the 
thoughts  of  a  casual  observe.  Mary  &nith  knew  better  than  any  one 
whab  was  the  true  state  of  the  case :  she  saw  the  graceM  dancer  in 
repose^  she  heard  the  voice  of  die  syren  when  ntme  were  near  to  be 
enchanted  with  its  music ;  but  she  was  silent,  and  few,  very  few,  detected 
the  cheat.  The  fashionable  Mrs.  Howard,  the  beautiful,  the  el^ant,^ 
the,  accomplished  Mrs.  Howard,  was  admired  and  followed  everywhere — 
but  loved  nowh^e.  She  and  her  husband  seldom  met;  he  occupied 
himself  in  the  duties  of  his  {profession,  and  spent  his  leisure  hours  either 
in  his  study,  or  in  the  nursery  jviih.  bis  child ;  but  was  seldom  seen  in 
his  own  house,  except  when  a  large  party  made  it  necessary^  for  the  sake 
of  appearances^  that  he  should  be  {present.  In  the  midst  of  aH  this, 
however,.  Fanny's  conduct  was  perfectly  correct ;  not  a  single  blot  was 
east  upon  her  mir  fEune,  and  on  that  point  her  husband  had  no  fear.  So 
wheuy  afiber  about  a  year  of  ibis  heartless  life,  he  was  called  on  duty  for 
some  time  into  the  interior,  he  \eit  home  without  a  misgiving — ^widiout, 
except  feir  his  child,  a  single  regret ;  and  taking  as  kind  a  leave  as  he 
could  of  his  wife,  and  embraciiig  his  Ittle  girl  with  aU  idie  warmth  c^  his 
loving  hearty  he  bade  adieu  to  Calcutta. 

For  a  dbort  time  after  his  departure  Mrs.  Howard  remained  more 
se^oded  than  had  been  her  wont,  f(»r  she  lived  for  the  world,  and  vidued 
its  opinions ;  and  though  her  conduct  was  never  eontroUed  by  principle. 

Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


4'68  Chroniclea  of  a  Country  Town. 

yet  where  her  pasdons  did  not  interfere,  she  acted  on  calculation  as  to 
what  would  hest  secure  her  position  in  that  world  which  she  valued.  In 
addition  to  the  calculated  effect  of  a  short  retirement,  Fanny  really 
suffered  from  some  indisposition,  and  as  she  remained  in  her  own  room, 
almost  entirely  alone,  and  depressed  in  spirits  hy  her  slight  illness,  she 
looked  back  on  the  irrecoverable  past  with  sometliing  approaclung  a 
feeling  of  repentance.  '^  1  will  be  different  for  the  future,"  she  thought 
— "  I  will  try  to  win  back  my  husband's  love.  He  loved  me  once,  and 
it  surely  cannot  be  difficult  for  me  to  make  him  do  so  again."  She 
sent  for  her  child,  but  was  too  unwell  to  bear  its  restless  and  incessant 
prattle.  '*  Take  her  away  for  the  time,"  she  said ;  "  when  I  am  better, 
she  shall  come  agsun  to  her  mamma." 

These  were  the  feelings  of  the  sick  room.  Fanny's  indisposition  soon 
passed  away,  and  she  grew  weary  of  confinement,  and  of  good  resolu- 
tions, which,  formed  as  they  had  been,  in  her  own  strength,  and  without 
one  thought  of  Him,  who  alone  could  make  them  of  any  avail,  were  as 
sure  to  wither  as  the  frail  plant  which,  unwatered  and  untended,  is  placed 
where  the  dew  and  the  rain  from  heaven  can  never  reach  it. 

An  invitation  was  at  length  accepted,  and,  looking  somewhat  languid, 
Mrs.  Howard  reappeared  in  society.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  she 
was  induced  to  sing ;  her  strength  was  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  to 
allow  of  her  attempting  any  of  the  brilliant  music  in  which  she  excelled, 
but  never  had  her  voice  sounded  more  exquisite  than  now,  as,  accom- 
panying herself  on  the  harp,  she  sung  a  simple  melody,  which  she  had 
learned  long  ago,  and  which  had  once  been  a  great  favourite  of  Robert 
Sinclair's;  for  there  was  a  softness  in  her  tone,  a  tenderness  in  her 
expression,  which  did  not  always  add  to  the  charm  of  her  singing.  As 
she  ceased,  she  raised  her  eyes  smilingly,  in  return  for  the  plaudits  which 
her  admiring  audience  poured  forth,  and  they  met  the  glance  of — Robert 
Sinclair !  In  an  instant  her  heart  g^ve  one  convulsive  bound,  and  then 
seemed  as  if  it  had  stopped  for  ever ;  the  room  and  all  the  people  swam 
around  her,  she  heard  a  buzzing,  rushing  sound  in  her  ears,  she  gasped 
for  breath,  and,  in  attempting  to  rise  hurriedly,  fell  back  fainting  into  the 
arms  of  those  who  were  nearest.  There  was,  of  course,  all  the  commo- 
tion usual  on  such  occasions ;  but  Sir  Robert  Sinclair  took  no  part  in  it 
— ^he  kept  silentiy  in  the  background,  and  no  one  dreamt  (for  Fanny's 
sisters  were  not  present)  that  he  had  been,  in  any  way,  the  cause  of 
Mrs.  Howard's  sudden  attack — ^the  heat  of  the  room,  and  her  recent 
indisposition,  seeming  quite  sufficient  to  account  for  it. 

As  soon  as  she  hsA  somewhat  recovered,  Fanny  returned  home,  and  in 
the  solitude  of  her  own  apartment  gave  herself  up  to  anxious  speculation. 
"  How  came  he  there  ?  Why  came  he  there  ?"  she  asked  herself;  and 
she  tried  to  recollect  the  expression  of  those  eyes  which  had  been  so 
intently  gazing  at  her  when  sne  looked  up— but  in  vain.  She  could  not 
recollect  it,  she  had  not  had  time  to  read  it,  she  only  knew  that  it  had 
been  a  fixed  and  eager  gaze.  "  And  how  shall  we  meet  ?"  she  said. 
"  Will  it  be  as  strangers  ?"  And,  sighing  sadly,  she  unlocked  her  casket, 
and  from  its  secret  repository  drew  forth  the  miniature  which  she  had 
contemplated  so  earnestly  on  the  night  before  her  marriage.  Poor 
Charles  Howard !  and  all  regard  for  his  happiness  were  again  forgotten ! 
Fanny  could  not  read  the  expression  which  her  former  lover^s  eyes  had 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Towm  469 

borne  when  she  saw  them  so  unexpectedly  in  the  room.  Could  she  have 
seen  them  after  the  party  broke  up,  she  would  have  started  in  dismay 
and  wonder.  There  was  triumph  in  them,  and  hate,  and  yet  a  mingling 
of  admiration.  Sinclair  remained  long  in  sUent  revene  that  nighty 
before  seeking  his  bed:  what  his  thoughts  were  it  might  not  be  easy 
accurately  to  define ;  but,  alas !  the  blight  caused  by  the  unexpected 
disappointment  and  mortiOcation  so  heartlessly  inflicted  by  Fanny,  toge- 
ther with  the  dissipations  of  Paris  and  other  gay  capitals,  had  sadly 
altered  the  character  of  what  had  once  been  a  noble  and  right-feeling 
mind. 

It  was  not  long  before  Mrs.  Howard  and  Sir  Robert  Sinclair  met,  and 
renewed  their  acqmuntance.  A  mutual  Mend  had  proposed  to  introduce 
them ;  but  the  gentleman  said  frankly,  and  rather  gaily,  "  Oh,  we  are 
old  friends,  though  this  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  spoken  to  Fanny 
Somerville  as  Mrs.  Howard."  Fanny  could  not  help  feeling  somewhat 
disappointed  at  the  light,  careless  tone  in  which  the  words  were  spoken. 

Soon  a  new  and  bitter  mortification  arose — ^the  world  gave  Si^r  Robert 
Sinclair  to  Miss  Crewe,  who  was  still  unmarried;  and  when  Fanny 
returned  from  balls  and  parties,  it  was  generally  to  pour  into  the  patient 
ear  of  Mary  Smith — for  a  woman,  however  proud,  must  in  some  degree 
have  her  confidante — her  vexation  at  seeing  him  devote  himself  so  much 
to  that  young  lady,  the  hated  rival,  to  annoy  whom  she  had,  in  some 
measure,  resolved  on  what  proved  to  be  her  own  self  sacrifice. 

*^  My  dear  Miss  Fanny,"  Mary  woidd  say,  "  it  is  nothing  to  you  now. 
You  cannot  marry  Sir  Kobert,  and  why  should  you  care  who  is  to  be 
Lady  Sinclair?" 

"  I  know  as  well  as  you  do  that  I  cannot  marry  Sir  Robert,"  she 
would  reply ;  "  but  I  do  care  about  his  marrying  that  Miss  Crewe — ^nor 
shall  he  do  so,  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

"  Take  care.  Miss  Fanny,  what  you  do  to  prevent  it ;  perhaps  you 
°i*y  go  ^^^  fftr.  But,  to  be  sure,  there  can  be  no  more  harm  in  your 
speaking  to  an  old  friend  like  Sir  Robert,  than  there  was  in  Captain 
Howard's  being  so  much  with  Miss  Selby." 

"  You  need  not  fear  me,  Mary,"  Mrs.  Howard  would  say,  with  a 
haughty  curve  of  her  fine  throat.  "  I  will  make  Robert  Sinclair  feel  the 
difference  between  his  old  love  and  his  new,  and  when  he  does  so,  I  will 
go  no  further.     My  pride  will  keep  me  from  going  too  far." 

Accordingly,  Fanny  did  her  utmost  to  divert  the  attention  of  her 
former  lover  from  Miss  Crewe  to  herself;  and  her  task  was,  in  this  in- 
stance, an  easy  one,  for  she  had  but  to  let  a  little  of  the  attachment 
which  she  really  felt  for  him  be  apparent ;  and  she  was  met,  more  than 
willingly,  by  the  gentleman  himself.  By  degrees,  Miss  Crewe  was  de- 
serted, and  Sir  Robert  Sinclair  became  a  constant  attendant  on  Mrs. 
Howard :  at  home,  abroad,  everywhere  he  was  her  shadow.  She  tri- 
umphed over  Miss  Crewe  once  more — ^but  the  triumph  was  not  without 
serious  injury  to  herself.  The  world  around  her  first  hinted  and  whispered, 
then  spoke  aloud,  and  shouted  *'  Shame  on  her!" — ^but  she  turned  from  its 
warning  whisperings  in  scorn — she  replied  to  its  loud  reproaches  with 
defiance.  Her  sisters  begged  her,  almost  with  tears,  for  her  own,  for 
her  child's  sake  to  give  up  this  dangerous  intimacy  at  once  for  ever: 
she  answered  all  these  entreaties  with  rage  and  indignation. 

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470  Ckronickt  of  a  CouMtry  Town. 

Time  paieed  on,  and  each  suooessiTe  day  showed  that  the  pride  <a 
which  Fanny  had  relied  would  prove  bat  a  frail  support :  indeed,  that 
Tery  pride,  m>m  its  preventing  her  listening  to  the  advice  and  waramgs 
of  her  firiends,  was  actuaUy  an  enemy  in  the  camp.  Robert  Smdair  had, 
of  late,  become  an  adept  in  these  matters — he  saw  his  advantage,  and 
prosecuted  it  by  all  those  arts  which  he  w^  knew  how  to  use.  In  Muy 
Smith  he  had  a  most  useful,  though  imobtrudve  arndfiary ;  as  matters 
grew  serious,  there  was  not  an  entire  and  direct  oonBdenoe  between  her 
and  her  in£Eitaated  mistress,  but  there  was  soon  a  tacit  understandmg 
that  she  could  be  trusted  with  notes  and  messages,  which  it  might  he 
dangerous  to  confide  to  another.  One  thing  was  espedally  remarkable 
in  her  guarded  conduct,  which  was,  that  she  steadily  refused  all  gifb  from 
both  parties :  but  she  spared  no  effort  to  keep  them  from  observaticm, 
and  was  very  soon  an  indispensable  agent  in  their  dandestine  inter- 
course. 

Fanny's  sisters  at  length  became  very  seriously  ahumed,  but  Mi^or 
Ponsonby  and  Mr.  Colman  happened  to  be  both  absent,  and  tfa^  knew 
not  how  to  act.  As  a  last  resource,  Louisa  wrote  to  Captain  Howard, 
entreating  his  return.  He  ob^ed  as  early  as  possible,  but  came  ody  to 
find  his  home  deserted,  and  to  near  from  uie  weeping  Louisa,  that  Fuunr 
had  fled  with  Sir  Robert  Sinchur.  Mary  Smith  had  also  disappeared, 
and  of  course  it  was  concluded  that  riie  had  gone  to  England  widi  her 
mistress. 

Poor  Charles  said  veiy  little  when  the  tale  was  told  him  of  his  wife's 
heartless  treatment,  botn  of  himself  and  of  h&c  former  lover.  Still,  he 
could  not  but  reproach  her  sisters  for  their  silence.  *'  Why,**  he  said  to 
Louisa,  ^  why  did  you  not  oome  forward  to  save  us  all  ?  How  could  you 
see  all  this,  and  not  say  one  word  of  warning  ?" 

"  I  was  indeed  wrong,"  said  Louisa,  **  and  Intterly  do  I  repent  it 
now.'* 

^^  Now  it  is  too  late,"  he  replied ;  '^  my  happiness  is  destroyed,  and 
your  wretched  sister  is  ruined  for  ever." 

Li  a  very  short  time,  Charles,  having  with  him  his  litde  girl  and  a 
nurse  to  attend  her,  was  once  more  on  his  way  to  Europe,  with  the  in- 
tention of  tracing  the  fugitives,  and  seeking  that  remress  which  the 
customs  of  the  world  prescribed.  Yet  ofW,  on  the  passage— especiidly 
when  he  walked  the  quiet  deck,  on  the  glorious  evenings  of  the  tropics, 
when  the  lofW  snow-white  canvas  was  stilled  by  the  gentle  breeze,  and 
the  moon  shed  her  glistening  pathway  on  the  sea— or  when  he  leaned 
over  the  side  on  the  dark  ni^ts,  when  t^e  wind  blew  fredi  and  free,  and 
watched  the  waves  when  they  curled  back  glittering,  as  witli  myriads  of 
fire- flies,  from  the  rushing  bows,  like  those  spirits  whose  brightness 
is  unknown  until  called  forth  by  the  rude  shocks  of  adversity — often  at 
such  times  would  the  revenge  which  he  contemplated,  and  the  fear  of 
what  the  world  would  say,  seem  both  wicked  and  contemptible  in  his 
eyes,  and  the  image  of  Eleanor  Selby,  and  home,  and  peace,  and  hap- 

Einess  would  float  in  dim  visions  of  hope  gently  and  soothingly  over  his 
eart.  Then,  when  he  retired  to  his  cabin,  he  would  half  resolve  to 
content  himself  with  such  redress  as  he  might  seek  for  from  the  laws 
both  of  God  and  of  man,  and  would  lay  himself  down  and  sleep  calmly 
and  in  peace. 

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Chronicks^a  Qmntty  Town,  471 

After  a  passage  ef  nearly  four  months  t^e  ship  aiiiyed  in  London, 
and  there  Charks  received  information  that  the  fogitives  were  in  France. 
JBe  at  pnce  made  arrangements  for  following  them  :  ^'  ^le  has  deser?^ 
nothing  at  my  hands,"  he  siud  to  himself,  "hut  I  will  not  alt(^^her 
desert  her.  I  too,  perhaps,  have  heen  somewhat  to  Idame  in  this  unfor- 
tunate affidr.  I  married,  not  a  woman  whose  mind  and  principles  had 
satisfied  my  judgment,  but  one  whose  beauty  and  apparent  preference 
for  myself  had  fascinated  my  imagination,  and  flattered  my  vanity ;  and 
when,  as  her  husband,  I  became  disgusted  with  her  proud,  unbridled 
temper,  perhaps  I  did  not  do  as  much  as  I  might  have  done  to  win  her 
affection,  or  to  alter  her  character.  No,  I  will  not  give  her  up  entirely: 
she  will  soon  be  cast  upon  the  stream,  for  the  man  she  is  with  can  neither 
respect  nor  love  her,  and  will  soon  weaiy  of  her  society.  I  will,  in  that 
case,  offer  her  the  means  of  returning  from  the  evil  of  her  way,  and  will 
allow  her  sufficient  to  keep  her  in  comfort ;  but  I  will  take  immediate 
steps  to  break  the  legal  tie  which  binds  us — the  name  which  she  has  dis- 
honoured, she  shall  not  continue  to  bear.  For  the  rest,  I  wiQ  be  guided 
by  circumstances.  I  cannot  write  poor  Eleanor  the  tale  of  sin,"  he  went 
on  ruminating.  "  I  will  first  find  out  what  has  become  of  the  miserable 
woman,  and  then  I  will  take  my  poor  child  to  my  early  home,  and  beg 
Mrs.  Selby  to  be  a  mother  to  her,  as  she  once  was  to  me."  Ajud  then, 
again,  a  pleasant,  half-formed  vision  came,  to  warm  his  heart  with  some- 
thing like  hope  for  the  future. 

In  pursuance  of  this  intention,  Charles  immediately  called  on  his 
solicitor,  and  gave  him  directions  for  taking  the  steps  on  which  he  had 
resolved;  and  in  the  mean  while  he  himself,  with  his  little  girl,  proceeded 
directly  to  Paris,  where  he  fully  expected  to  find  those  whom  he  sought. 
But  all  his  inquiries,  guardedly  though  anxiously  made,  on  his  amval, 
convinced  him  that  they  were  not  there,  and  he  could  find  no  certain 
clue  whatever  to  g^ide  him  as  to  the  eourse  which  he  should  pursue. 
Some  vague  rumours,  however,  induced  him  to  proceed  to  Cherbourg ; 
but  there  he  was  equally  unsuccessful,  and  rem^i^  quite  uncertain  as  to 
what  measures  he  should  adopt.  One  day,  as  he  was  walking  on  the 
quay,  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  schooner  with  English  colours 
flying,  and  looking  at  the  stem,  he  read  Dolly  Pentrealk^  of  Port 
Allan.  Now  Port  Allan,  a  small  seaport  on  the  north-west  coast  of 
Cornwall,  was  but  sixteen  miles  from  St.  Bennett's,  and  the  name  looked 
to  poor  Charles  like  a  glimpse  of  home ;  so  he  went  on  board  the  vessel, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  the  master.  The  latter,  a  sturdy, 
plain-spoken,  good-humoured  man,  told  him  that  he  had  nearly  got  in 
his  cargo,  and  intended  leaving  for  home  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two ; 
and  on  Charles's  telling  him  that  he  knew  Port  Allan  and  the  neighbour- 
hood, he  soon  entered  eagerly,  and  somewhat  proudly — as  people  from 
small  towns  generally  do — on  the  condition  of  his  native  place. 

"  You  know,  sir,"  he  said,  "  Port  Allan  is  always  very  gay  in  the 
sununer  months.  People  can't  help  admiring  and  coming  to  enjoy  our 
beautiful  beach,  the  great  caverns  as  big  as  churches,  and  the  high  clifi^^ 
not  to  mention  the  view  of  the  sea,  which  I  think,  sir,  seems  necessary 
to  English  people,  and  especially  to  Cornish  folks,  gentle  and  simple;  the 
poor  souls  that  are  forced  to  live  inland  soon  get  tired  of  their  woods, 
their  rivers,  and  their  green  fields,  and  pant  and  pine  for  the  sea,  like  fish 

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472  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

out  of  water.  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  saying,  all  the  season  the  lodgings  at  Port 
Allan  have  heen  crammed  fuU,  though  now,  as  it  is  getting  late,  a  good 
many  have  g^ne  hack  to  their  own  homes.  But  the  day  before  I  siuled, 
or  the  day  I  sailed — I  forget  which  it  was — my  missus  {jL  e,  wife)  told 
me  that  some  lodgers  had  taken  Mrs.  Spamell's  rooms,  there  by  the  road 
leading  down  to  die  quay;  the  best  lodgings  they  are  in  the  place,  too, 
sir ;  they  are  right  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  have  a  beautiM  view  of 
the  sea  and  the  basin.     It  was  a  widow  lady,  and  her  daughter,  she  said 

Let — me — see !     What  was  their  name?"  he  continued,  scratching 

his  head  thoughtfully.  ^^I  did  hear,  but  I've  got  the  worst  memory! 
Seb — Sed — Sedly  ?  No,  it  wasn't  Sedly.  Something  like  it,  though, 
too.     Dear  me !  I've  got  the  worst  memory !" 

"  It  wasn't  Selby,  was  it  ?"  said  Charles. 

"  That's  it !"  shouted  the  other,  slapping  his  thigh  triumphantly  ; 
"  Selby's  the  name— Mrs.  and  Miss  Selby.     Selby !  that's  it." 

"  Where  are  they  from  ?"  inquired  Charles,  eagerly. 

"  From  St.  Bennett's,"  replied  the  master.  "  I  heerd  the  women  gos- 
siping about  them,  as  they  do  about  most  things  that  don  t  concern  them; 
and  I  heerd  them  saying  that  the  mother  was  a  great  fortune,  or  the 
daughter  was  a  great  fortune,  or  had  been  a  g^reat  fortune,  or  would  be  a 
great  fo^une,  or  something — I  forget  what  it  was  exactly ;  but,  dear  me! 
I  have  got  the  worst  memory !" 

Charles  smiled  at  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Selby,  or  Nelly,  being  called  "  great 
fortunes ;"  but  in  the  hope  that  the  ladies  named  were  his  own  old  friends, 
and  as,  at  all  events,  Fort  Allan  was  but  a  short  distance  from  St.  Ben- 
nett's, the  thought  struck  him,  as  he  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  that  he 
would  arrange  with  the  captain  of  the  Dolfy  Pentreath  for.  a  passage 
back  with  him,  and  confide  his  child  at  once  to  Mrs.  Selby's  protection. 

"  It  is  no  use  for  me  to  stay  here,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  I  can  discover 
no  traces  of  those  whom  I  seek,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  I  have  not 
found  them.  My  gentle  Nelly  would  shrink  with  horror  from  me,  coming 

with  the  curse  of  blood-guiltiness  upon  my  brow,  but  now ^"  and  the 

thought  of  going  home  to  those  he  loved  brought  a  smile  to  his  lips,  and 
a  feeling  of  joy  to  his  heart,  more  bright  and  happy  than  they  had  known 
for  many  a  day. 

An  arrangement  with  the  master  of  the  schooner  was  easily  made ; 
and  as  the  vessel  left  the  harbour,  and  leaned  over  with  the  ^vouring 
breeze,  Charles  said,  half  aloud, 

"Nelly!  dear  Nelly!  will  you  pity  and  console  the  dishonoured 
Charlie  Howard,  and  receive  his  child  for  his  sake  p" 

II. 

Meanwhile,  matters  had  gone  on  prosperously  with  Mrs.  Selby. 
The  elder  Barfoots,  who  had  been  under  her  care,  had,  of  course,  been 
withdrawn  from  school,  but  their  places  had  been  filled,  through  Dr. 
Barfoot's  interest,  by  other  pupils  ;  and  Eleanor,  who  had  worked  inde- 
fatigably  to  supply  the  unavoidable  deficiencies  in  her  education  which 
her  blindness  had  produced,  one  day  proposed  to  her  mother  to  open  a 
larger  establishment.  "  Jane,"  she  said,  "  has  grown  too  old  to  work,  and 
now  that  we  have  to  keep  an  additional  servant,  we  must,  if  possible,  in- 


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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  473 

crease  our  means  by  adding  to  our  number  of  pupils.  I  only  regret  the 
necessity  there  will  be  for  leaving  our  dear  little  cottage." 

Some  conversation  ensued  on  the  subject,  and,  at  last,  Mrs.  Selby 
said: 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  Eleanor ;  I  really  think  we  might,  with  ad- 
vantage, open  a  larger  school — unless,"  she  added,  gently,  "  you  should 
change  your  mind,  Nelly,  and  accept  the  oflFer  of  young  Barfoot." 

*'  Mamma,"  said  Nelly,  with  evident  emotion,  "  do  not  name  that 
again.  I  will  work  for  you  cheerfully  and  gladly,  as  you  have  worked 
for  me ;  but  I  cannot,  even  for  your  sake — and  I  would  indeed  do  almost 
anything  for  you — I  cannot  marry  one  whom,  however  much  I  esteem 
and  like  him,  I  do  not  love." 

"  Nor  do  I  desire  it,  Nelly,"  replied  Mrs.  Selby  ;  "but  Dr.  Barfoot's 
nephew  is  such  an  excellent  young  man,  and  so  pious  a  minister,  that  I 
cannot  help  a  leetle  regretting  that  your  refusal  is  so  decided." 

**  We  cannot  love,  I  suppose,  when  we  please,  and  where  we  please, 
mamma,"  said  Eleanor,  smiling;  '^  I  trust  young  Barfoot  will  seek  a 
more  willing  bride,  and  we  will  live  together,  dear  mamma,  as  we  have 
done  always." 

Charles  Howard  was  seldom  mentioned  now — such  restraint  had  Mrs. 
Howard's  coarse  and  unmerited  charge  caused  on  that  once  favourite 
theme.  Did  Eleanor  forget  him  ? — Her  mother  greatly  feared  she 
did  not. 

On  the  evening  after  the  determination  to  enlarge  their  school  bad 
been  come  to,  Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor  were  sitting  in  their  little  parlour, 
sewing.  Neither  spoke  much,  but  they  sat  silent,  and  plying  their 
£ngers  mechanically,  for  the  prospect  which  they  had  been  discussing  of 
a  change  in  their  mode  of  life,  had  made  them  thoughtful,  and  somewhat 
sad.  Mrs.  Selby  feared  the  change,  and  dread  of  a  failure,  which  to 
them  would  be  ruin,  depressed  her  spirits ;  while  Nelly  felt  sorrowful  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  what  had  so  long  been  their  quiet  happy  home, 
and  more  than  half  repented  that  she  had  ever  broached  the  subject. 

Suddenly  they  were  aroused  from  their  reverie  by  that  quick,  sharp 
signal,  everywhere  so  well  known,  and  everywhere  of  such  peculiar  im- 
portance to  a  quiet  family — the  postman^s  knock ;  and  presently  old  Jane 
entered,  with  a  very  slow  step,  and  a  very  long  face,  holding  by  the  very 
tips  of  her  fingers,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  it — a  letter,  the  outside  of 
which  she  was  examining  endways  and  sideways,  before  and  behind,  up- 
side-down and  downside-up,  close  to  her  eyes,  and  at  arm's  length,  and 
in  every  conceivable  way  : 

"  I'm  afeard  there's  something  the  matter,  Miss  Eleanor,"  she  said,  at 
last ;  "  here's  a  letter  for  you,  written  on  black-edged  paper,  and  with  a 
black  seal." 

"  Give  it  me  quickly,  Jane  I"  cried  Eleanor,  starting  up,  and  turning 
very  pale.  "  Why,  it's  from  Mrs.  Burrow,  mamma !"  she  added,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath  as  the  well-known  handwriting  of  the  direction  met  her 
eyes.     "  Whom  can  she  ha.ve  lost,  I  wonder?" 

As  she  spoke,  she  broke  the  seal  and  read  a  line  or  two,  looked  up  at 
her  mother  with  an  expression  of  amazement  and  consternation,  read  a  bit 
further,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Eleanor  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Selby. 

Dec, — ^voL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcvi.  2  i 

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474  Chnmides  of  a  Country  Town. 

''What  18  the  matter,  Miss  Nelly?"  said  poor  <Ad  Jane,  i^  had  fin- 
gered in  the  room,  and  was  trembling  yiolenuy ;  and,  daspii^  her  hands 
together,  she  whispered,  ''  Is  Master  Charlie  deadf* 

^^No,  no!"  replied  Eleanor.  ''  Read  the  strange  letter,  mammft^  and 
teU  me  whether  jon  think  it  is  real,  or  some  cruel  mockeiy.'' 

Mrs.  Selbj  read  the  letter  with  more  composure  than  her  dai^ter, 
but  still  the  trembling  hand  showed  that  she  too  was  much  i^;itated,  and 
it  was  some  little  time  before  either  could  quite  understand,  or  impart  to 
Jane  its  unexpected  contents.     The  letter  ran  thus : 

''  My  dear  Eleanob, — I  can  fancy  how  surprised  you  wiH  be  (and  I 
cannot  help  hoping  how  sorry  you  will  be  too)  when  you  read  that  joar 
rough  and  queer,  but  kindly-disposed  old  frigid,  Grace  Burrow,  has 
passed  away  from  among  the  liTing !  Yes,  dear  Ndly,  when  you  receiTe 
this  letter,  the  hand  that  is  now  writing  it  will  be  cold  in  death!  I  haTe 
arranged  with  a  friend  that  as  soon  as  the  spirit  shall  have  taken  its  flight 
from  this  worn  out  tabernacle  she  shall  forward  to  you  this  let^r,  t^t 
you  may  first  receive  the  intelligence  which  it  contains  from  no  hand  but 
my  own ;  and  when  you  read  it  I  hope  you  will  remember  me  witiithat 
affection  which  the  parting  soul  so  natmally  corets  from  those  whom  it 
has  lored  on  earth. 

'^  I  haye  never,  my  dear  Eleanor,  given  yon  the  slightest  reason  to 
suppose  that  I  intended  making  you  my  heiress  ;  but  such  has,  neverthe- 
less, been  my  determination  for  many  years.  My  reasons  for  thus  con- 
cealing it  fixnn  you  were,  partly,  that  I  desired  you  to  love  me  with  dis- 
interested affection  (and  in  this,  I  believe,  I  have  not  been  disappointed), 
and,  partly,  because  a  young  woman  brought  up  in  the  expectation  of 
riches  is  seldom  fit  to  go  through  the  world — ^which,  indeed,  die  is  never 
permitted  to  see  in  its  own  real  aspect.  You  and  yoiu:  mother  have  had 
a  long  struggle,  and  have  borne  yonrselves  nobly  through  it.  You  have 
learnt  tlie  true  value  of  money,  and  will  nse  it  properly — better,  perhaps, 
than  I  have  done,  to  whom,  I  fear,  it  has  be^  in  some  measure  a 
stumbling-block.  But  I  humbly  trust  that  God  will  forgive  me  that  and 
all  other  sins. 

^'  You  will  not  be  left  encumbered  with  large  houses  and  great  establish- 
ments. My  little  humble  cottage  and  its  old-world  furniture  I  g^ve,  with 
an  annuity  of  fifty  pounds,  to  my  old  servant,  Sarah,  who  has  Kved  wit^ 
me  more  than  forty  years ;  you  will  not,  I  know,  grudge  her  this,  neither 
will  you  grudge  to  your  mother  a  settlement  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  for  her  life,  which  I  leave  her  because  I  do  not  think  it 
right  that  a  parent  should  be  entirely  dependent  on  a  child.  I  have  had 
thoughts  of  directing  in  my  will  that  you  should  not  enter  on  matrimony 
imtil  you  are  past  thirty;  but  will  content  myself  with  begging  you  not 
to  marry  imtil  you  are  at  least  twenty-five ;  no  girl  knows  her  own  mind 
before  men. 

**  And  now,  dear  Eleanor,  to  prevent  any  unpleasant  doubts,  I  shall 
add  that  my  late  husband's  ^Eunlly  are  fully  aware  of  my  intention  inih 
regard  to  the  disposal  of  my  property.  They  have  all  plenty  of  money 
of  their  own,  and  what  I  have  thought  it  right  to  give  any  of  them,  I 
have  given  in  my  lifetime,  and  by  that  arrangement  have  saved  a  good 
^um  in  legacy  duty.     The  property  remaining  to  you,  landed  and  in  the 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  475 

funds,  will  gtye  you  altogether  more  than  three  thousand  a  year — a  yerj 
pretty  fortune  for  any  young  lady. 

**  And  now,  my  dear  Eleanor,  fftrewell — in  this  world — ^for  ever!  That 
God  may  bless  to  you  the  riches  I  leave  you,  and  teach  you  to  make  such 
use  of  them  that,  when  your  ikme  comes,  He  may  say,  '  Well  done  thou 
good  and  faithful  servant !  Enter  thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord  V  is  the 
last  prajrer  of  **  Your  true  firiend, 

"Grace  Burrow. 

**  P.S. — The  last  time  I  saw  you  I  was  much  pleased  with  the  style  of 
your  dress ;  it  was  plain  and  neat,  quiet  and  ladylike.  Doa't  let  the  un- 
expected possession  of  riches  tempt  you  into  finery.  I  hate  foathers  and 
flowers — flounces  and  furbelows !  And,  besides,  you  would  not  look  half 
eowelL  «G.  B." 

It  may  be  easily  imagined  how  often,  and  with  what  feelings,  tins  long 
letter,  so  unexpected  and  so  characteristic,  was  read,  re-read,  discussed, 
cried  ova*,  doubted,  and  believed.  Mrs.  Selby  sent  for  her  old  friends, 
Dr.  Barfoot  and.  Mr.  Cooch,  and  showed  it  to  them,  begging  them,  how- 
ever, to  say  nothing  about  the  matter  as  yet  to  any  one  else.  Both 
warmly  congratulated  f^eanor  on  her  good  fortune,  tiie  reality  of  which 
neither  of  them  doubted — and,  indeed,  it  was  soon  officially  confirmed  by 
a  letter  from  the  late  Mrs.  Burrow's  attorney,  who  wrote  to  the  same 
effect,  and  begged  that  Miss  Selby  would  communicate  with  him  without 
delay.  Every  direction,  he  said,  had  been  left^  and  provision  made  for 
the  funeral,  which,  however,  would  not  take  place  until  it  was  known 
whether  Mrs.  and  Miss  Selby  would  attend.  This  they  instantly  dedded 
on  dcnng,  and  before  a  whisper  of  their  change  of  fortime  was  heard  in 
St.  Bennett's,  the  widow  and  her  daughter  were  on  their  way  to  the 
county  in  which  Mrs.  Burrow  had  resided. 

Before  they  had  reached  their  journey's  end,  however,  St.  Bennett's 
rang  with  the  news  that  Eleanor  Selby  was  a  great  heiress ;  and  conjec- 
tures as  to  where  she  would  live,  and  how  sbe  would  live,  and,  above  all, 
whom  she  would  marry,  were  bandied  about  from  one  to  the  other ;  and 
answers  were  returned — positive,  imaginative,  confidential,  communica- 
tive, significant,  sagacious,  and,  indeed,  of  almost  as  many  kinds  as  tiiere 
were  inhabitants  in  the  place.  St.  Bennett's  was  in  a  perfect  ferment ; 
the  sensation  was  immense.  On  only  two  occasions  before,  since  the 
town  had  been  a  town,  had  there  been  any^ing  to  be  compared  to  it ;  and 
they  were,  first,  when  the  new  market-house  was  opened,  and,  second, 
when  tiie  streets  were  lit  with  gas. 

Mrs.  Carthew  was  especially  busy,  but  her  friend,  Mrs.  Stoneman,  said 
littie,  though  she  was  an  eager  listener  to  all  the  reports  on  the  suliject. 
One  evening,  Mrs.  Cartiiew  came  in  all  haste  to  tell  Mrs.  Stoneman  that 
the  heiress  was  expected  home  the  next  day. 

•'  Shall  you  call?"  she  asked.  **  It  will  be  awkward  for  you  to  do  so, 
never  having  shown  them  any  attention,  but  Mrs.  Selby  cannot  have  for^ 
gotten  tiiat  I  once  invited  her  to  my  house." 

**  Do  you  tinnk  she  guessed  the  motive  ?"  returned  Mrs.  Stoneman, 
with  a  sneer.  ^^  If  she  did,  I  am  as  well  or  better  off  than  you;  I  shall 
certainly  call :  as  merely  a  governess  or  mistress  of  a  school,  Eleanor 

2i2 

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476  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Tovm. 

Selby  could  scarcely  expect  to  enter  genteel  society  ;  but  as  the  undis- 
puted mistress  of  a  large  fortune,  the  case  is  widely  different." 

'^  Well,  well,'*  said  Mrs.  Carthew,  ^'  I  suppose  they  will  appear  in  state 
at  church  on  Sunday,  and  on  Monday  we  will  call  together,  as  we  did 
when  Mr.  Selby  diea.  Who  would  have  guessed  then  how  matters  would 
turn  out  ?" 

Mrs.  Selby  and  Eleanor  were  at  church  on  Sunday,  but  there  was  no 
sort  of  state  m  their  appearance.  On  Mrs.  Selby,  who  had  never  thrown 
off  her  widow's  weeds,  there  was  no  perceptible  change  ;  but  everybody 
(especially  the  young  gentlemen,  who  said  it  in  the  hope  that  it  might  go 
back  to  her)  declared  that  Eleanor  had  never  looked  half  so  beautiful  and 
interesting  as  in  her  mourning  garb.  Perhaps  the  change  was  not  in  the 
dress  alone— a  gilded  frame  is  a  great  set-off  to  a  picture. 

During  the  following  week  Mrs.  Selby's  little  cottage  was  perfectly  be- 
sieged by  visitors ;  and  from  twelve  to  two — the  fashionable  time  for  morn- 
ing calls  in  St.  Bennett's — the  knocker  was  constantly  going  through  a 
succession  of  scientific  taps  and  overwhelmingly  aristocratic  flourishes,  of 
which  it  had  been  before  utterly  ignorant.  Old  Jane  grumbled  at  these 
'^  worshippers  of  Mammon,"  as  she  called  them,  and,  at  last,  absolutely 
refused  to  open  the  door,  so  that  another  servant  had  to  do  this  new  duty. 
Nelly  laughed  with  a  rueful  face  as  visitor  after  visitor  arrived ;  but  ^en 
the  calls  had  all  been  made  and  returned,  she  said : 

^'  Now,  mamma,  that  affair  over,  I  hope  to  be  left  quiet,  that  I  may 
arrange  my  thoughts  a  little.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  it  in  my  power  to 
assist  Mr.  Cooch,  who  has  always  been  so  kind  to  us.  I  think  he  ought 
not  to  work  so  hard  in  future — that  rheumatic  attack  last  winter  sorely 
tried  him." 

But  Eleanor's  hope  of  quiet  was  not  yet  to  be  realised.  The  calls  were 
succeeded  by  a  whole  host  of  invitations,  both  in  quantity  and  in  quality 
unprecedented  in  St.  Bennett's.  Never  since  the  foundation-stone  of  its 
first  house  had  been  laid  had  so  much  gaiety  been  contemplated  there ! 
It  seemed  as  though  the  inhabitants — that  is,  the  "  rank  and  fashion"  of 
the  place — ^had  hitherto  lived  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  existence  of  the 
widow  and  her  daughter  ;  or  that  they  wished,  by  the  splendour  of  their 
entertainments,  and  the  fashionable  style  in  which  they  were  conducted, 
to  show  them  that  they  had  merely  ascended  to  their  hosts'  level  in  society, 
and  not  got  above  them ;  or  that  they  had  been  suddenly  made  aware 
that  they  had  done  them  some  grievous  wrong,  and  were  resolved  by  a 
torrent  of  attentions  to  overwhelm  and  wash  away  the  memory  of  the 
past. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  I^elly?"  asked  Dr.  Barfoot,  as  he  entered  the 
room  one  day.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  continued,  laughingly — "  Miss 
Selby,  I  mean.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  are  all  these 
notes  and  cards  ?     Are  you  beginning  to  taste  of  the  cares  of  riches?" 

"  I  am,  indeed,  dear  doctor !"  replied  Nelly;  "and,  above  all,  1  shall 
regret  my  being  rich,  if  you  call  me  Miss  Selby.  I  know  you  only  did 
so  in  joke,  but  you  must  always  call  me  'Nelly' — 'dear  Nelly,'  as  you 
have  done  before.  But,  indeed,  I  am  be^ning  to  feel  in  trouble  ;  here 
is  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Stoneman  to  an  evening  party  ;  here  is  one 
from  But  never  mind  who  or  what,"  she  said,  sweeping  them  all 

into  a  heap ;  "  now  that  we  have  made  the  necessary  arrangements  about 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  477 

our  pupils,  I  am  resolved  to  cut  the  Gordian  knot,  if  mamma  has  no  oh- 
jection,  and  set  off  at  once  for  Port  Allan.  There  I  will  stay  until  folks 
recollect  that  I  am  only  a  goyemess,  the  daughter  of  a  pooor  usher,  as  I 
was  before.*' 

Dr.  Barfoot  laughed,  and  hummed  a  line  of  the  old  nurseiy  song  : 
"  Lord  have  mercy  on  me !     Sure  this  is  none  of  I !" 


in. 

"  So,"  said  Mrs.  Carthew  to  her  husband,  "  those  Selbys  begin  to 
give  themselves  airs!  My  invitation  is  refused,  and  they  have  taken 
themselves  off  to  Port  Allan." 

Mr.  Carthew  stood,  with  his  arm  resting  on  the  mantelpiece,  not 
looking  particularly  good-humoured,  but  with  rather  a  discomfited  air. 

"  If  you  had  taken  my  advice,"  he  said,  "  you  would  have  cultivated 
their  acquaintance  long  ago.  I  always  thought  how  that  old  mad 
woman,  Mrs.  Burrow,  would  throw  away  her  money.  It  would  have 
been  no  bad  thbg  to  have  been  on  good  terms  with  them." 

"  You  advised  me  to  cultivate  an  acquaintance  with  the  Selbys  ?*'  ex- 
clsdmed  his  wife.  "  I  am  sure  you  never  did  anything  of  the  sort.  But 
it's  just  like  you  to  say  so :  you  want  to  add  to  my  vexation,  as  if  I  were 
not  vexed  enough  already  !  But  have  you  spoken  to  that  man  Cooch  ? 
He  can  never  expect  you  to  go  on  paying  him  his  full  salary,  and  he 
ahnost  imfit  for  work ;  he  does  not  earn  half  of  it,  I'm  sure,  and  has 
been  scarcely  fit  for  anything  for  months  past.  Besides,  he  doesn't  want 
so  much  as  he  did  before  his  wife's  death ;  he  has  one  less  to  maintain." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Carthew,  "  I  have  taken  your  advice  on  that 
point,  and  should  be  glad  now  if  you  would  please  to  ask  your  hopeful 
son,  Master  Arthur,  to  give  up  playing  the  part  of  a  fine  do-nothing 
gentleman,  take  Cooch's  stool  in  the  office,  and  stick  a  little  more  to 
work." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  his  wife.  "  Cooch  can  t  have 
taken  himself  off,  I'm  sure.  It's  impossible  that  he  can  have  saved  a 
farthing  out  of  his  salary,  having  a  family  to  bring  up  at  the  same  time. 
You  are  safe  there — ^he  must  work  on  your  terms,  or  starve.  What  did 
he  say  ?" 

"  Say  ?  He  talked  just  in  his  old  way  ;  something  about  having  borne 
the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day — ^though  I'm  sure  our  office  is  as  well 
ventilated  as  any  that  ever  J  put  foot  in — and  of  a  labourer  being  worthy 
of  his  hire,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  the  upshot  of  the  whole  is, 
that  he  gave  in  his  immediate  resignation,  telling  me  that,  though  he 
grieved  at  my  injustice,  he  was  glad  to  be  relieved  from  a  conscientious 
scruple,  and  enabled  to  accept  a  situation  as  a  sort  of  agent  or  steward  to 
Miss  Selby.     I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  get  on  without  him." 

"  Well,  that  is  too  bad !"  cried  Mrs.  Carthew.  "  She  ought  to  be 
punished  for  taking  away  other  people's  servants  in  that  way!  Do  you 
know  what  she  has  bought  the  house  where  she  lives  for  ?  She  can  never 
be  going  to  stay  in  that  hole." 

"  No,"  replied  her  husband,  "  she  is  not  going  to  reside  there :  it  is  to 
be  put  in  thorough  repair  for  the  residence  of  Mr.  Cooch.  It  is  cursedly 
provoking!     If  the  fellow  had  remained  with  us,  the  St.  Bennetts 


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478  Chrouieles  cf  a  Commiry  Town, 

property  might  probably  have  be«i  broagbt  into  our  office,  and  sodi 
pidlnngs  as  that  are  not  to  be  despised  now-a-days.  K  you  had  (mlj 
paid  a  little  attention  to  the  SeU>ys,  perhaps  Arthur  might  haye  secured 
the  prize  altogether." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Carthew  took  up  his  hat,  and  left  the  ro<nn ;  while 
his  wife  remained  for  some  time  in  a  brown  study,  which  was  at  length 
broken  in  upon  by  the  entrance  of  her  son  Arthur. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  "how  are  you  oflF  for  tin?  I 
saw  the  governor  walk  out,  looking  like  a  thunder-cloud,  so  I  conclude 
you  have  been  raising  the  wind ;  in  which  case,  I  hope  you'll  stump  up, 
as  I  want  some  of  the  ready  to  go  to  Falmouth  races.'* 

"  You  cannot  have  it,  then,  Aj'thur,"  sdd  his  mother,  "but  must  give 
up  idling  away  time  and  money,  and  stick  to  business.  Cooch  is  about  to 
leave  the  office,  and  what  on  earth  is  to  be  done  without  him,  Fm  sore  I 
don't  know." 

"Whew!"  whistled  the  youth,  "dd  Book  of  Proverbs  gcnng? 
That  is  a  go." 

"  Arthur,  my  dear,"  resumed  his  mother,  after  a  riiort  silence,  "  I  know 
it  must  be  irksome  to  a  young  man  of  gentlemanly  habits  such  as  yours, 
to  be  tied  all  day  long  to  a  high  stool  in  an  office.  If  I  were  you,  I  would 
make  my  fortune,  and  enjoy  life  while  I  was  young." 

"  Tell  me  how  to  set  about  it,  old  lady,  and  then  FU  say  you  are  a 
prime  one — a  regular  brick,  and  no  mistake." 

"  Why,  make  an  offer  to  Eleanor  Selby,  to  be  sure !  And  make  haste 
about  it,  for  Mrs.  Stoneman's  milksop  ot  a  boy  is  sent  for  to  come  home, 
with  the  hope,  I  firmly  believe,  that  his  wish- washy  face,  his  lanky  locks, 
and  his  trashy  poetry  may  win  the  heiress.  Now,  you  are  a  fine,  hand- 
some, gentlemanly-looking  fellow  (though  I  should  Hke  you  better  with- 
out that  moustache),  who  know  the  world ;  and  girls  Hke  that  sort  of 
thing  better  than  a  pale  face  and  innocence  ;  so,  try  your  luck.  Why 
don't  you  speak,  Arthur?     Say  you  will  try,  that's  a  good  boy!" 

"  That's  no  go,"  said  Master  Arthur. 

**  And  why  not?  Take  my  word  for  it,  you  will  stand  a  very  good 
chance— especially  before  she  begins  to  be  sought  after." 

"  I  tell  you  it's  no  go." 

^  But  why — why  ?     How  do  you  know  until  you  try  ?" 

**  If  you  must  know,  then,"  replied  the  hopeful  son,  "  I  have  tried 
already." 

"  Tried  already,  and  been  refused  ?"  almost  screamed  Mrs.  Carthew. 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  replied  Arthur,  rather  sullenly.  "  I  meant  to  stick  up 
to  her  like  bricks  at  all  these  parties  that  I  heard  were  coming  on,  but, 
when  the  proud  jade  took  herself  off  to  Port  Allan  all  at  once,  I  thought 
it  wouldn't  do  to  wait  till  she  came  back,  so  I  wrote  to  her  a  letter.  I 
told  her  I  had  been  in  love  with  her  for  years,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing 
that  gurls  like." 

"  Well,  and  what  answer  did  you  get  ?"  asked  his  mother. 

"  Why,  she  sent  back  my  letter  in  a  blank  sheet  of  paper,  without  a 
word!"  replied  Master  Arthur,  indignantly.  "I  only  wish  I  could  serve 
her  out  for  it !  What  a  confounded  shame  it  is  that  money  should  go  to 
such  an  insignificant,  poor,  spiritless  fool  as  that ;  and  that  a  fellow  like 
me  shouldn't  have  a  rap  to  bless  himself  with  !" 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town,  479 


IV. 


Vekt  pleasanilj  the  days  passed  away  at  Port  Allan,  for  Mrs.  Selby 
and  Eleanor  enjoyed  the  independence,  the  freedom  from  care,  the  alv- 
sence  of  restraint,  as  those  only  can  enjoy  them  who  have  known,  what  it 
is  to  struggle  on  year  afiter  year,  earning  with  difficulty  their  daily  bread, 
and  knowing  but  too  well  that  for  old  age  and  sickness  they  can  make 
little  or  no  provision.  The  cares  which,  it  is  said,  must  ever  follow 
money,  tiiey  had  not  yet  felt;  and  they  were,  thus  far,  sensible  of  the 
glad  dbange  wrought  in  their  position.  But  in  the  midst  of  all  this, 
Nelly  thought  often,  with  a  sigb,  of  Charles  Howard,  and  her  joy  was 
tempered  with  sadness. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  September  when  Eleanor  and  her  mother  went 
to  Port  Allan;  rather  late  in  the  season  for  a  visit  to  the  sea^side,  but 
the  weath^  was  at  first  generaUy  warm  and  fine,  and  there  was  that 
clearness  in  the  sky  and  mellowness  in  the  air  which  sometimes  make 
this  month  one  of  me  most  pleasant  in  the  year.  The  situation  of  Port 
Allan,  too,  was  delightful,  for  it  was  on  the  eastern  or  inner  side  of  a  long 
headland,  which  formed  the  western  boundary  of  a  most  beauliful  and 
romantic  bay ;  at  the  back  of  the  headland,  too,  was  another  deep  bay, 
but  the  shores  of  this  were  lower,  and  lined  with  jagged  and  fearfril  rocks. 
Frequent  were  their  walks  along  the  summits  of  the  beetling  cliffs,  or 
over  the  firm  yellow  beach,  and  many  were  their  explorations  in  the  long, 
dark,  dripping,  echoing  caverns,  or  their  excursions  on  the  bright,  sunny 
"waters  of  the  bay;  had  it  not  been  for  one  thing,  Eleanor  would  have 
been  perfectly  happy. 

At  length  a  change  came  over  the  weather.  The  evening  had  been 
close  and  misty,  with  but  little  wind  and  a  drizzling  rain,  and  the  night 
had  been  very  calm  and  still,  but  about  three  in  the  morning  Eleanor  was 
aroused  from  her  sleep  by  a  sudden  gust  of  wind,  which  howled  and 
whistled  among  the  gables  and  comers,  rattled  the  windows,  roared  in 
the  clmnney,  seemed  to  diake  the  house  to  its  foundations,  and  was  gone. 
For  a  minute  all  was  still  as  before,  and  then  came  another  gust,  mcnre 
yiolent,  more  lasting,  and  bringing  with  it  such  a  crash  of  rain  and  hail 
upon  ihe  glass  that  Eleanor  thought  the  windows  must  come  in — there 
was  the  falling  of  a  shutter  in  the  street,  the  rattling  of  a  slate  down  over 
the  roof  of  the  house,  and  that  too  was  past.  Another,  and  another,  and 
another  followed,  the  intervals  between  each  gradually  diminishing,  until 
at  length  there  was  such  a  continuous  roar  of  the  storm  as  effectually  to 
prevent  poor  Nelly  from  again  closing  an  eye.  She  rose  before  her 
usual  time,  and,  descending  to  the  sitting-room,  where  she  found  that  hi&s 
mother  had  arrived  before  her,  approached  the  window,  which  commanded 
a  view  of  the  bay  and  the  pier,  and  looked  out. 

^'  Mamma,  mamma !"  she  cried,  starting  sudd^ly  back,  with  an  awe- 
struck look,  ^'  come  and  lode  at  the  sea !" 

Mrs.  Selby  did  so,  and  she  too  shrunk  back  in  amazement  There 
was  indeed  a  new  change  for  them  in  the  appearance  of  that  mighty 
ocean,  which,  as  they  had  ofken  remarked  to  each  other,  never  seemed  to 
look  twice  the  same.  They  had  seen  it  when  the  blue  water  looked  <mly 
a  shade  deeper  in  colour  than  the  blue  sky  ;  they  had  watched  it  when  a 
light  mist  inade  it  difficult  to  say  where  the  one  element  melted  into  the 

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480  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town. 

other,  and  when  the  vessels  seem  to  hang  in  aur  by  inyisible  threads ; 
they  had  seen  and  heard  it  on  the  close,  still  days  when  the  huge  rolliog 
ground  seas  sent  their  white  foam  far  up  the  tallest  cli^  and  when  the 
deep  growl  of  the  sullen  waves  had  been  heard  many  miles  inland,  like 
the  distant  rumbling  of  an  earthquake;  they  had  looked  at  it  when  a 
merry  breeze  made  the  little  white-capped  billows  dance  and  sparkle  in 
the  sunshine ;  and  they  had  seen  it  when  the  reflection  of  the  motionless 
ships  upon  the  glassy  sea  seemed  as  real  as  the  ships  themselves,  and 
when  the  sun,  sinking  into  his  gorgeous  bed,  threw  a  dazzling  line  of 
light  upon  the  waters.  All  these,  and  many  more,  changes  they  had  seen 
with  never-ending  delight;  but  the  look  of  that  same  mighty  ocean  now 
was  something  new  and  terrible.  It  was  no  wonder  that  they  shrank 
back  from  the  window,  for  at  the  first  glance  the  sea  seemed  close — quite 
close,  and  about  to  overwhelm  them !  Instead  of  appearing  spread  out 
before  their  eyes  in  a  level  plane,  it  looked  like  a  nuge  black  wall  of 
water,  ready  to  topple  over,  and  sweep  them  away  to  destruction.  Even 
after  the  eye  got  somewhat  accustomed  to  it,  there  was  something 
strange,  indescribable,  and  almost  unnatural  in  the  appearance  of  that 
dark,  lowering,  inky-looking  sea — something  that  oppressed  the  mind, 
and  weighed  upon  the  spirits  like  the  presence  of  a  thunder-cloud.  No 
playful,  white-crested  billows  were  there  now ;  there  was  no  variety  of 
shade  or  colour  all  over  the  wide  expanse,  save  from  some  dingy,  lurid 
streaks  of  foam,  and  the  very  farthest  horizon  seemed  as  close  to  the  eye 
as  the  nearest  margin  of  the  bay.  No  waves  were  now  to  be  seen, 
pausing,  as  it  were,  to  gather  strength,  and  then  advancing  with  a  roar, 
and  flying  over  the  rocks  in  glittering  cataracts  of  foam ;  but  huge  black 
seas  swept  on  resistlessly,  submerging,  without  stop  and  without  effort, 
those  very  rocks,  the  tops  of  which  were  reached  at  other  times  only  by 
their  spray.  It  was  a  fearful  sight,  but  the  sounds  which  struck  the  ear 
were,  perhaps,  still  more  fearful ;  not  the  sound  of  the  sea — for  the 
mighty  dash,  the  sullen  growl,  or  hollow  roar  were  scarcely  heard — but 
the  rushing  of  the  wind,  which  swept  through  the  streets,  bursting  open 
doors,  tearing  slates  off  from  the  roofs,  knocking  down  chimney-tops, 
and  whirling  up  twigs  and  straws  to  send  them  on  with  headlong  speed 
among  the  driving  scud.  Now  and  then  was  to  be  seen  a  fisherman  or 
pilot,  pea-coated  and  "  sou' -westered,'*  striving  and  struggling  against  the 
gale  to  get  down  to  the  pier,  and  look  after  the  safety  of  his  boat ;  and  some- 
times a  man  on  the  windward  side  of  the  basin  would  hail  one  on  the  op- 
posite quay,  his  voice  coming  down  like  a  trumpet-sound  on  the  blast, 
and  the  other,  with  hands  raised  to  his  mouth,  would  roar  and  bellow 
himself  black  in  the  face  in  a  futile  attempt  to  send  an  answer  a  yard's 
distance  on  its  way  back. 

Eleanor  and  her  mother  stood  for  some  time  watching  the  scene, 
silent  and  almost  terrified ;  and  then  they  turned  to  the  table,  and  sat 
down  to  their  breakfast  with  what  appetite  they  might.  The  day  passed 
on,  and  still  the  storm  raged  and  blew.  Eleanor,  weary  of  conmiement, 
made  two  or  three  attempts  to  walk  out,  but  each  time,  unable  to  with- 
stand the  force  of  the  wind,  returned  weary  and  breathless  to  her  own 
comfortable  room.  At  length,  towards  evening,  there  was  somewhat  of 
a  lull,  and  E^leanor,  seeing  an  old  man  pass  who  had  generally  attended 
her  in  her  boating  excursions,  tapped  at  the  window  and  beckoned 
him  in. 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  481 

"Well,  Thompson,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  the  weather 
now  ?     Do  you  think  it's  nearly  over  ?" 

"  Over,  miss  ?  No,  I  reckon.  It's  only  getting  a  fresh  hand  at  the 
bellows,  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  Has  any  damage  been  done  about  here  ?"  asked  Eleanor. 

"  Why  no,  miss,  not  as  I've  heerd  of  as  yet — that  is,  nothing  to  speak 
of,  but  many  a  fine  craft,  I'm  afeard,  will  have  left  her  bones  between 
tiie  Morte  and  the  Land's  End  before  we  gets  the  last  of  it." 

"  How  anxious  the  poor  people  must  be,"  said  Eleanor,  "  who  have 
friends  and  relations  at  sea  in  this  fearful  weather !" 

"  Why  yes,  miss,"  replied  Thompson,  "  they've  got  an  anxious  time  of 
it;  but  'tis  no  use  to  take  fear  before  fear  comes,  and  they  must  hope 
they're  all  snug  in  port  somewhere.  We  don't  make  much  here  of  a 
bit  of  a  puff  of  wind,  miss — 'specially  men  that  have  had  as  much 
salt  water  go  over  their  backs  as  I've  had  ;  but,  to  be  sure,  such  weather 
as  this  do  set  us  a-thinking.  My  daughter,  home,  miss — she's  a  widow 
woman,  miss — ^have  got  a  boy,  about  sixteen,  that's  away  somewhere 
now — a  very  good  boy  he  is  too,  though  I  say  it  myself.  She's  in  a 
wisht  away  about  un,  poor  thing !  being  rather  onvreW  herself  too.  But 
I  says  to  ner,  says  I,  '  Don't  be  so  foolish,  Nanny !'  I  says ;  *  what's  the 
use  to  take  on  so  ?  I  dare  say  now  he's  moored  comfortable  in  port 
somewhere,  sitting  down  mending  his  best  jacket  for  a  cruise  ashore 
.  among  the  girls  mayhap  ;  and  thinking  no  more  about  we  than  he  is 
about  the  last  sarmon  he  heerd.'  I  only  said  that  to  comfort  her,  you 
know,  miss,  for  I  believe  the  boy  is  as  good' a  boy  and  as  kind  a  boy  as 
ever  lived,  though  I  say  it  myself,  that  shouldn't  ought  to  say  it.  But 
'tis  no  use  to  grieve,  you  know,  miss  ;  many's  the  time  that  I've  bothered 
myself,  and  worked  the  eyes  out  of  my  head  a'most,  looking  over  the 
charts  and  the  books  of  mrections  for  rocks,  land  shoals,  currents,  and 
what  not,  and  found  out  arterwards  that  the  vessel  I'd  been  thinking 
about  had  never  been  out  of  harbour  all  the  time,  or  else  had  been  in 
some  place  quite  different  from  what  I  fancied." 

"  What  vessel  is  your  grandson  in  ?"  asked  Nelly. 
■  "In  a  schooner  called  the  Dolli/  Pentreath,  miss,"  replied  the  old 
man,  who,  notwithstanding  his  philosophy,  was  evidently  suffering  not  a 
little  from  anxiety — **  the  Dolly  Pentreath,  or  the  Dolly,  or  the  Doll, 
as  we  generally  calls  her  for  shortness'  sake — ^the  Dolly  Pentreath,  Cap- 
tain Johns,  as  good  a  seaman  and  as  civil  a  man  as  ever  stepped.  He 
went  from  here  to  Plymouth,  and  there  he  got  a  freight  across  to 
Guernsey,  and  there  he  got  news  of  a  freight  back  from  Cherbourg,  in 
France.  The  last  we  heerd  of  him  was  from  a  letter  he  wrote,  saying 
he  would  be  all  ready  to  sail  for  home  in  a  few  days.  There,  miss, 
there,"  he  continued,  as  a  fresh  gust  of  wind  rushed  furiously  by — "  there, 
miss!  I  told  'ee  it  was  only  another  hand  at  the  bellows.  I  only 
hope—" 

"  Look,  Thompson,  look  !"  interrupted  Eleanor.  "  What  are  all  the 
people  running  about  ?     Surely  there  is  something  the  matter." 

'  "  I'm  most  afeard  there  is,  miss,  sure  !"  said  Thompson,  looking  out. 
<*  I'll  just  step  out  and  see  what  it  is." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  old  man  returned,  looking  pale  and  anxious.  "It's 
a  schooner,  miss,"  he  said,   "  that's  trying  to  get  round  the  head  and 

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483  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Twon^ 

come  ia  here.  If  she  oooe  get* s  loimd  riie'll  be  all  righti  but  there's  no 
safety  for  her  if  she  goes  ashore  in  Modrip  Bay  ;  if  she  gets  on  the 
rodu  there,  there's  llttk  chance  that  any  of  the  crew  will  reach  the  shore 
aliye.  The  people  are  all  nmning  to  watch  her.  They  tell  me  she's  a 
good  bit  to  the  westward  yet  I  l^yen't  seen  her,  but  mm  what  I  hear, 
I'm  afeard  she'll  have  as  much  as  she  can  do  to  weather  the  point. 
Good  eyening,  miss  ;  Fm  just  going  out  th^re  to  kx^  at  her." 

^*  Thompson,"  said  Eleanor,  '^  should  I  be  too  much  in  your  way  if  I 
were  to  go  with  you  ?" 

'^  In  my  way,  miss  ?  No!  E^jless  your  pretty  face  and  your  kind 
heart !  It  makes  me  feel  quite  young  and  ha{^y  again  to  have  you 
with  me,  nusa.  Please  to  pard(Hi  my  bouMness  &r  saying  so.  Bat 
youll  never  think  of  going  out  upon  the  head  this  weather,  sar^j  I 
Why  men  that  have  b^n  used  to  nor'- westers  all  their  lives  can  scarce 
staiui  against  the  wind  there,  much  more  a  tender  plant  like  you." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  get  on  very  well,  Thompson,  if  you  will  only  give  me 
your  arm.  I  ooufi  not  bear  to  stay  here,  semng  nothing,  and  knowing 
that  tiiis  vessel  is  in  danger." 

So  saying,  Nelly  ran  to  tell  her  fnother  whither  die  was  gcnng ;  and 
th^  taking  the  old  man's  arm,  sallied  forth.  It  was,  indeed,  as  much  as 
tl^y  ccmld  do  to  make  head  against  the  gale,  though  it  was  again  blow- 
ing with  somewhat  diminished  violence,  and  S(Hne<imes  they  were  ev»i 
obliged  to  stop  iox  a  minute  under  the  shelter  of  a  hedge  ot  a  rock  to 
gain  breath  before  they  could  proceed.  Eleanor  was  not  the  only  female 
there  :  numbers  of  others,  who  had  brothers,  sons,  husbands,  or  levers 
at  sea,  though  knowing,  p^haps,  that  they  were  for  away,  had  rushed 
forth  to  watch  the  progress  oi  the  emperilled  vessel  with  fe^ngs  of 
restless  anxiety,  while  many  more  were  there,  like  Eleanor,  partly  from 
sympathy,  partly  to  escape  the  suspense  and  uncertainty  whk^  th^ 
would  have  suffered  at  home. 

'^  I  hope,"  said  Thompson,  ^'  Nanny  won't  hear  nothing  of  it ;  but, 
she's  poorly  in  bed,  and  we  lives  out  of  the  town,  you  Imow,  miss,  so 
'tis  very  omikely." 

At  length  Nelly  and  her  conductor  reached  the  summit  of  the  head- 
lai^  and  gazed  out  to  sea ;  but  the  dusk  of  the  evening  was  £eist  ap* 
proachii^,  they  were  almost  Uinded  by  the  spray,  which  flew  c<xnpletdy 
ov^  the  headland,  and  even  the  experienced  eye  of  old  Thompson  could 
scarcely,  at  first,  distinguish  the  vessel.  Groups  of  seafsoing  men 
were  scattered  about,  some  lying  flat  on  the  ground,  to  esci^)e  the 
force  of  the  wind ;  others  resting  their  glasses  on  the  shoulders  of  thm 
companions,  and  gazing  intently  seaward,  while  womrai  and  landsmen 
hung  around  them,  eager  to  catch  the  few  disjointed  words  winch  they 
utte^.  The  two  i^proached  one  of  these  groups,  just  as  a  tail,  fine- 
looking  man,  in  a  ^'  sou'- wester"  cap  and  pea-jacket,  had  taken  \m  eye 
from  ihe  glass,  after  a  long  look,  and  turned  around  to  speak  to  some  <me 
near  him. 

"  Well,  Harry !"  shouted  Thompson,  "  what  do  you  make  het  out  ?" 

"  Ah,  Thompson !"  said  the  man  addressed,  witbtout  returning  a  direct 
answer  to  the  question — "  ah,  Thompson !  you  are  the  v«ry  man  I  was 
looking  f»r !  I  had  just  sent  a  boy  to  see  if  he  could  find  yoo.  Have 
ye  had  a  lode  at  the  sdK>oner  ?" 

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Chronicles  of  a  CoujUry  Town.  48S 

"  No,  Harry,"  replied  the  old  man ;  "  Fm  only  just  come  up^" 
"  Take  my  glass.    Just  here  away,  Thompson---liere  in  a  line  with  that 
rock.     Now  yoaVe  got  her.     Well,  d'ye  know  her?" 

The  old  man  took  his  eye  from  the  glass,  looked  at  the  other  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  without  a  word,  resumed  his  eager  gaze.     In  a  minute 
he  again  withdrew  his  eye,  returned  the  glass  to  his  friend,  with  a 
trembling  hand,  and  merely  said : 
«  The  DoUy  Pentreath .'" 

**  You're  right,  Thompson !"  said  the  other ;  "  it's  she,  sure  enough  I 
That  streak  of  white  punt  sroimd  her  deceived  me  firat.  She  must 
have  had  the  paint  since  she's  been  gone ;  but  it's  she,  as  sure  as  we  are 
here." 

"  Yes,  by  Heaven  I"  cried  another  man ;  "  it's  the  old  DoUi/  r 
"  Never  mind,  Thompson  I  cheer  up,  mate !"  said  a  weather-beaten  old 
fellow,  who  was  standing  by.  *'  It  don't  blow  sa  h»rd  now,  I  thiidc ;  she'll 
weather  it  yet,  never  fear." 

"  What  are  ye  all  talking  about  weathering  it  ?"  exclaimed  a  young 
preventive  man.  <^  She's  well  enoi^h  to  windward  to  weather  the  Gull 
Hock,  if  she  likes.  Why,  she's  eating  into  the  wind  like  a  mouse  into  a 
cheese." 

'^  Mouse  be  hanged !"  growled  a  surly  old  fisherman*  ^^  She's  bag^i^ 
down  to  leeward  like  a  haystack !" 

'*  Leave  me,  if  you  like,  Thompson,"  said  Nelly,  who  had  been  dread- 
fully shodked  at  hearing  that  the  vessel  was  the  one  which  the  old  man's 
grandson  was  in— ^^  leave  tne,  if  you  like-p— I  shall  do  very  well ;  and  I 
know  you  must  be  very,  very  anxious." 

"  No,  no,  miss,"  said  the  dd  man ;  "  I'll  stay  with  you,  if  you  please. 
If  she  g^ts  round  the  head,  I  diall  not  be  wanted;  and  if  it  pleases  Giod 
that  my  poor  boy  shall  die,  it  will  be  a  consolaticm  to  be  with  yoo.  I 
shall  be  able  to  tnink  more  real-like  of  the  good  angels  that  will  be  wait- 
ing for  kiai.  When  all  is  over,  it  will  be  time  enou^  to  tell  po(»r  Nanny. 
Besides,  miss,  I  have  great  hopes  that  she'll  do  it,  and  I  don't  think  it 
blows  now  near  so  hard  as  it  did." 

Eleanor  long  tried  in  vain  to  get  something  more  than  an  occasional 
gHmpse  of  the  small  white  patch  of  sail  and  the  dusky  hull,  as  they  rose 
on  the  summit  of  a  wave ;  but,  as  the  schooner  drew  near^  to  the  head- 
land, she  began,  although  the  evening  was  coming  on  apace,  to  see  and 
understand  something  more  of  the  danger  of  her  situation,  and  to  per- 
cme  that  the  crisis  was  fast  approaching. 

"  'Twill  be  a  close  shave,  mates,"  said  one  of  the  men ;  "  but  she'll 
do  it." 

'^  Ay,  that  she  will !"  said  another ;  ''  Johns  will  have  his  glass  of  grog 
at  the  Red  lion  to-night,  yet." 

^  D'ye  think  so  ?"  put  in  the  old  fisherman,  who  had  before  spoken. 

«« Ay,  that  I  do,  brother.     Don't  you  ?" 

"  Why,  that  depends  upon  carcumstanees." 

^^  Carcumstanees?  ye  ould  Jonah !  And  ain't  the  carcumstanees  just  as 
they  should  be  ?    Does  it  blow  anything  like  so  hard  as  it  did  ?" 

"  No,  sartinly  not." 

"  Well,  and Ay,  mates,  just  look !     The  wind  is  making  more 

westing.     Only  look!" 

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484  Chronicles  of  a  Country  Tovm, 

"  Ay,  by  the  Lord,  Jack !  and  so  it  is." 

"  No  more  westing  to-night,"  growled  the  old  fisherman. 

"  No  more  westing,  old  surly  chops  ?  Why,  there's  a  point  more  in  it 
than  it  was,  and  it's  getting  around  farther  every  moment." 

"'Twon'tlast." 

<^  Last !  If  it  only  lasts  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  she's  safe ;  I  don't  ask 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  You're  right,  Jack,"  said  another ;  "  now  hold  on,  good  gear,  and  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  she's  safe  !" 

^< Hurrah,  my  hearties!"  shouted  a  man,  coming  up  from  another 
group — "  hurrah,  my  hearties !  she's  all  our  own !  why  she's  laying  up 
north  and  by  east  now,  every  bit  of  it" 

'*  All  right,  Thompson !"  cried  one,  rubbing  his  hands ;  ^^  she's  safe  as  a 
church!" 

"  All  right  now,  Thompson !"  said  another,  slapping  the  old  man  oa 
the  back.  "  All  right !  the  old  Doll  isn't  done  for  yet,  eh,  old  boy  ? 
Why,  she'll  have  stunsails  set  in  a  minute." 

"  Don't  talk  so  fast,  youngsters,"  said  the  old  fisherman.  "  Look  there 
away !" 

"  Ay,  by  the  powers,  old  Will !  here  it  comes  again,  and  no  mistake  ! 
Hold  on  your  hair,  now,  mates — ^you  that  wear  wigs  !" 

And  as  he  spoke,  a  fierce,  furious  squall  swept  over  the  seething  waves, 
shutting  in  the  vessel  and  the  point  in  impenetrable  obscurity.  On 
it  came,  presenting,  even  in  the  deepening  twilight,  a  well-defined 
line,  almost  like  a  solid  wall.  On  it  came,  with  mshing  speed,  yet 
seeming  to  the  eager  watchers  to  be  creeping  over  the  waters. 
On  it  came,  with  a  strange  hissing  noise,  curling  the  black  hills  of 
sea  into  white-capped  ridges,  and  then  sweeping  off  the  tops,  and 
carrying  them  on  in  great  flakes  of  foam  upon  the  blast.  On,  on  it 
came — ^it  was  nearer,  it  was  close;  the  rocks,  the  fierce  waves,  the 
other  groups  of  people  were  hidden  in  its  dark  embrace ;  there  was  an 
instant  of  unnatural  calm,  there  was  a  sudden,  momentary  gust,  and  it 
was  upon  them.  There  was  a  howling  blast  of  wind,  there  was  a  blinding 
dash  of  rain,  and  they  were  in  the  midst  of  it !  The  hardy  mariners 
stripped  off  their  rough  coats  to  wrap  Nelly  in  them,  and,  heedless  of 
diemselves,  gathered  around  to  shelter,  as  much  as  might  be,  her  delicate 
form  £rom  the  rude  gale :  for,  since  she  had  been  at  Port  Allan,  her 
^  beauty  and  sweetness  had  won  the  respect  and  admiration — nay,  the  love 
of  all,  and  the  hoarse  voices,  even  of  the  roughest,  would  sound  almost 
gentle  when  they  addressed  her. 

The  squall  was  past.  It  was  over  Port  Allan — it  was  miles  inland ;  it 
was  driving  over  the  moors ;  it  was  tearing  off  the  thatches  from  corn- 
stacks  in  the  farm-yards ;  it  was  snapping  the  boughs,  and  sweeping  off  the 
dead  leaves  in  the  woods  ;  it  was  annihilating  umbrellas  in  the  streets ;  it 
was  bringing  the  mail  coach  to  a  dead  stand  on  the  high  road  ;  and  the 
people  on  Port  Allan  head  were  once  more  looking  for  the  schooner. 

"  Where  is  she  ?     Where  is  she  ?     Where's  the  schooner  ?" 

«  Here." 

"There?" 

«  No,  no— there." 

"Where?     Where?" 

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Chronicles  of  a  Country  Town.  485 

"No,  itisnV 

"  She's  gone  !     She's  gone  I** 

"  Good  God !     She's  gone !" 

"  No,  no — she's  not.  There  she  is — I  see  her,  I  see  her.  Here, 
here — where  I'm  pointing.  Bring  the  Gull  Rock  and  this  hunch  of  rushes 
in  a  line,  and  then  look  a  little  to  the  right,  and  well  to  windward.  All 
light,  my  lads — ^all  right !  She's  weathered  the  squall,  and  will  be  round 
the  head  in  £ye  minutes." 

"I  can't  find  her!" 

"I  see  her." 

"I  see  her." 

"  'Tis  only  the  comb  of  a  sea." 

"  I  tell  ye  'tis  the  schooner." 

"You're  looking  too  far  to  windward,  you  lubbers!"  said  the  old 
fisherman.     "  Look  here — ^what  d'ye  call  this  ?" 

All  gazed  in  the  direction  in  which  the  old  man's  finger  pointed,  and 
there — yes,  there  was  the  doomed  vessel  coming  directly  on  for  the  fearful 
rocks  wiiich  lay  at  their  feet.  Even  Eleanor  saw  her  plainly.  The  other 
groups  observed  her  at  the  same  time,  and  one  of  the  men  turned  around, 
and  pointed  towards  her.  For  an  instant  none  spoke,  but  all  gazed  at 
each  other  in  silence,  and  with  horror  on  their  countenances.  At  length 
a  deep-drawn  sigh  escaped  them. 

"  It's  all  over  with  her !"  cried  one. 

"  She's  lost  her  mainmast,"  said  another. 

"  It's  her  foremast,"  cried  a  third. 

"  Stuff!     Both  lower  masts  are  standing,"  said  a  fourth. 

"  Her  rudder  must  have—" 

"  Perhaps  she ^" 

"  Silence,  men — silence !"  cried  Harry  Penhale,  the  tall  man,  who  had 
been  first  addressed  by  Thompson.  "  Never  mind  how  she  got  there  : 
there  she  is,  and  we  must  do  the  best  we  can  for  her.  Run,  a  dozen  of 
you,  down  to  the  seine-house  here,  and  get  out  all  the  rope  you  can  find ; 
and  be  smart  now,  lads,  be  smart !  you've  no  time  to  lose ;  she'll  be  ashore 
in  ten  minutes.  And — yes,  it's  getting  dark ;  run,  some  of  you,  get 
torches,  and  stand  along  here  on  the  rocks ;  it  will  give  them  heart^  and 
we  shall  want  the  light,  too.  You'll  find  plenty  of  straw  and  tar  in  the 
house.     With  a  will,  now,  boys  1  toith  a  vnll!" 

The  men  ran  off  to  execute  their  commission,  and  Eleanor  turned  to 
the  old  man  at  her  side.  "Thompson,"  she  said,  "is  there  any,  any 
hope?" 

"  None,  miss,"  he  replied ;  "  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  will  be  in 
eternity." 

"Leave  me  then,  Thompson,"  said  Eleanor.  "Your  daughter — she 
will  need  some  comfort." 

"  You're  right,  miss — ^you're  right  and  kind,  as  you  always  are.  Poor 
Nanny !  I  can't  abear  to  go  away,  and  the  breath  still  in  tne  dear  boy's 
body;  but  I  can  do  nothing  here,  for  my  poor  old  arm  has  lost  its 
strength,  and  I  must  see  that  Nanny  doesn't  hear  the  news  too  suddent 
like— 'twould  kill  her,  miss !     Poor  Nanny !  Poor  Nanny  I" 

Old  Thompson  trembled,  and  his  voice  was  choked.  Eleanor,  with 
streaming  eyes,  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  pressed  his  rough  homy 
hand  between  her  delicate  palms. 


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486  Chronicles  of  a  ComUty  Town. 

''  This  is  no  place  for  you  either,  miss,''  the  old  man  said.  ^  Poor 
child !  I  was  wrong  to  bring  you  here ;  but  I  did  think  they'd  have 
weathered  it.  The  Lord  has  ordered  it  otherwise — His  will  be  done ! 
Here,  Dayis!  Joe  Dayis!"  he  shouted,  ^come  here!  He'U  isake  as 
much  care  of  'ee,  miss,  as  I  should  mysdf ;  and,  like  met,  he'a  gone  past 
much  woik.  He's  lost,  Davis !"  he  continued,  as  the  other  approached. 
**  He's  lost,  poor  fellow  1  As  kind  a  boy,  too,  and  as  good  a  b(^  as  erer 
lived,  though  I  say  it  myself!  We  litde  thought,  when  he  ld%  us  so 
happy  and  light-hearted — we  little  thought  then  thai  we  ^uld  never 
meet  in  this  world  again.  But  what  a  fool  I  am  to  stand  snivelling 
here!  And  Nanny  home.  Poor  Nanny!"  And  so  saying,  the  old 
man  handed  Nelly  over  to  the  care  of  his  friend,  and,  with  one  last  look 
seaward,  hurried  away,  to  be  with  hb  widowed  dasghter  in  the  hour  of 
her  desolatioQ. 

Eleanor  took  the  arm  of  her  new  {«oteetor,  and,  together,  they  moved 
somewhat  nearer  to  the  place  where  the  vessel  might  be  eipected  to 
strike.  Around  them,  all  was  haste  and  bustle.  lAett  were  nmning  to 
and  iro,  carrying  g^at  coils  of  rope ;  others  were  stri^ng  off  ^ir 
upper  garments,  and  making  the  ropes  &st  around  their  bodies,  to  be 
ready  ¥iyr  a  plunge  into  the  raging  wave ;  whilst  others,  again,  were 
lighting  torches  of  straw,  dipped  in  tar,  and  statioQing  themselves  alon^ 
the  rocks. 

Eleanor  looked  out  seaward.  It  was  nearly  daik;  but  there  was 
visible  the  dusky  mass,  driving  steadily  down  towards  them,  yawing^ 
widely,  as  she  came  on,  and  wdlowing  in  the  troughs  of  the  sea,  as  if 
conscious  that  all  hope  was  past,  and  exerticm  in  vain.  Eleanor  was 
startled  at  seeing  how  near  she  had  approached.  On,  on  came  the 
doomed  ship,  not  appearing  to  be  impelled  throtsgh  the  water  by  the 
force  of  the  wind,  but  ratner  as  if  she  were  driven  on  merely  by  the 
send  of  the  sea.  Th^re  was  a  rock,  which  at  low  tide  rose  rough  and 
jagged  above  the  wave.  The  vessdl  was  close  upon  it.  All  were  silent 
—-all  held  their  breath.  A  huge  sea  rolled  on — ^it  lifted  h^,  as  though 
she  had  been  a  paper  boat;  she  was  borne  on  for  an  instant,  wi<^ 
lightning  speed,  on  its  broad  shoulder,  and  over  the  rock  she  went — 
quite  ov^  it,  and  not  an  ineh  oi  her  keel  was  touched.  ^^  Good  God !" 
cried  the  old  maxx  with  Eleanw,  '<  she's  gone  dean  over  the  Mussd 
Rock !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it."  For  a  moment  ^e  seemed  almost 
stationary  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  and  then  came  another  wave:  it 
bore  her  past  the  place  where  Eleanor  and  her  companion  wero  standing. 
She  rushed  on — she  swept  by,  like  the  spirit  of  the  storm  itself.  Again 
was  she  left  behind — again  came  a  huge  rolling  wave-— again  was  she 
lifted,  and  borne  on  with  frightful  speed — again  it  began  to  leave  her ; 
— there  was  a  crash,  a  shout  of  hmor  ^m  strcmg  men — ^a  shriek  of 
agony  from  weak  women — above,  and  distinct  from  all,  the  fearfrd, 
never-to-be-forgotten,  cry  of  drowning  men  ;  ihe  dark  hull  mdited  away 
in  the  raging  waters — and  she  was  gone ! 


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(    487     ) 


MCCARTHY'S  CALDERON  * 

Of  Spanish  literature  in  general,  Mr.  Bruce  contends  Q*  Classic  and 
Historic  Portraits,*'  vol.  iL),  that  for  purity  and  chastity  it  is  honourably 
distinguished  above  that  of  any  other  country; — and  of  the  Spanish 
drama  in  particular  he  goes  on  to  assert^  that  while  it  is  more  copious 
than  the  dramatic  productions  of  all  odier  lettered  nations,  ancient  and 
modem,  put  together,  as  theb  dramas  now  exist,  it  is  wholly  free  from 
the  charge  of  indelicacy,  and  has  no  Congreve,  nor  Vanbrugh,  nor  Gibber, 
no  single  drama  indeea  in  which  there  is  anything  to  call  up  a  blush  on 
the  cheek  of  modesty.  Let  us  hope  this  grand  and  singular  charac- 
teristic, this  anomaly  in  Christendom's  and  in  Heathendom's  legitimate 
drama,  is  not  the  let  and  hindrance  to  the  naturalisation,  or  popularisa- 
tion, so  to  speak,  of  the  Spanish  theatre  amongst  us. 

For,  some  let  and  hindrance  there  is.  Somehow  or  other  we  don't 
take  kindly  to  Lope  de  Vega  and  Calderon.  The  Knight  of  La  Mancha 
we  accept  from  Cervantes  with  full  and  gratefril  welcome;  but  the 
plays  of  Cervantes — c^est  une  autre  chose.  Indeed,  until  the  present 
publication  respectively  of  the  versions  of  Mr.  M'Cartiiy  and  of  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,^  it  seems  that  no  attempt  at  anything  like  a  complete  or 
adequate  reproduction  into  imitative  English  verse  of  even  one  of  Cal- 
deron's  pWs  has  been  made. 

Mr.  McCarthy's  aim  is,  to  combine  fidelity  to  the  spirit  of  his  original, 
with  a  scrupulous  adherence  to  its  form.  He  has  thought  it  his  duty,  he 
tells  us,  to  attempt  the  imitation  of  eveiy  metrical  variety  used  by  Cal- 
deron, which  at  least  he  judged  capable  of  being  reproduced  in  English 
with  a  sensible  harmonious  effect.  He  was  attracted  to  this  difficult 
emprise  by  "  the  wonderful  fascination  and  pleasure  of  the  employment." 
Mr.  McCarthy  has  many  high  qualifications  for  such  a  task.  His  own 
ballads  and  lyrics  stamp  him  a  minstrel  of  taste  and  feeling.  He  has  a 
musical  ear,  and  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer;  and  a  fine  enthusiasm 
inspires  his  harmonious  numbers.  The  florid  diction  of  his  pre^e  to 
Caldercm,  and  of  some  of  his  clever  contributions  to  the  Dublin  Unufer- 
sity  MagcKsinCj  is  tiiat  of  a  scribe  in  some  jeopardy  from  a  ^£Eital 
facility"  of  ornate  compositicm.  And  thus,  while  heartily  recognising  no 
small  degree  of  painstaking,  merit,  and  occasional  brilliancy,  in  the  trans- 
lation now  before  us,  we  seem  to  trace  in  too  many  parts  the  style  of  one 
accustomed  to  ^'dash  off  at  a  heat,"  and  not  quite  so  patient  as  either 
Calderon  or  the  critics  could  desire,  of  the  labor  Unue,  At  intervals 
there  occur  passages  of  real  grace  and  finish,  of  tasteful  expression  and 
much  rhytiimical  beauty ;  and  then  again  we  meet  with  whole  pages  of 
a  very  prosy  sort,  and  very  indifferent  prose  too.  Partiy,  be  it  admitted, 
Calderon  is  himself  answerable  for  these  inequalities — ^for  the  great  play- 
wright was  not  above  a  wholesale  manufeicture  of  platitudes  in  soliloquy, 
and  bald  disjointed  chat  in  colloquy ;  but  his  translator  has  not  always 

*  Dramas  of  Calderon,  Tragic,  Comic,  and  Legendary.  Translated  from  the 
Spanish,  principally  in  the  Metre  of  the  Original,  by  D.  F.  M*Carthy,  Esq. 
Dolman.   1853. 

t  Six  Dramas  of  Calderon,  freely  translated  by  Edward  Fitzgerald.  Picker- 
ing.  1853. 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


488  McCarthy's  Calderon. 

presented  these  spots  on  the  sun  in  their  least  glaring  aspect,  nor  refrained 
from  adding  a  few  on  his  own  account. 

In  his  selection  of  the  six  dramas  included  in  these  volumes,  Mr. 
MK]!arthy  appears  to  have  exercised  a  sound  discretion.  They  offer 
specimens  of  Calderon's  varied  manner,  and  of  his  success  in  the  several 
walks  of  the  national  drama.  Unlike  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  who  has,  with 
questionable  judgment,  chosen  for  translation  six  of  the  maestro's  second 
and  third-rate  plavs,  Mr.  McCarthy  rives  us  the  noble  tragedy  of  "  The 
Constant  Prince ;  that  admirablv  characteristic  comedy,  ^'  The  Secret 
in  Words,**  pronounced  by  Ulrici  (who  thinks  Calderon  greater  in  comedy 
than  in  tragedy)  one  of  the  most  amusing,  polished,  and  ingenious  plays 
extant  in  any  tongue;  the  tragedies  of  '^The  Physician  of  his  own 
Honour,*'  and  "  Love  after  Death  ;**  the  legendary  play  of  **  The  Pur- 
gatory of  St.  Patrick  ;**  and  the  comic  piece  of  lovers  entanglements 
called  "  The  Scarf  and  the  Flower.**  Mr.  McCarthy  is  exceedingly  well 
qualified,  in  one  capital  respect,  to  do  justice  to  Calderon*s  descriptive 
powers ; — ^he  is  gifted  with  a  kindred  faculty  of  verbal  profusion.  It 
demanded  a  wealthy  vocabulary  to  render  the  lavish  splendours  of  the 
original  into  corresponding  terms  in  our  northern  dialect,  and  here  the 
translator  has  generally  used  to  advantage  that  fervid  and  flowing  elo- 
quence upon  which  he  can  draw  so  freely.  We  quote  an  example  of  his 
aptness  to  catch  the  style,  and  to  echo  the  nng  and  cadence,  of  the 
dramatist  he  so  ardently  admires : — it  is  from  El  Principe  Constantey 
where  that  high-hearted  Lusitanian,  the  Christian  Regulus,  sacrifices  his 
liberty  for  his  country's  weal,  and  resigns  himself  to  a  life-long  captivity 
among  the  Mooi*s,  whose  king  he  thus  addresses : 

— —  I  am  thy  slave. 
And,  O  king,  dispose  and  order 
Of  my  freedom  as  you*  please, 
For  I  would,  nor  could  accept  it 
On  unworthy  terms  like  these : 
Thou,  Enrique,t  home  returning, 

*  This  alternation  between  thee  and  you  is  a  not  infrequent  blemish  in  Mr. 
McCarthy's  lines.  Among  numerous  instances,  we  may  refer  to  scene  ii.  of 
"Love  after  Death"  (vol.  ii.  pp.  15,  sgg.),  where  Alvaro  says  to  Clara, 

**  Tou  have  no  power  now  to  excuse  thee;** 
and  again: 

"  I  have  loved  you,**  &c., 

iounediately  followed  by  thou,  and  thee,  and  thy,  ad  libitum.    So  Garces  says 
(p.  27) : 

"  Blame  not  yourself,  for  you  did  very  well 
To  make  hun  feel  thy  hand ^** 

and  that  incorrigible  old  offender,  Alvaroy  girds  at  Mendoza  after  this  manner 
(p.  34)  : 

<*  Still  it  is  enough  to  ask  you 
If  thou  art  as  brave  with  young  men 
As  with  old  men  thou  art  bold.*' 

One  half  suspects  the  dramatis  persona  of  being  Quaker  converts,  recently  prose- 
lytised, who  are  ever  and  anon  relapsing  into  the  old  formulsB  forbidden  in  the 
terminology  of  the  i)eople  called  Friends.  But  ^as !  even  the  Angel  in  the 
«  Purgatory  of  St.  Patrick**  is  verily  guilty  in  this  matter  (see  vol.  ii.  pp.  182-3). 
Tantcene  animis  ccelestibns  t 
f  To  his  brother. 


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McCarthy's  Calderon.  489 

Say,  in  Africa  I  lie 
Buried,  for  my  life  Fll  fashion 
As  if  I  did  truly  die : — 
Christians,  dead  is  Don  Fernando; 
Moors,  a  slave  to  you  remains ; 
Captives,  you  have  a  companion, 
Who  to-day  doth  share  your  pains : 
Heaven,  a  man  restores  your  churches 
Back  to  holy  calm  and  peace  ; 
Sea,  a  wretch  remains,  with  weeping 
All  your  billows  to  increase ; 
Mountains,  on  ye  dwells  a  mourner. 
Like  the  wild  beasts  soon  to  grow ; 
Wind,  a  poor  man  with  his  sighing 
Doubleth  all  that  thou  canst  blow  ; 
Earth,  a  corse  within  thy  entrails 
Comes  to-day  to  lay  his  bones. 
For  King,  Brother,  Moors,  and  Christians, 
Sun,  and  moon,  and  starry  zones. 
Wind  and  sea,  and  earth  and  heaven. 
Wild  beasts,  hills, — let  this  convince 
All  of  ye,  in  pains  and  sorrows, 
How  to-day  a  constant  Prince 
Loves  the  Catholic  faith  to  honour. 
And  the  law  of  God  to  hold. 

The  exaggerated  tone  of  this  declamation,  which  may  recal  certain  stilted 
passages  in  Shakspeare  and  the  Elizabethan  writers,  is  highly  character- 
istic of  Calderon — his  tendency  to  what  the  profane  call  fustian  being  in 
jfisict  pranonce  at  times.  Nor  bad  Cowley,  or  Donne,  a  greater  liking  for 
concetti  and  elaborately  detailed  fancies. 

In  illustration  of  Mr.  McCarthy's  skill  in  other  metrical  forms,  we 
append  his  rersion  of  one*  of  the  two  celebrated  sonnets  on  the  stars,  in 
the  second  act  of  "  The  Constant  Prince."  The  tkema  is  in  answer  to  a 
question,  Are  the  stars  like  flowers  ? 

These  points  of  light,  these  sparkles  of  pure  fire. 

Their  twinkhng  splendours  boldly  torn  away 

From  the  reluctant  sun's  departing  ray. 

Live  when  the  beams  in  mournful  gloom  retire. 

These  are  the  flowers  of  night  that  glad  Heaven*s  choir. 

And  o'er  the  vault  their  transient  odours  play. 

For  if  the  life  of  flowers  is  but  one  day. 

In  one  short  night  the  brightest  stars  expire. 

But  still  we  ask  the  fortunes  of  our  lives. 

Even  from  this  flattering  spring-tide  of  the  skies, 

*Tis  good  or  ill,  as  sun  or  star  survives. 

Oh,  what  duration  is  there?  who  relies 

Upon  a  star  ?  or  hope  from  it  derives, 

That  every  night  is  bom  again  and  dies  ? 

The  translator's  supply  of  rhymes  is  copious,  not  always  correct.  For 
instance:  "Glory"  and  "victory'*  (vol.  L  pp.  104,  106)  are  an  ill- 
assorted  match ;  and  his  quite  favourite  junction  of  "  propitious"  with 
"  wishes"  (i.  p.  105 ;  ii.  pp.  293, 311,  &c.)  is  hardly  classical.  Then  again, 
"  difficulty"  is  made  to  pair  with  "  victory" — a  rhyme  with  less  of  the 
latter  than  the  former  about  it  (ii.  pp.  349,  350).     «  Prostrated"  goes 

'*'  **  Egos  rasgos  de  luz,  esas  centelUu,"  &c 
Dec. — VOL.  XCIX.  NO.  CCCXCVI.  Digitized  i?feoOQle 

11 


490  The  Elf'Kins's  Bride, 

but  lamely  with  '^  state  it**  (ii.  p.  67).  Nor  it  the  conventional  pronun- 
ciation of  "  Africa"  favourable  to  a  rhjnung  with  ^  law"  (ii.  p.  4).  We 
observe,  too,  an  occasional  confusion  of  the  wiU  and  shaU  (e.  g,  ii.  pp. 
120,  133,  352).  And  certain  Hibemidsms  affecting  the  metre  are  uso 
notice-worthy :  '^  Bom,"  for  instance,  being  made  to  do  double  duty,  in 
what  we  will  call  the  syllabb  augment — ^^aims"  requiring  to  be  pro- 
nounced arrums^  &c 

But  we  have  dwelt  longer  tiiaa  is  agreeable  to  our  sense  of  proportion, 
and  of  justice,  on  the  minor  Uemii^MS  of  Mr.  McCarthy's  performance ; 
and,  in  taking  leave  of  him,  would  fetin  leave  a  ^'  last  impression"  of  the 
gratification  and  interest  which  we  have  felt  in  a  perusal  of  these  two 
volumes.  In  which  mood,  we  commend  them  as  a  dainty  dish  to  set 
before  every  lover  of  dramatic  lit^nture — ^native  or  foreign,  new  or  old. 


THE  ELF-KING'S  BRIDE. 

from  the  davish  of  hahb  chsistlut  aimebsbn. 

By  Mes.  Bushbt. 

'Midst  the  tents  of  tiie  foe  deep  stillness  reigned — 
And  the  slumbering  troops  dreamed  of  battles  gained; 
But  one,  though  he  feared  not  the  morrow's  fight, 
Keipt  his  lonely  vigil  the  livelong  night. 
He  leaned  on  his  sword,  and  sang  t^s  wild  lays 
That  had  gladdened  his  heart  in  youthful  days. 

He  gaied  on  tiie  stream  that  was  nudiing  by — 

Like  the  moon  through  a  mist  gleamed  something  aigii ; 

In  ike  bseeae  there  fluttered  a  pale  blue  snood, 

And  a  lovely  Bamale  before  lu«i  stood. 

She  seevied  to  his  song  to  be  listeiiiag,  while 

She  greeted  the  singer  witii  many  a  smile. 

Love  formed  not  the  theme  of  his  tiirilHng  strains. 
He  sang  of  his  childhood's  joys  and  its  pains  ; 
The  Memudd  whispered  of  pleasures  to  come — 
And  sudden  the  warrior^s  voice  was  dumb. 
From  the  sedgy  bank  he  saw  her  snai^^ 
While  her  be^miiig  look  was  fixed  on  his  e3fes. 

Her  soft  cheek  grew  pale,  and  grew  red  by  turns — 
As  ever  it  is  when  kindling  love  bums ; 
She  snatched  up  his  hand — to  her  heaving  breast 
With  passionate  gestures  that  hand  was  pressed. 
He  murmured  his  k>ve — ^when  starting,  she  cried, 
"Hush,  stranger-^£9r  /  am  the  Etf-Kiog's  Bride! 

Ah !  why  did  I  list  to  thine  accents  so  sweet? 

Farewell!  for  never  again  shaH  we  meet" 

She  yanished~the  stream  seemed  Ugber  to  swell, 

While  rose  at  that  spot,  as  if  by  some  spell, 

A  lovely  green  plant :  a  moment  it  stood — 

Then£aded — and  slowly  it  sank  in  1^  flood. 

In  the  enemy's  camp  the  trumpets  sound — 

Away  !  where  conquest  or  death  may  be  found !    .  j 

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(    491    ) 


THE  EPILOGUE  OF  1850. 

The  jear  that  is  now  fast  closing  upon  u%  if  Diot  absdiutely  Annus 
MirahiliSy  maj  £urly  put  in  its  claim  for  some  share  of  distinction.  The 
two  great  categories  of  Fact  and  Opinion,  which  make  up  the  sum  total 
of  our  existence,  have  been  very  adequately  represented  during  the  last 
twelve  mcHithS)  and  whatever  rank  the  year  1853  may  eventually  hold  in 
the  world's  annals,  it  will  assuredly  not  be  remembered  by  those  who 
survive  it  as  a  dull  one.  There  has  been  movement,  of  one  kind  or  other, 
throughout,  and,  according  to  our  annual  custom,  we  will  just  glance  at 
some  of  the  most  prominent  occurrences. 

Leaving  the  serious  aspect  of  events  to  be  diseussed  elsewhere — by  the 
Patres  Oonscripti,  or  "  heavy  fathers  "  of  the  Senate,  if  they  will — we 
shall  address  ourselves  chiefly  to  subjects  which  will  admit  of  being  lightly 
touched  upon.  From  this  category  we  do  not  altogether  exclude  politics, 
though  such  matters  require  to  be  approached  almost  as  cautiously  as  one 
would  handle  a  hedgehog. 

There  is  the  Turkish  question,  for  instance.  Though  everybody  in 
England — always  excepting  Mr.  Cobdeu,  who,  like  the  late  Tom  Hill, 
enjoys  his  own  "  private  view  "  of  everything — is  of  one  mind  with  re- 
spect to  the  treatment  which  the  Sultan  has  received  at  the  hands  of  the 
Czar,  no  two  are  agreed  upon  the  course  that  should  have  been  taken 
'^  to  make  things  pleasant "  to  them  both.  It  is  true  that  there  has  been 
a  vast  amount  of  unanimity  amongst  the  dipbmatists  of  Constantinople, 
Vienna,  and  Olmiitz,  but  this  unanimity  has  merely  had  for  its  object  the 
absolute  stultification  of  the  human  understanding.  It  was  not  for  the 
purpose  of  convincing  the  Emperor  of  Russia  that  he  was  wrong,  that 
the  representatives  of  the  foiu:  great  powers  drew  up  the  celebrated 
"  notes,"  which  have  admitted  of  so  many  "  queries,"  but  simply  to  show 
an  admiring  world  how  skilfully  words  might  be  made  to  express  any- 
thing but  what  they  were  really  supposed  to  mean.  like  the  ^^  Precieuses 
Ridicules,"  their  chief  desire  has  been  to  avoid  coming  to  the  point.  Put 
a  lover  in  the  place  of  a  negotiator,  and  Madelon's  rules  define  at  once 
the  course  they  have  adopted.  ''  II  faut  qu'un  aroant,  pour  etre  agre- 
abie,  sacke  debiter  de  beaux  sentiments,  pousser  le  doux,  le  tendre  et  le 
passionne,  et  que  sa  recherche  soit  dans  les  formes,^*  No  one  can  say 
that  the  diplomatic  suit  has  not  been  urged  in  all  its  forms,  with  a  pro- 
fusion too  of  the  finest  sentiments,  with  the  gentlest  pleading — with  every- 
thing, in  short,  to  make  it  agreeable  to  the  Imperial  Coquet.  The  whole 
process  has  been  about  as  edifying  as  the  single  combat  fought  between 
Gymnast  and  Captain  Tripet,  wherein  the  former  ^^  suddenly  fetched  a 
gambol  upon  one  foot,  and  turning  to  the  left  hand,  failed  not  to  carry 
his  body  perfectly  round,  just  into  his  former  position,  without  missing 
(me  jot,"  and  the  latter,  after  making  a  summerset  in  the  air,  ^'  turned 
about  like  a  windmill,  and  made  above  a  hundred  frisks,  turns,  and  demi- 
pommadas;"  though  we  quite  agree  with  Corporal  Trino,  that  '^  one 
home-thrust  of  a  bayonet  was  worth  it  all."  And  Omar  Pasha  seems  to 
have  been  of  this  way  of  thinking  as  well  as  ourselves. 

But,  perhaps,  the  oddest  part  of  the  whole  affair  is  the  wondecful  way 
in  which  the  Coalition  Calunet  has  held  together  in  the  midst  of  tlie 


Digitized  by  VjOOQIC 


492  Tlie  Epilogue  of  1853. 

Ceral  dash  of  opinions,  with  the  fighting-men  gesticulating  outside  the 
th,  and  the  tumhlers  and  vaulters  playing  at  '*  soft  sawder"  within. 
To  listen  to  the  speeches  made  at  Aberdeen,  Glasgow,  and  HaUfax,  you 
would  fancy  that  nobody  could  settle  the  business  but  Captain  Sword ;  to 
take  the  inspirations  of  Downing-street  for  your  oracle,  he  must  of 
necessity  be  superseded  by  Captain  Pen.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  third 
party,  whoift,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we  will  call  Captiun  Palayer. 
He  it  is,  ripe  with  information  "  short  only  of  that  of  the  first  parties 
acting  in  these  proceedings,"  who  '^  studied  the  Eastern  question  twenty 
years  ago,  cu  Mr,  Taii,  the  publisher,  can  stofe,"and  now  comes  forward 
with  a  plan  of  pacification  which  appears  greatly  to  have  gladdened  the 
long-headed  (we  had  almost  written  "  long-eared"),  listeners  at  the 
Music  Hall  of  Edinburgh  when  the  "  Peace"  Society  held  its  last  meet- 
ing there.  No  longer  disposed  to  "  crumple  up"  Russia — a  feat  which 
he  undertook  to  perform  some  two  or  three  years  ago— Mr.  Cobden  has 
settled  it  in  his  own  mind  that  Turkey  must  go  to  the  wall. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  says,  ^^from  my  own  hnow ledge  of  the  Turkish  em- 
pire** (the  best  assurance  we  can  desire  for  being  at  ease  as  to  the  issue), 
^^that  not  only  all  the  king*s  horses  and  all  the  king's  men,  but  not  all 
the  horses  and  all  the  men  of  all  the  Emperors  in  the  world,  can  main- 
tain the  Mohammedan  population  in  Europe  ;"  ^and  then,  to  gratify  the 
fismatical  part  of  his  audience,  he  adds:  "  They  are  going  to  fight  for  the 
maintenance  of  Mohammedanism  in  Europe !" — and  pious  Saunders,  who 
never  had  an  angry  word  with  his  neighbour  on  religious  questions,  re- 
sponds to  this  declaration  with  loud  shouts  of  applause.  Will  Mr.  Cobden 
tell  his  Edinburgh  friends  how  much  nearer  akin  to  their  own  profession 
of  faith  the  subjects  of  the  Porte  will  be  when  they  have  embraced  the 
religion  of  the  Greek  Church  ? — of  that  section  of  it  of  which  "the  most 
orthodox"  Emperor  of  Russia  is  at  the  head  ?  Mr.  Cobden's  charitable 
advice,  in  perfect  keeping,  too,  with  his  peaceable  professions,  is  to  let  the 
Russians  and  Turks  fight  out  a  quarrel  which,  he  admits,  is  provoked  by 
the  Czar  and  based  on  the  grossest  injustice.  But  he  cannot  part  with 
the  subject  without  a  prophecy,  though  he  is  certainly  the  most  unlucky 
prophet  who  ever  vaticinated.  However,  he  continues,  don't  be  a&aid 
of  war ;  **  wars  don't  happen  on  the  Danube  in  November  or  October." 
.  .  .  .  "  We  are  not  going  to  fight  on  the  Danube  in  the  month  of  No- 
vember." If  Mr.  Cobden  had  only  had  a  little  more  information,  just  to 
place  him  on  a  level  with  and  not  '*  short"  of  that  possessed  by  "  the  first 
parties  in  these  proceedings,"  he  would  have  waited  till  the  month  of 
November  before  he  delivered  himself  of  this  oracular  assertion.  What 
say  the  telegraphic  despatches  from  the  Danube?  "  On  the  2nd  and  3rd 
of  November  the  Turks  crossed  the  Danube  from  Turtukai  to  Oltenitza, 
to  the  number  of  about  18,000  men.  On  the  4th,  General  Pauloff  at- 
tacked them  with  9000  men,  and,  after  a  brisk  cannonade,  a  combat  with 
the  bayonet  took  place  between  the  two  armies,  &c."  This  looks  rather 
like  fighting  on  the  Danube  though  Mr.  Cobden  is  quite  capable  of  de- 
nying it,  if  it  suits  the  purpose  of  the  moment  and  procures  him  a  bray 
of  applause. 

But  however  indifierent  to  the  fate  of  Turkey,  however  willing  to 
follow  the  sage  counsels  of  Captain  Palaver  and  suffer  the  "  foul  paynim" 
to  be  "  crumpled  up"  by  the  fouler  Muscovite,  the  wise  men  6f  Edin- 

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The  Epilogue  of  1853.  493 

burgh  have  not  forgotten — ^when  did  Scotchmen  ever  forget— themselves! 
It  is  now  exactly  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  since  "bonnie  King  Jamie 
from  Scotland  came,"  trooping  over  the  Border  with  a  following  whose 
alacrity  to  settle  down  upon  the  fair  pastures  and  broad  meads  of  Eng- 
land has  only  been  equalled  by  the  repugnance  which  their  descendants 
have  invariably  shown  to  return  to  the  barren  heaths  and  bleak  mountains 
of  their  native  land.  Of  the  manner  of  their  coming  and  the  sudden 
metamorphosis  attendant  upon  it,  the  following  Hues  give  a  lively  picture : 

Now  Scot  and  English  are  agreed, 

And  Saunders  hastes  to  cross  the  Tweed, 

Where,  such  the  splendours  that  attend  him, 

His  .very  mother  scarce  had  kend  him. 

His  metamorphosis  behold. 

From  Glasgow  frieze  to  cloth  of  gold; 

His  backsword,  with  the  iron  hilt, 

To  rapier,  fairly  patch'd  and  gilt ; 

Was  ever  seen  a  gallant  braver  I 

His  very  bonnet^s  grown  a  beaver. 

For  a  hundred  years  the  "  braw  callants"  fattened  individually  on  the 
**  Southron  pock  puddings,"  and  then  came  the  "  Union,"  which  opened 
the  door  to  the  whole  collective  nation.  An  idea  has  generally  prevailed 
that  Scotland  and  Scotchmen  have  derived  at  least  much  benefit  from 
this  legislative  measure  as  England  and  the  English,  but  we  have  been 
suddenly  awakened  from  this  delusive  dream  by  a  trumpet-blast  from  the 
aforesaid  Music  Hall  of  Edinburgh,  announcing  that  the  wrongs  which 
Scotland  has  so  long  and  so  silently  endured  can  now  be  borne  no  longer. 
Her  grievances,  it  appears,  are  many  and  deep.  We  learn  from  more  than 
one  eloquent  expositor  of  what  they  consist.  The  text  upon  which  the 
chivalrous  chairman  of  the  Edinburgh  meeting  descanted  was  somewhat 
perilous  for  his  argument.  "  You  may,"  said  the  noble  earl,  "  make  a 
Scotchman  discontented,  but  you  will  never  make  him  an  Englishman;" 
that  is  to  say,  "  give  a  Scotchman  all  you  have  got  and  he  will  be  a 
Scotchman  still."  The  Scotchman,  then,  is  "  discontented"  because  the 
British  Museum  and  the  National  Gallery  (he  is  quite  welcome  to  the 
last-named  building  if  he  will  only  undertake  to  remove  it)  are  not  trans- 
ferred to  Edinburgh ;  because  the  dockyard  at  Portsmouth  and  the  arsenal 
at  Woolwich  are  not  removed  to  the  flats  of  Musselburgh  or  the  crags  of 
Burnbogle.  He  is  "discontented"  because  Dover  is  nearer  to  Calais 
than  Loch  Garvie;  because  the  gardens  of  Hampton  Court  are  kept  up 
as  a  place  of  recreation  for  a  ^mdful  of  English  citizens  (as  many  in 
number,  by  the  way,  as  the  whole  population  of  Scotland),  while  the  park 
of  Holyrood  is — thriftily — ^let  to  a  Scotch  market-gardener.  He  has  also 
a  notable  cause  for  "  discontent"  in  the  degraded  position  of  those  two 
eminently  Scottish  animals,  the  red  lion  and  silver  unicorn,  who  are  un- 
justly made  to  ramp  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  royal  escutcheon.  We 
had  for  some  time  imagined  that  the  British  lion  was  the  most  ill-treated 
brute  in  creation,  but  as  in  the  lowest  deep  there  is  always  one  still  lower, 
so,  "  sounding  the  very  base  string  of  humility"  growls  the  sandy  lion  of 
Scotland. 

The  canny  Scot  is  "discontented"  because  his  country  has  no 
separate  Secretar}'  of  State,  and  is  only  represented  in  the  Cabinet  by  the 
Prime  Minister  and  the  Lord  Privy  Seal ;  in  the  general  body  of  the 

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494  Tki  EpUotfM  of  1953. 

lyfiniBtij  by  a  Lord,  and  one  of  the  Secretaries  to  the  Treasury,  and  two 
Lords  of  tlie  Admiralty ;  and  ia  the  Household  of  the  Queen  by  a  Scottisk 
Lofd  Chamberlain  and  a  Scottish  Controller.  The  Gordons,  Elliots, 
Campbdls,  Dundases,  Murrays,  Scotts,  Haooiltons,  Douglases,  to  say 
notfamg  of  the  ^  Legion"  whose  prefix  is  ^^  Mac,"  have  had,  as  £sir  as  our 
reecdlection  nrves,  a  tolerably  fair  share  of  the  privileges  of  power,  as 
well  as  ci  the  official  loaves  and  fishes  that  have  abounded  since  the  esta- 
Uidmient  of  the  Union.  Scottish  generals  have  commanded  in  em 
armies,  Scottish  admirals  have  led  our  Beets  to  victory — they  have  had 
their  reward  as  well  as  their  renown, — Scottish  lawyers  have  sat  on  the 
woolsack,  and  there  is  one  at  the  present  moment — ^highly  esteemed  and 
respected  by  all— who  occupies  the  post  of  Lord  CWef  Justice  of  all 
England.  We  know  of  no  situation  of  honour  or  profit, — to  neither  of 
which  things  are  Scotchmen  supposed  to  be  insensible, — that  our  Mends 
north  of  the  Tweed  have  not  at  some  time  or  other  enjoyed,  we  will  not 
say  to  the  total  exclusion  of  Englishmen,  but  certainly  to  a  degree  that 
had  more  than  once  gone  near  to  savour  of  monopoly.  But  it  is  a 
grievance  fov  Scotland  that  ^  is  ''left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a 
hiwyer" — the  Lord  Advocate — ^who,  we  may  observe,  en  ptissant,  must 
of  necessity  be  a  Scotchman. 

But  we  nave  not  yet  got  to  the  end  of  our  tether.  ''  Scotland  is  not 
fairly  represented  in  Parliament."  This  is  not  a  peculiarly  Scottish 
rrievance,  and  we  fear  that  Caledonia,  with  her  three  miUioos  returning 
fifky-three  members,  must  wiut  for  redress  until  Middlesex,  with  a  larger 
population  and  fewer  representatives,  has  an  equal  measure  of  justice 
accorded.  The  ^jquent  author  of  the  "  Histoay  of  Europe,"  who,  par 
parenthese,  has  been  rewarded  with  a  baronetcy,  enumerates  at  cond- 
derable  length  the  number  of  things  that  Scotchmen  have  given  to 
England:  "the  steam-engine,"  "free  trade,"  "  Sir  Walter  Scc^t,"  &c. 
We  might  add  to  tins  list  of  gifts  firom  a  people  so  open-Jbandedj  but  will 
content  ourselves  by  asking,  if  the  Scotch  have  never  received  an  equi- 
valent for  their  donations,  however  nimierous  ?  Scientific  inventions, 
liberal  institutions,  the  products  of  genius,  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be 
"  given "  by  one  nation  to  another.  You  may  be  poud  of  the  man 
whose  intelleet  or  whose  labour  have  benefited  mankind;  but  while  you 
profit  by  the  results  yourselves,  you  can  assert  small  claim  to  generosity. 
Sir  Isaac  Newton  did  probably  as  much  for  science  as  Watt, — Sir  Robert 
Peel  rendered  services  no  less  eminent  than  Adam  Soulii, — Shakspeare 
has  perhaps  as  many  readers  as  Scott,  but  it  is  not  the  habit  of  Engli^- 
men  to  say  that  they  have  made  a  present  of  their  great  men  to  ^Saa  or 
that  country.  The  universality  c^  genius  renders  such  a  narrow  distri^ 
bution  absmrd. 

But  Sir  Archibald  Alison  complains  that  Scotland  is  not  garrisoned 
by  English  troops,  in  the  same  manner  as  Ireland;  that  ^  has  bo 
militia,  Hke  England.  We  have  always  fancied  that  the  fewer  the  troops 
for  the  preservation  of  order — ^in  Ireland  they  are  there  for  that  purpose 
and  aot  for  defence — ^the  pleasanter  fcH:  the  country  so  spared.  But  the 
want  of  a  Scottish  militia  is  a  grievance.  Why  ?  Because,  says  Sir 
Archibald,  ^'  in  case  of  a  war  breaking  out,  ifo,  descent  were  to  be  made 
from  BuBua — and  the  Emperor  of  Russia  had  always  in  the  summer 


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The  Epilogue  cf  1853.  495 

as  manj  dnps  of  Ifie  line  in  i^e  Baltic  as  eonid  traofport  30,000  men  m 
a  short  space  of  time  to  any  part  cf  our  coast — he  need  lacA  my  wiiere 
l^e  iaradjng  force  would  come  in  tl»e  first  instance.  Why,' they  would 
first  come  to  the  Firth  of  Forth/'  That  little  word  «i^"  Sir  Arehihald, 
is  a  great  moderator.  If  a  descent  were  to  be  made  from  the  moon,  or 
any  other  equidly  likdiy  ^^ace  !  or,  admitting  that  tiie  30,000  "Rnflsiamr 
were  actudly  afloat,  bent  on  pillage,  and  resolved,  every  man-jack  of 
'em,  to  return  to  Muscovy  laden  with  plunder,  is  it  to  ^e  Firth  of  Forth 
that  they  woidd  of  necesnty  steer  ?  We  think  not.  The  Rnasia&s  hare 
as  little  desire  to  tempt  the  pugnacity  of  oar  gallant  ^sllow-coiuita'ymeD 
— if  they  will  still  allow  us  to  cdl  them  so— as  to  take  the  unnecessary 
trouUe  of  rifling  iheir  pock^ ;  ihey  know  very  wdi  ^^t  l^iey  windd  m 
welcomed  with  '^  more  kicks  than  hsd^enee."  Ignorant,  perchance,  of 
the  proverb,  they  are  quite  alive  to  the  £m^  that  ^  it's  ill  taktn'  off  the 
breeks  frae  a  wild  Hielandman." 

While  on  the  subject  oC  national  wrongs,  we  may  noUce  what  a  HMy 
writer  in  the  Globe  has  facetiously  called  ^^  A  squeak  from  a  Welch 
rabbit."  The  author  of  the  squeak,  a  true  Cambro-Britoa,  objects 
strongly  t^t  the  Engli^  word  which  describes  his  countrymen  slK>uld 
be  spdt  with  a  ^  c"  and  not  with  an  ^  s,"— declaring  that  tibe  iosmer 
orthography  '<has  a  significancy,  not  perhaps  apparent  to  every  nn- 
obser^ant,  unliiinking  mind,  but  to  us  it  has  a  mddea  and  bitter  meanii^, 
being  symbolicsd  of  that  conquest,  the  recolleetion  of  wMeh  ages  caainot 
effihce  <Mr  memory  forget."  '^  By  my  troth,"  as  Mistress  Qinckly  ne,jf^ 
addressing  a  ge^leman  who  had  his  own  reasons,  afiberwards,  for  not 
particularly  admiring  ilie  national  symbol  of  the  Cambro-Britons,  ^  by 
my  trolh,  Captsdn,  these  be  very  bitter  woids!"  We  fear  that  iSa^ 
^  tmobservant  and  unthinking"  must  be  in  a  lai^  nugority  in  England 
if  the  foet  of  bdng  so  depends  upon  the  substitution  of  one  letter  for 
anof^ier.  Lord  Bmidgh's  ^ake  of  the  head  had  scarcely  a  greater 
^'  mgnificancy"  than  the  c^oxious  partide,  which  has  roused  the  ire  of 
Ap- Jenkin.  He,  too,  complains  titat  there  is  no  piaee  in  the  Royal  Arms 
for  either  goat  or  ledc.  Let  us  reduce  our  nationality  to  its  simplest 
elements  and  split  ourselves  up,  fike  De  Foe's  '^  tme-bom  Enghshman," 
into  the  Damsh,  Saxon,  Norman,  and  five  hmidred  other  sections  whidi 
combine  to  make  ns  what  we  are,  and  a  yifretty  meeagerie  we  idiail  have 
to  aeoonmiodate :  ^'liomi,  unicorns,  ravens,  horses,  jaclcasses,  goats,  and 
moiAeysf* 

Amongst  the  eool  and  pleasant  proportions  wtnch  people  sometimes 
make,  when  they  happen  to  be  on  the  very  best  iems  with  themselves, 
the  coolest  and  p^easantest  we  have  heard  of  for  a  long  time  is  that  wludi 
was  wafted  across  the  Pacific,  a  fow  weeks  ago,  £rom  New  South  Waks. 
In  that  ancient  and  aristocratic  colony  where  every  man's  ancestor,  aaid  a 
tolerable  ^rinkhng  of  the  present  generation,  went  over — it  is  scanoely 
necessary,  nor,  peraaps,  would  it  be  agrees^le  to  everybody  to  say  how 
— ^the  select  committee  of  the  Legi&Uive  Council,  having  a  natural 
antipathy,  like  Goldsmith's  bear-leader,  to  anything  "  low,"  have  recom- 
mended, as  a  bulwark  against  democracy,  '^the  estaUidiment  of  a 
Council  nominated  by  ^e  Crown  for  life,  2aA  an  order  cf  hereditary 
nobility^  the  first  of  whom  shall  have  seats  in  the  Coundl  1^  virtue  of 


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496  The  Epilogue  of  1853. 

their  dignity,  and  their  successorg  a  power  of  election  from  among  Uiem- 
selves,  simih^  to  that  possessed  by  the  Scotch  and  Irish  Peers." 

There  will  be  less  difficulty  in  qualifymg  for  a  Botany  Bay  Peerage 
than  might  at  first  be  supposed.  The  colonists  have  a  ^'Domesday 
Book,"  in  the  shape  of  "  The  Newgate  Calendar,"  which  amf^y  sets  forth 
the  meritorious  services  by  which  their  progenitors  acquired  a  locm 
standi  in  that  quarter  of  the  globe,  and  tlK>ugh  it  cannot  be  shown  that 
the  latter  were  ever  summoned  by  writ  to  the  House  of  Lords  in  their 
native  country,  the  fact  that  they  were  familiar  with  writs  and  sum- 
monses and  warrants  and  many  ower  judicial  processes  is  capable  of  the 
fullest  proof.  Precedent  is  entirely  in  favour  of  the  new  claimants,  since 
we  learn  from  history  that,  at  the  period  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  the 
followers  of  Duke  William,  having  gone  through  the  form  of  asking  a 
consent  which  he  could  not  refuse,  *^  constituted  themselves  the  nobles  of 
the  land."  The  Norman  adventurers, — nine-tenths  of  whom  had  gra- 
duated in  most  of  the  prisons  of  Europe, — ^relied  upon  the  strong  hand  to 
support  their  pretensions ;  what  they  had  acquired  was  gained  at  the 
point  of  the  swwd.  The  adventurers  of  New  South  Wales,  having  had 
the  advantage  of  a  similar  education,  trusted  also  to  their  hands  for  their 
position  in  Society,  and  their  descendants  may  justly  plead — though  this 
is  an  awkward  word  to  use,  under  the  circumstances, — that  they  knew 
how  to  turn  them  to  account.  The  feudal  and  the  convict  systems 
differed  only  in  this,  that  the  weapons  of  the  practitioners  in  the  one  case 
were  the  sword  and  lance,  and  in  the  other  the  jenmiy  and  crowbar,  each 
got  what  they  had  without  the  consent  of  the  parties  despoiled.  In  the 
days  of  chivalry  the  chief  officers  who  had  to  do  with  claimants  for  social 
position  were  the  Lord  High  ConstaUe  and  the  Earl  Marshal ;  in  those 
of  convictry  the  Constable  and  the  Marshal  have  been  found  equally 
efficient.     "  Would  you,"  as  Falstaff  says,  "  desire  better  sympathy?" 

Neither  need  the  labours  of  the  Botany  Bay  Heralds  be  very  severely 
taxed  to  find  appropriate  titles,  arms,  and  mottoes  for  the  new  Peers. 
Lidulging  in  an  hereditary  propensity,  the  latter  may  be  freely  taken 
from  our  own  nobility,  whUe  what  Madame  de  Stael  calls  ^'  une  intelli- 
gence active,"  may  easily  imagine  the  two  former.  What,  for  a  Botany 
Bay  Peer,  could  he  more  suitable  than  the  motto  of  the  Duke  of  Atholl: 
"  Furth  fortune  and  fill  the  fetters  "?  That  of  the  Marquis  of  Conyng- 
ham:  "Over  fork  over"?  Of  the  Duke  of  Argyll:  "Vix  ea. nostra 
voco"  (We  scarce  can  call  these  things  our  own)?  Of  the  Earl  of 
Rothes :  "  Grip  fast "?  Of  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale :  '<  Ma^tratus  indicat 
virum"  (The  magistrate  shows  the  man)?  Of  LordOngley:  "Mihi 
cura  future"  (I  am  careful  for  the  future)  ?  Of  Lord  Cranstoun :  *'  Thou 
shalt  want  ere  I  want"  ?  Of  Lord  Bandon :  "  Virtiss  probata  florescit'' 
(  Tried  virtue  flourishes)  ?  For  titles,  let  us  suppose  a  Duke  of  Newgate^ 
a  Marquis  of  Millbank,  an  Earl  of  Brixton,  a  Viscount  Clerkenwell,or  a 
Baron  Horsemonger — and  let  some  modem  Gwyllim  marshal  his  coat 
of  arms  thus:  "He  beareth  quarterly,  1  and  4,  scAle,  &  fetter-lock, 
argent;  2  and  3,  or,  a  gibbet,  gules,  vrith  a  rope,  pendant,  proper. 
Crest,  over  a  fogle  twisted,  azure  and  argent,  a  Ian  thorn,  sable,  lighted, 
or.  Supporters,  two  gaol-birds,  joropcr,  both  gorged  with  a  hempen  crava^ 
talons  manacled,  iron,*'    Motto :  **  Comme  je  fus.'* 

But,  in  addition  to  a  Peerage  at  Botany  Bay,  why  not  have  Orders  of 

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Tke  EpUofue  of  ISSS.  4»7 

Kz%btboodP  '<The,  Nooae"  would  be  qmte  as  agoifieaiit  u  ''The 
Gaiter,"  and  oould  be  adc^ted  with  very  few  idlwri^ioDg*  Instead  of 
wearing  it  round  the  lelik  leg,  let  it  be  suspended  from  the  neck ;  for  the 
^<  George  aad  Dragon'' substitute  the  *' Convict  and  Kangaroo;"  and 

•  let  the  did  nM>tto^  '^  Iloni  soat  qiu  mal  y  pense,"  remain.     The  Codlar,  in 

•  that  auriferous  kmd,  might  still  be  of  gold,  ajid,  as  the  description  runs 
in  the  statutes  of  the  Gaiter,  'Hhe  links  being  £iiShioned  like  cords" 
In  Heu  of  ostrich  feathers,  let  die  esip  be  decorated  with  ^  phimage  of 
the  Magpie  {Corvus  raptor).  The  Order  of  the  "  Thistle"  might  find 
its  prototype  in  the  '^  Mill"  or  the  '*  Crank ;"  and  inst^uiof  the  image  of 
Saint  Amirew,  '^habited  in  a  green  gown^  and  bearing  b^ore  him  a 
ax>ss,"  in^oduce  that  of  Saint  Nicholas,  "  habited  in  grey,  widi  his  hair 
cropped  close,  and  bearing  a  crow-bar  in  lus  hand."  The  Order  of  t^e 
"Bath"  bekmgs  of  rig^t  to  Australia;  aU  her  first  settlers  had  it  con- 
ferred on  them  before  they  left  the  mother  country,  in  Cddbath  Fields. 
We  have  lately  heard  irom  l^e  Uinted  States  tha^  it  is  the  custom  in 
diat  ha:pi^  land  to  paint  the  noses  of  their  conriets  an  indelible  bkek ; 
perhaps,  the  bett^  to  distinguish  them  from  the  mere  heid  of  goldfinders, 
the  Peers  <^  Sydney  might  not  c^jeet  to  a  similar  decoralion ! 

Bat  aldiou^  you  are  at  liberty  to  eBd>las>n  a  malefactor  in  the  United 
States,  where  and  how  you  please,  you  must  be  careful  not  to  attempt 
the  sune  thing  with  any  of  her  statesmen.  You  are  not  permitted,  in  a 
physical  sense — as  you  would  find  it  imposribie  in  a  moral  one — to 
'  '^  trick"  an  Am^ican — <^true  grit."  Amcmgst  ihe  insixudaons  which 
the  new  President,  General  Pearce,  has  given  to  tlie  dij^omatists  who 
r^resent  the  Union  in  foreign  countries,  not  tl^  least  s^ingent  has  been 
that  which  enjoins  that  the  usual  tinsel  and  embroid^  of  diplomatic 
costume  worn  on  State  occasions  at  foreign  Courts  shall  be  discontinued. 
Mr.  Sandfi>rd,  the  present  American  Secretary  of  Legation  at  Paris,  has 
been  the  first  to  obey  this  ordw  to  substitute  "  blade  pants  "  for  "  white 
dM)rts;"  though  in  the  announcement  which  he  made  to  M.  Drouyn  de 
FHoys  of  his  intention  to  do  so^  on  tlie  fete  day  of  the  Emperor,  he 
evidently  expected  that  the  proceeding  would  involve  a  easut  belli 
between  llie  two  countries.  The  Minisoer  for  Foreign  Affairs  readied, 
however,  that  Mr.  Sandford  might  do  just  what  he  thought  & :  he  pre- 
scribed nothing,  but  left  the  secretary  to  array  himself  aec<Mrding  to  die 
President's  ^^instructions,"  or  his  own  taste,  whichever  he  pleased;  in 
the  planter  s  cotton  jadeet  or  the  backwoodsman's  buffiEdo  shirt.  Ac- 
cordingly, says  the  CmdrmaH  Gazette — in  hysterics  of  delight  at  the 
"  bold,  courageous,  and  patriotic  act" — Mr.  Sandlbrd  went  to  dinner 
^^in  die  humble  dress  of  a  plain  citizen — black  dress  ooat,  white  vest  and 
cravat,  «id  black  pantaloons."  '^  I  trample  on  your  pride,"  said  the 
Secretary  of  Ligation,  in  the  spirit  of  the  stoic  philosc^er.  '^  With 
^^ater  fuide,"  might  the  Turkish  Ambassador  have  answered ;  but  he 
cootoated  himself  by  observing,  '<Vous  avez  I'air  d'un  CoriM^ui  dans 
eette  foule  d'oiseaux  d'<M: !" — and  ever  since  Mr.  Sandford  lits  rgoioed  in 
the  appellaticm  ei  "  the  black  crow." 

Everybody  who  has  recently  perambulated  Regei^rstreet  must  have 
noticed  in  the  shop-window  of  Messrs.  Nicoll  (adnuringly  or  othervrise) 
the  most  gorgeous  dressing-gown  whieh  has  p:obahly  ever  been  £ishioned 

•  by  shears  and  needle.      Purple  Genoa  vd?et,  quiked  white  aatin  at 

Dec. — VOL.  xcix.  NO.  cccxcvi.  2  l 

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498  The  EpOogue  of  1853. 

eighteen  shillings  a  yard,  silken  cords  and  tassels  of  blue  and  gold,  and  a 
parterre  of  embroidered  flowers — hollyhocks,  tulips,  and  roses,  coloured 
after  nature,  only  twice  as  vivid  and  twice  as  laige — constituted  the 
niaking-up  of  this  superb  garment.  We  had  the  curiosity,  when  we  first 
saw  it,  to  enter  the  shop  and  ask  if  it  had  been  made  to  order  ?  ^^  No,^ 
replied  the  shopman,  quietly.  "What  is  the  price?"  "Thirty-four 
guineas  ?"  "  And  are  you  likely,  or  is  it  possible  that  you  can  expect, 
to  find  a  purchaser  p"  The  man  smiled.  "  Of  course  we  shaU.  The 
very  first  American,  with  money  in  his  pocket,  who  sees  will  buy  it.  We 
are  always  sure  of  a  market  with  them.  They  can't  stand  such  things 
sir — ^they  must  have  'em,  at  any  price."  After  this  explanation  we  fully 
appreciated  the  boldness,  the  courage,  the  patriotism,  and,  let  us  add,  the 
self-denial  of  Mr.  Sandford.  All  his  diplomatic  brethren  have  not 
stoicism  like  his ;  for  the  same  Cincinnati  Gazette  tells  us  that  "  Mr. 
De  Leon,  formerly  editor  of  the  Southern  Press,  who  goes  to  Alexandria 
as  Consul-General,  uniting  diplomatic  with  consular  duties,  has  had  a 
coat  made  in  Washington,  which  has  three  golden  stars  on  each  collar, 
and  an  eagle  on  each  breast  P'  This  is  the  gentleman,  without  doubt, 
whose  eye  has  been  caught  by  the  purple  velvet  dressing- g^wn. 

Before  we  lose  sight  of  the  question  of  costume,  we  have  a  word  to  say- 
to  the  ladies.  The  absurdities  of  fashion  are  looked  upon  as  simply 
harmless  at  the  present  day,  but  it  was  not  always  so,  and  we  should  be 
curious  to  know  what  those  famous  French  preachers,  M aillard  and 
Menot,  who  declaimed  against  the  incongruities  of  dress  in  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIL,  would  have  said  to  the  custom  which  now  prevails  of  wearing 
the  bonnet  half-way  down  the  back !  They  would  scarcely  have  su£Pered 
it  to  pass  without  making  certain  comparisons  which  the  wearers  would 
gladly  have  been  spared.  The  sugar-loaf  cap  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
three-quarters  of  an  ell  high,  or  the  homed  head-dress  that  preceded  it, 
were  not  more  ridiculous  than  the  bareheaded — and  barefeused — sparrow- 
trap  of  1853  ;  those  couvre'chefs  did  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they 
were  intended,  which  is  more  than  we  can  say  of  our  fashionable  bonnet 
now-a-days. 

It  is  impossible  to  cast  a  retrospective  glance  at  the  follies  of  the  time 
without  some  reference  to  the  table-tumiDg  and  spirit-rapping  absurdity, 
though,  except  amongst  the  exaltes,  whose  province  it  is  to  be  delirious 
**  in  their  philosophy,"  and  the  stupid  herd,  who  follow  any  leader,  and 
don*t  get  rid  of  their  impressions  so  readily  as  they  receive  them,  the 
mania  has,  happily,  disappeared.  We  have  heard  that  the  death-blow 
was  given  to  it  by  the  misfortune  which  befel  a  distinguished  lady  of 
fashion,  who,  wishing  to  speculate  in  mining  shares — the  "  Cockatoos," 
the  "  Mooncalf,"  or  some  such  golden  or  copper  fallacy — consulted  the 
spirit  that  dwelt  in  her  sandal-wood  work-table,  bought  in  at  twenty 
premium  on  the  strength  of  his  advice — the  spirit  personating  the  late 
Mr.  Rothschild — and  sold  out  a^in  a  month  afterwards  at  ten  discount, 
with  reflections  rather  strong  than  feminine  upon  the  conduct  of  the 
elderly  ex-capitalist  who  had  deceived  her,  and  consigning  him  to  that 
Tophet  which  has  for  its  duration  a  longer  "eternity"  than  Professor 
Maurice  appears  willing  to  put  faith  in.  Since  the  misadventure  of 
La4y  A ,  table-turning  has  been  left  to  the  cabinet-makers. 

The  taste  for  war,  begotten,  it  may  be,  by  the  demonstrations  at  Chob- 

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The  Epilogue  of  1853.  499 

ham  and  Spithead— demonstrations  which  folly  showed  what  English 
soldiers  and  sailors  are  capable,  '^  at  the  shortest  notice,''  of  doing- — has 
tfiis  year  led  our  wandering  countrymen  in  search  of  a  fresh  enemy  ;  a 
novel  description  of  game  has  been  flushed,  and  every  sportsman .  who 
could  level  a  gun  or  pull  a  trigger  has  had  a  bang  at  it.     The  new 
**  quarry'*  is  "  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor  fowl,  nor,"  as  some  say,  "  good 
red-herring,"  though  it  has  that  about  it  which  pertains  to  all  these 
comestibles.     It  is,  in  fact,  the  British  hotel-keeper,  "  mine  host"  as  he 
was  wont  to  be  called,  who  has  thus  been  made  the  general  target,  the 
food  for  powder  of  every  snap  shot.     "  Edax"  writes  to  the   Times,  en- 
closing his  bill,  and  compkuning  that  he  pays  more  for  his  dinner  at  the 
Folkestone  "  Pavilion,"  than  at  the  "  Goat  and  Harp,"  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  comer  of  Glamorganshire.     "  Bibax"  condemns  the  Brighton 
**  Bedford,"  because  he  was  only  charged  "  two  and  six"  for  a  pint  of 
port  at  the  "  Cat  and  Bagpipes,"  at  Poldoody  ;  and  "  Vorax"  vows  that 
he  never  yet  dined — at  his  own  expense — at  any  hotel  in  England  where 
he  got  half  enough  for  his  money.     Our  old  friend  "  Paterfamilias,"  who 
travels  with  his  wife,  his  wife  s  sister,  seven  awkward,  noisy,  hungry 
children,  and  three  servants,  confesses  to  "  general  accommodation," 
but  is  very  bitter  about  a  bottle  of  pale  ale  that  was  charged  "tenpence," 
because  he  had  it  in  his  bedroom  "  after  he  had  put  on  his  nightcap!" 
**  Snob,"  who  by  his  own  account  passes  his  time  wherever  he  goes  in 
drinking  whisky  and  smoking,  thinks  sixpence  a  piece  for  twelve  "goes," 
and  three  shillings  for  a  dozen  cigars  "  extortionate,"  and  to  prove  his 
case,  sets  to  work  to  calculate  the  cost  price  of  the  articles  and  how 
enormous  must  be  the  innkeeper  s  profits.     Another  fellow,  who  calls 
himself  "  A  Tradesman,"  gives  a  full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  how 
^*  me  and  my  wife  and  a  gent,  a  friend  of  mine,"  horrified  at  the  prospect 
of  having  to  pay  three-and-sixpence  a  head  for  dinner,  and  half-a-crown 
for  a  bed,  at  the  best  hotel  in  the  town,  "  took  and  went"  and  "  'ired  a 
lodging"  for  a  day,  and  bought  a  leg  of  mutton  and  "  weggetables,"  and 
**  laid  in  "  'alf-a-pound  of   candles,    a  loaf  of  best  'ousehold  bread,  a 
nounce  of  tea,  and  'ad  a  pint  of  gin  "  which  it  give  us  three  tumblers  a 
piece,  by  reason  of  Mrs.  'O.  (the  man*s  name  is  Horrocks)  sipping  out  of 
my  glass" — and  all  for  the  small  sum  of  fourteen  and  eightpence  'apenny, 
^*  which  the  change"  (3^.),  he  concludes  with  a  flourish,  "  we  give  the 
gal,  well  satisfied," — the  last  remark  expressing  the  writer's  satisfaction, 
we  presume,  not  that  of  the  waiting-maid.     Respecting  "  Biffin"  and 
*'  Pippin,"    two  well  known  couriers — Arcades  ambo — who  are  always 
"  crossing  over,"  we  say  nothing,  only  requesting  them,  the  next  time 
they  exhibit  their  masters'  old  Paris  bills,  to  have  the  candour  to  say  what 
they  are  paying  just  now  for  hotel  accommodation  in  that  capital.     We 
think  it  will  be  found  that  a  man  may  fare  and  lodge  better  at  the  **  Pa- 
vilion," or  the  "  Bedford,"  than  at  any  of  the  much-vaunted  caravanserais 
of  old  Lutetia,  and  find  himself  with  more  money  in  his  pocket  when  he 
settles  his  little  account.     The  fact  is,  there  happened  to  be  no  thrilling  and 
mysterious  murder  to  occupy  the  public  mind  during  the  last  autumn, 
and  so  the  penny-a-liners  held  an  inquest  at  every  respectable  hotel  in 
the  kingdom. 

Apropos  of  hotels,  have  any  of  our  readers  paid  a  visit  yet  to  the  first 
completed  hotel  of  the  series  that  is  to  surround  the  Crystal  Palace  at  • 

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500  lie  EpOogme  of  18^3. 

Sydenham?  They  wHi £iid  bo  eaoee  to  regret  liaviog  mi^  &e expeii- 
ment.  Wfami  we  speak  of  the  Oiysial  Palace  itself  we  ceaie  at  onee  ta 
1)0  ciqptioui  or  eriticaL  Whatever  geoims  and  taste  cooid  contriye,  or 
skill  and  kboor  exeeute,  will  be  foimd  eoncentrated  there,  and  let  the 
diortcomlDgs  of  1853  be  what  they  may,  tins  marvelous  btdldiiig  will 
remun  a  proud  memorial  of  the  age  wHch  knew  how  to  combine  the 
useful  and  the  beantifoL  The  French  pror^b  says,  "  Un  doa  chasse 
Fantre,"  in  other  words,  there  is  always  compensation  for  what  we  lose. 
A  year  ot  two  ago  who  ^' about  town"  mu^ncxi  that  he  could  get  through 
the  season  without  ^  Her  Mde8ty*s  Theatre  P'  And  yet  the  Hayma]£et 
was  a  desert  from  March  to  heptember,  and  no  exquisite  hung  himself  in 
Carlotta  Grisi's  garters  !;  There  has  been  a  talk  ahoat  taking  down 
Temple  Bar,  which  some  people  look  upon  as  Ihe  front  tooth  (d  the  dty ; 
bat  we  think  its  loss  might  be  supplied.  We  are  ourselyes  rather  iu 
fiiTOur  of  the  moTement,  not  so  mu&  on  account  o£  the  faideousDess  of 
Ihe  bmlding,  as  from  our  desire  to  soItc  a  mystery  which  has  pvnled  us 
all  our  lives,  and  that  is,  in  what  manner  the  Warden  of  the  Bar,  or 
whoever  he  is  that  lives  in  that  room  over  tiie  archway,  gets  into  his  den, 
or,  once  in,  how  he  gets  out  again  I  Does  he  frortively  enter  by  a  side- 
door  from  Child's,  when  he  goes  diere  under  the  preteiiee  of  getting  a 
**  Corporation'*  cheque  ca^d  ?  Or,  pretending — notwithstanding  *'  the 
Beard  Movement" — that  he  wants  to  he  shaved,  does  he  slily  slip  into  the 
barber's  on  the  oj^posite  side  of  the  way,  and  somehow,  then,  e£Eect  an 
entrance  ? 

But  Temple  Bar  is  not  the  only  thing  that  is  going.  We  say  noiinag 
about  the  pictures  m  ^e  National  Gallery,  fcnr  they  are  gone  irredeem- 
ably ;  but  what  about  the  Corporation  of  London,  the  L^  Mayor  and 
SheiifFs,  the  Mace,  the  Sword,  die  Mansion  House  Dinners,  Gog  and 
Magog,  the  City  Marshal,  and  all  the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of 
glorious  London  ?  Alas,  that  Sir  Peter  Laurie  should  live  to  see  aUthis 
^^  put  down !"  Alas,  fi>r  the  alderman  expectant  who  may  he  extingmd^ed 
before  next  November !  In  rach  a  case  1 864  will — in  ms  estimation — be 
more  memorable  than  1853. 


Before  we  dismiss  the  events  of  the  year,  we  have  yet  a  word  to  say 
about  ourselves.  With  this  page  we  close  our  Ninety-N  inth  Volume,  and 
we  trust  we  may  be  permitted,  in  doing  so,  to  express  our  satis&ction  at 
the  fact  that  the  New  Monthly  still  occupies  the  same  prominent  place 
in  the  periodical  literature  of  the  country  which  it  has  held  since  the 
Magazine  was  first  established. 

In  January  we  commence  our  Hundredth  Volume,  and,  stimulated 
by  past  success,  shall  endeavour  to  make  that  Hundredth  Volume — with 
each  (A  its  numerous  progeny,  yet  unborn — a  Hundred  times  better,  if 
possible,  than  its  predecessors. 

But  the  Prologue  for  1854  shall  more  explicitly  declare  our  future 
intentions. 


END  OF  VOL.  XCIX. 


O.  WHriTNG,  BEiLVFORT  HOUSE,  STRAlfD. 

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JUL  1 5  1936 


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