Skip to main content

Full text of "Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country"

See other formats

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 
to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 
publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 

We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http : //books . google . com/ 


I \ 

I' f 

■t . j' 

Digitized by 


I ' I 

Digitized by 


Digitized by 


Digitized by 


Digitized by 











Digitized by 





CMtIC SiffMl, Ui«Mt«T B^VWt 

Digitized by 





Vol. XVIL JANUARY, 1838. No. XCVII. 






DOM xiouBL eomz 16 









THE NEWSPAPER PRESS OF PARIS. Noj V • , ', / . • * / 

nfTRODVCTION i ., <. w...'>..4r. .'. .. .y.. .t .. «/.*.^.>., 50 

THBMONXTBUR i * .V..w^. .. /. .V. i ...'.\t. A .>.l .;' 54 

THB JOUBXf AI. DBS DBBAT8 ».,.....* ...^v 56 


zTi. ximtoDucTOBY .'...'.I. .'..;.'. .*.:.' 68 

XVII, THBOBIOINOVMUIJ.IOATAWNYM>UPj..>3.;.V/V*,*>* *..•'•'.♦.'*..'. ib, 

zTui. ORAVT80UP .^ ...j.'. '.i,.;.\*../. .'...;.•/...*/ 65 

XIX. OX-TAIL SOUP 1. 1. :..%.'. ;...';..; 66 



















Digitized by 


»• «••• ••••• 

^ ^ \ • • • m • • • 

• ••- * • •«• •••-• 

»••••. •• • • • • 

• • • *•* • • • ••• * • 

» •«•• • •• ••• 

•• .•••• • 

• • *•• • • *•• ••• • • 

• «• • •• •• 

Digitized by 





Vol. X\ .L FEBRUARY, 1838. No. XCVIII. 













LA PAIS 906 

ram joukwal db pabis j.^^... ...... j.....„.. ^....v.*...* 209 

TBB CONSTITUTION NKL \. .'. ..^.. ..',..% ..^. ..'j.*..^. ...av^v**' 810 

TRSOOUBIBR FRAlffCAIS *» ....*;.,... ..-..V. .... .^...-^•. J. T^^.T^ 811 


THBTBJIPH 4. \.l..^i;.'. #.«... <./.tr 81S 

TBB NATIOirAL «. .. ..^ r. ./.^*.. .^X^.^ 81ff 

TBB BOlf SBirS -h '....'...t.y. .'...". J... 817 

LBMORDR .-....^.^"'.t--.'^...'...I.''.^A.r 818 

TBBMB88AOBB 1. ..1 .V.Uw.".. .4'. J'..C.%. .^ 819 

LA PRKdSR ^."..r. .'.."...... "...."...". 880 

TRBBlicLB 894 






TBB CHABTB 9B 1880 O. 


BTC BTC BTC..... ib, 







THB REHEARSAL ^ *...... 8B5 


M4>CCCJCZXYIII. Digitized by LiOOglC 

Digitized by 






Vol.. X\ .L FEBRUARY, 1838. No. XCVIII. 





xzz. raa max op fkw words 147 










X.A PAIZ'«- 906 

ran jouhstal db pams 2.^^..... .....^....., 200 

THB OOMSTITUTIONNBL '...%..,,., ,.'..r..... .r^,^./ SIO 

TRBCOUREBBFRAirCAIS -^ .r... ...«....%.;..% 811 


THBTBMP8 «. ... .. r. . ,.i .. .r. '..^ 81S 

TBBVATIOirAL •............/.../.:, 81ff 

THBBOlf SBirS •» ^....1....'. 817 

LB MORDB .4.....^..:. ./....\.....'.^. 818 

TBBanMaAOBit .'....'........' ^'..... 819 

LA PRMBK '. 980 

THBSlAcLB 894 


l'bobops A. 

LA ooonoiBinrB • i6. 



TBB CHAIiTB 9B 1890 O. 











MJK;CC.ZZXVIII. Digitized by LjOOglC 

• •• • 

, • • • • • 

• • • • • 

Digitized by 





Vol. XVII. MARCH, 1838. No. XCIX, 


HORiB SINICiS. NalV. 288 











TBBTorrN , .^.••. 888 
















CHALMBBfi 343 










^.DCCC JUUCYUI. Digitized by VjOOg IC 


Digitized by 






Vol. XVII. APRIL, 1838. No. C. 








CHAP. f. PA8T HftTOBY 421 
















M.DCCC.XXXVIII. Digitized by GoOglC 

Digitized by 





Vol. XVH. MAY, 1838. No. CI. 





DIMBCTIOy 9. •••••».«•••••*»»*•• «*«4*«*««t*^««*«»«.»4i. •••».<•». •«.«»»•«•«••••••••• 53B 


DEBTOR AV0CREIMMR? * m^^....^.^.'.../. MS 






FOUR GERMAN DITTIES ••"• ,.*/«>-«#v ••*•••«•*..• 577 





RXMABKgOIff MILTON .••* •«.♦•♦« •.•••...•....•.•. .r (B7 









Digitized by VjOOQIC 

On May 15th will be ready, in 1 vol. post 8vo. price 8s. 







Author of" Rough Sketches Afloat," « Three Years of my Life," «te. &c. 

James Fkaseb, 215 Regent Street. 

Digitized by 





Vol. XVII. 

JUNE, 1838. 

No. CII. 











TRB rujISRAl, or ACHILLX8 • ••••• • 788 












INDEX 779 


M.DCT^]^IJI. Digitized by Google 

Digitized by 





No. XCVII. JANUARY, 1838. 

Vol. XVII. 


No. I. 

The prevailing opinion in ancient times 
was, that the poems of Homer were 
written, or rather sung^ in detached 
pieces. 'E^fm^t^t A, says Suidas^ «^» 

MmSmitt^ ej^mtsrtu' AXX' mdvis /tkv imm^m* 
fmyp^fiimf y^^fcf It npm^m^rth rt^ wiXm 

^ C fm t Xfuii, JkmiXiWif* The common 
story is, that these scattered fragments 
were put into the order in which we 
DOW have them by Pisistiatus. If he 
did sOy well may the inscription said 
to have been enmven on bis statue 
recite it as one of his proudest boasts. 

All critical readers of Homer know, 
that the Scholia on Dionysius theTlira- 
cian, cited by Leo AUatius de Patrii 
Homeriy Eustathius, Josephus, Aulus 
Gellius, libanius, il^ian, tell the same 
story. Cicero believed it: — ^ Quts 
dootior iisdem illis temporibos, aut 
cujui eloquentia litteris instructior, 
quam Pisistrati, qui primus Homeri 
libros, ooofusos autea, sic disposuisse 
fertur, ut nunc habemus?*'^ DcOrtf/ore. 
The liOQour, however, b claimed for 
Lycurgus, that he brought the wkoU 
poems to Sparta from Ionia, about 
three hundred years before the days of 
Pisisuratus. Plutarch, in his Life, 
tells us that Lycurgus gathered the 
ftagments in Asia, and introduced them 


to the Oreeks, among whom their re- 
nown was as yet ooscure [>^ 

i^MMifi] . ^ian asserts, that he brought 
back the poems entire : 'o^ ft Amti^yH 
i Amntlmipiimt ^ifUf «y?T»f ilf rkf *ExiU^ 
lmifu{i rkf *Of»4^9 wtm^iH Solon, alsoy 
who preceded Pisistratus, has some 
share of the glory. Diogenes Laertius 
thinks the old legislator did more for 
Homer than his successor: bGaa«v fly 

fii0t ^itfxit If iri^Mrrf Miy«fMu^. No 
ancient author, 1 believe (except the 
Cborifontes, who maintained that the 
lUaA and Od^mty were written b^ 
different persons, and supported their 
argument by a piece of stuf^d criticism, 
which is found in the Veuetian Scholia, 
i/. B. 356y and whiob I may hereafter 
take an opportunity of noticing), ima- 

fined that the works gathered by 
^isistralus, or Solon, or Lycurgus, 
were not written by one man, and that 
one man named Homer. It was re- 
served for modem times to start the 
astounding doctrine tliat these divine 
poems are the production of difierent 
liands. I am not ignorant of the talent, 
learning, and industiy of Wolf; but I 
should as soon believe in fbiii^and- 
twenty contemporary, or nearly contem- 
porary, Homers, as in fbur-and*twenty 
contemporary Sliakespeares, or Mil* 
tons, or Darites. More than seveo-and- 
twenty oentuiies have rolled away i ' 


Homeric Ballads. 


Homer's time, according to his received 
date ; and, in all languages, half-a- 
dozen names have not been produced 
who can be allowed to approximate to 
him. I firmly believe he has had but 
one equal, and even the greatness of 
his genius is disputed — by those, how- 
ever, who, in my opinion, are not 
capable of appreciating either Shake- 
speare or Homer. I look only to the 
internal evidence of the poems them- 
selves. As for external evidence, we 
know as much of Homer as the earliest 
Greek writer who mentions him. The 
poems were in all men*s mouths before 
history or biography — far before cri- 
ticism or antiquarianism, were thought 
of; and Herodotus himself tells nothing 
certain of their author. Ttie stories of 
scholiasts and grammarians, picked up 
from obscure and idle sources, are no- 
tiling more tlian guesses or fictions, on 
which no reliance can be placed. How 
little do we in reality know of Solon, 
or Lycurgus, or Pisistratus! It is 
highly probable that men, legislating 
for rude communities, would be anxious 
to furnish their people with the means 
of enjoying the strains of their national 
favourite, which were, besides, manuals 
of their religion and records of their 
ancient history ; but they did no more 
than direct that the public reciters of 
the poems, the Rhapsodists, should 
sing them in order. Such was the 
regulation of Hipparchus, as we are 
informed by Plato ; the same we are 
told of Solon. Pisistratus might, per- 
haps, have directed the details or an 
edition, as Ptolemy did some three 
centuries later ; but I should as readily 
credit that the poems were written by 
different persons, whose labours were 
afterwards gathered and soldered into 
a whole by a man of another age, as I 
should swallow the Voyage of Ulysses. 
The thing is merely impossible; 

** And what's impossible can't he, 
And never, never cornea to pass." 

Scaliger, I believe, first sUrted the 
hypothesis in his Poetics; a work, of 
which the taste and judgment are in 
an inverse ratio to its learning; and 
Giambattista Vico, about the beginning 
of the last century, put it forth witli 
much ability, in his Principi di Scienza 
Nuova, Wolf, at the end of the cen- 
tury, in his Prolegomena^ collected all 
that learning and ingenuity could ef- 
fect for the same purpose ; and he has 
succeeded in convincing some scholars. 

Sir Walter Scott, I am told, used to 
call it the great literary heresy ; and so 
must every one who looks upon the 
poems with critical or poetical eye. 
It is possible, nay, certain, that many 
lines, and some whole passages, are 
interpolated ; and we must often agree 
with Payne Knight, though certainly 
not so for as to retrench vrilh him 
about two thousand lines : but I think it 
possible, also, that the obelising hand 
of Aristarchus sometimes went too far, 
and that many genuine lines were re- 
jected. It may be true, for instance, 
that the adventure of Dolon, which 
forms the tenth book of the I/iW, may 
have been inserted, as Eustathius tells 
us, by order of Pisistratus ; though I 
do not believe any thing of the kind : 
but that any mind but one, and that of 
the highest class of human mind, not 
only for the execution of details, but 
for the general ordering and regulating 
of a whole, originally directed the 
march of tlie poems, will appear in- 
credible to those who have critically 
considered what epic poetry is. So 
far from the Iliad being a collection or 
miscellany of ballads, composed at fits 
and starts by various minstrels, and 
then pieced together in ages aAer- 
wards, the fact is, that it is the only 
epic poem ever written of which the 
unity is perfect and complete, and in 
which it would be impossible to disturb 
the order of the several parts of the 
poem without marring the regular and 
connected sequence of the entire. The 
JEneid is quite disconnected. The 
adventure of the first and fourth books 
has nothing to do with those of the 
remainder ; it does not unite with them, 
far less influence them. Tlie fiAh book 
is a clumsy interpolation. Hardouin 
justly remarks, that the story of the 
sack of Troy, and the wanderings of 
^neas, might have been as well told 
to Latinus or Evauder as to Dido ; and 
the funeral games better performed in 
honour of Pallas than of a trumpeter, 
who makes no appearance in the poem 
until he is dead. Milton well knew, 
though his commentators, including 
Addison, do not [Bentley, of course, ex- 
cepted ; but he was otherwise employed, 
in his wonderful edition of Milton], 
that the epic character could not be 
sustained throughout Paradise TsOst : 
and, accordingly, he plainly tells us^ 
in the ninth book, that he changes his 
notes to tragic. In the Iliady on the 
contrary, the theme laid down is pur^ 


Homeric Ballads. 

suedy from beginning to end, with ail 
ibe precision of a logical aiguroent. 
The greatest warrior of tlie liost as- 
sembled around Troy forsakes the cause 
in an excess of just anger. To shew 
that his presence is not indispensable 
towards success, the King of Men de- 
termines on active operations at once 
without him, and musters his army for 
the fight. All the accidents of war 
ensue — battles, changes, retreats, duels, 
truces. Tlie first day's comlAt has 
been such, that the Greeks feel it ne- 
cessary to call in the spade to the as- 
sistanceofthe sword; and they intrench. 
Still more disastrous is the second day's 
battle. Heaven declares decidedly 
against them ; and the Tictorious Hector 
bivouacs amid his watchfires in the 
field, waiting impatiently for morning 
to attack the hostile lines. Then is 
tlie indignant prophecy of Achilles re- 
membered, that his arm would ere long 
be needed; and his intrepid cousin, 
his aged tutor, and the most eloquent 
cbieftein of the host, are sent with rich 
giAs to supplicate him to return : but 
in vain. The vicissitudes of warfare 
again fill the scene. We have a night 
adventure, which certainly is not ne- 
cessary in the story ; but an epic poem 
and a romance are two different things. 
The main theme of the liiad is war, 
and every accident of war should therein 
have a place. Among these, the em- 
ployment of espionage and the surprise 
of an unguarded camp are prominent; 
and, therefore, I pay no attention to 
the tradition already noticed, that Uie 
Dolonia vras inserted by Pisistratus. 
Then follow sallies fiom the intrench- 
ments, storming of walls, desperate de- 
fence of position after position, with 
gleams of success, followed by irre- 
trievable defeat ; when the hero, moved 
by the tears of his friend, consents to 
allow his troops to rush to the rescue, 
but refuses to stir in person. For 
a time the rush is successful, and the 
assailants are driven back ; but the 
leader of the rescuing division is soon 
slain, and the rout is more hopeless 
than before. In triumph then rises be- 
fore us Hector, radiant in gloriously 
won arms, tlie hero of his country, 
generous, true-hearted, noble, brave, 
about to receive, with swelling heart, 
the reward of a thousand valiant ac- 
tions, by the prostrate subjugation and 
expulsion of the enemies of his land 
and lineage. His sword is raised to 
smite resistlessly, when upon the ears 

of his panic'Stricken followers falls that 
battle-cry so fetally remembered which 
tells the appalling story that Achilles is 
in the field again. The rout is instantly 
checked; and, in the morning, the furious 
and heart-broken warrior, reconciled to 
the king, and girt with armour forged 
by the god of Fire, sweeps raging to 
pitiless and indiscriminating slaughter. 
Ordinary war -adventures had been 
nearly exhausted ; and now the im- 
mortals come down to the fight, and 
the River-god rises to do battle in vain 
with a man. All obstacles are speedily 
flung aside, and at last the closing hour 
arrives. Under the walls of Troy, 
hand to |iand, and all alone, meet the 
two champions of their people in a 
single combat, which death only can 
conclude ; and Hector falls. Then fol- 
low funeral games and funeral lament- 
ations. Patroclus, and the chief who 
slew him, lie in a common death ; and 
the victor Achilles honours his fallen 
friend with all tlie pomp of martial 
chivalry, while amid the vanquished 
habitants of the beleaguered city bursts 
forth the wailing of women over the 
corpse of Hector, the gallant and the 

If Pisistratus put this together, he is 
a far greater poet than any of the four- 
and-twenty ballad-mongers whose pur* 
jmrei panni he gathered and joined. 
What is the ballad of the Bravery of 
Dionied, for example, compared to the 
poem of the Iliad ? llarmonious 
verse, stirring incident, picturesque 
description, profound thought, are to 
be found in every page ; but the power 
of producing these, lofiy as it is, falls 
far short of that mens divinior which 
can evolve such a work complete and 
absolute in all its numbers, with the be- 
ginning, middle, and end so closely, 
and as it were mathematically, linked 
together. Throughout the Iliad runs, 
also, one vein of thought, which it 
would be impossible to expect from 
unconnected writers. The battle-bards, 
working separately, could hardly be 
supposed to hold steadily in view a 
detestation of strife and quarrel, and 
yet that feeling strongly pervades the 
Iliad. Not only Nestor in the first 
book, and Phcenix in the ninth, — each 
in his several way deprecates anger, 
and counsels the suppression of re- 
vengeful feelings; but even the hero 
himself breaks into a passionate execra- 
tion of discord, praying that it might 
perish from amia gods and men, when 

Homeric Ballads, 


lie Aiid» that the consequence of hit 
own indulgence in wrath has been to 
stretch his brother in arms, the partner 
of his soul, in the gory dust. This 
moral follows from, not, as Bossu ab- 
surdly imagines, creates, the poem. 
But, I am wasting my time. He who 
cannot see that the Iliad was written 
by the same hand, from beginning to 
end, is past the help of couching ; and 
I might as well attempt to describe the 
cartoons to a man in a state of physical 
blindness. Of the Odyuey, I may 
speak hereafter. 

Vico says, ** Che percio i popoli 
Greci cotanto contesero della di lui 
(Omero) patrin, e*l vollero quasi tutti 
lor cittadino ; perche essi popoli Greci 
furono quest Omero." 

There may be in this sentence either 
sense or nonsense. Nonsense in all its 
altitudes, if it be intended to maintain 
that what is the popular fancy can be 
best expressed by the people; or, as 
Vico nhrases it, that the jiopoli Greci 
were Omero ; for the contrary is the fact. 
It is the Omeri — the Homers — who 
ultimately lead, and make the popoli 
Oreci. Sense, if it be intended to say 
that there is no Homer without the 
education un- schoolmasterlike of ob- 
servation and memory. I should rea- 
dily concede to Vico, or Wolf, that 
many a story is contained in the Ho- 
meric poems which their author had 
heard and embodied. ** To us,*' he 
says, ** the glory — the report only — has 
come down. We know nothing of it." 
Thamyns, Demodoeus, and other il- 
lustrious singers, are perpetually quoted . 
Nothing appears to me more absurd 
than the controversy about the reality 
of the events of the Iliad* It is highly 
probable that the tribes on the opposite 
coasts of the Archipelago had many a 
piratical war, ante HeUnam, occasion- 
ed, in pretext, by the carrying off of 
a lady — in reality, by the pleasure 
of living a life of tumult and plun- 
der. For Bryant and his school I 
feel no respect; but just as much as I 
do for those who made it a matter of 
ortliodoxy to believe in tlie Trojan 
war. I am well aware of the theory 
of Nimrod — not the Nimrod whose 
unwearied pen 4lirows perpetual fas- 
cination over the themes of sporting 
and conviviality; who brings before 
U3 tlie chase and tlie turf, the field and 
the table, with a fre$hne:»s and a vigour 
that makes us almost participators in 
the scenes of active manhood or jocular 

relaxation which he pictures— but Her- 
bert, who will not be offended if 1 style 
him, after his impressive poem, Herbert 
of Helga, in his work called after the 
mighty hunter. Ingenious it is, and 
supported by a woHd of talent and 
erudition; but I think Homer is to be 
read literally. Some actual war, which 
appeared to him remarkable, suggested 
the song. It having been so sug- 
gested, genius did the rest. The four- 
and-twenty minstrels I must again dis- 
miss, and agree with Aristotle that 

ixx»ut (Poet xxiv.). Divine is Homer 
— [die one Homer] above all others. 
The same Aristotle, who made for the 
use of Alexander the Great the most 
famous of the editions of -Homer, 
thereby for ever ennobling the office of 
editor, also declares that the poet sur- 
passes all, not only in style (xiC«i), but 
in the intellectual faculty ()*«pwf), — 
not merely in the melody of versifica- 
tion and the choice of words, but in 
the philosophical arrangement and 
consideration of tlie course of his poems. 
And Aristotle vras a man worthy of all 
the worship ever bestowed upon him 
even by the blindest of his devotees. 
They might not have known why they 
worshipped him, and often assigned ab- 
surd or mlse reasons for their idolatry ; 
but they were not subsuntially wrong 
when they bowed down before the 
« ipte dixitr 

1 have written nK>re than I intended, 
and shall only say, that my own opi- 
nion is that the Hiud and Udysiuy are, 
with no very important differences, as 
we now have them, the work of one 
man, who dwelt on the Asiatic side of 
the Archipelago, or in the islands — per- 
haps Scio. I do not believe that he was 

a t)eggaMiian, or a singing man, or a 
blind man. I do not think his name was 
Homer ; and I look upon the deriva- 
tions of that word which we find in the 
Greek scholiasts, men utterly ignorant 
of the principles of etymology, and the 
pedant! who follow them, as mere 
trash. The meaning is to be sought 
elsewhere. I think he wrote or spoke 
his great poems as wholes, in Asia, and 
that they came over to Hellas piece by 
piece, after having filled the east with 
their fame ; and that by the great men 
of Athens, or Sparta, they were ga- 
thered, not in the sense of making 
them into poems, but of re-making 
them. They were, botli before their 
importation and afterwards, sung in 


The Bath of Odysseus. 

scraps, DO doubt, juM as Shakespeare 
or Milton is quoted by us in scraps. 
We do not sing our izreat poets — the 
Greeks did ; but " To be or not to 
be ?" or, " Hail, holy light !" indicate 
to OS fragments of Hamlet or Paradise 
Lostf just in the same way as the va- 
rious ** headings " of the pieces fsung 
by the Rhapsodists indicated fragments 
of the Iliad and the Odyssey ; and it 
would be as wise to consider, as the 
original arranger of the Shakespearean 
or Miltonic poerat in their present 
shape, tlie industrious compiler who 
sliould restore them from Readers, or 
Speakers, or £legBnt Extracts, as to 
confer the honour otmakirm the poems 
of Homer on Pisistratus. If Wolf had 
tried to make an epic poem out of the 
abundant ballads of his native land, he 
would have found how hard was the task 
assigned by him to the Athenian pnnce. 
It might not l)e unamusing to prove, in 
the manner of Wolf, that there were 
some dozen of Sir Walter Scolts. On 
Vico's principle, it would not be hard 
to do so. Sir Walter wove together 
the traditions of Scotland, and there- 
fore tlie Scottish tribes " fttrono questo 

But, of this more timn enough. I 
am about to split Homer again into 
tlie rhapsodical ballads, not from which 
be was made, but which were taken 
from him. I am sorry that Chap- 
man, whose version must be considered 
tlie most Homeric ever attempted in 
our language, did not apply to the 
Odyssey the fourteen -syllable verse, 
which had succeeded so well in the 
Iliad. There appears to me greater 
opportunity for its flowing use in tlie 
more discursive poem ; and Chapman 
had by no means the same command 
of the ten -syllabic distich. 1 have, 
however, long considered it as certain 
that the only metre in which the Iliad 
and Odyssey f as whole poems, can be 
adequately translated into English is 

the Spenserian. I have made consi- 
derable progress with such a transla- 
tion, and sometimes I think I may 
finish it. Why I am not sure of so 
doing, will be found out by any one 
who takes the trouble of consulting the 
seventh satire of Juvenal. 

^lian enumerates the principal fa- 
vourites of the ancients. 

^«y •} ^mXam' «!«» XXiyv ri^y \wi 'Smut) 
*A'ymfiiftMf§90ft mm Vtiif K«r«X«y«y, *m} wu 
"AB^km, JMU '0(»i»n m^vmf. TtArtt vvi^ 

km} m^) rnv 2;^i)iaf, *AX»/mi/ i^tXiytut, 
KvuXthtiaf, xmi Ni»tr/«v, x»i rd tUt Kifxnf, 

U A«i(r«tf.-^Lib. xiii., 14. 

** The ancients sang tbs poems of 
Homer in detached portions. Such as 
the Battle at the Ships (Iliad, Book 
Xni.), the Adventure of Dolon (X.). 
the Bravery of Agamemnon (XI.), the 
Catalogue of the Ships (H.), the Adven- 
ture ofPatroclus (XVl.). the Ransom- 
ing [of the body of Hector] (XXIV.), 
the Games over Patroclus f XX III.), the 
Breaking of the Oaths (IV.) : i hese from 
the Jiiad. From the other poem : The Ad* 
ventures in Pylos {Odifsseyt Book III.)» 
the Adventures in Lacedemon (IV.), the 
Cave of Calypso (V.), the Raft [which 
Ulysses constructed to leave Calypso's 
island] (V.), the Tales told to Alcinous 

iV^IIl.), the Adventures with the Cyclop 
IX.). the Visit to the Dead (XL), the 
Adventures with Circe (X.), tlie Bath [of 
Ulysses, when he whs discovered by his 
nurse] fXIX.), the Slaying of the Suitors 
(XXII.), the Adventures in the Coun- 
try [with Eumjeus] (XIV.), the Visit to 
Laertes (XXIV.y 

Of these I have selected, as my com- 
mencing chaunt, the Niptra, My trans- 
lation is accompanied by the original, 
side by side; so that " half of my page 
at least is good." I have followed the 
ordinarily received Greek text. 



Sjbt ^t^ of ®Ds5(0ett0« 

From the Odyss. Book XIX. 386-507. 

[Odysseus, in the disguise of a ragged beggar-man, has an interview with his 
wife, who does not recognise him. He tells her, as usual, a false story, 

"Viy^M ir«XX« Xiy«t9 lrv/U40if i/Mtef 

in which he represents himself as an acquaintance of her absent lord. She asks 
a description of his person, whicli he gives with nujch minuteness, and thereby 
4»nvinces Jwr of the ^ruH> pfhis assertion. She instantly extends the kindest 


Homeric Ballads. 


hospitality to him, and orders Euryclea, his old nurse, to bathe his feet. The 
nurse complies the more willingly, as she is struck by the likeness of the poor 
stranger to Odysseus.] 

urn Aft^iik t(yu yifur»' 390 

vii9 ^iri fuv 0Vf Kkmrt Xtvxf S^vrt, 
nk^uro «* IX^ivra, fur Avrikimtf «, xeH 

Iftitutrn 395 


*A(m9 n V l(ifm' m #i *^^ Hf** MUtu 

n«u)« nn ytyeuirx xtxwar* SvyMvi^tt 
X . / ^^* . , 400 

" Avr*Xv»* atfrif hIv o*^* tb>^f«, ^tw «c ^/i»j 


A caldron bright the old woman bore, 

To wash the strangers feet; 
Of water cold she poured in store — 
Then, to temper the bath,she filled it o'er 
With a stream of boiling heat. 


By the fire Odysseus took his place ; 

But he quickly turned him round 
In the darksome shadow to hide his face, 
For he thought that his nurse*s hand 
would trace 

The scar of an ancient wound. 


And he feared that she might with out- 
cry rash 

His presence there betray ; 
And scarcely had she begun to wash, 
Ere she was aware of the grisly gash 

Above his knee that lay. 


It was a Wound from a wild boar's tooth, 

All on Parnassus' slope, 
Where he went to hunt in the days of 

his youth 
With his mother's sire, with whom, in 
In craft could no man cope. 


By Hermes' grace, with oaths and lies 

His fraud ful game he played ; 
And the god, for the blazing sacrifice 
Of kids' and lambkins' savoury thighs, 
Lent him his ready aid. 


From Parnassus erst on a journey gone. 

To Ithaca's isle he came ; 
There he found that his daughter had 

borne a son. 
Whom they placed his grandsire's knees 

As he sate at the board, his supper done, 
And they asked him the boy to name. 


And thus spoke out Euryclea fair, 

The infant's nurse was she — 
" Autolycus, name your daughter's heir. 
Whom you long have souglUwith many 
a prayer, 
^OMT lying upon your knee,^- 

1838.] The Bath of Odysseus. 


Tw tmST AiT»>jfX4g Jiwaf$iiCir$, fmnrtf «. " Daughter and son," the old man said, 

" Trnf^S^ IfUf^ Si^^ Ti, ri^try U»f^ « What name I bestow, receive; 

„ , ^ . **^\**! ^^^\ ^ As many a man, o'er earth wide-spread, 

ruxx^n j^ ly^, 0AT21AMEN02 ri t Was ODIOUS to me when I hiUier sped; 

'AA^':^y„^,^.i.^i..^.,^.ru^,. ^ Odysseus the name I give .• 

Ty y 'OAT2ET2 /^ lrr« 

* I hare endearoored to preserre the pun, if it be right to call it one, as well as 
I can. It is probable that the derivations of the Greek names of early times are to 
be soagM in very difierent quarters from those to which we are referred by the 
grammarians; but, io the present case, Homer seems to be repeating some well- 
known story. There is nothing improbable in supposing that Autolyous might wish 
to mark his feelings at the time of the birth of a grandson by the name he gave him. 
Instances from the Scriptures will occur at once. The wife of Phinehas, bringing 
forth a son amid the ruin of her house, called him Ichabod — " where is the glory" — 
in melancholy mark that he was bo^n when prosperity had departed. So Leah and 
Rachel named their children ; and, if we go further, so did Eve. I give the version 
of Chapman, as it affords a specimen of his manner, part translation, part comment : 

" Daughter and son-in-law (said he), let then 
The name that I shall give him stand with men ; 
Since I arrived here, at the hour of uain. 
In which mine own kind entrails did sustain 
Moan for my daughter*s yet unended throes : 
And when so many men's and women's woes 
In joint compassion met, of human birth, 
Brought ford] t' attend the many-feeding earth ; 
Let Odysseus be his name, as one '* 

He is wrong, as his note also shews, in tlie meaning he affixes to ^vrra^i**/ . Auto. 
lyens had no sentimental fancies about him. He was full of hatred agpainst many 
men and women, whom I suppose he, with the assistance of Mercury, bad cheated, 
and who had fbnnd him out ; and he intended that his odiam against mankind should 
be perpetuated in the name Odystnts, 

The second $i^ma in the participle Huefoutifu and the name 'O^iw^vv; , is a gram- 
matical or prosodial insertion, in order to make the syllable long by position. *oivtivs 
is often snelt with a single iigma, as in the above {MisMge, v. 409, 416, 45S, 456, 
and a hnndred places beside. Dunbar contends that it is useless, as the metrical 
ictns would make the syllable long without any alteration of spelling. But, as the 
complaint of Martial still holds good— 

" Dicunt Earinon tamen jtotetn, 
Sed Gneci quibus est nihil negatum, 
£t qnos i^s ^n decet sonsre ; 
Noma non licet esse tam disertis. 
Qui musas colimus severiores"-^ 

and we cannot be albwed to yary the quantity of our words ad' libitum, I have 
chosen to spell the name always Odysseus, accenting, according to the English 
analogy, on the second syllable. I strongly recommend all trauslutors of Greek 
poetry to take the Greek, not the Latin names. The Roman deities, Juno, Minerva, 
Mercurius, Vulcanus, Ceres, Mars, V^enus, &c., are by no means mythologically 
identical with Her6, Athen^, Hermes, Hephasstos, Dem^ter, Ar^s, Aphrodite, &c. ; 
and, surely, the Greek words are at least as musical as the LiUin. Aitis is better than 
Ajax ; the Aiante, or, if tlie dual is not allowable in a translation, tlie Aiantes than 
die Ajaces, or the Ajaxes ; and Odysseus is ss g^ood as Ulysses. Tlie late Greek 
tnmults have familiarised us to the form. Jupiter (which is nothing but a different 
n>elling of Zi«- «'««»#) is perhaps the only exception I should admit ; and no English 
rhyme-maker can afford to part with Jom, whom, therefore, we must yote to be the 
same as the unmanageable Zeut, Of course, I do not recommend mere literal changes 
of forms to which we have been aocustomed, such as substituting •$ for us, Menelaof 
for Menelauf, or m for m (as ilineas for ^Eneas), or to alter Pnam, Hecuba, Alexander, 
Parnassus, and other such almost household words, «^o»«>f [^gitllj'fv €j?!A!)«^ l\?* 
in an oUier oMoa, o 

Homeric Ballad$. 


Tm Inn' ^)S 'OWi»r, W W r^^M ^yX«Jb 

M«ni^ )^*A^iif«Si« /Mrr^, ^Vf**^ OWmi^ 


By such a surname ray grandson call ; 
And wlien manhood's yean shall 
Send him to fisit the ample hall, 
Where his mother was bom, in Par- 
nassus tall, 
And there I shall give him share of all. 
And send him rejoicing home." 


Seeking these treasures rich and rare, 

Odysseus left his land ; 
To Autolycus* castle he made repair. 
And his mndsire, and his uncles there. 
Hailed him with friendly liand. 


And the heart of his rootlier*s motlier 
was blest 

With her dear grandson's sight; 
Closely she clasped him to her breast. 
And many a kiss on his cheek she prest. 

And on his eyes so bright. 


Then Autolycus told his sons to spread 

A table for the feast ; 
And willing they did as their fiuher said. 
And afiTe-year-old steer was to skiughter 
In honour of their guest. 


They flay off its hide, they dress the 
They cut it up joint by joint ; 
With skill well tried, the flesh they 


And, sliced into steaks, to the fire 'tis 
Piercedf on the toaster's point.* 

* I hope I hdve translated this favourite culinary passage correcfly. It appears 
to me thai the meat was toasted, not roasted. The animal was broken ap, and the 
joints cut into steaks, which were stuck upon forks — iive.pronged forks, as we are 
sometimes told — and held to the fire. The translation of this passage baa been very 
tormenting to those who have set up in their own minds a different standard of epic 
taste from that which was erecCea by Homer. The last French translation I have 
seen, of 1812, thus daintily paraphrases the passage in tlie first book of the Iliad : — 
*' On consacre les victimes, on les i^^orge, et le temple est inond^ de leur sang. 
Les cnisses sont coup6es ; le prdtre lui-ro^e les fait bruler sur Fautel, et offre des 
libations. D6ja Tofirande eat oonsum^e par le feu sacr6, on fait cuire la chair dee 
victimes, des tables sont dress^es, le sacrificateur et les Greos se rangent autoar» et 
tons dans nn common repaa goiitent les douceurs de I'^galit^." 

This is a pleasant p«tit aouper. 1 have never seen the first French translation of 
'* Homere pMte Grec, et grant historiog^raphe, by Maistre Jeban Samzoo, Ucenti^ 
en loys. Lieutenant da Bully de Touraine, en sou siege de Cbastillon sur Indre,'* 
written, it is supposed, by order of Francis I., and printed, as we are duly informed, 
on the fi6ih of September, 1530 ; but in that of Du Soubait, of 1617, we have what 
I think is imtter than the jiice Uimmings of the version oi%S\i : — JLes cuisses dee 

Airi»M V Xt^mymym CtSh &^m trtfrm- 
irn^. 4tS0 

T^f ii^ k^ 5* tiff, jm) fU9 )iii;^iiMt9 


The Bath of Odjfistus. 

^tnrrr' M^t ti ^v/iuf Utvir* hurif It^nt, 


And when at the fire it was futiv done, 

Due portions they gave to all ; 
They sate at the roeal until set of sun, 
And when they rose, complaint was 
tliere none 
or the well-shared festival. 

^EfUf T^tXtH MMrSiv, tut) Iw) »4f«r fx^u 


When the sun in night had hid his ray, 

They sank in slumber sound ; 
Until the rose-fingered aueen of day 
Sprang from the dawn where her birth- 
place lay, 
And wakened man and hound. 

'Eg m Mm Xmffiirm* CmBitffit^ m»utm$* 

*lX^ I^ttfMMvrif xvftf mf»9* myrti^ iirt^^t 
"Hiiir aiyx' *«'>*^» «^«J«*»i' l«Xi;^«#««#f tyxt* 

*EpSc %*i^ if Xixf^ irvMnf Mtrlxi/tv i»iymt 


"Tkf ^f ^ tir JkAftmf Idu fiipt iyfif Aif - 
r»0f, 440 


And all at once the chase pursued 

Grandson, and son, and sire ; 
Tliey climbed the mountain crowned 

with wood. 
And soon in the windswept lawns they 
Whence Piimissus' heights aspire. 


Uprose the sun from the deep, deep 
Of ocean's gentle swell, 
And the fields were warmed by his 

ganial gUun, 
When the huntsmen, by light of the 
matin beam, 
Entered the woody dell. 


First through tlie covert burst the pack. 

Fast following on the trace ; 
Came the Autolyci at their back. 
Nor did thev find Odysseus slack, 
With spear in hand, to join the attack. 
Or urge along the chase. 



'neath thick covering branches 
A huge boar had his lair ; 
So dense the foliage of that glade. 
No wind had ever pierced its shade. 
On moist wing wafted there. 

vietimea Immol^es estant totalement consam6es, premi^rem«nt on nit griUer les 
trippes et l«t entmilles sur les cbarbons, let mangereiit ii leor detietia^, Im autrvs 
mnnbrMfiirent mis en pieces, et tranches par morceaux les mettant a la brocbe,et les 
raisast rfttir en diligence, pais, estant rdtis, on les mit smr table jm|^|i|^^^^M|^^ 
awif t>nt qui b#iivo«iam lea una aux Mitres pourtant dea coupea/' o 


Homeric Ballads. 



Oirt fUf niXif fJU^m murt^n ?C«XAiv, 

•t4* irrtM T»ir« fAM'tff . 
*Av«i^ M XiiAJ^ ^mu9^ hu^ Juu*»ti, 

'flriiXffy Y *0)Mr4«f kfut/Mfs itfri^iti 
ASi^mf linrTmftif*flv4^Y mtftM xtXtm^ 

Tip ftif &^ AurikvuH rt, xmi tXtts Ai^r«. 

n %*JiyKU }£^ wi^9fTU 460 

Bit *I^«jitfr»* Tf fi^9 f«i 4f«r^^ *l»i if«rMC 


There never in Uie midday heat 

Was the warm sunbeam seen ; 
So sheltered was that close retreat, 
That never did a rain-storm beat 
Athwart its leafy screen. 


And deep all round, the thick-strewn 
With leaves was covered o'er ; 
But the trampling sound of man and 

All bunting in with sudden bound. 
Aroused the couchant boar. 


With bristling back, and eye of flame, 

In the brake he took his stand ; 
To the onset first Odysseus came, 
Raising his spear with steady aim, 
Poised in his sinewy hand. 


Ready he stood right valiantly ; 

But, ere he had time to strike. 
The tusk of the boar, more prompt than 

Deep through his flesh, above the knee. 

Ripped with a stroke oblique. 


Sharp was the wound, but it touched 
no bone ; 
Odysseus then made a thrust ; 

Through the right shoulder his spear 
has gone, 

Tlirough the ofi*side piercing its point 
has slione ; 

And the slaughtered beast, with bel- 
lowing moan. 
Sunk dead upon the dust. 


The Autolyci looked to tlie boar that 
was slain, 
And their nephew's gash they bound. 
Tliey stanched the black blood by a 

magic strain. 
And brought him home to their sire 
And they healed him of his wound. 


With presents ricli he was sent away. 

When his cure was all complete ; 
Joyful they parted, both he and they, 
And to Itliaca*s isle he bent his way, 
pis pi^rents gM \o greet, S^^ 


The Bath qf Odynevs. 


mm V^n^jAniv ttuurrM, 

M$mr 468 

H ^* *0)iimW lrr2, fiXn i>U«r — 

fdmHmr 475 

fiXtf wi^tf \9t09 Uf^m* 

Tt^r 480 

**'m«i«k, rin ^' MXm «X(riu \ 


And much of bisivound they wished to 
And its manner he did recount. 
How a white-tusked boar had dealt 

the blow, 
While hunting he chanced witli his 
uncles to go, 
Upon Parnassus* mount. 


Well was it known by that woman old, 
The instant she touched tlie scar ; 

Down dropped his foot from her 
slackened hold, 

Upset was the laver, and over it roll'd, 
Clanging with brazen jar. 


All on the floor did the water pour. 

The old woman's heart beat high ; 
With joy at once, and with sorrow sore, 
Her soul was filled, and, brimming o'er, 

Tears dimmed her aged eye. 


And her voice in her throat was pri- 
soned fast, 
But ere long the words outburst; 
Her suppliant hand to his chin she 

And she said, <<Thou art he — I know 
thee at last — 
The darling boy I nurst ! 


I knew thee not^ Odysseus, till 

Thy skin my hand had pressed." 
Then where the queen was seated still 
Cast she her eyes, with eager will. 
To tell who was tlie guest— 


To say that her husband, home returned. 

Now sate within her bower. 
But her looks Penelope nought dis* 

For the thoughts of her mind elsewhere 
were turned, 
By Athene's watchful power. 


Odysseus checked her tongue's career; 

Her throat his right hand caught ; 
Then with his left he drew her near, 
And " Nurse," said he, in ton^^f^, 

^* Post thpu my ruin plot 1 


Homeric Ballads. 


2^ )>i ft,* ir^ftt mM 

hfif, 485 

*fl#f yk( S|l^l«^ ri tk jm) ri rt Xi r^{v«v 7rT«u, 

Ov)) r^»ip*v wftif n» itfi^tfuet, Wwir i,f 


" " 490 

Tsv V uZtt irf4ffiuitt irtfi^0m Ev^^jcXim* 
Ciif0a fiif, «T«f Iftiv filvH l/«fnl«v, •&« 

#5ri»' 495 

£i X iiri 9ti yt itif %m/»d^ ftftirrnfteg 

A^ rirt r«t jMir«Xl|«f Ui fMy^t^t yvfuTumf, 


'' Tliou plot my ruin I by whose teat 

My infancy was M ; 
When homeward to my native seat, 
After twenty years of toil and sweat, 

My wandering course has led 1 


" Now, since to thee my coming here 

By a god*s aid is known, 
Breathe it to none tliat I am near ; 
For, mark me, with attentive ear, 

Threatening what shall be done — 


" If, by Heaven's help, beneath me die 

The suitors whom I hate. 
Not even to thee, my nurse, shall I 
Yield quarter, while around me lie 
The handmaids, slain unpityingly, . 

WHhin my palace gate." 


Him answered thus Euryclea good : 
*< What hast thou said, ray son ? 
Firm and inflexible of mood, 
I hold thy secret, unsubdued. 
As steel or solid stone. 


But, heed my words. If Heaven 
should tame 
Tlie suitors b'neath thy hand. 
Then throughout the household shall 

I name 
The handmaids who wrought disgrace 
and shame, 
And those who blameless stand.'' 

Th y m9r»fiuCifM99f ir^tt^n ie§Xvfitiris 

" M«r«, rin il fit rkt /iv4n^tm ; §!i^ rt ri 

X^ 500 

*AXX* l;^i r/yj fA»499t Wir^i'4'99 Ji ^jwJrif.** 

Of &( %^n y^vf ^ )/ i» fi,tym^9f ^Cnnth 
Oifftim ir^fnrr^»' rit yk^ *t*^*i **X^ 
awiw, 504 

AZrtf &{ k09»Ti^m rvfif Tx»ir« iiff^v 

St^f§fAt99s' ovXfif T$ Hetra fuKiun KuXirs^i. 


" Needless, my nurse," the king replied, 
*< That this should to me be told ; 

Thev all shall be noted, and duly tried. 

As for the rest, let the gods provide : 
But do thou deep silence nold." 


She went to prepare the bath anew. 
For the first was spilt all around : 
He was bathed and anointed in manner 

To the fire then closer the stool he 

And over his knee his rags he threw, 
Jn order to hide the wound. 

Digitized by VjUU^ «j^ 


Portraits of Spanish, Carlist Chiefs. 





is one among many others, who, from 
being obnoxious to the Liberals, were 
singled out as victims, and driven from 
the army. 

During the late king's illness he was 
deprived of his command, sent under 
an arrest to Vittoria, and prevented 
from joining the cause of Charles V. 
earlier than he did, in consequence of 
that detention. 

From 1824 to 1897 he was captain- 
general of Galida, and bore the cha* 
racter of a skilful officer and confirmed 
royalist : his majesty, in (act, does not 
possess a better instructed general. 

After the deatli of Zumalccarreguy, 
Don Carlos assumed the command of 
his army, in order to prevent the in- 
trigues of sevemi other aspirants, and, 
accordingly, Moreno was second under 
him. Tliis officer was beaten by Cor- 
dova at Mendigorria, and compelled 
to raise the siege of Puente de la 
Reyna; and the whole army cried 
out so loudly against him that he 
was superseded, and Casa Eguia, tlie 
friend and adviser of Zumalecarreguy, 
WHS placed at its head ; who, possess- 
ing great talents for organisation and 
discipline, set about improving die 
troops, with tiie intention of resigning 
in fiivoor of Villa Real when his plans 
were executed. Gomez, Ituralde, and 
Villa Real, were appointed chiefs of 
division; and Segastibelia had the 
command in Guipuscoe, and also of 
the lines in front or San Sebastian. 

When Cordova and Espartero de- 
termined to attack tlie defile of Arlaban, 
which was defended by Goni with only 
two Navarrest battalions, tlie latter, 
after a gallant defence, abandoned the 
beigltts, in the hope of inducing his 
adversaries to proceed towards Salinas, 
where the main body of the arroTy 
under Casa £guia, was stationed. The 
stratagem did not succeed, as the former 
halted at Arlaban, Meanwhile, Eguia, 
having called in Villa Real from Guer- 
vara, had, in the course of a few hours, 
assembled several battalions, to dieck 
the progress of Cordova and Espartero ; 

and as the latter generals seemed dis- 
inclined to attack, he came to the reso- 
lution of acting offiensively. Vilhi Real 
accordingly commenced operations on 
the left, by driving back the Algerine 
legion, followed by Goni on the right 
and Las Vacas in the centre; and, 
fklling furiously on the troops opposed 
to them, dislodged the Christines, aAer 
numerous brilliant charges from the 
Venta de Arlaban, and all the other 
positions, which had been occupied by 
them on the preceding day, thereby 
completely deranging the plans of their 
adversaries. It was in this action that 
Eguia called out, " Where are my 
Guipuscoans?*' evidently evincing the 
reliance he placed upon this brave and 
hardy portion of his troops. Hie kinz 
was on the field of battle, and had 
satisfaetory proof of the devotion and 
gallantry of^ his army. Casa Eguia 
aid not long hold the office of com- 
mander-in-chief; for, as soon as he 
had completed the reformation which 
induced him to accept of it, he re- 
signed in fJBivour of Villa Real. 

At tlie eurnest solicitation of his so- 
vereign, he assumed the command of 
the operations at the last siege of 
Bilboa ; and, it is believed, would 
have succeeded in carrying it, had his 
plans been acted upon : they were, un- 
fortunately, however, overruled. 

His activity and zeal for the cause 
were most conspicuous; and, as he 
was out early and late reconnoitring, 
nothing escaped him. However, the 
disadvantages under which he laboured 
fW>m want of ammunition and ord- 
nance, were so great that the batteries 
were often obliged to cease firing. 
Notwithstanding a vast superiority over 
him on all sides, had not the Count de 
Casa Eguia been crippled by otliers, 
and the full powers with which he 
ought to have been invested denied 
him, the city must have fiiUen. 

As some account of the relief of 
Dilboa may be interesting, it is here 

The morning of the 24th December, 
1836, was ushered in with squally 
weatlier, accompanied by snow. Villa 
Real, however, who commanded on 


Porlrails of l^anuh Carlisi Chief $. 


the heights above Bilboa, having pre- 
viously resolved to attack Espartero — 
wliOy with an immense force, had for 
some days remained inactive at Portu- 
galette and its envhons — notwith- 
standing the un&vourable appearance 
of tlie weather made the necessary dis- 
positions, and pushed a force across 
the rivulet which divided the belli- 
gerents, by tlie bridge of Essua, the 
extreme risht of the position. Goni 
commanded the right; Gueiigue, the 
centre ; and Sanz, the left. The action 
had commenced with success, when, 
unfortunately, tlie commander-in-chief 
was induced to sound a retreat, con- 
sidering further operations impracti- 
cable from Uie increased heavy hXl of 
snow; which, together with a strong 
wind, blowing directly in the face of 
the troops, rendered their advance both 
difficult and dangerous. This lament- 
able event turned tlie fortune of the 
day ; for there can be no doubt, that, 
had Espartero been pressed, he would 
have lost no time in retracing his steps, 
experience having proved he had done 
so two or three times before, upon a 
less urgent occasion. 

On die morning of this day, as usual, 
the whole of tlie positions, from the 
bridge of Luchana, the extreme left, 
to the bridge of £ssua, the extreme 
right, had been visited; and as the 
mountain-passes were taken, and no 
difficulty existed in tlie progress, it 
might have been expected that the 
troops would have been equally fortu- 
nate : indeed, if the Christinos, at four 
o*clock of the same day, without any 
cessation of snow, could attack the 
Carlist positions with success, surely 
tlie latter, at eight o'clock of that 
morning, might have effected their 
purpose with better prospects. By the 
time the crest of the hill was mounted, 
the Carlist columns had returned to 
their bivouacks, and all was quiet. On 
reaching tlie height above the bridge 
of Ludiana, several trincadores (gun- 
boats) were observed, advanced con- 
siderably higher up the river than 
usual. The attention of the field- 
officer commanding the post was drawn 
to this circumstance, and it was sug- 
gested that he should send orders to 
Uie battery below to disperse them; 
but the matter, however, was treated 
lightly by him, while he remarked that 
the enemy had already commenced his 
retreat, as might be observed by a lai^e 
body of men on the otlier side of the 

river, between Portugalettc and tlie 
convent of San Bassanio. This force 
eventually turned out to be that which 
annoyed the Carlists so much by sub- 
sequently occupying the banks of the 
river, and, of course, taking the battery 
of Luchana in flank. The Carlists re- 
turned to their billet at Oliveaga about 
tliree o'clock, and at four heard ran- 
dom musketry, which was at first taken 
for an aflhir of pio^uets only : it, liow- 
ever, continued to increase, and at six 
o'clock intelligence vras brought, to 
the astonishment of all, that the passage 
of the bridge bad been forced. 

Tliis point, which was assuredly the 
key of the position, was unfortunately 
at the time only occupied by two 
companies of the 6th Biscay. Lord 
Ilanelagh, with anotlier EnglishmaD, 
repaired to the spot immediately on 
hearing tlie firing, but before they could 
reach it the Chnstinos bad possession ; 
but so unexpectedly was it obtained, 
that they lingered for some time. His 
lordship perceiving thb disinclination 
to profit by their advantage, with that 
cool courage and bravery wbidi had so 
often before been conspicuous, put 
himself at the head of about tliirty 
men, pointins out the certainty of re- 
covering the bridge, and urging tliem 
to follow him with fixed bayonets; but, 
on their own officers refusing to go 
forward, the men hesitated, and the 
chance was lost. Had the attempt 
been made, success would have fol- 
lowed ; since the Christinos were un- 
decided as to their movements, and 
were actually waiting for orders. Thus, 
from the b^itation of a few indivi- 
duals, and the lamentable circumstance 
of this essential post not being pro- 
tected b^ loog-tried troops (for this 
very regiment had shewn the white 
feather ui other instances), Bilboa was 

The Chrbtinos having made good 
their huiding on the Carlist side oi the 
bridge of Luchana, by means of the 
very trincadores before mentioned, lost 
no time in tlirowing planks across it 
(the centre arch only being destroyed); 
thus enabling the main body of their 
army to penetrate the positions also. 
The opposition offered to the Christinos 
now amounting to little or nothing, 
they ascended die heights of San Do- 
mingo, turned the left flank of Villa 
Real, and drove him from his strong 
holds. The retreat was a most ignoble 
one — all confusion; and every one 


Don NazatiOy Count de Casa Eguia, 


trying to get away as fast and as far 
from the enemy as his legs would carry 
hiro. Such, in fact, was the disorgan- 
ised state of the Carlists, that, had 
Espartero displayed a particle of good 
generalship, ail might nave fallen into 
his hands, and the cause sustained a 
blow from which it would not easily 
have recovered. Fortunately for the 
Royalists, and for the English attached 
to them, the Christinos were so well 
satisfied with the unlooked-for advan- 
tage which they had achieved, tliat no 
pursuit took place ; and each, accord- 
ingly, pursued that road which he 
conceived would lead to a place of 

The Carlists had been on the heights 
all the night ; and when the retreat com- 
menced, about five o'clock of the morn- 
ing of the 25tl) of December, 1836, they 
fully expected it was for the purpose of 
taking up a fresh position, the nature 
of tlie ground being such as to admit of 
every inch being defended ; and it was 
not until hour after hour had passed 
that it vras found that all whicn had 
been so deaily purchased was wholly 
relinqubhed, without the shadow of a 
hope of recovery. Wlien the natural 
strength of the ground occupied by the 
Carlists is taken into consideration, 
which with 5000 men might be held 
against an opposing force of thrice that 
number, we cannot reconcile it to our 
minds that treadiery was not employed. 

The loss sustained by the €arlists was 
comparatively trifling — not more than 
1000 hort de cmnbat ; that of the Chrbt- 
inos was much more severe. Fifteen 
piieces of ordnance, eleven of which 
had been captured from the enemy, 
again fell into their hands ; only one 
twenty-lour-pounder, one 13-inch mor- 
tar, two 5i-inch howitzers, and four 
field-pieces, were saved. The weather 
was tremendous; the snow four feet 
deep, and where it had drifted in the 
mountains double that depth: some 
credit, consequently, ought to be at- 
tached to the carrying oflf even the few 
pieces mentioned. 

Whether Bilboa has been benefited 
by this relief is questionable, as the 
Christinos committed all kinds of ex- 
cesses, — destroying effects, plundering 
houses, and robbing individuals; the 
inhabitants too late found that the 
entry of the Carlists would not have 
been attended witli worse conse- 
quences. As to any indiscriminate 
massacre which might have been an« 

ticipated, we are fully satisfied no- 
thing of the kind could have occur- 
red, and are glad of an opportunity 
of declaring that, from undeniable 
fiicts, Don Carlos is any thing but the 
cold-blooded tyrant, despot, and op- 
pressor which tnose who do not know 
tiim are led to believe him to be ; for, 
surely, a more convincing proof of his 
humanity there cannot be, than the po- 
sitive directions given by him, not to 
fire upon tlie city of Bilboa, and which 
certainly was one reason that occasioned 
its loss. 

Casa Eguia b not calculated for 
mountain warfare. As the commander 
of an army of 60 or 60,000 men, with 
its component parts of artillery and 
cavalry, he would dbtinguish himself; 
but in no other situation. The raising 
the siege of Bilboa was the cause of 
temporary disgrace, and of his having 
been placed under an arrest ; from 
whence he has not long been liberated. 

The atrocity of the Christinos in en- 
deavouring by every method to rid 
themselves of a political opponent was 
never more strikingly exemplified than 
in the case of this officer, who had the 
fingers of both hands dreadfully maimed 
in opening a despatch primed with de- 
tonating powder, mixed up with other 
ingredients. The consequences might 
have been more ftital ; as thev liap- 
pened, hb health suffered much for a 
tong time. He subsequently had an 
instrument constructed, whicn fixes on 
the right wrist ; and thb being directed 
by the left haiul, which did not sufkt 
so severely as the other, enables him to 
write with ease aM rapidity. 

Don Nanrio Eguia was bom in 
Durango, of a good family. His uncle, 
Gen. Francisco Eguia, was a deputy to 
the Cortes, in 1812 ; afterwards minis- 
ter of war, and, subsequently. Captain 
General of Old Castile. The changes 
of 1823 caused him to seek an asylum 
in France; on the overthrow of the 
constitution, he was nominated to the 
command in Galicia, and made a 
grandee, with the title of Marquis de 
Ul Lealtad. He died in Madrid at an 
advanced age. 

The subject of our memoir roust be 
approaching seventy years of age : 
misfortunes and disappointments have 
made him irritable ; but his disposition 
is naturally humane and mild ; and 
many instances have occurred where 
he has overlooked prisoners, who, if 
strictly scrutinised, would have fallen 


Portraits ofSpaniih Carlist Chiefs. 


within the pale of tb« Duiango 

He is about fife feet ten inches in 
height, with a healthy, florid-looking 
Gouotenance ; his drets is generally 
plain clothes, and a round hat covered 
with oil-skin ; and, when mounted on 
his little cob pony, he has much more 
the appearance of a substantial fanner 
thau or a military man. 

Few officers have more distinguished 
themselves in the cause of Don Carlos 


lie commenced his military career in 
the kingdom of Jaen, in a regiment 
raised in that province ; but does not, 
however, appear to have been fortunate 
in obtaining promotion rapidly, as at 
the close of the French war it appears 
he had risen to the rank of captam and 
adjutant only. Upon retiring, he was 
appointed administrator in his native 
province, which post he filled until 
1820, when, with a considerable sum 
of public money in his hands, he pur- 
chased horses, and formed a corps of 
cavalry ; at the head of which he re- 
paired to the mountains of Cuenca, and 
afterwards to Navarre, acting against 
the Constitutionalists. He so greatly 
distinguished himself on this occasion, 
that he merited the rank of lieutenant- 
colonel, which was accordingly con- 
ferred upon him. In 1823, he joined 
Quesada's division proceeding to Es* 
tiemadura, from whence he was dee- 
patched to take Toledo. The follow. 
ing year saw him commander of one of 
the battalions of the regiment de Leal- 
tad ; he was thereafter appointed to 
the command of the columns formed in 
Andalusia, under the captain-general 
Quesada, where he continued until 
1827, when he returned home. Sub- 
sequently, he had the command of the 
3d battiilion of the regiment del Rey, 
and was with it at Cadiz when go- 
vernor Hierro was killed by those re- 
volutionists whose intentions, through 
his exertions, were defeated . Learning 
that a force, consistinsr of many hundred 
revolutionists, had len Isia for the pur- 
pose of penetrating to Verger, he at- 
tacked and defeated them ; for which 
he attained the rank of colonel, and 
received the cross of St. Ferdinand. 
The command of Algeceras was then 
given him; but, in common with all 
other royalists, he was dismissed the 

service during the illness of Ferdinand 
VII., on which he returned to Madrid. 

Upon the first movement in favour 
of Don Carlos, he quitted the capital 
without a passport ; and, after nume- 
rous difficulties, reached Navarre soon 
aAer the command of the army had, by 
unanimous consent, been c onf erred 
upon Zumaleoarreguy. He was not 
likely to be overiooked by this chief, 
who speedily placed him in the im- 
portant position of commandant at 
Hemani. Whilst in that capacity, he 
marched a division to Irun, for the ex- 
press purpose of taking the post occu- 
pied by tne Christinos at the bridge of 
fiehobia. On beine* opposed by Ge- 
neral Harispe, the French command- 
ant at Bayonne, commanding the dis- 
trict, he declared that he was ordered 
to take the post at any price, and that 
he would not give up the undertaking 
without further instructions from head- 
quarters. General Harispe, however, 
was very short with him, protesting 
that, if be did not level his batteries 
within twenty-four hours, he would 
knock them about his ean ; explaining, 
at the same time, that as France vad 
Spain were bound by treaty not to 
erect additional fortificatioas on the 
frontiers, and as bv virtue of it he 
acted, he woukl forthwith order down 
the garrison of Bayonne with a party of 
thirty pieces of artillery to Behobia, as 
a proof of the sincerity of his inteiv- 
tions. Tilts was a view of the case 
which Gomes admitted he had not 
considered ; he, however, adroitly 
turned it to advantage, by calling on 
the French general to level the \^>rks 
which he himself had raised, and to 
compel the Christines to evacuate the 
position which they had taken at the 
toot of the bridge. This officer saw 
the pronriety of acceding to the first 
part of tne demand, and acquiesced in 
removing his ordnance, wlien the other 
had demolished all his works; but, 
with regard to the tilethpontf he could 
not at tne moment undertake to decide 
upon it. On finding this to be the 
case, Gomez shortly alter withdrew his 
division, and returned to Hemani. 

On the first sally of Col. Evans from 
San Sebastian, which took place during 
the period General Gomez commanded 
the lines in front of it, tlie former was 
completely deceived and defeated by 
the latter, who, having masked his 
force until he perceived his adversary 
in the valley immediately in firont of 


General Don Miguel Ocmez, 


the town, pouted down upon him from 
Santa Barbara, the right of hispositioa ; 
and after each repulse, as Evans re- 
turned to the charge, other portions of 
Gomezs reserve were brought forth, 
the real strength of which was con- 
cealed behind the rocks, thereby mak- 
ing hb opponent believe that, from the 
repeated draughts, a much larger body 
lay concealed there. The town of Her- 
nani, being protected on one flank by 
the heights of Santa Barbara, and on 
the oth^ by a convent, which had been 
fortified, tliere was no mode of attack- 
ing it without first turning the flanks. 
Four times the auxiliaries gallantly 
made the attempt ; but, finding them- 
selves as often repulsed, they retreated 
in disorder, and were pursued nearly to 
the gates of San Sebastian. Gomez 
gave the British Legion every credit, — 
having been heard to say that, but for 
its bravery on the occasion, the Clirist- 
inos must have been cut to pieces ; at 
the same time, however, strongly re- 
probating the English for interfering in 
a contest in which they had no con- 
cern, and fighting in the name of liberty 
against th<»Be very provinces who were 
contending for rights and immunities 
which lor centuries had been acknow- 

Shortly after, the Cariists, sensible of 
their increasing strength, determined to 
make a powerful diversion in the south. 
Five battalions of infiintry, witli two 
squadrons of cavalry, composed prin- 
cipally of Andalusians and Castilians, 
were accordingly selected for this pur- 
pose, and the command given to Gomez. 
The passage of the Ebro was opposed 
by yvo reserve brigades of the Chris- 
tinos ; which being defeated, he pene- 
trated into Asturias, and entered Oviedo. 
From thence he marched to Galicia; 
and, passing through Santiago, retraced 
his steps to Asturias, continued his 
route through Castile, Leon, and Cu- 
enca; and, after various skirmishes 
witl) the Christinos, in the course of 
bis numerous marches and counter- 
marches, he readied La Mancha. lie 
next entered Andalusia ; and, after vi- 
siting Carolina, Baylen, and Andujar, 
he reached Cordova. After remaining 
here for fourteen days, he marched out 
with the addition of twelve battalions 
of infantry, three squadrons of cavalry, 
and four pieces of artillery, to the force 
with which he had left the provinces. 
In this manner he traversed tne greater 
part of Spain, disarming the Mrbt^n 
TOi. 3^YM. 170. XCYU. 

guards, who, being generally disaflected 
to the cause, were not sorr^ to have so 
good an excuse for retummg to their 
homes. The kindness and gcKKi feeling 
exercised by the chieftain during this 
service are universally acknowledged. 
The queen's functionaries were alone 
molested by him ; and even many of 
them were treated with a lenity they 
little expected. Females were parti- 
cularly exempted from all annoyance ; 
and tlie safe conduct and conveyances 
he afibrded some, when repeated by 
the ffrateful parties in Madrid, who 
could not avoid expressing their senti- 
ments of the polite and gentlemanly 
behaviour of the Cariist chief, mortified 
exceedingly the partisans of the queen. 
The booty taken was immense, the 
greater part of which lies buried in the 
difi*erent parts of Spain where it was 
collected ; and, as, doubtless, the neces- 
sary precautions wera taken to ascer- 
tain the particular spots, it is to be 
hoped it may be made available to the 
success of tlie cause. 

This general, when he left the pro- 
vinces, little expected to return ; but 
circumstances compelled him to do so, 
and he consequently made his appear- 
ance on the heights of St. Domingo, 
in front of Bilboa, in the month of 
Dec. 1836, a few days before the relief 
of that citv was accomplished. 

General Gomez, shortly after his re- 
turn, was placed under an arrest, and 
ordered to Mondragon, preparatory to 
his trial before a military tribunal, 
upon charges connected with the ser- 
vice upon which he had been em- 
ployed. The general feeling, in con- 
sequence of some malicious reports 
propagated by his enemies, was much 
against him. When, however, it is 
recollected tltat he left the provinces 
with a force which he afterwards 
tripled, and brought back 45,000 
dollars also, after traversing the whole 
of Spain with impunity, he cannot be 
looked upon in any other light than as 
an officer of great and daring intre- 
pidity. So high did he stand in the 
estimation of every one, that, on his 
first reappearance in the provinces, it 
was confidently expected he would 
have superseded Villa Real, tlie then 

General Don Miguel Gomez was 
bom in the kingdom of Jaen. In 
person he is strikingly prepossessing ; 
his bearing and gentlemanly conduct 
are truly illustrative'^e^f y lhi^%^v; 


PoriraUs of Spanish CarUst Chiefs. 


plished soldier. In beiglit, be is above 
the middling standard, and between 
40 and 50 years of age ; (ligh forehead, 
light complexion, and piercing eye. 


is another of the Carlist officers, and 
has ever been an upright and stanch 
supporter of royalism. His &ther was 
a small farmer, cultivating the paternal 
acres with his own hand ; but, notwith* 
standing his poverty, he managed to 
give the son a very excellent education, 
it being intended that he should follow 
a civil profession. The disturbed state 
of his country, however, determined 
our hero to give up all thoughts of it ; 
and he accordingly embraced that of 

In 1822, he was one of the most 
active partisans of Ferdinand VII., 
whose rights lie warmly sustained, 
lie was engaged in the Army of the 
Faith, and quickly obtained the rank 
of captain, from his exemplary appli* 
cation to the duties of his profession. 
He continued in tiiis grade until 1833, 
when he was dismissed the service, on 
account of his well-known attachment 
to the cause of Don Carlos. In the 
latter part of the same year he again 
quitted his father*s roof, to fight in the 
ranks of the Carlisis ; and when Zuma- 
lecarreguy was appointed commander^ 
in-chief of the troops in Navarre and 
the provinces, his discriminating eye 
rested upon Zariategui (wlio was ori- 
ginally a sergeant in his regiment), and, 
being well acc^uainted with his talents 
and general information, he offered 
him the confidential employment of 
private secretary, which was accord- 
ingly accepted. He continued in this 
situation until the entry of Don Carlos 
into Spain, in July 1834, when he then 
received, upon the especial recom- 
mendation of his chief, the rank of co- 
lonel. After the deatli of this eminent 
general, he was promoted to the rank 
of brigadier ; and had three battalions 
placed under his orders, which he 
commanded with brilliant success. His 
energetic character, his great intelli- 
gence, and his remarkable good fortune, 
have deservedly distinguished him by 
the favour of his royal master. Always 
at the head of his division, he has 
signalised himself in many important 
actions. Such an evident display of 
good conduct, generalship, and fortune, 
at last won him the rank of maritcal-de' 
campo; and this was the more 6atler«* 

ing to him, in that it was solicited by 
all the officers of the army tlien present 
in Estella, who were unanimously de- 
sirous of seeing him at their liead. 

This general commanded the expe- 
dition which lately penetrated to the 
gates of Madrid ; from whence, bow^ 
ever, he was compelled, by the arrival 
of a superior force under Espartero, to 
retire to Segovia. 

Although, perhaps, too cautiously 
timid, Zariategui is certainly one of ihe 
most skilful of Don Carlos^s generals. 
If, since his invasion of Castile, he has 
let slip many advantages, which a more 
dashing and daring character might 
have obtained, tliere is no doubt thai 
he has, on the other hand, been prin- 
cipally instrumental in exciting the 
enthusiasm of the kingdom in favour 
of tlte royal cause, and establishing 
such a firm basis, that the insurrection 
will work as securely there as in the 
Basque provinces. With the exception 
of part of the district of Burgos, every 
considerable village has a Carlist com- 
mandant, within almost gunshot of the 
towns and cities occupied by Christino 
generals. Contributions are levied ; 
and all tlic male population, from 1^ 
to 40, voluntarily enlisted. The junta 
of Castile has armed and equipped se- 
veral battalions formed by these recruits ; 
and many thousands are undergoing 
drill and organisatioo in different di- 
rections. The unarmed partisans are 
numerous ; and are so enthusiastic in 
the cause, that measures of tlie moet 
rigorous nature have been taken to deter 
them from forcing themselves into the 
ranks in their present raw state. 

General Zariategui was born in Olite, 
a small town of Navarre ; and is 'now 
about 40 years of age, five feet eight 
or nine inches in height, and soldierlike 
in appearance. 

Not the least remarkable amongst 
the chieft of the royalist cause is 


He was one of the most prominent 
partisans of Santos Ladron in raising 
the standard of revolt, when Charles V. 
was proclaimed in Estella. After the 
defeat and subsequent assassination of 
Ladron (who fell a victim to the per- 
fidy of the Christinos), Ituralde suc- 
ceeded in saving part of his followers ; 
and, having conducted them to ti»e 
mountains, he formed a junction with 
the Alavese, and embodied jthem into 


WUhehrCs Return. 


two battalions ; bul^ unfortunately, they 
were quite disheartened,^nd d^titute 
of clotning, money, and arms. 

When bands of Carlists began to 
assemble in the valley of the Baston, 
be was one of their chosen leaders. 

On the arrival of Zumalecarreguy in 
the provinces, that ambition which 
urges on the soldier induced Ituralde, 
on the score of j)riorily of service in 
the cause, to express a disinclination 
of acceding to the election which placed 
the former at the head of the army. 
After the excitement of the moment, 
however, had passed, and his better 
judgment came into play, he fully ac- 
quiesced in the superior genius of his 
rival ; and, being truly patriotic in his 
views, had the manliness to succumb, 
accepting an inferior grade, as second 
in command. The personal bravery of 
Ituralde has always been conspicuous. 
At the head of his division, he assisted 
in discomfiting Osma, who had sallied 
out from Vittoria. At the siege of I^os 
Arcos, part of the town was taken by 

In the action which took place near 
Pamplona, when Zumalecarreguy used 
his utmost* endeavours to prevent the 
junction of I^renzo and Quesada, he 
bore a distinguished part, setting an 
example of heroism and valour which 
were communicated to his followers. 

In order to spread the insurrection, 
he had the command of a column, 
which penetrated into Aragon for that 

When the passage of the £ga was 
attempted to be forced by Lorenzo, 
which Mina considered absolutely ne- 
cessary, the subject of this memoir 
added much to the success of his party. 
The Christinoi, after repeated efforts, 
were compelled to relinquish all ho(>es 
of effecting their object. In this afiaii 
their loss was considerable; whereas 
the Carlists, being on elevated ground, 
and otherwise sheltered, suffered but 
little. Other afiairs calling Zumale- 
carreguy away from the spot, Ituralde 
was left to watch the motions of Lo- 
renzo, who had retreated to his fortified 
towns, with his wounded. 

Don Francisco Ituralde had the 
command of a r€«iroent at the death 
of Ferdinand Vlf. : he was subse- 
quently dismissed by order of his 
widow. He is a plain roan, without 
the mark of much thought or character; 
has a great reputation in Navarre ; 
and, perhaps, is one of the few a na- 
tive will follow out of the province 
wherein he was born. lie is thoroughly 
acquainted with the temper of these 
strange people, who approach him with 
veneration, and in his presence fight 
like lions, to merit his approbation. 


When Wilhelm left his native place. 
With sad and oft-reverted face, 
He said, to scenes through tears dim seen, 
'* I go — the sea must flow between.'' 

Of England had he heard the firoe ; 
Wealth had he seen from thence that came. 
By an ingenious kinsman won : 
And thus that alien thirst begun. 

Thence from those haunts beloved so well, 
Full forty years did Wilhelm dwell ; 
And every day, through all that space, 
His heart was in his native place. 

Through all that weary lapse of yetrt 
He saw his mother's parting tears ; 
The very dress — the look she wore, 
Sad, standing at their cottage-door. 

Whate*er he knew from earliest youth, 
And trace^ with more of love than truth, 

Digitized by 


20 Wilhebn's Reium. [January, 

As in a map, within his mind, 

Was pictured all he left behind. • 

Oft Wilbelm, with confinnine hand, 
. Said, ^ I will see my native land I*' 
A thousand times he fixed the day : 
That came — but came to pass away. 

Gold on him grew ; and habits, long 
Good subjects, grew to tyrants strong ; 
And cares, from which he could not fly ; 
And added, too, love's stronger tie. 

Yet now, at length, disclosed through trees, 
Wilhelm tlie one loved village sees : 
What he had left witli tear-wet cheeks. 
In that dear fatherland, he seeks. 

lie knows not all is overcharged, 
Through absence and grown mind enlarged ; 
That fancy warms the sterile, cold. 
And love has touched them into gold. 

Wondering, he cries, " And can it be 
The selfsame village that I see ? 
These houses small, and dingy gray — 
And their old inmates, where are they ?" 

The gravest of assured replies, 

The new churchyard then met his eyes : 

'* Our garden-croft — strange !" Wilhelm said, 

<' Become the haven of the dead ! 

That dearest plot, our garden-croft, 
A grave-yard I where we played so oft V* 
TwTks stranger still when Wilhelm found 
Those playmates slumbering in titat ground. 

lie raised himself — there seemed to lie 
A weight upon him ftom the sky : 
Backward be tossed his temples bare, 
More free to breathe the oppressive air. 

To chureh with gathering groups he went, 
To see the dead*s best monument ; 
To trace in every living face 
Memorials of the parent race. 

There, of the many, very few 
By such resemblance' faint he knew ; 
Whilst all the elder race were gone, 
And of his own — survived but one. 

Strange light on Wilhelm fell. He said, 
" I might be come back from the dead : 
Thus Age breathes on, with casual breath, 
To learn— how merciful is Death 1 

England ! adopted land 1 dear bourne 1 

To thee thy alien must return : 

The dead died not alone ^l crave by GoOqIc 

Thy succour from t/tin gen^V grave/* ^ 


The New Frankenstein. 



At the Lazarelto of Genoa, by good 
fortune, I met with a German who was 
travelling to the Vatican, in search of 
Pah'mpsests. He was scarcely thirty, 
though he might have passed for ten 
years older, as is often ooservcd to be 
the case with those wlio have devoted 
much of their time to intense study. 
II is shotfders inclined forward, and 
his light, flaxen hair hung much below 
his travelling cap. In his eye there 
were a wildness, and a glassiness, that 
bespoke, if not alienation of mind, at 
least eccentricity. 

During our captivity in Quarantine, 
we endeavoured to kill time by relating 
our several adventures ; and, one even- 
ing, the German, having been called 
upon to continue our ioireeSf looked 
round for a while, as though he were 
waiting for the dictation of some fa- 
miliar spirit — some monitor, like a 
second Socrates; and, with a voice not 
nnresembling a cracked instrument, 
without pre&ce, in his own idiomatic 
language, which 1 will endeavour to 
translate, thus commenced :— 

I came into the world on the same 
day as Hoffman's celebrated cat Miirr, 
— ay, not only on the same day, but 
the same hour of the day, if the obste- 
trix kept a good reckoning. You may 
smile, gentlemen ; but did not one of 
your poets boast that he was bom on 
tlie anniversary of another great poet. 
Cest tme autre affaire, perhaps you 
will say. But a cat*s birth, what can 
that have to do with yours ? Don't be 
impatient — much ; for it was to this for- 
tunate coincidence, to the circumstance 
of my mother's presenting Miirr, when 
a kitten, to Hoiiman — a gift for which 
he was ever grateful — that I became 
acquainted with that poet, painter, 
classic, musician, novelist — tJiat bel 
etpril, the pride of Germany. 

" Love me, love my cat," is an old 
adage. My affection for Miirr begat a 
return of it in his master ; and it was 
for the amusement of my childhood 
that he wrote Little Zachary, 

Who does not remember Miirr?— 
that back which outvied the enamel of 
the tortoise in the brilliancy and va- 
riety of its colours, — that coat, finer 
than ermine, — that voice, whose purr 

was more melodious than tlie whispered 
voice of lovers, — and then, his eye, 
tliere was something in it not feline, 
nor human, nor divine; but enough 
has been said to shew that he was no 
ordinary rnaton, or, as your Shake- 
speare has it, jibe cat. 1 will now let 
you into a secret [said the narrator, in 
a mysterious whisper]. Miirr was 
strongly suspected of being more than 
a familiar — an emanation, an incarna- 
tion, of one to whom Hoffman, like 
Calcott, was so much indebted, — it be- 
ing to a certain dictation that he owed 
so many of his nocturnal and diabolical 
tales, and, among the rest, that marvel 
of his genius, the Fot of Gold, I 
wish to shew you, gentlemen, what 
gave the bent and impulse to my 
genius, and how seemingly insignifi- 
cant causes are the parents of the great 
events of our lives. But Miirr paid 
the debt of nature, and Hoffman* never 
recovered his loss. 

At twelve years of age I was sent to 
the university of Leipsic, and at fif- 
teen was thoroughly master of the dead 
languages ; but my favourite author 
was Apuleius, the most romantic of all 
the ancient writers ; and I had got al- 
most by heart the first book of the 
Golden Ass, fully believing in all the 
wild traditions, the fantastic febles, and 
visions that it embodied. I thus early 
divided the life of man into two sets of 
sensation, but not of equal value in my 
eyes— -a waking sleep, and a sleeping 
sleep ; for it seemed to me, that no one 
could dispute the superior advantages 
of the latter in perceiving the only 
world that is worth perceiving — the 
inuiginary one. But more on this sub* 
ject hereafter. I only mention ii en 
passant, to shew that natural philosophy 
was the great object of my pursuit ; 
and it must be confessed that my tutor 
— for I had a private one, and seldom 
attended the public lectures— was ad- 
mirably qualified to direct this branch 
of ray studies. How he had acouired 
all his learning was a mystery ; for he 
never read, and yet had hardly, to all 
appearance, passed his twenty-fifth 
year. Where he had been educated, 
or from what country he came, was 
equally unknown, — for he spoke all 

* Hoffman's letter (a circular) to his friend has been preserved. He be^s bim to 
condole with him most pathetically on the death of his favourite.^ O. Y. 


ne New Frankenstein. 


laiiguciges with equal fluency. As 
Goeliie says of ihe mere kats, ** Even 
with those little people one would not 
wish to be alone/' Thus he was a 
man in whose cotnpany I never felt 
quite at ease, and yet was attracted to 
him by a kind of resistless impetus. 
Though his features were good, his 
face was a contmual mask ; his eyes, 
dark and lustrous, had in them an ex- 
traordinaiy and supernatural power of 
inouisition. There was an expression 
in his countenance the most gloomy, a 
desolateness the most revolting; the 
depravity of human nature seemed to 
him a delight. He was never known 
to laugh but at what would have moved 
others to tears. Though he watched 
over me as if his own life depended^ 
on mine, there was hardly a drunken 
orgy, or a duel, its natural conse- 

r!nce (for you know such take place 
ly at our universities), that Starn- 
stein — for that was his name — was 
not the exciting cause. You saw me 
look round just now. I often fancy 
him at my elbow; and thought, since 
I began talking of him, that he whis- 
pered in my ear. 

Being destined for a physician, I re- 
paired, af^er taking my degree, to Paris, 
for the purpose of attending the ana- 
tomical school. There, however, the 
only dissections in which I took an in- 
terest were those of the brain, which 
opened to me a new world of specula- 
tions, — one of which was, that all our 
nntiments are nothing more than a 
subtle kind of mind, and that mind it- 
self is only a modification of matter. I 
now set no bounds to tlie power of 
Mater loy and soon attributed to her 
all creation ; being much assisted in 
coming to this conclusion by Buffon 
and Cuvier. Their researches, particu- 
larly those of the latter great naturalist, 
proved to my satisfaction that there was 
a period when this planet was inhabited 
by a nameless progeny of monstrous 
forms, engendered by a peculiar state 
of the atmosphere — a dense congrega- 
tion of putrid vapours that brooded 
over chaos ; that all this Megatheriun 
and Saurian brood, those flying liquids, 
long as the ** mast ofsomehi^i admiral,*' 
disappeared at the first ray of light, and 
gave place to a new and better order of 
existences ; but as inferior to man, or 
the present race of the inhabitants of 
ouf globe, as man is to tlie ape — him- 

self the original of our species; as La 
Croix, in his scale of created beings, 
has proved to demonstration. But 
I was the first to discern that chrystals 
are to be produced by the galvanic 
battery, and animal life from acids ; to 
detect in paste, by means of tlie solar 
microscope, thousands of vermicular 
creatures, which could not have arisen 
from the accidental depositions of ova, 

— this genus beinjf, like that of eels, 
viviporous. I will describe to you 
one of ray experiments. I got some 
volcanic dust from Etna, which I im- 
pasted with muriatic acid, and after a 
time distinguished, though inaudible 
save with an ear trumpet— or thought I 
could distinguish — a Atn/r, like that of 
fermentation. What was my delight 
to find that there was vitality in the 
mass — that these atoms daily grew in 
size ! They were of the bug species ; 
not unresembling what the French call 
a punaise. Their kinds were two ; the 
larger soon began to devour the smaller, 
till they were completely destroyed ; and 
in their voracity the survivors preyed 
on each other; so that at last only one, 
the great conqueror, was left,— and he, 
I speak it to my infinite regret, was 
crushed in handling — so crushed, that 
scarcely any thing but slime, not of the 
most agreeable odour, was left upon 
my fingers. I had promised myself to 
present him to the Luxembourg, for its 
splendid entomological coUectiou. He 
would have been a prize, indeed. 

I now set no limits to nature; put 
implicit faith in the story of Prometheus 
and Pandora — the Tliessalian priest- 
esses — the resuscitation of Hippolitus, 

— and fancied I could discover by what 
sorcery it was that Medea, 

" with magic spell 

And potent charm evoked the shapes of 

When at her summoiis Hecate winged 

her flighti 
And fbmw of darknets sickening met the 

Here lies a fearful work that loathes the 

To wake new being in the extinguished 

They burst the bonds of Nature, — by de- 
Breathe a false spirit through the frame ; 

it sees 
The wan lips quiver, and erect to view 
It speaks, and draws thevital air anew.''* 

* Traaalttioii from Vida's Scucehia Maechia. 

, VjUUVI^ 


The Ne^ Frankenslein^ 


Fully believing in all (his, had I 
known DapuyireOi I should, wilbout 
besitatioD, have asked him the same 
question as was pcit to Sir H. Davy, 
whether he could make a man ? 

This is at lijng preface, but it is sot 
foreign to my purpiose. 

I pass over several years of my life, 
and find myself, in the summer of 
18 — , at Manheim. It is a curious old 
town ; but I shall not stop to describe 
it. There it was that I first met with a 
German translation of that very in- 
genious history of Frankenstein. Such 
was my pedilq)0«tion to a belief in 
what miglu have 8e«$med to others pro- 
digious, that I read it without a ques^ 
tion or suspicion of its being a fiction. 
Ttie part, however, that most interested 
me was the ereatkm; the scene tliat 
riveted me most, the creaticn scene. 
One night I had the passage open in 
ray httid, when who should vralk into 
the room, arm-in-arm, but my old 
tutor and that anatomical man— tliat 
ideutioai phantasma^ic hero. Stam* 
sicin, after having posted him against 
the oak panelling, turned towards me 
with one of his old Sardonic grins, 
pointed to his pro^^e, and slipped off 
oefbre I could nave detained him, had 
I been so inclined, which, to tell you 
the truth, I was not. I had never seen 
him since I lefl college ; but wished to 
renew his acquaintance, and sometimes 
doubt whether it was not his appari- 
tion. But not so the other. He was 
too palpable to view, and without any 
mistake. Thus he was standing in 
propriS perMma— the human monster 
— the restored ruin — the living plian- 
tom — the creature without a name. I 
put my hand before my eyes more than 
once, to convince myself that it was 
onlyavisbn such as a feverish imagin- 
ation conjured up. No rattle-snake 
could have more fascinated its victim. 
Yes, there be stood in alt his horrible 
disproportion. His back, as I said» 
was against the oak wainscot, and his 
fiice turned towards me. 

Eveiy one knows the effect produced 
at Guy^ Hospital on the medical stu- 
dents, when the corpse of a criminal, 
under tlie effect of a powerful galvanic 
battery, opened its eyes, made one step 
from the table against which he was 
placed; erect, and stiff, and fell among 
tliem. Such was the feeling I ex- 
perienced, lest he should advance. 
Horrible sensations for a time came 
over me ; there was a lurid glare on all 

the objects in tlie room ; every thing 
took, or seemed to take, forms the most 
fiuitastic, and to bear some mysterious 
relation to the strange being before me. 
But by degrees i»became fiimiliarised 
with his person, and at length thought 
I should not dislike his company ; I 
therefore took op the lamp, which was 
one of that ckissical construction com- 
mon in Italy, with three depending 
wicks, and vrith measured and stealthy 
steps began to approach ray visitor. 
But this rashness had nearly proved 
^tal ; for that which had given him 
lifo had well nigh caused my death : 
so powerful was the galvanism with 
which he had been charged, that the 
shock struck me to the ground like a 
forked flash of lightning. How long I 
lay I know not; but, on recovering, 
had learned sufficient prudence to keep 
a respectful distance from my unin- 
vited guest. There he was in the self- 
same state. I now examined him 
steadily ; but, instead of his being 
gifted with the faculties assigned to 
him by the fair authoress, I found lie 
had only a talismanic existence— was a 
mere automaton — a machine — a plant 
without the focuUy of motion. His 
eyes— ^those yellow eyes so graphically 
diepicted — rolled pendulously in their 
sunken sockets with a clicking sound 
not unresembling that of a clock ; there 
was a mechanical trepidation of all his 
fibres ; his nerves quivered, but not 
with sensibility, and his whole frame 
had a convulsive motion ; whilst his 
head moved from left to right and right 
to left, like that of a Chinese mandarin. 
As I gazed and gazed on the image be- 
fore me, I insensibly took a greater in- 
terest in the bipes imphimiSf the best 
definition ever given of the genua Itomo. 
I pitied him, and said to myself, I will 
be a new Frankenstein, and a greater. 
Like Prospero, I will have my Ariel. 
I will have my Paradox, as Rousseau 
had his Paradox : the Paradox of Jean 
Jacques vras the hate of all mankind ; 
mine shall be its admiration, envy, and 
despair. Frankenstein has left his work 
imperfect ; he has resuscitated a corpse : 
I will make him what Thyestes was. 
Yes, I will give him a mind — a mind ; 
yes, with a frantic joy I shouted, till 
the room re-echoed in loud vibrations, 
-^** I will create a mind for you, and 
such a mind as man, till now, never 
possessed T' But, liow to begin ? 
Would Columbus have discovered the 
New World, had he not overcome all 


The New Frankenstein. 


the diflicuUies he had to encounter 
from the elements ? The elements ; 
yesy I had to con tend, with elements 
also. But, how to bring them into 
subjection was a question might well 
give me pause. Such an undertaking, 
till within the last twenty years, would 
have seemed preposterous and absurd. 
But, what were all the physicians and 
metaphysicians of old compared to the 
philosophers of the new school ? There 
are only two sciences worth cultivating 
— phrenology and animal magnetism ; 
and it was by their means that I hoped 
to accomplish the great arcanum. 

All who know any thing of cranio- 
logy must be aware that genius, so er- 
roneously defined by Buffon as the 
product of study and perseverance, de- 
pends on organisation, and organisation 
only — on the elevation and depression 
of certain bosses in the cerebrum. Tlie 
cerebellum is another affair. Out upon 
it ! and, were it not for the continuation 
of the species, perhaps we should be 
infinitely more perfect without it ; but, 
at all events, in this case, it was not 
my intention to meddle with the cere- 
bellum. Well 1 with toil of mind that 
strengthens with its own fatigue, I 
made a discovery which, alone, in any 
other planet, would have immortalised 
me. I found out what neither Gall 
nor Spurzheim ever dreamed of; I 
learnea intuitively, or, rather, by that 
sense through which we see things 
more real than the dull dross visions to 
itself in its blind misimaginings,^- 1 
need not name animal magnetism. I 
perceived, I say, that every one of those 
compartments, as laid down in the 
most approved charts of the head, con- 
tains a certain gas, though it has, like 
the nervous fluid circuUiting in that 
curious network of the frame, hitherto 
escaped analysis or detection. To this 
gas I have given the appellation of the 
cerebral afflatus, and now felt satisfied 
that the protuberances, or subsidations 
of the cranium, which have been usu- 
ally attributed to the convolutions of 
the nerves, called brains, is derived 
from the action of this mental air pent 
up in its cells, each in its own .^ilolian 
cave. Newton, when the laws of gra- 
vitation flashed upon his mind by the 
apple hitting the doss of matliematics, 
never experienced the proud gratifica- 
tion this sublime discovery gave me. 
Ev^9ixa, I exclaimed, and proceeded 
forthwith to make my preparations. 
Ulysses, as all know, carried about 

with him the winds in bladders — a 
contrivance clerer enotigh before the 
invention of glass ; and the Usula of 
Don Cleophas bottled the lame devil 

These hints were not lost upon me. 
I set, therefore, my mechanical genius 
to work, and ftibricated a number of 
tubes, composed of a mixture of divers 
metals, such as went to the formation 
of Perkins's Tractors. These tubes had, 
at one end, tunnels ; and to the other 
I attached phials, in the shape of balls 
communicating with tliem, and so con- 
trived as to open and shut by means 
of screws, or vices, similar to those 
now used in the air-cushions; so that 
the fluid of which I was in search, 
once risen (as it is in the nature of all 
gases to do) to the top, might be there 
imprisoned, and, once hermetically 
closed, could only escape at my op- 
tion. These tubes were all of one 
size; but not so the globes, which I 
blew of a vast thickness, lest it should 
happen that the expansion of the con- 
fined air might endanger the security 
of my retorts, which, like steam-engines, 
did not admit of safety-valves. 

Thus admirably provided, I locked 
up my treasure, as carefully as a miser 
does his gold, and issued, like a new 
Captain Cook, on a voyage of disco- 
very much more interesting and im- 
portant than the great navigator's. 

The author of that night-mare — that 
poem, which, like the kaleidoscope, 
takes, at every turn of the page, fresh 
shapes (a puzzle to his commentators), 
ana that makes wise men stare and 
sets fools blundering— P(mi^, was then 
at Weimar. Easily accessible to a 
man of genius like myself, and igno- 
rant of my motives (which, if he had 
known, his familiar would doubtless 
have befiiended me), Goethe was easily 
persuaded to submit himself to my 
manipulation. No patient I ever had 
was easier brought en rapport. From 
him it was that I sought to extract 
Imagination; and I reconciled myself 
to the thef^, knowing that, however 
much I might appropriate to myself 
for the use of my nrotcgty Goethe 
might well spare it. Nor would it be 
long missed, considering that the work- 
ing of his fertile brain would soon ge- 
nerate fresh gas to supply the vacuum. 
So abundant was tlie stream, or steam^ 
that flowed from my fingers' ends, and 
thence conducted by my thumb into 
the tube, that my largest globe was, at 


This i^ew Frankensiein. 


the first sitting, almost filled to explo- 
sion, and as soon unescapeably sealed. 

Delighted with the success of my 
first experiment, I now deliberated 
which or my compatriots I should next 
put in requisition. Unhappily, Kant, 
that michty mystic! was gone to the 
fautd of shadows — himself a shade; 
but he had bequeathed his spirit to a 
worthy disciple, who, to the uninitiated, 
lectures in an unknown tongue. I 
allude to Sheeling. 

Transcendentalism, owins to the ha* 
bitude of my own organs, nas always 
been to me a wonder and a mystery ; 
but I was determined that it should 
not be so to my adopted son. The 
gaseous effluWuro which I drew from 
the professor was of so extra-subtle 
and super-volatile a nature, that it was 
long before I could satisfy myself that 
I Imd obtamed a quantum tufficit in 
uUo vehiculo, as tlie physicians say; 
but, by dint of pressure with my finger- 
pump, in a happy moment I heaid a 
slight crackling, like that of confined 

air in a bottle of , I was about to 

hare said champagne, only that its 
quality most resembles that of Eau de 
Seltz. Being ik>w sHr de man affaire, 
I* would have given worids for half an 
hour with Swedenbourg, or Madame 
Grizon. As I could not resuscitate 
the dead, I passed in review the living, 
and bethought me of one who had, as 
they, a religion of his own. He was 
[here the narrator turned to me] a 
compatriot of yours. Socrates, ac- 
cordrag to the comic dramatist, made 
his deities the clouds; and, if his busts 
are to be relied on for accuracy, was 
not deficient in veneration^ of a pe- 
culiar kind, certainly, and widely aif- 
fering from that of the sectarians above 
mentioned ; whose coronas — for it is 
there that veneration is properly placed 
—possessed no ordinary protuberances. 

Imperfect, indeed, would the p^fif 
of my phenomenon have been witliout 
this gieat essential; and, tlierefore, I 
crossed the Alps, and found Shelley at 
the baths of Lucca. I had always 
conceived his Hermaphrodites in the 
Witch of Atlat as the beau ideal of 
nondescripts, the most perfect of im- 
perfect beings ; and, oh 1 I sighed that 
mine could lie like that enchanting 
neutral. Tlie great poet's animal 
magnetic sensibility is well known, 
and it had been, if possible, increased 
by a late visit to the Prato Fiorito, 
where he had feinted with the excess 

of sweetness of the jonquils that carpet 
that enamelled mead. He was, at that 
moment, foil of the conception of his 
Ode to Intellectual Beauty ; and I ex- 
tracted enough of that particular sort 
of devotion to form a recipe for my 

Passing through Bologna on my re- 
turn, I tapped the Bibliotecario Mezzo- 
fonti for three hundred and sixty-five 
languages; which, strange to say, he 
had acquired witliout stirring out of 
his own library. 

Travelling night and day, behold 
me now, as 

" I stood tiptoe upon a little hill.*' 

That little hill was Primrose Hill. I 
for a moment looked down on the 
mighty Babylon beneath me, and lis- 
tened to the hum of the " million-peo- 
pled city vast," itself hidden in a dense 
fog. Out of all the multitude, there 
was only one whom I sou^t; tliat 
one, ««T %l«xn9} was Coleridge. I 
found him at no great distance, in his 
own rural retreats of Highgate, and at 
that time taking <* his ease in bis inn." 
No man was more accessible. Talking 
was not the amusement, but the occu- 
pation of his life ; and it must be con- 
fessed that he was an adept in the art, 
as should naturally have been a person 
whose tongue was employed for eight- 
een hours out of the twenty-four. For 
the first five of our interview, the clack 
of a water-mill, the wheels of a steam- 
boat, the waves on a sea-shore, were 
poor comparisons to express the volu- 
bility of his organ. That coma, or 
trance, with which I endeavoured to 
inspire him — that sleep of the soul, 
which is the awakening of reason — 
that agent unknown — that attribute 
divine — that double existence — that 
i^i#ir/Me of the nervous system, Som- 
nambulism, into which I had hoped 
to throw him, was transferred from the 
operated on to the operator. I called 
to mind the celebrated epigram : 

" Safe from the syren's tuneful air 
The sage Ulysses fled ; 
But had that man of prose been there. 
He would have talked him dead." 

At the same time I must admit, that 
no one ever talked so well. The 
mighty stream, "without o'erflowing, 
full," rolled on, and carried all before 
it — even the floodgates of reason. He 
was the despair of the animal magnetist, 
and I almost began to doubt the effi- 


7Atf Ne0 Franken$tein» 


oacy, not of the system, but of ray own 
powers, when he filled from a quart 
bottle a bumper of bis favourite bever- 
age, black-drop; and during its opiate 
influence I felt a vibration of the tube, 
like the string of a harp in concert'- 
pitch, thrill through every fibre of my 
frame, to its utmost ramifications. 
*' lo triumphe P the victory was com- 

I will not enumerate any other autlior 
whom I laid under contribution in 
different parts of Europe ; for, though 
I employed the smallest vehicles in 
my possession, I had great difficulty 
in filling them with original fluids. 

My task being accomplished, there 
is one thing for which 1 must give 
myself credit — disinterestedness. I 
disdained to appropriate to myself any 
of the fruits of my labours, trusting to 
my second self having a sufficiency o£ 
the afflatus for both ; and to his gene- 
rosity, or gratitude, for supplying me, 
at any time, with any superfluity he 
might possess. Besides that, I looked 
upon his head as a sort of imperium in 
imperio — a head within a head, on 
whose resources I might always draw, 
at any time, ad libitum. 

And now, behold me back to Man- 
heim. No miser, gloating over his 
stores — no devotee, the possessor of 
some relic of her patron saint — not 
Psyciie herself, witli her precious casket, 
felt half the raptures I enjoyed as I 
turned the key of my laboratory. 

I found my homuncio (which means, 
I believe, a great ugly fellow, though 
not such did he seem to me) posted 
exactly where I had left him, with the 
same meclianical clicking of the eyes, 
the same oscillation of the frame. And 
now for my reward. 

One by one did I carefully unvalve 
my phials, and apply the contents to 
the portals of the brain — the porticoes 
of my innominato, as the roan-fiend 
is called in tlie Prome$si Sposi, Scan^e- 
ly had I discharged through the ol- 
factory nerves the subtle fluids, when 
I perceived a strange confusion — a 
chaos like that of the elements pri- 
meval — ensue; and it was easy to 
perceive that the late arrivals were dis- 
satisfied with their new lodging, find- 
ing, doubtless, the apartments not to 
their taste — too spacious, or too con- 
fined for their operations. I was im- 
mediately reminaed of Casti s Caso di 
Coscunza, in which the spirits of the 
hero and heroine — a priest and his 

housekeeper, removed simultaneously 
from the world — being called back by 
the prayers of the good peasants of 
Estramadura to reanimate their clay, 
by mistake enter Uie wrong bodies ; so 
that the don finds himself no man, 
and the donna no woman : a circum- 
stance of extreme awkwardness, tliat 
elicited from the vritty bard a simile 
which may serve to exemplify the 
bizarre position in which our stronger 
organs tound themselves. The trans- 
lation is, I beg to say, by a great hand. 

"As when a fowler, in the leafy season 
Of June or July— it may be the latter— 
A flight of amorous sparrows, thick as 
bees on 
The housetop, clustering views, and 
by their clatter, 
And twittsr, aud lascivious ways, has 
To think bis distance sure — Bang! 
At his clatter 
They all fly ofif at once, and in their terror, 
One gets into another's nest from error." 

Thus happened it, I should con- 
jecture, with some of the newly im- 
|x>rted and imprisoned spirits in my 
innominato* i cranium. It was long 
before quiet was established in that 
" dome of thought," and I waited, in 
an agony of impatience, to see the 
eflect of my operation. 

I observed a picture in one of the 
exhibitions at Paris, of I forget what 
year, the subject of which was Pyg- 
malion and his statue. The artist has 
chosen the moment when the intensity 
of the sculptor's passion, which is im- 
passable to Love, vparmed the marble 
into life. As the Italians said of one 
of their school, tlie French painter had 
made use of came inacerato instead 
of colour. We might almost see the 
roseate light of life and youth, as through 
an alabaster vase, gradually illuminat- 
ing the perfect form of the nymph- 
alept's creation ; and tlie creator him- 
self contemplating, with delight and 
wonder, the object of his adoration. 

My feelings were different, though 
not less acute. Motionless as the 
sculptor, or almost tunied to stone as 
one who had seen Medusa, I stood, 
all eyes and ears intently fixed on my 
phenomenon. I saw the glassy and 
unmeaning glare of hit eyes give place 
to the fire of intelligence ; the jaun- 
diced, or, rather, livid hue of his cheek, 
disappear, like the gray of the morning 
at the uprising of the sun ; and, as his 
lungs became inflated, I could dis- 


The Nab Frankenstein. 


tiocdy Itear the a w — those sounds so 
expressive of inspimtion and expiration 
— at measured ititeirals repeated. 1 
DOW expected that his first impulse 
would be to Ml down and worship 
me. fiuty fur firoro this, what was my 
vexation and disappointment to mark 
the look of iMiutterable scorn and hate 
with which he regarded me. I think 
I now hear the floor ringing witli his 
heavy treEKl, as he paced it backwards 
and forwards to give circulation to his 
bloody or as though waiting for the 
chaos of his thoughts to be reduced to 
form, ere lie attempted to give them 
utterance. At length he found that 
distinguishing characteristic of man 
above all other animals— speech. His 
voice was hollowi hoarse^ and unmo- 
dulated , resembling most a pair of 
asthnuuic bellows^ or a cracked bas- 
soon, rather than aught human. At 
first, his utterance, like that of a new- 
bom babe, consisted of inarticulate 
sounds ; but, after runnmg up and 
down the gamut of the vowels, he put 
together a variety of words, u by way 
of practice, and with a slow and la- 
boured delivery, and a sort of tele- 
graphic gestures, commenced an ha- 
rangue. It was composed of all lan- 
guages, which he called into requisition 
to express more fully his meaning, o - 
no meaning. I have said, that his de- 
livery was at first slow and difBcalt, 
but as he proceeded his facility of pro- 
nunciation, his volubility, increased* 
From a fountain, a rivulet, a river, he 
poured forth at last a torrent of elo- 
quence, which it was impossible to 
titop, or almost to make intelligible in 
words. His merciless imagination flew 
with the speed of thought from subject 
to subject, from topic to topic, in a 
perpetual flux and reflux. It was a 
labyrinth inextricable — an ill-linked 
chain of sentences the roost involved, 
parentheses within parentheses — a com- 
plication of images and figures the 
most ouire. In sliort, imagine to your- 
selves the mysticism of Kant, the tran- 
scendental philosophy of Coleridge, the 
ntetaphysics of Shelley and Goethe, the 
poetry c^ Ly copliron, mingled and mass- 
ed together in one jargon, compounded 
of Greek, Latin, Italian, French, 
Spanish, German, and English, not to 
mention tongues known and unknown, 
and you may form some idea of his 
style; but ofhis barbarous pronunciation 
I can give you none: it was worse 
than Stoaafonti's. Ceit b^auawp dire* 

I now perceived, to my infinite 
sorrow, that I had done infinite mis- 
chief by this Phrengenesis. Its very 
Cfeation weighed upon me like remorse 
upon the guilty'. I had now the means 
or Inowiiig that he Itad fiothing to 
know, yet knew nothing. 

Thus it was that I found out the 
Theosophs were right in separating en- 
tirely the mind fix>m the soul, in con- 
sidering them diametrically opposite 
relations — as diflerent principles, as 
the physio and the phrenic. And I 
became satisfied that my paradox had 
no soul. What was to be done now? 
Should I leave the work imperfect, 
or endeavour to create one? Was it 
impious? I scarcely dared put the 
Question. Was not .^^ulapius struck 
dead by the balls of Jove for usurping 
his power ? Were I to evoke the 
dead — call up the spirit of Adam him- 
self — could ne aid me in the under- 
taking? At which the imagination 
revolted, and shrank back in terror. 
Where lay the scent? Was there any 
tradition on the earth, below the eartli, 
or above the earth, of the Psycogenesis ? 
The more I reflected, the more was I 
lost and confounded. Abyssus, Abys- 
sum. In Uie lowest deep there was 
yet a lower deep of mystery. 

['* Had you known,'' said one of the 
qxwrantine party, "the secret of Mattre 
Cornelius, you would have been at no 
loss for a soul." 

** Mattre Cornelius 1 who was lie?" 
inquired another ; " and what might 
his secret be? It must be worth 

" You shall hear," said the first in- 
terlocutor, " though I thought every 
one knew his story." 

*' Master Cornelius, then, was the 
celebrated violin-maker of Leipsic, — 
so celebrate<l, that his instruments are 
still in request all over Germany. He 
was one of the richest tradesmen in 
the town ; and not less admirable as a 
musician than a mechanist. 

** But talent always begets ^tidi- 
ousness. So with Master Cornelius. 

" It was his fortune, good or bad, to 
become possessed of a real Straduarius 
— possessed of it by mere accident ; for 
it had been sold to him, as often hap- 
pens with a good picture, by one who 
did not estimate its value. Cornelius, 
who had an exquisite ear for liarmony, 
was not long before he discovered the 
prite; and such envy and jealousy 
seized him^ that he took a disgust to 


The New Frankenslem. 


his own art, to his own violins, and 
exemplified the truth of the line — 

' Nil reputans actum » si quid superesset 

" lie did not cease to make violins, 
it is true ; but after he had made and 
tried them by his test, he invariably 
found them wanting, and, one by one, 
mercilessly vented his rage on the work 
of his own hands — so that it ended in 
his falling into extreme poverty. Nor 
was that all. He woula remain, with 
his arms folded d la Napoleon, for hours 
lost in self-abstraction, till his neigh- 
bours, as they peeped through his shop 
window, would lift up their hands, and 
say, * Poor Master Cornelius !' They 
thought him crazed ; and, perhaps, in 
the end, you may be induced to think 
so too. Tlie deeper he thought, the 
oftener he touched his Straduarius, so 
much the more was he at a loss to ac- 
count for its marvellous superiority; 
and, like a child with a toy, he at 
length broke it in pieces, thinking 
thereby to discover the mystery. But 
in vain. 

" One night, in a dream — for, like 
you,*' said the interrupter, turning to 
the German, " he was become a som- 
nambulist — Master Cornelius had a 
revelation, and joy once more revisited 
his heart. Like you, he cried out, 
Ev^jMu Wliat its discovery and its 
success were you shall hear. 

" He first got the wood of a coffin, 
and out of the case fsaishioned a violin 
of exactly the same proportions as his 
chefd^ituvre. Its form was the same 
— its weight tallied to a nicety ; and 
it wanted nothing but the colouring of 
age to have made it an * amabilis error/ 
Now for the great secret I promised. 

" His wife was at the pomt of death, 
and Master Cornelius invented an in- 
strument, not unresembling that you 
have described, for the extraction of 
mind, and, horrible to say, conducted 
his better half's last rattle into the 

" A very short time had elapsed, 
when he had an opportunity of trying 
his Cornelius at a concert. He played 
a solo, and brought out such tones, 
so long-drawn, so full of pathos, so 
supernatural, that they resemoled more 
the sighs of a soul in agony than aught 
else. He soon found a purchaser, as 
may be supposed. A German prince 
thought it cheap at 30,000 florins. But 
scarcely had Cornelius parted with his 

wife's soul, when remorse took pos- 
session of him. The deed without a 
name, which even exceeded in horror 
that which you were contemplating, 
tortured his mind to frenzy. Waking 
or asleep, he continually heard cries 
and groans, which he could not mis- 
take for those of the imprisoned spirit. 
Nor was this efiect confined to himself 
alone. AH the possessors of this ines- 
timable, yet fatal treasure, were alike 
afiected. Yet still it maintained its 

Erice, though it passed from hand to 
and in rapid succession. 

'* Not. to lengthen out this episode, 
Cornelius died in a madhouse : when 
he breatlied his last, his wife's soul 
escaped firom its captivity, and rejoined 
the manufacturer's. But the violin tlien 
became only a common Cornelius. I 
am told it is now in one of the museums 
of Germany, a memorable record of the 
impiety, the wicked ingenuity of human 

I was perfectly acquainted, [resumed 
the New Frankenstein, after the stranger 
had ceased,] with Master Cornelius's in- 
vention, and might have tried it, if I 
could have got a subject, or such a one, 
rather, as satisfied me, or Iiad I been 
an imitator; but I have always dis- 
dained to copy from others, and in tliis 
case was determined that my paradox 
should be an original. 

I was about to abandon the task as 
hopeless, when I remembered the great 
maxim and axiom of the animal mag- 
netists, that nothing is impossible to 
faith. But was it an act of volition ? 
Could we command it? Could we 
inspire ourselves with that waking sleep 
— master our own senses, so as to pro- 
duce such a somnambulism. 

Imagine yourself to have lost your 
way, benighted amid some inhospitable 
desert, some savage range of Alpine 
solitudes — far from a path, as you 
suppose, or the abode of man ; and 
when you are about to lay yourself 
down and die, in your despair, hear 
all at once the bark of a house-dog, 
and see the light streaming from the 
window of a cottage ; and, when you 
enter, find a cheerful fire blazing in 
the hearth, and a young girl, beautiful 
as the houris, who welcomes you with 
a voice tremulous with delight, and 
presents to your parched lips an ex* 
quisite and life-giving cordial. 

Thus was it with me, when a scroll 
of vellum slowly unrolled itself. It 
was a palimpsest. The writing — the 


The New Frankenstein. 


work of some falsely pious monk — 
that supplied the place of the original 
MSS., gradually oecame obliterated, 
and shewed beneath some characters, 
dim and indistiuct, in a language long 
lost. It had been one of the hermetic 
books escaped from the burning of the 
Alexandrian Library, and once be- 
longed to that of Ragusa, the last 
temple of the Greek and Roman muses, 
ivhen Urban Appendini and Sorgo were 
stars in its brilliant constellation of ta- 
lent. Oh, the marvellous power of 
somnambulism! that imparts wisdom 
to brutes, and furnishes a clue to all 
sciences and tongues. It was by its 
mysterious power that my eyes were 
opened — the film removed from them 
— that I could decipher in the pic- 
tured language, above the rest, these 
words, I%e6es Adamite King. Tlien 
came a sarcophagus, in which was 
traced in blood the mystical triangle, 
enclosed within a circle, the sacred 
emblem and diagram of the Magi and 

Yes, said I, it was in Osiris that the 
Egyptians supposed to reside all living 
beings, tlie genii and the soub of men. 
To Egypt, then 1 — there to unravel the 

With my double, my second self, 
behold me journeying to Alexandria. 
We ascended the sacred stream of the 
Nile, and found ourselves among the 
ruins of ancient Thebes. My first visit 
was to the cavern in which Belzoni 
had abode for long twelve months. I 
instinctively knew that it was only the 
entrance to the Memphis of that once 
«ni|hty city. 

My revelation was not a false one. 
At the further extremity of the tomb, 
I discovered, hollowed out of the rock, 
a subterranean passage, that seemed to 
descend into the very bowels of the 
earth. With a delight unutterable, I 
led the way down the perpendicular 
stairs, till we came to a lofty door, the 
entrance to the Neaopolis. On each 
side of this door crouched two colossal 
sphynxes, as though they were the 
guardians of the place. 

No human foot nad for three thousand 
years pro^Emed the sanctity of that City 
of the Dead, into which our venturous 
stej^ were treading. 

The winding passage widened as we 
advanced, when, on a sudden, a light 
burst on my eyes that dimmed the 
glare of our torches. It proceeded 
(r^ myriads of Naphtha lamps, hel4 

by gigantic figures, part man part beast, 
in combinations strange as tnat of the 
snake- man in the Inferno, in whom it 
was impossible to distinguish where the 
man began and the reptile ended. 

These forms were sculptured out of 
the solid granite, of an alabaster white- 
ness ; and in long perspective revealed, 
branching in different directions, vast 
streets, that seemed interminable. They 
were like some work of the Cimmerians, 
and lofty as the cavern of Pausiiippo ; 
and on each side were ranged sarco- 
phagi innumerable, some of marble of 
a dazzling lustre, inlaid with gems, 
and in workmanship so exquisite, that 
the hieroglyphical pictures seemed as 
composed of a single piece. Tlie 
mosaic on the tomb of the Tajh Mehul 
at Agra was coarse in comparison. 
Otliers were of sandal- wood and ebony, 
and covered with paintings, as vivid in 
colour as though they had been only 
finished a single day. The epicurean, 
when the mysteries were revealed to 
him — Vathek, in the caves of Dom- 
damuel, can alone give an idea of the 
sensations that marvellous spectacle, 
that silence which made itself to be 
felt, excited. 

With an indefinable terror, that even 
stilled the eternal " babel " of my Ca- 
liban, we continued to pace those Hades, 
popular witli the dead ; and as the 
azure light flickered and quivered, like 
serpents* tongues, from the lamps of 
the colossi, my imagination gifted the 
vapours with shapes all differing from 
each other, floating light as the atoms 
in the sunbeams along the walls, even 
to the lofty roof. 

And now, afar off, murmurs were 
beard. Was it the many voices of the 
dead ? It became more distinct. Tis 
the Nile rushing above our heads, 
swollen with the Abyssinian rains. 
Still we passed on, tilt its echoes died 
away in distant music among the cata- 

Should we sink to rest among these 
labyrinthian cells, stifled in that dust 
of centuries, which rose from our feet 
in volumes — such were some of the 
reflections that began to suggest them- 
selves, when I was attracted by an 
illumination, rendered more brilliant 
than the rest by the impenetrable depth 
of pitchy darkness of a cavern at its 
back. Tliis galaxy of light proceeded 
from lamps held by twelve figures of 
the natural size, so admirable as a woric 
pf art, that they might have been sup. 


The New Frankenstein* 


posed from the chisel of Phydias or 
rraxitdes ; and, on seeing them, I no 
longer wondered at (he perfection of 
the ili^gean marbles. They were grouped 
round a sarcophagus of Egyptian ala* 
baster, which tney supported with their 
bands and arms. So easy and graceful 
was their attitude, as of persons walking 
— forthe sculptor had almost given them 
motion*-that I fancied them advancing 
towards me, and stepped aside in order 
to let tl)ero puss. This was my first 
impulse. Was this tlie sarcopliagus of 
the mysterious scroll ? Did it contain 
the sacred emblems ? My heart beat 
audibly with hope. I approached, and 
leaned over the shoulder of one of the 
hearers. Yes!— it was there l—ihe 
sacred diagram! — that most perfect 
of figures enclosed in its mystic circle 1 
— there, as I had seen it in my trance ! 
The rubies of which the triangle were 
composed threw on tlie ^ce of the cen* 
tral statue a sanguine hue, that gave 
him tlie appearance of life ; and as it 
played lambently on his features, I 
gazed on them, till I almost spoke to 

And now for the great arcanum ! 
With hands trembling nt the sacrilege 
I was about to commit, I proceeded 
to lifl oif the lid of the sarcophagus. 
It yielded — slowly yielded — ^lost its 
equilibrium, and fell with a heavy 
crash on the floor. Tlie sound was 
like that of thunder, and vibrated 
through the pitchy cavern in long 
echoes, which, firom their repetition, 
proved it to be of vast extent — perhaps 
the hades of the Egyptians. 

There lay the undecaying corpse of 
the Adamite king, en wrapt all save 
the fiice, in the winding sheet of death. 
Like to life he was — the hues of life 
were yet upon his cheek — his eyes 
were ojpen, and glared on me with 
more tlian mortal lustre; and, lit by 
that reflection, made more wan his lips, 
that moved and quivered, as though he 

was only waiting for me to address him, 
ere be replied in answer to my ques- 

At that awful moment, the whole 
Necropolis rocked and shook, as though 
rent bv an earthquake ; and there ap- 
peared to rise on all sides, out of the 
ground, a multitude of hideous fiends, 
vibrating in their hands torches, from 
which the ruddy fire flew ofl*in flakes. 
They came in crowds that seemed to 
thicken as tliey approached, and join- 
ing in one cliorus. The words were 
these: — 

" Papal Satan, Pnpai Satan, Aleppe !** 

At that moment all the tombs opened 
with one accord, and the dead that had 
slept for ages rose slowly out of them 
in their shrouds, pressing forward in 
throngs from tlie depths of the streets 
that branched out on every side. They 
advanced as to a festival ; and the light 
from their eyes was like that of a dis- 
tant world, whose ashes are burning 
after it is extinct. 

As they came near, I felt a sort of 
numbing iciness emanate from their 
bodies, the poisonous effluvia of the 
grave, penetrating to my marrow like 
a thousand points of steel. Yet did 
my heart beat wildly, panting to re- 
spire the atmosphere of life, atniggling 
between life and death, suiKicated 
amid that dust of millennia, ibe flame 
of torches, the damp of the catacombt. 
And imagine to yourarif, added to all 
this, the dssmons of the night bowling, 
roaring in my stunned ears all one 
chorus — those discordant and myste- 
rious words of invocation : 

*' Papai Satan, Papai Satan, Aleppe 1" 

Then, too, the earth seemed to open 
beneath my feet, and a red spiral flsime 
issued fortli, which by degrees assumed 
a form, a shape. It vras, yet it was not, 
my old tutor. Then I awoke, and found 

it was** A DEEAM. 

Digitized by 



Lord TeignniouiKs Sketches* 



Our readers may be certain that im- 
partiality alone guides our ))en, when 
we inform them that roost devoutly did 
we desire the success of the Conserva- 
tive candidate for Marylebone, feeling 
much identity of sentiment subsisting 
between bis lordship and ourselves; and 
to prove this, as soon as the VVhigs are 
blown out, and the next election comes 
round, we promise ourautlior a plumper. 
This is demonstrative of our attachment 
and kindly feeling to the noble author 
and candidate, and must serve to do 
away with any unfavourable impress 
sions which our free censures of some 
of the contents of these two respectable 
volumes may be tortured to produce. 
We like the candidate for Marylebone ; 
we do not so much admire the author 
of the Sketches of Scotland and the Isle 
of A/oTs. We would much rather give 
his lordship a vote in the .former capa- 
city than some thirty shillings in the 
latter. Ten thousand times rather 
would we listen to Lord Teignmouth 
pleading the cause of the church apd 
Conservatism on the floor of St. Ste- 
phen's than printing the two portly vo^ 
lumes on our table. But the noble 
writer did not consult our judgment 
when be resolved to appear in print ; 
and we do not intend to ascertam his 
▼iews in regard to the expression we 
feel called on to present of nis labours. 
What is the use of writing sketches 
of a country so well known as Scot^ 
land ? There are statistical accounts 
of every parish, geological descrip- 
tions of every stratum, and railroads 
and steam-boats carrying their thou- 
sands to it every day; and over the 
whole " land of mountain and of 
flood *' the great wizard of the north 
has cast the enchantment of his genius. 
Before the rebellion of 1745, thq 
Sketches would have been very ser- 
viceable ; but in the middle of the 
nineteenth century, for one to sit down 
and write a brace of octavos descrip- 
tive of Scotland, is about as sensible as 
many other things done in this enlight- 
ened era. We should infer from the 
book that the author had spent the 
period of his life prior to his raid into 
Scotland in some cloistered cell, and 

that after this memorable invasion he 
sat down and wrote what he thought 
was one series jof original discoveries. 
We mean, here, now that railroads are 
appearing on every part of the empire, 
to enter our most deliberate protest 
against tliese locomotive descriptionists, 
steam sketches, and thirty mile an hour 
travelling penmen. The country will 
overflow with such productions; Cock- 
neys, conversant with nothing beyond 
the arcana of Cockaigne, will be off* at 
six o'clock in tlie rooming by the Bir- 
mingham train, and back to breakfast 
at eight ; and before another sunrise an 
advertisement will be out, announcing 
a volume of sketches of Watford, Tring, 
and liemel Hempstead, with reflections 
on the moral ana geographical oondi" 
tion of the inhabitants of the hitherto ter- 
ra incognita of Hertfordshire. Were this 
all, it would be tolerable ; but corre- 
spondent after correspondent, reader af- 
ter reader, public after public, knock us 
up at all hours, to induce us to admi- 
mster the properchastisement becoming 
the occasion : and the authors, laden 
with the perfumes of Bermondsev, are 
at our doors with chattering teeth and 
freezing anxieties, entreating a nod in 
our transit. Some arrangement roust 
be made by ourselves and the Qtiar- 
terty to put a stop to the mania^ — 
warning publishers, by the fears of our 
disapprobation, to take no part in 
ushenng into publicity such articles. 
In the mean time, we proceed to do 
the more painful part of our duty, by 
making an example of the two volumes 
nf blunder^ on our table. Had our 
author condensed his mistakes into a 
sixpenny pamphlet, we should summa- 
rily have discussed them in a batch ; 
but as they stand little short of nine 
hundred pages — that is, nearly sixty 
sheets — we feel it necessary to give, 
with our usual courtesy, a space some- 
what in the ratio of the work. 

The following discoveries of our au- 
thor are important : — " In 1 783,coaches 
and chaises were constructed as ele- 
gantly in Edinburgh as any where in 
Europe; and, it may be added/' says 
our author, with great gravity,'* stronger, 
and cheaper. In 1 783, perfumers had 

■ Sketches of the Ck>tsts and Islands of Scotland and tbe liU of Man. . 3yiX^T^ 
Wgmnouth. Jvols. Parker, Straid. 1836. ST^tzecf^^T^a^grC 


Lard Teigim<nith*$ Sketches of the Coasts [January, 

splendid shops in every principal street : 
some of them advertised the keeping 
of bears, to kill occasionally, for greas- 
ing ladies* and gentlemen's hair, as su- 
perior to any other animal (at" And, 
to wind up the favourable impressions 
of our author, he says : 

" Without anticipatuig the realigation 
of the romantic or political fictions of 
Miss Martineau, or Mr. Macaulay, — 
without tmroosting the gulls of Gare- 
loch,and peopling (our author beginoeth 
to be poeti<»l) its lonely rocks with 
amorous swains, with geese, and even 
with swine, or imaginiug the rise of a 
new Liverpool or northern hive of ten- 
pounders in the Hebrides, we may 
hazard the assertion (a very dreadful 
haaard), that the improvement of Scot- 
land may long continue to be progress- 

These are a solitary sample of many 
of the discoveries recorded in these 
volumes, and announced with all the 
importance of being the fruits of extra- 
ordinary research. Were all the state- 
ments, however, as accurate as these, 
doubtless, are, we should not object 
to the mode in which the writer con- 
veys tliem; but, with no extravagant 
partialities to Scotland ourselves, and 
witli some little intimacy with its his- 
tory, statistics, and peculiarities, we 
are forced to say, that our author does 
not always distribute even-handed jus- 
tice. We have discovered, in the 
course of our perusal of tliis work, 
the following, among many other, 
mistatements, unintentional, we trust, 
on the author's part. At page 29, 
Lord Teignmoutn informs us that 
many of the young men who matricu- 
late at tlie Scottish colleges obtain, not 
unfrequently, all their classic know- 
ledge at the parochial schools, which is 
any thing but correct, as Uie well- 
known existence of a class composed 
of what are called extranei in the gram- 
mar schools connected with the more 
northern universities testifies. At page 

47, he says, " The clergy in the High- 
lands are obliged, by an act of the 
General Assembly, to preach an Eng- 
lish sermon on every Sabbath, should 
there be but one hearer incapable of 
understanding Gaelic," — a sentence 
containing two or three blunders con- 
centrated in its construction. At page 

48, " The ofHce and designation of 
curate is offensive to the Scottish 
church ; no assistant is allowed to a 
(niuisler, except inc^vse Qf incapacity (^ 

disease.** And again, " When the ex- 
tent of a parish requires more than one 
pastor, a portion of it is detached, 
and confided to tlie care of a mission- 
ary, who is whoUv independent of the 
parochial minUter. These two state- 
ments are simply fudge. At page 54, 
we are informed, <* But we liad no 
tnutic for the entertainment of our pur- 
suers, the seals, but that of a rifle.^ 
Odd music, to be sure. At page 124, 
we have, ''The reasons usually assigned 
for the infrequency of the sacrament 
of the Lord's supper, is the great ex- 
pense which the entertainment inci- 
dental to it occasions to the minister." 
When the reader is informed that the 
expense does not devolve on the minis- 
ter, he will appreciate the force of this 
reason. Our author concurs with a Ro- 
man Catholic gentleman, p. 58, in 
abusing the memory of Knox, on ac- 
count of his rash, harrying propensi- 

** It is impossible," says Lord Teign- 
mouth, " to exempt this uncompromising 
reformer from his share of the etemd 
blame which belongs to those sacrilegious 
proceedings, inasmuch as he daily per- 
ceived the invoriable effect of his de- 
nunciations in a country at that time 
without a government capable of repress- 
ing them. Nor have Uie citizens of 
Glasgow contributed to rescue his me- 
mory from reproach, bj placing his 
statue, erected in that city, on a lofty 
eminence in the neighbourhood of the 
cathedral, from which he seems to look 
grimly down on the venerable pile as 
on the Agag which the wrath of bis fol- 
lowers had spared." 

We are not the admirers of the man- 
ner in whidi the Scottisli reformation 
was conducted ; nor do we hesitate 4o 
sympathise with thousands in their re- 
gret tliat the noblest cathedrals of Scot- 
land should now be heaps of ruins. 
But we roust express our dissent from 
the ofl-repeated statement of Lord 
Teignmouth, and the popular impres- 
sion of many who have not read au- 
thentic accounts of the proceedings of 
the Scotch reformers, that Knox was 
the chief instigator of the outrages of 
that troublous era. Knox, in fact, 
stern and strange as he was to sofUr 
feelings, dissuaded, with all the elo- 
quence he was capable of, from injur- 
ing the cathedrals, and advocated the 
demolition of the convents and reli- 
gious houses exclusively. It was the 
moHo of his b^neifji that places deser 


wid hlauds of Scotland. 


crated by snpefstHion wete again ooo* 
orated by truth. Baillie, in ^ answer 
to fitsbop Maxwell, writes, *< What 
you spedi of Mr. Knox preaching for 
the pulling down of churches i8 like 
the rest of your lies. I have not heard 
that in all our land above three or four 
churches were cast down ." To confirm 
Baillie's vindication of the conduct of 
Knox and the reformers generally, we 
have to adduce a very remarkable do- 
cument issued by Lord Jara&t Stew'art, 
containing tlie authority for purifying 
the catb^ial of Dnokeld, whicli wiU 
serve as a specimen of the commissions 
issued on tfab subject. 

** To our tnost friandis, the lairdis of 
Amtellj and Kinvard. 

*< I'laist friendia, oftsr maiat bortj 
commendaoioD, we prw you fiul not to 
pass inoootioent to the Lyck of Donkeld, 
and tak down tbe baill images thereof, 
and bring forth to tbe kirkzard, unU bum 
them openly. And sic like cast down 
tbe alUris.and pur^e the kirk of all kynd 
of monuments of idolatrve. And tliis 
ze full not to do, as ze will do us singu- 
lar empleseur ; and so committis you to 
the proteetion of God. From Edinburgh , 
the 19th Aagast, 1560. 

*' (Signed) An. Eboyll, 


*' .Fail not, but that ze tak guid he3Fd 
that neither tbe diiaks, windocks, nor 
durria be ooy ways hurt or broken— « ei- 
ther glassin wark or iron wurk.*' 

This document is quoted by that 
able historian M*Crie, with his decision 
that the other commissions were, in all 
probability, of similar import. An^ 
other atatemcnt, also introduced by the 
aanie historian, and drawn up by one 
of those wlio are doomed to bear the 
odium of Itaving sacrilegiously de- 
stroyed the venerable cathedrals of 
Scotland, we beg to subjoin. 

" Yet a great many, not only of die 
nacal aort, but sundry mfSn of name and 
r«p«tatioo, joyned themselves with the 
coagregmtion of the reformers, not so 
muoh for zeal of religion us to reap some 
earthly commodilie, and to be enriched 
by spovl of tbe kirkee and obbey places. 
And wben the preachers told them that 
places of idolatneahould be pulled down, 
they accepted gladly the enterprise, net 
making difierenoe between tlwse places 
of idiMatrie and maay parish .kirkee. 
Another thing fell ouc at tiut time which 
may be excused by reason of necessity, 
when, as the lordeaand some of tbe no- 
bilitie, pcincipal enterprysers of the Be- 
lormation^bavingto dowith tbe Fxendi- 


men, were forced not only to engage their 
own Ittodis, and beeto we whatsoever thev 
were able to furnish of their own patri- 
monie for maintenance of men of war, 
but also to take tbe lead and bells, with 
other jewels and ornaments of kirkes, 
abbayes, and other places of superstition, 
to employ the same and the prices thereof 
to resist the enen\iea."-~~ Sacrilege : thret 
Sermons preaehed 61/ MaiUer Mobt, Pont^ an 
og4dpastovrfthekirkrfGod. Edin.1599.'' 

There are many other decisive evi- 
dences that the charge which Lord 
Teignmouth repeats again and again in 
his Sketches, on the excesses of the 
Scottish Reformers, is not a correct 
one. In fact, these stern worthies of a 
sterner age appear to have deprecated 
the destruction of any buildings save 
monasteries, idolatrous, and other su- 
perstitious places. But wherever tliey 
found a place that could be converted 
into a church, they did not fail to 
make use of it. There was something 
to blame, much to excuse, and more to 
commend in the leading efforts of the 
Scottish Reformers. But, whether we 
approve of their whole conduct or not, 
we are not at liberty to pass strong 
censures which have no warrant in 
fact. The observations of our author 
on many ecclesiastic and educational 
subjects, with which, indeed, the two 
volumes are pretty much taken up, are 
a§ incorrect as cursory inquiries and 
ignorant replies can well make them. 
This is most unfortunate; for on no 
subject is it more important to obtain 
well-founded replies than in these days 
of expensive commissioners. The fol- 
lowing extract is an instance of the 
ill-regulated information his lordship 
must have picked up. 

" Tbe parochial jurisdiction is often, 
however, rather oligarchical than mon- 
archical : tbe elders and leading pa- 
risliiouers frequently assume tbe prero- 
gative of prescribing and regulating tbe 
minister*s doctrine, and cwing him to 
rigorous account for any deviation from 
iu And they thus bold him in a sort of 
thraldom, by no means limited to mere 
doctrinal matters. A minister whom I 
met in the south described to me, with 
much feeling, tbe annoyance to which 
he bad been subjected by such control, 
during some years in which be held 
a parochial cliurge in Sutherlandsbire. 
This overstrained jurisdiction of tbe 
parishioners, the abuse of the system 
of discipline fidopted in the Scottish 
church, which assigns to laymen a share 
of ecclesiastical aathority, is by no means 
confined to Sutherlandsbire." 



Lord TeignmouiKs Sketches of the Coasts [January, 

It is to us a very extraordinary thing 
that any parisli minister of the Scottish 
establishment should consent to be dic- 
tated to by any laymen in the parish ; 
and equally unaccountable that, if such 
an anomaly should have come in Uie 
path of our traveller, he should have 
attributed it to the system. We have 
been in the habit of asserting it as the 
chief glory of a national ecclesiastical 
establishment, tliat it prevents the ty- 
ranny of " lord deacons/' " rich mem- 
bers/^ and other troublesome officials ; 
but, should the opinion of our author 
be correct, our positions would not be 
the conclusive ones we have supposed. 
But the fact is, that no minister of the 
Scottish church is obliged to endure 
the dictation of laymen, any more than 
tiie ministers of our own establishment, 
lie derives his emoluments from the 
ancient patrimony of tlie church — he 
caunot be removed unless by the spi- 
ritual courts — his glebe, parsonage, 
and teinds, or tithes, constitute vir^ 
tually a freehold ; and for one in such 
circumstances of independency to bow 
to the iron yoke of any lay oligarchy is, 
on his part, wholly gratuitous. Most 
certainly, such submission does not 
come from the system, as Lord Teign- 
roouth unwarrantably asserts — it must 
emanate from the man ; and, unfortu- 
nately, in every church,' and under 
every form of ecclesiastical polity, 
there are men mean at heart, wno, for 
the sake of mammon, will stoop to 
any indignity. Our author*s blundering 
propensity, m every part of his remarks 
on the church and universities both, 
belonging to our '* cannie neebors," is 
so strongly exemplified, that we shall 
not be surprised if the General Assem- 
bly doom his lordship to a sederunt on 
the cutty-stool in the Grassmarket, if 
they catch him again north of the 
Tweed. At page 165, vol. ii., we find 
two blunders in one sentence: "The 
kirk session, composed of the clergy 
of a presbytery,** It is composed of so 
many Ittymen belonging to the parish. 
" The synod, comprising delegates from 
several presbyteries.*' It is composed 
of a// the members, and not of delegates 
only, of the presbyteries subject to its 
control. At page 163, vol. ii. : " At 
Edinburgh, the clergy rarely meet — 
not more frequently than once in the 
year."* They meet oflener than once 
a month. " The fox-hunting parson is 
a character known only from descrip- 
tion by the untravelled Scotchman/' 

Tliis is a higher character than tiie 
Scotch clergy can, without exceptioo, 
lay claim to. " Greater prevalence of 
dissent in Scotland tlian in England.'' 
Notoriously incorrect. The aiithor ia- 
forms us that half the gentry and nobi- 
lity of Scotland are Episcopalian dis- 
senters, who differ somewhat from oar 
church. Tliis is overstated. Many of 
the nobility and gentry, who were at- 
Udied to the Stuarts and Nonjurors, 
adhered to the Scottish Episcopalian 
coromiunion ; but are now rapidly pass- 
ing over to the establishment, ana set- 
ting the example every nobleman and 
country gentleman ought to setofattend- 
ing his parish church . A strong proof of 
this is found in the £ict, that nine-tenths 
of the Episcopalian chapels do not give 
their mmisters above 70/. per annara ; 
and not a few have teachers very inade- 
quately educated. In Edinbuigh, and 
one or two leading towns, they are 
graduates of our English universities, 
and oidained by our own bishops, and 
men altogether of superior qualifica- 
tions. ** In Ireland,'' says our author, 
at page 161, vol. ii. ** the Presbyterian 
church has degenerated into Arianism 
and Socinianism." The absurdity of 
this statement will appear to eveir 
reader who knows any tnmg of Irelancf. 
There are in Ireland about 500,000 
Presbyterians who adhere to the West- 
minster Confession of Faith, and per- 
haps 60,000 who adopt the tenets of 
Socinus; and yet, says Lord Tdgn- 
mouth, <* the Presbyterian church in 
Ireland has degenerated into Arianism 
and Socinianism !" 

The moral statistics and ecclesiastical 
statements of these two volumes are 
deplorably inaccurate. We trust, for 
his own sake, as well as that of the 
Conservative cause, to which his lord- 
ship is, in common with ourselves, 
warmly attached, that he will revise 
and amend the parts we have pointed 
out as specimens of many inaccuracies. 
What are we to make of the following 
gross libel on the character of Scottish 
fomales ? — 

*' The op]M>rtQnitieB afforded me of 
making inquiries respecting the mondi 
of the people in the neighbourhood of 
Aberdeen, elicited results certainly very 
unfavourable to them, and exhibiting & 
striking contrast with the morals of the 
Highlanders. A gentleman residing a 
few miles from Aberdeen assured ma 
that, daring the seventeen years be had 
passed in his present abode, be bad 


and Islands of Scotland. 


known only four instances of women 
marrjing who were not in a state of 
prApruancj. The minister of the same 
parish declared to me, that he knew but 
one female in that and the neighbouring 
parish who had not married under such 
circumstances. An Episcopalian minister 
at Aberdeen informed me that, the first 
year in which be took charge of his con- 
gregation, sixtj-one illegitimate children 
were offered to him for baptism. It is 
acknowledged that the fathers are inva- 
riably willing to make the only repara- 
tion in their power to the partners of 
their guilt,"— Vol. ii. p. 183. 

Had we laid half of this to the 
charge of any district in England, we 
should have been pronounced libellers. 
We cannot believe there is one- tenth of 
the charge true. It is surely evident that 
Lord Teign mouth has been imposed on ; 
and from a foundation of a few facts, 
such as he has mentioned, he is in- 
duced to draw a most sweeping infer- 
ence against the chastity of Aberdeen- 
shire females. If the" morals of the peo- 
ple in the neighbourhood of Aberdeen " 
are as corrupt as they are delineated in 
this volume, we would not recommend 
any one to send his wife or daughters 
to such a pandemonium. From a sen- 
tence which follows the above extract, 
we are induced to believe that our au- 
thor coincides with Daniel 0*Connell 
in his similar gross estimate of the pu- 
rity of female character in England : 
" In those parts of Scotland in which 
the social condition of the people has 
become assimilated to that of the Eng- 
lish, they are probably not more under 
the influence of religion than the latter." 
Why, if the neighbourhood of Aber- 
deen be a specimen of the morality 
and religion of Scotland, we beg leave 
to vindicate the English females from 
being placed in the same moral cate- 
gory. Hitherto, England has had 
chaste wives and gallant men; but 
what may be the results of " taking 
the benefit of the act," being " super- 
intended," and paired before poor-law 
commissioners, we are not prophetic 
enough to divine. Robert Owen and 
the new marriage-bill together might 
certainly soon bring about unlooked-for 

As we have thus had a specimen of 
the monstrous moral statistics of Aber- 
deen, we may as well ascertain what is 
the state of its educational institutions, 
especially its colleges. Here his lord- 
ship's fancy, or the Will-o'-the-wisp 

that informed him, leads him repeat- 
edly astray. Speaking of one of the 
colleges at Aberdeen, our author ob- 
serves (p. 1 17), " The chapel (of the 
King's College) is ornamented by a 
tower, supported on four stone arches." 
The chapel has only a leaden spire ; 
and the splendid tower described by 
Lord Teign mouth is at the end of the 
library. " A flag stone," adds our 
author, " in the pavement covers the 
remains of Hector Boeihius, the first 

Principal of the university." For 
lector Boethius, we must substitute 
Bishop Elphinstone, the founder. 
" The candidates for holy orders at- 
tend theological lectures during four 
years more. The lectures are read by 
the professors, who are ten in number." 
There is but one professor of theology 
in King's College, one of whose lectures 
is equal to any ordinary ten ; and this 
fact may have misled Lord Teignmouth. 
Page 118 : " The practice of private 
in aid of public tuition, so general in 
the English universities, is unknown 
at Aberdeen." It is quite common. 
There occurs a very curious comparison 
between the merits of the English and 
Scotch universities. This is made not 
between the Greek or mathematical 
attainments of the rival institutions, 
which we have no difiiculty in assert- 
ing to be immensely in favour of our 
English universities ; but " some col- 
leges at Oxford and Cambridge pro- 
bably muster more fox- hunters than all 
^he universities of Scotland do ridersJ'' 
The senior wrangler in this department 
must be the roan who can leap a five- 
bar gate most gracefully. " The royal 
commissioners have, it is said, formed 
the project of uniting the two colleges; 
but the plan is opposed by nearly all 
the professors." The fact is, it is sup- 
ported by nine-tenths of the professors 
of Marischal College, for very obvious 
reasons; the Radical principals of each 
college giving iheir consent in order to 
please 0*Connell. The observations of 
our author on the dying moments of 
Archbishop Sharpe are rather apocry- 

Fhal. "The examinations at Aberdeen, 
know not whether at the other uni- 
versities, are carried on in private ; as, 
when held in public, they are supposed 
to depend as much on the nerves as on 
the abilities of the students" (p. 145). 
Tlie examinations take place in the 
public hall: r^ ^^ i 

** The Greek language forms the suM^ 
ject of the first year's course The pro- 


Lord TeignmouiKs Sketches qflhe Coasts [January, 

feasor in this departmeut at Aberdeeu 
complainc d to me bitterly of being com- 
pelled to delay the progress of his whole 
class on account of the youth of many of 
the students. Some of the students con- 
tinue their study of the language afler 
the close of the year ; but the greater 
part of them pass on to the other sub- 
jects, with no further knowledge of the 
hnguage than that which they have de- 
rived from the lectures." — Vol. ii. p. 147. 

In tlie first place, we do think it is 
matter of sincere regret that our north- 
ern neighbours send their sons so early 
to the university. We admit that pe- 
culiarities exist in the Scottish system 
of education which warrant the course ; 
but if, on the whole, it is unfavourable 
to profound scholarship, it would be 
well to conform somewhat more closely 
to the Anglican system. Bad as mat- 
ters may be in this respect, we must, 
notwithstanding, protest against the 
mistatements of Lord Teignmouth in 
the extract we have given. The fact is, 
the Greek language is taught at Aber- 
deen, not by lectures, but in the usual 
way ; and, in the next place, every stu- 
dent at the colleges of that '^ ultima 
Thule*^ must attend the Greek class 
during the whole four years that con- 
stitute tlie cwrriculum. " Some of them," 
adds his lordsliip, in the same train of 
sheer mistatement or ignorance, " ad- 
vance sufficiently to read a few plays ; 
but the majority, except as far as they 
may have acquired the habit of atten- 
tion and industry, can derive little pro- 
fit from their classical course. The 
study of the other branches is equally 
transient and imperfect. The student 
has likewise to encounter the subtleties 
of the Aristotelian logic.'* Aristotle is 
not taught. " Defect of the Scottish 
system, in not assigning permanence 
to some one subject of instruction.** 
Metaphysics are notoriously prominent. 
The following estimate of his lordship 
rises to the maximum of incredibility : 
^' This sum, 14/. per annum, povers 
the expenses of the student at the Uni- 
versity of Aberdeen : the cost of educa- 
tion amounting to about 30/. for the four 
years* course ; that of board and lodg- 
ing, about 7/. peraun."(vol. ii. p. 154). 
Some impudent dog must have been 
imposing on his lordship, in order to 
send him to England primed with facts 
well calculated to make John Bull 
stare. Lord Teignmouth deliberately 
asserts, that an Aberdeen student can 
board and lodge at the rate of two 

shillings and eightpence a- week ; and 
that, too, where the quartern loaf is 
ninepence ; meat, sixpence per pound ; 
and house-rent, about half wbat it is 
in London. Now, we know of some 
instances where a student has obtained 
a garret, and an old woman to attend 
him, for half-a-crown a-week, which is 
the lowest sum at whicli a covering 
from the frosts and rain can be had ; 
and, taking this as the lowest, tliere 
will be allowed the poor mortal two- 
pence, or twopence halfffennuy where- 
with to procure food, fire, and candles. 
It is painful to see a nobleman, so dis- 
tinguished for sound sense and sound 
principle as Lord Teignmouth is, led 
into mistakes and mistatements which 
one half-hour*s dispassionate investi- 
gation would liave shewn to be absurd 
and impossible. In our Number for 
August 1835, we gave an estimate of 
the expenses of a university education 
at Edinburgh ; and, on the roost mo- 
derate calculation, we could not place 
the whole expense of six months* resi- 
dence at the university, inclusive of 
board and lodging and tuition, at leas 
than 58/. 4s. per ann. And though food 
is cheaper at Aberdeen, and the college 
courses somewhat less expensive than at 
Edinburgh, we are certain that iiotbiog 
short of 45/. will cover the respectable 
expenses of the most economical student 
at that university during one session, or 
term of six months. Now, between 14/., 
the whole expense for twelve months, 
according to Lord Teignmouth, and 
45/., our estimate for six months, based 
on facts better known to us than to 
his lordship, there is surely a discre- 
pancy of no ordinai7 magnitude. We 
admit that theie are phenomena in 
physiology as well as in other spheres 
of human knowledge ; but, as we have 
not had the rare fortune to meet with 
any student whose eyes served instead 
of two candles at night, and whose 
taste and digestive powers were adapted 
to brickbats, and other elegant prepa- 
rations oftliat kind, and whose gown 
was at once blanket, clothing, and 
habitation, we cannot say much on tlie 
admission of such an element into our 
calculation. We do not at all concur 
with the animadversions of Lord Teign- 
mouth on the theological studies of the 
Scottish colleges : in these there is 
much entitled to our admiration. In 
England, the candidate for orders has 
no professional education at all ; wbere- 
asy according to the usages of Scotland^ 


and hUtmU of Scotland. 


the student must hare enlercd on his 
theological courses at the age of eighteen, 
and have spent four years in the study 
of divinity, before he can be admitted 
to orders. 

We have thus called ihe attention of 
our readers to the work of Lord Teign- 
mouUi, and laid down the foundation 
of a verdict nnost unfavourable to the 
accuracy of his lordship's observations 
and induction. More mistateraents 
we have not detected, in any one work 
that has come under our notice, since 
we shewed up that compendium of 
blunders, Mr. Grant's Great Metro- 
poiu and Random Uecoliections. Were 
l/)rd Teign mouth a politician of Mr. 
Gram's principles, we should enrol 
him in the same black category ; but, 
as we regard the production on our 
table as a painful exception, and not 
as a proof of the powers and character 
of an author, we rest satisfied with our 
correction of the many errors that de- 
fece the Sketches of the Coast and 
Islands of Scotland, In closing, we 
roust not wholly omit to mention that 
there are many interesting descriptions, 
as well as sorry (though, we feel, unin- 
tentional) falsehoods. 

" We started early for lona and Staffo. 
Partial gleams of suoshine illuminated 
the bold, rugged headland of Ardna- 
murchan, alid were reflected dimly from 
the distant lof^y and conical summits of 
the Isle of Rum. Tlie point of Calliach 
in Mull was sheathed in foam by the 
waves of a wild sea, mingling their hoarse 
uproar with the shrill cries of innumer. 
able sea- fowl hovering around ita sum- 
mit. It is suid that Mr. Campbell, who 
resided for some time in the vicinity of 
this promontory, often selected it as the 
scene of his lofty inusings, as he listened 
to the roar of the distant Corryvreckan ; 
and that it was the birthplace of the 
Exile ofEnn, and of much of the Plea- 
sures of Hope, ITie grouping of the nu- 
merous islands off !\luil is extremely 
picturesque: Stoffa amongst them, rear, 
ing its basaltic pillars, forming a long 
caoseway gradually terminating in a ma- 
jestic colonnade, crowned by a green 
and overhanging brow. Before us, lona 
reared its lonely tower from the bosom 
of the stormy deep. The celebrated 
rains consist of a cathedral, a nunnery, 
and St. Oran's chapel. Tlie cathedral is 
small and cruciform ; the height of the 
tower is only seventy feet: its archi- 
tecture is rode and inelegant. On the 
north side of the altar is the tomb of 
Abbot Mackinnon, who died a.o. 1500, 
and is represented in a recumbent posi- 

tion. St. Oran's ehapel contains some 
tombs, and is surrounded by the prin- 
cipal remaining monuments, unfortu- 
nately much defaced by weather and 
the footsteps of visitors. In this hal- 
lowed cemetery, this conventional asy- 
lum of the dead, which religion or super- 
stition happily respected , even amid the 
fury of perpetual warfare, repose the 
bones of upwards of forty Scottish, be- 
sides French, Irish, and Norwegian 
kings ; and of many lords of the isles, 
bishops, abbots, and chieftains, some of 
whom are represented in full armour, 
cross-legged, with their hunting dogs at 
their feet. 

" Stripped of all that is fabulous or 
uncertain, the real history of lona, a 
sanctuary erected in a dart age, on the 
lonely beach of a remote island, amid 
tribes of pirates and freebooters, must 
inspire a solemn and grateful recognition 
of the peaceful triumphs of the Gospel, 
and of the overruling influence of Divine 
Providence, in employing even the super- 
stition of mankind in protecting and per. 
petuating its asceudency, till, purified 
by reformation, it shines forth, amid 
surrounding gloom, in its pristine light 
and lustre.*'— Vol. i. pp. 36, 37, 40. 

There are some excellent remarks on 
the nature and results of emigration, 
in reference to the isles of Scotland. 
It is certain, not only from the actual 
statistics, but from the recent accounts 
of famine in those remote and barren 
territories, that emigration must be 
had, still more extensively, recourse to. 
Much has been done by the Highland 
iK>bility and lairds to provide employ- 
ment for the tenantry. The late nobJe 
and gallant Duke of Gordon was, in 
this respect, a blessing to the High- 
lands. But, notwithstanding all that 
has been accomplished, there is in the 
northern isles and remote districts a re- 
dundant population ; to lighten which, 
some kind and judicious measures 
should be had recourse to. Tlie vast 
influx of Irish, habituated to a wretched 
maintenance at home, has supplanted 
the Highland labourers to an incon- 
ceivable extent. The failure of the 
kelp manufactures, owing to the intro- 
duction of barilla, has left many hun- 
dreds destitute and unemployed. The 
fisheries, from the employment so long 
obtained at the kelp' works, liave been 
neglected ; and it scarcely requires a 
great failure of the crops to spread 
starvation and famine throughout a 
hundred thousand of a population. 
We do not like emigration; iljie^J^ 
the social what bleeding is toQhe 


Lard Teignmoutlis Skeiches, j-c. 


physical constitution : but when there 
evolve the raaxiraum of population 
and tiie minimum of food, the sternest 
opponent must bend to tlie dire neces- 
sity of circumstance. Emigration is, 
moreover, to a Scottish Highlander, a 
truly painful alternative. They like 
not to leave the 

*< Land of brown heath and shaggy wood. 
Land of the mountain and the flood." 

With an emphasis peculiar to his 
own strong feelings, tJie Highlander 
can give utterance to the strain — 

*' Lives there a man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said. 
This is my own, my native land t 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him 

As home his footsteps he hath turned. 
From wandering in a foreign strand 1 
If such there be, go, mark him well ! 
For him no minstrel raptures swell. 
Despite Iiis titles, pride, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentered all in self. 
Living shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile earth from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhououred, and unsung." 

But poetic feeling is no panacea for 
spreading famine. 

At page 206) we find our autlior 
indicating a penchant toward those 
humbug excrescences called Temper- 
ance, or Tee-total, Societies. He felt, 
however, as a man of good sense, that 
they carry their own confutation on 
tlieir faces. Ardent spirits, we are per- 
suaded, are not generally very useful ; 
and what is called so in London, the 
" real blue ruin, to wit," is red-hot 
poison: but, for ourselves, we must 
candidly confess, that, during our last 
tour in Scotland, nothing was so re- 
freshing as tlie tumbler of whisky-toddy 
after dinner, whether in the hall of the 
laird or the manse of the parish mini- 
ster; and we venture to assert, that if 
tlie committee of the Temperance So- 
ciety were elevated, for one night only, 
to the highest crag on Ben Lomond, 
or Ben Macdui, they would eacli and 
all vote the Temperance Society a 
nuisance, and a glass of real mountaip- 
dew a genuine comfort. 

The following Will help our readers 
to an acquaintance with the antipodes 
of the Land's End : 

" Of the celebrated .Tohnny Groat's 
house, the only visible remains are the 

still respected foundattous of a cottage, 
erroneously supposed to have been the 
most northerly dwelling on the mainland 
of Scotland. *John Groat' still appears 
inscribed on the fishing-boats, a corrup- 
tion of John de Groot, the name of^a 
Dutchman who, it is said, settled here 
about the reign of James the Fourth, and 
immortalised himself by determining a 
dispute among his nine sons, respecting 
the point of precedence, by opening as 
many doors in his house, and assigniof^ 
one to each ; by which means they pass«d 
in and out without mutual molestation." 

In the appendix, there is a most 
valuable statistical account of the rela- 
tive strength of the Church and Con- 
servative party, and the Dissenting 
and Radical faction, communicated to 
our author by that able and ecclesi- 
astical statist, Lorimer, of St. David's, 
Glasgow, which we must not omit : 


Parish Churches, exclusive of more 

private Parish Chapels ..•••••! 9i0 

Chapels of Ease 63 

Government Churches 40 

Missions on the royal bounty .... 31 
Missionaries of the ^Propagation 

Society 9 

Churches built or building 70 

Established Church . . 1133 

If to these there be added those 
Seceders v.'ho are favourable to the 
Church as a national establishment, 
the whole will be — 

Churches 138 


Seceders 300 

Relief Seceders 95 

Independents 82 

Roman Catholics 55 

Deduct preaching Stations . . 40 

Total Radical Voluntary 
Meeting-houses .... 492 

After this, and other very important 
documents on the Church, there fol- 
lows, " An Abstract of the total quan- 
tity of Herrings cured,'' &c. &c.; 
which last we recommend to Mr. 
Spring Rice and Lord John Russell, 
as more tasteful and better adapted to 
their views than any information on the 
necessity of additional endowments for 
tlie instruction of the poor and the 

Digitized by VjUUV IC 


The Yelhwplush Correspondence. 


No. II. 


De4r Holltver Y.,— There was a 
pritty distubbance, as you mayphancy, 
when your Magaseen arri? ed in our hall, 
and was read by all the men and gals 
there aasambled. Fust there was 
coachmin : he takes his whig off when 
I comes into dinner, and houghing 
with a hair of mock gravity, drinks to 
" Mr. Charles, the littery man." Nex, 
Shalott, my lady's maid (a Frentch 
gal), says, '< O Jew, Matter Shawl, 
vom eight ung beliqfre" <* Will you 
have some bile mutton; Yellowplusb," 
cries cook ; ** it*s the leading Harticle 
of our dinner to-day." Never, in fisbck, 
was such chaffin heard, the jockes and 
repparees flasbin about lightnin. 

** I am/' says I, in a neat spitcb, 
"I am a littery man — there is no 
shame in it in the present instins; 
though, in genneral, it's a blasgerd 
employment enough. But it ain t my 
trade --\i isn't for the looker of gain 
that I sitt penn to payper — it is in the 
saycred caws of nollitch. (fleer, hear.) 
The exolted class which we have the 
honour to serve," says I, " has been 
crooly misreparysented. Authors liave 
profist to describe what they never see. 
People in Russle Square, and that 
▼aigar naybrood, bankers, slissitors, 
tnerchints' wives, and indeed snobs 
in general, are, in their ideer of our 
manners and customs, misguided, de- 
Vooded, HUMBUGGED — for I can find 
no more ellygant espression — by the 
Mcottnts wbidi they receive of us from 
^m autliors. Does Bulwer," savs I, 
** for instans, know any thmk of fash- 
nabble life ? {Sneart, and halfygarical 
cries of « Hookey" <* How's your mo- 
ther r if c) You jine with me in a 
pinion," says I, " and loudly hanser, 
Ao / Did Skklkton know any tliink 
more ? {Criet of " Hoff, hoff;' from 
toaehmin, " Fee dong" from my ladfs 
ffmd.) No, no more nor Bulwer. 
It is against these impostors that I 
Wm myself; and you, my friends, 
will applod my resolution." 

The drawing-room bell had been 
ringing all this time like road, and I 
was here obliged to finish my spitcb, 
in a pint of porter to the health of the 
cumpny. On enUing the room, I only 

found miss smilin and readin a copy 
of your Magazine. 

** Papa has been ringing this half 
hour, Cnawls," says she, " and desires 
you will wait till he returns from tlie 
libry." And then Miss (Lucy her 
name is) simpered and stuttered, and 
looked down and looked up, and 
blushed, and seemed very od — bew- 
tiful she always is. ^' Chawls," says 
she, a summonsing her curridge, *' is 
this — that is — is that — I mean, is this 
article in Frater^s Magazine your com- 
position ?*' 

^ It is, miss," says I, lookin at her 
roost tendrilly, *' an insignificant triffle 
from my pen." 

*^ It is the best Magazine in Eurup," 
adds Miss Lucy. 

" And no mistake." 

" Your article is — really — very — 
amusing," says she, bloshin as red as 
a piany. 

*< Do you, do you think so, miss ?" 
says I : *' miss, dear miss, if it gives 
you any pleasure, oh how amply it 
repays me !" I gev her, as I saia this, 
one of my pecuniary loox— -I nevef 
knew them loox fail with any woman 
at any hage. I was on my knees, as 
I said, quite appropo ; for I had just 
been emptyinj; coals from the skittle. 
I laid one of my hands on my left 
weskit, and said, ** O Miss Lucy !'* in 
a voice of such excrooshiating tender- 
ness, that I saw at once it was all up 
with her. But ^ Hush 1" cried she, 
all of a sudden ; " get up, sir — here's 

And papa it was, sure enough. 
Sir Jeames came into the room very 
stately, and hold in a book in his hand. 
" Cliawls," says he, " we have been 
readin your artickle in Frater*s Ma^ 

fazine, and very much amused we was. 
ligh life was never so well described, 
or so authenticly. Pray, sir," says he, 
" may I ask is this revew also yours V* 
and he holds up to me the Quotly 
Revew of October, on " Eltykill." I 
saw at a glans that tlib was none of 
my doing. 

" Sir," says I, " I never so much as 

see the thing." tized by VjUUV l*^ 

« WeU, sir," says he, " take it, ^d 


Tke YelhwpiMsh CcrretfOndente. 


read it, and go about your bisniss ; 
and, harky, hanser Uie beH when U's 
rung next lime." 

Cuss the aristoxy, say I, for a set of 
proud tyrants, who won't i-eckonise the 
higliest order of merit, genus. 

For the whole of that afternoon I shut 
mrself in the pantry, and devot«d my- 
self to the perusial of that artiokle. The 
author of it is porticly proud, as I see, 
of the annygoats which he introjuices ^ 
and which are, though I say it, no mora 
to my anriygOQts thatt* w^y to milk 
and \fRter. They are ingeims, ihey are 
pleasant (noany of 'era being very ok# 
frens, and not the less welkim for 
that) ; but Ihey are not the real t.iing 
— only a juke or a jake*s footmin 
earn do foshnabble life justice ; and it 
}s for that reason tlmt I have deier^ 

mined to have another wack at maga- 
zine writin. 

In this artiokle the author quotes 
fifteen or sixteen boox about politeniss. 
Nonsins ! only experunce can give au- 
thority on- the subject — and experunce 
I have had. 

I felt eonwinoed that, todescrib 
iasfanahble life, ome of us must do 
the thing, to do it well ; tmd I deler- 
ttiaed to give you a few passidges 
kom my own aMtobografy, in which 
I have passed through all grads of it, 
kom a shopkeeper up to a duke, lit>m 
a knife boy to the dignaty of a footman. 
Here is my fust tail : it aim aboat wery 
faiihimbble society, but a man don t 
begin by being at once a leader of the 
}k> tong-'my fust suTvices was it> a 
much more humble eapasity* 

Chapter I. 

Well then, poor commonsy, n they 
say : I was born in the year one, of the 
present or Christian hera, and am in 
consquints, seven-and-thrrty years old, 
and no mistake. My mamma called 
me Charles Edward Harrington Fit&- 
roy Yellowplush, in compliment to 
several noble families, and to a sdly- 
brated coachmin whom sIm knew, who 
wore a yellow livry, and drove the 
Lord Mayor of Lonoon. 

Why she gcfv me this genlran's name, 
is a difBkhy, or rayther the name of it 
part of his drees ; holeeveri it's sluek 
to me through life, in which I was, as 
it were, a footman by both. 

Praps he was my fetlier — though on 
this subjict I can't speak suttinly, for 
my ma wrapped up my buth in a mir- 
try. I mtiy be illygitmit, I may have 
been changed at nuss ; btit I've always 
had genlmuly tastes through life, and 
have no doubt that 1 come of a 
genlmnly origum. 

The less I say about my parint the 
better, for tlie dear old creature was 
very good to me, and, I fear, bad very 
little otiier goodness in her. Why, I 
can't say ; but I always passed as her 
nevyou. We led a strange life ; some- 
times ma was dressed in sattn and 
rooge, and sometimes in rags atid dutt; 
sometimes I got kisses, and sometimes 
kix ; sometimes gin, and sometimes 
shampang : law bless us I how she 
used to swear at me, and cuddle me ; 
there we were, quarreling and making 
up, sober and tipsy, starving and gut- 
.tlmg by tHrn^i jtist as ma got money 

or spent it. But let tne draw a vail 
over the seen, and speak of her no 
more — ils 'sfishnt fojr the public to 
know, thai her name was Miss Mont- 
morency, and we lived in the New 

My poor motlter died one morning, 
Hev'n bless her I and I was left akm 
in this wide wicked wuld, without so 
much money as would buy me a penny 
real fer my brezfesC. But there was 
serae amongst our naybours (and let 
me tell you there's more kindness 
among them poor disreppytable ciea- 
tufs titan in half-a-dOzen lords or bar- 
rynets) who toek pity upon poor Sal's 
orfiA (for they bust out laffin when I 
called her Miss Montmorency), and gev 
me bred and slielter. I'm afraid, in 
spite of their kindness, that my morrils 
woaldn't have improved if I'd stayed 
k>ns among 'em. I)nt a benny violent 
genlrnn saw roe, and put roe to school. 
The adkdray which I went to was 
called the Free School of Saint Bartlio- 
lomew's the Less — the young genlmu 
wore green baize coats^ yellow leather 
whatsisnames, a tin plate oh the left 
harm, lOid a cap about the size of a 
nHiffing. i stayed tliere sicks years, 
from sicks, that is to say, till my twelth 
year, during three years of witch, I dis- 
tbguished myself not a little in the 
musicle way, for I bloo the bellus of 
the church horgin, and very fine tanes 
we played too. 

Well, it's not worth recounting roy 
jewvenile follies (wliat trix vire u^ to 
play the applewomanl and bow we 


Mua Skum'i BuOMi. 


put SBuf m the old dark's Prayer-book 
— my eye I) ; but oae day, a geralma 
entered the sehooWroom — it was on the 
very day when I went to subtraxion — 
and asked the master for a yoinig hd 
for a servant. They pitched upon me 
glad enough ; and iiex day found me 
sleeping in the skulkry^ close under 
the sink, at IVIr. Bago*s country-houBei 
at Pentoowille. 

Bago kep a shop in Smitlifield 
market, and drov a taring good trade, 
in the boil and Italian way. i*ve beard 
him say, that he cleared no less than 
fifty pounds every year, by letting his 
front room at liangin^ time. His win- 
ders looked right opsit Newgit, and 
many and many dozen chaps baa be 
seen hangin there. Laws was .laws in 
the year ten, and tbey screwed chap's 
nex for nex to notliink. But my bis- 
niss was at bis country-house, where I 
made my first ontray into fasbnabl li^. 
I was knife, errint, and stable-boy 
then* and an't ashamed to own it ; for 
roy roerrits have raised me to what I 
am — two livries^ forty pound a year, 
roalt-licker, washin, silk-stockins, and 
wax candles — not countin wails, which 
is soinethink pretty considerable at our 
house, I can tell you. 

I didn't slay long bete, ft>r a suckm* 
stance happened w^b got rae a very 
different situation. A luadsonie yoiii>g 
genlmoy who kep a tilbury^and a vidia 
boss at livry^ wanted a tiger. I bid at 
once for the place ; and, being a neat 
tidy-looking lad, be took me. Bago 
gave roe a ohamcter^ and be roy first 
livry; proud enough I was of it, as 
you may ^oy. 

Idy new master liad some business 
in the city, for he went in every morn- 
ing at ten, got out of his tilbry at the 
Citty Road, and liad it waiting for him 
at six; when, if it was summer, be 

rnked round into the Park, and 
ve one of the neatest turnouts there. 
Wery proud 1 was in a gold-laced hat, 
a drab coat, and a red weskit, to sit by 
his side^ when he drove. I already 
began to ogle the gals^in the carridges, 
and to feel that longing for fiisbiMbl 
life which I've had ever since. When 
he was at the oppera^ or the play, 
down X went to skittl^ or to White 
Condick Gardens ; and Mr. Frederick 
Altamont's young man was somebody, 
I warrant; to be sore there is very few 
man-servants at Pentonwill, the poppy- 
ktion being mostly gals of all work : 
:and so^ thouj^b only foutteeoi I was as 

moeh a man down there as if I bad 
been as old as Jerusaleoi. 

Bui the most singlar thing was, that 
my mastery who was sueb a gay cbap» 
should live iu such a hole. He had 
only a ground-fioor in John Street — a 
parlor a«d a bedroom. I slep over 
the way, and only came in with his 
boots and bsexfest of a mominf « . 

The bouse he lodged in belonged ta 
Mr. and Mrs. Shum. Tliey were a 
poor but proliffic couple, who bad 
rented tlie place for many years ^ and 
tkey and their fiuaily were squeezed in 
it pretty tight, I can tell you. 

Skura said he had been a bofficer, 
and so he had. He liad been a sub- 
deputy, assistant, vice-oommissary, or 
some sueb tbiak ; and, as 1 beerd after- 
wards, bad been obliged to leave on 
aecount of bis nervomma. He was 
such a coward, the iact is, tliat lie was 
considered dangerous to the harmy, 
and sent home. 

He had married a widow Buck* 
master, who bad been a Miss Slamcoe. 
She was a Bristol gal ; and her father 
being a bankrup in the taUow-ehandler- 
ing way, left, in course, a pretty little 
sum of money. A thousand pound 
was settled on her; and she was as 
bigli and mighty as if it bad bean a 

Buckmasler died, leavinf notbink; 
Dotbink ticep four ugly daagfaters by 
Miss Slamooe: and her fovi^ paund a 
3rear was rayther a narrow income for 
one of her appytite and pretensions. 
In an unlucky hour for Shum she met 
him. He was a widovrer with a little 
daughter of three veara old, a little 
bouse at Peotonwill, and a little in- 
come about as big as her own. I be- 
lieve she ied the poor creature into 
marriage; and it was agreed that be 
should let his ground -floor at John 
Street^ and so add soraetbttik to their 

They married $ and the widow 
Buck master was the gray mare, I can 
tell you. She was always talking and 
blustering about her famly, the cele- 
brity of the Buck masters, and the an- 
tiokety of the Slancoes. Thty bad a 
six-roomed house (not counting kilcb- 
ing and sculry), and now twelve 
daughters in all ; whizz. 4 Mies 
Bu<&masters> Miss Betsy, Miss Dosy, 
Miss Biddy, and Miss Winnv ; 1 
Miss Shum, Mary by name, Shum's 
daughter, and seven others, who shall 
be naoi^eflf . Mn* Bhum wm a fol» 


The Yellowphisk Correspondence, 


red-haired woman, at least a foot taller 
than S., who was but a yard and a half 
high, pale-fiiced, red-nosed, knock- 
kneed, bald-headed, his nose and shut- 
frill all brown witli snuff. 

Before the house was a little garden, 
where the washin of the famly was all 
ways hanging. There was so many of 
em that it was obliged to be done by 
relays. There was six rails and a 
stocking on each, and four small goosbry 
bushes, always coTered with some bit 
of lining or other. The hall was a 
reglar puddle ; wet dabs of dishclouts 
flappea in your f^ce : soapy smoking 
bits of flanning went nigh to choke 
you ; and while you were looking up 
to prevent hanging yourself with the 
ropes which were strung across and 
abNout, slap came the hedge of a pail 
against your shins, till one was like to 
be drove mad with hagony. The great 
slattnly doddling girls was always on 
tlie stairs, pokin about with nasty 
flower-pots, a-cooking something, or 
sprawling in the window seats with 
greasy curl papers, reading greasy 
novls. An infernal pianna was jingling 

from momin till night — two eldest 
Miss Buckmasters " Battle of Prag" — 
six youngest Miss Shums, ^ In my 
cottage,'' till I knew eyery note in the 
** Battle of Prag," and cussed the day 
when " In my cottage " was rote. The 
younger girls, too, were always bounc- 
ing and thumping about the house, 
with torn pinnyfores, and dog*s-eard 
grammars, and large pieces of bread 
and treacle. I never see such a house. 

As for Mrs. Shum, she was such a 
fine lady, that she did nothing but lay 
on tlie drawing-room sophy, read 
novels, drink, scold, scream, and go 
into hystarrix. Little Shum kep reed- 
ing an old newspaper from weeks' end 
to weeks' end, wnen he was not en- 
gaged in teachin the children, or goin 
for the beer, or cleanin the shoes, fbr 
they kep no servant. Tliis house in 
John Street was in short a reglar 

What could have brought Mr. 
Fredenc Altamont to dwell in such a 
place? The reason is hobvius; he 
adoared the fust Miss Shum. 


And suttnly he did not shew a bad 
taste, for though the other daughters 
were as ugly as tlieir hideous ma, 
Mary Shum was a pretty, Httle, pink, 
modest creatur, with glossy black hair 
and tender bhie eyes, and a neck as 
white as plaster of Parish. She wore 
a dismal old black gownd, which had 
grown too short for her, and too tight ; 
but it only served to i^ew her pretty 
angles and feet, and bewchut iigger. 
Master, though he had looked rather 
low for the gal of his art, had certainly 
looked in the right place. Never was 
one more pretty or more hamiable. I 
gav her always the buttered toast left 
from our brexfast, and a cup of tea or 
chocklate as Altamont might fency ; 
and tlte poor thing was glad enough of 
it, I can vouch; for they had precious 
short commons up stairs, and she tlie 
least of ail. 

For it seemed as if which of the 
Shum famly should try to snub the 

e>or thing most. There was the four 
uckmaster gals always at her. It 
was, Mary, git the coal-skiule; Mary, 
run down to the public house for the 
beer; Mary, I intend to wear your 
clean stockens out walking, or your 
pew boimet to ohureh. Oi»ly her poor. 

father was kind to her; and he, poor 
old muffl liis kindness was of no use. 
Mary bore all the scolding like an 
angel, as she was ; no, not if she had a 
pair of wings and a goold trumpet, 
could she have been a greater angel. 

I never shall forgit one seen that 
took place. It was when master was 
in the city; and so, having nothink 
earthly to do, I happened to be listen- 
ing on the stairs. The old scolding 
was a-going on, and the old tune of 
that hojus « Battle of Prag." Old 
Shum made some remark ; and Miss 
Buckmaster cried out, ** Law, pal 
what a fool you are!" All the girls 
began lafiin, and so did Mrs. Shum ; 
all, that is, xcep Mary, who turned as 
red as flams, and going up to Miss 
Betsy Buckmaster, gave her two such 
wax on her great red ears, as made 
them tingle again. 

Old Mrs. Shum screamed, and ran 
at her like a Bengal tiger. Her great 
arms went weeling about like a vin- 
roill, as she cuffed and thumped poor 
Mary for taking her pa's part. Mary 
Shum, who was always a-crying be- 
fore, didn't shed a tear now. I will 
do it again, she said, if Betsy insults 
my father. New thumps, new shreex ! 


Miss Shum*s Husband. 


and the old horridan went on bcatin 
the poor girl, till she was was quite 
exosted, and fell down on the sophy, 
puffin like a poppus. 

*♦ For shanoe, Mary," began old 
Shum ; " for shame, you naughty gal ! 
you, for hurting the feelins of your dear 
maiDina, and beating kind sister." 

** Why, it was because she called 
you a — " 

*^ If slie did, you pert Miss," said 
Shum, looking mighty dignitified, '* I 
could correct her, and not you." 

^ You correct me, indeed 1" said 
Miss Betsy, turning up her nose, if 
possible, higher than before ; " I 
sboukl like to see you erect me ! Im- 
perence !" and tliey all begaiT laffin 

By this time Mrs. S. had recovered 
from the elfex of her exsize, and she 
began to pour in her wolly. Fust, she 
called Mary names, then Shum. ** O 
why," screeched she, " why did I ever 
leave a genteel famly, where I ad every 
ellygance and lucksry, to n^rry a 
creature like this ? He is unlit to be 
called a man, he is unwortliy to marry 
a gentlewoman ; and as for that hussy, 
I disown her ! Thank Heaven ! she ant 
a Slamcoe; she is only fit to be a 

^* That's true, mamma," said all the 
galsy for their mother had taught them 
this pretty piece of manners, and they 
despised their father heartily ; indeed, 
I have always remarked that, in families 
where the wife is internally talking 
about the merits of her branch, the 
husband is invariably a spooney. 

Well, when she was exosted again, 
down she fell on the sofy, at lier old 
trix — more skreeching, more convul- 
shuns — and she wouldn't stop, this 
time, till Shum had got her half a pint 
of h^ old remedy, from the Blue Lion, 
over the wav. She grew more easy as 
she fini^iedt the gin; but Mary was 
sent out of the room, and told not to 
come back agin all day. 

''Miss Mary," says I, — for my 
heart yumed to the poor gal, as she 
came sobbing and misrable down stairs, 
— « Miss Mary," says I, '< If I might 
make so bold, here's roaster's room 
empty, and I know where the cold bif 
and pickles is." "O Charles!" said 
she, noddiag her head sadly, '' Pm too 
retched to hav>e any happytite;" and 
she flung herself on a chair, and began 
to cry fit to bust. 
At this niomeiit^who 9hould come in 

but my master. I had taken hold of 
Miss Mary's hand, somehow, and do 
believe I should have kist it, when, as 
I said, Haltamont made his appear- 
ance. " What's this? " cries he, lookin 
at me as black as thunder, or as Mr. 
Philips as Hickit, in the new tragedy 
of Mac Buff. 

" It's only Miss Mary, sir," an- 
swered I. 

" Get out, sir," says he, as fierce 
as posbil, and I felt something (I think 
it was the tip of his to) touching me 
behind, and found myself, nex minnit, 
sprawling among the wet flannings, and 
buckets and things. 

The people from up stairs came to 
see what was the matter, as I was 
cussin and cryin out. ** It's only 
Charles, ma, screamed out Miss 

** Where's Mary ? " says Mrs. Shum, 
from the sofy. 

" She's in master's room, miss," 
said I. 

" She's in the lodger's room, ma," 
cries Miss Simm, heckoing me. 

<• Very good ; tell her to stay there 
till he comes back." And then Miss 
Shum went bouncing up the stairs 
again, little knowing of Ilaltamont's 

I'd long before observed that my 
master had an anchoring after Mary 
Shum ; indeed, as I have said, it was 
purely for her sake that he took and 
kep his lodgings at Pentonvill. Excep 
for the sake of love, which is above 
being mersnary, fourteen shillings a 
wick was a little too strong for two 
sucli rat-holes as be lived in. I do 
blieve the family had nothing else but 
their lodger to live on : they brek fisted 
off his tea-leaves, they cut away pounds 
and pounds of meat from his jints (he 
always dined at home), and his baker's 
bill was at least enough for six. But 
that wasn't my business. I saw him 
grin, sometimes, when I laid down the 
cold bif of a morning, to see how little 
was left of yesterday's sirline ; but he 
never said a syllabub; — for true love 
don't mind a pound of meat or so 

At first, he was very kind an at- 
tentive to all the gals ; Miss Betsy, in 
partickler, grew mighty fond of him ; 
they sate, for whole evenings, playing 
cribbitch, he taking his pipe and glas, 
she her lea and muffing ; but as it was 
improper for her to come alone, sh^ 


The YelloHfphuh Carretpmdence, 



brought one of her sisters, and Uiis was 
genrally M.ary, — for he made a pint of 
asking her, t00| — and, one day, when 
one of the oihers came instead, he told 
her, very quitely, that he hadn't invitetJ 
her; and Miss Buck master was too 
fond of muffings to try this game on 
again ; besides, she wa^ jealous of her 
three grown sisters, and considered 
Mary as only a child. Law bless ut 1 
how she used to ogle him, and quot 
bits of pottry, and play " Meet roe by 
inoonlike,*' on an old gitter; — she 
reglar flung herself at his head, but he 
would n't have it, been better ockypied 

One night, as genteel as |)os!!ible, he 
brought home tickets for Ashley's, and 
proposed to take the two young ladies 
— Miss Betsy and Miiis Mary, in 
course. I recklect he called me aside 
that afternoon, and, assuming a so- 
lamon and misterus hare, " Charles," 
said he, ** are you vp to snuff? " 

<<Why, sir," said I, "fm genraly 
considered tolelably downy." 

" Well," says he, " I'll give you half 
a sufiering if you can manage this 
bisniss for n>e; Tve chose a rainy 
night on purpus. When the theatre is 
over, you must be waitin with two um- 
brellows; give me one, and hold the 
other over Miss Shum ; and, hark ye, 
sir, turn to the right when you leave 
the theatre, and say the coach is or- 
dered to stand a little way up the 
street, in order to get rid of the crowd." 

We went (in a fly hired by Mr. II.), 
and never shall I forgit Cariliche's 
hacting on that roemrable night. Talk 
of Kimble ! talk of Magreedy ! Ash- 
ley's for my money, with Cartlitch in 
the principle part. Rut this is nothink 
to tne porpus. When the play was 
over, I was at the door with the umr 
berelloes. It was raining cats and 
dogs, sure enough. 

Mr. Altamont came out presently. 
Hiss Mary under his arm, and Miss 
Betsy followin behind, rayther sulky. 
"This way, sir," cries I, pushin for- 
ward ; and I threw a great cloak over 
Miss Betsy, lit to smotlier iier. Mr. A. 
and Miss Mary skipped on, and was 
out of sight when Miss Betsy's cloak 
was settl^, you may be sure. 

"They're only gone to the fly, miss. 
It's a little way up the street, away 
from the crowd of carriages." And 
ofl* we turned to the right, and no 

After marcbin a little through the 

plash and mud, " Has any body : 
Cox's fly? " cries I, with the most in- 
nocent baxent in the world. 

" Cox's fly ! " hollows out one chap. 
" Is it the waggin you want?" says 
anotlier. " I see the blaokin wan pass," 
giggles out another genlmn ; and there 
was such an interduuige of compli- 
mints as you never heard. I pass them 
over, though, because some or 'em weie 
not very genteel. 

" Law, miss," said I, " what shmll I 
do ? My master will never forgive 
me ; and I have n't a sinf^e sixpence 
to pay a ooach." Miss Betsy was just 
going to call one when I said that, but 
the coachman would n't have it at that 
price,*1ae said, and I knew very well 
that she hadn't four or Ave shillin|irs to 
pay for a wehide. S<), in the midst of 
that tarin rain, at midnight, we had to 
walk four miles, from Wesiroitisler 
Bridge to Pentonvill ; and, what was 
wusS| I didnU iMppen to know the lowy. 
A very nice walk it was, and no mis- 

At about half^past two, we got safe 
to Jolin Street. My master was at the 
garden gate* Miss Mary fleW into 
Miss Betsy's arms» while master began 
cussin and swearin at me fi»r dtsobejF- 
ing his orders, and turning to the right 
instead qf the left I Law bless me ! 
his aeting of anger was very near as 
natral and as ttrrybil as Mr. Cari- 
litch's in the play. 

They had waited half an hour, he 
said, in the fly»in the little street at the 
left of the theatre ; they bad drove up 
and down in the greatest fright pos- 
sible ; and at last came horoe^ Uiinking 
it was in vain to wait any nore. They 
gave her hot rum and water and roast 
oysters for supper, and this consoled 
Iter a little. 

I hope nobody will cast an imputa- 
tion on Miss Mary for her share in this 
ad venter, for she was. as honest a gal 
as ever lived, and I do believe is hig- 
norant to this day of our little stratly- 
gim. Besides, all's fair in love; and, 
as my master could never get to see 
her alone, on account of her infernal 
eleven sisters and roa, l>e took this op- 
portunity of'expressin his attachmint 
to her. 

If lie was in love with her before, 
you may be sure she paid it him back 
Qgin now. Ever after the night at 
Ashley's, they were as tender as two 
tuttlc-doves — witch fully accounts for 
the axdent what happened to me, in 

U^* 44 

Digitized by VjOOQ IC 


Digitized by 



Mis$ Shum*8 Husband. 


being kicked out of the room ; and in 
course I bore no tnallia* 

I don't know whether Mias Betsy 
still (ancied that ray roaster was in lore 
with her, but she loved muffings and 

tea, and kern down to his parlor ai 
much as aver. 

Now comes ihe singular part of my 

Chapter III. 

But who was this genlron with a 
fine name — Mr. Frederic Altamont? 
or what was he ? The most raysterus 
genlmn that ever I knew. Once I said 
to him, on a very rainy day, **Sir, 
shall I bring the gig down to ^our 
office?*' and he gave me one ot his 
black looks, and one of his loudest 
hoatbs, and told me to mind my own 
bizziniss, and attend to my orders. 
Another day 9 — it was on the day when 
Miss Mary slapped Miss Betsy's face, 
— Miss M., who adoared him, qs I 
have said already, kep on asking him 
what was his butli, parentidg, and 
ediccation. " Dear Frederic,' says 
she, "why this raistry about yourself 
and your hactions? why hide from 
your little Mary" — they were aa tender 
as this, I can tell you — '* your buth ami 
your professid ?'' 

1 spose Mr. Frederic looked black, 
for I was otUj/ listening, and he said, in 
a voice agitated by a motion, '* Mary," 
said he, '* if you love me, ask me this 
no more; let it be sfishnt for you to 
know that I am a honest man, and 
that a secret, what it would be misery 
for you to lam, must hang over all my 
actions — that is, from ten o'clock till 

They went on oliaffin and talking in 
this melumcoUy and misterus way, and 
I didn't lose a word of what they said, 
for them houses in Pentonwill have 
only walls made of pasteboard, and you 
hear raytber better outside the room 
than in. But, though he kep up his 
secret, he swore to her bis aifektion 
this day pint blank. Nothing should 
prevent him, he said, from leading her 
to the halter, from makin her his adoar- 
able wife. After this was a slight si- 
lence. " Dearest Frederic," nuim- 
mered out miss, speakin as if she was 
chokiu, " I am yours — yours fiwr ever." 
And then silence agen, and one or two 
sroax, as if there was kissin going on« 
Here I thought it best to give a rattle 
at the door-lock ; for, as I live, there 
was old Mrs. Shum a-wa)kin down the 
stairs i 

It appears that one of the younger 
gals, a lookin out of the bed-rum win- 
dow, had seen my master come in, and 

coming down to tea half an hour after* 
wards, said so in a cussary way. Old 
Mrs. Shum, who was a dragon of ver* 
tyou, cam bustling down the stairs, 
panting and frowning;, as fat and as 
fierce as a old sow at feedin time. 

" Whereas the lodger, fellow ?" says 
she to me. 

I spoke loud enough to be heard 
down the street — '* If you mean, ma'am, 
my master, Mr. Frederic Altamont, 
esquire, he's just stept in, and is puttin 
on clean shoes in his bed-room." 

She said nothink in answer, but 
flumps past me, and openin^^ the par- 
lor-door, sees roaster lookin very queer, 
and Miss Mary a drooping down her 
head like a pale lily. 

" Did you come into my family," 
says site, **to corrupt my daughters, 
and to destroy the hianocence of that 
infiiimous gal? Did you come here,, 
sir, as a sedueer, or only as a lodger ? 
Speak, sir, speak!"— and she f<4ded 
her arms quite fleree, and looked tike 
Mrs. Siddunis in the Tragic Mews. 

" I came liere, Mrs Shum," said 
he, *' because I loved your daughter, or 
I never would have condescended to 
live iu such a beggarly hole. I have 
treated her in every respeck like a 
genlmn, and she is as hinoocent now,, 
mam, as she was when she was bora* 
If she'll marry me, I am ready; if 
she'll leave you, she sliall have a home 
where she shall be neither bullyd nor 
starved ; no hangry frumps of sisterSf 
no cross mother-in-law, only an aieck- 
shnat husband, and all tlie pure ploa^ 
sures of liymiug." 

Mary flung herself into his arms.— 
«* Dear, dear Frederic," says she, «* I'll 
never leave you." 

** Miss," says Mrs. Shum, " you 
ain't a Slarocoe nor yet a Buckmaster, 
thank God. You may marry this per- 
son if your pa thinks proper, and he 
may insult me — brave me— trample oa 
my feelinx in my own house — and 
there's no-o-o-obody by to defend me." 

I knew what she was going to be at 3 
on came her histarrix agen, and she 
began screechin and roarin like mad. 
Down comes, of course, tlie twelve gals 
and old Shum. There was a preUj^ 


Tke Yellowptilsh Correspondence, 


row. " Look here, sir," says she, " at 
the conduck of your precious trull of a 
daughter — alone witli this man, kissin 
and dandling, aud Lawd knows what 

" What, he ?" cries Miss Betsy— 
" he in love with Mary ! 0,the wretch, 
the monsler, the deceiver !" — and she 
falls down too, screeching away as loud 
as her mamma; for the silly creatu^ 
fiuicied still that Altamont had a fond- 
ness for her. 

" Silence these xoomen,^* shouts out 
Altamont, thundering loud. " I love 
your daughter, Mr. Shum. I will take 
her without a penny, and can afibrd to 
keep her. If you don*t give her to me, 
she II come of her own will. Is that 
enough ? — may I have her ?" 

" We'll talk of this matter, sir," 
says Mr. Shum, looking as high and 
mighty as an alderman, "Gals, go up 
stairs with your dear mamma." — And 

they all trooped up again, and so tlie 
sk rim mage ended. 

You may be sure that old Shum was 
not very sorry to get a husband for his 
daughter Mary, for the old creatur loved 
her better than all tlie pack which had 
been brought him or bom to him by 
Mrs. Buckmaster. But, strange to say, 
when he came to talk of settlements 
and so forth, not a word would my 
master answer. He said he made four 
hundred a-year reglar — he wouldn't 
tell how — but Mary, if she married 
him, must share all that he had, and 
ask no questions ; only this he would 
say, as he'd said before, that be was a 
honest man. 

They were married in a few days, 
and took a very genteel house at Is- 
lington ; but still my master went away 
to business, and nobody knew where. 
Who could he be? 

Chapter IV. 

If ever a young kipple in the mid- 
dlin classes began life with a chance of 
happiness, it was Mr. and Mrs. Fre- 
derick Altamont. There house at 
Cannon Row, Islington, was as com- 
forable as house could be. Carpited 
from top to to ; pore's rates small ; 
furnitur elygant ; and three dromestix, 
of which I, in course, was one. My 
life wasn't so easy as in Mr. A.'s ba- 
chelor days ; but, what then ? The 
three W's is my maxum : plenty of 
work, plenty of wittles, and plenty of 
wages. Altamont kep his gig no 
longer, but went to the city in an omli- 

One would have thought, I say, that 
Mrs. A., with such an effeckshnut hus- 
band, might have been as happy as 
her blessid majisty. Nothink of the 
sort. For the fust six months it was 
all very well ; but then she grew 
gloomier and gloomier, though A. did 
every think in life to please her. 

Old Shum used to come reglariy 
four times a wick to Cannon llow, 
where he lunched, and dined, and teed, 
and supd. The poor little man was a 
thought too fond of wind and spirits ; 
and many and many's the night that 
I've had to support him home. And 
you may be sure that Miss Betsy did 
not now desert her sister ; she was at 
our place mornink, noon, and night, 
not much to my master's liking, though 
he was too good natured to wex his 
wife in trifles. 

But Betsy never bad foraotten the re- 
collection of old days, and hated Alta- 
mont like the foul friend. She put all 
kinds of bad things into the head of 
poor innocent missis ; who, from be- 
mg all gaiety and cheerfulness, grew to 
be quite melumcoUy and pale, and 
retchid, just as if she had been the 
most misrable woman in the world. 

In three months more, a baby comes, 
in course, and with it old Mrs. Shum, 
who stuck to Mrs. side as close as a 
wampire, and made her retchider and 
retchider. She used to bust into tears 
when Altamont came home ; she used 
to sigh and wheep over the pore child, 
and say, " My child, my child, your 
father is false to me ;" or," your father 
deceives me ;" or, " what will you do 
when your poor mother is no more ;" 
or such like sentimental stuff. 

It all came from Mother Shum, and 
her old trix, as I soon found out. The 
fact is, when there is a mistry of this 
kind in the house, its a servant's duty 
to listen; and listen I did, one day 
when Mrs. was cryin as usual, and fdX 
Mrs. Shum a sittin consolin her, as she 
called it, though. Heaven knows, sheonly 
grew wuss and wuss for the consolation. 

Well, I listened ; Mrs. Shum was a 
rockin the baby, and missis cryin as 

" Pore dear innocint," says Mrs. S., 
heavin a great sigh, " you're the child 
of a unknown father, and a misrabbie 
mother !" digitized by Vjuugic 


Miss Shum^s tiushand. 


" Don*l speak ill of Frederic, mam- 
ma," says missis ; ^* he is all kindness 
to me." 

'' All kindness, indeed ! yes, he 
gives you a fine house, and a fine 
gownd, and a ride in a flv whenever 
you please ; • but tohere does all hU 
money comtfrom 1 Who is he — what 
is he ? WIk) knows that he mayn't he 
a raurdrer, or a housebreaker, or a ut- 
terer of forged notes? How can he 
make his money honestly, when he 
won't say where he gels it? Why 
does he leave you eight hours every 
blessid day, and won^ say where he 
goes to ? Ob, Mary, Mary, you are 
the most injured of women ! 

And with this Mrs. Shum began 
sobbin; and Miss Betsy began yowling 
like a cat in a gitter ; and pore missis 
cried, too — tears is so remarkable in- 

<' Perhaps, mamma,'' wimpered out 
she, ^^ Fredric is a sliopboy, and don't 
like me to know that he is not a gentle- 

" A shopboy," says fietsy ; " he a 
sbopboy ! O no, no, no ! more likely a 
wretched willain of a murderer, stabbin 
and robin all day, and feed in you with 
the fruits of his ill-gotten games !" 

More ciyin and screechin here took 
place, in which the baby joined ; and 
made a very pretty consort, I can tell 

" He can't be a robber," cries miss- 
is; '< he's too good, too kind, for that; 
brides, murdering is done at night, 
and Frederic is always home at eight." 
" But he can be a forger," says 
Betsy, " a wicked, wicked fi^S^' 
Why does he go away every day? to 
forge notes, to be sore. Why does he 
go to the city ? to be near the banks 
and places, and so do it more at his 

*^ But he brings home a sum of 
money every day— about thirty shil- 
lings — sometimes fifly; and then he 
smiles, and says its a good day's work. 
This is not like a forger," said pore 
Mis. A. 

" I have it — I have it 1" screams out 
Mrs. S. ** The villain — the sneaking, 
double-fiiced Jonas 1 he's married to 
somebody else, he is, and that's why 
he leaves you, the base biggymist!" 

At this, Mrs. Altamont, struck all of 
a heap, feinted clean away. A dread- 
fill business it was — histarrix; then 
histarrix, in course, from Mrs. Shum ; 

bells ringin, child squalin, suvvants 
tearin up and down stairs wiili hot 
water I If ever there is a noosance in 
the world, it's a house where faintin is 
always goin on. I wouldn't li?e in 
one, — no, not to be groom of tlie 
chambers, and git two hundred a-year. 

It was eight o'clock in the evenin 
when this row took place ; and such a 
row it was, that nobody but me heard 
master's knock. He came in, and 
heard the hooping, and screeching, and 
roaring. He seemed very much fright- 
ened at first, and said, '< What is it?" 

" Mrs. Shum's here," says I, " and 
Mrs. in astarrix." 

Altamont looked as black as thun- 
der, and growled out a word which I 
don't like to name, — let it suffice that 
it begins with a d and ends with a wi^ 
tion; and he tore up stairs like mad. 

He bust open the bed-room door; 
missis lay quite pale and stony on the 
sofy; the babby was screechin fiom 
the craddle ; Miss Betsy was sprawlin 
over missis ; and Mrs. Shum naif on 
the bed and half on the ground ; all 
howlin and squeelin, like so many 
doffs at the moond. 

When A. came in, the mother and 
daughter stooped all of a sudding. 
There liad been one or two tiffs before 
between them, and they feared him as 
if he had been a hogre. 

'' What's this infernal screeching 
and crying about ?" says he. 

" Oh, Mr. Altamont," cries the old 
woman, '< you know too well ; it's about 
you that this darling child is mis- 
rabble 1" 

'' And why about me, pray, mad- 

** Why, sir, dare you ask why ? Be- 
cause you deceive her sir; because 
you are a false, cowardly traitor, sir ; 
because ^ott Ar/v6 a wife eUtwhere, sir/*' 
And the old lady and Miss Betsy be- 
gan to roar again as loud as ever. 

Altamont pawsed for a minnit, and 
then flung the door wide open ; nex be 
seized Miss Betsy as if his hand were a 
vice, and he world her out of the room ; 
then up he goes to Mrs. S. " Get 
up," says he, thundering loud, '* you 
lazy, troUopping, mischief>makiog, ly- 
ing old fool! Get up, and get out of 
this house. You have been the cuss 
and bain of my happyniss since you 
ensered it. With vour d— d lies, and 
novvle reading, and histerrix, you have 
perwerted Mary, and m«le ^^j{^. 


The Yeilowplusk Correspondence. 


as mad as youfself." " Mj child 1 
my child !'' sbriex out Mrs. Shum,and 
<difigs round missis. But AUamofiC 
ran between thera, and griping the old 
lady by her arm dragged her to the 
door. *' FoHow your daugliter, faa'am," 
sa>'s he, and down she went. **CfMwiSf 
tee those ladiet to the door" he hollows 
out, *^ and never lei them pass itagain." 
We walked down togetlier, and offthey 
went ; and master iocked and double- 
locked the bed -room door after him, 
imendin, of course, to have a taUn' 
tator (as they say) with his wife. Yoa 
may be sure that i followed np stairs 
again prettv quick, to hear the resuh of 
their confidence. 

As they say at Saint Stevenses, it 
was rayther a stormy debate. " Mary," 
says master, '^you're no longer the 
merry, gmteftil gal, I knew and loved 
at PentonwiU; tbere^s some secret a 
piessin on yoa — thene's no smilin 
welcom for me now, as tlteie used 
formly to 'bel Your mother and ststeN 
in-law have perwenedyou, Mary ; and 
that*B why I've drove them from this 
house, which they sh«U not le-enter in 
my life." 

^ O, Frederic ! it*s ^ou is the cause, 
and not I. Why do you liaive any 
roistry from me ? Where do you spmd 
your days ? Why did you leave me, 
«ven on the day of your marridge, for 
^igbt hours, and continue to do so 
every day ?" 

" Because,** says he, " 1 makes my 
livelihood by it. I leave you, and I 
don*t tell you how I make it: for it 
would make you none the happier to 

It was in this way the convysation 
ren on — more tears and questions on 
my missiseses part, nnire sturmness 
«nd silenpe on my master's : it ended, 
for the first tune since their marridge, 
in a reglar quarrel. Wery difrent, I 
can tell you, from all the haromerous 
billing and kewing which had pro- 
ceeded their nupshums. 

Master went out, slamming the door 
in a fury ; as well he might. Says he, 
*< If I can't have a coraforable life, I 
can have la jolly one ;" and so he went 
off to the hed tavern, and came home 
that evening beesly intawsicated . W hen 
high words begin in a faoily, drink 
gen rally follows on the genlman's side; 
and then, fearwell to all conjubial 
happyniss ! These two pipple, so fond 
and loving, were now sirly, silent, and 

ftill of il wil. Master vrent out earlier, 
and came Innne later; misses cried 
more, and looked even paler than 

Well, things went on in this un- 
comforable way, roaster still in the 
raopes, missis tempted by the deamons 
of jellosy and curosity ; until a singlar 
axident brought to light all the goings 
on of Mr. Altamont. 

It was the tenth of Jennuary; I 
recklect the day, for old Shum gev roe 
balf-a-crownd (the fust and last of his 
money 1 ever see, by the way) : he 
was dining along with master, and 
they were making merry together. 

Master said, as he was mixing bis 
fifth tumler of punch, and little Shum 
his twelfUif or so — master said, *^l 
see you twice in the City to-day, 
Mr. Shum." 

" Well, that's curous I" says Shum. 
•* I was in the City. To-day *s the day 
when the xlivvydins (God bless 'em 1) 
is paid ; and me and Mrs- S. went for 
our half-year's inkem. But we only 
got out of the coach, crossed the street 
to the fiank, took our money, and got 
in agen. liow could you see me 

Altamont stuttered, and stammered, 
and hemd, and hawd. '' O !" says he, 
**i was passing — passing as you went 
in and out." And he instantly turned 
the conversation, and began talking 
about poll} tix, or the weather, or some 
such stuf. 

" Yes, my dear," said my missis ; 
** but how could you see papa twice?'* 
Master didn't answer, but talked polly- 
tix more than ever. Still she would 
continy on. " Where was you, ray 
dear, when ^ou saw pa? What were 
you doing, my love, to sec pa twice V 
and so forth. Muster louked angner 
and angrier, and his wife only pressed 
him wuss and wuss. 

This was, as I said, little Siiums 
tweltb tumler ; and I knew pdtty well 
that he could git very little further: 
for, as reglar as the thirteenth came, 
Shum was drunk. The thirteenth did 
come, and its consquinzies. I whs 
obliged to leed him home to John 
Street, where I left him, in tlie^hangry 
arms of Mrs. Shum. 

" liow the d— ," sayd lie all the 
Mray, "how the ddd — the deddy — 
deddy — devil — could he have seen 
me twice? 

Digitized by VjOOQI 



Miss ShunCs Husband* 

Chapter V. 

It was a sad slip on AlUmont^s 
part, for no sooner did he go out the 
nex morning than missis went out too. 
She tor down the street, and never 
stopped till she came to her pa's house 
at Pentonwill. She was closited for 
an hour with her ma, and wlien she 
left her she drove straight to the City. 
She walked before the Bank, and be- 
hind the Bank, and round the Bank : 
she came liome disperryted, having 
learned notbink. 

And it was now an extromary thing, 
that from Shum's house, for the nex 
ten days, there was notbink but expy- 
ditions into the City. Mrs. S., tho 
her dropsiccle legs had never carred 
her half so fur before, vns eternally on 
the key vevcy as the French say. If 
she didn't go. Miss Betsy did, or missis 
did : they seerod to have an atrackshun 
to the Bank, and went tliere as nalral 
as im omlibus. 

At last, one day, old Mrs. Shum 
comes to our bouse — (she wasn't ad- 
mitted when master was there, but 
came still in his absints) — and she 
wore a hair of tryumf as she entered. 

" Mary," says she, " where is the 
money your husbind brought to you 
yesterday?'' M^ master used always 
to give it to missis when he returned. 

^' The money, ma !" says Mary. 
« Why, here !" And, pulling out her 
puss, she shewed a sovrin, a good heap 
of silver, and an odd-looking little 

** That's it! that's it!" cried Mrs. S. 
^ A Queen Anne's sixpence, isn't it, 
dear — dated seventeen honderd and 

It was so, sure enough: a Queen 
Ans sixpince of that very date. 

<' Now, my love," says she, ** I have 
found him ! Come with me to-morrow, 
and you shall know all!" 

And now comes the end of my story. 
« • • 

The ladies nex morning set out for 
tlie City, and I walked behind^ doing 

the genteel thing, with a nosegy and a 
goold stick. VVe walked down the 
New Road — we walked down the 
City lioad — we walked to the Bank. 
We were crossing from that heddyiiz 
to tlie other side of Cornhill, when, all 
of a sudden, missis shreeked, and 
fainted spontaceously away. 

I rushed forrard, and raised her to 
my arms ; spiling thereby a new wes- 
kit, and a pair of crimpson smalcloes. 
I rushed forrard, I say, wery nearly 
knocking down the old sweeper, who 
was hobling away as fast as possibil. 
We look her to Birch's ; we provided 
her with a hackney-coach and every 
lucksury, and carried her home to 

« « • 

That night master never came home. 
Nor the nex night, nor the nex. On 
the fourth day, an octioneer arrived ; 
he took an infantry of the furniiur, 
and placed a bill in the window. 

At the end of the wick, Altamont 
made his appearance. He was hag- 
gard, and pale ; not so haggard, how- 
ever, not so pale, as his misrable wife. 

He lookea at her very tendrilly. I 
may say, it's from him that I coppied 

Mif look to Miss . He looked at 

her very tendrilly, and held out his 
arms. She gev a suffycating shreek, 
and rusht into his umbraces. 

" Mary," says he, " you know all 
now. I have sold my place ; I have 
got three thousand pound for it, and 
saved two more. I've sold my house 
and fumitur, and that brings me an- 
other. We'll go abroad^ and love each 

other, has formly." 

« • • 

And now you ask me. Who he was? 
I shudder to relate. — Mr. Haltamont 


TO Cornhill!! 

Of cors, 1 left his servis. I met 
him, few years after, at Badden-Badden, 
where he and Mrs. A. were much re- 
spectid,and pass for pipple of propaty. 


Digitized by 



The Newspaper Press of Paris, 


No. I. 


" Whate'er the busy, bustling world, employs. 
Our wauts and wishes, pleasures, cares, and joys, 
These the historians of our times displav, 
And call it News — the hodge-podge of a day."— JrvBKAL. 

" While Mist and Wilkint rise in weekly might, 
Make puesses groan, lead senators to fight * — Youxo, 

" Their papers, filled with a different party-spirit, divide the people into different 
lentiments, who generally consider rather the principles than the truth of the news 
writer." — Adduon. 

Monsieur Jacques Coste, the re- 
doubtable founder, director, and every 
thing else, of Le Temps^ once said a 
good thing, which has been so often 
repeated that at last every one claims 
to be its father. He said, that ''M« 
press was the/ourth power in the stated* 
Of course, the first being Louis Phi- 
lippe; the second, t!ie Chamber of 
Life- Peers; the third, the Chamber of 
Deputies; and the fourth — Monsieur 
Jacques Coste himsellf/ And why not ? 
He resides in the very house in which 
Napoleon oiiganised the 16th Bnimaire 

— sleeps in the same room as that in 
which Napoleon slept — is a little man 
with a keen eye, as was his predecessor 

— and addresses himself by turos, as 
did the Buonaparte of that epoch, to 
all parties and to all opinions, in the 
hope of thus securing to himself the 
continuance of his empire over others. 

But when Monsieur Jacques Coste 
declared that *'the press was the fourth 
power in the state, ' he had no inten- 
tion to include all the press. He did 
not speak of the presses of Firmin 
Didot — or of the magazine and review 
press — of tlie religious press — or the 
Catholic press— or the Protestant press 

— of Victor Hugo's press — or Paul 
de Kock's press — or De Lamartine's, 
or Chateaubriand's press — or, in fine, 
of any press but the newspaper press ; 
and, above all, of the newspaper press 
of Paris. 

This " apophthegm " of Jacques 
Coste has, at length, found its way 
into every corner of the world, and has 
been repeated in almost every language 
under heaven. Each country has its 
Jacques Coste — its bellows-blower — 
its " fourth power in the stale ;" and 
the veriest errand-boy who fetches copy 
from the editor, and runs back with 

proofs and revises, feeb the dignity of 
his mission and the importance of his 
office. If the errand-boy should be 
unfaithful, tlie paper could not appear ; 
and if the paper did not appear,, all 
Paris would be in agitation ; and if all 
Paris were in agitation at the non- 
appearance of the paper, there would 
be a confusion in the four powers of 
the state; and hneutes, sommations^ 
municipal guards, drawn swords, pav- 
ing-stooes, genteelly flung at soldiers 
shakos, would be the consequence: 
whilst the little errand-boy who failed 
in his duty, and lost the editor's copy, 
would be able to stand on the Pont 
lioyal and exclaim, '< I am the fourth 
power of the stale V* 

It may not, then, be either uniDte* 
resting or uninstructive to examine the 
organisation, character, conduct, and 
results of this ^* fourth power *^ io 
Paris ; and to see T^hether, when 
Jacoues Coste, Armand Carrel, and 
M. Thiers, made the revolution of July 
1830, as editors or conductors of this 
fourth power, they acted from the purest 
and wisest motives ; and whether they 
have essentially promoted the ** progress 
of cioUisation'* and tlie " happiness 
and honour of tlieir country." Nor 
will it be wholly unprofitable thus to 
supply the materials for a future com- 
parison of the English and French 
newspaper press, their conduct, cha- 
racter, influence, and management. If 
we are not much mistaken, the former 
will greatly gain by that comparison ; 
and the eulogists of the French press 
will learn, that they have no real 
foundation for their preference of the 
Paris over the London newspapers. 

The " Paris newspaper press " must 
be divided into two great categories: 
first, the daily press ; and^ second^ the 




weekly press. And these again must 
be subdivided into, first, the political 
press; second, the half-political and 
half- theatrical, and amusing and lite- 
rary press; third, the literary, thea- 
trical, and miscellaneous press, from 
which politics are wholly excluded; 
and fourth, the legal, or courts of law 

Beibre we commence our analysis 
of those journals which M. Coste de- 
scribes as the "fourth power in the 
state," we shall proceed to the classi- 
fication of all the newspaper press of 
Pmty up to the middle of October 

I. The Daily Political Press. 

1. The Moktteur, the official jour- 
nal of all French governments. 

2. The Journal des Dbbats, the 
organ of the Doctrinaires and VVhig 

3. The Paix, the organ of M. Guizot 
and of the party of resistance. 

4. The Jovrkal de Paris, the 
organ of M. Fonfi-ede and of French 
liberal Tories. 

5. The Constitutionnel, the or- 
gan of M. Thiers and M. Dupin. 

6. The Courier Francais, the 
organ of M. Bignon, M. Odillon Bar- 
rot, and the opposition of the moderate 
school — the Globe of France ; t. e. 
what the Globe was in London when 
the ConserratiTes were in office. 

7. The Journal du Commerce, 
the organ of M. Maugiiin, the colonial 
deputy ; who, having a good appoint- 
ment, and a large salary from the colo- 
nies, pleads for colonial slavery as he 
used, before his " brevet " arrived, to 
plead for the barricades and propa- 

8. The Temps, the organ of M. 
Coste and his shareholders. All things 
to all men. Most happy just now, 
because paid and supported by Count 
Mol^ and Count Montalivet. 

9. The National, the organ of the 
Republican party of the higher order. 

10. The Box Sens, the organ of the 
Republican party of* the lower order. 

11. The Monde, the organ of the 
Republican party of the propagandist 
order; lately conductcMl oy the Re- 
publican, Abb^ de la Mennais. 

12. The Messager, the evening 
opposition paper; a combination of 
the Sun and True Sun: not exactly 
either, but something like both. 

13. Tif E Pre^se, the orffua of EmiJe 

de Girardin, deputy, who married 
Delphi ne Gay, and who together have 
combined, by means of first establish- 
ing a journal at 40 francs per annum, 
to make a bond fide revolution in the 
Parisian press, as we shall see here- 

14. The Single, the cheap organ of 
the opposition ; conducted by men who 
hold the same principles as those of 
the Courier Francais, out publishing a 
journal at 40, instead of at 80 fVancs, 
per annum. 

15. Thb Journal GAneral de 
France, the organ of nobody, but a 
cheap paper, selling well in the coun- 
try, but not at all in the metropolis. 
Moderate, flat, and stupid. 

16. L*EuROPE,a cheap organ of the 
Legitimist party. 

17. The Quotidienne, the organ 
of the Berryer portion of the Legiti- 

18. The Gazette de France, the 
organ of M. TAbb^ de Genoude, who 
has got a system of his own for being a 
Radical and a Tory at one and the 
same moment. 

19. The France, the organ of the 
Duke and Duchess d'Angoul^me, of 
M. de Blacas, and of the Jesuits at 

20. The Charts de 1830, the 
evening official organ of the govern- 

21. The Echo Franjais, a paper 
published at noon, made with scissors 
and paste, containing extracts fix>m all 
the morning papers and the news of 
the morning. Its colour is Legitimist. 

22. L'EsTAFETTE, 3 paper of pre- 
cisely the same character as VEcho 
Pranfais ; with this exception, that its 
colour is ^* Juste- milieu.** 

23. The Journal des Villes et 
Camp ACNES, a scissor-and-paste paper, 
badly got up for the provinces, without 
fifty subscribers at Paris. 

24. The Feuille Franjjaise ; of 
the same character — political news, 
not political discussions. 

IL The Weekly Political Press. 

1. France DApartmentale, which 
is specially devoted to the interests 
and complaints of the departments, to 
the exclusion of Paris. 

2. L*Outremer, which is specially 
devoted to the interests and complaints 
of tlie French colonies. , ^^UU^lt: 

3. The Journal du Peufle, a 


The Newspaper Press of Paris. 


Jack Cade and Wat Tyler publication, 
distributed among the lower orders. 

4. L'Intelligekce, the organ of 
M. Laponneraye and tlie philosophical 
portion of the Ilepublicaus. 

5. La Nouvelle Minerve, a gos- 
siping journal of the opoosition, di- 
rected by M. Sarransy half, or three- 
parts, a Republican ; who has a very 
pretty wife, and who himself goes by 
a nickname which in English would 
mean ** Fudge*' No one in his senses 
will ever believe a line in La Nouvelle 

6. The Curonique de Paris ; 
lialf-legitimist, half-devoted to M. de 
Balzac — a little for the court; and has 
so often changed hands, that no one 
knows what it will be next week, even 

III. The half-Political, halfAmuting, 
and Theatrical Press, 

This is a genre of newspapers not 
known in England. 

1. Le Charivari, which means, 
'' Marrowbones and Cleavers^** or the 
hubbub at a dustman's wedding or an 
Irish wake. Violent opposition. To 
avoid the caution-money necessary to 
be deposited for political journals, it 
professes only to be theatrical and mis- 
cellaneous ; but the object of the paper 
is daily to attack tlie government by 
ouolibets, enigmas, and diatribes. — 
Though you could read it through ea- 
sily in twenty minutes, yet its sub- 
scription is greater in amount tlian 
many large political journals. 

2. Le Figaro; anti-republican. The 
antipodes of the Charivari as to object, 
but quite as much a permanent viola- 
tion of tlie law. 

3. Le Corsair; the same class, 
but opposition. 

4. Le Moniteur Parisien ; fa- 
voured by the government, and sup- 
plied, gratuitously, with all telegraphic 
despatches from Spain which arrive in 
the course of the day. But for these 
despatches, it must have long since 

5. La Mode, a Legitimist journal, 
of vast talent and influence. An at- 
tempt was lately made to render it daily 
(it IS only weekly), but the subscrip- 
tion was not filled, though the Duchess 
de Berri was at the head of the list. 
La Mode has o(\en been persecuted. 
It has a large sal?,, and is witty apd 

IV, The Daily and Weekly LUetary, 
Theatrical^ and Miscellaneous Press, 
from which Politics are excluded, 

1. Tam-tam. Very amusing. 

2. The Courier DES Modes. Stupid. 

3. The Petites Affiches, devoted 
' to advertisements. 

4. The Voleur, a literary paper, 
made up of robbing tlie best articles 
from all literary papers and reviews in 
all countries, but all ground down to 
French, and to please the French 

5. The Courier des Thb.Itris. 

6. The Mknbstrel, purely musical. 

7. Vert-vert, only theatrical, or 

8. The Cabinet de Lecture, every 
five days. A selection, not badly 
made, of interesting literary articles. 

9. The Revue des Tni.tTREs. 

10. L'Aspic. Nothing at all. 

11. The Gazette des TnilTRES. 

12. Entre Acte; which means, 
that between the difierent acts ut the 
theatres you may amuse yourself by 
reading it. And, 

13. The Revue de Paris, which 
is published every Sunday, in tlie form 
of a book, and is really the best written 
and best conducted of all the weekly 
or daily literary publications in thie 

Besides these, there are the Avant 
Scene and the Moniteur des The6tres, 
both penny tlieatrical papers ; the 
Gratis, an Omnibus paper, which lives 
by its advertisements, for it has no- 
thing else ; and persons advertise in it 
in consequence of its large gratuitous 
circulation; and the Affiches Pari- 
siennes and Annonciateur, which are 
** wall Journals,*' stuck up all over 
Paris, aud containing nothing but ad- 
vertisements. And then there are 
Family Weekly Journals : such as the 
Magasin Pittoresque, and the Musit 
des Families, and the Mosa'ique, and 
the Magasin Universel, And then 
there are *' Tailoring atul Dress-making 
Journals:** such as the Revue des 
Modes de Paris, Follet, Psvche, Bon 
Ton, Art du Tailleur, and Journal des 
Tailleurs, And then there are the 
Journals of the Ladies without heads, 
as without hearts : such as the Journal 
des Dames et des Modes, the Petit 
Courier des Dames, the Journal da 
Femmes, the Bazar, la Brodeuse, and 
I'Equipage* But all of these, tliough 
belonging, to the daily or weekly presi 




of Paris, do nol strictly come within 
the limits of this article. 

V, The Legale or Courts of Law 

There was a lime when the courts of 
hw had but one journal; they have 
now four. In those happy days for 
the first inventor of this sort of pa- 
pers, the receipts of Tue Gazeitp. 
DES Tribunavx were enormous. 
Scarcely a family existed in Paris, 
among the middling or higher classes 
of society, which could be found with- 
out it, either as direct subscribers to 
the journal, or as paying so much per 
hour for its perusal to the keeper of 
the next ^* cabinet de lecture'* No 
journal was read so conscientiously, 
from beginning to end, as the Gazette 
des Tribunaux. When first the idea 
was started, no one approved of it. 
The founder had the greatest difficulty 
in finding money to begin it ; but he 
lived to see the paper paying 500 per 
cent intere$e to the original share- 
holders! During the last four years, 
others liave entered the list ; and there 
are now the Droit, the Loi, and the 


This division of labour has not, how- 
ever, been profitable. The subscribers 
are divided, not increased ; and all, 
except the original Gazette des Tri- 
hunauiy are losing concerns. After all, 
however, no papers are liked so much 
by Frenchwomen as those which con- 
tain the offences and crimes of their 
countrymen; and the more atrocious 
the murder or the , the more rea- 
dily is it devoured. Grandmotliers 
and mothers, daughters and gran- 
daugliters, all sit down together; the 
best and most forcible reader is se- 
lected to mouth it out to the listening 
congregation ; and wo to the husband, 
father, or brother, who shall dare to 
disturb this conclave, when, after break- 
fast, or after dinner, they draw round 
to feast on the crimes and atrocities of 
ibeir fellow-beings. Sometimes, in- 
deed, these journals, to gratify their 
female readers, will invent Russian 
trials, and Russian military executions, 
at the risk of having them contradicted 
aflerwards. Long before the lie can 
be given to these recitals, their fair 
readers have forgotten the story; and 
the reputation of the paper is increased 
for supplying to its readers the most 
piquant articles. Lately, one of these 
niventors got up a story about " six 

hundred Polish girls '* (of course, from 
fifteen to twenty years of age) being 
compelled, by the Emperor of Russia, 
to leave their homes, in order to shew 
the princes who visited the camp of 
Wonesensk that he, the emperor, had 
pretty giris in his dominions. The 
Gazette worked it up, as a sort of 
second edition of the Sabine story, 
and all the French women were in an 
ecstasy of fury. Unfortunately, the 
contradiction came too quickly after 
the impression to do the journal much 
good ; and two or three of those con- 
tradictions during the last few months 
have done a great deal to injure the 
character of that paper. Still it is far 
above the rest, in point of sale, and is 
to this day a very profitable under- 

The monthltf press of France, which 
is almost exclusively literary, artial, 
scientific, or religious, cannot, of course, 
be more than noticed in this article. 
The painter has the Artiste^ and the 
Journal des Artistes, The agriculturist 
has the Agronomey CultivateuTf and 
Journal and Annals of Agriculture. 
The horticulturist has the Revue Hor- 
ticale, and the Annals of \N heat and 
the Annals of Horticulture. The bo« 
tanist has the Archives of Botany, and 
the Annab of Flora and Pomona. The 
, manufacturer or the merchant has his 
Jounutl des Tisstis, his Portfeuille In- 
dustriely his Recueil Industriely his 
Prix Couranty and his Archives du 
Commerce. The political economist 
has his Revue Mensuelle d* Economic 
Politique, and his Revue Etrangere 
d^ Economic Politique. The musician 
has his Revue Musicale, his Gazette 
Mmicalc de Paris, his RomancCy Pia- 
nistCy and Journal de Piano. The 
sportsman has his Journal des ChasseSy 
and his Journal des HaraSy as well as 
the Eleveur. Chemists, entomologists, 
naturalists, geologists, zoologists, and 
civil engineers, have all their journals. 
As to doctors and surgeons, they have 
twenty-two, from the Journal de Mi- 
decin Pratique to the Journal de Santiy 
and the Bulletin Tfiirapeutique. Tlic 
navy has its four journals, neariy all 
badly got up; and the army ten, much 
better edited, and more worthy of at- 
tention. Then come the more legal, 
and not amusing, records of the courts 
of law, not made for the general reader, 
but for the lawyers themselves; and 
they are twenty -three in number,-^ 
including the Court of Assize?, the 


The Newspaper Press of Paris. 


Journal of the Courts of Law, the 
Journal of the Magistrates and Uic Bar, 
the Journals of the Notaries, the Soli- 
citors, Justices of the Peace, Sheriffs' 
Officers (huis8iers\ and even the Jour- 
nal of the Auctioneers. Then come 
the Journals of the Taxes, of Bridges 
and Roads, of Custom Duties and 
Custom-house Officers, of Municipal 
Councillors, of Manufactories, of Fairs, 
of Health, of the Villages, and of the 
Communal Schools. Then come tlie 
educational journals, beginning with 
the Journal de r Instruction FubUguCy 
and ending with the Lantcrne Magique, 
The little boys have their journal ; the 
demoiselles, theirs ; the teachers, three 
or four ; the sciioolmasters and school- 
mistresses, two or three ; and tlie in- 
fant schools, their Manuel Gcrtcral de 
r Instruction Primaire, Finally come 
the religious journals : first, lloman 
Catholic; the France CaiholiquCf the 
Legit imistef the Journal Catholique^ 
the Dominicalc, the Echo de la Jeune 
IVancc, the Music lUHgieujCyihe Gloire 
du ClergCf tlie SpectatcuTy and the 
Etudes lieligieuses. And then the 
Protestant papers and magazines — too 
few, and but badly got up and sup- 
ported — the Setnewy the Archives du 
Christianismcy and the Journal de la 
Societe Biblique Protestantc. Besides 
which, tliere are Journals of Prisons 
and Hospitals, of Christian Morals, 
and of Charitable Institutions. 

These, then, are the dfiUi/y weekl^y 
monthly y and quarterly publications of 
the periodical press in Paris; and, on 
the perusal of the list, one will doubt- 
less he tempted to exclaim, ** 'Pon 
honour, Jacques Coste is right — the 
press must be the fourth power in the 
state P' If from Paris we should ex- 
tend our view to the departments of 
France, we should find that, except in 
twelve departments, there are only one 
or two political journals published in 
any one department ; that in some de- 
partments no journals are published at 
all, as in the Upper and Lower Alps, 
Lower and Upper Pyrenees ; that in 
other departments only an advertising 
paper is published, as in the Cotes du 
Nord, Morbihan,and Yonne; and that 
in other departments only o/ie journal, 
besides an advertising journal, is pub- 
lished, as in Ardeche, Ardennes, Aude, 
Avignon, Cantal, Charente, Doubs, 
Eure, Herault, He et Vilaine, Indre et 
Loire, Isere, Jura, Landes, Lozere, 
Mayenne, Meurthe, Nievre, Oise, 

Ome, Eastern Pyrenees, Saone, Seine 
et Marne, Seine et Oise, Deux Sevres, 
Tarn, Tarn et Garonne, V'endde, V' ienne 
et Vosges. It would also be seen that 
in the Bouches de lUione, Calvados, 
Dordogne, Gard, Upi^r Garonne, Gi- 
ronde, Loire Inferieure, Manche, Nord, 
Pas de Calais, Rhone et Seine Infe- 
rieure, there alone exists any thing like 
the semblance of an active or ener- 
getic defence of certain fixed, though 
opposing political opinions; and that in 
all the other departments, the political 
sentiments of the inhabitants are either 
without any colour, or else are taken 
from or encouraged by the press of 
Paris. And, finally, it would be seen, 
that of the journals published in the 
departments, fifty-two are without any 
political opinion at all (a tlung un- 
known in Great Britain), forty-seven 
opposition, forty for the government, 
twenty-five legitimists, and four or five 
doctrinaire. It would be easy to sltew, 
from an examination of these facts, and 
of the journals in question, the state 
of opinions in tlie departments, and 
to demonstrate the great truth, that 
" France is Paris," and tlmt " Paris is 
France ;" and that M. Jacques Coste 
would have been even more right if, 
instead of calling the " press,*' he had 
designated " Paris" as the fourth power 
of the state in France. 

It is now time, however, to return 
to the newspaper press of Paris ; first, 
to the daily and weekly political press ; 
second, to the half political, half amus- 
ing, and theatrical press, both daily and 
weekly, and which exercises so great 
an influence over the excitable and un- 
thinking portion of the French people. 

The Moniteur is at once the most 
and least harmless of journals. It is 
the London Gazette of France ; but 
more amplified, and more political. 
The London Gazette resembles the 
Moniteur and the petites afficlies com- 
bined. The Moniteur is always pub- 
lished by the same everlasting old lady, 
in a quarter of Paris quite unknown to 
song; and is edited, if editing it may 
be called, by M. Sauvo. The subscrip- 
tion to this paper is 120 francs, or about 
4/. 15s. English money, per annum. 
Its form is long folio ; the paper and 
type have been the same from time 
immemorial : it is made up, during 
the session of pariiaraent, of a series of 
supplements, containing at full length 
the speeches of all the speakers, whe- 
Uier writtei^p^j^t^sp^lHB^^or written 


The Moniteur. 


and read, or spoken and not written. 
Tlie members of both liouses attach 
great importance to their speeches be- 
ing correctly reported in the Moniteur, 
As soon as a member of any division of 
the hoases descends from the tribune, 
after having read, or spoken, or at- 
tempted to read and speak, his speech, 
you will see him " sidle up" to. the 
short-hand writers for the Moniteur f 
who are delighted vrhen the speech is 
ivritten and thus handed to them by 
the auUior, since, in that case, they are 
saved the trouble of deciphering their 
hieroglyphics. How enchanted would 
be the reporters of llie daily press iu 
Loudon it Joseph Hume, and some 
others of tlie prosy tribe, would thus 
save them the necessity of listening to 
their monotonous and eternal talk, by 
lianding them, all '* cut and dried," their 
written discourses! Even iu France, 
when such men as Thiers, Guizot, Ber- 

^er, Barrot, and Arago, speak in the 
hamber of Deputies, not from notes, 
or from a written folio, but from tlie 
inspiration of the moment, they will 
wend their way, in the course of the 
evening, to the Rue LepoUevin, No, 6, 
where tlie Moniteur is printed, there 
to examine the proof sheets of their 
lucubrations. A few months since, 
a friend met the astronomer and phi- 
losopher, Arago, at a dinnerparty ; and 
though the wine and conversation were 
both sparkling, and the viands most 
sumptuous, he observed that the astro- 
nomer kept looking at his watch. lie 
at last ventured to ask if he were soon 
to lose the pleasure of his society? 
" No," he replied, " but soon must be 
deprived of yours ; for I must go to 
the Moniteur^ to correct the proofs of a 
speech I delivered this afternoon in the 
Chamber of Deputies." This is a hint 
for the Times, the Chronicle, the Post, 
and the Herald. They would some- 
times do well to send proof sheets of 
the speeches to the members who pro- 
nounced tliem before they were pub- 
lished, especially when so pronounced 
in the early part of the evening. The 
Moniteur is divided into two portions, 
the ofBcial and the non-official parts. 
The official contains all the ordon- 
nances of the king, all government ap- 
pointments, all decrees in council, all 
telegraphic despatches, and ail court 
receptions of importance. No new rai- 
iiistiy can be fairly said to be appointed 
until it is first ** moniteured,' or, as it 
is said in England, ^^ gazetted.** When 
Prince Talleyrand retired from public 

life, and sent in his letter of resignation 
to Louis Philippe, he made a great 
point in his negotiation with the court, 
that this letter should appear in the 
" official " portion of the Moniteur, 
Of course, he was gratified. When 
M. Jacques Coste had the cross of the 
Legion of Honour presented to him by 
tlie King of the French, a few weeks 
since, he made a great point of it, that 
tlie motives which induced the king so 
to honour him with this mark of favour 
should be inserted in the Moniteur, 
He refused to wear it until that should 
be done ; and inserted in his own 
journal, Le Temps, the reasons for his" 
conduct. But still tlie Moniteur re- 
mained silent ; and Jacques Coste's 
button-hole was witltout the red riband ! 
What was to be done ? Why, he drew 
up an article, short and pithy like him- 
self, stating that he had been so distin- 
guished on account of tlie services he 
had rendered to the cause of the revo- 
lution in 1830! This article must ap- 
pear somewhere. But where ? In the 
Journal des Debuts, to be sure. So off 
he posted in his cabriolet (for M. Coste 
has a cabriolet, and a tiger too) to the 
Rue des Pritres St. Germain UAuxer- 
rois, No, 17} and then and there re* 
quested the editors of that journal to 
insert his little article the next day. 
Of course, they complied. As soon as 
it appearel in the Debuts, it was co- 
pied into the Moniteur ; and from tliat 
moment Jacques Coste and his button- 
hole were rendered happy. When the 
ex-royal family of France proceeded to % 
Gand in 1815, on the return of the 
usurper from Elba, they continued tlie 
publication ofxho Moniteur in Belgium, 
until their re-restoration after the battle 
of Waterloo. M. Guizot is reported to 
have edited that journal durin^r the one 
hundred days. This he denies ; and 
his word may be relied on. The non- 
official part of the Moniteur is com- 
posed of reports made to and by the 
government ; of extracts from foreign 
journals of all opinions, but not of po- 
litical discussions, of news only ; and 
of proceedings of scientific and literary 
boaies. The deputies and peers receive 
it gratuitously ; so do the high public 
functionaries. It has, necessanly, a 
large sale besides; though vei-y few 
indeed peruse its non-official, every 
one is anxious to read its official part. 
It is therefore taken in at all public 
libraries, reading-rooms, large cafes, 
restaurants, public institutions, and' by 
literary circles, as an indispensable do* 


The NeWijMper Press of Paris. 


cument, to he occasionally consulted. 
Tl»e Monitcur is of all French journals 
the most curious in the eye of the 
statesman, politician, and philosopher. 
All dynasties, all governments, all 
kings, all ministries, all measures, are 
all in their turn equally praised by it. 
In ifs pages you learn that Louis XVf. 
was the " most adored of monarchs," 
and then, a little while aAenvards, a 
** tyrant worthy of death ;" that Marie 
Antoinette was " the soul of beauty, 
virtue, patriotism, and of love,'' and 
then that *< she had conspired ai^ainst 
France, who required her blood." In 
its pages you read eulogiums on Buona- 
parte, the general, the consul, and the 
emperor, which would themselves fill 
some folio volumes ; and then you read 
that he was a " tyrant and the usurper." 
In its pages you read that the Duke 
d*£nghien was '< justly slu>t,as a reward 
for his crimes, in the ditch of Vin- 
cennes;" and then you read that the 
'< nation required satisfaction for the 
enormous offence, and erected a monu- 
ment to his virtues and his name." 

In its faithful columns you read 
** tliat Louis XVIII. came to restore 
peace and happiness to France ; and 
that the country had only groaned and 
sighed, wept and mourned, during his 
absence;" and a few short months 
afterwards you read that the French 
people once more were in ecstasies 
with their " adored Napoleon," and 
that the imperial eagle new from the 
Mediterranean to the towers of N6tre 
Dame. In the pages of the MonUeur^ 
you read that *< the Duke de Berri, the 
best of men and most virtuous of 
princes, the pride and hope of France, 
was massacred by Louvel in the streets 
of Paris, and that the country desired 
an expiatory chapel to be erected to 
his memory ;" and then, a few years 
afterwards, ** that the government or- 
dered it to be taken down, as insulting 
to France, and as calculated to disturb 
the public tranquillity and peace." 

In the columns of this official journal, 
you read that France wept from the 
" Pas de Calais " to the «* Gulf of Gas- 
cony," on the death of Louis XVIII., 
the father of his people ; and then you 
read the official intelligence, that, a few 
years aderwards, '* the people " pro- 
ceeded to the Palais de Justice, and 
taking down the marble statue of that 
selfsame monarch, dashed it to pieces, 
and trampled it under their omnipotent 
feet. In the pages of that journal, you 
read that all 1 ranee hailed the accession 

of Charles X. •* with rapture and grati- 
tude ;" and many hundreds of columns 
are filled with annual declarations of 
unbounded attachment and never-dying 
love, from the very deputies and the 
very peers who afterwards voted hU 
abdication, and banished him and his 
family from France I 

In the columns of the MoniteWf 
when the Duke of Bordeaux was bom, 
you read that the public joy teas so 
great, that, to express itself in perma- 
nent and enduring terms, it purchased 
the castle and domain of Chambord, 
and presented it to the in&nt prince ; 
and, in that very same Monitatr, it is 
recorded '* that the minister of justice 
of Louis Philippe had set up a claim 
to that chateau of Chambord, as be- 
longing to the new civil list; though 
we are happy to add that the council 
of state has rejected the demand.'* 

In fine, in the Moniteurf white is 
white in 1814, and white is black in 
1815. Robespierre i^ an ansel io the 
first part of one volume, and has died 
for his crimes in the latter end of the 
same book. Yet all is ** official " — all 
is true — all is to be believed implicitly 
at the moment; and whoever at tKe 
moment shall venture to declare that it 
is fiailse, is sure, and always has been, 
to be quietly conducted to some agree- 
able jail, either yclept the ** Concier- 
gerie," the "Force," or "Ste. Pelagic." 
He who wishes to study the history of 
France, during the last fifty years, 
should neither purchase Thiers*s his- 
tory, nor any other extant ; but he 
should provide himself with a copy 
of the MoniteitTy and read the official 
portions of this most dry and dull, but 
yet most instructive and valuable re- 
cord. Thus much for tlie Monitcur, 
We will now turn to 

The Journal da Debats, — ^This paper 
is the properly of M. Bertin Devaux, 
and its director is M. L.F. Bertin, sen. 
Its bureaux are situate in the Rue des 
Prc'tres St. Germain TAuxerrois. The 
price of subscription is 80 francs, or 
3/. 4s. per annum ; and the terms of 
advertisement are 80 centimes, or Bd., 
per line, for ordinary advertisements in 
the advertising columns, and 190 cent- 
imes, or Is. 7d.f per line, for puffing 
advertisements inserted in the body of 
the paper. Tlie Joitmal da Debats, in 
spite of itself, has been compelled, 
within the last few months, in conse- 
quence of the establishment of dieap 
journals at 1/. 12s., instead of 3/. 4s. 
per annum, to increase its siie, because 


The Journal det Dibait. 


n will not diminish its subscription. 
The reason it gate for this increase of 
size was absurd. It was the length of 
the debates in the reformed parliament 
of England ! The true reason was, that 
the Preste on one hand, and V Europe 
on the other, the one a juste milieitf 
and the other a legitimist journal, 
published at 40 francs per annum, 
nad run away with so many of its 
subscribers, that it hoped to retain 
the remainder by increasing its square 
inches, and filling up its columns with 
articles written by the former St. Si- 
inonian chief, Michel Cheralier ! 

Of this arrangement, the quarrels 
now raging amongst the conductors of 
the public Parisian press, and the con- 
sequences to which they may lead, we 
will speak hereafter, when we come to 
the journal called La Presse. The cir- 
culation of the Dcbats has much fallen 
off since tlie establishment of 40 francs 
newspapers. Before then it had the 
largest circulation of any political jour- 
nal ID France. This is not the case 
now. We are assured that it has de- 
scended to six or seven thousand. The 
DcbatM, like all other daily journals in 
France, is published every day, Sunday 
included. The only holidays its editors 
hare in the course of the year are 
Christmas day. Good Friday, the Pen- 
tecost, the Annunciation of the Viivm 
Maiy, and one of the " three days' of 
July. This is the work of a gallev- 
slave, and rather worse. It partially 
accounts for the fact, that there is less 
talent in the Pans than in the London 
press. Man is made to work, but not 
to groan. lie earns his bread by the 
sweat of his brow ; but one-seventh 
portion of his time is granted him to 
wipe that sweat away. In France it is 
not so, and the consequence is natural, 
— the editors are soon jaded to death ; 
and there is little vigour, little soul, in 
Uieir compositions. Nature will not be 
cheated, though God may be disho- 
noured. If a man will not take enough 
sleep for his body, his mind will hW 
him. Nature will have her way ; and 
as the proprietors of the Paris daily 
press will ** make haste to get rich,*** 
It very of^en happens that poverty over- 
takes them. Or all the practical reforms 
to be made in the French daily press, 
this would be the first and the greatest ; 
and the editors would certainly erect 
pillars of marble and of brass to the 
daring man, who should venture to 
proclaim that in future, on Sundays, 
nis paper would not appear. For a 

lew days it would make a vast com- 
motion ; but the French may be ha- 
bituated to any thing by firmness and 
decision— as Napoleon taught them to 
become habituated to the conscription, 
the censorship, absolute government, 
and military despotism. 

The Journal des Dcbats has done 
more injury to the cause of monarchical 
instittitions, and to peace and order in 
France, than any other journal in the 
world. It flattered the emperor — 
lauded to the skies the restoration — 
followed in the train of the usurper dur- 
ing the one hundred days— and shouted 
" Victory, victory ! France is saved l" 
when the white flag of the Bourbons 
once more floated in the breeze on the 
chAteau of the Tuileries. It defended 
Louis XVIII., then atUcked him— 
defended M.Villele, attacked him — 
defended the Duke de Berri, attacked 
him ; and, in fine, has defended and 
attacked every cause in its turn — 
never leading, but alwajrs following, 
public opinion — and, with an air of 
independence and honesty, has affected 
great firmness, great love of France, 
great attachment to the Bourbons, 
great regard for liberty, great friend- 
ship for the charter — and has contrived 
to exercise a great, but most injurious 
influence over public opinion. The ex- 
royal family read it — so much the 
worse; sometimes it listened to it — so 
much the worse : it would have done 
better even to have listened to the 
Courier Fran^ais^ or the Natiomtl of 
1830, than to the Debats. 

But its influence is diminishing. Its 
conductor and proprietor, indeed, has 
been made a " peer of France ** I for in 
France the true way to reach the highest 
offices in the state is to be an editor or 
proprietor of a paper. No example 
can be more staking of the trutli of 
this remark than that of little lliiers ; 
who, though in 1829 he had not a 51. 
note in the universe, either in possession 
or reversion, was in 1836 a millionaire. 
minister of foreign affairs, deputy, and 
prime minister of France. 

Tlie literary portion of the Journal 
des Dcbats is not badly done. One 
of the pleasantest and least profound 
writers in France is certainty Jules 
Janin, or J. J. lie is always known 
by his J. J. This does not mean 
double jabber, though he jabbers 
sometimes in the salon of the French 
opera to your hearths content; but it 
does mean that he is a jay of the first 
magnitude. Jules Janin writes the 


The Newspaper Press of Paris, 


best *\feuUlelons'' of the Dcbati. A 
JeuUkioti means one-iliird of the paper 
' — the lowest third — cut off by a line 
across the paper; Mrhereas the upper 
two-thirds of the paper are devoted to 
politics, news, police, trials, and the 
miscellaneous matter of a daily journal : 
this lower one-third is given up to 
literature, the drama, the sciences, and 
the arts. Jules Janin has saved the 
Dcbals from falling. As Nettement, 
tlie royalist writer, " N." has always 
nearly doubled the circulation of the 
paper to which he lias been attached. 

But we must now introduce our 
readers to M. Michel Chevalier, 
one oftlte new and potent editors of the 
Dcbats. Have you ever seen Michel 
Chevalier? He once boasted that he 
was tlie best dressed man in Europe. 
Come, this is something for an editor 
and author ! White kid gloves, clean 
every day ; a black satin cravat — not a 
brown black, nor a blue black, bat a 
Chevalier black black ; tight boots, 
made of Spanish leather, and little 
feet tlierewith, crimped up in boots us 
tight as the little Chinese feet in China 
shoes ; a frock coat without a ruck ; 
and a waistcoat, — oh ! a waistcoat 
such as Siultz would aive half his for- 
tune to have invented, — yes, a waist- 
coat d la Chevalier/ These were, in 
the opinion of the editor, the indispen- 
sable qualifications for a well-dressed 
man. But we have forgotten hispan- 
taliHfns or trousers, plaited at the waist ; 
none of your vulgar plaits, but regular 
fine plaiting, like the old frills to shirt 
bosoms some twenty years ago, and 
made not of cloth — no, no, but of ker- 
seymere, and arched at the instep, and 
cut round to shape the heel of tlie 
boot, and strapped down under the 
sole with the very best varnished lea- 
ther — of course a new pair every two 
days. One word more, as to the 
** hat.** As the head of the editor is 
not the least important portion of his 
corporal substance, he took especial 
pains with his head. His hat was 
Deaver; no silk hats — no cheap hats 
for him ! no brown hats, nor gray hats, 
but best narrow-brimmed, conical top- 
ped, green silk- lined, beaver hats — 
very dear, and very good, and a new 
one at least once a month ! And Che- 
valier took no small pains with the 
closer covering of hb head. His hair 
was well oiled, well combed, well 
brushed, well curled, well frizzled, and 
never allowed to grow more than four- 
teen days without the application of 

the scissors. Dear Michel I How 
thou didst stand before tiie glass, when 
last we saw thee, and look, and look, 
and look again ; and pick well thy 
teeth, and comb gracefully thy whiskers, 
and examine with care tlie collar of the 
coat, that not a stray hair might fall on 
it to indicate that thou hadst a bead on 
thy shoulders. 

But, tlie neckclotli ! ! ! Michel Che- 
valier declared in our hearing, most 
seriously, and most solemnly, that lie 
had written a Treatise on tying Uie 
Cravat before he was 18. We believe 
thee, Michel ! we admit it with tears in 
our eyes, — thy cravat was, and, doubt- 
less, is, the best, the very best, tied 
cra\'at in Paris! We know that this 
concession will not satisfy thee. To 
have the best tied cravat in Paris, where 
cravats are sold ready tied, and with 
bows all prepared, will not be deemed 
a compliment by thee I .But yet, in 
conscience, we cannot concede thee 
more. Beau Brummel would dispute 
thy claims in Normandy; and Lord 
Palmerston would fight a duel for his 
** Almaclis tie** of his neckdoih in 
London : so be content, we pray thee, 
dear Michel, with this admission, and 
aspire not to a higher glory than to 
tliat of being, without exception, the 
best cravatted man in the capital of 
fashionable Europe. 

But, we forgot ; there was a time 
when Michel Chevalier wore a white 
instead of a black hat, and when an- 
other costume than the one we have in- 
dicated graced his form, and enchanted 
the hearts and eyes of his fair country- 
women. But when was that ? Oh, 
tliat was when our author was one of 
tlie fathers, or " chiefs ** of the " church," 
sect, or club, of St. Simonians, at 
Paris I That must have been the most 
jocular part of the life of Michel. He 
began, indeed, on a small scale, as did 
his St. Simon ian beard ; but, by the 
time it had become venerably red, or 
sandy — we forget which — he was one 
of the very best Simonian freemasons 
of the whole worid. When Michel 
began his St. Simonianism, his funds 
were very low, and Le Globe had but 
very few subscribers. This was not 
the fault of Michel ; for we are bound 
to admit that Le Globe was one of the 
most ** amusing** papers ever published 
in Paris, and tliat its naivete and good 
faith were proverbial. But M. Rod- 
rigu^s (which some evil-minded persons 
have of\en written rogue-riggs) was at 
that time the minister of finance of the 


The Journal des Debals. 


St. Simonian denomination ; and be 
contrived to make a loan, obtain the 
assistance and patronage of the female 
sex, and, finally, took a splendid iiotel 
in tbe Rue Monsigny. 

These were fine times for Micliel ! 
The St. Simonian dinner parties were 
the very " snuggest*' things at Paris. 
The ladies were abundant ; the diam- 
pagne was iced, and yet sparkling, — 
for a St. Simonian could never conde- 
scend to drink champagne not iced, or 
champague that did not sparkle. The 
cura9oa of tlie Rue Monsigny was tlie 
very best that Holland could supply ; 
and as to tlie coffee, — no one has ever 
tasted cofifee who has not sipped the 
nectar of the St. Simonians. So the 
St. Simonian spinsters got hi and 
ruddy, which contrasted singularly and 
beautifully with their white frocks, low 
bodies, and light blue saslies. Some 
of the St. Simonian ladies were not^ 
iiowever, spinsters, nor were they wives, 
nor were they widows; but they were 
" ex- wives," who divorced themselves 
from their former un-St. Simonian 
husbands, for the sake of propagating, 
not their species, but the St. Simonian 
doctrines ! ! It was, however, a very 
singular fact in the history of this 
church of the nineteenth century, of 
which Michel Chevalier was one of the 
most celebrated leaders, that no lady 
was allowed to become a St. Simonian 
who had not a portion of this world's 
goods to put into the " common chest ;*' 
and it was, also, a not less extraordinary 
fact, that none of the leaders of this 
sect had any property at all! Tliey 
gave their brains — iheir wit, and their 
inventions; and the ladies gave their 
money, their patrimony, their jewels, 
and their all. This sort of partnership 
could not have been any thing but 
agreeable to friend Michel, who par- 
took of the goods whidi the gods sent 
him, and in return promised to render 
all women free I ! 

The great friend of Michel in this 
notable enterprise was the " Fere En- 
fantin^^ who was even a better looking 
man than himself. Eniantin was tall, 
black liaired ; had a fine forehead, and 
a good face; wore a breastplate, on 
which was written " P^re," or father ; 
and at the more solemn meetings of the 
members, when the gentlemen danced 
Quadrilles, and the ladies drank punch, 
the « Pere" used to stand on a sort of 
throne, whilst young and middle-aged 
ladies sate at his feet, robed in white 
book-nuislin frocks, with light blue 

sashes. These " free" ladies, or types 
of the " free woman,*' in search of whom 
the Pbre Enfantin has since gone in 
quest in the " east,^' took the liberty of 
wearing very low gowns ; but, as they 
were to give the tone to a new state of 
society, the visitors took it for granted 
that modesty would form no part of the 
" FREE " woman's code. 

Now, of all the debaters and arguers 
for the rights of women since the days 
of Mary ^YoolstonecIa(), no one lias 
been so vehement or eloquent as friend 
Michel ; and he would discuss for the 
hour together, as he sipped his tokay, 
or bohea (for nothing came amiss to 
him in the tipping way), on the " hot" 
rible'* state to which society was re- 
duced by the depraved condition and 
slavisli state of woman, not only in the 
old world, but in the new. There 
were, indeed, some ignorant people, 
who could not for the life of them un- 
dersfand the difference between St. Si- 
moniauism and polygamy ; butUiis,no 
doubt, arose either from a defect in 
their understandings, or from a little 
mystification in tlie mode of life which 
was pursued in the Rue Monsigny. 

At last the Rue Monsigny meetings 
attracted tlie attention of the police 
and government. The husbands of 
some ladies of weak intellects wrote 
letters of complaint to the procureur 
du roi. Some of the ladies, when all 
their money was spent, and all their 
jewels were pawned or sold, found it 
difficult to get funds from the common 
treasury of the St. Simonian bank ; and 
they spoke in less warm terms than 
they were wont to do of the fathers and 
demi-fothers of this Simonian society ; 
and they found out, when it was too 
late, that ** uU t? not gold that glitters J* 
So poor Michel became the object of 
much reproach. Tlie ladies, who loved 
him so dearly when the dinners and 
the champagne got on swimmingly, 
now threatened to " tear his eues out ;*' 
and the " free woman" wished she had 
stuck to her slavery and her cash — her 
name, and her husband. Michel said 
they were weak, silly women. The 
Pbre Enfantin declared they were only 
<' make-believe" St. Simonians ; and 
at last they all went into a court of law, 
which, of course, decided that the la- 
dies must suffer for their folly, in hav- 
ing placed their property as tenants in 
common with those who had no pro- 
perty at all. '^ 

Disgusted with the world, and with 
all its vanities,— 'i.e., disgusted with b^ 


The Jfewipaper Press of Paris, 


ing no longer able to keep up the feast- 
ing and jorialities of the Hue Mon- 
signy, the fathers and disciples of the 
St. Simonian church resolved on retir- 
ing to ** Memilmontanty^ and on be- 
coming hermits, or monks. So, at 
this charming village, in the environs of 
Paris, the male portion of the St* Si- 
monian school took a large house, 
which they called " the lietreatT and 
there ihey resolved on lead ing a pastoral 
life — working in the garden, in the 
kitchen, at the beds, and in making 
clothes, linen, &c. But monks or her- 
mits must look venerable ; so thev 
came to the prudent resolution of «i/- 
hwing their beards to grow; and for 
three mouths the novitiates were con- 
fined to the house, so that tliey might 
not look too ridiculous with ''lAam- 
Abraham^* beards, when they mixed 
with the Paris population. Some of 
the beards of some of the youths were 
desperately obstinate and stublwm. 
They would not fln^ow quick enoush. 
Their first period of three months' 
growth was extended to six ; and even 
at the expiration of that time they cut 
but u sorry appearance. Friend Michel, 
the editor, was one of this number. 
His was no Aaron's beard ; and, do 
what he would, he eould not look ve- 
nerable. The costume of the St. Si- 
roonians was, however, very becoming. 
A blue smock frock; a crimson girdle; 
lonff hair behind ; a very dashing cap, 
made after a drawing by Chevalier; 
and large shirt collar, '* white as the 
driven snow," spreading in ample folds 
over their well-rounded shoulders. 

At Memibnontant, our friend Michel 
took to digging 1 lie was not over 
fond of his occupation, nor enchanted 
with his horticultural or agricultural 
operations ; but, then, as a *\father" of 
the church, it became him in all humi- 
lity to shew the younger disciples how 
to handle the spade and the rake. 

We remember once, on a fine sum- 
mer afternoon, to have strolled out as 
far as the St. Simonian college, and we 
never laughed more heartily in all our 
lives. The sprouting beards had not 
yet assumed a very picturesque appear- 
ance, and the novitiates were by no 
means handy in their gardening per- 
formances. Poor Michel was hard at 
work, superintending the domestic de- 
tails ; and cooks, and scullerymen, and 
housemen, all came to him for orders. 
Champagne had then become scarce. 
Kodrigu^'s loan was nearly exhausted. 
** jEatt(/e vic"had taken the place of 

** curaj:oa," and " vin ordinaire" of ihe 
sparklmg Ay ! The visions of life were 
becoming its realities. Tlie butchers 
and bakers were absurd enough tp'* ex- 
pect to be paid. The ** caisse" was 
getting empty, and the moment seemed 
to be approaching when ** hotues being 
gontj and money being $pentf* ihey 
would be obliged once more to have 
recourse to iheir wits, or to their learn- 

The decline and fall of the Roman 
empire was certainly an event of some 
importance, and merited even the time 
and talents of Gibbon ; but the decline 
and fall of St. Simonianism at Paris 
was still more important and memor- 
able ! ! Alas ! alas ! tliere is no Gib- 
bon now to depict the heart-stirring 
scenes of Memilmontant ; or to sup- 
ply us with a picture of the last mo- 
ments of the Chevalier and Enfantin 

But the government of Louis Phi- 
lippe at length resolved on putting an 
end to this intolerable absurdity ; and 
though we admit most clearly that no- 
thing could be more illegal, as well as 
cruel, than to shut up the college of these 
half-fledged and only half-b«irded St. 
Simonians, yet the fact was so; and 
Pere En&ntin and Michel Chevalier 
were turned off, like two poor orphans, 
on the wide world. 

Enfantin tlien resolved on quitting 
the scene of his persecution and misery, 
and on proceedmg to Asia. In Asia, 
he said, tlie ^^free tooman*' was to be 
found ; but, although he has, no doubt, 
often met since then many **free*' wo- 
men near the isthmus of Suez, the 
scene of his loves and his labours, yet 
the *\/rcc" woman, who is to be 
brought to Europe, and by whom En- 
£3intin is to have children who are to 
regenerate the human race, has not yet 
been discovered by this too nice and 
too particular St. Simonian. 

But Michel was always a clever and 
a knowing lad. He had had enough of 
St. Simonianism at Memilmontant ; 
and he began to come to his reason, 
and say, " Am I not a civil engineer? 
Was I not brought up at the Poly- 
technic School ? Am I not one of the 
best off-hand writers of France ; and 
did I not really astonish the superficial 
and the ignorant by ray articles in Le 
Globe?** To all which questions he 
answered " Yes ;'' and thereupon he re- 
solved on turning all these talents to 

Now it happened very fortunately 


The Journal des Debad. 


about that time that Louis Philippe, be- 
came rather alarmed at the progress of 
St, SimoMianismt and toolc it into his 
bead that it woukl be a very eood plan 
to send off Enfantin to make discoveries 
in Africa and Asia ; and Chevalier to 
make his discoveries in the United 
States 1 So the St. Simonian college 
was dissolved ; the creditors got paid 
as well as they could; the disciples 
joined Charles Fourrier and the pha- 
lasterians, and settled out in the forest 
of Rambouiliei, where they cultivated 
mdons and pumpkins, or else shaved 
off the sprouUnn oftheir young beards, 
burnt their St. Simonian costume, and 
became once more honest citizens and 
hard-working men. 

Disappointed, disgusted, annoyed, 
and perplexed, friend Michel now em- 
barked for America ! lie got back to 
his old worldly costume, paid his 
wonted attention to his well-tied cravat, 
and became once more a fashionably 
dressed «* FrangaU:* « Adieu I" he 
cried, " to thee, Rue Monsigny ! and 
to thee, retreat of Memilmontant 1 a 
long farewell to iced champagne and 
Dutch cura9oa,~-to blooming damsels in 
low white frocks, and blue sashes, sit- 
ting melancholy at my feet,** whilst he 
Eoured forth in their too willing ears 
is ^^ melliiluous eloquence" on the 
free woman ! " Adieu I adieu !" and 
to America he sailed. 

The following description from his 
own pen of tlie object of his voyage to 
America is not without point. His 
applause of M. Thiers is not a little 
singular. Those who know tlie vio- 
lence of the opposition of tlie chiefs of 
the St Sinoonian doctrine to Louis 
Philippe and his ministers, cannot but 
smile at the testimony which he holds 
it to be his duty publicly to bear to 
M.Thiers's obliging conduct. 

'* My voyage to America had for its 
object the examination of public works 
iu general, and of railroads in particu- 
^f r As I liad enlarged the circle of my 
studies, the time which was assigned to 
ne was too short, and was found to be 
insufficient. M. Thiers, who was then 
minister of the interior and of public 
Dorics, and M. Legrand, the director 
general of bridges and roads, have 
oa various occasions prolonged my 
mission witli a good grace, which I 
consider it a point of honour thus pub- 
licly to acknowledge." 

So the most *< conicienliom** opposer 
Pf liOuif^ Philippe, wd of th& ** Juftt 

Milieu *' form of government, was sent 
by M. Thiers to America, to study 
public workit, and, above all, iron rail- 
ways I This was a roost benevolent 
act of M. Thiers ; and, doubtless, 
France will be happy to acknowledge 
the obligations under which she has 
been placed by the nomination in 
question, as thereby she has had " the 
happiness" of possessing Michel Che^ 
valier^s Letters on the United States, 

It so happened that Michel ad- 
dressed his letters to the Journal des 
Dibats, This is another curious coin- 
cidence! Friend Michel was sus- 
pected of republicanistn ; but his fa- 
vourite journal in France was the X>c- 
bats/ How liberal, if not consistent! 
and what a proof of a great mind, thus 
to overcome or set aside all his preju- 
dices ! The Dcbats is the journal of 
resistance! Michel belonged to the 
party of extreme movement ! If he 
liad written to the National, or tlie 
Courier Frangais, he would have been 
comprehensible ; but a father of the 
St. Simonians to be a well-paid cor- 
respondent of the Debats ! ! was an 
enigma which could only be solved by 
Mfchers recent appointment to a 
French government office of little la- 
bour and handsome pay. In fine, 
friend Michel is a doctrinaire, pro- 
moled and rewarded by Persil and 
Gasparin; and, from digging at Me- 
milmontant, and lecturing at the Rue 
Monsigny, has become a placeman 
and sinecurist under the Mo\6 admi- 
nistration, and he is so still. 

Horace Walpole said, that *^ every 
man had his price/* only some men^ 
prices are much dearer tlian oUiers 1 
Friend Michel has parted with his 
" Globe,** St. *' Simonianism,*' and 
** beard," for a very small compensa- 
tion ; but he is satisfied : and the 
Journal des Vcbats began by review ^ 
ing his book, and then by making him 
an editor I ! 

As editor, he is oblivious. He has 
•forgotten all his former friends, both 
male and female, and vras a few 
months since sent to London to per- 
form some diplomatic duties, when he 
had the misfortune to be thrown from 
his carriage, and break his head. We 
are happy, however, in being able to 
announce to our readers, that his head 
and heart are both now as sound as 
usual, and that he is at tliis moment 
one of the most indefiitigable editors oT 
the Jmrtwl da VcbaU. 

62 Blue Friar PUatantries. [Janoary, 





The brethren were seated io Bacon's refectW, 

Round esculents choice from their piandial directory : 

'< Tlie ruge of the vulture and love of the twtle " 

Were bl^t — like tlie bump of benev*lence and TImrtell. 

Ilis jollines8» lolling at ease in his chair. 

Hath shaken his cowl Itack, his temples to air; 

And blandly he pattetli liis priorly paunch, 

As Burgundy moistens his fourth plate of liaunch ; 

Still more and more waxing prodigiously merry, 

lie cherisheth fondly a flask of brown sherry ; 

Alternately cracking his jokes and his walnuts, 

And pelting the skulls of tlie bretliren with small nuts : 

Until, in the height of this monA-ey-ish fun, 

His hand is arrested by Time's — striking, one ! 

" Verbwn sot^' said he, •• Fratres ; but, ere we disperse, 

'< Be apprised, when we neii meet, we all meet in verse : 

*' As a poet, we'll find who shines best of the group ; 

" So let each sing in praise of his fiivourite soup 1 

" — A bumper let 's have to our next merry meeting : 

'^ One more — then a truce to this drinking and eating.'* 

Out of sight in a trice was each friar's proboscis ; 

As the last drop is drain'd, up his finger be tosses : 

" In visceris bonum est /" gaspeth tlie prior ; 

And *< NU matte t intra " respondeth each friar. 

The next time they met, eacn produced his soup paper : 

So judge who cuts best a poetical caper. 

3fto9tr, V. S* 


Long, long ago, upon a time, Replied to him his loving rib. 

When Hercules was " prime," With ready wit and tongue so glib. 

And palpably " bang up'' to any freak, ** To-day, dear Hercules, tlie Bull of 

Ancient authorities have said Crete, 

He took it in his iron head Of limb so stout, and foot so fleet, 

That be was lamentably low and Be the road flat, or be it hilly, 

weak. You are, dear husby, willy nilly, 

A J 4 • » i-k u I u- u J To lug from thence 

And tummg to Omphale, his new bride, why start you so ?—you frighten me. 

Who mused recumbent by his lordly \^y h\e8s us I 

CL r\ ?*^f/ • I « * II You'll not of ignorance make pre- 

" Omphy," cnes he, " pray, tell me- ^^j^^ v* 

what's the work u what bull ?* where ? when ?-rcpeat. 
Proposed for me to-day ; for last night s j g^y »» *^ 

^^^ u u^A ifl^M "The Cretan Bull, dear, you're to-day 

Has so be-muz2 d my head and floor d Xo drag from Peloponnessus.'' 

my body, ^ " 

That, blow me, but I'm at a precious *' Peloponnessus maybe " ^ Oh, 

stand Don't answer your Omphale so : 

To say what labour I'm to take in Come, stir yourself, and rouse you from 

hand — your couch." 

Tis true, as I'm a Christian, and no And,as she spoke, the patentee of bone, 

Turk." .Muicle,andsinew,drewooeitockiD^9D; 


Mulligatawny Soup. 


And when he'd finish*d the aflSiir of 

Tilts head and chief of all day-lab'rers 

(But why or wherefore he disdain'd 

r avouch,) 
'Stead of his own, to don Omphale*s 


Now, as this metamorphosis clmnced in 

And Madam Omphy liad not, you'll 

Another suit wherewith t* adorn her 

She, from sheer spite — certes, no sense 

of duty — 
Resolved, since he'd assumed her 

She'd pay him in his own coin for his 

And as retaliation sweet her soul 

Without another thought, 
She search 'd, and having got. 
She forthwith drew on roastcr*s buckskin 

breeches ; • 

Shoulder'd his club, and donn'd the 

lion's skin. 
Prepared for any frisk he shou'd begin. 

Wliat light we gain if history we scan ! 

We here define 

The very time 
When woman, lovely woaian,first began 
To wear the garments of the nether roan : 
Orophale shortly afier did them doff; 

But some there are 

'Mongst wedded fiiir. 
Who, having once put on. 
Will never leave them off. 

" What are you for, ray man ?" his rib 
ask'd, grinning. 

" I'm going," said he, " to try my hand 
at spinning.'' 

** Sir, your example I'll not be behind 
Since that's your will, 
I'll to Uie mill, 

And lend a hand your worship's com 
in grinding — 

Or, since to change pursuits your ho- 
nour's course is, 

P'rhaps in the stable I shall groom the 

Another minute, and this goodly pair, 

Professing purposes so rare, 

Each for their own route separated ; 
He caring not a copper, 
To say a word to stou her, 

Who was^ we own, a little jealous pated : 

So not to stable or to mill 
Went she — truly, she'd no will 

That part to play — 

So made her way 
Back to the work-room door — 
He'd entered just before ; 
Which having reach'd, she ventured, 
Sans tap or knock, to open, and she 

But here appear'd no sign of riot, 
Or circumstance to mar her quiet, 
Unless the silence that presided 
Token of evil past betided ; 
Be't so or not. Hereby, in dumps pro- 
Sat with his goggles fixed upon the 

Oft when the human frame has sicken'd. 

Full many a roving noddy 
Has found his right affections quicken'd 

By a disordered body ; 
And thus did fancied or unfeigned 

Work on Professor Hercules; 

Whose bullock heart was now much 
And glad was he within his arms to 
gather her, 
Whom, a short space before. 
With her caresses doy'c^ 
He'd wished on foreign shore, 
Where Indian tribe 
His spirit might imbibe. 
And scalp or flay, or tar and feather 

But this had pass'd, and now they had 

embraced ; 
And, as he sat, encircling her waist. 
She felt hi<« pulse, examined his huge 

Peep'd down his cavernous mouth 

into his gullet, 
Fear'd there was something wrong, 
And hoped he'd try her remedy — 
A liquid preparation firom a pullet. 

*< What ! chicken broth ? i' faith you 
must excuse me." 

" Nay, dearest Hercules, do not re- 
fuse me." 

'* I must — my manhood cannot to it 
It jigs not with my vrants or wishes ; 
For one thing only fit— to wash 
your dishes." 

«' Well, then, what say yob i^ somfe^ 
good pea-soup ?" 


Blue Friar Pleasantries. 



« No,— I had rather be for ever queasy 

Than toudi Uiat puddle slippeiy and 

Something provide tliat will my heart 

And make me frisky, as in days of 

For now, such nervous feelings me 
That, far from lugging here the Cre- 
tan bull. 
May I be crucified if I could pull 

A sprat from off a gridiron." 

" What say you to potation of ox-tail ?" 
" Ay, that's the thing,— Tm sure it 

cannot fail." 
" Say but the word, 'tis here at tliy 

Wliat better to prepare for bumps 

and knocks 
Than a potation brew*d from tail 

of ox. 
When ox*s tail you have to take in 

hand r 

a No— 'twill not do." « Then gravy- 
soup may chance 
Your strength, my dearest busby, to 

^' No, — whilst I live, ne er shall my 
stomach's coat feel 
Itself insulted by that hateful mess ; 
rd as so^n drink the liquid cook's 

From dirty dislicloths, or black broth 
of Spartans, 
Or that commodity, composed of oat- 
Gulp'd down by savages in kilts and 

Such common trash might serve for 
common men, 
But not for me ; 
I pr'ythee see 
If you yourself aren't able to con- 
Sonie rare, some rich, restorative, 
To set my muscles on their legs again." 

Obedient she, at the proposal fiatter'd, 
Quickly withdrew, and tlien her brains 

she batter'd 
T' invent some rare and precious com- 
Fitting tlie lion-killer's low condition. 
Deep pored she o'er each culinary page 
Of every tome that that dull age 
Acknowledged to be " crack" in art of 

Solicitous intentljf did »l)e look in. 

The Kitchiner, the Glass, and Oude, 
And other manufacturers of food 
In early days, 

Resolved, if possible, the bays 
(Spurr'd to the Irial by her spouse) 
To strip from their, and place on her 
own brows. 

Nay, she resolved t' outshine the real 

or fabulous 
Art culinareous of lieliogabalus ! 

The kitchen clock struck one, two, three, 

And still the matron on her book did 

Scullions and potboys her condition 

pitied ; 
Were they alive, they'd one and all 

They never saw again. 
Aught like Omphale's pain, — 

Griev'd to their hearts t'observe the 

studious £ur 
Apparently by other cooks outwitted. 

At length the intricate and tangled 

Of various schemes within her puzzled 

Unfolded its huge length ; 
" Bravo l" she cries, " I have it now; 
Tve hit upon the very mess, I vow, 
To reinvest my husband with his 
strength I" 

And now was every pot and pan 

Prepared for the potation ; 
And, soon as miglit be, was there seen. 
Sustained two serving men between^ 
Of awful size, a vast tureen. 

For Hereby 's edification. 

He tasted, smack'd his lips, and then 
Applauded much — tried it again ; 
Hts rib rejoiced to see how he di- 
minished it ; 
So quick, indeed. 
His worship's speed, 
Ere she could say Jack Robinson, he'd 
finished it. 

" Glorious i'faith," cries he, " but ra- 
ther small 
Th' p' Oraphy, is this 


not, pr 



Oravy Soup. 


Id baDter Omphy says, — ^* Now^ art 
thou sick?" 
** Sick ? 'NonscDse ; never better in 

my life ; 
In truth, thou art a jewel of a wife. 
I'm better far than well, love — like a 

Give roe mv club again, and lion's 
•* For what, my sweet ?" 
^ I'm longing now my labour to begin, 
And bring that beggar of a bull from 
111 cut his frolics short, and make the 

Skip here before me double quick, at 

But, Omphy, ere I go, 

I pr'vthee let me know 
From tJiee, my clever girl, the name 
Of the invigorating draught, tliat for 

this game 
lias so well fitted me. 

When I had thought 

All manhood that I brought 
Into the world decidedly had quitted me. 

What is it that again has made me 

My iron muscles, and my nerves of 

Stifien'd my sinews, made me stout 
and brawny ?" 
** It has no name 
As yet to claim ; 
But, seeing 'tis my own invention. 
If you approve, 'tis my intention 
To call it MuUigaUnomf r* 

Here is another secret, gentle reader — 
I gave you one before ; 

When Omphy, as I stated, at her need, 
Husband's garments wore; 

For now (or by our senses we're de- 
Tis clear as light, the labours of this 
Of Jupiter had never been achieved, 
Had it not been that, rising at the dawn, 
To fit him for the business to be 

And drive his trade. 
His breakfast made 
On a x-ast |x>rringer of MulUgalawny / 

Then, hail thou king of every soup, all 
Whilst thou art to be had 
Disown we gravy, pea, or e'en ox-tail. 

As puny bantlings of a puny dad ; 
Oh shall thy savoury steam mount 
from our board, 
Strengthen our bodies, and our spi- 
rits cheer, 
And, whilst thy renovating stream is 
May each B. F. to each be still more 
May pure good-humour, every feeling 
Take deeper root, and, as revolves 
the year, 
May we in closer union still appear, — 
Be this the general aim, and we shall 
Beyond mere bodily sustention, 
A higher, nobler invention — 

Mulligatawny for the heart and mind . 
tlttd, t^c $rtor. 


* Cluef Juttiee. — There is not a white hair on your face but should have his effect 
of gravity. 

Falitaff, — His effect of gravy— gravy— gravy. 

Hence, vain diluted broth, 
Of neck of mutton and insipid bread ; 
How little you bested. 

Or fill a blue friar's maw with all your 

I water- 




V / 

.f train- 

But, oh, my brethren's praises crave I 

For lliee— of soups, yclep'd the Gra-vy I 

Come thou liquid, juicy, hot, 

" Boil tliou first i' the charmed pol," 

Then, 'neath cover of tureen 

Simmer for a while unseen, 

Till grace be said by prior Tuck, 

And thou revealest our pot-luck. 

Go, ask our cook the question — " which 

in her 
Mindisbest,- orGla8se,or Kitchiuer ?" 
Of all th* Epicurean group ^ 

She'U swear the best for gravy soup 


Blue Friar Pleasantries. 


Is Dr. K,y and then she'll quote him 
Thus ; I pray, iny brethren, note him : 

Haifa pound of ham in slices ; 
Cloves and mace the proper spices ; 
Three pounds of beef quite free from 

As much lean veal you'll then add to it : 
Tlien break tlie bones, or, be it spoken, 
Your own will merit to be broken. 
Two turnips and two onions skin ; 
Two carrots scraped and chopped put 

Two heads of celery fresli asyoii can 
Get, then add ; and close the stew-pan. 
Lest the meat should stick (and burn) 
To the stew-pan's bottom — turn : 
When the stew-pan's bottom shews 
" A nice brown glaze," each cook well 

HTis time to throw hot water o'er : 
When 'twould boil, a half-pint pour 
Of water cold. Now skim amain : 
A half-pint more — and skim again ! 
Still — still — pour in, as he advises ; 
And skim — till no more scum arises, 
fieside a steady fire then set it; 
Gently boil for four hours let it; 
Ttirough a napkin clean then drain it; 
(Do not squeeze — but softly strain it.) 
When 'tis cold remove the fat off: 
Decant the soup— and keep the cat off I 

The charm's wound up,^the liquid's 

heated ; 
Tlie prior and his monks are seated. 
Silent, as within a cradle, 

Still the fluid lies : 
Off%oea the cover — in tlie ladle ; 

Lo ! what mists arise ! 
Dimly through the cloud ascending 

Pierce their eager eyes ! 
Hotly now the soup descending 

Down their gullets flies I 
" Oh, how good !" exclaims each 
Stifled in his breath : 
You hear one-half his words ; the 
Scalded is to death. 
Mumble — mumble 1 hobble, gobble I 
Turnips — burnlips — ^juicy — spicy I 
Carrols— onions — rump-fed ronions. 
Ever bless the cook ! 
Oh, she's rich in her 
Learning Kitchiner, — 
Ever bless his book 1 

Gravy soup ! thy amber beauty 
Claims each friar's love and duty, 
Since his heart we symboU'd see 
In thy depth's transparency ; 
And on thy surface mirror d, he 
Views " his effect of^flvi— (y.*** 


Brothers Bacon, Locke, and Tuck, 
Your Sacristan 's in ill luck. 
That his first poetic kite 
Should he hoisted here to-night : 
Seeing that, a week hist We'n'aday, 
He was racing 'gainst a quinsey. 
Winning just by half a neck. 
And leaving t'other half a wreck. 
'* Cameleon's dish " and broth of pullet 
Were all, for days, that pass'd my 

While leeches added their instruction 
How to live, like them, by suction. 
Sorry aids are these to climb 
Parnassus' hill at any time. 
Then let them, brethren, now excuse 
The tottering measure of my muse ; 
And, slK>uld the cause of Ox-tail droop, 
The blame be mine — be yours the 


Mulligatawny, Gravy, Pea, 
Avaunt 1 I scorn the whole of ye I 
The Jirst is most omnig'nous stuff: 
Meat of any kind that's tough — 
Cheese-rindy nibbled by the mice — 
Cupbotrd scrapings, pepp«r^ rice. 

El otter M the ear would shock. 
All boil'd together in a crock. 
In praise of this. Tuck's energetic ; 
And so am I — as an emetic. 

Your Gremif Soup 's mere workhouse 

Vapid, innutritious wash : 
An ounce of beef — some bones past 

picking — 
The remnants of a quondam chicken — 
Scraps of any sort, ad lib., 
No matter what, which cook can crib, 
Water'd till it can't be thinner. 
And, lo 1 Locke's preface to a dinner! 

And now for Bacon's mess of pottage. 
Peat like swan-shot, few know what 

age — 
Parts of any kind of creature 
'Reft of life by man, or nature — 
Celery, onions, leeks, and mint, 
Cayenne pepper, without stint :— 
Ten hours boil these by your ticker. 
And you'll get. the noxious Jiquor 
Which, unless I'm much mistaken^ 
is so eulogised by BaconV^^^^ 


Pea Soup. 


Of Ox'tail let me diampion be. 
And you may keep the other tliree. 
" De gmtibut non disputandum,*' 
Which means, in my case, " I can't 
stand *era." 

Then say, cerulean-hooded sinners ! 
If, at either of our dinners, 
Your jaws e*er compass*d such n liquid 
As this, which (Ills them like a thick 

So magnetically glutinous, 
TTiat your very lips grow mutinous. 
And, ere tliey kiss the spoon a third time, 
Are SiamesMf like biro and bitd-lime ! 
Potent, insififtoating drink, 
Inserting strength in every chink, 
And caulking all the cracks and flaws 
Made, since breakfast, in your maws. 

Eat, drink, and your ''quietus make,'' 
Without the fear of twinge or ache, 
With food that scarce shall pass your 

Ere you feel like human borax. 
And strong enough to match the beast 
Whose tail has furnished forth our feast, 
To you in soup, to me in rhyme. 
But, hark 1 I hear the prior*s chime. 
Enough I enough 1 my paper '• ended — 
The least that's said is soonest mended. 
So, MuUig'tawny, Gravy, Pea, 
Je soup'Conne that youVe not for me ; 
Nor shall Bacon's, Tuck's, nor Locke's 

Ever make me cut my Ox-iaiL 


Argument. — The author of this short poem gracefully setteth out with the subject 
of his rhyme, viz. Pea Soup. Having duly eulogised it, as holding a pre-eminent 
station in the Soup fiEunily, he very sagaciously doth proceed to treat of the art and 
mystery of the same — singeth of its glorious results — concluding, midst thunders 
of applause, with the grand triumphant finale, " Britannia rules the waves." 

Of all the P's in Johnson's Dictionary — 

Pe-tard, Pe-ruse, Pe-ruke,Pe-litionary ; 

Pea-cock, Pe-culiar, Pe-dant, and Pe- 

Pe-remptory, Pe-nates, and Pe-tal ; 

Pe-cuniary, Pe-riph'ry, and Pe-rish ; 

Pe-rennial, Pe-trescent, and Pe-vish ; 

The P I most approve of all the ^up 

Is Pea, the son of Pod, and sire of 

Be*t therefore mine to sing, in mea- 
sured lays. 

That soup of soups. Pea Soup's, tttpetior 

Sage was the pilgrim, fearing to refuse 

A walk with peas in both his sandall'd 

Who did far more than other sinner 

He put the pease in — but he boil'd 
them hrst. 

Yes, he was wise who thus on priest- 
crafk stole. 

And eased at once his body and his 

Yet wiser he who, scorning so to stoop. 

Converted Pe-nance into rich Pea-soup. 

Say, reverent Genii of the cooking trade. 
How may this famous compound best 

be made ? 
But, ere the secret thou unfold 'st, O 

Give more attention to your P's than 


The vulgar mode produces pottage 

Split ])ease, and water — bacon looking 

Sagacious cooks, however, do not spare 
The tender chicken, nor the timid hare ; 
Good beef they add, with celery and 

And sundry healthful condiments to 

If their due mixture you shall well 

Your toil and trouble cannot fail to 

But first the compound mix with peas 

a lot. 
Then to the fire drag the unwilling pot ; 
Upon a trivet let it simmer slow. 
And keep the bubbling just upon thego : 
Stir frequently the heaving mass, to 

Your peas alive ; nor let them idly sleep. 
Lest 'gainst the iron walls they rest and 

And get bedevill'd like a candle wick. 
This would, indeed, be fatal to the name 
Of goodly soup) and prove a burning 

Well boiled the pulpy mass both fine 

and tender, 
Quickly your vegetable adjuncts render. 
Next work the whole together well, and 

Through sieve of tamis, pr of muslin 

plain : °'^'^'^®^ ^^ OOuglL 


Blue Friar Pleasantries. 


So may your board be graced with soup 

Mak ing all turtle sou ps appear of^A-ous . 

This glorious soup, io every varied 

Is food for British tars amid the storm : 
Its wond*rous powers in the British 

Have caused its foes to bellow out 


Hast never heard the wonderful defeat 
Which Gallia's frigate. Blonde, did 

chance to meet. 
When bearing down on Britain's sloop 

of war, 
The bonny Spitfire, close by Lisbon's 

If not, I'll tell thee. Twas at 4 p.m. 
Upon a pea -soup day, which few 

That England's bark, whilst hauling 

on the wind. 
Espied the foe some few short leagues 

" Up jib, down courses, put the helm 

Behold the tri-colour waves o'er tlie 

Thus the bold master bellow'd on the 

And up the jollies* jump the foe to 

At beat of drum, they muster in a 

And stand a phalanx — charged with 

grog and soup. 
Meantime the Frenchman, borne upon 

the gale. 
To board the Spitfire crowds his utmost 

Quickly he Dears the bark of Britain's 

Her brave marines arrayed in rank and 

In fullest hope to seize an easy prize. 
And Gallia's prowess lift unto the skies. 
But Neptune, god of England's hope, 

*' How Frauce and Frenchmen could 

be kept in awe." 

Split peas and grog by chemic power 

And urge the jollies to a blasting fight. 
Strong gaseous forces animate the whole, 
Distend tlieir cheeks, and nerve each 

inmost soul. 
Each man an ./Eolus, ready for a blow. 
Sent forth a gale upon the reckless foe, 
Which,full impingingon thefrigate'ssail. 
Threw all aback, and held her crew to 

Thus, when the Grecian mariners of old 
The bags unfurled, which did the winds 

Forth from their caverns rushed the im- 
petuous gales. 
And dealt destruction on the yielding 

E'en bold Ulysses bent beneath the 

And shrunk with terror from each 

groaning mast. 
" Morbleu I" cried Nong-tong-paw : 

" Ho, there on high, 
Man quick the buntlings — let the main 

tack fly-— 
Stand by the topsail sheets and halliards 

all — 
Our vessel's side is yielding to the 

squall : 
Down ports — in cannon — cut the 


Or watei^ graves we here shall soon be 

I do not say in English tliis was prated ; 
So, pray, remember it is all translated. 
But all in vain the efforts of tiie foe. 
His staggering ship soon sinks beneath 

the blow ; 
And whilst in British boats the crew 

are saved, 
Britannia laughingly her trident waved : 
For such the unequal match in this 

Tliat pea-soup only could have won 

the day. 
Pea-soup for ever, then, with sundry 

Of that blest song, '' Britannia rule the 

waves !" 


* Jollies, a cant term with sailors for marints. 

Digitized by 



The Prospects of the New Year, 



The year 1837 has closed under cir- 
cumstances more propitious to the na- 
tion tlian any vrhich have marked the 
advent of new eras, or the passage of 
retreating time, since peace was restored 
to Europe afker the crowning victory at 
Waterloo. We have, indeed, but lately 
lost a monarch, who swayed the land 
with a sceptre of justice and a heart of 
mercy; wno is now mourned in his 
tomb by all who liave learned to blend 
an afiectionate sorrow for the dead 
witli hope and respect for the living. 
Bat we have seen a youthful sovereign 
called to her high ancestral honours, 
amidst the universal blessings of a 
powerful population ; and we have 
witnessed, in the exertions of constitu- 
tional privileges at a general election, 
the restoration of some part of Britain's 
ancient attachment to those principles 
which constitute, we trust, the policy 
of Queen Victoria, and are engraven 
on the title whereby her family possess 
the throne. A great, but silent change, 
has been gradually restoring the ex- 
cited spirits of the people to a tranquil 
sense of the penis of our national posi- 
tion, and the necessity of precaution 
for the future. The schemes of the 
democracy have been exposed, their 
legislative strength has been shaken ; 
and tlie wild genius of modern libe- 
ralism has received a check, which pro- 
mises to afford tranquillity to the coun- 
try, and fresh vigour to the friends of 
the constitution. 

We look to the executive, and see 
men in possession of the governing au- 
thority, who, with the will to do evil, 
are constrained to remain neutral, if 
not to become actively conservative, 
by the increasing power of their prin- 
cipal opponents. We turn to the le- 
gislature, and see this '^ weak and va- 
cillating administration '' pn>strate in 
one house, and tottering in the other ; 
while the supporters of our Protestant 
institutions are firm in union, strength- 
ened by popularity of tlie best kind, 
and by a strong accession of numerical 
aid. The minor distinctions of party 
are fast wearing away, leaving tlie bold 
outlines of the two great conflicting 
powers — the destructive and the re- 
sisting — clear and conspicuous. While 
the foiiuer has wasted its energy, and 
tampered with its own strengtli, the 
latter has abstained from needless ag- 

gression, and avoided all premature 
exhibitions of its resources. The De- 
structives have foregone their chances ; 
the Conservatives have suffered no 
hope of temporary triumph to draw 
them unwarily into a too early, or too 
decisive, conflict. With Fabian skill, 
the defenders of the citadel have de- 
layed tlie battle, and have wearied 
their opponents, whose only prospect 
of success depended on exciting the 
nation by incessant innovations and 
victories, and destroying the power of 
resistance before they had exhausted 
themselves. The result of this policy 
is now about to display itself; and 
will assuredly produce national secu- 
rity, if rashness and intemperance be 
not substituted for prudence and for- 

Under these circumstances, then, we 
feel it to be a duty to join in urging the 
Conservative party to consider its posi- 
tion and prospects, and the necessity 
of a continuance of defensive warfare. 
We wish to recommend temporary sa- 
crifices for future good ; and to aid the 
able leaders of Conservatism in re- 
straining the ardour of party, till the 
time for aggressive action shall be ripe. 
With this view, we will proceed at 
once, first, to consider the prospects 
of the Conservative party in the legis* 
lature ; and, secondly, the tendency of 
the system of policy we recommend. 

During the last pariiament. Sir Ro- 
bert Peel*s friends very frequently re- 
ceived accessions of strength from 
casual elections, occurring by the 
death or retirement of members of the 
House of Commons. The victories 
thus achieved in lioss-shire, South 
Devon, Staffordshire, VVeslininsler, &c. 
besides adding numerical power to the 
constitutional phalanx, gave a moral 
strength to it, which operated veiy 
powerfully with the nation in general, 
and on the sentiments of independent 
or wavering members in particular. 
So very influential had this cause been, 
that there is very little doubt that, if 
the Peel parliament had been called 
upon in 1837, after the Westminster 
election, to decide on the appropria- 
tion clause, the Whigs would nave 
been signally defeated. In the present 
parliament, the Conservatives will cer- 
tainly gain strength, periodically, in 
the same manner. Ii^ vvhigs and tlie 

70 The Prospects of the New Year. [January, 

Radicals have considerable advantages in a division as twenty, wliicli was 
at a general election ; for the public sufficient to turn the scale, besides 
in ind is naturally excited, and the calm 0|>erating very powerfully on many 
doctrines of the monarchical party are persons insecure of re-election. We 
partially unheeded in the general a^i- may reasonably calculate that, as the 
tation and clamour. The case is very Conservative spirit has made the Mel- 
different at single elections ; and, con- bourne parliament an improvement on 
sequently, experience has proved that the last, so, in singjle casual elections, 
on such occasions, when Aiir play is the friends of constitutional principles 
received, the Destructives are generally will, during its existence, still more fre« 
worsted, and the Conservatives not queotly gain the victory. The tendency 
only succeed, but triumph. The total of events, therefore, is to diminish the 
number gained thus by Sir Robert Peel " miserable monopolising " majority, 
during the existence of the last parlia- and to augment the number of the Op- 
ment was not less than ten, counting position members. * 

* In glancing at the positioQ and prospects of the Conservmtivo ptirty io the 
House of Commons, we camiot resist the temptation of remarking on the singolar 
and increasing ministerial debility in the other legislative assembly. The foUowiag 
facts are curious, as shewing the fatality which appears to have warred against the 
Whigs, to the acceleration of that downfal to which the re-action in the public mind, 
and especially in the House of Lords, w^as contributing. 

Of the peerages created by the Whigs themselves since 1830, two (those of Dua- 
moro and i3e Saumarez) are now held by Conservatives ; two more (the baronies of 
Solway and Wenlock) are already extinct ; three are possessed by minors. Lord Dover 
(now also Lord Clifden), Lord Grey of Groby, snd Lord Templemore j and two (the 
baronies of Oakley and Stanley) are merged in the earidoms of Cadogan and Derby. 

In 1830, some of the Scotch representative peers were Whigs : now, not a single 
one of them votes with the ministry. 

During the last f^w years, several Irish representative peers have died (some of 
them Whigs, as Lords Granard, Cfaarleville) ; and, in every such case, the successor 
elected has been a Conservative. 

In many of the cases where the Whigs still receive the support of influential peers, 
it will be found that the heirs to the peerages are Conservative. We allude particu- 
larly to the heirs of the Dukes of Cleveland, Hamilton, Argyle, and Marlborough; 
the Earl of Derby, the Marquess of Westminster, Lord Sherborne, 6cc. 

In nearly every instance of a peer acceding to his legislative privileges, on attain, 
ipg his majority or otherwise, he has taken his place among the Conservatives. We 
refer particularly to the Marquess of Abercorn, the Earl of Eglinton, Lords Lindsey, 
Thurlow, Sandwich, Waldegravo, St John, Canning, Rayleigh, Monson, Devon, 
Pljrmoulh, Sondes, &c. &c. &c. In the course of next year, three young peers 
attain their majorities. Lords Longford, Ward, and Audley, all of whom are Coo« 

Since the Refoim-bill, not a single peer has left the Conservative party to join 
the ministry ; yet, alas for the Whigs ! many, very many, have borne practical testi- 
mony to the Conservative reaction by abandoning the Liberals. We may instance 
the following list, including in it some of the most distinguished and influential peers 
in the country : — The Duke of Portland, Lord Tankerville, the Marquess of Downshire, 
the Earl of Ripon, the Earl Cadogan, Lord St. Vincent, the Earl of Donoughmore, 
Lord Hood, I^rd Rivers, Lord Braybrooke, Lord Stradbroke, the Marquess of 
Hastings, the Marquess of Westmeath, the Earl of Cawdor, and Lord Southampton ; 
and to these we may probably be very soon able to add the no less respectable and 
influential names of the Dukes of Richmond and St. Alban's, the Marquess of North- 
ampton, Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, Earl Spencer, Lodr Lilford, and, though last, 
not least. Earl Grey ! 

The strength and prospects of Conservatism in the House of Lords are not, 
therefore, of a very questionable nature ; nor do they afford much room either for 
despondency or doubt. But whatever disappointments the Whigs experience in this 
quarter, it must be acknowledged they deserve. Perhaps there never was a ministry 
which did so much to injure the peerage as the Whig clique since 1830. During a 
short tenure of office, they have made more unjustifiable creations than any body 
of men that ever existed. Witness Brougham, Denman, Langdale, Cottenham, 
Stratheden, Panmure. Segrave, Cloncurry, Belbaven, Kenlis, Worliiigham, Lovat, 
Western, Rossie, Solway, Fingal, Templemore, and the earldom of Durham ! In 
neariy every one of these cases it is impossible to justify the creation ; for either 
the peer is too poor to support the dignity, or unworthy of it, and therefore doubl j 
unable to support it. 


The Prospects of the New Year, 


But this is not the only prospect of 
addition to tlie Conservatives in the 
House of Commons, for the election 
petitions have yet to be decided ;* and, 
aldiough tlie mock reformers have ma- 
nufiictured many frivolous petitions, in 
order to disqualify certain members 
from being chosen on the committees, 
yet the greater proportion of the ge- 
nuine inquiries will afiect the seats of 
ministenalists. Directly the approacli- 
ing session recommences, these inves- 
tigations will begin ; and we observe 
with pleasure that, of the Arst fifWen 
to be undertaken, fourteen are from 
Conservatives. We may safely reckon, 
therdbre, on a speedy and most im- 
portant accession to the constitutional 
phalanx — an accession which will 
confer a power of successful resistance 
in all cases, and of prudent aggression 
in not a few. Nor is this our only hope. 
There are several membera of tlie House 
of Commons whose votes have been 
frequently, and indeed of late conti- 
nually, given to the Whigs, who are ' 
by no means disposed to join in any 
fiirtlier or future nctious opposition to 
the Conservatives, should the present 
roioistry retire. The persons to whom 
we allude, forming an independent sec- 
tion of country gentlemen, are sincere 
friends of the church establishment, 
and are heartily opposed to the Radi- 
cals and their wild incongruous projects. 
But still, from old prejudice, from fa- 
mily connexion, from habit, they would 
feel iocUned to remain with their old 
party, even in alliance with tlie Ra- 
dicab, if they believed tlietr honour to 

be involved in fidelity. This was the 
case wlien so many respectable Whigs 
voted, though most unwillingly, against 
Sir Robert Peel in 1835, on the ques- 
tions of the speakership and the ad- 
dress. The Melbourne ministry had 
been turned out by the monarch — it 
had not resigned ; and thus it would 
be again, were the Conservatives to 
take advantage of any trifling occasion, 
or of the Radicals' aid, to overturn the 
government. If, on the other hand, 
ttie present administration fall by the 
influence of public opinion, by internal 
disunion, by tlie deliberate voice of the 
Iegi:flature, strongly and foirly spoken 
— or through the discovery in itself of 
incompetency, increased vacillation, 
or dangerous tendencies, many would 
then feel it to be a duty to join wit!i 
the Conservatives, as the only alterna- 
tive left to well-disposed men. Tliere 
can be very little doubt that the session 
about to commence in a fortnight will 
betray signs of weakness in the cabinet, 
and will raise the Conservative parly 
still higher in public estimation ; and 
tliere can be as little doubt that the 
causes we liave mentioned — casual 
elections, the election committees, and 
the influence of these and otlier events 
on the minds of the members — will 
materially affect the relations of the 
two great parties. We contend, there- 
fore, most earnestly for sucli a policy 
as will allow these prospects to be 
realized, and save them from being 
marred by any premature exhibitions 
of power unconsolidated, and strength 
unperfected. Besides, constant divi- 

* In February, tliere will be Appointed seventeen election committees, of which 
sixteen will be for the consideration of Conservative petitions, involving the seats of 
twenty-one Liberal members ; while the solitorj W hig petition to be investigated is 
from Fetersfiftld, affecliug a smgle Conservative. In March, there will be twenty-two 
committees balloted for. Of t^ese eight are for the consideration of Conservative 
petitions, from Carlow town and county, Dublin city, Kinsale, Poole, Reading, 
Shaftesbury, and Walsall, involving the rate of eleven more Reformers. One of the 
March committees will have to determine whether a Radical or a Whig shall sit for 
Darhan ; the petition being from the Radical Mr. Granger against the Whig Mr. 
Hariand : and the rest of tlmt aumth's committees are for the investigation of thirteen 
Whig petitions, iacloding the palpably frivolous ones from Bridp^water, Tamworth, 
Sl^o county, Huntingdonshire, Worcester, and Newcastle. It is very questionable 
if the majority of these Whig-Radieal concoctions will be seriously pressed before 
the House, as there can be no doubt that several of the petitions which the Whigs 
have presented were merely intended to annoy the Conservatives, and to prevent 
some of them sitting on committees. For instance, they have petitioned in Oxford- 
shire against a Conservative majority of about one thousand ; in Blackburn, where 
there was no contest ; in Worcester and Bridgewater, where there was no serious 
polling ; in East Norfolk, Preston, &c., where the ministerial defeat was total ! 

The prospects of the Conservatives, with reference to the petitions, are, therefore, 
of the most encouraging description, and fully bear out the l<(ff|l|gf§»^^X5i^(3«^!f^ 
akovtaintMakittgofthem. o 


The Prospects of the New Year. 


sions on government measures, and 
unceasing aggression against the admU 
ministration, must weaJcen the opposi- 
tion, and give something like an aspect 
of factiousness to its proceedings. A 
continuance, however, of Sir Robert 
Peers wise and temperate policy will 
have a contrary effect. The smgle elec- 
tions will be fought under advantageous 
circumstances ; there will be less party 
virulence excited, and, consequendy, 
more fairness in tlie election com- 
mittees; but, above all, tliere will be 
a far greater probability of tlie better 
portion of tlie old Whigs being conci- 
liated, and so being prepared to sup- 
port a Conservative government, should 
It come fairly into tlie possession of 
power. For these reasons, we wish 
to see the Conservatives maintain tlieir 
defensive position in both houses of 
parliament. They are now too weak 
to take office; for the conspiracy of 
Popish priests and agitators has been 
so far successful, that many persons sit 
in the House of Commons as members 
pro tempore for places, the constituen- 
cies of which they grossly misrepresent. 
A very little time may be su£Bcient to 
alter this state of affairs. We repeat, 
"we believe much may be done by 
Easter — enough, perhaps, to render 
the Whigs in office tenants at will of 
their opponents. But, till that time, 
the Conservatives will be doing injustice 
to themselves, and the great principles 
they are united to nuiintain, on each 
occasion when they contend witliout a 
chance of victory, and without the pos- 
sibility of bringing their forces fairly 
into action. We do not mean that 
obnoxious measures should be allowed 
to pass unopposed, still less that any 
sacrifice of sentiment or of policy should 
be made ; we merely argue for the pro- 
priety of postponing the great discus- 
sions of tlie session, if possible, to a 
later period. The question, for in- 
stance, relating to tlie Church of Scot- 
land — that concerning Irish tithes, 
foreign politics, and many other topics, 
do not now press for immediate de- 
cision. Every month of delay must 
strengthen the Conservatives, for the 
<* do-nothing" ministry is continually 
adding to its foes; and, therefore, 
without taking advantage of any divi- 
sion between the Radicals and tite 
Whigs, let the opposition rest content 
with preventing mischief, with helping 
the feeble ministry in their timorous 
defence of their own Reform-bill, in 

their attacks on the ballot, and other 
crotchets, tiU a later period in the ses- 
sion ; when, probably, tliere will be an 
increased national disinclination to the 
Whigs, and a greater available Con- 
ser\'ative strength. 

This is the policy we deem neces- 
sary for the realisation of the cheering 
prospects which have, suice the last 
election, animated and encouraged the 
constitutional party. We say, with 
Lord Wliamclife, "Let the Whig- 
Radicals drain the cup of degradation 
to the dregs.'' Tliey have proved 
themselves incompetent to rule at 
home, and their diflBculties are in- 
creasing abroad. In Ireland, they have 
raised expectations they cannot satisfy; 
in England, they have quarrelled with 
the allies who procured them their 
power; and in the Colonies, as well 
as on the Continent, they are holding 
the lod of authoritv with a trembling 
and nerveless hand. They are com- 
pletely destitute of all the means of 
passing throush the legislature any 
measures which the opposition, in ei- 
ther house, disapprove ; and we cannot 
believe that their continnance in office, 
by the sufferance of their foes, would 
have any effectbut that of heaping odium 
and contempt upon themselves, and 
preparing the people to welcome their 
successors. At tne present moment, 
tliey answer the Conservative purposes 
remarkablv well; they are fighting a 
battle with the Radicals, with whom, 
were they in opposition, they would 
be united ; and, as they are mean and 
despicable enough, for the sake of pa- 
tronage and pay, to exist in mere no- 
minal authority, as simple tools in the 
hands of others, there can be no reason 
to dispute with them the honour of 
retaining; power on such terms. Of 
course, it is not our part now to scru- 
tinize their conduct in this particular; 
and, if it were, we should feel dis- 
inclined to undertake an analysis so 
revolting. We know of no terms of 
scorn and reprobation too strong for 
their actions tliroughout, from the pe- 
riod they joined 0*Connell at Lich6ekl 
House to the present time. We be* 
licve those actions to have been as 
unwise as they were dishonourable; 
they have ended in damaging their re- 
putations, in decreasing their party^ 
in provoking the country, in exciting 
disgust in some quarters, and distrust 
in all. And now, if their foil efiect 
be not interrupted by intempccanca on 


The ProspecU of the New Year. 


the part of tlie opposition, the result 
will inevitably be their ruin as a party 
for ever. 

To Uiis point, in the second place, 
we wish to allude. We desire to shew, 
tJtaty bif premature ntovementi by the 
CoHMervativesy the Whig-Radicals^ in- 
stead of being peritled, would be saved. 
They are, in £ict, now depending for 
preservation on any inadvertencies and 
mistakes their opponents can be be- 
trayed into making. Tlieir strength is 
dwindling away, their measures are 
£ii8t foiling thera, and tliey are tottering 
between two parties, without power to 
remain long independent, and uncertain 
with which to amalgamate and unite. 

By false steps on either side they 
might be saved, especially by rashness 
among the Conservatives, giving them 
an excuse to retire. But suppose 
them constrained now to rule the 
nation, and to carry on tlie govern- 
ment in the present conjuncture of 
afly rs ; on what do they rely for po- 
pularity in tlie country, and support 
m the House of Commons? Simply 
on a pretended desire to do justice to 
Ireland. But this justice was defined to 
be, an Appropriation-clause which they 
have abandoned, and a Corporation-bill 
which they are content to mutilate, and, 
at any rate, are unable to carry. The 
former measure has been proved a 
practical falsehood and a aelusion ; 
the latter has lost its interest, and is 
threadbare. Besides, the very men on 
whom they rely for support, on the 
strength of these two quackeries, are 
joining to oppose them on roost ques- 
tions; and, for the sake of popular 
applause, must abandon, or only co- 
vertly support them. 

Whom then, else, can they satisfy and 
conciliate ? The political Dissenters ? 
No; — their Church-rate Bill is for- 
saken, and their other ** grievances " 
are redressed on Sir Robert Peel's 
plan. The English Radicals? — Against 
these tliey have declared open war. 
The Conservatives ? — They cannot ex- 
pect aid from hence till their foreign 
policy is different, and till they assume 
a constitutional and independent po- 
licy. On none, then, can the Whigs 

rely, but themselves; and thev are not 
quite two hundred strong in the House 
of Commons, nor have they a hundred 
and twenty in the Lords. Consequent- 
ly, retention of office can only be ma- 
naged by courting national scorn — by 
yielding alternately to each party, and 
keeping faith with neither.* They have, 
tried this notable plan for two sessions, 
and it cannot be tried with success 
for more than a very short time longer. 
When they vote against the ballot, 
shorter parliaments, household suffrage, 
tlie exclusion of the bishops from the 
House of Lords, for the suppression 
of rebellion in Canada, against fresh 
and unnecessary interference with the 
slave -emancipation act, and against 
most of the assaults on the church, 
the Conservatires will aid them, and 
enable them to triumph. On the 
other hand, when they unite with 
tlie Radicals in some other pet pro- 
jects against the national establish- 
ments, or when they screen some gross 
Irish job, they will be enabled to suc- 
cee<l by a small majority at first, which 
will gradually diminish and vanish 
when fair inquiry shall have altered 
the returns of certain members. But, 
should the Conservatives in turn be- 
come assailants, in the manner and at 
the time we have suggested (that is, 
when all the petitions are decided), 
and choosing proper ground, such as 
the Church of Scotland question, away 
must go the Whig-Radical ministry; 
for, many of their old friends being 
ejected, and others, wearied with them, 
Imving ceased to support them, the re- 
sult must be their dismissal from coun- 
cils they disgrace. 

From what we have said, it must be 
evident tliat, in the present session, the 
Whigs must engage in conflict with 
either of the two opposing parties. It 
remains for the Conservatives to leave 
them and the Radicals to exhaust, 
provoke, and injure one another; dis- 
united as the Liberal party must thus 
become, it will be easily vanquished 
in detail : or, if it unite again, and act 
over again a scene of reconciliation at 
Lichfield House, increased odium will 
rest upon it, and every advantage of 

* In nearly every division of the session, ministers will be in a majority. But 
th€ triumphant side on atl occasioni will not have a majority because the ministers are 
with them, but will have ministers with them because they have a majority ! This is an 
important distinction. Ministers first discover bow the question is likely to tarn, 
and then decide how to vote ! Surely, snch an apology for an^dp^st^^^^^^yM^^ 
before existed. Oh,Sbamel where is thy blush 1 o 


The p9-osp€ci8 of the New Year. 


superior public respect and considera- 
tion will assist the Conservatiyes. If 
the latter move prematurely, the quarrel 
between the Whigs and lladicals will 
be soon made up, and will never be- 
come serious in its nature or extent. 
If, on the contrary, time be given for 
die due fermentation of spirit and dis- 
play of rancour, the Whigs will, when 
turned out of office, go out pledged to 
opposition to the Radicals on certain 
important points ; and thus will always 
secure a majority for the Conservative 
ministry on Radical motions. There 
is an old proverb, and not an inapt 
one, that "when thieves fall out, honest 
men gel their own." We contend, 
then, for ample scope and permission 
being given to the Destructives to ex- 
press their genuine sentiments of each 
other, to commit themselves on all im- 
portant matters, and to display to the 
country a spectacle calculated to spread 
distrust jn modem liberalism. We 
wish to make the Whigs speak out 
against or for the corn-laws; against 
or for the abolition of church-rates ; 
and to ascertain their precise senti- 
ments on otiier questions. Next month 
will afford an opportunity of obtaining 
this satisfaction. The Radicals, to use 
Mr. Hume's expression, have long 
enough " patted the Whigs on the 
back ;" and, to use Mr. Wak ley's, too 
long used them as ** squeezable mate- 
rials." Let the Conservatives now 
amuse themselves with extorting from 
the Whigs such confessions as shall 
avail against them when they occupy 
tlie opposition benches, and venture to 
talk Radicalism for temporary party 
purposes. Let them be " patted on 
tlie back " till they acknowledge, that, 
af^er all, they are opposed to every 
single Radical crotchet; let them b!e 
"squeeied" into sincere avowals of 
their real distaste of the Radical fac- 
•tion. They will be under the neces- 
sity, during the session, of soliciting 
Conservative aid on numerous ques- 
tions; and they really should shew a 
little gratitude when they receive it. 

If O'Connell and the tail were worth 
an appropriation-clause, what may be 
the value of Sir Robert Peel and 310 
members? We do not object to the 
Whigs only refusing to pay in words 

— we are willing, indeed, that they 
should continue occasionally to spout 
forth their old twaddle ; but we expect 
to be paid in actions, in "heavy blows *' 
at the Radicals, and " great discourage- 
ments" to the agitators.* But these 
we cannot obtain, if the Conservatives 
prematurely assail or harass them. 
Again, then, we say, let the Whigs 
quarrel with the lladicals; let the 
Conservatives encourage tliem ; and 
when, by this system, there is disaffec- 
tion in the Liberal camp, and by elec- 
tion petitions, &c., increased strength 
in the opposition, let tliem both know 
that the time has arrived for defence 
against a common opponent. 

We are not unaware that to this 
policy tliere are some objections, and 
we are not insensible to their force. 
It is to be lamented that Ireland must 
be left, for a short lime longer, under 
the partial and factious sway of a man 
like Lord Mulgrave. It is to be re- 
gretted, that tlie church patronage of 
the crown should be administered by 
men who have made a Maltby a bishop, 
and a Hampden a professor of divinity. 
It is to be feared, that our colonies are 
suffering seriously under the frivolous 
and wretched mismanagement of Lord 
Glenelg; that our national honour is 
tarnished in the hands of Lord Palmer- 
slon ; and that our finances are but 
poorly controlled by individuals who, 
in commissions and in pensions, are 
unrivalled as jobbers and corruptionists. 
But, then, we must consider, that, by 
delaying tlie return of the Conservatives 
to power, a temporary sacrifice is made 
to secure future — perhaps, permanent 

— good. By coming into office only 
when the time is ripe, the tenure of 
office will be strong, and the pro- 
babilly of continuance will be greatly 
augmented . If the Conservatives come 
in too soon, they may be expelled as 

* A notable example of this occurred in the debates on the " Spottiswoode con- 
spiracy/' so called. On Wednesday, the 6th of December, Lord John Russell, in 
order to keep the Radicals quiet, talked very boldly, in very magniloquent and (as 
extremes meet) very ludicrous terms, against that *' unconstitutional combination." 
Bat, behold ! the next day came a motion for discussion, concerning this object of 
Lord John's abhorrence ; and his lordship then kindly gave the Conservatives all 
they wanted ; not his voice, but his vote ! So we repeat, as above, that we care 
•not how much Radical twaddle is talk$d^ providing we ha^^g<M4£^fm^|jve deed$ 
from the same quarter. o 


The Prospects of the New Year, 


beft«re, and have the old battle to iiglit 
ov^r again. If they delay till the na* 
tiun is thoroughly disgusted with the 
Whigs — till the Radicals have, by their 
dedacaiioiis of fresh ultimate views, 
still more alarmed the people, they 
will ascend to power under auspices 
most encouraging, not only for their 
govemnaent, but for a dissolution, if 
rendered necessary. By turning out 
the Whigs at present, they would 
merely place themselves in difficulties 
prematurely; for a dissolution could 
not now occur so soon after ti>e late 
general election. By pausing, they 
place themselves in a positi<Hi to take 
advantage of all opportunities ; and, 
when they come into office, can dis- 
sohe witlK>ut being liable to any im» 
putatioa, or distressing their own party. 
In the mean time, the reaction in the 
country would be extending; some 
men would be leaving the Liberals \n 
parliament; the strides of Popery would 
be alarming many persons, in all dis* 
trids ; and the incapacity of the Whigs 
would be daily more perceptible, 
and more generally acknowledged. 
Moreover, when we see a Mulgrave 
in Ireland, a Palmeiston in the Fo- 
reign Office, and an Auckland in 
India, we cannot but expect that suf* 
ficient difficulties will soon arise to 
impel the nation to wish and to call 
for better rulers. Above all, Mr. 
O'Connell, who has so long been a 
bugbear to one side, and a tower of 
strength to tlie other, is rapidly losing 
influence and power ; and, conse- 
quently, if the Conservatives d^ay their 
accession to office, they will have little 
to fear from him by the time they ob- 
tain it. For these reasons, we advocate 
a cautious poKcy of resistance and self- 
defence, including an abstinence from 
every species of premature aggression, 
or of violence of any kind. ' We wish 
to see the momentwn which started the 
present ministry exhaust itself; we 
would give them no excuses to aban- 
don the offices they have usurped ; we 
would afibrd them no apology for 
escape from their difficulties, till the 
nation felt them as well as themselves ; 
we would wait till the country would 
wait no longer. And we believe, by 
so doing, that the Whigs would floun- 
der on without popularity, and with- 
out practical power ; sealing tlieir own 
doom, and laying a strong foundation 
for the perpetuity of their oppen^ts' 

Our views of tite tendency of the 
policy we recommend would be very 
diflerent had we any apprehension that 
the Whigs, by remaining in office, 
would or could act in a manner to re- 
gain their vanished popularity, and to 
retrieve cliaracter. If a Conservative 
administration were in existence, the 
Whigs would strive to eject it at once, 
knowing tliat each month of power 
would be employed so as to consolidate 
strength and acquire popular applause. 
At present, however, the deatn of the 
government may be delayed with safety; 
for life wiil onii^ be prolonged to imure 
the impossihility of resurrection. If 
Mr. Spring Rice continue chancellor 
of the exdiequer six months more, we 
shall liave another bad budget ; if Lord 
Palmerston remain at the foreign-office 
we sliall be very speedily still more de- 
spised on the Continent; if Lord Minto 
be permitted to mismanage the navy 
for a short time longer, tlie country 
will be disgusted with still more 
nepotism, folly, and cormption; if 
Lord Mulgrave be allowed to fancy 
himself ruler of Ireland, and dmw pay 
for another quarter, still greater na- 
tioMil disgust will be excited. Thus, 
each hour's continuance of Whig power 
will lessen the regret for its termination. 
Nor is there any risk whatever that 
circumstances can arise to defeat this 
calculation, and restore reputation to 
our present tottering shadow of a go- 
vernment. They can do nothing good 
in the House of Commons but relieve 
the Conservatives of the task of oppos- 
ing the Radicals; and in doing this 
they are innocently and unconscioosly 
removing many diflicullies which would 
otherwise be felt by a Conservative ad- 
ministration. For instance, they have 
stooped so low as to grant a pension- 
list committee. By so doing they 
have reaped odium on themselves for 
inconsistency ; they have attracted sus- 
picion and jealousy at court ; and they 
imve settled a matter which would 
otherwise always have been used as a 
stumbling-block to Sir Robert Peel 
when in office. Again, they have been 
worried into pleasing the political dis- 
senters, by granting a committee on 
clmrch leases. TUey have done so to 
eiise themselves of a troublesome Ques- 
tion concerning church-i-ales ; and have 
succeeded in obtaining oblivion for that 
much-mooted point till the committee 
reports, which will be some time befori^ 
the Greek kalends. But ia acting 


The Prospects of the New Year. 


thus, they have given another benefit 
to the next Conservative cabinet, inas- 
much as that cabinet will be able 
(without being responsible for the 
committee, having opposed it) to iollow 
the Whig example, and postpone the 
church-rate question till it has finally 
concluded its inquiries. 

Looking to the past, then, we find 
ample reason to conclude that the 
Whigs, by remaining in office (instead 
of retiring, as they should have done 
when defeated in the House of Lords, 
in 1835*), have only injured tliem- 
selves We believe that this view of 
the past justifies us in expecting fresh 
Whig follies for the future ; and, 
therefore, we are anxious that there 
should be no obstacle to their display. 
We desire to sec the W^higs, before 
their ejectment, once more offend the 
agriculturists, by allowing a majority 
of their cabinet to vote against the 
corn-laws ; and we wish their rancor- 
ous enmity to the church to be fiilly de- 
veloped, because we are perfectly con- 
vinced that, when such has been the 
case, the Conservatives will come in, 
as they should, in their proper cha- 
racter, as the men who have proved 
themselves, in opposition, the aefence 
of the agricultural interest, and of the 
national religious establishment. If 
the Whigs be permitted, and, we will 
add, provoked and compelled, to ex- 
press their genuine sentiments, and to 
declare their real designs, they will be 
committed in a manner which will 
operate forcibly on the public mind. 
If they be allowed to remain in office 
through the clearly recognised forbear- 
ance of the Couservalives, they will 
have no defence for any ulterior fac- 
tious opposition to their successors ; or, 
if they do shew it, the constituencies 
will very easily draw a distinction be- 
tween the successive occupants of the 
opposition benches, much to the credit 
of the Conservatives. 

In these remarks, we have through- 
out assumed that the Whigs must 
speedily evacuate their present posi- 
tion ; and we argue on that assumption 
witli the view of inducing the Con- 

servatives to assist in protracting rather 
than in hastening that deroutly to be 
desired consummation. When the 
time is ripe, let blows be stmck at the 
vacillating and wretched skel^on now 
calling itself the British government. 
Exposure can be easily made of their 
petty projects and hypocritical in- 
trigues; tliey can {mirahUe dietu/) be 
still lower sunk in contempt. There is 
no fear that wlien they retire they will 
have strength or union enough for some 
time to recover tlieir power ; there is no 
reason to dread that they will succeed 
in exciting the nation into another re- 
form fever, to act over again all the old 
farces of political unions and wholesale 
sedition. Their voice will be but '^ the 
whisper of a hciion ;*' their deeds will 
be on record to warn the nation against 
any future reliance on their professions ; 
while the Conservative administ r ation 
will be hailed as the most able and en- 
lightened ever formed in the nation. 
On this point we need only call atten- 
tion to the following comparative lists 
of the present Whig minbters, and 
tliose who will succ^ them. Who, 
after looking at both, will deny that the 
latter will invite and secure public 
confidence, by the force of their diarac- 
ters, and the reputation of their talents ? 

Whig Miniiters, Comervative Sue- 

Lord Melbourne 
Lord Lansdowne 
Lord Holland 
Lord Glenel^ 
Lord Morpeth 
Lord J<^ Russell 
Lord Doncmnnon 
Lord Palmerston 
Mr. Spring Rice 
Sir J. Hobhouse 
Mr. Fox Maule 
Lord Seymour 
Lord Cottenham 
F. T. Baring 
Sir John Campbell 
&c. £cc. Ace. 

Sir Robert Peel 
Duke of Wellington 
Lord Lvndhurst 
Jx>rd Aberdeen 
Lord Ripon 
Lord Stanlev 
Sir George Mnrray 
Lord F. Egerton 
Sir James Graham 
Lord Sandon 
Mr.W.E. Gladstone 
Lord Ashler 
Sir £. Sugden 
Sir George Clerk 
Sh- F. Pollock 
SirW. Follett 
&c. &c. &c. 

Here is a promiscuous assortment of 
names of botli parties : on the one side 
there are novelists, scribblers in annuals. 

* We believe it is generally adnaitted, even by the Wbi^-Radicals themselves, 
that if Lord Melbourne had then resigned, instead of clinging to office with such 
contemptible tenacitv, he would have obviated all the difficuTtiea he has now to 
encounter ; and would have, nevertheless, been back in office already* His lordship 
made a different calculation, and from that moment has done notlnng but desceno* 
Sir Robert Peel, on the other hand, wisely resigned in time, a^^f^^w on the eve 
of returning to office, stronger and more respected than ever. ^ 


The Prospects of the New Year. 


theorists, and adventurers, roost of tbem 
witiiout eminent ability, all of them 
without genius ; on tlie oUier side are 
some of the greatest ornaments the le- 
gislature and the bar could ever boast. 
We have sufficient reliance on the sound 
and sterling common sense of the peo- 
ple to feel assured that the national 
rulers will soon be the men most capa- 
ble of ruling, and most deserving of 
confidence and approbation. We can- 
not conceive it possible that these, the 
legitimate governors of the nation, can 
be kept much longer from the enjoy- 
ment of that power they alone are ca- 
pable of wielding ; still less do we ap- 
prehend that, if tliey once obtain au- 
thority, their actions will be sufficiently 
unworthy to merit so great scorn as 
serious comparisons with Whig- Radical 
proceedings. On the contrary, the 
Conservatives have ability and zeal 
enough to efiect measures the puny 
intellects of their competitors have 
never conceived ; and to them, there- 
fore, the nation must look for the re- 
storation of our dignity abroad, and the 
security of tranquillity at home ; to 
them must we owe the execution of 
that most critical task, tlie effectual 
emancipation of the slaves, and the 
protection of their former possessors ; 
on them must tlie duty devolve of 
maintaining the British colonial do- 
minion now invaded by rebels in 
Canada ; and by their agency must the 
Protestant institutions of the land be 
rescued, improved, and defended. 
These are actions worthy of the states- 
men who are called to perform them ; 
but &r beyond the capacity or ener^ 
of our present feeble rulers. Our ad- 
vice to the Conservatives is to let that 
incapacity and that sloth be fully 
proved ; for then a change of govern- 
ment will not be so much a party tri- 
umph as a matter of vital necessity to 
the empire at large. The year now 
commencing will, we are convinced, 
witness this auspicious event, and seal 
at once the hXe of tlie foes of the con- 
stitution in every quarter where the 
British flag waves proudly in triumph 
over foreign aggression; whether in 
Ireland, so often the field of conten- 
tion^ or in colonies we have won by 
our arms, and surely must not lose 
by our robmanagement. Nothing 
is needed to realise the prospect 
but discretion in those who are des- 
tined to accomplish security for the 
pation i DothiRg w^ destroy the ^ntici* 

cipations of approaching prosperity but 
intemperance and premature move- 
ments. Already the foundation is laid 
for a constitutional government; the 
country is tired of agitation, and de- 
mands repose ; the legislature is indis- 
posed to thwart any ministry which 
actively employs itself in well-doing. 
Tlie belief in the imbecility of the pre- 
sent cabinet is universal; the spell of 
their power is gone, and they now lean 
on no support but the contemptuous 
pity of the Radicals and Conserva- 
tives, to whom they are alternately sup- 
pliants for aid. They will do nothing 
this session ; for their Irish poor-law 
bill is impracticable in some respects, 
and inadequate in all, and they are 
wholly unable to grapple with the ques- 
tion : it is very doubtful if their Irish 
tithe-bill will be heard of, or at least 
seriously introduced ; their imprison- 
ment for debt bill is a crude measure, 
reflecting ridicule on its concoctors ; 
and their grand stalking-horse, tiie 
Irish municipal bill, is at the mercy 
of the opposition. Their pension-list 
committee was intended as a delusion, 
and will do nothing; while the lords' 
committee, moved for by Lord Roden, 
to analyse Irish tranquillity, will prove 
the gross, nefiairious partiality of their 
O'Connell - ridden viceregal govern- 
ment. The Conser^'ative policy is, 
therefore, obvious: resistance in the 
first instance; forbearance and mode- 
ration throughout; and at length ag- 
gression, but not till the country, tired 
of the ministry, demands their dismissal. 
This policy can have but one result, 
and in its character, we believe, can 
excite neither opposition nor suspicion. 
It is better for the Conservatives not to 
come in at all, than to gain their places 
by any sacrifice of principle, or by any 
dishonest coalition. Sucn proceedings 
may well be lefl to a Liclmeld House 
party, to legislators like Mr. Wakley 
and Mr. Harvey, and to statesmen 
like the advocates of repeal ; such ac- 
tions may suit the plastic disposition 
of a Loid Palmerston, and may dis- 
tinguish the otherwise unheeded career 
of a Rice or a Russell, but can never 
be justified in a body like the Con- 
servatives, including as it does the 
wealth, rank, talent, and intelligence of 
the country. Let the Whig-Radicals 
remain as long as they can in their 
present anomalous and despicable posi- 
tion, till they separate into their primaL 
elem^ts again,—*' the pure oW Whig*^ 


The Prospects of the New Year. 


once more desiring to coerce '' the sim- 
ple Radical/' and lie, in return, de- 
nouncing again the *' base, bloody, and 
brutal'* faction now in power. Let 
these heterogeneous masses, distrusting 
each other, postpone the day for retire- 
ment by every art ingenuity can invent, 
and by every fraudulent pretence they 
can discover. One by one, members 
will fall away ; one by one, those pe- 
tioned against will be ejected ; and 
then the Melbourne muiistry, the vic- 
tim of a Melbourne parliament, will 
die of sheer inanition ; and ao will 
close the farce of reform and no patron- 
age enacted by her majesty's servants, 
much to the edification of the people, 
and much more to the profit of sundry 
commissioners throughout the island. 
And then, by the strange and singular 
revolution of events, the Conservatives, 
including many of Lord Grey's sup- 
porters, will ascend to power, to support 
the reform act from the assaults of those 
who so loudly and clamorously bawled 
for *' the bill, the whole bill, nothing 
but Uie bill r' 

Joyfully, then, do we hail 18381 
We can look forwaixl to tiie days it 
brings as auspicious of approaching na- 
tional amelioration ; we can look for- 
ward to a sound and healthy lone of 
political government, and to a vigorous 
administration of the law. One tiling 
is certain : tlie Conservative party, w> 
often slain, to often laid prostrate, is 
alive, and more active than in any 
former period, — we may add, is more 
powerful and united. In the upper 
nouse of parliament it has a guarantee 
for national prosperity, and a firm bar- 
rier to all revolutionary projects ; in 
the House of Commons, it can over- 
awe, and, ere long, will overcome, the 
trembling ministry. Throughout the 
country it is gaining strength ; the an- 
cient spirit of the people is reviving, 
and there is now some sympathy with 
the institutions the last few vears have 
perilled, and the old national dignity so 
disgracefully neglected, and so fre- 
quently compromised niul disowned. 
With a choice of rulers, therefore, the 
deliberate judgment of the population 
can make but one selection, and that 

will be, not in favour of tbe patrons of 
bucaneering war and roving com- 
missions, of Irish agitation and praedial 
outrage, of petty retrenchment and ex- 
tensive private fraud ; but of the men 
who have adhered to the constimtion 
tlirough good report and evil report, 
unshaken and faithful amidst all the 
variety of personal obloquy, and all the 
odium of unpopulaiity. The church 
has regained respect, and that respect 
will be reflected on its firm defenders ; 
Popery has excited alarm, and that 
alarm will be evidenced in support of 
the foes to its ambition. Tlie appro- 
priation-clause bubble has burst; the 
Spanish war lias ended in a miserable 
failure ; justice to Ireland, as the motto 
of a party, has been proved by tad ex- 
perience to be concession by instal- 
ments ; Whig reform has (according to 
the reformers themselves) turned out a 
delusion ; and the train is laid for the 
effectual destruction of tlie patchwork 
cabinet, now mocking the country with 
iu folly. A Conservative ministry can 
be easily formed in its room ; tlie only 
question is, how are they to concoct her 
maiesty*s opposition ? aliall Brougham 
and Durham have a little Lichfield 
House of their own? shall 0*Connell 
and Uuthven embrace ? shall Roebuck 
and John Russell, Spencer and Shiel, 
Moleswortli and Vivian, Evans and 
Ilobhouse, Wakley and Howick, Pal- 
merston and Uarvey, sink all minor 
differences, and meet on some common 
ground of universal suffrage, annual 
parliaments, vote by ballot, no House 
of Lords, and the abolition, in substance 
and in name, of blood-stained tithes " ? 
Shall this be the court party ? Truly, 
'* all the world's a stage,*' and no man 
oan say what parts he is destined to 
play. Ferad venture, 1838 may witness 
this cast of characters ; and, if so, while 
we shall feel bound to congratulate the 
actors on their meek forgetfulness of 
mutual slander and injuries, we shall 
rejoice at such plain testimony to the 
tendency of the movement ; being con- 
vinced that nothing the wit of man 
could devise would answer more ad- 
mirably the purposes and the ends of 
the great Conservative party. 

Digitized by 



Our Batch of Novels for Christmas^ 1837. 



What a precious batch of novels has 
old Oliver sent us ! Our table groans 
with them — as well it may ; for the 
load was well nigh breaking down the 
hackney-coach in which it was con- 
reyedy and the backs of the two Irish 
porters who carried the same from the 
interior of the coach into the midst of 
the sanctum in our domicile. If Yorke 
supposes that we are to set in review 
before Regina's readers the tithe- part 
of the collection, he must be dream- 
ing — an indulgence he invariably al- 
lows himself, after one of the many 
syroposiacs to which the worthy fellow 
abandons his wits, for tlie purpose of 
giving a fillip to his constitution. If 
so, why were we not of the party, to 
have had our share of tlie general fun 

and potation ? But, we can easily di- 
vine. The novels were to be reviewed, 
and Oliver thought rightly, tliat, afler 
the over-night's punch and frolic, he 
would find himself little inclined for 
so much drudgery reading. He has 
laid the task on us, though we are as 
little inclined that way as the unfortu- 
nate gentleman himself; for we, also, 
had our "potations pottle deep ''yester- 
evening, in the ola ball of the Inner 
Temple, on the occasion of seven-and- 
twenty students being elevated by the 
stiff benchers from their places beneath 
the salt to the dignity of barristers. 
We must, however, obey Oliver's com- 
mands ; for it is no joking matter if he 
flies into a passion. 


If against the inroads of the evan- 
gelical party the orthodox church has 
need or a defender, it hardly would 
wishy we should think, to be assisted 
lali auxilio. Mrs. Trollope has not 
exactly the genius which is best calcu- 
lated to support the Church of Eng- 
land, or to argue upon so erave a 
subject as that on which she has 
thought proper to write. 

With a keen eye, a very sharp tongue, 
a firm belief, doubtless, in the high- 
church doctrines, and a decent reputa- 
tion from the autliorship of half-a-oozen 
novels, or other light works, Mrs. Trol- 
lope determined on no less an under- 
taking than to be the champion of 
oppressed Orthodoxy. These are feeble 
arms for one who would engage in 
such a contest ; but our fair Mrs. 
Trollo))e trusted entirely in her own 
skill, and the weapon widi which she 
proposed to combat a strong partv is 
IK) more nor less than this novel of 
The Vicar of WrexhilL It is a great 
pity that the heroine ever set forth on 
such a foolish errand ; she has only 
harmed herself and her cause (as a 
bad advocate always will), and had 
much better have remained at home, 
pudding-making or stocking-mending, 
than have meddled with matters which 
* she understands so ill. 

In the first place (we speak it with 

due respect for the sex), she b guilty 
of a fault which is somewhat too com- 
mon among them ; and having very lit- 
tle, except prejudice, on which to found 
an opinion, she makes up for want 
of argument by a wonderful fluency of 
abuse. A woman's religion is chiefly 
that of the heart, and not of the head . 
She goes through, for the most part, 
no tedious processes of reasoning, no 
dr^dful stages of doubt, no changes of 
faith : she loves God as she loves her 
husband — by a kind of instinctive 
devotion. Faith is a passion with her, 
and not a calculation ; so that, in the 
faculty of believing, though they hr 
exceed the other sex, in the power of 
convincing they fall far short of them. 
Oh ! we ropeat once more, that ladies 
would make puddings and mend stock- 
ings 1 that they would not meddle 
with religion (what is styled religion, 
we mean), except to pray to God, to 
live quietly among their families, and 
move lovingly among their neighbours I 
Mrs. Trolloi^e, for instance, who sees 
so keenly the follies of the other party 
— how much vanity there is in Bible 
Meetings — how much sin even at 
Missionary Societies — how much cant 
and hypocrisy there is among those 
who desecrate the awful name of God, 
by mixing it with their mean private 
interests and petty projects — Mrs. 

• The Yicar of Wrexbill. By Mrs. Trollope, Autbor of *< Jonathan Jeffvsoa 
Whitlaw," " Domestic Mannmrs of the Americeof," *' Tremon^rn Cli|^'Jp^^<j^ 

3 ToLi. 8vo. London, 1837. Bentlej. 


Our Batch of Novels for Christmas, 1837. [January, 

Trollope cannot see that there is any 
hypocrisy or bigotry on her part. 
She, who designates the rival party as 
folse, and wicked, and vain — tracing 
all their actions to the basest motives, 
declaring their worsliip of God to be 
only one general hypocrisy, their con- 
duct at home one fearful scene of crime, 
is blind to the faults on her own side. 
Always bitter against the Pharisees, 
she does as the Pharisees do. It is 
vanity, very likely, which leads these 
people to use God's name so often, 
and to devote all to perdition who do 
not coincide in their peculiar notions. 
Is Mrs. Trollope less vain than they 
when she declares, and merely deduret, 
her own to be the real creed, and 
stigmatises its rival so fiercely? Is 
Mrs. Trollope serving God, in making 
abusiveand licentious pictures of those 
who serve Him in a different way ? 
Once, as Mrs. Trollope has read — it 
was a long time ago! — there was a 
woman taken in sin : the people brought 
her before a great Teacher of Truth, 
who lived in those days. Shall we 
not kill her ? said they : the law com- 
mands that all aduUresses shall be 
killed. We can fancy a Mrs. Trollope 
in the crowd, shouting, **0h, tne 
wretch I oh, the abominable harlot I 
kill her, by all means — stoning is 
really too good for her!*' But what 
did the Divine Teacher say ? He was 
quite as anxious to prevent the crime 
as any Mrs. Trollope of them all ; but 
He did not even make an allusion to 
it — He did not describe the manner 
in which the poor creature was caught 
— He made no speech to detail the 
indecencies which she had committed, 
or to raise the fury of the mob against 
her — He said, *< Let the man who is 
without sin himself throw the first 
slone !*' Whereupon the Pharisees and 
Mrs. Trollopes slunk away, for they 
knew they were no better than she. 
There was as great a sin in His eyes as 
that of the poor erring woman — it was 
the sin of pride. 

Mrs. Trollope may make a licentious 
book, of which the heroes and heroines 
are all of the evangelical party; and it 
may be true, that there are scoundrels 
belonging to that party as to every 
other : but her shameful error has been 
in fixing upon the evangelical cluu as 
an object of satire, making them neces- 
sarily licentious and hypocritical, and 
charging upon a^ery one of tham the 
Yic^ which belong; to only a very few 

of all sects. Another writer, because 
the Rev. Mr. Hackman murdered a 
young lady, or the Rev. Dr. Dodd 
forged a bill of exchange, might, with 
fully as much justice, declare all clergy- 
men to be murderers, and the wlK>le 
body of tlie Church of England to be 
a set of forgers. We will follow the 
foir lady through a part of her story, 
and see how she deals with the people 
whose characters she professes to de- 

The Rev. Jacob Cartwright arrives 
to take possession of Wrexhill vicarage, 
just as the lord of Wrexhill manor, 
Mr. Mowbray, falls ill of an apoplexy 
and dies. Mr. Mowbray, senior, dies 
on the day aAer Mr. Mowbray, junior, 
comes of age; and sad is tlie sorrow 
of his two daugliters, Helen and Fanny ; 
of his ward. Miss Rosalind Torrington ; 
and, above all, of his wretched widow, 
Mrs. Mowbray. 

The match, on her part, had been 
one of singular disinterestedness. She 
was the possessor of a vast fortune in 
land and the tliree per cents; and, with 
the simplicity of a confiding heart, 
which despises the botheration of a 
settlement, she had married Mr. Mow- 
bray, who thus became the master of 
all her wealth. But they lived to- 
gether, says Mrs. Trollope, in the most 
affectionate manner, until Mowbray's 
sudden demise, with a charming family 
around ; Mrs. Mowbray, the first woman 
of the countr}', loving her husband, lov- 
ing her children, and looked up to by 
all the neiglibourhood. It may be sup- 
posed that such a charming creature 
Jonly forty-three, Mrs. Trollope says, 
and very young and pretty for her 
age) must have felt sadly the stroke 
of fate which carried off the best of 
husbands, one fine morning before 

Without any violent breach of pro- J 
bability, we may, we think, take it for 
granted tliat she vntt very seriously 
unhappy. A woman who loves her 
husband, and loses him, is not unnatu- 
rally so ; a tender mother, with grown- 
up children, and a son to preside at 
her table, hardly thinks, at five-and- 
fbrty, of looking for another husband. 
The affectionate creature whose portrait 
is executed by Mrs. Trollope thinks 
otherwise. Ten days after her adored 
husband's death she receives the vicar 
of Wrexhill; in about a month, ilie 
tender mother begins to liate her 
childrep-; in three m^ntlis, the faHhfi»l 


Trollape's " Vicar of WrexhUir 


wife is over head and ears in love with 
her new acquaintance; in eight months 
after poor Mowbray's disappearance, 
Mrs. Mowbray, the first lady in the 
county, becomes the wife of an upstart 
of bad character; Mowbray Park, the 
seat ofher family, is baptised Carlwright 
Park ; and herson, Master Mowbray, the 
heir to twenty thousand pounds u-year, 
is sent to Cambridge with a ten-pound 
note, and told to be economical and 
to study hard. Here are nature and 
reality ! Here is a likely ^ries of facts 
and characters ! The faiiier of lies 
himself could hardly do as much mis- 
chief in this course of time, were he 
to come bodily to tempt Mrs. Mow- 
bray. How could a single, unhappy, 
evangelical clergyman, execute all these 
miracles of evil ? See what a man 
may come to by differing with a lady 
in religion, and following any otiier 
system of Christianity besides that ad- 
vocated by Saint Trollope ! 

There arc some books, we are told, 
in tlie libraries of Roman Catholic 
theologians, which, though written for 
the most devout purposes, are so in- 
geniously obscene as to render them 
quite dangerous for common eyes. The 
groom, in the old story, had never 
learned the art of greasing horses' teeth 
to prevent their eating oats, until tlie 
confessor, in interrogating him as to 
his sinsy asked him the question. The 
next time tlie groom came to confess, 
be had greased the horses' teeth. It 
was the holy fether who taught him^ 
by the very ract of warning him against 
it. By which we mean, that there are 
some sins of which it is better not to 
speak at all. 

Our fair moralist, however, has no 
such squeamishness. She will shew 
up these odious evangelicals ; she will 
expose them and chastise them, wher- 
ever they be. So have we seen in that 
beautiful market in Thames Street, 
whither the mariners of England bring 
the glittering produce of their nets — 
so liave we seen, we say, in Bilings- 
gate, a nymph attacking another of her 
sisterhood. How keenly she detects 
and proclaims the number and enor- 
mity of her rival** faults 1 How elo- 
quently she enlarges upon the gin she 
has drunk, the children she has con- 
fided to the parish, tlie watchmen whose 
noses she has broken, and the bridewells 
which she lias visited in succession ! 
No one can but admire the lady's elo- 
<}iience and talent in conducting th« 

vox.' xvii* )^ xcviu 

case for the prosecution ; no one will, 
perhaps, doubt tlie guilt of the hapless 
object on whom her wratli is vented. 
But, witli all her rage for morality, 
had not the fair accuser have better 
left the matter alone ? Tliat torrent of 
slang and oaths, O nymph ! falls ill 
from thy lips, which should never 
open but for a soft word or a smile ; 
that accurate description of vice, sweet 
orator [-tress or -trix] ! only sliews that 
thou thyself art but too well acquainted 
with scenes which ll)y pure eyes should 
never have beheld. And when we 
come to the matter in dispute — a 
simple question of mackerel — O, Mrs. 
Trollope ! why, why should you abuse 
other people's fish, and not content 
yourself with selling your own ? 

But, to return to Cartwright and 
Mrs. Mowbray. The evangelical mon- 
ster no sooner obtains a footing in 
Mowbray House, than he casts his 
eyes round about to see on whom he 
shall begin to practise his wicked ways. 
The schamer ! not content with the love 
of all tlie ladies in the village, he 
makes tender advances to poor little 
Miss Fanny Mowbray : he prays with 
her in private (extracts from the prayers 
are given by Mrs. Trollope), and com- 
pletely succeeds in winning, under the 
guise of devotion, the budding affec- 
tions of this warm and innocent young 
lady. But, presently, he discovers 
tliat the mother is as partial to him as 
tlie daughter ; and, of^ course, forsakes 
instantly tlie young one in search of 
the older and richer prize. 

To be more in bis power, Mrs. 
Mowbrav must be despatched to Lon- 
don, and confided to an attorney of his 
own kin and persuasion, \f\itli the 
following polite letter the vicar pre- 
pares Mr. Corbold for the arrival of 
his client; 

" To Stephen Corbold, E$</., Solicitor , 
Gray^s Inn, London, 

" My dear volued friend and cousin, — 
It baa at length pleased God to enable 
me to prove to you how sincere is the 
mtitnde which I have ever professed 
for the important service your father 
conferred upon me, by the timely loan of 
two hundred pounds, when 1 was, I he- 
lieve you know, inconvenienced by a 
very troublesome claim. It has been a 
constant matter of regret to me that I 
have never, through the many years 
which have since passed, been able to 
repay it ; but, if I mistake not, the ser- 
vice which I am now enabled to render 


Our Batch of Novels for Chriitmas^ 1837. [January, 

you will eventually prove socb as fairij 
to liquidate your claim upon me; and, 
from my knowledge of your honourable 
feelings. I cannot doubt your beinz will- 
ing to deliver to me my bond for the 
same, should your advantages from the 
transaction in hand prove at all com- 
mensurate to my expectations.*' 

[Here follows a statement of the 
widow Mowbray's business in London, 
with tlie commentary upon the ways 
and means whicli she |K)sses8ed to 
carry tliat, and all other business in 
which she was concerned, to a satis- 
factory conclusion, much to tlie con- 
tentment of all those fortunate enough 
to be employed as her assistants therein. 
The reverend gentleman then proceeds 
thus :] 

*' Nor is this all I would wish to say 
to you, cousin Stephen, on the subject 
of the widow Mowbray's affitirs, and the 
advantages which may arise to you from 
the connexion which, eijually, of course, 
for her advantage as for yours, I am de- 
sirous of establishing between you. 

** 1 need not tell you, cousin Stephen, 
who, by the blessing of a gracious Saviour 
upon your worthy endeavours, have al- 
ready been able, in a little way, to see 
what law is — I need not, I say, point 
out to you, at any great length, how 
much there must of necessity be to do in 
the management of an estate and of funds 
which hnns^ in a net income somewhat 
exceeding fourteen thousand pounds per 
annum. Now I learn, from my excellent 
friend, Mrs. Mowbray, that her husband 
transacted the whole of this business 
himself: an example which, I need not 
remark, it is impoetible for his widow 
and sole legatee to follow. She is quite 
aware of this ; and. by a merciful dis- 
pensation of the Most High, her mind 
appears to be singularly ductile, and 
liable to receive such impressions as a 
piousand attentive friend is able to enforce 
on all points. In addition to this great 
and heavy charge which it hns pleased 
an all-wise God, doubtless for his own 
good purposes, to lay upon her, she has 
also the entire management, as legal and 
sole guardian of a young Irish heiress, 
of another prodigiously fine property, 
consisting, like her own, partly of money 
in the English funds, and partly in houses 
and lands in the northern part of Ireland. 
The business connected with the Tor- 
ringtou property is, therefore, at this 
moment, as well as every thing else con- 
cerning the widow Mowbray's affairs, 
completely without any agent whateyer ; 
and I am not without hopes, cousin 
Stephen, that, by the blessing of God to 
us-wtrd, I may h% •nabled to obtain the 
) for you. 

" I know the pious habits of yosr 
mind, cousin, and that you, like myself, 
never see any remarkable oecurrenee 
without clearly tracing therein the im- 
mediate linger of God. I oonfess that, 
throughout the whole of this affair — the 
sudden death of the late owner of this 
noble fortune ; the singular will he left, 
by which it has all become wholly and 
solely at the disposal of his excellent 
widow ; the hasty, and not overwise de- 
termination to renounce the executorship, 
on the part ^f this petulant Sir Gilbert 
Harrington ; the accident, or, rather, 
series of accidents, by which I have be- 
come, at once and so unexpectedly, the 
chief stsjT, support, comfort, oonaoUtioo, 
and adviser, of this amiable but yery 
helpless lady ; — throughout the whofe 
of this I cannot, I say, but observe the 
gracious providence of my Lord, who 
wills tliat I should obtain power and 
mastery even over the things of this 
world, worthless though they be, cousin 
Stephen, when set in comparison vrith 
those of the worid to come. It is 
my clear perception of the will of 
God in this matter which renders ma 
willing, yea, ardent in my desire, to 
obtain influence over the Mowbray fa- 
mily. They are not all, however, equally 
amiable to the wholesome guidance I 
would afford them : it is evident to me, 
that the youngest child is the only one 
in whom the Lord is at present disposed 
to pour forth a saving light. Never- 
theless, I will persevere. Peradventure 
the hearts of tbe disobedient may, in the 
and, be turned to the wisdom of tbe 
just ; and we know right wtU who it U 
that can ftve from all danger, evea though 
a man went to sea without art : a tempu 
ing of Providence which would, in my 
case, be most criminal ; for great in that 
respect has been the mercy of the I^rd 
to his servant, giving unto me Uiat light 
which is needful to guide us through the 
rocks and shoals for ever scattered amidst 
worldly affairs. 

** Thus much have I written to you, 
cousin Stephen, with my own hand, that 
you might fully comprehend the work 
that lies before us. But I will not with 
pen and ink write more unto you, for I 
trust I shall shortly see you, and we 
shall speidc face to mce. I am now and 
and ever, cousin Stephen, your loving 
kinsman and Christian friend, 

*' William jAcon Cartwricht. 

" P.S. — Since writing the above, the 
widow Mowbray has besought me to in. 
struct the gentleman acting as her agent to 
obtain lodgings for her, in a convenient 
quarter of the town ; end, therefore, this 
letter will precede her. Nor can she 
be, indeed, set fortli, until you inform 
Jier whareunto her equipage must be iy- 


Trollope's " Vicar of Wrexhili:' 


stroeted to drive. Remember, cousin, 
t^t the apartments be suitable ; and, in 
cboostug* tbem, recollect that it is neiUier 
jcm nor I who will pay for the same. 
Farewell. If I mistake' not, the mercy 
of the Lord ovensliadowsyoi],m J cousin.^' 

This is a very clever piece of writing 
(for we are iiot going to question at all 
tke undeniable talent of the authoress 
of the Vicar of WrexkiU), and there is 
little in the whole passage to cause any 
outrageous disgust in the mind of any 
reader. The blasphemy of the vicar 
is of the simple kind here ; not a com- 
pound hypocrisy, such as he displays 
in his prayers with Miss Fanny, when 
he contrives, in addressing the Deity, 
to make the most passionate and licen- 
tious avowals to the young girl. These 
prayers we shall not make it our busi- 
ness to transplant into our columns : 
it would be a pity to take them from 
the congenial soil in which they 
grow. But it is a gross and monstrous 
libel on the part of the authoress, who 
might, if she chose, describe one hypo- 
crite of the class of evangelical Christ- 
ians, to make titem all liars and hypo- 
crites. She does not introduce an 
evangelical dinner into her book, but 
it is a scene of drunkenness and de- 
bauchery ; not an evangelical visit, but 
it is a display of licentiousness, overt 
and covert, such as no woman ever 
conceived before. This Mr. Corbold 
is as great a rogue as his cousin. Mrs. 
Mowbray arrives in town — more paw- 
paw work between her and the vicar. 
She transacts her business, and returns 
to the country with her solicitor in the 
carriage ; her daughter sitting beside 
that gentleman, who occupied what is 
vulgarly called the place of bodkin. 

" ' You will sit in Uie middle, Ileloo/ 
said Mnt. Mowbray. 

" • I wish, mnmma, you would let me 
sit in the dickey,* replied the young 
lady; looking up as she spoko to the 
renr comfortable and unoccupied seat in 
front of the carriage, which, but for Mre. 
Mowbray's respectful religious acmples, 
might certainly have accommodated Mr. 
Corbold and bis bog perfectly well, ' I 
should like it so much better, mamma.' 

" ' Let me sit iu the middle, I entreat,' 
cried Mr. Corbold, entering the carriage 
in haste, to prevent further discussion. 
• My dear young lady,* he continued, 
placing bis person in the least graceful 
of all imaginable attitudes, ' my dear 
young lady I I beseech you * 

"•Go into the comer, Helen!' said 
Mr#. Mowbray, hastily, wishing lo put 

so exemplary a Christian more at his 
ease, and without thinking it necessary 
to answer the insidious petition of her 
daughter, which, as she thought, plainly 
pointed at the exelnsion of the righteous 

*' Helen ventured not to repeat it, and 
the carriage drove off. For the first mile 
Mr. Stephen Corbold sat, or, rather, 
perched himself, at the eztremeat edge 
of the seat, his hat between his knees, 
and every muscle that ought to have been 
at rest in active exercise, to prevent his 
falling forward on his nose ; every fea- 
ture, meanwhile, seeming to say, ' This 
is not my carriage.' But, by gentle 
degrees, he slid farther and further back- 
wards, till his spare person was not only 
in the enjoyment of ease, but of great 
happiness also. 

** Helen, as her mother observed, was 
'very slight;* and Mr. Corbold began 
almost to fanc^ that she would at last 
vanish into thin air: for, as he quietly 
advanoed, so did she quietly retreat, till 
she certainly did appear to shrink into a 
very snudl compass indeed, 

• • • 

" On the journey to London, Mrs. 
Mowbray had not thought it necessary 
to stop for dinner on the road, both she 
and Helen preferring to take a <%andwicb 
in the carriage; but, from thi fear of 
infringing any of the duties of t'lat hos- 
pitality which she now held in such high 
veneration, she arranged matters di&. 
rently: and learning, upon consulting 
her footman, that an excellent house was 
situated between London and Wrexhili, 
she not only determined upon stopping 
there, but directed the man to send for- 
ward a note, ordering an early dinner to 
be ready for them. 

'* This halt was an aereeable surprise 
to Mr. Stephen Corbold. It was, in- 
deed, an arrangement such as those of 
his peculiar sect are generallv found to 
approve ; for it is a remarkable fact, 
easily ascertained by any who will give 
themselves the trouble of inquiry, that 
the serious Christians of the present age 
indulge themselves bodily, whenever the 
power of doing so falls in their way, 
exactly in proportion to the privations 
and mortifications with which they tor- 
ment the spirits : so that, while a young 
sinner would fly from an untested glass 
of claret, that he might not lose the pro- 
logue to a new play, a young sinner 
would sip up half-a-dosen (if he could 
get them) while descanting on the griev- 
ous pains of hell which the pursuit of 
pleasure would for ever bring. 

<' The repast, and even the wine, did 
honour to the recommendation of the 
careful and experienced Thomas; an^ 
Mrs. Mowbray had the sincere satis- 


Our Batch of Novels for Christmas, 1837. [January, 

faotioii of temng Mr. Corbold {*le pauvre 
homme!*) eat half-a-pound of •almon, 
one-third of a leg of lamb, and three- 

3uartera of a large pigeon-pie, with a 
egree of relish that proved to her that 
she was very right to ' stop for dinner.* 

** Nothing can shew g^titude for such 
little attentions as these, so pleasantly 
and so effeotoally as taking full advantage 
of them. Mr. Corbold, indeed, carried 
this feeling so far, that, even after the 
two ladies had left the room, he stepped 
back, and pretty neariy emptied the two 
decanters of wiue before he rejoined 

" The latter part of the journey pro- 
duced a Tery disag^reeable scene ; which 
though it ended, as Helen thought at the 
time, most delightfully for her, was pro- 
ductive in its consequences of many a 
bitter heartach. 

<* It is probable that the good cheer at 

D , toffether with the final libatioo 

that washed it down, conveyed more than 
ordinary animation to the animal spirits 
of the attorney; and for some miles he 
discoursed, with more than his usnal 
unction, about the sins of the sinful, tlie 
holiness of the holjr, till poor dear Mrs. 
Mowbray, in spite of her vehement 
struggles to keep her eyes open, fell 

** No sooner was Mr. Stephen Corbold 
fully aware of this fact, tlian he began 
making some rery tender speeches to 
Helen. For some time, her only reply 
was expressed by thrusting her head still 
further out of the side-window. But 
this did not avail her long. As if to 
intimate to her that a person, whose at- 
tention could not be obtained through 
the medium of the ears, must be ronsed 
from thtir apathy by the touch, he took 
her hand. 

** Upon this she turned, as suddenly 
as if an adder had stung her; and turning 
her eyes, beaming with rage and indigna- 
tion, upon him, said : 

*< * If you venture, sir, to repeat this 
insult, I will call to the postilions to 
stop, and tell the footman instantly to 
take yon out of the carriage' 

" He returned her glance, however, 
rather witli passion than repentance; 
and, audaciously putting his arm round 
lier waist, drew her towards him, while 
he whispered in her ear, ' What would 
your dear, good mamma, say to this V 

** Had he possessed the cunning of 
Mephistophiles, he could not have ut- 
tared words more calculated to unnerve 
her. 1'be terrible conviction that her 
mother might justify, excuse, or, at any 
rate, pardon the action, came upon her 
lieart like ice, and, burying her face in 
her hands, she burst into tears. 

^* Hwl Mii. St^pheiR Corbold been. f\ 

wise man, he would here have oeased his 
persecution ; he saw that ahe was hum. 
bled to die dust by the reference be had 
80 skilfully made to her mother; and, 
perhaps, had he emptied only one de- 
canter, he might have decided that it 
would be desirable to leave her in that 
state of mind. Dut as it was, he bad 
the very exceeding audacity once more 
to put his arm round her, and, by a 
sudden and most unexpected movement, 
impressed a kiss upon her cheek. 

** Helen uttered a piercing shriek, and 
Mrs. Mowbray, opening her eyes, de- 
manded, in a voice of alarm, ' What is 
the matter V 

" Mr. Corbold sate profoundly silent, 
but Helen answered, in great agitation, 
' I can sit in the carriage no longer, 
mamma, unless you turn out this man.' 

'* Oh, Helen, Helen ! what can yoa 
mean by using such language V answered 
her mother. ' It is pride, I know ; abo- 
minable pride !^I have seen it from the 
very first ; which leads you to treat this 
excellent man as you do. Do you forget 
that he is the relation, as well as the 
friend, of our minister 1 Fie upon it, 
Helen! You must bring down this 
haughty spirit to sometliing more ap- 
proaching to meek Christian humili^, 
or you and I shall never be able to live 

Now, this scene is as improbable as 
it is rankly indecent. A young girl 
assaulted at her rootlier*8 side, and the 
mother (a lady of high birth and breed- 
ing) quite callous to the insult — an 
artful scoundrel of an attorney, who 
has before him the prospect of a busi- 
ness which is to make his fortune, and 
who would naturally wear his very best 
behaviour, drunk on the very first op- 
portunity, and insulting the daughter 
of the person on whom all his success 
in life depends! Such clever rogues 
as Mrs. Trollope*s evangelical hypo- 
crites would surely be a little more 
careful in their hypocrisy, and not for- 
get the main chance for all the kisses 
from all the Miss Mowbrays in tlie 

The lady returns to Mowbray Hall ; 
marries the vicar, as we have said ; 
and the remainder of the novel detaiU 
his doings under his new accession of 
riches, lliere is a capital buriesque 
of a serious fancy-fair, and a Jew- 
missionary to W^ahheboo ; which exhibits 
a most unwomanlike genius for slang 
and drollery. And there are scenes 
with tlie ladies of tlie village, and de- 
scriptions of the vicar's manner of spi- 
ri^Mftl.cAH8olQMQn,.wl\icl»iJf ibejf hsA 


Bulwers " Ernest Mailravers.'^ 


been wriUen by Fielding or Louvet, 
could scarcely be less unficrupulously 
filthy. Of course, Mrs. Cartwright 
makes aAvill, at the instigatiou oflier 
demon of a husband, leaving away 
her property fronj her children. Of 
course, too, stricken by repentance, 
she manages secretly to prepare an- 
other. She dies, and it may be ima- 
gined how virtue is at length rewarded 
— how the young Mowbravs marry the 
respectire lads or girls of their heart — 
and how the fiendish vicar slinks away 

from Mowbray Hall, which henceforth 
becomes the abode of happiness, virtue, 
and the real orthodox religion of the 
Church by law established. 

There can be little doubt as to the 
cleverness of this novel, but, coming 
from a woman's pen, it is most odiously 
and disgustingly indecent. As a party 
attack, it is an entire fiulure; and as a 
representation of a very large portion 
of English Christians, a shamenil and 
wicked slander. 


To talk of Ernest Maliravers^ now, 
is to rake up a dead man*s ashes. The 
poor creature came into the world al- 
most still-born, and, though he has 
hardly been before the public for a 
month, is forgotten as much as Rienzi 
or the Disowned. What a pity that 
Mr. Bulwer will not learn wisdom 
with age, and confine his attention to 
subjects at once more grateful to the 
public and more suitable to his own 
powers ! He excels in the genre of 
raul de Kock, and is always striving 
after the style of Plato; he has a keen 
perception of the ridiculous, and, like 
Liston or Cruikshank, and other comic 
artists, persists that his real vein is the 
sublime. What a number of sparkling 
magazine-papers, what an outpouring 
of fun and satire, might we have had 
from Neddy Bulwer, had he not thought 
fit to turn moralist, metaphysician, 

E>litician, poet, and be Edward Lytton 
eaven-knows-what Bulwer, Esquire 
and M.P., a dandy, a philosopher, a 
spouier at Radical roeetines. We 
speak feelingly, for we knew the youth 
at Trinity Hall, and have a tenderness 
even for his tom-fooleries. lie has 
thrown away Uie better part of himself 
— his great inclination for the low, 
namely : if he would but leave off 
scents for his handkerchief, and oil for 
his hair; if he would but confine him- 
self to three clean shirts in a week, a 
couple of coats in a year, a beef-steak 
and onions for dinner, his beaker a 
pewter- pot, his carpet a sanded floor, 
now much might be made of him even 
yet! An occasional pot of porter too 
much — a black eye, in a tap-room 
fight with a cannan — a night in the 
watchhouse — or a surfeit produced by 
Welsh rabbit and gin and beer, might. 

perhaps, redden his fair face and swell 
nis slim waist; but the mental im-^ 
provement which he would acquire 
under such treatment — the intellectual 
pluck and vigour which he would attain 
by the stout diet — the manly sports 
and conversation in which he would 
join at the Coal-Hole, or tlie Widow's, 
are far better for him than the feeble 
fribble of the Ueform Club (not inaptly 
called " the Hole in the Wall ") ; the 
windy French dinners, which, as we take 
it, are his usual fare; and, above all, the 
unwholesome Radical garbage which 
forms the political food of himself and 
his clique m the House of Commons. 

For here is the evil of his present 
artificial courses — the humbug required 
to keep up his position as dandy, poli- 
tician, and philosopher (in neither of 
which latter characters the man is in 
earnest), must get into his heart at last; 
and then his trade is ruined. A little 
more politics and Plato, and the na- 
tural disappears altogether from Mr. 
Bulwefs writings : the individual man 
becomes as undistinguishable amidst 
the farrago of philosophy in which he 
has chosen to envelope himself, as a 
cutlet in the sauces of a French cook. 
The idiosyncrasy of the mutton pe- 
rishes under the effects of the adjuncts: 
even so the moralising, which may be 
compared to the mushrooms, of Mr. 
Bulwer*s style; the poetising, which 
may be likened unto the flatulent tur- 
nips and carrots ; and the politics, 
which are as the gravy, reeking of 
filthy garlic, greasy with rancid oil ; — 
even so, we say, pursuing this savoury 
simile to its fullest extent, the natural 
qualities of young Pelham— the whole- 
some and juicy mutton of the mind, is 
shrunk and stewed away. 

u: f^! r "i^dooW^^wjr*"''"'" -^^^^^^^^^ 


Our Batch of Navels for Chrutmas, 1837. ^^Janilarv, 

Or, to continue in lliis clmrroing 
vein uf parable, the author of Pelham 
may be likened unto Beau Tibbs. 
Tibbs^ as we all remember, would pass 
for a pink of fhsliion, and had a wife 
whom he presented to the world as a 
paragon of virtue and ton, and who 
was but the cast-off mistress of a lord. 
Mr. Bulwer*s philosophy is his Mrs. 
Tibbs ; he thrusts her forward into the 
company of her betters, as if her rank 
and reputation never admitted of a 
question. To all his literary under- 
takings this goddess of his accompanies 
him ; and what a cracked, battered 
trull she is I with a person and morals 
which would suit Vinegar Yard, and a 
chastity that would be hooted in J)rury 

The morality which Mr. Bulwer lias 
acquired in his researches, political 
and metaphysical, is of the most extra- 
ordinary nature. For one who is al- 
ways preaching of Truth of Beauty, 
i\\e dulness of his moral sense is per- 
fectly ludicrous. He cannot see that 
the hero into whose mouth he places 
his favourite metaphysical gabble — 
his dissertations upon the stars, the 
passions, Uie Greek plays, and what 
not — his eternal whine about what he 
calls the good and the beautiful — is a 
fellow as mean and paltry as can be 
well imagined ; a man of rant, and 
not of action ; foolishly infirm in pur- 
pose, and strong only in desire ; whose 
beautiful is a tawdry strumpet, and 
whose good would be crime in the 
eyes of an honest man. So much for 
the portrait of Ernest Maltravers: as 
for the artist, we cannot conceive a 
man to have failed more completely. 
He wishes to paint an amiable man, 
and he succeeds in drawing a scoun- 
drel : he says he will give us the like- 
ness of a genius, and it is only the 
picture of a humbug. 

Ernest Maltravers is an eccentric 
and enthusiastic young man, to whom 
we are introduced upon his return from 
a German university. Fond of wild 
adventure and solitary rambles, we find 
him upon a heath, wandering alone, 
tired, and benighted. The two iirst 
chapters of the book are in Mr. Bul- 
wer s very best manner ; the description 
of the lone hut to which the lad comes 
— the ruffian who inhabits it — the 
designs which he has upon the Jife of 
his new guest, and the manner in which 
his daughter defeats them, are told with 
admirable liveliness and effect. The 

young man escapes, and with h'kn the 
girl who had prevented his niimier. 
Both are young, interesting, and tender- 
hearted ; ^e loves but him, and would 
die of starvation without him. Ernest 
Maltravers cannot resist the claim of 
so unprotected a creature ; he hires a 
Cottage for her, and a writing-roaster. 
He is a young man of genius and 
generous dispositions ; he is an excel- 
lent Chri.stian, and instructs the igno* 
rant Alice in the awful truths of his re- 
ligion : moreover, he is deep in poetry, 
philosophy, and the German meta- 
physics. How should such a Christian 
mstruct an innocent and beautiful 
child, his pupil? What should sucli 
a philosopher do? Why, $educe her, 
to be sure ! Afler a deal of namby- 
pamby Platonism, the girl, as Mr. 
Bulwer says, *^ goes to the deuce.'' 
The expression is as charming as the 
morality, and appears amidst a quan- 
tity of the very finest writing about the 
good and tl\e beautiful, youth, love, 
passion, nature, and so forth. 

It is curious how one rapidly turns 
from good to bad in this book. How 
clever the descriptions are ! Ik)w neatly 
some of the minor events and person- 
ages are hit off! and yet, how asto- 
nishingly vile and contemptible the 
chief part of it is! — that part, we mean, 
which contains the adventures of the 
hero, and, of course, the choice reflec- 
tions of the author. 

The declamations about virtue are 
endless, so soon as Maltravers appears 
upon the scene ; and yet we find him 
committing the agreeable little fans 
pas of which we have just spoken. 
In one place, we have him making 
violent love to another man's wife ; in 
anotiier place, raging for blood like a 
tiger, and swearing for revenge. Let 
us listen to a little of his prate : 

" 'And you, Mr. Maltravers/ said 
Lady Florence, tuminr quickly round, 
' you — have you friencU 1 Do you feel 
that there are, 1 do not say public, bat 

{>rivate affections and duties, for which 
ife is made less a possession than a 
trust V 

** ' Lady Florence, no. 1 have friends, 
it is true; and Cleveland is of the near- 
est : but the life within life-— the second 
self, in whom we vest the right and mas- 
tery over own being — I know it not. 
But is it,' be added, after a pause, *a 
rare privation 1 Perhaps it is a happy 
one. I have learnt to lean on my own 
soul, and not look elsewhere for the reeds 
that a wind can break.' uglC 


Bulwer*$ ** EmeU MuUravers.*' 


*' ' Ab, it 18 a cold philoaophy ! You 
may rveoncile yourself to its wisdom in 
th» world, in the bum and shock of men : 
bat in solitude, with nature — ah, no! 
While the mind alone is occupied, you 
ma^ be contented . wiih the pride of 
stoicism ; but there are moments when 
tbe heart wakens as from a sleep -^ 
wakens like a frightened child, to feel 
itself alone and in tbe dark.' 

" Ernest was silent, and Florence con- 
tinued, in an altered roice, 'This is a 
straDgeoonversation ; and you must think 
me, indeed, a wild, romance>reading per- 
son, as the world is apt to call me. . But 
if Hire, I psliaw ! life denies am- 
bition to women!* 

•* * If a woman like you, Lady Florence, 
should erer Io?e. it will be one in whose 
career you may perhaps find that noblest 
of all ambitions — tlie ambition women 
only feel — the ambition for another !' 

" ' Ah, but I shall nerer lore,* said 
Lady Florence ; and her cheek Kj^^ pale 
as tbe stariiffht shone on it. * Still, per- 
haps.' she added quickly, * I may at least 
know the ble«ing of frieadshp. Why, 
bow' — and here, approachin|^ Maltrarers, 
she laid her hand, with a wraning frank- 
nass, on his arm — 'why, now, should 
not we be to each other as if lore, as 
you call it, were not a thine for earth, 
and friendship supplied its place ? There 
is no danger of our falling in lore with 
each other : you are not rain enough to 
expect it in me ; and I, you know, am a 
coquette. Let, us be friends, confidants 
— at least, till' you marry, or I eire an- 
other tbe right to control my fnendsbip 
and monopolise my secrets.' 

" MaHrarers was startled ; the senti- 
iMnt Florence addressed to him, he, in 
words not dissimilar, had once addressed 
to Valerie. 

'* * The world,' said he, kissing the 
hand that yet lay on his arm. * the world 
will ' 

** • Oh, you men ! — the world, the 
world ! Eretj thing gentle, erery thing 
pore, everj thing noble, high-wrought, 
and holy^. is to be squared, ond cribbed, 
-.and maimed to the rule and measure of 
the world ! Tbe world ! are you. too, 
iu stare 1 Do you not despise its hollow 
cant — its methodical hypocrisy V 

*' ' Heartily !' said Ernest Maltrarers, 
almost with fierceness. ' No man erer 
so scorned its false gods, and its miser- 
able creeds — its war upon the weak — 
its fawning upon the great — its ingrati- 
tude to benefactors — its sordid lea^e 
with mediocrity against excellence. Yes, 
in proportion as I lore mankind, I de. 
spise and detest tliat worse than Venetian 
oligarchy which mankind set orer them,, 
and call * tbe world.' ' 

'* And then it was, watmed by tbe 

excitement of released feelings, long and 
carefully shrouded, that this man, ordi- 
narily so calm and self-possessed, poured 
bummgly and possionately forth all those 
tumultuous and almost tremendous 
thoughts, which, bowerer much we may 
regulate, control, or disguise them, lurk 
deep within the souls of all of us, the 
seeds of the eternal war between tbe 
natural man and the artificial; between 
our wilder genius and our social conreu- 
tionalities ; — thoughts that from time to 
time break forth into tbe harbingers of 
rain and fruitless revolutions, impotent 
struggles against destiny; — thoughts that 
good and wise men would be slow to 
promulge and propagate, for they are of 
a fire which burns as well as brightens, 
and which spreads from heart to heart, 
as a spark spreads amidst flax ; — thoughts 
which are rifest when natures are most 
high, but belong to truths that Virtue 
dare not tell aloud. And as Maltrarers 
spoke, with his eres fiaahing almost in- 
tolerable light, his breast hearing, his 
form dilated, nerer to the eyes of Florence 
Lascelles did he seem so great : the 
chains that bound tlje strong limbs of his 
spirit seemed snapped asunder, and all 
his soul was risible and towering, as a 
thing that has escaped slarery, and lifts 
its orest to heuvon and feels' that it is 

•• That erening saw a new bond of 
alliance between these two persons: 
young, handsome, and of opposite sexes, 
they agreed to be friends, and nothing 
more. Fools !" 

This is one among the many expo- 
sitions of Mr. Bulwer's philosophy. 
It is curious and painful to read it, 
and to mark the easy vanity witli which 
virtue is assumed here, self-knowledge 
arrogated, and a number of windy sen- 
tences, which really possess no mean- 
ing, are gravely delivered with all the 
emphasis of truth and the air of pro- 
found conviction. 

** I have learned,*' cries our precious 
philosopher, ** to lean on my own soul, 
and not look elsewhere for tbe reeds 
that a wind can break !*' And what 
has he learned by leaning on his own 
soul ? Is it to be happier than others ? 
or to be belter ? Not lie ! — he is as 
wretched and wicked a dog as any 
unhung. He ** leans on his own soul,'' 
and makes love to the Countess aiid 
seduces Alice Darvill. A ploughboy 
is a better philosopher and moralist 
than this mouthing Maltravers, with 
his boasted love of mankind (which 
reduces itself to a very coarse love of 
womank\ii6)f and his scorn of ** the 
flalse gods and miserable creedsOd'ilbe 


Our Batch of Novels f0r Chrisimaif 1837. [Januaty, 

world, and liis "soul lifting its crest 
to heaven !*' A Catholic whipping 
himself before a stone-image, a Brah- 
min dangling on a hook, or standing 
ou one leg for a year, has a higher 
notion of God than this ranting fool, 
\?ho is always prating about his own 
perfections and his divine nature : the 
one is humble, at least, though blind ; 
the other is proud of his very imper- 
fections, and glories in his folly. What 
does this creature know of virtue, who 
finds it tfy leaning on his awn soul, 
forsooth ? What does he know of God, 
who, in looking for Him, can see but 
himself, steeped in sin, bloated and 
swollen with monstrous pride, and 
strutting before the world and the 
Creator as a maker of systems, a layer 
down of morals, and a preacher of 
beauty and truth ? 

Let us now give an extract which 
exhibits Mr. Bulwer in a more favour- 
able light. We beg his pardon for in- 
sisting upon the point, tliat his attempts 
at the sublime are chiefly ridiculous, and 
that \i\^ forte lies in tlie humorous and 
the sarcastic. Here is a ball at Naples : 

*' And there sate ^radame de St.Vent- 
adour, a little apart from the dancers, 
with the silent English dandy, Lord 
Taunton, exquisitely dressed, and su- 
perbly tall, bolt upright behind her chair ; 
and the sentimental German, Baron ron 
Scbomberg, covered with ordeni, whis- 
kered and wigged to the last hair of per- 
fection, sighing at her left hand; and 
the French minister, shrewd, bland, and 
eloquent, at her right ; and round, on all 
sides, pressed, and bowed, and compli- 
mented, a crowd of diplomatic secre- 
taries, and Italian princes, whose bank 
is at the gaming-table, whose estates are 
in their galleries, and who sell a picture, 
as English gentlemen cut down a wood, 
whenever the cards prow gloomy. The 
charming St. Ventadour! She had at- 
traction for them all : smiles for the 
silent, badinage for the gay, politics for 
the Frenchman, i)oetry for the German, 
the eloquence of loveliness for all. 
• • • 

'* ' Pray, was Madame in the Strada 
Naova to-day V asked the German, with 
as much sweetness in his voice as if he 
bad been vowing eternal love. 

" ' What else have we to do with our 
morning, we women V replied Madame 
de Saint Ventadour. * Our life is a 
lounge from the cradle to the grave, and 
our afternoons are but the type of our 
career. A promenade and a crowd voUa 
tout. We never see the world except 
in open carriages/ 

*' * It is the pleasantest way of seeing 
it,' remarked the Frenchman, drily. 

" ' J*€n doute ; the worst fatigue is 
that whiph comes without exereise.' 

** * Will you do me the honour to 
waits t' said the tall English lord, who 
had a 'vague idea that Madame de St. 
Ventadour meant she would rather dunce 
than sit still. The Frenchman smiled. 

" * Lord Tatmton enforces your own 
philosophy,' said the minister. 

" Lord I'aunton smiled, because every 
body else smiled ; and, besides, be had 
beautiful teeth : but be looked aoxious 
for an answer. 

*' • Not to-night, my lord : I seldom 
dance. Who is that very pretty woman ? 
What lovely complexions the Eneliah 
have ! And who,' continued IMaoarae 
de St. Ventadour, without waiting for 
an answer to her first question, ' who is 
that gentleman — tlie young one, I mean 
— leaning against the door V 

*' * What, with the dark moustache t' 
said Lord Taunton ; ' a cousin of mine.' 

" ' Oh, the tall Englishman with the 
briglit eyes and hieh forehead,' said the 
French minister ; 'he is just arrived from 
the East, I belie v&' 

*' ' It is a striking oountenance,' said 
Madame de St. Ventadour ; ' there is 
something chivalrous in the turn of the 
Jiead. W ithout doubt, Lord Taunton, be 
is noble 7* 

** * He is what you call ' no6fe,' replied 
Lord Taunton — that is, what we odl a 
' gentleman.' His name is Maltravers — 
Mr. Maltravers, He kitely came ofage, 
and has, I believe, rather a good pro- 

'* * Monsieur Maltravers only Mon- 
sieur ! ' repeated Madame de St. Venta- 

M . W'i,j^» gQJ^i the French minister, 
' you understand tliat tlie English ' gen- 
tiUiomme* does not require a De, or a 
title to distinguish him from the ro- 

" ' I know that ; but he has an air 
above the simple gentilhamme, lliere is 
something great in his look; but it is 
not, I most own, the conventional great- 
ness of rank : perhaps he would have 
looked as well had be been bom a pea- 

" ' You don't think him handsome !' 
said Lord Taunton, almost angrily, — for 
he was one of the beauty men, and 
beauty men are sometimes jealous. 

" * Handsome ! I did not say that,' 
replied JNIadame de St. Ventadour ; * it is 
ratlier a fine head than a handsome face. 
Is he clever, I wonder 1 But all yon 
English, my lord, are well educated.* 

" ' Yes, profound—profound ; not su- 


London s " Ethel ChurchUir 


Tliis is very neat and good ; the in- 
dividualities are admirably touched off, 
in that light, pleasant way which Mr. 
Bulwer has. The French woman, the 
lord, and tlie German baron are each 
sketched with great fidelity and esprit. 
But Maltravers comes on the scene, 
and our pleasure disappears as he in- 
continently commences to spout. It is 
as if Watteau should try to paint in the 
style of Michael Angelo. The hand 
which touched so prettily those spar- 
kling little society-pieces only can make 
a pert caricature of the sublime -> such 
as is our friend Maltravers. He ap- 
pears at the point when our extract 
concludes, and at once begins senti- 
mentalising. ** Sensitive minds — le- 
thargy of society — women of genius — 
nervous system of genius/' Bahl 
Does Mr. Bulwer, who believes him- 
self to be an eminent French scholar, 
know the meaning of that elegant 
word BLAGUE? It was made to re- 

£ resent the conversation of Mr. Ernest 

'* And where was the German baron 1 
fiirting at the other end of the room. 
And the English lordl dropping mono- 
syllables to dandies by the door-way. 
And the minor satellites 1 dancing, whis- 
pering, making love, or sipping lemon- 
ade. And Madame de St. Ventadour 
was alone with the young stranger, and 

their tips ipcke rf sentiment, and their eyes 
involuntariljf applied it ! 

** While they were thus conversing, 
Maltravers was suddenly startled, b^ 
bearing close behind him a sharp, signi- 
ficant voice, saying iu French, • Hein ! 
Hein ! I've my suspicions ! IVe my 

" Madame de St. Ventadour looked 
round with a smile. ' It is only my 
husband,' said she, quietly; * let roe in- 
troduce you to him.^ 

" Maltravers rose, and bowed to a 
little, thin man, most elaborately dressed, 
with an immense pair of spectacles on a 
long, sharp nose. 

** ' Charmed to make your acquaint- 
ance, sir,' said M. de St. Ventadour. 
Have you been long in Naples 1 Beau- 
tiful weather — won't last long, hein, 
hein, I've my suspicions. No news ns 
to your parliament 1 Bad oi>era in Lon- 
don this vear, hein, hein, I've my sus- 
picions.* " 

This character is excellently drawn ; 
how much better than '* their lips 
spoke of sentmentf and their eyes ap- 
plied iir How soon these philoso- 
phers begin ogling 1 how cliarmingly 
their unceasing gabble about beauty 
and virtue is exemplified in their ac- 
tions I Mr. Bulwer's philosophy is 
like a French palace — it is tawdry, 
showy, splendid ; but, Gare anx nez 
sensiblesf one is always i-eminded of 
the sewer. " llieir lips spoke senti- 
ment, and their eyes applied it.*' O 
you naughty, naughty Mr. Bulwer! 


* " It was a lovely day,— for, say 
what they, will, England does see the 
sanshine sometimes. Indeed, I think 
that our climate is an iniured angel : lias 
it not the charm of cnange, and what 
charm can be greater t lliat morning 
tbe change was a deep blue sk^, with a 
few large clouds floating over it ; a sun 
which turned the distant horiaon into a 
golden haze ; and a soft west wind, that 
aeemed only sent to bring tbe sound of 
the French horns in the boat that fol- 
lowed their own. As they passed along 
Chelsea Beach, the bells of the church 
were ringing merrily. 

" ' Why, that is a wedding peal !' 
t^ried the Duke of Wlinrton -, * and it 
puts me in mind that Miss Pelham and 
Sir John Shelley are just going to enter 
tbe holy and blessed state.' 

" ' Yes,' replied Lady Mary, ' nnd I 
never knew a marriage with a greater 

• Ethel Churchill ; or. The Two Brides. 
" Francesca Carrara," &c. &c. In 3 vols. 

prospect of happiness — she will be a 
widow in six weeks !' 

" * Well,* said Lady Marchmont, * you 
carry your connubial theory even further 
than in your last ballad :— 

' My power is passed by like a dream, 
And I have discovered too late. 

That whatever a lover may seem, 
A husband is what we must hate !' 

" Lady Mary smiled very graciously ; 
she almost forgave Henrietta for looking 
so well : to have one*8 own verses learned 
by heart, and gpracefuUy quoted, is more 
than poetical nature can resist. 

** * For my part,' continued the Duke 
of Wharton, ' I hold that the connubial 
system of this country is a complete mis- 
take. The only happy marriages I ever 
heard of nro those in some eastern story 
I once read, where the king marries a 

By the Author of "Thelmprovvisctrioe," 
Henry Colbum. London, 1837. UvlC 


Our Batch of Navels for Chrisimas, 1837. [January, 

new wife every night, and cuts off her 
liead in the morning.' 

" ' It would suit your grace, at all 
events/ replied Lady Mary ; * you who 
are famed for being to one thing constant 

** * Well.' exclaimed Lord Harvey, who 
had appeared to be absorbed in watching 
his own shadow in the water, * 1 do not 
think it is such a dreadful thing to be 
married. It is a protection, at all eveots!' 

*• * Thou, who so many faronrs hast re- 

Wondrous to tell, and hard to be be- 
lieved !* 

cried Lady Mary : ' and so, like the cul- 
prits of old, yon are forced to take re* 
fuge from your pursuers at the altar.' 

'* ' For pity^s sake,' ejaculated the 
duke, * do let us talk of some less disa- 
greeable subject.' 

" * Fie, your grace! exclaimed Lady 
Mary. • Disagreeable subject! Lord 
Harvey was only, as usual, talking of 

" The whole party were silent for 
some minutes. After all, wit is some- 
thing like sunshine in a frost — very 
sharp, very bright, but very cold and un- 
comibrtable. llie silence was broken 
by Lady Marchmont exclaiming, — • How 
line the old trees are I diere is something 
in the deep shadow that they fling upon 
the water that reminds me of home.' 

" * I am not sure,' answered the duke, 
' that I like to be reminded of any thing. 
Let me exist intensely in the present — 
the past and future should be omitted 
from my life by express desire.' 

" ' What an insipid existence !' re- 
plied Henrietta, — ' no hopes and no 

" • Ah I forgive me,' whispered Whar- 
ton, ' if the present moment appear to 
me a world in itself.' 

** * I,' said Lord Harvey, • do not die- 
like past, present, nor future. Like wo- 
man, they have all behaved very well to 
me. The past has given me a great deal 
of pleasure ; the present is with you ; 
and as to the future, such is the force of 
example, that I doubt not it will do by 
me as its nredecessors have done.' 

** • Truly,' cried Lady Mary, * the hnt 
new comedy that 1 saw in Paris must 
have modelled its hero from you -, let me 
recommend you to adopt two of its lines 
as your motto : — 

• J'ai I'esprit parfait— du moins je le 

Et je rends grace au Dieu de m'avoir 

cr^— moi!' 

*• * It is very flattering to be so appre- 
ciated,' answered Lord Harvey, with the 
most perfect nonchalance. 

'* ' What an affecting thing,' said 
Ladv Mary, * was the death of Lord 
Carleton ! He died as he lived, holding 
one hand of the fair Duchess of Queentn 
berry ; who, willi the other, was feeding 
him with chicken. What an example he 
gave to his sex ! he was equally liberal 
with his diamonds and his affections,' 

" * L'un vaut bien Tautre,' said Lady 

•' • I shall set off for Golconda to- 
morrow,' cried Wharton. 

" * Don't!' interrupted Lady Mary, 
' it would bo too mortifying, when yoo 
come back, to find bow little we had 
missed you.' 

" * Oh, you would miss me,' re- 
turned he, laughing, * precisely becanse 
you ought not. I hope that you have 
heard the proposed alteration in the com. 
mandments at the last political meeting 
at Houghton ? Hanbury suggested that 
the ' not' should, in future, be omitted ; 
but Doddington objected, as people 
might leave off doing wrong if it be- 
came a duty. At all events, they would 
not steal, covet, and bear false witness 
against their neighbour, with half ihe 
relish that thev do at present.' 

** ' Ah,' replied Lady Mary, * we make 
laws, and we follow customs. By the 
first we cut off our own pleasures ; and 
by the second make ourselves answer- 
able for the follies of others.' 

" ' WeU, Lady Mary,' replied Whar- 
ton, * we have now arrived where you, 
and you only, give the laws, — yonder is 
our poet's residence.' 

*' The boat drew to the side, and the 
gay party stepped upon the bank." 
• • • « 

*' Pope did the honours of his garden, 
but few flowers lingered in it ; these 
Pope gathered, and offered to his fotr 
guests. Lady Marchmont placed hers 
carefully in her girdle. * I shall keep 
even the withered leaves as a relic,' said 
she, with a smile even more flattering 
than her words. It was well that she 
engrossed the attention of her host from 
the dialogue going on between Lord 
Harvey and Lady Mary. 

** * You learned the language of flowers 
in the east,' said he ; * but I thought 
dwarfs were only the messengers.' 

** * And such they are now,' replied his 
listener : < here is one flower for you, 

* The rest the gods dispersed on empty 

and she flung the blossoms carelessly 
from her. 

'* Pope did not see the action, for he 
was pointing out a beautiful break in the 
view. * I have,' said he, * long bad a 
favourite project— that of planting an old 
Gothic cathedral in trees. Tall poplars, 


London's '' Ethel CkumkiU: 


with tbttr white steins, the lower branches 
cut awaj, would serve for the pilliirs ; 
while different heights would form the 
Ausles. The thick green boughs would 
ahed ' a dim religious light,* and some 
stately old tree would have a fine effect 
as the tower.' 

" ' A charming idea !' cried Wharton ; 
' and we all know 

' That sweet saint whose name the shrine 
would bear.' 

But, while we are waiting for the tem- 
ple, can you not shew «s the altar 1 we 
want to see your jgrotto.' 

*' Pope desirea nothing better than to 
shew his new toy, and led the way to the 
pretty and fanciful cave, which was hut 
just finished. It was duly admired ; 
b«t, while looking aroaad, Wharton oh* 
served sone verses lying on the seat. 

** ' A treasire for the public good,' ex- 
claimed he ; * I Tolnnteer reading them 

'* Nay, nay, that is very unfair,' cried 
Pope, who, nevertheless, did not se- 
cretly dislike the proposaL 

" • Oh,* replied the duke, * we will al- 
low for your modesty's ' sweet, reluctant, 
amorous delay ;* but read them I must, 
and shall.'* Then, turning towards Lady 
Mary, he read the following lines :*- 

'Ah, friend, 'tis true— this truth you 

lovers know. 
In vain my structures rise, my gardens 

In vain fair Thames reflects the double 

Of hanging woodlands, and of sloping 

green : 
Joy lives not here ; to happier seats it 

And only lives where Wortley casts her 


" * Pray, fair inspirer of the tender 

* strains,' let me lay the offering at your 

" ' Under them, if yon please,' said 
she, her fine features expressing the most 
utter contempt ; and, trampling the luck- 
less compliment in the dust, she took 
Lord Harvey's hand, and, exclaiming,— 
' The atmosphere of this place is too op- 
pressive for me,' left the grotto •. but 
part of her whisper to her companion 
was meant to be audible, — 

* A sign-post likeness of the human race. 
That is at once resemblonce and dis- 

The above extract is from Miss 
Landon*s charming novel, Ethel 
ChuTchill. The reader will pardon 
the length of tlie quotation ; tor we 
mistake if there ie any thing in modern 
English literature more sparkling or 

beautiful. But we are not going to 
praise Miss Landon's novel, for the 
very reason which has made us cry out 
against Mr. Bulwer ; it is not written 
in a healthy and honest tone of senti- 
ment : there is a vast deal too much 
tenderness and love-makiug, heart- 
breaking and repining, for persons in 
this every-day world, — persons who, 
like ourselves, for instance^ have to pay 
butciiers' bills for twelve children, and 
have buried (wiUiout shedding a tear) 
our third wife thirty-seven years ago. 

Love is as good a material in novels, 
as a sweetmeat at dinner ; but a repast 
of damson cheese is sickly for the 
stomach, and a thousand consecutive 
pages of sentiment are neither pleasant 
nor wholesome. All the heroes and 
heroines in this book are either con- 
sumptive or crossed in love. There is 
one who marries a man for whom she 
cares nothing, and loves a man who 
cares nothing for her. Her husband 
discovers her attachment, and she her 
lover's treason, at one and the same 
lime. My Lady Marchmont gives 
tliem both poison, and then goes mad. 
There is another case, where tlie hus« 
band marries against the grain ; his 
wife, crooked, consumptive, but pas- 
sionately fond of him, dies under the 
ice of his neglect. There is Ethel 
Churchill, who adores tlie gentleman 
last mentioned, and a young poet who 
adores her. Both, of course, are hope- 
lessly miserable : the bard perishes 
from a complaint in the chest; but 
Ethel, more nappy, marries the widower 
at the end of the third volume. There 
are a few historical characters — Pope, 
Walpole, the fair Lavinia Fenton, and 
some others. Tliis is the outline of 
Miss Landon*s novel. 

But, though an uninteresting tale, no 
one can read it without admiring the 
astonishing qualities of the authoress. 
Tliere are a hundred beautiful poems 
in it, and a thousand brilliant mots, 
which would have made the reputation 
of a dozen of the Frendi memoir- 
writers. The wit of it is really start- 
ling ; and there are occasional remarks 
which shew quite a fearful knowledge 
of the heart — of that particular heart, 
that is to say, which beats in the bosom 
of Miss Landon ; for she has no idea 
of a dramatic character, and it is Miss 
Landon who speaks and feels through- 
out. She writes a vei-y painful ioumal 
of misei7,and depression, and despair. 
We do not know what private circum- 


Our Batch of Novels for Christmas, 1837. [January, 

stances mny occasion this despondency, 
what woes or disappointnsents cause 
Miss Land on or Mr. Bulwer to cry 
out concerning the miseries attendant 
upon genius; but we would humbly 
ODserve that there is no reason why 
genius should not be as cheerful as 
dulness, — for it has greater capacities 
of enjoyment, and no greater ills to en- 
dure. It has a world of beauty and of 
happiness which is invisible to common- 
er clay, and can drink at a thousand 
sparkling sources of joy inaccessible to 
vulgar men. Of the ills of life a 

genius has no more share than another. 
Hodge feels misfortune quite as keenly 
as Mr. Bulwer ; Polly Jones's heart is 
to the full as tender as Miss Landon*s. 
Weep, then, whimper and weep, like 
our fair poetess, or our sage Pelham, as 
if their woes were deeper than those of 
the rest of the world ? Oh, for a little 
manly, honest, God-relying simplicity 
— cheerful, unaffected, and humble 1 
But it is dull to sermonise in magazines ; 
there are better books where the thing is 
better done, and where every genius of 
them all may read and profit too. 


The Married Umnarried* is an af- 
fected, silly, and unmeaning title. And 
yet, as it assumes, by the contradiction 
of terms, to involve a puzzle and to 
mystify, the author, long since versed 
in the clap-traps best calculated to 
take with the simpering herd of circu- 
lating library subscribers, seized upon 
it, no doubt, with avidity, for his title- 
page. The author, some years since, 
published a novel called Ahnack*s Re- 
visUedf which was far from being the 
worst of its class, and which met with 
considerable success, especially from 
the circumstance of its exhibiting the 
character of a heartless roue, then 
very prominent in society. No one 
could mistake the man for whom that 
personification was intended : — the 
identity was complete and striking. 

Tlie present performance purports to 
be an autobiography of a poor orphan 
lad ; but the i^rst pages of the first 
volume, and many subsequent pages of 
not only that, but the two other vo- 
lumes, are consummate twaddle. They 
are intended for fine writing, but miss 
their mark wofully, and dwindle down 
to what we, in magazine phraseology, 
call — mere Balaam. AOer some pages 
of such matter, the orphan takes es- 
pecial care to give us the following 
piece of information : — 

'* Id the cottage in which I was 
brought up there was a man whom I 
called father, but he wa$ not my parent ; 
there was a woman, also, whom I ad- 
dressed as mother, bat I was not her 
child. I liad brothers, too (for they had 
sons), but they were not of my blood ; 
nor could I love the first ns children 
ought to loTe their parents, or cleave to 
the others as brothers should cleare one 

to the other. Strange instinct of oar 
nature, [the hero philosopbicallj ob- 
serves, after this statement], for I knew 
no other ties ! Whose I was I could not 
teU, but theirs I knew I was not ; nor 
did they endeavour to conceal this from 

If he was informed of his position, 
what becomes of his instinct ? But, 
before he attains his eighth year, the 
** instinctive ** orphan ascertains, foirly 
and fully, that ne has neither iatlier 
nor mother — that he is, indeed, an 
orphan ; " the offspring, perhaps, of 
guilt or misfortune: abanooned, pro- 
bably, to the fate that awaits so many 
poor victims of frailty and delusion." 
The power of making such reflections 
at so early a period, demonstrates our 
lad to be a very precocious little fel- 
low, and every way suited for the hero 
of tlie extraordinary, exaggerated, and 
farcically improbable adventures, set 
forth in his narrative. But probability 
is considered, by many of our writers 
of novels, as the most dangerous rock 
on which their frail bark of Invention 
can be driven; if it approaches tiie 
point of danger, the fragile vessel shi- 
vers to pieces, and the unhappy sailor 
becomes certain food for fishes. 

The foster-father of our hero was a 
pilot and fisherman, living '* a stoneV 
throw off the ocean," in a secluded port 
upon the western coast of £ngland, 
who receives payment, from some un- 
known quarter, for the nurture of his 
youthful charge. He was industrious, 
devout, and a Dissenter. His name 
was Penguin; and the author makes 
this John Penguin a Dissenter, for the 
express purpose of gaining opportu- 
nity of now and then directing a little 

• The Married Unmarried. By the Author of «* Almack's Revisited." 3 vole, 
Saunders and Otley. London, 1837. Digitized by VjUUV IC 


«' The Married Unmarried.*' 


abuse against the Established Church 
and its luinisteRf. The hero gives us 
the following account of his qualifi- 
cations : 

" In the meantime, allhough not natu- 
nUr of a robust frame, I grew up strong 
sua sctire. Few boys were more expert 
at the games of our age ; and I had, 
moroorer, made mjself respected, by 
giring a sound drubbing to three or four 
bids bigger than myself, who taunttid me 
about my eqniTOcuf birth— taunts, by the 
by, which 1 knew not then to answer by 
tdling them that in England, the boasltd 
Und of moiralUift an immense portion of 
tJu population was in the same unhappy 
condition as myself {\*.\); but which I 
often retorted by mimicking their roices 
and their gait, and taking off any little 
singularities that nature or accident had 
inflicted upon them. For, independent 
of playing upon the fiddle, in a manner 
litue common at my age, I had a par. 
ticular turn for this kind of caricature ; 
and, although I was straight-limbed, and 
certainly more than ordinarily good- 
looking, I could throw my body into the 
strangest contortions, pall ^es with the 
ugliest grimaces at tne village revels, 
and imitate the actions of a frog or mon- 
key with almost as much agility as a 
professional mimic." 

To pass over the gross calumny, 
levellea, without the slightest occasion, 
at ^ England, the boasted land of mo« 
rality,** it is really necessary that we 
should give some slight hint of young 
Penguin's proficiencies; for his pugi- 
listic powers, his fiddling powers, and 
bis mimicry powers, conduce to his 
after success in life. He is, especially, 
under obligations to his powers under 
the third category; for be enacts the 
part of monkey in the gardens at 
rrogmore, to the admiration of the 
wliole royal fiunily. It is said of Gri- 
maldi, that, once crossing some fields, 
he was attacked by a footpad and 
robbed; but that that wondmul per- 
sonage came up on all-fours, aog- 
fiishion, to his assailant, and after ac- 
companying him in the darkness until 

lie arrived at a place of safety, he 
lumped up, collared his man, gave 
him into custody, and got back his 
property. But our young friend. Pen- 
guin, fairly outdoes tliat monarch of 
grimace. For, in his guise of monkey, 
he lies perdu in his cage, till a panther, ' 
after breaking its chain and hunting 
down the youthful and beautiful Lady 
Delpliine Toryville, is about to make 
a meal of her ; and then he, in turn, 
breaks through his cage, and bludgeons 
the ferocious brute after the most ap- 
proved fashion. For our own part, 
we should like to pit young Penguin 
witli Dan O'Connell, at the pleasant 
task of '* pulling faces at ugly grin- 
ning ;*' especially since the latter wor- 
thy s conviction of the result attainable 
by the Irish Petitions* Fund Subscrip- 
tion. Among other competitors with 
our hero, we think Lord Morpetli a 
luird grinner,* and tiny Lord John 
Russell another, and Dick Lalor Shiel 
another ; and, with either of these wor- 
thies, the chances of success would be, 
infallibly, dubious. 

Tiie worthy pilot ventures to save a 
vessel in tlie midst of a violent storm, 
and he and his two sons are drowned. 
Tlie widow's substance becomes the 
prey of her two brothers — desperadoes 
and smugglers, and poor Penguin is 
transferred to a workhouse ; of which 
a description is given, harrowine io the 
feelings of every well-minded man, 
and true to the letter of Uie abomina- 
tion. " Boz" has dealt with the matter 
with a greater degree of wit and elo- 
quence, but certainly not more forcibly, 
or with more of minute harrowing detail. 
Tlie onl^ point, however, worthy of 
observation in this is, that tlie author 
overshoots his mark ; for, being a vio- 
lent Liberal, or liadical, he inveighs 
against the old system of workhouses, 
in order to cast obloquy on the times 
of ancient Tories and Boroughmongers, 
as if we modern Tories are accountable 
for the faults of our predecessors, who, 
notwithstanding all that can be said 

* Fancying that the public had eot somewhat tired of his not over-handsome 
phiz, his lordship, with characteristic delicacy, altered his posture on a late interesting 
occasion, viz. the Queen's visit to the City. We copy from the Times, of Nov. 15, 
1837 : — "By the Whig ministers especially, no opportunity was missed to exhibit 
themselves to public admuntion. For example : a certain feature of Lord Morpeth's, 
which, we suppose, could not be conveniently accommodated in an ordinary carriage, 
was protruded out of the left window, with most conspicuous and complacent drollery. 
The portion of his lordship which we have respectfully alluded to, was emphatically 
lecogniaed along the whole line. So was Sir John Hobhouse, though certainly 
witboot an invidiOHS p^i^liali^y for one p^rt of the honountli>l^ baco^et tlMiu for any 

Qrtjjp^," Digitized by VjUUVIv: 


Our Batch of Novels Jbr Ckrisimat, 1837. [January, 

against them, were never guilry of 
being the authors of any workhouse 
system so vile, aboniiirable, wicked, 
and infamous, as that which at pre^jent 
prevails, and has drawn down on its 
accursed progress the just indignation 
* and abhorrence of every honest i>erson 
in England. 

Penguin now finds a friend in a 
neighbouring attorney, who advertises 
the boy*8 situation, and receives an 
ample supply of money, with instruc- 
tions from some lawyers in f Lincoln's 
Inn that he shall be forwarded from 
Plymouth to an inn at Salisbury, like 
a hamper of game, "until called for.*' 
Tlie directions are obeyed. Penguin 
is duly deposited at the Green Dragon, 
called for by a servant in a cart, and 
driven to a boaixling-school for young 
gentlemen; where, because he comes 
from a workhouse, he is treated with 
every degree of indignity and cruelty 
by master, mistress, and usher : but in 
spite of all, by giving a thrashing to 
the son of one nobleman. Lord Racein- 
field, and by name Lord Felix Spring- 
wood, to defend another scholar, the 
lion. William Toryville, he obtains the 
favour of that young gentleman's father, 
through whose family he ultimately 
gets introduced into the Ix)ndon world 
of fifishion. At the school, however, 
he is not only initiated into the mys- 
teries, of flagellation, but, happening to 
overhear a conversation between his 
master's wife and the usher, who is 
endeavouring to entice her away to 
America, where he promises himself 
the pleasure of squandering some ten 
thousand pounds which the good lady, 
notwithstanding her being a femme 
couverte, has at her own disposal, a 
charge of robbery is trumped up by 
the gay Lothario against our hero ; and 
he is about to be handed over, at Mr. 
Nibshort's (the usher's) amiable sugges- 
tion, to the constables, when he effects 
his escape. He tlven fulls in with some 
gipsies — has his face coloured to the 
legitimate zigeuner hue by an old Bo- 
hemian, whom he had assisted, by 
chance, when assailed fur a witch by 
a village rabble — and becomes a regu- 
lar tramper with their respectable gang. 
While the others assume different dis- 
guises for ttie purposes of begging, his 
province it to play the fiddle at wakes^ 
and fains, and markets ; whidi he does, 
with considerable profit to the band. 
The gang is at length routed, while on 
a poaching expedition. Penguin is 

captured, but is released by a travelling 
showman (who happens also to be a 
body-snatcher); and the condition of 
his freedom is, that he shall allow him- 
self to he caged "up and enact the part 
of a baboon! In this character be 
gains golden opinions from the Etoo 
scholars, the royal family, and the 
world at large; but he finds a hard 
taskmaster in the showman, wlio threat- 
ens, on the slightest show of repugnance, 
to deliver up Penguin to the hands of 
justice. In Ills capacity of monkey he 
saves the life of Lady Delphi ne Tory- 
ville, and tomahawks a panther : inci- 
dents already hinted at. The keeper's 
wife &lls desperately in love with the 
man-monkey, and makes indelicate 
proposals, which Penguin is Joseph 
sufficient to resist; which circumstance 
converts the good lady's love into ha- 
tred : and he is so persecuted, both by 
the showman and spouse, that he falls 
desperately ill, and overhears a bargain 
respecting the sale of his own body 
for the laudable purposes of dissection. 
This operation, however, he is spared, 
lie finds himself in a hospital, and 
overhears the death-bed confession of a 
poor wretch, which identifies the head 
of a desperate set of burglars and 
smashers with Nibshort the usher? 
After this, he turns actor ; and on the 
conflagration of the theatre he travels 
about with a recruiting party. (Here 
the author has good opportunity of 
giving us his opinion of the evils of 
enlistment.) While with them, he forms 
an acquaintance with a recruit, who 
lells him his tale, woriced up with con- 
siderable effect. — The recruit, the son 
of a nobleman's steward, gets launched 
into mercantile pursuits, is ruined by 
a swindling partner, but relieved by 
the nobleman's nephew, Lord Felix 
Springfield Tnow Lord Valleybrook) ; 
who eventually imposes on the recruit's 
sister by a false marriage, and effects 
her ruin. He is about to be united to 
Lady Delphine Toryville, when the 
poor victin) discovers the truth of her 
position. She drowns herself, but the 
brother is arrested at the seducer's 
suit; when he is relieved by Lady 
Delphine*s father, and the marriage is 
broken off. A distress has been put 
into die cottage of the recruit's mother; 
the poor woman is witliout friends or 
means (for the mercantile failure, and 
his total loss of fortune, have made an 
irreclaimable madman of the father), 
and she '}s on herdeath-bedi^iidien the 


** Th£ Married Unmarried*' 


son enlists for a sum of money for his 
parent's salvation. He is, however, 
too late — his mother is dead. Lord 
Valleybrook had broken up his esta- 
blishment, and retired to tlie Continent. 

The recruiting sergeant endeavours 
to entrap Penguin, by drugging his 
driuk ; and he actually thrusts the fatal 
shilling into his band, and puts the 
cockade on his hat, while he is in a 
stale of uncoasciousness : but he ma- 
nages, through the contrivance of the 
barmaid, who takes a fancy to him^ 
and who exercises considerable sway 
over the tender heart of the sergeant s 
superior officer, to get his discharge; 
but not before he had read her a severe 
lesson on the heinous sin of eloping 
witli the fashionable captain, which she 
has also declared to him, although not 
many minutes acquainted, witli asto- 
nishing ingenuousness. 

On his departure, he takes up his 
night's quarters in a miserable hedge 
pot-house; hut not before the surly 
mistress had refused him accommoda- 
tion, and her compassionating daugh- 
ter had pointed the way to the hay-lof^. 
His slumbers, however, are disturbed 
by voices below ; and, peeping through 
a crevice. in tlie floor, he soon soei 
enough to be satisfied that the party 
are a set of housebreakers, and bears 
enough to find out that their intention 
is to break into the house of a neigh- 
bouring clergyman. They are pre- 
sently joined by a highwayman, who 
informs the company of the robbery of 
the officer and the murder of the poor 
barmaid, who had reoognised one of 
the party, Martin (our old friend the 
usher), and the captain of that worthy 
hero 0^ the road. Penguin escapes — 
informs the clergyman of his danger — 
defeats the housebreakers — makes a 
sure friend of the Rev. Mr. Rightford, 
and is by him sent up to a merchant 
in the city, in the capacity of clerk. 

The best character in the whole 
"novel" is Mr. Rightford's. While 
giving his history, however, he cannot 
allow the opportunity to pass without 
casting invidious allusions at the cburch| 
and introducing a hypocritical charac- 
ter, the Hon. and llev. Dr. Delphant, 
a fashionable preacher of the metro- 
polis ; who, bemg too gre^t an ass to 
write sermons himself, pays Rightford 
for doing so, at a mean weekly pit- 
tance : and not only gains celebrity 
which lie does not deserve, but actu- 
ally publishes them for bis own profit. 

and effectually robs the poor starving 
country curate of his just emolument. 
Such a character might have flourished 
in London at the time of tlie Parson 
Adamses and Parson Trullibers, but 
not in the present day. Mr. Right- 
ford's story, liowever, is a pretty and 
interesting portion of the work. 

On his way to town he falls in with 
a very diverting character, well drawn, 
and well supported. 

" Upon rettching Uxbridge, I entered 
the inn-parlour, and there, for the first 
time, saw the prints of Hogarth's ap- 
prentices suspended round the walls. I 
was minutely examining that which re- 
presents, with so much simplicity, cbaste- 
ness, and force of character, a rich mer- 
chant leaning upon the shoulder of the 
youth who, by industry nnd good con- 
duct, had obtuined his confidence. I was 
reading, in a fanlf-loud voice, the ex- 
pressive words of St. Matthew, ' Well 
done, thou good and faithful servant; 
thou bust been faithful oyct a few things, 
I will make thee ruler over many,' when 
my sole feUow-passenger, a jovial, mid^ 
die-aged looking man, who was assuaging 
his appetite with tone cold meat, ex- 
claimed, ' Ah, young man, you do right 
to study that print ; it is done to a turn 
after nature : there's as much food for 
the mind in those drawings, as there is 
sustenonce for the body in this round of 
beef.. a little over-done, by the by. 
Waiter, some red -cabbage pickle— -wal- 
nut will do. Yes, sir, as Horace Walpole 
says, a quaint fellow that same Horatio 
—a severe dog in his day — a very devil 
to find spots in the sun : he'd have picked 
a hole in the sum of the moon's ooat, if 
Professor Wilkins had discovered the 
way to fly there. Did you ever hear of 
Strawberry HilU I've a box within half 
a mile of it. Walpole knew what he was 
about when he bought it ; got it, no 
doubt, for a son^ — shrewd fellow ! 
Rare gudgeon fishmg almost from the 
windows— a savoury spot—eel-pie island. 
Give me your Thames eels, I say, as dean 
and wholesome as young chickens : * yoor 
silvery eel, in shining volumes rolled,' as 
Pope says. None of your heavy-earcassed , 
Dutch worms, smelling of mud like a 
Lombard Street scavenger. This cold 
duck's delicious. Talking of Pope, did 
you ever see his villa at Twickenham V 

" * I never was in that neighbonrhood,' 
replied I, wondering how the gentleman 
could contrive to eat and talk so much 
and so fast. 

** ' Not seen Twickenham! then yov've 
seen nothing, as the Romans eay. Well, 
sir, Pope's villa is dose to my box 
pretty a spot as any in all England^ 
«Mde for a poet. Wberriee and eoaebes 


Our Batdi of Novels for Christmas, 1837. [January, 

passing every hour ; new ideas, 
floating or rolling by, all day, like figures 
in a gdantee-sbon*. I defy a man not to 
court tbe Nine, wben be sees ' old Fatber 
Tbames advancing bis reverend bend' 
close under bis nose, spangled all over 
with city barges and jolly young water- 
men. Then, wben at a loss for a ' spe- 
culation,' as tbe Spectator calls it, why 
be may down pen, mount a coacb, and 
be upon 'Change in an hour : that is tbe 
true otium cum dignitate, I dabbled a 
little in poetry myself. See tbe first wits 
of tbe day at my table : glad to sec tbem, 
and tbey are glad to come to me. Poets 
are not like air plants : can't live without 
nourishment. Had a turn that way when 
I was an apprentice. I'll give you a spe* 
cimen, if you like. They are lines ad- 
dressed to my garden : my wife bad tbem 
done iu g^ld letters, upon a rustic temple 
which overhangs tbe river.' 

** After swallowing tlie remainder of 
the cold duck's wing, he spouted tbe 
following verses, raising bis voice to 
mark tbe rhymes, and waving bis hand 
to show the measure : 

' Fain would my muse your fragrant 
virtues rhyme, 

melons, mushrooms, broooli, and 

Grapes I would sing, and also boast of 

"Whom some call cov -cumber, and others 


I*d not forget you, lettuce, tied with 

strips of bass ; 
Nor you, Spring's dividend, O early 

Of peaches, pease, pears, parsley, plums, 

and pines, 

1 coqM say much, but here must end mj 


" < What do you think of that, sir 1— 
quite in Cowley's style — simple and 
pastoral, yet bubbling, over witn quaint 
imagpes. I wouldn't take a hundred five 
per cents for the tu ; and the alliteration 
in the seventh line, Peter Pindaric to tbe 
very marrow : that's what I call minding 
my p's and q's ; good that, very. What's 
your verdict V 

" ' I think tbey are very amusing,' re- 
plied I ; ' and I admire very much your 
idea of nature paying her first tribute in 
asparagus, as well as your hit at the vul. 
gar mode of designating that vegetable.' 

" * Vou*re right, sir,* answered he ; 
' there is all the moral of the thing. You 
have no idea of tbe effect produced in 
our ward by those lines. There's not a 
common council-man that does not look 
two ways before he calls for his cucum. 
her ; and if they do ask for ' grass,' tbey 
always add « sparrow ' to it : but I'll 
^Xt tbem of ibaw-^ni put 8«lt npo« 

their tsils. Talking of tails, bless rae, 
I feel quite inspired when I sit beoeatli 
my weeping willow, merrily watching 
tbe swans with theirs cocked up in tbe 
air, whilst their long necks are grubbing 
for animalculdp vaguic blanduUt amongst, 
the weeds. Can't bear to be idle. 
.Should never have bad a shilling in my 
pocket, and been as bad as that vagabond 
apprentice playing at marbles upon tbe 
tombstone, if I had not been as indus- 
trious as a bee, and as active as a gras- 
bopper. Talking of hopping— rare fun 
that swan-hopping ! Always go up as 
far as the Bush, at Staines, in tbe com- 
pany's barge. Ilunnymede reminds me 
of British liberty ; and Cowper's Hill, of 
poetry ; not to mention Windsor Forest. 
Devilish bad venison, by the by, in that 
forest — as rank as whale-oil ; ay, every 
thing smells of rank in that quarter — not 
bad that, eh 1 But, us I was saying, I like 
to uphold the ancient privileges of tbe 
corporation : none of your new-fongled 
doctrines for me. Let well alone, as I 
told my Scotch gardener, wben he wanted 
to fill up my duck-pond, and convert it 
into kale beds. Tm fond of ducks, very 
— and so was Shakespeare : always call 
my wife a duck. Just after we were 
married, I made an impromptu upon her. 
We were down at Greenwich Fair : this 
inspired mo ; and I wrote tbe lines upon 
the window of the Green Man and Still, 
with my diamond shirt-pin. I'll repeat 
them to you, if you like. 

" I thanked him, being much amused 
with his good-humoured rolubilihr. So, 
with tbe same tone and accent, be pro* 
ceeded thus : 

" ' To mjf Duck, 

Of all the birds that swiftly skim tbe air. 
Or dive in water, mine's the fairest fair. 
Fair is the swallow, which ne*er seems to 

And fair tbe cuckoo, which ne'er builds a 

Fair is the nightingale, whose notes are 

And fair the woodcock — O delicious 

But fairer far than lark, or thrush in 

Is that sweet duck whose heart and mind 

are sage.' 
" ' There I what do vou say to that ? 
Do you twig the conceit? The body of 
an amiable woman filled with wisaom 
and virtue, as ducks and ceteris paribus 
ought to be with sage. Brilliant and 
new ! I read them to the club— passed 
them off, at first, for Gay's— .and then 
won a rump and dozen that tbey were 
my own.* " 

We give the extract as a fair speci- 
m«a o( the author's, powers, lie i« 


" The Married UnrnarnedJ* 


incapable of uoravelling tlie plot of a 
well-sustained story : his power lies in 
ligbtly and agreeably sketching every- 
day scenes of society. And the exer- 
cise of this power it was which effected 
the success of his last ephemeral pro- 
doctlon, Almack^s Revisited. 

Penguin arrives at tlie abode of 
Figmaty the merchant in Lotlibury; 
and the autlior is again happy in de- 
lineating the peculiarities of the citizen 
and his wife. They have an only 
daughter, Sophia Figmat ; and, on his 
first introduction to her, our hero*s 
hearty which was before secretly bound 
in allegiance to tlie Lady Delphine 
Toryville (for the glimpse he had of 
that young lady» when he tomahawked 
the mowman's panther, had done tlie 
business), now seems inclined to turn 
traitor to its fealty, and bow before 
another power. 

On the first night of his abode in 
Lotlibury he has a remarkable dream, 
alle|;orically and enigmatically unra- 
▼elliDg the circumstances of his birth. 
Sophia Figmat also has a dream, not 
enignoatically, but plainly, foretelling 
her marriage with young Penguin ; 
and this she ingenuously owns to our 
hero at the breakfiist-table. He writes 
to Lady Delphine ToryvjUe ; and the 
young lady, in tlie absence of her fa- 
ther and brother in India, returns a 
reply, and invites him to Bruton Street 
to dinner. He repairs thither, after 
ransacking a slop-shop for decent attire ; 
and is introduced to her aunt, the Lady 
Castlerose, who is represented as a red- 
hot politician, and the reigning goddess 
of fashion to the corrupt Tories. Lady 
Castlerose is so enchanted with his man- 
ners, his fiddline, and his adventures, 
that she invites him to an evening con- 
cert, wliere he captivates Catalani and 
the whole world of fashion with his 
music, until lie sees a picture hanging 
opposite to him, on which fiddle and 
bow fall from his hand, and he becomes 
" fiiint, sick, and almost deprived of 
his senses." It was the identical figure 
and &ce presented in his remarkable 
dream. On inquiry, he discovers it is 
the portrait of Lady Eaglehurst, Lady 
Delphine*s mother. Lady Castlerose 
takes an opportunity of reading young 
Penguin a lecture on his love for Lady 
Delphine. And shortly afler this he 
avows bis attachment for Sophia Fig- 
mat ; but not before he lias once more 
^len in with Martin, the usher, whom 
he visits in Newgate. The scene be* 

TOL. XV TI. i?o. XCVIP, 

tween Penguin and Martin, between 
Martin and tlie phrenologists, and the 
concluding scene of Martin's existence, 
are done with force and judgment. 
After Figmat*s approval of Peoguiirs 
pretensions to his daughter, he is des- 
patched on an important mission to tlie 
Levant ; but, his ship being captured by 
\\iree feluccas f he is carried to Naples. 
He is allowed to be at large oti his 
parole; and, one evening, has the good 
fortune to aid the Count Capo Vento, 
high in court favour, and celebrated as 
an experienced admiral. The count 
is taken home badly wounded by an 
assassin, when he requests to know tlie 
particulars of Penguin's life. The 
count. Penguin, and an Irish eccle- 
siastic are together; and the denoA^ 
went quickly takes place. Count Capo 
Venio is Penguin's father. His ori- 
ginal name was Belmont. He was a 
commander in tlie British navv ; when, 
to use the author's grand words, 
" keenly feeling those unjust laws 
which ground hiintelf and country 
(Ireland) to the dust,** he connected 
himself with tlie United Irishmen, 
which led to proscription, attainder, 
and flight. He entered the French 
service, fought an English vessel des- 
perately ; and, escaping, was taken pri- 
soner by a Ehirbai7 vessel, sold for a 
slave, and reported dead. Two years 
after he relumed to Marseilles; but 
his wife and child had removed to 
Barcelona, where she liad married 
Lord Toryville, then upon his travels, 
but without informing him of the exist- 
ence of a child ; and the more com- 
pletely to screen that fact, she had 
caused the child to be placed widi 
Penguin, the pilot. The olo count dies, 
the young count is acknowledged by his 
mother, recovers his father's forfeited 
estates, and marries Sophia Figmat. 

Such are the incidents of this very 
extravagant and improbable tale ; but 
those incidents are narrated in a lively, 
brisk, entertaining style. The author 
shews himself a well-educated und 
accomplished man ; although his good 
breeding would be more unequivocal 
had he omitted the two or three stupid 
and dirty allusions which occur in the 
work. He is a treble-distilled Liberal, 
and sneers at every UiingTory— creating 
characters expressly suited for his re- 
marks. He is violent against the game- 
laws — his knowledge of church history 
lialts lamentably — and he styles the 
faith of the Church of England << a dry 


Our Batch ofNweUfor Ckriiimas, 1837. [Januarj, 

dogma." We liave already qaoted his 
opinion of the prevalence of bastardy 
in moral England ; but perchance the 
author judges of the English morals by 
the standard of Belgian morals ; for we 
understand he has chosen the Nether- 
lands as his place of domicile ^^tliat 
blessed country, wherein upwards of 
one hundred and twenty or thirty con- 
vents of various kinds hare sprung up 
since the great and glorious revolution. 
He is particularly facetious about per- 
sons — every minister of the English 
church (Mr. Rightford is the only ex- 
ception) being conspicuous for gross 
gluttony and abdominal protuberanee. 
Every lord of the admiralty is, in his 
opinion, open to bribery. " A lady's 
garter/' he ob«ervet| ** gave the fust 

impulse to 6K)se chivalrous institutioiis, 
the indiscriminate abuse of which has 
thrown so moch discredit upon dis- 
tinctions." This is a very uokirtd c«t 
at his Liberal friends of the Oporto 
and St. Sebastian expeditiona. The 
difference between Englishwonken and 
women on the Continent is very jost ; 
save that the first question the former 
ask, on hearing a new name, is not, 
"* Is he handsome V* but, '• Has he 
money?" The hitter invariably ask, 
'< h he agreeable V Many of his al- 
lusions to boys at school are vulgar 
and indecent ; and public schools and 
YOung lords arc the constant butts of 
bis sareasm — which, after all, is Tery 
harmless. But enough of the author of 
the novel of The Mmried Unmarried, 


It is not an usual thing for novels of 
tlie present generation to get into se- 
cond editions ; and most strange is it 
that the romance of Botuwrth field, or 
the Fate of Planiagenct,^ should have 
managed to work out so fortunate and 
distinguished a consummation. The 
author has perpetrated a previous work 
— evidently another " historical tale "^ — 
named Arthur of Brittany. Tliat we 
never saw; but, from the specimen 
before us, we can, without unnecessary 
liarsbness, solemnly declare that we 
never wish to see any other of the 
author's *' romantic " performances. 
Tlie portion of history which the au« 
thor has selected is one full of stirring 
incidents, and conspicuous for remark- 
able personages ; so that, with very 
little of the inventive faculty, an ordi- 
nary writer could scarcely fbil in pro- 
ducing three readable volumes. But 
the volumes before us are a miserable 
failure. We dare say that the author 
is a well-read and amiable man, of ele- 
gant and refined mind ; but he wants 
the stretch of fancy and the plastic 
powers necessary for a romance writer, 
lie has mistaken his forte ; and was 
never intended for that on which he 
has evidently expended much unavail- 
ing reading and industry. His lan- 
guage runs smoothly to a huh; but 
the pompous pretension and needless 
inflation in his style are wearying in the 
extreme: and the work teems with 
narnby-pamby sentiments, and false 
delineation of feeling and character. 

We shall never be able to bear the 
word ** reverie " again ; its very sight 
will turn us sick, after meeting it in 
every page of this " historical tale.*' 
The dialogue is clumsy and pedantic ; 
and the personages act in such a way, 
as though they were determined to run 
counter to all the ordinary rules of or- 
dinary life : for we suppose tliat the 
sceptred monarch is as much subject 
to these rules as the clouted clown. 
State ^eorets are told with a frankness 
to strangers, on first vaterviews, as 
though t^y weie some pieoe of every- 
day scandal or fosbionable sHp^^ilop. 
And Richard III. is painted with all 
the blackness and wickedness of aU the 
devils of Pandemonium kneaded into 
one mass. It would have ddigliled 
the eminent hand who jumbled tbe 
materials forming tbe tragedy of 
Richard 111., as at present enacted 
on our stage. It is a work of unpro- 
fitable labour to give any accocrm of 
the very puerile plot ; but take a few 
instances of the regular bathos in 
writing : " Determined to plunge into 
the sea of troubles that was before him, 
and, reckless of consequences, to strike 
forward towards the haven of his wishes, 
as long as the beacon-light of possi- 
bility was there to direct his efforts." 
This would have quite delighted the 
heart of the author of Euphuet. 

Tlien we have a specimen of what a 
lover should say to his mistress ; and 
the kind of matter to which, in the 
author's opinion, young ladies roost 

• Bosworth Field ; or. The Fata of Plantagenet. A Historical Trie. By the 
Author of " Arthur of Birittany." .3jp<^. UB37. Digitized by VjUU^IC 


" Bosworih Fteld." 

afiect to listen : « My sweetest Anne, 
let not the ungracious cloud of anger 
mtr the fair haven of thy charms, 
which to look upon is dearer than the 
Wiss of which this priestcraft talks 
-—oh ! far, far more dazzling than the 
joy wherewith the rescued prisoner 
gsttes oi^ the hriglitness of a midday 
son :*' a difficult act for a " lescoed 
prisoner," fresh from the gloom of the 
dungeon. Theie is too ^uent allu- 
sions to" harens," "ships," "anchors," 
and other materials connected with 
the port of Liverpool ; but this is ex- 
eosable, as we perceive that the volumes 
are printed in that city, which boasts of 
" gentlemen/* as contradistinguished 
from the " men of Manchester ;" and, 
therefi>re, conohide that the author must 
reside there. 

Here is the usual way in which the 
self-admiring Malvolio would have de- 
scribed the soirth wind to his mistress : 
" The genin) south blew his softest and 
his balmiest breath, rich with the per- 
famed sweetness wherewith his playful 
gimhols o*er the fresh and flowered 
herbage of the youthful year had 
charged him." ITiis is only to be 
equalled by *< Omnipresence " Mont- 
gomery's poetry. By the by, what has 
become of that individual, whom the 
LUerary Gazette declared to be the 
" modem Orphetis"? 

A nuin in a towering passion speaks 
in the following methodical, bombastic, 
and rounded style : 

"But there are yet other means/' 
continued the stronger, with studitd deli- 
heration, ** to breof a rebellious spirit. 
There is the dull dungeon's gloom— « the 
mate, unchanging solitude of a subter. 
nneoos cell [very minute this] — where, 
shot out from all intereourse with man, 
dejirived of the sun's fair light and na- 
ture's blessedness, debarred from every 
joy and every comfort, the weary hours 
drag heavily along j each, as it passes, 
but adding to the torture of him who 
endures it, until he madly dashes his 
bead against the noisome wall to end 
his misery — though some have been 
known [a reservation smacking of a 
lawyer] to bear «uch an agony even for 
years and years, ere it has at length 
brought death, as a happy bridegroom, 
to their release." 

Here is another specimen of the 
Satanic school : 

*• Hp was a mean, repulsive. looking 
man : bis moody visage aeemed to have 
been cast in the very mould of cruelty ; 

and, as if his frigid features refused to 
soften into one redeeming virtue, or to 
take even the false show of it, his iron 
countenance so declared the villain [we 
never knew before the precise import of 
the every -day phrase, ** a villanous- 
looking fellow'"], that he that saw might 
have known it : or it might be that kind 
Heaven, as on the first murderer, Cain, 
had set his seal, that universal nature 
might know him and shun him. His 
restless eyes were keen and sparkling, 
peermg from his arched and busby brows, 
whiob, as a curtain, almost closed around 
them [Rowland's Macassar, we see, is 
no new invention]. He looked ever 
asquint, aa if his conscious villany 
shrunk from the inquiring gaze of his 
species ; and the troubled spirit which 
inhabited him kept him impatient and 
uneasy. He seemed to be, indeed, a 
man without a heart, the repulsiveness 
of whose real character could not be hid 
by any sembled fawn: his very smile 
was but a hideous grin, that, in place 
of conciliating, the more entirely dis- 

He must have been a thundering 
villain indeed I But have our read- 
ers had enough of this fustian and 
bombast ? If not, we have ; .md our 
wish is law. The author shoi.ld turn 
to some more reputable empioyraent 
than writing " historical tales," for 
which be is entirely and irredeemably 

Has any individual among the readers 
of Fbaser's Maoazine ever experi- 
enced the gentle grip of the influenza, 
while on a visit to tnat "capital of the 
universe," Paris? We trust that he 
has been sufficiently fortunate to escape 
such a visitation. With ourselves it 
has been far otherwise. People may talk 
of tlie gloom and fog of a November 
in London ; but nothing could surpass 
the fog, tlie dismal,gloom, the chilling 
atmosphere (the very thought makes 
our teeth chatter, as though we were 
under the influence of an ague fit), of 
last January in Paris. Father Prout's 
Heligues were our daily companion ; 
but that delightful work could not 
arouse us from our pervading " de- 
spondency and sadness." Our gallant 
and pleasant friend, " the Captain," 
invited us daily to masticate the deli- 
cacies which overspread his table at the 
precise hour of si%, on the flrst floor of 
the Hotel de Londres, in the Place 
Vendome; bnt even his pleasantri^ 
were thrown away upon ^ Wy^il?^a!i^ 


Our Batch of Novels for Christmas, 1837, [January, 

ioatteotive ear. We swallowed his Sil- 
lery, his Bordeaux, and his Clos de 
Vogeot — all to no purpose: it was out 
of the power of wine to inspirit us ; 
althougn we were so bibacious, that 
sometimes, and somehow or other, our 
articulation became thick, and the 
words would not (all trippingly from 
our tongue. The secret of all this was, 
that we were a victim to incipient in« 
fluenza, which in a few days laid us by 
the heels in our quarters in the Hotel 
du Rhin. But, while it killed some 
hundreds, it spared us :— our fete did 
not lie in that quarter. For six weeks, 
however, we, the earliest and the dear- 
est friend of Oliver Yorke, were the 
victim of a lowuess of spirits which, 
as a punishment, certainly transcended 
the torture of the rack. But why, it 
may be asked by our impatient reader 
—if, indeed, any peruser of Regina's 
pleasant pages can become impatient — 
why mention any thing about your ill- 
ness on such an occasion ? We mildly 
answer, — because, good and inquisitive 
friend, it gave us an opportunity of 
wiling away hours, which would oUier- 
wise have been full of weariness and 
pain, by reading more than once the 
three volumes comprising Mrs. Gore*s 
last tale of Alrg. Ai^mytuge, Our gay 
and gallant friend, the Captain, brought 
it to our apartment, and we devoured 
it. The novel was full of dkaracter 
and incident — the personages were 
varied, and admirably sustained — the 
interest was kept alive to the conclu- 
sion—and tlie gentle and graceful 
bearing of one of tlie most exauisite 
of female characters was not only de- 
lineated, but filled up to the very life. 
With tilt exception of Trevelj^an, we 
bad not for a verv long period seen 
any thing which had so completely 
engrossed our attention or won our 
applause. We had also, at that same 
time, an opportunity of looking through 
Mrs. Gores translation of Saintine^s 
beautiful and touching tale of the 
Pkciola — the idea of which luui been 
evidently taken from the Prigioni of 
Silvio Pellico, but which Saintine has 
managed to work out with infinite 
taste and effect. Mrs. Gore*s transla- 
tion was faithful and elegant ; and we 
think that she conferred a benefit on 
that portion of the public, either not 
able or not willing to read tlie original 
— both because tlie work conveys a 
touching moral, and because people in 
this country will now be convinced 

that French writers exist, who are bold 
enough to evince their dissent from the 
artificial and feeble school of which 
Victor Hugo and Alexander Dumas 
liave boasted themselves to be tlie 

We wish we could give an account 
of the incidents of tlie tale. Mrs. Gore 
very justly observes, " tliat the very 
soul of poetry breathes through the 
liule romance.*' But the autlior of 
Pkciola is a visionary, whose dreams 
are manifestly the results of a happy 
and wholesome frame of mind — not 
frantic slumbers, haunted by night- 
mare and diabolism. Lowly and un- 
presuming as is tlie heroine of his tale, 
she has a claim to the protection of 
the wise and good ; and we defy the 
most hard -hearted of critics to set 
his foot upon the humble neck of 
« Picciola.'' 

The incidents, however, are not 
many, and the characters are very few, 
but managed with all the imagination, 
grace, beauty, pathos, of the autlior of 
Undine. Cliaries Veramont, Count de 
Cliarney, is young, and possessed of 
boundless wealtli. He outlives every 
enjoyment ; and, literally through ex- 
haustion of feelinff, plunges into a con- 
spiracy against Napoleon, and is im- 
prisoned for life in the small fortress 
of Fenestrella. Solitude nearly drives 
him mad : he curses fate, life, the 
world — and he denies God. Suddenly 
a small pkint springs up between two 
stones of tlie pavement; and to this 
plant he gives the endearing name of 
Picciola. He actually forms a friend- 
ship for it ; and at length loves it with 
all the force of which that tender pas- 
sion is susceptible. He by degrees 
learns the value of life, is awakened 
to the beauty of the world, and learns 
to acknowledge and worship God with 
sincere and fervent piety. He marries 
the daughter of his fellow-prisoner, 
and lives and dies a happy man. 
Every diaracter in the novel is perfect ; 
and, perhaps, the most perfect is that 
of the jailor. It is every way worthy 
tlie pen of Shakespeare. A young 
poetess has sent us tlie following illus- 
tration of this little production. 

Ttte Flower of FeneUrella, 

Dull vapours fill the joyless air, 

And cold the sunbemn fiilb 
Within the courtyard, paved and bare» 

'Neath FeuestreUu-V walklg IC 


'' Stokeshm Placer 


While winters upon winters roll, 

7ker« Iwtb a captiTe trod : 
Kis was that madness of the soul 

Which knows not of a God. 

One morn between tlie clefts of stone 

Two leaflets burst to riew ; 
And day bj daj, and one by one. 

The frsgile branches g^ew. 

It fpvw — nor canker knew, nor blight, 
'Neath sun, and storm, and shower : 

A blessing to the captire's sight. 
It grew — a dungeon flower ! 

Oh, beautiful and gentle thing ! 

Meek offspring of the skj ! 
Camest thou, like a breath of spring, 

To whisper and to die 1 

The captire mark*d its growth, and felt 

His soul subdued to tears : 
That tender thisf had power to melt 

The gathered nosts of years. 

He who had blindly trod the mase 

Of learning and of power. 
Stood watching with awaken*d gaze 

The opening of a flower ! 

He traced the powers of sun and dew — 
The light— the breath that fanned ; 

And owned at lengtli, to nature true, 
His greet Creator's hand. 

Great God ! with pure and wise design. 

Still, still 'mid all we see, 
Thou blendest thus some mysuc sign — 

Some voice which breathes of Thee ! 

There was also, at the period we 
spoke of, a third work which attracted 
our particular attention. It was entitled 
the Vktry of a Dtfamuyiey full of faith- 
ful and witty pictures of fashionable 
society iu England, Germany, and 
France : and, as far as the latter coun- 
try is concerned, it is the only work 

which gives a true description of the 
manners and modes of life of the hidi 
est Parisian circles. Tlie writer of this 
Diarif possesses a merit which every 
one has hitherto accorded, out of the 
whole host of fashionable novel-writers, 
to Mrs. Gore alone, — that of having 
actually mixed with, and been an 
habitual member of those classes, the 
daily demeanour, and language, and 
morals of which she has attempted, 
and that strictly to the letter, to de- 
scribe. Tlie writer has equally visited 
the hotels of tlie Faubourfic St. Germain, 
hermetically sealed to the Frenchmen 
of the present reginte, and to the Eng- 
lish residents of Paris — the hotels of 
the " Nouveatix rkhartU " — of llie 
Chauss^ d'Antin — and of diploma- 
tists — the family of Ix>uis Philippe, 
as they are k nudged and shouldered 
by the garlic and tobacco-reeking mem- 
bers of the national guard, in the halls 
of the once-exclusive Tuileries — and 
I lie wretched hops and parties of ioi- 
diatint and would-be-grand fashionables 
from England. U|)on the three works 
in question we fully intended to write 
our lucubrations, and forward the same 
to our friend Oliver. But that con- 
founded influenza prevented us; and 
we were compellea to write to our 
'< Man of Genius,*' and request him to 
take the same in hand. Disappoint- 
ment, however, still awaited us; for, 
while our own valuable attention was 
engrossed in furthering the Conserv- 
ative cause during the last general 
election, and we supposed that our 
'* Genius *' was inditing a sparkling 
article for our pages, io ! he had taken 
fliglit for Hanover, and is now astonish- 
ing the natives of King Ernest's capital 
by the exercise of his faculties. 


But it is time to turn to the novel 
before us ;• which we are glad to see 
has a merit, lacking in Mrs. Gore*s 
previous performances, viz. that the 
mcidents are under the management 
of fewer personages. In Mrs. Gore*s 
former works, the number of characters 
brought together overloaded, as it were, 
the canvass, and cramped the general 
eflfect and liarmonious succession of 
erents. The prominent cliaracter in 
Stoke$hiU Place is Mr. Bamsley, the 
man ofbudnnt; who, although the son 

of a law-stationer, and formerly an at- 
torney, manages, by marrying his mas- 
ter*sonly daughter,with neariy a hundred 
and fifty thousand pounds, to retire 
into the country — purchase the pro- 
perty of Stokeshill, formeriy appertain- 
ing to the very ancient family of the 
Woodgates — and, by cutting off all 
communication with his own relatives 
and quondam friends, to sink his 
origin, and obtain a respectable foot- 
ing among the gentry of the county of 
Kent. He is a man of quickness and 

• StokeshiU Place ; or. The Man of Business. By the Author of " M( 
Paughten/' « Mrs. Armytage," £cc. &o. 3 vols. London, 1857. ColhumV 


Our Batch of Novels for Christmas, 1837. [January, 

penetration, without vulgarity, and 
posseseed of knowledge and informa- 
tion ; and his incessant eflforts are de- 
voted to the task of making himself 
useful to the neighbouring fiimiliet, 
and to the county generally — to ob- 
tain the character of a man of business 
— to increase his own importance, by 
making his management of matters in- 
dispensable — and thus not only win 
universal esteem, but work his wav 
into the House of Commons through 
the representation of the neighbouring 
borough of Westerton. He has an only 
daughter, whose mother died alnuMt in 
the first bloom of youth, and whose 
portraiture is drawn in most beautiful 
colours by the delicate and grace- 
bestowing touch of Mrs. Gore. She 
is very young, very beautiful, very 
simple, very ingenuous — her feelings 
are alive to every pure and feminine 
impulse; and, though her powers of 
mind are of a very high oroer, she is 
ever unobtrusive and modest in her 
demeanour. Her education has been 
the work of an elderly lady, Miss Win- 
ston, first her mother s governess, tlien 
her companion, and afterwards the go- 
verness of the gentle and pure-minded 
Margaret Barnsley. But, notwithstand- 
ing all his eflforts, the stigma of his 
origin sticks to the attorney, and be- 
comes gall and wormwood to his soul ; 
and, though every where received as a 
very useful person and a consummate 
'* man of business," he sees that the 
only way to overstep the barrier laid 
down by the prejudices of society is to 
attain worldly distinction, and display 
his wealth and worldly advantages. 
He therefore comes forward as a can- 
didate for Westerton — but not before 
he had commanded his daughter to 
refuse the proflfered suit of the younger 
son of Mr. Sullivan, also a member for 
the borough. This refusal, and from a 
man without pedigree or county stand- 
ing, but with plenty of money withal, 
so enrages the father that be imme- 
diately writes to the impoverished Sir 
Henry Woodgate, who is living with 
his aunt and benefactress at Ghent, 
and instigates him to an opposition to 
Mr. Barnsley. The Woodgate family 
dates from the Conquest; and they not 
only look on the ci-devant attorney 
with contempt, but also with deep ani- 
mosity, because he has chanced to be- 
come the purchaser of their patrimonial 
property, of which their own extrava- 
gances have caused the alienation. 

Spite of all opposition, however, the 
parvenu is returned, aind thus gains 
admission into the very choicest society 
of the metropolis, through the good 
offices of Lady Walmer, one of the 
principal personages in the county of 
Kent. Here Margaret receives the 
most splendid offers, coronets and titles 
being showered before her feet; but 
she is proof against tliese allurements, 
for her heart has become secretly, but 
irretrievably, won by Sir Henry Wood- 
gate — even while he was her fathers 
antagonist for the honours of the 
Westerton representation. They fre- 
quently meet in town, and Margaret 
has every reason to believe, from his 
manner, that the young, high-minded, 
and highly aecomplish^ bc^net, reci- 
procates her afTection ; but it turns out 
that Sir Henry Woodgate had only 
sought her society for the purpose of 
constantly speaking to her, and hear- 
ing her speak, of the dear fiiend of her 
youth, Helen Sullivan, to whom he is 
already engaged. The baronet remains 
ignorant of his conquest, and is mar- 
ried to tlie woman of his choice, who 
chances to possess a temper totally in- 
compatible with liis own. Meanwhile 
Barnsley, through the roguery of his 
country banker, (Moseman, suffers a 
severe reverse of fortune; forCloseman 
fails, and Barnsley, through his greed 
for an extended income, is involved as 
a partner, and gazetted as a bankrupt. 
He consequently loses every shilling of 
his money ; but a deed of settlement, 
produced to the world by Barnsley, 
shews that " Siokesliill Place " is abso- 
lutely settled upon his daughter. Ajb 
the estate, however, without a corre- 
sponding fortune, is worse than useless, 
it is, by Margarets consent, sold to 
Sir Henry Woodgate, who is enabled 
to purchase it by means of his wife's 
handsome fortune. Barnsley now, 
without assigning adequate reasons, 
goes abroad to Flanders, and is accom- 
panied by his ever faithful daughter. 
Here they remain, for more than five 
years, in peace and happiness. Barns- 
ley had become a sadder, but a better 
man, and had learned, for the first time 
in his life, to appreciate his daughter*s 
excellence; while that daughter, im- 
proved in beauty and in mind, has not 
only gained golden opinions from all 
ranks and classes of society, but has 
been offered the hand of the noble 
Prince of Artenbeig ; whicli, however, 
she has thought proper, though mo- 


StofushUl Plate:* 


desUy, to refuse — for her heart has 
never been in her own cuttody. In 
the niidst of bis domestic happiness 
and tranquillity of mind, Bamsley 
suddenly receives a letter, intimftting 
that his only brother lias returned in 
sttdi ill bealtb from India that be is 
not expected to survive many days, 
mod, if Bamsley wishes to see him, he 
mutt immediately hurry over to Lon- 
don. The brotliers had not been on 
9Mm1 terms, in consequence of the ne- 
glect of tbe ^ man of business ;*' and 
he neaolves, as some slight expiation, 
to proceed on his journey. Margaret 
accompanies him ; but, on the instant 
of landing, Bamsley is arrested on the 
capital charge of having forged the 
deled of settlement conveying the pro- 
perty to bis daughter. Tlius does the 
career of the man of business, who has 
been struggling all his life to lil\ liim- 
self from that legitimate sphere for 
which he was by nature destined, end 
in blistering disgrace. He dies while 
in prison (how, nobody can tell); while 
his dutiful child is ready to sacrifice 
life and fortune for his preservation. 
And, on the death of Lady Woodgate, 
and after a sufficient interval, Margaret 
is at length made happy by an union 
with the man of her selection, to whom 
she had through all the changing cir- 
cumstances of life proved faithAil. 

The moral, as intended by Mrs. Gore 
in her tale, is obvious, — the prejudices 
of the aristocracy are too strong to be 
carried by any assailant, even though 
he be armed with every intellactual 
and mental quality ever bestowed upon 
man. But why has Mit. Gone mftde 
all her exclusives ToriM? The Whig 
aristocracy arrogate to themselves longer 
pedigrees and greater posseiaioos than 
the Tory. But, if this be true, it is 
also true that there is a greater syelem 
of exclusiveness among thelormer than 
among tlie latter. And this viU become 
apparent upon setting an iaquiry on 
foot in any county throughout the thn»e 

kingdoms. For it is the glory of the 
Tory aristoeracy that, although they 
may not possess such lengthened pedi- 
grees as their opponents, they are more 
immediately sprung from the people, 
and that they have a greater community 
of interest and feeling with the people 
than the pride of Whiggery would ever 
avow, or to which it would ever con- 
descend. Another point which Mrs. 
Gore has attempted to elucidate, is the 
misery always attending marriages of 
convenience. We have had, of late, 
many instances of the kind — enough 
to warn all parents from recklessly 
risking the happiness of their offspring. 
When the man marries for money, and 
tlie woman for social position, the in- 
evitable consequence is misery to them- 
selves and their duldren. Coldness 
soon gives place to indifference, and 
indifference to aversion, and too fre- 
quently desertion ; and how can child- 
ren, with such a woful example, turn 
out ornaments, or even a credit, to 

Throughout every scene of this novel, 
Mrs. Gore has manifested consummate 
taste, acute powers of description, and 
infinite skill and judgment. The scenes 
of English fashionaUe life are written 
in a style, and with a fidelity, of which 
not one other writer ofthe day is capable. 
Tlie developement of the ^'arious cha- 
racters is perfect ; and it is impossible 
to conceive any thing in better keeping, 
or more consistent in ail its parts, than 
that of Barnsley, and of his admirable 
and gentle daughter. Amid all the 
whirl of society, Mrs. Gore never loses 
sight of the pure and the simple ; and 
this is testined iu every one of her 
iM>v«ls. In illustration of this, we wquld 
refeir to the cliancter of the governess 
in StQke$hUl Place, and to that of Dr. 
Grant in Jirs, Armytage, — Further 
spaoe tlie inexorab&e Oliver will not 
9ik>w IIS ; so we beg heartily to recom- 
meod Stokei/iiU Pkice to the world at 

Digitized by 


1 04 Brovgham and Melbourne ; [January , 




A REVEBEND and learned Doctor of tl)e North defined this to be the real old age 
of Uie world, and the centuries long passed to have been its boyhood ; the heroes 
of to-day to be the grandpapas, and those of the fourth to the nineteenth century 
to have been the grandchildren, children, &c. &c. &c. It is therefore clear, from 
these premises, that the originals of all learned works and poems are struck off 
now; and that the writings of these great-great-grandchildren and striplingSy 
Homer and ^mto//e, are mere plagiarisms from their forefathers — ix. the sires of 
this present hoary generation. The originals are appearing now, and all that pre- 
ceded are pure copies, litis will vindicate our course, were vindication necessary , 
in inserting the following original, composed on the day after the Brougbana and 
Melbourne skirmish in the House or Lords; from wnich it will be seen tint 
Bums, one of our grandchildren, has conceived, and with monstrous impudence 
composed the first poem in his work. The Twa Dogs. Tlie master-strokes, 
it will be seen, are in our original, and the traces of artful accomroodatioD are 
clearly in Bums. — O. Y. 

Upo' an evenin' in December, 

The House o' Lords may weel remember, 

Twa duels, that were na thrang thegither, 

Forgathered there wi' ane anither. 

The first they ca*d him Viscount Melbourne, 

Whose title shews him toVe been well bom ; 

His lockit, lettered, braw gold collar, 

A noble proved, if not a scholar. 

Though his a premier's high degree, 

The fient a premier mind had he ; 

For he wad spen' an hour caressin' 

Wi' ony willin' gipsy messin*. 

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie^ 

Nae tawted quean, though e*er sae duddie, 

But through " back door " he'd go to see her, 

And sit on rugs or carpets wi' her. 

Tlie t'ither was an Edinbro* collie, 

A carpin', rantin*, ravin' billie. 

For wham the Commons had nae room. 

And got him christened Baron Brougham* 

Brougham is a gath and gabbie tyke 

As ever cleared the Commons' dyke : 

His upward snout, and scraggy face, 

Hae ^t him faes in ilka place. 

The birch, the school, the University, 

Are things he always shews no mercy to. 

Though he, from ©iriy days, had been 

To Dan and Lord Monbodd' a frien', 

Yet had nae tail, wi' upward curl. 

To grace his hurdles wi* its swurl. 

Ance, nae doubt, they war fain o'ither, 

And unco pack and thick thegither, 

Wi' social nose, whyles snuff'd and snoukit, 

And Tory pension-lists they howkit ; 

Whiles ane to iVbrton-Falgate drew, 

And t'ither to th' Edinbro' Review. 

And Jenkins then, and Magdalene, 

Through thick and thin had cronies been ; 

Till Tuesday niclit, in House o' Lords, ^^ , 

Baitl) rose to fierce and bitter words. Digitized by LjOOQ Ic 

1838.] or, the Twa Dogs. 105 


" My lord, yeVe lately got your tongue 
Wi' coortly phrase sae nicely hung, 
That ane, wha ken'd ye not, wad think 
You stood upon the very brink 
Of Wellington-Consenratismy 
Or ither bteck and awfu* chasm. 
I like na these approximations — 
Sic unrefbrmin' occupations 1 
As for myser, late Chancellor Brougliaro, 
Tm closer drawn to Joseph Hume, 
The Greek Kilkenny warroin'-pan. 
To Waklev, Leader, and great Dan. 
My heart has been sae £iin to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wl* them.*' 


'< My lord, to see how ye*re negleckit. 
An huflTd, and cuffa, and disrespeckit ; 
The ministry nu care but little 
For Brougham, and Hume, and sic like cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by sick folk 
As I would by a stink in brock. 
As to my learned and polish*d tongue 
With courtly phrase bem' nicely hung, 
Nane, my lora, could stick the faster 
To court, and place, and royal master ; 
Or bow sae afl tlie willin knee 
To keep the seals and salarie. 
You butter*d up, and buttered doun, 
You self-conceited, blarney loon, 
An' went where'er the premier led you. 
Savin' av, or no, as he mit bid you ; 
Till York and Inverness paradin', 
Boastin', like dung-cock on a midden. 
You mountebank t rather faster 
Than just was lik'd by roysd master ; 
And thereby got a kick i' the breech 
That sent you out o' coortly reach." 


" My lord, I'm wonderfu* contentit 
Wi sic like fare as Fortune's sentit ; 
But ilka body kens my life, 
Tm modest as new-married wife, 
An' only stay awa frae courts 
To please mysel wi' belter sports. 
But since ve winna tak the offer 
I've hinted aHen, you vile auld scoffer, 
I leave you here a parliamentin. 
For salary your soul indentin ; 
An' nu 1 11 act for your destruction 
Wi* Radical and Popish faction ; 
And tho* a place I ance mi't prize it, 
Most heartily I nu despise it. 
By thb, the candle's glimrin light 
Shew'd it vras well on i' the night; 
So up they got, and shook their lugs. 
Like twa ill-natured terrier dogs ; 

An each took afi'his several way, C^r\r\n]r> 

To have it out some other day. ^9^^^ ^v ^^OOglL 

lOS The Doctor, ^c. [Januwry, 



Clemenln itiikm «it. J o venal. 

[No, no — that U the wrong quotation : here is a better from the same poet J : 

" Venit et Crispi jucunda aenectus 

Cujos erant norea, qualis facundia, mite 
Ingenium. Juvkvil. 

The derii aiul hia grannam, 
With a north wind to ian 'am, 
Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow, 
For thejr are cock-sure of the fellow lielow. 


Dulamaa belle, oanaM sgia Attale belle, 
Historias belka, carmina bella &cia 

Nil bene cum facia*, facia tmoMi omnia belLe 
Via duam quid sia 1 Magnus as ardelip^ 


Whack fol da riddle, ahoot htm through the mid41e— 

Whack fol da riddle, well-a-day. Bkrkard Barton. 

For PistoFa codi ia up, and iaafaing fire will follow. 


Maia il me semble qu'il ne sefa pas hors de propos de dire d'ou lea Indiena tireot 
cette gpvnde quantity d*or qu'ila rend pour tribut au Roy de Perse. — Let Hi$toirei 
d*UerodoU mitet en Fran^oit par P, Dn-Ryer de rAcad£mte Fran^oue, Conteiller, et 
HUtoriographe de Roy. 

A second Daniel ! Shy lock. 

Convey the wise call it. Pistol. 


Aliena quiaquia cacitat at qumit faaaam. 


Or laugh and abake in Rabalaia' easf ehiUr. 


OJ ym^ r»Hr$ yt tm«v \ytUar§ irirfttc jut^irn^ 
OXiv rt^vr^^ Ctev ^ t/ttf mS^ »mi §tevih, HoMER« 
llius paraphrased : 

No, Doctor — no ! 
Thj hand can never pull Pantagniera bow. 

O. Y. 

• The Doctor, &c. hooAmi LoHmu»ndC0.'<^t$^^ 



Chapter tie F^fth.^^ Hunting up. 


Mms qn* arriva-t4i ? Tres peu 4» lecteara re o i o » bk rmt mi chMi qui vooce la 
OMiiRle. — Qmtttums tur CEneytlop^tdie* 

Quanto reetius hie qui nil molitur ioopte Y 

Midniglit, and not an eje. 

SouTHBY— or 8mith. 


Te aequiBHir. Lucretius. 

Commentators each dark paaaaye shun, 
And hold their farthing eandlaa to the auo. . 


He bafcii baen at a fiMtt of laagM^es, and bath carried off the aoimps. 


Quote Lycophron, and people will take it for granted that you hare read Homer. 

Quarterly Review. 

Dicetur totiea rM> y itintfuiQifum* Mabtuu 

O que d*loriU obacun, de Urrea iniores, 

Furent en ce grand jonr de la poudre tires ! Boilsa v. 


Clenentia atitlu est. 


[No, no — that is the wrong quotation : 
here is a better from the same poet] : 

Venit et Crispi jucunda aenectus 
I, quauaf 

I facundia, mite 

Cujua erant mores, qi 

The deril and his grannam. 
With a north wind to fan 'em. 
Expecting and hoping tbe trumpet to blow. 
For they are cocksure of the ftUow below. 


Dnlamas belle, cansas agis Attale belle, 
Historias bellas, carmioa bella fncis 

* • • 

Nil bene cum facias, facis tamen omnia 

Vis dnam quid sis ? Magnus es ardelio. 

Whack Ibl de riddle, shoot him through 
the middle -. 
Whack fol de riddle, well-a-day. 

Brbnard Barton. 

For Piatot's cock as np, and flashing fire 
will foUow. Shakmpiare. 

Mais il me semble, quMl ne sera pas 
hors de propos de dire d'oii les Indians 
tirent eette grande quantity d*or qu*iU 
rend pour tnbut au Hoy de Perse. — L«f 
Hktoirei d'HeredoUt mUe$ em FranfoU par 
P. Du-Ryer, de VAeOimU Frmmfoite, 
CoH$eiUer, et Historiographe de Ro]f» 

A second Daniel ! Shylock. 

Convey the wise call it. Pistol. 

Clement Carlyon, Doctor of Medi- 
cine, late Fellow of Pembroke College, 
Cambridge, wrote, in the year 1 836, a 
volume, which be entitled Earfy Tears 
4md LaU ReadleciiimM. It was pub- 
lished by Oeofge Whittaker and Co., 
in Ave Maria Lane ; and printed by 
J.Truscott, who sojourns in the Black- 
friars' Road. Clement— -not Clemens 
the Alexandrian, but Clemens the Cor- 
nubiaii — started in one of the closing 
years of the last century, 1798-9, on a 
lour. It was by no means 

" In the hot days when George tlie Third 
was king ;*' 

for Uiougli tliat worthy monarch filled 
the throne, the days were any thing but 
hot. " The winter of 1 798-9," says the 
Doctor —Doctor Carlyon, not Southey 
— « was remarkably long and severe : 
anow remained on the ground even in 
Cornwall till tlie latter end of February 
or beginning of March/' Why the re- 
straining particle even should be ap- 
plied to Com wall we do not know : 
at the Land's End, one would have 
imagined that the extremities of the 
wealber should be most remarkably 
felt. Be tliis as it may, it is plain 
that Clement found the weather to be 
inclement. Digitized by VjOO vie 


The Doctor^ S^c. 


Of this, howerer, we should have 
taken no note, if it had not happened 
that Carlson, in his peregrinations, had 
met with Coleridge. Of old Cole his 
recollections are pleasant ; but his ac- 
count of the early political career of 
the pantisocrat is by no means com- 
mendable. We come in for some sliare 
of censure, because of our having pub- 
lished tlie verses of that old man elo- 
quent on Mackintosh. 

** Coleridge," says Clement Carlyon, 
*' must have been in a capricious mood, 
and under the in6uence of no small 
chagrin, when he wrote that eccentric 
and bitter lampoon, * I1ie two round 
Spaces on the Tombstone/ of whicli I 
have preserved a copy ; but I never ex- 
pectea nor wished to have seen it in 
print: neither can the special pleading 
with which it was not long since intro- 
duced into a celebrated magazine change 
the character of the vindictive spirit in 
which it appears to have been conceived 
and written ; any more than the specious 
pschyological vindication which Cole- 
ridge has himself prefixed to the repub- 
lication of 

* Fire, Famine, and Slaughter,' 
among his Sibylline leaves, can make 
any earthly being," &c. &c. 

We are not called upon to inves- 
tigate the propriety, or the impro- 
priety, of " Fire, Famine, and Slaugh- 
ter ; but, for ourselves, we sliall say 
(for ours is the celebrated Magazine), 
that our publication of a piece of poetry, 
well known in literary circles, and after- 
wards published by Coleridge himself, 
with some lines which we had tlie grace 
to strike out, as being somewhat too 
Gargantua-like for our page, does not 
in an any way inflict the pang of peni- 
tence upon our publicatory souls. Jim 
Mackintosh, besides, never stood very 
high in our eyes — to use a plebeian 
and very intelligible expression, we 
thought him a humbug of large degree ; 
and would have been at all times ready 
to vote with Joe Hume for the cutting 
off of his public allowance, whatever 
that might have been, leaving him to 
browze upon the eleemosynary aliment 
afforded him by Brookes's. But Joe, 
as well as Jim, was frae the Noarth ; 
and the member for Montrose would 
not think of annoying the Doctor, &c. 
oot o' Aberdeen-awa. Jim was a doc- 
tor of medicine ! but, as nobody would 
be trusted under his care, he turned 

lawyer. '' Faciamm experimetUwm i/t 
corpore v'Ui^ said his patrons; and, 
knowing not half as much law as an 
apothecary's boy does of physic, off 
Jim was sent to bray jurisprudence in 
Bombay. On this there is a story. 

Now, for this story we are most pe- 
culiariy anxious not to be in any way 
held responsible. It may be a lie from 
beginning to end. A lie with pockets 
to it. A lie in a tiewig. So, if it is a 

lie, say so, Brian . You oflFend 

us not ; but you know tlie feel of a 
trigger, under the first joint of the in- 
dex finger of your dexter paw, too well, 
not to know ttiat it is more polite to say 
that it is a mistake. We shall correct 
it in the next Number. 

Jim wrote a book in answer to Burke ; 
and in one sense the thing answered 
very well, for it booed him into an ac- 
(juaintance with the Sublime and Beau- 
tiful. This work, as poor Eaton Bar- 
rett said,* he wrote to please Fox —by 
and by, through Burke's introduction, 
he read lectures, in praise of the Eng- 
lish law and constitution, to please Pitt 
— and then he took a place in India 
to please himself. All this was quite 
right ; and Macklin, who wrote Sir Per* 
tinax MacSycophant, could not desire 
better : it would have just suited his 
book. But while Jim was in India, 
it so happened that Brian came 
under the notice of tlie Recorder of 
Bombay. What he had done we know 
not, or we forget, or we cannot tell. 

That any one could imagine a court 
in which Jim presided to be much bet- 
ter or more dignified tlian tlie court of 
dogapes, said to be established in Tlii- 
bet, or of iack-crows liolding their sit- 
tings iu the Orkneys, or other Ultima 
Thule latitudes, was out of the question. 
Brian, submitting to die judicature, as 
he would have submitted wherever the 
crown of England was placed, even if 
it were clapp^ upon tlie river Jordan — 
to say notning of his being compelled 
to submit whether he would or not — 
made his appearance in due time at 
the bar. Jim flourished about, talked 
fine rhetoric and bad law in the lingo 
of Aberdeen, and was, of course, a very 
shining character, until it was the time 
for Brian to speak. Tlie Milesian had 
arrived in court with a large assortment 
of those portentous folios which, by a 
legal fiction, are called abridgements. 
One of these works lay before him, 

AH th9 TaUnt4. 

Digitized by VjUUV IC 


Chapter the Fifth. — Hunting up. 


which he prepared to open with due 

«• My lord," or ** Your worship," or 
whatever else may be the proper ap- 
pellatioa of tlie Bombayese recorders, 
said Brian. 

** Citic, clac,*^ said the volume lie 
was opening. 

[\\e do not know that we are exact 
or intelligible in our orthography ; but 
if our readers will put their tongues to 
the part of the palate close behind tlie 
teeth y and leaving a due passage for 
the air, draw it vehemently up and 
down, it will expr&ts the sound. 
Hoping tliat we make ourselves under- 
stood, we repeat that] 

•* Ctac, ciacy' said the volume he 
was opening. 

The quick ear of tlie jailor, or Uie 
jailor's attendant, caught the sound — 
the volume was unclosed — the finger 
of Brian was crooked — the arm of 
Brian was about to be lifted — the eye 
of Brian was set on his man — all was 
right — when the jailor knocked the 
arm down. 

Knocked the arm down, just as 
Brian had the pistol, the cocking of 
which we have been endeavouring to 
represent in writing, drawn out of the 
backgammon-box, imitating a law-book 
in look as well as Iiazard, and almost 
lerelled to shoot Jim — and those whom 
the eye of Brian marked were seldom 
missed. There was a charivari in the 
the court. Jim made a speech about 
the ermine of a judge [and he certainly 
was one by patent] being stained with 
his gore, ana so forth, which was in its 
day voted to be a very fine piece of 
rhetoric, and worthy of a retiring pen- 
sion. Jim was not shot, nor after- 
wards hanged — neitlier was Brian. 
So ends the anecdote. We, therefore, 
repent not of having published what 
Coleridge wrote concerning tlie un- 
shotten of Bombay. 

But, how does this affect the Book of 
the Doctor^ ^x.? Thus. We digressed 
for a moment, being taken up with 
ourselves and Jim Mackintosh ; but 
the reason of our introducing Dr. Cle- 
ment Carlyon, and his acquaintance 
with Coleridge, will be understood 
when we lay before our readers the 
account of Coleridge*8 style of con- 
versation among his travelling com- 
panions: — 

" Coleridge," quoth the doctor, *' I 
need not say, was always a very notice- 
able penonage among us^ and having, 

moreover, no objection to be noticed, 
whoever thenoticera might happen to be, 
he conceived the ludicrous idea of making 
a plenary sacrifice of common sense to 
the experiment of filling U^ natives, at 
fitting times and places, with the utmost 
astonishment. Accordingly, after con- 
ning over the respective merits of several 
nonsensical stories which he had in some 
comer of his brain — such as the tragi- 
cal ballad of * Tittymouse brim ' [forsan 
rhythmi causi^ legendum ' brin ' pro 
'brun,' idque pro *bum' — sed consu. 
lendi MSS.] ' when the youngest (sister) 
pushed the eldest in '.— the ttory of Dr, 
Daniel Dodds, and his horte, Knobs, who 
drank Ihe uine-dregs at the Dapple Dog^ 
in Dimcaster, Sjc. S^c" 

On which Dr. H. [still doctors at 
every step !] remarks : 

*' Dr. Daniel Dodds of Doncaster. 

*' Dr. Daciiel Dove ! A discovery ! 
The authorship of the Doctor is no longer 
a mystery." 

If by this note Dr. II. means that 
Coleridge was the author, he is put 
out of court by the death of the 
Ancient Mariner. But that Doctor 
Daniel Dodds, and his horse, Knobs, 
drinking the dregs at the Dapple Dog, 
Doncaster, in all the alliteration of 
D-ism, is Doctor Daniel Dove of Don- 
caster, with his horse, Nobs [so spelt, 
we suppose, as to deprive us of a Key 
to the original], there can be no man- 
ner of doubt. And what is the real 
story of Dr. Daniel Dodds ? We know 
not, and we are grieved to say so. 

Tliat it is a l)eiter story than that of 
tlie Doitor we are perfectly sure, for it 
could not well be worse. Let it be 
related to us, therefore, by one of our 
9,876,543,210 correspondents [whence 
did we borrow or steal this numeration. 
Doctor ? tell us the chapter and verse], 
and we sliall do it infinite justice. 

Nay, more, Clement Cariyon has 
supplied us with anotlier story, which 
is the original of an efifort in the 
Doctor : 

*' Once upon a time there lived an old 
maiden lady of the name of Mary Row — 
Mrs. Mary Row. The place of her resi- 
dence was Ottery St. Mary, which is si- 
tuated in the county of Devon, about 
twelve miles from Exeter, and four from 
Tiverton. To get at it, you must leave 
the great road from Bath to Exeter at an 
inn near the late seat of Sir G. Y. Sir 
George got ioto Parliament, mined his 
fortune, and sold his beautiful estate to 
an East India nabob ; in short, there 
are many anecdotes that might be related 


The Doctor, *c. 


of l^r G.'Y. But, to retarn to Mrt. 
Mtry Row. Tbi« Mrs. M»jr Row iMd 
the roputatioii of boiag a witcb. She 
iMd aJwayi nesr ber in old bl»ck 
ott. Tfaw old bliok c«t wm tbought 
to be her familiar ; and, on the death of 
Mn. Marj Row, the opiaion of her bar. 
ing been a witeh was oeafirmed in the 
foHewing extraordinary nranner. The old 
black cat rot on the top of the bouse of 
ita late old maideB mieiress, and audibly 
thrice exelaimed, as nmnbera were ready 
to testify, 
* Moll Ro- 0..0W ; Moll Ro— o—ow ; 
MoR Ro — o — ow is dead.' 
Then, continues Clement, of Cornwall, 
we «n joined in chorus, imitating the 
cat-call like a well-trained band of torn- 
oats, to the amazement of all present. 
That we fully sucoeeded in rovking tom- 
fools of ourselves no one can doubt.".— 
Carlyoit, p. 134. 

This may have been very good fun 
in talk. It makes no great impression 
in print. Neither does the following 
story of the Doctor, modelled upon it 
in all particulars : 

" rns stoRY OF the thrce bears. 

" ' A tale which may content the minds 
Of learned men and grave philosophers/ 

« Once upon a time there were Three 
Bears, who lived together in a bouse of 
their own, in a woo^ One of tbem was 
a Little, Small, Wee Bear ; and one was 
a Middle-sized Bear ; and the otlier tiits 
a Great, Huge Bear. Thev had each a 
pot forthehr porridge ; a little pot for the 
Little, Small, Wee Bear ; and a middle- 
sized pot for the Middle Bear; aiid a 
great pot for the Great, Huge Bear. And 
they had eaeh a chair to sit in ; a liitle 
chair for the Litde, Small, Wee Bear ; 
and a middle-sized chair for tlie Middle 
Bear ; and a great choir for the Great, 
Huge Bear. And they had each a bed 
to sleep in ; a little tied for the Little, 
Small, Wee Bear ; and a middle-sized 
bed for the Middle Bear ; and a great 
bed for the Great, Huge Bear. 

'* One day, after thoy had made the 
porridge for their breakfaet, and poured 
It into their porridge-pots, they walked 
out into the wood while the porridge was 
cooling, that they might not burn their 
mouths, by beginning too soon to eat it. 
And while they were walking, a little 
old Woman oame to the houae. She 
could not have been a good, honest, old 
Woman; (or first she looked in at the 
windew, and then she peeped in at the 
key-hole ; and seeing nobody in the 
house, she lifted the latch. The door 
wpinot foirteiied, because tlpe Beprs wer» 

good Bears, who did nobody any 1 
and never suspected that any body woaild 
harm them. So the little old 'Wonaan 
opened the door, and went in ; and well 
pleased she was when she saw the por* 
ridge on the table. If she had been a 
go^ little old W^onuin, she would hare 
waited till the Bears came home, and 
then perhaps, they would have asked her 
to breakfkst ; for they were good Bears, 
a little rough or so, as the maimer of 
Beara is, but, for all that, verr food^ft- 
tured .and hospitable. Bat ane was an 
impudent, bad old Woasan, and set about 
helping herself. 

" So, first she taated the porridge of 
the Great, Huge Bear, and tnat was too 
hot for her ; and slie said a bad word 
about that. And then ahe tasted the 
porridge of the Middle Bear, and that 
was too cold for her, and she said a bad 
word about that, too. And then ahe 
went to the porridge of the Little, Small, 
Wee Bear, and tasted that, aad that waa 
neither too hot not too cold, bat juat 
right ; and ahe liked it so well, that ahe 
ate it all op : but the naughty old Wo- 
man said a bad word about the little 
porridge-pot, because it did not hold 
enough for ben 

" Then the little old Woman snte down 
in the chair of the Great, Huge Bear, and 
that was too bard for ber. And then she 
sate down in the ehair of the Middle 
Bear, and that was too soft for her. And 
then she sate down in the dmif of the 
Little, SbmII, Wee Bear, aad Arat waa 
neither too hard Bor loo soft, b«t joat 
right. So aha aeated heraclf in it, wd 
there she sate till the bottom of the chair 
came out, and down came hers, pluaqt 
upon the- ground. And the naughty old 
Woman said a wicked word about that, 

** Then the little old Woman went up 
stairs into the bed-chamber in which the 
three Beara slept And first she lay 
down upon the bed of the Great, Hnge 
Bear ; but that was too high at the head 
for her. Aad next she my down apon 
the bed of the Middle Bear; and that 
was too high at the foot for her. And 
then she lay down u|>on the bed of the 
Little, Small, Wee Bear ; and that was 
neither too high at the head, nor at the 
foot, but just right. So she covered her- 
self up comfortably, and l»y ^etQ till ahe 
fell fast asleep. 

<' By this time the Three Bears thought 
their porridge would be cool enough ; so 
thev came hototb to breakfoat. Now the 
Uttie old Womau bad left the apoon of 
the Great, Huge Bear, atandiag in his 

' SmmthtOi^ t)a0 httw at 
01? porriHstt^ 


Chapter the Fifth.— Bunting up. 


aM th« Gie«t, Huge Bat, In bis grtat, 
i«rli, mff voioe. And wbm the 
Uiddle dew looked tt hia, he mw that 
the spoon was standing m it too« Thej 
were wooden spoons ; if they had been 
silrer ones, the naughty old Woman 
woald hare put them in her pocket 

' Somebody has been at my 
porridge !' 

said the Middle Bear, in his middle 

" Then the Utde, SmaU, Wee Bear, 
looked at his, and there was the spoon 
in the porridge.^>ot, bat the porridge was 
aU gone. 



said the litUe, Small, Wee Bear, ia his 
little, small, wee voioe. 

•* Upon this the Three Bears, seeing 
that some one bad entered their hoose, 
and eaten up the Little, Small, Wee 
Bewr*s breakfast, began to look about 
them. Now the little old Woman had 
not put the hard cushion straight when 
she rose 6om the chav of the Great, 
Huge Bear. 

* »omtbo^ tfa^ iirrtt 
ditttng in mp tWr i' 

said the Great, Huge Bear, in his great, 
rough, gruff voice. 

^ And the little old Wonum bad sqoat- 
ted down the soft cnshion of the Middle 

' Somebody has been sitting 
in my chair !' 

Mid the Middle Bear, in his middle 

" And you know what the little old 
Woman had done to the thh^ ehair. 

« StmtUig kt h«tm titUmg i» My tkmtr, amdkMtatt 

nnd the Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his 
Kttie, small, wee voice. 

" Then the I'hree Bears thought it 
necessary that they should make further 
seoreh ; so they went up stairs into their 
bed-chsmber. Now the little old Wo- 
man had pulled the pillow of the Great, 
Huge Bear, out of its place. 

aaidihe Great, Huge Bear, in hi* isr^t, 
rough, gruff voice. 

"AndtheUtUeold Womaii had palled 
the bolstef of the Middle Bern* out of its 

' Somebody has been lying in 
my bed!' 

said the Middle Bear, in his middle 

" And when the Little, Small, Wee 
Bear, came to look at his bed, there was 
the bidsUr in its phieej and the piOow 
in its phM^ upon the bolster ; and upon 
the pillow was the little old Woman's 
uffly, dirty head.— which was not in its 
place, for she had no business there. 

• SMMM(y Am AMU Iftiv *• a^ M,-.«itf Am «»r if/ • 

said the Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his 
little, small, wee voice. 

" The litde old Woman had heard in 
her 9\^9 the grtet, rough, gruff voice 
of the Great, Huge Bear; but she was 
so tut asleep that it was no more to her 
than the roanng of wind, or the mmbUng 
of thonder. And she hwi heard the 
middle voice of the Middle Bear, but it 
wos only as if she bad heard some one 
speaking in a dream. But when she 
heard the little, small, wee voice, of the 
Little, Small, Wee Bear, it was so sharp, 
and so shrill, that it awakened her at 
once. Up she started; and when she 
saw the Three Bears on one side of the 
bed, she tumbled herself out at the other, 
and ran to the window. Now the window 
was open, because the Bears, like good, 
tidjf Isesrs, as tiiey were, always o^^MMd 
their bed-ebamber window when they 
got up in the momiag. Out the Uttlo 
old Woman jumped; and whether ahe 
broke her nedt in the fall, or ran into the 
wood and was lost there, or found her 
way out of the wood, and was taken op 
by the constable aud sent to the House 
of Correction for a vagrant as she was, I 
cannot tell. But the Three Bears never 
saw any thing more of her." 

Call you this writing Pantagmelli- 
cally? No. It is what we call trash-- and 
being without wit or humour, fimcy 
or fun : notliing but trash. Mrs. Moll 
Row is far superior. 

(QtMTe,istherenotanotberMoll Row 
celebrated in poetry ? We think we have 
beard some agreeable amatory verses 
addressed to a lady of that name, attri- 
buted, but perhaps erroneously, ta the 
Vicar of Harrow. We do not remem- 
ber them exactly, but they begin, if we 
do not mistake, with a geographical 
description of Mount Caoeasus.) 

Sokffor^ongkaA ofPr. P«me| 


The Doctor, S^. 


Dove. Good night, Dr. Clement C&rr 
lyon ; and, as yoa are an lionest, 
honourable, worthy, orthodox, right- 
minded duirchman and Tory, full of 
learning, full of kindness, full of Uiought, 
full of good memories, warm be your 
nightcap, and soft your slumber. 

N.B. — Ne?er imagine that the doc- 
trine of the Trinity, or any other doc- 
trine, depends upon theGrscism of the 
New Testament. Middleton was a png, 
and no conjuror. Read Origen aixl 
Chr}'sostom. No matter why. Youll 
find out as you read. 


Aliena quisquis recitat et qu«rit famam. 

Or laugh and shake in Rabelais* easy 
chair. Pope. 

Oy ytt^ TMTt yt tmo lyttMW wimm fin^m^ 

II1U8 paraphrased : 

No, Doctor — no! 
Thy hand can never pull Pantagniers 

bow. 0. y. 

Mais qu*amva«t-il ? Tres peu de leo. 
feurs ressembbrent an chien qui succe 
la moelle. — Quettioni sur rEneyclopadle, 

Quanto rectius hie qui nil molitur inepte? 
Midnight, and not an eye. 

SouTiiEV— or Smith. 

Coleridge, not long before hb dealh, 
and shortly after the appearance of the 
first volume of tlie Doctor, complained 
to us, while we were drinking tea, 
or sometliing else, with him at Cligh- 

Ste, tliat Southe^ had not acted 
riy in appropriaUng to himself this 
story of Doctor Daniel Dodds of Don- 
caster, and his horse, NoU ; hr it was 
a stock story of his own, which lie had 
intended to make the basis of a Itabe- 
Issian work. Now, as Coleridge al- 
ways intended to do every tiling, and 
actually did next to nothing, we think 
nobody seriously aggrieved him in tak- 
ing for use any goods which in his 
hands would have been useless ; and 
Coleridge had no power of sustained 
humour. His attempts at drollery, in 
the Friend and elsewhere, are melan- 
choly to the bst degree. In the best 
things of the satirical kind he ever 
wrote, "The Devil's Walk," "The 
Round Spaces on the Tombstone,'' 
and some epigrams, he went to the 
devil for their piquancy. In short, he 
could not wnte any thing, whether 
serious or sportive, without diablerie ; 

-HUNTING and he had a strong penchant for 

damning all persons whom he disliked, 
from Pitt down to Mackintosh. Now 
this is by no means in the manner of 
Francis Rabelais, physician. 

But as remote from that renowned 
cure is the manner in which the Doc- 
tor , 4t. is written. Let us begin with 
the beginning, as was recommended to 
Antony Hamilton's ram.* The first 
chapter of the Doctor is marked Chap- 
ter VII., A. I., which signifies Ante 
Imtium — the numbers running back 
until we come to the preface ; a species 
of wit of tlie scantiest kind. 



<« * Good sir, reject it not, although ithriog 
Appearances of some fantastic thing 
At first unfolding ! 

' Georoe WiTusa TO Tut Kino.' 

" Twos in the fourth night of the storr 
of the Doctor and his horse, and ha(l 
broken it off, not like Schehefmade, be- 
cause it was time to get op, but because 
it was tune to go to bed. It was at 
thirty-fire minutes after ten o'clock, on 
the JfOth of Juhr, in the year of our Lord 
1813. I finisbed my glass of punch, 
tinkled the spoon against its side, as if 
making music to my meditations, and 
having my eyes fixed upon the Bbow 
Begum, who was sitting opposite to me 
at tlie head of her own table, I said, * It 
ought to be written in a book ! ' 

'* There had been a heavy thunder- 
storm in the afternoon, and, though the 
thermometer had fallen from 78 to 70, still 
the atmosphere was charged. If that 
mysterious power by which the nerves 
convey sen^tion, and make their im- 
pulses obeyed, be (as experiments seem 
to indicate) identical with the galvanic 
fluid ; and if the galvanic and electric 
fluids be the same (as philosophers have 
more than surmised) ; and if the lungs 
(according to a happy hypotheaia) ela- 
borate for us from the light of heaven 

.^r^li^^'^r.' "*?? "«>»«► t« voulois commeneer par le commencement tu me ferois 
grano plaiSln -^Gmnt ^ft>VIiltfEAV.' Digitized by \^UUV IC 


Chapter the Sixth.— Uunt'mg down. 


this pabulum of the brain, and material 
essence, or essential matter of genius, 
it maj be that the ethereal fire which I 
had inhaled so largely during the day 
produced the bright conception; or, at 
least, impregnated and quickened the 
latent seed. The punch, reader, had no 
share in iL 

" I had spoken, as it were, abstractedly, 
and the look which accompanied the 
word J was rather cogitative than re- 
gardant. The Bhow Hiegum laid down 
her snnff-bux and replied, entering into 
the feeling, as well as echoing the words 
— • It ouvht to be written in a book : 
certainly It ought!' 

" They may talk as they will of the dead 
lang^uagea. Our auxiliary verbs give us 
a power which the ancients, with all their 
▼arieties of mood and inflections of tense, 
never could attain. < It mint be written 
in a book,* said I, encouraged by her 
manner. The mood was the same, the 
tense was the same ; but the gradation 
of meaning was marked in a way which 
a Greek or Latin grammarian might have 
envied as well as admired. 

•' * Pshaw ! nonsense I stuflT!* said my 
wife's eldest sister, who was sitting at 
the right hand of the Bhow Begum. ' I 
say, write it in a book, indeed!' My 
wife's youngest sister was sitting dia- 
gonally opposite to the last speaker : she 
lifted up her eyes, and smiled. It was 
a smile which expressed the same opin- 
ion as the late vituperative tones : there 
was as much of incredulity in it, but 
more of wonder and less of vehemence. 

" My wife was at my left hand, making 
a cap for her youngest daughter, and 
with her tortoiseshell-paper workbox be- 
fore her. I turned towards her, and re- 
peated the words, ' It muit be written in 
a book !' But I smiled whilst I was 
speaking, and was conscious of that sort 
of meaning in my eyes which calls out 
contradiction for the pleasure of sporting 
with it. 

" ' Write it in a book V she replied ; 
* I am sure you won't !' And she looked 
at me with a frown. Poets have written 
much upon their ladies' frowns, but I do 
not remember that they have ever de- 
scribed the thing with much accuracy. 
When my wife frowns, two perpendicular 
wrinkles, each three-quarters of an inch 
in length, are formed in the forehead, the 
base of each resting upon the top of the 
nose, and equidistant from each other. 
The poets have also attributed dreadful 
effects to the frown of those whom they 
love. I cannot say that I ever experienced 
any thing very formidable in my wife's. 
At present, she knew her eyes would give 
the lie to it if they looked at me steadily 
for a moment ; so they wheeled to the 
left-aboat quick, off at a tangent, in a 

direction to the Bhow Begum ; and then 
she smiled. She could not prevent the 
smile, but she tried to make it scornful. 

•* My wife's nephew was sitting diago- 
nally with her, and opposite bis mother, 
on the left-hand of the Bhow Begum, 
' Oh !' be exclaimed, * it ought to be 
written in a book ! Jt will be a glorious 
book I Write it, uncle, I beseech you !' 
My wife's nephew is a sensible lad. He 
reads my writings, likes my stories, ad- 
mires my singing, and tbinks as I do iu 
politics :— a youth of parts and consider- 
able promise. 

'* *He will write it!' said the Bhow 
Begum, taking up her 0nuff4)ox, and 
accompanying the words with a nod of 
satisfaction and encouragement. ' He 
will never be so foolish !" said my wife. 
My wife's eldest sister rejoined, * He is 
foolish enough for any thing !' " 

Tliis is working hard to be facetious. 
^^Tapprends cTitre vif,'' said the German 
baron, when a French friend of his 
caught him jumping over joint-stools, 
to qualify himself by degrees for the 
sprightliness and vivacity he saw exhi- 
bited among the wiis and beauties of 
tlie Parisian salons. And joint-stool 
juniping bears the same relation to the 
polished ease and grace of the beaux 
esprits of the Fauxbourg St. Germain 
of former days, as this second-hand 
Tristram Shandyizing does to the ge- 
nuine spirit of Paolagruelism, which 
the Doctor fancies he has caught. 

What says the everlasting Wither in 
the motto? He prays tliat the book 
may not be rejected, because, at its 
first unfolding, it displays a fantastical 
appearance. Have we not heard that 
before ? Yea ! and let us transcribe 
the passage, learned reader, that, read- 
iiig It, you may read what French was 
in the days of good King Francis I., 
one of the chosen personages to whom 
the book is dedicated, as you will per- 
ceive. Never mind, if it should appear 
somewhat hard to construe, as the boys 
say at school. Muster your courage, 
and you'll get on. It is a belter style 
of French than what we have nowa- 
days, or since the invasion of the Swiss 
into the literature of France under 
Rousseau. The Genevese did for 
French what the Scotch did for Eng- 
lish. Hume and Robertson were men 
of some sort of mark ; but the tendency 
of their washy style and pretending 
manner was to produce Blair and 
Dugald Stewart, and other writers of 
ekgant English -.a.,, tb^p^^^l^ 


The Doctor, Sfc. 


in the eyes of gods and men .♦ Scott, 
as became his name, wrote Scotch ; 
and by keeping the Scoticism in its 

f>roper place, contributed to free Eng- 
ish from the pestilence. Genevism 
still infests French; but it must be 
owned that every now and then, in 
Victor Hugo's Noire Dame de Par'u, 
we are saluted with some sounds of the 
old music of the days of the Cloth of 
Gold. Here follows the prologue of 
the first book of Gargantua, as it was 
written three hundred years ago and 
thTee [1535]. 

" Beuueurs tresillustres, et vous ▼©- 
rollez trespretieux ( a vous, non a 
aultres sont dediez mes escriptz), Alci- 
biades, on dialoge de Platon intttuld Lb 
Bancquet, louant son precepteur Socrates, 
Btins controuerse princo des philosopbes, 
entre aultres paroUes, le diet estre sera- 
hlable es Silenes. Silenes estoyent iadiz 
petites boytes, telles que voyons de pre- 
sent es bouticques des apotbecaires ; 
painctcs au dessus de figures ioyeuses 
et friuole^, cotnme de barpyes, satyres, 
oysons bridez, lieures comuc, canes has*, 
tecs, boucqz vollnns, cerfz lymonniers, 
et aultres telles painotures contrefnictes 
a plaisir, pour exciter le monde a rire : 
quel feut Silene, maistre du bon Bacchus : 
mais, on dedans, Ion reseruoyt lea fines 
drogues, comroe baulme, ambre griz, 
amomon, muscq, ziuette, pierrerics, et 
aultres choses prelieuses. Tel disoyt 
estre Socrates ; par ce que, le voyans au 
dehors, et lestimans par lexteriore appa- 
rence, nen eussiez donn6 ung coupeau 
doignon, tant laid il estoyt de cors, et 
ridicule en son maintien ; le nez poinctu, 
le reguard dung taureau, le visaige dung 
fol, simple en meurs, rusticq en vesti- 
mens, paoure de fortune, infortun^ en 
femmes, inepte a tous offices de la repub- 
licque ; tousiours riant, tousiours beuunnt 
dautant a ung chascun, tousiours se gua- 
belant, tousiours dissimulant son diuin 
Bcauoir. Alaia, ouurans ceste boyte, 
eussioz on dedans trouu6 une celeste et 
impreciable drogue ; entendement plus 
que bumain, vertus merueilleu8e,couraige 
inuincible, sobresse non pareille, con- 
tentement certain, asseurance parfaicte, 
desprisement incroyable de tout ce pour- 
quoy les huinains tant veiglent, courent, 
trauaillent, nauigent, et battailient. 

•• A quel propous, en vostre aduiz, 
tend c« prelude et coup dessoy 1 Pour 
autant que vous, mes bons disciples, et 
quelques aultres folz de seiour, lisans les 

ioyeax tiltres daulcuns liures de nostre 
inuention, comme Gargantua, Pantagruel, 
Fessepinlhe, la DigniU des Braguettes, de* 
Poyi an lard cum commento, iugez trop 
facillement nestre on dedans traict^ que 
mocqueries, folatreries, et menteries ioy- 
enses : veu que lenseigne exteriore (cesC 
le tiltre), sans plus auant enquerir, est 
communenient receue a derision et guau- 
disserye. Mais, par telle legieretd no 
Connientestimer les oeuures desbumaitta : 
car vous mesmes dictes Ihabict ne faict 
le moyne ; et tel est vestu dbabit mon- 
achal qui on dedans nest rien rooins 
que moyne ; et tel est vesta de cappe 
hespaignolle qui, en son couraige, nulle- 
inent affiert a Hespaigne. Cest pourquoy 
fault ouurir le liure, et soigueuscment 
pescr ce que y est deduvcL Lors con- 
gnoistrez que la drogue dedans contenue 
est bien daultre raleur que ne promettojt 
la boyte. Cest a dire, que les matieres 
icy traictees ne sont tant folastres comme 
le tiltre au dessus pretendoyt. 

" Et, pos^ le cas que, au sens literal. 
Tons trouuez matieres assez ioyenses, et 
bien correspondentes au nom, toutesfoys 
pas demourer lane fault, comme au chant 
des sirenes ; ains a* plus bault sens inter- 
preter ce que par aduenture cuydiez diet 
en guayet6 de cueur. Crocbetastes rous 
oncqucsbouteillest Caisgne ! Reduysez 
a memoyre la contenence que auiez. 
Mais veistes^rous oncques cbien ren- 
contrant quelque os medulaire ? Cest, 
comme diet Platon, lib. If. de liep., 
la beste du monde plus philosopbe. Si 
veu lauez, vx)us auez peu noter de quelle 
deuotion il le guette, de quel soing il le 
guanle, de quel ferueur il le tient, de 
quelle prudence il lentomnrio, de quelle 
affection il le brise, et de quelle diligence 
il le sugce. Qui linduict a ce fairel 
Quel est lespoir de son estude ? quel 
bien pretend il 1 Rien plus que ung pea 
de mouelle. Vray est que ce peu plus 
est delicieux que le beaucoup de toutes 
aultres , pource que la mouelle est a!i. 
ment elabour^ a perfection de nature, 
comme diet Galen. 111. FaeuU. not., 
et XI., D« HSU partium, 

*' A lexemplo dicelluy vous conuient 
estre saiges, pour fleurcr, sentir et esti- 
mer ces beaulx liures de haulte gresse, 
legiers au prochaz, et hardiz a la ren- 
contre. Pujs, par curieuse leczon et 
meditation frequente, ruropre los, et 
sugcer la substantificque mouelle, cest 
a dire ce que ientendz par ces symboles 
Pythugoricques, auecques espoir certain 
deitre faittz escortz et preux a ladicte 
lecture ; car en ycelle bien aultre goust 

• See Charles Lamb. " None of the cursed philosophical Humeian indifference, 
80 cold, and unnatural, and inhuman [read in>HHme-an] • • none of Dr. Robert- 

eon's periods, with three members.- 
Legibus. Vol. i. p. 190. 

' Epistola Agnina curant TalJ'ordio servieiUe in 

Digitized by VjtJUV IC 


Chapter the Sixth — Hunting down. 


troaueres, et doctrine plus nbsoonse, 
laqueile vous rauelera de tresliaultz sa- 
cremena et mjsteres boi ridcijues, tant 
en ce qui concerne nostre religion, que 
Aussy lestat politicq et vie oeconomicque. 

•* Crojrez rous en rostre foj que onc- 
qnes Homere, escripuant Iliade et Odjs- 
see. peiuast es allegories lusquelles de 
laj ont calefret^ Plutarcbe, IJemclides 
Pomicq, Eu^tatie, Phornute, et ce que 
dyceulx Politian ha desrob^? Si le 
crojez. vous uapprochez ne de piedx ne 
de muios a mon opinion ; qui decrete 
jrelies aussi peu auoir est^ songees 
dHomere que dOuide. en sea Metamor' 
pkaus, les sacremens de leuaogile ; les- 
quels ong frsre lubin, vny crocque- 
lardon, aest offered demon«trer, si, dad- 
uentnre, il rencontroyt gens aussy folz 
que luy, et (oomme diet le prouerbe) 
couuercie digue du cbaulderon. 

'• Si ne le crojez, quelle cause est pour- 
qnoj aurant neu ferez de ces ioyeuses et 
nonuelles chronicquca t combien que, les 
diotaut, ny pensnase en plus que vous, 
qui par aduenture beuuez comise moj* 
Car, a la composiiion de ce liure seig- 
neurial, ie ne ptrdy ne em ploy ai oncquea 
plus ny aultre temps qne celluy qui estoyt 
estably a prendre ma refection corporelle, 
acauoir est, beuuant et mnngeant. Aussy 
est ce la iuste beure descripre ces baultes 
matieres el sciences profundes. 

•* Comme bien faire scauoyt Homere, 
paragon de tons pbilologes, et Ennie, 
pere des poetes • latins, ainsi que tes- 
moigne Horace, qnoy que ung malauctru 
ayt diet que ses carmea sentoyent plus le 
▼in que Ibuyle. 

" Autant en diet nng tirelupin de mes 
liures ; mais bren pour luy. Lodeur du 
vin o combien plus est friant, riant, 
priant, plus celeste et delitieux que 
dhuyle ! Et prendray autant a gloyre 
quon die de moy qne plus en vin aye 
despendu que en huyle, que feit Demos- 
thenes quand de luy on disoyt que plus 
en huyle que en vin despendoyt. A moy 
nest que houneur et gloyre destre diet et 
reput^ bon guaultier et bon compaignon : 
en ce uom, suys bien venu en toutes 
bonnes compaignies de Pantngruelistes. 
A Demosthenes feut reproche, par ung 
chagrin, que ses oraisons seutuycut 
comme la serpielliere dung ord (t sale 
huylier. Pourtaut, interpretez tous mes 
faictz et mes dictz eu la perfectissime 
partie ; ayez en reuerence le cenieau 
caseiforme qui vous paist de ces belles 
billeuezees, et, a vostre pouuoir, tenez 
moy tousiours ioyeulx. 

" Or esbaudiasez vous, mes amours, et 
guayment lisez tout a layse du cors et au 
proufict des reins. Mais escoutaz, vietz- 
dazes, que le maulubec vous trous(iue j 

vous soubuienne de boyre a my pour la 
pareille, et ie vous pleigeray lout ares 

Is not that something like a preface 

— somewhat like a grand discharge of 
artillery preluding a grand battle ? May 
not the " Keuveitrs Ires iltustres,'* and 
the martyrs to the tender passion, for 
whose sole use and behoof the work is 
written, expect, from tliis solemn and 
portentous opening, tlie speciosa mira- 
culu which follow — if not 

" Antipbatem, Scyllaraquo, et cum 
Cyclope Chary bdinj," • 

yet the wonders as rich and rare of 
the birth of Gargantua — his eating the 
six pilgrims in a sallad — his bedecking 
his mare with tlie bells of Notre Dame 

— his combing cannon-balh out of his 
head, to the confusion of Grandgousier, 
who mistook them for those familiar 
beasts which he called the Esparviers, 
or short-winged hawks, of the college 
of Montagu — or his presenting the 
Parisians with the river Seine, which 
still retains the hue and the oiour of 
its origin. Does it not prepare us for 
the valour of John, the piety of Panta- 
gruel, the plulosophy of Panurge, the 
judicial integrity of Bridoye, the elo- 
quence of Janotus de Bragmardo, the 
counsel of the captains of king Picro- 
chole, tlie misfortunes of that hapless 
prince, tlie physical experiments of 
Gargantua," the wondrous boy,*'t which 
filled the soul of his (aiher wit!) a fa- 
ther's pride at the prodigious develope- 
ment of his son's precocious genius, 
isind the many-coloured web of adven- 
tures of love and war, wound up by 
that marvellous voyage so wisely con- 
ceived, so boldly executed, and so ap- 
propriately concluded ? Can we turn 
back to the quaint pertness of this 
opening of The Doctor, 4"C- •' Certainly 
not with any satisfaction. And as no- 
thing comes out of nothing, so nothing 
comes out of this ante-initiai chapter; 
except some tritling foolery. Kc. gr. 
The author retires to bed, but cannot 
sleep, thinking of ihe Doctor, lie 
tries various experiments in vain, but 

" At last Morpheus reminded me of 
Dr. Torpedo's divinity lectures, wiiero 
the voice, the manner, the matter, even 
the very atmosphere, and the streamy 
candle-light, were all alike somnific ; 
whero he who, bv strong elTort, lifted 
up his head, and forced open the reluc- 


VVorJsworth^i.ed by GoOglc 


The Doctor^ ^c. 


tant eyes, never failed Co see all around 
him fast asleep. Lettuces, cowslip-wine, 
poppj-syrup, niandragora, hop-pillows, 
8piaers*-web pills, and the w^hole tribe 
of narcotics, up Co bang and the black- 
drop, would have failed : but this was 
irresistible ; and thus, twentj years after 
date, I found benefit from having at- 
tended the course/* 

Ah, Doctor ! another Doctor has 
been beforehand with you : 

" Mais Gargantua ne pouroit donnir 
en quelcque faczon qu*il se mist. Dont 
luy dist le Moyne : Je ne dors jamais a 
roon aise, sinon quand je suis au sermon 
ou quand je prie Dieu. Je vous sup- 
plie, conuneD9ons vous et moy les sept 
JPseaumes pour veoir si tantost ne serez 
endormi. Linvention pleut tres bien a 
Gargantua, et commen9on8 le premier 
Pseaulme sos le poinct de Beati quorum 
sendormerent et luug et lautre."* 

Now, mark here the difference be- 
tween the French wit and the English 
joint-stool jumper. The joke about 
Dr. Torpedo is flat, insipid, trite, 
commonplace, hacked, worn. Is not 
sleeping at the sermon one of the stock- 
jests of the world? Is there a lan- 
guage of Europe in which it is not to 
be found ? Is it not pictured in many 
a comic sketch and caricature? Do 

we not remember the effect of the read- 
ing in the Dunciad f or the battle in the 
Luirin f Under the presidency of the 
Goddess of Dulness, the Cambridge 
sophs and the Templars read the con- 
gregated authors to sleep. 

•* Soft creeping, words on words, the 
sense compose. 

At every line they stretch, they yawn, 
they doze ; 

As to soft gales topheavy pines bow low 

I'heir heads, and lift them as they cease 
to blow. 

Thus oft they rear, and oft the head de- 

As breathe or pause by fits theairsdivine ; 

And now to this side, now to that they 

As verse or prose infuse the drowwr god. 

Thrice Budgell aimed to speak," &c.t 

By the way, it is of verses such as 
these that the Cockneys used to say 
the task of making them was easy. Id 
the Lutrin : 

** Au plus fort du combat le chapelain 

Vers le sommet du front attenit d'un 

Des vers de ce poeme, effet prodigieox ! 
Tout pret a s'endormir, baaille et ferme 

les yeux." % 

Thus Alexandrinically : 

When hottest was the fight, | the chaplain, good Gamagoe, 
Upon his forehead's top | smote by a Charlemagne 
— Its magic power I tell, | with wonder and surprise — 
Swift sinking into sleep, | ja-awns, and shuts his eyes. 

And after these things, and fifty 
things of the same kind before us, it 
is too late in the day to pass off* the 
same jest as a novel piece of facetious- 
ness. Then, who is Doctor Torpedo ? 
Nobody, any body, every body. You 
may apply it to every divinity lecturer 
in the world, justly or unjustly, as the 

case may be. In satire, Doctor, un- 
less you direct it against a whole class 
of men (which is not the case here), 
you should individualise. Name 1 
name! as the bawlers say in the House 
of Commons. Does not Alcinous 
remark — 

oh fj^f ym^ Tii irdfiiiraf ktmufut irr* M^$0^m, 
Ou ««»«r, $vT% fokf Mxift Mv rm ir^Srm ykmrMt, 

** Tell mo your name 

For, from the | hour of his | birth, no | man is a- | nonymous | wholly. 
Names are be- I stowed on | all, whether | good or | bad, from the | moment 
Into the I world they are | sent, be- | gotten of | father and | mother.*' 

[How do YOU like ouf hexameters, water. Turn we to Rabelais. Hei« 

Doctor ?] Now, Dr. Torpedo is no we have a distinct and intelligible 

name, or designation of man. The scoff* against the ridiculous iteration of 

satire is, thererore, as dull as ditch- prayers, or devotional oflBces imposed 

* Gargantui, liv. i. cap. xli. 
% Luirin, Chant V. 

t Dunciad, Book II. 
$ Odyuey, B. VIII. 550. 


Interchapter the First. — Recovering. 


by the Church of Rome; ihe conse- 
qaence of which is not to excite thoughts 
of repentance or religion, but to induce 
lisllessness and sleep. There is preg- 

nant meaning in Rabelais; in the 
Doctor, nothino; but a stupid hack 
joke. Q. E. D. 


Te seqaimur. Lucretius. 

Commentators each dnrk passage shun, 
And hold their farthing candles to the 
son. YouNO. 

We follow you, Doctor, in your wit 
mechanical and typographical as it is ; 
and, therefore, treat you to an inter- 
chapter in your own fashion. In the 
last chapter, we lectured you on your 
inferionty to Rabelais, but, we trust, 
with no undue severity of reproach. 
"We did it mildly, and with gentle 
hand. Tlie correction was paternal, 
and we trust it was received filially. 
Rupture not, like the Hiarbitan under 
the infliction of the smulous tongue of 
Timagenes ;* neither hang yourself, as 
did Lycambes,t after being lampooned 
by his son-in-law, Archilochus. Be 
not snuffed out, as was John Keats, ^ 
&ding away like his own nightingale 
in consequence of an article in that 
Quarterfy wherein R. S., ». e. Robert 
Soutltey, writes ; nor fret§ yourself to 
death, as did Kirke While, in conse- 
quence of an article in the Monthly 
Kevkwy wherein R. S. does not write. 
Let it not be placed upon your monu- 
mental stone that you were slain by 
us, as the monumental stone of Edwin, 
the comedian, records him to have been 
by the Familiar Epistles, \\ with the 
assistance (but this does not appear on 
the stone) of a perpetual flood of punch ; 
neither burst a blood-vessel, like Jack 
Reeve, enraged that the Times had, in 
an article on the Surrey Theatre, in- 
sinuated what we all know to be with- 
out foundation — that his affection for 
brandy, with or without water, was 
more than Platonic. Imitate none of 
those suicidal practices, but submit 
graciously, remembering the words of 
Solomon touching the sparing of the 
rod. It is for your advantage it is 
done, and be grateful accordingly. 

Now, as we see by your countenance 
that you are good, we shall give you a 
sugar-plum. Here, Doctor, mump it 

with satisfied tooth. It is this : — You 
have read the Prologue of Rabelais, 
and, we hope, duly digested it. You 
may have perused the Dutcii Scholiast, 
and Du Chat, and Motteux, and Ozell 
— concerning whom you make a most 
conspicuous blunder — and deeply ad- 
mired the labours of these commenta- 
torial men. Now, to comfort you in 
your affliction, we tell you that this 
prologue is, in its opening, nothing 
more nor less than a translation of 
Erasmus's article in his Adagia, under 
the head of 2/Xnw 'A>.«<Ci«J#i;. Look 
for it, and there you will find it ; or, as 
it will not take up any great quantity 
of room, we supply it to you here : 

" ZiXiffM 'AXntCimiw. * * Alcibiades 
apod ^atonem in convivio, Sooratis £u« 
comium dictums, eum Silenis similem 
facit, quod is multo alius asset proprius 
intuenti quam summo habitu specieque 
videretnr. Quem si de summa, quod 
dici solet, cute quis sstimasset non emis- 
sit asse. Facies erat rusticaoa, taurinus 
aspectus, nares simae [not pointu] mu- 
coque plenae. Sannionem quemquam 
bardum ac stapidum dixisses. Cultus 
neglectus, sermo simplex ac plebeias, et 
humilis ut qui semper aurigas, ardonea, 
fullones, et fabroa haberet. • • » 
Fortuoa tenuis, uxor qualem ne vilissimus 
quidem carbonarios ferre posset in ore. 
• • • Videbatur ineptus ad omnia 
reipublice munia, adeo ut quodam die, 
nescio quid apud populum adorsus agere, 
cum risu sit explosus. Atque si Silenum 
hunc tam ridiculum explicuisses, vide- 
licet numen invenisses potias, quam ho- 
minem, animum ingentem sublimem, ac 
vere pbilosophicum, omnium rerum pro 
quibus cieteri mortales cumint, navigant, 
sudant, litigant, belligerantur, contemp- 
torem," &c.t^ 

Compare the French and the Latin, 
and you will see we are right. Not a 
note-monger of the pack has ever 
gue5sed it ; which is quite correct, and 
tends to shew how beautifully Rabelais 
has been edited. 

So, comfort yourself with that. But 
by no means take it into your head 
that the cur^ of Meudon stole, con- 

• Horace. 

t Ibid. 

X Don Juan. 

$ Southey's Life of Kirke White. j| J. W. Croker^^ ^^^t^ 

i ChU. Test. Cent III., Adag. I. Digitized by ^OOglC 


The Doctor, j-c. 



veyed, prigged , or whatever is Uie word 
most appropriate and classical, this 
article from Erasmus. No: by no 
manner of means, no. The Adagia 
was one of the best-known books among 
scholars of that day ; and as Rabelais 
wrote for scholars only, as he is still 
understood only by scholars, he caught 
a hold of the passage, and turned it 
into his own peculiar dialect, perfectly 
certain that its identity would be re- 
cognised at once by his readers. He 
did not anticipate that the labours of 
the adagist would be superseded, and all 
but forgotten, and that bis own romance 
would fall into the hands of those who 
had hardly heard of the name of him 
who was begotten at Gouda and born 
in Rotterdam, as the inscription in the 
former town has it, or had it, viz., 

We wish to ask you, Doctor, AVho 
is the hero of Rabelais ? Who is King 
Picrochole ? You know not : we do. 

** Well do we know, bat mus^not 

What do you think of Socrates being 
described, in the prologue we have 
quoted, as having a net pointUy when 
all descriptions of hira assure us that 
it was snub, or flat, and when we find 
the very original of Erasmus to be 
mures time ? Could not Rabelais trans- 


He hath been at a feast of langaages, and 
hath carried off the scraps. 


Quote Lycophron, and people will take 

it for granted that you have read (lomer. 

Quarterly Review. 

DicAtur toties rif Y mirafMiUfitff, 


O que d'^crits obscurs, de livres ignorez* 

Furent en ce grand jour de la poudre 

tire* ! Boileau. 

But the Doctor makes a great parade 
and fuss about the multifariousness of his 
mottoes and quotations. And yet, no task 
is easier. Of the 199 chapter-mottoes 
of the four volumes — we have literally 
counted them — a large proportion 
comes from the obscurer English au- 
thors of the seventeenth century, which 
it has been Southey's fancy, for reasons 

late simm properly ? Are yoa prepared 
to contend that tlie reading of the 
French text is correct ? We doubt. 

But here is another point. Yoa say 
that Daniel Dove had, at the time of 
the birth of his son, in the year 17239 
two volumes of Ozell's translation in 
his library ; and you hint that he had 
none but old books. Now, Doetor, 
this is altogether out of the question. 
Ozell took up Motteux*s translation^ 
as Motteux had taken up Urqnhart's 
translation ; and Ozeirs edition ap- 
peared in 1737. How Daniel Dove, 
in 1723, could have had a copy, §« 
mysterious ; and the only manner in 
which it can be solved is, that the 
author of The Doctor knows as roudi 
of Rabelais at first hand as a cow does 
of a ruffled shirt, or a pig of a pinafore. 
Notandum, — Sir Thomas Urquhart's 
translation is a very incorrect affair, 
though it is bepraised by all who have 
not read ihe original ; among the rest, 
one Tyiler, who died under the nick- 
name of Lord Woodlouselie, or some 
such title. He declared, tliat it might 
be considered one of the most perfect 
specimens of the art of translation ; 
which, perhaps, is sufficient of itself to 
condemn it, as almost unworthy of 
reading. Sir Thomas gives a notion 
of his author, however, and that is 

rather obvious, to cry up all through 
his literary life. Herbert supplies nine 
quotations ; Quarles, five ; Wither, 
four: about a tenth part of the whole. 
The man who has read these, must, of 
course, have read their better-known 
contemporaries. And Burton, Butler, 
Baxter, Cowley, Sec, supply about 
thirty. The dramatists are read by 
every body ; and we have from Shake- 
speare, eight quotations ; from Beau- 
mont and Fk'tcher, five ; from Mas- 
singer, four; from Middleton*s Witch 
(the Doctor found it in Malone's edi- 
tion of Shakespeare, at the end of 
Macbeth)^ six ; from Ben Jonson, seven ; 
from the other dramatists of the seven- 
teenth century, about seven or eight 
more. Now, here are nearly half the 
mottoes taken from sources lying at 
hand, A few of the more obscure 
names of French, Spanish, and Italian 
literatures — none of the great names 
find a place, except Dante, who is 


Digitized by 



Chapter the Seventh.^^Di$covering, 


quoted twice; and Rabelais, three 
times — supply about thirty. Of living 
authors, we have only the name of 
Southey. Of names of authors not 
long deceased, but Cowper and Lloyd. 
Aristophanes, Euripides, Sophocles, 
Herodotus, Homer, are the only Greek 
writers, and each is once quoted ; 
Horace, Ovid, Seneca, Terence, are 
the only Latin classics ; but there are 
a few quotations from modem Latin 
writers. Horace has the compliment 
paid him of being cited four times; 
the rest, but once. And what do you 
think is the quotation from Terence 
(see Tol. ii. p. xii., and also p. 109)? 
*' Vir bonus est quis .'" 

Now, Doctor, in which of the six 
plays of the dimidiatus Menander* do 
you 6nd this Adonic? You may roam 
from the " Poeta quum primum " of 
the Andria, through the Eunuchus, the 
Heautontimorumenos, the Adelphi, the 
Hecyra, until you at last arrive at the 
" Vos valeie el plaudite " of the Phor- 
mio, with its accompanying wind-up 
of Calliopius recensui ; and never fall 
in with this "Vir bonus est quis.'' No, 
sir, these words never issued from the 
persona of AmbiviusTurpio, or Attilius 
the Praenestine, or Minutius Prothi- 
mus ;t for them Flaccus, the freedman 
of Claudius, composed no music, to 
be performed upon flutes dexter or 
sinister, equal or unequal, Phrygian, 
Lydian, Tyrian, or Sarrane. At no 
games, Megalensian, Roman, or fu- 
nereal in honour of ^milius Paulus, 
were tliey repeated ; because they were 
written more than a hundred years after 
Terence had been gathered to his fa- 
thers [whether by being lost at sea, 
accord mg to the statement ofQuintus 
Cosconiusjt Consent! us, or Conftcius, 
or whatever may have been the man's 
name ; or by dying at Stymphalus, in 
Arcadia, or Leucadia, of grief and 
chagrin for the loss of his play-loaded 
saddle-bags, which is the story of others, 
who are not recorded by Dona- 
tus]; written, we say, more than a 
century after Terence's death, by one 
Quintus Horatius Flaccus : in the for- 
tieth line of whose sixteenth epistle — 
being that to Quinctius — of the second 
book, the words' will be fbund closing 

the hexameter. Doctor, this is a slo- 
venly slip, particularly as you designate 
the quotation as being " well known. "§ 
And again may we ask you. In what 
part of the much-injured African do 
you find the quotation which closes 
your first volume? " Faciam ut hujus 
loci semper memineris. " — T eren c e. 
It is pretty plain, that the Latin comic 
writers formed no part of the library 
of the Doctor. 

The Quarterly Reviewer had com- 
plained, that there was no Hi'j;h Dutch 
in the farrago of mottoes ; and to sup- 
ply that defect we have, in the volumes 
which followed the review, two from 
Goethe, but that is all. If we go 
through the body of the work, we shall 
find the sources from which the quo- 
tations there are supplied to be much 
the same as those which supplied the 
mottoes; and, verily, there is no ne- 
cessity of supposing any ample or la- 
borious course of reading for the pur- 
pose. Every body who reads or writes 
at all must have pet authors, with 
whom he is familiar ; and who, having 
furnished him with the thoughts, will 
furnish him naturally with the words 
in which these thoughts were expressed. 
This, to speak with Mihon,|| after the 
astronomers, is every man's own "small 
peculiar;" and this "small peculiar" 
may be easily augmented by diction- 
aries, indexes, concordances, florilegia, 
and so forth. Here, for example, we 
ourselves have the Adagia of Erasmus 
lying before us — we took it down to 
copy the passage above quoted in our 
Inierchapter; and what a flourishing 
appearance, in the way of learning, 
might we not make out of that, on all 
subjects in the world, indexed as they 
are with a most laudable minuteness ? 
Suppose — to go no further than the 
book about which we are discoursing 
— it came into our heads that it was 
written, in part or whole, by some deaf 
bore, some prosing or loquacious old 
Bogre, OT Grobe, or otlier, among the 
cabalistic catalogue of the third vo- 
lume, might we not motto our chapter 
on that point with 

K^^irt^tf »ix>-ns' i«e« Surdior turdo. 


Deafer than a thrush. 

• Julias C»sar. t Inscriptiones fabularum Tereotii. t ^El. Donatos. 

§ ** * Vir bonus ett quit V — Tersnxk. Let ^ood old Fuller answer the well-known 
question wUch is conveyed in the motto to this chapter." — The Doctor, ^c, vol, ii. 
p. 109. It is in Horace, Ew., lib. ii. 16, 40. ..,.,. » \r> 

^ KParadiicUst. Digitized by ^UUSjlC 

Digitized by VjUUVI 


The Doctor, 8fc. 


Adseribit gurditatem huic tvi peeuli- 
aron cum sit loquacissima, rel proverbio 
teste. Unde concinne dicetur in eos qui 
perpetuo blaterantes, ipsi non auscutaut. 

He ascribes peculiar deafness to this 
bird, which is prorerbially most noisy. 
Whence tlie saying is fitly applied to 
those who, perpetually blathering, do 
not hear what others say. 

If we complained of the prolix prating 
of the work, and the heedlessness of 
the arrangement, have we not 

Julius Pollux. 
Making a longer story than the Iliad, 
OuMin Vi «•#» Xiym y% If fvHn itxi^m^ 

Plato, De Legibut, 

As to headless stories, 1 should de- 
signedly pass them by ; if I met any by 
chance, it would appear to me shapeless. 

If we fancied that the loud profes- 
sions of the great merit of the work, 
and the sensation it is to make, came 
from the Laureate; voild! 


He crackles louder than a green laurel 
on fire. 

" These Laureate owls will nerer let 
you alone j" 

which must be admitted to be a re- 
markably free translation ; the yXavMt 
Amu^stirtiuu being far better things in 
the Greek, and much dearer to every 
bard in the world, whether he be 
crowned with laurel or of unleafed 

So could we go on for a week. 
Now, we have not Zenodotus, or Eu- 
bulus, or Diogenianus ; nor, indeed, 
do we know where to find them : nor 
is Julius Pollux, nor even Plato, within 
reach. We have Anstophanes, but 
take not the trouble of reaching for 
him on this occasion. And yet there 
they are, casting a learned and erudite 
gleam over our paee, all gathered in a 
quarter of an hours reading from the 
Adagia, And, be it remarked, that 
we have, with due cunning, cited 
Erasmus himself in one place, in order 
that, if any one following our footsteps 

should find out where we bad been 
wandering, we might most indignantly 
appeal to our fairness and above-board 
conduct in quoting him. It is a good 
trick that, and has been often tried 
with complete success. 

Then, all the classical authors are 
verbally indexed; and you have the 
Gnomology of Homer, and many other 
appliances of the same kind, to consult. 
Cruden lays the Bible before you ; 
Todd helps you to Milton; Shake- 
speare has been indexed by Twiss, 
father or uncle, we believe, of the il- 
lustrious Horace, and, perhaps, the 
same gentleman who was recommended 
to the peculiar patronage of the lads 
and lasses of Ireland, in what the 
Doctor would call " an obvious and 
opprobrious rhyme," in consequence 
or his having asserted, with the mosi 
perfect mendacity, that the ladies of 
'• the first flower of the earth and first 
gem of the sea'' did not sUnd upoo 
trifles; or, to use the phraseology of 
their native isle, that they resembled 
the heifers of the celebrated city of 
MuUingar, in being beef to the heels. 
And then there are dictionaries and 
lexicons — Stephanus, Valpy, Gesner, 
Facciolati, Delia Crusca, Johnson, 
Richaidson, and so forth — bristling 
with quotations of which a dexterous 
workman may make important use. 
We have known it done with consi- 
derable skill. 

Some five-and- twenty years ago, there 
was a distinguished conversation-man 
— which, with deference, is very often 
only anoUter word for a distinguished 
bore — in Dublin. He was not famous 
for a stream of eloquence de omni 
scibili, like Coleridge ; nor did he let 
loose a continuous flood of story-telling 
like Scott. He punned not nor im- 
provvised like Theodore Hook ; nor 
reparteed like George Colman, or 
Jekyll. He said not witty things like 
Lord Alvanley, nor sarcastic things 
like Croker. He had not the anec- 
dotical knowledge of James Smith, nor 
the fluent buflfoonery of Sydney Smith. 
He could not boast the majestic flow of 
Croly, or the mingled enthusiasm and 
fun of Wilson. His was not the logical 
hammering of Macintosh or the dis- 
putatious pedantry of Parr. But he 
talked a pleasant vernacular af\er- 
dinner idiom, in a round and harmo- 
nious accent, slightly tinctured with a 
Munster brogue; and what made his 
conversatioti^il^^i<k^^(Was the ex- 


Chapter the Sewntk-^Diicovervig. 


ipcitiid« and Mcity of his quo- 
tatkms. Be the st:rt>iect what it mighty 
a riband or a Raphael, a poiDt of 
critidsaa or cookery, a question of di« 
▼inity or dueiltng, he was erer ready 
with a passage from- some Latin author, 
otoi lying ftur out of the oidimury 
ooone of reading, to bear upon it. 
Alike to him was Viivil or Bnnius, 
Orid or Silius Ilalicus, Titus LiWus or 
Voptsens, Lootetiiis or Ausonius, Sal- 
hist or the Migi^rm Augmite Scnptoret^ 
Cicero or Quintilian, Plautus or Pliny. 
In the course of an etening it was 
<piite certain, that, from unexpeeted 
Quarcen, be wooM adduce some hal^ 
ootenqootatione; of which the appo- 
siteness was not more admired than 
the fast extent of reading from which 
they were drawn was wondered at. 
His secret was at last found out. He 
was caught one day, fuH-diesved for 
dinner, with his horse waiting at the 
door, reading Ainsworth's Dietiotmry 
[obsenre, he — the man — was reading, 
not the bofse]; for in those distant 
ages, no rumour of the ccislence of 
Facciohiti bad reached the Irish metro- 
polis. Being detected, he confessed 
the fiKt, that, from the days he had 
left college, be had not opened any 
other book of Latin literature ; Imd 
that as for the out-of-the-way classics 
whom he so often paraded, he had 
never seen a copy of them in his life. 
" But," said he, " I have a tolerably 
good memory, and can pretty well 
guess, from the character of my host, 
what is likely to be the current of 
conversation. So I sit down to Ains- 
worth, open him at hazard, and the 
devil 's in the dice if, in half-an-hour's 
reading, I do not pick up some scraps 
which will suit ; and these I produce, 
at fitting opportunities, to the amaze- 
ment of the natives, who think roe a 
walking library: whereas I am, in- 
deed, only a walking dictionary — or 
rather an Ainsworlh in black silk stock- 
ings, sitting over a bottle of claret.'' 

[Let it be remarked, that he meant 
Ainsworth the book, not Ainsworth 
the Rookwood; who was not much 
more than born at the time we speak 
of. Our Admirable, who is not a 
maker of dictionaries, but an author of 
works hereafter to be quoted by dic- 
tionary-makers as authority, has been 
seen by us, more than once, in the 
costume above mentioned, and em- 

ployed in Uie nine potatory occujf«tion 
with extreme industry.] 

As the conclusion of his story may 
be made of yaluable instruction, we 
here continue it. * 

Our quotation -monger, tie etnfo 
nomhre no guiiro aeoraarmef* cama 
to a stop at last. To use a well- 
understood saying, he outran the con- 
stable; and, after ftoundering about 
for a long time in the usual expedients 
of money-raising, wm at last obliged 
to leave Dublin^ He came to London, 
where, through the interference of some 
Irish friends high in power, he obtained 
an official situation in Malta. 7*here, 
however, he contrived to do something 
more disgraceful than running in debt; 
and being warned by the governor that 
he was in danger of apprehension, he 
levanted . Perhaps, however, we should 
say, he Ar<^ipelBgoed ; for he had to 
run from the officers of justice, and 
escaped in an open boat to Constan- 
tinople, scudding through the Cyclades. 
In Constantinople he was speedily re- 
duced to the most grinding distress, 
and, with starvation staring him in the 
fece, he abjured whatever qnantitr of 
the Christian faith he happened to 
possess, and beeame a convert to Ma* 
bometanisro. The zeal of the pious 
among the Faithful assured him of a 
pittance capable of sustaining him; 
out with one branch of his new 
creed he could not comply. He was 
extremely heterodox on the sub- 
ject of wine, and, being a beggar, he 
assumed the privileges of his oider, 
by getting as drunk as a beggar as 
often as he could. Hence followed 
bastinadoes, and other things exces- 
sively unpleasant in their operation. 
This course of life opened his eyes to 
the superior merits of his abandoned 
doctrine, and he began to take steps 
to get back to Christianity and Eng- 
land as fast as possible. He was de- 
tected in this plot; and it being one of 
the gravest offences in the eyes of 
Islamite doctors for a convert to at- 
tempt to recant, he was seized, and, 
after some remarkably inconvenient 
ceremonies, bowstrung, or otherwise 
put out of the world, according to the 
statutes made and provided in that 
case by the code of the prophet. 

Thus died he, a martyr to an in- 
ordinate lust of quotation. For, 

If he had not had the faculty of 

• Ceryantes.. 

vox.. XV|I. HO. scvi^. 

Digitized by^V^jiJiJV 



Tke DocioTt 4^* 


aaoood-band quotiiy, be never would 
iMive obtained his mm ai a oonrer* 

If be bad not obtained fiune as a 
convenaiionist, be would never bave 
been drawn into expensive company 
above bis rank and means : 

If be bad not been diawn inio such 
company, be would never bave wasted 
his patrimony, and been obliged to 
flee for debt: 

If be bad not fled for debt, be would 
never bave had need to seek and ob- 
tain office at Malta : 

If be bad nol obtained office at 
Malta, he would never bave misbehaved 
there and fled the place : 

If he had not fled the placet be 
would never have oone to Constanti* 
nople, and turned Mussulman : 

If he had not turned Mussulman, 
be vTould never bave thought of re- 
canting to Christianity : 

And, finally, if be had not thought 
of recanting to Christianity, he would 
not bave been executed as a culprit 

Let this sad history operate as a 
warning on all persons seduced by the 
love of looking more learned than tbey 
are. Speoiallv it is intended for the 
attention of long-nosed peisooages; 
for, as Albertus Magnus remarks, in 

bis admiisble Secrets, they are 
riven to vain-glory of Uiis kind. lUke 
U in a Frendi translation, for we have 
nol the originaL In his fonrtfa book, 
and the chapter on Noses, Albertus 
remarks: — ^Le nes gros et kmg, 
marque un homme curienx des belles 
dioses, simple dans le bien et aasei 
prudent dans le mal, fovoris^ de b 
fortune, passionn^ dans ce qu*il sou- 
baite, sscre^, et moim »gaoatU q^il ne 
feme dt VUrtr In foot, something 
like the author of 2^ Doctor^ SfC. 

So we conclude for the present, 
having, in Chapter V., piovea vrbece 
it %vas tlie Doctor found his sloiy ; 

In Chapter VI., how the Doctor b 
not Doctor Rabdais; 

In Interchapter I., bow the com- 
mentators of Rabelais are not always 
on the alert; 

And, in Chapter VII., bow die ait 
of multilingoal quotation is no mark 
of reading ; winding up by an affiectingf 
story for the edificatiou of the auoting 
part of Ihe population of the globe. 

In our next Number we begin to 
review the book, and when we come 
to die tenth chapter we shall condnde; 
because the tenth, or decuman, is the 
bst of the series of waves, and the 
most sweeping in its operation. 

Digitized by 



How Long can it Last ? 



The Refonn-bill has not only destroyed 
all ancient associations, boundaries, 
and laodmarics, and introduced us into 
a new and untried world of politics, 
but it has even made many previously 
impossible things possible, and thus 
perplexed all former modes of calcula- 
tion, and utterly baffled the art of the 
prognosticator. A statesman of the 
eighteenth century could no more have 
imagined the ministerial gambols of 
the last six weeks, and the ministry it- 
self in existence at the end of all, dian 
he could have expected a man to stand 
on his head for forty days, and to be 
alive and well at their termination. 

The events, however, of these few 
weeks, are quite deserving of remem- 
brance. Recurred to at a future day 
they must inevitably be ; either as 
fraught with warning in their natural 
consequences, or as marking an im- 
portant stage in the modern march of 
our new political morality. 

That grand, and, as it was generally 
supposed, insurmountable difficulty has 
at last come to tlie Whigs; or, more 
correctly speaking, they have come to 
iV, which all men of any foresight or 
political acumen have long looked for- 
ward to as a most iooportant crisis in 
the country's fote. They have ap- 
proached it ; they have surveyed it ; 
they have sidled, and shuffled, and 
temporized; l>at there it still is, full in 
their front, and it mmt be encountered, 

A false and hollow union has long 
existed, for factious purposes, between 
what the ministerial prints are fond of 
calling '* all classes of Reformers,*' — 
i. e., between those who mean to main- 
tain a monarchy and an aristocracy 
with the Whigs in place, and those who 
will never be content so long as either 
monarchy or aristocracy have any exist- 
ence among us. The Whigs have jog- 
ged along, \n amicable alliance with 
men whom they knew to be repub- 
licans; and have said, in self-justifica- 
tion, " Have we not both the same ob- 
ject, only to a different extent ? True, 
we mean to stop at Hounslow, while 
our companions intend to go on to 
Windsor; but still we may as well 
travel together, and help each other, as 
far as we are able." 

This pretext was worth little, even 
for a time; but it was obvious that at 
a certain point it must wholly vanish 

away. Once arrived at" Hounslow," the 
two allies must of necessity part com- 
pany ; the one set being resolute in their 
determination to push forward, the 
other equally resolved to come to a 
stand at that point. 

At ** Hounslow," then, or some- 
where thereabouts, the parties have 
now arrived ; and the necessity for a 
dissolution of the league becomes daily 
more apparent. But tliere are certain 
reasons why it may be inconvenient to 
either party to take the road alone ; and 
consequently a great struggle has com- 
menced,— the lUdicals being bent on 
dragging the Whigs with them all the 
way to " Windsor ;" the Whigs as 
firmly resolved not to move beyond 
" Hounslow." 

Thus stands the case at present. An 
open breach is threatened; but that 
breach portends loss to both parties, 
and almost ruin to the weakest — the 
Whigs. Each stands entreating the 
other to modify its determination,— the 
Whigs imploring the Radicab to be 
less precipitate and headlong, — the 
Radicals exhorting the Whigs to tlirow 
overboard a few more of their scruples, 
and to begin the forward march with 

The struggle is an interesting one; 
but the fluctuations of the contest are 
more than interesting. They present 
such a picture of vaciikition and inde- 
cision as would have been supposed, 
except on the singular days on which 
we have fallen, utterly incredible in a 
British ministry. Let us calmly re- 
view the five chief occurrences of the 
short sitting of Pariiament which has 
just concluded. 

I. The session opened with a sort of 
public advertisement of an immediate 
dissolution of the partnership hereto- 
fore existing between the Radicals and 
the Whigs. Apparently, a double mo- 
tive influenced the leader of the admi- 
nistration in the House of Commons 
in taking this step. He feared, and 
wished to propitiate, llie Conservative 
phalanx seated in his front, — the strong- 
est opposition that ever ministry had 
to encounter (that of 1835 not ex- 
cepted) ; and, besides this, he had 
some few private feelings and preju- 
dices, — not amounting io principles, but 
standingin their room, — which gave him 
a bias towards arisj^y^fr^ J^i^^ 


How Long can it La$t? 


mixture of motives of this description 
it came to pass, that the Melbourne ad- 
ministration opened the first parlia- 
ment of Queen Victoria in a style and 
with a tone almost positively Conserv- 

For more than two years past the 
Radicals had faithfully served the 
Whig ministry, in humble but relying 
expectation of being repaid at last. 
They had consented to see their own 
favourite schemes postponed, until the 
measures of the ministry could be first 
carried through. They had helped to 
push through the House of Commons 
two or three successive Appropriation- 
clauses and Irish Corporation-bills, 
and had submitted to the putting off 
Ballot and a Reform of the Reform- 
bill till a more convenient season. 
But patience must always have some 
limit; and that limit had now been 
reached. The very measures, in fa- 
vour of which all their own darling 
schemes had been postponed, stiU 
remained unenacted; and the speech 
of her majesty, on opening her first 
parliament, instead of holding out 
brighter prospects in this respect, seem- 
ed to leave the fate of Irish corporations 
and appropriation clauses in greater 
doubt than ever. Radical endumnce 
was at an end, and the ministry were 
immediately called upon to answer 
Aye or No ns to their real intentions 
touching Organic Reform. They an- 
swered, by the mouth of Lord John, 
that they had reached " Hounslow," 
the termination of their march, and 
were firmly resolved to go no furdier ! 

There can be no doubt whatever 
that thb declared resolve, and that rup- 
ture with the Radicals which seem«d 
to be its inevitable result, considerably 
elevated the ministry in the minds of 
all candid and reflecting men. For, 
whether their views were right or wrong, 
the stand they made look^ something 
like an adherence to principle; and an 
adherence to principle, too, at some 
considerable nsk. Men had so re- 
peatedly seen the Whigs forced from 
one position afler another, by the on- 
ward pressure of the movement party, 
that this sudden reining-up, and posi- 
tive refosal to stir another step in the 
way of organic change, struck upon 
the public mind as a new and gratifying 
change. And when it was at the same 
time obvious, that this bold resolve 
endangered an instant rupture with the 
Radicals, and a consequent loss of 

power and ofiice,the elevation of moral 
character accruing to the heretofore 
subservient Whigs was necessarily con- 

But to assume a virtue and to sustain 
it are two very distinct and dtfierent 
things. Had the Whigs acted a tiio- 
roughly consistent part, and maintained, 
throughout the five weeks of this short 
session, the tone of principle with which 
they began it, they would have done 
much to redeem their character as a 
party ; but they would, in all proba- 
oility, have saved their honour only at 
the expense of their places. This re- 
quired a degree of virtue which was 
beyond their reach A single week, 
therefore, found them falling again into 
the old track, and once more truckling 
to Radicalism for the sake of purchasing 
the necessary Radical support. Having 
almost mortally offender) the Move- 
ment party, by their declarations on 
the first day of the session, we next 
hear them, before a week had elapsed, 
making a fi^h bidding, a new con- 
cession, in order to lure back, not the 
forfeited confidence of the Radicals, 
but merely their momentary and con- 
temptuous support, for a few short 
weeks I 

II. For the second ministerial act 
which the session produced was the de- 
claration made by Mr. Rice, on the 23d 
of November, that the ministry were now 
ready to do that which, for the seven 
preceding years, they had been steadily 
resisting ; namely, to indulge the Ra- 
dicals with a minute investigation of 
the Pension List ! 

This sudden change of policy outdid 
even Lord John Russelrs conrerston 
of last spring, on the Church-rate ques- 
tion. For what was the history ot this 
"seven years* war?" 

In 1831, the Radicals opened their 
attack on this point. In that year 
(February 4th), they were met by Lord 
Althorp in the following terms : 

" I shall now proceed," he said, *' to 
state the grounds which induce me not 
to take away from their owners any pen- 
•ions that now exist It is certainly true, 
and no man is more ready to aamit it 
than I am, that many of the penaions on 
that list are such as ought never to have 
existed; but, on the best ezaminatioa 
that I have been enabled to give them, 
it appears that a large majonty of these 
pensions are purely pensions of charity, 
and, therefore, to take them away cer- 
tamly would be to inflict graat diatress 


Hew Long can it Last ? 


on many indirtdoals. Thoueb the houfle 
lutt m legal right, I doubt wbether it 1ms 
ao equitable light, to consider whether 
thej might be taken awajr." 

In the report of the select committee, 
appointed in that year, 1831 , and which 
report was framed by Lord Althorp, it 
is stated — 

" It ia miHra than probable, theraibre, 
that partlea, relying on an adherence to 
an invariable onstom, have made family 
settlements, and peeuniary arrangements 
of various kinds, with all of which his 
majesty must necessarily interfere, should 
the continuance of these pensions, for the 
first time, on his accession to the throne, 
be refused. Advoting to all the circnm- 
staaces of the case — considering that no 
material relief to the finances of the coun* 
try could be derived from the most rigid 
measures of retrenchment applied to the 
pension-list — that in many cases severe 
distress, in some actaal injustice, would 
arise to individuals from the gen€^ dis- 
continuance of pensions^ that such dis- 
continuance, on the occasion of his ma- 
jean's accession, would be a departure 
from an usage invariably observed on the 
accession oi his maj esters predecessors — 
your committee do not think it advisable 
to withdraw from the crown those funds 
which may enable the crown, if it shall 
m> think «, to continue the pensions on 
the civil list of his late majesty." 

Again, in the course of the same de- 
bate, the same noble lord, speaking as 
the organ of the administration of which 
Lords Melbourne, Palmerston, J. Ru«- 
sell, and Mr^ Rice, were members, 
said — 

*' On the subject of the pensions I beg 
to say a few words. I can never conceive 
it is my duty, as a minister of this coun- 
txj, or of the house, as apart of the legis- 
lature, to take advantage of a technical 
point of law, in order to do what, in my 
conscience, J believe to be unjust. The 
pensions in question, as I stated on Fri- 
day, were considered, and always have 
been considered, as granted for life. It 
is undoubtedly true that, by taking ad- 
vantage of a technical point of law, those 
pensions might be made to expire on the 
demise of the crown. There would be a 
strict legal justification for making them 
so expire ; but I put it to the house — I 
nut it to the country — whether it would 
be a worthy course for government to 
take advantage of such a circumstance, 
and whether the relief which would be 
thereby obtained could be put in compe- 
tition with the discredit of such a pro- 
ceeding. Having said thia, I have only 
to add, thftt I await the dedbioii of tht 

committee and of the house with the de- 
ference and respect to which it is en- 
titled; and that it is my most earnest 
wish that I may be able to comply with 
any alterations or modifications which 
may be suggested. At the same time I 
must observe, that I can never consider 
myself as hound to submit to the decision 
of any committee, or of the house itself, 
or of any other power whatever, if that 
decision should involve in it what I deem 
to be an act of injuttiee" 

But it may be said, ** Ay, but Lord 
Althorp is Kooe. Ui$ ooinion can no 
longer bind his then colleagues, now 
left to act upon their own independent 
opinions." Let us see, then, what was 
toe language used by the present chan* 
cellor of the exchequer, Mr. Rice, in a 
later discussion, in 1834, upon this 
same subject. In that diacussioa, 
Mr. Rice said — 

" You passed those acts with your 
eyes open ; and why should the House 
of Commons now be called upon, at the 
suggestion of the honourable member for 
Colchester, to go into the most fruitless, 
the most painful, and, I will saT» into the 
most dis^sting inquiry 1 (Cheert,') I 
do not quite understand that cheer from 
honourable gentlemen opposite. Un- 
doubtedly, such an inquiry must neces- 
sarily be painful and dieeutting to the 
good feeling of all manldnd." 

Mr. Rice said further — 

" I should like to know what it is that 
honourable gentlemen propose to them- 
selves if they go into committee. I only 
bfl^ to state to the houM, as among my 
objections to this inquiry — I only ask 
them, as practical men, what they expect 
to extract from it ; unless, indeed, they 
proceed upon motives which I will not 
attribute to any honourable member — 
motives of undue curiosity, and a desire 
to investis;ate the private circumstances 
of individuals 1 But we are told, by 
honourable gentlemen opposite, that they 
seek to trace the origin of these grants. 
Now, the honourable member for Bath 
stated, that most of those who were the 
responsible advisers of these grants are 
no more — their evidence and their re- 
sponaibility are therefore alike excluded. 
Are we, then, to call all the parties who 
are themselves in the receipt of these 
pensions before us, and the responsible 
ministers who advised them not being in 
office or in existence — are we to go into 
an examination of the private case of each 
of these parties 1 If so, what is to be the 
course of your inquiry, and how are you 
to conduct iti I cannot imagine in in- 
quiry that could by possibility be of-iib 


How Long can ii Last ? 


disagreeable a character ; I cannot ima- 
gine an inqaiiy so painful, not only to 
the feelings of those who are the sub- 
jects of it, bat to those who have to con- 
duct it. I only ask the gentleman, who- 
ever he may be, who is n candidate for 
the honour of the future chairman of this 
committee, whether he anticipates any 
rery useful or agreeable duty V 

Nor was Mr. Rice the only member 
of the government, whose recorded opi- 
nions condemned the step the govern- 
ment has now consented to take. In 
April, 1836, another debate occurred, 
on the same topic ; and, in this dis- 
cussion, Lord John Russell said — 

** * Could any proposition be more 
odious and degrading ? Could any pro- 
position be letter calculated, by taking 
up the personal afiairs of individuals, to 
gratify private animosity and malignity ? 
And all this was to be done without any 
object.* [Lord J. Russell then went on 
to state the poor and miserable saving 
that would result from the proposed re- 
trenchment, even if it could be effected. 
He contrasted the result of such n dimi- 
nution, even if it could be carried into 
effect, with the great and mighty reduc- 
tion of nearly 5,000,000/., effected by 
]^ursuing the honest and straightforward 
course of reducing only where they had 
a right to reduce, and where no expecta- 
tions had been entertained, and justly en- 
tertained, of security from interference.] 
' Let that diminution,' continued the no- 
ble secretary for the home department, 
* be compared with the small diminution 
that alone could be hoped for from ac- 
quiescing in the honourable and learned 
gentleman's petty and unjust proposition. 
The one had the features of wise, great, 
and national retrenchment ; while the 
otfier assumed the appearance of private 
pique and miserable malice.* " 

Is Ihere any precedent on record, 
even in the dismal chronicles of 1829, 
for such appalling desertion of prin- 
ciple as this? It was not that the 
concession demanded by the Radicals 
had been denounced as unnecessary, 
merely, or inexpedient, or vexatious, 
or ill-timed ; — all such objections 
might, indeed, have been removed by 
the lapse of years. The opposition of 
the Whigs, begun in 1831, and carried 
on through each succeeding year up to 
the present, was rested on the ground that 
the proposition was " cruel/' " unjust," 
"disgusting," ** odious and degrading." 
These had been the declared opinions 
of the present ministry, up to the pre- 
sent moment, and no possible ground 
was shewn for their sudden abandon* 

ment of all these opinions, save that 
of inconvenience — tne inconvenience, 
obviously, of coming to a final breach 
with the Radicals, and thus finding 
themselves in a minority in their own 
House of Commons. Tne boldness in 
the first instance must be atoned for 
by an extraordinary act of meanness in 
the second. Tliey begin, therefore, by 
being resolutely Conservative on the 
Monday, and take their second step 
by being the slaves of the Radicals on 
the Thursday after ! 

II [ . But the next swing of the pendu- 
lum is of course in an opposite direction. 
The committee is to be conceded to 
the Radicals; but that committee is 
now to be named. This is the third 
act of the session ; and as the second 
was one of conciliation to the Radicals, 
it follows, of course, that this turn must 
be against them. 

But the whole amount of weakness, 
vacillation, truckling, and positive dis- 
honesty, manifested by the ministiy on 
this matter of the pension-list, has 
never yet been fully elucidated. Let 
us endeavour to sketch the leading 

1. Then, on Monday, the 20th of 
November, Lord John Russell stated, 
broadly and distinctly, the intentions 
of the ministry touching the revision of 
tlie pension-list. In that night's debate 
his lordship said that 

" He and his colUagUiCS were strongly 
impressed with the opinion, that the 
coarse which was generally adopted, 
the coarse so strongly urged by Mr. 
Burke, and the course so earnestly re- 
commended by the committee of 1831 at 
the end of their report, was grounded on 
arguments which clearly shewed that it 
was far wiser to lay down prospectire 
provisions against the repetition of 
abuses, than to take away pensions 
already granted. He stated this distinctly, 
in order that it mi^^ht not be supposed 
that if he or any of his colleagues becamie 
members of the (civil list) committee 
about to be moved for, any propositioH 
embracing a departure from this course 
was likely to originate with them," 

This was on Monday. But tliat 
day's proceedings, and the further dis- 
cussions of Tuesday, rendered a posi* 
tive rupture with tlie Radical party 
almost certain. We know that in more 
than one of the government offices, the 
junior ministers looked upon and 
spoke of themselves as already out. 
The cabinet; howerer, had not yet 



H(nu Long can it Last ? 


come to that point. Another effort 
was to be made ; another bidding wa9 
to be ventured. In order to take a 
large step in the way of conciliating 
the Radicals, it was determined (not, 
indeed » to give , but) io promise them, 
their long-demanded revision of the 
pension-list. Accordingly, 

2. On the very next Thursday, tlie 
23d 9 Mr. Spring Rice came down to 
the House, and, on Mr. Harvey's 
bringing forward his usual proposition, 
he said — 

" I am willing, a» the part of the gO' 
vemmetu, now to undertake the fullest 
inquiry of the nature to which I have 
just adverted. We will carry it on in 
aecordance with the comprehensive words 
used by the hon. member (Mr. Hanrey) 
himself. We will carry on the inquiry 
with that spirit; and we will give the 
public the full benefit of it. That is the 
pioposition I now make to the house." 

Now, we should like to know, from 
persons of long experience, whether 
any conversion of equal suddenness, 
and equally without any visible cause 
— is upon record ? We have heard, in- 
deed, of administrations giving way 
after parliament had solemnly decided 
some great question against them ; and 
we know, from the sad instance of 
1829, that a matter of vast importance 
has once been conceded on the score of 
an inconveniently equal division of par- 
ties on the point. But here no divi- 
sion had been taken, no defeat of mi- 
nisters had occurred ; and so fkr from 
even the probability of that event, it is 
certain, from the subsequent division, 
that the administration, if true to 
their own declarations, would have 
commanded a majority of more than 
too. We ask, then, whether, under 
suck circumsiances, any precedent for a 
complete conversion in eight-and-forty 
hours can be adduced? We believe 
that history has no record of any such 

Such is the first point in the case ; a 
government entertaining decided opi- 
nions and intentions on the Monday, 
and exactly opposite intentions on the 
Thursday, — a government declaring 
itself to be " strongly impressed** with 
one Tiew on the 20th, and yet acting 
upon the contrary view on the 23d ; 
— no visible cause appearing for any 
such change. But, 

3. There is another strange point in 
the case. Mr. Rice professes to ac- 
cede to the propoeitioD. He begs Mr. 

Ilarvey to withdraw his motion, and to 
let him substitute for it another, being 
substantially the same. He thus qui- 
etly gets to windward of the enemy. 
All this happens on the 23d of No- 
vember. And when is this promised 
committee of revision actually ap- 
pointed? Not until the 18th of De- 
cember,— nearly four toeeks after its 
appointment hsKl been assented to f 

4. This absurd and causeless delay 
was of itself a sufficient proof of the 
real spirit in which ministers took up 
the whole afiair. But a further and 
stronger proof was to be given, that 
when Mr. Rice assured Mr. Harvey that 
his (Mr. R.'s) proposition was '< sub- 
stantially tlie same'* with that moved 
bv him ; he, Mr. Rice, did unquestion- 
ably stoop to a most dishonourable piece 
of deceit. It soon came out, that the 
real object of ministers in substitutme 
a motion of their own for Mr. Harvey^ 
was, to get into their own hands the 
nomination of the committee, and thus 
to gain the power of excluding even Mr. 
Harvey himself from it ! Had Mr. H. 
been allowed to carry his own propo- 
sition, he must, by all the rules of the 
house, have offeied a list of a com- 
mittee; at tlie head of which list his 
own name would naturally have been 
placed. To conceive of a trick so 
mean as to wheedle him out of this 
position, in order thereby to get an 
opportunity of excluding him from the 
very committee which he had been the 
means of carrying, was beyond the 
thought of any member of the house. 
The amended proposition was adopted : 
the nomination of the committee was 
thus taken out of Mr. Harvey's hands ; 
and Mr. Rice first delays the whole 

Question for four weeks, and then comes 
own and names a committee from 
which Mr. Harvey is actually ex* 
eluded ! 

5, This step, also, we believe, is 
quite without a precedent. Only ima- 
gine such a thing, during Mr. Wilber«> 
force's time, as an attempt to form a 
committee on the slave trade, widiout 
placing his name upon it! Or sup- 
pose a committee of mquiry on factory 
labour to have been proposed while Mr. 
Sadler was in parliament, and an at- 
tempt to have been made to shut him 
out of his own inquiry ! Would not 
the whole public have declared the 
thing to be a mere job ? And what 
can be more absurd than to profess to 
adopt Mr. Harvey's propositio^^S 


Hou) Long can it Last ? 


tbwi to exclude him from oonducting 
tliat inquiry to which he bad directed 
80 much attention ? 

Sir Robert Peel, and many other 
ConsenratiTeSy voted against adding Mr. 
Harvey'i name to the list; and in this 
they acted consistently with their own 
professions. They told the ministers, 
** We think the proposed inquirr what 
you yourselves formerly called it — 
cruoly degrading, and disgusting. We 
do not| Sierefore, wish to aid, but to 
hinder it. We are against it in every 
way ; and, of course, we do not want 
to increase its efficiency or its cruel^.'' 

But the position of the ministry was 
yevy different. They had professed to 
yield to the wishes of the Radicals, 
and to consent to an honest and strict 
inquiiy. In so doing they virtually 
pleased themselves, ^fore the house 
and the country, to include Mr. Harv^, 
the mover of the whole question, in 
that committee. If they did not mean 
this, tliey were bound, when they be- 
sought Mr. H. to ¥ad)draw his motion, 
and assured him that Uieir own was 
mbstantiaUy the iome — they were bound 
to have then and there told him that 
there would be thi$ little difference: 
that whereas, of the committee which he 

J>roposed, he himself would, of course, 
brm a part, — in tliat which they pro- 
posed to substitute, his name would 
have no place. This exphination, we 
repeat, the ministry were bound, as 
men professing some kind of common 
honesty, to have given, when they re- 
quested Mr. Harv^ to withdraw his 
motion in favour of Mr. Rice's. But 
this explanation of their real intentions 
they did not choose to give ; and, not 
giving it, they were pledged in honour 
to leave Mr. Harvey in no worse posi«- 
tion than that from which they had 
themselves seduced him. 

The excuse as to the publication of 
the evidence is a mere subterKige. If 
the committee is to be governed by the 
usual rules, there are other men ou it 
wlio are just as likely to transmit its 

Sroceedings to the newspapers as was 
Ir. Harvey. Mr. Rice has, therefore, 
insulted Mr. H. and disgraced himself, 
without having, in the least degree, 
insured secrecy. But if the committee 
is really to be a secret committee, and 
governed by different rules from those 
generally adopted on such occasions ; 
that of itself constitutes a most im- 
portant distinction, and one which 
ought to have been distinctly stated to 

Mr. Harvey when he was entreated to 
give way to the ministerial plan. 

On the whole, it may be difficult to 
decide by which of the two transactions 
the administration has most eflfectually 
damaged its little remnant of character 
— by suddenly conceding to the Radicals 
that which it bad, for seven years past, 
denounced as '* uniust, cruel, and de- 
grading ;" or by sdheming, after it had 
so conceded the question, to swindle 
these same Radicsds out of the whole 
substance and reality of the thing soughi 
for, by rendering the conceded inquiry 
a mere mockery and a cheat ! 

But we must pass on to the next 
swing of the pendulum, which of course 
vibnUes, this time, towards the Radit^ 


IV. For the next matter of import- 
ance which came before parliament 
was what the Radical and ministerial 
press denominate ** the Spottiswoode 

The facts of this case were the sim- 
plest and most intelligible that could 
be conceived. A fow gentlemen of the 
metropolis, sympathising with the Pro- 
testants of Dublin, in their long and 
costly struggle with tlie Irish agitator 
— and remembering, too, that O'Con- 
nell was aided in the contest by a 
subscription of more than 8000/., 
raised /or him, last year, in England, 
after a Crown and Anchor meeting — 
determined to do something bv way of 
aid and encouragement to the Irish 
Conservatives, by beginning a similar 
subscription for the opponents of 

A meeting was held for this purpose ; 
and it being suggested that possibly 
more money might be raised than the 
Dublin petition might require, the 
terms were altered to " tlie Dublin 
and other Irith election petitions.'' 
But tlie most distinct declaration was 
made, that the committee would have 
nothing to do with originating or gel- 
ting up petitions; and that it would 
not even assist any but such as were 
found, on actual investigation, to have 
good grounds for such a proceeding. 

Now, the Chronicle or the Globe 
may affect to forget or to discredit 
tliis public pledge; but the ministry 
knew well enough that when such men 
af Mr. Masterroan, Mr. Spottiswoode, 
Mr. Hoare, Colonel Clitherow, and 
Sir John Gibbons, had given such a 
pledge, there was no prol»bility of that 
pledge being violated. The ministry 


How Long can it La$t t 


koew, therefore, that they had nothing 
but a fiiir, open, honest proceeding to 
deal with ; and a proceeding differing 
in no essentia) point from tliat taken 
by their own party, last year, and to 
which their own Duke of Bedford had 

Under these circamstances, what ex- 
cuse could be made for the doings of 
the 6th and 7th of December? Lord 
John Russell had claimed, in the 
middle of November, a whole fortnight 
for the consideration of this great affair. 
On the 6th of December, he would 
make known the determination of the 
gOTemment. Well, the 6th of De- 
cember came; and then Lord John 
Russell seemed to have nothing to say, 
but that there was no reason why all 
things should not go on in their usual 
course, and the petitions be tried just 
as heretofore. A very absurd person 
of the name of Blewitt had mooted the 
whole question of the Spottiswoode 
conspiracy; but the government ac- 
tually interfered to prevent the sense 
of the house from being taken upon it! 
And it was only in reply to some in- 
dignant reproaches from Lord Stanley, 
that Lord John Russell was at last 
brought to say something on the sub- 
ject. And what did he say ? Some- 
thing evidently meant to be very em- 
phatic—very awful ; but from which it 
was impossible for any one to gather 
v/uit he realfy meant to do. He &iied 
that Lord l^nl^ would not suppose 
** that the confederacy to collect sub- 
scriptions for the purpose of displacing 
Irish members was to remain unas- 

What did this mean, if it did not 
mean that something should be done 
against that confederacy ? And yet it 
promised nothing definite, nothing po- 

The next day came. The ministry 
had summoned their majority with the 
greatest possible earnestness. The 
house was crowded to the utmost de- 
gree. ^ And yet, strange to tell, up to 
one o'clock in the morning, no one 
could even divine what the govern- 
ment were going to do. At last, the 
question was put, and those very mi- 
nisters who had promised over night 
that " the confederacy should not 
escape;*' and who had collected eveiy 
Whig or Radical member within fifty 
miles of London,— those very minis- 
ters themselves " bolted" from the di- 
▼ision, and were brought back by the 

sergeant-at-arms, after an ineffectual at- 
tempt to abscond ! 

Was the like of this ever seen be- 
fore? The wish, the attempt, evi- 
dently was, to do a good turn to the 
Radical and 0*Connell party. Unfor- 
tunately, however, the case, so soon as 
it was once fiiirly stated, entirely clear- 
ed " the Spottiswoode conspirators*' of 
all touch of criminality. It left no 
room for any kind of verdict against 
the committee. Yet the ministers had 
not the moral courage to admit this. 
They preferred absconding ; but even 
in this they bungled ! 

V. Lastly, we come to the main 
question, for the settlement of which 
the parliament was summoned before 
Christmas. This, as every one knows, 
was the settlement of the civil list. To 
adjust this affair, the houses were called 
together on the 15th of November; and 
such excellent men of business did the 
ministers shew themselves, that, fmving 
no other real business of the least im- 
portance, and meeting with no opposi- 
tion of the least wei^t, they yet con- 
trived to be barely able to get the bill 
ready for the royal assent by Christmas 
eve; and the supplementary bill for 
the Duchess of Kent was obliged to 
stand over to January ! 

The more important inquiry, how- 
ever, is, whether this deliberate and 
even lingering course has been attended 
with any advantages ? The Whigs ex- 
pelled the Wellington administration, 
in 1831, on the question of the civil 
list The Whigs came in with the 
watchword ^' ecohomy'' emblazon^ 
(m their banners. The country under- 
stood that this economy was certainly to 
begin at the court itself,— that the civil 
list, on which the Whigs had attacked 
the Tories, would be made the plat- 
form on which their trumpeted econon^ 
would be most splendidly displayed. 

Well, the matter came to the proof, 
and, lo ! the economical Whigs coolly 
proposed their own civil list for King 
William IV., differing in no one es- 
sential particular from that of his splen- 
did predecessor King George ! The 
privy pur$e was the same; the ex- 
penses of the household the same. In 
no one department was there even an 
attempt at reduction; and the only 
apparent change was a mere shuffle, by 
which a portion of the pension-list was 
transferred to the consolidated fund I 

There can be no doubt that the peo- 
ple felt a oonsid^?^|fd4^g??^Q|gte 


Hciw Long ^an it Last ? 


priae and ditappointmeDt at this bunt- 
ing of the Whig bubble. Both were 
▼ery natuml. But the reform-bill was 
introduced almost at the same mo- 
ment : and the diversion was complete. 
The Radicals tliemselves were so de- 
lighted with the reform king and the 
reform ministry, tliat so petty a concern 
as the civil list bill was left to get 
through how it could. The court, 
therefore, of William IV. was just as 
costly as that of George IV. ; witli the 
addition, indeed, to which no one 
could object, of the necessary income 
of a queen-consort. 

The present case, however, was an 
entirely new one. 

In settling the civil lists of George IV. 
and William IV., the ministries of those 
days had to deal with princes of mature 
years — men accustomed to business, 
and conversant with the expenses of 
a court. If either of these sovereigns 
expressed a wish to have the previous 
settlement left undisturbed, it could 
not be expected that the Tories in 1820 
would desire, or that the Whiss in 1831 
would venture, to demand of the sove- 
reign a thorough revision, with a view 
to retrendiment. 

But, in 1837, Lord Melbourne has 
had the affiur in his own hands. A 
youthful sovereign, utterly unqualified 
to contest such a point, and open to 
the most frank and candid explana* 
tions, placed herself, in this matter, in 
the premier*s hands. Now, assuredly, 
this confidence was well calculated to 
confirm Lord Melbourne in his pre- 
vious resolutions, that his sovereign's 
interests should not suffer in his hands. 
But, at the same time, it gave him the 
best possible opportunity of frankly 
explaining, and without difficulty re- 
moving, any abuse or unnecessary ex- 
penditure that could be pointed out in 
the whole compass of the civil list esti- 
mates. Lord Melbourne lias done no- 
thing of the kind. He has not reduced 
a single item, or a single sixpence. 
He has thus made the whole his own ; 
and has declared, as explicitly as words 
can do it, that the civil list proposed 
by the Tories for George IV., in 1820, 
was wholly free from a single particle 
of extravagance ; and was, in met, so 
moderate, that the least he can do, 
even for a young queen, free from all 
expensive habits, is to ask for an esta- 
blishment exceeding^ by about 10,000/. 
a-year, that of the most magnificent 
monarch of modera times. I 

This has been a^ed, and it has been 
granted. When a reforming and re- 
trenching ministry state their belief that 
a certain establbhnient is necessaiy for 
the sovereign, it is not to be expected 
that Tories and Conservatives are to 
carp and quarrel witli it. All we can 
do is to congratulate her majesty on 
her good fortune, in having the Whi^ 
for her ministers; for, had they heesn. 
in oppotUhnf a civil list of 385,000/. 
would not have been carried with quite 
so much ease: and also to felicitate 
the old Tories of twenty years back on 
the final death and burial of all those 
charges of profuseness, waste of the 
public money, &c., which the Whigs 
and Radicals of 1820, and onwards, 
were accustomed to heap upon them. 

Nor can we omit the remark, that, 
had the proposition for doubling the 
income or the Duchess of Kofit ema- 
nated from a Conservative administra- 
tion, tliere can be nothing more certain 
than this, tliat both the Whigs and the 
Radicals would have set up the loudest 
outcry against '* the profligate expendi- 
ture oftlie Tories,** and their pandering 
to the weaknesses and follies of royalty. 
In (act, both this grant, and that of 
100,000/. a-year to Queen Adelaide 
(another specimen of Whig economy), 
shew pretty clearly that there is no 
sacrifice of the public money which the 
Whigs would not consent to make, so 
that they could but tlius purchase, at 
the nation's expente, the good will of 
the sovereisn, and a certainty of a 
permanent KK)ting at court. 

When the Whigs came into office in 
1831, they found the Duchess of Kent 
enjoying an income of 12,000/. a-vear. 
This Lord Grey speedily raised to 
22,000/., having as clear an insight 
as most men into the desirableness of 
cultivating the good will of the heir to 
tlie crown. This 22,000/. a-year has 
been the income of her royal highness 
up to the present time. A large part 
of it — 6000/. a-year, at least — was 
expressly granted for llie education of 
the young princess, and must have 
been so expended : consequently, as 
Mr. Herries explained to the house, 
*' the reason ceasing, the grant, even in 
law, ceased also.*^ At the utmoMt, 
therefore, the duchess's present income 
cannot exceed 16,000/. a-year. This 
the Whigs now propose to raise to 
30,000/., which is something very much 
like doubling it. 

The only ground alleged is. that of 

Digitized by VjUUV IC 



Hew Ltrng can it Lout \ 


ber wy^X tughnest'i <' greater proociniity 
to the throne;'' a phrase whicn it may 
be coDYeoient to adopt for the purpose^ 
but which, in &cty means nothing to 
the purpose. In money matters, the 
docfaesss ^greater proximity to the 
throne ^ acts as a means of saving, not 
a cause of greater expenditure. In- 
stead of maintaining considerable splen- 
dour at Kensiiwton Palace, and giving 
frequent and liberal entertainments for 
the proper and laudable purpose of 
introaucing the princess to the leading 
nobility, the ducliess now resides al- 
ways with her majesty, and cannot, in 
any risible or conceivable way, be 
spendiiu; one half the income that she 
reouired at this time twelvemonth. 
What possible meaning, then, can any 
one attich to thb proposition to double 
her roval highness's income, but that 
the Wh^ are ready, even by the most 
wasteful and profligate use of the pub- 
lic money, to purchase, t/* they canf 
the good will of this exalted personage ? 
Now, in ail this, be it observed, we 
approach not these royal personages 
with a whisper of disrespect. The 
Queen could not — the Queen did not 
— herself fix the amount of her own 
civil list: it was impossible tliat she 
could know whether 385,000/. or 
286,000/. a-year would be the most 
appropriate and desirable sum to fix 
for the royal establishment. To her 

E rime-minister she must of necessity 
ave looked, for counsel and advice in 
this matter. Nor is there the least 
evidence that the Duchess of Kent 
wished, or reouired, the large addition 
proposed to be made to her income. 
Here, also, the act must be consider^ 
to be the act of the roinistiy; and in 
both cases we see, as clearly as it is 
possible to see any thing, that the 
words ** reduction " and •* economy,'* 
in the mouths of Whigs when in oppo- 
sition, are among the most disgusting 
of all hypocritical pretences. 

Let us then, once more, cast a glance 
over the last five weeks, and briefly 
name their leading occurrences. ThesQ 

Itn^, the declaration of the ministry 
against the Radicals, in the matter of 
Orranic Reform i 

Seoom/, the truckling of the ministry 
to the Radicals, in the affiur of the 
revision of the Pension List ; 

Thirds their attempt to cheat the 
Radicals, by the exclusion of Mr. 
Harvey from that coramitteei 

Fourth, their defeated effi>rt to aid 
the Radicals in the matter of tlie Irish 
Petition Fund ; 

fy^A, their utter scorn of all the 
Radical demands, as well as of their 
own andoit professions, in the settle- 
ment of the Civil list. 

Let any one look at this brief sketch 
of the latest doings of the Whigs, and 
then ask himself. How long am all 
this last? 

The present course of the admini- 
stration is just the most impolitic, as 
well as the most unprincipled, thi^ it 
is in their power to Uike. They are 
abandoning and ill-treating the Radi- 
cals; and that without even attempting 
to act with honesty by the Conserva* 
tives. When we see them abjuring all 
notions of organic reform, and even 
outdoing Tories in their devotion to 
royalty, we naturally ask. Are they 
becoming Conservative? But when 
we find them, on alternate days, co- 
quetting witli the Radicals on such 
Questions as the Pension List and the 
rish Petitions, we turn away with 
disgust, and ask ourselves. What fitte 
can tliose men expect wfko will be 
honest to neither part^ ? 

The day of reckoning, however, ap- 
proaches. The first party to call them 
to account will be the Radicals. The 
15th of February is at present fixed for 
the settlement of the account. Mr. 
Ward lately told hb constituents at 
Sheffield — 

** I shall not consider the course of 
the government as fixed and decided 
until the discussion on Mr. Grote's mo- 
tion for the ballot, which stands for the 
15th of February. Should it then hap- 
pen, that the fifteen or sixteen gentlemen 
connected with the government, whose 
sentiments are known to be favourable 
to the balbt, are then found voting in 
favour of Mr. Grote's proposition, and 
should it appear that this arrangement 
takes place with Lord John RnsseU's 
concurrence, it will then be ^parent 
that a large field of usefulness still lies 

r, in which Reformers may sHU cen* 
\ to act in concurrence with his 

Lord John Russell has /loice, within 
four-and-twenty hours, declared most 
unequivocally and distinctly his oppo- 
sition to the ballot. This happened on 
the 20th and 21st of December; and 
the Radicals now evmce the sense 
they entertain of his firmness and con- 


How Long can it Last? 

[Jan. 1838. 

if he will only consent to cancel in 
deeds, if not in words, all *»osc decla- 
rations on the 15th of February. An 
admirable idea of a statesman these 
gentlemen must have ! 

But while they thus publicly demand 
his recantation, on the one hind, they 
take very good care that it shall be 
altogether disgraceful, on the other. 
They scorn to build a bridge for their 
adversary's retreat. 

Lord John rested his firm opposition 
to the ballot very mudi on tnis point, 
that it was only a part of a threefold 
demand, the whole of which was made 
by the friends of the ballot, and the 
whole of which amounted to a new 
and democratic constitution. 

Some cunning and insidious advo- 
cates of the ballot endeavoured to pro- 
test against this view. But we are happy 
to say that the accredited leaders of 
the Radical party have scorned to have 
recourse to disguise, and have plainly 
reaffirmed the fact upon which his lord- 
ship laid the greatest stress. 

Mr. Grote himself, in a letter dated 
Nov. 30, says — 

** Now is the time for a oousentaneoua 
effort, by which we maj obtaio the bal- 
lot ; indjirgt ttep which ii needed to effect 
a ehangt in the conttitution of the House 
of Commons." 

Mr. Warburton, speaking at a late 
meeting at the Crown ami Anchor, 
observed — 

" Whenever the question of the short- 
ening the duration of parliaments, uni« 
versal suffiraffe, or the vote by ballot* 
came before me hoaser he would always 
support the om, that he might obtain tho 
other; bat if he were asked which he 
would choose first, he would say, ' the 
btUot.' He would do so, because he 
thought that, when he had nined that, 
the inevitable eomequenee wonld be to get 
all the others." 

And Mr. Ward, in his speech at 
Sheffield, said— 

" I advocate the ballot, because 1 b«« 
lieve it will be the road to everi^ thing eke. 
It is the key that will unlock, to all tbofte 
that are excluded, the portals of the 

There is, therefDre^ no,esrape in this 
quarter ibr the ministry. They must 

look at the question in its true light, 
as a direct atuck upon the monarchy 
and the constitution, leading, and in- 
tended to lead, to a form of govern- 
ment essentially and exclumely demo- 

And this is what Mr. Ward hopes 
to see Lord John Russell yield a tacit, 
if not a direct, assent to I This is what 
is to receive the support of" fifteen or 
sixteen gentlemen connected with the 
government," and that with Lord John's 
own concurrence! On these terms, 
and only on these, will " the Reformers 
continue to co-operate with his lord- 

This is the issue to b^ tried on the 
15th of February. And on that day 
a decision is at last threaiencd^ that 
either the government shall yield once 
for all to the Radicals, or that the 
Radicals will desert the government. 

Meanwhile, never was there an ad- 
ministration so universally deserted, 
both by the press and by the people. 
Meetings have already lieen held, by 
the "Reformers" of all the large 
towns, to declare their withdrawal of 
all confidence" from the ministry. 
And, of the whole " Liberal'* press, 
scarcely a single newspaper ventures 
to advocate the ministerial policy. 
Some, indeed, like the Chronicle^ the 
QlobCf and the Examiner^ pray for a 
reprieve, a little further trial ; but these 
accompany their entreaties with the 
most entire disapprobation of the 
policy of the cabinet. The wretched 
Courier alone, we believe, now at its 
very last gasp,* still does its miserable 
work, ana even lauds the government 
for its opposition to the ballot, as it 
would, just as readily, laud it for its 
support of that nostrum. But through- 
out the British isles, we doubt if the 
Courier can find a seconder. A mi- 
nistry finding less support or sympathy 
from the press certainly never existed. 
Were it inherently strong, and confi- 
dent in the justice and truth of its 
own cause, this would be its glory; 
but the Whigs and Whiggish reform 
came in on the shoulders of a venal 
and clamorous press; and to be de- 
serted by even that crew is a worse 
omen tlum the flight of rats from a 
sinking vessel. 

* The TrtM Sun, having a larger ciroulatioii than the CourMr, has ailreedy breathed 

London :— J. Movm, Castle Street, Ldotiter Square;/^^ ^^^T^ 

Digitized by VjOOQ Ic 







These were, in some respects, evil, 
and, in many respects, gooa. He was 
born on the eve of the Scottish rebel- 
lion of "15," and attained his meridian 
influence and popularity during the 
troubles of the " 45." His biompher 
has written his memoirs in the heat of 
the Dissenting war, of which he takes 
lepeated and fiavourable notice; and 
in the heyday of O'Connellisro, or 
Irish rebellion, on which he discourses 
not. We merely express a hope, that 
the latter rebellion will be crushed 
with like celerity and vigour as the 
fonner, and wise Conservatives, and 
loval aind pious Churchmen, once more 
Hold the supremacy. In the course of 
owr editorial excursions, we have often 
seen in advertising broad-sheets, and 
on editors' tables (if like our own, sore 
hurdened), notice taken of Mr. Philip's 
Martha and Mary^ and Lydiatf and 
w« judged the gentleman marvellously 
prolific. We next met with Baxter 
ond Bishop Taylor; the Ladies* Chut 
(odd place for a gentleman to be in !) ; 
^, lastly, the Life and Times of 
George Whitfield; and, amazed that 
the author still kept on in this line, we 
fesolved to dip into his budget, and 
^ the metal he is made of. 

At once we beg to give our frank to 
^> Philip, of Maberiy Chapel, as a 
tliorough-paced Voluntary Dissenter; 
2nd, had we " caught him by the hip " 
^hen we submitted our celebrated batch 

of these noisy worthies, we should have 
overiiauled him. it is preferable on 
the whole, however, to take up his 
latest, and, therefore, his master-per- 
formance, and judge him by what he 
makes of George Whitfield. Nobody 
should have written a memoir of that 
wild, but, notwithstanding, most use- 
ful minister, save the late Rowland Hill, 
These two eccentric characters were 
more nearly allied with each other. 
Both were attached to, and ministers 
of, the Church; while both indulged 
in the erratic courses of dissent. Both 
hated the name of Dissenters, and botli, 
notwithstanding, mingled with them on 
every platform and pulpit. Both said 
and did things no other man in his 
senses would dare to attempt; and both 
were, even in their oddities, highly fa- 
voured in Christian usefulness. There 
was a fellow-feeling as well as same- 
ness of position in these two men ; and 
the only pity is that " Old Rowland " 
did not give us a Life of Whitfield, il- 
lustrated by a few of his own graphic 
and original touches. Surrey Chapel 
and the Tabernacle are just fitted to 
light up each other. It is a striking 
feet, and a strong testimony to the 
value of the Church principles, that 
from the chapels founded by Whitfield 
and Rowland Hill, retaining the Church 
liturgy and services, they have generally 
maintained a peaceful neutrality in the 
late political and voluntary strife. Their 

ift,I Whitfield's Life and Times. By Robert Philip, of Maberiy ^CJap^J. sM3^k 
iw. Virtue, Ivy Lane. o 



WhiffielcVs Life and Times. 


ministers are not ordained according 
to English or Scotch orders, nor are 
they subject to any episcopal control, 
save the trustees, wtio are the iron 
synods of dissenting chapels, and 
their nods the acts of worse than de- 
spotic parliaments. But tlie services 
of the (Jhurch have exerted an influence 
truly salutary, and Lady Huntingdon's 
or Whitfield's communions are still the 
most respectable portions of the dis> 
senting interest. There are, we under- 
stand, a few exceptions — some of the 
more refractory ministers keeping out 
of their chapels till the prayers are 
finished, and then getting up into the 
pulpit and dealing sly hits against 
them : but these are the few. 

It may be matter of some contro* 
versy, how far such men as Whitfield 
and Rowland Hill were warranted in 
continuing in a communion they broke 
through at pleasure, and to which they 
returned only when the fit was over. 
No sound man can approve of their 
irregularities ; no satisfactory vindica- 
tion can be given in the matter of their 
eccentricities and oddities : but it is 
certainly a faict, borne out by a refer- 
ence to the most remarkable impulses 
that have been imparted to mankind, 
that God has made use of deviations 
from the regular course to eflfectuate 
great and enduring benefits. Dis- 
orderly and extravagant as such devia- 
tions occasionally appear, they have yet 
been made the means of great good. 
The stagnation which routine and un- 
broken system tend to run into, needs 
to be broken up; and, though the 
stirring of the waters nuiy be a little 
boisterous and unpleasant at the outset, 
the angel of mercy and peace not un- 
frequently descends into the troubled 
pool and impregnates its waters with 
nealing virtues. A wild and enthusi- 
astic Whitfield did more good than 
the more orderly and sober parson, 
who would as soon have preached upon 
his head in his pulpit, as preached on 
bis legs in unconsecrated ground. This 
we mean not to adduce as an example 
— for such a purpose it is utterly 
worthless. Imitation has a sorry ap- 
pearance when real and regular good 
is the model, but it is fatal to its in- 
heritor when eccentricity and oddity 
are the plans ailer which it is to work. 
Comets are useful in their sphere, and 
a hurricane in its place. If Ilowland 
Ilill and Whitfield had not started off 
at a tangent from the Church, carrying 

with them its learning, its principles, 
its habits of devotion, the Cornish 
miners and tlie Kings wood colliers had 
never, perhaps, heard the Gospel. Ale- 
houses and malt-tubs, coal-pits and 
copper-mines, were consecrated ground 
and capital pulpits for Whitfield. 
Scotch fiddlers and Welsh harpers 
became his clerks. Wherever VV hit- 
field saw that the devil had a subject, 
there the good man felt that he had a 
price. WIten he got down among the 
Burghers of Scotland, he perfectly ter- 
rified these sober worthies. Sonne of 
them said he had "a devil;*' others 
thought him clean " daft." Some of 
their leading lights tried to extinguish 
the more blazing light. Old Erskioe, 
straitlaced even in his secession, de- 
clared, what is perhaps true of many 
of them, that Whitfield's sermons were 
followed bv *• convulsions, not convers- 
ions;'' and wrote a book against the 
enthusiastic irregular, called Faith no 
Fancy. But, of tliese by and by. 

It has been often, and very justly, 
questioned, how far street-preaching is 
productive of good, and to what extent 
It derives countenance firom the suc- 
cessful invasions of Whitfield. Of the 
immediate effects of Whitfield's ora- 
tory, no doubt can be entertained ; 
what its subsequent issues were, we 
have no means of determining. Uis 
own account of the impression he made 
on many thousand colliers, assembled 
round a hill in the neighbourhood of 
Bristol, is not overdrawn. " The first 
discovery of their being affected was 
to see wMte gatteis made by their 
tears, which plentifully fell down their 
black cheeks. Hundreds of them were 
soon brought under deep convictions, 
which, as the event proved, ended in 
a sound and thorough conversion." In 
Sidney's Interesting Memoir of Row- 
latui nilL, we have some incidents of a 
similar kind : 

" Mr. Hill was in the habit of speak- 
ing firequently in the open air, making 
what he called h\& field campaifrnt. When 
he heard of a fair or a revel, he would 
go and try to gain a hearing, in spite of 
all the violence with which he was con- 
stantly assailed. On such occasions, his 
favourite text was ' Come out from among 
them ;' which he often so applied to the 
consciences of those who gathered round 
him, that some, convinced of the evil of 
their conrae, would retire home to seek, 
in penitential prayer, the Saviour to 
whom they had been so feelingly in- 
vited." *' Hei^^ilj^l-preacbed on the 



WhUfield'i Life and Times. 


Csltoii nil], ml Edinburgh, to a man of 
p^opJe amonndog, at l^aat, to 10,000. 
Xlfea apoC was well adapted to aach a 
porpoae. The platfonn was placed in 
the ceotre of a aort of natural baain, and 
the green slopes which aarroonded it 
were corered with innumerable immortal 
beings, silent as the breathless erening 
of sutomn, fixed in deep attention to the 
words that issued from the sonorous and 
co wa anding Toice of the speaker, as he 
deliTered, in all the majestr and dignity 
of bta ofiSoe, hia message of m«rc7 to the 
lost and ruined aiooer. The retiring of 
the multitude, under the most solemn 
iapresaions, was, indeed, a touching 
sight. Ererjr person seemed deep in 
thought, and numbers were, for the first 
time, absorbed in the concerns of their 
souls and of eternity.'' 

The success of these two erratic and 
extraordinary characters is not, we 
think, a precedent for others, or a 
proof that they will be equally sue- 
cessfiil. Both started up at a time of 
extraordinary letliargy ; both were roea 
of ready wits, if not of great minds ; 
both were portly, and rather com- 
QModing men — and erery one knows 
a good personal appearance in tb« 
poipit helps an argument; both had 
TOtces almost approaching that of 
Trring; — and with these adrantages, 
added to the novelty of their career, it 
might have been expected that strong 
impressions would be produced. Ordi- 
nary men — even very able and amply 
endowed men — would, in the present 
day, cut a sorry figure at similar enter- 
prises. Illustrations of this fact are of 
daily occurrence. Any one who has 
teen Boi'ii Smith, who has sundry 
peculiar advants^es, on the quays of 
London and Liverpool, must have been 
disgusted with his rint manifestations; 
and those who have witnessed, of a 
Sunday, a handful of people at Jar- 
ringdon Market (jale, or in While 
Conduit FieldSy listening to well-mean- 
ing, pious, and, no doubt, talented 
men, must be abundantly satisfied of 
the hopelessness of this course. We 
have beeo told, that in those few cases 
in which street- preaching is now ex- 
hibited, two-thirds of the audience are 
cither the coneregation of the preacher, 
drawn from his own chapel, or the 
regular " trots," who frequent all pas- 
tures ; and that, when a few drunken 
blackguards are attracted, tlieir lan- 
guage is fearfully calculated to disturb 
the well-disposed, to offend the most 
sacred feeltngSi and, if poisibley to 

bring religion into contempt. The 
only efifective way to reach the masses 
of a heathen and debased populace is 
to build more parish-churches, appoint 
more parish-ministers, and bring the 
powerful appliances of the parochial 
system to bear upon the hearts and 
habits of the people. Street-preaching 
is essentially part of tlie Voluntary 
system, and but a miserable substitute 
for parish minbterial exertions. 

Some of Whitfield's most efficient 
labours are recorded to have been in 
Wales, which, at the time of his visit 
appears to have been in a very dark 
state. In a condition of ignorance 
and gloom, it is natural to expect that 
a startling and daring oratory would 
make itself felt. The contrast would 
be the more readily perceived. The 
condition of the Welsn at the period 
of our orator's inroads is thus describ- 
ed in a Welsh periodical, called the 

'* On Sunday mornings, the poor were 
more constant in their attendance at 
church than the gentry ; but the Sunday 
evenings were spent by all in idle amuae- 
ments. Every Sunday there was what 
was called * Achwaren'gamp,* a sort of 
sport in which all the young men of the 
neighbourhood had a tritil of strength; 
and the people aasembled from the sur- 
rounding country to see their feats. On 
Saturday night, particularly in the sum- 
mer, the young men and maids held what 
they called 'Singing eves' {Nostoeithan 
cann)'f that is, they met together, and 
diverted themselves by singing, in turns, 
to the harp, till the dawn of the Sabbath. 
At first sight, nothing would appear 
more improbable than that Methodism 
should find proselytes among a people 
so gay and thoughtless as the Welsh of 
that period; or that the joyous group 
which assembled at Bala, on a Sunday 
evening, ahould beoome, aa was abortly 
afterwards the case, a leading coogre- 
gation of modern Puritans. But the re- 
ligion of the Welah, and their fondness 
for national music, arose from the same 
cause, an earnest and imaginative frame 
of mind. A disposition to melancholy, 
disguised by external gaiety of manner, 
is characterutic of all Celtic nations. 

* Aa a beam o'er the face of the waters 

may glow, 
Though the stream runs in darkness 

and coldness below.' 

«' With all their social spriglitliness, 
the Weiah were then a superstitious, 
■nd, conseouently, a gloomy race. The 
infiuence ot the Church had, coufessedly^C 


WhitJkUVs Life atid Times. 


done little to civilise tbe people; tbey 
still retained many habits, apparent!/ 
derived from Pngaoism, and not a few of 
the practices of Popery. When Whit- 
field and thf Methodists came into North 
Wales, the peasantry expressed their 
horror of them and their opmions by the 
trulv Popish gesture of crossing their 
foreheads : they also paid great venera- 
tion to a tale called * Brenddwyd Mair,' 
or Mary's Dream, a Popish legend. 
Children were tanght to repeat the fol- 
lowing rhyme on being pat to bed : 

* There are four comers to my bed. 
And four angels there are spread — 
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, 
Bless the bed that I lie on.' 

" On the Sunday after a funeral, etch 
relation of the deceased knelt on his 
grave, exclaiming ' Nevoedd iddo !* t. e, 

* Heaven to him ! If children died be* 
fore their parents, the latter regarded 
them as so many candles to light them 
to Paradise." 

Among a people in an evidently 
semi-barbaious state, Whitfield kin- 
dled what he called « the Welsh fire." 
^ Light broke in on their superstition, 
and one fastness of idolatry gave way 
after anotlier, till not only Christianity, 
but, we fear, very wild and question- 
able formulae of it, gained the ascend- 
ency. In Scotland, as we have ob« 
served already, 4ie victories of Whit- 
field were by no means so frequent or 
decisive. The Scotch are, generally, 
with difficulty removed from their beaten 
rounds and long-cherished opinions. 
They cling to them with the inveteracy 
of powerful habit; they yield to strong 
arguments only, and, from the love of 
battle, they often stick to the old 
opinion. The Scotch are a hard-head- 
ed, close-fisted generation ; and Whit- 
field found them so. VVesley clean 
broke down, and Wesleyan Methodism 
is a most unpopular commodity among 
our northern neighbours. The only 
contradictory point in the present na- 
tional character of the Scotch is their 
sending so many Radical and Minis- 
terial representatives to St. Stephens. 
We were wont to regard the Scottish 
as a sound-hearted Tory people, and 
nothing has so much surpriscKl us as 
the late partialities they have mani- 
fested to politics of a very opposite 
stamp. We believe that this disastrous 
change has arisen from the cause which 
the leading churchmen of that country 
usually assign, viz. the heathenish state 
into which great portions of the people 
have lapsed, from the want of church 

room and pastoral labours. It never 
should be forgotten that Radicalism, 
and Heathenism, and Voluntaryism, 
are an inseparable trio ; the middle 
condition throwing up those on each 
side of it. We see a change taking 
place, that prognosticates better and 
more desirable results. This has been 
owing, in the first instance, to the 
striking demonstrations that have taken 
place for their national church on the 
part of the leading clergy and laity, 
and it has been fostered, and continoes 
to be so, by the many sound Protestant 
papers that have lately started into 
existence in that part of the empire. 

On the subject of the comparatirely 
little success that followed the fiery 
oratory of his reverend hero in Scot- 
land, Mr. Philip makes the following 
remarks : 

*' It is impossible not to ask, and tbmt 
with strong emotion, too, after reading* 
the remonstrances of Whitfield, How 
could such good men as tbe Erskines 
withstand these appeals 1 Now, it is 
not easy to explain this anomaly, with- 
out paliiatins; its enormity. It admits, 
however, of some explanation. The 
Erakines, on raising the standard of Re- 
formation in Scotland, planted it upon 
the mount of the * solemn league and 
covenant ;' arguing that God wovdd carry 
on His wi>rk in a way of solemn cove- 
nanting, as in the days of their reforming 
fathers. With this principle Whitfield 
had no sympathy, for, whether right or 
wrong, he aid not understand it. He 
would not, therefore, submit to it. These 
reformers laid it down as a maxim, that 
little truths were, like the pinnings ff a 
wall, oi necessary as great tt<mes (a d^tal 
sentiment, by the by, in these loose 
timet). All this, as they understood, 
Whitfield rejected ; and, therefore, they 
rejected him, and defamed his principles, 
in order to defend their own. ' I shall 
shew you in eight or ten particulars,' 
said Ralph Ersldne, in a sermon, ' what 
another God and what another Christ Im 
appearing in the delusive spirit of this 
time, brought in by the instrumentality 
of the foreigner Whitfield, of whom we 
had some grounds of very favourable 
expectations, till we understood him 
more fully.*— P. 301. 

" It is amusing to read the charges 
and disclaimers of the parties in S<^t- 
land, upon the subject of religious li- 
berty. The AssociatePresbyteries gravely 
charged the Revivalists in the -Kirk ' wita 
I>leaaing for a boundless toleration and 
liberty of conscience :' no great crime, 
as we now judg^. Not so, however, did 
the Revivalists of that day deem it." 


Whitfield's Life and Times. 


" Another handle against the Cam- 
bnmlang and Kilsjth revivals was the 

eiysical effects of the awnkening. ' We 
re cowouUionz instead of conveniom,* 
nid Erskine. Even in 1765, the editor 
of Ralph's sennons kept up this mis* 
representation, and said, in a note, * llie 
sabjects of tlie extraordinary work were 
strangel J agitated by strong convulsions, 
£eerfbl distortions, foamings, and faint- 
ings/**— P.304. 

"It would be wrong, after having 
quoted so often from Ralph Erskines 
seniKHis, were I not to saj, even of the 
aerxnons which are most disfieured witli 
tirades against Whit6e)d and the He- 
riTals, that ihey are full of evangelical 
trath, and flaming with love to immortal 
sools, and as faithful to the conscience 
as any that Whitfield ever preached at 
Cambuslang. Indeed, had they been 
]»eacfaed on the brae head, at the great 
sacrament there, Erskine would as surely 
have slain hb hundreds as Whitfield did 
hU thousands."— P. 305. 

This is a long and wearUome quo- 
tatioDy but it serves to prove that those 
most able to appreciate the character 
and analyse the effects of Whitfield's 
preaching, did not entertain the strong 
partialities to its defects and beauties 
that his biographer professes. The 
Erskines were men or powerful, en- 
lightened, and subdued minds; and 
in hearing them pronounce the verdict 
on the conversions of Cambuslang and 
Kilsyth, that they were ''convulsions 
xiuXeaA of conversions,'' we are unable 
to do otherwise than pause, and, with 
every deduction, exp^ress our belief that 
there is much trutli in their testimony. 
In fact, any judicious and cool mind 
tracing tlie successive developements 
of Whitfield's character, as drawn by 
Mr. Philip, must confess there was an 
extravagance, a wildness of sentiment 
and language, a thunder-and-lightning 
sort of speaking on the most solemn 
subjects, that shew that << genius is 
near allied to madness;*' that in tlie 
Bicred enthusiasm which we have cheer- 
fully admitted animated his heart, there 
was also a dash of nudness. On this 
hypothesis we have merely to lay down 
the maxim of Horace, " Si vis meflere^ 
flendtan e$t tibi ffrimtun" to account 
for a contagion in George's madness, 
as well as in his real earnestness and 
sense of vital Christianity. With the 
exception, however, of the cases we 
have several times alluded to, he was 
not very successful among the Scotch. 
That nertherti' noli me tangerc lace 

would be busy counting the syllogisms 
on their fingers, while the orator was 
trying fruitlessly to storm their feel- 
ings. No sudden impulse ever suc- 
ceeds in extorting an old dojraa from 
a Scot's head, any more than extracting 
a penny from his pouch. As to moving 
his heart, it needs the talent of moving 
mountains. Facts, noifanci^s — clench- 
ing reasons, not oratorical flourishes — 
make an impression on Sawney. It is 
an important element, and, if it require 
much momentum to overcome it at the 
first, the subsequent breakwater it pre- 
sents against fanaticism more than com- 
pensates. Had Whitfield visited Ire- 
land, he would have set its combustible 
population on fire. At the present 
moment, an invasion by a battalion of 
his mood and metal would be invalu- 
able. Could we, by any possibility, 
muster a dozen W bitfields, and let 
them slip in Ireland, tliey would shake 
the tyranny of the three Dam — Dan 
Dens, Dan Murray, and Dan O'Cwi- 
nell — to its centre. We fear, under 
the stimulating influences of their new 
invaders' addresses, the bog-trotters 
would have recourse to old habits, and 
clear the island of those pestiferous 
Egyptian locusts, the priests, by dint 
of shillelahs, and with genuine Irish 
reciprocity, well defined to be all on 
one side. 

We have spoken of Whitfield's odd 
phrases ; that we may not be charged 
with caricature, we quote a few: — 
" At Rotherham, Satan rallied his 
forces;" ''at Manchester, a few en- 
listed;" "Satan shews his teeth;" 
" I did but little execution there ;" 
" eave them a dish of all sorts." 

Tlie following letters, also, are illus- 
trative of his eccentricities. He had 
made up his mind to look out for a 
wife, and, on some young lady catching 
his 4ncy, he opened his battery — not 
on the quarter, certainly, on which we 
would recommend our readers to make 
their first assault. His motives, too, 
are of a very sublime stamp. In fact, 
the letter indicates the fruitlessness of 
trying to make the clergyman become 
the curate of the Lover. 

" To Mr. and Mas. D . 

" My DBA* Frismds,— I find by expe- 
rience, that a mistrts* it abtolutelif necet^ 
sary for the due management of my in- 
creasing family, and to take off some of 
that care which at present lies upon me.^ 
Besides, I shall, at my next return froor 


Whitfield's Life and Times. 


England, hring more women with me ; and 
1 find, unless they are all trulv- gra- 
cious (or, indeed, if they are), without a 
superior, matters cannot be carried on 
as becometb the Gospel of Christ. It 
hath been, therefore, much impressed upon 
my heart that I should marry, in order to 
have a help meet for me in the work 
whereunto our dear Lord Jesus hath 
called me. This comes (like Abraham's 
servant to Rebecca's relations) to know 
whether yon think your daughter, Miss E,, 
is a proper person to engage in snek en 
undertaking? If so, wh^ar you will 
be pleased to giTe me leave to propose 
marriage unto her 7 You need noC be 
afraid of sending me a refusal ; for I 
bleu God, if I know any thing of my own 
heart, I am free from i^at foolish passion 
which the world calls love.** 

These are the extraordinary reasons 
sent by the reverend wooer to the pa- 
rents, for his requesting them to pre- 
sent his letter to their daughter. He 
does not marry her because he laves 
her, for he is ** free from that foolish 
passion ;" lie wishes merely to nave a 
governess for some ladies he is trans^ 
porting across the Atlantic, and a per- 
son for the " due management of his 
affairs,'' as looking after the puddings, 
pies, bakers' and butchers' bills, &cc. Let 
us now see how the reverend gentleman 
addresses the davghter, after his extra- 
ordinary envelope for the parents. We 
shall find the merit of consistency, at 
least, as the following extracts will 
evince : 

*« To Miss E . 

" On board the Savannah, 
April 4, 1740. 

*' Be not surprined at this : the letter 
sent to your honoured father and mother 
will acquaint you with the reasons. Do 
you think you could undergo the fatigues 
that must necessarily attend being joined 
to one who is every day liable to be called 
out to suffer for the sake of Jesus Christ? 
Can you bear to leave your father and 
kindrod's house, and to trust in Him who 
feedeth the youog ravens that call on Him 
for your own and children's support, 
supposing it should please Him to bless 
you with any 1 Can you bear the incle- 
mencies of the air, both as to cold and 
heat, in a foreign climate 1 Can you, 
when you have a husband, be as though 
YOU had none ; and wiHiogly part with 
him, evea for a long season, when his 
Lord aad Master shall call him forth to 
preach the gospel, and command him to 
leave you behind 1 If, after seeking to 
God tor direction, and searching your 
hutt, jrou CM asf , I tm da m &«ie 

things tliroogli Christ strengtbaoingr mf. 
what if you and J were joined together in 
the Lorcl, and you came with me, »t my 
return from England, to be a help emeetj'm' 
wte in themmnagement of the Orphms House? 
1 much like the manner of Isaac's ■mrrr- 
ing with Rebecca ; and tiunk no mmrrim^ 
can succeed well, nelesa both pmi tie* 
eoneemed are like miaded with Tobus 
and his wife. I Make no great pro foifiow 
to you, because I believe you think warn 
sincere. The peuionate expreetions which 
eamml eeuriiers use, I think ^mght to he 
avoided by those who marry in ih% Lord." 

Such if an extract from this most 
affectionate stoic. He was far more 
effective io the field-pulpit thau by the 
altar of Cupid or Hymen ; and this be 
found, in &ct, to be the case, for the 
above was hisfirtt and latt onset on 
Mist £— ^i- : and no marvel. It ap- 
pears, however, that he had either 
changed his mode of assault, or had 
found a lady so smitten with his elo- 
auence as a preacher^ that she could 
aispense with it in the wooer^ for soon 
after we find him married. This change 
of state, it has been alleged, produces 
a very favourable change in the cha- 
racter and habits of its subjects ; but 
little or no transformation appears to 
liave been produced in the reverend 
husband's extraordinary movements, as 
the following post-nuptial catastrophe 
will prove. Tnis, at least, it evinces, 
that George Whitfield was a bad whip, 
if he was a good preacher. 

** Tlie first time be todr his wife o«t 
•fter marriage, hs drovM her ritte a dkek, 
' My wife,' he writes to a friend, * has 
be^d in trying circumstances, partly 
through the unskilfulness of a chaise- 
driver — I mean myself. Being advised 
to take her out to the air, I drove her, as 
well as myself, through inadvertency, 
into a ditch. Finding that we were fall- 
ing, she put, her hand across the chaise, 
and thereby preserved us both from be- 
ing thrown out. The ditoh might be 
about fourteen feet deep ; but bleased be 
God, though all that mw us failing cried 
out, < They are killed !' yet, through in- 
finite mercy, we received no hurt. The 
place was very narrow near the bottom ; 
aud yet the faiorse went down as though 
let down by a pulley. A stander-by rw 
down and' caught hold of its head, to 
prevent its going forwards. I got upon 
the horse's back, and was drawn out by 
a long whip ; whilst my wife, hanging 
between the chaise and the bank, was 
palled up on the other side by two or 
three kiad asaiatanta. Being both ia s 
4soisfortoUs fraaie, I jnuat 4>wu, to my 

1 8380 

Whitfield'i Life and Tims. 


9, that I felt rather regret than 
thankAilness in escaping what I thought 
w^ould be tt kind of translation to our 
wiehed-for haven." 

In this accouDt, we know not whe- 
ther to marvel at the unskilfulnesi of 
the driver, the feelings of the Christian, 
or the bad taste, and unnatural and un« 
scriptural sentiment with which the ac- 
coQnt concludes. Had Cruikshank 
witnessed this worse than Gilpin so- 
menety he would have made London 
laugh at the picture next day. W« 
very much question, indeed, how far a 
biographer consults the ciedit of his 
subject, when he rakes K^her the 
oddities, the ante-nuptial addresses and 
post-nuptial somersets, of such a man 
as Whitfield. The recital of them may 
make the Ufe interesting, but it scarcely 
makes it useful. Mr. Philip ^Is, no 
doubt, from experience, that a work, to 
be at all saleable in this latter age, re- 
quires to have something //i^uan^— a lit- 
tle mustard and cayenne — to make the 
heavier and more insipid parts less indi- 
gestible. Yet we suspect more evil is 
really done by gambhingwith all sorts of 
sauce a man whose main character and 
exertions were of a most useful kind, 
than in sitting down to write what 
Mr. Philip would heartily anathematise 
a novel or a romance. The former 

Erocess makes personal virtue and no- 
le piety the substrata for humour and 
caricature; the latter, caterit paribuM, 
being fictitious throughout, injures not 
the virtues, and tarnishes nothing of 
the memory, of the dead. There is leM 
questionable, surely, in weaving a 
pleasing tale out of one*s head, than 
m working a caricature out of the 
Christian, though eccentric, Whitfield. 
Mr. Philip well says, the philosophy 
of Whitfield's life has not yet been 

In tracing the exploits of his hero, 
our author enters into a discussion of 
the merits of the nonconformist exiles 
and pilgrims that fied to America. The 
espnt au corps is of course plain in 
Mr. Philip's delineation. liobertson 
and Hume were as unfit, though for 
different reasons, to sketch these men 
as Mr. Philip. There were greatness 
and littleness in their character-*- re- 
sistance of despotisms and straining at 
goats in tlieir conduct — much good 
and much evil in the results of their 
struggles. But, such as they were, the 
state of our country would be much 
foore delightful if only a few shreds of 

their mantles bad alighted on tlieir 
professed and vaunting followers. Mr. 
Philip, as we will shew by and by, 
iiaf little in his views akin to theirs. 
Indeed, the fectious conduct and athe- 
istic notions of modern EHssentcrs on 
the responsibilities of rulers, if broached 
two centuries ago, would have driven 
the Puritans back to the bosom of the 
establishment, as a rest far more con- 
genial than the knot of Eedcross Street. 
On the Act of Uniformity, our author 
remarks : 

** However much we may deplore the 
Act of Uniformity, it became the axe 
which cut down the principle of uni- 
formity in this country. What the cause 
of religious liberty lost here for a time, 
it more than regained in America. When 
these victim* of the Act of Uniformity/' 

This is not the place or time for dis- 
cussing the merits of the Act of Uni- 
formity ; but, certainly, a great deal of 
vague and ill-informed views are cur- 
rent on the nature of that act. It ope- 
rated most unfavourably in this respect, 
that it put an end bv a ctvi/, not an 
ecclesiastical act, to the ministerial in- 
tercommunion which prevailed between 
the English, Scottish, and Continental 
Protestant churches, and also excluded 
not a few good men from the pale of 
the church, who could not feel it a duty 
they owed to religion and their country 
to merge their quarrels with dresses and 
organs, in the joy of being able to 
announce from tlie pulpit great and 
eternal truths. But we very much 
suspect that a profound and penetrating 
view of tlie tendencies of that era will 
shew that, if this act produced dissent 
(we mean nonconformity, not nine- 
teenth century dissent), it stemmed 
Popery — if it occasioned the meeting" 
housCf it kept down the taass- house ; 
and, bad as has been the conduct of 
factious political Voluntaries, we con- 
fess we would rather have an increase 
of these than the less open and more 
desperate disciples of Loyola. That 
we are not mistaken, we feel confident 
from many sources. Tlie following 
extract from an admirable and well- 
digested history of the English Epis- 
copacy, by the Rev. T. Lathbury, con- 
tains some important views on tliis 
subject : 

" The Act of Uniformity," says Mr. 
Jjithbury, " i^ras, however, necessary ; 
aud to it were even the Purib^ in de t > <<!< 


Whiifield'i Life and Times. 


for tbeir lecuritj. Without the security 
of that tct» tlie secret designs of the 
Jesuits might have been crowned with 
success. • • • It is certain, how- 
ever, that the Church evinced a more to- 
lerant spirit than her opponents. Had the 
Puritans succeeded in erecting their plat- 
forms, it would have been imposed under 
severe penalties. • • • The assertion 
that the tree of religious liberty was plant- 
ed and watered bv the Puritans, is en- 
tirely destitute of foundation. Had they 
advocated toleration, tiie assertion would 
be correct Thev did not contend for 
liberty to all, but for the establishment of 
their own discipline.''* 

With these and similar (acts before 
our eyes, it is worse than futile to de- 
claim on the struggles of the Puritans 
for religious liberty, or on the fatal ten- 
dencies of the Act of Uniformity : and 
modem Dissenters must know pretty 
well, that the only peculiarity they re- 
tain of the character of the older Pu- 
ritans is their propensity to fight, not 
for freedom of conscience, but for the 
domination of their own sect. This 
they have developed on every possible 
occasion, — in the pulpit, the platform, 
and in such infidel magazines as the 
EclectiCy Congregational, Patriot, &c. ; 
journals that, under the guise of sacred- 
ness, inflict deep injuries on the gospel. 
It is therefore rank stuff in Mr. Philip 
to talk about '' unshackled freedom of 
conscience*' being <' peculiar to the 
Independents,'' or their being the 
fbuDoers of religious freedom in Ame- 
rica. Tliere were sturdy dogs among 
the Independents, who allowed the 
liberty of^ thinking their contempt of 
all authority right, and every thing like 
ecclesiastical order and decorum wrong, 
but brooked no other. In Goush's Hi»- 
*o^ of Quakeriim, we are mmished 
with a proof of Independent toleration 
in these words : " The Quakers of 
America were scourged and put to 
death by those Independents, whom 
we have lately been taught to call the 
fiithers of toleration." 

We might follow Whitfield through 
almost every quarter of the globe, and 
on every occasion detect the same exhi- 
bitions of weakness and wisdom, genius 
and eccentricity, good and mischief. 
One feature few can fail to observe 
very prominent in his accounts of 

himself,^ egotism (if less offensive, 
egoism) and self-applause. We are 
no great admirers of the plan of keep- 
ing journals of one's own exploits, 
unless these arise from official respon- 
sibilities ; but when men of notorioas 
lives do undertake sudi works, one per- 
vading vein of modesty and retirement 
should be either evident or easily in- 
ferred. The incessant •* I," and its 
rich sauce extracted from Johnson's 
epithets, annoys us beyond endurance 
in the journals of Whitfield. ^Preached 
yesterday with great cleameu andjrec'^ 
dom,*' ** In the morning, helped to 
preach powerJvUy to a melting con- 
gregation." f " Preached to-day with 
greater freedom and power." " Preach- 
ed yesterday with a considerable degree 
of warmth. " Preached with great 
cleameu and freedom** " With won- 
drous power, and every sermon was 
blessed." '< Life and power flew all 
around me." There is a quantity of 
this sort of self-eulogy. It was not, 
periiaps, in Whitfield, a thirst for 
mme — it was rather an odd and silly 
habit ; but, surely, if Mr. Philip de- 
sires the memory of the man's excel- 
lences to be embalmed and imperish- 
able, and the traces of his most ex- 
ceptionable traits to be expunged, he 
will, in his next edition, leave out one 
half of the rubbish which the present 
contains, whether it be collected from 
his own memory or Whitfield's diaries. 
We must now give a specimen of 
the popularity of Whitfield's preaching. 
Popularity, at this day, means crowds 
gathering fipora the four quarters of 
London, to hear some orator, who 
makes up for solidity of matter by 
dazzling splendour of expression, open 
mouths and staring auditories; but, 
in Whitfield's days, " the sovereign 
people" gave vent and expression to 
popularity in other shapes, such as a 
shower of stones or brickbats, or the 
upsetting of his pulpit, — a style of 
treatment that would certainly damp 
the popularity cravings of some of our 
modem orators. He thus describes the 
scene of his preaching : 

" I mounted my field-pulpit. The 
fields, the whole fields, seemed, in a bad 
sense of the word, all white — ready, not 
for the Redeemer's, but Beelzebub's bar* 

• Lathbuir's English Episcopacy, p. 62. 

t Query, Was it a dispersing congregation the reverend gentleroaa meant ?— 
Frinter*$ V$»ii. Digitized by VjUU^IC 


WhitfiehTi Life and Times. 


AH the deTil*t agents were in fall 
Botioo ; dranuners, trumpeters, Merrj- 
Andrevrs, masters of poppet^hows, ez- 
bilntiooa of wild beasts, players, &c. &o., 
an bosj entertaining their respective au* 
diences. I suppose there could not be 
Was than twenty or thirty thousand people. 
My pulpit was fixed on the opposite side ; 
«zid immediately, to their great mortifica- 
tion, they found the number of their at* 
taodants aadly lessened. Judging that, 
like St. Paul, I should now be called, as 
it were, to fight with beasts at Ephesus, 
I preached trom these words, ' Great is 
Diana of the Ephesians.' You may easily 
g%»6M that there was some noise amone 
the craftsmen, and that I was honoured 
with having a few stones, dirt, rotten 
eggs, and pieces of dead cats, thrown at 
me, whilst engaged in calling them from 
their favonrite, but Ijring vanities. My 
sonl was indeed among lioos; but far 
the greatest part of my congregation, 
which was very lar^, seemed for a 
while to be turned rato lambs. 1'his 
encouraged me to give notice that I 
would preach again at six o'clock in the 
evening. I came and saw — but what ! — 
thonisands and thousands more than be- 
fore, if possible still more deeply engaged 
in their unhappy diversions, but some 
thousands amongst them waiting as ear- 
nestly to bear the gospeL This Satan 
could not brook. One of hia choicest 
serranta waa exhibiting trumpeting on a 
large stage ; but as ^oon as the people 
saw me in my black robes,* and my 
pulpit, I think all to a man left him and 
ran to me. For a while I was enabled to 
lift on my voice like a trumpet, and many 
heard ihd joyful sound. God's people 
kept prating, and the enemy's agents 
made a kind of roaring at some distance 
from our camp. At length they ap- 
proached nearer ; and the Menr-Andrew 
(attended by othera, who complained that 
they had taken many pounds less that day 
on account of my preaching) got up upon 
a man's shonlders, and Mvaneing near 
the pulpit, attempted [the man was a 
pure Voluntary. O. Y.] to slash me 
with a long heavy whip several times, 
but always, with the yiolence of his mo- 
tion, tumbled down. Soon after they got 
a recruiting aergeant, with his drum, £c. 
to pass through the congregation. J gave 
the word of command, and ordered that way 
might he made for the king*$ officer. The 
ranks opened, while all marched quietly 
through, and then closed again. Finding 
these efforta (ail, a large body, quite on 
the opposite side, assembled together. 

and having got a large pole for their 
standard, advanced toward us with 
steady and formidable steps, till they 
came very near the skirts of our hearing, 
praying, and almost undaunted congre. 
gation. I think I continued in praying, 
preaching, and singing (for the noise was 
too great at times to preach), about three 
hours."— P. 272. 

He states, on another occasion, when 
be preached in his field-pulpit : 

"I preached in great jeopardy, for the 
pulpit being high, and the supports not 
well fixed in the ground, it tottered every 
time I moved; and numbers of enemies 
strove to push my firieuds against the 
supporters, in order to throw me down." 
—P. 273. 

Such was ministerial popularity in 
the days of Whitfield. 

We have seen and said a good deal 
of the manner of his preaching; let us 
now turn to the matter, of which Mr. 
Philip has been kind enough to give 
us several specimens. His greatest 
triumphs took place on the occasion 
of charity or missionary sermons. He 
appears to have shot red-hot words and 
i«'if im^tfT» winged thieves into the 
depths of the purses and pockets of his 
auditors, the success of which in coin* 
picking is undoubted. It is stated that 
on one occasion it was announced that 
Whitfield would preach for his hobby, 
tlie Orphan House. Benjamin Franklin, 
although he approved of the object, 
refused to contnbute to it, when ap- 
plied to in private, because be disap- 
proved of the situation. He went, it 
seems, out of curiosity, or other mo- 
tives, to hear the sermon of Whitfield. 
As the preacher warmed and rose with 
his appeal, the bowels of the calcu- 
lating philosopher began to move, and 
he laid his paw upon the copper district 
of his inexpressibles. Whitfield pitched 
into a higher key, and gave forth still 
more melting pathos, and the dure sage 
began to feel and fumble if he had any 
silver* The orator increased in power, 
till, at the close of his peroration, 
sympathy's strong tide rolled through 
Franklin's soul, and his hand was 
counting how much was in the golden 
shaft of bis nether profundities; and, 
on the phite being submitted to his 

* This is an odd peculiarity in Whit6eld. He abandoned consecrated places and 
canonical hours, but not consecrated and canonical robes, I'here was wisdom in 
retaining the last : the clerical robes exercise an impressive influence on Ihejnere 
!^u%ar, and must have been rather imposing at such a Bartlemy fi^,^^ vj^^gi^ 


Whitfield's Life and Timet. 


eoosideretioo, in the agony of a more 
than electric stimulus, he emptied the 
whole contents of his close-lipped 
pouch in the disli. Ttiis was a capital 
stroke. But were Whitfield redivivm 
in London, or the most gifted of an- 
cient rhetoricians to preach in our 
pulpits, there is one man we are pre- 
' pared to pitch against any power of 
appeal, the late goose for Middlesex, 
and proUgc of Pye Smith, Joe Hume. 
We here challenge the M*Neills, and 
M'Ghees, and Chalmers, &c. &c., to 
make the honourable goose lay one 
golden egg. We will allow the strong- 
est motive to be adduced, the honour- 
able gentleman's obligations to Dan for 
Kilkenny, and " a lOOO/., say a 1000//' 
to be rung in his ears, and with all the 
eloquence of such a demonstration as 
would melt Franklin into charity, and 
Hopkinson into begging or stealing, as 
well as borrowing, we ieel quite safe in 
offering « a 1000/., say 1000/." for a 
^ain of the golden egg. Joe*s lieart 
IS as impervious to such feelings, as his 
head is to common sense. 

The observations of Mr. Philip on 
the discourses of his reverend hero are 
on the whole just. 

" His name may continue to sell bis 
sermons, but even already they are sel- 
dom read* No minister quotes from 
them, except when an anecdote of Whit* 
field brings in some stroke of power or 
pathos ; and no student hears or thinks 
of them as models. Indeed, they are not 
models for the pulpit, but when it stands 
in the fields. Besides, there is not much 
to be learned from his sennous now. 
Their best maxims are but commonplace 
to us. lliey were, however, both new 
and strange things to the generality of 
his hearers. He was as much an original 
to them as Chalmers is to us. And let 
it not be forgotten, that Whitfield and 
Wesley commonplaced iu the public mind 
the great truths of the Reformution in 
simple forms and familiar words. This 
is forgotten by those who say witB a 
sneer, that tJiere is nothing in their 
sermons."— P. 573. 

In vindicating die character of Whit- 
field, Mr. Philip makes a sound and 
apposite observation on the preaching 
of too many of our day. 

** Nothiag is so unlike Whitfield's 
egotism as the whining oonfsssions of 
a certain clique of preachers, who talk 
much about the plagues and lusts of their 
own hetirts. They are theological Rous- 
seaus and Montaignes, foaming out their 
i>WDshame,ifnot^Ior3no^mi^ Nothing 

is so disgusting as sueh obtmsive egotisin. 
It is, indeed, uoUushing effrontery to 
hawk moral disease thus.' --P. 674. 

David Hume, not inferior in desti- 
tution of tender feelings to his living 
clansman, declared that Whitfield was 
tlie most ingenious preacher he ever 
lieard, and said it was worth goioK 
twenty miles to hear him. '' Once,*' 
says Mr. Hume, " after a solemn pause, 
he added, * The attendant angel is just 
about to leave tlie threshold of this 
sanctuary and ascend to heaven. And 
shall he ascend, and not bear with him 
the news of one sinner among all this 
multitude reclaimed from the error of 
his ways V To give the ereater effect 
to this exclamation, Whitfield stamp>ed 
with his foot, lifted up his hands ami 
eyes to heaven, and cried aloud, ' Stop, 
Gabriel I stop, ere you enter the sacred 
portals, and yet carry with yon the 
news of one sinner converted nnto God .' 
This was very effective.'' 

The following description of the 
effects of Whitfield's preaching was 
communicated by the Countess of 
Huntingdon, and conveyed by Mr. 
Barry, R. A. to Mr. Philip : 

** Some ladies called on Saturdaj 
morning to pay a visit to Lady Haotin|f- 
doo, and during die visit her ladtrahip 
inquired of them if they bad ever hasrd 
Mr. Whitfield preach f On befof an- 
swered in the aegative, she said, * I 
wish yon would hear him ; be is to pieseh 
to-monom evening.' They piosiised her 
ladyship they would certainly attead. 
They were as good as their word ; and 
on Galling on the Monday morning. Lady 
Huntingdon inquired if they had beard 
Mr. Whitfield on the previous evening, 
and how they liked him? * Oh, my ladj ( !), 
of all the preaohers we have ever heard, 
he is the most strange and nnaccoantabU. 
Among other preposteroas things, he de- 
clared that Jeeus Christ was so willing to 
receive sinners, that he did not object to 
receive even the devil's soAawayt.* Lady 
Huntingdon replied, * there is something, 
I acknowledge, a little singular in the in- 
vitation, and I do not recollect to have 
ever met with it before ; but as Mr. 
Whitfield ia below in the pariour, we*ll 
have him up, and let him answer for him- 
self.' Upon his coming up into the 
drawing-room. Lady Huntingdon said, 
* Mr. Whitfield, these ladies have been 
preferring a very heavy charge against 
you, and I thought it best you i^ould 
come up and defend yourself: they say 
that, in your sermon last evening, in 
speaking of the willingness of Jesus 
Chntt to ««^yj;j^^^MpreM*a 


WhiffieUrt Life and Time$. 


yoatsetfin tbe foUowiog tenns: tbftt lo 
wtdj wts Christ to receive tioners who 
ame to hin, that he was williog to re- 
cMreeren the deTil's caatawajrs.' Mr. 
Whit^eld immediately replied* ' I, cer- 
tainlj, my lady, must plead guiltj to the 
charge: m-hetber I did right, or other- 
wise, jour ladjship shall judge from the 
following circumstances. Did jour la- 
dphip notice, about half an hour ago, a 
▼«y modest single rap at the doorl It 
was given bj a poor, miscrable-lookiDg, 
tged female, who requested to speak 
with me. I desired her to be shewn into 
the parlour, when she accosted me in the 
ibUowiof manner : — * I believe, sir, jou 
prnehad last evening at such a chapel V 
' Yes, I did.' < Ah, sir ! 1 was acci- 
dentally passing tbe door of that chapel, 
and hearing the voice of some one 
presching, 1 did what I have never been 
in tbe habit of doing — I went in ; and 
one of the first things I heard yon say 
was, that Jesus Christ was so willing to 
receive sinners, that he did not object to 
receive the devil's castawajs. Now, 
sir, I have been on the town for many 
years, and am so worn out in his service, 
that I think I mav with tniCh be called 
one of the devil s eattawa^u Do you 
think, sir, that Jesus Christ would re- 
ceive meV Mr. Whitfield assured her 
there was not a doubt of it, if she was 
but willing to go to him. From the se- 
quel, it appeared that it was the case, 
and that it ended in the sound conversion 
of this poor creature." 

We have no more time to expend on 
an analysis of the character of Whit- 
field, lie was a roan of great, but pe- 
culiar, powers; and what gave them 
more than their jutt and natural effect 
was the fiu:t, that they were developed 
at a period of profound deadnens in the 
Christian community. His soul burned 
with the love of whatsoever things are 
pure, mdjnst, and lovely, and of good 
report. The enthusiasm of Heaven 
was in the man's heart. An undying 
fire seems to have been lighted up in 
his soul. What he did he did for 
eternity ; its vastness absorbed his very 
perception of' the things that are teen, 
and temporal /'and poured into his soul 
its subduing and its solemnising effects. 
He saw every thing in its light. In 
the blaze of an eternal sun^ be saw 
prince and peasant, rich and poor, pur- 
ple and lawn, an insect flutter or a king 
die. The wortd above him had dis- 
placed the world beoealh him from bis 
soul. So truly was this the case, that 
the roan had scaroely any fitness (or 
the intercourse of earth. In making 

love to his mfMrmors/a, be could not help 
preaching to a ntmer ; in proposing 
marriage, be could not help stating the 
terros of a holier espMual. He drank 
divinity from air, ocean, earth, and 
heaven. His y try J)in was tinctured 
with the hues of eternity. Tlie ima- 
gination and intellect of the man seein 
to have been dipped in tbe ibuntains 
of light and life tiiat are above. He 
was t9tu$ in U(o. Would to God, we 
may justly say, that all tbe inhabitants 
of Britain were not only ^ almost, but 
altogether," as Whitfield, excepting bis 
peculiarities and eccentricities. The 
root of the matter was in that roan, no 

We must now offer a few observa- 
tions on the work of Mr. Philip, apart 
from his hero. We wisli we could re- 
commend it without qualification ; but 
impartiality demands we shall be just 
as well as generous. We have always 
claimed for ourselves, as a peculiar and 
almost distinctive characteristic, that 
every candidate f«>r public favour hat 
been honestly and justly handled. 
We may have sufiered occaiionally for 
speaking out in plain and undissembled 
tones ; but we have been more than re* 
warded by the conviction that such 
conduct is worthy of the English peo- 
ple, who abhor, constitutionally, all un- 
derhand trickery, as well as by the cre- 
dit and place we have earned in the lite- 
rature or the country. Mr. Philip, it it 
oetdless to conceal, is a bitter Di$' 
mnttr. Tlte doven ioot appears again 
aad again, beneath and heside tbe 
roande of George Whitfield. And we 
feel it matter of deep responsibility to 
take notice of this, in a day when the 
advocates of what are called Voluntary, 
or Atheistic niul revolutionary, views 
are, hke the locusts of EgfP^ swarm- 
ing about our steeples. The man that 
makes his book a vehicle of such no- 
tions must expect to feel our hand. It 
is, therefore, but natural that Mr. Phi- 
lip, with conscious guilt, should dread 
the infliction of our anger. There is a 
chance of the work attaining a second 
edition. Should this good fortune be 
its portion, we here inform the author 
that, unless he send forth an expurgata 
editio, weeded of the vile Voluntary 
shrubs (hat infest it, we intend to give 
him a castigation tliat will keep him in 
the neighbourhood of Maberly Chapel 
smarting for a twelvenoonth. We must 
select a few Dissenting weeds in the 


WHtfielcCt Life and Timet. 


and which the auUior wishes to intro- 
duce, under the garb of a Life of Whit- 
field, to the homes of our English 

" The foolish requirements of the ru. 
hric outrages on conunon sense, to say 
notln'ng of being unscriptural." — P. 21. 
(Query. What are some of Dr. Watts's 
whims ?) " The off-hand and uncere- 
monious style can only offend those who 
venerate title more than truth. It may 
be vastly impolitic to treat bishops in 
this straightforward way, when they per- 
vert the i^ospel. This Gaih€TcoU* afiair 
oftlie Bishop of London cannot be too 
bluntly told if such affairs are to be put 
down. Binney told the last one so well, 
tbnt there will be fewer Gathercoles pa- 
tronised in the next century," — P. 290, 

We have preserved the italics of the 
writer, in order to shew our readers, 
first, the admiration Mr. Philip enter- 
tains of the man who mounted the 
papal chair, pronounced verdict of con- 
demnation on the church as having de- 
stroyed more souls than she has saved, 
and fulminated brtitajulmina from the 
Weigh-house Meeting ; and, in the next 
))lace, the wicked prognostications of 
prophet Philip, that the present Bishop 
of J^ndon is to be the tatt of his race. 
If his lordship is to be the last — and 
we have no fiiith in the divinations of 
Dissent — the last moments of his dio- 
cess will be a eutkanasiay — the son of 
the church will set over a people en- 
lightened more than at any former pe- 
riod by her instmmentality ; for never 
was the episcopal mitre worn by a pre- 
late who has done more for the spiritual 
and moral welfare of his vast aiocess. 

His best monument, when he sleeps 
with his fathers, will be \\\ejifty new 
churchei he has been the means of rais- 
ing in the metropolis, — a far more sub- 
stantial and enduring blessing than if 
he had let loose all the lads of Iloxton, 
Homerton, Coward College, &c. &c. 
&c., to preach in the streets of London. 
Mr. Philip improves his Voluntaryism, 
and sliews his fitness to teach Oxford, 
by misquoted Latin sentences: e. g., 
the following division is not Virgifs. 

** Obstupui steteruntque comae et 
Vox faucibus haesit.** 

The following is an odd version of 
an oft misworded line : — 

" Incidlt in Scyllam qui vult vitare Cha< 

We candidly admit Mr. Philip does 
not oflen meddle with Latin ; and this 
is good sense, — for he shews be is no 
adept at such obsolete matters. " Nil 
desperandura Christo duci" is an in- 
stance at hand.— P. 396. The follow- 
ing is curious. 

'« Whitfield sent, through Lord Dart- 
mouth, a draught of the charter to the 
Archbishop of Canterbury. His grace 
sent it to the premier, and the premier 
sent it back, requiring that the head of 
the college should be an Episcopalian, 
and its prayers established forms, — not 
very moaest requisitions in a case where 
the money came chiefly out of the pockets 
of American and British Dissenters.*' — 
P. 488. 

Tlie archbishop most justly required 
some guarantee tliat Whitfield's Be- 
thesda should not become like Ches- 

* Gathercole is a clever clergvman of the Church of England, who has lashed 
the uproarious Dissenters so souncUy, that his very name throws them into hysterics. 
Ergo, Mr. Philip punt upon it to soften its pungtncy, 

t This maxim is not to be found in anv classic or other writer; it is a pure 
vulgar invention, quoted second and third hand. Stevens, in a note on Shakespeare's 
MercJiant of Ketitce, act 3, scene last, quotes the right version from the Alexandreis of 
Philip Gualtier de Cbatillon, bishop of Megula, who was born toward the latter end 
of the twelfth century. In his Darim, fifth book, he has the following lines, the 
last of which is the origin of Mr. Philip's " Incidit,*' £cc. &c. 

'* Nactus equum Darius rorantia ca;de suorum 
lletrogrado fugit arva gradu : quo tend is inertem 
Rex periture fugam, nescis, heu perdite t nescis 
Quem fugias hostes incurris dum fug^s hostem 
Incidit in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdim.** 

While on the subject, we may add the wish of a correspondent, that some one 
would give the authorities for the three following proverbs, two of which, nt least, do 
not appear to be classic :— " Lalwr ipse voluptas ;" " Mors janua vita» ;*' '* Sempor 
hubet aliquid relegentibus." The following, — ** Video meliora proboque deteriora 
sequor," — •• Fas est et ah hoste doceri," — have been ascribed repeatedly to Horace. 
They are froav Ovid, M$tam. vii., «0, and iv„ 428. Digitized by VjUU^IC 


Whitfield^s Life and Times. 


hunt, on which Mr. Piiilip tlireatens a 
visitation on account of its departures 
and delinquencies ; or, like the Hewty 
Ckarityj or the Socinian chapels, held 
ooce by orthodox Dissenters. And, in 
the next place, the money came chiefly 
from the pockets of Churchfnen, not 
Dissenters ; and, in the third place, 
we wish that the said British Dis- 
aenters would think less of their /x>c/re^^ 
and more of their consciences. 

In the same page, and almost in the 
next paragraph, occur the following 
melancholy observations, unscriptural, 
nnsoundy and radico- Voluntary to the 

" Whitfield*8 failure to obtain a charter, 
however pitiable or paltry in its cause?, 
cannot surprise those who know the his- 
tory of the charter of the London UnU 
versitif. Nearly a century was required 
to make the state tot«er than it was in the 
days of AVbitfield, and even that long 
period has not improved the liberality of 
the church much. Oxford still frowns, 
and Cambridge does not smile, upon the 
call for open doort» There are, however, 
men in both universities who would be 
glad to see them open, and men out of 
both who will not ttop their ' sesame' 
because a charter has been won for the 
London Univer8ity.".-.P. 488. 

The state is wiser in the days of Ro- 
bert Philip, of Maberly Chapel, than in 
the days of George W niifield ; because 
in the former it countenances a college 
without an altar, education without re- 
ligion, and illustrates this profound im- 
provement by chartering that moral 
nuisance the London University Col- 
lie. Oxford and Cambridge refuse to 
distribute their funds and privileges 
consecrated to the education of the 
members of the church among Jews, 
Turks, Hottentots, and Infidels, and 
others, who would cut their throats on 
the first opportunity; and it appears, 
also, they have refused to dub Mr. 
Philip D.D., who, honest man, has 
been far more intimately versed in 
sensible handicraft than in university 
matters, and who, we will undertake to 
demonstrate at 215 Regent Street, 
does not know a beth from a beta, or a 
beia from a b, and only lately a b from 
a beeUe, In the next and last place, 
our author portends dire disaster to the 
two eyes of England. Mr. Iluntly 
{etiam hoc nomine gaudet) tells us there 
are men who will not stop their " se- 
same '' — which is, being interpreted, 
0*ConnelCs hammer j or Hume's crow^ 

bar — till they have brought Oxford and 
Cambridge, doomed places, up to the 
greatness of ex-professors ofLond. Un. 
Co, By the by, we would beg some 
compassionate reader to purchase a 
share of the bale of transatlantic de- 
grees that have just arrived at Wapping 
By the New York packet, and give 
D.D. as a late Chnstmas-box to Mr. 
Philip; and this very remarkable in- 
stalment will quiet the *< plaguy loon.'' 
All this is in juxta-position with a me- 
morable proof of the importance of 
laying down sound principles, and ad- 
hering to them, recorded by Mr, Philip 
himself, and adorned with i, /, most 
egotistic and magniloquent. Of Ches- 
hunt, an open college, he says, — 

" As the Whitfield seminary, it is no- 
thing. I could say much on this subject, 
and I wiU say much, should 1 be spared. 
In the mean time, J not only forbear, but 
J fondly hope that 7 may have no occa- 
sion to remonstrate. I nave a right to 
be thus explicit. I am as responsible 
for the facts concerning the original de- 
sign of this college as the trustees are for 
its funds, and I will deal as honestly," 
ficc— P. 489. 

Now, could a pope fulminate more 
awful menaces, or threaten institution 
or nation with more fearful interdict ; or 
imply a deeper censure on that very 
system of university liberalism which 
Mr. Philip has proclaimed to be so 
vastly superior to Oxford, and so fitted 
to be a model to archbishops and 
bishops? What is called the liberal, 
or no-test, system, lias been tried again 
and again, and has been demonstrated 
either impracticable for twelve mouths 
in succession, or to issue in the worst 
possible results. It has either led to 
squabblings discreditable to religion, 
and hostile to the progress of science, 
or it has ended in that peace worse 
than strife which spreads over the dead. 

We must turn the attention of our 
readers to another pitiful ebullition of 
Dissenting antipathies to Oxford, in 
which the author of the Life of Whitfield 
shews he has the wish, if not the power, 
to give her a good knock on tlie head. 
We leave out as much of the prattling 
sentimentalism and poetic allusions as 
we well can. Sic loquitur, 

" The form as well as the facts of this 
Oxford bull deserves preservation, be- 
cause it will be the last of its race ; for 
now public t^tnton would soon expel from 
the tmiversity of Christian fellowship 


WkHfieU*i Life and Times. 


anj oumber of besds of boii«et wbo 
should rtpeat tbi« act of tynimy* That 
grtat tribunal bas juit pronounoed tbe 
sentence of unquiuifiea condemnation 
against tbe late popish ' Oxford Tracts ;* 
and neither the chancellor nor the nee* 
chancellor could obtain, were they to 
try, any mitigation of tbe sentence. The 
tracts are unurotestant, and, therefore, 
unpopalar. The hisses and yells of tbe 
raw witlings of Oxford against Dissent- 
ers at the late installation were tbe mere 
ebuUitioDs of political folly, and prove 
nothing against tbe unireriity but tbe 
want of good manners ob gala days : 
whereas, tbe tracts prove the want of 
good theology — a defect not so easily re- 
medied as ill-breeding. 

" It is one way of remedying, both to 
keep up for a time the names and the 
acts of the conclave who excluded six 
Oxonians for extempore grayer, and kept 
in one who was found guilty of ridiculing 
tbe miracles of Moses and Christ. An- 
other way (which I prefer) is, to perpe- 
tuate the names of the wise and good 
men who protested against these out- 
rages on truth, decency, and consist- 
ency. Oxford was never without some 
Abdiels. Her cloud of witnesses is not 
great; but it is splendid enough to in- 
spire both hallowed recollections and 
high anticipations. I have felt and en- 
joyed this whilst musing in her cloisters 
and balls. If I am not her enemy in 
writing thus, then she has no enemies 
amongst orthodox Dissenters. Their 
ej^es are upon both universities, not to 
divide the popish spoil, nor to divert 
tbe national endowment into sectarian 
obannels or foreign enterprises; but t0 
secure for all who can fay for it free aceeu 
to all the literature and science of Cam 
and leUr 

Public opinion is one of Mr. Philip*s 
du minores, it seems, before which 
erery mischief and here^ are to sinlt 
away. We beg to tell Mr. Philip that 
there is not a more chameleon rogue in 
the Pantheon. It sided with Pilate 
against Christ; with the world against 
the apostles ; and if the disinfecting 
element of Scriptore truth be not poored 
into it, of all vials it pours out most of 
a Marat, a Robespierre, a Nero, an 
0*Connell, or if there be any otlier 
name that smells as sweet. As to the 
intended-to-be-severe remarks on the 
** raw witlings," ihey are merely the 
effervescense of Hoxton jealousies, and 
will never keep alive till they reach the 
Isis. And as to the " eyes of Dis- 
senters being upon boUi universities,*' 
we do hope tliat their eyes will keep 
upon Mr. Philip, and the rest of their 

ministers, to see that they conduct 
themselves discreetly, and that the eyes 
of tbe ministers will keep upon their 
flocks, and leave other men's mat- 
ters at rest. Tbe trash aboat nor di- 
viding " the popish (?) spoil, and »e- 
cfiring for all who can pay for iV," &c-, 
is so redolent of historical ignorance 
and low theology, that we let it alone 
in its loveliness. Pay not principle 
seems to be the criterion of excellence 
among our author's party. Well, every 
man has his taste, and why should not 
brother Philip have his ? 

There is, also, in this book a great 
deal said about the Church of England 
refusing to admit Dissenters to their 
pulpits. It appears that the rector of 
Gravesend had refused his pulpit to 
some Dissenting minister ; and Mr. 
Philip is determined, according to the 
following extract, to damage that hr- 
voorite Cockney retort:— 

'* This fact creates id my mind an \ 
ciation with that church which is anj 
thing but what I enjoy when I viait 
Gravesend. This is not my fault, nor 
can other visitors be blamed if they feel 
as I do. True, I am thus teaching vi- 
sitors to recollect tbe pitiable fact. I 
avow the design ! ! This is one way of 
bringing into discredit the worse than 
synagogue bigotry which excludes from 
nation^ churches men who are the glory 
of the nation (viz., Burnet, Binney , Mar- 
shall, the Knight of Kirkentilloch, and 
Dr. Ritchie, of Potter Row celebrity)." 
—P. 501. 

*' Dr. Chalmers is the champion of the 
English priestliood " much, we think, to 
his credit ; and in the same paragraph 
he qnotes, as if applicable to Dissent- 
ers, the expression of Gillies, that the 
Church of Scotland is tender to foreign 
Protestants. Now, what enables Dis- 
senters to muster courageous efironteiy 
to demand admission to Uie pulpits of 
the national church, English, Irish, or 
Scotch ? That the churches of the Re- 
formation, which differ, indeed, in cir- 
cumstantials, but are still, in the right 
sense of the term, ecclesiastical corpo- 
rations, or churches, with laws, disci- 
pline, and government, should inter- 
change ministerially is at once natural 
and desirable ; but that any one or all 
of them should open their pulpits to tbe 
insubordination and thousand and one 
caprices, whims, and irregularities of 
Dissent is a postuldlwn wbich must 
originate in self-conceit, and end in the 
subversion oJ^p^^^y^J^^g)^ and 


Blue Friar Pleasantries. 


genuine piety. A Dissenting minister 
is iDTested with no authority^ is subject 
to no rules, has no creed or confession 
of faith ; and there is, therefore, no 
guarantee for his orthodoxy, and no re* 
niedy for his heterodoxy. To admit 
such men is to offer a bonus to cob- 
blers to leave tlieir stalls, and turn 
preachers ; to tailors to profisss holy 
orders ; and to every enthusiast who 
works himself into the belief that he 
has a call from Heaven, to commence 
preaching. Mr. Philip, e.g., comes 
up to London, from Uontly : he has 
learned no trade, studied at no uni* 
versify, and able to make his breed at 
none of the ordinary callings. He sees 
preaching to be accessible, useful, and 
as profitable, perhaps, as any ; and a^ 
ter a month *s limsh up at Uomerton, or, 
it may be, which is as good without it, he 
commences preaching, and sets up a cry 
instanter about the '* synagogue bigots 
ry,** which debars one thus unauthorised 
and illiterate from preaching in the puU 
pi(s,holdingthebenefices,or rising to tlie 
highest dignities of the national church. 
We are persuaded that, apart from the- 
ological reasons, we and he, who are 
men of good common sense, must both 

despise these pretensions, as most ab- 
surd. Mr. Philip's own account of his 
book, as embodied in his preface, is 
correct. It is a bundle effects — good, 
bad, and indifferent— odd, honest, and 
chimerical — a farrago, a rag-fair of 
George Whitfield. It cannot do much 
good — it can do little harm. It is not 
philosophy, it is not biography, it is not 
history. It is not all true, it is not all 
felse : it is, at least, a strong effort to 
make the roving and uncanouical 
Churchmen a Dissenter, and to convey 
gently, and at intervals, such doses of 
tartarised Voluntaryism as may lie on 
Churchmen's stomachs without imme- 
diate nausea. It caricatures its hero 
frequently ; it resuscitates those painful 
and useless traits which might have 
been allowed to sleep without injuring 
the finish of the portrait. There is 
much highly creditable to Mr. Philip, 
— much very interesting and useful, 
which we recommend. What, in con- 
clusion, sliall we say of the book ? It 
is « The Life and Times of the Rev. 
George Whitfieldy dedicated to the 
archbishop of Di$$enter$f Jothua Wilson, 
Esq,, by Robert Philq>, author of the 
Experimental Guide, SfC, SfC, Sfc, Sfc" 





" His plausive words he scattered not in ears, but grafted them to grow there, 
and to bear." — Shakebpearb. 

Mr man of few words must not be 
regarded as one having few at com* 
mand, but merely as an economist 
upon principle, opposed to the notion 
that wealtliy possession should be sig- 
nified by pronigate expenditure. Great 
outhiys, he imagined (not less of lan- 
guage than of moneyX should be re- 
served for great, or, at least, important 
necessities; and it was, therefore, his 
pride, on all ordinary occasions, to 
make what may be termed a good 
bargain with his companion in talk : 
that is, to purcliase the ideas of the 
latter with as few words as possible on 
his own part. Instead of expending 
his valuable breath in a series of 
thoughtless questions, he would strive 
so to confine his inquiries, that more 
than half the information desired would 

be obtained by inference and deduce 
tton. The commonplace observations, 
customary on the occasion of accidental 
street encounters, he regarded as little 
better than insults; and when a par* 
ticular friend, one morning, hurried 
past him in Piccadilly, saying, as he 
sliot out of hearing, " How d'ye do V 
the indignant Mr. Lacon tunted after 
him, and coming up with him, at 
length, in Cheapside, pertinently inti- 
mated, that, wlien a man don't require 
an answer, he might as well spare him- 
self the unnecessary effort of asking a 
question. Mr. Lacon had sagacity 
enough to see that his friend was in a 
violent hurry, and to gather from his 
looks and tlie strengthful motion of 
his limbs, that he was in good health 
and spirits. He jf iml^ tberefofe. 


Blue Fricti' Pleasantries, 



have been content to receive that which 
he was prepared to give — the con- 
centrated manifestation of friendship 
and goodwill conveyed in a smile and 
a bow : but the random shot of an 
unmeaning courtesy was not to be 
borne, and he therefore resolved on 
bringing the offender to. 

On one occasion, I was walking with 
him through the fashionable neigh- 
bourhood of St. James's, on a bright 
and sunny day ; and, as he was a man 
well known to the public of that stylish 
quarter, he met many of his acquaint- 
ance. Almost all, in succession, ac- 
costed him with "A fine day, Mr. 
Lacon." He bowed, without either 
verbal reply or comment, until the oft- 
repeated salutation vras repeated once 
too oAen for his patience; when he 
stopped suddenly, looked me anxiously 
in the face, and asked, — 

** Is it not strange, now, that so 
self-evident a truth as the fineness of 
this day should not be allowed to 
speak for itself?*' 

lie had scarcely uttered this, when 
another %iend,in passing, remarked,— 

<' A fine morning, Mr. L.; but 'twill 
be rain before night 1" 

** Aha !'' said he, with an expression 
of higli satisfaction (perhaps the more 
enhanced by the abbreviating Mr, L.). 
" Now, there^s a piece of useful in- 
formation ; for the probabilities of fu- 
ture change are not obvious, like the 
state of the present hour." And, at 
the same moment, he significantly 
pointed to an open yard, in which 
sundry sheets and shirts were hanging 
out to dry. 

We were next accosted by a loqua- 
cious dandy, who, coming suddenly 
upon us, opened at once upon his 
victim as follows : 

" Ah, Lacon, my dear fellow ! how's 
all with you ? Ilow *s Mrs, Lacon ? 
% the way/' said he, breaking down 
into a low tone of mystery, " have 
you heard of poor Lobtail's unfortu- 
nate ? But, I see you have ! 

Weil, but how is Mrs. Lacon ? I tofd 
poor Lob," resuming his mysterious 
tone, **I told him how it would be; 
and that his adviser, Jenkins, v^as an 
infernal — By the by, are you 
acquainted with Jenkins ? Ah 1 I see 
you're not. Well, he came to me on 

the very day that Hallo I there's 

the pony I sold to Dick Sappy last 

week — on the very day that he . 

Broke her knees, you perceive : lucky 

to sell, wasn't I ? Well, what was I 
saying? Oh, ay, I know ! Well, sir, 
he came, as I was saying, on the vety 
day, as I v?as saying, and to the very 
place, as I might say, when and where 
the [here he whispered something in 
the ear of the bewildered Lacoo.] He 
did, upon my soul I But, I sav, you've 
never told me how Mrs. L. is i Foic'rv 
looking dev'lish wdll I say, don't 
mention what I've told you ; because, 
you know eh? don't you see? 

Good by, old fellow ! good by ! good 
by ! Gfad I it's past tmee. I'd more 
to say : but it's no use — I most take 
my leave." 

*' You cannot, sir, take from me 
any thing I will more willingly part 
withal." Poor Lacon said not so 
much, but he evidently thought it; 
as, with an aching bead and distressfol 
stare, he wended homeward in piteous 
dejection. He was discomposed during 
the remainder of the day, and went to 
bed earlier than usual. When I saw 
him next morning, he told me that he 
had experienced an awful night. ** I 
dreamt," said he, ** that I was trans- 
fbrooed into a kind of inert worm, or 
caterpillar, with a skin made of tym- 
panum, and possessing only one fia- 
culty — of which, in fact, I vras the 
embodiment — that of hearing : and I 
have been victimised through the nieht 
by myriads of tongues, clattering under 
the stimulus of the very communicative 
gentleman who met us yesterday in 
the street." 

It may be readily imagined, that he 
was not the most amiable man in the 
world. On the contrary, he was one 
of the most irritable : but, so far did 
he di6|er from the generality of passion- 
ate men, that, in proportion as his 
temper became rumed, his voice be- 
came gentle, and his delivery calm. 
This originated, I suspect, in the fiict 
of his well knowing the defects of his 
temper, without having the power of 
further correction than that of giving 
full vent to his fury in the quietest 
possible way. It was his nature to fall 
occasionally into unmitigated vnath ; 
but his notions of gentlemanly conduct 
so completely angelicised the mode of 
its exhibition, that the luckless object 
of his ire not unfrequently gave it ad- 
ditional, and yet additional impetus, 
by mistaking it for an amiable piece 
of bland facetiousness. Sometimes, 
too, you would fancy he was making 
an innocent i^p^ei^ltnost helpless ap- 


The Man of Few Words. 


peal to your pily; wlien, in feet, he 
was giving you a consecutive series of 
fece-blows with ilie iron hand of irony. 
At oilier times, he would induce you 
lo proceed with a long and circum« 
stantial account of some matter on 
which you conceived him to be wholly 
uninfonned : nor would your sagacity, 
until too late, discover his real mean- 
ing, when, having beard you to the 
end, he would look you steadily in the 
fece, and, with quivering lip and softest 
voice, remind you of the young gentle- 
man who ** taught his grandmother to 
suck eggs!" The chattering world 
persisted in regarding him as the in- 
comprehensible slave of a thousand 
whims: but he entertained a much 
more modest notion of himself, and 
invariably (to use his own expression) 
described himself as " a plain man, 
and of few words." 

I had been bred up to the profession 
of which he was the head, and first 
introduced myself to him by a letter 
soliciting employment in bis office. 
It is probable the studied conciseness 
of my appeal was a credential in my 
favour ; and I received a verbal man- 
date to attend on a certain day, at a 
certain hour. 

A ** plain ^ servant, and one of no 
"words," opened the door — took my 
card into his master's study — re* 
appeared — beckoned me to enter into 
THE PRESEKCE — and cUsaopeared. 

Having made my bow, I announced 
myself as follows : — " My name, sir, 
is Mr. Cains Locke. I'm here in obe- 
dience to your commands, and believe 
I am punctual as to day and hour.'* 

He looked at me with an expression 
of curious surprise ; and then, holdinsr 
towards me my card, gently intimated 
how that silent prologue, aided by his 
^^collection of the appointment made, 
M rendered perfectly gratuitous the 
verbal flourish with which I had just 
heralded my entree. Like all boobies 
of my kind, I proceeded lo make the 
Blatter worse by attempting to make 
it better ; and was continuing with — 
" Beg your pardon, sir, but I thought 
*^^ — ," when he said, with more than 
his prior suavity — or, I should rather 
say, with a tone of supplicatory pathos 
^** Frai/ don't go on any morel 
I've tcryiitlle time to spare, and that 
M better be employed in answering 
my simple questions than in revealing 
to me all your secret thoughts." 

" Sir," rejoined I, 

VOL. XVII, no. zcviii. 

** Will you suffer me to speak ?" 
said he. 

" Certainly, sir," I replied ; « but, 

if you will only listen to " Ere 

I could proceed further, he had arisen 
from his seat and grasped the handle 
of the door, as in threat of an imme- 
diate exit. 

I said no more. lie paused a few 
moments, as if to try the probability 
of my remaining silent ; and then, 
gaining confidence on the speculation, 
ventured to resume his scat. 

Having trained myself into a con- 
dition of the roost exemplary passive- 
ness, I maintained my taciturnity. 

" Do you thoroughly understand so 
and so V said he. 

" Why, sir, I believe I may say 
that I " 

" Good Heavens 1" was the sudden 
exclamation with which he interrupted 
roe, covering his burning brow with 
one hand, and violently drumming 
upon the table with the other. As he 
subsequently raised his eyes, methought 
they looked despair I He made, how- 
ever, an heroic effort to regain his 
composure ; and then, gazing upon 
me with a look more imploring than 
ever, gently added, " I'm a plain man, 
Mr. Locke, and seek a brief answer to 
a plain question. Do you thoroughly 
understand so and so ?" 

I paused : his direct " thoroughly " 
inclined me to qualify my affirmative. 
In a happy moment I hit upon the 
only admissible answer. " Not tho- 
roughly," said I. It was, in fact, al- 
most impossible for a man, then so 
young as myself, "thoroughly" to 
understand any thing ; and it was evi- 
dent that my reply was not disap- 
pointing to the inquirer, of whose ad- 
mirable economy m talk here was a 
striking instance ; for his single query, 
by inference, included three : so that, 
in two words, I had answered — 

Fini, An inquiry touching my mo- 
derate knowledge of so and so ; 

Secondltfy As affecting my scrupu- 
lous adherence to truth ; 

Thirdly, As proving my ability to 
plainly answer a plain question. 

He had once occasion to call on the 
celebrated surgeon, Abemethy. The 
meeting, as may be imagined, was al- 
most as brief as that of two mail- 
coachmen on the road. 

" Mr. Abemethy at home?" 

" Yes, sir," said John, leadinc the 
way to bis master's roM^^^^^S^"^ 


Blue Friar PUasoMiries. 


Messrs. L. aod A. met, and bowed. 
Mr. L. then put into Mr. A.*8 band a 
written statement of bis complaint and 
a couple of guineas. Mr. A. put into 
Mr. L.*s band a prescription and a 
pamphlet on digestion. Messrs. L. 
and A. bowed again and parted. 

Mr. A. was so delighted with having 
met at last with a silent patient, tliat, 
contrary to bis custom, he called at 
Mr. L. s bouse. 

" Better?'* inquired A., (bowing, at 
the same time, a courteous good- 

« Well," said L., (with the same 
movement, to the same purpose.) 

'< Glad of it," said A., and took his 

Now, the reader may be inclined to 
think, that the last three words must 
have been deemed superfluous by the 
chary Lacon: but, on the contrary, 
they were well laid o.ut, and gained 
the return of his gratitude. " For," 
said he, ** the only persons in the 
world who can with propriety express 
themselves rejoiced in a neighbour's 
restored health, are an expectant heir 
and a dismissed doctor.'* 

I once travelled with him to bis cot- 
tage, near Windsor, in i\\e stage-coacb. 
He looked occasionally from the win- 
dow, without betraying any curiosity, 
until he passed a newly erected resi- 
dence near Staines, when he unfortu- 
nately addressed himself to a female 
fellow-passenger, who, though hitherto 
silent, bad been sitting upon the springs 
of eager loquacity for a long time. 

" Pray, madam,'* said be, ** who 
may be the owner of that bouse ?*' 

" Which house, sir? That with a 
green verandah, or that with a ** 

" Gi-eeu verandah, '* said Lacon, 
trying to arrest the flood be had so 
unwittingly let loose. 

'< O lud ! I don't know : but the 
other belongs to " 

" Thank ye, ma'am,'' said he, inter- 
rupting her with what he devoutly 
hoped might prove a timely check ; 
and then gently adding, ** 1 know this 
road pretli/ well, thank ye." 

But the lady was determined on 
giving her quid pro quo; and, for bis 
repeated thanks, gave repeated in- 
formation : among other things, ap- 
prising him thatWindsor Castle (which 
now appeared in the distance) " be- 
longed to the queen." 

" To which queen ?" said Lacon. 
" Queen Victoria, or Queen Anne ?*' 

'* La» sirl" said she, with an only 
half-awakened sagacity, *' Queen Vic- 
toiia, to be sure ! And that line place 
there belongs to Alderman Tenpenny ; 
and tliat brick house, to a sugar-baker ; 
and that — and that — and that" — and 
so she went on, till witliin half-aHaile 
of Windsor, when she finally exclaim- 
ed, *< And that cottidf^e orrty belongs 
to " 

*< Thank Heaven, to me !** said the 
bewildered Lacon, as he put his bead 
out of the window to bail the coadi- 
man, and got ready bis fare, that no 
unavoidable delay sliould detain him 
a moment beyond possibility within 
the hearing of '< my lady Coogue." 

I might adduce many minor in- 
stances of his peculiar humour, but 
shall conclude with the followiiv, to 
shew bow eloquent my hero comd be 
on a particular occasion. It will be 
remera))ered, than I b^gan by describ- 
ing him as an economist of bis words, 
and not as a man of limited vocabu- 
lary. Like many others of vast pecu- 
nuiry means, be could contrast, with 
his general habit of parsimony, a casual 
exhibition of the most overwhelming 
prodigality. You shall see. 

It was a cloudless, lovely morning \ 
sunny, but not sultry ; dry, but not 
dusty ; breezy, but not windy. The 
lungs expanded gratefully to inhale an 
atmosphere of singular purity; the 
limbs moved steadily and readily, and 
the possibility of fatigue remained un- 
thought of. It was the very morniog 
for a walk ; and, though your inclina- 
tion was quietly to enjoy it, you still 
Jelt that you could jump over a garden- 

Mr. Lacoo and myself went forth, 
intending to walk to Ilampstead, and 
to " breathe the breeze " of iu higher 
ground, in sight of Harrow on the 
nortli, aod Shooter's Hill on the- south. 
A pervadins; spirit of life and motion 
seemed to nave informed all things, 
inanimate as well as breathing. Even 
the backney-coach horses held up tbeir 
heads ; and, if they had been unhar- 
nessed for an unencumbered gallop 
into the country, I am induced to be- 
lieve that the hackney-coaches, inspired 
by the precedent, would have run, 
self-impelled, after them, leaving honest 
Jar vie no other fare than a *^ farewell." 
Habit, however, had taught both ooach 
and quadruped to remain iu patient 
stillness until called for; and, when 
Lacon and ^l^^j^g^q^gl^^ coach- 


The Man of Few Words. 


stood in ToUeoham Court Road, we 
ob^rred that it exhibited its fuil and 
ondisturbed veliicular compleiaent. 
The cbeeiful xnultititde of pedestrians 
were inoviiig to and fro, lika gold fish 
in a crystal stream ; and the watchful 
coachmen were anxiously eying them, 
like so many hung;ry cats on the margin 

I saw the first driver coming towards 
us, witi) a squint in one eye and my 
poor fiiend Lncon in the other; and 
X bit my lip iu anticipation of wliat 
immediately followed. 
" Coocli, your honour? Coach?" 
Mr, L, " No, I thank ye." 
2d Driver. « Coach, sir? Coadi r 
Mr. L. (with $urprue.) " Coach I 


34^ Driver. « Want a coach, sir ? 

Mr. L., much disturbed, said no- 

4/A Driver. " Take a coach, sir ? 

Mr. L. looked at me imploringly : 
it was a cruel case ! The victim of ja 
tyranqical importunity, he knew not 
which way to turn, wliat to say, whom 
to appeal to, nor what supernal power 
to address. He seemed, for an instant, 
to meditate returning home ; but when 
he saw that he was in the very centre 
of misery, i. e. with .the four oMtchmen 
who had already addressed him, pre- 
pared to address him again should he 
walk back, and with the four coachmen 
«ho had Dot yet addressed him, deter- 
lained to address him should he walk 
00 ; — when be found himself so fated, 
only to avoid the rock of Scylla by 
encounteriog the whirlpool of Cha^ 
fybdis, he c<»iceived the forlorn hope 
of rushing into coach No. 4, for tne 
sole purpose of driving beyond the 
(«ach of coaches 5, 6, 7, and 8 1 

I remonstrated with him, however; 
aad, with a bold effort, he advanced. 

5th Driva\ ** Coach, your honour ? 
Take a coach ?" 

-Mr. L. " Confound your coach !*' 

" Amen I" sdd the driver. " And 
a confounded good coach it is l" 

6/A Driver. « Have a coach, sir? 
Coach r 

Mr. L. {wUh a mrdorUc grin,) 
" Pleasant this! isn't it?" {Thetiy m 
*i tremor of despair,) " Mr. Locke, if, 
^re any by-lane at hand to rescue us 
^rom (itese very attentive fellows ?" 

7th Driver. " Won't you take a 

Much persecution sometimes changes 
impetuosity into patience. Mr. La con 
began to wax gentle. Perhaps the 
oath condemnatory, which, in the cli- 
max of his rage, he hurled upon coach 
No. 5, had carried off the more viru- 
lent quality of his temper. At all 
events, he contrived to subdue its ex- 
hibition so far as to reply to No. 7 
with most exemplary blandness : — 

" Have you not seen," said he, 
" that I have already refused six coach- 
men ^ — all of them, equally with your- 
self, as attentive to my interest as their 
own? Now, praj/f* said he, with a 
mild emphasis on the last word, *^pray 
let us go on in peace 1" 

Bih and last Driver. " Coach, sir ? 

My persecuted friend could bear it 
no longer. He withdrew his arm from 
mine, and resolutely, but quietly, ad- 
dressed himself to the ofiender. 

" Now, my good man," said he, 
assuming tliat sort of posture which 
denotes a determined and deliberate 
progress through a long perspective of 
argument; " my good man," said he, 
" WHY have you asked me that ques- 
tion? You see in which direction I 
have approached you, and, therefore, 
must know that I have already passed 
seven coaches. This, at the least, 
argues |'reat vanity on your part ; in- 
asmuch as you assume to your coach, 
cattle, and self, an attraction not to be 
found in the coach, cattle, and driver 
of any other establishment on the stand. 
But, sir, it argues much more. It in- 
volves the fourfold and most unwar- 
rantable supposition that I am blind, 
deaf, incapable of judgment as to my 
own convenience, and unauthorised to 
ask for a coach on the privilege of my 
own free-will. Certainty, sir, to have 
passed seven coaches without seeing 
them, would have argued blindness ; to 
have passed seven coachmen without 
hearing their kind offers, would have 
proved me deaf, indeed ; to remain 
(with an avowed wish to move on) in- 
capable of moving my legs, and then not 
to call a coach, would have testified my 
incapacity to judge of my own con- 
venience ; and, were there any custom 
of delicacy to prevent a hackney-coach- 
smitten gentleman from first popping 
the question, why, the hackney-coach 
driver would be perfectly justified in 
anticipating his desires. But, sir, you 
will, I am sure, be pleased to learff,_ 
that I am, as yet, blessed with sound 


Blue Friar Pleasantries, 

sight, hearing, and locomotive power : 
and, sir, you will do well to consider, 
that when a gentleman really wants a 
coach there is no law on earth to pre- 
vent his calling one. It may be, that I 
shall some day require your services ; 
but I hope you'll so far indulge me, as 
not to bully me into your coach, when 
Fm so very anxious — as on this beau- 
tiful morning — to walk a little." 

The dumb-foundered Jarvie, with a 
repressed smile, scratched his head, — 
and, after a pause (during which Mr. 
lacon watched narrowly to see how 
the dose was working), began to excuse 
himself, saying, " I only thought " 

" No — now don^t say tliat, ray 

good man. You did not think ; and 
that's the reason you have uttered 
some words more than necessary, and 
made it necessary for me to utter many 
more than is usual with me. You 
cannot say why you asked me your 
first question, except at the expense of 
your modesty and good sense. Had 
yours been the first, instead of the last, 
coach upon the stand, you had no right 
to presume on my wanting that, — 
which, had 1 wanted, I should have 
called — believe me I should — without 
a prompter. It's right for you to be 
watchful; and, having read the pur- 

[Februiiry, | 
r in his eye. 

1)ose of any foot-passenger 
lis dress, his walk, or manner, you 
should be ready to obey his probable 
call. But, surely, in none of tliese 
particulars do we exhibit any sign of 
its being at all desirable that we should 
be crammed into a close coach. You 
see, the sky is cloudless; the pave- 
ment dry. We evince no failure g€ 
limb — no anxiety for more rapid move- 
ment than a fair walking pace. It is 
too late to be hurrying to a wedding — 
too early to be late in going to a din- 
ner. We are, you see, totally unen- 
cumbered with portmanteau, carpet- 
bag, great coat, or any thing which 
might incline you to think we are going 
to the stage-coach office; and, if you 
still fail to see how completely your 
question was gratuitous, let roe prevent 
its repetition, by assuring you — tqton 
my honour — that it will be, this morn- 
ing, our peculiar gratification to walk ; 
but that if, on any other morning, a 
coach shall be desirable, a coach shall 
be called. There, now : good bye, my 
good man, and let this half-crown 
retain me in your favour. Though 
much speaking has been necessary on 
this, — believe me, on most occasions, 
I'm " a plain man, and of few words." 
ICodc, 39. J^. 


'' I have had a dretm — put the wit of man to say what dream it wat : nan is 
but an ass if be go about to expound this dream," — Midtummtr NightU Dr§am, 

I had ascended, one hot summer's 
evening, into the interesting museum 
of the Plymouth Athen«ura, where a 
miscellaneous assemblage of specimens, 
aerial and aquatic, geological, miueral- 
ogical, concbological, omitho — , and 
all the other ogicals, Greek and Ota- 
heitan, Christian and Pagan, and a 
tliousand other matters, neither one 
thing nor the other, excite the wonder 
of the ignorant, or the admiration of 
the curious. 

The well-stuffed and most comfort- 
able arm-chair of the president, with 
vacant eloquence, wooed me to be 
seated ; and I resigned myself to its 
cushioned embrace, with all the ready 
yielding of enamoured indolence. Fa- 
tigued with a long walk, and oppressed 
by the heat, I sooiTfelt as dozy as the 
more legitimate occupant of that chair 
must have often felt during a stiff 
lecture upon logarithms bv Professor 
Poly-figure. Sleep was evidently steal- 
ing upon me : but, previous to the 

actual closing of my approximating 
eyelids, I had, by many a brief, but 
circuitous glance, imbued my mind 
with the very genius of the place; 
though I cannot exactly say whether, 
when I first actually slept, my con- 
templations more particularly rested on 
a crocodile, a Cupid, an albatross, a 
Zealander's head, a magpie, an Indian 
god, an owl, a boa serpent, a humming 
bird, or a canoe. Be it as it may, 
I slept. 

" 1 had a dream — which was not 
all a dream ;'' for the prospect before 
my sleeping sense was precisely the 
same as I had been just regarding 
with my waking sight. There hung 
the ** alligator stuffed," and other skins 
of " ill-shaped fishes." Waving ser- 
pents depended on either side. There 
were the various implements of savage 
war, the Indian drum, and the Maho- 
medan gong ; the winged of the " o'er- 
hanging firmament," and the claw-ed 
of the « vast^,^^|^.^^^fe all, there 


A Midsummer Eve*8 Dream. 


were the owl and the magpie, respect- 
ifely the g^uardians of Blue Friar wis- 
dom and Blue Friar rattle-tiap. Tlie 
mystic manager of dreams had only 
summoned one addition to the dramatis 
perto/ut that were ahout to ** pby upon 
roe,** in the likeness of a certain gallant 
colonel, well known by all who visit 
Plymouth, as being better acquainted 
with the birth, parentage, and educa- 
tion of every beast, bird, and fish in 
creation, than any beast, bird, or fish 
can possibly be of his own. 

From a child, I have ever contem- 
plated with dread the idea of a living 
and moTing crocodile. Methouglit I 
was gazing intently upon the specimen 
of that tribe which hangs on the wall 
of the museum, when, suddenly, its 
hideous jaws appeared to open, as if 
gasping with the incipient breath of 
returning life! I stared at the fearful 
object, with the inefl^tual hope of dis- 
proving appearances. I would have 
turned my head away : but my efforts 
to avoid the sight were utterly baffled, 
inasmuch as I seemed to be the nave 
in a wheel of horrors, which turned 
precisely as I turned, and would not 
oe evaded. Moreover, the armed mon- 
ster's eyelids had opened upon me. I 
perceived him ogling me with the 
most rivetted attention, and with an 
expression of hideous delight, as though 
be would say, " Aha, ray boy I you're 
there, are you ? Ill be with you pre- 
sently : only give me a moment's time 
to get this rusty hook oiit of my body. 
When I've recovered my rapidly re- 
tomiog breath, I'll just trouble you for 
a defence of your conduct in seducing 
me from my own * sweet home * in 
^ Nile, and in stringing me up 
against the plaster wall of your in- 
^al museum !" and, as he said this, 
his honible eyes glistened brighter and 
brighter; and his teetliful lank jaws 
opened wider and wider ; and his 
hideous claws, paws, feet, or fingers, 
began to distend themselves, as if re- 
gaining .their pliability; and his por- 
tentous tail went slightly to and fro; 
and, anon, a little crocodile on one 
side, and a huge lizard on the other, 
appeared to emulate tlie mutinous con- 
duct of tlieir great scaly principal : 
and now was heard a hissing sound, 
shortly followed by rapid undulations 
in the variegated bodies of the two 
hoa serpents, and all the smaller spe- 
cimens of their kind. Their eyes, till 
now dose sealed in death, ** twinkled, 

twinkled," like the poet's " little star ;" 
and their forked tongues 6ashed in and 
out like the shooting and fitful flames 
of a tantalised Christmas snap-dragon. 
And, anon, I heard a tumultuous flap- 
ping, as of the wings of all the birds 
against the glass fronts of the cases 
behind me ; while the folding-doors of 
a cabinet immediately before me gra- 
dually opened, in obedience to the 
self-protruding drawers, which it was 
their duty to have confined ; and, the 
next moment, the claws of a huge crab, . 
and the black eyes and restless feelers 
of sundry lobsters and ciaw-fish, ap- 
peared above tlie fronts of the drawers; 
and, an instant after, the fearful hubbub 
became general among tlie monsters 
and their resuscitated neighbours. Tiie 
black hair of the Indian ciiieftain's se- 
vered head stood on end, as he mocked 
me with his fixed and perpetuated grin ; 
the spears and the battle-axes quitted 
their iianging places, as if taken thence 
by invisible hands; a mighty enemy 
was evidently approaching to the de- 
struction of all the members of the 
Plymouth Institution — all perpetrators 
of natural history ; nor did it appear 
that even the cowl of the Blue Brother- 
hood was to prove a protection : — no I 
our hour had arrived ; and voices were 
heard, as of terrified and doomed thou- 
sands, chaunting the well-known words 
and melody : 

" Hark ! 'tis the Indian dram '. 
They come ! they come ! they come !" 

" Horrible !" I would have shrieked, 
'' like a mandrake torn from out the 
earth," but the scream of fear was 
choked ; the attempt to " give tongue '' 
was unavailing, as would have been an 
efibrt at resistance. Neither could I 
have been heard ; for, amid tlie war- 
song of the Indian phalanx, the hissing 
of serpents, the rattle of opening and 
foiling drawers, the bursting of locks, 
breaking of glass, screeching, moaning, 
whistling, and whooping of birds, my 
cries had been ^* as a whisper in cars 
of death." I thought I should dissolve 
into a spirit of fear, when one mighty 
crash of mingled noises stiffened me 
into a statue of horror I I sat like a 
piece of marble, and felt much colder. 
The dread crocodile, with his hideous 
companions, were before me — the lob- 
sters and craw-fish clung to my legs — 
a huge crab waddled forward, and, 
with his arms a-kimbo, nestled in my^- 
lap— a pelican of the wihlerness perched 


Blue Friar Pleasaniriei. 


on one of my shoulders, an albatross on 
the other — a scorpion fixed upon ray 
bosom like a brooch — a viper, with a 
tarantula in his mouth, superseded my 
watch, chain, and seals — centipedes 
encircled my fingers like rings — the 
alligator's jaws were just taking the 
diameter of my leg — the boa's slimy 
folds were about to take the circum- 
ference of ray body — ten thousand 
little screaming birds, and as many 
stinging insects, had swarmed and set- 
tled about my person, like bees clus- 
tering on a bush — terror had nearly 
done its worst — in short, my condition 
was becoming decidedly unpleasant, 
when, at this moment, the " omni- 

{)otent" screech of the owl (revered 
)ird 1) subdued the ferocity of my as- 
sailants in an instant, and inspired me 
immediately with the roost undisturb- 
able confidence. I could not see him 
at the moment ; but his voice was 
enough. All the insects and smaller 
animals vanished at once, like chaff 
before the wind ; and though the others 
did not so quickly depart, it was evi- 
dent they had been served with an 
imperative notice to quit. Anon ap- 
peared my featliered friend, who calm- 
ly, but determinately, marched over my 
person, from the boot upwards, politely 
desiring all the remainmg occupants of 
my body's surfiace to make themselves 
exceedingly scarce, and to betake them- 
selves (as it became a well-ttuffed class 
of museumiies) to their respective quar- 
ters in the cases or on the walls. Even 
the pelican of the wilderness marched 
off at command, and the Bird of Blue 
Brotherhood and Minerva composedly 
took his place on the vacated shoulder. 
The crocodile had lost its horror; and 
acquiring the character of the order 
Ruminantioy lay as quietly as a cow, 
chewing the cud of philosophic reflec- 
tion. The crab ana lobster were en- 
gaged in a serious disquisition as to 
the phenomenon of the latter becoming 
red when boiled to death; and the 
pelican was dilating upon his orni- 
thological peculiarities and early fa- 
mily history, when the " certain gal- 
lant colonel " (before alluded to) begged 
to set him right upon the subject of his 
genealogy ; ga?e him some very start- 
ling facts concerning some of the dis- 
tant progenitors of his great grand- 
father's great grandmother ; with some 
characteristic denotements in the third 
feather of the lefl wing, of which the 
stupid bird had been hitherto unmindful. 

« Why," said the Owl, " yon seem 
unabk to give a very satisfactory ac- 
count of yourself, brother Pel ; and it's 
my opinion — at least, if I can see in 
the dark — thai, instead of being a bird 
of the wiWerness, yon're no better than 
a fisirm-yard goose. And, pray," coo- 
tinned the CHrl, addressing himself to 
to the Albatross (whose weight pressed 
upon my left shoulder like a chronic 
rheumatism) " and, pray, where, in the 
names of day and night, do you come 

" I'll be hanged if I know," said the 
Albatross : " tak the colonel.'* 

The latter was about to take his 
measure by the rules of Linnwus, when 
the great bird was suddenly aecosted 
with " Come, come, come, come ! 
bundle, bundle, bundle! Come, 
bundle !" this tautological address hav- 
ing been delivered with steam-carriage 
velocity by our Owl's co-partner, the 

" Hallo, young black and wliite !** 
said the Albatross, tossing his bill in 
scorn, and lowering bis eye in con- 

lie would, doubtless, have retained 
his situation as roy shoulder-knot, but 
that the Owl had decided on his not 
retaining my shoulder : " So, no words," 
said tho bird of wisdom, looking, speak- 
ing, and motioning, with the most Lis- 
tonian gravity—" no words, ni}' most 
worthy— Altra —Alba — Altra — bos — 
or wlntever your name mav be. Walk 
quietly over my roaster Locke*s per- 
sonal outline, or, much as I respect 
your importance as a sea-bird, 111 so 
clip your wings that you shan't have a 
feather's chance on land. I beg your 
pardon. Bossy — you're a big fellow, 
certainly, but not a B.F. ; so let me at 
once advise you to be off. No airs, 
no airs, my good companion of the 
waters. When I've made quills of 
your wings, my friend Mag here may 
make a boat of your body ; and then 
the chances are you'll be wrecked on 
the Breakwater, to be afterwards roasted 
for our breakfast." 

" Ha, ha, ha !" was the laughing 
Magpie's rejoinder, jumping on roy 
shoulder, as the discomfited Albatross 
sulkily jumped off. 

As the horrors of the scene departed 
with the appearance of the owl, so gra- 
vity was no more when the magpie 
ascended. The albatross pocketed 
Maggy's affront, and went off in a 
gallopade with the pelican. ** Che$$t9 

1838. J Defence of My Cigar. 1 55 

croisern said ihe crab, waddling his violent electric slK>ck. It was a (or- 

sidelong course in illustration. ** Pro* pedo I — or, at least, it had assumed 

menade !" exclaimed a long-legged the appearance of that creature, as a 

heroDy seizing as partner a little asth- mask to conceal the shocking propen- 

matic bantam. " Grand rondP* cried siiies of a certain well-known VV. S. 

a strange-looking fiat-fish, while the Harris, Esq., F.R.S., and member of 

whole company formed a united ring the Plym. Inst,, who subsequently de- 

around, but seemed vastly reluctant to velopea himself, with a bunch of 

come into actual contact with it. I thunder in one hand and a lighining 

arose from my seat, joined the cliain of conductor in the other, 
dancersy and, wondering at the peculiar 1 awoke, and looked around. Alt 

appearance of the Bsh, without partici- was still as death: but I could not 

patiog in the dread which it seemed to help fencying there was an undying 

excite among the others, I extended something about the glass eyes of the 

roy toe to touch it. Touch it I did 1 owl and the magpie, typifying a fixed- 

Mercy on us ! No sooner was the ness of purpose neither to blink at man 

communication made, than every mem- nor wink at the d — I. 
bcr of the *« grand rand " received a luulie, 18. £. 


Nay, lady, never knit thy brow, 

This harmless weed to see ; 
Nay, scorn it not — for, lady, know, 

Tis but a type of thee. 

Woman, of Nature's works the best, 

And thou the fairest hi, 
Can soothe at will my troubled breast; 

But so can my cigar. 

Its form, so ladylike and slim, 

No wabt but thine can vie ; 
The lustre of its glovV roigbt dim 

All but roy Mary's eye. 

The grateful fumes around me twined 

Are like thy charities, — 
The incense of a virtuous mind. 

That heavenward doth arise. 

One fate, alas, must both attend, — 

Ah I that imperious must ; 
Thy bright career, like it, must end, 

And what remains but dust? 

See, how it graceful bends to me, 

And seems to woo the lip ; 
Thou know'st where mine would rather be, 

Did it but dare to sip. 

Then, if the weed thou'dst have me flee^ 

Let not the time be long, 
My lip may be as free with thee. 

Nor thoo declare it wrong. 

Digitized by 



Tlie State of the Stage. 



The proper use of a national theatre 
might be a permanent good, tlie abuse 
of it is only an accidental evil. The 
saloon is no necessary adjunct, and the 
sooner the vices are banished from it 
the better. In all nations growing out 
of religious institutes, the stage should 
be consecrated and preserved to as 
sacred ends as the pulpit, for the en- 
forcing, in various forms, the same 
truth which it is the province of the 
latter to exhibit in one. Hence, in 
Greece, the splendour and importance 
of the drama were realised in its public 
exhibition, and Uie ambitious care be- 
stowed upon it in its poetic composi- 
tion. The chorus yet exists, to shew 
the moral purpose which the poet and 
the actor (both at first the same person) 
proposed for illustration. 

It is a glorious thing, in those rude 
times, to contemplate the presence of a 
Moral Power, originating the earliest 
efforts of genius in all its departments, 
— particularly in philosophy and 
poetry. From the fountain head of 
morals tlie streams of both began to 
flow ; but, confining our attention now 
to poetry — dramatic poetry — the fact 
stands out in a prerogative and cardinal 
position. How moral— even how spi- 
ritual — is the person of ^schylus* 
greatest tragedy — the Promethmt. Tlie 
benevolent divinity in the human heart 
opposed to the apparent <* god of this 
world" — the malevolent demon of 
angry nature and fallen man ; such are 
its subject and its hero. Sophocles 
descends from these divine heights; 
but if be occupies not the adyta of the 
temple, he disdains to inhabit meaner 
chambers than those of a palace. If 
he is not priestly, he is regal. In So- 
phocles, says Coleridge, ** the consti- 
tution of tragedy is monarchical ; but 
such as monarcliy existed in elder 
Greece, limited by laws, and therefore 
the more venerable, — all the parts 
adapting and submitting themselves to 
the majesty of the heroic sceptre." 
Pursuing the same kind of figure, we 
may add tliat the muse of Euripides is 
democratic; and in that form, like all 
other things which arrive at it, tragedy 
expired. He was, however, the master 
of Menanderand Philemon, whose dra- 
mas are of a mixed sort — not tragi- 
comedy, but something between tra- 

gedy and comedy. In Aristophanes 
Grecian comedy attained perfection, 
and was then translated. 

Tlie chorus was originally an altar- 
song in honour of the presiding deity, 
— a purpose which was indicated by 
the existence of the thymele. Tlie 
Roman stage resembled the Grecian, 
and its dramas were imitations, or 
translations, from those of the elder 
country. After the establishment of 
Cliristianity, Scripture and ecclesias- 
tical history furnished subjects for the 
sacred play, a specimen of which exists 
in the x^trrit xiit^x*** of Gregory Na- 
zianzen. Ages of comparative dark- 
ness connect this period with the re- 
commencement of the drama in Eng- 
land, and again it originated in reli- 
gious wants and desires. The mytterieif 
or miracle plays, taught tlie people by 
scenic representation what they were 
incapable of learning by reading for 
themselves. These were succeeded by 
the moralities, wluch were allegorical 
dialogues. The Reformation, by in- 
structing the people, led to a fuller 
developement of the dramatic art, whidi 
seemea to have arrived at its greatest 
excellence in the romantic drama. 

By this term the plays of Shaks- 
peare are properly designated, — those 
almost superhuman appeals to the 
imagination, the reason, and the sym- 

** Existence saw him spurn her boonded 

And panting Time toiled after him in 


The violation of the unities indi- 
cated in these verses is to be justified 
by the increased conveniences of the 
modem stage. Scenic illusion may 
now be carried to any extent. ITie 
discussion on the unities, accordingly, 
has been long closed, as a matter finally 
settled; and our only controversy re- 
mains witli spectacle and opera. Tlie 
musician ana the painter nave been 
permitted almost to supersede the poet. 
The necessity of righting the balance 
again has long been felt. Poets and 
actors have been equally ranged on tlie 
side of the legitimate drama; managers 
for the most part on the contrary. 'Hie 
experiments of Caraciacus and the 
Biirben ofDi§^^^;^K3^k^l^^tiX the 


The State of the Stage. 


final settlement of the dispute is re- 
served for public decisioD. 

There, perhaps, is no reason why 
both forms of dieatrical representation 
should not receive public encourage- 
ment. Tl)ere is, however, as little to 
attribute tlie confessed degraded state 
of the stage to the perverse condition of 
the popular taste. With the multitudes 
that compose the middle classes there 
are, at diflerent periods, and even at 
the same, aptitudes and appreciations 
of all sorts and sizes. They may be 
divided into several ranks. Some are 
better pleased with melodramatic no« 
velties than with standard and clas- 
sical productions; and they who live 
to please, and must please to live, are 
undoubtedly justified in catering for 
the amusement of this body of spec- 
tators. That there is, however, an- 
other and very large section, containing 
not only spectators, but auditors also, 
the success of Ion and the Bridal is 
sufficient to prove. The public, we 
repeat, is not an indivisible unity, — it 
is composed not only of many mem- 
bers, but of many cliques. But it may 
be doubted which is the more nu- 
merous, and which it is, therefore, most 
the interest of a manager to flatter. 
Without deciding this point, we may 
be permitted to hold that this portion 
to which we allude is sufficiently nu- 
merous to remunerate a well-furnished 
experiment ; let but the appeal to it be 
properly, decidedly, and steadily made. 
\Vbile the respectable and intelligent 
classes remain m uncertainty and doubt 
as to the designs of a manager, and the 
principles by which his conduct is re- 
gulated, they stand aloof; that per^ 
maneni character is wanted for the esta- 
blishment which they rightly feel ne- 
cessary to justify their patronage. To 
this character it would not a little con- 
duce, that the manager himself should 
be an eminently moral man ; and in the 
mere mechanical arrangements of the 
theatre, he should to the utmost pos- 
sible extent provide for the decencies 
so properly demanded by the moral 
classes of society. Visitors to the 
boxes should no longer be subject to 
the annoyances which were wont to 
raise the blush on the cheek of mo- 
desty, and to wound the feelings of 
friends and relatives. 

There is one assumption which ma- 
nagers are naturally apt to take for 
granted, but which ought not too rea- 
dily to be yielded to them. It is this, 

— that the arrangements of the theatre 
are to be for their exclusive benefit, — 
that in virtue of their lesseeship their 
pockets only are to be consulted. A 
theatre, on the contrary, ought to exist 
for the benefit of authors and actors ; 
to the manager should only fall the 
moderate profits of a fair trading spe- 
culator. Of course, no manager will 
give to any liistrion more than he is 
worth, and he has no right to complain 
that his employe wrings from him 
what he can. If he loses by a bargain 
fiaiirly conducted in the first instance, it 
probably arises from his suffering him- 
self to be drawn aside to other calcula- 
tions than those originally intended. 
Hence the proposed experiment is not 
fairly made, and the loss falls where it 
ought — on the manager. 

It can scarcely be said that, at any 
period of stage history, justice has been 
done to the extensive field of the 
British drama. It has never been ex- 
hibited in its richness and its variety. 
A few — very few — cardinal dramas 
(chiefly Shakspeare*s) have been pro- 
duced out of the unlimited treasury of 
things new and old which it contains. 
With trifling exceptions, it is, in fact, 
almost vii'gin soil ; theatrical audiences 
are all but ignorant of any dramatic 
poet of the Elizabethan period besides 
the matchless swan of Avon. Excep- 
tion may, we know, be taken to many 
of the works and authors alluded to. 
Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, 
Ford and Shirley, Marston, Chapman, 
Deckar, Webster, and Massinger, are 
not entirely faultless ; but they contain 
excellent materials which might be 
worked up, as the Maid*t Tragedy has 
recently been, or in some better man- 
ner; for we scarcely think that the prin- 
ciple on which sucn adaptations should 
be effected has yet received all the study 
that the subject demands. 

It may conduce to some elucidation 
of this topic, if we dwell a little on this 
adaptation. There can be no doubt 
that Beaumont and Fletcher are better 

{)oets than dramatists. As poets, also, 
et it be admitted that they are iuferior 
in degree to Shakspeare, if rather not 
different in kind altogether. Hie phy- 
sical, is, in fact, the sphere of Beaumont 
and Fletcher ; the metaphysical is the 
more enlarged circle of Shakspeare, 
yet including theirs. They are fre- 
quently immoral ; but Shakspeare, 
though sometimes coarse in manners, 
is always, in his driA, and purpose,. 


The State of the Stage. 



and general spirit, the most moral of 
writers. Yet it has been well remarked 
that Beaumont and Fletcher are more 
conventional than Shakspeare. " What 
strange self-trumpeters and tongue- 
bullies,** exclaims one %\hose authority 
has a voice as double as any duke's, 
(i. e. any leader of public opinion,) 
** all the brave soldiers of Beaumont and 
Fletcher are! Yet 1 am inclined to 
think it was the fashion of the age, 
from the soldier's speech in the Counter 
Scuffle; and deeper than the fashions 
Beaumont and Fletcher did not fa- 
thom.*' This is true: they went no 
deeper than the fashions ; and it may 
be said, also, that they went no higher. 
They stood not over their subjects, as 
Shakspeare did, with tliat triumphant 
attitude of seeming indiflerencc, that 
consciousness of creative power, by 
which all are advertised of the poet's 
full ability to mould his argument 
according to his will. " After all," as 
Charles Lamb whilome opined, *' Beau- 
naont and Fletcher were but an inferior 
sort of Shakspeares and Sidneys.** 

This remark the critic was induced 
to make with reference to the very 
play now revived in a modified form, 
— the Bride i Tragedy. To him the 
character of Aspatia was the charm of 
the piece, and he fondly compared it 
with Sidney's Zelmane, in the Arcadia, 
He could not but admire the matchless 
decorum with which Sir Philip had 
pieserved the proprieties with a tlieme 
so equivocal as that of a young man 
disguising himself in woman's attire, 
and passing himself off for a woman 
among women, durmg a long space of 
time. Shakspeare's Helena is also a 
parallel case, managed with the same 
address. Equally exquisite and equally 
difficult the character of Aspatia, yet 
not equally excellent either in concep- 
tion or in execution. There are de- 
fects, or, rather, there is an inferiority, 
in both, when compared with the two 
instances just mentioned. <* She is a 
slighted woman,** says Lamb, " re- 
fused by the man who had once en- 
gaged to marry her. Ytt it is artfully 
contrived, that while we pity we respect 
her, and she descends without degrada- 
tion. Such wonders true poetry and 
passion can do, to confer dignity upon 
subjects which do not seem capable of 
it. But Aspatia must not be compared 
at all points with Helena ; she does not 
80 absolutely predominate over her si- 
teation, but she suffers some diminu^ 

tion, some abatement, of the full lustre 
of the female character, which llelcrw 
never does. Her cliaracter has many 
degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy ; 
but it has weakness, which, if vre do 
not despise, we are sorry for." 

Poor Lamb ! thou wert a critic, and 
a rife and good one ; yea, it was thoa 
who taughtest criticism to days dege- 
nerate. Criticism, with psychology 
had been in an abject state from the 
reign of Charles L to the middle of the 
reign of George III., — an opinion we 
dare avouch even in the face of E>ry- 
den's and Johnson's poetic and dra- 
matic criticisms. Ola Ben's and Sir 
Philip Sidney*s prelections on poetry 
were worth a hundred such sound i rig 
inanities. Their spirit revived in 
Lamb, and a few of his friends. Among 
our pious purposes is one we dearly 
cherish, — that of some day writing 
something on him worthy his name 
and ours. 

In the present adaptation, Aspatia 
becomes a subordinate character, and 
Calianax (called by Hazlitt, rightly, 
" a blunt, satirical courtier, and a cha- 
racter of much humour and novelty") 
is completely sacrificed. Nothing, in 
fact, remains but Melantius, Evadne, 
Amintor, and the king. 

Extensive (too extensive) as the al- 
terations and additions of this piece 
are, there are original vices in its con- 
ception which rmsed correction. No 
reason is yet given why the king 
should many off his mistress to one of 
his courtiers, why he should pitch upon 
the worthiest, and why he should by 
such a choice break off Amintor s 
nratch with Aspatia. An attempt, in- 
deed, is made at solving the last diffi- 
culty. The king is represented as hav- 
ing been repulsed by Aspatia ; but this 
only adds intensity to the old question, 
why he should insist on the inviolable 
fidelity of his former mistress to him 
after her marriage, seeing that he was 
in chase of a new one, whom, by driv- 
ing her to despair through that same 
marriage, he might hope, at length, to 
conquer? There is a wantonness of 
tyranny in this which repulses by its 
unnaturalness and improbability. It is 
not a little singular that this blot 
should in any shape exist in the ori- 
ginal draught of tne play, seeing that 
of our three greatest tragic vnitcrs, 
Beaumont and Fletcher (we speak of 
them as one pereoneity) may be cha- 
racterised as the most servile jure di^ 


The State of the Stage. 


vmo royftlist; Massinger being a de- 
mocrat, and Shakspeare an aristocrat, 
or a philosopher, — an impersonation 
of the wisest and the best. As, how- 
ever, the king is to be killed by Evadne 
in the end, perhaps he cannot be made 
too bad fsj/t the purposes of the cata- 

The assassination of a man so mon- 
stitms certainly cannot bow be held to 
countenance regicide, except by a con> 
struction exceedingly forced. We pre- 
sume that oor readers are acqaainted 
with the courtly termination which 
Waller attempted to give to the play, 
in order to get the interdict laid on its 
representation by Charles II. removed. 
This conclusion was the entire substi- 
tion of a fifth act, written in rkyme^ 
presenting a comic dcno^ment. The 
honours of the brother and husband 
are thus satisfied, by the king submit- 
ting to a personal duel, which is never 
fought- This ridiculous contrivance> 
however, was not accepted by the 

We hare candidly staled our ob- 
jections to what seems to us faulty 
both in the original and in the new- 
modelled play. The mmor gross- 
nesses were easily removable, and have 
been. Relative to these, we are willing 
enough to admit the correctness of Mr. 
Macready*s opinion, when he states, 
that there is not in the piece *' a gross 
or licentious expression necenary to the 
deeply tragic situations with which it 
abounds. Its simply story of slighted 
love and devoted friendship, of criminal 

** Enter Am iNTOR. 

[The same as on the other side.] 

Amintor^ Stand up. 
This is a new way to beget more sorrow : 
Heaven knows I have too many! Do 

not mock me : 
Though I am tam$, and bred up with wy 

Which are myfosttr-broihivs, J may leap, 
LiU a hand-wolff into my natural wild- 

And do an outrage. Prithee do not mock 

Evadne. My whole life is so leprous/' 


passion and its awful penance, is blur- 
red and blotted by the wanton and ca- 
pricious indelicacies of language, and 
strainings at eflfect that are scattered 
over it. These superficial blemishes 
removed, a picture of human nature in 
its grandest bearings, and its saddest 
liabilities, stands before us, in the 
hack groond of which, justice, like a 
portentous shadow, or like its own em- 
bodied idea in the Emnenidet of .£s- 
chylus, appears to mete out with even 
hand to every offender his full and 
fearful amount of retribution." 

We have said that the alterations 
and additions are too extensive. Good 
as Knowles's scenes are, we could have 
willingly dispensed with them, if more 
of the original had been retained. 
With the exception of the scenes be- 
tween Amintor, Evadne, and Me- 
lantius, the play may be described as a 
new production. This is to cut the 
knot, rather than to untie it. A fine 
scene in the fourth act, which would 
have told amazingly well in the repre- 
sentation, is now lost, with the ex- 
ception of one of its effects : " Oh, 
tlien it came from him," which is 
nightly received with rounds of ap- 
plause. But in what manner would 
the whole original scene have been re- 
ceived, if place had been contrived for 
it ? We are surpise<l at the number of 
poetic beauties that have been dropped 
m the passages that have been retained. 
Take (he following, for instance: we 
win place the two in parallel colamns. 


" Enter Amintor. 

Amintor, How now? 
Eva. My much -abused lord ! (kneels,) 
Am. This cannot be {he tumsfrom her). 
Evu, 1 do not kneel to live ; I dare not 
The wrongs I did are greater. Ah! 

look upon me. 
Though I appear with all my faults. 

Am, Stand up. 
This is a uew way to beget more sorrow : 
Heaven knows I have too much ! prithee 
do not mock me. 
Eva, My whole life is so leprous," &o. 

Why are the beautiful lines quoted 
in italics omitted? The rest of the 
scene is crowded into three sliort and 
commonplace speeches. As depicting 
Evadne's repentance, aod shewing tlie 

state and thorough-going nature of her 
conversion, the original, wliidi is really 
beautiful, should btve been akogetber 
retuned. No doubt the passage was 
abridged to make room for Knowlea's 


The State of the Stage. 



scenes that succeed. These, consi- 
dered apart from tlie original stock on 
which they are engrailed, are worthy 
of the poet, and are exceedingly ef- 
fective in representation. The concep- 
tion is derived from the prison-scene 
in Byron's Corsair, between Gulnare 
and Conrad. 

We have referred to £vadne*s re- 
pentance. The manner in which this 
IS brought about is exceedingly cha- 
racteristic of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
as distinguished from Shakspeare. 
Evadne is convinced by — what ? Ar- 
gument! No — but by her brother's 
dagger ! Nothing but the certainty of 
immediate death avails to awaken her 
coascience. She is frightened into 
virtue. This points the level of the 
poets* minds. It must be confessed, 
however, that the trick tells well on the 
stage; and, indeed, it is a pure piece 
of theatricality. To this Sliakspeare 
never condescended ; but his adapters 
have : for in CoriolanuSt as performed, 
the son is conquered by his mother's 
threatening to kill herself, and exhibit- 
ing the dagger. This trick is to be 
found in Thompson's play of the same 
name, and from it has been, with otiier 
passages, foisted into Shakspeare's 
purer scenes, by the " poor players 
who strut and fret their hour upon the 

Tliis is pitiful ! 

Notwithstanding the yet undecided 
question of legitimacy, both houses have 
commenced the present season with 
Shakspeare. Tlie Wives of Windsor f9s 
performed at Drury Lane, refers us at 
once to a main source of tlie dramatic 
decline so much lamented. Dowton 
is now a feeble FalstafT; and for the 
other characters, with the exception of 
a Mr. Compton, in Slender, there are 
not representatives. Messrs. Phelps 
and Anderson will assist the Covent 
Garden company, and in women it is 
tolerably strong ; but we want the 
great actress still ; and among the ac- 
tors Macready yet stands alone. Need 
we say that we wish success to his en- 
deavours ? We have, besides, already 
given our grounds of hope in the pro- 
sperity of such an undertaking. A 
nucleus once established for good act- 
ing will, perhaps, make tlie good actors 
that we now want. 

The Merrif Wives of Windsor is a 
mature work of Shakspeare's genius. 
NVe find, upon reference, that Cole- 
ridge places il, on a priori gfouuds, in 

the third epoch of its developem^it, 
allowing five epochs in all, and con- 
cluding the series with Troiius and 
CressM^i,— a play which, though little 
popular in England, is highly esteemed 
in Germany ; and which, indeed, 
Goetlie describes not only as the most 
poetical, but as the best of Shak- 
speare's works. Coleridge thought it 
was the last, produced at a period 
'' when tlie energies of intellect in tlie 
cycle of genius were, though in a rich 
and more potentiated form, becomiDg 
predominant over passion and creatire 
self-manifestation. The same autho- 
rity places the Winters 2ale in the 
first epoch, to a brief consideration of 
which we are led by the fact of its 
having been chosen for the opening of 
Covent Garden Theatre this eventful 
season ; a choice dictated, probably, by 
the manager's early taste, which was in 
favour rather of the classic than the ro- 
mantic. The Winter*s Tale, notwith- 
standing its irregularity, especially in 
the article of temporal unity, is of a 
classical spirit. Witness the monu- 
mental Hermione, and the almost, if 
not altogether, frenzy of Leontes at the 
apparition, in which John Kemble was 
wont to be so fine. No actor who has 
not a deep sense and feeling for poetry 
could succeed in a scene like this. 
Macready, in the present season, en- 
ters into the part of Leontes with his 
usual spirit ; but we think that his at- 
titudes on beholding the statue are not 
so striking as we recollect them to 
have been several years ago. We 
speak of a period when the actor had 
adopted a conversational mannerism, 
which happily seems onl^ to have been 
an experiment on public taste, as he 
soon discarded it for a more elevated 
style of delivery. Having felt, ut that 
time, exceedingly impatient with the 
previous scenes, our pleasure was the 
greater when, in the final act, we re- 
cognised the artist indeed. We re- 
peat, that we miss these attitudes ; 
perhaps the present "position of the 
statue has something to do with the 
difference at which we murmur. The 
effect, however, now produced, tliougli 
inferior to that in our remembrance, is 
still fine ; and that, as a thin^ of 
beauty, is a joy forever. Probably it 
appears better to our imagination Uian 
it would now shew to our actual vision. 
We may, however, be peniiitted to 
suggest, that there ought to be a com- 
plete and hard-fought antagonism be- 


The State of the Stage. 


tween the statuesque Marvel in the 
person of the queeu on the pedestal, 
and the no less statuesque Wonder in 
the person of the king before it. The 
thing in its conception is superb. 

The classicality of this piece shews 
the juvenility of the poet, so far as 
conception is concerned ; a position 
not at all interfered with by any con- 
clusion to which we may come on 
Shakspeare*8 learning. For how clas- 
sical he was in spirit, and how sedulous 
he had been in getting such informa- 
tion as was within his reach of the 
Greek and Roman poets, need not now 
be repeated. Look at the Venus and 
Adorns ; look at the Tarquin and Lu" 
crece ; and, let it never be forgotten, 
that Shakspeare commenced his ca- 
reer, not as a dramatist, but as a poet, 
dealing with classical associations. 

The Winter's Talc shews more of a 
learner than a master; more, also, of 
the mere poet, as distinguished from 
the dramatist. The choice and con- 
ception of the subject, no less than the 
construction of the plot, have a certain 
air of immaturity. Every thing about 
it is exquisitely delightful : but so are 
all the adjuncts of the V&ms and Adorns, 
Passages of great sweetness and beautv 
also occur in Perkfes. The Winters 
TaUy however, would seem, by the 
rule on which we are now proceeding, 
to have been an improvement on these 
pieces ; and every one of them is su- 
perior in knowledge to Love's Labour 
Lost, which, according to the most 
probable opinion, is Shakspeare's ear- 
liest dramatic attempt, and in which 
Coleridge used to think that the school- 
boy was eminently apparent. The 
Curate, the Schoolmaster, the Armado, 
the satire on verbal follies, all point to 
this. Besides, as he has expressly 
written, **• Biron and Rosaline are evi- 
dently the pre-existent state of Benedict 
and Beatrice; and so, perhaps, is 
Boyet of Lafeu, and Costard of the 
Tapster, in Measure for Measure ; and 
the frequency of the rhymes, the sweet- 
ness as well as the smoothness of the 
metre, the number of acute and fanci- 
fully illustrated aphorisms, are all as 
they ought to be in a poet's youth. 
True genius begins by generalising and 
condensing; it ends in realising and 
expanding. It first collects the seeds.'' 
In Hamlet, which has been per- 
formed this season, we find the seeds 
thus indicated, fully germinated, and 
perfectly grown into one of the largest 

and most luxuriant of trees. It is, 
indeed, a tree of wisdom, yet bearing 
its fruit on branches all so lofty as to 
be beyond the reach of youth, however 
desirous to pluck and eat. The circle 
of human emotion has demonstrably 
been compassed by the poet, and the 
traveller has survived the pain and toil. 
Sorrow and joy to him are now indif- 
ferent, yet can he sympathise with both 
as their master, not their servant. The 
poet has become the king over passion, 
the possessor of inspiration. He knows 
man's strength and weakness, for he 
knows his own ; one he has conquered, 
the other he has confirmed. He is as 
much, therefore, a Druid as a Bard 
— as much a Sage as a Skald. In 
Hamlet, the poet and philosopher are 
united in one person. 'The two worlds, 
the physical and spiritual, have re- 
vealed their mysteries to him ; he has 
threaded the Dsedalian labyrinth of the 
one, and, as to the other, it likewise is 
no longer a mighty maze without a 

Of all the forms of composition, the 
ironical is most conspicuous in Hamlet, 
but it is contrasted with the pathetic. 
Much of our difficulty in understanding 
the character and situations arises from 
this peculiarity. Witness the " satirical 
indignation*' of Hamlet when railing 
at Ophelia. Lamb excuses this, on 
the ground of a temporary alienation ; 
or, rather, a detraction which looks 
like it. This is considering the thing 
in too fine a point of view. The scene 
proceeds upon the hypothesis of Ham- 
let suspecting himself watched ; and, as 
now acted, this impression is strength- 
ened by the king and the father ex- 
posing themselves, for a minute or so, 
oefore the curtains of the cabinet, and 
then retiring into their concealment. 
Hamlet evidently feels pained, because 
he sees reason to suspect Ophelia ; she 
whom he had truly loved — that she 
should be leagued in a plot against 
him ! This leads the prince to affect 
a more outrageous strangeness than 
before, and even to give him a real 
touch of genuine frenzy ; a tendency 
to which is suggested by his adopting 
the part of a feigned madman. Such 
masks are never resorted to by any 
who sympathise not themselves with 
the characteristics they assume. 

Ophelia returns Hamlet his lovc'^ 
gif\s ; and he perceives, instantaneously > 
that of this she would never have thought, 
if not set on. li was neither in her 


The State of ike Stage. 



dispositioQ nor in ber situatioB. The 
**pver** had Pty«r p»ved ^unkind." 
Pregnant motive for doubt^ therefore, 

" Oph. There, mj lord. 

Ham, Ha, ha ! Art y«u hon4$t ?'* 

Again : 

" Ham. Where's your father 1 

Oph. At home, my lord. 

Ham. het the doorg be abut Qpon him, 
that he majplay the fool nowhere but 
in *a own house.* 

Thus Hamlet detecU the Ophelim 
whom be bad loved of falsehood against 
himself, and his heart is moo^ntljr 
estranged; but when be reflects that 
she knows nothing of what has caueed 
his own singular behaviour, and that, 
therefore, she may be vindicated by 
reason of the perplexity into which she 
has been thrown, and the temptation 
on the part of her Anther to wliich she 
has been subjected, be forgives her. 
He, however, cannot help feeling that 
she has failed to stand these extreme 
tests of her fidelity; and as, from his 
own circumstances, he must have done 
with tlie world until — and, perhaps, 
after — his revenge is accomplisiied, 
he thinks it better, on all accounts, to 
widen the distance between their hearts 
which has now commenced. The 
earthquake has cracked the ground — 
why should it not become a gulf? 

Otoello belongs to tlie same claw 
and epoch of Shakspeare's productions 
as Hamlet ; and neither to th^ last, or 
predominating intellectual, but to a 
state and stage of genius preceding, 
wherein the imagination of Siakspeare 
exerted at least equal claims, and his 
genius and power were at the culmi- 
nating point of developement. Lear, 
Hamlet, Macbeth, ana Othello, stand 
unequalled in the world. 

The performance of Othello leads us 
to compare the character of the gene- 
rous Moor with that of Leontes. It is 
now the fashion of criticism to say that 
Leontes is jealous, and Othello is not. 
Of the jealousy of Leontes there can 
be no doubt. That " vice of the mind,'* 
that '* culpable tendency of the temper," 
which constitutes the green-eyed mon* 
ster, is sufficiently visible in Leontes, 
witJi all its e6rects and concomitants 
well defined. Excited by the most 
inadequate causes, eager to catch at 
proofs, Leontes manifests ** a grossness 
of conception, and a disposition to de- 
grade the object of the passion by sen* 

sual fanetes and images." To this let 
thei« be added, ''a sense of shame of 
his own feelings exhibited in a solitary 
moodiness of humour, and yet, from 
the violence of the passion, forced to 
utter itself; aad, therefore, catching 
occasions to ease the mind by arabigoi- 
ties, equivoques, by talking to tho&B 
who cannot, and who are known not 
to be able to, understand what is said 
to them : in short, by soliloquy in the 
form of dialogue ; and hence, a coo- 
fused, broken, and fragmentary manner 
— a dread of vulgar ridicule, as distinct 
from a high sense of honour or a mis- 
taken sense of duty; and, lastly, and 
immediately consequent upon this, a 
selfish vindictiveness," and we have 
the character of Leontes fully deve- 
loped for our investigation by the hand 
of a master. 

Nothing of this, it is clear, belongs 
to the noble-minded Moor ; yet, never- 
theless, are there the elements of jea- 
lousy in him. At any rate, he is sus- 
ceptible of the passion. No seed, 
however sown, can grow except in ap- 
propriate soil; and if he was not a 
man, like Leoiites, to make himself 
jealous, he was, beyond dispute, one 
capable of being made so by another. 
The question of Hamlet's madness may 
be settled in a similar manner. It 
was, we repeat, a kind of susceptibility 
to madness in Hamlet which made 
him tliiuk of adopting it as a cloak. 
" The lover, and the madman, and the 
poet, are of imagination all compact.'' 
The poet, for the time, is that which he 
imagines : he must necessarily become 
it, to a certain degree, before he <!an 
impersonate the character. Hamlet 
was such a poet ; nay, he was an 
actor, too, and realised his own crear 
tions by histrionically assuming the 
hero of his own fancy. The dramatist 
is careful to exhibit him in botli capa- 
cities — the musing student, and the 
amateur player. The real actor, dur- 
ing the time of representation, is very 
much the very thing that he appears. 
The true performer feels the passion 
which the audience witnesses, however 
much by art he may acquire control 
over it, and bring the spirit into sub- 
jection to the prophet. This may un- 
doubtedly be done ; and instances 
enough are on record of the apparent 
apathy of great actors to those on the 
stage with them, while turned away 
from the audience: but a tbousanid 
such instances would not argue aw joiy 


Tke Stale of the Stage, 


the neoestity of genuioe feeling to the 
creation ufa pej%>rmer of genius. 

Our reoEiares in this paper are truly 
of a theatrical character, wandering, as 
the lepresentations on the stage do, 
from one play and character to an- 
other, and, as that on alternate niglits, 
repeating the same performances. We 
take DO blame to ourselves on this ac- 
count ; the thing should be eFen as it is, 
and not otherwise. Thus our article re- 
dects the associations which play-going, 
for several successife evenings, induces 
the mind to form, and whicli otherwise 
would not, and could not, be com- 
bined in the grouping, and with the 
light and shade in which tliey are now 

We, therefore, return for a moment 
to the Winters Tale ; for we are par- 
tial to tlie play, as confirming our 
theory oflen expressed in liEGiNA,tIiat 
the regal and aristociatic are better 
elements of dramatic poetry tlian the 
simply republican. Snakspeare never 
trusted to the democratic sentiment, 
even in its purest and most liarmless 
form* He knew that humanity re- 
quired covering, and that, without 
raiment, man was no better that a 
forked radish. This Ilazlitt is com- 
pelled to confess, testifying that herein 
the fine romance of poetry is recon- 
ciled to the strictest court etiquette. 
The shepherdess beins a princess in 
disguise, the event of the story satisfies 
equally the pride of birth and the 
claims of nature. A Knowles, a Tal- 
fourd, and a Provost-of-Bruges-man, 
would have given all this a W biggish 
turn ; but — they may take our word 
for it — they are wron^, and Stiak* 
speare was right. Thmk of Sbak- 
speare, and 

" As mt the waTiag of some magic wand. 
An holy trance oar chanaed spirit wiogs, 
Aad awfal shapes of icarHM-f and cf 

People the busy mead. 
Like spectres swarming to the wizard's 

And slowly pace, and point with trem- 
bling hand, 
The wounds ill-eovered by the pwple pall. 
Before us Pity seems to stand 
A weeping mourner, smote with anguish 

To see aais^rtiioe rend in frantic mood 
His robe, with rsgal woes tmbroidtrtd 

Psle Teirer leads the visionary band, 
And sternly shak«s his scsptrs, dripping 

No play of Sjiakspeare should be 
dismissed without consideration of the 
character, which it was his custom to 
invent and introduce, in addition to 
the persons supplied by the novel or 
history from which he derived his plot. 
Auiolycus is the poet's total creation. 
Shakspeare, no doubt, found tlte rogue 
at some wake, or fair, or bear-baiting ; 
and something like him may still be 
found in country market-places remote 
from towns and cities. He reproduced 
him on the stage, by the same plastic 
power with which Nature has repro- 
duced him since in the byways of the 
world. We have, at this present mo- 
ment, an Autolycus in our mind*s eye, 
with all the song, and jest, and impu-* 
dence of his dramatic prototype, as 
careful for himself, as careless for 
others* interests — as great a liar, and 
no less a tiiief. In tiie political arena^ 
many such may be found by seeking ; 
and one, at least, without. 

*< My father named me Autolycus; 
who being, as I an, littered under Mer- 
cury, was likewise n snapper-<ip of un- 
considered trifles. With die and drab I 
purchased this caparison, and my revenue 
is the silly cheat : gallows, and knock, 
are too powerful on the highway ; beating 
and hangiog are terrors to me ; for ths 
life to come, 1 sleep out the thought of it," 

Coleridge's reflection on the last 
clause of iliis speech demands atten* 
tion : 

** Fine," he says, " as this is, and de* 
Ueately characteristic of one who had 
lived and been reared in the best society, 
and had bean precipitated from it by dice 
and drabbing ; yet still it strikes sgainst 
my feelmgs as a note out of tune, and as 
not coalescing with that pastoral tint 
which gives such a charm to this act. 
Jt is too Mncbeth-like in the snapper-up 
of unconsidered trifles." 

Wliat sliall we say to this ? Why, 
that Shakspeare is right, and that for 
strictly pastoral reasons. " The life to 
come is one of our purely primitive 
ideas, and, therefore, a fitting accom- 
paniment of primitive manners. Such 
are, on account of titeir simplicity, the 
only appropriate ideas for pastoral 
poetry. Coleridge's judgment was 
warped by associating the phrase with 
Macbeth*8 "jump Uie life to comeT' 
l^t, as Shakspeare had not written 
Macbeth when he composed the Win" 
ters TaUf no such association was in 
his mind. We speak now of the poet- 
critic's own classification, as attempted 


The Stale of the Stage. 


by hiin in 1819, from the internal evi- 
dence of the plays; and which classi- 
fication accords better with our own 
feelings than those he made in 1802 
and 1810. Verbum sat. 

In Othtllo, Roderigo serves for the 
Autolycus — for there is no trace of 
such a person in the novel of Cinthio 
—he is called a "silly gentleman," not 
a knave. And yet a knave he is; nor 
in folly is there much disparity between 
the two. Autolycus himself, in the 
end, begins to see that honesty is the 
best policy ; Roderigo finds that even a 
dishonest purpose may, in this world, 
be punished with death. The inven- 
tion and introduction into the piece of 
this ** brach of Venice," is a wonderful 
stroke of art. It enables the poet to 
strike the low as well as the hign notes 
of the gamut, and thus to extend the 
scale of harmonic proportions. See 
with what pains, too, the character, 
contemptible as it appears to ordinary 
minds, but not to the poet's, is elabo- 
rated I How carefully is it introduced 
in the first speech, as striking the low- 
est tone at the commencement ! 

** Never tell me, I take it much unkindly. 
That thou, lago, who hast had mv purse, 
As if the strings were thine, shouUst ktuno 

Thus we see, that the character is 
not coined by the poet, as an acci- 
dental resource, in the progress of the 
play, but is designed and proposed as 
a portrait from Uie beginning, to ac- 
company the involutions of the action 
even to the end. Between him and 
lago the purse is the only bond of 
sympathy. Obsen-e, too, the mental 
imbecility of the dupe, in the incora- 

fleteness of the charge he brings against 
ago — that " thou shouldst know of 
this," in which there could be no fault, 
but rather a merit — instead of the full 
complaint, in which there was every 
reason ; namely, that, knowing of the 
matter, lago had not timeously ac- 

Suainted his paymaster with what so 
eeply affected his interests. Tliis 
feebleness of intellect, combined with 
a want of principle, yet accompanying 
gentle birth and breeding, and the 
consequent adoption of fashionable 
foibles (of which his pursuit of Desde- 
mona stands as the type), constitute 
the character of Roderigo. 

In Hamlelf it is Laertes that is the 
poet's creation : an equivocal character, 
we admit, but one in nature never- 

theless. Shakspeare deals with dim 
gently and tendeHy ; he places him in 
sudden circumstances, such as may 
vindicate, though not justify, his cri- 
minal consent to the king's infamous 
contrivances ; and provides him, also, 
with a stimulus in Ophelia's madness 
and death. Laertes is a man who finds 
himself in a storm, without knowledge 
of shipcraft and power of resolving 

Osric and the Gravediggers are also 
Shakspeare's own property ; parts 
which, in ordinary hands, would have 
been insignificant, but which in bis 
are dashed off with life and indivi- 
duality, so that they are, however brief, 
as much characters as the other persons 
of the scene. 

As our estimate of OthelIo*s cha-. 
racter may be deemed somewhat heter- 
odox with some people who take their 
opinions at second-hand, perhaps it 
will be well to justify it to the extent 
of a paragraph or two, Coleridge, in- 
deed, says, that << Othello does not kill 
Desdemona in jealousy, but in a con- 
viction forced upon him by the almost 
superhuman art of lago; such a con- 
viction as any man must and would 
have entertained, who had believed 
lago's honesty as Othello did." But 
we demand, Was Is^ the sole witness 
in the cause? Were there not also 
the character and conduct of Desile- 
mona herself? Should he not have 
made inquisition of them ? Why was 
not his faith as strong in her virtue as 
as in his honesty? He sufiered, we 
confess, lago to entrance him into a 
pure subjective state; in which, like 
Leontes, he made his own objects, and 
argued upon them, as if a real agency 
besides had co-operated in their pro- 
duction. After he was tlirown into 
this state, he was as jealous as Leontes; 
and previously to it there was a sus* 
ceptibility in his character to the pas- 

A more philosophic view, we ven*- 
ture to submit, would be, that, with 
increase of years, the taste of Shak- 
speare had improved. lie perceived 
how undignified was the jealous Leon- 
tes, in whose character he had copied 
rather than imitated nature ; and having 
taken, subsequently, a more elevated 
view of the argument, he produced a 
more artful portrait. In order to do 
this more effectually, he divided the 
passion into its two phases of suscepti- 
Dility and spontaneity; appropriating 


The StaU of the Stage. 


tbe latter ta lago, and tbe former to 
OclieUo, who are bul two halves of the 
sanie man. lago isOthelk>'s tempter; 
but erery man's tempter is his second 
self. This is a dramatic no less than 
a thecdogical truth, but it is one that 
is not learned until late in life. It is 
a stroke of dramatic art to tlm>w all 
tbe spectator's censure on this second 
self, by which tbe main character may 
be represented as a viaim to destiny — 
an innocent criminal, like the (£dipus 
of tbe Greek drama. It is in accord- 
ance with this law of tlie drama that 
Beaumont and Fletcher provide a 
Latoreh for their RoUo. Macready's 
lago, this season, has been of rare 
excelleiice; but there needs an ade^ 
quate Othello to support and balance 
its greatness. 

Jf the season proceeds prosperously 
— if promises are carried out into per- 
formance, the theatrical world, both in 
show and in that '* which passeih show," 
will abound in materials for animad- 
version. As to the new |>lays — the 
N<n>iee, a dramatic nonvelleUe ; and 
tbe El Afrancetado, a romantic noii- 
dacripl^-we liold it wrong to suppose 
that tlie manager intends to be judged 
by either. No doubt he is now con- 
vinced, that the public are indifferent 
to such pieces at his theatre. They 
will jud^ of all by the standard of his 
own character and professions, and will 
readily pardon him for producing no- 
thing new, save works of weight and 
mark — such as gorgeous tragedy or 
sterling comedy. As to comedy, we 
have been told it is extinct : The Lave 
CAflse, however, of Knowles, inclines 
us to suspend coning to any such de- 
cision. There is some charming writ^ 
iog in this ; but in conception it is far 
inferior to The HunchbacL The love 
is throughout carnal, gross, antithetical, 
and uupurified. Such as it is, never- 
theless, it is the only effort in comedy 
of which we can boast. We are glad 
that The Two Faacari of Lord Byron is 
in a state of preparation. Our readers 
will recollect that, in our paper on 
Lord Byron*s dramas, we recommended 
this tragedy to Mr. Macread/s especial 
attention; and we doubt not tliat its 
success will reward all tlte pains that 
be can bestow upon it. 

After all, considering the time of 
year, there was little reason to hope, 
that during the weeks preceding Christ- 
mas the regular drama could be per- 
manently sttoeessli*i. The better daases 


of the community iit the beginning of 
the season are absent from town ; and 
at a later period, all orders of people 
look out naturally for pantomime and 
noise. There is, therefore, little sense 
in wondering that Shakespeare's Henry 
F., and Massinger's City Madam, un- 
der the title of Riches; or, the Wife 
and Brother, should have proved lin- 
successfol. At both houses, accord- 
ingly, spectacle, opera, and melodrama 
have ultimately triumphed. To the 
scenic and other merits of the new 
bailet {the Daughter of the Danube) 
praise must be rendered. Botli pieces 
of the same name, Jwtn of Arc, are en- 
titled to commendation ; Balfe's music 
in one, and Marslialfs sceue-painting 
in the other, are decidedly clever. Mr. 
Rooke's opera of Amilie ; or, the Love 
Testf is marked by genius, melody, 
taste, and considerable dramatic effect. 
The principal character deserved a Ma- 
libran, and found but a feeble repre- 
sentative in Miss SInrrefl. 

Mr. Macready s old novelties, de- 
serve, however, the very highest com- 
mendation ; and we have been gratiBed 
to see, in two or three visits to his theatre, 
how warmly the vulgar public has wel- 
comed good tragedies, well and care- 
fully performed : we say tlie vulgar pub- 
lic, for the polite world has treated him 
shamefully ill ; and while the pit was 
completely full, and the lower gallery (a 
place loved by old playgoers) was very 
well attended, the boxes were not a 
quarter filled. Othello has been got up 
with great care and excellent effect ; and 
Macbeth, which we have thrice had the 
pleasure of seeing at Covent Garden, is 
given as we hardly ever saw a piece 
given on tlie English stage. Locke's 
noble old music, and the magniticent 
choruses (which are a wonder for the 
time in which they were composed, 
and as powerful and melodious as those 
of FideUo), were given with an effect and 
precision (|uite extraordinary ; the first 
performers taking parts in the choruses, 
tlie humblest joining in them in a man- 
ner which shewed how well the mana- 
ger of Covent Garden knows how to 
produce a piece, and to drill the 
troop under his command — no small 
merit, — for our plays are often ruined 
by the absurd freaks of the great 
actors, and the carelessness shewn in 
managing the small ones. In the play, 
likewise^ the same excellent system 
was kept up. Mr. Anderson (who 
persooifies the *' genteel comedy '' of 


The Stale of the Stage. 


the Uieatre, and is what the French 
would call a *^jeune premier**) filled 
the disagreeable part of Malcolm with 
great effect and modesty; and Mr. 
Wardens fianquo was really as good a 
piece of acting as we have seen on the 
stage. Of the performance of the prin- 
cipal character, we do not speak — we 
cannot liere afford room for all the 
praises which we would write of it: 
that awful ghastly look of the mur- 
derer, stealing into the king*s chamber 
— that noble picture of death and de- 
fiance, when the hero falls under the 
doomed sword of Macduff, — are as 
difficult to forget as to describe. But 
we are only writing here of the minor 
matter and business of the theatre. 

With regard to the revival of Vit' 
ginius, great praise has been deservedly 
bestowed upon the costumery and 
grouping of tne piece, and the; accuracy 
of all the dresses therein worn. This, 
at least, is not the case with Henry F., 
a very dull and meagre representation 
of that most picturesque trajg;edy, where 
the English gentlemen were habited in 
those suits which used to be called 
Spanish dresses thirty years ago, but 
which never were worn in any age or 
country ; and the French courtiers, by 
way of contrast, appeared in suits of 
the time of Francis I. It is too bad ; 
and Mr. Planch6 would have com- 
mitted suicide had he witnessed the 
play. Now, in Othelby a directly con- 
trary system was pursued, and Titian le- 
vied under contribution to afford dresses 
for the Venetian senators and nobles. 
The Moor himself, throwing off that 
barbarous masquerade which was only 
adopted by Kean, and by the little 
statue-Moors, which decorate the fronts 
of snuff-shops, appeared as a Venetian 
general, as he has been drawn by Ve- 
cellio. The Council was likewise ex- 
cellent, and closely copied from Ti- 
tian's picture, — the Doge in his robes 
of state, the Council of Ten, and the 
Forty, being habited just as the reader 
may see them in a little picture by 
Titian at the Ix)uvre. Of the cut of 
people's coats in the time of Macbeth, 
we can know but little ; at any rate, 
Mr.Macready's Scotchmen were splen- 
' didly and richly dressed, and the effects 
and business of the scene most carefully 

Shall we speak of the queen's visits 
to the theatres, and the manner in 
which the people received her ? God 
bless her sweet foce ! "A sight of it," 

writes a correspondent, wlio was at 
Covent Garden, ** seemed even to make 
Lord Durliam look rosy and good- 
humoured, as he glowered at her from 
the opposite boxes. Such a tumalt 
was never heard 1 Sir William Moles- 
worth and Mr. Charles Buller ioined 
in 'God save the Queen,' ancl gfavc 
the refrain with astonishing hamiooy 
and effect ; Joseph Hume was seen ia 
tears, hanging on Mr. Roebuck^ neck, 
as each, with his hat off, stood in one 
of tlie slips, and joined in the thunder- 
ing chorus ; Bulwer was so affected bj 
it that he fkinted clean away : he was 
dragged out of the pit — his stays un- 
done — his dickey and shirt-collar re- 
moved — restoratives were applied — 
and he afterwards drank two glasses of 
half-and-half at the Albion, with toler- 
able equanimity." Are these facts ? 
We vouch not for them ; but her ma- 
jesty's visits to these places of enter- 
tainment, though they work no such mi- 
racles, must do them nevertheless great 
good : they can scarcely be too often 
repeated, for they bring good liousesy 
they repair old losses, and they en- 
courage the public taste for the most 
wholesome amusement which the pub- 
lic well can have. With the panto- 
mimes at either house we have no wish 
to meddle ; children, young and old, 
are the best critics on tliem : but Stan- 
field's Diorama must be mentioned 
with praise, if only as a tribute to 
exertions professedly made for the sal- 
vation of the stage. 

Take it, however, for all in all, we 
promised ourselves much more than 
we have seen performed — perhaps, 
unreasonably. We look forward to 
the future with hope. 

One source of replenishing the 
stage has been pointed out in the 
field of our neglected dramatic litera- 
ture, covering a space of time from 
Elizabeth to the first Charles,— a field 
of ruins, out of which only Shakspeare, 
in some half-score of his plays, has 
been preserved . That this field should 
be worked is highly desirable. Let the 
fragments be collected and united ; but 
the task of reconstruction must be con- 
ducted with skill and reverence. Of 
skill an example has already been set; 
but of reverence none at all. The pro- 
blem to be solved, is not how to pre- 
serve a few scenes, and how to add 
many more ; but how to piece together 
every thing that is admirable in the 
drama proposed for adaptation, to 


The State of ihe Stage. 


change the plot and situations as little 
as possible, auid to add no more than 
is necessary. The Broken Heart of 
Ford is a noble thing, presenting capa- 
bilities of extraordinary extent. There 
is in it so much, too, to be thrown away, 
as to leave Foom for legitimately intro- 
dacinj? no little new matter; so that 
the adapter might fiiirly share in the 
honours of the original poet. Old Ben 
Jonson, also, should not be neglected. 
His comedies are sterling, and bis two 
tragedies might be altogeUier broken up 
and recast with adrantage. 

But there are also neglected plays of 
Shakspeare, which, with a good com- 
pany, are capable of performance. It 
strikes us that, when the Covent Garden 
company is complete, TroUus and Crei^ 
iida might be cast effectivelv — if not 
adequately, it is for reasons that would 
prevent any soch play, with a clutter of 
heroes, from being represented. Timon 
cfAlheru and Lear we see too seldom. 
To the complete success of tlie latter, 
it is necessary that the fool should be 
retained ; noting, in fact, but tbe^% 
of Tate should be expunged. Let it be, 
with very few omissions, precisely the 
thing that Sbaksp^re left it. There 
are also the magnificent Antony and 
Cleopatroj with the Coriolanut, such as 
Shakspeare gave them to us, and not 
as interpolated. Were but tliese tilings 
announced before hand, in a kind of 
orderly programme, so that the public 
were made^ to Understand that, what- 
ever might be the success of any one, 
it would, nevertheless, only be acted a 
ceruiin number of nights, in order that 
the whole series might be worked out, 
there can be no doubt that the pit 
would be regularly filled, and that the 
boxes would not be entirely empty. 

But the living ought not to be sacri- 
ficed to the dead. There are good tra- 
gedies in the market, printed and in 
manuscript, Tliis we know — this is 
known to many literary men. Of those, 
let the best be selected — four of them, 
at the least, for the season ; and let the 
natbnal reproach vanish that declares 
we are now wanting in dramatic genius. 
But here we see a difficulty — one which 
we have long felt, and, peniaps, scarcely 
know how to get over. Tne actor is 
one thing, the author is another ; the 
former judges by a certain stage con- 
tention, the latter is anxious to venture 
some new mode. If there is a tendency 
niore prominent than another in those 
^ nave lately written tragic pieces 

that are worth any thing, it is to out- 
rage or neglect these stage conventions 
— to despise all stage trickery — and 
to trust to poetry and metaphysical 
analysis of character. As to the ana- 
lysis spoken of, we have ourselves no 
very great trust in it — knowing, as we 
do, that the genuine poet works syn- 
thetically, or even in higher guise, 
and never analytically. 

[e takes not to pieces to put together 
again ; but he generates, by a gradual 
process, be it granted, a complete 
whole, which, when produced, he 
leaves to the critic to anatomise ; but 
for himself he is no anatomist, but a 
creator. As to the poetry, on the other 
hand, we range ourself boldly on the 
side of the author who judiciously uses 
it in subservience to dramatisation. 
But the sympathies of actors and ma- 
nagers have always gone the other 
way; and their effect, in a recent 
glaring instance, was not a little curious. 
The author of Paraceltut vras induced 
to degrade his fine genius to the con- 
coction of that disjointed stuff which 
collectively was performed under the 
title of Strafford. A certain power, 
of which the writer could not entirely 
divest these disjecta membroy still gave 
a certain degree of vitality to the sepa- 
rate patches of unfinished composition 
— half uttered sentences — and fiery 
particles of thought — incoherently scat- 
tered over dialogue and soliloquy. But 
the diiuff ultimately failed. 

Goethe was the manager of the 
theatre at Weimar; and the pieces 
which he wrote for that stage were 
composed on principles proceeding 
from no lower source than the oracle 
which every poet can consult in his 
own heart, and soul, and spirit. Our 
ideal of a tlieatrical management would 
be expressed in an arrangement which 
should leave the prevalence of the 
Poetic Spirit in the exercise of that 
judgment, without whidi genius can- 
not exist. The poet vras originally the 
player and the manager. Things will 
not take a new start effectively, until 
the government be restored to him. 
His prejudices are, at least, on the 
safer side — those of a manager can 
only, at best, lean to the largest amount 
of immediate profits. ** Many are 
the poets," however, " who have never 
penned their inspiration ;** and one of 
these, perhaps, would be better qua- 
lified for the task than one who had^ 
He should, however, have manifestp-^ 


The State of the Stage. 



in 9ome way the artistic in him, if only 
as a iMMi of taste. In action and in 
utterance, he must have shewn a fotmt 
of poesy, expressed in his daily walk 
ancl conversation, though he had not 
drudg^ for tite booksellers, and put 
the divine gift up to sale. Such an 
one would be free from mercenary mo- 
tives, which are all we need protection 
from : that his judgment may be fair 
and unbiassed by selfish regards, is all 
that we or the public can demand from 
a competent manager. It may be 
doubted whether thc^ qualities reside 
in any actor, with the exception of one ; 
and we hope that no sinister in6uence 
will draw him aside from the direct 
forthright of his duty and his interests. 

We have placed our standard of 
managerial qualifications high ; but 
not too high. Until its requiations 
are conceded, Uie stage will be no fit- 
ting arena for the highest literary ex^ 
cellence. The stage, above all things, 
should be an open borough. The poet 
of genius should be ture of a welcome 
— a warm reception. The stage should 
be creative of poets, as the press is 
creative of authors. If the market is 
to be contracted in any thing like the 
mamier in which it has been for many 
years, whatever professions may be 
held out, whatever hopes may be ex- 
cited, tlie pretended experiment is 
abortive from the beginning. The man 
who has produced a really great drama 
is in possession of credentials which 
cannot be disallowed without egre- 
gious injustice. Nor is the injustice 
individual only, but social also : the 
country, the world, suffer loss with 
him. Both are interested in this dis- 
cussion ; and if tl>e promises now made 
iail ultimately of realisation, it will be 
the duty of the public to demand of 
the government that, by some executive 
arrangement, the wrongs of dramatic 
genius shall be righted, and its pro- 
ductions brought to the desired test of 
general opinion. Measures less ener- 
getic would only trifle with a question 
whose importance has a moral weight 
not always readily enough appreciated. 

The public taste follows, never pre- 
cedes, the creations of real genius. It 
is idle to ulk of the public taste de- 
manding this or demanding that. The 
public taste knows not what it wants, 
until tlie object is presented to its per- 
ception. It is the rood that modifies the 
appetite ; and until a sense of luxury 
is acquired, mere bu»get* will sattsff 

itself on any aKroent. But let refined 
fiire be provided, and you shall then 
see bow nice the stomach will become, 
bow dainty it will be in its dislikes, 
how delicate in its preferences. 

If poetry be higher than painting, 
from the permanence of the materials 
in which it is wrought — if words writ- 
ten or printed on paper or vellum oot- 
last all, hues and colours painted tn 
fresco or on canvass — dramatic poetry, 
which presents us with a species of 
moving sculpture, and a mutable gal- 
lery of pictures capable of perpetual 
renewal, advances high claims indeed. 
By so much the more are we solicitous 
that none of these glorious possibilities 
should be precluded by interested pre- 
vention. Lvery art is intended for mo- 
ral teaching — the stage combines them 
all within its magic limits. If the 
images of men's wits and knowledges, 
as Bacon writes, remain in books, 
exempt from the wing of time, and 
capable of perpetual renovation, how 
much more efiective, as well as con- 
cise, raiglit these books be rendered, 
if authors were encouraged to give them 
the dramatic shape, by their ready pro- 
duction on the stage. These images 
would then be images ii>deed — or some- 
thing more, almost living examples. 
Even in books, Verulam claims for 
them a higher name, because, says he, 
" they generate still, and cast tlieir 
seeds in tlie minds of others, provok- 
ing and causing infinite actions and 
opinions in succeeding ages : so that, 
it the invention of the ship was thought 
so noble, which carrieth riches and 
commodities from place to place, and 
consociateth the most remote regions 
in participation of their fruits ; how 
much more are letters to be magnified, 
which as ships pass through the vast 
seas of time, and make ages so distant 
to participate of the wisdom, illumina- 
tions, and inventions, the one of the 
other." All this applies with tenfold 
force to dramatic representations. 

It should be, however, the aim of 
the dramatic artist to imitate, not copy, 
nature. In every work of art in which 
we detect nature, ti\e detection is ac- 
companied with wonder and admira- 
tion. Likewise, in nature, if we detect 
a resemblance to any artificial object, 
we recognise the same feeling of asto- 
nishment. This is the source of the 
pleasure in both cases — it oiiginates 
m a principle of antithesis. The in- 
fiaiie gradations between likeoess wai 


The Siate of the Stage. 


diierence, we have been iDStructed, 
form all tlie play and all the interest 
of our moral and iotdlectual bein§: ; 
and their identity is the manifestation 
of the eternal to whomsoever it may be 

The laws of imitation, therefore, as 
distioot from copying, require that se^ 
lection should be made from the ordi* 
nary language of life. Tlte draoMtist is 
not to make his characters say on the 
stage all they would say, or even wliat 
they would say in similar titttatioos off 
it ; but he is to adjust, by the rules of 
a logic that can be better felt than de- 
fined, the matter and the manner to 
the purpose in view, and to Uie artistic 
proportions of his piece. In his style, 
he should also avoid every phrase that 
would tend to create mirth by its po- 
pular associations, where he means to 
impress solemnity of feeling on the 

The monotony of modern life has 
interposed a new difficulty in the way 
of the dramatic poet, from which he 
can only escape by the door of imita- 
tion. If he were condemned to copy 
merely, he could 6nd in diese days 
few materials of excitement. It is well 
for us that the stage may present us 
with a world the complete antithesis 
to ours, else our better feelings might 
grow stagnant, and all our emotions for 
the wild and wonderful fall into dead- 
ness and abeyance. It is ill, however, 
for the poet, that the expression of tliese 
states is now judged of, necessarily, ra- 
ther by authority than by expenence. 
Hence it is that the poet is tied down 
to convention by the actors, and they 
again by the audience. We entreat of 
both to give the poet liberty in this 
respect, and to suffer him to substitute 
these arbitrary symbols with more na- 
tural ones of his own. Put some faith 
in his perceptions, if only a^ a cor- 
rective for uhat has been called *' Uie 
dead palsy,'' which must possess yours 
as a component portion " of the public 

" What would appear mad or ludi- 
crous in a book," (we are told, relative 
to this argument, by the divjnest lec- 
turer on Shakspeare that the world 
has yet acknowledged,) " when pre- 
sented to the senses under the form of 
reality, and with the truth of nature, 
supplies a species of actual experience. 
This is, indeed, the special privilege of 
a great actor over a gi-eat poet. No 
part was ever played in perfection ; 

but nature justified Iierself in the hearts 
of all her children, in what state so- 
ever they were, shoii of absolute morat 
exhaustiou, or downright stupidity. 
There is no time given to ask ques- 
tions, or to pass judgments; we are 
taken by storm : and though in the 
hietrionic art many a clumsy counter- 
feit, by carioaiuce of one or two features, 
may gain applause as a fine likeness, 
yet never was the very thing rejected 
as a counterfeit.'' 

Our dramatic liieratuoe is at present 
an iAexhaustibie treasury of truth ; but 
truth is infinite, and is yet capable of 
enlargping and increasing the number 
of her foirmule. She can become all 
things ; yet be in all the same. 
Whenever she does this, she then 
exercises her poetic attribute «-« the 
changeful deity, else immutable, is 
then felt in the river, the lion, and 
the fiame. Whatever the studious poet 
may learn from all arts and sciences, 
from systems of moral doctrine, from 
schemes of esthetic discourse, and even 
fi'om the veritable dogmas of religion, 
maybe embodied in the dramatic form. 
Coleridge declared, that in every step 
he had made forward in taste, in ac- 
quisition of facts from history or his 
own observation, and in knowledge of 
the difi'exent laws of being and their 
appaneut exceptions, from accidental 
collision of disturbing forces; that at 
every accession of information, afler 
every siuccessful exercise of meditation, 
and every fresh presentation of expe- 
rience; he had pnfailingly discovered a 
proportionate increase of wisdom and 
intuition in Shakspeare. 

It is a sublime conception that, by 
means of the stage, all this wisdom 
and intuition can be brought within 
the eompass and down to the level of 
the meanest apprehension. With the 
authority just alUided to, we conscien- 
tiously maintain that, by a conceivable 
and possible arrangement of the British 
theatres, whatever has been and will be 
produced in this kind, may be success- 
ively " sent into the heads and hearts, 
into the very souls of the mass of man- 
kind, to whom, except by this living 
comment and interpretation, it must 
remain for ever a sealed volume — a 
deep well, without a wheel or wind- 

This " consummation," nevertheless, 
however " devoutly to be wished," 
may not be accomplished by degrading 
dramatic poetry to the conventions of 


The Parting. 



the stage *-/Aeie must be lifted up and 
enlarg^ to the elevation and expan- 
sioD of the creative power. Is our 
entliusiasm misplaced, if we believe 
and expect that the time is hastening 
on for this developement ? Are we 
contemplating only '< a fiEiiry world of 
possibility '' ? It may be so. But we 
know that all lof^y aspirations are, as it 
were, prophecies of the fulfilment to 
which they point ; nay, more, they are 
of that class of predictions which be- 
come the main agents of their own 
accomplishment. Ample motives exist 
for honourable ambition ; and we shall 
not be slow in applying the proper spur, 
if we perceive need for its use. The 

stage, as a mirror of the state itself, 
not of public manners only, but of 
morals — nay, of doctrine and religion 
— should be jealously cherished. All 
abuses that are likely to render it less 
effective should be speedily and tho- 
roughly reformed. It has been as an 
Augean stable. It shall now be 
cleansed. The Hercules that refuses, 
afler undertaking, to go through with 
this useful labour, shall not escape 
whipping. The scourge is held by one, 
" each petty artery in whose body is 
hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve ' — 
to whom Alcides was but a great baby, 
and Samson Agonistes a blind puppet 
in petticoats. 


I press'd not a kiss on her cheek ; 

I dared not to whisper ftirewell ; 
But a tear, as I struggled to speak, 

Told all that I dreaded to tell. 

She brush'd the bright drop from my eye, 
And smiled as in lightness of heart ; 

But her tremulous hand and her sigh 
Confess'd that she knew we must part. 

I mark*d the wild look of distils 
That in silence implored me to stay ; 

But, oh I 'twere a fatal caress — 
And I tore myself madly away. 

I rode from the threshold in haste, 
Though the tliunder was loud on the lea ; 

For the world was one desolate waste, 
And the future one tempest to me. 

I reck'd not the start of my steed. 
As he shrunk from the elements' din ; 

But I hurried him on to his speed, 
For the rage of the storm was within. 

One moment I linger*d to gaze 
On the lattice that glimmer'd afar ; 

And I sighed as I tum'd from its rays,— 
Twas the beam of my destiny's star. 

Digitized by 



Imprisonment for Debt, 




Much perplexity and doubt pervade 
the public mind on this important 
subject. The practice of arrest for debt 
has coDtinued so long, that many con- 
sider the policy good,' and the law in 
accordance with the constitutional rights 
of our country ; others, more enlight- 
ened, hold the opposite opinions. 

Before we commence our task of 
unravelling this extraordinary system — 
which includes the question whether 
Magna Charta has been violated by 
the practice of the courts of law, with- 
out any direct statute or parliamentary 
authority, we will offer a few observa- 
tions on tliat important statute, as far 
as relates to the arrest and imprison- 
ment of the person for a simple debt, 
unconnected with fraud. 

The declaration that Magna Charta 
has been violated by this system is not 
new, as we shall shew in its proper 
place. Trial by a court legally consti- 
tuted, in the presence of a body of 
men of equal rank with the accused, is 
the characteristic of the 29th article of 
Magna CharUi. 

Trial by twelve judges was intro- 
duced into Denmark by Regninus, as 
early as a.d. 820 ; and an account of 
that institution is to be found in the 
works of Olaus Wormius. They ad- 
judicated on all cases, and it does not 
appear that their verdict required una- 
nimity of opinion. The ancient Nor- 
man law bore a close similarity to the 
Danish. Our Saxon monarchs did not 
punish even their bondsmen with im- 
prisonment for debt. Alfred displaced 
and {lex talionii) imprisoned one of 
his judges for daring so to do ; and 
hanged Judge Cadwine, because he 
condemned one Hackwy to death on 
a verdict obtained bv his dismissing 
three dissentients, and replacing them 
by three others nominated by himself. 

During the reigns of Norman William 
(who swore, on his coronation, to ob- 
serve tite laws of Edward the Con- 
fessor, on which Magna Charta was 
founded), Rufus, and lien. I. and U., 
no man was imprisoned, even for a 
mortal crime, unless first attainted on 
the verdict of twelve men. A man 
could not be kept in prison for a non- 
bailable offence until the justices in 
eyre came, but under the writ de Otio 
et Atia,* the sheriff was directpd to 
relieve him.f The Mi/rror of Justice, 
cap. V. sec. 1, complains of the im- 
pnsonment of men's persons as an 
abuse, though for breaking gaol, t 
Glanvilie, cap. iii., holds the same 
doctrine ; andf as this last authority is 
supposed to have been written before 
the promulgation of Magna Charta, his 
opinion corroborates the affirmation of 
Coke, that Magna Charta is but " de- 
claratory of the ancient common law." 
The commencement of the charter sworn 
to by William the Conqueror, on his 
coronation, was drawn up by a council 
of the kingdom, in accordance with 
the existing laws of Edward the Con- 
fessor, and is thus : ** Volumus etiam 
ac firmiter prscipimus et concedimus 
ut oVnnes liberi homines totius mon- 
archis regni nostri.'' It is certain, 
that traces of trial by jury are to be 
found in Scotland as early as David I ., 

It seems, that we are not indebted 
to the barons of Runnymede for the 
origin of Uiat immortal right, a trial by 
jury, but for renewing the ancient laws, 
and, as it were, re-establishing the free- 
dom of their country; which had, from 
the ** remotest antiquity, been a free 
nation .'*§ In the course of our exa- 
mination, we shall have to refer to 
many of our ancient statutes, which 
will incidentally shew the high venera- 

* Sieut in Magna Charta, 4^ £dw. III. cap. 1. 

t Vide Bractoo. For. 1?1 ; Fleta, cap. xiv. 

X Major C — m — b — 11, when living iii the rules of the Queen's Bench, anticipated 
some great battle in the Low Countries, and, fired by a true soldier*8 and a patriot's 
spirit, joined the army, fought at Waterloo, returned, and surrendered to the mnrslial, 
who put him into the strong room for months, where he engendered a dreadful 
Tbeamatic affection ! Digitized by VjUUV t^ 

f Hur4'a DiQu S^lden, Coke. ^ 


ImprisoiMHeui far Debi^ 


have been evolved by leaving the sound 
and certain course of legislating on 
principlet, after calm and grave consi- 
deration, and legislating on expediency. 
There ace principles on which we are 
bound to legislate, or there are not. 
There are great constitutional rights, 
wliich cannot, by Uie ordinary course 
of legislation, be infringed, or our 
boasted constitution would appear to 
Jse made up of accidental fragments — 
a work of shreds and patches— ^ a mo* 
saic of enactments constructed by ex- 
pediency, and kept together no one 
can tell by what, or by wliom. Thai 
would be a reduclio od abturdum. Any 
approach to that stale every man should 
do his utmost to stop and repel, as it 
would lead to legal anarchy. One cha- 
racteristic of republicanism is the dis* 
carding dull principks in legislation, 
and the enacting of laws to serve any 
temporary purposes. Tliat character- 
istic was manifested by the adherents 
of Cromwell, with the same ignorant 
pertinacity as by the Radicals of the 
present day. In 1659, a short pam- 
phlet was published, by several Re- 
publicans conjointly, entitled, Reasont 
for the Continuance of the Froceu of 
Arrest: a creditor's paradoxical rea- 
sons, which might have assisted Mr* 
Hawes or Sir John Campbell, or formed 
a corollary to that bill which was 
brought into parliament under their 
name and auspices, and, though a dis- 
grace to legislation, has been again at- 
tempted to he forced on the peers; be^ 
cause k is contrary to etiquette for one 
lawyer to amend the blunders or non- 
sense of one of the same cra(\! Another 
set of those worOiies were desirous of 
enacting new laws between debtor and 
creditor, on the democratic system of 
expedieucy. In this precious morceau 
they make no allusion to Magna Charta 
— they take care (and so have modem 
lawyers) never to allude to our third 
Edward s declarations and commands^ 
but which we shall on no account omit, 
but to maintain, with true democratic 
tyranny, the practice of imprisonment 
for debt. At the restoration Uiere were 
many writers who can;e forward, and, 
like sound Conservatives, pointed out 
to the monarch that Magna Charta 
had been violated by arrest and im- 
prisonment; and complained, in the 

* Thia gentlemtn, now adTsaced in life, has been, and is still, the inmate of ths 
Queen's Bench Prison ; broken in fortune, iton9 blind, with several, abiidren and a 
wife, all in one miserable room, in a state of destitutiw andwjgSi C 

tion in which that charter was held, 
which was thirty-three times confirmed, 
and " upon which," the learned Coke 
says, in his second Institute, "as out 
of a root, many fruitful branches of the 
laws of England have sprung." In 
our own age, when it was deemed ne- 
cessary to have a perfect copy of the 
statutes of the kingdom published, it 
was not thought either safe or digniHed 
to copy Magna Charta, even from the 
roll Inspeximus of 28th of Edward I.; 
and a commission was appointed to 
visit all the universities, archbishops, 
bishops, and archives of the united king- 
dom for an original of Magna Charta 
in particular, and (or all other statutes 
and legal documents. Mr. Annesley,* 
attached to that commission, discovered 
in Lincoln Cathedral one copy of 
Magna Charta coeval with John. At 
the same period, tlie Sentcntia Excom- 
municationis against the breakers of the 
great charter was found in Wells Ca- 
thedral. The thunder of the Vatican 
contains the following peal against the 
traitors of their country : 

*' Item, omnes illos qui ecclesiasticas 
libertates vel antiquas regni conauetu- 
dines, approbates et precipue Ubertates 
et liberos consuetudines, que in cartis 
communium libertatum et de formats con* 
tioeotur concessis a domino rege, archi- 
episcopis, et episcopis, et ceteris Aoghie 
prelntis, comitibus, baronibus, militibus, 
et libere tenentibus, quacunque arte vel 
ingenio violaverint, infregerint, diminu- 
eririt, seu immutaverint, clam vel palam, 
facto verbo rel consilio contra illas, vel 
eanim aliquam in quocunque articulo 
temere vincendo." 

The result of this commission is the 
great edition of the statutes of the 
realm : the editorial honour of this 
masterly work is given to Sir Edelyne 
Tom 1 ins. 

Now we must endeavour to explain 
this complex case, by discussing con- 
secutively the constitutional question — 
the legality and the practice— the com- 
mercial utility, or inutility, as a test of 
solvency or a mean of securing pay- 
ment — and, lastly, its moral effects. 

Before we enter on the discussion, 
we will simply and cursorily remark, 
that on this vital question, as on many 
others, great imbecility has been shewn, 
and consequences, fraught with evil, 

183S.] Mr. Attomey-Oeneral aad Mr, Hawes*s Bill. 


same poioted and iodtgnant terms as 
many since^ of the violation, tlie prac- 
tice, tbe inutility, and the cruelty of 
the system. Among them was William 
Cole, who entitles his pithy pages, 
Lef^ f^d other Reasons {wUh all hu- 
mUUjf), presented to His most excellent 
Majesty King Charles 11^ and to both 
his honourable Houses of Parliament, 
why the Subjects should not be impri- 
soned for t)^y or Damages, or am/ 
thing thereunto relating. Tlie woHc 
was sent to the King, and the Duke 
of Yoric, and the Speaker, from the 
King's Bench, October 16th, 1675, 
and led to a bill being prepared, by 
tbe especial order of the king, for abo« 
lisbing the practice of arrest and im* 
prisonment for debt, as being violations 
of tbe great charter. 

These last ibur years have been pro- 
ductive of a repetition of those facts. 
On the 3d of August, 1837, the pri- 
soners in the Queeirs Beocb sent au 
admirable letter to Lord Chief Justice 
Denman, signed by men who, alus ! 
had been prisoners from twenty-seven 
consecutive years to three or four ! re- 
quiring his lordsliip's de^ite declara^ 
tion, as the lord chief justice of tlie 
Qtieen*s Bench, and conservator of the 
liberties of the people, " Whether they 
were not illegally imprisoned, in de- 
fiance of Magna Charta ?** His lord- 
ship declined all correspondence, exr 
cepting in hisjudicial capacity in court. 
How does his lordship's answer com- 
port with these words of Coke? — 
" The like writ is to be grunted out of 
tbe Chancery, either in the time of the 
term (as in the King's Bench), or in 
the vacation ; for the Court of Cliancery 
is officina Jusiitia, and is ever open, 
and never adjourned, so as the subject, 
being wrongfully imprisoneil, may have 
justice for the liberty of his person, as 
ujell in the vacation time as in term.*' 
To continue the parallelism, the Whigs 
and Radicals have, for four years, tor- 
tured I he victims of the system with 
corroding vexation and suspense, and 
all tbe sickness of hope deferred ; and 
at last, with admirable cunning, forced 
a rejected bill on the peers, which was 
framed by a soap-boiler and two petti- 
fogging attorneys, and fathered by Sir 
John Campbell, to pulldown the aristo- 
cracy and the landed proprietors, and 
subject the embarrassed and unfortunate 
among them to unceasing spoliation. 

and in many cases, under the thirty- 
first clause, to unlimited duration of 
imprisonment.* So much for the Ra- 
dicals of Crorewells day and of our 
own ! Tlie saroa primcipks which ia 
those days actuated the true Conserva- 
tive, are evinced in the present; and 
if Magna Charta has been violated, 
that band will see it restored to its 
pristine purity, for it is the compass 
by which the course of our legislation 
should be slaeced. 

Our first question is the most in* 
portant : on it depends, io a great 
degree, our second point ; and, tliere- 
fore, we shall restate it. Can the sub- 
ject be arrested and imprisoned for a 
simple debt, according to the consti- 
tution ? 

As Magna Charta was the solemn 
restoration of our nu>re ancient laws, 
and is declaratory of the common law, 
from it we take our start. That great 
charter, with Habeas Corpus and the 
Bill of Rights, comprises the terms of 
the Compact between the sovereign and 
tlie people. It is the imperative duty 
of both contracting parties not to per- 
mit the slightest violation of it. The 
validity of the compact depends on its 
being kept sacred, in all points, by 
both the sovereign and the people. It 
must be clear to every one, that those 
Statutes and institutions which consti- 
tute the Bill of Rights are inviolable; 
otherwise, the foundations of our con- 
stitution are invaded and undermined : 
the basis being weakened, the super- 
structure must, sooner or later, become 
a crumbling and mishapen mass of 
machinery without support, and, con- 
sequently, an unsafe and impracticable 
implement, liable to be contmually un- 
roanageablo, nnd as often dangerous. 

We musi commence with die words 
of that palladium of our freedom, and 
shew from it — from the interpretations 
of the master-spirits of ages past — 
from tiie actual practice of the times, 
and the repeated confirmations of that 
charter, what was the constitutional 
system pursued between debtor and 
creditor, and that the great charter 
was taken for the common law of the 

We prefer copying the 6rst article 
from the Charta conjirmationis of 9th 
Henry III. The other articles neces- 
sary for our purpose will be from the 
original charter : 

See ftiMiirUrii^ Rsmw, No. CXVIL, July 1857,;?. t53^/>^OOgle 


Imprisonment far Debt. 


** Cap, 1. First, we have granted (conm 
ciuimus) to God, and by ibis our present 
charter have confirmed, for us and our 
beirs for ever, tbat the Cburcb of Eng- 
land ahall be free, and sball bave her 
whole rights and liberties inviolable. 
We have granted also, and given, to all 
the freemen of our realm, for us and our 
beirs for ever, these libertiet underwritten, 
to have and to hold to them and their 
beirs, of us and our heirs, for ever." 

Among those liberties con6mied by 
charter of Henry III. is the follow- 
ing, being the twenty-eighUi of the 
original :♦ 

*' Ne aliquis balUvus possit ponere ali- 
quern nd legem simplici loquem su& sine 
testibus fidelibus." 

BaUivta means justice, minister of 
the king, steward, or bailiff. 

By this important clause, "no man," 
of any denomination, could bring a 
subject under the ban of the law by 
his own unsupported declaration, — a 
simple and profound maxim, which 
no just man would desire to break, 
and which no man should be even 
permitted to attempt. Yet, by the 
practice of our courts, first, a simple 
affirmation of debt was sufficient; which, 
as Lord Eldon said, in his speech on 
Slavery, gave " permission to tear a 
father from his weeping cliildren, the 
husband from the distressed wife, and 
to hurry him to a dungeon, to linger 
out a life of pain and misery." In the 
12th year of the reign of George I., 
c. 29, the affirmation was changed to 
an affidavit. The evils arising from so 
flagrant a violation of that article of 
the great charter are stated in a work 
presented to parliament in 1646 :t — 
" It is not to be told what devices and 
fain'd actions, and causeless and unjust 
arrests, through the cunning dealing 
and crafty devises of attorneys and so- 
licitors, are since daily framed and 
executed, to the grievous vexation and 
oppression of the people." The affi- 
davit has certainly somewhat mitigated 
the evil, but an unsupported affidavit 
is as complete a violation of the charter 
as a simple affirmation. It would be 
impossible to produce a statute, or an 
act of parliament, which sanctions the 
violation: it has its origin wholly on 
the assumption and practice of the courts. 

Is the assumption of any court of law 
to violate and set at defiance an article 
ef the great charter ? Every man who 
reads has already given the indignant 
answer in the negative. 

No article ever written by man can 
sUind in competition with the twenty- 
ninth of Magna Charta : 

*' Ne corpus liheri hominis capiatnr, 
nee im)>Ti80uetar, nee dissaisietur, nee 
allegetur, uec exuletur, nee aliqno mode 
destruatur, nee rex eat, vel mittat super 
eum vi nisi per judicium parium suorom, 
vel per legem tcrrs." 

Liber homOf a freeman, extended to 
villeins, saving against Uieir lord ; for 
they were free against all men, saving 
against their lord. 

Capiatttr is thus interpreted by Coke, 
and other profound and illustrious law- 
yers: — " No man shall be taken, that 
IS, restrained of liberty, by petition or 
suggestion to the king, or to his coun- 
sel, unless it be by indictment or pre- 
sentment of good and lawful men, where 
such deeds be done." Again : — "No 
man ought to be put from his liveli- 
hood without answer." 

Upon the affidavit of any man a 
writ is issued, since the Uniformity of 
Process Act) in the following well- 
known form: — "Victoria, by the grace 
of God of the United Kingdom of 
Great Britain and Ireland Queen, De- 
fender of the Faith, to the Sheriff of 

greeting, we command you, &c. 

&c., to take and safely keep"k!c. Upon 
that authority a freeman is seized, and 
imprisoned for an unlimited term, and 
" put from his livelihood.'* The gfreat 
constitutional lawyers thus interpret 
this famous passage : — " No man shall 
be condemned at the king's suit, either 
before the king in his bench, where the 
pleas are coram rcge, nor before any 
other commissioner or judge whatso- 
ever ; and so are the words * nee super 
eum mittimus' to be understood, but 
by the judgment of his peers." — Coke. 
By which the courts are debarred pu- 
nishing (committing to prison for an 
indefinite time) without a verdict of a 

It is clear, past all cavilling, that 
any man who is arrested on the un- 
supported affidavit of another, and im- 
prisoned by the mere command of the 

• Bl.. Gr, a., fol. 1759. ^ _ ^T^ 

t The Malady and }\emedy of vexatious and unjust Arrests and^cdbns, humbly 
presented to the fpnrrt copwdemtion of tlie High Court of Parliament. 1^46* 

1838.] Mr. Attomey^Oeneral and Mr. Haw€S*8 Bill, 


sorereign, is condemned to punishment 
without the judgment of his peers, and 
*' without answer ;" and, consequently, 
tJke sovereign is made to break the so- 
lemn compact with the people, by via- 
iatimg the great charter. 

Sotio )m?e affirmed, that the words 
"per legem terra** leave the matter 
open for future legislation. So shallow 
a statement is best and most completely 
refuted, by considering that Magna 
Cbarta is 'declaratory of the ancient 
common law;*' by the legal practice 
in accusation of oebt; and by the in- 
terpretation of (he princes of that era, 
and of the commentators. 

"Per legem temp, i.e, by the com- 
mon law, statute law, or custom of 
Bogland; for these words, being to- 
wards the end of this chapter, do refer 
to all the precedent matters in this 
diapter: and this hath the first place, 
because the liberty of the man's person 
is more precious to him than all the 
rest that follow; and, therefore, it is 
great reason that he should be by law 
relieved therein, if he be wronged.'' 
^ For it is the worst oppression tluU is 
done by colour of justice." ♦ 

The legal practice of tiiose days was 
as follows. The plaintiff having satis- 
fiurtorily substantiated his claim by 
oaih, and the testimony of unimpeached 
witnesses, a summons, or wammg, was 
delivered to the defendant, to appear 
according to the exigency of the writ, 
followed up by writs of distringas and 
attachment against the debtor's pro- 
perty, unless the debtor, as defcndaiit, 
made his ** wager of law;" in other 
words, swore that the claim was fiilse, 
or not to so great an amount. On that 
being done, issue was joined, and the 
case went to be adjudicated by twelve 
of their peers. Those processes have 
never been abrogated, and are in their 
full and original force up to the present 
day. They are far more efficient than 
arrest and imprisonment, but not so 
summary, or so profitable to the at- 
torney; and, therefore, not so com- 
monly resorted to. According to the 
present practice when issuing that pro- 
cess, a mere affirmation is all that is 
required ; which is a decided violation 
of the twenty-eighth article, for it de- 
clares that no man can subject another 
to legal process — " SimpUci loqueld 
suA sine testibus fidelibm** 
Edward III., in 1341, discovered 

that the sUtutes of Maribridge (52d 
Henry III.) and Acton Bumel (lllh 
Edward I.) had been either miscon- 
ceived or abused, and caused the sta- 
tute 42d Edward 111. to be enacted 
and promulgated with great decision 
and ceremony. The first chapter con- 
tains the following, which would abro- 
gate the two statutes which had been 
abused, if either had by its enactments 
violated the great charter ; so that their 
interpretation is secured to us, while 
Magna Charta is confirmed. 

"At the parliament of our lord the 
kin^, holden at Westminster the Ist day 
of May, the two-and-fortieth year of bis 
reign, it is assented and recorded, that 
the Great Charter and the Charter of the 
Forest be holden and kept at all points ; 
and if any statute be made to the con- 
trary, that shall be holden for none." 

In the third chapter, the monarch 
gives the reasons for deeming it neces- 
sary to confirm Magna Charta, which 
must for ever silence the quibblers on 
the words ^^ per legem terra J* He 
recites : 

** That clerks, peers, and other per- 
sons, had been impritoned without indict' 
ment, contraby to Magna Cuauta." 

He then directs, tliat 

" The chancellor, treasurer, barons, 
chancellor of the exchequer, judges of 
both benches, steward and chamberlain 
of the household, keeper of the privy 
seal, comptroller of the household, to. 
gether with the preceptor and chief of- 
ficers of the Duke of Cornwall, should 
take the oath, on entering on their offices, 
to obtervs the Gnat Uhartsr in every 

We tliink, that there can be no doubt 
or cavil as to wliat was, in the third 
Edward's time, the interpretation of 
the twenty-ninth article, and what the 
practice was in civil actions of account 
Detween debtor and creditor; and, also, 
that abuses had been introduced by 
the chicanery of the lawyers, which he 
solemnly denounced by stating tliem, 
and by confirming, at the same time, 
the great charter. It is curious to ob- 
serve, that, up to this period, neither 
the monarchs nor the legislature ever 
doubted the meaning of the articles 

3 noted, and never hesitated to confirm 
lem; the lawyers only attempted to 
violate, and to substitute summary and 

♦ Ins|«|,ifblio^bla€^l»tter^ 


Imprisonment for Deii, 


oppressive processes in the place of 
the charier bimI the customs of ihe 
land, whicb decreed that *' the body of 
the debtor muat be free, that be migbt 
serve the kitif in his wars, cultivate 
the ground, and maintain bis family/' 
The two statutes of Marlbridge aod 
of Acton Bumel have been erroneously 
supposed, by some, to have innovated 
on Magna Charta, and to have given 
the power of arrest. They were both 
enacted against positive crime. Tlieir 
being enacted proves tljat the great 
charter did not give even the power of 
arresting a steward, who had absconded 
with his employer's rents or money. If 
those statutes had given the power of 
arrest, tliey wereabrogatad by the statute 
of confirmation above quoted, 42d of 
Edward UI. We sliould also find tlie 
curious discrepancy of Edward I., in 
the eleventh year of his reign, pub- 
lishing the statute of Acton Burnel, 
commonly called Statute Merchant ; 
and in the twenty-fifih of his reign, 
A.D. 1297, a distinguished statute of 
confirmation, which, after declaring 
that " the Charter of Libenies (i. c. 
Magna Charta) and the Charter of the 
Forest shall be kept, in every point, 
without breach,'^ continues in these 
remarkable words : 

''And that our justices, sheriffs, may- 
ors, and other ministers, which under us 
have the laws of the land to guide, shaH 
allow the said charters to be pleaded 
before them in judgment, in all their 
points ; that is to wit, the Great Charter 
08 the cmnmmi late, and the Charter of the 
Forest for the wealth of our realm." 

As if to completely rivet tJie con- 
firmatory declaration, and superadded 
instructions to allow Magna Charta to 
be appealed to as the mmmum juSy he 

'* And we will, that if any judgment 
be given from henceforth, contrary to 
the points of the charter aforesaid, by 
the justices or any other of our ministers 
that hold pleas before them, against the 
points of the charters, it shall be undone 
and holdm for naught." 

Three knights were appointed to be 
chosen in each county, and wer« io^ 
vested with tlie pow^r of puoisliing, 
by fines and imprisonment, « very itrans- 
gression or violation of Uie charters.* 
Thus they unequivocally shewed, that 
his statute of Acton Bumel was never 

inteAded to break is upon the great 
charter; and, also, that the statute of 
Marlbridge was not considered to bave 
done so. Although the liolcs of er%^ 
deuce are cowplete as to the interpret- 
atiun of the clauses of Magna Charta, 
and tl^ practice of the tiroes m ac^ 
oordaocf with it; and although the 
25ftb of Edward I., and the 42d of 
Edward ILL, would have abrogated 
the innovation, if any had listed, we 
will give tu6icient extracts from those 
statutes to remove any lingering doubt. 
In tlie statute of MaKbridge, 52d of 
Henry HI. c. 23, '^ A remedy against 
accomptants,*' it m provided aUo, ** thai 
if baililis, which ought to make aocompt 
to their lords, do withdraw tliemselfof, 
and have no iandtf or tenements whereby 
tliey may be distrained, then they shall 
be attach^ by their bodies, so that the 
sheriff in whoae bailiwick dtey belbuad 
shall cause them to come to make their 
accompt." It is evident, that the power 
of arrest given by this statute was 
against a servant or i^ent, who was 
absconding with the money of his em- 
ployer; and, jtherefore, was a criminal, 
which no mere debtor is in the eye of 
the law. On attending carefully to the 
words, it will be seen, first, that before 
tiie arrest could take place, the agent 
mus( have refused to give up or ac* 
count for the property intruslad to his 
diaige ; secondly, that be has no lands 
or tenements io diatrain ; and, lastly, 
the arjceU is only to eompel the delin- 
quent ^'to come to make his aoooiBpt.'' 
The statuie of Acton Bwnel, llth 
Edward I., is of the eame character. 
After reciti«^, that '* Forasmudi as 
merchants, which heretofore have lent 
their goods to divers persons, be greatly 
impoverished, because there is no speedy 
law provided for them to have recovery 
of their debts at the day of payment 
assigned ;*' and after providing for the 
form of an acknowledgo^nt of a '< Sta- 
tute Merchant,*' and granting distress 
on his goods, &c., goes on to say 
(sec. 14): << And if the delnor liave 
no more movables whereupon the debt 
may be levied, then shall his body be 
taken where it may be found, and kept 
in prison until Uiat he shall have maje 
an agreement, or his friends for him." 
In the thirteenih year of his neign, this 
statute was extended to lands in exe- 
cution. Tliey wene strictly mercantile 
law^, anfi were inte^ed to apply solely 

• Jilej^aiagfofd, ^g^. i,, p. J^Ogigitized by ^^UUglC 

1838.] Mr. Attomejf^Qeneral ami Mr. Hawes's Bill 


lo the debts and contracts of merdiafits 
m trading. We have seen that lawyers 
abated them, and that Edward III. re- 
fenred to and denounced those abuses ; 
and, as Edward I. had done, conArreed 
Ms^^a Charta, declared it to be the 
common imo, and tliat all enactments 
coiHrary to it were null and void. 

The sentence of excommunication 
against those who, '< by word, or ^eed^ 
or counsel," even attempted to violate 
the ^^reat charter, was fead and pub- 
lished by the prelates twice a-year, 
wbid) taught the people to value and 
respect it. The decision of Edw. III., 
coupled with that repeated publicity, 
kept in abeyance, ibr a long series of 
years, ail attempts at innovation of it. 

We trust that it has been fully shewn, 
that no subject of these realms can be 
arrested and imprisoned for a mere 
debt, onaccoropanied by fraud, ac* 
cording to the constitution ; that, until 
Magna Charta is declared by a con« 
▼ention of the nation to be a dead 
letter, such arrest is in deAance of its 
words, princi|)les, and spirit; and that 
the sovereign, through official repre- 
sentatives, is made to violate the solemn 
compact with the people. Later au- 
thorities might have neen quoted to 
shew, that, up to the present time, the 
same interpretation has been main- 
tained, and that the veneration for the 
great palladium of our freedom is still 
Uie same: but we prefer referring to 
them in the sequel. 

We have now to unravel a tortuous 
system, pursued with cautious and 
stealthy steps, until Magna Charta and 
the common law were evaded and 
overreached ; and a practice innroduced, 
as unjustifiable in principle as either 
the Inquisition or the Bastile, as cruel 
in the means adopted as botli, as im- 
potent for the ends intended, and as 
destructive to its victims. 

For one hundred and fifty years after 
the 25th of Edw. III., till 19th of 
Ben. VII., the law of arrest was not 
extended, and no monarch or legis- 
lature attempted to violate by enact- 
ment any article of the great charter. 
When civil discord prevailed, advan- 
tage was taken of the unsettled condi- 
tion of the kingdom, of the neglected 
state of the laws, and of the constant 
exhibition of civil violence. The law- 
yers of that period first mystified the 
distinctions between criminal acts and 
civil lorongs ; then between matters of 
fecial contract and single debt. Se- 

condly, a follacy was introduced, and 
laid down as an undeniable axiom, 
" In fictione jtiris consistit eqnitas." 
Having tacitly established those points, 
they were used as forms by which to 
bring the persons of debtors coloorably 
under the power of the courts. In 
times when acts of violence were of 
daily occurrence, it was easy to suppose 
that every man against whom the affirm- 
ation of debt was made was guilty of 
u trespass " vi et armisy Such acts of 
violence were proper and constitu- 
tional objects tor tite jurisdiction of 
our criminal courts, and of the court 
of King's Bench in particular. Let it 
now be observed, that no one ever had 
the effrontery to attempt to annul, by 
any legislative measure, the known 
constitutional principles, and the com- 
mon law of the land, as laid down in 
the great charter. Such an attempt, 
even in those turbulent times, would 
have excited attention, and aroused re- 
sisnmce. For as Hume (vol. ii. 106) 
observes, " Though arbitrary practices 
often prevailed, and were even able to 
establish themselves into settled cus- 
toms, the validity of the great charter 
was never afterwards formally disputed ; 
and that grant was still regarded as tiie 
basis of the English government, aiui 
the sure rule by which the authority of 
every custom was to be tried and can- 
vas^d.*' Under cover of a fictitious 
plaint, upon a declaration of trespass^ 
vi et armisy the debtor was arrested, 
Uie fictitious plaint was passed over 
without observation, and the debtor 
detained in prisoir until he found a 
ransom or his grave. 

We must here pause to observe, that 
the following principle, laid down by 
Coke, is applicable in every case of 
legal accusation : 

" By tliese writs it manifestly appear- 
eth, that no man ought to Im imprisoned 
but for same certain cttvHf and that cause 
mu$t be shewed ; fot otherwise how can 
the court take order therein according to 

A subject of England can only be 
imprisoned for crime after trial and 
the verdict of a jury. A simple debt 
is not, and never was pretended to be, 
a crime. How, then, is it that because 
a debtor cannot pay the amount of his 
debt, and the costs of the attorney, 
that he is committed to prison ; not for 
a specified term, but perhape for years,^ 
for life ? In the verdict and judgment 


tmprisonment for Debt. 


that a debt is due, not one word about 
imprisonment passett the lips of the 
official who reads it ; and yet a free- 
bom man is committed to (we mast 
repeat it) perhaps perpetual imprison- 
ment I How is this ? What has be* 
come of Magna Charta ? How is the 
annexed authority swept away ? 

" But if any man, by colour of any 
authority [keep in mind the fiction of a 
trespass], where be hath not that parti- 
cular case, arrest or imprison any man, 
or cause him to be arrested or impri- 
soned, this is ogainst this article ; and it 
is most hateful when it is done by coun- 
tenance of justice." • 

This great interpreter of our laws, 
in words, if possible, more apposite, 
writes : 

" Albeit judgments in the king's court 
are of high regard in law, wadjudieia are 
accounted njurit dicta, yet it is prorided 
by act of parliament, that K^ny judgment 
be given contrary to any of the points of 
the Great Charter, or Charta de Foresta, 
by the justices, or by any other of the 
kmff*8 ministers, it shall be undone and 
bolden for naught" f 

Has this great charter been abro- 
gated ? Has any point or article of it 
been repealed ? We never heard of any 
statute but in confirmation of it. We 
never heard of any act which specifi- 
cally attempted to repeal any point or 
article of it. How, then, can a subject 
be legally arrested for a civil action of 
account, and imprisoned ; and subse- 
quently, without the commission of any 
crime, without a specific verdict direct- 
ing his being sent to linger in prison, 
be committed to a dungeon ? We 
shall be told, that it is the long-con- 
tinued practice of the courts, and tliat 
acts of parliament have sanctioned the 
practice. Was the practice constitu- 
tionally legal ? We have proved to de- 
monstration that it is constitutionally 
iilegal. What is unlawful in its com- 
mencement, roust have all its super- 
structure of the same rotten character. 
We will, therefore, feariessly attack the 
superstructure, and, unless we err, leave 
not a vestige for our opponents to cling 

To shew the jealousy with which any 
overt attempt to innovate on tlie Great 

Charter was watched and repelled, we 
may mention, that Edward Vl. iocor- 
porated St. Albans, and granted to the 
corporation to make ordinances. They 
made an ordinance, on pain ofimpristm' 
ment. It was adjudged to be against 
Magna Charta, and declared that it 
should be holden for naught. By pa* 
rity of reasoning, every other ordinance, 
act, or enactment, which is contrary to 
that charter, roust be held for naught. 
Indeed, it hat been *^ enacted if any 
roan be arrested or imprisoned, (even) 
agaimt the form of this Great Charter, 
that he be brought to his answer, and 
have right.*' t Irksome as the task may 
be, it is our paramount duty to shew, 
as briefly and clearly as we can, the 
latent origin and the progress of this 
systematic violation of the repeatedly 
confirmed rights of the people. In 
early times the chancellor, in drawing 
the king's original writs, was often 
compelled to put them into new forms, 
to adapt them to particular cases, to 
which precedents did not apply. It 
was difficult to draw those writs so 
perfectly as to make them unquestion- 
ably legal; and therefore the statute 
13 Edw. I. cap 24, was enacted, to 
render the process founded on the new- 
formed wnts legal, and received the 
technical name of an action of trespass 
on the case, to distinguish it from the 
common action of trespass vi et armis. 
It is evident that neitner of those ac- 
tions had any direct reference to debtors. 
They were, however, eventually per- 
verted and used, as we have said, to 
bring the persons of debtors cohurabfy 
under the power of the courts. This 
statute of Edward I. is scarcely intelli- 
gible, and looks, from its mysterious 
complexity, as if it were intended to 
work mischief. The two clauses which 
bear on the matter under discussion are 

" But, from henceforth, where in one 
case a writ is granted, in like case, when 
the remedy falleth, the writ shall be 
made as hath been used before." 

Tlie other is the operative clause : 
" And whensoever, from henceforth, 
it shall fortune to the chancery that in 
one case a writ is found, and in like case 
falling under like law, and requiring likd 
remeoy, is found none, the clerks of 

• Inst. M. C. 

t Confir. 25 Edw. I. cap. 1 and 2 ; Vit Mag. Cb. J, pt. fol. 35 : 25 

49 Edw. HI. DigitizSdbyVjUOglV 

t Blackstone on the Great Charter, ii. cap. S. 

Edw. I. 

1838.] Mr. Attorney-General and Mr. Mawes's Bill. 


the chancery shall agree in making the 

On tliis curious specimen of legisla- 
tion, so unlike the clearness and noble 
simplicity of nsany of tlie statutes we 
have quoted, was founded tlie 19 
Hen. VII. 1503, which recites, " that 
iike proceu he had hereafter in actions 
upon the case, as well sued and hang- 
ing, as to be sued in any of the said 
courts, as in actions of trespass or debt/' 
Subsequently, the same remedy was, 
in the same fashion, extended by 23 
Hen. VIII. cap. 14, to actions of for- 
cible entry, which was derived from 
5 liichard II., and to writs of annuity 
2nd covenant. In those statutes there 
is no appearance of an attempt to abro- 
gate, substitute, or innovate, on the 
charter, while there is in reality a 
stealilw step towards it. By 37 
Hen. VIII. cap. 8, it is enacted that 
the words vt et armis, and such like 
words, " shall not of necessity be put 
or comprised in any such proceedings." 
The law and practice in questions of 
debt remained in nearly that state for 
a long period of time. Tie rights of 
Magna Charta may have been set at 
defiance ; but no law legalising arrest 
and imprisonment for debt was ever 
passed. It must be admitted, that 
what had been done by cunning and 
stealth at first, was gradually, coolly, 
and impudently adopted as the com- 
mon practice. Notwithstanding the 
practice, we have seen the manly and 
unequivocal declarations of Coke ; to 
which may be added those of Eyre, 
Dyer, Blackstone, and Lord Bacon, 
who distinctly affirms that " no person 
could be arrested for debt, according 
to the constitution." In a former part 
of this article, we referred to the re- 
monstrance made to Charles II., and 
the intention of that monarch to put an 
end to the nefarious abuse. Among 
the worst of the evils originating from 
the foctitious system, was that a person 
might be arrested and held to bail for 
any sum of money upon a common bill 
of latitat of Middlesex, without the 
particular cause of action being ex- 
pressed. It was erpedient to remedy 
this evil ; but, like all legislation on 
expediena/, instead of princq>les, it 
neariy performed the desirable feat of 
putting an end to the jurisdiction of 
the King's Bench in cases of civil ac- 
tions of account. The statute of 1 3 
Car. II. cap. 2, runs thus : " No person 
arrested by any sheriff, &c. by force or 

colour of any bailable writ issuing out 
of tlie King's Bench, wherein the cer- 
tainty of the true cause is not expressed, 
shall be compelled to give security for 
his appearance, in any penalty or sum 
of money not exceeding the sum of 
forty pounds." 

" This statute/' observes Blackstone, 
'^ without any such intention in the 
makers, had like to have ousted the 
King's Bench of all its jurisdiction over 
civil injuries without Jorce ; for as the 
bill of Middlesex was framed only for 
actions of trespass, a defendant could 
not be arrested and holden to bail there- 
upon for breaches of civil contract — at 
least, not for any sum exceeding forty 

There requires no more better illus- 
tration of the hollow and rotten found- 
ation on which all arrest and imprison- 
ment for debt is built. By the cele- 
brated insertion of the " ac etiam " 
clause, briefly stating the true cause of 
action, the power was retained, and 
with it a considerable share of the legal 

With matchless effrontery, the courts 
took upon themselves to render Magna 
Charta a dead letter; and having surrep- 
titiously introduced a fictitious plaint, 
by the following processes consigned 
the persons of debtors to prison, on a 
real or fictitious claim, on an unsup- 
ported affirmation, for any sum, how- 
ever small, for an unlimited number of 

First, an original wtit from Chancery 
was supposed. 

Secondly, pledges of provocation, or 
security against groundless acts, were 

Thirdly, the sheriff's inquiry for goods 
was supposed. 

Fourthly, the sheriff's answer, or re- 
turn, that defendant had no goods, was 

Fifthly, the writ, empowering bailifl^ 
to seize the defendant's person, was 

Well might the Lord Chief Justice 
Eyre exclaim, " The law is a terrible 
engine of oppression, if the courts 
[governmentsj will not look into the 
abuses of its proceedings." AAer ages 
will scarce believe that, with such a 
charter as was wrested from John at 
Runnymede, and all its solemn con- 
firmations — with Habeas Corpus, and 
the more recent general recapitulation, 
the Bill of Rights — it was not until the 
12 of Geo. I. cap. 29, that even an 


Imprkonmmtfor Debt. 


aiffidavit of debt was made legaUy ne- 
cessary to permit the courts, on the 
series of $vppo8kion$, to pursue its 
dreadful course. 

It must not be supposed, tliat be- 
tween the reisEns of Charles I. and 
George I. the Creat Charter was never 
appealed to, or that those references 
were not applicable to the subject. 
When Sir Eaward Hampden and his 
colleagues were committed to prison, 
" for refusing to lend upon the com- 
mission for loans,'' by '* special eom- 
raand of the king to him (the wsvden 
of the Fleet), signified by warrant of 
seveml of the privy council," Selden, 
as Sir Edwata Hampden's coimsel, 
thus objected to the legality of the 
commitment, and nobly expounded the 
rights, the principles, the common law 
of England : 

" Firrt, That the return is not positive, 
but referred to the signification made of 

Tlie same objection is valid against 
a writ of capias, by the special com- 
mand Regiuffi Victorias, made by my 
Lord EUenborough. 

** Secondly, The keepers of the pris<»is 
have not returned the caute of the com- 
mitment, but the caxue of the cause,'* 

This is the precise illegal return of 
the marshal of the Queen's Bench. 

" Thh^ly, That the return of the com. 
mitment is imperfect, for that it sheweth 
onlv the cause of the detxining in prison, 
and not fbe cause oi the first commit- 

The return of the sherifT, whose 
officers have captured and imprisoned 
a subject for a simple debt, is merely a 
report that the orders Victorise Kegiue 
have been obeyed. 

" Lastly, The second general excep- 
tion was to the manner of the return ; 
and that was touching the imprisonment, 
per speciale mandatutn Domini Regis, by 
the lords of the council, without any 
cause expressed. Wherefore," exclaimed 
Selden, *« by the constant and settled laws 
of this kingdom (without which we have 
nothing), no man can be justly impri- 
soned, either by the king or council, 
witk4m$ a cause of commitment, and that 
ought to be expressed in the return. 
Tbe law saith expressly, no freeman 
shall be imprisoned without due process 
of law ; nuUus liber homo capialur vel 
imprisonetur nisi per legem terra:, &c. 

And in tbe charter of King John there 
are these words, Nee eum in earesrem 
mittimus, * We will not commit him to 
prison.' That is, the king himself will 

Sir Edward Coke, in stronger terms, 
corroborates, in his comments on that 
passage, the interpretation of Seldoi : 
'< Tlie king, by Magna Charta, is <fe- 
barred from impraonirtg his debtor; the 
power reserved to the crown was, by the 
common law, reserved to the subject." 
In the sequel of that extraordinary 
pleading, we find the following words : 

" If those gentlemen, who are com- 
mitted without any canse shewn, should 
not be bailed, but remanded, the subjects 
of the kingdom may be restrained of their 
liberty for ever, and by law there can be 
no remedy. We shall not reflect upon 
the present time and government; but 
we are to look what may betide us in 
time to come hereafter. The laws are 
called the great inheritance of every sub- 
ject, and the inheritance of inheritances, 
without which we have nothing that de- 
serves the name of inheritance/' 

If, as these great authorities dedaie, 
that ** by the settled and constant laws 
of this kingdom {without which %oe haw 
nothing) no man can be justly impri- 
soned, neitlier by the king, the council, 
or a subject, without a cause of com- 
mitn^ent specified, and by the judgment 
of his peerSf in accordance with tbe 
ancient common law and tlie customs 
of tlie kingdom," lu>w was it, ai>d is it, 
that, by the special mandate of the 
sovereign, fifteen thousand people are 
constantly in prison, harassed, degraded, 
and ruined, without the verdict of a 
jury, without a specified cause of com- 
mitment, without a declared crime, 
without a specified duration of impri- 

We have in detail given the reply ; 
we will briefly recapitulate it. By the 
surreptitious, oppressive, tyrannous, 
plundering practice of the courts, in 
violation of Magna Charta, and which 
practices have been, by two acts of 
parliament, 12 Geo. I. and 2 Wm. IV., 
considered, taken for granted, as the 
ancient common law of the realm ! 

We must give one more example of 
the powers of the Great Charter. In 
J 647, Sir John Maynai-d had articles 
of high treason preferred against him. 
The trial was to come on before Uie 
lords. He excepted to tlte jurisdiction 

_ , , , „. . , ^ , .,:tizedby VjrVi*5^ . 

Kushworth s Historical Collections. ^ 

1 838.] Mr. AUarney-General and Mr. Hawes's Bill. 


of ihe court, and, by a written paper 
presented to them, demanded to be 
tried by his peers, " according to 
Magna Charta and the law of the 

Why should not a man imprisoned 
for a civil action of account, without the 
cause of commitment being specified, 
and without a trial, appeal to Magna 
Charta ? It would be curious to see 
if the courts of the present day would 
support the stealthy villany of their 
predecessors, and declare that the acts 
of George I. and William IV. abrogate 
Magna Charta. It would be a matter 
of great consequence to ascertain if it 
be necessary to appeal to parliament to 
compel the courts to retrace Uieir vio- 
lation of the Great Charter. In 1629, 
Richard Chambers, a merdiant, was 
condeiuned by the Star Chamber to pay 
two thousand pounds, for some true 
and hasty words spoken by him on an 
act of oppression by officers of the 
customs. He first refused to sign the 
submission tendered to him by that 
court, and couched his refusal as fol- 
lows : *' All the above said covenants 
and submission I, Richard Chambers, 
do abhor and detest, as most unjust 
and ialse ; arkl never, till death, will 
acknowledge any part thereof.'' In 
his plea in the exchequer, he com- 
mences (aAer the preamble) with 
direct references to Magna Charta and 
its confirmations, and gives the twenty- 
ninth article almost at length, conclud- 
ing it with, ** And that the lord the 
king should not go upon him, nor deal 
with him, but by a lawful judgment of 
his peers, or the law of the land.*' 
We have referred to this spirited re- 
monstrance, merely to shew that against 
even that arbitrary court Magna Charta 
had been boldly quoted. It is curious 
to observe the similarity which exists be- 
tween the practice of arrest for debt and 
the system of the Star Chamber. First, 
there is a secret declaration ; second, a 
vrarrant of seizure, by the special com- 
mand of the king ; thirdly, the arrest 
and imprisoiunent; fourthly, condemna- 
tion without specified crime, without 
specified duration of punishment. The 
same spirit which conceived the court 
of the Star Chamber, devised the vio- 
lation of the Great Charter in matters 
of civil account. Imprisoned debtors 
are usually ruined men, and, conse- 
quently, without the power of support- 
ing their rights. It is also fonna, as 
may be readily supposed, that they are 


soon left to their fate when no longer 
able to defray the expenses of legal ad- 
visers ; add to that tlie inherent dislike 
to the exposure of their names and cir- 
cumstances, and a sufficient cause is 
apparent for the long continuation of 
the abuse, when supported by a power- 
ful body of common -law attorneys, 
whose chief meaits of subsistence are 
derived from the great expenses ex- 
tracted by them upon the writs issued. 
In London and Middlesex, the average 
annual expenses incurred upon up- 
wards of thirty thousand writs would 
not fall far short of half a million of 
money, absorbed by the attorneys, and 
consequently lost to the creditors. The 
sum has been stated as being much 
greater; but we wish to avoid even 
the appearance of exaggeration, and 
have therefore given but little more 
than half the amount calculated by 
Gordon and others. 

We must now refer to the statute of 
12 Geo. I.e. 29, which taket for granted 
that arrest and imprisonment for debt 
are legal, and in exact conformity 
with the ancient customs, laws, and 
charters of the kingdom, and enacts 
that a simple affirmation shall no longer 
be sufficient to deprive a subject of bis 
liberty, and consign him to misery and 
ruin, but that the sum claimed shall 
amount to ten pounds, and that an 
affidavit shall be made by the plaintiff 
of the catue of action. Observe, the 
word ^* debt " is cautiously omitted. 
By the 7 and 8 of Geo. IV., the sum 
on which an arrest could take place 
was increased to twenty pounds, and 
the affidavit must be maae and filed. 
Still the word debt is not used. For a 
sum less than twenty pounds, a sum- 
mons personally served, usually termed 
a serviceable writ, is issued, and, under 
certain rules of court, still continues. 

It will be necessary to keep in mind 
the omission in the preceding acts of 
the word debt, when, by the law, we 
have seen, even in the Star Chamber, 
that the true cause of commitment was 
required by Selden to be precisely 
stated; and so it is now in all other 
civil and criminal processes. Why was 
it so carefully omitted in cases of sim- 
ple debt? Would it have been too 
open and flagrant a violation of the 
Great Charter? We have said that 
we must keep that in view, and also 
this extraordinary fact, that none of 
those acts refer to any charter or statute, 
or ancient law or custom, to support 


Imprisonment for Debt. 


the system of arre^t on mesne process, 
or even on judgment, but very de- 
murely lake it for granted ; so that we 
may more clearly comprefaeud the last 
and most important aJteration in this 
system by tlie Uniformity of Process 
Act, 2 Wm. IV. c. 36. 

It seems to us, after matui-e consi- 
deration, that the person who drew up 
that act, being fir better acquaiiited 
with tlie technicalities of tlie practice 
of the law, tlian with the constitutional 
laws and rights of the realm, has, unin- 
tentionally, destroyed, not only all the 
fictitious plaints, imbecile *' ac etiamif' 
and all the chicanery of system so long 
continued, but deprived all the courts 
of their hitherto ai>sumed power in cases 
of simple debt, and placed the law on 
its ancient constitutional grounds, and 
thus superseded the necessity of legis- 
lating further on tliis important matter, 
than settling the exact meaning of this 
Uniformity of Process Act. 

That act (describes that one of the 
five forms of process set forth in the 
schedule shall be adopted, and not 
tJie writs which had heretofore been 
in use. 

1 . A writ of summons to be person- 
ally served in ordinary cases. 

2. A writ of distringas, witii a view 
of seizing the defendant's goods, to the 
amount of forty shillings, in case of not 
being able to serve the defendant per- 
sonally with a writ of sumoaons, and 
also as the preliminary of proceedings 
to outlawry. 

3. A writ oi capias to arrest a paKy 
who is at large, or already in custody of 
a she I iff. 

4. A writ of detainer against a per- 
son already in the prison of one of the 

5. A writ of summons to be served 
on a member of parliament, in order to 
enforce Uie provisions of the Bankrupt 
Act, 6 Geo. IV., c. 16, s. 10. 

The form of the third writ abo?e 
given, and the 2 1st section of the act 
considered together, will, we believe, 
fully bear out our constitutional and 
common-sense interpretation. The 
clause is as follows : — 

" XXI. And be it further enacted, 
that from the time when this shall com. 
menee, and take effect, the writs herein, 
before authorised shall be the only writs 
lor the commencement of personal ac- 
tione in any of the courts aforesaid, in 
easM ta which $aeh writt are applicable. 
And the costs to be tdlowed and charged 

for such wriU shall be the same as for 
writs of latiut. Provided always, that 
nothing in this act contained shall 
abridge, alter, or affect the franchise and 
jurisdiction of either the counties pala- 
tine of Lancaster or Durham, or of any 
officer or minister thereof." 

It has been ruled and decided, that 
the suing out of the writ of summoos, 
and all the other writs, are to be con- 
sidered as *< the commencement of the 
action," for all purposes ; and tliai 
they cannot be issued before the cause 
ofaclion is complete. 

We must now give the form of No. 
4 in the schedule, viz., the writ of 

'* William IV.. &c. to the sheriff of 

greeting. We command you (or as 

before or often we have commanded you) 
that you omit not by reason of afiy liberty 
of your bailiwick, but that you enter the 

same, and take C. D.,of ,if he shall be 

found in your bailiwick, and him safely 
keep, unul he shall have given you hail, 
or made deposit with you, according to 
the law in an action on promises (or of 
debt, &c.) at the suit of A. B., or until 
the said C. D. shall by other lawful 
means be discharged from your custody. 
And we further command you, that, on 
execution hereof, you do deliver a copy 
hereof to the said C. D. And we hereby 
require the said C. D. to take notice, 
that within eight days after execution 
hereof on him» he shall cause special 
bail to be put in for him in our court of 

to the said action ; and that in 

default of his doing so, such proceedings 
may be had and taken as are mentioneid 
in roe warning hereunder written, or en- 
dorsed hereon. And we do further com- 
mand you the said sheriffs, that imme- 
diately after the execution hereof, or that 
if the same remains unexecuted, then 
that you return the same at the end of 
four calendar months from the date 
hereof, or sooner if you shall be there- 
unto required, by order of the said court 

or any judge thereof. Witness at 

Westminster, the day of ." 

The words of the 21st clause, above 
quoted, the words of the writ, and the 
words used in the form of the affidavit, 
which now comprise the allegation on 
which to found the process, and autho- 
rise the endorsements ordained by this 
and the former statutes, have clmnged 
the cause of action. Five writs (as we 
have seen) are the only writs on which 
personal actions can be cooHneneed, 
and in those cases to which alone such 
writs are applicable.. Thus all chi- 
oanecies of the Urn and piactice in per- 

la38.] Mr. AUam€y-0tn9ral and Mr. ttawes't BilL 


gUf** the writ 

sonal ttctioiis for sknple debt are done 
away. The disgracenil and tyraanous 
ftctioBS, the writs of tiespass ^^vi et 
" of ctq^as ** quare claummft-e- 
quo mtnttf" tieretofbre 
pttlouslj and fraudulently ob- 
tatned fron the sereral courts of West- 
fnkwter on lalae charges and allega- 
tkm^y the juggling ** ae etitun*' clauses, 
and all the misetable rubbish of John 
Doe and Richard Roe, are by the 
UnHbnnity of Process Act swept away. * 

Tlie unconstitutional law whidi by 
the former prooeee faliely accused a 
•object of trime^ and then imprisoned 
bkn for debt, being destroyed, it is dear 
that the law between debtor and ere- 
dilor stands on the ancient laws and 
eosloaM of the ktagdom as hi principle 
set fonli by Magna Chatta, and which 
have never been altered or repealed. 
ia fiMt, dM old law has been (untnten- 
tiooally) as it weve, let in again pure 
aad clear,— for a simple debt is no 
crime, aad without the verdict of a jury 
declaring that crime has been com- 
mitted, no subject can be constitu- 
tionally imprisoned. Even after a 
jury has declared the accused guilty of 
crime, the judgment must coiHain not 
only tbe precise cause of action, but 
dM exact nature, degree, and duration 
of papishmeot. We maintain that, 
iie criminal accusations of trespass 
with fotee and arms, &c., being done 
away wkh, by the Uaifbfmity of Pro- 
eees Act, all actions for simple debt 
can oaly be commenced by writ of 
smamons, and prosecuted by writ of c/m- 
trmgoi sad attachaiem of property. 
The same line of argument is, strictly, 
logically applicable to commitment m 
eaaemioo. We may past over the 
process in court, and conolade that the 
plaintiff has a verdict for the amount 
claimed, and bis costs ; and, as a WMt- 
tar of course, all the power, according 
to the common law, or statute law, in 
cooformiiy with the principles of the 
oonstitution, by wbicii the court can 
enforce its judgments, but which can- 
not legally extend to the indefinite im- 
prisonment of the defendant's person ; 
siaee by iHsiriiigai and distrass infinite 
—which latter comprises even the 
issues aad profits of lands— all that the 
law caa give, aU that the debtor pos- 
sesses, is msKie available to his cre- 
ditor. To declare that inability to pay 
is to give autliority to a court to send a 
ftee-bom man to a dungeon for an un- 
specified period, is so paai an «b- 
s«sditjiakgiilalio0f •• aoi lo mmH 

discussion. It is curious, that when the 
judgment is read to the debtor, not one 
vrord occurs in it which says, that he is 
adjudged to be taken to prison. He is 
asked if he can pay the demand ; on 
his answering that he cannot, the judge 
placidly says, " then you are com- 
mitted to prison." In the words of 
Lord Eldon, perhaps, " to linger out a 
life of pain and misery.*' If imprison- 
ment constituted the ^fgo/ consequence 
of judgment in questions of simple 
debt between man and man, its nature 
and duration would have been dis- 
tinctly specified. There never has 
been in these realms, directly, any such 
law, notwithstanding the jesuit-like, 
stealthy, and fraudulent practice under 
the colorable pretexts or law ; and we 
wonder that, after four years of shuf- 
fttng and delay, the radical eiTor has 
not been discovered, and. the matter 
settled on true principles o( conservatism. 

As the jurisdiction of the Court of 
King's Bench in simple actions of ac- 
count depends on the criminal allega- 
tion, as the Uniformity of Process Act 
has completely destroyed that false al- 
legation, and as the affidavit of the 
plaintiflr is simply a matter of debt, it 
may be a question if the power of that 
court in such matters is not ** ousted " 
in ioto. By parity of reasoning, tl)e 
writs of^^quo minus" of the Court of 
Enchequer being set aside, the jurisdic- 
tion of that court in similar cases has 
etased to exist, llie operation of the 
same statute leads to the belief that the 
Court of Common Pleas is now the 
only court at Westmmster where per- 
sonal actions for simple debt can be 
legally brouRht. These are technical 
questions of great importance, and 
cannot too soon be inquired into by the 
learned judges who preside in those 
courts ; for, if by the operations of that 
act their jurisdictions were destroyed, 
all proceedings in them, since the act 
came into force, are null and void. 

We have shewn, inoontestably, that 
Magna Cbarta isthecommon law,— that 
it has never been abrogated, nor openly 
violated, but constantly confirmed; 
that the common law allows of no ar- 
rest of the person for simple debt, and 
no imprisonment but on the verdict of 
a jury ; that summons and distringoM 
were the law and custom of England 
from the eariiest periods ; that the seiz- 
ure of the person and imprisonment on 
affirmation, or affidavit, unsupported 
by uoimpeaehable witnesses, is a direct 
vmatioii of the SSth and 39th articles 


Imprisonment for Debt, 


of the great charter ; that no statute or 
act of parliament refers to any preced- 
ing charter, law, or custom, as autlio- 
rity for such arrest and imprisonment, 
but presumptuously assumes that such 
was the law, — and then, to support the 
oppressive violation of tiie constitutional 
rights of the subject, uses a fictitious 
plaint, and converts a civil action into 
a criminal one, and thus, under colora- 
ble pretexts, incarcerated tlie accused 
for any number of years. We have 
shewn tliat the great charter was ever 
held in the highest veneration by kings, 
the people, and the English clergy; 
that it cannot be abrogated or violated 
in any point ; and tliat until a conven- 
tion of tiie nation and a new bill of 
rights shall abrogate it, or alter any 
part of it, all enactments made con- 
trary to it shall be considered as null 
and void, as it constitutes " the basis 
of the settled laws of this kingdom^ 
without which we have nothingJ'* Lord 
Chief Justice Holt, in the name of the 
twelve judges, on pronouncing tlie ac- 
quittal of a man who bad killed a sbe- 
rilT s officer who had illegally arrested 
a debtor, thus solemnly declared the 
value of the great charter ; and with his 
emphatic words we shall conclude this 
part of our remarks : — 

*' If one be imprisoned upon an un- 
lawful authority, it is sufficient provoca- 
tion to all people to rescue out of com- 
passion, much more so when it is done 
under colour of justice, and when the 
liberty of the subject is invaded : it is a 
provocation to all the subjects offing- 
land. A man ought to be concerned for 
UAONA CHARTA and the laws ; and if 
any man against law imprison a man, be 
is an offender against magna charta !" 

We now enter on our second point, the 
utility or inutility of the power of arrest 
on mesne process in a mercantile view, 
and of its necessity as a test of sol- 
vency. It may be justly said that the 
discussion is unnecessary; for if arrest 
be unconstitutional and illegal^ whe- 
ther it be useful or useless, it cannot be 
practised, unless the statute of Acton 
Burnal, or statute Merchant, is still in 
force, which applies equally to the peer 
and the commoner ; but which we 
think the 42d of £d. HI. virtually an- 
nulled. In the present state of the 
practice, we may be permitted to 
briefly make a few observations on a 
matter of such moment in a com- 

mercial country. It is a self-evident 
Uuth, that he who justly owes should 
pay. It is equally true, tliat he who 
can pay and will not must be com- 
pelled to act justly. 

As nearly every man in these realms 
is both a creditor and a debtor, and as 
inability to pay may (and often does) 
arise from defalcation in those on whom 
dependence has been placed, the great- 
est caution is requisite in legislating on 
. the subject. No summary process 
should be allowed unless a creditor 
proves (no/t sud loqueld)^ but by cre- 
dible witnesses, that his debtor is about 
to leave the kingdom. Then the sum- 
mons should contain an order ne exeat 
regno, under penalty of immediate dis- 
tress infinite. If a merchant can sup- 
port by sufficient testimony that the 
purcliaser of his goods is about to ab- 
scond, or transfer tliem in a fraudulent 
manner, the law should enable the 
merchant to place proper officers on 
the premises, with air agent selected by 
him, and other merchant creditors, who 
should not permit any goods to be re- 
moved but on payment ; and the 
amount sliould be sanctioned and re- 
ceived by the agent for the general 
benefit of the creditors, until the expira- 
tion of a given period. It is a foul 
error in legislation to leave any power 
in the hands of a complainant, and still 
worse in the power of an attorney, 
after the legal authorities have be^ 
applied to ; from that moment all 
power should be vested in, and emanate 
from, the law. The creditor lias ap- 
pealed to the law, and he should then 
be compelled either to relinquish all 
claim to legal redress, or leave the 
matter to be adjudicated in exact con- 
formity with tlie established law. The 
vindictiveness of the creditor, the ra- 
pacity and cunning of the attorney, the 
extortion of the harpies of the sheriff, 
would, by that simple principle, be 
nearly put an end to. By the old, and 
the present system, a debtor is com- 
pletely at the mercy of his creditor and 
the attorney, both interested parties, 
and consequently unfit to be judges in 
their own cause. We tliink the power 
tyrannous and unconstitutional which 
allows a creditor, to whom more than 
one hundred pounds are due, and who 
may owe to his debtor more than that 
sum,* to make his debtor a bankrupt, 
and involve him and his fiaroily in ir- 

* A Mr. Dafresne was made a bankrupt by a man who owed him much more 
than he claimed ; notwithstanding, his meicbandiae was seised, sold, and diyided 

1838.] Mr. Attorney-General and Mr. Hawes's Bill. 


retrievable rain, and indelible disgrace/ 
and possible future insecurity, on his 
mere affidavit of the debt. It is putting 
greater power, and that irresponsible, 
into the hands of creditors, and attor- 
neys who may influence them, than is 
allowed to any court or authority in 
any civilised kingdom. 

To attempt to obtain legal redress 
after the mischief has been done is only 
adding gall to bitterness ; indeed, it is 
impossible for a man deprived of all 
he has to incur the expense of legal 
proceedings, both costly and tedious. 
Some of our laws give a curious faci-* 
lily to oppress, and ofler almost insu- 
perable obstacles and great expense in 
every attempt to obtain redress, and 
that more particularly where the op- 
pressed are not possessed of ample 

No merchant or roanufecturer ever 
opens an account with a dealer because 
he can enforce payment by the arrest of 
hit person. If any merchant antici- 
. pated that such an occurrence would 
transpire, he would have declined 
transacting business with him. The 
power ought only to be looked on by 
the merchant as one to be used in ag- 
gravated cases of fraud, under the laws 
which relate to such crimes ; if the act 
is acloally fraudulent, other branches 
of the law should be used to afford him 
redress. In that case, an application 
for a fiat of bankruptcy woula be justi- 
fiable ; but his accusation should be 
proved before so severe a measure was 
pot in force. If a man is arrested for a 
mercantile debt, the probability is a 
hundred to one that it is bruited abroad 
that his credit is destroyed, whether the 
debt is just or unjust ; and that other 
arrests immediately follow, which leave 
him no alternative but bankruptcy. 
His property is hastily sold, under the 
most inauspicious circumstances, and 
seldom produces enough to pay more 
than a portion of the demands on his 
estate, though before the arrest he might 
have been deemed mercanlilely sol vent.* 

If his occupation has been one which 
depended on his talents, as well as his 
capital, his arrest can only injure his 
creditors ; for within four spiked walls 
it is clear that the engineer cannot pur- 
sue his calling, — the merchant cannot 
attend the markets and retrieve his cir- 
cumstances, the architect pursue his 
profession, or the retail dealer attend to 
the profitable disposal of his wares, 
— the surgeon must lose his connexion, 
the merchant-captain employment, the 
farmer his land and the seasons : in 
short, all those now subject to the 
bankrupt laws must lie by arrest and 
imprisonment made poorer, and useless 
subjects, while their incarceration can 
only be injurious to their creditors, and 
ruinous to themselves und families. 
The moral contagion is wide spread, 
and dreadful, and too well known to 
require lengthened notice. The per- 
sonal sufferings are great, from the de- 
privation of liberty to actual want of 
fire, food, and raiment, the being dis- 
severed from social ties, and denied the 
attendances on the last and greatest of 
human afflictions, even under the cus- 
tody of officers. Many — the greater 
proportion of those imprisoned — are 
children of misfortune. Those who 
have been improvident and unwise do 
not merit a degree of severity only 
shewn to convicted criminals. The frau- 
dulent come under another denomina- 
tion, and ought not to be classed with 
the mere debtor. Whatever was the 
general state of acquirement among the 
mass of the people in the days when 
Magna Charta re-established the an- 
cient laws and customs of the realm, it 
is evident that there must ha^e been 
then living men of superior intelligence, 
who understood and clearly expressed 
the great principles of legislation, and 
who lefl as little as possible open to 
legislation on expediency, — whicli,from 
their caution, it is clear they knew, as 
well as ourselves, was only leaving a 
wide door open to tyranny, chicanery, 
uncertainty, and legal confusion, and 

tmong his creditors, and a surulus remains. Mr. Dufresne would not submit 
to the commissioa, which would have barred bis obtaining future redreis, and has 
been, consequently, imprisoned twenty-three years ! ! 

* While correcting the proof of this article, we read the following sentence 
in vol. vi. p. 239, of Lookhart's Life of Sir Walter Scolt, It appears that he 
bad been threatened with arrest, and thos expresses his opinion: — " It would, 
besides, ofitsclf totally destroy any power offancv, of genius, if it deserves the name, 
which may remain to me. A man cannot write in the House of Correction ; and this 
species of peine forte et dure which is threatened, would render it impossible for one 
to h«>1pbraiself or others." It thrills one with indignation at learning such a man 


Impruonmeni for Debt. 


the yet greater evil — the meang of gnn 
dually undermining the liberties of a 
nation . The nes^lect of legislators, — the 
cunning of self-interest, — the steady, 
stealthy, grasping at power of the 
profession of the law, — and last, but 
not least, the republican spirit for /c- 
gislation on espedienc^f which ex- 
hibited itself in its acme of self- 
sufficiency during the irnpioos niadnefcs 
of the French Revolution, have added 
heaps of contradictory rubbish to the 
Atlantean weight of our laws, and 
nearly the whole in a style so obscure 
and barbaric as may in future ages ex- 
cite the wonder and contempt oJF more 
enlightened generations. In our opi- 
nion, very little can be added to me 
ancient system, founded on principles of 
reason and Christian feeling between 
debtor and creditor. The principle* 
were these : First. That as all debts, or 
breaches of contract, only injured the 
property of another ; that the goods and 
issues of the property of a debtor should 
be made available for the payment of a 
just debt. This was to be effected 
without destroying the debtor; his 
** wainage" — that is, his farming im- 
plements — were not to be taken from 
him ; that extended to the tools of 
every other trade (and which to a li- 
mited extent is still observed); his per- 
son was not to be imprisoned, on the 
principle, that if he were in prison he 
could not ** serve the king in his wars, 
cultivate the ground, or maintain his 
family .'' Secondly. On the priftcipU 
that no man should be the accuser and 
judge in his own cause. No man was 
allowed to establish his claim against a 
debtor, H simplici loqueld sud,'* Thirdly. 
On the principle that a simple account 
between man and man was not a crime, 
they allowed of neither arrest nor im- 
prisonment. Fourthly. On the prin' 
ciple that no man should be brought 
under the law without being lirst heard 
by his peers and the appointed judge, a 
summons to appear at a given time was 
all that was allowed. Fifthly. On 
the principle that a just debt should be 
paid, when satisfied of its justice, they 
issued writs of distringas, and di^ 
trained property to a certain small 
amount, and that successively until the 
debt was liquidated. While that process 
was in force, the debtor could not 
transfer to a purchaser any property 
without noiice to the local authorities ; 
and the purchaser was liable to ac- 
count for the, value .or the property, 

under the penaHy of distiess infinise W 
both the seller and the purchaser. 
Sixthly. On the principle tlMt to im- 
prison a man who had no goods was 
folly ; the return of ** rmUa bona'' ter- 
minated the matter. W bat roan could 
avoid by that system paying to the ut- 
most of his means the debt justljr 
proved ? Compare that almost perfect 
sjTSiem with the practices of our ooum* 
and we shall fina that the lawyers, ia- 
slead of supporting the prittcipleSf me^ 
tualfy subverted every one ofthemy and 
built up on (&lsely) declared expe^ 
dieneiee a system at once unconstilO' 
tional, cruel, and useless. Erpediemey 
devised a false allegation; expediency 
seized the person of the debtor, real or 
supposed, and pot him into prison ; 
expediency sold his wainage, and de- 
stroyed the debtor; expediency gave 
power to inflict such misery on the 
simple affirmation of one other person, 
without deeming it even necemry to 
ascertain if the demand could be sup- 
ported by testimony; expediency gave 
a permission to tear a fiuher from his 
weeping wife and children, and shut 
him in a dungeon, so that he could not 
serve the king, cultivate the land, work 
at his calling, or maintain his £imily ; 
expediency deemed it just and humane 
to seize all a man possessed, and hav- 
ing driven his family from their homes, 
and left them in destitution, to arrest 
the man who bad nothing left, and put 
him into a dungeon, until be found a 
ransom, or his grave. 

Such is the diflference between ptix- 
ciPLE and EXPEDIENCY. £very true 
Conservative must feel his honour 
" concerned for Magna Charu and the 
laws,'' and, by firmly demanding that it 
be fortliwith restored to its purity, a 
new era in legislation will be establislied, 
by which every proposed enactment 
will be referred to principle; it will 
constitute an impenetrable bulwark 
against headlong republican reform, on 
the shallow and dangerous system of ex- 
PEDIENCY, which has broken in upon 
the great charter of the kingdom, inno- 
vated on the compact between the sove- 
reign and the people — cattsed the de- 
struction, ruin, and misery of hmidreds 
of thousands, and keeps always fifleen 
thousand of our subjects in useless cap- 

From tliis terrible example every re- 
flecting mind will draw the distinction 
between that true Conservatism which 
obtained Magna CharU^ and iroyW 

1838.] Mr. Attorney- General and Mr. Hawes's Bill. 


preserve it, and tliat radical or repub- 
licjin expediency whicli would destroy it, 
and all the strongholds of our freedom. 
It is almost needless to remark that 
''the Common-law Commission'' on 
this subject was a complete failure, and 
productive rather of evil than of good. 
That commission never entered into the 
question of the legality of arrest and 
tmprtsonraent for simple debt, and the 
queries propounded to men in prison 
for debt were futile, and not calcn- 
]a*ed to elicit information or truth. 
The viod voce examination of bankers, 
Bwrchants, attorneys, slieriff's officers, 
and gaolers can only be considered as 
an ex parte statement, as all those per- 
sons are interested in the continuance 
of the system : to some it gives sum- 
mary power, and saves all further trou- 
ble; to others the means of subsistence 
and plunder. No men were ever yet 
discovered who gave up power or pelf 
without a struggle. There are men 
who uphold the utility and humanity 
of the Inquisition, because it sanctions 
the confiscation of property, and the 
torture of the body, that the soul may 
be saved. Others maintained the po- 
licy of the Bastile. The defenders of 
the justice and constitutional character 
of the Star Chamber were numerous. 
Patrons were not wanting to support 
the necessity of flogging seamen round 
tlie fleet, inflicting disgusting agony fur 
hours. Even slavery had, and has, its 
advocates. Arrest and imprisoiunent 
for debt, which, acooiding to Lord 
Eldon, is ^' iM>rwe Mnit tlmry iitdf^* 
— has its staunch supporters, as being 
expedient in a mercantile country, 
though a Harman or a fiarmg never 
issued a writ ; and though common 
sense tells us that fifteen thousand peo- 
ple would not, year after year, remain 
in prison if they could pay the claims 
on them, and obtain their freedom. 
The Insolvent Court, which was consi- 
dered a mighty boon, which saved an 
unfortunate debtor the necessity of re- 
maming the rest of his life in prison, in 
the land where the twenty-ninth article 
of Magna Ciiarta had never been re- 
pealed, is too great a farce to merit 
more than a single sentence. It com- 
pels imprisonment before it presumes 
to take cognisance of a petition 1 It 

requires more forms than a court of 
bankruptcy, and affords less relief. It 
punishes, without the intervention of a 
jury, but by the fiat of a commissioner. 
It has obtained from upwards of fifty 
thousand insolvents the great average 
of one farthing in the pound on tlie 
debts proved, at an expenditure in law 
and subsistence in prison ; and, con- 
sequently, to the loss of the creditors of 
at least one million of money, and at 
an expense to the country of perhaps 
half that sum. That court is another 
specimen of legislation on expediency. 
Of Sir John CampbelPs and Mr. 
Hawes's twice scouted bill, " for ex- 
tending the remedies ofcredi tors against 
the property of debtors, and for abolish- 
ing imprisonment for debt, except in 
certain cases of fraud," we need only 
observe, that, as a lawyer, he has shewn 
consummate ignorance in bringing into 
parliament a bill for abolishing what 
could not be constitutionally upheld, 
until Magna Charta was declared an 
useless curiosity, and for being evi- 
dently unacquainted with the mild, yet 
efficient, ancient laws of the kingdom, 
by which a just debt was certain of be- 
ing paid, if'^lhe debtor had wherewith 
to pay it. It was never the sincere in- 
tention of the present government to le- 
gislate on the matter. The shuffling, 
the dehiy, the heartless insincerity, 
proved either their incapacity, or their 
indifference, or both. We shall see 
bow that " legacy,'* Lord CoUenham, 
" left" by Lord Brougham " to his 
country,'* performs his promised task. 
We trust that, to save trouble, his 
lordship will be *^ concerned for Magna 
Charta and the laws,** or he may hear 
a little more than Whigs or Radicals 
may relish on the constitution of Eng- 
land, and the compact between the 
sovereign and the people. We tell his 
lordship that his bill must differ widely 
from Sir J. Campbell's abortive pro- 
duction, which we know was intended, 
under the mask of humanity (1) to |^ull 
down the aristocracy and landed pro- 
prietors of the kingdom, and was a deep 
kid scheme, having the republican nos- 
trum expediency ioT its mainspring. 

We will now close our observations 
with the prayer of a pamphlet pub* 
lished in 1653.* 

• " A supply to a draught of act or system proposed (as is reported) by tho 
committee for regulations concerning the law, wherein are provisos against several 
iaconveuienees which may befal a free people of this natieu thereby, unless season- 
ihly, by the Sitpreme Power, or otherwise, prevented." To this old. pithy pamphlet 
is appended a much better bill Aan Sir John Campbeirs and Mr. Hawes's. 


The Fahululs. 



** Now, fot that it is as clear as light, 
how highly Talnahle and dearlj precioDS 
the liberties of men*8 persons were by 
the common law of the land, it is in the 
most humble and sabmissive manner pro- 
posed, that as well for the good of all his 
(her) majesties subjects, as well as pri- 
soners, the ancient common law vdaj be 
restored ; and that great liberty ot the 
freedom of all the subjects of England 
and Wales from imprisonment for debt or 
damages may, by the grace and favour of 
his (her) majesty, and of both honourable 
houses, DC again retrieved, and brought 
back with honour to the people of this 
kingdom ; and that the ancient forms and 
ways for the recovery of debts may be, 
as for several hundred years it was, bv 
the ancient common law continued with 
great and happy peace and tranquillity 
for such great length of time aforesaid.'^ 

By that quotation we see that the 
evils of the violation of the great char- 
ter were felt, and understood, and peti- 
tioned against. Those evils have in- 
creased, until the cry is too loud to be 
any longer stifled, until it has reached 
the throne, and excited in the bosom of 
our Queen the deepest anxiety and 
emotion. That solicitude must con- 
tinue, until the cry of the poor, and the 
needy, and those that have none to help 
them, has obtained redress, and until 
the great charter on which her throne 
is founded, and from which have been 
derived those principles that, by the 
blessing of Providence, have secured 
the peace, security, and glory of her 
kinedom is restored to its purity, and 
used as the common law of the land. 



Lord Byron confessed that he had 
never succeeded, to his own satisfac- 
tion, in an epigram ; and Milton's tri- 
bute to Hobson shews his carvings 
upon cherry-stones to have been very 
defective. The composition of a fable 
seems to demand talents equally pe- 
culiar and uncommon. .A^p, Phae- 
drus, Fontaine, Gay, Iriarte, and his 
imitator, Florian (who, by the advice 
of Voltaire, had cultivated the literature 
of Spain, and whose Fables have been 
placed only a little lower than Fon- 
taine's), are the principal names in the 
catalogue. We ought, however, to in- 
clude tlie Oriental collections, espe- 
cially that of the famous Pilpay — 
properly, Vishnusarman — whose writ- 
ings Sir William Jones esteemed the 
roost beautiful, if not the most ancient, 
collection of Apologues in the world. 
Fontaine, in the second book of Fables, 
acknowledges his obligations to the 
Indian. The apologue, he says, in his 
elegant verses to Madame de Monte- 
span, is a gift sent down from the 
Immortals; and that the memory of 
the sage by whom the art was dis- 
covered ought to be preserved by the 
erection of temples to his fame. In 
all nations, the dawn of intellect has 
shone forth in allegory; and the ear- 
^iest accents of Wisdom have been ut- 

tered in the language of Action. The 
little apologues introduced, with so 
much simple beauty, into the sacred 
Scriptures, will naturally occur to the 
reader. Jotham*s Fable of the Trees, 
in the Book of Judges, is tlie most 
ancient specimen upon record. The 
principle of imitation appears to have 
operated with less intensity in fabulous 
writing than in any other branch of 
literature. In Greek, we have only 
one iEsop; in Latin, one Phsedrus; 
in French, one Fontaine. The fact is 
curious, as forming an exception to 
the general rule. Davenant says, in 
his charming preface to Gondiberty 
that the spirit of Homer, long after his 
death, continued to wander about 
Greece ; his soul, by a noble metem- 
psychosis, assumed a new, though in- 
finitely less glorious existence, in the 
hearts of the high-minded and enthu- 
siastic. An impulse was given to lofly 
aspiration ; a fountain of perpetual re- 
freshment was opened to the people. 
Family after family rose up to bless 
the Patriarch of Poetry. So Phito 
came from the feet of Socrates; and 
Aristotle started out of the Garden of 
Plato. Sophocles kindled his torch 
at the 6re of iEschylus ; and the bois- 
terous jollity of a rural carnival was 
chastened into th^ Signified g^ce of 


^sop, Phadrus, Oay, and Fontaine. 


Menander. The epidemical infection 
of imitation spreads with rapidity pro- 
portioned to the success of the lirst 
mrentor. The works of Pope became 
a Gradia ad Parmusum — a Rhyming 
Dictionary — to the youthful scholar: 
the Temple of Fame could be reached 
only by following the track of his 
chariot- wheels ; and, as Cowper com- 

Elainedy every warbler had his tune by 
eart. It is an elementary axiom fa- 
miliar to Freshmen, that from like 
causes like consequences will result; 
the exception, in the present case, 
clearly proves one side of the following 
dbj unction to be true — either that the 
stream of moralised allegory, which 
we call Fable, was very quickly ex- 
hausted, or that the Cutties necessary 
to its discovery and application are 
bestowed with less frequency than the 
higher powers of invention. 

The nistory of .^Isop has been inves- 
tigated with all the acuteness of learn- 
ing, withont receiving a corresponding 
elucidation. Fontaine has woven his 
own conjectures into a biographical 
pre&ce to his Fable$, It will not be 
necessary to darken our page with the 
cloud of witnesses which might be 
easily brought into the controversy. 
Uis reputation, which is the principal 
circumstance, has been stamped by 
the concurring applause of the most 
eminent Masters of the elder literature. 
Herodotus, Aristotle, Aristophanes, and 
Plutarch, mention him with high com- 
mendation. Socrates employed the 
clofiog hours of his life in turning 
some of his fables into verse; and 
Plato, who dismissed Homer from his 
commonwealth, reserved a seat for 
iEsop. Nor does it seem expedient 
to plunge, at present, into the examin- 
ation of his identity with the fiimous 
Lockman ; an hypothesis which has 
been advanced with pertinacity, and 
maintained with great ingenuity and 
erudition. We may, perhaps, at a fu- 
ture period, put into the reader's hand 
a thread for this labyrinth. A more 
gratifying contemplation is afforded 
by tlie recollection of the happy results 
which liave so often flowed from the 
introduction of foble. Rousseau is, 
probably, their only opponent. That 
clever and interesting madman asserted, 
that £ibles ascribing reason and speech 
to animals should be withheld from 
children, as being, in fact, only vehicles 
of dec^ion : an objection which has 
tteen reftited, with sufficient serious- 

ness, by Cowper, in his pleasant apo- 
logue, Fairing-Time anticipated: 

" I shall Qol ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 

If birds confabulate, or no ; 

Tis clear that they were always able 

To hold discourse, at least in fable : 

And even the child, who knows no better 

Than to interpret, by the letter, 

A story of a cock and bull, 

Must have a most uncommon skull." 

Gibbon, in the history of his own 
early education, also alludes to this 
reverie of the author of the Confettiont, 
*' Tlie use of fables, or apologues,'' he 
says, "has been approved in every 
age, from ancient India to modem 
Europe. They convey, in familiar 
images, the truths of morality and pru- 
dence; and the most childish under- 
standing ([ advert to the scruples of 
Rousseau) will not suppose either beasts 
do speak, or that men may lie. A fable 
represents the genuine characters of 
animals ; and a skilful master might 
extract from Pliny or Buffon some 
pleasing lessons of natural history." 

It has been doubted, whether TEsop 
committed any of his fables to writing. 
The general opinion supposes them to 
have been thrown oflf uplon particular 
occasions, or uttered in conversation 
as moral apophtliegms. Thus, for in- 
stance, when Croesus offered peace and 
liberty to the Samians, upon condition 
of their delivering up £sop, by whose 
advice they had declared war against 
him, the philosopher decided the fluc- 
tuating feelings of the people by the 
fable of the Wolves and the Sheep, 
who gave up their only defenders, the 
Dogs. Tlie beautiful fable of the Gras- 
hopper, who petitioned for life because 
her only occupation was to sing, ob- 
tained the author's pardon from the 
Lydian monarch, into whose presence 
he had introduced himself. His visit to 
Athens, under the government of Pisis- 
tratus, was signalised by his relation of 
the celebrated story of the Frogs who 
wanted a King, and who underwent the 
tyranny of the Stork as a punishment of 
their foolish desires. Of the readiness 
of his wit, a striking illustration has 
been given. His master, Xanthus, who 
had purchased him, it will be remem- 
bered, at Ephesus, having, in the ex- 
citement of mtoxication, made a wager 
tliat he would drink the sea dry, ap- 
plied to .^sop to extricate him from 
the difficulty. Acting upon his slave's 
advice, ho appeared on the following 


The FabulUis. 



dlay upon the sea-shore, in company 
with the individual with whom the bet 
depended. "And now," said Xanthu?, 
**1 am ready to drink the sea dry, 
provided you first stop all (he rivers 
that run into it." The sayings at- 
tributed to ^op are, iudeed, very 
apocryphal ; but they sufficiently attest 
his traditional reputation for ingenuity. 
Every classical reader will remember 
Bentley's famous dissertation upon the 
Fables of iEsop, where he proves, to 
his own sati«faetion, half of the extant 
iieibles which bear his name to have 
been written a thousand years after his 
death, and the remaining half at a still 
later time. He considers them to have 
been drawn up by Planudes, whom 
be desiffnates " that Idiot of a Monk, 
whose iJfe ofJEsop cannot," he says, 
" be matched in any language for igno* 
nmce and nonsense." Tlte anecdote 
we have related of Xanthus drinking 
up the sea was, he tells us, tlie king of 
Ethiopians problem to Amasis, king of 
Egypt. His remarks upon the personal 
appearance of the Fabulist are more 
interesting, though less conclusive. 
** It was an old tradition," he writes, 
"among the Greeks, that yEsop re- 
vived again, and lived a second life. 
Should he revive once more, and see 
the picture before the book that carries 
his name, could he think it drawn for 
himself, or some strange beast intro- 
duced into the FobUt? But what 
revelation had this monk about iEsop s 
deformity? for he must have learned 
it by dream and vbion, and not by 
ordinary methods of knowledge. He 
lived about two thousand years after 
him, and, in all that track of time, 
there is not one single author that has 
given the least hint that iEsop was 
ugly. W hat credit, then, can be given 
to an ignorant monk that broaches a 
new story, after so many ages? In 
Plutarch's Conviviwif, our ^op is 
one of the guests, with Solon and the 
other sages of Greece. There is abund- 
ance of jest and raillery there amongst 
them, and particulariy upon ^sop; 
but nobody drolls upon his ugly face: 
which could hardly have escaped had 
he had such a bad one. Perhaps it 
will be said, it had been rude and in- 
decent to touch upon a natural imper- 
fection. Not at all, if it had been 
done softly and jocosely. In Plato's 
Feast, they are very merry upon So- 
crates* face, which resembled old Si- 
Mrnis ; and in tMs Ht^ twit ^JE^sop for 

having been a skive, which was no 
more his 6iult than deformity would 
have been. Philosfratus has given us, 
in two books, a description of a gallery 
of pictures; one of which is Alaop, 
with a chorus oi animals about him. 
There he is represented smiling, and 
looking towards the ground in a pos- 
ture of thought: but not a word of his 
deformity; which, were it true, must 
iieeds have been touched on in an ac- 
count of a picture." 

The caustie Master of Trinity pro- 
ceeds to shew, in support of his appeal 
against the verdict of posterity, that 
the statue erected by the Athenians to 
the memory of ^sop, as recorded by 
Phfedrus, must have been a mockery, 
if the Idiot Monk be called a correct 
painter — no better, indeed, than a 
monument of his ugliness. Least of 
all, he thinks, would the famous Ly- 
sippos, tlie most eminent sculptor of 
his age, have prostituted his genius to 
perpetuate derormity. Msaip was the 
friend of Croesus, his ambassador to 
Corinth and Delphi ; Plutarch assigns 
him the graces of a courtier. Who 
can refuse his assent, therefore, to the 
Critic of Phalaris, that JE.sop was not 
only free firom deformity, but was pro- 
bably endowed with great personal 
beauty? Such a theory, while more 
pleasant in itself, is abo more har- 
monious with die physiology of in- 
ventive Genius, which ought to be 
found only in the soeiety of delicaey 
aad grace. It is just tliat so sacred 
and oelestml a Spirit shoold inhabit a 
pure and costly snrine. Swift used to 
say, that when he was reading a book, 
whether wise or silly, it seemed to be 
alive and talking to him : the coonte- 
nance of the author was reflected on 
his page. It must, however, be ac- 
knowledged, that this harmony of phy- 
sical vrith intellectual grace is oont- 
roonly perceived only in the great 
Masters of Literature and of Art. 
Shakespeare must have been pre-emi- 
nently noble and beautiful; so, we 
know, was Milton ; and so was Spen- 
ser, as any one may learn, by examining 
his portrait in the Combination Room 
at Pembroke; so were all the divine 
Italian painters— the head of Raflfaelle 
is a study of itself. This appearance 
of dignity and sweetness usually bears 
a proportion to the inventiveness and 
richness of the faculties. We natu- 
rally expect to 6nd a blander and more 
delightml expraiQon in Ptaio th«i in So- 


JEsapf Ph€Bdrm$j Cht^^ mmd Fontaine, 


cntes^Wordsworth than m Brougham. 
That Bentley's argaments are not con- 
clusive, may be assumed from the dif- 
ferent portraits of Sappho, whose image 
was stamped upon the coins and her 
memory perpetuated in the temples of 
Mitylene ; yet while Plato, and Atbe- 
nsus, and Plutarch after him, call her 
the *' beautiful Sappho,*" Maximus 
Tyrius assigns her a dusky complexion 
and a diminutive form ; and Ovid, in 
the fomous epistle which he supposes 
her to address to Phaon, represents her 
apologising for the absence of personal 
attractions by the abundant endow- 
ments of her mind, and the universal 
diffusion of her reputation. Bayle, 
walking in the steps of the Latin poet, 
thinks she was ugly, little, and brown. 
So that, notwithstanding tiie statue of 
Lysippus, the story may nevertheless 

be true which is related ofthewilb of 
Xanthos, that she inquired of her hes- 
band, on the ap)>earonce of JEsop 
among her slaves, '< whether it were a 
l)east or a man that he had new brought 
luMne?" And if we credit the interro- 
gation of the lady, we shall easily be- 
lieve the exclamation it drew (torn the 
plkilosophic servant : '< From the mercies 
uf five, water, and a wieked woman, 
great gods deliver us !" 

.£sop, althotigh the received fvHieff 
of fhbaious writing in Greece, and cer- 
tainly the first whose fancy flowed 
regularly into that channel, has no 
claim to the dignity of an inventor. 
Not to mention Homer, we find, in the 
Works and Dayt •/' Hesiod^ an ex- 
ample of a fable identical in construc- 
tion and moral : 


'* High in the cloeds aBnghtr bird of prey 
Bore t melodioea aigbtii^^ms awav ; 
And to the captive, shivering in despair. 
Thus spoke the cruel tyrant of the air : 
' Why mourns the wretch in my superior 

Thy v<noe avails not in the ravished hour. 
. Vatn are thy cries ; ai my despotic wifl 
Or I can sot thee free, or I cai kill. 
Unwieely who provokes his abler foe, 
CoB<tueet still flies him, and he strives 

fes wo.'*' — Cooke. 

The Latinity of Ph«drus, says Oib^ 
bon, is not exempt fi^om the alloy of 
the silver age ; but his manner is con- 
cise, terse,and sententious: theThracian 
slave discreetly breathes the spirit of a 
freedman, and, when the t^t is sound, 
the style is perspieuous. But tlie 
FaUeSy after a long oblivioe, were first 
published by Peter Ptthon, from a cor- 
Fopt MS. The labours of fifty editors 
confess the defects of the copy, as w^l 
as the value of the original; and the 
schoolboy may have been whipped (or 
misapprehending a passage whicn Bent^ 
ley could not restore and which Borman 
could not explain. 

Christopher Smart calls him the 
Latin Gay. " I cannot help observ- 
ing," he writes, '* that there is a great 
resemblance between the Roman fa- 
bulist and the English. In the first 
place, the names are the same; for 
Phsedrus, in Greek (*at^^f\ eigni^es 
Gay; and I shall expect tliat you point 
out to me how feur they are to be com- 

paied Co each other in respect to ele- 
eance, closeness, and purity of style — 
m lively satire, and fulness of matter 
— in learning, politeness, and, lastly, 
in comprehensive brevity : a circum- 
stance which was not sufficiently con- 
sidered by poor Mr. Moore,* whom, 
notwithstanaing, you will mention to 
your fair sisters, though they are such 
accoroplishod young ladies already, that 
they are more likely to improve upon 
him than 6y him ." But ** poor Moore " 
will survive his critic in the Gamester. 
We never walk through the old tumble- 
down courts of Pembroke College with- 
out recollecting Smart — that most un- 
happy and ingenious person, who trans- 
lated Pope*s Ode on St, Cecilia to the 
poet's satisfaction ; who inscribed his 
own Song to Davidy with a key, upon 
the walls of a cell in a madhouse; who 
said his prayers in the street, and enter- 
tained a Wred to a clean shirt. Smart's 
Ifanstation is not deficient in spirit, 
diough we miss the expressive brevity 

D i g i t i zed by **^jUUV I<c: 

• " Fables for the Femiae Se:?." 


The Fabulisis. 


of the original. The " Wolf and the 
Larab " is one of the oldest, as well as 
the most faTOurite, subjects of fables. 

Let us see liow Phedrus, Fontaioe, 
and Smart, have improved on their 
originals : 


Ad rivum eundem Lupus 

et Agnus venerant 
Stti compulsi ; superior 

stabat Lupus, 
Longe que inferior Agnus. 

Tunc fauee improba 
Latro iucitatus jurgii cau- 

sam intulit. 
Cur, inauit, turbulentam 

mibi fecisti aquam 
Istam bibenti t Lauiger 

contra timens: 
QuipossunifquiBSO, facere 

quod quereris Lupe ? 
A te decurrit ad meos 

haustus liquor. 
Repulsus ille veritatis vi- 

Ante bos sex menses, 

male, ait dixisti mibL 
Respondit Agnus: £qui. 

dem natua non eram. 
Pater hercule tuusjnquit, 

maledixit mibi : 
Atque ita correptum la- 

cerat, injusta neoe. 
H»c propter illoa scripta 

est homines fnbula. 
Qui fictiscaugisinnooentee 



La raison de plus fort est 

tonj ours la meillure : 

Nous I'allons montrer tout 


Un affneau ae dtelt^it 

Dans Te cour^nt d'une 

onde pure. 
Uu loup soorvient a jeun, 
qui cherchoit aven- 
Et que la faim en ces 
lieux attiroit, 
** Qui te rend si hardi de 
troubler mon breu- 
vage ?" 
Dit cet animal, plein 
** Tu seras ch(lti6 de ta 
" Sire," r6pond Tagneau, 
''que Fotre majesty 
Ne se mette pas en 

colere ; 
Mais plut6t qu*elle 

Que je me vas desal. 
Dans le courant, 
Plus de Tignt pas au« 

dessous d*elle ; 
£t que, par cons^uent, 
en aucune fa^on 
Je ne puis troubler sa 
" Tu la troubles," reprit 
*' £t je sais que de moi tu 
m^dis Tan pass^." 
** Comment I'aurais-je fait 
si je n'^tois pas niY* 
Reprit Tagneau ; "je 
tette encore ma 
m^— '* 
" Si ce n'est toi, c*est 
done ton frere." 
" Je n*en ai point." — 
** C'eet done quel. 
qu*un des tiens ; 
Car vous ne m'^pagnez 

Vous, vos berger, et vos 
On me Vi dit, il faut que 
je me renee." 
La-deesus, au fond des 
Le loup Temporte, et puis 
le mange, 
Sana autre forme de 
procea ! 

By thirst incited to the brook. 
The wolf and lamb tbemselres 

The wolf high up the current 

The lamb far lower down the 

Then, bent his ravenous maw 

to cram. 
The wolf took umbrage at the 

" How dare you trouble all the 

And mingle my good drink 

with mud r 
" Sir," sa^rs the lambkin, sore 

" How abould I act as you 

upbraid 1 
The thing you mention cannot 

be — 
The stream descends from you 

to me." 
Abashed by facU, says he, « I 

'Tis now exact six months 

You strove my honest fame to 

*' Six months ago, sir, I was 

not !" 
'* Then 'twas th' old ram, thy 

sire,*' he cried ; 
And so he tore him till he 


To those this fable I ad- 

Who are determined to op- 

And trump up any false pre- 

But they will injure inno- 

Digitized by 



jEsofy PhtBdrus, Gay^ and Fontaine. 


He has al^o turned the story of tlie << Fox and the Grapes '' with considerable 


Bir^tmf in^ii^wf JcXtiml 
M^futfiUftVf titvm, v§vr$»t 

Xm m itmftuSg'tt, JMM fih )v- 

fuiT»t, luu BtXwrmt r$vr» 
tut y}^tui»vs Mm^tfyffmi, 1X17- 


Fame coacta Vulpes olta 

in vioea 
Uram adpetebat summis 

salient viribus : 
Qaam tangere ut non po- 

tuit, discedam ait : 
Nondum matara est, nolo 

acerbam somere. 
Qui facere oun non pos- 

sunt, Yerbis elevant, 
Adscribere hoc debebunt 

ezemplum sibi. 

It is a circumstance worthy of no- 
tice, that Gay is the only original writer 
of English Fables who has obtained 
a distinct and enduring reputation. 
Swift, while professing the highest es- 
teem for that species, of composition, 
considered its aifficulties to oe very 
numerous. Nor did he make this 
avowal without experience. '' I found 
a moral first," he said, '* and studied 
for a fiaible ; but could do nothing that 
pleased me." And in the verses upon 
his own death, in the opinion of War- 
ton one of his best productions, he 
pleasantly admits his disappointment 
at being outdone by Gay in his own 
peculiar path of humour and bitterness. 
One or two of his attempts will be 
presently introduced, which, though 
not entirely destitute of his wonted fire 
and ingenuity, are deficient in the 
pointed brevity and humorous appli- 
cation of the moral necessary to the 
perfection of such compositions. He 
mentions the outline of one, in a letter to 
Gay, intended to represent a long war 
wherein he supposed the lion to be en- 
gaged ; and, having lost all the animals 
of worth, at last Sergeant Hog came to 
be brigadier, and Corporal Ass a co- 
lonel. It is to be regretted that Gold- 
smith, who, in flexibility of genius, 
surpassed all his contemporaries, never 
applied his pen to this branch of lite- 
rature. That the idea had suggested 
itself to him, we know from a very 
lively anecdote preserved by Boswell. 
Sir Joshua Reynolds, he tells us, was 


An hungry fox, with fierce 

Sprang on a vine, but tumbled 

Nor could attain the point in 

So near the sky the bunches 

As he went off, "They're 

scurvy stuff," 
Says he, *' and not half ripe 

enough ; 
And IVe more reverence for 

my tripes 
Than to torment them with 

the gripes." 
For those this tale is very pat 
Who lessen what they can't 

come at. 

in company with them one day, when 
Goldsmith observed that he thousht he 
could write a good fable, mentioning 
the simplicity demanded by that kind 
of writing, and adding that, in most 
fables, the animals introduced seldom 
talk in character. " For instance," said 
he, *^ the fable of the little fishes, who 
saw birds fly over their heads, and, 
envying them, petition^ Jupiter to be 
changed into birds. The skill,'' con- 
tinued he, '' consists in making them 
talk like litUe fishes." << While he 
indulged himself in this fanciful re- 
verie," says Boswell, "Johnson was 
shaking his sides with laughter." Upon 
which Goldsmith smartly proceeded : 
" Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so 
easy as you seem to think ; for, if you 
were to make little fishes talk, they 
would talk like whales." It may be 
readily imagined, that Bozzy's illus- 
trious Master growled at this happy 
retort. His inimitable Retaliation^ and 
the Haunch of Venison, while they 
display the wonderful charm of his 
humour, deepen still more our sorrow 
that he opened the vein so rarely. He 
who, in tne language of his most cele- 
brated friend, seemed always to do 
best that which he was doing, would 
have shone pre-eminently in a kind of 
writing where purity of diction, plea- 
santry of allusion, and a graceful sport- 
iven^ss of wit, softened by a simple 
pathos of sentiment, appear to compose 
the ingredients of excellence. Cowper, 
with the same easy sweetness and idiom* 


The Fabuhiis. 


atic moweas oflancy mmI ofbaipuftge, 

might have attained to equal success. 
He has given us, indeed, one specimen 
— the litigation between the nose and 
the spectacles, which is told with de- 
lightful naivele. Occasional apologues 
and tales, scattered through the poetical 
roisoelUsies, will recur to the memory. 
Prior, in particular, related an anecdole 
with immitable buiiMHir,MMl embellish- 
ed a trifle with the art of a man of fasbioa . 
Cowper, under the irritation of John- 
son's Livet, produced the happiest cri- 
ticiam ever written upon Prior. Alma 
and Hudibras were associated in his 
early reading. " To make verse," he 
said, ** speak the language of prose, 
without being prosaic —to marshal the 
wofds of it iu such an order as they 
might naturally take in falling from the 
lips of an extempore speaker, yet with- 
out meanness, harmoniousl/, elegantly, 
and without seeming to displace a syl- 
lable for the sake of the rhyme, is one 
of the most arduous tasks a poet can 
undertake : — he who could accomplish 
this task was Prior." Such was the 
eulogy bestowed upon him by Cowper, 
who, according to the probable con- 
jectui^ of Southey, acquired from bis 
friend and companion, Lloyd, this ad- 
miration for a poet in almost every 
menul quality tlie contrast of himself. 
Pope thouglit him perfectly unlike 
Fontaine; and his genius was, per- 
haps, of a wider, sharper, and mor« 
elastic disposition. It may b« ques- 
tioned, whaher the French Fabler could 
have kept on the wing through the lively 
cantos of Alma, But there is a writer 
whose fables, in the opinion of Pope^ 
possessed the yery spirit of Fontaine : 
we allude to Sir John Vanbrugh, the 
architect and poet. ** It may be so,"^ 
replied Vanbrugh, "but I protest to 
you that I never read Fontaine's 
Fables'' It had been better, perhaps, 
for his own tranquillity, if his genius 
had never wandered out of comedy. 
With Congreve and Gartli he was 
considered one of ** tlie most honest- 
hearted real good men'* of the Kit-Cat 
CUib. His architectural innovations 
were denounced by all the wits of the 
a^ e. Swift shot his sharpest arrows at 
him; Pope ridiculed, with still roore 
poignant invective, his *' heaps of little- 
ness'' and his laboured quarries abov« 
ffround ; and an obscure writerconsigned 
his memory to laughter in that well- 
known epitaph, which is among the hett 
epigrams in the langnagft : 

** Lie Jkeavy on him, aaitfa, for he 
Laid many a heavy lofid oa them*'* 

But V^anbrugh has foundy*. in Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, an eloquent and dis- 
criminating defender. He considers 
him, in the language of a painter, to 
have combined originality of invention 
with knowledj^e of light and shadow, 
and geeat skill in composition. Other 
writeca of reputation upon the Prio-* 
ciples of Taste have supported smd 
carried oot this eulogy. But it is in 
the diaracter of a wH that we shall 
have to examine his pretensions ; and 
it may not be unsafe to predict, that 
"iEsop" will be remembered when 
Casile Howard is forgotten, and the 
Provoked Husband outlive the pon- 
derous piles of Blenheim. A writer, 
from whom much might have been 
expected, had his wit flowed into 
Fables, was Matthew Green, whose 
poem,* The SpUcn^vr^s published after 
nis death by Glover, and obtained the 
praise of Pope and the warmer ad- 
miration of Gray. He made, indeed, 
what he called <' Life's voyage to the 
world unknown," at the early age of 
forty-one, but not before he had expe- 
rienced some inconvenienee in the 
passage. He Vas subject to hypo- 
chondria, and has himself mentioned 
the ** cfoudy weather of the soul." We 
regret that he never attempted a bb\e^ 
b^use, in his only surviving poem. 
Fancy i» seen to agreeably arm-in-arm 
with Common Sense, that success must 
have been certain. One specimen of his 
humour has been reoorded by Camp- 
bell. His friend, Sylvanus Bevnn, 
complained to him, tlmt, while he was 
bathing in the river, he had been sa- 
luted by a waterman with the cry of 
<* Quaker Quiri," and wondered bow 
he should have been known to be a 
Quaker without liis clothes. Green 
replied, *' By your swimming against 
the stroam." But, to return to Gay. 

Had Plutarch been writing in our 
century a book of litemry parallels, he 
would certainly have contrasted Foa* 
taine with Gay and Goldsmitli. Their 
personal characters coincided more in- 
timately than their talents. Swift said, 
that he sometimes read a book with 
pleasure and deUtsted tlie author ; bur, 
even when you disapprove of the prin- 
ciples of Gay, you feel an attachment 
for the writer. Johnson says, that he 
was the fovourite of the whole aasoeift- 
tion of wits, who regarded him as a 
pluyfoUow rather than a partotr, and 


^sop, PhcBdruSy Gay, and Fontaine, 


treated iiim with more fondness than 
respect. He assisted the greatest wits 
of the age, including Pope, Congreve, 
and Swift, in immortalising Maitinus 
Scribleros. G»ay, certainly, possessed 
none of the qualities of a dictator ; and, 
if he had the love of his friends, eared 
nothing for their veneratioa. And yet 
the sentiments manilesied towaids him 
by Pope, in particttlar, breathe the ear- 
nestness of the stucerest afi^ction, not 
for a plaything, but for m brother. He 
bewailed his death with unfoigned tears. 
" WooW to God," he exchiimed to 
Swift, ^< the man we have lost had not 
been so amiabie, nor so good; but 
that's a wish for our own sake, not for 
bis. Sure, if ina o cea ce and integrity 
can deserve happiness, it must be his.*^ 
And again, in another letter to the 
Dean, ** 1 wished vehemently to have 
seen him in a condition of living inde- 
pendent, and to have lived in perfect in- 
dolence the rest of our days together — 
the two most idle, most innocent, most 
undesigning poets of our age." Swift's 
love for Gay bums through all the cold- 
ness of bis misanthropy. He found no 
stronger terms to characterise his so- 
journ in Ireland, than by calling it a 
banishment from « St. Uohn, Pope, and 
Gay.'' Nothing can be more agreeable 
than his bantering. " Providence," he 
wrote to Pope, " never designed him 
(Gay) to be above two-and-twenty.'* 
His own leuers to Gay abound in 
fcouches of friendly satire. " Yon are 
as arrant a Cockney," he says in one 
letter, *' as any hosier in Cheapside. 
One clean shirt, with two cravats, and 
as many bandkerchtefs, make up your 
equipage." He never seems to have 
wearied of rallying his friend on bis fove 
of twelyepenny coaches ; any lady, he 
said, with a coach and six horses would 
carry him to Japan. Swift's hit at 
Cockneyism alluded to Gay's proba- 
tion behind the counter of a London 
mercer, — an occupation ftom which 
bis master, it is related, was very will- 
ing to discharge him. In indolence, 
he was the counterpart of Fontaine, 
who in his own epitaph tells us that 
his day was equally divided between 
sleeping and doing nothing. 

The information of the poet*s death 
was coanmonicated to Swift by Pope ; 
and the event shewed that years, and 
absence, and other associations, and 
other scenes, had not diminished his 
tenderness for the " gentle Gay," as his 
friends delighted to call him. Upon 

Pope's letter he wrote the following ei^ 
dorsement :— « On my dear friend Mr. 
Gay's death: received December 15, 
but not read till the 20th, by an im* 
pube foreboding some mislbrtune." 
We may regret tliat so small a portion 
of Gay s correspondence has reached 
us. He possessed many qualities of 
an agreeable letter-writer. The follow- 
ing epistle to Swift, which Pope in a 
poslcript oaUs *' a good letter," has 
much of the playful manner of Cowper. 

" Dec. 1, 1731. 
" You used to complain tliat Mr. Pope 
and 1 would not let you speak : you may 
now be even with ms, and take it out in 
writing. If you don't send to me now 
and then, the Post Offee will think me of 
no ooBsequence, — for I have no eor^ 
Despondent but yoo. Yon may keep as 
for from us as vou please ; you eannot be 
forgotten bv those who ever knew yon^ 
and these please me by sometime shew* 
ing that 1 am not forgot by you. I have 
notbing to take me off my friendsbip to 
you; I seek no new acouaincaoce, and 
court DO favour. I spend no shillings in 
coaches, or chairs, to levees, or great 
visits ; and as I don't want the assistance 
of some that I formerly conversed with, 
I will not so much as seem to aeek to be 
dependant. As to my stadias, I have 
not been entirely idle, — though I cannot 
say that I have yet perfected any thingw 
What I have done is something in the 
way of those fables I have already pub- 
lislied. All the money I get is by sav* 
ing, — so that by babit there may be some 
hopes (if I grow richer) of mjp' becoming 
a miser. All misers have their excuses ; 
the motive to my parsimony is inde- 
pendence. If I were to be represented 
by tbe duchess (she is such a downright 
Mggavd for me), this chaimeter miffht not 
be allowed me ; but I really thi^ I am 
covetous for any one who Uvea at the 
court end of the town, and who is as poor 
as myself. ♦ • • jyj^^ 

Lewis desired that you might be told 
that he bath five pounds of yours in bis 
bunds, which be fancies you may have 
forgot, — for he will hardly allow that a 
verseman can have a just knowledge of 
his own afPairs. When you got rid of 
yoor law-suit, 1 was in hopes you had 
got your own, and was free from every 
vexation of the law ; but Mr. Pope t^ 
me you are not entirdy out of your peiw 
plezity, though you have the seeuritr 
now in your own possession. But, still, 
your case is not so bad as Captain Gul- 
liver's, who was ruined by having a de- 
cree for him with costs." 

The literary character of Ga; 




tke PabuUsis. 


mands a more comprehensive view 
than we are now able to bestow upon 
it. We can only at present regard him 
in connexion with iEsop. Johnson 
has written his life with temperance 
and candour. Of this kind of fables, 
he says, the authors do not appear to 
hare formed any distinct or settled no- 
tion. Phsdrus evidently confounds 
them with tales; and Gay both with 
tales and allegorical Prostopopsias. A 
Fable or Apologue, such as is now 
under cousideration, seems to be in its 
genuine state a narrative, in which be- 
ings irrational, and sometimes inani- 
mate, are, for the purpose of moral in- 
struction, feigned to act and speak with 
human interests and passions. To this 
description the compositions of Gay do 
not always conform. For a fable be 
gives now and then a tale, or an ab- 
stracted allegory ; and from some, by 
whatever name they may be called, it 
will be difficult to extract any moral 
principle. They are, however, told 
with liveliness, the versification is 
smooth, and the diction, though now 
and then a little constrained bv the mea- 
sure of the rhyme, is generally happy. 
The tone of the doctor's criticbms is 
unexceptionable, though his remark 
upon the allegorical impersonations 
may be somewhat hypercritical. Camp- 
bell has observed that the mere naked 
Apologue of .£sop is too simple to in- 
terest the human mind, when its fancy 
and understanding are past the state of 
childhood or barbarism ; and he consi- 
ders Gay, though unequal to Fontaine, 
to be free from his occasional pro- 
lixity ; and thinks his << Court of Death/* 
in particular, a very happy application 
of allegory. The Fables were written^ 
it should be recollected, for the amuse- 
ment of the young Duke of Cumber- 
land, — a destination which naturally 
precluded the introduction of the higher 
embellishments of poetry, although 
they seem to have undergone the ut- 
most polish of his pen. Swift, in one 
of his letters to Pope, complains of the 
tediousness ** of friend Gay;" adding, 
that anotlier man can publish fif^y thou- 
sand lines sooner than he can fifly 
fisibles. Of all the faibles, the most 
original in conception, as well as the 
liveliest in point of execution, is the 
" Jugglers," in which a competent 
critic has found infinite playfulness and 

wit. The superior trickery of vice b 
displayed with remarkable vivacity 
and ease of expression. But if the 
'* Jugglers ** be the most instinct with 
talent, the " Hare and many Friends" 
is the most interesting and affecting. 
It has been translated, we believe, into 
every European language ; and one of 
the missionary presses has recently dif- 
fused it among the remotest settlements 
of the East. A picture so natural, 
touching, and nnaffected camiot be too 
widely multiplied. The whole Fable 
is a Moral. It has a charm, moreover, 
independent of any poetical merit, as 
an autobiographical sketch of the ami- 
able author. This adumbration of bis 
own character was noticed by Swift in 
the verses on Dehmey and Carteret : 

" Thus Gay, the Hare with manj friends." 

And by Pope, when he complained 

" Gay dies unpensioned with a hundred 

Cowper has turned it into Latin, with 
greater closeness than elegance; and 
the reader sighs as the lines drag wea- 
rily along, and wishes that the mantle 
of '' Vinny Bourne" had h\\en upon 
his pupil. Cowper says that he was 
the most lenient and indolent of tutors, 
and seemed determined to be tlie last, 
as he was the best, of the poets of 
Westminster School. Who would have 
supposed that Bourne indulged in 
Night Thouffhts ; or that, like Young, 
he delighted to meditate in church- 
yards ? He has, however, told us in 
his letter to a yotmg lady, that the fre- 
quent perusal of grave-stones and mo- 
numents, and his many walks in bu- 
rial grounds, had given him a distaste 
for life. This feeling sometimes im- 
parted a pleasing pensiveness to his 
verse ; the lines on the " Glow Worm" 
are peculiarly elegant. Bourne wrote 
a fable witli facility ; but we prefer ex- 
hibiting him by the side of his cele- 
brated scholar, as the recorder of some 
interesting pensioners, not now, we 
fear, on the << Boards" of Trinity. 
Bourne alluded, we suppose, to the 
rooms over the college gateway, where 
the illustrious philosopher used to 
*' keep ;*' and where some memorial 
of the immortal tenant are, or were, 

Digitized by 



JGVop, Phadrus^ Oay^ and Fontaine. 


CUL Trin. Comb. 


Ineola qui oorit sedes, autr iserit botpes, 
Newtoni egregii qoas celebravit houos ; 
Viditqa« et memioii» lastus fortaase vi- 
Qnam multa ad mensas adTolitftritaria. 
Ilia nee, ignorat, nidoa ut vera inaunte, 
Tectm per et foruloa et labalaU aUruat : 
Ut coram educat teneroa ad pabula fostua, 
Kt paacat micia, quas det arnica manas. 
Conriraa qaottea oampann ad prandia 
CooTocat, baud epulia certior hoapea 
Contlnuo jucunda simul vox fertar ad 
Vicinoa paaaer quisque relinquit agroB. 
Hoapitium ad ootom properatar; etor- 
dine abmtea 
Expectant pania fragmina quisqne aua. 
Hoa tamen boa omnea, viz uno largior 
Sumptiia pertotam paadt alitque diem. 
Hunc onum, bunc modicum (nee quia- 
quam inTiderit) asaem 
Indigenas, boapitii jure, merentar a?e8. 

Id speaking of Gay, tbe name of one 
of his happiest translators ought not to 
be omitted. Christopher Anstey was a 
poet of a very singular genius : his 
Jiaih Gftide is an epic mi generii. His 
friend, Dr. Roberts, of Eton, the au- 
thor oiJvdak lUitoredf a poem of con- 
siderable power, said that the Muse 
had reserved for him a secret spot, be- 
fore unknown. He claims the nonours 
of a discoverer. Few Cantabs taking 
their hasty Constitutional throueh 
Truropington, remember, we fear, the 
only valuable production it has ever 
given to the world. His translations 
nom Gay were undertaken, as we are 
informed by his son, merely with a 
view of instructing his children. The 

In Trinitif CoUtge, Cambridge. 


None ever shared tbe social feast. 
Or as an inmate, or a e:uest, 
Beneath tbe celebrated dome 
Where one Sir Isaac bad bis home, 
Wbo aaw not (and with some delight. 
Perhaps, be viewed tlie novel sight) 
How numerous at tbe tables there 
Tbe sparrows beg their daily fare. 
For there, in every nook and cell. 
Where such a family may dwell. 
Sure as tbe vernal season comes 
Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs ; 
Which kindly given, may serve with food 
Convenient their unfeather*d brood ; 
And oft as with its summons clear 
Tbe warning bell salutes their ear. 
Sagacious listeners to tbe sound, 
They flock from all the fields around. 
To reach tbe hospitable ball. 
None more attentive to tbe call. 
Arrived, tbe pensionary band. 
Hopping and chirping, close at band, 
Solicit what they soon receive, 
Tbe sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
Thus IS a multitude, though large, 
Supported at a trivial charge ; 
A aingle doit would overpay 
Tbe expenditure of every day. 
And wbo can grudge so small a gproce 
To suppliants, natives of tbe place. 

aflfectionate critic discovers in them the 
same genuine simplicity which forms 
the distinguishing beauty of the ori- 
ginal, and in many instances an exact 
imitation of the metrical division of the 
sentences. He was, indeed, an ele- 
gant and accomplished scholar, and his 
version, in conjunction with Roberts, 
of Gray's Elegy obtained the warm 
approbation ofMason. Had our li- 
mits permitted, we should have given 
an opportunity to the reader of com- 
paring Anstey s rendering of the '< Hare 
and many Friends" with Cowper*s; 
but we content ourselves with copying, 
as shorter, and more seasonable, the 
little fable of the " Turkey and the 


Sspe in amicomm vitiis spectamus acu- 
Et querimur fala4 lamina nube te^i, 
Non labea noa uUa fugit ; nee cemimus 
Quam noa intarte fortior error babet* 
vo;.. %yu. HO. xcytii. 


In other men we faulta can apy, 
And blame the mote that dims their eye, 
Each little apeok and blemish find. 
To our own atronrer errors blind. 

A Turkey, tired of common food, ^ _ 
Forsook the bam, and aougbt tbe wood ; 


The FabuKsts. 


Priflcum exosa cibum MeHca, et Tulgaria 
Horrea destituit nota, nemusque petit; 
Pone subit, trepidatqu© pedes square 
Granaque certatim turba tenella legit 
Me prope, mater ait, suboles mea, aistite 
Quam lauta bic noblB fercula collia 
Cemite ut iEthiopum studiis inteuta ca- 
terva eat ! 
Millibus en plena est, totaque nigret 
Quin mecum, audacea epulis incumbite ; 
nulla est 
Formica stomacbo gratior esca meo ; 
Impia si cobiberet atrox pullarius arma, 

Ab ! nimium nobis vita beata foret : 
Ast bomo, pravus bomo melicas prsdatur, 
et omnis 
Exitio turba festa Decembris a^it. 
Ostrea nobiscum patina sociantur in nn&, 
Ponimur aut salsa terga ad opima 
Vilia ab agricole magnatum ad fercula 
Vix unquam melic» nidor odorus abest ; 
Septem inter peccata bominum non de* 
vovet ullum 
Certiua, ingluyies quam scelerata gala. 
Formica, in celsum scandens, qua fu- 
gerat bostem, 
Talia sub fagi tegmina rerba &cit : 
Ante tibi alterius qnam hs reprebendere 
Pencrutare traaqnid tibi p«ctM ait ; 
In rostro modenftt» et e«m gentaooU 
Te pudeat totia gentibus esse necu 

Bebind her ran an infant tndn. 

Collecting bera and tbere a grain. 

** Draw near, my birds," tbe mother cries, 

'< This bill deHeiotts fare sappUes ; 

Behold tbe busy negro race ; 

See milliona blacken all tbe place. 

Fear not, — like me with freedom eat ; 

An ant ia most deKcioua meat. 

How Uesa'd, how envied were omr Kfe,^ 

Could we but 'scape the pooHcrer's 

But mui, cursed man, on tarkaya P««y^ 
And Christmas shortens all our days : 
Sometimes with oysters we eonbiiie. 
Soaaetlflsea assist the MTonry ehtse. 
From the low peasant to the lord. 
The turkey smokes on every board. 
Sure men for fflnttoay are cursed. 
Of the seven deadly sins the worst.*' 

An Ant who climbed heyood his resell 
Thus answered from tbe neighbouring 

'* Ere you remaric another's sin 
Bid thme own conscience look witiiin ; 
Control thy more vorscions b»l. 
Nor for a breakfast nations kiH." 

But the t^nts of Gay dwindle by 
tbe side of Fontftioe. This remarkable 
persoD was fortunate in hb education, 
and in his companions. His classical 
knowledge was not inconsiderable. 
In his twenty-second year, the recital, 
by an officer quartered in the neigh- 
bourhood, of an ode of Malberbe, 
immediately determined the nature 
and direction of his genius. He is 
said to have listened to it with trans- 
ports of joy, admiration, and surprise. 
Malherbe became the object of his un- 
ceasing study : he learnt his poetry by 
heart, declaimed it, and proceeded to 
imitate it. It is curious to reflect how 
few writers have continued to follow 
the steps of the early objects of their re- 
gard. Cowley, whose poetic fimcy 
was kindled by the Faeiy Qtiees, 
which chanced to lie in liis mother's 
window, bequeathed to us the s wilo 
physical obseoHties of th« Jlnfrris, and 
the frigid conceit of the Iknfitteit; 

Milton, who drtw bis early inmnUkm 
also horn Spenser, won asGenoed into 
a lofVier and diviner atmosphere ; and 
Dryden, enamoured in diikihood of the 
flowing difi^uaeoess of Sylvester, pio- 
duced the most nervous, the most com- 
pact, and the most majestic harmony in 
the language. At this period, Fontaine 
was happily directed to the classic 
writers of the Augustan age. Horace, 
Virgil^and Terence, became his £eivour- 
ite authors; delighted with their noble 
and impressive simplicity, the page of 
Malherbe wore an aspect of laboured 
embellishment; and he took leave of 
him to join the company of Rabelais, 
Marot, and Voiture. He called him- 
self the disciple of Master Francis, of 
Master Clement, and of Master Vin- 
cent. With Ilabelais, however, his 
mind poasesaed little sympnllky. Of 
this entraordinary spirit, of whooi Swift 
in his roost licentious abandonment of 
faoey ; or Sieme (his imHator snd pla- 


^sopj PhtBdruSy Gay, and Fontaine, 


giarist), in the more darmg extrava- 
gances of Shandy Ism, offers a very 
fkint and imperfect reflection, it would 
be impossible to convey any adequate 
conception to an Enejlish reader. 
Swift's remark on King William's mot- 
to, that the receiver was as bad as the 
thief, was in a kindred fancy. Rabe- 
lais, said Coleridge, is a most wonder- 
ful writer. Pantagniel is the Reason, 
Panurge the Understanding, — the man 
with every faculty except the reason. 
The rery character of the age drove 
him into allegory ; and while his work 
comprises the invective of contempo- 
rary hatred, and abounds in allusions 
lo the political features of the age, the 
real scope of the history has been justly 
found in a higher and graver philoso- 
phy. It is in vain, says Coleridge, to 
look about for a hidden meaning in all 
that he has written ; you will observe 
that after every particularly deep thrust, 
as the Papi mania, for example, Rabe- 
lais, as if to break the blow, and to ap- 
pear unconscious of what he has done, 
writes a chapter or two of pure buf- 
foonery. He every now and then 
flashes you a glimpse of a real face 
from his magic lantern, and then buries 
the whole scene in mist. In the buoy- 
ancy and exuberance of his mirth, the 
audacity of his satire, the glow and 
brilliancy of his fancy — which is ever 
tinging with richest hues the vapours in 
which his meaning lies involved, we 
seem to behold a prose Aristoplianes. 
But Malherbe was not forgotten, though 
his supremacy was invaded. In the 
commencing fable of his third book, he 
styles him with Racan, the rival and 
heir of Horace, and one of the disciples 
of Apollo. Of Voftore, whose verses 
have been cited by Voltaire as models 
of delicacy and grace, and of whom Pe- 
lisson observed that he despised rules 
like a master, a very happy and cha- 
racteristic portrait has been drawn by 
" Voiture in various light displays 
That irony whicb turns to praise : 
His genius first found out the rale 
For nn obliging ridicule. 
He flatters with peculiar care 
The brave, the witty, apd the hit ; 
And foola would fancy he intends 
A satire, when b« most comroends." 

But there was a living poet from 
whom Fontaine derived a livelier sensi- 
bility of taste, and a more refined deli- 
cacy of judgment. From Racine, whom 
he vished frequently, be obtained elu- 

cidations of numerous passages in the 
Iliad and Odj/ssey. The author of 
Athalie, from his early childhood, had 
been gathering the loveliest flowers of 
Greek and Latin poetry, and must have 
felt a peculiar pleasure in conducting 
his gentle disciple' into paths with 
which his own feet had been so long 
familiar. We have always perceived a 
striking similarity between the genius 
of Racine and of Gray ; and the author 
of the Elegi/y who regarded him with 
reverence hardly less than Shakespeare, 
would have responded to the com- 

{)arison. His own Agrippina was 
brmed upon Britannicus. Racine, in- 
deed, had not that intensity of feeling 
for the beautiful, or that vivid sense of 
the picturesque, which characterised his 
admirer; those forms that glitter in the 
Muses* ray played not before his eyes 
with equal brilliancy. La Harpe said 
that Corneille made tragedy a school of 
heroism aud virtue ; Racine, the his- 
tory of the passions, and the pictnre of 
the heart. He thought the greatest de- 
light of the spectator resulted from be- 
holding himself reproduced upon the 
stage. Corneille truly created the dig- 
nity of French versification in t!ie dra- 
ma ; but Racine discovered :ind ar- 
ranged the science of words. Sub- 
limity, in the sense in which we apply 
the word to Shakespeare or ^schylus, 
was unknown to the Augustan age of 
France. Fontenelle was blind to the 
*• fhie frenzy'* of the Prometheus. We 
may add the remark of Twining, in his 
excellent and learned notes on Aristotle, 
upon Gray's Agrippina. " Its fault, 
indeed,*' he says, " is Racine's ; its 
beauties are, surely, of a higher order.** 
If Fontaine resembled Gay in the in- 
dolence of his character, the likeness to 
Goldsmith, in the tone of his conversa- 
tion, was not less remarkable ; nor 
would Johnson's character of his friend 
be injured by its application to the 
French febulist. No man, he said, was 
more foolish when he had not a pen in 
his hand, nor more wise when he had. 
In one particular, however, the com- 

Cson fails in its identity; Fontaine 
not that restless ambition to gel in 
and shine which his friends imputed to 
the author of the Deserted VUlage, 
Louis Racine assures us, that in society 
he was generally silent and abstracted, 
bringing nothing of his own to the table 
but a most excellent appetite ; and 
Racine's sisters, who in their youth had 
frequently teen Fontaine at the table of 


The Fabulists. 


their father, remembered him only as a 
very disagreeable and wearisome com- 
panion, — who, if he opened his mouth, 
talked of nothing but Plato. Gold- 
smith, according to Uie accounts fur- 
nished by his friends, was a short, 
thick man, witli a* very uncaptivating 
appearance. The Abh6 d*01ivet has 
drawn an equally flattering portrait of 
Fontaine. You looked, he writes, in 
his countenance in vain for any indica- 
tions of talent. An unmeaning smile, a 
negligent and awkward air, with eyes 
destitute of any expression, were its 
principal characteristics. The intro- 
duction, however, of any interesting 
topic awoke the slumber of his fea- 
tures, and imparted animation to the 
phantom. But these revivals were not 
frequent. Being in company with his 
friend, Gauches, at the house of Madame 
Comuel, he was requested to recite 
some of his Fables : he replied that he 
did not know any himself; but that 
Gauches would repeat them, which he 
accordingly did ; and the author quietly 
surrendered himself to his own con- 
templations. Probably, the company 
lost nothing by the substitution of 
friend for author. The focuUy of in- 
vention and the art of elocution have 
not been always combined. Ben 
Jonson was celebrated for the grace 
and purity of his recitation, — a talent 
shared, we may readily imagine, by 
Pope, who in his childhood, from the 
melody of his voice, obtained the ap- 
pellation of the little nightingale ; 
Thomson, on the contrary, pronounced 
bis own verses without tlie least ele* 

Snce or even justness of accent; and 
alherbe, the most learned, the most 
classical, the roost refined lyrist of his 
age, was accustomed to spit half a 
dozen tiroes during tlie delivery of a 
single stanza, — a habit which occa- 
sioned the well-known remark of Marin, 
that he had never seen so moist a man, 
or so dry a poet. Voltaire, notwith- 
standing the acuteness of his percep- 
tions, and the liveliness of his fancy, 
wanted sensibility and tenderness in 
his delivery. Gibbon, who met the 
poet at I^usanne, and heard him re- 
present the characters of Lusignan, Al- 
varez, &c., at the little tlieatre at Mon- 
repos, says that his declamation was 
fashioned to the pomp and cadence of 
the old stage ; and that he expressed 
the enthusiasm of poetry rather than 
the feelings of nature. The silence of 
^he heart mi^t have b^n augured 

from an anecdote which is told of the 
rehearsal of one of his plays. An ac- 
tress seemed to the author not suffi- 
ciently energetic in her manner ; and 
upon his desiring her to deliver the lines 
with greater passion, she replied that 
the audience would say the devil was 
in her. " Very right," was the poet's 
answer, — '^ an actress should liave the 
devil in her." From an incidental ob- 
servation of Mrs. Thrale, we learn that 
Johnson declaimed in the same spirit, 
and with almost equal vehemence. 

Joseph Warton pronounced Gold- 
smith the first of solemn coxcombs; 
VValpole, an inspired idiot ; and Beat- 
tie, a genius who affected silliness and 
absurdity. He himself confessed, with 
infinite good -humour, that he always 
argued best when alone ; and his 
famous observation addressed to I/>rd 
Shelburne, *' I wonder they should call 
your lordship Malagrida, — for Mala- 
grida was a very good man," is a spe- 
cimen of the felicity of his blunders. 
The records of Fontaine's conversation 
recall the Hibernian. Upon one occa- 
sion he accompanied Racine to mass ; 
and his companion, perceiving him to 
be wear)' of ine prolonged service, put 
into his hand a Bible. Fontaine, turn- 
ing over the pages of the minor pro- 
phets, happened to glance at the 
prayer of tne Jews in Baruch ; and, un- 
able to suppress his admiration of its 
eloquence, he said to Racine, *' This 
Baruch was a noble genius. Who was 
he ?" During the following and many 
subsequent days, every friend whom he 
met was accosted with the same in- 
quiry, '< Have you read Baruch ? He 
was a beautiful genius." His love of 
Rabelais has been already noticed. In 
a party comprising Boileau, Racine, and 
others, much praise had been lavished 
on St.Augustin; Fontaine, who had lis- 
tened with his usual absent air, suddenly 
awaking from his lethargy, inquired of 
the doctor whether he thought the Au- 
gustan Imd more wit than Rabelais? 
" Take care," said the doctor, ** M. de 
la Fontaine," eyeing his inquisitive 
from top to toe, " you hav€ put on one 
of your stockings the wrong side." 
Whether the poet comprehended the 
logical analogy of the answer, we are 
left to conjecture. In the same spirit 
he wished to dedicate a tale, into which 
he had very improperly intitxluced an 
allusion to the parable of the faithful 
servant with ten talents, to the cele- 
brated A^mauld, a^d. ^ri^ only di^ 


JSsop, Phcedrus, Gay^ and Fontaine. 


Terted from his intention by the ur- 
gent persuasions of Boileau and Racine. 
Upon another occasion, his friends 
waited for his appearance at dinner, 
but in vain. At length the poet en- 
tered the room, and on being ques- 
tioned as to the cause of his absence, 
he informed them that he was come 
from attending the interment of an ant, 
having followed the procession to the 
burial-ground, and then accompanied 
the family to their home. His study 
of the instinct and appearances of ani- 
mal life was indeed lively and perse- 
vering. ** Truly, my dear Fontaine," 
said Madame de la Sablibre to him, 
" you would soon become an animal 
yourself, if you had not so much 
humour." Upon another occasion, 
she remarked, after dismissing all her 
domestics, tliat she had only retained 
her dog, her cat, and La Fontaine. 
It was, perhaps, during one of these 
reveries that Madame de Bouillon 
observed the poet meditating in the 
morning under a tree at Versailles, and 
found him in the same spot on her re- 
turn in the evening, although the wea- 
ther was cold, and the rain had been 
falling during the day. Merais relates 
an anecdote, not of the same kind, but 
equally characteristic. During the siege 
of the Augustins by the Parliament, 
which Boileau has recorded in the 
LtUrin, Fontaine was encountered by 
a friend upon the Pont-Neuf going with 
great rapidity. His friend asked the 
purpose of such unwonted speed. " I 
am going," replied the poet, with per- 
^t tranquillity, ** to see them kill the 
Augustins." But this '< inspired idiot," 
who seemed destitute of the commonest 
sense of prudence in his own affairs, 
was a most wise, considerate, and pa- 
tient councillor of others; bountiful of 
aid, fruitful of expedients, and saga- 
cious in their application. Fiven here 
the parallel we have instituted between 
himself and Goldsmith becomes clear 
and defined. That most rash and un- 
happy author, who dissipated by gam- 
bling and expense 1600/., which he re- 
ceived in one year from the booksellers, 
and died of a broken heart in poverty 
and apprehension, even he could ad- 
dress a letter to a pupil remarkable for 
thoughtful wisdom, knowledge of life, 
and the aptitude of its precepts. The 
man who was the plaything of every 
hour enfotced the regulation of the 
mind ; the victim of vanity, who could 
talk of his bloom-coloured coat in the 

presence of Johnson, was eloquent in 
denouncing that vanity which seeks to 
elevate itself by dress, by show, or by 

We have yet something to add to 
the sketch of Fontaine. During the 
first representation of his opera of 
AttriCf he was seated behind some 
ladies who were unacquainted with his 
person, and every moment he ex- 
claimed, "That is detestable." The 
ladies, displeased at the interruption, 
expressed their astonishment at his 
manner, informing him that the author 
was a person of wit, M. de la Fontaine. 
** Ah, ladies," replied the poet, " the 
play is worth nothing ; and this Fon- 
taine, whom you praise so loudly, is 
a fool. It is he himself who addresses 
you." At the conclusion of the first 
act he retired to a cqfty and went to 
sleep. A fnend happening to enter, 
awoke him with astonishment at his 
absence from the theatre on the first 
performance of his opera. ** I have 
just left it," said Fontaine : " I tried 
the first act, and was so prodigiously 
fatigued [ennuyi], that I have no wish 
to hear tlie remainder. I admire the 
patience of the Parisians." The last 
story has, indeed, been rejected by 
some of his biographers. Upon his 
private or religious character it is not 
expedient to dilate. With what fri- 
volity he expressed himself upon the 
most solemn subject which engages the 
attention of mankind, may be learned 
from a saying preserved by Chamfort. 
Allusion had been made to the eternity 
of future punishments : " Je me flatte," 
observed La Fontaine, ** qu'ils s*y ac- 
coutument; et qu'k la fin ils sont \h 
com me le poisson dans Teau." 

Fontaine never claimed for his Fables 
the merit of originality. In his very 

Eleasant introduction to the second 
ook, he informs us that, from the 
earliest day when he received the gifts 
promised by Calliope to her lovers, he 
consecrated them all to the fictions of 
TEsop. He accordingly deviates very 
seldom into an original conception, but 
contents himself with adorning the mo- 
rals of his predecessor ; but he does 
this with the facility, the grace, and 
the invention of a master. The out- 
lines of the Grecian painter expand 
into poetical and vivid pictures beneath 
the pencil of Fontaine. To these rough, 
though animated, sketches of human 
feeling, under different revelations of 
passion, he imparts a deeper, a livelier, 


The Fahulisis. 


and a more comprehensive signification. 
The naked reality of iEsop attract} the 
eye in the lustrous colours of his imi- 
tator. He cautions his readers not to 
expect the elegance or brevity of 
Phxdrus. The brevity is indeed want- 
ing ; but the Thracian servant might 
have acknowledged a more winning air 
of sweetness and of grace. Fontaine 
perceived the great difficulty inherent 
in his undertaking. The fables were 
become familiar as household words, 
even on the lips of children. In repro- 
ducing, therefore, the same delineations 
of character, it was necessary to impart 
a freshness to the hues while he altered, 
by heightening, the expression. This 
task he has accomplished by breathing 
into the poetry a gentle gaiety pecu- 
liarly his own ; a gaiety which, while 
it bears no relationship to the boisterous 
excitement of laughter, exiiilarates and 
brightens even the gravest subjects. 
His muse has a sober cheerfulness, and 
pleasant irony of feature peculiarly 
pleasing. Excellence is a progressive 
quality. In i^sop, the fable is de- 
tached from the moral; but Fontaine 
enlarged the improvements of Phaedrus, 
and the embellishments of his narratives. 
The prologue of the Latin writer, pre- 
fixed to the fifth book, applies with 
equal propriety to Fontaine : 

" Quare, Particulo, quoniam caperis fa- 

Quas i£sopias, non i£topi, nomino. 
Quasi paucQS ostendeot, ego plures di«- 

Usus vetusto genera, sed rebus novis." 
Ad Parliailonem, 
He might have applied to himself the 
words of Dryden, who declared that he 
had translated Chaucer only that he 
might perpetuate his memory, or, at 
least, refresh it amongst his country- 
men; and who acknowledged that, if 
he had any where altered him for the 
better, he could, nevertheless, have 
done nothing without him. Tlie ob- 
servation would have possessed, indeed, 
a propriety in the mouth of Fontaine, 
which it wanted in Dryden : for Fon- 
taine, by his interpretation of Phoedrus, 
gave him a place in the national lite- 
rature of France ; while Chaucer, whose 
wonted fires continued to live in his 
ashes, needed not the cherishing hand 
of Dryden. " There are a few lamps 
which shine perpetually in the world," 
was the noble saying of Johnson. 
Chaucer was one of them : years can- 
not extinguish its lustre, or diminish 

its warmth. We admire the clearness 
of its flame in our youth ; we cheer 
our spirits with it in our age. Every 
gentle and poetic heart reveres and 
lores him like a father. Sidney speaks 
of his intellectual eyesight, which 
pierced and illuminated tlie mistiness 
of that morning of our literature; Pope 
always returned to his page with plea- 
sure ; and Coleridge confessed that bb 
manly simplicity was especially de- 
lightful to him in his old age. 

Fontaine invented nothing but his 
style, said La Harpe; and the secret 
has remained with him. The delicacy, 
the grace, the naturalness of his lan- 
guage, has a nameless charm, which 
evaporates in its transfusion into a 
foreign tongue. The beauty of his 
poetry consists in expression, — of all 
kinds of loveliness, the least susceptible 
of the colours of the copyist. The fe- 
cility of La Fontaine would suggest a 
rapidity of composition, if the history 
of literature did not discountenance 
the belief. His early model, Malherbe, 
as we learn from a letter of Balzac, 
blotted half a ream of paper in the 
alteration of a single stanza,— doubt- 
less, a pleasant exaggeration, but not 
the less characteristic of the anxious 
timidity of the writer. It is related, 
we believe, of the celebrated Bembo, 
that his desk contained forty divisions, 
through which his sonnets underwent 
successive eradations of polish and re- 
finement, before they were deemed 
worthy of publication. Eloquence, 
vigour, and even elegance, can only 
f\ow out of unwearied diligence and 
constant practice. The manuscript of 
Tekmachiis was, indeed, said to be 
almost free from erasures or correc- 
tions ; and Gibbon mentions, in his 
memoirs, that the first rough manu- 
script of his great history was sent to 
the press without any intermediate 
copy, and without undergoing the re- 
vision of any eyes except the author's. 
But he himself, in an earlier page, 
furnished a key to his own mystery of 
excellence. " Three times,*' he says, 
" did I compose the first chapter, and 
twice the second and third, before I 
was tolerably satisfied with their efTect." 
In the remainder he adds that he ad- 
vanced with an easier pace ; but it is 
probable that similar difficulties .of 
style were removed by a similar ela- 
boration. These repeated touches are 
visible in some of^the most elegant 
and unaffected of Englbh writers ; and 


JSsop, Phadrus, Gay^ and Fontaine* 


it «raiB tlie uoion of art with nature 
wbich produced the Virgilian prose of 
Addison. Id speaking of Telemachm^ 
our commendation only reaches to the 
idiomatic purity of the diction : to the 
style, in its more enlaiged sense of 
composition, grave objections might 
be offered. Many will participate in 
Lord Boliugbroke*s antipatliy to " the 
saffron Morn, with her rosy fingers/' 
in prose ; and Pope used to say, that 
nothing but the vein of good sense and 
humanity running tlirough the work 
could calm his prejudices, or render 
the perusal agreeable. Goldsmith br- 
ushes another example. His periods, 
ao free, simple, and disensagea, might 
have beea expected to have flowed 
from a running pen ; but we hear the 
contrary from his own lipa. *' Every 
body,'' be said, in allusion to his earlier 
hours of melaooboly drudgery in Loo- 
don, '* wrote better, because they wrote 
faster than me." Cowper mentions, 
more than once, the ditigencebv which 
the fluent versification of his Taik was 
moulded into graceful and unafiected 
freedom. Swift, indeed, has told us, 
that words are but lacqueys to the 
sense, and will dance attendance with- 
out wages or compulsion. The lacqueys 
may dance attendance, but skill and 
practice will alone reduee them into 
narmony and elegance of movement. 
Nor should the dean have overlooked 
the difficolty of selecting from the mul- 
titude perpetually soliciting our atten- 
tion those only which are remarkable 
for superior grace and beauty. This 
selection can only be made by taste; 
the eye of genius, which, by a sort of 
reasoning peculiar to itself, surveys tlie 
whole work in even its disordered ele- 
ments. The authority of Pope may 
appear to disoouoteoanee this opinion. 
The thirigs he wrote fastest, he said, 
pleased him best. The Etiitff on Cri- 
ticiim was composed rapidly ; so was 
the R&pe of the Lock; so was the 
greater part of the Iliad. But the mi- 
racle dissolves before examination. Of 
the first poem, he confessed that all 
the matter was previously digested in 
prose ; to the second, the machinery 
was subsequently added ; of the third, 
the MS. may be cons^ted in the British 
Museum ! But, to return to Fontaine. 
Admitting, then, with the French critic, 
that he invented nothing but bis style, 
be siHl occupies, in his own humble 
province of literature, the position of 
Virgil in the loftier region or epic soi^. 

Fontaine is to Phsedrus what Virgil was 
to Homer. Our researches might fur- 
nish a very amusing and instructive 
essay, were we to shew how much of 
genius results from imitation. The 
JEneid is an illuminated copy of the 
Iliad. Bentley said that Milton had 
Homer by heart. The verses of Horace 
sparkle with the brightest gems of the 
lyric poetry of Greece. Terence was 
only the graceful interpreter of Menan- 
der. Sallust inhaled nre from the liv- 
ing page of Thucydides. Cicero learned 
eloquence at the feet of Athenian roas- 
ters ; and Raciue transplanted the Attic 
drama into France. Chaucer caught 
some of his sweetest stories from the 
lips of Boccacio, who had himself re- 
modelled them from authore of an 
earlier age. ** Our countryman," says 
Dryden, " carried weight, and yet wins 
the race at a disadvantage.*' Our own 
Spenser is continually refreshing his 
fancy in the lucid streams of Italian 
poetry; and the brief and glittering 
axioms of Bolingbroke and Swift are 
frequently to be found iti Seneca and 
Rochefoucauld. So Spenser himself 
has beconne a naodel to his successors : 
you hear the music of his lute in Dray- 
ton, in Fairfax (who strung the harp 
of Tasso with a skill which charmed 
the ear of Collins), in Fletcher, in 
Browne, in the earlier and lovelier 
strains of Milton, and in the delicious 
and entrancing notes of Thomson. 
Thus, to borrow the beautiful metaphor 
of Plato, the magnetic power of genius 
is communicated from mind to mind ; 
and the imitator of this generation be- 
comes the original of the next. We 
have ventured upon a hazardous asser- 
tion in calling Fontaine the Virgil of 
Fablers ; yet not more bold than may 
be defended. The expression of poetry, 
combined with a design only moderately 
good, has been compared by Dryden to 
an excellent complexion with indifferent 
features : the white and red, mingled 
on the face, make what before was but 
passable appear beautiful. •* Operum 
colores " is the phrase of Horace, one 
of the most accomplished masters of 
the art. But it must not be forgotten, 
in the warmth of our eulogy, that Fon- 
taine, though a graceful, is not always 
a correct writer. He is, therefore, a 
Virgil only under one aspect. 

Fontenelle wondered tliat Fontaine 
confessed an inferiority to Phadrus. 
That he should entertain a feeling of 
veneration for the model of his art wis 


The Fabulists. 


the natural result of gratitude and con- 
templation ; a feeling, indeed, which 
he extended, in common witli all the 
distinguished ornaments of his time, 
to the " gray fathers '* of the ancient 
literature. Racine, and Comeille, and 
Boileau, had taught him to tread with 
religious awe upon the ashes of the 
patriarchs of learning. But Fontaine 
had all the confidence of talent ; and 
was not only conscious of his pos- 
sessions on Parnassus, but quite ready 
to assert his claim to them. He pro- 
fessed to understand the art of impart- 
ing a delicious odour to the incense of 
poetry ; and in his address to the lady 
who had met Waller ond St. Evremond 
in England, he does not hesitate to 
couple himself in the same verse with 
the lover of Sacharissa ; certainly, no 
slight proof of self-esteem, if we re- 
member to what an elevation Waller 
had been liAed by the applause of his 
contemporaries — that Dryden pro- 
nounced him the vanquisher of Spenser 
— and that, by the general consent of 


A MademoiaUg d$ S6vign^, 

S^vigD^, de qui les attraits 
Servant aux Graces de modele, 
£t qui naquites toute belle, 
A votre indifference pres, 
Pouvez-vous etre favourable 
Aux jeux innocents d'une fable, 
£t voir, sans vous ^pouvanter 
Un lion qu' Amour sut domter. 
Amour est un etrange maitre, 
Heureux qui pent ne le conooitre. 
Que par r6cit, lui ni sea coups ! 
Quand on en parle devant vous 
Si la verite vous offense, 
La fable au rooins se peut soufiHr : 
Celle-ci prend bien rassuronce 
De venir a vos pieda s'offrir, 
Par zele et par reconnoiasance. 
l)u temps que les betes parloient 
Les lions entre autres vouloient 
Etre admis dans n6tre alliance. 
Pourquoi non 1 puisque leur engeance 
Valoit la ndtre en ce temps-lii, 
Ayant courage, intelligence, 
£t belle pure outre cela. 
Voici comme en il alia : 

Un lion de bon parentage. 
En passant par un certain pr^, 
Hencontra bergere a son gr€ : 
II la demanda en maiiage. 
Le pere auroit fort souluut^ 
Quelque gendre un pen moins terrible. 
La donner lui sembloit bien dur : 
La refuser n'6toit pas sur ', 

coeval criticism, tlie muse of Milton 
was overcome by his lyre. In a similar 
spirit, he promised to enshrine the me- 
mory of his friends and benefectors in 
the temple of his verse. He perfectly 
understood the character of his own 
genius, and painted his own poetical 
picture in some charming verses, where 
he compares himself to a butterfly of 
Parnassus, hovering, like a bee, ^m 
flower to flower — tasting one subject, 
and tlien deserting it for another. Nor 
is this self-appreciation an inseparable 
companion of intellect. Moli^re con- 
ceived his strength to reside in tragedy. 
The principles of criticbm, whidi we 
have thus discursively and incidentally 
introduced, will be resumed, and car- 
ried out, when occasion may offer, as we 
proceed with the Fabulists. The reader, 
meanwhile, will not be sorry to have a 
little conversation with Fontaine. As 
he inscribed his fable to the accom- 
plished S^vign^, we dedicate our trans- 
lation to Miss Landon. 


To Letitia £. Landon, 

Softlv flows thy playful vein, 

Mirthful, pleasant, dear Fontaine, 

Breathing thy delicious lay. 

Into the ears of S^vign6, 

Unto the charmer^s voice inclined — 

A sweeter, lovelier muse I 6nd, 

In gentle Landon^s laughing eye, 

Whence the arcber*8 arrows fly. 

Whether her joyous spirit dance 

Along the Gardeu of Romance — 

Or poesy, in magic bowers. 

Strew her odorous bed with flowers. 

While radiant Fancy's bow of light 

Gilds and illuminates the night : 

Upon thy living page I see 

The shadow of the golden tree, 

'J'hat in the garden of thy youth. 

Beneath the fostering rays of truth. 

And hope's mild showers of freahening 

Into verdurous beauty grew. 
Thy hand the critic's teeth can draw, 
And clip the talons of his claw ; 
While gating upward in thy face. 
He breathes the purple bloom of grace -, 
Bound with adamantine chain 
Within the garland of tliy strain ! 

A lion of patrician race, 

Along a certain meadow stalking. 

Happened to meet a maiden walking. 

He liked her form, he liked her face. 

And set his mind in the alliance, 

A nd oalled,and askMher sire's compliance. 


^sopf Phadrus, Gay^ and Fontaine. 

Meme un refus edt fait, possible, 
Qu'on eiit vu quelque b^u matin, 
Un manage eland estin ; 
Car, outre qu'en tonte maniere ; 
La belle 6toit pour les gens fiers, 
fine se coiffe volontiers 
D'amorenx a long^e crini^re. 
Le pere done ouvertement, 
N'osaut renvoyer ndtre nmaut, 
Lai dit ; ma fille est delicate ; 
Vos griffes la ponrront blesser 
Quand tous voudres la caresser ; 
Pennettes done qu' a chaqne patte 
On reus les rogne ; et poor les dents, 
Qu*on TOUS les lime en m^e temps : 
Vos baisers en seront moins nides, 
£t pour vons plus d^licieux ; 
Car ma fille y repondra mieux, 
Etant sans ces inquietudes. 
Le lion consent a cela, 
Tant son &me ^toit ayeugUe. 
Sans dents, ni griffes, le voila, 
Comme plaee d6mantelee. 
On Ucba sur loi quelqnes chiens , 
n fit fort peu de resistance. 

Tbe damsel's father yiewM the paw 
Of his intended son-in-law : 
Twas hard to give the girl away. 
And not quite safe to answer nay. 
To one whom early education 
Had made familiar with agitation ; 
Famous aroimd for his fierce decision, 
Always sure to best on division. 
And while he look'd at the suitor's carriage, 
Some fine day, a run-away marriage 
He fancied would end the whole affair. 
So, with soothing voice and paternal air. 
He said, " My daughter is young and fair ; 
Your claws her delicate skin would tear. 
When with longing arms you greet her : 
Permit me just to clip your paw. 
And ope or two of your teeth to draw — 
Your kisses will be much the sweeter.'* 
The lion, who never in his life 
Of Shakespeare's b'ne had read a word 
About the course of love, submitted 
His teeth and talons to the knife — 
When, lo ! a rushing sound, a herd 
Of furious dogs upon his heel — 
What could a toothless lion dol — a 
Hume to Peel ! 

Tbe fable of the Grashopper teaches 
a lesson of econoisy, and agreeably il- 
lustrates a remark of Lord Brougbam 

respecting the new poor-law, that it is 
the duty of every one in youth to pro- 
vide for old age. 


iru MVTMff T^tfnf* 

99 rvfnytf r^«^y; 
• )f i3irs9 «ir» ^^X^' 

fuvrix^ts* Oi )f 
ytXa^mwns tiiror 

n»>Mt9 x"/U0f»s 

O ftM4»t ^ifXw, ^t 
to ^ mm dfAtXuf 
IV 9'«»rj ir^ayfutTt, 
ifa fm XinrtiBn »tu 

La cigale, ayant chant6 

Tout r^te, 

Se trouva fort d^pourvue 
Quand la bise fut venue ; 
Pas un senl petit morceau 
De mouche ou de vermisseau ! 
EUe alia crier famine 
Chez la fourmi, sa voisine. 
La priant de lui prater 
Quelque grain pour subsister 
Jusqu' a la snison nouvelle. 
Je vous patrai, lui-dit-elle, 
Avant I'aofit, foi d'animal, 
Interet et principal. 
La fourmi n'est pas pretense : 
C'est la son moindro defaut 
Que faisiez-vous au temps 

cliaud 1 
Dit-elle a cette emprunteuse, 
Nuit et jour a tout venant 
Je chantois, ne vous d^plaise. 
Vous chantiez ! J 'en suis fort 

H6 bien ! dansez biaintenant. 


A grashopper, who all the summer 
Sauff nightand day to every comer. 
Finding, as winter nights set in. 
Her larder hourly waxing thin. 
Determined, like singers of hu- 
man kind. 
By hook or by crook, to raise the 

And first a morning call she paid 
To a religious ant, her next door 

neighbour ; 
An elderly, frugal, stiff " old 

Living upon the fruits of labour ; 
In sof(estaccents,asking to borrow 
A trifle in her hour of sorrow — 
Solemnly promising what was lent 
In six months* time, with twenty 

per cent. 
Tbe ant, who was making a flannel 

To comfort her ears in their win- 
try nap. 
Inquired this borrower's occupa- 
tion — 
Wh&t circumstance led to her sad 

situation 1 
*' Night and day, to every comer 
I sang," said the grashopper, " all 

the summer." 
*' You sang !" the ant repUed, 

with a smile — 
*' Well, then, suppose you dance 
awhUe !" 


The FaiuUsis. 



We give the next hhit with th^ 
greater pleasuic, ibr the take of aoooiD«> 
panyiDg it with aa origioal imitation 
from tlj« pea of Cowper, which we had 
the good fortune to pyichaae, aoMmg 
other unpublished poeme, at Heber^i 
sale. The reader, who is acquainted 
with Cowper's early history, will easilr 
apply the introductory lines to hu 
cousm, Theodora Jane Cowper, with 
whom he was wont, as he said, to 
giggle in Southampton Row. llieir 
action for each other jieems to have 
been glowing and sincere. When the 
kdy's father asked his daughter, ^ If 
you marry Williaoi Cowper, what will 


Tout est myst^ dans I'Aaioar, 
Ses i^hee, son oarqnois, son ilamheau, 
son enfsnce : 
Ce n*efit pas I'onvrage d'un jour 
Que d'^aiser eette science. 
Je ne pr6teBds done point tout axpliqner 

ici : 
Mon hut est seulement de dire i ma 
Comment I'aveugle que voici 
(Cost uu dieu), oommant, dis-je, il per- 

dit la lamiera. 
QaeUe soite eut ee aud, qui pent.^tre est 

un hien: 
J 'en fids juge un amant, et ne d^ide rien* 

La Folie et 1' Amour joutent un jour 

Celui-ci n'^toit pas encore prir^ des 

Une dispute Tint: rAmour rent qu*ou 
La-dessus le conseil des Dieuz : 
Ii*autre n'ent pas la patience } 
EUe lui donne un coup si iurieux, 
Qu*il eo perd la clartl des cieox. 
Venus en demande yengeance, 
Femme et mere, il sumt pour juger de 
ses cris: 
Les Pieux en furent 6tourdis, 
Et Jupiter et N^^sis, 
£t les jugts d*enfer, enfin toute la bande. 

you do ?** " Do, sir l" she replied ; 
** wash all day, and ride out on the 
great dog all night." An answer, 
remarks Southey, rather indicating a 
light spirit and a plajrftil temper, than 
the deep affection which was really ielt, 
and which, when it had been rendered 
hopeless, was faithfully retained through 
life. To her stead^tness the unhappy 
lover alludes in some verses addressed 
to Lady Hesketh, where he mourns his 
early friend, Mr. William Russell : 

" And her, through tedious years of doabt 

and pain, 
Fiz*d in her ehoioe, and ftuthfbl — but in 



{From tb4 Original US.) 

Lady, with a TOtire lay, 

I come unto thy bower to-diiy ; 

In the sunshine of thine eye 

All the Graces lore to lie ; 

And Cupid oft, from purple plume, 

Upon diy soft cheek raineth bloom. 

Listen, tfien, with smilee Co me. 

Gentle,*d, pale ladye I 

Let the sweet breath of thine eyes 

Waft me into paradise ; 

NsTer more from thee to part. 

The bride, the spirit of my heart. 

For thou. Beloved, art not of earth. 

Nor from tbe light iooonatant foam 

Of human Ufa thy charms have birth ; 

Never with thee does Folly roam. 

But Peace, sweet bird, her tranquil neat 

Hath built in thy untroubled breast. 

Of every Christian Muse the home. 

Love and Folly happened to stray 
AloBR the pleasant Milky Way, 
Arm in arm, one day in June, 
Laughing and talking toeetber : — soon 
Love*s soft voice resounded higher. 
And Folly *s cheeks were all on fire ; 
While one accuses, and one denies. 
He drove his fist in Cupid's eyes. 
Luckily now, the offender to fix 
With this dastardly crime, Cythera had 

Folly^s outrageous manner and mien — 
Silently watching the whole affair ; 
And now she luah'd, with dishevell'd 

And Constable F, a hundred and six, 
Her eyes in tears, and her heart in a 

flutter ; 
They lift the wounded boy on a shutter. 

{^Several lines an hert eraud vfith red ink ; 
hutt from the context, it appears that 
Folly was carried to the Oimnpian Man* 
tion Hmise or GuildhalUp^l^ 


^KV'f Phadruff Gay^ and Fontaine. 


£lhe represenfm r^oormite du c«s ; 

Son fib, muis un bttoo^ ne pouroit faire 

NoQe peine n*6toit pour ce crime assez 

Le dammnge devoit ^tre aassi r^par^e. 
QosBd on eoC bian eonadM 

L'int£rk da pubKc, cehii da la partia. 

La raauUat anlin de la aiu>reine cour 
Fut de condanuiar la Folia 
A aerrir de guide a TAmoar^ 

In an inatant the office waa fill'd, and a 

Beapoke the terrible presanre without. 
As the wounded youth to a chair was led, 
liVith a cotton handkerchief round his 

Wliile Follj got Ofot of a patent car. 
And, between two ofieara placed at the 

Bowed respectfiillj round to the Bench, 
Addreaaixig them all in hia native tongue 

— French. 
The assault being proved to the con- 
science of all, 
Apollo, who sat for the lord-mayor that 

Asked Folly what witnesses he had to call. 
To clear up his share in this shameful 

But the priaoner, hia faanda ia hia poeketf , 

That he waa to UaaM, and proeaedad to 

That the hardship and injury lay on his 

side ; 
When Apollo, that eveaing engaged to a 

*' swarrey,'* 
In the gentlest accents, expressed himself 

That a gentleman, moving in suoh high 

Should so far have forgotten the rales of 

Having taken a luminous viaw of the ease 
(8ofUy hinting to Folly, if Cupid bad died. 
The affiir would have worn a gloomier 

He adjudged him in future to walk as 

his guide. 
And whenever we see, in our journey 

through life, 
Love preaching aloud of mistress or wife. 
Folly s impudent face is close by his side. 

Tbe gay «m1 witty Sudtling \m alio 
introduced Love and Folly into a inott 
deligblful song ; but the MMoa of the 

slory if laid in a region which, bow^ 
ever correct io its geographical position, 
oaooot be mentiooed to ears polite. 

Digitized by 



The kewspapei* Press of Paris, 



No. II. 







'' La Paix" is a peaceful title, but a 
warlike journal. Its conductors are 
Doctrinaires. Their system may be 
stated in a few words, and is as fol- 
lows: — "The revolution of 1789 was 
an event which may be rejoiced at, 
because it was headed by the king and 
acquiesced in by the people. The re- 
volution of 1830 was an event which 
may also be approved, because it was 
similar to the English revolution of 
1688. France has adopted the revo- 
lutions of 1789 and 1830; and all 
who oppose those events, either in their 
principle or results, should be treated 
as traitors. It is very easy to reconcile 
Europe to these two revolutions, by 
preventing, as much as possible, their 
producing any effects on other coun- 
tries than France, and by constantly 
opposing the spirit of propagandism. 
The revolution of 1830 is not an event 
opposed to the peace of Europe, as 
France is willing to fulfil all the trea- 
ties made in her name by former go- 
vernments, and does not require any 
extension of territory in Europe. Witn 
respect to Aleiers and the African pos- 
sessions in Ir ranee, a pacific line of 
policy must be pursued, as the best 
calculated to preserve that which is 
acquired from attack ; and gradually 
accustom the Arabs to French domina- 
tion. At home, tlie policy of the go- 
vernment should be firm and energetic : 
on the one hand, not carrying on a 
war of extermination against those ene- 
mies who have laid down their arms ; 
and, on the other hand, not trusting 
too confidently to the present state of 
calm, but keeping the shield and the 
buckler, the sword and the helmet, on 
the body politic, and, above all, on 
the government, ever prepared to re- 
sume a warlike attitude at a moment's 
notice. No repeal of the laws of Sep- 
tember ; no cabinets of coalition ; no 
greater liberty of tl»e press than at 

{)resent enjoyed. The dynasty of Or- 
eans, * because ' it is a Bourbon dy- 

nasty; and not as M. Dupin has it, 
^ notwUhstandine* it is Bourbon." This 
is tlie system of La Paix. Tliis paper 
was originally the Moniteur du Com- 
merce; but it has changed its name 
and its form, and, instead of being a 
commercial, has become a political 
paper. M. Guizot is said to be one 
of the contributors to this journal. In 
former times, and during Uie examina- 
tions conducted by M. Duchatel into 
the commercial relations of France, and 
the then proposed amendments in the 
custom laws, the Monilextr du Com- 
merce received the official communi- 
cations of that able minister; but when 
the Doctrinaires went out of office, 
these valuable aids were, of course, 
withdrawn, and La Paix rests on its 
own merits. One of its editors, M. 
Louis Huart, is the gerantf or managing 
director, who signs the paper. Its 
great support, however, is M.Nouguier, 
who runs half the world over — to Spain 
and back again in a trice — in order to 
promote the sale of his undertaking ; 
and who, in the hope of serving the 
same cause, is now candidate at Mont- 
pellier for the post of deputy. M. 
Nouguier, indeed, has sometimes taken 
it into his head to turn diplomatist as 
well as journalist ; and has got himsdf 
laughed at— not a little— for his coun- 
sels to the Queen of Spain and tlie 
Spanish government. Still he perse- 
veres ; and, in order yet further to 
secure the sale of his paper, has re- 
duced the price to 40 francs per annum 
instead of 80. The offices of the journal 
are at Rue de la Sourdiere St, Uonorc, 
No, 27; where letters (post paid, with 
money -orders inside^ directing the 
paper to be forwarded to England, 
will be laosX gratefully received. 

The sale of La Paix is not quite so 
large as M. Nouguier desires, and a 
few score of new subscribers would be 
a considerable advantage. Tlie reduc- 
tion of the price of such a journal from 
80 to 40 francs per annum was an act 


The Journal de Paris. 


of folly. Popular journals, written 
popularly, made ad captandwn, and 
got up in good style, may, in the end, 
be made to pay at 40 francs per an- 
num ; but such quiet, sober doctrines, 
as those advocated by La Paix^ will 
never be popular in France with the 
present generation ; and Uiose who are 
disposed to take it in would just as 
willingly pay 80 as 40 francs to sup- 
port it.* 

•oTbe Journal de Paris is a striking 
example of the mutability of all human 
combinations. There was a time when 
the old Journal de Pari$ was a large- 
seliing, small paper, of about eight 
inches long by six inches wide, in 
which were recorded the news and 
nonsense of the good city of Paris. 
In those halcyon days there were no 
" JtaU'tnilieuy' nor " Doctrinaires" 
nor " Tier$ parti" for the Journal de 
Peru; but there were thousands of 
snbscribers, who delighted to read the 
accounts of the fashions and the J^teSy 
the fun and the foolery of the govern- 
ment, or of their neighbours. But, in 
an unlucky hour, M. Leon Pillet, tlie 
Ajax of French journalism, took it 
into bis unfortunate head to make the 
Journal de Paris a political paper; 
and M. Casimir Perier encouraged 
him in his project. For a very long 
while, the Nouvelliste and M. Mevil 
(since promoted to a good government 
appointment), and the Journal de Paris 
and M. Leon Pillet, carried on the war 
for the government of July against its 
legitimist and republican adversaries: 
the former as the evening, and the latter 
as the morning paper. But the Journal 
de Paris was so stupid that no one 
would read it, though the government 
sent it about all over France gratui- 
tously; and the Journal dee Dibats 
thought it '' a very great shame " that 
so a^le a paper as itself should be 
looked over, or be paid, at least, so 
badly by the French government, whilst 
it wasted sudi a quantity of money in 
supporting the Journal de Paris and 
the Nouvelliste. So, at length, the 
ministiy of Guizot, Thiers, and Co« 
being dissolved, the Journal de Paris 
was abandoned ; its ** suhveniion " was 
no longer paid; there were not sub- 
scribers enough to support it without 
the government allowance ; and it be- 
came saleable. For some time it was 

fortunate enough to receive monthly a 
few tliousand francs from M. Thiers, 
but when that extraordinary little per- 
sonage had ceased to "manage the 
telegraphy* to speculate at the Bourse, 
and to gain money as president of the 
council, or as minister of foreign af- 
fairs, by gambling in the stocks ** sur 
veloursy* i.e. knowing beforehand what 
he intended to do, either to send the 
funds up or down at his pleasure — 
why, he discovered that the money 
went out fester than it came in, and 
that it would never do to ''pay so much 
for his whistle.'' So M. Thiers aban- 
doned the Journal de Parity M. Leon 
Pillet got a good government appoint- 
ment, and the paper was sold to M. 
Henri Fonfrede. 

M. Henri Fonfrede is the best po- 
litical writer in France. Bom at 
Bourdeaux, and attached all his life to 
that city, he is better known in that 
part of his country than he is at Paris. 
His talents are of the high^t order. 
His system, both political and com- 
mercial, is complete. For many, many 
years, he has conducted the Memorial 
Bordelais; undoubtedly, the very best 
provincial journal in France. He has 
advocated the interests of the Bordelais 
merchants, ship>owners, wine-growers, 
and consumers, with untired zeal |ind 
most surprising ability; and he lias 
pleaded for the diminution of the cus- 
tom duties on British iron and coals, 
notwithstanding all the opposition 
which sudi an advocacy has drawn 
down upon him. In Bourdeaux and 
the Gironde he is nearly omnipotent : 
he can return or displace deputies al- 
most at his pleasure ; and a new can- 
didate on his side of the question 
would not think of starting in that part 
of France without first securing, if pos- 
sible, his support ; or, if not, his neu- 
trality. M . Henri Fonfrede has adopted 
the revolution of 1830 ; but this is the 
most he has done for that event. He 
does not pretend to love it, or to re- 
joice in It, but simply to adopt it. 
Having adopted it, his first desire is 
to render it strong. He is aware, and 
admits, that legitimate monarchies have 
immense advantages over those having 
an origin similar to that of the Orleans 
dynasty of 1830; but he is of opinion, 
that such men as Persil, Guizot, and 
Duchatel, if placed at the head of the 

• Since the abov^ w«s written, the faix has giveq up the f^^Off^^^ ^, 


The Newtpaper Press of Paris. 


government, might, in the end, succeed 
Ml rendermg the new French govern- 
ment as monarchical as he wmild de- 
sire. When the Guizot political com- 
bination failed, and when Count MoU 
proclaimed the necessity for a general 
amnesiyy M. Fonfivde took up the 
cudgels against the coant and bis S3rs^ 
tern ; and, to this day, denounces it as 
deplorable. M. Fonfrede hates M. 
Thiers — hates the ** Hers jMtrti**-- 
abhors M. Dupin— loathes all middle 
men of mixed opinions — and makes 
war to the hilt against alt coalitfons, as 
immoral and unwise. He is i>ower- 
ftilly assisted in his labours ny M. 
Jnles Leclievalier (no relation to Mi- 
chel Chetalier, we are happy to 
say) ; and the Journal de Pttris^ fbr 
good, clear, nen'ous writing (and no 
nonsense), is undoubtedly at the head 
of the nretropolitan press. Ikil Messrs. 
Fonfrede and Lecheralier fight with 
broken swords. If they abhor rero- 
lution and Imte disorder, then why are 
they not Legitimists? If they do not 
abhor re^olntion, but, on the comrary, 
adopt that of 1830, then how can they 
proclaim themselves the lovers of order 
and tlie sworn enemies to tlie dogma 
of popular sovereignty ? Yet no one 
has written so powerfally and so con- 
clusively as M. Fonfrede agninst that 
doetrine. The Gaxette ek Frante has, 
therefore, vanquished the Jewmal de 
Park in a controvert which it has 
condocted with M. Fonfrede; and lias 
aliewn that that able writer, and honest, 
excellent man, most, to do good, either 
become more royalist or more revo- 
lutionary. The JaurTuU de Park can- 
not, we should think, pay its proprietors. 
To make the paper more popular as to 
price, its sabscription has been re- 
duced from 80 to 40 francs. Its offices 
are No. 10 Bxe d' Alger. It is sup- 
ported by the court, and encouraged 
py Baron Athalin and by Louis Phi- 
Nppe. M. Henri Fonfrede, when in 
Firis, has fhequent interviews with the 
king. He is constantly labouring to 
•strengthen the monarchy,** i.e, to 
destroy the dogma of popular sove- 
leigmy, and advocate the rights and 
the prerogatives of the throne. He is 
mi afraid that the monaiciiical part of 
the constitution will encroach on the 
democratieal portion, but just vMveefiri^. 
The aid«9-<]e-caRip of the king, the 
ssalots of the new dynasty — those who 
Hve in censtaaJt fear of im mtm and 
insurrections, look on Henri Fonfrede 

as a little divinity, and whatever be 
writes is devotued with avidity. If he 
would consent to be a deputy, there arc, 
at least, a dozen electoral eolleses which 
would return him; but he desires to 
remain a ^ plain, honeMl jowma&it,** 
Offers of pla^, honours, and marks of 
distinction, have very of^en been made 
Irim ; but he has declined all, and in- 
sists on maintainnig his privacy, at the 
same time that he exercises his gigantic 
iaikience over pnblie opinion, not onlj 
in the south and west, but over all 
France. Just now, indeed, his system 
of rendering the new monvrdiy stiong 
and monarchical has given way to an- 
other bastard system ; viz. that of at- 
temptmg, by concessions, to make it 
popular, in. Fonfrede laughs at tbete 
attempts, and shevrs, fhnn the paiff 
history of his country, that all systems 
of concessions in JFiance hove been 
fatal to all monarchs and monarchical 
iastitntiorts ; and waits with patience 
till his hour shall come, when new 
exigencies onr the p«rt of the dem^ 
cracy will render it indispensable to 
return to his system offarre. 

The CoNffrinmONH el is the neptm 
vdtra of a bad journal. To be worse 
edited than it is at presen t, would be 
quite impossible ; and it hat as dirty, 
nasty an appearance, printed oo a tort of 
dirty-white paper, in an old-flnhioned 
type, and looking as thotigh it belonged 
fo the laat century. There win a time 
when the Camt i htt U mnd vms ably 
edited, and when its op iiiie a s were 
influential and ito aflMka potent. It 
was then the reptesentative of die mow* 
archical eppositioa ander the restora- 
tion, as opposed to the Cmtrier JTfcr*- 
f«i«, wbicli advocat e d mere advanced 
opinions. In those bygone days, the 
sale of the CemHtul'wimel was imk 
Biense, amounting to 1 5,000 and 1 7,000 
copies; and n9 the last page was gene- 
rally full of advertisements, at 30 sons, 
and even higher, per line, the profltt 
of the paper esieeeded any thhvg ever 
before known in France. M. Dupm, 
die piesident of the Chandler of De- 
puties, is one of its lafgcst p ioprietois. 
lliey are now very few in number, 
and, in spite of the rsdodioo in die 
sale and in the advertieemems, finom 
the establishment c^* rrval tmi soperior, 
as well as, in tmMy eases, e he a pe i pro- 
daetions, tlie C mt t k l uHmei milH pays 
a very large dividend to its^ smalt knot 
ofpropriMan. The haliit «f leaMining 
faithful to the journal you have been 


The Courier Fremiti. 


accustomed to take in, exists in France, 
eren to a greater, extent than in Enfi;- 
land. An Englishroan is faithful to 
his wife, his horse, and his dog; a 
Frenchman is (aith^ii to his ro/e, his 
mistress, and his journal. A French- 
iiian is faithful to his journal, because 
ffoni the beginning it )u» been so kind 
as to think for him. He adopts its 
optiiions, because he reads no others ; 
and he keeps to the opinions he has 
adopted, because it is too ranch trouble 
to change them. Of course, we are not 
n>eaking of the noisy, vehement, and 
democratical portions of society, but 
of those more sedate and steady people 
who live on their little incomes, arising 
from the funds or from the rents of 
booses, or who are engaged in com- 
mercial pursuits or in agricultural la- 
boars. All of these mutt have a jour- 
nal, vnll have a journal; and as the 
CtmslUutionnel contrives to keep up 
to their standard of nothingness, and 
to please them with a little bit of news, 
a linle bit of spite against the clergy, 
a little bit of (xpposition, a little bit of 
loyalty, and a little bit of sham inde- 
pendence, they are quite satisfied with 
their paper, and continue to take it in. 
When Cauchois Lemaire used to write 
in it, the Constitutiormei was taken in 
by those who now subscribe to the 
Natimal, Si^cU, and Ccnrmeree. Then 
it would thunder away at the Jesuits ; 
and, indeed, was a main instrument m 
driving tliem from France: but now 
M. Etienne, and some other old ladies, 
write the penny'4i-liue commonplaces 
of yoar every-day men, who are sati»« 
fied with repeating that '^rums have 
'•riar," and that sugars have/e//." The 
Comtkutionnel is now taken in by 
those sleepy -headed folks existing in 
all communities, and particularly in 
France, who hate to be alarmed or 
disturbed. They read an opposition 
paper, because they did so during the 
restoration ; but the opposition paper 
they read, is one which is as ministerial 
and governmental as it can be, without 
Wmg absolutely an official paper. The 
idol of the Constitutkmneit at this mo- 
ibent, is M. Thiers. He has beeA 
nibbling about the purchase of a share 
in the paper; and, as he began by 
being a writer in that journal, he wishes 
to end by being one of the roastefs. 
It is not known whetlier the bargain 

has yet been struck, but it is certain 
that it is devoted, soul and body, to 
the ex-mratster of foreign afiairs. The 
Coftttitntionnel has m>/, as yet, reduced 
its price: it is still an 80 francs journal. 
Nor has it augmented its size ; but it 
publislies SUPPLEMENTS two or three 
times a-week, into which it compresses 
a great quantity of what it calls Utermy 
matter. These supplements are made 
up of pitfertd articles : they contain 
nothing original, but the selection is 
not badly got up. It is probable 
that, by and by, the CoHtiUutionnel 
will begm a new tarilT of prices and a 
new fbrm and size. If it shall not do 
so, it will, by degrees, sink to rise no 
more. As its oU subscribers die oflT, 
new ones do not come in; and M. 
Dupin may one day find a large por- 
tion of his revenue stopped, by the 
ftrilure of the ConstitntionneL* 

The Courier Fran^ais is a manly, 
consistent, honourable journal, of the 
monarchical opposition. Amidst all 
the chances and chauges of the French 
newspaper worid, the Courier Fron^U 
has held on its quiet and reputable 
way. Its doctrines are subversive — 
its poKtics are revolutionary— its oppo- 
sition is uniform — and its conductors 
are democratic: all this must be ad- 
mitted; and yet, fbr a journal of that 
colour, of those principles, it is nninly, 
consistent, and honourable. It does 
not attadt religion, as does the Contti' 
ttOionnd. It does not carry on a 
mitefbl, stupid vrarfiure, against the 
Leritrmtsts, as do the ConMutionml 
and the Tempi, It does not attack 
even the wise and good acts of the go- 
vernment, as do the Bon Sens, Natkmaf, 
Me$9ager, and SMe, Its conductors 
thoroughly understand foreign poli- 
tics. The questions of the East, of 
Russia, of Poland, of the German Con- 
federation, of the United States of 
America, and of the South American 
repoblfcs, are always well treated hi 
^at paper. Its editors are no smaC- 
Cerers, like the conducfors of the Charte^ 
^ Temp$^ the Camtiiutkmneiy and the 
Memiger: they ate profbund men, as 
Mir as acquirements are conceined , 
bvt they are, with all this, attached to 
extreme principles in refbrm, and wish 
to see the insttttitions snrronnding the 
moaarehy much more pop«ilar than 
titey ean be in France, if a vestige ai 

• The new year has arrived, hut the Om^tntiomH nuanas^^ 
aid prices. So it is fkst lotiiig its sulMeriberf • 


The Newspaper Press of Paris. 


the monarchy is to remain. The Courier 
FranqaU is a friend to Protestantism. 
That able and excellent Protestant cler- 
gyman, tlie Reverend Mr. Coquerel, a 
most eloquent preacher, is an occasional 
writer in the journal; and although 
the Courier is very hx, indeed, from 
being what may be called a religious 
paper, it advocates, when necessary, 
the cause of Protestantism against any 
attacks or uniust influence on the part 
of the Romish oriests. 

The political chief of the Courier 
Fran^ais is M. Odillon Barrot : he is 
one of the best speakers at the French 
tribune. The three best are Berryer, 
Guizot, and Barrot : Tliiers and Mau- 
guin are far their inferiors. Tluers, 
now, has the ConslUutionnel for his 
organ ; whilst M. Maugin is the pro- 
prietor of the Journal du Commerce. 

The Courier Francis is purely a po- 
litical print; it seldom contains lite- 
rary articles, pays little attention to the 
arts and sciences (except once a-week), 
and is by no means an amusing news- 
paper. M. Chatelain, who is one of 
the directors of tlie paper, is a man of 
good acquirements and respectable 
conduct, and never allows his journal 
to descend into the arena of low wit 
or of personal scurrility. He has 
hitherto obstinately refused both to 
diminish the price of his paper, or to 
increase its size. He relies on the re- 
putation of his iournal for its continued 
success ; and the support of the Pro- 
testants is not wanting to liis under- 
taking. The Courier Fran^ i» the 
only example of a Paris morning-paper 
which has made no change at all, 
either in its size, price, or manner of 
conducting and editing its paper, not- 
withstanding the revolution which has 
taken place in the Paris press during 
the last eighteen months. It does not 
even publish supplements, as does the 
CoTutitutionnel ; and what is the more 
astonishing is, that the Courier Frun^it 
has so held on its way, notwithstanding 
the establishment of a journal of tlie 
same opinions as that paper, entitled 
the "5iicfc," at 40 instead of 80 francs 
per annum. The Suck has from 12,000 
to 15,000 subscribers ; tlie Courier 
Frangais has not more than from 5000 
to 6000, at the outside : but with these 
certain^ fixed, positive 8ul»cribers, it 
is most probable that it will, as it can, 
go on, neither turning to the right hand 
nor to the left, but continue to sell 
Its paper at a hi^h rate, and to pondqct 

it in a good style. As in France '' all 
come to be kings in their tums,^* the 
day will probably come that Odillou 
Barrot will be prime-minister ; and 
the Courier Francois will then be the 
government journal. That day is, 
perhaps, not so fur removed as is ge- 
nerally imagined. M. Barrot and the 
Courier Frangais have split with the 
Republican faction, and they are just 
beginning to discover — but only be- 
ginning — that a monarchy in France 
must be strong if it is to resist the 
attacks of the democratic party. 

The Journal du Commerce has 
had many *<ups and downs*' in its 
eventful career. Tliere was a time, 
and tliat time lasted some years, when 
the Journal du Commerce and the Mes- 
soger were managed, edited, corrected, 
revised, and every thing else but printed 
and distributed, by two brothers, yclept 
Guillemot. These two brethren re- 
sembled, indeed, the fat and lean kine 
of former days ; for the one looked like 
St. PauPs cathedral in rotundity, and the 
other the Monument for spareness of 
habit. They were both agreed on one 
point, and that was to smoke from morn- 
ing till night, and to live almost wholly 
on tobacco. One " did *' all the " wit^' 
of the two journals — this was the thin 
brother ; and the other, all the weight 
and heaviness of these quotidian prints 
— and this was the fat brother. The 
thin brother was a great man in the 
revolution of July, and fouglit dexte- 
rously behind the barricades. The Jat 
brother was a little man in those events, 
and left his witty relative to find plea- 
sure and occupation in such disasters, 
whilst he remained at home deploring 
tbe (ate of the press, and groaning out, 
that if the ordinances of Charles X. 
should be tolerated, " Othello's occu- 
pation would be gone." The two bro- 
thers had, however, some notion of trade 
— professed the same political principles 
as the Courier Frangais — and con- 
trived, " by hook or by crook," to get 
hold of the Commerce, and to publish 
it in the same house as tlie Messager. 
Tbe 'Uhin*' brother went to the Bourse 
and the saloons; the <' fat" brother, to 
the Chamber of Deputies. Both drank 
beer, and lived in rooms of seven feet 
by six, witi) tbe bed in tbe corner, and 
cigars and pipes all over the remainder 
of their little tabernacle. When tliere 
was an ^* cmeute** to be seen, or an 
" insurrection " to take pbce, the " thin " 
t>roth9r was always sent \o the fray, %s 

1 838.J 

The Temps. 


he had the best cliauce of sliding be- 
tween the bullets ami of escaping the 
bhideeons. On the other hand, the 
** fet" brother was expected to attend 
at all electoral meetings — go to the 
theatres (except the opera) — be present 
at meetings of creditors and courts of 
law — visit the markets — examine the 
prices current — and make a daily re- 
port of the exchanges, oils, and spices 
of the Exchange and the *< Quartier de 
la Halle." All this went on very well 
ibr some time, till the proprietors got 
wearied of obtaining no dividend ; for^ 
thongh the Commerce and the Messager 
were done to the entire satisfaction of 
tbe Messrs. Guillemot, no one else 
was pleased with the papers. The old 
subscribers dropped off, and no new 
ones arrived. M. Aguado then be- 
came, but in the name of a third party, 
the purchaser of the journals ; and as 
the wily Spanish banker expected to 
be attacked by the French press, as 
-well as by that of his own country, for 
his transactions with the Spanish trea- 
sury, he took care to assure to himself 
some friends in the press itself. When 
the storm came, m. Aguado was, of 
course, defended by his own journals ; 
and when the storm was over, he en- 
deavoured to get rid of both his under- 
takings, and to leave the Messrs. Guille- 
mot to their fate. Since then, the '* fat " 
brother has been lost sight of. Perhaps 
be has retired on his fortune : we have 
heard that he died. The " thin " bro- 
ther is an editor of the Siicle; and 
the Commerce is now the property 
of the celebrated opposition deputy, 
M. Mauguin. 

M. Mauguin has purchased the 
Commerce out of the proceeds of his 
very large income, paid by the French 
colonists to defend the slave-trade, and 
protect the rights and interests of his 
employers. It ira most amusing po- 
litical as well as personal fact, that 
M. Mauguin, one of the men who 
most powerfully aided in bringing 
about, and carrying on, the revolution 
of July, made in the name of liberty, 
is now the well-paid agent of the slave 
proprietors of the Isle of Bourbon, and 
of the other French colonies. By pur- 
chasing the Commerce, M. Mauguin 
has assured to himself for many, many 
years, the valuable post he now holds. 
In that journal he defends colonial 

interests, pleads the cause of slave 
sugar against the beet-root sugar manu- 
factories, and proves to his clients that 
he is a zealous and sincere friend to 
those who pay him so liiierally and so 
well . The Commerce, of course, pleads 
for liberty at home, and for slavery 
abroad ; for the charter at home, and 
for no charter abroad ; and its new 
and very able proprietor is seconded 
in his useful labours by a M. Durand, 
whilst M. Mauguin himself attends at 
meetings of an electoral association, of 
which he is the head : the object of 
which is to combine republicanism 
with monarchism, and to unite prin- 
ciples the roost discordant. The Com- 
merce is, however, in some respects, a 
gpecial journal. One-third of its co- 
lumns are uniformly devoted to com- 
mercial afiairs; and, as it has really 
no competitor in this field, it is not 
surprising that the old price of eighty 
francs is maintained — the old size un- 
changed — and, as in the case of the 
Courier FrancaiSf no supplement num- 
ber published, notwithstanding all the 
changes which have taken place in tlie 
daily press. The Commerce is "done" 
so economically, that it may just now, 
perhaps, pay its expenses; especially 
as the colonists themselves will take in 
the paper, conducted as it is by M. 
Mauguin. It is not likely that the 
deputy for Beaune desires to make 
much money out of the aflair, but 
simply not to lose any. The politics 
of his journal have, however, endan- 
gered his election at Beaune; and, at 
the moment we are writing, he is 
making a double attack— one at Havre, 
and the other at the before-named town, 
so as, in all cases, to be sure of being 
a member of the Chamber of Deputies.* 
It is by no means impossible that the 
day may come, should the young Duke 
of Orleans succeed his father on the 
throne, that M. Mauguin may become 
the minister of justice ; and to aid him 
in the object of his ambition, or in tliat 
of being minister of the colonies, he 
has begun at the right end, viz., by 
having a journal of his own. Journalism 
is the only certain mode of promotion 
in revolutionised France. 

The Temps, i.e. M. Jacques Coste. 
M. Jacques Coste, i.e. the Temm. 
If M. Jacques Coste were to die, 
the Temp$ mutt be buried with him, 

• M. Mauguin lost his election at Havre, and has offered gfgit^»JSy\yt>P?§M 
colonial representative. o 



The Newspaper Preu of Paris. 


printing-preases and all. At this mo- 
ment he is oaDvassing the electors of 
Blaye, to return him as their deputy : 
bat for what purpose ? Why, to pro- 
mote the interests of the Tempi/ The 
Temps was founded by M. Coste — 
has been twice refounded by him — 
has been twice ruined by him — is still 
in a stat6 of the most desperate and 
hideous bankruptcy — and yet goes on, 
and goes on, in spite of wind and 
weather. When the revolution of 1830 
broke out, M. Coste fought like a 
Trojan— -really fought with musket and 
sabre ; and, we believe, was wouaded. 
He is now decorated witli the red ri- 
band of the Legion of Honour. When 
the revolution broke out, M. Coste, in 
defiance of the ordinances, published 
his paper, oohvoked the editors and 
conductors of tlie daily press (at least, 
those who would meet), and drew up 
a PROTEST, which led to the arming of 
the people and the civil war in the 
streets of the capital. M. Coste had 
just founded his Temps. He had given 
dinners and toirees, at No, 82 Rue 
Richelieuy to deputies and peers, in the 
very first style; and had founded his 
journal with the money of the members 
of the then centre gauche. His partner- 
ship deed made him sole matiery and 
he exercised his authority ^^comme U 
fauty Being of larger dimensions than 
the ordinary papers, lie had to pay a 
larger stamp-outy, and a larger sum at 
the post-office; and these events, to- 
getlter with enormous out-goings at 
No. 82 aforesaid, nearly compelled M. 
Jacques Coete to come to a stand-still 
in 1832. The shareholders got savage 
—not vexed, but savage— quite fero- 
oious. Tliat was of no importance ; 
his deed of partnership was too well 
drawn up for even a pin-liole to be 
discovered in it to let in a ray of light ; 
and M. Coste put up his concern to 
sell — bought the journal himself — 
founded a new undertaking — and got 
rid, in the quietest way in the world, 
of his old and obstreperous copartners. 
When the journal was put up for sale, 
no one could purchase it ; for the con- 
ditions of sale were such, that not even 
a madman could be deceived in their 
intentions. M. Coste, and M. Coste 
alone, was the purchaser, or could be ; 
and he soon found some new share- 
holders to come forward with the pur- 
chase-money. It was sold for an old 
song. Since that time, M. Coste has 
jobbed on as well as he could; till 

about twelve mouths since the ec4** 
blisliment of La Preae, and other cheap 
journals, at 40 instead of 80 francs, so 
diminbhed the number of the sub- 
scribers to the Tempxy that its con- 
ductor found it absolutely essential to 
do someiliing to save it from immediate 
ruin. What was to be done ? To 
diminish the price of the journal to 40 
francs was impomble : so the plan was 
decided on to maintain the priee at 72 
francs instead of 80, but greatly to 
increase the size of the paper. 

Itie Tempt is now as large as the 
London Timesy and contains, in one 
way or other, nearly as many words. 
But the arrangemeat of the Temp* is 
most extraordinary. It has lateral co- 
lumns, and transversal columns, and 
topsy-turvy columns ; so that it takes 
a clear year to be accustomed to the 
arrangement of the lines ; and takes a 
clear hour, every day, to find out any 
particular subject on which you may 
desire to obtain information. Standing 
advertisements are put sideways on the 
third page, end of third column. Loo- 
don Exchange news is mixed up in 
small print, in a separate column, at 
the right-band of the first page. Does 
all this appear unintelligible to our 
readers ? Well, that is just what it is 
in tlie Temps; and if our readera can- 
not understand our description, it is 
not our fault, but that of M. Jacques 
Coste. This immense daily journal, at 
2/. \7s, per annum, of course does 
not pay its proprietors; and, to use 
the words of the immortal conductor, 
'* Every new subscriber to the paper is 
a neio toss:*' for the best of all possible 
reasons —> that a loss is sustained on 
every copy printed. In order, then, to 
go on, two things were necessary : 1st, 
that great efforts should be made to 
obtain advertisements; and, 2d, that 
the Temps should become a minieterial 
paper. It has done both. Count Mol^ 
has taken Ahe Tempt under his patroo- 
age ; and, of course, M. Jacques Coste 
defends the cause of his munificent 
friend. " Cela va, tant dire.** How 
long this union will last, must, of 
course, depend upon circumstances; 
but this much is certain, that the pe- 
cuniary portion of the arrangement is 
so agreeable to M. Jacques Coste, that 
it will not be hit fault if it be not 
eumal. The best part of the Ten^ 
is the daily ** bulletin," or leading ar- 
ticle. It is a very succinct rUumi of 
all the leading topics of the previous 


The National. 


day, both foTMgn and domestic. It is 
admirably done. The paper is well 
worth the annual subscription of 72 
francsi simply for that succinct raumi. 
It is done fairly and honestly — at least, 
for a liberal print — and saves a vast 
deal of hunting and searching over the 
whole of a paper to learn what there is 
** nnr." M. Cosie has appointed " an 
admimstrator ** of the journal, one of 
his relatives, M. Ravmond Coste, who 
signs tlie paper, and manages all that 
he is told to do by his more able and 
conning director. 

It is said, tliat tlie government has 
so fu iavoured M. Coete as to allow 
him to take from the Treasury his 
"caution mokey," of 100,000 francs. 
If this be the case, then, indeed, the 
Tempi may scramble on for a long 
time to come ; since the 100,000 francs, 
an increase of advertisements, and a 
ministerial subvention, will ** keep the 
pot boiling," perhaps, for a year, or 
more. After all, one thing is certain ; 
either the government must support 
tlie TempSj paving monthly its losses, 
or it must, in the end, give up ; or else 
increase its subscription, or diminish 
its size. Still, if it should increase its 
subscription, it would lose its sub- 
scribers ; and if it were to diminish its 
size, it would also fail. On the whole, 
it seems impossible that it can last 
long; except that some journals in 
France, like some cats, have nine lives. 
And if Jacques Coste shall be elected a 
deputy,* he may, perchance, get a place ; 
and then again attempt to refound bis 
journal on a small scale, and at small 
prices. This is an enigma which time 
only can solve; but we are heartily 
glad we are noi shareholders. The 
politics of the Temps have been various, 
in 1830, it was revolutionary. In 

1831, it was anti-Casimir Perier. In 

1832, when that able man made over- 
tures to the TempSy it ceased to abuse 
lum. When M. Guizot was in office, 
it railed at him. When emeutes and 
insurrections seemed to bid fair to be 
triumphant, it joined their cause, and 
attacked the government with daily ve- 
hemence and incessant rancour. When 
insurrections and emeutes became un- 
popular from their abortiveness and 
irequency, the Temps veei-ed round. 
When M. Thiers was in the ascendant, 
he was the ** national and patriotic 
minister;" now M.Thiers is nobody, 

the Temps cannot speak of him with 
civility. Count Mol^ is the first mi- 
nister who has ** understood " M . Coste, 
and has really "come to the scratch ;" 
and his " billets de milie francs ** have 
raised him to the rank of a god in the 
opinion of the conductor of the French 
Times, So much for Le Temps ! 

The National was established in 
1830, by M.Thiers and Armand Carrel, 
not for the purpose of overthrowing 
the Polignac administration, but for 
that of undermining the government of 
tlie Bourbons. Prince Talleyrand, 
though grand-almoner to Charles X., 
was no stranger to the f(r»rmation of 
this republican journal. He adopted 
the old plan of all his life, " of making 
to himself friends of the mammon of 
unrighteousness;*' and seeing, or be- 
lievinff, a revolution to be quite in- 
evitable, he resolved on being prepared 
for all extremities. When the National 
was founded, the state of the public 
mind was much excited. Charies X., 
by the advice of his ministers, had dis- 
solved the Chamber of Deputies, and 
the nation waited with anxiety to learn 
the issue of the electoral contest. 
Though Thiers admitted that the ma- 
jority of the nation were, in his opin- 
ion, " centre gauche^** he yet joined 
with Mignet and his friends m creating 
a paper, the object of which was to 
prove to France that the Bourbon dy- 
nasty had been reimposed on her by 
foreign bayonets; that the charter of 
1814 was unsuited to the country ; 
that the treaties of 1815 were humili- 
ating to national honour and glory, 
independence and dignity; and that 
the first things to be done were to 
"break'* those treaties and "amend'* 
that charter. Tlie appearance of the 
National produced a powerful eflfect. 
Its articles were written with all the 
nerve and close reasoning of which 
Carrel was the master ; or with the 
sparkling, frothy, foaming, excitable 
eloquence of little Thiers. There was 
such a wide difference between the 
language of the old opposition prints 
and that of the new paper, that its pub- 
lication was itself almost a revolution. 
It was prosecuted, and acquitted ; it 
was prosecuted, and condemned. It 
had some several thousand subscribers ; 
and Prince Talleyrand found he liad 
made no bad speculation. But the re- 
volution of 1830 arrived 1 The con- 

• He failtd in bit attempt to be returned depu^L^^^ ^' v^uugic 


The Newspaper Press of Paris, 


duclors ofibc juurnal then split. Tliiers 
allacljcd himself at once to the ue^v 
throne and the new d) nasty; and M. 
Guizot made him an under-secretary 
of stale. This was a very nipid eleva- 
tion for liule Thiers. Carrel was mo- 
roentarily the dupe of M. Guizot, and 
was sent into the west to excite the 
** patriots" to espouse the revolution, 
and take it up against the Vendeans. 
IJut on his return he discovered that 
the fine promises of republican institu- 
tions had been forgotten, and that M. 
Guizot was prepanng to hoist the co- 
lours of a constitutional monarchy. 
From that moment Thiers and Carrel 
separated for ever. Carrel remained 
faithful to his principles, and died the 
victim of his too nice sense of honour. 
Thiers abandoned all his friends, and 
all his professions of youth and man- 
hood ; became one of the chiefs of the 
psrty of resistance ; and, after vainly 
endeavouring to buy up Carrel with 
silver and gold, offers of places and 
honours, vindictively persecuted him 
the remainder of his days, and even 
implacably pursued him with his ven- 
geance to the grave. There is not a 
more contemptible creature in the uni- 
verse than that man Thiers, 

During the life of Carrel, llie ^a- 
tional was conducted with unrivalled 
talent. Nothing equal to his leading 
articles have ever appeared in the pe- 
riodical press of any country. He 
drew old things and new from a mighty 
mind, stored with all the facts of 
all ages, arranged in his capacious 
brain in the most perfect order. He 
soon became the chief of his party, 
and even dictated to the monarchical 
opposition. Such men as Arago, Mau- 
gum, Barrot, Lafitte, I^fayelte, Cor- 
menin, and the other chiefs of the po- 
pular party, acknowledged his merits, 
and even bowed before his authority ; 
and it is unnecessary to add that his 
death was the signal of endless divi- 
sions; and that the Nutionaly though 
still an able paper, has not so much 
weight as the Courier Frangais, or the 
Siecie. It would occupy too long a 
space of time to narrate all the persecu- 
tions to which the conductors of the 
National have been exposed for seven 
years by the new French government. 
** Many a time and oft*' have they 
said, with Jacques Lafitte, " that tliey 
ask pardon of God and of man for 
having taken any part in that revolu- 
tion." One of the raultiplied perse- 

cutions to which the National has been 
so exposed rendered it necessary, in 
1834, to change the title of that jour- 
nal to « The National of \Q3A"—^\he 
title it now bears, — and to re-o^^anise 
the administration and constitution of 
the paper. Its present director is M. 
Charles lliomas, and its chief editors 
Messrs. Bastide and Trelat. It was 
originally established with the sum of 
12,000/., consisting of fifteen actions or 
shares of 800/. each. When Tliiers and 
Mignet, the autlior of the History of 
the French Revolution, withdrew from 
the National, Armand Carrel had tlie 
shares of 20,000 francs, or 800/., di- 
vided into shares of 5000 francs, or 
200/., each. 

During the life of Carrel the jour- 
nal was so prosi)erous, that, although it 
had to pay more than 50,000 francs, 
or 2000/., of fines to the government, it 

f)aid a very handsome dividend, and 
arge rate of interest, to the proprietors 
of the sixty shares of 200/. each. But 
the establishment of the forty- franc 
journals in Paris, and the death of the 
unparalleled leader of the republican 
party, have rendered it necessary to in- 
crease the capital of the paper from 
12,000/. to 24,000/., in 2400 sliares of 
250 francs, or 1 0/. each . The half of this 
capital, or 1200 shares of 250 francs, 
belong to the old shareholders, whilst 
the other half, the present director and 
editors are endeavouring to place 
amongst their republican friends. The 
subscription to the journal is fixed at 
sixty francs instead of eighty ; but the 
shareholders would not agree to reduce 
it to forty, since the 40 and 48 francs 
journals only rely on success in case 
their advertisements should produce tlie 
sum of from 200,000 to 300,000 francs 
per annum ; and the National had no 
right to expect to receive such a sum, 
since its principles would be an obsta- 
cle to the acquisition by it of a great 
number of advertisements. ITiose who 
advertise, not merely advertise in pa- 
pers of large circulation, but they sdso 
look to the character of the readers of 
the paper. Tliis will account for the 
fact why the 2\mcs has so many mote 
advertisements than the Morning Chro- 
nicle t and the Standard than the Globe, 
So French ad vertisers, though they know 
that the National has from 5000 to 
6000 subscribers, which is a very good 
circulation, are aware that the rich 
merchants, bankers, tradesmen, or ca- 
pitalists of France do not even see it. 


The Bon Sens. 


The new director and editors of this 
paper do not, however, seem to doubt 
of its success. It is still conducted 
with more than ordinary talent; and 
though the republican party, as a party, 
is " dead beat" in France — and it 
knows it, — yet the students, young 
men, *' proletaires," and lovers of ultra- 
representative institutions, are very, 
very numerous; and these all prefer 
the National of\^ZA, Its conductors 
are mistaken men, but men of good 

Tlie Bon Sens is by no means what 
it professes to be by its title. It ad- 
Tocates Napoleonism, and yet is a re- 
publican journal. It is always ap- 
plauding the men and the measures 
which stripped France of her rising 
generation, and which left not a hale 
^ouDg man to cultivate the fields. It 
IS always preaching the doctrines of 
ultni-lil>Brty, at the same time that it 
is ever magnifying the advantages of 
extended territory — territory so ex- 
tended by the most ravaging and ruin- 
ous wars. 

Now, what " good sense '* there is in 
all this, we confess we are at a loss to 
discover. The Bon Sens has had a 
race of the greatest difficulty ever since 
its commencement. Its conductors, 
one after the other, have been sent to 
prison. Its " caution money " has 
Deen absorbed by fines. Its editors 
have been tried before the court of 
peers, as well as at the court of assizes ; 
but it still finds a gentleman named 
^ Vigoroux" for its girant, or director; 
and from year to year it finds funds, 
and subscribers, advertisements, and 
aid, of one sort or other, to keep it 
afloat. Of all the journals published 
since 1830, with tlie exception of the 
defunct Tribune, it has done the most 
harm to the present order of things in 
France among the working classes. 
Before the law was passed for prohibit- 
ing hawkers of journals from selling 
newspapers in the streets, and before 
the "cryer's law" was passed for pro- 
hibiting individuals from crying jour- 
nals for sale, the Bon Sens did a vast 
deal of business in this way. But 
these laws compelled the conductors of 
this journal to adopt a new plan ; so 
they dressed their distributors in a 
uniform, and put large boxes on their 
backs, with the words Bon Sens written 
upon them ; and then, when any one 
was anxious to purchase, these distri- 
htttoca would g;o with them into a wine- 

house, shop, or ^^ poriC'^ochere** and 
sell them a copy. This system was 
soon attacked by the attorney-general, 
who maintained that this came within 
the meaning of the law against hawking 
journals in the streets; and several 
trials took place, some of which were 
for the Bon Sens, and otbei*s against it. 
The result has been, that a new system 
was adopted of having " depots** for 
the sale of this paper in various parts of 
Paris; and this, with partial hawking 
in houses and shops, keeps this journal 
afloat. There was a time when Cau- 
cliois Lemaine conducted it ; but it 
was too republican for him. Then 
there was a time when llaspail, the 
able chemist, who was tried for his po- 
litical opinions in 1834, conducted it; 
but he was much too scientific for it. 
Then Martin Maillifer, who was tried 
before the court of peers, and acquit- 
ted, was its leading editor ; but he was 
too rough for the management of the 
Bon Sens, The chief editor now is M. 
Louis Blanc. Its doctrines are ultra- 
republican. Its hatred to Louis Phi- 
lippe is unbounded. It exercises no 
influence over the electoral body, and 
but little over public opinion generally. 
But the Napoleonists support it be- 
cause it supports the Napoleonists. It 
has been often said that Joseph Buona- 
parte has saved the Bon Sens from 
many a bankruptcy ; but his private 
friends deny the truth of this statement. 
It has been alleged that M. Vander 
Gobbelschroy, the Onmgeist Belgian, 
and the General Vander Smissen, his 
friend, both residing in Paris, have, in 
behalf of the king of Holland, aided 
the Bon Sens in keeping its head above 
water ; but this we can scarcely be- 
lieve. There is a M. Boers, who 
boasts of being a friend of the king of 
Holland, who occasionally writes to 
it letters, dated Amsterdam (from the 
Champs Elys^es) ; but this proves no- 
thing, since the same M. Boers sends 
his scribble alike to the Bon Sens, 
Messaga; La France, and Tm Quo- 
tidienne. There are some men in 
Paris who, in order to induce others to 
believe that they are individuals of im- 
portance, will devote their lives in the 
service of a particular cause, monarch, 
or principle; though the cause, mo- 
narch, or principle, are any thing but 
benefilted by their useless zeal and mul- 
tifarious movements. The Bon Sens 
maintains its old price of eighty francs, 
and its old siae.; and the enigma. is> 


The Newspaper Press of Paris. 


how it can still last. Surely, it cannot 
be true, that the Russian embassy at 
Paris encourages- its proceedings! 

Le Monde is any thing but what it 
professes to be — " the world ;" for it is 
an organ of a very small party, — looks 
wiih a very partial, limited, narrow 
mind at all questions, — sees no inter- 
ests worth protecting but those who 
are poor, and no good worth enjoying 
but wealth. The war it carries on is a 
war against wealth, — as though a rich 
man was necessarily a robber, and as 
though to possess was a crime. Tliis 
is the capital fault of the late conductor 
of that paper — a man who has made 
more stir in Europe than any one since 
the days of Napoleon Buonaparte— we 
mean the Abb6 de la Mennais. His 
most celebrdted work is Let Paroles 
d*un Croyant, which has been translated 
into nearly every language of Europe, 
and has had a success wholly incredi- 
ble. The only misery he sees in the 
world is f)Aj/sicrt/ misery; moral misery 
he keeps out of view ; and, though an 
abbd, ne speaks but little of religion, 
except it be of the " supremacy of the 
pope," which is with him indispensa- 
ble to salvation. A few years since, the 
Abb^ de la Mennais established his 
own journal, called VAvenir, and his 
motto was " popery and republican- 
ism." What a strange compound was 
this ! Ilis system was so inconceivably 
absurd, and so palpably contradictory, 
that he could not obtain subscribers; 
and after a few months of lingering ex- 
istence it expired. Le Monde was 
established by himself and his follow- 
ers to propagate the principles of de- 
mocracy. There can be no' mistake on 
this point. Independent of the well- 
known opinions of its avowed con- 
ductors, the prospectus of the paper 
distinctly stated this to be the case. 
Instead of attacking individuals, it at- 
tacks principles. Whilst the National 
rails against the Doctrinaires, Louis 
Philippe, the court, the ^^juste-milien,** 
and the Legitimists, the Motide rails 
against none of these by name, but 
really attacks them all, by inveighing 
against their respective systems. Le 
Monde is more anxious for a social 
than it is for a political revolution. Tt 
sets itself up against the established 
'distinctions of human society, and 
wishes to make the poor rich, and the 
wealihy poor. As the Abb^ de la 

Mennais desired to give a Roman 
Catholic turn to the journal, his co- 
operation was, after some months, 
found troublesome; and he has now, 
for some time, ceased to take anyihare 
in the direction of the paper. This is 
rather awkward, — for in all the Fau- 
bourgs of Paris, at the beginning of 
the publication, the founders had 
painted in oil colours, on the sides and 
tVonts of houses, and on dead walls, a 
large square of white paint, about 
twenty-four inches square, on which 
was written, in black letters, the follow- 
ing announcement: — ** 60 francs par 
an. Le Mortde. Jounial quotidien 
redig^. Par M.De la Mennais. Rue 
Montmarlre, No. 39." 

Since the withdrawal of the Abb^ 
de la Meimais, the permanent oil- 
painted announcements still remain, 
— thus deceiving the unwary into the 
belief, that the popular abb€ continues 
to conduct the paper. How the con- 
ductors o(Le Moiide contrive to " make 
both ends meet," we cannot tell. There 
are a very few subscribers, and, of 
course, as few advertisements. It is, 
undoubtedly, the organ of a party; 
but that party is small, and poor — not 
with its own consent, — hut small and 
poor because its principles are sub- 
versive, and wholly unphilosophical. 
Le Monde is a sixty francs a-year 
journal, and is published in the old- 
fishioned form and size, without sup- 
plements, or any extra numbers. Since 
1830, so many of these sort of papers 
have appeared, that, until the new 
ones have lasted two or three years, 
little attention is now paid to them. 
In many cases, they have been the 
cause of ruin to persons of small pro- 
perty, who, as in the case of a journal 
called La Just ice y established to de- 
fend the rights of a sham Louis XVII., 
have stupidly invested their little all in 
some of these political chimeras. We 
do not accuse the conductors of Le 
Monde of resorting to such artifices ; 
but we should not be at all astonished, 
some fine morning, to learn that " the 
worid had come to an end !" * 

M. Peletin, who was editor of a pro- 
vincial journal at Grenoble, and M. 
Favre, a noted republican, conducted 
the Monde for some months after the 
Abb^ de la Mennais had ceased to 
edit it. But they, in their turn, with- 
drew from a concern which oflTered 

^ Our prediction h«a been reoUted, tnd L$ Monis, like the Trot Sum, has expired. 


7^ Me$$ug€r, 


Uiem DO Avenir; and it is now edited 
conjointly by M. Frederick Lacroix 
and by M. Louis Blanc, the chief 
editor of the Bon Sens. The Monde 
and the Bon Sem noiy, therefore, follow 
the aame line of politics, and partake 
in sdl things the same views and 
opinions. As, however, both these 
journals are losing afTairs separately, it 
is by no means improbable that the 
** good $enu^' of both parties will teach 
them that they had better act as men of 
'' the world," and make a partnership 
between the two papers. The ioumal 
will then be called ** the world s good 
tense ;" or, ^ tlie good sense of the 

The Messaoee, formerly the ill^s* 
sifger de» Chamhres^ is always ready for 
any thing, ^*jrom pUch^atui'tots to matt" 
iitatgkier.** It has changed proprietors 
and editors nearly every year for the 
last ten years, and has been consistent 
only on one point, and that is, *^ qI- 
yfctyt to be an oppotUion journal,** Some 
ten years ago, liothschilds had a small 
share in it, and Aguado a few more. 
Then a M. Grille ^ited it, whose taste 
for '< novelty* was so great, that, rather 
than not have ** newtt' he would till it 
full of the most absurd inventions which 
even his fiemcy could create. The 
Messager is an " evening** paper ; it 
always was so. It was establislied to 
report with fidelity the proceedings of 
the chambers ; but, as during six 
moutlis of the year the chambers do not 
sii, during those six months it is com- 

Eilled to find other matter. In £ng» 
nd, that country of real news, news- 
men, news^lovers, and newsmongers, 
this task is not difficult ; but in France, 
so little is understood about *' couriers," 
♦* expresses," " second editions,'' " fo- 
reign correspondents," and '^ latest 
news," that the readers of an evening 
paper in Paris find half the journal 
filled with extracts from the morning 

Evening journals are also published 
at such an hour in Paris, that tliey can 
never go off to the country by that 
day's post; since tlie mails leave at 
su, and no paper is printed before 
from seven to eight. Tims the pro^ 
vinces are always forty-eight hours be- 
hind hand in official news. This is 
one great feult of the Parisian press. 
Tliis is not, however, excbaivefy the 
fault of the press, but likewise of the 
postK>ffice, which will not receive any 
paraal for th# pnHrincee o/ltn* three. 

The Metsdj^is indispensable, how- 
ever, to Parisian evening existence. 
The loungers at the <* caf(§s," the idlers 
on the Boulevards, the stock*jobbei-s at 
Tortoni's, the most regular and faithful 
of all the ^^Jlanettrt* in the wide world, 
could not go to bed without seeing the 
Me$uger. Not that they believe it, 
not that they respect it, not that they 
confide in it, ana, most assuredly, not 
that they adopt its opinions ; but the 
Meaager is like the ** mont de pUte,*' 
or ^ general pawnbroking establish- 
ment," of Paris, — it takes in every 
thing, from diamonds to paste, from 
pearls to gunpowder. A Parisian 's^s# 
question is, always, ^ What is there 
seio?" Tell him ** that the Seine took fire 
just below the PotU de Grenelle y** or smy 
other absurdity equally stupid, and he 
will be satisfied, and will talk, talk, talk 
about it, and about it, till some one 
else approaches whom he has seen be- 
fore, and to whom he then proceeds to 
unfold his newly acquired tale. 

Thus the Met$ager is the journal of 
the Parisians. It is sold in the thea- 
tres, — it is cried in the Boulevards, 
though contrary to law,*- it is to be 
found in the saloons of the ministers, at 
the chateau of the Tuileries, in the 
cafifis, and at the restaurants ; but hardly 
ever at private houses. Not that it is 
an immoral or a vulgar print — by no 
means ; but only as no one confides in 
it, and, as it is nothing more than the 
journal of the moment, written at the 
moment, to describe what passes at 
the moment, of course the impressions 
it makes are only momentary, and are, 
in nine cases out of ten, contradicted or 
changed in the same journal of the 
next evening. 

The Mettager inserts all reports,— 
gives currency to all rumours, whether 
good, bad, or indifferent, — speaks of 
imeutes with delight, and of tngurrec' 
tions with rapture, — speculates on the 
assassination of princes, on the over- 
throw of governments, on the altera- 
tions of constitutions, charters, and dy* 
nasties, — lauds all sorts of movements, 
inveighs only against stagnation,^- and 
does not care the *' toss up of a button" 
whether the funds and public credit 
rise or fall 3 or 4 per cent, provided 
there is tome striking variation. 

It has sometimes been thought tliat 
an able, well-conducted, and well- 
informed evening journal would suc- 
ceed in Paris. This is a great mistake. 
After dianefy the Pariaiaot will notM 


The Newspaper Press of Paris. 


instructed, but only amused. AH at- 
tempts at establishing a serious evening 
paper in Paris have, therefore, failed, 
and mast continue to do so, until the 
French character shall be wholly 
changed . There are also other ph^sUal 
reasons why an evening paper in Paris 
published on a large and respectable 
footing would not do. In the Jlnt 
place, if it were published at three 
o'clock in the afternoon, in time to save 
the post, it could not contain a report 
of the parliamentary proceedings of the 
day during the time the houses are sit- 
ting; and unless it could do this it 
would be useless in Paris, and useless 
in the departments, — for in Paris the 
parliamentary discussions are the most 
desired, and the morning papers send 
to the departments by post a small bul- 
letin of the news of the morning, which 
constitutes the difference between the 
** Paris edition" and the " department 
edition*' of the morning papers. And, 
in the second place, if the journal were 
not published the moment the cham- 
bers were up — tliat is to say, within an 
hour afterwards — tlie Me&sager would 
outstrip it; and even a French poli- 
tician, who gallops always at full speed 
to " conclusions*' without premises, 
and to *^ results " without facts, would 
scarcely have time to write a serious 
and well- digested leading article in a 
quarter of an hourl 1 No evening 
journal can succeed in France, until 
the mail shall leave Paris twice a day 
—at nine in the morning, and at nine 
at night, — all newspapers and letters 
being received till within an hour of 
their departure. When that shall be 
the case (and it will be), then an even- 
ing journal at Paris will be a good 
speculation, for the sake of its sale in 
the provinces ; and then there will 
certainly be more than one candidate 
in the Beld. 

The Mestager has never, however, 
been a thriving concern, and never can 
be ; for the departments never can take 
it in, since the next day's morning 
journals contain all it contains, and a 
great deal more, besides the *' bulletin 
of llie same day's news ;" and, as to 
Paris, its permanent sale, if ever so 
well done, could never be increased a 
thousand. No one takes in the Mes- 
soger for his own private reading. It 
is taken in at a vast many public and 
private larffe establishments, for the pe- 
rusal of the multitude,— not for its 
Qpinigua--^ever,— biu only for ita " qu 

dits," reports, rumours, ^' Dews," aod 

The Messager has not, of course, di- 
minished its prices, or augmented its 
size. It does not fear competition. If 
its subscription were even 100 instead 
of 80 francs, we doubt much that it 
would lose a subscriber. It is as es- 
sential to Paris as oysters and truflies. 

The gcrant of the Messager is now 
called " Auguste Morel," and the bu- 
reoux of the paper are situate in the 
Rue Coq Heron. This may, however, 
all be changed next week, and the 
editor of to-day become its enemy to- 
morrow. But still, it will always go 
on. It brings in enough revenue to 
pay all who are concerned in it, as 
printers, paper-makers, editors, sub- 
editors, reporters, penny-a-line-men, 
and distributors. How the proprietor 
gets paid it is not easy to guess ; but 
still he makes his ten per cent for bis 
capital somehow or other; and thus 
they all "jog on," — still, and ever 
tricking, but, of course, never thriving. 

La Presse. We have now arrived 
at the Jack titc Giant-killer of the old 
press, and the old journals ; and we 
must pause at the commencement to 
take breath, lest Monsieur Emile de 
Giravdin should send us a ^^ cartel^* 
for he is an adept at duelling as well 
as at journalism. ♦ • 

« « • » 

So now, having taken breath, nibbed 
our pen, and placed ourselves in fight- 
ing order, we begin the fray. Three 
cheers for the conqueror ! 

Monsieur Emile de Girardin is the 
son of a liighly respectable, and honour- 
able French general officer. This we 
do not say for fear of his bullets, but 
for fear of speaking an untruth. His 
son is a young man of about 33 to 34 
years of age, who is of a speculative 
turn of mind, thin, light haired, large 
mouthed, elastic, pliable, excessively 
fond of romances and waltzing, ad- 
dicted to wearing very tight boots, and 
to drinking champagne even before 
the soup. He has married the "nnest 
and most handsome woman in Europe, 
Delphine Gay, whose wit, amiability 
and talent, even, if possible, exceed her 
beauty. As we shall be certainly ac- 
cused of being in love with Madame 
de Girardin, we will at once begin, by 
owning that we are in love with Del- 
pliine Gay. 

The son of a general officer with a 
sro^ll fortuo.e caiu^iit, hope to. b« ver^t 


La Preste, 


ricbyftDd the daughter of a poor author- 
ess can hardly be any thing else but 
very poor. So the patrimony of M. 
Emile de Girardtn was not large, and 
the matrimony of Miss Delphine Gay 
was very small. Yet they set out in 
life together, determined to make a 
fortune, and they bid &ir of being suc- 
cessful. Tliey have no children to eat 
their bread ; and they can, therefore, 
give, as they do, very good dinners. 
At least, so saith common report ; and 
on this occasion we are dispoised to be- 
lieve that common report is no/ a com- 
mon liar. But when a man begins 
with nothing but his wits, and a lady 
with notliing but her poetry, it takes 
some time to fill a large plate-chest 
with silver forks, spoons, and salvers, 
as M. and Madame de Girardin have 
done in the Rue St. George, — the 
albresaid plate-chest standing in the 
iolte i manger^ three feet high by four 
feet square. We once had the " bon- 
Aevr" to look into this plate-chest, and, 
really, the sight of so much *' siller *' 
made our mouths water. But wits and 
poetry, when well employed, will 
sometimes be successful ; and this 
verily hath been the case with M. and 
Madame Emile de Girardin. One of 
the luckiest *Mrits" of M. de Girardin 
was to establish a journal called Le 
Vokur; or," the Thief, *^ made up of 
the best articles, cut out, pasted to- 
gether, and printed in a thrice a-week 
paper. Of course the journal was li- 
terary. The speculation was success- 
ful, — the idea pleased; and M. de 
Girardin sold his concern for a large 
sum of money. Another good hit was 
to establish a ^* fashionable journal ^^ to 
please the Faul>ourg St. Germain, and 
It was called La Mode. It exists to 
this day ; but he is not the proprietor : 
he sold it to the legitimists. During 
the restoration, this " most handy poli- 
tician " used to be on very good terms 
with the then " powers that were ;" and 
Sophia Gay, the mother of his wife, 
Delphine Gay (both still living), toge- 
ther with her daughter, used to say and 
write very pretty things in fevour of the 
Duchess of Berri. Tliey were quite 
right in doing this, — for she was the 
patroness of all that was useful and 
good ; and tlieir gratitude for her kind- 
ness and condescension, which they 
feel and express to this day, does them 
great honour. Having succeeded in 
Le Volewr and La Mode, M. Emile 
4e Girardin devote^ himself, to the 

formation of other enterprises, both li- 
terary and commercial ; and in the end 
succeeded in putting aside a consider- 
able sum of money, with which he ob- 
tained a qualification to become a de- 
puty. In 1 834, he went down to Bour- 
ganeuf,asmall place in the department 
of La Creuse, to become a candidate. 
He railed against the republicans, 
preached for order and peace, fiattered 
some legitimists, and talked over some 
" patriots ;" and in the end was elected, 
by a small majority, member for that 
arrondissement. As M. de Girardin is 
always in favour of the system of " turn- 
ing tlie honest penny, he resolved on 
making some use of bis new appoint- 
ment ; and, accordingly, brought out the 
dazzling prospectus of his splendid no- 
tion of the French Pantheon Littcraire, 
As usual, M. de Girardin had recourse 
to " actions," or " shares ;* and the 
idea of publishing in French all the best 
works of all the best authors, and, 
above all, ancient authors, of all coun- 
tries, was so striking and inviting, that 
the shares were soon taken to a large 
amount, and the concern went on. 
The selection made has not, however, 
been good. The public has been ra- 
ther disappointed ; and, but for the as- 
sistance afforded him by the govern- 
ment, in 1836 and in 1837, it is very 
probable that the company would have 
stopped, in default of funds. But M. 
Guizot and M. de Salvandy, M. Mont- 
alivet and M. Duchatel, have all en- 
couraged the undertaking; and, spite 
of wind and weather, and "terrible 
squalls'' about the affair in the cham- 
ber of deputies, only last session, the 
Pantlteon Litteraire still goes on. 

These various successes, and others 
of a commercial nature to which we 
need not refer, induced M. Emile de 
Girardin, in 1836, to set about the 
establishment of a cheap daily jodr- 
>iAL. Up to that time, the annual 
subscriptions to all the Paris journals 
had been 80 francs ; but he proposed 
to publish a paper of the same di- 
mensions, and containing much more 
original and interesting matter, for 40 
francs. Now, the veriest babe in jour- 
nals and politics, in business, printing, 
and newspapers, knew this quite well, 
that such a paper, at such a price, might 
sell extensively, but must, whilst the 
stamp-duty and postage charges should 
remain the same, be a losing concern 
to all who engaged in it as proprietors. 
Eor^ iuasmucU as Ute mere printiBgi 


The Newspaper Prem of Paris. 


stamp, paper, and postage, or distribu- 
tion, would cost more in the year than 
the sum charged, it followed that the 
greater number of subscribers there 
should be, the greater would be the 
amount of loss. For, in France, as we 
have already observed, tlie papers are 
publislied every day in the year, except 
00 five nte days ; so that for 40 francs 
per annum a subscriber to La Presie 
would have at Paris 360 journals. 
Now, 40 francs are 800 halfpence, or 
sous ; and, therefore, each journal 
would cost the sub«criber at Paris who 
paid a year's subscription at once, only 
two sous and a quarter of a sou per 
day. Yet the stamp costs one sou, and 
the distribution a quarter of a sou ; so 
that only one sou per paper would re- 
main for printing and paper, as well as 
for all the direction, editing, authors, 
correspondence, and bad debts, &c., of 
the undertaking. But then the '* AO- 
VBRTisBMENTs'^were reliedon. TItese 
were to cover all the losses, and to 
make the concern splendidly profitable. 
fiut this was not quite so clear to the 
foresiglited as it was to M. de Ginirdin 
and his sanguine shareholders, who 
were so obi iging as to subscribe Toio.OOO 
irancs, or 28,000/. sterling, and to 
place it in his hands. In the summer of 
1836, La Preste appeared, and it was 
assailed on all hands as a reckless un* 
dertaking, which would involve all 
who were concerned in it (except M. 
deGirardin) in absolute ruin. IfM. 
de Girardin bad adopted the scale of 
50 instead of 40 francs, he would hav« 
succeeded, making the suhsoription 58 
fbncs for the provinces, instead of 48, 
as at present. Amongst the most ve- 
hement, and, of course, able, assailants 
of La Prate and of M. de Girardin 
was the Nationalt and its then accom- 
plished conductor, Armand Carrel. 
For one of these attacks, satisfiiction 
was demanded, and both parties were 
wounded ; but Carrel mortally ; and 
his country lost in him one of her roost 
able and profound writers. 

For a long time, this injured ma- 
terially the speculation of ^f . de Gi* 
rardin ; and several of thot»e who had 
embarked vnth him in the undertak- 
ing forsook him in the hour of his de- 
plorable notoriety. But as the French 
are very " oblivious" of their troubles, 
and very fond of saving as well as of 
getting money, the public soon ibrgot 
the fatal duel, and turned ome% more to 
tlie cheap Prem. The journal wm 

governmental. It espoused the eause 
of peace and order, was neatly printed, 
ana on the whole well got up ; and in 
the end *^ the money came rolling in." 
M. de Girardin was soon followed in 
liis example by other cheap journals, 
^->some since given up, some now more 
prosperous. The odium became di^ 
vided, and the founder of La Prent 
devoted all his soul to the success of 
the enterprise. In this he was aided 
by the government,-* not in the way of 
money, but of news and protection ; 
and at the end of last year the ahai^ 
holdefs Ind only lost 105,714 francs of 
their money. This M. de Giraidin 
called great succeH, as he had stiU 
600,000 ftancs to work upon. In the 
first six months of this year, the sum of 
316,391 francs was received for sub* 
soriptions, and tlie advertisenoents 
k>rought in 42,645 francs. These sums, 
together with interest on a portion of 
the capital invested in the funds, made 
the receipts amount to 361,340 francs. 
The expenses for those six months 
were, however, as follows :— 

Editing 35.941 

Composition 19,88S 

Administration. .,...••... • 13.214 

Paper 80,103 

StomfM 130,906 

Drawing off the paper (press-) o^ oq/ 

work) ) ' 

Folding 8,0f5 

Delivering and postage .... 9r,5l0 
To these were added Che ex- 
penses of establishing the 

Joomal, assounting to • . 53,836 


The result of the whole matter is, 
tliat at the end of the first year the 
proprietors have for ever hit of their 
capital the sum of 204,006 francs. 
StiU M. de Girardin consoles himself 
with the reflection, that in July last 
there were remaining, — 


1 . The caution money of . . 100,000 

2. Stock in the bank 100,000 

3. Inthetill 39.686 

4. DebU 35,503 

5. In the banker's hands. . . . 155,555 


6. Shares reimbursed , 65,250 


495,994 fnaes in hand 
204.006 franes sunk and lost 




La Preite. 


So that the sum m hand, as ahove, 
and the loss of 204,003 francs in the 
ftm year, nrmde up the original capital 
sum of 700,000 francs. 

We have supplied our readers with 
these details, because they let them, as 
they let us, into the secrets of a Paris 
jmimal. They shew us how badly the 
editors are paid, — how much is ex- 
pended in stamps aiid postage,»-and 
now impossible it is for men of real 
merit and noorals, who would be above 
bribes, and incapable of stock-jobbing 
and tricks, to get their bread out of 
SQch an undertaking. Let us hear no 
more, we beg, of any comparison be- 
tween a French and an £nglish journal. 
A Paris daily paper, publishing 360 
days in the year, pays but 2860/. to all 
its editors, sub-editors, and contribu- 
tors,— foreign correspondents, — and re- 
porters, both pariiamentary, judiciary, 
theatrical, and miscellaneous— t. c, not 
quite 8(. per day. Tell this to the 
Ttme$, the Standard, the Post, the 
Herald J the Chronicle, and the Sun,' 
and they will scarcely believe it. Nor 
let it be supposed that this is the only 
similar case in France. We have be- 
fore us the " accounts " of the National 
and the Journal de Paris — journals of 
the most opposite character, — and 
their expenditure for talent and news 
is equally meagre and insufficient. 

The history we have thus supplied 
of the origin and progress of La Preae, 
will give the clue to all that we have 
said as to the old and newprices of 
the various Paris ioumals. Tbe great 
revolutionist was the Ultle M. Girardin, 
who is, at the moment we are writing, 
once more a candidate at Bourganeuf, 
Aad once more engaged in a dispute 
with the National, which bids fair for 
another duel between the editor of that 
journal and the director of La Pretse, 
M. Emile de Girardin is one of those 
who will " make haste to be rich ;" so 
be runs a great chance of dying poor.* 
As to La Pretse^ its chance of exist- 
ence u that of the abolition of the 
siamp-duty ofaso», or halfpenny, on 
all French papers. Should that be the 
^, and should the present subscrip- 
tion prices to the journal be maintained, 
it might still become even a profitable 
affair. But if this shall not be the case, 
fhe end must be ruin. The chief editor 
ii an admirable and logical writer 

named Oranier de Castaignac ; and 
De Balzac, Alexandre Dumas, M^ry, 
Gautier, and some otliers, publish their 
novels and original essays in the co- 
lumns of this paper, in return fbr the 
miserable payments which are doled 
out to them by its half starved admi* 

One of the projects of M. de Gi- 
mrdin, in establishing La Pretu, was 
10 combine in the same paper, to a 
greater degree than had ever tneretofore 
been done, politics and literature. He 
accordingly addressed himself to Alex- 
andre Dumas, and to Bahsac, who have 
published their novels— new novels, we 
mean — in his journal . Their new novels 
have thus come out in numbers ; but, 
we believe, the plan has not succeeded : 
fbr, just as '' the plot thickens,** and 
tlie tale becomes interesting, the five 
or six columns are fVill, the ** maker- 
up" of the paper can put into his 
journal *' no more matter ;" and the 
reader is kept in suspense till the fol- 
lowing day, or till the next time that the 
Pre$ie is to contain the continuation 
of the story. Some of the femlletotu 
of the paper are admirable, especially 
those written by Madame de Girardin, 
under the fictitioustitleof "TheViscount 
de Launay." Tliese appear every Sa* 
tarday, and contain, in a most amusing 
and piquant attire, all the literary, 
artial, and fashionable news of Paris 
(br the week. Not one word of politiet 
ever appears in that portion of the 
journal ; and the '* Courier de Paris ^ 
of Madame de Girardin (for such is 
the title of bar artklet on Saturday) 
are well worth, in the year, the whole 
subscription for the entire paper. This 
we do not say from gallantly, or aflflBe* 
tion to Delphine Gay, but in justice to 
her rare merits and real isprit. 

We have dwelt at great length on 
the history and character of La Preue, 
because it supplies the broad line of 
demarcation between the old and the 
new journalism of France. No revolu- 
tion can be more revolutionary than 
the one effected bv M. de Girardin. 
He has disturbed all the financial cal- 
culations of papers which have existed 
twenty and thirty years. He has forced 
even the Dibati, the Tempi, the Na- 
tional, the Quotidienne, the Journal de 
Pmii, the Poix, the Moinde, La France, 
the Comiitutioimel, the Oaz^U d$ 

* &f . de Girardin has avoided tlie duel, and got ooee more returned deputy i^ 


The Newspaper Press of Paris, 



Franctf besides all newly established 
journals, to diminish their prices or in- 
crease their size; and they all bear 
towards him the deadliest hate. It is 
curious that he has not yet fallen a 
victim ; but he seems destined to fight 
many more duels. One of his latest 
projects has been to endeavou