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fin-.  *7crroL 


121 
loy 


THB 


NEW    MONTHLY 
MAGAZINE. 


EDITED  BT 


WILLIAM   HARRISON    AINSWORTH. 


VOL.  107. 


• ' 


LONDON: 
CHAPMAN    AND    HALL,    193,    PICCADILLY. 

1856. 


CONTENTS. 


FACE 

Peace  and  its  Adversaries.    Bt  Cyrus  Redding 1 

The  Mail- Cart  Bobbery.   By  the  Author  of  "The  Unholy  Wish"       .     9 
The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.    Br  Alexander  Andrews, 
Author  of  the  "Eighteenth  Century*      .        .  25,205,287,456 

Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine 34 

Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.    By  Florentia        .  46,  238, 333, 478 
America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman 62 

Cousin  Carl.    From  the  Danish  of  Carl  Bernhard.    By  Mrs.  Bushby 

75, 192 

Westwood's  "Foxglove  Bells" 90 

Finishing  with  Scotland;  or,  Hints  for  a  Tour.    By  an  Old  Tra- 
veller    93 

Ballads  from  English  History.    By  James  Payn: 

HI. — Edgar  and  Elfrida 105 

IV.— Earl  Siward 233 

V.— The  Black  Prince 300 

The  Cathedral  Angels 107 

Pleasure  in  Business.    By  E.  P.  Bowsell 112 

Scissors-and-Paste-Work  by  Sir  Nathaniel  : 

L — Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey 116 

IL — Merivale's  Romans  under  the  Empire  (First  Notice)  .       .    .  150 

HX — Merivale's  Romans  under  the  Empire  (Second  Notice)  .       .  274 

IV. — Froude's  History  of  England 446 

Administrative  Reform.    By  Cyrus  Bedding 127 

The  Missing  Letter.    By  the  Author  of  "  The  Unholy  Wish"       .    .  136 

To  the  Cuckoo.    By  Mary  C.  F.  Monck 162 

The  Food  of  Paris 164 

Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs  and  certain  Members  of 
his  Family.    By  E.  P.  Bowsell 181,314,438 

Life  in  Brazil 215 

The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary 224 

Ferns  and  their  Allies 235 

The  American  Presidential  Morality.    By  Cyrus  Bedding  ,       .       .  253 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Ashley.    By  the  Author  of  "The  Unholy  Wish" 261 

The  Confessional.    From  the  Danish  of  Christian  Winther.    By 
Mrs.Bushby .296 

Revelations  of  the  War 302 

Shakspeare's  England        ..........  323 

The  Village  Priest       .       .       .       . 347 

Our  Screw;  or,  Bough  Notes  of  the  Long  Sea-Voyage  from  India  in 
one  of  the  general  screw  steam  navigation  company's  vessels     .  358 

Voioe  of  the  Summer  Wind.    By  J.  £.  Carpenter 368 

Mrs.  Browning's  Poems .    .  369 

The  Session  and  the  Premier.    By  Cyrus  Bedding        .       .       .       .  379 

Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America      .       .       .       .    .  388 

The  Butterfly  Chase.    By  the  Author  of  "The  Unholy  Wish"        *  405 

A  Swedish  Voyage  Bound  the  World.    Translated  by  Mrs.  Bushby  .  420 

The  Last  Letter.    By  Mary  C.  F.  Monck 431 

The  Cyrenaica        .     * .    .  432 

The  Old  "King's  Arms" 465 

Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History 490 


THE* 

FEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


vol.  cvn.]  MAT,  1856.  [no.  ccccxxy. 


CONTENTS. 

SAGS 

The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries.    Br  Cyrus  Redding  .        .       1 

The  Mail-Cart  Robbery.    By  the  Author  of  "  The  Unholy 
Wish" 9 

The  History  op  the  Newspaper  Press.    By  Alexander  An- 
drews, Author  of  the  "  Eighteenth  Century"         .        .    25 

Scenery  op  Sinai  and  Palestine 34 

Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.    By  Flqrentia  •        .    46 

America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman 62 

Cousin  Carl.    From  the  Danish  of  Carl  Bernhard.    By 
Mrs.  Bushby 75 

Westwood's  "  Foxglove  Bells" 90 

Finishing  with  Scotland  ;  or,  Hints  for  a  Tour.    By  an 
Old  Traveller 93 

Ballads  from  English  History.    By  James  Payn.    III. — 
Edgar  and  Elfrida 105 

The  Cathedral  Angels 107 

Pleasure  in  Business.    By  E.  P.  Rowsell         .        .        .    .  112 

Scissors-and-Paste-work  by  Sir  Nathaniel.    Select  Let- 
ters of  Robert  Southey 1 16 


LONDON: 

CHAPMAN  AND  HALL,  193,  PICCADILLY. 
To  whom  all  Communications  for  the  Editor  are  to  be  addressed* 

%*  REJECTED  ARTICLES  CANNOT  BE  RETURNED. 
SOLD   BY   ALL   BOOKSELLERS   IN    THE   UNITED    KINGDOM. 


PRINTED  BY  CHARLES  WHITING,  BEAUFORT  HOUSE,  STRAND. 


DE.  DE  JONGH'S 

LIGHT  BROWN  GOD  LIVER  OIL. 

The  superior  excellence  of  this  celebrated  Oil,  as  noticed  by  numerous  Foreign  and  English  autho 
and  eminent  medical  practitioners,  consists  in  its  purity,  ENTIRE  FEEEDOMFBOMNAUSEOI 
FLAVOUR,  and  speedy,  certain,  and  uniform  efficacy.  Being,  moreover,  invariably  and  carefully  su 
mitted  to  chemical  anzlynifr- and.  only  supplied  in  sealed  bottles  to  preclude  subsequent  admixture  < 
adulteration^-Hf  possesses  a  guaMtee^qr  genuineness  offered  by  no  other  Cod  Liver  Oil.  The  con 
dence  of  the  Bnglwh  Tfanmym  the  Pale  or  ColourtCTsOn— mainly  deprived  of  its  active  and  esse 
tial  principles  by  its  mode  of  preparation— -has  been  greatly  shaken,  as,  in  too  many  instance 
though  administered  for  a  long  time  and  in  large  quantities,  it  has  been  found  uncertain,  inert,  ai 
consequently  useless.  . 


DR.  SHERIDAN  MTTSPHATT/IYR.S.E.,  M.R.I.A., 

Founder  and  Principal  <^tl^Moyal\C^llege^of  CTkemistrp^ Liverpool j  Honorary  Fellow  of  the  Ne 
York  College  of  Pharmacy,  and  of  the  Rpyal  Agricultural  Society  of  ^England;  Membre  de  I 
Soviet*  d' Encouragement;  MembWdeVAeadtonSeNatlOtuUed*  France;  Author  of  "  Chemisti 
applied  U  the  4rts  and  Manufactures  "  4#,  &c.  &c.        ;.  , 

"  BeraeUns  and  *tU#r  df  the  lea^ttn*  CheinUts  **U1 Physicians  of  Europ 
ha*in«  ftestimontalifted  to  favour  of  your  Oil,  U  a  groof  of  it*  superiority  ove 
aU  tJ^e  other  kinds  tnat  are  vended. 

■•  The  knowledge  I  have  gained  of  its  medicinal  effects  in  the  circle-  of  my  acquaintance,  corroborat< 
the  fact,  and  proves  it  to  be  a  most  excellent  article.  I  have  submitted  the  Oil  to  the  usual  tests,  an 
finding  it  to  containalltheingredieiits«iiiupaeratedbyyou  in  jwur^ork,  IhaVe  not  the  slightea 
hesitation  In  pronouncing  it  a  genuine  article/ aud  one  tha$  is  fully  entitled  t 
the  confidence  of  the  Medical  Profession. 

"  I  have  tastecj  your  Oil,  and  find  it  not  at  all  nauseous-ra  very  great  recommendation.  The  purp] 
tinge  oppeared  in  the  sample  of  your  Oil  immediately,  proving  it  td  be  rich  in  biliary  matter,  AN] 
THIS  RENDERS  IT  THERAPEUTICALLY  SUPERIOR  TO  THE  PAL] 
KINDS,        .    .  .     tl     .:,  -y- 

"Royal,  College  Of  Chemistry,  liverpooi;.  . , ,  r ,.  ,  ■ , . 

October  4, 18651*      *  .         '         ' 


DR,  LETHEBY, 

Professor  of  Chemittrp  and  Toikcoltigy  in  the  tie&ipaX  College  of  the  London  Hospital,  Chemica 
Referee  to  the  Corporation  of  London*  Medical  Officer  of  Health  to.  the  City  of  London,  dbc.  die  &c, 

•«  I  have  frequently  hadeccasfam  to  analyse  the  <3od  Lber  Oil  \rtrieh  is  sold  at  your  establishment 
I  mean  that  variety  which  is  prepared  for  m^dkjihal  use  in.  the,  Lofitodea,  Isles,  Norway,  and  sent  int. 
commerce  with  the  sanction  of  Dr.  de  Jongh,  of  the  Hague. 

"In  all  oases  I  have  found  it  possessing  the  same  set  of  properties,  among  which  the  presence  o 
cholaic  compounds  and  of  iodine  in  a  State  of  organic  combination  ace  the  most  nomarkable :  in  fact 
the  Oil  corresponds  in  all  its  characters  with  that  named  *  Hutle  brune*  and  described  as  the  bes 
variety  in  the  masterly  treatise  of  1>b.  kb  Jongh, 

"  IT  IS,  I  BELIEVE,  UNIVERSALLY  ACKNOWLEDGED  THAT  THIS 
DESCRIPTION  OF  OIL  HAS  GREAT  THERAPEUTICAL  POWER;  AND 
FROM  MY  INVESTIGATIONS,  I  HAVE  NO  DOUBT  OF  ITS  BEING  A  PURE 
AND  UNADULTERATED  ARTICLE. 

••  College  Laboratory,  London  Hospital, 
M  Sept.  24, 1865." 


Sold  only  in  bottles,  capsuled,  and  labelled  with  DR.  DE  JONGH'S  Stamp  and  Sig 
nature,  without  which  none  abb  genuine,  by 

ANSAE,  HABFORD,  &  Co.,  77,  Stecuid,  London, 

Dr.  Db  Jonoh's  sole  Consignees;  and  by  most  respectable  Chemists  in  Town  and 

Country. 

HALF-PINTS  (10  ounce.),  fli.  6d.;  PINTS  (RO  ounce.),  4«.  9d.;  QUARTS  (4C 

ounces),  9s.     IMPERIAL  MEASURE. 


NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


THE  PEACE  AND  ITS  ADVERSARIES. 

BY  CYRU&VEDDTNG. 

Peace  is  restored  once  more,  and  grateful  is  the  intelligence  to  the 
nation,  although  it  may  not  please  those  whom,  ambition  governs  in 
place  of  reason  and  humanity,  any  more  than  it  may  suit  the  ignorant, 
selfish,  or  ;unHnaginatiyei  f  The:  tontest  has  terminated  on  the  side  of 
civilisation.  *  The  £uifc  oi  t&e«gg$es6orchM  commended  the  poisoned  cha- 
lice to  the  lips  of  its  concoctor.  This  result  wfll'darry-teonvtetion  to  the 
minions  of  despotism  that  its  illegal  objects  must  be  realised  In  future  by 
some  other  mode  than  the  application  of  brute  force*  when  it  trespasses  on 
the  rights  of  any  hietBfbei4'of>,ffie  national  Ijtorbjyean  dirtily.  The  in* 
ference  may  be  an  unwelcome  one  to  the  rulers4  of  the  eastern  states  of  the 
Continent*  They  may  not  relish,  being  taught  eo  much  against  the  grain, 
that  the  advancement  of  freedom,,  of  sound  principles,  and  of  the  sciences, 
which,  enlarging  the  scope  of  vision,  humanise  the  more  barbarous,  are  at 
the  same  time  the  only  worthy  sources  of  the  prosperity  of  empires. 
The  "  divine  right"  of  rulers  to  commit  outrages  among  unoffending 
neighbours,  and  to  seize  upon  their  territory  for  purposes  of  self-ag- 
grandisement, will  soon  be/wfcany  le^ufliatetfjbn  the  eastern  side  of  the 
Atlantic  upon  the  experience  which  has  been  just  read  to  Russia.  With 
peace  a  new  monarch  governs  in  the  Muscovite  empire,  if  rumour  is  to 
be  credited,  possessing  a  mind  greatly  in  advance  of  that  of  his  proud, 
double-dealing  predecessor,  who  was  the  cause  of  the  late  convulsion  and 
present  humiliation  of  his  people.  This  succession  augurs  well  for  Europe 
as  well  as  Russia  itself.  Alexander  II.  is  reported  to  be  friendly  to  in- 
ternal improvements  and  to  the  extension  of  foreign  intercourse,  thinking 
that  such  means  are  the  surest  guides  to  the  consolidation  of  his  extensive 
empire.  We  hope  that  this  i$' really  the  fact,  and  that  the  European 
nations,  if  they  are  to  be  excluded  from  the  Elysian  territory  which  lies 
between  Labrador  and  the  Straits  of  Magellan,  as  they  are  threatened  to 
be  by  some  persons  in  the  United  States  of  America,  may  survive  the 
exclusion  in  order  to  set  examples  of  national  integrity,  of  obedience  to 
the  laws,  and  of  that  refinement  which  cheers  and  enlightens  the  mind 
under  the  turmoil  of  its  mortal  career.  The  integrity  of  the  Turkish 
territory  has  been  secured,  the  hidden  designs  of  the  late  Emperor  of 
Russia  nave  been  exposed  to  the  world,  Greece  has  not  become  a  tribu- 
tary to  the  Muscovite,  and  neither  England  nor  France  find  it  imperiously 
required  to  keep  expensive  fleets  in  the  Mediterranean.  The  road  to  the 
East  through  Egypt  is  still  open  to  all  nations.    The  "  sick  man,"  whom 

May — vol.  cvil  no.  ccccxxv.  b 


2  The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries. 

the  "  pious"*  and  disinterested  Nicholas  was  so  desirous  to  put  out  of 
pain — not  indeed  by  uncertain  doses  of  chemical  origin,  like  the  clumsy 
man-destroyers  in  vulgar  life  in  our  own  country,  but  by  the  surer  and 
more  direct  application  of  steel  and  gunpowder — that  "  sick  man"  yet 
survives,  and  he  who  contemplated  his  destruction  lies  himself  prostrate 
in  the  dust,  to  which  he.  would  have  consigned  the  o&jjcct  of  his  crime. 
In  this  instance,  at  least,  we  see  the  hand  of  retributive  justice.  We  do  not, 
in  this  instance,  feel  that  temptation  to  repine  against  Providence,  which  is 
felt  in  spite  of  ourselves,  when  we  cease  to  remember  that  the  decree  of 
Omnipotence  often  rightly  sanctions  what  in  our  short-sighted  vision 
appears  wrong,  because-  our  eyes  cannot  reach  the  termination  of  the  per- 
spective where  the  sense  of  the  dispensation  is  revealed. 

No  one  denies  the  right  of  an  individual  to  avert  an  impending  injury 
to  himself  by  anticipating  the  remedy,  the  principle  being  based  on  self- 
preservation.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  same  principle  extends  to  a 
nation.  This  was  not  denied  by  those  who  censured  Lord  Aberdeen  for 
his  right-minded  efforts  to  preserve  peace  under  a  hopelessness  nearly 
complete.  His  lordship  knew  that  the  crimes  and  the  costs  of  war,  under 
their  lightest  aspect,  were  dreadful  evils.  Those  who  censured  him  knew 
little  of  the  question,  not  more,  indeed,  than  they  do  who  are  now  censur- 
ing Lord  Palmerston  for  having  made  an  honourable  peace  with  Russia 
in  conjunction  with  our  allies.  When  it  is  recollected  that  forty  years  of 
peace  disqualified  so  many  from  knowing  anything  practically  on  the 
subject,  and  that  those  at  home  who  had  not  passed  their  grand  climacteric 
alone  knew  anything  about  it  by  experience,  we  could  not  sanction  every 
crude  idea  that  was  started  on  the  subject.  Hence,  we  take  it,  arose  the 
censure  by  the  press  of  many  things  which  did  not  merit  censure.  Hence, 
too,  frequent  mistakes  were  made  as  to  the  details  by  those  who  had  the 
active  management  of  belligerent  affairs.  Such  was  the  utter  absence  of 
every  provision  for  an  unforeseen  contingency,  and  the  lack  of  resources 
from  professional  ignorance,  that  the  soldier  understanding  the  manual 
and  platoon  exercises  to  admiration,  thought  that  with  his  natural  spirit 
and  courage  he  could  perform  them — old  Dundas  into  the  bargain — as 
well  in  the  face  of  the  enemy  as  he  had  done  on  the  parade  at  home. 
This  he  conceived  was  all  a  soldier's  duty  demanded,  indeed  all  that  many 
had  scope  of  mind  enough  to  comprehend.  Any  unforeseen  contingency 
took  him  aback.  In  his  ideas  the  differences  of  climate,  surface,  supply, 
under  which  war  is  waged,  went  for  nothing.  The  indomitable  courage 
of  the  officer  and  soldier  was,  in  consequence,  seen  everywhere,  the  stra- 
tegic military  mind,  fertile  in  resources,  nowhere.f 

But  the  present  object  is  not  to  criticise  the  conduct  of  the  war  so 
happily  concluded,  but  to  express  an  opinion  utterly  at  variance  with  the 
sullenness  of  those  ignorant  people  who  condemn  the  government  for  a 

*  Russian  superstition  centres  in  the  emperor.  The  church  is  no  political  body. 
The  emperor  is  sovereign  and  pope,  holding  the  souk  as  well  as  bodies  of  his  sub- 
jects at  command. 

f  Hume  says — and  facts  justify  him  to  this  day,  except  perhaps  in  the  examples 
of  Marlborough  and  Wellington — speaking  of  the  battle  of  Bloreheath,  "  Salisbury 
here  supplied  his  defect  in  numbers  by  stratagem;  a  refinement  of  which  there 
occur  few  instances  in  the  English  civil  wars,  where  a  headlong  courage,  more  than 
military  conduct,  is  commonly  to  be  remarked"  How  continually  was  this  exemplified 
before  the  Russian  entrenched  camp  in  the  Crimea,  and  what  valuable  lives  it 
cost  us. 


The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries.  3 

peace  w&ich  exbibitB  the  full  attainment  of  the  objects  for  which  hostili- 
ties were  originally  commenced.  Popular  notions,  adopted  without  re- 
flection, and  based  upon  the  narrowest  footing  of  self-interest,  tenaciously 
clutched,  are  ever  mam  difficulties  in  the  way  of  national  benefits.  It  is 
the  many,  not  ithe  few,  who  retard  the  upward  progress  of  empires.  We 
have  not  yet  seen  the  treaty  of  peace,  but  the  Premier  has  been  too  long 
accustomed  to  the  charlatanerie  of  cabinets  to  be  duped  by  them ;  and 
what  interest  could  he  have  in  deliberately  betraying  his  country?  Turkey 
has  been  saved,  the  Black  Sea  enfranchised,  the  Danube  opened,  the 
blood-soaked  earth  of  Ismael  restored — that  slaughter-house  of  the 
butcher  Suvarrof  sixty  years  ago  ;*  the  French  have  shown  how  fallacious 
were  the  boastings  of  Nicholas  of  a  marcb  to  Paris  ;  the  English  have 
proved  to  the  world  that  the  same  sovereign's  threat  of  dictating  a  peace 
to  them  in  Calcutta  is  rather  more  feasible  on  paper  than  in  realityvf  Sis 
thousand  captured  cannon,  a  succession  of  victories  by  the  Allies,  a  vast 
arsenal  and  fleet  destroyed,  deep-laid  plans  of  robbery  and  aggrandisement 
in  the  South  foiled,  a  vast  Russian  force  decimated,  the  towns  in  the  Sea  of 
Azof  bombarded,  the  charm  of  Russian  invincibility  dissipated  by  defeats 
from  the  Turks  single-handed,  the  frontier  of  Sweden  better  secured,  and 
the  rights  of  Christians  protected, — these  objects,  far  more  than  were 
demanded  to  avert  the  war  at  the  commencement,  have  been  attained. 
Tiros  attained,  and  Russia  ready  to  make  peace  and  join  again  the  family 
of  nations,  was  it  right,  was  it  Christian,  to  prolong  the  war  P  Was  it 
politic  ? 

Unfortunately,  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  are  pleaded  continually, 
pro  -or  con,  only  as  they  interfere  to  prop  interests  or  prejudices.  Igno- 
rance has  raised  up  a  host  of  discontented  persons,  who  would  have  had 
the  war  prolonged  until  Russia  paid  France  and  England  the  hundred 
millions  or  more  it  cost  each  of  those  nations*  As  we  can  rarely  convince 
the  creditor  of  one  who  has  nothing  but  bis  skin  that  he  cannot  redeem 
his  obligation,  so  the  sullen  and  discontented  with  the  present  peace  will 
not  credit  that  Russia,  unable  now  to  pay  such  a  sum,  would  be  in  a  better 
condition  to  do  so  when  after  a  year  or  two  more  of  war  we  had  doubled 
her  and  our  own  expenses.  But  if  Russia  would  not  pay,  what  were  we 
to  do  then  ?  We  could  shed  a  little  more  blood,  and  destroy  a  seaport 
or  two,  of  little  moment  with  such  grumblers.  No  matter,  the  Sbylooks 
must  have  their  bond.  What  would  follow  if  Russia,  like  the  tortoise, 
were  to  draw  herself  back  within  her  vast  and  desert  territories  ?  A 
soil  without  vegetation  six  months  in  the  year,  a  plain  of  fifteen  hundred 
miles,  with  Moscow  for  a  centre,  too  inclement  and  thinly  peopled  to 
support  victorious  hostile  armies,  as  the  experience  of  Napoleon  I.  ex- 
hibited, and  one-third  of  a  continent  in  extent  out  of  Europe  besides, — 
a  march  into  the  heart  of  Russia  being  impracticable,  we  must  continue 

*  No  less  than  6000  women  and  children  were  massacred  after  the  place  sur- 
rendered, over  and  above  30,000  men.  Catherine  and  her  minions  sang  Te  Deums 
for  this  crime. 

t  "II  faut  que  son  tour  vienne"  (England's:  Eussia  having  once  dictated  peace 
at  Paris), "  et  dans  quelque  temps  nous  ne  devons  plus  faire  de  traits  avec  ce  peuple 
qu'a  Calcutta,  sa  fausse  politique  a  joue*  son  reste;  qu'elle  aille  s'allier  aux  negres 
d'Afrique,  a  qui  ette  veut  taut  de  bien,  et  pour  lesquels  l'Europe  est  sa  dupe." — 
Moscow  Gazette. 

S2 


4  The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries. 

the  contest  upon  the  frontiers,  and  squander  millions  awaiting,  like 
60'  many  cats,  the  time  when  the  mice  may  he  pleased  to  come  into  our 
jaws.  We  are  aware  that  these  arguments  have  little  effect  upon  the 
feelings  of  many  who  have  no  ideas  hut  such  as  are  prompted  hy  money 
notions,  no  vision  heyond  the  counter.  This  cannot  he  helped,  and  the 
notion  that  dehtor-and-creditor  money  balances  and  state  ledgers,  with 
.  peace  in  one  column  and  war  in  another,  are  the  main  consideration  in 
concluding  a  treaty  with  one  of  the  most  powerful  modern  empires,  may 
he  natural  to  those  whose  extent  of  view  is  so  well  delineated  hy  this  dis- 
play of  their  political  wisdom,  hut  to  them  alone.     Then  as  to  motives  : 

Mrs.  Battle  having  seen  a  clear  hearth,  sits  down  to  whist,  maintain- 
ing "  the  rigour  of  the  game."  The  stove  blazes  cheerfully.  The  cards 
are  cut,  she  deals,  and  knaves  are  trumps.  "  There,"  says  the  lady,  in 
the  tranquillity  of  an  obesity  of  feature  as  well  as  of  corporeal  dimension, 
which  flattering  portrait-makers  call  "breadth,"  "knaves  are  trumps; 
that  reminds  me  of  Lord  Palmerston,  who  is  no  better  than  that  card." 

"  How  is  this,  my  dear  lady,"  rejoins  Mr.  Scrip,  the  broker,  who  has 
an  eye  upon  Mrs.  Battle's  "jointure  land,"  "you  told  me  not  a  month 
ago  that  his  lordship  was  a  great  favourite  of  yours  ?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Scrip,  but  he  has  made  peace,  and  my  nephew,  young 
Jenkyns,  the  son  of  him  who  writes  so  '  beautiful'  in  the  Morning  Post, 
has  only  just  joined  the  regiment  in  which  I  bought  him  a  commission, 
and  now  he  will  come  home,  and  go  at  once  upon  half-pay — think  of  that, 
Mr.  Scrip.  I  hoped  I  had  got  the  youth  off  my  hands.  Provoking, 
ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Mrs.  Battle,  but '  partial  evil  is  universal  good,'  as 
some  one  of  the  poets  said,  I  forget  who — Paley,  I  believe." 

"  That  is  no  consolation,  Mr.  Scrip.  "What  is  '  universal  good'  to  me 
and  my  nephew  ?  I  shall  never  hear  the  minister's  name  with  patience 
again.  Take  up  your  cards,  Mr.  Scrip — what  is  *  universal  good'  to  my 
good,  and  to  Harry's  good  ? — lead  off,  Mr.  Scrip  :  mind,  we  are  only 
two  by  honours." 

"  Devilish  unlucky — the  present  administration  must  go  out,  that  is 
clear — I  am  glad  of  it.  They  can  never  keep  their  places  in  a  peace. 
The  Opposition  did  not  choose  to  come  in  during  the  war,  as  they  might 
have  done,  but  they  would  not  be  burdened  with  its  responsibilities." 

"  Serve  the  ministry  right — let  it  go  out!"  said  Alderman  Portsoken, 
to  a  friend  with  whom  he  was  arm-in-arm  coming  out  of  St  Katherine's 
Docks. 

"  But  peace  will  bring  trade  about  a  little,  alderman — '  peace  and 
plenty' — a  fine  old  saying  upon  similar  occasions." 

"  Too  old  to  be  good  :  I  have  speculated  on  a  couple  of  years  more 
war ;  made  all  my  calculations  accordingly.  I  am  seriously  hit.  Don't 
you  think  the  present  incapables  must  go  out  ?" 

"I  am  no  judge  of  that  point.  I  think  it  very  likely  the  peace  will 
keep  them  in  office.     We  shall  have  corn  down — a  benefit  to  the  poor." 

"  I  have  a  little  spec,  in  Mark-lane,  too.  I  shall  be  ruined.  The 
ministry  must  go  out — this  peace  must  have  done  harm  to  others  as 
well  as  to  me — out  with  them,  I  say." 

"  My  dear  friend,  think  what  an  opportunity  is  afforded  to  buy  into 
the  funds  for  a  rise.     I  made  a  little  by  it." 

"  Ay,  you  are  for  peace  on  that  account.     After  all,  cash  profit  and 


The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries.  '••  5 

loss  are  the  things  to  settle  questions  of  faith  and  politics ;  that  is  my 
argument,"  concluded  the  alderman,  "  and  that  of  a  good  many  besides, 
who  are  thus  ill-used  by  the  government." 

This  mode  of  deciding  the  merit  of  political  measures  and  the  worth 
of  an  administration,  is  also  a  standard  for  gauging  a  large  proportion  of 
agrarian  patriotism.     The  high  price  of  corn  during  the  war  enraptured 
the  agriculturists.     Free  trade  ceased  to  be  a  Jeremiad  in  the  mouth  of 
the  cultivator.    The  tables  are  turning.    The  price  of  corn  must  be  lower 
with  peace.     The  consequence  will  be  that  the  merit  of  the  government, 
in  putting  an  end  to  bloodshed  with  honour  and  advantage,  will  become 
matter  for  the  vituperation  of  those  who  gained  by  hostilities.     What  are 
the  prospects  of  humanity,  religion,  and  the  kindly  intercourse  of  nations, 
to  such  as  can  look  only  for  their  own  particular  and  exclusive  interests 
in  measures  that  concern  the  community  at  large  ?    Rulers  are  bound  to 
consult  the  interest  of  all.     A  government  of  mere  traders  neither  has 
been  nor  can  ever  be  magnanimous  or  lasting.     It  may  grasp  petty 
details,  but  is  incapable  of  great  and  generous  views;  it  can  only  think  of 
itself.     The  exemplification  of  the  rule  of  a  great  nation  on  these  princi- 
ples has  never  yet  been  tried,  it  is  true,  but  Venice,  Holland,  and  other 
states,  insignificant  in  extent  and  population,  have  given  little  encourage- 
ment to  uphold  such  a  system  of  rule  in  empires  of  the  first  order. 
Corruption,  despotism  of  the  meanest  kind,  and  liberty  to  the  wealthy 
alone,  speak  their  career.     Cruelty,  covetousness,  and  wars  to  support 
monopolies,  mark  their  history.  The  career  of  an  ambitious  ruler,  though 
a  history  of  self-aggrandisement,  includes  of  necessity  an  increase  of  in- 
fluence in  the  nation  he  rules,  and  it  is  in  a  degree  elevated  with  him. 
The  lives  of  such  meteors  in  history  call  forth  occasionally  great  talents, 
and  even  virtues  in  individuals,  the  force  of  whose  example  afterwards  is 
of  value.    Napoleon  I.,  while  he  made  all  subservient  to  his  ambition,  was 
the  author  of  many  beneficial  measures  that  only  a  superior  mind  could 
conceive  and  effect.     The  spirit  of  trade  is  a  narrow,  lowering  spirit, 
effecting  good  to  society  unconsciously,  while  knowingly  serving  its  own 
selfishness.      It  is  an  excellent   "slave  of  the  lamp,"   but,  like  most 
slaves,  it  is  an  arbitrary  master,  and  its  vital  principle  is  to  love  itself,  not  its 
neighbour.     It  has  no  regard  for  that  portion  of  humanity  which  cannot 
be  made  to  contribute  to  its  own  peculiar  advantage.     In  the  discom- 
fiture of  Russia  at  so  great  an  expenditure  of  hard  money,  the  return  is 
looked  for  in  cash  or  goods.     It  is  not  enough  to  have  obtained  the  end 
sought,  to  have  secured  Turkey  and  India,  there  must  be  a  money 
return,  because  this  end  can  alone  be  comprehended  by  stinted  intelli- 
gences.    Hence  the  want  of  sensation  in  the  trading  world   at   the 
triumphant  conclusion  of  the  late  arduous  contest.     "  Is  she  not  to  be 
made  to  pay  our  expenses  in  the  war  ?"  is  continually  repeated.     We 
could  not  destroy  Russia  if  we  made  war  for  a  score  of  years,  and  bank- 
rupts of  ourselves  into  the  bargain.     The  government  has  not  prolonged 
the  war  beyond  the  necessity.     France  sees  as  well  as  Austria  that  the 
end  is  attained.     What  Prussia — the  most  contemptible  of  kingdoms 
under  its  last  two  monarchs — may  think  upon  the  subject  is  of  no  moment. 
She  strengthens  her  character  of  proverbial  meanness  on  every  inter- 
ference with  other  nations.    Turkey  and  Sardinia  are  of  opinion  with 
the  other  allies,  no  doubt,  and  that  enough  has  been  done  to  secure 
European  tranquillity  for  a  long  time  to  come. 


•  'The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries. 

To  do  right  without  regard  to  consequences  is  as  uracil  the  doty  of  a 
free  gov  eminent  as  of  the  individual  citizen.  There  is  not  only  the  suc- 
cessful attainment  of  the  object  for  which  1ihe  war  was  made  to  he 
reckoned,  hot  we  must  recollect  that  the  present  Russian  ruler  was  not  the 
cause  of  hostilities.  The  ambition  of  Nicholas  may  have  expired  with 
him.  The  singular  courage  and  perseverance  with  which  the  Russians 
resisted  the  Allies,  and  for  which  they  must  have  fair  credit,  show  that  the 
people  at  least  merit  justice  at  our  hands.  There  is  no  longer  a  cause  for 
the  sacrifice  of  such  gallant  foes.  Let  them  have  their  due  praise,  and  do 
not  give  their  ruler  reason  to  appeal  to  the  warlike  qualities  of  his  sub- 
jects, not  upon  an  object  of  arrogant  ambition,  but  upon  the  valid  basis  of 
injustice  to  his  own  placable  desires,  and  the  self-defence  of  his  realm. 
We  do  not  address  ourselves  thus  to  those  who  censure  the  peace,  but  as 
an  argument  to  be  put  into  the  mouths  of  its  defenders. 

The  success  of  England  and  her  allies  is  another  evidence  to  lead 
nations  less  advanced  to  imitate  those  in  which  civilisation  is  carried  fur- 
thest. It  is  untrue  that  wealth  alone  secures  the  ascendancy  in  war ;  it  is 
secondary  after  all.  The  wealth  of  a  nation  depends  upon  the  extent  of  en- 
lightenment among  its  people.  Science  navigates  the  ocean,  delves  in  the 
mine,  levels  the  railroad,  and  points  out  sources  of  gain  in  which  it  is 
no  partaker.  Science  is  oftener  called  into  action  in  speculative  commu- 
nities than  in  those  which  are  poor  and  prudent,  but  it  may  exist  in  these 
to  the  same  extent  in  an  inactive  state,  because  it  cannot  here  be 
made  a  source  of  gain.  Science  is  the  foundation  of  the  ascendancy  of  the 
wealthier  empires,  and  the  Frenchman  wrote  the  truth  when  he  said :  *'  De 
tout  temps  les  nations  eclairees  dominerent  sur  celles  qui  ne  l'etaientpas." 
The  indisputable  bravery  of  our  soldiers,  with  the  national  wealth  at  its 
back,  could  not  preserve  our  late  commanding  officers  from  the  exhibition 
of  deplorable  professional  ignorance,  because  science  was  absent.  Xerxes, 
with  a  million  of  men,  and  the  countless  wealth  of  the  East,  could  not 
overcome  the  enlightened  Greeks,  who  were  but  a  handful  in  comparison. 
This  is  further  exemplified  within  the  army  itself.  Our  educated  artillery 
and  engineers  maintain  a  first-rate  scientific  reputation  in  Europe.*  Our 
unscientific  officers  of  the  other  arms,  who  buy  their  posts,  display  heroic 
courage  without  conduct,  and  shed  their  blood  extravagantly  without 
defined  objects,  as  if  to  exemplify  the  fact  as  to  the  individual  which  we 
maintain  in  the  larger  sense,  that  wealth  cannot  purchase  what  education 
can  alone  bestow.  Our  glorious  navy  is  another  proof  of  our  argument, 
and  the  lords  of  the  admiralty  are  so  sensible  of  it,  that  they  have  just 
wisely  increased  the  scientific  acquirements  and  age  necessary  for  can- 
didates applying  to  serve. 

We  maintain  that  to  prolong  the  war  until  Russia  reimbursed  the 
expenses  would  be  to  shed  blood  uselessly,  and  to  double  our  public 
debt  without  any  prospect  of  attaining  that  end.  There  are  other  con- 
siderations before  pecuniary  cravings  that  must  rule  in  political  life,  as 
in  private  life  there  are  things  superior  to  the  vulgar  lust  of  gain, 
although  "  the  many"  do  not  think  so.  We  hold  the  peace  to  be  oppor- 
tune, crowning  the  most  desirable  results.    We  regard  the  success  of  the 

*  "La  derniere  guerre  ayant  demontre'  la  perfection  de  rartiUerie  anglaiae, 
toutes  les  puissances  se  sont  empressees  d'etablir  leur  systeme  d'apres  cemodele." 
—Bulletin  dee  Sciences  MUitaires. 


The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries.  J 

alliance  of  Western  cmtisstiom  against  Eastern  faariaaram  as  fiWy  to  lie 
mehl  beyond  the  gratification  of  a,  momentary  triumph  or  the  Tacilla- 
tions  of  party  politics.  Its  beneficial  effects  will  be  acknowledged  by 
posterity.  The  world  moving  onward  with  accelerated  rapidity,  emenda- 
tions in  the  constitution  of  society  must  beep  an  equal  pace  to  be  har- 
raomcas.  The  condition  of  the  people  continually  ameliorating  in  the 
more  advanced  nations,  others  must  follow  the  example,  whatever  their 
rulers  (may  think  to  the  contrary.  All  is  progressive  ascent.  The  waste 
regions  of  the  earth  are  populating.  The  more  barbarous  are  becoming 
civilised,  and  the  more  civilised  advancing  still  higher  in  civilisation. 
To  what  destined  end  all  ibis  is  taking  place  is  concealed  from  human 
perspicacity,  hid  in  the  depths  of  an  impenetrable  futurity. 

Shall  we  vainly  attempt  to  resist  this  course  of  things  with  the  admirers 
of  the  dark  ages  in  religion  and  government  ?  Shall  we  censure  that 
rational  contrast  amidst  success  in  our  rulers,  which  leads  towards  uni- 
versal good,  because  those  whose  existence  is  purely  animal  and  selfish 
exhibit  a  discontent,  originating  within  the  limited  circumference  of 
sordid  habits  and  obliquitous  vision  ?  The  present  carpings  of  persons  of 
confined  intelligences  are  to  be  regarded  as  out  of  reason  where  they  are 
or  are  not  stimulated  by  latent  interests.  England,  among  the  foremost 
to  .check  lawless  ambition  with  her  allies,  concludes  a  peace  which  is 
fully  reconcilable  with  the  cold  policy  of  states,  and  which  Christianity, 
if  it  were  really  more  than  a  name  with  the  dissentients  to  that  measure, 
would,  under  existing  circumstances,  imperiously  dictate.  England  can 
really  gain  nothing  by  the  venal  view  of  such  a  question. 

If  Russia  change  her  former  conduct — and  she  will  be  wise  to  change 
it — if  she  apply  herself  to  traffic  and  internal  improvement  throughout 
her  vast  dominions,  finding  them  at  last  the  only  solid  foundation  of 
national  strength  in  these  advanced  times,  she  will  be  a  large  exporter  of 
productions  for  which  the  results  of  British  industry  must  be  exchanged. 
The  prolongation  of  scenes  of  bloodshed,  with  ever-accumulating  feelings 
of  national  hostility,  can  never  lead  to  such  a  benefit.  It  is  the  true  in- 
terest of  England  to  see  all  nations  peaceful,  industrious,  and  flourishing, 
an  the  ground  of  an  advantageous  intercourse.  Exorbitant  terms  of 
peace  under  the  promptings  of  a  short-sighted,  grasping  policy,  would 
never  be  carried  into  effect  if  demanded,  and  if  they  could,  would  defeat 
a  great  moral  end. 

Peace  was  hailed  enthusiastically  in  France.  The  march  of  Alexan- 
der L  to  Paris,  so  boasted  of  by  Russia  without  alluding  to  her  support 
by  the  other  European  armies,  after  the  snows  of  the  North  had  destroyed 
every  effective  opposition  on  the  part  of  the  French,  required  that  the 
mvincibility  of  Russia,  echoed  by  her  allies  at  that  time,  and  pro- 
pagated for  forty  years,  should  be  demonstrated  false.  That  time  had 
arrived.  It  was  pleasant  to  the  Allies,  but  doubly  so  for  France,  to  see  tbe 
Turks  on  the  Danube,  single-hand,  dissipate  the  delusion  and  humiliate 
the  pride  of  the  Czar  Nicholas  and  his  bragging  journals.  The  truth  as 
regards  the  Moscow  expedition  is  now  clear.  The  deification  of  Alexan- 
der I.  in  England  afterwards, — for  it  was  something  like  deification,  that 
servile  adulation— adulation  usque  ad  nauseam — or  rather  that  species 
of  idolatry  paid  him, — may  now  be  judged.  To  the  wily  Alexander 
even  the  broad-brimmed  followers  of  George  Fox  paid  their  most  obse- 
quious homages,  as  certain  AminadabB  did  the  other  day  to  Nicholas  in 


8  The  Peace  and  its  Adversaries. 

St.  Petersburg,  to  implore  peace.  Never  did  the  nitric  gas  more  de- 
lightedly intoxicate  the  inhaler  than  the  atmosphere  of  the  Russian 
sovereign  overcome  his  drab-coloured  visitors.  It  might  be  thought 
there  would  have  been  a  little  more  of  the  staid  philosophical  character 
about  both  embassies.  It  was  otherwise :  even  the  Quakers  yielded  to 
the  soft  impeachment  in  the  presence  of  the  Boreal  sovereign.  To  resume : 
French  people  were  avenged  with  the  cause  of  truth,  but  the  pleasure  the 
reflection  afforded  them  did  not  repress  their  desire  for  a  reconciliation : 
they  did  not  haggle  with  their  government  for  what  their  good  sense 
tola  them  was  impracticable. 

Let  us,  therefore,  be  satisfied  with  our  share  of  the  triumphant  result, 
and  with  the  peace  to  which  our  government  is  a  party.  Strangers  to 
the  terms  of  the  definitive  treaty  in  detail,  which,  while  we  write  this,  has 
not  appeared,  we  do  not  credit  a  syllable  of  the  soundness  either  of  the 
political  or  huckstering  objections  to  the  pacification  raised  by  mortified 
opposition,  by  individual  ignorance,  or  the  ingrained  avarice  of  "the 
age  of  merchandise."  We  near  of  no  lack  of  guarantees  or  of  stringency 
in  the  stipulations.  The  Premier  is  well  versed  in  the  intrigues  of  the 
continental  diplomatists,  and  not  likely  to  be  overreached.  The  Emperor 
of  France  has  displayed  his  wonted  firmness,  and  has  not  resiled.  We 
heard  no  complaint  with  the  appearance  of  validity,  except  of  the  policy 
which  admitted  the  most  contemptible  of  European  governments  to  be  a 
party  to  any  portion  of  the  treaty.  Even  here  it  is  possible  the  contract- 
ing powers  might  have  had  good  reason  for  the  admission  of  Prussia,  of 
which  they  could  alone  judge.  On  the  whole,  as  the  event  has  turned 
out,  it  was  most  probably  best  that  the  contest  began  and  terminated 
where  it  did.  Fortune  timed  it  well.  Had  Russia  delayed  an  attack 
upon  Turkey  until  a  later  period,  when  the  other  European  powers  were 
involved  in  troubles  or  disagreements  among  themselves,  demanding 
their  whole  attention,  the  result  might  have  been  less  disastrous  to  Russia, 
and  more  injurious  to  Europe. 

We  are  not  ashamed  of  our  philosophy  in  condemning  war.  We  have 
witnessed  some  of  its  miseries,  and  pronounce  it,  even  when  necessary,  a 
calamity  so  great  that  its  triumphs  never  compensate  for  the  evils  they  in- 
flict, for  its  ferocities,  cruelties,  and  murders.  It  depopulates  cities, 
ravages  the  fair  face  of  nature,  breaks  the  hearts  of  mothers  and  relatives, 
depraves  the  manners,  tramples  on  the  social  virtues,  and,  in  place  of  re- 
ligion, science,  and  letters,  introduces  grossness,  ignorance,  and  barbarism. 
It  makes  industry  hopeless,  competence  indigent,  interrupts  the  peaceful 
pursuits  of  commerce,  and  impoverishes  communities.  Shall  we  sanction 
censures  cast  upon  those  who  take  the  earliest  opportunity,  consistent 
with  the  national  honour,  to  extinguish  this  curse  of  our  mortal  state  ? 
Shall  we  object  to  the  pacification  of  Europe  from  its  violation  of  no 
principle,  its  extinguishing  no  honest  hope,  and  depressing  no  elevated 
prospect  of  future  advantage  to  ourselves  or  our  neighbours,  but  solely 
upon  the  ground  to  which  Duke's- place  owes  its  unenviable  notoriety? 

On  the  contrary,  the  Allies  have  acted  wisely.  The  attacks  made  upon 
the  government,  and  the  cavils  of  its  enemies  oozing  out  rather  than 
openly  expressed,  must  be  ascribed  to  that  unhappy  influence  which,  in  a 
trading  community,  is  incapable  of  judging  but  by  the  system  of  buying 
cheap  and  selling  dear  ;  yet  is  all  war,  by  its  nature,  the  reverse  of  that 
fundamental  principle  in  money-making. 


(■•■) 


THE  MATL-CART  ROBBERY. 

BY  THB  AUTHOR  OP  "  THE  UNHOLY  WISH." 


An  incident  savouring  strongly  of  romance  occurred  many  years  ago 
in  a  certain  county  of  England.  Some  of  the  acton  in  it  are  living  now, 
but  as  the  facts  were  of  public  notoriety  at  the  time,  it  can  do  no  harm  to 
recal  them  here. 

There  stood  one  morning  in  the  post-office  of  the  chief  town  of 
Highamshire  (as  we  will  call  it)  two  gentlemen  sorting  letters.  The 
London  mail  had  just  come  in,  bringing  its  multiplicity  of  business. 
They  were  the  postmaster  of  Higham  and  his  son.  The  former,  most 
deservedly  respected  by  his  fellow-citizens,  had  held  the  situation  for 
many  years;  the  latter,  a  handsome  young  man,  looked  to  hold  the 
situation  after  him. 

"  Ready,"  cried  out  Mr.  Grame,  in  a  loud  tone,  and  the  side-door 
opened,  and  four  men  entered,  and  ranged  themselves  in  front  of  the 
counter.  They  were  the  town  postmen,  and  each,  receiving  his  separate 
freight,  departed  for  his  allotted  quarter  of  the  city.  It  was  striking 
half-past  nine  as  they  left  the  post-office:  letters  in  Higham  are  deli- 
vered and  answered  by  that  hour,  now. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Grame  and  his  son  continued  their  work,  which  was, 
now,  the  making-up  of  the  bags  for  the  cross-country  towns  and  villages. 
Upon  one  letter,  as  it  came  under  his  observation,  Mr.  Grame's  eye  rested 
rather  longer  than  on  the  rest. 

"Here's  Farmer  Sterling's  letter  at  last,  Walter,"  he  observed  to 
his  son. 

"Has  it  come?"  cried  the  young  man,  in  a  lively  tone,  while  he 
suspended  for  a  moment  his  own  employment,  and  leaned  towards  his 
father  to  look  at  the  letter  in  question.  "  Mr.  Sterling,  Hill  House 
Farm,  Layton,  Highamshire,"  he  read.  "  Ah !  he  need  not  have  been 
so  fidgety  over  it.     I  told  him  it  would  be  all  right." 

"  He  has  never  been  otherwise  than  fidgety  over  this  yearly  letter," 
observed  Mr.  Grame. 

"  Because  of  the  money  in  it,"  rejoined  Mr.  Walter. 

At  that  moment  somebody's  knuckles  came  rapping  at  the  glazed 
window,  and  Mr.  Grame,  who  stood  next  it,  pushed  back  the  wooden 
slide  from  an  open  pane,  and  looked  out.  But,  first  of  all,  he  dropped 
the  letter  for  Farmer  Sterling  safely  into  the  Layton  bag. 

"Is  that  there  letter  come  yet,  sir?"  inquired  the  voice  at  the 
window. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you,  Mr.  Stone.  I  don't  think  it  is.  What  was  to  be  the 
address?" 

"  '  Miss  Parker,  Post-office,  till  called  for.' " 

"  Ay.     No,  it  is  not  arrived.     Better  luck  to-morrow,  perhaps." 

"  It's  my  belief  it  won't  come  at  all.  The  young  woman,  you  know, 
replied  to  the  advertisement  for  a  housekeeper,  which  was  in  the  Higham 
Herald,  Saturday  week.     I  tell'd  her  yesterday  that  perhaps  she'd  have 


10  The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery. 

no  answer.  But  nothing  does  but  I  must  come  here,  morning  a'ter 
morning,  to  ask  for  it.  Did  you  hear  of  Ned  Cooke's  shop  being  broke 
into  last  night  ?" 

"  No,"  shortly  answered  the  postmaster.  "  I  am  busy  now,  and  can't 
talk." 

And  the  board  slided  sharply  back  again,  nearly  shutting  up  the  end 
of  Mr.  Stone's  nose  with  it.  "  Good  day,  sir,"  called  out  that  dis- 
comfited applicant,  as  he  moved  away. 

A  little  more  work  in  the  post-office,  and  then  Mr.  Grame  called  out 
as  before,  "Weirford  and  Layton  bags  ready!"  And  a  tall,  fine- 
looking  young  man  with  an  open  countenance,  looking  much  more  like 
a  gentleman  than  the  driver  of  a  village  mail-cart,  came  in. 

w  Not  a  heavy  freight  this  morning,  John,"  observed  Mr.  Granae,  as 
he  handed  over  the  bags,  secured  oaly  with  string,  the  careless  practioe  of 
the  Higham  post-office  in  those  clays.  "Have  you  got  your  horse 
rough-shod  ?" 

"  All  right  and  ready,"  responded  John  Ledbitter,  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

"  Or  I  don't  know  how  you  would  get  to  Layton :  the  roads  must  be 
dreadful.  Take  care  you  6tart  back  in  good  time,  or  you  may  be  too 
late  for  the  evening  mail." 

"  I'll  take  care,"  answered  the  young  man.  "  As  to  the  roads,  if  any- 
body can  drive  over  them,  I  can,  let  them  be  what  they  will.  Any 
commands" — dropping  his  voice  as  he  spoke  t©  the  son — "for  the  farm, 
Mr.  Walter?" 

"  Are  you  going  there  this  morning  ?" 

"  If  I  don't  change  my  mind.     Can  I  carry  any  message,  I  say  ?" 

"No,"  sharply  replied  Mr.  Walter  Grame.  And  John  Ledbitter 
laughed  to  himself  as  he  went  out  with  the  bags. 

Locking  them  into  the  box  of  his  cart,  an  open  vehicle,  and  taking  his 
seat,  he  drove  out  of  the  town  towards  Layton,  as  fast  as  the  dangerous 
roads  would  allow.  It  was  the  month  of  January,  and  Jack  Frost  had 
come  down  with  all  his  severe  might:  snow  on  the  fields,  icicles  on  the 
trees,  frozen  snow  and  ice  lying  in  wait  for  broken  limbs  on  the  roads. 
But  John  Ledbitter's  horse  had  been  prepared  for  the  state  of  affairs,  and 
he  drove  him  cautiously. 

"  It's  too  bad  of  me,  but  I  do  like  to  nettle  him,"  he  chuckled  to  him- 
self, as  he  laid  the  reins  on  the  dash-board,  and  set  on  to  beat  his  arms, 
to  keep  feeling  in  them.  "  *  Are  you  going  there  V  cries  he  so  sharply, 
when  I  mischievously  asked  him  if  he  had  any  commands  for  the  farm. 
Many  a  day  does  not  pass  over  my  head  but  I  do  go  there,  Master 
Walter,  and  that  you'll  find  out  soon.     Now,  Saucy  Sir !  hold  up. 

"  The  idea  of  his  making  up  to  her,"  continued  Mr.  John  Ledbitter, 
taking  the  reins  again.  "  She's  a  mile  and  a  half  too  good  for  him. 
Why  is  it  I  never  liked  the  fellow  ?  She  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  for 
he  repelled  me,  years  before  I  thought  of  her.  He  is  a  handsome  chap; 
an  agreeable  companion;  plenty  of  gumption  in  his  noddle — yes,  all 
that.  But  there's  a  turn  in  his  look,  not  honest,  not  genuine ;  in  the 
eye  and  lip  I  think  it  lies :  perhaps  other  people  don't  see  it,  but  I  know 
it  repels  me.  And  look  at  the  fellow's  vanity,  where  women  are  con- 
cerned!  .He  thinks,  I  know,  as  to  Selina,  .that  he  has  only  to  ask  and 


The  Mait-  Cart  Bobbery.  1 1 

have.  Not.  so  fast,  Mr.  Walter  Gramer  she  cares  more  for  my  little 
finger  than  she  does  for  your  whole  carcase — as  the  ancient  song  goes : 

Despise  her  not,  said  Lord  Tfroiriflft, 

Despise  her  not  unto  mex 
For  I  love  thy  little  finger 

Better  than  her  whole  body. 

Gentlyv  Saucy  Sir  I  keep  your  feet  if  you  please  to-day r  of  all  days  in 
the  year.  In  any  case  he  would,  not  be  worthy  o£  her,  setting  my  pre- 
tensions quite  out  of  the  question*"  continued  John,  holding  a  tightened 
rein  over  his  horse:  "  he  carries  on  too  many  wild  vagaries  to  be  a  fitting 
mate  for  an  honest  girl.  And  unless  my  suspicions  wrong  him,  he's  in 
debt  up  to  his  elbows.  If  the  old  man  knew  half,  ha  would  take  to  has 
bed  out  of  mortification,  and  leave  the  post-office  to  manage  itself.     The 

other  night  ho If  you  don't  step  more  firmly,  Saucy  Sir,  you  and 

I  shall  quarrel." 

Finding  his  whole  attention  must  be  directed  to-  the  care  of  his  horse, 
John  Ledbitter  put  off  his  reflections  to  a  more  convenient  season.  At 
length  he  reached  Layton,  a  small  town  about  seven  miles  from  Higham, 
having  left  the  Weirford  bag  at  that  village,  on  his  way.  He  drove 
straight  to  the  post-office,  unlocked  his  cart,  and  delivered  the  Layton 
bag  to  the  postmaster,  Mr.  Marsh. 

"  A  sharp  day,"  remarked  the  latter. 

"  Sharp  enough,"  replied  John.  "  I  have  had  some  trouble  with  the 
horse,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  It's  a  wonder  he  kept  his  feet  at  all.  Sir  Geoffrey  Adams's  bailiff 
was  coming  down  yonder  hill  last  night,  on  the  bay  mare,  and  down  she 
went,  and  broke  her  leg.     Had  to  be  shot." 

«  No!" 

"  I  stepped  up  and  saw  her  lying  there  in  the  roadV  Mr.  Ledbitter : 
her  groans,  poor  thing,  were  just  like  a  human  creature's;  Sir  Geoffrey 
was  called  out  from  his  dinner,  and  shot  her  with  his  own  hand.  He 
was  awful  with  Master  Bailiff  over  it,  and  told  him  if  he  had  been  human 
enough  to  lead  her  down  the  hill,  it  would  not  have  happened.  He  was 
cut  up  too,  he  was,  and  didn't  offer  a  word  of  excuse  to  Sir  Geoffrey. 
Good  day,  if  you  are  off  to  put  up  Saucy  Sir." 

The  mail-cart  and  Saucy  Sir  being  comfortably  deposited  at  their 
usual  quarters,  Mr.  Ledbitter  took  a  sharp  walk  of  twenty  minutes, 
which  brought  him  to  Hill  House  Farm.  Taking  off  his  great  coat  and 
leggings  before  he  entered  the  sitting-room,  he  appeared  in  plain  black 
clothes,  such  as  are  worn  by  gentlemen. 

"  Here's  a  morning  I"  he  said,  as  a  fair,,  quiet-looking  girl  rose  at  his 
entrance,  the  former's  only  child.  Many  would  have  called  her  features 
plain,  but  in  her  gentle  voice,  and  her  truthful,  earnest  eye,  lay  plenty  of 
attraction. 

"  What  a  journey  you  must  have  had!"  sh*  exclaimed,  giving  him 
her  hand 

"  Ay,  indeed.  I  thought  once  it  would,  have  come  to-  my  carrying 
Saucy  Sir.     Where's  Selina?" 

Before  Miss  Sterling  could  reply,  her  father  entered.    "Ah,  Master 


12  The  Mail-Cart  Bobbery. 

Ledbitter,  is  it  you?"  he  said.  "  Well,  d'ye  think  you  have  brought 
that  letter  of  mine  to-day?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  laughed  the  young  man.  "  I  hare  brought  the  bag, 
but  cannot  say  what  letters  are  in  it." 

"  You  have  not  heard  'em  talk  of  it  at  the  post-office  in  Higham,  as 
haying  come,  have  ye  T9 

u  No,"  responded  John. 

"Darn  it!  if  that  letter's  lost,  there's  fifty  pound  gone.  And  fifty 
pound  ain't  picked  up  in  a  day?  Master  Ledbitter.*   • : 

It  may  as  weH  be  explained  that  some  sew  years  previously,  the  sister 
of  Mrs.  Sterling,  who  had  married  a  Mr.  Cleeve  and  settled  in  London, 
died,  leaving  :ene  only  daughter.  Mr.  Cleeve'  married  again,  and"  then 
the  child  was  consigned  to  the  home  and  care  of  Mrs.  Sterling,  Mri 
Cleeve  forwarding*  every  Christmas;  a  501.  note,  to  cover  her  expenses. 
It  was  this  note  that  Farmer  Sterling'  was  so  anxious1  to  receive :  tand 
each  year,  from  the  moment  Christmas-day  was  turned,  till  the  jhoriey 
was  actually  in  his  hand,  he  never  ceased  worrying  himself,  and  every- 
body about  him,  with  conjectures  that  the  note  was  lost.  It  had  beitf 
pointed  oat  to  him  several  times,  that  to  have  the  money  oowreVed  in  a 
letter  was  not  a  very  safe  mode  of  transit  But  the  firmer  would  answer1 
that  it  had  always  come safe  hitherto  (though  with  delay),  and  he  had 
no  time,  not  he,  to  go  tramping  into  Higham  to  receive  it  of  the.  bankers' 
there.  So  that  Tarmer  ffterhng  continued  to  «expeet  and  receive  this 
important  letter  and  its  enclosure  every  yearf  which  was  a  weU-knewn 
fact  to  all  Layton,  and  to  half  of  Higham.  This  was  the  letter  noticed 
by  the  postmaster  that  morning,  as  he  sorted  it  into  the  Layton  bag. 

Senna  Cleeve,  new  grown  up,  and  about  the  age  of  her  cousin,  was  the 
belle  of  Layton  and  of  all  the  rest  of  the  parishes  round  about.  A  well* 
grown,  handsome,  dark-eyed  girl,  full  of  fun  and  laughter,  played  and 
sang  like  the  .nightingales-  in  Layton  Wood  (as  people  were  apt  to 
express  it),  rode  her  horse  with,  ease  and  grace,  and  took  everybody's1 
heart  by  storm.  All  the  bachelor  farmers  were  quarrelling  far  her,  and 
many  a  4ine  gentleman  from  Higham  wore  out'  his  horsed  shoes  ridm* 
oyer  to  Hill  House  Farm,  who,  had  SeHna  Cleeve  not  been  in  it,  mast 
have  studied  the  map  for  its  site.  They  might  have  spared  themselver 
the  trouble,  the  farmers  their  quarrelling,  and  the  gentlemen  their  steeds, 
for  the  young  lady's  heart  was  given  to  John  Ledbitfctr;  Dut  woman- 
like, she  kept  this  to  herself  and  evinced  no  objection  to  the  univereaV 
admiration.  As  to  Anne  Sterling,  no  fine  gentleman  noticed  her:  her 
accomplished,  lovely,  said  London  cousin  was  all-in-all.  But  as  to  1&e' 
servants :  Molly,  who  had  lived  twenty  years  in  the  family*  and  Joan,  the 
dairymaid,  who  had  only  lived  as  many  months,  they  would  tell  you 
that  if  Miss  Cleeve's  attractions  won  admiration,  Anne  Sterling's  would 
secure  more  love,  in  the  long  run.  The  housekeeping,  and  other  house- 
hold management,  devolved  on  Anne,  for  Mrs.  Sterling  was  a  confirmed 
invalid,  sometimes  not  leaving  her  room  for  days  together. 

"  Shall  you  be  able  to  come  to-night  t"  questioned  Anne  Sterling  of 
Mr.  Ledbitter,  as  her  Bather  left  the  parlour. 

«  With  tins  weather,  Anne  P 

"  But  the  moon  will  be  up.    Do  try." 


The  Mail  Cart  Robbery.  13 

"  You  unreasonable  girl !  the  moon  will  not  dissolve  the  ice  on  the 
roads.     What  is  it  you  are  at  there,  so  industriously  V 

"  Cutting  papers  for  the  candlesticks,"  rejoined  Anne.  "  This  is  the 
last.  And  now  I  must  hasten  into  the  kitchen.  -  I  have  a  thousand^and- 
one  things  to  do  to-day,  and.Molly'a  head  seems  turned." 

"Can  I  help  you?"  .  ■■■>■■■ 

"  No,"  laughed  Anne,  "  you  would  be  a  hinderaricd*  I  suspect,,  instead 
ofaihejp*;     &HiJakilLheAe5te4iTedtiyi,r:    '  ■,         .:.,«.  -  .' 

She  entered  the  parfoupafllArine>St&liqg  left  it.<  v-Astyfish  girly  in  a 
rich  plaid  .silk ;  drew  f  her  black  hair  wasi  worn  in  heavy  braids  round  her 
hea4,i .note  ntacb  4he> fashioh)  thM),  j  especially  in  rural  diafoicW.  John1 
IfedbiUter's  nia«ne^  changed  to  lone- 6f  deep  i tenderness.  He  closed  tfoi 
depr,  ajn^i4re^.Wiqn%tol»Bi.     :  :!  ',   Ur:  •--,:•  •.  ^/<  lA-''    .•  '•> 

^,0^#Johd!7>wjere  ie*i  first  words;  "what  unfortunate  ^weather  for 
gufr  party  jkorfiight  I . . ;  You  will  never  be  able  to  icorae  *     -  .;  I 

v  ^.My  dfcritaigU  ,Had  lit©  walk  every  atdp  of « the  way,  here  and  back, 
and. could, remain  buttime  to  snatch one  word  wi4ih,yt)u,  I  should  not 

kfl«S  '.en  -t i  '    ■ 


\. 


fMJufcyc**  must  oamesnd  rdtura  in  the  night  I— unlike  the  others,  who; 
es^.ch^cfefei^^aajjrlighijj,f  !;•'!'    .-.:.,.  ,  \,  ■•: .  ltl  .,.=;.<  ■-. .    ...  •<.■!>  •..,      ..-.:.» 

intf.  Thef  first  datwe,rjei«etRberv  Selina, after  I  do  get  here.  *  Who  comes) 
frpm<Bfgh&i*?  i.  Walter GrRme><£oow8*» 

-i ,^0£  course,  jxAjidj  his  sisters,  and  several  others,:  He  has  engaged7 
raaforJthe£r*t  and  last!  dapeea:  jou  wiil  not  be  here-at  either.  And  as 
ifcaay  mej&ias  I  Jwould  4dd6rd  himi  iwtiween^lie  said."     .      /    ";  • 

Jqkn  iLedbitt^r  toughed,  such  a  meaning  laugh,  and  his  eye  twinkled 
mfecHevou&ly.,  ^^eUaaji  d«OTesVLhe  whuperea\  <;  I  fear  hU  case^is 
desperate,  t  .What'  soy,  youiPT^c     :<        ■■■  /»  :.l  'u-       .f.i-v.  »« >•("-  I  '      !'•>•? 

fii8b#>  wrfer^teod  JrifiD.  Andi  though  fehb  did/not -say  it  ini words,  he  gaw,j 
injtbat  do^ncas^  nappy  countenance,  that  all  ■* cases^  savehia  ow%  so 
far,ae.§eliua  was cioaeearned^ ^ere  desperate.  r  / 

i)  Delaying  hU,  departure  as  long,  as  was  prudent^  and  still  talking  with 
Misa.iCteevk,  John  iLgdbitter  at  length  rose  to  go.  In  the  kitchen, 
where  he  went  to  don  his,$iveralfa  and  itough  coat,  he  saw  Molly  taking 
somfc  minO-£ie»  andtarttets  out  of  ithe  room.' 

., *' PoritiAbey  look  firet-*aie?'  .\  said  Molly  to  him*  «But  that's  nothing, 
Mr^Jc^n;;  j^st  pleade.stepan  here.n  And  opening  the  door  of  the  best 
kitchen  (a.  large  room,  scarcely  eyer  used  by  servants  or  masters,  being 
deetned  tod  good  for  the  one,  and  not  good  enough  for  tMe  other,  since 
M&s  Gleeve  came);  Molly  proudly  disclosed  to  view  the  long  supper-table, 
already  laid,  out,  and  decorated  with  laurustinua.  i  A  large,  handsome 
twelfth*cak»:xose  higfe  in  the  middle,  for  it  was  Twelfth-day,  and  a  bonny 
ftre  of  wood  and  «oal  was  blading  in  the  grate.  ..;.•••"'<  :i 

"I  mean  to: keep  it  up  all  day,"  observed  Molly,  alluding  to  the  large 
fire,  "for  missiabas  been  on  at  me  two  or  three  times  about  getting  the 
room  well  warmed.  J  She  was  for  having  the  supper  in  the  big  parlour, 
but  they  wanted  it  for  cardV  Did  you  ever  see  finer  fowls,  sir  r  <  And 
them  hams !  they'll  eat  like  marrow,  for  I  biled  'em  myself,  and  helped 
Miss  Anne  with  the  curing.  Ah,  you  may  well  be  struck  with  the 
y allow  richness  of  the  chis-cakes,  and  look  at  the  clearness  of  the  jelly  ! 
you  might  see  to  read  through  it.     Half  the  things  is  in  the  cellar  yet, 


14  The  Mail-  Cart  Bobbery. 

the  custards  and  the  two  dishes  of  trifle  :  besides  the  brawn  and  the  cold 
beef,  and  them  sort  o'  things  which  is  to  stand  on  the  sideboard." 

u  What  a  preparation  !"  exclaimed  John  Ledbitter,  staring  confusedly 
at  the  profuse  display.  "  Why,  you  must  have  had  all  the  cooks  in  the* 
parish  at  work  here  for  a  week  I" 

"  Cooks !  what  next  ?"  cried  the  offended  Molly.  "  Miss  Anne  did  it 
all  yesterday  and  this  morning,  with  what  little  help  I  could  give  her  in 
the  matters  of  fetching  and  carrying,  and  beating  eggs,  and  lifting  on  and 
off  o'  saucepans.  We  never  let  Joan  come  a-nigh  us,  though  she  kept 
haunting  the  door  and  putting  her  eyes,  to  the  chinks,  sick  to  see  all  as 
was  going  forrard.  You  won't  find  Miss  Anne's  match  in  this  county, 
Mr.  Ledbitter,  nor  in  any  other.  My  missis  have  brought  her  up  right 
well.  She  don't  play  the  pianer,  it's  true,  and  she  don't  spend  hours  over 
her  hair,  a  setting  of  it  off  in  outlandish  winds  round  her  head,  and  she 
don't  dress  in  silks  the  first  thing  in  a  morning,"  satirically  added  Molly, 
with  an  allusion  to  somebody  else,  which  Mr.  John  perfectly  well  under- 
stood, and  laughed  at.  "  But  see  Miss  Anne  in  illness,  who  tends  a  sick 
body's  bed  like  she  ? — hear  her  pleasant  voice  a  soothing  any  poor  soul 
what's  in  trouble — look  how  she  manages  this  house,  and  gives  counsel 
to  master  about  the  farm  out-doors  !  No,  Mr.  John :  you  young  gentle- 
men like  to  please  your  eye,  but  give  me  one  who  has  got  qualities  inside 
of  'em,  that'll  shine  out  when  hair's  grey  and  planers  is  rusty." 

But  Mr.  Ledbitter  had  no  time  to  stay  gossipping.  In  hurrying  away, 
he  ran  against  the  farmer  in  the  kitchen. 

"Are  you  a  coming  to  this  kick-up  to-night,  Master  Ledbitter  ?" 

ttI£I  can  get  here." 

"  Bless  the  foolish  women,  I  say,  putting  things  about,  like  this,  for  a 
night's  pleasure !  I  don't  know'our  house  up-stairs,  Mr.  John,  I  don't,  I 
assure  you.  There's  every  stick  of  furniture  took  out  of  the  big  best  bed- 
room, and  forms,  which  they  have  borrowed  from  the  Sunday-school, 
ranged  round  it.  As  to  the  walls,  you  can't  tell  the  colour  for  the 
branches  of  green  stuff,  with  a  few  dozen  of  tin  things  holding  candles, 
hid  amongst  'em.  'Tain't  me  as  they'll  get  for  candle-snuffer  all  the 
evening." 

"  There  won't  be  no  snuffing  wanted,"  interposed  Molly,  tartly.  "  The 
candles  is  wax." 

"Wax!  I  said  I'd  have  no  wax  in  the  house  again,"  retorted  the 
farmer.  "  The  last  time  we  had  one  of  these  affairs,  Mr.  John,  I  hap- 
pened to  stand  under  some  o'  them  waxes,  getting  as  close  to  the  wall  as 
I  could  for  fear  of  being  upset  by  the  couples  what  where  whirling  round 
the  room,  and  when  I  came  to  comb  my  hair  the  next  morning,  may  I 
never  stir  from  this  kitchen  if  it  wasn't  all  glued  together  with  the  drop- 
pings of  wax." 

"Never  you  mind  the  droppings,  master,"  cried  Molly,  "  the  room'll 
look  beautiful." 

"  It  had  need  to,"  rejoined  the  farmer.  "  There's  Anne  up  there  now, 
on  her  hands  and  knees,  a  chalking  the  floor !  When  they  set  on  at  me 
that  I  must  dress  myself  up  in  my  Sunday- going  clothes,  I  answered  'em 
that  I  should  stop  m  the  kitchen  out  of  the  row,  and  smoke  my  pipe  in 
the  chimney-corner."' 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  quoth  John j  "  you  must  cfance  away  with  the  best 


The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery.  1 5 

of  us.  Good  day,  sir.  I  must  be  off."  And  in  half  an  hour's  time 
John  Ledbitter  was  driving  Saucy  Sir  back  to  Higham,  with  the  Lay  ton 
and  Weirford  letters  for  the  Higham  evening  mails. 

A  merry  scene  it  was  that  night  at  Farmer  Sterling's.  It  was  the 
custom  at  Layton  and  in  the  adjoining  parishes,  for  the  wealthy  farmers 
to  hold  an  annual  entertainment,  which  were  distinguished,  one  and  all, 
by  great  profusion  of  dainties,  a  hearty  welcome,  and  thorough  enjoyment. 
Dancing  was  always  kept  up  till  daylight — winter  time,  remember — then 
came  breakfast,  and  then  the  guests  went  home.  At  Farmer  Sterling's 
this  party  had  been  omitted  for  the  last  two  years,  in  consequence  of  Mrs. 
Sterling's  precarious  state  of  health,  but  now,  as  she  was  somewhat  better, 
it  was  renewed  again. 

The  ball  began  with  a  country  dance,  always  the  first  at  these  meetings, 
the  Vicar  of  Layton  opening  it  with  Miss  Sterling.  He  had  just  been 
presented  to  the  living — a  very  poor  one,  by  the  way — and  as  yet  knew 
but  few  of  his  parishioners  personally,  was  a  young  man,  and  enjoyed 
the  dancing  as  much  as  anybody.  Next  to  them  stood  young  Mr. 
Grame  and  Selina  Cleeve,  by  far  the  handsomest  couple  in  the  room. 
Mrs.  Sterling  sat  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  looking  pale  and  delicate, 
and  by  her  side  sat  the  new  vicar's  mother,  who  had  come  to  Layton  to 
keep  house  for  him.  The  farmer,  as  he  had  threatened,  was  in  the 
kitchen,  smoking  his  pipe,  a  knot  of  elderly  friends  round  him,  doing  the 
like,  and  discussing  the  state  of  the  markets,  but  as  they  were  all  in  full 
dress,  the  farmer  included  (blue  frock-coats,  drab  breeches  and  gaiters, 
and  crimson  neckties),  their  presence  in  the  ball-room  might  with  cer- 
tainty be  looked  for  by-and-by. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  John  Ledbitter  entered.  Some  of  the  young 
farmers  nudged  each  other.  "  He's  come  to  take  the  shine  out  o' 
Grame,"  they  whispered.  He  did  take  the  shine  out  of  him ;  for  though 
young  Grame  could  boast  of  his  good  looks  and  fine  figure,  he  was  not 
half  so  popular  as  John  Ledbitter.  He  made  his  way  at  once  to  Mrs. 
Sterling,  and  spoke  with  her  a  little  while.  He  had  a  pleasant  voice, 
and  the  accent  and  address  of  a  gentleman.  Mrs.  Cooper,  the  clergy- 
man's mother,  looked  after  him  as  he  moved  away  to  take  his  place  in  the 
dance.     She  inquired  who  he  was. 

"  Mr.  John  Ledbitter,"  said  Anne  Sterling. 

"  I  thought — dear  me,  what  an  extraordinary  likeness,"  uttered  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Cooper,  following  John  with  all  his  eyes — "  how  like  that 
gentleman  is  to  the  man  who  drives  the  mail-cart.  I  was  noticing  the 
man  this  morning  as  he  drove  into  Layton,  he  appeared  to  manage  his 
horse  so  skilfully." 

"  John  Ledbitter  is  the  driver  of  the  mail-cart,"  interposed  Mr.  Walter 
Grame,  drawing  himself  up. 

"  I  must  explain  it  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Sterling,  noting  the  perplexed 
look  of  the  clergyman.  "  Old  Mr.  Ledbitter,  John's  father,  was  an 
auctioneer  and  land  agent  in  Higham.  He  had  the  best  business  con- 
nexion in  all  the  country,  but  his  large  family  kept  his  profits  down,  for 
he  reared  them  expensively  and  never  laid  by.  So  that  when  he  died 
they  had  to  shift  for  themselves.  John,  this  one,  who  was  the  third  son, 
had  been  brought  up  an  agriculturist,  and  obtained  a  post  as  overlooker 
and  manager  to  the  estate  of  a  gentleman  who  was  then  abroad.     How- 

May — vol.  cvh.  no.  ccccxxv.  c 


16  The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery. 

ever,  the  owner  was  embarrassed,  the  property  got  sold,  and  John  lost 
his  situation.     This  was — how  long  ago,  Anne  ?" 
"  About  four  months,  mother." 

"  Yes ;  and  he  had  held  it  about  three  years.  Well,  poor  John  could 
get  into  nothing ;  one  promised  him  something,  and  another  promised 
him  something,  but  no  place  seemed  to  drop  in.  One  day  he  had  come 
over  to  see  Sir  Geoffrey  Adams  on  business  for  his  two  brothers  in 
Highara,  who  are  the  auctioneers  now,  and  was  standing  by  the  post- 
office  here,  when  the  driver  of  the  mail-cart  fell  down  in  a  fit,  just  as  he 
was  about  to  start,  and  died.  There  was  nobody  to  drive  the  cart  back 
to  Higham ;  the  afternoon  was  flying  on,  and  the  chances  were  that  the 
Layton  and  Weirford  letters  would  lose  the  post.  So  John  Ledbitter 
said  he  would  drive  it,  and  he  did  so,  and  got  the  bags  to  Higham  in 
time." 

li  He  drove  to  and  fro  the  next  day,  and  for  several  days,"  interposed 
Mr.  Walter  Grame,  who  had  appeared  anxious  to  speak,  "  nobody  turning 
up,  at  the  pinch,  to  whom  we  chose  to  entrust  the  bags.  So  my  father, 
in  a  joke,  told  Ledbitter  he  had  better  keep  the  place,  and  by  Jupiter! 
if  he  didn't  nail  it.  The  chaffing's  not  over  in  Higham  yet  Ledbitter 
can't  walk  through  the  streets  but  he  gets  in  for  it.  And  serve  him 
right.  The  fellow  can  expect  nothing  else  if  he  chooses  to  degrade  him- 
self to  the  level  of  a  mail-cart  driver." 

"  It  is  not  the  pay  he  does  it  for,  which  is  trifling,  but  he  argues  that 
idleness  is  the  root  of  mischief,  and  this  daily  occupation  keeps  him  out 
of  both,"  said  Anne  Sterling,  looking  at  Mr.  Walter  Grame.  "He 
has  only  taken  it  as  a  temporary  thing,  while  seeking  for  something 
better.,, 

"  Ledbitter's  one  in  a  thousand,"  exclaimed  the  bluff  voice  of  Farmer 
Blount,  a  keen-looking  young  man,  who  had  just  come  up  from  the  card- 
room,  "  and  there  ain't  one  in  a  thousand  that  would  have  had  die  moral 
courage  to  defy  pride  and  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  as  he  has  done. 
Ain't  it  more  to  his  credit  to  take  up  with  this  honest  employment,  and 
live  on  the  pay  while  he's  waiting  for  a  place  to  drop  from  the  clouds, 
than  to  skulk  idle  about  Higham,  and  sponge  upon  his  brothers  ?  You 
dandy  town  bucks  may  turn  up  your  noses  at  him  for  it,  Master  Grame, 
but  he  has  showed  hisself  a  downright  sensible  man.  What  do  you 
think,  sir  ?"  added  the  speaker,  abruptly  addressing  the  clergyman. 

"  It  certainly  appears  to  me  that  this  young  Mr.  Ledbitter  is  to  be 
commended,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  see  no  reflection  that  can  be  cast  upon 
him  for  driving  the  mail-cart  while  he  waits  for  something  more  suitable 
to  his  sphere  of  life."  And  Anne  Sterling's  cheeks  coloured  with  plea- 
sure as  she  heard  the  words.  She  knew  die  worth  of  John  Ledbitter : 
perhaps  too  well. 

u  He'll  get  on  fast,"  cried  Farmer  Blount;  "these  steady-minded 
ehaps  are  safe  to  rise  in  the  world.  In  twenty  years'  time  from  this,  if 
John  Ledbitter  has  not  won  hisself  a  home  and  twenty  thousand  pound 
it'll  surprise  me." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  this  opinion  from  you,  Mr.  Blount,  for  I  think 
you  are  capable  of  judging,"  observed  Mrs.  Sterling.  "  People  tell  me 
there  is  an  attachment  between  John  Ledbitter  and  my  niece,  so  that  we 


The  Mail- Cart  Bobbery.  17 

— if  it  15  to  come  to  anything — should  naturally  be  interested  in  hi* 
getting  on." 

"  I  hope  that  is  quite  a  mistaken  idea,  ma'am,  and  I  think  it  is,"  fired 
Mr.  Walter  Grame.     "  You  would  never  suffer  Miss  Cleeve  to  throw 

herself  away  on  him !     There  are  others " 

Mrs.  Sterling  made  a  movement  for  silence,  for  the  quadrille  was  over, 
and  the  two  parties  in  question  were  approaching.  Selina  seated  her- 
self by  her  aunt,  and  the  clergyman  entered  into  conversation  with  Mr. 
Ledbitter.     Presently  the  music  struck  up  again. 

"  It  is  my  turn  now,  Selina,"  whispered  Walter  Grame. 
She  shook  her  head  in  an  unconcerned  manner,  as  she  toyed  with  a 
spray  of  heliotrope.     "  I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Ledbitter." 

"  That  is  too  bad,"  retorted  Walter  Grame,  resentfully.  "  You  danced 
with  him  the  last  dance." 

"And  have  promised  him  for  this.  How  unreasonable  you  are, 
Mr.  Walter!  I  have  danced  with  you — let  me  think — three  times 
already." 

Mr.  Ledbitter  turned  from  the  vicar,  and,  without  speaking*  took 
Selina's  hand,  and  placed  it  within  his  arm.  But  after  they  moved  away, 
he  leaned  down  to  whisper  to  her.  There  was  evidently  perfect  con- 
fidence between  them. 

"  I  think  it  is  so — that  they  are  attached,"  remarked  Mrs.  Cooper, 
who  was  watching  them.  "  1  hope  their  prospects  will— Ob,  goodness  ! 
my  best  black  sift  gown !" 

"  It  will  not  hurt,  it  is  only  white  wine  negus.  Anne,  get  a  cloth. 
Call  Molly,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Sterling.  For  Mr.  Walter  Grame's  refresh- 
ment glass  and  its  contents  had  fallen  from  his  hand  on  to  Mrs.  Cooper's 
dress,  as  it  lay  on  the  door.  Anne  said  nothing  then  or  afterwards,  but 
her  impression  was  that  it  was  thrown  down,  and  in  passion.  The  glass 
lay  in  shivers. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Higham  great  market  was  held,  the  first  in  the 
new  year.  Amongst  other  farmers  who  attended  it  was  Mr.  Sterling. 
About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  his  business  was  over,  he 
went  into  the  post-office.  Mr.  Grame  and  his  son  were  both  there,  the 
latter  sitting  down  and  reading  a  newspaper.     It  was  not  a  busy  hour. 

"  Good   day,  Mr.  Grame,"   said  the  farmer.     "  Good-day,   Master 
Walter.     I  have  come  about  that  letter.     I  do  think  it  must  be  lost.     It 
never  was  so  late  before,  that  I  recollect." 
"  What  letter  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Grame. 

"  Why,  that  letter — with  my  fifty  pound  in  it.  I  don't  expect  any 
other.     You  are  sure  you  have  not  overlooked  i£  ?" 

(<The  letter!  It  went  to  Lay  ton  days  ago,"  responded  Mr.  Grame. 
"  Have  you  not  received  it  ?" 

Farmer  Sterling's  eyes  opened  wide  with  perplexity,  and  his  mouth 
also.  "Went  to  Layton  days  ago!"  he  uttered,  at  length,  "  where  is  it, 
tben?" 

"  If  you  have  not  had  it,  there  must  be  some  mismanagement  at  the 
Layton  office.     But  such  neglect  is  unusual  with  Mr.  Marsh." 
..    "  Good  a  mercy!     I  hope  it  has  never  been  stole." 

"  Which  morning  was  it  the  letter  came,  Walter  ?"  cried  Mr.  Grame, 
appealing  to  his  son.     "  Oh— I  remember — the  day  you  and  the  girls 

c2 


1 8  The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery. 

were  going  6ver.     It  was  the  very  niornmg1  of  your  wife*s  ball,  Mr. 


^  .''The  morning  afore1,  or  ^he  morning  after?'  asked  the  bewildered 
farmer.'  ...... 

,/  "  The. same  morning,  the  6th  of  January.     When"' Walter  and  the 
|wo  girls  went  over  to  the  evening.''     ■.•««■•■.••■     -,\ ..  i ,••.  ■  ,r 

''!  ,"  Now  why  ditfirftyou  teA  mfc  it  was  come";  Mr.  Wklte^?""  expostulated 
fee  farmer.      '.''    '"' '    ]    y"      >  ••  '  -  '-"-^    ■■^..:, .    •  ••>,■..•>  ;  ..-..     .  ...,:, 

tf  I  never  thought  of  it,"  replied  the  yotmg  man.  "And  if  I  had 
thought  of  it,  it  would  only  have  been  to  suppose  yotthdd  «tecetveditl 
Tou  ought  to  have  had  it 'that  afternoon,  ,Ha)dfy61i,ftha^petied' to  men* 
tion  it,  I  could  have  told  you  it  was  come/*''1    •  ,:      ■ i ;  l '■•  ':"r    ■  "  *■    '  { *«• 

"  Now  look  at  that  !"  groaned  the  farmed-'  k'*tfhWJ*itKthe  kick-up 
that  night,  the  smoking,  and  the  eating  and  the  Britiking^' IVn  blest  if  I 
didn't  cast  care  to  the  winds,  and  the  It  lutfiikv&'cifttie  $nto  my  head  it 
all-     Are  you  nuite  sure,  Mr.  Grame,  thatfit ,ws»Jthfe?vety  fetter  P'       -m 

"  I  am  sure  that  it  was  a  letter  addressed  to^o^fchd  thatitdwn* 
from  London.  I  made  the  remark  to  Walter  thttt'ydu*  letter  was  com* 
at  last     I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  it  wtfs  theletferV** '    ' :      •■■'& 

"  And  you  sent  it  on  to  Layton  P        a",!   ooinKjjyi    ,'m.p    ., .,,, ...  i  .J 

"  Of  course  I  did."  ♦"    \'*iAo[ 

"But  Anne  called  in  at  the  posUyffi^^sl^dtfjr} Y«nfloId- "Marsh 
assured  her  there  warn't  nothing  o1  the  sbr'ita^ritve^'ft#»i»eJ^/'  •'   *'     noo 

"I  put  it  into  the  Lav  ton  bag  myself; &n&%e^S&  'it  myself^a^I 
always  do,"  returned  Mr.  Cram e,  "and  t^'b^Wa^ftever' oiit?  of  m^ 
'hands  till  I  delivered  it  to  John  Ledbitt&J l  Mi  s*eW>was  present  abd 
saw  me  put  it  in."    3  )d  ^----rvh  »:>'   t.,t    :.,..  ,.0r.i 

H  I  did/'  said  Walter,  "  When  my  father  exclaimed  that  your  letter 
was  come  at  last,  Mr.  Sterling,  I  looked  oyerT!nV,s6dfild$r!atl1»e'addriess, 
and  I  saw  him  drop  it  into  the  bag.  The'ynlust^havfe  overlooked  it  tot 
the  Layton  office.*  f'v'  "•  "u      •»*?••' y»:         •       »vo 

"  Old  Marsh  is  such  a  careful  body,"  debktedl'tfee'iteritfar.-     '        •  •  'So 

"  Ue  is,"  assented  Mr.  Granie.  '**  I  don^suj^osrife  ever  Overlooked 
a  letter  in  his  life.  Still  such  a  thing  inaV  bctttrl  "€fc  to  the  ofiioe*& 
soon  as  you  return,  Mr.  Sterling,  and  t^flHhitt  "ftdih  me*  that T  the  kttW 
went  on  to  Layton."  r" :  l  '*    i':    "'"''  /      !  •   .   /o 

"  It's  a  jolly  vexations  thing  to  have  all  thisfcothefc  If  that  501.  noie$ 
gone,  its  my  loss,.  rSeJina's  father  never  wanted1  lo'Seno1  ?em  through 
the  post-office,  but  I  told  him  Tdrrin  «ie,Ws,k.,,>     ''    f  !    : 

And  perhaps  here  lav  the  secret  of  Parmer1  Sterlings  anxiety  aboot 
the  sa/e  arrival  of  these  letters— because  he  knew  that  the  money's  being 
'forwarded  in  this  wayi  was  in  defiance 'of  the  opniiott  *f  every btidyV    x 

The  letter  never  reached  Layton — so  old  Mr.  Marsh  affirmed,  when 
'mtMf'^'b7tfae''fiufofer:  :  He' remembered*  perfeetly4he'  6th^why  it 
was  not  a  week  ago— the  day  he  told  Ledbitteifof  the  accident  to 'die 
jfyty  mare.  No  soul  but  himself  touched  the  letters ;  nobody  was  presedt 
tnat  day  when  he  opened  the  nag,  and  he  could  swear  that  the  letter  for 
Farmer  Sterling  was  not  in, it,  Mr.  Marsh's  word  was  a  guarantee  in 
Itself,;  he  had  held  the situation  two'  score  years,  arid  was  J^rfecfcljK  trust- 
worthy.        '. '"'  ;!  '   ; "'     •  '  •'      ••  ''  '•  ;'       ■        '  -'•? 

"'*'  So  the  suspicion  fell  Upoii  John  liedtttter'.''   IndeeoVit  inay  n6t  be  too 


The  Mail-Cart  Robbery.  19 

much  to  say  that  the  guilt  was  traced  home  to  him.  The  postmasters 
of  Higham  and  Layton  were  known,  tried  public  servants,  above  all  sus- 
picion :  the  one  had  put  the  letter  in,  ana  secured  the  bag ;  the  other, 
when  he  opened  the  bag,  found  the  letter  gone  ;  and  none  could  or  did 
have  access  to  the  bag  between  those  times  but  John  Ledbitter.  He 
was  dismissed  from  his  situation  as  driver,  but,  strange  to  say,  he  was  not 
brought  to  trial.  Farmer  Sterling  declined  to  prosecute— he  warn't  a 
going  into  a  court  o'  justice  after  keeping  out  of  'em  all  his  life,  not  he 
— and  no  instructions  were  received  on  the  subject  from  the  government; 
but  John  Ledbitter's  guilt  was  as  surely  brought  home  to  him  as  it  could 
have  been  by  twelve  jurymen.  Of  course  he  protested  his  innocence — 
what  man,  under  a  similar  accusation,  does  not  ? — but  his  crime  was  too 
palpable.  Neither  the  letter  nor  its  enclosure  could  be  traced.  Mr. 
Cleeve  furnished  the  particulars  of  the  lost  note,  and  it  was  stopped  at 
the  London  and  country  banks,  handbills  describing  it  were  also  hung 
up  in  the  different  public-houses :  but  it  was  not  presented  for  payment, 
and  was  never  heard  of.  "  Saucy  Sir  must  have  eat  it  up  with  his  hay," 
quoth  the  joking  farmers  of  Layton,  one  to  another :  but  if  they  acci- 
dentally met  the  gentleman-driver— as  they  were  wont  to  style  John 
Ledbitter — they  regarded  him  with  an  aspect  very  different  from  a 
joking  one. 

John  Ledbitter  never  entered  Mr.  Sterling's  house  but  once,  after  the 
committal  of  the  crime,  and  that  was  to  resign  Selina  Cleeve ;  to  release 
her  from  the  tacit  engagement  which  existed  between  them.  However, 
he  found  there  was  little  necessity  for  his  doing  it :  Selina  released  her- 
self. He  arrived  at  the  Hill  House  for  this  purpose  at  an  inopportune 
moment,  for  his  rival — as  he  certainly  aspired  to  be — was  there  before 
him. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  when  the  farmer  and  his  family  got  home  from 
church  in  the  morning,  they  found  Walter  Grame  there,  who  had  ridden 
over  from  Higham.  He  received  an  invitation  to  remain  and  partake 
of  their  roast  griskin  and  apple-pie.  Pig-meat,  fed  at  Farmer  Sterling's, 
was  not  to  be  despised,  neither  was  apple-pie,  made  by  Anne.  After 
dinner,  the  farmer  took  his  pipe,  his  wife  lay  back  in  her  cushioned 
arm-chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire,  and  while  Anne  presided 
over  the  wine — cowslip  and  port,  a  bottle  of  the  latter  decanted  in  com- 
pliment to  their  guest — he  watched  Selina  Cleeve.  The  conversation 
turned  upon  John  Ledbitter  and  his  crime. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  he  could  have  accomplished  it,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Sterling,  "  unless  he  stopped  the  mail-cart,  and  undid  the  bag  in  the 
road." 

"  Well,  what  was  there  to  prevent  him  doing  so  ?"  responded  the 
farmer. 

"  But  such  a  deliberate  theft,"  repeated  Mrs.  Sterling.  "  I  can  under- 
stand—at least,  I  think  I  can— being  overtaken  by  a  moment  of  tempta- 
tion, but  a  man  who  could  stop  his  horse  in  a  public  road,  unlock  the  box, 
and  untie  the  bag  for  the  purpose  of  robbing  it,  must  be  one  who  would 
stand  at  no  crime  of  a  similar  nature." 

"  Why  that's  just  what  I  told  him,"  cried  the  farmer,  "when  he  come 
to  me  at  Higham,  a  wanting  to  excuse  himself,  and  make  believe  he  was 
innocent     *  What's  gone  with  the  letter  and  the  money,'  I  said,  i  if  you 


$0  The  Mail-Cart  Robbery. 

hwve  not  got  it  ?'     And  that  shut  up  his  mouth ;  for  all  he  could  bring' 
out  was,  that  he  wished  he  knew  what  had  gone  with  it." 

**Ab,"  broke  in  Walter  Grame,  "Ledbitter  went  down  amazingly 
'with  some  folks,  but  I  scented  the  rascal  in  him.  And  Higham  never 
noticed,  till  bow,  the  singularity  of  his  having  taken-  to  drive  a  mail- 
cart." 

The  farmer  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips.     a  As  how,  Master  Walter  ?" 
"  Did  any  one  ever  before  hear  of  a  gentleman— as  Ledbitter  may  be 
termed — accepting  a  menial  office,  only  suited  to  a  postboy,  under  the 
plea  of  keeping  himself  from  idleness  ?     Trash  I    It  is  the  opinion  in 
Higham  that  die  robbery  was  planned  when  ho  took  the  place." 

"  What,  to  crib  that  same  identical  letter  of  mine  ?"  gasped  the 
former,  laying  his  pipe  on  his  knee,  while  a  startled  look  of  dismay  rose 
to  Anne  Sterling's  face. 

•'Not  yours  in  particular,  Mr.  Sterling.  But  probably  yours  hap- 
pened to  be  the  first  letter  that  presented  itself  to  my  gentleman,  as 
bearing  an  enclosure  worth  the  risk." 

"  The  villain !  the  double-faced  rascal !"  uttered  the  farmer.  "  That's 
putting  the  matter — and  him  too— in  a  new  light." 

At  that  moment  Molly  entered  the  room  with  some  silver  spoons,  large 
and  small,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

"  It's  him,"  she  abruptly  said,  coming  up  to  the  table,  with  a  face  of 
terror.     "  He  says  he  wants  to  see  Miss  Selina." 
"  Who  ?"  demanded  everybody,  in  a  breath. 

"  That  dreadful  Ledbitter.  He  come  a  sneaking  in  at  the  kitchen 
door :  not  the  front  way,  or  you'd  have  seen  him  from  this  winder,  but 
right  across  the  fold-yard.  I  was  took  all  of  a  heap,  and  axed  if  he'd 
walk  into  the  parlour,  for  I  was  afeard  on  him.  '  No,'  says  he,  '  I'll  not 
go  in.     Is  Miss  Cleeve  there  ?' 

"  *  Yes,  she  is,'  I  said,  *  and  missis,  and  Miss  Anne,  and  master,  and 
Mr.  Walter  Grame ;  and  Joan's  close  at  hand,  a  skimming  the  cream.' 
For  I  thought  he  should  know  as  I  warn't  alone  in  the  place,  if  he  should 
be  come  to  take  anything. 

** « Molly,'  says  he,  quite  humbly,  '  go  in  and  ask  Miss  Cleeve  if  she 
will  step  out  and  speak  a  word  with  me.'     So  I  grabbed  up  the  spoons, 
which,  by  ill-luck,  was  a  lying  on  die  table,  and  away  I  come." 
Miss  Cleeve  rose  from  her  chair. 
"  Selina !"  said  Mrs.  Sterling,  in  a  reproving  tone. 
u  Aunt,"  was  her  rejoinder,  "  I  have  afco  a  word  to  say  to  him." 
"  But  my  dear !     Well,  well,  just  for  a  minute,  if  you  must.     But 
remember,  Selina,  we  cannot  again  admit  Mr.  Ledbitter  to  the  house." 
"  I'd  as  lieve  admit  the  public  hangman,"  roared  out  the  farmer. 
Scarcely  had  Selina  Cleeve  left  the  room,  when  Walter  Grame  darted 
after  her.     He  drew  her,  with  the  hand  of  authority,  it  seemed,  into  the 
best  parlour,  the  door  of  which,  adjacent  to  their  sitting-room,  stood 
open. 

"  Miss  Cleeve  !  Selina !  you  will  never  accord  an  interview  to  this 
man  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.     "  For  the  last  time." 

"  Good  Heavens,  what  infatuation !     Don't  you  believe  in  his  guilt  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible  to  disbelieve  it,"  she  murmured,  looking  wretchedly 


The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery.  2 1 

ill,  and  also  wretchedly  cross.  "  But  upon  the  terms  we  were,  a  last 
interview,  a  final  understanding,  is  necessary." 

"  What  terms  ?"  he  savagely  uttered.  "  It  cannot  he  that  you  were 
engaged  to  him  ]" 

"  Not  engaged.     But " 

"  But  what  ?     Trust  me  as  a  friend,  Selina." 

"  Had  it  not  been  for  this,  had  Ledbitter  remained  what  he  ought,  we 
should  have  been." 

"  I  am  grieved  to  hear  it.     It  is  a  lucky  escape  for  you." 

"  Oh  and  it  is  this  which  makes  me  so  angry,"  she  bitterly  exclaimed. 
"  Why  did  he  monopolise  my  society,  seek  to  make  me  like  him,  when  he 
knew  himself  to  be  a  base,  bad  man.  I,  who  might  have  chosen  from  all 
the  world !  Let  me  go,  Mr.  Grame  :  I  shall  be  more  myself  when  this 
is  over." 

"  You  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  him,  bow,  but  what  may  he  said 
through  a  third  party,"  he  persisted,  still  holding  her.  "  Suffer  me  to  see 
him  for  you." 

"  Nonsense,"  she  peevishly  answered.  "  You  cannot  say  what  I  have 
to  say." 

She  broke  from  him,  and  walked,  with  a  hasty  step,  along  the  passage. 
He  did  not  dare  to  follow  her,  but,  to  judge  by  his  looks,  he  would  have 
liked  it,  and  to  have  boxed  her  ears  as  well.  The  two  servants  were 
whispering  in  the  kitchen,  but  Selina  could  see  no  signs  of  Mr.  Ledbitter. 
Holly  pointed  with  her  finger  towards  the  door  of  the  best  kitchen,  and 
Selina  went  in. 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  cold,  comfortless  room,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  entrance,  as  if  waiting  for  her,  was  John  Ledbitter.  She  walked  up, 
and  confronted  him  without  speaking,  her  action  and  countenance  ex- 
pressing both  anger  and  scorn. 

"  I  see,"  began  Mr.  Ledbitter,  as  he  looked  at  her.  "  I  need  not  have 
come  from  Higham  to  do  my  errand  this  afternoon.  It  has  been  done 
for  me." 

"  I  feel  it  cold  in  this  room,"  said  Selina,  glancing  round,  and  striving, 
pretty  successfully,  to  hide  the  agitation  she  really  felt  under  a  show  of 
indifference.  "  Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  your  business — that  I  may 
return  to  the  fire." 

"My  business  was,  partly  to  see  how  this  accusation  had  affected 
you  towards  me :  I  see  it  too  plainly  now.     Had  it  been  otherwise " 

He  stopped :  either  from  emotion,  or  from  a  loss  how  to  express  him- 
self.    But  she  stood  as  still  as  a  post,  and  did  not  help  him  on. 

"  Then  I  have  only  to  say  farewell,"  he  resumed,  "  and  to  thank  you 
for  the  many  happy  hours  we  have  spent  together.  I  came  to  say  some- 
thing else,  but  no  matter:  I  see  now  it  would  be  useless." 

"And  I  beg,"  she  said,  raising  herself  up,  "that  you  will  forget 
those  hours  you  speak  of,  and  which  I  shall  never  reflect  on  but  with  a 
sense  of  degradation.  I  blush — I  blush,"  she  vehemently  repeated,  "  to 
think  that  the  world  may  point  to  me,  as  I  pass  through  the  streets,  and 
say,  '  There  goes  she  who  was  engaged  to  the  felon,  John  Ledbitter !'  I 
pray  that  I  may  never  see  your  face  again." 

"  You  never  shall — by  my  seeking.  Should  I  ever  hold  converse  with 
you  again,  willingly,. it  will  be  under  different  auspices." 


22  The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery. 

He  quitted  the  room,  stalked  through  the  kitchen,  and  across  the 
fold -yard  into  the  side-lane*  his  breast  heaving  with  passionate  anger, 
for  she  had  aroused  all  the  lion  within  him.  Molly  and  the  dairymaid 
pressed  their  noses  against  the  kitchen  window,  and  stared  after  him  till 
he  was  heyond  view,  like  they  might  have  sf ared  had  some  extraordi- 
nary foreign  animal  been  on  exhibition  there,  and  with  quite  as  much 
curiosity.  Whilst  Selina  Cleeve,  repelling  some  softer  e i notion^  which 
seemed  inclined  to  make  themselves  felt  within  her,  strove  to  shake- John 
Led  bitter  out  of  her  thoughts,  and  to  say  to  herself,  as  she,  returned  to 
'..  Jhe  sitjting-rppnxj  t^at  she  ^acLala^eu  hjavqut  of  them  forrewf. ,  . ; 

7      The  years  passed  on,  nearly  t'.vo,  and  the  postmaster  at  Highgrn  was 
' jjtncken  wi^h  mortal  illness.     His  disease  was-  a  lingering  one^,  lasting 
over  several  months,  during  which  he  was  confined  to  his  bed,  f ao4J$s 
sjm  managed  the  business*     One  evening,  just  before  1  jIs  deatlfof  falter 
r  was  sitting in  the  room,  when  the  old  man  suddenly  addressed  bum,  ,{ v 
'-•.   "y*,?^!??"  **e  Sa*^>      t  WW  BQOU   D®   gone,  and   after  that  4ihfty,<W|ll 
*  make  you  postmaster.     Be  steady,  punctual,  diligent  in  your  dftily5J|u8i- 
ness,  as  I  trust  I  have  been ;  be  just  and  merciful  in  your  dealings  with 
your  fellow-men,  as  I  have  striven  to  be  ;  be  more  urgent  than  I  have 
ever  been  in  serving  your  Maker;  tot  there  the  very  best  of  us  fall  short. 
,,¥au  ha\v$  tee^^  in 

'/return* jour  chU^ren^in/yo^-  old agev,ina£ ^e  s^fyjtayou*"  ,„.h  w^3 
vi.  ^  Walter  M^  !,.,,-,., .y.A  <:■•«-  ,h.^,.m»3 

"  There1  Is  one  only  thing  in  business  matters  tyhich  causes  mei  segfret 

5>r t%pas^"  r^s^mejd^,  }Gi;awi7T^"  tflatr  tb^^ajrtierilatsicondeoted  with 
ohn  Ledbitter's  theft  should  neyear(hayet  potne,  to  il£ght>,.  «.J|;  is  a  weight 
.  pn  nyi  eopsc^ence,  having  ;8u$ered,  km  $o  *as^atne  ifc<posi  fofcwMcb  his 
:,pQsi^oi^,,un|itte^^^iro.  0fJf{  he  sojoghtJ^/i^th  tb*<  intention  of.  dtf&g 
wrong,  my  having  refused .feim  jtl^  ^ujB^ioa,  ^ould  have  i removed  the 
temptation  from  his  way,'?  .;,,[ //        [.   .(    !     .     ..      ;  .  /i    ^   n,  {    > 
"  You  **eed  apt  :worxy  ypuraelf .py#rr  suck .»  ictotehefc ;  as. t^at* 'father," 
5  responde4  t^yp^ofi^r01^*:!  <V^Mowibe:nt1u|)QOjei'i«iej>  as  Ledbitter 
,  must  have,  beep,  if  h$  idlest  npt  find* opportunity  k) ''one  way,  will:  seek: 5t 
Jn  another K    .  If  ^here's  anything  to  be  regretted  in  the  matter  it  i*  tie 
not  haying  bropg^Win:  t<9  punishment,':  fought  to  have  been  made 
stand  jus  trial;  and  ^espafctwd,  ojtfi  o£  the country-,  The  thing  would 
jiaye  beejn.done  wifcb  the%  and,hayei  gonie  ott£, of  menV  minds."  . 

"He  has  had  his  punishment," Replied :-Jfo.  Grame,     ?, Abandoned  by 
his  relations,  scorned  by  his  friends,  shunned  by  all  good  men,  audi  driven 
tp  get  feis.  living  in  the  fields,  as  a  day.  laboupeni    Mady  a i man:  would 
have  sunk  under, it."  ,    ,.  .....   ;.,.  ■      .,.<<    >.?,•  :•..     ,J   ■>>i«.--,  •.  •  '• 

'.' I  cannot  think  why  the ;  foo}  stops1  in  Highamshire.  ■  I£  he '  would .  .be 
off  to  a  distant  part,  whether  county  or  kingdom,  where  his '  crime  was 
unknown,  W might. get  up  in  the 5 world  again,'*,.,  ,  ■■  '  •  < -,i  •,-■"  •  -l 
,\  "No  harsh  names,) Waltier,"  interrupted  the  father;  P John Ledbitter 
did  not  offend  against  you.  Xeave  him  to  the  stings  of  his  own  -con- 
science."       ..:;.-•..        -,-t  ,  .■;■>:.:       •-,     :^4      ..-■•.  ,■„_:■■  ■!,*     \\\ 

Mr.  Walter  Grame  muttered  something  which  did  not  reach  the  sick- 


The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery.  23 

bed,  and  quitted  the  room.  It  was  irksome  to  him  to  remain  in  it  long. 
He  was-  absent  about  ah  hour,  and,  during  this  period,  Mr.  Grame 
dropped  asleep  and  dreamt  a  very  vivid  dream.  So  vivid,  that,  in  the 
first  moments  of( waking  up,  he  could  not  be  persuaded  but  it  was  reality. 
?Tbeeolourmg  his  thoughts  had  taken  was  no  doubt  imparted  by  the 
previous  conversation.  He  dreamt  that  John  Ledbittgr  was '  innocent : 
her  did  sotf  see  dr :  understand  how,  but  in  his  sleep  he  fqlt  the  most 
sofemneonviction  that  the- "fefct  was  so.     ••••■-•  ■»  "' 

>  Walter-  ^Waker,^  he  gaspfed  forth,  after  his  confused  relation  of  it, 
"  when  fc&  innocence1  h  brought  fought;  tlb  you  try  and  make  it  up  to 
him.     I  would,  if  I  were  alive." 

"  When  his  innocence — what  dp^you  mean,  sir?     You  must  be  asleep 
still.     A  dream  is  but  a  dream."  r 

taw  *>Welii^itcfen^  an  injured 

mte,;  ddyo&e'nfte&V'our  tR^  dom^ensate  him  for  the  injustice  that  has  been 

*tiea^bttjhfrh^  ;  j 


?!  t&lfl&i  !©1d  man-  is  waridernig,w  whiskered  Mr.  Walter  to  the  nurse, 
who^was  tfeetf ^reisetrt ^and  &%*&'  through  he*  that  this,  drean^.of  &e 
pbstmafetert1  gfdt1Jtaiked  ^f  in  ffignam,  though  not  for  long  afterwards. 
^Eet'^givdyoVVti^  .  ,         l   ,  l' 

n)i'H  *-yt'ili.'Hl'  l>.i  •-•  :lf.  i-iJ'n.)/i>  LjTjT  '•-.!.  ri  ,  i'V»i  •*/....'.  A  ■::<•■•■  i  -*  •' •  * 
ovisil  I  iiJuii-J  i.t-»vj:u  ..i.'iu  -.if  ,  .-'i  ii ■•  ' .-■■-  ■-..'  i  -^  .;•■■-'.■•;•  !  •  I 
.-jiOiU  iisii  iv  i  >  )c>d  ri.f  -)ii.i  :;v-.i:;  f  **•  i-J.;!'    ■■■     ;    .-..,■  <-•  :-•    l 

"  ,?A  CQOBL*  c^ttinany  Were  lending  thefr  Uray  to  Lay  t6n  cnurch,  for  ttie 
fairest  flower  inyLiyiott-  pdrfeh  was- that  day  to  be  taken  otit  of  it,  rA 
stranger,  who  happened  to  te'jiassliig  through ^^  liajrtdti,  stepped  jntp  the 
ctowcbwithOw  crowd.  yi  jt^-ij  =--.n«">i:.i  .-il-i';  /.-1-1--*  ,i:".;'  n-'  :/  . 
:ij i  ^4€ttie>is'tt^ha^som^'bi4de,t,|1ie  obs^Hed; io #  farh%  who  stood  in  $e 
;ijjo^,lo©kiftgiiii  ^  •- u\i  -  \  ■|,,,!-"-'    "'   •- 

iil  *<  Atyj  she  be  tfcat.  Some  of  <m*  younkers  hdve  beeff  mid  after  her 
utfekthreei  Oi»  four  year,  btit  Master  Grame  have  Walked  dfT  with  heir  at 
•«ksi  >  He  ain* t'bad-lookinj* neither,  for  a  hian."   '  -» 

"  Extremely  handsome,  I  think.     Who  is  he?"  ' 

Vi.  ^afh^jilstmastef  of  KHg&am;  as  hfe  father  was  afore  him.  The  old 
*HailI>dikl  a  year  agoy  and  left  a  goodish  bit  of  property  behind  him,  but 
:  it* turned  out  ^hat  Master  Waltet  there  had  anticipated  his  share,  and 
fa)wi  he  kept?  his  creditors  quiet  till  the  old  due  went  off,  was  a  matter  of 
<toa&6W."i  But  he  hs&  sow&A  his  ♦wild  dttts  now,  they  say,  and  unless  he  # 
tad*  I.  take  it  Miss- Ckeve  woiild  haVe  seen  hira  further  afore  she'd  mar-  * 
ried  him^  f  She's  well  off,  'for  her  father's  dead  also,  and  there's  fifteen 
hundred  pound  told  down  with1  her"  this  day ;?' 

v.     ^H^s  a  lucky  dog.'^  [ 

U-<«*ItV  sheer,' luck  with  him*  for  he  warh't  her  first  faney.  Young  LetU 
bitter  courted  her  at  one  time,  and  she  was  mighty  fond  of  him.  But 
he  tan  his  head  into- trouble — robbed  the  Layton  mail-bag.  Of  course, 
no  decent  y6ungi  woman ^could  stand  that,  though  he  slipped  out  of  a 
prosecution.  Since  then  he- has  been  starving  about  the  county,  thank- 
fol  to  aby  farmer  who  wotild  jjrm  him  a  day's  work.    He's  on  my  grounds 

HOW*?'/-'-       .'W      "•     '  '-:•• 

The  stranger  gave  a  low  whistle,  forgetting  he  was  in  the  porch  of  a 


24  The  Mail-  Cart  Robbery. 

church.  "  Is  it  not  hazardous  to  employ  a  thief,  even  as  an  oat-door 
labourer?* 

"  Well,  you  see,  the  Ledbtttess  was  so  much  respected  in  the  county, 
he  and  all,  till  this  came  to  light,  so  that  folks  can't  help  feeling*  for  him, 
for  the  sake  o'  the  family.  There  never  was  a  breath  known  again  him 
afore,  and  nothing  has  come  out  again  him  since:  a  likelier,  steadier 
fellow  than  he  was,  I'd  never  wish  to  set  eyes  on.  But,  law  bless?  ye, 
sir,  he  have  got  his  treadmill  upon  him,  if  any  one  ever  had,  for  there 
ain't  a  mad  dog  in  the  parish  as  is  shied  at  more  than  he." 

The  stranger  nudged  the  speaker,  for  the  bridal  party  were  returning 
from  the  altar.  Mr.  Walter  Grame  and  his  bride,  no  longer  Selina 
Cleeve,  walked  first,  next  came  Anne  Sterling  with  her  father,  and 
several  friends  followed.  The  two  young  ladies  were  dressed  alike,  in 
lavender  silk,  the  bride  wearing  orange-blossoms  in  her  white  bonnet ; 
Anne,  lilies  of  the  valley.  They  brushed  the  stranger  as  they  walked 
through  the  porch,  so  that  he — to  use  his  own  expression— had  a  good 
stare  at  them. 

"  She's  a  regular  beauty,"  he  remarked  to  Farmer  Blount,  "  but  for 
my  choice  give  me  the  one  that  follows  her,  the  bridesmaid.  The  first 
has  got  a  temper  of  her  own,  or  I  never  read  an  eye  yet ;  the  last  has 
goodness  written  on  her  face."  Farmer  Blount  grunted  forth  an  in- 
audible reply.  None  were  more  aware  of  Anne  Sterling's  goodness  than 
he :  he  had  proposed  to  her  in  secret  the  night  of  the  ball,  three  years 
before,  and  she  had  refused  him. 

But  another  person  was  also  looking  on  the  bridal  party ;  a  man  in  a 
smock-frock;  looking  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  from  an  obscure 
corner  of  the  churchyard.  It  was  John  Ledbitter.  Oh,  what  a  position 
was  this  unfortunate  man's !  Guilt  does,  indeed,  bring  its  own  punish- 
ment— as  all  Layton,  and  Higham  too,  had  repeated,  with  reference  to 
him,  hundreds  of  times.  Hunted  down  by  his  own  class  in  life,  con- 
demned to  labour  for  common  sustenance  with  the  hinds  who  tilled  the 
ground — for  in  any  more  responsible  situation,  in  an  office,  or  where 
money  would  have  passed  through  his  hands,  none  would  trust  him — 
there  he  stood,  a  marked  man,  watching  her,  whom  he  had  once  so  pas- 
sionately loved,  led  forth,  the  bride  of  another.  A  bitter  curse  rose  in 
his"  heart  on  that  hour  when  he  had  first  ascended  the  mail-cart  to  drive 
it  to  Higham,  and  with  a  wild  cry,  which  startled  the  air,  and  seemed 
to  be  wrung  from  the  very  depths  of  his  spirits,  he  leaped  the  stile  at  the 
rear  of  the  churchyard,  and  rushed  back  to  his  labour  in  the  fields. 


(    26    ) 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  NEWSPAPER  PRESS. 
ST  AliBIAlTDEB  Ajtdbiws, 

▲UlSNtiS  -OV  TRJt  "  ttUHTEKNTll  GKRTUBY." 

I. 

INTBODUCTION. 

From  a  miserable  sheet  of  flimsy  paper,  blotted  with  coarse  letter- 
press, describing  some  fabulous  event  or  retailing  some  more  than 
doubtful  story  :  or,  now  a  mass  of  slavish  panegyric,  now  of  violent  and 
undiscrhninalang  abuse,  issued  stealthily,  read  under  the  breath,  circu- 
lated from  hand  to  hand  unseen,  we  all  know  that  our  modern  news- 
papers have  sprung.  But  the  change  has  been  the  work  of  more  than 
two  centuries.  Dependent  as  it  was  on  the  progress  of  public  enlighten- 
ment, of  government  liberality,  of  general  liberty  and  knowledge ; 
checked  by  the  indifference  of  a  people  or  the  caprices  of  a  party ;  sup- 
pressed by  a  king,  persecuted  by  a  parliament,  harassed  by  a  licenser, 
burnt  by  a  hangman,  and  trampled  by  a  mob,  the  newspaper  has  been 
slow  in  climbing  to  its  present  height.  It  surely  must  be  worth  while 
to  glance  back  at  the  marks  it  has  left  in  its  steady  though  gradual 
ascent :  to  review  the  growth  of  the  Giant  which  now  awes  potentates, 
and  it  may  scarcely  be  too  much  to  say,'  rules  the  destinies  of  the  world. 
May  we  not  linger  with  advantage  over  the  history  of  the  struggles  of 
its  birth,  the  convulsions  of  its  infancy  ?  Or  do  we  owe  so  little  to  our 
free  press — at  once  our  censor  and  our  champion — that  these  matters 
are  of  no  moment  to  us  ?  Of  no  moment  may  they  be  to  the  merchant 
who  makes  use  of  the  daily  sheet  to  guide  him  in  his  purchases  or  sales, 
to  the  fashionable  lady  who  consults  it  for  the  latest  scandal  of  Belgravia, 
to  the  shopkeeper  who  advertises  his  wares,  or  the  honest  yeoman  who 
reads  it  for  the  sake  of  its  "  accidents  and  offences ;"  but  thinking  minds 
have  perhaps  wondered  why  the  scattered  facts  which  are  known  of  its 
early  history  have  never  been  woven  together,  and  heartily  wished  they 
had  been. 

Much  that  was  before  known,  and  many  facts  which  lay  hidden  in  the 
depths  of  our  dark  and  unfathomable  public  records  in  their  dusty  and 
inaccessible  storehouses — apparently  kept  there  to  fill  the  stomachs  of 
rats  and  puzzle  the  brains  of  catalogue  makers — were  thrown  together 
by  the  late  Mr.  Knight  Hunt  in  his  "  Fourth  Estate."  We  say  "  thrown 
together,"  for  Mr.  Hunt  candidly  admits  that  he  had  had  but  few  oppor- 
tunities of  collecting  the  facts  necessary  for  a  history  of  journalism,  and 
therefore  modestly  calls  his  book  "  Contributions  towards  a  History  of 
Newspapers." 

This,  published  in  the  year  1850,  was  the  first  attempt  at  anything 
Kke  "  a  bringing  together,  in  a  distinct  and  tangible  form,  a  number  of 
previously  scattered  dates  and  passages  illustrative  of  the  history  of  the 
newspaper  press."  An  article  in  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,"  con- 
taining the  stereotyped  falsehood  as  to  its  first  appearance  in  England ; 
a  few  papers  in  Chambers9 s  Journal,  in  1834, — about  the  best  on  the  sub- 


26  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

ject ;  discursive  articles,  treating  more  of  the  importance  of  the  present 
than  the  history  of  the  past  newspaper,  in  the  Edinburgh  and  in  the 
British  and  Foreign  Quarterly  Review,  in  1837  ;  and  a  wretched 
pamphlet,  called  "  The  Periodical  Press  of  Great  Britain ;  or,  an  In- 
quiry into  the  State  of  the  Public  Journals,"  published  in  1809,  com- 
prised the  printed  history  of  the  English  newspaper,  although  incidental 
but  much  more  important  notices  of  it  occur  in  Nichols's  "  Literary 
Anecdotes,"  Chalmers's  "  Life  of  Ruddiman,"  Timperley's  "  Encyclo- 
paedia of  Literary  and  Typographical  Anecdote,"  and  a  Paper,  read  by 
Mr.  P.  L.  Simmonds  before  the  Statistical  Society  of  London.  "  The 
Public  Press"  and  "  News"  have  formed  the  subjects  of  several  popular 
lectures,  none  of  which  have  passed  into  print,  but  we  believe  the  most 
comprehensive  were  those  before  the  Salisbury  Mechanics'  Institute, 
delivered  in  1836,  by  J.  Hearn,  Esq.,  editor  of  the  Salisbury  and 
Wiltshire  Herald;  before  the  Marylebone  Literary  and  Scientific  Insti- 
tution (two  lectures),  July  27, 1840,  by  G.  F.  Richardson,  Esq.,  F.G.S. ; 
and  before  the  Leeds  Philosophical  Society,  January  2,  1855,  by  C. 
Kemplay,  Esq. 

Mr.  Hunt  might  therefore  well  feel  anxious  to  do  something  towards 
recording  the  history  of  a  profession  to  which  he  belonged,  and  such 
time  as  his  editorial  duties  and  his  health  allowed  he  devoted  to  this 
labour  of  love.  But  "  half-hours  that  could  be  filched  from  heavier 
duties,"  "  before,  or  between,  or  after,  real  work,"  will  not  suffice  to 
record  the  history  of  an  institution  so  vast ;  they  were  all  he  could  afford 
to  the  subject,  and  those  half-hours  he  has  well  employed. 

We  had  been  long  expecting  that  the  subject  would  be  taken  up,  and 
had  resolved  to  place  at  the  disposal  of  the  person  who  might  venture 
upon  it  a  collection  of  notes  and  particulars  which  had  occupied  us  some 
years  in  getting  together,  when  Mr.  Hunt  sent  his  two  volumes  into  the 
world.  At  once  perceiving  that  from  the  very  nature  of  the  work 
much  that  was  related  by  that  gentleman  would  have  to  be  repeated  in 
any  other  book  upon  the  same  subject,  we  had  consigned  our  gleanings 
to  oblivion,  till  a  recent  article  in  one  of  the  Reviews,  calling  for  further 
details  of  newspaper  history,  induced  us  to  polish  them  up  and  see  what 
we  could  make  of  them.  If  we  hope  to  contribute  a  few  facts  and  fill 
up  a  few  outlines,  to  trace  more  regularly,  and  perhaps  in  more  detail, 
the  ground  that  has  been  so  little  traversed,  we  shall  endeavour  to  avoid, 
as  far  as  we  can  do  it  without  injustice  to  our  subject,  the  wider  field 
which  Mr.  Hunt  has  taken  in  his  second  title,  "  The  Liberty  of  the 
Press,"  generally.  "  The  Newspaper"  is  our  text,  and  about  it  alone 
we  wish  to  write ;  Political  Pamphlets  at  one  time,  and  Philosophical 
Essays  at  another,  took  so  many  of  its  features,  that  we  shall  have  to 
touch  upon  them  both,  but  we  shall  have  done  with  them  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  return  to  our  subject  "  pure  and  simple." 

And  a  great  subject  it  is  !  of  which  men  of  all  opinions  have  agreed 
in  one :  that  "  its  liberties  and  the  liberties  of  the  people  must  stand  or 
fall  together,"  as  Hume  was  the  first  to  declare ;  of  which  Erskine 
said,  "  Its  freedom  has  alone  made  our  government  what  it  is,  and  can 
alone  preserve  it ;"  of  which  Burke  said  that,  "  a  part  of  the  reading  of 
all,  the  whole  of  the  reading  of  the  far  greater  number,  it  is  a  more 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  27 

important  instrument  than  is  geuerally  imagined."     "  It  is,"  thunders 
Junius'  (aini  heeharg'efc  us  to  instil  it  into  our  children's  minds)— -"  it  is 
th#pfdladi»ntef  allthe  civil,  political^  and  religious  rights  of  an  English^ 
mjfci!"     Thati ^ksftwledg*  lis  diffiised  am«Mi^  our  people  by  it,n  as 
Jphnsonempi^iidd  ;-]  that  Mitis  the.  jntftectdr  of  freedom*  a  watchful 
guardia*v  4apafcto.  o£.,umti»g  thet  weak  against  thai  encroachments  of 
P*JWe**"F  as  toldtoithn thought  ji  that^Ka*  secures  tiat  publicity  to  the 
adtoinisfratig^ofr  therkws^whfch  fiM  the  main  souree' i of  Its  purity  and 
^fci»,wia^;MantfWd 'observed;  that  M it  pervades  and  eie^ks,  aiu) 
prftfcaps,  iu  the,  last  resort^  rieariy  ^<wernk  the  -wJiole.  of  the  -government 
^:iJBnfl^Bdy,,r  a>  Canning  ^ech*edy*tfea*V  «4iwre1igh}  its  assistance,  a 
w^ole*riatio*&  MhVweeeJ  b^d6(amncU  aodjdeKbersJtesl^  as  Be  Lohne  hai 
W^ttfio  JFsuchj^ifwtet  has  been^  thought  eft  rthe-nelwspaper  press  by  great 
fend  lea«nfed\nienit^>rije  of  .whom  ^lad:hafid(leA roughly  to" o.-    i    <        i: 
-ii  A  {gf^t^rtge^t  indeed  i: .  !u  Give  me  tfot>  the>  liberty  of  the  ^>ress^ saM 
ghemdsti,  }^a*idl  ^illgiVe  i*  the  mit>ifeti*  5(jreca!  house  of  peers— I  will 
gKe^hiinr.&H&r^f^}*^  will  giro  htm  the 

full  sway  of  the  patronage  of  office — I  will  give  him  the;  wfcole  hpstef 
gfeinpstoriejUtfjlu^  confer 

tfppn  feim  t^wrchafee-.ttpiieubmiittion  and  overawe  ^/resistance,  and "yet; 
atotaedr^fcvtfts  iiber^/ofifth^'pcesa,  I  ^ill  go;fobth.4o«nteet  himmndisi 
a^di-rl  wlUlattaA  thfe  mighty&bric^has  reared  With  that  Tnigh tier 
eag*BSh?fI  ;twBlJI*h^  Mght'/coifrufitigny  >aud   bury  >  ft 

f^me^lJ^^M^^fa^tat  it  was  meant  tto  shelter*]"/; Sudh  >(who  can 
deny  it  ?)  is  the  ItrenJ^ndou1*  vpomiF;  of^the f  JHr&d  of  <tfte  present*  day. .«  Thd 
{>ic^ujrp/wafi|pei^a^ia>htlle*iOTerohai^&  afl.applipd  tonhs  influence  in7 'the 
tim.e:iOf  Skgridaniv  ,*(*-<.■  <>i  oib  '1o  i  *<;.-. <j~;f^-.i  I,   ji?   ^-w-./rt  ,r>   j,...j  ...  ...  ;.lW{ 

e r r>^ Ote^la  jowrrialisniyTi WiesfCairry  1«] ;  1 M is  not  ©Very  able ' editor  a  ruler 
ofiitbfrrworwj  being  a  "persuader!  fof  M?ff>«l^  It  ik  the  •newspaper" «ye 
R^eiiiiLjttc^j.iVvhyichr  gijiies  :to  tHhes^  jtsi  v|npac4ipai  life,  its  constant 
0p$erra^Qn,oil»  tperpet^  activity.  >'  It  is  the 

da%iari4  fleejttess.>iwatchmdni  /that  reports^  to  .^ouVeyery  dangetf  which 
TOflna^SrAe^iotttitu^ons/  df  y6nft  country,  >iairi.ite  interests  at  home  and 
ftbtaad*  ~:  lit ;; informs  I  legislation  of  public ;  opinioni,  and  it  informs  the 
pfctojfcle.of  th4  aetl  of  legislation.  ■:  thus  keeping  upithal  constant  sympathy* 
Aat  &ood  understanding :  between  people  and  legislators  which  conduces 
ft*  the  uaajtttenance  of  order,,  hnd  prevents  tiro  stern  necessity  for  revolu4 
tiou.":  •  [*Au  testimony 5  to  its  importance  is<  even  'wrung  from  the"  judges, 
who  sit  in  jfeajous  ^atchlubesa  of  its  fibeoce :  ^  I  au«iwilliri£  to'acknow* 
ledge,  jji  tbefmdst  ample  terms,  the  information,1  the  instruction,  and  the 
amueeBaentiid^riTed  from  the  public  pness>,?  sajrs  Lord  Lyndhurst; 
cautiojisty  ;f  but  Lord  Brougham  speaks' out  mdre  honestly :  **  There  is 
nothing  to  feary"  says  his  lordship,  ^trom  open  public  discussion— from 
that  press  which  enables  us  to  speajc  as  we  think"      «     '  L 

Hailam^coittea:  for  Ward  to  bear  a  less  equivocal  testimony  r  "For 
almost  all  that  keep*  up  in  us  permanently  and  effectually  the  spirit  ©f 
regard*  td  liberty  and  the  publie  good^  we 'must  look  to  the  unshackled 
and  [independent  energies,  of  the  preset  "Freedom  of  discussion  is  our 
birthright,",  cried!  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  V  sind  by  the  dissemination  of 
tru^h  aione;  though  t^e.  medium  of  a' free  press,  can  We  hope  to  attain  or 
preserve  our  liberty."    Bishop  Home  says,  "  A  newspaper  is  the  history 


23  Th*  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press* 

of  that  world  in  which  we  now  live,  and  with  it  we  are  more  concerned 
than  with  days  which  have  passed  away  and  exist  only  in  remembrance." 
More  concise  is  Benjamin  Constant,  "  The  press  is  mistress  of  intelli- 
gence, and  intelligence  is  mistress  of  the  world  !w 

It  is  quite  impossible  for  foreigners  to  understand  our  press :  they 
have  nothing  like  it.  Napoleon,  however,  must  have  mastered  the  idea, 
if,  indeed,  he  said,  "  A  journalist  is  a  giver  of  advice,  a  regent  of  sove- 
reigns, a  tutor  of  nations.  Four  hostile  newspapers  are  more  to  be  feared 
than  a  hundred  thousand  bayonets."  Such  a  remark  could  scarcely  have 
applied  to  the  newspapers  of  the  Empire.  De  TocqueviUe's  is  more 
general,  and  would  do  for  the  press  all  over  the  world :  "  The  newspaper 
is  the  only  instrument  by  which  the  same  thought  can  be  dropped  into  a 
thousand  minds  at  the  same  moment*" 

Of  this  mighty  Mind-Engine— of  this  tremendous  Moral  Power,  let  us 
attempt  to  write  the  history ;  if  but  one  half  of  what  has  been  said  of  it 
were  true,  it  should  have  had  chroniclers  innumerable,  for  where  could  a 
grander  theme  be  found  ?  Such  an  institution  should  be  worth  tracing 
from  its  earliest  germ — from  that  origin  and  through  that  growth,  of 
which  an  Edinburgh  Reviewer  has  eloquently  said.: 

"  In  common  with  everything  of  signal  strength,  journalism  is  a 

plant  of  slow  and  gradual  growth Of  far  more  modern  date  than 

the  other  estates  of  the  realm,  the  fourth  estate  has  overshadowed  and 
surpassed  them  alL  It  has  created  the  want  which  it  supplies*  It  has 
obtained  paramount  influence  and  authority,  partly  by  assuming  them, 
but  still  more  by  deserving  them.  Of  all  puissances  in  the  political 
world,  it  is  at  once  the  mightiest,  the  most  irresponsible,  the  best  ad- 
ministered, and  the  least  misused.  And,  taken  in  its  history,  position, 
and  relations,  it  is  unquestionably  the  most  grave,  noticeable,  formidable 
phenomenon — the  greatest  fact  of  our  times." 

II. 

The  earliest  Newspapers — The  Acta  Diurna  of  the  Romans — The  "  Gazzettas"  of 
Venice — Written  News— News  Correspondents— The  First  Execution  of  a 
News  Writer — Derivation  of  the  word  "  Newes." 

In  inquiring  into  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  British  newspaper  press, 
it  will  be  necessary  to  look  into  the  annals  of  another  country  for  the 
original  from  which  the  art  of  collecting  and  publishing,  and  comment- 
ing on  intelligence,  was  copied — even  without  regard  to  its  probable 
existence  in  remote  ages.  It  would  doubtless  be  flattering  to  our  na- 
tional pride  to  acknowledge,  as  of  our  own  creation,  such  a  noble  institu- 
tion as  the  public  press  has  become ;  so  indigenous  as  it  would  appear,  at 
a  first  glance,  to  our  soil,  and  congenial,  in  its  stateliness  and  indepen- 
dence, to  the  feelings  by  which  Englishmen  are  governed'— so  warmly 
as  it  has  nursed  and  fostered  all  that,  as  a  nation,  we  have  to  be  proud 
of — so  bravely  as  it  has  battled,  and  so  nobly  as  it  has  suffered  in  the 
cause  of  our  rights  and  liberties— so  vigorously  and  successfully  as  it  has 
fought  against  tyranny  on  the  one  hand  and  anarchy  on  the  other — so 
zealously  as  it  has  assisted  improvement  and  diffused  knowledge — and  so 
instrumental  as  it  has  been  in  giving  weight  and  influence  to  the  British 
name  abroad, — we  say  our  national  pride  would  be  flattered  by  claiming 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  29 

it  as  an  idea  springing  out  of  those  noble  principles  in  which  we  trace  the 
germs  of  the  other  institutions  belonging  to  a  free  and  enlightened 
people  which  we  enjoy. 

But  if  we  are  denied  this  proud  boast,  we  may  take  pleasure  in  noticing 
how  this  foreign  blossom  has  flourished  on  our  soil — how  it  has  expanded 
into  a  far  wider  sphere  of  usefulness  and  importance  than  any  other  nation 
has  been  able  to  nurse  or  train  it  to — and  in  contrasting  its  state  of  majesty 
here  with  its  weakly  condition  even  in  the  countries  where  it  was  first 
sown ;  seeming  to  snow  that  there  is  something  in  our  constitution  which 
favours  the  dissemination  of  public  opinion,  without  the  free  power  of 
expressing  which  a  newspaper  can  be  looked  upon  with  little  reverence, 
and  would  not  deserve  as  many  words  as  we  may,  perhaps,  occupy  sheets 
in  recording  its  history.  We  must  remember  that  only  nominally  was 
the  first  newspaper  published  in  a  foreign  land  :  the  press  as  it  now  is, 
and  as  only  we  could  be  proud  of  it— the  fbee  fbjbss  of  England- 
Is  peculiarly  our  own. 

Publications  answering  to  some  extent  the  purposes  of  newspapers 
would  appear  to  have  been  not  entirely  unknown  in  the  remote  ages. 
The  Romans  had  their  daily  reports  of  public  occurrences,  called  Acta 
Diuma,  spoken  of  by  Seneca.  Suetonius  and  Tacitus  also  allude  to  the 
Acta  Diurna,  but  more,  it  would  seem,  in  the  sense  of  journals  of  the 
proceedings  of  the  municipal  councils,  as  Talia  diurnis  urbis  actis 
mandare  (Tacitus).  Dr.  Johnson  gives  a  few  specimens  of  these  news 
sheets  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1740,  which  contain  short 
announcements' of  a  much  more  familiar  kind  than  we  are  in  the  habit 
of  associating  with  the  idea  of  ancient  Rome.  Thus  we  have  reports  of 
an  assault  case  before  the  magistrates— of  a  brawl  at  the  Hog-in- Armour 
Tavern,  in  BankerVstreet — of  a  thunderstorm — of  a  fire  on  Mount 
Coelius — of  the  funeral  of  Marcia — and  other  every-day  occurrences,  which 
curiously  remind  us  that  the  Romans  were  but  men ;  and  that  Marcus 
Fuscus  and  Lucius  Albus  were  brought  up  to  the  police  court  for  being 
drunk  and  disorderly,  and  that  Titus  Lanius  was  fined  for  giving  short 
weight.  These  Acta  Diurna  were  issued  "  by  authority"  of  the  go- 
vernment, both  of  the  republic  and  of  the  empire,  and  were  posted  in 
two  or  three  of  the  most  frequented  parts  for  the  perusal  of  the  citizens. 
The  writers  (actuarii)  seem  even  to  have  been  possessed  of  some  system 
of  reporting  speeches ;  for  their  papers  contained,  for  a  short  time,  the 
proceedings  of  the  senate,  the  pleadings  in  the  courts  of  law,  &c.  After 
the  death  of  Julius  Caesar,  the  privilege  of  publishing  the  former  was 
withdrawn ;  and  the  only  confirmation  of  the  latter  belief  occurs  in  the 
letter  of  Pliny  the  Younger  to  Tacitus,  in  which  he  calls  his  attention  to 
a  cause  in  which  he  had  been  engaged,  "  which  cannot  have  escaped  you, 
since  it  is  in  the  public  registers/'  which,  after  all,  may  have  been  but 
the  archives  of  the  court  in  which  it  was  heard  by  the  consuls,  although 
he  would  then,  one  would  think,  not  have  been  so  sure  that  Tacitus 
would  have  read  them. 

j£  Be  this  as  it  may,  there  remains  much  obscurity  as  to  the  actual  cha- 
racter of  these  publications.  Mr.  Hunt  protests  against  their  being 
considered  as  at  all  allied  to  the  subject,  or  bearing  any  relationship  to 
the  newspaper ;  but  we  would  respectfully  suggest  that  in  all  essential 
points  they  make  good  a  claim  to  be  regarded  as  newspapers,  if  periodical 


30  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

publication  and  the  promulgation  of  news  are,  as  we  take  them  to  be, 
the  essential  points  of  difference  between  newspapers  and  proclamations, 
or  pamphlets.  The  objection  that  they  were  in  manuscript  is  rather 
puerile — "  Rome  had  neither  types  nor  presses !"  But  types  and  presses 
do  not  constitute  a  newspaper ;  and  we  might  as  well  argue  that  Lloyd's 
Evening  Post  of  the  last  century  was  not  a  newspaper  because  it  had 
only  four  pages  instead  of  eight. 

During  the  sanguinary  reigns  of  Caesar's  successors,  the  publication 
was  lost  to  the  Romans,  and  nothing  of  the  kind  seems  to  have  been 
revived.  We  must  confess  our  own  opinion,  that  it  was  never  of  much 
importance,  or  we  should  have  had  more  frequent  mention  of  it ;  for 
what  writer  of  the  present  day  fills  a  volume  without  once  alluding  to  the 
newspapers  ?  But  we  may  be  pardoned  for  indulging  a  pleasant  fancy, 
and  conceiving  the  possibility  of  the  publications,  such  as  they  were, 
having  been  introduced  into  Britain,  and  perhaps  a  similar  system  of 
promulgating  news  adopted,  during  its  occupation  by  the  Romans. 

Italy — whatever  may  have  been  the  real  character  of  the  Acta  Diurna 
•—can  still  claim  to  have  been  the  birthplace  of  journalism ;  and  the 
city,  whose  glories  again  illuminated  her  peninsula,  may  be  left  to  dis- 
pute with  Rome  the  honour  of  calling  into  existence  the  first  public 
newspaper.  "  The  first  modern  sheet  of  news,"  according  to  Chalmers, 
made  its  appearance  in  Venice,  in  or  about  the  year  1536,  for  the  purpose 
of  enlightening  the  Venetians  on  the  progress  of  the  war  with  Turkey, 
It  was  in  manuscript,  written  in  a  legible  hand,  and  read  aloud  at  par- 
ticular stations,  but  only  appeared  once  a  month.  In  the  Maggliabecchi 
Library,  at  Florence,  thirty  volumes  of  this  journal,  all  in  MS.,  are  still 
preserved ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  that 
this  inconvenient  arrangement  was  abandoned,  and  the  printing-press 
substituted  for  the  pen.* 

But  insignificant  as  was  the  Gazzetta  of  Venice  in  the  respects  of  size 
and  influence,  and  even  of  information,  its  name  is  perpetuated  in  almost 
every  country  to  the  present  day,  in  the  title  which  obtains  most  among 
newspapers  of  all  nations,  Gazette.  The  name  was  derived,  according 
to  some,  from  the  Latin  word  gaza,  a  treasury  or  store ;  according  to 
others,  from  the  Italian  gazza  or  gazzara,  a  magpie  or  chatterer ;  but, 
with  more  probability,  on  the  authority  of  several  writers,  from  the  name 
of  a  coin, gazzetta  (the  value  of  which  was  between  a  farthing  and  a  half- 
penny of  our  money),  now  out  of  circulation,  which  was  the  price  of  the 
paper,  or  the  fee  formerly  paid  for  the  reading  of  the  sheet  in  manuscript. 
Blount's  Glossographia,  early  in  the  seventeenth  century,  gives  the  fol- 
lowing definitions  to  the  word : 

"Gazzetta. — A  certain  Venetian  coin,  scarce  worth  one  farthing; 
also  a  bill  of  news,  or  short  relation  of  the  occurrences  of  the  time, 
printed  most  commonly  at  Venice,  and  thence  dispersed  every  month  into 
most  parts  of  Christendom." 

It  had  now  evidently  assumed  a  more  general  character,  and  must  have 
extended  its  information,  as  the  news  of  Venice  alone  would  scarcely  have 
interested  sufficiently  "  most  parts  of  Christendom." 

*  The  earliest  of  these  papers  contained  in  the  British  Museum  is  dated  1570, 
and  is  at  that  time  printed. 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  31 

These  again  Mr.  Hunt  rather  fastidiously,  we  think,  repudiates  as 
newspapers,  on  the  plea  that  "  they  were  not  published  for  circulation," 
but  the  above  extract  from  Blount,  which  he  could  not  have  seen,  shows 
that  they  were  very  widely  circulated. 

It  was  due  to  these  progenitors  of  an  extensive  and  honourable  tribe 
to  enter  concisely  into  their  history — in  fact,  that  of  the  British  press 
would  not  have  been  complete  without  a  glance  at  the  parent  stem  from 
which  it  sprang;  but  we  shall  not  stop  further  to  trace  the  progress 
of  the  newspaper  press  in  other  countries,  but  come  at  once  to  the  period 
when  it  took  root  in  our  own. 

When  the  spread  of  knowledge  had  made  people  interested  in  and 
inquisitive  about  public  events,  intelligence  was  circulated  in  a  manner 
that  still  excluded  the  general  public  from  participating  in  it,  and  made 
it  a  luxury  attainable  only  by  the  rich.  The  classes  who  were  beginning 
to  dismiss  the  jester  from  their  establishments,  were  taking  on  the  news 
correspondent ;  the  minds  of  the  nobility  and  landed  gentry  had  ascended 
a  step  higher,  but  the  masses  were  still  groping  down  below  in  the  dark. 
Probably  the  extreme  rigour  with  which  the  powers  of  the  Star  Chamber 
were  exercised,  and  the  great  restrictions  with  which  the  progress  of 
printing  was  fettered  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  prevented  anything 
in  the  shape  of  pamphlets  of  news  being  made  public,  for  we  find  that 
but  little  of  the  kind  appeared  in  her  reign  ;  but  there  was  a  profession 
of  "news  writers, "  or  correspondents,  who  collected  such  scraps  of 
information  as  they  could  from  various  sources,  and  for  a  subscription  of 
three  or  four  pounds  per  annum  sent  them  every  post-day  to  their 
employers  in  the  country.  Communications  somewhat  of  this  sort  are 
preserved  in  Venn's  Letters,  giving  the  particulars  of  events  during  the 
wars  of  the  Roses. 

A  curious  entry  in  the  family  accounts  of  the  house  of  Clifford,  of 
Yorkshire,  is  quoted  by  Whitaker,  in  his  "  History  of  Craven,"  from 
which  it  would  appear  that  the  calling  of  news  writer  was  not  considered 
dishonourable : 

"  To  Captain  Robinson,  by  my  lord's  commands,  for  writing  letters  of 
news  to  his  lordship,  for  half  a  year,  five  pounds." 

That  the  news  was  not  always  to  be  depended  upon,  is  insinuated  in 
Florio's  "  Second  Frutes"  (1591) : 

"  T. — These  be  newes  caste  abroade  to  feede  the  common  sorte.  I  doo 
not  believe  them. 

"  C. — Yea ;  but  they  are  written  to  verie  worshipful  marchants. 

"  T. — By  so  much  the  lesse  do  I  believe  them.  Doo  not  you  know 
that  everie  yeare  such  newes  are  spreade  abroade  ? 

t€  C. — I  am  almost  of  your  minde,  for  I  seldome  see  these  written 
reports  prove  true. 

"  T. — Prognostications,  newes,  devices,  and  letters  from  forraine  coun- 
tries, good  Master  Caesar,  are  but  used  as  confections,  to  feed  the  common 
people  withal. 

"  C. — A  man  must  give  no  more  credite  to  Exchange  and  Powle's 
newes  than  to  fugitives'  promises  and  plaiers'  fables." 

This  profession  of  "  news  correspondent"  appears  to  have  continued  in 
existence  as  late  as  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  although 

May— vol.  cvu.  no.  ccccxxv.  d 


32  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

no  doubt  fallen  into  great  disrepute,  for  the  prospectus  of  the  Evening 
Post,  which  appeared  on  September  6th,  1709,  thus  alludes  to  it : 

"  There  must  be  3L  or  41.  per  annum  paid  by  those  gentlemen  who 
are  out  of  town  for  written  news,  which  is  so  far  generally  from  having 
any  probability  of  matter  of  fact  in  it,  that  it  is  generally  stuffed  up 
with  a  '  we  hear,'  &c,  or  '  an  eminent  Jew  merchant  has  received  a  letter/ 
&c.,  being  nothing  more  than  a  downright  fiction." 

These  correspondents  had  been  a  whole  century  going  to  the  wall.  The 
swaggering  gossipper  about  the  court  had  given  up  the  trade  to  the*  dis- 
banded captain,  who,  having  served  abroad,  was  presumed  to  know  the 
movements  of  the  armies.  With  peace  the  captain's  prestige  was  gone, 
and  the  decidedly  shabby  gentleman,  who  haunted  die  chief  places  of 
public  talk,  Westminster  Hall,  Saint  Paul's,  and  the  Exchange,  earned  a 
precarious  living  by  collecting  news  for  his  country  subscribers,  and  was 
the  person  so  kindly  favoured  with  perusals  of  the  letters  of  the  mytho- 
logical u  eminent  Jew  merchant."  The  printing-press  had  already 
pushed  them  out  of  its  way,  and  they  were  soon  glad  to  go  into  its 
service,  and  to  feed  its  iron  jaws  with  matter  for  digestion  at  the  rate  of 
a  penny  a  line.  Or  worse,  if  there  were  many  Captain  Rockinghams 
among  them,  who,  as  GifFord  informs  us  in  his  Notes  to  Ben  Jonson,  is 
introduced  in  a  curious  poem  called  the  "  Great  Assizes,"  as  a  news  corre- 
spondent, u  whose  occupation  was  invaded  by  a  swarm  of  '  paper 
wasters,'  &&, 

Who  weekly  uttered  such  a  mass  of  lies 
Under  the  specious  name  of  novelties, 

that  the  captain  found  his  trade  overrun,  and  was  obliged  to  betake 
himself  to  i  plucking  tame  pigeons'  (tricking)  for  a  livelihood." 

In  Fletcher's  "  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn"  we  have  a  glimpse  of  another 
of  these  captain  correspondents,  who  "  writ  a  full  hand  gallop  and  wasted 
more  harmless  paper  than  ever  did  laxative  physic," 

One  Rowland  White,  "  the  postmaster,  a  notable  busy  man,"  "  con- 
stantly writ  over  to  Sir  Robert  Sydney,  at  Flushing,  the  news  and  in- 
trigues of  the  court,"  for  which  he  (Sydney)  "  allowed  him  a  salary," 
according  to  Collins  ("  Memorials  of  State"),  quoted  by  Mr.  Hunt ;  but,  if 
we  are  to  search  out  all  such  correspondents,  and  consider  them  as  pro- 
fessional writers  of  news,  there  is  no  writer  of  an  ordinary  letter  of  the 
times  whom  we  should  not  regard  as  one  of  our  early  journalists.  All 
letters,  especially  in  times  of  agitation  or  trouble,  would  be  written  to 
convey  news ;  and  we  even  doubt  whether  Edward  Coleman,  the  victim 
of  Titus  Oates,  was  sufficiently  a  professional  news  writer  to  require 
mention  ;  however,  as  he  was  a  martyr  in  the  cause — perhaps  the  first 
who  was  hanged  for  writing  a  letter  of  news — we  will  glance  at  him  as 
he  goes  along  on  his  hurdle  to  Tyburn,  forsworn  by  Oatesr  assailed  by 
Jeffreys*  and  judged  by  Seroggs — a  worthy  trio  to  make  the  first  declara- 
tion of  war  against  the  circulation  of  intelligence — for  such  was  his  offence 
after  all.  It  matters  sot  that  his  intelligence  was  false,  his  zeal  indiscreet, 
his  principles  criminal,  it  was  for  circulating  his  news  letters,  not  for 
writing  them,  that  he  was  charged  with,  high  treason. 

Descended  from  a  good  finally  in  Suffolk,  Coleman  had  raised  himself 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  33 

to  the  office  of  secretary  to  the  Duke  of  York  ;  but  Roger  North,  in  his 
Life  of  Lord  Keeper  Guildford,  informs  us  that,  going  the  northern  cir- 
cuit, "  as  his  lordship  passed  along,  divers  gentlemen  showed  him  circular 
news  letters  that  came  to  them;"  "and  upon  his  lordship's  inquiry,  he 
was  told  that  they  came  from  Mr.  Coleman,  the  Duke  of  York's  secre- 
tary. His  lordship,  on  his  return,  made  a  representation  to  the  king  of 
this  news  letter  from  such  a  person,  and  the  ill  consequences  of  it.  Where- 
upon  Mr.  Coleman  was  turned  out  of  the  duke's  service,  but  never 
blamed,  for  he  was  afterwards  made  the  Duchess  of  York's  secretary." 

Still  suspicion  had  pointed  at  him,  and  Oates  made  the  most  of  it 
Coleman  was  condemned  to  death,  and  he  died  accordingly,  abandoned  in 
his  extremity  by  the  promise-breaking  master  he  had  served,  and  hooted 
by  a  mob  which  did  not  know  his  offence.  Two  centuries,  saving  a  score 
of  years,  have  rolled  up  their  mists  between  him  and  us,  and  we  have  but 
an  imperfect  view  of  the  first  martyr  of  journalism;  but  there  appears  to 
have  been  but  little  to  admire  in  his  character  beyond  his  fidelity  to  the 
cause  of  the  gloomy  bigots  to  whom  he  gave  up  his  life. 

In  the  reigns  of  Charles  and  James  these  "  newes  books"  still  strug- 
gled against  the  printed  sheets  of  news.  Pepys  in  his  Diary  twice  alludes 
to  them,  but  without  comment.  And  here  we  may  pause  to  remark  upon 
the  great  flights  which  certain  learned  gentlemen  have  lately  taken  in 
search  of  the  derivation  of  this  same  word  "  newes."  Soaring  high  above 
what  would  appear  to  us  poor  benighted  mortals  as  the  root  from  which 
it  sprang — the  plain  English  adjective  new — they  have  fought  fiercely 
to  assign  to  it  all  sorts  of  sources :  from  the  French,  from  the  Norman, 
from  the  German,  the  Dutch,  the  Teutonic,  and  the  Flemish.  Nay,  one 
suggests  the  possibility  of  its  coming  from  the  Greek  povs,  the  understand- 
ing, and  another  from  the  English  word  noise  1  Still  more  ridiculous  is 
the  origin  assigned  to  it  by  most  of  the  small  encyclopaedists  from  the 

letters  s^k  having  stood  on  the  heading  of  the  earliest  newspapers  to 
indicate  that  the  intelligence  they  contained  was  collected  from  all  points 
of  the  compass  !  Tbis  hypothesis,  started,  we  believe,  in  the  European 
Magazine  in  1747,  and  clung  to  even  by  Mr.  Haydn  in  his  "Dictionary 
of  Dates,"  was  very  pretty  and  ingenious,  and  might  have  been  accepted 
as  correct  but  for  two  very  troublesome  facts — that,  despite  the  assertion, 
no  newspapers  are  known  with  the  pretended  heading,  and  that  the  earliest 
spelling  of  the  word  was  newEs,  which  would  give  us  five  cardinal  points 
instead  of  four.  This  superficial  statement,  uttered  gravely  in  1850,  may 
be  traced  to  the  "  Wit's  Recreations,"  where  it  is  suggested  playfully  as 
long  ago  as  1640  : 

When  news  doth  come,  if  any  would  discusse 
The  letters  of  the  word,  resolve  it  thus  : 
News  is  conveyed  by  letter,  word,  or  mouth. 
And  comes  to  us  from  north,  east,  west,  ana  south. 

In  the  same  year,  too,  Butter,  alluding  to  the  newspapers  of  the  Conti- 
nent, calls  them  "  novels,"  which  confirms  the  more  rational  opinion  of 
the  derivation  of  the  word. 


d2 


(     34     ) 


SCENERY  OF  SINAI  AND  PALESTINE  * 

Sinai  and  Palestine  have  been  variously  described,  some  may  think 
with  almost  too  much  reiteration  ;  but  it  was  possible,  the  Rev.  A.  P. 
Stanley  has  shown,  to  view  the  Holy  Land  under  a  new  aspect,  that  of 
its  outward  appearance— its  actual  physiognomy — in  relation  to  its  his- 
tory and  past  and  present  civilisation.  The  influence  of  such  external 
features  on  the  natural  character,  on  the  forms  of  its  poetry,  its  philo- 
sophy, and  its  worship,  the  explanation  given  by  them  to  particular 
events,  the  evidence  they  lend  of  the  truths  of  sacred  history,  the  illus- 
tration they  afford  of  the  scenes  of  events  and  their  poetical  and  pro- 
verbial use,  are  points  that  have  as  yet  been  little  touched  upon,  still  less 
fully  expounded.  The  long  course  of  ages  has  invested  the  prospects 
and  scenes  of  the  Holy  Land  with  poetical  and  moral  associations,  but  it 
has  not  yet  been  attempted  to  show  the  connexion  of  these  with  the 
poetical  events  of  the  sacred  history.  The  comparative  geographer  has 
laboured,  from  the  collection  of  various  data,  to  establish  the  identity  of 
modern  with  ancient  localities;  the  biblical  archaeologist  has  toiled,  not  in 
vain,  to  unravel  the  politico-religious  institutions  and  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  people;  few  have  thought  to  stop  at  the  connexion  that  is  to  be  traced 
between  the  scenery,  the  features,  and  the  situation  of  Sinai  and  of 
Palestine,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  history  of  the  Israelites  on  the  other. 
Yet,  if  there  be  anything  in  the  course  of  human  affairs  which  brings  us 
near  to  the  Divinity  which  shapes  men's  ends,  rough  hew  them  as  they 
will,  which  indicates  something  of  the  prescience  of  their  future  course 
even  at  its  commencement,  it  is  the  sight  of  that  framework  in  which  the 
national  character  is  enclosed,  by  which  it  is  modified,  beyond  which  it 
cannot  develop  itself.  Such  a  forecast,  as  every  one  knows,  can  be  seen 
in  the  peculiar  conformation  and  climate  of  Greece.  There  is,  as  one  of 
the  profoundest  historians  of  our  day  well  observes,  a  satisfaction  in 
treading  the  soil  and  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  historical  persons  or 
events,  like  that  which  results  from  familiarity  with  their  actual  language 
and  with  their  contemporary  chronicles.  And  this  pleasure  is  increased 
in  proportion  as  the  events  in  question  occurred  not  within  perishable  or 
perished  buildings,  but  in  unchanging  scenes  of  nature  :  on  the  Sea  of 
Galilee  and  Mount  Olivet,  and  at  the  foot  of  Gerizim,  rather  than  in  the 
house  of  Pilate,  or  the  inn  of  Bethlehem,  or  the  garden  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  even  were  the  localities  now  shown  as  such  ever  so  genuine. 

Greek  and  Italian  geography  intertwines  itself  far  more  closely  in 
some  respects  with  the  history  and  religion  of  the  two  countries ;  yet 
when  we  take  the  proverbs,  the  apologues,  the  types,  furnished  even  by 
Parnassus  and  Helicon,  the  Capitol  and  the  Rubicon,  they  bear  no  com- 
parison with  the  appropriateness  of  the  corresponding  figures  and  phrases 
borrowed  from  Arabian  and  Syrian  topography,  even  irrespectively  of  the 
wider  diffusion  given  them  by  our  greater  familiarity  with  the  Scriptures. 
The  passage  of  the  Red  Sea — "the  wilderness"  of  life— the  "  Rock  of 

*  Sinai  and  Palestine  in  connexion  with  [their  History.  By  Arthur  Penrhyn 
Stanley,  M.A.,  Canon  of  Canterbury.    John'Murray. 


Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine.  35 

Ages" — Mount  Sinai  and  its  terrors — the  view  from  Pisgah — the  passage 
of  the  Jordan,  the  rock  of  Zion,  and  the  fountain  of  Siloa — the  lake  of 
Gennesareth,  with  its  storms,  its  waves,  and  its  fishermen,  are  well-known 
instances  in  which  the  local  features  of  the  Holy  Land  have  naturally 
become  the  household  imagery  of  Christendom. 

Greece  and  Italy  have  also  geographical  charms  of  a  high  order.  But 
they  have  never  provoked  a  Crusade  ;  and  however  bitter  may  have  been 
the  disputes  of  antiquarians  about  the  Acropolis  of  Athens  or  the  Forum 
of  Rome,  they  have  never,  as  at  Bethlehem  and  Jerusalem,  become 
matters  of  religious  controversy — grounds  for  interpreting  old  prophecies 
or  producing  new  ones — cases  for  missions  of  diplomatists,  or  for  the 
war  of  so-called  civilised  nations. 

The  historical  interest  of  sacred  geography,  though  belonging  in 
various  degrees  to  Mesopotamia,  Egypt,  Asia  Minor,  Greece,  and  Italy, 
is,  like  the  sacred  history  itself,  concentrated  on  the  Peninsula  of  Sinai 
and  on  Palestine.  Mr.  Stanley  does  not  exaggerate  the  physical  pecu- 
liarities of  the  former  region  when  he  pronounces  it  to  be,  geographically 
and  geologically  speaking,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  districts  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  It  combines  the  three  grand  features  of  earthly 
scenery — the  sea,  the  desert,  and  the  mountains.  It  occupies  also  a 
position  central  to  three  countries,  distinguished  not  merely  for  their 
nistory,  but  for  their  geography,  amongst  all  other  nations  of  the  world — 
Egypt,  Arabia,  Palestine.  And,  lastly,  it  has  been  the  scene  of  a  history 
as  unique  as  its  situation,  by  which  the  fate  of  the  three  nations  which 
surround  it,  and,  through  them,  the  fate  of  the  whole  world,  has  been 
determined : 

It  is  a  just  remark  of  Chevalier  Bunsen,  that  Egypt  has,  properly  speaking, 
no  history.  History  was  bora  on  that  night  when  Moses  lea  forth  his  people 
from  Goshen.  Most  fully  is  this  felt  as  the  traveller  emerges  from  the  valley  of 
the  Nile,  the  study  of  the  Egyptian  monuments,  and  finds  himself  on  the  broad 
track  of  the  Desert.  In  those  monuments,  magnificent  and  instructive  as  they 
are,  he  sees  great  things,  and  mighty  deeds — the  father,  the  son,  and  the 
children — the  sacrifices,  the  conquests,  the  coronations.  But  there  is  no  begin- 
ning, middle,  and  end  of  a  moral  progress,  or  even  of  a  mournful  decline.  In  the 
Desert,  on  the  contrary,  the  moment  the  green  fields  of  Egypt  recede  from  our 
view,  still  more  when  we  reach  the  Red  Sea,  the  further  and  further  we  advance 
into  the  Desert  and  the  mountains,  we  feel  that  everything  henceforward  is  con- 
tinuous, that  there  is  a  sustained  and  protracted  interest,  increasing  more  and 
more  till  it  reaches  its  highest  point  in  Palestine,  in  Jerusalem,  in  Calvary,  and 
in  Olivet.  And  in  the  Desert  of  Sinai  this  interest  is  enhanced  by  the  fact  that 
there  it  stands  alone.  Over  all  the  other  great  scenes  of  human  history- 
Palestine  itself,  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Italy — successive  tides  of  great  recollections 
have  rolled,  each  to  a  certain  extent  obliterating  the  traces  of  the  former.  But 
in  the  Peninsula  of  Sinai  there  is  nothing  to  interfere  with  the  effect  of  that 
single  event.  The  Exodus  is  the  one  only  stream  of  history  that  has  passed 
through  this  wonderful  region — a  history  which  has  for  its  background  the 
whole  magnificence  of  Egypt,  and  for  its  distant  horizon  the  forms,  as  yet 
unborn,  of  Judaism,  of  Mahometanism,  of  Christianity. 

The  Peninsula  of  Sinai  lies  between  the  two  gulfs  of  Suez  and  of  Akaba. 
From  them  it  derives  its  contact  with  the  sea,  and  therefore  with  the 
world  ;  which  is  one  striking  distinction  between  it  and  the  rest  of  the 
vast  desert  of  which  it  forms  a  part.  From  hardly  any  point  of  the 
Sinaitic  range  is  the  view  of  the  sea  wholly  excluded ;  its  waters,  blue 


36  Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine. 

with  a  depth  of  colour  more  like  that  of  some  of  the  Swiss  lakes  than  of 
our  northern  or  midland  seas,  its  tides  imparting  a  life  to  the  dead  land- 
scape ;  its  white  shells  which  strew  the  shores,  the  forests  of  submarine 
vegetation,  which  give  the  whole  sea  its  Hebrew  appellation  of  the  "  Sea 
of  Weeds,"  the  trees  of  coral,  whose  huge  trunks  may  be  seen  even  on  the 
dry  land,  with  the  red  rocks  and  red  sand  which,  especially  in  the  Gulf  of 
Akaba,  bound  its  sides,  all  bring  before  us  the  mightier  mass  of  the  Red, 
or  Erythraean  Ocean,  the  coral  strands  of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  of 
which  these  two  gulfs,  with  their  peculiar  products,  are  the  northern  off- 
shoots : 

The  peninsula  itself  has  been  the  scene  of  but  one  cycle  of  human  events. 
But  it  has  through  its  two  watery  boundaries  been  encircled  with  two  tides  of 
history,  which  must  not  be  forgotten  in  the  associations  which  give  it  a  foremost 
place  in  the  geography  and  history  of  the  world;  two  tides,  never  flowing 
together,  one  falling  as  the  other  rose,  but  imparting  to  each  of  the  two  barren 
valleys  through  which  they  flow  a  life  and  activity  hardly  less  than  that  which 
has  so  long  animated  the  valley  of  the  Nile.  The  two  great  lines  of  Indian 
traffic  have  alternately  passed  up  the  eastern  and  the  western  gulf ;  and  though 
unconnected  with  the  greater  events  of  the  Peninsula  of  Sinai,  the  commerce  of 
Alexandria  and  the  communications  of  England  with  India,  which  now  pass 
down  the  Gulf  of  Suez,  are  not  without  interest,  as  giving  a  lively  image  of  the 
ancient  importance  of  the  twin  Gulf  of  Akaba.  That  gulf,  now  wholly  deserted* 
was,  in  the  times  of  the  Jewish  monarchy,  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  fleets 
of  Solomon  and  Jehoshaphat,  and  the  only  point  in  the  second  period  of  their 
history  which  brought  the  Israelites  into  connexion  with  the  scenes  of  the 
earliest  wanderings  of  their  nation. 

Such  are  the  western  and  eastern  boundaries  of  this  mountain  tract ; 
Striking  to  the  eye  of  the  geographer,  as  the  two  parallels  to  that  narrow 
Egyptian  land  from  which  the  Israelites  came  forth ;  important  to  the 
historian,  as  the  two  links  of  Europe  and  Asia  with  the  great  ocean  of 
the  south,  as  the  two  points  of  contact  between  the  Jewish  people  and 
the  civilisation  of  the  ancient  world.  From  the  summit  of  Mount  St. 
Catherine,  or  of  Um-Shuma,  a  wandering  Israelite  might  have  seen  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  nation's  greatness.  On  the  one  side  lay 
the  sea  through  which  they  had  escaped  from  the  bondage  of  slavery  and 
idolatry — still  a  mere  tribe  of  the  shepherds  of  the  Desert.  On  the  other 
side  lay  the  sea,  up  which  were  afterwards  conveyed  the  treasures  of  the 
Indies,  to  adorn  the  palace  and  the  temple  of  the  capital  of  a  mighty 
empire. 

The  peninsula  itself  is,  physically  speaking,  divided  into  three  parts. 
The  first  and  most  extensive  is  the  northern  table-land  of  limestone, 
which  is  known  as  the  Desert  of  Tyh,  or  the  "  Wanderings."  It  is  a 
wide,  undulating,  pebbly  plain,  supported  and  enclosed  by  long  horizontal 
ranges  of  hills,  which  keep  their  uniform  character  wherever  they  are 
seen;  and  however  much  they  may  vary  in  form  or  height,  are  always 
faithful  to  their  tabular  outline  and  blanched  desolation.  One  solitary 
station-house  and  fort  marks  this  wilderness.  A  miniature  of  the  mid- 
way station  for  the  great  Syrian  desert — the  Palm-grove  station  of  Solo- 
mon and  Zenobia — it  is  called  Nakhl — the  Palm — from  an  adjacent 
palm-grove,  which  has  vanished  like  that  of  Tadmor  or  Palmyra. 

A  narrow  plain,  or  belt  of  sand,  called  from  that  circumstance  the 
Debbet-er-Ramleh,  divides  the  table-land  of  the  north  from  the  mountains 


Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine.  37 

of  the  south.  This  yellow  line  of  sand  is  distinctly  visible  from  Sirbal  and 
St.  Catherine ;  and  seems  to  be,  as  its  name  implies,  the  only  tract  of 
pure  sand  which  the  Desert  of  Sinai  presents.  Sand  is,  indeed,  the  ex- 
ception and  not  the  rule  of  the  Arabian  desert,  or  Syrian  or  Mesopota- 
mian  wilderness.  Whatever  other  sufferings  the  Israelites  may  have 
undergone,  the  great  sand-drifts  which  the  armies  of  Cambyses  encoun- 
tered in  the  desert  of  Africa  are  never  mentioned,  nor  could  have  been 
mentioned,  in  their  journeyings  through  the  wilderness  of  Sinai. 

Beyond  is  the  mountain-land  of  the  peninsula ;  it  is  called  the  Tur  by 
the  Arabs,  and  its  people  the  Tuwara,  as  the  people  of  Tyh  are  called  the 
Tiyaha.  The  word  is  Chaldaic  and  Syriac  as  well  as  Arabic.  It  was 
the  name  given  to  the  whole  of  that  country  of  mountains  which,  as 
modified  by  the  Romans,  became  Taurus,  and  it  is  still  given  to  a  frag- 
ment of  the  same  chain  in  Mesopotamia.  A  partly  sandy,  partly  gravelly 
plain,  runs,  under  the  name  of  El  Ka'a,  along  the  south-western  base  of 
this  mountain  mass.  On  their  north-western  side,  and  on  the  whole  of 
the  eastern  side  of  the  peninsula,  the  mountains  of  the  Tur  descend  so 
steeply  on  the  shores  of  the  sea  that  there  is  little  more  than  the  beach 
left  between  the  precipitous  cliffs  and  the  rising  tides. 

This  mountain-land  is  approached  by  steep  and  rugged  defiles,  or 
passes,  called  Nakb,  or  Akaba,  and  which  lead  to  the  higher  land  above, 
from  which  spring  the  cliffs  and  mountains  themselves.  They  begin  in  a 
gradual,  and  terminate  usually  in  a  very  steep  ascent — almost  a  staircase 
of  rock. 

The  mountains  themselves,  a  granitic  kernel,  flanked  by  sandstone  for- 
mations, are  divided  into  three  clusters,  each  with  a  central  summit. 
These  are  the  north-western  cluster,  which  rises  above  Wady  Fairan,  and 
of  which  the  most  remarkable  mountain — being  in  some  respects  also  the 
most  remarkable  in  the  whole  peninsula— is  Mount  Sirbal;  the  eastern 
and  central  cluster,  of  which  the  highest  point  is  Mount  St.  Catherine  ; 
and  the  south-eastern  cluster,  which  forms,  as  it  were,  the  outskirts  of  the 
Central  mass,  the  highest  point  of  which  is  Um-Shuma,  the  most  elevated 
summit  of  the  whole  range. 

It  is  to  its  rock  formations  that  Mount  Sinai  owes  the  depth  and  variety 
of  colour  which  distinguish  it  from  all  other  mountainous  scenery.  Red 
with  dark  green  are  the  predominant  hues.  These  colours  are  diversified 
by  the  long  streaks  of  purple,  which  run  over  them  from  top  to  bottom. 
Sandstone  and  granite  alike  lend  the  strong  red  hue,  which,  when  it  ex- 
tends further  eastward,  is  connected  with  the  name  of  Edom.  It  was 
long  ago  described  by  Diodorus  Siculus  as  of  a  bright  scarlet  hue,  and  is 
represented  in  legendary  pictures  as  of  a  brilliant  crimson.  Viewed 
even  in  the  soberest  light,  Mr.  Stanley  says,  it  gives  a  richness  to  the 
whole  mountain  landscape  which  is  wnolly  unknown  in  the  grey  and 
brown  suits  of  our  northern  hills. 

Another  feature  of  Mount  Sinai,  less  peculiar  but  highly  charac- 
teristic, is  the  infinite  complication  of  jagged  peaks  and  varied  ridges. 
When  seen  from  a  distance  this  causes  them  to  present  as  fine  an  outline 
of  mountain  scenery  as  can  be  conceived,  but  the  beauty  and  distinctness 
of  a  nearer  view  is  lost  in  its  multiplied  and  intricate  confusion.  Not 
less  striking  is  their  nakedness.     They  are  the  Alps  of  Arabia— but  the 


38  Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine. 

Alps  planted  in  the  Desert — the  Alps  unclothed.  "This,"  says  Mr. 
Stanley — "their  union  of  grandeur  with  desolation — is  the  point  of 
their  scenery  absolutely  unrivalled." 

And  it  is  this,  probably,  combined  with  the  peculiarity  of  the  atmosphere,  that 
produces  the  deep  stillness  and  consequent  reverberation  of  the  human  voice, 
which  can  never  he  omitted  in  any  enumeration  of  the  characteristics  of  Mount 
Sinai.  From  the  highest  point  of  Has  Sasafeh  to  its  lower  peak,  a  distance  of 
about  sixty  feet,  the  page  of  a  book,  distinctly  but  not  loudly  read,  was  per- 
fectly audible ;  and  every  remark  of  the  various  groups  of  travellers  descending 
from  the  heights  of  the  same  point  rose  clearly  to  those  immediately  above 
them.  It  was  the  belief  of  the  Arabs  who  conducted  Neibuhr,  that  they  could 
make  themselves  heard  across  the  Gulf  of  Akaba ;  a  belief  doubtless  exagge- 
rated, yet  probably  originated  or  fostered  by  the  great  distance  to  which  in 
these  regions  the  voice  can  actually  be  carried.  And  it  is  probably  from  the 
same  cause  that  so  much  attention  has  been  excited  by  the  mysterious  noises 
which  have  from  time  to  time  been  heard  on  the  summit  of  Jibal  Musa,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Um-Shuma,  and  in  the  mountain  of  Nakus  or  "  the  Bell,"  so 
called  from  the  legend  that  the  sounds  proceed  from  the  bells  of  a  convent 
enclosed  within  the  mountain.  In  this  last  instance  the  sound  is  supposed  to 
originate  in  the  rush  of  sand  down  the  mountain-side ;  sand  here,  as  elsewhere, 
playing  the  same  part  as  the  waters  or  snows  of  the  north.  In  the  case  of  Jibal 
Musa,  where  it  i3  said  that  the  monks  had  originally  settled  on  the  highest 
peak,  but  were  by  these  strange  noises  driven  down  to  their  present  seat  in  the 
valley ;  and  in  the  case  of  Um-Shuma,  where  it  was  described  to  Burckhardt  as 
like  the  sound  of  artillery,  the  precise  cause  has  never  been  ascertained.  But 
in  all  these  instances  the  effect  must  have  been  heightened  by  the  deathlike 
silence  of  a  region  where  the  fall  of  waters,  even  the  trickling  of  brooks,  is 
unknown. 

The  wadys — hollows,  valleys,  or  depressions,  more  or  less  deep,  wide, 
or  long,  worn  or  washed  by  the  mountain  torrents  or  winter  rains— con- 
stitute an  important  feature  in  Mount  Sinai.  For  a  few  weeks  or  days 
in  the  winter  these  valleys  present  the  appearance  of  rushing  streams, 
but  their  usual  aspect  is  absolutely  bare  and  waste,  only  presenting  the 
image  of  thirsty  desolation,  the  more  strikingly  so  from  the  constant 
indications  of  water  which  is  no  longer  there.  Yet  to  these  waterless 
rivers  the  Desert  owes  its  boundaries,  its  form,  its  means  of  communica- 
tion, as  truly  as  the  countries  or  districts  of  Europe  owe  theirs  to  the 
living  streams  which  divide  range  from  range  and  nation  from  nation. 

The  chief  of  the  Sinaitic  valleys  are  the  Wady-es-Shaykh,  or  Shaikh's 
Valley,  so  called  from  the  tomb  of  Shaykh  Salah,  the  Muhammadan 
sanctuary  of  the  peninsula,  and  which,  following  a  curvilinear  direction, 
separates  the  two  great  clusters  of  mountains,  with  a  vast  margin  on 
each  side,  such  as,  in  a  happier  climate,  would  afford  pasturage  for  a  thou- 
sand cattle;  the  Wady  Tayibeh,  so  designated  from  the  "goodly"  water 
and  vegetation  it  contains;  the  Wady  Sayal,  or  of  the  "  Acacia  ;"  the 
"Wady  Musa,  closed  between  overarching  cliffs ;  the  Wady  Tidri,  ex-  ' 
panding  into  a  level  space,  with  rare  bushes  of  white  thorn,  whence  its 
name ;  and  the  Wady  Abu  Hamad,  "  the  father  of  fig-trees  "  that  grow 
in  its  clefts.  Not  only  the  valleys,  but  the  mountains  also,  are  named 
from  the  slight  vegetation  by  which  they  are  distinguished.  Thus,  Um- 
Shuma  signifies  "the  mother  of  fennel;"  Ras  Sasafeh — the  Horeb  of 
Moses— is  "  the  willow-head  ;n  Sirbal  is  so  called  from  the  Sir,  or  myrrb, 


Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine.  39 

which  creeps  along  its  ledges ;  and  Mr.  Stanley  thinks  that  Sinai  itself 
derives  from  Sinah,  or  Seneh,  "  acacia." 

The  springs  that  are  met  with  in  Sinai  assume  an  importance  from 
their  rarity  as  well  as  from  their  being  the  nucleus  of  whatever  vegeta- 
tion the  region  produces,  and  the  seat  of  whatever  settlements  have 
been  founded  there.  In  all  of  them  the  union  of  vegetation  with  the 
fantastic  scenery  of  the  desolate  mountains  presents  a  combination  as 
beautiful  as  it  is  extraordinary.  They  occur  at  such  distances,  that  after 
leaving  Suez,  it  is  often  difficult  to  travel  from  one  to  another  in  a  day's 
journey.  The  best  known  and  the  most  remarkable  collection  of  springs 
is  that  which  renders  the  cluster  of  Jibal  Musa  the  chief  resort  of  the 
Bedouin  tribes  during  the  summer  heats.  Four  abundant  sources  in 
the  mountains  immediately  above  the  convent  of  St.  Catherine  must 
always  have  made  that  region  one  of  the  roost  frequented  of  the  Desert 
The  springs  at  the  port  of  Tur  give  birth  to  the  palm-grove  called  that 
of  Al  Wady.  Tracts  of  vegetation  are  to  be  met  with  indeed  in  all  the 
principal  wadys,  from  the  existence  of  perennial  brooks  or  waters  of  more 
or  less  duration. 

This  is  the  general  conformation  of  the  scenery  through  which  the  Israelites 

Sassed.  Even  if  their  precise  route  were  unknown,  yet  the  peculiar  features  of 
lie  country  have  so  much  in  common  that  the  history  would  still  receive  many 
remarkable  illustrations.  They  were  brought  into  "contact  with  a  desolation 
which  was  forcibly  contrasted  with  the  green  valley  of  the  Nile.  They  were 
enclosed  within  a  sanctuary  of  temples  and  pyramids  not  made  with  hands — 
the  more  awful  from  its  total  dissimilarity  to  anything  which  they  or  their 
fathers  could  have  remembered  in  Egypt  or  in  Palestine.  They  were  wrapt  in 
a  silence  which  gave  full  effect  to  the  moniing  and  the  evening  shout  with 
which  the  encampment  rose  and  pitched,  and  still  more  to  the  "  thunders,  and 
the  voice  exceeding  loud"  on  the  top  of  Horeb.  The  prophet  and  his  people 
were  thus  secluded  from  all  former  thoughts  and  associations,  that 

"  Separate  from  the  world,  his  breast 
Might  duly  take  and  strongly  keep 
The  print  of  God,  to  be  expressed 
Ere  long  on  Sion's  steep." 

Not  less  illustrative,  though  perhaps  less  explanatory  of  the  more  special  inci- 
dents recorded,  are  some  of  the  more  local  peculiarities  of  the  Desert.  The 
occasional  springs,  and  wells,  and  brooks,  are  in  accordance  with  the  notices  of  the 
waters  of  Marah ;  the  "springs"  (mistranslated  "wells")  ofElim;  the  "brook" 
of  Horeb;  the  "  well "  of  Jethro's  daughters,  with  its  "troughs"  or  tanks  in 
Midian.  The  vegetation  is  still  that  which  we  should  infer  from  the  Mosaic 
history.  The  wild  acacia  (Mimosa  Nilotica),  under  the  name  of  "sont,"  every- 
where represents  the  "seneh"  or  "senna"  of  the  Burning  Bush.  A  slightly 
different  form  of  the  tree,  equally  common  under  the  name  of  "  sayal,"  is  the 
ancient  "shittah,"  or,  as  more  usually  expressed  in  the  plural  form  (from  the 
tangled  thickets  into  which  its  stem  expands),  the  "  shittim,"  of  which  the 
tabernacle  was  made ;  an  incidental  proof,  it  may  be  observed,  of  the  antiquity 
of  the  institution,  inasmuch  as  the  acacia,  though  the  cluef  growth  of  the 
Desert,  is  very  rare  in  Palestine.  The  "retem,"  or  wild  broom,  with  its  high 
canopy  and  white  blossoms,  gives  its  name  to  one  of  the  stations  of  the  Israel- 
ites (Bithmah),  and  is  the  very  shrub  under  which — in  the  only  subsequent 
passage  which  connects  the  Desert  with  the  history  of  Israel — Elijah  slept  in 
lis  wanderings.  The  "  palms,"  not  the  graceral  trees  of  Egypt,  but  the  hardly 
less  picturesque  wild  palms  of  uncultivated  regions,  with  tneir  dwarf  trunks 
and  shaggy  tranches,  vindicate  by  their  very  appearance  the  title  of  being 


40  Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine. 

emphatically  the  "trees"  of  the  Desert;  and  therefore,  whether  in  the  cluster 
of  the  seventy  palm-trees  of  the  second  station  of  the  "wanderings,  or  in  the 
grove,  which  still  exists  at  the  head  of  the  Golf  of  Akaba,  were  known  by  the 
generic  name  of  "Elim,"  "Elath,"  or  " Eloth,"  "the  trees."  The  « tarfa,"  or 
tamarisk,  is  not  mentioned  by  name  in  the  history  of  the  Exodus;  yet  if  the 
tradition  of  the  Greek  Church  and  of  the  Arabs  be  adopted,  it  is  inseparably 
connected  with  the  wanderings  by  the  "  manna  "  which  distils  from  it,  as  gum 
arabic  from  the  acacia.  It  is  also  brought  within  the  limit  of  their  earlier 
history  by  the  grove  of  "  tamarisks  "  which  Abraham  planted  round  the  wells 
of  Beersheba,  as  soon  as  he  had  exchanged  the  vegetation  of  Palestine—the 
oaks  of  Moreh  and  of  Mamre — for  the  wild  and  scanty  shrubs  of  the  Desert 
frontier.  The  "Casaf,"  or  "Asaf,"  the  caper  plant,  the  bright  green  creeper 
which  climbs  out  of  the  fissures  of  the  rocks  in  the  Sinaitic  valleys,  has  been 
identified  on  grounds  of  great  probability  with  the  "  hyssop "  or  "  ezob "  of 
Scripture,  and  thus  explains  whence  came  the  green  branches  used  even  in  the 
Desert  for  sprinkling  the  water  over  the  tents  of  the  Israelites. 

The  physical  phenomena,  as  in  the  mysterious  sounds  of  the  Jibal 
Musa,  assist  in  explaining  the  wonders  of  the  giving  of  the  Law,  and  the 
relation  of  the  Desert  to  its  modern  inhabitants  is  still  illustrative  of  its 
ancient  history.  The  local  traditions,  Arab  and  Greek,  afford  but  scanty 
data  by  which  to  trace  the  track  of  the  Israelites,  and  the  physical 
peculiarities  of  the  district  have  suggested  most  of  the  legendary  scenes 
which  subsequent  tradition  has  fastened  on  that  history.  Such  are  the 
"  fossil  trees"  proclaimed  as  memorials  of  the  "  Burning  Bush ;"  the 
mark  of  the  back  of  Moses  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  that  bears  his 
name ;  the  mark  of  the  body  of  St.  Catherine  on  the  summit  of  Jibal 
Katherin ;  the  footmark  of  the  mule ;  the  sunbeam  of  the  "  Burning 
Bush ;"  and  the  Rock  of  Moses. 

If  the  sanctity  of  Sinai  was  forgotten  under  the  Jewish  Dispensation, 
still  more  likely  was  it  to  be  set  aside  under  the  Christian,  where  not 
merely  its  contrast,  but  its  inferiority,  was  the  constant  burden  of  all  the 
allusions  to  it — " the  mount  that  gendereth  to  bondage,"  "the  mount 
that  might  be  touched."  But  what  its  own  associations  could  not  win 
for  it,  its  desert  solitudes  did.  From  the  neighbouring  shores  of  Egypt 
— the  parent  land  of  monasticism — the  anchorites  and  cenobites  were 
drawn,  by  the  sight  of  these  wild  mountains,  across  the  Red  Sea ;  and 
beside  the  palm-groves  of  Fairan,  and  the  springs  of  Jibal  Musa,  were 
gathered  a  host  of  cells  and  convents.  The  whole  range  must  have 
been  then  to  the  Greek  Church  what  Athos  is  now.  No  less  than  six 
thousand  monks  or  hermits  congregated  round  Jibal  Musa ;  and  Paran 
must  almost  have  deserved  the  name  of  a  city  at  the  time  when  it  was 
frequented  by  the  Arabian  pilgrims,  who  wrote  their  names  on  the  sand- 
stone rocks  of  the  Wady  Mokalteb  and  the  granite  rocks  of  Sirbal.  Pro- 
bably the  tide  of  Syrian  and  Byzantine  pilgrims  chiefly  turned  to  Jibal 
Musa ;  the  African  and  Alexandrian  to  the  nearer  sanctuary  at  Fairan. 
Of  all  these  memorials  of  ancient  devotion,  the  great  convent  of  the  Trans- 
figuration, or,  as  it  was  afterwards  called,  of  St.  Catherine,  alone  remains. 

Those  who  have  seen  the  Grande  Chartreuse  in  the  Alps  of  Dauphiny  know 
the  shock  produced  by  the  sight  of  that  vast  edifice  in  the  midst  of  the  mountain 
desert — the  long,  irregular  pfle  of  the  Parisian  architecture  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury—the one  habitation  of  the  upland  wilderness  of  which  it  is  the  centre.    It 


Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine.  41 

is  this  feeling,  raised  to  its  highest  pitch,  which  is  roused  on  finding  in  the 
heart  of  the  Desert  of  Sinai  the  stately  Convent  of  St.  Catherine,  with  its  mas- 
sive walls,  its  gorgeous  church  hung  with  banners,  its  galleries  of  chapels>  of 
cells,  and  of  guest  chambers,  its  library  of  precious  manuscripts,  the  sound  of 
its  rude  cymbals  calling  to  prayer,  and  changed  by  the  echoes  into  music  as  it 
rolls  through  the  desert  valley,  the  double  standard  of  the  Lamb  and  Cross 
floating  high  from  its  topmost  towers. 

The  Byzantine  emperor,  Justinian,  determined  to  secure  a  safe  transit 
through  the  Desert  by  a  fortified  convent.  A  tower,  ascribed  to  Helena, 
furnished  the  nucleus.  It  stood  by  the  traditional  sites  of  the  Well  of 
Jethro  and  the  Burning  Bush,  a  retreat  for  the  hermits  when  in  former 
times  they  had  been  hard  pressed  by  their  Bedouin  neighbours. 

As  centuries  have  rolled  on,  even  the  convent  of  Sinai  has  not  escaped  their 
influence.  The  many  cells  which  formerly  peopled  the  mountains  have  long 
been  vacant.  The  episcopal  city  of  Paran,  perhaps  in  consequence  of  the  rise 
of  the  foundation  of  Justinian,  has  perished  almost  without  a  history.  The 
nunnery  of  St.  Episteme  has  vanished;  the  convent  of  the  good  physicians 
Cosmo  and  Damian,  the  hermitage  of  St.  Onufrius,  the  convent  of  the  Eorty 
Martyrs—tinged  with  a  certain  interest  from  the  famous  churches  of  the  same 
name,  derived  from  them,  in  the  Forum  of  Rome,  on  the  Janicular  Hill,  and  on 
the  Lateran — are  all  in  ruins ;  and  the  great  fortress  of  St.  Catherine  probably 
owes  its  existence  more  to  its  massive  walls  than  to  any  other  single  cause. 
Yet  it  is  a  thought  of  singular,  one  might  add  of  melancholy  interest,  that 
amidst  all  these  revolutions  the  convent  of  Mount  Sinai  is  still  the  one  seat  of 
European  and  of  Christian  civilisation  and  worship,  not  only  in  the  whole 
Peninsula  of  Sinai,  but  in  the  whole  country  of  Arabia.  Still,  or  at  least  till 
within  a  very  few  years,  it  has  retained  a  hold,  if  not  on  the  reason  or  the 
affections,  at  least  on  the  superstitions  of  the  Bedouins,  beyond  what  is  exer- 
cised by  any  other  influence.  Burckhardt,  and  after  him  Robinson,  relate 
with  pathetic  simplicity  the  deep  conviction  with  which  these  wild  children  of 
the  Desert  believe  that  the  monks  command  or  withhold  the  rain  from  heaven, 
on  which  the  whole  sustenance  of  the  peninsula  depends. 

With  these  singular  advantages,  Mr.  Stanley  also  points  out  that  it  is 
hard  to  recal  another  institution  with  opportunities  so  signally  wasted. 
The  convent-fortress  of  St.  Catherine  is  a  colony  of  Christian  pastors 
planted  among  heathens,  who  wait  on  them  for  their  daily  bread  and  for 
their  rain  from  heaven,  yet  not  a  spark  of  civilisation,  or  of  Christianity, 
so  far  as  history  records,  has  been  imparted  to  a  single  tribe  or  family  in 
that  wide  wilderness.  Not  only  this,  but  hardly  a  fact  has  been  contri- 
buted by  them  to  the  geography,  the  meteorology,  or  natural  history  of 
a  country  which  has  been  submitted  to  their  investigation,  in  all  its 
aspects,  for  thirteen  centuries. 

The  scenery  of  Palestine  is  so  much  more  familiar  than  that  of  Sinai, 
that  it  is  unnecessary  to  enter  into  the  same  details  regarding  that  region 
as  has  been  done  in  the  instance  of  "  The  Desert."  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  Mr.  Stanley,  in  travelling  from  Akaba  to  Petra,  instead  of  following 
the  Wady  Arabah,  pursued  the  usual  course  across  the  range  of  the  Jibal 
8hira.  But  he  has  made  some  remarks  which  show  that  the  slope  from 
east  to  west,  which  distorts  the  course  of  the  currents,  makes  it  almost 
impossible  to  distinguish  whether  they  descend  in  a  northerly  or  southerly 
direction.  In  the  midst  of  the  line  of  hills  or  undulations  spoken  of  by 
Burckhardt  and  De  Bertou,  Mr.  Stanley's  Arab  Shaykh  showed  him  a 


42  Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine. 

broad  watercourse,  Wady  Howar,  which  he  maintained  was  the  water- 
shed; but  it  ran  from  east  to  west,  and  therefore  towards  a  lower  level  than 
the  Tyh  mountains,  where  it  may  turn  northwards  or  southwards,  nobody 
knows  which.  This,  however,  is  sufficient  to  prove  that  the  water-shed 
is  at  a  lower  level  than  that  assumed  by  De  Bertou,  and  probably  some- 
where near  where  Captain  W.  Allen  places  it,  about  twenty-five  miles 
from  Akaba.  A  writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  has  strangely  misre- 
presented the  views  entertained  by  the  last-mentioned  traveller,  and 
which  were  alluded  to  in  the  last  number  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
when  he  supposes  that  Captain  Allen's  project  necessitates  two  cuttings, 
one  for  forty  miles  from  Acre  to  the  Jordan,  and  another  of  120  miles  from 
the  Dead  Sea  to  Akaba.  The  Dead  Sea  lying  in  a  depression  of  about 
1300  feet  below  the  Mediterranean,  all  that  is  requisite  is  to  open  a  canal 
to  such  a  point  on  either  line  as  shall  have  a  depression  of  thirty  feet  below 
the  level  of  the  Mediterranean  :  and  this  point  Captain  Allen  believes  to 
be  at  about  twenty-five  miles  from  the  Bay  of  Acre,  and  twenty- 
five  miles  from  Akaba,  which  would  hence  be  all  the  cutting  neces- 
sary to  fill  up  the  remainder  of  the  proposed  canal.  In  the  map  of 
the  Peninsula  of  Sinai,  attached  to  Mr.  Stanley's  work,  the  Wady- 
al-Arabah  is  depicted  as  a  true  wady,  or  marshy  hollow  or  depression, 
extending  from  the  Dead  Sea  to  Akaba,  with  a  nominal  water-shed  a 
little  southward  of  Petra,  as  if  it  was  a  mere  accidental  accumulation  of 
the  detritus  borne  down  by  the  rivulets  of  that  neighbourhood  in  the 
rainy  season  into  the  Wady-el-Arabah. 

The  great  features  of  Palestine  are  its  mountains  and  rivers.  From 
the  Lebanon  flow  four  rivers  of  unequal  magnitude,  on  which,  at  different 
times,  have  sprung  up  the  four  ruling  powers  of  that  portion  of  Asia. 
Lebanon  is  in  this  respect,  Mr.  Stanley  remarks,  a  likeness  of  that 
primeval  paradise  to  which  its  local  traditions  have  always  endeavoured 
to  attach  themselves.  The  Orontes  was  the  river  of  the  Greek  kingdom 
of  Antioch  and  Seleucia ;  the  Litany  was  the  river  of  Phoenicia ;  the 
Barada  was  the  river  o£  the  Syrian  kingdom  of  Damascus ;  the  Jordan 
was  the  river  of  Palestine.  The  Jordan  is  unique  on  the  surface  of  the 
globe :  the  deep  depression  of  that  river  has  absolutely  no  parallel.  No 
other  valley  in  the  world  presents  such  extraordinary  physical  features ; 
none  has  been  the  subject  of  such  various  theories  as  to  its  origin  and 
character.  Earth  and  man  are  in  this  country  alike  objects  of  wonder 
and  investigation. 

It  is  around  and  along  this  deep  fissure  that  the  hills  of  western  and 
eastern  Palestine  spring  up,  forming  the  link  between  the  high  group  of 
Lebanon  on  the  north,  and  the  high  group  of  Sinai  on  the  south.  On 
the  one  side  of  the  Jordan  these  hills  present  a  mass  of  green  pastures 
and  forests,  melting  away,  on  the  east,  into  the  red  plains  of  the  Hauran. 
On  the  other  side  they  form  a  mass  of  grey  rock,  rising  above  the  yellow 
desert  on  the  south,  bounded  on  the  west  by  the  long  green  strip  of  the 
maritime  plain,  cut  asunder  on  the  north  by  the  rich  plain  of  Esdraelon, 
rising  again  beyond  Esdraelon  into  the  wild  scenery  of  mountains  and 
forest  in  the  roots  of  Lebanon. 

Each  of  these  divisions  has  a  name,  a  character,  and,  to  a  certain 
extent,  a  history  of  its  own,  and  they  were  unitedly  secluded  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  by  desert,  sea,  and  mountain.     In  Palestine,   as  in 


Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine.  43 

Greece,  every  traveller  is  struck  with  the  smallness  of  the  country.  It 
is  rarely  more  than  fifty  miles  from  the  Jordan  to  the  sea.  Its  length 
from  Dan  to  Beersheba  is  about  180  miles.  But  Mr.  Stanley  remarks, 
that  whatever  may  be  the  poverty  or  insignificance  of  the  landscape,  it 
is  at  once  relieved  by  a  glimpse  of  either  of  the  two  boundaries  of 
mountain  or  sea,  visible  from  almost  every  high  point  in  the  country,  and 
the  close  proximity  of  each — the  deep  purple  shade  of  the  one,  and  the 
glittering  waters  of  the  other — makes  it  always  possible  for  one  or 
other  of  those  two  voices  to  be  heard  now  as  they  were  by  the  psalmists 
of  old. 

The  once  central  situation  of  Palestine  materially  influenced  its  des- 
tinies. "  I  have  set  Jerusalem  in  the  midst  of  the  nations  and  countries 
that  are  round  about  her."  Palestine  was  the  "  high  bridge"  over  which 
the  ancient  empires  ascended  and  descended  respectively  into  the  deep 
basins  of  the  Nile  and  the  Euphrates.  The  whole  history  of  Palestine, 
between  the  return  from  the  captivity  and  the  Christian  era,  is  a  contest 
between  the  "  kings  of  the  north  and  the  kings  of  the  south" — the  de- 
scendants of  Seleucus  and  the  descendants  of  Ptolemy — as  it  afterwards 
became  the  scene  of  the  chief  conflicts  of  Rome  with  Asia.  There  is 
no  other  country  in  the  world,  Mr.  Stanley  remarks,  which  could  exhibit 
the  same  confluence  of  associations  as  that  which  is  awakened  by  the 
rocks  which  overhang  the  crystal  stream  of  the  Dog  river,  where  it 
rushes  through  the  ravines  of  Lebanon  into  the  Mediterranean  Sea;  where, 
side  by  side,  are  to  be  seen  the  hieroglyphics  of  the  great  Rameses  (a 
fact  which  the  French  archaeologist  De  Saulcy  persists  in  denying),  the 
cuneiform  characters  of  Sennacherib,  and  the  Latin  inscriptions  of  the 
Emperor  Antoninus. 

Above  all  other  countries  in  the  world,  Palestine  is  a  land  of  ruins.  It 
is  not  that  the  particular  ruins  are  on  a  scale  equal  to  those  of  Greece 
and  Italy,  still  less  so  to  those  of  Egypt.  But  there  is  no  country  in 
which  they  are  so  numerous,  none  in  which  they  bear  so  large  a  propor- 
tion to  the  villages  and  towns  still  in  existence.  .  In  Judaea  it  is  hardly 
an  exaggeration  to  say,  that  whilst  for  miles  and  miles  there  is  no 
appearance  of  present  life  or  habitation — except  the  occasional  goatherd 
on  the  hill-side,  or  gathering  of  women  at  the  wells — there  is  hardly  a 
hill-top  of  the  many  within  sight  which  is  not  covered  by  the  vestiges  of 
some  fortress  or  city  of  former  ages.  Nowhere  else  can  all  the  details  of 
Roman  domestic  architecture  be  seen  so  clearly  as  in  the  hundreds  of 
deserted  villages  which  stand  in  the  red  desert  of  the  Hauran,  as  nowhere 
can  the  dwellings  and  churches  of  the  primitive  Christians  be  seen  to 
such  advantage  as  in  North  Syria.  The  ruins  are  of  the  most  diverse 
ages ;  Saracenic,  Crusadine,  Roman,  Grecian,  Jewish,  extending  even  to 
the  old  Canaanitish  remains,  before  the  arrival  of  Joshua.  This  variety, 
this  accumulation  of  destruction,  is  the  natural  result  of  the  position 
which  has  made  Palestine  for  so  many  ages  the  thoroughfare  and  prize  of 
the  world.  What  a  field  for  labour  is  here  presented  to  the  Palestine 
Archaeological  Association !  So  remote  is  the  origin  of  some  of  these 
remains,  cairns,  monoliths,  circles  of  stones,  tells,  and  forsaken  villages, 
that  as  far  back  as  the  history  and  language  of  Palestine  reaches,  they 
were  familiar  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  country. 


44  Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine. 

Travellers  ask  themselves,  on  witnessing  such  a  scene  of  desolation, 
"  Can  these  stonv  hills,  these  [deserted  valleys,  he  indeed  the  Land  of 
Promise,  the  lancf  flowing  with  milk  and  honey  ?"  The  difference  is  that 
between  culture  and  neglect,  the  destruction  of  forests  and  groves,  and 
the  consequent  absence  of  moisture  and  springs.  The  forests  of  Hareth, 
of  Bethel,  of  Sharon,  and  of  Ziph,  have,  for  example,  all '  long  since 
disappeared. 

Mr.  Stanley  denies  to  the  scenery  of  Palestine  any  peculiar  claims  to 
beauty.  The  country,  he  says,  is  not  only  without  the  two  main  elements 
of  beauty — variety  of  outline  and  variety  of  colour — but  the  features 
rarely  so  group  together  as  to  form  any  distinctive  or  impressive  combina- 
tion. The  hills  are  generally  rounded  and  of  a  grey  colour — grey  partly 
from  the  limestone  of  which  they  are  formed,  partly  from  the  tufts  oi 
grey  shrub  with  which  their  sides  are  clothed,  and  from  the  prevalence 
of  the  olive.  As  Keith  has  too  justly  said,  "  The  rounded  and  rocky  hills 
of  Judaea  swell  out  in  empty,  unattractive,  and  even  repulsive  barren- 
ness, with  nothing  to  relieve  the  eye  or  captivate  the  fancy." 

These  rounded  hills,  occasionally  stretching  into  long,  undulating 
ranges,  are,  for  the  most  part,  bare  of  wood.  Forest  and  large  timber 
are  not  known.  Corn-fields,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Christian 
populations,  as  at  Bethlehem,  vineyards  creep  along  the  ancient  terraces. 
In  the  spring,  the  hills  and  valleys  are  covered  with  thin  grass,  and  the 
aromatic  shrubs  which  clothe  more  or  less  almost  the  whole  of  Syria  and 
Arabia.  But  they  also  glow  with  what  Mr.  Stanley  believed  to  be 
peculiar  to  Palestine,  but  is  not  so,  being  equally  common  to  Syria  and 
Mesopotamia — a  profusion  of  wild  flowers,  daisies,  the  white  flower  called 
the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  but  especially  with  a  blaze  of  scarlet  flowers  of 
all  kinds,  chiefly  anemones,  wild  tulips,  and  poppies. 

The  general  barrenness  of  the  country  sets  off  in  the  same  way  the 
rare  exceptions  in  the  larger  forms  of  vegetable  life.  The  olive,  the  fig, 
and  the  pomegranate  are  so  humble  in  stature,  that  they  hardly  attract 
the  eye  till  the  spectator  is  among  them.  Then,  indeed,  the  twisted 
stems  and  silver  foliage  of  the  first,  the  dark  broad  leaf  of  the  second, 
the  tender  green  and  scarlet  blossoms  of  the  third,  are  amongst  the  most 
beautiful  of  sights  even  when  stripped  of  their  associations,  which  would 
make  the  tamest  of  their  kind  venerable. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  trees  which  emerge  from  this  general 
obscurity.  Foremost  stand  the  cedars  of  Lebanon.  In  ancient  times  the 
sides  of  that  mountain  were  covered  with  them,  now  they  are  only  found 
in  one  small  hollow  on  its  north-western  slope.  The  oaks  and  terebinths 
must  always  have  presented  striking  objects  in  the  view,  wherever  they 
appeared.  They  are  both  tall  and  spreading  trees,  with  dark  evergreen 
foliage,  but  they  are  rare,  and  the  oaks  especially  have  become  invested 
with  a  kind  of  religions  sanctity,  as  landmarks  of  the  country,  to  a  degree 
which  would  not  be  possible  in  more  thickly-wooded  regions.  Such  are 
the  oaks  of  Abraham,  of  Moreh  at  Shechem,  of  Mamre  at  Hebron,  of 
Bethel,  and  such  the  groves  of  Hazori  and  at  the  sanctuary  of  Dan. 

The  palm  which  once  broke  the  uniformity  of  the  Syrian  landscape  is 
now  almost  unknown  to  its  hills  and  valleys.  Two  or  three  in  the  garden 
of  Jerusalem,  some  few  perhaps  at  Nablus,  one  or  two  in  the  plain  of 


Scenery  of  Sinai  and  Palestine.  45 

Esdraelon,  comprise  nearly  all  the  instances  of  the  palm  in  Central 
Palestine.  Once  a  palm-grove  seven  miles  long  surrounded  Jericho; 
En-gedi  was  in  a  similar  grove  ;  so  also  was  Bethany.  The  sycamore 
is  still  a  tree  of  the  plain,  or  rather  of  the  fountain,  hut  rare  ;  and  the 
oleander,  with  its  bright  blossoms  and  dark  green  leaves,  still  imparts  the 
aspect  of  a  rich  garden  to  the  banks  of  the  Jordan. 

Lastly,  not  only  does  the  thirsty  character  of  the  whole  of  Palestine 
give  a  peculiar  expression  to  any  places  where  water  may  be  had,  but  the 
rocky  soil  preserves  their  identity,  and  the  wells  of  the  Holy  Land  serve  as 
the  links  by  which  each  successive  age  is  bound  to  the  other,  in  a  maimer 
which  at  first  sight  would  be  thought  almost  incredible.  The  tombs  of 
Ancient  Greece  or  Rome  lined  the  public  roads  with  funeral  piljars  or 
towers.  Grassy  graves  and  marble  monuments  fill  the  churchyards  and 
churches  of  Christian  Europe.  But  the  sepulchres  of  Palestine  were,  like 
the  habitations  of  its  earliest  inhabitants,  hewn  out  of  the  living  limestone 
rock,  and  hence  do  they  remain,  next  to  the  wells,  the  most  authentic 
memorials  of  past  times. 

"  And  this,"  Mr.  Stanley  remarks,  "is  in  fact  the  final  conclusion 
which  is  to  be  drawn  from  the  character,  or  rather  want  of  character, 
presented  by  the  general  scenery.  If  the  first  feeling  be  disappointment, 
yet  the  second  may  well  be  thankfulness.  There  is  little  in  these  hills 
and  valleys  on  which  the  imagination  can  fasten.  Whilst  the  great  seats 
of  Greek  and  Roman  religion — at  Delphi  and  Lebadea,  by  the  lakes  of 
Alba  and  of  Aricia — strike  even  the  indifferent  traveller  as  deeply  im- 
pressive, Shiloh  and  Bethel,  on  the  other  hand,  so  long  the  sanctuaries 
and  oracles  of  God,  almost  escape  the  notice  even  of  the  zealous  anti- 
quarian in  the  maze  of  undistinguished  hills  which  encompass  them.  The 
first  view  of  Olivet  impresses  us  chiefly  by  its  bare  matter-of-fact  appear- 
ance ;  the  first  approach  to  the  hills  of  Judaea  reminds  the  English  tra- 
veller not  of  the  most  but  of  the  least  striking  portions  of  the  moun- 
tains of  his  own  country.  Yet  all  this  renders  the  Holy  Land  the  fitting 
cradle  of  a  religion  which  expressed  itself,  not  through  the  voices  of 
rustling  forests,  or  the  clefts  of  mysterious  precipices,  but  through  the 
souls  and  the  hearts  of  men — whicn  was  destined  to  have  no  home  on 
earth,  least  of  all  in  its  own  birthplace — which  has  attained  its  full 
dimensions  only  in  proportion  as  it  has  travelled  further  from  its  original 
source  to  the  daily  life  and  homes  of  nations  as  far  removed  from  Pales- 
tine in  thought  and  feeling  as  they  are  in  climate  and  latitude — which 
alone,  of  all  religions,  claims  to  be  founded  not  on  fancy  or  feeling,  but 
on  Fact  and  Truth." 


(.46     ) 


PILGRIMAGES  TO  THE  FRENCH  PALACES. 

BY  FLORENTIA. 


Death  of  Madame  Henriette— Monsieur — Madame  Charlotte  de  Baviere— The 
Regent  Orleans — His  Family — Due  and  Duchesse  du  Maine. 

It  was  in  the  Palais  Royal  that,  during  the  infancy  of  Louis,  the 
daring  Frondeurs  presumed  to  penetrate,  until  they  had  reached  the 
sleeping-room  of  their  young  king.  Anne  of  Austria,  magnificent 
in  beauty  and  majesty,  advanced  to  the  door  with  the  utmost  com- 
posure to  meet  the  rude  invaders,  who  were  rushing  pell-mell  into 
the  chamber.  On  her  appearance  they  drew  back,  amazed  at  the 
vision  of  loveliness  and  dignity  before  them ;  her  finger,  placed  on  her 
mouth,  commanded  silence,  and  the  crowded  mass,  before  so  noisy  and 
obstreperous,  was  hushed  as  by  a  charm  in  an  instant.  Beckoning  to  the 
foremost  to  advance,  the  queen  approached  the  bed  of  her  son,  and,  with- 
drawing the  curtain,  displayed  Louis  slumbering  in  all  the  soundness  and 
tranquillity  of  childhood.  The  Frondeurs  were  satisfied,  and  at  once 
silently  withdrew,  descending  the  stairs  and  traversing  the  spacious 
galleries  of  the  Palais  Royal  in  a  very  different  spirit  to  that  in  which 
they  had  mounted,  assured  that  their  king  was  in  Paris,  and  neither 
spirited  away  by  his  mother  nor  kidnapped  by  Cardinal  Mazarin.  None 
but  a  woman  possessed  of  great  personal  courage  and  royalty  of  soul 
could  have  acted  in  this  dilemma  with  the  dignity  and  composure  dis- 
played by  the  queen,  whose  character  I  have  ever  much  admired,  which 
must  excuse  the  fondness  with  which  I  linger  around  those  scenes  with 
which  she  is  connected.  Anne  of  Austria  did  not  long  survive  the  death 
of  Mazarin ;  forgotten  by  a  court  given  up  to  frivolity  and  dissipation, 
and  neglected  by  her  son,  who  was  engaged  in  a  succession  of  amorous 
intrigues,  she  expired,  after  great  sufferings,  of  a  cancer  in  the  breast. 

Although  Richelieu  had  expressly  desired  that  his  palace  should  be 
unalienable  from  the  crown,  it  passed  into  the  possession  of  that  soft  and 
effeminate  brother  of  Louis  XIV.,  Monsieur,  the  husband  of  Henrietta  of 
England,  whose  horrible  death  was  undoubtedly  caused  by  poison  admi- 
nistered by  one  of  the  favourites  of  her  abandoned  lord.  Suspicion  pointed 
at  the  Chevalier  de  Lorraine,  who  was  known  to  view  with  great  jealousy 
any  rival  in  the  ascendancy  he  exercised  over  the  duke.  Certain  it  is 
that  no  steps  were  ever  taken  to  investigate  the  cause  of  a  death  so 
sudden  and  so  fearful.  Her  husband  evinced  but  little  sorrow,  and  the 
only  person  who  really  felt  any  compassion  for  the  sufferings  of  the  un- 
fortunate duchess  was  Louis  XIV.  himself.  Scandal  had  often  joined 
their  names,  and  it  is  confidently  asserted  that  an  attachment  had  at  one 
time  subsisted  between  them  prior  to  the  king's  liaison  with  La 
Valliere ;  but  of  this  there  is  no  sufficient  proof.  Louis,  undoubtedly, 
was  much  attached  to  his  beautiful  sister-in-law,  whose  grace,  elegance, 
and  wonderful  knowledge  of  all  the  mysteries  of  the  toilette  so  exactly 
corresponded  with  his  own  frivolous  taste,  and  in  the  earlier  part  of  his 
reign  Madame  Henriette  exercised  great  influence  over  him.  It  is  said, 
that   on  hearing  of  her  death,  he  caused  Morel,  the  maitre   d'h6tel 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  4ft 

of  his  brother,  to  be  summoned  before  him,  and  on  pain  of  instant  death 
if  he  attempted  to  equivocate  or  deceive  him,  closely  questioned  him  as 
to  the  circumstances. 

Morel  replied  that  he  would  conceal  nothing  from  his  majesty. 

"  Did  the  duchess  die  by  poison  ?"  demanded  the  king,  pale  with 
horror. 

"  She  did,"  said  Morel. 

Louis  shuddered.     "  By  whose  order  was  the  poison  administered  ?" 

"  By  that  of  the  Chevalier  de  Lorraine,"  replied  Morel ;  "  it  was 
put  into  a  cup  of  chicoreVwater,  the  duchess's  usual  beverage,  by  the 
hands  of  the  Marquis  d'Effiat.  Before  God,  your  majesty,  I  am  innocent 
of  all  save  the  knowledge  of  the  crime.  The  duchess  complained  of 
thirst,  the  cup  of  chicoree  was  presented,  and  soon  after  she  was  seized 
with  convulsions.     Your  majesty  knows  the  rest." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  the  king,  making  a  great  effort,  and  trembling  with 
agitation  as  he  put  the  question — "  tell  me,  had  my  brother — had  the 
Due  d' Orleans — any  part  in  this  foul  deed  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Morel ;  "  they  dared  not  trust  him  ;  he  would  have  be- 
trayed all.  But  it  was  believed  that  the  death  of  Madame  would  not 
be * 

"  Answer  as  I  desire  you,"  sternly  interrupted  the  king,  relieved  in 
the  greatest  degree  by  hearing  that  his  brother  was  not  an  accomplice. 
"  I  have  heard  what  I  wished — I  am  satisfied ;  but  although  I  spare  your 
life,  wretched  man,  leave  my  kingdom  for  ever ;  remember  the  honour 
of  princes  is  in  your  hands,  and  that  wherever  you  fly  their  vengeance 
can  pursue  you.     Therefore  be  silent  as  you  value  your  life." 

The  king  dared  investigate  no  further ;  too  foul  a  picture  of  his  brother's 
life  would  have  been  revealed  to  public  curiosity.  The  death  of  the 
lovely  though  frivolous  young  princess  remained  unavenged,  and  was 
soon  comparatively  forgotten  in  the  gaieties  of  a  court  where  the  sove- 
reign set  an  example  of  the  most  heartless  egotism. 

As  for  Monsieur,  nothing  daunted  by  the  suspicions  attached  to  his 
name,  and  although  believed  by  many  to  have  been  an  accomplice  in 
Henrietta's  death,  he  determined  to  re-marry,  and  actually  found  a  Ger- 
man princess  (ever  the  refuge  of  unfortunate  royalties  in  search  of  a  wife) 
inclined  to  encounter  the  risk  of  such  a  Bluebeard.  This  lady,  a  certain 
formidable  she-dragon,  by  name  Charlotte  of  Bavaria,  was  certainly  well 
able  to  defend  herself  in  case  of  necessity,  and  was  altogether  a  lady  not 
at  all  of  a  nature  to  be  trifled  with.  What  a  contrast  to  the  beautiful,  fas- 
cinating Henrietta!  Her  successor's  autobiographical  memoirs  remain 
as  a  lasting  evidence  of  her  coarseness  of  mind  and  body.  She  relates, 
with  the  utmost  naivete,  full  particulars  of  matrimonial  mysteries  that 
certainly  have  ever  been  regarded  and  respected  as  such  by  all  the  world 
since  the  day  that  Eve  clothed  herself  in  Paradise.  The  opening  pages 
of  this  curious  autobiography  exceed  in  eccentricity  anything  ever  before 
published.  Let  my  readers  judge  for  themselves  by  the  following  sen- 
tences.    Thus  she  begins : 

"  I  am  naturally  rather  melancholy,  and  when  anything  annoys 
me  I  always  have  an  inflammation  in  my  left  side,  as  if  I  had  the 
dropsy.      Lying  in  bed  is  not  at  all  my  habit;  as  soon  as  I  wake  I 

May — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxv.  e 


48  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

must  get  up.  I  seldom  take  breakfast,  and  if  I  do,  only  eat  bread- 
and-butter.  I  neither  like  chocolate,  coffee,  nor  tea;  foreign  drugs 
are  my  horror.  I  am  entirely  German  in  my  habits,  and  relish  nothing 
in  the  way  of  food  but  the  cuisine  of  my  own  country.  I  can  only  eat 
loup  made  with  milk,  beer,  or  wine.  As  to  bouillon,  I  detest  it ;  if  I 
eat  any  dish  that  contains  it  I  am  ill  directly,  my  body  swells,  and  I  am 
fearfully  sick ;  nothing  but  sausages  and  ham  restore  the  tone  of  my  sto- 
mach afterwards. 

"  I  always  wanted  to  be  a  boy,  and  having  heard  that  Marie  Germain 
became  a  man  by  continually  jumping,  I  used  to  take  such  fearful  leaps 
that  it  is  a  miracle  I  did  not  break  my  neck  a  thousand  times." 

I  only  know  of  one  good  quality  this  extraordinary  German  frau  pos- 
sessed— she  thoroughly  saw  through  Madame  de  Maintenon's  true  cha- 
racter and  hated  her  cordially,  who  in  return  detested  the  duchess,  and  of 
course  induced  all  her  clique  to  do  the  same.  Her  young  favourite,  the 
interesting  Duchesse  de  Bourgogne,  then  dauphiness,  the  mother  of 
Louis  XVI.,  amiable  as  she  was  in  most  other  respects,  was  influenced 
by  her  against  Charlotte  of  Bavaria,  whose  coarse  manners  also  contri- 
buted to  this  dislike,  and  treated  her  with  marked  and  extreme  rude- 
ness, refusing,  even  when  addressed  by  her,  to  make  any  reply.  The 
Duchesse  d'Orleans,  with  frank,  downright  German  independence,  and 
an  uncontrollable  share  of  pride,  supported  by  a  coat  of  arms  con* 
taming  a  hundred  quarterings  at  least,  was  not  of  a  disposition  long 
to  suffer  any  indignity  in  silence.  At  first  she  was  willing  to  attribute 
this  impertinence  on  the  part  of  the  dauphiness  to  childish  pique  or  ca- 
price, "  for  she  was,"  says  the  duchess,  "  but  a  wild  hoiden  of  a  girl,  and 
very  young,"  and  she  expected  that  her  highnesses  manners  would  mend 
with  her  years.  But  finding  that  instead  of  diminishing,  this  disdain  and 
rudeness  only  increased,  and  was  encouraged  by  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
she  openly  declared  her  intention  of  complaining  to  the  king,  with  whom 
she  was  on  the  best  terms,  her  blunt  and  unsophisticated  outbursts  affording 
him  infinite  amusement.  At  this  notice,  the  old  woman,  as  she  called 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  became  seriously  alarmed,  and  taking  her  aside, 
entreated  her  not  to  put  her  threat  into  execution,  promising  that  the 
dauphiness  should  in  future  be  more  conciliating  in  her  conduct ;  which 
was  the  case.  From  that  time  the  duchess's  originality  was  respected,  and 
she  was  left  in  peace  to  drink  as  much  beer  and  eat  as  many  sausages 
as  the  peculiarity  of  her  constitution  required. 

Proud,  haughty,  and  repulsive  as  she  was,  Charlotte  of  Bavaria  pos- 
sessed a  considerable  share  of  plain  common  sense,  and  she  contrived  to 
live  peaceably  with  her  heartless,  effeminate  husband,  Monsieur,  whose 
vices  she  attributed  more  to  weakness  than  to  wickedness.  On  her  sou, 
the  Regent  Orleans,  she  doted  with  all  a  mother's  pride  and  tenderness, 
and  seems  to  have  been  utterly  blind  or  indifferent  to  his  profligacy ;  but 
even  he  was  not  exempt  from  the  brusque  violence  of  her  temper.  On 
first  hearing  of  his  approaching  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  de  Blois, 
the  daughter  of  Louis  XIV.  and  Madame  de  Montespan,  and  sister  of 
the  ambitious  Due  du  Maine,  this  tigress  was  so  enraged  that  she  ac- 
tually struck  her  son  in  an  outburst  of  uncontrollable  passion.  She  con- 
sidered that  such  an  alliance  would  be  an  eternal  blot  on  her  escutcheon, 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  49 

which,  like  all  Germans,  she  prized  to  a  ludicrous  extent,  for,  according 
to  Madame,  the  Palatine  family  was  more  illustrious  than  any  other 
among  the  princes  of  Christendom,  Whether  she  was  content  to 
trace  her  descent  from  Adam  is  not  certain,  but  she  is  accused  of  not 
being  satisfied  with  so  common  a  progenitor,  and  rather  to  have  aspired 
to  some  family  connexion  with  the  angels  "  that  loved  the  daughters  of 
men,"  and  in  this  manner  got  a  footing  among  the  clouds — a  situation 
much  more  suited  to  her  pride.  At  all  events  she  made  no  mystery  of  her 
opinion,  that  in  marrying  a  grandson  of  Henri  Quatre  she  had  committed 
a  painful  mesalliance.  What  then  must  have  been  her  rage  and  indig- 
nation at  her  son  matching  with  a  royal  bastard  !  Her  opposition  was 
most  violent;  and  being  far  too  much  excited  to  assume  even  a  semblance 
of  etiquette  or  politeness,  the  expressions  of  rage  to  which  this  voluminous 
German  dame  gave  utterance  were  neither  as  choice  nor  as  aristocratic 
as  might  have  been  expected. 

She  flew  to  the  king,  and  although  the  doors*  of  the  cabinet  where  the 
interview  took  place  were  carefully  closed,  the  angry  voices  of  the  king 
and  Madame  were  distinctly  heard  high  in  dispute. 

"  If  your  majesty  had  wished  for  an  alliance  between  my  son  and  a 
daughter  of  Marie  Therese,  I  should  have  considered  it  my  duty  to 
accede." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  the  king,  crimson  with  passion,  "  you  would  then  have 
condescended  to  accept  a  princess  royal  for  your  daughter-in-law  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  majesty,  that  would  have  been  a  different  affair  altogether, 
although  I  believe  there  is  not  a  princess  in  Europe  who  would  not  too 
gladly  accept  my  son,  descended  as  he  is  from  the  noble  house  of  the 
Palatinate."  The  king  stamped  with  anger.  "  But,  sire,  my  son  shall 
never  ally  himself  to  a  bastard." 

"  Madame !"  cried  the  king,  "  you  forget  yourself.  How  dare  you 
address  me  in  such  language  ?" 

"  Your  majesty  will  oblige  me  to  presume  still  further  by  pressing 
this  proposal,  for  my  opposition  shall  not  only  be  confined  to  words.  I 
will  never  consent  to  this  marriage."  And  Madame  rose  to  leave  the 
room. 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  the  king,  "  if  your  husband,  my  brother,  will 
dare  to  oppose  my  wishes.     We  shall  see,  Madame  la  Palatine." 

"  Your  brother,  sire,  will,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  duchess,  retiring,  "  be 
advised  by  one  who  can  better  defend  the  honour  of  his  house  than  he  is 
capable  of  doing  himself.     Your  brother  will  do  his  duty." 

Louis,  finding  that  there  was  no  chance  of  overcoming  the  opposition  of 
Madame,  either  by  persuasion  or  by  threats,  consulted  with  Madame  de 
Maintenon  how  the  marriage  was  to  be  brought  about.  They  both 
determined  that  what  could  not  be  effected  openly  must  be  done  by 
intrigue.  The  Abb6  Dubois,  that  dme  damnee  of  the  young  duke, 
known  to  exercise  an  influence  great  as  it  was  pernicious  over  his  mind, 
was  summoned  to  the  boudoir  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  at  twilight. 
By  promises  of  large  preferment,  she  completely  made  him  her  creature, 
and  the  unprincipled  tutor  promised  to  use  all  his  influence  over  his  pupil 
to  hurry  on  the  marriage  with  or  without  the  consent  of  his  mother.  To 
accomplish  this,  he  represented  to  him  the  anger  of  the  king,  the  cer- 

B  2 


50  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

tain  loss  of  all  command  or  influence,  the  incessant  and  disagreeable 
animosity  that  must  result  from  his  refusal  to  accept  the  hand  of  Louis's 
daughter.  At  length,  after  much  difficulty,  the  duke  consented,  met 
Mademoiselle  de  Blois  in  the  apartments  of  Madame  de  Maintenon,  and 
the  marriage  was  soon  after  celebrated  in  the  presence  of  the  whole 
court. 

Madame  was  furious  at  what  she  termed  her  "  dishonour,"  and  wept, 
abused,  menaced,  and  scolded  by  turns ;  but  finding  that  there  was  no 
help,  that  the  marriage  was  concluded,  and  that  further  opposition  might 
really  rouse  the  vengeance  of  the  king,  she  gradually  cooled  down  and 
received  her  new  daughter  with  tolerable  civility;  particularly  as  the 
marriage-portion  of  Mademoiselle  de  Blois  continued  the  possession  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  with  all  its  pictures  and  sculptures,  in  the  Orleans 
family — a  proviso  not  to  be  despised,  and  which  somewhat  served  to  gild 
the  bitter  pill  she  had  to  swallow. 

After  the  death  of  his  father,  the  Palais  Royal  became  the  favourite 
residence  of  this  unprincipled  but  agreeable  libertine,  endowed  by  nature 
with  so  many  noble  and  distinguished  qualities.  Eminently  handsome, 
there  was  a  grace  and  dignity  about  him  that  attracted  and  attached  all 
those  who  approached  him  ;  and  his  universal  acquirements,  his  talents 
for  government,  his  frank  and  manly  eloquence,  ended  by  making 
him  as  popular  as  he  deserved  by  his  public  character  to  become.  But 
ever  the  constant  object  of  the  hatred  and  the  malicious  intrigues  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon  and  her  favourite  and  pupil,  the  Due  du  Maine, 
who  openly  aspired  to  the  regency,  he  was  assailed  in  his  youth  by  the 
foulest  and  blackest  accusations.  No  death  could  take  place  in  the  royal 
family  without  the  Due  d'Orleans  being  immediately  pointed  at  as 
the  murderer,  and  the  mysterious  illness  and  death  of  the  first  and 
second  dauphins  and  poor  Adelaide  of  Savoy  appeared  to  favour  these 
suspicions,  as  the  removal  of  each  of  these  princes  placed  him  nearer  to 
the  throne.  Spite  of  his  urbanity,  his  courteous  bearing,  his  insouciance, 
he  was  hooted  at  by  the  populace  wherever  he  appeared,  the  public 
only  remembering  that  he  was  the  son  of  that  Monsieur  who,  at  the  death 
of  the  unhappy  Henrietta,  had  incurred  such  horrible  suspicions. 

The  last  remaining  child  of  the  dauphin — the  last  lineal  descendant  of 
all  Louis's  numerous  family — now  lay  dangerously  ill.  With  or  without 
reason,  it  was  thought  that  the  cause  of  this  illness  was  poison.  Madame, 
mother  of  the  regent,  suddenly  recollected  that  her  son  possessed  a  coun- 
ter-poison of  great  efficacy,  and  wrote  to  him  desiring  his  instant  pre- 
sence at  Versailles  with  this  remedy.  The  duke  came,  and,  unknown  to 
the  king,  the  counter-poison  was  administered  by  the  hands  of  him  who 
had  been  so  falsely  accused  of  causing  the  deaths  of  the  father  and  mother 
of  this  very  child.  The  little  Due  d'Anjou  recovered.  When  Louis 
was  informed  of  the  circumstance,  he  was  utterly  astonished  and  quite 
unable  to  reconcile  this  fact  with  the  injurious  insinuations  and  accusations 
poured  into  his  ear  by  De  Maintenon  and  her  coterie. 

The  Due  d'Orleans,  deeply  sensible  of  the  shameful  suspicions  raised 
against  him,  and  determined  once  and  for  all  to  silence  such  odious  and 
abominable  lies,  requested  an  audience  of  the  king,  and  in  the  very  pre- 
sence of  his  arch-enemy,  Madame  de  Maintenon,  whom  he  significantly 
glanced  at  from  time  to  time,  thus  addressed  his  uncle :    "  Sire,"  said  he, 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  51 

"  had  the  time  which  has  been  employed  in  accusing  me  been  used  in 
asking  for  my  assistance,  I  might  have  been  the  happy  instrument  of 
preventing  other  deaths  in  your  majesty's  family,  but  it  was  easier  for  my 
enemies  to  spread  odious  reports  of  such  than  in  trying  to  prevent  these 
calamities.  But  the  time  is  now  come  when  these  vile  calumnies  must 
cease,  and  the  authors  be  exposed  to  the  degradation  and  contempt  they 
deserve.  I  come,  sire,  to  demand  justice  of  you — I,  who  have  been  so 
falsely  accused.  It  is  well  known  that  I  have  a  laboratory  in  the  Palais 
Royal,  where  I  amuse  myself  with  experiments  in  chemistry,  and  this  cir- 
cumstance has  been  taken  advantage  of  by  my  enemies  to  invent  those 
calumnies,  too  easily,  I  fear,  credited  by  your  majesty.  Sire,  if  it  is  your 
pleasure,  imprison  me — nay,  torture  your  nephew  if  you  will — my  cha- 
racter has  been  assailed,  and  I  have  a  right  to  demand  legal  satisfaction 
and  inquiry  into  my  motives  and  my  conduct.  Humbert,  my  assistant  in 
chemistry,  has  already,  by  my  orders,  surrendered  himself  at  the  Bastille, 
and  I  only  wait  your  command  to  follow  him  there  myself." 

At  this  noble  appeal  from  the  Due  d'Orleans  to  the  justice  of  the 
king,  Louis  was  quite  disconcerted,  and  without  replying  in  any  way  to 
his  request,  dismissed  him. 

But  the  Due  d'Orleans  was  only  half  satisfied,  he  had  discomfited  but 
one  division  of  his  enemies,  whose  names  were  legion ;  there  yet  remained 
the  Due  and  Duchesse  du  Maine,  who,  more  bold  and  insolent  than  the 
others,  ceased  not  to  attribute  to  him  every  execrable  crime.  He  sud- 
denly appeared  before  the  Duchesse  du  Maine,  without  even  being  an- 
nounced, looking  as  black  as  thunder,  and  with  an  air  and  manner  that 
announced  anything  but  an  agreeable  rencontre.  After  having  made  a 
slight  bow  to  the  poets,  courtiers,  and  precieux  of  both  sexes,  who  always 
surrounded  the  duchess,  converting  Sceaux  into  a  complete  Hotel  Ram- 
bouillet,  and  her  highness  into  Madame  de  Scuderi,  the  duke  walked 
straight  up  to  the  Due  du  Maine,  who  was  leaning  against  the  chimney- 
piece. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  he,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  the  time  is  now  come  when  we 
must  have  a  few  words  of  explanation,  and  I  am  glad  that  our  conversa- 
tion will  have  so  many  witnesses." 

"  Yet,"  replied  the  Due  du  Maine,  who  exceedingly  disliked  the  idea 
of  a  public  interview,  "  here  is  my  room,  if  your  royal  highness         ■" 

"  No,"  replied  the  prince,  "  I  shall  remain  here — I  court  publicity." 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?"  stammered  the  duke. 

"  It  means,  sir,  that  I  am  weary  of  being  the  victim  of  the  dark 
intrigues  you  are  ever  directing  against  me,  and  that  you  shall  swear  to 
discontinue  them  before  I  quit  this  room.  Yes,  on  the  instant,  sir,  or  at 
once  maintain  your  assertions  with  a  sword  in  your  hand,  like  a  gentle- 
man, in  your  own  park." 

"  I  entreat  your  highness  to  be  more  calm,"  said  the  duchess,  ad- 
vancing. 

"  Madame,  we  neither  require  your  services  for  acrostics  nor  couplets  at 
present,"  said  the  Due  d'Orleans,  smiling ;  "  be  kind  enough,  therefore, 
to  let  me  continue  my  conversation  with  your  husband." 

"  In  a  word,  Monsieur,  what  do  you  want  ?"  replied  the  legitimatised 
son  of  De  Montespan,  endeavouring  to  raise  his  voice,  tremulous  with 
fear. 


52  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

"  I  desire,"  said  the  duke,  in  stentorian  tones,  and  casting  round  him 
a  look  of  defiance,  "  that  you,  here,  on  this  spot,  and  also  everywhere 
else,  contradict  and  disavow  the  calumnies  you  have'  dared  to  utter 
against  me  touching  the  late  melancholy  deaths  in  the  royal  family." 

"  Prince,  you  are  misinformed :  I  never,  in  my  inmost  soul,  for  onef 
moment  believed  you  culpable." 

" Duke,"  cried  the  duchess  to  her  husband,  "what  are  you  saying? 
These  justifications  are  beneath  you." 

"Madame  a  raison,"  replied  the  Due  d'Orleans,  half  drawing  his 
sword.  "  Follow  me,  sir,  and  maintain,  at  least,  in  a  manner  befitting 
a  colonel  of  artillery,  what  you  have  dared,  like  a  Jesuit,  in  holes  and 
corners,  to  accuse  me  of." 

"  No,  no  !"  replied  the  duke,  growing  dreadfully  frightened  in  earnest, 
and  speaking  quite  spasmodically,  "I  am  ready  to  own — to  declare 
your  entire  innocence  of  any  connexion  with  these  misfortunes.  I  declare 
solemnly  that  you  are  entirely  innocent." 

"  What  unworthy — what  cowardly  conduct !"  cried  the  duchess,  fling- 
ing herself  on  an  ottoman.  "  You  dishonour  the  noble  blood  of  Conde* 
that  flows  in  my  veins !" 

"  Really,  madame,"  said  the  duke,  more  careful  of  preserving  his  own 
life  than  of  defending  the  honourable  blood  of  the  Condes,  "  I  can't  see 
what  you  have  to  do  with  my  conversation  with  his  royal  highness.  I 
only  satisfy  my  conscience  in  giving  a  testimony  to  the  loyalty  of  the 
Due  d'Orleans.  Yes,  prince,  believe  me,"  added  the  crafty  pupil  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  "  I  respect  you  beyond  any  man  in  the  whole 
of  his  majesty's  dominions,  and  I  will  declare  my  devotion  to  you,  how- 
ever or  wherever  you  please  !" 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  said  the  duke,  with  a  scornful  smile.  And  casting  a 
look  of  commiserate  contempt  upon  all  present,  he  quitted  the  room  as 
abruptly  as  he  had  entered. 

After  these  two  celebrated  eclats,  irf  which  the  duke  behaved  with 
such  spirit,  he  was  no  longer  assailed  by  the  accusations  that  before  cir- 
culated everywhere  to  his  prejudice,  and  had  enraged  the  Parisians 
against  him  to  such  a  degree  that  he  could  scarcely  traverse  the  streets 
without  danger,  and  he  was  soon  after  received  at  court  with  the  distinc- 
tion due  to  his  rank  and  near  relationship  to  the  sovereign.  His  subse- 
quent conduct  as  regent,  the  care  and  affection  with  which  he  watched 
over  the  infant  years  of  the  delicate  nursling  confided  to  his  care,  and  the 
gratitude  ever  expressed  by  Louis  XV.  towards  him,  are  further  historical 
guarantees  of  the  injustice  of  all  these  accusations.' 

But  the  excessive  and  avowed  profligacy  of  his  private  life,  where  he 
gloried  in  resigning  himself  to  the  indulgence  of  every  impurity,  and  his 
open  ridicule  of  all  principle  and  religion,  stamp  his  memory  with  ab- 
horrence, and  eclipse  all  his  nobler  qualities.  Under  the  guidance  of 
the  abandoned  Dubois  (whose  conduct  was  certainly  calculated  to  make 
him  undervalue  any  religion  which  possessed  such  a  minister),  whom 
his  father  had  chosen  as  his  tutor  for  the  express  purpose,  as  it  appeared, 
of  corrupting  his  youth,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  became  dissolute 
in  an  eminent  degree.  Without  the  constant  excitement  of  company 
and  intoxication,  he  could  not  exist     Flinging  himself  headlong  into 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  53: 

t&e  most  monstrous  excesses,  he  gloried  in  showing  that  he  could 
exceed  all  the  reckless  compeers  that  surrounded  him.  Irreligious  and 
unprincipled,  all  was  lost  save  a  sentiment  of  honour  and  an  inherent 
exaltation  of  soul  that  nothing  could  eradicate,  and  which,  had  it  been  cul- 
tivated by  a  judicious  education,  would,  joined  to  his  splendid  acquirements, 
have  made  him  one  of  the  most  distinguished  characters  of  an  age  that 
boasted  a  Racine,  a  Bossuet,  and  a  Boileau. 

His  forced  marriage  with  Mademoiselle  de  Blois  did  not  conduce  to 
improve  his  character ;  he  was  always  galled  by  the  recollection  of  the 
mesalliance  he  had  contracted ;  his  temper,  otherwise  good,  became 
soured,  and  he  revenged  himself  on  his  wife  by  treating  her  with  neglect 
and  indifference.  Neither  was  she  of  a  disposition  to  endear  herself  to 
him.  Proud,  imperious,  and  luxurious,  gifted  with  considerable  abilities 
and  great  power  of  language,  she  never  remembered  that  her  mother, 
Madame  de  Montespan,  was  the  mistress,  not  the  wife,  of  her  father,; 
and  exacted  precisely  the  same  etiquette  as  if  she  had  been  born  a  prin- 
cess of  the  blood-royal.  Under  this  strange  misapprehension,  she  treated 
the  Due  d'Orleans  with  a  scorn  he  could  ill  brook,  feeling  as  he  did 
her  inferiority.  But  on  the  whole  he  bore  her  extravagant  pretensions 
with  wonderful  equanimity,  often  listening  to  her  harangues  in  silence, 
answering  her  with  a  little  good-natured  ridicule,  or  addressing  her 
by  the  nickname  of  "  Madame  Lucifer,"  when  provoked  by  an  especial 
display  of  her  arrogance. 

She,  on  her  part,  little  cared  for  the  shameless  orgies  given  within 
the  very  walls  of  the  Palais  Royal,  provided  she  was  treated  with  all  the 
dignity  she  considered  her  due.  The  Due  d'Orleans  astonished  even 
the  hardened  voluptuaries  of  his  own  day,  and  educated  his  family 
m  habits  of  licentiousness  only  equalled  by  the  annals  of  the  ancient 
Romans.  If  credit  is  to  be  given  to  the  numerous  particulars  of  hit 
daughters'  excesses,  the  Palais  Royal  was  indeed  the  centre  of  all  that 
was  depraved  and  monstrous.  The  Duchesse  de  Berri,  the  eldest  of  the 
regent's  children,  kept  her  court  at  the  Luxembourg  with  a  pomp  and 
parade  little  short  of  royal,  which  did  not,  however,  prevent  her  intrigues 
with  De  Riom  and  other  gentlemen  of  inferior  rank  becoming  public* 
Nor  did  she  think  it  beneath  her  dignity  to  do  the  honours  at  certain  petit* 
soupers  of  the  regent's,  too  well  known  in  the  scandalous  annals  of  the 
day,  where,  as  all  the  guests  became  intoxicated,  it  is  only  charitable  to 
conclude  that  they  ceased  to  be  responsible  for  their  actions.  Her 
affectation  of  dignity  was  at  times  quite  ludicrous.  On  one  occasion, 
expecting  the  visit  of  a  foreign  ambassador  who  wished  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  daughter  of  the  regent,  she  received  him  seated  in  state  on  a  kind 
•  of  throne  only  to  be  approached  by  steps.  The  ambassador  was  at  first 
astonished,  then  amused,  and  ended  by  bursting  into  a  fit  of  immoderate 
laughter  and  leaving  the  room,  to  the  great  discomfiture  of  the  duchess, 
who  was  extremely  piqued  at  the  failure  of  her  scheme. 

But  some  charlatan  having  prophesied  that  she  would  not  pass  her 
twenty-fifth  year,  she  became  alarmed,  and  after  any  very  extraordinary 
scandal,  retired  to  a  convent  and  lived  as  a  nun,  lying  on  a  mattress  ana- 
submitting  to  all  kinds  of  austerities  and  discipline.  Having,  as  she 
imagined,  reconciled  herself  to  Heaven  and  ensured  her  eternal  safety. 


54  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

she  returned  to  the  Luxembourg  and  to  her  former  mode  of  life  with 
renewed  zest  and  vigour.  Her  sister,  Mademoiselle  de  Valois,  was  re- 
markable for  her  great  beauty,  and  boasted  of  an  equal  lack  of  reputa- 
tion. When  the  handsome  Richelieu  was  imprisoned  by  her  father  in 
the  Bastille  on  her  account,  all  the  ladies  of  Paris  amused  his  cap- 
tivity by  promenading  round  the  walls  to  look  at  him.  Such  were 
the  manners  in  the  time  of  the  Regency.  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans,  the 
third  daughter  of  the  regent,  yielded  to  none  of  the  others  in  the  scan- 
dalous celebrity  she  acquired ;  indeed,  she  somewhat  surpassed  them,  if 
possible,  in  the  audacity  of  her  excesses.  Becoming  weary  of  even  the 
slight  restraints  of  her  father's  court,  she  announced  her  determination  of 
becoming  a  nun,  and  was  elected  Abbess  of  Chelles,  to  the  eternal  disgrace 
of  the  Church,  which  at  that  time  could  tolerate  and  overlook  the  crimes  of 
an  Abbe*  Dubois  and  an  Abbesse  d'Orleans.  Sometimes  overcome  by  a  fit  of 
remorse,  she  would  give  up  music,  break  her  harp,  piano,  and  guitar,  fling 
the  remains  into  the  fire,  vowing  never  to  sing  a  note  except  of  the  most 
solemn  Miserere.  But  before  the  next  day  she  had  changed  her  mind, 
grew  worldly  again,  and  repented  what  she  had  done,  yawning  and  wan- 
dering about  the  cloisters  of  her  monastery,  given  up  to  chagrin  and  ennui. 
The  day  after  the  fit  was  completely  over,  fresh  instruments,  music,  and 
singers  from  the  Opera  arrived  from  Paris,  and  Madame  l'Abbesse  recom- 
menced her  usual  mode,  of  life.  "  Tel  pere  tel  fils,"  says  the  proverb ; 
such  was  the  regent  and  his  family,  and  3uch  was  the  Palais  Royal  under 
the  reign  of  Louis  le  Bienaime*.  When  in  the  possession  of  Louis  Philippe, 
whose  private  virtues  afforded  such  a  striking  contrast  to  the  vices  of  his 
family,  how  altered  was  the  scene !  The  vast  fortune  of  Louis  Philippe 
enabled  him  to  adorn  this  palace,  and  amongst  other  embellishments  he 
added  a  gallery  of  paintings  devoted  to  illustrate  the  historical  scenes  that 
had  passed  within  its  walls.  But  at  the  expulsion  of  the  Orleans  family, 
in  1848,  these  beautiful  and  most  interesting  pictures  were  destroyed,  as 
were  also,  at  the  same  time,  the  magnificent  furniture  and  ornaments  at 
the  Tuileries.  But  it  is  more  than  time  I  should  leave  the  Palais  Royal, 
where  the  never-ending  chain  of  historical  associations  has  tempted  me 
to  linger,  engaged  in  a  feeble  effort  to  trace  the  principal  events  and 
characters  that  have  immortalised  its  walls. 


VI. 

Boulevards— Notre  Dame— Victor  Hugo— Review  of  Monks— Churches. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  attractions  of  this  city.  The  sight-seer  may 
employ  weeks  in  exploring  the  churches,  the  galleries  of  painting,  the 
museums,  and  the  palaces,  open,  without  difficulty,  to  all  the  world. 
Our  inferiority  in  this  respect  is  most  striking ;  we  have  few  national 
sights ;  and  if  London  does  contain  treasures  of  art  in  private  collections, 
they  are  so  well  concealed  that  they  become  as  though  they  were  not ; 
half  London  dies  in  utter  ignorance  of  even  the  names  of  their  possessors, 
while  here  all  is  open  and  accessible,  gratis,  to  every  one. 

One  of  the  great  features  of  Paris,  and  perhaps  the  part  of  their  city 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  55 

most  admired  and  frequented  by  the  Parisians  themselves,  is  the  Boule- 
vards ;  but,  if  truth  must  be  spoken,  they  disappointed  me.  Certainly  these 
streets  are  wide  and  handsome,  and  teeming  with  life,  gaiety,  and  amuse- 
ment, but  their  very  purpose  seems  a  failure.  Where  are  the  trees  ?  for  on 
a  boulevard  one  naturally  expects  to  see  trees ;  there  is  the  space  allotted  to 
their  growth,  and  there  no  trees  are  to  be  seen — a  vacancy  that  much  in- 
jures the  effect  of  the  ensemble,  I  do  verily  believe  all  the  trees  on  the 
Boulevards  at  this  very  time  would  scarcely  make  a  dozen  sizeable  walking- 
sticks.  But  if  the  Parisians  will  eternally  have  revolutions,  and  will  raise 
barricades,  and  will  cut  down  the  time-honoured  trees  intended  to 
grace  and  to  shade  their  promenades,  why  the  consequence  must  be 
that  the  Boulevards  lose  all  their  beauty  and  become  no  more  than 
broad  unpaved  thoroughfares,  very  like  Edgeware-road  in  its  best 
parts.  Indeed,  the  trees  on  the  Boulevards  would  serve  as  an  admirable 
guide  to  the  chronology  of  the  different  revolutions ;  and  as  Paris  has 
lately  done  nothing  but  amuse  itself  in  this  manner,  the  present  trees  are 
in  extreme  babyhood.  Nothing  here  is  respected  when  popular  tumults 
once  begin,  and  from  kings,  queens,  and  princesses,  down  to  the  unfortu- 
nate trees  on  the  Boulevards,  all  is  cut  down  and  annihilated  ! 

The  French  make  it  their  boast  that  Paris  is  the  most  refined  and  most 
civilised  city  in  the  world  ;  but  although  in  many  respects  such  may  in- 
deed be  the  case,  the  strangest  anomalies  still  exist,  notwithstanding  this 
boasted  refinement,  and  it  is  a  simple  fact  that  a  woman  cannot  traverse 
the  grandest  streets  of  this  capital  without  momentarily  having  her 
delicacy  offended  in  the  highest  degree.  I  cannot  describe  how  this 
utter  want  of  national  propriety  horrified  me,  it  is  so  ostentatious,  so 
offensive.  London  and  the  Londoners  would  not  tolerate  such  sights  for  a 
single  week ! 

I  will  now  say  a  few  words  about  the  churches  of  Paris,  one  of  its  most 
attractive  features :  each  one  has  some  particular  interest,  either  of  archi- 
tecture or  association,  to  recommend  it. 

First  in  importance  as  in  interest  stands  Notre  Dame,  the  cathedral 
par  excellence,  dating  back  to  the  twelfth  century,  when  it  was  erected 
by  Louis  le  Jeune  on  the  ruins  of  a  church  that  had  existed  on  the  same 
spot  since  the  time  of  the  Romans.  Strikingly  picturesque  is  the  situa- 
tion of  Notre  Dame,  rising  majestically  out  of  the  mass  of  antique-looking 
houses  that  cover  the  island  on  which  it  stands.  The  twin  towers  are 
seen  from  every  spot  in  Paris,  near  the  river,  and  seem  to  indicate  the 
heart  of  the  city,  whence  proceed  the  various  veins  and  arteries  necessary 
to  its  life  and  circulation.  Viewed  from  any  of  the  innumerable  bridges 
over  the  Seine  there  is  a  charming  air  of  picturesque  antiquity  about  all 
the  old  part  of  Paris,  and  especially  about  this  island,  reminding  one  of 
Prout's  inimitable  sketches,  or  the  view  of  some  old  town  by  a  Dutch 
master. 

The  Seine  flows  rapidly  along,  crossed  at  short  intervals  by  handsome 
bridges,  but  not  a  boat,  not  a  single  steamer  is  to  be  seen,  and  a  solitude 
prevails  on  the  river  quite  unaccountable  to  an  eye  accustomed  to  the 
perpetual  life  and  movement  on  the  Thames.  On  either  side  are  the 
bright,  clean-looking  quays  which  I  particularly  admired,  as  forming  such 
an  agreeable  contrast  to  the  dirty,  smoky  manufactories,  wharfs,  and 


56  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

warehouses  that  ruin  the  hanks  of  our  river,  to  say  nothing  of  the  mighty 
hanks  of  mud  and  slime  which  mar  what  ought  to  he  the  chief  beauty  of 
our  English  capital.  True  there  wants  that  world  of  shipping  that  im- 
parts such  an  air  of  dignified  bustle  and  commercial  grandeur  to  the 
Thames,  but  in  lieu  of  this  the  Seine  presents  on  either  side  interminable 
lines  of  gay-looking,  handsome  buildings,  and  offers  here  and  there  points 
of  exceeding  grandeur  and  architectural  beauty. 

But  in  my  admiration  of  the  quays  I  am  forgetting  Notre  Dame,  rising 
so  majestically  before  us.  We  must  hasten  to  cross  the  bridge  that  spans 
the  river,  pass  through  some  dirty,  obscure  streets,  and  then  emerge 
in  the  large  open  space  before  its  portal.  And  what  a  glorious  old 
entrance  it  is !  What  a  forest  of  sculpture — what  delicate  tracery  around 
those  Gothic  arches — what  pillars — what  windows,  especially  the  large 
central  circular  one — what  a  rugged,  time-honoured  old  pile  it  is,  with  its 
quaint  row  of  niches  for  the  twenty-seven  kings  of  France  from  Childebert 
to  Philippe  Auguste  ! — these  empty  niches  being  at  present,  by  the  way, 
filled  with  the  most  unseemly  fiat  effigies  in  metal. 

The  grandeur  of  the  exterior  prepares  one  for  something  equally 
surprising  in  the  interior,  and  in  this  I  was  deceived,  for,  on  entering, 
the  church  appears  bare  and  unadorned,  totally  wanting  in  that 
luxuriance  of  architectural  decoration  I  had  so  admired  from  without. 
The  pillars  are  of  a  plainness  that  approach  to  baldness,  and  the  oval 
form  of  the  edifice  behind  the  grand  altar  produces  but  a  mean  effect, 
especially  as  the  windows  in  this  part  of  the  building  are  narrow  in 
proportion  to  the  size  of  the  whole.  The  interior  of  Notre  Dame  cannot 
be  compared,  in  an  architectural  point  of  view,  to  Westminster  Abbey, 
characterised  by  that  mysterious  half-light  grandeur  which  imparts 
so  solemn  an  aspect.  Here  one  sees  the  whole  building  at  a  glance ; 
whereas,  there,  the  long-drawn  aisles,  supported  by  clustered  pillars — the 
receding  dimly-lit  chapels — the  projecting  monuments,  surrounded  by 
solemn  statues  in  attitudes  of  prayer  or  of  repose,  darkening  the  long 
naves  with  lengthening  shadows,  leave  as  much  as  they  display  to  the 
imagination,  and  invoke  feelings  of  mysterious  awe  only  to  be  expe- 
rienced where  expectation  is  heightened  by  uncertainty. 

Still  there  is  an  antiquated  *  air  about  Notre  Dame  which  is  very 
pleasing,  and  that  very  simplicity,  amounting  to  a  fault,  has  something 
touching  in  its  quaintness.  Many  of  the  monuments  behind  the  grand 
altar  are  of  interest,  and  some  of  considerable  beauty.  There  is  one  in 
the  sacristy  of  particular  interest ;  it  was  erected  by  the  Duchesse  d'Har- 
court  to  commemorate  the  death  of  her  husband  and  a  remarkable  dream 
that  predicted  the  event. 

He  was  ambassador  at  the  court  of  Vienna  while  she  remained  in 
Paris.  She  dreamt  that  she  saw  him  lying  sick  and  dying  in  his  coffin, 
and  that  as  she  rushed  forward  to  rescue  him,  he  leaned  forward  to 
embrace  her,  and  in  this  act  expired.  The  letter  acquainting  her  with 
hiB  death  informed  her  that  it  had  occurred  at  the  very  hour  in  which  she 
had  beheld  this  vision.  So  extraordinary  a  circumstance  was  commemo- 
rated by  her  in  a  monument  where  the  scene  of  the  dream  is  represented. 

In  this  church  Napoleon  was  crowned,  and  here  are  exhibited  his 
sumptuous  coronation  robes,  destined  ere  long,  perhaps,  to  adorn  the 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  5t 

person  of  his  aspiring  nephew.  Here  the  emperor  placed  the  crown  on 
the  head  of  Josephine,  whom  he  afterwards  so  cruelly  sacrificed;  and 
here  also  Maria  Louisa  was  invested  with  imperial  honours  by  the  same 
hand  that  had  degraded  her  predecessor.  Strange  vicissitudes  of  fortune 
beheld  by  these  old  walls  !  fated,  perhaps,  to  see  many  as  sudden  and 
extraordinary  a  change  amid  a  people  so  volatile  and  unstable  as  the 
French  have  now,  in  consequence  of  "  their  love  of  new  things," 
become. 

I  mounted  to  the  belfry.  Who  could  behold  those  well-worn  stairs  and 
those  great  bells,  and  not  expect  to  see  every  moment  the  hunchbacked 
Quasimodo  emerge  from  the  shadow  of  some  buttress,  or  encounter  the 
cynical  Claude  Frollo  sweeping  the  ground  with  his  dark  robes  as  he 
descended  from  the  cell  on  whose  walls  some  mysterious  hand  had 
expressed  in  one  word  his  whole  fate  ?  That  splendid  romance  has  so 
peopled  Notre  Dame  with  characters  and  associations,  that  when  treading 
its  pavements  I  could  not  consider  them  as  mere  unreal  creations  of  the 
imagination,  such  a  "  local  habitation"  has  the  genius  of  Victor  Hugo 
given  them  among  those  old  towers.  Strange  property  of  fiction  that 
can  thus  fill  the  mind  with  the  unreal  while  viewing  objects  in  themselves 
full  of  interest  and  well  calculated  to  fix  our  attention,  but  which  are 
forgotten  amid  visions  to  which  the  reality  serves  only  as  a  frame  or  back- 
ground !  I  fear  I  took  far  more  pleasure  in  viewing  Notre  Dame  as  the 
abode  of  these  characters  than  as  the  scene  of  so  many  interesting  epi- 
sodes in  French  history. 

The  view  from  the  towers  is  very  extensive,  from  the  clearness  of  the 
atmosphere,  which  allows  almost  every  roof  in  Paris  to  be  visible.  The 
hills  encircling  the  city  are  very  pleasing  in  outline,  and  the  white- 
ness and  cleanness  of  the  houses  astonishes  by  the  contrast  they  pre- 
sent to  our  dingy,  smoke-begrimed  metropolis.  The  Hdtel  de  Ville, 
standing  in  an  open  space  on  the  bank  of  the  river  to  the  left,  is  a 
noble  building,  worthy  of  its  founder,  Francis  I.,  and  worthy  also  of  being 
the  nucleus  of  that  city  which  can  boast  such  a  palace  as  the  Louvre. 
Here,  during  the  bloody  wars  of  the  Fronde,  those  rival  queens,  the 
Duchesses  of  Longueville,  Chevreuse,  and  Bouillon,  held  their  court,  and 
distributed  military  posts  and  honours  among  their  equally  belligerent 
female  followers — generalships,  lieutenancies,  and  colonelcies  among 
countesses,  duchesses,  and  princesses — all  Bellonas  in  the  cause  of  revolt, 
and  eager  to  distinguish  themselves  as  the  "merveilleuses"  of  that  day* 
From  those  windows  in  our  own  day  were  pronounced  the  impassioned 
orations  of  Lamartine,  recalling  all  the  fervid  eloquence  of  republican 
Greece,  but  failing  to  guide  or  to  convince  the  blase  population  of  the. 
nineteenth  century,  too  sensible,  or  too  stupid,  to  be  led  by  mere  words. 
When  we  had  descended  from  the  towers,  I  passed  on  to  the  old  bridge 
that  crosses  the  Seine  close  to  Notre  Dame,  and  as  I  leaned  over  the 
parapet  recalling  various  scenes,  one  incident  occurred  to  me,  so  new  and 
out  of  the  way,  that  I  shall  transcribe  it. 

Let  the  curtain  rise  in  the  seventeenth  century  in  this  same  roval  city 
of  Paris  we  are  contemplating,  at  that  moment  given  up  to  the  intrigues  of 
the  Fronde  and  its  favourite  leader,  the  Due  de  Beaufort,  that  "roi  dea 
Halles,"  whose  escape  from  the  prison  of  Vincennes  is  at  once  so  comic- 


58  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

and  so  clever.  It  is  not  long  since  la  grande  Mademoiselle  occupied  the 
Bastille,  and  pointed  the  guns  of  that  fortress  against  the  troops  of  her 
beau-cousin  and  king,  Louis  XIV.,  or  rather  against  the  regent,  Anne 
of  Austria,  for  between  his  magnificent  mother  and  her  all-powerful 
minister,  Mazarin,  Louis  was  then  but  little  thought  of.  The  Duchesse 
de  Longueville  is  at  this  very  time  holding  her  court  at  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  hard  by,  where  she  expects  her  brother,  the  Prince  de  Conde, 
to  join  her,  he  whose  extraordinary  attachment  never  allows  him  long 
to  be  separated  from  his  beautiful  sister.  But  there  is  now  an  especial 
reason  why  Conde"  should  come,  for  Paris  is  closely  besieged,  and  the 
confusion  is  great  and  universal.  Indeed,  in  such  straits  are  the  be- 
sieged, and  so  much  in  want  of  defenders,  that  an  extraordinary  ex- 
pedient has  been  devised — no  other  than  actually  to  arm  the  idle  do- 
nothing  monks ;  and  this  very  day  there  is  to  be  a  review  of  these  re- 
verend members  of  the  church  militant  on  the  bridge  of  Notre  Dame ! 

Having  now  taken  this  general  view  of  the  state  of  Paris,  we  must 
penetrate  into  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  devoted  to 
the  very  prettiest  of  the  many  pretty  ladies  attached  to  the  service  of  the 
Duchesse  de  Longueville.  The  fair  occupant,  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny, 
has  just  finished  a  most  elaborate  toilette,  and  having  arranged  the  in- 
numerable little  curls  (then  so  much  in  vogue)  round  her  face, 
fastened  the  proper  quantity  of  ribbon  in  her  dark  locks,  and  taken  a  last 
fond  parting  look  in  the  glass,  she  is  seated  in  the  happiest  state  of  ex- 
pectation, for  there  is  a  certain  all-conquering  beau — Monsieur  d'Aumale 
by  name — who  has  more  than  half  achieved  the  conquest  of  her  little 
heart ;  and  she  has  a  kind  of  presentiment  that  the  morning  will  not 
pass  without  a  visit  from  this  pearl  of  cavaliers.  Nor  is  she  mistaken  :  a 
soft  knock  at  the  door  announces  the  approach  of  some  one.  How  her 
heart  beats  !  It  must  be  M.  d'Aumale,  so  she  says  "  Entrez !"  in  a 
trembling  voice,  and  no  other  than  D'Aumale  stands  before  her. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny,"  he  exclaims,  in  the  utmost  haste,  "  I  am 
come  to  beg  you  to  be  present  at  the  most  singular  spectacle  you  ever 
beheld." 

"  What  may  it  be  ?"  replies  she,  rather  chagrined  that  instead  of  a 
tender  love-scene,  such  as  she  anticipated,  M.  d'Aumale  seems  so  affaire. 

"  It  is  a  review,  mademoiselle,  ordered  by  the  council ;  but,  ha  !  ha ! 
such  a  review !  Ma  foi,  you  will  never  guess  of  whom — the  oddest  idea— 
for  it  is  no  other  than  a  review  of  priests,  monks,  and  seminarists,  all 
dressed  in  regimentals,  sword  in  hand,  and  ready  to  charge  the  enemy. 
Pardieu!  it  is  the  strangest  idea  of  defence  that  ever  was  conceived;  but 
as  we  have  lady-generals,  and  the  grande  Mademoiselle  for  chief,  we  are 
now  to  have  an  army  of  priests  for  them  to  command.  These  recruits 
are  actually  now  all  assembled  on  the  bridge  of  Notre  Dame." 

"  Was  ever  anything  so  ridiculous!"  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny, 
laughing.  "  But  indeed  I  should  be  terrified  at  their  awkwardness  ;  they 
will  be  sure  to  fire  too  low  and  wound  the  spectators." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  go.    I  will  be  your  cavalier,  and  pledge  myself  that 

Jrou  shall  return  uninjured,"  said  D'Aumale,  with  a  tender  glance  at  the 
ady.     "  Besides,  to  reassure  you,  I  declare  that  these  monk-warriors  are 
not  even  to  be  trusted  with  matches;  the  arquebuses  and  cannon  are  as 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  59 

empty  and  as  innocuous  as  when  in  the  arsenal,  so  do  not  fear.  If  you 
will  come,  I  will  conduct  you  in  my  new  coach — the  very  model  of  ele- 
gance— I  will  answer  for  it  there  is  not  another  such  in  all  Paris." 

"  That  will  be  delightful,"  cried  the  lady.  "  I  do  admire  those  new 
coaches  so  much,  and  if  it  were  not  for  this  abominable  war,  I  suppose 
they  would  become  universal.  Well,  Monsieur  d'Aumale,  je  suis  a  vous, 
allons!  let  us  see  these  monks  travestied ;  it  will  be  a  good  story  for  me 
to  entertain  Madame  la  Duchesse  with  this  evening  at  her  reception. 
How  the  Due  de  Beaufort  will  laugh," 

In  high  glee  departed  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny  and  her  admirer,  her  plea- 
sure not  a  little  heightened  by  the  idea  of  appearing  in  a  coach,  then  by 
no  means  common  in  Paris,  and  reserved  generally  for  grand  occasions 
or  state  processions — heavy  lumbering  vehicles,  such  as  figure  in  the  old 

Erints  of  that  period,  with  a  sloping  roof  like  a  house,  and  drawn  by  Flemish 
orses  of  huge  dimensions.  On  arriving  near  the  bridge,  they  stopped 
under  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  walls  of  the  church,  and  there  beheld 
the  most  extraordinary  spectacle.  All  the  monks  in  Paris  were  crowded 
on  the  bridge  of  Notre  Dame,  with  the  exception  of  the  Benedictines 
and  some  other  orders,  who  refused  to  take  any  part  in  this  mum- 
mery. At  least  fifteen  hundred  ecclesiastics  were  assembled  in  excel- 
lent order,  and  executing  the  various  manoeuvres  of  march,  halt,  right- 
about face,  &c,  with  tolerable  exactness.  The  greater  number  had  fastened 
up  their  black  robes,  otherwise  petticoats,  and  had  invested  their  lower 
limbs  with  most  uncanonical  vestments.  The  reverend  fathers,  with 
their  hoods  hanging  over  their  shoulders,  were  booted  and  spurred,  many 
wearing  helmets  and  cuirasses,  with  all  the  halberts,  lances,  swords,  and 
bucklers  they  had  been  able  to  pick  up.  Each  carried  in  one  hand  a 
crucifix,  and  in  the  other  pistols,  scythes,  old  daggers  or  knives,  with 
which  they  swore  to  perform  prodigies  of  valour  against  the  enemies  of 
the  Fronde.  As  they  advanced  and  retreated,  defiling  about  in  squares 
and  columns,  arrayed  in  their  sombre  garments,  they  presented  exactly 
the  appearance  of  an  immense  flight  of  crows  hovering  over  a  field'  of 
newly-cut  wheat. 

To  this  martial  array  was  added  the  clamour  of  drums,  trumpets,  and 
warlike  instruments,  with  no  end  of  benedictions,  of  Oremuses,  and 
chanted  psalms.  At  the  head  of  the  troops  was  the  bishop,  meta- 
morphosed into  the  commandant,  moving  very  slowly,  by  reason  of 
his  corpulence  and  the  weight  of  the  armour  he  wore,  looking  like 
a  dilapidated  St.  George,  minus  the  dragon ;  then  came  Carthu- 
sians, Begging  Friars,  Capuchins,  and  Seminarists,  each  different  order 
commanded  by  their  abbot  or  prior,  advancing  gravely  in  the  orthodox 
goose-step.  The  cries  of  "  Down  with  the  regent !"  "  Death  to  Ma- 
zarin !"  "  A  bus  the  Italian  beggar !"  "  Long  live  the  Union !"  "  Vive 
Monsieur  le  Prince  !"  "  Vive  la  Fronde !"  added  to  the  clang  of  the  martial 
music,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny  was  fain  to  hold  her  ears,  notwith- 
standing all  the  sweet  things  her  companion  was  whispering.  All  the 
canaille  of  Paris  was  assembled  to  witness  this  extraordinary  review,  re- 
joicing in  the  unexpected  aid  contributed  by  the  Church  in  the  general 
emergency.  Nor  was  M.  d'Aumale's  the  only  coach  on  the  Quai  Notre 
Dame  that  day;  many  others  had  been  attracted  by  this  laughable  scene — 


60  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

the  legate  was  present  among  the  number;  the  crowd  was  immense,  the 
applause  enthusiastic. 

"Cieir*  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny,  "Monsieur  d'Aumale, 
you  have  deceived  me.     See,  I  am  sure  they  are  going  to  fire." 

"  No,  no,"  said  D'Aumale,  "  you  are  mistaken.  *  Give  the  monk  his 
rosary,  the  soldier  his  sword,'  says  the  motto.  Messieurs  les  moines  will 
not  venture  to  burn  their  hands  in  attempting  to  handle  fire-arms." 

"  But  I  tell  you,"  replied  the  lady,  "  they  are  going  to  fire ;  and  see, 
the  guns  are  all  turned  this  way.  Oh,  D'Aumale,  we  shall  be  murdered. 
Help  !  help  !  I  implore  you !"  And  she  began  to  scream  after  the  most 
approved  fashion  preparatory  to  a  fit  of  hysterics. 

D'Aumale  rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  In  the  name  of 
Heaven,  beware,  or  we  are  all  dead  men !"  cried  he.  But  in  the  confusion 
his  voice  was  inaudible.  The  priestly  artillerymen,  awkward  and  inex- 
perienced, had  already  lighted  the  matches,  and  the  cannon  exploded, 
right  and  left,  amid  the  crowd.  A  fearful  cry  arose  from  the  legate's 
coach,  placed  near  our  pair. 

"Thank  Heaven,  D'Aumale,  we  have  escaped, — this  time  at  least," 
said  Mademoiselle  de  Rosny,  now  calmed  by  excessive  fear. 

"  Yes,  but  I  fear  some  one  has  been  seriously  wounded.  I  will  dismount 
and  see,"  said  D'Aumale. 

A  dense  crowd  surrounded  the  coach  belonging  to  the  legate;  and  sure 
enough  terrible  mischief  had  been  done  by  the  reverend  artillerymen,  for 
the  secretary  of  his  eminence  had  been  struck  dead  on  the  spot  by  a  shot 
through  the  chest,  his  confessor  was  wounded  in  the  head,  and  the  two 
valets  also  much  injured.  Never  was  there  such  a  confusion.  M. 
d'Aumale  hastened  back  to  secure  the  safe  retreat  of  the  fair  De  Rosny. 
They  were  soon  disengaged  from  the  crowd  and  rolling  back  over  the 
rough  pavement  to  the  H6tel  de  Ville,  where  we  must  bid  them  farewell, 
after  assuring  any  of  our  readers  who  may  be  interested  in  them,  that 
mademoiselle  soon  secured  the  possession  of  the  much-admired  vehicle 
by  a  speedy  marriage  with  its  handsome  owner. 

In  the  vicinity  of  Notre  Dame  are  several  remarkable  churches.  The 
most  interesting  is  the  modern  Pantheon — now  dedicated  to  Sainte 
Genevieve— a  standing  monument  of  the  fickleness  of  the  Parisians. 
Erected  by  that  impersonation  of  all  the  vices  and  weaknesses  of 
monarchy,  Louis  XV.,  it  was  subsequently  seized  on  by  the  Convention, 
for  the  purpose  of  forming  a  temple  in  honour  of  the  bloody  heroes 
of  their  annals,  where,  under  the  specious  pretext  of  the  dedication, 
"  Aux  Grands  Honnes  la  Patrie  Reconnaissante,"  their  ashes  were  to 
repose*  Mirabeau  was  the  first  interred  under  the  lofty  dome  of  the 
Pantheon,  then  came  Voltaire  and  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.  To  the 
infamous  Marat  was  also  assigned  the  honour  of  reposing  among  the 
great  men  of  his  country ;  but,  to  the  honour  of  France  be  it  said,  his 
bones  were  not  allowed  to  remain  long  undisturbed,  but  were  soon 
dragged  out,  exposed  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  and  finally  scattered  to  the 
winds. 

Unstable  and  inconstant  to  the  memory  of  the  dead  as  to  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  living,  each  succeeding  faction  ousted  the  bones  of  those 
placed  there  by  their  predecessors  in  power,  and  all  that  seemed  certain 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  61 

was,  that  none  interred  in  the  Pantheon  were  permitted  long  to  lie  un- 
disturbed in  its  vaults.  Napoleon  destined  it  as  the  place  of  interment 
for  his  principal  senators  and  generals.  Now  not  a  single  monument  is 
allowed  to  remain.  What  a  curious  epitome  this  church  affords  of  the 
French  character — "  unstable  as  water !"  The  building  itself  is  very 
beautiful, — in  all  respects  a  monument  worthy  of  a  great  nation. 

At  a  short  distance  is  the  singular  little  church  of  St.  Etienne  du 
Mont,  which  every  one  would  do  well  to  visit.  Even  supposing  that  its 
claims  to  antiquity  are  not  established  as  early  as  Clovis,  still  it  is  the 
quaintest,  prettiest  little  pattern  of  antique  grotesqueness  one  can 
conceive.  The  singular  gallery  on  either  side  of  the  church,  which, 
after  forming  an  encircling  ornament,  or  fringe,  round  two  vast  pillars 
near  the  centre,  leaves  them  midway,  and  extends  along  either  side  of 
the  choir  as  galleries,  is  the  rarest  piece  of  middle-age  eccentricity 
imaginable. 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  enumerate  the  very  names  of  half  the 
Parisian  churches,  all  well  worthy  of  a  visit.  St.  Roch,  in  the  Rue 
St.  Honore,  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  modern  meretricious  French  style. 
Around  the  walls  are  a  series  of  chapels,  each  adorned  with  a  sculp- 
tured representation  of  some  act  in  our  Saviour's  life,  forming  twelve 
stations  intended  to  aid  the  piety  of  the  devotee  by  vividly  repre- 
senting to  the  mind  scenes  of  great  agony.  Behind  the  altar  are  three 
chapels  in  succession,  so  arranged  as  to  be  each  visible  from  the  centre 
nave.  First,  in  the  foreground,  are  the  gorgeous  ornaments  of  the  high 
altar  ;  behind  this  an  immense  image  of  the  crucified  Saviour ;  and,  still 
further  in  the  background,  and  elevated  above  all  the  rest,  a  figure  of 
the  Virgin  placed  in  a  large  arched  recess,  the  white  figure  standing  on 
clouds,  illuminated  with  a  skilfully-contrived  false  light,  imparting  to 
the  image  a  mysterious  shadowy  appearance. 

No  one  can  be  a  day  in  Paris  without  gazing  with  rapture  at  the 
exterior  of  the  Madeleine,  the  finest  building  in  Europe,  worthy  of  the 
palmiest  days  of  Grecian  architecture.  To  describe  it  were  utterly  vain ; 
it  must  be  seen  in  all  its  vast  and  classical  proportions  to  be  appreciated, 
standing  on  its  raised  pedestal  like  some  chaste  vestal  placed  aloft  for 
universal  admiration.  The  interior  is  fitted  up  with  all  the  scenic 
accessories  common  to  all  French  churches, — a  style  of  decoration  that 
reveals  much  of  the  national  character — artificial  even  in  its  temples, 
while  prostrate  before  God ! 


(     62     ) 


AMERICA  AS  SEEN  BY  A  FRENCHMAN  * 

M.  Ampere,  the  son  of  a  well-known  natural  philosopher,  was  a  person 
in  every  way  qualified  to  give  an  opinion  upon  the  new  social  and  politi- 
cal conditions  that  are  daily  developing  themselves  among  the  people 
of  the  United  States.  Poet,  academician,  and  professor,  as  well  as  an 
experienced  traveller,  he  could  bring  his  studies  of  antiquity  in  Egypt, 
Greece,  and  Italy,  of  the  middle  ages  in  Spain,  Scandinavia,  and  Ger- 
many, and  of  modern  times  in  France  and  England,  to  bear  upon  the 
phenomena  exhibited  by  the  New  World.  Such  was  his  tact,  indeed, 
that  no  sooner  had  he  set  his  foot  on  board  the  Franklin,  than  he  found 
himself  in  an  American  atmosphere.  "  The  first  thing  that  I  remarked," 
he  says,  "  on  board  ship,  where  the  greater  number  of  passengers  be- 
longed to  the  United  States,  were  incessant  allusions  to,  and  perpetual 
glorification  of  their  country.  America  is  the  fixed  idea  of  the  Ameri- 
cans ;  the  conviction  of  the  superiority  of  their  country  is  at  the  bottom 
of  everything  that  they  say ;  it  is  even  found  in  the  acknowledgment  of 
what  they  are  in  want  of.  Thus  every  one  hastens  to  warn  me  that  I 
must  not  expect  to  find  in  a  new  society  the  refinements  of  the  Old 
World :  nothing  can  be  more  reasonable  ;  but  I  find  in  this  anxiety  to 
inform  me  as  to  what  I  shall  not  meet  with  in  the  United  States,  the 
precautions  of  a  sensitive  patriotism,  always  mistrustful  of  the  opinions 
of  a  stranger." 

Entering  the  bay  of  New  York — which,  notwithstanding  the  assevera- 
tions made  to  that  effect,  M.  Ampere  declares  to  have  no  resemblance 
whatsoever  with  that  of  Naples — and  landing  upon  its  busy  quays,  our 
traveller  found  the  drivers  and  innkeepers  to  be  by  no  means  so  obliging 
as  "  the  gentlemen."  One  of  the  latter  engaged  a  vehicle  to  convey 
him  to  Astor  House  for  half  a  dollar  5  arrived  there,  the  driver  demanded 
a  double  fare.  Upon  referring  the  difficulty  to  those  who  received  him 
at  the  hotel,  they  paid  no  attention  to  him  or  to  his  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, but  contented  themselves  with  remitting  a  dollar  to  the  coachman, 
with  an  indifference,  he  remarks,  that  would  have  been  quite  charming 
if  the  money  had  come  out  of  their  own  pockets.  Going  on  board  the 
Boston  packet,  a  coloured  attendant  passed  over  his  ticket  to  him,  taking 
care  not  to  touch  his  hand.  This  little  incident  suggested  a  first  painful 
reflection  upon  the  relation  of  the  two  races.  On  the  other  hand,  on 
board  the  packet  he  asked  for  a  glass  of  water.  The  waiter,  a  white 
man,  without  condescending  to  reply,  and  with  a  geste  (Tune  incom- 
parable majeste,  pointed  to  a  glass  on  the  table.  A  sharp,  shrewd,  and 
practised  observer  like  M.  Ampere,  detected  at  once  a  fact  in  American 
life  which  has  not  been  put  in  the  same  light  before.  "  There  is,"  he 
says,  "  military  precision  carried  into  the  habits  of  civil  life.  The  ser- 
vants who  bring  in  the  dishes  keep  the  step ;  they  place  them  on  the 
table  at  a  given  signal,  distribute  the  plates  in  a  measured  and  methodical 
manner,  and  knives  and  forks  set  to  work  with  all  the  trained  regularity 
of  soldiers  grounding  arms.     Everything  is  done  with  the  same  punctu- 

•  Promenade  en  Amerique :  Etats  Unis,  Cuba,  Mexique.  Par  J.  J.  Ampere, 
de  l'Academie  Frai^aise. 


America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman.  63 

ality,  precision,  and  rapidity ;  no  one  has  either  any  time  or  words  to 
lose." 

At  Boston,  a  policeman  bade*  our  traveller  extinguish  his  cigar.  "  It 
was,"  he  civilly  adds,  "  manifest  that  the  Frenchman  was  the  barbarian." 
The  progress  of  Unitarianism  in  the  same  city  particularly  struck  his 
attention.  It  is,  he  justly  remarks,  the  natural  result  of  the  reaction  of 
that  excessive  Puritanism  which  would  not  allow  beer  to  be  made  on  a 
Saturday  for  fear  it  should  work  on  a  Sunday,  and  of  that  pitiless  sec- 
tarianism which  declared  "  that  the  desire  to  be  damned  for  the  glory  of 
God  is  necessary  to  salvation."  The  Americans,  he  adds,  carry  into 
religion  the  ardour  and  impetuosity  which  they  impart  to  every  other 
thing ;  and  in  the  present  day,  the  number  of  lunatics  who  are  confined 
in  Worcester  hospital  from  religious  excitement  equals  that  of  the 
victims  of  intemperance.  As  a  result,  there  are  now  twenty  Unitarian 
churches  in  Boston  to  fourteen  belonging  to  the  Puritans. 

At  the  University  of  Cambridge,  M.  Ampere  also  found  that  the 
Calvinism  which  had  presided  over  its  foundation  had,  with  the  lapse  of 
time,  become  a  stranger  to  the  place.  The  spirit  is,  however,  by  no 
means  extinct,  if  we  are  to  judge  by  the  regulation  which  insists  that 
Protestant  pupils  must  go  once  every  day  to  church,  and  twice  on 
Sundays ;  and  that  any  one  who  shall  have  contravened  this  law  three 
limes  in  four  years  is  liable  to  expulsion !  The  professors  at  Cambridge, 
M.  Ampere  assures  us,  live  upon  the  very  best  terms,  with  one  excep- 
tion,— the  professor  of  chemistry,  who  killed  one  of  his  colleagues  and 
secreted  the  body  in  the  laboratory.  "  But,"  he  adds,  "  every  one  hopes 
that  the  same  thing  will  not  occur  again." 

M.  Ampere  was  at  Boston  at  the  time  that  a  festival  was  held  in 
honour  of  the  opening  of  a  railway  between  the  United  States  and 
Canada.  For  the  greatest  number  around  him,  he  says,  the  basis  of  con- 
gratulation was  associated  with  ideas  of  annexation ;  but  Mr.  Neilson, 
formerly  a  Canadian  democrat,  repudiated  the  idea  in  a  public  speech, 
declaring  that  an  annexation  brought  about  by  so  invasive  a  people 
would  be  the  death  of  Canadian  nationality.  "  As  well,"  adds  M.  Am- 
pere, "  throw  themselves  into  the  gulf  of  the  Niagara  at  once."  At  this 
festival  there  was  a  review,  at  which  was  a  goodly  display  of  coats  of 
various  colours  and  fashion — blue,  grey,  and  red — Hungarian,  Hussar, 
and  Polish.  If,  our  traveller  remarks,  Boston  contained  as  many  regiments 
as  it  does  uniforms,  it  would  possess  a  formidable  army,  but  every  one 
is  an  officer,  and  chooses  his  own  uniform.  Mr.  Fillmore  presided  on 
horseback,  and  policemen  held  the  animal  when  the  firing  of  guns 
disturbed  its  state  of  repose.  It  is  not  necessary  in  America,  M.  Am- 
pere remarks,  "  que  le  pouvoir  sache  monter  a  cheval."  The  Americans, 
he  adds,  have  a  decided  inclination  for  military  affairs,  and  differ  in  that 
point  greatly  from  the  English.  This  manifest  tendency  may  one  day 
lead  to  a  total  change  in  the  character  and  institutions  of  the  American 
people.  There  was  also  a  procession,  which  was  most  characterised  by 
what  the  French  call  reclame,  that  is  to  say,  that  every  one  wanted  to 
take  a  part  in  it,  but  always  with  the  object  of  advertising  or  puffing 
himself  or  his  goods.  A  dealer  in  bear's-grease  promenaded  a  stuffed 
bear  ;  there  were  vans  with  workshops  in  them,  and  agencies  for  do- 
mestics and  nurses  exhibited  their  human  commodities.   There  was  after- 

May — vol.  cvii.  no.  ccccxxv.  f 


64  America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman. 

wards  a  dinner,  at  which,  according  to  a  local  journal,  "  a  Mediterranean 
of  human  fraternity  sat  under  a  firmament  of  flags."  M.  Ampere,  re- 
turned, he  says,  to  Lis  hotel,  exclaiming  to  himself,  "  Le  roi  s'amuse." 

At  Buffalo,  the  driver  called  the  Frenchman  "  my  friend*"  This  wat 
the  essence  of  politeness  compared  with  the  style  of  another  of  the  fra- 
ternity, who,  entering  an  hotel  in  pursuit  of  his  fare — the  Prince  Bernard 
of  Saxe  Weimar — called  out,  "  Where  is  the  man  who  starts  this  even- 
ing ?  I  am  the  gentleman  that  has  to  convey  him."  Alluding  to  the 
praiseworthy  respect  with  which  the  fair  sex  are  treated  in  America, 
open  in  some  cases  to  abuse,  our  traveller  says  he  has  seen  three  hundred 
gentlemen  waiting  for  a  lady,  who  often,  although  not  a  "  lady,"  allowed 
herself  to  be  waited  for  before  they  could  take  their  seats  at  table.  He 
elsewhere  saw  an  American  go  and  bring  in  an  old  peasant  from  among 
some  emigrant  passengers,  so  that  he  might  claim  a  first  and  upper  seat 
at  the  table  by  having  "  a  lady  in  charge."  At  Detroit,  M.  Ampere  went 
to  see  a  picture,  much  spoken  of,  as  from  the  easel  of  an  American  artist. 
It  was,  indeed,  proclaimed  to  be  a  chef-cFceuvre  ;  nothing,  he  was  told, 
among  ancient  or  modern  paintings  in  Europe,  could  bear  comparison  with 
it ;  yet  he  declares  it  to  have  been  "  un  tableau  de  ehevalet  fort  ordinaire." 
At  New  Buffalo,  where  he  had  to  sleep  on  a  table,  he  was  aroused  by  the 
waiter  throwing  a  napkin  on  hb  stomach,  with  a  "  Come,  comrade,  it  is 
time  to  get  up." 

A  grandiloquent  description  of  the  pig-killing  season  at  Cincinnati,  in 
periods  of  Ciceronian  length,  reminded  our  academician  of  Dante's  de- 
scription of  the  endless  files  of  pilgrims  going  and  [coming  from  St. 
Peter's  to.  the  Bridge  of  Hadrian  during  the  solemnity  of  the  Jubilee. 
"Great  numbers,"  he  adds,  "however,  always  arouse  the  faculties  of 
wonder  and  imagination,  whether  of  years,  distances,  or  individuals,  even 
if  those  individuals  be  pigs;  and  the  porcine  industry  of  the  '  Queen  of 
the  West'  is  a  really  astounding  fact."  Contemplating  these  new  cities 
in  the  West,  Cincinnati  and  Columbus,  M.  Ampere  is  led  to  remark  that 
the  Americans,  who  have  been  successful  in  sculpture,  fail  in  architec- 
ture. Artistic  inferiority  shows  itself  mainly  in  this  point,  where  new 
types  are  wanted  for  new  circumstances.  The  American  taste  inclines 
to  the  Gothic,  not  only  in  churches,  but  in  custom-houses,  banks,  and 
colleges.  Their  classic  architecture  does  not  come  up  to  the  Bourse  or  the 
Madeleine,  nor  do  they  succeed  in  Gothic  like  the  English,  who  some- 
times attain  considerable  perfection ;  and  when  they  wish  to  strike  out 
something  new,  "  ils  tombent  dans  le  baroque."  At  Columbus  there  k  a 
brick  edifice  with  a  great  hexagonal  tower,  a  crowd  of  turrets,  doors,  and 
windows  of  white  marble :  this  castellated  building  is  a  school  of  medi- 
cine !  The  only  descriptions  of  buildings  that  deserve  serious  attention 
in  America  are  the  great  works  of  public  utility,  particularly  its  aque- 
ducts and  reservoirs,  as  in  the  instance  of  the  High  Bridge  at  New 
York.  These  are  magnificent  undertakings,  to  be  admired  even  after 
having  seen  the  analogous  works  of  the  Romans. 

Our  academician  remarks  of  the  condition  of  the  stage  in  the  United 
States,  that  it  is  debased,  because  it  is  condemned  by  the  puritanical 
party.  Struck  as  it  were  with  a  kind  of  moral  .condemnation,  it  is' 
obliged  to  address  itself  to  the  crowd.  An  art  is  like  a  man  :  he  requires 


America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman.  65 

to  be  respected  to  honour  himself.  In  play-bills,  when  a  tragedy  is  an- 
nounced, the  name  of  the  actor  is  given  in  gigantic  letters  ;  that  of  the 
author  is  altogether  omitted  :  which  suffices  to  show  that  tragedy  has  no 
literary  existence  in  the  States.  Mr.  Forrest,  M.  Ampere  remarks,  pos- 
sesses a  certain  violent  energy,  often  forced,  but  the  dignity  of  art  is 
utterly  wanting.  The  publicity  of  the  misunderstanding  between  Mr* 
and  Mrs.  Forrest,  he  also  adds,  did  not  tend  to  heighten  respect  for 
the  American  stage.  Farces  of  a  local  character  are  played  with  greater 
success  ;  and  the  prevalent  pretensions  to  religious  austerity,  or  to  uni- 
versal philanthropy,  are  often  amusingly  caricatured  on  the  stage.  A 
tragedy  called  "  Savonarola,"  of  American  origin,  accidentally  came 
under  the  notice  of  the  French  academician.  The  stiletto,  corrupt  monks, 
melodramatic  brigands,  are  all  that  the  author  knew  of  Florence  in  the 
fifteenth[century  ;  and  he  has  made  of  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  per- 
sonages of  his  time — a  noble  but  unfortunate  enthusiast,  the  embodi- 
ment of  a  dawning  Protestantism — an  assassin,  a  jacobin,  a  brigand,  an 
impostor,  and  a  fool.  Living  in  1495,  three  years  after  the  discovery  of 
America,  "  Savonarola"  is  made  to  yearn  for  the  Eden  of  the  "  Far 
West"  in  exchange  for  the  worn-out  miseries  of  the  Old  World ! 

La  the  midst  of  his  long  dissertations  on  the  stage  and  on  the  litera- 
ture of  the  United  States,  of  whose  living  representatives  Mr.  Ampere 
speaks  in  most  favourable  yet  discriminating  terms,  our  academician  is 
every  moment  put  out  by  what  he  calls  Vincurie  Americaine — "  Ameri- 
can carelessness."  If  he  walked  in  the  Broadway  it  was  always  at  the 
risk  of  his  life  :  great  excavations  to  pass  over  by  narrow  and  insecure 
planks,  open  cellars,  and  neither  lamps  nor  rails  ;  or  new  and  old  edifices 
tumbling  down  into  the  street.  The  Courier  des  Etats-  Unit,  a  French 
paper  published  in  New  York,  is,  according  to  our  traveller,  the  only 
organ  of  publicity  that  has  the  courage  to  denounce  this  state  of  things. 
Scarcely  a  day  passes  at  New  York  without  a  fire  ;  and  what  is  supposed 
to  be  the  main  cause  ?  The  acquisition  of  the  insurance  money !  The 
post-office  service  is  very  inadequately  performed.  Mistakes,  our  author 
heard  from  several  persons,  were  very  common ;  and  he  himself  ex- 
perienced the  fact.  The  police  is  also  not  equal  to  the  task  of  keeping 
the  heterogeneous  population  of  a  great  city  like  New  York  in  order.  In 
the  evening,  some  of  the  quarters  are  infested  with  those  terrible  bandits 
called  rowdies,  who  not  only  delight  in  robbery,  but  also  in  assassination* 
While  M.  Ampere  was  in  New  York,  these  wretches  went  into  a  French- 
man's house  and  killed  him,  out  of  the  mere  caprice  of  unbridled  ferocity. 

Remarking  upon  the  progress  of  the  fine"  arts  in  the  United  States, 
M.  Ampere  says,  the  principle  insisted  upon  by  the  Americans,  that  they 
must  wait  for  society  to  establish  itself,  and  that  the  development  of  the 
fine  arts  will  come  with  time,  is  a  wrong  one  ;  it  is  not,  he  says,  the 
maturity,  but  the  youth  of  nations  that  is  favourable  to  imagination. 
But  to  found  a  good  school,  part  of  the  money  of  the  New  York  Art 
Union  skould  be  invested  in  examples  of  the  old  masters,  and  not 
frittered  away  on  mediocre  and  even  bad  paintings.  At  Columbia  Col- 
lege M.  Ampere  met  a  professor  who  did  not  make  a  secret  of  his  anti- 
pathy to  the  democratic  side  of  American  institutions.  The  statutes  of 
the  college  embrace  an  admirable  course  of  study,  but  the  young  Ameri- 

»  2 


66  America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman. 

can  is  so  anxious  to  make  money,  that  he  can  only  devote  four  years  to 
accomplishing  that  which  is  supposed  to  include  integral  calculus,  and  the 
methods  of  Newton,  Laplace,  and  Lagrange ! 

Coming  down  Bowery-street,  one  of  those  myriad  of  colonels  without 
regiments  who  adorn  American  society  said  to  M.  Ampere,  "  You  see 
this  street,  it  divides  the  society  of  New  York  into  two  classes :  those  who 
have  not  made  their  fortunes  live  to  the  east  of  Bowery-street,  those  who 
have  made  their  fortunes  go  to  the  west."  "  And  if  misfortunes  come  ?" 
"  Oh,  well,  they  go  back  to  the  east !"  This  in  an  especially  free  and 
independent  country,  with  democratic  presidents,  democratic  diplomatists, 
and  democratic  institutions ! 

The  Americans,  always  inclined  to  be  jealous  of  Europe,  compare  the 
Hudson  to  the  Rhine.  A  young  traveller  remarked,  in  a  tone  of  triumph, 
of  the  same  river  :  "  The  pages  of  our  history  are  pure ;  we  have  no 
feudal  castles  !"  "  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  says  M.  Ampere,  "  I  only 
asked  him  to  allow  me  to  love  at  least  what  remained  of  feudal  times- 
its  ruins."  One  of  the  innumerable  inconsistencies  of  democracy  is  wit- 
nessed at  the  military  school  at  West  Point,  which  is  conducted  on  the 
system  of  the  Ecole  Polytechnique,  but  a  nomination  to  which  is  only 
obtained  by  favour  ;  whereas  at  the  great  military  school  of  France,  all 
candidates  are  admitted  to  compete  upon  a  footing  of  perfect  equality — a 
much  more  democratic  system  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word. 

"  Among  all  the  Americans,"  our  academician  states,  "  whom  I  have 
interrogated  on  the  point  of  the  danger  that  the  tyranny  of  the  majority, 
without  any  counterpoise,  may  cause  to  liberty  in  purely  democratic 
states,  one  only  frankly  conceded  that  the  danger  existed ;  the  others 
generally  answered  me  in  the  same  language  as  that  adopted  by  Mr. 
Spencer  in  his  notes  to  De  Tocqueville,  that  the  danger  signalised  by 
that  writer  is  warded  off  by  the  mobility  of  the  majority,  and  which,  by 
bringing  in  turn  the  different  parties  into  power,  does  not  permit 
any  one  of  them,  or  the  opinion  it  represents,  to  establish  a  lasting 
tyranny.  This  does  not  appear  to  me  a  sufficient  answer  to  M.  de 
Tocqueville's  argument ;  for  it  would  result  from  it,  at  most,  that 
the  oppression  would  make  itself  felt  at  each  turn  in  a  contrary  sense ; 
this  might  possibly  be  a  consolation  to  the  oppressed,  who  would  become 
oppressors,  but  it  would  not  be  a  state  of  liberty  for  any  person.  Bodies 
of  individuals,  or  individuals  themselves,  have  exercised  tyrannical  power 
in  many  countries,  and  have  been  successively  crushed  or  obliterated.  It 
is  what  is  seen  in  our  revolutions  :  what  results  from  them  but  a  variety 
of  slavery,  and  different  but  equal  defeats  to  the  principle  of  liberty  ? 

"  Further,  it  will  not  do  to  trust  too  much  to  the  regularity  of  these 
oscillations  of  the  majority  in  a  contrary  sense  ;  it  may  happen  that  upon 
certain  points  the  one  that  shall  succeed  to  another  may  inherit  certain 
passions  in  common  with  its  predecessor,  certain  very  general  prejudices, 
which  would  strike  with  equal  force  a  persistent  minority.  In  the  slave 
states,  for  example,  liberty  of  opinion  upon  that  subject  no  more  exists 
when  the  Whigs  carry  the  elections  than  when  the  democrats  triumph ; 
and,  speaking-  of  the  general  government  of  the  Union,  is  it  quite  certain 
that  parties  do  succeed  one  another  alternately  in  power?  Have  not  the 
democrats  triumphed  for  now  many  years  in  almost  all  the  presidential 
elections  ?    May  they  not  also  so  triumph  in  the  elections  of  Congress 


America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman.  67 

that  legislation  shall  be  carried  on  against  their  adversaries  for  such  a 
length  of  time  that  their  position  will  become  one  of  real  oppression  ? — 
the  same  majority  that  triumphs  in  an  election,  as  M.  de  Tocqueville  so 
well  observes,  being  then  everywhere,  in  the  press,  in  the  jury,  and,  it 
may  now  be  added,  in  the  judges,  appointed  in  the  present  day  almost 
generally  by  the  people. 

"  Mr.  Spencer  thinks  that  the  peculiar  position  in  which  the  United 
States  were  placed  at  the  period  when  M.  de  Tocqueville  visited  them, 
may  have  had  an  influence  on  the  impressions  which  he  received.  It 
was,  he  said,  the  epoch  when  the  astonishing  majority  which  supported 
General  Jackson  in  the  most  violent  measures  of  his  policy  may  have 
led  to  the  belief  that  the  minority  was  crushed  and  powerless  for  self- 
defence  ;  since  that,  things  have  changed.  But  that  things  should  have 
arrived  at  such  a  state,  testifies,  it  appears  to  me,  that  the  danger  sig- 
nalised by  M.  de  Tocqueville  is  not  illusory ;  it  is  a  manifest  sign  of  the 
reality  of  this  peril :  for  an  evil  of  which  one  is  momentarily  cured,  if  it 
has  its  principle  in  the  organisation,  may  return  again  at  different  inter- 
vals, and  finish  by  being  fatal.  Now,  M.  de  Tocqueville  does  not  con- 
template the  phases  of  sickness  or  of  health  of  the  United  States ;  what 
he  renders  evident  is  the  principle  itself  of  a  radical  infirmity,  a  principle 
inherent  in  American  society  as  in  all  democratic  bodies— -the  possible 
tyranny  of  the  number  where  number  is  all  and  everything ;  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  no  explanation  or  discussion  of  details,  however  inge- 
nious they  may  be,  can  suppress  the  reality  of  an  evil  which  is  inherent 
in  the  very  nature  of  things.  That  which  is  possible,  is  not  to  deny  it 
but  to  struggle  against  it ;  for  the  author  of  *  Democracy  in  America' 
signalised  it  in  order  that  it  should  be  combated  in  the  United  States 
and  elsewhere.  I  persist  in  believing  that  he  placed  his  finger  on  the 
mischief,  and  that  by  so  doing  he  showed  the  necessity  of  seeking  for  a 
remedy,  which  was  rendering  the  greatest  possible  service  to  American 
democracy  and  to  all  democratic  countries ;  and  I  would  venture  to  advise 
these  countries,  whatever  they  may  be,  not  to  forget  that,  if  they  wish  to 
be  free,  they  ought  to  defend  liberty  against  the  despotism  of  demo- 
cracy." 

There  can  be  little  doubt  as  to  the  correctness  of  the  views  entertained 
by  the  French  academician,  M.  de  Tocqueville,  and  now  endorsed  from 
observations  made  at  a  subsequent  period  by  his  colleague,  M.  Ampere,  as 
to  the  elementary  evil  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  purely  democratic  so- 
cieties and  corrodes  their  very  vitals  ;  but  the  remedy  proposed  by  the 
latter  of  defending  liberty  against  the  despotism  of  democracy,  has  no 
logical  basis  whatever.  M.  Ampere  himself  avows  that  there  can  be 
no  such  thing  as  liberty  under  a  democracy,  where  the  tyranny  of  a 
majority  takes  the  place  of  the  tyranny  of  a  despot,  or  that  of  a  monarch 
tempered  by  a  representative  and  constitutional  system.  The  mere  sup- 
planting of  one  tyranny  by  another,  he  justly  points  out,  may  be  a  con* 
solation  to  the  oppressed,  who  become  in  their  turn  the  oppressors,  but  it 
does  not  ensure  liberty  to  any  one.  The  tyranny  of  the  majority  is, 
therefore,  not  only  a  vice  inherent  in  democratic  institutions,  but  it  is 
inseparable  from  them. 

It  is  true  that  it  might  be  opposed  to  this  view  of  democracy,  that 
there  is  a  monarchy  in  republican  institutions,  or,  as  is  argued  by  many 


68  America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman* 

modern  American  statesmen  and  divines,  there  is  a  sovereignty  in  demo* 
cracj.  Sovereignty,  say  this  class  of  writers,  is  not  in  die  people,  hot 
always  somewhere  else :  in  Europe,  in  a  despotic  or  constitutional  govern* 
ment ;  among  the  Americans,  in  an  aggregate  of  reasonable  principles, 
and  which,  as  such,  are  derived  from  God,  and  are  inscribed  in  the  con- 
stitution. This  constitution  is  the  sovereignty  in  democracy,  the  mo- 
narchy of  republican  institutions;  it  must  be  respected  and  obeyed. 
Government  and  congresses  always  changing  is  to  that  constitution  what 
an  executive  and  houses  of  representatives  are  in  the  OJd  World — a 
power  instituted  to  replace  peaceably  and  legally  false  principles  by  true 
ones.  It  would  appear,  at  first  sight,  strange  that  if,  as  is  declared 
by  Mr.  Hawkes,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  die  divines  of  the 
United  States,  the  principles  of  the  American  constitution  are  derived 
from  God,  any  of  these  principles  should  be  false  and  capable  of 
being  replaced  by  true  ones;  but  the  constitution  of  the  New  Werid 
does  not  as  yet  claim  the  infallibility  of  Popedom  in  the  Old.  The 
boasted  supremacy  of  the  constitution,  its  monarchical  position  in  relation 
to  government  and  people,  is  to  a  great  degree  negatived  by  leaving  open 
the  power  of  replacing  false  principles  by  true  ones.  It  is  evident  that 
that  which  was  a  true  principle  under  one  order  of  ideas  or  opinions, 
becomes  false  under  another.  Thus  a  constitutional  principle  held 
good  by  a  Whig,  may  be  deemed  false  by  a  Democrat.  Slavery,  upheld 
as  justifiable  and  constitutional  by  the  southern  states,  may  not  be 
esteemed  in  the  same  light  by  the  northern.  Where  government  is 
elected  by  the  majority,  the  majority  being  guided  by  opinion,  and  that 
government  having  the  power  to  tamper  with  the  constitution,  the  boasted 
sovereignty  of  that  constitution  is  in  reality  a  mere  empty  dream. 

The  practical  money-getting  turn  of  mind  of  the  Americans,  oar 
academician  remarks,  is  adverse  to  metaphysical  or  purely  philosophical 
speculation,  yet  there  exists  at  Concord  a  little  knot  of  thinkers  or 
dreamers  of  whom  Emerson  is  the  centre.  But,  as  he  further  remarks, 
the  philosophy  of  Emerson,  advocating  contempt  for  the  past,  excess  of 
confidence  in  the  present,  and  above  all  things  self-reliance,  is  only  the 
tendencies  and  excesses  of  the  American  character  embodied  in  a  so- 
called  philosophical  system.  While  at  the  same  time  the  Americans  are 
professedly  so  religious,  our  academician  tells  us  that  the  "  Philosophic 
Positive"  of  M.  Comte,  which  arrives  at  the  negation  of  all  religion 
under  a  serious  and  scientific  form,  is  much  read  in  America,  and  obtains 
greater  credit  there  than  in  France.  The  idea  of  a  positive  philosophy, 
he  intimates,  was  agreeable  to  an  eminently  positive  people,  and  a  narrow, 
limited  system  was  congenial  to  minds  characterised  by  firmness  rather 
than  by  comprehensiveness. 

M.  Ampere  describes  the  excesses  of  democracy  as  never  made  more 
manifest  than  upon  the  occasion  of  the  arrival  of  Kossuth  in  the  United 
States.  He  was  proclaimed  to  be  the  future  liberator  of  Europe.  One 
preacher,  he  states,  declared  his  coming  to  be  the  second  advent  of 
Christ !  The  papers  propounded  that  the  time  had  come  for  the  United 
States  to  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  Europe,  and  to  support  the  democratic 
principle.  One  spoke  of  sending  a  fleet  into  the  Adriatic  to  attack 
Austria,  by  taking  Fiume;  and  another  into  the  Baltic  to  bombard 
Cranstadt  and  St.  Petersburg.    Another  proposed  to  declare  war  sk 


America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman.  69 

taneously  with  England  and  France.  A  charming  young  person  said 
that  she  had  always  wished  to  see  a  hero !  Lola  Mcmtes  alone  declared 
him  to  he  a  humbug.  Two  of  a  trade  never  agree.  The  populace 
shouted  out  "  Hungary !"  but  said  to  themselves — "  Canada  and  Ha* 
vsnaah!" 

At  Philadelphia  our  academician  saw  a  translation  of  Victor  Hugo's 
"  Tyrant  of  Padua"  performed;  but  as  Quaker  prudency  could  not 
tolerate  that  the  heroine  should  be  a  courtesan,  they  had  made  her  in 
the  play-bills  an  actress — a  transformation  which  altered  the  sense  of  the 
whole  piece,  and  showed  at  the  same  time  in  what  little  esteem  the 
theatre  is  held. 

,  Religion,  even  in  its  toleration,  presents  as  many  inconsistencies  in  the 
States  as  does  democracy.  Religious  toleration,  which  could  not  be  found 
in  episcopal  Virginia  or  puritanical  New  England,  originated  with  the 
Quakers  of  Pennsylvania,  a  sect  notoriously  intolerant  in  the  Old  World. 
Roger  Williams,  who  first  inculcated  that  the  State  should  not  interfere 
with  creeds,  would 'not  himself  join  in  prayer  with  his  own  family  because 
he  did  not  deem  them  to  be  regenerated.  An  Irish  Catholic,  Lord  Bal- 
timore, advocated  religious  liberty  in  Maryland,  which  was  rewarded  by 
the  Protestants  excluding  his  co-religionists  from  the  State.  The  vagaries 
of  religion  may  also  be  said  to  have  attained  their  extreme  development 
in  the  United  States  in  Mormonism.  The  only  faith  that  has  been  perse- 
cuted in  a  country  where  the  most  strange  creeds  are  expounded  with- 
out an  obstacle,  Mormonism  is  probably  in  part  indebted  to  this  persecution 
lor  its  success.  One  of  the  greatest  evils  connected  with  an  institution 
which  is  subversive  of  all  family  lies  is,  that  the  population  is  almost 
entirely  kept  up  by  proselytes  or  victims  obtained  in  this  country.  They 
designate  themselves  as  Saints,  and  call  the  other  people  of  the  States 
Gentiles.  They  resemble  the  Jews  in  having  the  same  antipathy  for  the 
rest  of  mankind,  the  same  indefatigable  activity  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth, 
and  the  same  union  among  themselves.  M.  Ampere  remarks  upon 
Mormonism,  that  there  is  no  doubt  that  that  which  assisted  it  in  its 
progress  in  the  United  States,  is  the  idea  that  America  ought  to  have 
her  own  religion  and  her  own  revelation,  and  ought  even  upon  that  point 
to  detach  herself  from  the  Old  World,  so  as  to  be  indebted  to  her  in  no 
one  thing.  The  book  of  the  Mormons  has,  he  adds,  been  manifestly 
written  for  Americans.  The  theory  which  makes  reason  the  gift  of  the 
majority  is  placed  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  predestined 
tribe :  "  It  is  not  usual  that  the  voice  of  the  people  should  desire  any* 
thing  eontrary  to  that  which  is  good;  but  it  often  happens  that  the 
minority  wants  that  which  it  is  not  proper  to  concede.  That  is  why  you 
will  make  it  a  law  to  conduct  your  affairs  according  to  the  will  of  the 
people. 

It  is  easily  seen  by  this  how  much  the  Mormons,  whatever  may  be  the 
difference  of  their  ideas  upon  other  matters,  are  imbued  with  the  American 
doctrine  of  the  infallibility  of  numbers,  and  the  presumed  error  of  the 
minority — a  doctrine  which  has  few  inconveniences,  M.  Ampere  says, 
where  the  people  are  so  enlightened  as  in  the  United  States,  but  which 
must  everywhere  have  the  result  of  elevating  force  into  the  place  of  right. 
Pascal  said,  speaking  of  a  vote  on  ecclesiastical  affairs,  "  It  is  easier  to 
find  monks  than  reasons."   It  is  easier  to  find  a  majority  than  to  discover 


70  America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman* 

a  truth,  or  to  establish  the  reign  of  justice  and  reason.  The  existence  of 
Mormonism  in  the  United  States  speaks  more  in  favour  of  their  tolerance 
than  of  their  principles  and  rectitude.  True,  that  the  depravity  and 
ignorance  of  the  Old  World  pours  its  scum  into  the  caldron  of  abomina- 
tion, but  the  boasted  enlightenment  of  the  Americans  permits  itself  to  be 
sadly  dimmed  by  the  existence  of  such  an  enormity,  and  of  its  incorpora- 
tion with  other  Christian  States. 

The  sovereign  purity  of  the  constitution  is  also  not  a  little  tarnished 
by  the  law  which  permits  a  master  to  pursue  his  fugitive  slave  into  states 
where  slavery  does  not  exist,  and  that  not  under  the  name  of  slave,  but 
of  "  a  person  held  out  to  service  or  labour,"  and  which  allows  to  the 
:udge  a  greater  remuneration  if  he  declares  the  captive  to  be  good, 
than  in  case  of  a  verdict  in  favour  of  the  miserable  culprit.  M.  Ampere 
calls  such  a  state  of  things  "  scandalous ;"  it  is,  indeed,  an  apparent 
bribe  to  a  corrupt  verdict  in  favour  of  slaveholders  ;  one,  we  suppose,  of 
those  "  false  principles,"  as  Mr.  Hawkes  would  call  them,  which  have 
crept  into  the  divinely-begotten  institutions  of  the  United  States.  M. 
Ampere  heard  in  an  open  court  at  Philadelphia  one  of  the  judges  express, 
after  a  verdict  had  been  given,  his  dissent  with  the  other  judges.  It  is, 
he  remarks,  pushing  respect  for  individual  opinion  rather  far  to  permit  the 
minority  to  thus  express  an  opinion  opposed  to  the  judgment  given,  at 
the  risk  of  affecting  its  weight. 

"  The  triumph  of  Mr.  Hobbes,"  M.  Ampere  records,  "  the  victory 
gained  by  the  yacht  America  at  the  regatta  off  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and 
the  success  of  the  reaping-machine,  are  three  subjects  upon  which  the 
American  press  is  never  tired  of  dilating.  To  these  three  industrial  ex- 
ploits must  be  added  the  superiority  in  speed  which  has  enabled  the 
American  steamers  to  effect  the  passage  from  Europe  to  America  in  less 
time  than  the  English  boats.  These  are  like  so  many  grand  warlike 
exploits.  They  are  the  Arcole,  Marengo,  Austerlitz,  and  Wagram  of 
the  United  States.  The  national  pride  is  perfectly  intoxicated  by  such 
successes.  The  English  honour  themselves  by  the  courtesy  with  which 
they  accepted  the  defeat.  When  the  America  beat  their  yachts  off  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  the  Queen  congratulated  the  conquerors.  The  conquered 
applauded  their  victors.  I  have  heard  Americans  admit  that  in  case  of 
defeat  they  would  not  have  done  as  much."  There  is  a  great  deal  contained 
in  this  last  statement ;  it  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  those  political  difficulties 
which  never  can  be  settled  from  the  obstinacy  of  the  American  character, 
and  the  repugnance  which  it  has  to  acknowledge  itself  in  the  wrong,  or  to 
admit  of  compromise  or  defeat.  Like  the  spoilt  and  wayward  child  of 
fortune,  it  must  have  all  its  own  way — no  arbitration — no  interference- 
no  dictation — everything  or  nothing. 

M.  Ampere  first  saw  at  the  theatre  of  Baltimore  the  amphitheatre  to 
which  people  of  colour  are  consigned.  Although  of  a  pure  white,  a  quarte- 
rone,  he  remarks,  is  obliged  to  take  his  place  among  the  negroes.  The 
musical  instinct,  he  adds,  is  not  much  developed  among  the  Americans. 
They  are,  nevertheless,  very  musical,  an  enormous  number  of  pianofortes 
being  manufactured  in  the  United  States,  and  social  concerts  as  much  in 
vogue  as  in  Europe  ;  but  he  adds,  "  I  do  not  see  that  they  produce  in 
this  country  any  remarkable  results.  The  proud  Yankees  must  recog- 
nise their  inferiority  in  this  respect  to  those  whom  some  of  them  look  upon 


America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman.  71 

as  barely  human  beings.  The  negro  is  condemned  by  slavery  or  con* 
tempt  to  a  miserable  existence,  but  he  has  a  gift  which  has  been  denied 
to  those  who  oppress  and  despise  him — that  of  gaiety.  To  sustain  him  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  position,  Providence  has  given  him  a  taste  for  singing 
and  dancing — 

Le  bon  Dieului  dit :  Ghante, 

Chante,  pauvre  petit." 

At  Washington  there  are  two  things  essential  for  the  traveller — one  is 
to  visit  the  senate,  another  to  attend  a  levee  of  the  president.  At  the 
first,  M.  Ampere  witnessed  the  violence  of  democracy  personified  by  Mr. 
Foote ;  at  the  second  he  had — his  pocket  picked  !  Upon  another  occa- 
sion our  academician  attended  a  discussion  on  the  subject  of  a  compro- 
mise between  the  north  and  south  on  the  question  of  the  Fugitive  Law* 
Here  he  heard  Houston  and  Foote,  parliamentary  antagonists  a  few  days 
previously,  now  unanimous  in  their  sentiments,  in  which  they  were  also 
followed  by  the  "  inveterate  enemy  of  England" — General  Cass.  M.  Am- 
pere was  most  struck  by  the  manners  and  appearance  of  Mr.  Douglas, 
whom  he  desciibes  as  "  petit,  noir,  trapu,  sa  parole  est  pleine  de  nerf,  son 
action  simple  et  forte."  No  small  amusement  has  since  been  created  by 
this  passage  having  been  publicly  expounded,  as  implying  that  the  short, 
squat,  and  dark  senator  in  question  was  a  negro ! 

Speaking  of  the  two  great  parties  into  which  the  States  are  now 
divided,  the  Whigs  and  the  Democrats,  corresponding  pretty  nearly  to  the 
Federalists  and  Republicans  of  former  times,  M.  Ampere  remarks  that  the 
acquisition  of  the  Oregon  and  the  conquests  in  Mexico  under  President 
Polk  assisted  materially  in  developing  warlike  inclinations  and  the  ambi- 
tion of  conquests,  new  elements  from  which,  if  they  do  not  take  care,  the 
ruin  of  the  United  States  may  yet  ensue.  Since  the  days  of  Jefferson,  he 
adds,  the  Democrats  have  almost  always  been  in  power.  "  This  is 
natural,  for  they  represent  more  completely  than  their  adversaries  the 
sentiments  and  the  faults  of  the  majority.  The  Whigs  used  to  temper 
these,  the  Democrats  give  them  impulse.  The  government  of  the  United 
States  is  like  a  locomotive  started  on  an  iron  road :  it  begins  its  course 
at  a  moderate  speed ;  soon  the  furnace  is  heated,  the  speed  is  accelerated, 
the  whole  force  of  the  steam  is  put  on,  an  immense  way  is  made  in  a 
very  short  time  ;  but  it  also  often  happens  in  this  country  that  the  boiler 
bursts,  and  the  locomotive  is  blown  into  the  air.    Avis  aux  Americains" 

M.  Ampere  also  makes  some  wise  and  judicious  remarks  upon  that 
spirit  of  conquest  and  aggrandisement  which  is  at  the  present  moment 
rampant  in  the  United  States.  The  condition  of  neighbouring  states,  as 
Cuba,  Mexico,  and  Central  America,  favours  the  ambitious  desires  pro- 
voked. The  difficulties  which  the  Mormons  present  at  the  present  moment 
to  Congress  attest  that  others  may  arise  from  too  extensive  an  empire, 
and  the  contemptuous  manner  in  which  these  sectarians  repel  all  that  are 
not  themselves,  shows  that  even  the  boasted  power  of  fusion  and  of  assimi- 
lation has  its  limits.  The  policy  of  invasion  also  favours  instincts  that  are 
fatal  to  republican  principles.  Channing  long  ago  pointed  out  that  great 
armies  would  give  birth  to  heavy  taxation  and  to  great  captains.  Are  the 
Americans  so  weary  of  the  republic  that  they  wish  to  give  to  it  such 
guardians  ?  The  FenSlon  of  America,  as  M.  Ampere  calls  him,  also 
said,  "  We  talk  of  accomplishing  our  destiny!     Thus  spoke  the  last  con- 


72  America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman. 

queror  of  Europe,  and  destiny  cast  him  upon  a  solitary  rock  in  the  midst 
of  the  ocean,  victim  of  an  ambition  which  has  been  definitively  fatal  only 
to  himjMJfc  Who  does  not  perceive,  that  if  war  becomes  a  habit  with 
us,  our  institutions  cannot  be  preserved  ?  We  boast  of  the  progress  of 
society,  but  this  progress  consists  in  the  substitution  of  reason  and 
morality  to  the  empire  of  brute  force.  It  is  true  that  a  civilised  people  is 
always  called  upon  to  exercise  a  great  influence  upon  neighbours  that  are 
Jess  so  than  themselves ;  but  it  ought  to  be  to  ameliorate  and  to  enlighten, 
not  to  crush  and  to  destroy." 

The  alarming  perspective  suggested  by  a  brief  delay  at  Washington, 
aad  which  alternates  with  more  agreeable  details  regarding  the  Smith- 
sonian Institution,  the  Patent  Office,  the  Observatory,  Messrs.  Henry, 
Maury,  and  Bache,  men  of  scientific  fame  in  both  Worlds,  were 
soon  exchanged  for  the  bustle  of  railway  and  boat,  and  the  glorious  in- 
conveniences of  wending  the  way  through  zain  and  mud,  in  search  of  a 
house  where  the  tickets  were  exchanged,  without  even  a  sign-post,  stall 
less  a  living  person  to  indicate  the  place.  As  to  the  omnibus  at  the  end 
of  the  journey,  it  had  to  be  felt  for.  Near  Wilmington  the  train  tra* 
versed  a  river  by  a  viaduct,  with  great  intervals  open  beneath  the 
waggons,  and  no  parapet  at  the  side.  The  effect,  our  traveller  says, 
was  pen  rassurant 

Charleston,  with  its  commerce  in  cotton,  suggested  new  trains  of 
thought.  What  would  become  of  the  population  of  the  great  manufac- 
turing towns  in  England  if  no  cotton  arrived  at  Liverpool  ?  That  which 
will  maintain  peace  between  England  and  America  more  than  all  the 
societies  united  to  that  effect,  M.  Ampere  remarks,  will  be  a  certain 
number  of  bales  of  cotton ! 

The  sale  of  a  family  of  negroes  on  the  public  square  was  a  less  gratify- 
ing exhibition.  By  their  side  was  a  red  flag,  worthy  emblem,  says  our 
Frenchman,  of  crime  and  slavery.  Close  by  the  same  spot  a  negro  was 
burnt  at  a  alow  fire  in  1808.  "  Je  me  garderai  bien,"  says  M.  Am- 
pere, "  d'ajouter  la  moindre  reflexion  a  ce  recit."  Near  Charleston  is  a 
fort,  which  the  Secessionists,  or  those  who  desire  separation  from  the 
Union,  if  any  attempt  is  made  against  the  rights  and  interests  of  the 
aouth,  declare  to  have  been  raised  to  keep  the  city  in  obedience.  "  Such 
a  threat  on  the  one  side,  and  such  anger  on  the  other,"  M»  Ampere 
remarks,  "  appear  to  announce  an  imminent  crisis." 

If  it  was  not  for  a  day's  journey  to  be  performed  in  a  carriage  near 
Montgomery,  the  whole  distance  between  Quebec  and  New  Orleans 
could  now  be  performed  by  rail  or  steam-boat.  M.  Ampere,  who  ap- 
pears to  have  been  constitutionally  chilly,  actually  complained  of  the 
climate  of  Alabama !  "  America,"  he  says,  "  is  a  rigorous  climate :  it 
has  preserved  the  native  roughness  of  countries  that  have  not  been 
softened  by  an  ancient  cultivation ;  the  land  has  not  yet  been  warmed 
by  the  breath  of  man !"  On  board  the  same  boat  on  the  Alabama  was 
one  of  those  dogs  used  for  hunting  fugitive  slaves.  He  was  not  a  little 
disgusted  at  seeing  the  people  caress  it,  and  call  it  "  a  good  dog."  The 
Southerners,  he  says,  will  work  with  negroes,  but  will  not  eat  with 
them.  Politics  were  freely  discussed  on  board.  One  of  the  leading 
speakers  had  his  coat  out  at  the  elbows.  Below,  were  two  ministers 
taking  an  unfortunate  actor  to  task.     One  related  an  instance  of  hi* 


America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman.  78 

baring  baptised  the  child  of  an  actor?  and  described  with  unction  the 
grief  of  the  parents  at  thinking  of  the  lot  that  awaited  it  The  other 
told  of  a  female  who  always  came  to  church  railed :  being  asked  who 
she  was,  she  replied,  "  I  am  an  actress,  but  I  wish  to  save  my  soul." 

The  first  thing  that  struck  our  traveller  on  arriving  at  New  Orleans 
was  an  advertisement  for  the  sale  of  lands  and  slaves :  one  of  the  slaves 
was  designated  as  an  idiot.  "  Yendre  un  idiot  1"  he  exclaims.  At  the 
great  hotel,  which,  with  its  cupola,  is  one  of  the  leading  features  of  the 
city,  the  rooms  have  no  bells,  their  place  is  occupied  by  an  electro-mag- 
netic apparatus.  "  An  lieu,"  he  says,  "  de  tirerle  cordon  d'une  sonnette, 
on  mtt  jouer  une  pile  de  Volta  !"  A  tradition  of  France  still  existed  in 
the  same  city :  the  cookery  was  infinitely  better  than  elsewhere.  Other 
rentiaiaeences  of  France  soon  also  presented  themselves :  the  ladles  dressed 
and  even  looked  French.  "  Quelques-unes,"  says  M.  Ampere,  "  nous 
out  offert  de  charmants  types  a  demi  parisiens,  a  aemi  Creoles."  At  the 
theatre,  also,  the  young  men  disturbed  the  house  with  their  noisy  witti- 
cisms, which  "  malheureusement  pour  notre  amour-propre  national,  etaient 
em  francais."  Some  fifty  or  sixty  miles  were  travelled  on  the  Mississippi 
m  a  steamer,  to  inspect  a  sugar  factory,  without  an  accident.  M.  Ampere 
did  not  repeat  M.  Gustavo  de  Beaumont's  question  to  the  captain :  "  Your 
machinery  is  in  a  very  bad  state  ;  how  long  do  you  intend  to  use  it  ?"  So 
he  saved  himself  from  the  stereotyped  reply,  "  Till  it  bursts  1"  Publicly 
recognised  in  New  Orleans  by  that  clever  Egyptologist,  Gliddon,  as 
having  first  brought  to  Europe  the  copy  of  an  inscription  from  the  island 
of  Philae,  M,  Ampere  also  brought  a  reminiscence  from  an  equally 
remote  point  of  the  globe  :  "  The  Chactaw  Indiana,"  he  tells  us,  "  are 
already  initiated  in  parliamentary  tactics,  for  when  they  have  a  talkative 
and.  quarrelsome  senator,  they  make  a  president  of  himl" 
.  It  is  not  a  little  curious,  in  a  psychological  point  of  view,  that  our 
academician,  who  in  New  England  was  perfectly  awake  to  the  dangers 
that  threaten  the  institutions  of  the  United  States  from  the  tyranny  of  a 
majority,  which,  if  expressing  the  opinion  of  the  greater  number,  may 
not  always  represent  that  of  the  more  moral,  intellectual,  and  refined 
classes ;  who,  at  Washington,  as  lucidly  exposed  the  perils  accruing  from 
the  ambition  of  conquest  and  aggrandisement,  now  in  the  ascendant ;  and 
who,  in  the  south,  saw  in  the  threats  of  the  Abolitionists,  and  the  angry 
preparations  for  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  Secessionists,  the  omens  of 
a  crisis  that  is  imminent  (and  "  Kansas  difficulties"  and  "  Know-Nothings" 
did  not  exist  then),  should,  on  the  Mississippi,  have  yielded  resistless  to 
the  brilliant  and  grandiose  visions  with  which  every  traveller  is  fed  and 
pampered  in  the  United  States. 

The  Mississippi,  M.  Ampere  chronicles,  on  his  way  to  Havannah,  is 
oneofthe  most  respectable  masses  of  water  in  the  universe.  'When  its  valley 
shall  be  as  well  peopled  as  England,  it  will  contain  a  population  equal  to 
two-thirds  of  that  of  the  whole  world,  and  New  Orleans  will  probably  be 
Jfae  greatest  city  ever  seen  under  the  sun.  The  Gulf  of  Mexico  is  itself  only 
an  expansion  of  the  Mississippi :  no  wonder  then  that  the  Americans 
anticipate  their  future  union  by  such  an  expansion  with  the  great  rivers 
of  South  America  I 

The  charms  of  climate  and  the  beauties  of  art  and  nature  in  Havannah 
were  tempered  by  the  dread  of  yellow  fever.    A  motley,  incoherent  popu- 


74  America  as  seen  by  a  Frenchman. 

lation,  badly  governed  and  over-taxed,  deducted  equally  from  the  relief 
otherwise  afforded  to  the  selfishness  and  pride  of  the  United  States,  by 
the  gaiety,  elegance,  and  grace  of  a  Spanish  town,  and  the  polish  of  the 
Old  World  engrafted  on  a  race  with  tropical  blood  in  its  veins. 

As  to  Mexico,  still  worse  governed  than  Cuba,  it  presented  to  our 
academician,  in  modern  life,  ranchos,  convents,  churches — monks,  gam- 
blers, and  bandits — barbarity  in  civilisation  ;  in  ancient  life,  hieroglyphic 
paintings  of  the  Aztecs,  colossal  statues  resembling  petrified  monsters, 
and  other  monstrous  combinations  of  Mexican  art.  There  were  also 
pyramids — more  particularly  the  great  Cholula — and  M.  Ampere,  who 
is  well  qualified  to  give  an  opinion,  says,  that  except  in  point  of  form,  he 
thinks  there  is  no  analogy  to  establish  between  the  pyramids  of  Egypt 
and  the  Mexican  pyramids.  The  first,  he  says,  were  decidedly  funereal, 
the  latter  had  simply  a  religious  object. 

Finally,  Cuba,  Mexico,  and  Canada,  our  academician  tells  us,  are 
destined,  sooner  or  later,  to  form  part  of  the  United  States.  Cuba  and 
Mexico  will  go  first.  "  To  visit  Cuba  and  Mexico  is,  therefore,  still  to 
travel  in  the  United  States — in  the  United  States  of  the  future."  That 
this  may  be  the  case  ultimately  is  possible ;  but  it  is  also  equally  possible 
that  it  may,  by  the  intervention  of  some  accident  or  other,  meet  with  the 
same  kind  of  delay  that  has  occurred  in  the  appropriation  of  Turkey  by 
Russia.  Again,  the  people  of  Cuba  are  hostile  to  a  degree  to  their  own 
bad  government,  without  at  all  desiring  the  sway  of  the  people  of  the 
United  States.  If  they  pass  under  their  dominion,  it  will,  therefore,  be 
because  they  have  no  other  alternative.  The  people  of  Canada  are  by  no 
means  so  circumstanced ;  and  if  a  time  comes  when  they  wish  to  with- 
draw themselves  from  allegiance  to  the  Old  World,  there  is  no  reason 
whatever  that  they  should  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  the  Yankees. 
Again,  if  already  New  England  has  to  overawe  Charleston  by  forts  and 
citadels,  if  the  States  are  already  divided  into  Abolitionists,  Secessionists, 
Mormonites,  and  Californians,  is  it  at  all  likely  that  when  the  valley  of 
the  Mississippi  shall  be  more  populous  than  the  Euphrates  of  old  it  will 
form  part  of  the  United  States  ?  Still  less  will  this  be  the  case  when,  if 
Providence  so  wills  it,  the  United  States  shall  have  assumed  such  dispro- 
portionate development  as  to  embrace  Cuba,  Mexico,  Central  America, 
and,  perchance,  Canada.  If,  under  the  present  system,  there  is  a  differ- 
ence of  character,  difference  of  interests,  difference  of  tariffs,  and  the 
still  graver  difference  of  toleration  and  intoleration  of  slavery  between 
the  industrial  states  of  the  north  and  the  agricultural  states  of  the 
south,  what  will  it  be  when  the  hardy  Scots  of  the  Red  River  and  the 
lively  French  Canadians  are  brought  in  contact  with  the  morose  asceticism 
of  puritanical  America,  and  the  impious  ravings  and  disgraceful  immora- 
lities of  the  Mormons ;  and  these  again  with  the  mixed  populations  of 
Mexico  and  Central  America,  indolent,  corrupted,  and  depraved  by  de- 
testable governments  ?  The  central  power,  whatever  may  be  its  limits,  must 
exercise  authority  under  certain  circumstances :  can  it  make  itself  felt 
beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico? 
Notwithstanding  railroads,  steam-boats,  and  the  electric  telegraph,  there 
will  always  be  some  distance  from  Washington  to  Tehuan tepee. 


(  75  ) 


COUSIN  CABL. 

FROM  THE  DANISH  OF  CARL  BERNHARD. 

Br  Mrs.  Bushby. 
Part  III. 

About  an  hour  before  luncheon  I  stole  away  into  the  wood  to  wait  for 
Jette,  and  it  was  with  a  beating  heart  I  listened  for  any  approaching 
footstep ;  had  I  not  kissed  her,  I  should  have  felt  easier  in  my  own  mind! 
Ought  I  now  to  confess  to  her  the  impositions  of  which  I  had  been 
guilty  ?  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  do  so.  ...  .  But  the  kiss  .... 
would  she  forgive  that  ? 

I  discerned  her  white  dress  a  good  way  off,  and  I  almost  felt  inclined 
to  hide  myself  and  let  her  take  the  trouble  of  finding  me  ;  but  again  I 
bethought  me  that  it  was  not  the  part  of  the  cavalier  to  be  shamefaced 
in  a  secret  assignation.  I  therefore  went  forward  to  meet  her.  As  soon 
as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  me,  she  stopped,  and  suddenly  changed  colour. 
The  poor  girl — how  sorry  I  was  for  her  1  She  could  not  utter  one  word. 
I  led  her  to  a  rural  seat  near. 

"  Cousin,"  at  length  she  said,  "  it  must  doubtless  surprise  you,  and 
naturally  so  too,  that  I  should  in  such  a  secret  manner  have  requested  an 
interview  with  you.  If  you  could  conceive  how  painful  this  moment  is 
to  me,  I  am  sure  you  would  compassionate  me." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  owe  you  an  explanation,  and  I  thank  you  for 
having  given  me  an  opportunity  .  .  .  ." 

"  Dear  cousin,  be  not  offended  with  me — do  not  speak  to  me  in  that 
distant  and  ceremonious  manner,  it  makes  the  step  more  painful  which  I 
am  about  to  take,  and  which  cannot  be  longer  delayed.  It  is  I  who  owe 
you  an  explanation — alas  !  an  explanation  that  will  deprive  me  of  your 
esteem  and  your  friendship.    I  am  very  unhappy." 

"  Do  not  weep  so,  dear  cousin ;  you  cannot  imagine  how  it  grieves  me 
to  see  you  so  miserable.  Believe  me,  I  have  your  happiness  sincerely  at 
heart.  You  little  know  what  delight  it  would  give  me  if  I  were  able  to 
say  to  myself  that  I  had  contributed  to  it." 

The  double  signification  which  my  words  might  bear  drew  forth  more 
tears.     Jette  cried,  without  making  any  reply. 

"There  is  comfort  for  every  affliction,"  I  continued.  "God  has 
mercifully  placed  the  antidote  alongside  of  the  poisonous  plant.  Tell 
me,  at  least,  what  distresses  you — let  me  at  least  endeavour  to  console 
you,  even  if  I  cannot  assist  you,  and  do  not  doubt  my  good  will,  though 
my  power  may  be  but  limited." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Carl,  do  not  speak  so  kindly  to  me,"  cried  Jette, 
with  some  impetuosity.  "  Do  not  speak  thus— I  have  not  deserved  it 
If  you  would  be  compassionate,  say  that  you  hate  me— that  you  abhor 
me." 

"  And  if  I  said  so,  I  should  only  deceive  you.  No,  Jette,  my  com- 
plaisance cannot  go  so  far." 

"  You  would  hate  me— you   would  despise  me !"  she  exclaimed, 


76  Cousin  Carl. 

sobbing,  "  if  you  only  knew  ....  oh  !  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell 
....  if  you  only  knew  ....  how  unfortunate  I   am  ...  .  how 

"Dear  Jette,"  said  I,  in  some  agitation,  "  you  have  come  to  enter 
into  an  explanation  with  me ;  allow  me  to  assist  your  confession,  andjhelp 
to  lighten  the  burden  which  weighs  so  heavily  on  your  heart.  You  have 
come,  I  know,  to  break  off  with  me." 

"  You  know  /"  she  exclaimed,  in  consternation.  And  she  seemed  as  if 
she  were  going  to  faint.  "  Take  pity  on  me,  Carl ;  leave  me  for  a  few 
minutes ;  I  dare  not  look  you  in  the  face."  She  buried  her  own  face  in 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  wept  bitterly.  I  kissed  her  hand,  and  left 
her. 

Very  much  out  of  spirits  myself,  I  wandered  to  and  fro  under  the 
trees.  w  How  is  all  this  to  end  ?"  said  I  to  myself;  "the  poor  girl  will 
fret  herself  to  death  if  she  cannot  have  her  Gustav,  and  get  rid  of  her 
cousin.  Gustav  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  a  very  good  match ;  even  the  father 
allows  that.  The  cousin  must  be  an  idiot  to  let  himself  be  betrothed  by 
his  father's  orders  to  a  girl  he  knows  nothing  about — and  a  tiresome  one 
too,  according  to  what  is  reported  of  him.  Jette  is  a  girl  with  a  great 
deal  of  feeling — but  he  must  be  a  clod  with  none ;  he  can't  care  in  the 
least  for  her,  or  he  would  have  been  here  long  ere  this.  He  shall  not 
have  her.  What  if  I  were  to  advise  them  to  run  away  an  hour  or  two 
before  I  take  myself  off?  or,  suppose  we  were  all  three  to  elope  together  ? 
Nonsense !  How  can  I  think  of  such  folly  ?  Poor  girl !  It  would  melt 
a  heart  of  stone  to  see  her  crying  there.  What  if  I  were  to  stay  and 
play  the  cousin  a  little  longer — formally  renounce  her  hand — give  her  up 
to  Gustav  ?  I  should  like  to  act  such  a  magnanimous  part  ....  and 
when  it  was  all  well  over,  and  the  real  cousin  arrived,  to  let  him  find 
that  he  had  come  on  a  fool's  errand,  and  go  back  to  nurse  his  cold  .... 
or,  it  might  be  better  to  drop  him  a  line  by  the  post  to  save  a  scene  ?  F8 
do  it.  By  Jove  !  I'll  do  it !  The  god  of  love  himself  must  have  sent 
me  here ;  no  man  in  the  wide  world  could  do  the  thing  better  than  my- 
self. But  what  right  have  I  to  decide  thus  the  fate  of  another  man — a 
man  whom  I  have  never  even  beheld  ?  Right !  It  is  time  to  talk  about 
right,  forsooth,  after  I  have  been  doing  nothing  but  wrong  for  thirty-six 
hours.  No,  no,  let  conscience  stand  to  one  side,  for  the  present  at  least ; 
it  has  no  business  in  this  affair.  I  have  acted  most  unwarrantably,  I 
know,  but  I  will  make  up  for  my  misdeeds  by  one  good  deed ;  one 
blessing  will  I  take  with  me,  and  when  I  am  gone,  two  happy  persons 
at  least  will  remember  me  kindly,  and  Hanne  will  be  less  harsh  in  her 
judgment  of  my  conduct,  since  it  will  have  brought  about  her  sister's 
happiness.  Let  me  set  my  shoulders  to  the  wheel — there  is  no  time  to 
lose.     No,  they  shall  not  all  execrate  me.* 

Jette  was  still  sitting  on  the  bench  where  I  had  left  her.  I  placed 
myself  beside  her,  and  tried  to  reassure  her. 

"  I  said  I  owed  you  some  explanation ;  allow  me  in  a  few  words  to  tell 
you  all  you  wish  to  communicate.  You  do  not  care  for  me— you  love 
Gustav  Holm — you  will  be  wretched  if  you  cannot  find  some  good  pre- 
text for  breaking  off  the  match  with  me — you  have  many  reasons  to  love 
him,   none  to  love  me — you  want  to  let  me  know  how  the  matter 


Cousin  Carl.  77 

stands,  and  to  give  me  a  basket,*  but  to  do  it  in  so  amicable  a  manner, 
that  you  hope  I  will  accept  it  quietly  like  a  good  Christian,  and  not  make, 
too  much  fuss  about  it  All  this  is  what  you  would  have  told  me  sooner 
or  later.  Am  I  not  right,  Jette  ?  or  is  there  more  you  would  have 
entrusted  tome?" 

She  hid  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"My  window  was  partly  open  the  other  night,"  I  added.  "I  over- 
heard your  conversation  with  Gustav  Holm,  and  I  knew  immediately,  of 
course,  what  I  had  to  expect.  You  will  believe,  I  hope,  that  I  have  suf- 
ficient feeling  not  to  wish  to  force  myself  upon  one  who  cannot  care  far 
me.  Forgive  me  that  I  have  caused  you  any  uneasiness ;  it  was  against 
my  own  will.  I  would  much  rather  have  convinced  you  sooner  that  you 
have  no  enemy  in  me,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  sincere  friend." 

"Dearest,  best  Carl !  Noblest  of  men!  You  restore  me  to  freedom 
— you  restore  me  to  life !  The  Almighty  has  heard  my  prayers !  You 
do  not  know  how  earnestly  I  have  prayed  that  you  might  find  me 
detestable." 

"  Therein  your  prayers  have  not  been  heard,  Jette,"  said  L  UJ£  you 
could  have  loved  me,  I  could  not  have  wished  a  better  fate.  I  love  you 
and  Hanne  much  more  than  you  think."  I  felt  that  every  word  I  had 
just  spoken  was  positive  truth.     Jette  wrung  my  hand. 

"  You  have  removed  a  mountain  from  my  heart,"  she  replied.  "  Would 
that  I  could  thank  you  as  you  deserve !" 

I  was  quite  ashamed  of  all  the  thanks  she  poured  out,  and  all  the  grati- 
tude she  expressed.  It  is  an  unspeakable  pleasure  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness of  one's  fellow-creatures  ;  it  is  an  agreeable  feeling  which  I  would  not 
exchange  for  any  other. 

When  the  first  burst'of  joy  was  over,  Jette  consulted  with  me  how  it 
would  be  best  to  break  the  matter  to  her  father.  I  told  her  of  his  good 
opinion  of  Gustav,  and  built  upon  it  the  brightest  hopes. 

Jette  shook  her  head.  "  He  will  insist  that  I  shall  keep  my  promise," 
said  she,  mournfully,  "  He  will  not  relinquish  a  plan  which  he  has 
cherished  for  so  many  years.  How  dreadful  it  is  for  me  to  disappoint 
him!" 

"  Very  well,  take  me." 

"Oh!  do  not  jest  with  me,  dear  Carl.  My  only  dependence  is  on 
you." 

"  I  shall  take  my  departure  immediately,  and  leave  a  letter  renouncing 
my  engagement  to  you.     That  will  go  far  to  help  you." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  stay!  You  are  the  only  one  who  can  speak  to 
him,"  said  she.     "  You  have  already  acquired  much  influence  over  him." 

"  Then  let  us  proceed  at  once  to  the  eclair cissement.  I  shall  tell  him 
that  I  have  discovered  that  your  heart  belongs  to  Gustav  Holm,  not  to 
me ;  and  that  I  cannot  accept  any  woman's  hand  unless  her  heart  accom- 
panies it." 

"  Oh  I  what  a  terrible  moment  it  will  be  when  that  is  said.  I  tremble*, 
at  the  very  idea  of  it.  You  do  not  know  what  he  can  be  when  his  anger 
is  thoroughly  roused." 

■  ■  ■        i ii      '         i  ■  'i         ■      i    ...  1 1  i        i ,. 

*  u  To  give  a  basket,"  in  Danish,  signifies  a  serosal. 


78  Cousin  Carl 

"  Then  would  you  prefer  to  elope  with  Gustav  ?  Like  a  loyal  cousin 
I  will  assist  you  in  your  escape." 

"  That  would  enrage  him  still  more ;  he  has  always  been  so  kind  and 
gentle  to  me." 

"  I  wish  we  had  Gustav  here,  that  something  might  he  determined  on. 
These  anticipated  terrible  moments  are  never  so  dreadful  in  reality  as  in 
expectation ;  you  have  had  a  proof  of  this  in  the  one  you  have  just  gone 
through." 

"Gustav  will  be  here  soon;  he  knows  that  I  had  requested  this 
private  conversation  with  you  ....  he  will  meet  me  here  in  the 
wood  ....  he  will  come  when — when  .  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  and 
blushed  deeply. 

"  He  will  come  when  I  am  gone,"  I  said,  laughing.  "  That  was  very 
sensibly  arranged,  but  the  arrangement  must  be  annulled  nevertheless, 
and  he  must  make  the  effort  of  showing  himself  while  I  am  here.  I 
dare  say  he  is  not  many  miles  off — perhaps  within  hail."  "  Mr.  Holm ! 
Mr.  Holm !"  I  roared  at  the  top  of  my  voice.  "  He  knows  my  manner 
of  inviting  him,  and  you  will  see  that  he  will  speedily  present  himself. 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Holm !"  I  added. 

"  For  God's  sake  do  not  shout  so  loudly,  you  will  be  overheard,"  said 
Jette.     "Oh!  how  will  all  this  end ?" 

"  Uncommonly  well,"  thought  I.     "  Here  comes  the  lover." 

Gustav  came,  almost  rushing  up;  his  countenance  and  manner  ex- 
pressed what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  namely,  uncertainty  whether  he 
was  to  look  on  me  as  a  friend  or  a  foe. 

"  Gustav — Carl !  .  .  ."  exclaimed  Jette,  sinking  back  on  the  bench. 
She  found  it  impossible  to  command  her  voice,  but  her  eyes,  which 
dwelt  with  affection  on  us  both,  filled  up  the  pause,  and  expressed  what 
words  would  not. 

I  took  his  hand  and  led  him  up  to  Jette.  He  knelt  at  her  feet,  she 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  while  I  bent  over  them,  and  beheld  my 
work  with  sincere  satisfaction.  There  was  a  rustling  in  the  bushes,  and 
Hanne  and  her  father  stood  suddenly  before  us !  The  lovers  did  not 
observe  them,  although  I  did  my  utmost  by  signs  to  rouse  their  at- 
tention. 

"  What  the  devil  is  all  this?"  exclaimed  the  Justitsraad,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder.     "  What  does  this  mean  ?     Carl,  what  are  you  doing  ?" 

"  I  am  bestowing  my  cousinly  benediction,  and  full  absolution  and 
remission  of  sins,  as  you  ought  to  do,  my  worthy  uncle,"  I  replied,  as 
cheerfully  as  I  possibly  could.  It  was  necessary  to  appear  to  keep  up 
one's  courage.  Gustav  rose  hastily,  and  Jette  threw  herself  into  her 
sister's  arms. 

"  My  dear  sir !"  said  Gustav,  imploringly. 

"  Mr.  Holm !"  cried  the  Justitsraad,  drawing  himself  up. 

"  Dear  uncle !"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting  them  both,  "  allow  me  to 
speak.  Gustav  adores  Jette,  and  she  returns  his  love.  There  can  be  no 
more  question  about  me;  I  am  her  cousin,  and  nothing  either  more  ox 
less.  I  am  not  such  an  idiot  as  to  wish  to  force  a  woman  to  be  my  wife 
whose  heart  is  given  to  another.  I  have  dissolved  the  engagement 
between  Jette  and  myself,  deliberately,  and  after  due  reflection.  I  could 
not  make  her  happy,  and  I  will  not  make  her  unhappy.     There  stands 


Cousin  Carl.  79 

the  bridegroom,  who  only  awaits  jour  blessing.  Give  it,  dear  uncle, 
and  let  this  day  become  the  happiest  of  my  life,  for  it  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  good." 

"  Heavens  and  earth !  a  pretty  piece  of  work,  indeed !"  The  Justits- 
raad  was  as  blustering  as  a  German,  and  would  on  no  account  allow  him- 
self to  hear  reason.  A  great  deal  of  his  anger  was  naturally  directed 
against  me.  I  tried  to  smooth  matters  down.  Jette  wept  and  sobbed. 
It  was  a  hundred  to  one  against  us.  "I  shall  write  to  your  father  this 
very  day,"  he  said,  at  length ;  "  he  only  can  absolve  me  from  my  vow ; 
but  that  he  will  not  do — that  he  certainly  will  not  do  on  any  account. 
This  marriage  has  been  his  greatest  wish  for  I  do  not  know  how  many 
years,  as  well  as  mine." 

"  But  he  will  be  obliged  to  do  it,"  said  I ;  "  this  very  afternoon  I  shall 
take  my  departure,  and  you  shall  never  hear  of  me  more.  My  father's 
power  over  me  by  no  means  extends  so  far  as  you  seem  to  fancy.  I  will 
not  make  Jette  miserable,  merely  to  indulge  his  whims.  Dear  uncle,  let 
me  persuade  you  to  believe  that  your  contract  is  null  and  void :  give 
your  blessing  to  Gustav  and  Jette,  and  leave  me  to  settle  the  matter 
with  my  father.  Feelings  cannot  be  forced.  Jette  does  not  care  for 
me,  and  you  ought  not,  in  this  affair,  to  be  less  liberal  than  I  am." 

"  Liberal — liberal  indeed  !  He  is  always  prating  about  such  folly ,"  ex- 
claimed the  Justitsraad,  in  a  rage.  "  It  is  that  abominable  Berlin  libera- 
lity that  has  entirely  ruined  him." 

Berlin  liberality !  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  that  bewailed. 
But  what  absurd  things  do  people  not  stumble  upon  when  they  are 
angry,  and  speak  without  reflection ! 

"  Well,  it  was  Berlin  that  ruined  me,  according  to  my  uncle,  and  so 
utterly  ruined  me  ...  .  that  I  am  betrothed  in  Berlin,  and  cannot  be 
betrothed  again.  It  is  against  the  law  both  here  and  in  Prussia  to  have 
two  wives." 

This  was  an  inspiration  prompted  by  the  exigency  of  the  occasion ; 
what  did  one  untruth  more  or  less  signify  ?  I  was  a  Jesuit  at  that 
moment,  and  excused  myself  with  Loyola's  doctrine — that  the  motive 
sanctifies  the  means. 

"  Betrothed !"  exclaimed  the  Justitsraad  —  "  betrothed  in  Berlin  ! 
Make  a  fool  of  me !     Hark  ye,  Carl  .  .  .  ." 

"  Betrothed !"  interrupted  Hanne.  "  Upon  my  word,  you  are  a  fine 
fellow,  cousin.  That  is  the  reason  he  does  not  wear  Jette's  betrothal 
ring.     And  I  to  be  standing  here  admiring  his  magnanimity  1" 

Jette  silently  held  out  her  hand  to  me  from  one  side,  Gustav  from  the 
other  ;  these  were  well-meant  congratulations. 

"  Yes,  betrothed,"  I  continued.  "  Abuse  me  at  your  will,  hate  me, 
curse  me,  say  and  do  what  you  please,  but  betrothed  I  am,  and  betrothed 
I  must  remain." 

This  was  a  settler.  The  wrath  of  the  Justitsraad  cooled  by  degrees  ; 
that  really  kind-hearted  man  could  not  withstand  so  many  anxious  looks 
and  earnest  prayers  ;  and  fear  of  all  the  gossip  and  ridicule  to  which  his 
holding  out  longer  under  the  circumstances  might  give  rise,  also  had 
effect  upon  him. 

"  You  are  a  sad  scapegrace,  Carl,"  he  said,  "  and  Jette  may  be  thankful 
she  is  not  to  have  you  for  her  husband  ;  but  she  shall  not  be  left  in  the 

May — vol.  cvh.  no.  ccccxxv.  g 


60  Cousin  Cari. 

hmch  on  account  of  your  foolish  freaks."  He  took  her  hand  and  placed 
it  in  Gustair's,  saying,  "  You  must  make  op  to  me  for  Hie  failure  of  these 
hopes  which  I  have  cherished  through  so  many  years.  But,"  he  added, 
with  a  sigh,  "  what  will  my  brother  say  when  he  hears  this  history?" 

Jette  cast  herself  upon  his  neck;  she  almost  feinted  in  his  arms  ;  die 
jest  of  us  surrounded  him.     There  was  no  end  tto  embraces  and  dianks. 

u  And  now  let  ns  hasten  to  my  mother/'  said  Hanne  ;  "  the  revolution 
shall  end  there.  I  would  not  he  in  your  place,  cousin,  for  any  money; 
you  will  he  soundly  rated." 

u  You  shall  be  my  advocate,  Hanne,  and  shall  defend  my  case;  itis 
only  under  your  protection  that  I  dare  appear  before  my  aunt.  Take  me 
under  your  wing — I  positively  will  not  leave  youi" 

I  slipped  my  arm  round  her  waist,  and  I  ihmk,  if  I  i^ember  axight, 
I  was  gomg  to  kiss  her. 

"  Hands  off,  Mr.  Cousin  I  Now  that  yon  are  not  to  be  my  brother-in- 
law  you  must  not  make  so  free.     Remember  your  intended  in  Berlin." 

Alas !  to  help  others  I  had  injured  myself.  Hanne,  her  father,  and  I 
walked  on  first,  the  lovers  followed  us  a  little  way  behind.  As  we  came 
along  we  met  some  of  the  peasantry  on  the  estate  going  to  their  work. 

"  Hollo !  good  people !"  cried  I  to  &em,  u  this  evening  we  mast  be 
all  merry,  and  drink  your  master's  good  health,  and  dance  on  Miss  Jette's 
betrotihal-day.     Hurrah  for  Miss  Jette  mod  Mr.  Holm !" 

"  Hurrah !"  cried  the  people.     And  the  declaration  was  made. 

"  Be  quiet,  yon  good^owiothing  I"  cried  the  Justitsraad,  "  and  don't 
torn  everything  topsy-turvy  in  a-  place  that  does  not  belong  to  you.  A 
feast,  forsooth !— drink  my  health,  indeed  !  It  is  easy  for  you  to  be 
generous  at  another  man's  expense.  I  declare  the  fellow  is  determined 
to  take  the  whip-hand  of  as  all  !* 

My  aunt  heard  the  noise,  and  came  out  on  the  stone  steps  to  nsk  what 
was  the  matter.     I  crept  behind  Hanne  and  hid  myself. 

u  A  complete  revolution,  my  dear,  which  that  precious  fellow  dad  has 
brought  about  When  the  hmeheon-bell  had  rung  for  some  time  in  Taw, 
without  their  making  their  appearance,  Hanne  and  I  went  to  soak 
for  Jette  and  Carl  in  the  wood ;  I  expected  to  have  found  him  at 
Jette's  feet ;  but  instead  of  him  there  lay  another,  and  he  was  actually 
busying  himself  in  making  up  a  match  between  them.  Truly,  k  is  an 
edifying  story.  Come  in,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  yon  will 
see  to  what  purpose  he  has  travelled.  He  has  betrothed  hisnself  ta 
Berlin,  fancy — and  very  probably  in  Hamburg,  m  Paris,  in  Vienna, 
wherever  he  may  have  been.  He  is  a  fine  fellow !  A  pretty  viper  we 
were  nourishing  in  our  hearts  !w 

My  ssmt  wase  asily  reconciled  to  the  course  of  events,  and  she  gave  the 
young  oouple  her  maternal  blessing.  But  it  was  me  whom  they  all  wanted 
for  a  son-in-law  and  a  brother-in-law.  It  was  very  flattering  to  be  such 
a  mvoarite ;  however,  as  I  was  not  to  he  had,  they  received  Gustari(for 
whom  they  had  a  great  regard)  with  open  arms.  We  mM  became  as 
sprightly  as  a  parcel  of  children,  and  I  woald  have  been  very  happy,  had 
not  the  many  affectionate  good  wishes  for  the  future  welfare  of  myself 
and  my  unknown  fiancee  in  Berlin  fallen  like  burning  drops  of  molten 
lead  on  my  soul,  and  had  I  not  had  constantly  before  me  the  remembrance 
that  I  must  soon  leave  this  pleasant  chicle,  and  for  ever!    My  firopoaV 


Cousin  Carl  SI 

mm  to  spend  that  day  entirely  by  oamelnes  was  agreed  to,  .and  orders 
m»  giran  to  admit  do  visitors. 

'"Letmcbuc^w  this  day  undisturbed  to  me  end,^  thwigbt  I,  "and 
1  shall  demand  uoifcing  more  from  Fortune,  which  has  hitherto  been  so 
kind  to  me/'  It  was  a  day,  the  She  of  which  I  haw  never  spent.  Fen 
will  perhaps  think  it  stooge,  dear  eeader,  that  my  conscience  saoaUL  be 
so  natch  at  ease  ;  bat  I  must  frankly  confess  that  the  good  action  I  had 
accomplished,  and  the  happiness  I  had  bestowed,  had  entirely  had  the 
effect  of  quieting  that  internal  monitor.  Jette  was  right  when  she  said 
that  I  had  already  obtained  some  influence  orer  lier  father ;  for  I  can 
positively  assert  that  my  sudden  and  public  announcement  of  the  state 
of  affairs  had  been  taken  in  good  part.  I  was  aH  activity  and  -excite- 
ment ;  and  my  exuberant  mirth,  which  was  almost  without  bounds,  did 
not  permit  a  serious  word,  scarcely  a  serious  thought.  I  obliged  them 
all  to  exert  themselves,  and  fly  about  in  order  to  anise  preparations  for  a 
little  dance  in  a  round  sammer-hnuse  at  one  end  of  the  garden  :  the 
Jaetitsraad  had  to  send  to  the  Tillage  far  two  fiddlers,  his  wife  had  to  give 
oat  sheets  and  oor  tains  to  make  hangings  lor  the  walla;  the  young  ladies 
wove  garlands,  Gustav  and  I  manufactured  chandeliers  out  of  barrel- 
hoops  and  vegetables.  Everybody  was  set  to  work,  and  before  the  even- 
tag  the  prettiest  little  ball-room  tint  could  he  was  arranged ;  and  the 
people  on  the  estate  declared  they  had  never  seen  anything  so  splendid 
maim  ;  "but,  to  be  sane,  there  had  never  been  a  betrothal  &ast  in  the 
family  before." 

u  Yoa  are  a  mevBr  ieUow,  Carl,"  said  the  Jnstitsraad ;  ^you  hawe  got 
tan  ap  so  -prettily  and  so  well,  that  one  might  almost  give  a  real  haU. 
Were  it  not  that  I  should  have  my  wife  and  children  up  in  aims  against 
ana,  I  really  fancy  I  should  like  adanee.  But  Acre  would  be  too  many 
difficulties  in  the  way." 

Haimcflewnp  to  her  father,  and  hugged  him  in  her  joy;  he  -was 
at  his  word,  and  nothing  else  was  talked  of  hot  the  haU,  which  in 


the  coarse  of  eight  days  was  to  he  given  to  celebrate  Jette'*  betrothaL 

B  We  will  set  about  writing  the  invitations  at  once,3'  said  Hanne ; 
"there  is  an  hoar  or  more  yet  before  the  people  are  to  begin  to  dance, 
and  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Let  usfeteh  pea,  ink,  and  paper ;  I  will 
dictate,  and  Carl  ohafl  write ;  it  will  be  done  directly  almost,  and  early  to- 
morraw  awinsagwe  shaH  send  off  the  invitations.  So,  all  the  difficulties 
are  overcome.  Now,  comma,  mend  your  pea;  ysu  write  a  good  hand," 
said  Hanne. 

"Write!  No,  that  I  ^onV' thought  I.  "  I  shall  take  good  care  no 
to  betray  myself  hy  :that." 

"<histav  can  write  what  yoa  want;  I  have  hart  my'romd,"  said  I, 
looking  round ;  but  Gusfewr  and  Jette  had  bom  disappeared. 

"How?  Let  me  see,"  said  Hanne.  "  It  is  not  true.  Gastav  and  Jette 
leave  gone  into  the  garden  ;  we  must  letthem  alone;  so  yoa  shatt  oome, 
aad  yoa  may  as  well  do  it  at  once."  

•"But  I  have  really  hurt  my  finger,  Hanne ;  it  is  extremely  painfiiL 
I  shell  not  he  able  to  make  the  most  wretched  'pothoote^nry  finger  is 
quite  swollen."  V1   „ 

*<ftr  rather  you  are  extremely  hoy,  and  won't  take  the  trouble,  said 
Hanne.     "  But  at  least  you  shall  help  me  to  write  a  list  of  the  people  to 

62 


82  Cousin  Carl. 

be  invited,  before  I  forget  half  of  them ;  I  have  got  them  all  in  my  head 
just  now,  and  your  pothooks  are  good  enough  for  that.  Begin  now! 
Put  down  first  our  neighbours  who  were  here  yesterday.  Kammerraad* 
Tvede,  with  his  Vife,  his  two  daughters,  his  son,  and  the  tutor.  Have 
you  got  them  down  ?"  Hanne  looked  over  my  shoulder  at  the  paper. 
"  But  what  in  the  world  stands  there  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Kammerraad  Tvede,  with  his  wife,  his  two  daughters,  his  son,  and 
the  tutor,"  I  replied.  "  These  are  Greek  characters,  Hanne ;  I  can  write 
nothing  but  Greek  with  this  finger." 

"But  I  can't  read  Greek,  you  refractory  monster!"  cried  Hanne, 
dolefully. 

"  You  must  learn  it,  then,  Hanne.  Task  for  task ;  if  you  force  me  to 
write  the  list,  I  will  force  you  to  read  Greek." 

"  That's  right,  my  boy!"  exclaimed  the  Justitsraad,  laughing  heartily. 
"  If  one  gives  the  girls  an  inch,  they  are  sure  to  take  an  ell ;  they  would 
take  the  command  of  us  altogether,  if  they  could." 

After  a  great  deal  of  joking  and  foolery,  we  accomplished  making  out 
the  list,  and  the  last  name  given  was  that  of  my  good  uncle,  the  worthy 
pastor,  whom  it  was  my  purpose  to  visit,  and  whose  guest  I  would  be 
before  the  sun  rose  on  the  following  day. 

"  Do  you  know  him,  too  ?"  I  asked,  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  surprise 
and  annoyance. 

"  He  confirmed  both  Jette  and  me,"  said  Hanne ;  "  he  is  an  excellent 
man,  therefore  I  kept  him  to  the  last.  You  can  hardly  imagine  how  much 
we  are  all  attached  to  him.  If  ever  I  marry,  he  shall  perform  the  cere- 
mony. I  think  you  must  remember  him ;  at  least,  you  saw  him  in  this 
house  more  than  once  when  you  were  here  as  a  child." 

"  Very  true.  I  think  I  recollect  him ;  he  is  a  tall,  old  man,  with  a 
hooked  nose.     Yes,  I  remember  him  distinctly." 

This  time,  at  least,  I  had  no  need  to  help  myself  out  with  lies !  In  a 
situation  such  as  mine,  one  seizes  with  avidity  every  opportunity  to  speak 
truth ;  it  is  so  very  refreshing  when  one  is  up  to  the  ears  in  untruth. 

Our  chandeliers  answered  their  purpose  exceedingly  well ;  the  fiddlers 
scraped  loudly  and  merrily,  and  the  floor  shook  under  the  powerful 
springs  and  somewhat  weighty  footing  of  the  country  swains  and  dam- 
sels who  were  dancing  in  honour  of  Miss  Jette's  betrothal.  I  had 
taken  a  turn  in  the  waltz  with  each  of  the  village  belles,  and  danced  that 
furious  Fangedands  with  Hanne — a  dance  that  one  must  have  seen  the 
peasantry  execute,  in  order  to  form  an  idea  how  violent  it  is.  Glee  and 
good-humour  reigned  around,  and  even  the  Justitsraad  entered  heartily 
into  the  joyous  spirit  which  seemed  to  prevail.  And  although  from  time 
to  time  he  whispered  to  me,  "  I  ought  to  be  very  angry  at  you — you 
have  played  me  a  pretty  trick,"  yet  he  was  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
angry ;  on  the  contrary,  he  submitted  with  an  extremely  good  grace  to 
what  he  could  not  help.  But  I — I  who  had  been  the  originator  and 
cause  of  all  this  gaiety  and  gladness — I  felt  only  profound  melancholy, 
and  stole  away  to  indulge  in  it  amidst  the  most  lonely  walks  of  the 
garden,  or  in  the  wood  beyond.  The  hour  of  my  departure  was  drawing 
rapidly  near. 

*  A  Danish  title. 


Cousin  Carl  83 

Perhaps  you  may  imagine,  dear  reader,  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
me  to  be  sad  or  serious.  Could  you  have  beheld  me  wandering  about 
the  grounds  alone,  that  September  evening,  when  every  one  else  was 
dancing,  you  would  have  found  that  you  were  mistaken  in  your  opinion 
of  me.  I  ascended  the  sloping  hill,  on  which  stands  Hanne's  favourite 
swing.  By  day  the  view  from  thence  is  beautiful ;  and  even  at  night  it 
is  a  place  not  to  be  despised.  The  garden,  stretching  out  darkly  imme- 
diately beneath,  looked  like  an  impenetrable  wood.  The  moon  was  in 
its  first  quarter,  and  therefore  shed  but  a  faint,  uncertain  light  over 
objects  at  a  little  distance,  while  its  trembling  rays  fell  more  brightly  on 
the  far-off  waves  of  the  Baltic  Sea,  making  them  appear  nearer  than 
they  really  were.  On  the  right,  the  walls  and  chimneys  of  the  dwelling- 
house  gleamed  through  the  openings  of  the  trees ;  on  the  left,  light 
blazed  from  the  illuminated  summer-house,  whence  came  the  sound  of  a 
hundred  feet,  tramping  in  time  to  the  overpowered  music.  All  else  was 
as  still  around  me  as  it  generally  is  in  the  evening  in  the  country,  where 
the  occasional  bark  of  some  distant  dog,  with  its  echo  resounding  from 
the  wood,  is  the  only  sign  of  life.  Behind  me  lay  the  pretty  grove ;  and 
above  my  head  stood  the  swing,  on  one  of  whose  tall  supporters  my  name 
was  fastened  in  derision. 

Had  you  seen  how  carefully  I  detached  the  piece  of  paper  from  the 
wood,  and  placing  myself  in  the  swing  where  I  had  sat  with  Hanne, 
allowed  myself  to  rock  gently  backwards  and  forwards,  while  I  gazed  on 
the  strange  name  that  had  become  dearer  to  me  than  my  own,  because 
she  had  pronounced  it  and  written  it,  you  would  have  perceived  that  I  also 
could  have  my  sad  and  serious  moments.  But  people  of  my  tempera- 
ment seek  to  avoid  observation  when  a  fit  of  blue-devils  seizes  them,  and 
only  go  forth  among  their  fellow-beings  when  the  fit  has  subsided. 

Jette  and  Gustav  took  me  by  surprise.  They  had  passed  in  silence 
through  the  garden,  and  arm-in-arm  they  had  as  silently  ascended  the 
little  eminence. 

"  What,  you  here !  in  solitude,  and  so  serious,  dear  cousin  ?"  said  Jettfc; 
"  you  look  quite  out  of  spirits.  Every  one  connected  with  me  should  be 
happy  on  this  my  betrothal  day,  and  I  must  reckon  you  among  the 
nearest  of  those — you,  whom  I  have  to  thank  for  my  happiness.  Come 
and  take  a  share  in  the  joy  you  have  created  ;  if  I  did  not  know  better,  I 
might  be  inclined  to  fancy  that  you  are  grieving  over  the  irreparable  loss 
you  have  had  in  me  :  you  really  do  assume  such  a  miserable  coun- 
tenance." 

"  Do  not  ridicule  me,  Jette;  I  have  perhaps  just  lost  more  than  I  can 
ever  be  compensated  for." 

"  It  is  well  that  a  certain  person  in  Berlin  cannot  overhear  what 
politeness  induces  you  to  say  in  Zealand,"  replied  Jette.  "  But  a  truce 
to  compliments  at  present,  they  only  cast  a  shade  of  doubt  over  your 
truthfulness ;  keep  them  for  those  who  know  less  of  your  affairs  than  I 
do,  and  let  us  speak  honestly  to  each  other.  In  reality,  you  are  glad  not 
to  become  more  nearly  connected  with  us  than  you  are  already  :  you 
cannot  deny  that." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  And  if  that  were  far  from  the  fact  ? — if,  on  the 
contrary,  that  were  the  cause  of  my  melancholy — the  knowledge  of  the 
impossibility  of  my  being  so— what  would  you  say  ?" 


84  Cousin  CarL 

" 1  should  be  under  the  necessity  of  pitying  you  very  smelly  poor 
fellow !"  said  Jette,  laughing.  "  Bui  who  would  have  thought  that  this 
morning  ?" 

"  You  may  indeed  pity  me,  Jette,  for  when  I  leave  this  place  my  heart 
and  my  thoughts  will  remain  behind,  with  you — with  all  your  dear  family;, 
and  I  must  leave  you  soon." 

"  Soon  [    Ate  you  going  abroad  again  ?"  asked  Gustav. 

"Two  days  after  your  arrival  among  us!"  exclaimed  Jette?  un&,  no, 
we  cannot  agree  to  that" 

"  And  yet  it  must  be,"  I  said.  "  I  shall  be  gone,  perhaps,  sooner  than. 
you  think.  I  hare  my  own  peculiar  manner  of  coming  and  going,, 
and  .  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  whim  is  this,  Carl  ?"  asked  Jette,  interrupting  me.  "Did 
you  not  come  to  spend  some  time  with  us  ?  You  may  depend  on  it  my 
father  will  not  hear  of  your  going,  though  our  wishes  and  requests-  may 
hare  no  influence  over  you." 

"lam  compelled  to  go,  dear  Jette  ;  I  must  leave  you  for  some  time*. 
Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again  .  .  .  .  but  should  that  be  impossible?  I  shaft 
write  you,  if  you  will  permit  me.  And  when.  I  am  gone,  will  you  take 
my  part,  if  I  should  be  made  the  subject  of  animadversion  ?  Let  me 
hope,  dear  Jette,  that  you  and  Gustav  will  think  kindly  of  me,  and  that 
on  the  anniversary  of  this  day  you  will  not  forget  me  when  you  stroll 
together  through,  that  wood  which  was  this  morning  the  scene  of  my  disv 


They  both  shook  hands  with  me. 

"  But,  Carl,  I  hardly  understand  you,"  said  Jette ;  "  you  are  so  grave, 
so  strange ;  you  speak  as  if  we  were  about  to  part  for  ever.  Have  you. 
any  idea  of  settling  in.  Berlin  ?" 

u  I  beseech  you,  Jette,  speak  not  of  Berlin — that  was  a  subterfuge,  a 
story,  which  came  suddenly  into  my  mind  ;  I  could  not  pitch  upc*  Bar- 
better  excuse  wherewith  to  upset  your  father's  plan  in  a  hurry,  or  I  would 
not  have  lied,  against  myself.  I  assure  you  I  have  never  put  my  foot  in 
Berlin,  nor  am  I  betrothed  to  any  one." 

Jette  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  and  fixed  on  me  a  look  of  surprise  and 
earnest  inquiry. 

u  What !"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  have  never  been  at  Berlin  ?  You: 
have  told  what  is  not  true  about  yourself  to  help  me  ?  You  are  not 
engaged  ?" 

"  No  ;  as  certainly  as  that  I  stand  at  this  moment  in  your  presence,  I 
am  not  engaged,  and  have  never  attempted  to  become  so.  I  hove  only 
put  myself  in  the  way  of  receiving  one  refusal  in  my  Efey"  I  addeay 
smiling,  as  Jette  began  to  look  suspiciously  at  me,  "  and  that  wast  this 
morning  in  yonder  wood.  Were  it.  not  superfluous,  I  could  with  ease 
give  you  the  most  minute  particulars." 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  then  Jette  exclaimed,. 

u  You  are  a  noble  creature,  Carl ;  may  God  reward  you,  fur  I  ra— frt; 
But  day  and  night  I  will  pray  for  your  welfare."  She  w»  much 
affected,  her  voice  faltered.     Gustav  shook  my  hand  cordially.. 

u  My  dear  friends/'  said  I,  "  do  not  accord  to  me  more  praise  than*  I 
deserve,  for  the  higher  one  is  praised  the  greater  is  the  mil  when  npimnM* 
change.     Hear  me  before  you  promise  to  pray  for  me,  and  lei  me  tell 


Cousin  Carl  85 

you  how  .  .  •  .  but  no,  no,  let  me  keep  ailenee — let  me  say  nothing. 
Pardon  my  seeming  caprice.  Promise  me  that  you  will  be  my  sincere 
and  unshaken  friends,  and  let  us  go  and  dance  again.  May  I  hare  the 
honour  of  engaging  the  bride  for  the  next  waltz  2" 

I  had  been  on  the  point  of  confessing  all  my  foolish  prank*,  and  how 
I  was  imposing  on  them ;  but  false  shame  prevented  me.  Was  it  better 
o«  not?  I  scarcely  knew  myself-  I  begged  them  to  accompany  me 
tack  to  the  summer-house.  In  the  alley  of  pine-trees  which  led  to  it 
we  met  Hanne,  who,  according  to  her  own  account,  was  looking  about 
far  us ;  she  almost  ran  against  us  before  she  perceived  us* 

"  But,  good  Heavens  I  have  you  all  become  deaf  ?  I  have  been  calling 
yea  over  and  over,  without  receiving  the  slightest  answer,  and  now  I 
find  you  gliding  about  in  deep  silence,  like  ghosts,  scaring  people's  hVes 
out  of  them.  I  suppose  Carl  has  been  amusing  himself,  as  usual,  with 
Bftischief,  and  has  been  haunting  you  two  poor  lovers,  and  disturbing 
you.  Do  you  not  know,  Carl,  that  you  have  no  sort  of  business  to  be- 
in  short,  are  quite  an  incumbrance  where  Jette  and  Holm  are  ?  Sow 
answer  me — do  you  know  this,  or  do  you  not,  Carl  ?" 

"  No,"  I  replied,  shortly. 

"  '  No  ! '  Is  that  a  fitting  answer  to  a  lady  ?  Be  so  good  as  to  reply 
politely.  I  must  take  upon  myself  to  teach  you  good  manners  before 
you  go  abroad  again,  else  we  shall  have  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  yon." 

And  then  she  began  to  hum  the  song  of  "  Die  Wiener  in  Berlin :" 

"In  Berlin,  sagt  er, 
Mnsz  du  fein,.  sagt  er, 
Und  gescheut,  sagt  er, 
Immer  sein,  sagt  er.  .  .  ." 

"  I  wish  Berlin  were  at  the  devil,  Hanne  l"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting 
he* ;  "  that  is  my  most  earnest  desire,  believe  me." 

"  A  very  Christian  wish,  and  expressed  in  choicely  elegant  phrase- 
elogy,  every  one  must  admit." 

"  Only  think,  Hanne,  he  has  never  been  at  Berlin,  and  is  not  be* 
trothed  there.  Carl  only  made  these  assertions  because  he  could  think 
of  no  other  way  of  making  my  father  agree  to  our  wishes,"  said  Jette, 
aknost  crying. 

"  What !  he  is  not  engaged  ?  He  has  never  been  in  Berlin  ?  Well ! 
he  is  the  greatest  story-teller  I  ever  met.  Did  he  not  stand  up,  and 
make  positive  declarations  of  these  events,  with  the  most  cool  audacity  ? 
It  is  too  bad.  Lying  is  the  worst  of  all  faults — it  is  the  root  of  all 
evil" 

"  No,  my  little  Hanne,  idleness  k  the  root  of  all  evil." 

"  I.  dare  say  you  abound  in  that  root  too.  But  I  don't  think  you  can 
ever  have  studied  the  early  lesson-books,  from  which  all  children  should 
be  instructed.  I  shall  myself  hear  you  your  catechism  to-morrow,  and 
rehearse  to  you  the  first  principles  of  right  and  wrong,  so  that  when  you 
leave  us9  you  may  be  a  little  better  acquainted  with  the  doctrine*  of 
Christianity  than  you  are  at  present." 

"  But  he  leaves  us  tovmosrow,  Hanne ;  he  has  assured  us  of  that." 

"  We  positively  will  not  allow  him  to  make  his  escape/'  said  Hana& 
"  At  night  we  shall  lock  him  in  his  room,  and  during  the  day  Thomas 


86  Cousin  Carl. 

shall  watch  him.  That  boy  sticks  as  fast  as  a  burr, — he  won't  easily 
shake  him  off." 

"  But  suppose  I  were  to  get  out  by  the  window  ?  You  cannot  well 
fasten  that  on  the  outside." 

"  And  break  your  neck,  forsooth.  No,  no,  that  way  of  making  your 
exit  won't  answer." 

"  Oh,  people  can  climb  up  much  higher  than  my  window,  and  descend 
again  without  breaking  their  necks,"  said  I.  Jette  and  Gustav  coloured 
violently. 

"  Well,  we  can  discuss  that  point  to-morrow.  This  evening,  at  least, 
you  will  remain  with  us,  on  account  of  its  being  Jette's  betrothal  day. 
Come,  give  me  your  arm,  and  let  us  take  a  walk  ;  it  is  charming,  yonder 
in  the  garden — within  the  summer-house  one  is  like  to  faint  from  the 
heat." 

We  strolled  on,  two  and  two,  in  the  sweet  moonlight ;  sometimes  each 
pair  sauntering  at  a  little  distance  from  the  other,  Hanne  and  I  chatting 
busily,  while  Gustav  and  Jette  often  walked  in  the  silence  of  a  happiness 
too  new  and  too  deep  for  the  language  of  every-day  life. 

"  Is  it  really  true  that  you  are  going  to  leave  us  ?"  asked  Hanne. 

"  It  is  indeed  too  true.     I  must  quit  this  place." 

"  Why  ?  if  I  may  venture  to  ask.     But  do  not  tell  me  any  untruth." 

"  Because  I  have  been  here  too  long  already — because  a  longer  resi- 
dence among  you  all  ...  .  near  you,  dear  Hanne,  would  but  destroy 
my  peace." 

"  I  expressly  desired  you  not  to  tell  me  any  lies.  Good  Heavens !  is 
it  impossible  for  you  to  speak  truth  two  minutes  together  ?" 

"  And  is  it  impossible  for  you  to  speak  seriously  for  two  minutes 
together  ?     What  I  have  just  said  is  the  honest  truth." 

"  Humph !  However,  tell  me,  is  it  true  or  not  true  that  you  are 
engaged  in  Berlin  ?  Who  have  you  hoaxed — Jette  and  me,  or  my 
father  and  mother  ?     I  beseech  you  speak  truth  this  once." 

"  If  any  one  is  hoaxed,  it  is  your  father,  Hanne  ;  but  at  the  moment 
I  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  shake  his  determination,  or  I  certainly 
should  not  have  composed  such  a  story,  for  telling  which  I  blamed 
myself  severely." 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  believe  you  !  To  make  a  fool  of  one's  own  excellent 
uncle !  It  is  a  sin  that  ought  to  lie  very  heavy  on  your  conscience, 
Carl.     It  is  almost  as  great  a  sin  as  to  make  fools  of  one's  cousins." 

"  That  is  a  sin  from  which  I  hope  you  will  absolve  me.  Ah,  Hanne ! 
what  has  most  distressed  me  was,  that  my  character  must  have  appeared 
dubious  in  your  eyes.  From  the  first  moment  I  was  wretched,  because  I 
could  not  tell  you  that  it  was  only  a  pretended  engagement." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  /  have  to  do  with  your  being  betrothed  in  Berlin 
or  not.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  might  be  betrothed  in  China,  if 
you  liked." 

"  Your  gaiety  of  temper  makes  you  take  everything  lightly,  and  yet  it 
is  you  who  have  taught  me  that  life  has  serious  moments.  You  have 
transformed  me,  Hanne  ;  if  you  could  only  know  what  an  influence  the 
first  sight  of  you,  the  night  I  arrived  here,  has  exercised  upon  my 
fate  .  .  .  ." 


Cousin  Carl.  87 

"  Indeed  !  Do  tell  me  all  about  it ;  what  was  the  wondrous  and  fear- 
ful effect  of  the  sight  of  me  ?"  said  Hanne,  laughing. 

"  Dear  Hanne,  without  intending  it,  you  have  pitched  upon  the  right 
words,  in  calling  it  '  wondrous  and  fearful/  Yes,  it  will  follow  me  like  a 
heavy  sentence  from  a  judgment-seat,  ever  reproaching  me  with  my 
thoughtfulness.  Awake,  and  in  dreams,  will  I  implore  forgiveness  ;  I 
will  kneel  and  pray  for  it.  Look  at  me  once  more  with  that  captivating 
glance  which,  yon  evening,  made  me  forget  myself,  and  tell  me  that  you 
will  not  hate 'me — loathe  me — despise  me  :  see,  upon  my  knee  I  entreat 
one  kind  look — one  kind  word  !" 

I  had  actually  fallen  on  one  knee  before  Haune,  and  had  seized  her 
hand — 

"  Let  my  hand  go,  you  are  squeezing  it,  so  that  you  quite  hurt  me. 
That  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  the  part  you  are  acting.  Get  up,  cousin ; 
you  will  have  green  marks  on  your  knees,  and  I  can't  endure  to  see  men 
in  such  an  absurd,  old-fashioned  plight.  You  should  be  thankful  that  it 
is  no  longer  the  mode,  when  one  is  making  love  in  earnest,  to  fall  down 
on  one's  knees.  These  pastoral  attitudes  are  very  ridiculous  ;  they 
savour  of  a  shepherd's  crook,  and  a  frisky  lamb  with  red  ribbon  round  its 
neck." 

I  arose  quite  crestfallen. 

"  At  any  rate  I  must  allow  that  you  promise  to  be  a  capital  actor," 
added  Hanne.  "  Next  Christmas,  when  you  come  back,  we  shall  get 
up  some  private  theatricals  :  that  will  be  charming !  Last  year  we  could 
not  manage  them,  because  we  had  no  lover ;  Holm  positively  refused  to 
act  the  part,  unless  I  would  undertake  to  be  his  sweetheart ;  and  a  play 
without  love  is  like  a  ball  without  music." 

"  Hanne,  let  us  speak  seriously  for  once.  I  really  am  going  away, 
and  shall  be  gone  perhaps  before  you  expect  it  ;  for  I  hate  farewell 
scenes.  It  is  not  without  emotion  that  I  can  think  of  leaving  my 
amiable  cousins,  and  God  only  knows  if  we  shall  ever  meet  again.  Laugn 
at  me  if  you  will,  I  cannot  forbid  your  doing  that ;  but  believe  me 
when  I  tell  you  that  your  image  will  be  present  with  me  wherever  I  may 
go,  and  .  .  .  ." 

"  You  will  travel  in  very  good  company,  then,"  said  Hanne,  interrupt- 
ing me. 

"  Let  me  take  the  happy  hope  with  me  that  I  shall  live  in  your 
friendly  remembrance.  Sink  the  cousin  if  you  choose,  dear  Hanne ; 
cousinship  is  not  worth  much,  and  let  the  term  friend  supersede  it.  That 
is  a  voluntary  tie,  for  which  I  should  have  to  thank  but  your  own  feel- 
ings. It  is  as  a  friend  that  I  shall  think  of  you  when  I  go  from  this 
dear  place,  and  as  a  friend  that  your  image  will  follow  me  throughout 
the  world." 

"  Oh,  it  won't  be  very  troublesome  to  you,"  said  Hanne.  "  As  to  me, 
I  don't  happen  to  be  in  want  of  cousins,  still  less  of  friends.  Let  me  see, 
in  what  office  shall  I  instal  you  ?  Make  a  confidant  of  you  ?  We  do 
not  employ  any  in  our  family ;  I  am  my  own  confidante  :  assuredly  I  could 
have  none  safer.  I  shall  follow  in  this  the  example  of  my  silent  sister, 
who  never  gave  me  the  slightest  hint  of  her  love  for  Gustav.  A  coun- 
sellor ?     Truly,  such  an  accomplished  fibber  would  make  a  trustworthy 


88  Cousin  CarL 

counsellor !  No,  I  am  afraid,  if  yon  throw  up  the  post  you  hold,  you 
will  find  it  difficult  to  replace  it  by  any  other." 

"  Very  well,  let  me  retain  it  then,  hut  not  as  the  gift  of  chance.  Tou 
moat  yourself  of  your  own  free  will,  bestow  on  me  the  title  of  year 
cousin,  your  chosen  cousin :  that  k  a  distinction  of  which  I  shaft  he 
proud." 

"■  And  will  you,  then,  promise  to  come  hack  at  Christmas,  and  act  plays 
with  us?" 

"I  promise  you  into  the  bargain,  a  summer  representation,  before 
autumn  is  over,"  said  I.  "  The  Fates  only  knew  if  I  shall  preserve  the 
dramatic  talent  I  now  hare  until  winter." 

I  had  caught  a  portion  of  Hanne's  gaiety,  and  my  sentimental  feelings, 
so  much  jeered  at,  shrank  into*  the  background. 

^Then  I  will  dub  you  my  cousin  of  cousins  -r  and  besides,  cm  account 
of  your  many  great  services  and  merits,  I  will  confer  on  you  the  distin- 
guished title  of  my  court  sto»y-teller»" 

"  And  on  the  occasion  of  receiving  this  new  title,  I  most,  as  in  duty 
bound,  kiss  your  hand  ;  wherefore  I  remove  this  Kttle  brown  glove,  which 
henceforth  shall  be  placed  in  my  helmet,  in  token  of  my  vassalage  to  a 
fair  lady." 

"  No,  stop  !  give  up  my  glove,  cousin — I  cannot  waste  it  upon,  you. 
It  is  a  good  new  glove,  without  a  single  hole  in  it.  Give  it  up,  I  tell 
you ;  the  other  will  be  of  no  use  without  it*" 

She  tried  to  snatch  it  from  me>  but  I  held  it  high  above  her  hesdV  and 
speedily  managed  to  seize  its  fellow-glove. 

"You  must  redeem  them,  Hanne  ;  a  kiss  for  each  of  the  pair  is  what 
I  demand ;  and  they  are  well  worth  it^  for  they  are  really  nice  new  gloves* 
I.  will  not  part  with  them  for  less." 

"■  I  think  you  must  be  a  fool,  Carl,  to  fancy  for  one  moment  thai  I 
would  kiss  you  to  recover  my  own  gloves.  Noy  I  will  die  first,"  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  comic  indignation. 

In  answer  to  her  mock  heroics,  I  apostrophised  the  gloves  in  glowing 
terms*  finishing  with — "  On  your  smooth  perfumed  surface  I  press  my 
burning  lips.  Tell  your  fair  mistress  what  I  dare  not  say  to  her,  what  I 
at  this  moment  confide  to  you."     I  kissed  the  giovesw 

"  Well,  well,  give  me  back  my  gloves  and  I  will  let  you  kiss  me,"  said 
Hanne..  "But  it  shall  be  the  slightest  atom  of  a  kiss,  such  as  they  give 
in.  the  Christmas  games,  the  most  economical  possible ;  it  must  not  be 
worth  more  than  four  marks,  for  that  was  the  price  of  the  gloves.  Now, 
are  you  not  ashamed  to  take  a  kiss  valued  so  low  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  take  it.  But  the  value  I  put  upon  it  is  very  different, 
lor  the  slightest  kiss  from  your  lips,  Hanne,  is  worth  at  least  a  milheiL 
You  will  make  me  a  milliomiaire,  Hanne." 

I  gave  her  the  gloves,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of  kissing  her,  when 
the  voice  of  the  Justitsraad  broke  on  the  silence  around,  caBing,  "  Jette, 
Hanne,  Carl,  hollo !  where  are  you  all  ?n 

"  Here,"  cried  Hanne,  bursting  away:  from  me.    "  We  are  coming." 

"  But  dearest,  dearest  Hanne  I  my  kiss — my  million  ?" 

" We  will  see  about  it  to-morrow;  you  must  give  me  credit  tikis 


Cousin  CarL  88 

"My  dearest  Hanne,  to-morrow  will  be  too  late;  for  Heaven'*  sake? 
Ware  compassion  on  me.  I  am  going  away  to-night ;  there  h  no»  to- 
morrow for  me  here.  Give  me  but  half  the  imllioit  now — but  the* 
quarter— bat  the  four  marks'  worth  which  you  owe  mel  Dear  Hanne, 
pay  me  but  the  smallest  mite  of  my  promised  treasure.*' 

"Nonsense!  we  most  make;  the  best  of  our  way  home,  or  we  shall  be 
well  scolded." 

Gustav  and  Jette  joined  us  at  that  moment*  The  gloves  and  the 
kiss  were  for  ever  lost ! 

u  Why,  children,  what  has  become  of  you,  all  this  time?'*  exclaimed 
tike  JtistftsraaoL  "Com*  m  now,  and  have  a.  country-dance  with  the 
good  folks  before  we  leave  them  and  go  to-  have  some  mulled  claret. 
Stop,  atopy  Carl,  you  can't  dance  with  Hanne;  she  is  engaged  to  one  o£ 
the  young  farmers.  Yon  must  take  another  partner.  There  is  poor 
Amne,  the  lame  milkmaid,  she  has  scarcely  danced  at  all ;  it  ia  a  ski 
that  she  is  to  sit  all  the  evening  becaase  one  leg  is  a  little,  shorter  than 
the  other.     Go,  dance  with  her." 

"Don't  turn  the  poor  girl's  head  with  your  enormous  fibs/'  cried 
Hanne  to  me,  as  I  was  entering  the  summer-house.  "  Have  pity/  on  her 
unsophisticated  heart,  and  do  not  speculate  upon  a  miUion  there ;  the: 
herdsman  would  probably  not  allow  it." 

"A  million?  The  herdsman?  What  iscU  that  stuff  you  are  talking?" 
asked  her  father, 

u  Ill-nature — downright  illraature,  uncle." 

"Fie  t  cousin  ;  that  is  not  a  chivahric  mode  of  speaking.  Bat  do  go 
and  soot  it  merrily  with  lame  Annie,  and  I  promise  you  the  dance  shale 
last  at  least  an  hour." 

The  dance  was  over — the  mulled  wine  was  finished — the  happy  Gustav 
had  gone  to  his  home — the  family  had  bid  each  other  good  night,  and 
I  was  alone  in  my  chamber. 

"This  was  the  last  evening,"  thought  I  to  myself;  "the  short  dream 
was  now  over,  and  I  had  to  leave  that  pleasant  house,  never  more  to  return 
to  it."  A  deep  sigh  responded  to  these  reflections.  "  My  deception  will 
soon  be  discovered ;  they  will  revile  and  despise  me.  I  shall  most  pro- 
bably be  the  cause  of  their  being  exposed  to  the  ridicule  of  the  whole 
neighbourhood;  that  will  annoy  them  terribly,  and  they  will  be  very 
angry  that  any  one  should  have  presumed  to  impose  so  inipudentky  on 
their  frank  hospitality.  And  my  kiss  .  .  -  .  my  million  ,  •  .  ..  the 
realisation  of  that  delightful  promise !  .  .  .  .  What  if  I  were  to  remain 
yet  another  day — half  a  day — another  morning  even?  Remain f — in 
order  to  add  another  link  to  the  chain  which  binds  me  here,  and  which.  I 
am  already  almost  too  weak  to  sever?  No — I  will  go  hence.  In  about 
an  hoar  the  moon  wiU  set,  and  when  its  tell-tale  light  is  gone  I  will  go 
too.  One  short  hour  L  Alas !  how  many  melancholy  hoars  shall  1  not 
have  to  endure  when  that  one  has  passed  It  is  incomprehensible  to 
me  how  I  became  involved  in  aE.  this.  Chance  is  sometimes  a  miraculous) 
guide,  when  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  blindly  led  by  it.  But  a  truce  to 
these  tiresome  reflections,  I  have  no  time  to  think  of  anything  but  Hanne, 
now  that  I  am  about  to  leave  her  for  ever.  .  .  .  For  ever  f  These  are 
two  detestable  words;     Everything  is  now  quite  still  in  the  house;     I 


90  Westuooods  "  Foxglove  Bells.1' 

hear  no  sound  but  poor  Pasop,  rustling  his  chains  in  his  kennel ;  he  will 
not  bark  when  he  sees  it  is  only  I  passing.  They  are  all  friendly  to  me 
here,  even  the  very  dogs ;  yet  how  false  I  have  been  to  them !" 

I  threw  my  clothes  and  other  little  travelling  appurtenances  into  my 
valise,  and  opened  the  window. 

"  But  ought  I  to  run  away  without  leaving  one  word  behind  ?  The 
worthy  family  might  be  alarming  themselves  about  me.  What  shall  I 
write  ?  I  suppose  I  must  play  the  cousin  to  the  end ;  at  any  rate  I 
must  try  to  put  them  on  a  wrong  scent.  I  shall  address  my  note  to 
Hanne,  that  she  may  see  that  my  last  thoughts  were  with  her."  I  seized 
a  pencil  and  wrote : — "  Hanne's  cruelty  has  caused  my  bankruptcy  and 
my  flight.  She  could  have  made  me  a  millionnaire,  but  she  has  left  me  a 
beggar.  Poor  and  sad  I  quit  this  hospitable  house,  leaving  behind  my 
blessings  on  its  much-respected  and  amiable  inmates,  including  the  hard- 
hearted fair  one,  who  has  compelled  me  to  seek  a  refuge  at  Fredericia, 
which,  from  the  time  of  Axel,  has  afforded  jus  asyli  to  unfortunate  sub- 
jects." I  stuck  the  paper  in  the  dressing-glass,  where  it  would  speedily 
be  observed. 

I  had  played  out  my  comedy,  and  the  sober  realities  of  life  were  now 
before  me.  I  fell  into  a  deep  reverie,  which  lasted  until  the  first  dawn 
of  day,  when  I  started  up  to  prepare  for  my  departure.  First  I  threw 
my  carpet-bag  out  of  the  window,  and  then,  getting  out  myself  upon  the 
tree,  and  cautiously  descending  from  branch  to  branch,  I  reached  the 
ground  safely  and  quietly.  Taking  a  circuitous  route,  I  at  length 
passed  the  woody  village  near  my  uncle's  abode ;  and  the  sun  stood  high 
in  the  heavens  when,  weary  and  dispirited,  and  out  of  humour  with  the 
whole  world,  I  entered  the  parsonage-house. 


WESTWOOD'S  "FOXGLOVE  BELLS."* 

"  Scokn  not  the  sonnet "  was  the  poetical  expression,  uttered  through 
the  medium  of  a  sonnet,  of  one  who  amply  testified  to  his  fondness  for 
this  particular  description  of  measured  rhyme.  Upwards  of  two  hundred 
were  written  by  him  in  the  pleasant  regions  of  Khydal  Mount.  It  is  a 
species  of  verse-composition  which,  more  than  any  other,  seems  to  demand 
that  calm  and  steady  concentration  of  thought,  which  a  peaceful  residence 
in  and  amidst  such  scenery  as  the  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  lakes 
and  fells  would  habitually  tend  to  produce.  The  sonnets  of  Wordsworth 
are  sonnets  par  excellence  ;  they  teem  with  all  that  devotional  feeling  and 
love  of  nature  so  characteristic  of  the  writer,  and  in  none  of  them  do  we 
perceive  any  tendency  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  to  be  diverted  from  the 


*  Foxglove  Bells:  a  Book  of  Sonnets.    By  T.  Westwood.    Brussels.    1856. 


Westwoods  "  Foxglove  Bells.19  91 

theme  which  he  has  taken  to  illustrate  in  the  prescribed  fourteen  lines. 
He  speaks  truly  when  he  says, 

'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground. 

That  he  revels  in  the  .confined  precincts,  is  evident  from  the  ease  and 
absence  of  all  self-imposed  constraint ;  that  it  is  no  prison  to  him,  that  he 
wanders  free,  and]  unfettered  by  any  sense  of  his  fancy  halting,  or  his 
imagination  overleaping  itself,  is  too  manifest  to  become  a  question.  In 
the  lists  where  of  old  the  late  poet-laureate  was  used  to  encounter  many 
an  adversary,  Mr.  Westwood  has  thrown  down  the  gauntlet,  and  plea- 
santly challenges  opponents  with  a  book  of  sonnets,  having  for  title 
"  Foxglove  Bells,"  suggested  to  him  by  Wordsworth's  celebrated  sonnet, 
beginning, 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  cells, 

and  in  which  the  poet  so  happily  attests  that  any  confined  position  to 
which  man  dooms  himself  is  indeed  no  prisoned  space.  Do  not  the  bees 
"murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells?"  So,  too,  thinks  Mr.  West- 
wood  ;  and  we  are  very  much  mistaken  if  the  world,  poetical  and  other- 
wise, will  not  very  cordially  accept  the  graceful  effusions  which  he  has 
culled  together  and  dedicated,  with  one  of  the  sweetest  verse-dedications 
ever  written,  to  his  wife.  It  is  impossible  to  resist  quoting  this  sonnet  in 
verification  of  the  talent  displayed  in  its  composition,  and  as  an  elegant 
instance  of  tributary  poesy : 

I  am  so  poor,  so  poor !  I  that  would  fain 

Be  such  a  royal  giver !    See,  I  stand 

Before  thee,  Love,  with  deprecating  hand, 

And  heart  o'erflowing  with  a  grievous  pain, 

And  a  great  gladness,  for  with  no  disdain, 

My  queen  thou  lookest  from  thy  high  estate 

On  the  sole  offering  that  my  grudging  fate, 

Low  at  thy  feet  sa  tardily  hath  lain. 

Thou  art  tne  royal  giver ;  sweet  and  fair, 

As  the  spring  sunshine,  laughing,  bright  and  bland, 

Sheds  life,  grace,  glory  on  a  wintry  land, 

So  thou,  beneficent,  rich  past  compare, 

Hast  smiled  away  my  heart's  chill,  winter  snows, 

And  made  life's  desert  blossom  with  the  rose. 

Tasso  writing  to  his  loved  Lenora,  Dante  addressing  Beatrice,  or 
Petrarch  sunning  himself  in  the  effulgence  of  his  Laura's  eyes,  could 
never  have  given  more  tender,  chaste,  or  heartfelt  homage.  Courteous  and 
lovingly  submissive,  every  line  bespeaks  the  emotion  of  the  writer ;  like  the 
rose  unfolding  its  fragrant  petals  under  the  influence  of  the  summer  sun, 
so  the  heart  of  the  man-poet  submits  itself  to  the  gentle  presence  of  its 
earthly  adoration,  and,  in  giving  praise,  trustfully  acknowledges  its  own 
weakness.  Various  are  the  subjects  of  the  succeeding  sonnets.  Memory, 
Peace,  Nature — even  War  obtrudes  its  fierce  realities  in  the  pages  of  this 
new  addition  to  our  poetical  literature.  A  night-storm  in  the  mountains 
is  described  with  all  the  vivid  actuality  which  appertains  to  such  a  com- 
motion of  •  nature ;  the  crashing  and  upheaving  of  the  contending 
elements,  and  the  fiery  flashings  of  Heaven's  dread  lightnings,  are  re- 


92  Westwoods  a  Foxglove  Bdh? 

eroded  powerfully,  and  in  unison  -with,  the  ftf! ai  Bensmdons  seems  so 
terrific  are  wont  to  produce.  In  the  "  Contrast,"  Jfr.  West  wood  shews 
us  his  manly  and  English  sympathy  with  those  brave  fellows  who  have 
fought  and  bled  on  the  plains  .of  Inkmnan,  .and  of  pity  and  honour  for 
ihose — alas !  to  say  it — who 

Us 
Stark,  "neath  the  pitiless  Crimean  sky, 

and  whose  Rachels  seem  "  past  all  comfort  now.*9  To  turn  from  these 
sad  images,  and  meet  Mr.  "Westwood  in  the  second  part  of  his  charming 
volume,  which  latter  and  better  portion  is  called  "Rose-leaves:  a  Heart 
Record,"  is  to  find  him  following  in  the  track  which  his  first  sonnet  indi- 
cates, namely,  a  series  of  heart-verses  addressed  to  his  carasposa.  These 
Bweetest  of  aTl  sweet  Rose-leaves  are  twenty-six  in  numher,  and  bespeak 
to  the  full  all  that  grateful  affection  and  earnest  appreciation  of  Gad's 
greatest  blessing  to  man,  which  only  a  fond  and  happy  husband  could 
Jaave  so  exquisitely  acknowledged.  The  poet  prays  for  life,  for  happiness, 
ssr  comfort,  amidst  the  stomas  and  trials  of  his  earthly -career.  Xfearfeaess 
sad  shadows  of  evil  compass  him  around  ;  even  the  flowers  grow  dan  sod 
steagging  mi  his  pathway,  the  eternal  hills  look  tbear  and  cold,  sad 
pfaantoms  flit  fiercely  about  the  lindens,  till  silently  and  blissfully  light 
spends  its  gentle  giory  <m  the  horizon ;  then  the  hoe  rnnnrnma  even  in 
the  soiglove  hells,  the  birds  pipe  ifree  and  full  in  the  balmy  trees,  while 
plains  and  Tills  sparkle  with  grace  and  beauty?  for  ie!  the  poet  has 
found  the  Rose,  and  earth  and  sky  glow  with  the  richness  of  the  presence 
that  has  chased  sorrows  and  mists  away.  Was  ever  wife  welcomed  to 
the  threshold  of  her  new  home  wilfh  fairer  tend  courtlier  homage? 
Happy  the  woman  whose  ears  are  greeted  with  such  loving  serenades ! 
Very  pleasantly  must  music,  such  as  is  eontaiaed  in  the  following  poem, 
sound  beside  the  domestic  hearth  n£  the  poet.  It  is  replete  with  all  the 
delicious  sweetness  uf  the  glad  -South:: 

Henceforth,  I  have  two  Mrthdays ;  on  the  one, 
God  gave  me  life,  Tmt  on  the  other,  now, 

S  love's  late  lore  informed,  I  see,  and  know 
j  life  of  life*  in  its  first  germ  was  won. 
When  thou  wert  horn,  the  vear  had  scarce  nntmn 
Its  earliest  infancy,  hut  old  and  grey 
The  guise  it  wore  on  that  JSbvembex  day, 
When  my  unconscious  being  was  begun. 
JSo  matter !    On  the  last,  our  place  must  be 
By  our  warm  hearth,  where  cordial  talk  and  gay 
Shall  while  the  weary  winter  hours  away, 
Bat  on  the  first,  we  may  go  forth  and  see 
How  spring  wakes  cheerily  hi  wild  and  wood, 
How  violets  blossom,  and  how  roses  bud. 

No  vain  or  empty  compliment  is  here  declared,  hut  the  outpourings  of 
a  sensible  and  heart-full  man.  Gracefully  set  its  have  been  Mr.  West- 
wooi's  previous  utterances  on  the  jflowers  and  fields  of  nature,  there  can 
be  no  question  that  in  this  small  volume  his  genius  lias  been  even  more 
perfectly  .displayed. 


(    M    ) 
FINISHING   WITH    SCOTLAND. 

MY  AK  -OLD  TRAYELLEfi.* 

Itoitt  resolve  for  Scotland.— Q  Hen.  TV. 

We  had  passed  oar  usual  time  in  Yorkshire,  And  it  was  still  only  about 
the  middle  of  September.  It  was  too  early  to  return  home.  No  one 
goes  home  in  September,  except  to  shoot;  and  there  could  be  no  shooting 
in  squares  and  terraces,  even  had  the  Town  Act  not  made  it  a  finable 
offence :  so  we  determined  to  jwish  with,  Scotland.  Our  friends  favoured 
ns  with  their  advice,  and  we  received  outlines  innumerable  of  the  routes 
they  recommended.  Some  were  good,  but  not  exactly  what  we  wanted ; 
some  appeared  to  have  been  dashed  of£  after  the  manner  of  railway  pro- 
jectors in  the  memorable  '45,  when  the  termini  were  thought  sufficient 
for  a  prospectus,  and  all  intermediate  difficulties  and  expenses  were  left  to 
be  surmounted  as  they  might;  some  called  our  special  attention  to 
localities  merely  endeared  by  pleasant  recollections  to  the  writers  them- 
selves; and  some,  obliviously  confounding  Blairgowrie  with  Blair 
Athol,  and  Inverary  with  Inverness,  painted  to  lines  of  country  which 
only  a  bird  could  have  travelled.  It  was  difficult  to  make  anything  satis- 
factory of  such  materials  as  these.  We  therefore  determined  to  add  to 
our  information  by  procuring  Black's  Picturesque  Tourist  of  Scotland. 
Bat  why  "picturesque  tourist?'  It  seems  to  me  to  be  as  difficult  to 
define  a  picturesque  tourist  as  ;a  "  bonnyfeed  traveller."  J£  it  mean,  as 
Moare  says, 

A  something  between  Ahelard  and  Old  Bluchcr, 

with  a  profusion  of  beard  and  moustache,  a  capriciously-twisted  hat,  and  a 
ik>wmg<»quascntMm,-f  sitting  upon  the  parapet  of  a  bridge  to  be  admired, 
cr  stalking  <over  the  halls  in  a  Highland  garb  sang  cwL&t&es,  neither  of 
these  descriptions  would  affdy  to  myself.  And  why  u  of  Scotland  ?" 
Presuming  die  "picturesque  tourist"  to  lie  identified  and  defined,  is  he 
to  he  of  Scotland  only?  Strange!  that  on  a  title-page  bearing  die 
impress  of  the  modern  Athens,  out  of  four  words  two  should  be  nonsense. 
But  I  bought  the  hook  notwithstanding,  and  a  'very  useful  guide-book 
it  is — there  are  iem  hetter — and  spreading  out  its  map  before  us,  we 
fixed  upon  the  Caledonian  Canal  as  our  northern  boundary,  and  resolved 
to  see  as  much  of  £he  country  below  it,  -east  and  west,  as  we  should  be 
able  to  accomplish. 

Now  I  am  not  going  to  "write  a  guide-book;  but  it  may  be  useful  to 
others  to  know  how  easily  much  that  is  grand  and  beautiful  is  accessible. 
I  mm  satisfied  that  there  are  many  who  seek  such  scenery  abroad,  in  mere 
torgetfahiess  of  its  existence  within  their  own  shores. 

We  took  the  railway  from  Newcastle  to  Carlisle— itself  one  of  the 
pleasautest  railway  drives  in  Great  Britain — and  then  crossed  the  border 
by  Gnetna  Green.    Having  no  occasion  for  the  services  of  its  priest,  I 

*  In  A  Visit  to  &£  Mome.  of  Goethe,  which  appeared  some  time  since,  Saxe 
"Weimar  was,  more  than  once,  carelessly  written  instead  of  Weimar.  As  my 
Intermediate  contributions  were  not  by  an  GW  Traveller,  I  hare  had  no  earlier 
opportunity  of  correcting  the  mistake. 


94  Finishing  with  Scotland. 

merely  looked  at  the  temple  of  the  clandestine  hymen  as  a  clean-looking 
rural  village,  with  a  good  inn  and  a  few  small  nouses.  Our  reason  for 
taking  this  direction  was  to  see  something  of  the  "  land  of  Burns"  and 
the  scenery  he  had  described.  It  is  curious  to  trace  the  descriptions  of  a 
great  poet  to  their  originals  in  nature,  or  to  know  for  how  much  of  them 
we  are  indebted  to  his  imagination.  One  is  soon  satisfied  that  the  sub- 
jects of  Burns's  verse  were  worthy  of  his  powers.  Nothing  can  be  finer 
than  the  "  Braes  of  Ballochmyle,"  or  fuller  of  quiet  beauty  than  the 
banks  of  the  Nith.  Dumfries  recals  him  to  our  recollection  every 
moment,  sometimes  painfully.  The  house  he  lived  and  died  in  is  still 
carefully  preserved.  We  saw  the  room  where— often  after  the  wearying 
labours  of  his  appointment — he  meditated  or  transcribed  those  glorious 
songs ;  and  we  stood  upon  his  grave — the  vault  to  which  his  remains 
were  removed  when  the  first  monument  to  his  memory  was  about  to  be 
erected.  Indeed,  at  every  step  after  crossing  the  border  we  are  re- 
minded of  him.  Annan,  Lincluden,  Friar's  Carse,  Drumlanrig,  the 
Lugar,  Manchline,  Irvine,  Kilmarnock — with  all  their  associations  of 
mournfulness  or  mirth,  of  pathos  or  of  humour — are  passed  in  succession; 
and,  though  looking  at  places  of  interest  from  a  railway  carriage  is  very 
like  looking  at  them  from  the  top  of  a  mail-coach  when  the  horses  are 
running  away,  it  is  at  least  something  to  have  been  near  enough  to  see 
and  remember  them.  At  Ayr  you  may  more  leisurely  trace  Tarn 
o'Shanter,  line  by  line,  from  the  small  public-house  in  the  High-street, 
where  he  had  been  "  getting  fou  and  unco  happy,"  along  the  road  by 
Slaphouse-bridge,  near  the  "  ford"  and  "  birks"  and  "  meikle  stane,"  till 
(passing  by  the  cottage  where  Burns  himself  was  born)  you  reach  Kirk 
Alloway;  and  thence  (which  was  lucky  for  the  "  grey  mare  Meg")  it  is 
but  a  short  distance  to  the  famous  bridge — the  last  scene  of  that  event- 
ful history — which  spans  the  braes  o*  bonny  Doun,  and  is  overlooked  by 
the  graceful  and  costly  monument  erected  to  the  poet's  memory.  Never 
were  scenery,  associations,  and  events  so  happily  blended  ;  and  a  drive  of 
three  hours  carries  you  through  the  whole.  There  are  other  objects  of 
interest  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ayr,  especially  the  view  from  Brown 
Carrick,  which  would  only  be  a  continuation  of  the  drive  to  the  monu- 
ment. It  must  be  confessed  that  our  own  pilgrimage  was  not  made  as 
deliberately  as  it  ought  to  have  been.  We  were  running  against  time  and 
an  apprehended  change  of  weather  ;  but,  even  under  these  circumstances, 
I  accomplished  much  that  (as  a  worshipper  of  the  Ayrshire  bard)  I  had 
long  desired. 

Our  next  resting-place  was  Glasgow,  where  we  saw  nothing  that 
associated  itself  with  such  memories  as  those  connected  with  the  scenes 
we  had  left,  except  the  tomb  of  Motherwell — the  poet,  and  genial  anno- 
tates of  Burns.  It  canopies  a  noble  bust,  and  on  the  pedestal  are 
designs  in  faint  relief  from  his  most  popular  works,  executed  with  a  spirit 
and  freedom  equal  to  the  outlines  of  Flaxman  or  of  Retsch.  The  cathe- 
dral was  under  repair,  and  would  soon  show  a  splendid  interior,  though 
no  longer  the  cathedral  of  romance.  The  Salt-market,  too,  which,  when 
I  saw  it  many  years  ago,  was  such  a  place  as  the  douce  baillie  might 
have  inhabited,  had  become  the  abode  of  a  population  as  vicious  and 
squalid  as  ever  dwelt  in  the  Old  St.  Giles's  of  London,  or  as  now  fills  the 
wynds  and  closes  which  branch  from  the  Cannongate  of  Edinburgh.     If 


Finishing  with  Scotland.  95 

the  eye  did  not  rest  upon  a  policeman  at  every  step,  neither  purse  nor 
life  could  he  considered  safe. 

A  steamer  down  the  Clyde,  a  railway  to  the  foot  of  Lochlomond, 
and  a  steamer  skirting  the  wooded  islands  of  that  beautiful  lake,  brought 
us  to  Tarbet,  which  wa3  to  be  the  point  of  departure  for  our  greater 
tour. 

Passing  by  Arroquhar  and  the  head  of  Loch  Long,  our  first  sight  of  a 
Highland  glen  was  Glencroe,  a  scene  of  wild  and  desolate  grandeur. 
Its  sides  were  treeless  sheep-walks ;  and  numberless  thin  white  lines  of 
waterfall  rushed  from  its  cloudy  summits.  As  I  was  walking — to  ease 
our  horses — up  the  steep  ascent  that  leads  to  the  well-known  stone-seat 
inscribed  "  Rest  and  be  thankful,"  I  was  startled  by  the  spectral  appari- 
tion of  a  man  in  a  grey  plaid  driving  a  sulky  high  above  me  in  the 
clouds.  Descending  by  a  zigzag  road,  he  came  near,  and  I  found  that 
it  was  her  Majesty's  mail  on  its  way  to  Tarbet.  It  is  not  surprising 
that  the  inhabitants  of  a  country  where  the  senses  may  be  so  easily  de- 
ceived should  be  still  superstitious. 

Cairndrow  Inn,  at  the  head  of  Loch  Fine,  brought  us  to  the  end  of  our 
first  fourteen  miles.  After  a  drive  of  nine  miles  farther  by  the  side  of 
the  loch  (in  which  a  large  porpoise  was  making  its  plunges,  for  its  own 
amusement  and  ours,  close  to  the  road),  we  passed  the  remains  of  Dun- 
deraw  Castle,  and  came  to  broader  water  with  a  background  of  islands, 
and  in  sight  of  Inverary,  its  bridge,  and  the  castle  of  the  Duke  of  Argyle. 
They  form  a  combination  of  very  beautiful  objects — though  Dr.  Johnson 
was  certainly  right  when  he  said  that  the  castle  should  have  been  "  a 
story  higher."  If  unable  to  ascend  the  wooded  hill  that  overlooks  the 
grounds,  the  stranger  must  at  least  not  omit  to  walk  from  the  upper  part 
of  the  town  through  one  of  the  finest  avenues  of  beeches  in  Great 
Britain. 

From  Inverary  we  passed  by  the  magnificent  woods  that  surround  the 
castle,  and  through  the  pleasant  scenery  of  Glenary  to  Loch  Awe.  On 
our  way  a  small  farmer,  who  had  heard  at  the  inn  the  night  before  that 
we  should  travel  in  that  direction,  was  on  the  look-out  to  present  us  with 
some  nuts,  the  only  show  of  Highland  hospitality  he  was  able  to  offer. 
Loch  Awe  has  a  good  deal  of  the  dull  solemnity  of  some  of  the  English 
lakes,  though  Ben  Cruachan,  with  its  snow-capped  summits,  would  no 
doubt  look  down  with  conscious  superiority  upon  the  English  Skiddaw. 
For  some  distance  there  are  fine  views  of  the  loch,  its  islands,  and  Kil- 
churn  Castle,  and  of  the  "  proud"  mountains  of  Glenorchy,  till,  sixteen 
miles  from  Inverary,  we  arrive  at  Dalmally.  To  the  tourist  this  is  a 
point  of  some  importance.  The  coaches  to  Oban,  &c,  pass  by  it,  and 
it  is  within  an  easy  distance  of  the  coaches  for  Fort  William  by  Glencoe. 

We  were  now  in  the  Breadalbane  country.  Seventeen  miles  more-— 
chiefly  by  the  side  of  the  river  Orchy,  a  noble  stream — took  us  to 
the  inn  at  Inverouran,  on  the  banks  of  a  melancholy  sheet  of  water  called 
Loch  Tulla.  On  its  opposite  shore  the  Marquis  of  Breadalbane  has  a 
shooting-lodge.  To  the  left  lies  one  of  his  best  deer  forests.  A  little 
beyond  the  inn  is  the  head-forester's  house,  and  near  it  a  pack  of 
splendid  deer-hounds  were  confined  within  an  area  surrounded  by  trellis- 
work,  of  which  their  kennel  formed  the  centre.  To  have  seen  these  was 
alone  worth  a  visit  to  the  Highlands. 

May — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxv.  h 


96  Finishing  with  Scotland. 

While  we  were  at  the  inn,  the  coach  to  Fort  William  through  Glenooe 
was  changing  horses.  It  was  different  from  anything  one  usually  meets 
with — a  small  model  of  a  crystal  palace  upon  four  wheels — admirably 
adapted  for  enabling  one  to  enjoy  the  scenery,  but  not  a  very  desirable 
conveyance  in  case  of  an  upset. 

The  country  that  now  'surrounded  us  was  awfully  wild.  On  our  left 
was  the  deer-forest  of  Blackmount,  on  our  right,  the  dreary  moor  of 
Rannoch,  a  wide  extent  of  bogs  and  mosses,  that,  seen  Tin  the  misty 
twilight,  seemed  like  a  border  of  the  world  that  had  been  left  unfinished. 
Yet  I  do  not  know  anything  finer  on  a  dark  and  stormy  evening  than 
the  effect  of  the  setting  sun  glaring  upon  the  scattered  patches  of  water 
which  lie  in  the  distance  upon  the  surface  of  a  bog,  or  have  been  left  by 
the  ebbing  tide  on  some  sandy  shore. 

Our  next  stage  was,  fortunately,  only  nine  miles ;  and  it  brought  us  to 
a  small  inn  called  King's  House.  When  the  poet  s&ngfacilis  descensus, 
it  is  evident  that  he  had  never  driven  a  pair  of  tired  horses  from  Live*- 
ouran  down  to  King's  House.  By  the  time  we  arrived  there  "  the  gloomy 
night  was  gathering  fast,"  and  it  was  beginning  to  rain.  "  I£s  ow'r  late 
to  be  going  through  Glencoe  to-night  ?"  said  the  host ;  and  we  asked 
him  to  let  his  gude  wife  show  us  their  accommodations.  The  house  had 
formerly  been  a  mere  place  of  call  for  Highland  drovers.  It  had  been 
recently  enlarged — too  recently,  perhaps — and  there  were  symptoms  both 
of  cold  and  damp ;  but  the  hostess  and  her  pretty  daughter  were  evi- 
dently determined  to  make  us  comfortable.  A  gentleman  who  had  been 
deer-stalking  very  courteously  gave  up  his  sitting-room,  and  though  there 
were  no  fires  but  turf  with  a  scanty  mixture  of  wood,  we  had  not  any 
reasonable  cause  to  be  dissatisfied  either  with  our  lodgings  or  our  fare. 
It  is  true  that  our  rest  was  disturbed  by  the  loud  talk  of  drovers,  the 
barking  of  collies,  and  the  passing  of  thousands  of  sheep  on  their  way  to 
the  great  Tryst  at  Falkirk.  What  of  that  ?  It  was  our  own  fault  that 
we  were  there  at  all.  Had  we  known  our  route  better  we  should  have 
started  earlier,  so  as  to  have  passed  through  Glencoe  before  sunset,  and 
slept  at  the  excellent  Ferry  House  at  Ballachulish.  Indeed,  we  ought  so 
to  have  arranged  our  departure  from  Tarbet  or  Inverary  as  to  have  been 
much  earlier  at  Dalmally,  where  we  might  have  had  a  choice  of  con- 
veyances. As  it  was,  we  posted  all  the  way,  and  were  benighted  to 
boot. 

In  the  morning  we  were  asked  to  look  at  a  fine,  well-antlered  buck 
which  our  obliging  fellow-guest  had  shot.  It  seemed  sad  that  so  hand- 
some a  creature,  with  its  full  black  eyes  and  gentle  face,  should  be 
smitten  with  death  for  the  mere  amusement  of  an  hour.  But  it  has 
always  been  so,  and  always  will  be.  Besides,  it  had  not  been  mangled  or 
made  to  suffer  protracted  pain.  A  single  ball,  dexterously  aimed,  had  put 
an  end  at  once  to  feeling  and  to  life. 

After  an  excellent  breakfast  we  proceeded  on  our  way  through  the 
famous  glen.  Its  description  has  not  been  exaggerated.  In  the  direction 
in  which  we  approached  it  the  mountains  rise  with  steep  abruptness  in 
every  variety  of  form,  and  when  the  projections  are  brought  into  relief 
by  something  more  of  sunshine  than  we  then  enjoyed,  even  the  quieter 
beauties  of  the  northern  valley  would,  I  have  no  doubt,  be  worthy  of 
their  fame.     The  immediate  scene  of  the  massacre — one  of  the  foulest 


Finishing  with  Scotland.  97 

records  on  the  page  of  time— is  marked  by  a  clump  or  two  of  trees,  and 
by  a  few  stones,  still  left,  as  it  is  said,  from  the  ruined  homes  of  the  Mac* 
donalds.  I  do  not  attempt  to  describe  :  it  has  been  done  already*  Even 
the  local  guide-books  have  pictured  the  scenery  of  Glencoe  with  a  mag- 
niloquence that  I  should  vainly  endeavour  to  approach.  My  own  task  is 
merely  to  show,  in  a  few  pages,  how  much  the  traveller  may  easily 
accomplish  within  the  compass  of  three  or  four  weeks  :  a  fact  of  which  1 
confess  I  was  not  myself  aware  until  I  had  ascertained  it  by  pleasant 
experience. 

Leaving  Glencoe,  and  near  the  slate-quarries  of  Ballachulish,  we  passed 
through  a  village  of  as  miserable  hovels  as  were  ever  seen  in  Ireland,  and 
with  a  population  apparently  as  poor.  At  the  ferry  we  crossed  an  arm 
of  Loch  Levin.  Then  came  a  lovely  drive  by  the  banks  of  Loch  EiL 
The  island  of  Mull  rose  distinctly  in  the  western  distance,  and  after  pass* 
ing  near  Fort  William,  through  Maryburgh,  and  by  Lord  Abinger's 
half-ruined  Castle  of  Inverlochy,  we  arrived  at  Bannavie,  where  there  is 
a  good  hotel  (the  Lochiel  Arms),  in  addition  to  its  being  the  most  con- 
venient point  for  embarkation  on  the  Caledonian  Canal.  As  Ben  Nevis 
was  then  nearly  hidden  by  clouds,  we  might  have  been  induced  to  stay  a 
day  or  two  in  hopes  that  it  would  have  unveiled  itself;  but  Scotch  moun- 
tains are,  in  this  respect,  very  unaccommodating,  so  we  gave  up  the 
chance  of  seeing  Ben  Nevis  more  distinctly,  being  unwilling  to  lose  the 
opportunity  of  taking  our  passage  the  following  morning  in  the  City  of 
Edinburgh  steamer,  and  with  her  popular  captain. 

Before  quitting  Bannavie,  however,  I  may  mention  that  on  our  way  to 
Fort  William  we  again  passed  by  some  of  the  most  miserable  cottages 
that  I  have  ever  seen  inhabited  by  the  peasantry  of  a  civilised  country. 
They  were  low  buildings  of  a  single  story,  with  a  door  and  two  windows 
(sometimes  only  one),  often  unglazed ;  they  had  no  chimneys,  the  smoke 
making  its  way  through  the  thatch,  which  was  blackened  and  decayed 
by  the  damp  of  many  winters,  and  if  *their  occupants  had  not  been 
visible,  they  would  not  have  been  taken  for  the  dwellings  of  human 
beings. 

The  day  after  our  arrival  we  were  "  up  in  the  morning  early,"  and 
the  paddles  of  our  gallant  barque,  the  City  of  Edinburgh,  were  put  in 
motion  about  eight  o'clock*  Her  commander  (Captain  Turner)  ought 
certainly  to  lead  a  pleasant  life.  He  seemed  to  know  everybody,  and  in 
the  exceptional  cases  of  strangers  like  ourselves,  he  soon  became  ac- 
quainted by  his  civilities  and  attentions.  He  had  a  word  for  all.  If  a 
Gaelic  derivation  was  discussed,  he  could  modestly  offer  an  explanation. 
He  could  tell  us  the  owners  and  traditions  of  every  place  we  passed.  At 
some  of  N  the  points  where  we  stopped,  ladies  in  Diana  Vernon  hats, 
mounted  on  gallant  steeds,  came  down  from  lordly  halls  to  hear  the  news, 
or  have  a  chat  with  Captain  Turner.  He  had  a  steward,  too  (a  sadder 
though  not  a  wiser  man),  who  seemed  to  think  that  the  digestive  organs 
of  the  human  race  were  a  mill  that  should  be  Continually  kept  at  work, 
for  though  he  gave  us  an  excellent  breakfast,  that  was  sufficient  to  have 
satisfied  any  reasonable  person  for  a  week,  he  was  always  preparing  a 
table  profusely  spread  with  good  things,  like  bread  alone,  that  he  pro- 
cured at  Fort  Augustus,  was,  in  this  age  of  adulteration,  a  veritable 
luxury, 

h  2 


98  Finishing  with  Scotland. 

With  such  accessories  as  these,  and  with  a  splendid  day,  the  navigation 
of  the  Caledonian  Canal  was  one  of  the  best  incidents  of  our  tour. 

In  beauty  of  natural  scenery  it  is  far  beyond  the  Rhine.  Where  the 
spurs  of  the  mountains  seem,  in  the  distance,  to  come  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  it  resembles  some  of  the  finest  parts  of  the  Hudson  between  New 
York  and  Albany.  In  its  "  castled  crags"  alone  is  the  Rhine  superior. 
Some  speak  of  its  more  poetical  associations.  Its  traditions  are  more 
numerous,  but  the  deeds  of  its  titled  robbers  are  surely  not  to  be  con- 
trasted with  recollections  of  the  loyalty  and  devotion  of  which  every  wood 
and  glen  reminds  us  as  we  look  towards  the  western  shores  of  Loch  Eil, 
Loch  Lochy,  and  Loch  Oich.  From  these  we  cannot  but  remember  that 
the  gallant  Cameron  came  forth  to  the  fatal  field  of  Culloden.  Here 
were  mustered  the  clansmen  of  Glengarry,  and  here  the  prince  to  whose 
desperate  cause  they  were  sacrificed  was  himself  a  wanderer  and  con- 
cealed as  an  outlaw. 

At  the  entrance  to  Loch  Ness  is  Fort  Augustus.  A  few  miles  farther 
the  steam-boat  stops  to  admit  of  a  visit  to  the  Fall  of  Foyers.  This  is 
the  only  piece  of  fine  scenery  where  the  muse  of  Burns  does  not  seem  to 
have  met  him  uncalled.  How  different  his  description  of  it  from  the 
exquisite  nature  and  simplicity  of  his  lines  on  Bruar  Water  !  The  fall 
is  picturesquely  formed,  surrounded  by  wooded  steeps,  and  worthy  of 
being  seen  ;  but  should  the  tourist  be  unable  to  see  it,  the  disappoint- 
ment need  not  be  too  passionately  regretted.  The  ruins  of  Castle  Urqu- 
hart  are  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  here  alone  the  scenery  might  have 
6ome  resemblance  to  the  Rhine  were  the  stream  as  narrow. 

About  four  o'clock  we  arrived  at  the  end  of  our  voyage,  landing  at 
Muirtown,  from  which  a  short  drive  took  us  to  Inverness.  The  passage 
of  about  sixty  miles  had  occupied  about  eight  hours.  On  the  lochs  we 
sometimes  steamed  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an  hour ;  but  the  canal 
locks,  which  connect  them,  are  a  more  tedious  affair,  and  while  the  vessel 
is  going  through  these  the  passengers  often  land  and  walk.  I  do  not  know 
how  a  summer's  day  could  be  more  agreeably  occupied  than  on  the  Cale- 
donian Canal.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  of  an  Englishman  who  spent  an 
entire  month  in  steaming  backward  and  forward,  sleeping  alternately  at 
Inverness  and  Bannavie. 

It  was  chiefly  in  the  districts  we  had  just  passed  and  at  Inverness,  that 
we  heard  complaints  of  the  eviction  of  the  Highlanders.  I  was  asking, 
on  one  occasion,  if  there  were  any  foxes  in  some  likely  places  that  we 
were  looking  at.  "  No ;  both  Highlanders  and  vermin  had  disappeared. 
English  gamekeepers  had  cleared  the  country  of  the  one,  and  the  others 
were  driven  away,  to  turn  the  land  they  had  occupied  into  deer-tracts 
and  shooting-grounds.  There's  no  such  thing  as  a  corbie  craw  to  be  seen 
noo,"  said  my  informant ;  "  and  in  my  youth  they  were  quite  common." 

"  And  what's  a  corbie  craw  V9 1  inquired. 

"Why,  it's  just  a  great  bird  that  used  to  live  upon  the  mountains, 
and  would  feed  at  times  upon  the  young  lambs." 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  loss  of  such  a  creature  as  this  was  what 
the  lawyers  would  call  damnum  sine  injuria.  As  regarded  the  High- 
landers, I  admitted  that  it  might  be  different. 

"  Ou,  ay,  it  had  been  the  ruin  just  of  the  retail  trade  of  Inverness." 


Finishing  with  Scotland.  99 

I  expressed  a  doubt  whether  the  occupants  of  such  wretched  hovels  as 
we  had  seen  could  be  very  valuable  customers  anywhere. 

I  was  "  quite  wrang.  It  was  at  the  Highland  capital  they  made  all 
their  purchases,  and  the  numbers  made  up  for  the  smallness  of  the 
amounts." 

We  were  then  passing  by  the  house  of  a  laird,  a  dismal-looking  edifice 
enough, 

"  Noo  that,"  said  my  pleasant  companion,  "  if  rented  by  one  of  your 
countrymen,  would  be  called  his  sAooring-box.  That's  what  those  fine 
old  mansions  are  always  called  when  they  are  taken  by  the  English."  ' 

This  was  a  palpable  hint  that  my  countrymen  were  not  as  popular 
in  the  Highlands  as  even  the  corbie  craws  had  been,  so  I  said  no  more. 
Between  poverty  and  discontent  the  alliance  does  not  seem  very  un- 
natural ;  and  Dr.  Johnson  spoke,  eighty  years  since,  of  "  the  general 
dissatisfaction"  that  was  then  "  driving  the  Highlanders  into  the  other 
hemisphere." 

I  remember  its  being  recently  stated  in  the  Times  that  the  Highland 
dress  was  at  present  only  worn  by  the  regiments  (not  exclusively  High- 
landers) in  the  Crimea ;  and  "  by  a  few  men  and  boys  who  wear  the 
tartan  to  impose  on,  or  adorn  the  household  of,  the  wealthy  Englishman 
who  has  the  shooting  for  the  season."  This  is  not  correct.  Both  in 
Inverness-shire  and  in  Perthshire  I  have  met  with  young  and  old,  the 
peasant  and  the  laird — and  not  a  few — habited  in  the  ancient  garb. 
Amongst  children  in  the  villages  it  is  very  common. 

The  pleasantest  recollections  of  Inverness  are  the  approach  by  the 
river  side  (where  we  see  at  once  its  spires,  and  new  bridge,  and  modern 
castle)  and  the  splendid  view  from  the  castle  hill,  now  acknowledged  to 
be  the  true  site  of  the  castle  of  Macbeth.  Of  the  discovery  of  some 
curious  druidical  stones  at  Castle  Leys  (about  three  miles  to  the  S.W.) 
I  heard  nothing  till  our  return  to  England  ;  and  our  only  excursions  in 
the  neighbourhood  were  to  the  field  of  Culloden  and  to  Cawdor.  The 
latter  is  a  good  specimen  of  the  moated  stronghold  of  a  half-civilised 
chief,  but  we  might  have  seen  it  more  easily  from  Nairn.  Kilravock 
(pronounced  Kilrack)  is  a  similar  building.  It  lay  on  our  way  to  Cawdor, 
though  not  visible  from  the  road,  and  permission  to  see  it  had  been 
politely  given  to  us  unasked;  but  our  driver  stupidly  mistook  the  ap- 

E roach,  and  we  were  obliged  to  appear  indifferent  to  the  courtesy  that 
ad  been  so  frankly  shown. 

When  there  is  time,  a  very  interesting  excursion  may  be  easily  made 
into  Sutherlandshire ;  either  to  Beauly,  or  even  as  far  as  Dunrobin 
Castle. 

On  the  Sunday  that  we  rested  at  Inverness  we  attended  the  episcopal 
chapel.  It  was  curious  to  see  our  national  Church  regarded — so  near 
home— as  a  mere  sect ;  but,  humble  as  was  the  temple,  we  were  gratified 
by  hearing  the  service  read,  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Mackay,  in  a  natural  tone 
of  deep  and  solemn  feeling  that  I  have  seldom  heard  equalled.  I  wished 
that  I  could  have  preferred  him  to  a  bishopric.  Few  deserve  prefer- 
ment better. 

Our  course  was  next  by  Nairn  to  Huntley,  and  so  by  railway  to  Aber- 
deen— a  route  on  which  there  are  objects  not  to  be  overlooked.     About 


160  Finishing  with  Scotland. 

three  miles  from  Forres  is  the  heathy  traditionally  alleged  to  be  the  spot 
where  the  weird  sisters  were  gathered 

To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth, 
In  riddles  and  affairs  of  death  ; 

and,  if  not  the  precise  locality,  it  is  as  likely  as  any  other  to  hare  been 
their  place  of  meeting.  In  all  such  cases  of  historic  doubt  it  is  satiafae. 
lory  to  think  upon  the  little  difference  that  exists  between  the  vero  and 
the  ben  trovat*.  But  it  is  not  quite  so  pleasant — after  yielding  oneself 
to  the  associations  which  the  scenery  we  had  lately  passed  through  had 
awakened — to  be  told  by  the  commentators  upon  Shakspeare  that  "it  is 
now  belieTed  by  some  that  Duncan  was  not  assassinated  at  all,  but 
akin  in  battle."  Immediately  after  leaving  Forres  may  be  seen,  from 
the  road,  the  column,  upwards  of  twenty  feet  high,  called  Sweno's  Stoaa. 
Antiquaries  have  connected  it  with  a  defeat  of  the  Danes.  In  what  way, 
they  do  not  seem  very  clearly  to  have  determined.  At  Elgin  there  ate 
the  ruins  of  the  cathedral  ^  and  in  several  places  the  educational  esta- 
blishments— sometimes  very  handsome  buildings — which  were  erected  by 
the  Duke  of  Gordon  at  every  town  connected  with  hie  princely  territory, 
are  also  to-  be  noticed.  Then  the  towns  themselves  are,  most  of  then,  m 
some  way  curious.  The  streets,  for  instance,  of  Keith — the  last  place 
that  one  would  wish  to  stay  at — intersect  each  other  at  right  angles,  at 
in  some  of  the  towns  of  America. 

Till  we  approached  the  glens  and  moors  beyond  Gordon  Castle  the 
country  was  well  cultivated.  Wherever  this  was  the  ease,  the  cottages 
ware  good,  and  the  peasantry  in  comfort.  Forty  shillings  an  acre  is  not 
an  unusual  rent  in  Nairnshire  ;  and  it  would  be  easily  paid,  for  the  harvest 
had  been  well  got  in,  and  in  many  of  the  farm-yards  there  were  from 
fifty  to  eighty  good-sized  corn  ricks. 

At  Huntley  we  for  the  first  time  encountered  the  inconvenience  of  an 
erercrowded  hotel,  which,  im  the  earlier  part  of  the  season,  is  an  incident 
of  not  tmfrequent  occurrence.  The  house  must  have  been  well  conducted, 
for  even  under  these  circumstances  we  were  not  dissatisfied ;  and  as  we 
were  placed,  for  the  evening,  in  a  room  near  the  bar,  it  gave  us  an  oppor- 
tunity of  comparing  the  customs  of  a  Scotch  and  English  establishment. 
A  bell  rang.  In  England  attention  would  have  been  called  to  the  num- 
ber of  the  room;  bat,  at  Huntley,  aery  of  u  WulUe  I  yon  trait  Her  !  tak 
a  look  at  him  /"  was  the  mode  in  which  our  landlord  directed  die  waiter's 
attention  to  the  wants  of  his  guest. 

It  is  useless  to  recommend  this  good  hotel.  There  is  scarcely  a  bad 
one  at  any  posting-house  on  the  road ;  but  their  days  of  prosperity,  I  am 
afraid,  are  numbered.  Since  we  left  Inverness  the  railway  has  been 
opened  to  Nairn,  and  the  intermediate  portion,  from  Huntley  upwards, 
will  soon  be  rapidly  progressing. 

The  next  morning  we  proceeded  by  railway  to  Aberdeen.  Here  we 
were  unfortunate.  It  was  a  "  sacramental  occasion,"  or  fast  day  ;  the 
shops  were  strictly  closed,  and  a  succession  of  heavy  showers  prevented 
our  going  to  any  distance.  In  the  old  town  we  saw  the  King's  College, 
and  the  moresque  gateway  of  the  residence  opposite  to  it ;  and  we  had 
a  glimpse  of  Lord  Byron's  bridge  of  Balgownie.  From  the  poet's  allu- 
sions, I  had  somehow  pictured  it  to  myself  as  a  grimly  object,  spanning 


Finishing  with  Scotland.  101 

some  wild  spot,  and  almost  tottering  to  its  fall ;  but  I  found  it,  though 
rather  ancient,  a  well-established  and  respectable  bridge,  and  so  close  to 
Aberdeen,  that  if  that  good  town  goes  on  increasing  as  it  has  done,  the 
Brig  o9  Balgownie  will  shortly  be  near  the  end  of  King-street  The 
truth  is,  that  his  lordship  was  a  Highlander  in  masquerade.  Moore  says 
that  the  houses  he  inhabited  in  his  youth  are  still  shown.  My  cicerone 
was  not  poetical ;  and  as  the  rain  was  sufficient  to  damp  a  younger 
enthusiasm  than  mine,  I  was  obliged  to  leave  them  as  Wordsworth  left 
the  Braes  of  Yarrow — unvisited.  I  must  honestly  admit,  however — 
though  no  one  has  felt  the  genius  of  Byron  more  powerfully  than  myself 
— that,  with  the  exception  of  Newstead,  I  have  not  the  same  curiosity  as 
to  his  localities  that  I  have  felt  in  seeking  those  of  Burns  and  of  Scott.  I 
looked  for  the  grave  of  Beattie,  and  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  any 
one  who  could  point  it  out ;  so  I  mention,  for  the  benefit  of  future 
plgrims  to  poetic  shrines,  that  it  is  outside  the  East  Church,  in  a  corner 
immediately  to  the  right  of  the  principal  entrance,  or  central  tower — to 
the  right,  I  mean,  as  you  approach  it — and  where  there  are  some  monu- 
ments fixed  to  the  wall.  The  farthest  of  them  is  Beattie's.  It  will  be  a 
bad  symptom  for  our  poetical  literature  when  his  works  are  neglected. 

Aberdeen,  though  the  granite  of  which  it  is  built  gives  it  a  dull  grey 
uniformity,  is  a  handsome  town ;  its  Union-street  is  one  of  the  most 
spacious  in  Great  Britain  ;  and  it  is  worthy  of  a  longer  stay  than  we 
were  then  disposed  to  make. 

From  Aberdeen  we  went  by  railway  to  Banchory.  The  Dee,  even  as 
seen  from  the  railway,  is  beautiful,  but  it  appeared  much  finer  as  we 
traced  it  upwards,  in  the  drive  by  Ballater,  Aboyne,  Abergeldie,  and  Bal- 
moral, to  Braemar.  I  still  abstain  from  description.  We  had  passed  by 
every  variety  of  glen,  from  the  calm  repose  of  Glen  Urquhart  to  the 
savage  wildness  of  Glencroe,  and  by  rivers  that  seemed  to  flow  through 
Rpadise.     But  to  describe  them 

I  lack  both  space  andpow'r. 

Nothing  could  be  more  inspiring  than  the  country  through  which  our 
rente  now  lay  :  Lochnagar  rose  to  our  left  in  dark  and  misty  majesty. 
Judging  from  the  guide-books,  it  seems  to  be  his  habit  so  to  shroud  him- 
self ;  but,  take  it  altogether,  I  do  not  think  that  a  district  could  have  been 
found  in  all  Scotland  which  at  once  combines  so  much  of  beauty  and  of 
grandeur  as  that  which  has  been  chosen  for  the  royal  residence.  At  every 
poet-house  there  is  good  accommodation ;  at  Aboyne  a  very  handsome 
hotel;  and  while  we  were  changing  horses  there,  the  Marquis  of  Huntley 
diew  up  on  his  way  to  the  forests,  accompanied  by  two  noble  deer- 
hounds. 

We  took  the  southern  road  by  Balmoral,  crossing  the  Dee  by  a  sus- 
pension-bridge near  the  small,  but  not  picturesque,  church  of  Cratbie— 
the  church  attended  by  the  Queen.  This  gave  us  a  second  and  nearer 
▼lew  of  the  castle — the  first  was  on  approaching  Crathie— and  the  road 
then  ran  through  the  pine  forest,  by  the  Falls  of  Garrawalt  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  seen  a  grander  forest  of  the  kind  even  in  America* 
On  our  way  through  it  we  met  the  Duchess  of  Kent,  who  courteously 
ordered  her  carriage  to  be  drawn  aside  to  allow  the  strangers  to  pass. 

A  little  farther,  leaving  the  old  Castle  of  Braemar— the  scene  of  the 


102  Finishing  with  Scotland. 

annual  gathering—close  to  the  road  on  our  right,  we  came  to  the  Inver- 
cauld  Arms  at  Castleton,  a  very  good  house,  excellently  kept,  though 
the  host  was  somewhat  of  a  fiery  Tybalt  under  remonstrance — a  fault 
that  was  amply  counterbalanced  by  the  admirable  venison-soup  prepared 
for  us  by  his  wife.  My  first  colloquy  with  him,  while  I  was  yet  standing 
by  our  cal&che,  was  rather  singular.  There  had  been  some  question  as 
to  apartments.  I  expressed  my  surprise,  telling  him  I  had  understood 
that  his  house  was  the  best  in  the  country. 

66  Weel,  and  what  hev*  ye  to  say  against  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  but  of  course  we  wish  for  the  best  accommodation  we 
can  find,  and  if  you  cannot  let  us  have  it,  we  might  try  the  Fife  Arms." 

"Ye  better  had!  It's  been  closed  for  twa  year  just  And  what  is 
it  ye'll  want  ?" 

"  Why,  I  understood  that  you  had  not  a  vacant  sitting-room." 

"And  what  do  ye  ca'  that?"  said  mine  host,  opening  the  door  of  a 
goodly  apartment  near  the  door,  and  thus  placing  me  decidedly  in  the 
wrong.  In  fact,  I  had  entered  upon  the  case  without  sufficiently  getting 
up  my  evidence. 

By  this  time  the  ladies  of  our  party  brought  intelligence  that  the 
sleeping-rooms  were  excellent,  and  having  no  longer  any  inclination  to 
try  a  house  that  had  been  closed  for  "  twa  year,"  we  finished  the  discus- 
sion by  ordering  what  proved  to  be  a  capital  dinner,  of  which  the  mate- 
rials testified  that  our  host  stood  well  with  the  foresters. 

Here,  however,  we  had  our  first  contretemps.  A  gentleman,  whom 
we  recognised  as  the  inheritor  of  millions  of  mercantile  wealth,  returning 
from  his  shooting-box  with  his  family  and  suite,  had  ordered  the  whole  of 
the  post-horses  (and  Castleton  could  furnish  ten  pair)  for  the  next  two 
stages.  Our  route,  like  his  own,  was  by  the  Spital  of  Glenshee,  and 
there  we  were  obliged  to  sleep.  At  that  time  it  was  certainly  what  the 
Highlanders  call  "  gay  cauld."  The  crops,  such  as  we  had  seen  gathered 
in  Nairnshire,  were  still  out,  for  though  farther  south,  it  was  1300  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea,  to  say  nothing  of  the  difference  of  soil  and 
farming. 

On  our  way  from  Castleton  of  Braemar,  we  came  by  the  Devil's  Elbow, 
a  sharp  descent  in  the  shape  of  an  angular  ?,  which  is  one  of  the  terrors 
of  the  glen,  but  a  carriage  and  four  seemed  to  come  down  it  without 
difficulty,  and  with  care  and  daylight  it  presents  little  of  danger.  The 
Queen,  I  believe,  took  this  route  only  once. 

From  the  Spital,  in  place  of  going  to  Blairgowrie,  we  went  to  Blair 
Athol  by  Kirkmichael  and  Pitlochrie.  The  whole  distance  from  Castleton 
to  Blair  Athol  was  forty-eight  miles,  and  it  embraced  the  Cluny  Water, 
with  its  many  nameless  falls,  in  appearance  something  between  rapids 
and  cascatelle,  Glen  Cluny,  Glen  Beg,  Glen  Shee,  Strath  Airdlie,  the 
moors  of  Ballakilly,  the  very  heart  of  the  Grampians,  Pitlochrie,  and  the 
matchless  pass  of  Killicrankie :  the  same  alternation  of  grandeur  and  of 
beauty  which  we  had  so  often  seen.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  mountains 
of  Glen  Beg  that  they  are  smooth  green  pasture  to  their  summits,  and 
sheep  may  be  seen,  breaking  as  it  were  the  outline,  upon  their  highest 
points.  At  Blair  Athol,  the  Bruar  Water  and  a  visit  to  Glen  Tilt  are 
the  chief  objects  of  attraction.  There  is  one  of  the  falls  of  the  Bruar 
that,  in  its  combinations  and  its  form,  is  the  perfection  of  picturesque 
beauty. 


Finishing  with  Scotland.  103 

We  returned  to  Pitlochrie — a  pleasant  resting-point,  from  whence  a 
day's  excursion  may  be  made  in  the  direction  of  Loch  Tay — and  then, 
passing  by  the  rich  meadows  on  the  banks  of  the  Tummel,  and  looking 
back  upon  the  Grampians,  we  entered  the  fine  old  woods  belonging  to 
the  Duke  of  Athol,  and  so  to  Dunkeld.  We  there  made  the  usual  circuit 
through  the  duke's  grounds — the  scene  of  the  gallant  fight  of  the  Came- 
ronians  so  powerfully  described  by  Macaulay — and  crossed  the  river  to 
the  Falls  of  Braan.  If  seen  in  their  native  wildness,  instead  of  being 
accompanied  as  they  now  are  by  the  tea-garden  accessory  of  the  Hall  of 
Ossian,  they  would  be  one  of  the  finest  waterfalls  in  Scotland. 

Dunkeld  itself  should  be  approached  from  the  south.  The  bridge,  the 
ruins  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  town,  with  its  background  of  woods,  are 
then  so  brought  together  as  to  warrant  the  fame  it  has  acquired. 

It  will  soon  be  the  station  of  a  branch  railway  communicating  with 
the  Scottish  Midland.  This  will  produce  a  revolution  in  its  hotels. 
Already  a  Birnam  Hotel,  of  goodly  exterior,  has  been  prepared  near  the 
terminus  ;  but  it  must  be  very  well  conducted  before  it  can  compete  with 
the  Royal.  At  present  this  is  the  perfection  of  one  of  those  family  hotels 
which  used  formerly  to  be  supported  by  the  neighbouring  residents  in 
every  county  town.  Rooms,  beds,  cooking,  and  attendance  are  all  ex- 
cellent, and  the  charges  moderate.  As  we  were  leaving  it,  we  were  in- 
vited into  a  room  near  the  entrance,  and  presented  with  wine  glasses  of 
Athol  brose,  a  delicious  compound  of  honey,  cream,  and  whisky,  which 
was  gracefully  offered  to  us  by  a  modest  Hebe,  in  the  person  of  a 
daughter  of  the  house.  I  do  not  say  that  any  one  partook  of  it,  at  so 
early  an  hour,  except  myself;  but  I  have  myself  a  lively  recollection  of 
its  goodness. 

On  leaving  Dunkeld  there  is  a  splendid  opening  up  the  valley  of  the 
Tay  towards  Murthly  Castle ;  and  after  an  agreeable  drive,  with  a  good 
view  of  Scone  Palace  on  our  left,  we  entered  Perth.  We  could  not 
remain  there,  for  the  next  morning  the  races  were  to  be  patronised  by 
the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  every  place  was  full.  The  appearance  of 
Perth  from  the  bridge,  looking  towards  the  North  Inch,  with  the  fine 
outline  of  mountains  in  the  distance,  has  not  been  exaggerated  ;  but  the 
best  view  of  it  is  from  Kinnoull  Hill.  Could  we  have  remained,  we 
might  have  made  it  the  centre  of  several  pleasant  excursions,  as  Mon- 
crieffe  Hill,  Scone,  Glamis,  and  the  Carse  of  Gowrie. 

As  is  was,  we  took  the  railway  to  Stirling,  passing  by  Dunblane,  the 
fine  ruins  of  its  cathedral,  and  the  bridge  of  Allan,  a  rising  watering- 
place,  of  somewhat  German  aspect,  which  we  visited  the  next  day. 

We  found  Stirling  greatly  changed  since  we  were  there  some  twenty 
years  since.  There  are  at  least  six  new  churches  (for  the  separation  that 
has  taken  place  in  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  has  given  an  impulse  to  archi- 
tecture) ;  and  there  is  a  castellated  prison,  which,  seen  from  the  Queen's 
Park,  is  as  fine  an  object  as  the  castle  itself.  As  I  was  standing  with 
my  back  to  the  ruins  of  the  building  commenced  by  the  Earl  of  Mar,  the 
tall  house  facing  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  street  was  pointed  out  as  the 
"lodging"  of  Darnley,  when  this  part  of  Stirling  was  inhabited  by 
nobility  ;  and  the  house  with  pedimented  windows,  about  half-way  down 
on  my  left,  was  said  to  have  been  occupied  by  the  unhappy  family  of  the 
Duke  of  Albany.  At  a  corner  of  a  back  street  to  my  right,  the  low 
building  with  a  round  tower  was  the  dwelling  of  an  earl  whose  name  I  do 


104  Fumkmg  with  Scotland. 

not  remember ;  and,  looking  down  from  this,  the  building  in  front,  now 
the  Inkermann  Inn,  was  the  Royal  Mint  All  else  about  Stirling,  and 
the  views  and  objects  of  interest  that  may  be  seen  from  its  walls  as  we 
gaze  upon  the  lovely  links  of  Forth,  are  duly  pointed  out  by  the  Pic* 
tmresque  Tourist. 

Leaving  Stirling  by  the  railway,  we  saw  "the  flocks  and  herds,0 
which  were  being  collected  as  we  passed  through  the  Western  Highlands, 
dispersed  amongst  their  purchasers  at  Falkirk,  and  the  drovere  returning 
accompanied  only  by  their  dogs.  The  remains  of  Linlithgow  Palace  and 
of  Niddry  Castle,  where  Queen  Mary  found  refuge  after  escaping  from 
Lochleven,  are  seen  from  the  railway  carriage,  as  well  as  such  a  mode  of 
conveyance  admits  of  seeing  anything ;  and  in  about  two  hours  we  arrived 
at  peerless  Edinburgh. 

This  was  not  our  first  visit.  During  our  brief  stay  we  crossed  the 
Forth  into  Fifeshire  ;  and  we  made  the  usual  excursion  to  Hawthonukn 
and  Roslin,  of  which  the  chapel,  though  a  mere  toy  in  size,  is  a  specimen 
of  beautiful  and  elaborate  ornament  rarely  seen  out  of  Spain.  Hawthorn- 
den  may  now  be  easily  visited  by  railway,  and  Roslin  by  a  public  con* 
veyanee.  This  is  familiar  ground,  and  so  would  be  our  return  to  New- 
castle, crossing  the  border  at  Berwick,  where  a  glance  at  the 

Tweed?  s  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 
And  Ckeviofs  mountain*  lone, 

was  our  last  view  of  Scotland. 

Having  despatched  our  tour,  I  must  add  a  few  words  on  its  statistics. 
The  whole  distance,  going  and  returning  to  our  home,  was  nearly  1200 
miles,  and  it  occupied  28  days.  In  Scotland  alone,  from  the  time  we  left 
Carlisle  till  we  reached  Berwick  on  our  return,  we  went  318  miles  by 
railway ;  posted  290,  exclusive  of  excursions ;  and  steamed  85.  From 
Carlisle  to  Glasgow  we  were  3  days  ;  from  Glasgow  to  Bannavie  4  days ; 
1  day  on  the  canal  to  Inverness ;  1  there ;  1  day  to  Huntley ;  1  at  Aber- 
deen and  by  Aberdeen  to  Banchory ;  1  to  Castleton  of  Braemar ;  2  by 
Glenshee  to  Blair  Athol ;  1  to  and  at  Dunkeld ;  1  by  Perth  to  Stirling ; 
I  there ;  part  of  one  to  Edinburgh  and  part  of  one  to  Berwick  ;  exclu- 
sive of  four  Sundays  and  three  days  at  Edinburgh :  total,  25.  The 
posting  from  Tarbet,  by  Inverary,  to  Bannavie  was  98  miles ;  from 
Inverness  to  Huntley  67  miles ;  from  Banchory  to  Perth  125  miles. 
The  charge  for  posting  is  Is.  6<L  a  mile,  and  the  carriages  are,  generally, 
ealeches  that  may  be  closed.  The  tolls  are  either  heavy  (including 
bridge  tolls)  or  there  are  none  ;  and  this,  as  well  as  the  distance,  should 
be  perfectly  ascertained  before  leaving  the  post-house.  On  most  of  the 
routes  where  we  posted  there  are  public  conveyances,  but  being  a 
party  of  four,  the  saving  to  us  between  fares  and  posting  would  not  have 
been  more  than  a  fifth,  and  the  times  of  departure  and  arrival  were  not 
always  convenient. 

For  the  many  objects  of  interest  included  in  the  scenery  through 
which  we  passed,  I  would  refer  to  the  Picturesque  Tourist.  For  giving 
the  names  of  the  best  hotels  it  is  perfect. 

As  this  information  would  have  been  very  useful  to  myself  before  we 
commenced  our  excursion,  I  presume  that  there  may  be  others  to  whom 
it  will  be  as  acceptable  as  a  more  amusing  paper.  It  may  aid  them  in 
making  their  arrangements  for  the  coming  summer,  and  prepare  them, 
more  or  less,  for  what  they  have  to  do  and  see. 


(    105    ) 


23allabs  font  Xnglfefi  ^fetors. 

BY  JAMES    PAYW. 

HL— EDGAR  AND  ELFBIDA. 

The  panegyrics  which  the  monks  have  conferred  upon  Edgar  were  procured 
through  his  persecution  of  the  married  clergy.  His  moral  character  was  pro- 
bably worse  than  that  of  any  of  our  early  kings.  During  the  lifetime  of  his 
first  wife  he  carried  off  the  beautiful  Edith  from  the  monastery  of  Wilton,  and, 
for  all  we  can  learn  to  the  contrary,  was  suffered  by  St  Dunstan  to  retain  her  as 
his  mistress  upon  submitting  to  undergo  a  trifling  penance;  and  the  means  by 
which  be  became  possessed  of  Elfieda  were  scarcely  less  disgraceful.  The  court 
of  this  promoter  of  celibacy  swarmed,  indeed,  at  all  times  with  concubines  obtained 
in  the  most  violent  and  flagitious  manner,  and  this  dreadful  wooing  of  Elfrida, 
his  second  lawful  wife,  seems  to  have  been  remarkable  less  for  its  crime  than  for 
its  romance.  The  report  of  her  beauty  having  reached  the  monarch's  eager  ear, 
he  sent  his  friend  Earl  Athelwold  into  Devonshire  to  ascertain  its  truth.  The 
maiden's  charms  prevailed  over  the  noble's  fidelity ;  he  represented  her  to  the 
king  as  of  homely  appearance,  and  finally,  on  pretence  of  her  great  wealth,  ob- 
tained permission  to  wed  her.  Some  courtiers,  jealous  of  the  favourite,  disclosed 
his  stratagem,  and  Athelwold,  betrayed  by  his  wife  Elfrida,  as  related  in  the 
ballad,  paid  far  his  dissimulation  with  his  life. 

Four  years  after  the  king's  death,  his  son  Edward  was  slain  at  Corfe  Castle  by 
Elfrida,  precisely  as  Edgar  had  slain  Athelwold. 


The  court  of  royal  Edgar 

Had  many  a  pleasant  flower 
In  fairest  bud  and  blossom 

To  deck  his  bridal  bower, 
Where  the  pale  violet  Edith 

Did  her  meek  charms  unfold, 
And  Elfleda  bloom'd  blushless 

With  hair  of  sunny  gold ; 
But  yet  there  lack'd  a  Lily, 

And  vet  bore  every  gale 
The  tidings  of  her  sweetness 

Who  droop' d  in  Devon  vale. 
Of  OWs  peerless  daughter 

Stifl  told  the  travelled  lord, 
And  still  to  fair  Elfrida 

The  gleeman  touched  his  chord ; 
"  And,  oy  my  crown,"  quoth  Edgar, 

"  If  less  may  not  betide, 
This  fairest  in  broad  England 

Shall  reign  King  Edgar's  bride : 
But  first— -lor  that  I  know  them— 

My  Athelwold,  bring  word 
Wherein  our  youth  be  liars, 

Or  if  'tis  as  we  heard." 

So  the  young  earl  departed : 
Sprang  up  from  bended  knee 

No  knight  more  leal  in  duty 
To  king  and  friend  than  he. 


From  Elfleda  and  Edith, 

Safe,  in  his  pride,  he  went, 
In  strength,  and  grace,  and  honour, 

By  those  fair  perils  tent, 
Blind  to  the  meaning  token, 

Deaf  to  the  wanton  word, 
The  favourite  of  his  monarch, 

The  first  at  song  and  sword ; 
To  woo  the  high  Elfrida 

(Ah  cruel  task  and  rare !), 
To  pluck  the  perfect  Lily 

Another  was  to  wear. 

Down  in  Devon,  fertile  Devon, 

Made  for  love  alway, 
In  that  castle  by  the  sea-beach 

Dwelt  he  many  a  day ; 
Round  about  the  breezy  moorland, 

O'er  the  purple  hill, 
Biding  while  the  woods  make  murmur 

Though  the  birds  be  still, 
Through  the  long-drawn  summer  evens 

Biding,  not  alone, 
While  his  faithless  heart  beat  softly 

Music  of  its  own ; 
While  the  Lily  looking  upward, 

Fair  of  face  and  limb, — 
Could  he  part  with  such  sweet  burden 

That  so  leant  on  him  P 


106 


Edgar  and  Elfrida. 


Then  spake  he  to  King  Edgar, 

This  knight  so  true  and  bold — 
"It  is  a  Lady  Lily, 

And  dazzles  by  her  gold; 
The  worth  of  Olga's  daughter 

Is  but  the  dower  she  brings, 
A  fitting  prize  for  courtiers, 

But  not  a  mate  for  kings." 
And  once  again  to  Edgar : 

"  Thou  that  wast  aye  my  friend 
Might'st  to  myself,  as  suitor, 

Thy  kingly  vantage  lend, 
For  waste  nath  thinned  my  treasure 

And  narrow'd  my  broad  land, 
And  who  clasps  this  fair  finger 

Holds  all  in  Olga's  hand." 
So  the  young  earl  departed : 

Sprang  up  from  bended  knee 
No  perjurer  for  love's  sake 

With  heart  more  light  than  he. 

Down  in  Devon,  fertile  Devon, 

Made  for  love  alway, 
In  that  castle  by  the  sea-beach 

Every  month  was  May, 
Mated  with  the  fair  Elfrida ; 

Though  the  changing  leaf 
Shook,  not  seldom,  warning  finger 

Of  the  summer  brief; 
Though  the  love-look  sometime  kindled, 

And  anon  the  flush 
Overspread  the  Lily's  fairness 

More  than  maiden  blush ; 
Yet  lie  loved  her  like  a  lover, 

Load-star  she  to  him, 
Set  in  place  of  died-out  Duty 

And  of  Honour  dim. 

Now  all  was  told  to  Edgar, 

And  May  was  at  its  close, 
And  the  king's  wrath,  like  winter's, 

In  its  white  malice  rose. 
€t  Lo !  have  eight  princes  bent  them 

To  row  me  o'er  the  Dee, 
And  am  I  yet  King  Edgar 

That  this  is  done  to  me  ? 
Let  Athelwold  have  warning 

That  I  this  day  do  ride, 
To  view  the  stately  castle, 

And  mark  the  homely  bride." 


Then,  at  that  meaning  message, 

Spake  husband  unto  wife, 
"  There  are  two  things  in  peril, 

Thine  honour  and  my  life. 
Elfrida,  I  have  wronged  thee : 

That  most  imperial  brow, 
But  for  my  love,  enchantress, 

Had  worn  its  crown  ere  now ; 
Veil,  veil,  pure  wife,  thy  beauty 

Erom  Edgar's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  save  me  from  the  dagger, 

And  save  thee  from  the  shame !" 

But  the  false  wife  dissembled, 

The  Lily  bow'd  its  head, 
While  leaf,  and  stem,  and  flower 

Trembled,  but  not  with  dread; 
And  glass'd  in  the  dark  current 

Of  her  thought's  swollen  stream, 
She  saw  a  sceptre's  splendour 

Eclipse  a  dagger's  gleam. 
Revenge  and  bad  Ambition, 

Her  tiring-maidens  twain, 
She  stept  forth  from  her  chamber 

With  circlet  and  with  chain, 
And  met  the  king  at  portal 

In  glory  and  in  guile, 
Assassin  in  her  whisper 

And  Wanton  in  her  smile ! 

So  Athelwold  rode  hunting 

At  morn  in  Edgar's  train, 
And  from  the  purple  moorland 

Return' d  not  home  again  ; 
And  lie  who  drave  the  dagger 

(Ah,  shame  for  me  to  sing !) — 
The  man  who  drave  the  dagger 

His  guest  was,  and  his  king. 

Now  she  who  wedded  Edgar 

Wore  seven  long  years  bis  crown, 
And  slew  his  best  Delov'd 

Whose  birthright  cross'd  her  son ; 
Stabbed  him  the  while  he  pledged  he 

At  her  own  castle  door, 
His  foot  within  the  stirrup, 

As  stabbed  his  sire  before. 
As  it  is  writ  in  story 

So  have  I  told  the  tale, 
Of  that  ensanguined  Lily 

Who  droop'd  in  Devon  vale. 


(    107    ) 


THE  CATHEDRAL  ANGELS. 

My  father  was  a  solicitor,  with  small  practice,  in  a  cathedral  city :  I 
was  the  eldest  of  his  four  children,  whom  he  contrived  by  dint  of  self-denial 
and  frugality  to  keep  respectable.  I  was  bandied  from  school  to  school, 
with  large  margins  of  leisure  time,  until  I  was  eight  years  old,  and  then 
J  left  off  schooling  altogether  for  a  while.  This  was  my  golden  age :  I 
roamed  over  the  country  in  all  the  majesty  of  a  boy's  loneliness,  debating 
perpetually  with  myself  whether  I  would  be  lord  chancellor  or  lord  mayor, 
and  feeling  immeasurably  superior  to  the  thousands  who  passed  by  me  to 
their  obscurity.  I  was  somewhat  of  a  mystic  even  then,  and  this  may, 
perhaps,  explain  in  part  my  vanity,  for  all  mystics  seem  to  despise  other 
people ;  indeed,  as  far  as  my  memory  is  correct,  my  first  conceit  was 
given  when  no  one  could  tell  me  the  connexion  between  the  pure  blue 
infinite  sky  and  the  eternity  which  the  Bible  calls  God's  home.  I  used 
to  fancy  that  one  was  the  same  as  the  other,  and  to  say  my  prayers  always 
in  the  open  air,  thinking  that  God  would  hear  me  better  in  His  own  palace. 
No  one  else  seemed  to  understand  this ;  my  father  wanted  to  know  "  what 
foolish  question  I  should  ask  him  next  ?"  when  I  propounded  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  subject  to  him.  My  mother  told  me  to  "  read,  and  be 
wiser ;"  whereas,  for  my  own  part,  I  had  an  idea  that  they  would 
have  told  me  if  they  had  known,  and  the  pride  of  my  genius  consequently 
flourished  more  than  ever.  They  were  dissenters — unflinching,  stern 
upholders  of  Nonconformity  and  Voluntaryism,  and  I  could  not  presume 
as  yet  to  question  their  infallibility.  I  passed  by  the  grand  old  cathedral 
day  after  day,  with  their  prejudices  strong  upon  me ;  even  though  the 
sun  used  to  set  behind  it  on  summer  evenings  and  make  the  red  tints  of 
its  turrets  unearthly  in  their  magnificence,  I  dared  hardly  admire,  much 
less  enter  it.  But  one  bright  fresh  morning  I  ventured  into  the  close  on 
its  north  side  to  gather  daisies  for  my  sister,  and  heard  the  echoes  of  the 
organ  coming  from  the  long  aisles  through  the  opened  window.  It  was 
so  unlike  all  the  chapel-organs  which  I  had  heard,  and  moreover  so  infi- 
nitely more  soul-thrilling,  that  I  stayed  listening  to  it  for  nearly  an  hour. 
I  was  very  solemn  all  the  rest  of  the  day,  keeping  my  new-found  treasure 
from  even  my  sister,  but  firmly  resolving  to  hear  it  again  on  the  morrow. 
I  was  awake  half  the  night,  wondering  if  people  who  sent  up  to  God 
such  beautiful  music  were,  after  all,  so  wicked  as  I  had  been  told  ;  I  set- 
tled at  last  that  they  were  not,  and  that  I  would  go  inside  to  look  at 
them  in  the  mproing.  I  walked  timidly  into  the  porch,  and  was  quite 
overwhelmed  with  awe  when  I  looked  up  through  the  vastness  of  the 
nave,  to  the  slanting  sunlight  which  brightened  the  stained  glass  in  the 
distance.  I  was  soon  at  the  summit  of  all  conceivable  dignity,  for  a 
kind-hearted  verger  marshalled  me  with  his  golden  wand  into  a  prebendal 
stall,  or  throne,  rather,  as  I  fancied  it.  Then  came  in  the  choristers— I 
had  never  seen  a  surplice  before — making  me  think  that  it  was  all  in- 
tended for  a  symbol,  and  moreover  a  very  beautiful  one,  of  the  white- 
robed  ones  in  heaven.  There  was  one  of  the  canons,  too,  or  elders,  as  I 
thought  him,  of  whom  the  Revelation  speaks,  who  struck  me  very  much 
by  his  hoar-headed  solemnity ;  I  felt  a  strange  interest  in  him  at  the  very 
first  glance,  just  outside  the  organ-screen,  when  he  handed  a  lady  to  one 


108  The  Cathedral  Angels. 

of  the  vergers  for  a  seat.  The  whole  service  was  an  endless  theme  for 
mysticisms,  since  it  was  quite  meaningless  to  me  in  itself.  At  last  it 
ended  ;  I  watched  the  choristers  defile  past  me,  and  saw  the  tiny  congre- 
gation disappear;  and  as  I  was  going  out,  the  old  canon  of  whom  I  spoke 
came  up,  leaning  on  the  lady's  arm.  She  smiled  on  me  as  she  passed  by, 
and  made  me,  oh !  so  happy,  for  I  had  never  seen  any  one  so  beautiful  before, 
and  I  had  hitherto  believed  what  my  mother  had  told  me,  that  fair  faces 
were  snares  of  the  devil.  But  I  could  not  believe  this  now ;  the  devil 
would  not  let  his  children  go  to  a  "  little  heaven  below,"  I  thought,  and 
look  so  sweetly  on  a  stranger-boy.  The  next  day  I  went  again,  teffing 
no  one,  lest  I  should  be  prohibited.  There  were,  as  before,  the  choristers, 
the  pealings  of  the  organ,  the  white  vestments  of  the  clergymen ;  but 
none  of  these  had  any  charm  for  me,  compared  with  the  lady  who  had 
smiled  on  me.  I  looked  at  her  again  and  again — she  was  exactly  oppo- 
site—completely fascinated  by  her  fairness,  which  indeed  was  white  at 
the  whitest  marble,  only  mellowed  by  the  flesh-tint  of  life.  And  when 
her  voice  was  wafted  to  me  as  she  stood  up  to  sing,  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else  but  one  of  Fra  Angelico's  angels  which  I  had  seen.  u  Her 
sister  angels,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  are  surely  watching  her ;"  but  at  first 
I  had  not  the  courage  to  look  up ;  and  when  I  did  look  up,  behold,  on 
the  corbel-stone  was  a  seraph  with  folded  arms,  glancing  up  to  God. 
The  sunlight  just  then  fell  upon  its  countenance,  and  I  felt  that  it  was 
the  own  home  of  her  guardian.  Day  after  day  I  saw  the  same  beautiful 
face  and  the  same  seraph-watcher,  but  I  was  rather  shocked  once  to  see 
an  officer  with  my  lady,  and  to  hear  afterwards  that  he  had  been  for  some 
months  her  husband.  I  was  soon  reconciled  to  this,  however,  for  she 
oftenest  came  alone.  Oh !  it  was  so  beautiful  to  see  her  when  alone,  for 
she  was  quite  unearthly  in  her  loveliness,  as  she  floated  down  the  nave 
with  the  organ-music  flooding  behind  her.  She  always  smiled  on  me,  and 
at  last  spoke.  I  used  to  anticipate  with  greater  delight  than  even  the 
service  itself,  the  walk  with  her  over  the  few  yards  of  turf  which  separated 
the  canonry  from  the  cathedral ;  she  would  ask  me  of  my  parents,  and  of 
my  sisters,  and  of  my  fondness  for  flowers,  and  of  my  likings  for  holy 
music. 

All  this  went  on  while  summer  lasted,  and  one  bright  autumn  after- 
noon, I  remember  well,  as  a  crimson  glow  suddenly  streamed  from  beneath 
a  cloud,  seeming  to  mingle  with  the  gold  tint  of  her  golden  hair,  and  to 
veil  her  face  witn  a  robe  of  the  sun's  own  weaving,  she  asked  me  if  I 
should  like  to  be  a  chorister.  This  was  exactly  what  I  had  wished  for 
myself,  and  I  coveted  it  just  now  much  more  than  my  prospective  chan* 
cellorship ;  so  I  looked  up  in  wild  worship  of  her  beauty,  and  told  her  all 
my  heart. 

"  It  would  be  like  heaven,"  I  said,  "  to  sing  in  a  white  robe  morning 
after  morning,  and  evening  after  evening  :  isn't  it  what  the  angels  do  V 

She  seemed  to  like  my  fancy,  and  smiled  :  oh !  how  she  smiled !  Her 
gaze  has  shone  upon  me  ever  since  with  the  spirit-like  lovingness  with 
which  one  day,  I  nope,  it  shall  shine  upon  me  again! 

All  the  next  week  was  too  rainy  for  me  to  be  allowed  out  of  doors,  and 
when  I  went  to  the  cathedral  again,  she  whom  I  adored  was  no  longer 
there.  Week  after  week,  as  often  as  I  dared,  I  continued  my  search  for 
her,  through  the  cold  frost  and  over  the  dreary  snow;  the  winds  came 


The  Cathedral  Angels.  109 

sometimes  to  join  in  the  worship,  and  the  sunshine  stole  stealthily  through 
the  cheerless  windows ;  and  then  again  the  little  snowdrops  near  the  south 
buttresses  came  to  solace  me,  and  the  jubilant  chimes  rang  out  clearly 
through  the  clear  sky  of  early  spring;  but  still  the  guardian-seraph  on 
the  corbel-stone  watched  in  patience,  for  I  now  noticed  the  folded  arms 
more  than  the  glancing  eye ;  and  I  too  watched  in  patience,  like  the 
carren  angel,  though  my  vigil  seemed  a  weary  one.  I  was  once,  however, 
walking  rather  gloomily  up  the  aisle,  when  the  old  canon,  advancing  with 
the  short  quick  steps  of  age,  overtook  me,  and  said, 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  my  little  man,  when  the  service  is 
ended." 

Of  course  I  heard  not  a  word  of  the  music  or  the'prayers,  in  an  agony 
of  impatience  as  to  what  the  news  might  be ;  ages  seemed  to  elapse  before 
the  brazen  gates  were  flung  back,  and  it  was  time  for  my  wonderment  to 
cease. 

"  I  have  heard  your  voice  sometimes  in  the  chants,"  he  said,  "  and  if 
your  father  likes,  you  may  be  a  singing-boy ." 

I  rushed  home  in  a  flush  of  joyous  impetuosity,  to  tell  my  father  for  the 
first  time  of  my  passionate  love  for  the  cathedral,  and  to  ask  his  leave  to 
be  a  chorister. 

"  Minister  of  Satan,  rather,"  he  thundered  out  at  my  last  word.  "  Go 
and  say,  that,  thank  God,  I  am  able  to  support  my  children  without  their 
entering  into  the  service  of  the  state-establishment." 

No  weepings,  no  entreaties  could  prevail  upon  him  to  relent;  this,  and 
no  other,  was  the  message  I  must  bear.  The  same  afternoon,  with  a 
heavy  heart  and  saddened  look,  I  skulked  into  the  mysterious  twilight  of 
the  nave,  and  before  long  the  old  canon  passed  me.  I  told  my  tale  as  he 
walked  hurriedly  on ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  in  haste,  for  all  that  he  had 
time  to  say  when  he  reached  the  sacristy  door  was,  "  Well,  well ;  God 
bless  you."  I  was  disappointed  again,  but  I  lingered  for  some  moments 
near  the  organ-screen,  to  see  if  my  angel's  angel  was  watching  still,  and 
then  hid  myself  in  the  gloom  of  the  aisle,  for  I  saw  that  there  were  many 
people  coming  up  the  nave.  They  went  into  a  side-chapel,  and  soon  I 
stole  there  too.  I  saw  the  old  canon  in  his  robes,  but  I  did  not  so  much 
notice  him,  nor  yet  the  circlet  of  tapers  which  hung  like  a  coronal  over 
his  head,  nor  yet  the  group  of  ladies,  nor  yet  the  few  choristers  who  knelt 
round  the  font ;  for  she  whom  I  worshipped  was  standing  there,  and  on 
her  breast  was  the  loveliest  baby  that  the  sun  has  ever  shone  upon.  It 
was  her  babe,  I  knew,  for  it  was  like  her  in  being  so  wonderfully  fair, 
and  besides,  when  she  smiled  upon  it  she  looked  as  only  a  mother  knows 
how  to  look,  half  weeping  with  holy  ecstasy.  It  was  right,  I  thought, 
that  in  thus  coming  to  me,  as  it  were,  from  the  tomb,  she  should  bring 
with  her  a  lily  of  Paradise.  And  the  baptism  went  on,  and  the  babe  lay 
in  the  old  man's  arms ;  and  the  name  was  whispered  out,  "  Celeste;99  and 
the  mother  blushed  as  it  was  uttered,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  heaven.  I 
crept  away  noiselessly,  and  all  my  sorrows  were  forgotten. 

I  was  too  much  ashamed  of  the  message  I  had  borne  to  venture  near 
the  cathedral  again ;  all  that  I  could  do  was  to  make  a  cathedral  for 
myself  in  the  woods,  rehearsing  the  service  as  well  as  I  could  remember 
it.  But  after  all,  my  father's  refusal  of  the  choristership  has  been  the 
most  fortunate  circumstance  that  has  ever  happened  to  me ;  I  might  have 


110  The  Cathedral  Angels. 

been  a  singing-man  there  still,  if  I  had  accepted  it.  As  it  was,  my  father 
removed  in  a  few  months  to  another  town,  where  he  heard  of  an  opening 
for  his  practice,  and  by  a  strange  coincidence,  within  a  week  of  our 
arriving  there  a  vacancy  arose  on  the  foundation  of  the  grammar-school, 
which  I  was  able  to  fill  up.  I  rose  rapidly  in  the  school,  working  with 
all  my  might,  and  my  father's  practice  also  improving,  he  was  able  to 
keep  me  there.  When  I  was  fifteen  I  was  invited  to  spend  my  summer 
holidays  in  our  old  city.  I  went  gladly,  and  as  the  memory  of  what  had 
happened  years  ago  was  by  no  means  effaced,  I  paid  an  early  visit  to  the 
cathedral.  There  was  neither  the  old  canon,  nor  the  choristers  I  had 
known,  nor  the  incarnate  angel  whom  I  still  adored  ;  there  was  only  her 
guardian  on  the  corbel-stone,  but  whether  it  watched,  or  whether  it  had 
ceased  its  watching,  I  knew  not.  I  paced  the  lawn  for  a  long  time  when 
the  service  concluded,  thinking  of  her  words  there,  and  at  last  tried  to  fix. 
upon  the  very  spot  where  she  had  last  smiled  upon  me  in  that  golden 
autumn  sunset.  I  came  to  where  I  thought  it  was  without  much  difficulty, 
for  I  remembered  the  spire  between  the  towers,  and  then  I  saw  a  grave- 
stone, some  three  years  old  perhaps.  I  knew  ail  about  it  before  I  read 
the  inscription ;  it  was  the  grave  of  the  old  canon,  and  of  "  Emily  Celeste, 
his  niece,  who  died  in  giving  birth  to  her  second  child,  a  son,  who  sur- 
vives her."  The  sky  was  too  beautiful  for  me  to  indulge  in  sadness.  I 
was  very  happy  in  that  bright  summer  weather,  even  though  I  was 
standing  at  her  tomb — I  had  only  this  one  thought,  that  an  angel  had 
gone  back  to  God. 

Years  rolled  on,  not  robbing  me  wholly  of  my  memories,  and  yet  cloth- 
ing them  in  some  of  the  mist  which  wraps  every  golden  age,  until  at 
length  I  gained  a  scholarship,  and  was  able  to  proceed  to  college.  I 
passed  through  the  course  with  credit,  and  at  its  termination  sought  for 
a  tutorship,  until  I  was  ready  for  holy  orders.  An  advertisement  in  the 
Times  seemed  exactly  to  suit  me.  A  retired  admiral,  on  the  south 
coast,  offered  a  liberal  salary  and  a  comfortable  residence.  I  found,  by 
letter,  that  the  chief  pupil  was  to  be  his  son,  a  boy  of  fourteen,  whose 
lessons  would  sometimes  be  shared  by  a  young  lady,  about  two  years  older; 
and  I  was  delighted  when  my  testimonials  procured  for  me  tne  engage- 
ment. My  boy-pupil  came  with  his  father  to  take  me  from  the  railway 
station  to  Ravensthorpe,  where  he  lived  ;  but  I  arrived  too  late  to  see 
any  one  else  that  night.  The  next  morning,  at  breakfast — a  morning 
which  I  can  never  forget — I  first  met  Miss  Wilton.  If  I  were  to  say 
that  she  was  fair  or  beautiful,  I  should  not  tell  half  the  truth  ;  she  was 
far  more,  she  was  angelic.  In  her  pure  white  morning-dress,  in  that 
sweet  June  sunlight,  she  filled  me  with  ecstasy  unutterable ;  if  she  had 
been  only  a  tithe  so  lovely  in  face,  in  language,  in  expression,  I  could 
have  loved  her  with  my  whole  soul ;  but  as  it  was,  I  could  merely  look  up 
to  her  as  Dante  did  to  Beatrice  in  heaven,  feeling  that  she  was  heavenly 
and  I  was  earthly,  and  not  daring  to  trespass  on  holy  ground.  Nor  did 
the  adoration  of  that  first  morning  diminish  when  I  knew  her  more  ;  she 
was  a  mystic,  I  found,  as  I  had  been,  and  the  phantoms  of  my  own  youth 
seemed  perpetually  to  spring  to  birth  again  in  her.  I  remember  well  her 
surprise  when  she  found  that  I  liked  her  fancies,  and  that  I  could  follow 
out  their  meaning. 

"  What  are  the  waves  doing,  Mr.  Ellaby  ?"  she  said  to  me  one  day, 
not  long  after  my  arrival,  as  we  walked  along  the  shore. 


The  Cathedral  Angels.  Ill 

u  Trying  to  say  their  prayers,"  I  answered,  smilingly. 

Ob !  how  she  looked  on  me  then,  as  she  told  me  of  her  delight  in  having 
met  with  one  who  could  share  her  own  beloved  mysticisms.  "  It  is  just 
what  I  thought  of  them  myself/'  she  said.  "  There  is  some  one  at  last 
to  understand  me." 

From  that  day  forth  we  did  but  little  study  together,  for  we  could  talk 
nothing  but  wild  fancies  of  the  earth  and  sky,  and  waves  and  flowers. 
Her  name  struck  me  sometimes,  "  Celeste :"  I  had  heard  it,  I  thought, 
before,  but  I  had  forgotten  exactly  when ;  I  only  began  to  have  a  glim- 
mering of  the  truth  when  I  found  that  the  present  Mrs.  Wilton  was  the 
admiral's  second  wife.  I  learned  the  reality  by  degrees:  Celeste's  mother 
had  had  the  same  name,  she  had  died  when  my  boy-pupil  was  born, 
she  had  been  made  weak  by  the  cold  damp  of  a  cathedral.  The  visions 
of  my  youth  came  crowding  on  me  then  with  all  their  magnificent 
pageantry  of  choral-services,  and  autumn  sunsets,  and  cathedral  angels. 
But  this  was  just  as  the  period  of  my  tutorship  expired.  I  went  along 
the  shore  for  the  last  time  with  Miss  Wilton,  and  would  have  told  her  all 
my  conjectures,  if  I  could  have  summed  up  courage  enough.  We  were 
very  near  the  house  when  I  asked  her, 

"  What  is  the  last  thing — the  greatest  thing — that  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Love  me !"  she  replied,  to  my  utter  bewilderment,  and  then  parted 
from  me. 

I  only  saw  her  once  again  before  leaving  Ravensthorpe,  but  in  spite  of 
her  command  I  could  do  little  else  than  adore  her. 

I  heard  no  more  of  her  for  some  years ;  the  memory  of  her  and  her 
mother  was  a  beautiful  picture  in  the  distant  past — I  knew  not  whether  it 
might  not  be  as  beautiful  in  the  future.  I  still  loved  the  old  cathedral 
city,  and  even  after  my  ordination  I  still  went  to  it  occasionally.  I  had 
not  been  there  for  a  long  time,  however,  when  on  one  glorious  autumn 
day,  as  much  for  the  associations  as  the  beauty  of  the  place,  I  attended 
afternoon  service.  I  looked  up  for  a  moment  from  the  stall  where  I  was 
sitting,  and  behold !  right  in  front  of  me,  where  I  had  first  seen  her 
mother,  w$s  Celeste  Wilton,  in  deep  mourning — with  more  heavenliness 
than  ever  in  her  face,  and  with  her  mother's  angel,  lit  up  by  the  red  sun- 
light on  its  countenance,  still  watching  from  the  corbel-stone.  I  was 
half-frenzied  in  my  ecstasy  of  joy.  We  met  when  the  service  ended,  and 
as  we  passed  through  the  porch,  she  said, 

"  This  is  my  mother's  birthday — in  heaven  ;   here  is  where  she  lies." 

I  could  not  help  bursting  out,  "  And  here  is  where  I  last  spoke  to  her, 
twenty  long  years  ago." 

Her  mother's  smile  was  on  her  face  as  the  sunlight  glowed  over  it,  and 
I  told  her  all  I  knew.  The  duskiness  of  evening  came  on  before  I  finished, 
and  I  then  pressed  her  hand  to  leave  her,  uttering  a  hope  that  I  should 
soon  see  her  again.     She  looked  bitterly  sad  as  she  said, 

"  I  am  an  orphan  now — papa  has  gone  too — and  will  you  leave  me  ? 
Come  with  me,  and  you  shall  be  with  me,  and  I  will  be  with  you,  always." 

That  moment  was  the  bridal  of  our  souls,  and  an  angel  looked  down 
from  heaven  to  seal  it. 

#  *  #  #  #  # 

Thou  art  gone  away,  Celeste,  but  thou  art  with  me  still.    Would  that 
I  were  with  thee ! 
May — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxv.  i 


(     112     ) 


PLEASURE  IN  BUSINESS. 

BY  E.  T.  SOWSELL. 

Wjb  often  look  back  to  a  certain  morning  in  oar  early  boyhood,  when 
we  were  taken  by  a  friend  of  the  family  to  the  counting-house  of  a  arm 
in  the  City,  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  particulars  touching  oar  quttlifi- 
cations  for  appointment  of  junior  clerk  in  the  office  of  sock  firm.  We 
were  fresh  from  school,  nervous  and  timid  to  a  degree,  and  it  was  with 
emotions  of  absolute  awe  we  presented  ourselves  before,  or  rather  were 
dragged  into  the  presence  o£  the  leading  partner.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
with  an  austere  countenance,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
gazing  coldly  upon  us ;  we  felt  very  much,  probably,  as  a  slave  may  feel 
when  first  made  the  subject  of  barter.  A  string  of  questions  did  this 
stony  man  of  business  put  to  us,  and  pleasant  it  was  to  hear  the  dispa- 
raging remarks  which  now  and  then  our  replies  caused  to  be  addressed 
to  our  introducer:  our  good  qualities  and  our  bad  ones  were  openly 
commented  upon  as  though  we  had  been  a  horse  exhibited  byja  horse- 
dealer,  and  the  possibility  of  the  shrinking  lad  before  him  having  any 
feelings  which  might  suffer  hurt,  never,  probably,  occurred  for  a  moment 
to  our  kind-hearted  examiner.  We  say  we  often  look  back  upon  this 
morning.  That  interview  left  an  impression  upon  our  boyish  brain 
which  will  never  be  effaced,  that  if  you  want  to  thrust  a  youth  down  into 
the  very  depths  of  humiliation  and  abasement, — if  you  seek  to  dear  out 
from  him  every  morsel  of  self-respect, — if  you  wish  to  pave  the  way  for  his 
becoming  a  miserable  machine,  without  a  single  spark  of  aught  that  is 
truly  worthy  or  noble  within  him,  you  will  try  and  get  him  a  junior 
clerkship  in  the  office  of  Richards  and  Roberts,  or  some  such  firm,  com- 
posed of  some  such  men. 

Now  why  should  it  be  so  much  the  custom  for  people  in  authority,  or 
in  any  way  having  others  under  them,  to  treat  their  inferiors  in  this  dog- 
like fashion  ?  Why  was  Richards  such  a  brute  as  we  have  ffeseribed  I 
We  dare  say,  for  all  that  he  lives  in  our  memory  as  a  vile  tyrant,  that  he 
was  not  generally  a  bad-hearted  man.  The  style  which  he  adopted 
towards  the  youthful  applicant  was  only  that  which  three-fourths  of  City 
merchants  would  have  adopted ;  and  the  manner  in  which,  doubtless,  if 
we  could  have  heard  him,  we  should  have  found  he  subsequently  rated 
poor  Mr.  Jones,  his  clerk,  for  some  slight  negligence,  was  only  the  man- 
ner in  which  Mr.  Jones  would  have  been  rated  by  almost  any  other  Cky 
merchant  for  a  like  offence  ?  The  explanation  lies  in  this.  Mr.  Richards 
loves  to  speak  as  he  has  been  spoken  to.  In  years  long  gone  by,  when 
Richards  had  just  come  from  the  North,  with  sixpence  in  his  pocket  and 
the  clothes  on  his  back  as  the  whole  of  his  earthly  possessions,  and  with 
but  one  friend  in  the  world  from  whom  he  could  expect  the  slightest 
favour — the  friend  who  had  brought  him  to  London — he,  Richards,  ob- 
tained a  junior  clerkship  in  a  colonial  broker's  office.  While  filling  this 
exalted  appointment,  he  suffered  ills  which  would  have  caused  a  negro's 
soul  to  fire  with  indignation.  But  Richards  bore  them  with  the  fortitude, 
not  of  a  martyr,  but  of  a  miser.  He  was  horribly  fascinated  with  the 
wealth  and  importance  which  he  found  "  sticking  to  business"  would 


Pleasure  in  Business.  -113 

infallibly  bring.  His  fellow-clerks  nerved  themselves  for  renewal  of 
labour  ij  evening  recreation  :  their  bard-earned  money  was  soon  spent. 
Their  duties  they  abbreviated  as  much  as  they  dared,  their  periods  of 
relaxation  they  stretched  to  the  utmost.  Otherwise  did  young  Richards. 
He  prostrated  himself  before  the  figure  of  a  great  merchant  sitting  at  ease 
in  a  well-carpeted  private  room,  with  his  banker's  book  before  him  and  a 
shaking  clerk  waiting  his  commands.  What  were  the  pains  of  labour 
if  they  led  to  attainment  of  this  glorious  position  ?  Bichards  would  be 
the  head  of  a  firm  himself ;  and  he  worked,  and  strove,  and  saved,  until 
he  did  become  the  head  of  a  firm,  and  was  enabled  to,  and  did,  bully  and 
abuse  those  members  of  the  wretched  race  called  clerks,  who  had  the 
misfortune  to  enter  his  service.  Oh,  it  is  a  brilliant  consolation  for  the 
injury  I  have  received  from  Smith  to  straightway  inflict  the  like  injury 
upon  Brown !  If  Jones  should  knock  me  down,  surely  I  have  a  right  to 
knock  down  Robinson.  Say,  reader,  whether,  with  all  our  prating  about 
morality,  this  be  not  the  principle  acted  upon  by  the  mass  of  mankind  ? 
Richards  was  bullied  when  he  was  a  junior  clerk :  ergo,  Richards,  now  a 
master,  bullies  his  junior  clerk.  It  will  be  so  as  long  as  this  world 
endureth. 

But  it  is  not  right,  nevertheless.  There  is  no  earthly  reason  why  the 
duties  of  a  clerk,  whether  senior  or  junior,  or  a  man-servant  or  maid- 
servant, or  an  artisan  or  mechanic,  or  common  labourer,  or  messenger 
or  footboy,  should  not  be  lightened  by  about  one-half  of  the  burden 
which  now  they  represent.  Making  things  pleasant  is  not  a  crime  with 
reference  to  our  requirements  from  those  under  us.  Our  balance  with 
them  may  be  struck  just  as  faithfully,  and  payment  made  quite  as  fully 
and  punctually,  if  the  matter  be  entered  upon  in  a  friendly  and  kind- 
hearted,  as  in  a  frowning  and  surly  fashion.  Wriggles  owes  me  so  much 
respect  and  so  much  service,  which  he  is  willing  to  pay.  Why  then 
should  I  be  always  mentally  kicking  Wriggles,  as  though  he  were  con- 
'  staatry  dishonouring  my  drafts  ?  I  know  he  has  a  burden  to  bear.  I 
am  uplifted  over  Wriggles.  I  am  master — Wriggles  is  servant.  Is  it 
not  enough*?  Can  I  not  afford  to  smile  upon  Wriggles  ?  Or  is  it  a 
matter  of  necessity  that  I  should  ever  be  frowning  upon  and  growling  at 
him,  and  worrying  and  insulting  him,  merely  because  he  is  some  steps 
below  me  on  the  great  ladder  ? 

Now,  there  is  my  dear  friend  Hargreaves,  a  shrewd,  clever  man ;  a 
good  man  to  advise  with,  a  valuable  friend  to  possess,  and  an  agreeable 
companion  at  any  time,  save  in  his  office.  In  his  office  he  is  a  monster, 
an  ogre,  a  horrid  tyrant.  And  why?  Because  of  that  same  deep- 
rooted  notion  to  which  we  have  just  referred,  namely,  that  in  business 
everything  ought  to  be  unpleasant  and  bearish.  Why  is  it  that  in 
busiaess  a  man  must  be  a  brute  ?  Why  should  the  face  which  but  now, 
when  outside  the  counting-house,  was  full  of  smiles,  when  it  has  entered, 
and  the  body  of  which  it  is  a  part  is  seated  in  the  worn  leathern  chair, 
suddenly  lengthen,  the  eyes  grow  cold  and  severe,  the  lips  be  com- 
pressed, and  the  whole  man  assume  a  rigid,  stony  look,  quite  painful  to 
regard  ?  Why  should  the  voice  become  stern,  and  the  words  which  issue 
be  marvellously  sharp,  if  not  disagreeable  ?  Only  because  my  friend 
considers  all  wk  a  part  of  business.  A  smile  in  his  counting-house 
would  seem  to  him  like  the  entrance  of  a  plague,  or  an  ugly  blow  at  his 

i  2 


114  Pleasure  in  Business. 

solvency.  If  I  should  ever  catch  him  laughing  in  that  dreadful  sanctum 
of  his,  in  the  which  no  mortal  ever  breathed  five  minutes  without  a 
feeling  of  sadness  irresistibly  creeping  into  and  deadening  him,  I  should 
close  my  business  transactions  with  him  at  once,  for  I  should  be  sure 
that  he  was  a  ruined  man,  and  the  laugh  was  that  of  maniacal  despair. 

Now  I  want  to  know  (and  I  put  the  question  with  all  respect)  why 
the  Rev.  Samuel  Starling,  the  minister  of  the  church  which  I  and  my 
family  attend  every  Sunday,  thinks  it  necessary,  when  reading  the 
prayers,  to  change  his  ordinary  tone  of  voice  to  an  extent  quite  startling? 
Slowly,  sadly,  heavily,  the  remarkable  sounds  fall  upon  my  tympanum. 
I  doubt  exceedingly  whether,  try  as  he  might,  he  could  read  other 
matter  thus.  Out  of  church  he  is  a  merry,  kind-hearted,  fun-loving 
person.  In  the  church  he  does  indeed  look  a  most  miserable  sinner; 
he  is  the  very  personification  of  melancholy.  But  then  the  Rev.  Samuel 
clearly  agrees  with  my  friend  Hargreaves.  Directly  the  man  of  business 
enters  his  counting-house,  every  morsel  of  warmth  and  geniality  must 
go  out  of  him ;  immediately  the  clergyman  appears  in  the  church,  re- 
tention of  the  slightest  portion  of  manner  or  aspect  out  of  the  church 
would  be  absolutely  criminal :  therefore  becometh  he  suitably  wretched 
and  appropriately  desponding  and  gloomy. 

And  wherefore  doth  my  doctor  so  change  from  gay  to  grave  when, 
having  ceased  to  chat  with  me  on  some  common  topic,  he  bends  his  ear 
to  my  tale  of  a  sick-headache  and  weary  limbs  ?  Why  does  his  face 
lengthen  and  his  aspect  become  lugubrious  ?  Wherefore  need  of  that 
solemn,  portentous  look,  that  lacklustre  eye,  and  that  painfully  profound 
attention  ?  He  is  now  upon  business — not  at  all  important  business,  he 
well  knows  that ;  for  I  am  obliged  to  confess  to  a  lobster-salad  and  rum- 
punch  last  night,  and  his  professional  knowledge  is  not  severely  taxed  as 
to  either  the  cause  of  or  remedy  for  the  evil,  but  simply  because  his 
avocation  has  now  been  called  into  play  my  doctor  feels  bound  to  be- 
come very  rigid  indeed,  to  show  not  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  and  to  throw ' 
into  his  countenance  an  expression  of  absorbing  care  and  anxiety. 

Wherefore,  O  Public,  should  business  thus  be  made  disagreeable  ? 
Why  should  not  the  round  face  be  still  round,  the  bright  eye  still 
bright,  and  the  gentle  voice  still  gentle,  when  the  mind  is  on  the  duty 
and  the  hand  on  the  work,  as  when  both  are  freed  from  labour  and  are 
taking  their  ease  ?  Why  should  we  ever  hear  of  a  business  look,  or  a 
pious  look,  or  a  steady  look  ? — why  of  anything  but  a  natural  look, 
pleasant,  it  might  be  otherwise,  but  not  necessarily  associated  with 
habits,  tendencies,  or  capabilities  ?  Wherefore  must  the  merchant  frown 
in  his  counting-house,  the  divine  drawl  in  the  reading-desk,  and  the 
doctor  bemoan  in  his  surgery  ?  Why  should  business  always  bring  a 
cloud  carefully  to  shut  out  even  the  small  modicum  of  sunshine  strug- 
gling to  illumine  our  mortal  career  ? 

This  system  it  is  which  makes  men  hypocrites.  A  black  coat,  a  white 
neckerchief,  and  carefully  combed  and  flattened  hair,  do,  indeed,  cover  a 
multitude  of  sins.  A  gay  garment,  a  blue  tie,  and  curls,  savour  strongly 
of  evil-doing !  Who  hath  not  relieved  the  "  respectable"  beggar,  his 
heart  bleeding  at  the  circumstance  that  anybody  encased  in  black  cloth, 
be  it  ever  so  seedy,  should  stand  in  need  of  sustenance  at  the  hand  of 
the  charitable?     The  same  principle  is  involved.     The  beggar  should 


Pleasure  in  Business.  115 

beg  according  to  preconceived  notions  we  have  formed.  He  should  beg, 
not  as  a  man  who  is  hungry,  but  sedately  and  appropriately,  as  a  man 
who  knows  his  business.  What  if  he  should  bear  a  smiling  aspect,  withal 
that  his  stomach  is  empty, — have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  He  is  un- 
mindful of  his  avocation,  which  is  begging,  and  requireth  its  own 
peculiar  and  unutterably  woe-begone  demeanour. 

Thus,  O  my  son,  ponder  the  great  lesson :  have  your  business  face, 
your  business  voice,  and  your  business  manner.  Remember  that  in  busi- 
ness you  must  be  a  brute,  a  hypocrite,  a  tyrant ;  you  must  be  anything 
other  than  your  real  self  in  your  calling.  This  is  a  profound  truth  :  regard 
and  act  in  accordance  with  it,  and  you  will  prosper.  Richards,  whom  I 
have  described,  bent  unto  it,  and  is  wealthy.  Jones  (you  remember  that 
poor  silly  fellow)  would  never  learn  wisdom,  and  though  not  a  sluggard, 
is  now  resting  his  grey  hairs  on  a  pauper's  pillow. 

Wordsworth  has  composed  a  sonnet  on  the  appearance  of  the  great  city 
from  Westminster-bridge  at  dawn  of  day,  and  declares  that  "  earth  hath 
not  anything  to  show  more  fair."  We  confess,  if  we  should  be  minded  some 
morning  to  rise  so  particularly  early,  and  betake  ourselves  to  the  same  spot, 
and  there  contemplate  the  "  mighty  heart,"  our  emotions  would  be  tinged 
with  little  of  respect,  and  certainly  no  love.  We  should  not  write  a 
sonnet.  In  the  first  place,  we  could  not,  and  a  more  cogent  reason  need 
not  be  assigned.  However,  we  should  not  be  even  poetically  inclined. 
"Foul,  grim  monster !"  we  should  rather  be  disposed  to  break  fortb, 
"  what  a  mass  of  iniquity,  baseness,  meanness,  trickery,  lies  for  the  mo- 
ment dormant  within  thee.  And  how  soon  will  it  wake  again,  and  rear  its 
head  in  full  strength  and  activity,  to  work  on  unceasingly  through  another 
day !"  Another  day  !  Time  passes  so  quickly,  we  think  nothing  of  a 
day.  The  great  city  lives,  and  the  huge  world  rolls  on.  The  little 
stream  of  virtue  and  vast  roaring  river  of  vice  both  pursue  their  course, 
and  will  finally  lose  themselves  in  the  same  unbounded  ocean.  You  and 
I,  reader,  are  both  being  wafted  thither.  May  our  voyage  be  pleasant, 
and  may  we  both  ultimately  anchor  in  the  sure  haven ! 

Well,  the  point  is,  if  a  great  city  must  have  within  it  much  sin  and 
sorrow,  much  trouble  and  trial,  anxiety,  disappointment,  and  vexation, 
at  least  to  lighten  the  incubus  to  the  best  of  our  ability.  Therefore, 
Richards,  would  I  entreat  you  (assuming  you  to  be  still  ungathered  to 
your  fathers,  and  still  to  be  following  your  crooked,  grumbling,  disagree- 
able course  as  of  yore)  to  relax  that  stern  brow,  to  soften  that  savage  eye, 
and  mollify  that  gruff  tone,  which  rendered  you  in  business  a  nuisance  to 
all  your  inferiors.  No  need  to  render  a  business  life  more  unpleasant 
than  can  be  avoided.  It  is  bad  enough  at  the  best — grinding,  soul- 
narrowing,  heart-contracting  ;  but  render  it  not  an  absolute  curse,  O  ye 
mighty  money-makers  of  London  city !  Let  a  morsel  of  sunshine,  in 
shape  of  a  smile,  a  kindly  greeting,  a  friendly  act  (not  as  a  matter  of 
policy  to  superiors  or  equals,  but  to  inferiors  and  subordinates),  find  its 
way  into  narrow  dirty  rooms  in  narrow  dirty  courts,  [so  that  the  burden 
of  those  beneath  us  may  be  diminished,  and  the  way  of  life  be  rendered 
smoother  to  their  wearied  feet.  Ah,  Richards,  there  will  come  a  day  when 
you  will  be  glad  to  cast  up  more  carefully  than  ever  you-  cast  up  your 
banker's  pass-book,  all  the  items  to  your  credit  in  the  account  of  "  Duty 
to  my  neighbour." 


(    116    ) 


SCISSORS-AtfD-PAOTE-WOBX 

by  sir  nathaniel. 

Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southet.* 

Southet  at  his  best  was  a  delightful  letter  writer,  and  of  his  best 
letters  we  can  hardly  have  too  many.  But  of  his  second  best  we  may  hare, 
and  perhaps  already  have  had,  quite  enough;  and  of  his  fifth  and 
fifteenth  rate  ones,  it  is  possible  to  have  more  than  that, — witness  not  a 
few  in  the  present  collection.  The  editor  of  it  is  far  from  employing  the 
quantum  of  discrimination  indispensable  to  success.  His  preface,  besides 
being  prosy,  is  a  thought  fussy  and  fractious  ;  and  his  foot-notes,  thoogh 
rare,  are  more  than  once  gratuitous  and  pretentious-! 

The  poet  is  seen  in  no  new  light  in  these  volumes.  But  they  confirm 
our  interest  in  him,  and  regard  for  him,  in  every  particular  phase  of  life 
and  character  by  which  he  is  already  known  to  us.  They  serve  to 
enlarge  our  acquaintance  with  him  as  a  conscientious,  hard-working, 
sound-hearted  man  of  letters.  They  corroborate  our  conception  of  him 
as  a  model  paterfamilias,  in  no  frivolous,  but  a  most  worthy  and  admirable 
sense.  We  have  further  evidence  of  his  capacity  for  toil,  and  liking  for 
it;  his  somewhat  haughty  self-respect,  and  contemptuous  estimate  of 
adverse  critics  ;J  his  feats  in  the  way  of  walking,  and  in  the  consump- 

*  Selections  from  the  Letters  of  Robert  Southey,  &c,  &c,  Ac.  Edited  toy  Ml 
Soanin-law  John  Wood  Warter,  B.D.    Vols.  L,  II.    Longman  and  Co.    185$. 

f  Why,  for  example,  should  Mr.  Warter  impress  upon  us,  who  are  no  way 
likely  to  retain  a  grateful  impression  of  it,  that  he  himself  is  a  scholar  "long 
ago  not  unread  in  German  literature  of  all  sorts,  especially  theological:;  and,*  fie 
adds — why  should  he  add? — "  from  my  long  residence  in  Copenhagen,  a*  cfcoplaia 
to  the  embassy,  not  unversed  in  Danish  and  Swedish  lore,  and  in  the  exfuisMy 
curious  Icelandic  Sagas."  His  mild  negatives,  "not  unread"  in  this,  and  "not 
unversed*'  in  that,  make  up  an  "exquisitely  curious"  positive,  which  is  a  positive 
curiosity  in  its  way. 

Why,  again,  should  Mr.  Wood  Warter  write  queer  French  himself  while  » tie 
act  of  benignly  excusing  the  comical  French  of  his  father-in-law?  Certain;  letters 
in  this  collection  are  printed,  he  says,  "  to  show  the  playfulness  of  Southey'*  dis- 
position. The  French  is  like  the  French  he  used  to  talk  on  his  travels.  He  talked 
it  boldly,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  la  merveHIe.  I  have  not  altered  one  gram- 
matical error, — the  specimen  is  complete."  Mr.  Waiter's  own  specimen,  to*,  a 
a  la  merveilie,  quite. 

Averse  as  he  declares  himself  from  overloading  a  book  with  notes,  the  editor, 
on  the  mere  mention  of  the  Codex  Argenteus,  "  cannot  omit  to  state  the  delight 
with  which  he  examined  it  on  the  spot,  nor  fail  to  remember  the  courtesy  wffch 
which  it  was  showed  to  him,  many  years  ago." 

To  quote  trifles  of  this  kind  in  a  captious  tone  may  seem  like  catching  at  steam 
Such  straws,  however,  show  which  way  the  wind  blows;  and  the  editorial  part  of 
these  volumes  is  windy  to  a  degree. 

X  Especially  Jeffrey.  E.g.  "  Have  you  seen  Jeffrey's  criticism  upon  'Kenans' 
[1811]?  It  is  quite  as  original  as  the  poem,  and,  above  all,  matchless  for  uuper- 
tmence."    (VoLiLp.  221.) 

Miss  Seward  is  pitied  for  having  left  her  letters  "  to  a  Scotch  bookseller,  who  is 
man-midwife  to  Jeffrey,  bringing  into  light  all  that  that  fellow  spawn*  in  the 
'Edinburgh  Eeview'"  (ibid.  226),  &c. 


Sehet  Letters  of  Robert  Southey.  117 

turn  of  goasel>eny-pie.  The  change  that  came  over  the  spirit  (or  was 
it,  [after  ail,  not  so  much  the  spirit  as  the  letter  ?)  of  his  politics,  is  definitely 
seen.  In  a  letter  to  Mas  Barker,  dated  London,  1801,  he  refers  to  Mary 
Wobtonecraft  as  still  favourably  disposed  to  France,  and  adds:  "bat 
France  has  played  the  traitor  with  liberty.  Mary  Barker,  it  is  not  I  who 
have  turned  round.  I  stand  where  I  stood,  looking  at  the  rising  sua— 
and  now  the  sun  has  set  behind  me !"  Of  this,  Southey  appears  to  have 
been  quite  satisfied.  A  dozen  years  later,  alluding  to  some  remarks  on 
has  tergiversation,  he  writes  to  his  brother,  "  As  for  what  the  reviewer 
says  concerning  a  change  in  my  way  of  thinking,  he  does  not  perceive 
that  it  is  the  times  that  have  changed  most."  One  political  prejudice 
he  cherished  with  strange  tenacity, — his  utter  detestation,  apparently,  of 
the  person  and  policy  of  Pitt.  From  the  first  to  the  last  mention  of  the 
Minister  in  these  letters,9*  from  1796  to  a  period  subsequent  to  the  great 
Bum's  death,  Southey  has  nothing  for  him  but  bad  words,  bitter  bad. 
He  suspects  Pitt  in  1796  of  having  "  had  the  marble  and  the  stone  flung 
at  the  king's  coach,  in  order  so  to  atari*  the  people  that  they  might  sub- 
mit to  any  of  his  measures."  In  1805  he  denounces  "  the  Duke  of  York's 
appointment,  the  most  infamous  and  shameless  acquiescence  on  the  part 
of  Pitt,  for  the  sake  of  keeping  his  place.  Oh,  for  a  day  of  reckoning  I" 
In  1806  he  writes :  "  The  death  of  Pitt  is  a  great  event ;  the  best  thing 
he  ever  did  was  to  die  out  of  the  way ;"  and  later,  to  his  brother,  the 
captain,  R.N.,  "  It  will  grate  your  gall  to  think  that  Pitt  should  have 
the  same  parliamentary  honours  as  Nelson:"  and.  still  later,  to  Mr; 
Bedford,  "  I  am  grieved  at  his  [Fox's]  death, — sorry  that  he  did  not  die 
before  that  wretched  Pitt,  that  he  might  have  been  spared  the  disgrace 
of  pronouncing  a  panegyric  upon  such  a  eoxcombly,  insolent,  empty- 
headed,  long-winded  braggadocio."  Only  Coleridge  could  go  beyond 
this  in  execration  of  the  statesman,  and  he  did  it  in  inconveniently  me- 
morable verse. 

Whatever  wit  or  humour  Southey  possessed  (both  are  denied  him  out- 
right by  Mr.  Macaulay),  was  of  a  sui  generis  Doctor  Dove-ishf  sort.    la 

"  The  new  *  Quarterly,' "  he  writes  in  February,  1812,  "  has  two  articles  of  miae 
♦  .  •  the  latter  ought  to  have  some  bitter  remarks  upon  Jeffrey,  but  I  know  not 
whether  they  have  past  the  censor's  office."  (Ibid.  251.)  The  liberties  Mr.  Editor 
Ghlbrd  took  with  the  articles  of  Mr.  Contributor  Southey,  was  a  grievance  to  the 
latter,  of  almost  quarterly  renewal. 

*  Bonaparte,  however,  divides  honours  with  Pitt  Southey  is  for  ever  longing 
to  get  the  tyrant  done  for,  by  bullet  or  blade,  or  anyhow;  for  anyhow  it  would  be 
a  case  of  Killing  no  Murder. 

f  There  is  a  foretaste  of  the  Doctor,  a  preliminary  dose  from  the  Doctor's  shop, 
in  some  of  the  letters,  for  instance,  to  Miss  Barker,  where  Southey  suggests  an 
improvement  hi  discriminating  the  masculine  and  feminine  genders  in  English 
grammar.  "  I  believe  I  sent  you  some  specimens  before,  such  as  Ae-mises  and 
jfie-mises,  he  pistles  and  she  pistles,  penmanship  and  pentoomanship,  &c.  What 
think  you  now  of  agreeafeatf  and  agree&belk?  and  have  not  I  right  to  sign  myself 
your  agreeafteov  correspondent,  as  well  as  heartily  and  truly  yours,  ILS." 

Mere  than  once  he  plumes  himself  on  his  powers  of  punning,  and  sighs  for  a 
Boswell  to  catch  them  as  they  waste  their  freshness  on  the  unheeding  air.  Here 
is  one,  recorded  by  himself,  in  default  of  such  a  Bozzy.  "  Why  is  Sir  Cloudesly 
Shovel  like  Werter?  Because  he  was  a  felo-de-se  (a)."  This  he  thought  good 
enough  to  repeat  in  another  letter,  where  it  is  coupled  with  a  second  pun,  not 
decent  enough  to  be  repeated  with  advantage  here.    Many  of  Souther's  jokes, 


118  Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey. 

some  of  these  letters  he  revels  in  absolute  nonsense  of  the  flattest  quality. 
Good,  religious  man,  too,  as  he  was,  in  that  which  passeth  show,  there  is 
sometimes  a  show  of  irreverence  in  the  liberties  he  takes  with  Scripture, 
that  will  scandalise  the  scrupulous.  His  animal  spirits  were  generally 
buoyant,  and  occasionally  found  expression  in  sallies  of  die  oddest.  There 
are  frequent  references  in  the  letters  to  the  rise  or  fall,  or  average  elevation, 
of  his  "  boyish  good  spirits."  To  his  old  friend  Mr.  Lamb  (not  Charles)  he 
writes  from  Bath,  in  1798  :  " .  .  .At  twenty-four  I  am  married,  without 
a  want,  almost  without  a  wish  unsatisfied.  Time  and  experience  have  done 
me  much  good,  and  somewhat  tamed  me.  Imagine  me  taller  and  still 
thinner  than  in  1792,  and  with  even  spirits,  which  nothing  either  elevates 
or  depresses,  and  ypu  will  have  most  of  the  alterations  that  the  interval 
has  produced."  Nearly  ten  years  later  we  find  him  writing  to  Grosvenor 
C.  Bedford:  "Were  you  to  see  me  during  my  hybernations,  when 
nobody  sees  me,  I  think  it  would  almost  surprise  you  to  behold  my  un- 
interrupted high  temperature  of  even,  boyish,  good  spirits.  I  go  on 
steadily  with  the  one  object  in  viffw  of  making  the  best  use  of  my  talents, 
and  thereby  ripening  myself  for  a  better  world,  and  leaving  behind  me 
an  everlasting  memorial  in  this  :  and  though  the  '  ways  and  means'  of 
life  draw  me  aside,  and  force  me  to  unworthy  work,  still  even  that  has 
reference  to  the  same  object,  and  I  take  it  cheerfully."  Turning  over 
some  old  letters  in  1802,  he  lights  on  two  which  make  him  "more  than 
ordinarily  serious,"  relating  to  certain  schoolboy  and  university  expe- 
riences ten  and  eleven  years  previously — the  two,  namely,  which  he  re- 
ceived from  Lisbon  on  his  being  rejected  at  Christ  Church,  and  afterwards  on 
abandoning  Oxford :  "  Ten  years  have  materially  altered  me.  The  flavour 
of  the  liquor  is  the  same,  and  I  believe  it  is  still  sound;  but  it  has  ceased 
to  froth  and  to  sparkle."  With  a  mind  clouded  by  sorrow,  he  yet  writes 
to  Miss  Barker  in  1809 :  "That  I  am  a  very  happy  man  you  know. 
That  good  lady  who,  as  you  remember,  physiognomised  me  so  luckily 
for  '  a  man  of  sorrow,  and  acquainted  with  woe,'  did  not  happen  to  know 
that  my  acquaintance  with  woe  has  been  broken  off  long  since."  He 
owns  that  sorrow  and  he  certainly  did  keep  company  once,  and  affirms 
that  he  has  been  in  as  many  situations  of  real  suffering  as  fall  to  any 
man's  lot  between  the  years  of  seventeen  and  twenty-two.  But  since 
that  time,  he  adds,  no  man's  life  can  have  passed  more  smoothly. 
"  Sorrows  I  have  had,  but  only  such  as  came  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
nature,  and  which,  resulting  from  the  laws  of  nature,  bring  with  them 
their  own  cure,  in  a  sense  of  the  necessity,  as  well  as  duty,  of  resig- 
nation." 

Many  parallel  passages,  to  this  last,  occur  in  Mr.  Cuthbert  Southey's 
edition  of  his  father's  Life  and  Letters.  The  reader  will  remember  how 
often  Epictetus  is  commended  as  a  stay  for  stricken  minds,  if  not  a  balm 
for  hurt  ones — how  earnestly  Southey's  correspondents  are  recommended 
to  adopt  his  regimen  in  stoic  philosophy,  and  "  diet  on  Epictetus."  And, 
in  sooth  he  might  have  said  with  a  brother  poet,  not  however  of  "  Epic- 
tetus his  school"  at  all  at  all,  but  rather  of  Epicurus's  (say  as  Epicurus 
was,  not  as  he  is  vulgarly  supposed  to  have  been) : 

indeed,  are  coarser  than  might  be  desired;  insomuch  that  we  can  bear  very  well 
with  the  affliction  of  his  finding  no  Boswell  to  record  them  in  full,  and  readily 
forgive  him  for  neglecting  to  be  his  own  Boswell  in  this  respect. 


Select  Letters  of  Robert  Soutkey.  119 

Sorrows  I've  had,  severe  ones, 

I  may  not  think  on  now;* 
And  calmly  midst  my  dear  ones 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow. 

In  some  of  the  earlier  letters  there  are  intimations  of  a  tendency  to  de- 
jection, at  variance  with  the  tone  of  the  passages  we  have  been  quoting. 
Thus  in  1799,  to  John  May :  "  I  fall  into  gloomy  day-dreams,  and  dread 
the  future  while  I  wish  the  present  were  past."  In  1800,  to  Mr.  Wynn : 
"  There  is  danger  that  hypochondriacal  feeliDgs  may  take  root  in  me, 
and  the  sooner  I  adopt  some  efficacious  remedy  the  better."  To  the 
same  trusty  and  valued  friend  he  writes,  again,  in  1803:  "In  other 
respects  [the  .exception  being  a  complaint  in  the  eyes]  I  am  well,  and 
should  be  sufficiently  happy  were  it  not  for  the  stinging  recollection  how 
much  happier  I  have  been.  In  company,  I  am  not  less  alive  and  cheer- 
ful than  ever,  but  when  alone,  I  feel  myself  sadly  different  from  what  I 
was."  He  found  it  necessary  to  repress  feeling,  to  put  a  damper  on 
sensibility,  to  thwart  and  curb  and  counteract  the  "  spontaneous  gene- 
ration" in  his,  a  poet's,  breast,  of  emotional  reverie  and  all  the  pangs  as 
well  as  luxury  of  woe.  He  had  the  case  of  Coleridge  in  prcesenti  before 
him,  and  it  was  full  of  warning,  and  by  that  warning  he  profited  like  the 
good,  brave,  dutiful,  conscientious  man  he  memorably  was.  In  1803  he 
lost  his  first-born,  Margaret  Edith ;  and  he  writes  on  that  occasion  to 
one  of  his  brothers  :  "  I  was  never  so  overset  before — never  saw  so  little 
hope  before  me.  Yet,  Tom,  I  am  like  the  Boiling  Well, — however  agitated 
at  bottom,  the  surface  is  calm."  He  uses  the  same  illustration  in  a  letter 
to  Miss  Barker,  the  year  following :  "  Coleridge  is  gone  for  Malta,  and 
his  departure  affects  me  more  than  I  let  be  seen.  Let  what  will  trouble 
me,  I  bear  a  calm  face ;  and  if  the  Boiling  Well  could  be  drawn  (which, 
however  it  heaves  and  is  agitated  below,  presents  a  smooth  undisturbed 
surface),  that  should  be  my  emblem."  To  the  same  endeared  Senhora 
he  writes  in  1806,  just  after  parting  with  his  two  brothers — the  three 
having  then  been  together  for  the  first  time  since  they  were  children, 
and  Robert  apprehends,  as  by  no  means  improbable,  for  the  last, — "  My 
head  feels  as  if  it  would  be  easier  if  I  were  to  let  a  little  water  out ;  but 
tears,  Senhora,  are  a  bad  collyrium  for  weak  eyes,  and  I  shall  go  to 
work.  Idleness  is  the  mother  of  sins,  they  say ;  and  it  may  be  said  that 
she  is  the  wet-nurse  of  melancholy.  My  motto  you  know  is,  '  In  La- 
bore  Quies.9 "  To  his  brother,  the  Sea  Captain,  he  writes,  the  same 
year  :  "  Twelve  years  ago  I  carried  Epictetus  in  my  pocket,  till  my  very 
heart  was  ingrained  with  it,  as  a  pig's  bones  become  red  by  feeding  him 
upon  madder. f     And  the  longer  I  live,  and  the  more  I  learn,  the  more 

*  An  expression,  of  which  the  pathos  is,  so  to  speak,  a  lower  power  of  that  un- 
known quantity  in  Coleridge's  solemn  line — true  poetry  and  true  psychology  in 
one — 

"  And  agony  which  cannot  be  remembered." 

f  There  is  a  plurality  of  similitudes  of  a  like  quality  to  be  met  with  in  these 
letters.  Thus— in  a  burlesque  outburst  of  objurgatory  remonstrance  against  Mr. 
Bedford's  protracted  silence,  we  read:  "  Hast  thou  ears  to  hear  ?  Let  the  voice  of 
malediction  rumble  down  thy  auricular  labyrinths  like  the  mail-coach  over 
Brentford  stones!  Hast  thou  eyes  to  see?  Let  them  look  upon  the  letter  that 
disturbs  this  indolent  repose,  pleasantly  as  the  rock-ribbed  toad  leers  at  the 
stonemason  who  saws  him  open."  (Vol.  i.  p.  58.) 


120  Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey. 

I  am  convinced  that  Stoicism,  properly  understood,  is  the  best  and 
noblest  system  of  morals.  If  you  have  never  read  the  book,  buy  Mrs. 
Carter's  translation  of  it  whenever  it  eomes  in  your  way.  Books  of 
morals  are  seldom  good  for  anything1 ;  the  stoical  books  are  an  excep- 
tion." And  again,  the  year  after,  to  Miss  Barker,  then  suffering,  it 
would  seem,  at  once  from  illness  and  recent  bereavement  r  "  It  is  useless 
to  afflict  yourself.  Against  this  calamity,  and  against  still  greater  ones, 
you  can  bear  up,  and  must  bear  up.  Did  you  ever  read  Mrs.  Carter's 
'Epictetus?'  Next  to  the  Bible  it  is  the  best  practUional  book 
and  the  truest  philosophy  in  existence.9 

Coupling  occasional  fragments  of  this  kind  with  the  known  reserve 
Southey  exhibited,  in  the  company  of  all  but  his  intimates,  or  what  nay 
be  called  his  sympathisers,- — many  readers  have  concluded  him  to-  he\ 
after  all,  a  cold,  at  any  rate  very  far  from  a  warm-hearted  man.  Only  a 
narrowly  one-sided  glimpse  of  him,  nevertheless,  can  warrant  any  such 
inference.  As  son,  husband,  father,  brother,  friend,  and  general  philan- 
thropist, he  was  a  pattern  man,  one  of  a  thousand ;  eminently,  cordially, 
self-denyingly,  and  most  unaffectedly  good. 

As  a  father,  his  affectionate  solicitude  and  tender  devotion  is  illustrated 
m  these  volumes,  as  in  the  previous  series  of  letters,  in  multitudinous 
touches  and  by-way  proofs,  sometimes  playful,  painful  at  others.  The» 
is,  indeed,  one  curious  epistle,  announcing  to  Miss  Barker  the  birth  of 
his  daughter  Edith,  in  1804,  which  may  seem  to  promise  prima  fitek 
evidence  in  favour  of  the  misbelievers  in  his  heart  of  grace— so  uncon- 
ventional, and  perhaps  they  will  declare  unfeeling,  is  the  look  of  tins 
astounding  news  letter :  "  I  had  a  daughter  Edith  hatched  last  night; 

Yearning  for  Mr.  Bedford'8  reply,  "My  expectation,"  he  adds,  "  gasps  fot  the 
letter  like  a  frog  in  a  hot  dusty  day  on  the  turnpike-road;  it  will  swallow  thy 
excuses  as  a  whale  bolts  herrings."  {Ibid.  p.  59.) 

Very  like  ( — no,  too  anticipate ve  reader,  not  a  whale;  but)  The  Doctor. 

Again;  from  Portugal  he  writes  complaining  of  "  the  cursed  sirocs  of  the  EaaV 
which,  says  he,  "  reach  us  here,  tamed  indeed  by  their  passing  over  sea  and  land, 
hut  still  hot  as  if  they  had  breathed  through  an  oven,  or  like  the  very  bsaathof 
Beelzebub."  (L  119.) 

He  calls  the  descent  from  Skiddaw  (which  he  had  just  been  ascending  with 
Coleridge,  1803)  mere  play,  bat  adds:  "Up  hill  a  man's  wind  would  fall  has, 
though  his  lungs  were  as  capacious  as  a  church-organ,  and  his  legs  would  ads 
though  his  calves  were  full-grown  bulls."  (I.  239.) 

Very  Doctorisb,  that  too;  or  Daniel  Dove-like. 

Again,  describing  the  congregation  of  William  Huntingdon,  S.S.,  as  having 
quite  a  physiognomy  of  their  own,  he  calls  them  "  sallow,  dismal  people,  lookiag 
as  if  they  were  already  so  near  the  fire  and  brimstone  that  it  had  coloured  their 
complexions."  (I.  355.) 

Condoling  with  Mr.  Hickman  on  being  made  the  father  of  a  girl,  when  a  boy 
was  looked  for,  he  observes,  among  other  topics  of  consolation,  that  "  hoys  about 
a  house  are  like  favourite  dogs  in  the  country,  who  come  into  the  parlour  with 
dirty  legs,  and  then  lie  down  on  the  hearth  and  lick  themselves  clean ;  they  are 
always  in  the  way,  and  when  out  of  sight,  ten  to  one  but  they  are  in  mischief." 
On  the  other  hand,  *  Girls  are  like  cats,  clean  and  fit  to  be  up-stasrs."  (HL  €5.) 

Once  more— and  an  unsavoury  simile  to  conclude  with,  though  not  likely  to  he 
mabado6x>Hr"wiAthorough-gomgProtestaxitsnkehim«elf:  *  No  child  of  aw 
should  ever  visit  a  Catholic  ftvmily.  You  may  go  to  heaven  that  way  cevtmiy, 
hut  there  is  no  more  veasoa  for  doing  it,  than  there  would  be  for  going  ts»  T 
»  a  dung-cart,  when  there  are  so  many  easier,  eteaoliearr  and  wm 
(II.  313-4.) 


Select  Letters  of  Robert  Sowihey.  121 

for  she  came  into  the  world  with  not  much  more  preparation  than:  a 
chicken,  and  no  more-  beauty  than  a  young  dodo."  "  They  are  doing" 
weB,"  the  bulletin  anent  mother  and  child  goes  on  to  say,  "  bat  the  young 
one  is  very,  very  ugly  j  so  ugly  that,  if  I  did  not  remember  tales  of  my 
own  deformity,  how  both  mother  and  grandmother  cried  out  against 
me,  notwithstanding  my  present  pulchritude,  I  should  verily  think  the 
EdithKng  would  look  better  in  a  bottle  than  on  a  white  sheet.  She  may 
mend,  and  in  about  three  months  I  may  begin  to  like  her,  and  by-and-by 
I  suppose  I  shall  love  her ;  but  it  shall  he  with  a  reasonable  lore,  that 
will  hang  loosely  upon  me,  Kke  all  second  loves*"  And  then  he  adds, 
with  a  dash  under  the  words,  "  Make  yon  no  comment  upon  this"  A 
monition  intended,  we  presume,  for  Mrs.  Southey's  sake,  to  guard  against 
allusions  by  his  correspondent  to  whatever  might  remind  his  wife  of  aa 
elder  Edith,  his  and  her  first  love,  whom  death  had  carried  away  too 
soon.  Again  and  again  the  father  was  warned,  by  successive  losses 
among  his  heart's  darlings,  to  love  them  with  a  "  reasonable  love,"  as  he 
here  calls  it,  that  might  "  hang  loosely"  enough  about  htm  to  bear  a 
sudden  wrench,  a  rough  withdrawal,  an  absolute  rending  away,  without 
rending  and  tearing  away  his  very  heartstrings  too.  In  1809  he  writes 
to  one  of  his  old  friends :  "  Herbert  has  had  the  croup,  and  been  saved 
from  it ;  bat  last  night  we  lost  Emma  by  a  violent  bilious  attack.  .  .  .  . 
Enough  of  this.  These  losses  are  but  for  a  time  :  this  is  not  the  first 
that  we  have  sustained,  and  probably  will  not  be  the  last.  Neither  I  nor 
my  children  seem  made  of  very  lasting  materials ;  in  fact,  it  is  very 
unlikely  that  my  children  should  be.  It  is  not  altogether  a  faneifal 
analogy  between  a  man  who  cultivates  his  mental  faculties  exclusively, 
and  those  plants  which  are  improved  by  culture  in  an  artificial  soil :  they 
bring  forth  finer  flowers,  but  either  they  do  not  seed  at  all,  or  the  seedlings 
wither  away."  What  he  felt  in  his  case  was,  that  the  seedlings  were 
withering  away,  and  would  so  wither,  till  he  might  exclaim,  m  the  bit- 
terness of  lonely  grief, 

Oh,  sir,  the  young  die  first, 

And  we  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 

Burn  to  the  socket.* 

The  Herbert  mentioned  in  the  foregoing  extract,  is  that  almost  idolised 
boy  whose  death  cost  the  unhappy  father  such  lifelong  pangs.  That 
death  occurred  subsequently  to  the  period  at  which  the  present  volumes 
close ;  but  knowing  as  we  do  its  predestined  and  speedily  inevitable 
advent^  the  fond  father's  every  allusion  to  his  doomed  darling,  in  the 
letters  before  us,  is  fraught  with  sorrowful  suggestion.  Here  is  the 
record  of  Herbert's  birth,  in  1809:  "Your  long  bespoken  godson," 
writes  Southey  to  Mr.  Wynn,  "  made  his  appearance  this  morning  about 
six  o'clock,  coming  into  the  world  in  as  beautiful  a  morning  as  ever  could 
be  supposed  to  promise  fair  fortunes,  and  crying  with  as  loud  a  voice  as 
if  he  was  destined  to  make  a  great  noise  in  it."  In  1807  he  thus  describes 
Herbert  and  Edith  in  one  characteristic  critique :  "  Herbert  grows  finely, 
and  if  it  were  not  for  the  Tatar-shaped  eyes  which  all  my  children  have 
— I  cannot  divine  by  what  right  of  intelligence — he  would  he  a  beauty. 
I  tell  my  daughter  that  she  is  like  my  old  books — ugly,  but  good; 

*  Excursion,  Book  I. 


122  Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey. 

though,  sometimes,  sad  to  say !  the  latter  part  of  the  simile  is  not  so 
accurate  as  the  former.  All  her  perceptions  and  feelings  are  so  fearfully 
quick,  that  I  am  never  without  a  dread  that  some  tendency  to  organic 
disease  occasions  this  exquisite  acuteness.  Thank  God !  she  is  well  as 
yet,  and  as  strong  as  if  she  were  own  child  to  Hercules  or  Samson  before 
he  had  his  hair  cut."  Next  year  the  report  is :  "  My  son  walks  barefoot 
•  •  .  .  He  is  a  beautiful  boy,  terribly  violent,  and  almost  unmanageable. 
All  this  he  will  outgrow,  if  it  please  God  that  he  lives.  I  am  in  great 
favour  with  him,  and  when  he  and  I  have  the  book  of  the  birds  or 
beasts  before  us,  I  teaching  him  the  language  of  all,  and  he  repeating 
them  after  me,  I  verily  believe  such  a  concert  hath  not  been  heard  since 
Noah  and  his  live-stock  came  out  of  the  ark.  What  you  hear  at  Exeter 
Change  is  nothing  to  it  1"  But  a  month  later,  "  My  little  boy  has  been 
very  ill,"  he  writes,  "  and  I  had  many  days'  anxiety  about  him.  Thank 
God,  he  is  now  recovering,  and  able  again  to  walk.  I  have  such  rooted 
and  habitual  sense  of  the  precariousness  of  life,  that  what  is  to  be  done 
with  him  hereafter  scarcely  ever  passes  across  my  mind,  and  never  so  as 
to  excite  a  moment  of  care."  A  year  or  so  later,  and  Robert  the  Rhymer 
glorifies  the  child,  in  his  own  manner,  as  being  round  as  a  dumpling, 
"  the  nicest  kissing,  and  sweetest  playfellow," — telling  how  the  scale  of 
kissing  (a  recurring  pleasantry  in  these  letters)  has  been  enlarged,  so  that 
they,  kisser  and  kissee,  have  now  nine  kisses  for  the  Nine  Muses,  three 
for  the  Graces,  ten  for  the  Predicaments,  another  half-score  for  the  Com- 
mandments, nine- and- thirty  for  the  Church  Articles,  and  seven  for  the 
Deadly  Sins.     Southey  all  over ! 

To  Miss  Barker — whose  lot  it  would  one  day  be  to  hold  in  her  arms 
the  dying  Herbert,  the  dead  Herbert,  and  to  announce  his  death  to  his 
father  and  mother  in  their  bed — the  poet  writes  in  1812  :  "  You  will  be 
much  pleased  with  Herbert.  He  may  best  be  characterised  by  calling 
him  a  sweet  boy.  You  can  hardly  conceive  anything  more  gentle  and 
more  loving.  He  has  just  learnt  his  Greek  alphabet,  and  is  so  desirous 
of  learning,  so  attentive  and  so  quick  of  apprehension,  that  if  it  please 
God  he  should  live,  there  is  little  doubt  but  that  something  will  come  out 
of  him."  And  in  the  same  year,  to  the  child's  gallant  uncle  :  "  Herbert 
has  been  reading  the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  taking  infinite  delight  in  the 
letter,  but  no  great  edification  from  the  spirit,  as  Mary  will  conclude, 
when  she  learns  that  his  favourite  amusement  at  present  is  to  what  he 
calls  play  Apollyon  with  Bertha  and  Kate.  He  goes  about  the  room  or 
the  passages  towards  them  like  a  lion  seeking  whom  he  may  devour ;  and 
Kate  and  bluff  Queen  Henry  cry  out,  *  Don't  Polly  on,  don't  Polly  on, 
Herby !'  though  when  he  has  done  they  ask  him  '  to  Pollyon  again.' " 

The  testimony  of  an  observer  from  without,  to  the  boy's  engaging 
qualities,  and  his  father's  sensitive  attachment,  may  here  be  noticed  with 
propriety.  At  the  time  Mr.  de  Quincey  became  acquainted  with  the 
master  of  Greta  Hall,  Herbert  was  a  child  in  petticoats,  whom  the 
Opium-eater  describes  as  very  interesting  even  then,  but  annually  putting 
forth  fresh  blossoms  of  unusual  promise,  that  made  even  indifferent  people 
fear  for  the  safety  of  one  so  finely  organised,  so  delicate  in  his  sensi- 
bilities, and  so  prematurely  accomplished.  As  to  his  father,  it  became 
evident,  says  this  feeling  observer,  that  he  lived  almost  in  the  light  of 
young  Herbert's  smiles,  and  that  the  very  pulses  of  his  heart  played  in 
unison  to  the  sound  of  his  son's  laughter.     "  There  was  in  his  manner 


Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey.  123 

towards  this  child,  and  towards  this  only,  something  that  marked  an  ex- 
cess of  delirious  doting,  perfectly  unlike  the  ordinary  chastened  move- 
ment of  Southey's  affections  ;"  and  something  also,  Mr.  de  Quincey  adds 
— expressing  in  his  own  language  the  fine  sentiment  (psychologically  so 
true)  of  Shakspeare  in  one  of  his  sonnets — 

And  weep  to  have  what  I  so  fear  to  lose — 
something  also,  which  "  indicated  a  vague  fear  about  him ;  a  premature 
unhappiness,  as  if  already  the  inaudible  tread  of  calamity  could  be 
divined,  as  if  already  he  had  lost  him ;  which  feeling,  for  the  latter  years 
of  the  boy's  life,  seemed  to  poison,  for  his  father,  the  blessing  of  his  pre- 
sence." When  Herbert  died,  with  him  (the  same  authority  assures  us) 
died  for  ever  the  golden  hopes,  the  radiant  felicity,  and  the  internal 
serenity  of  the  unhappy  father.  Then  was  experienced  the  possible 
meaning  of  an  ancient  mourner's  lament — 

Omnia  tecum  una  perierunt  commoda  nostra, 
Qusb  tuus  in  vita  dulcis  alebat  amor.* 

Months  after  the  event,  the  witness  we  have  cited  was  accompanying 
Southey  through  Grasmere,  on  his  road  homewards  to  Keswick,  from  a 
visit  to  Wordsworth  at  Rydal  Mount,  when  the  afflicted  father,  speaking 
without  external  signs  of  agitation,  almost  coldly,  but  with  the  coldness 
of  a  settled  misery,  gave  expressions  to  his  final  feelings  as  connected 
with  that  loss.  For  him,  in  this  world,  he  said,  happiness  there  could  be 
none ;  for  that  his  tenderest  affections,  the  very  deepest  by  many  degrees 
which  he  had  ever  known,  were  now  buried  in  the  grave  with  his  youth- 
ful and  too  brilliant  Herbert.  J 

Another  youthful  and  most  interesting  inmate  of  Southey's  home,  was 
Hartley,  the  first-born  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  He  is  frequently 
mentioned  in  these  volumes,  and  indeed  forms  one  of  the  most  attractive 
subjects  brought  before  us.  The  precocity  in  his  case  was  still  more 
marked,  with  certain  distinctive  features  of  eccentricity  and  wayward 
whim,  than  in  that  of  Herbert  Southey.  Moses  was  the  name,  or  one  of 
the  names  rather,  by  which  his  uncle  Southey  loved  to  designate  him ; 
and  Moses  is  here  said,  in  a  letter  of  the  year  1803,  to  be  growing  up  as 
miraculous  a  boy  as  ever  King  Pharaoh's  daughter  found  his  namesake  to 
be.  His  great  delight  at  this  time — Moses  being  now  in  his  seventh 
year — was  to  get  his  father  to  talk  metaphysics  to  him.  He  would  in- 
vent the  wildest  tales — a  history  of  the  kings  of  England  who  are  to  be — 
a  series  of  legendary  extravagances,  so  odd  and  preternatural  as  some- 
times to  terrify  himself ;  when  he  would  exclaim,  "  Tse  afraid  of  my  own 
thoughts."  Two  years  later  he  is  described  again  by  his  uncle,  as  the 
oddest  of  all  God's  creatures,  and  becoming  quainter  and  quainter  every 
day — totally  destitute  of  anything  like  modesty,  yet  without  the  slightest 
tinge  of  impudence  in  his  nature.  "  His  religion  makes  one  of  the  most 
humorous  parts  of  his  character.  '  I'm  a  boy  of  a  very  religious  turn,'  he 
says ;  for  he  always  talks  of  himself,  and  examines  his  own  character,  just 
as  if  he  was  speaking  of  another  person,  and  as  impartially.  Every  night 
he  makes  an  extempore  prayer  aloud  ;  but  it  is  always  in  bed,  and  not 
till  he  is  comfortable  there  and  got  into  the  mood.    When  he  is  ready  he 

*  Catullus. 

t  Autobiographic  Sketches.    By  Thomas  de  Quincey.    VoL  ii.  chap.  vi. 


124  Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey . 

touches  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  Bleeps  with  him,  and  says,  'Now  listen  1' and 
off  he  sets  like  a  preacher.  If  he  has  been  behaving  amiss,  away  he  gees 
for  the  Bible,  and  looks  out  for  something  appropriate  to  his  case  in  the 
Psahns  or  the  Book  of  Job.  The  other  day,  after  he  had  been  in  a  vio- 
lent passion,  he  chose  out  a  chapter  against  wrath,  'Ah!  that  suits 
me  !'  The  Bible  also  is  resorted  to  whenever  he  ails  anything,  or  else 
the  Prayer-book.  He  once  made  a  pun  upon  occasion  of  the  belly-ache, 
though  I  will  not  say  he  designed  it.  c  Oh,  Mrs.  Wilson,  Tie  got  the 
colic  !  read  me  the  Epistle  and  Gospel  for  the  day/  In  one  part  of  his 
character  he  seems  to  me  strikingly  to  resemble  has  father, — in  the  affec- 
tion he  has  for  those  who  are  present  with  him,  and  the  little  he  cares 
about  them  when  he  is  out  of  their  sight."  Southey  describes  him  again, 
in  his  sixteenth  year,  as  grown  a  great  fellow  [that  he  never  grew,  in  any 
absolute  sense  :  his  coffin,  poor  fellow,  was  that  of  a  child],  all  beard  and 
eyes — as  odd  and  extraordinary  as  ever  he  was,  with  very  good  disposi- 
tion, but  with  ways  and  tendencies  which  promised  badly  whether  for  his 
own  happiness  or  for  the  comfort  of  anybody  connected  with  him — in  fact, 
of  such  unmalleable  materials,  his  uncle  adds,  contrasting  him  in  this 
respect  with  his  younger  brother,  Derwent,  "  that  what  he  may  make  of 
himself  God  knows,  but  I  suspect  nobody  will  be  able  to  mould  or  manage 
him."  The  last  reference  to  him  in  these  volumes  is  at  the  date  of  his 
first  going  up  to  Oxford  (1815) — his  connexion  with  which  university 
was  destined  to  have  so  unhappy  a  termination.  "  Hartley  is  by  this 
time  at  Oxford,"  Southey  tells  Mr.  Neville  White,  "  and  probably  settled 
at  Merton.  What  will  his  fate  be  ?  I  hardly  dare  ask  myself  the  ques- 
tion  He  takes  with  him  a  larger  stock  of  Greek  than  is  often 

carried  to  college,  a  powerful  intellect,  good  principles,  and  good  feelings. 
But  with  these  he  has  some  dangerous  accompaniments  ;  for  he  is  head- 
strong, violent,  perilously  disposed  to  justify  whatever  he  may  wish  to  do, 
eccentric  in  all  his  ways,  and  willing  to  persuade  himself  that  there  is  a 
merit  in  eccentricity."  But  his  greatest  danger,  Southey  goes  on  to  in- 
timate, arises  from  a  mournful  cause,  against  which  it  is  impossible  to 
protect,  or  even  to  caution  him — viz.,  from  his  own  father.  And  here  it 
must  be  remarked,  that  the  elder  Coleridge  appears  on  the  whole  to  less 
advantage  in  these  pages  than  in  any  extant  memorials  of  him  by  his 
friends — and  a  friend  Robert  Southey  emphatically  (and  with  no  lip- 
service  but  leal  life-service)  was — perhaps  the  Recollections  of  good 
Joseph  Cottle  alone  excepted.  In  the  present  allusion  to  him,  Southey 
observes,  that  the  conduct  of  the  father  is,  of  course,  a  subject  on  which 
no  one  would  speak  to  the  son  ;  and  that  Hartley,  to  all  appearance,  con- 
trived to  keep  it  out  of  his  own  sight ;  but  the  uncle  expresses  his  appre- 
hension lest  Coleridge  should  take  it  in  his  head  to  send  for  the  boy  to 
pass  any  of  his  vacations  with  him,  which  would  involve  the  most  immi- 
nent danger  of  his  unsettling  Hartley's  mind  upon  the  most  important 
subjects,  and  the  end  would  be  utter  and  irremediable  ruin.  "  For  Cole- 
ridge, totally  regardless  of  all  consequences,  will  lead  him  into  all  the 
depths  and  mazes  of  metaphysics  :  he  would  root  up  from  his  mind,  with- 
out intending  it,  all  established  principles  ;  and  if  he  should  succeed  in 
establishing  others  in  their  place,  with  one  of  Hartley's  ardour  and  sin- 
cerity, they  would  never  serve  for  the  practical  purposes  of  society,  and 
he  would  be  thrown  out  from  the  only  profession  or  way  of  life  for  which 
he  is  qualified.     This  you  gee  it  is  absolutely  impossible  to  prevent.    I 


Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey.  125 

know  but  too  well,  and  Coleridge  also  knows,  what  an  evil  it  is  to  be  thus 
as  it  were  eut  adrift  upon  the  sea  of  life ;  but  experience  is  lost  upon 
kirn."  There  is  deep  sadness  in  these  forebodings — verified  as  they  were, 
in  so  considerable  a  degree,  by  the  course  o£  Hartley's  after  life.  Of  bus, 
at  MX  years  old,  Wordsworth  had  written — 

0  blessed  vision !  happy  child ! 
Thou  art  bo  exquisitely  wild, 

1  think  of  thee  with  many  fears, 

Tot  what  may  he  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

Of  him,  at  nineteen,  we  have  just  seen  how  Soutbey  speaks.  Of  him- 
self, when  prematurely  grey-headed,  the  child-man  Hartley,  "  nor  child 
nor  man,"  thus  despoodingly,  self-upbraidingly  speaks,  in  one  of  those 
exquisite  sonnets  by  which  he  being  dead  yet  speaketh  : 

Long  time  a  child,  and  still  a  child,  when  years 

Had  painted  manhood  on  my  cheeks,  was  I ; 

Tor  yet  I  lived  like  one  not  born  to  die ; 

A  thriftless  prodigal  of  smiles  and  tears, 

No  hope  I  needed,  and  I  knew  no  fears. 

But  sleep,  though  sweet,  is  only  sleep ;  and  waking, 

I  waked  to  sleep  no  more,  at  once  o'ertaking  % 

The  vanguard  of  my  age,  with  all  arrears 

Of  duty  at  my  hack.    Nor  child,  nor  man, 

Nor  youth,  nor  sage,  I  find  my  head  is  grey, 

For  I  have  lost  the  race  I  never  ran; 

A  rathe  December  blights  my  lagging  May ; 

And  still  I  am  a  child,  tho'  I  be  old, 

Time  is  my  debtor  for  my  years  untold. 

Requiescas  in  pace,  tempted  and  troubled  one !  In  the  rest  that  knows 
no  troubling,  be  thine  also  the  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding, — 
which  the  world  could  not  give  thee  here,  nor  can  take  away  from  thee 
now. 

Attached  as  Southey  unmistakably  was  to  S.  T.  Coleridge,  there  was 
such  a  discrepancy  between  the  two,  as  regards  habits  and  the  regimen 
of  work-day  life,  that  we  cannot  wonder  at  the  manner  in  which  the 
former  often  refers  to  current  evidences  of  this  disparity.  As  early  as 
1799  he  finds  out,  at  Bristol,  that  in  one  point  of  view  Coleridge  and  he 
are  had  companions  for  each  other, — Coleridge  takes  up  too  much  of  his 
time  in  pleasant  but  protracted  talk.  In  1800  he  writes  significantly  to 
Danvers,  from  Lisbon,  "  Coleridge  has  never  written  to  me :  where  no 
expectation  existed  there  can  be  no  disappointment"  In  1804  they  are 
harmoniously  housed  together  in  Keswick :  "  Coleridge  and  I  are  the 
best  companions  possible,  in  almost  all  moods  of  mind,  for  all  kinds  of 
wisdom,  and  all  kinds  of  nonsense,  to  the  very  heights  and  depths 
thereof."  The  same  year  Coleridge  leaves  for  Malta,  and  Southey  feels 
the  parting  more  than  he  lets  be  seen :  "  It  is  now  almost  ten  years  since 
he  and  I  first  met,  in  my  rooms^  at  Oxford,  which  meeting  decided  the 
destiny  of  both  ;  and  now  when,  after  so  many  ups  and  downs,  I  am,  for 
a  time,  settled  under  his  roofj  he  is  driven  abroad  in  search  of  health.  Ill 
he  is,  certainly  and  sorely  ill;  yet  I  believe  if  his  mind  was  as  well  regu- 
lated as  mine,  the  body  would  be  quite  as  manageable.  I  am  perpetually 
pained  and  mortified  by  thinking  what  he  ought  to  be,  for  mine  is  an  eye 
of  microscopic  discernment  to  the  faults  of  my  friends ;  but  the  tidings 


126  Select  Letters  of  Robert  Southey. 

of  his  death  would  come  upon  me  more  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  than 
any  evil  I  have  ever  yet  endured;  almost  it  would  make  me  superstitious, 
for  we  were  two  ships  that  left  port  in  company."  Coleridge's  long 
silence  while  on  his  travels  perplexes  and  irritates  his  friends :  Words- 
worth thinks  he  must  have  delayed  writing  till  he  finds  it  painful  to  think 
of  it;  Southey  is  "  more  angry  at  his  silence"  than  he  "  chooses  to  ex- 
press"— because  "  I  have  no  doubt  whatever,"  he  tells  Dan  vers  (1806), 
"that  the  reason  why  we  receive  no  letters  is,  that  he  writes  none;  when 
he  comes  he  will  probably  tell  a  different  story,  and  it  will  be  proper  to 
admit  his  excuse  without  believing  it."  These  intimations  of  insincerity 
are  painful  to  meet  with ;  insincerity  in  any  guise  was  odious  to  Southey; 
even  in  Coleridge's  prospectus  of  The  Friend  (1809),  there  was  a  soupgon 
of  it,  sufficient  to  aggravate  him — for  Robertus  noster  abuses  the  Pro- 
spectus, to  Rickman,  as  having  about  it  a  "  sort  of  unmanly  humblefica- 
tion,  which  is  not  sincere,  which  the  very  object  of  the  paper  gives  the 
lie  to,  which  may  provoke  some  people,  and  can  conciliate  nobody." 
Southey's  history  of  the  failure  of  this  periodical  is  shrewd  and  interest- 
ing, and  quite  falls  in  with  that  by  De  Quincey  in  his  Autobiographic 
Sketches. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  allusions  to  S.  T.  C.'s  lack  of  energy  to  fulfil 
many  an  energetic  design.  A  certain  biography,  in  the  subject  of  which 
he  is  interested,  is  like  to  be  so  badly  done,  that,  in  1810,  we  hear  of  him 
"groaning,"  talking  of  writing  the  life  himself,  and  saying  that.. he  will, 
this  very  night,  write  to  offer  his  services.  "  This,  of  course,"  Southey 
remarks,  "  he  has  not  done  ;  nor,  if  he  undertook  it,  is  it  likely  that  he 
would  accomplish  that,  or  anything  else."  Again,  in  1811:  "I  urged 
Coleridge  to  double  the  intended  number  of  '  Omniana'  volumes,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  making  him  do  something  for  his  family;  this  requiring, 
literally,  no  other  trouble  than  either  cutting  out  of  his  common-place 
books  what  has  for  years  been  accumulating  there,  or  marking  off  the 
passage  for  a  transcriber.  He  promised  to  add  two  volumes,  and  has 
contributed  about  one  sheet,  which,  I  dare  say,  unless  he  soon  returns  to 
Cumberland,  will  be  all."  In  1812,  a  strictly  parallel  passage  occurs  in 
another  letter:  "I  inserted  some  articles  of  Coleridge's  in  the  book 
['  Omniana'],  merely  in  the  hope  of  getting  something  from  him  in  this 
way;  he  had  literally  only  to  cut  them  out  of  his  common-place  book.  It 
was  my  intention  to  make  four  volumes  instead  of  two,  in  this  manner; 
but  he  kept  the  press  waiting  fifteen  months  for  an  unfinished  article,  so 
that  at  last  I  ordered  the  sheet  in  which  it  was  begun  to  be  cancelled,  in 
despair."  Alas  for  the  effect  of  opium  on  a  Will  already  and  constitu- 
tionally infirm  ! 

Of  other  note-worthies,  personally  brought  before  us  in  the  letters, 
may  be  mentioned  Charles  Lloyd,  of  Brathay, — George  Dyer,  Thomas 
de  Quincey,  Madame  de  Stael,  and  Walter  Savage  Landor,  that  staunch 
friend  and  steadfast  admirer  of  the  writer,  opposed  as  they  were  in  points 
where  difference  too  commonly  weakens  friendship,  and  puts  admiration 
out  of  the  question. 

Two  more  volumes  are  to  complete  the  work.  Albeit  we  could  not 
wish  Southey  a  better  son-in-law,  a  better  editor  we  could.  But  as  we 
are  free  to  own,  in  parting  from  Vols.  I.  and  II.,  the  pleasurable  expect- 
ancy with  which  we  await  Vols.  III.  and  IV.,  perhaps  in  this  ex  ammo 
confession  Mr.  Warter  has  his  revenge. 


THE 

NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


vol.  cvn.]  ,  JU3STE,  1856.  [no.  ccccxxvi. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Administrative  Reform.  '  By  Cyrus  Redding        .        .        .127 

The  Missing  Letter.    Br  the  Author  off  *  The  Unholy 
Wish"     .        .        .      i  .        .        .      : .  .        .    .  136 

Scissors-and-Paste-work  by  Sir  Nathaniel.     II.  —  Meri- 
vale's  Romans  under  the  Empire.    {First  Notice)   .        .  150 

To  the  Cuckoo.    By  Mart  C.  F.  Monck  .  .       .    .162 

The  Food  op  Paris <  164 

Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs  and  certain 
Members  of  his  Family.    By  E.  P.  Rowsell  .        .        .    .  181 

Cousin  Carl.    From  the  Banish  op  Carl  Bernhardt    By 
Mrs.Bushby «        .  192 

The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.    By  Alexander- An- 
drews, Author  of  the  "  Eighteenth  Century"        '  '.  .205 
Life  in  Brazil         .        .       '.        .        .        .        .        .  .  215 

The  last  of  Moore's  Journal  And  Diary         .        .  .  .224 

Ballads  from  English  History.   TV.— Earl  Siward    .  .233 

Ferns  and  their  Allies     .        .        .        .        .        .  .  .235 

Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.    By  Florentia  *  .  238 


LONDON: 

CHAPMAN  AND  HALL,  193,  PICCADILLY. 
To  whom  all  Communications  for  the  Editor  are  to  be  addressed, 

%*  REJECTED  ABTXCLESCANNOT  BE  BBtURNRD. 
SOLD   BY   ALL   BOOKSELLERS   IN    THE   UNITED    KINGDOM. 


PRINTED  BY  jCHABXJJS  WHlTXNa,  BSAUTOET.  HOUSE,  STRAND. 


//  •?  / 


BaMHS.yLTd 


IB  MJROHt  FACE  ET  NOfiUB. 

This  new  PATENT  TOILET  GLASS  reflects  the  BACK  ot  the,  $EAD 
as  perfectly  as  rfdoes  the  Face,  and  both  in  one  glass  at  the  same  time,  espMing 
a  lady  to  arrange  her  Back  Hair  with  the  greatest  ease  and  precision ;  it  is  the 
most  unique  and  complete  article  ever  introduced  into  the  dressing-room.  ' 
Price  24*.  and  upwards. 

The  Patent  can  also  be  affixed  to  any  good  toilet  glass.  Drawings  and  Prices 
sent  free  by  post. 

To  be  seen  only  at  the  Patentees',  Messrs.  HEAL  and  SON,  whose  waierooms 
also  contain  every  variety  of  toilet  glass  that  is  manufactured,  as  well  as  a  general 
assortment  of  Bedsteads,  Bedding,  and  Bedroom  Furniture. 


HEAL  AND  SONS  ILLUSTRATED  CATALOGUE 

OF  BEDSTEADS  AND  BEDDING, 
Containing  Designs  and  Prices  of  upwards  of  100  Bedsteads,  sent  free  by  posti 


HEAL  AND  SON, 

196,  TOTTENHAM  COURT  ROAD. 


( 


NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


ITIVE  REFORM. 

BY  CXStS  KED0IKG. 

Let  an  artist  employed  on  a  work  requiring  sound  vision,  steadiness  of 
hand,  and  exquisite  nicety  of  touch— putting  together  a  chronometer  for 
example — be  supposed  at  the  same  time  standing  upon  an  inclined  plane 
of  ice,  and  struggling  to  keep  his  footing :  such  a  similitude  explains  the 
position  of  the  leaders  in  the  affairs  of  a  great  nation.  If  the  artist  do 
not  give  his  chronometer  the  perfection  it  oujfht  to  possess,  his  excuse 
will  be  the  position  which  the  authority  of  hif  employer  has  forced  him 
to  take  whit  pursuing  his  labour*  IJcubeys  the  necessity  of  the  circum- 
stances in  which  he  is  placed.  There  is  nothing  like  plain  truth,  however 
disagreeable  to  multitudinous  self-love.  The  head  of  each  state  depart- 
ment struggles,  in  the  midst  of  onerous  labour,  daily  and  hourly  witn  the 
solicitations  of  too  many  parliamentary  representatives,  seated  under  the 
lapse  oftjkJjJular  duties  in  their  selection.  In  the  choice  of  high-minded 
and  will-qualified  representatives  there  is  a  fearful  laxity  among  electors, 

'  *\ fyk°**ui  toojnany  cases,  have  not  the,  smallest  conception. pf  an  imperious 
duty.    The  root  of  the  evil  lies  in  the  grdss*  mistake  which  presumes  thste 

ddifcpotttics  integrity  is  always  on  die  iideuof  the  many.  '  Discriminating : . 

r  ?j  persona:  support  die  suffrage  of  the  many  against  that  of  the  few,  only  on  i 
the jrround  that  multitudinous  suffrages  present  the  best  obstacle  in  the 
patnot*  corruption.    It  is  the  physical  not  the  moral  benefit  that  rules  ' 
here ;  the  money  difficulty  of  enlarged  eorrupjipn,  not  the  superior  virtue. 
In  matters  of  feeling,  the  many  are  generally  right;  in  those  of  reflection 

"''!  fifed  reaseny  they  are  wrong  nine  times  out  of  ten  %  and  in  pursuing  self-in- 
terest, as  warm  as  the  most  devoted  grubbers  of  'Change-alley,  having  no  , 
siiperior  ^consideration.     A  glance  at  an  abstract  truth  is  taken  by  tip 
masses;  its  full  realisation  becomes  the  object  in  undisciplined  mind?; 

v:  ^£^rxu*xtm*m  of  excellence  heing  deemed  attainable,  which  if  attainable 
in  mundane  things  would  remove  the  barriers  between  earth  and  heaven. 
The  very  right  of  self-government  depends  upon  that  of  personal  freedom 
and  the  security  of  property,  through  selected  individuals  adequate  to 
tgmoipjfte  those  ends,;  net  upon  the  intellectual  powers  or  legislat^e^Mlity 
or  the  electors,  for  whom  the  former"  should  act  as  trusts.  The* opposite 
idea  is  fatal  to  true  freedom-- as  fatal  as  the  will  of  a  lawless  aristocracy  or 
democracy.  If  political  integrity  were  with  the  many,  we  should  not  see 
men  utter  strangers  to  constituencies  empty  shallow  purses  into  the  electors'- 
pockets  in  exchange  for  seats  (to  push  tneir  own  fortunes,  careless  of  the 
national  weal,  hungry  after  places  for  depended  ana*  themselves,  forcing  a 
minister  to  pass  over  merit  in  order  to  strengthen  his  footing  upon  the  ice, 
June— vol;  qvn.  no.  coccxxvi.    ,      •  x 


128  Adminisfrative  Reform. 

and  acting  as  a  grievous  impediment  to  his  attention  in  carrying  out  his 
own  official  duties.     Theoretically,  none  but  the  wisest  and  best-adapted 

individuals  sit  in  parliament ;  practically But  we  must  be  careful  of 

the  serjeant-at-arms !  Happily,  Whig,  Tory,  and  Radical  can  understand 
what  we  might  say  to  complete  the  sentence,  if  we  said  that  our  ultra- 
patriptic  constituencies,  or  those  which  exhibit  a  vigour  below  all  consti- 
tutional limit,  besides  neutralising  honest  constituencies,  no  matter  for  the 
party,  look  only  to  their  own  selfishness,  making  a  private  of  a  public 
trust,  deciding  the  fate  of  administrations,  and  disturbing  the  action  of 
the  heads  of  offices  by  ravening  for  themselves.  Thus,  too,  are  excluded 
qualified  individuals,,  as  well  as  those  unqualified,  if  we  may  judge  from 
the  apprehension  of  Lord  Cecil  the  other  day  lest  Government  might 
give  any  place  to  a  literary  man,  because,  we  presume,  literary  men  could 
not  perform  the  duties  so  admirably  performed  now  as  to  make  a  change 
needful.  A  minister  said  but  a  little  time  ago  much  what  Falstaff  said  of 
his  ragged  regiment,  "  He  was  ashamed  of  those  who  could  not  perform 
the  little  official  duty  they  had  to  do  accurately."  Now,  if  out  of 
seventeen,  thousand  places  at  the  disposal  of  Government  half  a  dozen  had 
been  given  to  literary  men — and  unless  we  go  back  for  a  series,  of  years 
we  cannot  reckon  up  half  a  dozen  such  instances — his  lordship  need:  not 
grieve  oyer  the  matter.  A  celebrated  man — to  find  an  equal  for  whom  Lord 
Cecil's  house  must  travel  back  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  to  its.  sole 
name  of  note  on  record — a, celebrated  man  wrote  that  a  literary  man  "is 
not  incapable  of  every-day  business ;  he  may  be  above  it  A  blood-horse 
may  carry  a  pack-saddle  as  well  as  an  ass,  but  he  is  top  good  for  it,"  No 
doubt  his  lordship  intended  to  benefit  the  public  by  his  superfluous  obser- 
vation, but  we  must  not  endeavour  to  convince  people  even  of  salutary 
untruths  for  a  good  end. 

The  heads  of  the  administration  do  not  take  office  from  pecuniary  ob- 
jects. This,  is  one  thing  left  that  is  a  benefit,  in  a  time  when  sordid 
motives  rule  so  extensively;  ambition,  distinction,  family  connexion, 
desire  of  influence,  or  party  spirit,  are  in  general  motive  causes  for  hold- 
ing office,  and  all  are  better  than  sordid  pecuniary  gain.  Some  public 
men  have  ruined  their  fortunes  by  place,  and  the  incomes  of  the  heads  of 
departments  does  not.  defray  their  expenses,  nor,  indeed,  equal  in  amount 
those  in  subordinate  situations.  This  is  so  far  fortunate,  when  the  prime 
object  of  most  others,  in  as  well  as  out  of  office,  has  descended  to  the  cate- 
gory described  in  Scripture,  "  The  heads  of  the  land  judge  for  reward,  and 
the  people  thereof  judge  for  hire." 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  after  this  how  many  incompetent  persons  have 
got  into  public  offices,  and  how  the  heads  of  departments  are  kept  in  a 
struggle  on  the  ice  while  they  should  have  no  cares  but  those  which  their 
duties  to  the  country  necessarily  require.  When  placed  in  their  posts*  it 
was  not  easy  to  exact  duties  from  those  who  were  often  as  idle  as  they 
were  incapable,  and  thus  the  routine  system  became  the  only  resource, 
acting  like  the  harness  to  the  horse  in  the  mill.     It  is  hard  to  say  what 

Elan  else  could  have  been  devised  to  keep  a  machine  going  so  ineffectively 
orsed.  Emulation,  qualification,  and  the  desire  to  be  useful,  must  fall 
into  the  same  system  that  alone  makes  .the  lame  horse  go,  and  find  no 
better  reward.  No  minister  can  afford  to  lose  a  vote  ;  he  must  be  politic, 
and  though  placing  the  sapient  son  of  the  venal  member  for  Noddle- 
borough  in  a  Government  office  may  be  against  his  grain,  it  must  be  done. 


Administrative  Reform.  129 

"No  government"  said  the  great  Frederick  of  Prussia,  "can  be  carried 
on  without  corruption."  The  member  corrupts  the  electors,  and  we  in* 
sist,  therefore,  that  the  electors  should  cleanse  their  hands  to  commence 
the  alteration.  This,  we  fear,  cannot  be,  and  we  have  ho  resource  but 
to  turn  to  the  due  qualification  and  undoubted  efficiency  of  those  who  are 
to  be  employed  in  the  public  service.  We  must  enable  the  minister  to 
meet  the  evil  half  way,  and  in  place  of  being  crushed  by  the  interest  made 
for  incapable  noodles  and  doodles,  to  put  in  only  well-qualified  persons, 
by  which  the  public  service  will  not  in  future  suffer.  It  Can  little  matter 
if  the  instruments  be  efficient  and  the  duty  be  adequately  performed, 
whether  the  son  of  Billy  Button,  Esq.,  the  manager  of  the  borough  of 
Noddleborough,  or  the  Honourable  Laurence  Lanky,  the  son  of  Lord 
Leatherhead,  be  installed  tyros  in  the  Tax  or  War-office,  provided  they 
have  been  rigidly  examined  and  proved  capable.  The  nation  suffers  from 
the  incapables.  Ireland  is  said  just  now  to  lay  the  heads  of  the  state 
departments  largely  under  contribution  this  way.  Sent  back  for  incapa- 
city, they  have  been  again  pressed  forward  in  some  instances,  and  again 
been  subjects- of  complaint.  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Let  it  not  be  supposed 
we  do  not  think  some  change  necessary.  The  public  service  exhibits 
evidence  enough  of  this  fact.  When  the  whole  mass  of  the  community 
is  advancing,  n4  one  can  hesitate  to  say  advance  must  be  the  rule  here. 
The  present  system  is  not  the  chosen  system  of  the  Government, .  which, 
trammelled  by  incompetent  officials,  and  well  aware  of  it,  could  not  change 
the  aspect  of  things  without  bringing  popular  opinion  to  bear  upon  it. 
Every  minister,  no  matter  of  what  party,  would  avoid  the  risk  of  damaging 
his  credit,  of  seeing  his  plans  bungled  out,  of  being  exposed  to  the  censure 
of  political  opponents,  if  he  could,  for  he  must  be  the  scapegoat  for  all 
that  goes  wrong — no  errors  are  "  excepted"  in  his  case.  There  is  charity  for 
all  things  but  a  prime  minister ;  his  bones  are  not  canonised  even  after 
martyrdom.  There  was  a  time  when  ignorance  was  a  venial  thing  in 
public  life ;  we  remember  the  history  of  a  chairman  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  which  might  be  a  useful  study  for  Lord  Cecil,  whose  objection 
to  literary  men  is,  perhaps,  that  they  know  too  much.  We  speak  of  a 
Lord  William  Poulet,  whose  knowledge  went  as  far  as  was  requisite  in 
his  time,  more  than  half  a  century  ago  it  is  true,  and  who  could  scarcely 
read — who  saw  in  "equivalent"  the  animal  denominated  an  " elephant ; 
and  being  required  to  give  a  written  denial  that  he  was  the  writer  of  a 
certain  pamphlet,  began,  "  This  is  to  scratifjr,  that  the  buk  called  the 

Soak "     "  Hold,  my  lord !"  cried  the  requisitionist,  "  that  is  enough. 

Your  lordship  did  not  write  the  pamphlet,  I  am  convinced."  Sir  John 
Germain  believed  that  Sir  Matthew  Decker  wrote  the  Gospel  of  St. 
Matthew.  It  was  but  the  other  day,  at  a  military  examination  where 
the  questions  and  answers  were  deliberately  written,  we  were  informed 
that  the  question,  "  Where  are  the  Pyrenees  ?"  was  answered, "  In  India." 
Yet  the  Queen's  commission  had  been  borne  by  the  answerer  several 
years.  A  boarding-school  girl  would  have  answered  the  question  correctly. 
We  knew  of  a  case  just  after  the  recent  order  came  out  that  officers  were 
expected  to  read  and  make  themselves  acquainted  with  history,  or  to  the 
same  effect,  that  a  youth  of  the  Guards  entered  a  bookseller's  shop  in 
Pall  Mall,  and  in  the  course  of  conversation  asked  the  bibliopolist  what 
he  would  recommend  him  to  read,  "  such  a  bore  of  an  order  having  come 

K  2 


130  Adminikrative  Refbrtri. 

out"  "Really  I  can't  gay,"  was  the  reply;  "that  book  close  to  yon  'id 
a  very  entertaining  one."  "What  is  it?"  "Boswell's  Johnson,"  "Ohy 
I  read  ( Boz'  some  time  ago."  We  have  heard  of  twenty  young  officials 
being  asked  if  they  had  read  the  "  Vicar  of  WakefiekJ ;"  only  two.  had 
done  so,  but  all  had  read  the  vile  "  Mysteries  of  London."  >^ 

It  is  a  great  misfortune  that  when  youth  is  instructed  in  die  ekmeni^ 
of  education,  it  ceases.  No  course  of  useful  direction  leading  to  reflection 
follows ;  no  attempt  to  create  those  habits  which  render  reading  realty 
beneficial.  Hence  it  is  that  the  spread  of  education  has  had  little  or  no 
effect  on  the  public  mind,  nor  will  it  have  any  beyond  creating  a  belief 
that  reading  is  designed  solely  for  amusement,  books  of  mereatnwsit 
nient  are  complete  barriers  to  mental  progress ;  other  works  are  oonstdered 
too  dry  and  uninteresting  after  them*  Professing  to  remedy  all  tktf 
foregoing  evils,  there  was  started  in  the  City  the  new  Administrative 
Reform  Society.  Established  now  a  considerable  time,  it  has  not  yefe 
discovered  the  talisman  which  is  to  infuse  into  the  senility  of  the  publki 
service  the  strength  of  the  young  eagle*  v> 

It  was  once  rumoured  in  the  ancient  town  of  Plymouth  that  tap 
skipper  of  a  bark,  well  inured  to  navigation  by  twenty  years-  probation id 
all  weathers,  who  knew,  as  well  as  he  knew  his  vernacular  tongue}  evere* 
creek,  rock,  shoal,  sounding,  and  bearing  on  the  northern  eoasfe, 
necessarily  be  one  of  the  most  experienced  of  seamen  in  general  tie 
tion.  If  a  certain  local  experience  would  answer  for  every  coast,  thi^^ 
no  doubt  correct,  and  Mr.  Bobstay  merited  the  encomiums  lie  received; 
He  had  never  navigated  the  Channel  bat  had  occasionally  "  sighted^ 
ihe  Foreland;  Dungenest  was  io  him  an  unjcnown  shore,  and  the  bearings 
of  Portland,  for  alt  he  knew,  were  those  of  Cape  Blanco.  None  ever, 
handled  a  collier  between  the  Tyne,  Tees,  and  Thames  in  a  more  sailer* 
like  manner.  Fame  was  thrust  upon  him.  The  adroit  mastership  dig* 
played  between  the  Tyne  and  the  Thames,  in  vulgar  opinion  equally 
entitled  him  to  the  priority  in  seamanship  off  the  coast  of  China  in«a 
typhoon,  or  St.  Lucia  in  a  West  Indian  hurricane.  The  result  was  that 
'Bobstay  obtained  the  command  of  a  noble  merchant  vessel  in  Catwateq 
and  taking  a  hurried  leave  of  the  black  diamond  traffic,  qualifying  Jus 
outicular  Condition  by  a  generous  use  6£  the  lavatory,  he  set  sail  from  4be 
famed  port  of  the  Hawkins  and  Drakes,  bound  to  Newfoundlands  He 
Was  spoken  with,  all  well,  off  the  Lizard.  The  owners  at  Plymouth  had 
an  anticipatory  dinner,  to  which,  according  to  the  papers,  all  the  regioas 
of  the  globe  contributed  their*  varieties,  and  where  the  departed  Bobstay 
unconscious  of  the  ■  honour,  was  toasted  with  three  times  threei  Tintt 
flew— months  passed.  The  owneis  awoke  as  usual  under  the  pressure  of 
a  golden  nightmare,  when  one  morning  Bobstay  and  his  vessel  weret db> 
kerned  quietly  at  anchor  in  the  Sound.  I 

<  •  "How  is  this  ?w  the  startled  owners  inquired,  scarcely  oat  of  their 
golden  dream*—" sprung  a  leak?-— run  from  a  pirate  ?  ■  what  ii  -die 
tnatterr       -^  >■  -.a 

"  No,  gentlemen,  shift  and  cargo  all  right,"  replied  the  mastery  HI 
put  back  because  I  have  beat  about  and  about,  and  for  the  soul  of  ael 
Can't  discover  where  Newfoundland  is — gentlemen,  I  can't  find  it.?  i 
Such  nihility  where  confidence  ran  high  is  not  mortifying  alone  tb 
i!nercai*il*  flask  To  see  a  lofty  reputation  like  an  inverted  oone-cfc 
^pyramid  in  place  of  recediag  course  after  course,  threatening  theacafy 


Adrninittrative  Reform.  131: 

by  its  impending  shadow — is  too  bad.  Spectators  would  smile  at  archi- 
tects who,  in  seeking  a  right  royal  road  to  reputation,  begin  their  edifices 
with  the  apex  downwards.  Yet,  if  there  be  such,  they  must  not  be  dis- 
couraged, for  happily,  as  with  the  skipper  Bobstay,  the  world  every  day 
gives  credit  for  the  power  of  performing  great  feats  to  those  whose  utmost 
efforts  have  never  been  able  to  go  beyond  very  little  ones. 

The  profuse  promises  of  the  administrative  reformers  have,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  terminated  like  Bobstay's  voyage.  It  would  do  the  seaman  and 
committee  injustice  to  analyse  their  qualifications  in  regard  to  the  duties 
they  undertook,  those  duties  being  dissimilar.  The  society — perhaps  it 
should  be  "company,"  from  starting  into  existence  beneath  the  fostering 
Shadow  of  Gog  and  Magog — at  present  tremorish  from  dread  of  reform 
themselves— the  "company"  exhibited  symptoms  of  weakness  at  its  first 
meeting.  The  shares  were  never  at  par.  The  reasons  may  not  all  be 
clear,  but  there  was  the  fatality  that  no  duke  was  in  the  chair,  nor  even  a 
baron  as  apt*  alter.  Mr. Bull  regards  this  as  an  omission  not  to  be 
overlooked.  Bull  and  his  family  are  sensitive  in  the  matter  of  "re- 
spectability"— a  canting,  indefinable  term  in  great  favour  with  them. 
Unless  Bull  is  able  to  see  that  word  in  large  letters,  and  he  is  thus  certain 
his  orthodox  servility  ia  secured,  he  will  not  sanction  any  novel  proposal 
under  the  head  either  of  faith,  hope,  or  charity.  -  His  rule  of  life  is  me- 
chanical ;  he  lives  upon  the  sayings  and  notions  of  others.  Reasoning  is 
a  superfluous  commodity  with  him.  The  matter  is  cut  short  at  once  by 
a coroneted chairman,  for  there  is  then  the  stamp  of  "respectability," 


With  a  list  of  subscribers  in  the  papers,  where  Bull,  his  wife,  and  pro- 
geny, may  conspicuously  appear,  with  their  subscriptions,  the  parent 
pair  having  a  wonderful  *  knack  at  propagation.  Without  those  ante- 
cedents secured,  =or  anticipated  on  sure  ground,  there  is  no  chance  of 
a-  family  donation  even  in  the  most,  tragical  of  cases.  With  those 
antecedents,  fiftther,  mother,  and  <  the  whole  brood,  with  eyes  on  the 
chair,/ ears  dreading  to  lose  a  word,  and  mouths  expanded,  will  whine 
and  Mnbber  in  full  chorus.  1  Such  is.  the  effect  of  a  politic  regard  to  a 
titled  chairman  in  filling  subscription-lists  and  lachrymatories.  We 
fear  the  truth  is  that  the. committee  at  its  first  meeting  were  afraid  of  a 
rebuff  had  they  solicited  a  man  of  high  rank  to  act  on  an  occasion  of  that 
jttuliar  kiiwL  He  must  have  exhibited,  they  imagined,  rather  a  grotesque 
awbition  in  taking  the-  place  of  honour  on  such  an  occasion,  especially  if 
lie  were  a  borough  patron.  They  forgot  that  in  these  times  peer  and 
|Massntf  agree  ithat  progress  is  reform.  -  Not  only  was  there  the  above 
defect,  but  Bull  was  not  quite  satisfied  about  what  he  should  gain  by 
■abb  City  committee.  He  must  see  a  direct  advantage*  clear  to  himself  rf 
•to  nobody  else.  This  conviction  might  have  been  produced  had  a  dinner 
been  announced  after  another  meeting^  where  Bull  might  dine  himself 
into  an  easy,  intermediate  state  of  being,  awaking  peculiar  kindliness, 
iuirtU(h»mtt«dlin  sympathieschanged  him  from,  bigotry  in  creed  to  the 
most  generous  of  universalisms,  from  infrigidation  to  the  most  emollient 
fcharily;  r  Virtue  with  him  cannot,  inside  the  London  Tavern,  be  sus- 
ftaiaedt  free  of  venison  on  any  occasion.  His  entrance  there  4m  all  busi- 
ness implies  edacious  conditions ;  these  things  go  pleasantly  from  having 
dns  ■  reasons  >  under  hand.  u  Administrative  reform !  —-meeting  at  the 
/London  Tavern— no  dinner  P  There  appeared  nothing  personally  pro- 
<£iabkiito*heliikigv    Wbat.dkl  BuU  ever  ear*  to  otherueeople  now,  or 


132  AdrntMiMtratwe  Reforwu 


for  posterity  SMreaftcr,  unless  when  bis  virtues  wore  nrhesud  brnert 
and  tnrtle,  when  lib  gastriloqaism  finds  Tent  in  the  psjthetie-eccjsi.  8a 
he  shook  his  need  and  broad  shoulder*,  and  said  he  could  not  uavlentane 
it.  "  What  was  the  administration  of  a  purge  to  the  College  of  Phy- 
sicians to  him?  What  good  would  it  do  mm  analysing  the  draughts  of 
the  apothecaries?  What  should  he  get  by  moderating  the  gmgitasion 
of  Morison's  entrail-deetroying  drastics  ?  Was  it  reformings  supernu- 
merary ehnrch  offices? — Chancery  proceedings ?  Was  the  ccarootion 
and  administration  of  the  Mansion  House  turtle  to  be  regulated  ?  Was 
the  inarrow-pudding  to  be  in  future  submitted  to  their  sublimities  the 
Court  of  Aldermen  before  the  feast,  to  prevent  that  civic  ooftft*  bomeke 
from  being  bronght  into  contempt?  Was  that  distinguished  adawatt- 
trator  of  the  law,  Mr.  John  Ketch,  to  be  reprehended  or  retire  on  a 
pension  ?  Was  the  corporation  of  London  to  be  amended,  and  the  fake 
pretence  of  its  corporate  representatives  being  those  of  the  metropolis  of 
England  to  be  set  aside  ?"  Boil  could  not  find  anything  definite  in  the 
loose  proposals  with  which  the  committee,  like  another  Pallas,  started  at 
once  into  maturity  from  the  halls  of  the  London  Tavern*  No  other  reason 
has  yet  been  publicly  ascertained  for  Bull's  neglect  except  the  neglect  of 
the  titled  chairman,  and  the  self-evident  deficiency  of  the  gastroavMnical 
induction  of  the  subject.  Bull  agreed  that  he  scented  a  disagreeable 
odour  as  well  as  a  good  many  others  of  her  Majesty's  subjects,  bat  he 
discovered  that  the  committee  had  not,  or  could  not,  point  oat  a  dis- 
infector. 

The  committee  were,  no  doubt,  in  earnest,  and  so  was  honest  Sancho 
about  bis  government  of  Barataria.  They  might  not  have  been  at  all 
deficient  in  those  pedestrious  conveniences  with  which  certain  divines  tell 
us  that  in  one  particular  hell  is  made  as  comfortable  for  a  promenade  as 
Regent-street ;  but  they  have  left  us  in  the  dark  upon  all  the  other 
points  but  their  good  intentions.  We  want  details  ;  we  wish  to  learn 
what  are  their  plans  for  storming  the  public  offices,  and  to  be  able  in 
judge  whether  there  is  any  probability  of  success,  and  whether  the  return 
of  the  Guards  from  the  Crimea  may  not  become  an  obstacle  to  their 
assaults  upon  Somerset  House  and  the  Treasury.  It  is  to  be  feared  they 
did  not  start  masters  of  their  subject.  They  built  too  much  upon  truth 
being  on  their  side,  not  at  all  recollecting  that  at  present,  as  in  the  past 
time,  people  will  sooner  begin  the  foundation  of  an  edifice  upon  sand 
than  upon  truth.  They  expected  the  lady  of  that  unhonoured  name 
would  come  up  from  the  bottom  of  her  well  to  kindle  their  tiny  lucifer 
match,  and  blow  it  up  into  a  flame  that  should  enlighten  England  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  while  they  placed  the  hopeful  young  nominees  of  peers 
and  M.P.'s  in  the  fire  of  purification,  they  themselves  acting  the  part  of 
priests  of  Moloch  in  putting  the  children  through  the  fire.  But  the 
forms  and  ceremonies  on  so  momentous  an  occasion?  These  seem 
abandoned  to  accident,  it  is  to  be  feared  from  lack  of  having  secured  the 
details  from  the  Philistines,  out  of  the  archives  of  the  Society  of  Anti- 
quaries. Under  such  a  happy  species  of  purification,  like  a  Salic  law 
acquittal,  we  should  no  doubt  find  Euclids  in  our  gaugers,  Justinians  in 
our  lawyers,  St.  Pauls  in  our  chaplains,  Solons  in  our  rulers,  and  correct 
spelling,  with  some  adaptation  of  things  to  proper  times  and  circum- 
stances in  our  Horse  Guards  Sieves. 

The  foregoing  patriotic  hopes  on  the  part  of  the  public  wiH,  we  feat, 


Administrative  Reform.  133 

remain  in  suspension  for  gome  time  to  come.  Many  men  of  great  note 
in  the  City  possess  credit  without  VJeslfcetej  the  committee  may  hare 
esteem  without  credit  for  the  extent  of  their  services.  It  is,  as  appears 
to  us,  gone  back  from  where  it  sot  oat,  its  Newfoundland  being  still 
unfound.  Hare  they  no  spurs  to  u  prick  the  sides  of  their  intent 
withal?"  They  do  not  mean,  like  the  Flying  Dutchman,  to  be  ever  at 
sea  out  of  sight  of  land  ?  It  is  better  they  should  anchor  alongside  their 
ledgers  in  Mark-lane  and  Thames-street,  than  not  give  us  some  account 
of  their  progress,  if  it  be  not  an  Eastern  Counties  Railway  statement. 
We  want  to  know  their  rolling  stock,  their  motive  power,  the  means 
they  possess  for  grinding  old  stiff  official  incorrigibtes  into  new  and 
effective  elasticities,  to  see  that  the  drivers  of  the  office  engines  are  duly 
qualified,  and  that  time  be  at  last  so  properly  valued  in  public  offices, 
that  half  an  hour  be  no  mora  consumed  in  answering  the  question  of 
"What's  o'clock  ?"  In  short,  wo  must  have  specifications  and  plans  to 
strengthen  our  faith,  that  it  may  be  known  what  there  is  to  Hope  of  some 
good  crawling  out  at  last,  or  whe&er  we  are  to  consider  it  all  a  "  Bob- 
stay's  Voyage,"  after  the  City,  from4  Bishopsgate  to  London  Bridge,  has 
been  so  long  aching  on  the  tjptoe  of  expectation. 

Is  the  committee  content  with  its  past  exertions,  and  does  it  intend  to 
leave  the  question  as  it  is,  having  burned  priming?  The  Parliamentary 
committee  upon  civil  service  qualification  has  perhaps,  they  think,  taken 
the  matter  out  of  their  hands ;  but  the  objects  of  that  committee  go  not, 
it  is  reported,  beyond  the  limit  of  the  above  service.  If  the  City  com- 
mittee have  so  resolved,  it  is  to  be  commended  for  that  valuable  quality 
possessed  by  prudent  people  in  passing  through  a  troublesome  world, 
valuable  more  especially  where  sagacity  and  genius  are  wanting;  we 
mean  discretion,  a  sort  of  second-rate  prudence,  excellently  well  adapted 
for  beating  a  retreat  when  advance  becomes  hopeless. 

Hie  committee  was  surely  not  ignorant  of  twite  >  qualifications  required 
in  the  different  departments  of  the  Governmetit.  aj0n  starting  similar 
objects,  too  much  is  sometimes  taken  for  grantfitt;  and  the  chapter  of 
accidents  is-  left  to  work  out  the  operation.  Tne  measure  being  bene- 
ficial, the  mode  of  action  will  come,  it  is  supposed,  from  chance  quarters, 
and  thus  things  will  slip  into  their  right  places  in  the  end.  Did  the 
City  committee  master  the  views  and  examine  the  evidence  of  the  Par-' 
liamentary  Civil  Service  Committee  ?  Did  it  coincide  or  not  as  to  the 
requisite  degree  of  information  or  instruction  which  should  qualify  candi- 
dates for  places  ?  The  City  committee  could  not  expect  to  compass  its 
end  destitute  of  means. 

If  under  the  departmental  heads,  rigid,  unsparing,  unbending  exami- 
nations were  exacted  free  of  favour  or  affection,  no  Oxford  or  Cambridge 
practices  being  permitted,  so  that  a  minister  may  say  to  a  hungry  M.P. 
who  must  have  his  nominee  from  the  bogs  of  Munster  or  Connaught, 
under  penalty  of  his  anti-ministerial  vote,  safely  housed  in  the  Tax-office, 
or  daily  refreshed  with  the  odour  of  whisky  at  the  Customs  freshly 
imported,  "  Master  Pat  shall  have  a  place  if  you  will  bring  me  the 
necessary  certificate  of  his  ability,  without  which  you  are  aware  I  can  do 
nothing,"-— if  this  answer  could  be  given  rigidly  in  all  cases,  the  public 
would  be  protected,  and  a  change  for  the  better  would  follow.  The  son 
of  the  peer  or  peasant,  under  an  examination  equally  stringent,  would 
them  be  qaalified  for  serving  the  public,  and  the  public,  clear  upon  this 


134  Administrative  RrferHu 

point,  would  not  care  winch  it  was.    At  present  the  appointment  of 


inefficient  persons  is  not  dependent  upon  die  choice  of  the  minister,  for 
he  cannot  refuse  without  hazard,  wider  01 


hazard,  under  one  of  those  necessities  which  in 
every  position  of  society  is  more  or  less  the  rating  principle,  whatever 
evil  it  may  involve,  besides  subjecting  the  heads  of  departments  to  the* 
accusation  of  that  conniption,  which  in  private  business  is,  from  choice}' 
daily  practised,  but  which  is  here  ft  species  of  self-defence. 

It  can  be  deemed  no  advantage  to  any  administration  that  blechhoadd 
should  be  pitchforked  into  subordinate  offices,  when  it  must  look  to  them 
for  the  punctual  fulfilment  of  its  orders.  When  Lord  Aberdeen,  the' 
Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  their  friends)  ordered  the  expedition  to  the 
East,  they  had  a  just  right  to  suppose  thai  in  a  country  like  this,  so- 
powerful  in  means  under  all  the  different  branches  of  the  service,  they 
would  find  them  every  way  efficient.  It  was  not  so ;  the  inefficiency  of  ■ 
the  leaders  of  _the  army  under  a  system  which  die  ministry  did  not 
create,  ruined  that  ministry.  These  was. nothing  unconstitutional  in 
this  result;  all  ministers  are  answerable  .^ler  similar  circumstances. 
But  can  it  be  conducive  to  the  welhbeing  *  any  administration  to  be 
ill  served  in  its  inferior  departments,  and  let??  ..:  the  end  to  these  results? 
The  evil  had  become  ingrained,  and  only  recent  revelations  connected' 
with  the  Crimean  expedition  forced  it  into  notice*  No  administration 
can  remedy  such  a  mischief  unless  it  be  supported  by  public  opinion,  and* 
upon  that  object  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  fix.  public  opinion,  nines* 
its  deformities  were  strongly  revealed,  as  by  accident  they  have  been.' 
Those  who  used  the  system  for  their  own  advantage  would  not  have' 
hesitated  to  show  its  insulated  promoters  marks  of  their  distaste.  By 
"  insulated"  we  mean  any  individual  minister  or  man  who  instituted  s> 
searching  inquiry  into  the  fitness  of  placing  matters  in  a  state  equally 
just  to  merit  t~  to  the  public.  Because  the  selected  legislators  themselves 
make  tf  *  profit  ♦out  <**£#*  system  existent,  why  disguise  the  truth? 
The  coldness  with  <S?*ich  H£dmes  for  the  extension  of  parliamentary  re* 
form  have  been  recertify  received  originated  in  the  observation  so  note* 
riously  true,  that  the  "  last  state  of  too  many  who  get  into  parliament 
is  exceedingly  better  than  the  first."  ^Let  the  elastie  political  morality 
of  the  people  be  exchanged  for  the  strict  rule  of  duty  tt>  their  >eoun try, 
and  there  will  not  be  much  longer  any  complaint  on  the  sees*  of  official 
imbecility.  Let  those  who  go  with  the  multitude  to  do  "good,"  *ut* 
pend  the  enjoyment  of  exalting  its  reputation  until  it  change*  it*  prao* 
tice  of  accepting  for  legislators  the  first  comer,  any  body— we  had  almost 
said  any  "  thing"--~from  some  preponderating  motive,  not  alwaysvounded 
on  direct  corruption,  but  such  as  the  support  of  a  railway*  job: or <* 
speculative  company,  under  all  which  considerations  the  true  legislative 
duties  of  a  representative*  in'  connexion  with  a  great  nation,  are  huts) 
secbndary  affair.  The  sin  under  this  head—not  to  speak  of  still  lower 
considerations — is  enormous.  A  great  minister  of  England  once  satnV 
"  It  was  fortunate  so  few  men  could  be  prime  ministers,  as  it  was  best 
that  few  should  thoroughly  know  the  shocking  wickedness  of  mankind^' 

Those  who  form  committees,  however  laudable  in  object,  are  bouno\  he* 
fore  they  bring  them  out,  to  make  their  business  clear  in  all  its  bearings; 
so  as  to  exhibit  the  remedy  for  the  cure  of  the  disease  of  which  they  com* 
plain.  Doctors  of  medicine  exhibit  bread-pille  sometimes ;  not  knowing 
what  1»i9imhda^iiih^f^km^  tqgwre  sowetanng; .:  Wcdoaiotget 


AdmirditrativeBefarm^  13S 

even  bfe*d*p$|§  from  the  committee.  It  doe*/  not  seem  that  the  Ad- 
miatstrativeiRelbrm  body  have  proposed  a  palliative  of  any  similar  kind 
to  the  expecting  public:  if  they  cannot  manage  a  cure.  We  fear  they 
did  not  study  the  case  before  they  offered  to  effect  a  cure,  or  they  would: 
have  proposed  a  mode  of  treatment  in  detail.  The  sanguine  feeling  of 
the  Peace  Society,  which  is  a  society,  too,  that  sustains  itself  upon  taking 
things  for  granted  in  the  way  of  remedy,  got  a  cruel  truth  from  Loud 
EairaerBton  the  [other  day,  when  he  undeceived  them  in  their  projects  of 
keeping;  peace  in  Europe  by  national  arbitrations.  Despite  the  immortal 
pilgrimage  to  St.  Petersburg,  they  persist  in? -pursuing  the  end  without 
the  means*  .They  presume  that  eowts  winch  rule  nations  and  tbosrl 
destinies  can  be  got  to  settle  national  disputes  by  arbitration;  a  species 
of  amiable  simplicity  ef  belief  and  of  good  intention,  at  the  expense  o£ 
aft  past  experience,  all  past  knowledge  of  courts,  all  hope  among  those 
who  kaow  the  Hinbonr  flagitiousness  ef  the  powers  which  be,  and  their 
concentration  ef  every  tendency  to  evil  found  in  hnnaan,  nature--"  ten- 
dency to"  (it  should  be  "  practice  of")  all  possible  vice*.  The  mdividueJb 
criminal  is  repressed  by  laws  which  he  has  been  accustomed, to jobey.j 
courts  know  no  law,  human  or  divine;  the  fear  of  some  hostile  brute 
force  alone  restrains  them.  Jealousies,  hatreds*,  hypocrisies,  murders,  in* 
justices  of  every  kind  mark  their  career.  Domestic  rebellion  appre*' 
bended,  or  the  dread  of  a  neighbour  equally  powerful,  not  moral  restraint, 
holds  them  in;  n£  shuffle  is  too  mean,  no  resource  of  low  cunning  be* 
neath  their  adoption. .  >  The  colour  or  contour  of  a  crime  never  troubles, 
their  slumbers.  /Sully— and  his  experience  cannot  be  denied— Sully  eaya> 
"  The  grandest  and  most  serious  affairs  of  state  derive  their  origin  and 
their  most  violent  movements  from  the  silliness,  jealousies,  envies,  and 
other  whims  of  a  court,  and  are  rather  regulated  by  those  than  by  medi- 
tations and  well-digested  consultations,  or  by  considerations  of  honour* 
glory,  or  good  faith!"  Let  us  imagine  Russia  arbitrating  between 
Austria  and  Prussia,  or  the  Pope  between  Sardinia  and  the  last  and 
worst  of  the  Bourbons  at  Naples,  what  a  melancholy  farce  would  it  be  1 
Would  to  God,  for  the  sake  of  mankind,  for  the  sake  of  the  peace  and 
happiness  of  Europe,  such  a  scheme  were  practicable,  to  preserve  us  from 
the  calamities  of  war  in  future !  Would  to  God  the  Peace  Society  were 
rfigbtj  and  the  experience  of  all  time,  past  and  present,  on  the  feasibility 
of*  the  means  they  advocate  were  wrong.  Those  who  mean  well  are 
©feeoj  unaware,,  in  their  desire  to  do  good,  of  the  insurmountable  ob* 
tftacles  in  their  way.  There  was  once  an  hereditary  professor  of  divinity 
4t  Hamburg.  Franklin  talked  of  hereditary  mathematicians,  after  the 
example  of  the  practice  of  our  House  of  Lords  as  hereditary  judges.  We 
fear  our  numerous  successions,  of  reformers  .resemble  these  hereditary 
absurdities,  in  their  eontinued;  sueceseions,  without  a  more  efficient  fulfil* 
mentiaf  their  objects  than  if  they  were  continued  from  sire  to  son.  The 
truth  is,  they  set.  out  wrong  in  supposing  the  multitude  always  right  * 
Whereas*  the  mischief  begins  in  the  venality  of  the  people,  and  naturally 
shoots  upward.  The  leaven  of  virtue  in  the  masses  is  neutralised  by  the 
wrioant  of  their  unleavened  eiU,  and  there  is,  over  and  above,  a  surplus 
number  besides,  to  whom  their ..  superiors,  rightly  or  wrongly,  when 
vituperated  to  the  colour  of  midaieht,  might  reply  in  the  well-known  Ian* 
e  of  the  potto  the  kettle*,  which*  however  to  the  point,  savours  tee 
t  of  that  of  the  scmllieo  to  adopt  ^the;decoraticm  of  these  pages. 


(    136    ) 


THE  MISSING  LETTER. 


It  was  the  dinner-hour  at  Hill  House  Farm,  an  hour  after  mid-day. 
Mr.  Sterling,  the  farm's  occupant,  and  his  daughter  sat  down  to  it  alone. 
The  farmer  was  sinking  into  years,  and  latterly  he  had  been  full  of  ail- 
ments, had  grown  short  of  breath  and  wheezy  on  the  chest,  and  could  not 
look  after  his  out-door  pursuits  as  formerly.  His  daughter  was  of  quiet, 
gentle  manners,  not  beautiful,  hut  full  of  earnest  truth  and  kindness.  It 
was  singular  that  the  farmer's  only  child,  who  was  admired  wherever  she 
was  known,  and  who  would  be  the  inheritor  of  his  substance,  should  hare 
gained  her  six-and-twentieth  year  without  having  changed  her  name,  hut 
she  laughingly  answered,  when  joked  about  it,  that  she  could  not  afford 
to  leave  her  father  and  mother. 

"  Shall  I  carve  to-day,  father,  or  will  you  ?"  inquired  Anne. 

"  You  carve,  child.     Cut  for  your  mother  first.,, 

But  Anne  chose  first  of  all  to  help  her  father.  The  dish  was  boiled 
beef,  and  she  was  careful  to  cut  it  for  him  as  he  best  liked  it.  Appetite 
never  failed  with  Farmer  Sterling.  She  then  rose  to  take  up  her  mother's 
dinner. 

"  Hallo,  Anne !*  cried  the  farmer,  "  what  are  you  leaving  the  table 
for  ?     Where's  Molly,  that  she  can't  take  that  up  ?" 

"Molly  has  so  much  to  do  to-day,"  was  his  daughter's  reply. 
"  There's  Martha's  work,  as  well  as  her  own ;  and  with  her  weak  knee 
she  will  not  be  able  to  stir  when  night  comes,  if  she  has  to  run  up  and 
down  stairs.     I  shall  be  there  and  back  in  a  minute." 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  former  drew  his  arm-chair  close  to  the  fire. 
Anne  gave  him  his  pipe  and  tobacco,  set  his  jug  of  ale  beside  him,  and 
then  went  up  to  her  mother's  chamber.  She  smoothed  the  bed  and  the 
pillows,  changed  her  mother's  cap  for  a  smarter  one,  in  case  any  neigh- 
bours dropped  in,  put  some  lavender-water  on  her  handkerchief,  and  gave 
her  her  usual  little  glass  of  wine. 

"  What  else  can  I  do,  mother  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Nothing,  my  dear.  Sit  down  and  be  still.  You  must  be  tired, 
helping  Molly  so  much  this  morning.  Unless  you  will  read  a  psalm. 
The  book  is  here." 

Anne  Sterling  took  the  Prayer-book,  and  read  the  evening  psalms  for 
the  day.  Her  accent  and  manner  of  reading  were  those  of  a  gentle- 
woman, practically  inured,  as  she  was,  to  inferior  household  occupations. 
She  then  sat  talking,  till,  after  a  while,  her  mother  seemed  inclined  to 
sleep  5  so  Anne  softly  left  the  room,  and  went  down  stairs  into  the  kitchen. 
It*  was  then  four  o'clock. 

"Well,  Molly,  how  are  you  getting  on?" 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,"  crossly  responded  the  old  servant,  who  was  a  fixture 
in  the  familv.  "  Martha  hadn't  need  to  go  gadding  out  for  a  holiday 
every  day,  though.     I'm  off  now  into  the  dairy." 

"Is  my  father  gone  into  the  fields  7*  inquired  Miss  Sterling. 


Tlie  Musing  Letter.  t 137 

"Tha'n't  seen  nor  heer'd  him  since  dinner." 

"  What,  all  this  while  !     Then  he  mast  hare  dropped  asleep." 

As  Anne  spoke,  she  went  along  the  passage  to  the  sitting-room,  and 
soon  a  wild  shriek  reached  Molly  s  ears.  The  latter  ran  after  her,  as  well 
as  her  lame  leg  would  allow. 

Farmer  Sterling  was  in  a  fit  His  pipe  lay  broken  on  the  ground,  and 
his  head  had  fallen  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  his  eyes  starting,  and 
froth  issuing  from  his  lips.    Molly  screamed  out  that  it  was  apoplexy. 

"  He'll  be  gone,"  she  uttered,  "  unless  something  can  be  done.  He's 
going  fast.     However  can  we  get  the  doctor  here  in  time  ?" 

Anne  Sterling,  pale,  as  a  sheet,  gathered,  her  scared  senses  together. 
"  I  will  run  into  Layton  for  the  doctor,"  she  said ;  "you  would  never  get 
there.    Hold  his  head  up  and  rub  his  hands  while  I  am  gone." 

She  darted  off  without  bonnet  or  shawl  across,  the  fold-yard  into  the 
lane,  which  was  the  nearest  way  to  the  little  town  of  Layton,  flying  along 
as  if  for  her  life.  It  was  dirty,  and  the  mud  splashed  up  with  every  step. 
A  labourer,  in,  a  smock-frock,  who  was  at  work  in  a  contiguous  field, 
stared  at  her  with  astonishment,  and  strided  to  the  stile  to  look  si  her  as 
she  passed. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  as  she  darted  up  to  him,  her  heart  leaping  at  the 
sight  of  a  human  being,  one  who  might  perhaps  be  of  service,  "  if  you 
can  run  quicker  than  I,  pray  go  for  me  into  Layton.  My  fat^err—  I 
— I  did  not  nptice  that  it  was  jrou,"  she  abruptly  broke  off;  "  I.  beg  your 
,  pardon."  And,  swifter  if  possible  than  before,  she  flew  on  her  way  .Sown 
the  lane.  ...... 

He  was  scarcely  more  than  thirty  years  of  age,  yet  lines  of  care  were 
in  his  face,  and  silver  was  mixed  with  his  luxuriant  hair,  but  his  counte- 
nance was  open  and  pleasant  to  look  upon.  He  was  a  tall,  agile  man, 
and  he  leaped  the  stile  and  overtook  Anne. 

"  Miss  Sterling !  Miss  Sterling!"  he  impressively  said,!  as  he  came  up 
with  her,  and,  strange  to  say— strange  when  contrasted, ,witkhis  dress  and 
his  menial  occupation — his  words  and  bearing  were  those  of  an  educated 
and  refined  man, — "you  are  in  some  distress.  Though  it  is  I — myself: 
though  I  am  a  banned,  persecuted  outcast,  need  that  neutralise  any  aid  I 
can  render?     Surely.no  curse'will  follow  that    What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

She  hesitated.  Her  breath  was  getting  short,  her  legs  were  aching, 
and  she  felt  she  could  not  keep  up  this  pace  long.  What  though  he  was 
pointed  to  amongst  his  fellow-men  as  a  criminal  who,  by  hick,  not  merit, 
had  escaped,  the  hulks,  was  not  her  father  dying  for  want  of.  aid  ?  Yes, 
she  would  waive  prejudice  at  this  time  of  need. 

"  My  father  is  in  a  fit,"  she  panted.  "  If  you  can  get  Mr.  Jelf  to 
him  quicker  than  1  can,  we  should  be  .  ever  thankful  to  you.  I  fear  it  is 
apoplexy." 

"Apoplexy!"  he  repeated;  "then  no  time  should  be  lost,  Miss 
Sterling.  It  must  be  half  an  hour  before  Mr.  Jelf  can  be  with  him,  even 
should  he  be  at  home.  He  must  be  bled  instantly.  Is  there  no  one  in 
the  house  who  can  do  it  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  as  she  ran  on,  for  she  had  n^t  halted  in  her  pace. 
"  Not  a  soul  is  in  the  house  but  Molly.  Save  my  mStter--who  is  bed- 
ridden." 

"  Then  I  had  better  go  hack  to  your  house — if  it  may  be  permitted  me 


to  enter  it  ;*  and  he  spoke  tike  hist  Words  w*tk  congous  h^e^feitfh.1  JttI 
7mav  be  aMeto»' do  sobbing!  if>ucah  ^  bnftr'Mr.  JW.°  l " •• ,:  '.'" 
'u-MBvitwtf-totBBmtitoA* ^    w  Lose  tie  tutte."1    {    ;     '    —•'/-'«>  luili 

He  sped  back  ^wiftlj,  and  entered  the  house  byway  of  the^tttcfiiejL 
He  knew  the  locality  well.  There  was  no  one  about,  bat  he.  heard  tab 
voice  of  Molly — he  remembered  that  weH,  ^so^^iog  OmY"  m  i  s^libing, 
startling  tone,  to  know  who* w;As  there.  !■■/...    ^     ?:  1 1  " 

She  started  mochtnore  when  he  went  in  and  she  saw  who  it  w*si  VA 
look  of  blank  dismay,  not  unmixed  with  resentment,  Overspread  heV 
countenance.'         •■'.:•■  ■  ;•■»,.••  »■:..-.■  :i 

"  What  do  you  want.  Master  Ledbitter  ?    What  bring^Jpiro  nerer^5 

*«  I  come  to  render  aiJl — if  any  be  in  my  power:  By*  Misa  SternWs 
desire,"  he  added,  distinctly.  "By  the  time  the  doctor  got  betelfe 
Would  be  past  aid,"  he  continued,  looking  at  the  unfortunate  man.  u  Qtk 
me  a  washnand'basin,  and  some  linen  to  make  a  bandage.  Have  you  atfy 
hot  water?"  '    -,JV0 

•  "Yes,"  sobbed  Molly,  "a  bile*  full     I  put  it  on  to  wash  omVufy 
kitchen."  *■- '-  ^" 

"Then  get  a  bucket  of  it,  and  bring  in  all  the  mustard  you  hate  % 
the  house,  while  I  take  off  hn  shoes  and  stockings.     Make  haste.;    We 


•  iifiin 


may  restore  him  yet." 

John  Ledbitter  spoke  with  an  air  of  authority,  ahd  Molly,  io  her  dwh 
astonishment,  obeyed,  much  as  she  despised  him.  Little  time  lost' hi. 
There  was  no  lancet  at  baiid;  but  he  bared  the  farmer's  arni,  and  used  Ids 
own  sharp  penknife.  He  was  an  intelligent  man,  knew  something  of 
surgery,  and  when  Anne  Sterling  returned  she  found  her  father  had  been 
rescued  from  immediate  danger.  Mr.  Jelf  was  not  with  her :  he  was  on 
the  other  side  Layton,  visiting  a  patient,  but  they  had  sent  after  hiin.  -la. 
neighbour  or  two  returned  with  Anne.  ■     ■  ■;  -.m 

"  He  ain't  in  no  favour  with  honest  folk,  that  John  Ledbrtter,^ieittarx3d 
Molly  to  Miss  Sterling,  when  she  came  in,  "but  sis  sure  as  we  sire  sirifel 
creatures,  you  may  thank  him,  Miss  Anne,  that  you  have  got  a  Hvm^ 
father.     He  was  at  the  last  gasp."  -■    •  '* 

He  did  more  besides  restoring  him.  He  was  strong  and  active,  and, 
with  a  little  help  from  the  women,  he  got  Mr.  Sterling  up-stairs,  undressed 
him,  and  placed  him  in  bed.  "  I  will  remain  and  watch  him,  with  your 
pennisskm,"  he  said,  looking  at  Anne,  "  till  the  surgeon  comes:1' 
'  " If  you  will  kindly  do  so,"  she  answered.  "I  am  very  grateful  to 
you,  indeed  I  am,"  she  added,  through  her  tears,  as  she  kindly  held  out 
her  hand  to  him.  "  My  mother  will  not  know  how  to  thank  you  when 
she  hears  that  to  you,  under  Heaven,  he  owes  his  life." 

Mr.  Ledbitter  did  not  take  her  offered  hand.  He  extended  his  own, 
and  turned  it  round  from  side  to  side,  as  if  to  exhibit  its  horny,  rough 
texture,  bearing  the  impress  of  hard,  out-door  work,  whilst  a  peculiar 
smile  of  mockery  and  bitterness  rose  to  his  nice.  "  It  is  not  so  fitting  as 
it  once  was  to  come  into  contact  with  a  lady's,"  he  observed ;  "these  last 
six  years  have  left  their  traces  on  it.  You  would  say  also,  as  the  world 
says,  that  worse  mt1  a  than  those  of  work  are  on  it — that  it  bears  the 
impress  of  its  crime,  as  Cain  bore  his." 

She  looked  distressed.     What  was  there  that  she  could  answer  ? 

"And  yet,  Anne— pardon  me,  the  familiar  name  rose  inadvertently) 


pot  from  disrespect :  I  used  to  call  you  so,  and  you  hav*  never  since,  ip 
my  mind,  been  anything  but  Anne  Sterling— r-what  if  I  were  tot?  assort 
that  the  traces  of  rough  usage  are  the  worst  guilt  of  which  that  hatidcan 
righteously, be  accuse/! — that  it  is  dyed  with  no  deeper  crime  ?  What 
*en?''  ..  ..       .:  ;  i        ./..         .  .      :"..H 

*   "  I  don't  l^iow,wfhe  Altered. 

"  I  do,"  he  answered.  "You  would  throw  my  assertion  to  the  winds, 
as  others  did,*  and  leave  me  to  toil,  and  blanch,,  and  die  in  them,  rather 
than  accord  me  the  sympathy,  sp  necessary  from  man  to  man,  even  though 
it  were  but  the  sympathy  of  pity.  A  messenger  of  Heaven  might  whisper 
such  to  a  fallen  angel."    /  •  •<?.'•-•"■ 

.  The  reproach  of  crime  had  lain  upon- John  Ledbitter  far  more  than 
six  long  years.  One  of  a  large  family,  and  of  highly  respectable  parents, 
he  was  brought  up  a  land-agent  and  agriculturist,  and  became  the 
manager  of  an  estatf  in  t^e  county.  Subsequently  the  property  changed 
owners,  and  John  Ledbitter,  whilst  looking  out  for  another  situation,  un- 
dertook to  drive  the  mail*car*  from:  Higham  <to  Weirford  and  Lay  ton.  It 
was  regarded  as  a  young  man's  freak  by  his  acquaintances,  and  they 
used  to  salute  him  as  the  "  gentlema*-«kirer.*  John  himself  said  he  did 
to  to  steer  clear  of  idleness  and  mischief.  Before  he  had  driven  it  three 
months,  a  letter  was  abstracted  from  the  Layton  bag,  in  a  mysterious 
manner ;  and  it; would  seem  that  the  -culprit  could  not,  by  any  possibility, 
have  been  other  than  John  Ledbitter.  The  Higham  postmaster,  Mr. 
Qrame,  had  put  this  letter  into  the  bag  with  his  own  hands,  secured  tile 
bag  (with  siring  ow/y-— the  custom  then),  and  delivered  it  to  Ledbitter. 
The  latter  locked  it  in  his  mail-carV  drove  *>  Layton,  and  handed  the 
bag  to  the  postmaster  of  that  plape:  but  the  letter  was  then  gone. 
There  could  not  be  a  more  palpable  case,  and  conviction  of  the  gentle* 
man-driver's  guilt  was  forced  on  every  breast.  The  letter  was  for 
Farmer  Sterling,  a«4  had  contained  a  fifty-pound  note;  which  fact  was 
previously  known,  a  similar  letter  and  enclosure  being  forwarded  to  the 
farmer  every  Christmas.  Ledbitter  was  not  prosecuted,  either  by  Farmer 
Sterling  or  the  government ;  but  he  had  since  been  a  proscribed  man 

Siongst  his  fellows.  It  appealed  an  unaccountable  fact  that  he  should 
ye  remained  in  the  locality  where  his  crime  was  committed :  better  for 
him  to  have  gone  where  he  was  not  known,  and  begun  life  again,  a  free 
man.  Employment  in  his  own  sphere  was  denied  him — who  would  trust 
a  thief? — and,  from  that  day,  had  John  Ledbitter,  by  manual  labour  as 
a  husbandman,  kept  body  and  soul  together. 

At  the  time  the  crime  was  committed  an  attachment  existed  between 
him  and  a  niece  of  Farmer  Sterling's,  a  Miss  Cleeve.  It  was  instantly 
and  rudely  broken  off  by  the  young  lady,  and  she  had  become  the  wife 
of  the  postmaster  of  Higham,  son  to  the  gentleman  spoken  of  above, 
who  then  held  the  situation.  And  whoa  John  Ledbitter  went  to  the 
farm,  this  afternoon,  to  the  succour  of  Mr.  Sterling,  it  was  the  first  time 
he  had  entered  it  for  these  six  dreary  years.   ' 


140 

M  ■ 


ThtMi* 


W1^ 


•   7aAm4b  Stbhuk 6  goV better,1  Itot  <>nly  far  [a  1tnjhfe,.w<l1ft,,jr^^^ 

one:  hardly  long  enough,  as  the  old  genflem^n  himself  Wld,  tarauVms 

peace  with  his  Make*.    He  never  left' his  bed  *fl^',f,|^S^^ 

whose  disorder  appeared  to!  abate*  to*  hef  frtreti^th  to  ^Hve' wi& 

necessity  of  the  'ease*  now  managed  to?  reach  her 

Ke^d  to  sit  with  him  to  fteverftl  hours:   "'' ''"  /!". '  '.  V  v;""''*"' 

:  .About  three  w^ek§  sabe^quetttly  'to  the  fiirmer'rf  attack,  fi&( 

went  to  Highamhy  the  morning  coach,  io  see  h^  xjoc&U^Mrii 

As  thai  entered  t^fiassage'  of  the  house/  the  office  wMcJi1  Iftfc ' ' 

Mr.  Grame  was  there,  stamping  some -fetters;    Jtothrwr4™'  J 

tibinkingi  he.nri^ r 

his  han3»«haking;  -  -i     t-'l   ,->•■   vip'-'         i-:  M.-rvrnVind 

"  Good  morning,  Walteip,^sbe  siHj  *V'le*gibV'i !  "Ijj ...., 
:  The  postiiaeter  looked  iipl  toWta*' -is It'W'jAn^F-*. 
just  eone^ Lsofroa*  "B&wfothej oldfeentlemanr  '' '',  •" "•»' ,<ori 
!  <f>He  is. better,  hut  gains'tto  strength,  a*d  deles  nbt]gei  "r"" 
the  first  day  he  has  seemed  sufficiently  comf&rtible  fcrmVi 
orl/Bhbtrid  hare>bee»fe  "  :     '; 

i .'«  And  I.hav*  beei*  so  bothei^  with  one  tlmig  or 
nothfiriaminmtetaridtoret.    Whafc%*Ws  that,  ahomY 
WeA^lifo??.  ^:-   MLrl-.i-  ;-:,:  -^;.  ■».'-'■ 

"He  certainly  did.,,  2$y  father  must  have  been 
surgeon  came,  had  it'  not  been 'fop  John  liedbitte*. 
*#c*ssavy  mmedieBya^  *« 

could  have  done."  ""'.  -.^,  ^  s .'••■       ,'".  'rv'*-  '-»™»  r:» 1u< 

.  ^Ah,.flwmen  <we  e^lyKfrightene^,>  cWesfily  rope^e^^  fjp^jb- 
master.     "  You  came  across  him,  we  heard,  as  you  were  -Wtivb&itWS 

"    "It  was  so."  ,  ■..!.!.i^-..i0.  iol  :Mr.nc 

"  Well,  then'  I  must  tefyyoai  Arine,r  that  I  exmtra^t^  (t^ '^port. 
For  I  never  could  WieW  youi  wwajd  fea*e; 'jpjmti&iyctoMtidlm 
speech  with/sueb  a  character,  stdl  less  to  admit  Urn  inside  the  he*fte,M:  'I 

"Not  to  save  my  father?"  returned  Anne.  "  I  would  ude  a*ty  ineai^ 
any  instruments  when  his  life  was  at  stake."  ,!.•■.-:»!    ^  1  >: 

,  ^Yqu  did  not  know  it  would  save  his  Hfe/ persisted  Mr»./Qrinie.  f'v^I( 
am  astonished  at  your  imprudence,  Anne/*  '!:     !;r     J  V 

«  Mj  father  was  dying  &r  want  of  assistance,":  she  retorted  vinnly/ 
"  I  am  thankful  that  Providence  threw  even  John  Ledbitter  in  my  way' 
to  render  it."  T\  ■  '*   -:l 

"Providence!"  sarcastically  ejaculated  the  postoaster. '  ' 

<c  Providenee,"  quietly  repeated  Anne.  *The  longer  I  live,  the  more 
plainly  do  I  see  the  hand  of  Providence  in  every  action  of  our  lives. 
Even  in  those  which  to  us  may  appear  insignificantly  trivial,  at  the 
moment  of  their  occurrence." 

"  You'll  avow  yourself  a  fatalist  next,"  rejoined  the  postmaster. 

"How  is  the  baby?"  inquired  Anne,  by  way  of  turning  the  conver- 
sation. 

"  Oh,  it's  well  enough,  if  one  may  judge  by  its  squalling.     I  never 


The  Missing  Letter.  141 

heard  a  young  one  with  such  lungs.     I  think  Selina  must  manage  it 
badly.     You'll  find  them  all  up-stairs." 

Miss  Sterling  ascended  to  an  upper  room,  Mrs.  Grame's  bed-chamber, 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  But  there  was  so  great  a  noise  inside  of  children 
crying,  that  she  found  little  chance  of  being  heard.  She  opened  it.  Mrs. 
Grame  sat  in  a  rocking-chair,  in  an  invalid  wrapper  and  shawl,  her 
countenance  ghastly  from  illness,  presenting  so  painful  a  contrast  to 
the  once  blooming  and  lovely  Selina  Cleeve,  that  few  could  have  traced  a 
resemblance.  The  infant  in  her  arms  was  crying,  as  if  in  pain ;  another 
little  fellow,  of  two  years,  stood  by  her  knee,  roaring  also,  from  temper. 

Anne  went  up  and  kissed  her.  "  What  are  you  doing  here,  with  these 
crying  children,  Selina  ?"  she  said. 

"  Oh  dear,  do  try  and  quiet  them,  Anne !"  Mrs.  Grame  helplessly 
uttered,  bursting  into  tears ;  "  my  very  life  is  harassed  out  of  me.  Since 
the  nurse  left,  I  have  the  trouble  of  them  all  day." 

Miss  Sterling  threw  her  bonnet  and  shawl  on  the  bed,  and  taking  a 
paper  of  home-made  cakes  from  her  pocket,  drew  the  elder  child's  eye 
towards  them.  The  tears  were  arrested  half-way,  the  mouth  remained 
opened,  and  the  noise  ceased. 

"  These  cakes  are  for  good  little  boys  who  don't  cry,"  said  Anne, 
seating  the  young  gentleman  on  the  floor,  and  putting  some  into  his 
pinafore.  Then  she  took  the  infant  from  its  mother,  and  carried  it  about 
the  room.  When  soothed  to  silence  and  sleep,  she  sat  down  with  it  on 
her  knee. 

"  Selina,"  she  began,  "  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  now  that  you  are  a 
bad  manager,  for  I  have  told  you  that  often  enough  when  you  were  well. 
But  how  comes  it  that  you  have  no  nurse  ?n 

"  Ask  Walter,"  replied  Mrs.  Grame,  a  flood  of  resentment  escaping 
with  her  tone. 

"  Now  be  calm,  and  speak  quietly  of  things.  You  surely  purpose  taking 
a  maid  for  the  children  ?" 

"  I  purpose!"  bitterly  retorted  Mrs.  Grame ;  "it  is  of  very  little  use 
what  I  purpose  or  want.  Walter  squanders  the  money  away  on  his  own 
pleasures,  and  we  cannot  afford  to  keep  two  servants.  Now  you  have  the 
plain  truth,  Anne." 

"  I  have  thought,"  resumed  Miss  Sterling,  after  an  awkward  pause, 
"  that  you  have  sometimes  appeared  not  quite  at  your  ease  as  to  money. 
But  a  case  like  this  is  one  of  necessity :  your  health  is  at  stake,  and  it  is 
Mr.  Grame's  duty  to  provide  an  additional  servant,  if  only  for  a  few 
months." 

"  Listen,  Anne,"  resumed  Mrs.  Grame,  speaking  with  an  excitement 
her  cousin  in  vain  endeavoured  to  arrest.  "  You  thought  I  married  well : 
that  if  Walter  had  been  living  freely,  as  a  young  man,  and  anticipated 
his  inheritance,  he  was  steady  then,  had  a  good  home  to  bring  me  to,  and 
a  liberal  salary.  You  thought  this — my  uncle  and  aunt  thought  it*— I 
thought  it.  But  what  were  the  facts?  Before  that  child  was  born" — 
and  she  pointed  to  the  little  cake-eater — "  I  found  he  was  over  head  and 
ears  in  debt,  and  they  have  been  augmenting  ever  since.  His  quarter's 
salary,  when  paid,  only  serves  to  stop  the  most  pressing,  and  supply  his 
private  expenses,  of  which  he  appears  to  have  abundance*  Such  expenses 
are  shameful  for  a  married  man." 

June — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvi.  l 


142  The  Missmff  Letter. 

"Becalm,  Selimw" 

"  Calm !  how  can  I  be  calm  ?  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him  f  I  wish 
I  had  been  a  thousand  miles  off,  before  I  consented  to  marry  him !  I 
never  did  lore  him.  Don't  look  reprovingly!  at  me,  Anne  ;  it  is  the 
truth.  I  loved  but  one,  and  that  was  John  Ledhitter.  When  he  tuned 
out  worthless  I  thought  my  heart  would  have  broken,  though  I  earned 
it  off  with  a  high  hand  to  kin,  for  I  was  bitterly  incensed  against  ktnu. 
Then  came  Walter  Grame,  with  his  insinuating  whispers  and  hk  hand- 
some person,  and  talked  me  into  a  liking  for  him.     And  then  into  a 

•  \ n 

marnago 

"  Selina,"  interrupted  Miss  Sterling,  "  you  should  not  speak  so  of  your 
husband,  even  to  me." 

"  I  shall  speak  to  the  world,  perhaps,  by-and-by :  he  goads  me  enough 
for  it.  Night  after  night,  night  after  night,  since  from  a  few  months-after 
our  marriage,  does  he  spend  away  from  me.  In  what  society,  think  yon? 
He  comes  home  towards  morning,  sometimes  sober,  and  then  I  know 
where  he  has  been,  jbr  I  have  heard;  but  oftener  he  comes  staggering 
home  from  the  public-house,  primed  with  drink  and  smoke.     Beast!" 

Miss  Sterling  wrung  her  hands,  but  she  could  not  stem  die  torrent  of 
words. 

"  I  should  not  so  much  care  now,  for  I  have  grown  inured  to  it,  and 
my  former  reproaches — how  useless  they  were  ! — have  given  place  to 
silent  scorn  and  hatred,  were  it  not  for  the  money  these  habits  of  hk  con- 
sume. Circumstances  have  grown  very  bad  with  us;  of  money  them 
seems  to  be  none ;  and  it  is  with  difficulty  we  provide  for  our  daily  wants, 
for  tradespeople  refuse  us  credit.  How  then  can  I  bring  another  servant 
into  the  house,  when  we  can  hardly  keep  the  one  we  have  ?" 

u  This  state  of  things  must  be  killing  her,"  thought  Anne  Sterling,  as 
she  listened  and  shivered. 

u  What  it  will  come  to  I  don't  know,"  proceeded  the  invalid,  "hut  a 
break-up  seems  inevitable,  and  then  he  will  lose  his  situation  as  poet- 
master.  In  any  case,  I  don't  think  he  will  keep  it  long,  for  if  1m  could 
stave  off  pecuniary  ruin,  his  health  is  so  shattered  that  he  is  unfit  to  hold  it 
I  now  thank  my  dear  aunt  that  she  was  firm  in  having  my  ISQOL  settled 
on  myself.  The  interest  of  it  is  not  much,  but,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  it  may  buy  dry  bread  to  keep  me  and  these  poor  children  from 
starvation,  and  pay  for  a  garret  to  lodge  in." 

a  Oh,  SeHna  !*  uttered  Miss  Sterling,  as  the  tears  ran  down,  her  cheeks, 
"  how  terribly  yon  shook  me !" 

"  I  have  never  betrayed  this  to  a  human  being  till  now.  Yc*  may 
have  thought  me  grown  cold,  capricious,  ill-tempered — no  doobt  you 
have,  Anne,  often,  when  you  have  come  here.  Not  long  ago,  you  said 
how  marriage  seemed  to  have  altered  me.  But  now  you  see  what  I  have 
had  to  try  me,  the  sort  of  existence  mine  has  been." 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  how  can  I  help  ?"  inquired  Anne.  "  Were 
my  father  well,  I  would  take  little  Walter  home  with  me,  and  relieve  yon 
of  him  for  a  time,  but  his  state  demands  perfect  quiet  in  the  house. 
Money,  beyond  a  trifle,  I  have  not,  of  my  own,  to  offer :  perhaps  my 
mother,  when  she  knows,  will " 

"She  most  not  know,"  vehemently  interrupted  Mrs.,  Grame*  "I 
forbid  you  to  tell  her,  Anne — I  forbid  yon  to  tell  any  one.    As  to 


The  Misting  Letter.  143 

money,  if  you  were  to  pat  a  hundred  pounds  down  before  me  this  minute, 
I  would  say,  throw  it  rather  into  the  first  ditch  you  came  toy  for  it  would 
only  he  squandered,  by  him,  on  his  orgies  and  his  debt*.  No,  let  the 
crisis  come :  the  sooner  the  better:  things  may  be  smoother  after  it,  at 
any  rate  quieter ;  for,  as  it  is,  the  house  is  donned  by  creditors.  Oh, 
Anne!  if  it  were  not  for  these  ehildren  I  would  eome  back  and  find 
peace  at  the  farm,  if  you  would  give  me  shelter.  But  now — to  go  from 
my  own  selfish  troubles — tell  me  about  my  uncle.  To  think  that  it 
should  be  John  Ledbitter,  of  all  people,  who  came  in  to  hie  help !  Walter 
went  on  in  a  fine  way  about  it,  in  one  of  hi*  half-tipsy  moods.  He  has 
an  unconquerable  hatred  to  him,  as  powerful  as  it  is  lasting.  I  suppose 
it  arises  from  knowing  I  was  once  so  attached  to  htm." 

"  Selina,"  returned  Miss  Sterling,  lowering  her  voice,  "  you  will  say  it 
is  a  strange  fancy  of  mine,  but  from,  a  few  words  John  Ledbitter  spoke 
to  me,  the  evening  of  my  father's  attack,  I  have  been  doubting  whether 
he  was  guilty." 

"  What  can  you  mean?"  demanded  Mrs.  Grame,  with  startling  fervour ; 
"  what  grounds  have  you  ?  did  he  assert  his  innocence  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  rather  to  let  me  assume  his  guilt  He 
said,  that  of  course  I  believed  him  guilty,  like  the  rest  of  the  world  did ; 
and  then  followed  a  hint  that  he  could  assert  his  innocence.  But  his 
manner  said  more  than  his  words.  It  was  so  peculiar,  so  haughtily 
independent,  betraying  the  self-reliance  of  an  innocent  man,  smarting 
under  a  stinging  sense  of  injury..    I  do  believe " 

"  Don't  go  on,  Anne,"  interrupted  Mrs*  Grame,  with  a  shudder.  "  If 
it  should  ever  turn  out  that  John  Ledbitter  was  accused  unjustly,  that  I, 
of  all  others,  helped  to  revile  and  scorn  him,  my  sum  of  misery  would  be 
complete,  and  I  must  go  mad  or  die.  I  suppose  you  have  seen  him  but 
that  once.'* 

"  Indeed  we  have.  He  called  the  next  day,  and  Molly  let  him  go  up 
to  see  my  father." 

"  In  his  smock-frock,"  interposed  Mrs.  Grame,  in  a  half  derisive  tone. 

"  We  have  never  seen  him  in  anything  else,  except  on  Sundays,  and 
then  he  is  dressed  as  a  gentleman.     He  comes  every  day  now." 

"Ha!" 

"  He  proffered  his  services  to  me  and  my  mother,  if  he  could  be  of  any 
use  about  the  farm.  We  were  at  terrible  fault  for  some  one  to  replace 
my  father,  and  a  few  things  be  undertook  were  so  well  executed  that 
they  led  to  more.     Now  he  is  regularly  working  for  ut.w 

Mrs.  Grame  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  and  mused.  "  Is  he 
much  altered?"  she  asked. 

u  Ob  yea  His  hair  is  going  grey,  and  his  countenance  has  a  look  of 
care  I  never  thought  to  see  on  one  so  smiling  and  sunny  as  was  John 
Ledbitter  V 

Miss  Sterling  returned  to  Layton  that  evening  with  sad  and  sorrowful 
thoughts ;  the  more  so,  that  she  was  forbidden  to  confide  them,  even  to 
her  mother.  But  she  had  little  leisure  to  brood  over  them  in  the  weeks 
ensuing,  for  a  change  for  the  worse  occurred  in  her  father's  state,  and  it 
was  evident  that  his  thread  of  life  was  worn  nearly  to  its  end.  The 
farmer  held  many  an  anxious  conversation  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
touching  his  worldly  affairs,    It  was  intended  thai:  the:  farm  should  be 

l2 


144 

S& 

Jmssing  Letter. 

given  up,  after  lus  death,  ou£  .seypraJf  months  ;.musfc  elapse  before  that 
could  be  effected)  And.  nho  waa  to  manage  the  laud  in  the  mean  time? 
FGae  Sunday  evening*  in  par ticular,  the  (farmer  seemed  unusually  restlep? 
and  auicbus  on  thia  score.  J4 la  wife  in  vain  besought  Jiiiu  not  to  disturb 
hitfiself-^that  st^e and  Ajime  should  manage  very  well, 
:  u  I  should  have  died  jtyore  at  ea^e*  1  tell  ye,  if  I  could  have  left  y*.' 
.with  a  trusty  bailiff  and  overlook e4%rV,  persisted;  the  ffrifiet*, j  'f  Anne /has 
got  her  head  on  her  shoulders  the  right  way,  I  know  ;  ljut  women  can't 
see  much  to  out-dooar  things.  If  that  John  Ledbitte*  had  uot  got  the 
mark  upon  him^  there's  not  a  man  I'd  so  soon  hdve  left  us  hun,     He*s  a 

*ii  iAnna.cK^reflrheptlja^  /"r^^^iiff?  W& 

i  *  I  by  no  satan*  ftel  su^,  #pw#  ftVafc  J^hn,^e%tto\wa5,gu]jf;yf/  q  A  §w 
-arada.beVUftJaD,  tiUef  aifllf^ ,b%f f|i|»s# J%B^misj c^pp .'fl^ yQV|%r^a^t^|£B *^r/1' 

s|M»weirfiil  doubt, Af^jift;ipyrWoi,Tfi  .-i,;^  f,,^.,::i;  ,7  ■■«  /-nT  '    r,',^ 

iWheie  he  ia/jbrofce:  ^i^Bfcfieiepw.wp^^^ 

veeafc  by  A©  window,.,  ,!^I,darBj,aa#  fe,]fj  'SffiTOi  W.  EfflTO-T' 


11  .i     iiran<i  0f  a  thief  upon  him,  still  a^A^ew^^k  JWWyi9S>[     "" 
•»  Fornix  Wfe/^e,^|np(9fI^gea^map  m')iis^sja^lijp4l 


he 

had  the  brand  of  a  thief  upon  him,  still '^^^^^^^^^f^^^^' 

MakouHfe.  •»  Fornix  WjB^e.^mp^fj^geStl^map  m)iis^sJa^lijp4jinCT 

in;hi*<iiifrf^  ^nd  cqunten^ce. 


LMr.< Sterling aakoAfetm  t^^ft^^au^j       r_ _q  ^  „, Jrn  11#T  .T.  -ra  ,r-  - 
»c|iieifir9Ui»*&r ^la^ears  t^at r^^fteen, fflyi^j/R^i^t^jgj Jha t 

"  John  Ledbitter,"  began  the  farmer,  "  since  1  lay  here  I  naW  Sacra 

many  things  in  my  mind,  that  old  business  of  yours  is  one  of  'em,  and 

something  Anne  has  just  been  saaring  has  brought  it  back  again.     So 

when  you  came  to  the  door,  in  tntf  very  nick  o'  time,  the  thought  came 

-^ttwNr.iU)  that  Fd^tk  ^J^ca.ag^ 

/f  clearer*  -  It's  rail  by<w,afui$W*  %{npwrJ^^e^v,at  fftigfljt  hay«J  beam  but 
otIjshoukL.Jalw.ito  fcqptyfttejtr^h.j  ^m\^^Mg^!^%ri^.Ji^bS^9 

*i'H  -'A  ?deepf<niuisofe.h^4iJG?&  ^faceJjOf  , j^^. .^djbi.ffpr. "-. Xm<^|^|t^Sef 

£fo&*aaayed  toi$peafera*lii^^pr^  cajne^  £u^*$u}d(  ^et^f|fn^jlj^eSh.it 
«*rardiai pfid,tr»thfwU earn^rmin^jm^n,.,.,..  ^lX.]]u  r,n]!  j" '    j  '!' 
oi  :r«^*eai»>agoitopfe  aownfrr^l^hat;  happe^d,  J.d^^'mjr  gffilt 
to  youy*ar.m«r  |ftai&ia;.'„l][  ^ty^o^O^  >->^rr?oin^BL^)^J^; 


';u^i|htipo8itionobMc;tfi^w^  cJjaVr.  ;I  ,„.,.,. 
\l..t.M  hav«no4^tanil>ee^^givrtlty.1Qf  tailing^: Jj[er:, never  tlwt  I 

"iwali 
-"homing  4 
on  the 


touched  either.     Irl .^(f^en^a 


^§oam2e)(ofrjtljA  IfiJ^rvor  the  money  ;  I  Mver 
•W^^W^^'^  «Wo^uA 


The  Mistfna  Letter.  .  145 

."  Then  .who  did  take  it  ?"  inquired  the  amazed  farmer. 

"  I  cannot  tell ;  though  tpy  nrghts  have  "been  sleepless  and  my  hair  digs 
grown  grey  with  aniiety  over  this  very  paint.  Old  Mr,  Grame  affirmed 
the  letter  was  in  the  bag  when  he  delivered  it  to  me  ;  Mr.  Marsh  affirmed 
it  was  not  in  it  when  I  delivered  it  to  him.  They  were  both^td»:to 
trusted  j  they  were  both  above  suspicion  :  but  I  will  affirm  that  the  4>ej£ 
between  those  points  w^a  t^eVer  opened  or  touched,  or  the  box  of  the*  mail- 
cart  unlocked.  It  is  a  curious  mystery,  but  a  certainty  has  always. rested 
upon  me  that  time  will  unravel  it"  >    i  <<  >y. 

"But  why  not  have  proclaimed  your  nmocenee  then,  as  you  do  now^' 
inquired  Mrs.  S terling,  *#.  ,h.-,;ni 

"Dear  madam,  I  did  proclaim  it/*  he  answered  with  emotional  #5Fo 
my  relatives,  to  my  Meads,  to  the  postmasters^  to  Mr,  Sterling;  as 
earnestlyj  as  solemnly,  as  I  now  assert  it  this  day.  Not  one  listened  to 
me,  I  met,  even  frominy  brothers,  with  nothing  but  disbelief  and  con- 
tumely. They  were  impressed  with  the  conviction  that  my  innocence* was 
an  imnnssibiKtv.    'T^iS^H^nlH^cT^^Ts^lila  itself  SO  ihavO  judged 

^u&s^tfefesi1  faind' even  Jsluy  who  was 
...       _  ,^.  JMtfthe1^ 

arioattii^rasn  5ne?pMa{Js?  tSiat'1!  wfluldffc«ver ^  leaW&0«o«byiiU,my 
innocence  was  established.  So  I  have  lived  since  by  the  sweat  of  my 
brow,  shunned  by,  and  shunning  my  equals  ;  never  ceasing,  in  seciet,  my 
endeavours  to  trace  out  the  lost  tiotei  bnt  as  yet  withont  success.  Jvhave 
spoken  truth,  farmer  Sterling**1"   ,   »mi"  '  .<ii;  Urni- 

"  I  do  believe  you  haVe,MI  murnlured  the  dyin^  ntaft.     "May-Hid 
makeup  to  you  the  persecutions  you  have  endured,  Jomv  Ledbitfcer•l', 
"       Farmer   Sterling  died  a  man  of  substance,  worth  several  thousand 
pounds, and  John  Ledbitter  discarded  Ms  smock-frock  when  1*  was  Ap- 
pointed manager  of,  the  farm  by  Mrs.  Sterling.     And  thus  a  tew.  weeks 
[ went'^r      yF*i[  V-it*°m"  Jwtsh  orb  niwd  t>.jjKfr..,J[  luhA.  » 


ti  ct;.!-i-nJ  Hfid  ^oLu?,a  n»d  Uu\   Kdd  omj.// 


.) 


r  ^Th^'^  nighitf,  and  ita  master 

'sat  ^  slttm&roottiv  'lit  was  only  ten 

[c?clocfe,  very  earijP  for^him^  W it  h^;%#h0  had  corns! inlaying  he 

was,  not  well.     Mrs?  Grame  sat  by  hfe  side  in  a  sullen  state  of  rebellion. 

.''lj$  liad  receiy^d  hfa  sa*Jai^fct|Jo  days  before, 'had  lacked:  it  up  in  one  af  his 

iron  safest  and  1ia&  gtVeii  htiinbtikf.\  Ar  desperate  resolution  was  stealing 

•  ,  over  her— an<jl  tjie  reader  may1  justify  or  condemn  her  according  to  his  own 

OfuiSon— ttta't  is  fiodn  as'  lier  lilisbatosiiouM  sleepr  she  would  go  down  to 

t)ie  office,  and  tbty 'some  of  thisJ rttoney  for  her  pressing  necessities. 

"Where's  the  sugar  ?'* raquired  Mr.  Orame.  ' 

"I  have  no  sugar  for  you,"  she  resentfully  answered.  "I  told  you 
there  was  none  for  the  baby  to-day'.*    ' 

The  postmaster,  in  e  jocular  tone,  lb*  he  had  taken  enough  already, 
consigned  his  wife  and  childVto  a  very  far-off  place,  drank  some  brandy 
neat,  and  pulled  opei^  the  sideboard-cupboard  in  search  of  the  sugar-basin. 
TWe  it  stood, 'full  of  sugar;  So  he  £aid  his  wifd  another  worthy  com- 
pliment, 

" It  is  not  yours/'  she  exclaimed,  "or  meant  for  you.  My  cousin 
Anne  was  here  to-dayj  atad  bought  it  for  the  baby." 


146  The  Mushy  Letter. 

He  answered  by  dropping  tome  into  ins  glass.  u  And  what  mews  did 
Anne  Sterling  bring?  he  said,  in  a  mocking  tone,  as  be  lighted  a 
cigar :  "  fresh  praises  of  their  new  manager,  the  thief  Ledbitter  ?" 

u  It  was  not  Ledbitter  who  was  tihe  thief,  she  told  me  that  news,"  Mrs. 
Grame  replied,  in  a  raised,  and  almost  an  hysterical  Toice  ;  for  the  infor- 
mation had  had  its  effect  upon  her.  "John  Ledbitter  was  innocent,  and 
the  crime  was  committed  by  another.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  from 
the  first." 

A  fearful  change  came  over  Walter  Grame.  His  nice  turned  to  a 
deadly  whiteness,  his  cigar  fell  from  his  lips,  and  his  teeth  chattered  in 
his  head.  "  Ledbitter  innocent!"  he  gasped  forth-  *Did  she  say  who 
took  it ?     How  did  it  come  to  light?" 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Grame,  in  astonishment. 
"  Are  you  so  full  of  hatred  to  John  Ledbitter,  that  the  hearing  of  Ins 
innocence  should  affect  you  in  this  manner  ?" 

"  Woman  \"  he  retorted,  in  the  extreme  of  agitation,  "  I  ask  yom  how 
it  came  to  fight  ?" 

"  Nothing  has  eome  to  light,  except  that  Ledbitter  assured,  and  con- 
vinced, my  uncle  of  his  innocence,  just  before  his  death.  I  wish  the 
real  criminal  was  discovered,"  she  impetuously  continued:  "  I,  for  one, 
would  aid  in  persecuting  him  to  the  death.  Whoever  lie  may  be,  he 
has  been  hugging  himself  under  the  ruin  of  poor  John  Ledbitter." 

Mr.  Grame  laughed,  a  forced  laugh,  and  stooped  to  pick  up  his 
crushed  cigar,  for  he  had  put  his  foot  on  it  when  it  fell  burning  to  the 
carpet.  "That's  his  sort  of  innocence,  is  it,"  he  derisively  observed; 
"  his  own  assertion !     Honest  men  want  something  else,  Mrs.  Grame." 

But  Selina  saw  that  his  teeth  chattered  still,  and  his  hand  shook  so  as 
to  scarcely  lift  the  bottle,  draughts  from  which  he  kept  pouring  into  his 
glass.     "  How  very  singular !"  she  repeated  to  herself. 

The  spirit  at  length  told  upon  Mr.  Grame,  and  he  sank  down  upon 
the  sofa  and  slept,  an  unconscious  man.  Then,  her  lips  pressed  together 
with  angry  resolution,  Mrs.  Grame  possessed  herself  of  his  keys  and  the 
key  of  the  private  office,  which  he  always  kept  in  his  pocket,  and  she 
stole  down  stairs. 

She  stood  before  the  iron  safe,  the  smaller  safe — his,  in  his  father's 
time — and  tried  the  keys,  several  of  the  bunch,  before  she  came  to  the 
right  one.  The  moment  it  was  unlocked  the  door  flew  open  and  struck 
her  on  the  forehead.  A  large  bump  rose  instantly :  she  put  up  her 
hand  and  felt  it.  At  any  other  time  she  would  have  been  half  stunned 
with  the  shock ;  it  was  not  heeded  now. 

Two  cash-boxes,  and  three  small  drawers  were  disclosed  to  view,  and 
she  had  to  try  the  keys  again ;  each  drawer  opened  with  a  different  key. 
The  first  drawer  was  full  of  papers :  in  the  second,  as  she  drew  it  open, 
she  saw  no  money,  only  one  solitary  letter  lying  at  the  end  of  it.  An 
old  letter,  getting  yellow  now ;  still  folded,  but  its  seal  broken  and  its 
address,  "  Mr.  Sterling,  Hill  House  Farm,  Layton,  Highamshire,*  A 
powerful  curiosity  excited  her :  she  had  recognised  the  writing  of  ner 
own  father:  what  should  bring  a  letter  of  his,  to  her  uncle,  in  -das  secret 
safe  of  Walter  Grame's  ?  As  she  opened  the  letter,  something  fen1  tarn 
it,  and  Mrs.  Grame  sank  almost  fainting  on  a  chair. 

It  was  the  long-lost  letter  and  money,  which  John  Ledbitter  had  been 


The  Missing  Letter.  147 

accused  o£  stealing,  the  bank-note  for  fifty  pounds.  "  Had  the  letter  been 
mislaid  by  old  Mr.  Grarae,  and  overlooked  till  this  day?"  she  asked,  in 
the  first  bewilderment  of  discovery.  "  Or  had  Walter  acted  die  traitor's 
pact  to  bring  disgrace  upon  Ledbitter?  The  latter,  oh!  the  latter," 
she  convulsively  uttered,  when  reason  asserted  its  powers ;  "  and  I,  who 
once  so  truly  loved  John  Ledbitter,  discarded  him  for  this  man  1" 

She  made  no  further  search  for  the  gold — this  discovery  absorbed 
every  care  and  thought.  Securing  the  letter  and  note  upon  her  person, 
she  locked  the  safe  again,  sped  up-stairs,  and  shook  her  husband  violently, 
pouring  forth  her  indignant  accusation.  He  struggled  up  on  die  sofa, 
and  stared  at  her :  she  herself  was  a  curious  object  just  then,  with  that 
dark  mound  standing  out  on  her  forehead,  and  her  dangerous  excitement. 
Then  he  began  to  shake  and  shiver,  for  he  comprehended  that  the  officers 
of  justice  were  after  him.  The  fright  partially  sobered  him,  but  he  was 
stopified  still. 

"  Nobody  can  prosecute  but  you,  Selina,"  he  abjectly  stammered,  in 
his  confusion.     "  You  will  not  refuse  to  hush  it  up  for  your  husband." 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  and  I  will  not  prosecute,"  she  vehemently 
answered,  humouring  his  fears.  "  Did  you  do  it  on  purpose  to  ruin 
John  Ledbitter  ?B 

"No,  no,"  he  uttered;  "  I  was  hard  up,  I  was  indeed,  Selina.  I  did 
not  know  where  to  turn  for  money,  and  if  my  debts  had  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  old  man  he  would  have  disinherited  me.  So  when 
this  fifty  pounds  came,  like  a  temptation,  before  me,  I  took  it  That's 
the  whole  truth." 

"  You  took  it !"  she  repeated.  "  After  it  was  given  to  John  Led- 
bitter?" 

"  It  never  was  given  to  him.  As  the  old  man  dropped  it  into  the  bag 
some  one  came  to  the  window,  and  my  father  turned  to  answer.  It  was 
Stone  the  barber.  I  twitched  the  letter  out  then,  and  the  old  governor 
closed  the  bag  and  never  knew  it.  But  I  did  not  use  it,  Selina ;  the 
money's  there  now;  I  could  not  find  an  immediate  opportunity  of 
changing  it  away,  and  then  there  was  such  a  hubbub  struck  up  that  I 
never  dared  to." 

u  And  I  could  make  this  man  my  husband !"  she  muttered — "  the 
father  of  my  unhappy  children!  Traitor!  coward!  how  dared  you 
thrust  yourself  into  the  society  of  honest  people?" 

His  only  answer  was  to  stagger  to  the  table,  and  drink  a  deep  draught 
of  tike  spirit  still  on  it.     It  revived  his  courage. 

u  Ha !  ha  2  my  old  father  had  a  dream  a  night  or  two  before  he  died. 
He  dreamed  that  Ledbitter  was  innocent,  and  charged  me  to  make  it  up 
to  him.  Me!  as  if  some  inkling  of  the  truth  had  penetrated  to  his 
brain.  I  did  not  Hke  that  dream :  it  has  cowed  me,  since,  whenever  I 
have  thought  of  it,  and  now  it  has  come  out.  But  there's  one  part, 
Selina,  which  is  glorious  to  think  of  still — that  I  outwitted  him  of  his 
bride." 

She  might  have  done  him  an  injury  had  she  remained  in  the  room 
longer,  for  her  feelings  were  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of  exasperation  border- 
ing upon  madness.  She  went  up-stairs,  bolted  herself  in  the  room  with 
her  tjhildren,  and  threw  herself,  undressed,  on  the  bed.  Her  husband 
did  not  attempt  to  follow  her. 


The  next  afternoon  she  was  at  Lay  t^  entering  the  Hill  House  Farm. 

Near  the  front  gate  she  eq  counter ed  J.ohu  LGdbitt**V    tf  It.  is  yea.  I  hare 
come  to  see/' she  s^p*^.,,   {tirl\  tB|idad  ■jirAxuttulttu  ?iA  bus  *&& 

Not  for  years  had  they  met,  upd  she  spake  ,  and-  looked  so^ strangely 
that,  hut  for  her  voice,   he  would  scarcely  have, ;  .recognised  vher.  "Me 
followed  her  in*     Avne  Sterling,  who  was  in  the  par loss*, ahme*  rae&iiowqu 
her  seat  In  surprise,  and  inquired  if  all  was  well  at.JHighiuuuooojjLiu  Jadw  til 

f *'  Exa mine  tins,  Mr.  tedbi tter?,"  ,  w,a^  ,  j^o."^  (Jf afri© 'a  > oiiJy  v anrtwiy  >u i 
drawing  from  her  pocket  the  iiital  le,^tej%.,  "  J)o  you  recognisb k  •??  -  - 
Net  at  first  did  he  understands  hut  when  a  shado wing  of  whit  it  was 
burst  upon  him.  he  was  much  agitated.  "  Am  I  te-  understand  that  thk 
has  been  lost — mislaid— all  these  years?'  he  hundred;  And  it  was  a 
natural  question,  seeing  the  note  intaat,  ,/  11     .mid  Im^dccMi 

1 '  M  is!  at  d  IT '  b  u  ret  forth  M  r*  1  G  ram,e,  g  lv  i  ug  way  to,  her  p  eh  t  -up  e**  >  i v 
citem en  t , '    £ *  1 1  w as  *? tolcn,  Mr*  Led b '  t,^— ft  1 ched  from  the  bag  before 
it  went  into  your  charge.     And  the  tlu'ef-r-lfrig):  I  and  ct>wardi-»-ftr«mbled  ai 
at  his  act  wlien  he  hud  done  it,  andflphprfld  pot,  use  the  money  j     Heiias>ih 
kept  it  mm  from  the  light  pj^,  rjffgff  ^i^famJf  ,M\n*M  bnu  i)k& 

*  And  this  was—  ?\  jg^jdhaJ  ndoh     dno  ii  Juq  oi  ■anrai" 

{f  Walter  Grame,     To  you. I  wiJiifi^d^e^i^WnPrt^^hiilriafaliilTi^ 
wretched  wife.     To  the  world  it  may  appear  as  was*  your  nWsh .thought"^ 
now — If  you,  Mr,  Ledhitter,  will  show  mercy,  where  none  has  been  sliown 
you.     I  would  not  ask  it  but  for  his  hiuocent. clnldreju*     I  havBinot  seen 
him  since  last  night, ,    He  is  nowhere-  to  he  fe-.uud«_ ,,  Eferythaug  is  in 
ennfusion^at  h^  jjijg  ^  .Jej^  •drte4*yb'TJ 

postman."  ^  ^  (lJ  mj  £ft  0J  3&offD  t>j  mllfi  vna  ni  tn,iT  inin 

"  Where  js  he  r"  uttered  Anu^  faJmub  ^Ibswomuil-feoaa  ndol.      biawa 

"  T  know  not  :  unless  thin  discovery  has  sii  worked  upon  his  feajs  that  ' 
he  means  to  abandon  bis  home  and  his  country.     I  proy.dt may  besdb: 
I  shall  be  more  tranquil  wJtfpou,£  ljmf"  j~ifi  juhIj  ano  vino  ei  oisib  **   ;»ari 

"  You  are  riot  going?    You/ will  surely ,£i%y   fQV^QfyQijtmi^shmterii?* t.n 
reiterated  Miss  Sterling,  as  Mrs,  Gra^e,^^,^^  ^  Jeave^jiilithfe  sa«4i 
abrupt  manner  that  sl>e  had  entered,  | >  h$yr  ^mU  boa  ^ailsoda  ™ 

f  leatmot  remain,  Anne,  I  must  go^aclc^  Jiigbajn jr^mdi fbsieiiwiA^d 
ment,  I  could  not  swallow  it.     A  fiienjl  of  n;iu£  joVflVte  nTOOvei*  lu  liis i  gig, 
ano^is' waibn£^|  n^pai  lie  Jpt%flL  Yf^^iJI^x^Jripifci^jto-myiawtlJ— 
1  have  only  one  moW  word  to  say,  aud  that  is  to  you(/Jtfr,  Leiibtttelv ^7 
WiU  you—  will. you—  ?"  -  l1^Vii^>  ^sipwfw  ^hsbart   ^   ' :\wah  ' 

John  LedKtter  t.PPt  ^.«ir:  ^^^/r^^WAi'JnP^IV  r^«w*r-i«ptopfa«sion»*«iy-  '  ■ 
opon  her,  for  her  emotion  was  so.gr^OT^dg^tf)^^ 
coiners  of  her  mouth  twitched  C9ny^l^^jj,ill(-Ij{s  \  jfA[l  iol  JwO     Si  3M  teT 

iw  Will  you  forgive  pe?-f~it  is  that  I  want  to  say^"  she  paut^ed^^^Jor^ 
give  my  false  heart  for  judging  you  as  others,  d;d?  hi  our  last  interview^. 
bere^  in  this  house^-you  said  if  we  ever,  me^  again ^  it  ebboldibtf  imden^ ; 
difierent  auspices.     The  auspices  are  different."  "SttoM  a  ^a  vJnuoo  $M 

What  he  answered,  as  hejed  her  to,  the  gig, ,  was,  Jkndwn  to  themseWa^ 
alone.     Her  tears  were  flowing  fas)^  ajftl  fer  ,^nd  wafl  oiaiped  jmllfctn  M  ^ 
maybe,  that  in  that  brief  mojpent^jQ,  J^ceiif.hia^^ 
nesi  for  her  was  recalled  to  his  heart,  j  A^ne  Sterling  was  watching  fhtfd  ' 
from  the  window,  hut  she  .never  asked, £, question  Eihofttitj  theii  or'afiteb* 
war^    p  wj  :i  :>Am  IGw  W&*&  aM'  vSi  {«oa  tcriA  odi  qn  ovj^  oJe^ 


Jt  was  rare  news  tor  Highatn.  "Walter  Grame,  what  m%h  his  unfor- 
tunate debts  and  his  unfortunate  habits,  had  found  himself  unable  to 
make  head  against  the  storm,  and  had  started  oil,  poor  fellow,  and  taken 
ship,  for  America  v  and  in  the  search,  wnfch  followed,  his  wife  had  como 
upon  the  missing1  letter  and  money,  a J tiongst  some  old  valueless  papers. 
Iu  what  unaccountable' Planner  it  could  have  been  mislaid,  was  useless  to 
inquire  now,  since  old'  Mr,  Ch&ine^as  dead  arid  gone :  hut  tjiat  no  fraud 
was  committed  i by  any  one,  Was  prbVed1  by  the  money  being  safe.  So 
reasoned  the -town,  as  thev  pressed  in  to  the  post-office  to  curiously  , 
handle  the  Jettet  sad  note.  J  »«  «*     '  "        "ni<  " 

But  Jofanhlidbitifr  9 [  I  H\$hm:*iJmW&f]hi  Vith  shame  when  it  re-    : 
membered  him.     How  on  earth  coufd'Webe  r^cbhjpensed  for  all  he  had 
endured?  Three1  parts  of  theifrfiy,  rfch  and  poor,  flocked  over  to  Lay  ton 
in  one  da> ■  :  some  hi  earrift^esj  som«  ln"|pgs!  some  on  horseback,  some    * 
in  van  s ,  and  the  irest  on  S hanks' s  $ dny .  '}  G la '  M rs,  Sterl in g,  when  she  saw    ^ 
thi>  arrival  of  /these  masses;  froin  her  beVlrnotn  window,  screamed  out  to    [ 
Molly  and  Martha,  believing  the  people  mast  see  a  fire  on  the  farnj>  and 
were  coming-  to  put  it  out.     John  Ledtyitter's  hand&  were  nearly  shaken 
off:  and  many  n  bold  voiee*  at  other  ti  totes,  Was  not  ashanied  of  its  own 
e  motion,  a*  it  plead  ed  for  forgiTen  ess  an  d  r  eh;e  wed  fr  ie  tidshi  p.     E  very  body 
was  fordoing  something  :  some  were  for  drawing  John  into  High  am  in     ' 
triumph,   mid  then  chairing  hiifr  round  the  town,  as  they  did  the  city     f 
members;  a ifewtlibugbt  of  asking  the  king  to  knight  him,  and  John's    * 
brothers-?— who  had  got  on  iri  tile  world —whispered  that  the  money  to  set 
him  up,  in  any  farm  he  chose  to  fix  on  in  the  county,  was  at  his  com- 
mand.    John  ffood-humouredly  thanked  t\\4tti  all,  and  towards  evening 
th ejlafit  viakor'  Was  ■  got  ria  of;     He ' then  t  um  c  d  to  Miss  St erling.  ^ 

"  They  have  been  speaking  of  a  r^cotriperise  "  he  said  to  her,  in  a  low    j 
tone  :  "there  is  only  one  thine  that  would  seen}  such  tome  ;  and  that  Ik 
not  in  their  power  to  give.     It  is  m  yours,  Anne.  ^-m 

Miss  Sterling's1  eyes  fell  beneath  his,  a  rich,  conscious^  colour  rose  to  ^ 

her  cheeks,  and  there  was  the  same  expression  oh  her  face  that  John 

Ledbitter  bad  nVwer  s^en  bni  once  before,  many  years  ago,  before  he  had 

declared  las, love1  for  -Satins,  Cleete.     He  had  thought  then — in  his  vanity 

—that  it  betrayed1*' liking  for  him;  and  he   thought  it— not  in  his    » 
r       »     3     if  »    tnlfi  ra£    yea  oJ  biow^iom  9W>  *n«to  ®™  l 

Anne,"  he  tenderly  whispered,  drawing  her  to  mni?  IW  iHaVf'dre  ufiffi, 


misttrtunej^ofyow*^  ,rf 

was3sfo*ffor,s»i*wfee<  ^niUSe :  'frfotttW**!^ 

yet  see  it     But  for  that,  I  AmSd^f^W^^'''  "  !  "      "    "     $ 

and-tii%*BetW:y«q^raokc#or^J%[ 

forgiw  'Ji^)«ar^^lM^8i^hich, 

you3»hnbh(frbhifbefu4nflf  •Ihttfeabi^e1  c 

the  county  as  a  felon?"         "  i****m  ^m^SL  *  i      «S  H&W 

Closer  and  closer  he  drew  her  to  him*  and  she  suffered  herself  to  remain   ^ 
thecd,  nestling  in  his  arms^     Ko' words  escaped  her,  but  she  was  inwardly 
resorvingf  in  her  new  happiness— a  glimpse  of  which  had  recently  hovered 
on  her  fcpirit*-^ that  her  love  and  tare  should  make  an  to  him  for  the  past    ^ 

tiff 


1  Hooray  l".  shouted  old  Molly,  when  she  heard  the  news,  "  we  shan't 
be  to  give  up  the  farm  now,  for  Mr.  John  will  take  it  on  his  own  hands* 
Dear  missis,  I  shall  say  my  prayers  to-night  with  a  thankful  heart." 


(    150    ) 

SCISSORS-AND-PASTE-WORK 

BY  SIR  NATHANIEL. 

II. — Meriv ale's  Romans  undeb  the  Empire  * 

[first  KOTICK.] 

Mr.  Mekivale  is  now  fairly  launched  on  the  vasty  deep  of  his  great 
subject.  His  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  comprise  the  History  of  the 
Romans  under  the  empery,  or  principate,  of  Augustus  and  his  three  im- 
mediate successors.  That  five  volumes  of  the  History,  however,  should 
bring  us  no  further  down  than  to  the  death  of  Claudius,  may  imply,  in  the 
judgment  of  many,  a  degree  of  diffuseness  in  the  historian  that  verges,  to 
say  the  least,  on  the  faulty.  But,  apart  from  considering  the  preliminary 
character  of  die  opening  volumes,  there  is  such  admirable  arrangement 
in  the  narrative,  such  breadth  of  view  and  completeness  of  detail,  a 
sagacity  so  penetrating  in  its  analysis  of  men  and  manners,  industry  of 
research  so  manifest  in  the  collating  and  sifting  of  authorities,  so  inde- 
pendent, generally  impartial,  and  often  original  an  exercise  of  the 
critical  faculty,  and  so  unusual  an  animation  of  style  and  richness  of 
colouring,  in  a  work  which  establishes  Mr.  Merivale's  right  to  a  place  in 
the  first  class  of  historians,  that  any  complaints  on  the  score  of  prolixity 
are  like,  after  all,  either  to  be  faint  and  few,  or  to  come  from  those  who 
have  not  actually  read  the  work  they  disparage.  In  the  one  advantage  of 
an  animated,  variously  graphic,  now  gravely  impressive  and  anon  plea- 
santly piquant  style,  this  History  may  fairly  count  on  a  much  larger 
audience  and  wider  welcome  than  almost  any  recent  work  on  any  cognate 
theme,  Greek  or  Roman ;  as  every  reader  may  infer  for  himself  who  will 
invidiously  compare,  or  contrast,  it  in  this  respect  with  the  "execution" 
of,  for  instance,  Mr.  Grote,  of  Sir  G.  Cornewall  Lewis,  and  of  Dr. 
Liddell.  Nor  is  this  attraction  in  the  manner  gained  at  the  cost  of  the 
matter :  brilliant  the  author  may  be  justly  pronounced,  in  passages  deal- 
ing with  fit  topics  for  rhetorical  display,  but  he  is  never  flashy,  flatu- 
lent, or  forcible-feeble ;  we  feel  ourselves  throughout  under  the  guidance 
of  a  competent  master,  duly  seasoned  in  the  art  he  professes,  carefully 
equipped  for  the  large  enterprise  he  has  undertaken,  and  equally  an 
adept  in  the  what  to  teach  and  the  how  to  teach  it,  in  modo  and  in  re. 

The  policy  of  Augustus  is  most  ably  and  elaborately  discussed  in  the 
former  of  the  two  volumes  just  published.  The  fundamental  principle  of 
the  Roman  religion  was  still  surviving.  Notwithstanding  the  signs,  and 
worse,  the  sense,  of  material  and  moral  decay,  and  amidst  the  desolation 
which  resembled  a  darkness  that  might  be  felt,  brooding  over  and  blight- 
ing the  City  of  the  Seven  Hills,  there  yet  remained  a  powerful  sentiment 
to  which  a  thoughtful  legislator  might  appeal  with  signal  effect. 

Augustus  did  so.  It  was  the  policy,  Mr.  Merivale  says,  of  the  new 
master  of  the  republic  to  throw  himself  upon  this  deep  conservative  feel- 

*  A  History  of  the  Romans  under  the  Empire.  By  Charles  Merivale,  BJX, 
late  Fellow  of  St  John's  College,  Cambridge.  Tola.  IV.,  V.  Longman  and  Co. 
1996. 


Merivales  Romans  under  the  Empire.  151 

ing — the  feeling,  namely,  that  Rome  owed  its  prosperity  to  the  divine 
principle  of  its  constitution — that  the  empire  of  Rome  was  a  standing 
evidence  to  the  truth  «f  the  Roman  religion,  in  its  widest  sense,  as  the 
foundation  of  its  laws  and  usages.  "The  conqueror  commenced  his 
career  of  empire  by  the  restoration  of  the  ancient  cult  Religious  forms 
were  entwined  about  all  the  public  and  private  life  of  the  primitive 
Roman ;" — and  Augustus  perceiving,  with  unerring  sagacity,  the  direc- 
tion of  the  popular  sentiment,  which  willingly  ascribed  the  sufferings  of 
the  commonwealth  to  the  impiety  of  the  previous  generation, *  at  once 
placed  himself  at  its  head ;  assuming  the  duty  of  renovating  the  temples, 
and  restoring  the  popular  worship  of  the  Lares.  Indeed,  at  a  later  period 
in  his  reign,  he  seems  to  have  "  so  far  yielded  to  the  irresistible  pro- 
pensity of  his  people  to  make  him  an  object  of  worship,  as  to  have  allowed 
his  own  name  to  be  associated  with  these  semi-divinities,"  the  Lares, 
guardians  of  the  domestic  hearth, — sanctioning  the  erection  of  his  image 
along  with  theirs,  and  that  of  the  faithful  dogt  wno  watched  together 
with  the  Lares  and  himself  over  the  household  security  of  the  citizens. 

On  the  strength  of  this  zeal  for  religious  revival,  Augustus  could 
allege  that  he  had  secured  the  stability  of  Roman  institutions  by  his  piety 
to  the  gods.  "He  had  bribed  Olympus  by  gifts  in  which  the  immortals 
delighted.  He  had  set  'up  their  fallen  altars,  repaired  their  temples,  re- 
vived their  services,  and  rekindled  the  flame  of  devotion  in  the  heart  of 
the  nation.  To  his  own  fortunes  and  to  the  fortunes  of  the  state,  he  had 
attached  the  powers  of  heaven  for  ever.  From  the  gods  he  had  descended 
to  rehabilitate  the  ancient  heroes  of  his  country,  restoring  their  monu- 
ments, re-erecting  their  images,  surrounded  with  triumphal  ornaments, 
and  placing  them  under  the  colonnades  of  his  own  spacious  forum,  as  the 
witnesses  and  patrons  of  the  .glory  he  had  achieved.  The  city  itself  had 
participated  in  his  pious  solicitude.  He  honours  her  as  a  mother  and  a 
tutelary  influence,  almost  as  a  goddess  herself  For  her  embellishment 
he  constructs  many  magnificent  works,  and  requires  the  wealthy  and  the 
noble  to  follow  his  example ;  for  he  is  not  an  Oriental  potentate,  hut 
only  the  first  of  his  own  rank  of  citizens." 


*  Bo  Horace : 

"  Delicta  majoram  xmmeritus  lues, 
fiomane,  donee  tempi*  re&ceris  .  .  . 
Di8  te  minorem  quod  geris  imperas." 

Od.  m.  6. 

The  admonitions  of  the  poet,  says  Mr.  Merivale,  were  hailed  with  general  ac- 
clamation when  he  reminded  the  commonwealth,  that  it  was  the  lord  of  mankind 
only  because  it  was  the  servant  of  the  gods.    "  This  pious  acknowledgment,  said 
Horace,  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  its  greatness." 
f  The  historian  quotes  Ovid, 

"  Et  cants  ante  pedes  saxo  fabricatus  eodem  .... 
Mille  Lares  Geniumque  Ducts  qui  tradidit  illos 
Urbs  habet,  et  vici  mtmma  irma  colunt;" 

(Fast.  V.  129,  sua..) 

and  refers  to  the  numerous  votive  inscriptions,  Laribus  Augustis.  He  properly 
distinguishes,  however,  between  the  worship  of  Augustus  (or  rather  perhaps  of 
the  Lar  of  Augustus),  as  a  demi-god,  or  genius  {geniumque  duds),  and  the  latter 
worship  ("cutt")  of  the  Caesars  as  deities,  which  Augustus  himself  interdicted,  at 
least  m  Borne. 


158  M^^e^\^^^mm4^^^m^ 

.  These  citizens  took  very  quietly  the  primacy  of  their  wily  lord  and 
muster*.  No  Oriental  potentate  k%w  onward  semblance ;  only;  pr,imu& 
infer  p$re*m  Q£t  all  thiflg^  lflfr  then*  ayflid  the  notion  of  hbajfectiug  regul 
wpremacj,  or  aiming  j#  a  revolution  in  ■  the  constitution  of  the  state,  Np 
pmnQrtunjty  was  lost  of  impressing  upon  them  the  pleasant  illusion,  that 
$heiT.  Ewperor  iirfaufc  was  nothing  of  the  khid— not  even  a  Citizen  King 
r^n^rely  First  Citizen,     <■  Are  there,"  asits(a.  British  poet, #  ,      r  1., 

'■■'■■■■      '■'  Are  there,  approVed  qf  later  times,,      -hi^ou  _*hnim  WtB 

'■'.-,  •■    i  ■     r»Ki -.WlfoseTO^adora^ia^  hwupnoo  qiliri"*! 

.,       -•■■  t.j  Wha^w/ta^a^^iifttetoy^j-f/jrj^  j.>«  hi; II     S/^A 
...;,,.   ,/,,.,,  Anifen^thpto^  frus/notf  orfj 

meaning  by  the  imperial  rmlka  ^^lAtEfty^^f'tt^Mtf-IUiin^  the 
placid,  smooth-spoketi  OW&Vrata  'Fftiu&ris  0*4  the ' AugtisUu  era 
did  not  see  matters  in  the  same  light  with  the  British  p6e&4  Whea 
moulding  for  his"  future  purposes  the  fonnatid  cbnslatuttda  of  that  supre- 
macy which  he  had  obtained  by  inheritance  and  by  arm #,  Augustus  prte 
eeeded,  as  Mr.  d£  Quineey  ofeserve^  with  so  much  caution  arid  prudence, 
that  even  the  style  and  title  of  his  office  'Wad'  dlficufesed  in  touneil  is  a 
matter  of  the  first  moment ;  th£  principle  of  hU  poKey  toeing,  to  absorb 
into  his  own  functions  all  those  offices'  Which'  conferred  any  real  power  t$ 
balance  or  to  control  big:  owti:1  Hence|  he  appropriated  the  THhimltiaJt 
power,  because  that  was '  a  rtopular  and  representative  office,  which.  a$ 
occasions  arose,  would  have  given  some  opening  to  democratic  ttffluences ; 
whereas  the  Consular  office  lie  'left  untouched;  betters©  all  its  power  'was 
transferred  to  the  Imperator,  by  the  entire  command  of  the  army,  and  by 
the  new  organisation  of  the  provincial  govern  meats,  f '  •      - 

The  ancient  law  iti  force  ftt  (tome,  by  which  any  person'  who  Wttettiptea' 
to  establish  the  royal  power,  was  liable  Co  capital  punishment,  with 
forfeiture  of  goods,  may  probably  be  considered,  as  Sir  G.  G*  Lewis  eay$ 
a  reminiscence  of  the  time  wheii  kings  existed,  and  of  the  feeling  of  re- 
pugnance with  which  their  memory  was  regarded ;  similar  to  the  lawi 
against  Tvpawtr,  or  despotism,  at  Athens,  Sp.  Cassius,  M&lius,  and 
Mahlius,  we  are  reminded,  successively  lost  their  lives  for  attempts  to 
make  themselves  kings :  the  tumult  which  ended  in  the  slaughter  of 
Tiberius  Gracchus  began,  according  to  Plutarch,  by  a  gesture  of 
Gracchus,  who  pointed  to  his  own  head — a  gesture  misinterpreted  by  his 
opponents  into  a  demand  for  a  diadem,  and  thus  occasioning  the  fatal 
attack  on  his  person*  The  ill-will  which.  Caesar  drew  upon/himself  by  his 
encouragement  of  |lie  ^ftempfa  to  wyest.ltfm^th  ffye ,.$gigtyfqf Igpffrjf 
well  known ;  and  its  importance  in  contributing  to  the  conspiracy  for 
murdering  him,  is  attested  by  the  scrupulous  anxiety  with  which  Augustas 
avoided  the  assumption  of  the  royal  nonours,  title,  or  insignia.^ 

~ Hi  i     ii    ■-     ,-|     I     . '■'»<■;'■'.< i-U — '"    linl     i.-.i  Mi-rut-,,  i'  )    ,nf,; 

*  Akenside.  '  '  •  \.  ■     „n 

f  "In  no  point  of  his  policy  was  the  cunning  or  the  sagacity  of  Augustus  so 
much  displayed,  as  in  his  treaty  of  partition  with  the  Senate,  which  settled  the 
distribution  of  the  provinces,  and  their  future  administration.  Seeming  to  take 
upon  himself  all  the  trouble  and  hazard,  he  di$  in  effect  appropriate  all  the  power, 
and  left  to  the  Senate  little  more  than  trophies  of  show  and  ornament*— Da 
QujFCBY ;  On  the  Casar^    Ch.  vi    (1834.)  . , 

J  •*  The  idea  that  a  king  was  an  absolute  monarch,  which  prevailed  throughout 
the  later  ages  of  Rome,  was  probably  in  part  derived  from  the  belief  respectiag 


jMws&y^ 


m 


h^^&mg^yffo^Wfo  ***  ^  ^qmeseeuce  of  the  Romans 
pndor  th*  royaiJ  tyranny1  6f  this  same  Augustas,  disguised  under  very 
transparent  pTDt^sions,  we  niust  not,  sayy  Mr,  Meri Vale;  forget  that  they 
Wire  ftot  in  a  position  to  anticipate1  the  rapid  decline  in  public  spirit  Which 
From  this  time  actually  took  pace  aimong  thethi -  The  historian  ranarks 
witlrjaatice,  that,  apart  from  an  antique  prejudice,  of  which  the  wisest 
statesmen  may  hate  well  beeif  ashamed,  royal  rule  ebtdd  not  imply,  to 
their  minds,  degeneracy- and  decay.  Had  not  the,, Macedonians  under 
Philip  conquered  Greece  ?— riiad  they  not  uader  Ale&ander  subjugated 
Asia?  Had  not  S  part  a)  flouttofi  eti  uh  der  a  dy-mia  ty  of  ki  n  gs  ;  and  e  v  en 
the  Romana  themsel^tea  first"  pi*ftved :  their  youthful  energies  under  the 
atf  a  pices  f  rf  a ,  Jkw&uAu  3 ,  and  ,  a-  mT<P  Hup  ?  a  f  *  fit  hey  j  W  I £ i  far*  th  ejtif tw  ^  ,f! ro  m 
auUeipfttiog/tha-*  the  gFeatnflsa  aud-jjlory  of  their  county  would  decline 
undei'  a  prince's  sway;  it  wfls  only^in  the  last  .agonies  of  an  .impracticable 
republic  .that  tiieipiftalouT/had  earned  then » no  triumphs/'  Augustus 
siuuionily  distinguished  between  the  Jmperatov  ,and  tfye  Prince  pa,  m  his 
pe-r*o*iul  habit*  and  demeanour — disguising  alt  consciousness  of  his  deserts, 
aiui  shrinking,  from,  the;  appearance  of  Maiming  the  honours  due  to  him. 
ftAoudst  the  magoitieeup*  displayed  around  bin^  whiqb  ho. chose  to  en- 
Jtounige.in  bis  nob|e9*h|Ls  ,nv^,,n)au^eTg  wprft ,re,m arable, lb r.  their  sim- 
pj^ityt  jada*  w^i'eg^^di. ,Pg&  hy^f  actual  pr*-emiaen,ce*  but  by  the 
|los.JtW?#  hc.af^ted^c^cupAj  of  a  modest  patrician,  I!i$  mansion  on 
^heJPalatifie,hiW.  was  modarate^i  siae  aud  decoration,  and  he  showed  his 
#ou  tern  pfc  for;-  the  n  oiu  ptuous .  fcptpliau  co$  o  f  p  atr  i  pi  an .  luxury  ,i  by  re  t  a  i  nbg 
^ho ;  mm&  bfldVeti&mber  fcoj  bin  wm  far  find  au  m  in©  r t ,  II  is  cbesa  was  that  of 
a  plain  senator,  and  he;  let(ifc  he-  kuaw^tha^  h}§  wb^<waSjW-oveu  by  the 
liandsi  of, Li  via  herself  anditheinaideus;iof!  hjerfapartmenfr  o.He  was  seen 
to  traverse  the  streets  as  a  private  citizen,  with  no  more  than  the- ordinary 
jjetiaue/of  slaves  and^cHenjts,  a4drs*smg  familiarly  the  acquaintances  hie 
juetj.taJkiog  ,them  couzfteoiftly  hy,  the  hand,  ov  leaning  on  their  shoulders,} 
sdJoiving  himself  to  be  summoned  as  a  witness  in  their  suits*  and  often 
fej&endiu&fo  tbeir  bonsqs  on  oceafiiqtis  of  d$m estic  interest, .  At.  t&hb- his 
habits  i »;  ere  sob  e  r  aud  de  oo  vq  us  >  and  Jm  m  ode  of,  r !  i  v  ing  abstem  bus ;  he 
l^as-ggu^rsttUy.th^sl&st  ,tp.  approach  a^  the,  "earliest  to  quit  the,  board," 
'i lis  tiatuaal  disposition  faymued  his  artful,  policy*  As  lie  carefully  avoided, 
gfrw&sha  ftoflstitutionally  iudiffereot  -tOj  thepom^wi^wy  preroga- 
tive* of  iniperatorial  sway.  •  ,,,.  jn^bcih  a   1  >  hmscn'-jh  n  oifii 

M$e?freWJ^n$^^ 

101  v'jsniqzaw  orli  oi  -gahininUioo  ni  ooasihnuiiu  ?.U  bna  ;  uvjon?!  'i^^ 

t.Birr^P^lSrtmftnW^ 
a^-^Ge^neille-8-versioR-of  the  Emperor ^ig~jiot~"  without  book,?  in  these 
confessions  and  professions  from  the  height  of  his  gran(leur,dblpp*&te.* 
Q8  atrtao^uA  lo  yjrja^ae  Qffl  10  ^ninniM  Qfii  egw  ^Wfriq  aid  lo  inioq  on  id -;  t 


154  Merwales  Romans  under  tin  Empire- 

In  proportion  to  the  growth  and  accumulation  of  power,  m.  its  sub- 
stantive and  its  symbolical  forma,  Augustus  the  more  acrupokmily 
affected  to  appear,  in  his  mien  and  habits,  the  unpretending  equal  of  hw 
citizens.  He  rejected  with  signs  of  horror,  we  are  told,  the  appellation 
of  Dominus,  winch  awkward  flatterers  sometimes  addressed  to  hna ;  and 
once  in  the  theatre,  when  a  player  uttered  the  words,  "  O  just  and  gene- 
rous Lord,"  and  the  spectators  applied  it  with  acclamations  to  the 
emperor,  he  repressed  their  flattery  with  a  frown  and  gesture  of  im- 
patience, and  the  next  day  issued  an  edict  to  forbid  the  use  of  a  term 
which  seemed  to  imply  that  the  Romans  were  his  slaves.  When  consul, 
he  generally  traversed  the  streets  on  foot,  nor  at  other  times  did  he  shat 
himself  up  in  a  close  litter.  In  the  senate  he  rejected,  as  for  as  possible, 
the  distinctions  of  the  consular  dignity.  The  fathers  were  given  to  under- 
stand that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  conducted  from  his  door  to  the  curia  by 
a  crowd  of  illustrious  attendants,  nor  would  he  let  them  rise  from  their 
places  when  he  entered  the  assembly  or  quitted  it.  As  he  passed  along 
the  streets  he  received  petitions  with  equal  affability.  The  Romans  re- 
peated with  delight  his  playful  rebuke  of  a  nervous  suppliant,  wham  he 
likened  to  a  man  giving  a  halfpenny  to  an  elephant.  They  observed  with 
complacency,  that  when  Augustus  recommended  a  candidate  for  a  magis- 
tracy, he  conducted  him  always  in  person  through  the  public  places,  aad 
solicited  votes  in  his  favour — giving  his  own  vote  in  his  proper  tribe,  fike 
a  private  citizen. 

To  the  counsels  of  Maecenas,  who  was,  during  a  long  course  of  years, 
the  closest  and  dearest  of  the  emperor's  advisers,  the  Romans  ascribed 
"  the  subtle  policy  by  which  Augustus  gathered  into  his  single  hand  the 
functions  of  the  magistracy  and  the  legislature."  They  probably  over- 
rated the  influence  of  the  confidant ;  at  least  the  emperor  seems  to  have 
needed  little  prompting  in  this  respect.  It  was  among  the  first  cares  of 
Augustus,  "  on  succeeding  to  his  parent's  inheritance,  to  return  to  the 
principles  Caesar  had  set  forth,"  in  the  popular  privilege  of  election, 
whether  of  the  higher  or  lower  magistrates, — "  and  restrict  himself  to  the 
nomination  of  one  half;"  merely  claiming  the  right  of  veto  upon  the 
nomination  of  unworthy  candidates  ;  though,  in  effect,  while  he  reserved 
to  himself  the  decision  of  what  should  constitute  merit  or  demerit,  he  re- 
duced the  succession  to  all  places  of  trust  and  power  to  a  matter  of 
personal  favour.  "  Such  was  the  pretended  restoration  of  the  prerogatives 
of  the  people,  for  which  Augustus  obtained  credit :  it  was  a  part  of  the 
general  system  of  dissimulation  with  which  he  imposed  upon  a  people 
willing  to  be  deceived,  a  system  which  could  only  succeed  in  the  hands  of 
one  whose  personal  merits  were  for  dearer  to  them  than  any  consistent 
theory  of  government.* 

There  is  a  class  of  characters,  self-poised  and  harmoniously  developed, 
Mr.  Merivale  observes,  in  whom  the  possession  of  unlimited  power  (which 
intoxicates  some  men  with  pride,  drives  others  to  raging  madness1  crazes 
others  with  fear,  or  fevers  them  with  sensual  indulgence,  or  reduces  them 
to  absolute  imbecility) — there  is  an  order  of  men  in  whom  it  gives  birth 
to  a  genuine  enthusiasm,  a  firm  assurance  of  their  own  mission,  a  perfect 
reliance  upon  then*  own  destiny,  which  sanctifies  to  them  all  their  means, 
and  imbues  them  with  a  full  conviction  that  their  might  is  right,  eternal 
and  immutable.  The  indignant  conspirator  of  the  poet  may  denounce 
with  horror 


Mvmdkta  Remans  muter  the  JEmpir**  155 

toutes  ces  eruautes,. 

La  perte  <k  nos  hiens  et  de  nos  Khertes, 
Le  ravage  des  champs  le  pillage  des  yilles, 
Et  les  proscriptions,  et  les  guerres  civfles, 

which,  with  too  much  justice,  he  affirms, 

Sent  les  degres  sangiants  dont  Aueuste  a  fait  choix 
Pour  monter  sur  Is  trdne  et  nous  donner  des  lois. 

Bat  the  emperor  in  his  last  hours  appears  to  have  been  disturbed  by  few 
or  no  compunctious  visitings.  No  remorseful  "  rooted  sorrow*  embittered, 
so  far  as  we  can  tell,  his  dying  days,  or  wrung  from  him  a  piteous  appeal 
to  leech's  art,  to 

Eaze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain;. 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart. 

On  the  contrary,  at  the  close  of  his  long  career,  he  could  look  back,  the 
historian  writes,  upon  the  horrors  in  which  it  had  commenced,  without 
blenching.  "  He  had  made  peace  with  himself,  to  whom  alone  he  felt 
responsible  ;  neither  God  nor  man,  in  his  view,  had  any  claim  upon  him* 
The  nations  had  not  proclaimed  him  a  deity  in  vain ;  he  had  seemed  to 
himself  to  grow  up  to  the  full  proportions  they  ascribed  to  him.  Such 
enthusiasm,  it  may  be  argued,  can  hardly  exist  without  at  least  some 
rational  foundation.  The  self-reliance  of  Augustus  was  justified  by  his 
success.  He  had  resolved  to  raise  himself  to  power,  and  he  had  succeeded. 
He  had  vowed  to  restore  the  moral  features  of  the  republic,  and  in  this 
too  he  had,  at  least  outwardly,  succeeded."  Mr.  Merivale  adds,  however, 
that  while  the  lassitude  of  the  Romans,  and  their  disgust  at  the  excesses 
of  the  times,  had  been  the  main  elements  of  the  emperor's  success,  another 
and  more  vulgar  agent,  which  it  might  seem  to  need  no  genius  to  wield, 
had. been  hardly  less  efficacious;  and  this,  was  simply  his  command  of 
money ;  Augustus  being  enabled,  throughout  his  long  reign,  to  maintain 
a  system  of  profuse  liberality,  partly  by  strict  economy  and  moderation 
in  his  habits,  but  more  by  the  vast  resources  he  had  derived  from  bis 
conquests.  "  He  was  anxious  to  keep  the  springs  of  this  abundance  ever 
flowing,  and  he  found  means  to  engage  the  wealthiest  of  his  subjects  to 
feed  them  with  gifts  and  legacies.  The  people  were  content  to  barter 
their  freedom,  for  shows  and  largesses,  to  accept  forums  and  temples  in 
place  of  conquests;  and  while  their  ruler  directed  his  sumptuary  laws 
against  the  magnificence  of  the  nobles,  because  it  threw  a  shade  over  the 
economy  which  hia  own  necessities  required,  he  cherished  the  most 
luxurious  tastes  among  the  people,  and  strained  every  nerve  to  satiate 
them  with  the  appliances  of  indolent  enjoyment,  with  baths  and  banquets, 
with  galleries  and  libraries,  with  popular  amusements  and  religious 
solemnities. 

"  Yet  the  secret  of  his  power  escaped  perhaps  the  eyes  of  Augustas 
himself,  blinded  as  they  doubtless  were  by  the  fumes  of  national  incense. 
Cool,  shrewd,  and  subtle,  the  youth  of  nineteen  had  sufficed  neither 
interest  nor  vanity  to  warp  the  correctness  of  his  judgments-  The  ac- 
complishment of  his  design*  was  marred  by  no*  wandering  imaginations. 
Hmi  aUagglftfeg  power  waa  supported  by  no  belief  in  a  great  deatatfr  bat 


I* 


.146  JsftntJto&V  Romans  imd&.  the  Emplite. 

simply  by  observation  of  (jurumstaacesy  and  n  close  catbttlatfott  of  his 
means.  As  be  was  a  man  oi  no  absorbing  tastes  or  fer*id  jmpuh)&,  so 
he  was  also  free  from  all  allusions.  The  story  that  h&'tdade  hifffittkft 
amours  subservient  to; hid  policy,  whether  or  not  it  be;  strictly  %rte, 
represents;  correctly  the  town's  real  character.  The  ybto^O$t&^t»roifr» 
menced  hia  career  as  a  «*rrow»nHnded  aspirant  for  material  power.  :  ;'Bat 
his  intellect  expanded  with  his  fortunes,  and  hfa  soil  grew  {with  &s 
intellect.  The  emperor  was  not  less  magnanimous  ihab  he  Was*  nagtiife- 
cent  With  the  world  at  his  feet,  he  began  to  conceive  the  te*l  gtatf  ctetfc 
of  his  portion;  he  learnt  to*  comprehend  the  manifold  Wriety  ;Qf  ifce 
interests  subjected  to  him;  he  rose  to  a  'sense  e¥  the -awful*  a&sieii 
imposed  ¥f*m  him.  He  -  became  the  greatest  <  of !  Stoic  '  phik*e^lW, 
inspired,  with  the  strongest  enthusiasm,  Sand  impressed  l&ptaosVde&ry 
with  ateftfBeibusness  of  divinity:  within  him.  •  He  aekiiowted^ted,  i«rt>  ftss 
thana£4toora  Brutus,  thab\thB  man-God  mosi'iskiffer^^liiilflSt 
dmnety*  *»d  though  hie  human*  weakness  still  allowed  isome  toedrinesses 
aud  tijniwilieB  ta  creep5  to  light,  his  self.poasessioti  both  injttiuwphft  anS 
.reverse*,  in  joys  and  in  sorrows,  was  eoasistently  Signified  fai4mMialg? 
;  TWslaportrftitttrehy noM^moo  painter.  'Nowhterey  p^rha^i»^M?. 
Merivale.moppeAigoiww  and  !effeotivef  than  in  vstiudies^  Ufa* thisy  of  htintfh 
^harapter*  ^migfaa^wellbn  twa^hei^s'trikingportjf^ats}  ef  Awfcftrfeo 
jlouriahed  together  with  end  by  Augustus  !  die  Btevn^look^n^lut'libers) 
and  elegant  Agrippa,  whose  whole  career  was,  devoted  to  c^soii&tetife 
empire  of  hW>master^i  to  which  purpose  he; sacrificed  the  objebta  fhfci1* 
more  selfish,  man  would  aloneihare  regarded ;  and  Mescemaey  "wHoftr^awJ 
years  governed  the  republic  in  the  truest  interests  of  Augustan,  bf  Qttfetijr 
removing  from his  path  i  the-  (opposition  which  might  have  stifeaulafedlris 
meaner  afnbitiebt  and  who  taught  the  Romans  to  be  cowjerrtwitfette 
liberties  they  were  yet  able  to  retain  and  enjoy,  thereby  averting1  *>0A 
them  the  further  encroachmente  of  despotism;  a  man  who^{  manner! 
were  a  mixture  of  nature  and  artifice ;  for  under  the  exterior*  |of  baseless 
gpodrhMm,our,,Msicerias  concealed  w^  shrewdness,  activity  ^frvigilimce 
r—beiug  fully  possessed  of  all  the  threads  of  party  iritrrguey  arrttttte?  ttfc 
prepared,  at  &e  fittest.moment,  to  baffle  any  hostile  preparation  vW^ 
Jtve  employed,  for. the  purpose:  of  stifling. the. yearnings  of  atribitiotf  Jted 
the.  mnrmnr*  of  disconieot^  the  same  Ja*  philosophy,  gilded  wito'tfet 
brilliant  name  of  Epicurus,  which  Caesar  had  used  to  queil  the'  reffiotfe&'df 
his  followers^  when  urging  them  to  trample  on  the  sanctions  Wlkbh 
upheld  Aarfwrne  of  the  (republic  But  we  pass  bn  to  the  second  eptpetttt 
—the  morose,  but  perhaps  in  some  respects  mahgned  Tiberius— K*f  whoai 
the  portrait  by  Tacitus  is  known  so  widely*  and  so  profoundly  admired] 
a- portrait,  however,  which  the  present  historian  criticises  and' calW'tn 
question*  as  regards  its ;  deeper  shades,  and  touches  seemingly  /if  not 
demonstrably)  introduced  for  effect — insomuch  that  the  reader  can  Wdty 
escape  the  conviction  that  Tacitus,  though  undoubtedly  he  has  painted  a" 
very  striking,  indeed  an  immortal  piece  of  art,  has  by  no  means  given  us" 
a  proportionally  faithful  likeness* 

The  tranquillity  and  contentment  of  the  provinces  under  Tiberius  bear 
witness,  Mr.  Merivak  contends,  to  his  merits  as  commander  of  the 
Roman  armies.  While  Roman  writers  with  whom  we  are  most  familiaty 
it  is  added)  depict  the  character  of  this  Caesar  in  the  most  hideous  colours, 


^$()ody\?,m&(  wwiiieBb  fiesuctanee^ admit'  hLYi(ihcamf^t^B\irtl^ 
t^^ki^^.i^odiaratKinj.aDdi'dqaity  ofi  his  twtef  *w  hM  theNh**e- 
,p£ftdent '4feati*ne#|vije| ttw>ttroviiiciaUaotfaciwtite  combined)  t*iaSBu*fe%s, 
jfrtf  jfthtbe,  pr&^cjWf  a*>  leasto  >his  adniinistrtftiMl  <fB5  benbficetit?,  A^i 
.bi^om^topr/  >h§Ui(m  <hi6bouii.  1  Thiis  iPhile  rof  Jttdfesjri*pe'ftks>  to'>glew*n£ 
t^mai^/jbbkV  taMfimjaad  Jnadoeiskrfttbegwemmgn^^f  AlexattQ^  uniier 
>t&eff»ttp]*eft*f  {TibeoM^iaud  ax^s^tfillfiiiordeloqatetitly'thd  happy  con- 
gikoH^fcfcbe  wfcije  Joeepnus  appfeutls 

J^ire^rnaii^  (ofjpibeengttfcijr  *tllej  as  eoneeive&in'  a  dpfrit 

x^^qui^ioW  fattnded  to(terikreel'tfaefraaiii»iwi«8»df  the  sufferings  of  t&te 
ii^#^^1«%tl^ar^u9^Mi  whidh  each  »*w  goviei^tfoii  annually  tjfeaiig^, 
rlyid<^t*t$fepl  ^mak^hi&fortaoe/ifcthsibrie^  spaie  allotted  him.  S*  again 
^^itlii^.efn^o^^BW^nfir  6fdeaUag?withithfr  old'  plan  of  taxing  theprt^- 
?:VMiQ^rTfr i^l  wee^blui^  inrtM(Mfo*}tfaew6w'^ forte  in  Turkey  er^d 
j^^h^$lu;HXib«riit6  hVd^erves  liighii^edi^  fW  the  firmness  with 
^k^h^Tf%f9AJdit»/hfiV»  ibtas^ihe/temotattoaii  which  commonly 'beset 
]%rgoy^Qfpe^t<«qd»lthi«>B»e6hodiof  tadatioaJ  He^  refused  to  apply*  the 
seizor  to  :hi&  fipjNriwafc ageto^terKkTOqurre -^he'large*  ^return  which  h#  was 
assu^jpjgfcfcf  ^*y^iw^xtraofced(frofiiitii©m. ■«?  A  'goad  shepherd,  he1  was 
.w^pfcto.caj'Kiinwrtlsheahrihis flhcBpimord^nofc-fliythi^M^  Nor  was  hi* caie 
<c^h#eA  fa  tA^|WP9^ii^rJi'i?¥^ifi^  Vith  utttirita£ 

j^tWtpyj^j^ j»feff»,jQf  oaibuseB'iBJthe/ g^etamdnifr  of  ftalyr  t©>  assuring 
gfenefaijee^y^jabd'to^^  protesting- the 

jnj^tan#<fo 

pwtefc ^^rfUtiwittfetiii^  !th* ;  Ailigenee  or  the  cky  police-  and  devising 
fyw<p*rste  r%«dn^H-eK>D5fdwrtidi  measures  for  mamtaining  order  in  tfife 
sO^ftal^iuJHfe  ^tehT^uiJDilim^sei  i^straim  stringent 

4HNt^^y/(Wo|wWo^diinn(Hd^Hn  -fts  niore  shsimeless  tottasi'ltov^toeen 
^^ia^foiWfles^TtcTtte^'ia^fast  himself.  What*  it « fe'Wfced, ifrtf^tne 
f^a^ieWaHerjtrf'thc  manrwiipi&otoed^  himself  t^uiB  h«rth  and  uhben*. 
i^J»4ife,plAfee»pBfcityDE>iiH  i-.'t '. '  ;i.f-  ■   '•  •    "»•;  ^>  '  ^  •»  >>  "!  »w 

.  .Mtn, meting  thiatfuestjeiiv  MriiMerivate warns  t»  that  the1  prejudices  of 
tfre  Ro^^nawese  yearly  excited  agaiiist  Tiberius,  and  that  no  reliance  can 
ta/'placediont  filwir  DBfllibwuB  'assertions  that  hts  natutal  reserve  was 
lissun^aa^  tfaatfr  the 

period  of  his  personal  rtile in  the  capital,  it  wouM seem  that  his  amuse- 
*nents  and  relaxations*  no  mean  element  in  the  character  of  every  Roman, 
#era  frivolous  jathe*  than'corrupt.  '"  Nor* can  there  be  any  doubt  of  the 
wutiraag  perseverance  with  which  Tiberius  devoted  himself  through  at  least 
t^e.  greater  .part,  of  his  ptfmoipate  to  the  engrossing  cares  of  his  station-, 
cares  which  above  all  others  must  have  demanded  a  clear  head  and  a  sound 
body*  For  several  years  he  never  quitted  the  dust  and- dm  of  Rome  fo* 
*, single  day,  .and  his  whole  time  was  given  withftut  intermission  to  the 
diteussions  of  the  senate,  to  the  procedure  of  the  tribunals,  to  conferences' 
with  foreign  envoys,  and  every  other  detail  id  its  turn  of  his  world-wide 
pidnwuBtration.  The  charge  of  profligacy,  only  slightly  supported  by 
external  testimony,  falls  to  the  ground  before  this  strong  internal  evidence 
of  iife  falsehood* 

...  "But  the  morality  of  Tiberius* was  not  confined  to  abstinence  from' 
gross  vice,  or  refraining  from*  luxuries  and  indulgences  which  might  have 
been  Jess,:  unsuitable  to  his  position.     He  was  anxious  to  exhibit  the 
June— vol*  cvii.  no.  ccccxxvi.  m 


158  Marinates  Romans  under  tlie  Empire. 

ancient  ideal  of  the  Roman  statesman  in  the  practice  of.  the  household 
yiitoes  of  simplicity  and  frugality.  His  domestic  economy,  formed  on 
the  pattern  of  Augustus,  received  additional  hardness  and  severity  from 
the  habits  of  the  camp,  with  which  he  had  been  so  long"  familiar."  In 
illustration  of  this,  we  are  reminded  that  the  number  of  his  slaves  was 
limited;  that  the  freedmen  who  managed  his  private  concerns  were  kept 
strictly  within  the  bounds  of  modesty  and  propriety ;  while  his  eoonoimo 
policy  enabled  the  government  to  fulfil  every  engagement  with  punctu- 
ality, to  pay  its  civil  officers  adequately  and  without  disappointment,  and 
to  keep  its  soldiers  within  the  bounds  of  military  disciphne,by  gratifying 
them  regularly  with  their  daily  dole,  thereby  ensuring  their  submission 
without  a  murmur  to  the  labours  of  the  camp  and  the  blows  of  the 
centurion* 

At  the  same  time,  with  all  his  frugality,  Tiberius  obtained,  our  his* 
torian  continues,  "  the  rare  praise  of  personal  indifference  to  money,  and 
forbearance  in  claiming  even  his  legitimate  dues."  Satis  firnms^mt  smpe 
memoravi,  Tacitus  allows  of  him,  adversus  pecuniam.  He  net  mfice* 
fluently  waived  his  right  in  cases  where  the  law  enriched  the  emperor 
with  the  property  of  a  condemned  criminal,  and  allowed  it  to  descend  to 
the  heir ;  repeatedly  refusing,  moreover,  to  accept  inheritanaea  hnqusntfiffd 
him  by  persons  not  actually  related  to  him,  and  checking  the  hase  sub- 
serviency of  a  death-bed  flattery.  There  is  valid  cause  shown  on-  the 
whole  for  Mr.  Merivale's  argument,  that  had  Tiberius  been  so  fia^fttlT 
as  to  have  died  at  the  close  of  a  ten  years'  princinate,  he  would  have  left 
an  honourahle  though  not  an  attractive  name  in  the  annals  of  Borne* 
"  He  would  have  represented  the  Cato  Censor  of  the  empire,  by  tha  side 
of  the  Scipio  of  Augustus  and  the  Camilhis  of  Caesar."  Popular  preju* 
dice  may  be  staggered  at  the  "conceit"  of  Tiberius  as  a  Cato  Censor— 
of  hinting,  any  likeness  between  the  out-and*out  old  Boman,  who  j^n^h** 
with  his :  own  hands  his  Sabine  field,  and  the  hoary  vowptaary  who  gave 
up  great  Rome  to  Sejanus,  and  his  miserable  self  to  the  worst  pleasure! 
of  8m  for  a  season — as  Milton  darkly  shadows  him  forth, 

Old  and  lascivious,  and  from  Rome  retired 
To  Capreae,  an  island  small,  but  strong, 
On  the  fiamnaniaii  shore,  with  purpose  these 
His  horrid  lusts  in  private  to  enjoy ; 
Committing  to  a  wicked  favourite 
AH  public  cares,  and  jet  of  Mm  suspicious ; 
Hated  of -all,  and  hating. 

But,  .confining  our  view  to  the  first  decade  of  his  reign,  there  is.  netting 
extravagant  in  the  comparison  above  suggested.  The  sternness  and  «ees 
cruelty  he  had  so  often  exhibited,  would,  the  historian  niaiittains,.haf» 
gained  Tiberius  no  discredit  with  the  Romans,  so  long  as  the/  wtias  ex- 
erted against  public  offenders  for  the  commonweal,  and  for  no  selfish 
object**.  "  Bat  as  the  fine  and  interesting  features  of  his  person  wens 
marred-  by  a  constrained  and  unpleasing  mien  and  expression,  so-  his 
natieapift,  industry,  and  discretion  were  disparaged  by  a  perverse  isssepas) 
a  crooked  policy,  and  an  uneasy  sensibility.  The  manners  of  die  man, 
the  martinet  in  the  camp,  the  omcialist  in  the  closet,  die  pedant  itrthe 
senate-house,  carried  with  them  no  charm,  and  emitted  no  sewtiUation  of 
genius  to*  kindle  the  sympathies  of  the  nation.  The  Prineeps,  from  his 
invidious  and  questionable  position,  if  once  he  failed  to  attract,  cottkLonly 


Merwaie's  Romans  under  the  Empire.  159 

repel  ike  inclinations  of  his  subjects.  If  once  they  ceased  to  ascribe  to 
inm  their  blessings,  they  would  begin  without  delay  to  cast  upon  his 
head  all  their  misfortunes."  Accordingly,  the  mystery  of  the  death  of 
Gemaniea»is  *aid  to  have  thrown  a  blight  upon  the  fame  of  Tiberius 
from  which  he  nerer  again  recovered ;  lak  countrymen  from  that  moment 
judging  him  without  discrimination,  and  sentencing  him  without  eom- 
fmnotioa :  their  suspicion  of  his  machinations  against  Germanicus,  un- 
moved and  improbable  as  they  really  were,  kindled  their  imaginations  to 
tsettngs  of  disgust  and  horror,  which  neither  personal  debauchery,  nor 
sjbe  perseowtion  of  knights  and  nobles,  would  alone  have  sufficed  to 
engender.  The  year  776  (a.d.  23),  the  ninth  of  Tiberius,  is  marked  by 
Tacitus  as  the  turning-point  in  the  emperor's  character.  Up  to  this 
time  the  government,  he  affirms,  had  been  conducted  with  honour  and 
advantage  to  the  commonwealth;  and  thus  far  the  emperor,  he  adds, 
might  fairly  phsme  himself  on  his  domestic  felicity,  "  for  the  death  of 
<»ermamcms  te  reckoned  among  his  blessings,  rather  than  his  afflictions." 
From  that  period.,  however,  fortune  began  to  waver  and  change :  sorrows 
«nd  disappeintnients  harassed  him  and  soured  his  temper ;  he  became 
cruel  himself,  and  he  stimulated  the  cruelty  of  others ;— the  mover  and 
contriver  of  the  atrocities  which  followed  being,  as  all  men  allowed,  the 
wretched  Sejanua-—of  whom,  recognised  by  crouching  Rome  as 

the  second  face  of  the  whole  world, 

Ute  partner  of  the  empire, 

the  galled  malcontent  in  Jonson's  tragedy  bitterly  declares, 

He  is  now  the  court  god;  and  wett  applied 
With  sacrifice  of  knees*  of  crooks*  and  cringes  ; 
He  will-do  more  than  all  the  house  of  heaven 
Can,  for  a  thousand  hecatombs.    'Tis  he 
Hakes  us  our  day,  or  night;  helL  and  elysium 
Are  in*  his  look :  we  talk  of  Rhadamanth, 
Furies,  and  firebrands;  but  it  is  his  frown 
That  is  all  these; 

or,  as  one  made  of  other  metal,  otherwise  yet  to  the  came  effect  desig- 
nates him — also  ore  rotundissimo--- 

Sejanus,  whose  high  name  doth  strike  the  stars, 
And  rings  about  the  concave ;  great  Sejanus, 
Whose  glories,  styles,  and  titles  are  himself 
The  often  iterating  of  Sejanus,  &c. 

MfvMewaW  refers  to  the  retirement  of  Tiberms  to  Capvesa  as  having 
been  justly  ^considered  an  important  turning-point  in  his  career  *  inas- 
much a*,  having  thereby  screened  himself  from  the  hated  gate  of  his 
subjects*  the  emperor  could  thenceforth  give  the  rein,  without  shame  or 
remorse,  to  tiie  worst  propensities  of  his  nature,  "  From  this  time  un- 
^chMedly  we  find  him  less  anxious  to  moderate  the  excessive  flatteries  of 
the  senate,  or  to  mediate  between  its  servile  ferocity  and  the  wretched 
Jfietittis  of  the  delators."  The  citizens  of  Rome  were  affrighted  at  the 
ruthless  sweep  of  vindictive  power,  hurrying  the  noblest,  by  basest  means, 
to*  Moody  death.  u  What  a  commencement  for  the  new  year  is  this !" 
tneycricd,  when^  even  on  the  calends  of  January,  the  strictest  holiday  of 
4he  Roman  year,  Tiberias  sent  from  his  sea-girt  rock  a  demand  for  the 
Wfcef  *e*atoere%4>^^  "what  victiins  are  these  with  wfech 

m2 


i  6$  Mt^k'*bR&ik&tt$  ^Md^ilArJSfkpBk 

Sejanus  Mlpilres'  Ijd/b^  ^i^4bU^^!  r^W^hiEVt^idlyf  febnek^lihis?  idi^^fbdNdv^wilU^nfav 

without  ^ti^e^fion^  if  >&:  &a«ta  a&  holy  and  fottivdimusfete  pifclfa— J 

' !  ^SejabttS  falleft,  thfe»  ftoAittttB, ^ 4eiM5»ifcedt«»«*ai iff Mlihgito^  d**iv&fcbati&? 
*er?es  ag  to  ihe*  dffl^ii^*^^L  olwiictwtoi  and.  mdtiiwy  Emoted  JoDctfq 
a&dtakcte1  that?  ^  tfftHced  awl*  hrappjr1  change^  would  tao-it&BBxnpe  apfaaaos 
la  lii6  l>ehiivteufi;fi'Cft1?o'lite'W^h«tfng  iii&entraro£^0iUnmrthy7%roanA 
they  fbadfy  bribed11  the  'ttfaer^infaimufctemrik,  land  Jihidnes*  trihtjaiii 
ttMMet's  temper,'  %g^ttirfe»fh*w^h^Wms  06  attiJtUesbi«ifet(fasdr£eeq 
already  toanrfeftedf  *ifr'  ttB"'W»ly"yatttty»  anri^tnat^jbrs^o^eteik 
a#vanch%  y€ats,edtrtd,'ti^ttU  teraaiM<atid  agtaifcto^cj  lAmapt&nd^ 
fcfce&ife  tftf^lrtWt^lUt  $ib  year  Tfi&i&to  A*.Df>a^ted 

crossed  the  narrow  strait  winch  separates  .Caprasa-  from  S uir era l turn,  »ml 
was  making'  progress  along-  the  Camipnman  coast,  irith  a  seaming  in» 
tendon  at  length,  after  so  long  a  time,   to  reiisit  hie  cap ital*  they  were 
prepare  d  to  we  I  com  0 '  hi  m,  as  one  res  1 1  >red  tVora  an  unjus  fc  exile*  and  to 
exchange  with  him  smiles  of  mutual  lore  and  reviving  donfldeucei"  ^^But 
the  ardeflt  greeting' they  brewtftod  for  him  was  destined  mfi¥«p;tq<jbe 
tendered.      They    were  surprisedj    perhaps,  __lcu  hear  that   his  excessive 
timidity  had  ind^ejj  hjm  ^o.^mt  the  land,  ,an4 .  Ija^e  refug^ 011  board  a 
trireme*  which;  tore  him  up  the  Tfiber^  while  guar  dp  attended  on  hu 
progress,  and  rudely  .cleared  away  tfie  spectators  from  either  banje.    Sucn 
Wa^  the  strange  fashion  in  which  he '  ascended  the  rirer as  far  as  the 
Cesarean  Gardens  an.d  the  Kaumachm  of  Augustus ;  but  on  reacting  tlm 
spot,  and  .coming  once  more  beneath  the  hills  of  Rome*  he  suddenly 
turned  his  prow  without  landing,  and  glided  rapidly  down^the  stream,  nor 
did  he  pause  again  uutU  he  had  regained  his  island.*'     The  populace  of 
Rome  wer*  mortified  an$  disgusted  exceedingly  at  this  slighting  freaL 
They  muttered  curses,  not  perhaps  loud  but  certainly  i2eep?  on  the  ftcffcle 
tyrant,  whom  they  accused  : of  the  foulest  motives  in  this  sud<jLf  n  return 
fd  Captfeter  »»"•■-■>  "w-  *  ■•-'''  -^  *a  v.,.iiu  ji  ,:i  ni7,  ivbivn  &iU  3utL    .9-iawa  ton 
•/,J>  '   '  Hf'te  Wtf'nldiisfe ^%¥feitedf fo t*e* «x  wmiuQ  sb  aamofiT  %d 
"'■"  ,:t      ""  :,t   ftttfafe  a^^¥a(&Wv^W^Tede6itfMHVs  -<W  ^  s^roto 
r .  ...  ..;.,..  ...  His  loathed  person  fouler  than  all  crimes  r        rt***I<>8  "  wrosaAl 

i. ...',. '".  .   ".'...   .  '   in  emperor,  only  i a  his  Justs.     Retiree1  fXJh*nfr  Jnil" 

'%;,/.  ,  V.1",.   ,   From  &  w#«3  K  &S  own  fame,  or  RonieV '         b1°.  *ft9fl9d 

i.  ;:."'  ".  ."•;.'.,  V    Into  an  obscure  island;  where  he  lives  ™"  ydj  ^P9* 

,.-.  .  .      Acting  his  tragedies^ h  a  comic  face,  g.I0/Jt,.  ]>MJJ  ^ 

vi.  ....1  Amidst  hu»  route  of -Clialdeea,  ,  J!!ir  t   ,.^  ni  ..msnobd  eA 

:'  ":  ■  !    ' !  "•  :'   ■'.,':,;'-  •5,,"f  ,s?  '■  ■■>  >:i.-'5"  -;ri  ii  J.,ii/.-T  -],.:■•>  -(Ijr'jlibwc  natnollass 

ffJWV  st%aitttwea  tW^ioniirigJrfliifr'baobiupon/tJiaa^ 

bf^me.  a^thtfcatJHd^  jM'x&'W  Ftiittms  eJate  Imner^or,  <h«.iotiikl^ 

despotic  sway. over  lfce  slaves  «f  A«ia;i;  wefe:  ^jWte^f^TOr^^ll 
^citadel  of  Ctesi^hon  or'  Artaxatav  despised  all  human ^ifeeM^ga^iajft^ 
Jtrartipled  6n  *&  prhici^fes,1  sptot^iii^  ftr  hi*  selfish  pleawa^  ^ithi ootid* 
lives  onlyr  b,wt  #>e  ^pQQursf.  of7  hi^  ^Ue^aj^e |;>^bj^'j(r8jDA;Wif^Cte 
them  tbeu  childreit •  <to . mutUato  par , deflower,  and ( stin^uj^ije^ \$$]fflftlg 
passions  by  the  nobility  of  higvictimsi  •■•  ;  1,   ,  >.  •?,.  ,)./;:;  ^  'j„  jbJ7I/l)a 

AJlthis  and  w^e  Wasnov^f^ 


4&t^feWfa«^  let 

fiwtttthq  n^loatturinw  *acei liofi tforttaff*  ^ajt^^^r^arfeBt,^  j ,;  /( 
.  If  our  historian  accepts  the  charges  of  Tacitaftm^^e^p^itts.^gali^ 

pliteasj  aft^wnrtrayedibyi  JuretWv^hjtyhSeuee^,  ^e^0^iM,oan4  iujf# 
aJwa|(fweiyovs^^ 

y^i0Dip^rf#i8BaiandiBbaiGft,j9i)He  ^o^l^j^ogfetiftp'hirattiQ^^t^  pf 
£a{£uht  {«ibid%iaiHl  fbwn^mipi%riy)4iVtb9  4W*m^*o,  a^o^ftjU*  Wfo 
po9&*ouilpfniidnh[|;Hai  d»  «n«^#rfofe/*«[7'^j^^  C^Wfr^  $4acft 
whetauwdSMnclgmfo^Jato*;  6^i«wm|fotHio^  cgitfafpfcitowf  aodt^e 
^uafyeoiAl  posriMj^ifcps  implied  fcaooit  fifjtiwielfeftwt^/fprrjpp^ypw, 
fnB*sj^s,<r\V^iafcG'  *id«?  ^m&yfl^Q*^?j;4esn&oufo^^ 
^e»^1*:la»fe^niIdel WatipiiH,  .oft;  ^*ieiUto&  [jftft.  'VTjtwre'/jj  Wsbft 
iBiugopouBas*  Hnw  ,&f»oaiiwrcfJ<jki*^  <«tj  sejitflke^^vks  ^!#i^^ 
jsknu^dfe  *biii(jKpeiur  efejdHtn©;tga*3ti§  «a»e#Unje  QQ^u^taefiTipri^W^Ir^ 
di)iiiiait,o<ides.lac^iicagr^bW/f  f> <*o*Trr-afc  whteh>r#2^#&,  ^ffip^r^]^ 

8dppet-^aa*fesij5rBT«AgaE}y  supposed  fojhai^Tha^il&ajbM  e^?i^flUfie.,of  i([* 
dyi&a&es  ciil  todi  i^*if_^i_  making fciight  hideoas,  I  < -j 

*jr*>n  ana%ll  around  UWt  blaster!  Isle. '  What  Mr.  Merivale  does  say  for 
Tiberius  \h}  that  the  worst  iniquities  ascribed  to  him  may  be  paralleled  in 
the  conduct  of  private  individuals,  his  eon temporaries^  the  accounts  of 
wljich  may  have  been  coloured  by  "a !  prurient  nnagiriation,  but  itt  least 
have  taot  been  distprted  by  malice.  As  to  the  massacres  which  made  the 
close  oi  his  re^gri  a  reign  of"  terror, — terror  which,  according  to  Tacitus, 
fhruhk  from  tjie  common  diities  of  humanity,  all  natural  com  passion 
cowering  iu  silence  beneath  the  tyranny  rampant  on  every  side, — th£ 
suggestion  that  there  may  have  been  a  touch  of  insanity*  in  the  conduct 

*  To  whose  particular  suggest  ioh-  of  insanity  Mr.1  Merivale  may  all  ode,  we  are 
not  aware.  But  the  reader  will  here  allow  us  to  cite  a  suggestion  tojhaj  jd$ec& 
by  Thomas  de  Quincey,  in  $>n>  <$  hj§  #$^ka^ffbaj>t$fis  pntfip  Caesars--*  series 
of  essays  we  hope  sojg/|t^§e^Jiepu^l^^ip^,xol^ni^  $ft*f  author's  miscel- 
laneous "Selections:" 

«  But,  finally, 
benefit  of  a  still  1 

sense,  they  were  i — „..  _-  —  __.-  -,—  „  .. „  — , ..—._—  ,„_.. .»  _  __t/ , 
and  anecdotes  are  recorfteS ;lortne^m^i*^ti'  Wftitih  go  fat*  to  establish  it  as  a 
fact,  and  others  which  w&ttd  ititifif  ftatt  *ym£to*rts^>iWcedin$  or  accompanying. 
As  belonging  to  the  former  class,  Wkei^ft^wiwgstoryiriAAimidnight  an  elderly 
gentleman  suddenly  sends  round  a  message  to  a  select  party  of  noblemen,  rouses 
%»l!fcoW^*&,to#iw^^  EremuUng  for,tbejr 

Idrttittow^e.w^wm^  <£tlja  sjmm<^  and  frpmti^ •  unseasqnable  hoiuvaud 


#in  Wtfy whe»'.  tflsej  the  sflencf  oS  night  -  pTeyails,  unfttfi  with;  the  silence,  <of 

jted— aftjpojfc  at  each,  other  JU 

ousettle%2^ 

mWeW'o^tlteir^tlibtiglits  Is  ftosinbound  toy-  fear.    Suddenly  tae 
sound  of  a  fiddle  or  a  viol  is  caught  front (« idistauoS-trit  sweWs  upon  the.ear— 'Stero 
t  ifo  another  pfa5$a^  in ,  tushes  the ,  elderly  gentleman,,,  grave  and 

•     '•--■•■•<•  «      •-  For  half 

pirouettes, 

__„  „,    -       .     .     «  ddle;  and, 

igitodt  Iboketi  a* this  $wt8,  theeldepfor gentleman  whirls  out 


162  lathe  Cuckoo. 

of  Tiberius  at  ibis  period,  is  favoured  as  consonant  with  the  evidence  of 
facts.  The  Wood  of  the  Cktudii  was  tainted,  we  are  once  and  again  ie» 
mioded^— appatctttly  through  many  generations,  with  an  besefttary  vke, 
sometimes  manifesting  itself  in  extravagant  pride  and  msoleaee,  at 
others  in  ungovernable  violence ;  and  the  whole  career  of  Tiberias  fins* 
his  youth  upwards?  in  its  abrupt  alternations  of  control  aad  iadulgenee, 
of  labour  and  dissipation,  had  in  fact,  says  the  historian,  been«aeh  m 
might  naturally  lead  to  the  utisettlemeat  of  his  measel  powers.  a  Ihk 
inward  disturbance  shewed  itself  in  a  very  marked  manner  in  the?  startling 
inconsistency  which  became  now  more  and  more  apparent  in  hie  condnca. 
Charity  elutehes  at  any  such  suggestion,  as  a  cloak,  whatever  k*  possible 
tenuity  of  texture,  or  short-comings  in  size,  to  cover,  if  only  imperfectly 
and  in  part,  a  very  multitude  of  sins. 

A  far  less  questionable  case  of  lunacy  will  come  before  ne  in.  a  follow* 
ing  paper — the  case  of  Caligula,  by  whom  the  Romans  weoe  first  practi- 
cally taught  the  infernal  possibilities  of  a,  jus  damnum,  or 

Bight  divine  of  kings  to  govern  wrong. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

BY  MABY  C.  F.  MOHCK. 


Where  art  thou,  unseen  spirit  of  the  woods  ? 
I  hear  thy  weft-known,  long-loved  summer  cry 
Pfiling  the  air  above  me.    But  in  vain 
I  turn  to  hedge,  and  copse,  and  waving  bough 
To  seek  the  leafy  covert  of  thy  choice— 
What  art  thou? 

Storms  and  cold  east  winds  are  gone 
Before  thou  comest.    Happy,  happy  bird ! 
ttiou  know'st  no  change  of  season ;  not  for  thee 
Do  all  the  fair  and  lovely  things  of  earth 
Wither  and  die,  their  rich  perfection  reached. 
Thou  dost  not  see  the  flowers  thou  hast  loved 
Fade  to  such  ghastly  and  unsightly  things, 
That  the  eye  turns  from  what  was  once  its  pride 
With  bathing  and  distaste.    Oh,  fairy  bird  I 
Thy  life  is  all  one  round  of  summer  days 
Radiant  with  sunshine. 

Where  wert  thou  so  longP 
From  the  bright  lands  laved  by  the  southern  seas 
The  swallows  are  come  back,  and  dart  about, 
Now  here,  now  there,  in  shadow  and  in  light, 
■  ■  ....,.,. ■■* 

of  the  room  in  the  same  transport  of  emotion  with  which  he  entered  it ;  the  paaio- 
struck  visitors  are  requested  by  a  slave  to  consider  themselves  as  dismissed:  they 
retire ;  resume  their  couches: — the  nocturnal  pageant  has  'dislimned'  and  vanished; 
and  on  the  following  morning,  were  it  not  for  their  concurring  testimonies,  alt 
would  be  disposed  to  take  this  interruption  of  their  sleep  for  one  of  its  most 
fantastic  dreams.  The  elderly  gentleman  who  figured  in  this  delirious  pas  seul~ 
who  was  he  ?  He  was  Tiberius  Caesar,  king  of  kings,  and  lord  of  the  terraqueous 
globe.  Would  a  British  jury  demand  better  evidence  than  this  of  a  disturbed 
intellect  in  any  formal  process  <fe  hautfico  inqvirendo  V 


To,  the  Cuckoo.  163 

Now  skimming  o'er  the  blue  and  rolling  stream, 
Now  flitting  o  er  the  sloping  meadow-lands 
That  billow1  lightly  in  the  gentle*  wind- 
Where  hast  thou  stayed  P 

The  butterflies  are  here, 
The  russet  bees  have  left  their  mo8s4ined  cells, 
And  hover  o'er  the  chalices  of  sweets 
Which  field  and  garden  offer  lavishly. 
The  bright  laburnum  waves  her  golden  veil; 
The  penumed  lilac's  purple  pyramids 
Shower  their  full-blown  petals  on  the  grass ; 
The  early  roses,  trained  oy  hands  beloved — 
Hands  which  mar  oksp  mine,  never,  never  more- 
Cluster  in  graceful  wreaths  upon  the  wall ; 
The  blossoms  of  the  time  are  fca«ging  forth 
Heavy  with  fragrant  honey. 

All  around, 
Amid  the  broad  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 
Are  murmurous  sounds  of  myriad  insect-wings 
Humming  around  the  pale-green  pendant  floVrs ;  J 

The  hawthorns  bend  beneath  their  weight  of  bloom, 
So  lately  pure  as  snow,  but  tinted  now 
With  the  faint  flush  which,  heialdeth  decay; 
The  rich-breathed  clover  casts,  its  seent  abroad — 
The  loveliest  things  of  spring-time  welcome  thee — 
The  choicest  hoards  of  summer  bud  for  thee. 
Then,  bird,  or  spirit,  leave  us  not— oh,  stay ! 
Thy  voice  hath  magic  power  in  its  tone 
To  call  up  thoughts,  and  dim,  sweet  memories- 
Things  of  my  glad,  untroubled  childhood's  days, 
When,  'mid  the  dewy  fields  at  early  mom, 
My  blood  rushed  up  into  my  glowing  face, 
And  my  hands  dropped  the  cowslips  they  had  gleaned, 
While,  awed  and  wondering,  with  quick-beating  heart, 
I  listened  for  the  call,  I  half  believed 
Game  from  the  clear  and  cloudless  sky  above. 
Shy  denizen  of  lone  and  darkened  shades, 
I  hear  tbee  nearer,  nearer  overhead, 
In  the  tall  elms,  but  still  a  viewless  thinff  : 
Now  thou  art  gone,  thy  cry  is  feint  and  far, 
Painter  and  farther,  in  the  summer  air, 
like  the  low  echo  of  a  broken  dream. 
And  now  I  hear  thy  plaintive  call  no  more, 
And  the  full  choir  of  sweet  and  mellow  songs, 
Unheard,  unheeded,  while  thou  filPdst  mine  ear, 
Bing  out  with  tenfold  power. 

But  my  tears, 
Brawn  from  a  source  half  sweet,  half  bitter,  flow, 
A^d  my  heart  heaves  with  a  dull  yearning  pain. 
I  would— I  would  the  tide  of  time  might  flow 
Back  on  the  golden  sands  that  it  hath  left, 
And  I  be  once  again  the  thoughtless  child 
Among  the  dewy  flowers  at  morning-tide. 
It  may  not  be,  and  when  those  tears  are  dried 
I'll  smile  that  thou  couldst  draw  them.    Thou  wilt  go, 
But  the  returning  spring  shall  bring  thee  back, 

Whilst  I 1  will  not  think  of  what  may  be ; 

Let  the  dim  future  rest  with  Him  whose  word 
Makes  sunshine  in  the  shadowy  realms  of  death. 


(M*io<&  o>\T 


;  Paeib  jo,  >a<*cdrdin#,t6;M*ulrinarid  >Sussott,'ift^i'  jUdn^6h  itit!r 

in  &>•  prewWt  ddyi51^^^odsei//a»*  t>^s^l*hfeH^  3«&,242 -<fiftBu 
arvarerftge  of!£'66.pftt^^ff^M3L  oiff^^^t^-^'^flf^ii^V 

betown  tHe  niimte^  fatilbgf'fcX1 

syiteip  of  duiruimiir  *hpi:<aa^dUtoi  dkkinte^msi^ag^*  cfii^L  <a^Mm»&i9i^9  ^^^^ 

which  hu  tats  gpaatijirfDnrta^ 

victuals  in  each  family,  have  deewril«Kfctri&wtn*rk^ 

a0/we.have;*eta  aJbokte^flLQ^iietfa^xyfi^^ib^iWi^ttd  tt^'fltfrfoi 

each!  f*mtfy  or  ^fci#4^tMill©<^ 

coBSVQ^eaiij^myfci^kieiipitosfaes  tt»s»»llniod^kdd  ^SmsWrte'd  #Wl# 

togather^jti/MH;  w  vi^IT     .LoKil  Ahumm  .-^v/f:  ->ilJ  <•••«!»■'  .v.f>  absd 

;ThVpcmlrtta&{af  Pa&f*^^  ttto'iJtefc^iAill  *8jf9 

wm.  iridridiUto^ottfniai/pc^aiioii'bf  966,10074  latt^idWi^jfe^n^ 
ti<m;or25,l468)yatadia^a^sbn^^^89  ?pv.')*m'1^*  ¥85*™ 
there  wa»  an  ;wrtnal3dlrikttfali^ 
evejltsand  -th^.ara^agfiffi  ^^pUemMB^btttdtiw^o)l4hW  *f-  'imrtW&JikJ0 
muruqatitHiKiJWd  the"  fetp^o^eHieDtsT effected  »^  'thf?  ifcstfffettffo^W^J 
peppte>,  J*v*co«hK>edr/td  brin£>4*  unlay  foftpitoiato  atid^tf&ngett  %6  tetF 
capitaV.tJbfltfiAitha  sfeme>vatacrif  kMW^iseiAafc^Itew^g^teg -M-i^MiK^ 
the^jmls^  tf  iPot&s^^  ^-vv>  "*** 

WhiW  th*Tn'to^c&ibiitfw^ 
th$  increase,  the  p^fcrtBori^nWrfteHfo  ^df^n«Jk*eiaMr^«r'  ^>Vpill«^tf f lil^J 
been  on  the  decline.     This  important  fact  appears  to  be  attrftMKtifl/fi" 
the  main,  by  M.  Armand  Husson  to  the  effectrtrflJfl  )aW*ittftiefe^1w$ 
division  of  property. 
Paris  than  there  ttV 
than  there,  are  '/thejt  ,    y     .     ^^^^^.^  rju,,  . 

The  pf^lgjgi  ^jdistnbutedas  follows^  ^j^^v^^D*  follow 
the  liberal  professibniJlt.727  the  commercial,  337,921  the  mechanical; 
172,890  are  salaried gq<i  79,586  are. in  thfclattny;  137,186  men  and 
women  are  servants.     In 
are  Parisians*  42lpwrvMci 
unknown.     The,  foreigners; 

Germans,  9711  Belgians,  8512  Italians.  o^&w&sy  «*$  5055pngffih;n(I 
Considered,  in*  ifeljgfout  «^o1nt<>ofSv1eW,  '-th&e*  iritf'-ljOMjfOO1 


a 


Cathoiiea,  ^y368  P»t«tau1%^&^ad^ews^nd54<)08  W  tiivtefite  MM™ 
Considered  in 4h*  f<*iii*>frview^  lhMW?fl{\ 

that  ia  to  any,  86,685,  ^e  cftgttg**  •-» !  Actdtfes  rana"  Hearty  tfs'!  hT&tf011 


viz.,  35,679*  aip  em^lriyed  ih  ^fcat<ttr$*ca!k*d  AWfcto  dt  Ifliwtt.' 

Poverty* ^  orat  all  ^ten^^ef'Wth«  p^,na*  lever'  sitice1  17*1  bfeen^ 
diminishing  in  Pariaj  ;  fflfteiW  was/for  -eartrhrple, ■;,1  patrper  upcm  evei^  , 
506  inhabitant  id  IT&Jt?  -'the**  wfteM3nfy  ifa  ^65  in  ;185l     This  Is'*0 

— i  ■■■  -i — i"i    •■(>■# — i^ni? — )<■  I»ir*' — \'*'\  *** m/«-u — J~ — ,^..j..;i,.,. ■„; — : — ; .  ■  ,u  .'*»* 


*  Le*  (>>niomm*twiifl  (teiParJs^v?^  clttf  de  division  i&  la :0tl 

Prefecture  de  la  Seine.  "  ;  .  ♦,  ..;,i.  .   .   j  ;     : .  .     /  :.t:;  .b-^ 


The  fooAtyPdris.  165 

precisely  the  reverse  of  what  we  see  in  this  country,  with  our  costly  and 
palatial  workhouses.  If* rajperfSBi,  .if ,  £m\  gwral  in  Paris  than  in 
London,  the  effects  of  sudden  scarcity  are,  however,  more  frequently  and 
rnm^y^jM^^^mih.m^uln  Iha.industrialiatftd  !alia«ntaiy^i*s 

r&elfojlj^i^  »»J»|ittteini 

mp^f^iW^^pu^^;^r^({tfcan.oi»  ILou^ib  offheoyalf  e  Ktf  ^^tifyWnk  I 
n^#yojpl^ge4  V^*g^ii*WW(^ODOij  tfufoanas^la^i^thfe  4>bttaW&fc>d 
7^1,04^  f^pp?^^  !3^^?^long)^o.tke»inb«i^Hpi.afeBiu>nfe,  ®6#Mx* 
apfl^bu^^^^  «*&  59f  ,&)0w 

banfcfe  tlffl  .feajf Ww^l^^ffi^iiiojialMMsh  wad  ,-(iinuft  df*o  iii  eUmbiv 
nTW3*©ep3sW  <tfr^he/Bamia«»»fot>aftpBt»Bcaiki,stinifep  o$e«raTe*ge««!y8fi 
ufiP^iPJ&Kcisst^^  *fck^w^l^'J 

™m\kA%  §^!*i4»£P4rf*tftiih*«ipiha  arfie«^i^^olh0ny^ii)i566^o 
beds  are,  upon  the  average,  annually  filled.     There  is  one  death^J^&ftP* 
©^  8f^.§*B»jift^lni»  ^fcQwtftbiho5f»iaiB,v«Bdi !  'bponitof^ql*^ 
adjnp^rinj^^^BeiAl  )mpit*ku  !<Ttaitan^q|i«rBgeM 
forn*#f  $ei^?e#ira#I  average  pBpuIatitai  i&m\&;'i)ud*vmtid^  Wtoe*'* 
nu^^frf&ujuiJ^^  an  tvwagft'fr 

<>f-iWo^fo/ft#$4  \rt^nmhw<tifaeaf&k{*>hr9  «ast>lwmdofeeacjtee|h^o 
st^^^ajr^maiMf^n  fc3ain  >1847,to)M4ri»iid5*iJ  S*is,rfei4*l*ii"ii 

pu^j^ftpcgrffeeesB^  'ffioKtevetriafc  aiiohtt#it^4f*^ 

been  d^o*?  <m><tywte^,iA^teito4^^ 

Fc^d^&<^tA  #n^  «Vib^. 

Tl^Hn^^R/^jluiaa^^r^Wbt^^apidn^hoittia^  «fe  ,*ttMipafi<ftrf* 

17£Ptttfflp#fejji  od  o.t  ?iBf.cjfffl  tofit  imsHoqrni  ehlT  .enihwb  ed*  no  naad 
90^W^i4a)l^  FilfareJo<#1<«  eiii  ot  ihWI  biwuinA  M  «(d  <nhun  f,d* 
nr  iiamo;^J)nii.  ttorii  Iwnwnm/  w.n  rnn  m9«IT  /moqmij  lo  noUr/ib 
ii9Cf^Woffl^Wmfhr  b-jhf.r.rn-^b  V>  Imijr  «b-»nl*(^p%J?Hi  nunj  aifcSE 
.8  rt«2ft&H^5tio)  afcwoDiw  V>  iocftnifn^dly2iW,5K^S£ff9lb   "*** 


Lire    mm  d»l,?*:r    tvn(S6tal«(^    fii.w  i^c.r>fTfafi]^on«l«8  oto  Ofr^YI 

Of.   Hsd*  J>tuj"l  ti'i^i   rfjsil   11   ^diij-il-  y»-ir;w  \*')i   nl      .atn«w;3  G'irt  «.•*.-,■  »ow 

^iun^^.^p^s^i^  nr^n^t^ftv^i^^^i^^ay  amount*  torn, 

44p$£cfp^^  iTh«^ifhjio|m)po^on.d?^oi«a*nf 

primn^^e^y, 3Q& ind^ua^ I.  .*IU:ilu?l  Uir^  .fiiijjnji««!  1 1  T<-»  ^iiiurws.0 

ftjnjjfijs  i^f^fin^to^flse  y*0ygft>oV*»>tp  Aufyft*  ttona  bfigroeJrO 

influ^^j ^w/;#n*t  iiwpinfc.of^a^^  ittalty £ciMMtojO 

The^firor4}pipt^el^ 

from  MpOp  ^^.Q^^  or  0^n^QQO  |*g»a»fc  -Tbej^4rei<180OmaisoiiB;.iJ 
meublees,  wjucfcycan  aftqowpiotfajtf!  .fym  1 13,000  ta^^QM'pswtS^cfiicLciv 
thep»  aje  ^963  h,qu*es  afUp^fop  the  wOrkiog.dla^sos/whitih  can.aceommo* 
date^.nia^.asS^^  i  There,  aue*hUs  altog^therj^PaariaMi 

686^  houses  fayoted, *o  ^he Jcquifor^s, of  69,000 i individuals^  wbouepre3entl>  t 
the  moving  population  of  travellers,  and  of  those  who,  possessing  no 
homp,.  properly  ^peafeing>  awimUeri^trrangers  to  the  hatnteof  the  more 
sedentary  part  of  the  population.  lm'  n'  '-  ;* 


1A8  ThcFoKlofPari*. 

To  provide  for  the  wants  of  this  population  of  permanent  and  6am; 
residents,  of  traveUei^  military,  and  sefcoftua,  of  sick,  indigent,  mundhugs 
and.  prisoners*  there  are  4408  wine-shops  (outnumbering,  mdeadVall 
others);  4234  greengrocers;  1958  grocess:;  1255  gargotiers  (lowest 
class  of  oookshops);  1537  mUk  and  cream,  dealera;  725  dealera  in 
brandy;  712  bakers;  661  butchers;  551  cheesemongers ;  £03  4mV 
mongers;  477  pork  butcher*;.  380  restaurateur*  and  traxtean;  36? 
poulterers ;  246  confectioners ;  246  dealera  in  tripe,  ecev;  1££  <nn> 
dealera;  148  rVituriers  en  boutique;  228*  patiswers  darioJeurs;  114 
marchands  de  bouillon  et  de  viande  euite ;  105  distillers ;  94  marchana's 
de  liqueurs;  82  confiseura;  56  rotissasra;  55  debttaats  de  enfeVieat 
prepare ;  54  maichands  de  comestibles ;  44  aaarcbanda  chaeclatier*.;  41 
debitants  de  biere  et  de  cidre ;  38  fabrkants  chocoktien;  25  laitTobanas 
de  veimieelle  et  pates ;  19  marchanda  de  pain  d'epfces  (giBgenaaad)^  12 
fabrieants  de  vermieelleet  pates ;  and  11  aubergistes  or  bmkeepera. 

Although  in  Paris,  as  in  London,  the  number  of  bakers  by  no  means 
equals  that  of  the  dealers  in  drinkables  (in  Paris,  712  bakers  to  4*08 
wine-shops^  stilly  in  considering  the  subject  of  consumption  of  feed, 
bread,  "  the  staff  of  life,"  is  always  allowed  to  take  precedence.  Frame*, 
it  is  to  be  remarked,  although  an  agricultural  country,  deea  act  pBodeae 
corn  enough  lor  its  own  consumption.  This  is  the  more  remarkable,  as 
the  French  eat  more  grains  than  we  do,  more  especially  haricots,  lentils, 
and  peas;  but  they  also  comunne  a  good  deal  of  bread  at  their  meals 
Paini  discretion  is  a  liberality  at  a  table  d,h6te  best  appreciated  by  our 
breadVeonsuming  neighbours.  What  is  aooaUy  important  ia  that  Pans 
baa  &lway&  had  the  reputation  of  making  bread:  of  the  very  beat  wheatta 
flour*  The  Paorian  ia*o  spoilt  by  long  indulgence  on  this  point,  that, 
however  limited  his  means,  he  will  hare  none  but  the  whitest  bread. 
There  ore  also  various  fancy-breads,  as  pain  a  la  reine,  pain  sVkvlSeta* 
toron,  pain  mollet,  pain  de  Gonesse,  pain  cornu,  pain  de  Segovia,  in  me 
making  of  which  the  yeast  of  beer,  milk,  and  other  ingredients,  are  used. 
Many  of  these  are  becoming  obsolete,  or  are  superseded  by  pain  Anglais, 
— whicl^  if  veritably  so,  could  not  be  too  much  avoided, — and  by  pain 
Viennois. 

In  16*37,  the  time  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  there  were  three  kinds  of 
bread — pain  de  cbapitre,  pain  de  Chailli,  and  pain  bourgeois,  respectively 
assumed  to  be  of  10,  12,  and  16  ounces  weight.  The  price  of  each  loaf 
was  fixed,  but  the  weight  was  allowed  to  vary,  and  thus,  when  flour  was 
dear,  the  loaf  diminished  proportionally  in  weight.  The  French  were 
evidently  not  so  sharp  as  they  are  now,  or  they  would  have  seen 
that  it  would  have  been  better  to  allow  the  price  of  the  loaf  to  vary  with 
the  state  of  the  market  than  to  be  at  the  baker's  mercy— to  get  for  a 
giver*  sum  a  loaf  of  variable  weight,  and  which  might  be  expected  to  go 
on  diminishing,  till  it  vanished  altogether  from  sight.  In  those  days  me 
bread  consumed  in  Paris  was  mainly  brought  in  from  the  villages  ready 
made;  hence  the  former  renown  of  the  bread  of  Gonesse,  Pontoise,  Saint 
Denis,  Poissy,  Argenteuil,  CocbeO,  and  Charenton.  The  mean  consump- 
tion of  bread  was  at  that  epoch  one  pound  and  nearly  two  ounces  to 
each  person,  or  a  total  of  181,440>0001bs. 

In  our  own  times  the  French  government  has  jealously  reserved  to 
itself  the  power  of  determining  the  price  of  bread  and  of  meat     Hence, 


Tk*  FopdefPari*.  167 

in  periods  :oi  scarcity,  as  has  latfely  been  the  case,  die  poor  are  provided 
with  bread  and  meat  at  the  same  price  as  in  better  times,  and  the  dif- 
ference* <  is  made  good  to  the  haters  and  butchers  by  taxes,  raised  at  a 
mere  opportune  period,  or  by  a  .general  equalisation  among  die  rate- 
payers* 1b  m  fthy  so-exekawe  as  Pans  has  historically  ever  been,  this 
Swer  places  in  the  hands  of  government  the  means  of  avoiding  much 
lajfcetbn  and  many  a  turnnk.  It  is  much  to  bewished  that  something- 
of  the  same  kind  was  done  to  equalise  the  poor-rates  in  London  and  it* 
suburbs.  Many  of  the  euburbs  of  the  English  metropolis,  having  a  great 
number  ef  snail  tenements  to  which  the  poor  resort,  and  being  them- 
selves a*  the  same  time  by  no  means  wealthy,  have  to  support  many 
times  as  many  paupers,  and  have,  consequently,  a  mweh  more  onerous 
poor-rate  than  the  stoat  wealthy  parishes  of  the  metropolis.  K  the  rate 
was  equally  distributed  among  the  different  districts  of  London  as  it 
is  constituted  by  the  secant  Metropolis  Local  Management,  the  burden, 
by  being  the  aame  with  all,  would  fall  less  heavy  upon  particular  dis- 
tricts. 

The  bakera  of  Paris  are  obliged  by  Jaw  to  have  a  quantity  of  fleer  hs 
reserve,  which  used  to  be  equal  to  a  consumption  for  thirty  -we  days,  or 
81,280  sacks ;  bnt  tins  has  been  recently  augmented  to  210,825  sadks. 
The  proportion  to  be  kept  in  reserve  by  the  different  bakers  is  deter* 
mined  by  what  we  technically  call  the  number  of  sacks  that  are  done  in 
the  business.  Paris  is  thus,  now,  always  sure  of  ninety  days'  sustenance. 
The  price  tie  fimd  every  fortnight.  The  law,  which  provides  that  bread 
shall  be  supplied  to*  the  inhabitants  in  time  of  dearth  at  a  lower  prise 
than  the  flow,  the  difference  to  he  reimbursed  at  a  later  period,  i» 
enforced  by  what  is  called  the  Caisae  de  Boakngerie,  and  the  data 
which  it  necessitate*  enable  the  amount  of  consumption  to  be  deter* 
mined  with  anieety  quite  unknown  in  tins  country.  The  results  ween 
as  follows  for  1854: 


Whitebread       .... 
Jancy  bread  and  panasserie  (rolls) 
IFMty-brown  bread 
Oatmeal  bread         »        .       . 
Barter  bread  . 


138,687  loaves  daily 
313J89  daUy 

5,012  loaves  daily 
14,425  do. 

7,152  do. 


Total  .        .        .        .    479,015  loaves  and  mile 

The  habit  of  eating  nothing  but  white  bread  has  gone  on  increasing. 
Thsa  has  been  owing  to  the  fact  that  none  other  was  to  be  found  at  tan 
restaurants',  or  even  on  the  oil-skins  of  the  gargotiers  and  the  wine-shops, 
A  recent  eaactment  has*  however,  ordained  that  there  shall  be  a  medium 
loaf.  The  idea  of  remedying  the  inconveniences  derived  from  the  whole 
population  of  a  great  city,  the  rieh  and  the  indigent  alike,  insisting  upon 
eating  nothing  but  white  bread,  by  creating  a  loaf  of  medium  quality, 
was  a  favourite  idea  of  Napoleon  I.  It  was  not,  however,  carried  into 
force,  because  it  was  thought  that  the  Parisians  were  so  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  the  very  best  wheaten  bread,  that  they  would  never  be 
brought  to  consume  bread  of  an  inferior  quality.  The  arguments  ad- 
vanced by  M.  Armand  Husson,  who  is  a  chef  de  division  a  la  prefecture 
de  la  Seine,  in  favour  of  a  medium  white  bread,  may  have  been  put  for- 


ward ..  w.^ntiaipfttiott  of/i^lwi^pas^nrtiatt)^  ?&:&faAeft>  «W&;0*f 

NaUOj^W.UI.   ;   :        miim;:-!-"..-.    fc    Hi   JiV;iis    s'lSilnJi.'d   'l(>    .ediOfc  E  J«U   « 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  all  the  bread  consumed  in  Paris  is-*mt  MAP 
ty  authorised  jlwker#,:[na?h«fli«wpMafai' prtwnd,  wAtgufltaw  UMWall 
tboir.sp0oia]\ba^wNfii ^ik  Bbdanfc*rU«d<|  Mssistiii«^lf\*»^tf  thWttg 
V^73a<ibilograiiiine&  ofiisvhite li»iAy'«fcd  6^0,980 'Idlc^ramte^W 
i^ium  bread*  Tfcoie  attached! 1 fe>  ^ptftenWi48£,*H»  iffle^ttrift&'bf 
vJktobreada^d.;WW<68Q<iof  medi*m;n  iHtfufotdMltflfl^ta1^ 
Sumas  annually  7W,932,kik^mwosl()f%hife»bretta:^P^O  *J  jiiwirwJ 

-.Th*  Pari*  totobe*  bifompelfedl  bylaw^piwhas^lrti  MsA;«» 

sifely.  in,  th«.ro^kftts.p»orriiibdlfbr.aat<j)at^eif€y  ^'lo'stai^H^r^rtSlttt^ 

&e  abattoir^  :Somei<ofnthfiv4m<k'««taktei<fc§h'  puttftWeW fa  We %tte$ 

tftsis  caUed*autt  A.  la  bheuU^vdhd-ititd  melt  ^f^k^^&^'^mm 

Iprds  ,b,.gwv«llyu«f  ;*  ckea^ierrt^^ 

regular  butchers.     This  practice  has  converted  the  abattoirs  into  mffijjfeftl 

Ifcfbaaits  flf^.ip  tteisyatem  ofcctyiiiofi  dfikttto¥j'tohfch  feittS^yWmd 

to, work  mU* . but  tfie  Frencfoseem  tfcobjeoi  to^t,7**  ^gr&md1  m^W 

l^tchw.hf^.no*!^^ 

are  Wled Ardent  tip  into  Iqwurteiwi'    -  *••">'»  »■■  "h»«™  i,r>  8C  *™to™fo 

The  cattle  apftacJt^W  of i Paris)  ai*  Sceaux,  Poissy,  la  Halteanx  VeanX,  fchei 
mari^o^i^B^^ardinay^ritb  La  ChapeHe.  Looking  at  the  tables  in 
ij.  Aj^raliHussonfft  w^kf<rf  the  different1  departments  ^hich  Haw 
supplied)  thesoi  markets*  .we jfind  that  Calvados,  in  Norm andy ,  sent,  rrbtii 
18£5  to  A853Jthe,;gre^test:Joaniaber  of  oxen,  vi*.,  396,844  ;  a*d  after  it 
ifaii»*et«£ia^>^^  Sefne  sent  iHOSt  huffc^ 

3873f,*s;,aWmdst.<w^^  Seme  at  61^;  !«jOW 

§eine  gt  Qw.and  fiiwe«fc«Lcfire  in  the  Orlcamris  supplied  most' calved 
344,37&<tft»164$a4w  >Ssineiet*Oise  also  takes  the  lead  in  fifoeep,  supply* 
i^,«QJe«atlwi,^,614>il8C>:hei<t  The  trade  with  foreign  countries  lms 
been  almost  limited  to^the  Jsfter:  Germany  supplying  J>16;&63,  HoUstrid 
Ll,231„and  En^and  3,178 ;  so,  after  all,  we  someifrhe&go  id  Pari^to 
eat; our  ow&:l$Du$hdoifcn  Under  its  now  designation  of  pr£  inW.  W 
total  cp^sviTOpiiojn,.for''the  .eight  years  was  150*683  oxen,  1028  binls," 
3i,095  cpwa,.l3ft»75  .dalvesj  ^16,388  sheep  ;  or  a  total  of  1/219,470 
beasts.  :,Ip  Swftbfiey  market  alone  there  were  sold  in  one  year,  in  !8o4 
(the  la^easi*  givsa  by.Dodd),  263,008  cattle  and  1,539,380  sheep.  .' 

,Ia  poin^  of  ^qUalityy  the  oaten- of  Normandy,  especially  those  of  Cdtentiti,1 
are  most  esteemed $ ;  after,  them  come  the  oxen  of  Chbfet,  /Cb  aroints,' 
Sjajutonge,,  and  P6r4gotfd.<  The  cowfc  are  almost  all  Norman  or -Flemish.; 
Calves  4ura  vjeflred  almost i  especial ly  for  Parts;  the  provincials  "feeMortt'' 
indulge  m  ¥$al»  -  The  .  most .  festee  m  ed  sheep  are  the  Germ  an  *  A  fter  t  lie 
mutton  o£  Wuitemberg^of  Famria,  and  of  Baden,  the  next  in  cotHid^ra^ 
tkm  ia  that  of  Gating  and*  tif  Foitou. .      --->  in,w  *  «   ^ras     1  iw 

What  the  Frenchl  ^all  the  tissues  nt  iftWt8=cdmea^bles^an^>w^a# 
offid,  of  beasts,  constitutes  «a  Important efembnt  W  the,ifeedrfdf  *irW3 
Two  well-known  dishes,  the  grasnloable  a  la  Lyotrtfs&e  aort'Ae'ya^sW 
known  under  the  name  of  tripe  a  la  mode  de  Caen,  have  thte^un^ti'w 
oxen  or  cows,  for  a  basis.  An  enonwms  consti*ptiottfof  (ialVe^'tifea^ 
calfs  pluck,  and  sheep 's-trotters  takes)  place  in'thi'restauirante'.rf^^o**1 
and  third  class*  The  lowest  class  traiteurs  manufacture  ragbtits1  from1  A^? 
flesh  of  sheepfs .heads*    The  quantity  of  cffld  anntfally  consumed  io'Pkr^ 


to  the  1201bs.  of  butcher's  meat  ot  3  kilogrammes,  23&lgrammW$ 
*jmk  ?Jfes-?>i  ena*!  nr  bomu?aoo  fwid  e/fa  lie  Jitffo  bs-vioedo  -»U  trf  ci  A 
riiEwjji  oaftlft&ap  fofcw  Jtej^bl  t^iFari6iinoiiiBu]g«i9>kiiii  fcto#«rii«ch  Hd 
^^^^Mc^P^t^i^M  pbrfei^chrcitt  disigtsam^^ktmi»eiml 

^(^.^^^^m^^mi^^^WpnABai^  tfceWreadj^c^ke^krif 
ae^pi^ff^alsga^^^ltuaWf  rea<wwfe*ri  ^>^gUWa±kfet»^re  %4  Stfk 
Germain,  La  Chapctgg^a^fflia'tM^awiirJ^fehfei ^  ^This^l'fir^!fcmpttl9e^l 
mjw#^9»  §ftr4^r^qMaii«5[€^[Ik*eqf«i^be  n^ndf  ^igi*  fr'alsp 

mar^t^^^p^^q  grtfn  drfdtooitfuJtte  sabotetrtttm&i  toBa^imttW 
^a#fl^{ai^X§«^^  AifctJia^a^^^lfn* 

aj^u#l§8r8lj^^ 

^OTftnr  o1m  g-iiottfidi?  aHi  baJiovnoo  ?r>rf  eoboiwq  fcinT     .a'lydaJnd  di^^i 

buTfo-'MMHitf  xftfff^haflfi^fttfe)  anftivpbflD  icoterni^a  iiuiAM%*^*H* 

I^is^i&ff^a^  Bwamri^ri©t{kao^rtoy^eCuW?J 

grammefypi^*^^ 

cnarcuterie  as  an  article  of  food  is  very  general,  it  still  docs  not  attain  a 

p^^or^ioii'offi^QiT^^^  .ooe-stfvettfcli«  that  of  butcher's  tneafc 

lS  t  ranger^  \  look  in  g  in  £t  the  -  wirido  wd  of f  som  e  o  F  the !  W6l  I  -provided : 
clean -looldug  charcutiera  of  Earn  are!  almost  &pp ailed  afc!  the  variety  of 
preparations  presented  to  their  con temptation,  and  are  sometimes  debarred 
from  purchase  ty  jn o*  ■  It  noting  what  to  ■  ask  ton  'Tn  g  ueh '  i  1 i  n  ay  no  t  b  e 
uninteresfciiig  to,  pmeafcthen*  -with-  a- list  of  some  of  the  chief  and  most 
rerpmmendable  attieles^-leaviag  out  fhfc  irell-kncrh'n  hams  and  sausages. 
Jambauueaux^  petit  sale*  «&telefctes  icuitesj  bachis  pour  la  cuisine,  bourlia 
ordinaire,  boudin  dc  tabkj  boudin  blanc,  undouiUes,  cervelas,  fromage  de 
coi'lKiu,  fromage  d1  Italic  [froniage  de  taillis?],  hure,  pieds  de  cochou 
i  In  Sainte  Menehouldj  pieds  de  coehon  t ruffes,  pan's  de'foie. 

In  considering  th,©' interesting  subject  of  the  consumption  of  wines  in 
P^iris,  the,  wine .  d^unk  by  the  citizens  must  be  'distinguished  froth  that 
sold  in  the  restaurants  arid  at  the  wine -abops.  The  bourgeois  Parisian 
is, easily  satisfied  with  the  quality  of  his  wine ;  he  readily  accepts  wines 
of  the  secoud  aud  even  thud  quality  as  df  the  first  growths,  J u lien,  in 
his  "  Traite  <fa  tous  lesViguohles  •contiusr,T  and  M.  Armand  Hussott  after 
him,  lay  it  down  ad  a  principle  that  it  is  only  leg  viiis  do  premiers  cms 
which  unite  tl*at  spirit  uqus  aroma  which  is  called  bouquet  to  that  delicious 
st-i'i'.  which  is  not  perceptible!  like  the  first,:  to  the  sense  of  odour,  hut 
dilates  in  the  mouth,  and  leaves  a  fragrance  that  survives  the  draught 

Threerfourfchs  of  the  wine  consumed  by  the  bourgeois  come  from  the 
Macon  nais  and  the  Beaujolais;  the  other  fourth  consists  of  Bordeaux 
and  a  small  quantity  of  wine  from  the  Cote  d'Or.     The  first  growths  of 
Burgundy  and  of  the  Bordelab  are  rarely  met  with  at  even  the  most 
sumptuous  tables  of  the  bourgeoisie.     If  such  wines  appear,  they  are 
mostly  of  second  quality*     The  bourgeois  also  consume  a  small  quantity  . 
of  champagne  mousseux.     The  fair  aex  especially  have  a  weakness  for  [ 
tliis  pleasant  beverage,  which  is  never,  however,  but  of  second  or  third*  ' 
ratequaUty  \  bat,  aa  JVt  Artoa»d  ^.usSon  jnstlytremarks^  fcilsenSibiejmatf^ 
prefera  ,t#  this,]jght  au4  sparkling  wine  -the  mariced  savour  of  a  Bordeaux ; 
fbili^fLthp^jS#te^  Burgundy.  -     ;i 


170  The  FoodofPark. 

The  first-class  restaurateurs,  especially  such  as  are  desirous  of  obtain* 
ing  a  reputation  for  the  excellence  of  their  wines,  do  their  utmost  to 
secure  those  of  the  first  quality.  If  they  do  not  always  succeed,  it  is  that 
they  themselves  are  deceived ;  hut  the  stranger  is  always  sure  at  least  of 
ohtaining  the  beet  wines  of  the  second  quality.  The  seoond-eiass  restaur 
rants  confine  their  attention  more  to  good  vin*  ordinances.  The  wines 
served  at  restaurants  of  an  inferior  order  partake  of  the  rank  which  they, 
the  said  restaurants,  hold  in  the  culinary  hierarchy,  and  keep  lowering  m 
quality  until  they  are  no  better  than  what  are  met  with  in  the  cwswnoa 
wine-shops. 

In  first-clasfi  restaurants  three-fifths  of  the  vina  demUfins  sure  Bor* 
deaux,  the  other  two-fifths  are  Macons  and-  Beaunes*  Two*thsrds  of  the 
▼his  fins  are  Bordeaux,  the  ether  third  Cote  d'Or  and  Champagne.  In 
second-class  restaurants  the  Macon  wines  are  in  greater  demand,  and 
constitute  from  two-thirds  to  three-fourths  of  the  whole  consumption.  In 
inferior  restaurants  Macon  wines  still  hold  ascendancy*  bat  they  are 
emspes,  that  is  to  say,  mixed  with  other  wines. 

The  consumption  of  wine  at  the  wine-shops,  of  which  there  are  4408 
in.  the  city,  not  including  the  barrieres,  is  equal  to  that  of  the  roetatpauti 
and  bourgeois  put  together,  or  nearly  one-half  of  the  whole  wine  com* 
snsnecL  The  wines  sold  at  these  shops  are  retailed  by  mamna)  and 
they  are,  without  exception,  the  produce,  of  ike  mixture  ef  variom 
growths.  The  wines  of  the  Loire,  that  ia  to  say,  of  Cher,  Chtnoa, 
Beangency,  and  Orleans,  play  an  important  part  in  the  msnufatisuie  of 
wines  sold  by  the  pint ;  they  constitute  two-tenths  of  the  wfaettw  The 
Bordeaux  ordinaire*,  the  wines  of  <*aillac,  of  Cahor*,*nd  of  the  Cfcenente, 
form  three-tenths.  The  wines  of  the  Charente  are  always  called,  in 
Bans,  Bordeaux.  The  cosninon  wines  of  Macon,  the  wiaes  of  lUoaisen, 
and  of  Auvergne  enter  for  a  tenth.  The  wines  of  Lower  Bommdy  ess* 
stitute  another  tenth.  The  wines  of  the  sowtfa,  move  espeewSy  these  of 
Marseilles,  Narbonne,  and  Fitou,  make  up  two-tenths.  The  ftoenttkmfl 
constitute  of  themselves  one-eighth  of  this  latter  contingent.  Lastly, 
theresfiaimng  tenth  is  made  up  of  the  wines  of  Anion  and  of  Veuetay. 

As  to  the  white  wines,  sold  by  the  pint,  they  chiefly  belong  to  Lower 
Burgundy — Chablis  and  MaUgny.  A  small  proportion  are  derived  from 
Vcttvray  and  the  Bordelais.  Besides  these -wines,  &e  shops  also  deal  in 
red  wines,  in  bottle,  known  as  Tin  a.  quins*  sons.  These  wines,  as* 
alsnnit  exclusively  furnished  by  the  Maeonnais  and  the  BeaiiJMasifi>  with 
a  nery  small  proportion  of  Bordeaux.* 

The  consumption  of  these  inferior  mixtures  at  <3se  barrieres  alone* 
amounted,  from  1851  to  1854,  to  251,604  hectolitres  (the  heotoKtre 
being  equal  to  100  litres,  or  Eienoh  quarts,  22  gallons  English}  ?  wkhia 
theeity,  to  1,193,006  hectolitres.  The  number  of  bottles  of  tins  fist 
sold  in  Paris  during  the  same  period  amounted  to  1,288,060.  This 
gives  a  mean  (including  the  win*  drunk-  at  the  barrieres)  of  130*13 
French  litres  for  each  indmdnal  in  the  year,  or  an  average  of  0*^76  of  a 
litre  per  day. 

*  These  calculations  are  founded  upon  good  data,  viz.,  the  quantity  of  wines 
that  have  paid  duty.  But  the  mixtures  are  not  always  In  the  same  proportional 
nor  do  these  estonajtes  include  the  amount  of  water  added,  as  it  does  net  pay 

duty. 


The  Food  tf  Paris.  171 

The  comparison  o£  the  quantity  of  win©  consumed  in  Fans  in  the 
poBeeant  day,  with  what  was  consumed  in  former  times,  rekfcirely  to  the 
population,  tends  to  show  a  diminution;  and  as  there  has  been  at  the 
aama  time  no  marked  increase  in  the  amount  of  beer  and  eider  consumed, 
there  is  every  reason  to  bene?©  that  the  Parisian  is  getting  more  and 
more  into  the  habit  of  aupesseding  wina  by  brandy  aimV  other  spirituous 
liquors. 

As  to  beer,  it  is  mainly  consumed  in  die  cafes  and  estasnmets*  Some 
people  drink  beer  at  their  dinners,  but  it  is  rather  £rom  economy  than 
preference,  and  what  they  drink  is  a  small  beer,  which  is  to  good  beer— ■ 
or  hiere  double,  as.  the  French  call  it— what  piquette  is  to  wine*  Most 
of  the  been  consumed  in  Parts,  although  some  of  these,  bear  depart*- 
menial,  or  even  foreign  names*  are  brewed  m  the  city.  The  chief  kinds 
ana  la  Here  de  Strasbourg  et  de  Baviere,  la  mete  double  de  Paris,  and 
la  Here  blanche.  At  the  cafes  and  estaminets  arc  also  to  be  procured 
biere  de  Lille,  de  Lyon,  biere  blanche  de  Low ain,  and  fano  de  BruxeUeo. 
Ale  and  porter,  have  their  special  breweries;  The  proportion  of  alcohol 
in  these  beers  is,  in  Burton  ale  8*2  in  10G,  E&nbvrgk  ale  5*7,  London 
porter.  3*9  to  4»5,  Strasbourg  2*5  to  4*5,  Lille  2-9  to  3*5,  biere  de  Paris 
double  2*5  to  3;  The  so-called  strong  beer  of  Para  i%  therefore,  not 
so  strong  at  porter.  The  quantity  of  beer  eonssmedin  Pans  and  at  the 
barrieres  averaged  for  each  individual  per  year,  from  1851  to  1864, 
14*41  litres  or  quarts,  giyin^a  mean  of  0*039  of  a  qoati  for  each  in* 
dmdual  perday.  The  total  consumption  for  4  years  (fromi  1B51  to 
1854)  was  151,804  hectolitre*. 

The  cider  consumed  in  Paris  comes  from  Norsoandy,  Pieardy ,  and  La 
Brie*  there  is  also  aome  manufactured  in  Paris  itsel£  The  consumption 
is  very  trifling,  amounting  to  3124  litres  per  annum,  or  0*0086  of  a 
Htfte  for  every  individual  per  day.  The  total  consumption  lor  4  years— 
from  1851  to  1854— was  32,906  hectolitres. 

Since  the  price  of.  wines  has  been  so  much  inoroaflcd  by  the  disease  in 
the  grape-Tine,  the  maaafitcturecf  spirits  has  been  mmeh  upon  4he  increase 
in  Paris*  The  chief  ctfthesenow  in  use  i*  obtained  from  thndirtnlatien 
o£sool&8se%  or  heetoooc  juice,  and  the  produce,  whieh  is*«  kind  of  rum, 
is  mixed  with  spirit*  of  wine*  A  particular  aroma,  or  fflawoar  is  after- 
wards imparted  by  the  addition  of  herbs  or  frost  Brandies,  homercr, 
still  constitute  ihe  chief  feature  in  Parisian  liquors^  those  of  MontpelHer, 
of  (Cagnaej  and  of  Armagnacv  being  the  meat  esteemed, 

flomeemnens  foots  are  to  be.  obtained  fimn  loolang  wecthe  tobies  of  the 
prions  of  wines*  In  the.  fist  of:  vim  fins  de  la  Haute  Botffgogne,  La 
Bbmanee  Conti  and  Clos  Vongeot  take  precedence.  There  are,  how- 
ever, two  kinds  of  the  latter;  the  best  isr distinguished  as  die  vieux  eeps. 
Among  the  Beaunes,  or  wines  of  Lower  Burgundy,  Moatraohet  is  the 
ttghesfeprieed,  as  dear  as  the  best.  Eosnanee  ContL  The  highest^prioed 
Bordeaux  are  the  Chateau  Margaux  and  Chateau.  Lafitte.  The  clarets 
of  the  EngBsh  houses,  Kirwan,  Palmer,  and  Brown^  only  rank  as  wines 
de  trcss&me  cru,  nor  do  they  fetch  more  than  half  the  price  of  die  wines 
of  the  fire  Chateaux^— Margaux,  Lafitte,  Latourj  Bant  Brion,  and 
D'Yquem. 

It  is  also  a  curious  fact  that  the  best  Champagne  wines  are  rarely  to 
be  met  w tibia  Paris.    The  great  houses  of .  Bheims  hare,  indeed,  no  con- 


172  T/tiJto<ti&IWis. 

nexion  with  Parisian  commerce.  The*  w^  consumed  in  Patis  is  All  of 
an  inferior  quality.  Botifey,  the  most  esteemed  of  -the  dhttmpagQe  wmtis, 
fetches  fire  franca  a  bottle  at  fthemis,  and  in  die  best  yetera"  sis  fttidtfts 
ten  francs.  Next  in  estimation  Wth*  Vertetoayi  A^a^d'Sater^;'  Ttese 
wines  are  worth  four  francs  and  a foalf  atJRheiinftl     'J'1      '.sr.-.ir.iui:ii,io> 

Poultry,  like  the^  meat 'of  Parts,  domes  ^ffcott*  »th*  pitttiuW*  thf&MWA 
pullets  are  derived  ahnost  peduHarly  from  dalvados*  and  Sarthe.  Qanje 
comes  mainly  from  the  great  forests  in  theineighbourhooH _  df  'Paris;  tftt 
Germany  sends  hdresr.and  England  pheasants.  Vettkdn  isT-etatimtid 
from  Luxembourg*  Baden,  and  Wurtetoberg;  as  alsjo  from  seteral  grettat 
provinces.  Moutbns  de  p&  sale\*  larbb,  kids,  and  suoinng^g^'raidcin 
Paris  in  the  same  category  as  game  and  -poultry,  and-  are/  not' *consideMd 
as  butcher's  meat.  There  were  consumed,  in  1859,  Gfi49f4&&  hetd'bf 
poultry,  including  pigeons  and  tame  rabbits  V  2^9,941  headgdf  igtiate, 
including  plover,  larks,  and  other  small  fry.  It  is  not  a  little  striking 
peculiarity  of  Parisian  statistics  of  food,  that  they  can  arrive  at  mm 
minute  details.  In  Dodd's  work  on  the  Food  of  London,  we  rheefwith 
nothing  but  complaints  of  the  want  of  precise  knowledge  of  the  amount 
consumed  of  the  most  important  articles,  such  as  bread  and  butcher's 
meat;  but  in  M.  Armand  Husson's  remarkable  work,  we  find  it  stated 
that  1,329,964  larks  were  devoured  by  the  Parisians  in  one  year!  Is 
the  gibeciere  of  every  badaud  sportsman  returning  from  the  plain  of 
Saint  Denis  examined  at  the  barriere,  and  the  produce  of  his  sport 
registered  ?  The  consumption  of  kids  in  Paris  is  considerable,  no  less 
than  26,095  in  a  year;  of  lambs,  10,392  ;  sucking-pigs  do  not  appear  to 
be  in  favour— only  325  in  a  year. 

The  average  price  of  a  capon  is  4J  fr. ;  of  a  fowl,  2£  fr. ;  of  a  turkey, 
5£  fr. ;  of  a  duck,  2±  fr. ;  of  a  goose,  3£  fr. ;  of  a  hare,  3£  fr. ;  of  a 
partridge,  14  fr.  (the  Parisians  eat  292,587  partridges  in  a  year) ;  of  a 
woodcock,  2$  fr. ;  of  a  lark,  id. 

The  markets  of  Paris  are  much  better  supplied  with  fish,  and  in  far 
greater  variety,  than  is  generally  imagined.  This  supply  has  also  been 
further  extended  by  the  construction  of  railroads.  The  Parisian  is  a 
great  consumer  of  sea-fish,  which,  when  fresh,  he  designates  as  maree. 
There  was  formerly  a  superintending  chamber,  called  Chambre  de  la 
Maree.  The  ports  from  whence  the  markets  of  Paris  are  provided  with 
fish  are,  in  order  of  importance,  Boulogne,  Berk,  Dieppe,  Etaples,  Calais, 
Dunkerque,  Trgport,  Anvers,  Gravelines,  Fecamp,  Le  Croisic,  Trou- 
ville,  Cayeux,  Saint  VaJery-en-Caux,  Saint  Valery-sur-Somme,  Hon- 
fleur,  and  Havre.  The  total  consumption  of  fish  in  1853  amounted  to 
9,937,430  kilogrammes;  the  mean  amount  per  annum  for  each  indi- 
vidual is  9435  kilogrammes,  or  £6  grammes  per  day. 

Three  kinds  of  oysters  are  indulged  in,  in  Paris.  Oysters  from  the 
Channel,  known  as  huitres  de  Cancale ;  small  Ostend  oysters,  and  the 
green  oysters  of  Marennes.  Courseulles  and  Dieppe  are  the  chief  sourest 
of  supply.  The  number  of  common  oysters  consumed  in  Paris  in 
1853  amounted  to  70,876,825;  of  Ostend  oysters,  to  1,263,430;  of 
Marennes,  to  374,400.  This  makes  a  mean  consumption  of  69  oysters 
for  each  individual  per  annum. 

•  A  change  has  recently  taken  place  with  regard  to  pre*  said 


XfaZQOdtfP.ws.  .173 

. ,  ,Tb#  Parisian  dowaot^  despise  fi^h-w.ateB.Sfib« ;  .fckhis'  Sunday  ,examh 
rafojw,&*4^aJij(lBUghUsito  ofjtbe  resjgwante 

aiWI:>&ft  rjja^.vof.tlie  $eiue  and  the^^^and'  fchece  tp  enjoy, tfiMp 
3990V  qta§^t^4(Hrt  la.W^elote^odcarante  w^gftujpn  frit  eat  le  plat 
fondamental."  The  iwlPediatQ1;t^j^^o^rh(K»d1^lAfol{^ppJi^g  waijers 
ifiVpqm&o  jhe  citizen  a;guarantee.  for.  tbft fosJuiesarpf  Wadkh*  A  Urge 
jPMK*  of.<H>«g^-f«eJl  haiiaithe  ^we^n/tw^jlaeepjol^pfeied  ItyJhe^taujrjMats 
j0»  ^,Sa|urflayKf,  TWs>^Wlfi%^tt|)  wto^tbtfawber ;pf  gudgeons 
jj^iHfctfary*  .T^aretijiefk^a^futty^llfid  to.^ttejviand  these,  pseudo- 
ilgwdf^Bfa  wwwetf  byf  *  few- wri^aWe  ihdiyWuala,  ,ap4  a  :buneh,of  paisley 
ijP^Vi^M^t,^mmifr,tHl^^^  aQd,t^^e,j9f,^hft..lwievelenjt.coa. 
l,aiWl^r,/JJjeI^a^steRs  e/*&*o^ja,  $o*al,of  690,075. kilogrammes  of  Aesfc- 
'iJ^ejt^F&^a^u^Qf^  *W*  mass  of 

^W4c«arplfefl  Ji0fi,i2a  ]$Jogpai*m$*,,  ^shf-wate.F;,^  .is,  ,sU?ang«,  tOisay, 
(Igeperal^ffle.tfrefljrti^fa^.^yM;!  'to  fc-»r>;»i.ja  fi-.i,.;  T   :  ."7  .,.    .;•   s; 

Ci  an,imp^ifta^&/tf  ,fi>^  oxdew  of 

/B^te^Q^ott^.j  aEhff  ^qhie^^tippljf.rofLsaJAi  opdrjs^e^  Qo^emw, 
kGoMreJJnfeitfapd  3ftuJogftfe>IrJ)pyf  c^:<v4fei,#wrfActe  W  Prepared,  *t 
feCi^riHe«:ifB^TO»g|i.aj^  w&e^laJ^^aWg  t^^oa&fclhjrt;  Saint -Vajefcy 
l^i^^F^^PiSeAd^bfti^^t.o^Aew^  fcftfttrai a* .JiarOngsr smm  dem- 
z^^i^^<^m^^^^c^h^^im^>A9y  a^4  d^igoa^ed.as!  fraaos- 
£**«*  ,  Jiadfttesl  -are,  Ar/fhej im&sjb  j»ai*,>:saHe4.,o«  tyard-shipi  tAlto- 
oget^i;l*W^0Q&;]do^^  ponsumed  in 

Paris,  equalling  1  kilogramme  426/^/fri?rj€^iy/ittdi«i4)*alf.:  «Fresh 
t^whwgs  are;  <xtf 1*4  poulets,  de  cs^ito^iUnj;  jehickew«  .-  r 

*j  loTtafcWu^flo&of  M^m^iin^  iias.  a^sifinieijsijfih.^^develppm^t  in 
ulVis  that  jfro#,,sa$ifle8jia^.i^^  ac- 

companiment of  the  morning  repast.     SjMdinesj  are,,  chie^y  >pjepajed,  ,at 
?Jtai8lMNfc'i*1ifJlb»  iS^&.d'OlQn^^and,^.^  Wfrine 

j^Saini;  Jea>,4e  J^and  at;  Marseille*.;  ^Anohows.a^^ppU^ure., .  Jhe 
/ja«lqunfe.efl^^u9)0d  in^Jfotaiftaa  tolteftih*,.    ,    .';   ,.f  !• ...  rJ;,  ^  „    .  ,♦ 

•'v,I/!,fcafra>f&  -    J"    1     :  *. ->fl265^Wk^tttomeV.    h 

4;i>9t>TI[b^,e6ma,l4«dle^(^'>i'l'4  >iil-i!-.'»ui;  ■  <y-  .;ll,&efti  <A   Vf"    •■'•••»• 
ihif  ^AjhikoiB]comserinBValasanniiurei  <„•>( i  *> -u: -.«  »*  *.r. 45,000  j  Mi',        •  >.•< 

presenting  a  total  of  311,000  kilogrammes  of  poisson  raannej  or  a  mean 
of  &  96  grammes  p  er  ind  1  v  id  n  a  1 .  Plie  con  s  u  mptio  n  of  sard  i  n  es  is  rapidly 
developing  itself  in  London ;  it  is  much  to  be  wished  that  the  equally 
delightful  then  marine  were  more  readily  procurable. 

Milk,  it  is  well  known,  is  more  extensively  consumed  in  Paris  in  pro- 
portion -,  to  the  population  than  in  London.  Women  and  children  of 
almost  every  class  indulge  in  the  morning  in  their  cafe  au  lait.  J^ot 
being  subject  to  octroi  duty,  the  actual  amount  consumed  is  not  so  well 
known,  as  is  the  case  with  other  articles  of  food.  It  was  ascertained  fn 
J 843  that  Paris  received  every  twenty-four  hours  173jOOD  litres,  or  quarts. 
This  was  equal  to  about  the  twentieth  part  of  a  quart  for  each  indi- 
vidual. But  besides  the  country  milk,  a  good  deal  is  obtained  from  cows 
kept  in  sheds  in  Paris.  The  milk,  M.  Armarnl  Hiisson  argues,  thus  ob- 
tained, cannot  be  so  wholesome  as  that  derived  from  cows  that  enjoy  the 

Jfttie— vol.  CVn.  tfO*.  tlCCC^STlV  n 


174  The  Food  of  Paris. 

open  air  of  green  pastures  in  summer,  and  a  substantial  food  m  tow- 
sheds  in  winter ;  and  we  agree  with  him.  The  opening  of  railway  oom- 
munication  extended  the  sphere  of  the  provisioning  of  the  capital  with 
milk,  as  well  as  with  other  articles,  so  that  the  total  now  consomed  is 
estimated  as  follows : 

Milk  brought  in  by  trains  ....      59,143,639  litres 

Milk  Drought  in  by  other  carriages         .        .   .      41,745,097     „ 
Milk  of  cows  (estimated  at  2302)  fed  in  Paris    .        8,402,300     „ 

Total        .        .        .    109^91,086 

This  would  give  an  average  consumption  of  the  twenty-eighth  of  a 
litre  for  each  person  per  day.  The  milk  which  comes  by  rail  is  said  to 
be  generally  creamed,  but  even  then  it  would  not  be  so  objectionable  as 
it  is  when  further  reduced  by  water,  as  is  generally  the  case.  Milk 
deprived  of  its  cream,  and  diluted  with  water,  sells  at  from  2d.  to  2^d. 
the  quart ;  better-class  milk  at  3d. 

Milk  and  butter  are  alike  largely  adulterated  in  Paris,  notwithstanding 
the  vigilance  of  the  police.  But  still  the  capital  boasts  of  being  able  to 
offer  to  the  consumer  some  very  superior  butters,  of  remarkably  fine  and 
delicate  flavour.  Such  are  more  particularly  the  butter  of  feigny,  from 
the  rich  pasturages  of  Calvados,  and  the  butter  of  Gonrnay,  both  of  which 
are  sent  in  cylinders,  wrapped  in  linen,  in  osier  baskets.  The  next  in 
quality  are  the  butters  of  Anneau  and  Bonneval,  and  these  are  sold  in 
pound  lumps.  The  butters  called  petits  beurres  are  sold  in  lumps  of 
various  forms  and  sizes  ;  they  come  from  Nogent-sur-Seine,  Troyes,  aad 
numerous  other  places.  The  salt  butters  come  mainly  from  Brittany. 
The  most  esteemed  is  that  of  Prevabis ;  it  is  transmitted  in  little  tibone 
pots,  that  hold  rather  more  than  a  pound  English.  Boiled  batters  are 
also  expedited  from  the  Loiret  and  the  Orne. 

The  comparative  consumption  of  the  different  kinds  is  as  follows  ; 

Isigny  butter 2^862,955  kilogrammes 

Gournay  butter 1,965,449  „ 

Butter  in  pounds      ....  1,631,184         „ 

Petits  beurres 439,564         „ 

Salt  and  boiled  butters      .        .        .       233,770         w 

Total  .  .  .  7,132,902  kilogrammes 
The  French  esteem  their  cheeses,  as  they  are  soft  or  hard.  Soft 
cheeses  are  with  us  quite  exceptional.  The  chief  hard  cheeses  are 
Gruyere,  Roquefort,  Auvergne,  and  Septmoncel;  as  also  Dutch,  Parme- 
san, and  Chester.  The  proportions  in  which  these  cheeses  are  consumed 
are  as  follows:  Gruyere,  814,028  kilogrammes;  Roquefort,  208,507; 
Auvergne,  including  Septmoncel  and  Sassenage,  203,507 ;  Dutch, 
300,000;  Parmesan  and  Chester,  100,000:  total,  1,621,042;  about 
2J  pounds  for  each  individual  in  the  year. 

The  soft  cheeses  consist  mainly  of  such  as  are  called  a  la  pie,  and  are 
sold  in  round  cakes,  and  the  cheeses  of  Brie  and  Montlh^ry.  There  is  a 
greater  consumption  of  these  soft  cheeses  than  of  the  hard  kinds.  The 
total  for  1853  was  1,171,987  cheeses,  or  2,593,51  libs.  Besides  these 
cheeses,  which,  with  the  charcuterie  of  Paris,  constitute  tfee  comple- 
ment of  the  poor  man's  daily  repast,  a  large  number  and  a  very  great 
variety  of  soft  cheeses  are  sold  in  Paris.     Four  kinds  of  Neufchatel 


The  Food  of  Paris.  1 75 

cheeses  are  consumed  in  the  following  proportions  :  Bondons  Suisses  frais, 
547,500  cheeses;  Bondons  ordinaires,  2,184,000;  Bondons  rafines, 
89,280;  Neufchatel  frais,  657,000.  But  there  are  also  Mont  d* Or, 
Troyes,  Livarot,  Pont  l'Eveque,  Chevrets  de  Jura,  TuUes  de  flaodre, 
Olivet,  &c,  &c     The  total  consumption  of  cheese  in  Paris  is, 

Hard  cheese 1,621,042  kitogrammes 

Soft  cheese  (markets)        .        .    .    2,593,511  „ 

„  (private)      .        .        <.       889,629 

Total        .        .       ,  5,104,182  kilogrammes 
This  gives  a  mean  consumption  of  about  2£lbs.  of  hard  cheese  for  each 
person  per  annum,  and  of  6^1bs.  of  soft  cheese  for  every  person  during 
the  same  period. 

Calvados,  Orne,  and  Somme  contribute  by  themselves  more  than  the 
half  of  all  the  eggs  consumed  in  Paris,  and  which,  from  the  practice  of 
eating  omelettes  of  all  kinds  and  descriptions,  presented  in  1853  a  grand 
total  of  174,000,000,  or  165  per  annum  for  each  individual.  As  the 
annual  produce  of  a  fowl  is  estimated  at  50  eggs,  this  would  indicate  the 
existence  of  3,480,000  hens. 

All  strangers  must  feel  an  interest  in  obtaining  correct  information 
upon  the  subject  of  pates  and  terrines.  The  most  recherches  are  the 
pates  de  fbie  gras  from  Strasbourg,  Colmar,  and  Toulouse ;  the  terrines 
and  pates  de  gibier  of  Ruffec,  Angouleme,  and  Nerac.  The  fattened 
livers  are  mixed  with  truffles,  as  are  also  the  game  terrines,  and  the  chief 
flavour  is  imparted  by  shallot  and  basil.  The  terrines  are  consumed 
throughout  the  year,  die  pates  for  only  five  months  ;  but  winter  is  the 
safest  season  for  both. 

Next  to  these  in  reputation  come  the  pates  de  canards  of  Amiens,  the 
pates  de  perdreaux  of  Chartres,  the  pates  d'alouettes  of  Pithiviers,  the 
pates  de  becassines  of  Montreml  and  Abbeville;  and,  lastly,  the  pates  de 
veau  of  Rouen. 

The  prices  of  these  delicacies  are  8  francs  for  a  Strasbourg  pie  of 
21bs. ;  those  of  Ruffec,  Angouleme,  and  Nerac  are  nearly  double.  A 
pate  of  Ruffec,  with  only  half  a  red  partridge,  costs  usually  15  francs  ;  a 
pate  of  Amiens,  with  one  duck,  8  francs ;  a  pate  of  Chartres,  with  one 
partridge,  6  francs;  a  pate  de  Pithiviers,  with  twelve  tit-larks,  4  francs  ; 
a  pate*  de  Montreuil-sur-Mer,  with  four  snipes,  16  francs. 

A  statement  of  the  comparative  consumption  of  confectionery  in  Paris 
serves  also  to  indicate  what  are  the  descriptions  most  in  favour.  Thus, 
for  example,  the  consumption  of — 

Pate's  and  terrines  de  foie  gras  et  de  gibier  truffe*s.        .        .  74,420  kilos. 

Pate's  d' Amiens,  de  Chartres,  Pithiviers,  &c 15,000  „ 

Meat-pies  manufactured  in  Paris  ......  269,370  „ 

Confectionery  manufactured  by  confectioners   .        .        .     .  2,306,250  „ 

bakers 250,258  „ 

Common  confectionery  (dariole) 1,500,000  „ 

Rheims  biscuits 255,500  „ 

Petits  fours  et  pates  seches 75,000  „ 

Gingerbread 245,972  „ 

Common  macarons,  called  macarons  sur  feuilles        .        .    .  15,000  „ 

Total     ....    5,006,770  kilos. 
n2 


rvr 


176  tfJKW&yM: 


"V:p;..)    vn,-^ 


Petits  fours  are  made  of  sugar, ^'afmVnds,  an^Wfltt^re^}^W  tfcfe*ar{ 
balled  maowpafrw  fyuille;.theyfgp  to  make. up  tbe  MGSkk^  tiefctfifiSeefl 


upon  ths  gamblmg-tatles  in  tbe,^amV^y^^1,.,ff',  ™*   '™  *™IT 

Wbat  are  called  pfites  alimeutaires^-the  forms  of  which  we' are  ntosi 
familiar  with  are  .vermicelli  and  macaroni — catue  originally  from  Italy, 
but  from  their  adaptation  to  soups,  and  their  other  admirable  culinary 
a|J  plications  j  they  soon  won  favour,  and  in  the  present  &ay  th&'p&tte 
d'Auvergne,  made  of  the  finest  flour  of  Lamagne,  are  held  irt  "higher 
estimation  thaw  those  manufactured  in  Italy.  They  are  eWu  ittpOMdH 
to  Naples.  The  chief  varieties  in  these  manufactures  are  vermicelli,1  of 
which  1,1 1-0,000- kilogrammes  are  anno ally  consumed  in  Paris;  macaroni^ 
of  which  57*000  kilogrammes  are  consumed;  and  semoule,  lazagnes, 
nouiltefc,  and  the  stars  and  lentils  for  soups,  of  which  30>GO0  kilogramme* 
are  consumed.  The  Parisians  consume  a  fair  quantity  of  rice,  more 
especially  in  their  favourite  dish  riz  du  lait ;  they  also  manufacture 
French  sagot  tapioca,  and  arrowroot  from  potatoes.  Peas,  lentils, 
haricots,  beans,  and  chesnuts  are  also  reduced  into  a  farinaceous  state, 
A  very  large  quantity  of  potatoes  are  also  employed  m  the  manufacture 
of  aliment ary  pastes.  ,     .  f  wfioo^wq 

The  use  of  sugart  scarcely  known  in  the  time  of  Louis  XII L,  is  a  prime 
necessity  with  the  Parisian,  Brillat  Savarin  has  devoted  a  chapter  t# 
its  praise  in  his  u  Physiologic  du  Gout*1  The  French,  it  is  ^-ell  khlowi^ 
drink  it  with  waiter.  ,  Modern  researches  have  thrown  greatf  doubts  upon 
the  salutary  influence  it,  has  been  supposed  to  exercise.  If  the  theories 
of  Liebig  are  correct,  its  presence  may  serve  materially  to  interfere  with 
the  otherwise  beneficial  effects  on  the  liver  of  tea  and  coffee.  An  enor- 
mous quantity  is  consumed  in  Paris  in  the  manufacture  of  sweetmeats. 
The  chief  o(.  these  are  dragees,  of  winch  207,666  kilogrammes  are  annu- 
ally consumed  ;  .bonbons,  of  which  1'7 1,389  kilogram  me  s  are  made  awtiv 
with  ;  preserves,  preserved  fruit,  pates  pec  borates,  and  chocolats-^28;I07 
kilogrammes  of  the  latter  are  annually  disposed  of  by  the  sweet-tooth e<l 
Parisians,  They  also  sip  at  the  same  time  5 4,7 H 6  quarts:  of  syrups,  and 
1 7267j230  quarts  of  liqueurs,  or  about  1 198  quarts  per  individual.  These 
liqueurs  aro  chiefly  absinthes,  anisette,  cassis;  curacao,  cr£nie  ou  eau  de 
i*oy au,  fleur  d'orau g er,  rata fi a,  &c .'  Th e  ' best  aba i nthe ' ' is ''  thi*  eeiteil 
Swiss,  cioming  from  Lyons  and  Pontftrlier.  '  Rum,  kirsch-wosser^  and  gru 
are  sold  without  adulteration;'  hut  the  brandies,  whether  of  Cognac,  Mrcfi*- 
pellicr,  or  Armagnac,  are  almost  invariably  diluted  with  Water,  land 
slightly  coloured.,  The  consumption  of  hraudled  fruits  has  lately  assumed 
a  great  development  in  Paris;  shops  are  devoted specially  to  i  heir  sale, 
ajid  crowd*  are  to  he  sepi  frequenting  them,  wfco  arc  in  reality  only  led 
away  by  the  fashion  of  the  day.  3*4,186  litres  of  bran  cued  fmits^were 
consumed  m .1854.  "  '  '  MXnhq 

The  luxurious  Parisians  consume  2S9,3ol  litres  of J  cream-ice^  J  and 
1 144,§7a  litres  of  water-ices  in  the  year.  At  dinner,  ice  is  limited  to 
sorbets;  at  the  dessert,  to  bourbes,  ftomages;  glacis,  and  diateaubriands ; 
in  the  .evenings  to  demi-glaces  mouses,  ttcim -biscuits  glac£s,  ami  monssas 
glaejfes >  FrDmages  glace s  make  a  delicious  addition  to  a  dessert.  They 
arc  made  by  four  hundred  parts  of  soft  cheese,  ft  la  pie,  as  before  descriheil, 
beat  up  in  one  hundred  and  fifty  parts  of  cream,  or,  to  speak  correctly,  of 


jfure  milk,  and  tJiexi  iced.     The  glaciers  rcremiers  of  Paris  manufacture 

yearly  48  4, 662  kilogram  mas  of  cream  and  water-ices,  and  6%t>0i0<;  of 

immages  a  la  create.  ,  >.  -  <•'*'■»<    .•  :•>  J 

There  are  two  kinds  of  hooey  used  in  Paris.     A  white  hetoey*  called 

that  of  N&rboune,  which  is  only  used  for  medicines  and  tls&nesy  andjd 

common  kind,  which  comes  from  Brittany,  and  is  used' in  rnakifigJgiujrer- 

bread,     Yet  60,000  kilogrammes  of  the  one  and  180,000  of  the^otherard 

annually  consumed*  ju  •'*'  i':'1  "<^<i 

In  Paris,  coffee,  it  is  weTl  known,  takes  the  place  of  tea  in  London.  <  jj^; 

Arm  and  Hudson  estimates  in  round  numbers  the  quantity  of  coffee  fen* 

"nuaHy  consumed  at  3,000,000  kilogrammes,  or  an  average  of  two  kilo± 

grammes  848  gr,  for  each  individual.     This  coffee  used  to  be  adulterated 

with  the  roasted  powder  of  acorns,  and  with  chicory;    The  latter  is  now*, 

however,  almost  solely  in  use.     About  333,334  kilogrammes  dre  adddd 

to  the  o\0OO}QOQ  kilogrammes  of  coffee-    Such  an  admixture!  M.  Husson 

remarks,  positively  detrimental  to  the  aromatic  Qualities  of  coffee,  pre* 

sents  no  advantages,  save  that  of  colouring  the  liquid  and  adding  to  the 

quality-     Yet  we  are  told  that  in  this  country  some  people  prefer  coffee 

adulterated  with  chicory.     We  can  only  say  that  they  cannot  appreciate 

pure  coffee.  -   > 

The  Parisian,  whose  taste  particularly  inclines  to  light  and  aromatic 
descriptions  of  food,  consumes  large  quantities  of  chocolate,  upwards  of 
2,000,0001bs.  annually.  A  great  deal  more  is  manufactured  for  the 
provinces.  Good  chocolate  should  consist  of  equal  parts  of  cocoa  and  of 
white  sugar,  but  it  is  much  adulterated,  notwithstanding  an  excessive  vigi- 
lance of  the  police  being  directed  towards  this  particular  and  favourite 
article  of  food. 

Statistics  show  that  the  use  of  tea  is  becoming  much  more  general  than 
it  was  formerly  in  Paris.  Many  persons,  more  especially  such  as  are  given 
to  intellectual  pursuits,  prefer  it  to  coffee.  So  much  so,  indeed,  that  M. 
Armand  Husson  deems  it  necessary  to  indite  a  caution  upon  the  subject. 
"  If  the  habit  of  drinking  an  infusion  of  tea,"  he  says,  "  has  its  advan- 
tages, it  has  also  its  inconveniences,  for  there  are  few  men  who  are  en- 
gaged in  absorbing  and  continuous  work  who  can,  in  their  daily  hygiene, 
do  without  this  digestive :  that  which  is  for  others  a  purely  agreeable 
beverage,  becomes  to  them  a  necessary  help/*  Such  a  caution  will,  in 
all  probability,  in  another  half- century  be  a  literary  curiosity.  The 
Parisians  consume  a  good  deal  of  green  tea,  but  they  have  the  good  sense 
to  prefer  the  black  varieties,  knowing  full  well  that  the  green  is  an  adul- 
terated article.  The  quantity  of  tea  annually  consumed  in  Paris  is  equal 
to  39,200  kilogrammes,  a  large  portion  of  which  is,  however,  probably 
consumed  by  the  English. 

When  a  Parisian  speaks  of  fruit  he  distinguishes  what  he  calls  fruits  de 
primeur  from  fruits  de  saison.  With  him,  the  ananas,  which  he  describes 
as  the  most  beautiful  of  all  fruits,  with  its  coat  of  mail,  its  purple  plume, 
and  odour  of  violets,  is  a  fruit  de  primeur.  So  also  are  early  strawberries, 
five  or  six  in  a  small  pot,  till  the  Alpine  variety  is  ripe,  when  the  consumer 
gets  twenty-two  to  twenty -five  1  They  sometimes  fetch  a  franc  a  straw- 
berry. Forced  grapes  and  other  fruits  also  reckon  as  fruits  de  primeur. 
The  produce  in  pine-apples  is  about  3000,  and  they  fetch  about  10  francs 
each. 


1 78  The  Food  of  Paris. 

In  respect  to  his  fruits  de  saison,  the  Parisian  receives  his  first  supplies 
from  the  south,  and  these  are  succeeded  by  the  fruits  of  his  own  neigh- 
bourhood. The  fruit  which  comes  from  the  south  i*  not,  bowery  so 
much  esteemed  as  that  obtained  from  the  environs  of  Paris.  If  a  hot  sun 
hastens  the  ripening  of  some  kinds  of  fruit,  it  is  at  the  expense  of  aroma, 
and  flavour.  With  others,  as  the  grape-vine,  a  certain  heat  is  necessary 
to  bring  them  to  perfection  ;  in  fact,  each  climate  has  its  own  fruit,  and 
to  have  it  in  its  highest  condition  it  must  be  waited  for  till  it  is  produced 
in  that  climate  to  which  it  particularly  belongs,  and  neither  farced  in  hot- 
houses or  in  warmer  climates. 

The  greatest  consumption  in  fruits  de  saison  is  in  pears,  next  in  pkune, 
then  apples,  and  then  cherries.  The  amount  is  so  great  as  to  him  as- 
tounded M.  Armand  Husson  himself — 150,223,006  kilogrammes  of  pears, 
and  other  fruits  in  proportion  !  The  grapes  preferred  for  dessert  are  those 
of  Fontainebleau ;  but  those  from  Montauban  keep  longest.  Orange*  are 
mainly  supplied  from  Valencia  and  Seville  ;  the  admirable  oranges  of  Sfc 
Michael's  consumed  in  London,  and  those  of  Sicily  consumed  by  the 
Belgians,  are  scarcely  known  in  Paris.  An  attempt  has  been  made  to 
introduce  the  Algerine  oranges,  but  they  have  not  found  great  favour. 
Oranges  and  lemons  are  applied  to  an  infinite  variety  of  purposes*  The 
first  are  most  in  favour,  cut  in  slices,  sugared,  and  bathed  in  brandy.  In 
winter-time  the  theatres  are  invariably  filled  with  the  perfume  of  oranges, 
mingled  with  the  still  more  penetrating  odour  of  apples. 

Prunes  are  derived  mainly  from  Lot  et  Garonne :  these,  as  also  what 
are  obtained  from  Tarn,  are  all  alike  sold  as  prunes  d'Ente  and  primes 
de  Bordeaux.  Inferior  kinds  are  very  common.  The  best  figs  are*  im- 
ported from  England.  Those  of  Provence,  called  Marseillaises,  are,  how- 
ever, by  no  means  to  be  despised.  Raisins  have  been  largely  used,  smee  die 
disease  in  the  grape-vine  has  enhanced  the  price  of*  wine,  in  the  manu- 
facture of  a  kind  of  sweet  wine,  which  is  flavoured  with  gin  ;  100  quarts- 
of  wine  are  made  with  221bs.  of  raisins  and  18oz.  of  gin,  fermented  for 
twelve  days  ;  3,000,000  kilogrammes  of  raisins  are  annually  used  in  die' 
manufacture  of  wine,  which  costs  barely  a  penny  a  quart. 

Provence  sends  the  best  almonds  and  nuts,  called  noisettes  de  FAca- 
diere.  Poires  tapees  and  pommes  tapees,  that  is,  flattened,  and 
sweetened,  are  imported  from  Maine  et  Loire,  Sarthe,  and  Iodre  et  Loire. 
What  are  called  pistoles  and  brignolles  are  prepared  from  a  small  plum, 
deprived  of  its  skin  and  kernel,  and  obtained  at  Digne,  in  the  Basses 
Alpes.  Fruits  glaees,  which  have  lately  come  so  much  in  vogue,  are 
prepared  in  the  south.  Altogether,  the  Parisian  consumes  more  firoit 
than  anything  else.  Of  fruits  de  primeur,  16,010  kilogrammes  are  con- 
sumed in  the  year ;  of  fruits  de  saison,  427,498,823  ;  of  dried  fruits, 
3,952,000 ;  and  of  olives,  54,000  :  making  a  grand  total  of  431,520,833 
kilogrammes,  or  near  nine  millions  of  pounds  ;  giving  an  average  of 
nearly  2^lbs.  for  each  person  every  day* 

Vegetables,  like  fruit,  are  divided  into  legumes  de  primeur,  de  saison^ 
and  sees.  Green  and  white  asparagus,  salads,  cucumbers,  radishes, 
French  beans,  carrots,  Ac.,  are  all  forced  ;  but  green  peas  from  Algeria 
have  superseded  the  forced  article.  They  can  be  indulged  in  in  the 
month  of  January.     No  details  exist  as  to  the  quantity  consumed,  but  it 


The  Food  of  Paris.  17» 

is  known  that,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Paris,  there  axe  about  1800 
gardeas,  with  360,000  frames,  and  2,160,000  bell-glasses.  The  money 
derived  from  the  sale  of  vegetables  is  said  to  amount  to  13,500,000 
francs* 

Among  the  legumes  de  saison,  the  potato,  as  with. us,  takes  precedence 
in  the  amount  annually  consumed  ;  leeks,  cabbages,  and  carrots  follow. 
There  is  an  immense  consumption  of  some  vegetables  little  used  in  this 
country,  as  for  example,  7,560,000  kilogrammes  of  sorrel,  and  259,200 
kilogrammes  of  salsifis.  The  total  consumption  of  fresh  vegetables  is 
estimated  at  133,925,391  kilogrammes  annually,  or  about  127  kilo- 
grammes for  every  individual. 

We  have  already  remarked  that  dried  vegetables  enter  largely  into  the 
ordinary  food  of  the  Parisian.  This  can  be  best  judged  of  by  the  fact 
that  4,651,200  kilogrammes  of  haricots,  2,121,750  of  lentils,  and 
1,804,923  of  peas  are  annually  consumed ;  giving  about  5^  quarts  of  the 
first,  2-J-  of  the  second,  and  2£  of  the  third  for  each  inhabitant. 

A  new  process  has  lately  been  introduced  of  artificially  drying  vege- 
tables. Thus,  at  La  Villette,  they  dry  cabbages;  at  Meaux,  carrots; 
at  Le  Mans,  potatoes,  peas,  and  onions;  at  Dunkerque,  cabbages,  spinach, 
and  chicory  ;  and  at  Rueil,  French  beans*  These  products  are  called 
grosse  julienne  and  julienne  fine.  The  army  in  the  Crimea  was  largely 
provided  with  these  dried  vegetables.  Peas  and  haricots  are  also  pre- 
served in  butter.  Sorrel  and  chicory  are  kept  for  a  long  time  in  stone 
pots,  well  closed.  Sorrel  is  also  preserved  by  simply  boiling  it*  The 
quantity  of  tomatos  preserved  is  not  known.  Sauer-kraut  is  also  con- 
sumed in  large  quantities. 

Truffles  are  considered  as  condiments.  The  most  esteemed  are  those 
of  Perigord,  but  a  white  kind  is  imported  from  Piedmont,  which  is  pre- 
ferred by  some  on  account  of  its  slight  flavour  of  garlic ;  5,957,815  kilo- 
grammes of  salt,  20,073  hectolitres  of  oil,  and  20,438  hectolitres,  of 
vinegar  are  annually  consumed.  It  is  estimated  that  20,000  kilogrammes 
of  fine  mustard  ana  250,000  kilogrammes  of  common  mustard  are  also 
consumed  annually.  The  mustard  called  en  vraque,  used  at  the  traiteurs, 
is  made  of  salt  and  the  lees  of  wine. 

As  a  general  summary,  the  population  of  Paris  consumes  upon  an 
average,  yearly, 

73Q,S01495  kilogrammes  of  solid  food 
263,977,738  litres  of  liquids 

32,184,970  hectolitres  of  water  for  domestic  purposes 
1,604,601  kilogrammes  of  tobacco 

Compared  with  the  other  great  towns  of  France,  Paris  takes  precedence 
of  all  in  the  quantity  of  butcher's  meat  consumed  relatively  to  its  popula- 
tion. Henries  and  Bordeaux  are,  after  Paris,  the  two  towns  where 
most  meat  is  consumed.  The  worst  off  in  this  respect  are  Nantes, 
Toulon,  and  Caen.  Amiens,  Montpellier,  and  Orleans  consume  most 
cow  meat;  Montpellier,  Nimes,  Avignon,  Saint  Etienne,  Marseilles, 
Bordeaux,  and  Lyons  most  mutton. 

In  consumption  of  pork,  Chalons-sur-Saone,  Montpellier,  Toulouse, 
Metz,  Angers,  and  Dijon,  all  take  precedence  of  Paris. 

Bordeaux  stands  at  the  head  of  a  whole  group  of  southern  towns,  all 


180  The  ^004  gf  Pws. 

of  which  consume  relatively  more  wine  than  Paris.    The  northern  towns, 
as  Lille,  Diion,  Amiens.  Metz,  and  Nancy,  consume,  on  the  other  hand. 


nH)te  beet  at^cideri : ')  Byfe!  tt< reVnirl&fcft 

and  beer  alike.  The  gr^fvOAS|iadt^oi|.0fHAtek)iAviUturally'in  the  towns 
of  the  west,  in  Normandy  and  Picardy.  Rennes  takes  the  lead  here. 
Rouen  enjo>  thfc  im^MaW^  m^fer^Pyin  pro- 

portion to  its  population,  ^{fe^^pqme^  Qffcn ;  then  Amiens,  Brest, 
Rheims,  Paris,  and  Lille. 

The  comparison  of  the  consumption  of  Paris  with  London,  or  with 
other  great  cities,  is  not*m  easy  matte*. '^htfiHtitt'existence  of  duties  of 
the,. octroi,  and.Uva^bwnoe  ,of  all,  reli#J>l«r  s^i$1icjdi&Bfi»riDa^oaa/ii««der 
tf>£Tealv /consumption  Q&  Jj)*&W  ftni>fcte»  feburi^iridib4ha«ee^«&^ 
b&jjv mere  guesj-w.pjk.  ,,  J&tyaiwite&y  Qjrto^y^MwdQuSfootyiBlotk)* 
P|Orter,  Dodd,  .May hew, ,  jpr. ,  jihe  ;  Qt&WerfyvMevieWj )e\gve&>w&Aiim*h$& 
le,a4i»g  figures,.  jXkrJai^ifai^!^ 

population  much  m^r^:hujfcche|r>i,^a4jiUiaj|{.J?«ii.A  A«eoi>iiiigt*&oM.i,» 
Arn^aiid;  .  JJussoin.,  ttl>0   Earfeiaii   only  rc^umro/  72^ktfojpr«m3Dei  ft&t&x 
grammes,  while  ^.Londopflr  e^gutiae»iU8(kugpammB&r07^^i<tti^7^ 
%t  {the.  average  ^i§iai^pc(n8|ii«p(fc>rt .  <# .  btead  is  Aht  thdjyrftar/lMiriii^ 
grammes  168  grammes,  and  for  the  Londoner  oftVjfc  !&8iJbib>giiuMfa6i/fo 
777  grammes,,  {t  go  ate^il^^-PAri^iaQ^P^fwmflS  'mujah  vnarcro^egcttfftlfa 
than,  the  tanfloner,  .,jM,.  Arjnandn^aaoftu^ntotesr/t^ 
nearly  pn,erhalf,  o>-  as^ft&lpffWiy^ 
95$  grammes.  ,;Tbe  Parisjafl  tflwc^w^iQSli^^ 
mi%  .whereas,  ,|he  ^^^^{^..coiteijn^ 
The  .Parisian  again,  c^snmes,:«iBO>th^  nicitffcWifeiflft 

litres, of  ,ale,  afld  patten.*  thql%m§wvlwlty>^wwAA;l2&  Hfiro  ,?<^Ugdlo>K 
litres  of. ^win^sl^eeir^and.ci^piJjpu^t^^iie*.  \>v,\V  ".obi.i  i#/t  ol^Jii  u  "*'  wtf 
^^spmm^,  the^p4one.r«an^ume^0Q)^i6Wrbhfy  teooe  aoMftxnf  thww 
th#  .Parisian  Jn^faf  sj^.of  hu^her^ 
an4  jpprter.,   ..^h^^arifma,  cpns^meft  j*^3]|g^-l^^ 
hread,  jpoultryk  l?M|#r,7Mftiilfl\^i!^  wgstM&M 

Pr^aWy,  ea^Jidfet  ^)ibe^}^fte^r«t»>Jj*(4w» .^limitea/j  Weuihpitfjn 
ho^e.yeri^enjtu.re.tp  #&&&  fr^Q&hbijgd tfeto  rfral  <»Mfei^tifmnafrfiM*a$( 
^London  fltyiuft  jWfftote  (Wiift^^i^rertmadheel^fcnawaB  adfuB  :il4s> 
we,  do  noMftMs  *»*J Hjjtf  o^i*-^ 
much  more  bread,  j&W/$be,jj^ 

mow  pptajo^.akhto^n^r*,^  the(Jdf$m&tfe 

oqght  J#:tain^e,up  ty  ^^ 
at  -^iirbr^fastSjiunph^f,  $e^8j^  j^pjptffct  »n.>ij«jnK»b  wouimul  baa 

yrt  tt».vj»'(.v  ■; ■vu-»i  ii  ni(»[»  .;r\u';  .!/•:»  UiS  >i  -jT'Il  .asrftjfy  baijfvjltaim  4  addl/T 
biv ■''■  :J5'J.»  T»ii  i»j  >uo;|o  ov « hriiwr  jm>  ntuiw  ;-»ntI>  *»dj  Jn'jdii  ,adduT  .siM 
-V^  -«{'  •■  ,:;--i!jii«{  \;->vb  djrw  rf.->d:>uo7  ^m/i;d  r>JJ»i  'hIT  .s*l-/rn£  .8iM 
Li?iiir   •   ''«    v.i-h  i'.'v-i «n  :>i()  if^jM. id: -Dj/r//  -.)jIi  y«l  b-j -iiilV)  vJju-v.r/1  3^iib3 

Il5«j1*   l        .-  m:    «viV.  O1-  .i'li.;  ^jVilj'l'  .^'it<  07  if )//-.» Ji l*.to-J  air/tig  jj  n*«od  »''fi^ 

;  .(, -, , ,   uj  v^iij  f: _.ir,ivyil'.'i{  i-  1-i  iiiiO  w.  tlui  ui  vJ„«;hjot([  1-' j{?uq  ->di 

fc;-.'i     ii.v  ■    ':■.   ,?-i-»,  Ji;     -.^    i-'    •■■■Inilu't    :s'»«f    "-iii    ;>".j;v1     >.'    ?■'■'■  I-'Ji-Jiii-' •  v.jT  * 

«»Air    :'.->    i':i:-b':jt  vuritiynteii  viu^'-'iii'/  T^'i  ^viin;q    w-.iio  ■£..£«*  iviiii  ^iiwll    ivl 


«Bnwot  irc-.ilj-iori  OilT    .f.;i:r.'L  uj;Jj  ;<uv/  -iv>\xt  /!■>/. :^i--«'i  ..  •';!-»:  •..       ■:.-.. 
.jnyd  b/ol  cult  «o#li;J  a-jiui-til      ./i'-u^i'l    l«.u:    <i"i;.ui  u//.    .-,1   ,,.  , ..     ..{»    h 

3o  r.-nMii,  lo  jon-)^i7.y«fl|AR»^*B»AWTi<wr^TUHBa •  ■„  :»  ,-  .;;.  ..••  ■.„  .-.  ■  U  • 
iT>8^i^mnei«f  rJ^elii«.irubfc»  ii  ^trinity  ketfluj^stive'  of  a  dignified 
ptocoto^^/refiiiedfiiitelirttii'! -Reade^  if  ybii^^r^tit  wett^  iiow  suddenly 
^J^tiiQffo -ttjjtaBiai&I JwhiG Tubbs'aS  ft  victor,  *toafrMri& of  person-  : 
a^cwwwldjrottjmects  io^&e^^  We^ilt«insWe^  fbVy&i.  ^You  wouM* 
iminediattiy dobk leaf la^fiU^'^itldn^^b^h^i3  ire^  face1,1  attired  fa 
a  ,ifromr<#bafcoand  waistcoat^  rtrttto; speckled 'tedus^tt,"  a"'  HUe-and-whilte 1 
ne^rchief, .  *njl higb, "  ve*yi  stiff-  coljaiv  '¥w  would  find  it  &fficuit  td  • 
expi^K^y"i£heseniseweral'-p6hit»  tfhould  thusi;sfcgjgesfe  thefmselves  in  ■ 
cooaerie&lvfibkrthdj  mere'  torn*!  of  Joshua  Ttibb^'  bot-is  iV not  the  fact [ 
tl^ifet-theyiyffttli'dds^l8o  i;ji.ubii.ul    ,Jj   i  >*  Jm*»  ..r.JimiiiTi;   *^;  ■-..  i---r..^ 

^Stay,-^yo»im«jribe)of  thei  mimbe^^f1  those ;*4i6tii0w  the  great  man; 
coifecernmg.fwhomi *re  4s*"atou6 tffcfr'wHtei'  '»«'lf -'so*  ^here ,J#i6;  be*  no  mVs^ : 
tet^  :^W*thihi*iin^*>c<m^  the  mAhy  [ 

aa^uaitdbinceslhei  pesge^ed^kwill'Btattd' forth  ^ad'owii  to  ^he  coldhearted- 
neis-annajragirafUttda^Ifich*  Vwld  •*#  ma&fested  fy1  the  acknowledgment l\ 
thafciei  bad >m  the >£ftigh test  idegjr^  fided  ito^\imtmryLY)i Mo  'soonier  'will [ 
tbe>«ariie  be  meatiftnea  than  the  whdte*Hftn  Wai^reygtitfemS^to^odH 
roewteileye,  avitffl  a^^ividoftwftbsol^ly  ^fea^tUng^.'  O^  Mt-.' Joshua  TubW 
tiww  "a  little  fat  man,"  had  .^tatl^^al^dffl^e^^and ' 4id  ebmmoniy^ 
wfiwrfiiaxBArfeB  co*t srfddiWatttooati ttpetikle^t^sek,^  hke^and-trkite 
n*jike^efr<aiidola^^ 

in^badiibitxiglrtiohan^toi^ e*ttofebte'man($> rtedde*' was i;he  face ^hell -; 
laaJofefeisgw iMert '«ffru<K» ^h^gii^en^,«'ttnd^ty^Web  le^  'stiff  thfe-;' 
cojUdrq(ibut>^  aro^irati«omin^ndh^o^%}^o¥y,"(and  wWW^at  e^are'1 
ye^rotfrtomedJ-byutearo  dnfr  oW*  hand  !k^e^  'steady,  we  h^Ve  to  $p<&kA 
of  pjfr.  ITuhfcs  as  WiWafi^toiHtWt^neimiled  o^'hito,  abd!tf6t  as "He^sr :r 
w^Hivkk.  ohenwtx^tbi  fi^kle^  be^W  e^liaaged1  fot^ 

aiiw^.a)^^  ailkaidthkm^  '    "  i',)U>n 

oHo^Uhm  tedd«iiediiiifd!rtnatk)«' wpon  ^ 
T«iif^nimieHnlai^xw  iftv^il'dUWelves  oi  the  WaUtrfuliy  fldl'^ 

and  luminous  descriptions  iwdnqfttfy  it«ndei»§d  by  •  iriahy  s6inS»es  of  Ikfr.-^ 
Tubbs's  intellectual  glories.  Here  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  written  by 
Mrs.  Tubbs,  about  the  time  when  our  narrative  opens,  to  her  dear  friend 
Mrs.  Smyles.  The  letter  having  touched,  with  deep  pathos,  on  the  suf- 
ferings recently  endured  by  the  writer  through  the  misconduct  of  "  that 
hussey,  Jane"  (a  young  person,  who  seems,  by  a  subsequent  letter,  to 
have  been  a  servant-of-all-work  to  Mrs.  Tubbs,  and  to  have  strayed  from 
the  path  of  propriety  to  follow  that  of  a  policeman),  thus  proceeds : 

*  The  compiler  has  to  return  his  best  thanks  to  Mr.  Smyles,  of  Dubberley, 
tailor  ;  Messrs.  Butcher  and  Mangle,  London,  solicitors ;  the  Rev.  Tolman  Tawke, 
Dr.  Bam,  and  many  other  parties,  for  valuable  assistance  rendered  for  this 
work. 


182  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

"I  am  a  good  deal  worrited  just  now,  my  dear  Sophy,  by  Joshua 
haying  joined  the  c  Thorough  Equality'  Club,  which  meets  every  Satur- 
day evening;  at  the  Anchor  and  Cart-Wheel  pubfce-bouse.  There  are 
many  wonderful  clever  men  at  this  club,  but  its  seid  my  Joshua  beats 
'em  all.  His  oratory  is  amazing.  I  don't  hear  him  at  the  club,  of 
course,  but  he  practises  at  home  other  evenings  before  the  children  and 
me.  I  don't  understand  much  about  it,  but  I  can  assure  you  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly instructive." 

.Of  Mr.  Tubbs's  labours  as  a  member  of  the  vestry  of  his  parish,  there 
is  abundant  narrative.  Mr.  Tubbs  commonly  moved  from  six  to  eight 
resolutions  at  each  meeting  of  this  august  body,  and  though  they,  were 
invariably  negatived,  the  fact  at  least  proves  his  energy  and  perseverance. 
A  small  pamphlet  which  he  published,  entitled  "  The  Vestryman's 
Mission,"  the  reader  has,  of  course,  seen.  It  is  a  work  of  great  learning 
and  research.  The  subject  of  the  awful  responsibilities  of  a  vestryman 
is  entered  upon  in  a  deep  and  earnest  spirit.  We  believe  these  is  & 
person  still  living  who  has  read .  the  work  literally  from  beginning  to 
end,  being  a  man  of  strong  mind;  but  we  rather  think  that.no.  one  bat 
this  remarkable  individual  has  been  able  to  do  more  than  simply  scan, 
the  closely-printed  forty-eight  pages,  finding  even  that  effort  dangeroas 
to  intellectual  health. 

But  the  renowned  production  which  will  carry  Mr.  Tubbs's  name  to 
remotest  ages  as  a  powerful  writer,  is  that  "  searching,  stinging,  sar- 
castic:" essay  (we  quote  the  words  of  a  criticism  concerning  it,  wmok 
appeared  in  the  Dubberley  Guardian. — Mem.  It  has  been  whispered, 
that  he  wrote  it.  himself ),  produced  by  him  at  a  period  of  great  excite- 
ment, when  every  lover  of  his  country  was  called  upon  to  be  up  and 
doing,,  entitled  "Englishmen,  beware!  being  a  few  words  on  the  pre- 
sent price  of  Rushlights."  As  we  shall  presently  explain^  Mr.  Tubbs. 
waa  a  vendor  of  the  useful  articles  named,  and  his.  sagacity  discovered 
that,  while  common  men  (poor,  short-sighted  creatures !)  were  posting 
forth  a  multitude  of  surface-reasons  for  the  unsatisfactory  state  of  the 
nation,  such  as,  excessive  expenditure,  restricted  commerce,  too  stringent 
laws,  and  such  like,  the  cause  lay  much  deeper — it  rested  in  the  redseed 
price  of  rushlights,  of  which  Mr.  Tubbs  had  been  a  large  buyes;  and 
which  he  was  now  selling  at  a  loss.  We  have  eagerly  sought  fir,  some 
account  of  the  effect  which  this  startling  work  must  have  wrought  upon 
the  public  mind  at  the  time  of  its  issue.  No  positive  outbreak,  howeverr 
seems  to  have  occurred*  All  remained  tranquil.  No  law  passed  en- 
hancing the  price  of  rushlights,  and  those  in  stock  by  Mr.  Tubbs  wen 
all  sold  at  a  ruinous  reduction.  We  will  not  say  that  the  CMrcmrntflnnff 
had  any  connexion  with  this  last-named  unlucky  speculation,  hot  we 
think  we  may  mention  that  Mr.  Tubbs  had  his  revenge.  These  were  ner 
impertinent  analyses  in  those  days.  Mr.  Tubbs  sold  sugar  at  well  m 
candles,  and  for  twelve  months,  after  the  candle  mishap,  Mr,  TnWWa 
sugar  had  only  half  the  sweetening  qualities  it  previously  possessed* 

We  mast  be  forgiven  for  this  somewhat  irregular  way  of  ratioskeffitr 
Mr.  Tnbbs  to  the  reader,  but  we  are  anxious  to  instil  a  good  general 
idea  of  that  worthy  personage  before  fully  bringing  him  on  the  stage 
and  exhibiting  him  in  all  his  lustre.  There  are  just  one  or  two- more 
nmttexa  we  will  mention  before  dosing  our  preliminary  chapter. 


md  Certam  Member*  efkis  Family.  183 

If  any  one  who  lived  in  Dubberley  at  the  time  of  our  history  should 
penue  these  pagesy  surely  we  know  that  we  are  now  about  to  speak  of  a 
straggle,  the  recollection- of  which  will  stir  his?  whole  soul  within  him  and 
cause  him  to  gasp  with  overpowering  excitement.  Former  resident  in 
Dubberley,  recolleotest  thou  the  strife  between  the  organ  and  the  flute— 
the  victory  of  the  flute  and  the  ignoble  flight  of  the  organ  ?  You  do ; 
you  must.  Then  read  on,  and  bear  testimony  to  the  truth  of  the  follow- 
ing narrative : 

Mr.  Tubbs  was  a  performer  on  die  flate.  We  say  the  flute,  for  he 
never  played  but  on  one,  which  had  been  the  property  of  his  grandfather, 
who  had  used  it  for  forty  years,  and  of  his  father,  who  had  performed  on 
it  daily  for  thirty  years,  and  twenty  years  had  now  elapsed  since  Mr. 
Tubbs*  himself  had  first  caused  it  to  moan  under  a  dreadful  consciousness 
of  a  new  and  sound-winded  master.  His  high  musical  abilities  led  Mr. 
Tubbs  to  join  a  certain  band  of  instrumentalists  which  attended  church 
every  Sunday,  after  the  fashion  still  existing  in  remote  districts.  Greatly 
did  these  lovers  of  the  art  pride  themselves  on  the  elaborate  performances 
which  each  Sabbath-day  caused  die  old  roof  of  Dubberley  church  to 
shake  again.  Far  mere  effectual  were  they  in  keeping  awake  the  drowsy 
villagers,  than  the  ponderous  exhortations  of  the  Rev.  Timothy  Easyman, 
their  respected  pastor.  They  caused  sleep,  whereas  no  mortal  could 
possibly  be  otherwise  than  wide  awake  while  the  four  flutes,  two  violins, 
and  a  trumpet  were  giving  forth  the  Old  Hundredth.  And  the  solos* 
winch  were  always  rendered  by  Mr.  Tubbs:  how  many  are  the  affect* 
ing*  stories  which  we  find  narrated  in  various  papers  now  before  us  of  the 
thrilling  influence  of  these  solos  I  One  old  lady,  the  widow  of  a  pubtieany 
who  had  been  induced  to  come  to  church  after  a  discontinuance  of  the 
practice  for  a  brief  space  of  fifty  years,  was  thrown  into  such  raptusea  by 
the  performance  of  Mr.  Tubbs  of  the  Old  Hundredth,  from  its  dose  re- 
sewiblanoe,  as  she  said,  to  the  tune  which  her  beloved  deceased  used  to 
play,  and  which  accompanied  the  song  of 

Oh,  drunk  are  we ;  yea,  very,  very  drunk  I 

thai  henceforth,  to  the  day  of  hex  death,  she  was  unremitting  in  her 


The  following  anecdote  is  still  more  striking : 

There  was  a  wicked  boy  in  Dubberley,  about  ten  years  of  age.  One 
Sunday  morning  he  stole  two  turnips  from.  Squire  Larkina's  field.  He 
was  at  church  in  the  afternoon,  and  heard  the  usual  solo  by  Mr.  Tubbs. 
The  sounds  melted  his  bad  heart.  After  service  he  took  the  turnips  and 
returned  them  to  their  owner,  entreating  forgiveness.  The  affecting 
clicumstance  is  fully  narrated  by  the  Reverend  the  Vicar,  in  a  tract  which 
he  nribtkhed,  entitled  "  The  Flute's  Whisper;,  or,  Turnips  no  real  gain." 
And  the  same  is  now  before  us* 


Badt  in  due  coarse  the  Rev.  Timothy  Easyman  died,  and.  the  Rev. 
Wahraham  Markham  came  to  he  vicar..  On  the  first  Sunday  after  Ins 
induction,  when  the  band,  accompanied  by  their  great  leader,  were 
about  ascending  to  die  gallery  as  usual,  a  note  was  put  into  Mr.  Tubbs's 
hand,  stating  that  Mr.  MfMriekfli^  wished  the  instrumental  performance 
might  be  onuttedLin  future.  Was  it  possible?  Had  the  new  vicar  lost 
his  senses?    Sate  with,  rage,  Mr.  Tubba,  imnsjdkteiy     ~ 


184  Jw/tyawa^nM^ 

waited  on'Mr;  Marktww,  And  wifi|  Me#«*hciw^  by**t^ofkkdbeTH»im 
the  reeoktiw^  topbtid«vftt,,  tfc'baJ^v^  >Ncr,  tioiJ^JiM^khanv^rawtf 
not  his  men.'  Ifc  I«rt*l<lh'*y ^sllte^a•d<t^ky^Jt^l^^JsMdJ  tl^ofcdftfc 
And  they  eftcf  play,  in  church  and  out  of  church— everywherftlcbUfe 
they  could  beet  With  fchi'tttef^twfetei'vyapji  &h^-2be^hktas  'fcewHNtm 
gtore  in^anduBiwa3fihe:WdOtfttflattiliher  4iitingvr«a>«^  gowi^Kat  wnew 
thete  was1  an wganl'^  »■'■«''   •»  nxw>?.juoo  '.'loilv/   .•ni  ,L-jiio«[->of>  ^lim*  ^iT 

How  deep  was  the'einxtfod  whfrek  ahdek  thai  vestry  wfofen^SfrjfTubkr 
attended  fb*  the  last  iBme^  '  Tear*  »fefi'*opwusly  from-  lhV&Mdy<£eak 
eyes  of  Mi.  Sriiyles,  as  hemovfed*1  resMdrionvwhtch  we*  sh^  >preeeo*]ta 
the  reader,  bothon  ad<5ouwt'of  4&b  tb«ia^y^  its  *omjk«Hi€fe'aiid  style1 
(bearing:  strong  resemblance  tof  the  vote1  or  thanks 'crisis 
on  a  very  exalted  ^rsona^^hea'iibiut'^f^etW  from 'ttfficentn' No- 
vember), and  the  earnest  testimony  which  it  ^nishertof1  the*  ^rofoun^ 
worth  of  Mr.  Tubbs.    •'"   •  T     ^  :"-rr  ■»•  '   .;:".-.v!.    \hu-d  .vi-««  m>- 

"  Resolved,-^- That  tba  'wormiest  thvnfcs  of  this*  vestry  «r»  due,  Cartel  are 
hereby  given,  to  Joshua  Tubbs,  Esq.,  for  the  ability,  zeal,  and  perseverance 
which  he  has  'displayed 'in  the  performance  of  his  important  duties  as 
vestryman  of  this  parish  for  the  last  fifteen  years ;  lor  die  -upright  stern- 
ness evinced  by  him  in  checking  the  claims  of  ^pauperising  for  the  Un- 
varying affability  he  has  manifested  towards  his  fellow-vestrymen ;  for 
the  splendid  manner  in  which  he  has  upheld  the  dignity  of  his  office*  by 
always  coming  to  the  vestry  in  his  four-wheeled  chaise;  for  the-  muni- 
ficent hospitality  he  has  exhibited  in  twice,  each  year,  inviting  the  vestry 
to  tea  and  negus  at  his  house ;  and,  generally,  for  the  nobfe,  straight- 
forward, honourable,  truly  English  manner  in  which  both  as  a  vestryman 
and  general  dealer  he  has  conducted  himself  during  the  whole  period  of 
his  residence  in  Dubberley. 

"That  this  vestry  sincerely  congratulates  Mr.  Tubbs  on  the  improved 
position  which  he  is  about  to  occupy,  and  respectfully  hopes  that  he  will 
not  forget  those  whom  he  leaves  behind  him." 

This  resolution  was  ordered  to  be  copied  on  foolscap,  by  the  best 
writer  from  the  charity  school ;  and,  subsequently,  it  was  presented  to 
Mr.  Tubbs,  at  a  farewell  banquet  given  to  him  at  the  Anchor  and  Cart- 
wheel. So  thoroughly  heartbroken  was  Mr.  Tubbs  by  the  overwhelming 
kindness  shown  him  at  this  feast,  that  he  was-  taken  home  insensible,  ana 
was  the  whole  of  the  next  day  in  bed,  receiving  no  other  sustenance  than 
broth,  and  no  stimulant  whatever  saving  toast  and  water. 

II. 

BTABTUNG  EVENTS  HAPPEN  TO  THE  FAMILY  OF  TUBBS,  AJfD  GOOD  FORTUNE  BE8ULI*. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  bright  summer  day.  The  sun  was  declaring  m 
all  its  glory  behind  the  distant  hills.  The  busy  hum  of  active  life  was 
hushed.  All  nature  was  sinking  into  beautiful  repose,  and  Mr.  Tubbs 
sat  on  a  bench  in  front  of  his  shop,  enjoying  a  pipe  and  a  pint  of  mild 
porter. 

It  has  been  mentioned  incidentally  that  Mr.  Tubbs  was  a  general 
dealer.  He  was  indeed.  What  did  he  not  sell?  Eatables  and  drink- 
ables, raiment  of  every  description,  garden  tools,  perfumery  and  toys, 
earthenware  and  stationery:  there  was  scarce  anything  which  Mr. 
Tubbs's  shop  did  not  contain,  or  which  its  owner  could  not  procure,  on 


«k3»noiI)w^ecl«fjryp»  **a|aH»rfwtetfi  pbeefrrrit  ,w**Httfrtc<^be  culled  % 
townee ti  iter ihhriWt$ftt«  ,w#e  \jkfetfc<*/a^»f>djd»adc-^il^mid>w©r^ 
^fafl^clot^dj  afcd8t^jinst^^tjMr.lTjwbte\8h0plW  tf(&rayir4>fien«rfioos 

aArf«i)Wjor{y/^'i9'/') — thiuiio  io   Juo   biiiJ   rf?yiwb   til  ,v»;Iu  M>  v^ih  La)  A 

strafe*  j^e^mg  fto«^t^iweife  t&i^ 

The  smile  deepened,  the  whole  countenance  relaxed*!  <so^ .  rstUisiacli^ 
*tfou3urifcstedrfo  eY^lijri*h-?teh*fe  tkAtm^^pf^vs^  Aim^Q^An^  •{  [ 
>l/^betf  >n^t^*Vjfc,b^^  <i&  Mb.  Xubb*'* 

aapeobr^bjchmfe  %ae  jfwtf/rejfarddi^wiAclM^ towwf.  >  i ^tan « lite  bfow  g&m 
bbok  49t»igfcttt^w»!lhtjp^6  AttibetL  -jSbeVthwii^th©  aiwifwa*  wmibfuH^ 

-t>f:\toy>>htogHjfcj  sk*?oTma&n#(ifJihe, oK«ggajXiiio#^e^rJI01H, vfipnourjft 

jfanktoyi^'m^rj^f^  vnornijeo*  ^-n-uw  ..i(j  Uxti\.  v>.hu  »/ 

"  Go  away,  tramp,  directly,"  shouted  Mr.  Tubbs.  >ddjiT   ilV;  'k<  i^i«;/ 

o  i£'  i^  JMfc>^l>fi^^  aiha'pefany, 

^UI!feQnOJWj,!}iTXJ?lx;'»i'4vii(;Jxi  Oil)  lot  ..f*M   .M\iT  y.kn\<»>l  *A  mvi?    ■^•i*.i 

~:iSEhe  jd$B(The«tate& . .  JSe/  certifo^^ 

a^V»y^()(nvi^'»7.//oIb']   eijcf  3i»i*;woj  l^jb-.fuitBin  rJ\il  ~m\  sidiii  ■•U£   i.;-.>^:v 

vd^ffiiil^  uetir^i.ii^ch  hw  housed 

iht»fflbop'pmois^u|i;ftebaJ(^dr»if;a|i4!)Mi%)  Tvfcbs  jflinei  «bisiiwif«;jand> 

-diIlfi»tjTuJWtefW«flia  qiftc)^[{toitlsBg>  ^oma%[«prfetty{injiw^u»ei>tpje«wi|fe 
tf*looki*M*pw*  if^etfor^a^op&jWQjn^ 

with  laudable  energy.    .  ..vylWdi'U-ni  wr. ■»!.•;< -*i  ru( 

LoMw.Tufefo  i*a*tWt$&uilg  M^rfrfi^na^a^weiity^hwr  wWi^fc  the 
f  toy  ^gfctot^ti&gfe  rfitir^,  ftegfenbluj&^y^ ,  (^hroh.h*4,*ljfea4y  killed  aj 
solicitor's  clerk — a  persona^ iiJ!^i]ites*iWy  Wftift!fe#^htpiW*tfee*lj^  ia* 
tfitf*  Hfoly^^ybu^aq.bfeiri^to  to  ^l^ft^bwihiUf  AiJle4^eh^iBt?s 
«bojBja»^«w^OcWfts  ,iwhi^««4>^lie  .^tipgAM^A  taibugfelf  <  ihy*  a.$Ji>w 
pw^>)^ wry ,*io^  s^rfali j  Jipda  ratter,  .(a^  J^w*vflk>aipfi^,ithe  innkeeperf* 
j^r#i^^gfetenj  »M3vltpiM)^#oi  ■#  wf^flWfl  i^Wanwr^d  ft  tongufe^ 
fi« H^iWPi^r^ijiflejfa^  :u(  j^ifj  (i?i.<\  tiili  J*  niiii  uwoik  **ji>b,jj>i 

niJlre$ijbbfci^9^*^^^  <*(&  J»di  w*s  xegjws<ed,hy  hi* 

parents  with  unp/§al&ej^rim»£ti^^ 

was  expected  to  shine  in  the  world,  though  in  what  way  had  not  been  to 
this  time  decided.  jj 

Everybody  must  expect  to  meet'  with  troubles  in  this  vale  of  tears. 
ThWfrlii^  m*m^<!e^^ 

tpc£t£iak>$formyoYrBi  ;oifie  laJbourOTthtedbiditeoubfe^-B-qtBD^b:  kfoametiiies 
dear, o3uld:>«aJbba^es jiard  weoifc&^lWhy ibUoiildjcMrs/i /Biibb^a^? i  ^mpfi^ 
^/TWt.Hns^  Jaomft  HanViifHleed^ngQnB^iiaiteihadjaotT  *fttfeat  LusWi 
Eliflaa^thfiikucoeidBdob|«[?£  ^utyfyaridjttie^rlouto^ 
is  sound  of  voices  in  dispute.  .i^n-  .q 

lv&f8$W9  cfonH  sejbeub',  Mfeaterfh//ifB^ythifrfcra(Jiie>ikitflhed  ^is.ihe 
vriiaQfof.iMrsvi>TiibHs) ; ;  Hgaoa.ikiHiwLHettBiLV/  Thiwebi*  not  ail  honetoe& 
aatMCdaltbauTtittiica^  iHldEogiaiidii^S'Ae.ba^inothin^'to  db>  vrithithe  breast 


186  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

"  you  mmy  believe  me,  mum,  or  you  may  not  beKe've  me.  A  untruth, 
mum,  is  what  I  scorn,  partickkr  legardin'  such  a  thing  as  a  breast  of  a 
chicken,  mum." 

"  Well,  Elizabeth,"  appealeth  Mrs.  Tubbs,  "  you  must  own  it'B  aJ»- 
maikaUe  circumstance." 

u  Nothing  at  all  remarkable,  mum." 

"Don't  be  impertinent,  Elizabeth,"  Mrs.  Tubbs  is  heard  to  reply,  in  a 
tone  which  seems  to  imply  the  steam  is  getting  op. 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  leave,  mum.  The  place  don't  suit.  A  month 
from  Monday,  mafem,  if  you  please." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  I  wouldn't  keep  you,  Elizabeth,  if  you  paid  me  fcr 
doing  so.  You're  a  saucy  creature !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Tubbs,  losing  her 
temper  and  her  dignity. 

"  Perhaps  so,  mum ;  I  scorns  to  recrimnify.  Wish  the  next  may  be  a 
good  one,  mum,  and  cheap,  and  a  small  eater,  mum." 

Mrs.  Tubbs,  allowing  her  enemy  to  have  the  last  broadside,  now  re- 
treated to  the  parlour,  and  made  her  appearance  there  with  a  very 
flushed  countenance.  Her  first  proceeding  was  to  seat  herself  on  the 
son,  and  indulge  in  that  great  luxury  to  women,  but  most  exasperating 
nuisance  to  men — a  copious  flood  of  tears. 

"  Brute !"  crieth  the  reader ;  "do  you  call  the  sight  of  one  of  the  fair 
sex  in  tears  an  exasperating  nuisance  ?"  Yes,  I  do.  I  repeat,  a  woman 
luxuriates  in  crying.  She  does  not  mean  to  say  she  is  unhappy — net  at 
all.  When  she  is  very  happy  she  cries.  She  cries  at  her  wedaing— ■ she 
cries  when  she  hears  good  news,  and  bad ;  when  she  leaves  an  intimate 
friend,  and  when  she  rejoins  her.  When  she  is  overpleased  she  cries ; 
the  excitement  has  been  too  much  for  her.  When  she  is  displeased  she 
cries ;  it  is  the  punishment  she  inflicts  on  you.  My  belief  is  she  cries 
when  she  is  simply  in  want  of  amusement,  particularly  if  there  be  a 
chance  of  some  one  she  is  fond  of  coming  to  gently  wipe  away  the  tears, 
and  ask  as  a  reward  the  very  easy  gift — of  a  smile. 

"  It  will  be  the  death  of  me,  it  will,"  moaned  poor  Mts.  Tubbs.  u  I 
cannot  bear  it" 

"  Bless  me,  Mary,"  cried  Mr.  Tubbs,  angrily,  "  there  seems  to  be  no 
end  to  the  uproar  and  worry.  Come,  do  dry  your  tears,  and  let'*  have 
supper.     I've  got  something  to  say." 

As  these  last  few  words  were  spoken  in  a  rather  unusually  portentous 
manner  (although,  as  the  reader  will  hereafter  perceive,  Mr.  Tubbs,  even 
in  ordinary  conversation,  seemed  perpetually  to  remember  his  high  posi- 
tion as  an  orator  at  the  "  Thorough  Equality  "  Club),  the  tears  of  Mis. 
Tubbs  were  stayed,  and  curiosity  supplanted  grief.  The  supper  was  pro- 
duced (after  "  the  hussey"  had  occasioned  as  much  delay  as  was  prac- 
ticable), and  the  family  party  sat  down  to  its  despatch. 

Then  did  the  countenance  of  the  gifted  general  dealer  assume  mat 
striking  expression  which,  to  those  who  knew  him,  always  heralded  a 
great  and  important  communication.  Was  it  not  that  precise  expression 
which  instilled  awe  into  the  whole  vestry  on  the  memorable  occasion  of 
Mr.  Tubbs  "  rising,"  as  he  said,  "  under  circumstances  which  might  well 
excuse  agitation,  though  agitated  he  was  not ;  which  might  well  cause 
him  to  be  weak,  but  he  was  strong  ;  which  might  well  unnerve  him,  but 
he  was  resolute  ?"  But  the  quotation  would  be  too  long.  Was  it  not 
wn*  the  nana  singularly  contorted  visage  which  he  displayed  when  he 


and  Gtrtain  Members  of  Ass  Fxxm8y*  187 

inuraagtied  the  Defcberley  vestry  for  three-quarters  of  en  hear  on  ifee 
juaysiil  of  the  pewopetier  navmg  charged  three*ia\kpenee  apieoe  ior 
washing  the  church  towels  instead  of  a  penny,  as  heretofore,  that  he 
now  proceeded  to  address  his  dear  family  assembled  ? 

41  My  wife,  my  son  Joshua,  my  daughter  Jane,"  spake  Mr.  Tabbs, 
"  the  communication  which  I  am  about  to  mate  to  you  is  of  a  pleasing 
character.  You  know,  my  dears,  that  far  several  years  now  your  lather 
may  be  considered  to  hare  done  well — done  well.  Business  has  prospered. 
JUishSghts,  it  is  true,  have  been  depressed;  bat  sugar  has  been  good ; 
so  has  tea ;  also  mixed,  pickles.  Your  iather  is  respected  in  Dobbertey. 
fie  has  bad  a  profitable  contract  with  the  workhouse,  fie  has  supplied 
the  Sunday-school  with  cloaks.  Sunshine  has  been  upon  hira.  A  portion 
of  his  little  savings  he  invested  some  months  ago  in  the  Great  Wheal 
Wuggy  Consols.  Wheal  Wuggy,  my  dear  family,  is  a  tin  mine  in 
Cornwall,  known  to  our  friend  Mr.  Speck.  He  advised  your  father  to 
purchase  shares  therein,  and  he  did  so.  The  post  this  evening,  my  be- 
loved, brought  a  letter  from  Mr.  Speck,  stating  that  the  Great  -Wheal 
Wuggy  had  revealed  a  lode  of  vast  value,  and  that  the  one  hundred 
shares  purchased  by  your  parent  at  a  discount  wees  now  at  twenty  pounds 
*  per  share  premium.  I  have  given  orders  to  sell,  my  beloved,  and  now  I 
have  to  state  to  you  that  this  small  piece  of  fortune,  added  to  the  few 
pounds  1  have  been  able  to  save,  will  furnish  me  with  means  sufficient  to 
close  the  establishment  here,  and  eater  upon  that  broader  and  nobler 
sphere,  wherein  I  think  we  are  all  qualified  to  make  a  figure/' 

The  applause  with  which  Mr.  Tubbs's  speech  and  announcement  were 
greeted,  was,  of  course,  tremendous.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Tabbs  cried  a  little, 
naturally,  for  joy,  but,  after  a  few  minutes,  all  were  boisterous.  Of 
course  pa  meant  they  were  going  to  London?  Yes,  he  did.  He  was 
not  about  to  open  a  shop  in  London?  No.  He  meant,  no  doubt,  to 
.tafee  ■»  large  house,  and  keep  a  carriage?  No,  he  did  not ;  he  was  not 
rich  enough.  That  was  a  pity ;  but  Aunt  Matilda's  money  would  come 
-to  them  shortly,  then  they  could  live  in  real  style. 

This  latter  remark  gave  rise  to  a  conversation  touching  Aunt  Matilda. 

*"  How  is  the  very  cross  old  lady  ?*  asked  Miss  Jane;  "you  heard  from 
her,  ma,  this  morning,  did  you  notP' 

"  She  is  very  poorly,  she  says ;  but  then  she  never  says  otherwise,*'  re- 
pfced  Mrs.  Tubbs.  "  She  is  coming  to  stay  here  a  few  days ;  don't  you 
-remember,  Itoldyou?" 

"  Oh  dear,  dear !  When  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Tubbs,  junior  (remembering 
drearily  the  miseries  he  suffered  on  the  occasion  of  Aunt  Matilda's  last 
wish). 

«  Ah,  nobody  knows,"  answered  Mrs.  Tubbs.  "  The  disagreeable 
old  lady  likes  to  come  unawares." 

"I  was  tanned  oat  of  my  bed  the  last  time  Bhe  was  here,  I  recollect," 
said  the  younger  Tubbs;  "mind,  I  won't  go  again." 

41  Nonsense,"  interposed  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  Aunt  Matilda's  got  a  good  ten 
thousand  pounds,  which  will  come  every  penny  to  us,  unless  we  offend  her, 
like  my  stupid  young  cousin  Marsden  has  done.  Now  let  us  to  bed; 
we've  plenty  to  do  to-morrow." 

N»w  it  is  quite  unnecessary  for  us  to  state  the  fact,  because  there  can 
be  no  one  so  ignorant  of  mrnale  ambits  as  not  to  be  sure  that  euch  a  cir- 
cumstance would  occur;  yet,  for  the  sake  of  precision,  we  will  mention 


*M8  Injfbmu&i^ 

.^.YikwAhtJlAwM  the  m^^if^^ih4ffP^^  9$»»<!% 
setfled  down  to  a  quiet,  comfortable  "  talk  "  over  the  impotta^  Qftaggpp 

which  were  camio^aliq^    UymmiufiJ  *<HiW  tea  lotted  tad  Wl3  ♦« 

The  talk,  fttgj|#  nqt,  ,was  deliciouat      ,, 9 .,,  ^j  ^  j  ^   £flA<* 

Such  glowing  anticipationsJj}ey  chatted  over,  such  visions;  of,  greatae^ 

they.  gatfed  iupon  and  -dieccrased,  such .  wonc|eriu£s ,  there;  ljerp  asiothe 

manner  in  which  the  Dubberley  people  would  receive  the  anuouiicenie#tT 

thaO  time  flew  astonishingly?  an4jiWaa  flrot,un]til,Mr*  Tubbs's/voiqe  Bad 

been  heard  crying,  "  Are  you  ever  coming  toT>ed,  Mary  ^;  aud  after,  to 

;  their  great  terror*  some  one  suddenly  shouted*  "  Who's,  there?  V\\  fire  !** 

and  Tubbs,  junior,  appeared  Jjelore  them  in  hts  night-attire,  axmed  with M 

old  blunderbuss  an4  a,  poker  (fiejhaving fan  dedjOti  a  waiting  from  his  first 

deep  and  bearing  a  murmur  of  voices,  'tjiat  there  musl;  be  thieves  in.  tfye 

house),  that  they  closed ^1^  t^v^rsation  and  prepared  to  depart. 

?%  The  ladies  were  scarcely, h*.  their  respective  bed«?9pafi?  then  at  the 

shop- door,    which  boasted  an  ordinary   London  knocker,    was   heard  it 

.1 ;„,. ^  JcnoqM .,  ^ftw^eefcle  .*■,  language!  .ft^waa  ,^  fjQHieU  murderous 
blow,  and  no  sooner  inflicted  than  it  was  followed  Jbj  other  blows* i  so.  .Jpe- 
mendous  that  the  house  shook..      ,  i 

Mr.  and  yi rs.  Tubbs  having  in  somewhat  startled  tone*  remarked  to  each 
other  on  the  simple  fact  of  the  knock  (a  coolness  on  their  parts  which  seemed 
to  exasperate  the  knocker  to  an  intolerable  degree,  for,  it  "played  away 
again  with  a  vigour  quite  terrific),  Mr,  Tubbs  proposed,  and  his  wife 
seconded,  that  he  (Tubbs)  should  put  his  head  out  of  window,  and  see  who 
was  there3  which  was  done.  {  MaoJfo    -ju 

,.    tf  .Whp.ia  that  taocking.?"  »wwje4  Xutos^ ,,,.     ,^„  lfi?i    ,7f/ 

"Who!  Mr.  Tubbs,"  faintly  murmured  a  female,  .ypigjf  r^WtoJ** 
you  should  ask  <  Who ?'     phdearl rQfcj^flWTt-M^ 

"  Bless  me,  Mary,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tubbs,  rapidly  vntnd^^^Ji^g^eid, 
"it's  Aunt  Matilda!"  ......  ;..    „  -0i-Ik...7,.-t „,!,...  ,-,,,-,,  fp 

v.--   ^Mypatiei^r^criedMrs,  Tuhfo.aghaat,  Y.Tjtyia^^^ 
her  at  this  time?"  ,.   t,.  ;;      ..     ,■      ,  ^ft    *  5,>{t?,f.Fj.Kf  ^ 

"  Confounded  nuisance! ....  Wish  her  at  Jericho,  ,»,  Hbwe^er^|tn^  must 


be  let  in.     JusfcHke.Jher..    Bother^tiojpy-^way^ 

it,  I  suppose.     Ten  thousand.     Happy  release.^  nrfr  ,ff..*    v  iLfi/'  * 
.H,v,  TbnSj.muttering  rather  a  jumble;  of  thoughts  to  hinw£  fB^.^X»W» 
,.«proo©eded  to;4w.a.?uniciency  of  veature*  an4.t&^  ^r  8^  * 

the  door.  „  .^  r;j 

j ., :  /There  presented  themselves,  to .  his  ha^f-opened eyes^  fir^t^^ anjyol 
.  resting  on  a  young  woman's — prqbatjjy  her  qer^n^s— arn^^se^^^ 

man  with,  a  truck,  whereon  were. piled  boxes  of  Jbugetdimen^pns^  as 
,;asthe  ceiling  of  the  grpundrflbor..  .         .  /)."  j^]f  ;  ',,,/.-. ^rV^V.)    '  -j 
...  "My  4***  aunt,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Tubbs,  " y on  are  a J^ttte Ja^; ^o| I 

am  so  glad  to  see  you.     Let  me  help  you  in  at  pnce»"     t\- ■'.     . .  ,.V  t     -i 
"  On  no,  Tubbs,"  replied  the  old  lady,  rwi^out  altering  hex  portion  ia 
>■  Mthe-  least     "  Pm  going,  back  to  the  inn.     ^y  you  ^  happj?  tj^^s, 
.  .happy  as  the  day  is  long."  /  .'.  .',',-,  ;'  ;  '^_.      ,^f 

Tubbs  half  groaned.  ..     "( /      /  -..t  .        ...,/.*-    .    .^ 

;..  f  *  The  old  story,"  he  said,  half  aloud ;  "  no  wonder  my,  uncle  $#&  of 
,  inflammation  of  the  brain.    But^  my  deaf  aunt,  pray  cpme  in.  *  ^tpu  Jtake 

:  .  ^  a  ■*■}  'i :» , -  •  <  t;  •/  •  ,jov —  >s-..\;\, 


fctle'  bjK fcurpte^gtee*^  iutptffe.    Comey  Mar/ is  wttHiatf  '*> 

"She  had  better  not  wait,"  murmured  Aunii  Matilda;  *  tell 'He*, 
Joshua,  that  I  wish  Jier  well.     I  will  pray  for  he*,  Josbua."  >•••'■>  ;■■'»" 

**  Aunt  Mary  byes  you,  you  know,  but **        "!  '   ■  "  n  ,l ' 

"No,  r  don't  :tnotf,  Jtfmua,  I  don't  think  anybody  lows  ittfe. 
Oh  no."  °™«  l  t;  •-  ••    :-  -:  '     •••'» 

"  Oh'no,  indeed,"  thought  Mr*  Tubbs  ;  "you  Sweet-tempered  old  lady ; 
.  about  right  therep"  '    •        ^ 

"You  say  ^ou  want  me  to  come  in.  You  haven't  a' bed  for  me  of 
course"  (still  with  her  head  on  her  servants  neek). 

"  Indeed,  aunt,  we  can  get  you  a  bed  ready  quickly.  The  one  you 
had  before,"  continued  Mr.  Tiibbs.  {Poor  Tubbs  the  younger,  what  was 
it  caused  thee  to  start  in  thy  second  sleep  just  then  ?) 

',  ''I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  interposed  the  man  with  the  truck,  "  if  nobody's 
goitig  to  nobody's  bed,  I'm  going  to  mine,  so  that's  all  about  it" 

This  very-much-to-the-purpose  speech  aroused  Aunt  Matilda,  who  now 
allowed  herself  to  be  tenderly  conducted  into  the  house,  where  she  found 
Mrs.  Tubbs,  all  smiles  odtwardly,  and  half-murderous  thoughts  inwardly, 
"  waiting  to  receive  her.  Poor  Mr.  Tubbs  had  to  help  bring  in  the  boxes, 
in  which  labour  he  caught  a  cold,  requiring  black  draught  and  gruel  for 
the  following  three  nights. 

Mrs.  Tubbs  having  fondly  embraced  the  dear  and  rich  old  lady,  pro- 
vided for  her  (being  guided  by  experience)  a  more  powerful  comforter 
than  any  eloquence,  even  female,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  presently 
seeing  those  benevolent  features  assume  a  yet  milder  aspect. 

While  the  worthy  mother  was  thus  occupied,  the  amiable  daughter  was 
performing  her  part. 

Tap — tap— tap,  at  Joshua's  bedroom-door. 

No  answer. 

Thump — thump — thump — thump. 

"  Who's  there  ?  what  is  it  ?"  is  heard  in  a  muffled  tone,  as  from  under 
the  bedclothes  (whence,  indeed,  it  came). 

"Josh — here— don't  make  a  noise.     Come  here." 

With  a  loud  groan  the  unhappy  youth  rolled  out  of  bed. 

".What  do  you  want,  Jane  ?" 

"  /  don't  want  anything,  Josh ;  but  Aunt  Matilda's  just  come,  and  she 
wants  your  bed.  You  must  sleep  at  the  inn.  Be  quick  ;  we  want  to 
make  it  up  fresh  for  her." 

'  At  first  he  would  not,  no,  come  what  might.  "  It  was  too  bad.  Aunt 
Matilda  might  be  smothered."  But  he  relented  by  degrees,  and  the  up- 
shot was,  that  in  ten  minutes  the  unhappy  youth  might  be  seen  issuing 
from  his  father's  roof  with  a  small  bundle,  and  bending  his  steps  towards 
ihe  Anchor  and  Cart-wheel  (where,  by-the-by,  he  could  make  nobody  hear 
for  exactly  fifty  minutes). 

In  due  time  poor  Joshua's  bed  was  "  made  up,"  and  Aunt  Matilda's 
aged  frame  deposited  therein.  Accommodation  was  found  for  Martha 
beside  "the  hussey."  The  house  was  again  quiet;  everybody  was  asleep 
except  the  hussey,  and  she — arose. 

Softly  played  the  silvery  moonbeams  on  the  green  grass.  Profound  was 
the  calm.  Not  a  leaf  stirred.  All  arouud  seemed  in  deep  unbroken  slumber, 

June— vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvt.  o 


190  Information  rdatim  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

when  the  clock  of  the  old  church  of  Dubberley  struck  one ;  and  from 
his  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  field  close  by,  Lurching  Jem — AROSE* 

Bringing  an  end  to  slumber — bringing  an  end  to  vest — rousing  to 
fresh  vice — hurrying  on  to  dark  fate,  the  church  dock  struck  one,  and 
from  his  hard  couch,  the  ground,  Crooked  Dick — ab06E» 

Then  those  two,  Lurching  Jim  and  Crooked  Dick,  in  foul  companion- 
ship, slunk  past  the  venerable  pile,  not  daring  to  turn  a  glance  upon  the 
ghastly  white  tombstones,  lest,  almost,  they  should  cry  out  and  hurl 
them  at  once  headlong  into  the  ruin  in  which  otherwise  they  would  only 
gradually,  but  with  sickening  sureness  sink ;  and  so  crept  into  the  main 
street.  Looking  now  back,  now  forward,  now  from  side  to  side,  starting 
and  shrinking,  stopping,  listening,  hurrying,  by  turns,  those  two,  Lurch- 
ing Jim  and  Crooked  Dick,  made  their  way  to  a  house  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  and  halted. 

It  was  the  house  of  Mr.  Tubbs. 

Lurching  Jim  tapped  very  gently  at  the  door,  and  it  was  opened  by 
"  the  hussey."  A  slight  whispering  ensued.  Then  Crooked  Dick  went 
in,  and  the  door  was  closed. 

To  work  they  went,  guided  by  "the  hussey."  No  need  of  noise. 
"  The  hussey  "  had  wonderfully  cleared  the  way.  Cupboards  and  desks 
almost  flew  open,  and  booty  brightly  accumulated.  A  consultation 
ensued.  They  glided  to  the  door  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tubbs's  bedroom. 
Not  a  sound.  They  turned  to  Miss  Tubbs's  bedroom.  Not  a  sound. 
They  proceeded  to  the  bedroom  where  rested  Aunt  Matilda,  gently 
opened  the  door,  and  went  in. 

"  Aunt "  was  asleep,  and  any  one  save  Lurching  Jim  would  hare  been 
softened  by  the  sight  of  her  benevolent  countenance,  as  it  displayed  itself 
on  the  pillow,  imbedded  in  frill.  But  Lurching  Jim  was  a  hard  man, 
and  having  placed  his  hand  on  Aunt  Matilda's  mouth,  he  raised  and 
shook  her  until  she  awoke. 

"  If  you  give  the  faintest  squeak,"  hoarsely  whispered  Jim,  "  I'll  cut 
jour  head  off." 

It  needed  not  the  announcement  of  this  appalling  determination  to 
keep  Aunt  Matilda  quiet  Her  poor  old  senses  clean  fled  at  the  moment, 
and  the  ruffians  had  to  wait  impatiently  for  their  coming  back  again; 
they  slowly  tumbled  into  their  places  at  last 

"  Keys  o'  them  boxes,"  whispered  Crooked  Dick. 
A  withered  hand  crept  up  and  drew  them  from  under  tike  pillow. 
But  now,  O  Lurching  Jim  and  Crooked  Dick,  men  deep  sunk  in 
desperate  vice  and  crime,  dark  dyed  with  well-nigh  every  cause  of  infamy 
which  can  make  aaan  a  blot  and  curse  upon  the  earth,  know  that  tune 
closeth  upon  ye*— your  hour  is  at  hand. 

That  cruelly-slandered  animal,  the  cat,  alarmed  at  the  unusual  inter- 
ruption  to  her  slumbers,  had  been  wandering  about  in  gtemi  wonderment 
and  terror.  In  this  state  of  mind  she  ventured  on  that  forbidden  terri- 
tory the  kitchen  dresser,  whereon  were  ranged  divers  vegetable  dishes  of 
large  dimensions.  In  another  minute  such  a  crash  there  was  thai  ]fin» 
Tubbs,  who  was  dreaming  of  the  first  dinner-party  which  she  intended 
to  give  in  London,  and  fancied  herself  sitting  at  the  head  of  heir  iable, 
waiting  for  the  soup  to  be  placed  before  her,  started  and  awoke* 

Having  got  fid  of  the  ftast  notion  suggested  by  (be  dream,  aaaaeljv 
that  the  servant  had  dropped  the  tureen  on  the  ataix*,  and  the  <"" 


and  Certain  Members  of  his  Family.  191 

party  had  broken  up  in  dismay,  a  wide-awake  notion   entered  Mrs. 
Tubbs's  head,  which  caused  her  at  once  to  rouse  her  lord. 

"  Joshua,  did  you  hear  that  ?" 

"  No— what  is  it  ?     There's  nothing  !w 

"  Joshua,  I'm  sum  shave  nre  thieves  in  ike  house*" 

"  Are  there,  Mary  ?"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  with  some  degree  of  excitement. 
"  If  you  really — were— quite  sure--we  ought,  perhaps,  to — to  see." 

"  Of  course — pray  get  up,  Joshua.  I'm  sure  I  hear  them  now. 
There,  there — oh  !  I  declare  we  shall  have  our  throats  cut.  Joshua,  do 
get  up  and  ascertain  what's  the  matter." 

*  Well,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,  Mary.  All  I  say  is,  let's  be  quite  dure— 
quite  wire,  you  know.  I'm  not  a  young  man,  Mary ;  and  snonld  I  re- 
ceive a  chill  m  this  ttttife,  it  woukL  be  dangerous." 

Not  a  sound  more  was  heard,  and  Mr.  Tubbs  then  proceeded  partly 
to  dress  himself.  This  done,  he  drew  from  under  the  bed  an  old  sword, 
which  had  belonged  to  a  very  remote  ancestor.  It  was  a  fearful  weapon, 
and  made  your  blood  run  cold  to  look  at  it.  Even  Mr.  Tubbs's  hand 
shook  as  he  raised  it, -—very  nearly,  by-the-by,  as  he  did  so,  miming  his 
recumbent  spouse  through  the  body. 

"  Be  quick,  Joshua,"  urged  Mrs.  Tubbs  from  under  the  bedclothes. 
«*  I  hear  'em— I  hear  'em  now,  distinctly.    Won't  you  bare  a  light  ?" 

"  No — o — o— o,"  answered  Mr.  Tubbs,  fumbling  at  the  door. 

w  Don't  kill  anybody,  If  you  can  help  it,  Joshua,   urged  Mrs.  Tttbbs. 

"  No,  I  won't,  if  I  can  help  it,"  feebly  answered  Mr.  Tub**.  And  he 
slowly  glided  from  the  room. 

He  had  hardly  closed  the  door  before  Mrs.  Tubbs  began  to  reproach 
herself  with  havmg  nrged  him  to  go*  She  did  not  dare  leek  out  to  call 
him  back.  Was  there  anything  else  she  could  do?  She  pondered. 
A  bright  recollection  occurred  to  her.  She  rose  in  haste,  and  took  from 
a  closet  a  huge  rattle,  threw  open  the  window,  and  mode  a  din  -which 
roused  almost  vtetf  human  being  in  Dubbertey  in  *  mhutte's  time. 
Away  went  Lurching  Jim  and  Crooked  Dick,  belter^skelte*,  and  away 
had  intended  to  go  "  the  hussey,"  but  she  lost  her  presence  <rf  mind,  and 
at  the  last  moment  sat  down,  moaning.  The  neighbours  poured  into 
the  house,  and  were  met  immediately  by  Mr.  Tubbs)  who,  in  a  high 
state  of  excitement,  and  brandishing  his  a  word,  declared  his  thankfulness 
{feat  he  had  not  been  compelled  to  imbrue  his  hands  in  the  blood  of  a 
fellow-creature.  To  say  the  truth,  however,  Mr.  Tttbbs  had  «m  no 
great  risk  on  this  score,  for  he  had  never  proceeded  more  than  half  a 
yard  from  his  bedroom-doer,  hating  then  taken  refuge  in  an  old  clothes' 
closet  tutu  all  danger  was  over* 

Lurching  Jim  and  Crooked  Dick  were  quickly  caught,  tried,  nod  con- 
victed ;  and  "  the  hussey"  also  paid  the  due  penalty  for  aiding  and  abet- 
ting burglarious  proceedings. 

row  Annt  Matilda,  she  was  the  only  person  who  suffered  wrongftdly 
for  the  events  of  that  nigfeft.  The  sorry  little  stream  of  life  within  her, 
winch  had  been  growing  very  muddy  and  running  very  slowly  for  a  letrg 
time  past,  a  few  data  offer  stopped  altogether.  The  Tubbs  family  gate 
a  sigh,  and  ordered  their  mourning  attire,  And  when  aunt's  wlfi  woe 
opened,  and  Mr.  Tubbs  ftmnd  himself  richer  by  11,340*  in  the  Three 
per  Cento.,  and  a  large  quantity  of  gowns  end  tufbane,  Ms  Aspect  besdtne 
dejected,  and  he  at  once  called  for  a  pipe  1  nd  a  pint  of  porter. 

o  2 


.      :    f-  -.  'n.tr,  it!:h  ,*i  n,»in.fi.-.7  v/o.j  *d*  £,{Ii.  _t|{0lItJ  ^nrsnit  1o  *qioo 
f\m;q  j-   )ni/o,n  Mini  I  r.ft   .  .  ,  ?M(io/;7?t»Of«  OVrtrf  0* 
?>  -.  T  n  H      ;v  olfvf  /*  a'ur,0  uc  i  j'm>(.I     !  noinJu^n  d.-iiluol  £  judVY  » 

'..b  r.i f€K)¥£IS  fiABifio  doidw  ni  o&co  c  ai  ji  eeoq 

;:;    ...     .i  wot-iii-oj  yni^riaiJ.  Ffelfeft^ -."Of  juodis  rfool  brie  Juo 

/       "ili  ,n«»il  !i;l  j.'  i   *?   jjyl?  vihirKo  o&oilv/  .— lusfii^ideul  basiil 

M.vii'.u|  vr  jv  ^iR|[«roiy»  *rn  ifjfw  tmifj  i9/o  tmib  ikdg 

pie,  .while, my  thoughts  were,  at CourtPfqTBe^i^^le1NWifi^ 

?^lKnfc^  lfe£klto 

fro,  aritf  Wklfl^feh^ 

"  Iu  good  f  sooth,  nephew,  I  am  quite,  surprised, at  you.  Is  it  natural 
for  a  young  ipiftii  to  bit  sej  tftitch  witMn'dbqrsT  YWmive^vei*  gbtfe  a 
step  beyond  the  garden  £nd  pur  Uttlesbriilibety,  rind  Teally  lAierft'fs  some 
very  pretty  Scenery  in  Out  neighbourhood,  qtite'ltafth'yitarttlfefe^.^Kte 

lk  It  is.  a  si  q  that,  he,  fcbpiild  be  sjiut  up  herewith  us  two  old  people* 
said  his  wife;  i(if  tiut  sou  hadbeteu  at  horned  tt  would  h$ve  bee b  more 
pleasant  for  bim.  It  is  very  uhlocfcy  that  he  should' be  at  Kiel  just  now. 
How  can  we  amuse1  WcH^tMnig^i^VAry'dtfat^  I  *t»  quite  sorry  fer 
njmi"  ' '  '  '        r      Jii  t  to  ro&(dijs  wli  Doqo  nojwq  vloWida  LUd&I 

I  assured  them,  that  I  had  everything  I  wftteA  Uwta&'tolfoji&ifwe 
^remely  c^Motefett^^BcnV  tfif  ttft  M,  fli&  ]^fe1t'<jtttft&ltf  uncom- 
fortable/ /.r!wttfJm^^'1fcif1^BMrfr^«k[  tkwti  rie^-J-^ofeatk 
m?et '^  «#  #&<*&£ 


hat  1  mikMve'tinrdwn  ev^tfilnf  ;SmM'roto  th^^fea^^^nlin^ba, 

yet,  since  my  flight,  I  had  heard  nothing  of  or  from  the  place  round 
which  my  beart*s  dearest  thoughts  hovered  continually^  0h — UaW  *■ 

f f  Why,  instead  of  a  wild,  mischievous,  merry  madcap,  as  you1  wefc 
represented  to  bef  we  find  a  staid,  quie^  grav%  young  ttiauv  >  ft  is  not  a 
good  sign  when  a,  gay  temper  takes  such  a  sudden  tottiJ'-rYou  seem  to 


Be  quite  changed^  nephew.   Indeed,  it  strikes tne  your  i^erV  appearance 
has  altered  ;  your  hair  looks  darker  to  me,  wii" " 
your  skin  is  as  yellow  as  if  you  had  the  jaundi< 


"  Oh,  Heaven  forbid  ! '  The  Lord  preserve  bim  from1  that  i"  cried  my 
worthy  aunt,  much  alarmed.  I  relieved  her  mmd  by  assuring  her  that 
my  health  was  excellent,         l,,'llrfs  feliW  llll"in  a'|T     ^mwa  awoai 

"  And  you  are  allowing  the  hair  on  your  uppe*  lip  to  grow  to  a  pair 
of  moustaches,"  continued  my  uncle,  "You  will  soon  look  like  au  officer 
of  hussars.  If  you  were  not  such  a  sensible,  quiet  youtb,  I  should  think 
it  was  a  piece  of  conceit  and  affectation,  to  look  smart  in  the  eyes  of  die 

'      Without  ha^for^ 
of  niy  9fjgtix^  ^^t^ 


blacJ£eneJr  njy7h^a^^u^ 
that  I  coulpiidt  .Be:  rttfe$iiise3  If  'iBhr *^f  [the  'tiex^le^«KA»^"-v,<Sub 
should  meet  me".    I  mtdUsoffc^}tiva^L  mbu^idHea  for'the^Atti^p^wre, 
but  they  were. as  ye^  very  diminutive,  -"'f  '  /.i://J'**  j,-,(l  '^;'^-  ->.-v    --wuiioa 
'Oust  tell  me^ii^bwjr/  ^t  ttb  yt^  Wa^ti  with  nk>uatacbee^  >dr 
c< I  want  them  because  : . .  .  .1  wish  .'-j.  I  ttrtato. ;  I  Wtmg^Ae 


GouggjCarl  193 

corps  of  riflemen,  uncle,  and  the  new  regulation  is,  that  every  rifleman  is 
to  nave  moustaches  ...  so  I  must  mount  a  pair." 

"  What  a  foolish  regulation  !  Don't  you  think  so,  wife  ?  But  I  sup- 
pose it  is  a  case  in  which  ontffiAsl  3i3uy  Others  do." 

This  settled,  I  waj^Jefc  as  to  my  disguise,  inpeace.  But  my  venerable 
uncle  commenced  another  attach;/  '^jf'musYpo^tfl^ely  have  you  to  go 
out  and  look  about  you,  Aififefe  .ifiW1 7fl>mg  to-morrow  to  see  my 

friend  Justitsraad ,  whose  country  seat  is  not  far  from  this.     You 

shall  drive  over  there  with  me  ?  ^SeWa&is  very  pretty." 

fam^^j^^i^fecoi^ 

feiugt- ,gfe  »J[      ,uoy  h:  tmnmua  oinju  &>;    I   ^if-rm    rib ,.  ,.     ,, 
e    Whafe  ejsouse/w&s  I  jto  manufactured  I  !}ad  recourse  to  fibs  again. 
.  r t  f "  The?  Jj&stjtsjrafd!  ftu d  ,m7 :  father  are  p  e  rs  o  iral  e  ne mles— they  q u arrel ] ed 
about  BOi^,i^fttfc#rr of  J^us^jess.     T^hey  are  deadly  foes— I  should  be  very 
unwelcome— my  name  is  proscribed  at  -V  t,«  Court.!* 
-yj*  ffr  How  veiyf  strange  ttxat  I  never,  heard  of  this  before  !'*  exclaimed  the 
ui^uspectiug.old  man,     .*.*.  people  should  not  hate  each  other  for  the  sate 
of  siuliil  mftniiuon' l    Wej  ttiusli  prijog  about  a  reconeil lation  between  thenp. 
I  shall  certainly  preach  upon  the  subject  of  forgiveness  next  Sunday-^a 
^W^^lieflUj^w^^y^J  Tjnidi'/^va  hml  I  irjiiWj  J.,™^  t     a 

-mftjfc  ^i^lmjnttindi  Mart  $xv  ^^^^C^#^^T  ^?^*\d 

AwjeioreX%|lf  &  w^14  ^ftt^jiu^^Q^o^ «m*fy  n^'jW 

ji(ii»<airTsbattofe^f^f  &!&*»#  mmwfr,  <&mp*titW-Mf  ?$w 

'test-"     Bfq  0iU  mod  ! 

"  Well — so  be  it/1  said  my  uncle;  "  I  will  not  then  mention  your 
hekg  here.  But  ]  shall  throw  out  a  few  bints  about  forgiveness  and  Clbns- 
J^u  feelihgs^these  eau  do  no  harm, "hli , :  ^  fi|I*  ftw  ,k[ 

*<  >o— that  they  cannot,'  paid  my  aunt.  "  But  I  quite  agree  with 
Adolph.     1  think  bjs  pkn  a  good  one." 

(1  As  soon  r*a  the  old  people  had  retired  to  rest,  I  stole  softly  through 
the  garden,  and  reaching  the  high  road,  took  the  way  to  — —  Court, 
As  I  approached  it,  I  saw  with  pleasure  the  white  summer-house  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  garden*  Soon, after  I  reached  the  hill,  where  stood  the 
well-known  swing*  The  moon  was  shining  brightly*,  and  it  was  a  lovely 
night.  All  wa&  a©  1  still  around,  that  I  could  hear,  the  wind  whistling 
through  the  adjacent  alleys  of  trees— and  the  rustling  of  the  wind  amidst 
.the  branches  of  1  the  pine  and  the  6r  has  a  peculiar  sound.  Far  away  in 
the  wood  was  to  be  heard  the  melancholy  tinkling  of  the  bells  worn  by 
the  sheep  round  their  necks.  There  is  a  sadness  in  this  monotonous  yet 
^plaintive  sound  which  has  a  great  effect  upon  the  heart  that  is  filled  with 
'longing-^  and  where  is  the  human  being  who  has  nothing  to  long  for? 
But  such  sadness  is  not  hopdess,  and  as  the  bells  give  tones  sometimes 
higher,  sometimes  deeper,  from  different  parts  of  the  woods  or  fields,  so 
tranquil  Using  voices  whisper  to  our  souls,  €i  There  is  comfort  for  every 
sorrow — we  shall  not  always  long  in  vain**1 

The  Moejpf^iedtMf  £ofl/^fr  o^er  Jhe<  ^^  Struck 

oJkj*Tigtdtepi&,gmmfy  the  tfsne  at  which  thfi  $n$jj  ,ff&$  .fa  rest— 


194  Cousin  Carl 

therefore  I  venture*?  to  leave  my  place  of  coneealsaeas,  without  the  fast 
of  encountering  any  one.  Presently  after  I  stood  again  behind  die  bushes 
of  fragrant  jasmine  immediately  beneath  the  window*,  aged  beheld  one 
light  extinguished  after  the  other.  In  the  room  I  lately  oecvpied,  an 
was  dark     At  length  the  light  alto  disappeared  in  Hanne't  chamber* 

Sleep  sweetly  sleep !  Dream  blessed  dreams  I 

I  whispered  with  Baggesen,  and  my  heart  added,  m  the  word*  of  the 
same  poet, 

I  love— I  lore — I  lore  but  only  thee ! 

In  Jette'a  room  there  was  still  a  candle  burning ;  doubtlesa  she  was 
thinking  of  her  Gustav,  perhaps  writing  a  few  kind  words  to  hua>  I 
could  hardly  restrain  myself  from  climbing  up  the  tree,  and  speaking  te 
her ;  I  had  a  claim  upon  her  indulgence,  for  had  I  not  laid  the  foundation 
of  her  happiness  ?  Laid  the  foundation  !  How  did  I  know  that  the  real 
cousin  had  not  arrived  ?  But  even  in  that  case  it  would  be  scarcely  poa> 
sible  to  undo  what  bad  been  done.  I  clung  to  the  pleasing  idea  that  I 
had  effected  some  good. 

At  length  Jette's  candle  was  extinguished  also.  The  last — last  light— 
I  had  gazed  on  it,  till  I  was  almost  blinded.  With  an  involuntary  sigh 
I  turned  my  steps  slowly  back  towards  the  garden;  something  was 
moving  close  behind  me ;  it  was  my  quondam  friend,  a  greyhound  be* 
longing  to  the  Justitsraad,  but  he  followed  growling  at  my  heels,  as  if  be 
wished  to  hunt  me  off  the  grounds  I  polluted  by  my  presence. 

'<  Waehtel !  my  boy !  is  that  you?  So— so— be  still,  be  still,  WacbtelT 
I  turned  to  pat  his  head,  but  he  showed  his  white  teeth,  and  barked  at 
me ;  and  presently  all  the  other  dogs  near  began  to  bark  also.  "  For* 
gotten!"  I  exolaimed  bitterly  to  myself,  "  forgotten,  and  disliked!" 
Waehtel  followed  me,  snarling,  to  the  extremity  of  the  garden,  end 
barked  long  at  my  shadow  as  I  crossed  the  field. 

The  next  day  my  uncle  drove  over  to Court    The  moment  he 

was  gone  I  hurried  up  to  his  study,  whieh  looked  towards  the  east,  and 
arranged  his  large  telescope  to  bear  upon  that  place  whieh  bad  so  much 
interest  for  me.  I  eould  overlook  the  whole  plain  ;  at  its  extremity  was 
some  rising  ground  studded  with  trees— that  was  the  garden;  to  the  left 
lay  the  grove,,  and  elose  to  it  was  the  hillock  on  which  stood  the  swing  t 
Suddenly  the  swing,  until  then  empty,  seemed  to  be  occupied  with  some- 
thing white,  which  put  it  in  motion.  "  It  is  Hanne  who  is  swinging !"  I 
exclaimed  aloud  in  my  joy ;  and  I  spent  the  whole  afternoon  in  gajnsg 
through  the  telescope,  with  a  beating  heart,  and  with  my  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  swing  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  her  who  had  vanished,  alas !  tee 
soon.  One  glance  at  the  folds  of  her  white  dress  had  thrown  my  blood 
into  a  tumult  of  excitement,  but  how  wildly  did  not  all  my  pukea  heat 
when,  towards  evening,  my  uncle's  carriage  rolled  up  the  avenue  ef  tht 
rectory. 

After  he  had  greeted  my  aunt  with  all  due  affection,  and  delivered 
the  complimentary  messages  with  which  he  was  charged,  inquired  hoar 
things  had  gone  on  during  the  hours  of  his  absence,  settled  himself  own- 
fovtably  in  his  eld  easy-chair,  and  lighted  his  pipe,  he  began  with— 

"I  heard  some  very  strange  news  over  yonder;  I  really  ean  tbiakof 
nothing  else." 


Cousin  Carl  194 

*  What  ia  it,  dear?  A  great  rise  in  the  price  of  anything  ?"  asked 
his  wife, 

"  Ob  no,  my  dear,  not  at  all.  It  is  a  very  ridiculous  story.  It  b  not 
to  be  mentioned ;.  but  I  know  you  will  keep  it  to  yourself  when  I  parti- 
cularly request  you  to  do  so.  Well — I  will  tell  you  all  about  it ;  it  is 
really  quite  a  mysterious  affair.'' 

And  the  good  man  proceeded  to  relate  how,  one  evening*  when  they 
were  expecting  a  cousin  who  was  betrothed  to  Jette,  a  person  arrived 
who  answered  every  question  about  the  family,  seemed  to  know  all  their 
affairs,  gave  himself  out  to  be  Carl,  whom  they  had  not  seen  for  eleven 
years,  and,  as  might  he  supposed,  insinuated  himself  into  the  good  graces 
of  the  whole  of  them.  "  He  found  out  that  Jette  was  attached  to  that 
young  man  Holm,  who  is  studying  agricultural  affairs  in  this  neighbour-* 
hood ;  so  he  insisted  on  annulling  his  engagement  to  her,  declaring  that 
he  was  not  in  love  with  her,  but  was  betrothed  abroad.  The  Justitsraad 
was  at  first  very  angry,  but  he  gave  way  at  last,  and  there  were  gay 
doings  at Court  that  evening.  Next  morning  the  cousin  was  no- 
where to  be  found;,  but  he  left  behind  him  a  paper  of  which  nobody  can 
make  anything.  They  expected  him  during  two  whole  days,  but  he  did 
not  make  his  appearance  again.  On  the  third  day,  another  person 
arrived,  who  also  declared  himself  to  be  a  cousin,  said  he  was  called  Carl, 
and  that  be  was  the  expected  guest.  He  brought  letters  from  his 
father,  about  whose  handwriting  there  could  be  no  doubt,  and  the  whole 
family  recognised  him  at  once  from  many  things.  The  first,  of  course, 
was  an  impostor.  But  Jette  is  now  betrothed  to  Holm  as  well  as  to  the 
cousin,  who  had  eome  to  arrange  about  the  wedding.  There  was  an  awful 
scene*— he  insisted  on  Holm's  giving  up  Jette  to  him,  and  her  father  had 
at  last  to  interfere  to  prevent  the  rivals  carrying  their  wrath  to  some 
{earful  extremity.  The  cousin's  obstinacy  gave  great  offence,  and  he  took 
his  departure  the  day  after  he  had  arrived.  But  he  was  so  angry,  thai 
it  waa  with  great  difficulty  he  was  induced  to  promise  that  he  would  hold 
bis  tongue*  and  not  blab  about  this  absurd  affair." 

"  May  the  Lord  graciously  preserve  us  all !  It  must  have  been  some 
wicked  sharper !"  exclaimed  my  aunt,  clasping  her  hands  in  great  agita* 
tion>  when  her  husband  had  finished  his  recital. 

*  Of  course  he  was  an  impostor.  But  it  is  a  very  curious  story.  For 
what  could  he  have  come — will  any  one  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  Why,  to  steal,  to  be  sure.  Did  he  break  into  none  of  the  keeping- 
places  ?  Is  there  nothing  missing — none  of  the  plate?  no  forks  or 
spftone?" 

"  Not  the  slightest  article,  and  he  was  there  for  two  days,  and  went 
about  fike  one  of  themselves." 

"  It  is  very  surprising ;  but  the  fact  is,  he  must  have  eome  to  recon- 
noitre the  premises,  and,  when  the  nights  are  longer  and  darker,  they 
will  hear  of  him  again." 

"  It  is  a  most  incomprehensible  affair,"  said  I,  in  a  voice  that  might 
have  betrayed  me  to  more  acute  observers.  "  And  can  they  not  guess  at 
all  who  he  is — have  they  no  clue  to  him  ?" 

"  Not  the  slightest,  nephew.  They  all  describe  him  as  a  handsome, 
gentlemanly  young  man,  who  knew  how  to  conduct  himself  in  good 


society  j^ndt^^q^^r^^^^^^Jfcto  Ai*  »Mum(Aifte««^€i^M 
brated  Morten  Frederichsen,  who  wftferfltmeta^  aadifiBpjp&fttJbS 

Arrived  jt*#e*,^  mftft*>  BEbfetofc  p9r 

I  shall  tell  the  servants  to  let  Sultan  loose  at  night.     One  caaffo^hrfHt&o 

»F^nWf?^P%ftfiP6^fft^6Bd  nr>m  odT  .vioia  okfedgjiil  a  ei  ii  fxIulT 
The  next  day  nothing  else  was  spoken  of,  and  it  was  etajr^Mfcnqo® 
<fo^fo8»riP#  ^icle^aJi  rf&gbl  Aish^jifthe^in^J^Nri^pe^  tfeftlrti*  ¥eal 
jCguft^)ha&$ot.#>^  ^  f^p^a^ jim^r^ii>^a(*fi4/^ft4  iftef*tf,^iH)r 
were  all  glad  that  the  er^4ge^n^fk^vy#efrin/tf  *n#  J^tta  rtasrk^ftoiitwfe 

&g>  >^%^4^9im^  (^fl¥pi/f#ty<^$iteo^4weJa^^ 
tions  and  ij$!*H&Sytffei$  (flf^  l^^U^^i^u^  J^/»iWte^ffli 
*h©  ^gM^*ritr|,8§fpJsgMc  'i;fw^v^(frl^^  ^^§,,hi^i^^jgi^I  in 
the  note  I  had  left,  had  written  to  a  friend  in  Fredericiaavbtttfrof sQ&dM 

this  had  led  to  no  result.;,  'Jfljmjia*  d^^iiUQUrml;  the  country  roms-i 
searching  the  woods  mi  ;*ha  m<Pt$MfiftA  ^vhnU%Y$*ywft&e&A\itg  day 
lessened,  (lis  Lope*  of  being  able  fr..hiij&g,uwi&l  prison*^  ^W&  tow*.  tnism 

My  imprudence* 'then,.  lifld  been  produativq  of  no  bad  effects;  fortune 
had  befriended  the  rash  fool,  a»  it  so  often  does.  1  cannot  describe with 
what  j  oy  {  gatbere  d  tbi  b  happy  tfUalUgenca  ;  and  tf  he* ,  I  *h  ad  reflected 
on  it  for  some  days*  J  mvfkG \U>  the  conclusion  that  I  M^Af  venture  agftiu 
to  shawmjiolf  ajtirrh— n^pQ^t^^l  entreat  forgiveness  -of  my  sad  delin- 
quencies* J  formed  a  thousand  plans  and  rvli  nqui&l red  them  again,  At 
length  I:  wrote  to  Capejdiagen  for  new: cMhas,,  and sent  aJetter*  tote 
forwarded  from  thence  by  th$  post  to  the  JusUUraadj.  wherein  I  made  a 
confession,  and  candidly  avowed  all  that  my  ■  jhejinatuuj  for  a  frolic  and  a 
succession  of  accidental  cj  rnum  stein  ees  had  led  me  into.  1  threw  my  gelt' 
upon  Miss  Jette's  kindness  to,  intercede  for  me9  trusting  that  she  would 
not  refuse  me  i  this  favour,; ,  I  .dwelt  oa  my  cpftttri  tion  and  deep  regret,  and 
implored  jforgivemess,  fb$  my ^misdei^aflaurs,  ., , Nothing  did ..i : -conceal 
except  my  name  and  my  lo^e^or^  Ilapne,,  :  J  hope,  dear  ifeader,  that  you 
will  not  find  it  necessary  to  ask.  why  I  concealed  thesfc.     :  gyoh  J*n(Trt 

The  blue  coat  i  armed  at  length  .f i'om  Copenhagen ,  with  information 
that  the  letter  had  been  forwarded.  It  was  not  difficult  for  me  to  put  it 
into  my  uncle's  head  to  drive  oyer  tq,  ■  .■■  ■.-,  Co«rj^  and  ascertain  if  there 
had  beta  any  elucidation,  of  the,  r^ysterjons;  story  that  had  Mnipst  entirely 
chased  sleep  from  my  good  aunt'a  couch.  I  had  intended  j^hareiaC' 
eorof>aaie4>l»oi, ^^  bntr^fef%^jtig^aa^a^ni^  <xwr^ffaUed*  #nd^J0ead- 
ingalieadwbejileftilm  te^Prfdone^w;  v-  y/fin^nw  >^«  ■■  r>'  vvunwto 

'^Y^^a^^irweJWm^J^Wdpepj^,  %b&\<m*m\y  perc**ie*ftjrfia 


he,  ar  I  ®lw  bfart  into  M*  carriage ;  "  we  must  positively  send  For  the  doctor; 
You  will- turn  quite  fo]w&h<$ti  the  long  run,  fat  in  a  fortnight  only  you 
biro  become  as  dark  as  ft  Tartar^  atif  that  id  not  a  healthy  colour. 
Perhaps  you  hiira  j^?  worms;1* "  ol f"   **  • 1 ' '  *  " '   '  H 

Vrfl%©  wtiftfcy  tiia^  Wttte  knew  that  Iwas  purposeiy  obliterating  hvy  gooo1 
c omp i exion f » more  and  more, 1  and  h  ad  the  greatest  'trouble :  4n  giritig 
injrself  this  TarWtfofc  "He/shall  drink  some  ef  my  deeoctiouof  worrrt* 
Wod,"  ■said'my'aunt-j  +,it  is  better  than  any;  apothecary's  mixture^  and 
wii*  do  hiai'a  great  dwi-of^goodi"' Wherew^on  'she -Invited  me  to  go  with 
her  to  her  sanctum,  and  there  I  waa  compelled  to  swallow  a  horrid  bitter 
potion,  whieH/wai  erioii^h-  to  bring  the  most*  hardened  shiner  to  a  sense 
©finV  guilts  anO  Jir*]rjT  i/j  'jbooT  mjliIdH  J^i  oj  iuje/i^s  ailJ  II&4  IJarig  I 
*  Weflytell^  have  they  found  Moileii  Frederiehaen  P*  asked  my 
amt*d^rffn£q!fKl§i&^*W  h«6B^^nb«|fctePifci§v%iC^iliiAfe  ?**T 
^nlllNoJ)  fid/fitifrjieafiongri^ife  WaW'tiou^ealteY  ^''^iloa'tftfite 
Truly,  it  is  a  laughable  story.  The  man  hsa^%tMf^$mfanA&ltm 
Oopfcnhefe$m#  sew  il  bnn  Jto  no>Ioq?  ?£i/r  o&fo  ^Gidjoa  v^b  izou  edT 
\v«  ^tlilesb  f>9qfeitte^tfeni^4el^^iA^eiiiite?o^^  iyttdOd^«rfi 
thi%;te'ta11  4IJ^*^fiwi2«'i^t^tefta^  ft  ^Jhftfft.Jo^^ilGiftd^ 
tha&kttty/iitfife  fl#ifetew  ift'iifiett^lIbbidteSI^"^  odi  uuh  bulg  ih  919 tr 
•fes*ag[oftj  i»f^o**^,|«tfW#iqflit6  mfttaSety"  I^U$^^ele?wj&S 
thftf  ff^tdWifb^k^  Wfife%#  ajtfba&d,  -bad 

ni  My<^<b<kld*rnotrree^^ 

tadfWeiptMwrifriBbhob^i'I  ni  bntMit  b  oj  iiolJnv/'  bsd  ,#-}]  Led  I  oJon  edi 
tbrtfoBut  what  says  the Jusfcitsraad  ?*  I -asfadJhi**'!  o»  ^  W  W  *j'fj 
"  Why,  what ^n  to  say  ?r'  HeV^ted  ttkatf'thtf  fritruder  was  a  gentle- 
man* for  the  letter  is  evidently  written  by  one  in  that  rank -of  life,  but  of 
coarse  he-  is  'fcn^fY  at?  harilig- ;  been  so  hoaxed,  ■  \  But  it  was  Jette.  who 
pacified  him,  for  3 he  kiiil  not  stop*  entreating  him  until  he  promised  her 
not  to  Vex  (himself  any  longer  about  the  matter,  I  thought  of  you; 
nephew^  and.  took  the  opportunity  to  say  a  few  words  about  forgiveness 
and  placability,  grounding  my  lesson  of  Christian  duty  on  the  excellent 
admonitions*  of 'the  Scriptures,  They,  talked  A  great1  deal  about  the 
mysterious  ^ertonage^  and  the  JustitsratLd  said  at  length  that  he  would 
not  wreak  his  vengeance  Upon  him  if  he  coutd  see  him,  but  would  rather 
feel  a  pleasure  hi  meeting  him  again*  The  girls  wanted  their  father  to 
put  an  advertisement  10  the  papers  addressed  in  a  roundabout  way  to 
him>  but  Mr,  Holm  dissuaded  them  from  this,1* 

h  •*  Tharwa*  Very  right  of  Mr/Holm,"  said  my  aunt.  "  He  is  a  sensible 
young  man  ;  for  if  the'  person  really  Was  a  thief— of  which  there  Can  be 
no  doubt-^fcr  he  who  tells  a  lie  will  also  steal  ,  *  -  '•/*  *»*"  W  l 
u  That  does  not  by  any  means  follow,  dear  aunt,"  said  !, 
"Well,  be  that  as  it?  may,  we  are  invited  to— — Court  to-morrow, 
and  I  promised  that  We  would'  go,1  and  you  too,  Adolph.  I  told  them  I 
had  a  nephew  on  a  visit  to  me  at  present,"  jl  'mi  ,;,|C  r,Tr1' 

ftid:V^^/'-t,,h»b'i:ijirr    had    I       .if-).«<n-»  .'juru   l)-.>o^    /in  •  u«  A    (j'.-ilc  l..oW;«fo 

4^^!fw  &di&mm&tWi*eW*l  ttii>W 'tighter'  I^Mdnte^tWb'fbelingB 
of  enmity  is  quite  unworthy  of  two*a«ienfmenl  LbaVa  ifcem^toerW  me; 
I  have  not  ye  J  tifen^dtffid^ddr  name^  JtheWfoi©  ^bu  <nee#  lfc*^e>  no 


198  Cousin  Carl 

embarrassment  ia  presenting  yourself  to  the  Jesttimad,  He  is  a  *ejj 
pits  Hint  man*" 

"  Sooner  ot  laierwit  makes  bat  littkflftrenee,"  thought  I ;  "  and  if  I 
can  but  look  him  full  in  the  face,  without  dreading  to  be  discovered*  I 
shall  be  willing  to  acknowledge  all  his  good  qualities." 

"Had  we  not  better  take  the  bottle  of  wormwood  with  u&  in  the 
carriage?"  said  my  aunt,  next  day;  "  Adolph  looks  so  black  undo?  the 
eyes  this  morning,  that  I  am  sure  he  ia  worse  than  he  waa  yesterday." 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  like  hia  looks,**  said  my  uncle ;  "  but  perhaps  that 
dark  shade  ia  cast  by  his  moustaches.  One  might  really  fancy,  nephew, 
that  you  had  darkened  your  face  with  burnt  cork.  You  don't  took  at  aU 
like  yourself.     Truly,  the  rifle  corps  has  a  great  deal  to  answer  for." 

My  endeavours  had  been  successful.  Instead  of  the  gay,  fresh- looking, 
light-hearted  cousin,,  in  a  dark  green  frock-eoat,  that  had  left  — • 
Court,  came,  aloag  with  the  clergyman  and  his  lady,  a  grave,  silent, 
dark-haired  nephew,  in  a  blue  coat;  with  an  olive  complexion,  very 
sallow,  and  with  black  moustaches ;  my  transformation  was  complete.  I 
scarcely  recognised  myself  when  I  saw  myself  in  the  glass.  The  worst 
that  could  happen  to  me  would  be  to  be  taken  for  myself—- the  agreeably 
characterised  "  sad  scamp19  from  Hamburg.  But  tor  what  would  I  act 
be  taken  to  see  Hanne  again ! 

None  of  them  knew  me;  the  Justitsraad  addressed  me  aa  "Mr. 
Adolph,"  and  received  me  very  courteously.  The  guests  were  Kammer* 
raad  Tvede,  the  Jutlander,  and  hia  family,  Gustav,  a  friend  of  his,  and 
ourselves.  I  do  not  doubt  that  my  heightened  colour  might  have  bete 
visible  even  through  the  swarthy  shade  of  my  cheek  when  Hann&  entered 
the  room.  She  had  become  ten  times  prettier  than  ever  in  these  fourteen 
days ;  she  looked  really  quite  captivating.  Gustav  and  Jette  cast  many 
speaking  glances  at  each  other,  and  her  mother  looked  kindly  at  them*  I 
stood  silent  and  grave  in  a  corner  window;  the  various  feelings  that 
rushed  upon  me  assisted  me  in  playing  the  part  of  a  somewhat  em- 
barrassed stranger*  Wachtel  rose  from  his  mat,  and  walked  round  tat 
room  as  if  to  greet  his  master's  well-known  guests ;  he  wagged  his  tail 
in  token  of  welcome  to  my  uncle  and  aunt,  v-x  he  growled  at  me>  where- 
upon Hanne  called  him  away,  and  made  him  lie  down  in  his  usual  place 

"  But  tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  how  does  this  happen  ?  When  I  was 
here  last  your  daughter  was  engaged  to  another  gentleman.  What  hsf 
become  of  him  ?"  said  the  inquisitive  neighbour,  Tvede. 

"  Oh,  that  was  only  a  jest  from  their  childhood,"  said  the  Justitsraad 
"  He  was  my  brother's  son,  and  was  on  a  visit  to  us.  Jette.  was  be- 
trothed at  that  time  to  Mr.  Holm,  though  her  engagement  waa  net 
generally  known.'* 

"  Oh,  indeed  ;  but  where  ia  your  nephew  now  ?" 

"  He  left  us  some  time  ago." 

"  A  very  nice  young  man  your  nephew  is ;  perhaps  what  waa  only  jest 
between  him  and  the  elder  sister  may  become  earnest  between  him  and 
the  younger  one.     What  say  you  to  that,  Miss  Hanne  ?" 

Hanne  blushed  scarlet,  but  made  no  answer.  The  Justitsraad  looked 
a  little  confused,  and  smiled  to  my  uncle ;  I  sat  as  if  on  thorns. 

a  So  your  father  resides  in  Copenhagen,  Mr.  Adolph  ?"  said  tike  info 
fatigable  questioner,  turning  towards  me. 


Cousin  Carl.  199 

I  rose  in  a  fright, and  bowed. 

"  He  is  a  merchant,  is  he  not  ?  and  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the 
WesAlndiesE* 

"  Yes,  h*  haa  a  good  deal  to  do  with  the  Wast  Indies,"  I  replied,  ia  a 
feigned  voiee,  aa  different  from  say  awn  as  I  possibly  could  make  it 

"  My  brother-in-law  does  a  great  deal  of  business  with  the  province! 
alao--K5oaimissio^4)«ainefig---as  a  corn  merchant,"  said  my  uncle ;  "  that 
ia  safes  than  West  India  business.* 

"  Ah,  so  he  is*  your  farotta4n4aw— married  to  your  sister,  no  doubt  ? 
Welly  your  nephew  seems  a  fine  young  man.  He  is  in  the  army,  I  sup- 
pose ?'f 

^  "  No,  my  dear  sir,  he  ia  a  clerk  in  his  father's  office ;  but  as  he  has 
joined  a  rifle  corps,  according  to  a  new  regulation,  he  is  obliged  to  have 
moustaches,"  replied  my  uncle,  honestly  believing  the  truth  of  my  asset* 
tion. 

The  observation  of  all  present  was  drawn  upon  me.  I  turned  crimson. 
Gustav  and  bis  friend  east  a  meaning  glance  at  each  other,  and  both 
smiled.  I  interpreted  the  smile  into  this,  "  Heiaa  vain,  conceited  puppy; 
the  regulation  is  the  coinage  of  hi*  own  brain.''  What  an  unmerciful  in- 
terpreter is  conscience  I  We  were  to  take  our  coffee  in  the  garden ; 
thither,  therefore,  we  all  proceeded.  I  approached  Jette,  and  began  to 
talk  to  her  about  the  pretty  country  round. 

"  Have  you  been  long  at  your  uncle's  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  hove  been  there  some  little  time,  and  I  should  have  left  it  before 
now,  had  not  a.  strange  commission  been  imposed  on  me — one  which  I 
find  it  very  difficult  to  fulfil.  It  is  a  commission  which  relates  to  the 
family  here,"  I  added,  when  I  found  she  was  not  inclined  to  ask  any 
questions. 

*  To  us  ?"  said  Jette ;  "  and  the  commission  is  so  difficult  ?" 

"  It  ia  no  other  than  to  obtain  for  a  man  the  restoration  of  that  peaoe 
of  mind  of  which  his  inconsiderate  folly  has  deprived  him,  and  to  procure 
for  him  your  father's  forgiveness — his  pardon  of  an  injury  that  otherwise 
will  weigh  him  down  with  regret  and  remorse  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life." 

Jette  looked  at  me  in  astonishment. 

"  What— Mr.  Adolph  ?     I  do  not  understand:' 

"  A  friend  of  mine  has  written  to  me  from  Copenhagen,  and  charged 
me  to  try  and  make  his  peace  with  the  Justitsraad ;  but  the  papers  which 
be  haa  forwarded  to  me  containing  his  ease,  really  present  it  in  such  a 
perplexing  and  an  unfortunate  light,  that  I  cannot  attempt  to  carry  out 
his  wishes,  unless  you,  to  whom  he  particularly  desired  me  first  to  apply, 
will  grant  me  your  valuable  assistance.  He  certainly  did  most  shame- 
fully abuse  your  confidence." 

"  You  know  ....  it  is  ...  .  you  are  acquainted  with  that  strange 
story  ?"  exclaimed  Jette,  much  embarrassed. 

"  I  know  it  thoroughly ;  and  though  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  had 
the  honour  of  seeing  you,  I  think  I  may  say  you  yourself  are  not  better 
acquainted  with  the  particulars  of  that  affair  than  I  am.  It  is  on  your 
kindness  thai  I  principally  rely  ;  yet  I  may  not  mention  my  friend's  name 
until  he  has  obtained  entire  forgiveness.  He  has  given  me  very  positive 
direction*.'' 


20&  OaiMm&rifa 

btti  lacianotofcii*  beibdob^i^teil^dU*  ifpete^  *k>dbwheiNi^f&ffier 
fed  u**lii*o  ih&cbp^houiil  JivnauJ  .Smutfl  .iorI  oJ  gnidjenioa  bdieqaidw 
butf  Jfwlhejl  (^Pii^i  wyldafefci^oqnjpp  lady ^i:  L<*m  «hockedRtfc;h^*tI;b$>toft 
awry  4H*tofcte  abooWibaye> WEittemrnkail^hatl^as/  wh  teat?  AtailattaPfctf 

you."  .ebcni  Jen't  bed  oiioL  noilBoiaanimoo  oH^  noqu  LsmuJ  Ji  bac 

-9<«tattd  1^brfj<fee$i^cffluLiIitho^ 

ftjfeebafcderjaiaty  Aoti£ndih»)uqgiS*ofed^OTid  Mi ?  "  I^&molfm 
gafteR-riritefc  &ctadbim.  bil^b»t7d6>yoiEieflilretfcf anrifeoivisa  19*8913  £ 
nu^'^My  /riend.-esftreats  *oi^thfou^m*pl&<g^tiIhtt 
for  a  mystification  to  which  purely  Jto^bhtBT/ckfOimfetanite^W^Ifil^ 
fetft  ftlfcH  Tfeteo«o»th}u%d  aolety  from?  anniirtOTfert^fye^ 
a^9u^dfiM^e  tantt^e  $*»$  tHe  cratftaiWthtfi  yvm>99ffi<iM^b#4i#tt«)«^ 
IrtmoiUf/tyo'rfr  ftfchdritbwariinlniriV  aiid  pspeweffcttTOfc  *  ^HMrtotofcfta 
vi^^mtholUim  wh^XdrHrtowllfeikailri^ 

hfa  m&eftoriyfabtihtbtoita  bc>ri^«KeA»gaiffiimt»ifeJ«ik^(Hoogbi44jtly 
esteems  and  respects,  and  to  be  permitted  to  prove  to  them  ho&mmp 
he  regrets  his  thoughtless  folly."  "Si  no  suIbv  d-gid  a  toq  uoY  ** 

P:  i&pi^rp^er^o0)th9)  party  how. ^jjbrokohea,  qpxd  I^4s^fcS^d^t^dfop 
t^,fcoi*Y^ajfitoi.ot  G»uMtT?Mid(jHaam©werd>dtepuBng.oH  tadw  ei  t6nciBtl 
eii?c  Jfc«htl  ige.-fwryoaafviaill^l.bacif  Haim^lH  I^hotd  td  Wy<>pa*«^fta| 
Sftfrtegbbk  s^refomeaa&ihiUircimqe^ibnRl  I£<ra«3d«hritrad  dftftm&i&gl 
Ififtd^ed  jbhwefsofi*  of  ties  mfafo  b««naA  stronf  ewo  /Itis  aJtf Qq&tatougQ 
a^ajgp  &rther,  MPudf  lit  it  betn  fisedbade; ^afe<refcrti«»  4^&rttfllPlxlftlll 
*ejnft*ft  sWkl  iniuhry  wHciherthfiy  juk  eaoV  bttwr  ^r>wj^  Ilftta  wcfaa 
e^a^y  «^i^^to^^  iHitkirbuMdjeeyastAf  ettmniit$&t^^ 
case 'it  w!^^ 

fpUotfed/?     J^jij  vniyn^b  on  ar  «nodi  Jn'iyfi  ^jjv.lijos  ^io?  jb  sib  uoY" 
oiff*  I?r4j&»ej»ll^)^  toibta|*>t£ta 

^iyp-  m  T^)t^fpfr  i«on«rin^niwtyTC«ilddilEh-aM  hdWs)fdrniib€«bftiy  4$fttli$ 
wiAsJljG^fd^i^lfe»wmher//,i' -..j ^fd  d^u'W  .ojlo^r,  10I  noijjsnjloai  nwo 
^v^MlYeatrtl^f  ^uJb^Mfor  vthe  ime^nherrtidib  seanie  aftw(»lfitti^W|^  much 
inferior,  notwithstanding  ne  bore  on  his  brow.8fab»l<sftaanptt  *f  degi&aUuqq 
sE^ftttolhPMgfe) m^ffrelet&wtf  jwft^oul  battl-'ift^fielbidiiDni  ^ntq  Wi^was 
t^a^pe^u^hei^as « *t  anpjiatd j^leiaaDt^iiwrjB, andhftdWir^,b*hwetf 
the  legitimate  one  was  cold,  stupid,  pedantic,  tiresome;  wearyinjgeoM 
ttftb  e*e*fr  tfftwxworfl -to  btteftAd  ggdfodcnne*  inefcioro  >ay »ai|WXf  'all 
^te  evil  yau^ak^ftibe.Mranger.  .  Tmi^^iwptHy  linsiail^)fco^ii»vwd 
nephews  whom  I  have  latterly  seen  have  been  miserable"akttttatefl*tlif 
{ft&ednUti  if ,  fcbey  -«6uldi»^^ublinVepaodiaB)c£.  ItyfaluB&iiot  tasfiidught 
to  bestow  on  anything  but  their  own  pitifyipertoaqofcifofaiaijlh  tiklf 
|J^e4ith8 Jm&&  sejxojjKtaut  xahs»[  ^riflbwfc  <&• €8lWite3t£|p3bilhdiItf6r\  so 
doing."  .7;tp_ffc  9ftico?»d  od= '^Hji/il  ^JioadA"  ddj  jjb  ;  b^liraa 

m-As  9he#4iM^ft  gkiheci  a*  OTa/A*H#in 

fctfim  pla^^  capitally  j  tb^, ;- pert  ii of  ttje-  i^s^tirewne^nfel^irititfBd 
Moqkhead ^f f*  ^heW,»ny,'  on* ^touldiiarftgbBei/oSh©  had^dcnikfeptwii 
fe^w  pard  ofrWvbafiap^e  had  enokantedimei  .«;;«.  ni  rv.HT^ieib  vlijif  b  Jb 
£  'll^tvmte;tight  ^  «thflWL^jintd  mgreeimtfafrtlrt 

young  lady,"  said  the  Jutland^! rwhoJ'had  ^mkim^dsiCheAAx^lvsi 
^ljp«ght(6t  to*  jm»Sn  ^i«n$f  ettatibnioi  Jfe  ^diwryoaaghtrjitwoW  or 
two  of  what  Hanne  had  been  saying,  and  tiriitodk  miiriil^  liii  nimnniwgfl 


wffl^&fodmti^to&nilh  al^t,:  Jet^stdokrrhet*  ^eKi  aside}  and 
whispered  something  to  her.  HannS.  turned  Uvodyqafofuii  cedlxws  itit 
4ak£d;]ttefri^aftifedocfe  eaod  ^^^^^^MAlym^ii^l^ikml  and 
fe&ajfcftoltflfc  atanl  tbft  we«tbe4/thaiiiinKrtiriaW©prift^ifr,  evtoiHe  igioee 
topttftailfe  afcd  jbo*  »tfetecti»^  edbj^e^iKWe^&onc^ 
and  it  turned  upon  the  communication  Jette  had  just  made.  "  -u^C 

.beV<M&&&kr&ik  b»Um^<fdtai^mdMahak>v^l^AtiMeM  fbtebre- 
n^JowUf«lieI  -  <<?«•  h»»flaLD^i^ye«rhlHirtha*,  ffaik&ohsU^dtttftis 
a  greater  service"ih«i^dii^inkaj(r(Qhr^^[rd  .iai  another  fe&friptfaig 
IW^taofcoria^  efam&ftsbflotfiesiBrtain 

tfa*&l%rartte«kftjtfltfm  doidw  oi  noh&ohhwcn  a  10} 

iic^lYi^^^dxj^dchmfhiBtatoifli  swrevfe  Adam  ftfuybtKWoai^  hi\M  Mi 
ntekffr^Mtk^ktoidmmr^  h^jAffirtrtnfr  jcttr  good  opkHonj  ^^dlbfgfrtc 
nflffcnVonW&p  *  «reralpjw«©gq  iotft c^jiciarity j/^ithdtrti  the^ffermWlld 
wiHjo^kfc^gafcaHote  &0&o&to9lf*&t 

^f^liin^coIbujtoiit^hrtcemij^e^HsebaAe^  utoi^l&tfiikeflttMbttt1  s&4 
ojbfafeBJUftpd  m9di  oJ  ovoiq  ol  b9ttianoq  od  oi  brrs  ,ziwqasi  Lxiis  imyyj&9 
"  You  put  a  high  value  on  it."  "-X^0*  sgsftdguodJ  eirf  ato-i^ei  od 

[anne,  is  what  he.^ad«&aih(i'Wwef>fl^Hoi?farttTa^Gi)  to-rthfeepia^  i)yiU 
|^k^p»M}ovml  *#4«tafcl  ttf^ow;IIsftikd(f  rjibt//be^at»diDffi  tor*>?b  'iris 
ittpkeanft&to  btfof*r^fi*terriaal  kandippismisbdi^idbtawilb^s  *ie£«Mte# 
^itttteAap^fetoetoive^  Gather  ?9if  ^nt>?.h^s^[  befbtajf 

Jttfortujik^  aie<isd,il[fbay,y^Wt'^^e9 

toft. /I  siitaU  s^areioytwhofaihas  jaueo^unidirtiba  $AMi  bw*p  pettopff 
ffimjoAihtiiiloiB^^  ^f«seroA8>foiMtlibu*< 

fccili^tflM^^iri)^ 

"  You  are  a  very  zealous  agent,  there  is  no  denying  that     We#/<j&ti 
na£os|eakftod  rijudatfctr  |j^  wffldliQtridtosdbeiem'o*^  the 

%mi^.  y(£ej*ki*i i/rw%i  f^tkhifpoor/fi^n^^^  in  *ti# 

own  inclination  for  a  joke,  though  his  jest  'w^€tt«ri]edffl«tl(eif>te^fer-^^^ 
doifdfc  eoBp^cfcodlthift'^DQdneas  i£miyimpiar  odty  iSieidKwouJd^not  >Tiave 
pointed  iioil  fct  ta[ntfete)leihtS.#oid  feiif  no  siotf  oil  ^rribnjnriljiv/Jon  johoinl 
&£#  Am  ptav  incfflhatilefclqtrsl&id  hapamt  fi^^I^mawiveri^iw)fto^st5 
iA^igrfdd^leiiittaiiltfto  ^w<ai^fOw£k£iktes*  i*to  d«o  ^fihortiaii^ae^iain^ 
•B^SnivTOW  ;oni059ib  <9iJniirh*q  ,brqiaa  .b!oo  tiv/r  yiio  ohwib'^vl  ?jxI> 
Il£^TU^e«e^Mra£aiii  fflrifchwhafl  borrowed  fdrihirpeodH  tl»te  fro« 
bBftv«tt(Ukodo^^keito^l^t«|gBTaT  .  .i^iixnHe'iau'tee^y^'toc  say  .<*& 
•Bholuteitt»lk,,9ldfi792Jffi  no-xf  svjed  noo«  viTtfJid  ovjjd  I  iim.'U  ■.<'  ,*(,<  -a 
^d#jlnBe«d }o(iHftiemtt^  AkKnbeito^vAu^liDnottii't j«he  said,  -stiffly,'  and 

oe  Atifclifcdbtb^dfe^  Jttfjifo* ^i^nal,tf<tehte  ha4 

smiled ;  at  the  "  absolute  truth,"  she  became  angry.  *>-*•  r'°b 

ni  )S%nw^n  afethoffeig  of»^»  hmoc^  on  Wli^;s^od)|bfe*Wi^.^  There 
tous*iK'ti'fineMTkw,fil)m,tJ»  to^ofi'that^siD^ig^Wd^eatdli!]  Btfcftei 
mtoqklige&hftaib  attend  th«jbanl^; :  Gustav; and  ^ 
at  a  little  distance  in  earnesfeooiiwrsttfionj;  Jkhil  r^oTtHe  psirty  hatt[go»e 
Wrthfer«ummer-htro^e,Iwhere  coffw  Was i  prepared.  t'ReiUty,  tiws!  is  a 
hrwly^TieJrin^  -"*•    Mm  "'t-{i>jd  ^»»o/ 

--  ^i^derllgt^oirtdonbfc*  cffihro^^saii^HMii^V  ^i t  mab6s "the1  iwe^lh 
!!caau8ee>frinn  dvhDhill.^i!^  ^ni-^g  ji^ud  bud  yiuuiji  jxif'/,  u-  »>^i 


I 


202  Cousin  Carl. 

"  I  have  remarked  this  place  from  my  track's  "window;  these  white 
poles  shine  oat  against  the  dark  green  background." 

u  Were  you  afraid  of  them  ?     Did  yon  fancy  they  were  .  .  .  .* 

"  A  gallowB  ?"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting  her.  "  No,  Miss  Hatmfe.  I 
am  rather  more  rational  than  my  foolish  friend." 

Hanne  looked  inquisitively  at  me. 

**  Have  yon  remembered  what  he  begged  of  you  on  this  spot  ?  That 
when  yon  heard  evil  of  him,  and  doubts  of  his  honour,  you  would  come 
up  here,  and  judge  leniently  of  the  absent ;  that  you  would  not  condemn 
him  totally,  although  appearances  might  be  against  him  ?" 

"  He  must  have  favoured  you  with  a  remarkably  minute  report  of  hn 
sayings  and  doings  here,"  said  Hanne,  laughing.  "  You  m*ve  got  his 
speeches  by  heart— word  for  word." 

"  Every  word  which  he  exchanged  with  you  remains  for  ever  engraved 
on  his  memory.  You  promised  this  to  him.  Dare  he  flatter  himself  that 
on  have  not  forgotten  that  promise,  and  have  not  deserted  him,  while 
ie  relied  on  your  compassion?" 

"  I  have  taken  his  part  a  great  deal  more  than  he  deserves,"  she  replied. 
*  But  now  that  is  no  longer  necessary,  and  if  he  return  here,  he  shall 
find  me  his  worst  enemy,  for  I  do  not  allow  myself  to  be  made  a  fool  of 
without  taking  my  revenge." 

**  Have  some  mercy,  fair  lady !  See,  I  sue  for  grace— he  cannot  stand 
your  ire.  I  have  come  to  throw  myself  at  your  feet— acquitted  by  you,  he 
will  have  courage  to  meet  any  storm  .  '.  .  .  Miss  Hanne,"  I  added,  with 
my  own  natural  voice,  "  you  are  the  only  one  who  knows  that  the  unfor- 
tunate sinner  is  here ;  condemn  me  irrevocably,  if  you  have  the  heart  to 
do  so— -I  will  hear  my  sentence  from  your  lips." 

Hanne  looked  at  me  with  an  arch  smile. 

"  You  will  not  betray  me,  or  misuse  my  confidence,"  I  added,  in  a 
supplicatory  tone.  "  Bestow  on  me  your  forgiveness,  and  procure  for  me 
that  of  your  parents.  Without  this  I  cannot  live.  You  have  discovered 
me  notwithstanding  my  disguise;  it  was  only  under  its  shelter  that  I 
ventured  to  come  near  you  during  the  light  of  day.  Ah !  at  night,  I  have 
often  been  here,  standing  outside  of  the  house,  looking  up  at  yowr  win- 
dow, until  the  light  was  extinguished  in  your  room,  and  I  had  no  longer 
any  evidence  of  your  proximity  to  feast  upon." 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with  unusual  softness,  nay  wilk  kind- 
ness ;  then  clapping  her  hands  together,  she  called  out, 

"  Gustav !  Linden !  Come  here — make  haste !  Here  he  iS"  here 
he  is!* 

"  Who  ?  What  is  it  ?"  cried  the  two  young  men,  as  they  came  hurry- 
ing towards  us. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake— Miss  Hanne— you  surely  will  not  .  «  «  .you 
abuse  the  confidence  I  placed  in  you— I  did  not  expect  this  <tf  vera.  Will 
you  betray  me?  Will  you  disgrace  me  before  that  stranger  r"  I  stam- 
mered out,  amaaed  and  vexed  ait  her  sudden  change. 

M  There  he  is — the  false  cousm— staudbag  yonder.  Now  he  is  caught," 
added  Hanne,  skipping  about  with  joy. 

"  The  cousin— he  ?"  exclaimed  Guatav,  in  great  astonishment-,  "tat 
tell  me  then  .  .  .  ." 

"  Mr.  Holm,"  said  I,  "  and  you,  sir,  with  whom  I  bate  net  the  plea- 
sure of  being  acquainted " 


CmmnOarl  SOS 

41  True  !"  cried  Hume,  interrupting  me,  "  I  owe  you  mi  explanation. 
You  need  not  excuse  yourself  to  Gustav,  in  his  heart  he  acknowledges 
you  to  be  his  benefactor  s  and  this  gentleman,  with  whom  you  have  not 
the  pleasure  of  being  acquainted,  is  quite  as  cognisant  of  your  exploits 
as  any  of  as.  *  You  will  hot  betray  me,  or  misuse  my  oostfi- 
dsncis/  v  said  she,  mimicking  me,  "  therefore  let  me  present  to  you  Mr* 
Linden,  my  bridegroom  elect.  You  once  asked  mil  what  tbii  ting  I  wear 
betokened—do  you  remember  that?  I  was  then  obliged  to  give  you 
an  evasive  answer;  now  I  will  confide  the  secret  to  you,  my  much 
honoured  cousin-— and  much  admired  truth-teller*" 

Could  I  have  guessed  Iftis,  or  have  had  the  slightest  suspicion  of  it, 
two  hours  earlier,  I  never  again  would  have  put  my  feet  within  the  doors 
of €ourt< 

There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  let  myself  patiently  be  dragged 
about  by  them,  after  I  had  mattered  something,  that  might  as  well  have 
been  taken  for  a  malediction  as  a  felicitation. 

My  uncle  was  walking  hi  the  alley  of  pine-trees  with  the  Justiteraad 
and  Jette ;  she  bad  been  preparing  him  for  the  audienoe  I  told  her  I 
wished  of  him,  but  she  had  not  yet  the  least  idea  that  I  was  the  person 
for  whom  she  had  been  pleading.  I  appeared  before  them  as  a  poof 
culprit. 

"  Dear  father,"  said  HannA,  "  I  bring  *  deserter,  who  has  given  ten- 
self  up  to  me.  He  relies  on  your  forgiveness,  for  which  1  have  become 
surety,  and  if  you  withhold  it,  my  word  wilt  hie  broken." 

"Let  me  speak,  child,"  said  my  untie,  who  fancied  diat  «  disagree- 
ment between  my  father  and  the  Justitsroad  wan  the  affiur  in  question, 

"As  the  servant  of  the  Lord,  it  is  my  duty  to  exhort  every  one  to 
peace,  and  forgiveness  of  injuries ;  you  should  ail  remember  the  divine 
mission  of  Him  who  is  the  fountain  of  love,  and  who  came  to  bring  good- 
will-on  earth ;  remembering  His  example  you  should  chase  away  hatred, 
and  all  evil  passions  and  thoughts  from  your  minds.  See,  this  yowng 
person  comes  to  you  with  confiding  hope,  and  now  do  shake  hands  with 
him  in  sign  of  reconciliation,  and  let  not  two  worthy  men  remain  longer 
enemies.  Speak  kindly  to  htm,  my  eld  friend,  and  do  not  oblige  him 
longer  to  conceal  his  name,  because  it  U  one  which  you  once  diswced— 
1st  the  past  be  now  forgotten !" 

"What!  you  also  pleading  for  him,  my  worthy  friend?  Then*  indeed, 
I  must  give  fa.  Well,  the  foolish  madcap  has  found  intercessors  enough,  I 
think,"  said  the  Justitsraad,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  me. 

"  He  is  petitioning  for  his  friend,"  said  Jette, 

«  For  my  benefactor,"  said  Gustav, 

"  For  his  old  father/'  said  my  uncle, 

«  For  himself/'  said  Hanne.  «  This  w  the  pretended  cousin  himself 
in  disguise ;  this  is  the  very  mail  himself  who  threw  our  family  into  snob 
confusion;  but  what  his  real  name  may  be,  Heaven  only  knows.1* 

"  He  is  my  sister's  aon— Adolph  Keraer,  a  son  of  Mr.  Kerasr,  the 
well-known  Copenhagen  merchant ;  he  has  no  need  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
fi*me,"  said  my  uncle. 

Every  one  was  astonished;  there  was  a  general  silence  *om  smite* 
most 

At  length  Jette  exclaimed,  "  The  pretended  cousin  himself  T ' 

M  The  young  Kernex  who  went  to  Hamburg  ?"  naked  the  Jxtstitsraad. 


204  Cousin  Cart 

"  What !  the  impostor  my  own  nephew?"  cried  my  uncle,  upon  whom 
the  truth  began  to  dawn.  The  formidable  explanation  was  given,  for- 
giveness followed,  and  we  were  reconciled.  The  Justitsraad  shook  hands 
with  me  cordially* 

"  And  now  let  us  seek  my  mother,"  said  Hanne,  "  and  fall  at  her  feet 
For  the  honour  of  our  sex,  I  hope  Mr.  Kerner  will  have  to  undergo  the 
pains  of  purgatory  in  her  presence." 

We  proceeded  to  the  summer-house,  where  the  rest  of  the  party  were 
sitting  at  table,  taking  coffee.  The  Justitsraad  led  me  up  to  his  wife,  and 
said,  "  I  beg  to  present  to  you  your  lost  nephew,  who  returns,  like  the 
prodigal  son,  and  begs  for  forgiveness.  To-morrow  he  will  show  himself 
without  these  moustaches,  in  his  own  fair  hair,  and  he  hopes  to  find  the 
same  kind  aunt  in  you  whom  the  false  Cousin  Carl  learned  so  speedily  to 
love." 

The  lady  gave  me  her  hand,  after  having  held  up  her  finger  as  if  to 
threaten  me. 

"And  here  you  see  Morten  Frederichsen,  my  dear,  against  whom 
Sultan  was  to  have  guarded  our  house.  The  good-for-nothing,  he  has 
certainly  hoaxed  all  us  old  ones,"  said  my  uncle,  laughing.  "  His  liver 
complaint  was  nothing  but  a  trick." 

"  What  is  that  you  say  ?  Morten  Frederichsen !  How  the  idea  of  that 
dreadful  creature  frightened  me  !  But  I  have  retaliated  upon  him  with 
my  wormwood,  I  rather  think."  The  good  woman  was  much  puzzled,  and 
could  hardly  comprehend  how  it  all  came  about. 

"  And  now  I  beg  to  introduce  to  Kammerraad  Tvede,  the  younger 
Kerner,  son  of  Mr.  Kerner, of  Copenhagen,  a  youth  who  has  lately  ret 
turned  from  an  educational  trip  to  Hamburg,"  said  the  mischief-loving 
Hanne,  pulling  me  up  to  the  Jutlander. 

"A  very  fine  young  man/'  stammered  the  Kammerraad.  "I  have  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  your  father,  and  am  aware  of  the  high  standing  of 
your  house." 

I  made  my  escape  over  to  Jette  and  Gustav,  who  kindly  took  com- 
passion on  me. 

"  Don't  you  all  see  now  that  it  was  not  so  stupid  of  me  .  to  propose 
examining  him  in  the  almanack  ?"  said  Hanne. 

"  At  any  rate,  to  you  belongs  the  credit  of  having  placed  me  in  the 
most  painful  dilemma,"  said  I,  with  some  bitterness.  "  Be  merciful  now, 
and  do  not  play  with  me  as  a  cat  does  with  a  mouse;  the  conqueror  can 
afford  to  be  magnanimous  to  the  vanquished." 

"  Well,  the  sun  is  about  to  set,  and  I  suppose  I  must  let  my  just  re- 
sentment go  with  it.  I  will  forgive  you  for  ail  your  misdemeanours  upon 
one  condition,  that,  according  to  our  late  agreement,  you  will  return  by- 
and-by,  and  assist  us  in  getting  up  some  private  theatricals,  to  which  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  inviting  all  now  present.  I  think  you  will  shine  in 
«  The  April  Fools."* 

"  Shame  on  you  all !"  cried  Jette.  "  How  can  you  be  so  revengeful, 
and  still  persecute  Mr.  Kerner  in  this  inhuman  way  ?" 

"  I  trust  he  will  excuse  the  persecution,"  said  her  father ;  "  and  I  hope 
that  it  will  not  frighten  him  from  a  house  which  will  always  be  open  to 
him,  and  where  he  will  henceforth  be  as  well  received  under  his  own  name 
as  he  was  under  that  of— Cousin  Carl." 

*  "  Aprusnarrene."    A  Danish  vaudeville. 


mod?/  noqo  ^loaa  ^m  b$ho  w?w9ffq9n  nwo  ^ra  loieoqmi  9iil  !  jbiVJT  ;' 
-10I  cfi'j'/i^  8/ivy  noitiii/filqxo  9fJubifnioli  srfT     ,n7/fib  oJ  hb^9(I  iliim  odi 
%baBd  AooiiqteptfJQ^wP^  889ii9vi^i 

^RCIDIOO  9fll  ifolW 

J99I  19H  Jii  M  Lfl£  '*  !gkiri^ti;tijTt^VftfiAnflPiy](W^9a  au  del  wort  baA  " 

.99H939iq  ignaivjioJiJ^'iijq'io  8U!Bq 
919W  ^ii£q  sih  'io  jfeoi  9ifi  9i9(f  h  jwfjoH-iommua  srl-t  oJ  bob990oiq  t»W 
brus  .o^iw  fcirf  oi  nu  9m  b9l  bfijnejitajjL  9HT 


"Wewes."  ~-*^—  ff^^ 

the  newspaper  proper;  for  so  fondly  has  the  English  Me*&krt^k®&$ 
talj^dJWM^iitf^  ^#op<aR&4e&i4  the 

f^iotfst&pd^i^^^  %*w£ 

Tott^t  g^UsligMfe^^^a3ffca^§§  Xomh^mmte/mfcl$m1te 
first  newspaper,  not  to  arraign  it  as  a 'fifeft  4)to4«w^fc>it  tftd  tott'tfeeiP 
l£4brte*w>*  s*"  v/oll    !  asmohobo'vl  nsjio'M   S  ybs  jjov  ifi/O  si  J*»rW    • 

Stf*r<J«^^^W0t^(^  flIWs^?^tklie*4i^^ 

cious  pages  were  held  ou^t^^e^GW^ste^P^tti^'^kp^V  ^WfcWl*3* 

^Gtft^  w^repJ^d^lfte-a^  W94}*fen<l' 4fter- 

UPrif^^^tftimihud  &J WAj^^^ipe*;  ji#  &§<  fetfHik'  <tf  tifa*!  «yf  the 
"  Literary  Anecdotes,"  and  yet  lat*W£fcld4#  Bfisltfe»in^'ni&}<'€to4ei 
tlitotf  IbiferJMM^^  in 

"to  «&<3tai8e  'ti&oi^oioA^tetfnln^^ 

in  1823.  According  to  Mr.  Watts,  to  whose  discernment  we-wtetf  kttVcC 
i&fh^w4dtfk#$mmtif)^  bmfy^Mi&J&tfmti&tP  tfo'*  En- 
cyclopaedia Metropolitana,"  the  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,*>t!ker<<  B*4t£sfi 

ricana,"  the  " Conversat^fcffie&te&n '*  ^'Bf^heiisy'  ife** ^Netfetfte* 
sGlitfVeW*tfe^^r$,e^{MifH  ^  WWft(|/^h^«^Mtibtthair&^1  r^Coh^ersa- 
<0fe«r  ^'d^kiil^Ure^-ft^^thy  liUS^Afa^  fin^lfelop^«*heskil'  l^Nifton« 
i(ttdj<ll§itiligfet^  \TbZ;*h&Wt& 

perle/s  " Dictionary  of  Fn^d^n^cPi^^^^amif^  datimnity 
-bflsi&Bl  holicWd^iot  ii^^^Miitttfoi^'s^fi^^^«t)^^  ^iTea^Book," 

Htdcti^nta^^^l^e^cJfigfe  ^%tJf>)pion'/t^  -^UstoMtoikrto'  iti^Ow  diiP 

ni  &&ttv4839  4b*I*uspiefclft*'«jf  ^fljft  ifch^te^ta£<df ^'Sntfiti 
Museum,  were  excited,  and  the  result  of  his  exannflirtiofi  ^pi^Ves^Db^ 

t^tyiR/n^8t*Wrt^p^<yorririt  fb£tt4M(&>o£  ifato«fwithou*«tftte^Ibn, 
which,  had  the  wft«ftr  ^"ib^r%afclf  iMpt&  tJfiaWdWl^f  ^tem&itB 

i^tiy^^^^o{^^ib^iref^!#-^W  ^ph^d^h^y^tl^^^  &  the 

c^afkrtfotb^i^aw^  (hate  MWtf '^WotofM^  *ifia& 

have  been  deceived  it  seems  moi^4lsiB0ilK^tin^igd^d^^w^ 

&tme—YOv.  trviL  wo.  cccpxxvi.  " ; "  ; ; "  r  7 '  r 

toTGV9bu«T  fliiiLBU  A    *:W7ii&a9inqk**  * 


206  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

"A  Letter  to  Antonio  Panizzi,  Esq.,  &c,  on  the  Reputed  Earliest 
Printed  Newspaper,  the  English  Mercurie,  1588.  By  Thomas  Watts, 
British  Museum," 

The  English  Mercurie,  which  delighted  and  deceived  the  eyes  of 
Chalmers,  consists  of  seven  numbers,  contained  in  Dr.  Birch's  Collection, 
No.  4106.  Of  these  seven  numbers  four  are  in  manuscript  and  three  in 
Roman  type ;  the  latter  "  published  by  authoritie,  for  the  suppression  of 
false  reports ;  ymprinted  at  London,  by  Christopher  Barker,  her  High- 
nesses printer,  in  1588."*  The  first  of  these  papers,  dated  July  23rd, 
and  numbered  50,  contains  advices  from  Sir  Francis  Walsingham,  report- 
ing the  movements  of  the  Armada,  meetings  of,  and  loyal  addresses  from 
the  Corporation  of  London,  declaring  their  staunch  allegiance  to  the 
throne,  &c.  No.  51,  dated  July  26th,  announces  the  arrival  of  a  Scots 
ambassador  from  James  VI.,  promising  the  support  of  that  monarch 
against  the  Spaniards,  which  is  followed  by  advertisements  of  new  books 
and  pamphlets.  No.  54,  with  the  date  of  November  24th,  gives  an 
account  of  the  queen's  proceeding  to  Saint  Paul's,  to  offer  public  thanks- 
giving for  her  successes ;  in  met,  the  contents  were  just  such  as  the 
London  Gazette  was  filled  with  two  centuries  later. 

Long  and  gravely  had  Burleigh  been  extolled  for  inventing  ibis  means 
of  disabusing  and  reassuring  the  public  mind  during  the  panic  occasioned 
by  the  threatened  Armada,  when,  after  two  minutes'  examination,  Mr. 
Watts  saw  sufficient  in  the  treasured  documents  to  induce  him  to  pro- 
nounce them  to  Mr.  Jones,  his  assistant,  the  most  transparent  forgeries. 
And  on  these  grounds : 

1st.  That,  in  the  printed  papers,  the  type  was  of  the  character,  used  in 
or  about  1766; 

2nd.  That  two  of  the  written  numbers  are  the  originals,  in  modern 
spelling,  of  the  printed  copies  in  the  antique  spelling  badly  imitated,  with 
their  corrections  and  additions ; 

3rd.  That  the  handwriting  is  of  as  modern  a  character  as  the  type ; 

4th.  That  they  are  made  up  of  a  confusion  of  dates  and  circumstances 
that  could  hardly  have  occurred  had  they  been  written  at  the  time  repre- 
sented; and 

5th,  and  most  conclusive,  the  paper  on  which  the  manuscript  is 
written  bears  the  watermark  of  the  royal  arms  and  the  initials  "  G.  B." 

Mr.  Watts  has  since  found  reason,  in  the  similarity  of  the  handwriting 
and  other  circumstances,  to  charge  this  impudent  and  infamous  forgery 
to  the  second  Lord  Hardwicke;  nor,  perhaps,  was  Dr.  Birch  himself 
imposed  upon  by  it 

Mr.  Disraeli,  in  the  preface  to  the  twelfth  edition  of  his  "  Curiosities 
of  Literature,"  thus  feelingly  alludes  to  Chalmers's  mistake: 

"  I  witnessed,  fifty  years  ago,  that  laborious  researcher  busied  among 
the  long  dusty  shelves  of  our  periodical  papers,  which  then  reposed  in  the 
ante-chamber  to  the  former  reading-room  of  the  British  Museum.  To 
the  industry  which  I  had  witnessed  I  confided,  and  such  positive  and 
precise  evidence  could  not  fail  to  be  accepted  by  all.  In  the  British 
Museum,  indeed,  George  Chalmers  found  the  printed  English  Mercurie; 
but  there,  also,  it  now  appears,  he  might  have  seen  the  original,  with  all 


*  Erroneously  printed  1558  in  the  "Fourth  Estate,"  voL  i.  p.  3d. 


Tie  Histvry  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  207 

iti  corrections,  before  it  was  sent  to  the  press,  written  en  paper  of  modern 
fabric  .  -  •  -  The  feet  k,  the  whole  if  a  modern  forgery,  for  which, 
Birch,  preferring  it  among  his  papers,  hag  pot  assigned  either  the  occa- 
sion or  the  motive.  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  was  a  jeu  tf esprit  of  his- 
torical antiqusriaaisin,  eoneoeted  by  himself  and  his  friends  the  Yorkes." 

Such  is  die  history  of  the  English  Mercuric,  for  which  Chalmers 
innocently  declares  England  was  indebted  "  to  the  sagacity  of  Elizabeth 
and  the  wisdom  of  Burleigh."  We  somehow  cannot  but  feel  glad  that 
the  spuriousness  of  this  pet  discovery  did  aot  come  to  light  in  the  lifetime 
of  its  industrious  and  honest  explorer. 

The  English  Merevrie,  then,  not  being  the  first  printed  newspaper, 
we  must  go  on  to  find  the  one  that  was.  Scarcely  do  the  printed  news 
books  deserve  the  title— those  pamphlets  of  news  which  made  their  ap- 
pearance at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  merely  treating  of  a  par- 
ticular event — somewhat  in  the  style  of  our  Seven  Dials  sheets — not 
appearing  periodically,  or  continuously,  or  even  twice  under  the  same 
tide,  although  they  certainly  may  claim  close  kindred  to  the  newspaper, 
and,  in  its  absence,  served  its  purpose,  for  Burton  says,  in  his  "  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,"  in  1614,  "  If  any  read  now-a-days,  it  is  a  play-hookey  or 
pamphlet  of  newes." 

The  collection  of  newspapers  in  the  British  Museum  (commenced  by 
Sir  Hans  Sloane,  and  added  to  by  the  purchase  for  1000Z.,  iu  1813, 
of  Dr.  Barney's  collection,  the  addition  in  1766  o£  Dr.  Birch's,  and 
the  presentation  by  George  III.  of  the  Thomasson  collection)  affords  us 
many  specimens  of  these,  the  immediate  forerunners  of  the  British  news- 
papers, although  it  contains  none  of  earlier  date  than  1603.  Of  private 
collections,  that  of  Mr.  Nichols  was  the  most  complete,  and  happily  was 
preserved  in  his  dwelling-house  from  destruction,  when  the  fire  destroyed 
his  contiguous  printing-office  in  Bed  Lion-court. 

The  "  Harleian  Miscellany"  (Codex,  £910, 1st  volume,  5th part),  among 
a  collection  of  Hats  of  printers,  &c«,  has  "  A  Statement  of  the  Progress  of 
Publick  News  and  Papers:  when  they  first  began,  their  progress,  increase, 
and  uses  and  abuses  to  the  people,"  in  which  the  writer  misses,  rather 
than  gains,  a  trace  of  printed  news  hooks  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  of 
which,  however,  he  can  make  nothing  more  than  that  they  were  "some- 
thing of  the  kind,"  but  chiefly  attacks  upon  the  Pope  and  Cardinal 
Wofeey.  That,  however,  there  was  something  more  than  this  in 
Henry  VHI.'s  time  we  may  infer  from  the  following  proclamation,  which 
we.  transfer  from  the  Gentleman9*  Magazine  of  September,  1794  (page 
7B7).  The  proclamation  was  issued  at  the  close  of  1544,  and  was  for 
the  calling  in  and  prohibiting  of  "sextain  bookes  printed  of  newes,  of  the 
prosperous  successes  of  the  King's  Ma'tie's  arms  in  Scotland :" 

"  The  King's  most  Excellent  Majestie  understanding  that  certain  light 
persons*  not  regarding  what  they  reported,  wrote,  at  sett  forthe,  had 
caused  to  be  imprinted  and  divulged  oertaine  newes  of  the  prosperous  suc- 
cesses of  the  King's  Majestie's  army  in  Scotland,  whereas,  although  the 
effect  of  the  victory  was  indeed  true,  yet  the  circumstances  in  divers 
points  were  in  some  parte  over  slenderly,  in  some'parte  untruly  and  amisse 
reported ;  his  highness,  therefore,  not  content  to  have  anie  such  matters 
of  so  great©  importance  sette  forthe,  to  the  slaunder  of  his  captaines  and 
ministers,  not  to  be  otherwise  reported  than  the  iruthe  was,  atraightlie 

p  2 


£00  TJH&iiiwtffaFwvpi^ 

chargeth  tod  commandeth  all  manner  of  persones  into  whose  handes  any 
of  the  said  printed  books  should  come,  ymediately  after  they  should  hear  of 
this  proclamation,  to  bring  the  same  booties  to  the  lo^d  maior  of  London,  or 
to  the  recorder,  or  some  of  the  aldermen  of  the  same,  to  thinten t  the* 
might  supprtsse  and  burn  them,  upon  pain  that  every  person  keeping  any 
of  the  said  bookes  twenty-four  hours  after  the  making  of  this  proclama- 
tion should  suffer  ymprisonment  of  his  bodye,  and  be  further  punished  at 
the  King's  Majestie's  will  and  pleasure."    .  ^ 

This  proclamation  (if  genuine)  points  to  more  than. mere  libels  on  the 
Pope  or  Cardinal  Wolsey;  but  it  was  possibly  still  only  directed  against 
the  doggerel  news  ballads,  which  we  find  in  die  reign  of  Mary.  „  line 
Harleian  scribe  mentions  a  "  Ballad  of  the  Queene's  bewg  with  chilife"  as 
one  of  the  earliest ;  but  about  that  time  ballads  of  news  "  began  to  fly 
about  in  the  city  of  London  ;"  and  he  continues  emphatically,  These,  I 
say,  were  the  forerunners  of  the  newspapers. "  Unquestionably  they  were* 
It  has  been,  unfortunately,  the  practice  of  the  Few  writers  who  have 
treated  this  subject,  to  seek  for  a  full-blown  newspaper'  to  date  from. 
Thus  Chalmers  starts  with  the  Engluh  Mercurie%  which  he  is  delighted 
to  find  equal  to  anything  the  Gazetteer  of  his  own  day  could  compile ; 
Nichols  devotes  all  his  attention  to  the  completeness  of  his  list  of  news- 
papers, beginning  with  Butter's  ;  whilst  Knight  Hunt  alludes  to  the 
news  books  only  to  deny  that  they  haye  any  features  in  common  with  the 
newspaper.  Now  we  do  not  see  why  the  infant  forms  of  the  newspaper 
should  be  so  slighted  ;  nothing  could  be  more  natural  in  its  growth,  more 
easy  in  its  changes,  or  more  regular  in  its  progress.  First  we  have  the 
written  news  letter  furnished  to  the  wealthy  aristocracy ;  then,  as  the 
craving  for  information  spread,  the  ballad  of  news,  sung  or  recited  ;  then 
the  news  pamphlet,  more  prosaically  arranged;  then  the  periodical  sheet 
of  news ;  and  lastly,  the  newspaper.  Does  not  the  news,  ballad  form  an  ld- 
dispensable  link  in  this  chain,  or  are  we  to  suppose  that,  after  all,  the  news- 
paper started  as  near  perfection  as  the  periodical  sheets  of  news  of  the 
seventeenth  century  ?  Have  not  the  historians  of  the  stage  treated  with 
becoming  attention  the  scaffold  at  the  Cross  Keys,  or  the  booth  at  the 
fair,  although  they  were  no  more  theatres  than  the  news  ballad  was  a 
newspaper,  but  only  the  forerunners  of  them  ? 

There  is  an  entry  in  the  hooks  of  the  Stationers'  Company  of  three  of 
these  ballads,  one  of  which  is  called  "  Newes  out  of  Kent,**  and  another 
"  Newes  out  of  Heaven  and  Hell/7  bo^iprintedin  1 56  ^doggerel  r< 
no  doubt,  of  some  recent  occurrence  (pernaps  the  latter  a TSle^of 
craft) — but  the  title  is  suggestive,  and  affords,  a  ray  of  light  in,  the 
ness.  The  dawn  comes  on,  and  we  rind,  tne, Harleian  nianuscribe 
firm  m  his  footing :  .    ,-         ;.  ,.;    « 

"  In  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabethjwe  had  several  papers' printed  i4latim£ 
to  the  affairs  in  France,  Spain,  ,<and  Holland,  abqut  &ertime  of  th^crrfr 
wars  in  France,  and  those  were  fqr  tjhe  most  part  translaltlpn's  froiri "f1" 
Dutch  and  French.  We  must  come  down  to  the  reign  6t ''  James  I., 
that  towards  the  latter  end,  wjben  news  began  to  be  irifasnlon*   '  '' 

No  papers  of  so  early  a  date  as  the  reign  of  Eiizaoetn a&'prt&rverf'ni 


the  titifoty  df  the  Newspaper  Presk.  209 

•  "Newe  newes,  containing  a  short  rehearsal  of  Stukely's  and  MorioeV 
Rebellion,*  4to,  1579. 

u  Newes  from  the  North,  or  a  Conference  between  Simon  Certain  and 
Pierce  Plowman,"  4to,  1579. 

"  Newes  from  Scotland,  declaring  the  damnable  life  of  Doctor  Fian, 
a  notable  sorcerer,  who  was  burned  at  Edenborough  in  January  last," 
4to,  Gothic,  1591  * 

"Newes  from  Spaine  and  Holland,"  1593. 

"Newes  from  Brest,  or  a  Diurnal  of  Sir  John  Norris,"  4to,  1594 
(printejd  by  Richard  Yardley). 
"  Newes  from  Flanders,"  1599. 

"  Newes  out  of  Cheshire  of  the  new  found  well,"  1600. 
"  Newes  from  Gravesend,"  4to,  1604. 
We  may  add  to  Dr.  Rimbault's  list  the  following : 
"  Wonderful  and  strange  newes  out  of  Suffolke  and  Essex,  where  it 
rayned  wheat  the  space  of  six  or  seven  miles,"  12mo,  1583. 

The  titles  of  most  of  these  pamphlets  direct  us  to  a  very  fair  estimate 
of  their  contents ;  it  must  be  confessed  they  were  somewhat  of  the  stamp 
of  the  "Full,  True,  and  Particular  Accounts"  of  Seven  Dials.  The 
public  asked  for  news — and  got  it  in  its  first  crude  form,  yet  still  in 
disjointed  fragments : 

"  Lamentable  newes  out  of  Monmouthshire  in  Wales,  containinge  the 
wonderful  and  fearfull  accounts  of  the  great  overflowing  of  the  waters  in 
the  said  countye,"  &c.,  1607. 

"  Woful  newes  from  the  west  partes  of  England,  of  the  burning  of 
Tiverton,"  4to,  1612,  with  a  frontispiece. 

"  Strange  newes  from  Lancaster,  containing  an  account  of  a  prodigious 
monster  born  in  the  township  of  Addlington  in  Lancashire,  with  two 
bodies  joyned  to  one  back."  April  13th,  1613. 

The  appetite  for  news  is  whettened,  and  increased  efforts  are  made  to 
appease  it.     The  pamphlets  begin  to  assume  a  more  definite  form  : 
"  Newes  from  Spaine,"  published  in  1611. 
"  Newes  out  of  Germany,"  1612. 
"  Good  newes  from  Florence,  1614. 
"Newes  from  Mamora,"  1614. 
"Newes  from  Guliek  and  Cleve,"  1615. 
"Newes  from  Italy,"  1618. 

"Newes  out  of  Holland,"  published  May  16th,  1619  (Dr.  Burney's 
collection). 

"  Vox  Populi,  or  Newes  from  Spaine,"  1620. 

"  Newes  from  Hull,"  "  Truths  from  York,"  "  Warranted  tidings  from 
Ireland,"  "  Newes  from  Poland,"  "  Special  passages  from  several  places," 
&c.  &c. 

Such  are  samples  of  the  titles  of  news  books  preserved  in  the  British 
Museum  and  other  collections,  most  of  them  purporting  to  be  translations 
from  the  low  Dutch. 

We  will  give  one  title  in  full,  to  afford  a  general  idea  of  what  these 

*  At  the  commencement  of  the  nineteenth  century,  Bulmer,  of  London,  reprinted 
a  single  copy  on  vellum  for  Mr.  G.  H.  Freeling— Dibdin's  Decani,  ii.  377. 


MO  The  History  of  the,  Newspaper  Press. 

paaapUeta  professed  to  be.  We  quote  from  Mr.  Hunt's  list*  as  one  will 
stand  for  a  dozen  : 

"  Newes  out  of  Holland.  London' :  printed  by  T.  S.  for  Nathaniel 
Newberry,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  bis  sbop  under  St.  Peter**  Church  in 
CamhiUt  and  in  Pope's  Bea&alley,  at  the  Sign  of  the  Star,  1619." 

The  "  newes,"  of  which  all  these  publications  treated,  was  of  the  events 
of  foreign  countries ;  home  affairs,  probably  in  respect  to  the  government* 
were  seldom  touched  upon.  And  this  peculiarity  seems  to  have  continued 
to  mark  die  puhlie  printe,  and  for  the  same  reason,  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  century,  for  Clarendon  says  of  a  period  even  five-and-twenty 
years  later,  that  news  from  Scotland  had  hitherto  never  appeared  in  the 
English  prints,  but  that  intelligence  from  Hungary  and  other  leas  im- 
portant states,  was  arranged  under  distinet  heads.  Still,  as  when  Ben 
Jonson  wrote  his  "  Staple  of  News :" 

And  here  I  have  my  several  rolls  and  files 
Of  news  hy  the  alphabet,  and  all  put  up 
Under  their  heads. 

In  two  or  three  years  more  these  pamphlets  became  periodical,  but  the 
title  still  varied.  One  or  two  enterprising  printers  of  news  books  under- 
took to  bring  them  out  at  regular  intervals,  but  they  had  yet  to  conceive 
the  idea  of  ranging  them  under  one  regular  head,  numbering  and  paging 
them  in  orderly  continuation.  These  printers  were  Nicholas  Bourne  and 
Thomas  Archer,  of  the  Exchange  and  "  Pope's  Head  Pallace;"  Nathaniel 
Newberry  and  William  Shenard,  of  Pope's  Head-alley  ;  and  Nathaniel 
Butter,  who  is  the  acknowledged  father  of  the  regular  newspaper  press. 
The  first  of  any  regular  series  of  newspapers,  preserved  in  the  British 
Museum,  is  dated  23rd  May,  1622,  and  entitled, 

"  The  Weekly  Newes  from  Italy,  Germanie,  &c.  London  :  printed 
by  J.  D.,  for  Nicholas  Bourne  and  Thomas  Archer." 

Most  of  the  succeeding  numbers,  which  appear  to  have  followed,  with 
a  few  omissions,  at  weekly  intervals,  bear  the  general  heading  of  "  Weekly 
Newes,"  till  the  28th  of  September,  when  we  have, 

"  Newes  from  most  parts  of  Christendom,  &c.  London i  printed  for 
Nathaniel  Butter  and  William  Sheffard." 

This  is  the  first  time  we  meet  with  Butter's  name  m  connexion  with 
these  newspapers  ;  and  it  is  still  later  (May  12th,  1623)  that  we  find  any 
system  of  numbering  them  adopted,  when  "  The  Newes  of  this  present 
Week"  of  that  date  is  numbered  "31."  If  the  publication  ef  the 
"  Weekly  Newes"  had  been  regular,  even  from  May  23rd  of  the  previous 
year,  this  should  have  been  No.  52 ;  so  we  may  infer  that  there  were 
nineteen  weeks  when  Butter  and  his  fellow  news  printers  found  nothing 
to  communicate,  or  that  all  the  papers  preserved  were  not  belonging  to 
ome  series. 

After  Butter's  accession  the  appearance  of  the  weekly  sheet  became 
more  regular,  and  the  title  more  irregular.  It  was  variously  "  The  Last 
News,"  "-A  Relation,"  &c.,  "The  Weekly  News  continued*"  "Mare 
News,"  u  Our  Last  News,"  Ac. 

Thus  struggled  on  the  first  newspaper,  not  without  trouble  and  diffi- 
cufty.  It  had  to  contend  against  prejudice,  ridicule,  and  the  jealousy  of 
the  news  correspondents.     Of  thefirst,  Ben  Jonson  seems  to  express  the 


The  History  tftiw  Newspaper  Press.  211 

opinio*  of  mam  of  the  old  stagers  of  the  time,  which  be  describes  as 
"  hungering  and  thirsting  after  published  pamphlets  of  news,  set  out  every 
Saturday,  but  made  all  at  home,  and  no  syllable  of  truth  in  them  ->  than 
which  there  cannot  be  a  greater  disease  m  nature,  nor  scorn  put  upon  the 
time."  The  "  ISmes  Newes"  he  describes  as  "a  weekly  cheat  to  draw 
money  f  and  at  last,  in  his  "  Staple  of  News,"  produced  in  1625,.  and 
dealing  particularly  hard  Mows  at  Butter,  he  breaks  forth  : 

See  divers  men's  opinions !    Unto  some 
The  very  printing  of  'em  makes  them  news, 
That  have  not  the  heart  to  believe  anything 
But  what  they  see  in  print ;. 

a  passage  which  GifforuV  in  his  Notes,  explain* — "  Credulity,  which  was 
then  at  its  height,  was  irritated  rather  than  fed  by  impositions  of  every 
kind^  and  the  country  kept  in  a  feverish  state  of  deceptive  excitement 
by  stories  of  wonderful  events  gross  and  palpable." 

In.  fact,  not  only  the  "Staple  of  Newes,"  but  also  Fletcher's  "Fair 
Maid  of  the  Inn,"  and  Shirley's  "  Love  Tricks,"  bear  hard  upon  Butter 
and  his  colleagues.  But  then  came  a  trouble  upon  them  greater  than 
all  these — the  licenser,  who  appears  to  have  taken  little  notice  of  them 
before,  perhaps  not  thinking  they  came  within  me  province*  or  were 
worthy  of  his  attention.  The  irregularities  in  the  publication  may  be 
attributable  to  the  interference  of  this  functionary,  and  probably  some 
numbers  were  suppressed,  or  a  license  for  them  refused.  In  1640,  how- 
ever, a  change  took  place,  which  Butter  cheerfully  notifies  after  a  silence 
of  five  weeks: 

"  The  continuation  of  the  foxraine  oeeusrents  for  5  weekes  last  past, 
containing  many  remarkable  passages  of  Germany,  &c.  Examined  and 
licensed  by  a  better  and  more  impartial!  hand  than  heretofore.  London : 
printed.  January  11, 164Q>  for  Nathaniel  Batter,  dwelling  at  St.  Awstin's- 
gftta, 

*  The  Printer  to  the  Reader : 

"  Courteous  reader  I  we  had  though*:  to  have  given  over  printing  our 
foreign  avisoes,  for  that  the  Meenser  (out  of  a  partial  affection)  would  not 
oftentimes,  let  pass  apparent  truth,  and  in  other  things  (oftentimes)  so 
eroeee,  and  alter,  whkk  made  us  weary  of  printing,  but  he  being  vanished 
(and  that  office  fallen  upon  another  more  understanding  in  these  forrame 
affakes,  and  as  you  will  find  more  candid),  we  are  againe  (by  the  favour  of 
his  Matestie  and  the  state)  resolved  to  go  on  printing  if  we  shall  find!  the 
world,  to  give  a  better  acceptation  of  them  (than  of  late),  by  their  weekly 
buying  them.  It  is  weU  known  these  novels  are  well  esteemed  in  aft  parts 
of  the  world  (but  heere)  by  the  more  judicious,  whack  we  east  impute  to 
no-  ether  but  the  discontinuance  of  them  and  the  uncertain*  daies  of  pub- 
lishing them,  which,  if  doe  poste  mil  us  not,  we  shall  keep  a  constant  day 
everie  weeke  therein*,  whereby  everie  man  may  constantly  expect  them, 
and  se  we  take  leave.    January  the  Stii,  1640." 

One  thing  is  herein  to  be  unserved — the  editorial "  we"  was  already 
adopted  by  "  the  printer  to  the  reader."  The  printer  was  t&eny  and1 
continued  leng  afterwards  ta  be,  the  ostensible  director  ef  the  T*p*>  &H 
letters,  in  the  newspapers  of  a  century  later,  being  addressed  "  o>  the 


Q2  3fJM^^^^^^j^V*«. 

Srinter,"  tpitil  abouf  174%  wjien  thej^were  fOtwaaioaally'^Hreagfei  «*i4q 
le  author.",,     .  .'.,.,•      ,-  .  :  j;,.,,,,;    ,x.„  .,.„.    ',-.<<:  >:.i;  ?• ■■  A 

But  the  licenser,  the  "  failing  of  the  poste,"  or  worse  thaa  all,  *He 
indifference  of  the  publjcyjvere  too  n^uoh  for  pcwfr  Bi^hter,  .for,  the  number 
containing  his  hopefyd  aanquncenieiit  JWi  if  not  the,  lash  publiahed,  it 
all  events  the  latest  of  his  newspapers  which,  have  beea  preserved;  the 
'.'Weekly  Newee"  could  hardly  ihwe  survived  long  afterward*  without 
some  copies  havbg  heen  hanajeo1  down  to  u$.       .    <  ■       , ...  « \  >    l 

Butter  appears  to  have  been  a,  collector  of  {new*,  before  ;he  coaeerad 
tip  idea  of  a  printed  periodical,  news  sheet,  and  to  have)  at  iOfae  time? 
followed  the  occupation  of  a  cof^epondent. ; , ,  jSe  -  then  traded,  in  the 
pamphlets  of  news,  an4  the .".  Jfafes  ,fr<o#n:  Spain,?  published  in  161  ly 
was  "imprinted  at  London .forj^fethanifli A &tfief,"iA  small., iquartb  q§ 
twelve  pages.     In.onejgf  hU /,  ,,Weel%rNej^ 

''transcriber,'9  and  makes  allusion  to  two  earh'er,  Wimhers// which  hei 
seems  to  have  thrown  out  as  feelers  : 

"  If  any  gentleman,  or  other  accustomed  to  bay  the  weekly  relations 
of  newes,  be  desirous  to  continue  the  samp,  let  them  know  that  the 
writer,  or  transcriber  rather,  of  this  newss,  hath  published  two  former 
Newesj  the  one  dated  the  second*  -the  other  the  thirteenth  of  August,  aB 
which  do  carry  a  like  title,  with  the  arum  of  the  King  of  Bohemia  on  the 
other  side  of  the  title-page,  and  have  dependence -one.  upon  another; 
which  manner  of  writing  and  printing  he  doth  purpose  to  continue 
weekly,  by  God's  assistance,  from  the  best  and  most  certain  intelligence. 
Farewell,  this  twenty- three  of  August,  1,622,"  .miaa 

One  of  the  "two  former  Newes"  to  which  he  alludes,  was  moat  likely 

2 The  Courant,  or  Weekly  New.es  .  from  Forain  Partes*"  a  half  sheet, 
ited  October  9th,  1621,  and  purporting  to  bo  "  taken  out  of  the  high' 
Dutch,"  and  printed  "by  N.  Butter," 

The  '*  Weekly  Newes."  was  not  Butter'sionly  speculation  of  the  sort* 
In  1630  we  find  him  publishing  half-yearly  volumes  <  of  intelligence, 
under  the  title  of  "The  German  Intelligencer,"  and  in  1631  "The 
Swedish  Intelligent  er/V  both  compiled  from  the  V  Weekly  Currontoes" 
of  the  respective  countries,  by  William  Watts,  of  Caius  College.  An- 
thony a  Wood  gives  a  biographical  notice  of  this  early  English  editor, 
from  which  it  appears  that  he  was  a  native  of  Lynn,  in  Norfolk ;  that 
he  possessed  good  influence,  and  was  rising  iu  the  Church,  when  the 
civil  wars  destroyed  all  his  prospects.  He  was  a  steady  .Roya&fc|  and,  tfl 
such,  suffered  sequestration,  was  left  destitute  with  a  wife  and  family, 
and  finally  died,  in  1649,  on  hoard  Prince  Ruperts  fleet*  in  Kinsale 
Harbour*  He  was  a  learned  writer,  but  our  business  with  him  is  as  ait 
editor  of  news  books?  of  which  Wood  says  he  published,  before  the  civil 
wars,  •*  several  nurnbcrs  in  the  English  tongue  [more  than  forty],  con- 
taining  the  occurrences  done  in  the  wars  between  the  King  of  Sweden 
and  the  Germans/*     These  were,  no  doubt*  the  publications  of  Butter*!^ - 

The  last  connexion  of  Butter  with  the  publication  of  news,  as  far  as  . 
we  can  trace  it,  is  in  164 1>  a  year  after  w$  have  lost  sight  of  the 
11  Weekly  Newes."     It  is  in  a  paniphlet  of  five  quarto  pages,  entitled, 
"Warranted  Tidings  frorfl  Irelandi^which issued  from  his  press  in  that; 
year  j  and  there  we  muat  take  our,  leave  of  him,  as  we  hare  uo  further 


Thl^mmyofthe  Newspaper  Pr*&.  H§ 

particulars  6£  his  proceedings,  except  that  his  sign  was  "The  Pydei 
Bull/'  and  that  his  shop  was  situated  in  St.  AustinVgate,  St.  PauPs- 
ebarchyard. 

Dodsley,  in  b  nofle  to  May's  comedy  of  "  The  Heir,"  asserts  that  the 
first  newspaper  published  in  England  was  called  "Gallo-Belgicus,"  "as 
early  as  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth/'  and  quotes  Carew's  "  Survey 
of  Cornwall/'  published  in  1602,  which  alludes  to  "Mercurius  Gallo- 
Belgicus."  Doctor  Donne,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  and 
Clapthorne  lilso  mention  this  paper;  but  the  fact  is,  as  Mr.  Chalmers 
shows,  that  ^  Gallo-Belgicus"  was  a  foreign  paper,  printed,  the  first  part 
aab<  Cologne,  ih  1698,  ^nd  the  second  at  Frankfort,  in  1605.  It  is 
singular  that  we  «ow  have  to  ignore  Chalmers's  own  assertion  that  "  the 
epoch  of  the  Spanish  Armada  is  also  the  epoch  of  a  genuine  [English] 
newspaper,"' and  tb  transfer  the  Credit  to  honest  Butter  and  his  unpre- 
tending *  Weekly  Newes." 

Butter  appears  also  to  have  called  into  existence  the  "mercury 
women,"  of  whom  we  hear  so  often  in  old  plays,  as  the  hawkers  of 
newspapers,  for  one  of  the  MSS.  in  the  Harleian  collection  (Cod.  5910) 
smys:  that  towfereVtne  latter  end  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  news  began  to,' 
be  in  fashion,  "jind  then,  if  I  mistake  not,  began  the  use  of  mercurie 
women,  and  they  it  Was  tnat  dispersed  them  to  the  hawker.  These 
mereuries  and  hawkers,  their  business  it  first  was  to  disperse  proclama- 
tion^ orders  of  council,  'stab  of  parliament,"  &c. 

-*Bemj  theft,  beside  k  history  of  the  first  newspapers,  we1  may  enshrine" 
a  memento  of  the  first  news  vendors.  In  the  forty  years  that  succeeded — 
forty  years  Of  trdlib)^  timds  of  Which  few  es^a^ed  the  "  boil  and  bubble" 
udseatded  and  unserithe^l— these  poor  people  appear  to  have  got  into  bad 
rejjute,  tot  Sir  Boger  t/Estrange,  in  the  Prospectus  to  his  Intelligencer^ 
in  1663,  says  of  them  : 

^Tbetoay  as  to  the  sale  t&at  has  been  found  most  beneficial  to  the  master 
ofrthe  feiiokhae  beenIJtb  cry  and  expose  it  about  the  streets  by  mercuries 
and  1  hawterW;  but' whether :E  they  rimy  be  so  advisable  in  some  other; 
respect^  *flttr  be  a  question,  for,  under  countenance  of  that  employment 
is- Juried  xm  the  private  ti&de  of  treasonous  and  seditious  libels;  nor, 
eflfectually, '  ha*  anything  been  dispersed  against  either  Church  or  State  v 
without  the"  afd  imd  prrViffy  of  this  soft  of  people  ;  wherefore,  without ) 
attf^le  astarahee'  find  security  a^inst  thi^  inconvenience,  I  shall  adventure 
ta  steer  anothe*  cWse."  ;  , 

Such  wto  the  etas*— here  ts  si  personal  sketch : 

■**  A  hbtte  combk  httelyiha^pened  at  the  Salutation  Taverne,inHolburne, , 
where  6ome  of  tAe  Commonwealth  vermin,  called  soldiers,  had  seized  on 
anrAmatoni&n  virago,  named  Mrs.  Strosse,  upon  suspicion  of  being  a 
loyalist  arid  selling  the  Martin  the  Moon  [a  print  of  the  king's  party]  ; 
butkhe/b^  applying' beaten  pepper  to  their  eyes,  disarmed  them,  and 
with  their  oWnrsw6rdes  forced  them  tp  aske  her  forgiveness,  and  down 
oft-thefr  tnarybo'nes,  and  pledge  a  health  to  the  king  and  confusion'  to 
thufr  mastfetS';  lanfl  tfo  notobrdblie  dismissed  them^     Oh!   for  twenty' 
thousand  >8uchf'#allaift  spirits ;  when  ybu  see  thdt  one  wojjian  dan  be&  ' 
two  br  threat  \^Mm  fntHe  MooW,Jviy  49  1649.  ' 

^Biasidoes  W&fci  Stroke  Mp  us  on^wis  haVe  the  first  martyr  of  news 


214  Tl*  Hutoy  of  tha  Newspaper  Pms. 

— the  firefc  printer  of  newspapers— the  first  editor;  and  now  aoamta  far- 
ward  our  "  Amaionian  Virago/*  with  her  beaten  pepper,  to  claim  her 
place  as  a  type  of  the  first  sellers  of  newspapers. 

The  writer*  on:  newspaper  history  have  copied  each  other  in  adopting 
Ben  Jonson'e  characters  o£  the  early  news  writers  as  delineated  in  Us 
"  Staple  of  News,"  with  all  the  absurd  exaggerations  of  the  way  in  which 
the  news  book  was  compiled,  which  might  serve,  indeed,  to  illustrate  the 
common  opinion  of  the  new  introduction,  but  not  the  true  character  of 
it;  for  it  is  so  palpable  a  caricature  that  we  do  not  feel  disposed  to  imi- 
tate our  predecessors  in  quoting  "  Rare  Bea's"  facetious  description,  bat 
refer  those  who  seek  the  dark  side  of  the  news  writer's  portrait  to  what 
they  have  all  overlooked — "  The  Character  of  a  Diurnal  Maker/'  ie  the 
Harleian  Manuscripts,  Codex  59 10,, and  the  "  New  Year's  Gift  to  Mer- 
curius  Politicus"  (referring  to  a  few  years'  later  date),  and  "  The  Gar- 
man's  Poem,  or  Advice  to  a  Nest  of  Scribblers,"  which  follow  it  hi  the 
same  volume,  in  the  former  of  which  the  writer,  after  elaborately  black- 
ening the  diurnal  scribe,  sums  up  a  description  of  his  works  thus  con- 
temptuously :  "  A  library  of  Diuroals  is  a  wardrobe  of  Frippery  l" 

The  titles  which  these  publications  assumed  were  certainly  not  calcu- 
lated to  elevate  them  in  the  public  estimation.  We  select  a  few  of  the 
most  eccentric  from  the  British  Museum  collections : 

"  Newes,  and  Strange  Newes  from  St  Christopher's  of  a  Tempestuous 
Spirit  which  is  called  by  the  Indians  a  Hurry cano  or  Whirlwind;  where* 
unto  is  added  the  True  and  Last  Relations  (in  verse)  of  the  Dreadful 
Accident  which  happened  at  Witticombe,  in  Devonshire,  21  Oetober, 
163&."     12mo,  with  a  woodcut,  1638.* 

"  Newes,  true  Newes,  laudable  Newes,  Citie  Newes,  Coantrie  Newes, 
the  World  is  Mad  or  it  is  a  Mad  World,  my  Masters,  especially  new 
when,  in  the  Antipodes,  these  things  are  come  to  passe.  London: 
1642.     4to* 

"  Newes  from  Hell  and  Rome,  and  the  Innes  of  Court."  London: 
1642.     4to. 

"  The  Best  Newes  that  ever  was  Printed."     London :  1643.     4to. 

"  No  Newes,  but  a  Letter  to  Everybody."     By  R.  W.     1648.    4to* 

The  most  perfect  set  of  newspapers  of  this  date  (which  we  have  net 
ourselves  seen)  is  mentioned  in -a  note  by  Chalmers  as  being  in  the 
collection  of  Mr.  Charles  Tooker,  and  entitled  "  The  Weekly  AfieoaaV 
from  1634  to  1655. 


A  copy  of  tins  "  Newes*  sold  at  the  Gordonstonn  sale  for  1/.  8*. 


(215    ) 


LIEE  IN"  BRAZIL  * 

Few  travel  and  free  trade  are  not  yet.  To  a  thorough-bred  Yankee, 
it  appears  like  a  remnant  of  the  barbarism  that  in  the  Old  World  prevents 
man  from  traversing  the  earth  and  communing  with  his  species  at  his 
pleasure,  that  he  should  have,  ere  he  can  visit  Brazil,  to  pay  for  a  passport, 
or,  as  he  would  designate  it,  an  invoice  or  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  himself. 
AH  is  not,  however,  evH  that  seems  so,  and  the  detention  consequent  upon 
passport  and  custom-house  regulations  enabled  Mr.  Ewbank  to  take  a 
first  and  comprehensive  glance  at  the  Bay  of  Rio,  a  basin  over  a  hundred 
miles  in  circumference,  scooped  m  granite,  and  walled  in  by  mountains, 
whose  sides  and  crests  are  clothed  in  perpetual  verdure — a  bay  of  islands, 
being  studded  with  seventy,  large  and  little,  of  which  some  might  well 
have  been  taken  for  "  Islands  of  the  Blessed" — those  happy  abodes  of 
departed  virtuous  spirits,  formerly  located  on  the  borders  of  the  Western 
World. 

In  the  outline  of  this  magnificent  bay,  between  the  city  and  the  sea, 
are  many  prominent  landmarks.  There  is  the  Sugar-loaf^  a  bare  mass  of 
granite,  nearly  1300  feet  high ;  the  fort  of  Santa  Cruz ;  and  opposite,  the 
battery  of  San  Joao ;  a  mountain  island,  shaped  like  a  haystack,  with  a 
smaH  church  on  its  summit ;  the  white  houses  of  Boto  Fogo  skirting  the 
beach ;  a  church  on  a  hill,  dedicated  to  "  Our  Lady  of  Glory,"  and  a 
glorious  site  for  a  dwelling  they  have  given  her;  the  town  of  Praya 
Grande,  between  which  and  Rio  little  steamers  are  perpetually  plying ; 
and  lastly,  Rio  itself  old  and  new  town — a  swarm  of  houses,  crowding 
and  turning  through  a  narrow  passage  between  two  hills,,  like  troops 
rushing  through  a  defile  and  treading  on  one  another's  heels. 

On  landing,  the  traveller  first  meets  with  suburban  villas,  with  white, 
red,  blue,  veHow,  green,  and  giMed  screens  and  trellis-work,  vying  in 
colours  with  the  flowers ;  while  the  walks,  bordered  with  shells,  are  also 
crowded  with  painted  statues  and  statuettes.  Beyond  these  again  are  low 
houses,  faced  with  coloured  stucco,  and  roofed  with  the  old  red  tile ;  not 
a  panelled  front-door,  knocker,  or  bell-pull,  and  many  windows  without 
glass.  If  he  wants  to  move  about,  he  finds  livery-stables  to  be  at  Rio 
what  their  name  imports.  The  proprietors  furnish  plain  or  showy 
equipages,  with  servants  in  various  styles  of  livery. 

The  u  Rio  Almanack*  is  an  indispensable  handbook  for  strangers,  for 
almost  every  day  is  a  saint's  day.  The  first  anniversaries  our  traveller 
stumbled  upon  were  those  of  St.  Bruz,  celebrated  for  removing  tracheal 
complaints,  and  St.  Apollonia.  "  No  pains  are  more  excruciating  than 
those  she  removes ;  Advegada  contra  a  tosse — she  cures  toothache  f  and 
jaw-bones  of  wax  are  in  consequence  offered  ip  her.  Rio  is  the  very  head 
and  heart  of  Romanist  superstitions  and  corruption. 

"  Walking  out  in  the  evening,"  Mr.  Ewbank  puts  on  record,  u  with  a 
friend,  we  met  a  bare-headed  priest  in  a  carro,  accompanied  by  three 

♦Idfem  Brazil;  or»  the  Land  of  the  Cocoa  and  the  Palm.  With  an  Appendix, 
eootaiuagr  Hfortratkm*  of  Ancient  Sofcth  American  Arts  la  recently  fecovered 
Imftentnts  andProducto  of  Domstfc  Indastry,  and  WorkB  in  Stone,  Xfctttty, 
Gold,  Silver,  Bronze*  &c   Bj  Tbnaa*  Ewbank. 


216  lift  in  Brazil. 

half-naked  negroes.  One,  with  a  large  candle,  went  by  each  wheel,  and 
the  third  trotted  in  advance,  ringing  a  belL  This,  I  wag  told,  was, 
'  the  host,'  which  the  priest  was  going  to  administer  to  some  sick  :op 
dying  person.  'But  where  is  the  wafer?'  I  asked,  'In  that  Ettl* 
crimson  bag,  suspended  from  the  padre's  neck.'  " 

On  another  "miscellaneous  ramble"  our  traveller  fell  in  with  the 
matadoura,  or  public  slaughter-house,  which  presented  a  fearful  scene, 
half-naked  men  goading  some  twenty  or  thirty  oxen,  with  spiked  poles,  ty 
their  doom.  -Forty-five  thousand  cattle  are  slaughtered  in  the  year.  No 
sooner  arrived  almost,  than  our  author  was  summoned  to  attend  the 

obsequies  of  the  Condessa  d'J .     The  letter  was  bordered  with 

symbols  of  death,  and  in  the  centre  a  shrouded  urn,  under  which  appeared 
the  Lusitanian  version  of  Horace's  universal  adage : 

Entra  com  passo  igual  pelas  ufanas 
Casas  dos  reis,  e  miseras  choupanas. 

The  funeral  procession  consisted  of  a  long  string  of  chaises,  followed  by 
twenty  horsemen  carrying  lighted  candles ;  an  elegant  coach-and-four 
came  next,  guided  by  a  charioteer  in  light  livery,  and  in  it  the  coffin, 
whose  ends  projected  through  the  doors.  Carriages  of  every  style  fol- 
lowed, some  with  outriders  and  lacqueys  behind ;  last  of  all,  a  coach-and- 
four,  with  attendants  in  white  and  scarlet  costumes,  the  driver  and  foot- 
men sweating  under  enormous  triangular  hats  with  red  feathers.  Except 
the  coffin  and  candles,  there  was  nothing,  Mr.  Ewbank  says,  to  indicate  a 
funeral. 

When  a  person  dies  in  Rio  the  front  entrance  of  the  house  is  closed—; 
the  only  occasion  when  such  a  thing  happens.  The  law  requires  the 
body  to  be  buried  in  twenty-four  hours.  If  the  deceased  was  married,  a 
festoon  of  black  cloth  and  gold  is  hung  over  the  street-door ;  for  un- 
married, lilac  and  black  ;  for  children,  white,  or  blue,  or  gold.  Coffina 
for  the  married  are  also  black,  but  for  young  persons  they  are  red,  scarlet, 
or  blue.  Few  persons  are  actually  buried  in  the  shallow  coffins  of  the 
country,  their  principal  use  being  to  convey  the  corpse  to  the  cemetery; 
and  then,  like  the  hearse,  they  are  returned  to  the  undertaker*  Fond  oC 
dress  while  living,  the  Brazilians  are  buried  in  their  best,  and  punctilious 
to  the  last  degree,  they  enforce  etiquette  after  death.  Children  under 
ten  or  eleven  are  set  out  as  friars,  nuns,  saints,  and  angels.  A  boy  as 
St.  John  has  a  pen  in  one  hand  and  a  book  in  the  other.  As  St.  Joseph, 
the  pen  is  replaced  by  a  staff  crowned  with  flowers.  Of  higher  typei, 
Michael  the  Archangel  is  a  fashionable  one.  Girls  are  made  to  represent 
Madonnas  and  other  popular  characters.  Formerly  it  was  the  custom  in 
Rio,  and  it  still  is  so  in  the  interior,  to  carry  young  corpses  upright  ia 
procession  through  the  streets,  when,  but  for  the  closed  eyes,  a  stranger 
could  hardly  believe  the  figure  before  him,  with  painted  cheeks,  hair, 
blowing  in  the  wind,  in  silk  stockings  and  shoes,  and  his  raiment  sparkling 
with  jewels,  grasping  a  palm-branch  in  one  hand,  and  resting  the  other 
quite  naturally  on  some  artificial  support,  could  be  a  dead  child.  Large 
sums  are  occasionally  expended  in  dresses  and  jewels  for  the  dead. 
Mourning  is  a  long  affair,  and  widows  never  lay  aside  their  weeds  unless 
they  marry ;  yet  clusters  of  a  small  purple  flower  are  known  as  "  widows' 
tears."    They  bloom  but  once  a  year,  and  soon  dry  up. 


Life  in  Brazil.  217 

toswS  s\<  'VsA  0 IS: 

M  A  lady/'  Mr.  Ewbank  relates,  "  living  near  us,  recently  became  a 
widbw^  abd,  totheftas^fadibof  ttftisk  applicant'for  her  hand,  induced! 
He*  only  child?  a*  lad?*Jf  eighteen,  to  enter  a  monasteryi  unde*  the  >pretenci* 
tfcalrsiie  tad  in  his  Maner  dedicated  jiim  in  that  way  to  Gad,  and  that 
)&*ta&sVb&&e  means Wl  delivering  His  father's  soul  out  of  purgatory>> 
He  consented,  and  she  and  her  legal  paramour  now  ri<H  oniiis  fathers 
wealth  and  his1  Sown; f  j  Btrtf  widowers  are  not  much  better.  Mention  Was 
made  of  i  tteighboufrwho  lost  his-' wife,  and  cried  himself  almost  to  death1 
in* four  days,  j His  friends,  alariftad,  got'foim*  to  *5b*ll^ wbefehe  met I*- 
faiJy,  afiftdinarrkd  he*  fo  t  wo  montf^   '  > 

'»  In  merchants'  city *s%ablishifientsVttadtoany others,  not  a  female,  black 
dr'white,!^  employed.  They  staid  their  clerks  do' all  the  honours  of  morn- 
ihgV^V^te*^  m  private  'dwellings  'ft  is  customary 

with  gentlemen  visitors  to  *#lfe*e  levies  of -the  teapot.  'Repasts  whid  up1 
with  passing  round  th^  ^aftteir^nrfy  J^  holding  tooths 

picks  of  orange- wood* ,  -,  » 

Mr,  Ewbank' s  sympathies  are  with  <£  a  people  free  from  the  evils  of 
hereditary  rulers,  primogeniture,  tithes,  and  a  state  priesthood  f  but  he 
is  not  an  upholder  of  slavery.  He  rather  admired  than  otherwise  schools 
where  whites*  blacks,  mulatto es,  and  Indians  were  as  thoroughly  mingled 
on  their  seats  as  the  ingredients  of  mottled  granite.  Free  negroes  taking 
their  seat  in  public  conveyances  took  him  a  little  aback,  but  "  the  con- 
stitution," he  remarks,  *B recognises  no  distinction  based  on  colour;1"  and 
he  did  not  like  seeing  slaves  going  past  his  window  for  water,  wearing 
iron  collars  with  Upright  jjron^s  under  their  ears  to  keep  them  to  their 
work,  and  put  it  out  of  their  power  of  being  aught  but  two-legged 
machines. 

'Ladies  neither  go  out  walking  nor  shopping  in  Rio.  Formerly  their  \ 
seclusion  was  indeed  almost' Mdorish.  When  visiting,  they  are  generally 
conveyed  in  a  cadeirinha,  or  sedan*"cfaafrs  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  slaves/ 
The  "cries "  of  London  are  said  to  be  bagatelles  to  those  of  the  Brazilian \ 
capital.  Slaves  of  both  sexes  cry  wares  through  every  street.  Vegetables , 
flowers,  fruit  j  fowls/  eggs,  and  evetf  rural  product ;  cakes,  pies*  daces, 
confectionery  j  bacon,  hardware,  crockery,  drapery,  haberdashery,  shoes, 
bonnets,  even  books  are  hawked  in  $h$  streets*  Proprietors  accompany 
silver- waret  silks,  au,d  bread,  for  blacks  are  not  allowed  to  touch  the 
latter-  The  signal  of  dry-good  vendors  is  made  by  snapping  the  two 
ends  of  a.  yard-stick.  Young  Minas  and  Mozambiques  are  the  most 
numerous,  and  are  reputed  to  be  the  smartest  of  ttiarchandes.  These 
street- vendors  are  called  in  hy  a  sound  something  between  •*  a  hiss  and. 
the  exclamation  used  to  chase  away  fowls."  Among  other  things  sold  in 
the  streets  are  lagartos,  a  large  lizard,  considered  a  table  delicacy,  and 
Mr,  Ewbank  says  much  preferable  to  any  flying  game !  The  almost 
uniform  dress  of  itinerant  salesmen  is  a  brown  shirt  and  trousers,  ending 
at  the  knees  and  elbows.  A  dealer  in  fancy  wares  had  also  pictures  of 
saints — coarse  woodcuts  in  penny  frames.  Taking  up  Dominic,  Mr. 
Ewbank  asked  the  price*  The  sable  merchant  shook  his  head,  "It 
had  been  blessed ;  it  could  not  be  Sold ;  only  exchanged ;  it  cost  two 
patacas."  It  la  in  this  way  that  value  is  put  uprro  holy  things.  You 
are  told  they  cost  so  much,  and  will  be  exchanged  for  an  equal  sum. 

During  tha  festival  ofthe  Intrude,  which  resembles  the  Hindhu  Kohlee, 
<p  ^ii>  nooa  hna  ,-iii'jy  a  woo  jug  nm^Id  *{on  ■         ^mt 


218  Lift  in  Brazil. 

starch  is  cast  over  people's  heads  and  shoulders,  shells  of  coloured  wax 
filled  with  water  are  thrown  at  one  another,  and  in  the  streets  the  uufar- 
tunate  wayfarer  is  greeted  with  the  contents  of  huge  tin  -syringes,  oahed 
fonileros.  All  sorts  of  foolish  practical  jokes  are  also  put  in  force; 
persons  are  sent  on  fools'  errands,  bedclothes  and  hab&meate  aw  sewn 
up ;  the  materials  of  a  dinner  or  a  dozen  of  wine  are  even  sent  for,  and 
the  victims  invited  to  partake  of  the  fare.  "  Intrudo  lies  are  no  sin,"  is 
a  proverb  with  the  Brazilian  ladies,  who  indulge  in  the  sports  of  the 
festival  with  all  the  glee  and  zeal  of  children. 

The  negroes  are  as  musical  in  Brazil  as  they  are  in  die  XJnited  States. 
Their  chief  instrument  is  the  marimba — a  calabash  with  thin  eteei  rods 
fixed  inside  on  a  board ;  but  every  nation  has  his  own,  so  that  a  Congo, 
Angola,  Minas,  Ashantee,  or  Mozambique  instrument  is  recognisable. 
" The  city,"  Mr.  Ewbank  says,  "is  an  Ethiopian  theatre,  said  this  the 
favourite  instrument  of  the  orchestra."  Mr.  Ewbank  admired  some  of 
the  sable  lavandeiras,  or  washing-girls.  They  are  very  shgbtiy  draped; 
and  figures,  he  sayB,  graceful  as  any  seen  at  the  wells  of  the  East,  occur 
among  them.  Dogs  are  destroyed  in  the  streets  with  little  balls  nude  of 
floor,  fat,  and  nux  vomica.  Mr.  Ewbank  passed  in  one  day  five  of  these 
sacrifices  made  to  Sirius. 

Slaves  are  the  beasts  of  draught  as  well  as  of  harden.  Few  contri- 
vances on  wheels  being  in  use,  they  mostly  drag  their  loads,  sometime! 
on  a  plank  greased  or  wetted  1  Tracks  are,  however,  getting  mat 
common.  Sometimes  the  slaves  are  chained  to  the  trucks.  Neither  age 
nor  sex  is  free  from  iron  shackles.  Mr*  Ewbank  desecidbes  having  seem  • 
very  handsome  Mozambique  girl  with  a  double-pronged  collar  on$  she 
could  not  have  been  over  sixteen.  While  standing  on  a  balcony  of  a 
house  in  Custom-house-street,  a  little  old  negress,  four-fifths  naked, 
toddled  past,  in  die  middle  of  the  street,  with  an  <enormous  slop-*tab  oa 
her  head  (there  are  no  conveniences  nor  sewers  hi  Boo  ;  everything  is 
daily  carried  away  by  the  negroes),  and  secured  by  a  lock  and  chain  to 

her  neck.     "  <  Explain  that,  Mr.  C ,'  I  said.    <  Oh,  she  is  going  Is 

empty  slops  on  the  beach,  and  being  probably  in  the  habit  of  uniting 
vendas,  she  is  thus  prevented,  as  the  offensive  vessel  would  not  to 
admitted.  Some  slaves  have  been  known  to  sell  their  "  barn*  "  for  ran, 
and  such  are  sent  to  the  fountains  and  to  the  Praya,  accoutred  as  tint 
old  woman  is.9 "  The  coffee-carriers  do  their  work  at a trot,  or  haltan, 
with  a  load  weighing  1601bs.  resting  on  the  head  and  shoulders.  Tat 
average  life  of  a  ooftee-carrier  does  not  exceed  ten  years.  In  that  ton* 
the  work  ruptures  and  kills  them !  Negro-life  is  not  much  gegatdsd  is 
Rio.  Yet  the  poor  fellows  go  to  their  doomed  task  -with  a  ohaat 
Negroes  are  also  made  to  carry  coals,  building-stones,  and  ouher  hear? 
weights — loads  almost  fit  for  a  cart  and  horse.  No  wonder,  Mr.  fiwbanx 
remarks,  that  slaves  shockingly  crippled  in  their  lower  hmbs  are  st 
numerous.  "  There  waddled  before  me,  in  a  manner  dntoetsing  to) 
behold,  a  man  whose  thighs  and  legs  curved  so  far  outward  that  his 
trunk  was  not  over  fifteen  inches  from  the  ground."  In  others  the  knees 
cross  each  other,  with  the  feet  proternaturally  apart,  as  if  supennomnbeBt 
loads  had  pushed  his  knees  in  instead  of  out.  In  others,  again,  the  body 
has  settled  low  down,  and  the  feet  are  drawn  both  on  one  side,  so  thai 
the  legs  are  parallel  at  an  angle  of  thirty  degrees. 


Lift  in  Brazil.  219 

A  propoe  of  Brazilian  tobaoeo  and  snuff— the  last,  the  real  original  and 
the  best  in  the  world.  Mr.  Ewbank  argues  that  tobacco  lias  avenged,  to 
son*  extent,  the  New  World  for  the  blood  of  her  children  slain  by  those 
of  fa  Old,  in  its  Ciroean  effects,  physical  and  moral.  "All  the  eon- 
querors,"  he  says,  "  haw  become  tainted  with  die  poison ;  the  most 
ruthless  are  the  most  deeply  polluted.  Formerly,  the  first  powers  of  the 
earth,  now  contemptible  for  their  weakness,  dissensions,  and  crimes, 
slaves  to  blighting  superstitions,  to  ignorance,  poverty,  pride,  and  a 
poisonous  weedF 

What  punishment  may  Providence  also  have  in  store  for  those  who 
traffic  in  human  flesh,  and  sell  a  fellow-creature  to  a  servitude  which 
allows  of  only  ten  years'  life  ?  Well  might  a  stranger  remark,  on  passing 
a  castle-like  structure  in  Bio,  "  The  blood  of  negroes  built  that."  Even 
in  Brazil  it  is  remarked  that  the  great  slave-merchants  do  not  flourish 
long,  and  never  prosper  to  the  last.  "  They  die  early,  or  their  wealth 
leaves  them ;  they  live  unhappy,  and  seldom  leave  children.  With  them 
the  smell  of  gain  is  good,  but  like  ioe  it  melts  away." 

In  Brazil,  from  the  admixture  of  blood  that  takes  place,  the  greatest 
variety  of  colour  is  to  be  seen  in  the  same  family.  Mr.  Ewbank  noticed 
one  family  of  seven  children,  in  which  the  youngest  was  very  fair,  while 
the  colour  of  the  rest  veered  between  cinnamon  and  olive.  Besides 
crosses,  crucifixes,  crowns,  palms,  glories,  and  other  sacerdotal  bijouterie, 
charms  and  amulets  also  abound.  Even  children  are  protected  by  these 
preservatives.  Fashion  in  ornament  also  takes  at  tames  curious  turns ; 
one  lady  will  wear  a  necklace  of  miniature  ewKnary  utensils,  another 
wears  a  look  at  one  ear  and  a  key  at  the  other.  The  sentiment  embodied 
in  the  device  is  apparent:  Lock  up  what  you  hear.  Even  hour-glasses, 
as  auricular  pendants,  are  not  out  of  fashion  m  Brazil. 

There  are  only  three  or  four  eating-houses  m  Bio.     The  charges  are 

low  and  the  viands  uninviting.     Everything  that  has  1%  and  substance 

is  said  to  be  caught  and  cooked  in  Brazil,  so  the  stranger  cannot  be 

always  quite  sure  of  what  be  is  eating  in  a  ragout  at  Bio.  The  prominent 

feature,  curiously  enough  for  so  hot  a  climate,  is  the  enormous  con- 

sumption  of  pork.     "And  then  what  pork!     It  is  all  fat;  at  least,  what 

lean  appears  is  but  a  film — a  slip  of  pink  blotting-paper  lost  in  a  ledger." 

Pork  is  used  by  the  highest  and  lowest  every  day,  and  is  considered  by 

Jong  experience  to  be  as  wholesome  in  Brazil  as  in  any  part  of  the  earth. 

The  great  Spanish  dish  is  the  oUa,  composed  of  fowls,  mutton,  beef,  and 

•ether  saatters,  but  never  without  bacon ;  hence,  "an  olla  without  bacon 

is  no  olla."     And  so  with  the  Portuguese  and  Brazilians;  a  dinner 

without  toucinho  is  next  to  no  dinner  at  all.     FcijaQ  com  toucinho  is 

the  national  dish  of  Brazil     Next  to  this  in  estimation  comes  toucinho 

do  ceo,  "  heavenly  bacon,"  with  almond  paste,  eggs,  sugar,  butter,  and  a 

spoonful  or  two  of  flour.     The  glorification  of  bacon  is  of  very  ancient 

«aie,  and  as  the  most  popular  and  esteemed  of  carneous  aliments,  it  was 

given  as  rewards  for  rural,  and  particularly  for  connubial  virtues.     El 

tocino  del  Faraiso  el  casado  no  anepiso.  *  Bacon  of  Paradise,  for  the 

married  who  repent  not,  is  a  medieval  proverb.     The  lusty  priests  and 

aleak  monks  of  Brazil  indulge  largely  in  toucinho,  without  much  regard 

to  the  virtues.     The  first  are  notorious  free-livers.     Nearly  all,  Mr. 

Ewbank  tells  us,  have  families,  and  when  seen  leaving  the  dwellings  of 


220  I4fe  &  BrnzSL 

their  wives— or  females  who  ought  to  be — they  invariably  speak  of  them 
as  their  nieces  or  sisters.* 

Some  of  the  popular  articles  of  native  pastry  and  confectionery  awaken 
curiosity:  celestial  slices,  for  example,  described  as  fine  bread  soaked  in 
milk,  and  steeped  in  a  hot  compound  fluid  of  sugar,  cinnamon,  and  yolk 
of  eggs;  Mother  Bentds  cakes — an  angelic  dainty,  invented  by  an  an- 
cient nun  of  the  Adjuda  convent — the  ingredients,  rice-flour,  butter, 
sugar,  grated  meat  of  the  cocoa-nut,  and  orange-water ;  widows — sweet 
paste,  win  as  tissue-paper,  piled  an  inch  thick  on  each  other,  and  baked. 
Then  there  are  sighs,  lies,  angeVs  hair,  egg-threads,  weaning-piUs,  and 
negro's  feet.  Rosaries  are  eight  and  ten-inch  rings  or  strings  of  praying 
beads,  by  which  the  Credo  may  be  acquired  with  incrusted  almonds,  and 
Ave  Marias  counted  with  pellets  of  jujube  paste. 

In  Equatorial  Brazil  the  amounts  of  dowries  and  other  settlements  are 
generally  fixed  in  cocoa-trees,  whose  current  value  is  as  well  understood 
as  coin  itself ;  in  the  south,  as  at  Rio,  coffee-trees  take  the  place  of  cocoa. 
A  planter  promises  to  a  son  or  daughter  a  certain  number  of  cruzados, 
and  they  take  them  out  in  plants ;  the  current  value  of  each  being  a 
cruzado,  or  twenty  cents.  The  Rio  people  are  nicknamed  "  cariocas" 
and  "  ducks,"  from  their  fondness  for  ablutions,  and  "  bananas,"  because 
they  are  soft  and  indolent.  The  stem  of  the  banana  never  hardens  into 
wood.  The  hale  and  active  Rio  Grandees— -"  enascas,"  as  they  are 
called,  from  the  thongs  with  which  they  make  their  lassos  and  whips, 
despise  the  people  of  Rio  as  "  women."  The  Rio  Grande  belles  are  real 
Amazons,  ride  like  men,  and  dress  like  men,  with  boots  and  spurs,  and 
sometimes  military  caps  and  epaulets.  These  ladies  have  no  hesitation 
in  sending  a  disagreeable  person  to  what  the  Portuguese  call  the  English* 
man's  heaven — a  place  antipodal  to  the  abode  of  the  righteous. 

A  visit  to  the  palace  was  as  good  as  an  anti-splenetic  draught  to  Mr. 
Ewbank.  It  must  have  benefited  him  for  a  month  afterwards.  After 
rattling  away  at  the  thick  heads  of  "  incarnations  of  royalty,"  "  Jezebel 
queens,"  and  "  anointed  carnivoraof  ancient  and  modern  times,"  he  adds 
that  Brazilians  "  are  tenacious  of  the  solemn  fooleries  of  the  Portuguese 
and  other  European  court  ceremonies,  which  it  is  hardly  possible  to  wit* 
ness  without  feelings  of  contempt  for  the  actors."  He  actually  groaned  with 
emotion  "  on  beholding  American  ministers  paying  a  humiliating  homage 
to  monarchy,  which  the  republics  of  Greece  would  not  allow  their  emba* 
sadors,  even  at  the  court  of  Persia,  to  offer."t  To  his  infinite  horror  he 
also  saw  a  viscount  nursing  an  infant  prince;  "  and  is  it  for  employments 

*  The  evils  consequent  on  the  celibacy  of  the  priesthood,  Mr.  Ewbank  points 
out  at  length,  are  in  Brazil  of  the  most  revolting  character.  If  a  priest  is  ordered 
from  Rio  to  a  country  station,  he  will  take  with  him  some  young  girl  or  newly- 
married  woman  from  her  parents  or  husband.  The  police  having  once  interfered 
to  rescue  a  female  from  a  monastery,  she  was  found  in  one  of  the  cells  in  a  dying 
condition  !  In  a  proverbially  licentious  and  profligate  community,  the  priests 
exceed  all  in  licentiousness  and  profligacy.  They  are  so  superlatively  corrupt 
that  it  is  impossible  for  men  to  be  worse,  or  to  imagine  men  worse. 

t  Elsewhere,  Mr.  Ewbank,  criticising  Mr.  Wise's  deportment  before  the  em- 
peror, says,  "There  are  republicans  without  even  the  virtue  of  Iamenias,  who 
pander  to  royalty  to  an  extent  that,  in  an  Athenian  or  Spartan  embauador, 
would  have  been  punished  with  death." 


Life  in  Brazil.  221 

like  that,  I  thought;  for  which  such  a  man  was  made  ?*'  "But  such," 
he  adds,  "  is  the  philosophy  of  monarchy  !"  When  at  the  extremity  of 
the  imperial  pond,  or  lake,  Mr.  Ewbank  saw  two  negro  women  knee-deep 
in  it,  washing,  and  within  five  feet  of  them  two  black  men,  perfectly  nude, 
engaged  in  tne  same  operation — did  he  think  that  such  was  also  one  of 
the  elements  of  greatness  in  a  free  republic  ?  Have  not  all  human  insti- 
tutions their  faults,  and  will  the  knowledge  of  this  never  teach  forbear- 
ance ?  Not  apparently  with  the  Yankees ;  whatever  is  not  of  them  and 
like  them  is  corrupt,  bad,  false,  and  despicable. 

If  we  find  startling  inconsistencies  in  democracy  between  faith  and 
practice,  so  also  we  find,  at  the  other  extreme  of  Romanist  bigotry  and 
priestcraft,  the  most  startling  inconsistencies  between  the  practice  of  piety 
and  the  principles  of  humanity.  Imagine,  for  example,  a  man  selling  his 
own  children  by  his  slaves,  to  found  a  church !  Yet  such  was  the  case  in 
the  instance  of  Antonio  dos  Pobres.  Mr.  Ewbank  was  so  much  amused 
with  the  ex  votos  offerings  in  the  churches,  that  he  gives  us  a  sketch  of 
a  selection  from  the  Paula  church,  consisting  of  hands  with  wens,  breasts 
with  excrescences,  and  feet  distorted.  He  also  favours  us  with  a  sketch 
of  the  Virgin's  shoe-sole,  as  it  fell  from  heaven  near  Padua  in  1543,  and 
is  now  preserved  in  the  little  fane  of  San  Sebastian  at  Rio.  Visiting  the 
convent  of  Ajuda,  he  justly  asks,  "  If,  as  is  said,  nuns  are  happy  in  their  . 
cells,  for  what  purpose  then,  in  lands  where  law  prevails,  are  there  massive 
walls,  gratings,  bolts,  locks,  and  other  devices  ?  Even  shackles,  it  is  ad- 
mitted, are  not  wanting  in  this  place.  No  felon-prison  can  have  a  better 
system  of  securities.  What  alliance  can  there  be  between  the  gentle, 
willing  spirit  of  the  Gospel  and  so  much  iron  ?  Penal  statutes  suffice  to 
prevent  people  from  breaking  in  ;  what  need  of  such  devices,  if  not  de- 
signed to  keep  those  confined  from  breaking  out  ?"  This  is  followed  up 
by  the  details  of  instances  publicly  known  in  Rio,  where  imprisonment 
in  convents  has  been  used  for  the  basest  and  most  criminal  purposes,  and 
where  the  victims  have  fallen  "  under  tortures  known  only  to  the  fiends 
that  inflicted  them."  The  law  cannot  interfere, — no  civil  officer  can  enter 
a  convent,  no  correspondence  can  go  out. 

Of  the  forty  odd  churches  in  Rio,  one  only,  that  of  St.  Francis  de 
Paula,  has  a  clock.  Men,  "  Jacks  of  the  Clock,"  are  employed,  like  an- 
cient sacristans,  to  grasp  the  clapper  of  church-bells  and  proclaim  the 
hours,  sometimes  by  a  corresponding  number  of  strokes,  but  not  always 
so.  Some  of  them,  after  striking  the  hour,  indulge  in  a  little  fancy 
flourish. 

Going  to  the  botanical  gardens  with  a  small  party,  Mr.  Ewbank  dined 
at  a  lpw  and  mean-looking  tavern,  yet  where  they  had  soup;  fish  resem- 
bling large  striped  bass,  brought  ashore  alive,  and  prepared  in  three  dif- 
ferent ways;  boiled  beef;  roast  beef;  fried  eggs  and  greens  served  to- 
gether ;  boiled  chickens ;  roast  ditto ;  ditto  fricaseed ;  curry  sauce; 
salads ;  potatoes ;  mandioca,  dry  and  made  up  like  mush ;  rice ;  sweet 
puddings;  sweetmeats  (quince  and  citron)  ;  bananas;  oranges;  almonds; 
prunes ;  wine  of  two  kinds ;  liqueurs  for  the  ladies;  and  a  dozen  other 
things.  Half  an  hour  after,  strong  coffee  was  served.  This  repast  for 
nine  persons,  another  for  the  driver,  the  previous  lunch  of  the  party,  and  • 
feed  for  four  mules,  cost  only  ten  dollars.  This  is  followed  by  a  list  of 
some  five  hundred  and  sixty  plants  growing  in  the  botanical  gardens  of 

June — voi*.  cvxi.  no.  ccccfirtt.  Q 


222  Life  in  Brazil 

Rio.  It  is  more  carious  to  read  that  round  die  boll  of  a  sago-tree  a  bril- 
liant band  of  scarlet  and  other  variegated  colours  was  observed  coiled.  It 
was  a  coral  snake,  the  most  beautiful,  and  reputed  the  most  venomous  ef 
Brazilian  serpents. 

St.  Laria  is  the  patroness  of  the  blind,  and  her  shrine  is  much  fre- 
quented by  slaves,  among  whom  blindness  is  exceedingly  prevalent.  Hie 
saint  stands  at  the  farther  end  of  the  church,  of  natural  size,  holding  toe 
eyeballs  on  a  plate  or  saucer.  Her  collectors  carry  with  them  a  silver 
eye  for  contributors  to  kiss.  One  of  the  almost  endless  metamorphoses 
of  the  Virgin  and  Child  is  into  "  Nossa  Senhora  de  Cabo  da  Boa  Espe- 
ranca."  Mr.  Ewbank  serves  up  the  metamorphosis  in  a  woodcut.  For- 
merly there  was  no  threading  a  street  or  turning  a  corner  without  having 
to  compliment  some  diminutive  divinities — "  to  us,"  says  Mr.  Ewbank, 
u  but  eighteen-inch  dolls" — but  they  are  now  rapidly  disappearing.  The 
blacks,  who  never  do  anything  by  halves  except  labour,  so  thronged 
round  the  street-images,  and  so  annoyed  the  neighbours  with  their 
orisons,  that  instead  of  a  city  blessing,  the  little  genii  verged  towards  a 
municipal  nuisance,  and  became  gradually  removed. 

The  unavoidable  tendency  of  slavery  everywhere  is  to  render  labour 
disreputable.  Black  slavery  is  rife  in  Brazil,  and  Brazilians  shrink  with 
something  allied  to  horror  from  manual  employments.  Ask  a  nature 
youth  of  a  family  in  low  circumstances  why  he  does  not  learn  a  trade 
and  earn  an  independent  living,  ten  to  one  but  he  will  tremble  with  in- 
dignation, and  inquire  if  you  mean  to  insult  him!  "Work!  work!" 
screamed  one ;  "  we  have  blacks  to  do  that."  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
families  have  one  or  two  slaves,  on  whose  earnings  alone  they  live  j 

Hence  in  Rio,  the  master  mechanics  and  tradesmen  are,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  French  and  other  foreigners,  Portuguese.  The  richest 
men  in  the  country,  the  most  industrious  artisans,  and  assiduous  of  store- 
keepers are  Lusitanians.  Brazilians  dislike  them,  perhaps  as  much  for 
the  competence  their  diligence  in  business  realises  as  for  anything  else. 

Gambling  in  Rio  is  universal.  Lotteries  are  granted  for  all  sorts  of 
things,  and  fresh  ones  are  perpetually  announced.  Most  of  them  are 
granted  to  religious  orders,  for  their  benefices.  Boys  run  about  peddling 
tickets ;  they  enter  stores,  visit  the  markets,  and  even  stop  you  in  the 
street ;  nay,  women  are  sent  out  as  agents  by  the  dealers. 

The  consumption  of  mate,  or  Paraguay  tea,  in  Brazil  is  very  great,  sj 
it  is  considered  an  indispensable  preservative  against  climatic  influences. 
In  the  market,  five-feet  sharks  are  sold  with  bass  and  mackerel.  The 
fountains  of  Rio  are  eminently  picturesque.  There  is  not  one,  Mr. 
Ewbank  says,  but  presents,  with  the  landscape  of  which  it  makes  the  fore- 
ground, the  elements  of  a  picture. 

The  circumstance  of  the  senators  opening  the  legislative  session  in 
official  costume  was  naturally  offensive  to  the  eyes  of  a  democrat.  Bra- 
zilians, Mr.  Ewbank  remarked,  do  not  lack  the  elements  of  greatness,  hot 
a  patriot  in  homespun — a  Franklin,  Phocion,  or  Dentatus — would  hardly 
be  appreciated.  An  aerial-looking  personage,  powdered  and  uniquely 
draped,  tripped  in  and  out.  "  I  took  him,9'  says  Mr.  Ewbank,  "  for  master 
of  ceremonies,  but  he  was  Speaker  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies."  When 
the  emperor  came  in  he  had  nearly  reached  the  throne,  when  a  gentleman 
entered  behind  holding  up  with  both  hands  the  continuation  of  his  train. 
The  imperial  throat  was  surrounded  like  a  schoolboy's  by  a  shirt-toft 


Life  in  Brazil.  223 

whose  triple  row  of  edging  rested  on  an  ermine  tippet  that  reached  to  his 
elbows.  From  the  tippet  to  the  toes  he  was  in  white  satin,  "  and  the 
whole,"  Mr.  Ewbank,  in  his  national  contempt  for  royalty,  concludes  his 
description  by  saying,  "  so  closely  fitted  to  the  upper  and  nether  limbs, 
that,  divested  of  the  train  and  tippet,  he  might  have  been  taken  any- 
where else  for  a  pantaloon,  or,  judging  from  the  long  pole  he  leaned  on, 
for  a  rope-dancer  about  to  turn  a  somersault."  "Like  other  histrionic 
gentlemen,  royal  actors,"  he  adds  afterwards,  "  must  submit  to  theatrical 
criticism." 

Mr.  Ewbank  attended  a  sale  where  the  goods  were  Hying  beings. 
Among  the  men  were  carpenters,  masons,  sailors,  tailors,  cooks,  and  a 
barber-surgeon,  who,  like  most  of  his  profession,  was  a  musician— "  No.  19, 
1  Rapaz,  Barbebo,  bom  sangrador  e  musico."  Among  the  females  were 
washers,  sewers,  cooks,  two  dressmakers  *  muito  prendada,"  very  accom- 
plished. A  couple  were  wet-nurses,  with  much  good  milk,  and  each  with 
a  colt  or  filly;  thus :  "No.  61,  1  Rapariga,  com  muito  bom  leite,  coin 
cria."  Cria  signifies  the  young  of  horses,  and  is  applied  to  negro 
offspring. 

"  They  were  of  every  shade,  from  deep  Angola  jet  to  white,  or  nearly 
white,  as  one  young  woman  facing  me  appeared.  She  was  certainly 
superior  in  mental  organisation  to  some  of  the  buyers.  Hie  anguish 
with  which  she  watched  the  proceedings,  and  waited  her  turn  to  be  bought 
out,  exposed,  examined,  and  disposed  o£  was  distressing.  A  little  girl — 
I  suppose  her  own — stood  by  her  weeping,  with  one  hand  in  her  lap,  ob- 
viously dreading  to  be  torn  away.  This  child  did  not  cry  out-— that  is 
not  allowed — but  tears  chased  each  other  down  her  cheeks,  her  little 
bosom  panted  violently,  and  such  a  look  of  alarm  marked  her  face  as  she 
turned  her  large  eyes  on  the  proceedings,  that  I  thought  at  one  time  she 
would  have  dropped. 

"  Purchasers  of  pots  and  pot-lids,''  said  Diogenes,  "  ring  them  lest 
they  should  carry  cracked  ones  home,  but  men  they  buy  on  sight."  If 
such  was  the  practice  of  old,  it  is  not  so  now :  the  head,  eyes,  mouth, 
teeth,  arms,  hands,  trunks,  legs,  feet — every  limb  and  ligament  without 
are  scrutinised,  while,  to  ascertain  if  aught  within  be  ruptured,  the  breast 
and  other  parts  are  sounded. " 

Yet  the  people  who  practise  these  abominations  are  no  more  wanting 
in  the  spirit  of  national  glorification  than  any  othor  nation  in  the  world 
—even  than  the  stern  and  would-be  classical  Republican.  Upon  the 
occasion  of  the  burial  of  the  Friar  Barboza,  secretary  of  the  Historical 
and  Geographical  Institute,  orations  were  read  in  which,  among  other 
sentences,  occur  the  following : 

"  Almost  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  the  consummation  of  the  famed 
fact — the  creation  of  a  new  empire  on  the  earth — death  has  come  and 
snatched  away  a  chief  actor  in  the  great  drama,  of  which  the  principal 
actor  was  the  son  of  kings,  the  beloved  Prince  of  Liberty  in  the  Old 
World  and  the  New. 

"  The  New  World  was  not  shaped  to  be  measured  by  the  hands  of  a 
pigmy.  The  mouths  of  the  Amazon,  Madeira,  Xingu,  and  Guavba,  were 
designed  by  Providence  for  a  people  of  giants ;  and  for  a  prince  who, 
from  the  summit  of  his  throne,  must  one  day  have  conference  with  the 
universe,  and  mark  the  track  of  his  high  destiny  I" 

<*2 


(     224     ) 


THE  LAST  OF  MOORE'S  JOURNAL  AND  DIARY  * 

Redolent  with  wit,  taste,  and  imagination,  the  fact  of  bringing 
Thomas  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary  to  a  conclusion,  is  almost  like  the 
poet's  second  departure.  Happily  the  work  is  a  literary  apotheosis  of 
the  man — one  by  which  his  name  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity  as 
assuredly  as  it  will  by  his  immortal  "  Melodies."  His  character  stands 
portrayed  by  his  own  hand,  and  his  Diary  places  on  record,  as  Lord 
John  Russell  justly  remarks,  in  his  own  words,  his  defects  as  well  as  his 
good  qualities. 

Those  biographers  who  exalt  every  merit  of  their  hero,  and  defend  all  his 
actions,  either  deceive  themselves  or  wish  to  impose  upon  the  world.  That 
which  is  instructive  in  itself,  is  the  study  of  men  as  they  were,  whether  heroes, 
or  statesmen,  or  poets,  when  they  have  been  swept  away  by  the  storm,  or  have 
fallen  in  natural  decay,  and  are  scattered, 

"Oil  va  la  feuille  de  rose, 
Et  la  feuille  de  laurier." 

It  is  a  pleasant  thine  to  reflect  that  the  men  of  our  age  and  of  our  nation 
whose  characters  have  been  unfolded  to  the  world  by  the  publication  of  then- 
letters  and  their  lives,  have  been  proved  generally  to  be  men  of  honest  hearts  and 
pure  intentions.    A  century  has  made  a  great  change  for  the  better. 

If  we  compare  Wellington  to  Marlborough,  Romilly  and  Horner  to  Boling- 
broke  and  Pulteney,  Southey  and  Moore  to  Pope  and  Swift,  we  shall  find  that 
the  standard  of  moral  worth,  though  still  far  too  low,  has  been  vastly  raised 
in  the  period  which  has  elapsed  since  the  commencement  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. 

Moore  was  imbued  throughout  his  life  with  an  attachment  to  the  principles 
of  liberty;  and  he  naturally  adopted  the  principles  of  that  party  which  contended 
for  religious  liberty  and  political  reform.  His  taste  for  educated  and  refined 
society  Ted  him  into  the  company  of  the  aristocratic  classes  in  London.  Among 
these  he  was  understood,  appreciated,  and  admired.  The  more  eminent  of  all 
political  parties  were  charmed  by  his  poetry,  struck  with  his  wit,  and  attached 
by  the  playful  negligence  of  his  conversation.  A  man  who  was  courted  and 
esteemed  by  Lord  Lansdowne,  Mr.  Canning,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  Mr.  Rogers,  Mr. 
Sydney  Smith,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Lord  Byron,  must  have  had  social  as  well 
as  literary  merits  of  no  common  order.  It  was  part  of  his  nature  to  prize  the 
tributes  he  received  from  such  men,  but  likewise  to  doubt  whether  he  was 
worthy  of  so  much  admiration.  Hence  his  frequent  recurrence  in  his  Diary  to 
little  proofs  of  kindness  and  attention  from  those  he  himself  admired  for  their 
genius,  or  esteemed  for  their  integrity. 

The  course  of  politics  led  him  into  the  composition  of  political  squibs  of  various 
merit.  The  "  Vision  in  the  Court  of  Chancery,"  the  "  Slave,"  the  "  Breadfruit- 
tree,"  and  many  more,  are  replete  with  sense  and  feeling,  as  well  as  wit.  Others, 
intended  to  satirise  George  Iv.,  when  Prince  Regent,  are  neither  pure  in  point 
of  taste,  nor  laughable  in  point  of  humour ;  while  they  have  too  much  of  per- 
sonal hostility  for  this  kind  of  composition. 

It  is  singular  that  Mr.  Moore  should  have  been  one  of  the  gloomy  prophets 
who  predicted  revolution  and  calamity  as  the  consequences  of  the  Reform  Act. 
Lord  Grey,  with  a  truer  knowledge  of  the  English  people,  was  of  opinion  that 
the  measure,  to  be  safe,  must  be  large;  and  those  who  acted  with  him  and  under 
him,  framed  the  Reform  Bill  in  that  spirit. 

*  Memoirs,  Journal,  and  Correspondence  of  Thomas  Moore.  Edited  by  the 
Right  Hon.  Lord  John  Russell,  MP.    Vols.  VII.,  VIII.    Longman  and  Co. 


The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary.  225 

There  is,  perhaps,  in  men  of  letters,  a  tendency  to  be  dissatisfied  with  the 
political  system  under  which  they  live.  Sir  James  Mackintosh  used  to  observe 
that  the  greatest  authors  of  Athens  were  evidently  averse  to  the  rule  of  the  de- 
mocracy. In  France,  before  the  Revolution,  the  most  brilliant  writers  were  as 
evidently  hostile  to  the  absolute  monarchy  under  which  they  lived.  In  our  own 
time  Southey  and  Coleridge  began  with  democracy,  Scott  as  a  Jacobite,  Moore 
as  a  disaffected  Irish  Catholic.  The  freedom  of  literary  pursuits  leads  men  to 
question  the  excellence  of  the  ruling  power;  and  thus  despotism  and  democracy 
alike  find  enemies  among  the  most  highly-gifted  of  those  who  live  under  their 
sway.  Had  Reform  never  been  triumphant,  Moore  would,  in  all  probability,  have 
remained  a  warm  Reformer. 

Moore's  domestic  life  gave  scope  to  the  best  parts  of  his  character.  His  beau- 
tiful wife,  faultless  in  conduct,  a  fond  mother,  a  lively  companion,  devoted  in  her 
attachment,  always  ready — perhaps  too  ready — to  sacrifice  her  own  domestic 
enjoyments  that  he  might  be  admired  and  known,  was  a  treasure  of  inestimable 
value  to  his  happiness.  I  have  said  that  perhaps  she  was  too  ready  to  sacrifice 
herself,  because  it  would  have  been  better  for  Mr.  Moore  if  he  had  not  yielded  so 
much  to  the  attractions  of  society,  however  dazzling,  and  however  tempting.  Yet 
those  who  imagine  that  he  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  London  are 
greatly  in  error.  The  London  days  are  minutely  recorded ;  the  Sloperton  months 
are  passed  over  in  a  few  lines.  Except  when  he  went  to  Bowood,  or  some  other 
house  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  words  "  read  and  wrote,"  comprise  the  events 
of  week  after  week  of  literary  labour  and  domestic  affection. 

Those  days  of  intellectual  society  and  patient  labour  have  alike  passed  away. 
The  breakfasts  with  Rogers,  the  dinners  at  Holland  House,  the  evenings  when 
beautiful  women  and  grave  judges  listened  in  rapture  to  his  song,  have  passed 
away.  The  days  when  a  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  the  "  Excursion"  of  Words- 
worth, the  "  Curse  of  Kehama"  of  Southey,  and  the  "  Lalla  Rookh"  of  Moore, 
burst  in  rapid  succession  upon  the  world,  are  gone.  But  the  world  will  not  for- 
get that  brilliant  period ;  and  while  poetry  has  charms  for  mankind,  the  "  Melo- 
dies" of  Moore  will  survive. 

His  last  days  were  peaceful  and  happy ;  his  domestic  sorrows,  his  literary 
triumphs,  seem  to  have  faded  away  alike  into  a  calm  repose.  He  retained  to  his 
last  moments  a  pious  submission  to  God,*  and  a  grateful  sense  of  the  kindness 
of  her  whose  tender  office  it  was  to  watcli  over  his  decline.  Those  who  have 
enjoyed  the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  and  heard  the  enchantments  of  his  song,  will 
never  forget  the  charms  of  his  society.  The  world,  so  long  as  it  can  be  moved 
by  sympathy,  and  exalted  by  fancy,  will  not  willingly  let  die  the  tender  strains, 
and  the  patriotic  fires  of  a  true  poet.  J.  R. 

Lord  John  Russell  has,  in  this  tribute  to  the  poet's  memory,  given  to 
one  of  the  poet's  prominent  defects  the  most  kindly  and  amiable  version 
which  it  is  susceptible  of.  We  allude  to  the  manifest  pleasure  which  he 
takes  in  placing  upon  record  all  such  incidents  and  sayings  as  tend  to 
his  own  glorification. 

Moore  says  himself  upon  this  point,  on  the  occasion  of  receiving  a 
note  from  Montalembert,  which  he  describes  as  being  full  of  kind  and 
well-turned  praise,  but  which  he  feared  he  had  lost,  "  Should  have  been 
glad  to  transcribe  it  here,  along  with  those  many  other  tributes  which  I 
feel  the  more  gratified  by  from  an  inward  consciousness  that  I  but  little 
deserve  them.  Yet  this  is  what,  to  the  world,  appears  vanity.  A  most 
egregious  though  natural  mistake.  It  is  the  really  self-satisfied  man 
that  least  minds  or  cares  what  others  think  of  him." 

•  Mrs.  Moore,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  has  recorded  in  her  memory  his 
earnest  exhortation:  "  Lean  upon  God,  Bessy;  lean  upon  God." 


226  The  Last  ofMooris  Journal  and  Diary. 

We  do  not  agree  with  the  poet's  philosophy.  He  confounds  pride, 
which  is  self-love,  with  vanity,  which  is  love  of  approbation.  The  really 
self-satisfied  man  has  no  love  or  care  for  approbation,  because  his  pride 
exceeds  his  vanity,  but  to  be  gratified  with  the  tributes  of  applause  of 
others  remains  vanity  all  the  same  ;  and  when  tempered  by  the  inward 
consciousness  of  Httle  desert,  vanity  in  its  most  amiable  form.  Vanity, 
however  offensive  the  word  may  be,  belongs  to  all  alike,  and  it  is  in  its 
uses — not  its  abuses — Kke  all  Providential  arrangements,  of  most  excel- 
lent purport.  There  could  be  no  civilisation  where  none  cared  for  the 
good  opinion  of  his  neighbours ;  and  without  the  love  of  approbation  we 
should  nave  no  heroes  or  heroines  for  the  worship  of  those  who  would 
pander  to  the  abuses  of  that  which  in  itself  is  so  good  and  so  praise- 
worthy. 

Sydney  Smith  and  Luttrell  were  boon  companions  of  the  poet  almost 
up  to  his  last  days,  and  the  good  things  said  or  done  by  them  continue, 
as  in  the  early  tomes  of  the  Journal  and  Diary,  to  be  among  the  most 
sprightly  and  laughable  therein. 

Going,  for  example,  to  dine  at  Longman's  one  day,  to  meet  Kirby  and 
Spence,  the  entomologists,  we  find  Sydney  Smith  suggesting  as  proper 
fare  for  the  great  entomologists  "  flea-pates,  earthworms  on  toast,  cater- 
pillars crawling  in  cream  and  removing  themselves."  The  road  up  to 
Longman's  being  rather  awkward,  the  coachman  was  desired  to  wait  at 
the  bottom.  "  It  would  never  do"  (said  S.),  "  when  your  Memoirs 
come  to  be  written,  to  have  it  said,  '  He  went  out  to  dine  at  the  house 
of  the  respectable  publishers,  Longman  and  Co.,  and  being  overturned  in 
his  way  back,  was  crushed  to  death  by  a  large  clergyman.'  " 

Again,  September  16, 

Sydney  at  breakfast  made  me  actually  cry  with  laughing.  I  was  obliged  to 
start  up  from  the  table.  In  talking  of  the  intelligence  and  concert  which  birds 
have  among  each  other,  cranes  and  crows,  &c,  showing  that  they  must  have 
some  means  of  communicating  their  thoughts,  he  said,  "I  dare  say  they  make 
the  same  remark  of  us.  That  old  fat  crow  there  (meaning  himself),  what  a  pro- 
digious noise  he  is  making !  I  have  no  doubt  he  has  some  power  of  communi- 
cating," &c.  &c.  After  pursuing  this  idea  comically  for  some  time,  he  added, 
"  But  we  have  the  advantage  of  them;  they  can't  put  us  into  pies  as  we  do  them; 
legs  sticking  up  out  of  the  crust,"  &c.  &c.  The  acting  of  all  this  makes  two- 
thirds  of  the  fun  of  it ;  the  quickness,  the  buoyancy,  the  self-enjoying  laugh. 

Upon  one  occasion  Moore  refers  to  what  we  would  fain  suppose  to  be 
a  joke  on  Luttrell's  part,  but  which  he  treats  as  a  matter  of  positive 
ignorance. 

By-the-by,  in  reference  to  Luttrell's  scepticism  on  the  subject  of  Irish  anti- 
quities (that  sort  of  scepticism  based  on  ignorance,  which  is  but  too  common 
among  your  doubters),  I  remember  a  parallel  case  afforded  by  himself,  in  the 
course  of  a  conversation  which  took  place  at  Bowood  last  year.  Sydney  Smith 
and  I  were  talking  together  of  Asser,  the  author  of  Alfred's  Life,  and  I  had 
remarked  how  lucky  Alfred  was  in  having  such  a  contemporary  to  record  his 
actions ;  when  Luttrell  exclaimed,  "  Alfred !  there  surely  never  was  any  such 
man  as  Alfred."  The  conversation  proceeded  no  further ;  but,,  to  do  him  justice,  1 
think  he  must,  at  the  moment,  have  confounded  Alfred  with  Arthur^  concerning 
whose  reality  there  id  some  well-founded  doubt. 

More  worthy  of  its  author,  is  the  story  of  aa  Irish  lady,  who*  had  to* 


The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary.  227 

travelling  with  her  family,  and  on  being'  asked  whether  they  had  been  at 
Aix,  answered,  "  Oh,  yes,  indeed I  very  much  at  our  aise  everywhere* 

Talking  of  the  had  effects  of  late  hours,  and  saying  of  some  distin- 
guished diner-out  that  there  would  he  on  his  tomb  "  He  dined  late*-— 
"  And  died  early,"  rejoined  Lattrell. 

Upon  Lord  Lansdowne  volunteering  to  accompany  Moore  on  a  visit 
to  Priory  Park,  the  seat  of  the  Romanist  Bishop  Barnes,  Sydney  Smith 
charged  the  latter  with  a  design  upon  Lord  Lansdowne's  orthodoxy,  and 
recommended  thai  there  should  he  some  sound  Protestant  tracts  put  up 
with  the  sandwiches  in  the  carriage*  This  story  appears  elsewhere  in  a 
somewhat  different  garb. 

On  the  l&fch, 

At  breakfast  Sydney  enumerated  and  acted  the  different  sorts  of  hand-shaking 
there  are  to  be  met  with  in  society.  The  digitory,  or  one  finger,  exemplified  in 
Brougham,  who  puts  forth  his  forefinger,  and  says,  with  Ins  strong  northern 
accent,  "  How  arrre  you  ?"  The  sepulchral  or  mortemain,  which  was  Mackin- 
tosh's manner,  laying  his  open  hand  fiat  and  coldly  against  yours.  The  high 
official,  the  Archbishop  of  York's,  who  carries  your  hand  aloft  on  a  level  with 


his  forehead.  The  rural  or  vigorous  shake,  &c.  &c.  In  talking  of  the  remark- 
able fact  that  women  in  general  hear  pain  much  better  than  men,  I  said  that, 
allowing  everything  that  could  be  claimed  for  the  superior  patience  and  self- 
eommana  of  women,  still  the  main  solution  of  their  enduring  pain  better  than 
men  was  their  having  less  physical  sensibility.  This  theory  of  mine  was  imme- 
diately exclaimed  against  (as  it  always  is  whenever  I  sport  it)  as  disparaging, 
ungenerous,  unfounded,  &c  &c*  I  offered  to  put  it  to  the  test  by  bringing  in  a 
hot  teapot,  which  I  would  answer  for  the  ladies  of  the  party  being  able  to  hold 
for  a  much  longer  time  than  the  men.  This  set  Sydney  off  most  comically,  upon 
my  cruelty  to  the  female  part  of  creation,  and  the  practice  I  had  in  such  expe- 
riments. "He  has  been  all  his  life  (he  said)  trying  the  sex  with  hot  teapots; 
the  burning  ploughshare  was  nothing  to  it.  I  think  I  hear  his  terrific  tone  in  a 
tifo*~tete.     l  Bring  a  teapot/  " 

Moore  does  not  sometimes  spare  himself  in  some  of  his  prandial  and 
post-prandial  anecdotes.  On  quotiug  to  Allen,  he  relates  one  day,  at 
dinner,  what  a  French  cabriolet-man  once  said  to  him,  that  in  England, 
"  '  Les  soldats  ne  sont  jamais  pour  le  peuple/  Allen  said,  *  On  one  great 
occasion  they  were.*  *  Yes,'  I  replied ;  '  Iillibulero/  On  which 
Allen  said,  not  badly,  'What  different  associations  people  remembe* 
events  by !  Most  men  couple  the  memory  of  the  Revolution  with  the 
rights  then  acquired  ;  Moore  remembers  it  by  a  tune/  " 

Ever  moving  to  and  fro  between  London  and  Sloperton,  Moore  puts 
on  record  at  the  latter  place,  in  March,  1835, 

The  day  I  met  "Wordsworth  at  dinner  at  Rogers's,  the  last  time  I  was  in  town, 
he  asked  us  all  in  the  evening  to  write  something  in  a  little  album  of  his 
daughter's,  and  Wilkie  drew  a  slight  sketch  in  it.  One  of  the  things  LuttreU 
wrote  was  the  following  epitaph  on  a  man  who  was  run  over  by  an  omnibus : 

"  Killed  by  an  omnibus— why  not  ? 
So  quick  a  death  a  boon  is. 
Let  not  his  friends  lament  his  lot — 
Mors  omnibus  communis" 

Elsewhere  we  are  told  that  Dedel  related  of  the  wife  of  some  ambassador 
{the  Editor  says  it  was  not  the  wife  of  an  ambassador,  but  the  Duchesse 
de  Graramont),  coming  to  dinner,  and  on  her  passing  through  the  ante* 


228  The  Ldst  of  Moore  s  Journal  and  Diary. 

room  where  Talleyrand  was  standing,  he  looked  up,  and  exclaimed  sig- 
nificantly, "  Ah !"  In  the  course  of  the  dinner,  the  lady  having  asked 
him  across  the  table  why  he  had  uttered  the  exclamation  of  Oh !  on  her 
entrance,  Talleyrand,  with  a  grave,  self-vindicating  look,  answered, 
"  Madame,  je  n'ai  pas  dit  oh !  j'ai  dit  ah !"  "  Comical,  very,"  adds 
Moore,  "  without  one's  being  able  to  define  why  it  is  so."  Comical,  we 
should  say,  for  the  droll  admixture  of  impertinence  and  absurdity. 
Comical,  also,  because  there  is  something  at  the  bottom  which  does  not 
appear  on  the  surface.  Sir  James  Clark  Ross  can,  it  appears,  tell  a  good 
after-dinner  story  as  well  as  his  namesake  Sir  John.  "  Ross,"  Moore 
relates,  "  gave  us  a  few  interesting  particulars  of  the  late  expedition ; 
the  manner  in  which  they  saw  the  savages  amputate  a  man's  leg  above 
the  knee,  seating  him  on  the  ice  with  the  leg  through  a  hole  in  it,  and 
then  knocking  him  down  so  as  to  snap  off  the  limb." 

Somebody  mentioned  Canning  having  said,  on  being  asked  what 
was  German  for  astronomy  (he  knowing  nothing  about  German), 
"  Oh !  twinkle-crafty  to  be  sure."  Erskine  was  as  ignorant  of  French 
as  Canning  was  of  German.  Being  in  Paris,  he  asked  some  French 
people  to  dine  with  him,  and  when  the  day  came,  which  was  Wednesday, 
no  one  arrived.  "  This  is  all  some  mistake  of  yours,  Erskine,  with  your 
French,"  said  Serjeant  Jekyll,  who  told  the  story ;  but  Erskine  insisted 
that  his  notes  were  all  right,  and  then,  after  a  little  pause,  asked,  "  Isn't 
Vendredi  French  for  Wednesday  ?"    He  had  asked  them  all  for  Friday. 

In  1834,  Moore  was  finishing  the  tenth  number  of  the  "  Irish  Melo- 
dies," and  was  also  engaged  upon  his  "  Irish  History,"  so  a  good  deal  of 
his  time  was  spent  in  quiet  at  Sloperton.  Hume  had  with  a  rare  libe- 
rality presented  his  son  Tom  with  a  legacy  of  100/.  Dudley  Costeflo 
had  also  sent  in  a  cup  formed  out  of  the  calabash-nut,  which  he  brought 
from  Bermuda,  taken  from  the  tree  which  is  there  shown  as  one  Moore 
used  to  sit  under  while  writing  his  poems.  "  The  cup  very  handsomely 
and  tastefully  mounted,  and  Bessy  all  delight  with  it." 

Business  and  inclination,  however,  took  him  up  to  town  ever  and  anon, 
and  on  the  11th  of  August  we  find  him  dining  at  Lady  Blessington's. 

Sat  next  to  Fonblanque,  and  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  knowing  him.  A 
clever  fellow  certainly,  and  with  great  powers  occasionally  as  a  writer.  Got  on 
very  well  together.  Broached  to  him  my  notions  (long  entertained  by  me)  re- 
specting the  ruinous  effects  to  literature  likely  to  arise  from  the  boasted  diffa- 
sion  of  education ;  the  lowering  of  the  standard  that  must  necessarily  arise  from 
the  extending  of  the  circle  of  judges ;  from  letting  the  mob  in  to  vote,  particu- 
larly at  a  period  when  the  market  is  such  an  object  to  authors.  Those  "who 
live  to  please  must  please  to  live/'  and  most  will  write  down  to  the  lowered 
standard.  All  the  great  things  in  literature  have  been  achieved  when  the 
readers  were  few ;  "  fit  audience  find  and  few."  In  the  best  days  of  English 
genius,  what  a  comparatively  small  circle  sat  in  judgment !  In  the  Italian  re- 
publics, in  old  Greece,  the  dispensers  of  fame  were  a  select  body,  and  the  con- 
sequence was  a  high  standard  of  taste.  Touched  upon  some  of  these  points  to 
Fonblanque,  and  he  seemed  not  indisposed  to  agree  with  me ;  observing  that 
certainly  the  present  appearances  in  the  world  of  literature  looked  very  like  a 
confirmation  of  my  views. 

Again,  on  the  12th, 

Breakfasted  at  home ;  made  some  calls ;  at  Shee's.  Showed  me  a  new  work' 
"  Naval  Kecollections,"  in  which  there  is  mention  of  me,  and  such  as  pleases,  me 


The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary.  229 

not  a  little.  The  author,  it  appears,  was  midshipman  on  board  the  Phaeton 
frigate,  in  which  I  went  to  America,  and  describes  the  regret  of  the  officers 
of  the  gun-room  when  I  quitted  the  ship,  adding  some  kind  things  about  their 
feelings  towards  me,  which  I  had  great  pleasure  in  reading.  To  have  left 
such  an  impression  upon  honest,  hearty,  unaffected  fellows  like  those  of  the  gun- 
room of  the  Phaeton,  is  not  a  little  flattering  to  me.  I  remember  the  first 
lieutenant  saying  to  me,  after  we  had  become  intimate,  "  I  thought  you,  the  first 
day  you  came  aboard,  the  damnedst  conceited  little  fellow  I  ever  saw,  with  your 
glass  cocked  up  to  your  eye ;"  and  then  he  mimicked  the  manner  in  which  I 
made  my  first  appearance. 

Lord  John  Russell,  with  his  kind  consideration  for  Moore's  necessities 
(and  which  had  just  led  him  to  part  with  a  dozen  songs  to  Cramer 
and  Co.  for  100/. — a  sum  which  was  afterwards  altered  to  the  rate  of 
15/.  per  song,  by  the  business-like  intervention  of  Mr.  Rees,  of  Long- 
man and  Co.'s),  suggested  at  or  about  this  time  engaging  Lord  Mel- 
bourne to  pension  his  sons.  The  minister's  reflections  upon  the  project 
are  well  worthy  of  being  extracted. 

"  My  dear  John, — I  return  you  Moore's  letter.  T  shall  be  ready  to  do  what 
you  like  about  it,  when  we  have  the  means.  I  think  whatever  is  done  should 
be  done  for  Moore  himself.  This  is  more  distinct,  direct,  and  intelligible. 
Making  a  small  provision  for  young  men  is  hardly  justifiable ;  and  is  of  all 
things  the  most  prejudicial  to  themselves.  They  think  what  they  have  much 
larger  than  it  really  is,  and  make  no  exertion.  The  young  should  never  hear 
any  language  but  this, — You  have  your  own  way  to  make,  and  it  depends  upon 
your  own  exertions  whether  you  starve  or  not. 

"Believe,  &c, 

"  Melbotjbne." 

A  good  story  is  told  of  H.  B.,  on  the  occasion  of  going  per  coach  to 
Bath. 

Found  Corry,  as  I  half  expected,  in  the  coach,  and  who  should  be  on  the  top 

but  H.  B (the  famous  caricaturist).    Invited  him  inside  with  myself  and 

Corry,  to  whom  I  introduced  him.  A  good  deal  of  talk ;  Corry  full  of  all  he  had 
seen  in  town.  Corry  and  I  called  at  Crawford's ;  saw  Mra.  Crawford,  who  flew 
off  on  the  subject  of  her  brother's  (Lord  Heytesbury's)  late  estoppel;  very  in- 
dignant, and  no  wonder.  Rejoined  H.  B ,  whom  we  found  gazing  very  in- 
tently at  one  of  his  own  last  productions  (The  Merry-go-round)  at  the  window 
of  a  print-shop.'  Corry,  who  thought  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  it,  very 
amusingly  undertook  to  explain  it  to  him.     "This,  you  see,  is  Lord  John 

Russell,"  &c.    Not  knowing  what  might  be  the  present  state  of  H.  B 's 

secret,  I  took  him  aside,  and  asked  him  whether  it  still  continued  to  be  as  well 
kept  as  when  I  was  last  in  town.  He  answered  that  it  was,  most  marvellously 
so :  that  the  name  had  got  about  a  little,  but  nothing  more.  I  then  said  that  1 
would  myself  of  course  continue  to  respect  the  secret,  as  I  hitherto  had  done, 
but  that  otherwise  it  would  have  given  me  great  pleasure  to  let  Corry  into  so 
amusing  a  mystery. 

In  August  of  the  same  year  Moore  went  over  to  Dublin  to  attend  the 
meeting  of  the  British  Association.  The  main  events  recorded  are,  as 
usual,  of  a  personal  character.  The  poet's  promotion  to  the  platform 
among  the  savans  ;  dinner  at  the  provost's — the  late  Dr.  Lloyd's :  a  visit 
to  the  Vale  of  Avoca ;  and  an  enthusiastic  reception  at  the  theatre.  But 
the  incident  which  will  be  most  interesting  to  many,  is  the  poet's  visit  to 
the  house  in  which  he  was  born. 

Drove  about  a  little  in  Mrs.  Meara's  car,  accompanied  by  Hume,  and  put  in 


230  The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary. 

practice  what  I  had  long  been  cootemplatiBg— a  visit  to  No.  12,  Aungier-street, 
the  house  in  which  I  was  horn.  On  accosting  the  man  who  stood  at  the  door, 
and  asking  whether  he  was  the  owner  of  the  boose,  he  looked  rather  gruffly  and 
suspiciously  at  me,  and  answered  "  Yes;"  bnt  the  moment  I  mentioned  who  I 
was,  adding  that  it  was  the  house  I  was  born  in,  and  that  I  wished  to  be  per- 
mitted to  look  through  the  rooms,  his  countenance  brightened  vp  with  the  most 
cordial  feeling,  and  seizing  me  by  the  hand  he  polled  me  along  to  the  small  room 
behind  the  shop  (where  we  used  to  breakfast  in  old  times),  exclaiming  to  his 
wife  (who  was  sitting  there),  with  a  voice  tremulous  with  feeling,  "  Here's  $r 
Thomas  Moore,  who  was  born  in  this  house,  come  to  ask  us  to  let  him  see  the 
rooms ;  and  it's  proud  I  am  to  have  him  under  the  old  roof."  He  then  without 
delay,  and  entering  at  once  into  my  feelings,  led  me  through  every  part  of  the 
house,  beginning  with  the  small  old  yard  and  its  appurtenances ;  then  the  little 
dark  kitchen,  where  I  used  to  have  my  bread  and  milk  in  the  morrrmg  before  I 
went  to  school ;  from  thence  to  the  front  and  back  drawing-rooms,  the  former 
looking  more  large  and  respectable  than  I  could  have  expected,  and  the  latter, 
with  its  little  closet,  where  I  remember  such  gay  supper-parties*  both  room  and 
closet  fuller  than  they  could  well  hold,  and  Joe  Kelly  and  Wesley  Doyle  singing 
away  together  so  sweetly.  The  bedrooms  and  garrets  were  next  visited,  and  the 
only  material  alteration  I  observed  in  them  was  the  removal  of  the  wooden  par- 
tition by  which  a  little  corner  was  separated  off  from  the  back  bedroom  (in  which 
the  two  apprentices  slept)  to  form  a  bedroom  for  me.  The  many  thoughts  that 
came  rushing  upon  me  in  thus  visiting,  for  the  first  time  since  our  family  left  it, 
the  house  in  which  I  passed  the  first  nineteen  or  twenty  years  of  my  life,  may  be 
more  easily  conceived  than  told ;  and  I  must  say,  that  if  a  man  had  been  got  an 
specially  to  conduct  me  through  such  a  scene,  it  could  not  have  been  done  win 
more  tact,  sympathy,  and  intelligent  feeling  than  it  was  by  this  plain,  honest 
grocer ;  for,  as  I  remarked  to  Hume,  as  we  entered  the  shop,  "  Only  think,  a 
grocer's  still."  When  we  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  there  was  the  wife  with 
a  decanter  of  port,  and  glasses  on  the  table,  begging  us  to  take  some  refresh- 
ment, and  I  with  great  pleasure  drank  her  and  her  eood  husband's  health, 
When  I  say  that  the  shop  is  still  a  grocer's,  I  must  add,  for  the  honour  of  old 
times,  that  it  has  a  good  deal  gone  down  in  the  world  since  then,  and  is  of  a 
much  inferior  grade  of  grocery  to  that  of  my  poor  father,  who,  by  the  way,  was 
himself  one  of  nature's  gentlemen,  having  all  the  repose  and  good  breeding  of 
manner  by  which  the  true  gentleman  in  all  classes  is  distinguished. 

Went,  with  all  my  recollections  of  the  old  shop  about  me,  to  the  grand  dinner 
at  the  Park :  company,  forty  in  number,  and  the  whole  force  of  the  kitchen  pit 
in  requisition.  Sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  next  to  the  carving  aide-de-camp 
(Lady  Emily  Henry's  son),  and  amused  myself  with  readingover  the  mett*f  ana 
tasting  all  the  things  with  the  most  learned  names.  Had  Hamilton,  our  great 
astronomer,  at  the  other  side  of  me,  and,  ignoramus  as  I  am,  got  on  very  tolerably 
with  him. 

It  was  while  he  was  in  Dublin  that  Moore  received  the  welcome  intel- 
ligence from  Lord  Lansdowne  that  a  grant  of  300/.  a  year  had  been 
obtained  for  him  by  the  new  administration.  His  "  sweet  Bessy's"  letters 
upon  the  occasion  are  replete  with  a  touching  simplicity. 

A  charming  letter  from  my  sweet  admirable  Bessy  about  the  new  accession 
to  our  means,  which  made  me  by  turns  laugh  and  weep,  being,  as  I  told  her  ii 
my  answer,  almost  the  counterpart  of  Dr.  Pangloss's 

"  I  often  wished  that  I  had  clear 
For  life  three  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

I  cannot  refrain  from  copying  a  passage  or  two,  here  and  there,  from  her  letter, 
which  she  wrote  before  mine,  conveying  the  intelligence  of  the  grant,  reached  her. 


The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary.  231 

"Stoperton,  Tuesday  Kigbk 

**l£j  dearest  Tom,— Can  it  realty  be  true  that  you  nave  a  pension  of  300/.  a 
year?  Mrs.,  Mr.,  two  Misses,  ana  young  Longman  were  here  to-day,  and  tell 
me  it  is  really  the  case,  and  that  they  nave  seen  it  in  two  papers.  Should  it  turn 
out  true,  I  know  not  how  we  can  be  thankful  enough  to  those  who  gave  it,  or  to 
a  Signer  Power.  The  Longmans  were  very  kind  and  nice,  and  so  was  /,  and  I 
invited  them  a U  ftoe  to  eome  at  some  future  time.  At  present  I  can  thmk  of 
nothing  but  300/.  a  year,  and  dear  Russell  jumps  and  claps  his  hands  with  toy. 
T one.  h  at  Devizes.  *  *  *  The  Pugets  did  not  come  to  tea  yesterday, 
Louisa,  being  ill.  To-day  they  sent  me  some  beautiful  flowers.  If  the 
story  is  true  of  the  300/.,  pray  give  dear  Ellen  twenty  pounds,  and  insist  on 
her  drinking  five  pounds  worth  of  wine  yearly,  to  be  paid  out  of  the  300/.  a  year. 

I  have  been  obliged,  by-the-by,  to  get  five  pounds  to  send  to .    *    *    ♦ 

Three  hundred  a  year,  how  delightful !  But  I  have  my  fears  that  it  is  onbr  a 
castle  in  the  air.  I  am  sure  I  shall  dream  of  it ;  and  so  I  will  get  to  bed,  that 
I  may  have  this  pleasure  at  least;  for  I  expect  the  morning  will  throw  down 
lay  castle." 

"  Wednesday  Morning. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  I  am  in  a  fever  of  hope  and  anxiety,  and  feel  very  oddly.  No 
one  to  talk  to  bat  sweet  Buss,  who  says,  ( Now,  papa  will  not  have  to  work  so 
hard  and  will  be  able  to  go  out  a  little.'    *    *    * 

"You  say  I  am  so  'nice  and  comical'  about  the  money.  Now  you  are  much 
more  so  (leaving  out  the  'nice*),  for  you  have  forgotten  to  send  the  cheque  you 
promised.  But  I  can  wait  with  patience,  for  no  one  teases  me.  Only  I  want 
to  have  a  few  little  things  ready  to  welcome  you  home,  which  I  like  to  pay  for. 
How  you  w£Q  ever  enjoy  this  quiet  every-day  sort  of  stillness,  after  your  late  re- 
ception, I  hardly  know.  I  begin  to  want  you  very  much ;  for  though  the  bovs 
are  darlings,  there  is  still  *  *  *  How  I  wish  I  had  wings,  for  then  I  would 
be  at  Wexford  as  soon  as  you,  and  surprise  your  new  friends.  I  am  so  glad 
you  have  seen  the  Gonnes ;  I  know  they  are  quite  delighted  at  your  attention. 
Mr.  Bennett  called  the  other  day  on  my  sons. 

"  N.B.  If  this  good  news  be  true,  it  will  make  a  great  difference  in  my  eating, 
I  shall  then  indulge  in  butter  to  potatoes.  Mind  you  do  not  tell  this  piece  of 
ghattony  to  mny  one." 

Moore  always  entertained,  as  he  himself  expresses  it,  a  warm  and  deep 
admiration  of  O'ConnelTs  talents  and  energy ;  but  he  at  the  same  time 
deemed  that,  in  his  example  of  exempting  the  practice  of  personal  abuse 
from  the  responsibility  to  which  the  code  of  gentlemen  had  hitherto 
subjected  it,  in  his  annual  stipend  from  the  begging-box,  and  in  other 
features  of  his  patriotism,  O'Connell  had  done  more  to  lower  the  once 
Ugh  tone  of  feeling  in  Ireland,  both  public  and  private,  than  a  whole 
life  of  political  service  could  repair.  The  publication  of  the  verses  which 
began, 

The  dream  of  those  days  when  first  I  sung  thee  is  o'er, 

gave  rise  to  the  strongest  feelings  of  irritation  on  the  part  of  O'Connell, 
and  the  estrangement  lasted  for  some  time,  till  a  reconciliation  was 
brought  about  by  the  simple  circumstance  of  O'ConnelTs  franking  a 
letter  to  the  poet    The  results  are  thus  narrated  by  Moore  : 

Being  anxious  to  settle  as  soon  as  I  could  my  affair  with  O'Connell,  and  being 
eonvinoed,  on  a  little  consideration,  that  to  employ  any  intermediate  person  would 
do  much  more  harm  than  good  (such  persons  being  in  general  more  likely  to 
make  difficulties  than  to  remove  them),  I  resolved,  now  that  the  advance  had 
been  so  far  made  by  O'Connell,  to  do  the  rest  without  further  machinery  my- 
self.   Knowing  that  fee,  in  general,  passed  a  good  part  of  the  day  at  Brookes's, 


232  The  Last  of  Moore's  Journal  and  Diary. 

on.  a  Sunday,  I  proceeded  thither  after  returning  from  Shee's,  and  there  found 
him  at  a  table  reading  a  newspaper !  Walking  direct  up  to  him  with  my  hand 
held  out,  I  said,  smiling, c<  That  frank  proceeding  of  yours  has  settled  everything." 
He  instantly  rose,  looking  rather  embarrassed  and  nervous ;  when  I  said  in  the 
same  cheerful  tone,  "  lou  remember  the  frank  P"  "  Yes,"  he  answered  (having 
now  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  shaking  my  hand  cordially),  "I  do ^remem- 
ber, and  you  have  answered  it  exactly  as  I  expected  you  would."  This  is  ver- 
batim what  passed. 

The  late  Count  Krasinski,  whom  Moore  met  at  Rogers's,  argued  that 
there  was  a  strong  similarity  between  the  Poles  and  the  Irish,  and  the 
manner  in  which  he  substantiated  this  view  of  the  case  is  rather  curious. 
He  mentioned  as  an  instance  a  countryman  of  his,  who  having,  on  some 
occasion,  knocked  a  man  down  for  being,  as  he  thought,  insolent  to  him, 
was  expostulated  with  for  having  done  so  by  some  friend,  who  remarked 
that,  after  all,  what  the  man  had  said  to  him  was  not  very  offensive. 
"  No,  it  was  not,"  answered  the  other ;  u  but  still  it  was  safer  to  knock 
him  down." 

In  the  spring  of  1840  Moore  began  to  indulge  in  retrospect.  He  ex- 
presses himself  as  much  struck,  too,  by  the  falling  off  there  had  been, 
from  various  causes,  of  many  of  his  former  friendships  and  intimacies; 
people  with  whom  he  once  lived  familiarly  and  daily  being  then  seldom 
seen  by  him,  and  that  but  passingly  and  coldly.  "  This,"  he  adds,  was 
"  partly  owing  to  the  estrangements  produced  by  politics,  and  to  the 
greater  rarity  of  my  own  visits  to  town,  of  late  years ;  but,  altogether,  it 
is  saddening." 

The  fact  that  many  men  who  have  made  themselves  great  reputations 
with  the  pen  have  not  possessed  facility  for  speaking  in  public,  is  amu- 
singly portrayed  by  Moore,  in  his  account  of  the  preparations  made  for 
a  Literary  Fund  dinner. 

"Went  to  the  Literary  Fund  chambers,  to  see  what  were  the  arrangements  and 
where  I  was  to  be  seated ;  having  in  a  note  to  Blewitt,  the  secretary,  begged  of  him 
to  place  me  near  some  of  my  own  personal  friends.  Found  that  I  was  to  be  seated 
between  Hallam  and  Washington  Irving.  All  right.  By-the-by,  Irving  had 
yesterday  come  to  Murray's  with  the  determination,  as  I  found,  not  to  go  to  the 
dinner,  and  all  begged  of  me  to  use  my  influence  with  him  to  change  this  resolu- 
tion. But  he  told  me  his  mind  was  made  up  on  the  point,  that  the  drinking  his 
health,  and  the  speech  he  would  have  -to  make  in  return,  were  more  than  he 
durst  encounter ;  that  he  had  broken  down  at  the  Dickens's  Dinner  (of  which  he 
was  chairman)  in  America,  and  obliged  to  stop  short  in  the  middle  of  his  oration, 
which  made  him  resolve  not  to  encounter  another  such  accident.  In  vain  did  I 
represent  to  him  that  a  few  words  would  be  quite  sufficient  in  returning  thanks. 
"Thai  Dickens's  Dinner,"  which  he  always  pronounced  with  a  strong  emphasis,  ham- 
mering away  all  the  time  with  his  ri^ht  arm  more  suo,  "  that  Dickens's  Dinner," 
still  haunted  his  imagination,  and  I  almost  gave  up  all  hope  of  persuading  him. 
At  last  I  said  to  him,  "Well,  now,  listen  to  me  a  moment.  If  you  really  wish  to 
distinguish  yourself,  it  is  bv  saying  the  fewest  possible  words  that  you  will  effect 
it.  The  great  fault  with  all  the  speakers,  myself  among  the  number,  will  be  our 
saying  too  much.  But  if  you  content  yourself  with  merely  saying  that  you  feel 
most  deeply  the  cordial  reception  you  have  met  with,  and  have  great  pleasure  in 
drinking  their  healths  in  return,  the  very  simplicity  of  the  address  will  be  more 
effective  from  such  a  man,  than  all  the  stammered  out  rigmaroles  that  the  rest 
of  the  speechifiers  will  vent."  This  suggestion  seemed  to  touch  him ;  and  so  there 
I  left  him,  feeling  pretty  sure  that  I  had  carried  my  point.  It  is  very  odd  that 
while  some  of  the  shallowest  fellows  go  on  so  glib  and  ready  with  the  tongue, 
men  whose  minds  are  abounding  with  matter  should  find  such  difficulty  in  brrog- 


Earl  Siward.  233 

ing  it  out.  I  found  that  Lockhart  also  had  declined  attending  this  dinner  under 
a  similar  apprehension,  and  only  consented  on  condition  that  his  health  should 
not  be  given. 

This  also  gives  an  opportunity  for  the  introduction  of  an  incident  not 
a  little  characteristic  of  the  various  forms  which  Moore's  vanity  was  led 
to  assume  upon  occasions. 

The  best  thing  of  the  evening  (as  far  as  /  was  concerned)  occurred  after  the 
whole  grand  show  was  over.  Irving  and  I  came  away  together,  and  we  had 
hardly  got  into  the  street,  when  a  most  pelting  shower  came  on,  and  cabs  and 
umbrellas  were  in  requisition  in  all  directions.  As  we  were  provided  with 
neither,  our  plight  was  becoming  serious,  when  a  common  cad  ran  up  to  me,  and 
said,  "  Shall  I  get  you  a  cab,  Mr.  Moore  ?  Sure,  ain't  /  the  man  that  patronises 
your  Melodies  ?"  He  then  ran  off  in  search  of  a  vehicle,  while  Irving  and  I 
stood  close  up,  like  a  pair  of  male  caryatides,  under  the  very  narrow  projection 
of  a  hall-door  ledge,  and  thought  at  last  that  we  were  quite  forgotten  oy  my 
patron.  But  he  came  faithfully  back,  and  while  putting  me  into  the  cab  (with- 
out minding  at  all  the  trifle  I  gave  him  for  his  trouble)  he  said  confidentially  in 
my  ear,  "Now,  mind,  whenever  you  want  a  cab,  Misthur  Moore,  just  call  for 
Tim  Elaherty,  and  I'm  your  man."  Now,  this  I  call  fame,  and  of  somewhat  a 
more  agreeable  kind  than  that  of  Dante,  when  the  women  in  the  street  found  him 
out  by  the  marks  of  hell-fire  on  his  beard.     (See  Ginguene.) 

Moore  was,  however,  a  true  poet — -one  whose  name  will  last  as  long 
as  the  language  in  which  he  wrote  remains  pure  and  undefiled.  "  The 
days  when  a  canto  of  '  Childe  Harold,'  the  '  Excursion*  of  Wordsworth, 
the  '  Curse  of  Kehama*  of  Southey,  and  the  '  Lalla  Rookh'  of  Moore, 
burst  in  rapid  succession  upon  the  world,"  Lord  John  Russell  has  justly 
remarked,  "are  gone.  But  the  world  will  not  forget  that  brilliant 
period ;  and  while  poetry  has  charms  for  mankind,  the  '  Melodies'  of 
Moore  will  survive." 


Jflallate  from  JBngltsJ  f^t'storg. 

BY  JAMES  PAYN. 

IV.— EARL  SIWARD. 

Siward,  Earl  of  Northumbria,  was  one  of  the  great  lords  whom  Edward  the 
Confessor  applied  to  for  protection  against  the  turbulent  Earl  Godwin  and  his 
ambitious  son  Harold. 

Upon  the  murder  of  his  brother-in-law,  King  Duncan,  Siward  marched  with  a 
great  army  into  Scotland  to  seat  Prince  Malcolm  on  the  throne  usurped  by  Mac- 
beth, and  his  two  stripling  sons,  Osberne  and  Waltheof,  accompanied  him.  His 
favourite,  Osberne,  fell  in  the  first  battle,  and  the  brave  old  father's  grief  was 
stanched  when  he  saw  his  wounds  had  been  all  received  in  front.  Soon  after 
his  return  home  he  was  himself  attacked  by  a  fatal  disorder  :  as  he  felt  his  end 
approaching,  he  said  to  his  attendants,  "  Dress  me  in  my  coat  of  mail,  cover  my 
head  with  my  helmet,  put  my  shield  on  my  left  arm,  and  my  spear  in  my  right 
hand,  and  let  me  die  in  harness." 

He  was  called  Siward  the  Strong,  and  many  of  his  feats  were  related  long 
afterwards.  On  pretence  of  the  youth  of  Waltheof,  the  •«  Dukedom  of  the  North 
Shires"  was  conferred  upon  Harold's  brother  Tostig. 


Earl  Siward  ruled  Northumberland : 
Throughout  the  hilly  North 

There  was  no  peer  that  durst  lift  spear 
When  Siward's  train  rode  forth ; 


In  midmost  Mercia,  Leofric, 
Young  Harold  in  the  South, 

King  Edward  on  all  England's  throne 
Spake  not  with  surer  mouth ; 


234 


Earl  Siward. 


And  Duncan,  King  beyond  the  Tweed, 

His  daughter  took  to  wife ; 
In  all  the  land,  old  Siward's  hand 

Most  heavy  was  for  strife : 
Now  Macbeth  slew  his  sovereign 

(Howe'er  dies  others'  crime, 
Athwart  his  name  that  scarlet  shame 

Must  burn  till  close  of  time), 
And  Malcolm  Kenmore,  Duncan's  son, 

To  Siward  came  with  prayer ; 
The  great  earl  pressed  his  lance  in  rest 

And  helm'd  his  snow-white  hair; 
And  Osberne,  eldest  of  his  sons, 

And  Waltheof  with  light  load, 
Too  young  to  bear  the  mail  and  spear, 

On  either  side  they  rode ; 
In  front  the  banner  of  their  house 

Bare  up  against  the  wind, 
The  English  standard  and  the  Scotch 

JElung  out  their  folds  behind ; 
With  princes  midst  their  company, 

And  nobles  for  their  squires, 
A  lofty  place  had  that  great  race, 

"  The  Dukes  of  the  North  Shires !" 

The  host  rode  on  to  Dunsinane  : 

Each  in  his  hand  did  hold 
A  green  bough  pluck'd  from  Biraam 
wood, 

As  the  Great  Bard  hath  told ; 
And  'neath  that  verdant  canopy, 

On  either  side  the  oak, 
Those  saplings  lithe,  so  young  and 
blithe, 

Unready  for  the  stroke ; 
Of  whom  fair  Osberne,  fighting,  fell, 

Slain  by  no  vulgar  hand— 
Steep'd  in*  the  blood  of  great  and  good 

Had  long  been  Macbeth's  brand--    > 
And  falling  on  the  foughten  field 

Which  his  good  sire  had  won, 


He  bore  in  front  the  battle's  bruttt ; 

His  look  was  to  the  sun. 
So  grand  old  Siward  raised  him  up 

And  kissed  him  on  the  brow : 
"  Thy  beauty,  boy,  was  aye  my  joy, 

Not  less  it  likes  me  now  ? 
Nor  ever  in  thy  cradle,  Sweet, 

Nor  ever  at  thy  prayer. 
My  heart  beat  side  with  higher  pride 

Nor  thought  thy  face  more  for." 
*  *  *  * 

Now  when  the  earl's  own  time  was 
come, 

The  day  no  earl  desires, 
When  spite  of  greed  the  thrall  is  freed, 

And  cease  the  dukes  of  shines ; 
And  while  he  felt  the  Thing  creep  on 

That  casts  its  shadow  far, 
To  palsy  strength  and  lay  at  length 

The  mighty  limbs  of  war, 
And  knew  that  it  would  not  be  his 
*   To  lead  the  charge  again, 
Nor  breathe  out  life  in  thickest  strife 

Upon  the  hills  of  slain, 
'Midst  groans  and  cries,  with  dosiig 
eyes 

Blinded  by  bloody  rain ; 
He  bade  them  hasp  his  armour  on, 

And  buckle  on  his  brand, 
And  set  him  straight  to  meet  his  fate 

With  his  good  spear  in  hand : 
They  drew  the  iron  o'er  his  face, 

They  drew  his  gauntlets  on ; 
They  watch'd  until  the  spear  down  fell, 

Then  knew  their  lord  was  gone. 
So  Siward  of  Northumberland 

Met  death  as  knight  desires, 
All  clad  in  steel  from  helm  to  heel, 

As  died  in  fight  his  sires ; 
And  none  of  his  race  after  him 

Were  Dukes  of  the  North  Shires. 


(    235 


FERNS  AND  THEIR  ALLIES  * 

All  who  can  appreciate  elegance  of  form  and  delicacy  of  colouring  by 
the  side  of  more  brilliant  and  gorgeous  flowering  plants,  admire  the  Ferns 
and  their  Allies.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  very  modesty  of  their  tone 
suited  them  for  the  spots  where  they  luxuriate — m  the  mossy  dell,  on  the 
shady  bank,  the  damp  rock,  or  cool  grot  In  such  places  glaring  colours 
would  be  offensive  to  the  eye.  Their  forms  are  also,  by  the  customary 
exquisite  provisions  of  Nature,  suited  to  the  localities  in  which  they  grow. 
The  most  florid  decoration  with  which  the  sculptor  can  surround  the 
capital  of  his  column,  cannot  compare  with  the  graceful  drapery  of  the 
fern  tribe  on  rocky  bank,  or  arch  or  vault  of  cave  or  grotto.  Take,  for 
example,  the  maiden-hair,  unquestionably  a  wanderer  here  from  warmer 
lands  ;  it  delights  in  shade  and  moisture,  growing  almost  exclusively  in 
the  damp  and  dark  crevices  of  rocks,  among  trickling  streams,  and  in  the 
depths  of  tropical  forests,  where  the  atmosphere  is  constantly  loaded  with 
moisture.  The  mouths  of  old  wells  and  the  deserted  shafts  of  mines  are 
also  to  be  seen  occasionally  tapestried  with  its  beautiful  foliage ;  or,  as  a 
contrast,  what  more  tasteful  decoration  to  the  shaded  margins  of  rivers, 
lakes,  and  swamps,  than  the  flowering  fern,  or  Osmund  Royal  ? 

Although  the  general  habit  of  the  fern  tribe  leads  it  to  develop  itself 
most  freely  under  the  joint  influence  of  shelter  from  the  sun  or  wind,  and 
an  atmosphere  replete  with  moisture,  still  the  variety  of  localities  affected 
by  particular  ferns  are  much  more  considerable  than  might  at  first  be 
imagined. 

Some  are  essentially  Alpine  in  their  character,  being  only  met  with  on 
the  summits  of  our  higher  mountains;  such  is  the  holly  fern,  confined 
in  England  and  Wales  to  the  mountains  of  Yorkshire  and  the  Snowdon 
district.  Such  also  is  the  mountain  bladder  fern,  sparingly  distributed  in 
the  Scotch  mountains.  Still  more  rare  are  the  oblong  and  the  alpine 
woodsirs,  most  sparingly  distributed  in  Snowdonia  and  the  Grampians. 
Some  ferns  are  exclusively  confined  to  limestone  districts;  such  are  the 
Polypodium  calcareum  and  Lastrea  rigida. 

Certain  of  the  fern  tribe  appear  to  be  very  indifferent  to  soil  and  ex- 
posure, among  which  we  may  enumerate  the  common  brake  and  the 
Lastrea  foenisecii,  supposed  to  have  been  wafted  here  from  the  Azores. 
Others,  while  they  have  a  very  wide  and  general  distribution,  still  luxu- 
riate most  only  under  certain  circumstances.  Thus,  for  example,  the 
male  fern  delights  in  woods  and  thickets,  the  lady  fern  in  hedge-banks 
and  borders  of  woods.  The  common  hartfs-tongue,  although  met  with  in 
different  places,  still  delights  most  in  marsh  and  shady  hedge-banks. 

The  mountain  polypody  particularly  affects  mountain  lakes,  rills,  and 
waterfalls.     Asplenium  viride  also  takes  delight  in  waterfalls,  where  Poly- 

*  The  Ferns  of  Great  Britain:  illustrated  by  John  E.  Sowerby,  Proprietor  of 
Sowerby's  English  Botany.  The  Descriptions,  Synonyms,  &c,  by  Charles  John- 
son, Esq.,  Botanical  Lecturer  at  Guy's  Hospital    John  E.  Sowerby. 

The  Fern  Allies:  a  Supplement  to  the  Ferns  of  Great  Britain.  Illustrated  by 
John  E.  Sowerby,  Proprietor  of  Sowerby's  English  Botany.  The  Descriptions, 
Synonyms,  &c,  by  Charles  Johnson,  Esq.,  Botanical  Lecturer  at  Guy's  Hospital 
John  E.  Sowerby. 


236  Ferns  and  their  Allies. 

podium  dryopteris  attains  its  greatest  luxuriance.  The  marsh  fern 
(Lastrea  thelypteris),  again,  prospers  only  in  marshes  and  bogs,  while 
Lastrea  creopteris — a  beautiful  fern — selects  for  its  home  mountainous 
and  upland  heaths  and  woods.  Some  ferns  grow  alike  on  rocks  and  walls, 
as  Cystopteris  fragllis,  and  Asplenium  trichomanes  ;  but  others  are  almost 
limited  to  old  walls  and  ruins,  as  wall  rue  and  black  spleenwort,  or  extend 
their  travels  to  old  thatched  roofs,  as  in  the  instance  of  the  common 
polypody. 

Heaths  have  their  peculiar  ferns,  as  Blechnum  boreale  and  Botrychium 
lunaria,  and  even  meadows  and  pastures  have  a  fern — the  common  adder's- 
tongue.  Some  delight  in  inland  caverns;  others,  as  Asplenium  marinum, 
are  met  with  only  in  caves  that  open  upon  the  sea.  Some  ferns  are  so 
rare  as  to  appear  as  if  confined  to  particular  localities.  Such  is  the 
Cystopteris  Dickiena,  found  in  1846,  by  Dr.  Dickie,  growing  in  a  cave 
by  the  sea  near  Aberdeen,  and  which  has  not  hitherto  been  met  with  else- 
where. Such  also  is  the  Trichomanes  radicans,  which  is  limited  to  Cork 
and  Kerry. 

It  would  scarcely  he  believed  that  some  of  the  rarer  and  more  beautiful 
of  the  British  ferns  are,  since  amateur  cultivation  of  ferns  has  come  into 
vogue,  actually  disappearing  before  the  rapacity  of  collectors.  Such, 
however,  we  are  assured  is  the  case  in  the  instance  of  the  Asplenium 
septentrionale,  and  that  elegant  little  fern,  Allosorus  crispus,  or  curled 
rock  brakes,  which  is  said  to  be  rapidly  disappearing.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Hawkes,  it  also  appears,  keeps,  and  perhaps  wisely,  the  knowledge  of  the 
only  English  habitat  of  the  lesser  adder's-tongue  to  himself. 

Certain  small  families  of  flowerless  plants,  that  are  neither  ferns,  nor 
yet  mosses  or  lichens,  have  been  occasionally  classed  together  under  the 
collective  name  of  "  Fern  allies." 

The  first  group  of  these  strange  forms  of  vegetable  life  — the  Equise- 
tacea?,or  horse-tails — derive  their  main  interest  from  the  facility  with  which 
they  may  be  cultivated  about  the  roots  of  trees  or  in  other  neglected 
spots,  when  the  rich  green  hue  of  the  young  sterile  shoots,  and  the  sin- 
gular parasitic  aspect  of  the  earlier  fertile  ones,  render  them  more  worthy 
of  a  place  in  our  home  collections  than  many  of  those  exotics  that  are 
cherished  with  great  inconvenience  and  far  inferior  claims  to  notice. 

The  species  of  this  remarkable  and  most  isolated  of  all  the  vegetable 
forms  at  present  extant  are  few — probably  not  more  than  from  ten  to 
fifteen — but  they  are  widely  distributed,  growing  chiefly  in  moist  ground 
and  on  the  borders  of  lakes.  The  most  common  species,  the  corn,  or 
field  horse-tail,  is  an  exception,  being  frequent  in  corn-fields  and 
pastures,  as  well  as  on  roadsides ;  but  when  this  is  the  case,  their  presence 
generally  indicates  the  existence  of  spots  where  water  accumulates  during 
the  winter. 

The  highly  ornamental  character  of  the  great  horse-tail  renders  it 
one  of  the  most  desirable  of  its  tribe  in  cultivation,  especially  among 
ferns,  when  the  contrast  between  its  graceful  feathery  outline  and  their 
breadth  of  foliage  produces  a  most  pleasing  effect.  The  wood  horse-tail 
is,  however,  the  most  elegant  species  of  the  genus.  Its  surpassing  beauty 
of  form,  and  the  lively  green  hue  of  its  long  feathery  branches,  render 
it  worthy  of  an  introduction  into  every  shaded  garden  and  shrubbery, 
while  in  the  fernery  its  presence  should  never  be  dispensed  with,  where 
space  can  be  spared  for  its  reception. 


Ferns  ana  their  Allies.  237 

The  quill-worts  (Isoetaceae)  have  no  practical  application.  They 
grow  submerged  at  the  bottom  of  lakes  and  other  still  waters.  In  many 
of  the  clear  rocky  lakes  of  the  north  of  England,  Wales,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland,  the  Isoetes  lacustris  is  to  be  seen  clothing  the  bottom  so  densely 
with  its  grassy-looking  foliage  as  to  give  them  the  appearance  of  sub- 
merged meadows.  It  is  the  same  with  regard  to  the  Pill-wort,  which 
often  forms,  by  its  abundant  branching  and  entanglement,  a  dense  cover- 
ing about  the  margins  of  lakes  and  pools,  and  on  sandy  and  gravelly 
heaths,  to  the  complete  exclusion  of  other  plants.  These  plants  are  real 
colonisers,  preparing  the  bottom  of  shallow  waters  and  moist  lands  for 
more  perfect  forms  of  vegetation. 

The  Lycopodiaceae  ( wolves'- feet,  or  club-mosses)  take,  from  the  man- 
ner of  their  growth,  an  intermediate  position  between  ferns  and  the 
pine  or  fir  tribe  on  the  one  hand,  and  ferns  and  mosses  on  the  other. 
Evergreen  plants,  of  a  rigid  habit,  they  have  very  much  the  appearance 
of  gigantic  mosses,  and  they  sometimes  cover,  as  in  Lapland,  extensive 
tracts  of  country,  to  the  exclusion  of  other  vegetation.  They  are,  how- 
ever, extremely  difficult  of  cultivation,  but  some  of  the  species  are  used 
as  mordants  for  dyes,  and  others  possess  medicinal  properties. 

The  Characeae,  small  and  pretty  aquatic  plants — nitellas,  or  charas — 
always  submerged,  and  preferring  stagnant  to  running  water,  have  ob- 
tained a  new  importance  from  the  introduction  of  the  Aquarium.  There 
are  many  species,  some  of  the  more  common  of  which,  as  the  flaccid 
nitella,  are  very  weak  and  slender,  while  the  more  common  charas 
(C.  vulgaris  and  C.  hispida)  are  liable  to  become  foetid. 

The  Equisetaceae  are  remarkable  for  secreting  siliceous,  and  the 
Characeae  calcareous  matter.  There  is  something  in  this  process  very 
suggestive.  It  may  be  compared  to  the  action  of  the  earthworm,  which 
prepares  clay  and  bad  soils  to  become  productive  humus ;  so  these  little 
plants  may  take  up  silex  and  lime,  and  convert  it  into  a  useful  soil,  but 
with  the  loss  of  their  own  widely-multiplied  existence.  In  calling  atten- 
tion, then,  to  hitherto  much  neglected  and  almost  despised  forms  of 
vegetable  life,  it  is  truly  gratifying  to  be  able  to  point  out  not  only  how 
much  beauty  there  is  in  them,  and  to  what  various  ornamental  and 
useful  purposes  they  can  be  applied,  but  also  to  add  one  more  to  the 
many  proofs  teeming  around  us,  that  Nature  made  nothing  in  vain.  The 
quill-worts  prepare  the  bottom  of  lakes  for  the  reception  of  plants  of  a 
higher  organisation,  that  gradually  invade  the  domain  of  water,  and 
convert  it  into  land ;  the  Equisetaceae  advancing  at  the  same  time  with 
their  congeners  on  the  margins,  and  co-operating  in  the  great  object  in 
view.  The  Characeee  do  the  same  thing  for  stagnant  ponds  and  ditches, 
and  even  for  gently-flowing  waters — which,  with  some  of  the  Ranuncu- 
laceae,  they  seem  as  if  sometimes  bent  on  arresting  in  their  course. 
Lastly,  the  wolves'-feet,  or  club-mosses,  follow  up  the  first  hold  taken 
upon  the  naked  rock  by  the  persistent  lichen,  and  cover  whole  tracts  of 
mountain-land  with  their  slender  and  creeping  yet  solid  and  wiry  stems, 
colonising  them,  and  gradually  preparing  them  for  the  heath,  the  meadow 
grass,  or  the  forest  tree. 


June— -vol.  ovii.  ho.  cccczxyi. 


(    238     ) 
PILGRIMAGES  TO  THE  FRENCH  PALACES, 

BY  FLOBENTIA. 

VII. 

The  Chateau  of  St.  Germain— Present  and  Past— The  Forest— La  ValHere. 

I  WAS  so  unfortunate  as  to  visit  Paris  in  the  winter,  which,  although 
the  fashionable  season,  is  not  the  time  of  year  best  calculated  to  display 
its  beauties.  The  environs,  too,  so  picturesque  and  pretty  in  themselves, 
and  adorned  with  such  a  profusion  of  palaces,  gardens,  and  parks,  lose 
half  their  attraction  at  this  ungenial  season.  The  keenness  of  the  air 
renders  the  severity  of  the  winter  much  more  trying  than  in  England, 
where  the  atmosphere  is  tempered  by  the  softening  influence  of  the  sur- 
rounding ocean.  But  delighted  with  the  novelty  of  all  around  me,  I  was 
determined  to  see  everything  I  could,  and  neither  the  snow  nor  the  cold 
north  wind  cooled  my  ardour.  I  determined  first  to  visit  St.  Germab, 
as  being  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  interesting  of  the  royal  residence! 
that  skirt  the  capital.  And  to  perform  this  expedition  in  winter  require! 
courage,  unless  one  is  made  of  brass ;  for  I  verily  believe,  Siberia  ex- 
cepted, it  is  the  very  coldest  place  to  be  found  in  Europe ! 

St.  Germain  is  reached  from  Paris  by  railway,  the  trains  leaving 
every  hour,  passing  through  a  broad  plain,  watered  by  the  Seine,  which 
meanders  to  and  fro,  amid  the  rich  and  highly-cultivated  tract,  as  if  it 
longed  to  dwell  among  those  sunny  and  gently-rising  bilk,  dotted  with 
gay- looking  towns  and  villages,  standing  out  white  ami  fair  in  the 
sunshine.  It  is  impossible  not  to  gaze  with  pleasure  on  this  happy 
landscape.  The  interminable  windings  of  the  river,  spanned  by  bridge 
after  bridge,  which  we  rapidly  crossed,  gives  the  country  the  appear- 
ance of  a  series  of  islands,  the  background  being  closed  by  a  range  ef 
hills,  covered  with  vineyards,  villages,  and  country  houses,  presenting 
a  series  of  most  pleasing  views. 

The  town  of  St.  Germain  stands  on  the  highest  elevation,  and  on  ap- 
proaching presents  a  striking  appearance,  backed  by  the  dark  masses  ef 
its  forest  The  railway  penetrates  the  hill  by  a  tunnel,  and  on  this  ascent 
the  atmospheric  engines  are  in  full  and  successful  operation.  I  cannot, 
therefore,  account  for  their  failure  in  our  country,  where  such  vast  sumi 
have  been  uselessly  expended  in  the  trial. 

One  cannot  travel  anywhere  in  France  without  being  assailed,  in  the 
civilest  manner,  with  questions  by  thousands : — "  Has  madame  been  long 
abroad?"  "Is  madame  going  to  remain ?"  "When  madame  leaves 
Paris,  is  she  going  to  travel,  and  where?"  "Does  she  like  Paris?" 
"  Ah,  madame !  it  is  so  charming  to  praise  France ;  yes,  it  is  a  country 
such  as  is  not  seen  elsewhere.  England  is  so  triste,  but  madame  is  quite 
Francaise,  and  speaks  our  language  like  an  angel."  "  Is  madame  mar- 
ried ?"  "  Where  is  le  monsieur  who  has  the  honour  to  belong  to  ma- 
dame?" Such,  and  a  thousand  others,  are  questions  perpetually  re- 
peated ;  and  as  they  are  addressed  to  you  without  an  idea  of  impertinence, 
should  always  be  replied  to  with  politeness.  Arrived  at  the  station,  one 
finds  oneself  close  to  the  old  chateau,  round  which  the  town  nestles,  with 
a  degree  of  feudal  proximity  very  detrimental  to  the  picturesque.  Nothing 


Pilgrimctges  to  the  French  Palaces.  259 

can  be  more  disappointing  than  this  building,  now  desecrated  by  being 
converted  into  a  prison !  It  is  a  huge,  hideous,  dirty~red  brick  pile  of 
the  most  clumsy,  heavy  proportions,  and  must  at  all  times  have  been  a 
tiull  and  gloomy  abode.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  j$te-loving  Jupiter  of 
the  seventeenth  century  could  not  abide  so  melancholy  a  residence,  even 
if  St.  Denis,  the  royal  cemetery  of  the  French  monarchs,  had  not  been 
visible  from  the  terrace.  The  dirty  colour  of  the  walls  show  all  tfoe 
effects  of  time  without  any  picturesqueness  to  Telieve  it,  and  the  heavy 
balustrade  round  the  principal  windows  looks  as  if  it  must  fall  from  its 
own  excessive  weight.  The  emrpty  window-frames,  the  ruinous  appear- 
ance of  the  roof,  and  a  certain  indescribable  prison-look  about  the  build- 
ing, make  one  turn  away  with  a  feeling  of  loathing. 

Oh!  could  die  shades  of  those  gay  cavaliers — die  De  Vardes,  the 
Gulches,  the  Lauzuns,  tbe  Richelieus  that  inhabited  it  in  the  days  of  le 
Grand  Monarque— see  it  now,  what  would  be  the  disgust  of  those 
scented  exquisites  of  die  seventeenth  century  ?  Could  poor  La  Valliere 
come  to  life  and  see  her  'favourite  residence,  the  scene  of  her  early  love, 
in  its  present  plight,  what  would  be  her  dismay !  The  apartments  she 
occupied,  once  invaded,  positively  escaladed,  by  the  enamoured  king,  now 
inhabited  by  criminals ! 

I  must  console  myself  by  giving  a  look  into  the  past,  a,nd  recalling 
what  St.  Germain  once  was,  to  make  amends  for  its  present  want  of 
interest.  Let  us  take  a  peep  back  some  two  hundred  years  and  see  what 
was  passing  then,  and  endeavour  to  shut  out  this  ghost  of  a  palace  stand- 
ing before  us. 

Poor  La  Vallifcre,  she  might  have  remained  unsullied  in  her  life,  as 
she  was  ever  pure  and  good  in  her  inmost  soul,  had  she  not  unconsciously 
betrayed  to  Louis  the  mingled  admiration  and  love  with  which  he  had 
inspired  her ;  a  knowledge  no  sooner  obtained  by  him  than  but  too  surely 
taken  full  advantage  of.  It  chanced  at  Fontainebleau,  where  the  court 
was  then  residing,  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere  being  one  of  tihe  maids 
of  honour  of  Madame  Henriette  dX)rl6ans,  that  lovely  daughter  of  our 
own  lovely  queen  Henrietta,  whom  we  have  already  spoken  of  as  con- 
nected with  the  Palais  Royal. 

It  was  a  cool,  delicious  evening,  after  a  day  of  unusual  heat,  when  a 
merry  party,  consisting  of  four  of  the  maids  of  honour,  had  ensconced 
themselves  in  a  thick  arbour  covered  with  honeysuckles  and  roses,  among 
the  thickets  of  flowering  shrubs  that  skirted  the  gay  pastures  of  flowers 
before  the  chateau.  It  was  already  dark,  but  their  gay,  laughing  voices 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  king,  then  quite  a  young  man,  who  had 
also  stolen  out  on  the  terrace  to  enjoy  the  delightful  evening,  unattended 
by  all  except  die  handsome  mischief-loving  Lauzun,  fated  hereafter  to 
exercise  such  all-conquering  power  over  the  heart  of  the  unfortunate 
Mademoiselle  de  Montpensier. 

The  king,  hearing  the  voices,  was  seized  with  a  sudden  curiosity  to 
know  what  was  the  subject  of  die  conversation,  and  signing  to  Lauzun 
to  follow  htm,  he  softly  approached  the  arbour.  The  tongues  of  the 
pretty  maids  of  honour  were  going  Eke  bo  many  cherry  clappers,  the 
subject  of  conversation  being  u  ball  given  the  night  before  by  Madame 
Henriette,  and  particularly  about  a  ballet,  in  which  the  king  bad  danced 
in  company  with  some  other  gentlemen  of  his  court.     The  king  and 

k  2 


240  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

Lauzun,  favoured  by  the  increasing  darkness  of  the  night,  and  well 
entrenched  behind  the  shrubs,  did  not  lose  a  syllable. 

The  question  was,  which  dancer  was  the  handsomest  and  the  most 
graceful,  and  each  pretty  lady  had,  of  course,  her  own  predilection.  One 
declared  for  the  Marquis  d'Alencon,  another  would  not  hear  of  any  com- 
parison with  M.  de  Vardes,  and  a  third  stoutly  maintained  that  the 
Comte  de  Guiche  was  by  far  the  handsomest  man  there  and  everywhere 
else  (an  opinion  which,  par  parenthese,  Madame  herself  took  every  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  she  quite  acquiesced  in — a  taste,  moreover,  displayed 
somewhat  too  openly  by  her,  notwithstanding  her  designs  on  the  heart  of 
the  king  himself,  whom  she  fancied,  and  others  declared,  was,  or  had 
been,  her  devoted  admirer).  But  to  our  story.  The  fourth  damsel  was 
silent.  Upon  being  called  upon  to  give  her  opinion,  she  spoke,  and  in 
the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of  tones — or  rather  in  "  a  voice  soft  and  low,  an 
excellent  thing  in  woman" — she  thus  expressed  herself: 

"  I  cannot  imagine  how  any  one  else  could  have  been  even  noticed 
when  the  king  was  present.     He  is  quite  fascinating." 

"Ah,  then  you,  mademoiselle,  declare  for  the  king.  What  will 
Madame  say  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  it  is  not  the  king  nor  the  crown  he  wears  that  I  admire :  it  is 
not  his  rank  that  makes  him  so  charming.  On  the  contrary,  to  me  it 
ought  rather  to  diminish  his  attractions,  for  if  he  were  not  the  king  I 
should  positively  dread  him.  His  position  is  my  best  safeguard.  How- 
ever  "    And  La  Valliere  dropped  her  head  on  her  bosom  and  fell 

into  a  deep  reverie. 

On  hearing  her  words  the  king  was  strangely  affected,  and,  forbidding 
Lauzun  to  mention  their  adventure,  they  retired  silently  as  they  came, 
and  re-entered  the  chateau.  The  king  was  in  a  sad  ailemma.  If  he 
could  only  discover  who  the  fair  damsel  was  who  preferred  him  to  all 
others  with  such  naivete  and  such  sincerity — who  admired  him  for  him- 
self alone,  and  not  for  his  rank — a  preference  as  flattering  as  it  was 
rarely  the  lot  of  a  monarch  to  discover.  All  he  knew  was  that  it  must 
be  one  of  the  maids  Nof  honour  attached  to  the  service  of  Madame 
Henriette,  his  sister-in-law,  and  he  could  not  sleep  all  night,  so  haunted 
was  he  with  the  melting  tones  of  that  sweet  voice,  and  so  anxious  did  he 
become  to  discover  to  whom  it  belonged.  In  the  morning,  as  soon  as 
etiquette  allowed  of  his  appearing,  Louis  hurried  off  to  the  toilette  of 
Madame,  whom  he  found  seated  before  her  mirror  of  the  rarest  Dresden 
china,  lopped  up  with  lace  and  ribbons,  her  face  and  shoulders  covered 
with  her  beautifully  long  hair,  about  to  undergo  the  frightful  process  of 
powdering. 

"  Your  majesty  honours  me  with  an  early  visit,"  said  she,  colouring 
with  pleasure  as  he  entered.  "  What  plans  have  you  arranged  for  the 
hunt  to-day  ?     When  are  we  to  start  ?" 

Louis,  with  his  usual  politeness — shown,  be  it  recorded  to  his  credit, 
towards  any  woman,  whatever  might  be  her  degree — gallantly  replied 
that  it  was  for  her  to  command  and  for  him  to  obey.  But  there  the 
conversation  dropped,  and  the  duchess  soon  observed  that  he  appeared 
absent  and  preoccupied,  which  at  once  chagrined  and  disappointed  her. 
Piqued  at  his  want  of  empressement,  she  turned  from  him  abruptly  and 
began  conversing  with  one  of  her  attendants* 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  241 

Louis  was  now  at  liberty  to  use  his  eyes  as  he  chose,  and  he  hastily 
proceeded  to  survey  the  group  of  lovely  girls  that,  like  a  garden  of  bright 
tulips,  stood  behind  the  princess's  chair.  One  standing  a  little  apart 
from  the  rest  riveted  his  attention.  Her  pale  and  somewhat  melancholy 
countenance  imparted  an  indescribable  air  of  interest  to  her  appearance, 
and  the  graceful  tournure  of  her  head  and  neck  completed  as  lovely  a 
creature  as  could  be  conceived. 

"  Could  this  be  she  ?"  He  hoped — he  feared  (he  was  young  then, 
Louis,  and  not  the  debauche  blase  he  afterwards  became) — he  actually 
trembled  with  emotion,  suspense,  and  impatience.  But  determined  to 
ascertain  the  truth,  and  regardless  of  the  furious  glances  cast  at  him  by 
Madame,  who  evidently  neither  liked  nor  understood  his  wandering 
looks,  directed  evidently  to  her  ladies,  and  his  total  want  of  attention 
towards  herself,  he  approached  the  fair  group  and  began  conversing  with 
them,  certain  that  if  that  same  soft  voice  was  heard  that  had  never  ceased 
to  echo  in  his  ears,  he  should  at  once  recognise  it.  He  addressed  Madame 
du  Pons,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  pale  face  of  La  Valliere,  for  it 
was,  indeed,  she  he  so  much  admired.  She  cast  down  her  eyes  and 
blushed. 

The  king  advanced  towards  her  and  addressed  her,  awaiting  her  reply 
with  indescribable  anxiety.  She  trembled,  grew  still  more  pale,  then 
blushed  crimson,  and  finally  replied  to  him  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
timidity ;  but  it  was  the  voice !  He  had  found  her.  This,  then,  was  the 
unknown,  and  she  loved  him ;  her  own  lips  confessed  it.  Delightful ! 
He  left  the  apartments  of  Madame  abruptly  in  speechless  delight. 

From  that  day  he  saw,  he  lived  for,  but  La  Valliere.  Ever  in  the 
apartments  of  his  sister-in-law,  it  was  evident  to  her  that  he  did  not  come 
to  seek  her  society,  and  her  rage  and  jealousy  knew  no  bounds ;  for  she 
had  indeed  previously  had  ample  reason  to  believe  that  the  attachment 
the  king  felt  for  her  exceeded  that  of  a  brother.  With  all  the  spite 
of  a  jealous  woman,  she  soon  discovered  how  often  the  eyes  of  Louis  were 
fixed  with  admiration  on  the  timid  and  downcast  face  of  La  Valliere.  She 
was  not,  therefore,  long  in  guessing  the  object  of  his  preference  and  in 
discovering  the  cause  of  his  frequent  visits  to  her  apartments.  From  this 
moment  she  hated  poor  Louise,  and  determined,  if  possible,  to  ruin  her 
on  the  first  favourable  opportunity  that  chance  might  afford. 

Louis  on  his  part,  unconscious  of  the  storm  he  was  raising  about  La 
Valliere,  was  delighted  with  all  he  saw,  and  with  all  he  heard  of  her 
character.  She  was  beloved  by  all ;  her  goodness,  her  sweetness,  her 
sincerity  were  universally  acknowledged,  and  the  account  of  her  various 
good  qualities  naturally  tended  to  enhance  her  merit  in  the  eyes  of  the 
king. 

"When  the  court  returned  to  St.  Germain  (now,  can  one  fancy  a  bril- 
liant court  within  those  dingy  walls  ? — but  so  it  was),  Louis  was  desperately, 
head  and  ears  over  in  love.     A  party  of  pleasure  was  arranged  to  take 

{)lace  in  the  forest  under  a  tent  formed  of  boughs  and  flowers.  The 
adies  resorted  to  this  sylvan  retreat  habited  as  shepherdesses  and  peasants 
forming  charming  groups,  very  like  Sevres  china.  On  their  arrival,  the 
most  delicious  music  was  heard  proceeding  from  the  recesses  of  the  leafy 
groves,  which  as  it  played  at  intervals,  now  here,  now  there,  among  the 
trees,  was  the  signal  for  the  appearance  of  various  groups  of  satyrs,  fauns, 


242  Pilgrimages  to  the  French.  Palaces. 

and  nymphs,  who  after  dancing  certain  grotesque  figures,  and  singing 
verses  in  honour  of  the  king  and  the  court,  disappeared,  to  be  quickly 
replaced  by  another  detachment,  who  presented  flowers,  and  also  sang 
and  danced  as  no  nymphs  or  fauns  had  ever  dreamed  of  in  classic 
bowers,  but  in  a  style  quite  peculiar  to  the  age  and  taste  of  le  Grand 
Monarque,  who  liked  even  nature  itself  to  appear  as  artificial  and 
formal  as  he  became  himself.  This  agreeable  fete  had  lasted  all  day,  and 
the  company  was  about  to  return  on  foot  to  the  chateau,  when — conceive 
the  alarm — a  violent  storm  came  on,  thunder  began  to  roll,  the  sky  was 
suddenly  obscured,  and  a  heavy  rain  descended  with  remorseless  violence 
to  drench  the  whole  court.  How  every  one  scudded  hither  and  thither 
like  a  flock  of  terrified  sheep !  The  thickest  trees  were  eagerly  seized  on 
as  a  slight  protection  against  the  storm;  and,  spite  of  tbe  rain,  As 
ladies  at  last  began  to  vote  it  rather  an  agreeable  incident  on  the  whole, 
when  they  found  their  favourite  cavaliers  beside  them,  placed,  perchance! 
somewhat  nearer  than  would  have  been  comme  Ufaut  in  the  court  circle. 
For  although  the  ladies  might  really  at  first  have  been  a  little  terrified, 
the  gentlemen,  certainly,  were  not  likely  to  be  attacked  witb  any  ner- 
vousness on  account  of  a  thunderstorm,  and  had  preserved  sangfroid 
sufficient  to  select  each  his  fair  lady-love  to  protect  from  the  tem- 
pest. Thus  it  chanced  that  Madame  Henriette  found  herself  under 
the  care  of  the  Comte  de  G niche ;  the  fair  Mancini,  once  so  beloved  by 
the  king,  now  Comtesse  de  Soissons,  was  under  the  protection  of  her  dear 
De.  Vardes  ;  and  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans — la  grande  Mademoiselle-— mm 
completely  happy,  and  forgot  the  thunder,  rain,  and,  more  wonderful  stu% 
her  own  dignity,  at  finding  herself  tete-a-tete  with  Lauzun ! 

The  king,  nowise  behind  his  courtiers  in  gallantry,  had  at  once  offered 
his  escort  and  his  arm  to  support  poor  La  Valliere,  who,  naturally  timid, 
was  really  terrified  at  the  noise,  the  bustle,  the  surprise,  and  accepted  his 
assistance,  and  clung  to  his  arm  with  a  confidence  that  enchanted  him. 
All  the  world  knows  she  was  a.  little  lame,  a  defect  which  was  said  in.  he? 
to  become  quite  a  grace.  On  the  present  occasion  she  did  not  perhapi 
regret  that  this  infirmity  prevented  her  walking  as  quickly  aa  the  rest, 
prolonging  the  precious  moments  with  the  king.  Louis  placed  her  unto 
a  tree,  where  they  were  both  protected  from  the  rain  and  shrouded  by  die 
thick  boughs  which  fringed  the  grass  beneath  and  entirely  concealed  them 
from  all  impertinent  observers. 

The  king  seized  on  this  happy  opportunity  to  declare  his  passion,  and 
acquaint  La  Valliere  with  the  love  she  had  inspired  ever  since  that  even* 
ing  at  Fontainebleau,  when  he  had  overheard  her  conversation.  Foot 
Louise !  who  had  never  dared  to  imagine  that  her  love  was  returned,,  hod 
well-nigh  fainted  as  the  king  proceeded.  Her  heart  beat  so  tremendously 
it  was  quite  audible,  and  she  was  actually  on  the  point  of  rushing  from 
under  the  tree,  when  the  king,,  laying  hold  of  her  hand,  retained  bar. 

"What!"  said  he,  "do  you  fear  me  more  than  the  storm.?  'What 
have  I  done  to  terrify  you?  you  whom  I  love,  whom  I  adore!  What 
is  the  cause  of  your  hatrecLof  me  ?     Speak,  I  implore  you,  Louise." 

"  Oh,  sire !  say  not  hatred.     I  revere  you — I  love  you. — as  my  king; 


"  Sweet  girl,  I  breathe  again.     But  why  only  love  me  as  your  sorer 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  243 

reign — I*  who  cherish  your  every  look,  and  seek  only  to  be  your  ser- 
vant— your  slave  ?" 

Saying  which  he  fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  swore  he  would 
never  rise  until  she  had  promised  to  love  him,  and  to  pardon  the  terror 
his  declaration  had;  caused  her. 

At  this  sight  Mademoiselle  de  la  ValMre  could  not  control  her  emo- 
tion.    She  implored  him  to  rise. 

"•Youape  my  king,"  said  she.  "  I  am  your  faithful  subject.  Can  I 
say  more  ?,r 

^Bu£  promise  me  your  love.  Give  me  your  heart ;  that  is  the  pos- 
session I  desirey"  cried  Louis. 

Pressed  by  the  king  to  grant  him  some  mark  of  her  favour,  La  VaL- 
lieje  became  so-  confused  she  could  scarcely  articulate.  Louis  became 
more  and  more  pressing,  interpreting  her  emotion  as  favourable  to  his 
suit,,  when  in  the  midst  of  the  tenderest  entreaties  the  thunder  again 
burst  forth,  and  poor  Louise,  overcome  at  once  by  fear^  love,  and  re* 
morse,  fainted  away.  The  king  naturally  received  this  precious  burden 
in  his  arms,  and  began  hastily  to  rejoin  the  other  fugitives  and  his 
attendants,  in  order  to  obtain  assistance.  Ever  and  anon  he  stopped  in 
the  opening*  of  the  forest  to  admire  her  face,  calm  and  lovely  in  repose, 
the  long  eyelashes  sweeping  the  delicate  cheek,  the  lips  half  closed, 
revealing  the  prettiest  little  white  teeth.  I  leave  my  readers  to  imagine 
i£  Louis  did  not  imprint  a  few  kisses  on  the  fainting  beauty  he  bore  so 
carefully  ia  his  arms,  and  if  now  and  then  he  did  not  press  that  beloved 
form  closer  to  his  breast.  If  in  this  he  did  take  advantage  of  the  situa- 
tion chance  had  afforded  him,  he  must  be  forgiven ;  he  was  young,  and 
he  was  deeply  in  love;  he  was,  moreover,  aJung,  and  she  was  his  subject. 

Imagine  the  surprise  felt  by  La  Valliere  on  recovering  to  find  herself 
borne  along  in  the  king's  arms  1  alone,,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  solitary 
fbrest.  History  does  not,  however,  record  that  she  died  of  terror,  or  that 
she  even  screamed;  but  perhaps,  and  indeed  doubtless,  she  would  have 
been  more  frightened  had  not  the  respectful  behaviour  of  the  king  reas- 
sured her. 

The  moment  she  opened  her  sweet  blue  eyes  he  stopped,  placed  her  on 
the  ground,  and  supporting  her  in  the  tenderest  manner,  assured  her 
that  being  then  near  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  not  far  distant  from  the 
chateau,  they  were  sure  soon  to  encounter  some  of  his  attendants. 
Louise  blushed,  then  grew  pale,  then  blushed  again,  as  the  recollection 
o£  all  the  king  had  said  to  her  while  under  the  shade  of  the  tree 
gradually  returned  to  her  mind.  She  read  the  confirmation  of  it  all  ia 
has  countenance,  and  in  his  eyes,  turned  towards  her  with  a  passionate 
gaze.  In  a  faltering  voice  she  thanked  him  for  his  care  a  thousand 
times — for  his  condescension.  She  was  so  sorry.  It  was  so  foolish  to 
faint;  but  the  thunder — his  majesty's  goodness  to  her  And  here 

she  paused  abruptly ;  her  conscience  told  her  she  ought  at  once  to  rejeet 
his  suit  for  ever  :  her  lips  could  not  articulate  the  words. 

While  she  was  yet  speaking  a  group  of  horsemen  appeared  in  the 
distance,  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  long  verdant  glades  in  which  the  forest 
abounds,  who,,  on  hearing  the  voice  of  the  king,  galloped  rapidly  towards 
them*    Tkey  reached  the  chateau  shortly  alter  the  other  ladies,  who  ba6V 


244  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

none  of  them,  as  it  appeared,  been  in  haste  to  arrive,  and  who,  as  well  as 
their  cavaliers,  regretted  extremely  the  termination  of  so  highly  agree- 
able an  adventure. 

From  this  moment  La  Valliere's  fate  was  sealed.  Long  had  she 
loved  and  admired  the  king  in  her  own  secret  heart;  but  until  she  learnt 
how  warmly  he  returned  this  attachment  she  was  scarcely  aware  how 
completely  he  possessed  her  heart.  The  ecstasy  this  certainty  gave  her 
first  fully  revealed  to  herself  the  real  danger  of  her  situation.  Poor 
Louise !  Is  it  wonderful  that  as  the  scene  of  this  first  and  passionate 
declaration  she  should  love  the  old  chateau  of  St.  Germain  more  than 
any  other  spot  in  the  world? — that  when  suffering,  the  air  restored  her? 
when  unhappy  (and  she  lived  to  be  so  utterly  miserable),  the  sight  of  the 
forest,  of  the  terrace,  revived  her  for  a  time  by  the  tender  reminiscences 
they  recalled  ? 

It  is  well  no  vision  of  the  present  scene  arose  to  trouble  the  pleasure 
she  felt  in  this  residence ;  for  who  could  ever  have  imagined  that  this 
stately  chateau  would  ever  have  been  converted  into  the  dreary  prison 
one  now  beholds,  with  a  screaming,  whistling,  vulgar  railway  station 
close  under  the  very  walls !  with  omnibuses  and  flys,  and  all  the  et  caetera 
of  modern  barbarism  invading  the  dignified  old  palace,  intended  for  royal 
retirement  and  enjoyment. 

When  the  secret  of  Louis's  attachment  to  La  Valliere  transpired 
(which  after  the  scene  of  the  forest  was  very  soon  the  case),  nothing  could 
exceed  the  rage,  the  indignation  of  the  whole  royal  circle,  who  each  con- 
ceived that  they  had  some  especial  cause  of  complaint.  The  poor  quiet 
queen,  who  certainly  was  the  really  injured  party,  could  only  weep  and 
mourn  in  silence  over  a  scandal  that  affected  her  personally  nearly ;  but  she 
was  far  too  much  afraid  of  the  handsome  Jupiter  Tonans,  her  husband,  to 
venture  on  many  personal  reproaches  to  himself.  She  consoled  herself 
with  most  soundly  abusing  the  unhappy  La  Valliere,  and  vented  her  spleen 
in  loading  her  with  a  variety  of  epithets  much  more  expressive  than  elegant 
In  this  labour  of  love  she  was  joined  by  Anne  of  Austria,  the  queen- 
mother,  who  in  her  actual  state  of  mind,  and  given  up  as  she  was  to  the 
rigid  observances  of  the  austerities  of  her  religion  (for  these  were  the  days 
of  serge  gowns,  chaplets,  confessors,  and  oratories  with  her  majesty), 
was  the  last  person  to  spare  the  favourite,  and  actively  assisted  her 
daughter-in-law  in  these  attacks. 

But  Madame  Henriette,  who  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with  the 
affair,  was  the  noisiest  and  most  abusive  of  all.  Her  vanity  was  offended, 
was  outraged  in  the  highest  degree,  at  the  notion  that  the  king,  whom  she 
believed  her  ardent  admirer,  should  forsake  her  openly,  publicly,  for  one 
of  her  women.     It  was  too  insulting. 

''What,"  exclaimed  she,  "does  he  prefer  a  little  ugly,  miserable, 
limping  bourgeoise  to  me,  the  daughter  of  a  king,  and,  moreover,  as  supe- 
rior in  attractions  to  that  little  minx  as  I  am  in  birth  ?  Dieu !  qu'il 
manque  de  gout  et  de  d£licatesse !" 

Without  even  taking  leave  of  the  king,  she  rushed  from  court  and  re- 
tired to  St.  Cloud,  where  she  made  the  very  walls  ring  with  her  lamentations 
and  her  complaints.  The  end  of  all  this  disturbance  was,  that  La  Valliere, 
humiliated,  overcome,  reproached  from  without  by  all  around  her,  and 
from  within  by  the  stings  of  a  conscience  that  no  circumstances  could  ever 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  245 

either  corrupt  or  silence,  escaped  from  St.  Germain,  and  placed  herself 
in  the  convent  of  Chaillot,  determining  to  sacrifice  her  love  to  the  higher 
calls  of  duty,  and  by  taking  the  veil  remove  all  chances  of  a  relapse  into 
former  temptations.  To  recount  how  the  king  discovered  her  retreat, 
and  flying  after  her  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  new  passion,  prevailed  on  her 
to  alter  her  resolution  and  return  to  the  court,  would  lead  me  into  a  di- 
gression which  would  not  be  excused  by  any  reference  to  the  old  chateau 
we  are  considering.  Happy  had  it  been  for  the  too  yielding  but  amiable 
favourite  had  she  never  left  the  peaceful  cloister,  or  consented  to  recom- 
mence a  life  of  sin  that  ended  in  the  misery  of  seeing  herself  supplanted 
by  her  friend,  the  arrogant,  artful  De  Montespan  ! 

In  the  gallery  of  St.  Germain,  Louis  first  met  with  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  then  the  humble  widow  Scarron.  It  was  his  habit,  after 
leaving  the  chapel,  as  he  passed  through  the  gallery,  to  receive  the 
petitions  of  those  who  had  sufficient  interest  to  gain  admittance.  A 
beautiful  woman,  of  somewhat  full  and  voluptuous  proportions,  with 
a  neck  whiter  than  driven  snow — quite  a  style  to  suit  the  royal 
taste — dressed  in  a  morning  costume,  which  displayed  the  delicacy 
of  her  complexion  to  the  best  advantage,  presented  herself  before 
him.  Louis  could  not  but  admire  her  appearance  and  receive  the 
paper  she  presented  to  him.  However,  it  appears  that  the  fair  widow, 
not  receiving  the  attention  she  expected,  and  finding  her  petition  un- 
noticed, presented  herself  so  constantly  before  the  king  in  this  very  gal- 
lery, that  at  length  he  grew  quite  weary  of  her  solicitations,  and  on  one 
occasion  abruptly  turned  his  back  on  her,  saying  to  one  of  his  attendants, 
"  I  am  tired  of  seeing  that  woman.  Ilpleut  en  verite  des  memoires  de 
Madame  Scarron."  Little  did  he  imagine  the  influence  that  intriguing 
widow  was  destined  to  exercise  over  his  latter  years.  Finding  all  legiti- 
mate means  fail  of  commanding  the  attention  she  desired,  the  widow 
Scarron,  by  dint  of  low  flattery  and  mean  compliances,  contrived  to  gain 
the  friendship  of  the  abandoned  Montespan,  then  in  the  zenith  of  her 
power.  She  was  appointed  by  her  governess  to  her  illegitimate  offspring, 
a  position  that  secured  to  the  crafty  widow  a  firm  footing  at  court,  and  the 
certainty  of  being  constantly  thrown  into  the  society  of  the  king,  advan- 
tages of  which  she  amply  availed  herself,  ending  at  length  by  acquiring 
so  absolute  an  influence  over  him  as  soon  to  cause  the  expulsion  of  all 
rivals,  and  exercising  an  absolute  tyranny. 

VIII. 

Mary  of  Modena— James  II.— Francis  L— Henri  Quatre — Gabrielle  d'Estrees— 
The  Forest  of  St.  Germain  as  it  is  now. 

It  was  at  St.  Germain  that  Mary  of  Modena  and  her  infant  took  re- 
fuge after  her  hurried  flight  from  England,  escorted  by  the  gallant 
Lauzun,  who  had  been  despatched  by  Louis  to  aid  in  her  perilous  escape. 
On  landing  at  Boulogne,  she  refused  to  proceed  until  she  was  assured 
that  her  husband,  the  weak  devotee  James  II*,  was  in  safety  ;  "  resolved," 
as  she  said,  "  if  he  had  been  imprisoned,  to  have  returned  and  suffered 
martyrdom  with  him."  But,  as  he  was  not  destined  to  the  stake,  on 
being  informed  of  his  safety  she  continued  her  journey  to  St.  Germain. 

Louis  met  her  at  Chatou,  a  pretty  village  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 


246  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

near  the  chateau,  now  one  of  the  stations  on  the  railway  from  hence  t» 
Paris.  As  soon  as  the  poor  fugitive  perceived  the  king,  she  dismounted 
from  her  coach  and  advanced  towards  him. 

"  Sire/'  said  she,  "  you  see  before  you  a  most  unhappy  princess, , 
only  consolation  is  the  goodness  of  your  majesty." 

"  Madame,"  replied  the  king,  "  it  is  now  only  in  my  power  to  : 
you  a  most  melancholy  service,  but  I  trust  ere  long  to  prove  to  youj  as 
also  to  my  brother  the  king,  your  husband,  that  I  have  every  inclinatioa 
to  serve  you  both  in  a  manner  more  worthy  his  dignity  and  my  own*." 

On  arriving  at  the  chateau,  the  king,  dismounting  first  from  his  carriage, 
offered  his  arm  to  the  queen,  and  conducted  her  into  the  magnificent 
apartments  occupied  formerly  by  his  wife. 

"  If,"  said  he,  "  my  late  consort,  Marie  Therese  of  Austria,  can  observe 
us  from  that  heaven  where  her  soul  undoubtedly  reposes  in  endless  bliss, 
she  will  be  flattered,  I  am  sure,  by  seeing  her  place  occupied  by  another 
Mary  as  beautiful  and  as  virtuous  as  she  was  herself!" 

After  having  delivered  himself  of  this  Grandisonian  compliment,  so- en- 
tirely a  la  Louts  Quafarze,  making  the  very  heavens  open,  as  it  were,  to  do 
honour  to  kings  and  queens,  and  actually  sanctify  etiquette,  he  commanded 
that  the  infant  Prince  of  Wales  should  be  carried  into  the  rooms  used  by 
the  Due  de  Bourgogne,  and  retired  himself  with  the  queen  into  an  inner 
boudoir,,  where  they  held  a  long  and  secret  conference.  When  they  re- 
turned into  the  grands  appartements,  Louis,  with  his  usual  majestic  cour- 
tesy, reconducted  the  queen  to  her  son,  and  then  took  leave  of  her. 

A  repetition  of  the  same  ceremonies  took  place  on  the  arrival  of 
Jam**  II.  shortly  afterwards,  excepting  only  that  when  the  two  monarchs 
met  in  the  court-yard  of  the  chateau  a  series  of  embrassements  took  peace 
between  them  that  must  have  been  most  strangely  ludicrous  fa  the 
bystanders.  It  is  said  that  the  two  kings  folded  each  other  ten  times  m 
their  arms.  So  violent  an  effusion  of  tenderness  must  have  marvellously 
discomposed  the  wig  and  powder  of  le  Grand  Monarque,  who,  when  they 
became  calmer,  observed  to  James,  "  Let  us  lose  no  more  time — the 
queen  will  be  all  impatience  to  see  your  majesty."  Upon  which  hat 
they  proceeded  to  the  apartments  of  the  queen,  whom  they  found  awaiting 
their  arrival  in  bed,  Louis  insisting  on  giving  the  place  of  honour  fa  ktf 
royal  visitor,  who  as  pertinaciously  endeavoured  to  decline  it.  Upoa 
sight  of  the  queen  a  fresh  series  of  more  violent  embrassements  than,  ever 
commenced,  but  this  time  Louis  was  only  a  spectator.  How  often  James 
thought  it  necessary  to  clasp  his  consort  in  his  arms  is  not  recorded,  but 
doubtless  the  number  of  times  exceeded  the  accolades  he  had  previously 
bestowed  on  his  host.  After  these  lively  demonstrations  had  a  little 
subsided,  Louis  addressed  the  English  king  in  these  words  : 

"  Your  majesty  must  remain  here,  and  not  return  with  me ;  come  and 
see  me  to-morrow  at  Versailles ;  I  will  then  receive  you  as  my  guest; 
after  that  I  shall  again  pay  you  a  visit  at  St.  Germain,  where  I  shsfl 
look  on  you  as  my  host ;  afterwards  we  will  meet  as  often  as  possible 
s&nsfitgons" 

Before  he  departed,  Louis  deposited  ten  thousand  pistoles  in  the  room 
destined  for  the  king,  an  action  as  generous  as  it  was  delicately  contrived 
not^  to  wound  the  feelings  of  the  royal  fugitives.  Indeed  his  whole  eon- 
duefr  to  these  exiled  princes  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  episodes  in*  the 
whole  life  of  Louis  XIV. 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  247 

Nor  was  Sk  Germain  only  a  favourite  retreat  during  Louis  XIV.'s 
reign ;  other  monarchs  had  equally  appreciated  the  beauty  of  it*  situation 

Francis  L,  that  impersonation  of  chivalry,  the  gallant  prince  who 
would  fain  have  left  crown,  throne,  and  people*  to  fare  for  themselvesj 
constituting  himself  knight-errant  after  the  fashion  of  Boa  Quixote* 
also  loved  these  verdant  shades.  Here  he  was  married  to  the  gentle 
Claudey  daughter  of  Louis  XII.,  who,  deformed  in  person,  and  of  a  timid, 
retiring  disposition,  could  offer  no  attractions  likely  to  ensure  the  affec- 
tion of  this Ibeanty-loving  monarch.  After  a  few  years  passed  in  neglect 
and  obscurity,,  she  expired,  leaving  Francis  to  the  undisputed  possession 
of  the  Duekesse  d'Etampes..  Here  he  delighted  to  resort  with  this  fair 
favourite— la  phest  belle  des  sava&te$r  et  la  plus  sattauto  des  belles— to 
hunt,  to  ride,  to  dance,  to  love ;  or*  when  weary  of  pleasure,  to  read  those 
legends  of  chivalry  he  so  much  admired ;  or  perhaps  to  pen  some  couplets 
himself  in  honour  of  the  fair— -for  he  himself  was.  no  mean  poet* 

Henri  Quatre  has  also  left  many  a  recollection  connected  with  this 
chatoaiv  where  he  resorted,  in.  the  small  intervals  of  delassement  from 
those  incessant  wars  that  occupied  his  reign,  to  enjoy  a  few  merry  hours 
with  la  belle  Gabrielle  d'Estrees. 

Before  her  acquaintance  with  Henri  Quatre^  she  was  engaged  to  marry 
a  gentleman  of  the  court,  named  Bellegarde.  They  seldom  met>  as  he, 
being  a  great  favourite  with  the  king,  followed  all  his  gyrations*  and  on 
the  occasion  I  am  about  to  relate,  the  lovers  had  been  separated  for  some 
time.  Gabrielle  was  then  living  with  her  sisters  at  her  father's  chateau; 
fondly  attached  to  Bellegarde,  her  thoughts  incessantly  dwelt  on  him* 
and  she  anticipated  the  approaching  period  of  her  marriage  with  all  the 
happiness  imaginable.. 

One  evening,  while  she  was  indulging  in  those  agreeable  musings  proper 
to  the  state  called  "  being  in  love,"  Bellegarde  was  abruptly  announced, 
and  entered^  accompanied  by  two  gentlemen ;  one,,  short  in  stature* 
with  a  droll  expression  of  countenance,  was  introduced  as  Monsieur  Chicot; 
the  other,,  by  name  "  Don  Juan*"  tall  and  thi%  with  greyish  hair,  high- 
coloured,  and  remarkable  for  &  very  prominent  nose  and  exceedingly 
audacious  eyes*. 

Gabrielle  rose  in  haste  to  embrace  Bellegarde,  but,  on  seeing  his  two 
companions,  drew  back,  welcoming  them  all  with  a  more  formal  courtesy. 
She  was  surprised  and  vexed  to  find  Bellegarde  cold  and  reserved^  but 
any  short-comings  on  his  part  were  amply  made  up  by  the  cordial,  acco- 
lade of  the  Spanish  Don. 

u  Pray,  madame,  excuse  our  friend"  said  Chicot,  seeing  the  confusion 
of  Gabrielle  at  such  unexpected  familiarity ;  "  he  is  only  newly  arrived  in 
France,  and  is  quite  unacquainted  with  the  usages  of  the  country.'9 

"  By  the  mass!"  cried  BeUegarde*  pale  with  annoyance,  *  I,,  for  my 
pact;  know  no.  country  in  the  world  where  gentlemen  are  permitted  thus 
to  salute  die  ladies — at  least  in  civilised  latitudes." 

These  remarks  were,  however,,  quite  lost  on  the  Don,.  who>,  with  his 
eye^  fixed  in  bold  admiration  on  Gabrielle,  scarcely  heard  them* 

"  Bellegarde,"  said  Gabrielle,  seeing  his  deeply  offended  look,  "  excuse 
this  stranger,.  I  entreat,  for  my  sake  ;  I  am  sure  he  meant  no  offence. 
Let  not  the  joy  I  feel  at  again  seeing  yon  be  overcast  by  this  little  occur- 
rence." And.  she  advanced  to  where  ne  stood,  and  affectionately  took  bfe 
hand. 


248  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

This  appeal  was  enough;  Bellegarde,  though  anxious,  looked  no 
longer  angry,  and  the  party  seated  themselves. 

"  This  gentleman,  madame,"  said  Chicot,  turning  towards  Gahrielle, 
"  is  our  prisoner;  he  surrendered  to  us  yesterday  in  the  melee  at  Marly, 
and,  his  ransom  paid,  to-morrow  morning  he  will  start  to  join  the  army 
of  the  Duke  of  Parma." 

"  At  least,  gentlemen,  now  you  are  here,"  replied  Gabrielle,  "  by 
whatever  chance — and  the  chance  must  be  good  that  brings  you  to  me — 
(and  she  glanced  at  Bellegarde) — you  will  all  partake  of  some  refreshment 
I  beg  you  to  do  so  in  the  name  of  Monsieur  de  Bellegarde." 

"  Fair  lady,"  said  the  Spaniard,  breaking  silence  for  the  first  time, 
"I  never  before  rejoiced  so  much  in  being  able  to  understand  the  French 
tongue  as  spoken  by  your  sweet  voice ;  this  is  the  happiest  moment  of 
my  life,  for  it  has  introduced  me  to  you,  the  fairest  of  your  sex.  Readily 
I  accept  your  invitation,  for  were  I  fortunate  enough  to  be  your  prisoner 
my  ransom  should  never  be  paid,  I  warrant." 

"  Cap  de  Dieu !"  exclaimed  Chicot,  laughing ;  "  the  Spanish  Dons  well 
merit  their  reputation  for  gallantry,  but  our  friend  here,  Don  Juan,  out- 
does all,  and  indeed  every  one  of  his  nation." 

"  Madame,"  continued  the  Spaniard,  not  appearing  to  hear  this  remark, 
and  still  addressing  Gabrielle,  "  if  any  one,  be  he  noble  or  villain,  knight 
or  king,  dare  to  say  that  any  woman  under  God's  sun  surpasses  you  in 
beauty  or  grace,  I  declare  him  to  be  a  liar,  false  and  disloyal,  and  with 
fitting  opportunity  I  will  prove  it  in  more  than  words  that  he  lies  to  the 
teeth." 

"  Come,  come,  my  good  friend,"  interrupted  Bellegarde,  much  dis- 
composed, "  do  not  go  into  these  heresies,  I  beseech  you.  If  you  heat 
yourself  in  this  way,  the  night  air  will  give  you  cold.  Besides,  remember, 
sir,  this  lady,  Mademoiselle  d'Estrees,  is  my  affianced  bride,  and  that 
certain  conditions  were  made  between  us  before  I  introduced  you,  which 
conditions  you  swore  to  observe." 

Don  Juan  felt  the  implied  reproof,  and  for  the  first  time  moved  his 
eyes  to  some  other  object  than  the  smiling  face  of  Gabrielle. 

Her  sisters  now  entered  and  were  saluted  with  nearly  equal  warmth  by 
the  Spanish  Don,  who  evidently  would  not  reform  his  manners  in  this 
particular. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  ladies,"  said  Chicot,  "  if  you  were  to  see  our  friend 
Don  Juan  in  a  justaucorps  of  satin,  and  glittering  with  gold  and  precious 
stones,  you  would  not  think  he  looked  amiss.  But  are  you  going  to 
give  us  something  to  eat  ?  What  has  the  Don  done  that  he  is  to  be  starved? 
Though  he  be  a  Spaniard,  and  serves  against  Henry  of  Navarre,  he  is  a 
Christian,  and  has  a  stomach  like  any  other." 

On  this  hint  the  whole  party  adjourned  to  the  eating-room,  Bellegarde 
looking  the  picture  of  misery,  Chicot  bursting  with  ill-suppressed  laugh- 
ter, and  the  Don  fully  occupied  by  Gabrielle,  on  whom  his  naughty  eyes 
were  again  fixed.  At  table,  spite  of  Bellegarde' s  manoeuvres,  he  placed 
himself  beside  her,  eating  and  drinking  voraciously ;  perpetually  propos- 
ing toasts  in  her  honour,  and  confusing  her  to  such  a  degree  that  she 
heartily  repented  having  invited  him  to  remain,  particularly  as  the 
annoyance  of  Bellegarde  at  his  familiarity  did  not  escape  her.  In  this 
general  malentendu  the  merry  Chicot  again  came  to  the  rescue. 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  249 

"  Let  us  drink  to  the  health  of  the  King  of  France  and  Navarre  !" 
cried  he.  "  Come,  Don  Juan,  forget  your  politics  and  join  us  :  here's 
prosperity  and  success  to  our  gallant  Henri !" 

"  That  is  a  toast  we  must  drink  in  chorus,"  said  Bellegarde. 

"  But  why,"  observed  Gabrielle,  "  does  Don  Juan  bear  arms  against 
the  King  of  France  if  he  is  his  partisan  ?" 

"  Fair  lady,  your  remark  is  just,"  replied  he,  "  but  the  fortune  of  war 
drives  a  soldier  to  many  things  ;  however,  I  only  wish  all  France  was  as 
much  his  friend  as  I  am." 

"  Long  live  the  king !" — "  Vive  Henri  Quatre !"  was  drunk  with  all  the 
honours  and  in  a  chorus  of  hurrahs.  The  Spaniard  wiped  a  tear  from  his  eye. 

"  Cap  de  Dieu  !"  cried  Chicot,  "  the  right  cause  will  triumph  at  last." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Bellegarde,  "  sooner  or  later  we  shall  see  our  brave 
king  enter  his  noble  palace  of  the  Louvre  in  state ;  but  meanwhile  he 
must  not  fool  away  his  time  in  follies  and  amours  while  the  League  is  in 
strength." 

"  There  you  speak  truth,"  said  Chicot ;  "  he  is  too  much  given  to  such 
games — he's  a  very  Sardanapalus — and,"  continued  he,  squinting  at  the 
Don  with  a  most  comical  expression,  "  if  report  speaks  true,  at  this  very 
moment  his  majesty  is  off  on  some  adventure  touching  the  rival  beauty 
of  certain  ladies,  to  the  manifest  neglect  of  his  crown  and  the  ruin  of  his 
affairs." 

"  Ah !"  said  Gabrielle,  "if  some  second  Agnes  Sorel  would  but  appear, 
and  making,  like  her,  a  noble  use  of  the  king's  love  and  her  influence, 
incite  him  to  noble  deeds — to  conquer  himself,  and  forsaking  all  else,  en- 
tirely devote  his  great  talents  in  fighting  heart  and  soul  against  the  rebels 
and  exterminating  the  League  !" 

"  Alas !"  sighed  Don  Juan,  "  those  were  the  early  ages ;  such  love  is 
not  to  be  found  now — it  is  a  dream,  a  fantasy — Henri  will  find  no  Agn&s 
Sorel  in  these  later  days." 

"  Say  not  so,  noble  Don,"  replied  Gabrielle ;  "love  is  of  all  times  and 
of  all  seasons.  True  love  is  immortal,  but  I  allow  that  it  is  rare  though 
not  impossible,  to  excite  such  a  passion." 

"  If  it  is  a  science  to  be  learnt,  will  you  teach  me,  fair  lady  ?"  said  the 
Spaniard. 

At  this  turn  in  the  conversation  Bellegarde  again  became  agitated, 
and  the  subject  dropped.  The  Don  addressed  his  conversation  to  the 
sisters  of  Gabrielle,  and  at  their  request  took  up  a  lute  and  sang  a  song 
with  considerable  taste,  in  a  fine  manly  voice,  which  gained  for  him  loud 
applauses  all  round. 

Gabrielle  looked,  perhaps,  a  trifle  too  pleased,  and,  spite  of  Bellegarde, 
approached  the  Don  after  he  had  finished. 

"  Lady,  did  my  song  please  you?"  said  he;  "  if  I  have  any  merit 
you  inspired  me." 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  musingly ;  "  if  you  had  been  my  prisoner,  I  should 
long  ago  have  liberated  you,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  why  ?"  asked  ne. 

"  Because  you  have  something  in  your  voice  I  should  have  feared  to 
hear  too  often,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Then  in  that  case  I  would  always  have  remained  your  voluntary 
captive." 


250  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

How  knag  tins  conversation  might  have  continued  my  authorities  do 
not  state;  bat  BeUegarde,  now  really  displeased,  approached  the  whisper- 
ing pair,  giving  an  angry  glance  at  Gabrielle,  of  whom  lie  took  no  farther 
heed. 

"  Cone,  come,  Don  Juan  !"  said  he,  «  it  is  time  to  go.  Whete  are 
our  horses  ?  The  night  wears  on,  and  we  shall  now  scarce  Teach  thecattp 
ere  morning." 

"  Ventre  saint  gris  !"  said  the  Spaniard,  starting  op,  "  there  is  surely 
no  need  for  such  haste." 

"  Your  promise,"  muttered  BeUegarde. 

u  Confound  yon,  BeUegarde !  You  have  introduced  me  into  paradise, 
and  now  you  drag  me  away  just  when  the  breath  of  love  is  animating 
me,"  murmured  Don  Juan,  who  looked  broken-hearted  at  being  obliged 
to  leave,  and  cast  the  most  tender  glances  towards  the  downcast  Ga- 
brielle. 

"  I  opine  we  ought  never  to  have  come  at  all,"  said  Chicot,  wining 
violently,  and  looking  at  Gabrielle,  who  evidently  regretted  the  necessity 
of  the  Don's  departure. 

"  Mere  de  Dieu  !"  cried  the  latter  to  BeUegarde,  "  you  are  too  hard 
thus  to  bind  me  to  my  cursed  promise." 

"  Gabrielle,"  said  BeUegarde,  in  a  low  voice,  u  you  are  my  beloved, 
my  soul.  Adieu.  You  have  grieved  me  to-night,  but  perhaps  it  is  my  fault; 
I  ought  to  have  come  alone ;  but  I  will  soon  return.  In  the  mean  time,  a 
caution  in  your  ear:  if  this  Don  Juan  comes  again  during  my  abseaee 
to  pay  you  a  second  visit,  send  him  off,  I  charge  you,  by  the  love  I  think 

rru  bear  me.  Give  him  his  conge  without  ceremony ;  hold  no  parley, 
entreat  you ;  he  is  a  sad  vaurien,  and  would  come  with  no  good  intea- 
tions.  I  could  teU  you  more.  He  is—  But  next  time  you  shall  hear  all." 

"  I  wUl  obey  you,w  replied  Gabrielle,  somewhat  coldly. 

The  whole  party  advanced  to  the  court-yard,  where  the  three  hones 
were  waiting. 

"  Adieu,  most  adorable  Gabrielle !"  exclaimed  the  Spaniard,  vaulting 
into  the  saddle.  "  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  never  set  eyes  on  yen,  or 
that  I  might  gaze  to  eternity  on  that  heavenly  face." 

"  WeU,"  said  BeUegarde,  "  you  need  only  watt  until  peace  is  made, 
and  then  you  can  go  to  court,  where  Madame  de  BeUegarde,  otherwise 
la  BeUe  GabrieUe,  will  shine  fairest  of  the  fair.17 

*'  You  are  not  married  yet,  monsieur,  however,  and  remember,  you  start 
first  have  his  majesty's  leave  and  license — not  always  to  be  got  Ha,  ha, 
my  friend!  I  have  you  there,"  laughed  the  Don.  "  Adieu,  then,  oace 
more,  most  beautiful  lady ! — Adieu  to  you  aU !  BeUegarde,  yon  have 
gained  your  bet,"  continued  the  Spaniard,  as  they  gaUoped  off. 

I  need  scarcely  add  that  the  false  hidalgo  was  no  other  than  Henri 
Quatre  himself,  who  was  thus  imprudently  presented  by  BeUegarde  to 
his  love,  in  consequence  of  a  dispute  between  them  as  to  the  beauty 
of  some  other  lady  admired  by  the  king,  who  he  insisted  possessed  supe- 
rior charms,  which,  BeUegarde  denying,  the  king  would  only  be  satis- 
fied by  verifying  with  his  own  eyes  Gabnelle's  attractions.  That  this  was 
not  the  last  time  they  met,  we  are  weU  aware ;  and  1  shall  hare  to  relate 
some  further  passages  between  them  which  took  place  at  St.  Germain. 
GabrieUe,  intoxicated  with  the  passion  her  beauty  had  inspired,  {riled 


Pilgrimages  to  the  Ftwtch  Pafaces.  251 

to  Depute  the  pretended  Spaniard  with  the  pradent  rigour  recommended 
by  her  lover,  who  lived  deeply  to  repent  having1  introduced  so  fatal  a  rival 
«8  Do&  Juan  to  bis  fair  mistress. 

While  recalling  the  many  associations  connected  with  the  palace,  I  m- 
sensihly  turned  from  the  ■melancholy  old  pile  chagrined  and  disappointed, 
and  bent  my  .steps  to  the  fine  terrace  close  at  hand,  extending  for  two 
miles  along  the  brow  of  the  high  bill  on  which  the  chateau  stands,  the 
work  of  the  celebrated  Le  N6tre.  Of  great  width,  it  is  fringed  on  one 
aide  by  the  branching  trees  of  the  dense  forest,  in  the  pleasant  summer- 
time casting  around  *  deep  umbrageous  shade.  On  the  other  side  it 
terminates  in  a  low  balustrade,  from  which  the  steep  hill,  covered  with 
vineyards,  descends  rapidly  to  the  Seine,  meandering  beneath  through 
verdant  fields,  skirting  smiling  Tillages  and  undulating  bills,  whose  swell- 
ing sides  are  covered  with  groves,  vines,  and  gardens  5 — a  view  at  once 
vast  and  pleasing.  On  the  right  is  Mount  Valerian,  crowned  with  ugly 
barracks — a  sad  nuisance,  by  the  way,  this  bill,  for,  by  its  situation,  Paris 
is  entirely  concealed,  which  would  otherwise  appear  spread  like  a  map  in 
all  its  length  and  breadth.  Nearer  St  Germain,  embosomed  in  the  un- 
ci ulations  of  the  hill,  stands  the  village  of  Marly,  where  once  stood  tbat 
superb  palace,  the  almost  rival  of  Versailles.  Below  this  point,  the  eye 
just  catches  a  so-called  chateau  peeping  out  from  surrounding  trees, 
belonging  to  Monsieur  Alexandre  Dumas,  and  dignified  by  him  with  the 
high-sounding  title  of  Chateau  de  Monte  Christo— a  trumpery  gimcrack 
villa,  of  which  a  word  by-and-by. 

Immediately  in  front,  looking  from  the  terrace,  and  on  the  very  verge 
of  the  horizon,  is  the  cathedral  of  St.  Denis,  the  sight  of  which  royal 
mausoleum  being  the  cause  alleged  for  Louis  XIV.,  as  he  advanced  in 
fife,  forsaking  St.  Germain  -as  a  residence.  Distant  hills  fill  in  the 
landscape,  their  undulating  lines  extending  to  meet  the  masses  of  forest 
that  crown  the  eminences  in  the  vicinity  of  the  terrace.  A  lovely  pro- 
spect on  a  bright  summer's  day  this  same  terrace  as  heart  could  wish. 

But  the  forest,  that  universe  -of  trees,  was  beautiful  even  in  winter— 
what  a  paradise  in  summer !  We  have  no  notion  of  such  a  vast  inter- 
minable wood  in  England — a  place  where  one  might  Eve  and  die,  and  no 
mortal  be  ever  the  wiser.  Thirty  miles  in  extent,  -divided  near  the  out- 
skirts by  walks  and  drives  of  great  regularity,  yet  all  marked  by  some 
peculiar  beauty,  penetrating  on  every  side  into  masses  of  overarching 
foliage,  lengthening  aisles,  and  interminable  galleries  of  verdure,  all 
clothed  in  sylvan  green  —  above,  below,  around — an  architecture  of 
nature's  own  design  !  It  is  beautiful !  How  enchanting  are  these  diverg- 
ing openings  on  every  side,  infinite  in  number,  endless  in  length,  uncer- 
tain, dreamy,  romantic,  every  turn  so  like  the  last,  and  yet  so  different  1 
A  few  wrong  steps,  and  one  may  wander  all  the  livelong  day  in  vain  ^ 
and  then  to  be  lost  in  such  infinite  space,  to  hunt  for  one's  way  in  a  forest 
thirty  miles  long,  and  Eve  perchance  for  days  on  roots  and  herbs !  Why 
one  wants  the  skein  of  Ariadne  to  thread  the  mazes  of  Bach  a  wilderness ! 

It  was  such  a  forest  that  Shakspeare  dreamed  when  tie  described  the 
Ardennes  ;  and  here,  in  good  sooth,  I  would  gladly  lose  myself  if  I  might 
hope  to  fall  in  with  such  pleasant  company  as  Rosalind,  and  Celia,  and  the 
honest  Jacques.  At  intervals,  the  walks  are  collected  into  a  star,  from  which 
again  they  diverge  in  every  direction,  sometimes  to  the  number  of  eleven ; 


252  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

and  as  I  gazed  down  these  glades — the  solitude  every  now  and  then 
broken  by  a  bounding  stag  leaping  across  the  path,  or  by  a  timid  hare 
rushing  terrified  along  at  the  sight  of  aught  in  human  form — I  peopled 
the  solitude  with  all  I  love  best  in  romance.  But,  alas !  could  I  call 
visions  from  the  vasty  deep  ?  Where  were  the  Angelicas,  the  Bradamantes, 
mounted  on  goodly  steeds,  that  should  emerge  from  the  shade  ?  Where 
were  the  gay  knights — Orlandos,  Rinaldos,  and  other  paladins  of  old — that 
erst  bore  them  company  ?  or  that,  lance  in  rest,  would  scour  the  woods  to 
destroy  some  horrible  enchanter,  secluded  in  his  lonely  moated  castle,  or 
perchance  to  spear  a  malevolent  dragon  whose  partiality  to  human  flesh 
had  depopulated  the  whole  country,  or  to  rescue  distressed  beauty  from 
horrible  caverns,  or  from  the  tyranny  of  some  fell  giant  ? 

Such  are  the  phantoms  that  haunt  the  imagination  in  such  a  forest, 
making  one  live  o'er  again  the  dreams  of  childhood,  when  romance, 
fairyland,  and  chivalry  were  realities  devoutly  to  be  believed  in,  not 
legends  only  to  amuse ;  such  scenes  as  these  are  their  home,  and  revive 
every  vision  of  the  wonderful,  the. strange,  the  supernatural,  for  what 
may  not  be  done,  seen,  imagined,  dreamt,  under  this  immeasurable  shade? 
This  canopy  of  ancient  trees  makes  all  possible. 

Anon  the  scene  changes,  and  images  of  the  royal  hunts,  the  brilliant 
assemblies,  which  age  after  age  had  seen  gathered  under  these  trees,  ap- 
peared before  me  :  the  gaily  caparisoned  steeds  and  their  still  gayer 
riders,  the  feathers,  the  lace,  the  embroidery  fluttering  in  the  wind; 
the  ladies  habited  in  many-coloured  riding  apparel,  following  on  their 
palfreys,  or  perhaps  drawn  in  heavy  cumbrous  coaches  that  threatened 
each  moment  to  overturn  them  on  the  moss-covered  ground,  knotted 
with  the  gnarled  roots  of  oak  and  beech;  dogs,  the  horses,  the  king  him- 
self eager  in  the  chase,  rushing  furiously  along  in  pursuit  of  the  rapid 
stag  ;  Louis  XIV.  perhaps,  in  his  younger  days,  displaying  his  agility 
to  the  terrified  La  Valliere  or  the  imperious  Montespan,  who,  both 
packed,  maybe,  into  one  carriage  with  the  poor  timid  queen,  watch  his 
every  action  with  eager  gaze,  one  melting  with  love  and  trembling  for 
his  safety,  the  other  gratified  at  what  her  pride  suggests  is  a  prowess 
displayed  to  gain  her  applause.  Oh !  the  images,  the  scenes  that  this 
wonderful  wood  conjures  up  ! 

I  think  I  must  have  had  a  regular  day-dream,  I  was  so  absorbed,  so 
buried  in  thoughts  of  bygone  years.  But,  all  at  once,  I  was  effec- 
tually recalled  to  reality  and  the  nineteenth  century  by  a  most  hor- 
rible noise  caused  by  the  sudden  rolling  and  rumbling  of  drums  in  a  kind 
of  chorus.  What  could  this  abominable  clatter  portend  ?  The  soldiers 
practising !  France  is  full  of  soldiers  rejoicing  in  the  multiplicity  of  their 
drums,  and  the  drummers  must  practise-rall  this  is  plain— but  why  not 
go  elsewhere  ?  Why  desecrate  this  solemn  wood  ?  It  really  seems  that 
at  St.  Germain  I  am  nowhere  to  find  a  corner  to  recal  scenes  associated 
with  every  inch,  of  ground,  I  traverse.  Excluded  from  the  castle  hy 
criminals,  I  am  next  driven  out  of  the  forest  by  drums — vulgar  modem 
drums.     It  is  really  too  bad. 


THE 

NEW    MONTHLY    MAGAZINE. 


vol.  cvii.]  JULY,  1856.  [no.  ccccxxvil 


CONTENTS. 

PAGKff 

The  American  Presidential  Morality.    By  Cyrus  Redding  253 

Ashley.     By  the  Author  of  "  The  Unholy  Wish"        .        .  261 

Scissors-and-Paste-work  by  Sir  Nathaniel,  III. — Meri- 
vale's  Romans  under  the  Empire.    (Second  Notice)        .  274 

The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  By  Alexander  An- 
drews, Author  of  the  "  Eighteenth  Century"         .        .  287 

The  Confessional.  From  the  Danish  of  Christian  Win- 
ther.    By  Mrs.  Bushby 296 

Ballads  from  English  History.  By  James  Payn.  V. — The 
Black  Prince 300 

Revelations  of  the  War 302 

Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs  and  certain 
Members  of  his  Family,    By  E.  P.  Rowsell      .        .        .  314 

Shakspeare's  England      .        •        .        .        .         .        .     .  323 

Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.    By  Florentia   .        .  333 

The  Village  Priest  .         .        ....        .        .        .     .  347 

Our  Screw  ;  or,  Rough  Notes  of  the  Long  Sea- Voyage 
from  India  in  one  of  the  General  Screw  Steam  Navi- 
gation Company's  Vessels  .        .        .         .      ........  358 

Voice  of  the  Summer  Wind.     By  J.  E.  Carpenter    .        .     .  368 

Mrs.  Browning's  Poems 369 


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I 


' 


BY  CYftUS  RKUmSG, 


.  We  have  found  the  natives  of  the  United  States  not  more  irascible 
nor  less  approachable  than  Englishmen,  in  general;  sharp  men  of  busi- 
ness, it  is  true,  but  not  more  susceptible  of  erroneous  impressions  than 
other  people.  Their  educated  men  are  exceedingly  pleasant  companions, 
and  their  seamen,  for  whose  skill  and  civility  we  can  -Youch,  manly,  and 
agreeable  in  intercourse.  If  the  mass  of  the  Americans  do  not  use  the 
pure  English  of  their  forefathers,  and  speak  a  little  through  the  nose, 
they  do  not  wander  from  the  standard  more  than  an  inhabitant  of  Lan- 
cashire from  the  dialect  of  the  well-bred  Londoner,  or  than  the  mob  in 
New  York  differs  from  the  u  white- kid-glove  people"  of  that  city — for  so 
the  more  respectable  individuals  there  are  reproachfully  dubbed  by  its 
consequential  canaille — because  they  hold  some  little  respect  for  good 
manners  in  their  social  intercourse.  Except  in  a  more  overweening  pre- 
dilection for  their  country  than  the  English  and  Scotch — to  which  the 
American  and  Englishman  return,  and  the  Scotch  do  not,  if  they  can 
help  it — we  do  no<f  perceiye  that  a  travelled  American  differ  so  much 
from  an  Englishman  af^er  all...  Race  engrafts  its  £e4ulkri&sion  succes- 
sion  for  along  time,  especially  where  climate  and  habit  do  not  essentially. 
* ''^  alter  the  bodlry  constitutldn.  Differences,  therefore,  between  England 
Mu and  the  United  States  assume  the  appearance  of  a  fraternal  quarrel,  and 
,  Jk>w  much  more  unnatural  dp  they  appear  when  such  quarrel  compter 
inise  the  essential  interests  of  both !  Still  more  painful  is  this  considera- 
tion when  no  ground  of  moment  exists  for  any  difference  between  the 
two  countries  which  can  be  palled  national.    ,--  \ 

The  ambition  of  holding  place  in  President  Pierce  made  him  have 
recourse  to  all  kinds  of  expedients  to  recommend  himself.  To  the  slave- 
owner he  held  out  the  extension  of  that  curse  and,  degradation  of 
humanity.  He  largely  patronised  the  renegade  Irish,  who  ha£e  England 
and  create  disturbances  in  America,  so  much  indeed  as  to  have  given 
origin  to  the  native  American  or  Know-Nothing  party,  which  cannot 
submit  to  see  situations  bestowed  upon  individuals  often  able  to  hold 
them  only  under  a  furtive  naturalisation.  If  anything  ludicrous  could 
be  mixed  up  with  so  serious  a  question  as]  that  between  England  and 
America,  it  would  be  found  in  the  excessive  affectation  of  seeing  an  offence 
;  j>0eml  to  the  national  delicacy  in  the  affair  of  Mr.  Crampton*  ■  flow 
exquisite  is  the  sensibility,  how  shrinking  the  delicacy,  affected  only 
by  implication,  that  makes  substances  of  shadows,  and,  like  the  re- 
nowned Thomas  Thumb,  champions  ghosts  to  exhibit  a  spurious  energy 
in  defence  of  a  courage  which  nobody  doubts.  This  shrinking  delicacy 
about  nothing  is  copied,  perhaps,  from  the  fair  sex  in  the  States,  who 
hlush  to  hear  the  word  "  shirt"  mentioned  in  male  presence,  and  if  work- 
ing upon  that  indelicate  article,  and  asked  what  they  are  making,  reply, 
"  a  pinafore,"  to  preserve  that  modesty  unsullied  which  such  a  harmless 

July — VOL.  CVII.  NO.  CCCCXXVII.  8 


254  The  American  Presidential  Morality. 

word  is  considered  capable  of  violating.  The  President,  equally  sensitive 
though  not  equally  modest,  substitutes  "  Crampton"  for  "  shirt,"  and 
with  the  affectation  of  a  dignity  that  can  belong  alone  to  individuals 
generous  and  heroic  in  the  advocacy  of  honest  principle,  proceeds  to 
carry  out  his  vindication  of  the  baseless  insult.  Shrinking,  modest,  sus- 
ceptible, delicate  in  the  matter  of  honour  as  he  would  have  the  world  think, 
and  canting  about  an  insult  to  American  sovereignty,  never  knowingly 
offered,  or  if  offered  amply  atoned,  while  demanding  the  immolation  of 
a  British  minister,  President  Pierce  sets  about  terminating  the  Clayton- 
Bulwer  dispute  in  a  short  way.  A  pretended  defect  of  vision,  as  in  the 
case  of  Cuba,  permits  a  new  bandit  expedition  to  sail  from  the  United 
States  to  occupy  Nicaragua  and  a  territory  with  which  he  is  at  peace. 
The  same  unfortunate  lapse  in  his  vision  prevents  the  President  from 
observing  that  his  exquisite  sensitiveness  upon  the  Crampton  question, 
to  which  the  vibration  of  a  spider's  thread  seemed  to  "  grate  harsh 
thunder,"  would  be  dissipated  by  his  ruse  at  Nicaragua  and  Costa  Rica. 
What  if  the  Clayton-Bulwer  treaty  were  arguing  at  the  same  time,  if  the 
expedition  proved  successful  he  should  be  certain  of  the  support  of  many 
of  the  slave  states,  of  the  Irish,  and  of  a  goodly  number  of  those 
who  had  something  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose  by  giving  him  their 
countenance, — in  all  events,  a  tolerable  foundation  for  hopes  built  on  mo- 
tives so  worthy  of  their  nature. 

The  foregoing  conduct  is  an  outrage  upon  the  common  understanding 
of  mankind.  It  is  true  that,  as  Swift  says,  "  a  nice  man  is  a  nasty  man." 
Thus,  an  exquisite  in  honour  may  really  imply  an  adept  in  the  opposite 
quality.  Complaints  of  injured  honour  in  those  rulers  who  are  at  the 
same  time  violating  the  first  principles  of  justice,  are  among  the  worst 
examples  of  political  profligacy  with  which  our  nature  is  degraded. 

The  animus  borne  towards  England  by  the  party  of  President  Pierce 
was  the  subject  of  remark  at  the  outbreak  of  our  war  with  Russia.  We 
had  given  America  no  offence ;  we  were  carrying  on  a  vast  commerce  to 
our  mutual  advantage.  The  free  American,  it  would  be  imagined,  would 
hardly  have  enlisted  himself  on  the  side  of  the  despot  when  the  cause  of 
quarrel  was  so  obviously  against  the  latter.  Without  the  shadow  of  a 
cause,  the  Russian  was  the  hero  of  the  Pierce  party.  Gradually,  as  the 
war  was  protracted,  that  party  more  strongly  indicated  it?  jealous  feeling 
towards  England.  "  Now  is  the  time  to  embarrass  her — now  is  the  time 
to  push  our  objects,  to  bully  her,  to  humiliate  her.  She  will  not  like  to 
have  two  wars  on  her  hands."  Such  was  the  concentrated  sense  of  the 
language  and  the  actions  of  the  anti- English  party  in  the  West.  Peace 
with  Russia  came  upon  that  party  like  a  thunderbolt.  The  pro- Russian 
sympathisers  ceased  to  console  the  Czar,  and  then  became  the  sympa- 
thisers of  the  buccaneers  of  Central  America.  The  outwitting  the  Eng- 
lish in  the  Central  American  affair  was  thenceforth  the  object  of  the  anti- 
English  party  in  the  States,  no  matter  that  it  stamps  with  an  indelible 
stain  the  character  of  the  first  magistrate  of  the  republic :  what  is  that  in 
the"  way  of  a  petty  ambition  P 

Equally  reckless  and  much  more  injurious  to  the  internal  government 
of  his  country  have  been  the  efforts  of  the  President  to  bind  the  slave  states 
to  his  interest.  The  blood  of  a  civil  contest  has  already  flowed  in  the 
South-west,  and  there  is  every  reason  to  fear  it  will  extend  itself.  Limited 
a  controlling  the  internal  economy  of  the  States,  even  in  securing 


The  American  Presidential  Morality.  255 

justice  in  the  common  law -courts,  when  the  mob  chooses  to  be  judge, 
jury,  and  Ketch  themselves,  or  in  enforcing  the  restoration  of  property 
violently  appropriated  from  their  fellow-citizens,  the  ruler  is  still  powerful 
for  much  foreign  and  domestic  mischief.  He  can  insult  foreign  nations, 
and  can  set  rival  states  at  home  at  variance  in  order  to  promote  his  own 
private  interests.  It  is,  therefore,  to  the  reflective  part  of  the  American 
people  alone  that  other  countries  have  to  look  for  security  from  that  aggres- 
sion or  insult,  to  preserve  themselves  from  which  no  anxiety  to  avoid  offence 
will  suffice.  We  confess  we  have  great  trust  here.  The  plain  feeling  of 
right  and  wrong,  the  advantages  of  peace,  and  the  interests  of  com- 
merce, so  strongly  felt  in  the  eastern  cities,  must  have  weight  We 
firmly  believe  that  the  influential  people  in  America  desire  peace, — in 
other  words,  the  merchants  and  traders,  and  most  assuredly  the  cotton- 
growers  in  the  slave  states,  who  can  have  no  wish  to  see  England 
exchange  with  India  in  place  of  themselves.  That  the  people  of  England 
have  no  desire  for  war,  nor  jealousy  of  the  Americans,  is  undoubted. 
But  this  does  not — it  is  a  fatal  mistake  to  suppose  otherwise — this  does 
not  sanction  a  line  of  conduct  that  may  justly  move  England  as  one  man 
to  champion  unmerited  ill-treatment,  and  even  gross  insult,  from  any 
people  upon  earth.  The  tendencies  of  all  Europe  are  towards  peace  and 
more  candid  dealing  than  in  times  gone  by,  as  being  less  likely  to  occasion 
mistakes  and  outbreaks.  Wars  will  not  be  entered  upon  again  by  the 
more  powerful  kingdoms  as  they  were  formerly,  from  trivial  causes. 

The  foregoing  considerations,  and  an  abandonment  of  morality  in 
politics  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  must  naturally  alarm  the  people 
of  England,  France,  and  Spain.  It  is  possible,  if  Pierce  continue  Pre- 
sident, we  may  hear  of  a  thousand  banditti  from  New  Orleans  being 
landed  in  Jamaica,  or  Barbadoes,  in  Martinique,  or  in  Cuba.  No  colony 
is  safe,  no  peace  a  security,  no  usages  among  civilised  nations  guarantee 
against  such  piratical  outbreaks.  A  feeble  garrison,  in  a  period  of  na- 
tional tranquillity  all  over  the  world,  may  excite  the  desire  of  President 
Pierce  for  a  new  annexation.  Another  piratical  expedition  may  sail  (in 
pretended  ignorance  of  the  President)  to  a  colony  belonging  to  some  Eu- 
ropean power,  and,  devastating  it  with  more  adventurers,  get  a  sufficient 
hold  to  send  an  emissary  to  Washington,  and  obtain  the  customary  ac- 
knowledgment of  independence.  An  American  alliance  follows,  of  course. 
We  do  not  say  the  American  people  will  all  openly  sanction  such  a 
system,  but  a  president  and  his  friends  may  do  again  what  they  have 
done  before.  It  is  part  of  the  avowed  system  on  which  certain  statesmen 
declare  they  will  act — as  Russia  declared  she  would  act  after  Peter  I. 
Such  actions  bespeak  a  bold  defiance  of  the  law  of  conscience  and  opinion 
in  political  dealing,  where  rule  is  only  limited  by  brute  force.  The  Presi- 
dent cannot  see  piratical  expeditions  in  an  American  port,  but  he  can  see 
them  when  their  operations  are  successful  in  ruining  a  friendly  neighbour. 
He  sanctions  them  as  soon  as  they  have  gained  the  object.  Seldom  has 
the  world  exhibited  a  more  self-accommodating  policy,  however  disin- 
genuous it  may  be  deemed  by  old-fashioned  people,  who  cannot  subscribe  to 
the  President's  interpretation  either  of  the  law  of  conscience  or  of  nations. 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  avowal  that  no  Europeans  shall  have 
colonies  in  America  is  not  to  be  taken  prospectively  alone.  Wherever  it 
is  possible  by  cunning  or  fraud,  as  in  the  case  of  Walker's  expedition,  or 
as  in  the  attack  on  Cuba  some  time  ago— not  sanctioned,  perhaps,  only 

s2 


256  The  American  Presidential  MoraEfy. 

because  it  was  unsuccessful — the  same  rale  may  be  acted  upon  if  the  same 

man  role.    Retrospectively  or  prospectively,  opportunity  w31  justify  4wth 

means  and  end.  The  first — and  we  trust  the  last-— American  Presidency  is 

the  present  where  the  censure  of  all  that  is  just  and  honourable  will  fee 

outrageously  brayed.  The  American  people  will  not  give  a  future  president 

the  opportunity  of  degrading  the  name  of  an  intelligent,  free,  and  great 

nation ;  nor  will  they  support  him  in  endeavouring  to  try  to  the  utmost 

the  patience  of  other  nations  that  seek  no  quarrel.     Never  was  there-less 

cause  for  difference  between  this  country  and  America :  both  nations' 

rich  in  a  commerce  mutually  advantageous,  both  on  amicable  terms  as 

respects  the  population— except,  perhaps,  the  President's  Irish  friends,  who 

will  be  at  peace  nowhere — and  both  certain  of  tremendous  losses,' and  no 

gain  to  either,  in  a  war  destitute  of  the  consolation  of  a  worthy  motive; 

We  can  perceive  no  reason  for  hostilities — we  can  admit  none  m  the 

arguments  of  the  President ;  but  we  discover  enough  for  well-grounded 

indignation  at  the  unjustifiable  and  litigious  line  of  conduct,  which  is  * 

reflection  of  the  unscrupulous  action,  limited  talent,  and  utter  disregard 

of  honesty  in  the  man.     President  Pierce  wants  to  be  re-eleeted,  and* 

in  his  extraordinary  conduct,  is  said  to  be  prompted  by  an  iteh  for 

power :  no  one  accuses  him  of  patriotism.    He  courts  a  certain  degtee  of 

popularity — as  much,  at  least,  as  will  secure  his  return  from  classes  least 

meriting  courtship.     He  has  marvellous  great  notions,  with  an  heroic 

character  of  Fielding's — as  remarkable  as  President  Pierce  for  patronising 

filibustering  expeditions,  with  a  loftiness  in  ambition  equally  defensible : 

"  Permit  me  to  say,  though  the  idea  may  be  somewhat  coarse,  I  had 

rather  stand  on  the  summit  of  a  dunghill  than  at  the  bottom  of  a  hill  hi 

Paradise.     I  have  always  thought  it  signifies  little  into  what  rank :  of  fife 

I  am  thrown,  provided  I  make  a  great  figure  therein.'9  The  whole  dialogue 

between  Wild  and  his  friend  Bagshot,  substituting  territory  for  ptirse, 

very  nicely  squares  with  President  Pierce's  code  of  political  morality. 

A  limit  to  the  number  of  slave  states  would  have  enabled  the-  free,  fin 
time,  to  extinguish  slavery  by  gradual  redemption.  The  very  idea  of 
such  a  thing  was  too  much  for  the  south*  western  slave  states  mote  espe- 
cially. Slavery  must  be  perpetuated  and  extended,  and  President  Pteree 
saw  how  he  might  obtain  additional  supporters  merely  by  the!  violation 
of  good  policy  and  humanity.  The  consideration  was  nothing  to  hun, 
that  in  case  of  a  foreign  war  an  active  enemy  might  put  arms  into  the 
hands  of  the  slaves,  and  bid  them  do  that  which  God  and  reason  ftMy 
justify  them  in  doing.  It  was  no  consideration  of  this  President  that,  as 
said  before,  he  was  preparing  and  strengthening  the  elements  of  civil  war 
between  the  free  and  slave  states.  He  served  himself,  that  was  endftgh. 
Elevated  by  party  alone  from  obscurity,  he  has  done  everything  but  justuy 
the  honour  he  received.  His  friends  are  not  so  much  the  slaveholders 
of  the  old  eastern  states  as  those  of  the  west,  where  mob-will  is  the  Wfr, 
and  slavery  is  rendered  doubly  hideous  by  practices  which  would  make 
the  older  slaveholders  of  Virginia,  the  CaroKnas,  and  Georgia  blush  ibr 
their  western  countrymen.  With  these  Westerns,  President  Pierce  is  a  hero. 
It  is  there  that  lawlessness  prevails,  that  the  law  courts  are  set  aside;  that 
the  baser  passions  rule  over  the  statutes,  and  the  most  atrocious  crimes 
are  committed  with  impunity.  Even  the  Senate  is  tainted  with  exhibi- 
tions of  lawlessness.  Mr.  Brooks,  of  South  Carolina,  iri  a  savage  manner 
attacked  a  member  the  other  day  within  the '  waHs  of  the :  Senate. 


JbM^$,tmp^  at an, ..jb^fop  a,  qoiwrtractive, 

ajwia^wtr  ^tby/pfttqtjce^a^,^  three  thousand 

dolkrs ^ |f-  Jjty  a^wsfoqtion.  was^ever^onj VickeaV , irT^  American news.- 
j^PT8;Ui|^arsayy{ci5i€4  q^^^ha^e.li;^  ejrtract  %pa  a  Boston  paper  a 

part  of  a  letter  from  St.  X*oms,  Missouri,  some  little  time  ago*  It  will 
show  how  in  the  western  slave  states  the  laws  and  executive  are  set  at 
nougat  by  the  friends  of  slavery.  It  is  in  these  states  that  blood  has 
been  already  shed  in  civil  war,  of  which  states  President  Fierce  is  the 
favourite*  A  t£  yellow  fellow,"  so  denominated  because >  we  presume,  he 
was  a  slave,  had  thrown  some  trifling  impediment  in  the  way  of  the  arrest 
of  one  of  his  own  caste.  The  "yellow  fellow"  thus  aided  escape.  The 
friend  was  seised  for  the  assistance  he  had  rendered  the  refugee,  and 
dragged  to  prison,  no  doubt  with  treatment  sufficiently  brutal  on  the  way* 
A  scuffle  en  sued  j  and  the  tf  yellow  fellow,1*  probably  anticipating  a  cruel 
fate,  stabbed  one  of  those  who  were  coercing  him,  and,  being  seized  by  a 
second,  he  struck  him  a  mortal  blow,  declaring  he  would  resist  to  the  last 
He  fled,  but  was  houoded  down,  taken,  and  secured.  The  moh  insisted 
ho  should  be  delivered  over  to  t^eir  vengeance,- — What  is  the  meaning  of 
law  in  a  slave  state  ?— They  forced  the  door,  and  dragged  out  the  man, 
determined  to  gratify  their  revenge.  They  conducted  the  "  yellow 
fellow" — >what  a  pity  he  had  not  a  pallid  skin  to  get  bail  for  his  ofience, 
like  the  assassin  of  the  waiter,  in  two  or  three  thousand  dollars — they 
conducted  him,  amid  the  brutal  yells  of  his  tormentors,  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  amid  cries  of  "  Hang  him,  hang  him  up  I"  This  mode  of  exe- 
cution, however,  did  not  suit  the  taste  of  the  miscreants  with  whom  he 
was  a  captive.  Human  agonies  refresh  the  spirits  of  western  state  mobs. 
Tho  following  is  a  verbatim  description  of  the  man-degrading  scene,  too 
common  in  the  slave  states  on  the  Mississippi.  They  ultimately  agreed 
to  burn  the  *(  yellow  fellow"  alive.  "  The  moon  had  now  risen  bright  and 
clear,  the  evening  was  calm  and  beautiful?  too  fair  a  night  for  the  appalling 
spectacle  that  was  about  to  be  witnessed  by  at  least  Ave  hundred  of  our 
most  respect&hie  citizens*  They  chained  the  murderer  to  a  tree,  and  the 
cry  arose  (how  slavery  induces  refinement  in  barbarity !),  *Let  the  fire  be 
slow!1  They  piled  shavings  and  rails  around  him  until  they  reached  the 
freight  of  about  two  feet  and  a  half ;  a  match  was  applied  to  the  shavings, 
and  the  sufferer  commenced  singing  a  hymn,  which  he  continued  until 
the  heat  became  intense,  and  then  these  few  half- smothered  words  escaped 
him,  *  God,  take  my  life!*  J  had  pressed  forward,  and  stood  in  front  of 
the  sufferer.  I  could  not  move;  it  seemed  as  though  some  horrid  fasci- 
nation chained  me  to  the  spot,  aud  I  witnessed  all  his  agony.  Never 
luartyr  suffered  more  courageously.  Not  a  single  scream  escaped  him. 
His  chest  heaved  with  intense  agon}?,  yet  all  he  said  was,  *  God,  take  my 
■,.-  soul  I*  ■  God,  take  my  life  V  in  accents  so  low,  that  none  except  those 
(  immediately  around  him  could  catch  the  sound.     He  had  been  burning 

<  fifteen  minutes,  when  some  one  said,  l  He  feels  no  pain ;  he  is  too  far 
.gone,'  He  immediately  answered,  *  Y-e-s — I  d-o  f*e*e-l  i-1L  Never, 
r  never  can  I  forget  his  looks,  when  with  the  utmost  difficulty  he  uttered 

those  few  words.  The  fire  was  so  slow  that  his  legs  and  feet  were  burned 
;  almost  to  a  cinder  be  tore  his  other  parts  were  to  any  degree  affected-  The 
..trse  to,  which  he  was  chained,  was.  in  full  blossom,  and  seemed  to  smile 

<  Mpon,  the  horrid  deed.  Thja^  fyaror  of  that  scene  can  never  be  effaced 
.4C9BO0DJ ,(ipeflttorjr,j7  J|^a^^i^  Jiuman  $eipg  chained  to, fttree,^  slow,  fire 


258  The  American  Preridentiai  Morality. 

boraing  around  him,  the  boiling  blood  gashing  in  torrent*  from  his  mouth, 
his  legs  burnt  to  a  crisp,  yet  hu  head  moving  from  side  to  aide,  and  occa- 
sionally a  half-uttered  groan.  But  I  will  not,  I  cannot  further  enlarge 
upon  a  sight  so  horrible.  I  feel  a  sickness  at  my  heart,  a  dizziness  in  my 
head,  occasioned  by  witnessing  that  terrific  sight ;  but  I  was  rooted  to 
the  spot.     I  could  not  withdraw  my  eyes  from  the  sight  before  me." 

Such  is  one  of  similar  scenes  among  the  more  particular  supporters  of 
President  Pierce.  These  are  among  the  number  whom  he  pets,  to  receive 
their  support  in  exchange.  Can  the  political  morality  of  such  a  person- 
age be  matter  of  laudation  with  any  but  those  who  are  of  a  similar  stamp? 
Glory  to  the  descendants  of  the  New  England  Puritans  and  the  people  of 
the  anti-slavery  states !  They  are  making  a  bold  stand  in  favour  of 
humanity,  and  the  sustenance  of  the  character  of  the  United  States  among 
other  nations.  The  eastern  cities  are  with  them,  where  the  laws  are 
respected,  and  President  Pierce  meets  no  enthusiastic  support  from  them. 
It  is  impossible  that  the  stern  and  consistent  principles,  the  love  of  order, 
and  industry  of  the  northern  states  should  not  prevail  in  the  end.  If  it 
does  not,  a  severance  with  the  southern  must  take  place.  In  case  of  an 
open  rupture,  the  northerns  will  have  an  increasing  slave  population  ready 
to  join  them,  and  however  painful  the  consequences,  to  retaliate  the 
wrongs  which  are  put  upon  them  by  a  lustration  which  shall  banish 
slavery  from  the  republic  for  ever.  We  admit  the  difficulty  of  the  ques- 
tion as  it  stood  before  the  extension  of  the  territory  of  slavery.  We 
admit  the  kindness  of  the  majority  of  the  slaveholders  in  the  old  states; 
but  now  slavery  is  to  be  perpetuated,  all  compromise  seems  at  an  end- 
so  we  are  assured  by  intelligent  Americans  themselves. 

We  have  shown  that  passion,  not  law,  rules  in  certain  of  the  slave  states, 
just  as  the  private  interest  of  the  President  rules  in  the  government.  To 
please  a  demoralised  body  of  his  supporters,  he  has  sanctioned  piracy,  and 
committed  every  citizen  of  integrity — all  who  are  governed  by  the  sacred 
rule,  "  Do  as  you  would  be  done  unto."  He  has  disgraced  his  country, 
and  has  filled  with  apprehension  nations  which  may  give  him  much  mere 
trouble  than  his  unscrupulous  course  of  action  and  mediocre  ability  will 
permit  him  to  discover  or  overcome.  By  thrusting  foreigners  into  place 
to  the  exclusion  of  native  Americans,  particularly  the  Irish,  who  are 
numerous,  he  has  lost  the  support  of  true  men,  who  have  that  feeling  for 
their  country's  welfare  to  which  the  foreigner  is  indifferent.  The  Presi- 
dent is  one  who  is  making  to  himself  great  .reverses,  while  he  has  done 
more  to  injure  the  moral  character  of  his  country  in  the  sight  of  other 
nations,  than  the  faults  of  all  those  who  have  occupied  the  presidential 
chair  before  him  added  together. 

England  has  well  kept  her  temper  under  the  grossest  provocation. 
We  trust  she  will  continue  to  do  so.  A  war  with  a  European  power  would 
naturally  unite  the  citizens  of  the  States  in  one  common  bond  of  a  de- 
fensive character.  Left  to  themselves,  it  cannot  be  long  before  the  cleaier- 
headed  men  of  the  republic — some  from  good  policy,  and  some  from  ifl- 
tegrity  and  a  love  of  justice — will  settle  the  present  disreputable  state  of 
things  in  a  common-sense  manner,  vindicating  their  country's  character, 
and  marking  the  efforts  of  President  Pierce  with  the  character  of  that 
innate  selfishness,  which  small  minds  constituted  like  his  cannot  ooneeal 
through  the  clumsy  veil  of  chicane  with  which  they  seek  to  cover  it 
The  President  was  no  doubt  a  party  to  Walker's  expedition  from  its  com- 


The  American  Presidential  Morality.  25$ 

mencement,  and  hoped  to  claim  credit  of  his  countrymen  for  a  trick  by 
which  he  cleverly,  as  he  imagines,  dupes  England,  and  extends  his  hold 
upon  the  support  of  the  American  people.  This  was  the  act  of  a  vulgar 
mind,  a  fitting  parallel  for  a  piece  of  our  low  Newmarket  jockeyship;  It 
is  probable  that  these  sheets  will  go  to  press  before  any  intelligence  of 
the  state  of  the  President's  prospects  from  his  recent  manoeuvring  reaches 
England*  We  shall  augur  ill  indeed  of  the  political  morality  of  the 
people  of  America  if  they  do  not  read  President  Pierce  a  salutary  lesson. 
We  cannot  forget  that  Washington  and  Adams  were  once  Presidents 
of  the  States,  and  how  dignified  and  honourable  was  their  intercourse 
with  other  nations ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  thai  America,  as  the  home  of 
freedom  and  just  legislation,  was  continually  placed  in  contrast  with  the 
despotisms  of  Europe,  and  extolled  as  the  land  in  which  the  hopes  of 
those  who  loved  rational  liberty  might  be  realised.  A  change  has 
Come  over  the  aspect  of  things  since  that  day.  It  is  better  to  live  under 
Russian  or  German  despotism  than  in  some  of  the  slavebolding  states  of 
America.  In  European  despotisms,  it  is  only  to  refrain  from  interference  in 
politics,  and  things  will  be  pleasant  enough  ;  in  America,  to  live  peace- 
ably, not  only  must  the  politics  of  the  predominant  faction  be  adopted  in 
many  of  the  states,  but  we  must  not  express  just  views  of  humanity.  We 
must  abandon  the  expression  of  the  feelings  that  do  most  honour  to 
human  nature,  or  prepare  for  expulsion  from  any  property  we  may  ac- 
quire, with  insult  and  perhaps  a  challenge  to  a  rifle  dueL  Opinions 
counter  to  those  of  the  predominant  faction  are  not  tolerated  ;  even  the 
pulpit  must  temporise  where  it  does  not  openly  justify  man-stealing  and 
slavery.  It  may  be  thought  that  there  is  some  tendency  to  exacerbation 
in  thus  placing  strong  truths  before  the  reader,  but  in  a  country  where 
there  is  more  real  freedom  than  any  other  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  where 
justice,  cool,  patient,  and  rational,  prevails,  truth  cannot  be  deemed  an 
intruder,  plain-speaking  never  out  of  place.  The  notion  that  any  irrita- 
tion is  caused  by  stating  the  real  aspect  of  political  affairs  is  the  refuge 
of  the  timid,  or  of  those  alone  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  benefit 
flowing  from  the  truthful  exposition  of  what  concerns  the  general  weai 

Our  Premier,  thank  Heaven,  has  had  lessons  of  the  patience  required  in 
dealing  with  governments  as  much  inclined  to  try  the  temper  as  that  of 
President  Pierce,  but  none,  we  fairly  presume,  so  uncourteous,  or  capable 
of  acting  with  so  much  disingenuousness,  or  exhibiting  so  ill-natured  and 
quarrelsome  a  disposition.  We  trust  the  same  temper  will  be  preserved 
until  we  see  what  the  American  people  will  do  in  the  matter.  We  do 
not  believe  they  desire  war.  Their  press  shows  no  indication  of  such  a 
feeling.  They  have  seen  that  in  reasonable  things  we  have  been  ever 
ready  to  compromise  or  give  way,  but  we  must  be  treated  with  candour, 
and  not  be  duped  by  tricksters.  We  will  not  be  bullied ;  we  may  be 
duped  from  too  great  a  confidence  in  the  honour  of  those  unworthy  of  it. 
The  pretence  of  the  American  government,  that  it  has  great  difficulty  in 

S "eventing  the  vagabonds  among  its  population  from  embarking  in  un- 
wful  enterprises,  is  best  answered  by  the  question,  "  Have  they  custom- 
houses, have  they  revenue-vessels  or  not  ?"  But  the  true  reply  to  this 
alleged  difficulty  is  to  be  found  in  the  freebooting  expedition  of  Walker, 
and  the  President's  consecration  of  it.  Lord  Clarendon's  replies  were 
unanswerable  on  the  questions  in  dispute,  and  those  of  Mr.  Marcy 
shuffling  and  untenable.     Mr.  Crampton's  departure  only  operates  to 


260  The  American  (Presidential  Morality. 

prevent  our  keeping  a  minister  in  America.  Much  more  important  is 
the  recognition  of  the  freebooter  Walker  in  the  face  of  the  minister  of 
the  country  he  has  invaded,  in  the  teeth  of  every  honest  and  honourable 
usage  among  civilised  nations,  justified  by  no  one  argument  but  that 
might  shall  be  right,'  and  that  if  things  just  and  honourable  be  opposed 
to  him,  he  (President  Pierce)  will  alone  champion  the  universe  against 
them.  Jonathan  Wild  played  the  same  game  for  a  time,  but  he  met  his 
deserts  at  last.  ')" 

We  had  written  thus  far  before  the  Marey  correspondence  was  pufej 
lushed— a  document  drawn  up  with  indefatigable  care,  much  affected 
moderation,  and  inveterate  wariness*  It  envelops  Lord  Clarendon'* 
admirable  correspondence  in  perfumed  velvet  ,  It  resembles*  in  relation, 
to  England)  the  silken  cord  with  which  the  Spanish  grands  was  eonK 
pigmented  when  he  was  hanged.  It  insinuated  that  Mr.  Crampton.  must' 
retire  on  the  weighty  ground  in  the  adage,  "  I  da  not  like  you,  Dr.  FeU** 
merely,  we  believe,  to  crow  at  an  imaginary  victory  over  the.  $  Britishers,  u 
They  accuse  our  ambassador  of  speaking  what  was  not  true ;  .Wt  this 
failing  is  as  likely  to  be  on  their  side  as  on  his.,  .This  point  eaonot  bej 
settled.  Mr.  Crampton  must  leave.  It  is  better  he  should  write  himself 
down  a  martyr  for  England's  wrong  and  America's  right*  in  order  tifeat 
the  President  may  have  another  feather  in  his  cap  at  the  apfwoaetnngi 
election!  Wisely  have  our  ministers  determined  not  to  reaea*!  the  con- 
duct of  the  American  government,  nor  to  diminish  its  eelf-eKmltation  byj 
any  hasty  step  that  might  lead  to  war,  and  to  incalculable  miseries  on 'both 
sides  the  Atlantic,  let  their  enemies  at  home  taunt  them  if  they  please 
with  pusillanimity.  Mr.  Crampton  had  better  be  his  country 'a  martyr,  # 
scapegoat  for  the  preservation  of  thousands  of  lives  and  millions  of  in- 
sure. Unhappily*  this  point  settled,  there  is  one  equally  important  in  tbe 
Central  American  question,  complicated  by  a.  buccaneer./  (Under  thjs 
head  the  Americans  say  they  are  ready  to  negotiate.  What  ifr  to  become 
of  Walker  the  pirate,  and  his  banditti — said  to  be  acknowledged  by  &Q 
President — Yankee  ingenuity  can  only  explain.  Still  Mr*  Marcy,*aysin 
effect,  "  Ab  we  have  shown  you  wrong  in  the  recruiting  affair,  ftfeja&e^ta 
vantage-ground,  and  will  condescend  to  negotiate  about;  fthVCJaytonr 
Bulwer  treaty,"  !  Are:  Walker  and  his- crimes  to  be>  thrown  ovarboaid,  or 
tow  ?    Are  we  to  waste  oceans  of  ink  in  a  further  correspondence,  to} no 

Eurpose,  until  once  more  the  serpent's  head  and  tail  meet,  as  they  met 
efore?  ..  i  •••  ,  ,.:    ,  /•  ..=,:[ 

r  Here,  then,  we  rest  for  a  new  revelation  from  the  other  side  of  tbd 
Atlantic.  We  have  rightly  augmented  our  forces  abroad,  an  expense 
which,  we  fear,  is  rendered  necessary,  if  only  to  secure  our  own  colonies 
against  those  filibustering  expeditions  which,  if  caught  upon  the  Jugb 
seas,  should  be  treated  as  pirates.  All  governments  are  to  be  held  re? 
sponsible  for  the  acts  of  their  people.  Whether  these  expeditions  sjulffr 
npt  under  a  pirate  flag  or  the  stare  and  stripes,  the  American  governmeat 
is  responsible  for  them  to  other  nations;  and  it  will  puzzle  even  M^ 
Marcy  to  justify  his  playing  fast  and  loose  in  this  matter,  as  the  wind 
happens  to  blow  for  or  against  the  American  interests.  The  proposed 
negotiations  will  most  likely  terminate,  as  before, •  in  some  pertinacjoas 
charge  that  shall  represent  England  in  the  wrong.  The  pertinacity  0? 
our  American  brother  in  such  oases,  is  no  better  than  persecution  Twriy 
christened.  •  -,:^;.,   ./.  ..,;■,.  •      •  .  _  1,  .  mU  ,^^\^  ,^' 


oMii'n.»-.»ii..«{  l-.u.  .'-,'. ;K:U  vjt.^-f  'i--Afl|yp^gy^;  .■»;  A'^u-.'-i:  ~.n  -,<i  .■ «  :,h,,f  .n"t 
■tail?  jmi    .ij'.'j.Oi'^io    >.'i-  i..;».   vii  b-Mut'iii  .'■  v--n«  .*    i>  j'jii  /«.•    -j^r  ..m.-i  ;-k.:- 

5ilM  Jt<m  yd  jii'..'   ..v -til  i.  u':i  .^iiu:^  ^«rX/B  -;-.lj    [•  *;  j-.in   i;!.; //  oj  .'L^i.  ,!.      ,-i».;i» 

The  red  light  of  the  sun,  nearing  its  setting,  shone  brilliantly  ott  the1 
faik»  (Jomains  of  Ashley:  The  house,  a  ftotfiftansttn';  <a(?dod  ori  an  ^eimnence 
in  its  own -park,  andcomihand^afte^nsi^vie^of  th^w^^and  distant' 
scenery,  ^veral  of  the  windows  opened  to  the  Ja^n,andlhepd  feisurely 
stepped  out  of  one  <>f  them  &  <  gentleman  of  middle*  age; ;  Allowed  fcy& 
ydunj4ady  lA'the^blooniaf  yetetfc.  i5Hey<SW  Henry  Ashley,  held*  tele- 
scope in  hishai^,  ahd^B^ttbg- it  to  the1  right  focms,  turned  it  iti  thedire^" 
tion  of  the  high  road,  which  they  e0ufcl{  see*  winding  tfloag  beneath  them 
into  the  distance.'  ■•'•'<■•  <^'  >f  -  y/<i;<  -«-m»  .i.».  •«-.  *-.-o  ;•..  ./.u^o  ...  ./■••-. 
'-••"  A*ma !,?«  called  oat'a  toereraptory' voice  fomrineide  the  rOGm>  "yoii 
have  not  put1  on  your1  sunMbonnet.-  -»^  ■'•'•••"''  «  :;  •i  ■••*  \i  ••«.:  -;  -  =  !*t»?. 

^:^J-have'Tiny'^^ftsolVina,i!»ma*,>::       •'••"i  1-;:'"  '■■  ••■«■■■»;:  O    i»*"       ■:..»• 

*'  Oome  in  and  put  on  your  feuh4>oanet  instantly-  » Your1  &ee  will  he  A 
fright  to  be*  seen.  The  sun  ^isrrionth  tans  worte  than  t^mid&miitrier.^ 

Lady  Pope's  mandated  were  not  to  b<r  disobeyed^  arid^Anria  Rivers  re*- 

treated  to  the  house.  ii  .-••..-. -w  ■:■-..••  j   .,.•,■■■!  ,•■■..•    ,\    ,;•>:■>• 

'  "  Look  here,1  Antta,*'  said  Sir  Henry  Ashley,  whefc:  she  t eappeared^ 

M  yours  isa  farther  sight  than  mine.     Is  that  the  carriage^  neiar  Prout*s 

ferm?    There's  something  movmg.^        ^  .^s-. ,,-•.....';. 

1  Miss  Rivers  looked  towards  ihe  spot  indicated by  the:  baronet:  first  by 
aid  of  the  glassy  then  >  steadily  with  her  naked  eye;  i  u  1  think  'it  is  a  post- 
chaise,' Sir 'HarW^  was 'her  answeri    h  *  ''-•■  .:«-'-••* ';'-;  «"v.»«/    ...  ;•.-. .  . 

"Then  there  has  been  acme  bungle  at  the  station,  and  she  has  missed 

my  carrlagef^    "    A    -.j  .»■  :--u :,;-..<■:<>  -.!■'  »,.....  , ...;,-. s  •  ...i    -• 

^»  «  Thereby Wa^'is1*  fcungie1 wheti  things  a*e  left  to  servants/'  inter- 
posed Lady  Po^'s  voice1  again. "'  "-Yctr  should  haVe  gene  yourself -'as^I 
^4?Ued,  ^Hatry.^  '•  ••■  *■•>■  ^-i-:---.  !•■"   ■•■  t    ..  p..  -■• 

11  ^86  I  would,'had  I  been  sure  of* her  Jeonihig. •'  Bu&I  went  yesterdttyj 
tttkl  I  went;  the'day  before,  and  nothing  came  of  it.  I  cah't  pass"  my  days 
^a^ciog1  betweetF  here  arid  Stoptcta.  Sh^'s  staying,  no  doubt,'  at  that  old 
Indian's  at  Liverpool.     They  who  were  to  receive  her  and  start' her  fc# 

1 "  Iwish  she  was  not  eomitig  at  all,"1  eried  Lady  Pope*  ^The  idea  ef 
a-gay  matt— as  you  may  be  called— 'being  left)  resident  guardian  to  a  girl 
rif  fcweaty !  Steps  mast  be  taken  to  provide  her  with  another  home— and 
a  never^ettding  iroablel  foresee  we  shall  have  about  it.  You  might  bav* 
taken  my  advice  and'  declined 'to  receive  her  here  at  all.  Under  the 
•l^utastanees  you  would  have  beeto  justified,  without  amy  breach  of 
jfoliteness !"'  -:   •  ■  -  -'  :...■..■•..•■■■ 

;  n  It  would  hfeve  been  uiore  a  breach  of  kindness/'  said  Sir  Harry, 
Sdrilyi  •  "  As  you:  happen  to  bis  wirti  me,  this  house  is  as  suitable  for  her, 
%tt  preserit,  as  any  other.  ButI  cannot  make  out  how  it  was  the  general 
hever'reeelved  the  news  of  my  whVfl  dea^i;,, 

\(  ^ Very  likely^ou  fergdt  to  write,^' observed  Lady  Pope*"  ^Careless- 
ness was  always  the  besetting  sin  of  Henry  Ashley." 


262  Ashley. 

A  conscious  smile  curled  Sir  Henry's  lip.  Carelessness  his  besetting 
sin  !  then  what  might  be  said  of  many  others  that  beset  him  ?  He  made 
his  sister  no  reply.  She  was  given  by  nature  to  fits  of  grumbling,  and 
Sir  Harry  had  long  ago  found  that  the  best  plan  was  to  let  her  grumble 
the  fit  out.  He  took  up  a  newspaper,  stretched  himself  on  one  of  the 
benches,  and  read  away  at  ease.  Lady  Pope  raised  her  voice  now  and  then, 
but  Sir  Harry  took  refuge  in  the  journal,  as  an  excuse  for  silence. 
Presently  Anna  Rivers,  who  had  walked  to  the  brow  of  the  slope,  came 
back  again. 

"  The  chaise  is  coming  on  quickly,  Sir  Harry.  It  is  a  chaise.  It  has 
taken  the  Ashley  turning." 

"  Then  she  has  missed  the  carriage !"  protested  Lady  Pope.  "  Those 
two  men  will  be  sticking  themselves  with  it,  at  Stopton,  till  the  last 
train's  in  to-night :  and  that  will  be  eleven  o'clock.  Getting  tipsy  of 
course.     Bad  management,  Sir  Harry." 

An  interval  of  expectation,  and  the  chaise  spoken  of  rattled  on  the 
gravel  drive  of  the  lawn.  A  tail,  distinguished-looking  young  man 
sprang  from  it  before  it  had  well  stopped.  Lady  Pope  wheeled  her  chair 
to  the  glass  door,  and  pushed  her  head  out,  hoping  to  bring  the  arrival 
within  view;  her  ears  also  at  work,  as  they  generally  were. 

"  That's  not  Miss  Carnagie !     Why,  I  do  believe  it  is 1     Anna," 

she  sharply  called  out,  breaking  off  her  sentence,  "  Anna,  come  here. 
That's  never  Arthur  Ashley  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  What  brings  him  here  now  ?     He " 

"  How  are  you,  dear  Lady  Pope  ?"  cried  the  stranger,  coming  up  with 
Sir  Harry,  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  None  the  better  for  seeing  you,  Mr.  Ashley,"  was  the  civil  rejoinder. 
"  Pray  how  is  it  that  you  come  wasting  your  time  here  now,  shirking 
your  studies  ?" 

"  I  went  up  for  honours,  dear  aunt,  and  gained  them.  So  I  can  afford 
myself  a  holiday."  At  which  satisfactory  information,  Lady  Pope  vouch- 
safed nothing  but  an  unsatisfactory  grunt. 

The  two  gentlemen  were  speedily  immersed  in  college  politics,  ieminis- 
oenees  to  Sir  Henry,  realities  to  Arthur  Ashley.  Sir  Henry  had  never 
gained  university  honours,  had  never  tried  for  them,  but  he  was  delighted 
that  Arthur  should,  his  presumptive  heir.  Sir  Henry  had  been  always 
childless,  and  this  young  man,  his  brother's  eldest  son,  was  the  presort 
heir  to  Ashley.  Sir  Henry  had  taken  to  him  years  ago,  and  brought 
faun  up  as  such. 

A  short  period,  and  another  arrival  aroused  them.  They  went  out  to 
meet  it,  Sir  Harry  hurriedly,  Arthur  Ashley  and  Miss  Rivers  lmgeringly, 
for  he  seised  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  in  a  whisper.  Sir 
Henry's  carriage  was  drawn  up  before  the  entrance.  A  lady,  dark  as  i 
gipsy,  with  flashing  eyes  and  features  of  great  beauty,  sat  in  it,  whilst 
a  copper-coloured  woman  was  awkwardly  descending  from  the  seat  be* 
hind.     Sir  Harry  soon  had  Miss  Carnagie  on  his  arm,  and  led  her  in. 

She  seemed  to  take  in  everything  with  those  keen  flashing  eyes,  the 
extensive  grounds,  the  in-door  arrangements  of  the  house;  and  now  she 
was  addressing  Lady  Pope.  It  struck  some  of  them  that  she  was 
self-possessed  in  manner  than  is  common  to  a  girl  of  twenty. 


Aghky.  263 

"  I  hope  I  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Lady  Ashley  in  good  health." 

"  This  is  my  sister,  Lady  Pope,"  interrupted  Sir  Harry.  u  I  wrote  to 
General  Carnagie  of  the  loss  I  had  experienced  in  my  wife :  the  letter 
must  hare  miscarried.  Lady  Pope  and  Miss  Rivers  will  welcome  you, 
dear  Miss  Carnagie,  as  warmly  as  Lady  Ashley  would  have  done." 

"  I  am  an  invalid,"  broke  in  Lady  Pope :  "  a  chronic  affection  of  the 
hip  joint :  and  cannot  walk  without  difficulty.  So  I  am  chiefly  confined, 
in  the  day,  to  this  chair.  Anna  Rivers  will  be  my  substitute  in  showing 
you  to  your  rooms." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  when  Anna  Rivers  was  conducting  Miss 
Carnagie  towards  them,  they  came  upon  young  Ashley.  u  As  no  one 
has  thought  me  worthy  of  an  introduction  to  Miss  Carnagie,  I  suppose 
I  must  introduce  myself,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Carnagie,  I  am  Arthur 
Ashley." 

His  voice  was  so  pleasant,  his  manner  so  easy,  himself  altogether  so 
much  the  gentleman,  that  it  would  have  been  sufficient  passport  to  her 
favour,  even  without  his  good  looks,  and  Miss  Carnagie  thought  so; 
But  she  hurried  on.  If  ever  there  was  a  vain  girl  on  earth,  it  was 
Lauretta  Carnagie,  and  she  had  no  mind  to  linger  with  strangers  until 
the  dust  and  the  travelling  attire  were  taken  off  her.  She  had  a  favourite 
theory — that  first  impressions  were  everything.  Some  trunks  were  in 
her  room,  and  the  copper  maid  was  seated  on  them ;  her  head  wrapped 
round  with  folds  of  pink  merino,  and  her  shoulders  with  a  covering  of 
white  linen. 

"  You  good-for-nothing,  vicious  creature !"  broke  out  Miss  Carnagie. 
"  How  dare  you  sh  idling  there,  instead  of  putting  out  my  things  to 
dress?" 

"How  can  Nana  get  out  missie's  things  if  missie  got  the  keys?" 
responded  the  woman,  her  broad  mouth  breaking  into  a  respectful, 
pleasant  smile. 

u  She  is  the  most  idle  thing  alive,"  said  Miss  Carnagie  to  Anna,  as 
she  threw  a  ring  of  keys  to  the  attendant.  "  Indian  servants  always  are; 
If  I  were  not  to  rate  her  continually,  I  should  get  nothing  done.  Papa 
was  often  obliged  to  have  her  flogged." 

"  Flogged !"  uttered  Anna,  who  had  stood  by,  quite  distressed  at  wit- 
nessing such  discourtesy  to  a  servant. 

**  And  as  yon  don't  allow  flogging  in  England,  and  she  knows  it,  she 
haa  made  up  her  mind  to  be  as  vicious  and  troublesome  as  possible," 
proceeded  Miss  Carnagie.  "  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  West 
Indian  planter,  and  Nana  was  a  slave  born  on  the  estate,  so  she  is  our 
own  properly,  just  the  same  as  our  horses  or  dogs.  They  had  her 
taught  hair-dressing  and  millinery,  that  she  might  be  a  finished  maid 
for  me ;  and  when  mamma  died,  she  specially  bequeathed  her  to  me." 

u  But  Nana  not  idle,  Nana  not  vicious;  Nana  love  missie,  and  try, 
try,  try  alwars  to  please  her  with  all  her  heart,"  interrupted  the  woman, 
whilst  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Can  I  assist  you  in  any  way  ?"  inquired  Anna  Rivers  of  Miss  Car- 
nagie.    "  If  not,  I  will  no  longer  intrude." 

"You  don't  intrude.  I  hate  to  be  alone.  Sit  down  while  she  does 
my  hair.  I  want  to  know  all  about  everything  here.  You  are  aware  I 
am  a  stranger.     Do  you  live  here  ?" 


2«*  Aahky. 

"  Not  live.     I  am  visiting  here  Mrith  mamma,  Lady  Pope." 

"  Was  that  really  Sir  Harry  Ashley  ?     I  pictured  him  as  old  as  my 

lather  a.  and  he^ad  white  whiskers-  and 'at  bald  head.    'Your « unci*  fc  a 

yoving  man.    At  jleUs^ljwa  shbuld;  call  Mm  so  ib/Iridiarmen  age  to 

rapidly  there."    :U       H-'iJl^-/     t.,  ;.,;,-    '.«.!  /i.-i  ■■■im/   -»di  Imp.   .j«i{ 

!,,.■"  Sir  Harry  is  more  than  forty*:  jaea^/fifty,  I  tielkve/  ■:«  Bushel  is-Wt 

»y  notW."-   </  <  nf  •-.'  ??  •.'  ri-./  ol      .--•■.•jin'!'"!  i-»-!  ;'■•>»  ".'/ir  '"*'-  ??Jnoin 

,  "No!     He  inteoducedO^ady  Pope  as  his  sister.^    :-■•»-'  -  ^  ■••'*?  <  miib 

.  .'"  Bet 'Lady  Pope  i®  not  my  own  mother.  "  la  point j  of  fad,  8he"is%& 

Delated  to  mei     Jflyi  faUkety;Captain  jRlver^^asa  >wid6^^  ftbd'tfiill^ 

who  wafr.Miss  Ashley*  theik-married  ham.   '^  w^omy  tw#J  years  ol£, 

and  have  never  known  any  other  mother.     My  father  dii|not1ftre  'kttg, 

and, then  she. married ati  ekkri y  man,  O^neft'SiivItal^'Poife.'?   '■ 

"JJS'he  here?"  <  «i!    .  /    ■•■■    'f     ■:.•   .i    m-«:-.;J  "  T-     '-:*    -li'-i^U]   i;-Jri  U'joi 

v,    "  Ohl  hje  is  dead  tooitihas  been  dea^  a  long  wbile.,?;  »!;//!> 

"  Who  was  that  we  met  in  the  hall  ?  < Arthur  AsMey^he  akidi;  «Sode 
one  also  attached  td  the  house ?f'i  ■ '-■ ""::  "'•    '     :n/*i;'»'l 

"  Sir  Harry's  fcephew.   He  lives1  here.     He  is  tb*  heir  to  Adhley* l  His 
father,  Sir  Harry's  brother,  was  the  heir,  but  he  is  recently  dead.'*  -  "  " 
"  He  will  be  Sir  Arthur  Ashley?"-   '  ■        i  -/ 

"Of  course.-    In  time."  ••'  iii  ';  '■      -'^  •■"  'l,l!^ 

"  Which,  dress  missie  wear  ?"  inquired  Nana,  displaying  tWo;  or  three, 
all  of  them  much  alike  :  black  silk  with  crape  trimmings."  •:  «••••• 

Miss  Carnagie  pointed  to  one.    "  It  is  so  annoying  to  be  in  mourtiing  !" 
she  pettishly  exclaimed.  •  "  One  can  never  appear  to  advanllage.'*   • 
"  I  like  black  silk,**  remarked  Anna.     "It  always  looksr  'Weft."  ' 
"  For  you,  who  are  fair,  bat  I  look  like  a  great  black  crow  ih  it."*  And 
Anna  Rivers  laughed.  '"■*'  /; 

Not  like  a  blaek  crow,  but  like  a  handsome  girl.  Sir  Harry  thoo^fit 
so  when  she  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  and  so  did  Arthur  Ashley. 
The  latter  wad  extremely  fond  of  handsome  girls,  and  ready  to  flirt  with 
all  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet.  ■•■■»     . 

It  was  no  doubt  very  wrong  of  Lady  Pope,  but  she  Was  given  to  hufld- 
ing  castles  in  the  air.  She  might  have  raised  as  many  forbersetf  as  she 
pleased,  but  an  inconvenience  sometimes  arose  when  she  so  favoured -her 
friends.  Several  years  older  than  her  brother,  she  had  exercised  an  in- 
fluence over  himself  and  his  actions  in  early  life,  which  she  strove  still  to 
retain.  She  it  was  who  had  helped  him  to  his  wife,  and  how  she  had  it 
in  her  head  to  help  him  to  another — and  that  other  Anna  Rivers.  Anna 
was  so  completely  under  her  finger  and  thumb,  that  she  felt  sure  if  she 
could  only  see  her  my  Lady  Ashley,  she  should  be  the  real  ruler  of  her 
brother's  house.  A  suspicion  had  certainly  arisen  in  her  mind  that  Afctta 
cared  rather  too  much  for  Arthur  Ashley,  but  it  gave  her  little  eoncern. 
She  held  the  young  lady  in  perfect  subjection,  and  she  entered  on  a  coarse 
of  snubbing  towards  the  gentleman,  which  she  hoped  would  not  ftil'to 
drive  him  away  from  Ashley.  Cold,  cautious,  and  positive,  Lady  tope 
rarely  failed  to  carry  out  any  scheme  on  which  she  had  set  her  mind. 


.Ashley.  *m 

Mi    -/"    r..\      .-.'    ••';fi'L  mi..'.  .!•;    '       "/*«■/.    V'.H   "'&>    -_i;r.M7.  Ji..U  ^ //    ;\    .. 

/  The  timfc  wtfnt  On,  ,anjdi  Laerett*  Carnagie  gtoetor  ita  larour  with  Me 
,<rf  ibft  iom&tea.&SlAihley*  uNbti (with  alio-  LadyP^pefook*  dislike  to  * 
her,  and  the  same  may  he  said  of  Anna  Rivers.  Miss  Carnttgid'Oqm- 
ibftted  Liidyj^ope'^^l^ijjJieirwaa  indifferent  to  her *omplaiii<ls  add  ail- 
ments, she  shocked  her  prejudices.  It  was  next  to  open  warfare!  between 
them  ;  their  tastes  arid  pursuits  were]  so1  co^^le^iy  antaeoiiifctic.  Break- 
fast ovet,  Lady  .F«p«)  would  ^Lfon  her  iworkrbasketfj  an& begin 'her 
morjaiijg's.  employments.  Sometimes  it  would  be  cloiflies  for  cbarliyJ  chil- 
dren, soaaeijanes  ornamental  fancy imwkv »  Miss*  Gahkagie  ield>  bothi  *n 
equal  contempt*  i  l-(iM,l/  •i-.-fto..;  •?  ,<<•<  .•...,..•.-.  ha  j:».-u  vmi  U.1.K 
"  If  you;.wpuj^l  v^d^Haike  soflieamnsemetalt  of  this  nature,  you  would 
soon  find  pleasure  in  it,"  began  Lady  Pope  to  her  one  day^i  "'Suppose 
you  were  to  work  a;  pair  of  slippersy  for  instance,  for  your  friend  at 
Liverpool,  NaboblGall.''        /.  •       •  <-V  -...;•  -"  '  j  .;   ■ '/  jj  ,\.  -■•  *     .«.<  -V    : 

"  Pleasure  in  anything  so  horrid !  Thank  you*'  I  never  learnt  needle- 
work, and  /hope  f  I  ( sever,  shall.  «  It.  i  is  onlyi  fit  fb* '  old  maids*  and  ugly 
women.",  ...■:•;.,■-..•;«  •  •■•;  ,;:  ■  :■  ■''•  •  >■<  - -'■'  '■■  •  ■'■''!  ■•'  <  ■«  -:t 
"  As  I  cannot  be  included  with  either  of  those  classes,  I  will  not  reply 
to  your  words,"  was  Lady  Pope's  retort,  smothering  her  ire*  -  ' > 
.  "I  did  notsay.  others  never  did  :any.  I  said  it  was  only  fit  for  that 
sort  of  people,"  was  the  careless  apology  of  Miss  Carnagie. 

"  If  you,  werei  to  amuse  yourself  with  a  little  music  this  morning  f" 
"  I  never  play  when  there's  no  one  to  play  for." 
"  We  have  plenty  of  books.     Anna,  reach— " 
"  Don't  trouble  yourself.     I  don't  care  for  reading." 
"  What  do  you  care  for,  I  wonder  ?"  thought  Lady  Pope.     "  I  fear, 
Miss  Carnagie,  this  wet  morning  is  rendering  you  very  dull." 

"  Dreadfully  so,     I  wish  I  had  lain  in  bed."  :  ■  »...•, 

,  t  "  Lving  late  in  bed  is  pernicious  to  the  health.  Even  I,  with  my  lame 
leg,  am  out  of  bed  every  morning  at  seven*  How  did  you  contrive  to 
amuse  yourself  in  India  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  like  an  Indian  life  l"  was  the  animated  reply  :  "no  one,  there, 
reproaches  you  with  being  idle.  I  rode,  and  dressed,  and  flirted,  and  lay 
to  be  fanned,  and        ■" 

..■    "  Flirted /"  interrupted  Lady  Pope.     "  Surely  I  did  not  hear  aright." 
"  What's  the  harm  of  flirting  ?" 

"  A  young  lady  reared  in  European  society  would  shrink  from  such  an 
avowal." 

-  .  !  "  Why,  it  is  what  everybody  does,"  returned  Miss  Carnagie.  "  Those 
who  say  they  don't,  when  they  do,  are  hypocrites,  that's  all.  Old  ones 
are  more  addicted  to  it  than  young.  I  saw  you  flirting  the  other  even- 
ing, when  that  man  dined  here,  Lord-— —what's  his  name  P  the  new 
member." 

Lady  Pope  turned  green :  she  had  never  been  so  insulted  in  her  life. 
"  Miss  Carnagie  !",  she  uttered,  in  an  awful  tone.  "  Your  remark  upon 
mysel£  I  pass  over  with  the  contempt  it  deserves,"  she  added,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  no  apology  came  from  Miss  Carnagie,  "  but  I  cannot 
allow  such  pernicious  sentiments  to  be  avowed  in  the  hearing  of  Miss 
Rivers." 


266  AMey, 

"  They  will  do  her  no  harm.  Not  half  so  much  as  poking  her  chesi 
over  that  humdrum  chenille  stitch.  I  should  throw  it  in  the  fire,  if  any- 
body forced  me  to  do  hu     So  would  she,  if  she  dared." 

Anna  Rivers  looked  up,  a  hot  flush  upon  her  face.  She  did  not  like 
the  work,  hut  she  liked  still  less  to  fall  under  Lady  Pope's  displeasure. 

"  I  declare  it  is  clearing  up  !*  called  out  Miss  Carnagie,  springing  to 
the  window,  before  Lady  Pope  could  find  fit  words  to  retort.  "  Anna, 
get  your  habit  on," 

"  I  cannot  permit  Miss  Rivers  to  go  out  now,"  said  Lady  Pope. 

Miss  Carnagie  turned  her  back  to  Lady  Pope.  "  Anna,  I  say,  will 
you  go  with  me  or  not  ?  You  beard  Mr.  Ashley  say  he  would  ride  with 
us  if  the  rain  cleared  up." 

Anna  shook  her  head,  and  whispered,  "  I  dare  do  nothing  that  mamma 
opposes." 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  born  a  slave,  like  old  Nana,"  scornfully 
exclaimed  Miss  Carnagie ;  "  the  blacks  on  grandpapa's  estate  are  under 
no  worse  thraldom  than  you."  And  Lady  Pope  was  tempted  to  wish  that 
she  had  been  born  a  slave-driver,  if  she  might  have  applied  the  whip  to 
the  young  lady's  shoulders. 

Was  such  a  girl  likely  to  find  favour  with  the  precise  Lady  Pope?  She 
sat  on,  in  deep  indignation,  scolding  Anna,  who  was  not  in  fault,  and 
believing  that  Miss  Carnagie  had  retired  to  her  own  room,  to  indulge  her 
idle  habit  of  lying  down,  or  to  browbeat  Nana.  All  at  once,  the  clatter 
of  horses'  feet  was  heard  on  the  gravel.  Lady  Pope  raised  her  ear, 
touched  her  chair,  and  went  whirling  away  to  the  window.  Riding  off, 
followed  by  a  groom,  was  Miss  Carnagie,  in  the  company  of  Arthur 
Ashley. 

Every  nerve  of  propriety  possessed  by  Lady  Pope  was  tingling.  Her 
chair  reeled  off  to  the  fireplace,  and  the  bell  was  rung  violently.  It  was 
to  summon  the  baronet:  but  Sir  Harry  was  gone  to  the  sessions  at 
Stopton.  For  two  mortal  hours  her  ladyship  sat,  feeding  her  indignation, 
and  then  the  runagates  entered.  Only  to  increase  it.  For  Miss  Carnagie 
coolly  said  they  had  had  a  delightful  ride,  and  she  should  go  again  when- 
ever she  pleased.  If  Lady  Pope  forbid  Anna  Rivers  to  make  one  of  the 
party,  that  the  three  might  play  propriety,  her  ladyship  had  nobody  to 
thank  but  herself  if  they  went  without  her. 

"  How  in  the  world  can  you  have  been  brought  up  ?"  demanded  the 
astonished  Lady  Pope. 

" Brought  up!"  echoed  Miss  Carnagie,  who  was  determined  not  to 
"  give  in,"  "  I  was  with  mamma  in  England  for  seven  years,  from  foor 
years  old  till  eleven,  and  then  she  took  me  back  to  Madras  with  a 
governess." 

But  if  Miss  Carnagie  was  in  disgrace  with  Lady  Pope,  she  found 
favour  with  her  guardian.  In  her  wilful  ways,  Sir  Harry  saw  but  charm- 
ing grace ;  with  her  ready  speech  and  her  great  beauty,  he  was  mow 
than  fascinated.  Miss  Carnagie  certainly  possessed  the  art  of  attracting 
men  to  her  side :  no  doubt  her  manners,  to  them,  were  more  courteous 
than  those  she  exhibited  to  Lady  Pope.  She  privately  told  Sir  Harry 
that  Lady  Pope  was  an  ugly  old  tyrant,  and  Sir  Harry  enjoyed  the  con- 
fidence. Hit  attention  to  her  was  growing  more  pointed  than  is  usual 
from  guardian  to  ward,  and  visitors  to  Ashley  whispered,  among  them- 


Ashley.  267: 

selves,  that;  the  place  would  soon  have  a  second  mistress.     If  Lady  Pope 
had  suspected  that ! 

But  it  appeared  that  visitors  were  reckoning  without  their  host.  For 
Sir  Harry 's  manner  suddenly  changed.  He  grew  cool  in  his  intercourse 
with  Miss  Carnagie,  and,  indeed,  took  to  hold  himself  very  much  aloof 
altogether  from  home  society,  spending  his  time  abroad,  or  in  his  own 
rooms.  So  much  the  more  pleasing  to  Miss  Carnagie.  For  Sir  Harry 
Ashley  she  cared  not,  but  a  passion,  strong  and  ardent  as  her  own  nature, 
had  taken  root  within  her  for  his  nephew  and  heir.  From  the  first 
moment  she  saw  Arthur  Ashley,  he  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  her. 
More  fascinating,  both  in  looks  and  manner,  than  any  man  whom  she 
had  hitherto  known,  it  scarcely  needed  the  opportunities,  which  were  un- 
doubtedly afforded  in  abundance,  for  this  impression  to  grow  into  love. 
She  already  indulged  visions  of  the  future,  when  he  should  be  her  hus- 
band, hers  only  and  for  all  time;  when  he  should  parade  her  to  the 
world,  his  chosen  and  envied  wife :  she  indulged  in  visions  of  her  future 
sway  as  mistress  of  Ashley ;  for  Lauretta  Carnagie  hankered  after  position, 
and  possessed  a  love  of  money  and  social  power.  Her  life  in  Madras  had 
been  one  of  pomp  and  luxury :  but  this  same  pomp  and  luxury  had  made 
considerable  inroads  on  the  fortune  of  General  and  Mrs.  Carnagie,  and 
when  they  died,  the  former  but  three  months  subsequent  to  the  latter,  it 
was  found  that  their  impoverished  estate  would  afford  but  a  few  hundreds, 
per  annum  for  their  daughter.  Double  its  whole  amount  had  hitherto 
been  expended  on  her  dress  alone.  So  she  sought  Arthur  Ashley's 
society,  or  he  hers,  or  perhaps  the  seeking  was  mutual ;  at  any  rate,  they 
were  much  together.  Which  was  scarcely  justifiable  on  Mr.  Ashley's 
part,  for  an  attachment,  a  real  attachment,  known  to  none,  subsisted  be- 
tween himself  and  Anna  Rivers.  Almost  from  the  first,  Anna  had 
detected  the  pleasure  Miss  Carnagie  took  in  Mr.  Ashley's  society,  and 
the  bitter  pains  of  jealousy  were  aroused  in  her  heart  Was  this  wild 
Indian  girl  come  to  supplant  her  ?  It  seemed  like  it.  And  Anna  had 
no  means  of  showing  her  resentment,  save  by  absenting  herself  from  Mr. 
Ashley's  presence. 

But  it  happened,  one  warm  summer  evening,  that  Anna  met  him  in 
the  shrubbery.  He  stopped  and  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  greeted 
her  familiarly  and  tenderly,  as  was  formerly  his  wont. 

"  Let  me  alone,  Mr.  Ashley,"  she  angrily  replied.  "  Your  right  to 
treat  me  so  has  passed." 

"  Not  passed  yet,  Anna,"  he  rejoined,  retaining  her  arm ;  "  not  till  an 
explanation  has  had  place  between  us.  Tell  me  the  reason  of  your  recent 
coldness.     Why  is  it  you  have  lately  shunned  me  ?" 

Anna  Rivers  was  superior  to  coquetry ;  moreover,  she  loved  Arthur 
Ashley  too  well  to  indulge  it ;  and  she  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  My  conduct  has  only  been  regulated  by  yours,"  she  said.  "  Ask 
yourself  what  that  has  been." 

"  Anna,  let  us  clear  up  this  bugbear  between  us.  I  suspect  where  the 
offence  lies — in  my  being  so  much  with  Miss  Carnagie.  If  this  has 
given  you  uneasiness,  I  sincerely  beg  your  pardon.  We  have  been  to- 
gether a  great  deal :  I  acknowledge  it :  but  the  fault  has  not  been  wholly 
mine." 

"  Mine,  perhaps  ?"  resentfully  spoke  Anna. 

July — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvn.  T 


26»  Ashley. 

"  Yes,"  he  laughed,  "  for  leaving  me  so  much  to  myself;  and  also— 
if  I  may  whisper  it  to  you — Miss  Carnagie's.  She  might  have  sought 
me  less.  Oh,  Anna,  you  are  a  regular  goose !  These  flighty  damsels  are 
worth  their  weight  in  gold  to  flirt  with,  hut  for  anything  else — excuse 
me.  Why,  I  would  not  marry  Lauretta  Carnagie  if  the  East  India  Com- 
pany dowered  her  with  all  their  possessions." 

Now  if  the  intelligent  reader  can  imagine  him — or  her — self  in  Misi 
Carnagie's  shoes,  they  may  perhaps  picture  what  might  he  that  young 
lady's  sensations  when  she  heard  this  candid  avowal  of  Ashley's  heir : 
and  hear  it  she  did,  for  she  was  on  the  other  side  the  shrubbery  hedge. 
All  her  wild  blood,  inherited  from  her  half-caste  West  Indian  mother, 
rose  to  boiling-water  heat;  nay,  more  like  to  bubbles  of  liquid  fire. 
Never  had  she  suspected  that  there  was  aught  but  common  friendship 
between  him  and  Miss  Rivers. 

Forgetful  of  all  maidenly  reserve,  casting  aside  all  delicacy  of  feeling, 
her  veins  tingling,  her  face  glowing,  and  her  splendid  eyes  flashing,  as 
with  a  tiger's  fury,  Lauretta  Carnagie  passed  through  an  opening  of  the 
shrubbery,  and  stood  before  her  rival  and  Mr.  Ashley.  Upon  which  Miss 
Rivers  drew  away  from  the  latter,  and  stood  proud  and  defiant,  and  the 
gentleman  would  have  given  all  his  pockets  were  worth,  if  some  kind 
gust  of  wind,  stronger  than  ordinary,  had  just  then  soared  him  aloft,  and 
deposited  him  in  any  other  spot  of  this  wide  earth.  Serve  you  right,  Mr. 
Arthur,  for  you  have  been  unpardonably  sweet  upon  that  impulsive  girL 
Your  conscience  is  telling  you  so :  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  matter  over  the 
advice  of  the  old  song  now,  and  register  a  vow  to  yourself  that  you  will 
practically  remember  it,  for  evermore  henceforth,  if  your  good  stars  will 
only  get  you  out  of  this  one  scrape—"  It  is  well  to  be  off  with  the  old 
love,  before  we  are  on  with  the  new." 

"You  have  been  professing  to  love  me ;  you  have  been  professing  to 
love  her"  was  the  address  of  Miss  Carnagie.  while  her  frame  trembled 
with  passion,  and  the  glow  on  her  cheeks  was  fading  to  the  hue  of  the 
grave.     "  Which  of  those  pretensions  was  false,  which  genuine  7* 

For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his  life,  before  a  woman,  Arthur  Ashley 
quailed,  and  his  tongue  forgot  its  honeyed  readiness.  Enough  to  make 
him.  She  stood,  hot  and  fiery  as  her  own  clime,  on  one  side,  bending 
towards  him  to  devour  his  answer ;  whilst  on  the  other,  she  whom  he 
really  loved,  and  had  chosen  for  his  bride,  was  drawn  up  like  a  repellent 
piece  of  marble. 

His  senses  partially  came  to  him.  He  took  Anna's  hand.  «  Allow 
me  to  conduct  you  to  the  house,"  he  said,  "  while  I  explain  to  Misi 
Carnagie.  One  moment,"  he  deprecatingly  added  to  the  latter ;  aI  will 
not  keep  you  waiting  longer." 

Anna  had  no  resource  but  to  go,  though  she  would  hare  preferred  to 
hear  my  gentleman  "  explain."  "  A  sharp  breeze,"  he  whispered  to  her : 
"  it  will  be  the  sooner  over.  On  my  soul  it  is  her  fault,  more  than  aaae; 
her  foolish  vanity  has  brought  it  on  herself.  Still,  Anna,  I  humbly  beg 
you  to  forgive  me.* 

She  did  not  answer.  She  only  snatched  away  her  hand,  and  sailed  <* 
by  his  side,  in  sullen  silence.  He  saw  her  in-doors,  went  back  again,  tad 
Lauretta  Carnagie  met  him. 


Ashhy.  269 

"  One  word,  Mr,  Ashley,"  Bhe  vehemently  uttered.  il  Do  you  love 
that  girl,  Anna  Rivers  ?" 

"  Miss  Rivers  and  I  are  old  friends,"  he  evasively  answered. 

"  Tamper  with  me  if  you  dare,"  she  retorted.  "  I  ask  if  Anna  Rivers 
is  anything  to  you  ?" 

"  What  the  deuce— 4et  it  come  out — she  can't  shoot  me,"  disjointly 
muttered  Mr.  Arthur.  "  It  is  probable  that  Anna  Rivers  may  sometime 
be  my  wife,"  he  said  aloud,  but  in  a  low  tone,  "  Not  yet ;  perhaps  not 
for  years  to  come.     But,  Lauretta " 

"  If  you  had  behaved  to  me  se  in  my  father's  house,  in  our  own 
country  ;  talked  to  me  as  you  have  done,  you,  nearly  a  married  man,  I 
would  have  had  you  scourged  by  the  slaves.  Scourged,  sir,  till  you  should 
have  borne  the  marks  for  life." 

Every  manly  feeling  within  him  was  stung  to  the  quick,  and  he 
coloured  to  the  roots  of  his  fair  hair.  "  Do  not  let  us  quarrel,  Lauretta," 
he  said.  "  Nothing  has  happened  that  need  interrupt  our  friendship. 
If  you,  or  I,  ever  caught  ourselves  dreaming  that  a  warmer  tie  might 
hereafter  unite  us,  why  I  suppose  we  must  forget  it." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  will  never  forget,"  she  hissed  in  his  ear— u  what 
you  have  said  this  evening.  It  was  well  done  of  you,  Arthur  Ashley,  to 
speak  insultingly  of  me  to  her.  I  will  wear  those  words  in  my  heart 
until  I  am  revenged." 

She  stalked  away  towards  the  house  in  her  wild  anger,  and  Mr.  Ashley, 
breathing  a  blessing  upon  women  in  general  and  himself  in  particular, 
strode  in  another  direction.  "  Til  go  away  for  a  day  or  two,"  thought 
he,  "  and  give  the  thing  time  to  blow  over/' 

Revenge,  Miss  Carnagie  had  spoken  of,  and  revenge  she  meant  to  have; 
how,  she  did  not  see  or  know  as  yet  Perhaps  it  was  nearer  than  she 
could  have  hoped*  By  way  of  a  beginning,  she  went  straight  to  Lady 
Pope  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Are  you  aware  that  there  is  a  love  affair  afloat  between  Mr.  Ashley 
and  your  daughter?"  she  said,  abruptly. 

Lady  Pope  would  have  screamed,  but  for  compromising  her  dignity. 
For  Mrs.  Wabwright,  a  visitor  at  Ashley,  stood  at  her  chair-elbow,  and 
heard  the  bold  assertion.    She  waved  Miss  Carnagie  away. 

"  Did  you  know  that  there  was  a  clandestine  affair  going  on  between 
them  ?"  persisted  Miss  Carnagie,  who  was  not  one  to  be  waved  away  by 
Lady  Pope. 

"Where  can  you  have  learnt  all  these  shocking  words?"  de- 
manded Lady  Pope  at  length.  "  '  Clandestine  affair  !'  Really,  Miss 
Carnagie  ■    ■  ■" 

"  Did  you  know  it  ?  I  ask,"  she  pertinaciously  interrupted. 

"  Madam,"  was  the  stiff  response  of  Lady  Pope,  "  the  word  clandestine 
can  never  be  coupled  with  my  daughter's  name.  She  would  enter  into  no 
such  engagement :  I  will  answer  for  it  And  I  know  not  by  what  law 
of  politeness  you,  a  young  stranger,  come  into  my  brother's  house,  and 
thus  presume  to  comment  upon  family  matters."  Saying  which,  her 
ladyship,  calling  hastily  for  the  help  of  her  maid,  ascended  to  her  dress- 
ing-room. 

"  You  have  committed  high  treason,"  laughed  Mrs.  Wainwright    "  It 

T    3 


276  Ashley. . 

is  suspected  that  Lady  Pope's  heart  is  set  upon  her  daughter's  becoming 
Lady  Ashley/  Arthur  won't  do  for  her,  now  that  his  hopes  of  Succeeding 
to  Ashley  are  fading." 

Miss  Carnagie  raised  her  head  quickly.  "  I  thought  Arthur  was  the 
Jieir  to  Ashley." 

4  "Pooh,  my  dear!  I  would  hot  give  two  pins  for  his  chance  now! 
Sir  Harry  is  safe  to  marry  again." 

"  And  if  he  did— who  would  succeed  ?"  breathlessly  asked  Mistf 
Carnagie. 

"  Why  his  own  children,  of  course ;  his  eldest  son.  Don't  you  under- 
stand these  things  ?  Arthur  Ashley  will  be  ready  to  cut  the  bride's  throat, 
whoever  she  may  be,  for  cutting  out  himself." 

Miss  Carnagie  drew  a  long  breath,  and  left  Mrs.  Wainwright  without 
answer.  She  went  to  her  own  room,  sent  out  Nana,  with  an  imperious 
gesture,  who  happened  to  be  there,  sat  down,  and  closed  her  eyes  to  think) 
She  was  capable  of  earnest  self-communing,  possessing  the  faculty  of 
concentration  in  an  unusual  degree.  Rapid  and  vehement  in  all  her  ways] 
her  decision  was  taken  ere  she  had  sat  there  many  minutes.  "  It  will 
keep  him  out  of  Ashley,"  she  muttered  as  she  rose :  "to  do  that,  I  would 
sacrifice  myself  to — to — a  worse  sacrifice  than  this  will  be.  Wealth  and 
position  will  at  least  be  mine.  And  better  be  an  old  man's  darling  than 
a  young  man's  slave !"  Away  she  went  down  stairs  towards  the  dining- 
room. 

"  Is  Sir  Harry  in  there  still?"  she  inquired  of  a  servant,  whom  she, met 
near  the  doot.     "  Mr.  Ashley  is  not  with  him  ?" 

"Mr.  Ashley  has  just  rode  off  to  Brooklands,  missl  He  thinks  of 
st6pping  a  day  or  two,  and  I  am  now  going  to  put  up  his  carpet-bag 
and  send  it  after  him.     Sir  Harry  is  alone." 

.  Lauretta'  Carnagie  opened  the  dining-room  door  softly,  and  closed  it 
after  her.  It  was  nearly  dusk  then,  and  Sir  Harry  had  left  the  table, 
and  was  sitting  in  his  easy-chair  near  the  large  window.  He  rose  up  hi 
surprise  at  sight  of  Miss  Carnagie,  as  she  advanced  close  to  him,  and 
took  up  her  position  against  the  window-frame.  She  looked  at  him,  but 
did  not  at  first  speak.  Was  she  considering  his  personal  attractions? 
They  were  such  that  many  a  woman  might  have  admired.  It  was  true 
he  was  no  longer  to  be  called  young,  but  not  a  shade  of  silver  mixed  with 
his  glossy  hair ;  not  a  wrinkle,  as  yet,  defaced  his  broad  forehead.  Time 
had  been  considerate  to  Sir  Henry  Ashley.  In  that  dim,  uncertain  ligb£ 
he  might  have  been  taken  for  but  a  few  years  past  thirty.  Miss  Carnagie 
spoke  at  last,  dropping  her  eyes  to  the  ground. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  how  ungrateful  I  was,  so  positively  to  refuse— 
what  you  asked  me.     And  I " 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  interrupted,  "say  no  more.   I  ought  not  to  have 
laid  myself  open  to  a  certain  refusal.     The  pain  that  inflicted,  brought 
me  to  my  senses ;  and  if  I  have  since  secluded  myself,  scarcely  meeting 
ou  but  at  meals,  it  has  not  been  from  any  resentful  feeling  towards  yon, 
ut  that  I  would  get  over  the  too  warm  interest  I  had  felt  for  you." 

Miss  Carnagie  did  not  answer :  perhaps  the  purport  of  Sir  Harry's 
speech  was  different  from  what  she  expected.     He  continued : 

"My  wife  I  married  in  early  life.  To  .say  I  loved  her,  would  he 
wrong ;  I  never  did.    My  sister  wished  the  match  between  us ;  I  mistook 


i 


AMey.  211 

friendship  for  love,  and  fell  into  it,  She  was  a  good  wife  to  me,  and  our 
life  was  calm :  I  can  say  no  more  for  it  But  when  you  came,  Lauretta, 
when  we  had  mixed  together  in  habits  of  intimacy,  when  I  had  protected 
you  as  my  ward,  then  indeed  I  found  what  it  was  to  love.  I  gave  way 
to  it  without  consideration.  I  forgot  that  my  years  had  passed  their 
meridian,  and  that  yours  were  yet  in  their  dawn,  and,  like  a  fool,  I 
hazarded  my  fate — and  met  with  a  refusal.  I  am  speaking  now  more 
calmly,  you  see,  than  I  could  at  the  time." 

"  But"  she  resumed,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  came  this  evening  to  tell  you 
that — I — think  I  was  mistaken,  as  well  as  hasty." 

A  silence  ensued.  When  Sir  Harry  broke  it,  his  voice  was  hoarse 
with  emotion. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand — that  I  dare  understand.  Lauretta, 
that  one  repulsion  cost  me  dear :  I  will  not  hazard  another.  Give  me 
fully  to  understand  what  you  really  mean." 

"  Would  you  be  pleased  if  I  say  I  retract  my  refusal,  and  ask  you  to 
pardon  it  ?" 

"Pleased!     Lauretta!" 

"  That  if  you  will  take  me  with  my  faults  and  my  wilfulness,  I  am 
ready  to  say  you  may  have  me  ?"  » 

"  You  are  not  deceiving  me  ?"  he  murmured. 

"  I  never  deceive,"  she  answered,  with  so  passionate  a  touch  of  scorn 
in  her  tone,  that  one  in  the  secret  might  know  she  was  thinking  of  how 
she  had  been  deceived  by  Arthur  Ashley. 

He  flung  his  arms  round  her,  and  gave  utterance  to  the  deep  love  she 
had  excited  in  his  heart :  all  the  stronger  for  its  recent  suppression.  That 
a  passion  so  powerful  should  have  arisen  in  Sir  Henry  Ashley,  with  his 
nearly  fifty  years !     But  so  it  was. 

"  I  trust  I  am  guilty  of  no  dishonour  in  thus  winning  you  for  myself 
i — of  no  breach  of  the  confidence  imposed  in  me  by  your  father,"  he  said, 
in  a  musing  manner,  half  to  himself,  half  to  her.  "  My  position  is  one 
to  which  even  he  could  not  object,  and  the  contrast  in  our  years  is,  it 
$eems  to  me,  a  consideration  for  you  alone." 

"  For  no  one  else,"  she  answered. 

"  Lauretta !  how  we  may  deceive  ourselves !"  he  went  on.  "  Shall  I 
tell  you  a  notion  that  has  recently  possessed  me  ? — that  you  and  Arthur 
were  becoming  attached  to  each  other.  You  were  so  much  together. 
Poor  fellow !  this  will  be  a  blow  to  his  prospects.  Had  I  foreseen  Lady 
Ashley's  premature  death,  I  never  would  have  adopted  him,  or  encou- 
raged the  notion  of  his  inheritance." 

A  curious  expression  passed  over  her  face.  But  at  this  moment,  after 
a,  sharp  knocking,  as  with  a  stick,  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  who 
should  enter  but  Lady  Pope,  her  crutch  on  one  side  of  her,  her  maid  on 
the  other,  the  latter  bearing  a  flaring  candle.  Setting  that  on  the  table, 
and  her  mistress  on  a  chair,  she  retired  from  the  room.  Sir  Harry  came 
forward,  his  brow  darkening :  "  To  what  accident  was  he  to  attribute 
Lady  Pope's  intrusion  ?" 

Lady  Pope  did  not  tell  him.  We  can.  She  was  sitting  with  her 
dressing-room  door  open,  partly  for  air,  partly  that  she  might  see  all  the 
passing  and  repassing  in  the  passages,  when  a  servant  came  by  with  a 
packed  carpet-bag,  which  she  recognised  as  Arthur's,  and  she  demanded 


272  Ashley. 

where  that  was  going  to.  To  Brooldands,  the  man  answered.  Mr.  Arthur 
was  gone  over  there. 

Up  went  her  ladyship's  curiosity.  What  was  he  gone  there  for,  all  on 
a  sudden  ?     Did  Sir  Harry  know  P     Where  was  Sir  Harry  ? 

Sir  Harry  was  still  in  the  dining-room.     Miss  Carnagie  was  with  him. 

Miss  Carnagie !  echoed  Lady  Pope.     The  servant  must  be  mistaken. 

Oh  no.  He  had  seen  her  go  in  with  his  own  eyes,  and  close  the 
door. 

This  was  a  climax  for  Lady  Pope.  Why,  what  possessed  this  girl, 
that  she  was  turning  the  whole  house  topsy-turvy  ?  Go  and  shut  herself 
in  with  Sir  Harry,  before  he  left  the  dining-room !  She  would  tell  her, 
this  moment,  what  she  thought  of  such  conduct.  "  Send  my  maid  here 
instantly !"  she  exclaimed  to  the  servant. 

So  the  maid  and  the  crutch  and  Lady  Pope,  and  a  candle  to  guide  her 
ladyship's  steps,  for  the  staircase  lamps  were  not  yet  alight,  sailed  into 
the  dining-room,  and  Sir  Harry  inquired  to  what  cause  he  was  to  attri- 
bute the  intrusion. 

"  I  came  to  ascertain  to  what  cause  may  be  attributed  hers*9  was  Lady 
Pope's  sarcastic  rejoinder.  "  Really,  Sir  Harry — and  I  am  glad  to  have 
the  opportunity  of  saying  this  to  you  in  her  presence— unless  Miss  Car- 
nagie can  conform  to  the  usages  of  decent  society,  I  would  recommend 
you  to  resign  your  guardianship,  and  suffer  her  to  depart." 

"  In  what  way  has  Miss  Carnagie  transgressed  them  ?"  demanded  Sir 
Harry. 

"  In  what  way  does  she  not  ?  A  most  unpardonable  transgression  is 
her  coming  here,  at  this  hour,  in  this  room,  and  stopping  in  it  with  yon." 

"  I  shall  not  eat  her,"  said  Sir  Harry. 

"  Sir  Harry  Ashley,"  resumed  Lady  Pope,  in  a  crushing  voice,  "if 
you  deem  my  visit  here  an  intrusion,  to  be  noticed  in  words,  by  what 
name  can  you  designate  hers  ?  You  may  be  forgetful  of  forms  and  pro- 
priety— men  generally  are — but  it  is  my  place  to  see  that  they  are 
observed  by,  and  towards,  Miss  Carnagie.  Miss  Carnagie,  you  will 
oblige  me  by  quitting  this  room  with  me.  Sir  Harry,  call  in  my  maid. 
I  told  her  to  wait  outside." 

"  Miss  Carnagie  remains  here  with  me,"  returned  Sir  Harry.  "  We 
will  join  you  when  tea  is  ready.  You  seem  to  overlook  the  fact,  that,  as 
guardian  and  ward,  we  may  have  business  to  transact  together." 

"  Not  at  unseasonable  hours,"  persisted  the  exasperated  Lady  Pope. 
"  If  Miss  Carnagie  remains  here,  I  shall.  It  is  really  quite— -quite  im- 
proper, Sir  Harry.  I'll  thank  you  to  order  the  chandelier  lighted,  if  n* 
are  to  stay.     That  candle  hurts  my  eyes." 

Sir  Harry  was  provoked — as  he  could  be,  very  much  so,  on  occaskms. 
"  Lady  Pope,"  he  said,  "  you  are  assuming  rather  too  much.  I,  as  Misfl 
Carnagie's  guardian,  am  a  competent  judge  for  her  of  what  is  proper. 
That  I  shall  guard  her  from  what  is  improper,  you  may  well  believe) 
when  I  inform  you  that  in  her  you  see  my  future  wife." 

Had  poor  Lady  Pope  received  a  dose  of  chloroform  she  could  not  have 
been  more  completely  overcome.  Her  mouth  opened,  her  chin  fell, 
down  dropped  her  arms,  and  down  went  her  crutch  with  a  rattle.  & 
Harry  had  drawn  Miss  Carnagie's  arm  within  his,  and  they  both  stood 
hieing  her. 


AsJUey.  273 

tl  The  future  wife — yours  ?"  were  the  first  words  she  gasped. 

"  My  own  dear  future  wife.     Lady  Ashley." 

"  Are  you  bereft  of  your  senses,  Henry  Ashley,  or  am  I  ?"  she  inquired. 
"  If  I  am  not,  I  would  ask  if  you  have  reflected  on  the  miserable  con- 
sequences that  this  will  entail  r  The  cruelty,  the  injustice  to  Arthur 
Ashley?" 

"Enough,"  peremptorily  interrupted  Sir  Henry,  as  he  flung  open  the 
door  and  summoned  the  maid,  who  stood  very  close  to  it,  to  take  away 
her  mistress.  "  Order  tea,"  he  said  to  her  ladyship :  "  we  will  soon  be 
with  you." 

Lady  Pope  meekly  obeyed,  and  prepared  to  leave  with  the  servant. 
Her  spirit  was  completely  stricken  down,  and  lay  (as  may  be  said)  in 
dust  and  ashes.  But  first  of  all  she  beckoned  Sir  Harry  to  her,  and, 
drawing  him  down,  whispered  in  his  ear : 

"  Henry,  my  brother,  one  word — for  your  own  Bake*  Is  this  in* 
citable?" 

He  nodded. 

"  Oh,  think  better  of  it!  If  it  be  possible,  break  it  off.  She  is  not  a 
woman  to  make  any  husband  happy.     She  will  make  you  miserable." 

"  No  more,"  he  coldly  said.     But  she  held  him  still. 

" Henry,  do  you  hear  me ?  miserable" 

"  I  hear,"  was  the  indifferent,  almost  contemptuous  reply.  u  I  will 
chance  it." 

The  neighbourhood  was  electrified  when  it  heard  that  Sir  Harry  Ashley 
was  to  marry  his  ward ;  not  only  electrified,  but  shocked.  Sir  Harry, 
for  the  last  twelve  or  fifteen  months,  had  been  looked  upon  as  a  high 
prize  in  the  matrimonial  lottery,  and  everybody  was  ready  to  devour  Miss 
Carnagie  alive.  She  came  in  for  the  usual  share  of  abuse :  some  ven- 
tured to  speak  against  her  to  Sir  Harry.  She  was  too  young,  and  too  wil- 
ful, and  too  poor,  and  too  proud,  and  too  a  great  many  other  things; 
but  Sir  Harry  was  too  much  for  diem  all,  and  held  to  his  bargain. 

The  wedding  took  place  in  Liverpool  in  the  month  of  October,  Miss 
Carnagie  being  married  from  the  house  of  her  late  father's  friends  there, 
Nabob  and  Mrs.  Call.  Anna  Rivers  was  bridesmaid,  and  perhaps  she 
was  the  only  one,  save  the  parties  themselves,  who  rejoiced  in  the  union. 
But  she  could  not  overget  the  miserable  jealousy  Miss  Carnagie  had 
caused  to  her  heart,  or  the  general  discomfort  she  had  brought  to  Ashley. 

Arthur  Ashley  was  joked,  rallied,  and  condoled  with.  It  was  certainly 
a  grievous  disappointment,  but  he  behaved  magnanimously,  and  would 
not  show  it.  Sir  Harry  handed  over  to  him  the  writings  of  Thorncliff,  a 
small  estate,  worth  a  few  hundreds  a  year,  and  promised  something  about 
a  government  appointment.  "  Don't  thank  me  for  Thorncliff,"  he  said ; 
"  I'll  listen  to  nothing  in  the  shape  of  thanks.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  injured 
you,  and  this  is  a  sop  in  the  pan.  But  cheer  up,  my  boy,  who  knows  ? 
you  may  be  Sir  Arthur  yet." 

Arthur  answered  good-humouredly  that  the  chances  were  against  it. 
He  knew  they  were.  And  he  knew  also — his  conscience  was  telling  it 
to  him  at  that  very  moment — that  the  fading  away  of  his  inheritance  had 
been  partly  brought  about  by  his  own  folly— that  he  had  himself  to  thank 
for  having  lost  Aihley. 


(    274    ) 
SCISSORS-AND-PASTE-WORK 

BY  SIB  NATHANIEL. 

III. — Mebivale's  Romans  under  the  Empire. 

[SECOND  JTOTK3E.]  > 

To  Tiberius  succeeded  his  grand-nephew,  Caius,  the  "  first  despot,  or" 
sovereign  prince  of  Home."     Considerable  stress  is  laid  by  Mr.  Merivale  . 
on  the  influence  exercised  by  Herod  Agrippa  on  the  youthful  mind  of ; 
Caligula.  Agrippa  was  educated  at  Rome,  and  was  one  of  those  member? 
of  the  Herodian  family  who  were  admitted  to  intimacy  with  the  princes 
of  the  Cesarean  house.     His  early  associate  had  been  the  "  stupid  andj 
neglected  Claudius ;'  but  when  it  became  manifest,  towards  the  close  ojf . 
the  reign  of  Tiberius,  how  much  brighter  were  the  prospects .  of  young 
Caius  than  those  of  Claudius,  and  how  much  more  profitable  an  ally  might, , 
be  expected  in  the  grand-nephew  than  in  the  grandson  of  the  declining  . 
Princeps,  the  wily.Judaean  attached  himself  to  Caljgula,  and  speedily  cast , 
a  spell  oyer  him  which  Rome  was  one  day  to  rue.  • 

At  the  time  this  intimacy  began,  Agrippa  was  twice  the  age  of  fchejon 
of  Germanicus.     The  young  prince's  fortunes  were  as  yet  vague  andj } 
flickering — now  radiant  with  promise,  and  now,  at  a  darker  scowl  than 
usual  from   Tiberius,    clouded  with  gloom.      The   "stripling  jCaiusw  , 
naturally  hugged  himself  on  securing  the  bosom  friendship,   as  bosom, ; 
friends  on  that  footing  go,  of  a  sage  adviser  so  conversant  with  life, and 
mankind,  as  the  royal  foreigner.     With  Agrippa,  we  are  told,  he  passed ., 
the  hours  he  could  steal  from  the  exacting  jealousy  of  his  uncle;  from([ 
him  he  learnt  the  customs  of  the  East  and  the  simple  machinery,  of  Asiatic  .. 
despotism,  and  imbibed  a  contemptuous  disgust  at  the  empty  forms  of  the  . 
Republic,  which  served  only,  as  he  might  in  his  blind  inexperience;: 
imagine,  to  impede  the  march  of  government,  while  they  contributed  k 
nothing  to  its  security.     He  saw,  it  is  added,  the  loathed  and  ajbject 
Tiberius  cowering  in  terror  before  a  senate  more  abject  than  himself,  , 
hiding  his  person  from  the  sight  of  his  subjects,  feeling  his  way  Wore 
every  step,  and  effecting  every  end  by  intrigue  and  circumvention;  while  • 
the  petty  lord  of  a  Syrian  plain  or  watercourse  was  every  inch  a  king ; 
while  in  the  little  town  of  Samaria,  as  he  heard,  the  tetrarch  had  only  to 
speak  the  word,  and  be  obeyed  without  hindrance  or  remonstrance.         ... 

Very  rightly  is  importance  attributed  to  this  agent  in  the  orientalising^ 
of  Caligula's  tastes  and  impressions.     In  the  spell  cast  over  the  young  ,, 
man  by  his  accomplished  familiar,  we  see  largely  explained  the  autocratic, 
style  and  system  afterwards  adopted  by  the  too  willing  catechumen.   Mr..  , 
Merivale  admirably  tells  how  Agrippa  succeeded  in,  inflaming  the  lad's  , 
imagination  with  descriptions  of  the  splendour  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  mag- 
nificence of  its  sovereigns.     For  it  was  not,  he  says,  in  the  simplicity  of 
their  despotic  authority  alone,  that  Herod  assured  young  Caius  of  the 
far  superiority  of  Eastern  kings  to  the  princes  and  imperators  of  the  West  \ 
Their  wealth  was  more  abundant — all  the  possessions  of  their  subjects  , 
being  held  only  in  dependence  upon  them ;  their  splendour  was  pu#& ..•; 


Merivales  Ramans  under  the  Empire.  275 

dazzling,  for  thirty  generations  of  autocrats  had  striven  to  excel  one 
Another  in  the  arts  of  display.  The  capitals  of  the  Oriental  monarch* 
far  exceeded  in  beauty  and  convenience  the  mass  of  dark  and  smoky  cabins, 
in  which  the  conquerors  of  the  world  were  still  doomed  to  burrow.  But 
of  all  the  cities  of  the  East — thus  Agrippa  is  supposed  to  have  indoctri- 
nated his  rapt  listener— none  equalled  Jerusalem  in  splendour.*  The 
great  Herod  had  adorned  it  with  buildings,  the  magnificence  of  which 
outshone  anything  that  could  yet  be  seen  at  Rome.  His  theatres  and 
gymnasiums,  his  forums  and  colonnades,  were  of  the  costliest  materials 
and  the  noblest  proportions.  If  the  kings  of  Judaea  had  abstained  as  yet 
from  claiming  the  title  of  divinity,  from  regard  to  the  fantastic  scruples 
of  their  people,  such  at  least  was  the  honour  to  which  the  Eastern  poten- 
tates might  generally  pretend,  and  such,  should  he  ever  he  restored  to 
authority  in  his  native  land,  Agrippa  himself  already  meditated  to  assume. 
The  slaves  of  Asia  acknowledged  their  sovereigns  as  the  sole  fountains  of 
life  and  property ;  they  regarded  them  as  above  the  law  or  beside  the 
law ;  no  privileged  ranks  and  classes  of  men,  no  traditions  and  prescrip- 
tions of  accustomed  usage  stood  between  them  and  their  arbitrary 
caprices ;  uncles  and  nieces,  brothers  and  sisters,  sons  and  mothers  might 
marry  at  their  will ;  to  the  multitude  they  held,  in  fact,  the  place  of  gods 
upon  earth  ;  to  deny  them  the  title  might  seem  mere  senseless  prudery. 

, "  Such  was  the  sovereignty  of  which  Agrippa  talked,  and  such,  when 
the  associates  conversed  together  on  the  future  succession  to  the  principate 
of  Tiberius,  was  the  sovereignty  to  which  the  young  aspirant  was  en- 
couraged to  look.  We  shall  trace  throughout  the  brief  career  of  Caius, 
the  first  despot  or  sovereign  prince  of  Rome.  We  are  arrived  at  a 
period  when  the  personal  character  of  their  ruler  has  come  to  exercise  a 
decisive  influence  on  the  sentiments  no  less  than  on  the  welfare  of  the 
Roman  people,  and  through  them  of  the  world  at  large.  It  becomes  the 
more  important,  therefore,  to  note  the  conditions  under  which  that  cha- 
racter was  formed.  Since  the  overthrow  of  the  renegade  Antonius, 
Rome  had  enjoyed  a  respite  from  the  invasion  of  Asiatic  principles  and 
notions.  Augustus  had  set  up  bulwarks  against  them  which  Tiberius  had 
not  failed  to  respect:  it  remained  for  the  puerile  selfishness  of  Caius, 
under  tuition  of  the  wily  foreigner,  to  introduce  into  the  city  an  element 
of  disunion  more  fatal  to  her  polity  and  manners  than  the  arms  of  a 
triumvir  or  the  edicts  of  an  imperator.  The  prostitution  of  personal  dig- 
nity by  self-display  in  the  theatre  and  circus ;  the  assumption  of  the 
divine  character,  to  the  utter  destruction  of .  all  remaining  sense  of  reli- 
gion ;  excessive  extravagance  in  shows  and  buildings ;  indulgence  of  self 
and  indulgence  of  the  populace,  together  with  savage  oppression  of  the 
notler  classes ;  unstinted  gratification  of  brutal  ferocity  ; — all  these  are 
attributes  of  Oriental  sovereignty,  whiph  Caius  was  first  of  the  Roman 
emperors  .to  exercise,  but  in  which  some  of  his  successors  rioted,  if  possible, 
even  more  furiously  than  himself." 
— **-, — , , , — , . — i L__ — . , .. 

*  Pliny  (Hut1  Nat  V.  14)  calls  Jerusalem,  bnge  clarissima  urbium  Orientis,  non 
Judaa  modo ;  referring,  it  may  be  supposed,  to  its  external  splendour  rather  than 
to  its  historic  fame.,  Although  this  writer  may  be  suspected  of  a  wish  to  flatter 
his  patrons  Vespasian  and  Titus,  its  conquerors,  his  glowing  language  is  suffi- 
ciently borne  out  by  Jbsephus,  Strabo,  and  Tacitus.    (Merivale,  V.  359.) 


876  MerivaUs  Romans  under  the  Empire. 

Whether  Tiberius  was  properly  amenable  to  a  commission  of  lunacy 
may  be  an  open  question.  But  there  can  be  no  mistake  about  Caligula. 
His  was  a  clear  case  of  mens  insana  in  carpore  insane  Mad  as  a  March 
hare  he  was,  before  ever  the  ides  of  March  were  come,  and  long  after  they 
were  gone ;  hare-brained  at  all  times,  and  at  some  stark  staring  mad. 

TJbiprava 
Stultitia,  hie  snmma  est  insania, 

says  Horace ;  and  adds — 

Qui  sceleratus, 
Et  rariosus  erit. 

The  furiosus  in  Caligula's  case  was  a  very  pauEo-post  future  on  the 
sceleratus,  if  indeed  it  was  a  sequent  at  all,  and  not  a  concomitant,  or 
rather  a  cause.  The  lese-majeste  with  which  he  is  chargeable  against  the 
sovereignty  of  the  skies, — for,  as  Edmund  Waller  puts  it, 

Not  the  brave  Macedonian  youth  alone, 
But  base  Caligula,  when  on  the  throne, 
Boundless  in  power,  would  make  himself  a  god, 
As  if  the  world  depended  on  his  nod, — 

this  in  its  extravagance  goes  to  mitigate  judgment  against  him,  by  the 
evidence  its  hyperbolism  involves  of  a  mind  distraught.  "  Que  Caligula,9 
says  M.  YiUemain,  in  his  essay  on  the  Corruption  of  Roman  Literature, 
"fit  abattre  les  statues  des  hommes  illustres  placees  par  Auguste  dans  le 
champ  de  Mars,  qu'il  proscrivit  les  ouvrages  d'Homere,  qull  voulut 
exclure  des  bibliotheques  Tite  live  comme  un  infidele  et  mauvaig 
historien,  cela  ne  parait  qu'un  absurde  caprice."  Dr.  Arnold,  by  the  way, 
and  other  moderns  of  mark,  are  as  liable  as  Caligula  to  the  charge  of 
"  absurd  caprice,"  in  the  last  count  of  the  indictment — viz.,  the  repudia- 
tion of  Tite  Live  as  by  all  means  a  thoroughly  infidele  et  mauwm 
historien :  so  far,  his  saltern  judicibus,  Caligula  might  be  brought  in  sane 
enough,  and  a  critic  of  rarely  discriminative  taste,  and  uncommon  good 
sense.  But  absurde  caprice  is  a  mint  intimation  of  the  depth  of  the 
mischief.  Caligula  knew,  it  has  been  observed,  his  own  defect;  and 
purposed  going  through  a  course  of  hellebore :  sleeplessness,  one  of  the 
commonest  indications  of  lunacy,  haunted  him  in  an  excess  rarely  re- 
corded. De  Quincey  can  see  in  no  fiction  of  romance  so  awful  a  picture 
of  the  ideal  tyrant  as  that  of  Caligula  by  Suetonius :  his  palace— Radiant 
with  purple  and  gold,  but  murder  everywhere  lurking  beneath  flowers;— 
his  smiles  and  echoing  laughter — masking  (yet  hardly  meant  to  mask) 
his  foul  treachery  of  heart; — his  hideous  and  tumultuous  dreams — hif 
baffled  sleep;  for  he  enjoyed  not  more  than  three  hours  of  nocturnal 
repose ;  nor  these  even  in  pure  untroubled  rest,  but  agitated  by  phantas- 
mata  of  portentous  augury ;  as,  for  example,  upon  one  occasion  he  fancied 
that  he  saw  the  sea,  under  some  definite  impersonation,  conversing  with 
himself.  "  Hence  it  was,  and  from  this  incapacity  of  sleeping,  and  from 
weariness  of  lying  awake,  that  he  had  fallen  into  habits  of  ranging  all 
the  night  long  through  the  palace,  sometimes  throwing  himself  on  a  couch, 
Sometimes  wandering  along  the  vast  corridors — watching  for  the  earlieit 
dawn,  and  anxiously  invoking  its  approach."*    A  constitution  naturally 

•  DeQoinoey:  «  The  Cesars." 


Merivale's  Romans  under  the  Empire.  277 

weak,  had  been  recklessly  tampered  with ;  mind  and  body  both  may  be 
said  to  have  broken  down  before  the  impressionable  profligate  came  to 
the  throne. 

He  was  in  his  twenty-fifth  year  at  his  accession.  Mr.  Merivale  refers 
to  the  poetical  and  rhetorical  exercises  to  which  he  had  been  directed, 
without  the  compensating  influence  of  severer  training,  which  had  been 
unkindly  withheld  from  him, — as  having  imparted  perhaps  a  certain 
flaccidity  to  his  character,  confirmed  by  the  enervating  voluptuousness  in 
which  he  had  been  steeped  from  his  cradle.  "His  constitution  was 
weakly.  In  childhood  he  had  been  subject  to  fits,  and  though  he  out- 
grew this  tendency,  and  learnt  to  bear  fatigue  of  body,  he  was  not  un- 
frequentry  seized  with  sudden  faintings.  Early  indulgence  in  every 
caprice,  and  premature  dissipation,  had  strained  his  nerves  and  brain,  till 
at  last  a  temperament  naturally  excitable,  and  harassed  by  constant  fever, 
seemed  almost  to  tremble  on  the  verge  of  delirium." 

The  commencement  of  his  reign  was  auspicious  enough.  From  the 
son  of  the  good  Germanicus,  Rome  looked  for  good  things  to  come,  and 
his  behaviour  at  the  outset  seemed  to  warrant  the  expectation.  But  more 
than  one  popular  prince  has  outlived  his  title  to  be  the  delicto,  the  bien- 
aime,  the  disire  of  his  people : 

Toujonrs  la  tyrannie  a  d'heureuses  premices : 
De  Kome,  pour  un  temps,  Caius  fut  les  delices ; 
Mais,  sa  feinte  bont^  se  tournant  en  fareur, 
Les  delices  de  Rome  en  devinrent  l'horreur.* 

Rome  was  ignorant,  at  his  accession,  of  his  cunning  and  selfishness ;  of 
the  ferocity  which  found  pleasure,  we  are  told,  in  the  sight  of  torments 
and  executions ;  of  his  unworthy  taste  for  the  company  of  dancers  and 
gladiators  and  for  vulgar  shows ;  of  the  defects  in  his  education,  and  his 
moral  inaptitude  for  all  elevating  objects  of  thought.  His  antecedents 
had  been  veiled  from  the  public  eye.  "  For  five  years  his  residence  had 
been  mostly  confined  to  Capreae.  At  a  later  period  it  was  reported  that, 
in  spite  of  all  his  dissimulation,  he  had  not  been  able  to  conceal  the  vfle- 
ness  of  his  nature  from  Tiberius  himself,  and  the  monster  was  supposed 
more  than  once  to  have  remarked,  not  without  a  grim  satisfaction,  that 
Caius  lived  for  his  own  and  all  men's  perdition,  and  that  he  was  rearing 
a  serpent  for  the  Romans,  and  a  Phaethon  for  the  universe.  But  if  any 
vague  rumours  of  this  prince's  faults  reached  the  ears  of  the  multitude, 
they  were  easily  excused  in  a  son  of  Germanicus,  on  the  plea  of  inexperi- 
ence and  evil  example.  The  Romans  had  yet  to  learn  the  horror  of 
being  subject  to  a  master  who  had  never  been  trained  to  mastery  over 
himself."  He  pledged  himself  to  good  government  on  taking  office ;  and 
the  first  few  months  went,  so  far  as  they  could  go,  to  redeem  the  pledge. 
He  devoted  himself  to  business  with  a  too  characteristic  thoroughness — 
of  which  the  duration  would  inevitably  be  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  its  im- 
petuosity. He  appears,  in  fact,  to  have  overworked  himself.  He  at  least 
thought  so,  or  said  so.  To  repair  the  error  he  rushed  into  the  opposite 
extreme  of  idleness  and  dissipation — inaugurating  the  change  by  a  grand 
public  festival,' which  included  banquets,  concerts,  horse  and  chariot  races, 

*  Bacine:  "  Briiannicus." 


278  Merivales  Romans  under  the  Empire. 

the  slaughter  in  the  amphitheatre  of  four  hundred  bears,  and  as  many 
lions  and  panthers,  and  the  representation  by  patrician  youths  of , the 
tale  of  Troy  divine. 

In  this  festive  display,  Caius  professed  to  restore  the  celebration  of 
public  shows,  which  had  declined  under  the  gloomy  principate  of  Tiberius* 
And  such  an  inauguration  of  popular  amusements  long  disused  might,  as 
the  historian  says,  be  excused  on  the  first  celebration  of  an  imperial,  birth* 
day,  at  the  outset  of  a  young  prince's  reign,  and  at  the  close  of  a 
weary  session  of  public  business.  But  with  Caius  it  was  only  the 
beginning  of  the  end — a  rebound  which  was  to  have  no  reaction— <* 
the  initiation  of  a  system  which  was  destined  to  grow  worse  and  worse, 
and  which,  by  the  nature  of  it,  must  grow  worse  before  it  could  grow 
better.  Caligula's  enthusiasm  for  the  public  fetes  was  "  the  frenzy  of 
one  just  escaped  from  the  dreary  confinement  of  a  hermitage.  Soon 
sated  with  every  fresh  object,  he  sought  renewed  excitement  in  variety 
and  strangeness.  He  introduced  the  novelty  of  nocturnal  spectacles,  at 
which  the  whole  city  was  illuminated  with  lamps  and  torches.  Money 
and  viands,  at  his  command,  were  thrown  liberally  to  the  populace.  He 
indulged,  too,  in  a  giddy  humour  which  was  not  always  dignified."  Thus 
it  is  related  of  him  that,  on  one  occasion,  when  he  feasted  the  citizens  at 
a  gorgeous  banquet,  he  was  so  pleased  with  the  justice  a  certain  knight 
did  to  the  luxuries  set  before  him,  that  he  ordered  his  own  plate  to  be 
offered  to  the  surprising,  and  in  his  turn  surprised,  gourmand ;  while  a 
senator,  who  similarly  gratified  him,  was  inscribed  at  once  upon  the  list 
of  Praetors.  But  if  follies  of  this  kind  abounded,  the  time  soon  came  for 
vices  and  sensualities  to  much  more  abound.  "  If  Caius  desired  that  his 
people  should  riot  without  stint  in  the  pleasures  which  had  so  long  been 
grudged  them,  not  less  was  he  resolved  to  indulge  himself  to  the  utmost 
in  the  gratification  of  every  sense.  He  let  fall  the  mask,  hitherto  but 
loosely  worn,  of  discretion  and  modesty,  and  revelled  with  furious  appe- 
tite in  the  grossest  voluptuousness  of  every  kind."  The  result  of  course 
was  a  dangerous  illness.  Like  Louis  Quinze  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, he  was  the  object,  at  this  crisis,  of  warm  and  general  sympathy. 
The  old  Romans,  like  the  modern  French,  were  au  desespoir :  multi- 
tudes thronged  the  palace  by  day  and  night,  to  hear  how  it  fared  with 
the  royal  sufferer,  and  extravagant  vows  were  made,  and  fantastic  senti- 
mentalities uttered,  by  certain  of  the  noisier  sort.  This  wholesale  flattery 
reached  and  tickled  the  ears  of  the  patient.  He  got  better  of  his  illness, 
but  he  never  got  better  of  this  adulation.  Herod  had  glozed  and  fawned 
upon  him  ;  but  flattery  such  as  this  far  out-Heroded  Herod. 

It,  in  effect,  turned  the  brain  of  the  flighty  convalescent.  He  began 
in  his  wild  hallucinations,  as  Mr.  Merivale  says,  to  regard  the  life  which 
had  been  saved  by  so  many  prayers  as  something  sacred  and  divine,  and 
to  justify  to  himself  any  means  that  might  seem  conducive  to  its  protec- 
tion. Accordingly  he  put  to  death  his  youthful  cousin,  Tiberius,  as 
guilty  of  being  too  near  the  throne.  It  sufficed  to  say  that  the  lad  was 
concerned  in  a  plot  against  him ;  a  centurion  was  despatched  to  the 
"  poor  relation,"  and,  putting  a  sword  into  his  hand,  "  invited"  him  to 
use  it  to  suicidal  effect ;  but  so  untrained,  it  is  said,  was  the  young  victim 
In  the  use  of  weapons,  that  he  was  obliged  to  ask  instruction  how  to 
make  the  sword  answer  its  purpose  upon  himself. 


Merivale1 8  Romans  under  the  Empire.  279 

It  was  manifestly  the  contrast  presented  by  Caligula  to  that  "  sullen 
recluse,"  his  predecessor,  which  at  "first  bewitched  the  capital.  His  man- 
ners were  charming,  after  the  repulsive  sternness  of1  his*  grand-uncle. 
As  for  personal  attractions,  he  had  nothing  whatever  to  boast  of.  "  His 
features,  if  not  altogether  devoid  of  beauty,  were  deformed  by  a  harsh 
and  scowling  expression,  and  seem  even  in  the  rigid  marble  to  writhe 
with  muscular  contortion.  His  head  was  bald  ;  his  complexion  sallow 
and  livid  ;  his  body  was  long,  and  his  neck  and  legs  slender4 ;  his  gait 
was  shambling,  and  his  voice  hoarse  and  dissonant."  Suetonius  and 
Seneca  paint  him  in  colours  the  darkest  they  can  employ — and  the 
result  is  what  Mr.  Merivale  calls  mere  "sign-painting."  Ugly  as  he 
may  have  been,  however,  Caligula  was  a  favourite  with  the  mob,  whom 
he  courted  to  the  prejudice  of  senators  and  knights.  He  was  popular 
with  the  rabble,  because  he  became  as  one  of  them — sitting  in  their 
midst  the  livelong  day  in  the  circus — singing  and  dancing  before  them 
■^-playing  the  charioteer  before  them — playing  the  gladiator  before 
them.  The  bloody  shows  of  the  amphitheatre  increased  in  horror; 
appetite  grew  there  by  what  it  fed  on,  and  the  sanguine  dye  became 
deeper  and  deeper.  A  rapid  succession  of  executions  and  confiscations 
kept  pace  with  these  spectaculalr  atrocities.  Ere  long  the  frenetic, 
murderous,  incestuous  emperor  claimed  drvme  worship,  atrd  the  claim 
was  admitted  generally  with  nerveless  apathy. 

The  government  of  Tiberius,  which  Caligula  had  gained  his  early 
popularity  by  denouncing  in  toto,  he  now  proceeded  to  laud  and  mag- 
nify, in  its  worst  features  of  delation  and  persecution.  He  made  himself 
notorious  for  a  certain  habit  of  ghastly  bantering  which,  grotesquely 
caricatured  as  it  may  seem  to  tie  by  the  historians,  is  reported  with  a 
significant  consistency  in  the  pages  equally  of  Dion  and  Suetonius,  of 
Josephus  and  Philo.  He  made 'himself  odious  to  his  last  remaining 
friends,  the  populace,  by  sweeping  schemes  of  taxation;  and  ridiculous 
to  all  men,  and  for  all  time,  by  such  vagaries  as  the  "  British  expedition" 
— -if  indeed  we  are  to  believe  'the  vulgate  version  of  that  "monstrous 
farce,"  when,  as  Butler  tells  the  story, 

The  Emperor  Caligula,  t       , 

That  triumphed  o'er  the  British  sea, 
Took  crabs  and  oysters  prisoners, 
And  lobsters,  'stead  of  cuirassiers ; 
Engaged  his  legions  in  fierce  bustles, 
With  periwinkles,  prawns,  and  muscles, 
And  led  his  troops  with  furious  gallops, 
To  oharge  whole  regiments  of  scallops ; 
Not  like  their  ancient  way  of  war, 
To  wait  on  his  triumphal  car ; 
But  when  he  went  to  dine  or  sup, 
More  bravely  ate  his  captives  up, 
And  left  all  war,  by  his  example, 
Reduced  to  vict'ling  of  a  camp  well.* 

Mr.  Merivale  is  no  unconditional  subscriber  to  the  allegations  against 
Caligula,  any  more  than  to  those  against  Tiberius.  In  the  case  of  the 
"  British  expedition,"  he  suggests  that  possibly  Caius  was  diverted  from 

•  "Hudibras."  PartHI.,  Canto  in. 


280  Merivale'*  Romans  under  the  Empiri. 

a  real  intention  of  attacking  Britain  by  some  act  of  submission,  from 
which  he  anticipated  the  opening  of  freer  and  mora  regular  communi* 
cation  with  the  natives.  Even  the  picking  of  shells,  it  is  added,  may  be 
a  grotesque  representation  of  receiving  a  tribute  of  Rutupian  pearls. 

So  again  with  the  story  of  the  emperor's  march  against  the  Gaols. 
To  our  author  it  seems  impossible  to  mistake  the  spirit  of  caricature  in 
which  the  accounts  of  that  progress,  by  Dion  and  Suetonius,  are  written; 
and  even  had  we  no  clue  to  a  better  understanding  of  the  circumstances, 
he  would  be  little  disposed  to  place  implicit  confidence  in  them.  Such  a 
clue,  however,  is  hinted  at,  in  the  probable  determination  of  Caius  to  put 
down  in  person  the  rising  spirit  of  rebellion  among  the  legiona  on  the 
Rhine,  who  seem  to  have  taken  advantage  of  the  age  and  timidity  of 
Tiberius,  and  of  the  relaxation  of  discipline  by  that  emperor's  legate. 
Mr.  Merivale  is  of  opinion  that  Caligula  left  Rome  for  Gaul  to  put  down 
this  growing  disaffection  in  person,  and,  under  pretence  of  defending  the 
frontiers,  to  defend  himself  and  his  imperial  authority.  "  In  daring 
Caius  was  not  deficient ;  perhaps  he  had  not  sense  enough  fairly  to 
estimate  the  dangers  which  beset  him.  But  at  such  a  crisis  daring  was 
the  best  wisdom,  and  the  apparition  of  the  redoubted  emperor  in  the 
midst  of  a  disaffected  camp,  together  with  some  examples  of  sternness, 
which  showed  that  he  was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  may  have  actually  saved 
the  state  from  a  bloody  and  bootless  revolution/' 

Every  allowance  that  can  be  made  for  this  crazy  Bombasiee  Furioso, 
is  readily,  and,  some  may  think  in  some  cases,  gratuitously  made  for  him, 
in  the  present  history.  Having  repeatedly  observed  reasons  for  distrust- 
ing the  annalists  and  anecdotists,  to  whom  we  owe  all  we  know  of  the 
early  CsBsars,  Mr.  Merivale  is  wary  of  accepting  without  reserve  their 
revelations  of  the  mystery  of  iniquity.  The  most  cursory  examination 
of  our  existing  authorities  will  show,  he  affirms,  that  while  they  seem  to 
vie  with  one  another  in  reciting  die  worst  atrocities  of  the  reign  of 
Caligula,  there  is  much  in  which  their  accounts  contradict  each  other, 
and  more  about  which  a  thoughtful  reader  will  feel  constrained  to  sus- 
pend his  credence. 

There  are  critics,  indeed,  who,  throwing  over  as  incredible  the  bulk  of 
this  hostile  testimony,  have  tried  to  make  out  a  case  in  favour  of  Caligula, 
as  the  victim  of  a  malignant  aristocracy,  by  whose  hirelings  and  partisans 
his  fair  fame  has  come  down  to  us  blackened  so  foully.  Mr.  Merivale  is 
not  one  of  these  reactionists.  He  sees  that  the  verdict  of  antiquity  has 
gone  against  Caligula,  and  that  the  question,  with  our  imperfect#lights, 
will  not  bear  to  be  reopened  :  we  have  no  other  course,  he  owns,  but  to 
join  in  the  general  condemnation  pronounced  upon  the  miserable  strip- 
ling, of  whom  the  best  that  can  be  said  is  that  the  wildness  of  a  brain, 
stricken  in  the  cradle  with  hereditary  insanity,  was  aggravated  by  the 
horrors  of  his  unnatural  position. 

For  the  men  who  had  preceded  him  in  empire,  had  all,  we  are  re- 
minded, been  trained  to  rule  by  long  exercise,  and  had  tested  their  powers 
in  the  best  of  schools,  in  wholesome  and  manly  obedience  to  the  cuvum- 
stanoes  which  controlled  them.  Whereas  this  young  man  had  bee* 
jealously  precluded  from  the  moral  and  intellectual  efforts  which  might 
nave  helped  to  fit  him  for  the  arduous  post  before  him.  Augustus  and 
Tiberius,  moreover,  had  carefully  avoided  whatever  might  dispel  the 


Merivale  6  Romans  under  the  Empire,  281 

ignorance  of  the  people  as  to  the  actual  supremacy,  and  the  positive  pre- 
rogative, of  their  rulers.  Both  these  emperors  had  learnt  in  the  school 
of  experience  one  momentous  practical  lesson — not  to  strip  those  who 
had  irretrievably  lost  the  substance  of  freedom,  of  the  shadow  which  they 
still  mistook  for  it.  No  such  practical  lesson  had  Caligula  learnt.  In 
no  such  school  had  he  ever  been  entered  as  a  scholar.  Accordingly, 
when  he  found  himself  the  master  of  a  legion  of  slaves,  he  felt  neither 
shame  nor  scruple  in  proclaiming  his  own  power,  and  exacting  their 
devotion.  Caligula  was  as  destitute  of  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  as  of 
the  innocence  of  the  dove. 

He  despised  as  ignoble,  we  read,  the  caution  of  his  predecessors  in 
disclaiming  the  full  acknowledgment  of  their  undoubted  prerogatives. 
"  He  regarded  himself,  not  as  a  Princeps  or  Imperator,  but  as  a  Kin? ; 
and  if  he  did  not  extort  from  his  subjects  the  odious  title,  he  allowed  the 
idea  to  become  impressed  upon  them  by  jurists  and  moralists ;  so  that 
we  may  now  begin  to  trace  the  dawning  in  the  Roman  mind  of  the 
theory  of  royal  prerogative.  The  complete  and  irresponsible  power  be 
claimed  over  the  persons  and  property  of  his  people,  and  even  the  soil  on 
which  they  stood,  was  derived  neither  from  hereditary  nor  elective  right : 
it  was  the  prey  of  the  strongest,  which  Fate  had  placed  in  his  hands, 
and  which  Force  only  could  secure  to  him.  His  wild  untutored  intellect 
could  grasp,  perhaps,  no  higher  or  subtler  principle  of  authority  than 
this :  it  was  ever  present  to  his  mind  and  harassed  it  with  perpetual 
anxiety :  he  lived  in  constant  oscillation  between  the  exultation  of  un- 
restrained enjoyment  and  the  depressing  consciousness  of  danger:  he 
strained  his  imagination  to  realise  by  the  most  wanton  excesses  the  sub- 
stance of  unlimited  power,  at  one  moment  as  an  excitement,  at  another 
as  a  relief  and  consolation." 

And  certainly  Cains  appears  to  have  striven  earnestly  enough  to  realise 
to  himsehv  as  well  as  to  impress  on  others,  the  jus  divinum  of  his 
Cesarean  majesty.  Taking  into  account  the  strange  perverted  state  of 
religious  conceptions  at  this  period,  Mr.  Merivale  sees  no  reason  to  doubt 
that  he  was  really  possessed  with  a  vague  notion  of  his  own  divinity. 
The  German  historian  Hoeck*  cannot  comprehend  the  fact  of  this  belief. 
Mr.  Merivale  professes  himself  sensible  how  imperfect  is  his  account  of 
the  phenomenon,  but  feels  no  difficulty  in  crediting  it : 

*  Who  only  wants,  says  our  author,  the  faculty  of  imagination,  to  be  an  his- 
torian of  a  high  class.  Hoeck  is  but  one  of  the  many  modern  continental  scholars 
with  whose  writings  Mr.  Merivale  shows  himself  notably  conversant  A  glance 
at  the  foot-notes  of  the  present  volumes  will  show  the  nature  of  these  researches. 
Thus,  among  French  authorities  consulted  by  the  historian,  we  observe  the  names, 
mentioned  from  time  to  time,  of  Walckenaer  (Histoire  <? Horace),  Dezobry  (Rome 
au  Steele  (FAuguste),  Troplong  (Influence  du  Christianisme  $w  le  droU  Romam), 
Moreau  de  Jonnes  (Statistique  des  Peupks  anciensX  Thierry  (Gaulois),  WaUon 
(Histoire  de  VEsclavage  dans  CAntiquite),  Iieclerc  (Journaux  des  RornainsX,  Legris 
(Etudes  sur  Lucrece,  Catulle,  jrc),  and  Bergier  (Grands  Chemins).  While  of 
German  authors  we  observe  frequent  allusions  to  such  as  Rudorff,  Lachmann 
(Roemieche  Feidmesser),  Better  (Rom.  AlterthX  Zumpt  (fietig,  der  Roemer), 
Boecking,  Gothofred,  Schulting  (and  kindred  junsprudentissmu),  Fischer  (Zeti- 
tafeh\  Ukert  the  geographer,  Frandsen  (Agrippa),  Bunsen  (Rom.),  Gruter  (Inscr.% 
Von  Hoff  (Geschichte  der  Erd  oberjUtche),  Zeuss  (die  DeuUchen),  Grimm  (Rechto- 
altertkSm),  Tzschirner  (FaB  des  Heidenthums),  Zumpt  (Comment  Epigr.),  Bein 
(GnmnatRecht  der  Roem.%  &e. 


282  Merivales  Romans  under  the  Empire. 

■  \    y  *     ■.  *,    V     '  v-   ■  V. 

Nihil  est  quod  credere  de  se 
Non  possit  cum  laudator  Dis.ttqua  potestas. 

The  gods  of  those  days,  he  remarks,  if  they  did  not  actually  toiich  tfrt 
earth,  flitted,  at  least,  very  near  to  its  surface.  To  partake  in  sonft 
sense  or  other  of  the  godhead  was  the  dream  of  philosophers  as  well^ 
the  boast  of  tyrants.  As  for  Cains,  "  the  divinity  which  he  affected  was 
something  very  different  from  the  moral  inspiration  claimed  by  his  pre* 
decessors.  It  was  all  outward  and  sensuous.  In  his  passion  for  scenic 
representation,  he  delighted  to  array  himself  in  the  garb  of  Hercules  or 
Bacchus,  or  even  of  Juno  and  Venus,  to  brandish  the  club  or  the7  thyrsus, 
or  disguise  himself  in  a  female  head-dress,  and  enact  the  part-  of  tt& 
deity  in  his  temples  or  in  his  private  apartments.  Whatever 'god  lfe 
affected  to  be,  the  senate  and  people  shouted  vehemently  around  him, 
with  the  admiration  of  spectators  in  a  theatre  rather  than  the  reverence 
of  worshippers.*  l 

If,  however,  the  people  witnessed  his  assumption  of  divinity  with  S 
smile,  and  were  excited  to  no  other  feeling,  perhaps,  but  one  of  languid 
amusement,  at  the  rivalry  he  affected  with  the  Jupiter  of  the  Capito!,f 
whose  thunders  he  pretended  to  imitate,  and  with  the  tale  of  whose 
parricide  and  incest  he  had  met  the  imputation  of  similar  crimes  against 
himself,  it  was  otherwise  when  he  finally  blazed  before  Home  as  a1 
Pisistratus  or  a  Tarquin,  making  the  Forum  his  camp,  and  the  palace 
his  praetorium,  and  subjecting  the  citizens  to  military  law.  "  From  this 
time  the  die  was  cast,  and  he  finally  abandoned  all  the  decorous  fictions' 
of  the  republic.  He  avowed  himself  a  tyrant,  and  continued  from  hencfrf 
forth  to  wear  the  outward  ensigns  of  autocracy  without  scruple."  Au~ 
relius  Victor  asserts  that  Cains  actually  wore  the  diadem ;  though  Sueto- 
nius only  says  that  he  was  very  near  assuming  it,  and  merely  desisted  on 
the  assurance  that  already  he  had  risen  above  the  highest  eminence  of 
kings  and  sovereigns.  All  his  previous  atrocities  were  regarded  as 
venial,  when  compared  with  his  overt  usurpation  of  the  "  tyrant's"  part/ 
Nevertheless  the  senate  paid  abject  court  to  him  and  to  his  wretched 
satellites,  reassuring  him  in  the  midst  of  the  perils  of  which,  in  such  a 
position  as  he  had  now  deliberately  taken,  he  could  not  be  unconscious. 
The  conspiracy  of  Cassius  Chaerea  delivered  Rome  from  a  yoke  that  was 
fast  becoming  too  heavy  to  bear,  in  the  first  month  of  a.d.  41. 

Claudius,  the  "  long  despised  and  neglected  uncle  of  the  murdered 
emperor,"  was  declared  his  successor  by  the  praetorians,  and  duly  accepted 
by  the  senate.  When  the  soldiers,  on  the  first  news  of  Caligula's  death, 
flung  themselves  furiously  into  the  palace,  and  began  to  plunder  its  glit- 
tering chambers, — none  daring  to  offer  them  any  opposition,  slaves  and 
freedmen  alike  betaking  themselves  to  flight  or  concealment,— -one  of  the 
palace-inmates,  we  are  told,  half-hidden  behind  a  curtain  in  an  obscure 
corner,  was  dragged  forth  with  brutal  violence.  It  was  Claudius.  He 
sank  almost  dead  with  terror  at  the  feet  of  the  soldiers.  "  But  the 
soldiers  in  their  wildest  mood  still  respected  the  blood  of  the  Caesars,  and 
instead  of  slaying  or  maltreating  the  suppliant,  the  brother  of  Ger- 
manicus,  they  hailed  him,  more  in  jest  perhaps  than  earnest,  with  the 
title  of  Imperator,  and  carried  him  off  almost  unconscious  to  their  camp.* 
Hither  the  consuls  forwarded  a  deputation  to  him,  to  invite  him  to 
attend  the  senate.     The  frightened  Caesar  sent  back  word  that  he  was 


Merwale's  Ramans  under  the  Empire.  283 

detained  in  the  camp  by  force*  Things  seemed  at  a  stand-still.  But 
the  difficulty  was  got  over  by  an  access  of  courage  in  the  poor  man, 
which  enabled  him  to  suffer  the  praetorians  to  swear  allegiance  to  him, 
while  he  set  that  lata!  example  which  was  construed  at  once  into  a  pre* 
cedent  of  prescriptive  right,  the  promise  of  a  large  donative  to  the  sol- 
diers (fifteen  thousand  sesterces  apiece).  The  praetorians  led  their  hero 
to  the  palace,  where  he  commanded  the  senate  to  wait  upon  him,  and  the 
senate  obeyed. 

It  is  Mr.  Macaulay,  we  think,  who  ha*  drawn  an  ingenious  parallel 
between  Claudius  Caesar  and  our  James  the  First,  as  having,  both  of 
them,  the  same  feeble,  vacillating  temper,  the  same  childishness,  the  same 
coarseness,  the  same  poltroonery ;  as  being,  both  of  them,  men  of  learn- 
ing, who  wrote  and  spoke,  not  indeed  well,  but  still  in  a  manner  in  which 
it  seems  almost  incredible  that  men  so  foolish  should  have  written  or 
spoken.  In  the  case  of  Claudius,  to  the  neglect,  as  Mr.  Merivale  observes, 
with  which  his  education  was  treated  in  his  early  years,  and  the  instruc- 
tions of  a  coarse  and  senseless  pedagogue,  who  exasperated  his  infirmities 
by  ill-usage,  was  owing  probably  to  the  crime  which  a  Roman  parent 
seldom  forgave,  the  weakness  of  his  constitution  and  the  distortion  of  his 
frame.  "  His  childhood  and  youth  were  one  long  sickness,  uncheered 
by  parental  affection ;  and  he  seems  to  have  been  deemed  from  the  first 
unfit  for  any  bodily  exercises.  His  mother  [Antonia]  was  not  ashamed 
to  call  him  a  monster  of  a  man,  an  abortion  of  nature :  the  greatest  ex- 
pression of  contempt  she  could  apply  to  any  one  was  to  call  him  more 
a  fool  than  her  son  Claudius."  Alike  to  her  and  to  his  father,  Drusus, 
he  appears  to  have  been  from  his  birth  an  object  of  disgust,  only  not 
"  exposed"  because  he  was  the  son  of  Drusus  and  Antonia.  His  grand- 
mother Livia  too,  we  are  told,  held  him  in  high  disdain,  and  seldom  even 
spoke  to  him  ;  her  admonitions  being  always  given  in  short  and  sharp 
letters,  gruff  old-lady-like  billets,  by  no  means  billets-doux, — or  conveyed 
to  him  by  the  mouth  of  others.  His  sister  Livilla,  it  is  said,  on  once 
hearing  that  he  might  possibly  be  called  hereafter  to  power,  exclaimed 
loudly  at  the  wretched  and  unworthy  fate  of  the  Roman  people  to  be 
subjected  to  such  a  governor.  And  Augustus  himself,  who  as  the  his- 
torian remarks,  should  have  known  human  nature  better,  and  who  might 
have  felt  a  kinder  sympathy  with  bodily  infirmity,  could  not  endure 
that  any  of  his  race  should  lack  the  personal  qualities  which  befitted  the 
highest  station,  and  slighted  the  poor  youth  both  in  public  and  in  his 
own  family.  "I  wish,"  says  Augustus,  in  his  correspondence,  "that 
the  poor  creature  would  take  pains  to  imitate  some  respectable  personage 
in  bearing,  gait,  and  gesture."  The  parallel  with  our  James  will  here 
recur  to  the  mind.  Still  more  forcibly  when  Augustus  adds  :  "  You 
may  imagine  how  surprised  I  was  to  find  something  to  like  in  his  de- 
claiming, for  you  know  that  he  cannot  ordinarily  even  speak  so  as  to  be 
understood."  To  the  Claudian  characteristics  (equally  Jacobite)  risus 
indecens,  ira  turpior^  Suetonius  adds,  spumanle  rictu,  pneterea  lingua 
titubantia.  Withheld  from  active  life,  Claudius  devoted  himself,  like 
James,  to  books  and  literary  labours.  Mr.  Merivale  holds  the  scandalous 
charges  of  drunkenness,  gambling,  and  addiction  to  women,  heaped  upon 
Claudius,  to  be  virtually  disproved  by  the  mere  extent  of  his  literary 
doings,  in  which  he  rivalled  the  most  industrious  students  of  antiquity— 

July — VOL.  CVIL  HO.  CCCCXXVH.  U 


284  MerivaUs  Romans  under  tfte  Empire. 

a  feet  that  seems  to  preclude  of  itself  the  possibility  of  habitual  irregu- 
larities in  his  conduct ;  while  it  also  proves  his  possession  of  a  power  of 
application  quite  inconsistent  with  the  weakness  of  intellect  which  his 
maligners  so  freely  imputed  to  him. 

The  "poor  creature's"  good  nature  in  putting   up  with   personal 
affronts  and  rough  jokes,  told  against  him  at  Rome.    He  had  suffered 
from  paralysis;  he  halted  on  one  leg;  he  trembled  in  head  and  hand; 
and  his  utterance  was  thick  and  imperfect.     Caligula  and  his  boon- 
companions  loved  to  make  sport  of  the  unfortunate  man.     If  he  came 
late  to  the  imperial  supper-table,  the  guests  would  spread  themselves 
upon  the  couches  and  keep  him  standing.     If  he  fell  asleep  after  eating, 
they  would  put  rough  gloves  upon  his  hands,  to  enjoy  his  confusion  when 
he  rubbed  his  eyes  on  waking.     He  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  this 
was  held  confirmatory  proof  of  his  imbecility.     Mr.  Merivale  adopts  an 
unusually  favourable  view  of  the  man's  capacity  on  the  whole;  and, 
while  allowing,  as  a  most  natural  thing,  that  his  judgment  (untrained  by 
practical  knowledge  of  life)  was  not  equal  to  his  learning,  and  that  the 
infirmities  of  his  body  affected  his  powers  of  decision,  his  presence  of 
mind,  and  his  steadfastness  of  purpose, — is  yet  of  opinion  that  anywhere 
but  at  Rome,  Claudius  would  have  passed  muster  as  a  respectable,  and 
not,  perhaps,  a  useless  member  of  society.     This  opinion,  it  is  owned, 
may  have  been  influenced  in  some  degree  by  the  study  of  the  emperor's 
countenance  in  the  numerous  busts  still  existing  of  him,  which  represent 
it  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  whole  imperial  series.     Claudius 
was  of  a  tall  figure,  which  in  a  sitting  posture  was  not  ungraceful;  his 
face,  at  least  in  repose,  was  eminently  handsome.     But  it  is  impossible, 
says  Mr.  Merivale,  not  to  remark  in  it  an  expression  of  pain  and  anxiety, 
which  forcibly  arrests  our  sympathy ;  for  the  face  is  that  of  an  honest 
and  well-meaning  man,  who  feels  himself  unequal  to  the  task  imposed 
upon  him.     In  that  face  the  historian  sees — with  an  imaginative  power 
of  insight  not  common  to  common  historians — the  look  of  perplexity 
with  which  Claudius  may  have  pored  over  the  mysteries  of  Etruscan 
lore,  carried  to  the  throne  of  the  world,  and  engaged  in  the  deepest 
problems  of  finance  and  citizenship.     He  sees  there  the  expression  of 
fatigue  both  of  the  mind  and  body,  which  speaks  of  midnight  watches 
over  books,  varied  with  midnight  carouses  at  the  imperial  table,  and  the 
fierce  caresses  of  rival  mistresses.     He  sees  there  the  glance  of  fear,  not 
of  open  enemies,  but  of  pretended  friends ;  the  reminiscence  of  wanton 
blows,  and  the  anticipation  of  the  deadly  poison.     Above  all,  he  sees 
there  the  anxious  glance  of  dependence,  which  seems  to  cast  about  for  a 
model  to  imitate,  for  ministers  to  shape  a  policy,  and  for  satellites  to 
execute  it*    "  The  model  Claudius  found  was  the  policy  of  the  venerated 
Augustus ;  but  his  ministers  were  the  most  profligate  of  women,  and  the 
most  selfish  of  emancipated  slaves."    Again  one  recurs  to  the  parallel 
between  Claudius  and  James  the  First 

In  discussing  the  life  and  character  of  Messalina,  the  same  charitable 
caution  is  exercised  by  Mr.  Merivale,  in  dealing  with  the  evidence  against 
her,  as  that  already  evidenced  in  the  cases  of  Tiberius  and  Caligula. 
He  sees  reason  to  question  the  vicious  characteristics,  at  least  to  their 
full  extent,  for  which  she  has  been  so  signally  notorious,  her  name 


Merwale's  Romans  under  the  Empire.  '2&5 

having  been  used  from  her  own  time  to  the  present  as  the  greatest 
byword  of  reproach  to  her  sex. 

For  her  rival  Agrippina,  whose  aim  it  was  to  poison  the  mind  of 
Claudius  against  the  woman  he  formerly  loved,  and  to  disgust  both  him 
and  the  citizens  with  the  boy  Britannicus,  that  the  way  before  her  own 
child  Nero  might  be  made  plain, — Agrippina,  by  drawing  up  a  memoir 
of  the  times,  by  becoming  herself  the  narrator  of  the  contest,  contrived 
to  turn  the  stream  of  history  into  her  own  channel,  and  thus  succeeded, 
as  Mr.  Merivale  views  the  matter,  in  representing  Messalina  to  posterity 
in  the  same  hideous  colours  in  which  she  had  before  represented  her  to 
her  contemporaries.  "  Historians,  wearied  with  the  vain  task  of  seeking 
for  truth  in  documents  of  state  and  imperial  manifestoes,  turned  eagerly 
to  revelations  of  the  palace  vouchsafed  them  by  an  inmate  of  its  recesses, 
an  actress  in  its  private  scenes ;  and  the  memoirs  of  Agrippina  were  no 
doubt  accepted  as  an  authority  in  transactions  which  she  was  most  con- 
cerned in  tricking  with  the  falsest  colours.  It  will  easily  be  credited 
that  an  anecdotist  such  as  Suetonius,  or  a  professed  satirist  like  Juvenal, 
was  satisfied  to  embrace  with  insolent  indifference  to  truth  the  piquant 
calumnies  of  a  triumphant  intriguer:  if  we  have  any  doubts  that  Tacitus 
yielded  to  the  same  fascinations,  his  referring  to  these  very  memoirs  as 
authentic  documents  on  another  nor  less  delicate  subject  must  suffice  to 
remove  them.  We  have  no  choice,  however,  but  to  read  the  story  in 
the  light  in  which  these  brilliant  declaimed  have  placed  it,  contenting 
ourselves  with  recollecting  the  foul  source  from  which  it  has,  in  all  pro- 
bability, descended  to  us,  and  remarking  such  tokens  of  its  distortion 
.  from  the  truth  as  an  attentive  perusal  cannot  fail  to  suggest  to  us." 

The  first  deadly  rivalry  of  women  at  Rome  broke  out  in  this  feud 
between  Messalina  and  Agrippina.  The  court  of  Claudius,  says  the  his- 
torian, was  the  first  to  present  the  hideous  spectacle  of  two  women  of  the 
highest  birth  and  rank,  and  closely  connected  by  ties  of  blood  and  mar- 
riage, engaged  in  a  desperate  encounter  of  intrigue  and  perfidy,  ending 
in  the  violent  overthrow  of  the  one  and  the  rise  of  the  other,  hut  equally 
in  the  eternal  infamy  of  both.  Nothing,  perhaps,  he  adds,  in  the  existing 
state  of  opinion  and  the  contemptuous  treatment  of  the  sex  generally  at 
Rome,  marks  more  strongly  the  feebleness  of  the  reigning  emperor,  than 
the  licence  thus  assumed  by  two  rival  princesses  to  convulse  the  world 
with  a  quarrel  of  the  boudoir,  and  to  stamp  a  character  upon  the  history 
of  their  times. 

The  description  in  this  history  of  the  fall  of  Messalina,  immediately 
occasioned  by  that  daring  marriage  with  her  paramour  Silius,  which  Nar- 
cissus and  the  conspirators  turned  to  such  account,  is  pictorial  and 
striking.  "  The  scene  now  changes  to  the  suburban  palace  of  the  bride- 
groom, where  Messalina  was  abandoning  herself  to  a  frenzy  of  voluptu- 
ous dissipation.  The  season  was  mid-autumn,  the  vintage  was  in  full 
progress  ;  the  wine-press  was  groaning ;  the  ruddy  juice  was  streaming ; 
women  girt  with  scanty  fawn- skins  danced  as  drunken  Bacchanals  around 
her :  while  she  herself,  with  her  hair  loose  and  disordered,  brandished 
the  thyrsus  in  the  midst,  and  Silius  by  her  side,  buskined  and  crowned 
with  ivy,  tossed  his  head  to  the  flaunting  strains  of  Silenus  and  the 
Satyrs.     Vettius,  one,  it  seems,  of  the  wanton's  less  fortunate  paramours, 

u2 


286  M&ivales  Ramans  under  the  Empire. 

attended  'the  ceremony,  and  climbed,  in  a  freak  of  merriment,  a  lofty 
tree  in  the  garden.  When  asked  what  he  saw,  he  replied,  An  awful 
storm  from  Oslia  ;  and  whether  there  was  actually  such  an  appearance, 
or  whether  the  words  were  spoken  at  random,  they  were  accepted  after- 
wards as  an  omen  of  the  catastrophe  which  quickly  followed. 

"  For  now  in  the  midst  of  these  wanton  orgies  the  rumour  swiftly 
spread,  and  swiftly  messengers  arrived  to  confirm  it,  that  Claudius  knew 
all,  that  Claudius  was  on  his  way  to  Rome,  and  was  coming  in  anger 
and  for  vengeance.  The  lovers  part:  Silius  for  the  Forum,  and  the 
tribunals  of  public  business  $  Messafina  for  the  retirement  of  her  gardens 
on  the  Pincian,  the  price  of  blood  of  the  murdered  Asiaticus.  Tbe  jcrtial 
crew  was  scattered  on  every  side :  but  meanwhile  armed  soldiers  ban  stir- 
rounded  the  spot,  and  all  that  could  be  seized  were  thrown  suddenly  uito 
chaias.  Messalina*  sobered  in  a  moment  by  the  lightning  flash  which 
revealed  her  danger,  had  not  lost  her  presence  of  mind.  She*  fesolvefi  jto 
confront  the  emperor.  She  summoned  hjer  don  and  daughter  Wacco 
pany  her  to  their  lather's  presence  ;  at  the  same  time  sfife  entreated  I 
<chief  of  the  Vestals  to  attend  her,  and  intercede  for  her  wjtft*  the  li 
'preme  Pontiff.  Three  only  of  her  women  ventured  to  remaitt  by  fttfr 
side  :  with  these  she  traversed  the  length  of  the  city  on  foot£' W  het 
appearance  in  distress  and  mourning,  on  which  sUe  ban  corrnted  fcf  lc6tii[- 
miseration,  attracted  no  voice  or  gesture  of  compassion,  and  asc^oinjfa 
common  cart  at  the  gates  she  proceeded  sadly  on  the  road  to  Ostfa."  :  '^ 

But  that  "  awful  storm  from  Ostia,*  which  the  witEng  descried  froln'tte 
tree-top,  was  to  burst  upon  and  destroy  the  miserable  woman,'  :  Qau'dras 
vacillated,  it  is  true  ;  now  exclaiming  with  fitful  vehemence  kgainsV  the 
abominable  crimes  of  his  consort,  and  now  melting  into  tears  aV  the  re- 
collection of  her  children.  Narcissus  decided  for  him— bdldQyordei 
tribune  and  some  centurions  to  go  and  slay  Messalina,  by  md  einjl 
command — while  Messalina,  in  the  gardens  of  Lucullus,  vfas^bonijJ 
addresses  of  supplication  to  her  husband,  to  some  of  which  the  en 
warmed  that  night  with  wine  and  good  cheer,  had  responded,  by  a 
a  message  to  the  "poor  creature,"  as  he  called  her,  bidding  hefclitane  the 
next  day  and  plead  her  cause  before  him.  The  next  fcfey  ?/'  Thafc'satie 
night  a  blow  of  the  tribune's  falchion  laid  Messalina  low— the  Qefcth  of 
her  victim  Asiaticus  was  avenged  on  the  very  spot — **the  hot  Mood  *6f 
the  wanton  smoked  on  the  pavement  of  his  gardens,  and  stained  wHV* 
deeper  hue  the  variegated  marbles  of  Lucullus."  Claudius  was  stui  at 
supper  when  the  news  came.  He  inquired  not  as  to  the  manner,  of  her 
death.  He  called  for  wine,  pledged  his  guests  anew,  and  listened  to 
fresh  relays  of  chamber  choristers.  Another  day  dawned,  and  he 'con- 
tinued to  show  the  same  indifference.  Narcissus,  being  uncondetito^d 
by  the  emperor,  was  rewarded  by  the  senate.  A  few  short  montnS,  atid 
Claudius  becomes  the  husband  of  Agrippina.  A  fewer  short  years,  and 
Agrippina  poisons  Claudius-* 

Agrippime 
Boletus  .  .  ;  .  .  .  praecordia  pressit 
Hie  senis,  tremulumque  caput  descendere  jussit 
In  ccelum,  et  longa  manantia  labra  saliva. 


tt7\  :.\\  &<38X^,h\\  .',   ..  ...v 


t 


>' 


.  .,  .  t  ;•  THE  HISTOBX  OF  THE  NEWSPAPER  PRESS. 
By  Albxutdeb  Aitdbews,  '  •  ' 

;  'AUTHOR  OF  THB  "  EIOBXKEXTH  OBHTUBY4" 

:-•;'.•  'IV.  lf  ,     ■   ;  ^ 

lie  "Merci^ies^— The  first  publicatioil  of  Parlianiientah^  Proceedings— The  First 
Mercnry—Titiee  of  a  Mercuries"— Mercury  Wri  tew :  flfedham*  Birkenhead,  Hey* 

1;  lin,  Bytes,  Wither*  Taylor  the  Water  Poet,  Booker,  Wharton,  and  Hotham— . 
,  Character  of  the  Mercuries— The  Trayelling  Press— The  Itrst  Advertisement-— 
The.  First  Illustrated  Paper— Dawn  of  the  Political  Influence  of  Newspaper s— 
Snecimeps  of  the  Political  Articles,  and  of  the  News. 

The  newspapers  had  now  begun  ta  assume  that  title  which  so  closely 
identifies  them  with  the  memories  of  the  civil  wars*—"  Mercurius."  But 
there  were  "  Mercuries"  of  earlier  date  than  those  elicited  by  that  hot  and 
fierce  struggle  of  opinion,  for  our  friend  Butter  published,  in  1636,  "  The 
principal  Passages  of  Germany,  Italy,  France,  and  other  places;  all 
faithfully  taken  out  of  good  originals  by  an  English  Mercury ;"  and,  still 
earlier,  in  1625,  his  Weekly  Nerves  is  stated  to  be  "  Printed  for  Mer- 
curius Britannicus."  But  the  title  "  Mercurius*  belongs,  par  excellence, 
to  the  news  sheets  of  the  contending  armies — the  ribaldry  of  Birkenhead 
.  — the  mercenary  tirades  of  Nedham,  or  the  furious  onslaughts  of  men 
.less  conspicuous  of  their  parties. 

The  collection  presented  to  the  British  Museum  by  George  III.,  and 
formed  (at  the  cost,  as  was  estimated,  of  4000/.)  by  Thomasson  during 
the  Commonwealth,  among  a  vast  number  of  tracts,  squibs,  and  pam- 
,  phlets,  is  perhaps  the  most  complete  in  "  Mercuries  ;"  and  there  are  collec- 
tions in  the  libraries  of  All  Souls  and  of  Corpus  Christi  Colleges,  Oxford. 
They  absolutely  swarmed  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  intestine  struggle 
that  gave  them  birth.  Peter  Heylin  says,  in  the  preface  to  his  "  Cos- 
mography," "  The  affairs  of  each  town,  or  war,  were  presented  in  the 
,  weekly  news  books,"  and  the  single  year,  1643,  begot  no  less  than  twenty 
of  them.  Mr.  Nichols's  list  up  to  1665  gives  the  title  of  350  news  books, 
diurnals,  and  Mercuries,  of  which  the  latter  are  by  far  the  most  numerous, 
especially  from  the  years  1643  to  1654.  Thomasson's  collection  comes 
down  no  further  than  1657,  the  collector  assigning  as  a  reason  for  dis- 
continuing his  "  great  pains  and  labour,"  that  the  publications  had,  at 
that  date,  become  less  numerous  and  interesting. 

The  abolition  of  the  Star-chamber  in  1641  acted  like  a  genial  thaw 
l  upon  the  frozen  energies  of  the  Press,  and,  of  course,  the  particular 
branch  of  its  productions,  of  which  we  treat,  was  not  the  last  to  rise  up, 
shake  itself,  look  around,  and  start  off  into  all  sorts  of  gambols  of  a  new- 
found liberty — hence  the  eccentric  publications,  which,  taking  the  title 
of  Mercuries,  purported  to  bring  their  satires  from  heaven,  from  hell, 
from  the  moon,  and  from  the  antipodes — calling  themselves  doves,  kites, 
vultures,  and  screech-owls,  laughing  mercuries,  crying  mercuries,  merry 
diurnals,  and  smoking  nocturnals. 

But  hence,  also— and  it  is  the  first  time,  as  for  as  we  can  find,  that  the 
people  were  entrusted  with  the  secret — hence  sprang  the  publication  of 


288  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

the  proceedings  of  Parliament,  and,  in  1641,  appeared  "  The  Diurnal 
Occurrences,  or  Daily  Proceedings  of  both  Houses  in  this  great  and  happy 
Parliament,  from  the  3rd  of  November,  1640,  to  the  3rd  of  November, 
1641.  London :  Printed  for  William  Cooke,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his 
shop  at  Furnivall's  Inne  Gate,  in  Holbourne,  1641." 

This  appears  to  have  been  a  summary  for  a  year,  introducing  the  sub- 
ject, and,  after  "  The  Speeches  in  Parliament  from  3rd  November, 
1640,  to  June,  1641,"  in  two  volumes  (534  pages),  the  "Diurnal 
Occurrences"  began  to  be  brought  out  weekly  by  William  Cooke  and 
John  Thomas.  In  1642  there  came  out  "  The  Heads  of  all  the  Pro- 
ceedings of  both  Houses  of  Parliament ;"  "  A  Perfect  Diurnal  of  the 
Passages  in  Parliament!  &c.  ;"  which  were  weekly  reports  of  the  votes,  or 
of  intelligence  communicated  to  the  Parliament.  Thus  was  the  right  of 
the  people  to  know  what  was  being  done  for  them — or  against  them — by 
their  senators  first  acknowledged  ;  and  thus  did  the  Press  first  assume 
a  function,  which  it  has  performed  with  but  few  intermissions  ever  since, 
with  increasing  honour  to  itself  and  security  to  the  nation.  These  early 
diurnals,  it  must  be  remembered,  were  published  by  authority,  so  that 
their  **  Account  of  Proceedings"  was  very  different  to  the  elaborate, 
fearless,  and  word-for-word  reports  of  the  present  day  ;  but  the  first  step 
of  the  bastion  had  been  yielded  to  the  storming  party — and  they  were 
mounting. 

Now  was  the  ever-ready  Butter  again  busy,  and,  in  1641,  we  find  him 
turning  hi»  attention  to  this  newly-developed  branch  of  news  : 

"  The  Passages  in  Parliament  from  the  3  of  Jan.  to  the  10,  more 
fully  and  exactly  taken  then  the  ordinary  one  hath  beene,  as  you  will 
find  upon  comparing.  And  although  the  weeke  past  doth  yeetd  many 
remarkable  passages  (as  hath  beene  any  weeke  before),  yet  you  shall  ex- 
pect no  more  expression  either  now  or  hereafter  in  the  title  then  die 
Passages  in  Parliament,  &c.  London :  Printed  for  Nath.  Butter,  at  St 
Austin's  Gate  in  Paul's  Churchyard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Pyde  BuD, 
1641." 

Every  good  has  its  attendant  evil,  and  the  same  concession  that  gave 
the  nation  a  glimpse  into  parliamentary  affairs,  encouraged  the  tribe  of 
party  writers  to  exhaust  their  energies  in  a  shoal  of  licentious  diurnals 
and  Mercuries. 

The  title  of  Mercuric  seems  to  have  been  imported  from  France — at 
least,  the  earliest  use  which  we  have  been  enabled  to  find  of  it  is  in  that 
country,  in  the  year  1613,  when  there  appeared  in  Paris  the  Mereure 
Frangois,  which  continued  to  be  published  until  1647.  In  1634  there 
was  also  published  in  Paris  the  Mereure  Suisse ;  and  in  Geneva,  the 
Mereure  dCEtat;  whilst  the  word  was  not  generally  adopted  by  the 
English  news  writers  until  about  1643,  and  the  purposes  to  which  it  waff 
then  devoted,  and  the  epithets  to  which  it  was  allied,  must  surely  haw 
somewhat  astonished  even  our  lively  neighbours. 

As  specimens  of  the  most  ridiculous  of  this  class,  we  may  give  three, 
which  we  have  found  in  the  British  Museum  collection : 

"  The  Marine  Mercurie ;  or,  a  true  relation  of  the  strange  appearance 
of  a  Man-Fish,  about  three  miles  within  the  River  Thames,  having 
a  Mosket  in  one  hand  and  a  Petition  in  the  other.  With  a  Relation  of 
Sir  Simon  Hartley's  Victory  over  the  Rebels,"  4to,  1642. 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  289 

"A  Preter-pluperfect  Spick-and-span  new  Nocturnal;  or,  Mercurie's 
Weekly  Night  Newes,"  1645. 

"  A  Wonder  !  A  Mercurie  without  a  Lye  in  his  Mouth,"  4 to,  1648. 
The  collection  of  "  Mercuries"  contained  in  the  library  of  Corpus  Christi 
College,  bear  the  respective  designations  of  "Academicus"  (1645), 
?'  Anti-Britannic  us"  (1645) — the  title  of  this,  by  the  way,  merely  meant 
that  it  was  opposed  to  "  Mercurius  Britannicus," — "  Aquaticus"  (1653), 
«  Aulicus"  (1642),  "  Democritus,,  (1653),  "  Menipeus"  (1682),  "Po- 
liticus"  (1659),  and  «  Publicus"  (1660). 

In  the  Bodleian  Library  we  have  found  the  following : 
"  Mercurius  Propheticus ;  or,  a  Collection  of  some  old  Predictions. 
O !  may  they  only  prove  but  empty  fictions,"  1643. 

"  Mercurius  Psitacus ;  or,  the  Parotting  Mercury,"  1648. 
"  Mercurius  non  Vendicus  nor  yet  Mutus,  but  Cambro,  or  Honest 
Britannus,"  1644. 

"  Newes  from  Smith  the  Oxford  Gaoler,"  1645. 
From  Chalmers's  List  we  quote  a  few  of  the  most  remarkable  titles  : 
"  The  Parliament's  Scout's  Discovery,"  1643. 

"  Wednesday's  Mercury ;  or,  Special  Passages.  Collected  for  those 
who  wish  to  be  informed,"  1643. 

"  The  Spie ;  communicating  Intelligence  from  Oxford,"  1643. 
"  Mercurius  Fumigosus ;  or,  the  Smoaking  Nocturnal,"  1644. 
.    "  The  Kingdom's  Scout,"  1645. 

"  Mercurius  Medicus ;  or,  a  Sovereign  Salve  for  these  Sick  Times," 
1647. 

"  Mercurius  Melancholicus ;  or,  News  from  Westminster  and  other 
Parts,"  1647. 

"  Mercurius  Pragmaticua :  Communicating  Intelligence  from  all  Partes, 
touching  all  Affaires,  Designes,  Humours,  and  Conditions,  throughout 
the  Kingdome,  especially  from  Westminster  and  the  Head  Quarters," 
1647. 

"  Mercurius  Clericus;  or,  Newes  from  Syon,"  1647. 
"  Mercurius  Anti-Pragmaticus,"  1647. 
"  Mercurius  Bellicus ;  or,  an  Alarm  to  all  Rebels,"  1647. 
"  The  Parliament's  Kite;  or,  the  Tell-Tale  Bird,"  1648. 
"  The  Parliament's  Vulture :  Newes  from  all  Parts  of  the  Kingdom," 
1648. 

"  The  Parliament's  Screech-Owle ;  or,  Intelligence  from  several  Parts," 
1648. 

"The  Parliament's  Porter;  or,  the  Door-Keeper  of  the  House  of 
Commons,"  1648. 

"  Mercurio  Volpone ;  or,  the  Fox.  For  the  better  Information  of  His 
Majestie's  loyal  Subjects;  prying  into  every  Junto,  proclaiming  their 
Designs,  and  reforming  all  Intelligence,"  1648. 

"  A  Trance;  or,  News  from  Hell  brought  fresh  to  Town,  by  Mer- 
curius Acheronticus,"  1648. 

"  The  Man  in  the  Moon,  discovering  a  World  of  Knavery  under  the 
Sonne,"  1649. 

"  Great  Britain's  Paine  full  Messenger,"  1649. 
"  The  Faithful  Scout,"  1650. 

"  Mercurius  Democritus;  or,  a  Nocturnal.  Communicating  wonder- 
ful News  from  the  World  in  the  Moon,"  1652. 


29Q  %k*  History  tfjfa  JNwspepe*  flw, 

.    "  Mercurius  Heraclitus ;  or,  the  Weeping  Philosopher,"  1652. 

"  Mercurius  Mastix;  faithfully  lashing  all  Scouts,  Mercuries,  Foet^ 
Spyes,  and  other?,"  1652. 

"  The  Laughing  Mercury  \  pr,  True  and  Perfect  News  from  the  An* 
tipodes,"  165?. 

"  Mercurius  Radamanthus,  the  Chief  Judge  of  Hell ;  his  Circuity 
through  all  the  Courts  of  Law  in  England,"  J  653.  -  .  i 

The  extensive  collection  of  Mr.  Nichols  affords  us  some  remarkably 
specimens,  a  few  of  which  we  copy :  .« 

"  Mercurius  Vapulans;  or,  the  Whipping  of  poor  BratishMewjury*  JJjr 
Mercurius  Urbanus,  younger  Brother  to  Aulicus,"  1643«       >  •  • 

"  Mr.  Peter's  Report  from  the  Army,?  1645.  ; 

"Mercurius  Diaboljcus  ;  or,  Hell's ;  Intelligencer,"  1647* 

"  Mercurius  Mercuriorum  Stultissimus,"  1647,         ''       ...  .{ 

"  Mercurius  Britannicus  Again  Alive,"  1648.  ;  .-m 

"  Mercurius  Anti- Mercurius," 1648.  .   .,. 

"  Martin  Nonsense,  his  Collections,"  1648,  ,< 

"  Mercurius  Insanus  Insanissimus,"  1648*,.  .  ■ .; 

«  The  Flying  Eagle,"  1652, 

"  Mercurius  Nullus,"  1653.*  ,  <? 

It  were  useless  to  force  upon  threader's  notice  mpre  samples  of  the# 
mad  news  sheets  :  we  have  given  quite  sufficient  to  .enable,  hunt  to  Appre- 
ciate the  quality  and  style  of  them;  but,  worthless. as  they  now  appear 
they  had  great  weight  in  their  day*  and,  instead  of  being  die  mere  troth 
that  rose  to  the  surface,  they  in  a  great  measure  caused  ;8,nd  kept  up  to 
fermentation  which  was  at  work  hi  the  country.  Sometff  then),  it  cannot 
be  denied,  were  written  with  talent,  withering  with  their  sarcasm,  iStabbteg 
with  their  irony,  or  pounding  with  their  denunciations^  the  parties  agtihtf 
whom  they  were  levelled.  Undoubtedly  the  most  eleven,  were  tb# 
written  by  Marchmont  Nedham,  and  especially  the  Merwrim  Britalh 
nicus,  and  the  Mercurius  JPragmaticus,  which  Anthony  k  .Wood  assigns 
to  him.  Wood's  account  of  this  writer  has  been  assailed  as  partial-fi-and  *> 
doubt  it  is  so— but  there  can  be  little  respect  felt  for  a  ■  rarftttirtnfa) 
thrice  changed  his  principles  during  the  great  struggle  in  wniofefototfc 
part — for  this  fact,  we  believe,  his  apologists  have  not  been  able  io.eeojaR$- 
dict,  but  feebly  excuse  it  on  the  pretence  that  he  did  it"  to  save  his  n&&*" 
A  poor  plea,  surely ! 

Marchmont  Nedham,  the  great  writer  of  "  Mercuries,"  was  born  at  JEktf- 
ford,  in  1620,  and  educated  at  Oxford.  Oncoming  to  London  he  became 
first  an  usher  at  Merchant  Tailors'  School,  and  then  an  underrckrk  of 
Gray's  Inn.  He  afterwards  studied  physic  and  chemistry ;  but  in  &e 
middle  of  August,  1643,  he  started  the  celebrated  republican  print 
Mercurius  JBritannicus,  which  he  continued  every  Monday  until  the 
close  of  1646 ;  and  gained  much  popularity  by  it,  and  became  knotti* 
as  Captain  Nedham  of  Gray's  Inn.  Anthony  k  Wood  can,  however, 
see  no  merit  in  it,  but  held  Nedham  in  fierce  scorn;  possibly  he 
was  right  too,  for  demagogues  look  much  better  at  a  distance  of 
time,  when  some  kind  friend  of  an  historian  has  washed  their  fusts 
and  patched  their  shreds.     "  Siding  with  the  rout  and  scum  of  tne 

*  The  dates  affixed  to  these  titles  are  generally  those  borne  by  the  first  number. 


3nhc\BMiy  ofJthe  Wwsp^)&&.  291 

people,  he  made  them  weekly  sport  %j  tkiling  $t  all  trn^j  was  nobl$,in his 
Intelligence  (felted  Mercurius  Brtiaimicus,  ifareln  fais'  enftefevoutt  were 
to  sacrifice  the  fame  of  some  lord,  pr  any  person  of  quality,  and  of  the 
king  himself,  to  the  heist  with  many  heads.*  He  presently  got  Impri- 
soned for  a  seditious  libel,  and,  soliciting  an  audience  of  r  the  king,  is  said 
to  have1  made  a  nUst  abject  apology  on  his  knees  &nd  pxfaured  his  liberty. 
He  now  assumed  the  character  of  a  -furious  feoyalist,  ind,  on  Septem- 
ber 14y  1647^  started  the  Mercurius  !Praffmdt(cus9  which  he  continued 
in  the  royal  cause,  with  a  short  intehnissioir,  until  1649.  President 
Bradflhaw  hid  sufficient  influence  over  Nedham  to  wm  him  back  to  the 
popular  side,  and  on  June*  13,  1650,  he  commenced  the  Mercurius 
JPoliticus,  which  came  out  with  some  share  of  authority,  "  in  defence  of 
the  Commonwealth  and  for  information1  of  the  People,9  and  continued 
for  ten  years.  What  wis  the  exact  amount  of  "  authojpty"  with  which 
this  publication  was  invested  it  is  now  difficult  to  determine:  ^  Wood 
expressly  says  it '«  came  out  by  authority,"  and  jro  entty  in  the  u  Jour- 
nals of  the  House  of  Commons"  amply  confirm*  him :— w  1659,  jVugust 
15  th.  Resolved :  that  Marchemont  Nedham,  gentleman,  be,  and  is, 
hereby  restored  to  be  writer  of  the  Publick  Intelligence,  as  formerly." 
This  would  also  seem  to  indicate  that  he  had,  fofc  a  time,  forfeited  the 
confidence  of  his  republic  employers. 

The  subsequent?  career  of  Nedham  is  a  mere  continuation  of  the  old 
►Story*  On  the' Restoration  he  was  dismissed  from  the  public  service  by 
'the  Council  of  £tate;  and  Giles  Duty  and  Henry  Muddiman  appointed 
to  his  post!  He  succeeded  in  effecting  his  escape  to  Holland,  "  con'- 
Scions,  says  k  Wood,  "  that  he  might  be  in  danger  of  the  halter ;"  but 
subsequently  he  procured  a  pardon  under  die  great  seal  by  means  of  a 
^bribe  "  givea  toh  hungry  codrtie*."  After  practising  for  some  time  as  a 
physician  in  London,  with  wdif&rent  success,  he  died  obscurely  in 
Devereux-court,  in  November,  1678. 

c     Contemporary  with  and  antagonistic  to  Nedham,  was  John  Birken- 
head, the  writer  of  the  Mercurius  Aulicus.    Born  about  the  year  1615, 
<  at  Northwieb,  in  Cheshire, .  and  educated  at  Oriel  College,  he  fell  under 
>the  notice  of  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  to  whom  he  ultimately 
-became  secretary,  and  fulfilled  his  office  so  much  to  the  archbishop  s 
'  satisfaction,  that  he  was,  in  1639,  created  Master  of  Arts  by  diploma, 
and,  in  1640,  chosen  probationer  fellow  of  All  Souls'  College.  *  During 
his  residence  at  Oxford,  Charles  I.  fixed  his  head-quarters  in  that  city, 
and  selected  Birkenhead  to  write  the  Mercurius  Aulicus  in  1642  (11th 
i  January),  which  he  continued  weekly  for  three  years.     This  publication 
"gaining  him  further  notice,  as  well  for  the  wit  and  talent  displayed  in  it 
as  on  account  of  its  principles,  he  was  made  reader  of  moral  philosophy 
^— a  post  from  which  he  was  removed,  in  1648,  by  the  Parliament  visitors. 
He,  however,  did  not  desist  from  issuing  satirical  papers,  although  fre- 
quently imprisoned  for  their  publication,  until  the  Restoration,  when  he 
transferred  his  talents  to  a  different  sphere — the  Senate — and  sat  in  the 
:  House  of  Commons  as  member  for  the  borough  of  Wilton ;  also  receiving 
the  degree  of  doctor  of  laws  from  the  university.     In  1642,  he  received 
the  honour  of  knighthood,  and,  in  1643,  the  more  lucrative  appointment 
of  master  of  requests,  with  a  salary  of  3000/.  a  year,  "  in  which  station," 
says  Anthony  &  Wood,  "  he  showed  the  baseness  of  his  spirit,  by  slight- 
ing those  who  had  been  his  benefactors  in  his  necessities."    He  died  in 


29%  The  History  of  ike  Newspaper  Press. 

Westminster,  December  4,  1679,  and  was  buried  at  St.  Martin's-in-the- 
Fields. 

Birkenhead  was  assisted  by  a  better  man  than  either  himself  or  Nedham 
— Peter  Heylin.  This  "  proud  priest"  was  born  at  Burford,  in  Oxford- 
shire'* (the  birthplace  of  Nedham),  on  November  29,  1599,  and  edu- 
cated at  Hart  Hall,  Oxford,  afterwards  procuring  a  fellowship  of  Mag- 
dalen. In  1628,  he  was  appointed  chaplain  in  ordinary  to  the  king, 
and,  in  1631,  obtained  a  prebend  of  Westminster.  In  1633,  he  took 
his  degree  of  doctor  of  divinity,  and  obtained  several  preferments;  but 
the  flood  of  the  republican  triumphs  washed  them  all  away :  his  goods 
were  confiscated,  his  livings  sequestrated,  and  himself  voted  a  delinquent 
In  this  strait  he  fled  to  Oxford,  where  he  was  prevailed  upon  by  the 
king  to  take  part  with  Birkenhead  in  the  writing  of  the  Mercurius  A& 
licus ;  but  his  talents  were  of  a  higher  order  than  this  style  of  writing 
required,  and  his  coadjutor's  papers  were  the  most  popular.  At  the 
Restoration,  he  seems  to  have  been  slighted,  only  getting  back  his  sub- 
deanery  of  Westminster,  in  which  city  he  died,  in  1662.  Heylin  was  un- 
questionably a  man  of  superior  abilities  to  most  of  the  "  Mercury*  writers, 
and  left  behind  him  works  of  a  very  different  class,  the  "  Cosmography," 
"  History  of  the  Reformation,"  "  History  of  the  Presbyterians,w  "  life 
of  Archbishop  Laud,"  &c. 

Bruno  Ryves,  the  author  of  the  original  Mercurius  Rusticus,  was  born 
in  Dorsetshire,  made  one  of  the  clerks  of  New  College  in  1610,  and,  in 
1616,  one  of  the  chaplains  of  Magdalen.  Preferments  crowded  on  him : 
he  became  vicar  of  Hanwell,  Middlesex,  rector  of  St.  Martin's-de-la- 
Vintry,  London,  chaplain  to  the  king;  and,  in  1639,  doctor  of  divinity. 
But  he  lost  his  fat  livings  when  the  civil  wars  broke  out,  and  entered  toe 
lists  against  the  Presbyterians,  a  needy  writer,  on  August  22,  1642, 
under  the  title  of  "  Mercurius  Rusticus ;  or,  the  Countrie's  Complaint, 
recounting  the  Sad  Events  of  this  lamentable  War."  The  Restoration 
again  changed  his  fortunes,  and  he  was  made  chaplain  in  ordinary  to  the 
king,  dean  of  Windsor,  rector  of  Acton,  in  Middlesex,  and  scribe  of  the 
most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  which  he  lived  to  enjoy  for  seventeen 
years,  dying  in  1677.  His  "  Mercury"  has  gone  through  four  editions,  the 
latest  of  which  was  published  in  1723. 

Ryves  had  an  antagonist  in  George  Wither,  who  conducted  his  attack 
on  the  principle  described  by  Dr.  Johnson.  Speaking  of  these  "  Mercuries,* 
the  doctor  says,  "  When  any  title  grew  popular,  it  was  stolen  by  the  an- 
tagonist, who,  by  this  stratagem,  conveyed  his  notions  to  those  who  would 
not  have  received  him  had  he  not  worn  the  appearance  of  a  friend."  Thus 
insidiously  did  Wither  smuggle  his  republican  rhymes  into  the  rival 
camp,  under  the  friendly  guise  of  Ryves' s  title,  and  brought  out,  in  1643, 
a  rhyming,  half-jesting  "  Mercury,"  called  Mercurius  Rusticus.  Wither 
was  born  at  Bentworth,  near  Alton,  in  Hampshire,  June  11,  1588,  sent 
to  Magdalen  College  in  1604,  and  afterwards  entered  at  Lincoln's  Inn; 
but  he  soon  courted  the  satiric  muse,  and  got  into  prison  for  his  first  dal- 
liance, the  "  Abuses  Whipt  and  Stript."  On  the  breaking  out  of  die 
civil  wars  he  sold  his  estates,  and  raised  a  troop  of  horse  for  the  Parka- 


*  Mr.  Knight  Hunt  says  at  Pentrie  Heylin,  in  Monmouthshire,  hut  this  is  a 
mistake.  Anthony  &  Wood  says  that  his  family  was  of  that  place,  but  that  he; 
was  born  at  Burford.    See  also  his  Life,  prefixed  to  Miscellaneous  Tracts. 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  293 

ment,  in  whose  cause  he  started  the  Mercurius  JRusttcus,  and  wrote 
numerous  lampoons  and  satires,  in  some  of  which  he  is  said  to  have  dis- 
played considerable  talent.  But  at  the  Restoration  he  was  arrested  for 
the  publication  of  a  "  scandalous  and  seditious  libel/9  and  imprisoned  in 
Newgate  and  the  Tower  for  three  years,  according  to  a  Wood,  and  three* 
quarters  of  a  year  according  to  Aubrey.  He  died  May  2,  1667,  and  was 
buried  in  the  church  of  the  Savoy,  Strand. 

John  Taylor,  the  water  poet,  essayed  his  hand  at  Mercury  writing,  and 
produced  the  Mercurius  Aquaticus.  This  eccentric  genius  was  born  at 
Gloucester,  in  1580,  and,  on  coming  to  London,  was  bound  apprentice  to 
a  waterman,  and  while  his  sculls  were  resting,  he  wrote  and  rhymed  a 
folio  yolume.  He  left  London  on  the  outbreak  of  the  rebellion,  and  be- 
took himself  to  Oxford,  where  he  opened  a  loyal  tavern  and  wrote  loyal 
songs,  but,  on  the  surrender  of  the  city,  he  came  back  to  London,  and 
opened  a  tavern  in  Westminster  with  the  sign  of  the  Mourning  Crown. 

A  gentle  hint  was,  however,  conveyed  to  him  that  this  sign  was  not 
very  palatable  to  his  parliamentary  neighbours,  and  he  substituted  for  it 
his  own  portrait,  with  the  inscription  beneath  it, 

There's  many  a  head  stands  for  a  sign; 
Then,  gentle  reader,  why  not  mine  P 

Poor  Taylor  did  not  live  to  see  the  reaction  that  brought  his  party 
again  into  favour,  nor  to  share  in  the  rewards  that  were  scattered  among 
them  at  the  Restoration,  but  died  at  Westminster  in  1654,  at  the  ripe 
old  age  of  seventy-four. 

John  Booker  was  the  author  of  Mercurius  Ccdicus  and  a  fair  pro- 
portion of  the  scampish  element  he  appears  to  have  had  in  his  composi- 
tion. He  was  born  at  Manchester,  in  1601,  and,  coming  to  London,  set 
up  as  a  writing-master  in  Hadley,  in  Middlesex,  and  then  practised  as  an 
astrologer,  fortune-teller,  and  resolver  of  abstruse  questions,'  till  by  dint 
of  cunning  and  servility  he  procured  the  office  of  licenser  of  mathematical 
books,  which,  however,  he  did  not  keep  long,  and  died  in  1667. 

Booker  was  opposed  by  George  Wharton,  a  native  of  Westmoreland, 
also  a  professor  of  astrology,  but  a  man  of  better  character — who  wrote 
the  "  Mercurio  Caelico  Mastix ;  or,  an  Anti-Caveat  to  all  such  as  have  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  cheated  and  deluded  by  that  great  and  treacherous 
impostor,  John  Booker/*'  This  was  a  mere  libel,  but  Wharton  was  also  a 
writer  of  political  "  Mercuries"  in  the  interest  of  the  Royalists,  in  whose 
cause  he  embarked  and  lost  his  patrimony ;  for  which,  at  the  Restoration, 
he  was,  according  to  Granger,  rewarded  with  a  baronetcy  and  the  post 
of  treasurer  of  the  ordnance.     He  died  in  1681. 

"  The  Spie  communicating  Intelligence  from  Oxford,"  which  was 
commenced  on  January  30,  1643-4,  was  written  by  Durant  Hotham,  of 
whom  we  know  no  more  than  that  he  was  a  son  of  Sir  John  Hotham. 

Such,  then,  were  some  of  the  worthies  who  wrote  the  "  Mercu- 
ries." Those  whose  lives  we  have  sketched  were  the  most  eminent,  and, 
with  all  their  faults  and  shortcomings,  the  most  respectable.  The 
lower  class  of  Mercury  writers  were  a  shameless  set  of  hireling  scribblers; 
ignorant,  unprincipled,  and  contemptible.  They  sold  their  pens  or  ex- 
torted bribes,  according  to  the  temper  of  the  party  they  attacked,  and 
lauded  a  man  up  to  the  skies  for  a  meal,  or  flung  him  under  the  feet  of 
the  mob  for  refusing  them  one.    Let  Mrs.  Hutchinson  bear  witness 


294  Z%*  Wetoryoftiie  Nexospnper\TrM. 

against  them.  «  Sir  John  GeH,  of  Derbyshire,"  say*  thiU  1*%^  m  her 
"  Memoirs  of  Colonel  Hutchinson,"  «  kept  the  diurnal -tnakers  in  pensio^f 
so  that,  whatever  was  done  in  the  neighbouring  counties  a&ankst  th*1 
enemy  was  attributed  to  him,  and  thus  he  hath  indirectly  purchased  hinW 
self  a  name  in  story  which  he  never  merited.  '■  Mr.  Htttcmfcteoo,  on  «& 
other  side,  that  did  well  for  virtue's  sake,  and  notfotf  the  vain*  glory  of 
it,  never  would  give  aniething  to  buy  the  flatteries  of  those*  scribbler^ 
and,  when  one  of  them  once,  while  he  was  in  towrie,  maSe  mention  tl 
something  done  at  Nottingham  with  falsehood,  and  bad' jgtteit  Getf  tfttf 
glory  of  an  action  in  which  he  wis  not  concerned,  Mr,  Hutchinson  Ire- 
buked  him  for  it ;  whereupon  the  man  begged  his  pardon,  and  told  hfeg 
he  would  write  as  much  for  him  the  next  weeke )  but  Mr.  -Htstehintoii 
told  him  he  scorned  his  mercenary  pen,  and  warned  him  hot  to-  dare  to 
be  in  any  of  his  concernements,  whereupon  the  fellow  was  «>wed,  and  hs 
had  no  more  abuse  of  that  kind."  £ 

Those  "Mercuries"  which  emanated  from  authority were  printed  in 
the  camps  of  the  respective  armies.  The  newspaper  press  had  l»cofl«l 
peripatetic,  and  sent  forth  its  intelligence  from  headquarters,  now  at 
Oxford,  and  next  week  at  Worcester.  Thus  King  Charles  'carrkil 
Robert  Barker,  as  his  news  printer,  up  as  far  as  Newcastle,  in  1639  i  and 
in  1652,  Christopher  Higgms  accompanied  Cromwell,  in  the  *ameca* 
parity,  to  Leith. 

There  appear  to  have  been  no  "  Mercuries"  of  more  frequent  appear* 
ance  than  thrice  a  week — certainly  none  of  daily  publication.  At  finty 
in  fact,  they  only  came  out  weekly ;  and  in  the  most  exciting'  part  of  tbs 
contest  there  were  only  a  few  which  were  circulated  oftener— twice  of 
thrice  a  week.  The  public  had  to  wait  a  month  even  for  some  of  them, 
a*,  r 

"  An  Exact  and  True  Collection  of  Weekly  Passages,  to  show  thl 
Error  of  the  Weekly  Pamphlets ;  by  Authority.  To  be  communicated 
from  month  to  month,  1646." 

"  The  True  Informer ;  or,  Monthly  Mercury.  Being  the  Certain 
Intelligence  of  *  Mercurius  Militarist    To  be  continued  monthly,  1648* 

"  The  Irish  Monthly  Mercury,  1650." 

It  was  during  all  the  confusion  of  this  great  intestine  strife,  when  one 
would  have  thought  that  enterprise  was  paralysed,  and  the  pages  of  the 
"  Mercuries"  fully  occupied  with  controversy  and  recrimination,  that  tht 
first  advertisement  appeared.  The  Quarterly  Review  (June,  1855) 
quotes  an  announcement  of  an  heroic  poem,  called  "  Irenodia  Gratola* 
toria,"  which  appeared  in  the  Mercurius  Politicus  of  January,  1652, 
as  the  oldest  of  the  great  family  of  advertisements,  and  gives  tne  credit 
to  the  booksellers  of  being  the  first  to  discover  the  use  of  the  newspaper 
for  this  purpose.  But  the  Quarterly  Reviewer  is  in  error.  Mr.  Nichols 
found  in  the  first  number  of  the  Impartial  Intelligencer  (March  1  to 
7,  1648)  an  advertisement  from  a  gentleman  at  Candish,  in  Suffolk, 
offering  a  reward  for  two  horses  that  had  been  stolen  from  him.  For 
ten  years  this  famous  anonymous  of  "  Candish,  in  Suffolk,"  found  but 
few  imitators,  and  those,  without  exception,  only  among  booksellers  sni 
vendors  of  quack  medicines ;  but,  in  1657,  Newcomb,  of  Thames-street, 
appears  to  have  awakened  to  the  possibility  of  these  advertisements  befog 
made  a  source  of  income  to  a  newspaper ;  and,  on  May  269  he  made  the 
experiment  with  the  Public  Advertiser  which  is  almost  entirely  filled 


TAam^yaf&e  Newsp^  295 

with  advefttisamfents.and  shipping* intelligence.  <  BmVbe  had  them  all  to 
himself,  and  -  the<  other  newspapers,  jogged  quietly  on  with  <  their  three  or 
lour  advertisements*  stuck  in  Ike -middle  of  the  sheet.  We  are  tempted 
to  draw  one  of  these]  hwdtat  ililtle  nolaees  from  its  hiding-place  in  the 
Mercuriu*  Fmicto  of rSeptembe»:30yl658  i  '  v  , 
1.  "  ThatȣxeeUent,  and  bf  all  Physicians  approved  China  Drink,  called 
\>y  ike  Ckimatts,  Tchay  hyothtir  Nations  Tap,  alias  Tee>  is  sold  at  the 
ilukantsji  Head  Cophee  House,  in  Sweeting's  Rents,  by  the  Royal 
Etehange,  XowAw*"?,       [.-,  •■!,  ■.•■:.  ^ ..-.:  •;*=  /  .»■    •••■>... 

The  otk^  advertisements  in  the  "  Mercuries^  are  of  books  published; 
apprentices,  servants*  or  blaok  boys  absconded;  or  4f  coaches  setting  out 
from  London,  oft  great  and  perilous  journeys,  into;  the  provinces. 
cj  The  first  illustrated  newspaper  was  aJaoraff  Mercury,''  die  Mercurius 
SXtiicus  ^Z^^e^^/^ftf/Z^^ocrwhieb  appeared  in  1643  ji  arid  contained 
a  variety  of  woodcuts.  No.  III.,  May  28,  in  repbrtingavote  of  Paris** 
xnent  relating  ^ /the  (queen,  fevours  the  jfablic  with  a  portrait  of  'her 

majesty.    ;;]    ^^\-\   :    )..j.   .,,»   •:.!''/       ,  ,ii>!-.;.      ;<!•...;■   -,      .Mj    ».    -. 

:.  We  havefwe;  think,  now:  said  all  that  has  to  be  said^more^erhap^ 
than  t^ey,;deserved^febcmt  rthese  wniarfaable  hebdonsadais,?  which  tbok 
Into  their  hands  fall  the  termer1  functions  of  the  newspaper,  and  assumed 
new  ones,  akd  yelll w«» xHfierant  foam  all  that  a  'newspaper  bad  been— 
comets  and  blazing  stars  in  the  political  firmament,  shooting  along  their 
eccentric  patjw  and  setting  the  woiid  6n]  fire*  And  yet  in  them  may  be 
flrsfc  reCogniseAitJhfel  arising  of  the  newspaper  press  into  a  political  power— 
the  old  "  new**  bookes"  haft  notf  meddled  with  politics,  but  were  content 
with  monsters  c  thettfMexcurm''  despised  gossip,  and  rode  upon  the 
whirlwind: of  party  strife.-  Many;  of  theni  did: gooff  service  to  their 
parties ;  and  tneir  parties,  when  in  the  ascendant,  did  good  service  to 
their  authors ;  and  ^liswere/thd  writers  of  newspapers  for  the  -  first  time 
jrecofimisediaiul  rewarded  by  gfcrreiiimentai     ; ;      *'  • //     » 

The  political  articles  of  the  most  respectable  of  them  were 'not  always 
in  the  best  tasted  th»  laechridnydf  feeling  which  existed  poisoned  the 
pens  of  the  autHoiB,  and  natural  deformities,  domestic  bereavements, 
private  afflictions,  were  freely  dragged 'forward  mid  caught  up  as  weapons 
if  offence,  when  the  passions  were*  up  and  argument  flung  aside.  Thus 
we  find,  in  the  Mercwius  Aulicus  ai  Birkenhead,  an  exulting  article 
on  the probability  i  of  Hampden's  wounds  proving  mortal,  and  declaring, 
as  its  author  had  often  before  declared^  that  his  home  troubles — the  Iosb 
of  two  or  three  daughters  successively— were  the  judgments  of  Heavea 
upon  his  political  sins. 

i  While  the  political  department  shared  in  the  fierce  and  angry  passions 
of  the  times,  the  articles  of  intelligence  partook  of  their  superstitious  and 
credulous  character,  and  much  of  the  news  contained  in  the  "  Mercuries" 
was  of  thfef  stamp  of  the  following : 

K-  "A  perfedt  Mermaid  was,  by  the  last  great  winde,  driven  ashore  nere 
Greenwich,  with  her  combe  in  one  hande  and  her  lookinge-glasse  in 
the  other.  She  seemed  to  be  of  the  countenance  of  a  most  faire  and 
beautiful  woman,  with  her  armes  crossed,  weeping  out  many  pearly  drops 
of  salt  tears ;  and  afterwards,  she,  gently  turning  herself  upon  her  back 
againe,  swamme  away  without  being  seen  any  more." 

This  choice  piece  of  news  we^copy  from  "  Mercurius  Democritua  j  or, 
a  Tme  and  Perfect  Nocturnal,''  No.  LXXX.,  Nov.  2y  1653. 


(    296    ) 


THE  COIWESSIONAL. 

FKOM  THE  "DAJSJBB.  OF  CHRISTIAN  W1NTHKR. 

By  Mbs.  Bubhbt. 

In  the  Magdalene  church  at  Girgenti*  preparations  had  been  made 
for  a  grand  festival.  It  was  adorned,  as  usual  on  such  occasions,  with 
red  tapestry  and  flowers.  The  hour  of  noon  had  struck,  the  workmen 
had  left  the  church,  and  there  reigned  around  that  deep,  solemn  stillness 
which,  in  Catholic  places  of  worship,  is  so  appropriate  and  so  imposing. 

Two  gentlemen,  who  conversed  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  were  pacing  up 
and  down  the  long  aisle  that  runs  along  the  northern  side  of  the  builcUDg, 
and  seemed  to  he  enjoying  the  shade  and  coolness  of  the  church,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  public  promenade.  The  elder  was  a  man  of  about  thirty  years 
of  age,  stout,  broad-shouldered,  and  strongly  built,  with  a  grave  counte- 
nance, in  which  no  trace  of  passion  was  visible  ;  this  was  Don  Antonio 
Carracciolio,  Marquis  d* Arena.  The  other,  who  seemed  a  mere  youth, 
had  a  slender,  graceful  figure,  an  animated,  handsome  face,  and  dark 
eyes,  soft  almost  as  those  of  a  woman — which  wandered  from  side  to  side 
with  approving  glances,  as  if  he  had  some  peculiar  interest  in  the  interior 
of  the  sacred  edifice.  And  such  he  certainly  had,  for  he  was  the  architect 
who  had  planned  the  church  and  superintended  its  erection.  He  was 
called  GiuHo  Balzetti,  and  had  only  lately  returned  from  Rome.  Suddenly 
they  stopped. 

"  I  shall  entrust  you  with  a  secret,  which  I  think  will  amuse  you, 
Signor  Marquis,"  said  the  younger  man,  in  the  easy  intimate  tones  in 
which  one  speaks  to  a  friend  at  whose  house  one  is  a  daily  visitor — "a 
secret  with  which,  I  believe,  no  one  is  acquainted  but  myself.  You  see 
the  effects  of  acoustics  sometimes  play  us  builders  strange  tricks  where 
we  least  expect  or  wish  them.  Chance,  a  mere  accident,  has  revealed  to 
me  that  when  one  stands  here — here  upon  this  white  marble  slab — one 
can  distinctly  overhear  every  syllable  even  of  the  lowest  whisper  uttered 
far  from  this,  yonder,  where  you  may  observe  the  second  last  confessional; 
while,  in  a  straight  line  between  this  point  and  that,  you  would  not  be 
sensible  of  any  sound,  were  you  even  much  nearer  the  place.  If  you  will 
remain  standing  here,  I  will  go  yonder  to  the  confessional  in  question,  and 
you  will  be  astonished  at  this  miracle  of  nature." 

He  went  accordingly,  but  scarcely  had  he  moved  the  distance  of  a 
couple  of  steps,  when  the  marquis  distinctly  heard  a  whisper,  the  subject  of 
which  seemed  to  make  a  strong  impression  upon  him.  He  stood  as  rigid 
and  marble-white  as  if  suddenly  turned  to  stone  by  some  magician's  wand; 
while  the  painfully  anxious  attention  with  which  he  listened,  and  which 
was  expressed  in  his  otherwise  stony  features,  gave  evidence  that  he  was 
hearing  something  of  excessive  importance.  He  did  not  move  a  muscle- 
he  scarcely  breathed — he  was  like  one  who  is  standing  on  the  extreme 
verge  of  an  abyss,  into  which  he  is  afraid  of  falling,  and  his  rolling  eyes 
andbeating  heart  alone  gave  signs  of  his  violent  agitation.   . 

In  a  very  few  minutes  the  young  architect  came  back  smiling,  and 

'  *Atown  of  Sicily,  in  the  Valdi  Maezara,  on  the  site  of  the  ancient  Agrigen- 
nm,  the  magnificent  ruins  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen. 


The  Confessional.  297 

called  out  from  a  little  distance,  "  I  could  not  manage  to  make  the  ex- 
periment, for  some  one  was  in  the  confessional — from  the  glimpse  I  gpt> 
a  lady  closely  veiled — but,  Heavens!  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

The  only  answer  which  the  marquis  gave  the  Italian  was  to  place  his 
finger  on  his  mouth,  and  he  continued  to  stand  motionless.  After  a 
minute  or  two  he  drew  a  deep  sigh.  The  statue  passed  out  of  its  speechr 
less  magic  trance,  and  returned  again  to  life. 

"  It  is  nothing,  dear  Giulio .!"  said  he,  in  a  friendly  tone.  "  Do  not 
think  that  I  am  superstitious;  but  I  assure  you  this  mysterious  and 
wonderful  natural  phenomenon  has  taken  me  so  much  by  surprise,  that  it 
has  had  a  strange  effect  on  me.  Come,  let  us  go !  J  shall  recover  my- 
self in  the  fresh  air,"  he  added,  as  he  took  Balzetti's  arm,  and  led  him  to 
the  promenade  on  the  outside  of  the  town.  The  two  gentlemen  walked 
up  and  down  there  for  about  an  hour,  when  the  marquis  bade  the  young 
man  adieu,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  '<  To-morrow,  after  the  festival  is 
over,  will  you  come  out  as  usual  to  our  villa  ?" 

At  a  very  early  hour  the  next  morning' the  marquis  entered  his  wife's 
private  suite  of  apartments.  The  waiting-maid,  who  just  at  that  moment 
was  coming  into  the  ante-room  by  another  door,  started,  and  .looked  quite 
astounded. 

"  Did  your  lady  ring?"  asked  the  marquis. 

"  No,  your  excellency  I"  replied  the  woman,  curtseying  low  and  colour- 
ing violently. 

"  Then  wait  till  you  are  called,"  said  the  marquis,  as  he  opened  the 
door  of  the  dressing-room  which  separated  the  sleeping-room  from  the 
ante-chamber. 

As  he  crossed  the  threshold  he  was  met  by  his  lovely  young  wife, 
attired  in  a  morning  gown  so  light  and  flowing,  that  it  looked  as  if  it 
must  have  been  the  one  in  which  she  had  arisen  from  her  couch.  The 
marquis  stopped  and  stood  still,  as  if  struck  with  his  wife's  extreme 
beauty.  He  did  not  appear  to  observe  the  uneasiness,  the  inward  tempest 
of  feelings  that,  chasing  all  the  blood  from  her  cheeks,  had  sent  it  to  her 
heart,  and  caused  its  beating  to  be  too  plainly  visible  under  the  robe  of 
alight  fabric  which  was  thrown  around  her. 

"  You  are  up  early  this  morning,  Antonio !"  said  the  young  marchioness, 
in  a  scarcely  audible  tone  of  voice,  with  a  deepening  blush  and  a  forced 
smile.     "  What  do  you  want  here  ?" 

"  Could  you  be  surprised,  my  Lauretta  ?  light  of  my  eyes !"  said  the 
marquis,  in  the  blandest  and  most  insinuating  of  accents,  "  could  you  be 
surprised  if  I  came  both  early  and  late  ?  And  yet,  dearest,  this  morning 
my  visit  is  not  to  you  alone.  You  know  to-day  is  the  feast  of  the  Holy 
Magdalene,  and  a  great  festival  in  the  Church.  I  have  taken  it  into  my 
head  to  usher  in  this  day  by  paying  my  tribute  of  admiration  to  the 
glorious  Magdalene  of  Titian,  which  you  had  placed  in  your  own  sleeping- 
apartment.  Will  you  permit  me?"  he  asked,  very  politely,  as  with  slow 
steps,  but  in  a  determined  manner,  he  walked  towards  the  door. 

"  Everything  is  really  in  such  sad  disorder  there,"  said  his  young  wife, 
with  a  rapid  glance  through  the  half-open  door;  "  but  ....  go,  since 
you  wilL     I  shall  begin  making  my  toilette  here  in  the  mean  time." 
And  he  went  in. 

"  How  charming,"  he  cried,  in  a  peculiar  tone  of  voice—"  how  charm- 
ing is  no  t  all  this  disorder  J    This  graceful  robe  thrown  carelessly  down 


.fiftg  The  GmfidwnSl. 

—these  fairy  slippers !  There  is  something  that  awakens  the  'fenoyy  some* 
thing  delicious  in  the  very  air  of  this  room !   All  this  is  absolutely  poetry^ 

His  searching  look  fastened  itself  upon  the  snow- white  coudb,  the 
silken  coverlet  of  which  was  drawn  up  and  spread  out,  but  could  nil 
entirely  conceal  the  outline  of  a  human  figure,  lying  at  fla*  as  possible, 
evidently  in  the  endeavour  to  escape  observation.  : "  *    ■*,«,i: 

"  I  will  sit  down  a  while,1'  said  the  marquis,  in  the  cheerful  voice  of  a 
person  who  has  no  unpleasant  thought  in  his  mind,  «*  and  etfltotaaplate 
this  masterwork."  ^  ^         #  ■■  *  J'1    'l';  ■  h/,r 

As  he  said  this  he  took  up  a  pillow,  its  white  covering  trimmed  wJtik 
wide  lace,  and  laid  it  on  the  spot  where  he  thought  the  face  of  the  eofti 
cealed  person  must  be,  and  placed  himself  upon  it  with  all  the  Weight  of 
his  somewhat  bulky  figure,  whilst  he  placed  his  right  hand  upon  the  chest 
of  the  reclining  form,  and  pressed  on  it  with  all  his  force.  ' 

Without  heeding  the  involuntary,  frightful,  and  convulsive  heavings-^ 
the  death-throes  of  his  wretched  victim — the  marquis  exclaimed,  m  a 
calm,  firm  voice, 

"  How  beautifully  that  picture  is  finished !  How  noble  and  chaste  does 
not  the  lovely  penitent  look,  all  sinner  as  she  was,  with  her  rich  golden 
locks  waving  over  that  neck  and  those  shoulders  whiter  than  alabaster, 
while  these  graceful  hands  are  clasped,  and  these  contrite,  tearful  eyes 
Beem  gazing  up  yonder,  whence  alone  mercy  and  pardon  can  be  obtained! 
One  could  almost  become  a  poet  in  gazing  on  so  splendid  a  work  of  art. 
But  ah !  I  never  had  the  happy  talent  of  an  improvisators  In  place, 
therefore,  of  poetising,  I  will  tell  you  something  that  happened  yesterday. 
Our  little  friend  Giulio  Balzetti  took  me  round  the  Magdalene  church, 
and  whilst  we  were  wandering  about  he  pointed  out  a  particular  spot  to 
me,  and  bid  me  stand  quite  still  there,  telling  me  that  there  might  be 
overheard  what  was  said  at  another  spot  at  some  distance  in  the  church. 
And  he  was  right.  At  that  other  place  stood  the  confessional  No.  6.  I 
had  hardly  placed  myself  on  the  marble  flag  indicated  to  me,  than  I 
heard  a  charming  voice — God  knows  who  it  was  speaking — but  she  was 
confessing  the  sorrows  of  her  heart  and  her  little  sins  to  the  holy  father. 
She  had  a  husband,  she  said,  whom  she  loved — -yes,  she  loved  him,  and 
he  loved  her:  he  was  very  kind  to  her,  and  left  her  much  at  liberty;  in 
short,  she  gave  the  husband  credit  for  all  sorts  of  good  qualities,  but,  un- 
fortunately, she  had  fallen  in  love  with  another  man!  She  did  not 
mention  his  name.  I  should  like  to  have  heard  it.  He  must  be  one  of 
our  handsome  young  cavaliers  about  the  town.  And  this  other  loved  her 
too — she  could  not  help  it,  poor  thing — and  so  she  found  room  for  him  ia 
her  heart  as  well  as  for  the  husband.  This  other  one  was  so  handsome, 
so  pleasing,  so  fascinating !  .  .  .  .  Well  ....  if  her  husband  did  not 
know  what  was  going  on  he  could  not  be  vexed,  and  .  .  .  .  it  would  do 
him  no  harm.  So  she  had  promised  to  admit  the  lover  early  this  mom* 
ing.  Do  you  hear?  This  is  what  the  French  dames  call  c  passer  ses 
caprices/  At  last  she  begged  the  good  priest  to  give  her  absolution 
beforehand.  And  he  did  so:  he  gave  the  absolution!  What  do  you 
think  of  all  this,  my  love  ?"  said  the  marquis,  as  he  rose  from  the  coach, 
where  all  was  now  still  as  death.  "Well,"  he  continued,  in  ajocultf 
tone,  "  our  worthy  priests  are  almost  tqp  complaisant  and  indulgent— at 
least,  most  of  them.  Our  old  Father  Gregorio,  however,  would  have 
taken  you  to  task  after  a  different  fashion,  if  you  •  »  •  •*  He  broke  off 
abruptly,  while  he  quietly  laid  the  pillow  in  its  own  place  and  dehberaWy 


The  Confessional  *  290 

turned  down  the  embroidered  coverlet.     It  was  the  architect  GiuKo 
Balzetti  whom  the  marquis  beheld :  he  had  ceased  to  breathe ! 

.  "  Have  you  been  to  confession  lately,  my  Laura  ?"  asked  the  marquis. 
There  was  no  answer. 

"  Is  it  long  since,  you  have  been  to  confession  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  louder 
and  sterner  voice. 

"  No !"  replied  the  young  woman,  in  the  lowest  possible  tone. 

"Apropos,"  said  the  marquis,  as  he  covered  the  frightfully  distorted 
and  blue  face  of  the  corpse  with  the  coverlet,  "  shall  we  not  go  to  the 
grand  festival  at  the  church  to-day  ?  The  procession  begins  exactly  at 
twelve  o'clock.     I  shall  order  the  carriage— We  really  must  not  miss  it/' 

He  returned  to  the  dressing-room.  The  marchioness  was  sitting  in 
a  large  cushioned  lounging-chair,  the  thick  tresses  of  her  dark  hair 
hanging  negligently  down,  her  lips  and  cheeks  as  pale  as  death,  and  her 
hands  resting  listlessly  on  her  lap. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  child  ?"  asked  the  marquis,  inwardly 
triumphing  at  her  distress,  but  with  fair  and  friendly  words  upon  his  lips. 
"  You  have  risen  too  early,  my  little  Laura  ;  and  you  have  also  fatigued 
yourself  in  trying  to  dress  without  assistance.  Where  is  Pipetta  ?  I  shall 
ring  for  her  now."  He  pulled  the  bell-rope — approached  his  wife— 
slightly  kissed  her  brow — and  then  left  her  apartments. 
*  At  mid-day,  when  all  the  bells  of  the  churches  were  pealing,  the  mar- 
quis's splendid  state  carriage,  with  four  horses  adorned  with  gilded 
trappings,  stood  before  the  gate  of  his  palace,  and  a  crowd  of  richly- 
dressed  pages,  footmen,  and  grooms,  were  in  waiting  there.  Presently 
the  marquis  appeared  in  his  brilliant  court  costume,  with  glittering  stars 
on  his  breast,  his  hat  in  one  hand,  whilst  with  the  other  he  led  his  young 
and  beautiful  but  deadly  pale  wife.  With  the  utmost  attention  he 
handed  her  down  the  marble  steps,  and  while  her  countenance  looked  as 
cold  and  stony  as  that  of  a  statue,  his  eyes  flashed  with  a  fire  that  was 
unusual  to  them.  The  servants  hurried  forwards,  the  carriage-door  was 
opened,  the  noble  pair  entered  it,  and  it  drove  off  towards  the  town.  In 
the  crowded  streets  the  foot  passengers  turned  round  to  gaze  at  it,  and 
exclaimed  to  each  other,  "  There  go  a  happy  couple  !" 

The  architect  had  disappeared.  No  one  suspected  that  on  the  day  of 
the  grand  festival  he  lay  dead — a  blue  and  terrible-looking  corpse — 
amidst  boots  and  shoes,  at  the  bottom  of  a  noble  young  dame's  wardrobe  ; 
or  that,  the  following  night,  without  shroud  or  coffin,  his  body  was  secretly 
transported  by  the  lady's  faithful  servants  to  a  neighbouring  mountain, 
and  there  thrown  into  a  deep  cave.  But  the  lady  paid  a  large  sum  to  the 
convent  of  the  Magdalenes  for  the  sake  of  his  soul's  repose. 

The  monk  Gregorio — the  accommodating  and  favourite  confessor  of 
the  fashionable  world — was  also  soon  after  missing.  But  he  was  not 
dead — he  lingered  for  some  years  in  a  subterranean  prison  belonging  to 
a  monastery  of  one  of  the  strictest  orders :  a  punishment  to  which  he  had 
been  condemned  through  the  influence  of  the  Marquis  d' Arena. 

That  the  confessional  No.  6  was  removed,  will  be  easily  believed. 

The  marquis  never  alluded  to  these  events  before  his  wife.  When 
they  appeared  in  public  together,  as  also  in  society  at  his  own  home,  he 
treated  her  with  respect,  often  with  attention.  But  he  never  again  spoke 
to  her  in  private,  nor  did  he  ever  again  enter  those  apartments  which  had 
once  been  the  scene  of  so  dreadful  a  tragedy* 

July — vol.  cvik  wo.  ccccxxvn.  x 


(     300    ) 


38allata  from  Snglfefi  f^t'stors. 


BY  JAMES  PATN. 

V.-THE  BLACK  PBINCE. 

With  the  exception  of  the  almost  mythic  King  Arthur,  there  is  no  name  in 
the  history  of  our  country  which  teems  more  spotless  and  chivalrous  than  that 
of  Edward  the  Black  Prince.  From  the  age  of  sixteen,  at  which  he  won  his 
spurs  at  Crecy,  until  his  long  career  of  victory  was  dosed,  he  seems  to  have  had 
no  rival  in  knightly  achievements  :  his  talents  as  a  commander,  displayed  in 
almost  every  instance  against  superior  numbers,  were  proved  in  a.  hundred  ttdif 
and  his  humanity  after  conquest,  save  for  its  single  stain  in  the  sack  of  Limoges, 
when  the  agony  of  disease  scarce  left  him  master  of  himself,  had  no  example  in 
the  times  he  lived  in. 

His  care  for  the  common  people,  so  unusual  in  a  person  of  his  character  and 
condition,  and  foreign  to  that  barbarous  age,  rendered  him  the  idol  of  the  nation; 
and  the  remembrance  of  him,  when  he  had  sunk  in  prime  of  manhood  into  the 
tomb,  cast  a  halo  round  his  unworthy  son,  which  years  of  misgovernment  could 
scarcely  dim.  So  entirely,  indeed,  had  all  men  looked  to  him,  that  a  contemporary 
writer  says,  "  the  glory  of  his  country  seemed  to  wane  as  he  languished,  and  ex- 
pire at  his  death,"  and  that  "  with  him  died  the  hopes  of  Englishmen." 

His  body  was  interred  at  Canterbury,  the  whole  Court  and  Parliament  attend- 
ing, "  and  such  a  concourse  of  mourning  people  as  was  never  before  seen." 


In  the  summer  of  his  manhood, 

In  the  summer  of  the  year, 
They  buried  great  Prince  Edward, 

Oar  Prmce  that  knew  not  fear. 
And  Parliament  and  people, 

The  King,  the  nobles, — all, 
From  him  who  led  his  war-charger 

To  him  who  bare  his  pall, — 
From  the  mitred  priest  in  abbey 

To  meanest  serving  knave, 
They  knew  that  they  were  laying 

T&eir  glorv  in  its  wave ! 
The  fastest  friend  to  England, 

The  fiercest  foe  to  France, 
The  kindest  heart  in  Christendom, 

And  the  most  gallant  lance ! 

On  the  purple  field  of  Crecy 

His  father  well  foretold, — 
"My   boy    shall   win  his    spurs  to- 
day, 

His  knightly  spurs  of  gold : 
Nor  will  I  send  him  succours, 

Unless  perchance  he  bleed, 
Nor  single  knight,  nor  man-at-arms, 

To  rob  him  of  his  meed." 
And  well  did  he  take  his  motto 

That  day  from  the  blind  king, 


"Who  rode  with  knitted  bridle, 
And  died  in  battle-ring : 

For  he  served  while  life  was  in  him 
His  fatherland  alway, 

And  earned  that  sceptre  royally 
He  was  not  doom'd  to  sway. 

"  Save,  Cardinal !  my  honour, 

The  honour  of  my  men, 
And  John  shall  hold  for  kingdom 

All  Prance,  save  Aquitaine. 
But  never  shall  my  country 

Her  ransom  pay  for  me ; 
Though,  pardie,  we  are  sharply  set, 

And  half  a  man  to  three !" 
On  Poitiers'  plain  he  spake  it, 

And  all  that  great  array, — 
John's    threescore    thousand 
points, — 

Bear  down  on  him  next  day. 
As  the  silver-crested  billows 

On  the  sea-surrounded  rock, 
So  surge  their  levelled  lances, 

So  break  they  ere  the  shock; 
And  so  on  that  plain  of  Poitiers 

Their  shattered  squadrons  roam, 
As  flies  from  the  broken  wave-top 

O'er  ocean  broad  the  foam : 


The  Black  Prince. 


301 


For  fair  shoot  the  Lincoln  bowmen, 

Through  corslet  and  through  helm; 
And  their  grey-goose  shafts  are  hidden 

In  the  noblest  of  the  realm : 
In  the  hearts'  blood  of  the  Marshalls 

Abides  the  bitter  gjuest, 
And  down  goes  the  silken  banner, 

And  down  the  silver  crest. 
So  thick  was  the  serried  order, 

Nor  turn  nor  yet  advance, 
Along  that  death-choked  causeway, 

Might  the  doom'd  knights  of  Trance! 
And  w'St.  George  for  merry  England !" 

Is  sounded  on  their  rear, 
And  He  of  the  sable  armour 

Is  upon  them  with  the  spear ! 
As  in  that  Poitiers  melee 

No  knight  could  dare  his  course, 
But  straightway  turn'd  his  bridle, 

Or  went  down,  man  and  horse. 
So  when  the  strife  was  over, 

No  victor  of  a  field 
But  unto  fair  Prince  Edward 

In  courtesy  might  yield. 
And  when  King  John  was  taken, 

He  waited  by  his  chair, 
"For  you,"  quoth  he,  "  are  monarch, 

Ana  I  am  out  the  heir. 
And  had  all  Prance  but  foughten 

As  fought  her  king  this  day, 
'Tisyou,  Sire,  had  been  host  to  me, 

Who  now  your  will  obey." 
When  home  he  brought  his  foeman, 

The  Prince  did  palfrey  ride, 
As  page  about  his  master, 

The  monarch's  barb  beside— 
He  was  our  second  captive  king, 

Those  were  our  days  of  pride ! 


Again  the  trumpet  sounded — 

And  sounding,  far  or  near, 
Was  found  our  Prince  in  harness, 

Was  couched  his  ready  spear. — 
And  now  doth  the  red-cross  banner 

Wave  to  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  the  hoofs  of  his  sable  war-horse 

Print  the  white  Pyrenees  ; 
And  athwart  that  fatal  valley, 

Where  lay  the  heaps,  of  slain 
In  the  good  old  times  of  Charlemagne, 

He  swoops  on  fertile  Spain; 
And  the  knights  of  fair  Najara, 

And  the  slungers  of  Castile, 
Or  flee  the  coal-black  scabbard, 

Before  the  brand  they  feel, 
Or  stand  like  the  corn  in  autumn, 

And  so  give  ghastly  room 
Where  whirls  the  shining  sword-blade 

Above  that  raven  plume ! 
'Twas  there  he  heard  his  death-doom, 

In  Spain  his  strength  was  bow*d ; 
And  him  whom  Battle  shrunk  from, 

Disease  bore  down  to  shroud ; 
Though  ever  was  moved  his  litter 

From  leaguer' d  wall  to  wall, 
And  sick  unto  death  he  gladdened 

Yet  with  a  standard's  fall : 
For  unto  the  end  he  conquered, 

His  people  buried  him, 
As  one  whose  noontide  glory 

No  cloud  was  seen  to  dim ; 
The   Prince  that  was  loved  of  all 
men, 

The  Prince  who  knew  not  fear,— 
In  the  summer  of  his  manhood, 

In  the  summer  of  the  year ! 


x2 


(     302     ) 


REVELATIONS  OF  THE  WAR.*      '      -. 

The  facts  that  have  come  to  light,  since  the  Allies  bave  had  free  inter- 
course with  the  Russians  iu  the  Crimea,  have  tended  to  show  that  all  the 
faults  committed  during  the  late  war  were  nbt  with  the  Commissariat; 
it  appears  also  that  grave  military  errors  are  to  be  laid  at  the  doors  of 
those  in  command.  Nothing  has  been  more  clearly  established— 4f  a 
multitude  of  testimony  is  of  any  worth — than  that  Sebastopol  and 'the 
Crimea  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  conquerors  of  Alma  had  they  known 
how  to  profit  by. that  glonous  victory.  It  is  even  said  that  had  fife  been 
spared  to  Marshal  St.  Arnaud,  the  legitimate  results  of  that  hard-fought 
battle  would  have  been  obtained ;  but  this  is  more  than  open  to  donbt, 
for  St.  Arnaud  lived  to  concur  in  the  once  much-extolled  flank  move- 
ment. Military  men  are  on  the  tiptoe  of.  expectation  for  a  recognised 
Russian  account  of  the  campaign.  Meantime,  revelations  of  a  Very  in- 
teresting character  have  made  their  appearance  in  the  French  authen- 
ticated history  of  the  campaign,  edited  by  the  Baron  de  Bazaneourt,  a 
non-combatant,  wno  was  present  throughout  as  chtirge  de  rrHsstott)  in 
other  words,  as  the  French  historian  of  the  war. 

The  late  war  has  this  peculiarity,  that,  although  the  climax  of  a  per- 
sistent system  of  aggression,  its  origin  was  involved  in  as  much  obscurity 
as  its  progress  was  in  blundering  and  incompetency-.  M.  de  feazancoart, 
like  a  true  historian,  goes  back  to  the  beginning  of  things,  When  for  ages 
pasi*  that  is  to  say,  ever  since  the  schism  between  the  Greek  and  the 
Roman  Churches,  the  two  Jiave]been  disputing  their  privileges  at  the 
sanctuaries  of  Palestine,  It  is  acknowledged,  however,  that  the  Latins 
neyer  possessed  any  real  rights  till  the  treaty  of  1740.  Since  then  times 
have  changed,  and  the  Latins  possess  more  real  power  in  Palestine  than 
the  Greeks.  General  Aupick,  and  after  him  the  Marquis1  dfe(La valette, 
insisted  upon  the  privileges  of  the  latter  being  curtailed.  '  Nicholas  took 
up  the  part  of  his  ico-religionariest  England  intervened'  solely  in'  the 
cause  of  conciliation.  Russia  marched  her  troopd1  "into  Bessarabia;  and 
Prince  Menchikoff  was  sent  to  Constantinople.  The  political  then  took 
the  place  of  the  religious  question.  "  Lord  Stratford  de  Redclrffe,M  M.  <ie 
Bazaneourt  telb'  us,  "  had  just  arrived  in  Constantinople.  The  aew 
French  ambassador  made  his  appearance  a  few  days  later.  ' l  Lord  Red- 
cliffe  made  himself  master  of  the  position  at  once,  and  clearly  determined 
its  bearings :  he  made  the  Divan  understand  that  the  question  of  the 
Holy  Places  must  he  separated  from  the  new  and  tacit  proposals  made  by 
Russia." 

Still  England  hesitated  to  believe  in  the  threatening  attitude  of  Russia, 
and  it  required  the  actual  invasion  of  the  Principalities,  and  the  disaster 
of  Sinope,  to  convince  the  government  of  the  time.  The  convention 
between  England  and  France,  of  the  10th  of  April,  1854,  was  followed 
up  by  the  departure  of  French  and  English  troops  for  the  East,  and  the 


*  L'Exp^dition  de  Crimee  jusqu'a  la  prise  de  Sebastopol.  Chroniquea  dela 
Guerre  d'Qrient  Par  le  Baron  de  JBazaneonrt,  Charge^  de  Mission  en  Crimee  par 
S.  £.  le Ministre  de  ^Instruction Publigue.    FrennWet  Deuxieme  Forties.' 


Revelationgjfthp  War.  303 

bombardment  of  Odessa  on  the  22nd  of  April.  Whilst  the  English  and 
French  troops  remained  at  Gallipoli  and  in  the  Bosphorus,  a  real  cam- 
paign was  being  fought  by  the  Turks  and  Russians  on  the  banks  of  the 
Danube,  The  Allies 'aWived'  at  Varna  too  late  to  be  of  any  use.  At  the 
news  of  their  adyepti  $je  Russians  judged  it  prudent  to  raise  the  siege  of 
Silistria,  ;  "  JV  Russians  rob  me  by  their  retreat!*'  exclaimed  Saint 
Arnaud,  ia  a  tone  of  the  deepest  vexation  of  spirit.  The  marshal,  M.  de 
Bazancouit  assures  us,  was  thunderstruck  at  the  news,  which  upset  afl 
his  plan?  of  campaign.  '         I 

The  expedition^)  the  Crimea  was  now  resolved  upon,  in  consequence1, 
pur  historian  says,  of  a  despatch  received  by  Lord  Raglan,  which  recom- 
mended an  attack  to  be  made  upon  Sebastopol.  Saint  Arnaud,  to  judge 
by  a  letter  written  to  the  Minister  of  War,  never  contemplated  takirig 
Sebastopol  by  a  coup  de  main.  "To  besiege  Sebastopol,"  he  writes,  u  is 
a  whole  campaign;  it  is  not  a  coup  de  main;  it  requires  enormous 
means,  and  a  certainty  of  success." 

Eupatoria  surrendered  to  Colonels  Trochu  and  Steel,  and  "Ia  popula- 
tion Tartare  accueillit  les  Fran9ais  avec  de  grandes  demonstrations  de 
sympathie."  The  signal  was  given  for  a  descent  at  Old  Fort,  by  the 
Ville  de  Paris.  "  A  long-boat  (no  doubt  ready  for  the  signal)  "  started 
in  all  haste  for  the  shore,  having  General  Canrobert  and  Vice- Admiral 
Bonet  Willaumez  on  board ;  the  seamen  laid  to  their  oars,  and  the  pro- 
gress of  the  boat  was  like  the  flight  of  a  bird.  At  thirty  minutes  past 
eight  the  French  flag  waved  on  the  Crimean  soil,  planted  by  the  hands 
of  General  Canrobert."  The  English  and  French  navy  disembarked  a 
total  of  61,200  men  on  the  hostile  shore.  It  is  curious  that  De  Bazan- 
court  estimates  the  number  of  the  French  and  of  the  English  as  being 
precisely  the  same,  viz.,  27,600  men ;  the  Turks  numbered  6000.  The 
French,  however,  had  72  guns ;  the  English  only  65. 

A  detachment  of  Spahis,  under  St.  Moleno,  seized  the  first  military 
post  of  the  Russians.  The  English  only  delayed  the  progress  forward. 
At  length  a  movement  was  effected.  The  Buljanak  was  crossed,  with 
only  a  slight  demonstration  on  the  part  of  the  Russians.  Menchikoff 
awaited  the  onslaught  of  the  invaders  in  the  strong  position  above  the 
Alma,  which  he  occupied  with  42  battalions,  16  squadrons,  and  84  guns. 
And  now  occurs  the  first  stigma  upon  our  military  promptness  and 
efficiency,  which  it  is  painful  to  see  recorded  in  what  professes  to  be  an 
authentic  history  of  the  war : 

In  the  evening  the  marshal  (St.  Arnaud)  sent  Colonel  Trochu  to  the  English 
camp,  to  communicate  to  the  chief  in  command  the  plan  of  battle,  and  inform 
him  as  to  the  hour  at  which  the  troops  would  march,  so  as  to  come  to  an 
understanding,  in  case  he  should  deem  it  necessary  to  suggest  any  modifica- 
tions. 

The  colonel  accordingly"  rode  over  to  the  head-quarters  of  Lord  Raglan, 
accompanied  by  General  Kose,  an  English  field-officer  attached  to  the  person  of 
the  marshal.  Lord  Raglan  accepted  the  details  of  the  plan  proposed  to  him  in 
their  entirety,  as  well  as  the  time  of  departure ;  and  it  was  agreed  that  Prince 
Napoleon  and  General  Canrobert  should  come  to  an  understanding  with  the 
English  generals,  so  that  they  should  operate  simultaneously. 

After  some  details  concerning  the  strength  of  the  Russian  army,  de* 
rived  from  the  Invalide  Russe,  M.  de  Bazancourt  goes  on  to  say: 


304  Herniations  of  the  War. 

At  half-past  five  the  2nd  division  left  its  bivouac,  and  commenced  its  match 
at  about  a  kilometre  (1000  French  yards)  from  the  shore,  and  parallel  to  it, 
advancing  upon  the  heights  of  Alma.  At  half-past  six  it  was  seen  massing 
itself  in  the  plain ;  ana  yet  no  movement  showed  itself  on  the  part  of  the 
English  army.  General  Canrobert,  astonished  at  this  dilatoriness  of  the  troops, 
so  opposed  to  the  instructions  communicated  the  previous  evening,  hastened  to 
Prince  Napoleon,  and  both  rode  away  in  all  haste  to  the  division  of  Sir  de  Lacy 


They  found  the  English  eeneral  in  his  tent.  When  Prince  Napoleon  and 
General  Canrobert  expressed  their  surprise  at  a  delay  which  might  seriously 
compromise  the  success  of  the  day, 

"I  have  received  no  orders,"  replied  Sir  de  Lacy  Evans. 

There  was,  manifestly,  some  misunderstanding.  Before  the  difficulty  could 
be  unravelled,  the  most  pressing  business  was  to  arrest  the  march  of  Bosquef s 
division,  who,  operating  his  movement  without  support,  might  be  crushed. 

General  Canrobert  repaired,  without  losing  a  moment,  to  the  marshal,  who 
was  already  on  horseback,  and  had  left  his  bivouac  placed  in  rear  of  the  lines. 
As  soon  as  he  was  informed  of  what  was  going  on,  he  despatched  a  staff-officer, 
Commandant  Benson,  in  all  haste  to  General  Bosquet,  to  tell  him  to  stop  and 
await  the  English  troops,  who  were  delaved. 

At  the  same  time  Colonel  Trochu  galloped  off  to  the  English  head-guarters. 
It  was  then  seven  o'clock.  But  however  much  the  colonel  pushed  his  horse, 
there  were  two  leagues  of  difficult  ground,  covered  with  the  bivouacs  of  the 
troops,  to  get  over,  and  he  could  not  effect  it  in  less  than  half  an  hoot.  The 
English  troops,  among  whom  the  marshal's  aide-de-camp  had  to  make  his  way, 
were  still  in  their  bivouacs,  and  in  no  way  ready  for  the  movement  agreed 
upon. 

Lord  Raglan  himself,  howeverx  was  on  horseback  when  Colonel  Trochu 
reached  head-quarters. 

"My  lord/'  said  the  latter,  "  the  marshal  thought  after  what  you  did  me  the 
honour  to  intimate  last  night,  that  your  troops,  forming  the  left  wing  of  the  line 
of  battle,  would  have  been  on  foot  by  six  o'clock." 

"J  am  giving  the  orders  to  march,"  replied  Lord  Baglan;  "everything  is  in 
readiness,  and  we  shall  move  forward,  rart  of  the  troops  did  not  get  into 
bivouac  until  late  in  the  night." 

"En grace,  milord,"  added  the  colonel;  "make  haste,  every  minute's  delay 
deprives  us  of  a  chance  of  success." 

"Go  and  tell  the  marshal,"  answered  Lord  Raglan,  « that  the  orders  to  ad- 
vance are  given  to  the  whole  line." 

It  was  half-past  ten  when  Colonel  Trochu  announced  that  the  TSngKtji  were 
ready  to  start.  But  all  these  unforeseen  delays,  and  the  indecision  which 
necessarily  resulted  from  them,  no  longer  permitted  the  plan  of  battle,  as  it  had 
been  originally  projected,  being  carriea  into  execution. 

The  Russian  army,  instead  of  being  surprised  by  a  rapid  manoeuvre,  as  it 
should  have  been,  had  plenty  of  time  to  take  all  its  dispositions,  as  it  watched 
from  the  heights  above  the  movements  of  our  army,  which  advanced  in  perfect 
oxder  in  the  midst  of  an  immense  plain*  Seeing  thus  that  the  offensive  move- 
ment of  General  Bosquet  was  only  a  secondary  attack,  and  that  the  principal 
effort  would  be  made  Dy  the  centre  and  the  left  of  the  Allied  army,  where  the 
whole  English  army  was  massed,  General  Menchikon;  confiding  in  the  escarp- 
ments that  protected  his  position,  weakened  his  left  wing  in  oraertaatrengthea 
his  centre  and  his  right. 

The  account  given  by  "  a  General  Officer,"  in  his  pamphlet  *  On  the 
Conduct  of  the  War  in  the  East,*  does  not  agree  with  the  details  com- 
municated by  M.  de  Bazancourt.  "  On  the  morning  of  the  20th,  the 
health  of  the  marshal,"  he  relates,  "  became  evidently  worse.  He  ex- 
perienced considerable  difficulty  in  rising  from  hk  camp-bed,  aad  it  was 


Revelations  of  the  War.  30tf 

utterly  impossible  for  him  to  superintend  the  dispositions  for  the  attack, 
which  were  definitively  settled  between  Lord  Raglan  and  General  de 
Martinprez,  in  the  presence  of  the  invalid,  who  gave  his  assent  by  signs." 

Lord  Raglan  would  have  been  no  party  to  an  agreement  which  he 
would  afterwards  have  been  the  first  to  disregard.  A  commonly  received 
version  of  Lord  Raglan's  dilatoriness  is,  that  the  English  commander  had 
pre-arranged  that  General  Bosquet's  diversion  on  the  extreme  right, 
backed  by  the  steamers,  should  precede  the  general  attack ;  as  indeed,  if 
it  was  meant  as  a  feint,  it  seems  proper  that  it  should  have  done.  Ad* 
mitting,  however,  that  a  delay  did  occur,  little  in  accordance  with  the 
**  febrile  irritation "  of  the  French  marshal,  it  is  something  to  see  it 
acknowledged  that  the  main  attack  at  Alma  lay  with  the  centre  and  ex- 
treme left,  where  the  English  were ;  for  it  has  been  the  fashion  with 
many  to  ascribe  the  glory  of  the  day  to  the  action  of  the  right  solely. 
The  anonymous  general  officer,  for  example,  before  quoted,  says :  "  The 
Russians,  threatened  in  front  by  the  Napoleon  division  and  a  brigade  of 
the  Forey  division,  in  flank  by  the  divisions  of  Bosquet  and  Canrobert, 
felt  a  hesitation,  which  decided  the  day." 

There  is  nothing  in  De  Bazancourt's  account  of  the  proceedings  that 
followed  upon  the  battle  of  Alma  which  intimates  the  intention  sub- 
sequently lent  to  Marshal  St.  Arnaud,  to  have  marched,  had  he  lived,  on 
Sebastopol.  On  the  contrary,  the  marshal's  published  correspondence, 
and  his  journal,  quoted  by  the  historian,  show  that  the  preparations  to 
prevent  a  landing,  made  at  the  mouth  of  the  Katcha,  and  the  closing  of 
the  port  of  Sebastopol,  by  the  Russians  sinking  seven  men-of-war,  were 
the  incidents  which  led  to  a  change  in  the  plan  of  attack. 

The  attack  made  upon  Sebastopol  by  sea  and  by  land  on  the  17th  of 
October,  satisfied  every  man  in  the  army  that  they  had  to  do  with  a 
resolute  and  intelligent  enemy,  and  that  it  would  not  be  without  a  long 
and  sanguinary  struggle,  worthy  of  their  military  reputation,  that  France 
and  England  would  succeed  in  planting  their  united  flags  on  the  walls  of 
the  Queen  of  the  Euxine.  Gigantic  works  were  required  to  ensure 
smceess,  and  from  that  day  a  new  phasis  opened  in  the  war. 

It  is  not,  however,  with  the  journal  of  the  siege  that  we  have  to  do 
here.  It  is  but  justice  to  M.  de  Bazancourt  to  say,  living  as  he  did 
at  Clocheton,  the  hut  of  the  major  commanding  in  the  trenches,  that  he 
describes  the  progress  of  the  works  and  the  sanguinary  scenes  that  almost 
daily  took  place,  more  especially  in  as  far  as  the  French  were  concerned, 
with  most  praiseworthy  minuteness.  Little  new  light  is  thrown  upon 
the  disastrous  affair  at  Balaklava,  or  upon  the  bard-fought  battle  of 
Inkerman.  The  details  regarding  the  part  taken  by  the  French  in  the 
last-mentioned  gallant  struggle  are,  however,  given  with  more  minuteness 
than  heretofore.  The  English  commander  comes  in,  however,  for  as 
many  and  as  sharp  reproaches  from  Canrobert,  for  not  haying  been  ready 
to  open  fire  in  March,  1855,  as  he  ever  entailed  upon  himself  from  St. 
Arnaud  for  his  want  of  activity  in  the  march  to  Alma,  and  immediately 
subsequent  to  that  event.  Dissensions,  at  first  of  a  trifling  character,  had 
indeed  arisen  between  the  two  commanders,  and  these  at  length,  with 
the  arrival  of  the  French  Guard  and  of  the  army  of  reserve,  as  well  as 
of  the  Sardinians,  and  by  the  misunderstandings  that  arose  from  the 
proposed  expedition  to  Kertch,  attained  their  climax. 


&06  RevffatiQns  of  the  jVatfr 

The  idea  of  an  operation  against  the  enemy  outside  the#  \ovrn.  continued  fa 
weigh  on  the  various  decisions,  and  prevented  any  decisive  .action,  being  atr 
tempted  against  the  fortress.  The  secret  instructions  to  General  Canrobert 
tied  his  hands,  unless  in  a  case  of  absolute  necessity.  TJhey  s»dv  c<Xf  the 
assault  of  Sebastopol  is  impossible,  or  is  likely  to-  cost  top  much  bloddsoed, 
without  leading  to  the  total  capture  of  the  place,  you  must  remain  .e$/tte 
defensive,  and  make  such  arrangements  as  to  enable  you  to  take  two  divisions 
of  infantry,  the  Imperial  Guard,  all  the  cavalry,  four  mounted  batteries,  and 
four  others,  so  that  all  these  troops,  joined  to  a  corps  of  40,000  men  assembled 
at  Maslak,  near  Constantinople,  may,  at  the  first  signal,  operate  against  th$ 
enemy  outside. 

The  fire  of  the  batteries  was  restrained,  so  as  to  enable  them  to  sustain  them- 
selves without  interruption  for  a  greater  length  of  time,  if  necessary,  upon$ie 
whole  line  of  attack.  Every  night  the  vessels  of  the  combined  squadrons  ad- 
vanced two  or  three  together,  sufficiently  close  to  the  maritime  forts  to  throw 
projectiles  into  the  place ;  and  one  of  our  most  powerful  batteries  bad  opened  a 
large  breach  in  the'crenelated  wall  to  the  right  of  the  bastion  of  the  Quarantine. 

A  reconnoissance,  effected  in  the  direction  of  Tchorgun,  on  the  18th.  of  the 
month  (April),  by  Omar  Pacha,  had  not  found  the  enemy,  and  distinctly  attested 
that  Prince  Gortschakoff  had  withdrawn  the  greater  part  of  his  troops,  in  order 
to  concentrate  them  near  Sebastopol,  and  to  oppose  them  to  our  columns  of 
assault. 

The  position  was  critical,  difficult,  pressing;  for  if  the  feelings  of  impatience 
were  great,  those  of  apprehension  were  no  less  so. 

iC  Why  not  give  the  assault?"  exclaimed  tkose  who  were  carried  awayjby 
their  impatience.  "  The  assault  is  impossible,"  replied  other  voices,  too  aeiftpigl 
and  too  influential  not  to  weigh  in  the  balance.  General  Neil  especially  do 
clared  the  chances  against  success  to  be  a  hundred  times  more  numerous,  ,t|ian 
the  chances  in  favour.  He  had  written  as  much  to  the  Emperor;'  ]he  had  im- 
pressed the  same  opinion  upon  the  minister. 

The  position  of  the  chief  in  command,  who  had  to  move1  amidst  all  these1  cbrf- 
flicting  opinions,  of  ail  these  febrile  doubts,  was  terrible.  *  ;  ! 

The  commander-in-chief  summoned,  under  theso  cireumstanaesy.  a 
general  council,  to  take  all  possible  contingencies  undec  consideration, 
and  the  result  of  the  meeting  was  a  resolution  to  attack — a  resolution 
which  the  proximity  of  the  approaches  to  the  place  rendered  almost 
imperious.  Lord  Raglan  spoke  in  favour  of  an  assault,  and  opposed 
strongly  all  detached  expeditions.  Instructions  were  accordingly  given 
to  General  Pelissier  to  prepare  for  the  assault,  when  the  new*,  of  the 
arrival  at  Constantinople  of  the  army  of  reserve  in  May,  caused  the 
project  to  be  abandoned.  The  Emperor  was  also  expected  in  person; 
and,  whether  or  not,  the  period  of  delay  would  be  too  brief  not  to  wait 
for  so  important  a  reinforcement  in  the  presence  of  contingencies  which 
no  one  could  foresee ;  for,  in  the  words  of  De  Bazancourt,  "  most  for- 
midable Sangfevs  connected  themselves  with  the  projected  assault,  and  in 
the  besieged  city  itself  everything  seemed  to  be  changed  into  bronfae/' 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  complications  that  all  of  a  sudden  surged  up  the 
expedition  to  Kertch,  the  idea  of  which  had  for  some  time  found  great  favour 
with  the  general-in-chief  of  the  English  army,  and  still,  more  with  the  two  ad- 
mirals, Lyons  and  Bruat,  who  saw  in  it  the  means  of  enabling  the  fleet  at  last  to  get 
out  of  its  inaction  and  take  a  prominent  part  in  the  war.  The  expedition  was  less 
pleasing  to  General  Canrobert,  in  consequence  of  the  new  instructions  which  he 
had  just  before  received ;  since  it  removed  from  the  centre  of  operations  not 
only  the  vessels  the  co-operation  of  which  might  be  exceedingly  useful  for  th« 


Rematiom  of  the  War.  30t 

conveyance  6f  tHe  troops  from  Maslak  to  Kamiesch,  but  also  a  division  whose 
presence  was  to  be  of  use  in  the  combined  plan  of  the  exterior  attack. 

Loud  Raglan  insisted,  and  so  did  the  admirals,  and  at  last  General 
Canrobert  yielded,  and  die  expedition  set  sail  on  the  evening  of  the  30th 
of  April : 

;  The  next  day  a  telegraphic  despatch  from  the  Emperor  arrived  from  Paris, 
which  sajd  to  the  general-in-chief : — "  On  receipt  of  this  despatch  collect  together 
all.  your  forces,  and  prepare  to  attack  the  enemy  outside.  Concentrate,  for  the 
purpose,  allyour  strength;  even  the  troops  at  Maslak." 

General  Canrobert  at  once  proceeded  to  Lord  Raglan,  and  said  that  "he 
might  certainly  have  availed  himself  of  the  latitude  of  time  allowed  him  to  send 
troops  to  Kertch;  but  in  the  face  of  positive  orders  which  he  had  just  received 
fibm  the  Emperor,  and  which  commanded  him  to  collect  together  without  delay 
all  his  means  of  attack  and  to  concentrate  his  forces,  he  could  not  permit  a 
portion  of  his  troops  and  means  of  conveyance  to  remain  absent "  Lord  Raglan 
insisted  energetically  on  the  expedition  being  allowed  to  pursue*  its  course  ;  out 
General  Canrobert  considered  it  his  duty,  after  instructions  of  so  precise  a  cha- 
racter, to  recal  General  d'Autemarre  and  Admiral  Bruat. 

It  was  from  that  moment,  and  in  consequence  of  the  decision  thus  taken  in 
spite  of  the  resistance  of  the  English  commander-in-chief,  that  a  certain  coolness 
succeeded  in  the  relations,  until  then  completely  in  accord,  between  the  two 
commanders  of  the  Allied  armies. 

The  flotilla  was  not  overtaken  till  it  had  reached  the  entrance  of  the 
Bosphorus,  and  to  the  great  arfnoyance  of  all,  and  of  none  more  than  of 
Sir  Edmund  Lyons,  it  had  to  retrace  its  steps. 

The  situation,  it  will  be  perceived,  was  becoming  more  complicated, 
as  a  good  understanding  no  longer  existed  in  the  plans.  General 
Marmora  had  just  arrived  with  4000  Piedroontese,  and  others  were  daily 
expected.  The  English  were  also  receiving  reinforcements,  and  the 
army  was  once  more,  as  the  French  historian  expresses  it,  "  brillante  et 
superbe."  "  Superb"  regiments  of  cavalry  were  also  arriving  from  India 
to  take  their  part  in  the  expedition  of  the  Crimea  : 

:  It  was  at  this  conjuncture  that  Commandant  Eave*  arrived  as  a  messenger 
from  the  Emperor. 

l>  The  equivocal  result  of  the  conferences  of  Vienna,  which  were  suspended  on 
the  22nd  of  April,  and  the  pressing*  solicitations  of  his  cabinet,  £ad  prevented 
the  intended  visit  of  the  Emperor,  and  he  decided  on  not  proceeding  to  the 
Crimea;  but  if  his  majesty  did  not  go  out  to  assume  the  command  of  the  troops, 
his.  views  were  not  the  less  to  receive  their  execution.  These  views,  matured  in 
advance,  and  to  which  the4  events  of  April  :had  added  a  fresh  impoxtanee,  were 
expressed  in  a  plan  of  campaign  emanating  froin,  the.  Emperor  himself,  and 
whicn  Commandant  Eave*  Jianded  to  the  Trench  commander-in-chief. 

'<  We  are  happy,"  adds  M.  de  Bazaacourt,  "  in  being  able  to  give  here 
the  chief  passages  of  this  precious  document ; 

w  'April  28, 1855. 
"  cThe  fire  which  has  been  opened  against  Sebastopol  will  by  this  time  have 
either  succeeded  or  failed.  In  either  case  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  quit  the 
defensive  position  in  which  the  army  has  remained  during  the  last  six  months. 
Jfor  this  purpose,  in  accord  with  the  English  government,  I  would  have  the  troons 
divided  into  three  armies— one  siege  army  and  two  of  operation.  The  first  is 
destined  to  protect  Kamiesch  and  to  blockade  the  garrison  of  Sebastopol ;  the 
second  to  operate  at  a  short  distance  from  Balaklava,  and,  in  case  of  need,  to 
take  possession  of  the  heights  of  Mackenzie ;  and  the  third  is  intended  to  effect 


308  Revelations  of  the  War. 

a  diversion.*  If,  as  I  have  reason  to  think,  the  Russians  have  35,000  menk 
Sebastopol,  15,000  to  the  north  of  Eupatoria,  and  70,000  between  Simpkeropol, 
the  Belbek,  and  the  Tchernaya,  it  will  suffice  to  have  60,000  good  troops  to 
destroy  all  the  Russian  army,  which  might  be  taken  in  the  rear  before  it  could 
unite  all  its  forces,  and  even  should  it  be  able  to  unite  them  the  numbers  would 
be  almost  equal ;  for  that  great  principle  of  war  must  not  be  forgotten,  that,  ff 
a  diversion  is  made  at  a  certain  distance  from  the  base  of  operations,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  the  troops  employed  on  such  a  diversion  should  be  in  sufficient  number 
to  be  able  of  themselves  to  resist  the  army  of  the  enemy,  who  might  unite  all  its 
efforts  against  them.  All  this  being  well  considered,  I  would  have  sent  into  the 
valley  of  the  Baidar  the  40,000  men  taken  from  the  army  of  Sebastopol;  and, 
supported  by  Lord  Raglan,  I  would  have  occupied,  from  Skelia  as  tar  as  the 
brioge  of  Teule  and  Tchorgun,  the  four  roads  which  cross  the  Tchernaya;  we 
should  thus  have  had  so  many  tetes-de-pont,  threatening  the  left  of  the  Russians 
established  on  the  heights  of  Mackenzie.  After  this  movement  I  would  have 
left  Lord  Raglan  master  of  all  the  positions  on  the  left  of  the  Tchernaya  from 
Skelia  as  far  as  Tchorgun ;  I  would  have  assembled  in  the  rear  of  the  lines  occu- 
pied by  the  English  the  40,000  men  of  the  active  army,  with  the  cavalry,  and 
the  means  of  transport  at  my  disposal,  waiting  in  that  position  for  the  arrival  of 
my  corps  tfarmee,  which,  coming  from  Constantinople,  would  have  received  orders 
to  reconnoitre  Cape  Phoros.f  What  would  have  been  our  position  as  regarded 
the  Russians  ?  The  movement  on  Baidar,  by  giving  up  the  passages  over 
the  Tchernaya,  would  have  threatened  their  left  and  led  them  to  suppose  that 
it  was  our  intention  to  dislodge  them  from  the  heights  of  Inkerman  and 
Mackenzie.  The  Russians  would  have  been  thus  kept  in  check,  and  their  atten- 
tion drawn  on  Inkerman  and  Perekop.  Ourpbsitions  would  have  been  excellent, 
and  my  plans  being  unknown,  if  anything  had  deranged  them,  nothing  would  have 
been  compromised.  But  supposing  that  nothing  had  opposed  the  general  plan, 
it  would  have  been  carried  out  in  the  following  manner.  As  soon  as  the  fleets 
bringing  the  25,000  men  of  the  reserve,  had  been  seen  approaching,  orders  would 
have  been  given  for  them  to  proceed  to  Alushta,  the  beach  at  which  place, 
having  been  secretly  examined,  was  found  favourable  for  a  landing.  A  first  body 
of  3000  men  would  immediately  on  their  landing  establish  themselves  three 
leagues  from  Alushta,  beyond  the  defile  of  Ayen.  No  others  would  be  landed 
until  information  had  been  received  of  the  occupation  of  that  defile.  After  suck 
information  had  been  received  the  remainder  of  the  25,000  men  would  land,  and 
the  40,000  assembled  at  Baidar  would  receive  orders  to  march  along  the  road 
which  skirts  the  sea-coast  by  Yalta.  In  three  days,  that  is  to  say,  twoaavs  after 
the  landing  of  the  army  at  Alushta,  the  40,000  men  from  Baidar  would  have 
ioined  under  the  walls  of  Simpheropol  the  25,000  just  landed;  the  town  would 
nave  been  taken  possession  of,  and  a  sufficient  garrison  left  in  it,  or  a  good  posi- 
tion would  have  been  taken  up  on  the  road  we  had  just  passed,  to  secure  the 
rear  of  the  army.  Now,  of  two  things,  one — either  the  Russian  army  before 
Sebastopol  would  have  abandoned  that  formidable  position  to  meet  the  army 
which  would  advance  from  the  side  of  Baktchi-Sarai,  and  then  the  first  army  of 
operation,  under  the  orders  of  Lord  Raglan,  would  push  forward  and  take  pos- 

*  1st,  the  siege  army,  composed  of  30,000  French  and  30,000  Turks,  without 
counting  10,000  men  who  cannot  be  disposed  of;  2nd,  the  first  army  of  operation 
under  Lord  Raglan,  of  25,000  English,  15,000  Fiedmontese,  5000  French,  and 
10,000  Turks ;  and,  3rd,  the  second  army  of  operation,  of  40,000  French  of  the 
army  of  Sebastopol,  and  25,000  of  the  army  of  reserve  at  Constantinople; 

|  The  active  army  would  be  thus  organised: — General  Canrobert,  generaWn- 
duef ;  first  corps  d'armee,  General  Bosquet,  with  four  divisions  of  infantry,  and 
one  of  light  cavalry;  second  corps  d'armee,  General  Begnauld  de  St  &aa 
d'Angely,  with  two  divisions  of  infantry,  one  division  of  the  Guard,  and  one  dm- 
■ion  of  heavy  cavalry.  General  Pelissier  would  have  continued  to  command  the 
besieging  army. 


Relations,  of  the  War*  300 

session  of  the  position  of  Inkerman;  or  the  Russians  would  await  in  their  lines 
the  arrival  of  the  army  advancing  from  Simpheropol,  and  then  the  latter  advanc- 
ing from  Baktchi-Sarai  on  Sebastopol,  always  supporting  its(left  on  the'mountains, 
would  form  a  junction  with  the  army  of  Marshal  Raglan,  who  had  advanced  from 
Baidar  on  Albat,  repulse  the  Russian  army,  and  drive  it  back  into  Sevastopol  or 
into  the  sea.  This  plan  appears  to  me  to  possess  great  advantages.  In 
the  first  place,  the  army  as  far  as  Simpheropol,  which  is  only  nine  leagues 
from  Alushta,  would  be  in  communication  with  the  sea ;  the  country  is  very 
healthy,  and  better  supplied  with  water  than  any  other  part  of  the  Crimea;  its 
rear  would  be  always  secure ;  it  would  occupy  ground  where  our  inferiority  in 
cavalry  would  be  less  sensibly  felt;  and  lastly,  it  would  be  all  at  once  on  the 
Russian  line  of  operations,  and  eut  off  all  the  supplies,  by  probably  taking  pos- 
session of  their  parks  of  reserve.  If  the  defile  of  Ayen — an  indispensable  ele- 
ment in  the  success  of  the  plan — should  be  so  fortified  as  not  to  be  capable  of 
being  taken,  the  3000  men  who  advanced  for  that  purpose  would  have  oeen  re- 
embarked  ';  the  army  of  reserve  would  then  have  been  landed  at  Balaklava,  and 
the  diversion  which  it  was  intended  to  make  on  Simpheropol  would  have  been 
made  by  Baidar,  but  with  fewer  advantages.  As  to  the  march  of  the  4Q,QQ0  men 
from  Baidar  to  Alushta,  it  would  have  been  without  danger,  as  the  ground  is 
protected  by  almost  inaccessible  mountains,  and  is  at  a  great  distance  from  the 
Russian  army.  Our  army  might,  during  almost  all  the  distance  along  the  sea- 
shore, have  been  followed  oy  steamers  to  receive  the  sick.*  If,  on  the  contrary, 
it  had  been  wished  to  make  a  diversion  by  Eupatoria,  my  opinion  is  that  nothing 
could  have  been  more  dangerous  or  more  opposed  to  the  rules  of  art  and  to  the 
counsels  of  prudence.  In  order  to  operate  from  Eupatoria  on  Simpheropol,  the 
army  so  engaged  would  be  in  an  open  and  unhealthy  country,  and  almost  with- 
out water ;  it  would  be  on  ground  where  the  Russian  cavalry,  which  is  very 
numerous,  would  have  every  chance  of  success,  and  it  would  have  to  make  a 
march  of  sixteen  leagues,  in  the  face  of  an  enemy  which  might  come  from  the 
north  as  well  as  from  the  south,  fall  on  the  columns,  and  cut  off  all  retreat.  The 
wings  of  the  army  would  have  no  support  from  the  nature  of  the  ground.  In 
order  to  go  from  Eupatoria  to  jSimpheropol,  it  should  carry  with  it  all  its  provi- 
sions ana  all  its  ammunition ;  for  when  once  the  army  had  left  Eupatoria,  the 
15,000  Russians  in  that  neighbourhood,  and  most  of  whom  are  cavalry,  would 
harass  their  rear  and  prevent  the  arrival  of  any  convoys.  If  it  should  meet 
with  any  resistance  at  Simpheropol,  and  the  Russian  army  should,  by  a  change 
of  front,  have  taken  a  position  on  the  road  over  which  the  army  had  passed,  that 
army  would  be  either  annihilated  or  starved  out.  There  is,  besides,  another  ab- 
solute principle,  and  that  is,  that  a  flank  march  is  not  possible  unless  at  a  dis- 
tance from  the  enemy,  and  when  sheltered  by  the  nature  of  the  ground.  The 
amy  which  would  operate  from  Eupatoria  to  Simpheropol  would  consequently 
have  no  line  of  operations,  nor  any  defence  assured  for  its  flanks,  nor  any  means 
of  retreat,  nor  favourable  field  of  battle,  nor  means  of  procuring  food.  Lastly, 
this  army  of  operation,  instead  of  being  compact,  composed  of  soldiers  of  the 
same  nation,  commanded  bv  a  single  chief,  would  be  formed  in  great  part  of 
Turks ;  and  as  some  Allied  divisions  would  be  added  to  it,  there  would  be  neither 
unity,  nor  security,  nor  absolute  confidence.  If,  instead  of  marching  on  Sim- 
pheropol, the  army  leaving  Eupatoria  should  desire  to  proceed  direct  to  Sebas- 

*  On  the  other  hand,  the  Minister  of  War  would  have  had  collected  at  Constan- 
tinople rations  of  meat,  gunpowder,  and  other  objects  occupying  little  space,  in 
order  that  the  soldiers,  hy  leaving  all  their  other  baggage,  might  have  each  carried 
eight  days'  provisions,  with  a  shirt  and  a  great-coat.  The  corps  d'arinee  of  reserve 
would  have  had  on  board  the  steamers  eight  days'  rations  for  60,000  men.  The 
carnages  which  would  follow  the  army  of  Baidar  would  carry  the  same  quantity, 
to  that  the  60,000  men  in  commencing  the  movement  would  have  sixteen  days' 
^provisions  assured  to  them.  When  once  they  had  reached  Simpheropol  the  car- 
riages might  revictual  from  Alushta. 


310  RexkXattomofmWah 

topol,  it  must  recommence  under  'disadv«*tegoous  conditions  the  eamjtalgfl 
which,  we  made  in  disembarking  in  the  Grin**.  It  should  carry  the  formidaSb 
positions  of  the  Alma,  of  the J£atcha>  and  of  the  Belbek  This  enterprise  ii 
impossible,  for  it  would  be  disastrous.  Hence  follows  the  absolute  necessity  4 
only  leaving  at  Bupatoria  the  number  of  Turks  strictly  indispensable  to  defend 
the  place.  Such  is  the  plari  which  I  wished  to  execute  at  the  head  of  the  bra?e 
troops  which  you  have  hitherto'  boimrianded,  and  it  is  with  the  most  profound  and 
acute  sorrow  that  I  mid  that  jrater  interests  force  me  to  remain  in  Europe, 

It  is  gratifying,  even  now  that  the  war  is  a  thing  of  the  pasJt,  to  and 
that  there  was  at  least  one  in  authority  who  embraced  toe  views^wlneji 
were  all  along  advocated  in  our  own  pages,  of  exterior  operations ;  00$ 
who  felt  that  to  prolong  a  sanguinary  duel  behind  entrenchments  anl 
fortifications,  in  which  the  combatants  were  pitted  on  unequal  terms,  and 
the  choice  of  ground  permanently  left  to  the  defenders,  was  a  false  position 
for  the  assailants  and  a  disgrace  to  military  science.  i 

The  most  singular  circumstance  remains,  however,  to  be  told.  Theje 
was  no  one  in  the  Crimea  who  would  undertake  to  carry  out  the  Em- 
peror's plan.  Let  us  first  of  all  say  a  word  with  regard  to  the  plan.  We 
have  described  the  proposed  field  of  operations  minutely  on  previous 
occasions.  There  is  no  doubt  that  troops  could  have  been  landed  in  safety 
at  Alushta.  The  road  from  that  point  to  Daftan-bazar,  in  the  pass  of  the 
Tchatir  Tagh,  or  Table  Mountain,  is  a  chaussee,  or  paved  way,  for  an 
ascent  of  thirteen  versts.  The  pass  itself,  formed  by  the  Tchatir  Tagh 
on  the  one  side,  and  the  Demirdji,  or  "  Iron  Rock,"  on  the  other,  is  one 
that  could  be  defended  by  a  handful  of  men  against  an  army.  One 
traveller  says  it  reminded  him  of  Killiecrankie,  in  Perthshire ;  but  wsa 
even  more  charming  than  that.  "  Mountain  upon  mountain  arose  on  either 
hand,  while  on  the  right  the  noble  Tchatir  Tagh  displayed  its  giddy 
heights,  its  frightful  precipices  and  toppling  crags,  separated  and  em* 
braced  by  groups,  or  long  lines  of  trees,  in  which  the  venerable  oak  and 
stately  beech  mingled  their  foliage,  with  a  hundred  kinds  of  arboret; 
producing  a  richness  of  colouring,  a  diversity  of  tints,  and  a  play  of  light 
and  shade  which  the  bluff-projecting  naked  rocks  only  made  more  lovely, 
and  in  their  combination  created  an  admirable  mdlange  of  the  sublime 
and  beautiful."  At  the  summit  of  the  pass  there  stands  an  obelisk,  which 
commemorates  that  the  great  work  having  been  commenced  in  the  reign 
of  Alexander,  was  finished  in  the  early  part  of  that  of  Nicholas.  A  little 
further  on  is  a  tablet  over  a  fountain,  erected  to  the  memory  of  a  Russian 
general  killed  by  the  Turks. 

This  is  the  defile  which  the  Emperor  calls  that  of  Ay  en,*  and  which  he 
supposes  might  have  been  occupied  by  3000  men,  aided  by  demonstrations 
at  Cape  Fhoros  and  at  Baidar.  The  number  proposed  is  small,  for  the 
Russians  would  always  have  kept  a  certain  force  at  the  maritime  gates  of 
Simpheropol ;  but  still,  if  the  secret  could  have  been  kept,  we  think  it 
might  have  succeeded.     With  10,000  men  it  would  have  been  a  safer 

*  Aian,  or  Ay  an,  plural  of  Ain,  a  spring,  is  the  name  of  a  Tartar  village  at 
the  sources  of  the  Salghir,  which  rush  at  this  point  in  a  considerable  body  of 
water  out  of  a  cave  in  the  Tchatir  Tagh.  De  Montpereux  says  Aian  is  a  contrac- 
tion of  Agios  Joannes,  or  St.  John. 


game*  It>  is  curious  that  the  plan  at  that  time  entertained  at  the  camp, 
and  postponed  on  account  of  the  Emperor's  projeet^-^the  expedition  to 
Kerteh-^would'  hare  materially :  co-operated  in  its  success,  and  have 
Effected  a  far  more  important  diversion  than  an  unmeaning  demonstration 
cW  iPhorps  aid  Perekop,  or  a  movement  on  Gaidar,  such  as  was,  indeed, 
^forwards  carried  into,  effect,  and  to .  no  purpose. 

"We  now  come^to  the  reasons  assigned  by  M.  de  Baaancourt  for  General 
Canrobert  declining  to  carry  out  the  plan  of  campaign  proposed  by  the 
Emperor : 

*\'  it  tile  Emtaror  renounced  with  regret  #e  id^a  of  nis  visit  to  the  Crimea,  it 
was"  also  with  profound  grief  that  the  army,  which,  attended,  his  arrival  with 
impatience,  learned  that  the  hope -was  to  be 'given  upr  When  Commandant 
Eave*  brought  the"  Emperor's  instructions  from  Paris,  events  had  hurried  6n- 
kards ;  and  already  there  appeared  the  >  genri  of  those  differences  which  after- 
jWi^aro^^mongtheedmnaaadersof  the  Allied  troops. 

The  plan  of  operations,  wavaocor4ing, to  the  .orders  ot  the  Emperor,  commu- 
nicated to  the  generals-in-chief  j  but  Qeneral  jCanrpberfc  by  a  presentiment 
which  soon  after  was  realised^  did  not.  shut  his  eyes  to  the,  difficulties  which 
wifre  about  to  arise  j  and  in /consequence  tie  transmitppd  the  following  private 
despatch 7  ■   ''■'       '■"  '■'  '  '.'.*',  '     '  v   * 

■■■.,  **  The  three  generals4n-ehM  are  about  to  be  batted  on  to  assume^  the  offensive 
against  the  exterior  arum  their  point  ;to  proceed  ajsainst  being  'Smipheropol  and 
Baktchi-Sarai*,  but,  in  these  gwfae  circumstances,  1  eannot^hel^  deploring  here 
^he  absence  of  a,  generalissimo,. some  man  of  great  /authority,  mgLpositum,  add 
sufficiently  9I4  experience,,  to  dominate  everytfyipg."  ,....:.. 
'That  will  always  be  in,  eve^y  ariay  the  essential  point*,  as  from  the  want  of 
miity  in  the  chief  command 'must  'always  result  delays,  hesitations^  and  differ- 
ences. That,  if  caniiot  be  defied,  %as  Tpfe  l£reat  s^imhmig-block  in '  the  way  of 
the  Crimean  expedition;  it  existed  always 'at  eveiy  moment  beating  obstacles 
and.  delays,  and  throw ing  iugnrmountable  difficulties  around  the  expedition; 

Lord  Italian  haul  a  decided  dislike  to  the  plan  of  operating  on  the  exterior. 
At  first  lie  aeaked?  in  concert  with  Omar  Pacha,  to  operate  by  Eupatoria ;  but 
ihe  disadvantages  of  that  movement  were  so  evident,  so  incontestable,  and  so 
clearly  enumerated  m  the  plan  of  campaign,  that  the  Allied  generals  were  con- 
strained to  yield  to  the  just  observations  of  tho  French  general 

Then  arose  in  the  council  a  new  difficulty — the  road  from  Aliishta  to'  Sim- 
pheropol  appeared  to  Lord  Kaglan  too  exposed,  and  he  considered  that  from 
Baidar  to  Baktchi-Sarai  preferable,  But  it  was  evident  that  Lord  Harlan  yielded 
Ironl  weauiness  of  discussion*  and  not  from  conviction;  and  the  consequence 
was,  that  at  each,  instant,  and  in  every  question  of  detail,  the:  tacit  opposition  of 
Ids  mind  made  itself  felt  without  his  mtjmding  it.,  .,..'. 

In  face  of  the  terrible  and  doubtful  chances  o£  a  general  assault,  and  of  the 
^erpetkal  menace  of  the  north 'side  of  the  town,  which  our  attacks  could  not 
attain,  and  which  would  always  escape  from  us,  General  Canrobert,  after  so 
iriany  disappointed  hopes,  and  so  many  tnexpected  and  nnfavourable  events, 
attached  to  the  projected  operation  so  great  an  importance  for  the  success  of 
•the  campaign  that  he  did  not  hesitate  to  make  the  sacrifice  of  himself  to  what 
'iie  regarded,  as  the  capital  point:  of  the  situation.  ' 

In  order  to  arrive  promptly  at  a  successful  result,  he  proposed  to  Lord  Raglan 
to.  give  up  to  Mm  (the  English  general)  the  supreme  coinmand,  and  he  entreated 
Omar  Pacha  most  earnestly  to  Mow  his  example,  and  to  act  under  the  orders 
of  Lord  Bagkn. 

His  lordship  was  for  an  instant  astonished  at  this  proposition,  for  there  was 
in  it  a  self-denial  for  the  public  good,  often  difficult  for  even  the  most  elevated 
minds.  It  was,  besides,  a  heavy  responsibility,  the  sudden  weight  of  which 
perhaps  terrified  the  English  general.    He  at  first'  refused,  then  hesitated,  then 


312  Mevelatkms  of  the  War. 

accepted,  and  afterwards  demanded  that  the  French  troops  should  undertake  to 
occupy  and  defend  the  English  trenches. 

That  strange  proposition  could  not  be  accepted.  The  development  of  our 
lines  already  demanded  for  daily  guard  a  large  number  of  troops,  and  it  was  not. 
possible,  without  serious  inconvenience  and  an  increase  of  the  daily  loss  of  life, 
to  augment  the  number.  The  English  trenches  could  alone  be  occupied  by  the 
English.  The  general  refused.  From  that  moment  there  were  no  means  of 
coming  to  an  understanding.  Two  conferences,  the  first  of  which  lasted  nearly 
seven  hours,  could  not  vanquish  the  repugnance  of  Lord  Raglan.  The  first 
blow  sustained  by  the  good  relations  which  until  then  had  existed  between  the 
two  generals-in-cnief  was  the  recal  of  the  Kertch  expedition;  and  the  refusal  of 
Lora  Raglan  to  co-operate  with  the  plan  of  attack  proposed  to  him  by  General 
Canrobert  was  the  last.  In  consequence  of  this  refusal  the  position  of  tbef 
geaeral-in-chief  of  the  French  army,  with  respect  to  the  troops  whom  he  com- 
manded, and  to  the  chief  of  the  Allied  army,  became  almost  untenable. 

The  resolution  of  General  Canrobert  in  this  circumstance  was  speedily  taken; 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  himself  for  the  public  welfare,  and  to  descend,  of 
his  free  will  and  in  the  interest  of  the  common  weal,  from  the  elevated  rank  to 
which  he  had  been  raised  by  his  sovereign. 

The  gist  of  this  is  that  General  Canrobert  recoiled  before  the  diffi- 
culties and  dangers  of  the  undertaking,  as  did  also  Lord  Raglan;  and 
when  General  Pelissier  succeeded  to  the  command-in-ehie£  he  no  more 
attempted  to  pat  the  project  into  execution  than  his  predecessors.  The 
fact  appears  to  have  been,  that  those  who  were  engaged  hand-to-hand 
with  the  Russians  found  them  to  be  a  far  too  vigilant,  gallant,  and  well- 
informed  enemy  to  be  treated  upon  any  other  terms  than  those  of  perfect 
equality,  or  to  try  hazardous  experiments  with.  We  cannot,  however, 
understand  that  Lord  Raglan  should  have  considered  the  road  from 
Alushta  to  Simpheropol  as  too  exposed,  and  that  from  Baidar  to  Baktchi- 
Sarai  preferable.  Upon  this  point  we  should  certainly  have  ventured  to 
differ. 

M.  de  Bazancourt  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  General  Can- 
robert resigned  his  command  solely  because  Lord  Raglan  would  not 
undertake  the  plan  proposed  by  the  Emperor ;  but  this  is  not  substan- 
tiated by  the  historian's  own  words,  when  he  describes  the  general  as  so 
struck  with  the  difficulties  of  the  case  as  to  wish  to  throw  the  whole 
responsibilities  of  its  execution  on  the  English  general ;  nor  is  it  sab* 
stantiated  by  the  general's  letter  to  the  Emperor,  of  which  M.  de  Bazan- 
court says,  "  If  General  Canrobert  kept  the  real  cause  of  his  sudden 
determination  secret,  by  ascribing  it  to  his  ill  health,  he  stated  the  truth 
to  his  sovereign."     He  thus  writes  to  the  Emperor  on  the  19th  of  May : 

"  The  little  relative  effect  produced  by  the  numerous  and  excellent  batteries  of 
the  Allies  against  Sebastopol;  the  non-attack  of  our  external  lines  by  the 
enemy;  the  reopening  of  the  fire,  an  aggressive  measure  which  had  appeared 
very  probable,  and  on  which  I  had  founded  hopes  of  a  success  more  decisive 
than  that  of  Inkerman;  the  arduous  difficulties  which  I  have  experienced  in 
preparing  the  execution  of  the  plan  of  campaign  of  your  majesty,  now  become 
nearly  impossible  by  the  non-co-operation  of  the  chief  of  the  English,  army;  the 
very  false  position  towards  the  English  in  which  the  latter  has  placed  me;  the 
sudden  recal  of  the  Kertch  expedition,  to  which  I  have  since  aiscovered  they 
attached  a  great  importance ;  the  extraordinary  moral  and  physical  fatigues  to 
which  for  nine  months  I  have  not  ceased  to  be  subjected — all  these  reasons, 
sire,  have  produced  in  my  mind  the  conviction  that  I  ought  not  to  direct  in 


Revelations  of  the  War.  313 

chief  an  immense  army,  the  esteem,  affection,  and  confidence  of  which  I  have 
been  enabled  to  obtain.  From  that  moment  my  duty  towards  your  majesty  and 
towards  the  country  was  to  demand  my  being  replaced  by  the  general  for  whom, 
in  his  intelligent  foresight,  the  Emperor  had  confided  to  me  a  letter  of  com- 
mander-in-chief, and  who  united  the  conditions  of  capacity,  moral  authority, 
habit  of  conducting  great  undertakings,  with  the  energy  necessary  to  bring  to  a 
fortunate  and  serious  result  the  vast  enterprise  with  which  the  death  of  my  pre- 
decessor and  the  will  of  the  Emperor  had  charged  me.  The  soldiers  and  the 
officers  are  all  well  acquainted  with  the  warlike  qualities  of  General  Pelissier ; 
they  will  give  him  all  their  confidence,  and  the  co-operation  of  us  all  is  secured 
to  him ;  and  I  know  thatyour  new  general-in-chief  has  the  strongest  faith  in  his 
success.  Your  majesty  wiH  allow  me  to  observe  that  my  name  is  too  well  known 
to  the  troops,  whose  confident  affection  has  never  ceased  to  do  me  honour,  for 
me,  under  existing  circumstances/not  to  remain  in  the  midst'of  them,  in  order, 
in  their  fatigues  and  dangers,  to  set  them  an  example  of  devotedness  to  the  ser- 
vice and  glory  of  the  Emperor  and  of  France.  I,  therefore,  request  your 
majesty  to  allow  me  to  command  a  simple  division  in  this  fine  and  heroic  army, 
the  conduct  of  which  has  conferred  and  will  continue  to  confer  so  much  honour 
on  France." 

There  are,  it  will  be  seen,  various  causes  for  withdrawal  assigned 
here,  all  as  important  as  the  difficulties  experienced  in  preparing  the 
execution  of  the  plan  of  campaign  proposed  by  the  Emperor.  The 
little  relative  effect  produced  by  the  reopening  of  the  fire  of  the  nu- 
merous and  excellent  batteries  of  the  Allies  against  Sebastopol — an 
aggressive  measure  upon  which  the  general  acknowledges  himself  to 
have  founded  hopes  of  a  success  more  decisive  than  that  of  Inkerman — 
would  appear  to  be  the  key  to  the  resignation.  At  all  events,  it  is 
utterly  unsatisfactory  to  state  that  the  French  general  resigned  his  com- 
mand because  the  English  general  would  not  put  into  execution  a  plan 
which  he,  the  French  general,  shrank  from  carrying  into  effect,  and 
which  his  successor,  General  Pelissier,  equally  declined. 

It  only  remains  to  state  that  the  affair  of  the  Great  Redan,  on 
the  day  of  the  capture  of  the  Malakbof,  is  passed  over  with  as  kindly  a 
feeling  to  the  gallant  but  unsuccessful  men  who  were  therein  engaged 
as  could  well  be  expected.  M.  de  Bazaneourt  professes,  we  believe, 
rather  to  write  an  account  of  what  the  French  did  in  the  Crimean  war, 
than  of  what  was  also  accomplished  by  the  English,  Sardinians,  and 
Turks ;  naturally  the  facts  of  their  co-operation  are  not  passed  over,  but 
minuteness  of  detail  lies  with  the  operations  of  the  French,  which  are 
indeed  neatly  and  succinctly  chronicled. 


,  ,.,-.      ......  C>f3H.)..        ...   ,,\ 

i'  i     .    #     ■■    ii*  ■      / 

INFORMATION  MJLATIVE  TO  MR.  JOSHUA  TUBBS  AKD  GBETAHf 
MEMBERS  OP  HIS  FAMILY.         •  ' 

CAREFULLY  COMPILED  PROM  AUTHENTIC  SOtTBCBfc. 

By  E.  P.  Rowsbll. 

III. 
PAIN  ALWAYS  FOLLOWS  PLEASUBS — 10  IT  HAFPEXXD  WWH  THE  FAMILY  OF  TUBB8.  ' 

Mrs.  Tubbs,  Miss  Tubbs,  and  Mr,  Tubbs,  junior,  were  seated  at 
breakfast  one  bright  morning  the  beginning  of  autumn,  in  an  apartment 
at  Ramsgate.  When  the  good  lady  of  the  house  let  the  apartment,  shs 
urged,  besides  its  other  eligible  features,  that  it  commanded  a  fine  view 
of  the  sea.  She  had  said  this  so  many  times,  that  perhaps  she. thought  it 
was  true.  The  real  fact,  however,  was,  that  it  was  only  by  going  pot 
into  the  balcony,  and  then  leaning  over  in  a  very  dangerous  way*  that 
you  could  eaten  a  glimpse  even  of  the  ocean,  wherefore,  to  speak  mode- 
rately, the  landlady's  statement  was  an  exaggeration.  .'■... 

A  slight  difference  had  just  taken  place  between  Mrs.  Tubbs  and ;  the 
servant  of  the  house  on  the  subject  of  a  very  perceptible  diminution  in 
the  half-pound  of  fresh  butter  since  it  had  done  duty  at  tea  last  night 
Mrs.  Tubbs  having  drawn  the  maiden's  attention  to  the  undeniable  fact 
that  there  could  not  be  even  a  quarter  of  a  pound  now,  proceeded  to 
consider  the  matter  under  three  heads.  Firstly,  had  there  been  realty 
half  a  pound  of  butter  supplied  by  the  butterman  ?  Secondly,  W 
much  had  been  consumed  at  tea  ?  and,  thirdly,  if  there  were  any  un- 
explained diminution,  what  were  the  remarks  which  naturally  suggested 
themselves  thereupon  p 

It  is  our  painful  duty  to  relate  that  the  maiden  (who  bore  the  urir 
washed,  up-all-night  appearance  which  maidens  at  boarding-houses 
usually  do)  did  not  seem  by  any  means  to  appreciate  the  exquisite  rea- 
soning by  which  Mrs.  Tubbs  sought  to  form  a  conclusion  upon  this  grave 
and  intricate  subject.  Mrs.  Tubbs  had  barely  even  sketched  her  case, 
before  the  defendant  abruptly  left  the  room,  thus  closing  the  dis- 
cussion. 

"  An  exceedingly  impudent  person  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tubbs,  in  great 
wrath.  "  I  don't  like  Ramsgate  at  all.  How  glad  I  shall  be  when  we 
hear  from  your  papa  that  we  are  to  come  to  him  in  London.  I  almost 
wish  now  that  we  had  all  gone  together  to  find  a  house,  instead  of  bis 
bringing  us  here  while  he  went  to  town  to  search  by  himself." 

"  I  do  so  hope  that  papa  will  not  go  and  choose  some  poor  place  which 
we  shall  none  us  of  like,"  said  Miss  Jane.  "  I  don't  know  much  about 
London ;  but  Berkeley-square,  I  should  think,  might  suit  us,  or  the  Gty- 
road." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  remarked  her  parent,  sighing,  "  we  must  trust  your 
papa  will  do  wisely — but,  alas  !" 

Mrs.  Tubbs  shook  her  head  dolefully  as  she  thus  spoke,  as  though  she 
would  intimate,  the  least  said  about  wisdom  in  connexion  with  the  pro- 
ceedings of  her  beloved  spouse,  the  better. 


Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs.  315 

And  here,  we  must  observe,  Mrs.  Tubbs  resembled  some  of  those  ladies 
who  may  be,  $een jn  law  neighbaurh9edsTuade,rgpinj  ,pe^sonal  ,eh#stise* 
ment  at  the  Hands  of  tfyeir  lords— and  masters* ,  .TftThen  speaking  of  Mr. 
Tubbs  to  her  children w Why  near* relative^  Mrs;  Tubbs  always  disparaged 
him,  and  implied,  that  anything  he  did  which  turned  out  well  might  cer- 
tainly be  traced  to  her,  while  such  of  his  deeds  as  bore  evil  fruit  had  been 
devised  by  himself,  without  Wsage'eoubsel  and  masterly  guidance.  But 
to  the  world  and  the  large  mass  of  her  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Tubbs  extolled 
her  husband  to  the  highest  point ;  antf  let  the  person  beware  who  refused 
to  credit  his  being  a  shining  Mght  and  a  miracle  of  intellectual  strength. 
Thus  one  of  the  ladies  of  whom,  we  have  spoken :  let  bnfr  some  commisera- 
ting bystander,  agonised  by  her  shrieks,  step  for  ward,  and  hurl  the  tyrant 
from  his  victim,  and  he  may  be  quite  sure  that  the  very  next  moment 
he  will  be—felled  like  an  ox  Jjy  the  brutal  vagabond  the  husband  ?«— Oh 
dear  no :  but  clawed,  torn,  cuffed,  blinded,  and  stupified  by  blows  inflicted 
upon  him  by  the  bruised  and  beaten  wife  whom  he  has  been  seeking  to 
rescue. 

"  Your  papa,"  continued  Mrs.  Tubbs,  "  does  many  foolish  things.  It 
certainly  is  not  for  want  of  good  advice ;  for  you  know,  Jane,  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  sit  silent  when  I  think  good  may  be  done  by  speaking.  He 
is  apt  to  be  a  little  fretty  sometimes,  and  wilful — thinks  .he  knows  best, 
and  so  on,  which,  of  course,  is  very  absurd — very  absurd.  But  now 
we've  finished  breakfast  we'll  go  on  to  the  sands.  Oh  dear !  how  weak 
my  chest  is,  to  be  sure.  I  constantly  feel  pain  after  eating.  I  must 
speak  to  Dr.  Bam  about  it  directly  we  get  to  London." 

Now,  to  say  the  truth,  it  would  have  been  a  little  odd  if  Mrs.  Tubbs 
did  not  feel  a  pain  after  eating,  especially  after  eating  breakfast.  That 
meal,  with  her,  consisted  of  a  rasher  of  bacon,  two  eggs,  prawns,  a  hot 
roll,  and  four  cups  of  tea.  Everybody  told  her  that  she  must  keep  up 
her  strength.  "  Whatever  you  do,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Dr.  Bam  to 
her,  when  he  used  to  attend  her  at  Dubberley  (before  he  became  pos- 
sessed of  some  money  left  him  by  an  old  lady,  one  of  his  best  patients, 
who  died  rather  suddenly  after  making  a  will  in  his  favour,  and  after 
which  event  he  was  seen  in  Dubberley  no  more),  "  you  must  keep  up  your 
strength.  My  dear  madam,  your  system  is  very  delicate.  You  require 
support.  You  must  have  it."  And  of  course  Mrs.  Tubbs,  for  the  sake 
of  her  family,  did  keep  up  her  strength;  and  if  the  permanent  way  which 
led  to  her  stomach  did  get  a  little  worn  and  out  of  order  sometimes,  she 
could  not  wonder,  considering  the  immense  traffic  which  passed  over  it. 

It  might  have  been  that  her  offspring  had  too  often  heard  the  com- 
plaint before  to  regard  it  much,  for  they  made  no  remark,  and  the  party 
had  Boon  emerged  from  the  house,  and  were  making  their  way  for  the 
sands.  Of  course  they  encountered  every  sort  of  annoyance  on  the  road* 
As  a  prominent  nuisance,  divers  rough-looking  men  rushed  furiously  at 
them,  poking  their  heads  under  the  bonnets  of  the  ladies,  and  shouting 
the  inexplicable  word  "  Magget "  as  loud  as  they  were  able.  What  they 
meant  to  imply,  apparently,  was,  that  they  were  possessed  of  vehicles 
near  at  hand  which  were  proceeding  to  Margate.  Indeed,  there  they 
stood.  And  such  vehicles — such  horses!  Omnibuses  like  unto  those* 
which  ply  between  Ramsgate  and  Margate  are  seen  nowhere  else  that  we 
know  of.    And  the  horses ! — melancholy  shadows  of  former  greatness  I— » 

July — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvn.  T 


£16  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

large,  bony  animals,  which  have  made  a  figure  and  elicited  remarks  of 
commendation  in  days  gone  by,  when  they  drew  the  rich  squire's  carriage 
or  caused  some  branch  coach  almost  to  fly  along  the  road, — how  woe- 
begone, how  stricken  with  misfortune,  how  worn  in  body  and  depressed 
in  mind  do  they  appear  now !  It  is  touching  in  the  extreme  to  see  them 
look  round  as  passenger  after  passenger  mounts  the  roo£  upon  which  as 
many  may  sit  or  hang  as  can  contrive  to  avoid  falling  off:  there  is  a  meek 
melancholy  in  their  faded  eye,  which  seems  to  say,  "  What,  another,  and 
yet  another !"  And  then  mark  the  despair  which  appears  in  their  whole 
aspect  when  the  sounds  strike  upon  their  ears,  "  Plenty  of  room,  ma'am, 
— lots  of  room ;  just  starting,  ma'am ;"  and  an  old  lady  of  fourteen  stone, 
at  least,  crawls  into  the  vehicle,  and  the  shake  which  she  causes  when  she 
bumps  down  nearly  closes  the  career  of  the  fast-decaying  machine.  Oh, 
ye  poor  old  creatures,  my  very  heart  has  ached  for  you,  and  I  have 
thought  as  I  have  watched  knowing  coachmen  flick  you  skilfully  in 
tender  parts,  how  I  should  like  to  put  you  in  some  almshouses  for  aged 
horses  which  have  seen  better  days,  and  which  now  deserve  honourable 
ease  and  retirement ! 

The  sands  were  reached  and  chairs  procured — by-the-by,  these  chaos 
put  one  very  much  in  mind  of  spiders'  webs.  The  stranger  to  Ramsgate, 
wandering  on  the  sands,  beholds  a  multitude  of  chairs  in  the  very  last 
stage  of  decrepitude.  He  is  not  tired,  but  as  the  convenience  for  rest  is 
there,  he  avails  himself  of  it  It  would  seem  ungrateful  to  the  benevolent 
persons  who  have  provided  it,  not  to  do  so.  No  sooner,  however,  has  he 
seated  himself,  than  the  looker-on  may  perceive  sudden  activity  on  the 
part  of  a  venerable  female  in  the  far  distance,  who  has  been  all  the  while 
watching  with  gloating  eye  the  movements  of  the  unwary  stranger,  and 
who,  now  that  he  is  fairly  inmeshed  and  fallen  into  the  snare,  pounees 
down  upon  him  and  elicits  from  him,  "  What  you  please,  sir  1"  (that  most 
heartrending  way  of  appealing  to  your  feelings,  your  respectability,  your 
every  emotion  connected  with  the  giving  money),  with  an  air  of  ill-sup- 
pressed triumph. 

The  day  passed  with  the  Tubbs's  party  about  as  days  usually  do  at 
Ramsgate  with  parties  similarly  circumstanced.  The  roving  on  the  sands 
was  followed  by  roving  along  the  streets,  and  then  followed  sauntering  to 
Pegwell  Bay,  that  beautifully  quiet  and  inexpressibly  calm  retreat,  where 
we  think  sometimes,  even  in  the  prime  of  our  days,  we  should  like  to  re- 
tire and  henceforth  bathe  our  faculties  (if  we  may  use  the  expression),in 
the  preparation  of  the  far-famed  concentrated  essence  of  shrimps,  for 
which  the  locality  is  famed. 

In  the  evening  the  Tubbses  attended  a  bazaar,  and  of  course  joined  in  a 
raffle.  Who  could  resist  the  half  •reproachful,  half-imploring'  cry  of  the 
smart,  good-looking  young  man  who  presided  at  the  seductive  green 
table.  "  One  more-— only  one  more.  Only  waiting  for  one.  Got  three— 
and  want  but  one.  Now  then,  ma'am,  let  me  say  one.  Thank  you.  Now, 
sir,  your  turn*  The  highest  has  it — you've  won,  miss.  Now  again; 
let  me  say  again.  Got  one,  and  only  want  three ;  only  three."  And  so 
on.  Out  come  the  sixpences,  or  the  shillings,  as  the  case  may  be,  and 
the  coffers  of  the  owner  of  the  table  fill  wonderfully.  The  strange 
thing  is,  that  they  always  seem  the  same  things  which  are  being  raffled 
for.    That  magnificent  work-box,  to  which,  with  just  pride,  the  gay  youth 


and  Certain  Members  of  his  Family.  317 

draws  your  attention,  you  are  almost  certain  you  have  seen  it  for  months, 
still  with  its  charms  silently  extracting  the  stakes,  and  yet  never  appa- 
rently won.  However,  we  will  not  dwell  upon  this  mystery.  We  leave 
the  subject  to  be  dealt  with  by  those  venerable  ladies  who  figure  so  promi- 
nently at  these  tables,  and  who  risk  their  silver  coin  with  a  calm  energy 
and  an  evident  determination  to  win  or  become  insolvent,  which  strikes 
dismay  into  the  casual  visitor,  whose  hopes  are  thoroughly  laid  by  the 
loss  of  a  shilling,  and  who,  for  the  life  of  him,  cannot  help  the  idea 
coming  into  his  mind,  notwithstanding  his  profound  faith  in  the  thorough 
honesty  of  free-born  Britons  generally,  and  the  presiding  spirits  of  raffling 
tables  especially,  that  "  no  doubt  it's  all  fair — quite  fair ;  he  don't  say  it 
is  not ;  still  it's  odd ;  he  don't  altogether  understand  it ;  he  hardly  thinks 
he'll  lose  another  shilling.'' 

The  Tubbs's  party,  having  been  relieved  of  all  their  silver  coin  in 
fruitless  attempts  to  gain  possession  by  the  illegitimately  short  cut  of 
gambling  of  the  glittering  but  hard-hearted  work-box,  which  never 
would  be  won,  returned  to  their  apartments  to  tea. 

And  now  slowly  flows  the  ink  from  our  pen,  and  our  hand  shakes  as 
doth  the  hand  of  man  of  fourscore  years  and  ten.  Moisture  appears  in 
our  eye,  as  though  the  organ  had  been  invaded  by  the  wandering  finger 
of  infancy,  and  our  head  bows  down  after  the  fashion  of  a  head 
oppressed  with  strong  drink. 

The  tea  having  been  made,  Mrs.  Tubbs  drew  from  her  pocket  the  last 
received  letter  from  her  spouse. 

"  It  is  very  odd,"  she  said,  "  not  hearing  from  your  papa  this  morning; 
I  don't  see  anything  in  his  last  letter  at  all  explaining  his  being  silent 
for  some  days  after.  Ha !  yes — hum— nonsense"  (running  down  the 
contents),  " '  three  wristbands  without  buttons,  four  collars  without, 
strings  (how  absurd,  couldn't  be),  no  razor-strop.'  Your  papa  is  full  of 
grumbling,  of  course.  And  then  follows  this  long  account  of  the  grand 
Thorough-Equality  Meeting.  Give  me  the  newspaper,  Jane ;  I  haven't, 
looked  at  it  to-day.     I  suppose  it  contains  a  report." 

Miss  Tubbs  handed  her  parent  the  paper  as  desired.  Mrs.  Tubbs 
examined  it  carefully.  Suddenly  her  gaze  was  riveted — horror  appeared 
in  her  countenance.  Her  alarmed  children  were  smitten  with  terror; 
they  sprang  from  their  chairs ;  they  seized  the  paper.  Mrs.  Tubbs. 
clutched  it  with  both  hands,  and  read  on.  Presently  she  uttered  a  shriek 
—an  unearthly  shriek.  The  neighbourhood  was  alarmed ;  a  donkey 
dragging  a  vegetable  cart  outside  took  fright,  and  ran  at  an  incredible 
pace  three  miles  and  a  quarter  before  he  could  be  stopped ;  a  coalheaver 
at  the  bar  of  the  public-house  opposite,  just  nutting  a  pint  of  porter  to 
his  lips,  heard  the  shriek,  turned  pale — determined  that  porter  was  sinful, 
and  never  touched  it  afterwards  ;  two  little  boys  went  at  once  to  the 

Solice-station  and  reported  a  dreadful  murder ;  and  the  old  lady  next 
cor,  who  lived  in  constant  dread  of  fire,  directly  put  on  her  bonnet  and 
fetched  the  parish  engine. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  family  of  Tubbs  found  themselves  suddenly  cast 
into  an  abyss  of  misery. 

We  will  briefly  state  the  cause  of  this  dire  commotion.  It  lay  in  a 
terrible  report  appearing  under  the  head  of  "  Police,"  of  which  the  fol- 
lowing is  an  abbreviation : 

t  2 


31$  Information  nlbctitto  toM\  $tihii&  Watts 

"  A  person,  who  gavfc  hi^j  name  as  Joshufe  Tufcbs,  waft  fcrougbt*  hefta- 
Mr.  Settleum,  charged  With having  bfeen  drunk  itad  disorderly  o*  tha> 
previous  night  in  King-street;'  It  appeared  that  the  defendant  («H» 
stated  that  he  had  recently  come  front  the  country)  ih*d  been,  boosing 
with  some  low  characters  to  a  late  hour;  and  then,  rollingfal&ng  tim 
streets  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  had  amused  himself  TjylcooimUtibg 
various  excesses  of  a  most  disgraceful  nature.  Having  at  last  abort©} 
nably  insulted  a  highly  respectable  married  lady,  he  was  forthwith  tabric 
into  custody,  after  a  violent  resistance,  and  locked  upi      <     •    • . ,  , « y  /. 

"Inspector  Smxthereen  said  that  the  lady  in  question;  when  raboafe 
coming  to  the  court,  had  been  taken  very  unwell,  and  could  tiotr/possihtyp 
attend.  .  .]'■  ;mj3 

"  Mr.  Settleum,  remarking  that  it  was  a  scandalous  outrttg^iadjwotfed 
the  case  until. the  day  aiter  to-rhorrow:.*  !■".♦..■,  .-.l\ ,.  .  !j .  j  .\n 

Here  was  an  awful  blow!  How  wasthe-pride  of ithe- Rkrasgate^partrl 
laid  in  the  dust!  Thcly  must  all  go  to  London  imniediately^i  >  J«atq  sk 
it  was,  they  mtisfget  to  Margate  si  once,  and  take  the  l^lteay/thvtasltai 
town.  So  they  packed  up,  mgeklly  paid  the'tiB,'  and  'departed  maili  tins 
indignant  remarks  and  distrustful  lookti  of  irandr^^^cteinei^oltWiapwwI 
doctors  of  two  fire-engines,  and.  a  large  moVof  spectttors^e^wft  tasse»te 
blage  having  been  drawn  to  the  house  by  the  einmmtanetaJ^romenV 
tioned.  *         :.  !...!>     //     .lUiiu-'i'ibUrw-i  w.v& 

In  due  time.tjhe  party  reached  London^ much  to  thenfelfodn  atf^'gea^ 
tleinan,  their  conip$nion  in  the '  railway-earrrage,  4u&eri^:fironihflhtais60 
headache  and' severe  toothache  combined.     This  imh«ApT^mkn^I^port£cte 
with  his  miseries,  had  been  blessed  With  sweet  sltttobeKscion^i£ber»k»riiyj 
Margate,  when  he  was  arotlsed  ova  terrific  uproar,  which;  pro  veil)  to  beB 
occasioned  by  Mrs.  TuDbs,  who  had  fkllen  into  violent  '-hystfarieA  tMo 
sooner  had-  the  afflicted  lady  been  recovered,  than  Mistf  Jane^sankroiLioq 
the  floor  of  the  carriage  in  a  swoOti.    'Then  both  the  windowdihkd  to  bflf 
opened,  and  the  rather  keeit  air  whittling  through  took  riuch^a  finn^rip 
of  the  poor  man's  diseased  tooth,  that,  to  the  terror  of  t&e  Tttfcbs'sfwmfyp 
he  yelled  like  a  lunatic.     However,  the  welcome  sound  of  thd  lidcefrf 
collector,  asking  blandly  for  the  first-class  tickets',  was  at  lengthflwttdjil 
the  passengers  #hgh'tecf,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  Tubbses  were  rattling^ 
in  a  cab  over  Londdh-oridge  to  an  hotel  in  the  Strand.    ■      <!''♦■■  *Unl 
The  cab  had  reached  the  steepest  part  of  the  bridge'/ and  was  pie- 
ceeding  at  full  pace,  when  a  dreadful  recollection  crossed;  the-  mind /of 
Mrs.  Tubbs.     Ijiejyellow  parcel,  which  she  had  brought  all  the  way  from: 
Margate  in  her  lap — where  was  it  ?     Horror !  it  had  been  left  behind^ 
in  the  railway  carriage.     In  an  instant  the  cab  was  stopped,  >  and  thai 
whole  line  of  vehicles  brought  to  a  starid-stJll.  .:-•-! 

"What  is  it,  mum?    I  can't  stop  here,  you  know,"  very  gruffly  ib*v 
marked  the  cabman. 

"My  parcel — my  parcel!"  screamed  Mrs.  Tubbs,  in  tones  of  acute*; 
anguish,  jumping  from  the  cab  on  to  the  pavement.  <  •  i     : 

"  Can't  have  tne  thoroughfare  blocked  up,  mum,"  interposed  a  police* 
man  ;  "you  must  get  in  again"  (gently  assisting  her).     <" Drive  on>|.: 
cabby." 

"  I  won't  go  without  my  parcel,  it's  at  the  station.     You  must  tora 
back,  coachman.     I  will  not     ■    "  ."■'■•»..,/'•.    .  .,../: 


•  Bu4  hete  a  perfect  storm  of .  4ftgry€xp]amatwo£  firoifl  ,%  drivers  of 
the*  del^iedtvekibles  behind  ^nterragt^  Mrs.  Tubbsl  "Do  yoii  jfcmofp 
what  y  ou'ra  at,,  ina'am  ?" I  *f  Arejrpu  in  liquor,  ma'atn  ?"  "  Are  you  in 
your  right  senses, iraa^'am,?"  <fjlV  ypu,  want  your  nightcap,  ma  am  ?wi 
add  auc&duVau ''   >    «•..':  .,-,... 

j  ^rlf.you.dQn't^getiii  again,  mum>  directly^"  observed  the  policeman, 
following  up- th*  attack,  "  I  shall  lock  you  up,  mum,  an4  that's  all 
about  it"  ,.■■•,..,.'. 

Alarmed  at  this  terrible  threat,  the  offspring  of  Mrs.  Tubbs  drew  their 
-excited  parent  by  main  force  into  the  cab,  which  again  started,  and 
ultimately  deposited  its  burden,  safely  at  tbo  Blue  Flag  Hotel,  in  the 
Strand. 

i)  Very  early -..the  following  morning  the  afflicted  family  proceeded /in  a 
cab  to  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Butcher  and  Mangle,  solicitors,  in  Gray's 
In&tsquare^  Mrs*  Tubb*  rightly  conceived  that  the  first  thing  her  un- 
happy, spouse  would  do*  on  finding  himself  in  trouble,  would  be  to  send 
to  his  lawyers*  the  firm  in  question.  They  are  admirable  men  of  business 
are  Messrs.  Butcher  and  Mangle.  Many,  a  prime  fellow;  have  they 
brought  low  and  slaughtered  in  their  time,  and  a  vast  number  of  little 
stores  of  happiness  have  they  been  the  willing  instruments  of  emptying. 
We  would  not  be  shut  up  for  a  night  in  thajt  dark  back-room  of  Butchers 
for  any  consideration.  We  should  expect  ghosts  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  to 
glare  upon  and  terrify  us  (taking  us  for  Butcher),  and  ultimately  sacrifice 
us  in  their  wrath.  But  we  shall  have  to  deal  much  with  Messrs.  Butcher 
and  Mangle  .hereafter.  They  appear  very  prominently  in  papers  before 
us  connected  with  Mr.  Tubbs's  after-life,  and,  therefore,  we  will  be  satis- 
fied with  letting  their  amiabilities  speak  for  themselves. 
■  Mr.  Butcher  was  all  civility.     He  had  recently  been  safely  investing  a 

Krtion  of  Aunt  Matilda's  money  in  a  particularly  good  mortgage,  and 
d  heard  the  whole  story  of  Mr.  Tubbs's  improved  fortunes. 

> "  Now,  my  dear  lady,  don't  worry  yourself  at  all.  Mr.  Tubbs  is 
quite  safe.  He  will  appear  this  morning.  He  has  suffered  no  incon- 
venience beyond  the  one  night's  confinement.  To-day  he  will  again  be 
in  attendance,  and  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  trumpery  affair  at  once.  I 
have  retained  Mr.  Fence  ;  and,  bless  you,  what  is  Mr.  Settleum  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Fence  ?— an  infant,  ma'am,  a  chicken.  Well,  now,  it's 
nearly  time.     We'll  have  a  cab  and  go  to  the  court." 

A  cab  was  procured,  and  Mr.  Butcher  having  first  given  his  clerk 
instructions  to  issue  six  executions  against  goods  and  four  against  persons, 
and  to  commence  a  suit  in  equity  against  the  relict  of  Thomas  Jones, 
deceased,  in  respect  of  a  couple  of  acres  of  land  which  the  said  Thomas 
Jones  (a  small  greengrocer)  had  held  under  a  defective  title,  departed 
with  his  clients. 

The  court  was  reached,  and  its  exterior  looked  none  the  brighter 
through  its  being  thoroughly  wetted  (not  washed)  by  the  rain,  which  fell 
in  torrents.  A  few  dirty  men  were  lounging  about  the  entrance,  and 
stared  at  the  newly-arrived  party  as  they  alighted.  Another  cab  drew 
up  at  the  moment,  and  out  of  it  stepped  a  gentleman  who  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  prizefighter,  so  strong,  and  stout,  and  resolute  was 
his  appearance. 

"There's  Mr.  Fence,"  cried    Mr.   Butcher,   with  great  eagerness 


320  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

making  for  the  gentleman  in  question,  and  grasping  him  eagerly  by  the 
hand. 

"  Now,  ma'am,"  he  said,  returning  to  Mrs.  Tubbs ;  "  this  way,  up- 
stairs ;  don't  be  afraid.  Mr.  Fence  will  do  it ;  Mr.  Settleum's  a  chicken 
before  Mr.  Fence." 

By  dint  of  bard  shoving  they  obtained  entrance  into  the  court,  a 
small,  square  room  of  very  undignified  aspect  Everybody  was  in  his 
place,  however,  and  the  utmost  use  practicable  bad  been  made  of  the 
space. 

The  night-charges  were  just  being  concluded,  and  there  was  a  culprit 
in  his  place :  there  was  a  policeman  in  the  witness-box  in  At*  place; 
there  was  a  little  side  arrangement  like  a  church  pew,  and  there  Mr, 
Fence  now  appeared  in  his  place ;  there  was  a  small  table  in  the  centre, 
and  a  seat  beside  it,  and  there  sat  the  clerk  in  his  place ;  there  was  a 
hearthrug,  and  thereon  stood  the  magistrate  in  his  place;  and  there  was 
about  a  third  of  the  room  parted  off,  and  there  were  huddled  the  pobhe 
(and  a  very  dirty  public  it  was  upon  this  occasion)  in  its  place. 

The  offender  at  the  bar  was  a  boy  about  twelve  years  old,  very  shabby, 
very  dirty,  very  thin  and  sallow,  and  very  stunted.  The  policeman  bear- 
ing testimony  against  him  was  a  jolly-looking  man,  six  feet  high. 

The  magistrate,  Mr.  Settleum,  was  a  small,  spare  man,  rigid  in  aspect, 
and  with  a  stern  eye  and  voice. 

"  Let  me  understand  you,  policeman,"  said  Mr.  Settleum.  "  Yoa 
say  this  boy  was  begging." 

"  I  do,  your  wusship.  I  heard  him  say,  '  Poor  boy,  poor  boy,'  to  a 
many  gents  and  ladies." 

"  Did  you  notice  whether  he  received  anything,  policeman?" 

"  Yes,  your  wusship,  one  genelman  hit  him  a  crack  o'  the  head,  and 
bid  him  go  work.  A  lady  said  she  was  sorry  for  him,  and  gave  him  this 
'ere  tract  on  *  Spiritual  Food,'  which  she  said  would  do  him  more  good 
than  penny  loaves.  And  a  genelman,  after  that,  gave  him  an  order  for 
the  workus.  Then  comes  another  genelman,  and  when  he  says,  says  he, 
to  him, « Poor  boy,  poor  boy,'  that  genelman  says,  <  Hallo,  hallo!  Pofioo, 
police !'  and  gives  him  in  charge.  But  that  wasn't  ail,  your  wusship. 
When  I,  in  duty,  takes  him,  he  resists  like  a  good-un,  and  kicks  me  on 
the  shins." 

"  Has  he  hurt  you,  policeman  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Settleum,  commisers- 


le  has  hurt  me  dreadful,  your  wusship,"  replied  the  witness,  aa 
expression  of  agony  crossing  his  countenance.  "  I've  been  obliged  to  be 
kept  up  with  stimulants  ever  since, — Fve  been  so  low." 

"  Shocking,  shocking,"  murmured  the  magistrate,  clasping  his  palm* 
and  looking  upwards.  A  murmur  of  sympathy  ran  through  the  audience, 
and  the  lump  of  iniquity,  four  feet  high,  crouching  at  the  bar  and  screw- 
ing his  sharp  dirty  knuckles  into  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  commenced 
sobbing,  and  evidently  felt  every  inch  of  him  an  outcast  and  blot  upoa 
creation. 

The  magistrate  gathered  himself  up  for  an  exhibition  of  power. 

"To  what  are  we  coming? — to  what  are  we  coming?"  said  die 
worthy  man,  with  painful  emotion.  Then,  sternly,  "Boy — prisoner, 
what  have  you  to  Say?" 


.     and  Certain  Members  of  his  Family.  321 

"If— if — you  please — your — wusship,"  sobbed  the  culprit,  "I— I— 
only  begged  'cos  I  was  hungry.  I'd  had  no  wittles,  your  wusship,  for  a 
—a — whole  day — your  wusship." 

"  Why  don't  you  apply  to  your  relatives,  boy?"  asked  the  magis- 
trate, with  great  asperity. 

"  I — I've — no  relatives,  your  wusship ;  no — nobody — but  a  mother- 
in-law." 

"It's  no  use  asking  you  any  questions,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Settleum; 
"you're  quite  hardened.  Now,  here  is  a  boy,"  continued  the  magistrate, 
addressing  those  around — "  a  desperate,  ferocious  ruffian,  who  has  seri- 
ously hurt  that  brave  man  there  "  (policeman  X  was  immediately  covered 
with  blushes),  "  whose  shin  has  been  nobly  sacrificed  in  the  great  cause 
of  order.  I  say  here  is  this  determined  vagabond  convicted  on  the 
dearest  testimony  of — begging !  Now  I  have  called  upon  this  fellow 
for  his  defence,  and  I  ask  what  has  his  defence  been  ?  Why,  has  he 
not  had  the  audacity  to  urge  as  his  reason  for  begging — that  he  was 
hungry !" 

There  were  whispers  of  admiration  in  court ;  but  some  man  in  the 
corner  (a  carpenter,  out  of  work)  exclaimed,  "  And  an  uncommon  good 
reason,  too !"  for  which  he  was  straightway  taken  out  by  the  officer. 

"  I  will  waste  no  more  words  upon  him,"  continued  Mr.  Settleum, 
wrathfully.     "  Fourteen  days  and  hard  labour." 

"  Now,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Mr.  Butcher,  in  a  low  tone  to  Mrs. 
Tubbs,  who  so  hated  anything  like  a  display  of  feeling,  that  he  would  do 
his  utmost  always  to  check  it, — "  Mr.  Tubbs  is  coming ;  but  don't  say  a 
word — don't  cry  a  tear.  You  can't  think  what  mischief  it  will  do  if  you 
show  any  sign  of  recognition.  Don't  fear  in  the  least.  What  is  Mr* 
Settleum  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Fence  ?  Bless  me,  a  chicken,  ma'am— a 
new-born  chicken," 

Thus  enjoined,  Mrs.  Tubbs  said  not  a  word  when  her  beloved  husband, 
in  another  minute,  made  his  appearance  at  the  bar.  Mr.  Tubbs  pre- 
sented rather  a  dismal  aspect ;  but  Mr.  Butcher  went  to  him,  and  he 
quickly  brightened  up,  and  regarded  Mr.  Settleum  with  a  defiant  air. 

The  victim  of  the  alleged  violence  being  in  attendance,  now  stepped 
into  the  witness-box.  She  was  a  weak,  nervous  lady,  and  seemed  in- 
clined to  faint.  She  was  sworn,  and  proceeded  to  give  her  evidence  in  a 
sort  of  feeble  croak,  utterly  inaudible  beyond  a  quarter  of  a  yard. 

"  Pray  speak  up,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Settleum. 

"  This  story  of  yours — at  all  events  be  good  enough  to  let  us  hear  it, 
ma'am,"  cried  Mr.  Fence. 

"  You  really  must  speak  louder,  ma'am,"  cried  the  clerk. 

Thus  exhorted,  the  poor  lady  took  refuge  in  tears,  whereupon  Mir. 
Settleum  regarded  her  with  an  air  as  though  he  were  about  committing 
her  to  the  treadmill.  After  considerable  delay,  however,  something  like 
a  statement  was  got  out  of  her,  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Tubbs  had  insulted 
her,  that  she  had  fled  from  him,  and  he  had  pursued  her,  when  he  was 
taken  into  custody. 

Mr.  Fence,  during  this  narrative,  was  running  over  in  his  mind  whether 
there  might  not  be  raised  some  technical  objection  which,  in  the  fairest 
and  most  orthodox  manner,  would  upset  the  whole  proceeding;  but 
although  he  nearly  rubbed  away  one  of  his  eyebrows  with  his  forefinger 


322  Information  relative  t&Mr^Jixkua  Tubbs. 

nothing  occurred  to  Ainu  He  therefore  ;to6b*  long  bad  steady  staWai 
the  shrinking  witnes^throngK  bkeye^g&ss,  and  entered  o^TO^labowte 
cross-examination*   ■  :■■  ;-       •  •n-.iv  ...    ,;   ;m  -Jj:  <«# 

First  of  all,  would  die  say  now— would  sbeisweer  that  sba>  hsjl&tt 
given  some  encouragement  to  the  defendant  ?  Was  dhe'tfta^  would  *ifte 
swear  even — (there  is  astounding  force  in  that  word  ^.sweaK"'  *  ^Ko^ 
take  care,  sir !  I  ask  you  whether  you  will  soleiKnly  swear,"  aeldon*  foils 
to- startle  a  witness)*--that  the  defendant  was  the  man  whb'hfttfftuistttlti&i 
her  ?  Now*  had  not  she  stated  thai  that?  man  had  red  whiskers  ?  •  How4fcl 
she  know  that  the  man  running  behind  her  was  the-  man/  who  fcad^sti 
tacked  her?  Was  she  perfectly  certain  she*  knew  what  staqwafcttflpat  at 
the  time  ?  Was  she  not  exhilarated  ?  Did  she  really  know  attyUhisg  at 
ail  about  the  matter  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  (for  berlfct  <uc&  tooonfest 
that  she  was.  sure  of  nothing,  could  say  nothing  j  that  she  ^  had  been 
drCaming,  had  been1  in'sueh  a  state  df ;  confusion  that  her  evidence  was 
tot  worth,  sixpence?-:.  '  -..-■         •.!'    ■-..•"  ■'  •        , »  *,:  ■■u'i-.Y  dC 

Under  tins  cheering  and 'encouraging  treatment;  on  the  part  rf^Bfft 
Fence,  the  poor  lady  did  pretty  weJl  adinit- Ais  sat  last,inwd  was  'fittafy 
conveyed  away  in  a  wretched  state  of  prostration,  furnishing  an  awful 
warning  to  all  nervous  females  of  the  punishment  which  invariably  waits 
on  the  being  insulted,  and  the  attending  subsequently  at  a  police-court  to 
bring  justice  to  the  culprit. 

Mr.  Fence  having  then- assumed1  an  air  of  great  responsibility,  rose 
to  address  the  magistrate.  "  Even  admitting  there  had  been  a  little 
over- freedom  on  the  part  of  his  client,  what  did  it  amount  to  ?  A  .weak 
woman  raises  an  outcry  in  the  street ;  a  man  is  seen  running  a  short 
distance  behind  her ;  the  police  interfere,  .and  the,  noor  man  is  taken  into 
custody.  Mr.  Tubbs  nad  been  iiiniri^ 'cettahilyi  Was  not  a  gentleman 
to  dine  ?  In  this  free  country,  he  asked,  ^va^^o^.a.ggnt^man1(-|p.4fte? 
And  if,  after  dining  in,  such  manner  as  a  man^of  propyejrto\  haq - jS^.aJjgty 
to  dine,  Ms  client  had  been  visited  with  a  little  harmless  exuberance  of 
spirit^ — was  it  fair,  or  right,  or  just, — was  it  JpkjgJish,  was  ^ee$sjs$nt 
with,  the  broad  principles  of  the  constitution  of  this  great  jnat^n,  ^ftif^ 
should  suffer  annoyance  or  injury  ?  No,  no,  no;  psr^htha  |WugJ#l^§9 
long  as  there  remained  in  the  hearts  of  Britons  those  Ingt.a^o^.^f^ 
feelings  which  reflected  on  them  such  undying  lustre,  so  long  ahcnld,  jfe 
(Mr,  Fence)  feel  perfect  confidence  that  a  man  like  his.  ^pec^edefien^ 
a  man  of  ample  means,  would  be "  .■    ...»'."!,.  r 

«  I  beg  your  pardon/'  interposed  Mr,  Settleum,  inclining  Ju^.ea^ 
"ample  means  ?*' 

"  Large  property,  sir,"  said  Mr,?  Fence,  slowly  and  with  solemn  earn- 
estness, " — would  be  allowed,  that  ireeopra  of  thought  and  action  fen;  which 
his  ancestors  had  fought  and  bled,  and  without  which  existence  wookl ,)$ 
an  unendurable  curse."  .    [, 

Mr.  Fence  resumed  his  seat,  and  Mr.  Settleum  at  once  gave  his  deci- 
sion. In  the  mildest  tones  he  said  (addressing  the  reporters),  that  be  felt 
it  very  shocking  that  a  man  in  Mr.  Tubbs's  position  should  be  so  urn* 
pleasantly  placed.  He  might  say  it  was  very  disgraceful.  The  charge 
must  be  considered  as  proved,  and  it  was  the  magistrate's  duty  to  inflict 
a  heavy  penalty.  He  could  not  express  the  pain  he  suffered  at  that 
moment  (here  the  worthy  man's  voice  faltered) ;  still,  his  course  was 


.oI:mT       Sh^aJtspiarels  EnglaneL  ■•.:wv\jtl 

jclear.  A  shameful  outrage  had  been  committed  ?  it  must  be  punished--* 
heavily  punished*  and,  therefore^,  earnestly  teusting  tha*  the  sentence  he 
was  about  to  pronounce  would  be  a  lasting  warning  to*  the  <  defendant^ 
and. produce  in  him  that  permanent  salutary  impression  which  was  the 
object  of  all  punishment,  he  should  oall  upon  him  to  pay  forthwith  afin# 

of^forty  shillings. ^    : 

Somehow  or  other  Mr.  Tubbs  managed  to  liquidate  this  appalling 
penalty  (which,  in  fact,, wa3  not  quite  theivalue1  of  one  of  the  turbans 
Jately  Jeft  him  by  Aunt  Matilda),  and  left  the  court  rejoicing  with  hi* 
relatives  and  friends*  .  i;      , 

:j  Depend  upon  it,  reader^  ill-doing  always  brings  its  punishment.  Thus 
it  was  that  that  unworthy  female,  who  had  been,  the  cause  of  so  much  in- 
convenience. ■. to  i Mr.Tuhbsy was  ebnsideredi by 'her  employer  <(tbe<  owner 
of  a  millinery .? >e$tabl&hriieiity  to  have  acted  very  wrongly  in  appear** 
log  againsfc  such:  a  :l%hly  i  respectable  jperson  as  mMt*  Fenced  had  described 
Mr.  Tubbs  to  be.  "  In  fact,  Mrs.  Jones,"  concluded  the  proprietor,  <*  I 
believe  it;  to  .have  been,  all  youriauk.  .  We  .will fternu'naAfr  wft'cbn- 
ntoucivif  ye«  plea^  thisiday^moctih/'   /,..   ,,{- i^.,  ,  t;..;  .,  ■  -j   ...:>  i 

:-.'i.'.  •.  .'i  „ij;i1<i;*srsM  .»'••■  J'.itj-  -iij  :f<  :j;J..  j..»ii  ,-  -l/'  ..i  ,;i  ,';,'/  i-.«-.-<.  ,  > 
.-!'-••.••        !<j.'.;  b;  ' .;. :    il  'Oiv    "•'  .■>/"•  i-  .'i'U'j    <!i).      !•  ■       i;jiti:     *    -.;•■  ■  >'».  »sl    iu;     ..;    ^     >   m-.-V 

-"hjiuv  -.ui..;  .«j    •.";•..'!,  ^-aJ 

i.JlT'i    /,     ■•  «  -v*  Lu.<*     v  7-  m1  :     ^.v-Uiiciii,     i;  ./L'»  .  ;  J*.  "J.-i^j-.M:    .M'J    ;-  -il'i-j;    v) 

Ji .  < /-     A  "•"•..♦    JiiiK    ..r;     .11    \\',)      \i\i\t<?    ,::j'!j.   >    -.111      i-'J/J^j     :-il>    il' ;    .1  ..>;».>':■  I  -u  'O 

;  "To  fcrtttf,a<t'1dea-of  ShukstJeare's  England— of  the  England  of  the 
BWeentW^nturyi^^  back  with  Mr.  Thornbury  to  days  of  gilt 

rapiers  atid  rose*  'VA  the?;  shoe,  or1' ruff  and  farthingale,  of  peaked  beards 
and  slashed  hose v 'to-  tkrys  when  fdrfcs  were  a  novelty,  and  tobacco- 
^abkihg  the  la^' caprice  of  fksM6ii^'!  We  must  forget  for  a  time  black 
coats  arid'sil&Mts/a^d'pebb^'the'oid  streets  with  crowds  of  gallants  in 
motley  waverinjg  silks,  all  fluttering' witti  iris  cojbursV  matching  so  weft 
the  gay  bonnet-feathers  and  ^eri^hsib*  jewels  ih  the  etlr^mhrin  th4 
mob  a  sprinkling1  of  leather-jerttfried'  'prentices,  sbbe^-clad,  flat-cap{)e& 
citizens^  players  in  faded  satin,  sturdy ^water-carriers, ^^  and  noisy ,  shop- 
keepers ealhng  "What  do  ybu  lick?'* -all  day,  under  ^eir  penthouses 
and  at  their  doors.  ,      '   "     '      \ 

It  is  difficult  to  realise  016!  London,  With  its  nafrrow  streets,  foil  of 
plumed  and  ponderous  coaches;  its  tide,  alive  with  innumerable  boats; 
the  'Thames,  not  yet  a  concrete  of  coal<-dust  and  mud,  but  a  crystal  flood, 
sheltered  with  palaces,  shaded  with  trees,  and  perfumed  with  flowers : 

Imagine  the  Tower,  not  deserted  and  forgotten,  but  busy  an4  frequented, 
and  the  citadel  of  the  city;  the  Borough. side  a  broad  tract  of  green  fields  and 
thatched  cottages.    Whitehall  is  new  and  glittering ;  but  one  bridge  only  spans 

*  Shakspere's  England ;  or,  Sketches  of  our  Social  History  in  the  Reign  of 
IBlizabeth.  By  G.  W.  Thornbury,  author  of  the  "History  of  the  Buccaneers,*' 
.&&    Two  Vols.    Longman  and  Go. 


324  Shakspeares  England. 

the  rirer,  with  its  lines  of  Houses,  its  ohapel,  and  its  ghastly  tows  of  shriveHai 
heads.  Oxford-street  is  a  muddy  country  road  leading  to  Tyburn.  Hyde  fad 
is  bare  and  open,  Islington  a  village,  and  Mary lebone  a  suburb.  Noblemen  are 
dwelling  in  Drury-lane  and  Aldersgate,  yes,  even  in  the  oldest  portions  of  the 
city,  and  the  West  End  is  unthought  of.  No  distinctive  grades  of  social 
position  are  yet  known,  and  the  tradesman  lives  at  the  very  doors  of  the  richest 
nobles  in  England.  Everywhere  there  are  fields  and  gardens  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  most  crowded  streets.  St.  Paul's  is  the  gentleman's  fashionable 
promenade,  and  Moorfields  the  favourite  walk  of  the  citizens.  The  gable-ended 
shops  are  hung  thick  with  signs ;  foreign  armour  and  tapestries  are  in  the  ope* 
stalls,  and  a  perpetual  cry  of  "  What  do  you  lack  P"  resounds  at  every  door  and 
under  every  penthouse. 

It  is  still  more  difficult  to  realise  London  as  a  walled  city,  having  gates 
like  Thebes,  and  able  to  stand  a  siege  like  Troy.  There  was  a  deep,  fond 
feeling  of  home  when  Ludgate,  Bishopsgate,  Cripplegate,  Moorgate,  and 
Aldgate  were  shut  at  a  certain  hour,  when  Bow-bell  rang,  and  citbsens 
felt  they  were  barred  in  for  the  night,  guarded  and  watched  oyer  by  men 
of  their  own  appointing.  London  is  too  large  now  to  love  as  a  mother, 
and  too  dirty  to  honour  as  a  father. 

At  Ludgate  was  a  gaol,  where  the  prisoners  clamoured  for  alms  at  the 
barred  grate ;  and  it  was  here  that  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  had  been  repulsed. 
Pimlico  was  a  country  place,  where  citizens  used  to  repair  to  eat  "  pudding- 
pies"  on  a  Sunday,  as  they  did  to  Islington  or  Hogsden,  to  take  tobacco 
and  drink  new  milk.  Hollo  way  was  equally  famous  for  its  cheese-cakes; 
and  it  is  these  peculiarities  that,  after  all,  confer  immortality  upon  a 
place : 

Chelsea  was  the  mere  village  of  Chelsea,  known  from  Sir  Thomas  More's 
house,  where  Henry  VIH.  had  walked  with  his  arm  round  that  great  states- 
man's doomed  neck ;  as  Holborn  was  then  a  country  road  leading  to  the  pleasant 
village  of  St.  Giles,  and  trending  on  to  the  way  that  led  to  Oxford,  and  to  fatal 
Tyburn,  so  called  from  its  burn  or  brook,  then  well  known  to  patient  city 
anglers.  The  triple  tree  or  gallows  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  present  Edgware- 
road.  The  same  Oxford-street  led  also,  if  you  turned  up  one  side  of  the 
Ham£stead-road,  to  the  Tottenham  Court,  which  stood  there  alone  far  in  the 
country,  and  Primrose  Hill  was  an  untrodden  hillock,  surrounded  by  wide  paths 
and  ditches,  between  this  Court  and  Hampstead. 

A  cheerful  little  stream,  known  by  the  pleasant  name  of  Fleet,  rose  near  Hamp- 
stead Hill,  and,  joined  by  the  Old  Bourne  and  recruited  by  sparkling  Clerken  Well, 
emptied  itself  m  the  Thames.  Though  even  then  merely  a  sewer,  it  was  open, 
and  had  four  bridges  of  its  own,  while  the  Thames  had  but  one ;  and  these  were 
known  as  Holborn  Bridge,  Beet-lane  Bridge,  Fleet  Bridge,  and  Bridewell 
Bridge. 

Spitalfields  was  a  grassy  open  space,  with  artillery  grounds  and  a  pulpit  and 
cross,  where  fairs  were  held  and  sermons  were  preached.  There  were  also  Tothill 
Fields,  and  Finsbury  Fields,  and  Moor  Fields,  just  outside  the  city  walls,  laid  o«t 
in  walks,  and  planted,  as  far  as  Hoxton.  Bound  these  squares  there  were  wind- 
mills and  everything  equally  rural.  As  for  Piccadilly,  it  was  everywhere  known 
as  a  road  to  Reading,  and  by  many  herbalists,  as  harbouring  the  small  wild  fox- 
glove in  its  dry  ditches. 

Outside  Temple  Bar,  before  the  wooden  gatehouse  was  built,  lay  the  Strand, 
the  road  leading  from  the  City  to  the  houses  of  Court.  This  river  bank  was  the 
chosen  residence  of  the  nobility,  whose  gardens  stretched  to  the  edge  of  the 
undefiled  river.  The  sky  was  then  pure  and  bright,  for  our  ancestors  burnt 
wood  fires,  and  the  water  was  gay  with  thousands  of  boats.  Each  house  had 
its  terrace,  its  water  stairs,  and  garden.    The  street  houses  were  so  scattered 


Shakspeare's  England.  325 

that  the  river  could  be  seen  between,  and  there  were  three  watercourses  there 
traversed  by  bridges,  besides  two  churches  and  a  maypole.  Here  stood  York 
House,  where  Bacon  was  born,  and  Durham  Place,  where  Raleigh  lived,  with 
his  study  in  a  turret  overlooking  the  river;  there  also  was  Arunael  House  and 
Essex  House,  where  great  men  pined  and  plotted. 

At  Whitehall  stood  Wolsey's  palace,  enlarged  by  Henry  VIII.,  and 
Elizabeth's  favourite  residence  when  not  at  Nonsuch,  Windsor,  Green- 
wich, or  Richmond.  The  tilt-yard  stood  where  the  Horse  Guards  now 
stands ;  St  James's  Palace  was  in  existence,  as  was  also  the  park ;  but 
as  for  the  old  palace  of  Richard  III.  (Baynard's  Castle),  it  had  been 
let  to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  and  the  same  king's  dwelling  of  Crosby 
Hall  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  an  alderman. 

While  the  real  glory  of  the  City  was  the  Royal  Exchange,  built  by 
<Sir  Thomas  Gresham,  with  its  quadrangle,  arcades,  and  merchants'  walks, 
vrith  its  armourers,  goldsmiths,  and  haberdashers'  shops,  and  its  'Change 
bell,  ringing  at  twelve  and  six,  the  most  characteristic  erection  in  Old 
London  was  its  pride — the  bridge.  It  had  a  gatehouse  and  drawbridge 
at  each  end,  and  in  the  middle  a  chapel  dedicated  to  that  restless 
a  Becket,  in  the  crypt  of  which  lay  the  body  of  the  founder,  Peter  of 
Colechurch,  who  died  in  1205.  The  bridge  was  lined  with  stately 
liouses,  with  spaces  here  and  there  for  travellers  to  rest,  and  look  at  the 
fair  flowing  river  over  the  parapet ;  the  houses  had  gable-ends,  platform 
roofs,  small  gardens,  and  arbours.  Near  the  drawbridge,  and  overhanging 
the  water,  was  the  famed  Nonsuch  House,  a  carved  and  gilt  building, 
constructed  in  Holland,  entirely  of  timber,  and  put  together  with  wooden 
pegs.  The  sober  citizens  believed  the  bridge  to  be  one  of  the  wonders 
of  the  world,  and  rejoiced  that  on  the  gatehouse  the  heads  of  thirty  priests 
and  rebels  might  sometimes  be  counted  at  the  same  time. 

At  this  time,  we  are  further  informed  by  our  most  agreeable  cicerone, 
Mr.  Thornbury,  there  was  a  feeling  of  social  pleasure  over  the  whole 
city;  Grocers,  Drapers,  Ironmongers,  Salters,  and  Merchant  Tailors' 
Halls,  had  all  their  gardens  and  bowling-alleys.  Sir  Paul  Pindar, 
Gresham's  contemporary,  had  gardens  in  Bishopsgate-street.  There 
were  gardens  in  Aldersgate-street  and  Westminster  ;  there  were  gardens 
round  Cornhill-market,  and  gardens  in  Clerkenwell ;  Smithfield  was 
planted  with  trees  ;  trees  waved  in  St.  Giles's  ;  and  Ely-place  was- 
famous  for  flowers ;  Leicester  fields  and  Soho  were  open  tracts,  and  near 
Leather-lane  the  queen's  gardener  lived,  and  lived  to  plant  and  sow  : 

The  old  streets  must  be  imagined,  with  their  gabled  timber  houses ;  swinging, 
ponderous  signs  to  every  shop ;  the  streets  badly  paved ;  the  shops  with  mere 
penthoused  sneds,  beneath  which  the  'prentices  cried  unceasingly,  "  What  d'ye 
lack,  gentles  ?  what  d'ye  lack  f"  before  the  goods  laid  out  on  bulkheads,  just  as  a 
fishmonger  now  lays  out  his  fish.  Fleet-street,  then  a  suburb,  with  its  conduit 
opposite  Shoe-lane,  was  famous  for  shows,  and  boasted  of  the  Devil's  Tavern, 
wnere  Ben  Jonson  and  the  wits  met.  The  Three  Cranes  in  the  Vintry,  the  Bear 
at  Bridge  Foot,  were  the  most  noted  inns.  There  still  remain  in  London  a  few 
Elizabethan  houses  with  their  open  courts  and  galleries,  stuccoed  roofs,  carved 
chimney-pieces,  rich  porches,  panelled  wainscoted  rooms,  and  leaded  case- 
ments. Some  of  the  old  hosteties  also  stand,  with  their  open  balconies  and 
paved  court-yards,  where  our  earliest  plays  were  acted — the  audience  crowding 
in  the  windows  above. 

There  was  a  cross  in  Cheap,  and  a  very  old  one  at  Charing.    Conduits 


were  numerous  in  all  parts  of  die  city,  and  were  generally  surrounded  by 
'prentices  carrying  jugs,  or  water-bearers  with  their  yokes  (and  bucket*. 
8t  Paul's  was  the  booksellers'  quarter,  and  Houndsditch  was  the  firi^peij 
for  second-hand  clothes.  The  difference  between  ancient  and  modern^ 
London  may  be  conceived  from  the  fact  that  eighty-nine  churches  were; 
burnt  down  by  the  Great  Fire,  and  only  fifty-one  rebuilt.  Of  these  old 
churches,  some  bore  the  names  of  saints  now  almost  forgotten,  as  St 
Bennet  Sherehog,  St  Michael  Quern,  St.  Vedast,  St,  Margaret  Moses; 
St.  Andrew  Hubbard,  and  St.  Anne  in  the  Willows.  One  almost  regret* 
that  the  age  of  superstition  is  gone  by,  and  with  it  the  memory  of  such 
homely  saints. 

Marylebone  Park  and  Regent's  Park,  in  Elizabeth's  time,  were  a  deer- 
park  and  a  tilt-ground.  Old  London  also  boasted  of  many  wells,  now 
sullied  or  bricked  up,  but  the  names  of  which  .still*  remain  attached' to 
streets,  or  neighbourhoods.  The  streets  of  London  were  always  -  throng^* 
with  some  procession  ox  pageant.  There  is  Alderman;  Godsin  tit>  bet 
married,  ox  the  lord  mayor  to  be  inaugurated ;  an  ambassador  visit inffi 
Guildhall,  or  a  rogue  to  be  put  in  the  pillory  ;  a  sermon  at  SkFauw 
Gross,  or  a  proclamation  to  be  read  at  the  cross  in  the  Cheap  :    '      ' 

The  bright  river  we  must  imagine  as  when  it  supported  40.050  watermen, 
and  floated  2000  small  boats;  when  the  idler,  tired  of  bowls  6r ' dice,  hi 
nothing  to  do  but  to  step  down  to  Queenhithe  or  the  Temple1  and  have  an- sifted* 
noon's  salmon  fishing;  when  the  water  was  gay  with  crowds  going -to  tie 
theatres,  all  silk  and  gold,  and  many  colours ;  with  ladies  returning  to  -tail: 
palace,  or  with  the  royal  train  rowing  to  the  sound  of  flutes  .and  trumpets  jpsst 
Kichmond  or  Greenwich.  The  poet's  Cleopatra  on  the  Cydnus,  is,  Elizabeth  op. 
the  Thames,  seen  poetically,  when  silks  trailed  in  the  water  and  gathered  ho. 
pollution, — when  the  river  was  neither  a  sewer,  nor  a  dark,  forgotten  back 


There  was  no  noise  then  in  London  byways;  no  brain-shattering  dm;  no1 
roar  of  wheels ;  no  selfish  rush  of  avarice  and  fear.  London  was  hot  too  large 
to  love ;  the  local  points  were  few  and  well  marked;  they  could  be  retained  ra- 
the mind  like  the  scenes  of  youth,— like  the  Castle  of  Edinburgh,  or  the  Acta 
polis  of  Athens.  If  the  buildings  were  not  impressive,  they  were  picturesque; 
if  not  rich,  they  were  quaint  and  individualised.  There  were  no  long  miles  of 
wearisome  terraces  and  dull  doors,  that  numb  the  senses  and  oppress  the  brain. 

The  aspect  of  the  Elizabethan  house,  Mr.  Thornbury  remarks,  is 
known  to  every  Englishman.  Who  does  not  remember  the  gable  end, 
the  gilt  vane,  the  stone-shafted  oriel,  the  chimneys  of  moulded  brick, ' 
with  their  rich  ornaments,  overgrown  by  the  honeysuckle  op  the  ity?- 
Outside  is  the  old  terrace,  with  its  ivied  statues  and  roses ;  inside,  the  old 
hall,  with  the  lozenged  floor,  the  stag's  horns,  and  quaint  pictures.  What 
recollections  linger  in  the  faded  tapestry,  the  tall  Flemish  flagon,  the 
shovel-board,  and  the  wormeaten  cross-bows  I 

And  then  mark  the  chase, — still  full  of  deer,  and  the  gnarled  elm  where 
Elizabeth  herself  used  to  stand  to  wait  for  the  stag  of  ten,  with  all  her  ladies 
round  her,  and  the  nobles,  and  the  wits,  and  poets  in  the  second  ring, — Shak- 
speare  calm  and  wise;  Sidney  gay  and  ardent;  and  Essex  fiery  and  impatient; 
Leicester  dark  and  smiling;  Ben  Jonson  rugged  and  sullen;  and  Raleigh  proud 
and  cold ; — such  a  band  ol  great  men  as  have  never  since  met  on  earth,  not  with 
Johnson  at  his  club,  with  Scott  at  his  claret,  nor  with  Coleridge  at  a  Highgate 
tea-party. 

Tne  houses,  built  for  leisure  days  of  magnificence  and  display,  have  generally 


their  courtyards,  where  the  bridal  or  the  hunting  train  o6tild  vwiiitT  ieaicl  pratic^ 
the  terrace  where  the  ladies,  with  merlin  in  their  fists >  could  ipace  iir  conipanj 
with  Uie  mad  lovers  in  the  ruff  ami  cloak,  with  roses  ini  tkeir^hoes,'  ana  gift 
rapiers  by  their  side;  huge  panelled  rooms,  stamped  mtliiheralcUodsvtiees, whore 
grey  ^bearded  men  could  entrance  Shallows  ana  Ague-cheeks  with .'.' e$c$ltent 
good  conceited  things,"  or  perform  ravishingly  upon  theyiolpr  gampo.  They 
have  high  clock-towers,  bushed  with  ivy*  where  owls  bulla  among  the  bells,  an)S 
from  whence  thundering  volleys  were  discharged  at  the  birth  or  inarriage  of 
heirs;  quaint  gardens, with  clipped,  hedges,  where  lovers  'watched'  the"  fountain* 
god  who  weeps  perpetually  for  some  deed  done  long  since  in  the  "desk';  uowling^ 
greens  where  the  old  knights  and  chaplains  every  day  quarrelleflband  mane* 
friends;  huge  halls  foT  Christmas  feasts  and  mummings,  or  a  chapel  for  Secret 
masses  or  early  prayers :,:  lone  passages  for  vpicesi  at  midnight,  jan&iW^id 
murmurings  •  and  Durial  vaWtsTfor^he^dead  if)  }i$  ui  quietjy  andrpe  forgotten.  ,, 

t \  Nor  were  there  wariting j  examples  of  the  Tliddr,  or  «of  ihW  Ciriqtie-ieento J 
vtlwh  <bega&  to/mingle  withiti  in  Elizabeth's  rei^n.  '  Tker4;wa£  Sftert#? 
Betaulieu,.  H^o^onii  Jjfa^tbilV  «nid  a  host?  of  others,' aH  builfclwlth  aboey' 
rnpneys.  Thesewere  Hanipfom^Jork  Hbaste^aml  Esher,  ddm^leted'  W ' 
iktoiBid Man.  Where  were  iH^oiiHalljCc^ray,  Hewer,  and^wtehtrtP 
other  palacesiofJibe-ibbili^i^Ia^EKzabethy  tlmfc !  Lelfcestdri  fended* 

\  The,  J^exeu^ c>f t$h^  ^e,jpj .S^atapewre  Ii^itiappewi^uTOiairy  waya. 
Ot  tilling  Unie>,  ,  /tfe^^iwa8  the  fUQineaade  at  iPaul's^  a  duty  and aplea* 
sn*e;  th$  ordinary «ind  newsagents  atnoon^  byno  means  to  toe  missed ; :[ 
the  theatre' at  two*  abd  the  43ou*i  revels  in  the1  evening.  ! 

For  la  lotttfr1  $akrtfeefce  1wASi  arlchery  .dtifl  M !  qttm&iti;.Jtifi0  fencing^^ 


serhdpl,  and  s^ord"  and  T&ipkler  jtfajr,  the  ,danc^g-s^biQp^  the  bear:garc(eqr:  ] 
aiad  ihe  ^pek-pit^  ^ic^  '#>.,  fi)l  f  up  th,e /, leisure,  hours,  and  tha  last  new  j 
juggler,  or  the  newesf  moiion  (puppet-show)  to  visit  and  criticise.  The< ; 
peculiar^  feature j£  EJj^ahethan life  was  its  Sociability. 

Old  St,.  Paul's^  already  fully  described  in  Mr.  Ainsworiii's  tOmfanl^^ 
bearing  that  title,  was,  osually'fall  from  eleven  till  twelve!ih  the  mining, ; 
and  from  threfc  to&hHn  %he  aiWrnobn.  ' '/.' 7,       ,  .    /  ,,     ./;,; 

To  this  spot  the ;  fathomable  men  hurried  like  merchants  to  the  Bourse. 
Here  paced  the  actor  conning  bis  part,  side  by  side  with  the  -penniless  ad-" 
venturer.    Hither  came  the  politician  to  talk  news,  and  tl#&  intelhge$oer  (sftv) 
to  listen  a£  his  back.    The  alchemist!  still  reeking  wj^^,rjqn^.pl..'hia  elixir*,? 
repaired  to  PanPs  to  get  an  appetite  for  his  hasty^eal^and  lie  poor,  poet  tp;t 
muse 'over  the  dedication  of  his  next  poem.    The  Precisian' anf  the  young  "^ 
Seminary  priest  jostled  in  the  crowd.    Burleighs  arid  Shauxjws,  Tarneys  aha 
StendarSi  walked  together,  arm  in  arm.    The  beggarly  projector  arid  the^pobr* * 
soldier,  the  rich  citizen  and  the  master  of  fence,  the :  courtier  fresh;  perfumed11 
rroni  the  levee,  and^qprpdigalfvnth  thestrawaof  his. prison  pallet  still  clinging  -\ 
to  his  sleeve,  rambled  about  rani's^  scaring  at  the,  advertisements,  laughing  at. 
the  epitaphs,  or  skipping  up  and  down  the  steps  that  led  into  the  choir. 

To  the  keen  observer  of  that  age  of  contrasts  the  trade  or  rank  of  every 
passer-by  was  at  onee  known.  There  is  the  courtier,  with  his  gold  toothpick  in 
his  hat,  his  long  caned  cloak,  enormous  ruff  and  silk  stockings,  eyeing  a 
ponderous  watch  or  adjusting  the  jewel  in  his  ear.  The  old  citizen  is  mumbling 
over  his  sum  total,  the  thumb  of  one  hand  under  his  girdle,  as  pompously  in  his 
furred  gown  he  beckons  to  two  smart  little  apprentices,  who  follow  him  swinging 
their  bats.  Behind  them  comes  the  young  Templar  and  the  Inn  Of  Court  man, 
trim  in  black  silk  stockings,  beaver  hat,  and  sad-coloured  velvet  cloak  (he  has  a 
taflfety  one  for  summer) ;  he  is  of  rank,  for  his  rapier  is  gilt  and  ins  collar  is  of 


328  Skakspeare's  England. 

rich  Italian  lace.  Holding  his  arm  is  an  undoubted  country  gentleman,  probably 
his  father,  pleased  and  good-humoured,  surprised  at  everything,  and  looking 
round  from  each  group  of  swaggerers  to  his  son  with  a  smile  of  pride  as  if  not 
discouraged  by  the  comparison.  His  dress  is  of  somewhat  ancient  cut ;  though 
it  is  winter  his  cloak  is  of  taffety,  his  stockings  are  actually  yellow,  and  he 
wears  pumps,  which  he  thinks  fashionable,  though  every  one  else  has  boots;  he 
carries  no  rapier,  but  an  ill-hung,  heavy,  Henry  VLLL  sword,  with  a  ton  of 
rusty  iron  in  the  hilt.  The  sheriff  of  the  country  (a  proud  man,  suspected  of 
Papist  opinions,  one  who  quotes  Bellarmine  at  the  sessions  meetings,  and  seldom 
comes  to  church)  just  passed  him,  and,  scarcely  bending  at  all,  watched  him  to 
see  if  he  would  vail  low  enough.  He  is  followed  by  naif  a  dozen  blue-coated 
serving-men,  all  wearing  his  arms  in  silver  on  their  sleeves,  and  who  elbow  their 
way  through  the  crowd  and  enter  the  choir,  although  the  service  is  half  over 
ana  the  palms  already  finished,  while  the  choristers  nod  and  whisper. 

Rouna  one  pillar  stand  the  serving-men  who  are  waiting  to  be  hired,  very 
lean,  hungry,  out-at-elbow  fellows,  discussing  Drake's  capture  of  the  Caeqfbgo, 
brimming  with  silver,  or  the  last  news  from  the  Low  Countries,  while  one  Pistol 
amongst  them  vapours  of  the  dozen  Turks  he  slew  at  Buda  with  the  "poor 
notched  Toledo"  he  wants  to  sell.    Amongst  them  are  swindling  Malvolios,  and 


coney)- (itching  Grumios,  .cheating  trencher-scrapers,  and  sly,  oily  grooms 
tapping  their  legs  with  holly  wands.  Not  far  from  them  is  tne  tomb  of  one 
of  Edward  IIL's  paladins,  now  mistakenly  called  "  Duke  Humphrey's  Tomb," 
and  which  is  the  very  altar  and  central  shrine  of  the  whole  walks.  This  is  the 
Duke  Humphrey  with  whom  dinnerless  men  are  jocosely  said  to  dine.  There's 
one  yonder  picking  his  teeth  who  we  could  bet  a  thousand  angels  has  not 
touched  bit  to-day,  but  he  takes  care  never  to  be  seen  in  Paurs  while  toe 
tavern  dinners  are  toward,  and  if  he  can  fix  himself  on  a  foolish  or  good-natured 
friend  will  revenge  himself  at  supper  for  the  want  of  breakfast.  He  walb 
affectedly  on  tip-toe,  laughs  as  he  looks  at  the  tomb  in  pity  of  the  poor  guests 
of  the  dead  duke,  and  struts  by  with  his  gloved  hand  on  lis  dagger-side. 

In  the  left  alley  are  occasionally  seen  poor  curates  in  threadbare  cassocks, 
lingering  in  search  of  spiritual  employment,  their  marriage  with  some  beloved 
Abigail  having  apparently  dragged  them  down  into  hopeless  and  learned  poverty. 
Here,  in  groups  retired  for  quieter  conversation,  are  spectacled  antiquarians,  who 
use  quaint  words  of  Chaucer's  time,  and  talk  of  "swinking"  and  "for  the 
nones."  Here  assemble  country  justices  who  have  come  up  to  London  to  see 
the  bear-baiting :  they  think  the  Spaniards  all  Jesuits  and  villains ;  captains  oat 
of  service,  who  tell  monstrous  lies  of  Drake ;  and  threadbare  sly  scholars,  with 
Greek  Testaments  sticking  out  of  their  buttonless  doublets,  who  din  your  ears 
with  quotations  from  Seneca  and  Tacitus,  Scaliger  and  Casaubon,  Lipsius  and 
Erasmus ;  and  noisy  controversialists,  who  get  red  in  the  face  railing  at  the  Pope 
and  Arminius,  and  despise  any  books  not  in  MS.  And  there  is  an  aldf*™*" 
in  bis  holiday  satin  doublet  and  gold  chain,  and  a  young  city  preacher,  with  a 
cloak  with  a  narrow  velvet  cape  and  serge  facings;  his  ruff  as  short  as  his  hair, 
and  he  is  a  little  sour  and  thin,  as  most  Precisians  are.  And  there  is  the  quack 
physician  watching  for  country  patients,  astonishing  the  russet  wearers  with 
quotations  from  Paracelsus  and  Alexis  of  Piemont,  holding  a  phial  of  clear 
gold-coloured  liquid  up  to  the  light.  Against  the  wall  leans  a  Low  Country 
ensign  with  his  arm  in  an  orange-tawny  scarf;  and,  gliding  serpentine  through 
the  throng,  goes  a  cut-purse,  too  quick  for  you  to  see  his  short  crooked  knife 
and  the  horn  tip  that  guards  his  busy  thumb. 

Here  come  men  from  taverns,  ana  tilt-yards,  and  bear-baitings,  and  theatres, 
and  rows  upon  the  river,  from  the  Court  at  Hampton  or  Greenwich,  up  or  down 
from  the  tobacco  office  and  the  news-shop,  from  the  sempsters'  stalls  at  Gres- 
ham's  Exchange  and  the  Rose  theatre,  from  the  fence-yard  and  the  dancing- 
school,  hot  from  the  tavern  and  cold  from  the  scornful  presence.  "  It  was  a 
fashion  of  those  times,"  savs  a  gentle  writer  of  the  day,  "for  the  principal 
gentry,  lords,  courtiers,  ana  men  of  all  professions,  not  merely  merchants,  to. 


Shakspearefs  England.  329 

meet  in  Saint  Paul's  Church  by  eleven  and  walk  in  the  middle  aisle  till  twelve, 
and  after  dinner  from  three  to  six.  Daring  this  time  some  (discoursed  of 
business  and  others  of  news."  Few  events  of  the  day  but  were  heard  of  here, 
sooner  or  later.  The  Armada,  and  the  bull  that  was  so  daringly  nailed  up  at 
the  door  of  a  bishop's  house,  the  queen's  new  suitor,  the  rivalry  of  Essex  and 
Raleigh,  Kenilworth  and  Theobalds,  were  all  whispered  about  here  amid  nodding 
heads,  crossed  fingers,  mysterious  gestures,  and  pale  faces. 

Paul's  was  the  Exchange  of  news,  for  news  is  among  idlers  a  rich  and  pre- 
cious merchandise.  The  wits  and  poets  called  it  the  "Thieves'  Sanctuary," 
"L'ittle  Britain,"  the  "World's  epitome,"  a  "Babel  of  stones  and  men,"  a 
"Synod  of  politic  pates,"  the  " Busy  parliament,"  the  "Mint  of  lies."  The 
newsmongers  \>f  Paul's  were  known  as  a  peculiar  race.  Burleigh's  and  Walsh- 
ingham's  spies  came  here  to  thrust  themselves  into  men's  companies  and  worm, 
out  secret  conspiracies.  Malcontents  rambled  about,  careless  and  sneering. 
Some  strolled  hither  to  "get  a  stomach,"  as  the  phrase  went;  and  thrifty  men 
to  walk  out  their  dinner,  and  purchase  their  board  and  meal  cheap.  Many 
made  it  their  club,  and  only  left  the  church  to  sleep.  It  was  a  lodging  rent 
free,  where  society  never  failed,  where  the  best  company  came,  and  where  in- 
vitations to  dinner  could  be  got. 

The  Minster  walk  was  the  very  centre  of  amusement.  Several  of  the  theatres 
were  near ;  one  in  Shoreditch,  one  at  Blackfriars,  and  one  in  Southwark.  The 
Exchange  and  all  its  shops,  Cheap  and  all  its  goldsmiths,  Watling-street  and  its 
clothiers,  were  all  near.  Outside  the  church  lay  the  booksellers'  shops. 
Tarleton's  and  some  of  the  best  ordinaries  were  close  by.  At  no  great  distance 
were  the  choicest  taverns :  the  Bear  at  Bridge  Foot ;  the  Three  Cranes  in  the 
Vintry;  the  Devil  and  Apollo  in  Meet-street;  the  Mitre;  and  the  Mermaid. 
There  were  the  Motions,  too,  not  far  off,  the  Bear-garden,  and  the  river.  It 
was  but  a  walk  to  take  the  air  in  Moor  Fields;  and  hackney  coaches  were  at 
hand  to  rumble  one  off  to  ruralise  at  Tottenham,  or  regale  on  cakes  and  ale  at 
Pimlico. 

It  was  to  Paul's  young  scapegraces  came  to  dazzle  citizens  with  their  new 
white  satin  suits,  their  gilt  rapiers,  Italian  scented  doublets,  taffety  lace  cloaks, 
embossed  girdles,  silver  jingling  spurs,  peach-coloured  stockings,  Spanish  leather 
ruffled  boots,  and  network  collars.  Just  as  English  travellers  drag  their  port- 
manteaus through  a  German  cathedral,  "  doing  it"  on  their  way  to  the  railway 
station,  so  porters  used  to  carry  their  burdens  through  Paul's  Walk,  and 
courtiers  lead  their  pet  Iceland  (Sky}  dogs.  Here  the  very  lawyers  had  a  pillar 
at  which  they  received  clients, — loud-voiced,  violent  farmers,  ana  crazed,  greasy, 
litigious  citizens.  In  the  summer  the  barristers  stood  on  the  steps  outside ;  in 
the  winter,  round  a  particular  pillar,  their  clients  ringing  down  their  unwilling 
rials  upon  the  flat  cover  of  the  font.  Solemn  men  were  these  aspirants  for  the 
coif,  who  quoted  Plowden,  and  dated  every  event,  like  a  statate,  from  the 
3  Hen.  Oc.  8f  4  Ed.  Quin.  Here,  too,  came  gallants,  and  brisk  pages  behind 
them,  carrying  their  silver-trimmed  cloaks,  to  look  for  servants,  or  to  borrow 
money  of  rich  citizens  who  had  fattened  on  the  Muscovy  trade,  and  had  ven- 
tured cargoes  to  Virginia.  Tailors  lurked  here  to  observe  the  last  fashion  of 
court  cloak,  the  blush-coloured  satin,  cut  upon  cloth  of  gold,  and  framed  with 
pearl;  while  pimps  came  here  to  beg.  Here,  too,  prowled  desperadoes  of  the 
Black  Will  and  ohakebag  class,  with  ruffianly  hair,  who  could  relate,  if  they 
chose,  many  cases  of  sudden  death  at  Gad's  Hill  and  Hockley-i'-the-Hole,  New- 
market, or  Salisbury  Plain ;  and  in  Shakebag's  pocket  we  can  hear  jingle  four 
gold  angels  and  fifteen  shillings  of  white  money,  the  produce  of  nis  last 
robbery,  in  which  he  was  aided  by  a  band  of  Abram  men  and  swarth  Egyp- 
tians. 

Passing  over  the  bear-baiting,  cock-fighting,  jugglers,  gamblers,  the 
Duelle  affords  matter  for  a  pleasant  chapter,  for  when  Bobadil  ventured 
his  poor  gentlemanlike  carcase,  by  the  help  of  his  nineteen  special  rules, 


3u}Q  Shahpeare's  England/ 

his  pun  to  reverso,  stoccata,  imbrocatto  passada,  and  montantoy  to  spate 
the  entire  lives  of  the  queen's  subjects,  he  did  but  utter  the  ridiculous 
threats  to  be  heard  any  day  in  the  London  fencing-school. 

Serving-men,  diet,  and  dress,  constitute  common-place  themes,  whereby 
the  better  to  enter  upon  the  more  exciting  topics  of  the  desperate  and 
daring  thieves  of  Shakspeare's  time — maunderers  and  clapper-dudgeon*,; 
dommerers  and  hookers,  rogues,  rufflers,  tavern  bullies,  and  braves. 
The  raciness  and  abundance  of  materials  have  made  this  the  longest 
chapter  in  tbe  book,  and  not  the  least  interesting,  from  the  singularly 
graphic  way  in  which  they  paint  the  manners  of  every- day  life. 

Nor  are  hunting  and  hawking  less  picturesque  topics ;  they  remove  us[ 
from  the  haunts  of  adventurers  and  sanctuaries  of  thieves  into  the  purer, 
atmosphere  of  the  country,  and  more  select  company.  It  must,  indstd,  1 
have  been  rare  days  at  Enfield,  when  twelve  ladies  in  white  satin  ambled 
out  upon  their  palfreys,  attended  by  twenty  yeomen  in  green,  to  hunt 
the  hart,  and  were  met  in  the  chase  by  eighty  archers,  in  scarlet  boots 
and  yellow  caps,  and  bearing  gilt  bows,  who  presented  the  Lady  Elizabeth 
with  a  silver  arrow,  winged  with  a  peacock's  plume,  and  prayed  her  to 
cut  a  deer's  throat  with  her  own  maidenly  hand. 

Perhaps,  however,  one  of  the  most  interesting  pictures  of  the  age  in 
connexion  with  Shakspeare  is  Shakspeare's  Stage.  While  smiling  at  the 
Elizabethan  theatre,  which  he  says  must  be  viewed  as  little  better  than 
one  of  Richardson's  shows,  as  far  as  appliances  go,  Mr.  Thornbury  gives 
the  most  lively  and  picturesque  account  of  the  actors  of  the  day,  the 
scenery  and  dress  of  strolling  players,  and  of  Shakspeare's  contemporaries. 

Our  "  Augustan  age,"  as  it  has  been  termed,  was,  strange  to  say,  still 
an  era  of  superstition.  It  was  the  era  of  Dr.  Dee  and  Kelly  ;  alchemy 
had  its  thousands  of  votaries,  and  witches  were  still  believed  in  by  the 
multitude.  Here  are  themes  for  two  racy  chapters,  cleverly  and  plea- 
santly handled. 

Equally  characteristic  of  the  day  is  a  sketch  of  Wapping  in  1588.  The 
description  is  also  particularly  illustrative  of  Mr.  Thornbury's  style : 

The  Wapping  of  Elizabeth's  day  was  a  dense  network  of  narrow,  dirty 
streets,  whose  fronts  nodded  to,  and  almost  touched,  each  other.  Below  were 
rope-walks,  biscuit  shops,  old  clothes  stores,  and  dusty  piles  of  Indian  curiosities, 
much  as  are  at  present  in  such  localities.  In  the  parlour  of  the  "Drake's 
Head,"  or  "  Gallant  Howard,"  sat  old  sunburnt,  scarred  sailors,  talking  of 
Virginny,  or  of  the  chase  of  some  Indian  chief.  Incredible  lies  are  heard 
emerging,  like  the  utterance  of  oracles,  not  from  the  incense  of  an  altar,  but 
from  dense  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke,  lit  here  and  there  by  stars  of  dull  red 
flame.  There  are  tales  of  the  Inquisition  Chambers,  with  oaring  of  shrivelled 
arms  and  branded  breasts,  and  much  stripping  of  legs  to  show  the  red  band 
where  the  fetters  clasped,  or  the  dark  hole  where  the  poisoned  arrow  entered; 
what  cheers,  too,  from  the  balconies  and  the  great  chimney-corner  when  some 

freat  captain  enters,  and  proposes  a  fresh  cruise  to  the  Golden  City,  the  vexed 
termoothes,  or  the  pearl  fisheries.  Lion  hearts,  every  one  in  iron  frames,  ready 
for  hot  or  cold  death, — fire  or  steel, — so  the  dollars  are  won,  and  the  Spaniards 
can  be  stripped.  Away  they  go,  flag  flying,  and  men  cheering,  for  the  Horn 
Cape,  Eldorado,  or  the  Land  of  Fire. 

Whoever  has  any  love  for  the  golden  age  must  have  read  the  three  folios 
written  by  that  excellent  scholar  and  brave  spirit,  Richard  Hakluyt,  preacher, 
and  sometime  student  of  Christchurch,  Oxford. 
It  is  from  those  wonderful  records  alone  that  we  can  fully  learn  to  appreciate 


tbei  ardour  of 'comiwrciaiuent^pir^  cf  this  reign, 

when(a  Jkm^arted  queeai  ntfea  over  iliou*bearted  subjects  ;•  was  it  dot  then 
that  EichardChaijLC^lor  reached  Rv^s^-b^  tWNorth  Cape,  and  by  a  new  route; 
then  thatSir  Hmrh  Wmqughpy  qpaateii  ^oya  Zemblav  and  Jhjobisher  and  Davis 
tailed  for  the  Kor^h-^fe'st  Passage f  Ilaleigh?j  and  Drake,  aj}d  IJawkins,  were 
all  coritem^bralries'in  the  reign' in  which  Shakspere  and  Jonson  flourished, 
Borleigh  governed,  and:  Bacon  thought. 

» -There  was  not  aiship  that  set  ourftom Plymouth  but  had  a  crew  of  Ar- 
gonauts, heroes  who  loved  England,  and  were  ready  $0  die  for  her.  Against 
t^Papist^nd  the  Spaniard,  the  greatest  successes  with  the  smallest  means 
were  the  rules  with  these  men.  .  The  Sunshine t  a  smack  of  50  tons,  leaves  Davis 
to  discover  a  passage  between  (Greenland  and  Iceland;  the  Centurion*  of  Loji- 
ddn,  a  tal)  ship,  weakly  manned,  beats  {off  five  Spanish  galleys  in^he  Straits  of : 
Gibraltar.  , 

'The  Primrose,  of  London,  150  tons,  escapes  from, under  the  very  guns  of 
Bilboa,  and  earries'off  the  Corregidor  himself.    '  '  • 

The  enterprise  is  in  all  regions:  sober  citizens  of  London  travel  to  Morfcow, 
are  found  in  China,  visit  Barbary,  embark  for  Guinea,  colonise' Virginia,  trade 
with  Goa,  have  consuls  at  Damascus,  threaten  the  King  of  Algiers,  and  obtain.: 
privileges  from  the  Grand  Turk.    .,..,,      ,-     ;.  . 

It  is  John  P6x,  a  simple  !Emdish  sailor,  who  delivery  266  Christian  slavey 
from  captivity  at  Alexandria.1    Tnere  is  Miles  Philips,  one  of  Hawkins's  sailors, 
who  eats  parrots  with  the  cannibals,  who  is  sold  fe  a  slave  at  Mexico,  who  is 
imprisoned:  by  the  Inquisition,  who,  hearing' df  Drake's;  arrival, .  escapes  from, 
Vera  Cruz,,  and  from  Cavallos  to  Spain,  and so  to England.    ' 

Every  day  at  Dartmouth  voyagers  were  landing  fresh  from  grapples  with 
Indians  ana  Spaniards,  their  necks  strung  with  pearls  of  the  Pacific,  or  jewels . 
from  Brazil,  carrying  strange  birds  on  their  wrists  from  the  woods  of  the  Ber- 
mudas, or  leading  in  leashes  the  hunting  leopards  of  Hindostan. 

But  there  were  also  disasters,  for  every  sea  is  bounded  by  a  shore  of  death, 
Sir  Hugh  Willoughby  and  all  his  crew  were  frozen  in.  Lapland;  Drake  and 
Oavendish  died  of  broken  hearts,  and  Baleigh'.s  schemes  proved  futile;  thou- 
sands of  Englishmen  fell  victims  to  Indian  arrows  and  Spanish  bullets;  thou- 
sands pined  away  in  the  galleys  of  Bilboa,  the  prisons  of  the  Inquisition,  the 
mines  of  Peru.'  and  the  dockyards. of  Algiers;  quicksands,  whirlpools,  reefs,  and 
shoals,  had, all  their  victims;  and  at  this  price  we  purchased  our  commercial, 
greatness :  deserts,  mountains,  rivers,  and  forests,  were  burying-places  for  our 
travellers ;  but  the  survivors  returned  to  widen  our  empire  and Tbuttress  it  with 
colonies. 

Our  voyagers  explored  Muscovy  and  Persia,  and  the  Great  Khan  and  the 
Uussian  Emperor  entered  into  an  alliance  with  our  nation.  We  rivalled  Venice 
in  energy,  and  Genoa  in  enterprise;  our  ships  were  in  every  sea,  and  our  foot- 
prints on  every  shore.  English  flags  waved  over  the  ports  of  Candia  and 
Cyprus,  Tripoli,  and  Constantinople.  English  faces  were  to  be  seen  among 
dusty  images  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  and  Alexandria,  in  Venice  and  Pegu, 
at  Calicut  and  at  Bliodes.  Quicksilver  and  plate,  pegos  and  ducats,  ingots  and 
jewels,  rolled  together  on  the  quays  of  the  ports  of  Devon,  coin-stained  with 
Spanish  blood,  and  won  by  the  sweat  of  Englishmen.  The  Emperor  of  Ethiopia, 
and  the  Lama  of  Thibet,  had  both  heard  of  England,  and  seen  the  ambassadors 
of  its  queen.  Simple  merchants  of  Exeter  commenced  a  trade  with  Senegal 
and  Guinea,  and  private  enterprisers  captured  Spanish  caricks,  and  plundered 
Indian  cities. 

In  the  tavern  of  any  seaport  town  you  might  hear  swarthy  men,  with  scarred 
faces  and  gold  earrings,  narrate  stories  of  Drake's  Portugal  voyage,  or  of  Essex's 
capture  of  Cadiz,  of  the  Earl  of  Northumberland's  voyage  to  the  Azores,  or  of 
the  noble  death  of  Sir  Bichard  Greenvil.  The  navigators  were  neVer  tired  of 
justifying  their  intrepid  piracies,  by  narrations  of  Spanish  cruelty  and  aggression. 
Had  not  the  Spaniards  wasted  30,000  Indians  in  Hispanioles  alone,  besides 

July — VOL.  CVII.  KO.  CCCCXXV1I.  Z 


3S2  Shaktpeart*  England. 


many 
easily 


millions  of  a  poor  harmless  people  elsewhere.;  men,  too,  who  might 
Hy  have  been  persuaded  to  have  become  Christians.  Were  the  Spemank 
not  ravenous  strangers,  greedily  thirsting  for  English  blood,  men -who  bated  nt 
more  than  any  nation  in  Europe,— who  detested  us,  aa  Hakmyt  says,  "for  the 
many  overthrows  and  dishonours  they  have  received  at  our  bands,  whose  weak- 
ness we  have  discovered  to  the  world,  and  whose  forces  at  home,  abroad,  in 
Europe,  in  India,  by  sea  and  land,  we  have,  even  with  handful*  of  men  and 
ships,  overthrown  and  discoinfited." 

Progresses  and  revels  were  the  great  features  of  Elizabeth's  reign; 
they  contributed  more  than  any  one  thing  to  the  attachment  with  which 
she  was  regarded  by  the  people.  They  impoverished  the  nobles,  bat  they 
enriched  the  poor,  arid  were  eminently  intended  to  please  the  commonalty. 
They  enjoyed  the  pageants  more  than  the  queen  relished  the  patriot* , 
poems,  rejoiced  in  the  fireworks,  and  revelled  m  the  tilting.  f 

The  poor  poet  had  an  opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself;  the  eountrj 
gentleman  displayed  his  dress  and  person  to  her  eyes ;  the  burghers  ^presented 
their  petition;  and  all  went  away  pleased.  The  queen  admired  the  town, 
rewarded  the  actor,  gave  new  privileges  to  the  citizens,  knighted  the  gentle- 
men, and  bestowed  presents  on  the  ladies ;  never  was  queen  so  warmk  beloved 
as  the  queen  who  was  always  in  danger,  and  never  safe  from  the  Jesuirs  dagges, 
or  the  Spaniard's  poison.  She  who  had  saved  Protestantism,  trod  out  the 
Smithfield  pyres,  and  herself  narrowly  escaped  death,  brought  peace  and  .plenty 
to  a  grateful  country. 

Elizabeth's  progresses  were  matters  of  state  policy*;  they  were  eon- 
tinned  from  her  accession  to  her  death.  The  ever-memorable  expedition 
to  Kenilworth  presents  an  available  theme  for  the  author's  descriptive 
powers.  It  has,  however,  been  recorded  elsewhere  at  greater  length 
Next  come  the  progresses  to  Cambridge,  to  Oxford,  ana  to  Norwich- 
all  alike  curious  and  amusing.  The  revels  were  held  mainly  in  London, 
and  that  on  certain  holy  days,  as  Christmas  or  Twelfth-Night,  or  they 
were  given  as  entertainments  by  certain  corporate  bodies,  as  by  the 
gentlemen  of  Gray's  Inn,  in  1594,  by  the  lord  mayor,  or  on  4he  arrival 
of  an  ambassador,  and,  indeed,  upon  almost  every  opportune  occasion. 
London  was  then  "  merry  London "-— a  kind  of  unit  or  humanity:  not 
as  it  is  now,  a  far-spread  wilderness  of  houses  and  people. 

And  here  (says  Mr.  Thornbury)  we  must  conclude,  and  let  the  curtain  fall  on 
the  great  and  golden  age,  amid  whose  scenes  we  have  long  led  our  reader.  We 
have  been  to  the  theatre  and  the  bear-garden,  the  tavern,  and  the  court  We 
have  stared  into  crystal  phials  with  blear-eyed  alchemists;  listened  at  trials  to 
witches'  confessions,  and  mixed  with  thieves  and  grosies.  We  have  seen  bullies 
vapour  and  gallants  talk  Euphuism,  seen  the  child  at  his  /horn  book,  and  the 
scrivener  at  his  parchments;  the  street  tumbler  of  the  day,  the  comedian, the 
tooth-drawer,  and  the  jugder,  have  all  passed  before  us.  We  have  gaped  at  white 
satin  revellers,  and  footed,  a  measure  at  the  mask;  we  have  .seen  the  mounte- 
bank selling  his  drugs,  and  the  tobacconist  adulterating  his  medicines,  hi 
some  places,  for  want  of  room,  we  have  been  brief;  in  other  pages,  perhaps, 
wrong  from  want  of  judgment.  For  being  brief  we  may  be  pardoned,  for  bang 
tedious  we  must  claim  forgiveness.  To  photograph  an  age,  to  fix  on  paper 
perfect  images,  not  merely  of  its  street  crowds,  but  of  the  children  at  the 
hearth,  and  the  guests  at  the  alehouse,  is,  however,  an  undertaking  so  difficult, 
that  one  success  may,  we  trust,  compensate  for  a  thousand  failures. 


(    333    ) 
PILGRIMAGES  TO  THE  FRENCH  JPALACES. 

BY  FLORENTIA. 

IX. 

Gabrielle  dTEstr&s  and  Henri  Quatre — Scenes  at  St.  Germain. 

I  shall  now  return  to  Gabrielle  d'Estrees.  After  the  meeting  I  have 
described,  Don  Juan  very  soon  contrived  to  return,  and  the  lady,  forget- 
ful of  her  lover's  advice,  received  him.  This  was  sufficient  encourage- 
ment for  so  audacious  a  cavalier,  and  an  intimacy  sprang  up  be- 
tween them,  ending  in  a  confession,  on  his  part,  of  being  the  king. 
Gabrielle  was  charmed.  What  formerly  appeared  bold  and  free  in  his 
manner  was  now  ascribed  to  a  proper  sense  of  his  own  rank,  born  as  he 
was  to  command  and  to  be  obeyed.  Their  romantic  introduction,  and 
the  disguise  he  had  condescended  to  assume  on  that  occasion,  captivated 
her  imagination  almost  as  much  as  his  unbounded  admiration  of  her 
person  flattered  her  vanity.  Henri,  too,  was  so  fit  a  subject  for  devoted 
loyalty  at  that  time,  when  closely  beset  with  the  troops  of  the  League, 
and  unable  to  enter  Paris,  he  only  maintained  his  ground  by  prodigies  of 
valour  and  the  most  intrepid  perseverance.  Should  she,  then,  turn  un- 
kind and  repulse  him,  when  assured  that  his  only  happy  moments  were 
spent  in  her  society  ?  The  vision  of  Bellegarde  grew  fainter  and  fainter ; 
their  meetings  became  colder  and  more  unsatisfactory,  he  reproaching 
her  for  her  unbecoming  encouragement  to  a  libertine  monarch,  the 
lady  defending  herself  by  declaring  that  her  heart  was  her  own,  and  that 
she  might  bestow  it  where  she  thought  proper.  As  yet,  however,  there 
had  been  no  formal  rupture  between  them.  Bellegarde  loved  the  fas- 
cinating deceiver  too  fondly  lightly  to  renounce  her,  and  she  herself,  as 
yet  undecided,  hesitated  before  resigning  a  man  whose  devotion  was 
honourable  and  legitimate,  and  whose  birth  and  position  were  brilliant, 
to  receive  the  dubious  addresses  of  a  married  monarch.  True,  the 
shameful  excesses  of  Marguerite  de  Valois,  the  queen,  excused  and  almost 
exonerated  the  king,  and  also  held  out  a  reasonable  prospect  of  the  speedy 
dissolution  of  that  ill-omened  marriage,  contracted  in  the  bloody  days  of 
St.  Bartholomew's  Massacre  as  a  lure  to  the  Protestants  to  return  to 
court.  Henri  urged  this  circumstance  with  passionate  eloquence,  pro- 
mising Gabrielle,  spite  of  state  reasons,  to  marry  her  as  soon  as,  settled 
on  the  throne,  he  could  find  leisure  legally  to  prove  the  scandalous  con- 
duct of  his  wife.  This  to  a  vain,  beautiful,  ambitious  woman  like  Gabrielle 
was  a  telling  argument 

Already  the  king  had  obtained  sufficient  influence  to  persuade  her  to 
inhabit  one  of  her  father's  campagnes  near  St.  Germain,  where  he  then 
was  residing,  in  order  to  organise  his  intended  attack  on  the  capital  One 
of  their  meetings  at  this  time,  as  related  by  the  lady  herself,  is  very 
characteristic. 

The  day  after  the  king's  arrival  at  St.  Germain  (says  she  in  her  Me- 
moirs), I  was  sitting  embroidering  a  scarf,  and  thinking  over  all  the  diffi- 
culties of  my  position— divided  as  I  was  between  my  regard  for  the 

z  2 


334  Pilgriniages  to  theJFrmch  E alack*. 

excellent  Bellegarde  and  the  passion  I  felt  each  day  growing  stronger 
for  the  king — when  my  maid  Louison  came  to  me  and .  begged  me,  as  I 
had  passed  all  day  in  the  house,  to  take  a  little  fresh  air, 

"  Come,  madame,  at  least  to  the  balcony  that  looks  out  over  the  ter- 
race, where  the  breeze  is  so  pleasant,  and;  Bee  the  sun.  set  oyer  the  dark 
blue  hills  behind  St.  Denis."  5.f  .    .-r. 

" No,  no,"  said  I,  "  leave  me  alone ;  I  have  enough  ;to  think  about; 
and  I  want  to  finish  my  scarf,  or  it  will  not  be  done  by  the  time  I,  pro- 
mised Bellegarde.  Besides,  I  do  not  fancy  open  balconies  in,  the  month 
of  November ;  it  is  too  cold."  .,..• 

"Oh,  but,''  replied  Louison,  "the  day  has. been  so  splendid— like 
summer  in  the  forest,  where  I  went  to  see  the  royal  hunt,  though, the 
king  was  not  there.     Pray  come,  madame." 

I  was  no  sooner  on  the  balcony  watching  the  last  $treaks  of  golden 
light  indicating  the  spot  where  the  sun  had  set,  than  all  at  once  I  heard 
a  noise,  and  on  looking  down  I  saw  just  under  the  balcony  no  other  than 
the  king  himself.  He  had  jumped  off  his  horse,  which  stoqol  beside  W,( 
and  had  flung  himself  on  his  knees,  with  his  hands  clasped,  .as  tbough.be 
were  going  to  say  his  prayers.  Louison  burst  into  a  loud  .laugh  at  my 
surprise,  and  ran  away.  I  knew  now  why  she  was  so  anxious  I  should 
go  to  the  balcony  to  see  the  sun.  set,  but  I  had  not  dreamt  of  seeing  .the 
king,  who  was  not  expected,  I  thought,  for  some  days. 

"  Vrai  Dieu,  belle  des  belles !"  exclaimed  he,  "  look  down  on. one  who 
desires  to  live  and  die  at  your  feet." 

"  Sire,"  cried  I,  "  for  Heaven's  sake  remount  your  horse  and  return  to 
the  chateau.  You  know  well  your  enemies  are  prowling  about  in  this 
neighbourhood;  besides,  who  knows?  Bellegarde  may  come,  .  Pray,  I 
entreat  you,  go  away  directly."  .      .  >  . 

"  Ma  foi !"  replied  the  king,  "  let  them  come — Leaguers  or  Spaniards, 
Bellegarde  or  the  devil — what  care  I,  if  la  Belle  Gabriellc  looks  unkindly 
on  me?" 

u  Unkind  I  will  certainly  be  if  your  majesty  does  not  at  once  remount 
your  horse.  Kneeling  on  the  ground  in  that  manner  is  too  ridiculow, 
and  I  shall  go  away.  I  am  no  saint  to  be  prayed  to,  Heaven  knows.  If 
your  majesty  won't  remount,  I  go  away."  .  .  v  ;  , 

The  horse  stood  by  cropping ,  the  grass.  The  king  sprang  on  the 
saddle  without  even  touching  the  stirrup,  and  began  again  talking  to  my 
great  annoyance,  as  I  was  exceedingly  terrified  by  the  idea  of  being  sur- 
prised by  any  orie,  especially  Bellegarde,  who  would  have,  been  so  angry 
he  might  have  forgotten  himself  towards  his  majesty.  For  a  moment  1 
was  quite  overcome,  and  tears  came  into  my  eyes  out  of  sheer  vexation 
and  terror  of  the  consequences.  As  I  lifted  up  my  hands  to  wipe  them 
away  the  scarf  I  was  embroidering  slipped  out  of  my  hand,  and,  borne  by 
the  wind,  after  fluttering  for  a  few  moments  in  the  air,  dropped  •  on  the 
king,  who,  catching  hold  of  it,  exclaimed :  ,  , . 

"  Ventre  saint  gris !  what  have  we  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  site  1"  cried  I,  "  it  is  my  work — it  is  all  but  finished,  and  now 
I  have  lost  it." 

"  By  all  the  rules  of  war,  fair  lady,"  .said  Henri,  'f  what  falls  from  the 
walls  of  a  besieged  city  belongs  to  the  soldier;  so,  by  your  leave,  fair 
Gabrielle,  the  scarf  is  mine." 


"Oh  !?  Kitted  I,'  <«  <W  givtfifcmefeck  57  it  ifr  for  Morisieur  de  BeUegai&v 
and  he  know£  ft ; ;  should  he  see- your  majesty  with.. it*  .what  will  he,  say  ? 
He  will  never  belfevfc  but  that  I  gave  it  to-you."  '  , .         ;  t.t\ 

u  By  thfe'mttss,  it  is  too*  good1  for  him ;  and  I  will  keep  it  without  any 
remorse,  atid  cby^r^with  a  thousand' kisses  these  stitches  woven  by  your 
delicate  finders."  'I      - 

"  Bui  indeed/  {sire,  it  is'  ^mised^Moiisieiir  de  Be^llsgarde  will  ask  me 
for  it"     ^   •'■  "       ".  '  *   "•  ''■■•■■    •... 

"  He  shall  never  have  it  then,  I  promise  him.  Tell  him  that,  like 
Penelope,  you  undid  in  the  night  what  you  worked  in  the  day.  .  Come, 
come  now,  Gabrielle,  confess  you  are  not  m  reality  so  much  attached  to 
fieltegatdb  as  you  pretend,  and  that  if  I  cab  prove  to  you  he  is  un- 
worthy your  preference,  and  inconstant  into  4hg! bargain,  you  will,  pro- 
mise to  give  me  his  place  in  your  heart.  Besides,  his  position  is  unworthy, 
of  your  beauty— ^therd  is  but  one  ornament  worthy  of  that  snowy  brow— 
Bellegarde  cannot  place  it  there ;  but  I  know  one  able  and  willing,  when 
the  cursed  League  is  dispersed,  to  give  that  finishing  stroke  to  your  aJl- 
conquering  charms. " 

"  Sire,"  replied  I,  "  I  must  not  listen  to  what  tyou  say.  I  cannot 
believe  aught  against  Bellegarde,  or  rather,  nothing  but  the  most  glaring 
evidence  shall  convince  me  that  he  is  false." 

"  Comment,  ventre  saint  gris  !  you  doubt  my  word — the  word  of  a 
king  ?  But,  by  the  mass,  fair  lady,  I  can  give  you  proofs,  be  assured." 

"  Oh,  sire !  it  is  not  for  me  to  talk  of  proofs,  or  to  begin  reproaches. 
Poor  Bellegarde !  my  heart  bleeds  when  I  think  of  him." 

I  was  much  vexed  at  the  king's  prolonged  stay,  and  yet  feared  to  offend 
him.     I  knew  not  how  to  get  rid  of  him. 

"  Sire,"  said  I,  at  length,  "  it  is  dark ;  return,  I  implore  you,  to  the 
chateau.  You  will  be  surely  seen  ere  long,  and  my  reputation  be  for  ever 
compromised." 

"  Gabrielle,  do  you  drive  me  away  thus,  when  to  leave  you  costs  me 
such  a  pang  ?  Heaven  knows  when  this  war  will  allow  us  again  to  meet ! 
I  never  know  from  day  to  day  but  that  some  rebel  villain  of  a  Leaguer 
may  not  finish  me  at  a  shot,  much  less  where  or  how  I  may  be :  the  pre- 
sent is  all  I  have." 

"  Ah,  sire,  only  put  down  that  atrocious  League,  and  we  will  offer  up 
no  end  of  thanksgivings." 

"  Whatever  comes  out  of  those  lovely  lips  will  not  fail  of  being  heard, 
and  as  to  your  slave  Henri,  the  very  knowledge  that  such  a  divinity 
stoops  to  interest  herself  in  his  fate  will  serve  as  an  invulnerable  talisman 
amid  every  danger." 

"  Adieu,  sire  ;  I  wish  you  a  prosperous  journey  wherever  you  go  5  and 
when  you  see  M.  de  Bellegarde  assure  him  of  my  love." 

"Ungrateful  Gabrielle,  thus  to  trifle  with  me.  But  I  have  proofs, 
vrai  Dieu !  I  have  proofs  that  shall  cure  you  of  this  attachment." 

"  Sire,  why  should  you  seek  to  make  me  unhappy?  You  know  that  I 
have  for  years  been  engaged  to  marry  Bellegarde,  whom  I  love  and  re-, 
spect  sincerely,  and  that  I  look  forward  to  my  marriage  with  the  utmost 
pleasure.     Why,  then,  endeavour  to  separate  us  ?" 

"  Par  exemple,  la  belle !   you  give  me  credit  for  being  vastly  magnani- 


33ff  Pilgrimage*  to  the  Frtsnck  Palaces. 

mow,  upon  my  word!  What  then,  Gabrielle,  would  you  Have  me*  resign 
you  without  a  straggle*?  Najyam  I  expected  to  boring  about  your  mar- 
riage with  a  rival !    Vbila  qui'  est  un  peu  trop  forti" 

u  Nenni,  sire ;  I  only  ask  you.  not  to  prevent  it.  Such  artifice- would 
be  unworthy  so  generous  a  monarch  to  a  faithful  servant  like  poor  Bella- 
garde,  to  whom  I  am" — and  I  could  not  help  sighing  deeply — "bound  in 
all  honour.  Then  there  is  your  majesty's  wife — forr  aire,  you  seem  to 
forget  that  you  have  a  wife." 

"  Yes,  as  I  have  a  crown  which  I  am  never  to  wear.  Thai?  infernal 
Marguerite  is  keeping-  her  state  with  a  vengeance,  and.  forgetting,  by 
tile*  mass,  she  has  a  husband.  The  people  of  Usson, .  in  Auvergne,.  call 
shame  on  hen,  and  they  know  what  she  is- about  better  than  I." 

"  Sire,  I  beg  of  you  to  speak  at  least  with-  respect  of  Madamo  Mar- 
guerite de  France." 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  frank  with  you,  ma  belle,  at  least  ?"  returned  ha 
*^Ah,  Margot — la  reine  Margot — a  la  bonne  heure!  I  only  wish  she  was 
along  with  her  brothers,  where  they  are  duly  installed,  in  the  royaL  vaults  . 
at  St.  Denis ;  I  should  be  quit  of  a  wife  altogether  until  I  enter 
Paris*  and  then  we  should  see — we  should  see  who  would:  be  crowned?:  with 
me ;  certainly  not  BellegaraVs  wife,  Gabrielle,  but  a.  lad£  very  like 
her.  But,  mignonne,  I  must  bid  you  adieu.  Saints  et  saintes*  they  will 
think  I  am  lost  at  the  chateau.  Adieu,  until  I  can  next.  come,,  or  write, 
en  attendant ;  remember  to  forget  Bellegarde,  aa  you  value -the  favour  of 
your  sovereign."  And,  kissing  the  scarf  he  had  stolen: from  me*  tfae>kmg 
put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  away. 

Gabrielle  d'Estrees  followed  this  pernicious  counsel  but  too  readily,  aa 
die  sequel  shows.  Unable  to  resist  the  continued  blandishment*  of  the 
king,  and  silencing  her  conscience  by  a  pretended  belief  in  bis- promises  of 
marriage,  she  sacrificed  her  lover,  Monsieur  de  Bellegarde,  sincerely  and 
honourably  attached  to  her  for  so  many  years,  and  whom  aha  haw  once 
really  loved,  for  the  sake  of  the  gallant  but  licentious  Henri:  From  this 
time  the  old  walls  of  St.  Germain  could  reveal  but  too  well;  how  in  losing 
her  lover  she  resigned  her  virtue.  During  the  whole  of  hie  reign*  ana 
up  to  the  very  moment  that  Ravaillac  cut  short  his  earthly  career,  Henri 
continued  warmly  attached  to  her,  but  never  redeemed'  his  pledge  of  mar- 
rying the  fair  Gabrielle  ;  political  reasons— specious  argument*  with 
royalty  in  all  ages  for  every  sort  of  crime  and  want  of  faith — were  His  ex- 
cuse—and Grabrielle  had  fallen  so  low  that  she  accepted  it.  Some  excuse 
may  be  made  for  his  conduct,  irregular  aa  it  undoubtedly  was,  when  ne 
remember  the  loose  code  of  morality  of  that  age  and  country,  the  afaanr 
doned  character  of  his  first  wife,  Marguerite  of  Valois,  and  the  Highly 
problematical  virtue  of  the  second,  Marie  de  Medicis*  both  ladies-  setting 
him  an  example  of  libertinism  he  was  not  slow  to  follow.  Before  leaving 
the  subject,  I  must  not  omit  another  conversation  with  her  lover,  related 
By  Grabrielle  d'Estrees,  which  also  took  place  within,  the  old  walls  we  are 
considering.  It  occurred  some-  time  after  the  former  interview;  and 
titer*' is  now  little  mention*  of  Bellegarde :  he  had! ceased  to-be  &  rival 

In  the  autumn  (says  the  lady)  the  court  had  removed  to  the-  Chateau 
of  St.  Germain,  where  the  king  took  great  pleasure  in  hunting  the  stag 


Pilgrimages  to*  ih^Frmch  Palace**  3&7 

m  that  immense  forest.  Ha  had  been  absent  alLday,  and  when  he  returned, . 
he  entered  my.  apartment,  which  looked.  towards  the  terr&oe,.  and  com- 
manded a  magnificent  prospect;  and,,  dismissing  my  attendants,  sank  into 
at  gpe&bfavteuil  without  saying  a  word.  I  looked  up  at  him,  wondering  at 
his  silence,  when  I  perceived  he  was  weeping.  Surprised  at  his  emotion,, 
I  asked  him  if  the  sight  of  me  had  caused  those  tears,  for  if  such  were  the 
case*  I  would  go  back  to  my  father  if  it  so  pleased  his  majesty.. 

"  Mignonne,"  replied  he,,  taking  my  hand  with  much  affection,  "it. is, 
you  who  are  partly  the  cause  of.  my  grief,  but  not  because  you  ace  here. 
Seeing  you  makes  me  envy  the  happiness  of  the  poorest  peasant  in  my 
dominions*  living  on  bread  and  garlic,  who  has  his  liberty,  who  is  his 
own  master.  I  am.  no.  king,  I  am  nothing  but.  a  miserable  slave  to  the, 
Calvinists  and  the  Catholics." 

"  Come,  sire,  dismiss-,  these  fancies,  at,  least  while  you  are  with  me," 
replied  L 

"  On  the  contrary,  Gabrielle,,  it  is  the  sight  of.  you:  that.recala  them*. 
v  You  are  escaped  from  the  tyranny  of  a  father,  while  my  chains  press 
about  me  tighter  than  ever*  and  I  cannot,  dare  not  break  them.  You 
gain  and  I  lose— voila  tout." 

"  Sire,"  replied.  I,,  gravely,.  "  women,  perhaps,  ace  best  in  the  chains 
you  allude  to.  I  shall  see  if  I  have  gained,  for  I  am  not  so  certain  of  it ;, 
all  I  know  is,  whatever  has  been  or  is  to  be,  that  I  love  you.  Succeed'  only 
in  putting  down  that  odious  League,  as  Hercules  destroyed  the  hydra, 
and,  the  siege  of  Rouen  once  over,  you  will  march  to  Paris,,  and  I  shall 
he)  happy  in  seeing  you  crowned  and  anointed  at  Bheims." 

"  Never  fear,  this  will  come  about  shortly,  I  am  certain.  There  axe,, 
however,,  more  difficulties  in  all  this  than  you  are  aware  o£  mon  amie.  If 
I  become  a  Catholic,  as  all  my  nobles  wish  me  to  do»— et  la  belle  France 
vaut  bien  une  masse — then  Messieurs  les  Caivinistes  will  at  once  reor- 
ganise this  cursed  League ;  and  if  I  persist  ia  my  religion — that  religion 
ray;  poor  mother  reared  me  up  to  love  sincerely — why  then  I.  shall  be  for* 
saken  by  all  the  Catholics — &  fact  they  take  care  to  remind  me  of  every 
day  of  my  life.  Vrai  DieuJ  I  only  wish  I  were  once  again  King  of 
Navarre,  without  an  acre  of  land,  as  I  was  formerly." 

"  Sire,  this  despondency  afflicts  me;  be  more  sanguine,  I  entreat  you* 
If.  my  poor  word*  have  any  power  over  you,  dismiss  such  gloomy  thoughts. 
Believe  me,,  the  future  has  much  in  store,  for  you." 

"  Ah,  dear  Gabrielle,  when  I  am  far  away  over:  mountains  and  valleys, 
separated  from  those  lovely  eyes  that  beam  now  so  brightly  on  me,  I  feel 
alL  the  torments  of  absence — away  from  your  presence  all  happiness,  ia 
gone." 

"  Well,  sire,!1  said  L>  "  i£it  is  only  my  presence  you  desire  ta  make  you 
happy,  I  will  follow  you  to  the  end  o£  the  world — I  will  go  to  the  anti- 
podes, the  Arctic  circle,  anywhere." 

"  Mon  amie  L  it  is  this  love  that  alone  enables  me  to  hear  all  the 
anxieties;  and  troubles  that  surround  ma  oa  every  side*  I  value  it,  more 
than  all  the  gold  of  Peru  or  the  Indies ;  but  this  very  lave  of  yours,  entire 
at,  I.  believe  it  to  ba>  is  one-  principal  cause  of  my  misery."  • 

"  How  can  that  be  ?"  said  I ;  "  I  love  you  and  will  ever  be  constant* 
I  swear  it  solemnly,  Henri." 

"  Yes,"  replied  he ;  "  but  do  you  not  know  that  I  have  the  honour  of 


308  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palace*. 

being  the  husband  of  a  queen,  the  sister  of  three  defunct  monarchs— the 
most  abominable,  the  most  disgraceful,  the  most  odious " 

"  Sire,  you  need  not  think  about  her ;  you  are  not  obliged  to  be  a 
witness  of  her  conduct.  Let  her  enjoy  all  her  gallantries  at  the  Castle 
of  Usson,  where  her  excesses  have  exiled  her." 
.  "  Ventre  saint  gris!  cursed  be  the  demon  who  dishonours  m#  by 
calling  herself  my  wife !  that  wretch  who  defiles  my  name  and  my  bed; 
and  prevents  entirely  all  chance  of  my  marrying  the,  angel,  the  friend, 
whom  I  love  so  entirely — your  own  dear  self,  mon  cher  cceur  I? 

"  Henri,  my  heart  at  least  is  yours." 

"  Yes,  dearest ;  but  not  more  mine  than  I  am  yours  eternally*  How- 
ever, are  you  sure,  Gabrielle,  that  Bellegarde  is  entirely  banished  from 
your  remembrance?" 

"  As  much,'*  said  I,  "  as  if  I  had  never  known  him.-' 

"  I  depend  on  your  promise  of  never  seeing  him  again  ;  because,  good* 
natured  as  I  am — and  I  am  good-natured— I  am  somewhat  choleric  and 
hot — Heaven  pardon  me — and  if  by  chance  I  ever  surprised  you  together, 
why,  vrai  Dieu !  if  I  had  my  sword,  I  might  be  sorry  for  the  eonse^ 
quences."  ' 

"  Sire,  there  is  no  danger;  you  may  wear  your  sword  for  me.  If  such 
a  thing  ever  occurred,  it  is  I  who  would  deserve  to  die."  . 

"  Well,  ma  mie,  in  my  absence  remain  at  Mantes,"  said  he,  rising; 
"  I  must  advance  upon  Rouen ;  I  expect  a  vigorous  resistance,  and 
God  only  knows  how  it  will  end.  I  leave  all  under  your  care,  and 
invest  you,  fair  Gabrielle,  with  the  same  power  as  if  you  were  really 
queen—-( would  to  Heaven  you  were  !  Ah,  confound  that  devil  of  i 
Margot !),  I  will  return  to  you  as  often  as  I  can,  and  write  -frequently. 
Now  I  must  say  that  sad  word,  adieu — adieu,  ma  mie  bienaimee." 

I  consoled  the  king  as  best  I  could,  and  after  much  ado  be  took  hfc 
departure,  always  repeating,  "  Adieu,  ma  mie!"  After  I  had. heard  bun 
pass  down  the  great  gallery,  I  rushed  to  one  of  the  windows  overlooking 
the  court-yard,  and  saw  my  gallant  lover  vault  on  horseback)  aocompa* 
nied  by  that  excellent  creature,  Chicot,  his  jester,  who  never  lefthks, 
and  whom  he  had  the  misfortune  soon  after  to  lose,  .as  the  poor  fellow 
died.  .1 

Here  I  must  also  take  leave  for  the  present  of  the  frail  but  agreeable 
Gabrielle,  and  see  what  other  attractions  remain  to  be  noticed  about  Sfc 
Germain.  The  traditions  of  those  old  walls,  scandalous  as  they  be, 
ought  to  have  been  respected  for  the  sake  of  the  rank  and  greatness  of 
the  pleasure-loving  royal  sinners  who  had  dwelt  within  them.  Bod 
behold  the  melancholy  wreck,  the  skeleton  of  this  once  beauteous  pUh 
saunce,  without  a  creature  left  within  to  remember  that  it  was  ever  any* 
thing  but  a  dungeon,  or  to  point  out  any  of  those  interesting  local  parti- 
culars so  interesting  to  a  lover  of  the  past — no  one  to  tell  where  Anne  of 
Austria  slept,  or  which  rooms  were  inhabited  by  the  Grand  Monarque— 
where  Madame  Henriette  received  her  court,  or  where  the  naughty  maids 
of  honour  lav  their  fair  heads  to  rest — or  in  which  apartment  Mary  of 
Modena  and  her  lugubrious  spouse  passed  so  many  years  in  an  exile  only 
terminated  by  death :  all,  all  is  gone  ! 


Ptigrirkages  to)the  French  Palace*.  339 


Chateau  of  Monte  Cristo  and  Alexandre  Pumas, 

These  is  but  little  to  see  at  -Marly,  but  that  little  is  very  interesting 
to  such  a  lover  of 'the  brocaded  days  of  "  Le  Grand  Monarque"  as  I  am. 
On  the  road,  not  far  from  St.  Germain,  stands  the  same  villa,  belonging 
t6  Alexandre  Dumas;  which  I  have  already  noticed  as  seen  from  the 
terrace.  Like  any-  Cockney  suburban  habitation  of  Clapham  Common 
or  Blackheath,  it  stands  close  on  the  road— so  close,  indeed,  that  the 
stables  are  on  the  opposite-  side  because  there  is  no  room  for  them  near 
the. house*  Notwithstanding  this  proximity,  a  huge  lodge  flanks  the 
gateway,  out  of  which  lodge  issued  a  very  aged  dame  and  a  dog  with 
three  legs,  the  latter  making -up  by  his  bark  what  he  had  lost  in  his  limbs. 
After  having  appeased  the  biped  and  the  quadrupecV^the  first  with  money, 
the  last  with  bread—we  were  allowed  to  survey  the  domain  of  the  author 
of ■  «  Monte  Cristo/? 

Desolation  reigned  around;  the  walks  wew  covered  with  weeds;  the 
flower-beds  a  mass  of  decaying  leaves ;  some  of  the  windows  of  the  half- 
finished  house  were  closed,  some  blocked  up  by  boards.  The  explanation 
being  that  the  popular  Dumas  (tike  almost  every  man  of  talent  in  all 
ages)  loves  the  "  feast  of  reason  and  flow  of  soul;"  or,  in  other  words, 
Bves  beyond  his  means,  and  is  immensely  fond  of  company,  but,  like  other 
celebrated  authors  gifted  with  fertile  brains,  he  finds  at  last  the  supply 
can  no  longer  meet  the  demand,  and,  therefore,  rapidly  tumbles  into 
debt.  •      ' 

The  Castle,  as  it  is  termed,  is  nothing  but  a  good  honest  square  dwell- 
ing, ornamented^  or  disfigured,  according  to  different  tastes,  by  small 
turrets  at  the  corners ;  but  castle,  in  good  truth,  it  is  none.  However, 
that's  not  much*-"  what's  in  a  name  ?"  says  Juliet—and  so  we  will  call  it 
castle  or  cottage,  whichever  the  witty  proprietor  chooses.  It  was  begun 
on  the  strength;  of  the  immense  success  otthe  novel  whose  name  it  bears, 
and  was  to  be  kept  up  on  the  idea  of  a  fertile  brain  filling  Europe  with 
similar  romances ;  Dumas' s  head  still  reeking  with  the  visions  of  Eastern 
splendour  he  had  created  for  Dantes  the  Magnificent,  he  could  not 
conceive  anything  less  imposing  than  a  castle  for  himself,  mistaking*  as 
his  own  the  everlasting  purse  with  which' he  had  supplied  his  marvellous 
hero,  who  could  at  a  word  create  a  palace  like  a  second  Aladdin,  and  fur- 
nish it  with  diamonds  from  Golconda  or  gold  of  Peru.  So  our  author 
began  to  build,  and  to  make  gardens  and  vineyards^  and  to  dream  great 
things  for  himself  in  a  paradise  already  completed  in  his  imagination—^ 
swelling  down  in  verdant  beauty  to  the  banks  of  the  winding  8eine. 

There  is  <a  motto— but,  like  everything  good,  it  is  somewhat  mustjp— 
1*  that  fools  build  for  wise  men  to  livoin  *"  and  so  found  Monsieur  Alex- 
andre Dunlas,  fbiy  alas !  long  before  the  castle  was  finished,  he  got  into 
debt,  and  those  odious  brutes,  his  creditors — remorseless  tailors  and  ven- 
dors of  rich  stuffs  and  gaudy  hangings — neither  caring  nor  thinking  about 
his  glorious  dreams,  nor  of  Monte  Cristo,  about  to  appear  in  flesh  and 
blood,  and  with  a  palace  en  suitey  in  the  person  of  the  author,  actually— 
confound  the  wretches ! — seized  on  the  half-finished  abode  to  pay  their 
disgusting  bills,  and  dismantled  the  rooms  which  were  already  finished, 


34Q  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  FcuaceK 

where  Dumas  had  received  such  reunions  from  Paris,  such  loves  from  the 
Varietes,  such  tragedy-queens  from  the  Ambigu,  and  actual  angels 
from  the  Grand  Opera,  with  hordes  of  authors  and  wits,  all  as  poor  as  rats, 
who  found  the  distance  from  Paris  so  mighty  convenient;  and  the  air  of 
die  chateau  so  delightful,  that  somehow  or  other  they  wera,  alfray& there. 
But  there  i&  a  providence  even  for  authors)  unfortunately  only  too. ha  ob- 
served, it  is  true,,  after  they  have  generally  laid  mouldering  in.  their  graves 
for  many  ai  year,  whither  starvation  or  a  broken  heart  haw  often  sent 
them*  But  in  JSL  Dumas's  case  this  providence  actually  appeared  than 
and  there  just  when  he  most  wanted  it.  Has  admirers  (and.  are-  not:  thea 
name  Legion  ?)  hearing  of.  the  misadventure,  and  of  tho&&rathles£,arodL- 
tons  who  had  besieged,,  and  stormed,  and  taken  possession. of  the  castle— 
seising  on  his  Utopia  while  yet  unfinished — actually,  like:  good  practical 
Christian  souls,  joined:  together  and.  ra-purchaaed.for  him  the-afaoasuwhica 
was  afterwards  duly  re-presented  to  him,,  witLsundry  diningfrand  speeches, 
and  drinkings  of  wine  of  Champagne  antL  Burgundy,,  minus  only  the 
elegant  furniture  he  had  placed  in  it.  But,  dismantled;  as  mwos,  he 
became  lord  and  master,  and  could  again  hope  to  indulge  inu  dream  of 
Becoming  de  facto  Comte  de  Monte  Cristo ! 

It  was  precisely  in  this  state  of  semi-existence  when  I  visited!  it  and 
was  conducted  by  the  antiquated  crone  into  the  interior  through  a  door 
in  one  of  the  small  turrets.  All  around  looked  dismal  enough ;;  when 
there  ought  to  have  been  hangings  and  drapery  were  only  bans  walk 
and  large  rusty  nails,  bearing  fragments  of  tattered  fringe  andibrocabW  Iks 
fireplaces  round  which  so  many  a  merry  riotous  circle  ha^cpngregatcdww 
empty  and  desolate,  denuded  even  of  grates,  and  all  around  bore  irrefra- 
gable evidence  of  the  cruel  invaders  who  had  sacked  the  castle;.  Enough, 
however,  was  left  to  show  that  the  furniture  had  been,  magnificent,  far 
could  Monte  Cristo  live. on  aught  save  purple  and  fine  linen,?  The. dis- 
tribution of  the  house  was  exceedingly  good,  the  centre  portion  being 
divided  into  large  saloons,  fitted  up  with  divans  looking  out  on-  the  beau- 
tiful plain  beneath  watered  by  the  Seine,  and  the  vine^nsaced  hills*  with 
the-  town  of  St.  Germain  picturesquely  covering  the  rising  ground  near 
at  hand.  Around  these  centre  rooms  were  suites  o£  smaller  apartments 
winch  included  the  turrets,. forming  charming  little  cozy  nooks  andisan^ 
genes. 

Spite  of  my  dislike  of  the  exterior,  I  could  not  but  admirjethi*  softest 
ftdly-contrived  interior,  at  once  so  bizarre  and  so  pretty,  fitted  a 
evidently  with  an  idea  of  the  East  and  all.  the  repose  and.  luxury  requicd 
under  a  tropical  sun  and  cloudless  sky.  One  room  particularly  inteeastsd 
me— Dumas's  own  writing-room — containing  his  table  and  h\i&  inkstand* 
some  papers  he  had  left,  and  even  the  books  he  had  read-  still  tamed 
down,  on  the  very,  page  he  had  last  perused.  I  looked  at  them  with 
respect,  and  touched  them  with  reverence,  for,  with  all  his  fkulta>and  ha 
bookmaking,  no  one  can.  deny  that  he  undoubtedly  possesses,  the  gihV  of 
genius*  The  very  novel  in  memory  of  which  the  chateau,  was*  began  is 
evidence  sufficient  to  prove- that  no  book  since  the  Waverley  sens*  evtf 
spread  over  Europe  more  rapidly  than  did  "  Monte  Cristo"  and*.  "  lM 
Trois  Mousquetaires."  We  passed  to  the.  upper  story,  where.  I  found 
most  luxurious-  bedrooms— rather  more  furniture  remaining,  here  thaa 
Below-— and  one  lovely  suite  of  rooms,,  the  walls  carved  in  atone-.  witLdslir 


JPihpxmagfi*  to  tha  French  Palme*.  341 

cafe  and.  beautiful  arabesque  patterns,  the  oeiling&out  also  in  stone,  hang- 
ing, in  points  and  pendants  elaborately  worked.  Nothing  could  be  pret? 
tier,,  mora  thoroughly  Eastern,  than  the  effect  of  tha  dazzling  white  of  the 
walls j,  covered,  as  it  were  with  a  network  of  the  finest  lace — a*  fitting 
abode  for  beauty  such  as  only  is  revealed;  in  visions:  to>  the  poet,,  who 
forthwith  torments  half  mankind  by  ravishing  descriptions  of  ideal  houris. 
The  old  cicerone  who  accompanied  me  said  that  these  carvings  had,  been 
executed  by  Arabs;  whom  Dumaahad  brought  from  Africa  for  the  purpose* 
There,,  again,,  waff  the  author*  imagining  he  possessed  Fortunatus'a  purse* 
and.  could  coin  guineas  as-  fast  as  he  could  write  words..  What  a  picture 
did.  this  house  present  of  the  freaks  of  the  imagination,  and  how  the 
creditors  must  have  stared  when  they  beheld  these  fairy-like,  apartments 
belonging  to  &  man  that  all  the  world  knows  lives,  true  to  his  craft,  from 
hand  to  mouth.  But,  lost  in  pleasing  delusions,  he  had  indulged,  many 
a. day-dream  realising  his  own  descriptions,  and  had  doubtless  experienced 
happiness  untold  even  in  the  partial  creation,  before  us.  In  another,  room 
was  his  picture,  dressed  as  the  Comte — Alexandre  Dumas  personifying  a 
species  of  honest  Cagliostro !  This  was;  eminently  ridiculous — the.  very 
apex  of  vanity — and  rich  in  the  highest  degree.  Poor-Dumas  T  he  must 
have  been  very  far  gone  indeed  !    I  did  pity  him. 

But  another  exquisite  display  of  vanity  was.  yet  reserved  to  me.  On 
reaching  the  garden,  I  was  conducted  by  a.  small  path  towards  what 
the  Cerberus  in  charge  called  "  the  Island  of  Monte  Criato."  I  had 
seen,  many  wonders,,  but  this  beat  them  alL  The  island — well,,  I  should 
see — I  looked  round.  I  perceived  neither  water  nor  island,  nor.  any  pro- 
bability of  eitheiy  as  we  were  walking  up  the  side  of;  a  hill;  but  I  had 
looked  too  far;  I  had  miscalculated  the  extent  of  the  territory,,  and 
taken  too  literally  the  creation.  o£  Dumas's  brain.  For  the  island  was 
before  me,  separated  from  the  ground  on  which  we  stood  by  a  ditch.ahout 
a  foot  broad,  crossed  by  a  plank ! 

It  is  a  fine  thing  to  haye  a  brilliant  imagination ;.  it  is,  indeed,  a  real 
blessing,  for  with  such  a  gift  the  Barmecides'  feast  would  be  greater  than 
a.  Lord  Mayor's  banquet !  Monsieur  Dumas  seems,  imbued  with  this  qua- 
lification, to  no  ordinary  extent:  he  sees  in  this  minute  ditch  ai mighty, 
rushing,  rolling  ocean — the  blue  Mediterranean  dashing  oa  the  beach  of 
Marseilles,. for  instance ;  in  this  plank,  magnificent  arches  of  marble  span? 
ning  the  rising  waves  ;.  and  on  the  space  enclosed  by  the  mighty,  breakers 
(in,  reality  about  a  dozen  yards  square),  no  other  than  the  island  on  which 
stands  the  Chateau  d'lf,  that  rocky  majestic  mass  rising  from  the  Medi- 
terranean, crowned  with.its  antique  castles  within  whose  dungeons  Dantes* 
alias  Monte  Gristo,  sighed! 

And  there  is  a  building  also,  on  the  small  plot  of  ground,  to  make  the 
delusion  perfect  in  good  sooth ;  and  it  is  castellated,,  and  has  small  towers 
and  arched  windows,  very  like,  in  form  and  appearance,  a  castle  made  of 
chocolate.  But.  the  most  wonderful  part  o£  the  whole  is  that  every  brick 
forming  this  building  is  inscribed  with  a  name,  and  each,  name  is  the: 
title  of  some  book  written  by  Alexandre  Dumas,  by  right  of  creation 
Comte  de  Monte  Cristo !  Having  built  the  edifice  and  thus  inscribed  his 
works  on  the  walls,  they  are  immortalised,  and  will  live,  like  some 
Roman  remains,  for  ever — if  the  damp  will  allow  the  walls  to  stand. 


342  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces, 

This  most  singular  display  of  literary  vainglory  struck  me  as  one  of  the 
very  drollest  devices  that  had  ever  visited  an  author's  brain,  and,  moreover, 
exceedingly  Galftc  in  character.  Only  imagine  Lotti  Brougham  seatdd 
in  a  garden  pavilion  in  his  retreat  at  Cannes,  With  the1  names  of  all  the 
trials  in  which  he  had  pleaded  inscribed  on  the  bricks:  wby,  wfeqa  he/ re- 
turned to  London,  H.  B.  would  annihilate  him  with-  caricatures !  j,B$ 
Dumas  indulges  his  eccentricity  in  all  tranquillity,  jandtl  read.jthe^naip 
of  many  an  old  favourite,  luoh  as  "  La  Heine  Margot/1  "  Impressions  <ft 
Voyage,"  &c,  set  forth  in  this  strange  catalogue-  iWithin #m  build^g 
is  a  room,  and  this  is  the  summer  writing-room  of  Dumas,  whei^reposiag 
amid  his  laurels,  he  sits  enthroned,  greater  and  prouder  far  i^an  jgariw 
amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  When  Dumas  retires  to  the  island,  of  Maajfe 
Cristo  (only  hear  how  grand  that  sounds),  he  is  not  to  be  tdisforbe^of 
any  consideration.  With  much  solemnity  the  small  pjank— o&v  jns> 
jestic  bridge — is  pompously  removed,  and  as  no  mortal  can  traverse  aliv* 
the  terrific  torrent  flowing  between  the  mainland  of  flower-beds  and.the 
island  of  weeds,  his  solitude  must  be  respected,  and  Dumas  sitp  down 
peacefully  to  compose  one  of  his  most  amusing  books.  He  feels— be 
knows  he  is  the  Comte  himself:  there  is  his  portrait,  and  his  unaginst$a 
is  fired  by  the  magnificent  idea  ! 

Duns  may  arrive  cursing,  bearing  their  bills' — actresses  in  despajr 
come  from  the  Comedie  Francaise  to  crave  an  audience — the  last  new 
ballet-dancer,  about  whom  all  Paris  raves,  may  have  journeyed  all  ike 
way  from  the  capital  to  ask  a  flourishing  critique  in  the  Charivari^-yub- 
lishers,  great  in  pomp  and  circumstance,  may  fly  it  from  the  railroad  in 
rapid  haste  (a  publisher  never  was  seen  in  any  other  state  but  that  of  ex- 
treme and  palpitating  heat  and  bustle) — the  Emperor  himself  might  be 
without — all  would  be  vain.  Le  Comte  de  Monte  Cristo  est  chezha^ 
and  neither  angel  from  heaven  nor  mortal  from  the  world  beneath  nan  be 
admitted — his  solitude  must  be  respected. 

But  in  all  sober  seriousness,  the  whole  affair— the  chateau,  the  island, 
and  all — was  most  diverting;  and  whoever  would  study  the  full  and  fine 
development  of  literary  folly  and  vanity,  should  pay  a  visit  to  this  place. 
If  they  do  not  return  amused,  I  will  never  more  take  pen  in  hand.  The 
visit  was  now  concluded,  and  we  returned  to  the  gate,  reconducted  by  the 
same  animals  who  had  greeted  our  arrival.  The  stables,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  narrow  road,  are  of  a  size  suitable  to  the  stud  of  a  prince,  or 
Lord  Chesterfield  before  he  was  ruined.  Fortunately  for  the  purse  and 
credit  of  Dumas,  they  are  not  finished,  for  if  they  had  been  tenanted,  as 
he  intended,  with  dozens  of  Arab  steeds  fresh  from  the  desert,  via  the 
last  steamer  from  Algeria,  perhaps  his  faithful  friends  and  admirers  would 
have  found  it  impossible  to  re-purchase  the  domain,  if  horse-racing,  steeple- 
chases, and  betting  had  been  added  to  the  other  extravagances  of  the 
imaginary  Comte  de  Monte  Cristo.  I  continued  my  way  to  Marly, 
deeply  reflecting  upon  the  state  of  delusion  the  brain  of  a  man  deemed  to 
be  sane  can  arrive  at. 


Pilgpmaffes  to  the  French  Palaces.  343 

^.^:l',;;:,;:;;,iy::...>;,;:';'  .#.. ,:;;  'vv"  ■■■■.. 

Marly— Madame  de  Maititenonr-Death '  of  the  First  X)auphifi— Beoeptjon— "Dvl* 

A  pretty  hilly  road^  parsing  through  vmeyar^s,  and  a. Smiling  culti«» 
fated  tract  of  country,  conducts  one  in  about  an  hour  to  the  tillage  that 
gave  a  name  to  the  palace  situated  on  the  side  of  one  of  the  hills  border- 
ing the  Seine.  Descending  froth  this  point,  I  found  myself  in  a  narrow 
Valley,  completely  shut  in-  by  rising  ground,  and  thickly  planted  with 
{frees.  This  was  once  the  park,  or  wood — a  secluded,  peaoefuLspot,  where 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  warm  sunny  nooks,  bluebells,  thyme, 
'and  primrose?  carpet  the  mossy  ground7  and  thickly- wooded  sloping 
franks,  where  the  tender  leaves  of  the  beech  and  the  hazel  burst  forth* 
dotted  upon  a  background  of  deep  green  firs  and  evergreens,  all  sheltered 
from  the  wind.  Avenues  still  extend  in  various  directions,  old  fantastic- 
looking  trees,  that  have  lived  to  see  the  destruction  of  the  palace  they  were 
planted  to  adorn,  an  open  space  in  the  centre  of  these  woods,  and  some 
deep  ditches,  now  overgrown  with  grass,  indicate  the  spot  that  must  once 
liave  been  a  garden,  planted  in  the  prim  solemn  taste  of  that. day,  orna- 
mented with  balustrades,  statues,  clipped  hedges,  terraces  and  fountains — 
a  scene  where  even  nature  was  subjected  to  etiquette,  and  the  very  trees 
&nd  flowers  arrayed  for  court,  and  forced  into  grotesque  and  unnatural 
shapes  to  meet  the  royal  eye. 

When  Louis  fixed  on  Marly  as  the  spot  where  a  new  residence  was4  to 
*be  erected,  Le  N6tre  and  the  courtiers  were  in  despair.  "  To  select  a 
morass,  a  gorge,  where  all  the  springs  and  water  from  the  surrounding 
hills  collected,  a  spot  without  any  view,  encircled  by  bills,  and  in  so  un- 
healthy a  situation !"  But  the  monarch  had  spoken,  and  like  the  laws  of 
the  Medes  and  Persians,  his  Word  was  not  to  be  withdrawn.  "He  was 
tired,"  he  replied,  "of  the  splendour  of  Versailles"  (barely  then  com- 
pleted), *  and  he'  wanted  a  bijou— ww  Hen  enfin— wherein  to  retire  from 
the  crowd  and  formality  of  the  •other  palaces — a  place  to  sleep  at  three 
nights  in  the  week,  accompanied  Only  by  a,  few  of  his  particular  friends." 
Louis  was  in  a  melancholy  mood,  and  this  situation  just  suited. the  pass- 
ing whini.  But  under  the  directions  of  Le  Ndtre  the  idea  of  a  royal 
hermitage  was  soon  forgotten,  and  millions  were  squandered  on  what  was 
to  cost  originally  "  absolutely  nothing."  Full-grown  trees  were  brought 
*from  the  forest  of  Compiegrte  with  vast  labour,  and  the  expense  of  drain- 
<  ing  the  marshy  soil  and  elevating  the  waters  of  the  Seine  to  a  proper 
height  to  supply  the  numerous  cascades  and  jets  dfeau  dispersed  -about  the 
1  grounds  was  enormous.  So  a  palace,  magnificent  and  beautiful,  at  length 
appeared,  built  somewhat  in  the  Italian,  or  villa  style,  to  favour  the  royal 
fancy  of  a  rural  retirement,  composed  of  various  pavilions  connected  by 
colonnades  and  arches.  I  cannot  but  commend  the  good  taste  of  Louis 
in  selecting  this  retired  valley  for  a  summer  retreat.  Certainly,  here  is 
no  view,  no  distance ;  but  Louis  was  tired  of  prospects  and  sights  of  all 
kinds,  and  this  verdant,  sheltered  spot,  completely  shut  in  by  hills,  must 
have  been  a  charming  nest  during  the  summer  heats. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  Marly  became  his 
favourite  residence,  when  he  became  that  artificial,  pompous  autocrat, 


344  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

whose  affectations  have  actually  impregnated  and  characterised  the  age 
in  which  he  lived.  Let  us  view  him  and  his  court  as  they  appeared  here, 
and  endeavour  to  repeople  this  solitude,  to  rebuild  those  fallen  walls,  and 
fill  them  with  some  of  the  most  interesting  characters  that  figured  there. 

Nothing  could  be  a  greater  proof  of  royal  favour  than  to  be  included 
in  the  petite  voyages  de  Marly,  as  fhey  were  called — an  honour  more 
desired  and  sought  after  by  the  subservient  noblesse  than  even  a  riband 
or  an  appointment.  The  lists  of  the  invited — the  favoured  few — were 
made  out  in  the  king's  own  hand,  and  happy  were  those  included  among 
the  number — including,  of  course,  the  name  of  the  reigning  maitresse  en 
Hire,  be  she  the  proud  Montespan  or  the  hypocritical  Maintenon.  This 
latter  reigned  here  supreme,  and  no  one  could  hope  for  admission  who 
was  not  high  in  her  favour — or  at  least  of  that  of  her  waiting-woman, 
Mademoiselle  Balbieu,  or  her  especial  cronies,  the  Jesuits.  But  to  the 
princes  and  princesses,  going  to  Marly  was  a  fearful  infliction.  Etiquette 
forced  them  to  go  bon  gre  mat  gre.  HI  or  well,  there  they  must  be,  or 
the  royal  sun  (Louis's  proud  device)  withdrew  its  Hfe-imparting  beams, 
and  they  languished  in  hyperborean  darkness,  exposed  to  all,  the 
tremblings  and  the  horrors  felt  by  the  ancients  at  a  total  eclipse.  Un- 
happy royal  family  !    One  really  pities  their  sufferings. 

The  Duchesse  de  Berry,  that  wanton  daughter  of  the  profligate 
regent,  might  plead  her  interesting  situation,  and  the  positive  com- 
mands of  Fagon,  the  Locock  of  that  day,  not  to  move.  No  matter— 
her  name  was  on  the  list,  and  go  she  must.  She  hinted  to  the  king, 
her  grandfather,  that  she  feared  it  would  be  impossible,  and  begged 
him  to  have  her  excused  on  this  one  occasion  only.  Her  mother,  the 
Duchesse  d'Orleans,  rose  from  her  chaise  longue,  where  her  indolent 
habits  generally  kept  her,  and  told  him  the  same  in  still  plainer  language, 
with  no  better  result.  At  length,  as  a  last  resource,  Madame  de  Mainte- 
non, then,  as  I  have  said,  in  all  her  glory,  was  applied  to,  and  she 
seriously  represented  to  him  the  danger  of  disobeying  the  commands  of 
Fagon.  But,  incredible  to  believe,  the  selfish  old  monarch  would  listen 
to  no  one,  and  ended  by  becoming  so  seriously  angry  that  every  one  was 
glad  to  drop  the  subject,  and  poor  Madame  la  Duchesse  was  dragged 
there  in  a  boat ! 

On  another  occasion  theComte  de  Toulouse,  an  illegitimate  son  of  the 
king's,  was  suffering  woefully,  and  enduring  agonies  of  pain,  but  he  was 
obliged  to  leave  his  bed  and  accompany  his  father,  who,  in  this  instance, 
risked  his  life  rather  than  sacrifice  a  point  of  etiquette.  Well  might  poor 
Marie  Antoinette  afterwards  cry  out,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  soul,  "  Oh, 
etiquette !  etiquette !  I  shall  die  of  etiquette !" 

What  a  picture  of  a  stiff,  solemn  old  tyrant  was  Louis  in  his  old  age! 
dreaded  by  his  own  children  and  grandchildren  to  an  extent  almost  in- 
credible, and  exercising  over  them  the  most  absolute  control !  Hated  in 
his  kingdom,  where  his  bigotry  had  lit  up  the  most  deadly  religions 
warfare  by  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  deluging  the  south 
in  blood  and  horrors  only  paralleled  by  the  sufferings  of  the  Albigenses,  he 
himself,  in  his  turn,  was  thoroughly  victimised  by  that  cunning  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  now  his  wife,  who,  by  alarming  his  conscience  with  re- 
ligious fears,  and  calling  up  before  him  in  dread  array  the  remembrance  of 
hS  youthful  excesses,  so  terrified  the  aged  voluptuary  that  he  passively 


Pilgrimages  to  the. French  Palaces.  845 

acquiesced  in  the  sway  she  and  her  allies,  the  Jesuits,  exercised  oyer  the 
whole  court, 'which  became  as  gloomy  and  as  puritanical— at  least  out- 
wardly— as  it  had  before  been  brilliant  and  dissipated.  The  sudden  and 
unaccountable  deaths  that  occurred  in  hk  family  also  threw  a  deep  shade 
orer  the  closing  years  of  his  treign,  and  it  was  to  Marly  the  court  re- 
treated for  a  time  after  these  melancholy  events.  For  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  or  Maintenant,  as  she  was  wittily  called,  was  fond  of  Marly, 
which  was  built  two  years  after  her  private  marriage  with  the  king.  .She 
herself  superintended  the  erection  of  the  palace  and  the  adornment  of  the 
gardens,  which  she  much  preferred  to  those  of  Versailles,  and  often  was 
the  ci-devarit  widow  Scarron  to  be  seen  seated  in  her  «edan-chair,  while 
the  king,  hat  in  hand,  like  a  valet,  stood  beside  her,  or  bent  over  the  door 
in  conversation  with  her. 

But  a  solemn  announcement  was  made  of  a  certain  day  when  the  king 
would  receive  the  royal  family  in  mantles  and  mantelets,  seated  or  not 
seated  on  Jauteuik  and  tabourets  as  became  their  rank,  and  the  disputes 
that  this  gave  rise  i»  are  most  diverting.  The  Due  du  Maine,  Louis's 
eldest  son  by  De  Montespan,  already  indulging  in  those  dreams  of 
future  sovereignty  which  caused  him  to  risk  his  life  in  an  attempt  to  be 
appointed  regent  in  place  of  the  Due  d'Orleans,  now  insisted  that  as 
he  and  his  sisters  were  also  brethren  of  the  deceased  dauphin,  they  ought 
to  appear  in  that  character  on  this  occasion  of  lugubrious  gala.  Louis, 
neither  weak  nor  infirm  enough  at  that  time  to  contemplate  his  sub- 
sequent act  of  legitimising  the  progeny  of  an  adulterous  connexion, 
was  astonished  at  the  demand,  but  referred  the  question  to  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  who,  ever  ready  to  favour  her  old  pupil  and  favourite  the 
Due  du  Maine,  at  once  obliged  him  to  consent  to  this  scandalous  pro* 
ceeding.  Great  was  the  astonishment  of  the  court,  and  many  were  the 
groups  and  knots  of  courtiers  formed  in  the  long  avenues  to  discuss  so 
extraordinary  an  infraction  of  precedence  and  etiquette. 

But  it  was  decreed.  That  king  'who  conceived  that  "  YEtatdest  mo?9 
had  spoken,  and  the  fiat  was  irrevocable.  After  dinner  Louis  retired  to 
his  apartments,  and  at  two  o'clock  precisely  the  folding-doors  were 
thrown  open  to  admit  the  court.  He  was  standing  with  his  hat  under 
his  arm,  with  his  right  hand  on  the  table  nearest  the  door.  How 
charmed  the  Grand  Monarque  must  have  been  to  possess  so  excellent  a 
Boswell  as  is  the  Due  de  St.  Simon,  who,  as  my  readers  see,  omits  not 
the  slightest  particular  in  portraying  the  king  "  in  his  very  habit  as  he 
lived!" 

The  Due  andDuchesse  de  Bourgogne  entered  first,  having  now,  by  the 
death  of  his  father,  become  Dauphin  and  Dauphiness ;  then  came  the  Due 
de  Berry  and  his  exceedingly  disreputable  wife ;  next  advanced  the  Due 
and  Duchesse  d'Orleans,  seldom  seen  together  except  on  grand  occasions' 
like  the  present,  as  he  had  rather  a  horror  of  "  Madame  Lucifer's"  tongue 
—his  conduct  certainly  tending  to  provoke  most  lively  conjugal  re- 
proaches ;  they  were  followed  by  the  aspirants  to  legitimation,  the  de- 
formed Due  du  Maine,  with  his  brother,  the  Comte  de  Toulouse,  now 
placed  by  the  influence  of  Madame  de  Maintenon  on  a  perfect  level  with 
the  honestly-born  members  of  the  royal  family.  This  great  card  once 
played,  they  already  saw  themselves  legally  disfranchised  from  the  shame 
of  their  birth. 


346  Pilgrimages  to  ih^  French  Palaces. 

All  the  company,  arrayed  in  black  mantles  and  mantelets,  arranged 
themselves  in  a  semicircle  round  the  king,  who  was  also  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  with  one  of  the  most  ponderous  of  -wigs,  arranged  in  curls 
falling  almost  to  his  waist.  The  poor  widows  were  very  badly  used  on 
this  occasion,  for  although  allowed  to  form  part  of  the  cirole,  they  were 
deprived  of  that  much-to-be-desired  vestment  of  honour,  the  mantle,  and 
only  allowed  to  wear  small  veils.  .-.  f  .. 

Such  was  the  crowd  of  black  garments,  that  Marly  looked  like  a  vast 
rookery.  Other  duchesses  of  renown,  but  not  always  of  virtue,  followed  & 
then  came  ladies  of  rank ;  and  the  foreign  ambassadors,  who,  arriving 
rather  late,  were  very  ill  placed  in  consequence.  Behind  them  followed 
Monsignor  the  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  with  his  attendant  myrmidons,  iy 
the  shape  of  divers  priests  and  deacons ;  and  after  him  dozens  of  other 
dukes,  and  prelates,  and  grandees  of  all  nations  and  languages,!  crowding 
into  the  room  where  the  king  received  each  in  turn.  On  approaching 
the  royal  presence,  all  bowed  profoundly ;  which  salute  the.ldupg  was. ob- 
served to  return  in  a  most  marked  manner  to  those  .who  were  happy 
enough  to  frave  handles  to  their  names,  hardly  noticing  those  un- 
fortunate individuals  wanting  that  distinction.  After  the  reception 
came  the  visits,  and  those  who  were  obliged  by  etiquette  to  receive 
them  hurried  to  their  various  apartments  to  appear  in  their  turn 
with  befitting  dignity.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  confusion;  people 
rushed  in  at  one  door  and  out  of  the  other,  passing  from  Madame  la 
Duchesse  to  Madame  la  Frincesse,  with  a  rapidity  that  scarcely  allowed 
time  for  the  reverences  de  rfyle.  The  next  day  a  grand  visit  of  cere- 
mony was  made  to  St.  Germain  to  the  unfortunate  James  and  his  queen, 
then  residing  there;  and  here  the  difficulties  as  to  who  should  wear 
mantles  and  who  should  only  have  mantelets,  and  who  should  sit  on 
fauteuils,  and  who  were  to  be  contented  with  tabourets,  increased  to  such 
an  alarming  extent,  that  even  the  king  himself  despaired  of  coming  to 
any  satisfactory  arrangement,  and  the  matter  ended  by  the  whole  party, 
including  kings,  queens,  and  princesses,  standing  on  their  feet,  and,  after 
exchanging  a  few  formal  phrases  of  condolence,  separating,  to  the  mutual 
relief  of  every  one  concerned. 

What  a  life ! — what  a  picture  of  court  misery  do  these  details  present! 
As  I  paced  up  and  down  the  avenues  of  Marly,  how  vain  appeared  all 
the  pomp  and  vanity  of  courts  and  crowns  witn  their  intrigues  and  fro- 
casseries  before  the  calm,  immovable  face  of  nature.  These  painted 
beauties  and  powdered  heads  are  all  long  since  laid  low  in  the  dust, 
mouldering  with  the  native  soil ;'  and  all  that  remains  to  bear  witness  of 
the  vain  strife  that  occupied  their  frivolous  lives,  are  these  hills,  these 
flowery  banks,  and  umbrageous  trees — nothing  but  the  setting  of  the 
"  picture  to  which  they  formed  the  foreground ! 


(    347     ) 


THE  VILLAGE  ERIEST. 

J!,  •  • 

In  Upiper  Suatbia,  wherever  the  meadows  are  most  flourishing,  and  the 
bright  streams  rustle  through  the  valleys,  or  where  a  sunny  acclivity  ristes, 
and  fine  woods  and  luxuriant  crops  are  in  the  vicinity,  there  a  monastic 
building  generally  stands.  The  white  walls  and  lofty  gables  look  from 
a  distance  stately  enough  ;  but  when  you  draw  nearer,  you  see  that  the 
court-yards  are  desolate,  the  spacious  rooms  serve  only  as  haylofts,  and  the 
sparrows  build  their  nests  in  the  carved  work  of  the  palace  of  the  prelates* 
Not  unrrequently  the  hand  of  destruction  Jhas  fallen  still  more  heavily  on 
thefee  abodes  of  peace  :  the  main  building  is  in  ruins,  the  cloister  broken 
down  and  blocked  up.  It  is  true  that  the  people  have  adhered  to  the  Catholic 
faith,  but  the  holy  fathers  and  sisters  are  no  longer  to  be  seen  ;  nothing 
is  left  them  of  their  rich  property  save  six  feet  of  gravestone  within  the 
cloister :  the  rest  belongs  to  the  children  of  the  world.  The  well-pre- 
served church,  with  its  slate-covered  roof,  alone -shows  that  the  new  heirs 
will  not  give  up  the  eternal  treasures  of  the  church  although  they  have 
robbed  her  of  the  temporal. 

Frequently  an  old  fruit-tree,  that  is  gradually  dying,  puts  forth  a  young 
shoot  that  is  strong  and  healthy ;  and  if  this  young  tree  does  not  pro- 
duce such  fair  and  perfect  fruit,  still  it  is  of  the  same  species.  Similarly 
from  the  old  monastic  buildings  a  new  life  has  sprung  up,  less  holy,  but 
equally  important.  The  art  of  cultivating  gardens,  of  ingrafting  noble 
fruit-trees,  of  housing  abundant  crops  in  proper  succession,  has  been 
inherited  by  the  free  peasant,  who  once  served  as  a  dependent  in  the 
halls  of  the  monastery  ;  in  the  lofty  rooms  the  brewer  is  busily  engaged, 
who  has  robbed  the  monks  of  their  richest  fields  and  their  noblest  abode; 
in  the  cloister  the  cobbler  raps  and  the  smith  hammers,  and  hence — > 
probably  because  the  prosperity  in  the  village  surrounding  this  monas- 
tery is  greater  than  elsewhere — a  solemn  peace  rests  on  the  whole  and 
consecrates  their  toil. 

Such  a  convent,  then,  is  Hochmunster. 

The  widely-extended  buildings  are  built  on  a  gently  rising  acclivity ; 
the  wall  of  the  garden,  surrounding  the  convent  on  three  sides,  is  here 
and  there  demolished  or  broken  down  ;  but  the  front  wing  of  the  build- 
ing that  run9  along  the  high  road  has  been  carefully  preserved.  There  not 
a  stone  or  a  brick  is  absent ;  but  in  the  lower  story  the  little  round  window- 
panes  have  been  removed,  and  the  refectory  has  been  rendered  lighter. 
It  is  still  a  refectory,  save  that  instead  of  tender  nuns  nibbling  at  their 
toothsome  sweetmeats,  or  sipping  wine  of  their  own  growth,  the  carrier 
now  has  the  strongest  beer  standing  before  him,  and  the  traveller  praises 
the  rough  culinary,  skill  of  the  brewer's  wife.  To  the  right  of  the  main 
building  a  piece  of  the  garden-wall  has  even  been  removed,  and  given 
place  to  a  gracefully-formed  iron  gate,  behind  which  a  newly-built, 
small,  though  elegant  cottage  stands.  On  the  frontage,  a  vine  spreads 
over  an  espalier,  and  in  the  little  garden  tulips  and  hyacinths  glisten. 
It  can  be  easily  seen  that  the  proprietor  of  this  cottage  must  have  plenty 
of  time  on  his  hands,  and  from  the  grey-haired  turnspit,  that  lies  un- 
disturbed before  the  door,  the  conclusion  may  be  drawn  that  this  is  & 
nook  wherein  parents  or  a  grandmother  are  spending  their  closing  days 
July— vol.  cvh.  no.  ccccxxvn.  2  A 


348  The  Village  Priest. 

in  peace,  while  the  business  in  the  convent  opposite  is  left  to  younger 
hands. 

It  must  be  Easter  time,  for  in  the  taproom  and  in  the  court-yard,  as 
well  as  at  the  entrance  to  the  cottage,  fresh  May  is  fastened  up ;  here 
and  there  a  maid  hurries  from  one  house  to  the  other  with  a  cake;  in  the 
"  nook,"  an  active  woman  of  some  forty  years  of  age  is  tripping  up  and 
down  stairs,  and  has  so  much  to  say  and  to  order,  that  herself  and  her 
two  maids  scarcely  «know  what  to  set  about  first.     An  important  guest 
was  evidently  expected,  for  the  little  woman  is  at  one  moment  down  on 
the  ground-floor  with  grandmamma,  asking  advice  ;  then  she  stands  in 
the  centre  of  the  best  room  on  the  first  floor,  and  admires  her  own  hand*, 
work,  how  white  her  curtains  are,  and  how  cleverly  she  has  arranged 
everything  ;  or  she  walks  again  and  again  to  the  window,  whence  a  long 
stretch  of  the  road  can  be  seen  across  the  green  crops  and  the  yellow 
rape-fields,  and  each  wanderer,  each  vehicle  can  be  recognised1.    At 
length  she  even  calls  to  Ernestine  and  Marie,  and  asks,  "  Is  everything 
exactly  as  my  Alois  likes  it  ?"    To  the  maids'  affirmatory  reply  she  then 
adds,  "  For  my  son  returns  to-day  as  priest,  and  all  must  therefore  be 
doubly  clean  and  proper.     I  should  like  to  know  why  he  has  not  arriyed 
long  ago."     She   stood  against  the    window — "But  there's  nothing 
coming  of  any  sort  along  the  dusty  road.     I  shall  have  time  to  go  over  to 
my  sister's  for  a  moment,  to  see  if  they  are  so  far  in  their  kitchen.  Marie, 
you'll  stop  here  and  look  out  of  window.     Call  me  if  you  see  anything 
even  at  a  distance." 

Said  and  done.  The  maid  stood  faithfully  too  at  the  window  and 
watched  most  carefully,  but  nothing  came  along  the  road  that  would 
occasion  her  to  call  her  mistress.  But  while  she  was  looking  oat  in  hoot, 
a  young  man  approached  along  the  footpath  through  the  beech  forest  that 
almost  runs  down  to  the  garden  wall,  and  is  only  separated  by  a  narrow 
clover-field  ;  he  unfastened  the  back  door  gently,  and  then  walked  slowly, 
and  looking  round  carefully,  as  if  he  would  greet  every  bush  and  tree,  of 
to  the  house— yes,  he  even  allowed  himself  time  to  cast  a  glance  into  the 
cloister,  were  it  as  a  reminiscence  of  this  playground  of  his  youth,  were  it 
to  look  for  some  one  by  whom  he  would  have  been  gladly  greeted  first 
It  could  be  seen  at  first  sight  that  the  young  man  was  an  ecclesiastic ; 
still  he  was  not  attractive  either  through  a  very  handsome  figure  or  by 
elegant  features  ;  he  looked  younger  than  he  could  be  in  accordance  win 
his  calling,  and  had  the  alow,  placid  action  of  a  passionless  man.  It  was 
not  till  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  home,  and  the  old  dog  Belle 
made  several  fruitless  attempts  to  leap  up  to  him,  and  he  bent  down  to 
pat  the  delighted  animal,  that  his  features  beamed  with  good-nature 
and  became  really  handsome.  He  first  went  into  the  ground-floor  room, 
the  grandmother^  sanctum ;  she  was  seated  at  the  window  in  the 
warm  sunshine,  had  just  laid  her  spectacles  and  prayer-book  aside,  ant1 
was  now  slumbering.  Alois  remained  in  the  doorway  and  affectionately 
regarded  the  old  lady's  tranquil  features.  She  was  dressed  in  her  fiaaaaj 
gown,  evidently  in  honour  of  her  expected  grandson.  He  did  not  more, 
but  wiped  a  tear  from  his  bright  eyes,  which  he  now  kept  wade  open, 
though  usually  wont  to  let  them  fall ;  but  the  turnspit  dog  could  not  be 
.restrained  from  aimouneing  the  visitor,  and  kept  barking  round  the 
grandmother  till  «he  awoke,  "Come  nearer,  my  son!".*he  said,  in l 
gentle  voice,  winch,  however,  had  not  yet  lost  any  cf  its  metallic  daag-~ 


The  Village  Priea.  349 

"  come  hither,  for  my  limbs  have  refused  me  their  service  for  many  a 
month.  Oh  !  how  fervently  have  I  already  thanked  God  for  suffering  me 
to  live  to  see  this  day !" 

Alois  had  drawn  nearer,  knelt  on  the  stool  before  his  grandmother,  and 
held  her  hand  firmly,  while  she  laid  the  other  on  his  head,  and  said, 
affectionately,  "  The  Lord  bless  you  ;  you  have  been  a  joy  to  your 
parents,  and  will  be  here  to  close  my  eyes.  Henceforth  we  shall  be  to- 
gether in  life  and  in  death  I" 

Now  the  mother  rushed  into  the  room,  quite  red  with  haste  and  de- 
light, and  cried,  "  Alois,  Alois  !  have  you  really  come  ?  It  is  really  too 
bad :  for  three  hours  I  never  left  the  window,  that  I  might  be  the  first  to 
see  you,  and  when  I  went  away  for  a  moment,  then  you  must  come* 
Had  an  angel  rendered  you  invisible  ?  The  stupid  Marie !"  she  exclaimed, 
between  the  kisses  with  which  she  now  welcomed  her  only  child.  She 
turned  her  son  round  and  round  in  delight  to  see  whether  he  was  as 
handsome  and  healthy  as  she  had  always  thought  him.  "  But  every- 
thing's out  of  order  to-day,"  she  said,  quite  lost  in  her  examination ; 
"  the  brother-in-law  has  driven  as  far  as  Erbrechtingen  to  meet  you,  and 
now  you  come  on  foot !  and  how  hungry  and  tired  you  must  be  1" 

She  now  drew  him,  despite  his  half  repugnance,  away  from  the  grand- 
mother, and  conducted  him  into  the  drawing-room  that  was  prepared  for 
his  reception.  "  For,"  she  said,  "  you  must  feel  again  for  once  that 
there's  nothing  like  a  mother's  care.  See  here,  all  is  as  you  like  it." 
Yes,  she  even  wished  to  take  his  shoes  off  when  he  stretched  himself  at 
his  ease  on  the  newly-covered  sofa,  for  he  had  in  truth  had  a  long  walk. 
He,  however,  prevented  her  with  a  smile,  and  said,  "  No,  dear  mother, 
our  Lord  and  master  said,  '  I  have  not  come  to  be  served,  but  to  serve 
others.'  "  She  did  not  let  herself  be  thwarted,  though,  so  easily. 
"Ah  !"  she  replied,  "our  Lord  only  meant  that  spiritually  4  in  actual 
life  he  was  waited  upon  by  Martha  and  her  sisters."  Alois  raised  his 
finger  threateningly,  and  said,  "  Oh,  mother,  mother,  what  remarks  are 
those  for  a  lady  whose  son  will  be  appointed  priest  and  dispenser  of  the 
sacraments  in  this  place  next  Sunday  ?"  She  only  answered  him  with 
kisses,  and  he  was  forced  to  submit,  and  allow  her  at  least  to  put  on  his 
slippers:  "For,"  she  said,  "even  if  you  now  are  our  clergyman,  and 
your  mother  must  confess  to  you,  still  you  are  my  child,  my  own  flesh 
and  blood,  which  God  cannot  take  from  me.  Nor  would  He  wish  to  do 
so,  for  our  Saviour's  last  words  were  for  His  mother.  He  had  still  time 
to  think  of  her,  when  He  bore  the  burden  of  the  world  and  the  bitterness 
of  death." 

Alois  shook  his  head.  She  would  not  suffer  him  to  speak,  however, 
but  continued :  "  And  now  I  am  doubly  jealous  of  my  maternal  rights* 
for  even  if  I  gladly  give  to  the  church  the  things  that  belong  to  it,  little 
Luise  will  now  come  and  want  her  ahare  of  your  heart.  And  she  will  play 
the  part  of  your  bride  at  your  installation,  grandmother  settled  it  so.  Bat 
have  you  seen  the  child  yet  ?  «fae  usually  followed  you  about  like  a  pet 
lamb." 

"  No  l"  the  40a  replied.  "  I  looked  into  the  cloisters  in  passing,  where 
the  child  usually  played,  but  I  saw  no  one." 

"  Well !  that  would  be  pretty  1"  the  mother  cried,  a  if  the  child  were 
now  to  play  about  atjhe  did  four  years  ago.  Lwse  is  «ow  jfcwelve  years 
old,  and  must  helplier  mother ;  else  it  would  be  said  that  the  children 

2  a  2 


350  The  Village  Priek. 

and  grandchildren  of  the  brewers  in  Hoclcraiinster  were  badly  brought  tip 
—but  the  child  has  grown  beautiful."  More  beautiful  than  all  the  rety 
she  was  about  to  add ;  but  she  checked  the  remark,  because  there  waft  ¥ 
gentle  and  modest  tap  at  the  door,  and  on  her  saying  "  Come  in,9  the 
little  Luise  walked  into  the  room.  The  girl  remained  standing  by  tfat 
stove  and  grew  red  as  fire,  while  she  made  a  confused  curtsey  and  into* 
mured  a  few  incoherent  words — a  species  of  address  which  her  mothfer1 
had  taught  her,  because  it  was  no  longer  proper  that  Luise  should  trett 
Alois  in  the  same  off-handed  way  as  before.  Alois  regarded  her  witf 
pleasuie,  but  appeared  to  have  no  inclination  to  help  ner  oat  of  ha 
embarrassment,  nor  did  her  aunt.  The  girl  curtseyed  several  limes ;  bof 
then  rushed  suddenly  to  her  cousin,  and  said,  "  To-morrow  and  the  netf 
day  I  may  be  as  usual,  mayn't  I,  Alois  ?  But  I  will  kiss  yon,  as  the  othgi 
really  betrothed  folks  do." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  let  her  do  all  Ar 
pleased  like  the  wild  girl  she  was ;  for  in  spite  of  her  good  education  aid5 
her  constant  amiable  battle  with  her  aunt,  as  the  only  dhild  of  tfee  rW 
brewer  and  farmer,  she  was  sadly  spoiled.  It  is  true  her  father  alwS^I 
opposed  it  when  mother  and  aunt  dressed  the  child  up  so,  an  A  on  tfifrdsy 
she  was  obliged  to  wear  a  washed-out  cotton  frock,  in  spite  df  tbe'fesfrre 
occasion  ;  but  to  make  up  for  it,  her  mother  had  plaited  Her  abffiitfjitiV 
black  hair  in  the  most  graceful  manner,  and  her  collar  and  apron  rwW 
the  finest  that  could  be  procured,  and  her  aunt,  to  oppose  her  brother-in*' 
law's  obstinacy,  had  given  the  girl  her  own  silver  arrow,  fend  fastened  it' 
in  her  hair.  By  the  time  the  mother,  who  h^d  retired  a  little  wni&fjf 
attend  to  the  dinner,  returned,  Alois  and  Luise  were  on  tne  nest  poss™. 
terms,  and  greeted  the  brewer's  wife  with  shouts  of  joy,  who  had  not1 
finished  her  toilette  and  come' in.  Then  they  went  down,  as  yai'tttur 
on  holidays,  to  the  grandmother's  room,  and  seated  &emselVe#Tomid  W 
amply-covered  board.  On  such  a  day  the  whole  house,  ac&ttflioj*  w  otf 
custom,  must  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land ;  yes,  even  the  fiJrandmbiAtrY 
canary,  which  always  chirruped  the  louder  the  merrier  people  were  rmilif 
the  table,  was  doubly  fed  by  Luise  this  day.  The  mixture' of  edteatfttt1 
and  great  rustic  simplicity  which  is  here  revealed  among  the  inhalritaittr 
of  Hochmiinster,  is  usually  manifested  in  such  wise*  ■'■■"■■' 

The  wealth  that  has  purchased  church  lands  brings  no  peril  to  its  jpios*' 
sessor,  for  it  is  still  closely  connected  with  the  honest  daily  labour,  ahd 
brings  in  its  train  a  multitude  of  traditional  duties.  The  rich  jfcan  rhnst 
always  exercise  beneficence  towards  others,  and  possess  we&ltb  as  if  ht 
had  it  not.  Nor  is  it  proper,  according  to  old  custom,  which'  the  fesrar 
dare  least  of  all  infringe,  to  display  wealth  in  any  other  fashioirjL  than  for1 
the  church  and  the  most  important  festivals  of  life— -when  a  hutttan  being" 
is  born,  marries,  or  dies.  The  same  man  on  whom,  probably,  the  whtifr 
parish  is  dependent,  must  be  the  first  about  in  the  house,  and  isfiut 
respected  unless  he  can  manage  a  plough  better  than  any  of  his  kA; 
the  housewife,  too,  who  has  all  her  cupboards  and  chests  full,'  would  b* 
considered  badly  brought  up  if  she  did  not  spin  a  new  piece  of  Hneo 
every  winter  and  put  it' to 'tne  rest,  or  if  she  tried  to  make  herself  con-*' 
spicuous  through  a  different  style  of  dress ;  the  most  permitted  would-be 
a  more  elegant  cap,  and  a  necklace  of  real  pearls  bequeathed  by  her 
parents.    This  restriction,  with  which  all  feel  happy,  is  handed1  down1 


The,  Yillcye  I*™**-  351 

froraigeneraticn  to  generation  almpst  Hke  a  tyrannical  law.  Even  with 
reference  to  marriage,  an  old  tradition  prevails  which  cannot  be  easily 
deserted  eyen  when  it  is  painful ;  for  these'  healthy  minds  and  nerves  do 
not  comprehend  that  a  heart  can  be  broken  by  unsatisfied  love.  They 
marry  extremely  rarely  out  of  their  rank,  and  whenever  there  are  two 
daughters  and  no  son  in  a  family,  the  one  must  marry  a  well-to-do  farmer 
for  house  and  home,  while  the  other,  if  she  will  not  leave  the  place,  they 
are  glad  to  betroth  to  the  schoolmaster,  so  that  the  whole  spiritual  and 
temporal  authority  may  be  in  the  hands  of  one  family,  which  then  re- 
gards it  as  the  highest  boast  that  a  son  of  the  schoolmaster  may  be  con- 
secrated to  the  church  at  an  early  age,  and  as  soon  as  he  has  reached 
the  canonical  age  be  made  the  clergyman  of  their  village,  for  then  their 
position  is  rendered  as  firm  as  a  rock.  Even  the  government  must  hold 
these  farmers  in  high  esteem,  for  although  they,  as  for  as  they  are  per- 
sonally concerned,  decline  to  be  sent  as  representatives  to  the  Chamber, 
still  they  decide  the  elections  through  their  influence,  and  on  the  slightest 
show  of  unfair  treatment  they  easily  become  very  dangerous,  through  a 
purely  conservative  temper  united  to  an  obstinate  resistance,  while  ever 
finding  a  support  in  the  silent  power  of  the  church. 

Such  a  family  was  that  of  the  Lamparters  of  Hochmtinster,  in  the  old 
conventual  times,  farmers,  and  now  independent  proprietors  of  the  finest 
fields  and  forests  around.  The  family  name  had  alone  been  altered  since 
the  death  of  the  grandfather,  as  there  were  two  daughters,  of  whom 
the  younger  had  married  a  rich  man,  Luise's  father,  for  house  and  home, 
while' the  elder,  obeying  her  affections,  had  accepted  the  school-teacher 
Winkler.  As  the  latter,  however,  died  at  an  early  age,  the  wife  devoted 
herself  entirely  to  nursing  the  grandmother,  ana  awaited  patiently  and 
m  cheerful  activity  the  moment  when  Alois,  her  son,  who  had  been  edu- 
cated in  the  convent,  would  satisfy  the  pride  of  the  family  by  becoming 
the  clergyman  of  Hochmiinster.  The  village  priest  had  died  several 
years  before,  but  the  grandmother  had  maintained  her  connexion  with 
the  clergy  with  redoubled  zeal,  and  the  brewer,  as  member  of  the  Cham- 
ber, had  also  done  his  share  to  keep  the  living  open  and  have  its  duties 
discharged  by  proxy  till  Alois  had  received  the  third  ordination.  Now 
tilings  had  come  thus  far,  and  he  would  be  solemnly  presented  as  priest 
of  Hochmiinster  on  the  next  Sunday. 

•  In  the  "  nook"  and  the  convent  everything  of  course  was  in  full  ac- 
tivity :  by  the  occasion  of  this  festival  the  wealth  of  the  family  would  be 
really  displayed.  The  brother-in-law  drove  himself,  with  his  handsome 
horses  and  silver- mounted  appointments,  all  around  in  the  vicinity  to 
invite  guests  and  clergymen  ;  the  wife  opened  her  most  precious  stores, 
for  the  suffragan  was  going  to  be  her  most  honoured  guest ;  the  mother, 
however,  had  enough  to  attend  to  in  preparing  Luise's  dress,  and  not 
forgetting  herself  at  the  same  time.  Alois,  too,  possessed  a  disposition 
that  fortunately  ripened  but  slowly,  which,  so  to  say,  awaited  its  proper 
seasons.  He  did  not  wish  when  a  lad  to  be  a  youth,  when  a  youth  to  be 
a  man,  when  a  man  to  be  forced  to  be  an  old  man.  He  could  conse- 
quently oppose  the  equanimity  of  a  quiet  temper  to  everything  that 
sought  to  thwart  him  or  lead  him  astray ;  he  was  never  embittered  or 
insulted,  and  believed  faithfully  in  the  better  angel  that  governed  his 
fellow-men.     This  store  of  blessed  love,  and  the  active  good  humour  in 


352  TteViliagei  Priest. 

which/he  resembled  his, mother,  he  had'  ever  seen  closely  united  with  the 
prayers  and  actions  of  the  ohuroh,  and  the  habit  of  regarding  IuhmbV 
from  childhood  dedicated  to  God  did  not  allow  him  to  regard  aa  a  heavy 
resignation'  what  tins  church  imposed  on  its  servants.  He  had,  probahfc 
never  reflected  that  marriage  was  a  blessing,  the  portal  to  wmoh  weak 
be  ever  dosed  against  him,  and  his  warm  feelings  were  poured  out  cuss 
the  whale  family,  with  whom  he  had  grown  up  in  peace  and  union*  Ha 
especially  felt  a  devoted  love  for  his  grandmother,  who  confirmed  bam  is 
return  in  his  simple  manners  through  her  pious,  sensible'  mind. 

During  the  day  he-  was  not  visible,  and  even  his  impatient  mother  ctd 
not  dare  disturb  him ;  in  die*  evening  ha  wandered  up  and  down  under 
the  fresh  verduring  trees  in  the  garden ;  but  then  he  even  escaped  from 
nis  fellow*beings,  and  paid  little  attention  to  the  deep  respect  with  which 
the  maids  and  peasant  wives  saluted  him :  for  to  a  woman's  mind  a  young 
Catholic  clergyman  ever  appears  a  martyr  and  a  sacrifice,  who  renounces 
the  world  to  keep  the  road  to  Heaven  open  for  hearts;  leas,  capable,  of 
making  such  sacrifices. 
*    Thus  the  festal  day  approached 

As  many  remote  farms  and  cottages  are  contained  in  such  a  parish  at 
Hochmttnster,  the  bell  is  rung  a  full  hour  before  the  commencement  of 
the  service.  These  sounds  aroused  Alois,  who  had  prayed  and  fasted  the 
whole  night  through,  from  his  meditations*  He  opened  the  window  to- 
wards the  garden,  and  looked  out  on  the  prospect.  The-  mists  were  still 
slowly  gathering  on  the  verge  of  the  forest,  but  die  sun  had  gained  the 
victory,  and  shone  through  the  quivering,,  gently  moving  fruit-trees  inuw 
garden.  His  eyes  rested  on  his  mother  with  a  smile,  who  was  already  dressed 
in  her  holiday  attire,  and  adorned  with  her  heavy  gold  chain,  seated  on  a 
bench  in  the  garden  and  weaving  a  garland.  This  art  is  famously  under- 
stood round  Hochmunster,  as  every  one  adorns  the  churchy  the  grave,  sad 
the  merrymakers  with  flowers ;  this  day,  however,  the  mother  had  stripped 
her  favourite  tree,  a  cherry,  planted  and  tended  by  herself,  and  which  as 
one  else  was  allowed  to  touch,  and  was  twining  the  snow-white  tiossasi 
into  &  wreath.  Alois  was  perfectly  aware  that  this  ornament  was  intended 
for  Luiae,  and  that  when  the  garland  was  finished  he  would  have  no  time 
left  to  follow  his  meditations.  He  had,  however,  much  too  great  a 
respect  for  every  old  tradition  to  think  it  any  interference  when,  at  Iast^ 
his  mother  and  aunt,  both  smiling*  through  their  tears,  came  in  to  him 
and  conducted  him  solemnly  down  to  the  grandmother. 

He  here  found  a  numerous  company  of  colleagues  and  elders  of  Hs 
own  parish  in  a  half-circle  round  the  grandmother's  chair  ;  to  the  left,  of 
them  stood  Luise,  dressed  in  white,  with  the  white  wreath  in  her  Wast 
hair.  Alois  was  silently  welcomed  by  the  company,  and  then  led  to  the 
right  hand  of  the  grandmother,  who  placed  his  hand  in  Luise's,  and  said: 
"It  is  a  primitive  custom  in  this  village  that  the  priest  who  comes  freak 
to  us  should  on  this  day  of  honour  be  wedded  to  the  merriest  girl  amoag 
us  in  a  truly  spiritual  marriage.  As  this  child  is  pure,  so  shall  the  prissfc 
devote  himself  to  purity,  for  he  must  not  separate  from  life,  but  units4 
himself  in  firm  bonds  with  all  that  is  blessed  and  divine  in  this  life,  that, 
while  on  earth,  he  may  be  in  heaven.  '  Suffer  little  children  to  coaw 
unto  me,'  He  that  is  thrice  holy  commands,  '  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom; 
of  Heaven,'  Thus  shall  a  child  lead  you  this  day  before  the.  altar,  ant 
you  shall  watch  your  whole  life  through  over  this  child  like  a  faithful 


The  Village  Friert.  353 

guardian,  and*  when  God  gives'  her  a  husband  youj  shall  speak  the  hofy 
blessing  over  both.  This-  is  the  meaning'  of  my  deed*  these  the  duties 
you  undertake,  and  I  will  bless  you  both,  as-  was  tie  custom  of  our  fathers 
and  fbiefirthem" 

She  held  her  hands  oyer  Alois  and  Luise,  who  had  knelt  downy,  and 
no  one  dared  to  interrupt  the  silence  which  now  ensued,  till  the  beHt 
began  afresh,  as  a  signal  for  the  procession  to  church.     The  boys  and 
girls  and*  school -children  of  the  village  had  in  the  mean.'  while  collected 
and  arranged  themselves  in  front  of  the  house.     With  music,  garland*, 
and  swinging  of  flags,  the  procession  started,  with  the  brewer  at  the  head; 
as  soon  aB  Alois  and  Luise  had  stationed  themselves  beneath  the  balda- 
chin of  flowers  which  four  lads  in  white  surplices  and  with  gilt  censers 
held  over  them.      The  grandmother  smiled  from  the  window  at  the 
mingled  mass,  which  proceeded  to  church  with  a  merry  marriage-march, 
and  looked  alter  it  until  the  church  door  was  closed  upon  the  last  devotee; 
Then  she  sank  back  on  her  chair  and  prayed  loudly,  as  the  sounds  of 
the  organ  reached  her  ear,  for  the  welfare  of  her  house.     The  day  after 
this  festival,  which  was  commenced  seriously  and  closed  in  merriment, 
Alois  had  already  returned  to  his  usual  quiet  course.     He  remained 
where  he  had  formerly  lived,  in  the  "nook"  with  his  mother  and  grand1- 
mother,  that  he  might  not  drive  the  sister  of  the  deceased  clergyman 
from  the  vicarage,  in  which  she  had  grown  old,  and  then  immediately 
commenced  his  regular  duties.     He  did  not  require  to  gain  the  confi- 
dence of  his  parishioners,  for  they  all  had  known  him  from  childhood^ 
and  lightened  his  labour,  as  they  willingly  let  him  seek  for  and  find 
them.     The  comfortable  circumstances  of  his  family  supported  him  m 
his  charitable  actions,  and  his  mother's  practical  sense  ever  found  a  way 
that  led  to  the  right  end.     But  whenever  Alois  found  anything  die 
matter  among  his  parishioners  in  which  his  own  experience  was  deficient} 
it  was  always  the  grandmother  who  strengthened  and  guided  him*  so 
that  he  often  exclaimed,   "  Oh,  home,  dear  home,  how-  much  you  can 
offer  a  man  who  is  permitted1  to  exercise  bis  calling  in  you ;  how  terrible1 
it  must  be  to  be  isolated !"     The  rest  of  his  daily  labour  also  soon  fell 
into  a  regular  course,  and  was  fairly  proportioned  between  working  and 
recreation.     When  he  had  completed  the  duties  of  his  vocation,  he- 
taught  little  Luise,  who  now  lived  with  the  grandmother  below,  for  her 
rather  would  no  longer  keep  her  in  his  house,  where  she  heard  and  saw 
more  than  was  proper.     In  the  evening,  however,  if  the  fresh  air  did  not 
induce  him  to  a  ramble,  he  could  seat  himself  quietly,  and  without  any; 
one  blaming  him  for  it,  in  the  little  private  room  at  the  Brewery,  where 
he  conversed  sensibly  with  the  burgomaster,  and  thus  by  degrees  felt  Ids 
way  to  all  the  circumstances  connected  with  the  parish,  or  played  his 
game  at  whist  with  some  of  his  colleagues  in  the  vicinity.     These  visits* 
to  the  Brewery  were  also  specially  to  Luise's  taste,  whom  the  quiet  at  hoc 
grandmother's  did  not  particularly  please,  for  then  she  was  permitted  to 
go  over  to  her  parents,  and  wait  on  the  gentlemen  in  the  little  room,  for 
which  she  was  continually  teased  by   them,   and  always   called  the 
H  priest's  wife," — an  expression  which  was  soon  common  through  the 
whole  village. 

'  Thus  Alois's  life  flowed  on  regularly  for  nearly  two  years  ;  and  even 
if  this  stream  glided  on  for  a  while  more  slowly  and  silently  under  the 
overhanging  bushes  because  the-  grandmother  had  at  last  departed}  still 


354  The  Village  JPrietf. 

this,event  made  less  alteration  in.  the  young.  clergymanVfoUyltfeLjtJjaB 
might  have  been  expected.  '.  He  kept  up  now,,**  before,  ft*<ee»Yersatiflt 
witnjthe  departed,  and  cheered  himself'  .by  ftbje  ramembj^e,  p£l*r>wiai 
life,  which  bad  always  remained  happy,  even  when  nexje^tyt  audi  sorrow 
bowed  her  down,  the  most ;  bu,t.  he,  gave  himself  nos^rodonUediircHiMe 
with  Luise,  because  sbe  bad  given  up,  her  wild  humours  aadiwas  Aobwj 
student :  it  is  true  she  also  became  bashful  and  thoughtful,  bijuXNrith<bifli 
she  was  open ;  her  soul  lay  before  bim  lite,  9,  bright  day,  and  abe'*ja4  ftH» 
mother  lived  in  constant  .rivalry  to  treat  the  .priest/  with,  affectionate 
attention.  .  ,*     ....■:.;    -..«■■  :i-i-    ».-.  ■.•»-  h  i  *• .-- . .  ir 

This  calm  relation,  this  equanimity  of  their,  fmuKb,  ^uffer^d  no  jwibhtt 
to  be  felt  which  might  not  be  satisfied.  Ato'p  naindresemWedia<weliT 
fitted  engine,. in  which  every  wheel  works  uponj  the  -othejr^withu regular 
movement,  and  thence  something*,  healthy  and: enduring^ i»  fptrafedL  r)<He 
did  not  require  to  suppress,  any  human  feelings,. .bepause  they  .mutually 
supported  each  other ;  so  that  he  was  neither  forced  tat  taste,  the  wermt 
wood  of  aecetiam,  npr  sip,  the  intoxicating  cup  of  papaw?. ;  Xbtiougbls 
happy  accident  spine  further  circumstances  bappfnetf  to  furpisb  him jwifk 
recreation.  He  had  great  talent  for  mathematics,  a^d.  {ana iwd  himself 
with  them  in  many  a  disengaged  hour,  but  he  .still  /*j^t^dtepjne:  introt 
duction  into  deeper  studies.  ..The  more  pleasantly ; was  h?  surpriied»  od 
going  to  the  Brewery  one  evening,;  to,,  meet ,  there  i  several  if  trefcgtt^ 
phyes,  who  were  going  to. survey, tbe. whole  of  tha^part  ,p% x%\m  oeufctaft 
and  had  chose^fflochnwinster  a*  their  bead-quarterp  fori^vejTallttwwJi^ 
because  it. was.a  central  spot...  ,A  mpre  favoui^le^p^i«B$$jrite>  i»*& 
up  the  deficiencies  in  his  knowledge  could  not  have  been  offered' Akasi 
He  therefore ,  Wjept  daily,,  and,. of te»;  much  (earlier  '^ JWUftUilte  the 
Brewery,  and  soon  somewhat  negkctadiLuise's  e4ucat*o#,  wfepididijwfe 
however,  deem  it  uecessary.to  warn  him,  on  thi*.  subject- 1  ,.]fcrsh*<t?wld 
sooner  be  in  the  Brewery-  enjL listen,  to  tbe.couyer&f^Qn,^fTitJle  atfcmga 
gentlemen,  whom:ber  beauty  pleaaed,  so.that.tbey  m*de  ^a*^&*euiark 
to  her  wbicb  remained  flatteringly  in . her.  ear^andtPi*  hwLmind»rr.;Ufe 
elegant  1  manners  of  the  townspeople,  which  sbe,.npw;.  sa^*  §*  jthtrroit 
time  and  felt  delighted  with,  made  a  deep  impression  upon  heD-makfe  dtt 
could  not  have  been  one  of  Eve's  daughters.  ..  ... .,;  T; -:, •*  ir.nwA 

Alois  devoted,  himself  \  passionately  to  his  studies,  far,  the  time,  elf  Jw 
teachers'  stay  appeared  to  him  top  short  'Alois,  who  usually  had. Ams 
everything  leisurely,  now  yielded  for  the  first  time  to  <xver-e«oesaiieijwA 
and  to  the  failing  of  aU  learned  men,,  that,  while  calculating  an4  meaauft 
ipg,  he  no  longer  saw,  sp  clearly  aU  that » topk  place  in  his  /immediate 
neighbourhood,;  else  he  must  haye  perceived  that  one,<of  ,  the  grangers* 
whom  he  himself  liked;  best  of  ahV,a  former  artillery  officer*  but  who! bad 
'now  entered  the  civil  service,  paid  Luise  more  attention  than  .»e» 
politeness  demanded,;. it  musjtji&ve  surprised,  him,  still  mare,'  tbatrtfe 
girl,  who.  usually  spoke  about  every  thing,  with  him,,  was  silent  when  1* 
mentioned  the.  stranger,  while  at  other,  times  she  would  only  tooglacfy 
make  her  witty  remarks  about  every  guest  in  the  Brewery.  ■  Th& 
mother  certainly  had  her  eyes.  ppen.;.  but  the  handsome  man  pleaaed  tat 
too  ;  and  as  the  attachment  wajs  still  a  secret*,  though  the  lieutenant  -urn 
universally  respected  and  in  excellent  circumstances,,  she  kept  bet 
thoughts  on  the  subject  to  herself,. and  left  it  to  the  future,  without  con* 
versing  with  ier  #pn  on  the. subject    Tlu^  week, after  weefcpasaed^Ae 


engineering  commission  was  gradually  preparing  to '  leave,  atid  Aloli 
henee  remained  each  Evening  the  longer  witb  his  friends,  so  that  he 
ttsually  came-  heme  after  midnight,  and  in  a  state  of  great  excitement, 
when  bis  faitiiry  httdL  long  been  asleep;  The  more  was^jie  surprised 
when  he  S8Jw,  •%  few*  days  before  that  appointed  /or  the  strangers'  de- 
parture, a  light  sfill  butnrng  in  hk  kitchen/ thotigh  the  watchman  had 
long  eaUed  twelve  o'clock.  He  consequently  threw  a  glance  through 
the  half-open  door.  Luise  was  sitting  on  a1  bench,  with  a  light  almost 
burned  out*  and  was  drying.  It  was,  however,  no  May  rain  of  happiness, 
no  overflow  of  delight  and  blessed  feelings;  these  were  the  bitter  t^ars 
oft  despair,  «hed  by  a  young' creature  who  considers  everythm^  lost  be- 
cause she  icfoesiietyet  lkm*w  the  pWer  of  time  and*  of  the  will, 

Itis  true  that;  at  sight  of  the*  unexpected,  apparition,  lAiise  sought  to 
ceuceaihertearsr  and  pretended  to  be  engaged  with  sothe  domestic  duty; 
but  when  he  walked  in  mildly  and  afifectkmately^  and  questioned  her  as 
to  the  cause  of  her  sorrow,  she  could  rto  longer  keep  it  to  herself,  but 
threw  herself  yasskwbately  "on  his  breast:  "Oh!  help  me,  Alois ;  you 
alone  oa*  aid  ttfe.  fie  kissed  me  to-day,  for  the  firs*  time^.  Father  saw 
14,  and  reproached*  rae'Wvfcfrely-^I  n\ust  not  believe  that  he  woul£ "let  a 
man  of  higher  rank  than  "ourselves  marry  into  his  family..  Oh  I  do  not 
be  sosilepVAlois^'saythat  I  must  hot  quite  despair,1*  afce  cried,  t&.he 
feigidly  ietHbe  »hand  fell*  which  \hfr  had  thtowA  Touhd  her  nc4clf .  ''  a  Seei 
the  lieutenant  is  So  fcoea1 -.  lyou  yourself  prererred  hjiri  to  all  the  rest,  else 
I  «should' not  Have  Hfl^^  eyes' to  him*'  With  difficulty  Alois  coir 
tooted  hiaftetf7  soi  fer^tfeat  he'  could  utter  the  wcfrds,  "  Ah<J  you  love 
ImAJtob??"'  --"i  wl-  •.+'  ;-  -.-•  '»'.-"  '  ;:  •'  '"  ,-1  ".:'  ,"  ti 
••'."  Ah, 's»  dearly1!"  criiefd  Luise,  ahd tegarde4  hitri  ihlploriugty;  that  Ite 
should  answer  keV/1  Re  forced  hmiself  to  a  shiile,  andsaid :  "  Go  sleep; 
hiy  child. -  »  Slach  a-  weighty  affair  requires  Jrefletition  and  calmness.  Ue'- 
member  tfcathopVand  lote  c»n: conquer  every tMn^;** ; l 
A  Mb  kissed1  •her,'  and  idasped  her  tightly.  in*:  his  arhis.  Theti  he  wehi 
up^tairt^i,«The^appeared1to  totte*  beneath  hihiratid  when  he  reached 
his  room  he*  threwhiniseif  en  the  ^ground  arid  tried  to  pray.  He  could 
not,  howev*ri  Itai&'s  itiiage  rose  like1  a  kbbold-  between  him  and,  the 
Eternal  Spirit  whose  presence  he' sought.  The  desolatefteSS,  the  drought 
anid  horror' of '  isolation  fell  upon  him.  He  had  felt  himself  secure,  and 
wished  nothing  which  he  dught  not  to  wish.  Now  hip  iflesifefes  grew  to  a 
gigantic  sise,  and  with1  every  wish  the  crime  grew  deeper  dyed.  He 
endured  it  no  longer:  he  niust  go  out  into  the  gloom  of  night :  he  dare 
not  see  any  one  before  »he  had  recovered  himself,  for  he  felt  clearly,  after 
wandering  far  through  the  forest,and  the  Coolness  of  r  dawn  struck  his 
forehead  and  moistened  his  hair,  that  he  was  wandering  like  a  lost  sheep, 
in  open  rebellion  against  the  Lorcl  td  whom  he  was  devoted;  against  the 
decrees  of  the  church  to  which  he  had  sworn  fealty,  ^hen  he  again 
walked  homewards  in  the  bright  light  of  day,  slowly  and  with  hesitation, 
he  was  enabled  to  acquire  an  artificial  calmness.  Still  it  was  no  sacri- 
fice of  the  mind  offered  in  obedience — it  was  merely  an  external  ad- 
herence to  the  laws  of  duty ;  in  the  background  wishes  and  thoughts 
were  banded  to  which  he  did  not  dare  yield.  He  knew  that  the  brewer 
would  come  to  him  at  an  early  hour ;  and  it  was  so.  The  anxious  father 
was  already  awaiting  bin?,  and  must  have  gone  through  a  scene  with  his 
etioited  daughter,  for  when  Alois  entered,  Luise  was  seated,  tearless,  with 


M8  The  Village  Priest. 

burning'  eyes,  opposite  her  father,  and  sayings  angrily  and  midutifallyj 
w  Him,  or  none !  If  I  cannot  have  him,  I  will  remain  for  my  whole  Me 
with  Alois." 

These  words  struck  like  a  spark  in  the  priest's  mind,  and  destroyed  hk 
artificial  calmness  ;  passion  raged  unbridled  in  his  heart,  and  as  he  had 
had  practice  enough  in  bridling  his  tongue,  he  fixed  his  burning  glances 
on  the  beloved  being.  The  helpless  child  of  man  cannot  often  curb  a 
passion  till  he  has  first  committed  a  sin,  and  then,  through  the  suffering 
this  entails,  is  driven  back  on  the  right  hard  road.  This  sin  and  this 
suffering  Alois  experienced  in  a  few  short  minutes.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
if  he  heard  the  thunder  rolling  about  his  head  and  the  trumpets  of  the 
Last  Day.  His  mouth  was  silent,  but  his  heart  shrieked  aloud,  and  this 
shrieking  his  God  heard,  and  drew  to  his  assistance. 

He  was  very  pale  when  he  at  length  raised  his  head,  but  me  eye  was 
again  affectionate  and  kind.  He  said  earnestly  to  the  silent  brewer,  "It 
is  good  for  every  one  to  remain  in  his  rank,  but  the  lieutenant  can  enter 
into  your  business  and  quit  the  service.  Then  he  will  be  the  same  » 
yourself,  for  what  the  man  does,  that  is  his  rank.  There  is  never  a  bless- 
ing without  a  sacrifice  :  if  he  love  Luise  he  will  make  this  sacrifice." 
The  brewer  hesitated ;  but  the  women  had  now  come  in,  and  he  easily 
perceived  that  they  were  the  priest's  confederates,  for  his  own-  wife  kissed 
Alois's  hand,  while  the  mother  gently  passed  her  hand  over  his  hair  and 
looked  anxiously  in  his  pale  face.  Hence  the  father  said  at  last,  "So 
come  here  then,  Luise ;  don't  be  so  wild  and  angry ;  you  did  not  get  thai 
from  me.  If  you  will  be  my  loving  child,  and  the  lieutenant  become  the 
same  as  myself,  why  then  I  will  not  oppose  it,  and  will  say,  Yes !  in  Gtfs 
name ;  but  no  long  courting — that  I  will  not  have." 

But  instead  of  first  thanking  her  father,  Luise  rushed  to  Alois,  and 
said,  "  You  are  my  angel,  and  are  always  on  the  right  path*  Now  wiM 
you  speak  with  Otto  ?" 

The  priest  could  have  sunk  into  the  ground  for  very  shame,  when  he 
remembered  what  his  wishes  had  been  just  before,  and  how  an  unsuspect- 
ing being  now  saw  in  him  an  angel ;  still  he  collected  himself  and  sought 
the  officer.  An  hour  later,  bride  and  bridegroom  were  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms.  Only  a  short  time  was  allowed  them,  for  the  lieutenant 
was  obliged  to  set  off  in  a  few  days,  and  their  life  went  on  externally  as 
usual,  save  that  Alois  spent  more  solitary  hours,  for  the  women  were 
obliged  to  work  and  toil,  as  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  in  spring,  jnat 
after  the  quiet  time,  and  the  brewer  managed  affairs  for  his  future  son- 
in-law.  The  priest  summoned  up  all  his  strength  to  conquer  himself? 
and  tried  every  method  which  a  naturally  healthy  nature,  after  suffering 
a  blow,  finds  in  its  own  resources ;  but  he  felt  only  too  soon  that  he  coufl 
not  thoroughly  cure  himself,  and  that  his  body  threatened  to  give  way 
before  his  exertions  and  night  watchings.  His  anxious  mother  perceive) 
the  silent  sorrow  which  was  gnawing  at  her  child's  heart,  and  might  pos- 
sibly conjecture  the  cause ;  but  she  did  not  dare  speak  with  her  son  on  the 
subject,  but  thought  of  a  method  to  bring  him  to  confession.  She  knew, 
from  her  own  sad  experience,  the  alleviation  felt  when  a  poor  weak  heart 
can  pour  out  its  sorrow  before  another  human  being,  and  was  highly 
delighted  when  it  at  length  occurred  to  her  that  Alois  had  long  expressed 
a  wish  to  visit  the  bishop  in  the  Residence.     She  knew,  too,  through  the 


The  Village  Priest  357 

grandmother,  that  this  reverend  man  in  his  youth,  when  he  had  been  a 
priest  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Hochmiinster,  had  himself  wrestled  with 
many  a  painful  feeling,  and  thence  would  be  able  to  give  Alois  healthy 
advice.  Hence  she  did  not  rest  till  she  had  induced  her  son  to  visit  the 
bishop  after  Christmas  ;  and  he  willingly  assented,  for  he  felt  more  and 
more  how  much:  he  wanted,  a  staff  and  a  support. 

He  must,  too,  have  opened  his  heart  to  the  bishop  and  received  con- 
solation, for  when  he  returned  in  a  few  weeks  his  eye  was  brighter,  and 
his  health  appeared  to  have  returned.  Still  he  said  nothing  further  than 
that  the  bishop  had  ordered  him,  when  the  marriage  was  over,  at  which 
he  must  officiate  according  to  his  duty  and  in  remembrance  of  his  grand- 
mother,, to  travel  fox  a  year,  to  fill  up  a  gap  in  his  theological  education* 
As  the  place  of  his  abode  he  named  the  chateau  of  a  count,  which  had 
been  given  up  to  the  Jesuits  to  guide  the  devotions  of  clergymen  and 
others*  who  feel  the  need  of  spiritual  exercises.  The  bishop  must,  besides, 
have  given  him.  other  commands,  for  he  now  lived  entirely  alone,  and 
very  seldom  appeared;  in  the  Brewery. 

Thus  spring  arrived  gently  and  imperceptibly,  and  the  day  as  well, 
when  Alois*  blessed  the  union  between  Luise  and  the  chosen  of  her  heart. 
The  wedding  guests  were  sitting  merrily,  after  the  ceremony,  at  table,  and 
were  amusing  themselves  by  expressing  their  joy  and  hopes  in  drinking 
toasts*  Alois  too,  who  sat  between  Luise  and  her  husband,  was  cheerful 
and  friendly,  and  at  length  rose,  when  evening  drew  on,  to  give  a  toast, 
by  imploring  the  spirit  of  their  grandmother  to  watch  over  the  newly 
married  couple.  He  then  retired  unnoticed :  the  mother's  eye  alone 
missed  him  immediately.  She  hurried  after  him,  and  saw  him  in  the 
garden,  but  ready  to  set  out.  He  was  leaning  over  a  broken  part  of  the 
wall,  and  looking  down  the  cloister ;  then  he  was  just  preparing  to  go 
through  the  back  gate,  when  his  mother  stopped  him. 

He  said  affectionately,  for  her  glance  was  reproachful,  "  Do  not  be 
angry  with  me,  mother,  for  I  have  endured  much,  and  was  selfish  enough 
to  spare  myself  at  least  the  pain  of  parting  from  you.  A  year  will  soon 
be  spent>  and  I  shall  be  again  with  you." 

He  then  bade  good-by  to  her  like  an  affectionate  son,  and  she  at  length 
suffered  him  to  depart.  For  a  long  while  she  looked  after  him,  till  he  had 
disappeared  in  the  forest  without  once  looking  back.  Then  she  seated 
herself,  weeping,  beneath  a  pear-tree,  and  forgot  the  time.  At  length 
she  was  startled  from  her  dreams  by  the  voice  of  Luise,  who  was  seeking 
Alois  and  her  aunt  in  the  garden.  A  bitter  pang  passed  through  her 
heart  when  Luise  embraced  her  and  kissed  away  her  tears.  "  You  are 
to  blame  for.  all,"  she  was  about  to  say :  but  she  suppressed  it,  and  said, 
"  You  cannot  help  it — he  is  gone !" 

The  year  passed  almost  without  any  news  from  Alois.  He  was  quite 
lost  in  tne  wondrous  art  of  Loyola,  to  break  and  strengthen  the  soul  at 
the  same  time.  When  he  returned,  he  was  calm,  but  his  face  was  impas- 
sible and  fixed.  The  last  human  tear  he  shed  fell  on  Luise's  first-born, 
when  he  baptised  it  with  the  holy  water.  From  that  time  his  life  was 
passed  in  a  stern  course  of  duty.  The  home,  which  had  once  refreshed 
his  heart,  the  love  for  Ids  relatives,  the  natural  feelings  which  connect  us 
all  to  life,  were  tones  that  had  lost  their  harmony  to  him.  The  church 
wee  all  in  alL  His  calmness  was  the  calmness  of  duty  i  we  children  of 
the  world  call  it  impassibility  and  ambition. 


(    3356     ) 


OUft  ^CREW; 

OR,   ROUGH  NOTES  OP  THE  LONG  SEA- VOYAGE  FROM  INDIA   IK  QKB  Off 
THE   GENERAL  SCREW   STEAM  NAVIGATION  COMPANY'S   VRSSELft,; 

The  voyage  from  Calcutta  to  Ceylon  having  been  so  often  described 
by  travellers  of  the  u  Overland  Route,"  I  shall  commence  my  narrative 
at  the  "  Spicy  Isle,"  where  I  was  detained  for  some  time,  and  had  thus 
an  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  some  of  the  more  remark- 
able objects  of  interest  in  that  lovely  island.  '  ' 

Point  de  Galle,  the  coaling  depot  of  the  steamers,  is  a  peninsula  to 
the  south-west  of  Ceylon,  on  which,  was  built,  in  the  Dutch  time,  a  fort,, 
consisting  of  narrow  streets,  with  a  Dutch  Presbyterian  church,  a  govern- 
ment-house, and  commandant's  quarter,  in  the  most  elevated  part  of  tie 
town.  Some  of  the  wider  streets  are  planted  with  trees,  which  look  cool 
and  green  after  the  intense  heat  of  the  steamer ;  and  the  ramparts  sur- 
rounding the  town,  with  their  soft,  smooth  turf,  form  a  delightful  wait, 
especially  in  contrast  to  the  close,  dusty  streets.  The  harbour  is  well 
sheltered,  and  large  enough  to  accommodate  a  considerable  number  of 
vessels,  but  the  sunken  rocks  at  its  entrance  leave  only  a  narrow  channel 
for  ships  to  come  in;  none  are  allowed  to  attempt  it  after  sunset, 
although  they  go  out  at  night  by  the  guidance  of  lights  attached  to 
floating  buoys  moored  on  each  side  the  channel.  A  handsome  light- 
house was  erected  about  six  years  ago,  at  the  extremity  of  the  point,  to 
warn  unwary  mariners  of  the  coral  reefs  which  surround  the  island. 
The  drives  around  Galle  are  extremely  pretty ;  the  verdure  and  luxurir 
ant  foliage  everywhere  present,  forcibly  impress  a  stranger  to  the  tropes. 
From  the  hills  in  the  neighbourhood  the  eye  rests  upon  a  mass  of  >  the 
richest  vegetation,  here  and  there  broken  by  rice-fields,  which,  when 
covered  with  the  young  paddy,  or  rice,  are  of  the  most  vivid  green,  but 
when  the  harvest  is  over  are  frequently  covered  with  water.  There  are 
few  "  lions"  worthy  of  notice.  Some  Buddhist  temples,  one  of  which 
contains  a  gigantic  recumbent  image;  the  cinnamon  gardens,  now 
neglected,  the  drive  to  which  along  the  sea-coast  is,  however,  very  pic- 
turesque. The  hotels  are  bad,  provisions  wretched,  and  charges  high. 
I  am  told,  however,  that  an  improvement  has  taken  place,  and  that 
the  "  steamer  passenger"  is  no  longer  considered  as  fair  game. 

Directly  a  steamer  arrives  the  hotels  are  surrounded  by  a  tribe  of 
hawkers  of  precious  stones,  tortoiseshell,  lace,  elephants'  teeth,  ebony 
boxes,  and  a  variety  of  other  articles,  and  fortunate  is  the  stranger  who 
escapes  scathless  out  of  the  hands  of  these  Philistines.  The  "gems" 
are  generally  manufactured  from  broken  finger-glasses  or  decanters. 
Although  sapphires,  rubies,  topaz,  &c,  are  found  in  Ceylon,  yet  no  ooe 
should  venture  to  purchase  without  consulting  some  judge  of  their  value, 
— indeed,  in  dealing  with  the  vendors  of  curiosities,  the  buyer  is  almost 
sure  to  be  imposed  upon,  even  in  a  "hard  bargain."  The  natives  are 
great  pilferers,  and  it  behoves  those  who  are  detained  at  the  hotels  or 
lodging-houses  to  look  well  after  money  or  valuables.     I  must  not  omit 


Our  Screw.;  359 

to  mention  an  important  personage  to  those  who  have  children  on  hoard 
—I  mean  the  dhoby,  or  washerman.  These  are  good,  and  moderate  in 
their  charges,  about  eight  shillings  per  hundred  pieces  being  considered 
a  fair  charge.  Carriages  are  to  be  hired,  but  not  very  good  ones;  the 
steeds  drawing  them  are  of  the  most  wretched  description.  About  six 
shillings  is  the  charge  for  two  ©r  three  hours-  drive."  -  >-"•    ■'■'<■  *         M 

We  found  Point  de  Galle  extremely  warm,  but  wereHold '  that  it  is  the 
most  salubrious  station  in  the  island,  as  is  shown  by  the  superior  health  of 
the  troops  quartered  here.     Some  curioto  tropical  £ltttits  #efrVf procured 
us  by  the  kindness  of i  a  friend  i  the  pitcher  plant* ?s  one1  of  the  most  'ten1 
markable,  the  long  tubes  of  which  are  filled 'with  clear  cold' water  on  the 
hottest  morning,  J  Theheav^ night-dew  is  drawl*  Up-through  the  stem, 
and  conveyed  by  a  cellular  tube  passing  through1 'the  Centre  of  the  leaf 
into  the^pendant  stalk  -  of*  'thei^itcher  ;^it  theti  rise*  into  lhe>  uprignt 
green  cup>  somewhat  on  th»  principle  df  a  siphon.     Mie  varieties  tit 
hibiscus,  or  ^ shoe  fiower^  as  it  is'  called,  are  most  gorgeous.     The' 
"  Alamanna  poinsettaa,''  and  many  others,  familiar  td  the  dwellers  in  the1 
East,  are  looked  G«;wi^  w6oderi  and  adimratk>n' by  those  fre      frbn*' 
Ett^and-  i  Tbat  most  useful  of  all  trees,  thecoooa-nut^is  the  very  staff1 
of  life  W the o»tifve&.: Almost levery  article  of  daily  u*se  is  made  from' 
some  partofl'itj     The  hilt  whiofa  iff  their  dWUifl^  is^  ^mpo^ed  of  the  ' 
truttb/tittttd^  with 'the  le^res,  platted  arid '  called  cadjahs;  the  oil  fot^ 
their  lamps-  is*  expressed  from  tho  kernel  by  boiling';  ih^Coh4  rope,  used' 
inlst^  of  *&lssintlto^  is  made  from  the1 

fil^c^  p^toft^hii^;  spoons  ^re- made  of  the  shell;  the  mil&  arid  pul$ 
forriVtheM&htetfarij^dk^^^  The  juice wfcieh exu&WfroW  ': 

the  flower  itftaHed  todcto'in  Ste  tmfermented  state,  and'has^a  sweetish, ] 
inbipid  taste,  but'wiwntertwented  becomes1  a  highly  IntOxica^ng1  spirit" 
catted  arrkok.  flfoa  wafer  contMneft  in  the  yetog  o^  unripe  eW6a$nu!br 
(coroombajl^imuch  esteemed-  by  the  Sirighale6e,'and  Is  a  c6©y  refresh*  * 
in^  klrmk.  >  Eveir  vhen  old  age  had  sapped  its  strength,  -and-  rendered  it f 
unable  tOwsisVtheviolenoe  of -a  ftfonsooh  gale,  it  itiU!  ministers  to tWL 
wtttfts  1of ' mta$rtbeugh  tike  feood  tree  'is' -laid { grb&rate'otf •  the j gr^tfn'd'^ "s 
tbe^  heart1  or  inne*  jiart  of  ih*eix>w^^  and  [ 

is^caHed  cocoa-nut  cabbage ^! it(  is  extremely  delicate,  rather  resembling' ' 
seakale  than  its  English namesake.     Of  course  procuring  it  must  cost 
the  tree  its  life, ao  that  it is  not  very  commonly 'met  %ith.,J  ' 

>t  have  made  *  long  digression*  but  I>  was  much  struck  with  the  won- 
derful adaptation*  of  the*  supplies  of  nature  "to  the  Wants  of  thetr  recipients ' 
in  tropical  climes*  Here/tne  damp  heat  of  the  climate  unfits  for  pro-1 
longed  bodily  exertion,  consequently  fruits,  graid,  and  vegetables  spring 
up  almost  without  culture,  beyond  Jputtihg-  the  seed  into  the  ground  *  ; 
notlmjgbut  severe  illness -can  >  cause  poverty  athom*  the  'Singhalese,  so 
much  b  given^without  theiricare,  so  little  is  required  by  theii4  necessities. 
I  was  reminded  of  Byron V  lines  : 

-each  flower 


\.  Ttat  tasks not  one  laborious  hour,     ,     .    ,         , 
'     l  ' '    .'\  But  spring^  as  to  preclude  his  care,  '    ' '"     . 

'."'  And  sweetly  wobs,  nim,  hut  to  spare.  ] 

We  heard  many  Btories  of /the  indolence  of  the  Singhalese,  which  quality 


360  Our  Hereto. 

they  appear  to  possess  fully  as  much  as  their  neighbours  on  the  continemt 
of  India.  One  anecdote  told  me  by  a  resident  is  an  instance.  A  lad? 
had  been  induced  to  engage,  as  second  ayah,  a  very  poor  widow,  with 
seven  or  eight  starving  children,  who  was  literally  (as  she  was  told)  with* 
oat  the  means  of  supplying  them  with  food.  Some  pains  were  taken  to 
ascertain  what  the  woman  could  do,  which  was  found  to  be  very  little; 
but  one  morning  she  was  desired  to  sweep  or  pick  up  some  leaves  of  an 
almond-tree  which  had  fallen  near  her  mistress's  dressing-room.  She 
refused,  saying,  "  Not  my  caste,"  and  persisting,  either  from  laziness  or  i 
fear  she  should  "  demean  herself,"  lost  her  situation. 

The  dress  of  the  Singhalese  is  very  ugly  and  unbecoming;  a  cloth, 
called  a  comboy,  fastened  tight  round  the  waist  and  reaching  to  the  heels, 
and  a  jacket,  worn  open  in  front  by  the  men,  closed  by  the  women. 
Both  wear  long  hair  strained  off  the  face,  and  twisted  into  a  knot  at  the 
back  of  the  head,  called  a  condy.  On  state  occasions  the  men  wear  im- 
mense combs,  and  the  women  sdver  or  gold  hair-pins,  richly  worked,  and 
very  large.  Amidst  the  thick  topes  of  cocoa-nut  trees,  with  which  the 
coast  is  lined,  lie  the  native  villages,  teeming  with  their  black  population  $ 
it  is  commonly  supposed  that  the  cocoa-nut  will  not  flourish  beyond  the 
sound  of  the  human  voice.  Here,  every  night,  may  be  beard  the  noiie 
of  the  tom-tom,  indicative  of  those  heathen  rites  which  appear  bound  up 
with  the  Singhalese  character — I  mean  devil-worship.  Weak,  super* 
stitious,  and  credulous  to  a  degree,  these  poor  people  imagine  they  may 
propitiate  evil  spirits  by  offerings  and  dances,  and  induce  them  to  restore 
their  friends  whose  health  has  failed,  as  they  suppose,  through  demoniacal 
agency.  When  a  "  devil-dance"  is  to  be  held,  the  patient  is  propped  up 
in  a  chair,  surrounded  by  his  friends  and  relations,  and  the  devil-priest 
and  his  assistants  are  summoned.  The  principal  performer  is  fantastically 
dressed,  and  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  long  white  hair  made  fio» 
the  cocoa-nut  fibre.  This  waves  around  him  as  he  dances,  and  adds  to 
the  wildness  of  the  scene.  He  places  himself  before  the  patient  and 
begins  twirling  round  to  the  sound  of  the  tom-tom,  rapidly  increasing  hk 
gyrations  until  he  appears  in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  This  continues  for  many 
hours,  and  the  excitement  of  the  spectacle,  combined  with  absolute  faith 
on  the  part  of  the  sick  person  and  his  friends,  sometimes  works  a  cure, 
which  is  directly  ascribed  to  the  good-nature  of  the  particular  demon  for 
whose  honour  and  glory  the  dance  was  performed.  Hideous  pictures  an 
also  introduced,  representing  a  huge  head  in  the  act  of  swallowing  a 
woman  or  child,  as  the  case  may  be.  This  faith,  although  theoretically 
opposed  to  the  Buddhist  religion,  is  tolerated  by  the  priests,  or  at  least, 
no  efforts  are  made  by  them  for  ^suppression.  It  is  against  Me  super- 
stition that  a  crusade  should  be  preached.  Atheistic  as  are  the  tenets  of 
Buddha,  his  doctrines  present  a  system  of  morality,  which,  if  followed  out, 
would  produce  a  national  character  differing  very  materially  from  thatef 
the  enslaved  race  who  bow  down  at  the  shrine  of  a  degrading  and  re- 
volting superstition.  I  would  not  be  understood  as  for  an  instant  sup- 
posing any  system  of  idolatry  to  be  supported,  but  that  I  do  think  the 
efforts  of  missionaries,  and,  indeed,  of  government,  should  be  directed  to 
the  suppression  and  extinction  of  these  diabolical  rites. 

We  were  sorry  to  leave  the  fabled  "  Serendib,"  and  would  gladly,  had 
time  permitted,  have  paid  a  visit  to  the  interior,  the  soeaecy  having  btea 


Our  Screw.  36J. 

described  to  us  as  very  beautiful.  But  tbe  relentless  screw,  which  "waits 
for  no  man,"  though  dilatory  enough  on  its  own  account,  sent  us  a 

summons  to  be  on  board  on  the  afternoon  of  Monday,  the  2nd  of  M . 

Our  sensations  on  again  descending  to  the  close,  ill-ventilated  cabin, 
which  truth  compels  me  to  say  ours  certainly  was,  were  by  no  means 
enviable,  and  as  we  did  not  sail  until  next  morning,  we  were  not  best 
pleased  at  being  hurried  on  board.  "  Our  Screw"  was  a  noble  vessel, 
some  1800  tons  burden;  the  saloon,  the  width  of  the  poop,  very  hand- 
somely fitted  up,  and  affording  accommodation  for  at  least  a  hundred 
passengers.  Many  of  the  cabins  were  spacious  and  well  arranged,  others 
very  much  the  reverse,  and  woe  to  those  unfortunates  who  had  the  bad 
luck  to  be  stowed  away  in  the  latter,  as  neither  complaint  nor  entreaty 
were  likely  to  meet  with  attention  or  redress.  A  finer  ship  worse  ar- 
ranged it  would  be  difficult  to  find.  We  were,  it  is  true,  rather  over- 
crowded, but  much  might  have  been  done  for  our  comfort  had  there  been 
the  inclination,  which  was  overlooked.  The  next  morning,  about  seven 
o'clock,  we  sailed,  or  I  should  rather  say  steamed,  out  of  the  harbour,  for 
it  was  a  rule  on  entering  or  leaving  a  port  that  we  should  do  it  in  the 
best  style,  thus  "  keeping  the  trot  for  the  avenue,"  like  the  sagacious 
Irishman. 

The  receding  shores  of  Point  de  Galle  looked  very  lovely,  the  fort, 
with  the  lighthouse  at  its  extreme  end,  forming  one  side  of  the  harbour, 
"  Mrs.  Gibson's  Hill,"  as  the  headland  is  called,  the  other.  The  sea  was 
rough  for  some  days  after  leaving  Ceylon — all  the  lady-passengers 
invisible ;  the  noises  on  board  exceeded  all  I  ever  heard,  but  pre-eminent 
among  them  was  the  thump,  thump  of  the  screw — I  cannot  say  by 
"  merit  raised  to  that  bad  eminence" — for  not  many  days  elapsed  before 
there  was  a  general  exclamation  of  "What  can  have  happened?  the 
screw  has  stopped ;"  but  we  soon  arrived  at  a  happy  state  of  resignation, 
from  the  frequency  of  the  event,  and  the  utter  impossibility  of  gaining  any 
information  of  the  cause  of  delay. 

The  vibratory  motion  of  these  vessels  is  very  disagreeable,  but  their 
immense  size  lessens  the  usual  pitching  considerably,  consequently  the 
liability  to  sea-sickness  is  diminished. 

Feeding,  of  course,  formed  the  business  of  the  day — commencing  by 
tea  or  coffee  at  seven  o'clock,  a.m.,  brought  by  the  "cabin  steward"  to 
our  respective  dormitories  ;  then  came  the  children's  breakfast  at  eight, 
ours  at  nine  ;  children's  dinner  at  one,  ours  at  half-past  three  ;  children's 
tea  at  five,  ours  at  seven  ;  lights  out  at  ten.  It  is  miraculous  that  there 
were  no  sufferers  from  apoplexy  !  In  this  ship  wines  were  not  included 
in  the  passage-money,  but  purchased  as  required,  and  every  week  a 
"  wine  bill"  sent  in.  The  black  bottles  were  expected  to  be  kept  in  the 
passengers'  own  cabins,  as  the  stewards  were  not  responsible  for  their 
contents,  if  left  in  the  saloon.  People  were  «een  trotting  up  and  down 
the  passages  armed  with  their  "  Cardigans" — an  amusing  spectacle, 
suggestive  rather  of  economy  than  elegance.  The  passengers  were  so 
numerous  that,  unless  at  the  same  table,  we  did  not  know  even  the 
names  of  many  of  our  fellow-travellers.  Here  were  civilians  overwhelmed 
with  the  sense  of  their  own  importance  (perhaps  the  only  sense  bestowed 
on  them),  willing  to  allow  their  neighbours  to  feel  some  of  its  burden. 
Here  were  invalids  of  all  descriptions,;  the  martyr  to  long-protracted 


362  Our  Scren* 

disease,  whose  cheerful  patience  under  the  most  acAte  suffering,  fully 
realised  Longfellow's  pervading  idea  of  the  refining  and  purifying  effect! 
of  sorrow.  Here  were  also  the  victims  of  their  own  follies  or  excesses,  to' 
whom  no  lesson  could  teach  moderation.  Here  was'  the  pale  cheek,  the 
bright  eye,  the  wasted  form  of  the  consumptive,  but  too  surely  destined 
never  to  rejoin  him  whose  love  had  sent  her  to  her  native  land,  in  the 
hope  of  preserving  so  valued  a  life.  Here  was  the  man  of  the  world, 
polite  to  all,  and  even  kind  and  obliging  where  his  own  convenience  was 
not  involved.  Ensigns  and  lieutenants  were  not  wanting,  talented  in 
the  vocal  art,  as  practised  by  the  lower  ranks  of  creation— the  morning 
song  of  chanticleer,  the  petulant  cry  of  the  lap-dog,  the  plaintive  bleat 
of  the  motherless  lamb,  and  similar  performances.  The  "  fast"  man  and 
the  "  slow,"  the  coquette  and  the  prude,  all  found  their  places  in  this 
miniature  world,  all  striving  after  the  one  end,  self,  and  the  box  that 
could  never  be  got  at  Ship-board  is,  of  all  places,  the  one  to  bring 
forward  the  least  amiable  side  of  human  nature,  especially  in  an  ill-ar- 
ranged and  overcrowded  steamer.  Friday  was  the  day  appointed  for  over- 
hauling luggage,  but  it  frequently  happened  that  wind  or  weather  pre- 
vented our  boxes  from  making  their  appearance. 

A  good  servant  is  especially  necessary  in  these  vessels  :  a  strong  active 
woman,  not  what  is  generally  styled  a  "  superior"  person,  is  best  suited 
for  ship-board.  Those  of  our  passengers  who  required  milk  for  their 
children  brought  goats  and  kept  them  on  board,  milk  being  an  almost 
unknown  luxury.  We  were  all  exceedingly  glad  when,  on  Sunday,  the 
15th,  Round  Island  came  in  sight,  then  a  few  small  islands,  one  of  which 
is  used  for  grazing  cattle,  and  shortly  afterwards  Mauritius  itself. 

On  the  morning  of  the  16th  we  anchored  in  the  harbour  of  Port  Louis. 
The  appearance  of  the  town  and  surrounding  hills  from  the  sea  is  most 
picturesque.  The  houses  lie  thickly  clustered  together  at  the  foot  of  a 
ridge  of  hills,  whose  rocky  and  jagged  summits,  generally  terminating  in 
a  cone,  tell  of  volcanic  origin.  Peter-botte  is  the  most  remarkable,  the 
highest  point  being  a  rounded  projection  looking  at  a  distance  like  a 
stunted  tree.  The  Fouce  is  another  of  these  hills,  the  apex  resembling 
a  thumb,  whence  its  name.  The  deep  shadows  projected  by  these  almost 
perpendicular  hills,  contrasted  with  the  cloudless  sky  and  the  bright  bine 
sea,  formed  one  of  the  most  lovely  landscapes  I  ever  beheld.  The  houses 
are  interspersed  with  trees,  and  a  long  line  of  the  casuarina,  or  whip-tree, 
stretches  along  the  shore  to  the  right,  concealing  the  cemetery,  and  pre- 
senting a  park-like  appearance.  The  mournful  sound  produced  when  the 
wind  stirs  the  leaves  of  this  tree  is  very  peculiar,  and  has  been  compared 
to  the  breaking  of  the  waves  on  a  pebbly  shore.  We  were  not  a  little 
delighted  to  find  ourselves  once  more  on  terra  fir  ma  ;  indeed,  it  is  almost 
worth  while  to  endure  some  of  the  miseries  of  steamer  life  to  appreciate 
the  delight  of  stepping  on  shore.  Port  Louis  covers  a  great  extent  of 
ground,  the  streets  are  straggling,  and  the  houses  irregularly  built—of 
all  shapes  and  sizes,  generally  detached,  and  standing  in  small  gardens. 
House  rent  is  enormously  high,  consequently  the  shops,  although  nume- 
rous, are  small  and  inconvenient.  We  found  that  our  arrival  had  caused 
an  instant  rise  in  prices,  double  and  treble  the  real  value  of  an  article 
being  asked  on  the  third  day  of  our  stay.  All  the  shops  are  French,  and 
apparently  not  very  well  supplied.     The  hotels  are  exceedingly  dear,  and 


feti  frowi  (gtibd,  W«hin^  about » ^.'p^r  dottb.!  Hited  tJarriageg  are 
Wsdaojiierloolqugi'vejuokri  with  a!  paii^  o£  horsefc  ;l  the  bharge  pet  diem 
fe<>m  24B*/toi28s;  >  Tke/inbaB^ants  ol  Ma^t^  a^  a  lively  race,1  fond 
ofimuiBioji  dancings  J  dress,  anli amusements •$•  tneir  language  is  a  patois  of 
IfaenoV  ealkd  Creolel  •  There  is  not  mucA  intereoni'se  between  the 
French  audi  Engtish^  sind*  as  In  most  places,  the  residents  in  the  country 
beep  rather  aloof  (from,  the-'townsfblk.  There  are  two  European  regiments 
stationed  at  Port  Louis*  and 'some  axtillery.  The  governor  resides  prin- 
cipally ,  at  Hedsrii,  about  seven ■  miles  from  the :  town;  - ! 
- :  We  drove  on  the-  evening'  of  out  arrival  to  the  Cframip  de  Mars,  a  level 
ground  enclosed  by  an  amphitheatre  of  hills,  one  of  "which  is  crowned  by 
the  citadel.  This  ii  the  fashionable!  lounge  of  Port  Louis;  the  regi- 
mental band  plays  >here  nearly  every  evening,  and  oa  this  occasion  there 
waa  an  inspection  of  a  newly-arrived  regiment.  The  races  are  held  on 
i^ia  ground,  and  the  fashionables  of  tike  town  turn  out  to  ride,  drive,  or 
walk  in  the  evening.;  We  passed  the  church,  a  neat  building,  capable  of 
containing  600  persons.  The 'next  day  we  drove  out  to  Moka,  one  of 
the  residents  having  kindly  invited  us  to  his  house.  The  drive  is  ex- 
ceedingly picturesque,  an  ascent  the  whole  way,  at  the  base  of  a  chain  of 
hills.  When  , we  -  arrived  at  our  destination,  -  we  were  astonished  and 
delighted  at  the  magnificent  view  that  the  house  commands.  From  a 
smoothly-mown  lawn,  planted  with  flowering  shrubs,  the  eye  rests  upon 
Plains  Wilhelms,  lying  for  below,  a  deep  ravine  occupying  the  middle 
distance,  the  blue  sea  forming  the  background,  and  the  bright  sky 
canopying  the  whole.  We  found  the  air  at  this  elevation  quite  chilly 
towards  evening,  and  at  night  were  glad  of  a  blanket. 

Next  day  we  returned  to  Port  Louis,  taking  Moka  church  in  our  way, 
a  very  ugly  edifice,  much  resembling  a  powder  magazine  with  a  Doric 
portico,  on  a  beautiful  site.  The  ground  surrounding  it  is  prettily 
laid  out,  and  planted  with  shrubs  and  flowers.  This  church  is  attended 
by  the  governor  and  a  few  families  resident  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
served  by  a  Swiss  chaplain.  There  are  several  objects  of  interest  in  the 
island  worth  visiting.  Pamplemousses,  where  are  two  urns  erected  to 
the  memory  of  Paul  and  Virginia,  standing  in  a  beautiful  garden.  Some 
waterfalls,  about  twelve  miles  distant,  are  also  well  worth  a  visit.  We 
were  shown  the  coco  de  mer,  or  double  cocoa-nut,  which  resembles  two  giant 
cocoa-nuts  joined  together  in  the  middle  and  elongated.  This  fruit  only 
grows  on  one  of  the  Seychelle  Islands,  a  group  a  day's  sail  from  Mauritius. 
As  usual  we  were  hurried  on  board  the  steamer  long  before  she  sailed,  and 
thus  lost  the  opportunity  of  seeing  much  we  might  otherwise  have  done. 
As  we  were  ordered  to  be  on  board  at  five  o'clock,  we  reluctantly  bade 
adieu  to  the  fair  Isle  of  France,  and  once  more  embarked  in  "Our  Screw." 
It  was  not  until  the  evening  of  Thursday,  the  19th,  that  the  thump  of 
the  screw  was  heard,  and  we  were  progressing  on  our  homeward  voyage. 

On  the  night  of  the  22nd,  being  off  Madagascar,  a  gale  came  on ;  the 
sea  dashed  with  great  violence  over  the  ship,  and  our  cabins  began  to- 
leak  from  the  ceiling  and  sides.  The  wind  being  in  our  teeth,  the  pitch- 
ing and  rolling  of  the  vessel  was  fearful ;  but  we  sustained  no  damage 
beyond  the  loss  of  a  spar.  The  wind  moderated  by  noon  on  the  23rd>. 
but  the  sea  was  still  high.  Every  one  was  sick  and  grumbling ;  great 
havoc  was  made  amongst  the  crockery,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  our 
dinner  could  be  induced  to  remain  on  the  table;    Another  stoppage  of 

July — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvn.  2  b 


364  Our  Screw* 

the  screw  did  not  add  to  the  general  contentment.  On  the  27th,  t» 
our  consternation,  we  were  informed  that  the  "  eccentric"  was  broken, 
and  (being  an  important  part  of  the  machinery)  we  must  stay  where  m 
were  until  it  was  mended. 

We  had  been  looking  forward  to  our  arrival  at  the  Cape  on  the  2nd 
of  next  month,  so  this  was  a  terrible  damper  to  us  ;  but  I  felt  most 
for  our  poor  invalid,  whom  I  before  mentioned.  His  sufferings  had  ben 
most  intense,  and  he  was  longing  to  reach  his  destination,  which  was  the 
Cape.  His  patience  never  forsook  him,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  suffering, 
chess  beguiled  his  attention  and  diverted  his  thoughts.  There  was  a 
pretty  good  piano  on  board,  but  no  great  performers.  Cards,  chess,  and 
music  were  the  staple  amusements  of  the  evening.  Our  average  rate  of 
steaming  up  to  this  time  had  been  from  150  to  200  miles  per  diem.  Had 
this  continued  throughout  the  voyage  we  should  have  reached  England 
in  the  contract  time. 

On  the  1st,  the  welcome  noise  of  the  screw  gave  us  notice  that  the 
"  eccentric"  was  repaired,  and  we  were  again  progressing  homewards. 

On  the  5th  we  came  in  sight  of  land,  and  at  four  P.M.  anchored  in 
Table  Bay.  The  sea  was  smooth  as  a  lake,  and  the  sky  unclouded. 
The  approach  to  Cape  Town  is  rather  striking,  the  summits  of  the  hills 
being  rocks  of  fanciful  shapes,  rising  abruptly  towards  their  apex,  and 
named  after  the  parts  of  a  lion's  body,  to  which  they  are  supposed  to 
bear  a  resemblance.  Green  Point  forms  one  side  of  the  bay,  and  being 
cultivated  and  dotted  with  houses,  makes  a  pleasing  contrast  to  the  naked 
and  barren  coast  we  passed  in  approaching  it.  Table  Bay  is  considered 
very  fine,  though  unsheltered  towards  the  north,  and  by  no  means  a  safe 
anchorage.  The  town  is  not  picturesque ;  immense  sandy  flats  surroond 
it  for  many  miles,  and  not  a  tree  is  to  be  seen.  The  harbour  is  com- 
manded by  batteries,  so  placed  as  to  rake  its  approach.  Several  AvatA 
spires  are  visible,  one  of  which  is  the  cathedral,  a  building  of  no  great 
pretension. 

The  mountains  rise  abruptly  behind  the  town.  Table  Mountain,  wftk 
its  long  flat  top,  is  the  most  conspicuous,  a  cloud  generally  vesting  on  its 
brow :  it  is  then  said  to  have  its  tablecloth  on.  The  Kloof  is  a  Tugged 
conical  hill  to  the  right;  and  a  lower  one  is  called  "  Signal  E5fl,"  and 
bears  a  flag~staff.  We  landed  next  day,  and  a  friend's  carriage  conveyed 
us  about  five  miles  into  the  country,  to  Rondebosch.  Towards  Wynberg 
the  scenery  assumes  a  European  character,  oak  and  fir-trees  abound,  and 
fields  and  gardens  take  the  place  of  the  sandy  plains  we  had  left.  At 
this  season  (winter)  the  climate  is  delicious  ;  the  clearness  and  buoyancy 
of  the  air  exceed  anything  I  ever  felt,  and  the  extraordinary  rarefaction 
of  the  atmosphere  is  shown  by  the  apparent  nearness  of  distant  objects. 
Table  Mountain  appears  to  be  within  a  stone1*  throw,  although  really 
some  miles  distant.  The  flowers,  of  whose  beauty  I  had  heard  so  mock, 
did  not  disappoint  me.  Although  winter,  hedges  of  roses  were  ia  foil 
bloom,  whilst  camelias,  heliotrope,  fuchsias,  and  inoanxieraite  ether 
dwellers  in  our  English  greenhouses,  were  in  perfection.  TSne  next  day 
we  drove  to  Constantia.  The  road  lies  through  sandy  pUuB,«ewerM 
witn  the  lovely  heaths,  Ac,  so  prized  at  home ;  'the  mountains  hounding 
the  prospect  to  the  right,  the  sea  on  the  'left.  We  passed  through  several  • 
villages,  but  saw  little  cultivation,  the  soil  apparently  not  awhnittmgrf 
it.    We  first  diMtolitfe  Constant 


Our  Screw.  365. 

famous  oak,  in  the  trunk  of  which  a  table  is  placed,  surrounded  by  a  seat, 
about  half-way  up  the  tree.  We  ascended  into  this  "  leafy  bower"  by 
a  ladder,  and  found  it  not  redolent  of  "balmy  odours,"  but  bearing 
powerful  witness  to  a  previous  smoking  party.  We  then  proceeded  to 
Great  Constantia,  walked  over  the  vineyards,  bare  and  leafless  as  they 
were,  resembling  a  collection  of  stunted  gooseberry-bushes,  inspected 
the  vast  cellars  and  their  contents,  on  which  the  gentlemen  of  our  party 
passed  their  opinion,  and  after  seeing  all  we  could,  returned  home  by  a 
different  and  much  prettier  route  than  the  former  one.  Our  road  lay 
through  lanes  bordered  with  oak,  which  here  does  not  grow  into  the 
magnificent  forest-tree  it  is  with  us,  but  is  far  more  rapid  in  its  growth, 
consequently  less  massive,  admitting  of  being  cut  into  hedges.  The 
beautiful  flowers  on  every  side  tempted  us  to  stop  frequently  to  examine 
them.  To  the  lover  of  nature  the  Cape  is  an  interesting  locality,  and 
months  might  be  pleasantly  and  profitably  spent  there.  The  hotels  and 
boarding-houses  in  Cape  Town  are  pretty  good  and  moderate,  from 
seven  to  ten  shillings  per  day,  exclusive  of  wine,  being  the  usual  charge. 
Washing  from  two  to  three  shillings  the  dozen.  Carriages  about  thirty 
shillings  for  the  whole  day,  but  if  four  horses  are  required  (and  "steamer 
passengers"  appear  to  delight  in  a  "  drag  and  four"),  of  course  the  charge 
is  increased.  There  are  some  botanic  gardens  in  the  town  worth  visit- 
ing. Living  at  the  Cape  is  exorbitantly  expensive,  at  this  time  un- 
usually so,  on  account  of  the  great  emigration  to  Australia.  Labour  is 
very  scarce,  and  servants'  wages  enormous.  I  was  assured  that  the 
coolies  employed  in  coaling  our  vessel  were  paid  eight  shillings  per 
diem.  Food  of  every  kind  is  good  and  plentiful,  so  that  it  is  from  abso- 
lute scarcity  of  hands  that  wages  are  so  high.  On  the  11th  we  again 
took  leave  of  land,  having  been,  as  usual,  ordered  on  board  the  pre- 
ceding day,  and,  with  much  regret,  parted  from  our  kind  friends,  hoping 
to  revisit  the  Cape  at  some  future  day.  Nothing  of  any  note  occurred 
to  vary  our  steamer  fife  until  reaching  St.  Helena,  which  we  sighted 
early  on  Monday  morning,  the  20th.  On  first  sight  it  appears  nothing 
more  than  a  barren  roek,  almost  perpendicular,  but  on  rounding  the 
island,  James  Town  came  in  sight,  nestled  in -a  ravine,  with  its  church 
spire  towering  above  the  clustering  houses.  The  heights  on  each  side 
rise  perpendicularly,  and  to  the  right  a  flight  of  steps  forms  the  only 
access  to  the  summit,  where  k  a  battery  and  officers'  quarter:  a  fatiguing 
journey  it  must  fo.  The  rooky  hub,  as  seen  from  the  sea*  appear  per* 
fectly  barren  and  inaccessible,  to  be  trodden  only  by  the  wild  goat,  but 
on  a  nearer  approach  roads  may  he  discerned  winding  round  them, 
though  exceedingly  narrow  and  primitive  in  their  (construction.  We 
formed  a  party,  and  went  on  shore  as  soon  as  the  vessel  anchored ;  all 
the  carriages  in  the  town  were  engaged  directly,  and  we  were  com* 
pelled  to  pay  four  pounds  for  a  vehicle  contaming  four  persons*  to  take 
us  to  Longwood.  We  slowly  ascended  the  mountain  path,  just  wide 
enough  for  a  carriage,  and  emy  protected  by  a  low  wail  from  the  aceci- 
pice  on  the  right)  at  the  bottom  ef  which,  m  a  deep  wnm,  Jay  James 
Town,  with  itsdnireh,  hospital,  and  harrackfl,  interepeised  with  a  few 
gardens  and  low  trees.  Farther  -on,  situated  cm  *  small  grassy  eminence, 
is  «  The  Brim,"  the  dense  to  which  the  Emperor  JNapofeon  was  taken 
on  has  landing  «t  Si  Helena.  It  is  a  pretty  cottage,  amandad  fcy  a> 
lawn  and  garden. 

2b2 


366  Our  Screw* 

After  proceeding  about  two  miles  farther  in  our  ascent,  and  passing 
through  a  plantation  of  firs,  we  dismounted  and  walked  down  a  grassy 
slope  to  the  tomb  of  the  illustrious  captive,  now  an  empty  sepulchre.    It 
is  in  a  small  enclosure  planted  with  a  few  cypress- trees,  and  overhung  by 
the  willow,  all  bearing  marks  of  neglect  and  decay,  merely  kept  up  as  a 
means  of  extorting  money  from  visitors,  a  charge  of  eighteenpence  being 
made  for  its  exhibition  by  a  garrulous  old  woman,  who  also  traffics  in 
pieces  of  willow.     A  shower  of  rain  unfortunately  came  on,  and  we  had 
to  walk  through  wet  grass  to  the  summit  of  the  hill — a  steep  and  slippery 
ascent.     Here  we  found  our  carriage  awaiting  us.     We  then  drove  to 
Longwood,  passing  through  the  wildest  and  most  picturesque  scenery, 
far  more  striking  than  we  had  supposed,  the  rocks,  apparently  torn  asunder 
by  some  convulsion  of  nature,  some  clothed  with  vegetation,  and  bright 
with  the    scarlet  geranium,  prickly  pear,  and  Mesembry  anthemum; 
others  bleak  and  barren,  totally  destitute  of  verdure.     Here  and  there,  on 
the  sheltered  side  of  a  hill,  a  house  meets  the  view,  surrounded  by  it* 
garden,  the  blue  smoke  curling  through  the  clear  air  above  a  few  scattered 
pines,  the  only  tree  that  appears  to  flourish  in  this  "  lonely  isle."    We 
soon  arrived  at  Longwood,  where  the  Great  Napoleon  lived  and  died* 
The  old  house  is  almost  a  ruin ;  the  room  in  which  he  slept  and  dreamt 
of  past  and  perhaps  future  greatness— is  now  a  stable !     "Sic  transit 
gloria  mundi."    So  small  and  inconvenient  is  the  house,  that  it  coul^.  not 
even  have  been  fitted  as  a  prison-house  for  so  great  a  flow* ; :  the.  walls  ,w|}l 
crumble  into  dust,  the  visible  mementoes  of  a  great  nation's  treatiien^Qf 
a  fallen  enemy  will  decay,  but  the  blot  on  the  page  of  history  can  never 
be  effaced.     Longwood  is  built  on  a  promontory,  and  is  only  accessible 
on  one  side — a  safer  cage  could  hardly  have  been  found.  The  n^w,  house, 
which  was  never  occupied,  is  an  English-looking,  comfortable  r^sjdenoe, 
surrounded  by  a  garden,  where  heliotrope,  fuchsias,  cameliaa,  an4  mj$e 
grow  almost  wild,  so  luxuriant  are  they.     The  camelia  b^aomes,aJl{re?, 
and  appears  to  require  no  cultivation.     After  going  over :  the  house,  1<P 
started  on  our  return,  and  soon  reached  the  town,  the  exceeding  steepness 
of  the  descent  making  the  road  frightful  to  a  nervous  perBQn^s^cJi 
should  never  attempt  an  excursion  at  St.  Helena.     We  greetlvtejjyov  " 
the  fine  views  opening  on  us  at  every  turn  of  the  road;  the  sen  layihc 
us,  calm  as  a  lake,  lighted  up  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  wiih.ai 
of  golden  light,  our  immense  Bhip  riding  at  anchor  as  quietly  as  ifonoonsi 
in  her  native  dock,  the  vessels  around  appearing  tiny  craft  in  conigfyrisgp* 
We  returned  to  our  floating  home  about  six  o'clock,,  and  found; (din^r 
awaiting  us,  and  so  ended  a  very  pleasant  day.     There,  ^re Jhotejs  at;flt. 
Helena,  but  they  are  very  expensive.     The  main  stree^.  js.  wide,  ,ana 
the  houses  tolerably  regular;  the  church  rather  a  hnTidftjpnv*  .edifi#. 
Vessels  anchor  very  near  the  shore,   and  there  is    less.  s  4imcujtyjii 
getting  boats  than  either  at  the  Gape  or  Mauritius,  where  faa^hire \.f 
expensive.  ..-.,..-  :..,., 

Since  my  last  entry  we,  have  been  appalled  by  the,  fud^^wp^ 
one  of  our  fellow-passengers.  He  was  on  the  poop^appar^q^y.afi.^ell 
as  usual,  at  noon  ;  at  four  o'clock  he  was  a  lifeless  eoi^seT  ^e%ve,t$t 
several  of  our  fellow-passengers,  but  none  in  so  sudden  a»4  avpil  & 
manner.  Little  thought  or- feeling,  however,  seems  to,  W'elu^^Tij  $e 
startling  fact  that  «  one  of  us"  is  departed  to  hia,  long,  Aesonnfc  hJkffW 


Our  Screw.  367 

deal  of  sickness  baa  prevailed  on  board,  wbicb  is  scarcely  surprising,  con- 
sidering bow  many  of  the  passengers  were  invalids  when  they  embarked. 
The  "eccentric"  broke  again  four  or  five  days  ago,  and  we  have  been  sail- 
ing with  a  light  trade  wind.  This  afternoon  (the  27th)  we  came  in  sight 
of  Ascension,  and  towards  evening  approached  very  near,  but  did  not 
anchor — a  disappointment  to  some  of  us.  The  mail  boat  was  the  only 
one  that  came  off,  and  no  one  left  the  ship.  Ascension  is  a  volcanic 
island,  the  shores  and  sides  of  the  hills  covered  with  lava,  now  crimsoned 
by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  presenting  a  singular  and  picturesque 
appearance.  The  summits  of  some  of  these  hills  are  craters  of  extinct 
volcanoes ;  others  terminate  in  sharp  cones.  As  we  rounded  the  island 
we  came  in  view  of  the  town,  which  appeared  to  be  tolerably  well  built ; 
some  ships  were  lying  at  anchor,  and  the  scene  made  it  tantalising  to  us 
to  quit  it  without  a  nearer  view;  the  highest  point  is  more  than  2000 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  bears  less  trace  of  subterranean  fire 
than  the  other  hills. 

On  the  4th  of  J we  sighted  St.  Jago,  a  long  barren  island  of  the 

Cape  Verd  group ;  the  next  day  anchored  at  St.  Vincent.  This  is  the 
most  wretched-looking  spot  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to  visit — perfectly 
barren,  with  a  few  miserable  houses  on  the  beach,  the  only  access  to  which 
is  through  sand  ankle  deep.  The  bay  is  completely  land-locked,  and  no 
doubt  affords  a  safe  anchorage ;  it  is  only  surprising  that  some  attempt 
has  not  been  made  to  render  existence  more  tolerable  to  the  unhappy 
officials  who  are  obliged  to  reside  here. 

It  is  the  coal-depot  for  the  West  India  mail-packets,  as  well  as  for  the 
Screw  Company's  vessels,  so  that  it  is  a  station  of  some  importance — yet 
the  epithet  "  squalid"  is  the  only  one  that  fitly  describes  the  aspect  of 
the  place.  It  belongs  to  the  Portuguese,  and  a  governor  and  some  offi- 
cials exist  here.  As  we  always  went  on  shore  when  an  opportunity 
offered  at  the  various  ports,  we  accepted  an  invitation  from  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  company  to  land  on  the  following  evening.  We  took  a 
walk  of  a  mile  or  two  on  the  sea-shore,  the  children  of  our  party  being 
delighted  with  picking  up  shells,  not  heeding  the  discomfort  of  wading 
through  soft  sand  the  whole  way.  The  beach  is  strewed  with  human  bones 
bleached  by  exposure  to  the  elements  ;  they  are  those  of  the  victims  to  a 
pestilence,  who  were  interred  in  the  sand.  Our  walk  terminated  at  a 
monument  over  the  remains  of  a  lady  who  died  on  board  some  ship,  and 
was  buried  in  this  barren  waste  about  two  years  since.  I  scarcely  know 
why  this  lonely  pillar  should  excite  painful  emotions,  still  the  utter  deso- 
lation of  the  spot  made  one  shrink  from  the  thought  of  a  similar  resting- 
place.  Perhaps  the  contrast  between  this  busy,  restless,  ever-anxious 
existence,  and  the  silence  of  the  grave,  made  itself  more  really  felt  in  this 
solitude,  than  among  the  busy  haunts  of  men.  There  is  also  a  species  of 
consolation  in  feeling  that  our  graves  may  be  visited  by  those  nearest 
and  dearest  to  us,  and  we  thus  recalled  to  their  memory ;  for  who  would 
wish  the  dark  waters  of  oblivion  to  close  over  the  remembrance  of  past 
love,  past  friendship,  and  past  faith,  though  the  body  may  be  mingling 
with  its  parent  dust? 

The  natives  of  St  Vincent  are  a  dirty,  ragged,  half-caste  race — their 
patois,  like  themselves,  a  mixture  of  Portuguese  and  Creole.  We  were 
detained  here  some  days,  and  again  went  on  shore  and  visited  the  citadel ! 
wall  round  the  face  of  a  projecting  rock  commanding  the  har- 


368  Voice  of  the  Summer  Wind. 

hour,  and  mounting  five  guns.  The  bill  on  which  it  i*  placed  is  per* 
ftctfy  barren  ;  in  fact,  as  fox  a*  the  eye  can  reach,  there  is  no  vestige  of 
cultivation,  nor  any  green  thing;  a  few  brown  weeds  are  the  ghosts  of 
vegetable  life. 

On  Saturday,  the  9th,  we  again  set  sail — this  lime  without  rjegrtt 
The  only  supply  procured  was  an  abundance  o£  delicious  grapes ;  water 
was  not  to  be  had — at  least  what  was  taken  in  was  brackish — and  we  wen 
soon  placed  on  short  allowance.  The  screw  being  in  dejioate  health  was 
given  a  holiday,  and  we  orept  along  with  a-  foul  wind'  until  the  20th, 
when  a  strong  westerly  wind  caught  us,  and  fairly  blew  us  into,  the  dun? 
nel  We  had  passed  several  of  the  Azores  a  few  days  before,  Pico  bawg 
the  most  prominent,  from  its  great  height. 

Welcome,  indeed,  were  the  white  cliffs  of  our  own  England  after  our 
long  and  trying  voyage,  and  never  did  traveller's  eye  rest  on  a  mooce 
lovely  spot  than  Plymouth,  with  its  wood-crowned  hula,  its  green  met* 
dows,  and  its  English  homes.  Here  letters  awaited  us,  and  the  arrival 
of  our  long-expected  ship  was  telegraphed  to  London. 

On  the  26th  we  anchored  at  Southampton,  and  our  party  broke  up, 
never  to  be  reunited  until  the  sea  shall  give  up  her  dead,  and  all  thosi 
who  embarked  on  the  same  voyage  in  "Our  Screw"  shall  have  passed  the 
stormy  seas  of  life,  some  to  anchor  in  the  fair  havens  of.  eternal  rest, 
others,,  having  made  shipwreck  of  their  faith,  evermore  to  be  overwhelmed 
by  the  dark  waters  of  destruction. 


VOICE  OF  THE  SUMMER  WIND: 

BY    J.   E.   CAEPENTEB. 

Voice  of  the  summer  wind,  whispering  low, 
Say  whither  comest  thou — whither  wouldst  go  F 
"Whence  the  rich  perfume  you  scatter  around  ? 
Where  are  the  groves  where  such  odours  abound  ? 
Teach  us  the  source  of  such  sweetness  to  know, 
Voice  of  the  summer  wind  whispering  low. 

Par  from  a  southern  clime,  thither  I  come, 
Over  the  earth  like  a  pilgrim  to  roam; 
Where  gleams  the  harvest-field,  thither  I  go- 
Seeking  the  spots  where  the  streams  gently  flow ; 
Mingling  my  oreath  with  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
Blending  my  songs  with  the  corn-reaper's  glee. 

Voice  of  the  summer  wind,  leave  us  not  yet, 
Soon  will  the  flowers  all  their  fragrance  regret ; 
Steal  not  the  perfume  too  soon  fromithe  rose, 
Stay  while  the  beam  may  its  beauty  disclose : 
Spare  us  a  while,  still,  the  nightingale's  song, 
Voice  of  the  summer  wind,  sflent  too  long-; 
Bless  still  the  flowers  and  the  streams  as  they  flow, 
Voice  of  the  summer  wind  whispering  low.. 


(    369     > 


MRS,  BROWTODNG'S  POEMS. 

"  Nov*  atoms  bien  de  la  peine  a  permettre  aux  famines  un  habit  d» 
muse,"  said  Gtnguene :  "comment  pouxrions-nous leur  souffrir  un  bonnet 
de  docteur  ?"  Insufferable  as  the  thing  may  be,  experience  shows  the 
possibility  of  the  junction  of  these  two  anomalies  in  one  "soul  feminine*" 
thus  o'er-informing  its  tenement  of  clay.  Mrs.  Browning  wears  not  omV 
the  singingHtobes  of  the  poetess,  ten  habit  de  muse,  with;  a  grace  and 
glory  of  the  rarest,  but  dons  withal  un  bonnet  de  doctewr,  dealing,  to  the1 
delectation  of  Oxford  doctors,  and  the  dazed  bewilderment  of  London: 
ladies,  m.  stores  of  much  Latin  and  more  Greek — wincing  not  at  the 
caution  that  a  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing,  herself  a  deep»dnnker 
and  no  mere  taster  of  the  Pierian  spring. 

The  Lady  Scholar  is  an  old  grievance,  both  in  prose  and  poetry.. 
Juvenal  is  severe  against  the  lettered  wife,  who  discusses  VirgH  at  meal- 
times, compares  him  with  Homer,  and  awes  into  silence  not  only  unlet- 
tered wives,  widows,  and  maidens,  but  grammarians  of  the  utmost  gravity, 
rhetoricians  of  the  first  magnitude,  gnVtongued  lawyer*  (causidici)  and 
leather^lunged  criers  (pwecones): 

Hla  tamen  gravior,  an®,  cum  discumbere  ccepit, 
Laudat  Virgilmm,  pentur®  ignoscit  Elisse : 
Committit  vates,  et  comparat  inde  Maronem, 
Atone  alia  parte  in  trutina  suspendit  Homerum. 
Cedunt  Grammatici,  vdncuntur  Rhetores,  omnia 
Turba  tacet,  nee  causidicus,  nee  praco  loquatur, 
Altera  nee  mulier :  yerborum  tanta  cadit  vis.* 

A  strong-minded  woman,  strong  in  Latin  and  Greek,  in  voice  and  self- 
assurance,  is,  in  any  company,  de  trop.  But  a  poetess  so  steeped  in  Attic 
lore  that  she  can  worthily  translate  ^Sschylus,  so  versed  in  ecclesiastical 
Greek  that  she  can  worthily  translate  Gregory  and  Basil, — and  at  the 
same  time  so  tender  of  soul,  so  sensitively  alive  to  "  the  cry  of  the  human," 
so  kindly  an  expositor  of  the  heart's  dearest,  fondest  hopes,' — can  too  much 
be  made  of  a  gift  of  the  gods  like  this?  Had  Mrs.  Browning  only  given 
us  the  "  Prometheus  Bound,"  and  the  Hellenistic  hymnology,  we  might 
admire,  many  of  us  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise :  but  she  has  had  her  own 
"  Vision  of  Poets,"  has  sung  her  own  "  Romaunt  of  Margret,"  has  taken, 
us  to  "  Cowper's  Grave,"  has  shown  us  "  Bertha  in  the  Lane,"  ha? 
curdled  our  blood  with  the  "  Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary,"  has  stirred  rt 
by  her  "Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May," — and  with  our  admiration  is  now 
mingled  a  softening,  subduing,  and  gently  refining  influence,  which  nro^ 
foundly  intensifies  while  it  gives  another  direction  to,,  that  original 
feeling; 

The  more  ambitious,  in  form  and  scope,  of  her  early  poems,  remark- . 
able  as  they  are  for  occasional  glimpses  of  the  "  sublime  and  beautiful,* 
have  a  tendency,  it  must  be  owned,  to  confirm  by  their  character  and' 
fate  ttoe  argument  of  Archdeacon  Hare,  that  of  the  three  main  branches 
of  poetry  (epic,  dramatic,  lyric),  the  only  feminine  one  is  the  lyrical^ — 

*  Juvenalis  Sattau    VL 


S7Q.  Mrs.  Browning?*  JPoem& 

meaning  thereby,  not  objective  lyrical  poetry,  like  that  of  Pindar  and 
Simonides,  and  the  choric  odes  of  the  Greek  tragedians, — but  that  whicb 
is  the  expression  of  individual,  personal  feelings,  like  Sappho's.    The 
"  Drama  of  Exile"  is  owned,  on  all  sides,  to  be  a  failure,  its  design  coiW 
sidered;  but  the  readiest  to  give  it  up  cannot  help,  asking,  whattru*; 
lover  of  poetry  would  wish  this  drama  unwritten  ?     On  the  one  hand, 
there  are  those  who  maintain  that  the  "  Drama  of  Exile,"  as  a  poetic  ut- 
terance, and  disregarding  its  technical  defects  of  form,  stands  well  between.- 
the  Paradise  Lost  and  the  Paradise  Regained ;  that  Mrs.  Browning  has, 
filled  up  the  interval  worthily  and  movingly :  that  if  there  he  a  difference, 
in  the  notes  of  her  Drama  and  those  of  the  great.  Epic  (as  of  course  there  > 
is),  it  is  such  a  difference  only  as  should  subsist  between  Milton  and  his* 
Daughter,  and  that  if  her  Poem  has  not  the  strong  majesty.  -o£  the  Lost,^ 
or  the  serene  beauty  of  the  Regained,  it  has  the  appropriate. character  of. 
an  exile's  lament,  who  hangs  his  harp  upon  the  willow,  and  weeps  when, 
he  remembers  Zion.     On  the  other  hand,  there  are  those  who  objeefc, 
that  in  the  special  subject  of  this  Drama,  namely,  the  conception  of  &r&i 
grief  as  distinguished  from  Adam's,  and  as  coloured  by  the  cireu^staaoeiii 
of  her  situation — by  the  consciousness  that  she  had.  been,  the  first  to  £41*.' 
and  the  proximate  cause  of  Adam's  transgression— there  is  certainly  jw)m 
sufficient  foundation  to  sustain  the  weight  of  a  dramatic  poem;  that  the 
whole  is  an  attempt  to  make  bricks  not  only  without  straw,  but  almost 
without  clay ;  that  although  the  poetess,  with  sincere  modesty,  disclaims 
all  intention  of  entering  into  competition  with  Milton,  the .  comparison 
must,  of  course,  force  itself  upon  the  reader — who*  while  he  had  no  right 
to  expect  her  to  rise  as  soaringly  as  Milton,  does  above  die  level  of  her 
theme,  at  any  rate  might  presume  that  her  dramatis  persona  should  not 
stand  in  absolute  contrast  to  his.     Yet  the  Satan  of  Milton,  and  the  Lu- 
cifer of  Mrs.  Browning  are,  says  a  distinguished  Professor,?,  the  vety  an- 
tipodes of  each  other..    "  Milton's  Satan  is  a  thorpughly  practical  obanwni 
ter,   and,  if  he  had  been  human,   he   would  have    made   a^.firBt-oroto 
man  of  business  in  any  department  of  life  ;** — :whiiftthe  lady's  Luotfejvofco 
the  contrary,  is  "  the  poorest  prater  that  ever  made  a  ooint  of  sayi^n 
nothing  to  the  purpose,  and  we  feel  assured  that  fhe  pould  have, pat  Jus <i 
hand  to  nothing  in  heaven,  on  earth,  or  in  hell. ,  He,,  baa  nptbi&g^a^:£, 
he  does  nothing,  and  he  could,  $onoihlm&n    The  Adaoius  esul  of  ti»w 
"  I)rama,,,  too,  has  beep  described  by  another  critic,  as  not  the  Ja^ge-frosted* 
man  in  whose  full  clear  nature  all  manlike  qualities  meet-  uneonseicwrij  fe 
but  "  a  German  metaphysician  .;"  and  Eve,  as  "  an  amiable  and  g$*iq 
blue-stocking,"  not  t&e  mere  meek  motherly  woman,  with  wthat  AWb 
beautifully  calls  the  "  broad,  ripe,  serene,  and  gracious,  composure  ^flo?e-| 
about  her ;"  while  the  spirits  employed  in  the  poem  are  «ai4,to  h^neith^i' 
cherubim  nor  seraphim,  neither  of  those  that  know  nor, of  those  that  Uwi; 
but  fairies;  not  indeed  of  the  Puck  or  Ariel  species,  but  of  a  new  me&pbjJM  > 
sical  breed;  for  "  they  do  not  ride  on,  but  split,  hairs;  they  do  not  daiw; 
but  reason;  or  if  they  dance,  it  is  on  the  point  of  a  needie,  in  cycles  and 
epicycles  of  mystic  and  mazy  motion."  :.  ........    * 

So  again    of  the  "Seraphim" — an  attempt  to  write  of/the  Great 
Tragedy,  of,  Golgotha,  as  jEschylus  would  have  done,  had  he  lived  tfok? 


.       ^  • — '. —  — ; — ~? — ,,  *f~*' 
Aut  Aytoun,  aut Lucifer ^pse,       .  \  .',    \\    ...  l^n  3 


MPs:  JBrottitiiufs  iWi£  371 

that  decease  that  Was  accomplished  at  Jerusalem,  of  which  the  agonies  and 
vicarious  sufferings  of  Prometheus,  some  affirm,  were  type  and  shadow — : 
of  this  aspiring  effort  the  most  will  think,  after,  perusal,  with  Professor. 
"Wilson,*  that  there  is  poetry  and  piety — genius  and  devotion ;  but  that 
the  awful  Idea  of  the  Poem,  the  Crucifixion,  is  not  sustained ;  and  this, 
if  not  the  "Drama  of  Exile,"  they  too  will  almost  wish  unwritten. 

It  has  been  said  that  Mrs.  Browning's  affinities  connect  her  with  Milton, 
Goethe,  and  John  Keats,  more  closely  than  with  any  other  of  her  poet- . 
predecessors  : — the  religious  element  in  her  character  bringing  her  into 
alliance  with  the  first,  while  her  intimacy  with  the  spirit-world  is  emi- 
nently Goethean,  and  the  Greek  classic  model  on  which  much  of  her  < 
imagery  of  life  is  formed  recals  the  manner  of  Keats. t     Her  relationship, 
to  Tennyson  is  still  more  obvious.    "Even  Miss  Barrett,  whom  we  take," 
says  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  "  to  be  the  most  imaginative  poetess  that  has. 
appeared  in  England,  perhaps  in;  Europe,  and  who  will  attain  to  great . 
eminence  if  the  fineness  of  her  vein  can  but  outgrow  a  certain  morbidity,  • 
reminds  her  readers  of  the  peculiarities  of  contemporary  genius.     She  is ' 
like  an  ultra-sensitive  sister  of  Alfred  Tenuyson."J     In  which  likeness, 
moreover,  Leontius  celebrates  her  in  verse  as  well  as  prose ;  for  he  thus 
introduces  her  at  the  Feast  of  the  Violets : 

A  young  }ady.  then,  whom  to  miss^ece  a  caret  < 
In  any  verse-history,  named,  I  think,  Barrett,  :  ;;;v 

(I  took,  her  at  first  for  a  sister  of  Tennyson) 
Knelt  and. tejceived  the sgqd's  kindliest  benisoji. 
~*  Truly;''  bald  he,  **  dost  tjioa  sWe  the  blest  power  '      '    "\ 

<-     ■    Poetic,  the  fragrance  as  well  as  the  flower;  , 

The  gift, of  cpnv^ymgimprefesions  unseen, 
And  making  th0  vaguest  thoughts  know  what  they  mean.^f  "  » 

If  she  is  chargeable  with  being  too  often  diffuse— with,  not  always" 
journeying  oh  without  pause  or  retrogression,  so  that  occasionally  her  " 
garments  are  seen  floating  or  dragging,  and  she  has  sometimes  "given  '' 
out  the  idea,  before  she^  Ms  given  up  her  verse,*— -it  is  a  charge  made,, 
most  hesitatingly  l>y  her  admirers,  for,  Say  they;  wliat  a  loss  it  were,  it* ' 
in  getting  rid  of  what  we  ma^  fancy  to  be  her  defects j  slie  were  to  lose' 
any  of  what' we5  know  to  be  her  beauties.'    "And  perhaps  what  we  think  : 
we  see  amiss  in1  her  is  oril^  thai  dross  which  forms  part  of  every  ore  in 
which  lies  the  true  metal,  and  she  tnay  in  this  respect  only  resemble,  after  ^ 
all,  Milton,  and  Shakspeare,  and— Mature."     Even  her  mannerisms  are  - 
precious  to  some  of  her  disciples — partly  from  their  being  so  easily  caught,  . 
copied,  and  exaggerated  by  sentimental  mimics.     The  failures  of  these 
personages,  as  a  writer  on  Shelley  has  remarked,  furnish  in  the  end  tests, 
of  criticism  which  are  perhaps  among  tjie  truest  that  can  be  applied ;  for. 
they  are  certain  to  caricature  and  over-do  peculiarities,,  untfl  the  very  stvle 
of  their  model  palls  on  the  public  appetite,  and,  out  of  all  patience  with 
the  affectation,  mannerism,  and  raise  taste  of  these  sectaries,  the  world  . 

*  Christopher  in  his  Cave.    1838. 

t  "We  have  called  it  Keats-like,  because  it  throws  the  common  material  of 
modern  life  into  that  Grocian  marWe*halled  ty***  which  we  see  in  Keats,  and 
almost  in  him  only." — Prospective  Review,  1845. 

|  Men,  Women,  and  Books,  vol.  tit  .u    » 

$  Blue-Stocking  Bevels,  canto  it. 


37&  Mrs.  Brownings,  Poem*. 


k  Ae*  merits  of  the  original  with  the  faults  to  wfeich  uheyhaie 
given  birth :  whereupon  ensues  the  critical  moment  fiwr  the  eventual 
fame  of  that  original — who,  if  endowed  witk  sound  and  genuine  qualities, 
will  shake  off  these  importunate  encumbrance*  and  float:  again — if  not, 
will  by  them  he  dragged  to  the  bottonu  Meanwhile,,  far  a  good,  deal  of 
bad  grammar  and  had  poetey,  perpetrated  by  imitatora  who  take  her 
word  (far  words)  for  law,  Mrs*.  Browning  is  virtually  responsible,  by  snch 
lyrics  and  line*  of  hers  as  tell  how  Bertha  "fell  flooded  with  a  Dark^  or 
of  " the  heavenly  Infinite  falling  off  from,  our  Created,"  or  how  "the  fell 
sense  of  your  mortal  rushed  upon  you  loud,  and  deep,"  or  of  "chanting 
down  the  Golden^  of  "  the  whole  bush  in  a  tremble  greenf*  Ac.  Her 
rhymes  are  very  often  defective  or  culpable — negatively  or  positively  bad 
"  Eden"  is  not  a  suitable  match  for  "  treading."  "  Aceldama''  does  not 
rhyme  kindly  with  "  tamer" — to  say  nothing  of  the  cockney  character  of 
such  an  untrue  yokefellow.  "  Calmly"  might  deny  itself,  and  wax  wmth 
exceedingly,,  at  being  braced  with  "  palm-tree."  It  makes  one  uneasy  to 
hear  of 

Self-styled  George  Sand— whose  soul  among  the  liom 
Of  her  tumultuous  senses  moans  defiance. 

Or  of  "  elemental"  and  "prevent  all"  with  "ungentle,"  and  similar  deeds 
of  partnership  which  it  were  better  to  cancel,  the  partnership  being  suffi- 
ciently dissolute  to  warrant  dissolution. 

But  a  truce  to  the  sorry  occupation  of  fault-finding,  or  finding  out 
faults.  What,  after  all,  "are  they  among  so  many"  beauties  that  make 
up  the  staple  of  Mrs.  Browning's  delicate  white  handiwork  ? 

Exquisite  in  feeling  and  expression — allowing  in  the.  latter  case,  as 
usua1,5  for  frequent  mannerism — is  many  a  contribution  of  hers  to  the 
Poetry  of  the  Affections.  The  picture,  for  example,,  in  "  Isabel's  Child," 
of  the  young  mother  sitting  motionless,  a  wistful  lonely  watcher,  by  the. 
side  of  her  dying  baby — "pale  as  baby  carved  in  stone,  and  seen  by 
glimpses  of  trie  moon  in  a  dark  cathedral  aisle."  She  Has  watched  w 
hours  depart,  hour  after  hour  for  eight  long  agonising  days,  days  of 
suspense  and  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred — hours  whose  coming  and 
going  have  seen  her  on  bended  knees,  "  with  pale- wrung  hands  and  pray- 
ings low  and  broken"— hours  shadowed  with  awful  forebodings  of  t&e 
fated,  fast-speeding  last  hours  of  the  baby-sufferer — an  advent  against 
which  so  young  a  mother,  so  tender  and  true,  strives  beseechingly  and 
piteously  in 'prayers  that  may  not  be  heard,  with  groanings  that  cannot 
be  uttered : 

Oh,  take  not,  Lord,  my  babe  away : 

Oh,  take  not  to  thy  songful  heaven, 

The  pretty  baby  Tnou  hast  given : 

Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play 

Around  his  father's  knees,  and  known 

That  he  knew  how  my  love  hath  gone 
From  all  the  world  to  him ! 

And  how  that  I  shall  shiver,  dim 

In  the  sunshine,  thinking  e'er 

The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair 

Still  cheeks !  and  feel  at  every  tread 

His  little  body  which  is  dead! 

And  hidden  in  the  turfy  fold 

Doth  make  the  whole  warm  earth  a'cold ! 


Mrs.  Browning? $  Poems.  373 

0  God !  I  am  so  young,  so  v  oung — 

1  am.  not  used  to  tears  at  .nights 
Instead  of  slumber — nor  to  prayer 
With  shaken  lips  and  hands  out-wrung ! 
Thou  knowest  all  my  prayings  were 

"•'I  bless  Thee,  God,  for  past  delights — 

Thank  God!"    I  am  not  used  to  bear 

Hard  thoughts  of  death !    The  earth  doth  cover 

No  face  from  me  of  friend  or  lover  ! 

And  must  the  first  who  teaoheth  me 

The  form  of  shrouds  and  funerals,  be 

Mine  own  first-born  beloved  ?  he 

Who  taught  me  first  this  mother*  love  ? 

Bear  Lord,*  who  spreadest  out  above 

Thy  loving  pierced  hands  to  meet 

All  lifted  hearts  with  blessing  sweet, — 

Pierce  not  my  heart,  my  tender  heart, 

Thou  madest  tender !    Thou  who  art 

So  happy  in  Thy  heaven  alway, 

Take  not  mine  only  bliss  away ! 

The  picture,  again,  however  fainter  in  hue  and  lighter  in  effect,  of  the 
happy  child  in  "  The  Deserted  Garden" — as  seen,  in  pensive  retrospect, 
by  that  child's  sobered,  saddened  self,  altera  et  eadem,  in  after-years. 
And  that,  in  a  still  lighter  vein,  of  Little  Ellie  sitting  alone  among  the 
beeches  of  the  meadow,  on  the  stream-side's  grassy  covering — now  dipping 
her  feet  in  the  shallow  water's  flow,  and  now  holding  them  "  nakedly  in 
her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping,  while  she  rocketh  to  and  fro" — her 
thoughts  shaping  out,  at  the  impulse  of  plastic  fancy,  the  lover  who  shall 
woo  and  win  her,  a  lover  noble  of  form,  mounted  on  red-roan  steed, — and 
to  whom,  and  whom  alone,  she  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

And  that  of  Bertha's  sister,  recalling,  on  her  meek  death-bed,  the  scene  she 
had  beheld,  the  words  she  had  heard,  under  "boughs  of  May-bloom"  in  the 
lane — striving  as  she  dies  of  a  broken-heart  to  comfort  the  bruised  heart 
of  others; — altogether,  indeed,  as  it  has  noway  carelessly  been  called, 
"  the  purest  picture  of  a  broken  heart  that  ever  drew  tears  from  the  eyes 
of  woman  or  of  man."  And  that  of  her  who  being  dead  yet  speaketh  in 
the  "  Poet's  Vow."  And  that  of  the  stately  Lady  Geraldine,  approach- 
ing low-born  Bertram  "  slowly,  slowly,  in  a  gliding  measured  pace, 

With  her  two  white  hands  extended,  as  if  praying  one  offended, 
And  a  look  of  supplication,  gazing  earnest  m  his  nice" — 

while  he  gazes,  rapt  in  ecstasy  as  fond  as  ever  thrilled  Leontes  gazing  on 

*  This,  and  cognate  forms  of  expression,  we  cannot  view  with  the  same  favour 
as  Mrs.  Browning.  Especially  objectionable  is  the  form  "Dear  God!"— which, 
to  some  minds,  has  the  unhappy  effect  of  coming  in  once  and  again  to  mar  an 
otherwise  beautiful  passage — as  in  the  most  moving  "Lay  of  the  Brown 
Rosary," 

"  Then  breaking  into  tears—4  Bear  God,'  she  cried, ( and  must  we  see 
All  blissful  things  depart  from  us,  or  ere  we  go  to  Thee,'  "  &c. 

Mr.  Kingsley's  fictions  and  reviews  are  similarly  chargeable  with  the  repetition  of 
the  phrase  "  God's  earth,"  &c.  Nothing  more  easily  degenerates  into  jargon  than 
this  sort  of  diction. 


ST4  Mrsi  Brwmntff  )Poefois. 

Hermione  marbled  in  living  flesh,  and  is  ready  to  "  swoon  to  death  in  the 
too  utter  life"  brought  by  this  apparition  of  his  love — 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence  she  kept  smiling — 
But  the  tears  ran  over  lightly  from  her  eyes,  and  tenderly ; 
"  Dost  thou,  Bertram,  truly  love  me  P    Is  no  woman  far  above  me 
Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart,  than  such  a  one  as  I  ?" 

But  perhaps  superior  to  all  in  pathetic  earnestness  and  depth,  is  the  fare- 
well of  Catarina  to  Cambens. 

There  are  frequent  touches  in  Mrs.  Browning's  poems,  not  so  commonly 
noticed  as  they  deserve,  significant  of  peculiar  skill  in  producing  a  kind 
of  weird  and  eerie  impression,  by  certain  interjectional  details,  or  thrilling 
asides,  or  subdued  terrors,  pertaining  to  the  ghostly  element  in  the  con- 
sciousness or  the  imagination  of  man.  The  Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary 
shows  a  master-hand  in  this  class  of  composition.  Detached  fragments 
might  be  instanced  from  various  other  lays  or  legends.  As  exemplifying, 
however,  in  its  least  direct  but  not  least  stirring  expression,  the  art  to 
which  we  refer,  take  some  lines  from  "  Bertha  in  the  Lane" — where  the 
dying  girl's  simple  narrative  of  a  too  painful  past  is  interrupted  now  and 
then  by  surmises,  startings,  startled  questionings,  that  wonderfully  deepen 
and  determine  the  interest  of  the  scene  : 

Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 

He  would  love  but  me  alone  ? 
Thou  wert  absent, — sent  before 

To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 
When  he  saw  thee  who  art  best 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 

Thou  and  I,  Dear,  if  we  might  ? 
Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 

flying  straightway  to  the  light : 
Mine  are  older.  —Hush /—Look  out— 
Up  the  street !    Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 


We  are  so  unlike  each  other, 
Thou  and  I;  that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
But  for  mutual  tenderness. 

Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 

And  meant,  verily,  to  hold 

Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold. 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root ! 

Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose, 
Treads  the  crocus  underfoot — 

J,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn-tree — 

Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee  ! 

Fit,  that  /  be  pluck'd  for  thee. 

Yet  who  plucks  meP — no  one  mourns— 
I  have  lived  my  season  out, — 

And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns 
Which  I  could  not  live  without. 


:      Sweet,  be  won?  \    How  the,  light  H 

Comes,  and  goes!    If  it  be  night,     ,     (  , 

Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 

Look  out  quickly.    Yea,  or  nay  ? 
Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 

Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay  ?    So  best !— So  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road— 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Of  the  poetess's  moving  lyrics,  meant  in  one  form  or  other  to  express* 
echo,  and  reverberate  what  she  calls  the  "cry  of  the  human,"  it  boots 
not  to  speak  at  any  length :» they  are  commonly  the  best  known  and 
understood  of  all  her  poems.  The  "  Cry  of  the  Children^  witnesses 
to  the  earnestness  of  her  sympathies,  and  the  power  with  which  she  can 
give  them  broken  voice*  Moir  calls  the  truth  of  these  stanzas  an  "im*- 
portunate  and  heavy  load,"  that  weighs  on  the  heart  like  a  nightmare^*- 
on  the  imagination,'  like  Si  torture-scene  by  Spagnotetto.  It  is  as  real, 
and  goes  as  straight  to  the  heart,  as  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt."  Her 
"Runaway  Slave  at  Pilgrim's  Point"  is  another  outburst  of  passionate 
remonstrance,  vented  as  it  were  in  gasps  and  sobs  of  song.  Thorough 
earnestness,  indeed,  marks  all  the  verses  she  writes  "  with  a  purpose," 
from  stanzas  few  and  simple  to  the  longer  and  more  laboured  "  Casa 
Guidi  Windows" — the  "very  incoherent  and  fragmentary  form"  of  which, 
however,  is  in  itself,  by  the  sentence  of  Charles  Kihgsley,  a  true  and 
natural  expression  of  her  natural  bewilderment,  uncertainty,  alternate  hope 
and  disappointment,  vague  yet  sure  expectation  of  a  darker  and  a  brighter 
future,  "  a  red  sunrise  of  retribution,  from  whose  glory  and  whose  horror 
her  eyes,  as  they  should  have  done,  turned  away,  while  all  things  quivered 
before  them,  indistinctly  amid  the  mist  of  tears"— what  time  she  heard  a 
little  child  go  singing  . 

'Neath  Casa  Guidi  windows,  by  the  church, 
"  0  bella  liberta,  0  bella  Py— 

a  little  child,  too,  who  "  not  long  had  been  by  mother's  finger  steadied 
on  his  feet,"  though  still  O  bella  liberta  !  he  sang.  *The  war-utterances 
of  "  Maud"  had  been  anticipated  for  years  by  the  laureate's  greatest  living 
rival  in  song,  who  denounces  a  hollow  peace,  where  fellowship  is  not,  nor 
mercy,  nor  any  true  fruit  of  bella  liberta, — and  whd  prefers  to  it  the 
horrors  of  war,  the  "raking  of  the  guns  across  the  world,"  "  the  struggle 
in  the  slippery  fosse,  of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the  wave-blood 
bubbling" — such  things  she  swears  "  by  Christ's  own  Cross,"  and  by  the 
"  faintheart  of  her  womanhood,"  are  better  than  a  despot's  selfish  Peace, 
for  that 

Is  gagged  despair,  and  inarticulate  wrong, 
Annihilated  Poland,  stifled  Rome, 

Dazed  Naples,  Hungary  fainting  'neath  the  Qirong, 
And  Austria  wearing  a  smooth  olive-leaf 

On  her  brute  forehead^  while  her  hoofs  outprtfss 
The  life  from  these  Italian  souls. 

Mary  Russell  Mitford,  latejy  taken ,  frqjn  us, in,  £  j^reen  old  age^  has 


376  Mrs.  Brownings  Poems. 

told  the  world  more  than  any  one  else,  or  than  all  other  gentle  gossips  put 
together,  of  the  life-history  and  painful  past  of  the  poetess.  Miss  Barrett 
that  was  (and  under  another  title  still  is)  once  cordially  addressed  in  a 
sonnet  Miss  Mitford  that  then  was  (and  now,  alas !  is  not)  : 

Dear  friend,  in  whose  dear  writings  drops  the  dew 
And  blow  the  natural  airs ;  thou,  who  art  next 
To  nature's  self  in  cheering  the  world's  view, 
To  preach  a  sermon  on  so  Known  a  text,  &c. 

In  the  cheeriest  of  Old  Maids'  "  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  that 
pleasant  kindly  gossip  about  Books,  Places,  and  People,  is  given,  with 
characteristic  unreserve  and  delicate  sympathy  combined,  a  record*  of 

*  The  reader  will  be  glad  to  read,  if  for  the  first  time,  and  not  unwilling,  if  for 
a  second,  Miss  Mitford's  narrative: 

"  My  first  acquaintance  with  Elizabeth  Barrett  commenced  about  fifteen  yean 
ago.  [This  was  written  in  1 851 .]  She  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  interesting 
persons  that  I  had  ever  seen.  Everybody  who  then  saw  her,  said  the  same;  so 
that  it  is  not  merely  the  impression  of  my  partiality,  or  my  enthusiasm.  Of  i 
slight,  delicate  figure,  with  a  shower  of  dark  curls  falling  on  either  side  of  a  most 
expressive  face,  large  tender  eves  richly  fringed  with  dark  eyelashes,  a  smile  like 
a  sunbeam,  and  such  a  look  of  youthfulness,  that  I  had  some  difficulty  in  penuad- 
ing  a  friend,  in  whose  carriage  we  went  together  to  Chiswick,  that  the  tonila- 
tress  of  the  '  Prometheus'  of  JEsohylus,  the  authoress  of  the  '  Essay  on  Mind,'  was 
old  enough  to  be  introduced  into  company,  in  technical  language  was  out  Through 
the  kindness  of  another  invaluable  friend,  to  whom  I  owe  many  obligations,  but 
none  so  great  as  this,  I  saw  much  of  her  during  my  stay  in  town.  We  met  so 
constantly  and  so  familiarly,  that  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  age  intimacy 
ripened  into  friendship,  and  after  my  return  into  the  country,  we  corresponded 
freely  and  frequently,  her  letters  being  just  what  letters  ought  to  be— her  own 
talk  put  upon  paper.  The  next  year  was  a  painful  one  to  herself,  and  to  all  who 
loved  her.  She  broke  a  blood-vessel  upon  the  lungs,  which  did  not  heaL  If  there 
had  been  consumption  in  the  family  that  disease  would  have  intervened.  There 
were  no  seeds  of  the  fatal  English  malady  in  her  constitution,  and  she  escaped. 
Still,  however,  the  vessel  did  not  heal,  and  after  attending  her  for  above  a  twelve- 
month at  her  father's  house  in  Wimpole-street,  Dr.  Chambers,  on  the  approach 
of  winter,  ordered  her  to  a  milder  climate.  Her  eldest  brother,  -a  brother  in  heart 
and  talent  worthy  of  such  a  sister,  together  with  other  devoted  relatives,  accom- 
panied her  to  Torquay,  and  there  occurred  the  fatal  event  which  saddened  her 
bloom  of  youth,  and  gave  a  deeper  hue  of  thought  and  feeling,  especially  of  devo- 
tional feeling,  to  her  poetry.  I  have  so  often  been  asked  what  could  be  the  shadow 
that  had  passed  over  that  young  heart,  that  now  that  time  has  softened  the  first 
agony  it  seems  to  me  right  that  the  world  should  hear  the  story  of  an  accident  in 
which  there  was  much  sorrow,  but  no  blame.  Nearly  a  twelvemonlm  had  passed, 
and  the  invalid,  still  attended  by  her  affectionate  companions,  had  Aarivednutth 
benefit  from  the  mild  sea-breezes  of  Devonshire.  One  fine  summer  morning,  her 
favourite  brother,  together  with  two  other  fine  young  men,  his  friends,  embarked 
on  board  a  small  sailing-vessel  for  a  trip  of  a  few  hours.  Excellent  sailors  afl, 
and  familiar  with  the  coast,  they  sent  back  the  boatmen,  and  undertook  themsdres 
the  management  of  the  tittle  craft.  Danger  was  not  dreamt  of  by  *ny  one;  alter 
the  catastrophe,  no  one  could  divine  the  cause,  but  in  a  few  anmntea  after  their 
embarkation,  and  in  sight  of  their  very  windows,  just  as  they  were  crossing  the 
bar,  the  boat  went  down,  and  all  who  were  in  her  perished.  Even  the  bodies  were 
never  found.  I  was  told  by[a  party  who  were  travelling  that  year  in  Devonshire 
and  Cornwall,  that  it  was  most  affecting  to  see  on  the  corner  houses  of  every 
village  street,  on  every  church-door,  and  almost  on  every  oliff  for  miles  and  miles 
along  the  coast,  handbills,  offering  large  rewards  for  linen  cast  ashore  marked  with 
the  initials  of  the  beloved  dead;  for  it  so  chanced  that  ail  the  three  were  of  the 
dearest  and  the  best.  One,  I  believe,  an  only  son,  the  other  the  son  of  a  widow. 
This  tragedy  nearly  killed  Elizabeth  Barrett.  She  was  utterly  prostrated  by  the 
horror  and  the  grief,  ana  by  a  natural  b^  a  mos^niy  us tfeel^  that  s%eh^  teen 


Mrs.  Brownings  Poems.  377 

certain  tragic  passages  that  have  deeply  tinged  the  life  and  works  of  her 
gifted  friend.  Acquaintance  with  it  casts  a  mournful  light  on  some  dark 
places  in  the  poems,  where  the  darkness  may  be  felt.  Without  knowing 
an  atom  of  the  story  of  her  life,  it  is  yet  impossible  not  to  infer  from 
Mrs.  Browning's  poetry,  that  hers  is  no  mere  luxury  of  woe  ;  that  she  is 
noway  liable  to  the  suspicion  of  wilful  gloom  for  very  wantonness  ;  that 
she  is  no  fantastic  or  professional  threnodist,  making  a  special  wonder 
and  grief  of  the  o'erpassing  of  a  summer-cloud  ;  but  one  who  has  learned, 
as  only  storm-laden  sorrow  can  teach,  the  possible  anguish  that  human 
life  can  entail  and  human  heart  endure.  By  one  overmastering  afflic- 
tion, 

God's  shadow  on  her  face  is  laid 
In  sanotity  for  aye. 

Jean  Paul  has  beautifully  said  :  "  Der  Schmerz  liegt  auf  den  weiblichen 
Herzen,  die  geduldig  unter  ihm  sich  drlicken  lassen,  mit  grosserer  Last 
als  auf  den  mannlichen  auf,  die  sich  durch  Schlagen  und  Pochen  unter 
ihm  wegarbeiten ;  wie  den  imbeweglichen  Tannengipfel  aller  Schnee 
belastet,  indess  auf  den  tiefern  Zweigen,  die  sich  immer  regen,  keiner 
bleibt."*  But  sighs  of  heart-weariness  escape  ever  and  anon  from  the 
o'er-fraught  heart,  that  eke  would  break.  In  no  modern  poet  are  these 
suspirtosa  cogitatumes  more  pregnant  with  meaning.  In  none  are  re- 
trospective reveries  shadowed  forth  in  greater  depth  of  solemn  sadness. 
We  have  never  seen  the  recognition  their  pathos  claims  awarded  to  those 
self-communings  in  "  Night  and  the  Merry  Man,"  for  instance,  where 
memory  evokes  from  the  past  souvenirs  of  fancy's  golden  treasures,  and 
of  poems  delightedly  conned  in  childhood,  ere  the  chilling  discovery  was 
made  that  Life  is  not  a  poem  too  : 

in  some  sort  the  cause  of  this  great  misery.  It  was  not  until  the  following  year 
that  she  could  be  removed  in  an  invalid  carriage,  and  by  journeys  of  twenty  miles 
a  day,  to  her  afflicted  family  and  her  London  home.  The  house  that  she  occu- 
pied at  Torquay  had  been  chosen  as  one  of  the  most  sheltered  in  the  place.  It 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliffs  almost  close  to  the  sea,  and  she  told  me  herself 
that  during  that  whole  winter  the  sound  of  the  waves  rang  in  her  ears  like  the 
moans  of  one  dying.  Still  she  clung  to  literature  and  to  Greek;  in  all  probability 
she  would  have  died  without  that  wholesome  diversion  to  her  thoughts.  Her 
medical  attendant  did  not  always  understand  this.  To  prevent  the  remonstrances 
of  her  friendly  physician,  Dr.  Barry,  she  caused  a  small  edition  of  Plato  to  be  so 
bound  as  to  resemble  a  novel.  He  did  not  know,  skilful  and  kind  though  he  were, 
that  to  her  such  books  were  not  an  arduous  and  painful  study,  but  a  consolation 
and  a  delight.  Returned  to  London,  she  began  the  life  which  she  continued  for 
.so  many  years,  confined  to  one  large  and  commodious  but  darkened  chamber,  ad- 
mitting only  her  own  affectionate  family  and  a  few  devoted  Mends  (I  myself  have 
often  joyfully  travelled  five-and-forty  miles  to  see  her,  and  returned  the  same 
evening  without  entering  another  house);  reading  almost  every  book  worth  read- 
ing in  almost  every  language,  and  giving  herself  heart  and  soul  to  that  poetry  of 
which  she  seemed  born  to  be  the  priestess.  Gradually  her  health  improved. 
About  four  years  ago  she  married  Mr.  Browning,  and  immediately  accompanied 
him  to  Pisa.  They  then  settled  at  Florence ;  and  this  summer  I  have  had  the 
exquisite  pleasure  of  seeing  her  once  more  in  London  with  a  lovely  boy  at  her 
knee,  almost  as  well  as^ver,  and  telling  tales  of  Italian  rambles,  of  losing  herself 
in  chesnut  forests,  and  scrambling  en  mute-back  up  the  sources  of  extinct 
volcanoes.    May  Heaven  continue  to  her  such  health  and  such  happiness." 

Though  the  concluding  prayer  was  uttered  half  a  decade  since,  it  isjiot  too  late 
—whole  decades  hence  may  it  not  be  too  late — to  renew  it  with  a  deep  Amen. 

*  Die  unsichtbare  Logo. 


378  Mrs.  Browning's  Poems. 

What  are  these  ?  more,  more  than  these ! 

Throw  in  dearer  memories ! — 

Of  voices— whereof  but  to  speak, 

Maketh  mine  all  sunk  and  weak ; 

Of  smiles,  the  thought  of  which  is  sweeping 

All  my  soul  to  floods  of  weeping ; 

Of  looks,  whose  absence  fain  would  weigh 

My  looks  to  the  ground  for  aye ; 

Of  clasping  hands— ah  me !  I  wring 

Mine,  and  in  a  tremble  fling, 

Downward,  downward,  all  this  paining ! 


l  yet  more  moving  example,  to  the  same  effect,  is  found  in  "  The  Four- 
th! Aspect" — beginning  with  a  time  when  "the  worst  recorded  change 


A^ 

was  of  apple  dropt  from  bough,  when  love's  sorrow  seem'd  more  strange 
than  love's  treason  can  seem  now" — 

Then,  the  Living  took  you  up 
Soft  upon  their  elder  knees, — 
Telling  why  the  statues  droop 
Underneath  the  church  and  trees — 

and  thence,  tracing  the  shades  of  the  prison-house  as  they  close  in  upon, 
and  well-nigh  darken  to  despair,  well-nigh  stifle  and  slay,  the  mortal 
that  had  yet  to  learn  its  mortality  : 

Ay,  but  soon  ye  woke  up  shrieking, — 

As  a  child  that  wakes  at  night 

From  a  dream  of  sisters  speaking 

In  a  garden's  summer  light, — 

That  wakes,  starting  up  and  bounding, 

In  a  lonely,  lonely  bed, 

With  a  wall  of  darkness  round  him, 

Stifling  black  about  his  head ! — 

And  the  full  sense  of  your  mortal* 

Rushed  upon  you  deep  and  loud, 

And  ye  heard  the  thunder  hurtle 

From  the  silence  of  the  cloud — 

Funeral  torches  at  your  gateway 

Threw  a  dreadful  light  within : 

All  things  changed,  you  rose  up  straightway, 

And  saluted  Death  and  Sin. 

Since — your  outward  man  has  rallied, 

And  your  eye  and  voice  grown  bold — 

Yet  the  Sphinx  of  Life  stands  pallid, 

With  her  saddest  secret  told. 

These  are  but  scant  glimpses  of  one  or  two  phases  of  the  Fourfold 
Aspect.  Let  the  reader  survey  all  four  aspects,  in  the  original,  with  the 
care  and  feeling  they  demand,  nay  command, — and  then  ask  himself  if 
the  poem  does  not  merit  a  higher  rank  and  wider  acceptance  than  is 
its  lot. 

*  "  Mortal,"  a  Barrettism  for  mortality.    Syncope  is  a  very  summary  way  of 
turning  an  adjective  into  a  substantive,  pro  re  natd. 


i    •  '■.  i  ■  ' 

.-••'•.'■/ 

'■•»  THB 

NEW    MOrTHXY    MAGAZINE. 


vol.  cvn.]  AUGUST,  1856.         [no.  ccccxxviii. 


CONTENDS. 

PAGE 

The  Session  and  the  Premier.    Br  Ctbus  Redoing     .        .  379 

Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America  .        .     .  388 

The  Butterfly  Chase.    Br  the  Author  of  "  The  Unholy 
Wish" 405 

A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World.    Translated  by 
Mrs.  Bushby 420 

The  Last  Letter.    By  Mary  C.  F.  Monck    ....  431 

The  Cyrenaica 432 

Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs  and  certain 
Members  of  his  Family.    By  £.  P.  Rowsell      .        *        .  438 

Scissors-and-Paste-work  by  Sir  Nathaniel.    IV. — Froude's 
History  of  England 446 

The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.     By  Alexander  An- 
drews, Author  of  the  "  Eighteenth  Century"         .        .  456 

The  Old  "  King's  Arms"         .        .        .        .        .        .        .465 

Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.    By  Florentia       .    .  478 

Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History     .        .        .        •    .     .  490 


LONDON: 

CHAPMAN  AND  HALL,  193,  PICCADILLY. 
To  whom  all  Communications  for  the  Editor  are  to  be  addressed* 

%*  REJECTED  ARTICLES  CANNOT  BE  RETURNED. 

sold  by  all  booksellers  in  the  united  kingdom. 


PRINTED  BY  CHARUtt  WHITING,  BEAUFORT  HOUSE,  STRAND. 


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NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 


THE  SESSION  AND  THE  PREMIER. 

BY  CYRUS  REDDING. 

Another  session  is  about  to  be  added  to  our  parliamentary  annals, 
characterised  by  results  on  several  divisions  which  it  was  not  easy  to 
predicate,  but  on  the  whole  of  a  more  negative  character  than  usual. 
Little  was  done,  and  much  of  moment  left  undone.     Divisions  took  place, 
so  extraordinary  and  so  opposed  to  reason  and  probability,  that  some 
motions  might  as  well  have  been  terminated  in  the  mode  by  which  the 
facetious  Rabelais  proposed  to  terminate  lawsuits,  and  save  the  waste  of 
language,  time,  and  money;  or,  in  other  words,  by  the  dice-box.   On  some 
questions,  the  plain  common-sense  of  one  house  was  arrayed  against  the 
supernumerary  sense  of  the  other ;  thus  the  intolerant  oath  which  Jews 
must  take  before  they  can  sit  in  the  Lower  House  of  Parliament  was  once 
more  cancelled  in  the  Commons,  but  upheld  in  the  Lords,  while  those 
who  were  the  strenuous  supporters  of  the  persecuting  oath,  had  no  hesi- 
tation in  partaking  of  the  salt  of  the  race  they  scorned  and  persecuted. 
Some  new  Lord  Bacon,  notwithstanding  his  offensive  name  and  abhor- 
rence of  Judaism,  may  tender  his  hand  to  a  fair  daughter  of  Israel,  and, 
condescending  to  marry  Miss  Esther's  fortune,  take  the  lady  into  the 
bargain ;  but  he  cannot  think  of  voting  for  a  measure  which  shall  seat 
Miss  Esther's  father  or  brother  alongside  his  own  in  the  Lower  House  of 
Parliament.     Only  think  how  it  would  "  un-Christianise  "  the  nation — 
how  dreadful  it  would  be  to  such  consistent  magnates  that  a  member  of 
the  oldest  existing  faith  should  contaminate  such  exemplary  idolaters  of 
wealth  as  we  are,  with  a  dislike  to  swine's  flesh,  and  a  remote  respect 
for  a  believer  in  the  great  legislator  of  Sinai.     An  anti-Mosaic  limb  of 
the  "  House  of  Incurables,"  as  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield  denominated  a 
certain  place  a  century  ago,  may  visit  and  dine  with  a  descendant  of  the 
line  of  Abraham,   Isaac,  and  Jacob,  praise  his  turtle,  compliment  his 
liberality,  and,  with  no  sense  of  his  own  duplicity  while  he  partakes  of  the 
good  fare,  read  a  lecture  on  the  disinterested  patriotism  of  individuals  who 
exhibit  a  remnant  of  the  same  spirit  that  at  Norwich,  York,  Northampton, 
and  London,  once  crucified,  hung,  or  dragged  to  death  at  the  tails  of  horses 
those  who  were  of  the  more  ancient  creed,  and  were  too  conscientious  to 
deny  it.     It  may  be  replied  there  is  no  analogy  in  the  cases ;  the  exclu- 
sion of  an  individual  from  the  rights  of  citizenship  because  he  chooses  to- 
eat  unleavened  bread  occasionally,  and  cannot  admit  of  an  apostolic  suc- 
cession through  Caesar  Borgia  and  Leo  X.,  is  not  persecution.     True  it 
is,  a  difference  exists  between  hanging  and  scourging  a  man ;  both  are 
punishments ;  the  difference  is  only  in  degree,  as  a  felonious  abstraction 
Aug. — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxviu.  2  c 


380  The  Session  and  the  Premier. 

to  the  extent  of  forty  pence  is  as  much  a  felony  as  one  of  forty  pounds. 
There  is  another  point  through  which  the  people  are  deeply  concerned  in 
this  question  :  What  constitutional  right  can  the  Lords  have  to  dictate  to 
a  constituency  of  freemen  who  shall  be  its  representative  ?  Such  a  power 
ought  only  to  be  vested  in  that  branch  of  the  legislature  which  is  more 
immediately  affected  by  the  return.    The  ancient  marriage  law,  so  unjust 
to  females,  who  are  too  often  married  to  be  plundered,  it  has  been  pro- 
posed shall  be  amended.     The  returns  of  the  revenue  have  continued  to 
be  satisfactory,  and  the  sum  of  the  intelligence  laid  before  parliament 
from  America  very  much  the  reverse,  exhibiting  under  the  mask  of  smooth 
words  the  besetting  sin  of  the  Yankee — a  taint  of  insincerity,  or  what 
some  of  its  citizens  call  "  'cuteness,"  not  to  be  amended  by  the  expected 
return  to  the  presidential  chair  of  a  candidate  the  double  in  everything  of 
the  pre-existing  functionary.     Guided  by  no  recognised  principle  among 
European  nations,  the  uncertainty  of  what  may  occur  under  annexation 
principles,  filibustering  expeditions,  and  incomprehensible  doctrines  gene- 
rated by  presidential  volition,  destroys  confidence,  embarrasses  trade,  and 
keeps  the  people  restless,  both  here  and  in  America,  who  feel  an  interest 
in  the  question.     And  who  does  not  feel  an  interest  in  the  question, 
situated  as  the  two  countries  are  in  relation  to  each  other  ?    We  have  had 
our  ambassador  sent  away  in  a  very  unfriendly  manner,  through  his 
alleged  want  of  delicacy  in  regard  to  an  interference  with  the  American 
enlistment  law;  while  sensitive  America  allows  adventurers  to  raise  men 
for  piratical  purposes,  and  their  expeditions  to  sail  from  her  ports  in 
violation  of  the  law  of  nations.     It  is  not  a  satisfactory  answer  to  say 
the  government  of  the  United  States  cannot  help  it,  unless  it  he  willing 
to  confess  that  it  is  domestically  powerless,  and  can  only  be  energetic 
when  dealing  with  foreign  states.     It  might  be  imagined  that  the  law- 
lessness displayed  in  the  West  would  be  found  a  sufficient  burden  for  the 
government ;  but  the  rule  seems  to  be  that  each  state  is  a  petty  kingdom, 
and  may  make  peace  or  war  with  its  brother  state,  provided  it  does  not 
interfere  with  the  acts  to  which,  by  the  constitution,  the  powers  of  die 
Congress  are  limited.     How  such  a  system  of  liberty  must  end  it  is  not 
difficult  to  guess. 

An  attempt  made  to  destroy  the  proved  efficiency  of  the  Irish  schools, 
which  have  worked  so  well  amidst  conflicting  religious  opinions,  placed 
the  government  in  a  minority.  It  was  one  of  those  accidents  which,  in 
a  house  composed  of  more  than  six  hundred  and  fifty  members  rarely 
mustering  half  the  number,  unless  on  questions  of  less  importance  than 
this,  is  inevitable  at  times.  It  was  only  a  sudden  effort  of  party  to  injure 
an  establishment  which  has  worked  well.  The  great  feature  of , the  season 
has  been  the  happy  termination  of  a  state  of  war,  and  the  return  of  the 
Allied  armies,  we  trust  for  a  long  term  of  disuse,  as  far  as  active  hostili- 
ties are  concerned.  Lord  Palmerston  has  brought  the  English  part  of 
the  war  to  a  successful  conclusion,  of  course  in  conjunction  with  out 
allies.  The  success  of  the  war  which  ended  in  the  downfal  of  Napoleon 
was  in  no  degree  owing  to  the  abilities  or  successes  of  any  minister  or 
army.  The  snows  of  Russia  destroyed  his  veteran  force  of  300  000  men, 
which  had  before  mastered  Europe.  The  battles  afterwards  were  fought 
with  raw  levies — cavalry  mounted  on  post-horses,  and  conscripts  new  to 
the  field.     The  lion  was  in  the  toils  before  the  Allies  struck  him  down, 


The  Session  and  die  Premier.  381 

after  half  a  dozen  coalitions  of  all  Europe  against  him,  successively  baffled 
and  defeated.  In  no  other  war  from  the  time  of  Lord  Chatham  did  we 
begin  alone,  or  in  conjunction  with  allies,  and  come  off  with  such  success 
as  in  this  Russian  contest,  our  enemy  vigorous  and  ready  with  his  boasted 
million  of  men.  If  we  lost  20,000  men,  and  the  French  60,000  or 
70,000— one  account  says  83,000,  including  the  deaths  in  Algiers— the 
enemy  lost  500,000.  It  is  clear  that  our  loss,  as  it  was,  was  greatly  in- 
creased by  the  want  of  ability,  foresight,  and  activity  in  the  commanding 
officers.  The  war  so  gloriously  earned  on  by  Lord  Chatham,  terminated 
in  a  disgraceful  peace  made  by  George  III.  and  Lord  Bute.  No  one  will 
contend  that  we  were  successful  in  the  war  with  our  own  flesh  and  blood, 
which  George  III.  waged  to  punish  "  rebels,"  and  in  which  Hessians  were 
hired  of  their  prince  at  30/.  a  head,  to  be  paid  him  for  each  subject 
killed.  By  the  account  paid,  it  appears  that  13,700  men's  lives  went 
into  his  purse,  and  yet  the  whole  present  contingent  of  the  state  of  Hesse  is 
but  10,000  men !  It  was  this  horrible  proceeding  of  head-money  that  made 
Lord  Chatham  exclaim  against  our  hiring  men  at  "  the  shambles  of  every 
German  despot" — not  the  taking  foreign  troops  into  pay.  To  continue : 
the  treaty  of  Amiens  was  surely  no  triumph.  We  are  therefore  right  in 
asserting  that  the  success  which  has  attended  the  late  war,  taken  as  a 
whole,  and  as  the  punishment  for  an  outrage  upon  the  peace  of  Europe, 
has  been  pre-eminently  successful,  and  there  is  great  merit,  and  no  small 
praise,  attaching  to  the  Premier  for  having  closed  it  so  triumphantly 
and  so  wisely,  upon  terms  as  advantageous  as  either  of  the  Allies  could 
desire.  Those  terms  being  unexceptionable,  it  is  desirable  that  di- 
plomatic chicanery  in  carrying  them  out  should  not  interfere  to  put 
aside  the  advantages  which  the  honest  interpretation  of  the  articles  at 
present  offers.  In  a  couple  of  years  the  labours  of  half  a  century  of  dili- 
gent flagitiousness  have  been  destroyed,  and  an  ancient  and  important 
territory  received  as  a  member  of  the  great  European  family.  We  do 
not  deny  that  there  are  subordinate  difficulties  yet  to  be  encountered,  but 
these  can  be  overcome  by  care  and  firmness.  Russia,  on  the  other  hand, 
in  place  of  looking  longer  for  power  through  a  system  of  plunder  and 
annexation  of  the  territory  of  her  neighbours,  will  resort  to  those  mighty 
instruments  which  she  possesses  for  rendering  herself  legitimately  power- 
ful by  the  improvement  of  a  region  that  may  be  almost  denominated  a 
quarter  of  the  world.  If  this  be  indeed  the  result,  she  will  have  profited 
by  the  late  war  much  more  than  she  has  lost.  She  will  not  at  another 
time  be  so  soon  exhausted,  nor  will  her  resources  be  exhibited  so  palpably 
in  their  weakness,  as  became  inevitable  towards  the  close  of  the  late 
contest. 

Certain  parties,  either  interested  in  the  continuance  of  the  war 
from  personal  objects,  or  through  the  wild  notion  of  making  our  enemy 
repay  our  expenses,  or  perhaps  through  the  want  of  due  consideration 
that  war  is  a  dreadful  calamity,  and  a  stigma  upon  the  name  of  a  Chris- 
tian people,  if  entered  upon  unjustifiably,  or  prolonged  a  moment  beyond 
the  bare  necessity — there  were  parties  who  condemned  the  peace  so  happily 
accomplished.  Yet  we  should  willingly  have  made  peace  upon  terms 
much  more  advantageous  to  Russia  a  little  time  before.  She  saw  that 
we  should  straiten  her  by  new  stipulations  the  longer  she  delayed  to  ter- 
minate hostilities.    In  the  prolongation  of  the  war  we  could  not  do  more 

2c2 


382  The  Session  and  ike  Premier. 

than  distress  the  Russian  trade  to  the  injury  of  our  own.  To  trench 
seriously  upon  the  integrity  of  the  Russian  territories  was  far  beyond  our 
power.  We  therefore  accept  this  peace  as  the  great  and  triumphant 
event  of  the  part  of  the  year  already  passed,  and  praise  in  place  of  cen- 
sure the  wisdom  that  dictated  an  advantage  such  as  we  can  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  achieved  before,  and  not  by  any  natural  aid  from  the  ele- 
ments, but  our  own  strength  in  conjunction  with  that  of  our  allies.  Let  it 
be  remembered,  that  the  track  in  war  always  lies  through  a  labyrinth 
without  a  clue  for  a  guide ;  none  who  are  wise  will  rely  upon  a  march  in 
the  dark,  war  being  a  chapter  of  accidents.  The  Premier  acted,  therefore, 
on  grounds  of  wisdom  as  well  as  good  feeling.  The  more  scholsn 
learn  beyond  the  hornbook  the  wiser  they  become ;  it  is  the  same  with 
statesmen,  when  they  are  capable  of  applying  what  they  acquire  to  sound 
purposes.  This  is  no  small  glory  to  the  head  of  the  ministry.  We  hold 
that  the  Premier  is  a  much  more  remarkable  personage  out  of  the  exalted 
position  he  holds  in  the  government  than  he  has  credit  for  being.  Let 
the  political  tenets  of  any  unprejudiced  individual  be  what  they  may,  they 
cannot  honourably  deny  the  possession  of  talent  to  an  opponent  when  it 
really  exists.  It  has  been  our  lot  to  see  men  wielding  the  destinies  of  a 
great  empire  who  would  by  nature  have  done  better  at  the  plough-tail,  or 
at  blurring  sheepskins  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  Court  of  Chancery- 
proofs  how  easy  it  is  merely  to  govern  mankind,  especially  as  the  reputation 
is  taken  so  often  by  the  mass  for  the  ability.  To  govern  wisely  and  well 
is  a  different  affair  from  the  rule  once  confided  by  intrigue  to  the  micro- 
cosmic  mind  of  a  Perceval,  or  the  well-intentioned  imbecility  of  a  Robin- 
son, to  go  no  further  in  exemplification.  Some  may  govern,  but  only 
under  systems  maintained  by  audacious  violations  of  the  primary  prin- 
ciples of  the  constitution.  It  has  become  a  different  thing  "  to  carry  on  the 
Queen's  business" — to  borrow  a  phrase  of  Wellington — since  the  Reform 
Act  than  it  was  before.  Peel  thought  it  impossible  ;  but  he  no  doubt 
judged  from  the  past,  for  he  was  himself  an  evidence  that  a  statesman  of 
talent  could  not  only  work  with  a  reformed  House  of  Commons,  bat 
achieve  at  its  head  the  most  important  of  his  political  successes.  It  is, 
therefore,  clear  that  this  statesman  had  past  experience  and  bygone 
examples  in  his  mind  of  the  working  of  nihility  in  office,  before  the 
Reform  Bill  passed,  and  therefore  had  apprehensions  about  results  after- 
wards. Lord  Palmerston  cannot  be  said  to  have  fairly  taken  his  ground 
until  the  time  of  the  Reform  Bill,  and  he  has  been  able  to  work  with  a 
house  the  least  inclined  towards  labour  this  session  of  any  we  recollect, 
little  aspiring  in  legislation,  delighted  with  small  topics  and  measures 
which  require  decimal  arithmetic  to  calculate  their  importance,  full  of 
downward  tendencies  like  the  literature  and  art  of  the  day.  Yet  with  all 
this,  though  we  imagine  not  without  some  trials  of  patience,  the  Premier 
is  able  to  transact  the  necessary  public  business,  if  he  cannot  push  im- 

Snrtant  matters  throughout.  "Great  genius  is  great  patience/' said 
uffon;  and  his  lordship  must  have  been  sorely  tried  during  his  later  ex- 
periences. A  Reformer  from  the  time  William  IV.  mounted  the  throne, 
the  measure  of  the  benefit  expected  from  the  Reform  Bill  is  not  forth- 
coming. The  beneficial  changes  expected  under  the  bill  have  not  yet 
been  fully  realised.  Electoral  corruption  has,  in  too  many  instances,  only 
taken  another  form.     Lord  Palmerston  pauses  about  a  larger  concession 


The  Session  and  the  Premier.  383 

until  what  has  been  already  conceded  is  productive  of  benefit  propor- 
tioned to  its  magnitude;  so  we  take  it.  He  desires  to  see  the  mortar 
harden,  and  a  portion  of  the  edifice  well  consolidated  before  more  material 
is  laid  on.  We  cannot  admit  that  his  lordship  has  ever  pronounced  the 
bill  "  a  finality/'  so  as  to  be  under  the  necessity  of  explaining  away  the 
inference  drawn  from  too  candid  an  avowal  of  an  airy  thought  mistaken 
for  a  resolution.  The  Premier,  who  has  had  no  small  experience  among 
that  part  of  mankind  most  careful  in  the  use  of  language,  rather  says, 
"  Wait :  I  do  not  deny  that  things  must  move  forward,  but  we  must 
consider  the  pace."  If  the  pace  expected  were  calculated  at  nine  miles  an 
hour,  and  we  can  only  yet  do  seven,— or  but  a  couple  of  miles  more  than 
the  old  jog-trot  of  five  and  six  in  the  "  good  old  times"  of  George  III., 
when  patent  bits  were  so  much  in  use  to  check  the  horses  in  the  chariot 
of  Freedom,  while  we  promised  ourselves  the  full  nine,— we  must  attain 
the  object  expected  in  the  first  move  before  we  make  another.  "  Ay,"  cry 
those  who  support  the  universal  principle,  "  it  is  because  you  do  not  go 
fast  enough."  There,  we  presume,  issue  is  joined.  Of  course  this  is  but 
matter  of  surmise.  Nor  is  such  a  surmise  wonderful,  when  many  cry  out, 
"  Go  on,  dash  forward,  as  they  do  in  America."  But  we  have  to  con- 
sider it  our  duty,  situated  between  the  despotisms  of  Europe  and  the 
licentiousness  of  American  freedom,  to  take  care  of  our  own  saddle-seat. 
We  neither  want  despotism  nor  republicanism. 

Lord  Palmerston  then,  we  take  it,  is  a  more  able  individual  than 
people  in  general  think,  exclusive  of  connexion  with  the  exalted  situa- 
tion he  holds  in  the  public  service.  Political  foes  are  the  least  scru- 
pulous, after  religious  ones,  in  misrepresentation.  Few  equal  him  in 
active  business  habits.  These,  indeed,  are  a  part  of  his  nature,  and  he 
follows  them  with  an  easy  precision,  which  nothing  but  long  experience 
and  method  could  have  enabled  him  to  do  at  a  period  when  few  similarly 
endowed,  and  with  as  excellent  and  vigorous  a  constitution,  but  would 
begin  to  feel  the  cares  of  public  business  grow  irksome.  He  is  remark- 
able for  his  universality  of  knowledge,  and  readiness  on  more  subjects 
than  any  other  member  of  the  house.  His  memory  is  exceedingly  re- 
tentive, rarely  failing  to  call  up  whatever  is  required  in  aid  of  argument 
or  illustration,  at  the  precise  moment  it  is  wanted.  On  any  unforeseen 
emergency  he  is  a  most  effective  ally.  His  intellect,  acute  and  active, 
is  not  forward ;  on  the  contrary,  he  is  somewhat  idle  without  a  stimulus 
to  force  his  eloquence  into  action  ;  and  what  can  be  more  natural,  when 
often  having  no  antagonist  worthy  of  him,  he  is  compelled  to  answer 
dulness  with  reason,  and  with  sober  aspect  refute,  when  the  refutation 
is  not  worth  the  breath  bestowed  in  its  delivery.  This  universality  of 
intelligence,  or  power  of  speaking  upon  a  variety  of  topics,  is  exceed- 
ingly useful  in  a  minister,  affording  him  great  advantages.  It  is  not  in 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  that  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  subject  be- 
fore the  chair  or  throne  is  most  valuable,  it  is  the  power  of  making  an 
effective  hit  on  one  or  two  obvious  prominences.  While  cautious  of 
committing  himself  when  the  subject  is  strange,  he  is  quick  to  the  point, 
and  knows  where  to  strike,  and  strike  hard  too,  upon  fitting  occasions* 
jMr.  Cobden,  so  perfect  a  master  of  the  Free-trade  question,  though  second 
to  Mr.  Charles  Villiers  in  fathering  it,  has  uniformly  broken  down  in 
attempting  to  lead  on  topics  which  he  imagined  he  had  mastered.    He 


884  The  Session  and  the  Premier. 

made,  for  example,  a  bad  display  of  his  views  in  regard  to  the  foreign 
politics  of  Europe,  which  it  would  seem  as  if  the  honourable  geuflewsa 
thought  he  could  have  mastered  by  a  flying  visit.  Prophecies  falsified 
are  damaging  things.  Lord  Falmerston's  foreign  policy  has  been  ad- 
mirable. His  public  documents  are  some  of  the  most  influential  and  in- 
genious that  have  been  put  forth  by  any  statesman  in  this  or  any  other 
country.  He  is  so  much  master  of  his  subject  upon  almost  all  occasions, 
that  he  has  no  need  to  "read  for  it,"  as  collegians  say,  no  necessity  to  do 
as  Lord  Melbourne  was  accused  of  doing  by  the  facetious  Sidney  Smith,  the 
day  before  he  expected  to  receive  a  deputation  from  the  tallow-^haadfats, 
namely,  sitting  up  half  the  night  discoursing  with  Thomas  Young  about 
skimming  and  melting,  till  he  had  acquired  knowledge  enough  "  to  work 
off  a  whole  Tat  of  prime  Leicester  tallow."  The  present  Premier  would 
not  regard  the  handicraft  part  of  the  matter  a  moment — the  method  of 
pouring  into  the  moulds  the  oleaginous  liquefaction.  He  would  look  on 
the  subject  as  to  whether  the  exports  and  imports  were  likely  to  be 
affected,  together  with  what  bore  upon  the  public  interest,  and  see  if 
that  interest  and  the  request  of  the  deputation  could  be  reconciled.  He 
judges  by  the  essentials,  and  gives  a  speedy  reply  accordingly.  The 
energy  of  the  noble  lord  is  not  less  surprising  than  his  strength  and 
readiness.  Who  at  his  age  could  have  stood  and  spoken  so  many  hoars 
as  he  did  when  he  defended  himself  a  short  time  ago  against  the  attacks 
of  his  enemies  in  the  affair  of  Pacifico  ?  He  has  been  continually  under- 
valued by  the  false  colouring  put  upon  the  individual  apart  from  the 
politician.  Lord  Lyndhurst,  the  most  remarkable  speaker  both  as  to 
clearness  and  argument  in  the  Upper  House,  always  logical,  betrays  the 
advocate  in  his  matter  and  manner.  After  all,  he  is  chiefly  remarkable 
for  the  preservation  of  his  faculties  so  long  in  a  great  age.  There  is 
much  of  the  statesman  and  little  of  the  advocate  in  Lord  Palmerston. 
If  there  be  any  subject  upon  which  he  has  no  information,  it  is  easy  to 
be  judged  from  his  taciturnity.  Whatever  knowledge  he  possesses  he 
never  fails  to  make  a  judicious  use  of.  This  is  exactly  suitable  to  die 
occasion,  for  a  profound  mastership  of  the  topic  when  propounded, 
would  be  of  no  virtue  in  the  ears  of  the  House  of  Commons  for  the  par- 
pose  of  supporting  or  rejecting  it,  compared  to  a  little  general  know- 
ledge of  avowed  merits  well  thrown  forward.  The  Premier  judiciously 
glances  at  the  salient  points,  knowing  just  what  the  House  will  take, 
and  suits  the  humour  of  parliament  much  better  than  the  most  elaborate 
eloquence.  There  are  obstacles  genius  cannot  overcome,  and  the  sto- 
lidity of  some  dozens  of  country  gentlemen  and  speculation-company 
traders  is  only  to  be  met  by  tact,  and  the  art  acquired  through  long 
practice.  His  lordship's  experience  has  been  long,  and  every  one  must 
admit  not  unprofitable  in  that  which  the  wise  man  most  esteemed.  How 
many,  with  similar  advantages,  live  still  destitute  of  information  upon 
what  they  have  seen  pass  every  day  before  their  eyes.  Half  a  century 
of  experiences,  therefore,  even  when  the  power  of  observation  is  not  as 
great  as  that  the  minister  possesses,  and  the  advantage  of  an  excellent 
memory,  which  can  recal  suitable  things  and  turn  them  to  advantageous 
account,  are  the  most  valuable  of  the  possessions  of  a  public  minister: 
when  to  the  foregoing  advantages  are  added  health,  spirits,  and  suffi- 
cient equanimity  to  regulate  them  duly  in  the  use,  the  success  ma* 


The  Session  and  the  Premier.  &85 

needs  he  commensurate.  It  is  a  long  while  ago,  when  in  the  full  strength 
of  manhood,  daring  the  administration  of  Perceval,  we  recal  his  tall 
handsome  figure  and  dark  complexion  in  the  House  of  Commons,  always 
well  dressed,  and,  we  should  take  it,  in  those  days  full  of  vivacious  feel* 
ing.  In  punishing  an  adversary,  particularly  one  whose  self-conceit  is 
only  second  to  his  ignorance,  his  lordship  takes  him  to  pieces  as  ah 
artist  might  he  supposed  to  do  his  lay  figure,  before  sending  it  packing 
hy  "  Pickford's  Van,"  extracting  the  pins  one  by  one  which  serve  to 
impart  flexibility,  and  reducing  it  to  a  limbless  trunk,  a  sort  of  King 
Log,  serving  only  as  a  monument  of  its  own  lifeless  blunder.  There  he 
leaves  the  intruder,  and  resumes  that  tranquillity  which  marked  him 
before  he  unlimbed  the  idol  of  a  clique,  perhaps  the  Ajax  of  some 
petty  parliamentary  circle,  with  the  down  yet  upon  his  chin,  or  in  his 
ignorance  grown  hoary. 

*  In  the  present  condition  of  our  representatives  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, we  are  at  a  loss  to  find  a  successor  for  such  a  post  as  the  Premier 
holds.  His  foreign  policy  we  have  always  thought  superior  to  that  of 
our  other  ministers,  because  he  seemed  to  understand  better  the  state  of 
both  the  rulers  and  people  of  other  countries.  Lord  Aberdeen  looked 
alone  to  the  ruling  power,  and  we  suspect  took  his  tone  from  the  heads 
of  our  embassies,  some  of  whom  bungle,  and  others  knowing  nothing  but 
what  they  glean  from  the  inferiors  in  their  diplomatic  establishment.  We 
take  it  that  Lord  Palmerston  gathered  his  knowledge  directly  from  every 
source  available — from  the  courts  and  the  people — and  his  measures  ori- 
ginated in  duly  weighing  the  whole,  and  acting  upon  that  which  was  the 
preponderating  good  policy.  This  was  remarkable  in  his  treaty  of  1840. 
Thus,  those  in  opposition  to  his  policy  insisted  at  that  time  that  England 
had  no  interest  in  the  preservation  of  the  Turkish  Empire,  that  her  conduct 
Was  a  breach  of  the  system  of  non-intervention,  and  that  war  was  made 
upon  an  unoffending  power  in  Mehemet  Ali.  This  was  party  spirit 
acting  against  truthful  conviction,  as  it  too  often  does.  We  may  now 
ask  those  who  cavilled  at  this  policy,  whether  to  have  weakened  the 
Turkish  Empire  at  that  time  yet  more,  would  have  been  any  aid  in  our 
late  contest  with  Russia?  This  last  power,  by  the  treaty  of  Adrianople, 
had  gained  a  great  advantage.  The  Premier's  policy  in  1840  arrested 
any  attempt  at  further  encroachment  for  some  time — say  at  least  a  dozen 
years,  or  to  the  commencement  of  the  war  just  concluded.  M.  Thiers 
was  as  erroneous  in  his  calculations  at  that  time  as  his  motive—"  a  jealousy 
of  Russia" — was  unworthy.  By  inducing  Russia  to  join  in  the  treaty,  she 
became  bound  to  refrain  from  further  aggression  on  Turkey,  and  the 
treaty  of  Hunkiar-Skellesi  was  neutralised.  Nicholas  violated  that  treaty 
when  he  attacked  Turkey  the  other  day,  thinking  the  u  pear  was  ripe.0 
Lord  Aberdeen  and  his  friends  denounced  the  treaty  of  1840.  We  have 
now  a  proof  which  policy  was  correct. 

We  cannot  help  quoting  ourselves,  just  sixteen  years  ago,*  not  because 
we  have  faith  in  prophecies,  but  because  of  the  views  attempted  to  be 
lately  carried  out  by  the  Northern  ruler : — "  Russia  made  herself  the  pro- 
tector of  Turkey  as  Hastings  in  India  made  himself  the  protector  of 

9  The  Plain  Sense  Reasons  of  the  Treaty  of  July,  1840,  for  maintaining  the 
Integrity  of  Turkey.    1841.    8vo,  p.  16. 


386  The  Session  and  the  Premier. 

native  princes,  that  he  might  plunder  and  ruin  them  with  more  facility. 
Once  in  Constantinople,  Russia  becomes  secure;  while  the  Turks  are 
there,  she  is  vulnerable;  and  very  naturally  seeing  this,  she  determines  to 
watch  and  secure  the  minutest  advantage  towards  her  end,  until  her  ports 
on  the  shores  of  the  Euxine  shall  no  more  be  assailable,  and  the  Medi- 
terranean acknowledge  a  Scythian  master.  These  and  others  were 
reasons  for  concluding  a  treaty  which  places  obstacles  in  the  way  of  her 
ambition.  Even  as  it  is,  Russia  will  not  long  remain  idle  under  the 
treaty.  She  takes  credit  for  her  signature  to  it,  but  she  will,  some  way 
or  another,  before  long  make  up  her  account  She  will  intrigue  to  sow 
dissension  between  the  other  European  powers,  or  make  dupes  of  some 
of  them  to  her  own  interests.  She  will  omit  no  opportunity  of  re- 
covering her  lost  ground  by  perseverance  unflagging  and  unrevealed, 
except  in  its  effects.  She  will  trust  to  time  for  ultimate  success,  nor 
dream  of  resigning  her  project.  Her  junction  with  the  other  powers 
can  only  be  regarded  as  the  result  of  a  policy  which  knows  how  to  conceal 
disappointed  hope  under  a  graceful  address.  Can  it  be  no  step  gainet), 
then,  to  retard  her  ambitious  objects,  and  preserve  the  peace  of  Europe 
for  some  time  to  come  ?  The  success  of  the  treaty  is  a  triumph  for  peace 
and  humanity,  and  can  be  viewed  in  no  other  light  by  plain  sense  people. 
The  right  to  march  Russian  troops,  under  pretence  of  an  alliance,  into 
the  dominions  of  the  Porte,  showed  that  for  several  years  a  hazardous 
state  of  things  had  been  existing ;  that  a  long,  expensive,  and  bloody 
war  hung  upon  a  leaf  should  but  a  breeze  blow,  since  England  and  France 
had  discussed  forcing  the  Dardanelles,  for  the  crisis  had  come.  The 
policy,  some  still  assert,  was  for  England  to  remain  passive  while  the 
seeds  of  a  war  were  sowing  which  she  might  prevent,  and  in  which  she 
might  be  ultimately  involved.  Lord  Palmerston  knew  his  duties  better, 
and  with  a  display  of  ability  rarely  witnessed  in  a  British  cabinet,  suc- 
ceeded by  negotiation  in  forming  an  alliance  sufficiently  powerful  to  avert 
all  danger  to  the  integrity  of  the  Turkish  Empire  from  the  aggression  of 
a  foreign  power.  The  treaty  was  defensive  in  its  nature.  It  trespassed 
upon  the  authority  of  no  sovereign,  upon  the  right  of  no  people." 

Europe  thus  gained  above  a  dozen  years  of  peace.  Russia  exhibited 
her  dishonesty  by  violating  the  treaty  of  1840.  She  persevered  secretly, 
as  it  was  shown  she  would  do.  The  vast  preparations  of  stores  and  the 
strong  forts  of  Sebastopol  show  how  she  laboured  to  consummate  her 
purpose,  so  that  her  friends  could  not  openly  support  her.  She  had  no 
idea  before  of  any  people  transporting  by  sea  armies  of  150,000  men,  or 
she  had  fortified  Sebastopol.  She  intrigued  with  that  imbecile,  that  selfish 
Prussia,  if  not  to  support  her  openly,  to  be  neutral  in  her  behalf.  She 
imagined  that  Austria — although  its  enormous  frontier,  already  exposed, 
endangered  it,  and  the  extension  of  that  frontier  would  be  inevitable — 
out  of  sheer  gratitude  for  enabling  the  Emperor  of  Austria  to  extin- 
guish Hungarian  independence,  would  generously  wink  at  the  sub- 
jugation of  Turkey.  So  true  was  it  that  Russia  hoped  to  "make  dupes" 
of  some  of  the  other  European  powers  to  serve  her  own  interests.  Yet 
though  Austria  would  and  would  not  join  France  and  England,  she  played 
a  serviceable  game  towards  both.  The  foreign  policy  of  the  Premier, 
therefore,  has  been  well  tested  and  not  found  wanting;  while  Lord 
Aberdeen,  from  being  too  forgetful  of  the  sacred  oracle,  "  Put  not  thy 


The  Session  and  the  Premier.  387 

trust  in  princes,"  was  very  nearly  betrayed  by  the  deceased  descendant  of 
Soltikof,  who  has  paid  the  penalty  with  his  life  of  his  unprincipled 
attempt  to  rob  the  unoffending  "sick  man."  So  may  it  be  with  all 
such  scourges  of  humanity  in  secula  seculorum  I 

If  it  be  true  that  the  Premier,  while  supporting  progress,  resists  the 
go-ahead  system  so  much  advocated  by  certain  parties  in  this  country, 
who  desire  to  see  the  tumultuous  race  run  towards  the  political  felicity 
so  rapturously  enjoyed  in  the  New  World,  it  is  not  owing  to  him 
that  no  more  progress  is  made  on  questions  of  importance  in  social 
advance.  The  House  of  Commons  is  divided  into  parties,  strong  in  at- 
tachment to  petty  legislation,  and  ever  playing  at  cross-purposes.  Who 
could  imagine  that  the  enormous  concerns  of  an  empire  of  a  hundred  and 
fifty  millions  of  people  were  really  discoverable  in  the  Tom  Thumb 
questions  which  the  newspapers  continually  record  ?  Important  subjects 
and  enlarged  views  of  public  measures  seem  utterly  foreign  to  a  propor- 
tion of  our  representatives.  The  Infiniment  Petit  song  of  Beranger  might 
be  applicably  "  said  or  sung^ — perhaps  we  should  say,  in  compliment  to 
certain  Roman  religionists,  "  chanted" — by  the  chaplain  every  time  he 
prepares  the  House  for  its  labours  by  the  prayers  too  little  regarded, 
though  we  believe  Leslie  Foster  formerly  "  improved  the  occasion,"  as 
old  John  Wesley  would  phrase  it,  by  conning  over  his  forthcoming 
speech  on  his  knees  in  place  of  cultivating  his  devotions.  A  greater 
variety  of  subject  is  obtained  in  the  present  mode,  it  is  true.  One 
member's  legislative  happiness  dwells  in  the  sewers,  another  in  night 
coffee-shops,  a  third  in  Crimean  photographs,  or  at  Maynooth,  or  in  cab- 
driving,  or  shop-closing, — the  insignificance  of  the  subject  being  in  an 
inverse  ratio  to  the  important  style  with  which  it  is  introduced  to  legisla- 
tive notice.  How  the  Premier  manages  such  materials  is  not  the  least 
wonderful  of  his  political  achievements.  The  public,  thanks  to  the 
abridgment  of  the  speeches  in  the  morning  papers,  may  escape  the 
infliction  of  reading  them  from  end  to  end,  but  the  minister  must 
endure  as  well  as  answer.  Formerly  parliamentary  eloquence  repaid  the 
perusal  of  the  speeches  by  its  graces  and  wit ;  now  it  is  but  common  con- 
versation. We  well  remember  when  Canning  answered  Lord  Lyndhurst, 
who  made  a  speech  on  the  Catholic  question,  taken  out  of  a  pamphlet  by 
the  present  Bishop  of  Exeter,  with  the  quotation, 

Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams  with  mild  ale, 
Was  once  Toby  Philpotts ! 

and  the  cachinnation  and  applause  to  which  the  happy  allusion  gave 
birth.     We  have  no  such  reliefs  now  from  our  invariable  mediocrity. 

But  we  are  travelling  out  of  the  record,  having  already  trespassed  at 
so  great  a  length  upon  the  printer's  space  that  we  cannot  notice  more 
of  the  little  business  which  has  been  transacted. 


(  388  ) 


TRAVELS  IN  THE  CENTRAL  PARTS  OF  SOUTH  AMERICA.* 

AL  Francis  db  Castelnau,  chief  of  an  expedition  sent  by  the  late 
Louis  Philippe  to  explore  the  interior  of  South  America,  is  known  as  the 
author  of  a  work  on  the  United  States  and  upon  the  Silurian  system  of 
North  America.  So  highly  were  his  talents  as  a  naturalist  and  geographer 
esteemed  by  the  enterprising  but  turbulent  republic,  that  he  was  offered 
a  diplomatic  appointment  at  Lima ;  but  having,  as  a  preliminary  step,  to 
solicit  the  permission  of  his  own  government,  the  king,  who  always  mani- 
fested great  interest  in  geographical  discoveries,  reproached  the  young 
naturalist  with  what  he  called  his  desertion,  and  offered  him  the  charge, 
which  he  enthusiastically  accepted,  of  a  scientific  expedition  into  the  most 
central  and  the  least  known  parts  of  Central  America.  The  events  of  Fe- 
bruary, 1848,  prevented  the  immediate  publication  of  the  results  of  these 
explorations,  which  were  carried  on  from  the  year  1843  to  1844;  but 
what  is  designated  as  the  "  Histoire  du  Voyage,"  communicated  by  the 
author  from  fiahia,  where  he  is  now  acting  as  French  consul,  and  cor* 
rected  by  Dr.  Weddell,  who,  with  M.  de  Castelnau,  M.  d'Osery,  mining 
engineer,  and  M.  Emile  Deville,  a  naturalist,  constituted  the  leading 
members  of  the  expedition,  has  at  length  made  its  appearance  in  the 
goodly  shape  of  six  octavo  volumes. 

From  these  lengthy  but  interesting  details  we  gather  that  die  expe- 
dition left  Brest  on  the  30th  of  April,  1843,  and,  after  touching  at 
Xeneriffe  and  Gorea,  landed  at  Rio  on  the  18th  of  June.  We  have  so 
recently  sketched  the  social  condition  of  the  metropolis  of  Brazil  from  the 
pages  of  a  clever-observing  American  tourist,  that  we  need  not  return  to 
the  subject  on  the  present  occasion — the  more  especially  as  such  of  the 
pages  of  M.  de  Castelnau's  voluminous  work  as  are  taken  up  with  an 
account  of  Rio  Janeiro  bear  reference  mainly  to  botanical  excursions  made 
in  the  environs,  to  zoological  and  geological  facts,  and  to  agriculture  and 
the  state  and  progress  of  the  public  establishments. 

A  severe  illness,  contracted  during  these  preliminary  excursions,  ac- 
celerated the  departure  of  the  expedition,  M.  de  Castelnau  having  been 
recommended  to  exchange  the  heated  and  unwholesome  atmosphere  of 
the  city  for  the  cooler  air  of  the  mountains  of  Estrella,  where  he  took  up 
his  quarters  for  a  short  time  in  a  rickety  hut,  without  windows  to  the 
frames,  yet  belonging  to  the  emperor,  who  has  since  converted  the  site 
into  the  so-called  city  of  Petropolis.  Our  naturalist  was  delighted  with 
the  change,  his  health  improving  rapidly.  Vegetation  was  also  vigorous 
and  various,  presenting  more  than  one-half  different  species  from  what 
are  met  with  in  the  environs  of  Rio.  Palms  were  less  abundant,  but 
arborescent  ferns  more  so ;  and  here  they  met,  for  the  first  time,  with  the 
Brazilian  pine.  Birds  and  insects  were  also  much  more  numerous  than 
on  the  shores  of  the  bay.  At  this  elevation  they  were  also  not  so  much 
annoyed  by  musquitoes,  but,  in  exchange,  they  were  attacked  by  the 

*  Expedition  dans  les  Parties  Centrales  de  TAme'rique  du  Sud,  de  Bio  de 
Janeiro  a  Lima  et  de  Lima  au  Para;  executee  par  Ordre  du  Gouvernement 
Francis  pendant  les  annees  1843  a  1844,  sous  la  Direction  de  Francia  de 
Castelnau.    Histoire  du  Voyage. 


.  Travels  in  ike  Central  Parts  of  South  America.         389 

carapato,  or  tick,  a  kind  of  spider  (Ixodes),  which  burrows  itself  into  die 
skin. 

After  a  short  delay  at  Sambambaya  they  got  on  to  the  fazenda,  or 
farm,  of  Mage,  where  they  first  heard  the  ferrador,  a  gigantic  toad  that 
made  night  dismal,  notwithstanding  the  innumerable  fire-flies  and  glow- 
worms. These  Brazilian  fazendas,  farms  or  villages,  present  all  pretty 
nearly  the  same  appearance  :  one  or  two  private  residences,  a  chapel,  a 
venda  or  public-house,  a  rancho,  the  caravanserai  of  South  America,  and 
half  a  dozen  huts.  Our  traveller's  route  lay  beyond  this,  through  mountain 
forests,  interrupted  here  and  there  by  running  streams,  which  formed 
charming  cascades.  The  road  itself  was  execrable.  A  descent  of  five 
leagues  led  them  to  the  banks  of  Parahyba,  which  they  crossed  in  a  bark 
to  the  town  of  same  name.  This  little  town  barely  consisted  of  a  hundred 
one-storied  houses ;  nor  would  it  have  scarcely  any  commerce  but  that  it 
lay  on  the  way  to  the  mines.  There  are,  however,  plantations  of  cocoas, 
coffee,  sugar,  and  maize  around.  The  Parahyba  is  a  tributary  to  the 
Parahybuna,  which  divides  the  province  of  Rio  Janeiro  from  that  of  Minas 
Geraes.  Both  rivers  flowed  amid  dark  rocks  of  granite  and  gneiss.  The 
bridges  had  been  destroyed  in  the  insurrection  of  1842,  but  were  at  that 
time  being  rebuilt,  and  a  tax  equal  to  about  five  shillings  was  levied  for 
permission  to  cross,  government  placing  obstacles  upon  intercourse  in 
new  regions  where  such  ought  in  every  way  possible  to  be  facilitated. 

The  province  of  Minas  Geraes  is  celebrated  throughout  the  world  for 
its  mineral  riches.  Unfortunately,  absorbed  in  the  acquisition  of  these, 
the  inhabitants  have  left  the  land  in  a  sad  state  of  neglect.  Advancing 
into  the  province,  our  travellers  exchanged  the  splendid  forest- scenery  of 
Rio  for  the  campos  of  the  great  upland  of  Minas  Geraes.  These  so-called 
campos  were  in  reality  hilly,  and  covered  with  an  herbaceous  vegetation, 
diversified  by  the  lilac  flowers  of  a  dwarf  Melastoma,  the  roseate  hues  of 
a  Pavonia,  and  the  yellow  or  scarlet  blossoms  of  several  pretty  leguminous 
plants.  There  were  also  here  and  there  oases  of  forests,  chiefly  of 
Araucarias,  the  splendid  pines  of  South  America. 

At  the  commencement  of  these  uplands  is  the  town  of  Barbacena,  the 
chief  place  of  a  district,  which  contains  18,000  souls,  including  the 
negroes  of  the  fazendas.  The  town  itself  contains  4000  souls,  has  two 
or  three  streets,  as  many  churches,  and  a  detestable  hostelry.  From  this 
region,  about  1 180  yards  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  the  Parahybuna,  the 
La  Plata,  and  the  Rio  San  Francisco,  all  flowing  in  different  directions, 
take  their  origin.  Our  travellers  added  many  beautiful  birds  to  their  col- 
lections here,  and  several  snakes ;  among  others,  a  pretty  coral  serpent 
and  two  kinds  of  jararac — a  triganocephalous  snake,  the  most  dangerous 
in  Brazil.  Amphisbenes,  or  two-headed  serpents,  were  met  with  even  in 
the  houses.  An  exceedingly  pretty  frog  was  also  captured,  green,  with  a 
yellow  belly,  orange  and  blue  spots  on  its  flanks,  and  feet  veined  like 
marble.  The  main  resources  of  the  expedition  in  regard  to  diet  were  black 
haricots,  manioc  flour,  the  tubercles  of  a  Dioscorea,  called  in  the  country 
cara,  and  which  take  the  place  of  potatoes ;  and  preserves,  which  it  is 
the  local  custom  to  eat  with  salt  cheese. 

Beyond  Barbacena  they  had  the  same  undulating  campos,  with  what 
our  naturalist  appropriately  designates  as  bouquets  de  forets.  The  high 
road  to  Ouro  Preto  was  at  times  only  to  be  distinguished  by  the  traces  of 


390  Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America. 

mules'  footsteps.  The  little  town  of  Queluz  lay  on  the  way  to  the  metro- 
polis of  the  mining  district,  and  before  reaching  the  latter  place  a  danger- 
ous and  difficult  ascent  of  the  mountains  had  to  be  effected.  At  the  sum- 
mit, vegetation  was  so  magnificent  that  Dr.  Weddell,  the  botanist  of  the 
expedition,  remained  behind  to  collect.  Topazes  and  other  precious  stones 
are  met  with  in  these  mountains. 

Ouro  Preto,  formerly  called  Villa  Rica,  and  still  so  designated  in  the 
latest  maps  in  our  possession,  is  built  upon  the  most  irregular  ground  that 
can  possibly  be  imagined.  The  president  of  Minas  Geraes  resided  in  a 
palace  which  resembled  a  feudal  castle,  and  was  defended  by  three  guns 
of  small  calibre.  The  mining  population  is  given  to  frequent  insurrec- 
tions against  the  existing  authorities.  The  province  was  at  that  very 
time  divided  into  two  factions,  the  Caramurus,  or  Imperialists,  and  the 
Chimangos,  or  Liberals,  who  carried  on  a  furious  warfare  against  one 
another.  The  temperature  in  the  city,  at  an  elevation  of  some  1600 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  was  quite  European,  and  the  society  very 
agreeable.  The  only  drawbacks  to  the  agreeableness  of  the  place  were, 
that  the  inhabitants  were  always  letting  off  crackers,  or  howling  in  little 
knots  before  a  Madonna  at  the  corner  of  the  streets.  We  have  seen  that 
at  Rio  they  were  obliged  to  get  rid  of  these  pious  excesses  by  summary 
proceedings.  The  population  of  Ouro  Preto  amounts  to  from  11,000  to 
12,000  souls,  among  whom  600  slaves.  There  were  formerly  30,000, 
among  whom  6000  negroes.  At  that  time  the  pay  of  the  slaves  engaged 
in  mining  operations  was  only  80  reis,  it  is  now  400  reis  per  day. 

After  sundry  excursions  to  the  mining  towns  around  Ouro  Preto,  our 
travellers  quitted  that  city  on  the  17th  of  December.  While  there,  one 
of  the  party,  who  was  very  zealous  in  ornithological  pursuits,  brought  in 
two  birds  in  triumph.  They  turned  out  to  be  domestic  pea-hens.  On 
the  19th,  after  a  very  fatiguing  mountain  ascent,  the  expedition  arrived 
at  the  English  mines  of  Catta  Branca,  at  the  foot  of  the  peak  of  Itabiri 
•—among  the  richest  in  Brazil.  The  establishment  is  described  as  having 
a  thorough  English  aspect.  Houses  remarkable  for  their  exceeding 
cleanliness,  with  little  flower-gardens  in  front ;  450  slaves  are  employed, 
and  they  were  remarkable  for  their  healthy  and  robust  appearance.  They 
are,  indeed,  well  cared  for,  and  kept  in  airy  and  cleanly  homes. 

On  the  22nd,  they  started  for  the  mines  of  Morro"  Velho,  through  a 
difficult  country.  Some  misunderstanding  caused  their  reception  here  to 
be  less  hospitable  than  at  Catta  Branca,  but  the  arrival  of  the  superin- 
tendent— a  Mr.  Herring — set  matters  right,  and  they  were  at  length  re- 
ceived "like  old  friends  by  a  charming  family,  of  whom,"  says  M.  de 
Castelnau,  "  I  shall  always  preserve  a  pleasant  remembrance."  The  mines 
of  Morro  Velho  are  the  only  ones  in  Brazil  that  return  an  interest  to  the 
shareholders. 

From  Morro  Velho  to  Sahara  was  one  continuous  descent.  Here  they 
were  received  with  a  feudal  hospitality  by'the  Baron  de  Sahara.  Pushing  his 
adherence  of  old  customs  to  an  extreme,  the  veteran  grandee  insisted  upon 
M.  de  Castelnau  being  waited  upon  by  his  three  sons.  The  town  of 
Sahara  is  nearly  a  league  in  length,  and  contains  a  population  of  4500 
souls.  Here  they  witnessed  a  negro  masquerade,  annually  performed,  of 
an  election  of  a  King  of  Congo ;  among  the  masqueraders  was  one  who 
was  dressed  in  an  English  soldier's  red  coat.     He  was  the  chief  musician. 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America.  391 

Some  insubordination  having  manifested  itself  at  this  place  among  the 
followers  of  the  expedition,  M.  de  Castelnau  was  obliged  to  have  two 
of  its  members  imprisoned.  Some  of  the  gold  ore  they  examined  here 
was  of  incredible  richness.  It  came  from  the  mine  of  Taquaral,  lately 
ceded  to  an  English  company  for  20,000/.  sterling  and  5  per  cent,  of  the 
produce.  At  the  baron's  table  they  first  tasted  some  new  fruits,  among 
which  fruto  do  conde,  with  the  flavour  of  perfumed  cream. 

On  the  8th  of  January,  1844,  the  expedition  left  Sahara  for  Curral  del 
Rey,  a  pretty  village  in  the  midst  of  woods,  and  having  a  beautiful 
mountain  prospect.  Here  they  added  several  very  pretty  humming-birds 
to  their  collection.  They  were  detained  for  a  few  days  by  some  of  their 
mules  going  astray;  and  it  speaks  well  for  the  inhabitants  that  they  pur- 
chased one,  although  it  could  not  be  found.  On  the  11th,  the  expedition 
was  on  its  way  again,  only  to  be  detained  again  at  Capella  Nova  by  the 
animals  running  away.  At  Bicas,  where  they  arrived  on  the  1 4th,  it 
was  the  turn  of  the  inhabitants  to  run  away.  They  mistook  the  expedi- 
tion for  a  recruiting  party.  At  this  village  goitre  was  endemic :  not  an 
inhabitant  was  exempt  from  this  frightful  affliction.  They  began  to  be 
afflicted  at  the  age  of  two  or  three  years.  Luckily,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
mountains  are  so  accustomed  to  it,  that  a  girl  who  had  not  a  goitre  would 
find  it  difficult  to  obtain  a  husband.  As  to  the  cause,  it  is  as  unknown 
here  as  in  the  Alps  or  Pyrenees ;  luckily  it  is  not  accompanied  in  Brazil 
by  cretinism. 

Morro  de  Matheus  Lem6,  a  large  village  with  a  pretty  church,  led  the 
way  to  Palatina,  where  they  arrived  on  the  16th,  after  an  arduous  journey 
in  the  rain,  one  of  the  mules  breaking  its  back.  At  As  Guardas  they 
fell  in  with  a  Frenchman,  who  declared  that  he  had  travelled  from  New 
York  to  Peru  on  a  railway  1700  leagues  in  extent !  On  the  20th,  they 
arrived  at  the  small  town  of  Pitangui,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were  busy 
celebrating  the  feast  of  San  Sebastian.  On  the  21st,  they  passed  the 
Bio  Para  by  a  bridge,  raised  upon  natural  piles  of  dark-coloured  rock, 
and  on  the  28th  they  crossed  the  Rio  San  Francisco  by  boats.  Although 
not  yet  the  bad  season  of  the  year,  all  the  people  at  the  ferry  were  suf- 
fering from  intermittent  fever. 

Hastening  away  from  the  banks  of  this  pernicious  stream,  the  expedi- 
tion advanced  across  extensive  campos,  where  they  first  fell  in  with  the 
nandu — the  ostrich  of  the  country.  They  were  now  getting  into  regions 
where  strangers  were  rare  ;  and  when  they  came  to  a  farm  or  village,  the 
jaundiced  peasants  pointed  at  them  and  laughed,  just  as  M.  de  Castelnau 
says  the  French  peasants  do  at  the  monkeys  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes. 
At  one  of  these  villages  a  child  brought  them  a  giant  crane  that  he  had 
caught  with  the  lasso.  On  the  8th  of  February  they  arrived  at  the  small 
town  of  Patrocinio,  where  they  rested  themselves  a  few  days :  their 
average  rate  of  travelling  at  this  time  does  not  appear  to  have  exceeded 
three  leagues,  or  eight  or  nine  miles  per  day. 

On  the  14th  they  quitted  Patrocinio  for  the  Aldea  of  Santa  Anna, 
where  it  was  said  they  would  find  a  colony  of  Indians,  but  it  had  nothing 
Indian  in  it  but  its  name,  and  very  little  copper  blood  flowed  in  the 
veins  of  its  actual  inhabitants.  Beyond  this  they  came  to  the  picturesque 
banks  of  the  Rio  das  Velhas,  the  principal  affluent  of  the  Paranahyba, 
where  they  obtained  a  rich  harvest  of  curious  birds,  insects,  and  plants. 


392  Travels  in  the  Central  Parte  of  South  Americm. 

Here  they  also  visited  the  magnificent  waterfall  of  the  Rio  das  Fornas, 
but  vegetation  was  so  dense  that  they  could  not  succeed  in  reaching  the 
foot  of  the  fall  after  two  hours'  ineffectual  attempts.  The  fall  was  abovt 
sixty-three  yards  in  depth  by  sixteen  in  width,  and  was  situated  in  the 
midst  of  a  virgin  forest,  the  waters  tumbling  into  a  vast  basin  formed  by 
gigantic  masses  of  rock* 

On  the  22nd,  by  dint  of  making  longer  journeys,  they  reached  the 
banks  of  the  Rio  Paranahyba,  which  divides  the  province  of  Mbafl 
Geraes  from  that  of  Goyaz.  Here  they  spent  a  day  obtaining  specimen 
of  parrots,  herons,  and  other  beautiful  birds.  Butterflies  were  so  nu- 
merous that  they  gave  to  the  little  muddy  spots  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  the  appearance  of  a  coloured  carpet  After  crossing  the  stream, 
their  way  lay  through  a  dense  forest,  the  road  obstructed,  as  had  bees 
frequently  the  case  previously,  by  frightful  pitfalls.  At  Catalao,  a  little 
town  of  two  thousand  inhabitants,  and  the  first  they  reached  in  the 
province  of  Goyaz,  they  were  received  by  the  governor  of  the  district- 
one  Colonel  Roque — a  tall,  thin  personage,  all  in  blue,  and  with  a  blue 
straw  hat,  nearly  a  yard  in  diameter.  This  governor  held  a  court  every 
evening  of  negroes  and  mulattoes,  who  compared  their  chief  to  Caesar 
and  Napoleon.  The  great  man  acknowledged  each  extravagance  of  the 
kind  by  a  graceful  bow  of  the  head.  The  inhabitants,  seeing  that  our 
travellers  collected  owls  and  bats,  as  well  as  other  ornithological  curiosities, 
had  a  battue  in  their  church,  where,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  firing  of  guns. 

Having  heard  that  the  president  of  the  province  of  Goyaz  was  about 
to  take  his  departure  for  Rio  Janeiro,  M.  de  Castelnau  started  in  advance 
of  the  caravan  to  the  city  of  the  same  name.  Situated  in  the  midst  of 
wooded  mountains,  Goyaz  is  one  of  the  prettiest  towns  in  Brazil.  The 
houses,  generally  of  one  story,  are  well  built  and  very  white ;  the  streets 
are  wide  and  clean,  although  badly  paved,  and  the  squares  are  spacious. 
The  cathedral  and  churches  would  not  disgrace  a  European  city.  The 
population  amounts  to  from  seven  to  eight  thousand  inhabitants,  among 
whom  but  few  negroes.  Close  by  flows  the  Rio  Vermelho,  a  tributary 
to  the  Araguay,  renowned  for  its  auriferous  sands.  At  this  place  women 
are  regarded  with  almost  as  much  jealousy  as  in  the  East,  being  kept  as 
much  as  possible  within  doors,  and  when  they  go  out  they  are  obliged  to 
cover  their  faces  in  part  with  a  white  kerchief.  Some  of  the  ladies, 
however,  wore  black  hats  adorned  with  feathers.  Men  and  women  alike 
pass  their  time  in  religious  festivities  and  processions,  to  which,  like  most 
other  Brazilians,  they  are  passionately  addicted,  and  in  this  remote  town, 
some  fifteen  hundred  miles  from  the  capital,  to  an  excess  that  even 
astonished  their  co-religionaries  of  the  Gallican  Church. 

After  a  false  start  on  the  28th  of  April,  discomfited  by  the  breaking 
loose  of  the  animals,  a  real  one  was  effected  on  the  3rd  of  May.  As  the 
expedition  had  now  to  travel  through  countries  inhabited  by  Indians,  it 
was  accompanied  by  a  party  of  soldiery,  sent  for  its  protection  by  the 
Governor  of  Goyaz,  and  these  licentious  men-at-arms  gave  themselves 
up  to  many  excesses  on  the  way.  On  the  6th  they  arrived  at  the  Aides 
of  Carretao,  inhabited  by  Christian  Indians  of  the  tribe  of  Chavantes; 
among  them,  also,  were  some  wild  Indians,  upon  whose  breasts  were  as 
many  incisions  as  they  had  killed  and  eaten  enemies.     The  expedition 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America.         393 

here  increased  its  numbers  by  the  addition  of  four  Indian  warriors; 
Horses,  cattle,  and  human  beings  alike  suffered  at  this  Indian  village  from 
the  bite  of  a  small  bat,  that  kept  close  to  the  ground  in  flying,  and 
attacked  all  living  things  it  met  with  asleep.  The  expedition  also  suf- 
fered much  from  the  carrapatos,  and  a  still  more  disagreeable  insect, 
called  the  borrachudo,  which  covered  the  body  in  myriads,  filling  the 
eyes,  ears,  and  nostrils.  At  the  next  station,  called  Crixas,  they  saw  a 
negro  pulling  away  with  all  his  might  at  a  large  bell  in  front  of  the 
church.  Upon  asking  wherefore  he  was  indulging  in  this  violent  exer- 
cise, he  said  it  was  in  honour  of  the  arrival  of  illustrious  strangers. 
They  were  now  in  the  country  of  jaguars,  and  Dr.  Weddell  had  had  a 
mantle  manufactured  at  Goyaz  from  their  skins,  which  so  terrified  his 
mule,  M.  de  Castelnau  relates,  that  he  ran  away  whenever  the  doctor 
attempted  to  mount  him,  and  would  be  running  yet,  if  he  had  not  been 
exhausted  by  sheer  fatigue.  A  splendid  owl  was  shot  in  the  interior  of 
the  cathedral  of  Crixas.  Beyond  this  place  their  way  lay  through  gloomy 
forests,  tenanted  by  splendid  parrots,  or  aras,  as  the  French  call  them,  little 
monkeys  called  ouistitis,  and  numerous  other  living  things.  On  the 
1  lth  they  caught  a  young  mulatto  in  the  woods,  who  had  run  away  from 
his  parents,  and  who,  being  in  great  dread  of  the  Indians,  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  join  the  expedition,  to  which  he  acted  as  a  valuable  guide  at 
a  time  of  great  need.  Some  of  the  party  partook  of  the  flesh  of  the  great 
vulture,  called  urubu,  on  this  part  of  the  journey,  but  they  never  returned 
to  it,  not  even  in  periods  of  the  greatest  suffering  from  hunger.  On  the 
13th  the  road  became  almost  utterly  impassable  from  pitfalls  and  young 
bamboos.  When  there  was  water,  the  mud  was  covered  with  the  im- 
pressions of  the  feet  of  tigers  and  tapirs.  At  length,  on  the  14th,  they 
arrived  at  Salinas,  a  village  on  the  Araguay,  at  which  they  were  to  ex- 
change mules  for  boats,  in  order  to  descend  the  course  of  that  great 
river.  The  expedition  had  so  increased  in  numbers  by  this  time,  that  the 
tail  is  described  as  still  lost  in  the  forest  whilst  its  head  was  defiling  into 
the  chief  square  of  the  village.  The  garrison  was  in  arms ;  and  the  com- 
mandant in  his  uniform,  and  the  priest  in  his  surplice,  were  at  the  head 
of  the  population,  while  the  sound  of  guns  and  crackers,  mingled  with  the 
peals  of  bells  and  the  shouts  of  Indians,  heralded  the  arrival  of  the 
Naturalists  and  of  their  motley  crew.  The  population  of  Salinas  was, 
with  the  exception  of  the  commandant,  a  lieutenant,  and  the  cure, 
composed  entirely  of  Christian  Indians.  There  was  also  here  a  party 
of  wild  Carajas  Indians,  who  had  lately  arrived  from  the  forests  of  the 
Araguay. 

Preparations  for  the  descent  of  the  river,  the  number  of  boats  requi- 
site, and  the  provisioning  of  so  large  a  party,  detained  the  expedition  for 
some  time  at  this  village,  which  derives  its  name  from  some  saline  clays 
that  effloresce  in  the  autumnal  season.  On  the  2nd  of  June  a  general 
review  was  held  of  the  men  forming  the  expedition :  they  amounted  to 
forty-five.  The  names  recalled  the  bright  days  of  Portuguese  chivalry. 
There  were  among  them  Mascarenhas,  Magalha&s,  Sas,  Gamas,  and 
Albuquerques,  with  a  dozen  Christian  and  family  adjuncts ;  but  as  to 
the  persons,  alas !  how  was  the  chivalry  of  Portugal  misrepresented ! 
On  the  9th,  the  boats  being  ready,  they  were  duly  christened,  and  the 
expedition  started  amidst  the  discharge  of  musketry,  the  shouts  of  men 

Aug. — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvih.  2  d 


S84  Travels  m  the  Central  Parts  of  South  Anuriea. 

and  women,  and  the  blessings  of  the  primitive  old  cur£.     No  sooner  out 
in  the  stream,  than,  what  was  far  more  curious  and  interesting,  they  saw 
that  its  surface  was  ever  and  anon  disturbed  by  the  dorsal  fin  of  some 
enormous  fish ;  that  a  fresh-water  dolphin,  called  bote  in  the  country, 
threw  out  jets  of  water,  and  that  on  the  muddy  banks  lay  slumbering 
many  a  monstrous  cayman.     The  start  was  on  the  Crixas,  but  they  de- 
bouched into  the  noble  Araguay  the  same  evening.     This  fine  river, 
with  its  tranquil  mass  of  waters,  had  a  truly  magnificent  aspect.     It  wai 
not  less  than  five  hundred  yards  in  width,  but  in  parts  much  obstructed 
by  islands.     They  encamped  upon  one  of  these  for  the  night,  the  adjacent 
shores  being  covered  with  birds  of  varied  and  beautiful  plumage.     It  was 
a  delightful  thing  next  morning  not  to  have  to  wait  till  the  mules  were 
brought  in  and  loaded.     There  was  nothing  but  to  embark  a  few  utensib 
and  float  down  with  the  stream,  not  some  three  or  four  leagues,  but  ten  or 
twelve  at  a  stretch,  and  that  through  the  most  varied  and  magnificent 
forest,  rock,  and  water  scenery  that  can  be  imagined,  alive  also  with  all 
the  strangest  forms  of  tropical  life.     The  effect  of  these  great  interior 
rivers  of  South  America,  as  Be  Humboldt  long  ago  remarked,  is  that  of 
the  shores  of  the  sea.     "  The  mass  of  waters  which  surrounded  us,"  says 
M.  de  Castelnau,  on  arriving  at  the  great  island  of  Bananal,  or  Santa 
Anna,  "  and  the  sandy  beach  upon  which  we  were  reposing,  would  have 
led  me  to  suppose  that  we  were  upon  the  shores  of  the  sea,  and  the 
animals  that  crowded  round  us  rendered  the  illusion  still  more  perfect; 
most  of  them,  indeed,  belonged  to  genera  that  were  exclusively  marine ; 
such  were  the  dolphins,  already  noticed;  such  also  were  the  gulls,  the 
cormorants,  and  other  wading  and  swimming  birds,  that  never  ceased 
flying  in  circles  over  our  heads."     There  were  three  kinds  of  caymans,  or 
crocodiles,  in  the  Araguay;  the  largest  and  most  ferocious  was  distin- 
guished by  its  yellow  throat ;  another,  the  iacare  preto,  had  a  white  betty 
and  yellowish  white  spots  on  the  sides  of  the  body,  and  was  from  four  to 
five  yards  in  length ;  the  third,  the  jacare*  tinga,  was  veined  black  and 
yellow  on  the  back,  and  only  two  yards  in  length.  The  principal  fish  were 
the  pirarucu,  the  pirara,  and  other  ill-looking  but  good-tasted  Silurians, 
among  which  was  also  the  gymnotus  electricus.     The  pirarucu,  or  giant 
vatres,  is  one  of  the  principal  fish  in  the  tributaries  of  the  Amazon, 
where  he  delights  most  in  the  bottom  of  lakes  that  communicate  with 
the ,  river,  but  comes  up  to  the  surface  at  times,  when  he  is  harpooned. 
The  second  day  of  the  navigation  of  the  Araguay,  the  fishermen  of  the 
expedition  caught  five  of  these  fish,  each  of  them  nearly  three  yards  in 
length,  and  weighing  upwards  of  three  hundred  pounds :  no  contemptible 
resource  to  our  travellers.   Their  dinners  used,  indeed,  soon  to  partake  of 
what  M.  de  Castelnau  terms  "  a  local  colour."     As  usual  with  a  bill  of 
fare,  it  must  be  given  in  French :  "  Une  grillade  de  pirarucu,  trots  piran- 
gas  un  kamichi  et  un  heron  r6tis,  une  fricassee  de  lezards,  avec  de  la 
ferine  de  manioc."     The  lizards  alluded  to  here  were  frightful-looking 
guanas  or  chameleons.     The  cavia  capivara  was  also  met  with,  but  dif- 
ficult to  get  at  in  woods  infested  by  pumas,  black  tigers,  or  jaguars,  and 
large-spotted  and  small-spotted  jaguars.     By  the  17th,  pirangaa,  noticed 
in  the  bill  of  fare— a  small  fish  of  the  salmon  tribe — began,  to  then? 
gratification,  to  become  more  abundant.    These  fish  are  so  voracious, 
although  of  small  size,  that  they  attack  a  man  bathing  in  such  crowds  si 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America,  395 

to  destroy  him  in  a  very  short  time.  When  the  attendants  were  washing 
a  hit  of  fish  over  the  sides  of  the  boats,  five  or  six  pirangas  would  attack 
it  at  once,  and  allow  themselves  to  be  drawn  into  the  boats  with  it,  so 
that  there  was  no  great  skill  requisite  to  catch  as  many  as  could  be  con- 
sumed. They  even  eat  off  the  tails  of  the  caymans,  and  aquatic  fowl 
were  constantly  seen  whose  feet  had  been  devoured  by  them.  The  same 
day  the  dogs  put  up  a  stag,  which,  to  avoid  them,  took  to  the  water, 
where  he  was  devoured  by  the  pirangas  in  a  moment !  The  18th,  while 
they  were"  sitting  at  breakfast,  a  cayman  came  by  their  side  and  attacked 
a  dog.  He  was,  however,  killed  with  blows  from  the  butt-ends  of 
muskets.  These  animals,  formidable  as  they  are  to  the  rest  of  the 
animal  kingdom,  are  themselves  subjected  to  frightful  torture  by  an 
enormous  parasite  belonging  to  the  crab  family,  and  whose  body  is 
often  as  long  as  the  tenth  part  of  his  victim. 

If  the  river  and  its  banks  were  thus  peopled,  still  more  so  were  the 
lakes  which  communicated  with  the  river.  Next  to  a  night  assemblage 
of  animals  at  a  pond  in  Central  Africa,  a  forest  lake  connected  with  one 
of  the  great  rivers  of  South  America  presents  one  of  the  most  striking 
spectacles  in  the  world.  The  enormous  muzzles  of  caymans  protrude  by 
the  side  of  almost  every  flowering  lily,  the  pointed  snouts  of  the  fresh- 
water cetaceae,  the  dolphin  of  the  Amazon,  move  about  on  the  surface, 
alternating  with  the  dorsal  fins  of  gigantic  Silurians.  The  marshy 
shores  are  ploughed  by  tapirs,  for  which  numerous  tigers  lay  in  wait  at 
the  threshold  of  the  forest,  while  birds  of  varied  and  gorgeous  plumage 
clamour  with  monkeys  in  the  trees,  sweep  in  circlets  past  the  intruder, 
or  drop  from  submerged  trees  and  disappear  in  the  waters,  amid  turtles 
and  snakes,  and  other  amphibious  animals  that  group  together  in  the 
muddy  channels  that  connect  the  lake  with  the  river. 

One  of  the  men  seeing  M.  de  Castelnau  touching  a  trem-trem,  as  they 
call  the  gymnotus  electricus,  with  impunity  with  a  stick,  thought  he 
would  do  the  same  with  his  sword,  when  he  got  a  shock,  which  caused 
him  to  be  laughed  at  by  his  companions  for  some  time  afterwards.  M. 
de  Castelnau  himself  got  a  sharp  shock  once  by  merely  standing  on  the 
ground  that  had  been  moistened  in  connexion  with  the  Silurian  as  it  had 
been  drawn  out  of  the  water.  On  the  20th  they  caught  four  otters.  On 
the  24th  they  came  to  the  first  rocks  they  had  met  with  on  their  descent, 
and  beyond  this  they  reached  the  end  of  the  island  of  Eananal,  supposed 
to  be  the  greatest  river-island  in  the  world.  They  stopped  a  short  time 
at  this  point  to  determine  its  position  geographically,  lulling  three  stags 
during  their  detention.  The  two  rivers  united  now  presented  a  width 
of  some  fifteen  hundred  yards,  and  extensive  banks  of  sand  showed  that 
they  were  still  much  wider  and  deeper  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year. 
Fish  were  now  much  less  abundant.  Beyond  this  point  ridges  of  stone, 
called  entaipava,  were  occasionally  met  with,  crossing  the  bed  of  the 
river,  and  giving  rise  to  rapids.  On  the  1st  of  July  they  passed  the  first 
of  these  rapids,  called  Santa  Maria.  On  the  2nd  they  also  saw  the 
first  canoe,  with  Indians  of  the  tribe  of  Chambioas.  It  was  with  great 
difficulty  that  they  managed  to  overtake  it — a  point  of  great  importance, 
as  the  security  of  their  further  progress  depended  a  good  deal  upon  their 
establishing  amicable  relations  with  the  native  Indians.  These  poor 
people,  shot  down  by  the  Portuguese  soldiery  like  wild  beasts,  made 

2d2 


396  Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America. 

ineffectual  efforts  to  escape;  but  when  at  length  they  were  run  down, 
they  exchanged  bananas,  caras,  manioc,  and  other  fruits  and  grains 
for  the  presents  that  were  made  to  them.  There  were  from  four 
to  five  hundred  arrows  in  the  canoe.  The  same  evening  the  expedition 
was  visited  at  its  bivouac  by  a  considerable  party  of  Indians,  painted  to 
the  eyelids,  and  armed  with  lances,  clubs,  and  bows  and  arrows.  The 
tribe  of  Chambioas  belonged  to  the  Carajas  nation,  which  is  divided  into 
the  Carajahis,  who  had  been  seen  already  at  the  Salinas,  and  who  dwell 
on  the  left  arm  of  the  Araguay,  the  Javahais,  who,  in  opposition  to 
the  aquatic  habits  of  these  people,  live  in  the  interior,  and  the  Cham- 
bioas, whose  country  they  had  now  reached.  An  old  Indian,  in  order  to 
reassure  our  travellers,  who  appear  to  have  been  in  great  dread  of  the 
Indians,  remained  with  them  in  their  boats  and  bivouacs,  and  probably 
saved  the  lives  of  most  of  the  party,  by  conveying  them  in.  safely 
through  formidable  rapids  that  present  themselves  below  the  Caxoeira, 
Santa  Maria.  It  is  evident  that  this  splendid  river  of  Central  Brazil 
is  not  navigable  in  that  part  of  its  course  to  steamers,  although  so 
wide. 

Beyond  these  rapids  the  expedition  came  to  a  large  Indian  village, 
where  they  were  hospitably  received.  These  Indians  had  great  numbers 
of  magnificent  parrots  on  the  roofs  of  their  huts.  They  also  decorate  their 
arms  with  the  scarlet  feathers  of  the  same  bird.  They  cultivated  tobacco 
and  cotton,  made  good  pottery,  and  lived  on  fruits  and  the  produce  of 
fisheries  and  the  chase.  The  dead  they  buried  vertically,  with  their  heads 
out  of  the  ground,  surrounded  by  bananas  and  other  comestibles.  At  two 
other  aldeas,  or  villages,  which  they  visited,  they  received  the  same  un- 
bounded hospitality,  and  were  even  carried  in  triumph  upon  the  shoulders 
of  the  men.  Still,  kindly  disposed  as  the  Indians  showed  themselves 
to  be,  a  few  petty  larcenies  were  effected ;  among  others,  of  a  pot  of 
arsenical  paste,  used  in  preparing  objects  of  natural  history ;  and  as  the 
robber  would  undoubtedly  devour  it,  the  anticipated  consequences  led  M. 
de  Castelnau  to  hurry  away  as  fast  as  he  could. 

On  the  10th  of  July  they  successfully  navigated  the  Caxoeira  Grande, 
the  last  and  the  most  difficult  of  all  the  rapids  of  the  Araguay,  and  on 
the  14th,  to  their  great  delight,  they  passed  from  that  river  into  the 
Tocantins.  At  the  point  of  junction  was  the  little  Brazilian  fort  of  San 
Joao,  whose  garrison  of  some  thirty  men  and  a  dozen  women  and  children, 
under  an  hypochondriacal  old  lieutenant,  lived  upon  turtles,  oranges,  and 
Brazil  nuts.  The  river  called  the  Tocantins  was  about  1800  yards  in 
width  at  the  point  of  junction,  and  had  a  rocky  bed  and  tolerably  sharp 
current,  which  it  gave  no  small  labour  to  overcome.  The  right  bank  was 
occupied  by  the  Gavioes,  Indians  of  extremely  bad  repute ;  the  left  by 
the  Apinages,  a  well-disposed  tribe.  Higher  up,  on  the  right  bank,  are 
the  Caracatis,  another  bad  tribe ;  and,  finally,  the  ferocious  Chavantes, 
who  occupy  both  banks  of  the  upper  Tocantins. 

The  progress  of  the  expedition  averaged  from  five  to  six  leagues  per 
day  up  this  river;  but,  although  they  caught  a  turtle  or  two,  and  shot  a 
few  birds,  they  suffered  greatly  from  hunger — so  much  so,  that  at  the 
Caxoeira,  or  rapids  of  San  Antonio,  where  they  were  most  hospitably  re- 
ceived by  a  morador  (a  squatter  in  the  interior),  the.  crews  rose  in  in- 
surrection, and  were  with  difficulty  brought  back  to  a  sense  of  discipline. 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America.  397 

At  length,  on  the  30th,  they  arrived  at  the  mission  of  Boa  Vista,  where 
they  were  actually  inundated  with  bottles  of  wine  and  excellent  roast 
meat.  '  The  good  old  priest  himself  was  so  delighted  at  the  visit  that  he 
went  out  to  meet  the  expedition  in  a  canoe,  and  leaning  forward  to  give 
a  fraternal  embrace  to  the  doctor,  both  tumbled  over  and  disappeared  in 
the  river,  from  which  they  were  with  some  difficulty  fished  out.  The 
Indians  dwelling  at  this  mission  were  particularly  remarkable  for  the 
enormous  development  which  they  gave  to  the  lobes  of  the  ear.  The 
river  at  the  same  point  was  only  from  two  to  three  hundred  yards  in 
width.  On  the  12th  of  August  the  expedition  reached  a  small  European 
settlement,  called  Carolina,  where,  under  the  government  of  a  young 
military  debauchee,  the  nights  were  habitually  passed  in  organised  orgies, 
and  the  day  devoted  to  the  sleep  of  drunkenness.  At  these  orgies  the 
dark  girls  of  the  tropics  were  excited  by  dance  and  music  almost  to  a 
state  of  frenzy.  The  commandant  Rufino,  sword  in  hand  and  pistol  in 
his  girdle,  did  not  allow  them  a  moment's  repose ;  a  whip  was  ready  for 
the  soldier  who  refused  to  take  part  in  the  orchestra ;  squibs,  crackers, 
and  guns  announced  the  drinking  of  a  toast.  Yet  this  young  man,  who 
had  corrupted  a  whole  population,  was  barely  twenty-four  years  of  age ;  and 
his  beautiful  features  were  rendered,  if  possible,  more  interesting  by  the 
sickly  palidity  of  debauchery.  There  were  117  houses  in  the  place,  with 
a  population  of  800,  among  whom  only  two  married  women.  They  were, 
in  consequence  of  their  bad  and  careless  habits,  hemmed  in  by  the 
Indians,  who  were  constantly  diminishing  their  numbers.  The  females 
could  not  even  go  to  wash  their  linen  without  a  military  escort. 

At  the  Fazenda  dos  Patos,  the  next  station  the  expedition  arrived  at, 
they  laid  in  provisions  to  cross  the  desert  country  that  lay  between  that 
point  and  Porto  Imperial.  At  this  station,  as  at  Carolina,  the  inhabitants 
were  at  open  war  with  the  Indians.  Government  never  troubles  itself 
with  either  the  progress  or  welfare  of  these  remote  settlements.  The 
troops  are  occupied  in  following  processions  in  the  capital  and  larger  cities ; 
whilst  in  the  frontier  towns  they  are  obliged  to  organise  bandeiras,  or 
expeditions,  against  the  Indians,  unless  they  prefer  being  resistlessly  ex- 
terminated by  the  natives.  The  Chavantes  have  a  great  number  of 
Brazilians,  prisoners,  of  whom  they  make  slaves,  treating  them  with  the 
utmost  severity,  and  killing  them  for  the  slightest  fault  or  attempt  at 
escape.  They  are  declared  to  be  anthropophagists,  and  to  devour  not 
only  their  enemies,  but  their  aged  parents  and  relatives.  In  eating  a 
Christian,  they  are  said  to  prefer  the  hands  and  feet,  the  other  parts 
being  reputed  to  have  a  very  bitter  flavour ! 

The  expedition  started  from  these  advance-posts  of  civilisation  (p)  in 
good  spirits.  The  men  had  been  well  fed,  and  were  full  of  vigour,  and 
the  resources  of  the  country,  especially  in  tapirs  and  peccaris,  increased 
as  they  advanced  into  the  wilderness.  Some  large  capivaras  were  also 
met  with  occasionally,  and  troops  of  howling  monkeys  made  the  woods 
resound  here  and  there  with  their  discordant  notes.  Large  boas  were 
also  seen  swinging  themselves  from  branches  of  great  trees,  bellowing  like 
cows,  and  dropping  into  the  river  when  disturbed.  The  fishermen  of  the 
Araguay  and  its  tributaries  declare  that  a  snake,  which  they  compare  in 
shape  to  an  earthworm,  but  which  attains  from  thirty  to  forty  yards  in 
length,  roars  so  as  to  be  heard  many  leagues  off.  They  call  it  Minhocao, 
and  are  so  much  in  dread  of  it  as  to  have  abandoned  several  lakes  that 


398  Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America. 

abounded  in  fish,  merely  because  they  were  frequented  by  this  dreaded 
ophidian.  A  case  of  a  real,  not  an  imaginary  nightmare,  occurred  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tocantins :  one  of  the  party  having  gone  to  sleep  near  an 
old  tree,  he  awoke  from  a  sense  of  oppression  on  his  chest,  and  found  it 
to  be  occasioned  by  the  presence  of  a  gigantic  toad  that  had  taken  up  his 
quarters  there. 

Higher  up,  the  river  opened  into  so  many  successive  basins,  the  lower 
parts  bounded  by  mountain  rocks,  through  which  the  waters  forced  thes 
way  by  narrow  passages,  called  f units.  These  were  sometimes  barely 
from  fifty  to  sixty  yards  wide,  and  so  shallow  that  the  boats  had  to  be 
lightened  of  everything  and  then  dragged  by  ropes.  In  this  part  of  the 
country  bees  abounded,  but  precautions  had  to  be  taken  in  eating  the 
honey,  for  much  of  it  was  poisonous,  producing  a  kind  of  tetanus,  or 

Spasm  of  the  muscles,  which  lasted  for  a  long  time,  inducing  sometimes 
eath. 

On  the  31st  of  August,  the  expedition  arrived  at  Porto  Imperial,  for- 
merly called  Porto  Real,  a  village  of  seventy -five  houses,  built  upon  a  hill 
which  protected  it  from  the  floods.  Here  they  were  received  by  the 
governor,  Major  Ferreira,  an  old  chocolate-coloured  mulatto,  with  a  gold- 
laced  three-cornered  hat,  a  great  sky-blue  coat,  which  must  have  be- 
longed to  his  grandfather,  nankeen  trousers,  blue  stockings,  and  shoes 
with  gigantic  buckles.  There  were  formerly  one  hundred  and  forty  houses 
in  this  place,  but  M.  de  Castelnau  says  that  the  European  population  of 
the  interior  diminishes  daily ;  the  inhabitants  of  the  villages  cannot  follow 
agricultural  pursuits,  owing  to  the  incessant  hostility  of  the  Indians;  the 
people  perish  of  hunger  and  sickness,  and  if  some  remedy  is  not  found  for 
this  state  of  things  the  whole  country  must  inevitably  fall  into  a  state  of 
complete  barbarism. 

Above  this  point,  however,  fazendas,  or  farms,  appear  to  hare 
been  more  numerous,  for  we  find  the  expedition  arriving  at  one  at 
pretty  nearly  the  conclusion  of  each  day's  journey.  At  the  bivouac  of 
the  16th,  one  of  the  mules  having  been  bitten  by  a  snake,  the  poor 
creature  galloped  up  to  where  the  muleteers  lay,  and  actually  threw  itself 
down  among  them,  groaning  with  pain,  its  belly  swollen,  its  limbs  con- 
vulsed, and  foaming  at  the  mouth,  till  death  relieved  it  from  its  sufferings. 
On  the  19th,  they  reached  the  village  of  Peixe,  which  has  no  communi- 
cation with  the  civilised  world  except  through  the  rare  visits  of  boats 
ascending  the  Tocantins  on  their  way  to  Villa  da  Palma. 

At  this  point  the  expedition  quitted  the  river  to  return  to  Goyax  by 
the  so-called  "  Deserts  of  the  Chavantes."  The  country  at  starting  was 
level,  and  interspersed  with  marshy  savannahs.  On  the  21st  they  reached 
the  fasenda  of  Santa  Cruz  dos  Itaos,  the  property  of  an  Englishman, 
whom  De  Castelnau  calls  Colonel  Jube.  There  were  about  twenty  people 
in  this  little  colony  in  the  desert,  and  they  scarcely  dared  to  go  beyond 
the  threshold  of  their  doors,  for  fear  of  the  Canoeiros  Indians.  Only  the 
day  before  the  expedition  arrived,  a  young  girl  had  been  killed  by  these 
when  going  to  draw  water  at  a  neighbouring  spring.  Colonel  Jub6  had 
been  the  first  to  make  a  commercial  expedition  up  the  waters  of  the 
Araguay.  It  took  him  fourteen  months  to  ascend  the  river,  Ontbe 
24th,  they  crossed  the  range  of  San  Miguel,  difficult  from  the  want  of 
roads,  but  picturesque,  and  abounding  in  game,  more  especially  j 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America.         399 

and  deer.  In  these  so-called  deserts,  groves  of  orange-trees  were  met 
with,  the  remains  of  olden  civilisation,  and  hearing  delicious  fruit.  la 
the  same  neighbourhood  the  ruins  of  houses  were  often  met  with,  de- 
stroyed by  the  Indians,  the  skeletons  of  the  victims  still  lying  about. 

On  the  7th  of  September  the  expedition  reached  the  small  town  of 
Pilar,  where  are  gold-washings.  This  was  once  a  leading  provincial 
town,  but  it  has  fallen  off  from  a  population  of  14,000  to  only  1500 
souls.  The  position  of  the  town,  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  hills  clad  with 
virgin  forests,  is  remarkably  pleasing  and  picturesque.  On  the  17th 
they  arrived  at  Goyaz,  where  they  were  received  by  the  president  with 
his  customary  hospitality,  and  where,  although  a  bad  epidemic  had 
broken  out  during  their  absence,  they  were  soon  surrounded  by  friends, 
who  congratulated  them  warmly  upon  the  success  of  their  exploratory 
journey. 

The  expedition  remained  at  Goyaz  from  the  18th  to  the  29th  of 
October,  1844.  The  interval  was  occupied  in  packing  up  objects  of 
natural  history  for  France,  and  in  preparations  for  a  journey  to  the  Rio 
Grande.  The  night  before  their  departure  they  lost  a  good  horse, 
having  been  bitten  by  a  snake,  although  shut  up  in  the  court-yard  of  the 
treasury,  in  the  heart  of  the  town.  The  next  day  two  mules  ran 
away— one  with  the  treasury — and  as  it  was  only  caught  after  a  three 
hours'  hunt,  it  was  the  31st  before  they  really  got  off,  and  then  they 
were  destined  to  further  misadventure,  for  the  same  day  one  of  the 
muleteers  strangled  a  mule  by  mistake,  and  another  had  its  back  broken. 
On  the  1st  of  November,  the  very  best  of  the  camerados,  or  muleteers, 
also  ran  away,  taking  with  him  a  quantity  of  arms  and  provisions.  The 
road  led  them  across  the  valley  of  the  Piloes  and  the  Claro  rivers,  in 
which,  and  in  the  country  around,  the  people  were  engaged  in  the  pre- 
carious search  for  gold  and  diamonds.  As  in  their  previous  travels  in 
mining  districts,  they  were  constantly  meeting  with  taperas — houses  aban- 
doned by  their  tenants.  In  one  they  found  some  rice  and  no  end  of 
lizards,  indicating  that  the  inhabitants  had  gone  away  not  long  since  to 
seek  their  fortunes  elsewhere.  The  roads,  which  were  frightful,  were 
carried,  in  the  most  devious  manner  possible,  through  virgin  forests, 
alternating  with  rocky  chains.  Frequently-recurring  rains,  beasts  of 
burden  going  constantly  astray,  and  discontent  among  the  muleteers, 
threw  the  caravan  for  a  time  into  a  state  of  complete  disorganisation. 
It  was  often  two  in  the  afternoon  before  they  could  effect  a  start  On 
the  10th  two  more  muleteers  deserted.  The  13th  they  crossed  the 
Araguay.  In  this,  its  upper  portion,  it  was  not  frequented  by  the 
voracious  pirangas,  so  that  dwellers  on  the  banks  could  bathe  in  its 
waters  with  impunity.  A  very  pretty  cactus  was  found  here,  which 
grew  upon  the  habitations  of  the  termites. 

On  the  15th  they  crossed  the  Rio  Grande,  travelling  over  burning 
sands,  succeeded  by  campos.  This  was  followed  by  the  Pass  of  the 
Lages,  through  which  the  mule-path  was  carried  along  frightful  pre* 
cipices.  Throughout  the  provinces  of  Goyaz  and  Matto  Grosso  there 
are  no  roads,  strictly  speaking;  nothing  but  the  tracks  of  animals 
going  to  and  fro.  On  the  19th,  when  about  to  arise  from  his  bi- 
vouac, M.  de  Gastelnau  found  that  his  clothes  and  even  his  boots  had 
all  been  eaten  up  by  the  ants.     He  does  not  say  how  he  supplied  the 


400  Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America. 

deficiency,  but  the  natives,  observing  his  surprise,. took  good  care  to  in- 
sist afterwards,  when  anything  was  missing— no  matter  even  if  it  was 
an  earthenware  or  metal  utensil — that  it  had  been  eaten  up  by  the  ants. 
The  same  evening  they  celebrated  their  arrival  at  the  half-way  station 
across  the  continent  by  a  European  dinner,  composed  of  preserved 
meats,  which  they  had  reserved  for  this  great  occasion.  The  difficulties 
of  travel  had  at  this  time  increased  very  much.  The  mules,  weakened 
by  want  of  food,  and  distressed  by  sand  and  rock,  at  times  refused  to 
move  forwards,  or  threw  themselves  down  on  their  sides  ;  it  rained  almost 
incessantly,  food  was  exceedingly  scarce,  and  there  was  momentary 
danger  of  being  attacked  by  the  Indians.  At  Sangradouro,  a  post- 
station,  where  they  arrived  on  the  25th,  there  was  a  guard  of  six 
men,  but  they  scarcely  dared  to  venture  beyond  the  threshold  of  their 
mud-huts. 

On  the  28th  the  expedition  reached  the  limits  of  the  plateau  or  table- 
land they  had  now  been  long  travelling  over,  and  a  boundless  plain  was 
seen  stretching  away  at  their  feet  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  It  was 
some  time  before  they  could  find  a  passage  by  which  to  descend  into  the 
gulf  below,  and  at  length,  when  they  did  discover  an  opening,  it  was  so 
steep  as  to  seem  at  first  impracticable.  As  they  advanced  through  this 
low  country,  sickness  was  superadded  to  their  pre-existing  sufferings, 
which  were  also  in  no  slight  degree  augmented  by  swarms  of  little  rnel- 
UponeSy  that  got  into  the  eyes  and  nose,  causing  acute  pain,  and  by  the 
great  atta-ants,  which  penetrated  everywhere.  In  return,  the  latter  are 
themselves  eagerly  eaten  by  the  natives,  who  especially  relish  a  dish  of 
ant  abdomens.  On  the  3rd  of  December,  the  little  Indian,  Catama,  who 
had  been  previously  much  reduced  by  sickness,  was  still  further  weakened 
by  a  bat  sucking  his  blood  during  the  night.  On  the  5th  they  arrived 
at  a  permanent  station,  the  sugar  plantation  called  Engenho  do  Buriti. 
At  a. distance,  M.  de  Castelnau  says,  the  establishment,  with  its  street  of 
slave-huts  and  two  great  buildings — the  factory  and  the  master's  resi- 
dence— presented  an  imposing  aspect,  but  proximity  destroyed  the  illu- 
sion; the  buildings  were  all  tumbling  to  pieces,  and  presented,  like 
everything  else  in  this  unfortunate  country,  the  indications  of  misery  and 
of  utter  ruin. 

After  traversing  a  considerable  extent  of  grassy  plain,  followed  by  a 
rapid  and  difficult  descent,  amid  wood-clad  hills,  and  a  little  detention 
from  marsh  and  river,  the  expedition  arrived  at  Cuyaba,  the  capital  of 
the  province  of  Matto  Grosso.  Cuyaba  surpasses  Goyaz  in  size,  as  also 
in  its  appearance.  With  a  population  of  six  or  seven  thousand  souls,  it 
contains  a  cathedral  and  five  churches,  a  palace,  treasury,  arsenal,  and 
hospital.  Its  streets  are  straight,  wide,  well  paved,  and  lighted.  Most  of 
the  houses  are  of  two  stages,  and  all  are  whitewashed.  Some  of  them 
have  balconies  of  cast-iron.  The  city  has  also  a  suburb  or  port,  with 
arsenals  and  dockyards,  for  the  construction  of  boats  for  the  defence  of 
this  fluviatile  frontier.  The  river  Cuyaba  is  at  this  point  as  wide  as  the 
Seine  at  Rouen. 

The  women  are  all  as  secluded  at  Cuyaba  as  in  any  Oriental  city,  yet 
the  manners  are  as  bad  as  in  any  part  of  Brazil ;  the  ecclesiastics,  M.  de 
Castelnau  tells  us,  taking  the  lead  in  the  practice  of  vice.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising that,  with  such  an  example  before  them,  the  population  se  Uvrt 
avecfrenisie  a  la  batuca,  et  aux  plus  sales  orgies.  While  the  expedition 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America.  401 

was  making  preparations  to  descend  the  Rio  Cuyaba  and  the  San  Lou- 
renco  to  the  Paraguay,  M.  de  Castelnau  made  an  excursion  to  the  Cidade 
de  Diamantino,  or  diamond  mines,  in  the  upper  valley  of  the  Paraguay. 
The  town  itself  consisted  of  about  two  hundred  houses.  Upon  this  occa- 
sion they  also  visited  the  sources  of  the  above-mentioned  river. 

The  expedition  left  Cuyaba  on  the  27th  of  January,  by  the  river  of 
same  name.  Mosquitoes  abounded  in  this  stream,  and  detracted  in  no 
small  degree  from  the  otherwise  pleasurable  mode  of  travelling  presented 
in  the  great  streams  of  Central  America.  They  are  so  bad  here  that 
people  will  not  venture  upon  the  river  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year ; 
and,  strange  to  say,  the  Indians  dread  their  attacks,  if  possible,  even  more 
than  the  Europeans.  As  it  was,  sleep  was  almost  out  of  the  question, 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  members  of  the  expedition  could  take 
their  ordinary  repasts.  Day  and  night  were  often  one  prolonged  torture. 
On  the  2nd  of  February  they  reached  the  junction  of  the  San  Lourenco. 
The  dogs  suffered  so  much  from  the  mosquitoes  that  they  screamed  with 
pain,  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  they  were  prevented 
throwing  themselves  into  the  river,  where  they  would  have  been  instan- 
taneously devoured  by  the  pirangas.  When  they  landed,  the  dogs  buried 
themselves  in  the  sands,  and  the  men  got  up  into  the  trees. 

The  Paraguay  was  navigable  by  day  and  by  night,  partly  by  rowing 
and  partly  by  fastening  the  boats  together,  and  allowing  them  to  float 
down  with  the  current.  At  times  a  strange  noise  was  heard.  It  was 
produced  by  a  number  of  fish  called  cascudos,  that  abounded  on  the 
shallows.  A  thunderstorm  on  the  6th  relieved  them  a  little  of  the  mos- 
quitoes ;  no  conception  can  be  formed,  except  by  those  who  have  suffered 
from  the  torments  of  these  terrible  insects,  how  much  even  this  temporary 
relief  was  enjoyed.  A  dozen  vultures  were  seen  the  same  day  upon  the 
shore  tearing  to  pieces  a  magnificent  fish,  called  Dourada,  whose  brilliant 
scales,  still  moist,  scintillated  like  sparks  of  fire.  On  the  9th  they  ar- 
rived at  Albuquerque,  a  village  of  seventy  houses,  built  of  red  earth, 
some  of  them  tiled  and  whitewashed,  and  occupying  a  charming  position 
in  the  centre  of  a  plain,  interspersed  with  the  villages  of  Indians,  and 
groves  of  bananas  and  palms.  There  was  a  garrison  here  of  forty  men, 
with  two  field-pieces,  which  were  picturesquely  disposed  at  the  foot  of  a 
colossal  crucifix  in  front  of  the  church,  typical,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  of  a 
religion  enforced  by  very  potent  arguments.  Most  of  the  Indians  in  the 
surrounding  villages  had  accordingly  been  converted,  although  they  still 
painted  their  nude  bodies,  some  of  them,  the  two  sides  of  different 
colours,  often  one  half  red,  the  other  white,  which,  M.  de  Castelnau  says, 
gave  them  "  a  very  infernal  appearance."  The  wife  of  one  of  the  chiefs, 
called  "  The  Little  Needle,"  was  covered  over  with  regular  designs,  and 
spotted  like  a  panther.  She  wore  a  singular  ornament  on  her  head— 
the  skull  of  a  horse.  One  of  the  tribes  had  bridles  made  of  women's 
hair. 

On  the  Uih  the  expedition  arrived  at  Nova  Coimbra,  the  frontier  fort 
between  the  Portuguese  of  Brazil  and  the  Spaniards  of  Paraguay.  At 
this  place  they  explored  a  very  large  and  beautiful  grotto.  Beyond  this 
point  were  extensive  plains,  covered  with  forests  of  only  one  description 
of  tree — a  palm,  called  the  caranda  (Copernicia  cerifera).  This  region 
is  called  the  Gran  Chaco,  and  it  is  haunted  by  savage  horsemen,  who 
have  vowed  a  mortal  hatred  to  the  Spanish  race.     On  the  14th  they 


402  Travels  in  the  Centred  Parts  of  South  America. 

arrived  at  Bourbon,  or  Olympo,  the  frontier  fortress  of  Paraguay,  and  no 
•mall  interest,  combined  with  apprehension,  was  entertained  by  the  expe- 
dition in  entering  into  a  territory  from  whence  no  intruder  had  hitherto 
been  allowed  to  return.  Here  they  were  informed  that  they  could  go  no 
further  without  an  express  order  from  the  president  of  the  republic; 
but  as  a  messenger  would  be  despatched  at  once  to  the  capital,  an  answer 
might  be  expected  in  a  couple  of  months !  Time  passed  slowly  enough 
during  this  tedious  detention.  The  soldiers,  although  Spaniards,  could 
only  speak  the  lingua  geral,  or  Indian  language  of  the  Guaranis;  (her 
had  never  heard  of  the  French,  except  that  M.  Bonpland  (Humboldti 
companion,  who  was  detained  by  the  late  Dictator  Francia)  was  a 
Frenchman ;  but  they  had  heard  of  the  English,  "  who  were  not  Chris- 
tians, and  exhaled  a  sulphurous  odour."  At  length,  on  the  5th  of 
March,  a  government  messenger  arrived,  with  an  absolute  refusal  to 
permit  the  expedition  to  advance  to  the  capital,  and  orders  to  grant  to  it 
an  escort  back  again  across  the  Gran  Chaco  to  Albuquerque.       # 

Thus  defeated  in  their  objects,  the  expedition  retraced  its  steps,  ob- 
serving on  the  way  the  method  pursued  to  fish  piguiria  and  lambari, 
two  very  small  descriptions  of  fish  that  are  caught  solely  for  the  sake  of 
their  oil.  The  fishermen  go  out  by  night  in  a  canoe,  the  borders  of 
which  are  nearly  level  with  the  water,  and  with  a  light  in  the  prow. 
They  remain  quiet  for  a  time,  till  myriads  of  fish  have  assembled  round 
the  light;  they  then  suddenly  make  a  noise,  and  the  affrighted  fish  jump 
into  the  canoes,  which  are  often  nearly  filled  with  them.  The  native! 
also  obtain  oil  from  snakes.  Beyond  Albuquerque  the  expedition  passed 
into  the  Rio  Mondego,  or  Miranda,  in  which  they  found  some  largo 
skate.  The  Brazilians  do  not,  however,  eat  this  fish,  as  they  dread  the 
prick  of  its  spines.  They  were  enveloped  here  in  a  dense  cloud  of  mos- 
quitoes ;  the  woods  were  dark  and  silent ;  even  birds  were  rare.  Their 
chief  resource  was  a  kind  of  fish  called  pacu.  On  the  22nd  one  of  the 
men  was  stung  in  the  foot,  and  the  effect  was  so  instantaneous,  that 
although  only  some  twelve  yards  from  the  bivouac  he  was  unable  to  call 
for  assistance.  When  discovered,  he  was  leaning  against  a  tree  in  horribk 
agony ;  all  he  could  do  was  to  point  to  his  foot,  which  Dr.  Weddel 
cauterised  with  a  red-hot  bayonet,  and  the  man  ultimately  recovered. 
On  the  23rd  animal  life  became  more  abundant — birds  more  especially: 
kingfishers  and  black  ibises  began  to  abound,  and  howling  and  other 
monkeys  brought  some  change  in  the  monotony  of  this  tedious  river 
navigation.  But  soon  there  was  no  sleeping  from  the  discordant 
sounds  produced  by  the  number  and  variety  of  living  things.  Insects 
buzzed,  toads  and  frogs  croaked,  birds  shrieked,  crocodiles  roared,  of 
dropped,  with  the  noise  of  a  musket-shot,  from  the  trees  into  the  river ; 
tigers  responded  in  the  distance  ;  even  the  fish  joined  in  the  nocturnal 
concert,  a  species  called  the  wacara  being  the  one  gifted  with  the  greatest 
vocal  powers.  Legions  of  phosphorescent  insects  also  illuminated  the 
atmosphere  during  the  darkness.  On  the  28th  they  arrived  at  Miranda,  a 
village  and  stockade  of  two  hundred  inhabitants,  among  whom  were  a 
commandant,  a  priest,  and  forty  soldiers.  There  were  also  about  fifteen 
convicts.  From  four  to  five  thousand  Indians  had  also  settled  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  houses  were  much  infested  by  a  gigantic  spider,  t 
species  of  mygale,  whose  bite  was  very  painful. 


Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America,  405 

On  the  12th  of  April  the  expedition  left  Miranda,  and  descending  the 
Mondego  river  for  five  days,  arrived  on  the  17th  at  Albuquerque.  They 
quitted  this  place  the  ensuing  day  for  the  Upper  Paraguay  and  the 
great  marshes  marked  in  olden  maps  as  the  Xarayes.  On  the  24th  they 
bivouacked  at  the  entrance  of  a  little  bay,  which  was  guarded  by  two 
enormous  caymans,  that  opened  their  capacious  jaws  on  the  approach  of 
the  boats.  A  cloud  of  vultures  arose  from  the  bloody  remains  left  by  the 
jaguars  at  their  repasts;  the  jaguars  themselves  kept  howling  all  night. 
Animal  life  abounded  at  this  spot ;  a  great  snake  crossed  the  cowhide 
which  served  them  for  a  table.  On  the  29th  they  arrived  at  a  point 
where  the  Paraguay  expanded  to  an  exceeding  width,  its  course  being 
obstructed  by  submerged  islands,  in  which  the  tops  of  the  trees  alone 
appeared  above  the  water.  The  effect  was  very  beautiful,  but  the  faci- 
lities of  navigation  by  no  means  improved,  nor  was  the  expedition  long 
before  it  lost  itself  in  the  labyrinth,  and  after  many  ineffectual  efforts  to 
extricate  itself,  was  obliged  to  retrace  its  steps  to  the  point  from  whence 
it  startecf.  The  next  day  they  procured  some  Guatos  Indians  to  act  as 
guides  ;  with  the  aid  of  these  men  they  reached,  on  the  1st  of  May,  the 
entrance  to  Lake  Gaiva.  The  Guatos  were  very  numerous;  every 
moment  new  canoes  kept  coming  from  out  of  some  of  the  innumerable 
channels  that  intersected  this  strange  district.  They  were,  however,  of 
exceedingly  mild,  peaceable  habits,  as  childish  in  their  curiosity,  and  as 
simple  in  their  manners,  as  were  the  Caraibs  when  first  encountered  by 
European  travellers.  The  lake  was  bordered  by  magnificent  forests, 
beyond  which  the  country  gradually  rose  up  in  wooded  hills  and  mountain 
ranges. 

Passing  by  a  channel,  which  M.  de  Castemau  unluckily  bethought 
himself  of  christening  after  Pedro  Segundo,  and  which  act  drew  upon 
him  the  envious  criticisms  of  the  stay-at-home  geographers  of  Rio 
Janeiro,  they  gained  the  entrance  of  Lake  Uberava,  which  stretched  out 
before  them  like  a  Mediterranean  sea,  its  waters  extending  beyond  the 
reach  of  vision.  Myriads  of  white  egrets  covered  the  branches  of  a 
splendid  forest  of  magnolias.  The  waters  abounded  with  pirangas.  On 
the  4th  of  May  they  re-entered  the  river  Paraguay,  still  flowing  amidst 
inundated  forests.  At  night-time  the  branches  of  some  of  the  trees  were 
found  to  be  luminous,  without  their  being  able  to  determine  the  imme- 
diate cause  of  the  phenomenon.  Howling  monkeys  abounded  in  the 
trees,  and  the  waters  were  infested  with  caymans,  that  roared  like  bulls 
all  the  night.  Little  fish  jumping  out  of  the  waters  when  pursued  by 
the  dorados  also  added  to  the  noise,  and  made  it  impossible  to  get  may 


At  length,  on  the  1 3th  of  May,  they  got  out  of  these  mysterious  marshes, 
and  great  cactuses  began  to  show  themselves  upon  the  dry  and  stony  lands. 
On  the  14th  they  came  to  a  pyramid  of  white  marble,  upon  which  were 
inscriptions  declaring  it  to  mark  the  limits  of  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese 
dominions,  and  on  the  18th  they  arrived  at  Villa  Maria,  a  limitrophsi 
town  of  from  500  to  600  European  inhabitants  and  as  many  Indians. 
They  had  now  reached  more  civilised  regions  ;  one  farm  led  on  to  ant- 
other,  and  the  Indians  had  been  collected  together  into  a  village  where 
they  were  allowed  to  die  of  hunger.  Dr.  Weddell,  the  physician  of  the 
expedition,  gives  a  most  fearful  account  of  the  scene  presented  by  a  whole 


404  Travels  in  the  Central  Parts  of  South  America. 

village  perishing  of  famine.  It  is  positively  distressing  to  read.  On  the 
6th,  they  entered  upon  a  magnificent  virgin  forest  which  they  had  to 
travel  through  till  within  eight  leagues  of  Matto  Grosso.  It  is  this  forest 
that  gives  its  name  to  the  province.  A  road  was  cut  through  it  to  the  vil- 
lage of  Lavrinhas,  but  it  was  much  obstructed  by  fallen  trees.  There 
are  gold- washings  at  this  latter  place,  which  have  been  abandoned  for 
want  of  slaves,  for  gold  still  abounds  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Proceeding  the  next  day  through  the  same  forest,  they  fell  in  with  a 
troop  of  Coatis.  The  forest  was  also  full  of  reptiles,  snakes  crossing  the 
road  every  moment ;  one  of  them  bit  M.  de  Castelnau's  horse,  but  luckily 
in  the  foot,  and  no  bad  consequences  ensued.  At  night-time  the  cries  of 
monkeys  and  parrots  were  quite  deafening.  Tigers  were  also  heard  in 
the  distance.  Enormous  bats  struck  the  travellers  every  now  and  then 
with  their  wings,  while  the  whole  scene  was  partially  lit  up  by  innu- 
merable fire  ana  lantern  flies.  "  It  is  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes,9  M. 
de  Castelnau  remarks,  "  that  man  is  penetrated  with  the  sense  of  his  own 
utter  insignificance  in  the  presence  of  the  wondrous  marvels  of  nature. 
We  were  alone  in  the  midst  of  this  savage  region,  and  the  sounds  that  sur- 
rounded us  became  so  wild  and  strange,  that  the  very  horses  neighed 
with  terror,  while  the  Indian  child  clung  to  me  and  wept  in  very  horror." 
On  the  7th  they  crossed  the  Guapore — a  tributary  to  the  Amazon— on  a 
bridge.  Beyond  this  river  they  again  entered  the  forest,  then  crossed  a 
chain  of  rocky  hills,  and  on  the  10th  arrived  at  Matto  Grosso,  or  Villa 
Bella.  This  was  formerly  a  very  prosperous  and  rich  city,  but  it  is  no 
longer  so;   there   are   no  slaves  to  carry  on   the   gold- washings,  the 

Elace  has  been  devastated  by  epidemics,  and  is  otherwise  remarkably  un- 
ealthy,  and  the  president  has  removed  his  residence  to  Cuyaba.  There 
are,  however,  still  800  to  1000  inhabitants,  a  palace,  cathedral,  several 
churches,  a  barrack  and  hospital;  the  houses  are  of  only  one  story, 
and  the  streets  are  neither  paved  nor  lighted.  Women  are  treated 
here  precisely  as  among  the  Muhammadans.  What  most  annoyed  our 
travellers,  who  were  very  anxious  to  get  out  of  this  most  unwholesome 
city,  and  were  in  momentary  dread  of  the  corrupgao,  a  very  fatal  malady 
peculiar  to  this  region,  and  which  shows  itself  by  an  extraordinary  internal 
relaxation,  was  that  they  were  detained  to  take  part  in  a  religious  cere- 
mony— a  procession  in  honour  of  Saint  Anthony.  They  had  upon  this 
occasion  to  carry  a  canopy  so  heavy  that  they  actually  sank  under  the 
load,  and  that  without  covering  to  their  heads,  in  a  sun  which  was  fatal 
under  such  circumstances  to  Europeans.  The  assurance  that  Saint  An- 
thony would  protect  them  had  little  weight  with  our  enlightened  Galil- 
eans, and  no  wonder  that  they  disclaimed  against  the  whole  affair  as  a 
mummery,  and  compared  the  chants  of  the  negresses  to  the  noises  made 
by  cats  during  their  transports  amoureux.  They  succeeded,  however,  in 
getting  away  on  the  17th,  the  mules  proceeding  by  land,  the  members  of 
the  expedition  by  water,  first  up  the  Guapore,  and  then  by  the  Rio  Allegre 
to  Casalbasco,  the  limitrophal  town  between  Brazil  and  Bolivia,,  and  where 
they  met  with  the  splendid  Victoria  Regia,  but  probably  a  different 
species  from  that  brought  from  British  Guiana  by  Sir  R.  Schomhurgh. 
The  expedition  having  at  length  reached  the  Spanish  frontier,  we  must 
defer  following  it  in  this  very  remarkable  journey  across  the  whole  conti- 
nent of  South  America  until  our  next. 


(    405    ) 
THE  BUTTERFLY  CHASE. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "THE  UNHOLY  WISH. " 

I. 

New  Year's-day,  frosty,  bright,  and  cold  :  just  the  day  for  a  sharp 
walk  on  the  hard  country  roads,  giving  a  healthy  glow  to  the  blood  and 
to  the  face,  very  agreeable  in  midwinter.  A  gentleman,  who  was  wind- 
ing up  a  slight  ascent  in  a  picturesque  part  of  England,  appeared  to  find 
it  so.  He  marched  along  with  a  hearty  step,  aided  by  a  right  good  will 
and  a  stout  stick.  His  face  was  browned,  as  by  foreign  travel,  he  was 
no  longer  young,  and  he  stopped,  almost  incessantly,  to  note  various 
points  in  the  landscape,  with  a  curiosity  which  seemed  to  say  the  locality 
was  strange  to  "him. 

Not  entirely  strange,  but  it  was  thirty  years  since  he  had  witnessed  it 
Presently,  as  he  came  to  two  roads,  he  halted  in  indecision :  and  no 
wonder,  for  one  of  them  had  been  made  recently.  "  Can  you  tell  me, 
sir,"  he  inquired  of  another  passenger,  who  now  overtook  him,  "  which 
of  these  two  roads  will  take  me  to  Ashley  ?" 

"  To  the  house  or  to  the  village  ?" 

"The  house.     Sir  Harry's." 

"  This  one  to  the  left.  I  am  going  there  myself."  He  was  a  little, 
spare  man,  rising  forty,  with  a  red,  good-humoured  face.  An  ample 
blue  cloak  covered  his  person,  nearly  to  the  feet,  which  were  clad  in 
dress-boots,  black  and  shining.  As  they  walked  on  together,  a  carriage 
came  bowling  along  behind  them.  Its  inmates  appeared  to  be  richly 
attired. 

"  That  makes  the  fourth  carriage  which  has  passed  me  this  afternoon,9' 
cried  the  brown  stranger.     "  Are  they  bound  for  Ashley,  do  you  know  P * 

"  To  be  sure,"  returned  the  little  man.  "  To-day  is  a  grand  day  with 
Sir  Harry  Ashley.     The  christening  of  his  son  and  heir." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?"  uttered  the  other.  "  I  thought  Sir 
Harry  and  his  wife  were  childless." 

"  They  were  until — let  me  see — just  three  months  ago.  On  the  1st 
of  last  October,  I  introduced  their  son  into  the  world." 

"  You !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  halting  and  gazing  at  his  companion. 
"  You  cannot  be  Josiah  Gay  ?" 

"I  am  Josiah  Gay's  son.  My  father  has  been  dead  these. twelve 
years.     And  I  stand  in  his  place,  the  village  Esculapius." 

"  Then  you  must  be  young  Jos !" 

"No,  poor  Jos  is  gone  also.  I  am  Ned.  But  you  have  the  advan- 
tage of  me." 

"  I  suppose  so.  A  residence  in  a  hot  climate  plays  old  Harry,  with 
one's  looks.  And,  otherwise,  you  would  not  remember  me,  for  you  were 
an  urchin  in  pinafores  when  I  left.  Your  brother,  might,  were  he  alive. 
He  and  I  and  Harry  Ashley — reckless  Hal ! — have  had  many  a  spree 
together  ;  robbed  more  orchards,  and  done  more  midnight  damage,  than 
I  should  care  to  tell  of,  now.  To  think. of  Hal  Ashley,  the  third  son, 
coming  into  the  title  before  he  was  '  six-and-twenty /  " 


406  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  Philip  Hayne  ?     Mr.  Hayne." 

"  Major  Hayne,  at  your  service/'  returned  the  other,  raising  his  hat, 
and  disclosing  a  head  nearly  bald.  "  Thirty  years  have  I  served  the  East 
India  Company,  and  only  got  my  majority  to  retire  upon.  Well,  well ; 
we  should  be  thankful  for  small  mercies  in  this  life  ;  and  I  have  neither 
chick  nor  child." 

"Wish  I  could  say  the  same,"  cried  Mr.  Gay,  drawing  his  good- 
humoured  face  into  a  comical  expression.  "  I  count  ten,  and  there  may 
be  ten  more  behind  'em,  for  aught  I  know.19 

«  All  of  us  to  our  tastes,"  returned  the  major.  "If  I  had  half  the 
number  I  should  run  away  the  first  wet  morning.  Another  carriage! 
two !  They  are  coming  thick  and  threefold.  By  the  waj,  though,  what 
has  Lady  Ashley  been  about,  to  keep  Sir  Harry  out  of  an  heir  twenty  or 
thirty  years,  and  then  give  him  one  at  last?*9 

"  Twenty  or  thirty  years !  Oh,  I  see  :  you  are  thinking  of  the  late 
Lady  Ashley.  Sir  Harry  lost  his  first  wife  four  or  five  years  ago.  This 
is  his  second." 

"Whew!" 

"  Last  autumn  three  years  he  married  this  one.  She  was  a  girl  of 
twenty,  his  ward,  too  young  for  him.  And  he  may  thank  luck,  more 
than  anything  else,  that  he  has  got  an  heir  at  all." 

"Ah?;' 

"  She  is  of  wilful  temper,  violent  to  a  degree.  Three  several  times 
have  there  been  hopes  of  a  child,  and  the  expectations  have  always  been 
destroyed  from  some  imprudent  conduct  on  my  lady's  part*  Once,  it 
was  through  a  fit  of  raging  passion.  When  she  ought  to  sit  still,  she 
will  go  galloping  out  on  horseback,  for  a  day  at  a  stretch ;  and  when 
told  that  exercise  is  necessary  to  her,  she  wiD  not  take  it,  but  lounge  on 
a  sofa  from  week's  end  to  week's  end.     However,  the  child  is  born.*' 

"  Whose  nose  does  it  put  out  of  joint  ?     Somebody's,  of  course." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  Kyle  Ashley  ?     Sir  Harry's  next  brother." 

"  Not  L  I  never  forget  anybody,  or  thing :  man,  child,  horse,  or 
dog." 

"  Byle  Ashley's  gone :  died  the  same  year  as  poor  Jos.  His  eldest 
son,  Arthur,  was  then  the  heir.  Sir  Harry  brought  him  up  at  Ashley  to 
all  the  expectation." 

"  And  this  young  shaver  cuts  him  out !  Very  annoying  to  him,  no 
doubt,  but  there  are  worse  misfortunes  at  sea.  Had  I  a  score  of  boys,  I 
would  rather  see  them  carve  out  their  own  fortunes,  than  inherit  one, 
ready  made.  What  sort  of  a  genus  is  Arthur  ?  Got  his  wits  about 
him  ?" 

"  Clever  and  keen  as  was  Ryle,  his  father.  And  he  had  the  brains  of 
the  family.  Arthur  Ashley  will  rise  in  the  political  world,  if  he  minds 
what  he  is  about.  There  is  a  talk  of  his  going  into  the  House  for  some 
close  borough.  He  has  been  secretary  to  one  of  the  ministers  these  three 
years." 

"  Better  for  him  than  waiting  for  Ashley.     I  should  Eke  to  see  him." 

"  He  arrived  here  to-day  at  mid-day :  I  saw  him  as  he  passed  through 
the  village.  He  is  come  to  stand  to  the  new  heir.  Lady  Pope  is  out- 
rageous, I  hear,  that  they  have  not  asked  her  to  be  godmother.  But  she 
and  Lady  Ashley  do  not  hit  it  off  together.     She  has  been  but  once  at 


The  Butterfly  Chase.  407 

Ashley  since  Sir  Henry's  second  marriage,  and  left  in  a  rage  at  the  end 
of  the  third  day :  some  breeze  between  her  and  the  new  lady." 

"Who  is  Lady  Pope?" 

"  Sir  Harry's  sister.     Formerly  Bessy  Ashley.     A  widow  now." 

"  What !  bud  she  marry  ?  Why,  she  was  nearly  an  old  maid  when  I 
left." 

"  She  married  twice.  A  Captain  Rivers  the  first  time,  Sir  Ralph  Pope 
the  second.  Here  we  are !  The  house  is  not  changed.  By-the-way, 
though,  Major  Hayne,  how  came  you  here  on  foot  p     Where  from?" 

"  The  railway  terminus.  Stop  ton.  I  hate  your  close  flys  and  your 
omnibuses,  and  I  have  not  learned  idleness  abroad — as  too  many  do.  I 
purpose  going  over  the  Continent  on  foot,  when  I  have  said  How  d'ye  do 
to  what  old  friends  I  can  muster  in  England.  Rather  an  unseasonable 
moment  to  break  in  upon  Sir  Henry :  but  he  will  not  mind  that,  if  he  is 
what  plain  Hal  Ashley  used  to  be." 

Not  a  whit  altered  in  heart  and  hospitality,  only  in  years.  He  grasped 
Major  Hayne's  hands  with  a  delight  he  did  not  attempt  to  hide ;  and 
when  the  latter  put  forth  his  travelling  attire,  as  a  plea  for  not  attending 
the  august  ceremonies  of  the  day,  Sir  Harry  laughed  at  the  idea  of  so 
frivolous  an  excuse.  He  linked  his  friend's  arm  within  his,  and  proudly 
paraded  him  before  his  assembled  guests  in  the  saloon.  "  The  old  friend 
of  my  early  years,"  he  said  to  them ;  "  the  closest  friend  I  ever  could 
boast  of.  Lauretta,"  Sir  Harry  continued,  as  they  halted  before  a  young, 
dark,  handsome  lady,  "this  is  Major  Hayne,  tlfe  companion  of  my 
youth." 

"  A  fine  woman,"  whispered  the  major.     "  Who  is  she  ?" 

The  baronet  smiled.  "  Your  coming  has  turned  my  head,"  he  re- 
plied; "it  was  an  introduction  all  on  one  side.  I  should  have  said  my 
wife,  Lady  Ashley." 

And  now,  the  circuit  of  the  room  passed,  the  major  drew  aside.  Sir 
Harry  went  forward  to  receive  other  guests,  and  the  stranger  made  good 
use  of  his  eyes.  It  was  his  custom.  He  was  regarding  a  gentleman  who 
had  just  come  in,  and  whose  appearance  particularly  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. A  young,  elegant-looking  man,  with  a  large  proportion  of  intellect 
stamped  on  his  well-shaped  head  and  expansive  brow.  But,  as  Major 
Hayne  looked,  he  suddenly,  in  the  fair  complexion,  the  grey  eye,  and  the 
handsome  features,  detected  a  resemblance  to  the  Ashley  family. 

"  Ryle's  son !  It  must  be !  the  disappointed  heir !  I'll  go  and  speak 
to  the  lad." 

He  did  so,  laying  hit  hand  upon  the  young  man's  shoulder.  "  Unless 
I  am  much  mistaken,  you  are  your  father's  son." 

Arthur  Ashley  wheeled  round.  But  there  was  a  quaintness  in  the 
stranger's  smile,  an  affectionate  regard  in  his  eye,  which  won  his  favour. 
Where  could  he  have  sprung  from,  this  brown,  travelled-soiled  man,  with 
his  unsuitable  attire  ? 

"  I  am  the  son  of  Ryle  Ashley,"  Arthur  said. 

"  And  Ryle  Ashley  was  the  partner  in  my  boyish  scrapes.  Not  so 
entirely  as  your  uncle  Hal :  but  we  have  had  many  a  wild  frolic  together. 
I  was  ringleader,  for  Ryle  was  a  year  or  two  my  junior.  So  he,  poor 
fellow,  is  gone,  I  find,  and  I  am  left,  well  and  hearty.  Should  it  ever  be 
your  fate,  Ryle,  to  try  your  luck  wider  a  smoking  sun,  adhere  strictly 


408  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

to  temperance  and  simplicity  of  living.  That  is  the  secret  which  has 
scared  away  ailments  from  me." 

"  I  am  not  Ryle,  sir,  I  am  Arthur  Ashley." 

"  Ay,  yes.  I  knew  it  But  your  face  is  what  your  father's  was,  when 
I  went  away,  and  I  dreamt  I  was  talking  to  Ryle  again." 

« I  think  you  must  be  Captain  Hayne,"  said  Arthur,  who  had  been 
ransacking  his  memory. 

"  With  another  step  in  rank  tacked  on  to  it.  The  captain  has  sub- 
sided into  major.  But,  as  we  are  on  the  subject  of  rank,  how  do  you  bear 
the  loss  of  yours?" 

"  I  have  lost  none." 

"  The  anticipation.     You  were  Sir  Harry's  heir." 

"  Why,  do  you  know,"  returned  Arthur,  becoming  animated  and 
speaking  in  a  confidential  tone,  "  I  am  glad  of  it  now.     With  Ashley  in 

S respective,  there  is  too  much  fear  that  I  should  have  frittered  away  my 
ays ;  have  led  a  life  of  indolence,  as  Sir  Harry  does.  With  the  neces- 
sity of  exertion,  came  the  exertion;  and  the  love  of  it.  I  would  not 
exchange  my  present  life — and  I  can  assure  you  it  is  no  sinecure — for  the 
renewed  heirship  of  Ashley." 

"  You'll  do — Ryle  the  Second,"  cried  Major  Hayne. 
The  christening  was  over,  and  they  sat  around  the  banquet-table.  A 
goodly  group.  Lady  Ashley,  in  her  young  beauty,  at  its  head,  Sir 
Henry,  with  his  fifty  years,  at  its  foot.  Nabob  Call  and  Arthur  Ashley, 
the  child's  godfathers*,  sat  on  Lady  Ashley's  either  hand ;  the  Nabob  a 
surly  old  East  Indian,  peppery  in  his  temper  as  his  favourite  diet,  capsi- 
cums and  cayenne.  It  had  been  a  marvel  to  the  gossips  that  Arthur 
Ashley,  a  younger  branch  of  the  family,  and  a  man  without  county  in- 
fluence, should  have  been  fixed  upon  to  stand  to  the  child,  when  so  many, 
far  above  him  in  position,  would  have  been  proud  to  render  the  service  to 
their  old  friend  Sir  Henry  Ashley.  Lady  Ashley  chose  the  sponsors. 
How  little  did  they  think,  who  sat  around  her  that  day,  and  marked  the 
ready  smiles  on  her  face,  the  courteous  attention  to  her  guests,  the  witty 
repartee  which  ever  and  anon  rose  to  her  lips — how  little  did  they  think, 
that  hatred  and  revenge  towards  one  of  those  sponsors  was  the  ruling 
thought  of  her  life !  She  had  once  loved  Arthur  Ashley,  Sir  Harry's 
presumptive  heir,  with  all  the  passion  of  a  warm  and  ill-regulated  heart. 
When  she  arrived  from  India,  the  self-willed  Lauretta  Carnagie,  they  had 
been  thrown  much  together :  Mr.  Ashley  paid  her  more  attention  than  he 
ought  to  have  done — perhaps  strove  to  gain  her  love,  who  knows  ? — and 
when  he  had  gained  it,  whether  intentionally  or  not,  she  discovered  that 
he  was  playing  with  her,  for  he  was  the  promised  husband  of  another. 
Not  from  love  did  she  then  hasten  to  become  Sir  Harry  Ashley's  wife, 
but  that  Arthur  might  be  bowled  out  of  the  succession.  Three  years, 
and  her  hopes  had  come  to  naught — three  years  of  feverish  impatience: 
but  now  her  revenge  was  gratified,  her  child  was  the  heir  to  Ashley. 
And  when  Sir  Harry  had  thanked  her  for  naming  his  nephew  (whom  he 
had  not  thought  of)  as  one  of  the  heir's  sponsors,  she  broke  into  a  harsh, 
wild  laugh :  but  she  did  not  tell  her  husband  that  it  was  with  the  view 
of  giving  pain  and  mortification  to  Mr.  Ashley  that  she  had  brought 
him  to  be  present  at  the  christening  of  the  child  who  was  his  supplanter. 
With  the  dessert,  the  infant  was  brought  in.  .The  nurse  made  the 


The  Butterfly  Chase.  409 

circuit  of  the  table  with  him.  He  lay  in  her  arms,  asleep,  a  bundle  of 
embroidery, whose  face  might  have  been  composed  of  lace  and  white  rib- 
bon, for  all  else  that  could  be  seen  of  it. 

The  gentlemen  charged  the  glasses  to  the  brim,  and  the  company 
rose.  "  Long  life  to  Carnagie  Call,  the  heir  to  Ashley  !"  Not  one 
drank  it  more  heartily  than  he  who  stood  at  Lady  Ashley's  left  hand, 
the  supplanted  inheritor.  There  lingered,  in  truth,  no  regret  on  his 
mind,  and  that  revengeful  lady  little  knew  Arthur  Ashley. 

"  What  did  they  name  the  child  ?"  whispered  Major  Hayne  to  his 
next-door  neighbour,  a  lively  young  lady  of  thirty,  when  the  shouting 
was  over. 

"  Carnagie  Call." 

«  Carnagie  Call !     Is  that  English  or  Dutch  ?" 

Lady  Maria  laughed.  "  Perhaps  it  is  Hindustanee.  She  was  a  Miss 
Carnagie  of  Madras,  and  Nabob  Call  has  passed  his  life  there.  The. 
child  is  named  after  them." 

Somewhat  later,  the  nurse  was  sitting  before  the  nursery  fire,  undress* 
ing  the  infant,  when  the  door  softly  opened,  and  Lady  Maria  Kerrison 
came  in.  "  How  d'ye  do,  Eliza?"  she  said.  "  I  have  come  to  see  this 
prodigy  of  a  child."  It  may  be  explained  that  the  nurse  had  been 
children's-maid  to  Lady  Mana's  young  half-sisters,  and  the  Countess  of 
Kerrison  (the  earl's  second  wife),  wishing  to  part  with  her,  had  strongly 
recommended  her  to  Lady  Ashley.  The  servant  rose,  and  placed  a 
chair  for  Lady  Maria,  if  she  chose  to  sit,  but  she  stood  looking  at  the 
child. 

A  miserable  little  infant,  as  brown  as  a  berry,  long,  half-starved  arms 
and  legs,  a  scowl  on  its  dark  brow,  and  a  whining  cry,  that  was  rarely 
still.     It  was  whining  piteously  now. 

"  My  goodness,  Eliza !"  uttered  the  young  lady,  in  the  surprise  of  the 
moment,  "  what  a  frightful  child !     It  is  a  perfect  scarecrow." 

"  I  call  it  quite  an  object,"  replied  the  nurse.  "  What  with  its  lanky 
limbs  and  thin  body,  it  looks  all  legs  and  wings." 

"  It  is  like  its  mother,  though,"  said  Lady  Maria,  attentively  regard- 
ing the  face. 

"An  ugly  likeness,  my  lady.  It  will  never  have  her  good  looks. 
But  there's  one  thing  it  is  like  her  in,"  added  the  servant,  dropping  her 
voice,  as  if  fearful  the  walls  should  hear,  "  and  that's  in  temper." 

"  Will  it  live,  do  you  think,  Eliza  ?" 

"  I  should  say  not.  Though  sometimes  these  skeletons  of  children 
fill  out,  and " 

Eliza  ceased  speaking,  for  who  should  sail  into  the  room  but  Lady 
Ashley,  Mrs.  Call,  and  the  Countess  of  Kerrison,  the  child's  god- 
mother. 

"  A  beautiful  infant !"  rapturously  cried  Mrs.  Call,  who  had  a  great 
aversion  to  children,  and  had  never  yet  been  able  to  distinguish  one 
from  another.     "  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  your  charge,  nurse." 

"  I  am,  ma'am.  It  is  a  perfect  love,  as  I  often  tell  my  lady.  And 
got  its  mamma's  eyes." 

"  Nana  says  I  was  like  it  when  I  was  a  child,"  broke  in  Lady  Ashley 
to  Mrs.  Call.     "  Do  you  think  I  was  T 

Aug.— vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvm.  2  b 


410  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

"  Very  much  so,"  promptly  replied  Mrs.  Call,  not,  however,  haying 
the  slightest  recollection  on  the  subject. 

The  whole  of  this  while  the  child  was  moaning  its  piteous  moan,  and 
the  visitors  turned  to  leave  the  room.  The  Countess  of  Kerrison 
lingered  for  a  moment. 

"  Does  it  get  enough  to  eat,  Eliza  ?     I  never  saw  such  a  thin  child  f 

"  It  eats  enough  for  two,  my  lady." 

"  And  the  more  it  eats,  the  thinner  it  becomes,"  interposed  Lady 
Maria.     "  Eliza  says  it's  all  bones  and  feathers." 

"  Bones  and  feathers !"  echoed  Lady  Kerrison.     "  Feathers  J" 

"  Oh,  Lady  Maria  !"  uttered  the  servant,  "  I  never  said  so.  I  said  all 
legs  and  wings." 

"  Legs  and  wings,  that  was  it !"  laughed  Lady  Maria.  "  I  knew  it 
was  something  that  made  me  think  of  birds.  Good  night,  Eliza.  I  wish 
you  more  lack  with  the  young  gentleman." 

Arthur  Ashley  stood  in  the  drawing-room,  his  cup  of  coffee  in  his 
hand,  talking  to  Lady  Maria  Kerrison.  His  uncle  came  up  and  drew 
him  apart. 

"  I  have  had  no  time  to  ask  you  anything,  Arthur.  You  should  have 
managed  to  get  here  before  to-day." 

"  I  could  not.     Lady  Pope——" 

"  I  know,  I  know,  hastily  interrupted  Sir  Harry,  as  if  there  were 
something  in  the  subject  he  wished  to  avoid.  "  Has  anything  been 
decided  about  your  marriage  ?     Anna  will  be  tired  of  waiting." 

Arthur  Ashley  was  about  to  answer,  when  he  perceived  that  Lady 
Ashley  was  standing  close  to  him  on  the  other  side,  listening.  "  I  have 
other  things  to  think  of,"  he  shortly  said ;  and  moved  forward  to  take 
Lady  Maria  Kerrison's  cup. 

But  the  following  morning,  when  they  were  alone,  he  himself  intro- 
duced the  subject  to  his  uncle.  "  I  have  been  thinking — and  Anna— 
that  if  all  goes  well  till  the  end  of  summer,  we  shall  try  our  lock 
together.  What  with  one  source  and  another,  I  make  out  seven  or 
eight  hundred  a  year,  and  it  is  of  no  use  waiting.  Anna  is  willing  to 
risk  it." 

"  Enough  to  begin  upon,"  said  Sir  Harry ;  "  more  than  I  and  my 
wife  had,  before  Ashley  unexpectedly  dropped  in.  But  why  could  you 
not  have  told  me  of  this,  last  night,  when  I  asked  you  about  it." 

"  One  does  not  like  to  speak  of  such  things  in  a  crowded  drawing- 
room,"  was  Arthur  Ashley's  evasive  reply.  How  could  he  tell  his  uncle 
that  a  feeling  of  delicacy  towards  her,  who,  he  had  reason  to  believe, 
had  once  passionately  loved  him,  prevented  his  speaking  of  his  own 
marriage  in  her  presence— -although  she  had  long  been  the  wife  of 
another  ? 

IL 

Sib  Henby  Ashley  sat  one  morning  alone.  It  was  nearly  mid-day, 
but  his  wife,  adhering  to  the  idle  habits  of  her  Eastern  childhood,  rarely 
rose  till  late.  Four  years  had  passed  since  the  christening  of  the  heir— 
and  he  was  the  heir  still.  A  sickly,  unhappy-looking  little  wight,  as 
brown  and  thin  as  ever,  but  possessing  a  most  precocious-mind.  As  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  Lady  Ashley  entered  with    her   two    children, 


The  Butterfly  Chase.  411 

Carnagie,  and  his  fair  and  lovely  little  sister  Blanche.  The  little  ones 
were  dressed  to  go  out. 

"  This  is  quite  a  spring  day,  so  warm  for  March,"  observed  Lady 
Ashley.  "  I  am  going  to  send  the  children  down  to  Linden,  and  let 
them  dine  there." 

"  Oh,"  screamed  out  young  Carnagie,  "  I  like  Linden.  I  can  make  as 
much  noise  as  I  like  there." 

" Make  the  most  of  it  to-day,  then,  my  boy,"  cried  Sir  Henry.  "It 
will  be  about  your  last  chance.  They  must  take  their  farewell  of 
Linden,"  he  added  to  his  wife ;  "  I  have  received  a  letter  from  Arthur 
this  morning." 

"  What  have  Arthur  Ashley's  letters  to  do  with  our  children  ?"  de- 
manded Lady  Ashley,  in  no  pleasant  tone. 

"  A  great  deal,  so  far  as  Linden  goes.  Arthur  and  his  wife  are  coming 
to  live  at  it  themselves." 

Lady  Ashley's  eyes  flashed  fire.  "  Coming  to  live  at  Linden !"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "  And  will  you  permit  it  ?" 

"  I  have  no  authority  in  the  matter,"  returned  Sir  Harry  Ashley. 
"  Linden  belongs  to  Arthur." 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  belongs  to,"  was  the  intemperate  rejoinder  of  his 
lady.  "  Linden  has  always  been  ours,  to  use  for  the  benefit  of  our 
children,  and  it  shall  remain  so  still." 

Sir  Harry  began  to  whistle:  rather  a  favourite  amusement  of  his.  He 
never  would  quarrel  with  his  wife,  and  it  was  his  great  resource  when  she 
spoke  in  terms  of  provocation — as  she  frequently  did. 

"How  dare  Arthur  Ashley  interfere  with  our  arrangements?"  she 
began  again. 

"  My  dear,  do  be  reasonable,"  urged  Sir  Harry :  "  you  know  the  cir- 
cumstances as  well  as  I  do.  Linden  was  a  pretty,  unpretending  little 
place  in  my  father's  time,  as  it  is  now,  jutting  upon  the  edge  of  the  park, 
and  when  its  proprietor  offered  it  for  sale,  my  father  was  too  glad  to  buy 
it.  Of  course  we  all  thought  he  intended  it  to  go  with  the  estate,  but  he 
left  it  to  Lady  Pope,  who  was  not  married  then.  I  believe  Sir  Arthur 
made  her  give  a  sort  of  promise  that  it  should  not  eventually  be  separated 
from  Ashley.  However,  she  has  willed  it  to  Arthur,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

<c  Linden  was  ours,"  fiercely  retorted  Lady  Ashley.  "  Who  says  it 
was  your  sister's  ?" 

"  Why,  Lauretta,  you  knew  it  was  hers !  you  must  have  heard  so  fifty 
times.     I  only  rented  it  from  her." 

"  I  did  not  hear  it,  I  did  not  know  it.  What  have  I  had  to  do  with 
the  details  of  the  estate?" 

"  Well,"  coldly  returned  Sir  Harry,  "  when  Lady  Pope  died,  last  No- 
vember, I  informed  you  of  the  contents  of  her  will,  upon  my  return  from 
the  funeral,  and  that  Linden  was  bequeathed  to  Arthur.  I  am  sure  I 
thought  you  would  be  delighted  to  hear  that  Arthur  and  Mrs.  Ashley 
were  coming  to  Linden.  I  went  there  this  morning,  after  breakfast,  to 
see  about  some  alterations  he  wants  made,  and  it  was  running  in  my 
head,  all  the  way  there  and  back,  what  an  agreeable  companion  Anna 
would  be  for  you.  I  cannot  say,  though,  but  I  am  surprised  at  Arthur's 
fixing  on  Linden  as  a  residence.    In  the  first  place,  the  house  is  small ; 

2  E  2 


412  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

in  the  second,  I  don't  well  see  how  he  will  get  on  with  his  parliamentary 
matters,  so  far  away  from  town." 

Lady  Ashley  did  not  immediately  answer.  This  place,  Linden,  had 
been  used  by  Sir  Henry,  for  many  years,  as  the  dairy-farm,  and  Lady 
Ashley  had  been  in  the  frequent  habit  of  sending  her  two  children,  with 
their  attendants,  to  the  house  for  the  whole  day.  She  imagined  that  the 
change  and  the  exercise  were  of  benefit  to  Carnagie ;  and,  besides,  the 
noise  of  children  at  home  waged  perpetual  war  with  her  nerves. 

"  If  you  do  not  stop  Arthur  Ashley's  coming,  you  have  no  love  fop 
your  own  children,"  she  resumed,  in  a  voice  of  concentrated  passion.  Her 
husband  laughed. 

"  Lauretta,  don't  be  childish.  Arthur  has  announced  his  determina- 
tion to  reside  at  Linden,  and  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  interfere,  even 
by  a  hint.  Our  children  will  do  as  well  without  Linden  as  with  it  And 
they  can  go  there  sometimes :  Arthur's  young  ones  will  be  rare  playmates 
for  them." 

"  My  children  shall  never  mix  with  Arthur  Ashley's,"  she  retorted, 
with  a  pale,  determined  lip. 

"  Never  mix  with  Arthur  Ashley's !"  repeated  Sir  Henry,  in  astonish- 
ment.    "  What  do  you  mean,  Lauretta  ?" 

"  Never.     For  I  hate  him,  and  all  who  belong  to  him." 

Sir  Henry  clapped  on  his  hat,  with  a  sigh,  and  went  out :  he  saw  she 
was  going  into  one  of  her  unmanageable  humours.  Poor  Sir  Harry 
Ashley !  He  had  found  his  sister's  temper,  when  she  ruled  at  Ashley, 
inimical  to  his  comfort,  but  he  had  scarcely  changed  for  the  better,  in  that 
respect,  when  he  made  Lauretta  Carnagie  his  wife. 

Not  until  July  did  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ashley  arrive  at  Linden.  It  took 
some  months  to  put  the  place  in  order  for  them,  and  Arthur  could  not 
leave  town  sooner.  He  wrote  M.P.  to  his  name  now,  and  was  the  right 
hand,  under  the  rose,  of  Lord  Swaytherealm,  the  greatest  man  in  the 
Lower  House.  Sir  Harry  was  there  to  welcome  them,  but  not  Lady 
Ashley.  On  the  following  Sunday  afternoon,  however,  the  two  families 
met  together,  near  the  secluded  cottage  of  Watson  the  gamekeeper. 
Watson's  mother,  an  old  woman  of  five-and -seventy,  was  sunning  herself 
outside,  on  the  bench,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ashley  and  their  eldest  child 
came  up.  Mrs.  Ashley,  a  very  affable  young  woman,  but  just  now  in 
delicate  health,  sat  down  by  her  side,  glad  of  the  rest  Almost  at  the 
same  moment,  Sir  Henry  Ashley,  his  wife,  and  Master  Carnagie  also 
appeared  in  view. 

"  Do  you  remember  me,  Hannah  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ashley. 

Of  course  not,  at  first,  for  old  Hannah  was  getting  dim  of  sight,  and 
had  not  seen  her  for  several  years. 

"  You  remember  me  ?"  interposed  Arthur. 

"  Remember  you,  Master  Arthur !"  reiterated  old  Hannah  ;  a  I  must 
forget  myself  before  I  forget  you." 

"  Well — this  lady  is  my  wife.  And  you  know  I  married  Anna  Rivers 
She  was  a  favourite  of  yours,  in  days  gone  by." 

The  old  woman's  face  lighted  up  with  intelligence,  and,  when  the 


The  Butterfly  Chase.  41$ 

He  was  a  gentle  child  of  three  years,  with  the  fair  curls  and  bright 
Saxon  features  of  the  Ashley  race.  When  he  was  made  to  comprehend 
the  question — for  though  it  was  fifty  years  since  old  Hannah  came  to 
Ashley,  she  had  never  entirely  abandoned  her  Scotch  tongue — he  an- 
swered timidly, 

"Ryle  Ashley." 

"  Then  tak'  care  o'  yourseP,  my  bairn :  tak'  gude  care  o'  him,  Miss 
Anna,"  she  added,  looking  at  Mrs.  Ashley,  "  for  as  sure  as  ye  all  stan* 
round  me,  he'll  be  one  day  the  Chief  o'  Ashley." 

"You  are  mistaking  the  children,"  interrupted  Lady  Ashley,  in  a 
cold,  proud  tone,  as  she  pushed  forward  Carnagie  towards  Hannah. 
"  This  is  Sir  Harry's  son,  the  heir  to  Ashley." 

"  Nae,  nae,  my  leddy,"  she  answered,  laving  her  hand  with  a  fond, 
pitying  gesture  upon  little  Carnagie's  straight  black  hair,  "  he's  no  born 
to  be  the  inheritor  of  Ashley.  Have  ye  nae  heard  the  tradition,  that 
there's  only  three  names  that  can  inherit  Ashley  ?  Arthur,  Henry,  and 
Ryle ;  each  name  in  its  ain  proper  turn,  and  nae  to  supersede  the  other : 
haveye  nae  heard  it  ?  Sir  Harry  kens  well  that  it  has  always  been  so. 
Sir  Harry,  why  did  ye  nae  name  your  son  Ryle  ?" 

Shades  of  anger,  perplexity,  and  deep,  deep  paleness,  passed  over  Lady 
Ashley's  dark  face.  Sir  Harry  had  proposed  that  name  for  his  son ; 
urged  it ;  but  she,  in  her  strong  self-will,  had  insisted  on  calling  the 
child  Carnagie.  "  Ryle  was  the  name  of  my  favourite  brother,  Arthur's 
father,"  he  had  said.  The  more  reason,  had  persisted  Lady  Ashley,  for 
its  not  being  given  to  her  child. 

Sir  Harry  laughed  now,  jokingly,  at  old  Hannah.  "  We  have  come 
to  days  of  enlightenment,  Hannah,"  he  said,  "and  have  done  with 
ghosts  and  traditions.  Sir  Carnagie  Ashley  will  do  for  the  nineteenth 
century." 

Hannah  shook  her  head.  "  Ye  ken  weel,  Sir  Harry,  that  once,  when 
ye  were  a  random  lad  o'  nineteen,  ye  fell  into  an  unlucky  scrape.  No- 
thing but  money  would  get  ye  out  of  it,  and  that  ye  had  nae  got,  and 
ye  did  nae  dare  to  tell  your  father,  Sir  Arthur.  I  could  nae  help  ye,  but 
I  told  ye  to  keep  a  good  heart,  for  that  you  would  surely  come  some  time 
to  be  the  laird  o'  Ashley.  I  told  ye  that  Henry  came  next  to  Arthur  in 
the  succession,  and  Ryle  after  that,  and  then  it  went  back  to  Arthur 
again.  You  laughed  at  me ;  for  ye  had  two  brothers  older  than  you 
were,  fine,  healthy  youths,  and  likely  to  live.  But  in  a  few  years  ye 
found  that  I  had  told  ye  truth.    You  should  ha'  named  your  boy  Ryle. 

"We  will  name  the  next  so,"  was  the  baronet's  good-humoured 
reply. 

"  Ye  may  never  have  another.  But  I  think  ye  are  mocking  at  me, 
Sir  Harry,  as  ye  did  in  your  young  days.  What  did  I  tell  you,  Mr. 
Arthur,  amaist  half  a  score  year  agone  ?"  she  continued,  turning  to  Mr. 
Ashley.  "  It  was  the  day  ye  sheltered  in  here  from  the  thunderstorm, 
ye  mind,  when  ye  were  wearing  the  mourning  fresh  for  your  father.  Ye 
were  saying  ye  would  do  this  to  the  estate,  and  ye  would  do  that,  when 
it  was  yours.     Do  ye  mind,  now,  what  I  said  to  ye  ?" 

"  To  be  sure !"  cried  Arthur,  humouring  the  old  lady.  "  You  told  me 
not  to  count  upon  Ashley,  for  that  to  succeed  Sir  Harry  I  should  have 
been  named  Ryle,  and  that  if  no  Ryle  arose  to  succeed  him,  the  title 
would  lapse." 


414  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

"  I  thought  it  would  lapse/'  she  went  on.  "  When  Mr.  Ryle,  your 
(hither,  died  in  Sir  Harry's  lifetime,  I  thought  nothing  else  but  that  it 
would  lapse  with  Sir  Harry.  But  now  there's  another  Byle  arisen  in  your 
son.     Is  that  why  ye  named  him  so,  Mr.  Arthur?" 

"  No !"  almost  fiercely  interrupted  Arthur.  "  I  named  him  Byle  in 
remembrance  of  my  father.  I  truly  hope  that  Sir  Harry's  own.  children 
may  succeed  him." 

"  My  bairn,"  said  the  old  woman,  taking  little  Ryle's  hand  in  hen, 
who  had  stood  quietly  at  her  knee,  looking  into  her  wrinkled  face  with 
his  clear  blue  eyes,  "  when  ye  are  a  great  man  and  are  called  Sir  Ryle, 
perhaps  ye  may  have  a  little  boy  of  your  ain.  Mind  what  I  say  to  ye, 
name  him  Arthur ',  and  dinna  forget  it.  If  ye  are  alive  still,  Miss  Anna 
—and  it  is  to  be  hoped  ye  will  be  for  many  a  year  after  that — see  that  it 
is  done." 

"I  think  you  are  fanciful,"  said  Mrs.  Ashley  to  the  old  lady,  in  a 
good-natured,  but  disbelieving  tone,  as  if  she  would  not  eombat  too 
rudely  her  curious  prejudices.  "  What  difference  can  a  name  make  in 
the  succession  to  Ashley  ?     The  thing  is  not  possible.". 

"  We  don't  see  why  such  things  should  be  and  such  not,  Miss  Anna: 
these  matters  are  beyond  our  ken.  I  could  tell  ye  stranger  things  that 
run  in  families  than  this,  but  I  could  nae  tell  ye  why  they  ran,  no,  nor 
their  ain  selves,  nor  their  kith  nor  kin :  and  we  may  plan  and  we  may 
talk,  but  they  can  nae  be  turned  aside.  Sir  Harry  kens,  and  Sir  Arthur 
kenned  it  afore  him,  that  none  but  those  three  names,  each  in  its  torn, 
have  ever  been  the  lairds  o'  Ashley — nae  matter  how  improbable,  at  one 
time,  their  succession  may  have  seemed*" 

"  If  you  intend  to  remain  here,  Sir  Harry,  I  shall  take  my  leave,"  in- 
terposed Lady  Ashley,  in  a  suppressed  tempest  of  passion. 

They  all  walked  away,  Sir  Harry  and  his  nephew  making  merry  over 
old  Hannah's  solemn  belief  in  the  infallibility  of  a  name.  To  give  an 
instant's  serious  thought  to  such  "trash" — Sir  Harry's  expression- 
would  have  been  injurious  to  the  dignity  of  all  the  Ashleys.  Yet  what 
the  old  woman  had  stated  was  an  incontrovertible  fact — that  since  the 
creation  of  the  baronetcy,  two  hundred  years  before,  the  holders  of  it  had 
been  Arthur,  Henry,  Ryle,  Arthur,  Henry,  Byle,  in  succession,  down  to 
the  present  date.  The  two  children  walked  together  on  the  grass.  They 
presented  a  complete  contrast :  the  one,  lowering  and  sullen  in  counte- 
nance, dark  as  his  own  nature,  the  other  all  smiles  and  good  humour. 
Lady  Ashley  repeatedly  called  Carnagie,  as  if  she  would  detach  him  from 
little  Ryle,  but  Carnagie  had  inherited  his  mother's  self-will,  and  declined 
to  listen. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  to-morrow  ?"  demanded  Sir 
Harry  of  his  nephew. 

"  I  intend  to  have  a  day's  fishing.  There  used  to  be  capital  trout  in 
the  stream.     Do  you  ever  trouble  them  ?" 

"  Not  I.     I  see  no  fun  in  the  sport.     If " 

A  sharp  cry,  as  of  pain,  interrupted  them,  and  they  looked  round  for 
the  children.  Carnagie  Ashley,  whose  ire  had  been  raised  by  something 
which  he  could  not  himself  explain,  was  beating  Ryle  unmercifully. 

"  Hallo !"  cried  Mr.  Ashley.  "  Carnagie  !  What  beat  a  boy  less  than 
yourself!"  J 


Ths  Butterfly  Chase.  415 

u  Carnagie !"  shouted  Sir  Harry,  "  have  done,  sir !     Carnagie  !'* 

It  was  of  no  use  to  call.  Carnagie,  in  his  fury,  could  not  hear.  The 
little  child  was  screaming,  as  much  from  terror  as  from  pain,  for  the 
blood  was  falling  from  his  nose  on  his  handsome  dress,  but  Carnagie  still 
hit  on.  Mr.  Ashley,  who  was  up  with  them  quicker  than  his  uncle, 
seized  Carnagie  by  the  waist,  and  deposited  him  a  few  yards  off,  where 
he  stamped  and  screamed.  Sir  Harry  stormed  at  him,  but  Lady  Ashley 
stood  as  immovable  as  a  statue,  looking  at  her  son  with  intense  satisfac- 
tion. Politeness  kept  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ashley  from  saying  what  they 
thought  of  Master  Carnagie,  and  the  parties  separated  for  their  different 
homes. 

(<  Don't  you  allow  that  old  creature  a  pension  ?"  inquired  Lady  Ashley 
of  her  husband,  as  they  walked  towards  Ashley.     "  Hannah  Watson." 

"Yes." 

"Then  discontinue  it." 

"  Out  of  my  power,  Lady  Ashley.  My  father  commenced  it  before 
his  death,  and  left  the  charge  to  me.     It  is  a  sacred  trust." 

"  She  ought  to  be  turned  off  the  estate.  How  dared  she  insult  us  to 
our  faces  ?  saying  that  Carnagie  would  never  succeed  you !" 

"  For  pity  s  sake  don't  let  that  trouble  you,*  returned  Sir  Harry, 
laughing  heartily.  "  Old  Hannah  was  always  full  of  her  Scotch  super- 
stitions :  she  would  make  you  believe  in  second  sight,  if  you  would  listen 
to  her.  As  worthy  a  woman  she  is  as  ever  lived,  and  was  of  quite  a 
superior  family,  though  she  lowered  herself  by  marrying  my  father's 
gamekeeper.  I  wish,  Lauretta,"  he  added  more  seriously,  "  you  would 
go  occasionally  amongst  the  people  on  the  estate :  I  think  you  might 
find  it  of  advantage." 

"  The  specimen  I  have  met  to-day  has  not  been  an  inviting  one,"  was 
the  repellent  reply  of  Lady  Ashley. 

in. 

Mr.  Ashley  sat  broiling  himself  upon  the  edge  of  the  trout  stream, 
and,  by  his  side,  quiet  as  a  mouse,  sat  little  Ryle.  Ere  long,  Sir  Henry 
Ashley,  holding  Carnagie  by  the  hand,  came  behind  them.  Ryle,  who 
could  not  forget  yesterday,  shrank  close  to  his  father. 

"What  sport,  Arthur?" 

"  Not  any,  yet.  I  had  letters  to  write  to-day,  and  did  not  come  as 
soon  as  I  thought  of  doing.     There's  a  bite !  hush  !  stop  !" 

There  really  was,  the  first  bite.  It  was  a  poor  little  trout,  not  worth 
the  landing,  but  Mr.  Ashley  secured  him,  almost  with  the  delight  of  a 
schoolboy.  It  was  nearly  two  years  since  he  had  enjoyed  a  day's  fishing, 
and  then  not  for  trout.  Carnagie  and  Ryle  watched  the  process  with 
interest  When  Mr.  Ashley  threw  his  line  into  the  water  again,  Sir 
Harry  prepared  to  leave. 

"  I  want  to  stay,"  said  Master  Carnagie. 

"  You  cannot,  Carnagie.     I  must  take  you  home." 

"Let  him  stay  if  you  like,"  interposed  Arthur.  "  Pll  take  care  of 
him.  Provided,"  he  added,  turning  to  young  Carnagie,  "  he  promises  to 
sit  still,  and  does  not  quarrel." 

"No,  I  believe  I  must  take  him,"  rejoined  Sir  Harry.  "  BSs  mother 
will  find  fault  with  me  if  I  do  not." 


416  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

He  walked  away,  dragging  by  the  hand  the  unwilling  boy,  who  kept 
his  head  turned  round  in  direction  of  the  stream.  When  they  came  to 
the  park,  where  the  trees  would  shut  out  all  view  of  it,  Carnagie's  feet 
became  glued  to  the  ground,  and  he  sobbed  out  that  he  would  go  back  to 
see  the  fish  caught 

"  The  fish  are  ujrly,"  said  Sir  Harry. 

Carnagie's  sobs  increased  to  a  roar ;  and  Sir  Harry,  never  famed  for 
his  resolution,  yielded.  "  Well,  run  back,"  he  said,  "  and  sit  down  close 
to  little  Ryle.  I  will  send  Patience  to  fetch  you  presently.  And  harkye, 
Carnagie — if  you  are  troublesome  to  Mr.  Ashley,  or  ill-natured  to  Ryle, 
I  will  never  let  you  stay  anywhere  again." 

Not  waiting  for  a  second  permission,  the  boy  darted  straight  back 
towards  Mr.  Ashley.  Sir  Harry  watched  him  half  way  across  the  plain, 
then  turned,  entered  the  park,  and  was  lost  to  view.  At  the  same 
moment,  Carnagie  was  attracted  by  the  sight  of  a  butterfly,  and,  post- 
poning the  fish-catching,  child-like,  for  this  new  attraction,  he  changed 
his  course,  and  went  after  it.  It  drew  him  away  to  the  right,  bearing 
rather  towards  the  stream.  A  curve  in  the  banks  soon  took  him  beyond 
view  of  Arthur  Ashley,  even  supposing  the  latter  had  known  he  was 
there,  and  looked  after  him,  which  he  did  not. 

It  was  a  famous  chase.  Now  the  butterfly  would  descend  with  flatter- 
ing wings,  and  Carnagie,  raising  his  hands,  would  deem  it  in  his  clasp. 
Once  he  thought  it  was  his,  and  took  off  his  hat  to  throw  over  it;  bat 
away  it  soared,  high  and  far,  as  if  attracted  by  the  scent  of  the  distant 
bean-field,  which  went  stretching  down  to  the  stream,  and  away  and 
away  flew  the  child  after  it,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  towards  the 
water. 

Mr.  Ashley  sat  on,  at  his  sport,  trying  to  hook  the  fish,  his  head  run- 
ning upon  hooks  of  another  sort,  in  the  political  world.  Ryle  began  to 
show  symptoms  of  weariness.  His  legs  had  never  been  still  so  long 
before.     "  Here's  some  one  coming,"  he  said  to  his  papa. 

It  was  a  young  woman,  Carnagie's  nurse.  "  If  you  please,  sir,"  she 
said,  advancing  close  to  them,  "  where  is  Master  Ashley  ? 

"Master  Ashley!"  returned  Arthur,  who  did  not  know  the  girl 
"  Do  you  mean  Master  Carnagie  Ashley  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Sir  Harry  has  just  come  home,  and  sent  me  here  for  him. 
He  said  he  was  fishing  along  with  you,  sir." 

Arthur  opened  his  eyes  in  wonder.  "  There  is  some  mistake,"  he 
returned.  "  I  think  you  must  have  misunderstood  Sir  Harry.  He  did 
not  leave  the  child  here." 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  I  did  not  misunderstand  what  Sir  Harry  said,"  was 
the  reply  of  Patience.  "  My  lady  was  not  pleased,  and  Sir  Harry  said 
Master  Ashley  had  made  such  a  hullabaloo— as  he  called  it — to  stop  and 
watch  the  fish  caught,  that  he  was  forced  to  let  him.  And  he  ordered 
me  to  bring  him  home  now,  whether  he  cried  or  not." 

"  It  is  very  extraordinary,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ashley.  "  The  child  did 
want  to  remain,  and  I  offered  to  take  care  of  him,  but  Sir  Harry  said 
Lady  Ashley  would  prefer  his  going  home,  and  he  took  him  away. 
Carnagie !"  shouted  Mr.  Ashley,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  as  he  retreated 
from  the  bank  and  looked  around.     "  Carnagie !" 

No  answer.     The  hum  of  the  summer's  afternoon,  of  the  busing 


The  Butterfly  Chase.  417 

insects,  of  the  gleeful  birds,  was  in  tbe  air;  but  there  was  no  other 
answer. 

"  You  had  better  go  back  and  inquire  of  Sir  Harry  where  he  left  him,9 
he  said  to  the  maid.     "  It  was  not  here.'9 

Accordingly  she  did  so,  making  good  speed,  and  Mr.  Ashley  resumed 
his  seat  and  his  rod*  He  was  not  in  the  least  uneasy,  and  the  matter 
faded  from  his  mind,  for  he  believed  the  mistake  to  be  the  servant's: 
that  she  had  misunderstood  her  master.  But,  ere  long,  Lady  Ashley 
was  seen  flying  towards  him. 

"  What  nave  you  done  with  my  child  ?"  she  panted,  as  she  approached ; 
and  her  eyes  glared,  as  he  had  never  seen  them  glare  but  once,  and  that 
was  several  years  before,  in  Ashley  shrubbery,  when  she  was  Miss  Car- 
nagie. 

Mr.  Ashley  rose,  and  raised  his  hat.  He  thought  her  strong  emotion 
was  but  the  effect  of  her  exertion  in  running. 

"  I  have  sent  the  servant  to  the  house  to  inquire  of  Sir  Harry  where 
he  left  him,  Lady  Ashley.     It  was  not  with  me." 

"  It  is  false !  False  as  you  are,  Arthur  Ashley.  Sir  Harry  did  leave 
him  with  you.  Give  me  my  child  I  Where  have  you  hidden  him? 
Have  you  put  him  in  the  water?" 

Before  Mr.  Ashley,  surprised  and  confounded,  could  find  words  for 
reply,  Sir  Harry  neared  them.  He  was  not  so  swift  of  foot  as  his  lady. 
Patience  also  was  advancing  behind.  "  Arthur,"  called  out  Sir  Harry, 
"  where's  Carnagie  ?" 

"I  have  not  seen  him  since  you  took  him  away.  You  remember 
you  refused  to  leave  him  with  me." 

"I  know  I  did.  But  he  cried  to  come  back,  and  I  sent  him.  I 
watched  him  come." 

"  I  assure  you  that  he  did  not  come,"  replied  Mr.  Ashley.  "  I  have 
not  stirred  from  this  spot.     Do  you  say  you  watched  him  come  here  ?" 

"  1  watched  him  half  way  across  the  field.  He  was  making  fast  for 
you,  straight  as  an  arrow.' ' 

Arthur  looked  terribly  confounded.  And  the  more  so  because  Lady 
Ashley  still  glared  steadfastly  upon  him,  with  her  white  teeth  set,  and 
her  accusing  expression. 

The  servant,  Patience,  had  turned  aside,  but  was  again  seen  advancing 
now.  Her  face  was  pale  as  with  affright,  and  she  laboured  for  utter- 
ance. "  Oh,  sir!  oh,  my  lady  !"  was  her  confused  exclamation,  before 
she  had  well  reached  them,  <(  Grimes's  boy  has  just  met  me,  and  he  says 
they  think  there's  a  child  drowned,  for  a  hat  is  floating  on  the  water." 

"  Where  ?     A  hat — where  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Ashley. 

"  Round  there.     Beyond  the  bend." 

He  rushed  away,  the  rest  following  him.  No  one  paid  attention  to 
little  Ryle,  so  the  servant  picked  him  up  in  her  arms,  and  ran  after 
them. 

Lower  down  the  stream,  much  lower,  they  came  upon  a  group  of 
idlers  who  had  collected  there,  labourers  and  others.  One  of  them  held 
on  a  stick  a  child's  straw  hat  dripping  with  water,  which  he  had  just 
fished  ashore.  It  was  Carnagie  Ashley's.  There  was  no  body  to  be 
seen,  they  said,  but  it  might  be  lower  down :  have  gone  down  with  the 
current 


418  The  Butterfly  Chase. 

"Is  anything"  the  matter?"  demanded  the  voice  of  Surgeon  Gay, 
hastening  up  to  the  people,  whom  he  had  discerned  as  he  came  along  the 
by-path  from  the  village. 

Matter  enough,  a  countryman  replied,  Sir  Harry's  heir  was  in  the 
water.     At  least  his  hat  was,  and  the  boy  was  missing. 

"  I  accuse  him  of  the  murder/'  impetuously  broke  forth  Lady  Ashley, 
pointing  her  finger  at  Arthur.  "  The  child  was  left  under  his  charge, 
and  he  pretends  to  know  nothing  of  him.     He  put  him  in  the  water.* 

"  Be  quiet,  be  quiet,  I  entreat  of  you,"  cried  Sir  Harry,  in  agitation. 
"  You  cannot  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"  The  child  stood  between  him  and  the  inheritance,"  persisted  Lady 
Ashley,  who  was  excited  almost  to  madness,  far  beyond  all  control 
"  Only  yesterday  we  caught  him  plotting  with  one  who  assured  him  his 
son  should  succeed  to  Ashley,  and  not  Sir  Harry's.  It  is  he  who  has 
made  away  with  the  child." 

Every  vestige  of  colour — the  bright  colour  of  the  Ashleys — had 
forsaken  Mr.  Ashley's  cheeks,  and  the  words,  as  he  spoke,  literally 
trembled  from  his  agitated  lips.  "  My  friends,"  he  said,  standing  bare- 
headed, "  you  have,  most  of  you,  known  me  from  childhood,  and  can 
judge  whether  I  am  capable  of  committing  so  revolting  a  crime.  Here9 
—he  suddenly  snatched  at  the  hand  of  Ryle,  and  pulled  him  forward— 
"  stands  my  own  child :  had  the  lives  of  the  children  been  in  my  power, 
had  I  been  compelled  to  sacrifice  one  of  them,  I  swear  to  you  that  it 
should  have  been  this  one,  rather  than  the  other.  Sir  Harry,  he  added, 
clasping  in  his  agitation  the  baronet's  arm,  "  I  never  saw  or  heard  your 
child  from  the  moment  you  walked  away  with  him :  had  I  witnessed  him 
in  any  danger,  I  would  have  saved  bis  life  at  the  expense  of  my  own. 
Surely  you  believe  me !" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  groaned  Sir  Harry,  wringing  his  nephew's  hand.  "  I  see 
how  it  is.  I  should  have  watched  him  into  your  charge.  Something 
must  have  attracted  the  boy  aside.  It  is  my  carelessness  which  has 
caused  this." 

"  Oh,  take  heart,  all  of  you !  take  heart,  my  lady !"  said  cheerful 
Surgeon  Gay,  who  was  sure  to  look  on  the  best  side  of  things :  "you 
don't  know  yet  that  anything  is  really  amiss  with  the  boy.  He  may 
have  strolled  away.  The  hat's  nothing,"  he  continued,  in  answer  to  a 
man  who  raised  it  as  if  to  confute  his  argument.  "  Last  autumn,  when 
my  fourth  boy's  cap  was  discovered  in  Prout's  Pond,  and  brought  home, 
wet,  to  his  mother,  she  wouldn't  hear  a  word  but  what  he  was  drowned, 
went  into  a  succession  of  fits,  and  wanted  me  to  put  the  shutters  up. 
Two  hours  afterwards,  the  young  Turk  walked  himself  home,  with  his 
pinafore  full  of  blackberries.  He  won't  forget  the  tanning  I  gave  him, 
though,  if  he  lives  to  be  a  hundred." 

The  miller,  James  Heath,  whose  cottage  was  on  the  opposite  shore, 
some  way  removed  from  it,  was  now  seen  crossing  the  foot-bridge.  His 
face  was  whiter  than  usual,  which  it  had  little  need  to  be,  for  it  was 
always  under  a  layer  of  flour.  He  stepped  into  the  midst  of  die  group, 
taking  off  his  hat  when  he  saw  the  Ashleys. 

"  Whose  child  is  it  ?"  he  inquired.  "  My  wife  witnessed  the  accident 
from  her  bedroom  window." 

Lady  Ashley  grasped  his  arm,  the  white  dust  from  the  man's  clothes 


The  Butterfly  Chase.  419 

soiling  her  rich  gauze  dress.     "  Speak,  speak !"  was  echoed  around,  and 
"  Speak  !"  reiterated  that  passionate  lady,  "  tell  me  who  threw  him  in." 

"  The  little  fellow  was  coming  across  the  plain,  my  wife  said,  running 
hard,  and  throwing  his  hat  up,  as  if  trying  to  catch  something.  She 
thinks  it  might  he  one  of  the  summer  cockchafers,  or  maybe  a  butterfly. 
She  could  not  see  him  distinctly  so  far  off,  but  she  believed  it  was  one  of 
the  young  ones  from  the  parsonage.  He  was  spinning  along  with  all  his 
might,  his  hat  raised  for  another  throw,  and  he  came,  without  knowing  it, 
on  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  tumbled  right  in,  head  over  heels." 

"  Why  did  she  not  save  him— ^why  did  she  not  give  the  alarm  ?"  ut- 
tered Mr.  Ashley. 

"  Because  she  could  not,  sir,  unfortunately,  as  Mr.  Gay  can  tell  you ; 
she  can't  stir  a  peg." 

Mr.  Gay  nodded.  "  She  has  not  recovered  the  use  of  her  limbs  since 
her  attack,"  he  said,  "  and  as  they  place  her  on  a  chair,  so  she  must  re- 
main.    I  am  on  my  way  to  see  her  now." 

"  She  called  and  shouted,"  proceeded  the  miller,  "  till  she  was  a'most 
hoarse,  she  says.  But  I  was  in  my  mill,  and  when  that's  a  going  there's 
no  chance  of  my  hearing  anything  else,  and  the  girl  was  gone  to  the  vil- 
lage. So  the  house-door  was  shut,  and,  more  than  that,  all  the  windows 
were.     Whose  child  was  it  ?" 

"  It  was  the  young  heir." 

The  miller  started,  and  looked  at  his  landlord.  "  Oh,  Sir  Harry !  I 
did  not  know " 

What  he  would  have  said  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Ashley.  "  Who 
pushed  him  in  ?"  she  uttered— "  who  threw  him  into  the  stream?  Was 
it  not  he,  Arthur  Ashley  ?" 

"  He  I "  repeated  the  miller,  his  countenance  expressing  every  degree 
of  astonishment.  "  Lord  love  ye,  my  lady !  Mr.  Arthur  ain't  one  to  hurt 
a  hair  of  a  child's  head.  The  poor  little  innocent  was  a  running  about, 
in  his  sport,  and  fell  in  of  his  own  accord.  There  was  not  a  soul  near 
him — more's  the  pity  but  what  there  had  been." 

The  body  was  not  found  till  late  at  night,  by  torchlight.  Sir  Harry 
and  Mr.  Ashley  were  both  amongst  the  crowd  on  the  bank,  and  it  was 
the  latter  who  received  the  unlucky  child  from  the  men.  A  momentary 
weakness  overcame  him.  When  it  had  passed,  he  turned  to  his  uncle. 
"  He  was  my  little  godson,"  he  whispered.  "  I  would  give  all  I  am 
worth  to  recal  him  to  life.  I  would  have  given  more  than  I  am  worth 
to  save  him." 

But  not  so  said  the  crowd.  "  It  is  a  mercy  for  him  that  he  is  taken 
in  his  infancy,"  they  murmured  to  each  other,  "  before  the  responsibility 
of  right  and  wrong  can  lie  upon  him.  With  his  crafty  disposition  and 
violent  passions,  there's  no  telling  what  evil  he  might  have  done,  had  he 
lived ;  or  what  might  not  have  been  his  end." 

"  And  not  less  a  mercy  for  the  place,"  muttered  Surgeon  Gay  to  him- 
self. "  It  would  have  fared  but  badly,  had  he  lived  to  become  Sir  Car- 
nagie  Ashley." 


(    420    ) 


A  SWEDISH  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD  IN  THE  YEARS 
1851,  1852,  1853  * 

TRANSLATED  BT  MR8.  BUSHBY. 

Madeira,  November,  1851. 

Having  been  selected  from  among  the  members  of  the  Academy  of 
Sciences  to  proceed  in  the  frigate  Eugenie  on  a  voyage  round  the  world, 
I  left  Stockholm  on  the  24th  of  September,  and  I  address  my  first  letter 
to  you  from  this  magnificent  island,  for  I  have  not  forgotten  your  last 
words  at  the  moment  of  our  separation,  "  Write  as  often  as  you  can."  I 
will  endeavour,  as  much  as  possible,  by  my  communications,  to  make  you 
and  my  other  friends  the  companions  of  my  voyages;  but  you  must  not 
expect  those  witty  remarks,  those  philosophical  reflections,  and  those 
poetical  inspirations  which  bestow  so  much  value  on  the  works  of  many 
other  travellers.  I  only  promise  a  simple  and  truthful  description  of  what 
I  may  behold. 

As  I  had  been  long  aware  of  the  proposed  voyage  around  the  world,  I 
had  had  time  to  reflect  upon  it,  and  to  accustom  my  thoughts  to  take  a  new 
direction  ;  but  it  was  only  at  the  moment  of  saying  farewell,  only  when 
the  last  spire  of  the  towers  of  Stockholm  was  fading  on  my  view,  that  I 
fully  felt  now  much  I  was  leaving  behind. 

There  is  little  to  relate  of  our  passage  to  Carlskrona,  where  the  frigate 
Eugenie  and  the  corvette  Lagerbielkelay  about  a  cable's  length  from  each 
other,  ready  to  spread  out  their  wings  for  a  flight  over  the  ocean.  We 
embarked  in  the  frigate  on  the  30th  of  September,  and  our  departure 
was  witnessed  by  a  multitude  of  people  who  had  assembled  to  greet  us  on 
the  commencement  of  our  distant  voyage,  and  to  waft  to  us  the  last  words 
of  adieu  from  our  fatherland.  A  light,  favourable  breeze  assisted  oar 
progress  to  the  roadstead  of  Copenhagen.  We  remained  there  only  one 
day,  and  on  the  next,  as  there  was  a  dead  calm  in  the  Sound,  a  steamer 
towed  us  to  Helsingborg.  Have  you  ever  passed  the  Sound  ?  Have  you 
ever  seen  the  beech-woods  of  Scania  and  Zealand  reflected  in  the  silver 
waters  which  flow  between  Sweden  and  Denmark?  Have  you  seen  the 
white  houses  of  either  land  smiling  at  each  other  amidst  the  luxurious 
meadows  and  fields  that  surround  them  ?  Have  you  seen  these  thousands 
of  ships  under  full  sail  that,  speeding  swiftly  from  sea  to  sea,  bear  the 
productions  of  remote  countries  to  a  much  loved  home,  and  unite  the 
wide-spread  races  of  the  earth,  now  hushed  and  quiet  like  sleeping  sea- 
birds,  lying  tranquilly  with  their  graceful  proportions  pictured  in  the 
clear  waves  beneath  ?     If  you  have  seen  all  this,  you  have  beheld  one  of 

*  In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1851,  the  frigate  Eugenie  was  despatched  by  the 
Swedish  government  on  a  voyage  round  the  world,  accompanied  part  of  the  way 
by  the  corvette  Logerbielke.  The  commander  of  this  expedition  was  Captain 
Virgin,  so  well  known  in  the  Swedish  navy ;  and  among  the  scientific  gentlemen 
engaged  in  it  was  Professor  N.  J.  Andersson,  the  writer  of  this  series  of  letters, 
which  was  first  published  in  the  A/ion  Blod,  a  political  and  literary  journal  of 
Stockholm.  These  letters  were  so  popular  in  the  North  that  they  were  translated 
into  Danish,  and  published  at  Christiania,  in  one  volume,  in  1854. — Trans.  ~ 


A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World.  421 

the  most  interesting  sights  the  world  can  afford.  For  nowhere  else  do 
two  kingdoms  lie  so  close  as  to  gaze  on  each  other,  rivalling  each  other  in 
beauty  and  abundance ;  in  no  other  spot  is  one  so  strongly  led  to  reflect 
on  the  importance  of  commerce  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

On  the  outside  of  Helsingborg  the  wind  freshened,  and  we  made  our 
way  briskly  over  the  Kattegat.  Off  Kulleberg  we  were  favoured  with 
one  of  those  marine  pageants  that  are  the  delight  of  every  crew.  A  figure 
suddenly  made  its  appearance  from  the  ship's  head,  decked  out  in  scarlet 
pantaloons  and  a  large  flaxen  wig  :  he  was  attended  by  his  two  sons,  who 
were  as  gaily  attired,  and  were  also  furnished  with  humps  on  their  backs. 
Amidst  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the  sailors  these  worthies  strode  up  to 
the  captain,  and  proffered  their  good  wish  for,  and  benedictions  upon,  the 
approaching  voyage.  They  then  commanded  every  officer  and  passenger 
on  board,  who  had  not  already  passed  Kullen,  to  pay  his  tribute  to  "  the 
old  man  of  Kidle"  and  the  donations  were  gathered  together  by  one  of 
his  children.  A  great  deal  of  fun  and  roars  of  laughter  closed  the  cere- 
mony. The  good  luck  "  the  old  man  of  Kulle"  had  wished  us,  followed 
us  as  far  as  the  North  Sea.  But  there  the  south-west  wind  began  to  blow 
right  in  our  teeth  ;  and  at  length  it  veered  round  to  the  south,  and  in- 
creased to  one  of  those  furious  tempests  which  are  sometimes  met  with  in 
the  North  Sea. 

Doubtless  on  our  prolonged  voyage  we  shall  encounter  greater  dangers, 
but  I  scarcely  think  that  anything  will  make  so  deep  an  impression  upon 
me  as  this  storm,  which  was  the  first  I  had  ever  witnessed  on  board  ship. 
Never  shall  I  forget  those  mountain- waves,  rising  in  their  might  towards 
the  heavens — the  howling  of  the  wild  wind  amidst  the  cordage  and  the 
rigging — the  fearful  rolling  of  the  ship — the  horror  of  the  crashing 
around — the  drenching  rain  from  the  ocean's  foam — and  the  black  skies 
which  lowered  above  us. 

As  there  seemed  to  be  little  chance  of  our  reaching  England  with  such 
strong  contrary  winds,  the  captain  ordered  the  course  of  our  ship  to  be 
directed  towards  Norway;  and  on  the  8th  of  October  we  entered  a 
harbour  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Farsund  at  Lindesn&s.  Nature  here 
was  truly  Norwegian  ;  that  is  to  say,  wherever  the  eye  turned  it  beheld 
only  naked  gigantic  rocks,  which,  in  the  most  fantastic  forms,  with  pre- 
cipitous sides,  were  piled  ridge  upon  ridge,  above  which,  again,  sharp, 
pointed  pinnacles  towered  aloft.  Here  lay  a  small  island,  in  the  midst  of 
which  arose  a  hill  like  a  sugar-loaf,  but  cleft  asunder  in  the  wildest 
disorder.  There  stretched  a  heavy  mass  of  granite,  with  its  enormous 
perpendicular  walls  frowning,  as  it  were,  defiance  around.  Here  and 
there  might  be  observed  a  clump  of  birch-trees,  which  had  lost  the  green 
of  their  summer  foliage,  and  near  these  trees  a  lonely  house.  Fiords  of 
all  shapes  twined  themselves  amidst  the  stony  fields,  and  at  the  distance 
of  about  half  a  mile  from  the  frigate  lay  the  neat  little  town  of  Farsund. 
It  is  situated  at  the  foot  of  a  high,  steep,  craggy  hill,  with  an  extensive 
view  over  romantic  fiords  and  rocks,  among  which  are  scattered  some 
pretty  white  cottages;  the  whole  presenting  a  very  picturesque  scene. 

While  we  remained  at  Farsund  I  made  some  excursions  into  the  sur- 
rounding country,  but  its  botanical  riches  were  very  limited  indeed,  and  all 
the  plants  were  out  of  blossom,  though  I  found  there  some  that  one  hardly 
expects  to  meet  with  farther  to  the  north  than  Berlin  or  the  German  Alps. 


422  A  Swedish  Voyage  Mound  the  World. 

The  climate  of  Lindesnaes  is  mild;  its  winter  temperature  being  the  samess 
that  of  the  east  of  Germany,  Pekin,  and  the  central  portion  of  the  United 
States.  Bat  its  summer  is  cool  and  foggy.  Consequently  both  northern 
and  southern  plants  are  to  be  found  there  at  once,  a  peculiarity,  however, 
principally  confined  to  this  part  of  Norway. 

We  were  anxious,  before  our  departure,  to  become  better  acquainted 
with  the  inhabitants  of  Farsund.  After  having  given  a  little  dance  on 
board,  which  was  well  attended,  we  were  all  invited  to  a  ball  at  Farsand, 
which  was  a  very  animated  affair.  The  dancers  kept  it  up  merrily,  con- 
versation with  the  ladies  flowed  on  gaily,  healths  were  drunk  in  the  most 
friendly  manner,  and  when  we  left  the  harbour  we  felt  grateful,  not  only 
for  the  shelter  which  we  had  there  found  from  the  storms  of  the  North 
Sea,  but  also  for  the  pleasant  hours  we  had  spent  in  such  hospitable  and 
agreeable  society. 

Our  voyage  to  Portsmouth  occupied  eight  days ;  the  sea  was  less  agi- 
tated, but  still  for  from  calm,  so  that  we  had  by  no  means  a  smooth 
passage.  The  nearer  we  approached  the  Channel  the  greater  number  of 
sails  we  saw;  we  also  met  with  the  usual  fogs.  We  were,  however,  at 
length  favoured  with  a  fresh  breeze,  and  then  we  descried  Calais  to  onr 
left,  with  its  church-spires  and  well-known  lighthouse- tower  ;  while  to 
our  right,  stretching  out  into  the  sea,  arose  the  chalky  cliffs  of  Old 
England.  A  northerly  wind  carried  us  speedily  through  the  Channel; 
and  on  the  25th  of  October  we  cast  anchor  at  Spithead,  the  roadstead  of 
Portsmouth.  Before  us  was  the  pretty  town  with  its  harbour,  and 
hundreds  of  ships ;  behind  us  lay  the  charming  Isle  of  Wight,  with  its 
numerous  villas  and  verdant  groves.  The  weather  while  we  were  at 
Portsmouth  was  unusually  mild  and  delightful,  therefore  we  enjoyed  oar 
stay  there  very  much,  and  more  especially  as  it  formed  such  a  pleasing 
contrast  to  the  stormy  seas  we  had  just  left. 

Portsmouth  may  be  said  to  include  three  towns,  Portsea,  Gosport,  and 
Portsmouth,  the  two  latter  separated  by  the  entrance  to  the  cove,  where 
English  ships  of  war  are  stationed.  Portsmouth  is  strongly  fortified,  and 
beyond  its  powerful  forts,  its  granite  walls  bristling  with  cannon,  the 
town  is  situated.  It  consists  of  a  single  line  of  wide,  tolerably  regular 
streets,  with  good  shops,  and  several  smaller  and  narrower  ones,  which 
are  not  nearly  so  much  frequented  as  the  High-street 

What  principally  occupies  the  attention  of  strangers  at  Portsmouth  is, 
undeniably,  the  number  of  ships  there.  We  obtained  permission  to  visit 
the  dockyard,  accompanied  by  two  officers,  and  had  thus  an  opportunity 
of  making  ourselves  acquainted  with  the  remarkable  and  important  esta- 
blishments which  England  possesses  here.  Two  three-deckers,  to  carry 
120  guns  each,  in  process  of  building,  and  very  nearly  finished.  A  mul- 
titude of  houses  are  there  occupied  by  the  various  workshops,  or  factories 
for  the  manufacture  of  everything  connected  with  ships.  Steam-engines 
and  turning-lathes  to  infinity ;  long  rows  of  anchors  of  the  most  gigantic 
dimensions ;  masts  of  enormous  size,  &c.  &c  To  me,  who  had  never  be- 
fore beheld  such  stores,  this  sight  was  as  grand  as  it  was  novel.  If  one 
adds  to  all  this  the  immense  harbour,  crowded  with  three-deckers,  frigates, 
war-steamers,  and  every  description  of  ships,  the  whole  scene  is  calculated 
in  truth  to  show  what  England  is,  and  what  part  she  plavB  in  the 
world. 


A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World.  423 

In  the  harbour  lies  the  Victory.  I  ascended  the  sides  of  this  ship  with 
a  sort  of  holy  respect;  for  with  that  of  the  Victory  is  another  reverence- 
awakening  name  associated.  Upon  the  upper  deck,  near  the  stern,  is  a 
spot  where,  engraved  on  a  plate,  one  reads,  "  Here  Nelson  fell  ;"  and 
beneath,  under  the  second  deck,  is  a  little  nook  where,  on  another  plate, 
there  stands,  "  Hebe  Nelson  died."  When  one  has  gazed  on  these 
spots,  when  one  looks  back  to  those  times  when  that  man  fought  in  the 
full  vigour  of  his  manhood,  when  one  reflects  on  England's  boundless 
reverence  for  that  illustrious  hero's  name  and  memory,  and  perceiving 
how  cherished  the  Victory  is  only  for  Nelson's  sake,  one  cannot  find 
one's  self  on  board  that  honoured  ship,  which  had  so  often  withstood  the 
shocks  of  war,  without  a  very  peculiar  feeling.  The  Victory  is  now  the 
guards  hip  in  Portsmouth  harbour;  it  lies  half-rigged,  has  a  short  com- 
plement of  men,  and  is  a  receiving-ship  for  naval  cadets,  where  appro- 
priate instruction  is  given  to  them.  It  is  a  little  world  within  itself, 
where  all  is  shining  white,  smoothly  polished,  and  nicely  clean. 

Whilst  many  of  our  party  hastened  to  London  to  visit  the  Crystal 
Palace,  I  made  an  excursion  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  which,  as  is  well 
known,  is  not  only  interesting  from  being  the  resort  of  the  Queen  and 
many  of  the  English  aristocracy  after  the  expiration  of  the  season  in 
London,  but  possesses  still  greater  attractions  in  the  many  geological 
curiosities  in  which  it  abounds.  My  expectations  had  been  much  raised, 
but  the  reality  even  exceeded  them. 

The  island,  about  five  Swedish  miles  in  length,  is  in  form  almost  an 
oblong  square ;  but  notwithstanding  its  limited  space,  it  contains  five 
populous  towns,  an  incredible  number  of  villages,  and  a  profusion  of 
country-seats,  churches,  and  castles.  The  towns,  which  owe  their  pro- 
sperity to  their  being  the  summer  resort  of  English  families  who  do  not 
possess  villas  of  their  own,  and  which,  therefore,  for  the  greatest  part  of 
the  year  are  deprived  of  the  largest  portion  of  their  inhabitants,  are  all 
extremely  pretty,  especially  Ryde,  just  opposite  to  Portsmouth,  the 
head-quarters  of  the  English  Yacht  Club,  so  celebrated  all  over  Europe. 
This  town  is  situated  upon  sloping  ground,  under  the  green  hills  of  the 
island.  Its  white  and  tastefully-built  houses,  standing  on  rising  ranks 
one  above  the  other,  the  streets  adorned  with  gay  shops,  the  church- 
spires  towering  above  the  mass  of  houses,  all  combine,  when  viewed  from 
the  roadstead,  to  look  like  a  white  amphitheatre  amidst  verdant  woods. 
The  principal  town,  Newport,  on  the  contrary,  lies  in  a  valley  about  the 
middle  of  the  island,  and  at  first  sight  offers  nothing  remarkable  to  the 
eye  ;  but  when  seen  from  the  surrounding  heights,  its  aspect  is — what  I 
cannot  better  describe  than  to  call  it — peculiarly  English.  That  is  to 
say,  it  is  bright,  clean,  solid,  respectable,  and  comfortable.  The  other 
towns  are  of  less  repute  ;  but  Yentnor,  which  lies  in  one  of  the  loveliest 
of  spots,  I  will  take  another  occasion  of  mentioning. 

The  island  itself  is  very  different  on  its  different  sides.  To  the  east 
the  scenery  has  nothing  of  sameness,  being  varied  by  hills  and  wooded 
valleys ;  the  south  and  south-west  are  more  flat  and  fertile,  whilst  the 
north  is  the  most  cultivated,  but  is  poor  in  trees  of  fine  foliage.  In 
some  parts  of  the  island  one  sees  those  charming  cottages,  which  lie  with 
indescribable  grace  within  an  enclosure  of  laurels  and  myrtles,  and  green 
English  banks,  richly  enamelled  with  fuschias,  hydrangias,  and  all  those 


424       •  A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World. 

flowers  which  we,  at  home,  must  protect  in  hot-houses  during  the  in- 
clemency of  winter.  Here  one  meets  with  these  brick-and-lime  build- 
ings, erected  in  a  style  which  I  should  call  Norman,  with  their  numerous 
tall  chimneys  and  pointed  bow-windows,  and  the  whole  mass  of  wall 
covered  with  ivy,  mingling  with  the  gay  hues  of  the  flowers  of  several 
creeping-plants.  Ah !  the  world  can  afford  nothing  more  enchanting, 
according  to  my  ideas,  than  such  cottages.  In  them  one  could  fancy 
the  realisation  of  the  idyls  from  the  pastoral  and  poetic  ages  long  since 
fled ;  one  could  dream  of  rural  felicity,  meditate  a  la  Rousseau,  and 
revel  in  the  charms  of  a  mild  climate,  a  lovely  home,  and  all  manner  of 
earthly  happiness. 

To  describe  the  Isle  of  Wight  is  impossible,  for  all  description  would 
fall  short  of  the  reality.  With  the  exception  perhaps  of  Heidelberg,  I 
have  seen  nothing  in  northern  Europe  to  compare  with  it.  But  let  me 
now  take  you  to  Bonchurch,  near  Yentnor.  Here  is  a  stratum  of  lime- 
stone, which  stretches  horizontally  round  the  whole  of  the  southern  coast 
of  the  island ;  it  is  called  "  the  Undercliff,"  and  seems  to  have  been 
undermined  by  the  waves,  which  formerly  dashed  as  high,  and  must  have 
sundered  or  worn  these  crevices,  which  are  now  overgrown  with  luxu- 
riant vegetation — a  vegetation  which  covers  the  small  strip  of  earth  that 
occurs  between  the  cliff  and  the  beach  below.  Close  to  Bonchurch  is  a 
valley,  at  the  bottom  of  which  is  a  little  pond,  where  swans  are  seen  swim- 
ming about ;  around  the  margin  of  this  water  grow  various  flowering 
shrubs,  and  the  mass  of  limestone,  with  its  strange  picturesque  forms, 
hangs,  as  it  were,  balancing  in  the  air  above  it  It  was  at  the  warm 
hour  of  noon  that,  weary  and  exhausted,  I  arrived  at  this  spot,  after  a 
long  ramble  among  the  rocks  in  search  of  natural  curiosities,  and  cast 
myself  on  the  grass  to  cool  myself  in  the  mild  breeze :  never  shall  I 
forget  the  delight  I  experienced  in  permitting  my  eyes  to  roam  over  this 
blending  of  villas,  gardens,  flowers,  and  rocks. 

In  regard  to  the  natural  productions  of  the  island,  there  is  a  great  deal 
to  be  said,  but  I  shall  reserve  all  that  until  I  can  display  to  you  my 
specimens  of  mineral  and  botanical  wealth,  which,  as  on  the  morning 
after  the  Creation,  lay  embedded  among  the  strata  of  stones  and  in  the 
sand ;  and  all  the  geological  treasures  I  took  with  me  from  this  rich  Isle 
of  Wight.  My  visit  to  this  island  was  as  a  foretaste  of  the  enjoyment 
awaiting  me  when  I  shall  wander  under  a  tropical  sun,  shaded  by  palms 
and  banana-trees.  After  the  Swedish  flag  had  received  all  honour  at 
Portsmouth,  we  hoisted  our  anchor  on  the  4th  of  November,  and  by  the 
12th  of  that  month  we  had  reached  Madeira.  The  voyage  was  delight- 
ful, for  everything  concurred  to  make  it  so.  We  had  a  bright,  warm 
sun — gentle  breezes — summer  nights  in  the  month  of  November,  glad- 
dened by  a  moon  which  shed  upon  us  her  clear  rays ;  thus  we  were 
wafted  on  as  if  by  magic,  and  here  we  now  lie,  tranquil  and  happy. 

The  little  window  of  my  cabin  is  open,  and  through  it  I  behold  the 
skies  and  the  soil  of  Madeira.  I  see  many  brilliant  colours  in  strange  but 
harmonious  admixture,  the  air  is  delicious,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  approach- 
ing the  heavenly  climate  of  the  tropics. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  11th  of  November  that  we  first  sighted 
Madeira.  It  appeared  on  the  horizon  in  the  form  of  a  dense  cloud;  we 
soon  discerned  Porto  Santo,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  12th,  when  we 


A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World.  425 

came  on  deck,  the  last-named  island  lay  behind  us,  with  its  peak-topped 
hills,  while  to  the  left  we  had  some  naked,  rocky  islets,  which  nave 
hitherto  been  occupied  only  by  a  few  poor  fishermen,  and  on  which  have 
rightly  been  bestowed  the  name  of  "Ilhas  Desertas."  Beyond  these 
hilly  masses  we  thought  we  perceived  a  sail,  but  on  a  nearer  view  we 
found  it  to  be  one  among  several  separate  rocks  of  some  hundred  feet 
high,  but  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  island.  By  the  side  of  it 
stood  another  solitary  rock,  horizontal  in  shape,  and  with  very  steep  sides. 
In  a  word,  all  around  evinced  the  agency  of  volcanic  power.  To  the 
right  stood  Madeira,  like  the  ridge  of  some  rounded  hill,  from  whence 
projected  into  the  sea  a  long  row  of  rocks  riven  asunder  from  each  other ; 
some  crowned  with  pointed  peaks,  some  forming  heavy  masses,  some 
hollow,  exhibiting  arched  vaults,  and  other  extraordinary  appearances. 
At  length  we  descried,  on  the  sloping  side  of  a  green  hill,  some  white 
specks,  like  oyster-shells,  on  the  shore,  and  we  were  told  that  was  the 
principal  town — Funchal.  As  we  approached  nearer,  the  town  began 
to  assume  the  aspect  of  one,  and  at  length  it  gradually  rose  on  our  view 
like  an  amphitheatre  of  white  dwellings  amidst  a  profusion  of  verdant 
bowers. 

The  anchor  was  dropped,  our  voyage  was  suspended  for  a  while,  and 
we  had  time  and  opportunity  to  take  a  minute  survey  of  Madeira.  From 
this  point  of  view — the  harbour — it  looks  like  a  gigantic  rock,  not  par- 
ticularly graceful  in  shape.  Rising  high  towards  the  clouds,  one  ob- 
serves the  summits  of  a  mountain-ridge  6287  feet  in  elevation,  which 
crosses  the  centre  of  the  island.  From  this  centrical  mass  descend,  straight 
down  to  the  shore,  mighty  arms,  some  in  close  connexion  with  each  other, 
some  with  distinct  pinnacles  by  degrees  diminishing,  from  which  perpen- 
dicular crags  appear  to  have  toppled  over  and  fallen  into  the  roaring 
billows  beneath. 

Various  epithets  expressive  of  admiration  have  been  applied  to  this 
island :  "  The  beautiful  Madeira,"  "  The  Pearl  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean," 
&c. ;  but  I  must  confess  that  Madeira  did  not  make  quite  such  a  favour- 
able impression  on  me.  The  size  of  the  masses  of  rock  is  certainly  im- 
posing ;  the  play  of  colours  among  the;  groups  of  hills,  the  varieties  of 
soil,  the  groves  of  every  shade  of  foliage,  the  country-houses  surrounded 
by  green  plantations — all  this  is  pretty,  but  the  tout  ensemble  has  a 
scotched,  dingy  look,  and  this  appearance  becomes  still  more  striking 
after  one  has  landed  and  examined  the  scenery  more  closely.  All  the 
smiling  freshness  of  Nature  amidst  its  leafy  kingdom  and  its  babbling 
streams  is  wanting ;  and,  according  to  my  ideas,  where  that  is  wanting 
there  can  be  no  surpassing  beauty.  Madeira  may  be  admired  for  its 
climate,  its  pure  atmosphere,  its  genial  warmth — it  may  suit  those  who 
would  wish  to  enjoy  an  eternal  summer,  which  is  sufficiently  tempered  by 
the  hills  never  to  become  insufferably  hot ;  all  this  truly  deserves  com- 
mendation, but  the  word  beauty  is  not  altogether  so  applicable. 

Madeira  is  fifty-five  English  miles  in  length  and  ten  in  breadth.  It 
was  discovered  in  1419  by  Gonzalos  Zargo,  though  its  discovery  is  now 
attributed  to  the  chance  adventures  of  another. 

In  the  time  of  Edward  III.  there  lived  in  England  a  poor  nobleman, 
named  Robert  Macham,  who  was  so  imprudent  as  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
beautiful  and  distinguished  Anna  d'Arfet;  her  kindred  resented  his  pre- 
Aug.— VOL.  CVII.  NO.  CCCCXXVIII.  2  v 


426  A  Swedish  Voyage  Bound  the  World. 

sumption  to  much  that  they  had  him  cast  into  prison.  Macham,  however, 
escaped  from  his  dungeon,  carried  off  the  fair  lady,  and  set  sail  with  her 
for  France.  But  a  tempest  drove  them  into  the  open  sea,  and,  after  sail* 
ing  about  for  twelve  days,  they  cast  anchor  in  a  bay,  which  at  the  present 
day,  along  with  a  little  town  lying  close  to  it,  bears  the  name  of  Mackico. 
The  ship  drifted  out  to  sea,  and  the  crew  were  made  slaves  of.  Anna 
died  a  few  days  after,  and  her  lover  soon  followed  her  to  the  other  world, 
and,  by  his  own  desire,  was  buried  in  the  same  grave  with  her,  under  a 
cedar-tree,  where,  on  arriving,  they  had  erected  a  cross  in  honour  of  their 
happy  escape.  The  remains  of  this  cross  is  still  to  be  seen  above  the  high 
altar  of  the  church  at  Machico. 

This  tale  may  be  accepted  or  rejected  at  pleasure.  It  is  known,  how- 
ever, as  a  fact,  that  the  Portuguese  took  possession  of  the  island,  and  that 
the  magnificent  woods  found  at  that  time  on  it  gave  rise  to  its  name; 
for  Madeira,  in  Portuguese,  signifies  tree.  These  splendid  woods  were 
cleared  away  by  the  Portuguese,  who  imported  negroes  from  the  coast  of 
Guinea  to  work  for  them.  After  that  the  island  was  plundered  by  the 
Moors,  and,  after  they  left  it,  by  the  French  Huguenots  in  1566 ;  and  it 
is  only  latterly  that  the  island  has  been  cultivated  as  it  is  now.  Madeira 
is  under  the  control  of  a  governor  from  Lisbon,  subordinate  to  whom  are 
the  military  commandant  and  the  sub-governor  of  Porto  Santo.  The 
population  is  estimated  at  120,000  souls.  Almost  all  the  commerce  of 
the  island  is  in  the  hands  of  the  English  houses  established  there.  The 
average  amount  of  the  annual  exports  of  the  productions  of  Madeira  is 
not  less  than  500,000/.  sterling.     Wine  is  the  principal  article  of  export 

After  we  had  anchored,  and  the  harbour-master  had  come  on  board  to 
examine  our  papers  and  health  certificates,  the  frigate  was  surrounded 
with  swarms  of  little  boats  peculiar  to  Madeira,  resembling  light  gon- 
dolas ;  these  were  rowed  by  the  dark,  sunburnt,  scantily-clothed  inha- 
bitants, and  were  laden  with  the  fruits  of  the  island,  and  we  bought 
oranges,  walnuts,  &c,  at  prices  that  amazed  us,  they  were  so  low.  On 
landing  we  divided  ourselves  into  two  parties :  those  who  were  making 
researches  in  zoology,  and  my  followers.  We  landed  close  to  Loo  Rock, 
a  quadrilateral  isolated  mass  of  lava,  of  considerable  dimensions,  upon 
which  a  fort  has  been  constructed,  which  overlooks  the  harbour,  the  town, 
and  its  environs,  and  which  would  appear  to  be  impregnable.  At  no 
great  distance  from  this  lies  a  similar  rock  of  lava,  upon  which  likewise 
is  built  a  fort — San  Jao  do  Pico — that  stretches  over  the  strand  like  a 
protecting  or  threatening  angel,  according  to  the  deserts  or  imagination 
of  the  inhabitants. 

Madeira  is  quite  a  southern  town*  The  houses  are  low,  seldom  ex- 
ceeding two  stories  in  height,  with  flat  roofs,  which  project  far  beyond 
the  wails  of  the  house,  to  afford  a  shade  from  the  burning  sun.  The 
windows  are  small ;  indeed  in  the  lower  stories  there  are  often  no  windows 
at  all,  their  place  being  supplied  by  wooden  jalousies,  generally  kept 
closed,  and  which  give  a  gloomy  air  to  the  whole  building.  In  the  upper 
story,  where  there  are  often  balconies,  one  sees  large  spaces  instead  of 
windows,  partly  filled  with  wooden  shutters,  and  only  a  portion  of  each 
fitted  up  with  panes  of  glass.  This  description,  however,  does  not  apply 
to  the  houses  of  the  English  and  other  foreign  families  resident  here,  and 
who  are  looked  upon  as  the  aristocracy  of  Funchal ;  in  their  establish- 
ments all  possible  comforts  and  luxuries  are  to  be  found* 


A  Swedish  Voyage  Bound  the  World.  427 

The  streets  are  for  the  most  part  extremely  steep,  quite  up  and  down 
hill ;  they  are  narrow,  with  a  gutter  running  in  the  midst  of  each,  hut 
they  are  provided  with  a  channel  underground,  by  means  of  which  all 
the  filth  is  carried  off;  they  are  also  extremely  clean — a  great  contrast  to 
the  streets  of  Stockholm.  They  are  paved  with  those  small,  sharp  stones, 
which,  according  to  Gosselman,  characterise  Madeira;  these  are  found 
everywhere  in  the  island,  and  afford  an  excellent  a  hold  for  the  feet"  of 
the  horses  and  mules,  which,  along  with  men's  own  feet,  are  the  only 
modes  of  conveyance  one  finds  here.  Carriages  are  not  used  in  the  island  ; 
one  must  either  ride  or  walk,  or  be  transported  in  palanquins.  The  casks 
of  wine,  which  contain  the  most  precious  wealth  of  the  island,  enjoy  the 
honour  of  being  conveyed  from  the  storehouses  to  the  wharfs,  or  else- 
where, on  a  sort  of  low  sledge,  which  is  drawn  by  small,  weak-looking 
oxen,  with  long  horns. 

When  one  lands  under  the  auspices  of  the  seafaring  people  at  the 
proper  place,  one  enters  immediately  an  alley  of  trees  which  leads  to  a 
pretty  looking  market.  On  the  right  are  a  couple  of  hotels,  arranged 
for  the  reception  of  those  unfortunate  Europeans  who  are  fleeced  of  their 
money  there,  while  seeking  to  recover  their  health ;  and  on  the  left  the 
capacious  government-house,  with  its  lougfagade  stretching  towards  the 
sea.  This  alley  is  the  place  of  recreation  for  the  fashionable  world.  The 
graceful  figures  of  ladies  are  seen  galloping  round  on  ponies,  with  their 
attendants  riding  behind  them,  and  elegant  young  gentlemen  display 
themselves  on  foot.  The  same  scene  is  enacted  in  the  market-place, 
which  is  surrounded  by  neat  gardens  and  tolerable  houses,  and  at  the 
eastern  extremity  of  which  stands  the  cathedral.  Like  all  the  other 
public  buildings  in  Funchal,  this  one  is  without  any  exterior  architectural 
embellishments ;  in  the  interior,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  very  tasteful,  rich 
in  silver  and  gold,  with  pictures,  carved  wood,  and  draperies,  and  looks, 
in  the  dim  light  admitted,  mystical  enough  to  be  suited  to  the  Portu- 
guese Roman  Catholic  enmity  to  enlightenment. 

There  is  a  great  variety  in  the  population  of  the  town.  As  there  are 
here  Europeans  of  all  nations,  one  sees  countenances  of  every  sort  of 
physiognomy ;  but  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  place  are  a  miserable 
race.  The  men,  indeed,  may  pass,  for  they  possess  at  least  eyes  full  of 
fire,  erect  forms,  and  smartness  and  activity  in  all  their  movements, 
though  their  clothing  is  very  poor,  and  their  appearance  denotes  scanti- 
ness of  nourishment.  But  the  women  cannot  be  said  to  belong  to  "  the 
fair  'sex ;"  it  would  be  a  usurped  title  if  they  laid  claim  to  it.  I  was 
told  that  their  undersized  figures,  slouching  carriage,  projecting  cheek- 
bones, and  hollow  eyes,  were  the  consequence  of  the  hard  labour  to  which 
they  are  subjected.  The  dark  stamp  one  finds  upon  them  all,  the  crisp 
woolly  hair  so  often  seen  among  them,  would  lead  one  to  suppose  that 
they  are  descendants  of  the  negroes,  who,  as  before  related,  had  been 
imported  by  the  early  settlers  among  the  Portuguese  to  cultivate  the 
island.  There  is  nothing  characteristic  in  their  dress ;  it  is  in  the  Euro- 
pean style,  and  exhibits  that  mixture  of  finery  and  undeanliness  so  often 
seen  in  our  cities.  It  is  different  from  that  of  the  peasantry  in  the 
country,  of  whom  I  shall  speak  by-and-by. 

During  the  three  days  that  we  stopped  here  I  made  excursions  to  the 
two  opposite  sides  of  the  island.    The  first,  which  was  to  the  south-west, 

2f2 


428  A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World. 

took  me  through  an  uncommonly  well  cultivated  country.  Wheresoever 
a  spot  of  earth  was  to  he  found,  and  sufficient  moisture,  a  vineyard  was 
planted.  These  are  surrounded  by  stone  walls,  the  vines  are  trained  by 
means  of  a  horizontal  trellis-work  of  reeds,  which  keeps  the  earth  beneath 
fresh.  The  grapes  ripen  here  in  the  shade,  and  that  appears  to  be  the 
cause  of  the  superiority  of  the  Madeira  wine.  At  one  end  of  the  vineyard 
there  is  always  a  place  for  the  growth  of  these  reeds,  of  which  the  trellis- 
work  is  composed,  and  in  another  corner  stands  a  small  dwelling,  which 
scarcely  deserves  the  name  of  a  hut  even.  The  walls  are  constructed  of 
blocks  of  stone,  but  the  roof  is  thatched,  and  gathered  up  into  a  point  in 
the  centre ;  there  is  but  one  opening — the  door.  The  furniture  is  of  the 
most  wretched  description,  and  the  entire  habitation  does  not  appear  in 
the  slightest  degree  to  offer  anything  of  the  comfort  of  a  home. 

Probably  the  inhabitants  of  these  desolate  abodes  look  upon  them 
merely  as  sleeping-places,  about  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  very 
particular.  They  are  almost  always  occupied  in  cultivating  their  gardens, 
in  which,  over  and  above  the  vines,  are  generally  to  be  found  some 
banana-trees,  some  guava  bushes,  and  a  palm-tree  occasionally.  The 
ground  is  of  smouldered  lava,  very  red  and  porous ;  besides  the  vine, 
potatoes  and  a  small  quantity  of  maize  grow  in  it. 

The  numerous  aqueducts  which  are  to  be  found  in  Madeira  are  in  the 
highest  degree  advantageous  to  agriculture.  Built  in  the  form  of  small 
stone  conduits,  these  issue  from  the  hills,  from  whose  sides  they  throw 
themselves,  as  it  were,  over  hill  and  dale,  creating  coolness,  freshness,  and 
fertility.  Thus  irrigation  saves  the  productions  of  the  island;  but  no 
amount  of  skill  has  been  able  to  engraft  a  green  sward  upon  the  red  soil, 
and  consequently  the  landscape,  especially  upon  the  higher  ground,  pre- 
sents that  naked,  barren  appearance  which  characterises  Madeira  on  a 
close  view. 

No  other  agricultural  instruments  than  a  spade,  and  occasionally  a  very 
simply  constructed  plough,  is  necessary ;  the  loose  earth  can  be  turned  up 
with  the  fingers,  and  to  this  circumstance — that  the  work  is  by  no 
means  laborious,  and  does  not  require  toil  the  whole  year  round — may  be 
attributed  the  indolence  and  want  of  energy  which  have  evidently 
become  habitual  to  the  country  people.  The  peasantry  generally  have 
their  cottages  on  leases  from  the  proprietors  who  reside  in  Funchal ;  of 
the  profits  the  lessees  retain  one-fourth,  a  similar  proportion  goes  to  the 
owners,  a  fourth  part  to  the  King  of  Portugal,  and  a  fourth  to  the 
worthy  fathers  in  the  monasteries.  Consequently,  as  the  peasantry 
possess  nothing  exclusively  their  own,  but  must  work  principally  for  other 
people,  they  too  often  sink  into  that  state  of  apathy  which  Has  a  cheerless 
aspect,  and  is  so  peculiarly  Portuguese.  Both  the  men  and  the  women 
have  an  extremely  upright  carriage,  which  perhaps  may  be  ascribed  to 
their  habit  of  carrying  all  burdens,  even  the  heaviest,  on  their  heads. 
There  is  nothing  peculiar  in  their  figures,  unless  it  be  their  large  feet, 
which  are  generally  naked  and  dark  brown.  Of  their  clothing,  the 
pantaloons  and  hats  are  the  most  remarkable ;  the  former,  which  are 
called  culcas,  reach  from  the  waist  to  about  the  middle  of  the  thigh, 
leaving  the  rest  of  the  leg  uncovered ;  the  hat  is  a  little  leather  cap, 
which  scarcely  covers  the  crown  of  the  head,  and  which  is  finished  by  a 
peak  about  two  inches  in  height.     This  cap-point  is  dipped  in  holy  water 


A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World.  429 

to  secure  the  wearer  the  powerful  protection  of  the  Virgin  Mary  and  all 
the  saints. 

Round  their  huts  are  generally  to  be  seen  troops  of  children,  all  more 
or  less  dirty  and  noisy,  and  who  often  annoy  those  passing  by  begging 
in  a  greedy  and  pertinacious  manner.  The  peasantry  are  extremely  tem- 
perate and  frugal  in  their  living ;  they  eat  little  else  than  onions  and 
bread.  One  always  meets  them  humming  some  air  or  other,  and  in  the 
evening  they  often  assemble  near  one  of  their  huts,  and  dance  to  the 
music  of  the  guitar.  Their  intellectual  resources  are  at  a  very  low  ebb, 
but  this  deficiency  may  be  ascribed  to  the  indolence  of  their  priests.  The 
Jesuits,  now  banished,  had  the  merit  of  having  established  several  schools, 
but  these  have  since  fallen  into  decay.  There  is  great  emigration  from 
the  island  ;  it  is  said  that  thousands  remove  every  year  to  the  Brazils  or 
the  English  West  India  colonies. 

I  pursued  my  way,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  first  through  the 
more  cultivated  tracts,  full  of  life  and  movement,  though  not  of  corre- 
sponding prosperity.  I  ascended  several  hills,  and  obtained  from  their 
summits  a  delightful  view  over  the  country  which  lay  beneath,  over  the 
city,  and  the  sea.  In  the  evening  our  two  parties  joined  each  other,  and 
we  betook  ourselves  to  a  posada,  a  privileged  royal  country  inn,  where 
the  sign  was  a  painting  of  the  Portuguese  arms.  Here  we  found  two 
miserable  rooms,  filled  with  low  people,  and  the  entertainment  afforded 
was  of  the  poorest  description.  When  we  asked  to  be  accommodated 
with  lodgings  for  the  night,  we  were  told  that  none  were  to  be  had  there, 
but  they  promised  to  obtain  some  excellent  ones  for  us.  Thereupon  they 
conducted  us  to  a  house  situated  in  a  vineyard,  which  consisted  of  one 
single  room,  the  only  furniture  of  which  was  an  old  bedstead  and  a  table ! 
In  this  primitive  abode  we  made  the  best  arrangements  we  could ;  we 
had  some  straw  brought  in,  on  which  the  whole  party  were  glad  to  seek 
repose. 

We  took  our  departure  next  morning ;  my  intention  was  to  set  out  for 
the  mountain  ridges  on  the  right,  where  I  hoped  to  find  richer  vegetation ; 
but  when  my  guide,  a  Portuguese  boy,  saw  that  I  turned  my  steps 
towards  the  hills,  he  refused  to  accompany  me,  for  he  had  entered  into 
no  engagement  to  go  everywhere  with  me.  I  could  not  help  admiring 
his  prudence  afterwards  ;  I  think  I  never  attempted  a  more  toilsome 
journey.  My  way  lay  through  cultivated  fields  until  I  reached  the  hills, 
where  the  narrow  footpath  which  led  to  the  more  elevated  regions  brought 
me  now  to  the  highest  summit,  now  down  again  into  the  deepest  valleys. 
But  if  this  marching  up  and  down  hill  was  very  fatiguing,  I  was  rewarded 
by  the  most  charming  views  which  everywhere  presented  themselves  to 
my  eye.  Here  I  looked  down  on  a  lovely  vale,  through  which  passed  a 
tolerably  wide  road,  thronged  with  men  and  mules  picturesquely  grouped; 
the  small  white  houses,  surrounded  by  rose-bushes  and  other  flowering 
plants,  the  fields  of  sugar-cane,  the  dark  background  of  rocks,  forming 
a  characteristic  and  pleasing  scene,  in  harmony  with  the  clear  skies  and 
the  brilliant  rays  of  the  golden  sun ;  there  I  would  see  from  the  depths 
of  a  rocky  defile,  hemmed  in  between  hills  that  seemed  rising  to  the 
heavens,  the  sides  of  those  eminences  actually  laden  with  a  vegetation  the 
equal  of  which,  in  splendour  and  luxuriance,  I  had  never  beheld.  Little 
huts  were  perched  here  and  there,  giving  signs  of  the  proximity  of  human 
beings  even  amidst  these  stilly  mountain  solitudes,  and  winding  paths  and 


430  A  Swedish  Voyage  Round  the  World. 

aqueducts  evinced  that  they  were  not  altogether  without  industry.  In 
one  of  these  valleys  I  fell  in  with  a  fine  cataract,  whose  waters  rushed 
amidst  and  over  large  masses  of  rock,  forming  an  agreeable  variety  in  the 
scenery.  I  intended  to  have  returned  over  the  hills,  but  I  found  it  was 
impossible,  I  was  so  overcome  with  fatigue,  and  glad  I  was  to  take  the 
shortest  route  to  Funchal,  which  I  reached  in  a  state  of  utter  weariness 
and  exhaustion. 

The  next  morning  I  hired  a  horse  for  the  journey  to  the  east  side  of 
the  island,  where  are  situated  the  highest  mountain  regions.  The  road, 
which  was  steep,  overhung  the  sea  and  the  beach  beneath,  and  passed  the 
beds  of  many  dried-up  mountain  streams.  On  the  declivity  of  the  hill 
were  several  villas,  doubtless  constructed  with  immense  trouble  and  ex- 
pense, adorned  with  terraces,  gardens,  and  vineyards.  Nothing  can  be 
more  charming  than  these  small  houses,  around  which,  in  the  open  air, 
bloom  all  those  flowers  we  are  glad  to  have  in  flower-pots  in  our  hot- 
houses, mingling  with  pomegranates,  myrtles,  and  apricot-trees.  This 
little  paradise  seems,  as  it  were,  to  hover  over  the  yawning  gulf  below, 
whose  hollow  waves  are  heard  faintly  murmuring  as  if  from  afar.  High 
above  all  these  villas,  enthroned  on  a  lofty  rock,  stands  the  beautiful 
convent  of  Nostra  Senhora  del  Monte,  with  its  two  shining  white 
towers,  which  are  perceived  from  a  great  distance  at  sea.  In  order  to 
form  a  correct  idea  of  the  wonderful  mountain  formations  and  picturesque 
views  in  Madeira,  one  assuredly  ought  to  visit  the  east  side  of  the  island. 
The  highest  peak  in  Madeira  is  not  less  than  6238  English  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  and  its  head  is  generally  veiled  by  clouds. 

In  regard  to  the  natural  history  of  Madeira,  it  has  already  been  men- 
tioned that  the  soil  consists  of  lava  mingled  with  lime  of  a  reddish-yellow 
tint.  All  these  volcanic  masses  rest  upon  a  deep  substratum  of  transition 
rock,  whence  it  has  been  inferred  that  the  island  is  not  the  result  of  any 
sudden  eruption  of  a  volcano,  but  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  succession  of 
eruptions  from  a  central  crater.  In  the  very  centre  of  the  hills  there 
exists  a  valley,  or  rather  a  natural  hollow,  which  has  long  been  looked 
upon  as  that  primary  crater. 

Madeira  exhibits  in  its  vegetation  an  extraordinary  combination  of  the 
productions  peculiar  both  to  Europe  and  to  Africa ;  yet  it  is  a  well-known 
fact  that  the  Flora  of  the  island  is  poorer  than  that  of  the  neighbouring 
continents ;  for  at  Madeira  there  have  hitherto  not  been  found  more  than 
five  hundred  indigenous  plants,  a  number  less  than  the  quantity  which 
may  be  observed  in  the  royal  park  at  Stockholm.  Amidst  the  highest  hills 
are  to  be  found  forests  of  walnut-trees,  and  the  Erica  arbor ea,  so  peculiar 
to  Madeira — an  arboreous  vine,  which  grows  to  thirty  feet  in  height,  its 
stem  being  four  feet  in  thickness.  Wheat  and  barley  are  imported  from 
North  America,  not  nearly  enough  being  raised  in  the  island  for  its  own 
consumption.  The  animals  are  almost  the  same  as  those  found  in  Europe* 
Poultry  are  rare  ;  fresh- water  fish  scarcely  ever  found  ;  swallows  remain 
there  the  whole  year  round,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  days  during  the 
lowest  winter  temperature. 

Madeira  exists  by  its  wine.  The  island  is  said  to  produce  annually 
30,000  pipes  of  wine,  the  finer  kinds  of  which  go  to  England,  the  West 
Indies,  and  North  America ;  Russia,  and  the  countries  on  the  Baltic, 
consume  also  a  large  quantity.  There  are  three  kinds  of  Madeira  wine— 
Tinto,  Sercial,  and  Malvasia.    The  grapes  are  imported  from  Sicily  and 


The  Last  Letter. 


431 


the  banks  of  the  Rhine ;  they  grow  at  the  height  of  2700  feet,  and  on 
all  kinds  of  soil.  Nevertheless,  the  culture  of  the  vine  is  not  carried  to 
great  perfection  in  Madeira. 

Madeira  is  a  spot  that,  under  a  good  government,  and  with  active, 
industrious  inhabitants,  might,  with  its  fine  climate,  its  fertile  soil,  and 
its  situation,  become  a  blessing  to  the  world  and  to  itself.  But  Portugal 
is  not  a  country  to  encourage  its  colonies  or  promote  their  success.  There 
reigns  over  the  whole  island  a  dull,  melancholy  torpor,  which,  as  the 
Creator  has  been  so  bountiful  to  it,  is  the  more  remarkable  and  the  more 
to  be  regretted.  One  seems  to  read  this  inscription  on  the  shores  of 
Madeira :  "  What  God  made  good  man  has  spoiled. *  One  has  a  very 
peculiar  feeling  on  taking  leave  of  these  magnificent  islands  ;  one  longs 
for  the  free  ocean,  where  the  grandeur  of  creation  is  not  dragged  down 
by  the  littleness  of  mankind,  and  where  the  dark  power  of  superstition 
is  unknown. 


THE    LAST    LETTER. 

BY  MART  C.  F.  MONCK. 


Above  the  dark  and  ragged  street 

Of  one  poor  sauaHd  town, 
With  biting  winds  and  driving  sleet 

The  Christmas-eve  came  down. 
Through  many  a  window  glowed  the  light 

From  hearths  which  brightly  burned; 
And  many  a  welcome  hailed,  that  night, 

Some  wanderer  returned. 

But  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold, 

With  eager  footsteps  sped 
A  feeble  woman,  bowed  and  old, 

A  toiler  for  her  bread ; 
The  worn-out  rags  her  form  which  cloaked 

Could  give  but  scanty  heat. 
The  freezing  mud-pools  splashed  and  soaked 

Around  her  hurrying  feet 

Day  after  day  her  years  were  past 

In  toil  and  penury, 
Yet  hope's  glad  radiance  was  cast 

On  even  such  as  she. 
She  had  one  brave  and  loving  boy, 

A  soldier,  far  away ; 
Her  all  of  earthly  pnde  and  joy 

In  that  one  darling  lay. 

Her  trembling  hand  a  letter  held 

('Twas  soiled,  and  creased,  and  worn), 
For  two  long  months  had  seen  it  spelled 

Full  oft,  from  night  to  morn ; 
She  murmured  to  herself  the  words 

Which  had  lent  strength  and  life 
To  the  spent  sours  relaxing  chords 

Through  weeks  of  weary  strife. 

Light  shadows  flitted  o'er  the  blinds, 

And  voices  glad  and  sweet 
Were  sounding  on  the  howling  winds 

That  swept  the  lonely  street. 
She  smiled,  and  said,  "  *  You  must  not  grieve, 

But,  mother,  hopeful  be, 
For  on  the  coming  Christmas-eve 

You  shall  have  news  from  me. 


" '  Not  long  shall  you  be  left  alone — 

The  hardest  times  are  o'er — 
This  cruel  war  will  soon  be  done, 

And  I  be  free  once  more. 
I  have  been  safe  where  shot  and  shell 

Dealt  death  on  every  side — 
Where  many  a  brave  man  wounded  fell, 

And  many  a  soldier  died.' " 

She  climbs  the  bleak  and  rugged  hill, 

The  destined  goal  is  near — 
Poor  throbbing  heart !  be  still,  be  still, 

Thou  hast  no  doubt  nor  fear. 
The  eager  question's  asked :  0  joy ! 

A  letter !    Well  she  knew 
The  promise  of  her  own  dear  boy, 

Once  pledged,  was  ever  true. 

With  tears  of  gladness  low  she  knelt 

Upon  the  empty  street ; 
And  then,  her  long  day's  toilunfelt, 

She  homeward  turned  her  feet. 
A  cheerless  home,  yon  would  have  said—* 

Nor  food,  nor  fire,  nor  light — 
The  glimmering  cinders  almost  dead — 

Her  joy  made  all  seem  bright. 

She  fanned  the  embers  to  a  blaze, 

Her  slender  rushlight  sought, 
And  close  beside  its  feeble  rays 

The  precious  letter  brought 
A  curl  of  soft  bright  chesnut  hair 

Falls  shining  on  her  hand. 
Sent  by  some  pious  comrade's  care 

From  that  far  foreign  land. 

For  he  is  dead — ay,  dead  and  cold ! 

Her  lips  sent  forth  no  err — 
No  sound  of  lamentation  told 

Her  inward  agony. 
The  long  night  waned,  the  Christmas  morn 

Broke  coldly  in  the  sky ; 
But  ere  the  festal  day  was  born, 

Life  had  with  hope  passed  by. 


(     432     ) 


THE  CYRENAICA  * 

The  Cyrenaica,  or,  as  it  was  called  under  the  Ptolemys,  Pentapolis — 
the  region  of  the  five  cities — is  a  little  district  of  hills  and  table-lands, 
insulated  amidst  sands  and  water,  yet  itself  so  well  watered  with  frequent 
rains  and  perennial  springs,  that,  although  in  the  present  day,  like  many 
other  beauteous  spots  in  Africa  and  in  Asia,  it  presents  little  more  than, 
the  ruins  of  its  former  opulence  and  splendour,  still  does  it  ever,  as  far  as 
nature  is  concerned,  seem  to  be  a  fit  place  for  an  earthly  Paradise — the 
chosen  site  of  the  Garden  of  the  Hesperides. 

With  some  exceptions,  arising  from  inconveniences  almost  inseparable 
from  travel,  and  from  the  isolated  position  of  the  Arabs,  upholding 
barbarism  and  fanaticism  to  a  degree  rarely  met  with  in  other  places, 
Mr.  Hamilton's  impressions  of  the  exceeding  beauty  of  this  favoured 
spot  appear  to  have  been  the  same  as  those  of  the  few  other  travellers 
who  have  ventured  into  the  same  little-frequented  regions,  and  such  as 
no  doubt  influenced  the  Theraeans,  when  they  quitted  their  native  island 
in  the  iEgean  Sea  to  plant  a  colony  between  Carthage  and  Egypt. 

Benghazi,  now  the  principal  town  in  the  district,  and  the  seat  of 
government,  is  but  a  poor  place,  a  collection  of  one-storied  houses  or 
huts,  with  two  insignificant  whitewashed  marabuts,  or  sheikhs'  tombs,  and 
a  square  castle,  flanked  with  round  towers,  standing  on  the  sea-shore,  but 
unrelieved  by  a  single  minaret,  or  even  by  the  dovecots  which  render 
many  of  the  mud  villages  on  the  Nile  so  picturesque.  The  great  draw- 
back to  comfort  at  Benghazi  is  to  be  found  in  innumerable  flies. 
Swarms  cluster  round  the  inflamed  eyes  of  the  children,  and  no  one 
takes  the  trouble  to  drive  them  away : 

The  flie3  form  a  remarkable  feature,  which  must  not  be  omitted  in  describing 
Benghazi.  None  of  the  plagues  of  Egypt  could  exceed  them,  and  they  often 
during  the  day  render  writing,  or  any  occupation  which  does  not  leave  one  hand 
free  for  the  fan,  utterly  impossible.  They  exist  in  myriads ;  hence,  the  Turks 
call  Benghazi  the  fly  kingdom;  and  the  flies  by  their  pertinacity  and  voracity 
evidently  show  that  this  is  their  own  opinion.  Nothing  but  continual  fanning 
can  keep  them  off;  even  the  mosquito-net  being  unavailing  against  plagues 
which  creep  as  well  as  fly.  When  very  thirsty  they  draw  blood,  even  through 
one's  stockings,  their  bite  resembling  the  sharp  pricking  of  a  leech ;  and  wafers 
left  upon  a  table  entirely  disappear  under  their  attacks  in  a  very  short  time. 
In  the  evening,  if  disturbed  on  the  curtains,  they  rise  in  hundreds,  making  a 
rushing  noise  like  pheasants  when  a  well-stocked  cover  is  beaten.  In  addition 
to  the  plague  of  flies,  the  shrill  trumpet  of  mosquitoes  keeps  one  constantly  on 
the  qui  vive,  but  their  bite  is  not  venomous  like  that  of  the  mosquitoes  of  8yria, 
Egypt,  or  even  Italy ;  and  it  is  rather  the  association  of  ideas  which  renders 
them  harassing,  than  any  actual  injury  they  inflict.  Other  insects,  though  not 
unknown,  are  seldom  seen^or  with  a  little  care  may  be  entirely  avoided.  He 
first  day  I  was  in  Benghazi  my  servant  killed  a  tarantula,  a  hideous,  rough- 
backed,  flat-headed  lizard,  in  the  room  I  was  put  up  in ;  but  I  have  not  seen  a 
second.  Nor  have  I  met  with  any  scorpions,  though  they  are  sometimes  found; 
their  bite  is  hardly  to  be  called  venomous.    So  insensible  is  the  Arab  epidermis 

*  Wanderings  in  North  Africa.    By  James  Hamilton.  London:  John  Murray. 
1856. 


The  Cyrenaica.  433 

to  pain,  that  a  native  hardly  takes  the  trouble  to  apply  even  a  little  butter  or 
honey  to  the  wound. 

From  Benghazi,  Mr.  Hamilton  took  the  coast-line  to  ancient  Cyrene, 
now  called  Grennah.  The  ride  on  the  approach  to  the  old  Greek  city  is 
described  as  worth  a  journey  from  Europe.  After  passing  through  a 
valley  containing  many  splendid  old  junipers,  under  which  goats  flocked 
together  were  enjoying  the  shade,  they  came  to  a  spring  of  living  water, 
called  Menezzah  Wad  Fairyeh.  The  rest  of  the  journey  was  over  a 
range  of  low,  undulating  hills,  offering,  perhaps,  the  most  lovely  sylvan 
scenery  in  the  world  : 

The  country  is  like  a  most  beautifully  arranged  Jardin  Anglais^  covered  with 
pyramidal  clumps  of  evergreens,  variously  disposed,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  the 
most  refined  taste ;  while  bosquets  of  junipers  and  cedare,  relieved  by  the  pale 
olive  and  the  bright  green  of  the  tall  arbutus-tree,  afford  a  most  grateful  shade 
from  the  mid-day  sun.  In  one  of  these  bowers  I  had  my  carpet  spread  for 
luncheon;  some  singing-birds  joined  their  voices  to  the  lively  chirping  of  the 
grasshoppers,  and  around  fluttered  many  a  gaily-painted  butterfly.  The  old 
capital  of  the  Pentapolis  was  before  me,  yet  I  was*  strongly  tempted  to  pitch  my 
tent  for  a  time  in  this  fairy  scene. 

"  Nunc  viridi  membra  sub  arbuto 
Stratus,  nunc  ad  aqua  lene  caput  sacra." 

Whoever  has  traversed  these  fresh  groves  in  the  parching  heat  of  an  African 
July  can  understand  the  enthusiastic  praises  of  the  older  writers,  and  why  the 
Arabs,  coming  from  the  Desert,  caUea  the  country  the  Green  Mountain.  As 
we  approached  Cyrene,  this  exuberant  vegetation  disappeared,  and  in  its  place 
we  passed  through  long  avenues  of  tombs,  hewn  in  the  rock,  or  out  of  it ;  next 
we  came  in  sight  of  the  ruined  towers  of  the  old  city  walls;  and  then,  through 
a  long  line  of  ruins,  we  reached  the  street  of  Battus,  where  a  narrow  gorge 
opens  upon  a  magnificent  view  over  plains  and  hills  to  the  blue  Mediterranean. 
I  rode  on  to  the  cave  whence  gusnes  the  perennial  spring  of  Cyre,  took  a 
draught  of  its  bright,  cool  water,  and  fixed  my  temporary  home  beneath  the 
world -famed  fountain,  amidst  the  countless  ruins  of  temples  and  public 
buildings. 

Having  established  his  camp  in  a  delightful  position,  Mr.  Hamilton 
soon  found  that,  to  obtain  any  true  notion  of  the  details  of  the  ruins,  he 
must  adopt  a  plan  for  visiting,  in  some  kind  of  order,  the  vast  labyrinth 
which  lay  before  him.  There  were  many  miles  of  Necropolis,  extending 
all  round  the  city,  and  in  some  places  the  monuments  and  sarcophagi 
rose  in  terraces  of  ten  and  even  twelve  rows,  one  above  the  other.  The 
ruins  of  the  town  itself,  however,  are  in  such  a  state  of  dilapidation,  that 
it  required  a  great  deal  of  study  to  obtain  a  satisfactory  idea  of  their 
nature ;  there  were  few  remains  of  private  dwellings  aboveground,  and 
extensive  excavations  were  necessary  to  uncover  them.  The  chief  object 
that  attracts  the  traveller's  attention  is  the  fountain  of  Cyre — the  cause 
which  led  to  the  choice  of  this  site  for  building  the  city,  and,  in  the  days 
of  its  prosperity,  the  spot  round  which  most  of  the  public  buildings  were 
grouped.  Though  the  volume  of  water  which  it  pours  out  has  much 
diminished,  even  in  the  memory  of  man,  it  is  still  the  most  abundant 
spring  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats,  and  herds 
of  cattle,  daily  cover  the  ground  where  once  the  sacred  rites  of  Apollo, 
or  the  affairs  of  their  prosperous  commerce,  assembled  the  citizens  of 
Cyrene. 


434  The  Cyrenaica. 

As  the  traveller  stands  in  front  of  the  fountain  looking  to  the  sea,  i 
broad  terrace  or  platform,  700  feet  in  length,  and  supported  by  a  lofty 
and  very  massive  wall,  which  is  still  in  great  part  entire  and  covered 
with  ruins,  lies  at  his  feet ;  while  beyond,  the  long  lines  of  the  Eastern 
Necropolis  wind  round  the  curves  of  the  hills,  and  the  plain  beneath  is 
seen  dotted  with  ruins,  or  intersected  by  old  roads.  To  the  left,  jm* 
mediately  beneath  the  fountain,  are  the  remains  of  a  very  large  building, 
whose  massive  fragments  of  marble  cornices  and  columns  indicate  its 
importance,  and  point  out  the  remains  of  the  Temple  of  Apollo.  Mr. 
Hamilton  believes  that  he  also  found  traces  of  the  monument  of  Battus, 
mentioned  by  Pindar,  as  standing  at  the  end  of  the  market-place.  One 
of  the  best-preserved  monuments  in  Cyrene  is  the  old  Greek  theatre. 
Its  form,  nearly  three-fourths  of  a  circle,  occupied  by  seats,  is  almost 
perfect,  but  the  proscenium  has  disappeared.  The  ruins,  indeed,  of  a  city, 
concerning  whose  vicissitudes  history  is  unusually  silent,  are  very  ex- 
tensive ;  but  Mr.  Hamilton  justly  sums  up  concerning  them : 

To  sum  up  in  a  few  words,  the  traveller  finds  enough  to  convey  the  general 
impression  of  the  past  splendour  of  a  luxurious  city,  but  little  to  satisfy  a  re- 
fined taste,  and  nothing  of  which  it  can  be  said,  if  we  except  the  great  reservoir, 
"  This  is,  indeed,  magnificent !"  In  a  commercial  community,  containing  phi- 
losophers and  physicians,  the  theatre  and  the  turf  may  he  cultivated  as 
relaxations  from  the  money-getting  toils  of  the  desk,  but,  as  far  as  I  remember, 
excepting  aristocratic  Venice,  history  furnishes  no  example  of  such  a  people 
having  attained  more  than  an  initiative  excellence  in  the  fine  arts. 

From  Cyrene,  Mr.  Hamilton  went  to  Caicab,  a  place  about  four  hours 
distant,  to  pay  his  respects  to  Bekir  Bey,  the  governor  of  the  Arabs  in 
the  district,  after  which  he  continued  his  explorations  of  the  mountain 
Necropolis  and  other  remains  around  Cyrene.  Among  the  spots  which 
particularly  struck  him  in  this  wilderness  of  ruins,  was  the  Wady  60 
Ghadir,  or  the  Valley  of  Verdure,  which  introduces  a  characteristic  de- 
scription of  the  whole  scenery  of  the  neighbourhood : 

The  Wady  Bil  Ghadir,  the  Valley  of  Verdure,  was  one  of  the  many  beautiful 
ravines  in  this  country  which  particularly  attracted  my  admiration ;  it  was  one 
of  my  favourite  haunts ;  and  often  did  I  climb  its  sides— occasionally  at  the 
risk  of  my  neck — or  saunter  more  safely  in  the  perpetual  shade  of  its  stream- 
course.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  Grennah,  the  hills  abound  with  beautiful 
scenes,  and  these  I  gradually  discovered  in  my  rides ;  some  of  them  exceeded 
in  richness  of  vegetation,  and  equalled  in  grandeur,  anything  that  is  to  be  found 
in  the  Apennines.  About  a  mile  from  the  town  on  the  south,  one  comes  upon 
extensive  remains  of  a  fortress  situated  on  the  edge  of  one  of  these  ravines,  the 
Wady  Leboaitha,  which  runs  nearly  due  east;  the  valley  is  filled  with  tombs, 
and  frequented  by  countless  nights  of  wood-pigeons.  Following  the  ravine, 
and  turning  to  the  left,  we  enter  the  Wady  Shelaleh,  which  presents  a  scene 
beyond  my  powers  of  description.  The  olive  is  here  contrasted  with  the  fig, 
the  tall  cypress  and  the  dark  juniper  with  the  arbutus  and  myrtle,  and  the 
pleasant  breeze,  which  always  blows  through  the  valley,  is  laden  with  balmy 
perfumes.  In  the  midst  of  this  wonderful  richness  of  nature  appear  the  grey 
rocks,  hollowed  into  large  and  inaccessible  caverns,  or  gently  receding  in  wooded 
slopes,  and  sometimes  rising  perpendicularly,  and  meeting  so  as  to  leave  hot  a 
narrow  passage  between  them. 

Cyrene  appears  altogether  to  be  a  (manning  retreat ;  and  Jdr.  Hamil- 
ton's descriptions  lead  the  reader  at  once  to  understand  and  to  appreciate 
the  selection  of  a  spot  apparently  so  repulsively  situated  and  circumstanced 
as  the  site  for. a  colony  of  Greeks. 


The  Cyrenaica.  435 

I  cannot  (he  says,  upon  reluctantly  striking  his  tent  after  a  six  weeks'  ex- 
ploration of  these  ruins)  quit  my  pleasant  quarters  near  the  fountain  without  a 
few  words  in  praise  of  a  country  wnere  I  have  found  both  recreation  and  health. 
I  have  already  told  what  abundant  materials  of  interest  it  offers  to  the  anti- 
quarian, The  sportsman  will  find  ample  employment  among;  the  red-legged 
partridges,  quails,  and  kata'ah,  a  sort  of  yellow  grouse,  and  a  little  further 
south,  he  will  meet  with  the  gazelle  and  the  houbsra,  or  bustard;  while  the 
lover  of  a  luxurious  climate,  decked  with  all  the  beauties  of  nature,  will  sym- 
pathise in  the  story  of  the  Odyssey,  and  easily  picture  to  himself  the  difficulty 
with  which  the  Ithacan  tore  away  his  companions  from  the  land  of  the 
Lotophagi.  A  more  delightful  residence  for  the  summer  months  cannot  be 
imagined.  The  nights  and  mornings  are  always  cool  In  the  daytime  the  ther- 
mometer ranges  from  75  degrees  to  98  degrees,  the  highest  I  have  seen  it ;  but 
there  blows  all  day  a  cool  breeze  from  the  sea,  which  renders  the  heat  insensible 
in  the  tent,  and  quite  endurable  on  horseback.  The  means  of  comfortable 
existence  are  by  no  means  wanting.  A  sheep  costs  from  4s.  6d.  to  6s.,  and  will 
keep  good  for  four  days;  vegetables  and  fruit  can  be  obtained  from  Derna, 
where  the  grape,  the  banana,  the  pear,  and  the  water-melon,  are  abundant; 
potatoes,  bamias,  tomatoes,  cucumbers,  and  many  other  vegetables,  may  also  be 
had  there.  Vegetables  are  likewise  cultivated  in  this  neighbourhood,  in  the 
little  gardens  of  the  Bedawin ;  and  the  milk  of  their  cows  affords  the  richest 
cream  I  ever  tasted,  though  the  pale  butter  which  is  made  from  it  is  not  very 
good.  A  man  must,  therefore,  be  very  hard  to  please,  as  far  as  the  substantial 
necessaries  of  life  are  concerned,  if  he  be  not  satisfied  with  such  fare  as  this 
country  affords ;  of  course,  wine,  beer,  biscuits,  cheese,  and  such  other  super- 
fluities, must  be  obtained  from  Malta. 

It  ought  not  to  be  omitted,  however,  to  mention,  that  there  is  a 
nuisance  in  Cyrene  of  a  rather  serious  character.  A  small  community  of 
Dervishes,  or  Marabuts,  as  they  are  called  there,  have  established  them- 
selves in  one  of  the  largest  tombs,  not  far  from  the  fountain,  and  their 
fanaticism  is  so  extravagant  that  they  threatened  to  shoot  our  traveller 
if  he  even  passed  by  their  door ! 

From  Cyrene,  Mr.  Hamilton  proceeded  along  the  coast,  by  the  Okbah 
Pass,  to  Derna — a  town  composed  in  reality  of  four  villages,  amid 
gardens,  groves  of  palms,  and  pleasant  vineyards,  and  with  an  air  of 
prosperity  far  surpassing  that  of  Benghazi.  Thence  he  returned  by 
Cyrene  to  Barca,  daughter  and  rival  of  Cyrene,  and  where  were  also 
many  ruins  of  interest,  but  more  broken  up,  as  the  Greek  colony  was 
there  succeeded  by  a  Saracenic  town.  After  a  visit  to  two  other  sites  of 
antiquity,  Tolmeita  and  Tancra,  he  returned  to  Benghazi.  Our  traveller 
started  hence  on  a  more  extended  journey,  by  Angila  and  Jalo,  to  the 
renowned  Siwah,  or  Ammon,  and  thence  by  the  lesser  oasis  to  Cairo. 
The  Arabs  of  the  interior  proved  to  be  far  more  troublesome  than  those 
of  the  west  At  Siwah,  Mr.  Hamilton  pitched  his  tent  on  a  wide  plain 
to  the  south  of  the  town ;  to  the  right  was  an  extensive  palm-grove,  with 
a  few  clumps  in  front  of  the  principal  plantation,  the  nearest  about  a 
hundred  yards  off;  behind  and  to  the  left  rose  some  limestone  rocks,  and 
near  them  a  square  building,  the  castle  in  which  a  garrison  was  formerly 
lodged.  In  front,  the  town  rose  like  a  lofty  fortress,  built  on  a  conical 
rock,  entirely  concealed  by  the  houses,  which,  joining  one  another, 
seemed  to  form  a  single  many-storied  edifice.  To  the  west  of  this 
another  rock,  quarried  with  numerous  caverns,  rose  to  a  considerable 
height ;  on  one  side  of  the  rock,  and  in  the  space  between  it  and  the 
town  proper,  houses,  in  the  ordinary  style  of  mud  architecture, 
built,  the  largest  among  them  being  tenanted  by  Sheikh  YusufL 


436  The  Cyrenaica. 

After  dinner,  I  was  smoking  my  chibouque  and  marking  in  my  note-book  the 
little  I  had  observed  or  heard  daring  the  day,  when  three  shots  were  fired,  the 
halls  passing  with  a  loud  whistling  through  my  tent  just  over  my  head.  At 
first  I  thought  little  of  the  incident,  believing  it  was  a  rough  joke  meant  to 
frighten  me ;  so  I  merely  looked  at  my  watch  and  noted  the  circumstance  in  my 
note-book.  It  was  perfectly  dark,  and  from  the  door  of  my  tent  nothing  was 
visible,  nor  should  I  have  ttought  more  of  it  but  for  the  violent  barking  of  my 
dog,  which  showed  that  it  heard  people,  who  were  invisible  to  me.  I  sent  a 
servant,  therefore,  to  Yusuf  's,  to  acquaint  him  with  what  had  passed,  and  soon 
after  he  was  gone,  the  firing  recommenced.  I  now  began  to  think  the  affair 
more  serious  than  I  had  supposed ;  I  heard  one  gun  hang  fire  close  to  my  tent, 
and,  turning,  saw  its  muzzle  pressed  against  the  wall  of  the  tent  on  the  shadow 
of  my  head;  I  therefore  had  all  the  lights  put  out,  and  went  cautiously  out  to 

fet  a  view  of  my  assailants.  The  night  was  so  black  that  this  was  impossible, 
ut  it  also  favoured  my  evasion ;  after  counting  eleven  volleys,  which  gave  me 
grounds  to  suspect  that  there  was  a  numerous  body  of  men  in  the  date-trees  to 
the  right,  I,  with  my  servant,  went  up  to  the  Sheikh  Yusuf 's  house,  abandoning 
the  tents  to  their  fate.  Moving  cautiously  across  the  plain,  which  separated  us 
from  the  town,  and  climbing  the  steep  street  which  led  to  his  house,  we  could 
still  see  the  fire  of  the  enemy's  guns,  and  the  more  frequent  flashes  in  the  pan, 
to  which  we  probably  owed  our  escape. 

The  servant  whom  I  had  sent  there  had  returned,  saying  that  he  could  not 
make  himself  heard  at  Yusuf 's,  but  when  we  reached  the  door  a  vigorous  appli- 
cation of  the  butt-end  of  my  rifle  roused  him ;  having  admitted  me,  I  told  him 
what  had  happened,  adding,  that  I  should  stay  with  him  till  morning.  He 
immediately  sent  some  of  his  people  to  protect  the  tents,  which  they  found  had 
not  been  entered,  though  there  were  seven  shots  in  the  one  in  which  I  had 
passed  the  day,  and  one  shot  had  passed  immediately  over  the  place  where  I 
was  reclining  when  the  attack  commenced ;  had  I  been  sitting  up  instead  of 
lounging,  it  could  not  have  missed  me.  By  one  of  those  strange  chances  which 
one  feels  to  be  providential,  I  had  just  after  sunset  ordered  a  larger  tent  to  be 
pitched,  in  which  to  dine  and  sleep ;  I  had  been  all  the  morning  in  a  small 
umbrella  one,  at  which  the  shots  were  principally  aimed,  and  to  this  circum- 
stance must  my  escape  be  ascribed. 

The  Siwy,  or  Arabs  of  Siwah,  are  among  the  most  fanatical  and 
intractable  of  their  race.  They  kept  Mr.  Hamilton  in  durance  vile, 
heaping  all  kinds  of  annoyances  and  insults  upon  him,  till,  in  consequence 
of  a  letter  he  had  got  forwarded  to  Cairo,  a  party  of  Bashi-Buzuks 
arrived  to  effect  his  liberation.  This  was  after  six  weeks'  detention,  and 
our  traveller  was  enabled  by  the  arrival  of  this  opportune  escort  not  only 
to  obtain  his  liberty,  but  also  to  make  some  explorations  of  the  interior 
of  Siwah,  of  the  antiquities  of  Agharmy,  the  ruins  of  Beled  er  Nom,  the 
Necropolis  of  the  Ammonians,  and  of  other  remnants  of  olden  lime  in  the 
neighbourhood.  While  detained  at  Siwah,  Mr.  Hamilton  was  visited  by 
a  Moghrabi,  or  Moor,  from  Tangiers,  El  Gibely  by  name,  who  professed 
to  be  versed  in  the  black  arts. 

He  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  this  class  of  adventurers;  pretending  to  have 
a  familiar  spirit,  a  djin  who  waits  upon  him,  and  tells  him  the  secrets  of 
futurity.  He  wrote  charms  to  discover  treasures,  and  to  cure  all  manner  of 
diseases,  and  I  almost  think  had  ended  by  believing  in  them  himself.  The  day 
after  I  was  shut  up  in  Yusuf 's  house  he  took  an  opportunity  of  vaunting  to  me 
highly  the  virtues  of  his  amulets,  particularly  of  one  which  renders  its  possessor 
hall-proof.  He  fancied,  probably,  that  this  was  the  moment  to  effect  a  profitable 
sale,  and  I  asked  questions,  and  listened  to  him  with  a  grave  attention  which 
must  have  given  him  great  hopes.    In  this  he  overrated  my  credulity;  but  I 


The  Cyrenaica.  437 

repaid  his  communicativeness  in  kind,  by  describing  to  him  the  wonders  of  the 
electric  telegraph,  which  I  thought  would  astonish  him;  but  in  this  I  was  in 
turn  disappointed,  as  he  listened  to  my  accounts  of  instantaneous  messages 
sent  over  land  and  sea,  without  expressing  a  doubt,  or  even  asking  how  such 
wonders  were  performed.  In  fact,  he  already  knew  all  about  it — "  It  was  the 
djin." 

I  one  day  sent  for  him  to  perform  the  often-talked-of  miracle,  or  trick  of  the 
ink-spot  in  a  child's  hand.  A  young  negro,  about  nine  years  old,  was  intro- 
duced, and  the  inscription  on  his  forehead  was  written  with  all  due  ceremony, 
the  seal  was  drawn  in  his  hand,  the  coriander  seed  was  burned  under  his  nose, 
until  the  poor  child's  eyes  ran  with  tears,  and  the  fear  he  was  in  covered  his 
forehead  with  big  drops  of  sweat.  After  some  time  he  saw  a  person  in  the  ink- 
spot  ;  he  was  then  told  to  order  him  to  bring  another,  whom  he  was  not  long  in 
fancying  he  saw ;  but  he  then  became  quite  wild,  and  neither  the  muttered 
surah,  nor  the  repeated  orders  of  the  Moghrabi  had  any  further  effect.  The 
child  could  see  nothing  more.  I  regarded  the  experiment  with  the  most  incre- 
dulous caution ;  and,  though  it  certainly  failed,  I  was  not  convinced  that  so- 
called  animal  magnetism  would  not  give  an  explanation  of  the  phenomena,  such 
as  trustworthy  Arabs  have  assured  me  they  had  themselves  seen.  Leo 
Africanus  speaks  of  these  conjurers  with  the  utmost  contempt ;  and,  I  believe, 
all  later  Europeans  who  have  written  on  the  subject  regard  tne  proceeding  as  a 
gross  trick;  but  in  these  countries  it  is  universally  believed,  even  by  men  who 
laugh  at  the  usual  apparatus  of  charms  and  amulets.  One  of  my  friends 
brought  me  a  manuscript,  which  he  had  found  among  the  effects  of  a  Moghrabi 
who  died  here  many  years  ago,  in  which  the  whole  process  is  explained;  it  was 
essentially  the  same  as  that  used  by  El  Gibely,  who,  probably  to  enhance  the 
mystery  of  the  proceeding  in  my  eyes,  added,  besides  the  two  lines  which  are 
written  on  the  forehead,  a  sort  of  star  over  the  nose,  and  inscriptions  on  each 
eyebrow. 

Two  thousand  female  dromedaries,  belonging  to  the  Viceroy,  were 
pasturing  on  what  was  once  Lake  Mareotis,  but  is  now  an  extensive  plain, 
covered  with  dark,  shrubs,  and  dotted  with  low,  yellow  mounds — the  best 
camel-browsing  ground  in  Egyptl 

Here  ended  Mr.  Hamilton's  desert  journey.  Nor  was  it,  he  adds, 
without  feelings  of  pleasure  that  he  round  himself  once  more  within 
the  circuit  of  Eastern  civilisation.  "But,"  he  also  continues,  in  the 
same  strain  as  other  travellers,  "  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  left 
the  desert  without  some  feelings  of  regret."  Desert  travel  has,  indeed, 
strange  to  say,  its  pleasures  as  well  as  its  tribulations — its  charms  as  well 
as  its  horrors — but  probably  it  is  better  to  contemplate  the  former  as  re- 
trospective than  as  prospective.  Annoyances  become  insignificant  in  the 
retrospect,  but  they  are  not  the  less  proportionably  great  when  one  is 
actually  suffering  from  them.  &g£$@ 


(     438     ) 


INFORMATION  RELATIVE  TO  MR.  JOSHUA  TUBBS  AND  CERTAIN 
MEMBERS  OF  HIS  FAMILY. 

CAREFULLY   COMPILED  FROM  AUTHENTIC   SOURCES. 

By  E.  P.  Rowsell. 
IV- 

THE  COUSIN  WHO  DID  NOT  GET  THE  FOBTUNB. 

It  was  Christmas-day,  about  two  o'clock.  We  are  apt  to  associate 
with  Christmas-day,  clearness,  brightness,  cheerfulness;  but  on  this  day 
it  was  gloomy  and  wretched  enough,  cold,  dark,  and  raining  fast.  And 
certainly,  in  the  coffee-room  of  Spriggs's  Hotel,  situated  in  one  of  the 
streets  leading  from  Fleet-street  to  the  river,  the  utter  want  of  comfort 
without  seemed  to  find  its  portrait  within.  The  idea  of  dining  in  a 
London  coffee-room  on  Christmas-day  is  absolutely  shocking.  A  shudder 
runs  through  the  frame  at  the  notion  of  any  one  being  so  very  forlorn  as 
to  be  compelled  to  take  his  mid-day  meal  on  this  high  day  under  such 
depressing  circumstances.  The  repast  of  bacon  and  greens  in  a  country 
hovel  is,  on  that  day,  shared  with  friends  and  relatives;  and  in  what  house 
is  there  not  something  of  the  nature  of  a  plum-pudding  ?  The  very 
workhouse  tables,  as  we  know,  on  Christmas-day  present  sights  which 
must  be  somewhat  dangerous  to  intellects  whose  common  range  of  con- 
templation is  gruel,  and  the  equilibrium  of  which,  therefore,  might  be 
destroyed  by  the  too  sudden  exhibition  of  astounding  novelty*  Hie 
nation  grows  wonderfully  benevolent  about  the  20th  of  December.  There 
is  an  amount  of  pathos  contained  in  the  advertising  columns  of  the  Times 
which  fairly  overwhelms  the  Christian  giver.  And  the  appeals  are  mag- 
nificently responded  to.  There  seems  always  a  desperate  determination 
to  prevent  any  one  going  without  a  good  dinner  on  that  day  for  lack  of 
means.  One  would  suppose  that  the  eating  roast  beef  and  plum-pudding 
were  a  sort  of  charm  against  ill-fortune  during  the  year  about  to  be  born. 
Well,  may  Christmas-day  never  lose  its  brightness  !  When  we  find 
people  beginning  to  be  careless  about  the  roast  beef  and  plum-pudding 
we  shall  fancy  there  are  safer  places  to  live  in  than  our  Old  England. 
We  shall  be  sure  there  is  something  going  wrong,  that  English  hearts 
are  dangerously  changing,  that  English  strength  is  seriously  diminishing, 
that  English  happiness  is  ominously  waning.  Brighter  and  brighter  may 
each  Christmas-day  be  to  us  !  As  a  test  of  our  onward  progress,  we  will 
accept  our  increasing  affection  and  reverence  for  that  high  and  holy 
festival. 

Spriggs's  Hotel  is  not  a  very  superb  establishment,  and  its  coffee-room 
is  not  a  very  lively  or  striking  apartment.  When  its  solitary  occupant 
(a  rather  stout,  fair  man,  of  about  three-and-twenty)  had  looked  about 
him,  stared  at  the  little  tables,  ordinarily  crowded — at  the  benches  and 
chairs,  carefully  hidden  from  view,  most  days,  by  human  frames — surveyed 
the  miserable  little  bit  of  fire,  which  seemed  to  be  almost  eloquent,  in  a 
melancholy  way,  concerning  the  nourishment  which  it  so  much  needed, 


Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs.  439 

bat  which  was  so  barbarously  withheld — taken  a  glance  at  himself  in  the 
old-fashioned,  begrimed  glass,  and  finally,  had  sat  himself  down  before 
one  of  the  windows  to  watch  the  heavily  descending  rain,  he  could  not 
help  saying  (although  in  a  light-hearted,  cheerful  way),  "  Well,  upon  my 
honour,  this,  certainly,  is  about  as  dreary  as  any  man  to  whom  good 
spirits  are  prejudicial  could  possibly  wish." 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  a  waiter  appeared  with  dinner,  and,  as  he  put 
it  on  the  table,  he  scrutinised  curiously  the  customer,  but  with  a  deeply 
commiserating  air  withal,  as  much  as  to  say,  a  Now,  really,  I  do  pity 
you,  poor  wretch,  that  there's  not  a  human  being  will  give  you  your 
dinner  this  day,  but  you  must  come  and  dine  here,  at  Spriggs's." 

The  young  man,  however,  did  not  seem  altogether  to  care  about  pity. 
He  began  his  dinner  with  very  good  appetite,  and  when  the  waiter  had 
disappeared  and  shut  the  door,  he  appeared  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  certain  invisible  companions. 

"Now,  my  dear  friend,"  he  muttered,  "this  is  a  little  different  from 
last  Christmas-day,  is  it  not?  Then,  one  of  a  party  of  sixteen  :  now, 
number  present — one,  namely  myself.  Then,  a  dinner  for  an  alderman  : 
now,  something  which  is  called  soup,  but  which  may  be  green  tea  flavoured 
with  porter,  and  a  steak  to  follow  :  the  which  I  dread  to  look  upon. 
Then,  champagne,  claret,  port,  sherry,  Madeira — now,  pale  ale  and  weak 
sherry,  strengthened  with  toast-and-water.  Never  mind,  my  friend.  No 
use  being  miserable  over  it.  Better  here  than  in  many  places.  Rather 
be  here  than  with  you,  Jones,  at  Spraw's  dinner-party.  Sooner  eat  my 
own  steak,  cousin  Tubbs,  than  your  turkey.  I'll  take  wine  with  you, 
Thorneley  ;  yours  is  about  the  only  physiognomy  I  care  to  see.  Good 
fortune  to  both  of  us,  and  confusion  to  our  enemies  !  Three  cheers,  if 
you  please." 

The  steak  here  made  its  appearance.  The  waiter  removed  the  cover, 
and  the  customer  regarded  with  some  lengthening  of  visage  a  little  red 
mass  which  lay  revealed. 

"  Now  that  by  the  waiter  is  designated  a  steak,"  he  murmured  (the 
functionary  having  retired);  "  its  appearance  is  not  inviting.  My  Christ- 
mas dinner  will  be  small.  Try  a  morsel,  my  friend — it  may  be  better 
than  it  looks." 

And  it  was  better  than  it  looked,  and  the  forlorn  gentleman  made  a 
very  tolerable  meal,  after  all. 

Dinner  was  concluded,  and  the  table  cleared,  and  a  pint  bottle  of  port 
supplied. 

"  Now,  on  my  honour,  Jones,  this  is  not  so  bad,  really,  as  it  would 
seem.  I  don't  want  your  sympathy.  Get  out !  The  port  is  pretty 
good',  and  the  company  (namely,  myself)  is  excellent.  I  want  no  change. 
I  believe  I'm  better  off  than  any  of  you.  Captain  Stately,  here  is  to  you. 
I  wish  you  the  fate  you  deserve,  you  pompous  old  hypocrite  ! 

"  There  are  a  great  many  dinner-parties  on  this  day,  and  many  of 
them  are  very  pleasant,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  I'll  be  bound  to  say  there 
are  as  many  gatherings  which  are  felt  by  all  present  to  be  almost  in- 
tolerable burdens.  Why  should  I  grumble  ?  I  have  no  bores  here,  no 
smiling  faces  and  black  hearts,  no  full  purses  and  empty  heads,  no  pompous 
idiots,  no  chattering  fools.  Henry  Marsden,  you  have  your  own  company ; 


440  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

and  while  you  have  a  light,  cheerful  spirit  within  you,  you  can  be  happy 
sitting  alone,  even  in  this  dingy  coffee-room,  on  Christmas-day." 

Marsden's  eyes  glistened  as  he  thus  soliloquised,  and  he  rose  and  took 
a  turn  round  the  room. 

"The  rain's  left  off,  I  see.  I  may  as  well  breathe  a  little  purer  air 
than  resides  within  these  walls.,, 

He  finished  his  pint  of  port,  paid  his  moderate  bill,  and  departed. 

Wandering  down  the  Strand,  he  suddenly  encountered  a  young  man, 
with  whom  he  shook  hands  warmly. 

"  Where  to,  Thorneley?" 

"  To  dine  with  my  uncle  in  Russell-square." 

"  I'll  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you." 

There  was  a  marked  contrast  in  the  exterior  of  the  two  young  men. 
Thorneley  was  about  the  same  age,  but  much  the  taller.  Marsden  was 
fair,  and  Thorneley  was  very  dark  ;  and  his  thin,  pointed  features  gave 
him  a  consumptive  appearance. 

"  Well,  Thorneley,  how  goes  on  the  new  project  ?" 

"  My  newspaper?  Oh,  admirably.  I  have  made  all  my  arrangements. 
It  will  come  out  next  month.  The  title's  a  fortune:  The  News  of  All 
Nations.     Capital,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It's  very  good,  I've  no  doubt ;  but  I'm  scarcely  competent  to  judge." 

"  I  tell  you,  Marsden,"  said  Thorneley,  with  eagerness,  and  his  black 
eyes  gleaming,  "  my  fortune's  made.  This  paper  will  bring  me  in  thou- 
sands a  year." 

"  On  my  honour,  I  hope  it  may  ;  but  equally  on  my  honour,  I  fear  it 
will  not  pay  its  expenses." 

"  What  a  man  you  are !  How  you  do  love  to  damp  one.  But  you 
can't  damage  what  is  certain.     I  am  sure  I  am  right  now." 

"  Why  sure,  my  friend  ?  There  have  been  sundry  other  little  matters 
before,  you  know,  wherein  you  were  sure." 

"  Everybody  must  have  some  failures,  Marsden,  and  I  have  had  a  few, 
of  course ;  but  the  plan  of  this  newspaper  cannot  fail." 

"  Well,  so  be  it.     I  say  again,  I  heartily  hope  you  may  be  right." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  dine,  Marsden?" 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I've  dined  at  Spriggs's.  A  nice,  cheerful  place  for  a 
Christmas-day  dinner." 

"  At  Spriggs's !  Why,  what  in  the  world  took  you  there  ?  I  thought 
you  would  have  dined  with  your  cousin,  Mr.  Tubbs." 

"  Ah,  I  haven't  seen  you  since  I  and  my  cousin  quarrelled." 

"  What !     Quarrelled  with  your  only  relative — that's  unlucky." 

"  Well,  you  see,  it  cannot  be  very  surprising  that  I  have  not,  since  I 
have  known  him,  regarded  my  cousin  witn  any  great  complacency.  You 
.  know  that  when  I  lived  with  my  aunt  Matilda,  there  was  something  like 
an  understanding  that  she  was  to  leave  me  her  property,  and  though,  to 
please  her,  I  accepted  a  situation  in  a  railway-office  at  a  small  salary,  1 
confess  I  meant  to  give  it  up  directly  after  her  death.  But  there  came 
between  us  those  little  differences  and  bickerings  which  gradually  led  to 
bitter  quarrels,  and  finally  to  a  complete  estrangement.  Upon  this 
stepped  in  my  worthy  cousin  and  his  family,  who,  before  that  time,  she 
had  utterly  despised.  Of  course  they  widened  the  breach  as  much  as 
they  could :  it  was  their  interest  to  do  so.  Grand  finale.  My  aunt  dies— 


and  Certain  Members  of  his  Family.  441 

every  morsel  of  property  goes  to  Tubbs.  All  my  expectations  are  placed 
in  their  grave ;  and  I  become  a  poor,  seedy  clerk,  living  on  120/.  a  year." 

"  But  about  the  quarrel  with  Tubbs?" 

"  Oh,  it  came  about  in  this  way.  You  remember,  when  he  came  to 
London,  he  invited  me  civilly  enough  to  call  upon  him,  and  I  (who 
have  not  a  fraction  of  what  people  call  ' high  spirit '  about  me)  called 
accordingly.  Why  should  we  be  enemies  ?  Well,  they  were  civil  enough 
on  that  occasion ;  but  I  paid  several  visits  afterwards,  and  1  found  that  as 
the  circle  of  their  friends  enlarged,  and  Tubbs  picked  up  one  day  Mr. 
Moneyman,  the  bill-broker;  the  next  day,  Mr.  Highandmighty,  a 
director  in  the  Kamschatkan  Bank;  afterwards,  Mr.  Branchline,  the 
railway  director  and  contractor — without  referring  to  his  intimate  friends 
Mr.1  Butcher,  the  solicitor,  and  Mr.  Speck,  the  stockbroker — that  by 
degrees  1  was  warned  off  the  premises.  At  last  Tubbs  treated  me  in 
such  fashion  one  evening,  when  he  wanted  to  show  off  before  the  Kams- 
chatkan banker,  that  I  forthwith  marched  out  of  the  house. " 

"  And  will  never  enter  it  again,  I  suppose,  Marsden  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that.  I  am  sorry  that  Tubbs  insulted  me,  and  wish 
that  he  may  make  amends.  If  he  were  to  come  up  now  and  hold  out  his 
hand,  I  should  shake  it  warmly." 

"  You  would  make  a  bad  hero  for  a  novel,  Marsden." 

"  I  don't  desire  to  be  a  hero  in  any  way,  Thorneley.  I  have  no  faith 
in  heroes.  A  plain,  straightforward  course  for  me.  Plenty  of  the  sub- 
stantial, none  of  the  sparkling.  I  hate  humbug  from  the  bottom  of  my 
soul." 

"  Your  course  looks  rather  uphill  just  now.  You  will  find  it  slow  work 
at  the  railway." 

"  I  do  find  it  slow  work — horrid,  petty,  drivelling,  disgusting  work- 
made  a  thousand  times  worse  by  the  people  who  have  the  management 
of  it" 

"  You  don't  seem  so  quickly  on  the  road  to  fortune  as  I  could  wish, 
Marsden.     Now,  if  you  had  a  share  in  the  News  of  All  Nations " 

"  I  shouldn't  be  journeying  a  step  faster,  my  friend ;  though,  I  repeat, 
I  wish  most  sincerely  your  scheme  may  answer.  No,  I  grant,  as  I  look 
up  to  the  dark  clouds  which  are  now  rolling  over  us  on  this  Christmas- 
day,  I  murmur  a  hope  that  next  Christmas-day,  if  I  live,  the  sky  above 
me  may  be  brighter,  and  things  around  me  more  cheerful  than  they  are 
now." 

"  Ah,  by  that  time  the  News  of  All  Nations,"  remarked  Thorneley, 
musing,  "  will  have  established  itself,  and  we  can't  tell  what  changes  it 
will  have  led  to." 

A  painful  feeling  seemed  to  occur  to  Marsden  as  Thorneley  spoke  thuff, 
and  he  furtively  glanced  at  his  companion.  The  dark,  bright  eye 
appeared  to  grow  darker  and  brighter,  and  the  thin  features  thinner  and 
more  pointed. 

"  We  talk  of  next  Christmas,"  he  remarked,  sadly;  "it  is  a  long 
twelve  months  hence — a  long  twelve  months." 

"  You  see,"  resumed  Thorneley,  "  I  do  not  seek  large  wealth.  I  shall 
retire  early." 

"  Ah !  retire  early,"  slowly  repeated  Marsden. 

They  walked  some  minutes1  together,  and  neither  spoker 

Aug. — vol.  ovil  wo.  ccccxxvin.  2  a 


442  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

"You're  not  quite  in  spirits  to-day,  my  friend,"  said  Thoraeley, 
cbeeringly. 

"  Somewhat  melancholy  thoughts  were  within  me,  I  confess,"  replied 
Marsden ;  "  but  I  never  allow  myself  their  questionable  luxury  long. 
'  Hope  on,'  is  my  motto, — and  I  strive  to  obey  it." 

"  '  Conqmer  or  die '  is  mine,"  said  Thoraeley.  "lam  ambitious,  yon 
know." 

"  Good;  but  I'd  rather  hear  you  say,  '  Fail,  yet  live,'  and  then  add 
my  motto,  *  Hope  on.' " 

"  Ah,  that  won't  suit  me.  But  wait  till  you  see  the  News  of  AS 
Nations.  We  won't  spend  another  Christmas-day  thus.  Must  you  go 
back?*' 

"  Yes ;  I  must  return  now.  Good-by. — Another  Christmas-day,"  re- 
peated Marsden,  as  he  turned  slowly  away.  "  Ah !  twelve  long  months 
before  then,  poor  friend." 


BBUNSWICK-SQUABE  RECEIVES  AN  HONOUR. 

There  was  not  much  said  about  it.  Mrs.  Tubbs  was  in  many  things 
a  shrewd  woman,  and  she  saw  that  her  true  policy  was  by  no  means  to 
dwell  unceasingly  to  her  repentant  husband  on  the  subject  of  his  late 
escapade,  but  to  keep  that  matter  as  a  sort  of  mighty  reserve,  only  to  be 
brought  up  on  very  great  occasions,  when  victory  in  some  sharp  domestic 
contest  might  be  exceedingly  important,  and  needed  to  be  achieved  at 
any  cost.  There  is,  indeed,  much  mystery  hanging  over  the  entire  cir* 
cum  stance.  Of  course,  it  has  been  our  earnest  wish,  irrespective  of  its 
having  become  our  imperative  duty  in  the  performance  of  the  great  task 
which  we  have  set  ourselves  in  this  compilation,  to  endeavour  to  the 
utmost  to  discover  whether  Mr.  Tubbs  really  did  commit  the  enormity 
for  which  he  was  so  grievously  punished.  Now  let  the  reader  look  at 
the  following  extract  from  Mr.  Tubbs's  diary,  referring  to  the  affair: 

"Dined  with  Snokes  and  Pokes  at  the  Grill  Tavern,  Thought  S. 
and  F.  drank  rather  freely ;  took  very  little  myself."  (Then  follows  an 
account  of  his  incarceration,  &c)  "  All  this  very  unjust.  Don't  think 
I  assaulted  any  one  after  leaving  the  Grill.  Might  not  have  been— in 
fact  was  not— -quite  well ;  but  am  certain  I  was  not  intoxicated.  Am 
quite  clear  what  it  was  upset  me — it  was  not  the  wine.  It  was  my 
taking  coffee  instead  of  tea  after  dinner,  which  I  am  not  used  to.  Was 
very  well  before  the  coffee,  but  directly  I  had  taken  it  I  felt  uncomfort- 
able, and  the  air  seemed  to  make  me  worse.  Mem.  Shall  be  careful  not 
to  repeat  this  error. 

"  I  have  satisfied  Jane's  mind  that  it  could  not  have  been  the  wine; 
but  she  is  rather  inclined  to  think  that  the  buttered  toast  I  had  with 
the  coffee  may  have  been  the  cause. 

"  Took  an  opportunity  to  ask  Dr.  Bam  what  he  thought  of  it,  and  he 
said  he  felt  convinced  there  was  something  ia  Jane's  suggestion  about 
the  buttered  toast.  He  had  seen  a  great  many  cases  among  young  men 
where  total  insensibility  sometimes,  and  delirium  tremens  occasionally, 
had  resulted  from  their  foolishly  indulging  in  coffee  and  battered  toast, 
after  taking  a-  tery  small  quantity  of  wine.    The  doctor  says  he  h* 


and  Certain  Members  of  hi*  Family.  443 

suffered  himself  in  the  same  way,  once  or  twice.  Indeed,  I  remember 
once,  when  he  dined  with  a  party  at  the  Anchor  and  Cartwheel,  before 
he  left  Dubberley,  he  would  iusist  on  trying  to  stand  on  his  head  on  the 
table.  He  had  had  coffee  then,  I  recollect,  and  buttered  toast.  How 
very  singular  it  is,  all  this,  and  to  what  terrible  misinterpretation  it  may 
give  rise." 

Now,  reader,  in  the  face  of  this  extract,  can  you  believe  that  Mr. 
Tubbs  was  guilty  of  the  charge  preferred  against  him?  No,  no,  no; 
you  cannot  believe  it.  If  you  feel  inclined  to  believe  it,  pray  burk  the 
inclination  at  once.  But  you  cannot  believe  it — you  must  not  believe  it* 
There  will  not  be  a  red-nosed  man  in  the  country  who  will  stand  (or 
stagger)  by  you,  if  you  believe  it.  It  is  not  consistent  with  your  cha- 
racter as  a  champagne  and  port-loving  Englishman,  to  give  to  it  credit 
Remembering  the  white-bait  enjoyment  at  Blackwall,  the  public  dinner 
at  the  London  Tavern,  the  snug  affair  for  a  dozen  at  the  London  Coffee 
House,  you  cannot  believe  it.  Be  firm,  then,  and  nobly  stemming  the 
torrent  of  petty  prejudice,  declare  Mr.  Tubbs  not  guilty  of  the  delin- 
quency laid  to  nis  charge. 

The  first  matter  to  be  attended  to  was,  of  course,  the  procuring  a 
house.  A  large  number  of  localities  were  minutely  inspected,  and  the 
rents  of  numerous  domiciles  inquired.  The  answers  in  this  latter  respect 
were  seldom  satisfactory.  Our  party  had  imagined  they  might  find 
something  to  suit  them  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  parks,  and  were 
vastly  dismayed  on  learning  that  houses  which  they  guessed  at  about  SOL 
a  year,  were  letting  for  400/.  By  degrees  their  views  contracted,  and 
at  last,  thoroughly  worn  out,  they  engaged  one  of  the  smaller  houses  in 
Brunswick-square. 

Then  came  the  furnishing,  and  this  also  was  an  undertaking ;  but,  as 
with  all  other  tasks,  the  end  arrived  in  time.  Mr.  Tubbs  had  a  great 
liking  for  valuable  curiosities,  and  his  (unassisted)  purchases  in  this  way 
very  much  lightened  his  purse,  without  materially  ornamenting  his  house. 
He  used  to  depart  in  the  morning,  and  after  an  absence  of  many  hours 
return  laden  with  a  most  remarkable  collection  of  cracked  coffee-cups, 
portions  of  china  bowls,  and  such  like  valuable  matters. 

"  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that,  Mrs.  Tubbs  ?"  he  used  to  say,  dis- 
playing to  her  (while  his  own  eyes  glistened  with  admiration)  a  small 
teapot  (wanting  a  lid),  which  looked  uncommonly  like  the  little  ones 
sold  to  children  at  sixpence  apiece. 

Mrs.  Tubbs  seemed  doubtful. 

"  Isn't  that  wonderful  1"  (pointing  to  a  figure  in  blue,  startlingly 
resembling  a  portion  of  the  elegant  willow-pattern,  so  long  known  and 
much  admired).  "  Baggs,  of  Bond-street,  of  whom  I  bought  that, 
Jane,  assured  me  that  it  was  impossible  to  produce  anything  like  it 
now.     It's  many  hundred  years  old,  and  very  expensive." 

Then  Mr.  Tubbs  proceeded  to  buy  pictures.  He  would  have  none 
but  old  masters*  and  he  would  buy  them  himsel£  The  magnificent 
works  he  purchased  used  to  come  pouring  in  in  a  style  that  alarmed 
Mrs.  Tubbs.  '<  A  Cock  Fight,  by  Michael  Angefo ;"  and  "Schoolboys 
playing  at  Peg-in- the- Ring,  by  CJaude,"  he  gave  large  sums  for,  and 
they  were  placed  most  conspicuously  in  his  dining-room.  "  The  Winner 
of  the  Last  Derby,  by  Landseer,"  was  brought  home  one  day  ia 

2  a  3 


444  Information  relative  to  Mr.  Joshua  Tubbs 

triumph,  and  such  a  sum  paid  for  it  that  Mr.  Tubbs  did  not  spend 
another  unnecessary  penny  for  a  month. 

Mr.  Tubbs  must  have  a  library,  too  :  so  to  all  sales  of  old  books  Mr. 
Tubbs  did  go.  Great  purchases  did  he  make — an  immense  number  of 
yolumes — so  much  for  the  large,  so  much  for  the  small ;  so  much  for  the 
smart  bindings,  and  something  less  for  the  soiled.  The  contents  were 
various.  There  were  a  large  number  of  treatises  touching  the  whole 
art  of  cookery ;  several  on  the  breeding  of  pigs ;  one  on  a  new  and 
greatly  improved  method  of  pickling  gherkins.  There  were  sermons 
by  the  Rev.  Ephraim  Effins,  a  pulpit  orator  of  the  sixteenth  century ; 
and  poems  by  Thomas  Smith,  a  gifted  butcher's  boy,  who,  having  had 
the  misfortune  to  break  his  leg,  took  to  writing  poetry,  and  published  a 
small  volume  by  subscription.  When  they  had  been  nicely  arranged  on 
shelves,  they  looked  exceedingly  well,  those  valuable  works;  and  every 
one  remarked  on  the  well -stocked  appearance  presented  by  Mr.  Tubbs's 
library.  Probably  Mr.  Tubbs  reaped  quite  as  much  benefit  from  his 
somewhat  curious  collection  as  many  far  wealthier  gentlemen  do  from 
libraries  much  more  costly. 

Well,  when  it  was  all  done  there  was  great  rejoicing.  The  Tubbses 
now  really  felt  that  a  great  change  had  passed  over  them.  Here  was 
the  evidence  of  money,  here  was  tangible  testimony  as  to  fortune.  The 
general  dealer's  shop  seemed  gradually  to  recede  from  view ;  it  floated 
away  in  the  dim  distance ;  it  became  like  a  dream ;  a  doubt  began  to 
surround  it.  Had  there  ever  been  such  a  place  as  Dubberley  ? — had  there 
ever  been  such  a  shop  within  its  bounds  ? — had  that  shop  been  kept  by 
any  one  bearing  the  honoured  name  of  Tubbs  ?  The  whole  party  of 
the  Tubbses  began  to  grow  doubtful  on  these  points,  in  proportion  as  the 
fact  settled  and  impressed  itself  on  their  minds  that  a  family  of  the 
name  of  Tubbs— a  very  genteel,  respectable  family,  possessed  of  nearly 
twenty  thousand  pounds — was  now  residing  in  Brunswick-square. 

The  same  strange,  mysterious  doubt,  and  the  same  beautiful  conviction, 
pursued  the  same  peculiar  course  in  the  mind  of  a  fourth  party.  Dr. 
Bam,  who,  after  leaving  Dubberley,  had  been  sadly  forgetful  of  his  old 
friends,  and  had  not  even  answered  a  communication  from  Mrs.  Tubbs 
relative  to  her  old  enemy — indigestion — for  which  in  times  of  yore  he 
had  so  successfully  prescribed,  now  hearing  recent  events,  did  favour  the 
Tubbses  with  a  call ;  did  shake  all  their  hands  with  both  his  hands  ;  did 
apologise  earnestly  for  his  negligence  as  abqye,  on  the  score  that  "  as  they 
knew,  he  was  not  a  man  of  business  "  (under  which  excuse  the  Doctor 
cloaked  every  action  of  his  life  of  which  he  had  need  to  be  ashamed) ; 
did  prescribe,  without  fee,  for  Mrs.  Tubbs's  dyspepsia  ;  and  did  declare, 
with  hyaena  laugh,  that  he  would  see  them  constantly  "as  a  friend— as 
a  friend." 

And  what  makes  Mr.  Butcher,  the  lawyer,  so  friendly  and  so  kind  ? 
Wherefore  comes  he  in  of  an  evening  so  pleasantly  to  chat  ?  Upon  what 
account,  save  that  on  those  smiles  and  that  chat  six-and-eightpence  do 
grow ;  save  that  they  are  the  toasted  cheese  whereat  the  mouse  doth 
nibble  to  his  destruction;  save  that  they  are  the  straw  which  hideth  the 
deep  pit  into  which  the  unwary  listener  presently  will  fall. 

And  Mr.  Speck,  why,  worthy  man,  is  he  so  well  disposed,  always 
mindful  of  his  friend  Tubbs,  when  good  things  do  come  ?  Why,  but  o» 
account  that  brokerage  is  sweet,  and  Tubbs's  means  will  allow  losses, 


and  Certain  Members  of  his  Family.  445 

which  the  good  things  in  question,  sooner  or  later,  will  most  surely 
bring. 

And  Mr.  Tubbs  himself.  Is  it  Tubbs  ? — can  it  be  Tubbs  ?  Remem- 
ber him  serving  the  sanded  sugar  in  the  village  shop ; — behold  him  in 
Brunswick-square,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire  in  his  dining-room, 
chinking  the  sovereigns  in  his  pocket.  What  a  change  in  his  aspect ! 
Mark  now  the  fine,  free,  open  demeanour.  Is  it  possible  that  only  a 
few  months  back  this  man  packed  up  a  pound  of  candles  behind  a  counter, 
and  said,  "  Thank'ee,  ma'am,"  to  the  baker's  wife  who  paid  for  them  ? 
Oh  yes,  dear  reader,  it  is  quite  possible.  Gold  marvellously  opens  the 
countenance,  stiffens  the  back,  straightens  the  shoulders,  expands  the 
chest;  gold  makes  a  weak  eye  powerful,  a  feeble  voice  strong;  gold 
enlarges  the  intellect,  gives  it  clearness  and  vigour.  Oh,  fall  we  down 
and  worship  gold,  if  we  would  be  great  in  this  nether  world!  It  is  a 
mighty  exalter,  a  mighty  refiner,  a  mighty  purifier.  There  was  not  a 
man  who  did  not  feel  that  Tubbs  had  become  an  excellent  man,  an  ad- 
mirable man,  a  true  friend.  Tubbs  was  a  pattern.  Oh,  worship  Tubbs 
with  twenty  thousand  pounds  ! 

And  sweetly  smiling  little  man,  wert  thou  not  conscious  that  the  world 
to  thee  had  altered?  As  they  crowded  round  thee  and  pressed  thy  palms, 
with  looks  of  glee  and  words  of  honey,  didst  thou  not  feel  the  sun  upon 
thee  brightly  shining,  and  know  that  thou  wert  worthy  of  esteem  ?  Oh, 
certainly.  If  bashfulness  threatened,  a  thought  of  the  banker's-book 
ehecked  it ;  if  the  tongue  hesitated,  a  chink  of  the  sovereigns  made  it 
move  glibly.  Weakness  would  assail  sometimes,  but  Tubbs,  feeling  there 
was  no  excuse  for  it,  met  it,  fought  with  it,  and  overcame  it. 

As  thou  walkedst  along  the  broad  highway,  who  could  fail  to  perceive 
the  change  which  the  possession  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  had  wrought 
in  thee?  What  beggar  but  felt  that  it  were  but  wasting  breath  to  ask  of 
thee  alms,  for  that  thou  hadst  twenty  thousand  pounds  ?  As  thou  didst 
march  up  the  middle  aisle  in  the  parish  church  on  Sundays,  was  not 
twenty  thousand  pounds  written  on  thy  forehead  and  in  thy  self-satisfied 
smirk,  and  muttered  in  thy  singing  and  responding?  Did  it  ever  escape 
thy  recollection,  that  twenty  thousand  pounds  ? 

Shine  gently,  sun !  scorch  not  the  man  with  money;  blow  gently,  wind 
chill  not  the  man  with  money.  In  this  great  land,  remember,  we  worship 
the  man  with  money  ;  and  if  we  ourselves  be  men  with  money  we  call 
for  worship.  And  the  worshippers  are  ready  ;  they  cling  to  us,  they 
hang  upon  us,  they  share  our  loves  and  hatreds,  our  tastes  and  dislikes  ; 
they  are  ever  with  us ;  our  little  weaknesses  are  pleasant  virtues,  our 
pride  is  a  consciousness  of  "position,"  our  idleness  is  modesty,  our  wrath 
is  righteous  indignation.  All  this  they  say — this  mighty  mass  of  fol- 
lowers— until  we  lose  the  money,  or  we  die.  But  who  thinks  of  poverty 
whilst  he  is  rich,  or  of  death  when  so  smileth  life  upon  him?  Who 
dreads  darkness  while  the  sun  shines,  or  cold  while  the  summer  heat 
prevails  ?  Let  not  these  thoughts  intrude.  Tubbs  is  alive,  and  strong, 
and  well ;  Tubbs  is  full  of  vigour ;  Tubbs  is  clever  and  careful,  and  Tubbs 
hath  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Wherefore,  ye  poor  friends  of  Tubbs, 
seeking  to  grow  rich ;  wherefore,  ye  rich  friends  of  Tubbs,  seeking  to 
grow  richer  ;  wherefore,  all  ye  who  need  this  world's  goods,  obey  ye  this 
my  call  so  full  of  this  world's  wisdom,  "  Oh,  worship  Tubbs,  with  twenty 
thousand  pounds !" 


(    446     ) 


SCISSORS-AND-PASTE-WOBX 

BT  SIB  NATHANIEL. 

IV. — Froude's  History  of  England.* 

The  author  of  Shadows  of  the  Clouds,  and  the  Nemesis  of  Faith,  has 
taken  to  History-writing,  on  a  severe  method  and  a  large  aeale;  and 
here  are  the  first  fruits — of  a  flavour  to  set  some  teeth  on  edge,  and  of  a 
quality  to  trouble  the  digestion  of  other  besides  confirmed  dyspeptics. 
From  the  author  of  those  fictions,  something  original  and  independent  in 
the  way  of  History  might  naturally  be  looked  for.  And  as  the  result 
shows,  not  in  vain.  His  adventurous  rdle  in  the  present  volumes  is,  in 
effect,  to  disperse  the  Shadows  of  the  Clouds  that  darken  the  (air  name 
and  fame  of  our  eighth  Harry ;  and  to  play  the  Nemesis  of  our  tradi- 
tional Faith  in  the  fair  name  and  fame  of  Anne  Boleyn.  He  seeks  to 
rehabilitate  Blue  Beard ;  and,  as  one  means  to  that  end,  to  disenchant 
us  of  all  respectful  sympathy  for  No.  2  in  that  marrying  man's  select 
series  of  wives. 

Henry  VIII.  has  left  a  name  that  by  no  means  smells  sweet  and  blos- 
soms in  the  dust.  Bluff  and  burly  Englishman  though  he  was,  in  certain 
fundamental  points  of  character  and  disposition,  Englishmen  in  general, 
and  Englishwomen  very  particularly,  hold  him  in  no  sort  of  liking. 
Foreigners  use  his  name  as  a  by-word  for  royal  infamy;  he  is  their 
bete  noire  in  the  black  annals  oiperfide  Albion's  monarchy. 

L'ours  Henri  Huit,  pour  qui  Moras  en  vain  pria, 

was  bracketed,  only  the  other  day,  by  Victor  Hugo  with  , 

Le  sanglier  Selim  et  le  pore  Borgia, 

in  a  certain  mystical  metempsychosistic  poem,  of  Jersey  genesis.  Now 
to  Mr.  Froude,  this  Great  Bear  Henri  Huit  is  a  constellation  of  Ursa 
Major  power.  Faults  he  is  allowed  to  have  had,  and  such  as  seriously 
damage  his  reputation  in  the  latter  stage  of  his  career.  But  on  the 
promise  of  Henry's  youth,  and  the  excellency  of  Henry's  prime,  his 
apologist  fondly  and  not  unforcibly  dilates.  If  Henry,  he  remarks,  had 
died  previous  to  the  first  agitation  of  the  divorce,  his  loss  would  have 
been  deplored  as  one  of  the  heaviest  misfortunes  which  had  ever  befallen 
the  country ;  and  he  would  have  left  a  name  which  would  have  taken  its 
place  in  history  by  the  side  of  that  of  the  Black  Prince,  or  of  the  con- 
queror of  Agincourt. 

"  Left  at  the  most  trying  age,  with  his  character  unformed,  with  the 
means  at  his  disposal  of  gratifying  every  inclination,  and  married  by  his 
ministers  when  a  boy  to  an  unattractive  woman  far  his  senior,  he  had 
lived  for  thirty -six  years  almost  without  blame,  and  bore  through  England 
the  reputation  of  an  upright  and  virtuous  king.  Nature  had  been  pro- 
digal to  him  of  her  rarest  gifts.  In  person  he  is  said  to  have  resembled 
his  grandfather,  Edward  IV.,  who  was  the  handsomest  man  in  Europe. 
His  form  and  bearing  were  princely ;  and  amidst  the  easy  freedom  of  his 

*  History  of  England  from  the  Fall  of  Wolsey  to  the  Death  of  Elizabeth,  Jfr 
James  Anthony  Froude,  M.A.,  late  Fellow  of  Exeter  College,  Oxford.  Tain 
L,  II.    John  W.  Parker  and  Son.    1856. 


Froudis  History  of  England.  447 

address,  his  manner  remained  majestic  No  knight  in  England  could 
match  him  in  the  tournament  exeept  the  Duke  of  Suffolk ;  he  drew  with 
ease  as  strong  a  how  as  was  borne  by  any  yeoman  of  his  guard ;  and 
these  powers  were  sustained  in  unfailing  vigour  by  a  temperate  habit  and 
by  constant  exercise.  Of  his  intellectual  ability  we  are  not  left  to  judge 
from  the  suspicious  panegyrics  of  his  contemporaries.  His  state  papers 
and  letters  may  he  placed  by  the  side  of  those  of  Wolsey  or  of  Cromwell, 
and  they  lose  nothing  in  the  comparison.  Though  they  are  broadly 
different*  the  perception  is  equally  clear,  the  expression  equally  powerful, 
and  they  breathe  throughout  an  irresistible  vigour  of  purpose."  To 
which  it  is  added,  that  Henry  had  a  fine  musical  taste,  carefully  culti- 
vated ;  that  he  spoke  and  wrote  in  four  languages — ("  good  French, 
Latin,  and  Spanish/'  says  Giustiniani,  who  elsewhere  mentions  Italian 
also) ;  that  he  was  conversant,  with  a  multitude  of  other  subjects,  his 
knowledge  of  which  alone  would  have  formed  die  reputation  of  any 
ordinary  man ;  that  he  was  among  the  best  physicians  of  his  age ;  that 
he  was  his  own  engineer,  inventing  improvements  in  artillery,  and  new 
constructions  in  ship-building — and  this  not  with  the  condescending  in- 
capacity of  a  royal  amateur,  but  with  thorough  workmanlike  understand- 
ing; and  that  his  reading  was  vast,  especially  in  theology,  which  he 
must  have  studied  with  the  full  maturity  of  his  powers,  and  under  the 
influence  of  a  fixed  and  perhaps  unfortunate  interest  in  the  subject 
itself. 

Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity 

(as  the  primate  in  Shakspeare  says  of  an  earlier  Henry), 

And,  all-admiring,  with  an  inward  wish 

You  would  desire  the  king  were  made  a  prelate — 

which  indeed  he  was  very  near  being  made,  according  to  the  original 
intent  of  his  father,  who  designed  for  him  the  archi-episcopate  of  Canter- 
bury— a  design  baffled  by  the  young  archbishop  in  posse  becoming  Prince 
of  Wales  in  esse  in  the  twelfth  year  of  his  age. 

In  fact,  in  all  directions  of  human  activity,  Henry  displayed,  according 
to  Mr.  Froude,  natural  powers  of  the  highest  order,  at  the  highest  stretch 
of  industrious  culture.  Then  again  he  was  "  attentive,"  as  it  is  called, 
"  to  his  religious  duties,"  being  present  at  the  services  in  chapel  two  or 
three  times  a  day  with  unfailing  regularity,  and  showing  to  outward  ap- 
pearance a  real  sense  of  religious  observation  in  the  energy  and  purityof 
his  life.  "  In  private  he  was  good-humoured  and  good-natured.  Hm 
letters  to  his  secretaries,. though  never  undignified,  are  simple,  easy,  and 
unrestrained ;  and  the  letters  written  by  them  to  him  are  similarly  plain 
and  business-like,  as  if  the  writers  knew  that  the  person  whom  they  were 
addressing  disliked  compliments,  and  chose  to  be  treated  as  a  man. 
Again,  from  their  correspondence  with  one  another,  when  they  describe 
interviews  with  him,  we  gather  the  same  pleasant  impression.  He  seems 
to  have  been  always  kind,  always  considerate ;  inquiring  into  their  private 
concerns  with  genuine  interest,  and  winning,  as  a  consequence,  their  warm 
and  unaffected  attachment"  Altogether,  therefore,  the  historian  holds 
it  for  certain  that  if  Henry  VIII.,  up  to  the  time  of  the  divorce  eminently 
popular  as  a  ruler,  and  successful  in  all  his  wars,  had  but  died  before  the 
divorce  was  mooted,  he,  like  the  Roman  emperor  said  by  Tacitus  to  have 
been  consensu  omnium  dignus  imperii  nisi  imperassety  would  have  been 


448  Froudts  History  of  England. 

considered  by  posterity  the  elect  agent  of  Providence  for  the  conduct  of 
the  Reformation,  and  that  his  loss  would  have  been  deplored  as  a  per- 
petual calamity.  We  must  allow  him,  then,  it  is  pleaded,  the  benefit  of 
his  past  career,  and  be  careful  to  remember  it,  when  interpreting  his  later 
actions.  "  Not  many  men  would  have  borne  themselves  through  the  same 
trials  with  the  same  integrity ;  but  the  circumstances  of  those  trials  had 
not  tested  the  true  defects  in  his  moral  constitution.  Like  all  princes  of 
the  Plantagenet  blood,  he  was  a  person  of  a  most  intense  and  imperious 
will.  His  impulses,  in  general  nobly  directed,  had  never  known  contra- 
diction ;  and  late  in  life,  when  his  character  was  formed,  he  was  forced 
into  collision  with  difficulties  with  which  the  experience  of  discipline  had 
not  fitted  him  to  contend.  Education  had  done  much  for  him,  but  his 
nature  required  more  correction  than  hi3  position  had  permitted,  whilst 
unbroken  prosperity  and  early  independence  of  control  had  been  his  most 
serious  misfortune.  He  had  capacity,  if  his  training  had  been  equal  to 
it,  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  of  men.  With  all  his  faults  about  him,  he 
was  still  perhaps  the  greatest  of  his  contemporaries ;  and  the  man  best 
able  of  all  living  Englishmen  to  govern  England,  had  been  set  to  do  it 
by  the  conditions  of  his  birth." 

Such  is  Mr.  Froude's  reading  of  the  man  and  the  monarch — a  reading 
Carlylish  in  tone,  though  not  in  style ;  for  in  style  he  is  his  own  master, 
and  an  accomplished  one — reminding  us  now  and  then,  however,  of  New- 
man and  Maurice,  with  an  occasional  smack  of  Carlyle  too.  In  discuss- 
ing the  breach  between  Henry  and  Catherine,  he  plays  the  advocate  for 
the  former  with  ingenious  and  seemingly  earnest  endeavour,  without 
running  down  the  cause  or  character  of  the  unhappy  queen.  Though 
the  marriage,  he  says,  was  dictated  by  political  convenience,  Henry  was 
a  faithful  husband,  with  but  one  exception — "  no  slight  honour  to  him, 
if  he  is  measured  by  the  average  royal  standard  in  such  matters ;"  nor 
can  our  King's  Counsel  see  any  reason  to  believe  that  the  peace  of  his 
majesty's  wedded  life  would  have  been  interrupted,  or  that,  whatever 
might  have  been  his  private  feelings,  he  would  have  appeared  in  the 
world's  eye  other  than  acquiescent  in  his  condition,  if  only  the  sons 
Catherine  bare  him  had  lived  to  grow  up  around  his  throne. 

But  these  sons  had  died  out  one  by  one.  A  prince  born  on  the  New 
Year's-day  of  1511,  died  before  the  end  of  February  following.  Another 
prince  was  born  late  in  1513,  and  died  immediately.  In  December,  1514, 
there  was  a  male  child  still-born.  In  both  1515  and  1518  there  seem  to 
have  been  miscarriages.  Henry  traced,  or  professed  to  trace,  the  sign  of 
divine  punishment  in  all  this — retributory  upon  unlawful  wedlock.  "All 
such  issue  male,"  he  says,  "  as  I  have  received  of  the  queen  died  incon- 
tinent after  they  were  born,  so  that  I  doubt  the  punishment  of  God  in 
that  behalf."  Where  so  much  depended  on  a  recognised  right  of  succes- 
sion, the  disappointment  of  the  king  was  naturally  deepened  and  embit- 
tered. He  found  himself,  as  the  historian  says,  growing  to  middle  life 
and  his  queen  passing  beyond  it  with  his  prayers  unheard,  and  no  hope 
any  longer  that  they  might  be  heard :  the  disparity  of  age  also  was  more 
perceptible  as  time  went  by,  while  Catherine's  constitution  was  affected 
hy  her  misfortunes,  and  differences  arose  sufficient  to  extinguish  between 
two  infirm  human  beings  an  affection  that  had  rested  only  upon  mutual 
esteem,  but  had  not  assumed  the  character  of  real  love. 


Froude9  8  History  of  England.  449 

"  The  circumstances  in  which  Catherine  was  placed  were  of  a  kind 
which  no  sensitive  woman  could  have  endured  without  impatience  and 
mortification ;  but  her  conduct,  however  natural,  only  widened  the  breach 
which  personal  repugnance  and  radical  opposition  of  character  had  already 
made  too  wide.  So  far  Henry  and  she  were  alike  that  both  had  impe- 
rious tempers,  and  both  were  indomitably  obstinate ;  but  Henry  was  not 
and  impetuous,  she  was  cold  and  self-contained — Henry  saw  his  duty 
through  his  wishes,  she,  in  her  strong  Castilian  austerity,  measured  her 
steps  by  the  letter  of  the  law ;  the  more  he  withdrew  from  her,  the  more 
she  insisted  upon  her  relation  to  him  as  his  wife  ;  and  continued  with 
fixed  purpose  and  immovable  countenance  to  share  his  table  and  his  bed 
long  after  she  was  aware  of  his  dislike  for  her."  Great  nevertheless  as 
was  Henry's  personal  dissatisfaction,  Mr.  Froude  is  persuaded  that  if  this 
had  been  all,  it  would  have  been  extinguished  or  endured  ;  but  the  inte* 
rests  of  the  nation,  it  is  contended,  imperilled  as  they  were  by  the  main- 
tenance of  the  marriage,  entitled  him  to  regard  his  position  under  another 
aspect. 

The  divorce  is  thus  described  as  presenting  itself  to  Henry  as  a  moral 
obligation,  when  national  advantage  combined  with  superstition  to  en- 
courage what  he  secretly  desired — the  superstition,  namely,  of  regard- 
ing, as  we  have  seen,  the  loss  of  his  children  as  a  judicial  sentence  on  a 
violation  of  the  Divine  law.  If  he  "  persuaded  himself  that  those  public 
reasons,  without  which,  in  truth  and  fact,  he  would  not  have  stirred,  were 
those  that  alone  were  influencing  him,  the  self-deceit  was  of  a  kind  with 
which  the  experience  of  most  men  will  probably  have  made  them  too 
familiar.  In  those  Tare  cases  where  inclination  sides  with  right,  we 
cannot  be  surprised  if  mankind  should  deceive  themselves  with  the  belief 
that  the  disinterested  motives  weigh  more  with  them  than  the  personal." 

The  historian  accordingly  maintains  that  if  Henry  VIII.  had  been 
contented  to  rest  his  demand  for  a  divorce  merely  on  the  interests  of  the 
kingdom,  and  had  forborne,  while  his  request  was  pending,  to  affront  the 
princess  who  had  for  many  years  been  his  companion  and  his  queen, — 
showing  her,  meanwhile,  that  respect  which  her  high  character  gave  her 
a  right  to  demand,  and  which  her  situation  as  a  stranger  ought  to  have 
made  it  impossible  to  him  to  refuse, — his  conduct  would  in  that  case  have 
been  liable  to  no  imputation,  and  would  have  secured  our  sympathies 
without  reserve.  He  could  not,  says  Mr.  Froude,  have  been  expected  to 
love  a  person  to  whom  he  had  been  married  as  a  boy  for  political  conve- 
nience, merely  because  she  was  his  wife ;  especially  when  she  was  many 
years  his  senior  in  age,  disagreeable  in  her  person,  and  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  it  embittered  in  her  temper.  His  kingdom,  it  is  added,  demanded 
the  security  of  a  stable  succession  ;  his  conscience  was  seriously  agitated 
by  the  loss  of  his  children ;  and  looking  upon  it  as  the  sentence  of 
Heaven  upon  a  connexion,  the  legality  of  which  had  from  the  first  been 
violently  disputed,  he  believed  that  he  had  been  living  in  incest,  and  that 
his  misfortunes  were  the  consequence  of  it.  Under  these  circumstances 
he  had,  it  is  contended,  a  full  right  to  apply  for  a  divorce. 

But  his  special  pleader  admits  the  evidence  of  personal  feeling,  trace- 
able from  the  first,  in  Henry's  conduct ;  and  freely  allows  that  exactly 
so  far  as  he  was  influenced  by  it,  his  course  was  wrong,  as  the  conse- 
quence miserably  proved.     "  The  position  which,  in  his  wife's  presence, 


460  Froude's  History  o/JEryloMd. 

he  assigned  to  another  woman,  however  he  may  have  persuaded  himself 
that  Catherine  had  no  claim  to  he  considered  his  wife,  admits  neither  of 
fgrawft  dot  of  palliation ;  and  he  ought  never  to  have  shared  ins  throne 
with  a  person  who  consented  to  occupy  that  position.  He  was  blind  to 
the  want  of  delicacy  in  Amne  Boleyn,  because,  in  spiae  of  bis  chivalry, 
his  genius,  his  accomplishments,  in  his  relations  with  women  he  was 
without  delicacy  himself.  He  directed,  or  attempted  to  direct,  his  con- 
duct by  the  broad  rales  of  what  he  thought  to  be  just.  In  the  wide 
margin  of  uncertain  ground  where  rules  of  action  cannot  be  prescribed, 
and  where  men  must  guide  themselves  by  consideration  for  the  feelings 
of  others,  he — so  far  as  women  were  concerned — was  unfortunately  a 
stranger."  A  mild  censure  of  one  who,  by  vulgar  estimate,  might 
warrant  the  strictures  of  one  of  Chaucer's  complainants  in  the  House  of 
Fame: 

"Alias !"  quod  she,  "what  me  ys  wo ! 

Alias !  is  every  man  thus  trewe, 

That  every  yere  wolde  have  a  newe, 

Yf  hit  so  longe  tyme  dure  P 

Or  elles  three,  paraventure  ? 

As  thus  :— of  one  he  wolde  have  fame 

In  magnyfying  of  hys  name ; 

Another  for  frendsmppe,  seyth  he; 

And  yett  ther  shal  the  tkridde  be, 

That  shal  be  take  for  delyte, 

Loo,  or  for  singular  profite."* 

M.  Cuvillier  Fleury,  who  defines  that  "libertin  insatiable,*'  Henri 
Unit,  as  "  n'etant  plus  qu'un  Sganarelle  sanguinaire,"  in  his  essay  in- 
tituled "  Les  Six  Femmes  de  Henri  VIII."  takes  occasion  to  remark, 
that  "il  y  a  un  moment  dans  Britannicus  on  le  poete  nous  jette  soudain 
ces  trois  mots,  d'un  effet  si  saissisantct  si  terrible :  '  Neron  est  amour euxF 
et  cela  seul  explique  le  drame.  Ce  moment,9'  continues  the  critie, 
"  n'arrive  jamais  dans  Phistoire  de  Henri  VIII.  II  est  plein  de  desire  et 
vide  d'amour :  il  respire  le  liberttnage  et  la  luxure,  jamais  la  passion." 
As  Ammta  says  to  Clarinda  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 

You'll  find  him  dangerous,  madam, 
As  fickle  as  the  flying  air,  proud,  jealous, 
Soon  glutted  in  your  sweets,  and  soon  forgetful.f 

*  Henri  Huit  looked  beyond  a  poor  pitiful  u  thridde" — knowing  a  trick  worth 
(literally)  two  of  that — witness  his  twice  three  wives.  The  "  octogamye  "  mooted 
by  another  of  Chaucer's  folk,  was  nearer  Henry's  mark.  The  Wife  of  Bath, 
appealing  to  holy  writ,  argues  with  more  unction  than  disinterestedness, 

"  Eke  wel  I  wot,  he  sayd,  myn  housebonde 
Schuld  lete  fader  and  moder,  and  foiwe  me ; 
But  of  no  noumber  mencioun  made  he, 
Of  bygamye  or  of  octogamye ; 
Why  schuld  men  speken  of  that  vijonye? 
Lo  hier  the  wise  kyng  daun  Solomon, 
I  trow  he  hadde  wifes  mo  than  oon,"  6c. 

A  sensible  woman  that,  Henry  must  have  thought;  and  worthy  to  wear  the 
breeks.  Which,  by-the-by,  she  dW— as  all  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims  most  Bare 
perceived,  as  well  as  her  husbands  five. 

t  u  The  Sea  Voyage."    Act  IV.  ac.  1. 


Frauds  £  History  vfEngikma.  451 

Or,  to  apply  the  <query  of  another  personage,  in  another  <cf  their  plays— 

Had  lie  loved  you,  or  you,, 
Or  I,  or  all  oil's  (as  indeed  the  more 
The  merrier  still  with  him),  must  we  therefor 
Have  our  heads  pared  with  a  hatchet  P* 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Henry,  says  Mr.  Froude,  if  he  had  lived  in  ft 
world  in  which  women  could  have  been  dispensed  with ;  so  ill  he  suc- 
ceeded in  all  his  relations  with  them.  "  With  men  he  could  speak  the 
right  word,  be  could  do  the  right  thing;  with  women  he  seemed  to  be 
under  a  fatal  necessity  of  mistake."  If  it  would  have  been  well  for 
Henry,  it  would  have  been  still  better  for  the  women.  The  mistake 
was  a  good  deal  more  fatal  for  them  than  for  himself;  at  least  some  of 
them  may  be  pardoned  if  they  thought  so. 

Elsewhere,  however,  Mr.  Froude  gives  his  majesty  credit  for  a  grow- 
ing refinement  in  his  estimate  of  the  sex.  He  catches  at  the  fact  of  the 
court  being  ordered  into  mourning  on  the  death  of  Catherine  (1536), 
and  the  burial  of  that  poor  queen  at  Peterborough,  with  the  estate  of 
Princess  Royal,  and  the  paulo-post  foundation  of  the  see  of  Peterbo- 
rough in  her  memory,  as  welcome  acts  of  respect  which,  tardy  though 
they  be,  go  to  show  that  Henry,  in  the  few  last  years,  bad  grown  wiser 
in  the  ways  of  women,  and  had  learnt  to  prize  more  deeply  the  austerity 
of  virtue,  even  in  its  unloveliest  aspect 

In  the  same  tone  are  the  remarks  on  Henry's  hurried  marriage  with 
Jane  Seymour,  close  as  close  can  be  upon  the  decapitation  of  Anne 
Boleyn.  Mr.  Froude  sees  nothing  but  sincere  anxiety  and  honest  faith 
in  the  appeal  of  council  and  peers  to  the  king  to  marry  again  without 
delay,  without  an  hour's  delay :  true,  his  majesty's  experience  of  matri- 
mony had  been  so  discouraging,  that  they  feared  he  might  be  reluctant 
to  venture  upon  it  again;  nevertheless,  for  his  country's  sake,  they 
trusted  that  he  would  not  refuse— there  being  now  fresh  perplexity  in 
the  succession,  and  wily  intrigues  at  work  in  various  quarters  to  make 
confusion  worse  confounded.  So,  as  soon  as  the  blood  that  spouted 
from  Anne  fioleyn's  "  little  neck  "  began  to  dry  in  the  sawdust  of  the 
scaffold,  Henry  entered  anew  into  the  holy  estate  with  the  daughter  of 
Sir  John  Seymour.  "  This  indecent  haste,"  Mr.  Froude  remarks,  "  is 
usually  considered  a  proof  entirely  conclusive  of  the  cause  of  Anne 
Boleyn's  ruin.  To  myself,  the  haste  is  an  evidence  of  something  very 
different.  Henry,  who  waited  seven  years  for  Anne  Boleyn,  was  not 
without  some  control  over  his  passions;  and  if  appetite  had  been  the 
moving  influence  with  him,  he  would  scarcely,  with  the  eyes  of  all  the 
world  fixed  upon  his  conduct,  have  passed  so  gross  an  insult  upon  the 
nation  of  which  he  was  the  sovereign.  The  precipitancy  with  which  he 
acted  is  to  me  a  proof  that  he  looked  on  matrimony  as  an  indifferent 
official  act  which  his  duty  required  at  the  moment ;  and  if  this  be  thought 
a  novel  interpretation  of  his  motives,  I  have  merely  to  say  that  I  find  it 
in  the  statute  book."  The  deliberate  sanction  of  parliament  to  every 
step  taken  by  Henry  at  this  juncture, — their  affirmation  of  Anne's  crimi- 
nality, and  of  the  justice  of  her  doom — their  ascription  of  thanks  to  the 

•  "Cupid's  BeT*age."    Act  IL  sc.  1. 


452  Froude9  s  History  of  England. 

king,  in  the  name  of  the  nation,  for  having  made  haste  with  the  mar- 
riage which  has  been  regarded  as  the  temptation  to  his  crime, — these, 
Mr.  Froude  relies  upon,  as  facts  which  it  is  impossible  to  dismiss  with  a 
few  contemptuous  phrases,  and  on  them  he  is  content  to  rest  his  case  for 
the  Crown. 

We  incline  to  think  him  more  successful  in  his  strictures  on  Anne 
Boleyn,  than  in  his  exaltation  of  her  lord  and  master.  He  may  allege, 
to  some  extent  with  reason,  that  the  case  against  the  one  is  only  to  be 
made  out  by  involving  a  verdict  for  the  other — that  if  we  accept  the  sta- 
tute against  Anne,  we  debar  ourselves  of  the  right  to  reject  it  as  in  favour 
of  Henry.  All  does  not  depend,  however,  in  her  instance,  upon  the  assent 
of  parliament  Anne  Boleyn  is  one,  the  tragedy  of  whose  fate,  as  Mr. 
Froude  observes,  has  served  to  blot  the  remembrance  of  her  sins — if  her 
sins  were,  indeed,  and  in  reality,  more  than  imaginary.  Forgetting  all 
else  in  shame  and  sorrow,  posterity,  he  submits,  has  made  piteous  repara- 
tion for  her  death  in  the  tenderness  with  which  it  has  touched  her  repu- 
tation ;  and  with  the  general  instincts  of  justice,  we  have  refused  to 
qualify  our  indignation  at  the  wrong  which  she  experienced,  by  admitting 
either  stain  or  shadow  on  her  fame.  "  It  has  been  with  Anne  Boleyn  as 
it  has  been  with  Catherine  of  Arragon — both  are  regarded  as  the  victims 
of  a  tyranny  which  Catholics  and  Protestants  unite  to  remember  with 
horror ;  and  each  has  taken  the  place  of  a  martyred  saint  in  the  hagiology 
of  the  respective  creeds.  Catholic  writers  have,  indeed,  ill  repaid,  in  their 
treatment  of  Anne,  the  admiration  with  which  the  mother  of  Queen  Mary 
has  been  remembered  in  the  Church  of  England;  but  the  invectives 
which  they  have  heaped  upon  her  have  defeated  their  object  by  their  ex- 
travagance. It  has  been  believed  that  matter  failed  them  to  sustain  a 
just  accusation,  when  they  condescended  to  outrageous  slander.  Inas- 
much, however,  as  some  natural  explanation  can  usually  be  given  of  the 
actions  of  human  beings  in  the  world  without  supposing  them  to  have 
been  possessed  by  extraordinary  wickedness,  and  if  we  are  to  hold  Anne 
Boleyn  entirely  free  from  fault,  we  place  not  the  king  only,  but  the  privy 
council,  the  judges,  the  lords  and  commons,  and  the  two  houses  of 
convocation,  in  a  position  fatal  to  their  honour  and  degrading  to  ordi- 
nary humanity  ;  we  cannot  without  injury  acquiesce  in  so  painful  a 
conclusion.  The  English  nation  also,  as  well  as  she,  deserves  justice  at 
our  hands  ;  and  it  must  not  be  thought  uncharitable  if  we  look  with  some 
scrutiny  at  the  career  of  a  person  who,  except  for  the  catastrophe  with 
which  it  was  closed,  would  not  so  readily  have  obtained  forgiveness  for 
having  admitted  the  addresses  of  the  king ;  or  for  having  received  the 
homage  of  the  court  as  its  future  sovereign,  while  the  king's  wife,  her 
mistress,  as  yet  resided  under  the  same  roof,  with  the  title  and  the  posi- 
tion of  queen,  and  while  the  question  was  still  undecided  of  the  validity 
of  the  first  marriage.  If  in  that  alone  she  was  to  blame,  her  fault  was, 
indeed,  revenged  a  thousandfold, — and  yet  no  lady  of  true  delicacy  would 
have  accepted  such  a  position.  Feeling  for  Queen  Catherine  ought  to 
have  forbidden  it,  if  she  was  careless  of  respect  for  herself." — Mr.  Froude, 
it  is  to  be  remarked,  when  engaged  in  sifting  the  story  of  Queen  Anne's 
decline  and  fall,  while  he  repudiates  the  character  assigned  to  her  by  Fox, 
and  Wyatt,  and  other  champions  of  Protestantism,  who  saw  in  her,  as  he 
says,  the  counterpart  of  her  child,  Elizabeth,  and  whose  late  memorials 


Froudds  History  of  England.  453 

of  her  saintliness  he  rejects  because  unsupported  by  the  evidence  of  those 
who  knew  her, — equally  rejects,  or,  in  his  own  words,  refuses  so  much  as 
to  entertain  the  stories  of  Sanders,  according  to  whom  Queen  Anne  was 
steeped  in  profligacy  from  her  childhood,  "  If  Protestant  legends  are 
admitted  as  of  authority,  the  Catholic  legends  must  enter  with  them,  and 
we  shall  only  deepen  the  confusion."  The  "  miserable  subject,"  as  he 
justly  calls  it,  is  one  on  which  rhetoric  and  rumour  are  alike  unprofitable; 
and  credit  is  due  to  him  for  confining  himself,  as  he  professes  to  do,  to 
accounts  written  at  the  time  by  persons  to  whom  not  the  outline  of  the 
facts  only  was  known,  but  the  circumstances  which  surrounded  them ;  by 
persons  who  had  seen  the  evidence  upon  the  alleged  offences,  which, 
though  now  lost  irrecoverably,  can  be  proved  to  have  once  existed.  The 
ground  on  which  he  is  here  treading  is,  as  he  avows,  so  critical,  and  the 
issues  at  stake  affect  so  deeply  the  honour  of  many  of  our  most  eminent 
English  statesmen,  that  he  very  properly  declines  to  step  boldly  out  with 
a  flowing  narrative,  as  a  thing  beside  his  mark,  and  indeed  beyond  his 
power,  but  proceeds  to  "  pick  his  way  slowly  as  he  can."  The  importance 
of  arriving  at  a  fair  judgment  is  his  excuse  for  the  details  on  which  he 
enters ;  and  these  details  he  presents  with  as  much  delicacy  and  restraint 
as  are  compatible  with  his  object  in  presenting  them  at  all. 

The  interest  of  this  book,  it  should  be  mentioned,  is  considerably 
marred,  for  general  readers,  by  the  large  use  the  author  makes  of  docu- 
ments, state  letters,  acts  of  parliament,  &c,  in  their  original  form.  Un- 
doubtedly there  is  great  value  in  the  collection  of  papers  thus  employed, 
for  whicn  he  has  to  thank  Sir  Francis  Palgrave, — consisting  of  official 
and  confidential  epistles,  minutes  of  council,  theological  tracts,  depositions 
upon  trials,  and  miscellaneous  communications  upon  the  state  of  the 
country,  furnished  by  agents  of  the  government — many  of  the  papers 
being,  as  is  said  in  the  Preface,  highly  illustrative  and  curious,  while  some 
contain  matters  hitherto  unknown,  of  great  historical  importance.  But 
they  are  too  largely  drawn  upon,  in  a  work  of  this  kind ;  however  excel- 
lent as  materials  towards  composition,  they  cannot  be  so  liberally  intro- 
duced in  the  room  and  stead  of  composition,  without  proportionably  im- 
pairing the  artistic  character  of  the  history,  and  assimilating  it  to  a  com- 
pilation— quite  a  gratuitous  result,  when  Mr.  Froude's  ability  in  the  art 
of  composition  is  considered.  It  may  be  well  to  retain  matter  of  so  much 
value  ;  but  at  any  rate  some  other  place  might  be  found  for  it,  than  in 
the  text  and  otherwise  symmetrical  body  of  the  work. 

The  more  so,  since,  judging  by  the  progress  thus  far  made,  Mr.  Froude's 
undertaking  is  likely  to  be  of  somewhat  undue  length.  Beginning  from 
the  Fall  of  Wolsey,  and  proposing  to  carry  us  on  to  the  Death  of  Eliza- 
beth, his  second  volume  takes  us  no  further  than  the  death  of  Elizabeth's 
ill-starred  mother.     Stirring  times  ! — which,  to  record  ably  and  aright, 

We  need  a  man, 

as  Ben  Jonson  puts  it, 

that  knows  the  several  graces, 

Of  history,  and  how  to  apt  their  places ; 
Where  brevity,  where  splendour,  and  where#  height, 
Where  sweetness  is  required,  and  where  weight 
We  need  a  man  can  speak  of  the  intents, 
The  councils,  actions,  orders,  and  events 


454  Froudes  History  of  England. 

Of  states,  and  censure  them ;  we  need  his  pea 
Can  write  the  things,  the  causes,  and  the  men. ; 
But  most  we  need 

adds  Ben,  addressing  with  rare-Ben-like  flattery  a  distinguished  contem- 
porary, 

But  most  we  need  his  faith  (and  all  hare  yon) 

That  dares  not  write  things  false,  nor  hide  things  true. 

If  we  cannot  apply  Ben's  panegyrical  parenthesis  to  Mr.  Froude,  k  is 
much  that  we  can  claim  for  him  a  signal  share  in  the  catalogue  o£  acquire- 
ments. 

Among  the  more  graphic  portions  of  the  History,  the  reader  will  ke 
struck  with  an  introductory  sketch  of  the  age  in  question  as  one  of  transi- 
tion.    Here  is  a  scanty  example  of  the  historian's  manner  of  regarding 
this  subject.     "  For,  indeed,  a  change  was  coming  upon  the  world,  the 
meaning  and  direction  of  which  even  still  is  hidden  from  us,  a  change 
from  era  to  era.     The  paths  trodden  by  the  footsteps  of  ages  were  broken 
up,  old  things  were  passing  away,  and  the  faith  and  the  life  of  ten  cen- 
turies were  dissolving  Eke  a  dream.     Chivalry  was  dying  ;  the  abbey  and 
the  castle  were  soon  together  to  crumble  into  ruins;  and  all  the  forma, 
desires,  beliefs,  convictions  of  the  old  world  were  passing  away,  never  to 
return.     A  new  continent  had  risen  up  beyond  the  western  sea.    The 
floor  of  heaven,  inlaid  with  stars,  had  sunk  back  into  an  infinite  abyss  of 
immeasurable  space ;  and  the  firm  earth  itself,  unfixed  from  its  founda- 
tions, was  seen  to  be  but  a  small  atom  in  the  awful  vastness  of  the  universe. 
In  the  fabric  of  habit  in  which  they  had  so  laboriously  built  for  them- 
selves, mankind  were  to  remain  no  longer.     And  now  it  is  all  gone — lib 
an  unsubstantial  pageant,  faded ;  and  between  us  and  the  old  English 
there  lies  a  gulf  of  mystery  which  the  prose  of  the  historian  will  never 
adequately  bridge.     They  cannot  come  to  us,  and  our  imagination  can 
but  feebly  penetrate  to  them.     Only  among  the  aisles  of  the  cathedrals, 
only  as  we  gaze  upon  their  silent  figures  sleeping  on  their  tombs,  some 
faint  conceptions  float  before  us  of  what  these  men  were  when  they 
were  alive;   and  perhaps  in  the  sound  of  church  bells,  that  peeokar 
creation  of  mediaeval  age,  which  falls  upon  the  ear  like  the  echo  of  a 
vanished  world."     We  would  refer,  too,  as  examples  of  the  historian's 
descriptive  and  narrative  skill,  to  his  account  of  the  Protestants,  who 
"  railed  at  authorities,  and  dared  to  read  the  New  Testament  with  their 
own  eyes,"— the  story  of  the  Nun  of  Kent,  who  seems  to  have  held  in 
her  hand  for  a  time  the  balance  of  the  fortunes  of  England,  and  whoa? 
"  inspiration"  was  believed  in  not  only  by  the  bishops,  and  by  Queen 
Catherine,  bat  by  Wolsey,  and  even  by  Sir  Thomas  More ; — the  report 
of  the  riotous  meeting  at  the  chapter-house  of  St  Paul's,  on  occasion  of 
the  fine  for  the  praemunire,  in  1531 — which  is  related  with  a  seasonable 
spice  of  quiet  humour ; — the  description  of  Queen  Anne's  progress  from 
Greenwich  to  the  Tower,  previous  to  her  coronation,  conducted  in  state 
by  the  lord  mayor  and  the  City  companies — "  one  of  those  splendid  exhi- 
bitions upon  the  water  which  in  the  days  when  the  silver  Thames  deserved 
its  name,  and' the  sun  could  shine  down  upon  it  out  of  the  blue  summer 
sky,   were   spectacles  scarcely  rivalled  in  gorgeousness  by  the  world- 
famous  wedding  of  the  Adriatic ;"— or  again,  the  tombing  history  of  the 
Charter-house  monks — how  they  fell,  splintered  to  pieces  by  the  iron 


Froude's  History  of  England.  455 

sceptre  and  the  iron  hand  which  held  it ;  and  the  tale  of  M ore's  last  say- 
ings and  doings — an  old  tale,  indeed,  and  often  told,  hut  not  often  enough 
yet  to  grow  dull  to  the  ear  of  Englishmen  of  another  age  and  another 
creed  than  his. 

We  had  marked  for  quotation  various  noticeable  passages  which  laud 
and  magnify,  in  quite  a  new  strain*  the  parliament  and  the  publicists  of 
Henry's  time ;  but  space  fails  us,  and  time  presses.  The  same  excuse 
must  serve  for  our  not  calling  attention,  by  present  and  pregnant  instances, 
to  those  frequent  intervals  of  philosophic  meditation  and  reflective  sugges- 
tion which  bespeak  the  man  of  serious  and  independent  thought 

Occasional  notices  of  celebrated  men  of  course  occur,  generally  sketchy 
and  slight,  but  not  without  evidence  of  an  eye  and  hand  for  portraiture, 
and  shrewdness  in  the  reading  of  character.  Perhaps  the  happiest  is  that 
of  Pope  Clement  VII.,  whom  to  believe  sincere  and  whom  to  believe  false 
seems  equally  impossible  ;  "  and  it  is,  perhaps,  idle  to  waste  conjectures 
on  the  motives  of  a  weak,  much -agitated  man,"  who  was,  probably,  in  his 
double-dealing  with  Francis  and  Henry,  "  but  giving  a  fresh  example  of 
his  disposition  to  say  at  each  moment  whatever  would  be  most  agreeable 
to  his  hearers.  This  was  his  unhappy  habit,  by  which  he  earned  lor 
himself  a  character  for  dishonesty,  I  labour  to  think,  but  half  deserved." 
Clement  was,  as  the  historian  elsewhere  depicts  him,  one  of  those  men 
who  waited  upon  fortune,  and  waited  always  without  success ;  who  gave 
his  word  as  the  interest  of  the  moment  suggested,  trusting  that  it  might 
be  convenient  to  observe  it ;  and  who  was  too  long  accustomed  to  break 
his  promises  to  look  with  any  particular  alarm  on  that  contingency.  '( In 
him,  infinite  insincerity  was  accompanied  with  a  grace  of  manner  whieh 
regained  confidence  as  rapidly  as  it  was  forfeited.  Desiring  sincerely,  so 
far  as  he  could  be  sincere  in  anything,  to  please  every  one  by  turns,  and 
reckless  of  truth  to  a  degree  in  which  he  was  without  a  rival  in  the  world, 
he  sought  only  to  escape  his  difficulties  by  inactivity,  and  he  trusted  to 
provide  himself  with  a  refuge  against  all  contingencies  by  waiting  upon 
time.  Even  when  at  length  he  was  compelled  to  act,  and  to  act  in  a 
distinct  direction,  his  plausibility  long  enabled  him  to  explain  away  his 
conduct ;  and,  honest  in  the  excess  of  his  dishonesty,  he  wore  his  fake- 
hood  with  so  easy  a  grace  that  it  assumed  the  character  of  truth.  He 
was  false,  deceitful,  treacherous ;  yet  he  had  the  virtue  of  not  pretending 
to  be  virtuous.  He  was  a  real  man,  though  but  an  indifferent  one ;  and 
we  can  refuse  to  no  one,  however  grave  his  faults,  a  certain  ambiguous 
sympathy,  when  in  his  perplexities  he  shows  us  features  so  truly  human 
in  their  weakness  as  those  of  Clement  VII."  We  have  glimpses,  also,  of 
the  Emperor  Charles,  and  of  Francis  I. — a  nearly  full-length  presentment 
of  Latimer — and  side-views  of  Gardiner,  Fisher,  Cranmer,  and  Cardinal 
Pole.  Of  other  notabilities,  Wolsey  does  not  here  occupy  so  prominent 
a  place  as  might  be  expected  ;  Sir  Thomas  More  is  none  too  admiringly 
dealt  with ;  Cromwell,  on  the  other  hand,  is  made  the  very  nost  of — as 
one  whose  "  truly  noble  nature"  did  not  seek  greatness,  but  was  rather 
sought  by  greatness  as  the  man  in  all  England  most  fit  to  bear  it — as  the 
one  man  who  during  the  seven  years  of  the  divorce  agitation  saw  his  way 
distinctly — to  whom  belonged  the  rare  prerogative  of  genius,  to  see  what 
other  men  could  not  see  ;  "  and  therefore  he  was  condemned  to  rule  a 
generation  which  hated  him,  to  do  the  will  of  God,  and  to  perish  m  his 
success." 


(     456     ) 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  NEWSPAPER  PRESS. 
By  Alexander  Aitdbews, 

AUTHOR  OF  THE   "  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY." 


The  Licensing  System — Restrictions  on  Newspapers— Letter  from  Fairfax  to  the 
Parliament — The  Parliament  persecuting  the  Press — The  Licensers:  Browne, 
Mabbot,  Birkenhead,  L'Estrange,  Frost,  and  Thurlow — Dawn  of  the  Restora- 
tion— The  First  Newspaper-office — Character  of  the  Newspapers — Dispute  with 
the  Irish  Parliament— L'Estrange  the  sole  Printer  of  News — The  Public  InteUi- 
gencer  and  the  News  established — Their  Opening  Address,  and  Contents— The 
first  "Own  Correspondents" — Coffee-houses  and  Newspapers  —  The  Oxford 
Gazette  established— Foundation  of  the  London  Gazette — The  First  Gazetteer- 
Charles  Perrot— Translation  of  the  Gazette  into  French. 

In  traversing  the  almost  untravelled  waste  of  newspaper  history,  we 
must  be  guided  by  the  landmarks  which  here  and  there  stand  out,  and 
have  been  set  up  by  previous  adventurers  upon  some  point  which  is 
defined  and  settled,  picking  up  as  we  go  the  stray  facts  which  we  may 
find  scattered  upon  the  way.  The  landmarks  we  have  thus  gained  and 
passed  are  Butter's  Weekly  Newes  and  the  "  Mercuries,"  and  we  are  now 
pushing  on  for  the  London  Gazette,  which  we  discern  in  the  distance; 
but  some  unconsidered  trifles  still  He  at  our  feet,  of  which  we  must  clear 
our  path.  The  first  we  stumble  upon  is  a  stumbling-block  that  many  a 
news-printer  tripped  over — the  arbitrary  power  of  the  licensers. 

The  licensing  of  newspapers  gave  rise  in  due  course  to  authorised, 
privileged,  and,  at  last,  official  journals ;  so  that,  in  tracing  that  system 
from  its  commencement,  we  are  tracing  to  its  earliest  source,  and  the 
causes  out  of  which  it  grew,  the  London  Gazette,  to  the  foundation  of 
which  we  propose  to  carry  up  our  history  in  the  present  chapter. 

Finding  that  the  people  would  have  news,  and  that  all  their  efforts 
were  useless  in  thwarting  them,  and  seeing  what  trash  was  issued  to 
appease  this  new  craving  of  the  people — trash,  too,  which  was  likely  to 
cause  the  ruling  powers  great  embarrassment — the  government  thought 
it  best  to  set  before  the  public  a  dish  of  its  own  concoction,  not  so  highly 
seasoned,  but  composed  of  just  such  ingredients  as  it  suited  its  purpose  to 
give  them ;  but  before  this  could  be  effectually  done,  the  news-sheets  of 
more  attractive,  because  more  spicy  matter,  had  to  be  got  out  of  the  way 
—and  they  were  got  out  of  the  way  by  the  licensing  system. 

As  might  be  expected,  the  first  attempt  at  suppressing  these  papers — 
many  of  them,  it  must  be  confessed,  ribald  and  licentious — emanated 
from  the  Church,  which  did  not  yet  clearly  comprehend  that  it  was  right 
or  safe  that  the  people  should  be  informed.  On  July  11th,  1637,  Arch- 
bishop Laud  procured  a  decree  limiting  the  number  of  master  printers  to 
twenty,  and  visiting  with  the  pillory  and  whipping  any  'who  should  print 
without  a  license.  This  seems  to  have  placed  Butter,  for  a  time,  in 
eclipse,  for  we  miss  his  name  from  the  list  of  the  twenty  privileged 
printers. 

This  was  not  the  earliest  notice  we  find  of  a  censorship  of  the  press,  for 
Henry  VIII.  and  Elizabeth  were  particularly  jealous  of  its  power;  but  it 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  457 

was  the  first  which  interfered  with  the  newspaper  press,  and  the  Weekly 
Newes  was,  as  we  have  seen,  sorely  troubled  by  it  In  1642  we  find  the 
clerk  of  the  parliament  vested  with  the  power  of  licensing,  and  the  True 
Diurnal  of  Parliamentary  Intelligence  hews  the  signature,  "  Jo.  Browne, 
Cler.  Parliamentor."  In  October,  1645,  the  Kingdom9 s  Weekly  Post 
appears  "according  to  order,"  and  in  January,  1646,  we  have  "An 
Exact  and  True  Collection  of  Weekly  Passages  to  show  the  Errors  of  the 
Weekly  Pamphlets :"  "  by  Authority. n  Still  the  number  of  unlicensed 
news-sheets  increased,  and  on  September  the  21st,  1647,  Sir  Thomas 
Fairfax  addressed  a  letter  of  remonstrance  to  the  House  of  Lords,  request- 
ing that  steps  should  be  taken  for  suppressing  them;  "and  yet"  (the 
days  of  a  government  Gazette  are  dawning)  "that  the  kingdom's 
expectation  may  be  satisfied,  in  relation  to  intelligence,  till  a  firm  peace 
be  settled,  considering  the  mischiefs  that  will  happen  by  the  poisonous 
writings  of  evil  men,  sent  abroad  daily  to  abuse  and  deceive  the  people, 
that,  if  the  House  shall  see  it  fit,  some  two  or  three  sheets  may  be  per- 
mitted to  come  forth  weekly,  which  may  be  licensed,  and  have  some 
stamp  of  authority  with  them ;  and,  in  respect  of  the  former  licenser,  Mr. 
Mabbot  hath  approved  himself  faithful  in  that  service  of  licensing,  and 
likewise  in  the  service  of  the  Houses  and  of  this  army,  I  humbly  desire 
that  he  may  be  restored  and  continued  in  the  same  place  of  licenser.'9 

It  was  clearly  time  some  steps  were  taken  to  restrain  the  press  within 
moderate  bounds,  and  it  was  but  wise,  when  the  nation  was  torn  and  dis- 
tracted by  internal  convulsions,  to  do  that  which,  under  other  circum- 
stances, would  be  treason  to  the  constitution  of  the  country.  The  parlia- 
ment did  interfere,  and  on  the  30th  of  September,  1647,  an  ordinance 
passed  the  House  of  Lords  prohibiting  any  person  from  "  making, 
writing,  printing,  selling,  publishing,  or  uttering,  or  causing  to  be  made, 
&c,  any  book,  &c,  &c,  sheet  or  sheets  of  news  whatsoever,  except  the 
same  be  licensed  by  both  or  either  House  of  Parliament,  with  the  name 
of  the  author,  printer,  and  licenser  affixed,"  under  pain  of*  a  penalty  on 
the  writer  of  forty  shillings,  or  forty  days'  imprisonment ;  twenty  shillings 
on  the  printer,  or  twenty  days'  imprisonment,  and  the  breaking  up  of  his 
press  and  printing  materials ;  and  on  the  hawker  a  whipping  as  a  rogue, 
and  the  seizure  of  his  papers.  In  Whitelocke's  "  Memorials  "  we  find  a 
committee  appointed,  November  27th,  1647,  "  to  find  out  the  authors  of 
Mercurius  Pragmaticus  and  Mercurius  Mielancholicus,  to  punish  them, 
and  the  printers  and  sellers  of  them,  and  to  seize  the  impressions  of  them" 
(vol.  ii.  p.  281). 

Fairfax's  suggestion  was  further  adopted,  and  Gilbert  Mabbot*  ap- 
pointed licenser. 

We  have  in  vain  searched  the  pages  of  Anthony  a  Wood,  Granger, 
Kippis,  Chalmers,  Watkins,  Hose,  and  all  the  other  biographical  au- 
thorities extant,  for  any  particulars  of  Mabbot ;  all  we  know  is  that  he 
resigned  his  post  in  May,  1649,  for  reasons  which  do  him  credit.  It  is 
plain  that  he  considered  the  stern  necessity  for  a  licenser  of  the  press  had 
passed  over,  and  was  for  again  letting  it  go  unshackled.  He  considered 
the  common  law  sufficient  to  avenge  any  literary  outrage  of  which  the 
papers  might  be  guilty,  and  suggests  that  the  authors  and  printers  should 

*  Whitelocke,  in  his  "  Memorials,"  spells  the  name  Mabbol  and  Mabbold. 
Aug. — vol.  cvn.  no.  ccccxxvul  2  h 


458  T lie  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

therefore  simply  subscribe  their  names.  He  boldly  proclaimed  that  a 
system  of  licensing  (the  urgent  need  of  it  having  ceased)  was  unjust, 
arbitrary,  and  impolitic.  It  is  equally  plain  that  the  working  of  it  had 
been  unsuccessful)  for  he  asserts  that  "  many  thousands  of  scandalous  and 
malignant  pamphlets  have  been  published  with  his  name  thereunto,  as  if 
he  had  licensed  the  same  (though  he  never  saw  them),  on  purpose  (as  he 
conceives)  to  prejudice  him  in  his  reputation  amongst  the  honest  party  of 
the  nation." 

The  sincerity  of  his  views  he  conscientiously  proved  by  soliciting  his 
discharge.  "  Mabbot,"  says  Dr.  Birch,  in  his  "  Life  of  Milton"  (page 
28),  "continued  in  office  till  May  22nd,  1649,  when,  as  Mr.  Whitelocke 
observes,  '  upon  his  desire  and  reasons  against  licensing  of  books  to  he 
printed,  he  was  discharged  of  that  employment.'  " 

We  do  not  find  any  successor  immediately  appointed.  His  resignsaoo 
is  thus  accepted: 

"  Mr.  Mabbot  hath  long  desired  several  members  of  the  House,  and 
lately  the  Council  of  State,  to  move  the  House  that  he  might  be  discharged 
of  licensing  books  for  the  future,  upon  the  reasons  following"  (here 
follow  the  reasons,  the  substance  of  which  we  have  given) ;  "  A  com- 
mittee of  the  Council  of  State  being  satisfied  with  these  and  other  reasons 
of  Mr.  Mabbot  concerning  licensing,  the  Council  of  State  reports  to  the 
House :  upon  which  the  House  ordered  this  day  that  the  said  Mr.  Mabbot 
should  be  discharged  of  licensing  books  for  the  future." — From  "A 
Perfect  Diurnal  of  some  Passages  in  Parliament,  and  the  Daily  Pro- 
ceedings of  the  Army  under  his  Excellency  the  Lord  Fairfax.  From 
Monday,  May  21,  to  Monday,  May  28,  1649.  Collected  for  the  Satisfac- 
tion of  Such  as  Desire  to  be  truly  Informed."    No.  304,  page  2531. 

The  licensing  now  seems  to  have  grown  lax  and  desultory.  "  A  Brief 
Relation  of  some  Affairs  and  Transactions,  Civil  and  Military"  (No.  4, 
October  23rd,  1649),  was  "  Licensed  by  Gualtor  Frost,  Esquire,  Secretary 
to  the  Council  of  State,  according  to  the  direction  of  the  late  Act"  The 
"  Perfect  Diurnal  of  some  Passages  of  the  Armies  in  England  and  lie- 
land"  (No.  1,  December  20  to  27,  1649-50)  was  "  Licensed  by  the 
Secretary  of  the  Army ;"  and  then  it  becomes  obscure,  and  a  few  papers 
come  out  "  by  order,"  "  by  authority,"  "  cum  privilegio"  "  with  license," 
or  "  with  allowance."  In  1656  we  meet  with  papers  licensed  by  Thurlow, 
secretary  to  Cromwell,  and  who  had  himself  commenced  life  as  a  political 
writer. 

The  pressure  of  the  licensing  system  was,  however,  not  yet  very  tight 
upon  the  newspaper  press  ;  it  strangled  political  pamphlets,  and  squeezed 
the  venom  out  of  political  satires,  but  tne  periodical  press  continued  to 
evade  or  to  defy  its  power.  Indeed,  the  government,  finding  the  "Mercuries" 
and  newspapers  swarming,  without  license  or^  authority,  seems  to  hare 
adopted  no  vigorous  measures  to  restrain  them,  but  to  trust  rather,  indie 
latter  years  of  the  Protectorate,  to  having  a  sort  of  semi-official  organ  to 
counteract  their  influence.  This  organ  was  the  Mercurius  Po&tieus 
and  the  Public  Intelligencer  of  Marchmont  Nedham,  which  were,  in  fact, 
two  editions  of  one  paper, — the  former  appearing  on  the  Thursday,  the 
latter  on  the  Monday  of  each  week.  In  1656,  they  are  entered  in  the 
books  of  the  Stationers'  Company  as  the  property  of  Thomas  Newcomhe, 
with  the  license  of  Secretary  Thurlow ;  but  on  the  9th  of  April,  1660, 


The  History  oftlie  Newspaper  Prm.  4$9 

they  appeared  as  the  property  of  Dury  and  Muddiman,  with  the  license 
of  the  Council  of  State,  This  change  is  significantly  accounted  for  in  the 
following  announcement  in  the  Parliamentary  Intelligencer  of  April  16, 
1660.  The  reaction  had  taken  place  ;  the  Commonwealth  was  no  more  ; 
and  poor  Marchmont  Nedham  had  worn  every  one  of  his  disguises  thread- 
hare  : 

"  Whereas  Marchmont  Nedham,  the  author  of  the  weekly  news  hooks, 
called  Mercurius  Politicus  and  the  Publique  Intelligencer,  is,  by  order 
of  the  Council  of  State,  discharged  from  writing  or  publishing  any  pub- 
lique intelligence,  the  reader  is  desired  to  take  notice,  that,  by  order  of 
the  said  council,  Giles  Dury  and  Henry  Muddiman  are  authorised  hence- 
forth to  write  and  publish  the  said  intelligence,  the  one  upon  the  Thurs- 
day, and  the  other  upon  the  Monday,  which  they  do  intend  to  Set  out 
under  the  titles  of  The  Parliamentary  Intelligencer  and  Mercurius 
Publicus" 

Nedham  was  off  to  Holland  to  save  his  neck,  and  Charles  II.  was  on 
his  way  from  Holland  to  receive  a  crown*  In  the  next  year,  the  last 
memory  of  the  republican  prints  was  effaced,  and,  the  House  being  dis- 
solved, the  Parliamentary  Intelligencer  changed  its  name  for  the  King- 
dom's Intelligencer : 

"  The  Kingdom's  Intelligencer  of  the  Affairs  now  in  agitation  in 
England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  together  with  Foreign  Intelligence  ;  to 
prevent  false  News,     By  Authority.     No.  I.,  January  7,  1661." 

It  is  about  this  time  that  we  first  hear  of  a  newspaper  having  an  office 
of  its  own.  Up  till  now,  the  paper  had  simply  borne  the  name  of  the 
printer,  as  "  Printed  for  A.  B.  by  R.  Wood."  But  on  June  3<>,  1659, 
we  have  No.  I.  of — 

"  A  Particular  Advice  from  the  Office  of  Intelligence  near  the  Old 
Exchange,  printed  for  J.  Macock."  This  paper  was  soon  entitled  "  Oc- 
currences from  Foreign  Parts,  &c."    And  published  by  Authority. 

With  the  Restoration,  the  censorship  of  the  newspapers  became  more 
rigorous,  and  the  distracted  nation  was  so  eager  for  rest,  that  it  accepted 
with  resignation  a  monarch  who  gave  himself  up  to  his  licentious  passions 
and  put  its  own  in  fetters.  The  act  of  1662,  "  for  preventing  the  fre- 
quent abuses  in  printing  seditious,  treasonable,  and  unlicensed  books  and 
pamphlets,  and  for  regulating  of  printing  and  printing-presses,"  placed 
the  different  departments  of  literature  under  different  licensing  powers, 
and  the  newspapers  fell  under  that  of  the  secretary  of  state.  Had  not 
the  system  of  legislation  throughout  this  "  merry"  reign  been  a  conti- 
nuous warfare  against  the  liberties  of  the  press,  and  indicated  a  lasting  de- 
sire to  destroy  it,  we  should  not,  advocates  though  we  are  for  its  freedom, 
have  found  much  fault  with  this  early  act  of  Charles's  parliament.  The 
people  were  as  anxious  for  repose  from  party  strife  as  the  king  was — we 
have  shown  what  manner  of  men  wrote  the  "  Mercuries"  and  many  of  the 
newspapers — and,  to  give  time  for  angry  passions  to  subside,  and  while 
the  fallen  party  yet  had  a  prospect  through  their  writers  of  disturbing 
the  public  peace,  it  might  have  been  a  wholesome  restriction.  We  must, 
as  nearly  as  may  be,  regard  it  in  the  same  view  as  we  should  have  done 
at  the  time,  and  bear  in  mind  that  the  press  and  its  conductors  at  that 
period  were  very  different  to  the  press  and  its  conductors  of  which  we  are 
now  so  justly  proud.     Intestine  strife  and  fraternal  bloodshed  had  so  long 

2h2 


460  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

been  the  order  of  the  day,  that  a  patriotic  government  even  would  not 
have  been  backward  in  providing  against  the  country  being  again  dis- 
turbed by  a  set  of  reckless  incendiaries  and  needy  adventurers,  who, 
moreover,  opposed  everything,  but  proposed  nothing.  But  unfortunately, 
this  feeling  of  prince  and  parliament  was  not  satisfied  with  measures  of 
repression;  instead  of  simply  checking  the  licentiousness  of  the  press, 
they  endeavoured  to  extinguish  the  press  altogether — to  prevent  fire,  they 
would  have  put  out  the  light  and  left  the  people  in  darkness. 

A  more  pliant  character  than  Mabbot  was  found  in  Sir  John  Birken- 
head, who  appears  to  have  been  invested  for  a  time  with  the  power  of 
licensing ;  but  another  favourite  of  the  court  was  aspiring  to  the  office, 
and,  on  June  3,  1663,  a  pamphlet  appeared  with  the  title  of  "  Consi- 
derations and  Proposals  in  order  to  the  Regulation  of  the  Press ;  toge- 
ther with  diverse  Instances  of  Treasonous  and  Seditious  Pamphlets, 
proving  the  Necessity  thereo£  By  Roger  L' Estrange.  London: 
printed  by  A.  C." 

We  have  gone  carefully  through  this  pamphlet,  and  find  no  particular 
mention  made  of  newspapers,  although,  no  doubt,  they  were  included 
under  the  general  designation  of  "  libels.1'  Milton,  in  his  noble  plea  for 
the  liberty  of  unlicensed  printing,  makes  no  special  allusion  to  newspapers, 
neither,  indeed,  do  any  other  of  the  principal  writers  of  the  time  upon 
that  subject.  This  would  lead  us  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  not 
looked  upon  with  much  respect  at  present — in  fact,  we  have  evidence 
of  the  amount  of  esteem  which  they  had  won  for  themselves,  in  a 
pamphlet  published  in  1679,*  entitled  "A  just  Vindication  of  Learning 
and  the  Liberty  of  the  Press"  (page.  12),  in  which  they  are  placed  in 
sorry  company  : — "  Why  must  no  writing,  either  in  the  behalf  of  such 
great  matters  as  Liberty,  Property,  and  Religion,  or  in  the  behalf  of  such 
small  trifles  as  Funeral  Tickets,  Play  House  Bills,  City  Mercuries,  Hack- 
ney  Coach  Bills,  Quack  Doctors'  Bills,  and  the  like,  be  printed  without  a 
license  ?"  This  was  at  the  time  when  Mr.  Nichols  considers  the  charac- 
ter of  the  newspaper  press  had  been  so  much  improved  by  L'Estrange. 

The  pamphlet  of  Sir  Roger  had  what  was  no  doubt  its  intended  effect, 
and,  in  1663,  he  was  appointed  licenser,  a  patent  also  being  passed  in 
August  of  that  year  giving  him  "  all  the  sole  privilege  of  writing,  print- 
ing, and  publishing  all  Narratives,  Advertisements,  Mercuries,  Intelli- 
gencers, Diurnals,  and  other  books  of  public  intelligence."f 

Although  this  patent  was  conferred  in  August,  1663,  L'Estrange's 
first  appearance  on  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Company  in  the  character 
of  licenser  is  on  October  30. 

The  personal  history  of  L'Estrange,  the  licenser  and  journalist,  is  rather 
favourable,  for  he  was  a  man  of  learning  and  erudition,  and  whilst  a 
licenser  he  suppressed  the  corrupt  papers,  which  had  run  up  as  thick  as 
weeds  and  as  rank  as  thistles ;  as  journalist,  he  planted  in  their  place 
tolerably  fair  specimens  of  newspapers,  of  a  better  and  healthier  stock 
than  England  had  yet  seen.     Still  all  this  is  no  justification  of  the  line 

*  A  passage  from  this  pamphlet  is  quoted  in  the  "  Fourth  Estate,"  voL  i.  p.  M»i 
but  by  a  typographical  transposition  the  date  is  given  as  "  1769." 
t  Bagford'8  Collections  in  Harlarian  MSS.,  5910,  vol.  ii 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  46 1 

of  policy  which  put  into  the  hands  of  one  man  the  privilege  of  writing 
one,  and  suppressing  all  other  public  journals. 

Roger  L'Estrange  was  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Hammond  L'Estrange, 
of  Hunstanton  Hall,  Norfolk.  He  was  born  in  1616,  and  in  1644  was 
commissioned  by  the  king  to  get  Lynn,  in  Norfolk,  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  parliamentary  troops.  His  secret  mission  was,  however,  discovered, 
and  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  by  whom  he  was  tried  at  Guild- 
hall as  a  spy,  and  sentenced  to  death,  but  was  reprieved,  and  lay  unexe- 
cuted but  unpardoned  for  four  years,  when  he  effected  his  escape  to  the 
Continent,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  raise  the  Royalists  in  Kent.  On  the 
passing  of  the  Act  of  Indemnity  in  1653,  he  ventured  back,  but  had 
great  difficulty  in  procuring  his  pardon,  and  lived  in  obscurity,  if  not 
poverty,  until  the  return  of  Charles  II.  His  connexion  with  the  news- 
paper press  we  shall  have  to  mention  in  its  place ;  in  1687,  we  find  him 
member  of  parliament  and  a  knight,  a  translator  of  several  classical  works 
(among  which  were  Cicero's  Offices,  Seneca's  Morals,  JEsop's  Fables, 
&c),  and  altogether  a  successful  writer  and  politician ;  but  in  the  reign 
of  William  and  Mary  he  fell  under  the  suspicion  of  the  court,  and  was 
but  coldly  treated  ;  and  he  died  in  the  shade,  on  September  11,  1704, 
and  was  buried  in  St.  Giles's-in-the- Fields. 

We  have  already  said  that  the  Parliamentary  Intelligencer  of  1659 
had,  in  1661,  become  the  Kingdom7 s  Intelligencer,  and  was  a  semi-official 
organ  of  the  government.  This,  however,  did  not,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
Irish  parliament,  justify  it  in  publishing  the  debates  of  that  body,  and  a 
singular  dispute  arose  out  of  it  between  the  Speaker  and  Sir  Edward 
Nicholas,  the  secretary  of  state,  which  commenced  in  a  warm  remon- 
strance from  the  former,  dated  July  9,  1662,  but  the  result  of  which  we 
cannot  trace  further.  The  Kingdom's  Intelligence^  in  its  turn,  gave 
place  to  the  Public  Intelligencer ',  "  published  for  the  satisfaction  and 
information  of  the  people;  with  privilege;  by  Roger  L'Estrange,  Esq.," 
which  first  appeared  on  Monday,  the  31st  of  August,  1663 ;  and  the  News, 
a  kind  of  Thursday  edition  of  the  same  paper,  as  the  Mercurius  PolHicus 
had  been  of  its  predecessor. 

The  prospectus  of  the  Intelligencer  furnishes  us  with  some  strange 
views  of  L'Estrange  the  licenser,  who  speaks  apart  from  L'Estrange  the 
journalist : 

"  As  to  the  point  of  printed  intelligence,  I  do  declare  myself  (as  I  hope 
I  may  in  a  matter  left  so  absolutely  indifferent,  whether  any  or  none), 
that,  supposing  the  press  in  order,  the  people  in  their  right  wits,  and 
news  or  no  news  to  be  the  question,  a  public  Mercury  should  never  have 
my  vote ;  because  I  think  it  makes  the  multitude  too  familiar  with  the 
actions  and  counsels  of  their  superiors,  too  pragmatical  and  censorious, 
and  gives  them  not  only  an  itch,  but  a  kind  of  colourable  right  and  license 
to  be  meddling  with  the  government.  All  which  (supposing  as  before 
supposed),  does  not  yet  hinder  but  that,  in  this  juncture,  a  paper  of  that 
quality  may  be  both  safe  and  expedient ;  truly  if  I  should  say  necessary, 
perhaps  the  case  would  bear  it ;  for  certainly  there  is  not  anything  which 
at  this  instant  more  imports  his  majesty's  service  and  the  publick  than  to 
redeem  the  vulgar  from  their  former  mistakes  and  delusions,  and  to  pre- 
serve them  from  the  like  for  the  time  to  come  ;  to  both  which  purposes, 


462  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

the  prudent  management  of  a  Gazette*  may  contribute  in  a  very  high 
degree  ;  for,  besides  that  it  is  everybody's  money,  and,  in  truth,  a  great 
part  of  most  men's  study  and  business,  it  is  none  of  the  worst  ways  of  address 
to  the  genius  and  humour  of  the  common  people,  whose  affections  are 
much  more  capable  of  being  tuned  and  wrought  upon  by  convenient  hints 
and  touches  in  the  shape  and  air  of  a  pamphlet,  than  by  the  strongest 
reason  and  best  notions  imaginable  under  any  other  and  more  sober  form 
whatsoever.  To  which  advantages  of  being  popular  and  grateful,  must 
be  added  as  none  of  the  least,  that  it  is  likewise  seasonable,  and  worth  the 
while,  were  there  no  other  use  of  it  than  only  to  detect  and  disappoint  the 
malice  of  those  scandalous  and  false  reports  which  are  daily  contrived  and 
bruited  against  the  government.  So  that,  upon  the  main,  I  perceive  the 
thing  requisite ;  (for  aught  I  can  see  yet)  once  a  week  may  do  the  busi- 
ness, for  I  intend  to  utter  my  news  by  weight,  and  not  by  measure.  Yet, 
if  I  shall  find,  when  my  hand  is  in,  and  after  the  planting-  and  securing  of 
my  correspondents,  that  the  matter  will  fairly  furnish  more,  without 
either  uncertainty,  repetition,  or  impertinence,  I  shall  keep  myself  free  to 
double  at  pleasure.  One  book  a  week  may  be  expected,  however,  to  be 
published  every  Thursday,  and  finished  upon  the  Tuesday  night,  leaving 
Wednesday  entire  for  the  printing  of  it  off." 

He  had  not  long  "got his  hand  in,"  and  "  planted"  his  correspondents, 
than  he  "doubled,"  and  the  News  was  the  result,  according  to  the 
arrangement  previously  described.  By  the  way,  this  is  the  first  time  we 
hear  of  newspaper  correspondents,  in  our  present  understanding  of  the 
term — the  regular  newspapers  before  the  Commonwealth  only  purported 
to  be  translations,  or  extracts  from  private  letters. 

And  so  we  are  indebted  for  a  government  organ  to  the  necessity  of 
"tuning"  and  playing  upon  the  affections,  "  genius,  and  humour  of  the 
common  people. "     Very  candid,  upon  my  wo*d,  Mr.  L'Estrange ! 

The  Public  Intelligencer  contained  a  sort  of  obituary,  some  account 
of  the  proceedings  in  parliament,  and  in  the  court  of  claims,  a  list  of  the 
circuits  of  the  judges,  of  sheriffs,  Lent  preachers,  &c.  The  newspaper 
was  at  last  in  process  of  fledging ! 

Coffee-houses  were  fast  springing  up,  and  they  at  once  adopted  the 
policy  of  adding  newspapers  to  their  attractions;  and  to  this  day  coffee 
and  news  have  always  gone  together ;  not  so  much  at  the  domestic  board, 
but  at  the  public  rooms,  where  people  rush  in  and  swallow  a  cup  of  one 
and  a  slice  of  the  other.  An  old  poem  of  1663,  deprecating  the  use  of 
coffee,  says, 

These  less  than  coffee's  self,  these  coffee  men, 
These  sons  of  nothing,  that  can  hardly  make 
Their  broth,  for  laughing  how  the  jest  doth  take, 
Yet  grin,  and  give  ye,  for  the  vine  s  pure  blood  ; 
A  loathsome  potion  not  yet  understood— 
Syrop  of  soot,  or  essence  of  old  shoes, 
Dasht  with  diurnals  or  the  book  of  news. 

L'Estrange  continued  his  Intelligencer  till  the  19th  of  January,  1665, 

*  The  choice  of  this  term  must  have  been  accidental,  and  suggested  by  the  Ve- 
netian papers,  or  the  Paris  official  papers.  There  had  been  no  papers  in  EnglH 
using  the  title,  it  being  first  imported  for  the  use  of  the  Oxford  Gazette. 


The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press.  463 

when  an  organ  more  closely  connected  with  and  emanating  from  the 
court  was  suggested,  and  on  Saturday,  November  the  13th,  appeared  No/1 
of  the  Oxford  Gazette.  The  panic  of  the  plague  had  driven  the  court 
from  London,  and  itself  so  pure,  in  its  flight  from  corruption  it  sought 
safety  in  its  "  ancient  and  loyal  city"  of  Oxford.  Hence  then  issued  the 
first  number  of  the  new  government  Gazette,  being  a  folio  half-sheet, 
"  printed  at  Oxon  by  Leonard  Litchfield,"  and  published  twice  a  week 
"by  authority."  An  edition  in  two  small  folio  pages  was  reprinted  in 
London  by  Thomas  Newcombe,  "for  the  use  of  some  merchants  and 
gentlemen  who  desire  the  same."  This  Oxford  Gazette  is  believed  to 
have  been  written  by  Henry  Muddiman.  On  the  return  of  the  court  to 
London,  the  Gazette  was  transferred  to  the  capital,  and  on  the  5th  of 
February,  1666,  came  out  as  the  London  Gazette.  The  government 
organ  was  at  once  placed  under  the  control  of  Sir  Joseph  Williamson, 
the  under-secretary  of  state,  who  "  procured  for  himself  the  writing  of 
it,"  although  he  fulfilled  his  office  by  deputy,  the  paper  being  written  by 
Charles  Perrot,  A.M.,  of  Oriel  College,*  for  the  first  five  years  of  its 
existence.  This  first  of  gazetteers  was  the  second  son  of  Edward  Perrot, 
Esq.,  of  North  Leigh,  near  Oxford,  and  was  born  at  Radley,  Berkshire, 
about  the  year  1632.  He  was  a  travelled  and  accomplished  gentleman, 
but  no  doubt  owed  his  appointment  to  his  being  the  author  of  two 
pamphlets  in  defence  of  the  prerogative.  His  progress  in  university 
honours  was  rapid.  He  was  entered  a  Commoner  of  Oriel  in  1645,  be- 
came a  Bachelor  of  Arts  in  1649,  a  Fellow  in  1652,  Master  of  Arts  in 
1653,  Dean  in  1659,  and  was  licensed  to  study  the  Civil  Law  in  1661. 
He  must  not  be  confounded  with  the  Dr.  Charles  Perrott,  who  represented 
the  University  in  parliament  in  the  year  1679,  as  our  gazetteer  was  then 
in  another  place,  having  died  on  the  23rd  of  April,  1677,  and  found  a 
grave  in  the  chancel  of  North  Leigh  Church. 

And  thus  and  then  was  the  London  Gazette  established. 

Newcombe,  the  registered  proprietor  (as  we  should  now  call  it)  of  the 
Public  Intelligencer,  and  who  had  printed  under  the  protection  of  Secre- 
tary Thurlow,  seems  to  have  kept  in  favour ;  and  the  London  Gazette, 
up  till  July  19th,  1788,  is  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  as  the  pro- 
perty of  "  Thomas  Newcomb,  of  the  Savoy." 

As  we  may  not  have  occasion  to  allude  to  the  Gazette  again  at  present, 
we  must  take  leave  to  anticipate  a  little,  by  alluding  to  a  curious  episode 
which  occurs  in  its  early  history.  From  the  following  entries  in  the 
Journals  of  the  House  of  Commons,  it  would  appear  that  there  was  an 
edition  of  the  government  organ  issued  in  French,  but  whether  this  was 
a  regular  or  only  occasional  publication,  seems  doubtful,  although  the 
entries  would  lead  us  to  infer  that  it  was  regular : 

"  1678,  Nov.  6th. — A  complaint  having  been  made  to  the  House  of  a 
material  mistake  in  that  part  of  the  translation  of  the  Gazette  into 
French  which  has  reference  to  his  Majesty's  proclamation  for  removing 
the  Papists  :  Ordered,  that  Mods.  Moranville,  who  translated  the  Gazette 
into  French,  and  Mr.  Newcombe,  the  printer,  be  summoned  to  attend 
the  House  on  to-morrow  morning." 

*  Wood's  Athens  Oxoniensis  and  Fasti. 


464  The  History  of  the  Newspaper  Press. 

"  Nov.  7th. — Mr.  Newcombe  being  called  in  to  give  an  account  of  the 
translation  of  the  Gazette  into  French,  informed  the  House  that  he  was 
only  concerned  in  the  setting  the  press,  and  that  he  understood  not  the 
French  tongue !  And  that  Mods.  Moranviile  had  been  employed  in  that 
affair  for  many  years,  and  was  the  only  corrector  of  it.  Mons.  Moran- 
viile being  called  in,  acknowledged  himself  guilty  of  the  mistake,  but  he 
endeavoured  to  excuse  it,  alleging  it  was  through  inadvertency.  Ordered, 
that  Mons.  Moranviile  be  committed  to  the  custody  of  the  serjeant-at- 
arms,  and  that  he  be  searched,  and  his  house  and  lodgings.  And  several 
papers  written  in  French  being  found  about  him,  Ordered,  that  the  said 
papers  be  referred  to  the  committee  appointed  to  examine  Mr.  Col  man's 
papers,  to  translate  the  same,  and  report  to  the  House.  Ordered,  that  it 
be  referred  to  a  committee,  further  to  examine  the  matter  concerning  the 
translating,  printing,  and  publishing  the  French  Gazette." — Journals 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  vol.  ix.  • 

"  Whitehall,  Nov.  10th. — A  great  and  malicious  abuse  being  found  to 
have  been  committed  by  the  person  entrusted  to  translate  the  Gazette 
into  French,  in  the  translation  of  his  Majesty's  late  proclamation,  com- 
manding all  persons  being  Popish  recusants,  or  so  reputed,  to  depart 
from  the  cities  of  London  and  Westminster,  and  all  other  places  within 
ten  miles  of  the  same  :  for  which  he  is  in  custody,  and  the  matter  under 
examination  in  order  to  his  just  punishment,  it  is  thought  fit  for  the 
rectifying  of  the  said  abuse,  that  a  new  and  true  translation  of  his  Ma- 
jesty's said  proclamation  be  given  to  the  world  in  the  French  Gazette  of 
this  day.n— London  Gazette,  Nov.  7-11,  1678. 

"Nov.  18th. — Serjeant  Seis  reports  from  the  committee  appointed  to 
examine  concerning  the  translating,  printing,  and  publishing  the  Gazette 
in  French,  that  the  committee  had  taken  the  particulars  thereof,  and  put 
the  same  into  writing,  which  he  delivered  in  at  the  clerk's  table."— 
Journals  of  the  House  of  Commons,  vol.  ix. 

The  early  numbers  of  the  Gazette  consist  of  two  pages,  of  two 
columns  each,  principally  occupied  by  shipping  news  and  short  foreign 
advices.  Occasionally  an  advertisement  is  admitted,  and  one  of  die 
earliest  was  called  into  existence  by  the  Great  Fire : 

"  Such  as  have  settled  in  new  Habitations  since  the  late  fire,  and  de- 
sire for  the  convenience  of  their  correspondence  to  publish  the  place  of 
their  present  abode,  or  to  give  notice  of  goods  lost  or  found,  may  repair  to 
the  corner  house  in  Bloomsbury,  or  on  the  east  side  of  the  great  square, 
before  the  house  of  the  Right  Honorable  the  Lord  Treasurer,  where 
there  is  care  taken  for  the  receipt  and  publication  of  such  advertise- 
ments."— London  Gazette,  No.  95,  Oct  11  to  15,  1666. 


(    465    ) 


THE  OLD  "KING'S  ARMS." 

•  A  few  days  since,  as  I  was  going  to  visit  a  patient  who  resides  at  a 

distance  of  a  few  miles  from  C ,  the  little  country  place  where  I 

practise  as  a  surgeon,  I  passed,  at  a  turn  of  the  road  not  far  from  the 
town,  a  woman  whose  appearance  greatly  struck  and  interested  me.  She 
was  sitting  on  a  hank,  with  her  feet  almost  in  the  water  of  a  large  dirty 
pool,  which  here  lies  between  the  road  and  the  hedge.  Her  dress,  though 
torn  and  draggled,  appeared  to  he  of  good  make  and  quality — at  least,  it . 
seemed  very  different  from  what  is  usually  worn  by  peasants  or  vagrants : 
I  think  it  was  of  black  silk.  Her  bonnet,  which  was  also  black,  was 
much  battered  and  out  of  shape.  Around  her  was  tightly  wrapped  a 
coarse  plaid  shawl.  She  was  leaning  forward,  her  elbows  resting  on  her 
knees,  and  her  chin  on  the  hollow  of  her  hands.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  dirty  pool  before  her.  As  she  heard  my  horse's  step,  she  looked  up 
for  a  moment,  but  immediately  resumed  her  former  position.  During  that 
moment,  however,  I  saw  that  she  was  a  woman  apparently  about  forty 
years  of  age,  and  that  her  face,  though  thin,  pale,  and  haggard,  preserved 
some  traces  of  former  beauty.  Fearing  that  she  must  be  ill,  and  thinking 
the  seat  she  had  chosen  anything  but  beneficial  for  a  person  who  was  so 
— for  there  had  been  showers  during  the  night  and  morning,  and  the 
grass  was  damp — indeed  there  was  a  light  rain  then  falling — I  pulled 
up  my  horse  and  addressed  her : 

"  Are  you  not  afraid,"  I  said,  "  that  you  will  take  cold  by  sitting 
here?" 

"  Oh  no,  I  thank  you,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  not  at  all 
afraid  of  that.     I  shall  not  take  cold." 

"  Have  you  come  from  the  town  ?" 

"  Oh  no.     I  have  not  been  in  the  town." 

"  Are  you  on  your  way  to  it  ?" 

"  Oh  no.     I  cannot  go  into  the  town." 

"  What,  then,  are  you  waiting  for  some  one  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.     I  am  waiting  for  some  one." 

"  Good  morning  to  you,  then,"  I  said,  moving  on,  with  a  slight  bow, 
for  there  was  something  in  her  voice  and  manner  which  seemed  to  call 
for  that  courtesy. 

"  Good  morning  to  you,  sir !"  she  replied,  rising,  and  gracefully  bend- 
ing her  head — "  good  morning !" 

I  rode  on,  visited  my  patient,  and  in  about  an  hour  again  approached 
the  same  place,  on  my  way  home.  As  I  turned  the  corner  of  the  road, 
I  perceived  that  the  woman  was  still  there,  and  in  precisely  the  same 
position. 

"  What !  not  gone  yet  ?"  I  said  to  her.  "  The  person,  whoever  it  may 
be,  keeps  you  waiting  a  long  while." 

"  Oh,  I  can  wait." 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  will  take  cold,  and  you  are  looking  ill  now.  Do 
let  me  prevail  on  you  to  go  into  the  town." 

"  Oh  no,  sir.     I  cannot  go  into  the  town !" 

This  was  said  with  such  emphasis  that  I  began  to  think  the  woman 
must  be  deranged,  and  I  rode  on  slowly,  meditating  whether  I  had  better 
report  the  affair  in  the  proper  quarter,  and  get  her  taken  care  of,  when> 


466  The  Old  "King's  Arms" 

I  beard  my  name  called,  and  a  woman,  whom  I  knew  as  the  wife  of  a 
labourer  living  in  a  cottage  near  by,  came  running  to  me  across  a  field. 
"  Did'ee  see  anybody,  sir,"  she  said,  "  back  there  by  the  pool  ?" 
"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  a  woman  sitting  on  the  bank.     Who  can  she  be?" 
"  I  can't  think,  sir.     She've  a  been  there  all  the  blessed  night !" 
" Good  Heavens !"  I  cried,  "is  it  possible!     How  do  you  know?" 
"  Why,  sir,  I  saw  her  there  last  evening  about  eight  o'clock,  and  I 
saw  her  again  about  nine.     I  begged  of  her  to  go  into  the  town,  but  she 
said  she  couldn't.     I  couldn't  go  to  bed  and  rest,  like,  with  the  thoughts 
of  her  sitting  there  so  cold  and  wearisome,  and  about  ten  me  and  my  man 
went  to  her,  and  axed  her  if  she  wouldn't  go  into  town,  to  come  into  oar 
house ;  but  she  wouldn't.     And  she've  a  been  about  there  all  night,  sir. 
I  think  there  ought  to  be  some  notice  took  of  it." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  see  about  it  immediately." 
And  riding  on  briskly,  I  lost  no  time  in  having  proper  steps  taken  for 
bringing  her  into  the  town.  We  had  almost  to  use  force  to  get  her 
along;  and  the  only  condition  on  which  she  at  last  refrained  from 
struggling,  was  our  getting  a  thick  veil  for  her  to  wear.  She  was  lodged 
in  the  union  workhouse,  and  ever  since  I  have  been  in  constant  attend- 
ance on  her ;  for  she  has  been  most  dangerously  ill,  and  almost  constantly 
delirious.  Last  night,  however,  she  appeared  in  her  right  senses;  and, 
while  so,  told  me,  in  broken  fragments,  some  things  which  vividly  recalled 
to  my  mind  circumstances  that  took  place  when  I  first  came  to  ~ 


It  is  an  old  saying  that  "  murder  will  out:"  that,  however  carefully  it 
may  be  concealed — however  ingeniously  suspicion  may  be  at  first  turned 
away — there  will  always,  first  or  last,  be  some  token  to  betray  it.  Earth, 
it  is  said,  will  not  hide  the  mangled  body ;  the  waters  will  not  hold  it ; 
the  fire  will  not  destroy  it ;  and  the  winds  of  heaven  have  been  known  to 
carry  mysteriously  to  strange  distances  the  dying  shriek  or  the  death 
groan. 

But  though  there  are  a  hundred  instances  to  bear  out  this  belief,  it 
may  occur  to  the  recollection  of  the  reader  that  many  a  case  has  been 
known  where  a  strange  and  violent  death  has  been  involved  always  in 
mystery — where  suspicion  has  pointed  its  finger  at  a  supposed  murderer, 
who  has  been  as  unable  to  make  clear  his  own  innocence  as  others  have 
been  to  establish  his  guilt.  Unhappy  lot  for  such  !  To  pass  through 
life,  if  guilty,  with  the  weight,  fear,  and  remorse  of  that  deepest  crime 
on  his  mind !  and,  even  if  innocent,  to  know  that,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  he  nevertheless  bears  on  his  brow,  to  be  inherited  also  by  his 
children's  children,  the  fearful  brand  of  Cain ! 

About  twenty  years  ago,  when  I,  a  young  man,  fresh  from  the  hospital 

and  the  "Hall,"  first  came  to  practise  at  C ,   there  stood,  where 

now  stands  the  new  market-house — the  pride  of  the  place — a  detached, . 
rambling,  half-dilapidated  old  house,  which,  under  the  name  of  the 
"  King's  Arms,"  took  the  rank  of  the  second  inn.  Here  lived  a  man 
called  Michael  Lucas — a  surly,  beetle-browed  fellow  of  about  fifty-five  or 
six.  His  wife,  a  thin,  ill-tempered  woman,  of  a  very  avaricious  dispose 
tion,  was  perhaps  five  years  his  junior.  With  them  lived  a  nepnew, 
called  "  Frank  Atherley,"  a  young  fellow  of  six-or-seven-and-twenty,  who 
looked  after  a  little  farm  which  Lucas  rented.  Frank  did  not  seem  at  all 
td  blend  with  his  uncle  and  aunt,  and  was  often  on  the  point  of  leaving 


The  Old  "King's  Arms?'  467 

them  to  push  his  fortunes  elsewhere :  emigration  to  America  was,  I  be- 
lieve, the  favourite  project.  But  he  did  not  go,  and  the  opposing  cause 
was  believed  to  be  pretty  Mary  Willoughby,  a  young  orphan  girl  of 
eighteen,  who  combined  the  offices  of  barmaid  and  waiter  in  the  house. 
The  remainder  of  the  establishment — for  the  position  of  "  second  inn,"  in 

a  little  country  place  like  C ,  is  not  a  very  dignified  one — consisted 

only  of  a  cook  and  a  young  girl  of  fourteen,  who  did  the  hard  work  and 
the  drudgery  of  the  kitchen  and  bedrooms.  The  ostler,  who  acted  also  as 
boots,  lived  out  of  the  house.  Neither  the  host  nor  the  hostess  were  at 
all  pleasant  people,  and  I  don't  know  that  the  liquors  were  particularly 
good;  but  somehow  the  bar-parlour  and  the  kitchen  were  generally 
pretty  well  filled  of  an  evening,  and  a  good  sprinkling  of  "  grogs  "  and 
tl  pints  "  were  there  consumed.  The  fact  is,  that  the  "  second  house"  in  a 
country  place  seems  generally  to  suit  the  taste  of  droppers-in  better  than 
the  more  stiff  and  pretending  "  head  hotel."  Go  where  you  will,  it  is  at 
the  second  inn  that  the  club  meets;  where  the  cricketers  have  their 
annual  dinner ;  where  is  the  best  attended  ordinary  on  fair  days ;  where 
the  farmers,  on  market  afternoons,  drink  their  brandy-and-water,  and 
stow  away  in  great,  greasy  canvas  bags  the  rolls  of  bank-notes  which 
they  receive  from  the  "jobbers  ;"  and  where  the  tradesmen  and  others  of 
the  town  drop  in  of  an  evening,  after  shop  and  office  are  closed,  to  smoke 
their  pipes,  discuss  the  news,  and  debate  on  the  conduct  of  persons  in 
authority,  from  the  prime  minister  to  the  parish  overseer. 

No  doubt  some  of  the  popularity  of  the  "  King's  Arms"  was  due  to 
the  pretty  barmaid ;  but  as  she  was  as  good  and  modest  as  she  was 
pretty,  the  partiality  felt  for  her  among  the  frequenters  of  the  bar  did 
not  manifest  itself  in  the  way  it  too  often  does  to  those  in  her  position 
in  "  second  inns."  There  was  something  about  her  which  effectually 
prevented  any  undue  familiarity  of  speech  or  manner :  and  I  have  heard, 
at  least  a  hundred  times,  from  an  old  proser  who  frequents  the  bar  of 
the  present  second  house,  how  a  burly  bully  of  a  farmer,  who  once  made 
an  indecent  jest  in  her  presence,  was  laid  hands  on  by  a  young  surgeon 
— the  one,  in  fact,  to  whose  practice  I  succeeded — and  ignominiously 
kicked  out  of  the  room. 

At  the  time,  however,  when  first  I  came  to  C  to  reside,  the  little 

town  was  not  like  itself.  So  much,  in  fact,  was  the  equilibrium  of  every 
thing  and  person  in  it  disturbed,  that  it  was  full  six  months  after  I  came 
there  before  I  saw  it  in  the  real,  natural  aspect  which,  with  few  inter- 
ruptions, it  has  preserved  ever  since.  The  exciting  cause  was,  in  the 
first  place,  a  riot  among  the  labourers  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  the 
arrival  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  who  came  to  repel  it.  Corn  was  dear, 
and  the  farmers  wouldn't  sell  it  until  it  was  dearer;  and  the  people  seeing 
they  couldn't  buy  it  for  a  fair  price,  thought  they  had  a  right  to  take  it 
for  nothing ;  and  they  threatened  and  blustered ;  and,  having  at  their 
head  a  great  fellow,  who  carried  a  pole  with  a  red  cotton  pocket-hand- 
kerchief tied  to  the  top  of  it —a  sure  sign,  as  it  was  thought  by  the 
affrighted  inhabitants,  that  blood  would  soon  be  pouring  through  the 
streets  like  water — they  marched  into  the  town,  and  then  got  drunk  and 
straggled  home  again.  This  was  repeated  once  or  twice;  and  a  squireen 
of  the  neighbourhood,  endeavouring  to  persuade  the  people  that  he  was  ' 
undertaking  a  most  perilous  and  desperate  service,  but  doing  it,  in  ' 
reality,  to  get  out  of  harm's  way,  rushed  off  to  the  nearest  garrison* 


468  The  Old  "King's  Arms? 

town,  represented  the  affair  as  a  most  serious  riot,  and  brought  back 
with  him  the  aforesaid  troop  of  dragoons,  who  arrived  soon  after  the  riot 
had  been  effectually  quelled,  and  the  ringleaders  lodged  in  gaol  by  an 
energetic  magistrate,  two  policemen,  and  a  dozen  of  the  most  spirited  of 
the  inhabitants,  who  had  been  enrolled  as  special  constables.  The 
dragoons  had  been  about  a  fortnight  in  C  when  I  arrived  there; 

and  their  blazing  uniforms,  their  bright  helmets,  waving  plumes,  and 
fierce  moustaches,  had  this  good  effect,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  that  they 
threw  entirely  into  the  shade  the  young  surgeon  with  closely-shaven  lip, 
spotless  shirt-collar,  and  coat  and  hat  of  irreproachable  respectability; 
and  I  sank  quietly  into  my  duties,  without  being  exposed  to  much  of 
that  unpleasant  and  determined  curiosity  which  is  the  usual  pest  of  a 
new  settler  in  a  small  country-town.  But  I  am  talking  too  much  of 
myself.     Personally,  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  story. 

The  little  town  of  C does  not  contain  many  inns ;   and  the 

"  King's  Arms,"  being  a  large  house,  had  rather  more  than  its  share  of 
soldiers  billeted  there.  The  accommodation,  however,  was  not  at  all  in 
proportion  to  the  size  of  the  house,  for  many  of  the  rooms  were  much 
dilapidated,  and  uninhabitable :  so  the  troopers  slept  in  a  large  loft  over 
the  stable,  partly  that  they  might  be  near  their  horses,  but  principally 
because  it  was  more  comfortable  than  any  room  in  the  house  of  the 
same  size,  except  those  used  for  the  general  business  of  the  inn.  To 
make  way  for  them  there,  the  hay  and  straw— -a  large  quantity  of  which 
was  in  stock — were  removed  to  a  large,  almost  ruinous  room  on  the 
first  floor  of  the  house,  fronting  the  stable-yard,  which  had  been  hitherto 
used  as  a  sort  of  lumber-room.  I  remember  hearing  this  incidentally 
one  morning,  when  I  called  in  at  the  bar  to  have  a  glass  of  ale.  I  have 
a  vivid  recollection  of  this  morning,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  saw 
pretty  Mary  Willoughby.  She  was  chatting  with  the  Honourable 
Captain  Walmer;  and  as  I  entered  she  turned  away  with  a  blush  and, 
I  thought,  an  indignant  look,  from  something  he  was  saying.  I  re- 
member thinking  how  very  pretty  and  modest  she  looked,  and  feeling 
the  blood  mantle  in  my  cheek  also  at  the  very  idea  of  that  fellow  saying 
anything  to  insult  her.  Although  I  had  never  exchanged  a  word  with 
the  honourable  captain,  I  had  felt  an  instinctive  dislike  to  him  at  the 
first  moment  I  saw  him  ;  for  there  was  an  air  of  supercilious  superiority 
in  his  manner  which  I  could  ill  brook.  He  was  a  devilish  handsome 
fellow  too,  that  I  must  confess  :  I  mean  literally  devilish  handsome,  for 
his  countenance  had  a  great  deal  of  the  Evil  One  in  its  character,  espe- 
cially about  the  eye  and  the  mouth.  On  this  particular  morning  he  was 
standing  in  my  way  as  I  entered ;  and  on  my  politely  requesting  him  to 
move,  he  stepped  on  one  side  with  a  sort  of  burlesque  courtesy,  which 
made  me  long  to  knock  him  down.  But  here  I  am,  talking  of  myself 
again! 

Well,  the  dragoons  had  come,  and  the  dragoons  had  gone,  without 
finding  as  much  as  a  single  half-starved  labourer  to  contend  with.  The 
Hon.  Captain  Walmer,  and  Lieutenant  Smyth,  and  Lieutenant  Fits- 
Maurice,  and  Cornet  Stubbs,  and  the  rest,  all  had  gone — but  not  to  be 
forgotten.    No  ;  the  event  of  their  sojourn  in  the  town  here  left  a  history 

with  which  every  stranger  in  C is  almost  bored  to  death.     And, 

worse  than  this,  six  young  ladies  of  four-or-five-and-twenty,  who  were 
just  silly  and  weak-minded  enough  to  be  before  very  pleasant  young 


The  Old  "King's  Arms:1  469 

women,  and  to  stand  a  fair  chance  of  being  some  day  married,  are  now 
six  young  ladies  of  four-or-five-and-forty,  much  too  silly  and  weak- 
minded  to  allow  the  slightest  chance  of  such  a  thing ;  who  wear  white 
bonnets  of  the  very  smallest  dimensions  and  stays  of  the  utmost  tight- 
ness; who  give  themselves  the  most  absurd  airs,  talk  about  the 
"  officers,"  and  are  altogether  perfectly  unbearable. 

I  have  said  that  the  pretty  barmaid  was  called  Mary  Willoughby  : 
but  I  should  say  something  more  about  her.  She  was  not  a  native  of 
the  town  or  neighbourhood,  nor  did  she  come  there  with  Lucas — who 
was  a  native  of  a  distant  county — at  the  time  when  he  took  the  house : 
but,  shortly  after  his  arrival,  he  sent  for  her,  and  she  came,  dressed  then 
in  the  deepest  mourning.  Nothing  was  ever  got  out  of  Lucas  or  his 
wife  on  any  family  subject ;  and  on  the  point  of  Mary's  parentage  both 
she  herself  and  Frank  Atherley  were  unusually  reserved.  Nobody  ex- 
actly knew  who  she  was,  but  she  was  understood  to  be  the  orphan  and 
only  child  of  some  relative  of  Lucas  or  his  wife.  I  don't  know  that  this 
matters  much  to  my  story,  but  it  is  as  well  that  it  should  be  mentioned. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lucas  were  sometimes  harsh  to  her ;  but  on  the  whole 
their  conduct  was  marked  by  more  urbanity  and  courtesy  towards  her 
than  to  any  one  else  ;  and  their  adoption  of  her  was  often  spoken  of  as  a 
redeeming  trait  in  their  characters. 

It  was  about  a  week  after  the  dragoons  had  gone,  when  Mrs.  Lucas 
was  one  day  in  a  very  bad  temper  indeed.  Nothing,  according  to  her, 
was  done  right.  The  poor  drudge  was  cuffed  and  beaten  cruelly  ;  and 
the  servant  was  scolded  and  abused  to  such  an  extent  that  she  got  angry 
in  her  turn,  and  threatened  to  leave  immediately  after  her  month  was  up. 
No  persons  were  staying  in  the  inn  ;  and  so  great  was  the  commotion  that 
nearly  all  the  men  who  were  drinking  in  the  kitchen  left  the  house,  for 
even  they  came  in  for  a  considerable  share  of  ill-humour.  Mary 
Willoughby,  however,  when  she  attempted  to  mediate,  was  listened  to 
quietly,  and  addressed  almost  blandly.  This  was  particularly  remarked 
by  a  man  who,  having  a  scolding  wife,  was  used  to  storms,  and  remained 
in  the  kitchen :  and  he  thought  that  Mrs.  Lucas  was  not  so  bad,  after  all, 
as  she  seemed ;  for  Mary  Willoughby  was  not  very  well,  and  the  woman's 
forbearance  towards  her  seemed  to  show  consideration  and  kindness.  At 
length  Mrs.  Lucas's  passion  reached  a  climax.  Having  gone  into  the 
pantry,  she  returned  with  a  large  dish  broken  in  her  hand. 

"  Who  has  done  this  ?"  she  said.  "  This  is  your  work,  cook !  Speak ! 
Is  not  this  your  work  ?" 

"  Yes,  mum,"  replied  the  cook,  rather  pertly ;  "  that's  my  work." 

"  Then  leave  the  house  instantly  1"  cried  Mrs.  Lucas,  stamping  her 
foot.  "  You  threatened  just  now  to  leave  when  your  month  was  up.  Now 
you'll  pick  up  your  things  and  start.  I  will  pay  your  month's  wages,  and 
you  will  be  off  at  once.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

The  man  who  was  in  the  kitchen  expostulated,  and  endeavoured  to 
reason  with  her,  but  he  was  stopped  very  sharply,  and  even  he  was 
obliged  to  leave  the  house.  In  half  an  hour,  the  cook,  with  the  boots 
bearing  her  box,  was  on  her  way  to  the  van,  which  would  take  her  near 
to  her  parents'  home.     This  was  in  the  afternoon,  about  three  o'clock. 

Now  Mary  Willoughby,  being  rather  unwell,  had  asked,  as  there  were 
no  persons  staying  at  the  house,  to  go  and  spend  the  night  and  next  day, 
for  a  little  change,  with  a  friend,  whose  father  was  a  tenant-farmer  in  the 


470  The  Old  "Kings  Arms." 

neighbourhood :  and  at  the  time  when  the  cook  left  the  house,  she  was 
up-stairs,  packing  a  few  things  for  her  visit. 

As  soon  as  the  cook  was  gone,  Mrs.  Lucas  called  her  down  and  said: 

"Mary,  you  can't  go  to  Mr.  B  ■  's  to-night.  You  most  stay 
home." 

"  Not  go?"  cried  Mary,  starting,  and  clasping  her  hands.  "  Oh,  do 
let  me  go  !" 

"  No.  Cook  is  gone,  and  you  will  be  wanted.  You  are  to  stay 
home." 

"  But  there  is  no  one  staying  in  the  house ;  and  Miss  B— -  will  ex- 
pect me." 

"  I  will  send  a  message  to  her.  Now,  it's  no  use  talking.  Once  and 
for  all,  you  are  not  to  go." 

Lucas  himself  was  passing  as  this  conversation  was  going  on,  and 
stopped  to  listen  to  it  As  his  wife  finished,  he  held  up  his  finger  in  a 
menacing  way,  and  said,  with  a  frown : 

"  Come,  let  us  have  no  words  about  it !  You  can't  be  spared.  Recol- 
lect you  are  to  sleep  in  your  own  room  to-night." 

Mary,  sadly  disappointed,  returned  to  her  chamber,  and  Lucas  and  his 
wife  passed  on  to  the  kitchen.  Near  the  stairs  where  they  had  been 
talking,  they  found  the  poor  drudge,  evidently  listening.  Lucas  swore 
out  upon  her  roughly,  and  was  about  to  give  her  a  blow,  but  his  wife 
held  his  hand,  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  She  then  addreased  the 
drudge: 

"Come  here,  my  poor  girl,"  she  said,  gently.  "You  have  been 
crying !     What  is  the  matter?" 

The  girl,  unused  to  be  so  addressed  by  her  mistress,  stared  with  as- 
tonishment, and  then,  overcome  by  the  unexpected  kindness,  burst  into 
tears. 

"Are  you  unwell?"  asked  her  mistress. 

"  I've  got  a  hea — hea — headache !"  blubbered  the  poor  child. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  Make  haste  and  finish  your 
work,  and  you  shall  go  home  and  stay  until  to-morrow  with  your  mother. 
Now  make  haste,"  as  the  girl  looked  up  joyously  through  her  tears. 
"  But  stay,  you  needn't  say  to  any  one  that  you  are  going.  And  now  get 
on  with  your  work,  like  a  good  girl." 

The  girl,  overjoyed  at  the  thought  of  such  an  unexpected  pleasure, 
went  about  her  work  with  alacrity.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lucas  whispered  to- 
gether for  some  time  in  low  tones  ;  and  Lucas  then  went  out  through  the 
back- kitchen  into  the  stable-yard. 

He  called  the  ostler,  and  told  him  to  stow  away  in  the  back-kitchen  a 
large  quantity  of  furze  which  he  had  that  day  purchased ;  and  after  he 
had  done  that,  to  go  to  the  farm-house,  where  Mary  Willonghby  was  to 
have  paid  her  visit,  and  say  she  was  too  unwell  to  come.  u  And  you  need 
not  come  back  here  again  to-night,"  said  Lucas  to  the  man  ;  "  you  will 
not  be  wanted." 

With  regard  to  the  first  part  of  the  order,  the  putting  away  the  fane 
in  the  back-kitchen,  the  ostler  expressed  some  surprise. 

"Why  the  place  will  be  choke  full  i"  he  said.  ^  There  will  hardly 
be  room  to  pass  through  or  to  turn  1  And,  besides,  if  anything  were  to 
happen,  what  with  furze  down  stairs  and  hay  and  straw  up-etaaav  wk**  a 
precious  bonfire  you'd  have  I" 


The  Old  "King's  Amur  471 

"  Silence,  sir,"  said  Lucas,  sternly,  "  and  do  as  I  order  you.  There 
will  be  a  flood  of  rain  to-night,  and  I  don't  want  the  furze  wetted.  Now, 
be  quick  about  it." 

Lucas  then  walked  to  his  farm,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  town,  and 
called  Frank  Atherley  to  him. 

"  Frank,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  take  the  horse  I  sold  to  Mr. 

Simpson,  and  ride  him  to  R .     I  promised  that  he  should  have  him 

to-morrow.  You  had  better  ride  him  down  gently  ;  stop  at  T to- 
night"— (this  was  a  place  about  fifteen  miles  away,  and  rather  more  than 

half-way  to  R ) — "  and  go  on  to-morrow  morning.     You  can  come 

back  by  the  coach." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Frank,  "  that  you  had  told  me  of  it  a  little  sooner.  It's 
getting  latish." 

"  Why,  yes,"  replied  Lucas,  "  I  might  as  well  have  done  so ;  but  it 
quite  slipped  from  my  memory.  And  I  promised  Mr.  Simpson  positively 
that  he  should  have  the  horse  to-morrow." 

"  Well,"  said  Frank,  cheerfully,  "  I'll  just  step  home,  put  myself  to 
rights  a  bit,  and  be  off  directly.     Is  Mary  gone  yet  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Lucas.     "  She  is  not  going." 

"  Not  going !"  cried  Frank.     "  Why  how  is  that  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  Lucas,  "  we  don't  think  she  is  well  enough  to  go ;  but 
we  didn't  like  to  frighten  her  by  saying  so,  and  so  told  her  she  would  be 
wanted  home." 

"  Indeed !"  said  Frank,  turning  pale,  for  he  was  very  much  in  love 
with  Mary  Willoughby,  and  the  very  notion  of  her  being  ill  frightened 
him — "  indeed  !  I  had  no  idea  that  she  was  so  ill  as  that." 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Lucas.  "  It  only  requires  a  little  care.  She 
will  be  all  right  again  in  a  day  or  two." 

I  am  rather  particular  in  giving  these  conversations  verbatim,  for  every 
word  was  afterwards  nicely  weighed  and  commented  on. 

Frank  walked  quickly  back  to  the  house  and  asked  for  Mary.  She 
was  up-stairs,  he  was  informed,  in  her  bedroom :  she  had  been  there  for 
the  last  hour  or  more.  Somewhat  alarmed,  Frank  ran  up-stairs,  tapped 
at  her  door,  and  called  her  by  name.  Mary  replied,  saying  that  she  was 
dressing,  but  would  open  the  door  and  speak  to  him  in  a  minute  or  two. 
She  kept  him  waiting,  however,  quite  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  then  unlocked 
and  unbarred  the  door,  and  came  out,  pale  and  trembling. 

"  My  dear,  dear  Mary !"  said  Frank,  "  you  are  ill !" 

"  I  am  not  feeling  very  well,"  replied  Mary,  "but  it  will  soon  pass,  I 
hope." 

"  Uncle  wants  me  to  go  to  R ,"  said  Frank,  "  but  I  cannot  go 

now." 

"  Oh  yes !"  said  Mary,  earnestly,  "  do,  do  go!" 

Frank  was  somewhat  surprised  and  a  little  mortified.  "  Why  should 
you  be  so  anxious  for  me  to  go?"  he  inquired. 

"Because,"  replied  Mary,  "I  should  be  so  frightened  if  you  stayed 
home  on  my  account.  I  should  believe  then  that  I  was  indeed  ill,  and 
the  very  thought  would  make  me  really  so.  Promise  me  that  you  will 
go!" 

"I  will  go,  then,"  said  Frank,  "since  you  wish  it  so  much;  but, 
recollect,  you  must  be  well  when  I  come  back  to-morrow.  Good-by, 
Maryi" 


472  The  Old  "Kintfs  Arm*." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  attempted  to  kiss  her;  but,  for  the 
first  time  since  their  engagement,  she  repulsed  him.  A  burning  blush 
suffused  cheek  and  brow,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  struggled 
herself  free  of  his  embrace,  saying,  "  Oh  no,  no !  I  cannot !  I  must  not!" 

"Then,  good-by!"  said  Frank — "good-by  until  to-morrow."  And 
he  walked  sadly  away.  Mary  remained  in  a  thoughtful  attitude  where 
he  had  left  her.  As  he  began  to  descend  the  stairs,  she  timidly  called 
him  back.     He  turned  joyously,  and  quickly  retraced  his  steps. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Mary,  holding  out  her  hand,  which  was  trembling 
a  good  deal ;  "  I  did  not  mean  to  pain  you.  Forgive  me  this  and  all 
other "     And  she  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  choking. 

"  My  dear,  dear  girl,"  said  Frank,  "  I  have  nothing  to  forgire. 
You  have  ever  been  good  and  kind  to  me.  Tell  me,  do  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  I     Are  you  angry  with  me  ?     Have  I  offended  you  in  any  way?" 

"  Oh  no !"  she  cried.     "  No,  believe  me,  you  have  not." 

"  Then  tell  me  what  is  the  matter?" 

"  I  scarcely  know  myself,"  said  Mary.  "  A  sort  of  gloom,  like  a  fore- 
boding of  evil,  seems  to  oppress  my  heart.  Tell  me,"  she  continued, 
attempting  to  smile,  "  did  you  never  feel  that  yourself — and  without  a 


cause 


?» 


"  Never,"  replied  Frank — "  never  without  a  cause :  never  at  all  until 
now."  And  he  spoke  truly,  for  he  was  a  light-hearted,  cheerful  young 
fellow,  to  whom  gloomy  fancies  had  been  hitherto  unknown.  "Shall  I 
stay  home  to-night,  Mary  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  she ;  "  you  have  already  promised  to  go.  These 
are  only  foolish  fancies." 

"  My  own  dear  girl !"  cried  Frank,  again  putting  his  arm  around  her, 
"  you  do  not  know  how  dearly  I  love  you.  All  my  hope,  all  my  life 
seems  wrapped  up  in  you !" 

The  offered  kiss  was  not  this  time  resisted;  but  again  the  burning 
blood  mantled  in  her  cheek  and  tingled  in  her  ears. 

"You  must  not  love  too  well,  Frank!"  she  said;  "you  must  not 
indeed.     Believe  me,  it  is  dangerous !" 

After  a  pause  she  timidly  took  from  her  bosom  a  purse,  and,  putting  it 
into  his  hand,  but  without  looking  in  his  face,  said, 

"  I  wish  you  would  keep  this  for  me,  Frank.  I  don't  like  having  so 
much  money  about  me." 

Frank  knew  that  Mary,  as  well  as  himself,  had  been  for  some  time 
saving  what  money  she  could,  in  order  that  they  might  be  able  to  get 
little  comforts  around  them  when  they  were  married;  but  he  was  not 
prepared  to  see  so  much  as  the  purse  contained,  and  he  could  not  refrain 
from  expressing  his  astonishment. 

"  I  have  never  had  occasion  to  spend  much,  you  know,9'  said  Mary. 
"  Do  take  care  of  it  for  me :  I  really  wish  it !"  And  her  eyes  met  his, 
though  but  for  a  moment.  "  And  if  anything  should  happen  to  me " 

And  again  she  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  choking. 

Frank  now  spoke  to  her  cheerfully,  though,  poor  fellow,  his  own  heart 
was  aching  grievously,  and  tried  to  laugh  away  her  gloomy  fancies.  He 
would  not  at  first  take  charge  of  her  purse,  but  ultimately,  as  she  seemed 
so  earnestly  to  wish  it,  he  did  so,  and  after  a  short  time  they  parted. 
Mary  returned  to  her  bedroom,  and  Frank,  after  changing  his  dress, 
mounted  the  horse  which  he  was  to  take  to  B ,  and  rode  away. 


The  Old  "King's  Arms:1  473 

It  was  well  on  in  the  evening — about  eight  o'clock — when  Frank 

reached  T ,  and  had  seen  the  horse  taken  care  of  in  the  inn  stable. 

T was  a  large  town — at  least,  as  compared  with  C .  The  streets 

were  wide,  the  shops  brilliant,  and  gay  crowds  of  people  thronged  the 

streets.     At  other  times  Frank  had  always. enjoyed  a  trip  to  T 

amazingly,  but  now  his  heart  was  heavy,  and  he  would  have  given  any- 
thing to  be  back  again  in  his  own  dull  little  town.  He  would  have  gone 
to  bed  at  once,  but,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was  afraid  of  a  restless 
night,  or  bad  dreams.  As  a  relief  to  his  feelings,  he  went  into  a  jeweller's 
shop  and  purchased  a  pretty  little  brooch,  as  a  present  for  Mary.  They 
had  intended  being  married  about  this  time,  and  Frank  thought  how,  in 
that  case,  he  might  have  been  going  to  purchase  the  ring;  but  the 
wedding  had  been  put  off  for  a  few  months  at  the  strongly  expressed 
desire  of  Lucas  and  his  wife,  who  had  said  they  considered  Mary  as  yet 
too  young. 

After  buying  the  brooch,  Frank  was  standing  at  the  inn-door,  watching 
the  passers-by,  when,  to  his  surprise,  the  purchaser  of  the  horse,  Mr. 
Simpson,  who  was  known  to  Frank  by  sight,  came  down  the  street  and 
entered  the  house.  Frank  of  course  accosted  him,  and  told  his  errand  ; 
and,  to  his  great  joy,  Mr.  Simpson  replied  that  he  was  going  home  in 
the  morning,  and  would  ride  the  horse  himself.  This  of  course  pre- 
cluded the  necessity  of  Frank's  going  on  to  R ;  and  it  now  became 

a  question  whether  he  should  wait  until  the  next  day,  and  ride  home  on 
the  morning  coach,  or  walk  back  at  once.  At  any  other  time  he  would 
of  course  have  preferred  the  former  alternative,  but  now,  so  anxious  was 
he  about  Mary,  that,  without  hesitation,  he  determined  on  setting  off 
directly;  and  within  half  an  hour,  he  was  stepping  briskly  out  on  his 
way  home. 

It  was  rather  before  ten  o'clock  when  he  started.  He  had  a  fifteen 
miles'  walk  before  him,  and  the  night  was  very  dark,  but  Frank  knew  the 
road  well,  and  his  pleasure  at  being  enabled  unexpectedly  to  return  so 
soon  made  his  spirits  lighter  than  they  had  been  for  many  hours.  The 
miles  seemed  quickly  to  pass  by,  and  he  was  not  very  far  from  home  when 
he  heard,  through  the  stillness  of  night,  the  well-known  deep  tone  of  the 
church-clock  boom  out  one. 

Notwithstanding  his  comparative  cheerfulness,  a  pang  of  anxiety  about 

Mary  occasionally  struck  to  his  heart;  and  as  he  drew  near  to  C , 

this  anxiety  increased.  This  is  generally  the  case.  Are  you  suddenly 
called  to  the  sick-bed  of  a  deeply-loved  friend  or  relative,  you  rush  away 
with  the  utmost  speed  at  your  command — no  means  of  locomotion  are 
rapid  enough  for  you.  But  as  you  approach  the  house  your  heart  sinks ; 
you  moderate,  if  possible,  your  pace ;  you  pause  for  a  moment  before 
turning  the  corner  where  the  house  will  be  visible  to  you;  you  shrink 
from  the  fear  of  seeing  the  drawn  blinds,  the  closed  shutters,  and  the 
undertaker's  men  coming  out  at  the  door.  From  the  same  kind  of  feel- 
ing, Frank,  as  he  approached  the  town,  experienced  a  stronger  presenti- 
ment of  evil  than  before.  "  But  why  should  I  dread  anything  for  dear 
Mary?"  he  thought,  as  he  looked  up  at  a  bright  star  which  was  shining 
between  the  dark  clouds,  with  its  calm,  holy  light.  "  Were  she  even  to 
die  to-night,  her  soul  would  be  in  heaven.  May  there  not  be  even  now 
heavenly  beings  looking  down  upon  her  from  that  bright  world,  waiting 
to  be  joined  by  a  sister  as  pure  and  gentle  as  themselves  ?  But  these— 
Aug. — vol.  ovii.  no.  ccccxxvni.  2  i 


474  Th$  Old  "Kt*jfs  Jrmi." 

there,"  he  said  impatiently,  "  she  would  be  not  the  lets  lost  to  me ;  and  I 
hope  she  may  yet  live  many  yean  to  cheer  and  comfort  me  in  tail 
struggling  world.  I  am  worse  than  a  child  to  torment  myself  with  these 
fancies."  And  again  he  tried  to  tear  away  the  vague  dread ;  but  still  the 
monster  dung  with  its  sharp  talons  to  his  heart. 

When  within  about  a  mile  of  the  town,  he  tamed  off  from  the  road  to 
take  a  short  cut  across  some  fields.  The  waning  moon  was  just  rising 
beyond  the  hills  behind  him,  and  its  sickly,  distorted  disk  east  throng* 
the  clouds  an  unearthly  shadowy  light.  As  Frank  walked  across  the 
fields,  something  seemed  to  seize  upon  him  different  from  the  foreboding 
weight  which  he  had  before  experienced.  Some  strange,  unseen  influence 
appeared  to  pervade  the  air.  He  felt  a  sudden  shiver.  His  limbs 
trembled,  and  he  knew  that  his  nice  was  pale.  He  tried  to  account  for  it 
by  supposing  that,  by  walking  too  fast,  he  had  overheated  hia  blood  tad 
had  taken  a  chill.  In  one  place  a  deep,  dark  lane  was  between  two  of 
the  fields  which  he  was  traversing,  and  a  stile  led  into  it  on  each  side. 
Frank  was  usually  bold  and  resolute,  but  now  so  strangely  were  his  neros 
influenced  that  he  hesitated  before  crossing  it,  passed  it  as  quickly  as  he 
could,  without  looking  on  either  side,  and  shuddered  as  he  left  it 
behind. 

He  had  advanced  but  a  short  distance  into  the  next  field,  when,  hsppeav 
ing  to  turn  his  head  for  a  moment,  he  saw,  with  a  thrill  of  terror,  there, 
on  the  stile,  in  the  very  place  which  he  had  but  a  moment  before  passed, 
the  dim  outline  of  a  female  form,  its  hands  clasped,  and  its  face  upturned 
towards  the  bright  star  on  which  he  had  lately  been  gazing-.  He  made 
two  or  three  steps  back  towards  it,  and  a  dark  cloud  at  that  moment 
passed  from  before  the  moon.  What  was  his  surprise,  his  horror,  when 
he  saw  that  the  form,  the  dress,  and  the  deadly-pale  up-turned  nice  wert 
those  of  Mary  Willoughby !  What  could  she  be  doing  there  ?  Whitker 
could  she  be  going?  For  a  moment,  astonishment  kept  him  speech- 
less and  motionless ;  and  even  as  he  looked  the  figure  vanished  from  hit 
sight.  He  ran  to  the  place,  crossed  the  lane,  and  ascended  the  opposite 
stile.     Mary  was  not  there. 

"  Mary  !  Mary  Willoughby  I"  he  shouted.  "  Where  are  you  ?  It  ia 
I,  Frank  Atherley !" 

No  one  replied.  He  ran  wildly  up  and  down  the  dark  lane ;  he 
crossed  and  recrossed  from  field  to  field ; — no  one  was  visible. 

Surprised  and  terrified  beyond  measure,  yet  endeavouring*  to  hope  that 
he  had  been  the  victim  of  an  optical  delusion,  and  that  Mary  was  in 
reality  safe  at  home,  he  hastened  to  the  town.  The  distance  was  not 
great ;  and  he  soon  reached  it,  passed  through  the  silent  and  deserted 
streets,  and  stood  before  the  inn.  The  house  was  shut  up,  the  Minds 
drawn,  and  everything  seemed  to  show  that  its  inmates,  as  well  as  all 
the  other  inhabitants  of  the  town,  were  buried  in  repose.  He  knocked 
loudly  at  the  door,  but  no  one  opened  it  He  knocked  again  and  again, 
but  still  without  result.  "  They  sleep  soundly,"  thought  Frank.  "  God 
grant  that  dear  Mary  may  be  safely  slumbering  with  the  rest !"  He 
picked  up  a  handful  of  gravel,  and  stepped  back  a  few  paces  to  throw  it 
at  the  window.  As  he  looked  up  in  throwing  it,  something  arrested  Us 
attention.  He  strained  his  eyes  to  the  utmost ;  and  a  groan  of  despair 
burst  from  his  lips  as  he  became  convinced  that  smoke  was  pouring  oat 
through  every  crevice  in  the  roof  and  upper  willows.     At  the  sane 


The  Old  "Kintfs  Arms:*  475 

moment,  as  if  it  had  suddenly  found  a  vent,  a  bright,  glittering  tongue 
of  flame  shot  up  through  the  roo£  showed  for  an  instant  the  canopy 
of  smoke  which  was  hanging  over  it,  and  then  again  subsided.  "  Fire  ! 
fire  !"  shouted  poor  Frank,  in  that  piercing,  penetrating  cry  which  terror 
gives.  "  The  house  is  on  fire  !"  He  rushed  to  the  door,  and  tried  to 
break  it  open ;  but  in  vain.  He  ran  wildly  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  tried  to  burst  open  a  door  there ;  but  this  also  resisted  his  utmost 
efforts ;  and  he  saw  with  increased  alarm,  that  here  the  fire  had  made 
much  more  progress  than  in  the  front ;  and  ruddy  gleams  of  flame  could 
be  seen  in  many  of  the  rooms.  Frank  had  never  ceased  to  shout  "  Fire !" 
— that  cry  so  terrible  in  the  silent  night — and  very  few  minutes  had 
passed  before  he  was  joined  by  several  of  the  nearest  neighbours.  As  no 
one  liad  yet  appeared  in  the  house,  they  were  about  to  effect  an  entrance 
through  one  of  the  lower  windows,  when  the  door  was  opened  by  Lucas 
himself,  his  wife  standing  behind  him  with  a  candle.  Both  were  very 
pale.  The  wife  was  agitated  in  her  manner,  but  Lucas  seemed  calm ; 
and  both  were  completely  dressed  I  "  Where  is  Mary  ?"  cried  Frank. 
"  Where  is  Mary  ?"  And  he  was  about  to  rush  up-stairs  to  try  to  save 
her ;  but  Lucas's  grasp  was  on  his  throat,  and  he  was  rudely  hurled 
back  into  the  street.  "  Fool !"  shouted  Lucas,  "  the  house  is  in  one 
blaze  from  cellar  to  attic  I" 

The  fire-bell  soon  clashed  forth  its  startling  summons,  and  in  a  very 
short  space  of  time  a  large  crowd  had  collected  about  the  burning  house, 
all  horror-stricken  at  the  thought  that  a  fellow-creature  had  perished  in 
the  flames,  and  all  eager  to  render  any  possible  assistance.  But  no 
assistance  was  of  avail.  The  fire-engine,  as  is  generally  the  case  in 
small  towns,  was  out  of  order,  and  the  supply  of  water  was  utterly 
inadequate.  The  furze,  the  straw,  and  the  spirit  caused  the  fire  to  burn 
with  great  rapidity,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  from  Frank's  first  discovery 
of  the  calamity,  the  roof  had  fallen  in,  and  all  inside  the  bare  walls  was 
one  glowing  mass  of  flame. 

At  length  the  blaze  died  away,  and  by  daylight  nothing  was  left  of 
the  "  King's  Arms"  but  a  heap  of  smouldering  ruins.  The  people, 
though  seeing  that  they  could  be  of  no  use,  still  remained  lingering 
about  the  spot,  and  many  were  the  strange  whisperings  and  mysterious 
hints  that  were  exchanged.  Frank,  poor  fellow,  was  like  one  distracted. 
He  told  of  the  figure  he  had  seen  in  the  fields,  and  the  strange  tale  soon 
spread,  and  was  believed,  with  a  pleasing  horror,  by  many,  but  the 
majority  rejected  it,  and  said  that  poor  Frank  was  raving  from  the 
effects  of  terror  and  over-excitement. 

Shortly  after  the  fire  Lucas  applied  to  the  ■  Insurance  Office  for  a 
large  sum  of  money.  It  then  became  generally  known  that  he  had 
been  for  some  time  in  very  bad  circumstances ;  that  the  house  and  fur* 
niture  had  been  insured  to  more  than  their  full  value;  and  that  Mary 
WiUoughby's  Ufe  had  been  recently  insured  in  the  sum  of  one  thousand 
pounds! 

The  insurance  company  were  naturally  startled  at  the  strange  nature 
of  the  affair,  and  refused  to  pay  the  money.  They  refused  to  pay 
for  the  house,  on  the  ground  that  proper  precaution  had  not  been 
used ;  and  on  Mary's  life,  because  there  was  not  sufficient  positive  evi- 
dence of  her  death,  the  remains  of  the  body  never  having  been  found. 

2i2 


476  The  Old  "  King's  Arms." 

This  proved  a  fortunate  thing  for  Lucas,  as  it  perhaps  saved  his  neck 
As  soon  as  the  facts  of  the  case  became  known  to  the  authorities,  both 
he  and  his  wife  were  committed  on  the  double  charge  of  murder  and  of 
wilfully  setting  fire  to  the  house.     The  grand  jury  ignored  the  bills  on 
both  points,  from  the  want  of  sufficient  positive  evidence,   the  non- 
discovery  of  the  body  being  one  of  the  principal  links  wanting  on  the 
former  charge.     Morally,  however,  they  stood  convicted  in  the  minds  of 
all  men  :  no  one  who  knew  the  facts  of  the  case  for  a  moment  doubted 
their  guilt  of  both  crimes.     The  non-appearance  of  the  body  was  ac- 
counted for  in  many  ways  ;  some  supposing  that  Mary  had  been  mur- 
dered, and  her  body  disposed  of  by  Lucas  before  setting  fire  to  the 
house  ;  others  that  it  had  been  utterly  consumed  by  the  intensity  of  the 
flames,  or  that  what  little  was  left  of  it  had  been  effectually  concealed 
by  the  heaps  of  stone  and  rubbish,  for  the  walls  had  in  many  places 
entirely  fallen  in.     Lucas  himself  attempted  to  account  for  the  fact  of 
his  having  been  up  and  completely  dressed,  by  saying  that  he  and  his 
wife  had  been  startled  during  the  evening,  by  seeing  a  strange  man 
prowling  about  the  house  in  a  suspicious  manner,  and  that  they  had 
been  afraid  to  go  to  bed.     Afterwards  he  said  that  he  and  Mrs.  Lucas 
had  been  together  posting  their  books,  until  the  late  hour  at  which  the 
fire  broke  out,  in  a  room  of  that  part  of  the  house  last  reached  by  the 
flames,   and  that  on   their  discovery  of  the  clalamity  they  had  first 
attempted  to  save  Mary,  and  that  then,  finding  this  attempt  useless, 
they  had,  before  giving  the  alarm,  saved  what  money,  plate,  and  other 
valuables  they  could,  fearing  that  any  delay  might  have  caused  the  loss 
of  all.     Altogether,  he  made  rather  a  lame  story  of  it,  which,  instead  of 
dissipating,  only  strengthened  the  feeling  against  him. 

At  first,  attempting  in  a  sulky,  dogged  kind  of  way,   to  brave  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  Lucas  and  his  wife  remained  in  the  neighbourhood 

of  C ,  cultivating  the  little  farm  which  they  had  before  held.    Bat 

nothing  ever  prospered  with  him  more.  He  got  no  money  from  the 
insurance  office ;  the  horror  and  detestation  in  which  he  was  held  were 
too  much  for  even  his  iron  nerves,  and,  at  length,  a  broken  and  utterly 
ruined  man,  he  suddenly  left  the  place.     He  was  away,  however,  but  a 

short  time,  being  sent  back  to  C ,  by  a  magistrate's  order  of  removal, 

from  a  distant  parish  to  which  he  had  become  chargeable  as  a  pauper. 
His  wife  had  in  the  mean  time  died.  Afterwards,  receiving  scanty  relief 
from  the  parish,  he  dragged  on  a  miserable  existence  in  a  wretched  hat, 
situated  in  a  retired  little  willow  glen  near  the  town,  where  he  partly 
supported  himself  by  making  wicker-work,  an  art  which  he  had  acquired 
during  his  absence.  So  dread  was  the  influence  of  his  presence,  that  few 
people  afterwards  cared  to  pass  through  the  little  glen ;  and  as  for  the 
children  of  the  town,  nothing  on  earth  would  induce  them  to  go  near 
"  Lucas's  House."  The  very  sight  of  him  from  a  distance,  cutting  his 
willows,  was  quite  enough  to  throw  them  into  convulsions.  At  length 
he  died,  and  was  buried.  I  speak  from  no  feeling  of  professional  jealousy, 
but  I  fear  that  the  gentleman  who  then  held  the  office  of  parish-surgeon 
was  not  too  attentive  to  his  case.  However  that  may  be,  he  died :  and  I 
don't  know  what  the  disease  was,  unless  it  was  want  of  the  common 
necessaries  of  life.  True  to  his  reserved,  dogged  temper,  he  expired 
without  saying  a  word  with  reference  to  the  fearful  night  of  the  fire. 

As  for  Frank  Atherley,  the  dreadful  occurrences  of  that  night  produced 


The  Old  "Kings  Arms:'  47? 

a  brain  fever,  and  his  life  was  long  despaired  of.  At  length,  however, 
he  got  better;  and  on  his  recovery,  set  sail  for  America.  No  one  in 
C has  ever  heard  of  him  since. 

Had  I  written  this  story  a  few  days  ago,  I  should  have  had  no  more 
to  say  :  but  now  the  strangest  part  of  all  is  to  come.  The  woman  whom 
I  found  sitting  so  strangely  by  the  side  of  the  road  was  no  other  than 
Mary  Willoughby  herself!  She  told  me  of  it  last  night,  on  what,  I  fear, 
will  prove  her  death-bed.  Poor  wretched  creature !  Hers  has,  indeed, 
been  a  sad  fate !  That  pure,  innocent  girl,  as  she  was  believed  to  be,  and 

as  no  doubt  she  was  before  the  visit  of  the  dragoons  to  C ,  fell  before 

the  arts  of  the  Hon.  Captain  Walmer,  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
villains  who  ever  disgraced  the  British  army.  Before  he  left  the  town, 
he  arranged  to  return  on  a  certain  night — that  on  which  the  fire  broke 
out.  Mary  was  to  escape  at  midnight,  and  join  him  at  a  certain  rendez- 
vous, not  very  far  from  the  town,  where  he  had  means  at  hand  of  convey- 
ing her  away.  It  was  to  aid  this  plan  that  she  had  so  set  her  heart  on 
visiting  her  friends  in  the  country  on  the  night  in  question — an  intention 
which  was  frustrated  by  Lucas's  anxiety  to  keep  her  at  home.  Lest  she 
should  be  detected  in  bringing  any  things  down  stairs  in  the  night,  she, 
in  the  course  of  the  evening,  concealed  what  packets  she  wished  to  take 
with  her  in  the  back  kitchen,  beneath  the  furze  which  had  been  that  day 
placed  there.'  Whilst  getting  them  out,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  she 
was  disturbed  by  hearing  Lucas  coming  down  stairs ;  and  in  her  hurry 
to  escape,  she  quickly  blew  out  the  candle,  threw  it  down,  and  in  great 
haste  left  the  house.  It  is  very  probable  that  this  candle  may  have  ignited 
the  furze,  and  caused  the  conflagration,  of  which  she  solemnly  avers  that 
she  never  heard  until  very  lately.  No  doubt,  she  really  was  seen  by 
Frank  in  the  field,  as  she  passed  that  way,  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
stile,  and  then  ran  hurriedly  down  the  lane,  on  her  way  to  the  place  of 
meeting,  which  was  by  the  pool  where  I  discovered  her. 

I  cannot  exactly  make  out  what  her  history  has  been  since.  Of  course, 
the  honourable  captain  soon  abandoned  her ;  and  I  really  believe  she  has 
since  been  struggling  hard  to  live  a  virtuous  life.  But  she  would  not 
speak  much  of  this.  At  length,  hearing,  by  some  chance,  of  the  events 
which  I  have  related,  she  became  struck  by  the  deepest  remorse,  and  felt, 
she  says,  impelled  by  some  irresistible  power  to  revisit  the  scene  of  her 
innocence  and  her  first  guilt.  When  I  found  her  by  the  road,  she  was 
in  the  first  stage  of  a  violent  disorder,  from  which,  I  fear,  she  will  never 
rally. 

The  events  which  I  have  narrated  are  still,  and  probably  ever  will  be, 
involved  in  mystery.  Whether  Lucas  was  guilty  of  the  intention  of  mur- 
dering Mary  Willoughby,  though  her  escape  prevented  his  accomplishing 
it ;  whether  he  really  was  guilty  of  setting  fire  to  the  house,  or  it  was 
done  by  Mary  herself,  or  by  other  accident ;  whether  the  strange  pro- 
ceedings of  Lucas  and  his  wife  had  their  origin  in  evil  intentions,  or  were 
owing  merely  to  an  extraordinary  combination  of  circumstances,  can  now 
never  be  known.  Whether  guilty  or  innocent,  the  fate  of  Lucas  was 
indeed  a  wretched  one. 

Whilst  writing  the  last  line  or  two  of  the  above,  I  was  called  away  in 
haste  to  the  workhouse  to  attend  my  patient,  who  had  been  taken  sud- 
denly much  worse.     I  found  her  dead ! 


(    4W    ) 
PILGRIMAGES  TO  THE  FRENCH  PAI1A.CBS. 

BY  FLORENTIA. 

xn. 

Adelaide  de  Bourgogne,  Second  Dauphineas. 

Of  all  the  visions  that  passed  before  me  of  the  former  inhabitants  of 
Marly  during  the  morning  I  wandered  amid  its  woods,  none  rose  so 
vividly  in  my  mind  as  that  fascinating,  playful  little  Duchesse  de  Bour- 
gogne, the  Seconde  Dauphine,  as  she  was  called,  whose  presence  threw 
a  last  gleam  of  youth  and  gaiety  around  the  gloomy  court  of  the  aged 
king  and  his  puritanical  partner.  What  a  merry  creature  it  was,  and 
how  they  loved  her  and  indulged  her  tricks  and  fancies,  allowing  her  un- 
heard-of liberties  without  a  word  of  reprimand.  She  danced,  she  talked, 
she  jumped  about,  now  seating  herself  on  the  arm  of  one  awful  arm-chair, 
then  of  another ;  sometimes  perched  on  the  king's  knee,  sometimes  with 
her  pretty  arms  entwined  round  his  neck  ; — now  rumpling  Madame  de 
Mtinteuon's  stiff  brocaded  dresses  without  any  mercy,  then  covering  her 
with  kisses,  caresses,  and  excuses  ; — now  teasing  the  king,  pulling  his 
wig,  stroking  his  chin,  stealing  his  papers,  and  reading  and  unsealing 
his  letters  in  spite  of  all  he  could  say,  then  laughing  with  all  her  might 
at  the  confusion  she  had  made ; — always  admitted  at  all  hours,  eve* 
when  the  council  was  sitting,  she  played  off  her  pretty  tricks  even  before 
this  august  assembly.  She  was  so  sweetly  obliging,  so  graceful,  so  kind, 
and  possessed  moreover  such  infinite  tact,  that  she  was  universally  loved. 
The  king  and  Madame  de  Maintenon,  whom  she  called  her  aunt  (by 
way  of  a  compromise  between  friendship  and  etiquette),  absolutely  doted 
on  her,  and  listened  to  all  her  sallies  with  delight. 

"  Ma  chere  tante  !"  said  she,  one  evening,  to  the  latter,  as  they  were 
both  sitting  with  the  king,  "  I  think  you  must  allow  that  in  England 
queens  govern  better  than  kings."  Ana  then,  jumping  on  the  arm  of  the 
king's  chair,  and  giving  him  a  sly  pinch,  she  paused. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so?"  inquired  Madame  de  Maintenon. 

"  Because,"  continued  the  little  duchess,  now  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  dancing  round  and  round  a  stool, — "  because,  you  see,  under  kings 
women  govern,  and  under  queens,  why  then,  men  do :  that  is  the  reason." 

Bold  as  was  this  sally,  they  both  laughed,  and  the  king,  delighted 
with  her  wit,  called  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 
Thoughtless  and  giddy  when  with  those  whom  she  knew  loved  her  so 
well,  she  could  assume  all  the  dignity  of  her  rank  when  occasion  required, 
and  be  as  stately  as  any  princess  that  ever  wore  a  mantle  and  sat  in  a 
fautetril. 

Respectful  to  the  king  in  public,  and  even  timid  in  her  deportment  to 
Madame  de  Maintenon,  she  took  care  never  to  indulge  her  spirit  mal  * 
propos,  or  when  she  saw  that  it  might  annoy  them.  But  towards  aay 
of  the  ladies  of  the  court  whom  she  considered  wanting  in  proper  respect, 
the  charming  little  dauphine  could  be  as  bitter  as  she  was  gracious 
towards  those  whose  conduct  she  approved.     Addressing  herself  one 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  479 

day  to  the  Dochesse  de  St.  Simon,  and  pointing  to  the  Duchesse  de 
Berry  and  the  Prineesse  de  Conti,  who  were  neither  of  them  her  friend** 
she  said,  "  Do  you  see  them  there  ?  Do  you  see  them  ?  Now,  I  know 
very  well  what  a  regular  romp  I  am — une  vraie  petite  etourdie — I  talk 
the  greatest  nonsense  and  do  the  maddest  pranks ;  but  for  all  that,  bis 
majesty  likes  rt,  and  it  amuses  him."  Then  dancing  and  singing,  as 
she  leant  on  the  arm  of  Madame  de  St.  Simon,  she  continued :  '*  But 
what  is  that  to  them  ?  They  are  not  answerable  for  my  conduct — what 
do  I  care  for  what  they  say  ?  I  laugh  at  them  —  elles  r/Camusent 
Shall  I  not  one  day  be  their  queen  ? — ah,  je  m'en  moque  ! — shall  I  not 
be  their  queen  ?"  And  she  laughed  louder  and  louder.  Madame  de  St. 
Simon  fearing  the  princesses  might  overhear  her,  entreated  her  to  be 
quiet,  which  only  made  her  dance,  sing,  and  laugh  all  the  louder,  always 
repeating  the  words,  "  Shall  I  not  be  their  queen  ?" 

Such  was  Adelaide  of  Savoy,  who  first  made  her  appearance  in  the  in- 
triguing court  of  France  at  eleven  years  of  age,  and  although  a  mere 
child,  had  the  admirable  sense  and  dexterity  to  endear  herself  to  all 
around,  and  to  manage  the  king  in  a  manner  that  would  have  before  been 
deemed  incredible.  He  had  always  been  partial  to  her  from  the  very 
moment  he  first  saw  her.  "  I  would  not,"  said  he,  at  their  first  meeting, 
"  change  her  for  any  one  in  the  world !"  He  placed  the  little  princess 
by  him  at  supper,  expressing  the  most  Kvely  admiration  of  her  grace, 
beauty,  and  wit.  On  her  retiring,  the  monarch  followed,  and  in  presence 
of  her  ladies,  completed  more  particularly  the  examination  of  her  make 
■od  person, — an  examination  so  satisfactory,  that  he  sent  off  an  express 
to  Madame  de  Main-tenon,  then  at  Fontainebleau,  to  inform  her  how  de- 
lighted  he  was  with  the  little  princess. 

From  the  first  time  of  her  introduction  to  Madame  de  Maintenon  she 
treated  her  with  the  utmost  deference,  and  won  her  heart  so  entirely,  thai 
from  that  hour  to  the  day  of  her  death  Madame  de  Maintenon  behaved 
to  her  with  unvarying  affection*  Neither  she  nor  the  king  were  happy 
without  her,  and,  ill  or  well,  thedanphine  must  accompany  them  wherever 
tfaey  went.  In  person  she  was  tall  and  graceful,  but  her  face,  though 
piquante  and  pretty,  wanted  that  regularity  of  features  that  alone  can 
constitute  real  beauty. 

The  state  ceremonial  of  her  marriage  with  the  dauphin  is  a  comical 
specimen  of  the  etsqoette  of  the  day.  They  were  both  of  the  same  age- 
eleven  years  old — when  this  betrothal,  rather  than  marriage,  took  place. 
After  supper  the  whole  court  assembled  in  the  bedroom  of  the  princess ; 
but,  on  the  entrance  of  the  king,  the  gentlemen  were  desired  to  retire, 
Adelaide  was  undressed  by  our  beautiful  queen,  Mary  of  Modena ;  her 
boy-husband  undergoing  the  same  ceremonial  in  the  ante-room,  assisted 
by  James  II.,  whose  services  were  often  called  into  requisition  as  valet  m 
toe  numerous  ceremonials  of  the  French  court.  The  children  were  then 
pieced  in  bed,  surrounded  by  all  the  ladies  of  the  court,  who  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  laughter  at  the  comical  expressions  of  the  little  faces — half 
frightened,  half  ashamed — lying  on  the  lace-pillows  beside  each  other. 
After  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  duration,  the  farce  ended  by  the  Doe  de 
Bourgogne  being  reconducted  by  his  tutor  to  his  apartments,  where  he 
was  re-dresscd.     This  ceremony  over,  the  children  were  allowed  to  play 


480  Pilgrimages  to  tJie  French  Palaces. 

together  for  a  few  hours  daily  in  the  presence  of  the  ladies  in  waiting 
of  the  princess,  and  were  extremely  happy  and  contented  in  each  other's 
company. 

When  the  hoy-duke  became  a  man,  he  loved  his  wife  with  a  passion 
and  a  fidelity  rare  indeed  in  that  profligate  age.  No  other  liaison  erer 
interfered  to  lessen  the  empire  that  his  fascinating  little  wife  exercised 
over  him,  and  he  admired  her  childish  gambols  and  graceful  gaiety  with 
all  the  pride  of  a  devoted  husband.  But  he  well  knew  that,  woman  as 
she  was,  he  could  not  trust  her  with  a  secret.  On  one  occasion,  when 
closeted  with  a  minister,  and  conversing  on  matters  of  the  highest 
importance,  he  left  the  door  of  the  room  unfastened,  believing  her  to 
be  in  a  distant  part  of  the  palace,  all  at  once  she  suddenly  broke  into 
the  room.  Seeing  by  her  husband's  looks  that  her  appearance  at  that 
moment  was  anything  but  agreeable,  she  stopped,  and  said,  with  a 
trembling  voice  and  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles,  "  that  she  had  come  to 
him  being  ignorant  he  was  in  such  good  company."  Then  she  stood 
half  abashed  and  uncertain,  looking  from  him  to  the  minister,  and  await- 
ing his  reply. 

"  Well  then,  madame,"  replied  he,  "  since  you  find  me  in  such  good 
company,  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  enjoy  it  without  interruption." 

Upon  hearing  which,  laughing  with  unabated  good-humour,  she  made 
a  little  pirouette,  and  left  the  room. 

I  have  already  said,  that  this  bewitching  creature  was  not  beautiful — 
far  from  it — but  she  was  grace  itself,  and  threw  around  her  an  indescribable 
charm  of  good-nature  and  ease  that  triumphed  over  even  the  icy  stiffness 
of  the  dreary  court  she  inhabited.  Her  speaking  eyes,  her  sweet  smile, 
her  graceful  carriage,  "  as  of  a  goddess  on  the  clouds,"  joined  to  a  quick 
and  ready  wit  and  a  cultivated  mind,  charmed  far  more  than  mere  beauty, 
and  her  extreme  affability  and  amiability,  shown  to  the  humblest  of  those 
around,  gained  over  all  hearts  and  made  her  universally  beloved.  There 
was  such  a  freshness  about  her,  and  she  enjoyed  everything  so  thoroughly, 
her  happy  spirit  leading  her  to  find  pleasure  even  in  the  dull  routine  in 
which  she  was  condemned  to  live,  that  the  sight  of  her  unaffected  happi- 
ness and  enjoyment  absolutely  inspired  the  worn-out  blase  old  courtiers, 
and  infused  into  them  a  portion  of  her  own  genuine  hilarity. 

Her  early  and  melancholy  death  deepened  the  gloom  that  settled  around 
the  weary  old  monarch,  whom  Madame  de  Maintenon  pronounced  from 
that  time  "  as  no  longer  amusable."  When  she  was  gone,  the  last  ray  of 
light  disappeared  from  that  once  radiant  sun  now  setting  amid  black  and 
ominous  clouds  charged  with  coming  storms. 

The  dauphine  had  a  superstition  that  she  should  die  before  she  was 
thirty,  from  some  prediction,  or  horoscope,  made  when  a  child  at  Turin, 
by  an  astrologer,  who  foretold  that  her  death  would  occur  before  that 
period.  She  often  alluded  to  this  circumstance  with  her  natural  light- 
heartedness,  and  affected  to  turn  the  prediction  into  ridicule.  Frequently, 
when  indulging  in  those  bursts  of  hoidenish  glee  in  which  she  so  de- 
lighted, she  said,  "  Come,  I  must  make  the  most  of  the  present  time- 
no  one  shall  hinder  me — for  I  shall  not  live  long  to  enjoy  myself.  This 
is  the  year  in  which  I  am  to  die." 

Indulged  by  Madame  de  Maintenon  to  an  almost  incredible  extent, 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  481 

she  really  sometimes  conducted  herself  like  a  perfect  harlequin.  What- 
ever she  liked  she  did,  and  whatever  she  did  was  allowed.  She  ran  hither 
and  thither,  into  the  churches,  or  in  the  village  of  Marly,  unattended 
hy  valets  or  pages,  amusing  herself  in  the  gardens  until  three  or 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  companions  as  giddy  as  herself.  Far 
from  restraining  this  excessive  wildness,  her  husband  joined  Madame  de 
Maintenon  in  indulging  all  her  caprices,  for  he  loved  her  with  a  fondness 
that  made  him  her  slave.  A  look  from  her  enchanted  him,  and  if  his 
better  judgment  led  him  to  counsel  and  to  advise  her,  when  she  appeared 
all  was  forgotten. 

One  day  they  were  walking  together  under  the  shady  avenues  of  Marly. 
"  The  time  is  now  approaching,"  said  she  to  the  dauphin,  "when  the 
astrologer  told  me  I  should  die.  Now  you  will  never  be  happy  without 
a  wife ;  you  are  too  good  not  to  be  married ;  so  do  pray  tell  me  honestly 
whom  you  will  choose." 

For  a  moment  she  was  grave:  she  neither  sang  nor  jumped,  but  awaited 
his  reply  in  silence  and  anxiety. 

"  Adelaide,"  replied  he,  with  great  emotion,  "  if  it  should  please  the 
Almighty  to  rob  me  of  what  I  most  prize  and  love — yourself — rest  assured 
I  should  never  marry  again ;  in  eight  days  I  should  be  beside  you,  and 
one  grave  would  cover  us  both." 

Strange  to  say,  such  was  the  case ;  on  the  seventh  day  from  her  death 
he  was  a  corpse ! 

Subject  like  all  the  rest  of  the  court  to  the  selfish  desire  of  the  king 
that  she  should  form  one  of  the  number  in  the  petits  voyages  to  Marly, 
she  had  started  very  much  indisposed,  but  had  contrived  to  make  her 
appearance  in  the  grand  circle  in  the  evening,  although  obliged  to 
return  to  her  bed.  Whether  or  not  this  exertion  was  the  primary 
cause  of  her  illness,  it  is  impossible  to  decide ;  but  on  returning  to  Ver- 
sailles, apparently  better,  she  was  presented,  by  the  Due  de  Noailles,  with 
a  box  of  fine  snuff,  with  which  she  was  much  pleased.  After  having  used 
it,  she  laid  the  box  down  on  her  table  and  descended  to  dinner.  That 
very  evening  she  was  seized  with  a  violent  fever,  and  rapidly  became  so 
alarmingly  ill  that  the  king  and  the  dauphin  were  in  the  utmost  alarm. 
The  box  of  snuff  was  remembered,  but  although  diligent  search  was  made, 
it  could  never  be  discovered.  This  circumstance  caused  a  dark  suspicion  of 
poison  to  embitter  the  sufferings  of  the  sweet  young  princess.  Her 
agonies  were  intense ;  despite  all  remedies  she  became  worse.  Madame 
de  Maintenon  scarcely  left  her  side ;  the  king  was  constantly  with  her, 
and  the  poor  dauphin  stood  nailed  to  the  side  of  the  wife  he  adored.  So 
passed  many  days  amid  delirium  and  increasing  illness. 

At  length,  in  an  interval  of  reason,  she  desired  to  have  a  confessor, 
and  named  one  whom  she  preferred,  on  whose  arrival  she  confessed  at 
great  length,  and  received  the  sacrament.  She  earnestly  desired  to  have 
the  prayers  for  the  dying  offered  up,  but  being  assured  that  her  state  by 
no  means  justified  this,  was  entreated  to  try  and  compose  herself  and 
endeavour  to  sleep.  The  following  night  she  grew  rapidly  worse ;  the 
next  day  she  was  no  more,  having  died,  as  she  predicted,  before  her 
thirtieth  birthday. 

The  grief  of  the  king  was  sincere,  for  it  was  selfish ;  he  had  lost  his 


482  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

last  enjoyment,  the  old  man's  darling ;  and  the  suspicion  of  poison 
tended  to  increase  his  sorrow.  After  her  death  the  gardens  of  Marly 
were  desolate,  and  the  palace  no  longer  echoed  to  the  pleasant  sound  of 
merry-ringing  laughter. 

During  the  reign  of  Louis  XVI.  it  was  the  favourite  abode  of  Marie 
Antoinette.  It  was  here  that,  after  years  of  coldness  and  neglect,  she 
first  received  unequivocal  proofs  of  the  affection  of  her  husband.  Up  to 
that  time  his  conduct  towards  his  beautiful  and  attractive  wife  was  so 
extraordinary  that  no  circumstances  can  in  any  way  account  for  it 
Louis  XVI.,  sleepy  and  phlegmatic  in  no  ordinary  degree  up  to  this 
time,  seemed  utterly  unaware  that  he  was  united  to  the  most  lovely 
woman  in  existence.  Not  all  her  devotion,  her  attention,  and  her  evident 
unhappiness  had  as  yet  roused  him  to  a  consciousness  of  this  fact,  and 
although  living  ostensibly  as  husband  and  wife,  they  were  in  fact  entirely 
estranged  from  each  other.  Marie  Antoinette  saw,  with  the  utmost 
chagrin,  that  the  charms  she  heard  lavishly  and  universally  extolled  by 
those  whose  admiration  was  indifferent  to  her,  had  entirely  failed  in  cap- 
tivating the  affection  of  the  one  person  whom  she  desired  to  please ;  and 
this  consciousness  drew  many  bitter  tears  from  her  eyes  in  those  moments 
when  she  dared  indulge  the  grief  that  oppressed  her. 

It  was  at  Marly  that  the  scales  first  fell  from  the  eyes  of  Louis,  and 
that  he  discovered  what  a  treasure  of  beauty  and  goodness  he  possessed. 
The  poor  queen  was  so  delighted  she  could  not  conceal  her  joyj  she 
spoke  of  her  happiness  to  every  one,  and  was  in  the  most  charming  state 
ox  excitement  and  glee. 

Now  Louis  even  forgot  his  hunting,  that  diurnal  amusement  in  which 
he  indulged  almost  to  the  very  conclusion  of  his  unhappy  career;  be 
could  not  leave  the  queen ;  arm-in-arm  they  wandered  about  over  the 
gardens  and  amid  the  mossy  woods  that  extended  around,  Kke  a  pair 
of  lovers,  long  and  cruelly  parted,  at  length  restored  to  love  and  to  each 
other !  It  was  a  wonderful  sight  to  the  court,  little  used  to  these  demon- 
strations, and  conjugal  attention  became  at  once  the  fashion  ;  husbands 
and  wives  who  had  not  spoken  for  years,  and  were  known  reciprocally  to 
hate  each  other  with  undisguised  and  well-founded  virulence,  were  imme- 
diately seen,  in  imitation  of  the  royal  pair,  wandering  among  the  flowers 
and  the  statues  of  the  gay  parterres.  A  smile  of  approbation  from  the 
royal  couple  was,  however,  deemed  a  sufficient  reward  for  the  ennui  and 
annoyance  they  experienced  in  these  weary  tete-a-tete. 

After  the  queen's  first  confinement,  she  soon  returned  to  her  favourite 
residence  at  Marly,  and  Madame  Campan  describes  her  mode  of  lift 
in  her  "  Memoirs."  "  After  dinner,  and  before  cards,  the  queen,  the 
princesses,  and  their  ladies,  stroll  out  among  the  beautiful  groves,  where 
the  trees  planted  by  Louis  XIV.  had  attained  great  height ;  jets  if  to*  d 
the  most  limpid  freshness  shot  up  in  bright  gushing  pillars  higher  even 
than  the  lofty  trees,  while  cascades  of  white  marble  burst  forth  among 
the  branches,  and,  illuminated  by  the  rays  of  the  sun  piercing  the  deep 
shade  of  the  woods,  looked  like  masses  of  liquid  silver  amid  die  grest 


In  the  evening  every  one  known  to  the  attendants  was  present  is 
the  queen's  bedroom,  of  immense   size  and  octagonal    shape,  profusely 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  483 

adorned  with  pillars  and  statues,  and  surmounted  with  a  cupola  orna- 
mented with  gilt  balustrades,  and  painted  in  the  Italian  style." 

It  was  there  that  Marie  Antoinette  first  gave  rise  to  the  cruel  calumnies 
that  afterwards  assailed  her,  by  the  indulgence  of  a  caprice  as  innocent 
as  it  was  natural.  Never  having  seen  the  sun  rise,  she  fancied  she 
should  like  to  view  so  fine  a  sight  from  the  heights  above  the  palace, 
and,  accompanied  by  a  numerous  suite,  she  actually  executed  this  little 
project.  Unfortunately  she  was  unaccompanied  by  the  king,  who,  over- 
come by  sleep,  had  declined  so  matinal  an  excursion.  A  few  days  after, 
the  most  infamous  libels  were  circulated  in  Paris  on  what  was  called  "  le 
lever  de  Taurore"  of  the  queen,  whose  sorrows  and  tribulations  were  then 
just  commencing.  The  happy  days  of  poor  Marie  Antoinette  were  but 
brief  indeed,  and  Marly,  as  well  as  Trianon,  were  to  be  but  too  soon 
exchanged  for  the  horrible  prison  of  the  Temple  and  the  steps  of  the 
bloody  guillotine. 

All  trace  of  the  joys,  the  sorrows,  and  the  dissipation  of  the  royal 
inhabitants  of  Marly  have  now  utterly  passed  away,  the  ruthless  hand  of 
the  Revolution  has  laid  all  its  glories  in  the  dust,  and  scarcely  a  stone 
remains  to  assist  one  in  defining  the  form  or  extent  of  the  building.  All 
has  vanished  except  a  large  marble  trough,  where  the  cows  and  horses  of 
the  neighbourhood  now  congregate  during  the  heat  of  the  day.  I  left 
this  scene  of  fallen  grandeur  with  regret.  There  is  so  much  prettiness 
about  the  sloping  banks  fringed  with  hazel  and  holly,  and  the  over- 
hanging woods  crowned  with  lofty  trees,  all  glistening  under  a  bright 
sun,  that  I  could  have  wandered  about  for  hours  in  the  woods.  But  there 
was  the  railroad  at  St  Germain  to  be  caught  in  time  to  insure  a  visit 
to  Malmoison  before  my  return  to  Paris,  so  I  departed,  rapidly  retracing 
my  steps. 


XIII. 

Malraaiflon— Pauline  Borghese — Funeral  of  Josephine — Queen  Hortense— Napo- 
leon and  Josephine — Visit  of  Napoleon  to  her  Tomb— Destruction  of  La  Mal- 
maison. 

Malmatson,  another  melancholy  relic  of  fallen  grandeur,  has  ever 
been  to  me  a  place  of  peculiar  interest.  Unlike  Marly,  where  every 
association  is  of  courts,  kings,  and  etiquette,  this  was  the  domestic  hearth, 
the  beloved  home  of  that  great  conqueror,  who  here  forgot  glory  and 
victory  only  to  remember  that  he  was  a  man — the  ardently  attached 
husband — the  affectionate  friend.  It  is  a  place  connected  with  all  that 
is  most  interesting  and  attractive  in  the  career  of  Napoleon. 

Who  does  not  remember  the  lively  account  given  by  the  Duchesse 
d'Abrantes,  in  her  amusing  Memoirs,  of  the  happy  days  passed  at  Mai* 
maison  by  the  First  Consul  and  his  friends — the  merry  games  of  hide-and- 
seek,  when  he  chased  her  and  Hortense  Beauharnais  (the  present  Em- 
peror's mother),  and  many  another  happy  young  spirit,  through  the  trees, 
becoming  so  excited  in  his  endeavours  to  catch  them  (for  he  must  be 
successful  everywhere)  that  he  quite  terrified  them  ? 

Then  the  evenings  passed  in  those  rooms  which  it  had  been  the  mutual 


484  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

delight  of  himself  and  Josephine  to  adorn  with  every  curiosity  and  luxury, 
where  all  the  party  played  at  cards,  and  Josephine,  dressed  in  an  elegant 
costume  of  white  muslin  (Napoleon  said  women  should  always  dress  in 
white),  moved  about  among  her  guests  in  her  own  quiet,  graceful  way, 
or  joined  in  the  round  game  at  his  desire,  and  was  so  egregiously  cheated  by 
him,  that  even  she,  who  never  thought  about  money,  complained  ;  when, 
laughing  at  her  indignation,  with  a  pinch  and  a  fond  kiss,  he  pounced  all 
his  gains  into  her  lap  and  made  his  peace.  Ah  !  Napoleon  was  happy 
then,  and  there  is  in  these  scenes  a  domestic  charm  that  endears  his  me- 
mory to  every  heart,  for  all  have  at  some  period  of  their  lives  experienced 
the  exquisite  delight  of  household  love. 

Sometimes  things  did  not  go  on  quite  so  smoothly,  however,  at  Mai- 
maison,  when  any  of  the  Bonaparte  family  visited  Josephine,  for  a  most 
cordial  hatred  seems  to  have  existed  between  her  and  the  ladies  of  the 
imperial  family,  partaking  somewhat  of  female  rivalry  and  jealousy. 

One  evening  in  particular — when  the  beautiful  Pauline  was  to  be  for- 
mally presented  to  Josephine,  on  her  marriage  with  the  Prince  Borghese 
— must  be  noted  in  the  annals  of  Malmaison.  Pauline,  clever,  witty,  and 
most  lovely,  had  accepted  the  hand  of  the  Borghese,  almost  a  fool  in 
intellect,  solely  on  account  of  his  money  and  his  title.  Sacrificing  her 
heart  to  her  ambition,  she  determined  to  make  the  first  use  of  her 
new  honours  by  endeavouring  to  humiliate  poor  Josephine ;  and  in  order 
to  carry  out  this  amiable  resolution,  announced  her  intention  of  visiting 
her  on  a  certain  evening  shortly  after  her  marriage.  Days  were  passed 
in  preparing  the  splendid  toilette  which  was  to  crush  her  sister-in-law. 
At  length  the  memorable  evening  arrived.  Josephine,  fully  aware  of 
the  intentions  of  Pauline,  took  her  own  measures  accordingly.  She 
arranged  herself  for  this  trying  ordeal,  of  a  graceful  against  a  beau- 
tiful woman,  with  consummate  tact  and  a  perfect  knowledge  of  that 
peculiar  style  of  dress  well  calculated  to  display  her  faultless  shape, 
which  she  has  almost  immortalised.  She  wore  a  white  muslin  dress 
edged  and  trimmed  with  a  narrow  border  of  gold;  the  short  sleeves, 
which  displayed  a  finely-turned  arm,  were  looped  up  at  the  shoulder  by 
large  cameos,  an  enamelled  serpent  encircled  her  throat,  on  her  head 
was  a  kind  of  diadem  formed  of  cameos  and  enamel,  confining  her  hair 
somewhat  in  the  style  of  the  antique  busts  of  the  Roman  empresses. 
She  looked  so  extremely  graceful  and  classical  in  this  attire,  that  when 
Napoleon  entered  the  salon  he  was  delighted,  and  saluted  her  with  a  kiss 
on  the  shoulder — a  somewhat  bourgeois  caress,  by  the  way.  On  his  ex- 
pressing his  surprise  at  the  care  with  which  she  was  dressed,  she  reminded 
him  of  the  expected  visit  of  Pauline.  The  evening  wore  on,  and  yet  the 
princess  did  not  arrive.  Napoleon,  having  remained  beyond  his  usual 
time,  retired  at  last  to  his  cabinet.  Shortly  afterwards  the  princess  made 
her  appearance,  looking  transcendently  lovely.  But  on  this  occasion 
she  had  not  trusted  to  the  charms  of  unadorned  beauty,  as  she  lite- 
rally was  resplendent  with  jewels.  Her  dress,  composed  of  green  velvet, 
was  embroidered  in  the  front  with  masses  of  diamonds,  her  arms,  her 
neck,  her  head  were  also  encircled  with  splendid  jewels.  As  she  advanced 
across  the  room  towards  Josephine,  who,  as  the  wife  of  the  First  Consul, 
did  not  rise  until  she  approached,  Pauline  gazed  around  full  of  pride  and 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palace*.  485 

gratified  vanity,  conscious  of  the  effect  created  by  her  beauty,  her  youth, 
and  her  dazzling  splendour. 

The  salutations  were  cold  between  the  rival  ladies.  Pauline  seated 
herself,  and  to  break  the  stiffness  of  the  reception,  began  conversing  in  a 
low.  voice  with  Madame  Junot,  who  was  placed  near  her. 

"  Well,  Louise,  how  do  I  look  to-night  ?  What  do  you  think  of  the 
Borghese  jewels  ?" 

"  Think  ?  why  they  are  wonderful — actually  eblouissants"  returned 
Madame  Junot. 

"  But  do  you  really,  now — flattery  apart — think  this  dress  becomes 
me?" 

"Vain  Pauline !  why  you  knew  perfectly  before  asking  me  that  ques- 
tion you  never  looked  better  in  your  whole  life." 

"  Well,  it  is  not  exactly  vanity  that  makes  me  ask  you  so  particu- 
larly," replied  Pauline ;  "  but  it  is  because  I  want  to  astonish  Madame 
Bonaparte,  and  you  know  I  have  spared  no  pains  to  mortify  her  by  this 
display  of  my  new  jewels.  Yet  how  elegant  she  looks  in  that  simple 
India  muslin  dress,  with  those  cameos,  too,  like  a  Grecian  statue ;  she 
certainly  does  understand  to  perfection  the  style  that  suits  her.  That 
white  dress  contrasts  so  well,  too,  with  the  blue  satin  of  the  furniture- 
it  is  perfect.  Good  Heavens !  what  shall  I  do  ?"  she  suddenly  exclaimed 
in  an  agonised  whisper,  and  turned  quite  pale. 

"  What  is  it  ? — what  can  be  the  matter?"  asked  Madame  Junot,  quite 
alarmed. 

"  Oh,  Louise,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  How  cruel  not  to  remind  me ! 
To  let  me  come  here  in  this  room  dressed  in  green  velvet,  when  the  fur- 
niture is  blue  satin  !  Oh !  this  is  too  much.  I  shall  never  forgive  you ! 
How  dreadful  I  must  look  by  the  side  of  Josephine  !  This  is  more  than 
I  can  bear.     I  must  go  away  at  once." 

Pauline  was  conquered !  Elegance  had  won  the  day  even  against 
beauty.  She  took  a  hasty  farewell  of  Josephine,  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  consoling,  herself  a  little  in  her  retreat  by  displaying  her  jewels 
before  the  whole  establishment  assembled. to  do  her  honour.  She  passed 
down  the  alley  formed  by  the  household,  preceded  by  lighted  torches, 
and  followed  by  her  husband,  whom  she  early  taught  to  aspire  no  higher 
than  to  the  honour  of  being  her  chamberlain ;  and  thus  ended  in  absolute 
failure  this  notable  wedding  visit  of  the  Princess  Pauline  Borghese. 

It  would  be  easy  to.  fill  a  volume  with  similar  anecdotes  of  which  Mai- 
maison  was  the  scene,  but  as  I  do  not  propose  to  write  a  memoir  of  this 
interesting  habitation,  I  must  proceed.  Malmaison  is  situated  near  Rueil, 
one  of  the  stations  on  the  St.  Germain  Railway.  Nothing  can  be 
uglier  than  the  situation  of  Rueil,  a  small  town  in  a  dead  plain,  the 
house  of  Malmaison  being  situated  about  half  a  mile  out  of  the  town  at 
the  foot  of  rising  hills.  There  is  no  kind  of  picturesqueness  either  in  the 
situation  or  the  house,  and  it  is  really  wonderful  such  a  spot  should  have 
been  preferred  as  a  residence  by  Napoleon,  when  there  is  scarcely  a  single 
natural  beauty  to  recommend  it  The  environs  of  Paris  are  generally  so 
very  pretty,  that  one  would  have  imagined  it  almost  impossible  to  ex- 
pend vast  sums  on  the  embellishment  of  a  position  so  wanting  in  every, 
charm.  . 


486  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

A  long,  straight,  payed  road  leads  to  the  gates.  How  often  had 
Napoleon  traversed  that  road  with  lightning  speed  when,  freed  from  the 
toils  and  anxieties  of  state,  he  sought  the  retirement  and  the  cheerful 
domestic  enjoyment  he  prised  so  much  at  that  period  of  his  life.  The 
house  stands  almost  close  to  the  gates,  shrouded  only  by  a  small  tuft  of 
shrubs ;  it  is  of  moderate  size,  and  really  anything  bat  imposing  in 
appearance,  composed  of  a  corps  de  logis  flanked  by  two  heavy  pavilions, 
or  towers,  crushed  by  the  weight  of  a  deeply-sloping  slated  rood  The 
effect  of  the  whole  is  little  better  indeed  than  a  farm-house.  With  all 
my  enthusiasm  I  could  not  find  a  single  thing  to  admire,  and  left  Mai- 
maison  quite  disappointed.  The  name  was  originally  Mala-casa,  so  named 
from  the  place  having  been  formerly  inhabited  by  banditti,  whose  depre- 
dations gave  this  sobriquet  to  their  abode.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  place  of 
considerable  antiquity. 

One  other  object  of  interest  remained  to  be  seen— the  tombs  of  Jose- 
phine and  her  daughter  the  Queen  Hortense,  in  the  pariah  church  of 
RuetL  The  monument  erected  to  Josephine  is  large  and  heavy,  sur- 
mounted with  cumbrous  arches  and  pillars.  The  figure  of  the  empress 
in  a  kneeling  attitude  appears  intended  as  a  likeness,  for  the  features  are 
strongly  marked,  and  the  face  no  longer  young.  The  funeral  of  Jose- 
phine was  magnificent,  and  the  attachment  she  inspired  was  evidenced  by 
the  sincere  grief  caused  by  her  sudden  death.  Her  daughter,  Queen 
Hortense,  who  was  fondly  devoted  to  her,  escaped  from  her  attendants, 
who  sought  to  retain  her  at  Malmaison  during  the  ceremony,  and  rushing 
to  the  church  at  Rueil,  threw  herself  on  the  coffin  of  her  mother  in  an 
agony  of  grief  and  despair.  Every  one  present  was  deeply  affected— 
her  beauty,  her  youth  increased  the  interest — and  the  affecting  prayer 
she  offered  up,  recommending  the  soul  of  her  beloved  mother  to  the  mercy 
of  the  Almighty,  was  never  forgotten  by  those  who  heard  it. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  altar  lies  this  attached  daughter,  Hortense 
Queen  of  Holland,  and  this  monument  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most 
interesting  I  ever  beheld.  She  is  also  kneeling,  with  her  hands  clasped. 
The  face  is  of  faultless  beauty,  with  the  most  enchanting  expression  of 
calmness  and  repose.  On  the  head  is  a  garland  of  flowers,  from  which 
mils  a  drapery  covering  the  neck  and  shoulders.  Nothing  can  be  con- 
ceived more  touching  than  the  sepulchral  beauty  of  this  figure.  Hortense 
was  at  least  forty  when  she  died,  but  this  monument  represents  her  as 
younger.  Her  son,  the  present  Emperor,  is  very  exact  in  his  devotions 
at  the  tombs  of  his  mother  and  grandmother. 

Here,  then,  lived,  and  here  died,  the  gentle,  devoted  Josephine.  All 
her  heart  was  given  to  that  hero  whom  she  married  when  as  yet  the  world 
knew  him  not,  and  she  and  a  few  intimate  friends  alone  presaged  his 
future  greatness.  Deprived  of  his  love  and  bis  presence,  the  joy,  the 
aim  of  her  life  was  gone;  she  had  lost  a  second,  a  dearer  self;  her 
heart  pined  and  her  body  wasted  in  the  retreat  she  had  chosen  at  Mal- 
maison, now  sad  and  melancholy.  The  rooms  Napoleon  had  inhabited 
were  sacred  to  his  memory :  nothing  was  touched,  bat  all  remained,  even 
to  the  book  he  last  read,  precisely  as  he  had  left  it.  Her  imagination 
sought  to  deceive  her  reason  by  cherishing  these  recollections ;  she  loved  to 
imagine  that  he  was  near,  and  would  return  again.     Touching  evidences 


Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces.  487 

of  her  great  lore  so  ill  requited !  Her  sufferings  during  the  time  that  the 
divorce  was  as  yet  undecided  are  related  in  the  Memoirs  written  by  her 
attendants. 

On  one  occasion  in  particular  Josephine  was  in  so  distracted  a  state 
after  an  interview  with  Fouche*  on  the  subject  of  the  divorce,  that  Madame 
de  Remusat,  her  lady  in  waiting,  becoming  really  alarmed  at  the  frantic 
expression  of  her  grief,  determined,  without  saying  anything  to  her,  to 
acquaint  Napoleon  with  her  condition.  He  had  already  retired  to  bed, 
and,  not  over-pleased  at  being  disturbed,  desired  her,  through  his  at- 
tendant, to  return  early  in  the  morning.  "  But,"  replied  Madame  de 
Remusat,  "  I  must  see  the  Emperor  this  very  night ;  tell  him  it  is  not 
for  myself,  it  is  for  one  who  is  most  dear — for  his  own,  for  her  sake." 

At  last  she  was  admitted.  Napoleon  was  in  bed,  with  a  silk  hand- 
kerchief tied  round  his  head ;  he  motioned  to  Madame  de  Remusat  to 
approach  the  little  couch  on  which  he  lay.  She  was  so  much  agitated 
that  she  could  scarcely  speak,  but  at  last  found  words  to  describe  the 
agitation  in  which  she  had  left  the  empress.  As  she  spoke,  he  raised 
himself  in  the  bed,  and  regarded  her  with  one  of  those  glances  which,  like 
his  smile,  were  quite  peculiar  to  himself. 

"  But  why,"  said  he,  "  has  she  resolved  to  anticipate  my  wishes,  and 
propose  a  divorce  herself  ?" 

"  Because,  sire,"  replied  Madame  de  Remusat,  "  she  lives  but  for  you, 
and  hopes  by  this  means  to  give  you  a  last  and  extreme  proof  of  her  de- 
votion. No  other  reason  can  exist.  It  is  because  I  have  witnessed  the 
frightful  struggle  this  resolution  has  cost  her  that  I  have  presumed  to 
inform  you  of  her  situation." 

"  Poor  Josephine !"  said  Napoleon,  "  she  must  indeed  have  suffered 
agonies  before  she  could  form  such  a  resolution." 

"  Your  majesty  can  never  know  what  she  has  undergone  these  last  few 
days,  and  the  silence  of  the  empress  proves  how  much  she  desired  to  spare 
you  any  annoyance." 

"  How  is  she  now  ?"  inquired  he,  with  every  appearance  of  anxiety. 

"  Quite  in  despair.  When  I  left  her,  she  was  on  the  point  of  going  to 
rest,  and  I  desired  her  women  not  to  leave  her  for  fear  of  accident,  but 
she  would  not  hear  of  any  one  remaining.  She  will  have  a  night  of  cruel 
suffering." 

The  Emperor  made  a  sign  for  Madame  de  Remusat  to  withdraw. 

"  Go  to  bed,"  said  he  to  her  as  she  left  the  room.  "Good  night.  To- 
morrow I  shall  see  you  again ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  be  sure  I  shall  not 
forget  the  service  you  have  done  me  this  night." 

When  she  was  gone  he  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  to  have  his  dressing- 
gown  brought.  In  great  haste,  taking  a  light  in  his  hand,  he  descended  a 
small  staircase  leading  down  stairs  into  his  own  rooms.  As  he  descended, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  degree  of  emotion  he  seldom  felt,  but  Jose- 
phine's conduct  had  quite  touched  him.  Such  devotion  and  resignation 
in  one  crowned  by  his  own  hand,  and  who  might  fully  expect  to  die  on  that 
throne  where  he  had  placed  her — a  woman  he  had  once  so  idolised,  and 
whose  soul  he  well  knew  breathed  but  for  him — spite  of  all  his  neglect 
and  coolness,  voluntarily  to  offer  him  a  divorce  in  order  to  further  and 
accelerate  his  own  projects — projects,  too,  whose  realisation  ensured  her 


488  Pilgrimages  to  the  French  Palaces. 

eternal  misery — all  this  passed  rapidly  through  his  mind,  and  he  felt 
that  only  one  recompense  ought  to  reward  such  attachment.  For  a 
moment  all  his  plans,  all  the  reasons  of  state,  all  the  ambitious  views  he 
had  long  indulged,  vanished  from  his  mind :  Josephine,  as  he  had  loved 
her — graceful,  fascinating  as  in  her  youth — alone   stood   before  him. 

A  sudden  idea  rushed  through  his  mind,  and  he  almost  determined 

But  it  was  only  for  a  moment :  before  he  had  turned  the  lock  of  the 
door  the  vision  had  vanished,  and  he  approached  only  to  console,  and  not 
to  heal  her  sufferings. 

As  he  approached  her  room  he  distinctly  heard  the  sound  of  sobs  and 
groans  :  the  voice  was  that  of  Josephine.  Her  voice  exercised  a  peculiar 
power  over  him — a  sort  of  gentle  charm — the  effect  of  which  he  had  often 
experienced.  Like  the  sound  of  gentle  music,  it  impressed  him  so  strongly, 
that  one  day,  while  he  was  First  Consul,  after  a  review  at  the  Tuileries, 
on  hearing  the  general  acclamations  around  him,  he  exclaimed  to  Bour- 
rienne,  "How  happy  I  am  to  be  thus  loved!  This  applause  sounds 
almost  as  sweet  as  the  voice  of  Josephine."  Alas,  what  a  change  since 
those  happy  days  of  love  and  unity  ! 

But  at  that  time  he  always  heard  her  speaking  words  of  happi- 
ness and  pleasure — now  her  voice  was  drowned  in  groans  of  misery. 
Perhaps  even  now  it  might  have  exercised  more  power  over  him  had  it 
not  been  raised  to  express  sorrow  and  reproach ;  but  where  is  to  be  foand 
that  man,  however  great,  who  can  tolerate  the  idea  of  being'  blamed— of 
being  in  the  wrong  ? 

However,  the  sounds  of  sorrow  really  afflicted  the  Emperor ;  he  was 
truly  grieved.  Gently  opening  the  door,  he  stood  within  Josephine's 
room,  who  lay  sobbing  on  her  bed,  little  imagining  who  was  approaching. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Josephine  ?"  said  he,  taking  her  hand.  She 
screamed  with  surprise.  "  Why  this  excessive  surprise  ?  Did  you  not 
expect  me  ?  Did  you  not  think  I  should  come  when  I  heard  how  you 
were  suffering  ?  You  know  I  love  you  truly,  and  that  in  all  my  life  I 
never  willingly  caused  you  pain." 

At  the  sound  of  Napoleon's  voice  Josephine  sat  up  in  her  bed,  and 
listened,  scarcely  certain  that  what  she  heard  and  saw  was  real ;  the 

5 lie  light  of  an  alabaster  lamp  cast  a  dim  shadow  around.  There  stood 
apoleon,  his  calm,  majestic  countenance  bent  towards  her,  his  glisten- 
ing eye  fixed  on  her  with  an  indescribable  expression  of  fondness  and 
pity.  The  Emperor  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  lay  folded  in  his 
embrace,  lost  in  a  sort  of  trance,  trembling  with  surprise  and  love  at  the 
sound  of  words  of  tenderness  such  as  she  had  not  heard  for  so  long  a 
time.  Overcome  by  contending  emotions,  her  head  dropped  on  his  breast, 
and  she  again  burst  into  tears,  forgetting,  in  her  agitation,  that  the  Em- 
peror detested  to  see  her  weep.  "  But  why,"  said  he,  "  do  you  still  sob, 
dear  Josephine  ?  I  came  to  console  you,  and  now  you  are  as  wretched 
as  if  I  had  given  you  some  new  cause  for  sorrow.  Why  will  you  not 
listen  to  me  ?" 

"  Ah !  I  feel — I  know  too  well — my  heart  tells  me— -all  forebodes  that 
the  happiness  I  now  feel  is  only  for  a  moment — that  misery,  despair, 
await  me,  and  that,  sooner  or  later  "  She  could  not  finish  the 
sentence — she  could  resolve  to  solicit  the  divorce,  but  she  could  not 
speak  of  it  to  the  man  she  adored,  and  from  whom  it  would  part  her  for 
ever. 


Pilgrimages  to  Hie  French  Palaces.  489 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Napoleon,  pressing  her  in  his  arms — "  listen 
to  me,  Josephine.  I  love  you  sincerely ;  but  France  is  still  dearer  to  me 
— she  is  my  wife,  my  mistress,  my  best-beloved.  I  cannot  disregard  her 
voice — the  voice  of  the  nation — that  demands  a  pledge  from  me — a  son 
—an  heir  from  him  whose  life  has  been  devoted  to  her  glory.  I  can 
answer  for  nothing ;  but  remember,  Josephine,  whatever  happens" — and 
he  sighed  deeply — "you  will  never  cease  to  be  dear  to  me.  On  this  you 
may  rely.  Weep  therefore  no  more.  I  beseech  you  end  these  sufferings, 
that  afflict  me  and  are  killing  you.  Away  with  this  despair.  Be  the 
friend  of  that  man  on  whom  the  eyes  of  all  Europe  are  fixed  ;  be  the 
sharer  in  his  glory,  as  you  ever  will  be  the  partner  of  his  heart ;  and 
above  all,  depend,  reckon  on  me." 

This  explanation  was  little  calculated  to  comfort  Josephine,  as,  under 
all  these  gentle  words,  she  read  but  too  plainly  the  determination  he  had 
adopted — the  certainty  that  she  was  to  be  divorced,  and  that  he  himself 
wished  and  desired  it. 

Deep  as  was  her  grief,  exquisite  as  were  her  sufferings  in  still  loving 
him  whom  she  had  ceased  to  please,  she  was  amply  avenged,  for,  in 
parting  with  Josephine,  Napoleon  for  ever  lost  his  good  angel.  He 
himself  felt  and  acknowledged  this  when  (during  one  of  his  visits  to  her 
at  Malmaison,  after  the  divorce)  while  wandering  together  in  the  gardens 
they  had  planted,  he  exclaimed,  in  alluding  to  their  separation,  "  Ah  ! 
Josephine,  I  have  never  been  happy  since !"  Defeat  and  disgrace  from 
that  hour  dogged  his  footsteps,  and  all  announced  that,  having  reached 
the  culminating  point  of  prosperity,  the  future  had  only  reverses  and 
misfortunes  in  store  for  him,  and  that  his  career  was  from  that  time  to 
descend  as  low  in  misery  as  it  had  risen  in  power  and  glory. 

Once  before  Josephine's  death  the  walls  of  Malmaison  beheld  a 
gorgeous  and  imperial  assembly  grouped  around  her,  when  the  allied 
sovereigns  paid  that  graceful  compliment  to  the  virtues  of  the  fallen 
empress,  by  visiting  her  in  her  retirement  during  their  occupation  of 
Paris.  This  was  the  last  time  her  name  appeared  connected  with  any 
public  event.  Her  death  occurred  soon  after,  and  she  was  mercifully 
spared  all  knowledge  of  the  sufferings  and  humiliations  of  the  man  she 
had  never  ceased  to  adore,  and  whose  cruel  desertion  of  her  may  be  con* 
sidered  as  the  blackest  stain  on  his  great  name. 

By  a  strange  fatality,  Josephine  was  laid  in  the  grave  and  Napoleon 
lost  his  throne  within  a  short  space  of  time.  Malmaison  again  received 
the  exiled  Emperor  after  his  defeat  at  Waterloo  and  before  his  unfortunate 
surrender  to  the  English.  Hortense,  the  daughter  of  her  he  had  repu- 
diated, was  there  to  welcome  and  to  console  him  during  the  brief  period 
that  he  endeavoured  to  make  head  against  the  thousand  intrigues  that 
surrounded  him.  It  was  during  this  interval  between  his  defeat  and  his 
embarkation  at  Rochefort  that  Napoleon  visited  one  night  alone  the 
tomb  of  his  once-beloved  Josephine.  Silently  meditating  in  the  dark 
recesses  in  which  her  monument  is  placed,  what  visions  must  have  passed 
before  his  soul,  of  youth,  love,  and  happiness  !  How,  on  this  solemn  occa- 
sion, must  his  heart  have  reproached  him  for  his  base  desertion  of  this 
exalted,  affectionate  woman !  contrasted  as  she  must  have  been  in  his. 
mind  with  the  callous  Marie  Louise,  who  had  at  that  very  time  forsaken 
him  with  the  coldest  indifference. 

Aug. — vol.  cvu.  wo.  ccccxxvra.  2  k 


490  Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History. 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  this  last  sad  adieu  of 
Napoleon  to  the  ashes  of  his  former  wife.  The  image  of  that  fine 
chiselled  countenance  emerging  from  the  dark  shadows  of  the  gloomy 
arches  around  him,  barely  revealed  by  the  light  of  a  single  torch,  stand- 
ing in  the  dead  of  night  meditating  over  her  tomb,  would  form  an  in- 
imitable subject  for  a  picture.  Napoleon  had  scarcely  left  Malmaison 
when  the  soldiers  of  Blucher  arrived,  and,  finding  he  had  fled,  sacked  the 
house  and  destroyed  the  whole  of  the  paintings,  statues,  and  furniture, 
devastating  the  gardens  and  the  park  with  a  fury  worthy  of  the  ancient 
Goths — this  savage  proceeding  being  a  specimen  of  the  treatment  they 
intended  for  its  master  had  he  fallen  into  their  hands. 

Malmaison  remained  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  neglect  until  it  passed 
into  the  possession  of  Christina,  Queen  Dowager  of  Spain,  who,  during 
her  residence  there,  restored  and  left  it  as  it  now  appears.  Since  the 
•rile  of  the  Orleans  family  it  has  reverted  back  to  the  Bonapartes,  and  ii 
now  the  property  of  the  Emperor. 


LEWIS  ON  THE  EARLY  ROMAN  HISTORY  * 

The  results  arrived  at  by  Niebuhr,  in  his  researches  into  early  Roman 
history,  seemed  to  many,  probably  to  most  of  his  readers,  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  the  sceptical  spirit.  The  conclusions  of  Sir  G.  C.  Lewis — to  say 
nothing  of  intermediate  investigators,  home  or  foreign — exhibit  neverthe- 
less a  clear  case  of  plus  ultra.  Niebuhr,  moderate  folks  were  of  opinion, 
went  far  enough ;  and  at  the  hands  of  moderate  folks,  fared  badly.  Ac- 
cording to  Sir  George's  view,  he  should  have  gone  further,  even  at  the 
risk  of  faring  worse.  Niebuhr,  in  effect,  was  by  comparison  a  conservative, 
and  stickled  for  numbers  of  things  he  ought  to  have  given  up  as  un- 
tenable. Sir  George  is  a  destructive,  whose  work  pretty  well  begins 
where  the  learned  Dane's  ended,  and  whose  main  object  it  seems  to  show 
how  hopeless,  how  hollow,  how  inconsistent  was  that  illustrious  scholar's 
endeavour  to  retain  certain  interval  spaces  of  history,  amid  recognised 
wildernesses  of  myth. 

Sir  G.  C.  Lewis  maintains  that  no  reasonable  certainty  is  attainable, 
with  respect  to  the  accounts  preserved  of  early  Roman  history  by  the 
ancient  writers,  and  which  have  descended  to  us  in  their  extant  works. 
Professors  of  speculative  history,  he  says,  can  make  this  period  the  subject 
of  hypotheses  more  or  less  ingenious  and  attractive ;  but  their  theories 
must  be  all  equally  unsusceptible  of  proof;  and  our  knowledge  of  the  first 
five  centuries  of  the  city  will  receive  no  increase.  He  criticises  the  desire 
which  seems  to  arise,  in  proportion  as  the  uncertainty  of  the  history,  in- 

*  An  Inquiry  into  the  Credibility  of  the  Early  Roman  History.  By  the  Bight 
Hon.  Sir  George  Cornewall  Lewis.    John  W.  Parker  and  Son. 


Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History.  491 

creasing  as  it  recedes  from  the  age  of  contemporary  authors,  is  perceived 
and  acknowledged, — the  desire  of  supplying  the  want  of  sound  and 
credible  evidence  by  conjecture,  and  of  framing  hypotheses,  which  shall 
remove  inconsistencies,  diminish  improbabilities,  and  introduce  coherence 
in  the  traditionary  accounts.     To  some  inquirers  indeed,  as  he  remarks* 
this  uncertain  period  of  history  presents  greater  attractions  than  a  period 
of  comparative  certainty,  lying  within  the  observation  of  contemporary 
historical  writers.     "  Such  a  preference  of  the  uncertain  to  the  certain 
period ;  of  the  period  of  conjecture  to  the  period  of  proof;  of  the  period 
of  imagination  to  that  of  the  reason,  is  founded  on  a  misconception  of  the 
ends  of  history.     If  the  past  is  to  furnish  instruction,  and  to  serve  as  a 
beacon  for  the  future,  history  must  be  a  well-authenticated  narrative  of 
facts ;  it  must  not  be  a  vague  and  indistinct  sketch,  formed  by  doubtful 
conjectures/'    Sir  George  continues  his  strictures  upon  such  a  preference 
for  the  dim  and  indefinite  portions  of  history,  as  generally  implying  a 
sacrifice  of  the  interests  of  the  reader  to  the  reputation  of  the  writer* 
The  reader  asking  for  bread,  is  put  off  with  a  stone — highly  polished, 
perhaps,  and  rounded,  and  a  precious  stone  in  its  way,  but  not  the  staff 
of  life,  not  the  applicant's  desideratum.     He  wants  the  sober  verities 
which  have  been,  and  he  is  shown  the  brilliant  possibilities  which  might 
have  been;  some  dazzling  contingency  which  could  have  been;  some 
conceivable  event  which,  the  speculator  thinks,  should  have  been ;  some 
plausible  fiction  which,  had  the  said  speculator  been  master  of  the  situa- 
tion, certainly  would  have  been.     "  In  proportion  as  the  materials  are 
confused,  obscure,  and  imperfect,  there  is  scope  for  the  ingenuity  of  the 
historian ;  for  bold  theories,  novel  combinations,  startling  hypotheses, 
brilliant  fancies.      The   historian   who   contents  himself  with  the  less 
aspiring  but  more  difficult  task  of  collecting,  digesting,  weighing,  and 
interpreting  evidence,  is,  in  comparison  with  a  writer  of  the  former  class, 
regarded  as  a  mere  drudge  or  pioneer  of  literature.     His  fidelity  to  facts 
is  taken  as  the  mark  of  a  barren  and  uninventive  mind."     Sir  G.  C. 
Lewis   almost   speaks  feelingly  on   the  estimate  popularly  passed  on 
historians  of  the  sober  and  innocent-of-all -imagination  class,  of  which  he 
is,  it  must  be  owned,  a  distinguished  member;  for  if  he  may  by  some  be 
thought  wanting  in  sobriety  when  exceeding  the  excesses  of  Niebnhr 
and  his  school,  at  any  rate  none  will  accuse  him  (in  the  House  or  out  of 
it, — as  Historian  or  as  Chancellor   of  the    Exchequer,  as  Essayist  on 
Methods  of  Reasoning  in  Politics,  or  as  quondam  Editor  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review)  of  any  undue  exercise  of  Imagination's  plastic  power. 

All  the  historical  labour  bestowed  upon  the  early  centuries  of  Rome 
will,  in  general,  he  explicitly  asserts,  be  wasted.  For  in  his  judgment, 
the  history  of  this  period,  viewed  as  a  series  of  picturesque  narratives, 
will  be  read  to  the  greatest  advantage  in  the  original  writers,  and  will  be 
deteriorated  by  reproduction  in  a  modern  dress.  "  If  we  regard  an 
historical  painting  merely  as  a  work  of  art,  the  accounts  of  the  ancients 
can  only  suffer  from  being  retouched  by  the  pencil  of  the  modern  restorer. 
On  the  other  hand,  all  attempts  to  reduce  them  to  a  purely  historical 
form,  by  conjectural  omissions,  additions,  alterations,  and  transpositions, 
must  be  nugatory.  The  workers  on  this  historical  treadmill  may  continue 
to  grind  the  air,  but  they  will  never  produce  any  valuable  result." 


492  Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History. 

In  dealing,  for  instance,  with  the  "  history  "  of  the  Seven  Kings  of 
Rome,  Sir  G.  C.  Lewis  argues,  that  if  we  abstain  from  arbitrary  hypo- 
thesis, and  adhere  to  the  history  which  we  have  received  from  antiquity, 
it  is  a  sheer  impossibility  to  form  a  clear  and  consistent  idea  of  the 
government  of  Home  during  the  regal  period.  All  the  events,  he  says, 
have  a  legendary  character,  and  there  is  no  firm  footing  for  the  historical 
inquirer.  "  The  narrative  does  not  bear  the  marks  of  having  been 
founded  on  the  record  of  observations  made  by  eye  and  ear  witnesses,  who 
were  present  at  the  successive  events."  For,  whereas  such  a  narrative, 
though  derived  from  the  reports  of  various  and  unconnected  persons, 
must,  if  properly  constructed,  be  intelligible  and  coherent,  because  the 
events  recorded  have  a  real  internal  unity,  and  are  connected  by  a  con- 
tinuous thread  of  causation, — the  narrative  which  is  presented  to  us,  so 
for  from  answering  to  this  description,  seems  rather  to  have  been  formed 
out  of  insulated  legend?,  and  other  records  of  traditionary  stories,  con- 
taining an  uncertain  and  indeterminable  amount  of  real  fact,  and  intended, 
in  many  instances,  to  explain  the  names  of  persons,  places,  and  public 
monuments,  and  the  existence  of  laws  and  usages,  civil  and  religious. 

Now  it  is  well  known  that  Niebuhr  has  drawn  a  broad  line  between 
the  reigns  of  Romulus  and  Numa  on  the  one  hand,  and  those  of  the  last 
five  kings  on  the  other.  He  considers  the  former  to  be  purely  fabulous 
and  poetical ;  the  latter,  to  belong  to  the  mythico-historical  ^enodt — 
when  there  is  a  narrative  resting  on  an  historical  basis,  and  most  of  the 
persons  mentioned  are  real.  "  With  Tullus  Hostilius,"  Niebuhr  writes, 
"  we  reach  the  beginning  of  a  new  age,  and  of  a  narrative  resting  on 
historical  ground,  of  a  kind  totally  different  from  the  story  of  the  pre- 
ceding period."  And  elsewhere :  "  The  death  of  Numa  forms  the  con- 
clusion of  the  first  saeculum,  and  an  entirely  new  period  follows.  .... 
Up  to  this  point  we  have  had  nothing  except  poetry  ;  but  with  Tullus 
Hostilius  a  kind  of  history  begins — that  is,  events  are  related  which  most 
be  taken  in  general  as  historical,  though  in  the  light  in  which  they  are 
presented  to  us  they  are  not  historical.  Thus,  for  example,  the  destruc- 
tion of  Alba  is  historical,  and  so  in  all  probability  is  the  reception  of  the 
Albans  at  Rome.  The  conquests  of  Ancus  Martius  are  quite  credible; 
and  they  appear  like  an  oasis  of  real  history  in  the  midst  of  fables." 
Schwegler  follows  Niebuhr  in  tracing  out  this  line  of  demarcation  be- 
tween the  first  two  reigns  and  the  last  five.  But  Sir  George  contends 
that  it  is  impossible  to  discover  any  ground,  either  in  the  contents  of  the 
narrative,  or  in  its  external  evidence,  to  support  this  distinction.  Romulus, 
indeed,  he  says,  from  the  form  of  the  name,  appears  to  be  a  mere  personifi- 
cation of  the  city  of  Rome,  and  to  have  no  better  claim  to  a  real  exist- 
ence than  Hellen,  Danaus,  JEgyptus,  Tyrrhenus,  or  Italus :  but  Numa 
Pompilius  stands  on  the  same  ground  as  the  remaining  kings,  except  that 
he  is  more  ancient ;  and  the  narrative  of  all  the  reigns,  from  the  first  to 
the  last,  seems  to  be  constructed  on  the  same  principles. 

The  constitutional  accounts  of  the  regal  period,  our  Inquirer  considers 
peculiarly  confused  and  contradictory ;  the  descriptions  of  the  constitution 
being  inconsistent  with  the  accounts  of  the  acts  of  the  successive  kings, 
and  the  general  characteristics  attributed  to  the  government  inconsistent 
with  each  other.  Professor  Rubino,  of  Marburg,  Niebuhr,  and  others, 
contend  for  the  oral  traditions  of  the  Roman  constitution,  as  more  faithful 


Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History^  493 

and  trustworthy  than  the  oral  traditions  of  particular  events  and  exploits. 
The  two  classes  of  traditions  differ,  they  allege,  not  only  in  their  sub- 
stance, but  in  the  sources  from  which  they  derived  their  origin,  and  in  the 
manner  by  which  they  were  handed  down  to  posterity.  Thus,  one  class, 
more  of  an  antiquarian  character,  includes  the  traditions  concerning  the 
constitution,  and  the  religious  and  civil  institutions  connected  with  it ; 
which  class,  upon  an  attentive  examination,  is  soon  perceived  to  have, 
according  to  Rubino  and  his  assentients,  a  very  different  degree  of  credi- 
bility from  the  other  class,  wherein  are  comprehended  occurrences  more 
properly  of  an  historical  nature, — narratives  of  wars,  transactions  with  the 
neighbouring  states,  adventures  of  celebrated  persons,  and  generally  all 
those  striking  events  which  give  interest  and  brilliancy  to  the  Roman 
history,  particularly  in  the  pages  of  Livy.  The  former,  or  constitutional 
series,  were  in  part  reduced  to  writing,  says  Rubino,  at  an  early  period ; 
but  even  where  they  were  handed  down  by  a  merely  oral  doctrine,  were 
connected  with  permanent  institutions,  were  kept  alive  by  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Senate,  the  courts  of  justice,  and  the  popular  assembly,  and 
carefully  passed  on  by  statesmen  and  priests  to  their  successors.  The 
latter,  or  historico-biographical  series,  on  the  other  hand,  were  for  a  long 
time  left  to  the  exclusive  keeping  of  popular  tradition;  and  from  their 
nature  were  exposed  to  the  embellishments  of  fancy,  and  to  the  distortions 
of  national  and  family  pride.  Hence  it  is  inferred,  the  reasons  which 
prove  that  the  later  Romans  were  destitute  of  an  accurate  knowledge  of 
the  events  and  circumstances  of  their  early  ages,  apply  almost  exclusively 
to  the  historical  class  of  traditions,  not  to  those  concerning  the  con- 
stitution. 

So,  again,  Niebuhr  affirms,  that  during  the  very  ages  whose  story  we 
can  hardly  do  more  than  guess  at,  there  was  such  a  proportion  and  cor- 
respondence among  the  various  parts  of  the  constitution,  that  when  a 
few  traces  and  remains  of  intelligible  import  have  been  brought  to  light, 
safe  and  certain  conclusions  may  be  drawn  from  .them  concerning  other 
things  from  which  we  have  no  means  of  clearing  away  the  rubbish,  or  of 
which  the  lowest  foundation  stones  have  been  torn  up :  just  as  in  mathe- 
matics, if  a  few  points  are  given,  we  may  dispense  with  an  actual 
measurement.  Niebuhr  considers  ail  the  accounts  of  Rome  down  to  the 
first  secession  of  the  Plebs,  in  the  year  494  B.C.,  as  devoid  of  historical 
foundation.  But  from  that  epoch  he  professes  to  see  clearly  that,  in  spite 
of  all  scepticism,  a  critical  examination  of  the  facts  results  in  the  restora- 
tion and  establishment  of  a  certain  and  credible  history — a  "  genuine, 
connected,  substantially  perfect  history/'  though  occasionally  intermixed 
with  fiction  and  inaccuracy.  The  early  Roman  historians,  he  thinks, 
possessed  a  correct  knowledge  of  the  constitutional  history  of  their 
country  ;  and  he  specifies,  as  the  two  writers  who  possessed  this  know- 
ledge in  the  greatest  perfection,  Fab i us  Pictor,  and  one  Junius  Graccha- 
nus,  a  contemporary  of  the  Gracchi,  a  writer  on  subjects  of  a  legal  and 
constitutional  nature.  To  approach  to  the  views  entertained  by  these 
two  authorities,  respecting  the  ancient  constitution  and  its  changes, 
Niebuhr  declares  to  l?e  the  highest  aim  of  his  own  researches  :  for  these 
views,  he  feels  assured,  were  absolutely  correct,  while  he  believes  them 
to  have  been  unfaithfully  represented  in  many  instances,  by  Dionysius, 
Livy,  and  the  other  later  writers,  who  misunderstood  and  misinterpreted 


494  Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History. 

the  obsolete  technical  expressions  of  constitutional  law  used  by  their  pre- 
decessors. And  at  this  point  issue  is  joined  by  Niebuhr  and  Rubino ;  for 
while  Niebuhr  undertakes  to  restore  from  conjecture  the  forms  of  the 
early  constitution  which  the  writers  of  the  Augustan  age  misinterpreted, 
Rubino  considers  any  such  procedure  inadmissible — maintaining,  in  his 
turn,  that  there  was  only  one  constitutional  history  received  among  the 
Romans :  that  this  history,  as  understood  in  die  latter  period  of  the 
Republic,  by  well-educated  Romans,  conversant  with  public  affairs,  is 
the  true  history :  and  that  if  the  version  of  the  Roman  constitution,  as 
adopted  by  the  Romans  themselves,  is  not  followed,  but  is  altered  bj 
conjecture,  all  firm  historical  footing  is  abandoned  ;  unless  we  believe 
that  Niebuhr  was  possessed  of  a  mysterious  gift,  which  enabled  him  to 
see  what  was  invisible  to  all  other  eyes. 

It  is  allowed  by  the  Inquirer  that,  so  far  as  an  accurate  memory  and 
perpetuation  of  previous  constitutional  practice  is  implied  in  the  use  of 
precedents,  the  history  of  the  constitution  may,  according  to  the  distinc- 
tion taken  by  Rubino,  be  more  faithfully  preserved  by  oral  tradition,  than 
the  history  of  single  events,  such  as  battles,  tumults,  pestilences,  and 
exploits  of  eminent  persons.  But  no  such  broad  line,  he  objects,  can  be 
drawn  between  the  history  of  a  constitution  and  historical  events  as  this 
distinction  appears  to  assume.  Unless  we  are  more  or  less  informed  re- 
specting the  events  of  the  history  of  any  country,  we  cannot  follow  the 
progress  of  its  constitution. 

"  For  example,  if  we  take  England  during  the  seventeenth  century,  ire 
cannot  treat  its  constitutional  changes  in  vacuo,  and  as  abstracted  from 
all  public  transactions  and  occurrences.  The  constitutional  history  of 
England  during  that  period  cannot  be  understood,  unless  we  are  informed 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  struggle  between  Charles  and  the  Parliament; 
the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the  contending  parties ;  the  grounds  of 
the  civil  war,  and  the  manner  of  its  outbreak ;  its  progress  and  final 
issue ;  the  king's  execution ;  the  Protectorate ;  and  lastly,  the  restoration 
of  kingly  government  under  Charles  II.  Similar  facts  must  in  like 
manner  be  known  before  the  progress  of  the  constitution,  during  the 
reign  of  Charles  II.  and  after  the  expulsion  of  James  II.,  can  be  rightly 
appreciated.  The  most  approved  writers  who  have  described  the  pro- 
gress of  a  constitution  during  an  historical  period  (for  example,  Mr. 
Hallam)  have  combined  their  subject  with  the  events  and  actions  of  the 
lime ;  and  have  introduced  into  their  narrative  all  the  main  facts  which 
serve  to  keep  the  political  drama  in  motion.  Without  knowing  the 
events  and  facts,  we  cannot  know  that  constitutional  forms  retain  the 
same  meaning.  The  forms  of  a  government  may  be  preserved  intact, 
while  its  essence  and  operation  have  undergone  a  radical  change.  They 
may  become  a  mere  mask,  behind  which  the  real  face  is  concealed. 
Among  a  people  like  the  Romans,  who  attached  great  importance  to 
legal  forms,  and  to  the  connexion  of  religion  with  the  State,  it  was  pecu- 
liarly likely  that  constitutional  changes,  demanded  by  the  altered  state 
of  society,  and  by  the  increased  power  of  new  classes  of  the  community, 
should  be  effected  with  little  apparent  departure  from  ancient  usage.  A 
constitutional  history,  written  without  a  knowledge  of  events  and  actions, 
and  of  the  forces  silently  operating  through  society,  might  represent 
Augustus  Caesar  as  the  mere  annual  magistrate  of  a  free  commonwealth, 


Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History.  495 

or  might  suppose  that  the  relations  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Queen  Vic- 
toria to  their  respective  parliaments  were  identical."  So  much  by  way 
of  general  remark  on  the  preservation  of  the  early  constitutional  history 
of  Rome  by  oral  tradition.  The  Inquirer  afterwards  proceeds  to  examine 
in  detail  some  of  the  evidence  on  which  the  chief  constitutional  changes 
rest — and  it  is  a  cross-examination  certainly  of  a  stringent,  sifting,  and, 
if  not  always,  at  least  sometimes,  damaging  kind. 

In  his  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  chapters,  Sir  George  investigates  the 
nature  of  the  materials  for  the  formation  of  a  narrative  of  early  Roman 
history,  which  might  be  at  the  command  of  Fabius  Pictor,  Cincius,  and 
Cato  Censor,  when  they  began  to  write  their  accounts  of  that  period, 
during  the  Second  Punic  War.  He  finds  that  there  was  a  continuous 
list  of  annual  magistrates,  more  or  less  complete  and  authentic,  ascending 
to  the  commencement  of  the  consular  government ;  that  from  the  burn- 
ing of  the  city,  there  was  a  series  of  meagre  official  annals,  kept  by  the 
chief  pontiffs ;  that  many  ancient  treaties,  and  texts  of  laws — including 
the  laws  of  the  Twelve  Tables — were  preserved ;  together  with  notes  of 
ancient  usages  and  rules  of  customary  law — both  civil  and  religious — 
recorded  in  the  books  of  the  pontiffs,  and  of  some  of  the  civil  magis- 
trates ;  and  that  these  documentary  sources  of  history,  which  furnished 
merely  the  dry  skeleton  of  a  narrative,  were  clothed  with  flesh  and 
muscle  by  the  addition  of  various  stories,  handed  down  from  preceding 
times  by  oral  tradition.  Some  assistance,  he  thinks,  may  have  been 
derived  from  popular  songs,  and  still  more  from  family  memoirs;  but 
there  is  nothing,  he  contends,  to  show  or  to  make  it  probable  that  private 
families  began  to  record  the  deeds  of  their  distinguished  members,  before 
any  chronicler  had  arisen  for  the  events  which  interested  the  common- 
wealth as  a  whole. 

The  hypothesis  that  popular  poems,  combined  with  funeral  panegyrics, 
formed  the  groundwork  of  early  Roman  history,  is  discussed  in  this  work 
with  particular  attention.  The  Dutch  philologist,  Perizonius,  some  three 
centuries  ago  threw  out  a  suggestion  that  the  history  in  question  was 
derived  from  a  poetical  origin,  but  the  conjecture  was  little  accounted 
of;  and  to  Niebuhr  is  ascribed  the  virtual  merit  of  the  hypothesis,  which 
he  placed  in  what  Lewis  calls  so  specious  and  attractive  a  form,  as  to 
obtain  the  assent  of  many  of  the  first  authority,  German,  French,  and 
English.  Of  the  latter,  the  best  known  among  ourselves  is  Mr.  Ma- 
caulay,  who  has  so  lucidly  and  forcibly  expounded  and  adopted  the 
hypothesis  in  the  Preface  to  his  Lays.  We  are  all  supposed  to  be  more 
or  less  familiar  with  Macaulay's  argument,  from  the  poetical  character  of 
the  early  Roman  history,  that  the  narrative  must  have  been  derived 
ultimately  from  a  poem — that  early  history  being  indeed  far  more 
poetical  than  anything  else  in  Latin  literature:  witness  the  loves  of  the 
Vestal  and  the  God  of  War;  the  cradle  laid  among  the  reeds  of  Tiber; 
the  fig-tree,  the  she-wolf,  the  shepherd's  cabin,  the  recognition,  the  fra- 
tricide, the  rape  of  the  Sabines,  the  death  of  Tarpeia,  the  fall  of  Hos- 
tilius,  the  struggle  of  Mettus  Curtius  through  the  marsh ;  the  women 
rushing  with  torn  raiment  and  dishevelled  hair  between  their  fathers  and 
their  husbands ;  the  nightly  meetings  of  Numa  and  the  nymph  by  the 
well  in  the  sacred  grove,  the  fight  of  the  three  Romans  and  the  three 
Albans,  the  purchase  of  the  Sibylline  books,  the  crime  of  Tullia,  the 


4ttt  iUm«wan*£M* 


ancle  to  *be  Targnins,  the  herok  actions 
that  rolk  W  tbe  towers  of 


CHuTj&er!  bute  Tjber! 

To  idiom  lis:  Romans  mar, 
A  Jknmnrs  life,  a  Komac ^  an 

Take  thou  in  cmaxge  ink  oar ! 

af,  with  his  harness  an  his  bade,  be  plunged  nfadlmig   in  xbe 
Hood  fast  flowing,  and  bk  tired  frame  wifaMwd  with  pain,  ar* 
ffce  thrilled  and  thralled  spectators  on  the  banks  tboneTH  imn 
tfcoogh  still  again  be  rose,  and  stood  on  drj  earth  at  last — td 
darouded  hero  for  all  time  of  the  story  told,  with  weeping  and  w 
laagbtcr,  m  winter  mghta,   u  when  voung  and  old  in  circle  around: 

How  well  Hnratms  bent  the  bridge 
la  tbe  brare  days  of  qM  : 

tbe  heroic  doings,  too,  of  Scjetola,  and  of  CkeEa,  and  xhe 
RegnUos,  from  which  eame  back  in  such  triuaiph  tbe  chief 

Who  in  tbe  boar  of  firirf, 

Had  seen  tbe  Great  Twia  Brethren 

hi  hanieM  on  his  right : — 

and  again,  tbe  defence  of  Cremerm,  tbe  story  of  Coaolazms,  and  ants' 1 
tbe  maiden  whom,  as  she  went  bounding  from  tbe  school,  in  girlish  hat 
eenee  and  glee, 

With  her  small  tablets  in  her  hand,  and  her  satchel  an  her  : 

false  Appins  watched  with  eril  glances, 

And  loved  her  with  the  accursed  lore  of  his  accused  race, 

And  all  along  the  Forum,  and  up  the  sacred  street, 

His  vulture  eje  pursued  the  trip  of  those  small  fXxnrZy*g  feet, 

and  plotted  ruin,  and  performed  it,  too  rutblesslj,  too  speedily,  agahnt 

Tbe  home  that  was  the  happiest  within  the  Roman  walls. 

These  stories,  says  the  actual  creator  and  professed  restorer  of  tb 
Lays  of  Ancient  Kome,  retain  much  of  their  genuine  character  in  tb 
narrative  of  Liry,  who  was  a  man  of  fine  imagination;  nor  could  em 
the  tasteless  Dionysius,  it  is  added,  distort  and  mutilate  them  into  1 
prose.  "  The  poetry  shines,  in  spite  of  him,  through  the  dreary  pedantr? 
of  his  eleven  books.  It  is  discernible  in  the  most  tedious  and  in  the  most 
superficial  modern  works  on  the  early  times  of  Rome.  It  enlivens  the 
dulness  of  the  Universal  History,  and  gives  a  charm  to  the  most  meagre 
abridgments  of  Goldsmith." 

Sir  George  Lewis  demurs  to  the  "  poetical"  argument,  as  decidedly  ** 
he  does  to  so  many  other  of  what  are  considered  Niebuhr  s  strong  pomfe 
Can  it  be  laid  down  generally,  he  asks,  that  poetical  images  and  mckfeflfr 
never  exist  without  a  metrical  original,  and  are  never  found  without  <k 
limits  of  a  poem  ?  Is  it  safe  to  infer,  from  the  poetical  character'*'  * 
narrative,  that  it  was  derived  from  a  composition  in  verse,  and  no* m 
prose? 


Lewis  on  the  Early  Raman  History.  497 

"  Numerous  instances  will  at  once  recur  to  the  memory,  where  such  an 
inference  would  lead  to  erroneous  results.  Much  of  the  Greek  mythology 
was  taken  from  the  early  epic  poetry ;  but  much  of  it  likewise  existed  in 
the  form  of  traditionary  legends,  propagated  by  repetition,  and  not  re- 
duced into  a  metrical  form.  Many  of  the  stories  reduced  to  writing  by 
the  early  logographers,  and  by  other  prose  writers  down  to  the  time  of 
Pausanias,  together  with  many  adopted  by  the  lyric  poets  and  the  tra- 
gedians as  the  themes  of  their  compositions,  fulfilled  all  the  conditions 
which  this  hypothesis  assumes  to  be  evidence  of  a  poem.  They  abounded 
with  striking,  pathetic,  and  interesting  events  ;  they  often  deviated  from 
the  course  of  nature  ;  they  were  distinguished  by  brilliancy  of  imagina- 
tion, and  variety  of  incidents.  Yet  their  original  form  was  that  of  a 
prose  legend  ;  and  the  work  of  the  poet  was  of  subsequent  date.  The 
story  of  the  Argonauts,  for  example,  from  the  first  departure  of  the 
speaking  ship,  to  the  revenge  of  Medea  upon  Jason's  children,  is  full  of 
poetical  situations,  images,  and  characters.  Nevertheless,  it  did  not 
originate  in  any  poem  ;  nor  have  we  any  reason  to  believe  that  Euripides 
and  Apollonius  Rhodus  were  assisted  by  any  previous  poets  in  their 
treatment  of  the  subject."  Sir  George  cites,  in  addition,  the  tales  of 
fiction  related  by  Boccaccio,  and  other  of  the  Italian  novelists,  which, 
though  furnishing  materials  for  many  poetical  works,  were  themselves  of 
prose  origin,  and  did  not  come  from  any  metrical  source  :  many  of  them 
are  in  the  highest  degree  poetical — abound  with  touches  of  tenderness, 
sublimity,  and  passion — and  are  distinguished  by  variety  and  novelty  of 
incident :  they  have  been  used  by  Shakspeare,  Dryden,  and  other  great 
poets,  as  the  groundwork  of  their  compositions  ;  but  although  they  thus 
assumed  the  form  of  poems,  they  were,  in  their  original  prose  form,  full 
of  poetical  materials.  So  again  with  the  Arabian  Nights,  which  are 
replete  with  poetical  fancy  and  invention— confessedly  teeming  with  the 
luxuriance  of  Oriental  fiction,  without  being  deformed  by  its  wildness 
and  extravagance :  yet  are  the  Arabian  Nights9  prose  narratives  like  so 
many  other  of  the  Eastern  stories.  And  once  more — the  fictitious  world 
created  by  the  Rosicrucian  philosophy,  with  its  gnomes,  sylphs,  undines, 
and  salamanders,  though  forming  a  circle  of  poetical  imagery,  rising 
above  the  laws  of  nature,  and  attractive  to  the  fancy,  was  first  invested 
with  the  graces  of  metre,  and  first  engrafted  into  "  poetry"  by  him  (poet 
or  no  poet)  of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock. 

Of  one  mettlesome  adversary,  the  author  of  the  Lays,  Sir  George  takes 
leave  with  a  half  reproach  and  a  full-blown  compliment,  in  tu  quoque 
style, — begging  to  remark,  that  Mr.  Macaulay  is  one  of  the  last  persons 
who  should  treat  brilliant  and  striking  passages  in  a  prose  history,  glow- 
ing with  poetical  warmth,  and  diversified  with  poetical  imagery,  as  proofs 
of  a  metrical  original.  "  If  passages  of  this  sort  are  to  be  accepted  as 
evidence  of  a  derivation  from  a  concealed  poem,  he  must  submit  to  be 
deprived  of  the  honours  of  the  authorship  of  much  of  his  own  historical 
composition." 

The  Inquirer's  own  position  is,  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  fictitious 
part  of  the  early  Roman  history  which  may  not  be  accounted  for,  by 
supposing  that  it  consists  of  legends,  floating  in  the  popular  memory, 
composed  of  elements  partly  real,  but  chiefly  unreal,  and  moulded  into  a 
connected  form  as  they  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  picturesque,  in- 

Aug. — vol.  cvh.  no.  ccccxxvm.  2  l 


498  Lewis  on  the  Early  Roman  History. 

teresting,  or  touching  incidents  being  selected,  and  the  whole  grouped 
and  coloured  by  the  free  pencil  of  tradition.  "Even  these  legends, 
doubtless,  would  be  improved  and  polished  by  the  successive  historians 
through  whose  hands  they  passed,  after  they  had  been  once  reduced  into 
writing.  Such  an  origin  would  account  for  their  poetical  features,  with- 
out supposing  them  derived  from  a  metrical  original — from  a  poem,  in 
the  proper  sense  of  the  word." 

We  have  no  space  to  follow  the  author  into  the  minutiae  of  his  Inquiry, 
when  he  comes  to  deal  with  his  subject  strictly  and  searchingly  in  detail. 
A  careful  perusal  of  these  very  erudite  and  matter-full  volumes  will'  leave 
few  readers,  probably,  the  option  to  do  other  than  own  with  Dr.  Liddell, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  speak  too  highly  of  the  fulness,  the  clearness,  the 
patience,  the  judicial  calmness  of  Sir  George's  elaborate  argument :  with 
Dr.  Liddell  they  will,  however,  for  the  most  part,  furthermore  agree,  that 
while  the  Inquirer's  conclusions  may  be  conceded  in  full  for  almost  all  the 
Wars  and  Foreign  Transactions  of  early  times,  there  is  about  the  Civil 
History  of  early  Rome  a  consistency  of  progress,  and  a  clearness  of  intel- 
ligence, that  would  make  its  fabrication  more  wonderful  than  its  trans- 
mission in  a  half-traditionary  form.     When  tradition,  as  the  Dean  of 
Christ  Church  observes,  rests  solely  on  memory,  it  is  fleeting  and  un- 
certain; but  when  it  is  connected  with  customs,  laws,  and  institutions, 
such  as  those  of  which  Rome  was  justly  proud,  and  to  which  the  ruling 
party  clung  with  desperate  tenacity,  its  evidence  must  doubtless  be  care- 
fully sifted  and  duly  investigated,  but  ought  not  altogether  to  be  set 
aside. 

Sir  George's  retrospective  review  of  the  investigations  of  previous  in- 
quirers is  comprehensive  and  interesting.  He  begins  from  the  beginning, 
and  continues  to  what  is  to  us  the  end,  though  the  end  is  not  yet.  He 
shows  how,  in  the  first  two  centuries  after  the  invention  of  printing,  the 
history  of  Rome,  for  the  regal  and  republican  periods,  was  principally 
studied  in  Livy  or  in  the  classical  compendia  of  Florus  and  Eutropius, 
and  in  Plutarch's  Lives — the  work  of  Dionysius  being  never  generally 
read,  though  occasionally  consulted.  The  entire  history  of  Rome  was 
then  treated,  on  the  whole,  as  entitled  to  implicit  belief;  all  ancient 
authors  were  put  upon  the  same  footing,  and  regarded  as  equally  credible ; 
all  parts  of  an  author's  work  were,  moreover,  supposed  to  rest  on  the  same 
basis.  Not  only,  we  are  reminded,  was  Livy's  authority  as  high  as  that 
of  Thucydides  or  Tacitus,  but  his  account  of  the  kings  was  considered  as 
credible  as  that  of  the  wars  with  Hannibal,  Philip,  Antiochus,  or  Per- 
seus :  and  again,  the  Lives  of  Romulus,  Numa,  or  Coriolanus,  by  Plu- 
tarch, were  deemed  as  veracious  as  those  of  Fabius  Maximus,  Sylla,  or 
Cicero.  Machiavel,  in  his  "  Discourses  on  the  first  Decade  of  Livy,"  is 
instanced,  as  taking  this  view  of  the  early  history :  to  him  the  seven 
kings  of  Rome  are  not  less  real  than  the  twelve  Caesars  ;  and  the  examples 
which  he  derives  from  the  early  period  of  the  Republic  are  not  less  certain 
and  authentic  than  if  they  had  been  selected  from  the  civil  wars  of 
Marius  and  Sylla,  or  of  Caesar  and  Pompey. 

Until  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  was  only  in  its  place 
within  some  work  of  universal  history  that  a  narrative  of  Roman  affairs 
usually  appeared ;  but  at  that  period  separate  Roman  histories  began  to 
issue  from   the  press.     One  of  the  earliest  was  Lawrence  Echard's ; 


Lewis  on  the  Early  Boman  History.  499 

speedily  followed  by  the  twenty  quarto  volumes  of  the  Jesuits,  of  which 
the  text  was  by  Catrou,  the  notes  and  excursus  by  Rouillg.  Then  come 
Bollin,  Hooke,  Vertot,  &c.  All  these  writers,  Sir  G.  C.  Lewis  remarks, 
serve  to  characterise  the  period  of  un  inquiring  and  uncritical  reproduction 
of  Roman  history :  their  system  was  to  eliminate  marvels  and  patent  im- 
probabilities, to  reconcile  discrepancies,  to  harmonise  the  various  accounts 
into  a  coherent  flowing  narrative,  and  to  treat  the  result  as  a  well-ascer- 
tained fact.  But  about  this  very  time  there  was  aroused  a  spirit  of 
sceptical  inquiry,  which  ever  since  has  been  working  busily,  and  doth 
still  work,  more  profoundly  and  audaciously  than  ever.  Even  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  the  historical  character  of  the  early  ages  of  Rome 
had  been  questioned  by  certain  scholars,  writing  as  such,  and  ad  clerum 
only;  by  Cluverius,  Bochart,  and  Perizonius,  in  treatises  ranging  between 
the  years  a.d.  1624  and  1685.  But  the  subject  was  now  approached 
with  greater  freedom,  and  in  a  more  popular  style.  In  1722,  M.  de 
Pouilly  read  an  Essay  before  the  French  Academy  of  Inscriptions,  to  de- 
monstrate the  uncertainty  of  the  Roman  history,  previous  to  the  war  with 
Pyrrhus.  The  more  celebrated  Beaufort,  a  French  Protestant  refugee, 
published  at  Utrecht,  in  1738,  his  severely  disenchanting  Dissertation — 
of  which  the  general  conclusion  is,  that  not  only  the  history  of  the  regal 
period,  and  of  the  republican  period  before  the  capture  of  Rome  by  the 
Gauls,  but  also  of  the  subsequent  republican  period  from  the  capture  of 
the  city  to  the  close  of  the  fifth  century,  is  uncertain,  and  full  of  false  or 
doubtful  facts.  The  inquiries  of  Beaufort  had  some  manifest  influence  on 
subsequent  writers  on  the  subject — Adam  Ferguson  for  example  ;  but  the 
question  seems  to  have  been  well-nigh  stagnant  until  the  publication  of 
Niebuhr's  History,  in  1811-12.  "Niebuhr,"  says  Sir  George  Lewis, 
"  pursued  in  the  main  a  course  similar  to  that  which  had  been  followed 
by  Beaufort,  as  well  in  the  negative  as  in  the  positive  treatment  of  the 
subject.  His  learning  was  more  extensive,  his  knowledge  of  antiquity 
and  of  mediaeval  history  was  more  comprehensive,  his  imagination  more 
active,  and  his  memory  more  capacious,  than  those  of  his  predecessor ; 
moreover,  he  undertook  to  compose  a  connected  history,  whereas  Beau- 
fort, after  his  critical  dissertation,  composed  only  a  description  of  the 
political  antiquities  of  Rome,  and  gave  only  a  brief  outline  of  the  events. 
He  likewise  shows  what  part  of  it  is  to  be  believed,  and  in  what  sense 
the  traditionary  accounts  are  to  be  understood.  But  he  carries  both  his 
scepticism  and  his  reconstruction  further  than  Beaufort.  He  exhibits 
greater  boldness  both  in  rejecting  and  in  restoring.  In  fact,  he  has  to  a 
great  extent  cast  aside  the  received  narrative  of  Roman  history  down  to 
the  capture  of  the  city  by  the  Gauls,  and  has  substituted  another  in  its 
place.  He  has  demolished  the  existing  fabric,  and  out  of  its  ruins  he  has 
built  a  new  history,  in  a  form  not  only  different  from  that  in  which  it  has 
been  related  by  modern  writers,  but  from  that  in  which  it  had  been  con- 
ceived by  Cicero,  Dionysius,  and  Livy." 

But  the  main  characteristic  of  Niebuhr's  history  is  shown  to  be,  the 
extent  to  which  he  relies  upon  internal  evidence,  and  upon  the  indications 
afforded  by  the  narrative  itself,  independently  of  the  testimony  to  its 
truth.  Thus,  he  considers  the  reigns  of  Romulus  and  Numa  as  purely 
fabulous  and  poetical,  and  the  period  from  Tullus  Hostilius  to  the  first 
secession  of  the  Plebs  as  mythico-historical — as  compounded  of  truth  and 


500  L*wu  on  the  Early  Soman  History. 

fiction ;  while  he  thinks  that  a  veracious  and  solid  history  may,  by  a 
proper  process  of  reconstruction,  be  recovered  for  the  period  from  the  first 
secession  down  to  the  commencement  of  contemporary  registration : — a 
division  of  periods  wholly  scouted  by  Lewis,  as  exclusively  founded  on 
esoteric  grounds,  and  unsupported  by  any  difference  in  the  external 
testimony. 

The  work  of  Niebuhr  he  recognises,  of  course,  as  a  great  landmark  in 
the  recent  treatment  of  early  Roman  history.  "  Almost  all  the  subse- 
quent works  on  the  subject  are  either  founded  upon  his  researches,  or  are 
occupied  to  a  great  extent  with  criticisms  of  his  conclusions,  and  with 
reasons  for  rejecting  or  doubting  them.  Among  the  former  of  these  the 
work  of  Dr.  Arnold  stands  conspicuous,  which  had  been  brought  down  to 
the  end  of  the  First  Punic  War,  before  he  was  unhappily  carried  off  by  a 
premature  death.  Among  the  latter,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  name  the  work 
of  Becker  on  '  Roman  Antiquities/  continued  since  his  death  by  Mar- 
guardt ;  and  the  History  of  Schwegler,  one  volume  of  which,  comprising 
the  regal  period,  has  alone  appeared.  In  these  and  other  works  many 
of  Niebuhr's  opinions  on  questions  of  Roman  history  are  disputed  or 
doubted ;  and  it  may  be  said,  that  there  is  scarcely  any  of  the  leading 
conclusions  of  Niebuhr's  work  which  have  not  been  impugned  by  some 
subsequent  writer.  Even  his  views  upon  the  Agrarian  laws — the  soundest 
and  most  valuable  portion  of  his  History — have  not  escaped  contradiction 
in  certain  points.  Furthermore,  a  recent  History  of  Rome,  published  at 
Basle,  by  Gerlach  and  Rachofen,  and  written  with  considerable  erudition, 
not  only  repudiates  the  reconstructive  part  of  Niebuhr's  work,  but  e^en. 
refuses  assent  to  his  negative  criticisms,  and  returns  to  the  old  implicit 
faith  in  the  early  period,  such  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Echard,  Catron, 
and  Rollin.  The  History  of  Niebuhr  has  thus  opened  more  questions 
than  it  has  closed,  and  it  has  set  in  motion  a  large  body  of  combatants, 
whose  mutual  variances  are  not  at  present  likely  to  be  settled  by 
deference  to  a  common  authority,  or  by  the  recognition  of  any  common. 
principle." 

The  Inquiry  of  Sir  G.  C.  Lewis  himself  is  eminently  and  emphatically 
negative  in  its  results.  He  assails  Niebuhr's  affirmative  positions,  but 
substitutes  none  of  his  own ;  on  the  contrary,  seeks  to  demonstrate  the 
hopelessness  of  affirmation  in  such  a  cause— the  futility  of  building  on 
sands  so  shifting  and  treachery — the  uselessness  of  essaying  to  make 
bricks  without  straw,  without  clay,  without  aught  but  the  will  to  make 
them,  or  to  suggest  how  they  might  be  made.  In  short,  as  the  Quarterly 
Reviewer  has  said  of  this  able  and  elaborate  Inquiry,  its  conclusions  as  to 
the  early  history  of  Rome  may  be  summed  up  in  the  single  line, 

All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known. 


END  OP  VOL.  CVH. 


0.  WHITING,  BBAUFOBT  HOttNB,  STAANSk 


..-n 


^