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BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
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<xxl><B>BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.</B></xxl>

<xxl><B>No. <abbr rend=arabic>CCCLXXXVIII</abbr>.      FEBRUARY, 1848.      <sc>Vol.</sc> <abbr rend=arabic>LXIII</abbr>.</B></xxl>

EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;
AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
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.h2 title="Contents"
CONTENTS.
.sp 2
.ta l:40 r:20
The Russian Empire |      #129:russian#
Autobiography of a German Headsman |    #148:headsman#
Edinburgh after Flodden |      #165:edinburgh#
Subjects for Pictures |      #176:subjects#
Jerusalem  |      #192:jerusalem#
My English Acquaintance |       #194:acquaintance#
Our West Indian Colonies |       #219:colonies#
Now and Then |       #239:now#
.ta-
.pn 129
.sp 4
.h2 id=russian title="The Russian Empire"
THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE.
.sp 2
(<i>Secret History of the Court and Government of Russia, under the Emperors
Alexander and Nicholas.</i> By <sc>H. SCHNITZLER</sc>. Two vols. Bentley: London.)
.sp 2
Russia is the most extraordinary
country on the globe, in the four most
important particulars of empire,—its
history, its extent, its population,
and its power.

It has for Europe another interest,—the
interest of alarm, the evidence of
an ambition which has existed for a
hundred and fifty years, and has
never paused; an increase of territory
which has never suffered the
slightest casualty of fortune; the
most complete security against the
retaliation of European war; and a
government at once despotic and
popular; exhibiting the most boundless
authority in the sovereign, and
the most boundless submission in the
people; a mixture of habitual obedience,
and divine homage: the reverence
to a monarch, with almost the
prostration to a divinity.

Its history has another superb
anomaly: Russia gives the most memorable
instance in human annals, of
the powers which lie within the mind
of individual man. Peter the Great
was not the restorer, or the reformer
of Russia; he was its moral <i>creator</i>.
He found it, not as Augustus found
Rome, according to the famous adage,
“brick, and left it marble:” he found
it a living swamp, and left it covered
with the fertility of laws, energy, and
knowledge: he found it Asiatic, and
left it European: he removed it as
far from Scythia, as if he had placed
the diameter of the globe between:
he found it not brick, but mire, and
he transformed a region of huts into
the magnificence of empire.

Russia first appears in European
history in the middle of the ninth
century. Its climate and its soil
had till then retained it in primitive
barbarism. The sullenness of its
winter had prevented invasion by
civilised nations, and the nature of
its soil, one immense plain, had given
full scope to the roving habits of its
half famished tribes. The great invasions
which broke down the Roman
empire, had drained away the population
from the north, and left nothing
but remnants of clans behind. Russia
had no Sea, by which she might
send her bold savages to plunder or
to trade with Southern and Western
Europe. And, while the man of
Scandinavia was subduing kingdoms,
or carrying back spoil to his northern
crags and lakes, the Russian remained,
like the bears of his forest, in his
cavern during the long winter of his
country; and even when the summer
came, was still but a melancholy
savage, living like the bear upon the
roots and fruits of his ungenial soil.

It was to one of those Normans,
who, instead of steering his bark towards
the opulence of the south,
turned his dreary adventure to the
north, that Russia owed her first
connexion with intelligent mankind.
.pn +1
The people of Novgorod, a people of
traders, finding themselves overpowered
by their barbarian neighbours,
solicited the aid of Ruric, a
Baltic chieftain, and, of course, a
pirate and a robber. The name of
the Norman had earned old renown
in the north. Ruric came, rescued
the city, but paid himself by the
seizure of the surrounding territory,
and founded a kingdom, which he
transmitted to his descendants, and
which lasted until the middle of the
sixteenth century.

In the subsequent reign we see
the effect of the northern pupillage;
and an expedition, in the style of the
Baltic exploits, was sent to plunder
Constantinople. This expedition consisted
of two thousand canoes, with
eighty thousand men on board. The
expedition was defeated, for the
Greeks had not yet sunk into the
degeneracy of later times. They
fought stoutly for their capital, and
roasted the pirates in their own
canoes, by showers of the famous
“Greek fire.”

Those invasions, however, were
tempting to the idleness and poverty,
or to the avarice and ambition of
the Russians; and Constantinople
continued to be the great object of
cupidity and assault, for three hundred
years. But the city of Constantine
was destined to fall to a mightier
conqueror.

Still, the northern barbarian had
now learned the road to Greece, and
the intercourse was mutually beneficial.
Greece found daring allies in
her old plunderers, and in the eleventh
century she gave the Grand-duke
Vladimir a wife, in the person of Anna,
sister of the emperor Basil <abbr='the second'>II</abbr>; a
gift made more important by its
being accompanied by his conversion
to Christianity.

A settled succession is the great
secret of royal peace: but among
those bold riders of the desert, nothing
was ever settled, save by the
sword; and the first act of all the sons,
on the decease of their father, was,
to slaughter each other; until the contest
was settled in their graves, and
the last survivor quietly ascended the
throne.

But war, on a mightier scale than
the Russian Steppes had ever witnessed,
was now rolling over Central
Asia. The cavalry of Genghiz Khan,
which came, not in squadrons, but in
nations, and charged, not like troops,
but like thunderclouds, began to
pour down upon the valley of the
Wolga. Yet the conquest of Russia
was not to be added to the triumphs
of the great Tartar chieftain; a
mightier conqueror stopped him on
his way, and the Tartar died.

His son Toushi, lit the beginning
of the thirteenth century, burst
over the frontier at the head of half
a million of horsemen. The Russian
princes, hastily making up their quarrels,
advanced to meet the invader;
but their army was instantly trampled
down, and, before the middle of the
century, all the provinces, and all the
cities of Russia, were the prey of the
men of the wilderness. Novgorod
alone escaped.

The history of this great city would
be highly interesting, if it were possible
now to recover its details. It
was the chief depot of the northern
Asiatic commerce with Europe; it
had a government, laws, and privileges
of its own, with which it suffered
not even the Khan or the Tartars
to interfere. Its population
amounted to four hundred thousand—then
nearly equal to the population
of a kingdom. In the thirteenth
century it connected itself still more
effectively with European commerce,
by becoming a member of the Hanseatic
League; and the wonder and
pride of the Russians were expressed
in the well-known half-profane proverb,
“Who can resist <sc>God</sc>, and the
great Novgorod?”

There is always something almost
approaching to picturesque grandeur
in the triumphs of barbarism. The
Turk, until he was fool enough to
throw away the turban, was the most
showy personage in the world. The
Arabs, under Mahomet, were the
most stately of warriors, and the
Spanish Moors threw all the pomp,
and even all the romance, of Europe
into the shade. Even the chiefs of
the “Golden Horde” seemed to have
had as picturesque a conception of
supremacy as the Saracen. Their only
city was a vast camp, in the plains
between the Caspian and the Wolga;
and while they left the provinces in
.pn +1
the hands of the native princes, and
enjoyed themselves in the manlier
sports of hunting through the plains
and mountains, they commanded
that every vassal prince should attend
at the imperial tent to receive permission
to reign, or perhaps to live;
and that, even when they sent their
Tartar collectors to receive the tribute,
the Russian princes should lead
the Tartar’s horse by the bridle, and
give him a feed of oats out of their
<i>cap of state</i>!

But another of those sweeping
devastators, one of those gigantic
executioners, who seem to have been
sent from time to time to punish the
horrible profligacies of Asia, now
rose upon the north. Timour Khan,
the Tamerlane of European story, the
Invincible, the Lord of the Tartar
World, rushed with his countless
troops upon the sovereignties of
Western Asia. This universal conqueror
crushed the Tartar dynasty of
Russia, and then burst away, like an
inundation, to overwhelm other lands.
But the native Russians again made
head against their Tartar masters,
and a century and a half of sanguinary
warfare followed, with various fortunes,
and without any other result than
blood.

Without touching on topics exclusively
religious, it becomes a matter
of high interest to mark the vengeances,
furies, and massacres, of
heathenism, in every age of the
world. Yet while we believe, and have
such resistless reason to believe, in
the Providential government, what
grounds can be discovered for this
sufferance of perpetual horrors? For
this we have one solution, and but
one: stern as the inflictions are, may
they not be in mercy? may not the
struggles of barbarian life be permitted,
simply to retard the headlong
course of barbarian corruption? may
there not be excesses of wickedness,
extremes of national vice, an accumulation
of offences against the laws of
moral nature, (which are the original
laws of Heaven,) actually incompatible
with the Divine mercy? Nothing
can be clearer to the understanding,
than that there are limits
which the Divine Being has prescribed
to his endurance of the guilt
of man, and prescribed doubtless for
the highest objects of general mercy;
as there are offences which, by
human laws, are incompatible with
the existence of society.

The crimes of the world before the
flood were evidently of an intense
iniquity, which precluded the possibility
of purification; and thus it
became necessary to extinguish a
race, whose continued existence could
only have corrupted every future
generation of mankind.

War, savage feuds, famines, and
pestilences, may have been only
Divine expedients to save the world
from another accumulation of intolerable
iniquity, by depriving nations of
the power of utter self-destruction,
by thinning their numbers, by compelling
them to feel the miseries of
mutual aggression, and even by reducing
them to that degree of poverty
which supplied the most effective
antidote to their total corruption.

Still, those sufferings were punishments,
but punishments fully earned
by their fierce passions, savage propensities,
remorseless cruelties, and
general disobedience of that natural
law of virtue, which, earlier even than
Judaism or Christianity, the Eternal
had implanted in the heart of his
creatures.

In the fifteenth century Russia
began to assume a form. Ivan <abbr='the third'>III</abbr>.
broke off the vassalage of Russia to
the “Golden Horde.” He had married
Sophia, the niece of the Greek
emperor, to which we may attribute
his civilisation; and he received the
embassies of Germany, Venice, and
Rome, at Moscow. His son, Ivan
<abbr='the fourth'>IV</abbr>., took Novgorod, which he ruined,
and continued to fight the Poles and
Tartars until he died. His son Ivan,
in the middle of the sixteenth century,
was crowned by the title of
Czar, formed the first standing army
of Russia, named the Strelitzes, and
established a code of laws. In 1598,
by the death of the Czar Feodor
without children, the male line of
Ruric, which had held the throne for
seven hundred and thirty-six years,
and under fifty-six sovereigns, became
extinct.

Another dynasty of remarkable
distinction ascended the throne, in
the beginning of the seventeenth century.
Michael Romanoff, descended
.pn +1
from the line of Ruric by the female
side, was declared Czar. His son
Alexis was the father of Peter the
Great, who, with his brother Ivan,
was placed on the throne at the
decease of their father, but both
under the guardianship of the Princess
Sophia. But the Princess, who
was the daughter of Alexis, exhibiting
an intention to seize the crown
for herself, a revolution took place in
1689, in which the Princess was
sent to a convent. Ivan, who was
imbecile in mind and body, surrendered
the throne, and Peter became
sole sovereign of Russia.

The accession of Peter began the
last and greatest period of Russian
history. Though a man of fierce
passions and barbarian habits, he had
formed a high conception of the value
of European arts, chiefly through an
intelligent Genevese, Lefort, who had
been his tutor.

The first object of the young emperor
was to form an army; his next
was to construct a fleet. But both
operations were too slow for his rapidity
of conception; and, in 1697, he
travelled to Holland and England for
the purpose of learning the art of ship-building.
He was forced to return
to Russia after an absence of two
years, by the revolt of the Strelitzes
in favour of the Princess Sophia. The
Strelitzes wore disbanded and slaughtered,
and Peter felt himself a
monarch for the first time.

The cession of Azof by the Turks,
at the peace of Carlowitz in 1699, gave
him a port on the Black Sea. But
the Baltic acted on him like a spell;
and, to obtain an influence on its
shores, he hazarded the ruin of his
throne.

Sweden, governed by Charles XII.,
was then the first military power of
the north. The fame of Gustavus
Adolphus in the German wars, had
given the Swedes the example and
the renown of their great king; and
Charles, bold, reckless, and half lunatic,
despising the feebleness of Russia,
had turned his arms against Denmark
and Poland. But the junction of
Russia with the “Northern League”
only gave him a new triumph. He fell
upon the Russian army, and broke it
up on the memorable field of Narva,
in 1700.

Peter still proceeded with his original
vigour. <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg was
founded in 1703. The war was prosecuted
for six years, until the Russian
troops obtained a degree of discipline
which enabled them to meet the Swedes
on equal terms. In 1708, Charles
was defeated in the memorable battle
of Pultowa. His army was utterly
ruined, and himself forced to take refuge
in Turkey. Peter was now at
the head of northern power. Frederic
Augustus was placed on the
throne of Poland by the arms of
Russia, and from this period Poland
was under Russian influence.

Peter now took the title of “Emperor
and Autocrat of all the Russias.”
In 1716 he again travelled
in Europe. In 1723 he obtained the
provinces on the Caspian, by an
attack on Persia. But his vigorous,
ambitious, and singularly successful
career was now come to a close. The
death of a Russian prince is seldom
attributed to the course of nature;
and Peter died at the age of fifty-two,
a time when the bodily powers are still
undecayed, and the mental are in the
highest degree of activity. The day,
still recorded by the Russians with
the interest due to his extraordinary
career, was the 28th of January 1725.
In thirty-six years he had raised Russia
from obscurity to a rank with the
oldest powers of Europe.

We hasten to the close of this sketch,
and pass by the complicated successions
from the death of Peter to the
reign of the Empress Catherine.

The Russian army had made their
first appearance in Germany, in consequence
of a treaty with Maria Theresa;
and their bravery in the “Seven
Years’ War,” in the middle of the last
century, established their distinction
for soldiership.

Peter <abbr='the third'>III</abbr>. withdrew from the Austrian
alliance, and concluded peace
with Prussia. But his reign was not
destined to be long. At once weak
in intellect, and profligate in habits,
he offended and alarmed his empress,
by personal neglect, and by threats of
sending her to a convent. Catherine,
a German, and not accustomed to
the submissiveness of Russian wives,
formed a party against him. The
people were on her side; and, what
was of more importance, the Guards
.pn +1
declared for her. An insurrection
took place; the foolish Czar, after
a six months’ reign, was dethroned
July 1762, was sent to a prison,
and within a week was no more. The
Russians assigned his death to poison,
to strangulation, or to some other
species of atrocity. Europe talked
for a while of the “Russian Tragedy!”
but the emperor left no regrets behind
him; and “Catherina, Princess of
Anhalt Zerbst,” handsome, young,
accomplished, and splendid, ascended
a throne of which her subjects were
proud; which collected round it the
elite of Germany, its philosophers
and soldiers; which the empress connected
with the <lang=fr><i>beaux esprits</i></lang> of France,
and the orators and statesmen of
England; and which, during her long,
prosperous, and ambitious reign, united
the pomp of Asia with the brilliancy
and power of Europe. The shroud of
the Czar was speedily forgotten, in the
embroidered robe which Catherine
threw over the empire.

But the greatest crime of European
annals was committed in this bold
and triumphant reign. Russia, Prussia,
and Austria, tempted by the helplessness
of Poland, formed a league to
seize upon portions of its territory; and
the partition of 1772 took place, to
the utter astonishment of Europe, but
with scarcely a remonstrance from its
leading powers.

Poland had so long been contented
to receive its sovereign from Russia,
its religions disputes had so utterly
weakened the people, its nobility were
so profligate, and its peasantry were
so poor, that it had lost all the sinews
of national defence. It therefore fell
an easy prey; and only waited, like a
slave in the market, till the bargain for
its sale was complete.

In 1793, a second partition was
effected. In the next year, the
Polish troops took up arms under the
celebrated Kosciusko; but the Russians
advanced on Warsaw with a
force which defied all resistance.
Warsaw was stormed, twenty thousand
gallant men were slain in its defence,
Suwarroff was master of the unfortunate
capital; and, in 1795, the third
and last partition extinguished the
kingdom.

Having performed this terrible exploit,
which was to be as terribly
avenged, the career of Catherine was
closed. She died suddenly in 1796.

Paul, her son, ascended the throne,
which he held for five years; a mixture
of the imbecility of his father,
and the daring spirit of his mother.
Zealous for the honour of Russia, yet
capricious as the winds, he first
made war upon the French Republic,
and then formed a naval league to
destroy the maritime supremacy of
England. This measure was his
ruin; England was the old ally of
Russia,—France was the new enemy.
The nation hated the arrogance and
the atheism of France, and resolved
on the overthrow of the Czar. In
Russia the monarch is so far removed
from his people, that he has no refuge
among them in case of disaster.
Paul was believed to be mad, and
madness, on a despotic throne, justly
startles a nation. A band of conspirators
broke into his palace at midnight,
strangled the master of fifty millions
of men, and the nation, at morning,
was in a tumult of joy.

His son, Alexander, ascended the
throne amid universal acclamation.
His first act was peace with England.
In 1805, his troops joined the Austrian
army, and bore their share in the
sufferings of the campaign of Austerlitz.
The French invasion of Poland, in two
years after, the desperate drawn battle
of Eylau, and the disaster of Friedland,
led to the peace of Tilsit. Alexander
then joined the Continental system of
Napoleon; but this system was soon
found to be so ruinous to Russian
commerce, as to be intolerable. Napoleon,
already marked for downfall,
was rejoiced to take advantage of
the Russian reluctance, and instantly
marched across the Polish frontier, at
the head of a French and allied army
amounting to the astonishing number
of five hundred thousand men.

Infatuation was now visible in
every step of his career. Instead of
organising Poland into a kingdom,
which would have been a place of retreat
in case of disaster; and, whether
in disaster or victory, would have been
a vast national fortification against the
advance of Russia, he left it behind
him; and, instead of waiting for the
return of spring, commenced his campaign
on the verge of winter, in the
land of winter itself, and madly ran
.pn +1
all the hazards of invading a boundless
empire of which he knew nothing,
of which the people were brave,
united, and attached to their sovereign;
and of which, if the armies had fled
like deer, the elements would have
fought the battle.

Napoleon was now <i>infatuated</i> in all
things, infatuated in his diplomacy at
Moscow, and infatuated in the rashness,
the hurry, and the confusion of
his retreat. His army perished by
brigades and divisions. On the returning
spring, three hundred thousand
men were found buried in the snow;
all his spoil was lost, his veteran
troops were utterly destroyed, his
fame was tarnished, and his throne
was shaken.

He was followed into France by
the troops of Russia and Germany.
In 1814, the British army under
Wellington crossed the Pyrenees,
and liberated the southern provinces
of France. In the same year, the
Austrian, Prussian, and Russian armies
marched to Paris, captured the
capital, and expelled Napoleon. The
battle of Waterloo, in the year after,
destroyed the remnant of his legions
in the field, threw him into the hands
of the British government, and exiled
him to St Helena, where he remained
a British prisoner until he died.

Alexander died in 1825, at the age
of forty-eight, and, leaving no sons,
was succeeded by his brother Nicholas,
the third son of Paul—Constantine
having resigned his claims to the
throne. We pass over, for the moment,
the various events of the present imperial
reign. Its policy has been constantly
turned to the acquisition of
territory; and that policy has been
always successful. The two great
objects of all Russian cabinets, since
the days of Constantine, have been the
possession of Turkey and the command
of the Mediterranean. Either would
inevitably produce a universal war;
and while we deprecate so tremendous
a calamity to the world, and rely
on the rational and honourable qualities
of the Emperor, to rescue both
Russia and Europe from so desperate
a struggle, we feel that it is only wise
to be prepared for all the contingencies
that may result from the greatest
mass of power that the world has
ever seen, moved by a despotic will,
and that will itself subject to the common
caprices of the mind of man.

The volumes to which we shall now
occasionally refer, are written by an
intelligent observer, who began his
study of Russia by an office under
her government, and who has, since
that period, been occupied in acquiring
additional knowledge of her habits,
finances, population, and general
system of administration. A Frenchman
by birth, but a German by descent,
he in a very considerable degree
unites the descriptive dexterity of the
one with the grave exactness of the
other. His subject is of the first importance
to European politicians, and
he seems capable of giving them the
material of sound conclusions.

The author commences with the
reign of Alexander, and gives a just
panegyric to the kindliness of his disposition,
the moderation of his temper,
and his sincere desire to promote the
happiness of his people. Nothing but
this disposition could have saved him
from all the vices of ambition, profligacy,
and irreligion; for his tutor
was La Harpe, one of the savans of
the Swiss school, a man of accomplishment
and talent, but a scoffer.
But the English reader should be
reminded, that when men of this rank
of ability are pronounced hostile to
religion, their hostility was not to the
principles of Christianity, but to the
religion of France; to the performances
of the national worship, to the
burlesque miracles wrought at the
tomb of the Abbé Paris, and to that
whole system of human inventions
and monkish follies, which was as
much disbelieved in France as it was
disdained in England.

In fact, the religion of the gospel
had never come into their thoughts;
and when they talked of revelation,
they thought only of the breviary.
The Empress Catherine, finding no
literature in Russia, afraid, or ashamed
of being known as a German, and
extravagantly fond of fame, attached
herself to the showy pamphleteers of
France, and courted every gale of
French adulation in return. She even
corresponded personally with some of
the French <lang=fr><i>litterateurs</i></lang>, and was
French in every thing except living
in <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg, and wearing the
Russian diadem. She was even so
.pn +1
much the slave of fashion as to
adopt, or pretend to adopt, the fantasies
in government which the French
were now beginning to mingle with
their fantasies in religious.

She wrote thus to Zimmerman, the
author of the dreamy and dreary
work on “Solitude,” “I have been
attached to philosophy, because my
soul has always been singularly
<i>republican</i>. I confess that this tendency
stands in strange contrast with
the unlimited power of my <i>place</i>.”

If the quiet times of Europe had
continued, and France had exhibited
the undisturbed pomps of her ancient
court, Alexander would probably
have been a Frenchman and <lang=fr><i>philosophe</i></lang>
on the banks of the Neva; but stirring
times were to give him more rational
ideas, and the necessities of Russia
reclaimed him from the absurdities of
his education.

La Harpe himself was a man of
some distinction—a Swiss, though
thoroughly French and revolutionary.
After leaving Russia, he became
prominent, even in France, as an
abettor of republican principles, and
was one of the members of the Swiss
Directory. La Harpe survived the
Revolution, the Empire, and the
Bourbons, and died in 1838.

The commencement of Alexander’s
reign was singularly popular, for it
began with treaties on every side.
Paul, who had sent a challenge to all
the sovereigns of Europe to fight him
in person, had alarmed his people
with the prospect of a universal war.
Alexander was the universal pacificator;
he made peace with England,
peace with France, and a commercial
treaty with Sweden. He now seemed
resolved to avoid all foreign wars, to
keep clear of European politics, and
to devote all his thoughts to the
improvement of his empire. Commencing
this rational and meritorious
task with zeal, he narrowed the censorship
of the press, and enlarged the
importation of foreign works. He
broke up the system of espionage—formed
a Council of State—reduced
the taxes—abolished the punishment
by torture—refused to make grants
of peasants—constituted the Senate
into a high court of justice divided
into departments, in order to remedy
the slowness of law proceedings—established
universities and schools—allowed
every subject to choose his
own profession; and, as the most
important and characteristic of all his
reforms, allowed his nobility to sell
portions of land to their serfs, with
the right of personal freedom: by
this last act laying the foundation of
a new and free race of proprietors in
Russia.

The abolition of serfdom was a
great experiment, whose merits the
serfs themselves scarcely appreciated,
but which is absolutely necessary to
any elevation of the national character.
It has been always opposed by
the nobles, who regard it as the
actual plunder of their inheritance;
but Alexander honourably exhibited
his more humane and rational
views on the subject, whenever the
question came within his decision.

A nobleman of the highest rank
had requested an estate “with its
serfs,” as an imperial mark of favour.
Alexander wrote to him in this style:
“The peasants of Russia are for the
most part <i>slaves</i>. I need not expatiate
on the degradation, or on the misfortune
of such a condition. Accordingly,
I have made a vow not to increase
the number; and to this end I have
laid down the principle <i>not</i> to give
away peasants as property.”

The Emperor sometimes did striking
things in his private capacity. A
princess of the first rank applied to
him to protect her husband from his
creditors, intimating that “the emperor
was above the law.”

Alexander answered, “I do not
wish, madam, to put myself above the
law, even if I could, for in all the
world I do not recognise any authority
but that which comes from the
law. On the contrary, I feel more
than any one else the obligation of
watching over its observance, and even
in cases where others may be indulgent,
<i>I</i> can only be just.”

The French war checked all those
projects of improvement; and the
march of his troops to the aid of Austria
in 1805, commenced a series of
hostilities, which, for seven years, occupied
the resources of the empire,
and had nearly subverted his throne.
But he behaved bravely throughout
the contest. When Austria was beaten
and signed a treaty, Alexander refused
.pn +1
to join in the negotiation. When
Prussia, under the influence of counsels
at once rash and negligent—too
slow to aid Austria, and too feeble to
encounter France—was preparing to
resist Napoleon in 1805, Alexander,
Frederic William, and his queen
Louisa, made a visit by torch-light to
the tomb of Frederic the Great in
Potsdam; and there, on their knees,
the two monarchs joined their hands
over the tomb, and pledged themselves
to stand by each other to the last.

When Prussia was defeated, Alexander
still fought two desperate battles;
and it was not until the advance
of the French made him dread the
rising of Poland in his rear, that he
made peace in 1802.

At this peace, he was charged with
bartering his principles for the extension
of his dominions by the seizure
of Turkey, and even of the extravagance
of dividing the world with
Napoleon. But these charges were
never proved.

We, too, have our theory, and it
is, that the fear of seeing Poland in
insurrection alone compelled Alexander
to submit to the treaty of Tilsit;
but that he felt all the insolence of
the French Emperor, in demanding
the closing of the Russian ports
against England; and felt the treaty
as a chain, which he was determined
to break on the first provocation.
We think it probable that the knowledge
of the “secret articles” of that
treaty was conveyed from the Russian
Court to England; and, without pretending
to know from what direct
hand it came, we believe that the
seizure of the Danish fleet, which
was the immediate result of that
knowledge, was as gratifying to
Alexander as it was to the English
cabinet, notwithstanding the diplomatic
wrath which it pleased him to
affect on that memorable occasion.

But other times were ripening. It
has been justly observed, that the
Spanish war was the true origin of
Napoleon’s ruin. He perished by his
own perfidy. The resistance of Spain
awoke the resistance of Europe. All
Germany, impoverished by French
plunder, and indignant at French
insults, longed to rise in arms. The
Russians then boldly demanded the
emancipation of their commerce, and
issued a relaxed tariff in 1811.
British vessels then began to crowd
the Russian ports. Napoleon was
indignant and threatened. Alexander
was offended, and remonstrated.
The French Emperor instantly
launched one of his fiery proclamations;
declared that the House of
Romanoff was undone; and, on the
24th of June 1812, threw his mighty
army across the Niemen.

We pass over the events of that
memorable war as universally known;
but justice is not done to the Russian
emperor, unless we recollect
how large a portion of the liberation
of Europe was due to his magnanimity.
To refuse obedience to the
commercial tyranny of Napoleon,
where it menaced the ruin of his
people, was an act of personal magnanimity,
for it inevitably exposed
his throne and life to the hazards of
war with a universal conqueror.
On the declaration of war, he determined
to join his armies in the field,
another act of magnanimity, which
was prevented only by the remonstrance
of his generals, who represented
to him the obstacles which
must be produced by the presence of
the emperor. But, when the invasion
of France was resolved on, and
negotiations might require his presence,
he was instantly in the camp,
and was of the highest importance to
the final success of the campaign.
He threw vigour into the councils of
the Austrian generalissimo, and, with
the aid of the British ambassador,
actually urged and effected the
“March to Paris.”

In Paris, however, his magnanimity
was unfortunate, his generosity
was misplaced, his chivalric feelings
had to deal with craft, and his reliance
on the pledges of Napoleon
ultimately cost Europe one of the
bloodiest of its campaigns. A wiser
policy would have given Napoleon
over to the dungeon, or sent him
before a military tribunal, as he had
sent the unfortunate <lang=fr>Duc d’Enghien</lang>,
with not the thousandth part of the
reason or the necessity, and the peace
of the Continent would thus have been
secured at once. But a more theatric
policy prevailed. The promises of a
man who had never kept a promise
were taken; the stimulant of an
.pn +1
imperial title was kept up, when he
ought to have been stripped of all
honours; an independent revenue
was issued to him, which was sure to
be expended in bribing the officials
and soldiery of France; and, by the
last folly of a series of generous
absurdities, Napoleon was placed in
the very spot which he himself would
have chosen, and probably <i>did</i> choose,
for the centre of a correspondence,
between the corruption of Italy and
the corruption of France.

The result was predicted by every
politician of Europe, except the politicians
of the Tuileries. France was
speedily prepared for revolt; the
army had their tricoloured cockades
in their knapsacks. The Bourbons,
who thought that the world was to
be governed by going to mass, were
forced to flee at midnight. Napoleon
drove into the capital, with all the
traitors of the army and the councils
clinging to his wheels, cost France
another “March to Paris,” the loss
of another veteran army, and himself
another exile, where he was sent
to linger out his few wretched and
humiliated years in the African
Ocean.

The Holy Alliance was the first
conception of Alexander on the return
of peace. It died too suddenly to
exhibit either its good or its evil. It
has been calumniated, because it has
been misunderstood. But it seems
to have been a noble conception.
France which laughs at every thing,
laughed at the idea of ruling Europe
on principles of honour. Germany,
which is always wrapped in a republican
doze, reprobated a project which
seemed to secure the safety of thrones
by establishing honour as a principle.
And England, then governed by a
cabinet doubtful of public feeling,
and not less doubtful of foreign integrity,
shrank from all junction with
projects which she could not control,
and with governments in which she
would not confide. Thus the Holy
Alliance perished. Still, the conception
was noble. Its only fault was,
that it was applied to men before
men had become angels.

The author of the volumes now before
us is evidently a republican one—of
the “Movement”—one of that class
who would first stimulate mankind into
restlessness, and then pronounce the
restlessness to be a law of nature.
Metternich is of course his bugbear,
and the policy of Austria is to
him the policy of the “kingdom of
darkness.” But, if there is no wiser
maxim than “to judge of the tree
by its fruits,” how much wiser has
that great statesman been than all
the bustling innovators of his day,
and how much more substantial is
that policy by which he has kept the
Austrian empire in happy and grateful
tranquillity, while the Continent
has been convulsed around him!

No man knows better than Prince
Metternich, the shallowness, and even
the shabbiness, of the partisans of
overthrow, their utter incapacity for
rational freedom, the utter perfidy of
their intentions, and the selfish villany
of their objects. He knows, as
every man of sense knows, that those
Solons and Catos of revolution are
composed of lawyers without practice,
traders without business, ruined
gamblers, and the whole swarm of
characterless and contemptible idlers,
who infest all the cities of Europe.
He knows from full experience that
the object of such men is, not to procure
rights for the people, but to compel
governments to buy their silence;
that their only idea of liberty, is
liberty of pillage; and that, with
them, revolution is only an expedient
for rapine and a license for revenge.
Therefore he puts them down; he
stifles their declamation by the
scourge, he curbs their theories by the
dungeon, he cools their political fever
by banishing them from the land;
and thus governing Austria for nearly
the last forty years, he has kept it
free from popular violence, from
republican ferocity, from revolutionary
bloodshed, and from the infinite
wretchedness, poverty, and shame,
which smites a people exposed to the
swindling of political impostors.

Thus, Austria is peaceful and powerful,
while Spain is shattered by conspiracy;
while Portugal lives, protected
from herself only under the
guns of the British fleet; while Italy
is committing its feeble mischiefs, and
frightening its opera-hunting potentates
out of their senses; while every
petty province of Germany has its
beer-drinking conspirators; and while
.pn +1
the French king guards himself by
bastions and batteries, and cannot
take an evening’s drive without fear
of the blunderbuss, or lay his head on
his pillow without the chance of being
wakened by the roar of insurrection.
These are the “fruits of the tree;”
but it is only to be lamented that the
same sagacity and vigour, the same
determination of character, and the
same perseverance in principle, are
not to be found in every cabinet of
Europe. We should then hear no
more of revolutions.

The life of the Russian emperor
was a cloudy one. The external splendour
of royalty naturally captivates
the eye, but the realities of the diadem
are often melancholy. It would
be scarcely possible to conceive a
loftier preparative for human happiness
than that which surrounds the
throne of the Russias. Alexander
married early. A princess of Baden
was chosen for him, by the irresistible
will of Catherine, at a period when he
himself was incapable of forming any
choice. He was married at sixteen,
his wife being one year younger. He
never had a son, but he had two
daughters, who died. And the distractions
of the campaign of Moscow,
which must have been a source of
anxiety to any man in Russia, were
naturally felt by the emperor in proportion
to the immense stake which
he had in the safety of the country.

For some years after the fall of
Napoleon, Alexander was deeply engaged
in a variety of anxious negotiations
in Germany, and subsequently,
he was still more deeply agitated by
the failing constitution of the empress.
The physicians had declared that her
case was hopeless if she remained in
Russia, and advised her return to her
native air. But she, in the spirit of
romance, replied, that the wife of the
Emperor of Russia must not die
but within his dominions. The
Crimea was then proposed, as the
most genial climate. But the emperor
decided on Taganrog, a small
town on the sea of Azof, but at the
tremendous distance of nearly fifteen
hundred miles from <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg.

The present empress has been wiser,
for, abandoning the romance, she spent
her winter in Naples, where she seems
to have recovered her health. The
climate of Taganrog, though so far to
the south, is unfavorable, and in
winter it is exposed to the terrible
winds which sweep across the desert,
unobstructed from the pole. But
Alexander determined to attend to her
health there himself, and preceded her
by some days to make preparations.
A strange and singularly depressing
ceremony preceded his departure.
For some years he had been liable to
melancholy impressions on the subject
of religion. The Greek church, which
differs little from the Romish, except
in refusing allegiance to the bishop of
Rome, abounds in formalities, some
stately, and some severe. Alexander,
educated under the Swiss, who could
not have taught him more of Christianity
than was known by a French
<lang=fr><i>philosophe</i></lang>, and having only the dangerous
morals of the Russian court
for his practical guide, suffered himself,
when in Paris, to listen to the
mystical absurdities of the well-known
Madame de Krudener, and from that
time became a mystic. He had the
distorted dreams and the heavy reveries,
and talked the unintelligible
theories which the Germans talk by
the fumes of their meerschaums, and
propagate by the vapours of their
swamps. He lost his activity of mind;
and if he had lived a few years longer,
he would probably have finished his
career in a cell, and died, like Charles
<abbr='the fifth'>V</abbr>., an idiot, in the “odour of sanctity.”

The preparation for his journey
had the colouring of that superstition
which already began to cloud his
mind.

It was his custom, in his journeys
from <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg, to start from the
cathedral of “Our Lady of Kasan.”
But on this occasion, he gave notice
to the Greek bishop, that he should
require him to chant a service at four
o’clock in the morning, at the monastery
of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Alexander Newski, in the
full assembly of ecclesiastics, at which
he would be present.

On this occasion every thing took
an ominous shape, in the opinion of
the people. They said that the service
chanted was the service for the
dead, though the official report stated
that it was the <i>Te Deum</i>. The monastery
of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Alexander Newski is
surrounded by the chief cemetery of
.pn +1
<abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg, where various members
of the reigning family, who had
not worn the crown, were interred,
and among them the two infant
daughters of the emperor. The popular
report was, that the ecclesiastics
wore mourning robes; but this is contradicted,
whether truly or not, by the
official report, which states that they
wore vestures of crimson worked with
gold.

Just at dawn the emperor came
alone in his calèche, not even attended
by a servant. The outer gates were
then carefully reclosed, the mass was
said, the old prelate gave him a crucifix
to accompany him on his journey,
the priests once more chanted
their anthem, they then conducted
him to the gate, and the ceremonial
closed.

But the more curious feature of the
scene was to follow.

Seraphim, the old prelate, invited
the emperor to his cell, where, when
they were alone, he said, “I know
your Majesty feels a particular interest
in the <lang=ru><i>Schimnik</i></lang>.” (These are
monks who live in the interior of the
convents in the deepest solitude, following
strictly all the austerities prescribed
to their order, and are venerated
as saints.) “We for some time
have had a <lang=ru>Schimnik</lang> within the walls
of the Holy Lavra. Would it be the
pleasure of your majesty that he
should be summoned?”—“Be it so,”
was the reply, and a venerable man,
with an emaciated face and figure,
entered. Alexander received his
blessing, and the monk asked him
to visit his cell. Black cloth covered
the floor, the walls were painted
black, a colossal crucifix occupied a
considerable portion of the cell.
Benches painted black were ranged
around, and the only light was given
by the glimmer of a lamp, which
burned night and day before the
pictures of saints! When the emperor
entered, the monk prostrated
himself before the crucifix, and said,
“Let us pray.” The three then
knelt and engaged in silent prayer.
The emperor whispered to the bishop,
“Is this his only cell? where is his
bed?” The answer was, “He sleeps
upon this floor, stretched before the
crucifix.”—“No, sire,” said the monk,
“I have the same bed with every
other man; approach, and you shall
see.” He then led the emperor into a
small recess, screened off from the
cell, where, placed upon a table, was
a black coffin, half open, containing a
shroud, and surrounded by tapers.
“Here is <i>my</i> bed,” said the monk,
“a bed common to man; there, sire,
we shall all rest in our last long sleep.”

The emperor gazed upon the coffin,
and the monk gave him an exhortation
on the crimes of the people,
which, he said, had been restrained
by the pestilence, and the war of
1812, but when those two plagues
had passed by, had grown worse than
ever.

But we must abridge this pious
pantomime, which seems evidently
to have been <i>got up</i> for the occasion,
and which would have been enough
to dispirit any one who had left his
bed at four in the morning in the
chill of a Russian September.

The emperor at length left the
convent, evidently dejected and depressed
by this sort of theatrical
anticipation of death and burial, and
drove off with his eyes filled with
tears.

On his journey he was unattended.
He took with him but two aides-de-camp,
and his physician, Sir James
Wylie, a clever Scotsman, who had
been thirty years in the imperial
service. The journey was rapid,
and without accident, but his mind
was still full of omens. A comet had
appeared. “It presages misfortune,”
said the emperor; “but the will of
Heaven be done.”

The change of air was beneficial to
the empress, who reached Taganrog
after a journey of three weeks; and
the emperor remained with her, paying
her great attention, and constantly
accompanying her in her rides
and drives. The season happened to
be mild, and Alexander proposed to
visit the Crimea, at the suggestion of
Count Woronzoff, governor of the
province. This excursion, with all
its agreeabilities, was evidently a
trying one to a frame already shaken,
and a mind harassed by its own feelings.
He rode a considerable part of
the journey, visited Sebastopol, inspected
fortifications in all quarters,
received officers, dined with governors,
visited places where endemics made
.pn +1
their haunt; ate the delicious, but
dangerous fruits of the country, received
Muftis and Tartar princes; in
short did every thing that he ought
not to have done, and finally found
himself ill.

He remarked to Sir James Wylie,
that his stomach was disordered, and
that he had had but little sleep for
several nights. The physician recommended
immediate medicine, but Alexander
was obstinate. “I have no
confidence,” said he, “in potions;
my life is in the hands of Heaven;
nothing can stand against its will.”
But the illness continued, and the
emperor began to grow lethargic, and
slept much in his carriage. With a
rashness which seems to be the prevalent
misfortune of sovereigns, he
still persisted in defying disease, and
suffered himself to be driven every
where, visiting all the remarkable
points of the Crimea, yet growing
day by day more incapable of feeling
an interest in any thing. He was at
length shivering under intermittent
fever, and he hurried back to the empress.
On being asked by Prince
Volkonski, whom he had left as the
manager of his household, what was
the state of his health,—“Well
enough,” was the answer, “except
that I have got a touch of the fever
of the Crimea.” The prince entreated
him to take care of his health,
and not to treat it as he “would
have done when he was twenty years
old.” On the next day his illness
had assumed a determined character,
and was declared to be dangerous,
and a typhus.

Unfortunately, at this period, an
officer of rank arrived with details of
one of those conspiracies which had
been notoriously on foot for some
time. His tidings ought to have
been concealed: but sovereigns must
hear every thing, and the tidings
were communicated to the emperor.
He was indignant and agitated. The
empress exhibited the most unwearied
kindness; but all efforts were now
hopeless. On the 1st of December
he sank and died.

The blow was felt by the whole
empire; during the long journey of
four months, from Taganrog to St
Petersburg, where the body was interred
in the church of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Peter and
<abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Paul, the people crowded from
every part of the adjoining country to
follow the funeral; and troops, chiefs,
nobles, and the multitude, gave this
melancholy ceremonial all the usual
pomp of imperial funeral rites, and more
than the usual sincerity of national
sorrow.

Europe had been so often startled
by the assassination of Russian sovereigns,
that the death of Alexander
was attributed to conspiracy. Ivan,
Peter <abbr='the third'>III</abbr>., and Paul <abbr='the first'>I</abbr>., had notoriously
died by violence. It is perfectly
true, that the life of Alexander was
threatened, and that his death by the
typhus alone saved him from at least
attempted assassination. It was subsequently
ascertained that his murder
had been resolved on; and one of the
conspirators, a furious and savage man,
rushed into their meeting, exclaiming
at the delay which had suffered Alexander
to die a natural death, and thus
deprived him of the <i>enjoyment</i> of shedding
the imperial blood.

The origin of those conspiracies is
still among the problems of history.
Nothing could be less obnoxious than
the personal conduct and character of
Alexander. His reign exhibited none
of the banishments or the bloodshed
of former reigns. He was of a gentle
disposition; his habits were manly;
and he had shared the glory of the
Russian victories. The assassinations
of the former sovereigns had
assignable motives, though the act
must be always incapable of justification.
They had perished by intrigues
of the palace; but the death of Alexander
was the object of a crowd of
conspirators widely scattered, scarcely
communicating with each other, and
united only by the frenzy of revolution.

In the imperfection of the documents
hitherto published, we should
be strongly inclined to refer the principle
of this revolutionary movement
to Poland. That unhappy country
had been the national sin of Russia;
and though Moscow had already paid
a severe price for its atonement, from
Poland came that restless revenge,
which seemed resolved, if it could not
shake Russia, at least to imbitter the
Russian supremacy.

The death of Alexander had disappointed
the chief conspirators. But
.pn +1
the conspiracy continued, and the
choice of his successor revived all its
determination.

The house of Romanoff had received
the diadem by a species of
election. Michael Romanoff, a descendant
of the house of Ruric only
by the female line, had been chosen by
all the heads of the nation. The law
of primogeniture was declared. But
Peter the Great, disgusted by the
vices or the imbecility of his son
Alexis, had changed the law of succession,
and enacted, that the sovereign
should have the choice of his
successor, not even limiting that choice
to the royal line. Nothing is so fatal
to the peace of a country as an unsettled
succession; and this rash and
prejudiced change produced all the
confusions of Russian history from
1722 to 1797, when the Emperor
Paul restored the right of primogeniture
in the male line, in failure of
which alone was the crown to devolve
on the female line. In which case,
the throne was to devolve on the
princess next in relation to the deceased
emperor; and, in case of her
dying childless, the other princesses
were to follow in the order of relationship.
Alexander, in 1807, confirmed
the act of Paul, and strengthened it
by an additional act in 1820; stating,
that the issue of marriages, authorised
by the reigning emperor, and
those who should themselves contract
marriages, authorised by the reigning
emperor, should alone possess the
right of succession.

Alexander had left three brothers—the
Grand-duke Constantine, born
in 1779; the Grand-duke Nicholas,
born in 1796; and the Grand-duke
Michael, born in 1798: two of his
surviving sisters had been married,
one to the Grand-duke of Saxe
Weimar, and the other to the King
of Holland. Thus, according to the
law of Russia, Constantine was the
next heir to the throne.

The singular commotion which gave
so melancholy a prestige of the reign
of Nicholas, receives a very full explanation
from this author. The
Grand-duke Constantine had the
countenance of a <lang=ru>Calmuck</lang> and the
manners of a <lang=ru>Calmuck</lang>. But those
were the countenance and manners of
his father Paul. The other sons resembled
their mother, the Princess of
Wirtemberg, a woman of striking
appearance and of commanding mind.
Constantine was violent, passionate,
and insulting; and in his viceroyalty
of Poland rendered himself unpopular
in the extreme. The result was,
that Alexander dreaded to leave him
as successor to the throne. Constantine,
when scarcely beyond boyhood,
had been married to one of the princesses
of Saxe Cobourg, not yet fifteen.
They soon quarrelled, and at
the end of four years finally separated.
In two years after, proposals were
made to her to return. But she
recollected too deeply the vexations
of the past, and refused to leave
Germany. Constantine now became
enamoured of the daughter of a Polish
count, and proposed to marry her.
The Greek Church is stern on the
subject of divorce, but its sternness
can give way on due occasion. The
consent of the emperor extinguished
all its scruples, and Constantine divorced
his princess, and married the
Polish girl; yet, by that left-handed
marriage, which precludes her from inheriting
titles or estates. But the
emperor shortly after conferred on
her the title of Princess of Lowictz,
from an estate which he gave her, and
both which were capable of descending
to her family.

It was subsequently ascertained
that, at this period, Alexander had
proposed to Constantine the resignation
of his right to the throne;
either as the price of his consent
to the divorce, or from the common
conviction of both, that the succession
would only bring evil on Constantine
and the empire. That Alexander
was perfectly disinterested, is only
consonant to his manly nature, and
that Constantine had come to a wise
decision, is equally probable. He
knew his own failings, the haste of
his temper, his unpopularity, and the
offence which he was in the habit of
giving to all classes. He probably, also,
had a sufficient dread of the fate of his
father, whom, as he resembled in every
thing else, he might also resemble in
his death. His present position fulfilled
all the wishes of a man who
loved power without responsibility,
and enjoyed occupation without relinquishing
his ease. The transaction
.pn +1
was complete, and Alexander was
tranquillised for the fate of Russia.

When the intelligence of the emperor’s
death reached <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg,
Nicholas attended the meeting of the
Senate, to take the oath of allegiance
to Constantine. But they determined
that their first act should be the reading
of a packet, which had been placed
in their hands by Alexander, with
orders to be opened immediately on
his decease. The president broke
the seal, and found documents
dated in 1822 and 1823, from Constantine,
resigning the right of succession,
and from Alexander accepting
the resignation. Constantine’s letter
stated thus: “Conscious that I do
not possess the genius, the talents,
or the strength, necessary to fit me
for the dignity of sovereign, to which
my birth would give me a right, I
entreat your imperial majesty to
transfer that right to him to whom it
belongs, after me; and thus assure for
ever the stability of the empire.

“As to myself, I shall add, by this
renunciation, a new guarantee and a
new force to the engagement which
I spontaneously and solemnly contracted
on the occasion of my divorce
from my first wife. All the circumstances
in which I find myself
strengthen my determination to adhere
to this resolution, which will
prove to the empire and to the whole
world the sincerity of my sentiments.”

Another of those documents appointed
Nicholas as the heir to the
throne. The Senate now declared
that Nicholas was emperor. But he
refused the title, until he had the
acknowledgment from Constantine
himself, that he had resigned. The
suspense continued three weeks. At
length the formal renunciation of
Constantine was received, Nicholas
was emperor, and the day was appointed
to receive the oath of allegiance
of the great functionaries of the
army and of the people. The emperor
dated his accession from the
day of the death of Alexander, December
the 1st, 1825.

The interregnum was honourable to
both the brothers; but it had nearly
proved fatal to Russia: it unsettled
the national feelings, it perplexed the
army, and it gave sudden hopes to
the conspirators against the throne.

The heads of the conspiracy in <abbr=Saint>St</abbr>
Petersburg were, Sergius, Prince Troubetskoi;
Eugene, Prince Obalenskoi,
and Conrad Ryleieff. The first was
highly connected and highly employed,
colonel of the Etat Major, and military
governor of Kief. The second
was a lieutenant in the imperial
guard, poor, but a man of talent and
ambition. In Russia all the sons of
a prince are princes, which often
leaves their rental bare. The third
was simply a noble, educated in the
corps of cadets, but who had left the
army, and had taken the secretaryship
of the American company. He
was a man of letters, had written
some popular poems, and was an
enthusiastic republican. Connected
with those were some general officers
and colonels, whose revolutionary
spirit might chiefly be traced to their
expulsion from employment, military
disgrace, or disappointed ambition.
The Russian campaigns in France,
and the residence of the army of occupation,
under the command of the
great English general, had naturally
given the Russian troops an insight
into principles of national government,
which they could not have acquired
within the Russian frontier.
The pretext of the conspirators was a
constitutional government, which the
talkers of St Petersburg seemed to
regard as the inevitable pouring of
sudden prosperity of all kinds into
the empire. The old illusion of all
the advocates of change is, that every
thing depends on government, and
that government can do every thing.
There cannot be a greater folly, or a
more glaring fiction. Government
can do nothing more than prevent
the existence of obstacles to public
wealth. It cannot give wealth, it
cannot create commerce, it cannot
fertilise the soil, it cannot put in
action any of those great instruments
by which a nation rises superior to
its contemporaries. Those means
must be in the people themselves,
they cannot be the work of cabinets;
governments can do no more than
give them their free course, protect
them from false legislation, and leave
the rest to Providence.

The Russian conspirators called
themselves patriots, and professed to
desire a bloodless revolution. But to
.pn +1
overthrow a government at the head
of five hundred thousand men, must
be a sanguinary effort; and there
could be no doubt that the establishment
of a revolutionary government
in Russia would have been the signal
for a universal war.

On the 24th and 25th of December,
the conspirators met in <abbr=Saint>St</abbr>
Petersburg, and as Nicholas was to
be proclaimed on the next day, they
determined to lead the battalions to
which they respectively belonged, into
the great square, seize on the emperor,
and establish a provisional government.
They were then to raise
a national guard, establish two legislative
chambers, and proclaim liberty
to Russia. The question next arose,
what was to be done with the members
of the imperial family after victory.
It was answered significantly,
that “circumstances must decide.” At
this anxious moment one of the members
told them that information had
been given to the emperor. “Comrades,”
said he, “you will find that
we are betrayed, the court are in possession
of much information; but
they do not know our entire plans,
and our strength is quite sufficient.”
A voice exclaimed, “the scabbards
are broken, we can no longer hide
our sabres.”

Reports of various kinds now came
crowding on them. An officer
arrived to say that, in one of the
armies, one hundred thousand men
were ready to join them. A member
of the Senate came to tell them that
the council of the empire was to meet
at seven o’clock the next morning, to
take the oath to the emperor. The
time for action was now fixed. The
officers of the guard were directed to
join their regiments, and persuade
them to refuse the oath. Then all
kinds of desperate measures were
proposed. It was suggested that
they should force open the spirit shops
and taverns, in order to make the
soldiery and populace drunk, then
begin a general pillage, carry off banners
from the churches, and rush upon
the winter palace. This, the most
mischievous of all the measures, was
also the most feasible, for the number
of unemployed peasants and idlers
of all kinds was computed at seventy
thousand and upwards, and from their
poverty and profligacy together, there
could be little doubt that, between
drunkenness and the prospect of pillage,
they would be ready for any
atrocity. “When the Russians break
their chains,” says Schiller, “it will
not be before the freeman, but before
the slave, that the community must
tremble.”

It must be acknowledged that some
were not equally ferocious. But
when a military revolt has once begun,
who shall limit it to works of wisdom,
moderation, or security? If the revolt
had succeeded, <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg must
have been a scene of massacre.

We shrink from all details on this
painful subject. The conspirators
remained in deliberation all night.
As the morning dawned, they went to
the barracks of their regiments, and
told the soldiers that Constantine was
really their emperor, that he was
marching to the capital at the head of
the army from Poland, and that to take
the oath to Nicholas would consequently
be treason. In several instances
they succeeded, and collected
a considerable body of troops in the
Great Izaak Square. But there they
seem to have lost their senses. An
insurrection which stands still, is an
insurrection ruined. They were rapidly
surrounded by the garrison.
Terms were offered, which they neither
accepted nor refused. The gallant
Milarodowitch, the hero of the Russian
pursuit of the French, advancing to
parley with them, was brutally shot.
When all hope of submission was at
an end, when the day was declining,
and alarm was excited for the condition
of the capital during the night,
artillery was brought to bear upon
them; and, after some firing on both
sides, the mutineers dispersed. The
police were then let loose, and numerous
arrests were made.

In five months after, a high court
was constituted for the trial of the
leaders. A hundred and twenty-one
were named in the act of accusation,
many of them belonging to the first
families, and in the highest ranks
of civil and military employment.
But the sentence was the reverse of
sanguinary. Only five were put to
death in <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg, the remainder
were chiefly sent to Siberia.
But Siberia is now by no means
.pn +1
the place of horrors which it once
was. It is now tolerably peopled,
it has been partially civilised; the
soil is fertile; towns have sprung
up; and, though the winter is severe,
the climate is healthy. Many of the
families of the exiles were suffered to
accompany them; and probably, on
the whole, the exchange was not a
calamitous one, from the anxieties
of Russian life, the pressure of narrow
circumstances in Europe, and the
common disappointments to which all
competitors for distinction, or even for
a livelihood, are exposed in the crowded
and struggling population of the west,
to the undisturbed existence and sufficient
provision, which were to be found
in the east of this almost boundless
empire.

Among the anecdotical parts of
these volumes, is a slight account of
the appearance of the Duke of Wellington
as ambassador to Russia, in
the beginning of the new reign.
Count Nesselrode, on the accession of
the Czar, had sent a circular to the
European courts, stating his wishes
for amicable relations with them all.
But England dreaded to see a collision
with Turkey, and Canning selected
the Duke as the most important
authority on the part of England.
The Duke took with him Lord Fitzroy
Somerset as his secretary. On his
arrival at Berlin, he was treated with
great distinction by Frederic William.
Gneisenau, at the head of the Prussian
general officers, paid him a visit in his
hotel; and he was fêted in all directions.
General officers were sent from
<abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Petersburg to meet him on the
Russian frontier. The emperor appointed
a mansion for him, beside the
palace of the Hermitage, paid him all
the honours of a Russian field-marshal,
(he was then the <i>only</i> one in the
service,) placed him on a footing with
the princes of the imperial family, and
was frequently in his society. The
people were boundless in their marks
of respect.

But the Duke is evidently not a
favourite with the Frenchman—and
we do not much wonder at this feeling
in a Frenchman, poor as it is. Without
giving any opinion of his own, he
inserts a little sneer from the work of
Lacretelle on the “Consulate and the
Empire.” On this authority, Wellington
is “a general of excellent
understanding, <i>phlegmatic</i> and <i>tenacious</i>,
proceeding not by <i>enthusiasm</i>,
but by <i>order</i>, <i>discipline</i>, and <i>slow</i> combinations,
trusting but little <i>to chance</i>,
and employing about him all the
popular and vindictive passions, from
which he himself is <i>exempt</i>.” By all
which, M. Lacretelle means, that the
Duke is a dull dog, without a particle
of genius; simply a plodding, positive
man, who, by mere toil and time,
gained his objects, which any Dutchman
could have gained as well, and
which any Frenchman would have
scorned to gain. With this French
folly we have not sufficient time, nor
have we sufficient respect for the
national <i>failing</i>, to argue.

But the true view of Wellington’s
character as a soldier would be, <i>brilliancy</i>
of conception. What more brilliant
conception than his first great
battle, Assaye, which finished the Indian
war? What more brilliant conception
than his capture of Badajoz and
Ciudad in the face of the two armies of
Masséna and Soult advancing on him
from the south and north, and each
equal to his own force; while he thus
snatched away the prize in the actual
presence of each, and left the two
French generals the mortification of
having marched three hundred miles
a-piece, only to be lookers-on? What
more brilliant conception than his
march of four hundred miles, without
a stop, from Portugal to Vittoria;
where he crushed the French army,
captured one hundred and fifty pieces
of cannon, and sent the French king
and all his courtiers flying over the
Pyrenees? What, again, more brilliant
conception, than his storming
the Pyrenees, and being the first
of the European generals to enter
France? and, finally, his massacre of
the French army, with Soult, Ney,
and Napoleon at their head, on the
crowning day of Waterloo?

But all this was mere “pugnacity
and <i>tenacity</i>,” and sulkiness and stupidity,
because it was not done with
a theatrical programme, and with the
air of an opera-dancer. Yet M.
Lacretelle’s sketch, invidious as he
intends it to be, gives, involuntarily,
the very highest rank of generalship
to its object. For, what higher
qualities can a general have, than
.pn +1
trusting nothing to chance, being
superior to enthusiasm—which, in the
French vocabulary, means extravagance
and giddiness—and acting by
deep and effective combinations,
which, as every man knows, are the
most profound problems and the most
brilliant triumphs of military genius?
Let it be remembered, too, that in the
seven years’ war of the Peninsula,
Wellington never had twenty-five
thousand English bayonets in the field;
that the Spanish armies were almost
wholly disorganised, and that the
Portuguese were raw troops; while
the French had nearly two hundred
thousand men constantly recruited
and supplied from France:—Yet, that
Wellington never was beaten, that he
met either six or seven of the French
field-marshals and beat them all; and
that at Waterloo, with a motley army
of recruits, of whom but thirty thousand
were English—and those new
troops—and ten thousand German,
he beat Napoleon at the head of
seventy-two thousand Frenchmen,
all veterans; trampled his army in
the field, hunted him to Paris, took
every fortress on the road, captured
Paris, destroyed his dynasty, dissolved
the remnants of the French
army on the Loire; and sent Napoleon
himself to expiate his guilt and
finish his career, under an English
guard, in St Helena.

We need not envy the Frenchman
his taste for “enthusiasm,” his scorn
of “science,” his disdain of “profound
combinations,” and his passion
for winning battles by the magic of
a village conjuror.

M. Schnitzler disapproves even of
the physiognomy of the Duke. “His
nose was too aquiline, and stood out
too prominently on his sunburnt countenance,
and his features, all strongly
marked, were not devoid of an air of
pretension.” He objects to his appearing
“without a splendid military
costume, to <i>improve his appearance</i>!”
And yet, all this foolery is the wisdom
of foreigners. No man, however renowned,
must forget “the <i>imposing</i>.”
Hannibal, or Alexander the Great,
would have been nothing in their
eyes, except in the uniform of the
“Legion of Honour.” His walking,
and walking without attendants,
through the streets, was a horror,
rendered worse and worse by his
“wearing a black frock-coat and
round hat.” Even when he appeared
in uniform on state occasions, “he
was equally luckless;” for the <i>costume</i>
of a Russian field-marshal, which
had been given to him by Alexander,
did not fit him, and was too large for
his thinness. On the whole, the
Duke <i>failed</i>, as we are told, to “gain
any remarkable success in the Russian
salons.” The countesses could make
nothing of him; the princesses smiled
on without his returning the smile;
the courtiers told him <lang=fr><i>bons mots</i></lang> without
much effect; and the politicians
were of opinion that a Duke so taciturn
had no tongue.

Still the emperor’s attentions to
him continued; and, on the day of
distributing medals to the army, he
gave Wellington the regiment of Smolensk,
formed by Peter the Great, and
of high reputation in the service.

But he succeeded in his chief object,
which referred to Greece; and
which ultimately, in giving independence
to a nation, the classic honours
of whose forefathers covered the shame
of their descendants,—and by a succession
of diplomatic blunders, has turned
a Turkish province into a European
pensioner, enfeebling Turkey without
benefiting Europe, and merely making
a new source of contention between
France, Russia, and England.

The career of Nicholas has been
peaceable; and the empire has been
undisturbed but by the guilty Circassian
war, which yet seems to be carried
on rather as a field of exercise
for the Russian armies, than for purposes
of conquest.

But all nations now require something
to occupy the public mind; and
an impression appears to be rising in
Russia, that the residence of the sovereign
should be transferred to Moscow.
Nothing could be more likely
to produce a national convulsion, and
operate a total change on the European
policy of Russia, and the relations
of the northern courts. Yet
it is by no means improbable, that the
singular avidity of the Russian court
to make Poland not merely a dependency,
but an integral part of the
empire, by the suppression of its very
name, the change of its language, and
the transfer of large portions of its
.pn +1
people to other lands, may have for
its especial purpose the greater security
of Russia on the West, while she
fixes her whole interest on a vigorous
progress in the South.

There are some problems which still
perplex historians, and will probably
perplex them for many an age; and
among those are, the good or evil predominant
in the Crusades, the use of
a Pope in Italy, (where he obviously
offers, and must <i>always</i> offer, the
strongest obstacle to the <i>union</i> of the
Italian States into a national government,)
the true character of Peter the
Great, and the true policy of placing
the capital of Russia in the northern
extremity of the empire.

It appears to be now at least approaching
to a public question,—Whether
Peter showed more of good sense,
or of savage determination, in building
a magnificent city in a swamp,
where man had never before built
any thing but a fisherman’s hut; and
in condemning his posterity for ever to
live in the most repulsive climate of
Europe? Some pages in these volumes
are given to the inquiry into the wisdom
of deserting an ancient, natural,
and superb seat of empire in the
South, for a new, unnatural, and
decaying seat of sovereignty in the
vicinage of the Arctic circle; of retarding
the progress of civilisation by
the insuperable difficulties of a climate,
where the sea is frozen up for six
months in the year, and the rivers
and land are frozen up for nine! The
question now is, Whether Peter had
not equally frozen up the Russian
energies, impeded the natural prosperity
of the empire, and flung the
people back into the age of Ivan <abbr='the first'>I</abbr>.?

Of course, no one doubts that the
Russian empire is of vast extent and
substantial power; but its chief power
is in its central provinces, and in its
faculty of expansion into the south.
Its northern provinces defy improvement,
and can be sustained only by
the toil of government.

The probable view of the case is,
that Peter was deluded by his passion
for naval supremacy. He had seen
the fleets of Western Europe trained
in their boisterous but ever-open seas;
and he determined to have a fleet in
a sea which, throughout the winter, is
a sheet of ice, and where the ships
are imbedded as if they were on dry
ground. He had then no Black Sea
for his field of exercise, and no Sebastopol
for his dockyard. He touched
upon no sea but the Baltic; and, under
the infatuation of being a naval power,
he threw the Russian government
as far as he could towards the North
Pole.

Moscow should have remained the
Russian capital. With an admirable
climate, at once keen enough to keep the
human frame in its vigour, and with
the warm summer of the south, to
supply all the vegetable products of
Europe; its position commanding the
finest provinces of Western Asia,
Russia would have been mistress of
the Black Sea a century earlier, had
probably been in possession of Asia
Minor, and have fixed a Viceroy in
the city of the Sultans.

The policy of Catherine <abbr='the second'>II</abbr>., evidently
took this direction; she made
no <i>northern</i> conquests; she withdrew
her armies on the first opportunity
from the Prussian war, in which
Russia had been involved by the
blunders of her foolish husband; and
though she engaged in that desperate
act by which Poland was partitioned—an
act which, though perfidious, was
originally pacific—the whole force of
her empire was thrown into southern
war.

This policy is still partially maintained.
The war of the Caucasus,
an unfortunate and unjustifiable war,
now exhibits the only hostilities on
which Russia expends any portion of
her power. The success of that war
would evidently put the eastern, as well
as the northern shore of the Black Sea,
in her possession. The southern shore
could then make no resistance, if it
were the will of Russia to cast an eye
of ambition on the land of the Turk.
We by no means infer that such <i>is</i> her
will; we hope that higher motives,
and a sense of national justice, will
rescue her reputation from an act of
such atrocity. But Asia Minor, on
the first crash of war, would be open
to the squadrons of the Scythian.
This policy was interrupted in the
reign of Alexander only by the French
war. When the providential time
was come for the destruction of Napoleon,
his rage of conquest acted the
part for him which the false prophets
.pn +1
were accustomed to act for the kings
of Judah and Israel. It urged him
headlong to his ruin, and all his distinguishing
qualities were turned to his
overthrow. His ardour in the field
became precipitancy; his sagacity
became a fierce self-dependence; the
old tactic which had led him to strike
the first blow at the capitals of
Europe, urged him into the heart of
the wilderness; his diplomatic confidence
there exposed him to be baffled
by the plain sense of Russia, and his
daring reliance on his fortune stripped
him of an army and a throne.

But, when Russia had recovered
from this invasion, her first efforts
were pointed in the old direction. She
recommenced the Turkish war,
seized Moldavia and Wallachia,
crossed the Balkan, threatened Constantinople,
and, with the city of Constantine
in her grasp, retired only on
the remonstrances of the European
powers.

M. Schnitzler imagines that the
direction of Russian conquest will be
towards Germany, and contemplates
the all-swallowing gluttony which is
to absorb all the states from the
Vistula to the Rhine. We wholly
differ from those views. The condition
of Europe must be totally changed
before the policy of Russia will attempt
to make vassals of these iron tribes. It
would have too many battles to fight,
and too little to gain by them. To
attempt the absorption of any one leading
German power would produce
a universal war. Poland is still a
thorn in its side; and it would take a
century to convert its intense hostility
into cordial obedience. Prussia and
Austria are the political “Pillars of
Hercules” which no invader <i>can</i> pass;
and if Germany can but secure herself
from the restless and insatiable
ambition of France, she need never
shrink from the terrors of a Tartar
war.

If war should inflame the Continent
again, the Russian trumpets will be
heard, <i>not</i> on the Elbe, but on the
shores of the Propontis. Asia Minor
and Syria will be a lovelier and a
more lucrative prey; while probably
Egypt will be the prize which will draw
to the waters of the Mediterranean,
the maritime force of the world.

On the whole, the volumes of this
Franco-German are intelligent, and
may be studied with advantage by all
who desire to comprehend the actual
condition of an empire, which extends
from the Baltic to the Sea of Kamtschatka,
which contains seven millions
of square miles, nearly sixty millions
of souls, is capable of containing ten
times the number, and which is evidently
intended to exercise a most
important influence on the globe.
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=headsman title="Autobiography of a German Headsman"
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GERMAN HEADSMAN.
.sp 2
(<i>Das Grosse Malefizbuch.</i> <sc>Herausgegeben von Wilhelm v. Chezy.</sc> Landshut:
1847.)
.sp 2
The peculiar and powerful interest
attaching to narratives of remarkable
crimes, and of their judicial investigation,
is abundantly evidenced by the
avidity with which that class of literature
is invariably pounced upon by
the public. Independently of the
romance incidental to the subject, of
the doubts and intricacies and conflicting
circumstances of extraordinary
criminal trials, well calculated to
captivate the imagination of the vulgar,
and rivet attention on their recital,—such
cases possess a psychological
interest, making itself felt by the
least intelligent of readers, appealing
with almost equal force to the scantily
educated and to the scholar, to
inexperienced youth and thoughtful
age. By the former, it is true, the
exact process by which such narratives
lay hold upon the feelings and
imagination, may not be easily detected,
but the charm, if unseen, is
not the less potent. The great success
and enduring reputation of books of
this kind, are the best proof of their
strong and universal fascination.
Whilst the legal works of <sc>Gayot de
Pitaval</sc> are long since shelved and
forgotten, the title of his <i>Causes
Célébres</i>[#] continues as familiar to our
ear as those of the most notable
literary productions of our own century;
the book itself—of frequent
reference, and found in every library
of importance—has obtained the
honours of repeated translation, and
of reproduction in numerous forms.
Those twenty volumes, it might be
thought, were an ample supply of this
species of reading, sufficient to stock
the world and blunt the public appetite
for such records. But the varieties
of the subject are inexhaustible, as
much so as the infinite shades and
capricious directions of human passions,
the unceasing diversity and perverse
ingenuity of human crime. And
Richer’s continuation of what Pitaval
began, found as eager readers as its
compiler could reasonably desire. In
later times, two Germans, Messrs
Hitzig and Häring, have edited with
considerable success a work of a
similar nature.[#] Others doubtless
will appear. There can be no lack of
materials. Each successive half-century
yields matter for a new and
lengthy series. Meanwhile, and although
civilisation, impotent wholly
to check crime, is also unable to strip
its annals of novelty and pungency,
the remarkable criminal records of
ruder ages are frequently recurred to
and reproduced, as wilder and more
romantic in their nature than those
of a recent day. Alexander Dumas
has collected from various quarters a
voluminous work of this nature; and,
although its greater portion was already
a thrice-told tale, the book is
one of the most popular of his multifarious
productions. Feuerbach the
celebrated jurist, the impartial narrator
and critic of the extraordinary
history of Caspar Hauser, the indefatigable
labourer in the arid vineyard
of the law, whose lightest literary
pastime would to most men have been
toil,[#] deemed it not unworthy his
learned pen to collate and comment
two volumes of trials,[#]—volumes familiarised
to the English reader by a
recent translation. His well-stored
mind and skilful handling imparted
new depth and value to the subject,
and doubtless the book would not so
long have awaited a transfer into our
language, but for the warlike circumstances
and interrupted Continental
communication of the period at which
its first edition appeared. The interest
of such narratives is no way
.pn +1
diminished from their scene being in
a foreign land; indeed, it is most engrossing
when exotic, since the illustrations
of the peculiar laws and
characteristics of other nations is then
superadded to that of the eccentricities
of crime. And, perhaps, the most
fertile field at the disposal of the
curious in such matters, is afforded by
that wide country, claiming to include
in its bond of brotherhood every land
wherein the German tongue resounds.
The variety of the laws by which the
kingdoms and provinces of Germany
have at different times been governed,
tends greatly to diversify its criminal
calendar. And, doubtless, in many
old libraries, private and public, in
the dusty and rarely-opened book-cases
of provincial barons and <i>Freiherrn</i>,
on the shelves of museums, and
in municipal collections (scarce less
neglected and unread) of ancient
books and manuscripts, much curious
reading of this description, well worthy
of publicity, lies buried and forgotten.

.fn #
<i>Causes Célébres et Intéressantes</i>, by <sc>François Gayot de Pitaval</sc>. Paris: 1734.
.fn-

.fn #
<i>Neuer Pitaval.</i> Leipzig: 1842-6.
.fn-

.fn #
He beguiled his leisure by a metrical translation of, and commentary on, the
Indian poem, <i>Gita Gowinda</i>.
.fn-

.fn #
<i>Merkwürdige Criminalrechtsfälle.</i> <sc>Erfurt</sc>, 1808-11. A third edition appeared
in 1839, under the title of <i>Merkwürdige Verbrechen</i>.
.fn-

It is from a literary lumber-room
of this kind, we suspect, that Mr
Chézy has extracted the contents
of the three curious volumes now
before us, containing, as their old
French name implies, details of
crimes and malefactors. “What we,”
he tells us in his preface, “are wont
to call criminal archives, were in many
places styled by our forefathers ‘Malefice-books,’
records kept partly by
the public executioner, who, in his
capacity of torturer, had frequent occasion
to share in criminal investigations.”
From this passage, and from
the expression <lang=de><i>herausgegeben</i></lang> (edited)
in the title-page, we understand that
the “<lang=de><i>Grosse Malefizbuch</i></lang>” is not to
be viewed as an original composition,
which the word <lang=de><i>verfasser</i></lang>, (author)
employed in the preface, might have
led us to believe. This makes a certain
difference in the critical view to
be taken of the book. Were it a mere
fiction, intended as an imitation of the
probable style of the headsman, inditing,
chiefly as matter of duty, but
yet not without a certain rude feeling
and interest in the task, the crimes and
circumstances his sanguinary profession
brought under his notice, we
should admit some skill in the tone
adopted. But, as an editor, Mr Chézy
has performed his part in a lazy and
slovenly fashion. He appears to
have contented himself with merely
modernising the orthography, and
(slightly) the language. With excellent
stuff to work upon, he had it in
his power to make a very complete
and remarkable book: he has been
contented to put forward a meagre and
deficient one. We would not have had
him greatly alter the text. Here and
there a little curtailment might have
been advantageously practised, or a
paragraph judiciously interpolated.
But the volumes should have been
richly garnished with notes and commentaries,
instead of being wholly
without them. From the first page to
the last not a line appears—at the end
of each volume we vainly seek an
appendix—explanatory of the singular
usages so frequently referred to;
referred to usually in as cursory and
off-hand a way as if they were
matters of present custom, to which
all men were still habituated, and
concerning which none needed enlightenment.
Mr Chézy seems conscious
of his fault, for he tells us, in a half
apologetic tone, to bear in mind that
he is a poet, and not a scholar. No
great depth of scholarship was essential
for what we would have had him do.
A very moderate amount of study and
patience would have put him in possession
of the necessary information.
Its want is wofully felt as we wander
through his bald pages, at whose foot
not the smallest fragment of a note
attracts the reader’s eye, and removes
the tantalised feeling with which he
encounters distant and unexplained
allusions, and is compelled to guess
their purport. “This work,” says
Mr Chézy, “intended to represent
men and circumstances as they once
may have been, is not confined within
the limits of the documental authority.
The Malefizbuch may be styled a
poetical Pitaval.” In view of this professed
design of poetising his materials,
and of conveying, through a romantic
medium, information concerning
old times and obsolete customs, we
can but repeat that the author’s performance
has fallen short of his project.
But the subject was too good to
be wholly spoiled, even by the clumsiest
treatment, with which, however,
it would hardly be fair to charge Mr
Chézy, whose faults are rather of
.pn +1
omission than commission. And the
anathemas we are tempted, in our
progress through his pages, to invoke
upon his head, are frequently checked
by the occurrence of interesting passages
and striking incidents.

The three volumes of the Malefizbuch
are various in the form and nature
of their contents, although all
bear reference to the same subject,
and illustrate, in different points of
view, the criminal laws and customs of
a rude, cruel, and superstitious period.
Besides the absence of notes, the
author is guilty of the common German
carelessness about dates and
places, and is often very vague in his
indication of both. This is especially
the case with his first volume, which
many readers will consider the best,
by reason of a certain melancholy interest
running through it. We are
appealed to for our sympathy with
the misfortunes of an executioner’s
son, who, after absenting himself from
his country, and obtaining an education
superior to his station, is compelled
to accept the loathsome inheritance
of his father, and wield axe
and work rack in obedience to the
law’s stern dictates. This volume
(each volume has a special title, independently
of the general one) is called
“Ten Narratives from Master Hammerling’s
Life and Memoirs.” They
are chapters rather than detached
narratives, for a connecting thread
runs through them, and they in fact
form a complete history of the childhood
and youth of <i>Meister Hämmerling</i>,
the German Jack Ketch. The name
of the latter personage upon an English
title-page, would be suggestive of
little beyond the drop at Newgate,
and penny tracts sold at street corners.
But none who have any acquaintance
with the German headsman
of the middle ages, will be so
unjust as to class him with the vulgar
and prosaic official who executes in
England the last sentence of the law.
Formerly, by the laws of the empire,
the <lang=de><sc>SCHARFRICHTER</sc></lang> was held <lang=de><i>ehrbar</i></lang>
or of honourable repute. The broad
bright sword was the only instrument
of death he condescended to touch,
and consequently his dealings were
with men of gentle blood, for whom
decapitation was especially reserved.
Infamous chastisements were inflicted
by the dishonouring hands of the
<lang=de><i>Henker</i></lang> or common hangman, who
was considered <lang=de><i>anrüchig</i></lang> or infamous.
Gradually, the two offices were blended
in one, the headsman’s privileges
were abridged or became totally obsolete;
and the grim romance attaching
to the stern saturnine man who, on
days of notable executions, appeared
on the scaffold in bright scarlet mantle,
and peaked hat with sable feather,
and with one flashing sweep of his
terrible blade severed heads from
shoulders of well-born criminals, was
dissipated and forgotten. Still, on
the crowded and diversified canvass of
the middle ages, the strange figure
stands prominently forth, recalling, by
its associations, many a dark deed
and wild legend. But the change is
great since then. “The executioner
now-a-days,” says Mr Chézy, “is a
citizen like any body else, an elector
and eligible; if he possess enough
property, he may be sent as deputy
to the second Chamber, and perhaps
give his vote against capital punishment.
The headsman of former
centuries has faded into a tradition;
and a poet may therefore be allowed
to sketch his portrait once more, perhaps
for the last time, in all its different
aspects and mysterious horrors.”
And without further prelude, we are
introduced to the last minister of the
law, a meek and melancholy man,
who remembers, one still Sabbath
morning, that it is his bounden duty
to keep up the record in the Malefizbuch,
begun by his great-grandfather,
the first of his race who could write.
Whilst pondering over this necessity,
he incidentally recapitulates some of
his privileges and advantages; how
he is of as good descent after his kind
as the best nobleman in the holy
Roman empire, tracing back his genealogy
to the days of Henry the First
of Germany, surnamed the Fowler,
who nominated his ancestor to the
office of executioner, since when the
family has held house and ground,
goods and profits, in fief of the crown.
And how he is no way subject
to the authorities of the land,
further than that he is bound to serve
them with sword, axe, wheel and
cord, with ladder, screws and tongs,
pitch, sulphur and rods, either in his
own person or by his assistants, as
.pn +1
his letter of privileges dictates.
Neither is he infamous, like those of
his men who remove dead beasts and
do such like unclean work; and,
whoever addresses him with contemptuous
speech, shall be fined according
to law of the empire, as if he
had insulted a lord of the council.
Finally, when the number of unfortunates
slain by his hand shall exceed
five hundred, the headsman has a
right, if it so please him, to abandon
his charge, and mix once more upon
equal terms with his fellow-citizens.
After this recapitulation, Master
Hammerling takes up his own history
from the day of his birth, when he
was laid in his father’s arms as he
returned from burning an old witch
upon the market-place. This he
finds set down in his father’s hand-writing,
and also how he was christened
by the name of Berthold, on the
very day on which Black Hannah, the
child-murderess, was executed; whilst
her accomplice, long Heinz, was compelled
to look on at the execution,
and was then flogged out of the
town and district. The latter would
have been hung, had not the executioner
saved him, in virtue of an old
privilege, which he exercised less
out of love for Heinz than for fear
of its becoming annulled by disuse.
Had a daughter instead of a son
been born to him, he had a right
to save the poor girl who had fallen
victim to a base seducer. So was
it set forth in the headsman’s
charter.

Berthold Benz traces back his
recollections to a very early period of
his childhood, and in his manner of
narrating them there is a quaint sad
simplicity, by no means unattractive.
“My mother, God help her!” he
says, “right well do I remember her;
and though I should live a hundred
and many hundred years, I still shall
ever have her before me, with her
kindly blue eyes and her ringlets of
the same colour as the flax which she
drew from the distaff with her slender
white fingers, and sent whirling round
the spindle. We were always alone;
my father went about his affairs, and
of the servants none came near us in
our apartment, or in our little flower-garden—parted
by hedge and fence
from the rest of the court—save and
except fat Grethel, a sturdy broad-footed
Swabian girl, my mother’s
cousin, and taken in by her for the
love of God.” And Berthold was
happy at his mother’s knee, and in
his childish fancy deemed the headsman’s
hereditary dwelling, with its
high surrounding wall, to be little
short of a fortress, and held the vaulted
sitting-room, with its three narrow
windows, at least equal to any hall in
the proud castle that towered upon
the cliff beyond the stream. But his
tranquil happiness lasted not long;
the troubles of the doomster’s son had
an early beginning. “On a sudden,
my dearest mother wept more than
she smiled, grew pale and yet paler,
weak and still more weak, until at last
she was unable to lead me out into
the garden. At the same time I
ceased to see my father. Neither at
meals, nor as formerly, in the chamber,
of a morning, was he visible, and
however early I got up, the answer to
my questions always was that he had
already gone out. And one day,
Heaven only knows how it happened,
dear mother was gone, and when I
screamed and wept for her, Swabian
Grethel beat me, and said that ‘<i>she</i>
was my mother now.’” From this
day, Berthold’s sufferings began.
Hated by his stepmother, neglected
by his father, who was infatuated
with his young wife,—he was left to
run wild with the executioner’s assistants.
After a while, a brother
was born, and then his lot became
still harder. He was sent to sleep
amongst the hay in the loft; and the
sole notice he obtained from his
father was when the latter instructed
him in the duties of his office. But
old Benz was a harsh teacher, and the
child preferred to receive his lessons
from Arnulph, the chief assistant,
who took him with him to the town
and on rambles in the forest; taught
him to sever cabbage-heads at a single
stroke, and told him, as they sat
together upon the top of the lonely
gallows-tree, wonderful tales and
strange anecdotes of their craft and
its professors. These Berthold drank
in with greedy ear; and, although
terrified at first by the sight of the
grim black gallows, of the mouldering
skeletons depending from it, and the
ill-omened birds that croaked and
.pn +1
hovered around its summit, he soon
got used to his ”father’s workshop,“
gladly climbed the ladder to his lofty
perch, and enjoyed the terror of the
passing horseman whom an unexpected
greeting in Arnulph’s harsh voice
caused to spur his steed in terror, and
hasten on his road. “The Thief’s
Thumb,” one of the narratives of this
practical joker and hangman, is not
without its wild interest, but we cannot
dwell upon episodes; our object
being rather to exhibit the headsman’s
social position and peculiar privileges.
One of the latter—and not the
least curious—is shown in the chapter
headed “Vom Rosenthal,”—from the
Valley of Roses—in which Berthold’s
adventures may properly be said to
begin.

“Regularly each Saturday evening
after vespers, my father (now in
heaven) went into the town, turned
from the market-place into the alley
known as the Rosenthal, which winds,
narrow and dark, in the direction of
the prison and behind <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Kummerniss,
and struck, at regular intervals,
three heavy blows upon the door of a
great dark house, bearing the sign of
the Elephant. Thereupon, an old
woman gave him entrance, ushered
him into a spacious arched hall, and
placed a wooden stoup of wine and
a loaf of bread upon the table.
Whilst he ate and drank, a number
of young women entered the room,
every one of whom handed him a
silver coin, sometimes exchanged a
word with him, and then walked away
in silence. Almost all these women
had a strange look, the lustre of their
staring eyes was quenched, their
features were drawn, their cheeks
pale, and their clothes hung loosely
upon them; they looked shyly at my
father, but kindly at me, as though
they would gladly have kissed and
caressed me. This, however, as I
afterwards found, was strictly forbidden
them; and once, when a young
girl extended her hand to pat my
cheek, my father exclaimed, ‘Away
with you, hussy!’ and struck her
upon the face. Whereupon the poor
girl slunk from the room, bleeding at
mouth and nose, and pursued by the
laughter of her companions.”

At times, Benz would leave his son
in the lower room, whilst he searched
the house to see that no strangers
were there at that forbidden hour.
Then Berthold often heard screams
and sounds of quarrel; and one evening
that the uproar was greater than
usual, he crept in alarm from the
apartment, and found his way through
the back door into a court, where a
few trees grew, and at whose further
end was a grass-plot, on which linen
lay bleaching. “On the grass, near
the fountain, sat a pretty child, keeping
the geese and fowls and grunting
swine from the bleaching-place, with
a long stick, and when she saw me,
she smiled kindly at me. I went up
to her, took the little maid’s hand, and
asked her name.

“‘I am called Elizabeth. And
you?’

“‘They call me Benz,’ I replied,
and, although Arnulph had constantly
warned me never to say who I was,
unless asked, I thoughtlessly added:
‘and I am the headsman’s boy.’

“I shuddered at the words as I
spoke them, and expected Elizabeth
to shrink from me with disgust. Instead
of that she said, quite friendly,

“‘Sit down by me, Benz, and help
me to watch the linen.’

“I thought myself in heaven;
since dear mother had left me, I had
never known the joy of a smile from a
sweet face. In a moment we two
children were the best of friends, sat
hand in hand beside each other,
laughed and chattered unceasingly,
and forgot the whole world besides.
I asked little Elizabeth who were her
parents. She looked at me in amazement
with her great black eyes, knew
not what I meant, and was only the
more bewildered by my attempted
explanation. At last I heard my
father’s whistle; kissed my new
friend, and ran into the house. On
my way home, I told my father what
had happened, and he said the little
maid was an orphan, whose mother
had died in the house, and whom old
Sarah had taken charge of. A father,
however, she had never had, at
least to his knowledge. Thenceforward,
I went nowhere so willingly
as to the town. I no longer cared
that the passengers avoided us, and
that boys pursued us with scoff and
insult. I knew that a kind greeting
and a loving kiss awaited me, and
.pn +1
little Elizabeth was soon as dear to
me as my blessed mother; so that, in
my dreams, their two figures blended
into one. It was very different
afterwards, when the heavenly purity,
in whose full glory my mother had
departed, had left Elizabeth for ever.

“Thus, I came to the age of
twelve, and grew a tall strong lad,
skilful and active; already I was so
expert with the sword that with a
horizontal cut I sent the blade between
blocks piled on each other,
and without in the least injuring
them. I also tied a noose with a
dexterity that filled Arnulph with
proud joy, and he declared me fully
qualified to officiate upon the scaffold.
It happened one day that my father,
plagued with the gout, ordered me to
go alone to the town, and to fetch
the tribute from the well-known
house of the Elephant. He made me
promise not to let the women caress
me, and to lose none of the bright
pfennings they had to give me. I
obeyed his orders, and brought him
home the full amount. But I did not
tell him what had happened to me
by the way. When the boys, who
usually ran after us, saw that I was
alone, they ventured much nearer
than formerly; and amongst them I
particularly remarked a fair-haired
lad, who had always been the most
spiteful and violent of them all, and
whom his companions sometimes
called Engolf, sometimes by the
nickname of Bully-bird. He was the
son of a patrician, of the noble
Herr Hahn of Baumgarten, and was
somewhat older than myself. This
time he followed me to the very
threshold of the house, and just as
the door was opened he struck at
me. I warded his blow, and returned
it with one upon the nose,
which knocked him down, and gave
me time to enter the house.”

Berthold’s persecutors awaited his
exit to take their revenge, but he
provided himself with a stick for
defence, and, moreover, Elizabeth
showed him an opening in the garden
wall, choked with bushes and
rubbish, and leading into a timber-yard,
through which he passed unseen,
and of which he thenceforward
availed himself on his frequent visits
to his playfellow. Engolf, however,
watched him, and at last, on a certain
afternoon, as he turned into the
timber-yard, he heard a shout of
“Huzza! the hangman’s boy!” and
was set upon by a number of lads,
from whom he escaped with difficulty,
and severely beaten, by the
help of Elizabeth, who dragged him
into the garden as he fell senseless
from a blow on the head. In
the house of the Elephant he lay
for some time, too ill for removal,
carefully tended by his child-mistress,
and by the wretched but
kind-hearted women. About that
period, however, the “Lutheran
heresy” had begun to take root in the
town, and a certain Dr Neander
preached furiously against gambling
and drunkenness, and against such
establishments as that in which Berthold
was confined by his wounds;
“against all those things, in short,
which, according to old usage and to
the emperor’s statutes, paid tribute
to the headsman. This pleased the
women beyond measure; with yellow
envy they had long seen their husbands,
lovers, and sons, wager away
their fair white <lang=de><i>groschen</i></lang> at skittles
and dice and cards; the headsman‘s
daughters in the Rosenthal were a
yet sharper thorn in their eyes; and
now, supported by the preacher‘s
frantic harangues, they raised such
an infernal outcry that a noble councillor
trod our rights under foot for
the sake of peace, forbade all games
of chance, and sent his officers to
seize the loose women at the Elephant,
and put them across the frontier.
This occurred just at the time
I lay ill in the Rosenthal.” Berthold
was carried home to his
stepmother, who would not receive
him, and Arnulph made him a bed
in the hounds’ kennel, for which
piece of humanity his violent mistress
beat him, and procured his dismissal.
And throughout the book we hear no
more of the rough but well-meaning
journeyman hangman. Berthold’s father
came to visit his son and dress his
wounds, but the henpecked headsman
dared not take him into his house.
The poor boy lay suffering and hungry,
tormenting himself on account of
Elizabeth, whom the authorities had
removed from the Rosenthal, and
given in charge to people of better
.pn +1
repute than those who had had care
of her infancy; but who those people
were, and where he should seek
his little friend, Berthold knew not.
And when he recovered, his stepmother
and her son ill-treated him,
and drove him from their presence;
and, Arnulph having left, he had no
friend or companion but the shaggy
hounds with which he slept.

At this point of his youthful tribulations,
Master Hammerling ceases to
discourse of himself, and abruptly
transports us to the sign of the Thistle,
an isolated public house, consisting
partly of the ruins of an old watch-tower,
and much frequented by students,
who on bright summer evenings
loved to sit under the trees and lie
upon the grass before its door, until
the tolling bell warned them to return
to the town before gates and
bridges were closed for the night.
This inn was kept by a strange old
couple, childless, avaricious, and, as
it was reported, passing rich, who
went by the names of Father Finch
and Mother Blutrude. They professed
great poverty, and were furious
if any doubted it, which few cared to
do, since a certain rash scoffer had
suddenly fallen sick, and gradually
withered away and expired, in consequence,
it was supposed, of certain
unholy incantations of Mother Blutrude.
The fear of her incantations,
however, did not deter a reckless and
debauched student from laying a plan
for appropriating her concealed treasures.
He found means to ingratiate
himself with the old people, and to
conceal himself in a nook at the top
of the old tower, whence he saw them
in the dead of night counting a large
sum in silver coin. He only waited
their departure to possess himself
of the store, when he heard them
talk of removing to the same place
a large amount of Hungarian ducats
they had bestowed elsewhere, and he
resolved to wait where he was for
this richer booty. He waited so
long, that hunger, thirst, want of
sleep and greed of gold bewildered
his weak brain, and drove him mad.
With delirious eagerness he filled his
cap and pockets with the silver,
rushed down the high steep staircase,
forced the door with his foot, and
bursting into the public room, seized
Father Finch by the throat, and demanded
his gold. The guests came
to the rescue, dollars and crowns
were scattered on the floor, and at
last the madman was dragged away
to prison, whilst old Finch drove
every one from his house, barred the
door, and set to work with his wife
to collect the treasure. Benz and his
son were in the town when the lunatic
student was carried by, and soon
afterwards a boy came running in with
news that Father Finch had committed
suicide from anxiety and despair.
Straightway the headsman ordered
one of his men to fetch his great
sword and get ready his cart, and
then he took the road to the Thistle,
followed by an inquisitive mob, pressing
as close to his heels as their
aversion to his calling would allow.
He went to exercise one of the most
remarkable privileges of his office.
What this was may best be told in
the words of Mr Chézy’s hangman.

“We found the old house surrounded
by gaping idlers, whom
nothing short of my father’s presence
could have induced to open a path.
They gave way before his threatening
gesture and raised voice, and we
reached a loft where the gray-headed
sinner hung from a strong staple, his
stiffened feet almost touching an iron
chest, from which Blutrude, who,
cowered in a corner, never diverted
her gaze. Soon after us came councillors,
writers, and bailiffs, then a
man bearing the sword, which the
headsman took, and after cutting
down the dead, he drew a circle round
the corpse as far as his weapon’s
point could reach. Then he raised
his voice and said:

“‘I stand as headsman on my property
and heritage, or do any here
say nay?’

“Then one of the council replied:
‘None say nay. You are headsman
within the precincts of the city and in
the Count’s domain, Master Benz;
act then according to your sealed
rights and privileges, and with God’s
help, as we are ready to give you
ours.’

“My father continued: ‘Thus runs
the emperor’s decree: Wheresoever
any one, with sinful hand, shall take
his own life, there is every thing, in
hall or chamber, cellar, barn, or
.pn +1
stable, the headsman’s property, so
far as he, standing beside the corpse,
can reach with his sword above his
head, below his feet, and on all sides.
Have I spoken well?’

“‘On my soul and conscience,’
replied the councillor, ‘you have
spoken well. And so take hence
what to thee pertaineth.’”

And, in spite of old Blutrude’s
screams and protestations, the treasure-chest
was conveyed away in the
headsman’s cart. Whilst this went
on, Berthold, in rambling over the
house, found Elizabeth, who had
been given into the untender care of
the hostess of the Thistle. The little
hand-maid was delighted to meet her
old friend, and they were engaged in
affectionate colloquy when Blutrude,
furious at the loss of her pelf, fell upon
them with blows and abuse. Berthold
cared little for her violence to
himself, but when she attacked Elizabeth
his forbearance deserted him,
and, apostrophising her as a witch,
he expressed a passionate hope that
the day would come when he should
set fire to her death-faggots. The
effect of this wish is described in a
singular passage:—“She shrank from
me and was silent. Whether it was
that my words sounded prophetically
to her evil conscience, or that my boyish
glance already possessed that peculiar
power which has since often made
strong men quake, and given noble
horses the mad staggers, Blutrude
reeled aside like a drunken person,
allowed me to take leave of Elizabeth
undisturbed, and for some time afterwards
did not regain her usual vigour
and malice.” This strange power,
attributed to himself by the headsman,
is referred to further on in the volume,
when a horse shies and is seized
with staggers at the mere glance of
Berthold’s eye. That the gaze of the
public executioner might have a strong
effect upon men, in an age when he
was regarded with a feeling of superstitious
horror, would have nothing
to surprise; nor is it astonishing that
an old woman, already suspected of
witchcraft, should be terrified and
tongue-tied by a hint of tar-barrels
from the mouth of the hangman’s son.
The power of his evil eye upon horses
is more difficult to explain and credit.
But admitting the substance and incidents
of the book before us to be extracted
from <lang=la><i>bona fide</i></lang> chronicles, and
there is not wanting a certain amount
of internal evidence corroborative of
the editor’s assertion to that effect,
such passages as this are highly
curious illustrations of the superstitions
of that day. In most parts
of the world the evil eye has been a
favourite belief. The French have
their <lang=fr>Mauvais-œil</lang>, the Germans their
<lang=de>Schelauge</lang>, the Italians the <lang=it>Malocchio</lang>;
and if in any of those countries mesmerism
had been invented and practised
two or three hundred years ago,
its disciples would, in all probability,
have been held endowed with the
power attributed to himself by Berthold
Benz.

The dismissal of Arnulph, his chief
aide-de-camp, had left the headsman
short-handed, and in vain he
sought some one to supply his place; so
that after having, for very many years,
put his hand to no instrument of punishment
save the broad short sword,
the chief emblem of his office, he suddenly
found himself compelled to descend
to lower functions, and to break
a murderer on the wheel. At this execution
a rare incident occurred, showing
another of the <lang=de><i>Scharfrichter’s</i></lang> privileges.
The culprit was bound upon
the grating, and Benz dealt him the
first blow, upon the shin. The bone
snapped, and the unhappy victim, a
man of gigantic frame and strength,
maddened by extremity of agony,
wrenched out the cramp-iron to which
his right wrist was bound, and extended
his arm to ward off the coming
blow. Thereupon a forward young
man stepped thoughtlessly out of the
crowd, seized the criminal’s arm and
drew it back, whilst one of the executioner’s
assistants again drove in the
iron. Then the headsman laid down
his wheel, stepped up to the imprudent
youth, clapped his hand upon his
shoulder and said, “Now art thou
mine till thy day of death.” Voluntary
aid given to the executioner entailed
perpetual servitude, inevitable
and infamous. In this instance, the
volunteer, by trade a turner from
Nuremberg, and who was also a professional
pugilist, was compelled, in
spite of prayers and repugnance, to,
strip his jerkin and assist in the horrible
execution then going forward,
.pn +1
after which he mournfully accompanied
his new mates to the executioner’s
dwelling. House and home,
his honest name, and a loving and
expectant bride, were all for ever
lost to him by this one rash act. And
the only hope he dared indulge
was, that his family and friends
might never learn his fate, but
deem him dead in distant parts.
The cruel severity with which Master
Benz enforced his privilege was requited
to him by his pressed recruit,
who found undue favour in the eyes of
Grethel. The Nuremberger, however,
absorbed in grief, took little heed
of the lady’s amorous advances; and
she, incensed by his indifference,
applied to old Blutrude for a love-philter.
All this forms a part of the
romantic plot which is made the vehicle
for exhibiting the public and
private existence of the headsman of
the middle ages, and we need but
briefly touch upon it. The Nuremberg
Joseph drank the potion, which
reminded him, by its exhilarating
effects, of “the foaming, reaming
drink he had once tasted at his
master’s wedding at Namur, in
Brabant, and which the Walloons
fetch from the county of Champagne,
in France, to thin their blood, clogged
by thick barley beer.” Soon, however,
the young man repented of deceiving
Benz, who was kind to him
after his rough fashion; and one
morning that the headsman called him
to his room, to eat a savoury pottage
his wife had prepared, but for which
he himself felt little appetite, Veit
(the Nuremberger) thought the moment
opportune to make a clean
breast, and, whilst eating, began his
confession. Meanwhile Grethel, superintending
in the kitchen the breakfast
of her household, missed and
asked for her favourite. “He is in
the master’s room,” was the reply,
“eating the pottage.” The headsman’s
wife grew pale as death, for the
pottage was poisoned. She hurried
into the room just as Veit, after completing
his confession, fell in convulsions
upon the floor; and her husband,
indignant at her infidelity,
stripped his leathern girdle and furiously
beat her, loading her with
opprobrious epithets. She escaped
from his hands, and ran into the town,
exhibited the cuts upon her face and
arms to the authorities, accused her husband
of this ill-treatment, and of having
poisoned his assistant in a moment of
groundless jealousy. Benz was forthwith
arrested. Appearances were
strong against him. He had gone
out of his way to invite his servant to
eat the mess intended for himself.
And when the effects of the poison
manifested themselves, he had beaten
his wife instead of rendering assistance
to the sufferer, who had died
soon afterwards. His protestations
of innocence were discredited; and as
he persisted in not confessing a crime
he had not committed, he was conducted
to that torture-chamber whose
horrors he had so often superintended.
He shrunk not at sight of the rack,
but stood upon his rights and privileges;
repudiated the jurisdiction of
the city council, and appealed to a
higher tribunal. “My lords would
not listen to this, and appealed, in
their turn, to the special privileges of
the town; but the strange headsman,
whom they had summoned to their
assistance, pulled down to the wrist
the shirt sleeves he had rolled up, put
on his doublet, and declared, with
steadfast voice, that he must certainly,
in execution of a legal judgment, torture
his own son, if required, but that
he would not act against the Emperor’s
ordinances, or lay hand upon a
brother-craftsman in obedience to an
arbitrary command.” So the counsellors,
finding the executive fail
them, and being also, as it would
appear, legally in the wrong, were
compelled to concede Master Benz’s
claim to be arraigned before another
court of judicature. The delay was
the headsman’s salvation. Count
Ruprecht, a sort of lord of the manor,
and nobleman of great weight in the
district, obtained admission to his
dungeon, under pretence of consulting
him about a disease, which “leech
and surgeon, wise-women and farriers,
had been unable to cure.” From this
it would appear that in those days the
executioner either dabbled in the
medical art, or was supposed to possess
prescriptions (perhaps charms) of
efficacy in certain cases. We have
been unable to trace any particulars
connected with this belief; and Mr
Chézy, although he must have access
.pn +1
in Germany to many more sources of
such information than are open to us,
leaves his readers, as usual, wholly in
the dark.

The brief dialogue in the dungeon
is curious and characteristic. The
Count, straitened in his finances, covets
the iron chest with a golden lining,
taken by Benz from beneath the feet
of Father Finch the suicide. In consideration
of its receipt, he engages
to rescue the executioner from his
unpleasant position. The latter, although
innocent, is by no means confident
of acquittal, and accepts the
terms. Then says the Count to the
headsman, with touching confidence,
“You have been known to me for
many years as an honourable man, I
require no other guarantee than your
word. And I pledge my honour as a
nobleman to rescue you, either by
craft or by the strong hand.” Recourse
to violence was unnecessary.
The Count revived an old tribunal,
long in disuse, which sat under an
aged oak by the river’s brink, and
consisted of himself alone. The council
had little fancy for giving up their
prisoner, but yielded to menaces in
the emperor’s name, and Benz was
brought before this primitive court.
The burgomaster supported the accusation,
but, on the other hand, seven
nobly-born persons deposed on oath
to the prisoner’s innocence, and Etzel
the cup-bearer, a stalwart retainer
of the Count’s, renowned in all the
country-side for his reckless courage
and powerful arm, threw his glove
into the ring, and challenged to mortal
combat any who should question it.
Thrice the herald proclaimed the
defiance, but none took it up; the sun
went down, and the Count declared
the charge unfounded and the prisoner
free. This was the first and last time
Count Ruprecht asserted his right to
hold this penal tribunal. And subsequently
an imperial decree declared
the judgment null and the Count’s
privilege obsolete. But before that
came to pass, the headsman’s innocence
was established, and the true
culprit discovered.

During his captivity, Benz had
reflected on his unkindness to his
first-born, and resolved to repair past
injustice by better treatment. On
returning home, his first inquiry was
for Berthold. The answer was, that
the boy had run away. The truth
was, that his stepmother had had him
conveyed to a long distance from his
father’s house, and by frightful
menaces deterred him from returning.
And now she wheedled her husband
out of a pardon, and things resumed
their old course in the headsman’s
house. We pass over a good deal of
episodical matter, having little to do
with the main subject of the book;
amongst other things, a long account
of a son of Count Ruprecht, who was
sent on his travels in charge of a
learned preceptor and bad horseman,
one Dr Wohlgemuth, on whom the
scamp of a pupil played an infinity
of mischievous tricks, proving that
travelling tutors three hundred years
ago had by no means a sinecure.
After an absence of some duration,
Berthold returns home in the suite of
this young Count Ulrich, finds Elizabeth
still at the sign of the Thistle,
and his old enemy Engolf and other
dissolute companions persecuting her
with their insolent addresses, to
which she turns a deaf ear. She has
not forgotten Berthold; their childish
affection has grown into love, and
they mutually plight their troth.
Soon afterwards, Berthold sets out on
a three years’ pilgrimage, during
which to learn surgery and farriery,
and Count Ruprecht promises that,
on his return, none but he shall shoe
his horses and cure his servants. But
the headsman’s son has higher aspirations,
and resolves to become a
physician. At Heidelberg and Paris
the three years pass quickly by in
diligent study, and at the end of that
time he has conquered the doctor’s
gown, and returns to his native place
as Dominus Bertholdus. As he
draws near to the town, he prays in
heart for a good omen to welcome his
return; but none is vouchsafed him,
and in its stead he meets Engolf and
has an angry colloquy. At the little
inn he sees Elizabeth, who betrays
great agitation on beholding him, for
a report had been set about of his
death. At a ball to which he accompanies
her, held at the old house of
the Elephant, now converted into a
respectable inn, he meets Engolf, who
coarsely taunts him with taking up
with his cast-off mistress. Elizabeth
.pn +1
cannot repel the imputation, Berthold
spurns her from him, and strikes
Engolf; a fight ensues, blood is shed,
and the headsman’s son is obliged to
conceal himself for a while. Then
comes some more extraneous matter,
until we find Berthold established as
assistant in the house of Master
Baldwin the physician, who one day
sends him to attend the infliction of
torture on an old woman accused of
witchcraft. In the wrinkled wretch
bound upon the rack, he recognises
old Blutrude, and here, after seven
years’ separation, he meets his father.

“The headsman had grown old in
those seven years: his silver hair
hung scantily over his temples; his
high bald brow was crossed with furrows;
his long beard resembled thick
snow-flakes; but still he was strong
and vigorous. From his short and
muscular neck his broad shoulders
spread in powerful development; his
long arms were nervous, his fists of
iron; his eyes glittered as in the days
of his prime; and the dusky red of
his countenance bore witness that the
old man had not yet abandoned the
pleasures of the bottle, in spite of the
gout, whose presence was indicated
by his wide shapeless boots of soft
buckskin. On beholding him, a cold
shudder came over me; and yet it
needed an effort not to fall into his
arms and greet him with the name of
father, and offer my aid in his horrible
office. Behind him stood his
assistant, a stout young fellow, in
whose features and reddish hair I
recognised Grethel’s son.” Here a
touch of witchcraft comes in; Blutrude,
after terrible tortures, confessing
her dealings with the demon,
and implicating Grethel and her son,
the former of whom had long been in
the habit of accompanying her once
in the year to a witches’ sabbath
upon the Blocksberg, whilst an evil
spirit assumed her form in her husband’s
couch. Upon receiving this
startling information, old Benz falls
down, struck with apoplexy, and presently
expires, in spite of the remedies
applied by Berthold, who in his emotion
betrays himself as the headsman’s
son. He is immediately seized, and
put in irons. His life is in danger,
for he has incurred the penalty of the
gallows by daring to mix with his
fellow-men, and to forget the stigma
and isolation prescribed by his birth.
But the executioner being dead, his
youngest son accused of witchcraft,
and the prison full of criminals, several
of whom are soon to be put to the
torture, the authorities let Berthold,
go free, on condition of his assuming
his father’s office. To this he consents,
as the only means of escaping the
halter, and at once takes possession of
the house whose threshold he had
expected never again to cross.

The closing chapter of the volume,
entitled “The Headsman’s Wedding,”
is perhaps the most striking and original
of the whole book. Berthold’s
installation in his father’s house and
office had not long occurred, when he
was called upon to exercise the latter,
and to put to the rack his old and bitter
foe Engolf of Baumgarten, accused
of conspiracy against the state. Even
under the torture, the profligate found
sneers and sharp words to address to
his executioner, and boasted of his
base triumph over the unhappy Elizabeth,
then in prison on the charge of
murdering her infant. Whilst in a
state of frenzy, she had thrown it into
the water. Maddened by his enemy’s
taunts, the headsman exercised to the
very utmost the tortures at his command,
and tugged and strained till
every joint of the unhappy wretch was
dislocated, and the foam stood upon
his lips. At last Engolf confessed his
crime and was released from the hands
of him who had crushed his body, and
whose heart he had broken. Then
Berthold received orders to hold himself
ready, in three days from that
time, to execute Elizabeth, condemned
to die by the sword.

“It was a hard trial for me, when,
upon the eve of this execution, I had
to betake myself to her prison, to
share, according to old custom, the
culprit’s last meal. The priest had
just left her when I entered the narrow
cell, and she sat buried in thought,
her head sunk upon her breast, her
long black hair falling like a veil over
her face, her hands folded in her lap.”
The poor girl could not make up her
mind to die, and wildly implored her
former lover to save her, ignorant that
she was to perish by his hand. But
his feelings towards her had undergone
a total change; indignation and
.pn +1
contempt had replaced affection; and
he beheld her despair and heard her
entreaties without a spark of compunction.
“You must die, Elizabeth,”
he said, “and truly by no other hand
than mine.”

“She gazed at me with expanded
eyeballs, her features, distorted by
despair, gradually assumed a milder
expression, a scarcely perceptible
smile crossed her pale lips. ‘Death
from your hand is sweet,’ she at last
said. ‘Here is my heart, strike!
why delay? I am ready.’ These
gentle words broke down my anger;
I had to lean against a pillar in order
not to sink to the ground, and had
hardly strength to reply. ‘Will you
not understand me, Elizabeth? Have
you forgotten whose son I am?’”
Then she told him how a traveller had
come to the inn, and had said (probably
at Engolf’s instigation) that Berthold
was dead. And how, after that,
the seducer had perseveringly environed
her with his wiles, and at last,
by aid of a potion old Blutrude supplied,
had effected her ruin. And as
the headsman heard her sad tale, his
anger was converted into pity. He
partook her last repast, and at parting
they pressed each other’s hands in
friendship. But the love Berthold
once had cherished for the orphan
playmate of his boyish days had fled
for ever.

That same night the tribunal condemned
Engolf to the gallows. All
the grace his anguished parent could
obtain for him was that he should die
by the hands of the headsman himself,
not of an inferior executioner—and
in his own clothes, booted and
spurred. This favour cost fifty marks
of gold, and a bequest to the hospital
of all the property his father could
will away.

With the dawn, Berthold repaired
to the city, where the sentence was
read in the public market-place, and
“a white wand was broken and thrown
in fragments at the feet of the child-murderess.”
Then Elizabeth was delivered
over to the executioner, who
lifted her into the cart, where a Capuchin
monk took his place beside
her, and the melancholy procession
to the scaffold began. On the way,
Berthold’s men encouraged him, exhorting
him to strike the blow on Elizabeth’s
slender neck with the same
firmness and precision with which,
just before he left the house, he had
severed that of an old wether. They
considered him fortunate, that his first
essay with the sword should be made
on a meek and unresisting girl, and
not on some tough old culprit,
who would spitefully shrug his
shoulders, so as to disappoint the
aim and bring shame upon the
headsman. “At last we stood,
Elizabeth and I, face to face between
the three pillars, gazed at
each other, and shook hands for the
last time. Then I bound her eyes,
bid her kneel down, and whilst an
assistant, standing on one side,
with body bent forward, and outstretched
arm, held up her head by
the long hair, I threw off cloak and
doublet, grasped the sword with both
hands, and, settling myself firmly on
my feet, prepared to give the cut that
should deprive her of life. Mute and
breathless with expectation, the mob
looked up at the scaffold; the monk
ceased to mutter his prayers aloud,
but moved his lips in silence; the
stillness of death reigned around. I
felt a dizziness in my brain; instead
of one head I saw three, and I turned
about, and asked in a loud voice,
which of them the law commanded
me to strike off. The populace
began to murmur, my assistants exchanged
meaning smiles and scornful
glances, the magistrate impatiently
called to me to make an end; Elizabeth
stirred not and made no sign.
Then I had pity on the youth and
beauty of the murderess; I felt I
should never be able to strike her
death-blow, and a sudden resolution
took possession of my soul, the resolution
to save her. I sank the sword’s
point, leant upon its hilt, and, claiming
my privilege, demanded Elizabeth
for my wife. Thereupon the
murmurs of the crowd were converted
into loud rejoicings, and whilst I supported
the fainting girl in my arms,
the people insisted I should at once
conduct her to the altar. My Lords
of the Council knew well that I was
in my right, and none ventured to
hinder or object. Followed by the
noisy mob, we returned to the city,
and within the hour the priest of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr>
Kummerniss united me to Elizabeth.
.pn +1
Then she once more ascended the
cart, which drove away with her,
this time at a brisk trot instead of a
funeral pace, whilst I went to the
council-house to hang Engolf....
The body remained hanging till sunset,
then I took it down, laid it in the
coffin, and went my way home.”

“There was revel and jubilee in
the house. With song and dance,
and play, and flowing jugs, the servants
celebrated the headsman’s wedding
day. And when the hour came,
I led Elizabeth to her chamber, drew
my father’s sword from its scabbard,
and placed it in the bridal bed between
her and myself. There it has
ever since remained.”

With this singular and thoroughly
German incident, the headsman’s
memoirs, as conveyed in autobiographical
form, conclude, although we
may presume the greater portion of
the other volumes to be derived from
similar records, moulded into a different
shape by Mr Chézy. The
second volume consists of one long
narrative, entitled “Hildebrand Pfeiffer,”
a story of the seventeenth century.
An executioner plays an important
part in it, but is not the hero
of the tale, as in Benz’s narrative.
Hildebrand Pfeiffer is a man of five-and-thirty,
of handsome face and
person, who has studied long and
successfully at Heidelberg, Prague,
and Paris, and has learnt surgery at
Cologne, where we now find him.
Possessed by the demon of pride and
ambition, he sees no better way of
attaining the brilliant position he
covets, than through the medium of
the philosopher’s stone, at whose discovery
he ardently labours under the
guidance of Doctor David da Silva,
or Master Wood, as the vulgar translated
his Portuguese name—a learned
physician and ex-teacher at the high
school, to whom Hildebrand serves
as assistant and amanuensis. Besides
dabbling in white magic, the
old Jew-leech is shrewdly suspected
of dealing in the blacker sort, but
this does not prevent scholars flocking
to gather wisdom from his lips,
and sick persons sending for him so
often as their fears of death prevail
with their avarice to pay his heavy
fee. And he has long been left
unmolested to his mysterious pursuits,
when, in an evil hour, he sends
his old servant, in company with a
young maiden, to gather mandragora
at the gallows’ foot. The plant is to
be employed in some alchemical conjuration,
and is valuable only if
gathered at the witching hour by a
perfect virgin. The one selected is
Adelgunde, a beautiful girl, who loves
Hildebrand, and is beloved by him.
Unfortunately, upon the night selected
for plucking the mystical mandrake,
the headsman and his assistants repair
to the place of execution to
inter the corpse of a suicide, and
there detect and seize the two women,
the elder of whom throws the
blame of her unholy proceedings
upon Da Silva and Hildebrand.
There is, perhaps, rather too much
of witchcraft in the volume, but
some of the incidents are very wild
and original. With more skill and
care, and power of description,
Mr Chézy might have constructed
a three volume romance of a striking
kind out of the materials he has
loosely and hastily crammed into
a third of the space. There is a certain
Count Philippus, or Philipps,
of whom much was to be made, but
he is neglected, and roughly sketched.
He comes to Cologne to raise troops
for the emperor, and is very successful
in his recruiting, having mustered
a strong body of idle artisans, debauched
students, and desperadoes
of all kinds. In the joy of his heart
he drinks himself ill; Hildebrand
attends him, and wins his heart by
tolerating the flagon, when the
soldier had expected to be put on a
diet of drugs and spring water. The
Count’s levies are drawn up, and
about to march away, when the
police make their appearance at Dr
Da Silva’s door, to arrest him and
his assistant on a charge of witchcraft.
Warned in time, Hildebrand
conceals himself amongst the men
at arms, and follows Philipps to the
field as body-surgeon. It is the
period of the thirty years’ war, and
the ambitious mediciner, interrupted
in his pursuit of the grand secret of
gold-making, conceives the more
feasible project of rising to eminence
and wealth by deeds of arms. He is
confirmed in his new aspirations by
the gift of a sword, manufactured by
.pn +1
the headsman, and supposed to confer
invincibility on him who wields
it. There is a remarkable chapter,
from which we gather the details of
this superstition. Hannadam, the
executioner, has his fortified dwelling
in the suburbs of Cologne, and one
evening a Lutheran officer rides up
from the adjacent Swedish camp, and
endeavours to induce him, by the
bribe of a well-filled purse, to make
him a charmed sword. From the battlements
of his little fortress, Hannadam
holds converse with the Swede,
who complains that he has had his
foot in the stirrup for twenty years,
and is still a cornet, whilst his comrades
of equal standing have risen to
high rank. He holds it high time to
look after his promotion.

“‘Undoubtedly it is,’ said the
headsman jeeringly. ‘A forty-year-old
cornet cuts a poor figure. I will
promote you to a majority.’

“‘So you shall,’ replied the horseman,
‘and I will tell you how. But
first answer a question,—you are a
popish idolator?’

“‘Infernal heretic!’ shouted the
executioner. ‘Would you have me
set my dogs at you?’

“The Swede was astounded by
this burst of anger. He had intended
no harm, but in the simplicity of his
heart had designated the Roman
Catholics by the epithet that from childhood
upwards he had heard and used.

“‘If you are no idolator,’ he replied
very quietly, ‘give me back my
purse.’

“The headsman laughed.

“‘I am papist enough,’ he said,
‘to take example by my priests, and
restore no offering.’

“‘Indeed,’ said the cornet. ‘But
I begin to see what offended you.
Never fear, you shall not hear the
word again.’

“‘You will do wisely not to repeat
it. And now say what you would
for your money.’

“‘Did I not tell you I cannot get
promotion?’

“‘Well—’

“‘Well? In the name of all the
idols, I would have a charmed sword,
such as only a headsman and a Romanist
can make.’

“The purse fell jingling at the
Swede’s feet.

“‘Begone!’ cried the headsman.
‘I am no sorcerer.’

“‘The charmed sword is a matter
of white magic, seeing it is made
under invocation of the holy Trinity
and of the blessed cavalier, St Martin,
without aid of the powers of darkness.
To-night is favourable to its forging—such
a night will not for a long time
recur—for me, perhaps, never—with
the like concurrence of fortunate circumstances.
Do my bidding, and
take the rich reward. After midnight,
red Mars is in the ascendant, and in
the direct aspect of Venus. That is
the lucky hour to put the weapon
together. The blade must be a sword
that has served upon the scaffold, and
severed a criminal’s head from his
body; the wood of the hilt must be
part of the wheel upon which some
poor sinner has been broken; the
guard must be of the metal of chains
in which a murderer has been hung.
You need put it but loosely together;
the armourer shall complete the work.
The blade is the most important;
let it be long and slender, not above
two fingers broad, and with a single
edge. The Tubal’s-fire you of course
have: our executioners, also, keep
that. Will you prepare the sword,
master?’

“‘I would do so,’ replied the
headsman, ‘and have all things
needful;—but the fire is wanting.’

“‘Impossible!’ exclaimed the
cavalier.

“‘But nevertheless true,’ replied
Hannadam. ‘I have only lately inherited
my charge; I found the lamp
in the forge extinguished, and since
then no oak has been struck by lightning.’

“The Swede cursed and swore like
a blind heathen, rode disconsolately
away, and forgot, in his disappointment,
to reclaim the purse he had
again thrown up to the headsman.
The latter whistled a peasant’s dance
between his teeth, and gave orders to
raise the drawbridge.

“‘You told the man an untruth,’
said his wife gently; ‘the lamp now
burning in the smithy received its
light from a blasted oak.’

“The headsman laughed. ‘I
know it right well, darling,’ he replied;
‘but it will be long before I
give such a sword to an unbelieving
.pn +1
heretic, for him to use against those
he styles idolators. I will at once
to work, and prepare the weapon.
In our days a blade is not to be
despised, from whose mere glitter the
foe will fly by dozens.’”

At midnight the sparks flew fast
in the headsman’s smithy, and the
wondrous weapon was prepared. The
Swede might well have found it useful
in the severe action between his countrymen
and the Imperialists, which
took place the following day within
sound and sight of the city. The battle
over, Count Philipps and Hildebrand
rode up to Hannadam’s dwelling; and
the Count, whose vassal the headsman
was, demanded admittance and
lodging. Hildebrand showed some
repugnance to enter the house of the
executioner. “No need to fear,”
said the Count. “According to
imperial charter, the headsman’s
office is honourable; and, moreover,
he and his household will have sufficient
sense not to touch us. His
bread, his wine, his meat do not defile
those partaking them, neither does
his roof dishonour those it covers.
But you must have the goodness to
see to our horses yourself. At the
worst, my nobility is good enough
to shield us from stain even in the
knacker’s dwelling.”[#] So the count
and the leech take up their quarters
in the house of Hannadam, whose
wife is no other than that beautiful
Adelgunde, with whom Hildebrand
had been deeply in love, and whom
he had now long mourned as dead.
She had been tried at Cologne on a
charge of witchcraft, having been detected
gathering mandragora at midnight
beneath the gallows, and had
been put to the torture; but Hannadam,
to whose lot it fell to inflict it,
was touched by her beauty, and
handled her gently. In a conversation
with Count Philipps, he explains to
him how it is in the executioner’s
power greatly to aggravate or lighten
the agony he is ordered to inflict.
Finally, Hannadam marries her, in
virtue of the privilege already exemplified
in the story of Berthold Benz.
She is a somnambulist, and having
seen her former lover enter the house,
(although her husband does all in his
power to keep her from sight of him,
and even confines her in her room,)
she gets up in the night, and by a
most perilous path across the roof of
the house, reaches Hildebrand’s chamber,
bearing with her the sword of
her husband’s manufacture, which she
gives to her lover, bidding him use
and conquer with it. Taking little
heed of the supposed power attributed
to the weapon, Hildebrand nevertheless
girds it on, and the next day
joins Colonel Madelon’s regiment of
cuirassiers. Distracted at finding
Adelgunde the wife of another man,
he covets death, and resolves to seek
it in action. The count unwillingly
parts with him, on condition of his
returning that evening to his post.
But evening comes, the fight is over,
the wounded count looks anxiously
for his leech, and Hildebrand appears
not. The cuirassiers are far away,
pursuing the beaten foe.

.fn #
The office of knacker (<lang=de><i>Schinder, Abdecker</i></lang>), in recent times often united with that
of public executioner, was formerly exercised by his knaves and subordinates,
(German, <lang=de><i>henkersknechte</i></lang>; French, <lang=fr><i>Valets de Bourreau</i></lang>) and was held especially
infamous.
.fn-

Time passes—the exact period is
not defined—and we again meet the
warlike physician, who is brought
before us in a very remarkable chapter,
detailing the punishment and degradation,
at the headsman’s hands,
of an entire regiment that has disgraced
itself in action. At that
period the affairs of the Imperialists
were in any thing but a flourishing
state. At Leipsig—on the same
ground where, eleven years previously,
Gustavus Adolphus had beaten Tilly—the
Swedes, under the gallant Torstenson,
had gained a signal victory
over the Archduke Leopold-William;
a victory shameful to the German
name from the cowardice and
want of discipline of a portion of the
troops engaged. The remnant of the
beaten army rallied near Prague,
whose gates, some time after the
fight, a regiment of cavalry was seen
to approach, its ranks thinned less by
hostile sword than by scandalous
desertion. Deep shame sat upon
the bearded countenances of the
horsemen, and their hearts were
.pn +1
oppressed by apprehension of punishment;
for rumour said that the
corps was ordered to Prague to answer
for its misconduct. The officers
were even more cast down than the
men; they spoke in whispers, consulting
each other how they might
best justify themselves, and proposing
to throw all the blame on their subordinates.
On the other hand, the
private soldiers did not scruple to say
above their breath, that “a sensible
housekeeper begins to sweep his stairs
from the top.” The regiment was
close to the town, ordering its ranks
previous to entrance, when a young
officer came up at full gallop, saluted
the colonel courteously but coldly,
and said:

“I am the bearer of an unpleasant
order.”

“Duty is duty, Sir,” replied the
commanding officer; “be good enough
to deliver your message.”

This was to the effect that the men
should dismount, lead their horses
into the town with lowered colours
and without trumpet-sound, and then,
so soon as the beasts were put up,
repair to the market-place with
swords at side, officers as well as
men. This reception was ominous
of even worse things than had been
anticipated; and many a soldier
regretted he had not followed an
example abundantly supplied him,
and deserted immediately after the
battle. In two hours time, however,
the regiment arrived with downcast
eyes at the appointed place of muster.
They marched two and two, with long
intervals between the files. At the
entrance of the narrow streets were
pickets of dismounted dragoons, four
deep, their musketoons on their
arms, their drawn swords hanging
from their wrists; the doors and
windows of the houses were lined
with carabineers, their weapons at
the recover. A major and a provost-marshal
were there on horseback,
the latter attended by his men, who
stood round a couple of carts. As
each rank of the cuirassiers reached
the square, the major commanded
them to halt, and then gave the
word “Draw swords!” followed by
“Ground arms!” Whereupon every
man, without distinction, had to lay
his naked sword upon the ground,
before he was allowed to move forwards.
The cornets did the same
with their colours, and the provost’s
men took up swords and standards
and put them in the carts. The disarmed
soldiers formed up as prisoners
in the square, and their hearts misgave
them when they saw it arranged
as for an approaching execution.
True, there was neither scaffold nor
gallows, but in the centre stood the
gloomy man in the red cloak, his
assistants behind him, between an
iron vice and a pile of brushwood. A
hedge of halberds surrounded the
whole square. On one side a crowd
of military officials of high rank sat
upon their horses, to try the offenders,
if indeed trial could be said to await
men manifestly already condemned.
Hard upon the circle of military
pressed the populace; windows, roofs,
and balconies were thronged with
curious spectators; but it was as much
as the nearest of them could do to
catch a few words of what passed,
when the disarmed regiment appeared
before the court-martial.

The heads of accusation were tolerably
well known, and resolved themselves
into the one undeniable fact
that the regiment, at first victorious,
but afterwards repulsed, had fled in
shameful haste and confusion, communicating
its panic to the rest of the
cavalry, leaving the infantry exposed,
and causing the loss of the already
half-won fight. These circumstances
were too notorious to need proof;
and the chief question was, whether
the soldiers had fled in spite of every
exertion of their officers, or whether
the latter had been, by their pusillanimity,
the chief causes of the disaster.
This question it probably was
that was debated for nearly two
hours, and produced such violent dissensions
amongst the prisoners, that
the intervention of the guard was
required to keep them from coming
to blows. The bystanders could not
distinguish words, but only a confused
clamour of voices, which suddenly
ceased at the blast of a trumpet.
The prisoners drew back; the judges,
consulted together for a moment;
and then there was an abrupt and uneasy
movement, amongst, behind, and
in front of them, the motive of which
immediately became apparent. The
.pn +1
spectators knew not whither first to
turn their eyes. Here policemen
bound the officers’ hands behind their
backs; in another place the provost’s
men separated the soldiers by tens,
something in the way in which a
tithe-owner counts the sheaves in a
field. Drums were placed on end,
with dice upon their heads: yonder
the brushwood blazed up in bright
flames, which the headsman’s helpers
fed with the colours and decorations
of the regiment, whilst their master
snapped sword-blade after sword-blade
in his iron vice. With mournful
eyes the officers saw their flags
consumed and their weapons broken
at the hangman’s hands. The most
painful death would have been sweet
and welcome compared to this moral
agony. Despondingly they sank
their heads, and those esteemed themselves
fortunate whose hair was long
enough to hide their shame-stricken
countenances.

Whilst the officers endured the
curious or spiteful gaze of the throng,
the men threw dice for their lives
upon the sheepskin tables. He of
each ten who threw the lowest, was
immediately seized by the executioners,
who bound his hands and
placed him with the group of officers.
And the closing act of this terrible
ceremony was performed by the public
crier, who proclaimed the whole
regiment, from the lieutenant-colonel
down to the last dragoon, as “<lang=de><i>Schelme</i></lang>”
or infamous knaves. After which the
mob dispersed, streaming through
lanes and alleys to the place where
the officers and tenth men were to
be hanged. The remainder of the
regiment were conveyed to a place
of security, till such time as they
could be sent to dig fortifications in
Hungary, or to labour on the wharves
of a seaport.

Hildebrand Pfeiffer is amongst those
saved from death to undergo slavery;
but he contrives to escape his doom,
and is next seen dwelling, a pious
ascetic and penitent, in a mountain
hermitage, under the name of Father
Gregorius. Enthusiastic in whatever
he does, he passes his time prostrate
before a crucifix, lacerating his shoulders
with many stripes. His despair
arises partly from grief at the loss of
Adelgunde, and partly from shame
at having been branded as a dastard
with the rest of Madelon’s cuirassiers.
His old friend and patron, Count
Philipps, finds him out, reasons with
and consoles him, and makes him his
chaplain. But after he has long been
esteemed for his piety and eloquence,
he offends the Count by a diatribe
against the prevalent belief in witchcraft,
whose absurdity his good sense
and early education enable him to
recognise. There is an extraordinary
scene at a convent, where Adelgunde,
who deserted her husband’s house on
the night of her interview with Hildebrand,
has taken refuge. She falls
into a manner of ecstasy, repeats
Solomon’s Song in Latin, and commits
other extravagancies, greatly to the
scandal of the sisterhood, and of
Father Bonaventura, the convent
chaplain. Finally, both Hildebrand
and Adelgunde are burnt for sorcery.
There is a vein of interest in the tale
to the very end, although the book, in
an artistical sense, is roughly done.
The style is crabbed, and the dialogue
quaint, but often effective. The final
volume of the Malefizbuch, under the
agreeable title of “Galgenvögel,”
(Gallowsbirds) contains four tales of
very middling merit, and is altogether
the worst. It differs from the other
two as saying little concerning the
headsman and his functions, further
than that he steps in at the close of
each tale, to execute the sentence of
the law on the criminals whose
offences and adventures it narrates.
M. Chézy announces his store of
materials to be by no means expended,
and promises a further series should
this one find favour. If it does so,
he must attribute the success to the
interest inseparable from the subject,
not unlikely to attract readers in spite
of the editor’s negligence, and of the
book’s manifold deficiencies.
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=edinburgh title='Edinburg After Flodden'
EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.
.sp 2
The great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9th of September 1513.
The defeat of the Scottish army, which was mainly owing to the fantastic
ideas of chivalry entertained by James <abbr='the fourth'>IV</abbr>., and his refusal to avail himself of
the natural advantages of his position, was by far the most disastrous of any
recounted in the history of the northern wars. The whole strength of the
kingdom, both Lowland and Highland, was assembled, and the contest was
one of the sternest and most desperate upon record.

For several hours the victory seemed doubtful. On the left the Scots
obtained a decided advantage; on the right wing they were broken and
overthrown; and at last the whole weight of the battle was brought into the
centre, where King James and the Earl of Surrey commanded in person. The
determined valour of James, imprudent as it was, had the effect of rousing to
a pitch of desperation the courage of the meanest soldiers; and the ground
becoming soft and slippery from blood, they pulled off their boots and shoes,
and secured a firmer footing by fighting in their hose.

“It is owned,” says Abercromby, “that both parties did wonders, but
none on either side performed more than the King himself. He was again told
that by coming to handy blows he could do no more than another man, whereas,
by keeping the post due to his station, he might be worth many thousands.
Yet he would not only fight in person, but also on foot; for he no sooner saw
that body of the English give way which was defeated by the Earl of Huntley,
but he alighted from his horse, and commanded his guard of noblemen and
gentlemen to do the like and follow him. He had at first abundance of
success, but at length the Lord Thomas Howard and Sir Edward Stanley, who
had defeated their opposites, coming in with the Lord Dacre’s horse, and surrounding
the King’s battalion on all sides, the Scots were so distressed that,
for their last defence, they cast themselves into a ring; and being resolved to
die nobly with their sovereign, who scorned to ask quarter, were altogether
cut off. So say the English writers, and I am apt to believe that they are in
the right.”

The combat was maintained with desperate fury until nightfall. At the
close, according to Mr Tytler, “Surrey was uncertain of the result of the
battle: the remains of the enemy’s centre still held the field; Home, with his
Borderers, still hovered on the left; and the commander wisely allowed neither
pursuit nor plunder, but drew off his men and kept a strict watch during the
night. When the morning broke, the Scottish artillery were seen standing
deserted on the side of the hill; their defenders had disappeared; and the
Earl ordered thanks to be given for a victory which was no longer doubtful.
Yet, even after all this, a body of the Scots appeared unbroken upon a hill,
and were about to charge the Lord-Admiral, when they were compelled to
leave their position by a discharge of the English ordnance.

“The loss of the Scots in this fatal battle amounted to about ten thousand
men. Of these, a great proportion were of high rank; the remainder being
composed of the gentry, the farmers, and landed yeomanry, who disdained to
fly when their sovereign and his nobles lay stretched in heaps around them.”
Besides King James, there fell at Flodden the Archbishop of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Andrews,
thirteen earls, two bishops, two abbots, fifteen lords and chiefs of clans, and
five peers’ eldest sons, besides La Motte the French ambassador, and the
secretary of the King. The same historian adds—“The names of the gentry
who fell are too numerous for recapitulation, since there were few families of
note in Scotland which did not lose one relative or another, whilst some houses
had to weep the death of all. It is from this cause that the sensations of
sorrow and national lamentation occasioned by the defeat were peculiarly
poignant and lasting—so that to this day few Scotsmen can hear the name of
Flodden without a shudder of gloomy regret.”

The loss to Edinburgh on this occasion was peculiarly great. All the
.pn +1
magistrates and able-bodied citizens had followed their King to Flodden,
whence very few of them returned. The office of Provost or chief magistrate
of the capital was at that time an object of high ambition, and was conferred
only upon persons of high rank and station. There seems to be
some uncertainty whether the holder of this dignity at the time of the battle
of Flodden was Sir Alexander Lauder, ancestor of the Fountainhall family,
who was elected in 1511, or that great historical personage, Archibald Earl of
Angus, better known as Archibald Bell-the-Cat, who was chosen in 1513, the
year of the battle. Both of them were at Flodden. The name of Sir Alexander
Lauder appears upon the list of the slain; Angus was one of the survivors,
but his son, George, Master of Angus, fell fighting gallantly by the side of
King James. The city records of Edinburgh, which commence about this
period, are not clear upon the point, and I am rather inclined to think that
the Earl of Angus was elected to supply the place of Lauder.[#] But although
the actual magistrates were absent, they had formally nominated deputies in
their stead. I find, on referring to the city records, that “George of Tours”
had been appointed to officiate in the absence of the Provost, and that four
other persons were selected to discharge the office of bailies until the magistrates
should return.

.fn #
The Earl of Angus was succeeded in the Provostship of Edinburgh by Alexander,
Lord Home, Great Chamberlain of Scotland, in 1514.
.fn-

It is impossible to describe the consternation which pervaded the whole of
Scotland when the intelligence of the defeat became known. In Edinburgh it
was excessive. Mr Arnot, in the history of that city, says,—

“The news of their overthrow in the field of Flodden reached Edinburgh
on the day after the battle, and overwhelmed the inhabitants with grief and
confusion. The streets were crowded with women seeking intelligence about
their friends, clamouring and weeping. Those who officiated in absence of the
magistrates proved themselves worthy of the trust. They issued a proclamation,
ordering all the inhabitants to assemble in military array for defence of
the city, on the tolling of the bell; and commanding, ‘that all women, and
especially strangers, do repair to their work, and not be seen upon the street
<i>clamorand and cryand</i>; and that women of the better sort do repair to the
church and offer up prayers, at the stated hours, for our Sovereign Lord and
his army, and the townsmen who are with the army.’”

Indeed the council records bear ample evidence of the emergency of that
occasion. Throughout the earlier pages, the word “Flowdoun” frequently
occurs on the margin, in reference to various hurried orders for arming and
defence; and there can be no doubt that, had the English forces attempted to
follow up their victory, and attack the Scottish capital, the citizens would
have resisted to the last. But it soon became apparent that the loss sustained
by the English was so severe, that Surrey was in no condition to avail himself
of the opportunity; and in fact, shortly afterwards, he was compelled to disband
his army.

The references to the city banner, contained in the following poem, may
require a word of explanation. It is a standard still held in great honour and
reverence by the burghers of Edinburgh, having been presented to them by
James the Third, in return for their loyal service in 1482. This banner, along
with that of the Earl Marischal, still conspicuous in the Library of the Faculty
of Advocates, was honourably brought back from Flodden, and certainly
never could have been displayed in a more memorable field. Maitland says,
with reference to this very interesting relic of antiquity,—

“As a perpetual remembrance of the loyalty and bravery of the Edinburghers
on the aforesaid occasion, the King granted them a banner or standard,
with a power to display the same in defence of their king, country, and their
own rights. This flag is kept by the Convener of the Trades; at whose
appearance therewith, it is said that not only the artificers of Edinburgh are
obliged to repair to it, but all the artisans or craftsmen within Scotland are
bound to follow it, and fight under the Convener of Edinburgh as aforesaid.”
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h3
<i>Edinburgh after Flodden</i>
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp
.pm verse-start
News of battle!—news of battle!
  Hark! ’tis ringing down the street:
And the archways and the pavement
  Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle? Who hath brought it?
  News of triumph? Who should bring
Tidings from our noble army,
  Greetings from our gallant King?
All last night we watched the beacons
  Blazing on the hills afar,
Each one bearing, as it kindled,
  Message of the opened war.
All night long the northern streamers
  Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights, that never beckon
  Save when kings or heroes die.
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp
.pm verse-start
News of battle! Who hath brought it?
  All are thronging to the gate;
“Warder—warder! open quickly!
  Man—is this a time to wait?”
And the heavy gates are opened:
  Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder
  Bursts from out the bending crowd.
For they see in battered harness
  Only one hard-stricken man,
And his weary steed is wounded
  And his cheek is pale and wan.
Spearless hangs a bloody banner
  In his weak and drooping hand—
God! can that be Randolph Murray,
  Captain of the city band?
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
III.
.sp
.pm verse-start
Round him crush the people, crying,
  “Tell us all—O tell us true!
Where are they who went to battle,
  Randolph Murray, sworn to you?
Where are they, our brothers—children?
  Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
  Is it weal, or is it woe?”
Like a corpse the grizzly warrior
  Looks from out his helm of steel,
But no word he speaks in answer,
  Only with his armed heel
.pn +1
Chides his weary steed, and onward
  Up the city streets they ride;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
  Shrieking, praying by his side.
“By the God that made thee, Randolph!
  Tell us what mischance hath come;”
Then he lifts his riven banner,
  And the asker’s voice is dumb.
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
IV.
.sp
.pm verse-start
The elders of the city,
  Have met within their hall:
The men whom good King James had charged
  To watch the tower and wall.
“Your hands are weak with age,” he said,
  “Your hearts are stout and true;
So bide ye in the Maiden Town,
  While others fight for you.
My trumpet from the Border-side
  Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate
  That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of heaven
  That back I never come,
And if, instead of Scottish shouts,
  Ye hear the English drum,—
Then let the warning bells ring out,
  Then gird you to the fray,
Then man the walls like burghers stout,
  And fight while fight you may.
’Twere better that in fiery flame
  The roofs should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
  Should trample in the town!”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
V.
.sp
.pm verse-start
Then in came Randolph Murray—
  His step Was slow and weak,
And, as he doffed his broken helm,
  The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet,
  And on his mailed hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,
  Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him
  But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
  Had never couched a spear.
.pn +1
They knew so sad a messenger
  Some ghastly news must bring:
And all of them were fathers,
  And their sons were with the King.
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
VI.
.sp
.pm verse-start
And up then rose the Provost,
  A brave old man was he,
Of ancient name, and knightly fame,
  And chivalrous degree.
He ruled our city like a Lord
  Who brooked no equal here,
And ever for the townsmen’s rights
  Stood up ’gainst prince and peer.
And he had seen the Scottish host
  March from the Borough-muir,
With music-storm and clamorous shout
And all the din that thunders out,
  When youth’s of victory sure.
But yet a dearer thought had he,
  For, with a father’s pride,
He saw his last remaining son
  Go forth by Randolph’s side,
With casque on head and spur on heel,
  All keen to do and dare;
And proudly did that gallant boy
  Dunedin’s banner bear.
O woeful now was the old man’s look
  And he spake right heavily—
“Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
  However sharp they be!
Woe is written on thy visage,
  Death is looking from thy face;
Speak, though it be of overthrow—
  It cannot be disgrace!”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
VII.
.sp
.pm verse-start
Right bitter was the agony
  That wrung that soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,
  And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner,
  To the old man’s shaking hand,
Saying—“That is all I bring ye
  From the bravest of the land!
Aye! ye may look upon it—
  It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
  By the valiant and the strong.
.pn +1
One by one they fell around it,
  As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
  With their faces to the foe.
Aye! ye well may look upon it—
  There is more than honour there,
Else be sure I had not brought it
  From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner
  Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom
  Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs, I charge you, keep it holy,
  Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain ye see upon it
  Was the life-blood of your King!”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
VIII.
.sp
.pm verse-start
Woe, and woe, and lamentation!
  What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
  Shrieking, sobbing in despair!
Through the streets the death-word rushes,
  Spreading terror, sweeping on—
“Jesu Christ! our King has fallen—
  O great God, King James is gone!
Holy Mother Mary, shield us,
  Thou who erst didst lose thy Son!
O the blackest day for Scotland
  That she ever knew before!
O our King—the good, the noble,
  Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!
  O our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have ‘scaped the Southron,
  Surely some will come again!”
Till the oak that fell last winter
  Shall uprear its shattered stem—
Wives and mothers of Dunedin—
  Ye may look in vain for them!
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
IX.
.sp
.pm verse-start
But within the Council Chamber
  All was silent as the grave,
Whilst the tempest of their sorrow
  Shook the bosoms of the brave.
.pn +1
Well indeed might they be shaken
  With the weight of such a blow,
He was gone—their prince, their idol,
  Whom they loved and worshipped so!
Like a knell of death and judgment
  Rung from heaven by angel hand,
Fell the words of desolation
  On the elders of the land.
Hoary heads were bowed and trembling,
  Withered hands were clasped and wrung;
God had left the old and feeble,
  He had ta’en away the young.
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
X.
.sp
.pm verse-start
Then the Provost he uprose,
  And his lip was ashen white,
But a flush was on his brow,
  And his eye was full of light.
“Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray,
  Like a soldier stout and true;
Thou hast done a deed of daring
  Had been perilled but by few.
For thou hast not shamed to face us,
  Nor to speak thy ghastly tale,
Standing—thou, a knight and captain—
  Here, alive within thy mail!
Now, as my God shall judge me,
  I hold it braver done,
Than hadst thou tarried in thy place,
  And died above my son!
Thou needst not tell it. He is dead.
  God help us all this day!
But speak—how fought the citizens
  Within the furious fray?
For, by the might of Mary,
  ’Twere something still to tell
That no Scottish foot went backward
  When the Royal Lion fell!”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
XI.
.sp
.pm verse-start
“No one failed him! He is keeping
  Royal state and semblance still;
Knight and noble lie around him,
  Cold on Flodden’s fatal hill.
Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
  Whom ye sent with prayers away,
Not a single man departed
  From his monarch yesterday.
.pn +1
Had you seen them, O my masters!
  When the night began to fall,
And the English spearmen gathered
  Round a grim and ghastly wall!
As the wolves in winter circle
  Round the leaguer on the heath,
So the greedy foe glared upward,
  Panting still for blood and death.
But a rampart rose before them,
  Which the boldest dared not scale;
Every stone a Scottish body,
  Every step a corpse in mail!
And behind it lay our monarch
  Clenching still his shivered sword:
By his side Montrose and Athole,
  At his feet a southern lord.
All so thick they lay together,
  When the stars lit up the sky,
That I knew not who were stricken,
  Or who yet remained to die.
Few there were, when Surrey halted
  And his wearied host withdrew;
None but dying men around me,
  When the English trumpet blew.
Then I stooped, and took the banner,
  As ye see it, from his breast,
And I closed our hero’s eyelids,
  And I left him to his rest.
In the mountains growled the thunder,
  As I leaped the woeful wall,
And the heavy clouds were settling
  Over Flodden, like a pall.”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
XII.
.sp
.pm verse-start
So he ended. And the others
  Cared not any answer then;
Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow,
  Sitting anguish-struck, like men
Who have seen the roaring torrent
  Sweep their happy homes away,
And yet linger by the margin,
  Staring idly on the spray.
But without the maddening tumult
  Waxes ever more and more,
And the crowd of wailing women
  Gather round the Council door.
.pn +1
Every dusky spire is ringing
  With a dull and hollow knell,
And the Miserere’s singing
  To the tolling of the bell.
Through the streets the burghers hurry,
  Spreading terror as they go;
And the rampart’s thronged with watchers
  For the coming of the foe.
From each mountain top a pillar
  Streams into the torpid air,
Bearing token from the Border
  That the English host is there.
All without is flight and terror,
  All within is woe and fear—
God protect thee, Maiden City,
  For thy latest hour is near!
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
XIII.
.sp
.pm verse-start
No! not yet, thou high Dunedin,
  Shalt thou totter to thy fall;
Though thy bravest and thy strongest
  Are not there to man the wall.
No, not yet! the ancient spirit
  Of our fathers hath not gone:
Take it to thee as a buckler
  Better far than steel or stone.
O remember those who perished
  For thy birth-right at the time,
When to be a Scot was treason,
  And to side with Wallace, crime!
Have they not a voice among us,
  Whilst their hallowed dust is here?
Hear ye not a summons sounding
  From each buried warrior’s bier?
Up!—they say—and keep the freedom,
  Which we won you long ago:
Up! and keep our graves unsullied,
  From the insults of the foe!
Up! and if ye cannot save them,
  Come to us in blood and fire:
Midst the crash of falling turrets,
  Let the last of Scots expire!
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
XIV.
.sp
.pm verse-start
Still the bells are tolling fiercely,
  And the cry comes louder in:
Mothers wailing for their children,
  Sisters for their slaughtered kin.
.pn +1
All is terror and disorder,
  Till the Provost rises up,
Calm, as though he had not tasted
  Of the fell and bitter cup.
All so stately from his sorrow,
  Rose the old undaunted Chief,
That you had not deemed, to see him,
  His was more than common grief.
“Rouse ye, Sirs!” he said, “we may not
  Longer mourn for what is done:
If our King be taken from us,
  We are left to guard his son.
We have sworn to keep the city
  From the foe, whate’er they be,
And the oath that we have taken
  Never shall be broke by me.
Death is nearer to us, brethren,
  Than it seemed to those who died,
Fighting yesterday at Flodden
  By their lord and master’s side.
Let us meet it then in patience,
  Not in terror or in fear;
Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,
  Let our souls be steadfast here.
Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting,
  And we yet have much to do,
Up! and haste ye through the city,
  Stir the burghers stout and true!
Gather all our scattered people,
  Fling the banner out once more,—
Randolph Murray! do thou bear it,
  As it erst was borne before:
Never Scottish heart will leave it,
  When they see their monarch’s gore!
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
XV.
.sp
.pm verse-start
“Let them cease that dismal knelling!
  It is time enough to ring,
When the fortress-strength of Scotland
  Stoops to ruin like its King.
Let the bells be kept for warning,
  Not for terror and alarm:
When they next are heard to thunder,
  Let each man and stripling arm.
Bid the women leave their wailing,—
  Do they think that woeful strain,
From the bloody heaps of Flodden
  Can redeem their dearest slain?
.pn +1
Bid them cease, or rather hasten
  To the churches, every one;
There to pray to Mary Mother,
  And to her anointed Son,
That the thunderbolt above us
  May not fall in ruin yet;
That in fire, and blood, and rapine,
  Scotland’s glory may not set.
Let them pray,—for never women
  Stood in need of such a prayer!
England’s yeomen shall not find them
  Clinging to the altars there.
No! if we are doomed to perish,
  Man and maiden, let us fall:
Let a common gulf of ruin
  Open wide to whelm us all!
Never shall the ruthless spoiler
  Lay his hot insulting hand
On the sisters of our heroes
  While we bear a torch or brand!
Up, and rouse ye, then, my brothers,—
  But when next ye hear the bell
Sounding forth the sullen summons
  That may be our funeral knell,
Once more let us meet together,
  Once more see each other’s face;
Then, like men that need not tremble,
  Go to our appointed place.
God, our Father, will not fail us
  In that last tremendous hour,—
If all other bulwarks crumble,
  <sc>He</sc> will be our strength and tower;
Though the ramparts rock beneath us,
  And the walls go crashing down,
Though the roar of conflagration
  Bellow o’er the sinking town;
There is yet one place of shelter,
  Where the foeman cannot come,
Where the summons never sounded
  Of the trumpet or the drum.
There again we’ll meet our children,
  Who, on Flodden’s trampled sod,
For their King and for their country
  Rendered up their souls to God.
There shall we have rest and refuge,
  With our dear departed brave,
And the ashes of the city
  Be our universal grave!”
.pm verse-end

W. E. A.
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=subjects title='Subjects For Pictures'
SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES. | A LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.
.sp 2
<sc>Dear Eusebius</sc>,—Your letter of
inquiry reached me at Gratian’s, just
at the moment we were setting off to
pay a visit of a few days to our friend
the Curate, who had ensconced himself
in happiness and a curacy about
an easy day’s ride from his former
abode. From that quarter I have no
news to tell you, but that the winning
affability even of Gratian cannot obtain
a smile or look of acknowledgment
from Lydia Prateapace. She
passes him in scorn. We found the
Curate and his bride on his little lawn,
before the door of the prettiest of
clerical residences. She was reading
to him, and that I know will please
you; for I have often heard you say
that a woman’s reading inspires the
best repose of thought, and gives both
sweetness and dignity to reflection;
that then the true listener is passive
under the fascination and sense of all
loveliness, and his ideas rise the fairer,
as the flowers grow the brighter that
bend to the music of the sweet-voiced
brook. If every reviewer had such a
reader, criticism would fall merciful as
the “gentle dew,”—ink would lose its
blackness. They rose to greet us
with the best of welcomes; and like
less happy lovers,

.pm letter-start
“That day they read no more.”
.pm letter-end

The house is simply, yet elegantly
furnished. To the little library with
its well-filled shelves of classical and
English literature, female fingers had
lent a grace—there were flowers, and
the familiarity of work, to humanise
the severest author in this living depository
of the thoughts of all ages. The
spirit of Plato might look through his
mesmerised binding and smile. The
busts of ancient poets seemed to
scent the fragrance, and bow their
heads thankful. I could not resist the
pleasure of patting our old acquaintance
Catullus on the back, as I passed,
which Gratian saw, and said—“Ay,
ay, that’s the rogue to whom I sacrificed
swine.” A few spaces unoccupied
by books, were filled with choice
prints from pictures by Raffaele. The
most appropriate was the “School of
Athens,” not the least pleasing that
portrait of the “gentle musician.”
The Curate saw how much these prints
attracted my notice, and said that he
would give me a treat on the morrow,
as he expected a package of
prints all framed and glazed, which a
wealthy relative, with whom, however,
he added, he was not very well acquainted,
had sent him—and he expected
us to attend the unpacking. It
is a present, he said, to furnish my
curacy, but I know nothing of the
giver’s taste. I wished at the time,
that my friend Eusebius had been
present at the unpacking; for I did
not augur much of the collection,
and I thought the grace of his, that is
of your wit, Eusebius, might be wanted
either in admiration or apology. For
if you happened not to like the picture,

.pm letter-start
“I’ll warrant you’ll find an excuse for the
glass.”
.pm letter-end

Shall I describe to you our doings and
our sayings on this occasion? imagine
the case before—us and in the words
of another old song,

.pm verse-start
“It is our opening day.”
.pm verse-end

Well—it is opened—now, Eusebius, I
will not particularise the contents.
The giver, it is to be presumed, with
the patriotic view of encouraging
native art, had confined his choice,
and had made his selection, entirely
from the works of modern English
painters and engravers. And do not
imagine that I am here about to indulge
in any morose and severe criticism,
and say, all were bad. On the
contrary, the works showed very
great artistic skill of both kinds; indeed,
the work of the needle and graver
exhibited a miraculous power of
translation. That the subjects were
such as generally give pleasure, cannot
be denied; they are widely purchased,
go where you will, in every
country town as in the metropolis;
the printsellers’ windows scarcely exhibit
any other. These prints were
therefore according to the general
taste,—and therefore the Curate must
be expected to be highly gratified with
.pn +1
his present. Perhaps he was—but he
certainly looked puzzled; and the
first thing he said was, that he did
not know what to do with them. “Are
they not framed and glazed?” said
Gratian: “hang them up, by all
means.” “Yes,” said the bride,
delightfully ready to assume the conjugal
defence, “but where? You would
not have me put the horses and dogs
in my boudoir; and the other rooms of
our nest have already pictures so out
of character that these would only
be emblems of disagreement; and I am
sure you would not wish to see any
thing of that nature here—yet.” But
let me, Eusebius, take the order of
conversation.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—There is a queen tamer
of all animals, and though I would
not like to see the Curate’s wife among
the monsters, I doubt not she could
always charm away any discordance
these pictures might give. And look
now at the noble face of that honest
and well-educated horse. He would
be a gentleman of rank among the
houyhuhnms. I love his placid face.
He reminds me of my old pet bay
Peter, and many a mile has he carried
his old master that was so fond of
him. I have ridden him over gorse
and road many a long day. He lived
to be upwards of thirty-three, and
enjoyed a good bite and annuity, in a
fat paddock, the last seven or eight
years of his life.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Gratian’s benevolence,
you see, regulates his tastes: he loves
all creatures, but especially the dumb:
he speaks to them, and makes eloquent
answers for them. You know
he has a theory respecting their language.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—And Gratian is happy
therein: I wish I had more taste of
this kind, for these things are very
beautiful in themselves; they are
honest-looking creatures. In that I
have been like Berni:

.pm verse-start
“Piacevangli i cavalli
Assai, ma si passava del videre,
Che modo non avea da comparalli.”
.pm verse-end

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—If they are honest, there
are some sly ones too. What say you
to this law-suit of Landseer’s? I think
I could make a pet of the judge.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Great as Landseer is,
I like this but little. The picture
was surprisingly painted, but when
you have admired the handiwork,
there is an end. The satire is not
good: something sketchy may have
suited the wit, but the labour bestowed
makes it serious: we want
the shortness of fable to pass off the
“<i>animali parlanti</i>.”

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Gratian, who ought to
order a composition picture of “The
Happy Family” all living in concord,
knows all the race, in and out of
kennel, and should tell us if these
dogs are not a little out of due proportion
one with the other.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—I think they are; but
do not imagine I could bear to look
upon the “Happy Family,” though
the piece were painted by Landseer.
I never saw them in a cage but I
longed to disenchant them of the
terror of their keeper. They all
looked as if they could eat each
other up if they dared. No, no—no
convent and nunnery of heterogeneous
natures, that long to quarrel, and
would tear each other to pieces but
for fear of their superior. I love
natural instincts, and am sure the
“Happy family” must have been
sadly tortured to forget them.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—I certainly admire these
animal portraits, they seem to be
very like the creatures; but I really
have no gallery-menagerie where I
can put them. They appear to me
to have been painted to adorn the
stable residences of noblemen, gentlemen
of the turf and kennel. You
smile, Aquilius, but I mean it not to
their dispraise, for in such places
they might amuse in many an idle
hour, and give new zest to the favourite
pursuits.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I only smiled at the
thought, that though many such
noblemen and gentlemen “go to the
dogs,” they would not quite like to
see them among the “family portraits,”
and was therefore pleased
at your appropriating these productions
to the stable and the kennel. I
am not surprised that you do not
know what to do with them. I believe
Morland was the first who introduced
pigs into a drawing-room;
for my own part, I ever thought
them better in a sty.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Hold there, I won’t
allow any one to rub my pigs’ backs
.pn +1
but myself, and you know I have a
brace of Morlands, pigs too, in my
dressing-room.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—And if the pictures in
any degree make you treat your animals
more kindly, Morland deserves
praise; and, in that case, all such
works should be encouraged by the
“Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals.”

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—If Gratian is kind of
his own nature, his familiarity with
all creatures is of another kinship
than such as art can bestow. He
would have given a litter of straw to
Morland himself, had he met him in
one of his unfortunate predicaments,
and thus have made him happy. But
I fear we are not quite safe in thus
commending our choice artists, on
the score of the humanity they are
likely to encourage.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Why not? Has not
Landseer dedicated to “the Humane
Society” the portrait of the noble
Retriever; and is that not his “chief
mourner,” promoting affection between
man and beast?

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—“<lang=it><i>O si sic omnia!</i></lang>” I
love all field sports, and river sports
too; but it is when horse, dog, and
man all agree in the pleasure, and the
bit of cruelty—for such, I suppose, we
must admit it to be—is kept out of
sight as much as possible, that we
are willing to adopt the Benthamite
principle into the sporting code,
“the greatest happiness to the greatest
number.” Yet I don’t like to refine
away feeling in this way, and
say, many enjoy, and one poor creature
is hunted. I rather put it all
upon nature. There is an instinct to
hunt and be hunted, and perhaps
there is a reciprocal pleasure. I like
our good old sporting songs; they
dwell upon the health and enjoyment
of refreshing animation, the sociality,
the good humour (and sometimes with
a nice touch of pity too) of sport;
they take no pleasure in dwelling
upon the hard, the cruel necessity.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Then are our ballad-makers
more tender-hearted than our
painters!

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—And there is need they
should be; for some of our painters,
and not only ours, but of all countries,
have, to my mind, too much indulged
in representations of cruelty. I have
often wondered how many of the old
pictures, your martyrdoms of saints,
came to be painted. Who could take
pleasure in looking at them?

<sc>Curate.</sc>—The best were works of
high genius, and were painted for religious
places; and though cruelty is
necessary to the story of martyrdom,
it is seldom made the subject—it is
the triumph, the angelic choir, and the
crown, and the sublime faith,—all
combine to make the sublime subject;
the mere act then becomes but the
accessory; and such pictures, seen in
their proper places—the chapels for
which they were painted, and with
the mind under a religious impression—are
of the noblest interest, of most
improving contemplation. I have
heard such pictures condemned, because
they have been seen in uncongenial
places, and under antagonistic
impressions. They are not for banquet-rooms,
nor ball-rooms; nor to be
commingled with the low-life subjects
of the Dutch school, nor amidst the
<i>omnium-gatherum</i> of galleries. The
art cannot offer a higher pleasure than
the contemplation of these sublime
productions of Italian genius, seen
when and where they should be exhibited,
and alone. I have seen some
that make their own sanctity, which
seems to spread from them in a divine
light, and diffuse itself into the outer
obscure, in which all that is unfitting
and minute is buried; and the great
work of mind has created its own
architecture, and filled it with the
religious awe under which we gaze
and wonder. And are we not the
better?

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I fear this age of domestic
life is against the reproduction
of such works. All that can adorn
the home, the house, and not the
temple, we make the object of emulous
search. Even our churches, if
they would be allowed to receive such
works, open as they are but an hour
or so in the week, could scarcely have
influence, and make such creations
felt. In Italy, the passer-by has but
to draw aside the curtain, and enter,
and receive the influence. In such
places, the martyrdoms of saints gave
conviction of the holiness of faith, the
beauty and power of devotion.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—True; you will teach
me the more to admire old Italian art.
.pn +1
I confess, the great power you describe
has but seldom come home to my feelings;
perhaps they are naturally more
congenial with home subjects; and I
have been too often disgusted with
pictures of horrors. A friend of mine
I once found copying a picture of the
flaying of a saint. There was a man
unconcernedly tearing away his skin;
and the raw flesh was portrayed, I
dare say, to the life. He told me it
was a fine picture. I maintained that
it was too natural. It was, in fact, a
bad picture, for the subject was cruelty;
unconcealed, detestable cruelty, not
made the means of exhibiting holy
fortitude. There was nothing in it to
avert the absolute disgust such a sight
must raise. I would as soon live in
the shambles, or in a dissecting-room,
as have such a picture before my eyes
continually. My friend thought only
of the painting; the naturalness and
the skill that drew it and coloured it
to the quick—not to the life. I have
seen so many of the Italian pictures
of a gloomy cast, that, for my part, I
have rather enjoyed the cheerful domestic
scenes of life and landscape of
the best Flemish masters, and English
too.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Art has no power of injunction,
or the hand of many an artist
would be stayed from perilling a profanation.
Minds of all grades have
been employed in the profession. The
Italians have not been exempted from
a corruption of taste and of power.
Yet, without question, the grandest
and the most touching creations of
art have been the work of Italian
hands, and the conceptions of Italian
minds. I fear I am telling but admitted
truisms.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I know not that. I
doubt if the pre-eminence will be admitted
as established. What works
do our collectors mostly purchase—your
men of taste, your caterers
for our National Gallery, those to
whose taste and discernment not only
our artists, but the public, are expected
to bow? We have heard a great deal
of late of encouraging the fine arts.
We have had a premier supposed to
be supreme in taste. Nay, as if he
would cultivate the nation’s taste,
show the importance of art, encourage
collecting, and teach how to collect,
has he not, of late, opened his house
almost to the public, and exhibited
his collection; and what did it show?
doubtless, beautiful specimens of art,
but specimens of the great, the sublime,
the pathetic? Alas, no! I did not
see mention made of a single Italian
picture. Now, what would you think
of the taste of a man who should profess
to collect a library of poets, and
should omit Homer, and Æschylus,
and Dante, and point with pride to
the neatly-bound volumes of the minor
poets, and show you nothing higher
than the “Pastor Fido,” or the
“Gentle Shepherd?”

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Or in a musical library
should discard Handel?

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Well, that is strange,
certainly; but if we are becoming
more home-comfort-seeking people, is
it not right to encourage the production
of works for that <i>home market</i>?
I cannot agree to put in the background
our more domestic artists—and
at least they avoid the fault of
choosing disgusting subjects.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Do they? I am not
quite sure of that: we shall see. I
suspect they fail more in that respect
than you will gladly admit.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Now, what fault can
you find with my favourite Landseer?
Do you not like to see the faithful,
poor dumb creatures ennobled by his
pencil, and made, as they ought to be
in life, the humble companions of
mankind?

<sc>Curate.</sc>—If humble, not ennobled!

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Master Curate, do you
not read—“Before honour cometh
humility?”

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I agree with you, Gratian.
I quite love his pictures: they
are wonderfully executed, with surprising
truth, and in general his subjects,
if not high, are pleasing. Yet I
hardly know how to say, in general:
there are so many exceptions. I
could wish he were a little less cruel.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Cruel! how can that be?
his pet dogs, his generous dogs,
and horses, and that macaw, and the
familiar monkey, and that dear begging
dog. The most gentle-minded
lady I am acquainted with is working
it in tambour—and has been a twelve-month
about it!

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—And has he not a high
poetic feeling? Can you object to
.pn +1
the “Sanctuary,” and the “Combat,”—I
believe that is the title of the
picture—where the stag is waiting
for his rival?

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—They are most beautiful,
they are poetical; there is not
an inch of canvass in either that you
could say should have a touch more
or less. The scenery sympathises
with the creatures; it is their wild
domain, and they are left to their own
instincts. There is no exhibition of
man’s craft there, let them enjoy their
freedom. Even in the more doubtful
“Sanctuary,” we have the assurance
that it <i>is</i> a “Sanctuary;” but I see,
Gratian, that your memory is giving
you a hint of some exception. What
think you of the fox—not hunted as
you would have him painted, wherein
“the field” would be the sport—but
just entering the steel trap, where
you see the dead rabbit, and think
the fox will be overmatched by man’s
cruel cunning?

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Why, I had rather
hunt him in open field, and give him
a chance than trap him.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Even Reynard might
say with Ajax, if man must be his
enemy—

.pm verse-start
<lang=el>“Εν δε φαει και ολεσσον.”</lang>
.pm verse-end

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—I give up that picture;
it is not a pleasing subject.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—I am sure you must like his
“Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time.”

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—What! with its wholesale
slaughter of fish, flesh, and fowl,
to feed the gross feeders of the convent?
I take no pleasure in it: I
could take part with the “melancholy
Jacques,” and rate “the fat and
greasy” ones in good round terms.
Who wishes a picture of a larder?

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Here is his “Hawking
Party;” will not this please you?
You at least see the health and joy of
the sporting: are not the hawkers delighted?

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—So much the worse,
for their part in the transaction is
quite subordinate—in the background.
What is the prominent subject?—the
bloody murder of the poor heron. It
should have been the accident; it is
made the cruel principal: without
being squeamishly tender-hearted, I
shall never look upon that picture
with pleasure. In how different a
manner did Wouverman paint his
hawking parties! He represented
them as scenes in which ladies might
participate—the domain, the mansion-gate,
the retinue, the grace, the
beauty, the cheering exercise, the
pleasure of all, even the animals engaged:
he does not make the bloody
death the subject.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—I must confess Wouverman’s
was the better choice. You
seem prepared with a collection of
examples.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—In this I am only
taking what is before me; but worse
remains for more severe remarks.
You have, I see, the “Otter Hunt,”—is
it possible that picture can give
you any pleasure? What is the sentiment
of it?—debasing cruelty. I say
debasing, because it puts human
nature in the very worst position: the
dogs are using their instinct, and are
even then defrauded of their game,
which the huntsman holds up conspicuously
in the picture, (and which
is in fact the subject), stuck through
with his spear, and writhing in agony.
Surely this cannot be

.pm verse-start
          “The dainty dish
To set before the Queen.”
.pm verse-end

It is said to be in her Majesty’s possession.
There is in Lucian a description
of a picture of a Centaur
and his family, a magnificent group:
the father centaur is holding up a
lion’s skin to the gaze of his young
progeny, to excite them to deeds of
courage. If this poor agonised death-writhing
otter is to be perpetually
before the eyes of our young princes,
they will not learn much good from
the lesson. For my own part, I look
upon the picture with entire disgust,
and would on no account have it
before my eyes. I know not in what
mood I could be to endure it.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—I think we really may
dispense with the hanging up this
picture anywhere. I cannot bear to
look at it. It is a picture to teach
cruelty. As a test of its impropriety,
imagine it placed as an ornament in
our Sunday school: we should have
the children brought up savages.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Thanks, dearest Lydia.
I well knew this picture would not be
to your taste; we will, at all events, set
it aside. Happy are we, that our
women of England can be mothers of
.pn +1
heroes, without being inured to the
cruelty of bull-fights. A Spanish
lady, describing an exhibition of the
kind, remarked how glorious was the
sight, for there were thirteen horses
and one man killed. I suspect Aquilius
will not quite approve of the
“Deer-Stalking” lately exhibited at
the Academy.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Certainly not; and for
the same reason. It puts man in a
degrading position; and our sympathy
is for the poor creatures who fly
terrified, not seeing their skulking
enemies; and one poor creature is
knocked over in his wild flight. It is
admirably painted; the scene all we
could wish; but the story is bad—the
moral bad. You look at the picture
without feeling a common desire with
the hunters: you wish them away.
You have their object put before you
basely: their attitudes are mean. It
is not a work, great as it is in art,
that ought to give pleasure.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—And yet you are not
displeased reading Mr Scrope’s
“Deer-Stalking?” It is only putting
his words on canvass.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—True; but are they faithfully
put? and even so, words and
paint are not the same; their power
is different. The description of language
passes on; you are not allowed
to dwell too long on what, if seen embodied,
would but shock you, by its
being arrested, and made permanent.
I remember the description. You at
first scarcely know if there is a deer
or not; it is only the experienced eye
can discover the motion of the ear, or
some speck of the creature, at a distance.
You enter into the breathless
caution of the hunter—his steady and
earnest hope; but you see not, or only
for a moment, the skulking attitude.
The poet—for the prose is poetry—touches
with a light and delicate hand
that which the less discriminating
painter grasps, holds firm, and fixes
as his subject.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—A just remark. The
sentiment is thus made both cruel and
mean.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Come, then, let us have
something we can entirely praise, by
the hand of this prince of animal
painters. You will at least admire
his “Peace” and “War,” those two
most beautiful and poetical pictures.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—The “Peace”—yes. It
is most happy; and perhaps the
“War,” if we take the moral rightly.
It might be bought by the Peace Society.
Every one must acknowledge
the great beauty and feeling of these
pictures. I confess, however, I seldom
look upon battle-pieces with much
pleasure. The horrors of war are not
for the drawing-room; and where they
are painted for public position, they are
generally in very bad taste. I do not
mean here to allude to the companion
to Mr Landseer’s “Peace.”

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—How seldom you see a
battle-piece,—that is, a battle! You
have some one or more incidents of a
battle; but, as a whole, it is not represented.
I have no idea of a battle,
on which depends the fate of empires,
from the exhibition of a grenadier
running his bayonet through a prostrate
foe, a few dead men, and a
couple of horses, one rearing and one
dead. Such are the usual representations
of battles.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Yes—vulgar battles;
vulgarising the most important events
in history: and yet I do not believe
it to be impossible to represent a
battle poetically, and more truly, than
by such incident as Gratian has described,
though the regimentals be
most accurately painted—and the gold
lace has a great charm for the multitude.
And perhaps it was in deference
to this common taste, that the
chief prize was given to the “Battle
of Meeanee” in Westminster Hall.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—I rejoice to listen to the
criticism. We will not have battle-pieces
in our boudoir; Curates and
their wives are for peace. I go with
the poet—

.pm verse-start
<lang=it>“Le lance rotte, gli scudi spezzati,
L’insigne polverose, e le bandiere,
I destrier morti, i corpi arrovesciati
Fan spettacolo orribile a vedere!
I combattenti insieme mescolati,
Senza governo, o ordine di schiere,
Veder sossopra andare, or questi, or quelle,
A’riguardanti arricciar fa i capelli.”</lang>
.pm verse-end

<sc>Curate.</sc>—I take my old part of
translator, and thus render it, perhaps
Aquilius will think too freely, at least
in the conclusion—

.pm verse-start
Lances and shields of broken chivalry,
Banners and ensigns trampled from their glory
Down in the dust—Oh! woe too sad to see,
Rider and horse fallen dead in heaps all gory;
.pn +1
Leaderless squadrons, one tumultuous sea
Of ruin! Death sole hero of the story.
And such is war—oh sight the heart to rend,
And make our rooted hair to stand on end!
.pm verse-end

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Your verse shall not
disenchant me of my criticism upon
this bad habit of seeing his subject,
into which so great a painter has
fallen. After what has been said, I
shall not surprise you by objecting to
his “Van Amburgh and his Beasts,”
painted for his Grace the Duke of
Wellington—the shrinking, retreating,
cowed animals, whom one would
wish to see in their wilder or nobler
natures. And certainly the painter
has made a very poor figure of the
tamer: you are angry with the
lions and tigers for being afraid of
him. He should have been less conspicuous.
Poor beasts! within bars,
no escape from the hot iron! I had
rather see a representation of the
tamer within the bars, and the beasts
out, longing to get at him. There is
a very happy subject for a picture of
this kind in the hymn to Aphrodite—where
the goddess descends on Ida,
and all the savage beasts come fawning
about her, when, with a motion
of her hand, she dismisses them to
pair in the forests. Such noble animals,
crouching in obeisance and willing
servitude to a divinity, to beauty,
and to innocence, make a picture of a
finer sentiment. This taming reduces
the dignity of the brute, without
raising the man.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—The tamed animals are
not honoured in their portraiture;
nor is it much consolation that the
great duke beholds their quailing.
Statius attempted a consoling compliment
of this kind, upon the occasion
of a much admired beast, “Leo
Mansuetus,” being killed by the blow
of a flying tigress, in the presence of
the emperor. After describing the
scene, he adds—

.pm verse-start
<lang=la>“Magna tamen subiti tecum solatia lethi
Victe feres, quod te mœsti, Populusque Patresque,
Ceu notus caderes tristi Gladiator arena,
Ingemuere mori: magni quod Cæsaris ora
Inter tot Scythias, Libyeasque, et littore Rheni,
Et Pharia de gente feras, quas perdere vile est,
Unius amissi tetigit jactura leonis.”</lang>
.pm verse-end

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—We are rivals in rhyme,
and you know I freely translate:
perhaps you will admit this as a
version—

.pm verse-start
Yet this your consolation, ye poor beasts,
Whene’er the duke his guests illustrious feasts,
Th’ illustrious guests, as an uncommon treat,
Shall see the lions, while they talk and eat.
Oft from their plates shall lift their half-filled jaws,
To wonder at your whiskers, manes, and, claws,
And only wish, the painter to rebuke,
To see Van Amburgh killed before the duke.
.pm verse-end

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—I am umpire: that is
not a version, but a perversion.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Then it the better suits
the picture. I must, however, admit
that, to criticise at all, there is need
to be out of the fascination of the
work. It is quite marvellous in
power. We are treating of subjects
for pictures, and consequently their
sentiment—the why they should, or
should not please. It is to be regretted
that so great an artist should,
not <i>always</i> well conceive the poetry
of sentiment.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—We are, not yet really
lovers of art, or we should not be so
confined in our taste. The excellence
of this one painter excludes others
from their due praise, and patronage
too. Go to our exhibitions, you are
surprised at the number of our artists:
look at the printsellers’ windows, and
you would wonder at their fewness. I
cannot remember, at this moment, a
print from a work of any modern
British painter, of moral importance
and dignified sentiment.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—There is one of Mr Eastlake’s,
his beautiful scriptural subject.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—True; but we have
not yet emancipated the nation from
their puritan horror of sacred subjects—which
are, after all, the greatest and
best. We import these from the
Germans.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—We have been a nation,
of country gentlemen—fond of field-sports:
and this our national character
has had much to do with our taste
in art. Hence nothing answers so
well as horses and dogs.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Yet I am inclined to
say “<lang=la>cave canem</lang>.” By the bye,
why do the old painters, Paul Veronese,
for instance, in his celebrated
large picture of the marriage feast,
introduce great dogs, where they
evidently should not be? I have
.pn +1
met lately, somewhere, with the supposition
that the bones which the
painters calcined to make dryers
were the bones thrown under the
tables for the dogs, and that such
was the practice. But there is
passage in “Laurentius Pignorius de
servis,” which seems altogether to
contradict the notion, and indeed to
reprove painters who introduced these
large dogs in their pictures; and particularly,
it should seem, one who
represented Lazarus and the dogs in
the same room with Dives. His
argument is curious—that the dogs
which were admitted upon these
occasions were little pet animals, and
that it is so shown by the passage in
chap. <abbr='fifteen'>xv</abbr>. verse 27, of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Matthew,
where they are said to pick up the
<i>crumbs</i>, and that it is shown to have
been so by ancient sculpture. He
says that this introduction is become
such an admitted taste, that whoever
would be bold enough to set himself
against it would in vain endeavour
to correct the bad taste of the painter.
It is a curious passage,—I have the
book here, and will turn to it: I read
it only the other day. Here it is, and
I more readily offer it as it speaks
sensibly of a disgusting subject, unfit
for painting.

<lang=la>“Erant autem et qui pone januam
canem pictum haberent, ut apud
Petronium Trimalcio. At quid ad
hæc pictores nostri qui in triclinio
divitis Lazarum delineant? Potestne
quidquam ineptius aut cogitari aut
fingi? scilicet janitores admisissent
hominem scatentem ulceribus, dorso
ipsi luituri quidquid oculos nauseabundi
domini offendisset. Canes vero
immanes illi Villatici et Venatici,
num oblectabant cœnantem dominum?
Apage! Catelli quidem in delicus
tricliniaribus habiti sunt, ut testatur
mulier Chananœa apud Mattheum,
et indicant sculpturæ antiquorum
marmorum: Cæterum. Molossos, et
ejus generis reliquos, nemo in convictum,
nisi amens aut rusticus recepisset.
At quisquis pictorum nostrorum
pene omnium pravitatem corrigere
voluerit, otium desperaverit
omnino: adeo ineruditi sunt, adeo
cognitionem omnem antiquitatis turpiter
abjecerunt.”</lang>

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—I suppose the little pets
admitted to the table were the small
Melitan dogs, such as Lucian speaks
of in his “Private Tutor.” The Greek
philosopher and teacher was requested
by the lady of the house in which he
was tutor to take charge of her dear
little pet, which, being carried in his
arms as he was stuffed into the back
carriage with the packages and lady’s
maids, disgraced the philosopher by
watering his beard.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—A kind of King Charles’s
breed. I remember a gentleman telling
me, many years ago, that he was
dining in Rome with Cardinal York,
and one of these little creatures was
handed round after dinner, upon which
occasion the cardinal said, “Take care
of him, for he and I are the last of
the breed.”

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Poor creatures! that is a
touching anecdote. It ought to be
written under Vandyke’s celebrated
picture of the unfortunate Charles and
his family, in which the breed are so
conspicuous. I think my sweet,
Pompey is one of them, notwithstanding
the cardinal’s protest, and I
shall love the little pet the more for
the royal familiarity of his race. I
must have his portrait.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Or his statue, that he
may rival Pompey the Great. Why
his picture? has not Landseer painted
him to the life in that fine picture
where he is all play, with the ribbon
about him to show whose pet he is,
and the great mastiff lying so quiet,
stretched out below him? It is, his
very portrait, and when he dies you
should get the print, and I have his
epitaph for you to write under it.—

.pm verse-start
In marble statue the Great Pompey lives,
Life to the little Pompey Landseer gives.
And little Pompey play’d the Roman’s part,
And almost won a world—his Lydia’s heart:
Then died, to prove that dogs shall have their day,
And men no more, whatever parts they play.
Great Cæsar at his feet in painted state—
Shall little Pompey envy Pompey great.
How true the pencil, and no truer pen,
Alike the history paints of dogs and men.
.pm verse-end

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Do you mean to be
the general epitaph-maker for your
church-yard? Take care you infringe
not on the sexton’s privilege.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—If we discuss this matter
farther, we shall have Aquilius
and the Curate diverging into their
poetics; so, my dear good lady, I
must look at your flower-garden:
.pn +1
here now, an arm for an old man;
and—have you an orchard?—I can
help you there a little. And a word
in your ear—depend upon it, wherever
there is an orchard there should be a
pig or two in it. Come, I must look
at your stock; we’ll talk about pictures
after tea. See, my friend Curate, I’m
off with your wife; not quite so active
as a harlequin, but you and Aquilius
may follow as pantaloon and clown.
So let us keep up the merry farce:
no,—entertainment of life, and I don’t
care who best plays the fool.

Now, Eusebius, what shall I do?
will you have an interlude? Your wit
will reply that you have had one
already. Will you have music? Yes,
I think you said, but your’s is all on
one string. Shall it be as a chorus in
a Greek play? Why do dogs howl at
music? They have an intuitive suspicion
of what the strings are made,
and think they might as well begin by
tolling the bell for themselves, or
rehearse the howl! The interlude is
over—while we are asking about
it, the bell rings, the tea-things are
removed—and the prints laid on
chairs round the room. We resume
the discussion.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I have been considering
what are the most popular subjects
as we see them exhibited in the
shop windows, and I find that even
Landseer has his rival in the popular
approbation. Go where you will
you see specimens of the style—mawkish
sentimentality, Goody Families,
Benevolent Visitors, Teaching
Children. There is nothing more
detestable than these milk-and-water
affectations of human kindnesses; all
the personages are fools, and as far
as their little senses will let them,
hypocrites. Whence do these Puritan
performances come?—the lamentable
thought is, where do they go?—a
man cannot paint above himself. A
soft artist paints soft things.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Don’t mention the things! I
am sure they make hypocrites. I saw
one the other day in a cottage; it was of
the “Benevolent Visitors”—I am not
sure of the title; if any good ladies gave
it, it was a vile vanity; if bought as a
compliment, it was a worse corruption.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Do you know that we
have historical painters for modern
saintology, and that a picture was
actually painted of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Joanna Southcote,
for the chapel at Newington
Butts, in a sky-blue dress, leading
the devil with a long chain, like a
dancing bear, surrounded by adoring
angels? I met with the anecdote in
a very amusing book of Mr Duncan’s,
the “Literary Conglomerate,” wherein
he treats of the subjects of pictures.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I know it; I only quarrel
with him for classing Hogarth
with the comic painters. To me, he
is the most tragic of all modern, I
would almost say of all painters.
The tragic power of two of the series
of <lang=fr>“Marriage á la mode,”</lang> is not surpassed
in art. The murdered husband,
the one: the other, the death
of the adulteress. They are too
tragic for any position but a public
gallery. He was the greatest of
moral painters; and the most serious,
the gravest of satirists. He is so
close to the real tragedies of life, and
his moral is so distinct, that he seems
to have aimed at teaching rather than
pleasing. And perhaps, if the truth
were known, it might be that he has
in no small degree improved the
world in its humanities. He has
pictured vice odious in the eyes of
the pure, but not so as to quench
their pity; and has made it so
wonderfully human, that we shudder
as we acknowledge the liabilities of
our nature. He exhibited strongly
that man is the instrument of his own
punishment, and that there was no
need of painted monsters and demons
to persecute him. He showed the
scorpion that stings himself to death.
He brought the thunder and lightning,
the whirlwind, not from the
clouds to expend their power on the
fair face of the earth, but out of the
heart, to drive and crush the criminals
with their own tempestuous passions.
And is not this tragic power?
Is such a man to be classed among
the painters of drolls? His pictures
would convert into sermons, and
would you call the preacher of them
a buffoon?

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—There is, indeed, little
drollery in Hogarth: even his wit was
a sharp sword, so sharp that the
spectator is wounded, and dangerously,
before he is aware of it.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—I could not live comfortably
in a room with his prints. I
.pn +1
would possess them in my library as
I would Crabbe’s Tales, but would
not have them always before my eye.
Nor would I, indeed, some of the
finest works of man’s genius—as Raffaele’s
“Incendio.” I would have
them to refer to, but a home is, or ought
to be, too gentle for such disturbance.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—There is an anecdote
told of Fuseli, that when on a visit to
some friend at Birmingham, a lady
in a party said to him—“Oh, Mr
Fuseli, you should have been here
last week, there was such a subject
for your pencil, a man was taken
up for eating a live cat.”—“Madam,”
said the veritable Fuseli, “I paint
terrors, not horrors.” For my own
part, life has so many terrors, and
horrors too, that I should prefer mitigating
their effect, by having more
constantly before me the agreeabilities—pleasant
domestic scenes, soft
landscapes, or such gay scenes
and figures as my favourite Teniers
occasionally painted, or the sunny
De Hooge; or why not bring forward
some of our pleasant home-scene
English painters? Did you not see,
and quite love, that little delight of a
picture, the hay-making scene in the
Vicar of Wakefield, by our own, and
who will be the wide world’s own,
Mulready? Such scenes ravish me.
Did you not long to walk quietly
round and look in the vicar’s face, as
he and Mrs Primrose sat apart with
their backs to you? Mulready, you
see, had the sense to leave something
to the imagination.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Yes, pictures of this
kind have a very great charm: they
are for us in our domestic mood, and
that is our general mood—they should
gently move our love and pity. But
I cannot conceive a greater mistake
than to make “familiar life” as it is
called, doleful, uncheerful subjects,
that are out of the rule of love and
pity, very easily run into the class of
terror; there is scarcely a between,
and if one—it is insipidity.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Now, I shall probably
commit an offence against general
taste if I confess that, in my eyes,
Wilkie is very apt to paint insipid
subjects. He seems too often to
have been led to a matter of fact,
because it had some accessories that
would paint rather well, than because
the fact was worth telling, either for its
moral or its amusement. Some of
his pieces, notwithstanding their excellent
painting and perfectly graphic
power, rather displease me. I
never could take any interest in his
celebrated “Blind Fiddler.” It may
be nature, but there is nothing to touch
the feelings in it: had I been present,
I should not have given the man a
sixpence. And as for the hideous
grimace-making boy, I could have
laid the stick with pleasure on his
back. I don’t think I could ever
have kissed the ugly child.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Wilkie was a man of
great observation, great good sense,
manifest proof of which his correspondence
sets forth; but that necessary
virtue of a painter of familiar life,
which he possessed in so great a
degree, observation, led him oftener to
look for character than beauty. Oddity
would strike him before regularity.
Nor was he a cheerful painter. His
“Blind Man’s Buff,” is contrived to
be without hilarity, and it is singularly
unfortunate in the sharp angles
of hips and elbows. His best picture
of this kind is certainly the “Chelsea
Pensioners”—or “Battle of Waterloo,”
very finely painted; but there is an
acting joy in it,—it is joy staid in its
motion, and bid sit for its portrait.
So his “Village Wake” in our
national gallery, is not joyous as a
whole; the figures are spots, and the
mass of the picture is dingy. Pictures,
like poems, should not only
be fair but touching, “dulcia sunto,”
and this is more imperatively essential
to domestic scenes. The story
should always be worth telling.
Painters seem to have taken it into
their heads that any thing, which
presents a good means for exhibiting
light and shade and colour, makes a
picture. If an incident or a scene be not
worth <i>seeing</i>, it is not worth painting.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—That is never more
true than when they are figure pieces.
Our likings and our antipathies are
stronger in all representations of the
ways and manners of men, than in
all the varieties of other nature. We
can bear a low and mean landscape,
but degraded humanity seldom is,
and never ought to be pleasing.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Aristotle determines that
brutishness is worse than vice. Vice
.pn +1
is a part of our nature, but brutishness
unhumanises the whole nature. It is
certainly astonishing that painters can
take a delight, not having a moral
end in the performances, to select the
low scenes—the utter degradation of
civilisation, and therefore worse than
any savage state—as subjects for pictures.
How is it that in a drawing-room
a connoisseur will look with complacency—more
than complacency—upon
a painted representation of
beastly boors drinking, whose presence,
and the whole odour of which
scene, in the reality, he would rush
from with entire disgust?

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Yet I must, in a great
measure, acquit the Dutch and Flemish
school of such an accusation.
The painters who worked these abominations
were really but few,—the
majority aim to represent innocent
cheerfulness. How often is Teniers
delightful in his clear refreshing skies,
cheerful as the music to which his
happy party are dancing, in the brightness
of a day as vigorous as themselves.
Cheerfulness, rational repose,
and sweetest home affections, often
make the subjects of their pictures;
and these impart a like pleasantness,
a like sympathy, in the mind of the
spectator. Having such a variety of
these pleasantries and sympathies to
choose from, it is astonishing that
any artist should select for his canvass
a subject unpleasing and even disgusting.
I remember, a great many years
ago, a picture exhibited, I think at
the Academy, which at the time was
thought a wonder, and, I believe,
sold for a great deal of money. It
was “The Sore Leg,” by Heaphy;—there
was the drawing off of the plaster,
and the horrors of the disease painted
to the life, and the pain. Is it possible
that, for the mere art of the doing,
any human being, unless he were a
surgeon, should receive the slightest
pleasure from such a picture? It is
enough to mention one of the kind;
but there have been many.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—I dare say, then, you will,
with me, disapprove of such a subject
as “The Cut Finger.” Surely it is
very disagreeable.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Entirely so; but he
painted a much worse thing than that.
I do not see why any country gentleman
should take pleasure in seeing
such a “Rent Day,” as this celebrated
artist has painted. There is a painful
embarrassment, uncomfortable miscalculation,
reluctant payments, much
more dissatisfaction than joy. I really
cannot quite forgive him for making
the principal figure hump-backed.
This is not the characteristic of toil,
labour, and industry. Doubtless the
figure is from nature; but he never
preferred beauty of form, when character
stood by. But there is one of
his pictures I consider perfectly
brutish—for it is a scene arising out
of that brutishness which is the necessary
result of artificial and civilised
life; which, unless for a moral purpose,
it is best to keep out of sight,—at least
in all that pertains to the ornament
of domestic life. I allude to his picture,
“Distraining for Rent.” It is
a subject only fit for the contemplation
of a bailiff, to keep his heart in
its proper case-hardened state, by
familiarising him with the miseries of
his profession. I have been told that
Wilkie did not approve of this subject,
but that it was given him as a commission,
which he could not well refuse.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I would have all such
subjects prohibited by Act of Parliament.
Have a committee of humanity,
(we can do nothing now without
committees,) and fine the offending
artists. Is the man of business,
in this weary turmoil of the daily
world, to return to his house, after
his labour is over, and see upon his
walls nothing but scenes of distress,
of poverty, of misery, of hard-heartedness—when
he should indulge his sight
and his mind with every thing that
would tend to refresh his worn spirits,
avert painful fears, either for himself
or others, and should tune himself,
by visible objects of rational
hilarity, into the full and free harmonies
of a vigorous courage, and
health of social nature? His eye
should not rest upon the miseries of
“Distraining for Rent,” Heaphy’s
“Sore Legs,” no, nor even “Cut
Fingers.” In this wayfaring world
of many mishaps, however homely
be the inns, let them be clean and
cheerful, that we may set out again
in an uncertain sky, where we must
expect storms, with beautiful thoughts
for our companions; that, by encouragement
.pn +1
of a confiding reception, become
winged angels, with a radiant
plumage, brightening all before our
path, and seen brightest and most
heavenly under a lowering cloud.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Thanks, Aquilius, you are
poetical, and therefore most true; so
low and mean thoughts—what! are
they to accompany us, whether they
show themselves in words or in pictures?
I fear me, they are bad angels,
and are doing their evil mission in our
hearts, alas! and in our actions. It
has been said, as an encouragement to
our charity, that “men have received
angels unawares.” It may be said,
too, as a warning lest we receive evil,
that men may receive demons unawares.
Beautiful Una—the lion licked
your feet because you were so pure, so
good.

Shall I tell it to you, Eusebius? Yes,
your eyes will glisten as they read,
for dearly do you love happiness.
Here the Curate drew his bride, his
wife, closer to him, kissed her honest
forehead, and rested his cheek upon it
for a little space, and with a low voice
murmured,—“My beautiful Una.”
He then turned to us with a smile,
and I think the smallest indication of
moisture in his eye, which might have
been more but that the bright angel
of his thought had cleared it away,
and said,—Excuse me; yet, to be
honest, excuse is not needed: my
two dearest of friends must and do
rejoice in the loving truth of my happiness.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—No, no, my good friend,
don’t make excuse, it would be our
shame were it needed. You have
given us one subject for a picture,
whose interest should set my brushes
in motion were I twenty years
younger, and might hope to succeed.
But this I will say, my memory has a
picture gallery of her own, and in it
will this little piece have a good place.
Now, I like this conversation on art,
because you know I have been all my
life a dauber of canvass—dauber!
even Aquilius, who has so much addicted
himself to the art, has praised
some of my performances. I have
painted many a sign for good-natured
landlords, in odd places, where my
fishing excursions have led me; and old
Hill, honest old Hill, the fisher of Millslade,
has a bit of canvass of mine, the
remembrance of a day, which I believe
he will treasure a little for my sake,
and more for its truth, to his last day.
I must show the Curate’s wife old Hill.
I hit him off well,—am proud of that
portrait, and often look at my old
companion from my easy chair. I
sometimes now dabble with my tube
colours, and make a dash at my
remembrances of river scenes. Nature
and I have been familiar many a long
year. I love the breezy hill, and
the free large moor, that takes up the
winds and tosses them down the
grooved sides, to go off in their own
communing with the waterfalls. I
love, too, the quiet brook, and rivers
stealing their way by green meadows,
and the elms, that stand like outposts
on the banks, keepers of the river.
Have we not, in our discussion, too
much omitted to speak of landscape,—even
including the sea-shores? And in
landscape we certainly have painters
that please. As a true fisherman and
painter-naturalist I could not resist,
the other day, purchasing Lewis’s
river scenes. How happily—the more
happily because his execution is so
unstudied, so accidental—does Lewis,
with his etching and mezzotint effects,
put you into the very heart of river
scenery; and then how truly do you
trace it upwards and downwards.
We have some good landscape
painters.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—We have; and of late
years they have greatly improved in
subjects. They at least now look for
what is beautiful. The old dead
stump, the dunghill, and horse and
cart, the pig and the donkey, are no
longer considered to be the requisites
for English landscape. One has seen
publications called English landscape,
which must give foreigners a
very miserable idea of our country.
Cottage scenery, too, has had its day.
The old well is dry—the girl married,
it is to be hoped, and the pitcher
broken. The lane and gipsies,
the cross sticks and the crock, are not
dissolving but dissolved views. In
time, the turnpike road and ruddled
sheep going to the butcher will be
thought but ill to represent the pastoral.
When the mutton has been eaten
up—and I hope the artists get their fair
share—I wish they would be satisfied,
and know when they have had
.pn +1
enough. The Act of Parliament we
spoke of, should exclude creatures
with the ruddle on their backs, and
butcher-boys, and men in smock-frocks
and low hats, and pitchforks.
We have had enough of this kind of
pastoral; they are not the “gentle
shepherds,” that should people the
Arcadia within England, or any other.
I would have Rosalind and her farm,
without the clown. The French
and Dresden china shepherds and
shepherdesses, as we see them prettily
smiling, and garlanding their pet
lambs, as something extra parochial,
and <lang=la><i>sui generis</i></lang>, show at least this
happiness, that they do not eat their
bread by the sweat of their brows.
All landscape that reminds you of
“the curse of the earth, of the dire
necessity of toil, of the beggarly destitution
test,” of dingy earths and
dirty weather, are, you may be sure,
far out of the hearing of Pan’s pipe.
He does not adjust his lips to music
for the overseer and exciseman, nor
rate collectors. Nay, when Pan
retires to visit his estate in Arcadia,
and Robin Hood reigns, he will have
no such ink-horn gentry partake of
his venison. The freedom of nature
loves not the visible restrictions of
law. I would be bold enough to lay
it down as a truth, that it is as possible
to get poetry out of the earth,
as swedes and mangel-wurzel. Let
landscape painters look to it, lest they
get into bad habits before the act is
out, and, of a hard necessity, incur
the penalty.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Stay, stay,—where are
you running to? Surely if a painter
takes a <lang=la><i>bonâ fide</i></lang> view, you would not
have him turn the milk-maid out of
the field, to bring in Diana and her
train.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Views! oh, I thought
we were speaking of Pastoral. That is
quite another thing; I am somewhat
of Fuseli’s opinion, who said, speaking
contemptuously, “I mean those things
called Views.”

<sc>Curate.</sc>—But you will admit,
Aquilius, that we have real scenes
that are very beautiful, always pleasing
to look at, and therefore fit to be
painted. Is there not our lake
scenery?

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—There is; and as our
subject is art, I should say such scenery
is more valuable for what it suggests,
than for what it actually represents
in the painter’s mirror. In fact,
nature offers with both hands: it requires
a nice discretion to tell which
hand holds the true treasure. She
may purposely show you the ornament
to deceive.

.pm verse-start
“So may the outward shows be least themselves,
The world is still deceived with ornament.”
.pm verse-end

It was the leaden casket, in which
was hidden the perfect beauty of
Portia; there was the choice, and
made with a judgment that won the
prize, and took the inheritance of
Belmont.

.pm verse-start
“You that choose not by the <i>view</i>,
Chance as fair, and choose as true.”
.pm verse-end

Would you take away from landscape
painters the high privilege of genius?—invention—which
you allow to historical
painters? You do this, if you
do not grant to the fullest extent
the suggestive character of nature.
The musician takes music from the
air, which is his raw material;
the conception, which works from
mere sounds the perfect mystery of
power, to shake, to raise, and melt to
pity and to love the whole soul, belongs
to the mind. And so, for the
more perfect work of landscape, the
mind must add of its own immortal
store, the keeper and dispenser of
which is genius.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—You would raise landscape
painting to the dignity of a
creative, from the lower grade of an
imitative art.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—I would do more; I
would make it creative, not only in
things like, but, to speak boldly at once,
in things unlike itself; but, nevertheless,
perfectly congenial; and to be
adopted as a recognised mark of submission
of all matter to mind, which
alone is privileged to diffuse itself over
and into all nature, and to animate it
with a soul—life; and when that is
superadded, and then only, is the
sympathy complete between external
nature and ourselves. I care not for
art that is not creative, that does
not construct poetry. From all that
is most soft and tender, to all that is
most great and rugged, from the
sweet to the awful and sublime, there
.pn +1
is in all art, whether it be of landscape
or historical, (which embraces
the poetical), a dominion bounded
only by the limitations of the original
power with which genius is gifted.
Why may there not be a Michael
Angelo for trees, as for the human
form? Nay, I verily believe, that
those landscapes would have the
greatest fascination, where there
would be, in fact, the greatest unlikeness
to usually recognised nature,
both in form and colour, provided
one part were in keeping with another,
so as to bring the whole within the
idea of the natural; and where the
conception is clearly expressed, and is
worthy the dignity of feeling. Hence,
suggestive nature is the best nature.
We want not height and magnitude,
vast distances: if we have the science
of form and colour, the materials need
not be vast, let them only be suggestive.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—You laid down some
such theory with regard to colour, as
a means of telling the story, in your
late paper on Rubens. I could not
but agree with you there. I see now
how you would extend the subject.
We certainly do talk too much about
“<i>the</i> truth of nature,” not considering
sufficiently how many truths there
are.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—And what a great truth
there is that is of our own making,
greater than all the others; for, according
to the showing of Aquilius, it
comes of a divine gift, of the creative
faculty, under a higher power; works
the wonders in poetry, painting,
music, and architecture, fittest for our
admiration and our improvement. It
is surprising that our landscape painters
have not seen this walk within
their reach; nearly all confine themselves
to the imitative.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—But in that they have
raised their pretensions. We had
nothing great or poetical in the least
degree in landscape, before Wilson;
nay, to a late period, our landscape
subjects were of the most limited
range. They do now go at least to
beautiful nature, and while we have
such painters of landscape as Creswick
and Stanfield, and Lee, and
Danby, (but there you will say is an
advance into a higher walk,) for my
own part, I shall hesitate before I
give my vote for your more perfect
ideal.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—The works of the
painters you mention are beautiful,
fascinatingly so, both from the character
of their chosen scenery, and
their agreeable manner of representing
it. And I rejoice to see, that
even these are advancing, are discarding
something or other of the old
recipes every year. We have at
last some better English scenery.
We must no longer refer to Gainsborough
as <i>the</i> painter of English
landscape; we find it not, that is,
true English scenery, in his pictures,
nor in his “studies.”

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—And yet he painted
nature, and came upon the world
that began to be sick of the attempts
at your ideal compositions, the prince
of whom, and who won the prize over
Wilson, was Smith of Chichester.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Oh, do not dignify his
presumptions with the name of ideal.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—I can’t give up Gainsborough,
his sweet cottage scenery,
with his groups of rustic figures.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Was there nothing
better within the realms of England
than beggary and poverty, rags and
brambles,—her highest industry, the
cart and the plough,—her wealth in
stock, the pig, poultry, and donkey?

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—But it was the taste of
the day; even our aristocracy were
painted not as ideal, but as real shepherds
and shepherdesses. A few
years ago, there was a picture fished
out of some lumber room, where it
ought to have been buried till it
had rotted, of George the Third’s
family group, as cottagers’ children,
playing in the dirt before a mud
hovel. It was by Gainsborough, and
I believe was held at a high price.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—This was a descent
from the non-natural pastoral of the
by-gone age, to the low natural, from
which art derived but little benefit.
Goldsmith very aptly and wittily
satirised the transition state in the
Primrose family-group, in which each
individual adopted a singular independence.
Venus, Cupids, an Amazon,
and Alexander the Great, with Dr
Primrose, holding his books on the
Whistonian controversy.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—One would rather imagine
that Goldsmith was severe upon
.pn +1
the practice of an earlier date. There
are several pictures at Hampton
Court, and one large one, if I remember,
on the stair-wall, in which the
statesmen of the day represent the
deities of the heathen mythology.

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Yes, and I remember a
very ridiculous smaller picture, a portrait
of Queen Elizabeth—but it affects
the historical. The queen and her
train enter on one side of the piece,
and on the other Juno, Venus, and
Minerva. The goddesses are in every
respect outdone, and start with astonishment,—Juno
at the superior
power, Minerva, the superior wisdom,
and Venus the superior beauty of the
queen. There must be something
very curious in the nature of taste:
seeing such pictures, one cannot but
reflect, that though they are now
perfectly ridiculous, they could not
have been so when they were painted.
They were men of understanding who
sat for their portraits in these whimsical
characters; and the queen—it is
surprising!—there is surely something
involved in it, that history
does not touch.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—It is the more surprising,
as Holbein had painted, and
his works were before their eyes.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—It would be not undeserving
curiosity to sift the history of
allegory—what is the cause that it
was then so generally accepted in
Europe; infected the poetry and
painting of every civilised country.
The new aspect of religion had much
to do with it: images, pictures, particularly
the earlier, representing
the Deity, and the Virgin, had become
objects of hatred—of persecution.
And thus the arts made their
escape into the regions of allegory.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Chilling regions, in which
even genius with all his natural glow
was frost-bitten. An escape from
what was believed to what could not
be believed. It was the cold fit of
the ague of superstition.

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—The devotion of the
early painters produced, what nothing
but devotion could produce; theirs
was a true devotion, notwithstanding
the superstition contained in it. The
iconoclast spirit has scarcely been yet
laid. As we rise from the prostrate
position of our fears, the more readily
shall we acknowledge the spirituality
of the early painters. They are daily
approximating a more just estimation.
But we are wandering; we were
speaking of landscape: surely, it is
difficult to find a subject that shall be
altogether unpleasing. I do not remember
ever to have seen an outdoor
scene, unless it might have been
in a town, that did not please with
some beauty or other.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Indeed! then I think
you must have been led away by
some associations, in which art had
but little share. You have loved
“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,”
as the song says, for the sport offered.
Be not shocked, Gratian, at the confession,
but the truth is, that I see
very many outward scenes, that not
only give me no pleasure but pain.
Shall I confess a still more shocking
heterodoxy; I have but little love
for the scenery of the country!—am
very often displeased with what offers
itself, and becomes the common picture.
Even in what is denominated
a beautiful country, I look more for
its suggestive materials in form and
colour than for whole scenes. If pictures
are to be no more than what
we see—even landscapes, the art is
not creative; and an imitative, uncreative
art, leaves the best faculties
of the mind unemployed. What is
art without enthusiasm?—and you
may be sure that no painter of views,
and nothing more, was ever an enthusiast.
It is the part of enthusiasm
not to copy, but to make. Is it
more startling if I assert, that the
ideal is more true than the natural?
Yet am I convinced that it is so.
The natural requires the comparison
of the eye; the ideal, as it is the work
of the mind, will not be controlled by
any comparison, but such as mind
can bring. It commands the organ
of sight, and teaches it. We all have
more or less of this creative faculty;
the education of the world is against
it, for it is a world of much business,
more of doing than of thinking, and
more of thinking about what is foreign
to feeling, than what cherishes it till
it embodies itself in imagination. The
rising faculty becomes suppressed.
More or less all are born poets—to
make, to combine, to imagine, to
create; but very early does the time
come with most of us, when we are
.pn +1
commanded to put away, as the world
calls it, the “childish things.”

<sc>Lydia.</sc>—Oh, I believe it—the infant’s
dream is a creation, and perhaps
as beautiful as we know it must be
pleasing, for there are no smiles like
infant smiles.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—And past that age, when
the external world has given its
lessons in pictures, which in practice
and education we only imitate, do we
not find the impressions then made of
a goodness, a beauty, not realised and
acknowledged in advanced life, as existing
actually in the scenes themselves?

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—At the earlier time, we
take up little but what is consonant
to our affections; the minor detail is an
after lesson: but, as to this “natural”
of landscapes, which seems to have so
long held our artists and amateurs
under an infatuation—as they construe
it—this mindless thing,—after all
what is its petty truth? Could the boy
who hides himself under a hedge to
read his Robinson Crusoe, put on
canvass the pictures his imagination
paints, do you think they would be
exactly of the skies and the fields
every day before his eyes? A year or
two older, when he shall feel his spirit
begin to glow with a sense of beauty,
with the incessant love and heroism
of best manhood—see him under the
shade of some wide-spreading oak
devouring the pages of befitting romance,
“The Seven Champions of
Christendom,” the tale of castles, of
enchantments, of giants, and forlorn
damsels to be rescued. Do you not
credit his mind’s painting for other
scenes, in colour and design, than any
he ever saw? The fabulous is in him,
and he must create, or look on nothing.
He will take no sheep for a dragon,
nor farmer Plod-acre for an enchanter,
nor the village usher for an armed
knight. The overseer will not be his
redresser of wrongs. There is vision
in his day-dream, but it is painting to
the mind’s eye; and imagination must
be the great enchanter to conjure up
a new country, raise rocks, and build
him castles; nay, in his action to run
to the rescue, he has a speed beyond
his limbs’ power, an arm that has
been charmed with new strength. Now
is he not quite out of the locality, the
movement and power of any world he
ever saw, of any world to whose laws
of motion and of willing he has ever yet
been subject? Take his pictures—look
at them well; for I will suppose them
painted to your sight: nay, put yourself
in his place and paint them yourself—forgetting
before you do so all
you have ever heard said about landscape
painting. Have you them?
then tell me, are they untrue? No,
no, you will admit they are beautiful
truth. The lover paints with all a
poet’s accuracy, but not like Denner.
Now, if this mind-vision be not destroyed,—if
the man remain the poet,
he will not be satisfied with the common
transcript of what, as far as
enjoyment goes, he can more fully enjoy
without art. He will have a
craving for the ideal painting, for more
truths and perhaps higher truths than
the sketch-book can afford. And if
he cultivate his taste, and practise the
art too, he will find in nature a thousand
beauties before hidden, that
while he was the view-seeker, he saw
not; he will be cognisant of the suggestive
elements, the grammar of his
mind and of his art, by which he will
express thoughts and feelings, of a
truth that is in him, and in all, only
to be embodied by a creation.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—I fear the patrons of art
are not on your side. Does not encouragement
go in a contrary direction?

<sc>Gratian.</sc>—Patrons of art are too
often mere lovers of furniture,—have
not seriously considered art, nor cultivated
taste. And if it be a fault,
it is not altogether their own; it is
in character with genius to be in advance,
and to teach, and by its own
works. It is that there is a want of
cultivation, of serious study, among
artists themselves. If the patron could
dictate, he would himself be the maker,
the poet, the painter, the musician,—excellence
of every kind precedes the
taste to appreciate it. It makes the
taste as well as the work: my friend
Aquilius has made me a convert. I
had not considered art, as it should
be viewed, as a means of, as one of
the languages of poetry. In truth, I
have loved pictures more for their
reminiscences than their independent
power; and have therefore chiefly
fixed my attention on views—actual
scenery, with all its particulars.
.pn +1

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—What is high, what is
great enough wholly to possess the
mind, is not of particulars; like our
religion, in this it is for all ages, all
countries, and must not by adopting
the particular, the peculiar one, diminish
the catholicity of its empire.
“The golden age” is, wherever or
however embodied, a creation; and
as no present age ever showed any
thing like it, that is, visibly so,—what
is seen must be nothing more than
the elements out of which it may be
made.—The golden age—where all
is beauty, all is perfect! Purest
should be the mind that would desire
to see it.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—The golden age, if you
mean by it the happy age, is but one
field for art; you seem for the moment
to forget, that we are so constituted
as to feel a certain pleasure
from terror, from fear—from the
deepest tragedy—from what moves us
to shed tears of pity, as well as what
soothes to repose, or excites to gaiety.

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—Not so—but as we
commenced to discuss chiefly the
agreeability of subjects for pictures,
let me be allowed to add, that I
question if what is disgusting should
not be excluded from even the tragic,
perhaps chiefly from what is tragic.
Cruelty even is not necessarily disgusting;
it becomes so when meanness
is added to it, and there is not a
certain greatness in it. There might
be a greatness even in deformity, and
where it is not gratuitously given,
but for a purpose.

<sc>Curate.</sc>—Yet, has not Raffaele
been censured for the painfully distorted
features of the Possessed Boy
in his “Transfiguration.”

<sc>Aquilius.</sc>—And it has with some
show of truth (for who would like to
speak more positively against the
judgment of Raffaele) been thought
that Domenichino, who borrowed this
subject from him, has improved the
interest by rendering the face of the
lunatic one of extreme beauty!

The Curate was here called away
upon his parochial duties, and our
discussion for the present terminated.
Will it amuse you, Eusebius? If
not, you have incurred the penalty
of reading it, by not making one of
our party. Yours ever,

<sc>Aquilius</sc>.
.sp 4
.h2 id=jerusalem title="Jerusalem"
JERUSALEM. | BY WILLIAM SINCLAIR.
.sp 2
.pm verse-start
Thou City of the Lord! whose name
  The angelic host in wonder tells;
The halo of whose endless fame
  All earthly splendour far excels—
To thee, from Judah’s stable mean,
  Arose the Prince from Jesse’s stem,
And since hath deathless glory been
                    With thee, Jerusalem!

What though thy temples, domes, and towers,
  That man in strength and weakness made,
Are, with their priests and regal powers,
  In lowly dust and ashes laid!
The story of thine ancient time
  Steals on us, as it stole on them,
Thrice hallowed by the lyre sublime
                    Of thee, Jerusalem!

We see within thy porches, Paul
  Uplift the arm, the voice command,
Whose heaven-taught zeal, whose earnest call,
  Could rouse or paralyse the land—
Though gold and pomp were his, and more,
  For God he spurned the glittering gem,
And cast him prostrate all before
                    Thy gates, Jerusalem!
.pn +1

Even from the Mount of Olives now,
  When morning lifts her shadowy veil,
And smiles o’er Moab’s lofty brow,
  And beauteous Jordan’s stream and vale,
The ruins o’er the region spread,
  May witness of thine ancient fame,
The very grave-yards of thy dead—
                    Of thee, Jerusalem!

The temple in its gorgeous state
  That in a dreadful ruin fell,
The fortress and the golden gate
  Alike the saddening story tell,
How he by Hinnom’s vale was led
  To Caiaphas, with mocking shame,
That glad redemption might be shed
                    O’er thee, Jerusalem!

Fast by the Virgin’s tomb, and by
  These spreading olives bend the knee,
For here his pangs and suffering sigh
  Thrilled through thy caves, Gethsemane;
’Twas here, beneath the olive shade,
  The Man of many sorrows came,
With tears, as never mortal shed,
                    For thee, Jerusalem!

Around Siloam’s ancient tombs
  A solemn grandeur still must be;
And oh, what mystic meaning looms
  By thy dread summits, Calvary!
The groaning earth, that felt the shock
  Of mankind’s crowning sin and shame,
Gave up the dead, laid bare the rock,
                    For fallen Jerusalem!

Kind woman’s heart forgets thee not,
  For Mary’s image lights the scene:
And, casting back the inquiring thought
  To what thou art, what thou hast been,
Ah! well may pilgrims heave the sigh,
  When they remember all thy fame,
And shed the tear regrettingly
                    O’er thee, Jerusalem!

For awful desolation lies,
  In heavy shades, o’er thee and thine,
As ’twere to frown of sacrifice,
  And tell thy story, Palestine;
But never was there darkness yet
  Whereto His glory never came;
And guardian angels watch and wait
                    By thee, Jerusalem!

The lustre of thine ancient fame
  Shall yet in brighter beams arise,
And heavenly measures to thy name
  Rejoice the earth, make glad the skies;
And, with thy gather’d thousands, then
  Oh! Love and Peace shall dwell with them,
And God’s own glory shine again
                    O’er thee, Jerusalem!
.pm verse-end
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=acquaintance title='My English Acquaintance'
MY ENGLISH ACQUAINTANCE.
.sp 2
The spring of the year 183- found
me in Paris, whither I had gone, immediately
after Christmas, for a fortnight’s
stay, and where I had remained
four months. The prolongation of my
visit will not surprise those who appreciate
and enjoy the gay metropolis
of France, in the most agreeable season.
The festivities of the new year,
with its gratulations and embraces,
and tons of <i>bonbons</i>, of racy flavour
and ingenious device, were no sooner
over, than we found ourselves in full
carnival. From the aristocratic regions
of the noble Faubourg, where
linger, in fossil preservation, the last
relics of the <lang=fr><i>ancien régime</i></lang>, to the
plebeian district of the Marais; from
the brilliant hotels of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Honoré and
the Chaussée, peopled by rose-water
exquisites and full-maned lionesses,
to the remote and ignoble purlieus of
Saints Dennis and Anthony, where
tailors and tinkers dwell and thrive
and propagate their kind, pleasure
and enjoyment reigned. With the
old year, the wet season had concluded;
a clear bright frost had
ushered in the new. Paris got rid of
its mud and misery, and turned out in
a new paletot and well polished boots
for a ramble on the Boulevards. This
was for four or five hours of the day;
but night was the time to see the
noisy dissolute old city in its glory,
prancing and capering as madly as if
it had stumbled upon the fountain of
Jouvence, and had taken a pull at the
regenerating element that had restored
it to its teens. Appalling was the
amount of eating, drinking, and merriment,
occurring within its precincts;
succulent breakfasts in the forenoon,
and fat dinners of many courses in the
evening, and riotous suppers at all
hours of the night, liquidated by Burgundy
in big bumpers, and Champagne
in pint tumblers, and stiff punch,
stinging hot and burning blue, in
bright silver bowls. Then there was
dancing, and masquing, and flirting,
till day-dawn—of pretty late arrival
at that season; sleep was at a discount,
and desperate revellers who
never took a wink of it, that could
possibly be discovered, rushed from
the ball-room to a cool breakfast on
oysters and Sauterne, and rose therefrom
fresh as cowslips, ready to begin
again. Paris was a vortex of gaiety
and dissipation, whence, once drawn
in, it was scarcely possible to extricate
one’s-self. I did not make the attempt.
I was too well pleased with my snug
sunny <lang=it><i>entresol</i></lang> on the Italian boulevard,
with my dainty fare at the adjacent
restaurant, with the twinkling
feet of the Taglioni, and the melodious
quaverings of Rubini and Duprez,
then in full song; with my occasional
visits to rout and masquerade, and
more frequent ones to the hospitable
dining rooms and saloons of a few old
friends, both French and English.
Then, for ride or walk, what better
than the <lang=fr>Champs Elysées</lang>, crowded
with ruddy pedestrians, arch grisettes
and lounging soldiers; traversed by
sledges innumerable of every variety
of form—dragon, sphinx, and mermaid,
dolphin, lion, swan, enough to
stock a mythological museum and a
zoological garden—coursing up and
down the road, and in the crisp frosty
alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, drawn
by smoking foam-speckled steeds,
half hidden beneath ribbon panoply
and high <i>panache</i>, sending silver
sounds of countless bells before them,
and delighting the eyes of all beholders
by the sight of other <lang=fr><i>belles</i></lang>, whose
clear-toned voices and lightsome
laugh rang not less sweet and silvery
than the tinkle of their metal-tongued
rivals, through the rare and sun-lit
ether, as they sat, sunk in furs and
velvets, with bright eyes and ruddy
lips, and smooth firm cheeks just
slightly mottled by the cold, beside
the enviable cavaliers to whose
charioteership they confided themselves.
In short, the combination
of Parisian attractions forbade
departure, and I dreamed not of it
till February had flown. Then I
turned my eyes channelwards, and
my thoughts to passports and post-horses,
when sudden rumours reached
me of eastern gales and virulent influenza
raging on Britain’s shores;
and of March dust, proverbially precious,
but practically odious, careering
.pn +1
in dense and blinding clouds through
London’s tortured streets. This was
ample excuse to linger a few weeks
longer in my agreeable quarters, until
spring came in earnest, and the sun
was so warm, and the air so balmy,
and the chestnuts in the Tuileries’
gardens, just burst into foliage, presented
so glorious a mass of tender
green, that, although often taking
leave, I still was loath to depart.
And thus it came to pass that, on a
bright fresh April morning, I found
myself seated in a Palais Royal coffee-house,
in tranquil enjoyment of
creaming chocolate, a damp newspaper,
and the noiseless attendance of
admirably drilled waiters.

I have always loved the Palais
Royal, associated as it is with my
earliest and most pleasurable recollections
of Paris; and with sincere regret
have I noted the rapid decline of
what was once the heart and focus of
the French capital. At the time I
now speak of, although its best days
were long past, it was still far removed
from the deserted and desolate
state into which it has since sunk:
it had not yet dwindled into a dreary
quadrangle of cheap tailors, pinchbeck
jewellers, and shops to let, traversed
in haste by all who enter it,
save by newly-imported provincials,
sauntering nurserymaids, and a few
old loungers, who, from long habit,
haunt the fabric after the spirit has fled.
The melancholy truth is, that the march
of morality ruined the Palais Royal.
So long as it was the headquarters
of dissipation, it throve and flourished
exceedingly; it was merry and much
frequented, like the mansion of some
rich and jovial profligate, whom all
abuse, but from whose well-spread
table, few care to absent themselves.
Then the Palais Royal, to the stranger,
almost comprehended Paris: all
the luxuries, necessaries, amusements,
and pleasures of life, were found within
its walls: it was the bazaar, the tavern,
the harem, and the gaming-house
of Europe. The reforms wrought
in it since the peace by its present
royal owner, however advantageous
to its good fame and comeliness,
have been grievously detrimental to its
vivacity and pocket. In 183-, the last
of these changes, the finishing-stroke,
as it may be termed, the suppression
of the gambling tables, although fully
resolved upon, had not yet taken
place. The coffee-houses were still
numerous and crowded, the shops
magnificent and prosperous; the garden
and arcades, now abandoned to
mischievous boys, and to puling infants
in nurses’ arms, were thronged
from morn till midnight with visitors
of all nations and classes, lured thither
by curiosity, or by the demon <sc>Play</sc>.
There was always abundant food for
observation, if only in the noisy
groups who paced the avenues of
trees, discussing the chances of the
dice or the events of the morning’s
sitting, and in the flushed or haggard
countenances that each moment entered
and issued from the doors of the
various hells. With a genial sky, a
rush-bottomed chair, and the occasional
assistance of a sou’s worth of
literature, obtained from the old women
who dwell in wooden boxes, and
hire out newspapers, an entire day
might be passed there with amusement
and profit. Occasional incidents,
sometimes dramatic enough,
varied the monotony, never great.
The detection of a pickpocket, a loud-voiced
quarrel, often resulting in blows
or a challenge, the expulsion from the
<lang=fr><i>rouge-et-noir</i></lang> temple of some unlucky
wretch, whom ruin had rendered unruly,
were incidents of daily occurrence.
For those whom the minor
drama did not satisfy, there was an
occasional bit of high tragedy, in the
shape of a suicide from losses, or an
arrest for fraud. Not long before the
time I speak of, a group of persons,
standing in the garden, were startled
by the fall of a body at their feet.
It was that of a gamester, who, after
losing his last franc, had thrown himself
from the elevated window of the
pandemonium where his ruin had
been consummated.

“I believe I have the pleasure of
seeing Mr ——,” said a voice in English,
as I paused for a moment, my
breakfast concluded, before the door
of the coffeehouse, planning the disposal
of my day.

I looked at the person who thus addressed
me; and, although I pique myself
on rarely forgetting the faces of
those with whom I have once been
acquainted, I confess that in this
instance my memory was completely
.pn +1
at fault. But for his knowledge of
my name, I should have concluded
my interlocutor mistaken as to my
identity. I was at least as much
surprised at the perfectly good English
he spoke, as at having my
acquaintance claimed by a person of
his profession and rank. He was a
young man of about five-and-twenty,
attired in the handsome and well-fitting
undress of a sergeant of French
light dragoons. His dark brown hair
curled short and crisp from under his
smart green forage-cap, cavalierly
placed upon one side of his head;
his clear blue eyes contrasted with
the tawny colour of his cheek, a
tint for which it was evidently indebted
to sun and weather; his face
was clean shaven, save and except
small well-trimmed mustachios and
a chin-tuft. Altogether, he was as
pretty a model of a light cavalryman
as I remember to have seen: square
in the shoulder, slender in the hip,
well-limbed, lithe and muscular. His
carriage was soldierly, without the
exaggerated stiffness and swagger
commonly found amongst noncommissioned
officers of dragoons; and altogether
he had a gentlemanly air which,
I doubt not, would have made itself
as visible under the coarse <i>basane</i> and
drugget of a private soldier as beneath
the garb of finer materials and
more careful cut, which, in his capacity
of <lang=fr><i>maréchal de logis</i></lang>, or sergeant,
it was permitted him to wear. But my
admiration of this pretty model of a
man-at-arms did not assist me to recognise
him, although, whilst gazing
at him, and especially when he slightly
smiled at my visible embarrassment,
his features did not seem totally unfamiliar
to me. I looked, I have no
doubt, considerably puzzled. The
stranger came to my assistance.

“I see you do not remember me,”
he said. “Not above four years since
we met, if so much; but four years,
an African sun, and a French uniform,
have made a change. I met you in
Warwickshire, at George Clinton’s.
I have seen you once or twice since;
but I think the last time we spoke
was when cantering over Harleigh
downs. My name is Frank
Oakley.”

I immediately recollected my man.
About four summers previously, whilst
on a flying visit at a country house,
whither a friend had taken me, and
where I had been made heartily welcome
by the hospitable owner, I had
formed a slight acquaintance with Mr
Frank Oakley, who had then just come
of age, and into possession—by the
death of his father, which had occurred
a twelvemonth previously—of a
few thousand pounds. The interest
of this sum, which would have been
an agreeable and sufficient addition
to a subaltern’s pay or curate’s stipend,
or which would have enabled a
struggling barrister to bide his briefs,
was altogether insufficient to supply
the wants and caprices of an idler,
especially such an idler as Oakley.
Master Francis was what young gentlemen
fresh from school or at college,
sucking ensigns, precocious templars,
<lang=la><i>et id genus omne</i></lang>, are accustomed to
call a “fast” man; the said fastness
not referring, as Johnson’s dictionary
teaches us it might do, to any particular
strength or firmness of
character, but merely to the singular
rapidity with which such persons get
through their money and into debt.
At the time I speak of, Oakley was
going his fastest, that is to say, spending
the utmost amount of coin, for
the least possible value; indeed he
could hardly have run madder riot
with his moderate patrimony, had he
cast his sovereigns into bullets and
made pipe-lights of his bank notes.
But verily, he had his reward in the
open-mouthed admiration of three or
four younkers of his own standing, or
a year or two less, then assembled at
Harleigh Hall, who looked up to him
as something between a hero and an
oracle; and in the encouraging familiarity
and approval of one or two
gentlemen of maturer age, who swore
he was a fine fellow, and proved they
thought so by winning bets of him at
billiards, and by selling him horses
that would have fetched “twice the
money at Tattersall’s,” with other
bargains of an equally advantageous
description. Although we were four
days in the same house, meeting each
evening at dinner, and occasionally
riding and walking in the same group,
our acquaintance continued of the
very slightest description, and I took
my departure without any thing approaching
to intimacy having sprung
.pn +1
up between us. Amongst the large
party of visitors at the Hall, were not
wanting persons of tastes more suited
to my own, than those of Oakley and
his little knot of flatterers and admirers;
and he, on his part, was far too
much taken up with his newly-inherited
fortune—which he evidently considered
inexhaustible—with planning
amusements, and inhaling adulatory incense,
to pay attention to a man whom,
as full fifteen years his senior, he
doubtless set down as an old fellow,
a “slow coach,” and perhaps even as a
member of that distinguished corporation
known as the “Fogie Club.” So
that when we met in London, during
the ensuing season, occasionally in the
street and once or twice in a ballroom,
a slight bow or word of recognition
was all that passed between
us. I could perceive, however, that
Oakley still kept up the rapid pace at
which he had started, and lived, with
a few hundreds a year, as if he had
possessed as many thousands. The
proximity of my quiet club to the
fashionable and expensive one into
which he had obtained admission, gave
me many opportunities of observing
his proceedings, and those opportunities,
in my capacity of a student of
human nature, I was careful not to
neglect. I had marked his career
and ultimate fate in my mind, and
was curious to see my predictions
verified, although I sincerely wished
they might not be, for they were
any thing but favourable to the welfare
of Oakley, who, in spite of
his follies, had generous and manly
qualities. His prodigality was not
of that purely egotistical description
most commonly found in spendthrifts
of his class. He would give
a lavish alms to a whining beggar,
as freely as he would throw away
a handful of gold on some folly of the
moment or extravagant debauch; and
I had heard an old one-armed soldier,
who sometimes held his horse at the
club door, utter blessings, when he
had ridden out of hearing, on his kind
heart and open hand. These and
similar little traits that came under
my notice, made me regret to see him
going post-haste to perdition. That
he was doing so, I could not for one
moment doubt. His extravagance
knew no limit, and in six months
he must have got through as many
years’ income. Wherever pleasure
was to be had, no matter at what
price, Oakley was to be seen.—Upon
a revenue overrated at five
hundred a-year, he kept half a dozen
horses, a cab, and a strange nondescript
vehicle, made after an eccentric
design of his own, and which every
body turned to look at, as he drove
down Piccadilly of an afternoon, on his
way to the Park. He had his stall
at the opera, of course, and an elegant
set of apartments in the most expensive
street in London, where he gave
suppers and dinners of extravagant
delicacy to thirsty friends and greedy
<lang=fr><i>danseuses</i></lang>. The former showed their
gratitude for his good cheer by winning
his money at cards; the latter evinced
their affection by carrying off the costly
nicknacks that strewed his rooms,
and by taking his diamond shirt-pins
to fasten their shawls. In short,
he regularly delivered himself over to
the harpies. In addition to these minor
drafts upon his exchequer, came others
of a more serious nature. He played
high, and never refused a bet. Like
many silly young men, (and some
silly old ones,) he had a blind veneration
for rank, and held that a lord
could do no wrong. Even a baronetcy
conferred a certain degree of infallibility
in his eyes. No amount of
respectable affidavits would have convinced
him that if Lord Rufus Slam,
who not unfrequently condescended
to win a cool fifty of him at écarté,
did not turn the king each time he
dealt, it was only because he despised
so hackneyed a swindle, and had other
ways of securing the game, equally
nefarious but less palpable. Neither
would it have been possible to persuade
him that Sir Tantivy Martingale, “that
prime fellow and thorough sportsman,”
as Frank admiringly and confidingly
styled him, was capable of
taking his bet upon a horse which he,
the aforesaid Sir Tantivy, had just
made “safe to lose.” In short, poor
Oakley, who, during his father’s lifetime,
had been little, if at all, in
London, thought himself excessively
knowing and fully up to all the wiles
and snares of the metropolis. In
reality he was exceedingly raw, was
victimised accordingly, and, at the
end of a few months in town, found
.pn +1
himself minus a sum that brought
reflection, I suspect, even to his giddy
head. I conjectured so, at least, when,
at the end of the season, I encountered
him on a Boulogne steamer, looking
fagged and out of spirits. It was
only a year since we had met at Harleigh
Hall, but that year had told
upon him. Dissipation had driven
the flush of health from his cheek, and
his youthful brow was already care-loaded.
I spoke to him, and made
an attempt to converse; but he seemed
sulky and unwilling; and, on reaching
Boulogne, I lost sight of him.
After a short tour, I went to winter
at Paris, and there I frequently saw
him. He had forgotten, apparently,
the annoyances that weighed on him
when he left London, and was again
the gayest of the gay; living as if his
purse were bottomless, and his <i>Gibus</i>
hat the wishing cap of Fortunatus.
Nothing was too hot or too strong for
him: rated a “fast man” in England,
in France he was held a <lang=fr><i>viveur enragé</i></lang>.
I did not much admire the society
he selected: I saw him alternately
with the most <lang=fr><i>roué</i></lang> and dissolute
young Frenchmen of fashion, and
with an English set which, if it comprised
men against whom nothing
positively bad could be proved, also included
others whose reputation was
more than doubtful. At first he was
chiefly with the French, whose language,
from long residence in the
country when a boy, he spoke as one
of themselves; then he seemed to
abandon them for the English clique,
and then he suddenly disappeared. I
no longer saw him pacing the Boulevard
or riding in the Bois, or issuing
at night from the <lang=fr>Café Anglais</lang>, flushed
with wine and bent upon riotous debauch.
All his former companions
remained, pursuing their old amusements,
frequenting the same haunts;
but he was never with them. I could
not understand his leaving Paris just
as the best season commenced, (it
was in January that he disappeared,)
and at first I supposed him ill. But
week after week slipped by, and no
Oakley appearing, I made up my
mind he had departed, whither I
knew not. I was rather vexed at
this, for I had made up my mind to
watch him to the end of his career.
Moreover, although we never spoke,
and had almost left off bowing, my
idle habit of observing his proceedings
had given me a sort of interest
in him. Once only, after his eclipse,
did I fancy I caught a glimpse of him.
I was fond of long rambles in the low
and remote quarters of Paris, through
those labyrinths of narrow streets,
filthy courts, and rickety houses, where
the character and peculiarities of the
humbler classes of Parisians are best
to be studied. Returning, after dark,
from an expedition of this kind, I was
surprised by a violent shower in a
shabby street of the Faubourg St Antoine,
and took refuge under a doorway.
Immediately opposite to me was the
wretched shop of a <lang=fr><i>traiteur</i></lang>, in whose
dingy window a cloudy white bowl of
mashed spinach, a plate of bouilli, dry
as a deal plank, and some triangular
fragments of pear, stewed with cochineal
and exposed in a saucer, served
as indications of the luxurious fare to
be obtained within. On one of the
grimy shutters, whose scanty coat
of green paint the weather had converted
into a sickly blue, was the
announcement, in yellow letters, that
“<lang=fr><i>Fricot, Traiteur, donne à Boire et à
Manger</i></lang>;” whilst upon the other the
hieroglyphical representation of a
bottle and glass, flanked by the words
“<lang=fr><i>Bon Vin de Macon à 8 et à 10 S.</i></lang>” hinted
intelligibly at the well-provided state
of Monsieur Fricot’s cellar. It was
one of those humble eating-houses,
abounding in the French capital,
where a very hungry man may stave
off starvation for about the price of a
tooth-pick at the <lang=fr><i>Café</i></lang> or the <lang=fr><i>Trois
Frères</i></lang>, and where an exceedingly
thirsty one may get comfortably intoxicated
upon potato brandy and
essence of logwood, for a similar
amount. It needs a three days’ fast
or a paviour’s appetite to induce entrance
into such a place. I was
gazing with some curiosity at the
windows of this poor tavern, through
whose starred and patched panes,
crowded with bottles, and backed by
a curtain of dirty muslin, the waving
of iron forks and spoons was dimly discernible
by the light of two flickering
candles, when the door suddenly
opened, a man came out, heedless of
the rain, which fell in torrents, and
walked rapidly away. It was but a
second, and he was lost in the darkness
.pn +1
of the ill-lighted street, but in
that second I thought I distinguished
the gait and features of Frank Oakley.
But my view of him was very
indistinct, and I concluded myself
misled by a resemblance. Since
that day nothing had occurred to
remind me of him, and for a long
time I had entirely forgotten the
good-hearted but reckless scamp,
who for a brief period had attracted
my attention.

Frank Oakley, then, it was, who
now stood before me under the arcades
of the Palais Royal. I held
out my hand, with a word or two of
apology for my slowness in remembering
him.

“No excuse, I beg,” was his reply.
“Not one in twenty of my former
acquaintances recognises the spendthrift
dandy in the humble sergeant
of dragoons, and in the few who do,
I observe, upon my approach, a
strong partiality for the opposite side
of the street. They give themselves
unnecessary trouble, for I have no
wish to intrude upon them. I have
been four months in Paris, and have
constantly met former intimates, but
have never spoken to one of them.
And I cannot say what induced me to
address you, with whom my acquaintance
is so slight, except that I should
be very glad to have a talk about
dear old England, and if I am not
mistaken you are a likely man to
grant it me.”

“With pleasure, Mr Oakley,” said
I. “I am glad to see you, although
I confess myself surprised at your
present profession. For an Englishman,
I should have thought our own
service preferable to a foreign one;
and doubtless your friends would
have got you a commission—that is—if—”

I hesitated, and paused, for I felt
that I was upon delicate ground, getting
run away with by my own foregone
conclusions, and likely, unintentionally,
to wound my interlocutor’s
feelings. Oakley observed my embarrassment,
smiled, and completed
my unfinished sentence.

“If I had not money left, after
my extravagance, to buy one for myself.
Well, I had not; and moreover—but
you shall hear all about it, if
you care to learn the adventures of a
scapegrace, now, I hope, reformed.
And, in return, you shall tell me if
London is still in the same place, and
as wicked and pleasant as ever; and
how it fares with old George Clinton,
and all the jolly Warwickshire lads.
Have you all hour to spare?”

“Half a dozen, if you like,” I replied
warmly, for I was greatly taken
with the frank manly tone of the
young man, whom I had last known
as a conceited, frivolous coxcomb.
“Half a dozen. Shall we walk?”

“I will not tax your kindness so
long,” replied Oakley; “and as for
walking,” he added, glancing from the
silver stripe upon his sleeve, indicative
of his non-commissioned rank,
to my suit of civilian broadcloth,
“although I am by no means ashamed
of my position, that is no reason for
exposing you to the stare and wonder
of your English acquaintances, by
parading in your company the public
promenade. So, if you have no objection,
we will step up here. The
place is respectable; but unfrequented,
I dare say, by any you know.”

And without giving me time to
protest my utter indifference to the
supercilious criticism referred to, he
turned into a doorway, upon a pane
of glass above which was painted a
ship in full sail, with the words “<lang=fr>Café
Estaminet Hollandais</lang>.” Ascending
a flight or two of stairs, we entered a
suite of spacious apartments, furnished
with several billiard tables, with cue-racks,
chairs, benches, and small
tables for the use of drinkers. Several
of the windows, which looked
out upon the garden of the Palais
Royal, were open, in the vain hope,
perhaps, of purifying the place from
the inveterate odour of tobacco remaining
there from the previous night.
Although it was not yet noon, the
billiard balls rattled vigorously upon
more than one of the tables, and a
few early drinkers, chiefly foreigners,
professional billiard players and non-commissioned
officers of the Paris
garrison, sipped their Strasburg beer
or morning dram of brandy. The
further end of the long gallery,
however, was unoccupied, and there
Oakley drew a couple of chairs
to a window, called for refreshment
as a pretext for our presence,
and seating himself opposite to me,
.pn +1
assailed me with a volley of questions
concerning persons and things
in England. To these I replied as
satisfactorily as I was able, and allowed
the stream of interrogation to
run itself dry, before assuming, in my
turn, the character of questioner. At
last, having in some degree appeased
Oakley’s eager desire for information
about the country whence he had been
so long absent, I intimated a curiosity
concerning his own adventures, and
the circumstances that had made a
soldier of him. He at once took the
hint, and, perceiving that I listened
with friendly attention and interest,
gave me a detailed narrative of his
life since I had first made his acquaintance.
He told his story with a spirit
and military conciseness that riveted
my attention as much as the real pungency
of the incidents. Its first portion,
relating to his London career,
informed me of little beyond what I
already knew, or, at least, had conjectured.
It was the every-day tale
of a heedless, inexperienced youth,
suddenly cast without guide or Mentor
upon the ocean of life, and striking
in turn against all the shoals that strew
the perilous waters. He had been
bubbled by gentlemanly swindlers—none
of your low, seedy rapscallions,
but men of style and fashion, even of
family, but especially of <i>honour</i>, who
would have paraded and shot him, had
he presumed to doubt their word, but
made no scruple of genteelly picking
his pocket. He had been duped by
designing women, spunged upon by
false friends, pillaged by unprincipled
tradesmen. He never thought of making
a calculation—except on a horse-race,
and then he was generally wrong,—or
of looking at an account, or keeping
one; but, when he wanted money,
and his banker wrote him word he had
overdrawn, he just sent his autograph
to his stockbroker, prefixing the words,
“Sell five hundred, or a thousand,”
as the case might be. For some time
these laconic mandates were obeyed
without remark, but at last, towards
the close of the London season, the
broker, the highly respectable Mr
Cashup, of Change Alley, called upon
his young client, whose father he had
known for many years, and ventured
a gentle remonstrance on such an
alarming consumption of capital.
Frank affected to laugh at the old
gentleman’s caution, and told an excellent
story that evening, after a
roaring supper, about the square-toed
cit, the wise man of the East, who made
a pilgrimage to <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> James’s, to preach
a sermon on frugality. Nevertheless,
the prodigal was startled by the statements
of the man of business. He was
unaware how deeply he had dipped
into his principal, and felt something
like alarm upon discovering that he
had got through more than half his
small fortune. This, in little more
than a year! For a moment he felt
inclined to reform, abandon dissipation,
and apply to some profession.
But the impulse was only momentary.
How could he, the gay Frank Oakley,
the flower of fashion, and admiration
of the town, (so at least he thought
himself) bend his proud spirit to pore
over parchments in a barrister’s chambers,
or to smoke British Havanas,
and spit over the bridge of a country
town, as ensign in a marching regiment?
Was he to read himself blind
at college, to find himself a curate at
thirty, with a hundred a-year and a
breeding wife? Or was he to go to
India, to get shot by Sikhs, or carried
off by a jungle fever? Forbid it, heaven!
What would Slam and Martingale,
and Mademoiselle Entrechat,
and all his fast and fashionable acquaintances,
male and female, say to
such declension! The thought was
overwhelming, and thereupon Oakley
resolved to give up all idea of
earning an honest living, to “drown
care,” “damn the consequences,” and
act up to the maxim he had frequently
professed, when the champagne corks
were flying at his expense for the benefit
of a circle of admiring friends, of
“a short life and a merry one.” So he
stopped in London till the very close
of the season, “keeping the game
alive,” as he expressed it, to the last,
and then started for the Continent.
An attempt to recruit his finances at
Baden-Baden terminated, as might be
expected, in their further reduction,
and at last he found his way to Paris.
Unfortunately for him, his ruinous career
in England had been so short,
and his self-conceit, and great opinion
of his own knowing, had made him so
utterly reject the advice and experience
of the very few friends who cared
.pn +1
a rush for his welfare, that he was still
in the state of a six-day-old puppy,
and as unable to take care of himself.
More than half-ruined, he preserved
his illusions; still believed in the sincerity
of fashionable acquaintances,
in the fidelity of histrionic mistresses,
in the disinterestedness of mankind in
general, or at least, of that portion
of it with which he habitually associated.
The bird had left half its
feathers with the fowler, but was as
willing as ever to run again into the
snare. And at Paris snares were plentiful,
well-baited and carefully covered
up.

“I can scarcely define the society
into which I got at Paris,” said Oakley,
when he came to this part of his
history. “It was of a motley sort,
gathered from all quarters, and, upon
the whole, rather pleasant than respectable.
It consisted partly of persons
I had known in England, either
Englishmen or dashing young Frenchmen
of fortune, whose acquaintance I
had made during their visits to London
a few months previously. I had also
several letters of introduction, some of
which gave me entrance into the best
Parisian circles, but these I generally
neglected, preferring the gay fellows
for whom I bore commendatory scrawls
from my London associates. But probably
my best recommendation was
my pocket, still tolerably garnished,
and the recklessness with which I scattered
my cash. I felt myself on the
high road to ruin, but my down-hill
course had given such impetus to my
crazy vehicle, that I despaired of
checking it, and shut my eyes to the
inevitable smash awaiting me at the
bottom.

“It was not long in coming. Although
educated in France, and consequently
speaking the language as a
native, I always took more kindly to
my own countrymen than to Frenchmen,
and gradually I detached myself
unconsciously from those with whom I
had spent much of my time when first
in Paris. I exchanged for the worse,
in making my sole companions of a
set of English scamps, who asked no
better than to assist at the plucking
of such a pigeon as myself. At first
they treated me with tenderness, fearing
to spoil their game by a measure
of wholesale plunder. They made
much of me, frequently favoured me
with their company at dinner, occasionally
forgot their purses and borrowed
from mine, forgetting repayment,
and got up card parties, at which,
however, I was sometimes allowed to
come off a winner. But my gains
were units and my losses tens. An
imprudent revelation accelerated the
catastrophe. My chosen intimate was
one Harry Darvel, a tall pale man,
about five years older than myself,
who would have been good-looking,
but for the unpleasant shifting expression
of his gray eyes, and for a certain
cold rigidity of feature, frequently
seen in persons of the profession I
afterwards found he exercised. I
first made his acquaintance at Baden,
met him by appointment at Paris,
and he soon became, my chief associate.
I knew little of him, except
that he had a large acquaintance, lived
in good style, spent his money freely,
and was one of the most amusing companions
I had ever had. By this time
I began to see through flattery, when
it was not very adroitly administered,
and to suspect the real designs of some
of the vultures that flocked about me.
Darvel never flattered me; his manner
was blunt, almost to roughness;
he occasionally gave me advice, and
affected sincere friendship and anxiety
for my welfare. ‘You are young in
the world,’ he would say to me,
‘you know a good deal for the time
you have been in it, but I am an
old stager, and have been six seasons
in Paris for your one. I don’t want
to dry-nurse you, nor are you the man
to let me, but two heads are better
than one, and you may sometimes be
glad of a hint. This is a queer town,
and there are an infernal lot of swindlers
about.’ I little dreamed that my
kind adviser was one of the most expert
of the class he denounced, but
reposed full trust in him, and, by attending
to his disinterested suggestions,
gradually detached myself from
my few really respectable associates,
and delivered myself entirely into his
hands, and those of his assistant Philistines.
Upon an unlucky day, when
a letter of warning from my worthy
old stockbroker had revived former
anxieties in my mind, I made Darvel
my confidant, and asked counsel of
him to repair my broken fortunes. He
.pn +1
heard me without betraying surprise,
said he would think the matter over,
and that something would assuredly
turn up, talked vaguely of advantageous
appointments which he had interest
in England to procure, assured
me of his sympathy and friendship,
and bade me not despond, but keep my
heart up, for that I had plenty of time
to turn in, and meanwhile I must limit
my expenses, and not be offended
if he occasionally gave me a friendly
check when he saw me ‘outrunning
the constable.’ His tone and promises
cheered me, and I again forgot my
critical position. Little did I dream
that my misplaced confidence had
sealed my doom. If I had hitherto
been spared, it was from no excess of
mercy, but because my real circumstances
were unknown, my fortune
overrated, and a fear entertained of
prematurely scaring the game by too
rapid an attack. It was now ascertained
that the goose might be slaughtered,
without any sacrifice of golden
eggs. Darvel now knew exactly what
I was worth,—barely two thousand
pounds. That gone, I should be a
beggar. For two days he never lost
sight of me, accompanied me every
where and kept me in a whirl of dissipation,
exerted to the utmost his
amusing powers, which were very
considerable, and did all he could to
raise my spirits. The third morning
he came to breakfast with me.

“‘Dine at my rooms, to-day,’ said
he, as he sat puffing a Turkish pipe,
after making me laugh to exhaustion
at a ridiculous adventure that had befallen
him the night before. ‘Bachelor
fare, you know—brace of fowls
and a gigot, a glass of that Chambertin
you so highly approve, and a little
chicken hazard afterwards. Quite
quiet—shan’t allow you to play high.
We’ll have a harmless, respectable
evening. I will ask Lowther and the
Bully. Dine at seven, to bed at
twelve.’

“I readily accepted, and we strolled
out to invite the other guests. A few
minutes’ walk brought us to the
domicile of Thomas Ringwood, Esq.,
known amongst his intimates as the
Bully, a sobriquet he owed to his
gruff voice, blustering tone, and skill
as a pugilist and cudgel-player. He
was member of a well-known and
highly respectable English family,
who had done all in their power to
keep him from disgracing their name
by his blackguard propensities. In
dress and manner he affected the
plain bluff Englishman, wore a blue
coat, beaver gloves, (or none at all,)
and a hat broad in the brim, spoke of
all foreigners with supreme contempt,
and of himself as <i>honest</i> Tom Ringwood.
This lip honesty and assumed
bluntness were a standing joke with
those who knew his real character,
but passed muster as perfectly genuine
with ingenuous and newly imported
youngsters like myself, who took
him for a wealthy and respectable
English gentleman, the champion of
fair play, just as at a race, or fair,
boobies take for a bona-fide farmer
the portly individual in brown tops,
who so loudly expresses his confidence
in the chances of the thimble
rig, and in the probity of the talented
individual who manœuvres the ‘little
pea.’

“Ringwood was at his rooms, having
‘half a round’ with the Oxford
Chicken, a promising young bruiser
who, having recently killed his man
in a prize-fight, had come over to
Paris for change of air. There was
bottled English porter on the table,
sand upon the floor to prevent slipping,
and the walls were profusely
adorned with portraits of well-known
pugilists, sketches of steeple-chases,
boxing-gloves, masks, and single-sticks.
In the comfortable embraces
of an arm-chair sat Archibald Lowther,
Honest Tom’s particular ally,
who, in every respect, was the very
opposite of his Achates. Lowther
affected the foreigner and dandy as
much as Ringwood assumed the bluff
and rustic Briton; wore beard and
mustaches, and brilliant waistcoats,
owned shirt-studs by the score and
rings by the gross, lisped out his words
with the aid of a silver toothpick, and
was never seen without a smile of
supreme amiability upon his dark,
handsome countenance. Fortunately,
both these gentlemen were disengaged
for the evening. The day passed in
lounging and billiard playing, varied
by luncheon and a fair allowance of
liquids, and at half past seven we sat
down to dinner. It did not occur to
me at the time that, although Darvel’s
.pn +1
invitation had the appearance of an
impromptu, he did not warn his servant
of expected guests, or return
home till within an hour of dinnertime.
Nevertheless, all was in readiness;
not the promised fowl and leg
of mutton, but an exquisite repast,
redolent of spices and truffles, with
wines of every description. I was in
high spirits, and drank freely, mixing
my liquor without scruple, and towards
ten o’clock I was much exhilarated,
although not yet drunk, and
still tolerably cognisant of my actions.
Then came coffee and liqueurs, and
whilst Darvel searched in an adjoining
room for some particularly fine cigars
for my special smoking, Lowther
cleared a table, and rummaged in the
drawers for cards and dice, whilst
Ringwood called for lemons and sugar,
and compounded a fiery bowl of
<i>Kirschwasser</i> punch. It was quite
clear we were to have a night of it.
Darvel’s declaration that he would
have no high play in his rooms, and
would turn every one out at midnight,
was replied to by me with a boisterous
shout of laughter, in which I was
vociferously joined by Lowther, who,
to all appearance, was more than
half tipsy. We sat down to play
for moderate stakes; fortune favoured
me at the expense of Ringwood and
Lowther. The former looked sulky,
the latter became peevishly noisy and
excited, cursed his luck, and insisted
on increasing the stakes. Darvel
strongly objected; as winner, I held
myself bound to oppose him, and the
majority carried the day. The stakes
were doubled, quadrupled, and at last
became extravagantly high. Presently
in came a couple more ‘friends,’ in
full evening costume, white-waistcoated
and gold-buttoned, patent
leather, starch and buckram from
heel to eyebrow. They were on
their way to a rout at the Marchioness
of Montepulciano’s, but, seeing
light through Darvel’s windows, came
up ‘just to see what was going on.’
With great difficulty they were prevailed
upon to take a cigar and a hand
at cards, and to disappoint the Marchioness.
It was I who, inspired by
deep potations and unbounded good
fellowship, urged and insisted upon
their stopping. My three friends did
not seem nearly so cordial in their
solicitations, and subsequently, when
I came to think over the night’s proceedings,
I remembered a look of
vexation exchanged between them,
upon the entrance of the uninvited
vultures who thus intruded for their
share of the spoil. Doubtless, the
worthy trio would rather have kept
me to themselves. They suppressed
their discontent, however; externally
all was honeyed cordiality and good
feeling; the Bully made perpetual
bowls of punch, and I quaffed the
blazing alcohol till I could scarcely
distinguish the pips on the cards.
But scenes like these have been too
often described for their details to
have much interest. Enough, that
at six o’clock the following morning
I threw myself upon my bed, fevered,
frantic, and a beggar. I had given
orders upon my London agent for the
very last farthing I possessed.

“Lowther, to all appearance the least
sober and worst player of the party,
had been chief winner. Ringwood
had won a little; Madam Montepulciano’s
friends did not make a bad
night’s work of it, although they declared
their gains trifling, but as there
had been a good deal of gold and some
bank-notes upon the table, it was
difficult to say exactly how the thing
had gone. Darvel, who had frequently
made attempts to stop the play—attempts
frustrated by Lowther’s drunken
violence, Ringwood’s dogged sullenness,
and my own mad eagerness,—was
visibly a loser; but what mattered
that, when his confederates won?
There is honour amongst thieves,
and no doubt next day witnessed an
equitable division of the spoils.

“It was the second day after the debauch
before I again saw any of my
kind friends. I spent the greater part of
the intervening one in bed, exhausted
and utterly desponding, revolving in
my mind my desperate position. I
had no heart to go out or see any body.
At last Darvel called upon me, affected
great sorrow for my losses, deplored
my obstinacy in playing high against
his advice, and inveighed against
Lowther for his drunken persistence.
Anxiety and previous excess had
rendered me really unwell; Darvel
insisted on sending me his physician,
and left me with many expressions of
kindness, and a promise to call next
.pn +1
day. All this feigned sympathy was
not lavished without an object; the
gang had discovered I might still be
of use to them. In what way, I did
not long remain ignorant. During a
week or more that I remained in the
house, suffering from a sort of low
fever, Darvel came daily to sit with
me, brought me newspapers, told me
the gossip of the hour, and not unfrequently
threw out hints of better times
near at hand, when the blind goddess
should again smile upon me. At last
I learned in what way her smiles were
to be purchased. I was convalescent;
my doctor had paid his farewell visit,
and pocketed my last napoleon, when
Darvel entered my room. After the
usual commonplace inquiries, he sat
down by the fire, silent, and with a
gloomy countenance. I could not help
noticing this, for I was accustomed to
see him cheerful and talkative upon
his visits to me; and I presently
inquired if any thing had gone wrong.

“‘Yes—no—nothing with me exactly,
but for you. I am disappointed
on your account.’

“‘On my account?’

“‘Yes. I wrote to England some
days ago, urging friends of mine in
high places to get you a snug berth,
and to-day I have received answers.’

“‘Well?’

“‘No, ill—cold comfort enough.
Lots of promises, but with an unmistakable
hint that many are to be
served before me, and that we must
wait several months,—which with
those people means several years,—before
there will be a chance of a good
wind blowing your way. I am infernally
sorry for it.’

“‘And I also,’ I replied, mournfully.
There was a short pause.

“‘How are you off for the sinews
of war?’ said Darvel.

“‘You may find some small change
on the chimney-piece—my last money.’

“‘The devil! This won’t do. We
must fill your exchequer somehow.
You must be taken care of, my
boy.’

“‘Easy to say,’ I answered, ‘but
how? Unless you win me a lottery
prize, or show me a hidden treasure,
my cash-box is likely to continue
empty.’

“‘Pshaw! hidden treasure indeed!
There are always treasures to be found
by clever seekers. Nothing without
trouble.’

“‘I should not grudge that.’

“‘Perhaps not; but you young
gentlemen are apt to be squeamish.
Nasty-particular, as I may say.’

“‘Pshaw!’ said I in my turn, ‘you
know I can’t afford to be that. Money
I must have, no matter how.’

“I spoke thoughtlessly, and without
weighing my words, but also without
evil meaning. I merely meant to
express my willingness to work for
my living, in ways whose adoption I
should have scoffed at a fortnight
previously. Darvel doubtless understood
me differently—thought dissipation
and reckless extravagance had
blunted my sense of honour and
honesty, and that I was ripe for his
purpose. After a minute or two’s
silence—

“‘By the bye,’ he said, ‘are not
you intimate with the young D——s,
sons of that rich old baronet Sir
Marmaduke D——?’

“‘Barely acquainted,’ I replied,
‘I have seen them once or twice, but
it is a long time back, and we should
hardly speak if we met. They are
poor silly fellows, brought up by a
fool of a mother, and by a puritanical
private tutor.’

“‘They have broken loose from the
apron string then, for they arrived
here yesterday on their way to Italy,
Greece, and the Lord knows where.
Why don’t you call upon them?
They are good to know. They have
swinging letters of credit on Paris
and half the towns in Europe.’

“‘I see no use in calling on them,
nor any that their letters of credit can
be to me.’

“‘Pshaw! who knows? They are
to be a month here. It might lead to
something.’

“‘To what?’ I inquired indifferently.
A gesture of impatience escaped
Darvel.

“‘You certainly are dull to-day—slow
of comprehension, as I may say.
Recollect what some play-writing man
has said about the world being an
oyster for clever fellows to open.
Now these D——s are just the sort of
natives it is pleasant to pick at, because
their shells are lined with pearls.
Well, since you won’t take a hint, I
must speak plainly. Dine to-day at
.pn +1
the table-d’hôte of the <i>Hôtel W</i>——.
The D——s are staying there, and
you are safe to fall in with them.
Renew your acquaintance, or strike
up a fresh one, whichever you please.
You are a fellow of good address, and
will have no difficulty in making friends
with two such Johnny Newcomes. Ply
them with Burgundy, bring them here
or to my rooms, we will get Lowther
and Ringwood, and it shall be a hundred
pounds in your pocket.’

“I must have been a fool indeed,
had I doubted for another instant
the meaning and intentions of my
respectable ally. As by touch of enchanter’s
wand, the scales fell from
my eyes; illusions vanished, and I
saw myself and my associates in the
right colours, myself as a miserable
dupe, them as vile sharpers. So confounded
was I by the suddenness of
the illumination, that for a moment I
stood speechless and motionless, gazing
vacantly into the tempter’s face.
He took my silence for acquiescence,
and opened his lips to continue his
base hints and instructions. Roused
into vehement action by the sound of
his odious voice, I grasped his collar
with my left hand, and seizing a
horsewhip that lay opportunely near,
I lashed the miscreant round the room
till my arm could strike no longer, and
till the inmates of the house, alarmed
by his outcries, assembled at the
door of my apartment. Too infuriated
to notice them, I kicked the scoundrel
out and remained alone, to meditate
at leisure upon my past folly and
present embarrassments. The former
was irreparable, the latter were speedily
augmented. I know not what
Darvel told the master of the house,
(I subsequently found he had had an
interview with him after his ejection
from my room,) but two days later,
the month being at an end, I received
a heavy bill, with an intimation that
my apartments were let to another
tenant, and a request for my speedy
departure. I was too proud to take
notice of this insolence, and too poor,
under any circumstances, to continue
in so costly a lodging. Money I had
none, and it took the sacrifice of my
personal effects, including even much
of my wardrobe, to satisfy my landlord’s
demand. I settled it, however,
and removed, with a heavy heart, a
light portmanteau, and a hundred
francs in my pocket, to a wretched
garret in a cheap faubourg.

“You will think, perhaps, that I
acted rashly, and should have sought
temporary assistance from friends before
proceeding to such extremities.
But the very few persons who might
have been disposed to help me, I had
long since neglected for the society of
the well-dressed thieves by whom I
had been so pitilessly fleeced. And
had it been otherwise, I knew not
how to beg or borrow. My practice
had been in giving and lending. The
first thing I did, when installed in
my <lang=fr><i>sixième</i></lang> at twenty francs a-month,
was to write to my uncle in England,
informing him, without entering into
details, of the knavery of which I had
been victim, expressing my penitence
for past follies, and my desire
to atone them by a life of industry.
I craved his advice as to the course I
should adopt, declared a preference
for the military profession, and entreated,
as the greatest of favours, and
the only one I should ever ask of him,
that he would procure me a commission,
either in the British service or
Indian army. I got an answer by return
of post, and, before opening it,
augured well from such promptitude.
Its contents bitterly disappointed me.
My uncle’s agent informed me, by his
employer’s command, that Mr Oakley,
of Oakley Manor, was not disposed
to take any notice of a nephew
who had disgraced him by extravagance
and evil courses, and that any
future letters from me would be totally
disregarded. I felt that I deserved
this; but yet I had hoped kinder words
from my dead father’s elder brother.
The trifling assistance I asked would
hardly have been missed out of his
unencumbered income of ten thousand
a-year. This was my first advertisement
of the wide difference between
relatives and friends. Gradually I
gathered experience, paid for, in advance,
at a heavy rate.

“Of course, I did not dream of
renewing an application thus cruelly
repulsed, but resolved to rely on myself
alone, and to find some occupation,
however humble, sufficient for my
subsistence. I had no idea, until I
tried, of the immense difficulty of procuring
such occupation. Master of
.pn +1
no trade or handicraft, I knew not
which way to turn, or what species
of employment to seek. I was a good
swordsman, and once I had a vague
notion of teaching fencing; but even
had I had the means to establish myself,
the profession was already over-stocked;
and not a regiment of the
Paris garrison but could turn out a
score of <lang=fr><i>prévôts</i></lang> to button me six times
for my once. I could ride, which
qualified me for a postilion, and had
sufficient knowledge of billiards to
aspire to the honourable post of a
marker; but even to such offices—could
I have stooped to compete
for them—I should have been
held ineligible without certificates of
character. And to whom was I to
apply for these? To my gay acquaintances
of the Café de Paris? To the
obsequious banker to whom I had
come handsomely accredited, and who
had given me a sumptuous dinner in
his hotel of the Rue Bergère? To
the noble and fashionable families to
whom I had brought letters of recommendation,
and whom I had neglected
after a single visit? To which of
these should I apply for a character
as groom? And how was I to exist
without condescending to some such
menial office? To aught better, gentleman
though I was, I had no qualifications
entitling me to aspire. It
was a sharp, but wholesome, lesson
to my vanity and pride, to find myself,
so soon as deprived of my factitious
advantage of inherited wealth, less
able to provide for my commonest
wants than the fustian-coated mechanic
and hob-nailed labourer, whom
I had been wont to splash with my
carriage-wheel and despise as an
inferior race of beings. Bitter were
my reflections, great was my perplexity,
during the month succeeding
my sudden change of fortune. I
passed whole days lying upon the bed
in my melancholy lodging, or leaning
out of the window, which looked
over a dreary range of roofs, ruminating
my forlorn position, and endeavouring,
but in vain, to find a
remedy. This was urgent; but no
cudgelling of my brain suggested one,
and at last I saw myself on the brink
of destitution. A score of five-franc
pieces had constituted my whole fortune
after satisfying my former extortionate
landlord. These were nearly
gone, and I knew not how to obtain
another shilling; for my kit was reduced
to linen and the most indispensable
necessaries. I now learned
upon how little a man may live, and
even thrive and be healthy. During that
month, I contrived to keep my expenses
of food and lodging within
two francs a-day, making the whole
month’s expenditure considerably less
than I had commonly thrown away
on an epicurean breakfast or dinner.
And I was all the better for the coarse
regimen to which I thus suddenly
found myself reduced. Harassed in
mind though I was, my body felt the
benefit of unusual abstinence from
deep potations, late hours, and sustained
dissipation. The large amount
of foot-exercise I took during these
few weeks, doubtless contributed also
to restore tone and vigour to a constitution
which my dissolute career,
however mad and reckless, had not
been long enough seriously to impair.
When weary of my lonesome attic,
I would start through the nearest
barrier, avoiding the streets and
districts where I might encounter former
acquaintances, and take long
walks in the environs of Paris, returning
with an appetite that gave a relish
even to the tough and unsavoury
viands of a cheap <lang=fr><i>traiteur</i></lang>.

“It chanced, upon a certain day,
when striding along the road to
Orleans, that I met a regiment of
hussars changing their quarters from
that town to Paris. The morning
sun shone brightly on their accoutrements;
the hoofs of their well-groomed
horses rang upon the frosty road; the
men, closely wrapped in their warm
pelisses, looked cheerful, in good
case, and in high spirits at the prospect
of a sojourn in the capital. I
seated myself upon a gate to see them
pass, and could not avoid making a
comparison between my position and
that of a private dragoon, which resulted
considerably to my disadvantage.
I was not then so well aware
as I have since become, of all the
hardships and disagreeables of a soldier’s
life; and it appeared to me
that these fellows, well clothed, well
mounted, and with their daily wants
provided for, were perfect kings compared
to a useless, homeless, destitute
.pn +1
being like myself. Their profession
was an honourable one; their regiment
was their home; they had comrades
and friends; and their duty as
soldiers properly done, none could
reproach or oppress them. The column
marched by, and was succeeded
by the rearguard, half-a-dozen smart,
sunburned hussars, with carbine on
thigh; one of whom sang, in a mellow
tenor voice, and with considerable
taste, the well-known soldier’s song
out of <i>La Dame Blanche</i>. In their
turn, they disappeared behind a bend
of the road; but the spirited burthen
of the ditty still reached my ears after
they were lost to my view—

.pm verse-start
‘Ah, quel plaisir! ah, quel plaisir!
Ah, quel plaisir d’être soldat!’
.pm verse-end

“I repeated to myself, as the last notes
died in the distance, and jumping off
the gate, I turned my steps towards
Paris, my mind strongly inclining to
the sabre and worsted lace.

“My half-formed resolution gathered
strength from reflection, and on reaching
Paris, I proceeded straight to the
Champ de Mars. The spectacle that
there met my eyes was of a nature
to encourage my inclination to embrace
a military career, even in the humble
capacity of a private trooper. It was a
cavalry field-day, and a number of
squadrons manœuvred in presence of
several general officers and of a brilliant
staff, whilst soldiers of various
corps,—dragoons, lancers, cuirassiers
and hussars, stood in groups watching
the evolutions of their comrades. Veterans
from the neighbouring Hôtel des
Invalides—scarred and mutilated old
warriors, who had shared the triumphs
and reverses of the gallant French armies
from Valmy[#] to Waterloo—talked
of their past campaigns and criticised
the movements of their successors in
the ranks. Several of these parties I
approached within earshot, and overheard,
with strong interest, many a
stirring reminiscence of those warlike
days when the Corsican firebrand
set Europe in a flame, and spread his
conquering legions from Moscow to
Andalusia. At last I came to a group
of younger soldiers, who discussed
more recent if less glorious deeds of
arms. The words <i>Bédouins</i>, <i>razzia</i>,
<i>Algérie</i>, recurred frequently in their
discourse. I started at the sounds.
They reminded me of what I had previously
forgotten, that there was still
a battle-field in the world where danger
might be encountered and distinction won.
True, I might have wished a
better cause than that of encroachment
and usurpation; more civilised foes
than the tawny denizens of the
desert; a more humane system of warfare
than that pursued by the French in
Africa. But my circumstances forbade
over-nicety, and that day I enlisted as
volunteer in the light cavalry, merely
stipulating that I should be placed in
a corps then serving in Africa.

.fn #
“From the cannonade at Valmy may be dated the commencement of the career
of victory which carried their armies to Vienna and the Kremlin.”—Alison’s
<i>History of Europe</i>, vol. iii. p. 210.
.fn-

“Should you care to hear, I will
give you at a future time some details
of my military novitiate and African
adventures. The former was by no
means easy, the latter had little to
distinguish them from those of thousands
of my comrades. A foreign
service is rarely an agreeable refuge,
and that of France is undoubtedly the
very worst an Englishman can enter.
The old antipathy to England, weakened
in the breasts of French civilians,
still exists to a great extent amongst
the military classes of the population.
A traditionary feeling of hatred and
humiliation has been handed down
from the days of our Peninsular victories,
and especially from that of
the crowning triumph at Waterloo,—the
battle won by treachery, as many
Frenchmen affirm, and some positively
believe. A French barrack-room, I
can assure you, is any thing but a
bed of roses to a British volunteer.
I was better off, however, than most
of my countrymen would have been
under similar circumstances. Speaking
the language like a native—better,
indeed, than the majority of those
with whom I now found myself associated—I
escaped the mockery and
annoyances which an English accent
would inevitably have perpetuated.
My country was known,
however; it was moreover discovered
that in birth and education I was
superior to those about me, and these
.pn +1
circumstances were sufficient to draw
upon me envy and insult. Of the
former I took no heed, the latter I
promptly and fiercely resented, feeling
that to do so was the only means of
avoiding a long course of molestation.
Two or three duels, whence my skill
with the foils brought me out unscathed
and with credit, made me
respected in my regiment, and whilst
thus establishing my reputation for
courage, I did my best to conciliate
the good-will of those amongst whom
I was henceforward to live. To a
great extent I was successful. My
quality of an Englishman gradually
ceased to give umbrage or invite aggression,
and, if not forgotten, was
rarely referred to.

“I was found an apt recruit, and
after far less than the usual amount
of drill I was dismissed to my duty in
the ranks of my present regiment,
with which I returned from Africa at
the beginning of this winter, and am
now in garrison at Paris. My steady
attention to my duties, knowledge
of writing and accounts, and
conduct in one or two sharply-contested
actions, obtained me promotion
to the grades of corporal and <lang=fr><i>fourrier</i>.</lang>
For my last advancement, to the highest
non-commissioned rank, I am indebted
to an affair that occurred a
few weeks before we left Africa. A
small division, consisting of three
battalions and as many squadrons,
including mine, moved from Oran and
its neighbourhood, for the purpose of a
reconnaissance. After marching for a
whole day, we halted for the night
near a lonely cistern of water. The
only living creature we saw was a
wretched little Arab boy, taking care
of three lean oxen, who told us that,
with the exception of his parents, the
whole tribe inhabiting that district
had fled on news of our approach, and
were now far away. This sounded
rather suspicious, and all precautions
were taken to guard against surprise.
Picquets and out-posts were established,
the bivouac fires blazed
cheerily up, rations were cooked and
eaten, and, wrapped in our cloaks, we
sought repose after the day’s fatigue.
Tired though we were, sleep was
hard to obtain, especially for us
cavalry men, by reason of the uneasiness
of our horses, which scarcely
ceased for a moment to neigh and
kick and fight with each other.
Troopers always look upon this as
a bad omen, and more than one old
soldier, whilst caressing and calming
his restless charger, muttered a prediction
of danger at hand. For once,
these military prophets were not mistaken.
About two hours after midnight,
the bivouac was sunk in slumber,
the horses had become quieter,
and the silence was rarely broken,
save by the warning cry of ‘<lang=fr><i>Sentinelle,
garde à vous!</i></lang>’ when suddenly a few
dropping shots were heard, the drum
of a picquet rattled a loud alarm, and
a shout arose of ‘<lang=fr><i>Les Arabes!</i></lang>’ In
an instant, the encampment, so still
before, swarmed like a hive of bees.
Luckily we had all laid down fully accoutred,
with our weapons beside us,
so that, as we sprang to our feet, we
found ourselves ready for action.
The general, who alone had a small
tent, rushed half-dressed from under
his canvass. Our veteran colonel was
on foot with the first, cool as on
parade, and breathing defiance.
‘<lang=fr><i>Chasseurs</i></lang>, to your horses!’ shouted
he in stentorian tones, hoarse
from the smoke of many battles. At
the word we were in the saddle. On
every side we heard wild and savage
shouts, and volleys of small arms, and
the picquets, overpowered by numbers,
came scampering in, with heavy
loss and in much confusion. There
was no moon, but by the starlight we
saw large bodies of white shadowy
figures sweeping around and towards
our encampment. Our infantry had
lain down in order, by companies
and battalions, according to a plan of
defence previously formed, and now
they stood in three compact squares,
representing the three points of a
triangle; whilst in the intervals the
squadrons manœuvred, and the artillery-men
watched opportunities to
send the contents of their light mountain-howitzers
amongst the hostile
masses. With whoop and wild
hurrah, and loud invocations of Allah
and the Prophet, the Bedouin hordes
charged to the bayonet’s point, but
recoiled again before well-directed
volleys, leaving the ground in front of
the squares strewed with men and
horses, dead and dying. Then the artillery
gave them a round, and we cavalry
.pn +1
dashed after them, pursuing and
sabring till compelled to retire before
fresh and overwhelming masses.
This was repeated several times. There
were many thousand Arabs collected
around us, chiefly horsemen; and had
their discipline equalled their daring,
our position would have been perilous
indeed. Undismayed by their heavy
loss, they returned again and again
to the attack. At last the general,
impatient of the protracted combat,
wheeled up the wings of the squares,
reserved the fire till the last moment,
and received the assailants with so
stunning a discharge that they fled to
return no more. The cavalry of course
followed them up, and our colonel,
Monsieur de Bellechasse, an old soldier
of Napoleon’s, ever foremost where cut
and thrust are passing, headed the
squadron to which I belong. Carried
away by his impetuosity, and charging
home the flying Bedouins, he lost sight
of prudence, and we soon found ourselves
surrounded by a raging host,
who, perceiving how few we were,
stood at bay, and in their turn assumed
the offensive. Seen in the
dim starlight, with their tawny faces,
gleaming eyes, white burnous, and
furious gesticulations, the Arabs
seemed a legion of devils let loose
for our destruction. Our ranks were
disordered by the pursuit, and we
thus lost one of our chief advantages;
for the Bedouins, unable to resist the
charge in line of disciplined cavalry,
are no despicable opponents in a hand
to hand mêlée. And this the combat
soon became. Greatly out-numbered,
we fought for our lives, and of course
fought our best. I found myself
near the colonel, who was assailed
by two Arabs at one time. He defended
himself like a lion, but his
opponents were strong and skilful,
and years have impaired the activity
and vigour which procured him, a
quarter of a century ago, the reputation
of one of the most efficient
light dragoons in Buonaparte’s armies.
There were none to aid him, for all
had their hands full and I myself
was sharpset with a brawny Bedouin,
who made excellent use of his scimitar.
At last I disabled him by a severe
cut on the sword arm; he
gnashed his teeth with rage, turned
his beautiful horse with lightning
swiftness, and fled from the fight before
I had time to complete my work.
I was glad to be quit of him at any
price, as I was now able to strike in
by the colonel’s side. The old warrior
was hard put to; a sabre cut
had knocked off his shako, and inflicted
a wound on his high, bald
forehead, slight indeed, but the blood
from which, trickling into his eyes,
nearly blinded him, and he was fain
to leave go his reins to dash it away
with his hand. The Arabs perceived
their advantage, and pressed him
hard, when I charged one of them in
the flank, bringing the breast of my
horse against the shoulder of his,
and cutting at the same time at his
head. Man and beast rolled upon
the ground. M. de Bellechasse had
scarcely time to observe, from whom
the timely succour came, when I
dashed in before him, and drew
upon myself the fury of his remaining
foe. Just then, to my infinite relief,
I heard at a short distance a steady
regular fire of musketry. It was the
infantry, advancing to our support.
The Arabs heard it also, and having
had, for one day, a sufficient taste of
French lead, beat a precipitate retreat,
scouring away like phantoms, and
disappearing in the gloom of the desert.
I was triply recompensed for
my share in this action, by honourable
mention in general orders, by
promotion to the rank of <lang=fr><i>maréchal
de logis</i></lang>—equivalent to troop sergeant-major
in the English service—and
by the personal thanks of my
excellent old colonel, who shook me
heartily by the hand, and swore
‘<lang=fr><i>Mille millions de sabres!</i></lang>’ that after
successfully guarding his head against
Russian, Prussian, and Austrian,
Englishman and Spaniard, he would
have been ignominiously cut to pieces
by a brace of black-faced heathens,
but for my timely interposition.
Since then, he has shown me unvarying
kindness, for which I am indebted
chiefly to my preservation of his life,
but partly also to his high approval of
the summary manner in which I upset,
by a blow of my sabre and bound
of my horse, one of his swarthy antagonists,
reminding him, as he always
mentions when telling the story, of a
similar feat of his own when attacked on
the Russian retreat by three gigantic
.pn +1
Tartars from the Ukraine. Since we
have been in garrison here, he has
frequently had me at his house, nominally
to assist in the arrangement
of regimental accounts and orders,
but in reality to take opportunities of
rendering me small kindnesses; and
latterly, I am inclined to think, a little,
for the pleasure of talking to me of
his old campaigns. He soon discovered,
what he previously had some
inkling of, that my original position
in the world was superior to my present
one; and I am not without hopes,
from hints he has let fall, that he will,
at no very distant day, procure my
promotion to a cornetcy. These
hopes and alleviations enable me to
support, with tolerable patience and
cheerfulness, the dull ordeal of a garrison
life, seldom so pleasantly varied
as by my meeting with you. And now,
that I have inflicted my whole history
upon you,” added Oakley, with
a smile, “I must bid you good bye,
for duty calls,—no longer, it is true,
to action in the field, but to the monotonous
routine of barrack ordinances.”

Thanking Oakley for his interesting
narrative, I gave him my address, and
begged him to visit me. This he
promised to do, and we parted.
Three days later he called upon me;
I kept him to dine with me at my
lodgings, and had reason, during an
evening of most agreeable conversation,
to be more than ever pleased
with the tone of his mind and tenor
of his discourse. The unthinking
rake of former days, must have learned
and reflected much during his period
of adversity and soldiering, to convert
himself into the intelligent, well-informed,
and unaffected man he had
now become. One thing that struck
me in him, however, was an occasional
absence of mind and proneness to
reverie. If there was a short pause
in the conversation, his thoughts
seemed to wander far away; and at
times an expression of perplexed uneasiness,
if not of care, came over his
countenance. I had only to address
him, however, to dissipate these
clouds, whencesoever they came, and
to recall his usual animated readiness
of manner.

A fortnight now elapsed without
my again seeing him. I was to return
to England in a couple of days, and
was busy one evening writing letters
and making preparations for departure,
when the bell at the door of my
apartment was hastily rung. I opened,
and Oakley entered. At first I hardly,
recognised him, for he was in plain
clothes, which had the effect of converting
the smart sergeant into an
exceedingly handsome and gentlemanlike
civilian. It struck me he
looked paler than usual, and grave,
almost anxious. His first words
were an apology for his intrusion at
so late an hour, which I cut short by
an assurance of my gladness to see
him, and an inquiry if I could do any
thing for him in England.

“When do you go?” said he.

“The day after to-morrow.”

“I want nothing there,” was his
reply; “but before you go you can
render me a great service, if you
will.”

“If I can, be sure that I will.”

“You may perhaps hesitate, when
you hear what it is. I want you to
be my second in a duel.”

“In a duel!” I repeated, greatly
astonished, and not over-pleased at
the idea of being mixed up in some
barrack-room quarrel. “In a duel!
and with whom?”

“With an officer of my regiment.”

“Of your own rank, I presume?”
said I, a little surprised at the sort of
assumption by which he called a sergeant
an officer, without the usual
prefix of “non-commissioned.”

“In that case I need not have
troubled you,” he replied; “I could
have found a dozen seconds. But
my antagonist is a commissioned
officer, a lieutenant of the same regiment
with myself, although in a different
squadron.”

“The devil he is!” I exclaimed.
“That becomes cause for court-martial.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Oakley,
“for me, but no harm can accrue to
you. I am your countryman; I come
to you in plain clothes and ask you to
be my second in a duel. You consent;
we go on the ground and meet another
man, apparently a civilian, of whose
military quality or grade you, are in
no way supposed cognisant. Duels
occur daily in France, as you know,
and no notice is taken of them, even
.pn +1
when fatal. I assure you there is no
danger for you.”

“I was not thinking of myself. But
if you escape unhurt from the encounter,
you will be shot for attempting
the life of your superior.”

Oakley shrugged his shoulders, as
if to say, “I know that, but must
take my chance;” but made no other
reply to my remark.

“I will tell you the circumstances,”
he said, “and you shall judge for
yourself if I can avoid the duel. When
talking to you of my kind old colonel,
I did not tell you of his only daughter,
Bertha de Bellechasse, the most beautiful
and fascinating of her sex. On
our return from Africa, the colonel, in
his gratitude for the man who had
saved his life, presented me to his wife
and child, pronouncing at the same
time an exaggerated encomium on my
conduct. The ladies gave me their
hands to kiss, and had I shed half my
blood in saying that of the colonel, I
should have been more than repaid by
Bertha’s gracious smile, and warm
expression of thanks to her father’s
preserver. Madame de Bellechasse,
I suspect, was about to give me her
purse, but was checked by a sign from
her husband, who doubtless told them,
after my departure, as much as he
knew of my history,—that I was a
foreigner and a gentleman, whom circumstances
had driven to don the
coarse vest of the private dragoon.
He may perhaps have added some of
the romantic stories current in the
regiment when I first joined. I
had never been communicative, concerning
my past life, which I felt was
nothing to boast of; and regimental
gossips had drawn upon their invention
for various strange tales about the
Milord Anglais. When I became
domesticated in the corps, and my
country was almost forgotten, these
fictitious histories ceased to be repeated
and fell into oblivion; but some
of them were revived for the benefit
of the colonel, when, after the action
near Oran, he instituted inquiries concerning
me amongst his officers. It
was not till some weeks later, that
he asked and received from me a plain,
unvarnished account of my very common-place
career. It is possible that
the sort of mystery previously attaching
to me, combined with her father’s
glowing eulogiums and her own
gratitude for his preservation, worked
upon Bertha’s ardent and susceptible
imagination, prepossessing her in my
favour. For my part, I had been
struck to the heart by the very first
glance from the dark eyes that sparkled
like diamonds beneath their lashes
of sable silk; I had been captivated
and fettered on the instant, by the
smile of enchanting sweetness that
played round her graceful lips. For
a while I struggled steadfastly against
the impulse to adore her; its indulgence
I felt would be madness, and
could result but in misery. What folly
for the penniless soldier, even though
time and her father’s protection should
convert him into an equally penniless
officer, to raise his eyes to the
rich, the beautiful, the brilliant daughter
of the Count de Bellechasse! Rejection,
ridicule, contempt could be
the sole recompense of such presumption.
M. de Bellechasse, although
an officer of Napoleon’s, is of old
French nobility; his wealth is very
great; and if he still continues to serve,
it is solely from enthusiastic love of
his profession. His daughter is a
match for the first in the land. All
these and many more such arguments
did I again and again repeat to myself;
but when had reason a chance
against love? Repeatedly did I vow to
forget the fair vision that had crossed,
my path and troubled my repose, or
to think of her only as the phantom of
a dream, unsubstantial and unattainable.
But the resolution was scarcely
formed, when I found myself dwelling
in rapture on her perfections, recapitulating
the few gentle words she had
addressed to me, recalling her voice,
her look, her gesture—everything
about her, even to the most minute
details. One moment, in view of the
precipice on whose brink I stood, I
swore to shun her perilous presence,
and to avert my eyes should I again
find myself in it: not an hour afterwards
I eagerly seized a pretext
that led me to her father’s house,
and afforded me the possibility of
another glimpse of my idol. Such
glimpses were not difficult to obtain.
The colonel’s partiality to me daily
increased, and when I went to him on
regimental matters, and he was alone
with his wife and daughter, he would
.pn +1
receive me in the drawing room in
their presence, and waiving, for the
time, the difference of grade, would
converse with me as affably as with
an equal, and make me repeat, for the
amusement of the ladies, some of our
African skirmishes and adventures.
Doubtless I should have avoided these
dangerous interviews, but how was it
to be done without an appearance of
ingratitude and discourtesy? Truth
to tell, I taxed my invention but little
for means of escaping them. I continued
to see Bertha, and at each interview
my passion gathered strength.
She listened with marked attention to
my anecdotes of our campaigns. These
I always addressed to her father or
mother; but without looking at her, I
could feel her eyes fixed upon me with
an expression of interest, and, I at
last ventured to think, of a more tender
feeling. About this time the colonel
frequently kept me for hours
together at his house, arranging regimental
papers and accounts, in a room
upon the ground floor, set apart for
the purpose. Within this room is
another, used as a library, and thus it
happened that one day, when immersed
in states and muster rolls, I beheld
the door open, and the fairy form of
Bertha upon the threshold. She appeared
confused at seeing me; I rose
and bowed in silence as she passed
through the apartment, but I was
taken too much by surprise to have
full command over myself, and doubtless
my eyes said something of what
my lips would gladly have spoken, for
before Bertha reached the outer door,
her cheeks were suffused with blushes.
Again and again these meetings, sweet
as transient, occurred. But I will not
lose time or weary you by dwelling
upon such passages. Neither could I
well explain, did I attempt it, how it
was that I one day found myself
kneeling at Bertha’s feet, pouring forth
my soul in words of passionate love,
and reading with ecstasy upon her
sweet countenance a blushing avowal
of its return.

“The die thus cast, we abandoned
ourselves to the charm of our attachment,
sadly embittered by its hopelessness.
Since then, I have had almost
daily occupation at the colonel’s house,
and Bertha has found means to afford
me brief but frequent interviews. At
these we discussed, but ever in vain,
the possibility of breaking our secret
to M. de Bellechasse. Frank and
affable though he is, the colonel’s
pride of birth is great, and we were
well assured that the disclosure of our
correspondence would produce a terrific
explosion of fury, consign Bertha
to the seclusion of a convent, and
draw upon me his hatred and revenge.
This morning Bertha came into the
room, upon the usual pretext of seeking
a book from the library, and the
painful and perplexing topic that
has long and unceasingly occupied
our thoughts, was again resumed.
For the first time, she had heard her
father state his intention of recommending
me in the strongest terms for
a commission. This let in a ray of
hope upon our despondency; and
we resolved that, so soon as the
epaulet was on my shoulder, I
should hazard a confession to the
colonel. The prospect of a termination
to our cruel state of suspense,
and the possibility, faint though it
indeed was, of a result favourable to
our wishes, brought a joyful gleam
over Bertha’s lovely features, which
have lately grown pale with anxiety.
On my part, I did my utmost to
inspire her with hopes I myself scarce
dared to entertain, when, as she stood
beside me, her hand clasped in mine,
a smile of affection upon her countenance,
the door suddenly opened,
and, before we had time to separate,
Victor de Berg, a lieutenant in my
regiment, and a suitor of Bertha’s,
made a step into the room. For an
instant he stood like one thunderstruck,
and then, without uttering a
word, abruptly turned upon his heel
and went out. The next minute the
sound of his step in the court warned
us that he had left the house.

“Overwhelmed with terror and confusion
to an extent that precluded
reflection, Bertha fled to her apartment,
leaving me to deliberate on the
best course to adopt. My mind
was presently made up. The only
plan was to seek Monsieur de Berg,
inform him of our mutual attachment,
and appeal to his honour and generosity
to preserve inviolate the secret
he had surprised. I hurried to his
quarters, which were at no great
distance. He had already arrived
.pn +1
there, and was pacing his apartment
in manifest agitation. Since our
return from Africa, he had been a
declared admirer of Bertha’s; by
family and fortune he was an eligible
suitor, and her father favoured his
pretensions, contingent, however,
upon his daughter’s consent. Dismissing
the servant who ushered me
in, he addressed me before I had
time to enter upon the object of my
visit.

“‘It is unnecessary,’ he said, in a
voice choked with passionate emotion,
as I was about to speak. ‘I can guess
all you would say. A single instant
informed me of the state of affairs;
the half hour that has elapsed since
then, has sufficed to mark out my line
of conduct. Mr Oakley, I know that
by birth and breeding you are above
your station. You have forgotten
your present position; I will follow
your example so far as to waive our
difference of military rank. As the
friend of Colonel de Bellechasse, I
ought, perhaps, instantly to tell him
what I have this day learned; as his
daughter’s suitor, and the son-in-law
of his choice, I select another course.
Your secret is safe with me. To-night
you shall receive a leave of
absence, entitling you to quit your
uniform; and to-morrow we will
meet in the wood of Vincennes, not
as officer and sergeant, but as private
gentlemen, with arms in our hands.
The man whom Bertha de Bellechasse
distinguishes by her preference,
cannot be unworthy the proposal
I now make to you. Do you
accept it?’

“I was astounded by the words.
Accustomed to the iron rigidity of
military discipline, and to the broad
gulf placed between officer and soldier
by the king’s commission, the possibility
of a duel between M. de Berg
and myself, although it would have
been no unnatural occurrence between
rivals of equal rank, had never occurred
to me. For a moment I could
not comprehend the singular and unheard-of
proposal; but a glance at my
challenger’s countenance, on which the
passions agitating him were plainly
legible, solved the mystery of his
motives. He was a prey to jealous
fury; and, moreover, the chivalrous
generosity of his character, combined,
perhaps, with the fear of irretrievably
offending Bertha, prevented his pursuing
the course most persons, in his
place, would have adopted, and revealing
to Colonel de Bellechasse his
daughter’s predilection for an inferior.
By a duel he hoped to rid himself of
a favoured rival, whom he might
replace in Bertha’s heart. It was not
necessary she should know by whose
hand I had fallen. Such were the
reasons that flashed across me, explaining
his strange offer of a personal
encounter. Doubtless, I defined them
more clearly than he himself did. I
believe he spoke and acted upon the
first vague impulse of a passionate
nature, racked by jealousy, and thirsting
for revenge upon its cause. I saw
at once, however, that by accepting the
duel I virtually secured his silence;
and overjoyed to preserve my secret,
and shield Bertha from her father’s
wrath at so cheap a price as the exposure
of my life, I eagerly accepted
M. de Berg’s proposal, thanking him
warmly for his generosity in thus repudiating
the stern prejudices of military
rank.

“After fixing hour and weapons, I
left him, and then only did the difficulty
of finding a second occur to me.
For obvious reasons, I could not ask
the assistance of a comrade; and out
of my regiment I had not a single
friend in Paris. In my difficulty I
thought of you. Our brief acquaintance
scarcely warrants my request;
but the kindness you have already
shown me encourages the hope that
you will not refuse me this service.
M. de Berg is a man of strict honour,
and you may depend on your name
and share in the affair remaining
undivulged. Even were they known,
you, as a foreigner and civilian, would
in no way be compromised by the
relative position of my opponent and
myself, which renders me liable,
should the affair get wind, to a court-martial
and severe punishment.”

Although opposed to duelling, except
under circumstances of extraordinary
aggravation, I had been more
than once unavoidably mixed up in
affairs of the kind; and the apprehension
of unpleasant results from accession
to Oakley’s request, did not for
an instant weigh with me. I was
greatly struck by the romantic and
.pn +1
chivalrous conduct of M. de Berg, and
felt strong sympathy with Oakley, in
the painful and most peculiar position
into which his early follies and unfortunate
attachment had brought him.
Very brief deliberation was necessary
to decide me to act as his second.
There was no time to lose, and I
begged him to put me at once in possession
of the details of the affair, and
to tell me where I could find De Berg’s
second. I was not sorry to learn that
it was unnecessary for me to see him,
and that all preliminaries were in fact
arranged. The duel not being one of
those that the intervention of friends
may prevent, and Oakley having already
fixed time and place with his
antagonist, my functions became limited
to attending him on the ground.
It grew late, and Oakley left me for
the night. In order to preserve my
incognito in the business, for I had no
desire to figure in newspaper paragraphs,
or to be arraigned before a
criminal tribunal, even with certainty
of acquittal, we agreed to meet at
eight o’clock the next morning, at a
certain coffee-house, a considerable
distance from my lodgings, whence a
cabriolet would convey us to the place
of rendezvous.

It was a fresh and beautiful spring
morning, when Oakley and myself descended
from our hack vehicle, near
the little village of <abbr=Saint>St</abbr> Mandé, and
struck into the Bois de Vincennes.
There had been rain during the night,
and the leaves and grass were heavy
with water drops. The sky was bright
blue, and the sun shone brilliantly;
but over the ground and between the
tree trunks floated a light mist, like
the smoke of a skirmish, growing thinner
as it ascended, and dissipated before
it reached the topmost branches.
At some distance within the wood, we
turned into a secluded glade, seated
ourselves upon a fallen tree, and waited.
We had come faster than we expected,
and were fully a quarter of an
hour before our time; but in less than
five minutes we heard the sound of
steps and voices, soon succeeded by
the appearance of three gentlemen, one
of whom, by his military gait and aspect,
more than by the moustaches so
commonly worn in France, I conjectured
to be the officer of Chasseurs. In
one of his companions I recognised,
after a brief puzzle of memory, a well-known
and popular <lang=fr><i>littérateur</i></lang>; doubtless
M. de Berg, from motives of delicacy,
had not chosen to ask the aid of a
brother officer in his duel with a military
inferior. The black coat and grave
aspect of the third stranger sufficiently
indicated the doctor, who, on reaching
the ground separated himself from his
companions and retired a little to one
side. The others bowed to Oakley and
myself. M. de Berg’s second stepped
forward, and I advanced to meet him.
I was particularly pleased with the appearance
of Oakley’s antagonist. He
was a young man of six or seven and
twenty, of very dark complexion,
flashing black eyes, and a countenance
expressive of daring resolution and a
fiery temperament. I should have
taken him for an Italian, and I afterwards
learned that he was a native of
Provence, born within a stone’s-throw
of Italy. I never saw an ardent and
enthusiastic character more strongly
indicated by physiognomy, than in the
case of this young officer; and I began
to understand and explain to myself
the feelings that had impelled him to
challenge the man preferred by the
mistress of his choice, even although
that man’s position was such as, in the
eyes of society, forbade the encounter.

More as a matter of duty than with
expectation of success, I asked De
Berg’s second if there were no chance
of this meeting terminating peaceably.
He shook his head with a decided
gesture.

“Impossible,” he said. “I am ignorant
of the cause of quarrel: I
know not even your principal’s name.
My friend, who may possibly be
equally unknown to you, has asked
my assistance, pledging himself that
the duel is a just and honourable one,
which cannot be avoided, but whose
motive he has reasons to conceal even
from me. Satisfied with this assurance,
reposing implicit confidence in
his word, I inquire no further. Moreover,
once upon the ground, it is difficult
creditably to arrange an affair of
this kind.”

I bowed without replying. The
ground was measured, the pistols
loaded, the men placed. The toss-up
of a five-franc piece gave the first-fire
to M. de Berg. His bullet grazed
Oakley’s cheek, but so slightly as
.pn +1
scarcely to draw blood. Oakley fired
in return. The officer staggered,
turned half round, and fell to the
ground, the bone of his right leg
broken below the knee. His second,
the doctor, and I, ran forward to his
assistance. As we did so, three soldiers,
who it afterwards appeared had
witnessed, from their concealment
amongst the trees, the whole of the
proceedings, emerged from the shelter
of the foliage, and walked across one
end of the open space where the duel
had taken place, casting curious and
astonished glances in our direction.
They had not yet disappeared, when
De Berg, whom we had raised into a
sitting posture, caught sight of them.
He started, and uttered an exclamation
of vexation, then looked at Oakley,
who had left his ground and stood
near to the wounded man.

“Do you see that?” said De Berg,
hurriedly, wincing as he spoke, under
the hands of the surgeon, who by this
time had cut off his boot and trousers,
and was manipulating the damaged
limb.

The soldiers were now again lost to
view in the thick wood. It occurred
to me that two of them wore dragoon
uniforms.

Oakley bowed his head assentingly.

“You had better be off, and instantly,”
said the lieutenant. “Go
to England or Germany. You have
leave for a week. I will procure you
a prolongation; but be off at once,
and get away from Paris. Those
fellows have recognised us, and will
not be prevented talking.”

He spoke in broken sentences, and
with visible effort, for the surgeon was
all the while poking and probing at
the leg in a most uncomfortable manner,
and De Berg was pale from pain
and loss of blood. Oakley looked on
with an expression of regret, and
showed no disposition to the hasty
flight recommended him.

“Well, doctor,” said the officer,
with a painful smile, “my dancing is
spoilt, eh?”

“<lang=fr><i>Bagatelle!</i></lang>” replied the man of
lancets. “Clean fracture, neat wound,
well as ever in a month. Your blood’s
too hot, <i>mon lieutenant</i>, you’ll be all
the better for losing a little of it.”

“There, there,” said De Berg kindly
to Oakley, “no harm done, you see—to
me at least. I should be sorry that
any ensued to you. Away with you
at once. Take him away, sir,” he
added to me, “he risks his life by
this delay.”

I took Oakley’s arm, and led him
unresistingly away. He was deep in
thought, and scarcely replied to one
or two observations I addressed to him
whilst walking out of the wood. Our
cabriolet was waiting; we got in, and
took the road to Paris. “I hope you
intend following M. de Berg’s advice,”
said I, “and leaving the country for
a while, until you are certain this
affair does not become known. He
evidently fears its getting wind
through those soldiers.”

“And he is right,” said Oakley.
“Two of them are of my squadron,
and of those two, one is a bad character
whom I have frequently had to
punish. He will assuredly not lose
this opportunity of revenge.”

“Then you must be off at once to
England. My passport is already
countersigned, and you can have it.
There is not much similarity in our
age and appearance, but that will
never be noticed.”

“A thousand thanks. But I think
I shall remain in Paris.”

“And be brought to a court-martial?
To what punishment are you liable?”

“Death, according to the letter of
the law. The French articles of war
are none of the mildest. But, under
the circumstances, I daresay I should
get off with a few years’ imprisonment,
followed, perhaps, by serving
in a condemned regiment.”

“A pleasant alternative, indeed,”
said I.

“I am no way anxious to incur
it,” replied Oakley; “but, in fact I
am as safe in Paris as any where, at
least for a day or two; and possibly M.
de Berg may find means of securing
the silence of the witnesses. At any
rate, it will be time enough to-morrow
or the next day to make a run of it. I
cannot go upon the instant. There
is one person I must see or communicate
with before I leave.”

I guessed whom he meant, and saw,
from his manner, he was resolved to
remain, so used no farther arguments
to dissuade him. Before entering
Paris, we dismissed our vehicle
and separated; he betook himself to
.pn +1
a small retired lodging, where he had
taken up his quarters since the previous
evening, and I went home to
resume my preparations for departure.
I remained in-doors till after dinner,
and then repaired to a well-known
coffee-house, frequented chiefly by military
men. As I had feared, the
strange duel between Victor de Berg
and a sergeant of his regiment was
already the talk of the town. It had
been immediately reported by the
soldiers who had seen it; M. de Berg
was under close arrest, and the police
were diligently seeking his antagonist.
I left the café, jumped into a cabriolet,
and made all speed to Oakley’s
lodging. He was out. I went again,
as late as eleven o’clock, but still he
was absent; and I was obliged to
content myself with leaving a note,
containing a word of caution and advice,
which I prudently abstained
from signing. I then went home and
to bed, not a little uneasy about him.
The next morning I breakfasted at the
coffee-house, in order to get the news;
and the first thing I heard was intelligence
of Oakley’s capture. He had
been taken the previous evening, in
the neighbourhood of the colonel’s
house, around which he doubtless
hovered in hopes to obtain sight or
speech of Bertha.

Few courts-martial ever excited a
stronger interest in the French military
world than those held upon Lieutenant
Victor de Berg and the <lang=fr><i>maréchal
de logis</i></lang> Francis Oakley. The case
was one almost unparalleled in the
annals of military offences. A duel
between an officer and a sergeant was
a thing previously unheard-of; and the
mystery in which its causes were
enveloped, aggravated the universal
curiosity and excitement. The offenders
resolutely refused to throw light
upon the subject; it had been vainly
endeavoured to ascertain their seconds;
the surgeon who attended on the
ground had been sought for equally in
vain; after placing the first dressings
he had disappeared, and another had
been summoned to the sufferer’s bedside.
The wound proved of little importance,
and, with the assistance of
crutches, De Berg was soon able to
get out. Upon their trials, he and
Oakley persisted in the same system
of defence. When off duty, they said,
they had met, in society, and had had
a dispute on a subject unconnected
with the service; the result had been
an agreement to settle their difference
with pistols. Oakley refused to state
from whom the challenge proceeded;
but Lieutenant de Berg proclaimed
himself the aggressor, and, aware that
the sentence would weigh far more
heavily on Oakley than on himself,
generously assumed a large share of
blame. As to the cause of quarrel,
names of the seconds, and all other
particulars, both culprits maintained
a determined silence, which no endeavours
of friends or judges could
induce them to break. Colonel de
Bellechasse and various other officers
visited Oakley in his prison, and did
their utmost to penetrate the mystery.
Their high opinion both of him and
De Berg, convinced them there was
something very extraordinary and
unusual at the bottom of the business,
and that its disclosure would tell
favourably for the prisoners. But
nothing could be got out of the obstinate
duellists, who called no witnesses,
except to character. Of these,
a host attended, for both Oakley and
De Berg; and nothing could be stronger
than the laudatory testimonials given
them by their superiors and comrades.
These, doubtless, had weighed with
the court, for its sentence was considered
very lenient. Oakley was
condemned to five years’ imprisonment,
for attempting the life of his
officer; De Berg was reprimanded
for his forgetfulness of discipline, in
provoking or consenting to a personal
encounter with a subordinate, was
removed from his regiment, and placed
in non-activity, which, under the
circumstances, was equivalent to dismissal
from the service, less the disgrace.

I remained in Paris till the sentence
of the court was known. Although
by no means desirous to be brought
forward in the business, I was willing
to waive my repugnance if, by so
doing I could benefit Oakley. With
some difficulty I obtained access to
him, begged him to prescribe a course
for my adoption, and frankly to tell
me if my evidence could be of service.
He assured me it could not; there,
was no question of the fairness of the
duel, and the sole crime was in the
.pn +1
breach of military discipline. This
crime, my testimony could in no way
palliate. He requested me to see M.
de Berg, and to tell him that, to avoid
the possibility of the cause of the duel
becoming known, he should refuse to
answer questions, plead guilty to the
charge, and state, as sole extenuation,
that the quarrel occurred off duty,
and had no connexion with military
matters. This commission I duly
executed. Another which he intrusted
to me I found greater difficulty
in performing. It was to procure information
concerning Bertha de Bellechasse.
After some unsuccessful
attempts, I at last ascertained that
she had been for some days confined
to her bed by indisposition. This was
sad news for Oakley, and I was loath
to convey them to him, but I had
promised him the exact truth. Fortunately
I was able, to tell him at the
same time that the young lady’s illness
was not of a dangerous character,
although the species of nervous languor
which had suddenly and unaccountably
seized her, caused great
alarm to her parents, and especially
to the colonel, who idolised his only
child. Oakley was sadly depressed
on learning the effect upon Bertha of
his imprisonment and dangerous position,
and made me promise to keep
him informed of the variations in her
state of health. This I did; but the
bulletins were not of a very satisfactory
nature, and in Oakley’s pale and
haggard countenance upon the day
of trial, attributed by the spectators to
uneasiness about his own fate, I read
the painful and wearing anxiety the
illness of his mistress occasioned him.

The sentence was no sooner published,
than every effort was made to
procure Oakley’s pardon, or, failing
that, a commutation of his punishment.
Colonel de Bellechasse used all
the interest he could command; Monsieur
de Berg set his friends to work;
and I, on my part, did every thing
in my power to obtain mercy for the
unfortunate young man. All our endeavours
were fruitless. The minister
of war refused to listen to the applications
by which he was besieged. In
a military view, the crime was flagrant,
subversive of discipline, and
especially dangerous as a precedent in
an army where promotion from the
ranks continually placed between
men, originally from the same class of
society and long comrades and equals,
the purely conventional barrier of the
epaulet. The court-martial, taking
into consideration the peculiar character
of the offence, had avoided the
infliction of an ignominious punishment.
Oakley was not sentenced to
the <lang=fr><i>boulet</i></lang>, or to be herded with
common malefactors; his doom was
to simple imprisonment. And that
doom the authorities refused to mitigate.

Some days had elapsed since
Oakley’s condemnation. Returning
weary and dispirited from a final
attempt to interest an influential personage
in his behalf, I was startled
by a smart tap upon the shoulder, and
looking round, beheld the shrewd,
good-humoured countenance of Mr
Anthony Scrivington, a worthy man
and excellent lawyer, who had long
had entire charge of my temporal
affairs. Upon this occasion, however,
I felt small gratification at sight of
him, for I had a lawsuit pending, on
account of which I well knew I ought
to have been in England a month
previously, and should have been, but
for this affair of Oakley’s, which had
interested and occupied me to the
exclusion of my personal concerns.
My solicitor’s unexpected appearance
made me apprehend serious detriment
from my neglect. He read my alarm
upon my countenance.

“Ah!” said he, “conscience pricks
you, I see. You know I have been
expecting you these six weeks. No
harm done, however; we shall win
the day, not a doubt of it.”

“Then you are not come about my
business?”

“Not the least, although I shall
take you back with me, now I have
found you. A very different affair
brings me over. By the bye, you
may perhaps help me. You know all
Paris. I am come to look for an
Englishman.”

“You need not look long,” said I,
glancing at a party of unmistakeable
Britons, who stood talking broad
Cockney on the Boulevard.

“Aye, but not <i>any</i> Englishman. I
want one in particular, the heir to a
pretty estate of eight or ten thousand
a-year. He was last heard of in
.pn +1
Paris, three years ago, and since then
all trace of him is lost. ’Tis an odd
affair enough. No one could have
expected his coming to the estate.
A couple of years since, there were
two young healthy men in his way.
Both have died off,—and he is the
owner of Oakley Manor.”

“Of what?” I exclaimed, in a tone
of voice that made Scrivington stagger
back, and for a moment drew the
eyes of the whole street upon us.
“What did you say?”

“Oakley Manor,” stammered the
alarmed attorney, settling his well-brushed
hat, which had almost fallen
from his head with the start he had
given. “Old Valentine Oakley died
the other day, and his nephew Francis
comes into the estate. But what on
earth is the matter with you?”

For sole reply I grasped his arm,
and dragged him into my house, close
to which we had arrived. There, five
minutes cleared up every thing, and
convinced Scrivington and myself that
the man he sought now languished, a
condemned criminal, in a French military
prison.

It is unnecessary to dwell upon
what all will conjecture; superfluous
to detail the active steps that were
at once taken in Oakley’s behalf,
with very different success, now that
the unknown sergeant had suddenly
assumed the character of an English
gentleman of honourable name and
ample fortune. Persons of great influence
and diplomatic weight, who
before had refused to espouse the
cause of an obscure adventurer in a
foreign service, suffered themselves to
be prevailed upon, and interceded
efficaciously for the master of Oakley
Manor. It was even said that a letter
was written on the subject by an
English general of high distinction to
an old opponent in arms. Be that as
it may, all difficulties were at length
overcome, and Oakley received his
free pardon and discharge from the
French service. And that equal
measure of clemency might be shown,
De Berg, upon the same day, was
allowed to resume his place in his regiment.

I would tell how the news of her
lover’s pardon proved more potent
than all the efforts of the faculty to
bring back joy to Bertha’s heart and
the roses to her check; how Colonel
Count de Bellechasse, on being informed
of the attachment between his
daughter and Oakley, and of the real
cause of the duel, at first stormed and
was furious, but gradually allowed
himself to be mollified, and finally
gave his consent to their union; how
De Berg exchanged into a regiment
serving in Africa, and has since gained
laurels and high rank in the pursuit of
the intangible Abd-el-Kader. But I
have no time to expatiate upon any of
these interesting matters, for I leave
town to-morrow morning for Oakley
Manor, to pay my annual visit to
<sc>My English Acquaintance</sc>.
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=colonies title='Our West Indian Colonies'
OUR WEST INDIAN COLONIES.
.sp 2
It is full time that the nation should
be roused to an acute sense of the
perilous position in which it has been
placed, by a hitherto unparalleled union
of quackery, conceit, and imbecility.
The system of legislation which we
have been pursuing for many years,
under the guidance of rival statesmen,
each attempting to outdo the other in
subserviency to popular prejudice, is a
manifest and admitted departure, on
almost every point, from the principles
of that older system through which we
attained the culminating point of our
greatness. We do not complain of such
changes as are inevitable from altered
circumstances, and in some degree from
the altered spirit of the times—but we
protest against social changes, forced
on, as if in mere wantonness, against
warning and against experience, either
for the sake of exhibiting the dexterity
of the operator, or for the poorer and
meaner object of attaining the temporary
possession of power. We look
in vain, both in the past and present
Cabinet, for that firm purpose, prescience,
and honesty which were considered,
in old times, the leading
characteristics of the British statesman.
We can see, in the drama of
late events, nothing but the miserable
spectacle of party degenerating into
coterie, and coterie prostituting itself
to agitation and corrupt influence, for
the sake of the retention of office. It
may be that such is the inevitable result
of the triumph of the so-called
liberal principles; and, indeed, the
example of America would go far to
prove that such principles cannot coexist
along with a high state of political
morality and honour; but that,
at all events, is no excuse for the
conduct of the men who, reared under
better training, have led us insensibly
to the path down which we are now
proceeding with such recklessness and
with such precipitation.

The commercial crisis of the last
year may well furnish the electors of
these kingdoms with some topics for
their anxious and solemn consideration.
That momentous and uncalled-for
change in the currency, effected by
the Acts of 1844, is already brought
under the active notice of the legislature;
and though the process may be
tedious—for the whole subject-matter,
it seems, is to pass through the weary
alembic of a committee—we are not
without hopes that the common sense
of the nation will be vindicated in this
important particular. Recent events,
too, have somewhat shaken the faith
of many in the efficacy of that celebrated
panacea called Free-trade,
without the promise of a foreign reciprocity.
A few more quarterly accounts,
with their inevitable deficits,
and an augmentation of the income-tax,
will serve still further to demonstrate
the true nature of the blessings
which we are destined to enjoy under
the system hatched by Cobden, and
adopted by Russell and by Peel. Even
now the credit of the great free-trade
apostle, formerly so extensive, is somewhat
impaired by the novel views he
has promulgated for contracting the
expenditure of the State. The true
means, as we are now told, for insuring
the success of the experiment of
Free-trade, are the disbandment of
our standing army, and the abolition
of our war navy; and pitiful stuff to
this effect has actually been enunciated
by the man to whom Sir Robert Peel
avowed himself indebted for the most
important lesson in political economy
which he had learned throughout the
course of a long—would we could add
a consistent—career of statesmanship!
Well, indeed, might some or
the old friends and supporters of Mr
Cobden recoil in astonishment from
this display of weak and miserable
fatuity! Well might they stand aghast,
and even doubt the evidence of their
senses, at hearing such doleful folly
from the lips of their quondam oracle!
If this is all the wisdom which
the Manchester manufacturer has
gathered in the course of his recent
travels—if these are the deductions he
has made, the fruits he has collected
from Barcelona banquets and Leghorn
demonstrations, we give him joy of his
augmented knowledge of the world,
his increased political sagacity, and
his extended experience of the motives
and actions of mankind!
.pn +1

Mr Cobden, we shrewdly suspect,
has served his turn, and must
now submit quietly and gradually
to lapse into the obscurity out of
which he was borne by the force of
circumstances. He can afford to do
it; and the nation, we believe, will
not think the less of him for retiring
under the cover of his former victory.
On his part the contest was strenuously,
and we believe honestly, conducted.
The principles he advocated
became triumphant, not through the
will of the nation, or the conviction of
the majority of its representatives, but
through a singular combination of
craft, weakness, and ambition. How
those principles, when reduced to
practice, and in full operation, may
work, is the problem which all of us are
trying in our different spheres to solve.
Hitherto the results of the experiment
have been a palpable national loss, with
extensive individual suffering, and a
diminution of employment to the labouring
classes; and though other
causes may for the present be adduced
as tending to these calamitous circumstances,
time, the great expositor of
human affairs, must soon decide in
favour of the one party or of the
other.

We have thought it our duty of late
to speak out so strongly and so fully
on the subject of the internal commercial
state of Great Britain, that
we need not, on the present occasion,
resume the argument, although that
is far from exhausted. Indeed, our
intention in the present article is to
entreat the attention of the people of
this country, and of Parliament, to
a case which will brook no delay,—which
is of imminent and paramount
interest to us all; and which, if not
now considered as justice and humanity
demand,—if not speedily adjusted,
without the interposition of those formalities
and delays which are the last
refuge of a tottering ministry,—must
not only entail the ruin of our oldest,
our fairest, and our most productive
colonies, but sacrifice British capital
already invested, on the faith of
public honesty, to an enormous
extent, and finally leave a blot upon
our national honour. It is after the
most careful review of the whole
circumstances and evidences of the
case,—after the perusal of almost
every document of authority which
could throw light upon the subject,—after
personal communication with
parties whose means of knowledge
are unequalled, and whose high character
places them beyond the suspicion
of any thing like self-interest
or dissimulation,—that we deliberately
state our opinion, <i>that not only
are our West Indian and sugar growing
American colonies at this moment
in imminent danger of being abandoned;
but, through the course of reckless
legislation pursued by her Majesty’s
present Ministers</i>, <sc>THE SLAVE TRADE</sc>,
<i>in all its horrors, has received direct
and prodigious encouragement</i>.

We do hope and trust, that, notwithstanding
all the political slang
and misrepresentation with which, of
late years, hired and uneducated adventurers
have inundated the country,
it is not necessary to point out to
the thoughtful and well-disposed portion
of our countrymen the extreme
importance of maintaining the relations
which have hitherto subsisted between
Great Britain and her colonies. These
relations have been notoriously the
envy of every maritime state of
Europe; they have proved invaluable
to us in times of difficulty and
danger; and in peace they have contributed
greatly to our wealth, our
commerce, and our aggrandisement.
In the words of a colonial writer, whose
pamphlet is now lying before us,—

.pm letter-start
“Great Britain had for ages acted on
the grand principle of creating a world
for herself out of the countries of each
hemisphere, to which her ships might
carry the treasures of her factories and
mines, and from which, in return, they
might bring the products of each clime,
not as from a foreign state, but an integral
part of the empire. Her colonies
fostered her marine establishment, which
again united the most distant of her territories
with the parent country in one
mighty whole; (free trade substitutes foreign
nations for colonies, with what result
the world will see;) affording all the advantages
which could be derived from trading
with other nations in different parts
of the world, without any of the draw-backs
necessarily attending commercial
intercourse, liable to interruption from
war, or the capricious policy of people
having different manners and customs
from our own. She regulated this trade
as she thought proper, her colonies going
hand-in-hand with her, and, excepting in
.pn +1
one unhappy instance, that of the Americans,
where she unjustly attempted to
take their money to pay her expenses,
concord and prosperity marked the career
of the nation and its dependencies. In
an evil hour her manufacturers, elated
with their good fortune, began to dream
of making cloth for the whole globe.
Political economists, instigated by them,
advanced the specious and deceitful doctrines
of free trade. The very phrase has
a catching sound to men who are not disposed
to study the interests of one country
as opposed to those of another, and
the belief in the infallibility of tenets so
strenuously recommended gaining ground,
until it became too strong for the government
of the country, the humiliating
spectacle was presented to the nation of a
minister, who during a long public career,
had been the most zealous opponent of the
new doctrines, proposing to carry them
into effect.”[#]
.pm letter-end

.fn #
<i>Thoughts on British Guiana.</i> By a Planter. <abbr='second'>2d</abbr> Edition. Demerara, 1847.
.fn-

We now arrived at the point,—or
rather we had reached it in 1846,—when
free trade interests, and those of
colonial establishments, came into
direct and unquestionable collision.
The Whig party, taking their stand
upon the maxim of “buying in the
cheapest and selling in the dearest
market,” thought fit to extend to the
article of sugar the same immunity
which Sir Robert Peel had previously
bestowed upon corn. The Sugar Act,
which received the royal assent
upon the 18th August 1846, was, at
all events, a bold and a decided measure.
It utterly repudiated the principle
laid down in former Sugar Acts,
the last of which, contained in the
Statute Book, (24th April 1845,)
broadly recognised the distinction between
sugars which were the produce
of free and of slave labour. This
distinction is now utterly and entirely
done away with. There is, indeed,
attached to the act, a schedule which,
until the year 1851, provides for a
reduced sliding scale of differential
duties in favour of the British colonist.
Thus, in the article of sugar, muscovado
or clayed, there is a difference
of duty, for the present year, in favour
of the colonies, of six shillings per
<abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr>, which is to decrease at the rate
of one shilling and sixpence per annum,
until the equalisation is effected.
This difference, however, is, as we
shall undertake to show, at the present
moment merely nominal; and,
even were it otherwise, utterly insufficient
and unjust. But, at present,
let us attend to the principle of the
later act, which, as we apprehend, embodies
two positions.

1st, That the sugar-growing colonies
of Great Britain stand in need of no
protection whatever; and, <abbr=secondly>2dly</abbr>, That
it is wrong to put any prohibitory
duty in the way of the free use and
consumption of slave-grown sugar in
this country.

The first position is, of course, a
matter of statistics, which we shall
argue exclusively upon that ground.
There are, indeed, certain topics connected
with it, bearing less or more
upon questions of public faith and
general expediency, which we cannot
entirely throw aside; but we shall
attempt, if possible, to avoid all declamation,
and to give a plain and distinct
statement of the facts, as they
have reached us through various
channels. The second position involves
questions of a more serious
nature. We have, hitherto, believed
that if any Briton were deliberately
asked the question, what principle or
what act of universal philanthropy
and benevolence he was most proud
of as displaying the Christian character
of his country, he would, without
hesitation, refer to the struggles and
sacrifices which have been made for
the abolition of slavery throughout the
world, and more especially to the
stringent and costly measures adopted
by Great Britain for putting down
the infamous and most inhuman traffic
in human flesh and blood. We say
that, hitherto, such has been our belief,
and most devoutly do we wish that
we had no cause whatever to alter it.
But we cannot look at the complexion
of the late measures, and at their
notorious results, without being convinced
that the race for power,
and the thirst after mammon, which
are daily becoming more and more
undisguised in the political movements
and revolutionary legislation of this
country, are weaning us from our finer
and our humaner instincts, destroying
our once generous sympathies, and
rendering us wilfully blind to our
.pn +1
duties to God and man, whenever a
temporary interest appears thrown
into the opposite scale. Of these two
positions let us now address ourselves
to the first, not because it is in any
degree the more important, but because,
very unfairly, it has been made
the excuse and the palliation for the
other. The two positions, indeed,
are so interwoven, as to be in some
respects entirely inseparable.

It is hardly necessary here to do
more than remind our readers of the
great and generous effort made by
this country for the abolition of slavery
in our colonies. For that purpose
the nation agreed, without a
murmur, to pay the large sum of
twenty millions sterling—a sacrifice
to principle and philanthropy which
every one must allow to be unparalleled
in the annals of the world. At
the same time we must not allow our
praise or admiration of this act to
hurry us into extravagance or exaggeration.
The sum of twenty millions
so granted was not a boon, but
merely compensation to a class of
British subjects for the compulsory
surrender of a property which the law
entitled them to hold. The institution
of slavery in the colonies, be it
specially remembered, was not the
work of the planters, but of the British
nation and crown. The lands of
Jamaica and other West Indian colonies
were originally patented on the
special condition that they should be
cultivated by slaves, for the promotion
of the national wealth; and the
policy so originated was continued
under the sanction of laws equally
sacred with those which relate to any
other species of property whatever.
Nay, more, it was from Jamaica, and
not from the mother country, that the
first proposals for a partial suppression
or cessation of the slave-trade proceeded.
The importations from Africa
had become so great, that the people
of that colony requested that for some
time the trade might be stopped; and
their petitions were rejected, on the
ground that any such measure would
be injurious to the mercantile interests
of England. But at last, to use the
words of the writer whom we have
already quoted—

.pm letter-start
“The country became aware of the
cruelty and injustice of that infamous
traffic, and abolished it. Years afterwards,
she awoke as from a dream, and
began to abuse the planters for possessing
slaves; declared they had no right to
hold them in bondage (although she sold
those slaves to them;) had them valued
by commissioners whom she appointed;
paid eight shillings in the pound of this
valuation, and set them free, without any
consideration whatever for the landed
property, buildings, and machinery,
amounting to much more than the aggregate
price of the slaves, which were to be
rendered useless and valueless from want
of labourers. The appraisement by those
commissioners, as directed by the Act,
was based on the average sales in each
colony for eight years preceding the passing
of the bill, which was in 1833. The
value of the slave property was thus distinctly
ascertained. The land, buildings,
and machinery were not taken into consideration,
because neither the Parliament
nor the people admitted that they were
to be placed in jeopardy by the emancipation
of the slaves. On the contrary, an
opinion prevailed that, with a free population,
the planters would be more prosperous
than they had ever been.”
.pm letter-end

Of the inadequacy of this compensation,
however large it may appear
upon paper, there cannot be a doubt.
Enormous sums had been expended
in the cultivation of the estates, in
the building of works, and the transportation
of machinery, all of which
were jeopardied, and, as the sequel
has proved, most frightfully deteriorated
in consequence of the measure.
But the public demand that slavery
should cease for ever throughout the
British dominions was peremptory;
and, in pursuance of this laudable desire,
the government of the day did
not hesitate to adopt a course which
will ever be a dangerous precedent; to

.pm verse-start
“Wrest once the law to their authority:
And for a great right do a little wrong.”
.pm verse-end

“This frightful experiment,” as it
was termed by Lord Stanley, then
colonial secretary, was therefore decidedly
of the nature of a compulsory
bargain, forced by the people of Great
Britain, no doubt from most praiseworthy
motives, upon the holders of
lands and slaves in the colonies. The
terms of that bargain ought to have
been adhered to by Parliament with
the strictest good faith and scrupulosity.
They had, on the part of the
nation, expended a sum of twenty
.pn +1
millions upon an experiment, the
success or failure of which involved
an amount of property which it would
be very difficult to estimate, but certainly
not short of two hundred
millions sterling. The greater portion
of this, be it remarked, was British
capital, expended under the sanction
and with the full consent of the British
Government; and no one can
doubt the fact that so large an interest
as that was never before put in
peril for the sake of any experiment
whatever. Still it was made; and
we maintain that the voluntary payment
of the twenty millions gave the
Government or people of this country
no shadow of a right to depart from
one iota of the bargain which they
had forced the colonists to accept.
The Act of 1833, which emancipated
the slaves, also provided that, for six
years more, they should remain in a
state of apprenticeship, obviously for
the purpose of preventing any violent
outbreak, or an entire cessation of
that labour which hitherto had been
compulsory. The intermediate period,
considering the risk which was incurred,
was by no means a long one. It
was not a boon to the planters, but a
distinct condition, from which no
consideration whatever should have
induced the Government to swerve.

We need not detain our readers
with any account of the manner in
which emancipation was carried out.
It was submitted to by the colonists,
not without apprehension, but in the
best possible spirit. Every thing was
done to facilitate the plans of Government;
and on the 1st of August 1834,
there was no longer a slave throughout
the whole of the British dominions. In
closing that eventful session of the
Jamaica House of Assembly, the Governor,
Lord Mulgrave, used the
following terms:—“In conclusion, I
must express my firm belief that, in
your future difficulties, your ready recognition
of the natural rights of your
fellow men will meet its best reward
in the revived diffusion of national
sympathy, and the cheerfully continued
extension of British protection.”
These are honeyed words—let us now
see how the promise has been kept.

Immediately after the Emancipation
Act was passed, the produce of
the West Indian estates began rapidly
to decline, and their value to be correspondingly
depreciated. This was
the inevitable consequence of the
abridgment of the working hours,
and of the withdrawal of a great
number of labourers altogether from
plantation employment. In fact, the
want of adequate labour began to be
felt most painfully throughout the
colonies. Notwithstanding this the
planters went on, making every exertion
they could, under peculiarly difficult
circumstances.

The increased expense, occasioned
by the altered circumstances of the
colonies, soon absorbed more than the
compensation-money which they had
received, and in addition, they were
urged by Government to provide
“more fully for the administration of
justice, for the consolidation of the
criminal law, for establishing circuit
courts, amending the workhouse laws,
improving the state of gaols for better
prison discipline, establishing weekly
courts of petit sessions, providing
places of confinement for prisoners,
raising an efficient police, &c.;” things,
no doubt, very desirable in themselves,
but not to be accomplished save at a
grievous cost, which, of course, was
thrown entirely upon the shoulders of
the planters. The following extract
from the answer of the Jamaica Assembly,
in reply to the Governor’s
address at the opening of that chamber
on 4th August 1835, will show
the state of the colonies at the close
of the year immediately subsequent to
emancipation: “Seeing large portions
of our neglected cane-fields becoming
overrun with weeds, and a
still larger portion of our pasture
lands returning to a state of nature;
seeing, in fact, desolation already
overspreading the face of the land, it
is impossible for us, without abandoning
the evidence of our own senses, to
entertain favourable anticipations, or
to divest ourselves of the painful conviction,
that progressive and rapid deterioration
of property will continue to
keep pace with the apprenticeship,
and that its termination must (unless
strong preventive measures be applied)
complete the ruin of the colony.”

We now come to a matter extremely
painful in itself, inasmuch as it involves
a gross, flagrant, and dishonourable
breach of our plighted
.pn +1
faith. The colonies which had already
suffered so much, even under the
apprentice system, again became the
object of fierce attack by the Liberal
party in England. Every one knows
how easy it is to get up a shout upon
any vague pretext of humanity, and
how frequently the credulity of the
people of England has been imposed
on by specious and designing hypocrites.
With this set of men, Africa,
has been for many years a pet subject
of complaint. They have made the
wrongs of the negro a short and profitable
cut to fame and fortune, and
their spurious philanthropy has never
failed to engage the support of a large
number of weak but well-meaning
individuals, who are totally ignorant
of the real objects which lie at the
bottom of the agitation. Utterly regardless
of the nature of the bargain
so recently and solemnly made,
throwing aside and trampling upon
national honour with unparalleled
effrontery, these men began to denounce
apprenticeship in the colonies
as something worse than slavery, and
to demand its instant abolition. The
subject of declamation was a popular
one, and unfortunately it gathered
strength. No one thought of the
condition of the colonists, who had
been already subjected to so much
hardship, and to whom the continuance
of apprenticeship for a certain
period had been solemnly and advisedly
guaranteed. The spirit of
our constitution does not recognise
the presence of any representation of
the colonies within the walls of the
Imperial Parliament: and although
it is popularly, or rather ludicrously,
said that Jamaica is as much a portion
of the British dominions as
Yorkshire, we have no hesitation in
meting out to the one a measure of
injustice which no Parliament and no
Minister would dare to venture in the
case of the other. To our shame
therefore be it said, that the agitation,
so subversive of good faith and of
public morals, was crowned with success.
Two years of the apprentice
period were curtailed. A robbery to
that extent—for it was nothing else—was
perpetrated upon the unfortunate
colonists, and on the 1st of August
1838, unqualified freedom was granted
to the negro population.

The following were the immediate
and extremely natural consequences:—“There
was no violence;
the mass of the labouring population
being left in quiet possession of the
houses and grounds on the estates
of their masters. For successive
weeks universal idleness reigned over
the whole island. The plantation
cattle, deserted by their keepers,
ranged at large through the growing
crops, and fields of cane, cultivated
at great cost, rotted upon the ground
for want of hands to cut them.
Among the humbler classes of society,
respectable families, whose sole dependence
had been a few slaves, had
to perform for themselves the most
menial offices. Still the same baneful
influence continued to rule the
Government. In all cases of difference,
the stipendiary magistrates supported
the emancipated mass against
the helpless proprietor, and even
took an active part in supporting the
demands of the people for an extravagant
rate of wages, alike injurious to
both classes.”

So much for the “sympathy” which
was extended to the colonists for
their ready acquiescence in the Act of
Emancipation! Like most Whig promises,
it had served its purpose, and
was thereafter cast aside and forgotten.
It might naturally be supposed
that this violent curtailment of
the period of apprenticeship, would,
out of mere shame, have impressed
ministers with the propriety of doing
something for the relief of the colonies—not
by way of actual pecuniary
assistance, which was never asked—but
by giving every facility in their
power to the introduction of free
labour from every quarter whence it
could be hired or obtained. However,
a course diametrically opposite
was immediately pursued; and, up to
the present time, no facilities whatever
for procuring labour have been
given to the colonists, and every
obstacle has been thrown in the way
of the importation of free labourers
from the coast of Africa.

Under such a system the decline
of the colonies was, as a matter of
course, inevitable. The following
is the Jamaica statement of the relative
amount and value of the exports
of that island at various periods:—
.pn +1

.pm letter-start
“The destructive result to property,
by the changes thus precipitately forced
on the colony, will be best manifested
by a reference to the exports of our
three great staples—sugar, rum, and
coffee.
.pm letter-end

.ta l:30 r:8 r:7 r:10 r:9
<th> |Hhds. Sugar, at £20.|Punch. Rum. at £10.|lbs. Coffee, at 60s. per 100 lbs. | Annual Value. £
Average of the five years ending 1807, last of the African trade    |131,962|50,462 | 23,625,377 |  3,852,621
Average of the five years ending 1815, date of Registry Act         |118,490|48,726 | 24,394,790 |  3,588,903
Average of the five years ending 1823, date of Canning’s Resolutions|110,924|41,046 | 18,792,909 |  3,192,637
Average of the five years ending 1833, first five of slavery        |95,353 |35,505 | 17,645,602 |  2,791,478
Average of the five years ending 1843, first five of freedom        |42,453 |14,185 |  7,412,498 |  1,213,284
.ta-

.pm letter-start
“Up to 1807, the exports of Jamaica,
progressively rose as cultivation was extended.
From that date they have been
gradually sinking; but we more especially
entreat attention to the evidence here
adduced of the effect of emancipation,
which, in ten years, reduced the annual
value of the three principal staples from
£2,791,478, to £1,213,284, being in the
proportion of seven to sixteen, or equal, at
five per cent., to an investment of about
thirty-two millions of property annihilated.
We believe the history of the world
would be in vain searched for any parallel
case of oppression, perpetrated by a civilised
government upon any section of its
own subjects.”
.pm letter-end

In other places the alteration and
decline has been even more startling.
The following table exhibits the state
of exports from British Guiana, at intervals
of three years, beginning with
1827, and ending as above with 1843:—

.ta l:6 r:7 r:10 r:9 r:7 r:9
<th>Year.|Sugar. Hhds.|Rum. Puncheons.|Molasses. Casks.|Cotton. Bales.|Coffee. lbs. Dutch.
1827  | 71,168  | 22,362     | 28,226    | 15,904  | 8,063,752
1830  | 69,717  | 32,939     | 21,189    |  5,423  | 9,502,756
1833  | 63,415  | 17,824     | 44,508    |  3,699  | 5,704,482
1836  | 57,142  | 24,202     | 37,088    |  3,196  | 4,801,352
1839  | 38,491  | 16,070     | 12,134    |  1,364  | 1,583,250
1843  | 35,738  |  8,296     | 24,937    |     24  | 1,428,100
.ta-

And during the whole period of
those changes, there was a constantly
augmenting consumption in the mother
country of all the articles of colonial
produce!

The causes of this extraordinary
decline of production are abundantly
clear, and the facts now adduced
ought to cover with confusion those
ignorant and pragmatical personages
who averred that, under a system of
free trade, no loss whatever would be
sustained by the planters. No doubt,
had free labour been ready and attainable,
the loss would have been much
diminished; but the misfortune was,
that free labour could not be found
within the colonies to any thing like the
required extent; and neither time
nor opportunity were afforded to the
planters to obtain it elsewhere. The
friends of the African have either persuaded
themselves, or endeavoured
to cheat the public into the belief, that
the negro has attained a point of
civilisation and docility from which
a large proportion of the inhabitants
of the British islands are at this moment
very widely removed. They
promised, on his behalf, that when
emancipated, he would set down seriously
to work, and, with a heart full
of gratitude, proceed to earn his wages
by toiling in the service of his employer.
It is well for those gentlemen
that they did not offer any tangible
.pn +1
forfeit in the event of the failure of
their protégé. The negro is perhaps
more fully alive than any other
class of mankind to the luxury of
undisturbed idleness. He has few
wants, and those few are easily
supplied in such a splendid island as
Jamaica, where his provision ground,
with the smallest possible amount of
cultivation, will afford him every necessary,
and some of the luxuries of
life. What he cannot raise for himself
must, of course, be obtained by
labour; but a very slight portion indeed
of the primal curse now lights
upon the emancipated negro, who has
no ambition, and consequently no
motive to persevere. Nor, indeed,
can we wonder at this, if we only
reflect seriously on the scenes which
are visible at home. Do we not all know
how difficult it is to rouse the western
Highlander to any thing like active
exertion? How many thousands of
the Irish are there at this moment
who will not work, preferring to depend
for life itself upon the precarious
existence of a miserable root,
which, of all articles of human food,
requires the smallest degree of culture?
And can we, while such things happen
among Christians, in a land where the
severity of the climate ought to be of
itself a sufficient inducement to exertion,
wonder that the negroes, who
have neither the same advantages,
nor the same cogent motives for labour,
should abandon themselves to a
life of lazy sensuality, and look upon
the neglected cane-fields and choked
coffee-plantations with an eye of
utter indifference?

The great object of the planters,
therefore—for the existence of the
colonies seemed to depend upon the
success of their endeavours,—was to
obtain labour at any cost, from any
quarter whatever. It has been perfectly
well ascertained that the constitution
of Europeans will not admit
of their pursuing out-door labour in a
tropical climate, and therefore white
labour is out of the question. The
natives of Madeira, indeed, have been
tried, but they are unfit for the work,
and even were it otherwise, the supply
from that quarter is limited. Coolies
were brought out from the East Indies
at an enormous expense, equal to two-fifths
of their wages for a period of five
years, and after all, it was found that
two Coolies could hardly perform the
task which one African can accomplish
with ease. Instead of assisting these
efforts towards emigration, government,
as if actuated by the most rancorous
hatred to the colonies, threw a formidable
obstacle in their way. We
borrow the following passage from the
pamphlet of the Guiana Planter.

.pm letter-start
“This very large importation of people
was effected at the expense of the planters
exclusively, who lavished their means
freely on what they fondly believed to be
the only chance that remained. Government,
goaded by the <i>vis a terqo</i>, threw an
impediment in the way, which was the
abolition of all contracts formed out of
the colony to which the immigrant was
destined. This, like a two-edged sword,
operated both ways; it prevented people
from going to a distant country where they
had to <i>search</i> for work; they felt that without
an assurance of employment for a
limited period, they would be embarking
on a very precarious undertaking; and the
planter could not derive the desired benefit
from the labour of immigrants unless
they were bound to remain with him for
a certain space of time. Nevertheless, so
fully aware were the latter of the necessity
for additional hands, that they continued
to import them, trusting to their
remaining where they were located, notwithstanding
the cancelling of their agreements;
and the intending immigrants,
who were chiefly Madeira people, after a
time, learned from their friends, already
settled in the colony, that there would be
no lack of work for them.

“Want of contracts operates injuriously
in another way still, besides those we have
mentioned; it is found that immigrants
for the first six months require much care
and attention, and also considerable outlay,
because they then undergo a seasoning
to the climate. Now, planters are not
inclined to take a man from the ship under
the prospect of paying more for
medical attendance, wine, and nourishment,
than his labour is worth, provided
he is at liberty to depart as soon as he
finds himself strong enough. The impolicy
of refusing to us the privilege of
entering into agreements for at least
twelve months, out of the colony, is herein
exemplified, and there is considerable
reason to fear that there will be great
backwardness in applying for the next
batches of Coolies on this account, as they
will not enter into contracts here. Every
man says, ‘I am not in a hurry, I shall
wait until I can get seasoned people.’
.pn +1
It is well known that of the last lots of
Portuguese and Coolies; (those of 1845-6,)
nearly one-half have been since that
period on the sick list, most of them not
seriously ill, but in that feeble and inert
state which change of climate is apt to
produce.”
.pm letter-end

From all this, and from the experience
of centuries, it is evident that
the African alone is physically suited
to undergo with case and without
danger the fatigue of field labour in
the climates which are suited for
sugar cultivation. We shall presently
allude to the obstacles which have
been thrown in the way of obtaining
a supply of free labour from that quarter;
and we think we shall be able to
convince the most scrupulous reader,
that the line of conduct adopted by
the pseudo friends of the African, is
one most admirably calculated to foster
the state of barbarism, cruelty, ignorance,
oppression, and crime, which
is the melancholy characteristic of
the inhabitants of that unhappy country.
In the meantime, let us go back
to the history of our colonies, whose
singular case of unmerited persecution
is by no means yet brought to
a close.

In 1842, a Committee of the House
of Commons was appointed to inquire
into the state of the West India colonies,
and from their report, which is
now before us, we make the following
extracts. Resolved,—

.pm letter-start
That, unhappily, there has occurred,
simultaneously with the amendment in
the condition of the negroes, a very great
diminution in the staple productions of
the West Indies, to such an extent as to
have caused serious, and, in some cases,
ruinous injury to the proprietors of estates
in those colonies.

“That while this distress has been felt
to a much less extent in some of the
smaller and more populous islands, it has
been so great in the larger colonies of
Jamaica, British Guiana, and Trinidad,
as to have caused many estates, hitherto
prosperous and productive, to be cultivated
for the last two or three years at
considerable loss, and others to be abandoned.

“That the principal causes of this diminished
production, and consequent distress,
are, the great difficulty which has
been experienced by the planters in
obtaining steady and continuous labour,
and the high rate of remuneration which
they give for the broken and indifferent
work which they are able to procure.

“That the diminished supply of labour
is caused partly by the fact that some of
the former slaves have betaken themselves
to other occupations more profitable
than field labour; but the more
general cause is, that the labourers are
enabled to live in comfort, and to acquire
wealth, without, for the most part,
labouring on the estates of the planters
for more than three or four days in a
week, and from five to seven hours in a
day; so that they have no sufficient stimulus
to perform an adequate amount of
work.

“That this state of things arises partly
from the high wages which the insufficiency
of the supply of labour, and their
competition with each other, naturally
compel the planters to pay; but is principally
to be attributed to the easy terms
upon which the use of land has been obtainable
by negroes.

“That many of the former slaves have
been enabled to purchase land, and the
labourers generally are allowed to occupy
provision grounds subject to no rent, or
to a very low one: and in these fertile
countries, the land they thus hold, as
owners or occupiers, not only yields them
an ample supply of food, but in many
cases a considerable overplus in money,
altogether independent of, and in addition
to, the high money wages which they
receive.

“That one obvious and most desirable
mode of endeavouring to compensate
for this diminished supply of labour, is to
promote the immigration of a fresh labouring
population, to such an extent as to
create competition for employment.

“That for the better attainment of that
object, as well as to secure the full rights
and comforts of the immigrants as freemen,
it is desirable that such immigration
should be conducted under the authority,
inspection, and control of responsible
public officers.

“That it is also a serious question,
whether it is not required <i>by a due regard
for the just rights</i> and interests of the
West Indian proprietors, and the ultimate
welfare of the negroes themselves,
more especially in consideration of the
large addition to the labouring population
which it is hoped may soon be effected
by immigration, that the laws which
regulate the relations between employers
and labourers in the different colonies,
should undergo early and careful revision
by their respective legislatures.”
.pm letter-end

This document is a very important
and valuable one, more especially
when considered in connexion with
.pn +1
the subsequent measures of the government.
It bears out unequivocally
all the statements which we have
already made regarding the decay of
the colonies, the cessation of the
emancipated negroes from work, and
the necessity of some large and comprehensive
scheme for promoting immigration.
It does even more; for
the tenor of the last paragraph
clearly shows that, upon a calm and
dispassionate review of the case, an
impression had forced itself upon
the minds of the committee, that the
work of emancipation had been carried
out too precipitately, or that
some effectual means for regulating
and sustaining labour should have
been taken by the legislature, at the
period when they violently curtailed
the stipulated term of apprenticeship.
Indeed, subsequent experience has
shown, that some such measure ought
to have been enacted, if only for the
sake of raising the condition of the
negro in the social scale.

As after events have shown, the
report of this committee, though fair
and impartial in its views of the case,
was calculated grievously to mislead
the planters as to the course which
the Parliament of Great Britain was
likely to pursue, in dealing with them
and with their interests. They saw
an admission recorded of the hardship
of their case, coupled with a recognition
of their right to some effectual
remedy; and the natural consequence
was, that they again took courage, and
did every thing in their power to redeem
past losses by renewed exertion
and expenditure. It did seem that at
last some portion of that sympathy,
which had been so early promised,
but so woefully neglected, was likely
to be accorded to them by the mother
country; and in that delusive belief
they determined to struggle on. Had
they at that time obtained the slightest
inkling of what was to follow, their
course would have been widely different.
Whatever might have become
of the estates, an enormous amount of
new capital, embarked on the faith
that Government would at least deal
with them in a just and open manner,
would have been saved, and the ruin
which is now impending over many
families, not only in the colonies but
here, would have been averted. But
with Parliament urging and stimulating
them to fresh exertion, how was it possible
to refuse? What possible grounds
had they then for suspecting that the
protection which had been accorded
to them in the most solemn manner,
and for which they were bound to give
an equivalent, would be withdrawn;
that Britain, who had forced the
Emancipation Act upon her own colonies,
and who had announced, in a
voice of thunder, her future determined
opposition to the existence of the traffic
in slaves, would at once descend
from that position and become the
customer of less scrupulous countries,
the largest encourager of that odious
traffic in the world, and that to
the detriment and ruin of her oldest
and most valuable colonies, which
she had forcibly deprived of their
labour?

The reciprocal relations which existed
between the mother country and
the West Indian colonies were these.
Up to the year 1844, the rate of duty
levied upon colonial sugar was <abbr='one pound and 4 shillings'>£1, 4s.</abbr>,
while that imposed upon sugar grown
in foreign countries, was <abbr='three pounds and 3 shillings'>£3, 3s.</abbr> Thus
a protective balance of thirty-nine
shillings per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr> was left in favour of
the colonies. In return,—and we adopt
this statement from <i>The Economist</i>, a
journal bitterly opposed to the West
Indian claims,—“1st, They were confined
to the British markets for their
supplies of lumber, food, and clothing;
<abbr=secondly>2dly</abbr>, They were prevented importing
fresh labour, under what we always
deemed an unworthy suspicion—that
immigration would degenerate into a
slave trade, and immigrant labour into
slavery; <abbr=thirdly>3dly</abbr>, They were precluded
the privilege of sending their produce
to Europe in any but British ships,
which not unfrequently entailed an
extra cost of two to three pounds a
ton upon their sugar; <abbr=fourthly>4thly</abbr>, And at
home, out of regard to the landed interest,
their rum was subjected to a
high discriminating duty in favour of
British-made spirits, and their sugar
and molasses were entirely excluded
from our breweries and distilleries.”
These sentiments are coloured by the
peculiar views of the talented journal
from which they are drawn, but in the
main they are true; and the writer
ought to have added, that the West
Indian planters were also subjected to
.pn +1
high protective duties in favour of the
home refiner.

Such was the system of reciprocity
established between the mother country
and these colonies, until the spirit of
innovation, which so peculiarly marks
the present age, and which, if persevered
in, must sever the last remaining
ties which have hitherto kept the
integral parts of the British empire
united throughout the world, was
brought to bear upon these devoted
countries.

The first innovation was made in
1844, when free labour sugar only was
admitted upon more favourable terms
than before. To that measure, coupled
as it was with a distinct assurance
that the Government would continue
steadily to oppose the introduction of
slave-grown sugar into this country at
competing prices, no opposition was
offered. Another slight alteration of
the duties took place in 1845; but it
was not until the succeeding year,
1846, that the Whigs, in their zeal
for free trade, and with the view of
gaining, at any cost, a little temporary
popularity at the outset of their accession
to office, determined, without
warning and against remonstrance, to
give the <lang=fr><i>coup-de-grace</i></lang> to the colonies,
and to throw the markets of Britain
entirely open to the kidnapper and
the oppressor of the slave!

The act of 1846, as we have already
said, provides a differential scale of
duties on the imports of sugar, by
which, for the present year, the colonist
has to compete with the slave-master
at a nominal advantage only
of six shillings, and at the expiry of
four years the duties will be entirely
equalised. Here, then, are the final
results of that <i>sympathy and protection</i>,
which were promised by an official of
Lord Melbourne’s Government to the
deluded West Indians in 1834! Here
are the fruits of that agitation, and
toil, and sacrifice, which Britain cheerfully
undertook, in the cause of Christianity
and truth, and, to the honour
of our race, for the emancipation of
the negro, and the utter suppression
of the odious traffic in human flesh
and blood! Here is the denouement of
that series of international treaties by
which Britain proclaimed herself the
champion paramount of freedom, and
the vindicator of the African liberties!
Was there ever, we ask, upon
record, a similar instance of defalcation
of principle and of perfidy? Of
violated principle, because, disguise it
as they may, the results of the late
measure must tend, and have already
tended, to an enormous increase in
the exportation of slaves from Africa;
and Britain, so long as this law remains
on her statute-book, dare not
again claim credit on the score of her
vaunted humanity. Of perfidy, because,
in carrying out emancipation in
her own colonies, then utterly free
from the imputation of participating in
that unholy trade, a distinct pledge
was given on the part of Britain, that,
whatever might be the result, free
labour should not be subjected to undue
competition with the compulsory
efforts of the slave! View the case in
any light you will, and the inconsistency
and treachery of the authors of
the measure become more odious and
apparent.

In order that we may understand
the true position of the colonies, and
the situation in which they have been
placed, confessedly by no fault of
their own, it will be necessary to ascertain
what is the present cost of
production of sugar there, under the
curtailed and crippled system of free-labour,
as compared with that of the
slave-growing colonies. We apprehend
that it will not be denied by
any, that the soil, climate, and natural
position of Jamaica and of
British Guiana are in no way inferior
to any in the known world for the
growth and cultivation of the sugar-cane.
No statement to the contrary
has ever yet been hazarded; and so
far as the application of capital can
go in rendering production cheap,
the British colonies have unquestionably
the advantage of the others.
Let us look then to the matter of
cost.

According to one authority, the
Planter of British Guiana, it would be
as follows,—

.ta l:30 r:8
Cost of production in slave countries per ton, |              £13 0 0
Cost of production in British Guiana, |                         25 0 0
 |
Difference per ton in favour of the slave market, |           £12 0 0
.ta-
.pn +1

In other words, slave-grown sugar
can be produced at <i>twelve shillings
per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr></i> less than in free colonies,
besides the additional advantage of
uncontrolled and unlicensed transport.

The above probably may be taken
as the extreme case, because the cost
of production has always been great
in Demerara, owing to the smallness
of the population; but the general
hardship will be sufficiently shown
and understood, by the following extract
from the resolutions of a meeting
of St David’s parish in Jamaica, on
2d October last.

“The great influx of slave-grown
produce into the home markets has,
in the short space of six months, reduced
the value of sugar from £26
to £14 per ton; while, under ordinary
circumstances of soil and season, the
cost to us of placing it in the market
is not less than £20 per ton.”

“From many calculations,” writes
a highly intelligent and experienced
correspondent, “the lowest rate at
which sugar <i>can</i> be produced, is
about twenty shillings per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr> on the
average, or twenty pounds per ton.
No doubt some estates may, and do,
grow it cheaper than others. They
may have advantages of situation
both in regard to weather and command
of labour, but one thing I am
certain of, that no number of estates
taken collectively, can grow it much
under twenty shillings.”

With regard to the additional argument
against the navigation laws,
which certain free-trade journals have
adroitly contrived to extract from the
statement of the planters’ grievances,
our correspondent writes,—“A long
article has been written to show that
we have got all that was demanded
some years ago, with the exception
of the abolition of the navigation
laws. This I hold to be a very
minor consideration, as, even were
these abolished to-morrow, a saving
of one shilling per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr> freight would
be the very outside. No doubt a letter
appeared in the <i>Times</i>, stating
that last year’s freights were six
shillings per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr> from Demerara,
which was quite true,—but what are
they now? The great rise was caused
by every bottom being employed to
import grain, which raised freights in
America to nine shillings per barrel
for flour, which are now one and sixpence,—so
that shipping of every denomination
was dear. These men
forget, or will not remember, that we
asked for measures which we hoped
might benefit us, at a time when we
could reasonably calculate upon this
country keeping faith with us. But
had we <i>then</i> been told that in 1846
slave sugar would be introduced at a
<i>nominal</i> differential duty of seven
shillings per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr>, to decrease annually
till all sugars were admitted at the
same rate, our demands would have
been very different. Indeed I have
no doubt that many would at once
have abandoned their estates; and,
though a desperate course, it would
yet have been the wisest, and those
who might have pursued it would
have saved a further loss.

“I mentioned a <i>nominal</i> differential
duty. What I mean by that is, that
the slave sugars are all so much better
manufactured, which the great command
of labour enables them to do,
that, to the refiner, they are intrinsically
worth more than ours. In
short, they prepare their sugars,
whereas we cannot do so, and we pay
duty at the same rate on an article
which contains a quantity of molasses.
<i>So that, if the duties were equalised,
there would virtually be a bonus on the
importation of foreign sugar.</i> I have
a letter before me in which is written,—‘Whilst
at Jamaica, offers came
from the Havannah to supply sugar
all the year round at <abbr='twelve shillings'>12s.</abbr> per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr>,’
as I said before, in no Jamaica estate
can it be grown much under <abbr='twenty shillings'>20s.</abbr>, and
assuredly by none at <abbr='twelve shillings'>12s.</abbr> The refiners
estimate the value of Havannah, in
comparison with West India free
sugar, as from three to five shillings
per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr> better in point of colour and
strength. The reason is, that these
sugars are partially refined or <i>clayed</i>.”

If these are correct data, and we do
not anticipate that they will be impugned,
the result will be this;—

.ta l:30 r:8
Cost of production in slave countries per ton, |            £12 0 0
Add duty £1 per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr> |             20 0 0
 |
Cost, irrespective of freight, |  £32 0 0
.pn +1
Cost of production in free labour colonies, |                     £20 0 0
Add duty <abbr='14 shillings'>14s.</abbr> per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr>,  |         14 0 0
Difference of value between slave and free sugar, at the lowest estimate, or <abbr='3 shillings'>3s.</abbr> per <abbr=hundredweight>cwt.</abbr>, |         3 0 0
 |
Cost, irrespective of freight, |  £37 0 0
.ta-

Such is the amount of <i>protection</i> at
present enjoyed by our colonists—a
protection which, be it remarked, is
every year to decrease! In the present,
or second year after the passing
of Lord John Russell’s bill, we find
that slave-grown sugar can be brought
into the market at a cost of production
less at least by <i>five pounds per
ton</i> than that of our own colonies!
We can now easily understand how it
is that, within a very short period,
Cuba has increased her exports of
sugar from 50,000 to more than
200,000 tons; and we can readily believe
that, with such a stimulus as has
been given, she may, in as short a
period, succeed in doubling the latter
quantity. No doubt, in order to effect
this, the importation of slaves from
Africa must go on with corresponding
celerity; but that is a matter which
we need not regard, as our present
rulers are actually giving an enormous
impulse to the trade.

In a matter of this sort, in which
the element of British honour is
largely implicated, it in reality matters
not who the parties are, whom,
by an unjust and inconsistent course
of legislation, we are thus oppressing
and defrauding. But if self-interest
is at all to be taken into view, it may
be as well that we should know, that
at least three-fourths of the capital
now jeopardized in our West Indian
colonies, is the property of fellow-citizens
in this country. The disastrous
effects of the Mauritius failures, primarily
caused and frightfully accelerated
by the abolition of the old,
and the operation of the new system
in that island, were immediately felt
by the commercial circles here, and
tended greatly to increase that depression
which has been experienced
in every branch of our trade. If, as
is now seriously meditated, and as
must be the case should the Whig
Cabinet prove equally obstinate as
rash, our West Indian plantations
should be abandoned, and the capital
already expended as completely sunk
as though it had been dropped into
the depths of the ocean, we may look
for another crisis at home, which will
assuredly appal the boldest. Let our
financial authorities tell us whether
we can, under present circumstances,
afford to part with an invested capital
of two hundred millions, or to throw
back into a state of nature and
pauperism, colonies which, a very few
years ago, consumed annually no
less an amount than three millions
and a half value of our manufactures?
And yet to such results, unless some
strong remedial measure be immediately
applied, we are most decidedly
tending. The depreciation of the
value of property in the colonies has
been going on for years at a most
alarming rate, and we shall now state
a few facts upon that point, which we
think will convince the most sceptical.
We shall begin with Demerara.

In 1838, the value of the estates,
owing to the want of labour, had
fallen from one-third to a half. The
following is the account of some of
the estates:—

.ta l:25 r:12 l:12
<th>|Price in 1838.|Former Price.
Anna Catherina Estate, | £30,000 |  £50,000
Providence, |             38,000 |   80,000
Thomas, |                 20,000 |   40,000
.ta-

In 1840, the depreciation became
greater. Here are a few examples:—

.ta l:25 r:12 l:12
Rome and Houston Estate, |              £40,000 | £100,000
Success, |                30,000 |   55,000
Kitty, |                  26,000 |   60,000
William, |                18,000 |   40,000
.ta-

In 1844, the Groenveldt estate, formerly
valued at £35,000, was sold for
£10,000. In 1845, the Baillie’s Hope
estate, formerly valued at £50,000,
was disposed of for £7,000. And in
1846, the Haarlem estate went for
£3,500, whereas its previous value
was not less than £50,000!

We have been accustomed of late
to fluctuations of property, but it
would be difficult to find in any other
list of prices such instances of ruinous
declension. The above were cases of
private sale; let us now look to the
estates which were sold by execution
in the country, and we shall find a still
.pn +1
greater decadence. In the following
list, which is that of 1846, the Kitty
estate, disposed of in 1840, appears
again.

.ta l:20 r:8 r:9
Kitty Estate, |         £3,000 | £60,000
Nismes, |                5,000 |  55,000
Vryheid’s Lust, |        6,000 |  55,000
.ta-

Let those persons who think that
the planters were amply compensated
by the sum of £20,000,000 at the
time of emancipation, consider the
above figures carefully: and they may
arrive at a different conclusion. Let
us adopt the argument of the Planter,
and take the case of the Kitty estate,
of the original value of £60,000. Suppose
that upon this estate there had
been £18,000 of debt, and a clear
vested remanent interest to the proprietor
of £42,000. Let us further
suppose that the property had not
changed hands until 1846, when it was
brought to sale, and the result will be,
that the compensation money, estimated
at £15,000, and the price which
the estate fetched in the public market,
would barely have sufficed to buy off
the mortgage, and the proprietor’s
£42,000 would have utterly disappeared!

We are enabled from a private
source to carry out the history of one
of these Demarara estates. “We
bought it,” says our correspondent,
“or rather we took it over as a bad
debt for our mortgage (upwards of
£12,000) for £5,000. Of course no
person would have had any thing to
do with it but under the circumstances
stated. And to show you that property
is now of no value, we may
mention that we took an estate over,
valued in the year 1825 at £60,000,
as a bad debt; and though the estate
has been advertised for sale or lease,
we cannot get an offer of any kind,
and have accordingly determined and
sent out orders to abandon it. The
works are in first-rate order, and
every thing complete; therefore you
may judge of the sacrifice; which,
however, is only imaginary, as the
cultivation of this estate, since 1842,
has cost us £13,000 more than the
produce has yielded. This does not
include interest, but the actual wages
and expenditure to make crops which
have sold for £13,000 less than they
cost us to produce. I could enumerate
many others, but one is as good as a
thousand. The situation of some of
the estates is much in their favour,
and this was another reason that
induced us to take the one alluded to
on any terms.

“The West Indians have been
often taunted with not adopting the
improvements which are introduced
in the slave colonies. At the cost of
about £2,000 we sent out last August
machinery for that estate, and since
then have written out not to unpack
it, and, in the serious contemplation
of abandoning the estate, have asked
the makers of that machinery to take
it off our hands, as they have a good
many orders for foreign slave-growing
countries. I believe, if we determine
to sacrifice it, that they will send it to
Porto Rico or Havannah.”

The following letter, written by a
highly respectable gentleman in this
country, who is also a Jamaica proprietor,
and referring to the present
depreciation of property in that island,
has been placed in our hands. The
reader must judge for himself as to
the hardship of the case which it
portrays.

“Any information that I can give
in reference to the present alarming
and distressed situation of Jamaica,
is, I believe, nothing more than what
might be afforded by every one connected
with that once flourishing, but
now all but ruined island.

“I consider my case a hard one,
and thousands are in a similar situation.
I shall merely state a few
simple facts as regards myself. About
four years ago, upon the understanding
and belief that the question, as to
a fair protection in favour of our
colonial sugar over foreign, or more
especially slave labour sugar, was for
ever set at rest, I became the purchaser
of a fine estate in the island of
Jamaica, for the sum of ten thousand
five hundred pounds. In order to
give every justice to the property, I
sent out a fine new steam engine, and
various other kinds of machinery and
agricultural implements—in short,
have expended upwards of seven
thousand pounds, over and above the
proceeds of all the produce made
upon the estate during the course of
the last four years (so that it now
costs me about eighteen thousand
.pn +1
pounds) in the hopes of eventually
reaping a fair return. And this
would have been the case for crop
1847, had not the unexpected and
cruel measure of admitting slave-labour
sugar at a low duty been introduced
and carried by Lord John
Russell last year. My attorney in
Jamaica, before he was aware of such
a rash and heartless step being taken,
made out a statement of the expected
crop and expenditure on the estate
for the said year 1847, taking sugar
at a moderate price, by which he
showed a good surplus of one thousand
pounds; but, alas! ere the produce
came to market, prices fell so
low, that in place of making any
profit (though the estate made a
good crop) I shall lose from one
thousand to twelve hundred pounds,
besides the interest on the eighteen
thousand pounds of capital. This,
you are aware, is perfectly ruinous,
and I have been obliged to write out
to my attorney, in order to save my property
at home, to stop planting
any more canes in the meantime; and,
unless government immediately retrace
their steps, to abandon the
estate altogether. I am sorry to say,
that this has been the hard fate with
many a proprietor already, and must,
ere long, overwhelm the whole colony.
My property was considered one of
the finest in the island, and if it
perish none can stand. I might give
particulars of many cases of extreme
hardship, but it is needless to multiply
these, as you must have many similar
facts from other sources.”

The following letter is taken from
a late number of a Jamaica newspaper,
and we recommend it seriously
to the attention of our readers:

.pm letter-start
“<i>To the Editor of the Jamaica Despatch,
Chronicle, and Gazette.</i>

“‘Coming events cast their shadows before.’

“<sc>Sir</sc>,—I have just returned from Lucea,
where I have witnessed a sight any thing
but gratifying to my feelings.

“A vessel has arrived from ‘Trinidad
de Cuba,’ to load with the mill and machinery,
coppers, and other apparatus,
from Williamsfield Estate in this parish,
late the property of Mr Alexander
Grant. The estate has, since Mr Grant’s
death, been, from the difficulty of the
times, abandoned; and Mr D’Castro, the
owner of the vessel now at Lucea, has
purchased the fixtures for an estate settling
in Cuba.

“Is not the fate of Jamaica estates
foreshadowed in this circumstance? Is
it not a melancholy reflection that we
are being wantonly sacrificed by our
fellow countrymen, solely for the aggrandisement
of foreigners?

“It does not require, Mr Editor, a prophet
to foretell the fate of Jamaica sugar
properties, and that for every man’s property
destroyed here half a dozen will
flourish in Cuba. A new branch of trade
is opened to us, and for a few months, no
doubt, it will be a brisk one. I would
strongly recommend gentlemen who are
advertising properties for sale to send the
advertisement to Cuba; an estate now is
not worth more than the cattle and machinery
on it, and our neighbours in Cuba,
might obtain all the machinery necessary
for the settlement of their sugar plantations
on very easy terms; and it will be, no
doubt, exceedingly agreeable at some future
time, when necessity compels us to
quit our own country, to seek a living in
Cuba, to see our late still, steam-engine, or
coppers, and if we, are particularly fortunate,
obtain the superintendence of any
one of them. I am, Mr Editor, your obedient
servant,

<sc>A Proprietor</sc>.”

“Hanover, Oct. 23, 1847.”
.pm letter-end

With such facts and testimony before
him, what man in the possession
of his reasonable senses can doubt that
our West Indian colonies are, at this
moment upon the verge of ruin? We
use the word in the most literal sense,
and we are not very sure that we are
justified in retaining the qualification,
for ruin, in its worst shape, has already
fallen upon many. Lord John Russell
is said to be a bold and intrepid man,
but there is a weight of responsibility
here enough to appal the boldest man
that ever held the office of prime minister
of Britain. The question is not
now one of depression of trade. The
rashness of former cabinets in dealing
with the property of the colonists,
and their unaccountable hesitation and
delay in granting any remedial measures,
or an increased supply of labour,
have accomplished <i>that</i> already. The
question now is, <sc>SHALL THESE COLONIES
BE AT ONCE ABANDONED</sc>? We
look for an answer, not to the colonists,
but to Lord John Russell himself. He
is the party who has directly consummated
their ruin, and from him
the country at large are entitled to
.pn +1
demand a full explanation of his policy.
Is it his purpose that these
colonies, once styled the brightest
jewels of the British crown, shall be
thrown waste and abandoned? If it
is, let him say so boldly. The country
will then be enabled to record
their opinion of his judgment, and,
notwithstanding all that has taken
place of late years, we will not do the
honest-hearted people of Great Britain
the injustice, for one moment, to doubt
of the strength and tenor of that
opinion. If, as we hope and trust,
he never contemplated these results,
when in a rash moment, and perhaps
with no unnatural eye to a
little temporary popularity, he forced
on the measure of 1846, let him say
so—let him make the only reparation
in his power for former errors; and
although much mischief has already
been done, the colonies may yet be
saved, and a sacrifice so terrible
averted.

While such is the situation of our own
colonies, upon whom we forced emancipation,
let us see what is doing in
the slave countries, to whom we are
handing over our custom. The increase
in the sugar produce of Cuba,
as we have already seen, is from 50,000
to 200,000 tons, and is still rapidly
increasing. The slave-trade is going
on at a multiplied ratio, and perhaps
the friends of the African will be glad
to learn a fact, for the correctness of
which we can vouch. Not three weeks
ago, a large mercantile house in Glasgow
received orders to send out a
supply of blankets to Cuba, because,
as the writer said, the slaves have
become so much more valuable, owing
to the enhanced price of their produce,
and the new sugar market now opened,
that the owners must take more care
of them. Humanity, it would seem,
begins to develop itself when it goes
hand in hand with profit.

And yet, perhaps, we have used the
word “humanity” a little too rashly.
Let us hear the testimony of Jacob
Omnium, which we extract from his
late able letter to Lord John Russell,
as to the manner in which our cheap
sugar is at present manufactured in
Cuba:—

.pm letter-start
“I spent,” says that intelligent witness,
“the beginning of this year in Cuba, with
a view of ascertaining the preparations
which were being made in that island to
meet the opening of our markets. To an
Englishman coming up from Grenada
and Jamaica, the contrast between the
paralysed and decayed aspect of the
trade of those colonies, and the spirit and
activity which your measures had infused
into that of the Havannah, was
most disheartening.

“The town was illuminated when I
landed, in consequence of the news of
high prices from England. Three splendid
trains of De Rosne’s machinery,
costing 40,000 dollars each, had just
arrived from France, and were in process
of erection; steam-engines and engineers
were coming over daily from America;
new estates were forming; coffee
plantations were being broken up; and
their feeble gangs of old people and
children, who had hitherto been selected
for that light work, were formed into
task-gangs, and hired out by the month
to the new <i>ingenios</i>, then in full drive.

“It was crop time: the mills went
round night and day. On every estate
(I scarcely hope to be believed when I
state the fact) <i>every slave was worked
under the whip eighteen hours out of the
twenty-four</i>, and, in the boiling houses,
from five to six p.m., and from eleven
o’clock to midnight, when half the people
were concluding their eighteen hours
work, the sound of the hellish lash was
incessant; indeed, it was necessary to
keep the overtasked wretches awake.

“The six hours during which they
rested they spent locked in a barracoon,—a
strong, foul, close sty, where they
wallowed without distinction of age or
sex.

“There was no marrying amongst the
slaves on the plantations; breeding was
discouraged; <i>it was cheaper and less
troublesome to buy than to breed</i>. On
many estates females were entirely excluded;
but an intelligent American
planter told me he disapproved of that
system; that the men drooped under it;
and that he had found the most beneficial
effects from the judicious admixture of a
proportion of one ‘lively wench’ to five
males in a gang of which he had had
charge. Religious instruction and medical
aid were not carried out generally
beyond baptism and vaccination.

“Whilst at work the slaves were
stimulated by drivers, armed with swords
and whips, and protected by magnificent
bloodhounds.”
.pm letter-end

Gentlemen who clamoured for
emancipation, in this way is the sugar
which you are daily consuming made!
You would not have it when produced
.pn +1
by slaves in your own colonies,
and under the humane protection of
your own overruling laws; you are
content to take it now—at the instigation
of Mr Cobden and his confederates,
without the slightest scruple or
remorse for having ruined thousands
of your countrymen—because you can
have it cheaper through the sweat and
the life-blood of the slave! Is this
morality? Is it justice? Is it even—to
descend to lower motives—wisdom?
Can you not see before you the time
when, after the West Indian colonies
are abandoned, a gigantic monopoly
will accrue to the slave-growing states,
and the sugar, for the paltry saving on
which article all has been sacrificed,
again become as dear, possibly much
dearer than before? Recollect it is
not an article like wheat, or any common
species of food, which can be
reared upon every soil. There is but
one region of the earth in which it can
be grown, and even there it cannot
be grown profitably, except through a
large expenditure of capital, and by
means of an almost limitless command
of labour. Cuba and Brazil
<i>have</i> both. Our colonies <i>had</i> both in
sufficiency, until, by cutting off the
one, you almost annihilated the other.
Go one step further, or rather continue
in the course you have begun a
very little longer, and the capital of
the West Indian colonies will be wholly
and irretrievably dissipated. Irretrievably—for,
after what has passed, it is in
vain to think that any British subject
will again embark his capital in such a
trade, with no better security than that
of our fiscal laws, fluctuating every
year under the influence of short-sighted
agitation, and regulated by men
whose sole intelligible principle is the
continued possession of power. Once
let our colonies be annihilated—their
capital of nearly two hundred millions
be swallowed up, principal and interest—their
market, which took from
us annually three millions and a half
of British manufactures, closed—and
the inevitable result will be a monopoly
of sugar to the slave-growing
states, high prices, and in all probability,
which the bullionists ought to
consider, a perpetual drain of gold.

We have quoted only a fraction of the
evidence of Jacob Omnium with regard
to the present aspect of affairs in
Cuba. Much there is of painful and
even sickening detail as to the treatment
of the slaves, in order that an
augmented supply may be thrown in
upon our now unscrupulous market,
for which we must refer our readers,
if they wish to peruse it, to the
pamphlet itself. But lest it should be
thought that such testimony merely
applies to the condition of the unhappy
slaves at present in Cuba, we shall go
further, and show that the late measure
of the Whig Government has
given a tenfold additional impetus to
the slave trade; and that all our efforts
to restrain it—efforts which, at the
smallest calculation, cost this country
annually a sum of half a million—are,
as they must be under such circumstances,
wholly futile and unavailing.

.pm letter-start
“In February last,” says the author
of the above letter, “the market value of
field negroes had risen from 300 to 500
dollars—a price which would speedily
bring a supply from the coast. The
accounts thence of the number of vessels
captured, and of the still greater number
seen and heard of, but not captured by
our cruisers, bear ready witness to the
stimulus which you have afforded to that
accursed trade. It is only during the
last year that we hear of <i>steam-slavers</i>,
carrying nine hundred and fifty slaves,
dipping their flag in derision to our men
of war.”
.pm letter-end

The list of the slave captures between
October 1846 and April 1847
amounts to no less than twenty-four
vessels, from which between two and
three thousand slaves were taken.
This hideous amount of living cargo
was crowded into five vessels, the
other nineteen having been captured
empty. This, however, is understood
to be a mere fraction of the
whole amount, and that the recent
seizures have been much more
numerous. One of our ships, the
Ferret, is said to have taken no less
than six slave vessels since she has
been upon the coast.

The impulse which the government
measure of 1846 has given to the slave
trade in every part of the world is
something perfectly enormous; but
its mischievous and inhuman effects
will best be understood by a reference
to ascertained facts. Prior to 1846,
the traffic in slaves between the
African coast and the Spanish colonies
.pn +1
had been gradually declining,
and had in fact almost disappeared.
The exclusion of slave-grown sugars
from our home market had nearly
forced the Cuban proprietors into a
different system, and arrangements
were pending in that colony for the
emancipation of the slaves, just at
the time when Lord John Russell
came forward in favour of the chain
and the lash. The consequence was,
that in the first instance the Cubans
withdrew their slaves from the coffee
cultivation, which was the least profitable,
and set them to work at the
sugar-canes. The price of the negro
consequently rose, and the trade is
prospering abundantly.

So much for Cuba. Let us now
see what is doing in Brazil. The
following article is extracted from the
<i>Jamaica Times</i>, of 8th. October last.

.pm letter-start
“Though it may be an act of supererogation
to accumulate arguments in
support of the proposition that an equalisation
of the sugar duties must necessarily
give an impetus to the slave-trade,
it may not be amiss to point out such
instances which may come before us of
an illustrative tendency. In a communication
recently addressed by Dr Lang to
the British public, it is stated as an
unquestionable fact, that a great stimulus
to the cultivation of sugar in Brazil had
been afforded by the late change in the
duties; and consequently that the slave
trade, which had been rapidly declining
for some time past, had revived as briskly
as ever, especially at Pernambuco, which
is by far the most conveniently situated
port in the empire for this traffic—being
so far to the northward and eastward,
and consequently so favourably situated
for taking advantage of the south-east
trade wind, that a vessel from that port
may often run across to the coast, as it is
called, that is to Africa, in half the time
she would take either from Bahia or Rio
Janeiro. A schooner of one hundred and
twenty tons, the <i>Gallant Mary of Baltimore</i>,
he added, had arrived at Pernambuco
a day or two before his arrival, and
was then lying in the harbour for sale;
and during the short period of his stay
she was purchased for seven hundred
and fifty pounds by a slave merchant in
the place, and was to be despatched to
the coast a day or two after he sailed for
England.

“This is one instance of the manner in
which the increased consumption of slave-grown
sugar is acting as a premium to
the slave trader. We offer a second in
the fact recently communicated from
Africa itself, that the slave-trade on
the west coast was never more brisk
than it is at present; that thirteen hundred
and fifteen slaves had been landed
from slave vessels at Sierra Leone from
May 4th to June 28th of this year; that
the last slaver taken was a Brazilian
brig, although for deception called the
Beulah of Portland, <abbr rend=spell>U.S.</abbr>—she was sent
in by the Waterwitch: this vessel had
five hundred and ten slaves on board.

“Nor is this all; for we have just
learned from an authentic source, that Crab
Island (a small tributary island lying to
the eastward of Porto Rico) is now in
course of being settled for the first time,
for the cultivation of sugar; and that
very recently one of the proprietors—not
content, it would appear, with the
customary mode of obtaining slaves—had
succeeded in removing a number from
one of the French islands adjacent,—a
proceeding which, as might reasonably
be expected, has caused the question to
be raised among the <lang=fr><i>amis des noires</i></lang>,
whether it is legal to deport slaves from
any French colony. Putting this point
of the case, however, out of view, we
have unquestionable evidence of the increasing
importance of slave cultivation,
at the very moment when the free
labour colonies are struggling to maintain
their very existence. We only
beseech ministers to look upon these two
pictures—on the one hand slavery triumphant;
on the other, freedom struggling
in the dust—and then persist, if
they can, in the line of policy which has
produced such results.”
.pm letter-end

But it is needless to multiply examples.
The encouragement has been
given; the increased importation of
slaves to the foreign colonies has taken
place; and the planters of Cuba and
Brazil are already preparing for their
monopoly. The following figures, set
forth in a late official return, speak
volumes:—

.ta l:40 r:10 r:10
<th> |1845.|1847.
Machinery exported from England to Cuba, |    £4807 |     £17,644
  Ditto from do. to Brazil, |                17,130 |      35,123
  | |
   |                                        £21,937 |     £52,767
.ta-
.pn +1

And this independently of such machinery
as has been bought up and
transported from our colonies!

Such have been the effects of the
recent Whig measure; and it is for
Parliament to decide whether we shall
incur the national reproach of continuing
any longer in a course so heartless,
so unwise, and so inhuman. An
attempt may be made, as in the case
of the currency laws, to shelve the
consideration of the sugar duties,
through the convenient medium of a
committee. If so, the fate of our
colonies may be considered as finally
sealed. This is not a case that admits
of delay, nor are parties actually at
issue upon disputed matters of fact.
The whole question resolves itself into
this—is free trade to be allowed to
run riot, and are our oldest colonies to
be given up to it immediately as a
sacrifice? A very intelligent correspondent
writes, with reference to protective
measures:—

“It may be the interest of the
ministry to allow this appointment of
a committee, as for months they will
shelve the question. These months
to us are of the utmost value, as
during the crop, which commences in
January and ends in June in the West
Indian colonies, we must decide
whether we are to make any preparations
for the future. If no concessions
are to be made, <sc>Abandonment</sc> <i>is the
only course to save further loss</i>. I
believe the West Indians want no
committee on their case. The hardships
must be admitted. What we
require is a fair, but not a prohibitory
duty; such a one only as will put us
on a footing to compete with those
parties who enjoy what we are denied—<i>an
abundance of cheap and regular
labour</i>. This protection must be
granted until we have the labour, and
also some means of commanding its
regularity.”

In conclusion, we would ask the
free-traders themselves, whether the
course which has been pursued towards
these colonies is equitable or
defensible, even on their own acknowledged
principles? How far do they
intend or propose that these principles
should be carried? Is all traffic, even
that in human flesh and blood, to be
free? If so, let us come to a distinct
understanding on the point. If the
code of morals maintained by Mr
Cobden is of so truly philanthropic
and catholic a nature—if “buying
in the cheapest and selling in the
dearest market” is to be adopted
throughout the world as a universal
and unexceptionable rule—then, in the
name of common sense, let the free-traders
be consistent to their creed,
let emancipation become a dead letter,
and let the slave markets of Africa be
thrown open to every customer! Do
these gentlemen intend to maintain
that there is any thing of free trade
in the system, which ties our own colonists
hand and foot, prevents them
from making use of the capabilities of
their soil, dissipates their capital, and
then quietly abolishes all distinctive
duty between their produce and that
of countries which have not chosen
to adopt the same system? Is the
fleet upon the coast of Africa a symbol
of free-trade principles, or the opposite?
Why, what a laughing-stock
must that be in the eyes of the
Spaniards! what an egregious proof
of the most silly inconsistency that
ever yet was perpetrated by a nation!
We will not, forsooth, permit foreign
nations to traffic in slaves, and yet
we give them the monopoly of our
market, knowing all the while that
upon that importation alone we are
dependent for a cheap supply! We
ruin our colonies, transfer our custom
to the foreign slave-driver, and with
him, as has well been said, <i>cheap sugar
means cheap slaves</i>!

We are glad to see that <i>The Times</i>,
though differing with us in many
economical points, has lately taken
up this view, and spoken out with its
customary ability. We extract from
the number published on 17th
January.—

.pm letter-start
“Is sugar a commodity which we are
simply desirous of getting cheap, without
any regard to the country or methods of
its production? If it be not, then is it
clear as argument can make it that such
commodity must be altogether removed
from the operations of free trade? If
it be, then by what monstrous perversion
of equity do we control the methods of
production adopted by our own producers?
Why did we destroy that
market in Jamaica which we now seize
so eagerly in Brazil? The abstract
principles of free trade are as manifestly
violated by interference with production
.pn +1
as by interference with exportation. If
the doctrines of free trade are to find
no exception in any suggestions of
humanity or reason, then our Anti-slavery
Act, and our Emancipation Act,
and our vote for the African squadron,
are all so many gross contradictions of a
principle which we have formally sanctioned.
Let those who think so speak
out boldly. They have undoubtedly a
clear case, if they dared but state it.
Let slavery be considered as a practice
which humanity condemns, and which
civilisation must eventually abolish, but
which cannot be permitted to enter into
the calculations of a great commercial
people. Let the coast squadron be immediately
recalled, and the Bights
thrown open to the sugar-growers of all
nations to procure their labourers on the
easiest terms. Let them make as much
sugar as they can each for itself, and let
the agency by which this article is produced
be as much a matter of indifference
as in the case of any other article,
and <i>then</i> may sugar fairly be subjected to
the operations of free trade. If the
West Indians then applied for protection,
we might well repulse a petition for so
obsolete a measure; but to take refuge
in such abstract theories now is to blow
hot and cold with the same breath—to
preach up humanity from one side of the
pulpit and economy from the other, taking
care the while to appropriate to our
own pockets the advantages of the latter
doctrine, and to saddle our colonists with
the expenses of the former.”
.pm letter-end

And what is it that our colonists
ask? What is the extravagant proposal
which we are prepared to reject
at the cost of the loss of our most
fertile possessions, and of nearly two
hundred millions of British capital?
Simply this, that in the meantime
such a distinctive duty should be
enforced as will allow them to compete
on terms of equality with the
slave-growing states. Let this alone
be granted, and they have no wish to
interfere with any other fiscal regulation.
And what would be the amount
of differential duty required? Not
more, as we apprehend, than ten
shillings the hundred-weight. It
has been carefully calculated that
the British planter cannot raise and
send his sugar to the home market at
a lower cost than forty shillings. In
consequence of Lord John Russell’s
measure, the average price last year
has been thirty-eight shillings, and
consequently the planter has been
manufacturing, not only without profit,
but at an actual loss. Next year,
or rather after next July, the operation
of the reductive scale will increase
his loss, supposing him still to cultivate,
from two shillings to three and
sixpence per hundred-weight and so
on until 1851, when he will have to
pay <i>six pounds per ton</i> for the privilege
of growing sugar, without a single
farthing of return!

Is then the request of these men,
who are our own fellow-subjects, and
citizens, in any way unjust or unreasonable?
We have chosen to deprive
them of labour, promising them all
the while sympathy and protection,
and are we not bound in some measure
to redeem the pledge? They require
a differential duty only until such
time as they can command a supply
of free and plentiful labour. To this
object the attention of government,
and of the true philanthropists of the
country, ought to be directed. There
is a noble field laid open for their
exertions. The best means of suppressing
altogether the slave-trade, is
by promoting, to the uttermost of our
power, a free immigration from Africa
to our colonies, a measure which we
are certain would very soon supersede
the necessity of a blockading squadron.
For how can we ever expect that such
an armament will prove effectual in
checking that wicked traffic, whilst,
at the same time, we are directly
encouraging it, by augmenting the
consumpt of its produce in free and
scrupulous Britain? Shame, on such
contemptible and deceptive policy!
Shame on the men who, with liberalism
on their lips, are all the while
engaged in riveting the fetters of the
bondsman! And shame to all of us,
if we permit our oldest and most
attached colonies to lapse into decay,
and thousands of our fellow-subjects
to be consigned to ruin! for the sake
of a theory which, in this matter at
least, has not even the merit of being
based upon consistent or intelligible
principle!
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=now title='Now And Then'
NOW AND THEN.
.sp 2
(<i>Now and Then.</i> By <sc>Samuel Warren</sc>, F.R.S. Author of “Ten Thousand
a-Year,” and the “Diary of a Late Physician.” William Blackwood and Sons,
Edinburgh and London. 1848.)
.sp 2
It would be an unpardonable affectation
of modesty indeed, if Maga suffered
any considerations whatever to
interfere between herself and the cordial
recognition of a success achieved
by a favourite child, and acknowledged
by all the world. Is the
parent alone to hold her peace, when
crowds are flinging up their caps
rejoicing at the triumph of the son?
Is nature to resign her dearest prerogative,
in order to comply with the
unnatural requirements of a dastard
hypocrisy? Must we still hear on all
sides the honest congratulations of
strangers, and are we not to do homage
to the grateful spirit within us,
by shaking our own flesh and blood
by the hand? Flesh and blood revolt
from the insinuation! We know, as
well as the dullest, that it is a delicate
matter for Maga to speak to mankind,
as truth and her heart dictate, with
respect to some of her progeny. But
what has delicacy to do with justice?
Was Brutus delicate when he judged
his own son, and hung him up for the
public good? Maga suffers the world
to judge of her offspring, and contents
herself with a simple announcement
of the happy verdict. It is her duty,
as well as her delight, to chronicle
the sentence. If she did less, she
would do wrong to her own: she
might do more, and still be just to her
mighty and confiding public.

The author of the volume whose title
heads this article, first appeared before
the public as a writer in this Magazine
in the month of August 1830.
He was then but two-and-twenty
years of age; yet, in his “Diary of a
Late Physician,” he at once took his
place in the front ranks of literature,
and seized upon the admiration and
respect of his contemporaries. The
work is too well known to need
minute description here. The variety
of incident and character, the extraordinary
fidelity of delineation, the
vigorous style, the touching pathos,
the commanding knowledge of men
and human passions which it exhibits,
are as familiar to our readers as they
were surprising in a youth scarcely out
of his teens,—a mere tyro in literature,—and,
as he himself informs us, a rejected
aspirant, in many quarters,[#] for
those lofty honours which he has since
so bravely and so honourably won.
“The Diary of a Physician”—carried
on at intervals from the year 1830 to
the year 1837—maintained its ground
from first to last. Since the last
chapter appeared in these pages, the
series has been printed and published,
reprinted and republished, stereotyped
for England, pirated for America,
and translated for the Continent.
The interest which the powerful tales
first excited, is unabated to this hour.
The regular and steady demand maintained
for the volumes indicates their
intrinsic value, and declares, in language
as emphatic as any that can
appeal to either publishers or authors,
the enduring character with which
they are impressed.

.fn #
“The first chapter of this ‘Diary’—The Early Struggles—was offered by me
successively to the conductors of three leading Magazines in London, and rejected as
‘unsuitable for their pages’ and ‘not likely to interest the public.’ In despair, I
bethought myself of the great Northern Magazine. I remember taking my packet to
Mr Cadell’s, in the Strand, with a sad suspicion that I should never see or hear any
thing more of it; but at the close of the month I received a letter from Mr Blackwood,
informing me that he had inserted the chapter, and begging me to make arrangements
for immediately proceeding regularly with the series. It expressed his cordial approval
of the first chapter, and predicted that I was likely to produce a series of
papers well suited for his Magazine, and calculated to interest the public.”—Extract
from Preface to the Fifth Edition of the <i>Diary of a Late Physician</i>.
.fn-

In the year 1839, just nine years
after the publication of the first number
of the “Diary,” appeared also in
these pages the first part of Mr
Warren’s tale of “Ten Thousand
a-Year.” The second production
derived no false lustre from the confirmed
success of its predecessor.
The new tale presented itself in the
columns of the Magazine, as the rule
.pn +1
is—anonymously. Mr Warren obtained
no advantage whatever from
his previously well-earned and conscientiously
sustained reputation. His
second venture had nothing to rely
upon but itself; yet, before six
months had elapsed, “Ten Thousand
a-Year,” by the mere force of its own
unquestioned merit, succeeded in arresting
public attention to an extent
seldom equalled, and never surpassed
by publications of a serial nature.
For two years that attention never
flagged; the public can attest to this
remarkable fact: we are ourselves
conscious of the avidity with which
number after number of this Magazine
was sought, whilst one chapter of the
History of Tittlebat Titmouse still
remained to be told. “Ten Thousand
a-Year” was a wholly different performance
from the “Diary of a Late
Physician.” The latter contained the
fruitful germs of at least a dozen
novels. Its short histories, designed
to convey a solemn and abiding
moral, performed their office with the
least possible elaboration. Intricacy
and subtlety of plot were not considered,
in a scheme in which mankind
was to be moved and taught by the
influence of example. The faults, the
weaknesses, the vices of humanity,
were displayed in their simplest
forms, and no pains were taken to
involve them in the entanglements of
an artfully contrived narration. Not
so, altogether, in the case of “Ten
Thousand a-Year.” Here plot became
not a subordinate ingredient in
the composition; here the salient and
strongly-marked features of individual
character were not alone considered.
It cannot be denied that the second
creation of Mr Warren’s genius indicated
at once increased strength of
mind, experience more extended,
knowledge more ripened. The faculties
of the man were allied to the
energy and passion of the youth, and
the former ruled the latter with a
severe and salutary grasp. The secret
motives of man had been learnt in the
interim; human springs of action
had been detected in their distant
hiding places; the inner soul of the
world had been more deeply penetrated,
and more closely scanned by
the writer’s understanding. The pictures
were no longer sketches—the
masterstrokes were something more
than indications. The vulgarity of
Titmouse was shown with the self-denying
patience and enlightened industry
of a surgeon laying bare the
loathsomeness of a repelling sore.
What inclination would have shut
away for ever, conscientious duty required
to be exposed. Vulgarity is
exposed in the history of Tittlebat
Titmouse, and is utterly crushed.
In nothing, however, is the contrast
between Mr Warren in 1830, and
the same gentleman in 1839, so
remarkable as in the conception of
Mr Gammon. The character is a perfect
emanation of instructed genius;
the admixture of good and evil—good
in evil, and evil in good—could
have been portrayed only by
one knowing thoroughly “all qualities
with a learned spirit of human
dealings.” None but a creator,
conscious of his strength, and fortified
by the convictions which knowledge
and experience give, would have
conceived—or if conceived, dared—to
exhibit the incomparable portraiture
of which we speak. He, Gammon,
stands immortalised in Mr Warren’s
pages, neither a monster of good nor
a monster of evil, but partaking of
both qualities; largely of one, and in a
smaller degree of the other, as is nature’s
wont. Noble amongst the very
base, and base amongst the very
noble, he is an object of sorrow more
than of execration,—of sympathy, not
of hate, in his evil associations; of deep
pity, not of vengeance, when he
mixes for a season with the pure.
Wanting religion and the practice of
piety, which alone yields the highest
moral rectitude, Gammon fails to earn
approval even when he most deserves
it, and in his brightest moments leaves
no better impression on the mind than
that of a wretched bundle of foul
weeds, steeped for the time in heroism.
The seeming incongruities of the character
testify at once to its fidelity: the
reality of the picture is heightened by
the colours which the master, with infinite skill,
has selected from his palette.

The incognito of Mr Warren was
preserved till towards the close of
the work; and upon its completion,
being published in a separate form, it
shared the well-deserved success of the
“Diary of a Physician,” and travelled
with it, either in, its original garb or
as a translated book, into every quarter
.pn +1
of the globe. Be it remembered that,
during the whole long period of which
we speak, Mr Warren was passing his
days in any thing but the luxurious
case of an unoccupied gentleman, or
of one engaged only in the prosecution
of intellectual pleasures. His
entrance into life as a public writer
was concurrent with his adoption of
the most arduous and difficult of all
professions. Literature was less his
business than his recreation; his
chosen evening pastime after the
noonday’s enervating heat; his dignified
solace, not his painful necessity.
In plain words, whilst he used his pen
for the amusement and instruction of
his fellows, Mr Warren was a laborious
legal plodder on his own account
in the Temple; first as a special
pleader, and afterwards as a counsel;
in which last capacity he produced, as a
tribute to law as well as to literature,
an important standard law-book, held
at this moment in high repute.

Now, if what we have said be true,—and
if it be not, we shall be glad to
be informed of our error—we hold it
to be an utter impossibility for Maga
either to look coldly upon Mr Warren’s
literary career, or to stand mutely
by with her hands behind her, when
all honest people are vociferously applauding
that gentleman upon his
first appearance in an entirely new
character. If we don’t clap our
hands, who shall applaud? Nobody
will respect the mother who
thinks her child less worthy than the
world esteems him. If we should
hold our peace, Maga would be despised—not
by the world—that would
not affect her much, but by her own
honest soul, and her eternal sense of
right, which would destroy her. We
have held our peace long enough. Impatient
as we were to be the first to
hail our own, to introduce him to his
readers in the columns in which first
he introduced himself, we have committed
violence to our affection, and
bided our good time. Maga watched
with natural fond anxiety the proceedings
of her son. She called to
mind their long connexion, and had
maternal apprehensions—the best of
mothers have them—lest the third
appearance of her offspring on the
literary stage of life might dim the
lustre of his former efforts in the same
arena. Moreover, people of a certain
age have whims and fancies.
Maga, young, buxom, sportive, and
healthy as she looks, has reached a
matron’s years. Her contemporaries,
judging from her feats, and vexed in
heart, will not believe it. We cannot
wonder at their scepticism; they look
old in their infancy. Maga has the
playfulness and elasticity of youth in
her prime. If she is so sprightly with
a load of years upon her, she may
live for ever. Honest contemporaries
are right; she may—she <sc>WILL</sc>!
But, as we said, folks of a certain age
have whims. Men who have prospered
under one system are not eager
to adopt and try another. The
guardianship of Maga, in Maga’s eyes,
casts a halo around the doings of her
children. Mr Warren had achieved
noble triumphs, walking hand-in-hand
with her month after month and
year after year. If he should deny
himself the aid and run alone, might
he not fall? We feared he might,
till we had read his book, and then
our fear was gone. But though fear
departed, modesty—Maga’s ancient
fault—remained. The proprieties of
the case bade her be silent till the
world had spoken. Though she was
not bound to withhold her smile and
warm approval in her royal privacy,
sweet decorum forbade a syllable of
public praise until her panegyric
might no longer sway the universe.
The hour for breaking silence has
arrived: Maga seizes it proudly and
unreservedly, as her custom is: who
shall blame her?

Mr Warren has, indeed, achieved
a signal and complete success. The
opinion which we formed of his new
labour, ere it went to press, is confirmed
and echoed by the enthusiastic
unanimity of the public; by those
who read, and by those useful organs
which undertake to guide the reader’s
taste and judgment. The first few
pages of the volume dispel at once all
fears as to backsliding or downsinking
on the part of the author. Fresh,
vigorous, racy, and pure—such are
the well-known characteristics of Mr
Warren’s style: they are here as they
were present in his earliest productions
almost twenty years ago. From
the first page to the last, there is not
the slightest evidence of exhaustion
.pn +1
from over-cropping or superfetation.
All is new, healthy, wholesome, and
genuine: bright as the purest water,
clear as the summer’s sky, and as full
of holy promise.

We think we discern a sneer upon
the bilious and discontented cheeks of
a certain class of writers as they read
the last two words. We know the
gentlemen well. They have been scribbling
for the last few years with a
“oneness of purpose,” as creditable to
their understandings as it is significant
of their ulterior designs. “Now and
Then” is by no means written for their
especial delectation, although, if properly
and humbly read by the “earnest”
worthies, it would go far to secure their
moral improvement. The volume neither
laughs at ecclesiastical institutions,
nor ridicules the professors of religion.
It does not make fun of every thing
serious, until the unsophisticated
reader is reduced to wondering whether
he is not in duty bound to smile when
and wherever his previous education
had instructed him to weep: it does
not consider that a man born on a
dunghill has all the virtues of Adam
before he transgressed, and that another,
brought into life on a bed of down
in Grosvenor Square, has, poor devil,
in virtue of his good luck, inherited
the vices of Satan and of the whole
company of fallen divinities. There
are a heap of Cockneys now gaining
their miserable bread by the
promulgation of such doctrines, who
will look down with supreme contempt
and biting sarcasm upon the book of
which we treat; not, mark you, the
<i>believers</i> of such doctrines, but simply
the mischievous and impious promulgators.
Trust them, they prefer the
company of the wealthy and the well-to-do,
as they love cheese and beer
more profoundly than all the moral
beauty that the earth contains. Catch
them giving sixpence to a beggar
on a snowy day, or uttering a syllable
of human kindness, which costs them
nothing, to a houseless wanderer, no
one being by. We hold it to be a
great jewel in the coronet of Mr
Warren, that he sets his face manfully,
in the present instance, against
the fashion which all honest men and
true must deprecate. The freedom
from the prevailing cant which his
book exhibits, is most refreshing; the
certain upturning of misshapen noses
which its very tendency must effect,
the greatest compliment yet paid to
his honest exertions in the cause of
morality, and of the holy faith which
he professes.

“Now and Then” is a Christmas book
for a Christian people. It is a tale
of fiction, which the most devout may
read with no fear of insult, and without
risk of being obliged to suspend
their orthodoxy for the sake of an
hour’s pleasant reading. The book
invests Christmas with its legitimate
Christian associations. It cannot be
denied that the tendency of this species
of literature, for the last few years,
has been to denude the sacred season
of all these associations, and to surround
it with others which are at
once trifling, irreligious, and heathenish.
We dwell upon this fact, because
there needs some courage boldly to
speak God’s truth in an age rapidly
verging towards practical infidelity.
In Parliament, the once great leader of
a greater Christian party publicly denies
the necessity of a declaration of
Christian faith as the test of a legislator.
In our light literature, we find
references enough to the goodness of
Providence, but a studious avoidance
of the name and properties by which
that Providence is recognised when
we come to our knees by the bed-side
or in the sanctuary. There is, we grant,
not so much a denial of the essential
doctrines of Christianity every where
about us save in the church, as a
studious and utter disregard of them;
but there is imminent peril in this
very disregard. Neglect precedes
desertion. Let us be duly grateful,
we say, to one who, in the modest
pages of a simple tale, recalls us to our
obligations, and reminds us that the
chief of duties here is to cling firmly
to the faith by which the world is
saved, and to proclaim <i>first principles</i>
when that world is basely shrinking
from their free and open recognition.

Let us, however, not be misunderstood.
“Now and Then” is not a religious
novel—popularly so called. Mr
Warren is not on the present occasion
a “religious novelist,” as controversial
divines, usurping the functions
of the tale writer are, for want of a
better term, absurdly styled. The
Christianity which pervades this book
is pure and catholic, and has nothing
to do with the quarrels of sects and
.pn +1
classes: it is applicable to universal
humanity. There is no vulgar
presumptuous dabbling with controverted
points of Scripture, which, appearing
in works of fiction, is utterly
abominable and ludicrous, even in its
futility: but the author, starting with
a high and admirable purpose, and
keeping that purpose in view to the
very last, confines himself strictly and
solely to what we all regard as Christianity’s
irrevocable and fundamental
principles;—great saying truths which
none can blink with safety, and which
he brings forward with an evident
profound sincerity and reverence, impossible
to mistake and difficult to
slight.

The story, potently simple in itself,
opens with marvellous simplicity. We
quote from the beginning:—

.pm letter-start
“Somewhere about a hundred years
ago (but in which of our good kings’
reigns, or in which of our sea-coast counties,
is needless to be known) there stood,
quite by itself, in a parish called Milverstoke,
a cottage of the better sort, which
no one could have seen, some few years
before that in which it is presented to our
notice, without its suggesting to him that
he was looking at a cottage quite of the
old English kind. It was most snug in
winter, and in summer very beautiful;
glistening, as then it did, in all its fragrant
loveliness of jessamine, honeysuckle,
and sweet-brier. There, also, stood a
bee-hive, in the centre of the garden,
which, stretching down to the road-side,
was so filled with flowers, especially
roses, that nothing whatever could be
seen of the ground in which they grew;
wherefore it might well be that the busy
little personages who occupied the tiny
mansion so situated, conceived that the
lines had fallen to them in very pleasant
places indeed. The cottage was built
very substantially, though originally somewhat
rudely, and principally of sea-shore
stones. It had a thick thatched roof, and
the walls were low. In front there were
only two windows, with diamond-shaped
panes, one above another, the former
much larger than the latter, the one
belonging to <i>the</i> room of the building, the
other to what might be called the chief
bed-room; for there were three little
dormitories—two being small, and at the
back of the cottage. Close behind, and
somewhat to the left, stood an elm-tree,
its trunk completely covered with ivy;
and so effectually sheltering the cottage,
and otherwise so materially contributing
to its snug, picturesque appearance, that
there could be little doubt of the tree’s
having reached its maturity before there
was any such structure for it to grace
and protect. Beside this tree was a
wicket, by which was entered a little slip
of ground, half garden and half orchard.
All the foregoing formed the remnant of
a little freehold property, which had
belonged to its present owner and to his
family before him, for several generations.
The initial letter (A) of their
name, Ayliffe, was rudely cut in old English
character in a piece of stone forming
a sort of centre facing over the doorway;
and no one then living there knew when
that letter had been cut.”
.pm letter-end

Such is the scene, and such the small
house, in and from which the events
evolve, that form the solemn and
instructive narrative. The owner of
the cot, the foremost though the
humblest personage in the drama, was
once a substantial, but is now a reduced
yeoman, well stricken in years,
being, at the opening of the story, close
upon his sixty-eighth year.

.pm letter-start
“The crown of his head was bald, and
very finely formed; and the little hair
that he had left was of a silvery colour,
verging on white. His countenance and
figure were very striking to an observant
beholder, who would have said at once,
‘That man is of a firm and upright character,
and has seen trouble,’—all which
was indeed distinctly written in his open
Saxon features. His eye was of a clear
blue, and steadfast in its gaze; and when
he spoke, it was with a certain quaintness,
which seemed in keeping with his simple
and stern character. All who had ever
known Ayliffe entertained for him a deep
respect. He was of a very independent
spirit, somewhat taciturn, and of a retiring,
contemplative humour. His life was
utterly blameless, regulated throughout
by the purifying and elevating influence
of Christianity. The excellent vicar of
the parish in which he lived reverenced
him, holding him up as a pattern, and
pointing him out as one of whom it might
be humbly said, <i>Behold an Israelite indeed,
in whom is no guile</i>. Yet the last
few years of his life had been passed in
great trouble. Ten years before had occurred,
in the loss of his wife, who had
been every way worthy of him, the first
great sorrow of his life. After twenty
years spent together in happiness greater
than tongue could tell, it had pleased
God, who had given her to him, to take
her away—suddenly, indeed, but very
gently. He woke one morning, when she
woke not, but lay sweetly sleeping the
sleep of death. His <i>Sarah</i> was gone, and
thenceforth his great hope was to follow
her, and be with her again. His spirit
.pn +1
was stunned for a while, but murmured
not; saying, with resignation, ‘The Lord
hath given, and the Lord hath taken
away: blessed be the name of the Lord.’
A year or two afterwards occurred to him
a second trouble, great, but of a different
kind. He was suddenly reduced almost
to beggary. To enable the son of an old
deceased friend to become a collector of
public rates in an adjoining county, Ayliffe
had unsuspiciously become his surety.
The man, however, for whom he had done
this service, fell soon afterwards into intemperate
and dissolute habits; dishonesty,
as usual, soon followed; and poor
Ayliffe was horrified one evening by being
called upon, his principal having absconded,
a great defaulter, to contribute to repair
the deficiency, to the full extent of
his bond.”
.pm letter-end

Ayliffe’s property was sacrificed
at a blow. At the time of entering
into his engagement, he was the freehold
owner of some forty or fifty acres
of ground, and the master of some
sums of money advanced upon mortgage
to a neighbour. Much of this
went immediately. Nor was this calamity
his only one. He had a son,
another Adam Ayliffe. Ayliffe the
younger was betrothed, at this period
of accumulated misfortune, to a young
girl, who jilted him in the time of the
family poverty. The blow fell upon
the young and proud-hearted yeoman,
as such blows will fall upon those in
whose retired course a first affection
comes as an abiding blessing, or an
utter curse. A visible change took
place both in his character and demeanour
after the disappointment.
First love in the younger Ayliffe’s
case was the curse and not the blessing.
All went wrong with the family
from this hour. Adam finally married,
it is true, a maiden residing with
Mr Hylton, the vicar of Milverstoke,
but the union, though one of unquestionable
affection, yielded no earthly
happiness. After the loss of worldly
goods, Adam, and his son betook
themselves to labour for their subsistence.
The father became a hireling,
much to the affliction of his son, but
not to his own sorrow, for he “heartily
thanked God for the strength that still
remained to him, and for the opportunity
of profitably exerting that
strength.” Father, son, and daughter,
still resided in the cottage, being
its sole occupants. A year and a half
of severe and constant exertion in the
ordinary out-of-door operations of
farming, and old Adam gave way. The
spirit was more willing than the flesh.
The younger Ayliffe laboured then for
the livelihood of all, and another was
added to the group, in the shape of an
infant son, born about a year after the
marriage of his parents, at the peril of
its mother’s life.

At this stage of the history, the
remnant of old Ayliffe’s land is demanded
in the way of purchase by the
agent of the Earl of Milverstoke,
(whose principal country residence is
within a short distance of the cottage,)
and steadily refused by the owners.
The old man assured Mr Oxley that
it would break his heart to be separated
for ever from the property of his
fathers, to see their residence pulled
down, and all trace of it destroyed;
but Mr Oxley’s appetite for the property
was only whetted by the reluctance
of its insignificant proprietor.

.pm letter-start
“‘Be not a fool, Adam Ayliffe,’ [said
Mr Oxley, during one of his frequent visits
to the cottage on the subject of this purchase;]
‘know your interest and duty better.
Depend upon it, I will not throw all
this my trouble away, nor shall my Lord
be disappointed. Listen, therefore, once
for all, to reason, and take what is offered,
which is princely, and be thankful!’

“‘Well, well,’ said Ayliffe, ‘it seems
that I cannot say that which will suit
you, Mr Oxley. Yet once more will I
try, and with words that perhaps may
reach the ear that mine cannot. Will
you hear me?’

“‘Ay, I will hear, sure enough, friend
Adam,’ said Mr Oxley, curiously; on
which Ayliffe took down a large old brass-bound
book, and, opening it on his lap, read
with deliberate emphasis as follows:——

“‘Naboth the Jezreelite had a vineyard,
which was in Jezreel, hard by the
palace of Ahab king of Samaria.

“‘And Ahab spake unto Naboth, saying,
Give me thy vineyard, that I may
have it for a garden of herbs, because it is
near unto my house: and I will give thee
for it a better vineyard than it; or, if it
seem good to thee, I will give thee the
worth of it in money.

“‘And Naboth said to Ahab, The
Lord forbid it me, that I should give the
inheritance of my fathers unto thee.’

“When he had read these last words
Ayliffe closed the Bible, and gazed at Mr
Oxley in silence. For a moment the latter
seemed somewhat staggered by what he
saw and what he had heard; but at
length—‘Oh, ho, Adam! do you make
your Bible speak for you in business?’
.pn +1
said he, in a tone of rude jocularity.
‘Well, I shall wish you good day for
some little while, it may be, and good
luck to you here. It is somewhat of a
bit of a place,’ he continued as he drew
on his gloves, glancing, at the same time,
contemptuously round the little room, ‘to
set such store by; but be patient—be
patient, Adam; there is one somewhat
larger that will be ready for you by-and-bye——’

“This insulting allusion to the workhouse
or the county jail old Ayliffe
received in dignified silence. Not so his
son, who, rising with ominous calmness
from the chair on which he had for some
time been sitting, as it were, on thorns,
and silent only out of habitual deference
to his father, approached Mr Oxley in two
strides, seized him by the collar with the
hand of a giant, and, before his astonished
father could interpose, had dragged Mr
Oxley to the doorway, near which he had
been standing, and with a single jerk
flung him out into the open air with a
violence which sent him staggering several
yards, till he fell down at full length on
the ground.

“‘Adam, Adam! what have you done!’
commenced his father, approaching his
son with an astounded air.

“‘Nay, never mind <i>me</i>, father,’ muttered
his son vehemently, standing with
arms akimbo, and watching Mr Oxley
with eyes flashing fury. ‘There, Master
Oxley; show never here again that
wizened face of yours, or worse may happen.
Away! Back to the Castle, and tell
him that sent you here what you have
received! Off! out into the road,’ he
added, raising his voice, and moving furiously
towards Mr Oxley, who precipitately
quitted the garden, ‘or I’ll
teach you to speak of the workhouse
again! See that <i>the dogs lick not</i>——’

“‘Adam! I charge you hold your
peace!’ said the old man, loudly and
authoritatively, and advancing towards
Mr Oxley, who, however, having, after
muttering a few words to himself, and
glancing furiously at young Ayliffe, hastily
mounted his horse, which had been
standing fastened at the gate, had already
galloped out of hearing; and about that
time in the ensuing day had contrived,
during an interview on business with the
Earl, to intimate, as if casually only, that
the Ayliffes, who owned the roadside
cottage, had received the liberal overtures
made by Mr Oxley on his lordship’s
behalf, with expressions of coarse disrespect,
and even malignant hostility. Not
a syllable breathed Mr Oxley of the treatment
which he had received at the hands
of young Ayliffe; nor did he deem it
expedient, for reasons of his own, to summon
his assailant to answer before the
magistrates for what he had done.”
.pm letter-end

Ayliffe heard no more of Mr Oxley,
but his trials sadly increased from the
hour of that gentleman’s violent departure
from his humble roof. The
poor remnant of his patrimonial estate
had dwindled down to the cottage
and the slip of ground attached to it.
Young Ayliffe continued to work from
morning till night like any slave in
the plantations; but his industry
yielded small result. In addition to
the other misfortunes, the infant
member of this luckless household,
feeble from its birth, and likely to be
reared with difficulty, became, by an
accident, maimed for life. The black
cloud had fairly settled over the
habitation.

Sarah, the wife, was about to give
birth to another child, when misery
appeared to have reached its climax.
The once comely furniture had been
disposed of by degrees to purchase
necessary food; and nothing but horror
stared the unfortunates in the face,
when an accident took place which
gave the final touch to a dismal history
that appeared already complete.

.pm letter-start
“Young Ayliffe, with heavy thoughts in
his mind, burthening and depressing it,
went one day to his work at a farmer’s at
some distance from Milverstoke, having
only one companion the whole day long:
but that companion appearing good-natured
and communicative, the frank
young Ayliffe could not refrain from
talking about that which was uppermost
in his thoughts—the feeble condition of
his wife, and her doctor’s constant recommendation
of nourishing food. ‘And
why don’t you get it, if you care for
her?’ inquired his companion with a
surprised air, resting for a moment from
his work.

“‘Surely,’ quoth poor Ayliffe, ‘you
should ask me why I do not get one of
the stars out of the sky. Is meat to be
picked up in the high road?’

“‘No; not in the high road,’ said the
other, drily, ‘but there’s dainty eating
for the sick and the gentle to be had—elsewhere.’

“In plain English, Ayliffe’s new friend
pointed at game; speaking most temptingly
of hare, above all other sorts of
game, as a dainty dish, whether roast or
stewed, for those that were sick and delicate;
and assured Ayliffe that his (the
speaker’s) wife had lived secretly on hare
all through <i>her</i> time of trouble, and had
never in her life thriven so well; for
.pn +1
naught was so nourishing as hare’s flesh.
Poor Ayliffe listened to this with but too
willing an ear, though it went clean contrary
to all his own notions, and those
which he knew to be entertained by his father.
He resisted but very faintly the arguments
of his new friend; who indeed
fairly staggered Ayliffe, by asking him
whether he thought that he did wrong if
he caught a hedgehog, a weasel, or a
snake, in the field or hedge of another;
and if not, why was it different with a
hare? Much conversation had they of
this sort, in the course of which poor
Ayliffe, in the frank simplicity of his nature,
gave such a moving picture of his
wife’s necessities, as greatly interested his
companion; who said that he happened
to have by him a very fine hare that had
been given him by a neighbouring squire,
and which was greatly at Ayliffe’s service.
After much hesitation he, with many
thanks, accepted the gift; and, accompanying
his new friend to his cottage,
received into his possession the promised
hare, (a finer one certainly was hardly to
be seen,) and made his way home with
his perilous present, under cover of the
thickening shades of night. What horrid
misgivings he had, as he went along!
How often he resolved either to return
the hare to the giver, or fling it over the
hedge, as he passed! For he was aware
of his danger: there being no part of
England where game was more strictly
preserved, more closely looked after, or
poachers more severely punished, than at
Milverstoke. But he thought of his wife—of
the relish with which she must partake
of this hare; and by the inspiriting
aid of thoughts such as these, he nerved
himself to encounter her suspicions, and
his father’s rebuke and reproaches.”
.pm letter-end

That rebuke and those reproaches
he encountered. Happy had he been
had he encountered nothing worse!
The hare was rejected by the upright
father, but the rejection did not save
the son. He had been entrapped into
accepting the gift by one who had
sent a companion to watch him home,
and who, in order to obtain half the
penalty, forthwith informed against
the unfortunate receiver. The receiver
was fined, but Mr Hylton, the vicar,
paid the sum required, and released
him from his trouble.

Whilst matters are looking so black
at the cottage, there is joyousness
enough at the neighbouring castle.
The season is Christmas, and Viscount
Alkmond, the only son and heir of
the Earl of Milverstoke, has arrived
at the castle to pass the Christmas
holidays. Here is the castle and its
owner.

.pm letter-start
“Milverstoke Castle, to which its next
lordly possessor was then on his way, was
a truly magnificent structure, worthy of
its superb situation, which was on the
slope of a great forest, stretching down
to the sea-shore. Seen from the sea,
especially by moonlight, it had a most
imposing and picturesque appearance;
but from no part of the surrounding land
was it visible at all, owing to the great
extent of woodland in which it was embosomed.
The Earl of Milverstoke, then
lord of that stately residence, had a personal
appearance and bearing which
might be imagined somewhat in unison
with its leading characteristics. He was
tall, thin, and erect; his manner was
composed, his countenance refined and
intellectual, and his features comely; his
hair had been for some years changed
from jet-black into iron-gray. His bearing
was lofty, sometimes even to repulsiveness;
his temper and spirit haughty and
self-reliant. Opposition to his will,
equally in great or small things, rendered
that arbitrary will inflexible, whatever
might be the consequence or sacrifice;
for he gave himself credit for never acting
from impulse, but always from superior
discretion and deliberation. He was a
man of powerful intellect, extensive
knowledge, and admirably fitted for public
affairs,—in which, indeed, he had
borne a conspicuous part, till his imperious
and exacting temper had rendered
him intolerable to his colleagues, and objectionable
even to his sovereign, from
whose service he had <i>retired</i>, to use a
courteous word, in disdainful disgust,
some five years before being presented to
the reader. He possessed a vast fortune,
and two or three princely residences in
various parts of the kingdom. Of these
Milverstoke was the principal; and its
stern solitude suiting his gloomy humour,
he had betaken himself to it on quitting
public life. He had been a widower for
many years, and, since becoming such,
had become alienated from the distinguished
family of his late countess; whose
ardent and sensitive disposition they believed
to have been utterly crushed by
the iron despotism of an unfeeling and
domineering husband. Whatever foundation
there might have been for this supposition,
it contributed to imbitter the
feelings of the Earl, and strengthen a
tendency to misanthropy. Still his character
had fine features. He was most
munificent; the very soul of honour; a
perfect gentleman; and of irreproachable
morals. He professed a firm belief in
Christianity, and was exemplary in the
discharge of what he considered to be
.pn +1
the duties which it imposed upon him. He
would listen to the inculcation of the
Christian virtues of humility, gentleness,
and forgiveness of injury, with a kind of
stern complacency; unaware, all the
while, that they no more existed within
himself, than fire could be elicited from
the sculptured marble. Most of his day-time
he spent in his library, or in solitary
drives, or walks along the sea-shore or in
the country. Unfortunately, he took no
personal part, nor felt any personal interest
in the management of his vast revenues
and extensive private affairs;
intrusting them, as has been already intimated,
implicitly to others. When he
rode through the village, which lay sheltered
near the confines of the woodland
in which his castle was situated, he
appeared to have no interest in it or its
inhabitants, though nearly all of them
were his own tenantry. His agent, Mr
Oxley, was their real master.

“Mr Hylton was one of his lordship’s
occasional chaplains, but by no means on
intimate terms with him; for that the
vicar’s firm independent character unfitting
him. While he acknowledged the
commanding talents of the Earl, his lordship
was, on his part, fully aware of Mr
Hylton’s strong intellect, superior scholarship,
and the pure and lofty spirit in
which he devoted himself to his spiritual
duties. The good vicar of Milverstoke
knew not what was meant by the fear of
man—and that his stately parishioner had
had many opportunities of observing;
and, in short, Mr Hylton was a much less
frequent visitor at the Castle than might
might have been supposed, and was at least
warranted, by his position and proximity.

“Possibly some of the Earl’s frigid
reserve towards him was occasioned by
the cordial terms of intimacy which
had existed between him and the late
Countess—an excellent personage, who,
living in comparative retirement at Milverstoke,
while her lord was immersed
in political life, had consulted
Mr Hylton constantly on the early education
of her two children. The Earl had
married late in life, being nearly twenty
years older than his Countess, who had
brought him one son and one daughter.
The former partook largely of his father’s
character, but in a somewhat mitigated
form; he was quicker in taking offence
than his father, but had not his implacability.
If he should succeed to that
father’s titles and estates, he would be
the first instance of such direct succession
for nine generations, the Earl himself
having been the third son of a second son.
The family was of high antiquity, and its
noble blood had several times intermingled
with that of royalty.”
.pm letter-end

On one of the more advanced days
of the Christmas week, we are told
there took place a kind of military
banquet at the Castle, in compliment
to the officers of a dragoon regiment,
one of whose out-quarters was at the
barracks at some two miles distance.
Lord Alkmond was present at this
banquet. During its progress his
lordship quitted the company to stroll
in the woods—wherefore none knew;
but during his evening walk he was
barbarously murdered. Young Ayliffe,
under fearfully suspicious circumstances,
is arrested for the crime. He
had been discovered near the body—his
sleeves were covered with blood—he
had been hunted and tracked to his
home. The cup of misery was full.

A coroner’s inquest is held—a
verdict of wilful murder returned
against Adam Ayliffe, who is formally
committed by the magistrate. He is
held in custody, and must await his
trial. He is <i>not</i> guilty. The reader
feels it in spite of the damning evidence
that will be brought against the
accused on the day of his solemn trial:
the father is aware of it, and sustains
his manly soul with the consciousness,
dreadful as may be the unjust and as
yet unspoken sentence. Old Adam
has gone to his child in prison. Behold
the miserable pair! Listen to
the pathetic appeal.

.pm letter-start
“They were allowed to be alone for a
short time, the doctor and nurse of the
prison being within call, if need might be.
The prisoner gently raised his father’s
cold hand to his lips and kissed it, and
neither spoke for a few minutes; at
length——

“‘Adam! Adam!’ said the old man in
a low tremulous whisper, ‘art thou innocent
or guilty?’ and his anguished eyes
seemed staring into the very soul of his
son, who calmly replied,—

“‘Father, before God Almighty, I be
as innocent as thou art, nor know I who
did this terrible deed.’

“‘Dost thou say it? Dost thou say
it? I never knew thee to lie to me,
Adam!’ said his father eagerly, half
rising, from the stool on which he sate.
‘Dost thou say this before God, whom
thou art only too likely,’ he shuddered,
‘to see, after next Assizes, face to face?’

“‘Ay, I do, father,’ replied his son,
fixing his eyes solemnly and steadily on
those of his father, who slowly rose and
placed his trembling arms around his son,
and embraced him in silence: ‘How is
Sarah?’ faltered the prisoner, faintly.
.pn +1

“‘Ask me not, Adam,’ said the old
man; who quickly added, perceiving the
sudden agitation of his son, ‘but she is
not dead; she hath been kindly cared for.’

“‘And the lad?’ said the prisoner,
still more faintly.

“‘He is well,’ said the old man; and
the prisoner shook his head in silence,
the tears running down his cheeks through
closed eyelids.”
.pm letter-end

There is another too, who, in spite of
the circumstances which carry conviction
to the minds of others, is morally
certain of the innocence of Adam Ayliffe.
At the beginning of the narrative
we are informed that, “as father
and son would stand suddenly uncovered,
while the reverend vicar passed
or met them on his way into the
church, his heart yearned towards
them both: he thoroughly loved and
respected them, and was in a certain
way proud of two such specimens of
the English yeoman; and, above all,
charmed with the good example which
they set to all his other parishioners.
Now the vicar had from Adam’s boyhood
entertained a liking for him, and
had personally bestowed no inconsiderable
pains upon his education, which
though plain, as suited his position,
was yet sound and substantial.” This
vicar trusted the manhood of the blood-guiltless
Adam as he had affectionately
attached himself to his youth.
To suppose him guilty of the crime was
to have implicit faith in circumstantial
evidence, treacherous and deceitful at
the best, and to spurn the actual
knowledge gained from the decided
tenor of a life which could <sc>NOT</sc> speak
false. Adam Ayliffe could not become
a murderer and still be Adam Ayliffe.
He was himself, rational and sane;
he was therefore guiltless. So argued
the minister of God: so must the good
and pious always argue, similarly
placed. A world in arms against the
miserable prisoner would not have
moved the vicar from his strong conviction,
or frightened him from the
prisoner’s side. Providence, the just,
so willed it!

The trial came. The fiend of circumstance
for the hour triumphed over
the as yet invisible spirit of truth.
Mortal men could do no other than
they did. Seeing through a glass
darkly, they pronounced judgment,
with the veil still undrawn. Adam
Ayliffe, the innocent, the well-meaning,
the sorely-tried, but the still upright,
was condemned to die the death
of a malefactor, for the shedding of
blood which he had never spilt. The
wretched convict is removed at once
from the bar of the Court to the condemned
cell. He is scarcely there
before Mr Hylton, the incredulous
clergyman, is at his side. The interview
is long, and deeply interesting.
The frantic despair of the hapless
prisoner is gradually softened, and his
mind turned to God by the pious
counsels and arguments of his indefatigable
pastor. Mr Hylton leaves the
cell more than ever satisfied of the
innocence of poor Adam Ayliffe.

He is sentenced, not yet hanged.
The word has gone forth but the
decree is not yet executed. God
is just, but as merciful as just, and
may interpose and save the long-suffering
for His glory and their
happiness. Mr Hylton, leaving the
prison, is summoned to the neighbouring
barracks. Arriving there, he
is ushered into a private room, and
introduced to one Captain Lutteridge.
What has the captain to say to the
minister? What does he know of the
murder? You shall hear. During
the trial, the judge remarked that it
was very strange that Lord Alkmond
should go out into the woods on the
fatal night, and wondered that no one
knew the reason. Now Captain Lutteridge
did not know the reason, but
he had possibly, only possibly, a clue
to it. A subject had been mentioned
during the dinner on the memorable
night, which had evidently distressed
his lordship, and, it may be, called him
forth. What that subject was, he, the
captain, knew, but, without permission
from the Earl of Milverstoke, would
not state,—he being a soldier, a man of
honour, and incapable of betraying
confidential intercourse, as it were,
spoken at the table of his noble host.
It was a case of life and death.
Adam Ayliffe had an advocate with
the captain more anxious and impressive
than the paid counsel who had
served him on his trial, and Mr Hylton
did his duty faithfully. Before he
quitted Captain Lutteridge, that officer
had undertaken to wait upon the
Earl of Milverstoke, and to obtain, if it
might be, his permission to communicate
the secret. The captain kept
his word, but to little purpose. The
.pn +1
Earl forbade all mention of the melancholy
scene, and gave his visitor
no encouragement. But Mr Hylton
waited not for encouragement or aid.
Before Captain Lutteridge returned
from Milverstoke Castle, the indefatigable
minister was already on his
road to London, to obtain an interview
with the Secretary of State, to inform
that functionary that there was
a secret, and to entreat a respite upon
that ground; but not upon that ground
alone. Another gleam of sunshine,
thin as hair, stole through the stormy
sky. A letter had been received by
Mrs Hylton, that hinted at guilt elsewhere,
removing it from Ayliffe’s
stainless cottage. Fragile as the document
was, the ambassador of the
condemned relied upon it as though
it had been a rock. And not in vain!
From the Home Secretary, he was referred
to the judge who tried the
cause: the judge listened long and
patiently to all that Mr Hylton had
to urge upon the miserable man’s behalf,
and finally ordered a fortnight’s
respite, with the view of giving time
for confirmation of the important letter’s
intimations.

The unconquerable Mr Hylton returned
to Milverstoke. He sees the
Earl, who spurns him from his door
as a reward for his unjustifiable interference
between justice and the murderer
of his son: he sees the Earl’s
daughter, and pleads with her on behalf
of the doomed: he sees Captain
Lutteridge,—he leaves no stone unturned,
to secure, if not the pardon of
his client, at least the remission of the
punishment to which, in his inmost
heart, he believed him most unjustly
sentenced. His success is far from
equal to his zeal. The proud Earl’s
heart is obdurate. Who can wonder
at it? The gentle daughter would do
much, but has the power to do little;
and Captain Lutteridge, a gentleman
and a soldier, is disinclined to
save a murderer from the gallows, even
if he had the ability, which he has not.

The fortnight is coming quickly to
an end, and there is no arrival of
favourable news. Shortly before its
close, Mr Hylton receives a brief message
from the unhappy occupant of
the condemned cell, which he dares
not disregard. It is this—“<i>I go back
into darkness while you are away.</i>”
Mr Hylton mounts his horse and sets
off. It is a melancholy errand, but
we will take courage and accompany
him. The scene is grand as it is
awful:—

.pm letter-start
“As he rode along, his mind lost sight
almost entirely of the temporal in the
spiritual, the present in the future, interests
of the condemned; and by the
time that he had reached the gaol, his
mind was in an elevated frame, befitting
the solemn and sublime considerations
with which it had been engaged.

“A turnkey, with loaded blunderbuss
on his arm, leaned against the cell door,
which he opened for Mr Hylton in silence,
as he approached; disclosing poor Ayliffe
sitting on his bench, double-ironed, his
head buried in his hands, his elbows supported
by his knees. He did not move
on the entrance of Mr Hylton, as his
name had not been mentioned by the
turnkey.

“‘Adam! Adam!—the Lord be with
you! Amen!’ solemnly exclaimed Mr
Hylton, gently taking in his hand one of
the prisoner’s.

“Ayliffe suddenly started up, a gaunt
figure, rattling in his irons, and grasping
in both his hands that of Mr Hylton,
carried it to his heart, to which he pressed
it for some moments in silence, and then,
bursting into tears, sunk again on his
bench.

“‘God bless you, Adam! and <i>lift up
the light of His countenance upon you</i>!
Put your trust in him: but remember
that he is the all-seeing, the omniscient,
omnipotent God, <i>who is of purer eyes than
to behold iniquity</i>!’

“Ayliffe wept in silence, and with
reverent affection of manner pressed to
his lips the still-retained hand of Mr
Hylton.

“‘Come, Adam! speak! Speak to your
pastor—your friend—your minister!’

“‘You seem an angel, sir!’ said Ayliffe,
looking at him with a dull, oppressed
eye, that was heart-breaking.

“‘Why an angel, Adam? I bring
you,’ said Mr Hylton, shaking his head,
and sighing, ‘no earthly good news
whatever; nothing but my unworthy
offices to prepare you for hereafter!
Prepare! prepare to meet thy God, for
he draweth near! And who may abide
the day of his coming!’

“‘I was readier for my change when
last I saw you, sir, than now,’ said
Ayliffe, with a suppressed groan, covering
his face with his manacled hands.

“‘How is that, poor Adam?’

“‘Ah!—I was, so it seemed, half over
Jordan, and have been dragged back. I
see not now that other bright shore which
made me forget earth! All now is
dark!’
.pn +1

“His words smote Mr Hylton to the
heart. ‘Why is this? why should it
be? Adam!’ said he, very earnestly,
‘have you ever been, can you possibly
ever be, out of God’s hands? What
happens but from God? And if He hath
prolonged this your bitter, bitter trial,
what should you, what can you do, but
submit to His infinite power and goodness?
<i>He doth not afflict willingly, nor
grieve the children of men, to crush under
his feet all the prisoners of the earth! He
will not cast off for ever; but though he
cause grief, yet will he have compassion
according to the multitude of his mercies!</i>’

“‘Oh, sir! oft do I think his mercy is
clean gone for ever! Why—why am I
here?’ he continued, with sudden vehemence.
‘He knoweth my innocence—yet
will make me die the death of the
guilty! That cannot, <i>cannot</i> be just!’

“‘Adam! Adam! Satan is indeed
besieging you! Even if, in the awful,
inscrutable decrees of Providence, you be
ordained to die for what you did not,
have you forgotten that sublime and
awful truth and fact on which hang all
your hopes—the death of Him who died,
<i>the just for the unjust</i>?’

“Ayliffe’s head sunk down on his knees.

“‘Ah, sir!’ said he, tremulously, after
a while, during which Mr Hylton interfered
not with his meditations, ‘these
words do drive me into the dust, and
then raise me again higher than I was
before!’

“‘And so they ought, Adam. Is there
a God? Has he really revealed himself?
Are the Scriptures true? Am I the true
servant of a true master? If to all this
you say <i>yea</i>—speak not again distrustfully.
If you do—if you so think—then
are you too like to be beyond the pale of
mercy. I am free, Adam,—you are
bound,—yet are both our lives every
instant at the command and absolute
disposal of Him who gave them, that we
might be on trial here for a little while.
For aught I know, I may even yet die
before you, and with greater pain and
grief; but both of us must die, and much
of my life is gone for ever. As your frail
fellow-mortal, then, I beseech you to
listen to me! Our mode of leaving life
is ordered by God, even as our mode of
living in it. To some he hath ordained
riches, others poverty; some pleasure,
others misery, in this life; but all for
reasons, and with objects best known,
nay, known only to himself! Adam,
you have now been four days here beyond
that which had been appointed you—now
that we are alone, have you aught to
confide to me, as the minister for whom
you have sent? What saith my Master?
If you confess your sins, he is faithful
and just to forgive you; but if you say
that you have no sin, you deceive yourself,
and the truth is not in you. And if
that last be so, Adam, what shall be said
of you, what can be hoped for you?’

“‘If you be thinking of that deed for
which I am condemned,’ said Ayliffe,
with a sudden radiant countenance, ‘then
am I easy and happy. God, my maker,
and who will be my judge, knoweth
whether I speak the truth. Ay! ay!
innocent am I of this deed as you!’

“‘It is right, Adam, that I should
tell you that all mankind who know of
your case, from the highest down to
the lowest, do believe you guilty.’

“‘Ah, sir, is not that hard to bear?’
said Ayliffe, with a grievous sigh, and a
countenance that looked unutterable
things.

“‘It is, Adam—it is hard; yet, were
it harder, it must be borne. Here is
Lord Milverstoke, who hath lost his son—his
only son—the heir to his title and
his vast possessions—lost him in this
mysterious and horrid way: is not <i>that</i>
hard to be borne? Have you, Adam,—I
ask you by your precious hopes of hereafter,—animosity
towards him who believes
you to be his son’s murderer?’

“There was an awful silence for nearly
a minute, at the close of which Ayliffe,
with an anguished face, said—

“‘Oh, sir! give me time to answer
you! Pray for me! I know whose
example I ought to imitate; but’—he
suddenly seemed to have sunk into a
reverie, which lasted for some time, at
the end of which,—‘Sir—Mr Hylton,’
said he desperately, ‘<i>am</i> I truly to die
on Monday week? Oh, tell me! tell me,
sir! Life is sweet, I own!’

“He sprung towards Mr Hylton, and
convulsively grasped his hands, looking
into his face with frenzied earnestness.

“‘I cannot—I will not deceive you,
Adam,’ replied Mr Hylton, looking aside
and with a profound sigh. ‘My solemn
duty is to prepare you for death! But—‘

“‘Ah!’ said he, with a desperate air,
‘to be hanged like a vile dog!—and every
one cursing me, who am all the while
innocent! and no burial service to be
said over my poor body!—never—<i>never</i>
to be buried!’ With a dismal groan he
sunk back, and would have fallen from
the bench, but for Mr. Hylton’s stepping
forward. ‘Sir—sir,’ said Ayliffe presently,
glaring with sudden wildness at
Mr Hylton, ‘did you see the man at the
door with the blunderbuss? There he
stands! all day! all night! but never
comes in!—never speaks!—Would that
he would put it to my head, and finish
me in a moment!’

“‘Adam! Adam! what awful language
.pn +1
is this that I hear?’ said Mr Hylton,
sternly. ‘Is this the way that you have
spoken to your pious and venerable
father?’

“‘No! no! no! sir!‘—he pressed his
hand to his forehead—‘but my poor head
wanders! I—I am better now! I seem
just to have come out of a dream. But
never should I dream thus, if you would
ever stay with me—till—all is over!’

“Feeling it quite impossible to ask the
miserable convict such questions as Mr
Hylton had wished, he resolved not to
make the attempt, but to do it as prudently
and as early as might be, through
old Ayliffe, or the chaplain or governor
of the gaol. He was just about to leave,
and was considering in what terms he
could the most effectually address himself
to Ayliffe, when, without any summons
having issued from within, the door
was unlocked, and the turnkey, thrusting
in his head, said,—

“‘I say, my man, here’s the woman
come with thy child, that thou’st been
asking for. They’ll come in when the
gentleman goes.’

“Ayliffe started up from his seat with
an eager motion towards the door, but
was suddenly jerked down again, having
forgotten in his momentary ecstasy that
his irons were attached to a staple in the
floor.

“‘Come, come, my man,’ said the turnkey,
sternly, ‘thou must be a bit quieter,
I can tell thee, if this child is to come to
thee.’

“‘Give me the lad! give me the lad!
give me the lad!’ said Ayliffe, in a hoarse
whisper, his eyes straining towards the
approaching figure of the good woman,
who, with a very sorrowful and apprehensive
look, now came in sight of the
condemned man.

“‘Lord bless thee, Adam Ayliffe!’
she began, bursting into tears, ‘Lord love
thee and protect thee, Adam!’

“‘Give me the lad!—show me the
lad!’ he continued, gazing intently at her,
while she tremblingly pushed aside her
cloak; and behold there lay, simply and
decently clad, his little boy, awake, and
gazing, apparently apprehensively, at the
strange wild figure whose arms were
extended to receive it!

“‘Adam, father of this thy dear child,’
said Mr Hylton, interposing for a moment
between Ayliffe and the child, not without
some alarm, ‘wilt thou handle it
tenderly, remembering how feeble and
small it is?’

“On this, poor Ayliffe gazed at Mr
Hylton with a face of unspeakable agony,
weeping lamentably; and still extending
his arms, the passive child, gazing at him
in timid silence, was placed within them.
He sat down gently, gazing at his child
for some moments with a face never to
be forgotten by those who saw it. Then
he brought it near to his face, and kissed
incessantly, but with unspeakable tenderness,
its tiny features, which were quickly
bedewed with his tears.

“‘His mother!—his mother!—his
mother!’ he exclaimed, in heart-rending
tones, still gazing intently at its face,
which was directed towards his own with
evident apprehension. Its little hand for
a moment clasped one of the irons that
bound his father, but removed it immediately,
probably from the coldness of
the metal. The father saw this, and
seemed dreadfully agitated for some
moments; and Mr Hylton, who also had
observed the little circumstance, was
greatly affected, and turned aside his
head. After a while,—

“‘How easily, my little lad, could I
dash out thy little brains against these
irons,’ said Ayliffe, in a low desperate
tone of voice, staring into the child’s
face, ‘and save thee from ever coming to
this unjust fate that thy father hath!’

“Mr Hylton was excessively alarmed,
but concealed his feelings, preparing,
however, for some perilous and insane
action, endangering the safety of the
child. The gathering cloud, however,
passed away, and the manacled father
kissed his unconscious child with all his
former tenderness.

“‘They’ll tell thee, poor lad, that I
was a murderer! though it be false as
hell! They’ll shout after thee, There
goes the murderer’s son!’ He paused,
and then with a sudden start said—‘There
will be no grave for thee or thy
mother to come and cry over!’

“‘Adam,’ said Mr Hylton, very
anxiously, ‘weary not yourself thus—alarm
not this poor child, by thus yielding
to fear and despair; but rather, if it
can hereafter remember what passeth
here this day, may its thoughts be of thy
love and of thy gentleness! If it be
the will of God that thou must die, and
that unjustly, as far as men are concerned,
He will watch over and provide for this
little soul, whom He, foreseeing its fate,
sent into the world.’

“Ayliffe lifted the child with trembling
arms, and pressed its cheeks to his lips.
The little creature did not cry, nor
appear likely to do so, but seemed the
image of mute apprehension. The whole
scene was so painful, that Mr Hylton
was not sorry when the Governor of the
gaol approached, to intimate that the
interview must cease. The prisoner, exhausted
with violent excitement, quietly
.pn +1
surrendered his child to his attendant,
and then silently grasped the hand of Mr
Hylton, who thereupon quitted the cell;
the door of which was immediately locked
upon its miserable occupant: who was
once again <i>alone</i>!”
.pm letter-end

From the prison let us to the great
Earl’s house. His lordship has become
morose and almost vindictive
against the supposed murderer of his
son, from the very efforts that have
been made to save him from the
gallows. Had Adam Ayliffe been
suffered to die the unpitied death of
any other heinous criminal, no one,
perhaps, would have more pitied the
wretched malefactor than the Earl of
Milverstoke himself. The interest
taken in the convict, not only by the
minister, but by his own daughter,
and, as he suspected, by the very
widow of the murdered lord, his
daughter-in-law, seemed cruel forgetfulness
of the dead, and wanton injury
to the living. He upbraided the minister
who preached the virtues of mercy
and forgiveness; he looked with anger
and violent impatience when others
dared to take up the thread of the
clergyman’s unauthorised discourse.
During an interview with Lady Alkmond,
the Earl had heard the syllables
<i>forgive!</i> dropping from the widow’s
mouth; he made no answer, but repaired
to his library, in which he
walked to and fro for some time, meditating
with sternness and displacency
upon the word. Let us open the door
gently and carefully, and, using our
lawful privilege, look in.

.pm letter-start
“On taking his seat at length, his
lordship opened with some surprise a
Testament which lay before him, and
guided by the reference written by the
trembling fingers of his daughter, he read
as follows:—‘So likewise shall my
heavenly Father do unto you, if ye from
your hearts for give not every one his
brother their trespasses.’ This verse
the Earl read hastily, then laid down the
book, folded his arms, and leaned back
in his seat, not with subdued feelings,
but very highly indignant. He now saw
clearly what had been intended by the
faint but solemn whisper of Lady Alkmond,
even could he have before entertained
a doubt upon the subject. Oh,
why did not thoughts of the heavenly
temper of these two loving and trembling
spirits melt his stern heart? ’Twas not
so, however: and even <i>anger</i> swelled
within that <sc>FATHER’S</sc> breast of untamed
fierceness—anger almost struggling and
shaping itself into the utterance of ‘Interference!
intrusion! presumption!’
After a long interval, in which his
thoughts were thus angrily occupied, he
reopened the Testament, and again read
the sublime and awful declaration of the
Redeemer of mankind; yet smote it not
his heart. And after a while, removing
the paper, he calmly replaced the sacred
volume on the spot from which it had
been taken by Lady Emily. Not long
after he had done so, he heard a very
faint tapping at the distant door, but
without taking any notice of it; although
he had a somewhat disturbing suspicion
as to the cause of that same meek application,
and the person by whom it was
made. The sound was presently repeated,
somewhat louder; on which, ‘Who’s
there?—enter!’ called out the Earl,
loudly, and in his usual stern tone, looking
apprehensively towards the door—which
was opened, as he had thought, and
perhaps feared it might be, by Lady
Emily.

“‘It is I, dear papa,’ said she, closing
the door after her, and advancing rather
rapidly towards him, who moved not
from his seat; though the appearance of—<sc>NOW</sc>—his
only child, and that a
daughter, most beautiful in budding
womanhood, and approaching a <sc>FATHER</sc>
with timid, downcast looks, might well
have elicited some word or gesture of
welcoming affection and tenderness.

“‘What brings you hither, Emily?’ he
inquired coldly, as his daughter, in her
loveliness and terror, stood within a few
feet of him, her fine features wearing an
expression of blended modesty and resolution.

“‘Do you not know, my dearest papa?’
said she, gently; ‘do you not suspect.
Do not be angry!—do not, dear papa,
look so sternly at me! I come to speak
with you, who are my father, in all love
and duty.’

“‘I am not stern—I am not angry,
Emily. Have I not ever been kind to
you? Why, then, this unusual mode of
approaching and addressing me? Were
I a mere tyrant, you could not show better
than your present manner does, that I
am such.’

“His words were kind, but his eye and
his manner were blighting. His daughter’s
knees trembled under her. She glanced
hastily at the table in quest of the little
book which her hands had that morning
placed there; and not seeing it, her
heart sunk.

“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said her father,
moving towards her a chair, and gently
.pn +1
placing her in it immediately opposite to
him, at only a very little distance. She
thought that she had never till that
moment seen her father’s face, or at
least had never before noticed its true
character. How cold and severe was
the look of the penetrating eyes now
fixed on her—how rigid were the features—how
commanding the expression which
they wore—how visibly clouded with
sorrow, and marked with the traces of
suffering!

“‘And what, Emily, would you say?’
he inquired, calmly.

“‘Dearest papa, I would say, if I dared,
what my sister said to you so short a
time ago—<i>Forgive!</i>’

“‘Whom?’ inquired the Earl, striving
to repress all appearance of emotion.

“‘Him who is to die on Monday next—Adam
Ayliffe. Oh, my dearest papa,
do not—oh, do not look so fearfully at me!’

“‘You mean, Emily, <i>the murderer of
your brother</i>!’ He paused for a moment.
‘Am I right? Do I understand you?’
inquired her father, gloomily.

“‘But I think that he is not—I do
believe that he is not.’

“‘But how can it concern <i>you</i>, Emily,
to think or believe on the subject? Good
child, meddle not with what you understand
not. Who has put you upon this,
Emily?’

“‘My own heart, papa.’

“‘Bah, girl!’ cried the Earl, unable to
restrain his angry impulse, ‘do not
patter nonsense with your father on a
subject like this. You have been trained
and tutored to torment me on this
matter!’

“‘Papa!—my papa!—I trained! I
tutored! By whom? Am I of your
blood?’ said Lady Emily, proudly and
indignantly.

“‘You had better return, my child, to
your occupations’——

“‘My occupation, dearest papa, is here,
and, so long as you may suffer me to be
with you, to say few, but few words to
you. It is hard if I cannot, I who never
knowingly grieved you in my life. Remember
that I am now your only child.
Yet I fear you love me not as you ought
to love an only child, or you could not
speak to me as you have just spoken.’
She paused for moment, and added, as
if with a sudden desperate impulse—‘My
poor sister and I do implore you to
give this wretch a chance of life, for we
both believe that he is innocent!’

“For a second or two the Earl seemed
really astounded; and well he might, for
his youthful daughter had suddenly
spoken to him with a precision and distinctness
of language, an energy of manner, and
an expression of eye, such as
the Earl had not dreamed of her being
able to exhibit, and told of the strength of
purpose with which she had come to him.

“‘And you both believe that he is
innocent!’ said he, echoing her words,
too much amazed to utter another word.

“‘Yes, we do! we do! in our hearts.
My sister and I have prayed to God
many times for His mercy; and she
desires me to tell you that she has forgiven
this man Ayliffe, even though he
did this dreadful deed, and so have I;
wife and sister of the dear one dead, we
both forgive, even though the poor wretch
be guilty; but we believe him innocent,
and if he be, oh, Heaven forbid that on
Monday he should die!’

“‘Emily,’ said the Earl, who had
waited with forced composure till his
daughter had ceased, ‘do you not think
that your proper place is in your own
apartment, or with your suffering sister-in-law?’

“‘Why should you thus treat me as a
child, papa?’ inquired Lady Emily,
scarcely able to restrain her tears.

“‘Why should I not?’ asked her
father calmly.

“Lady Emily looked to the ground for
some moments in silence.

“‘Does it not occur to you as possible
that you are meddling? meddling with
matters beyond your province? Is it fitting,
<i>girl</i>,’ he continued, unable to resist
an instantaneous but most bitter emphasis
on the word, ‘that you should be <sc>HERE</sc>,
talking to me at all, for one moment even,
on a matter which I have never thought
of naming to you—a child?’

“‘I am a child, papa but I am <i>your</i>
child, and your only one and love you
more than all the whole world.’

“‘Obey me, then, as a proof of that
love: retire to your chamber, and there
wonder at what you have ventured—presumed
this morning to do.’

“Lady Emily felt the glance of his eye
upon her, as though it had lightened;
but she quailed not.

“‘My dear, my only parent, I implore
you send me not away; let me—’

“‘Emily, I cannot be disobeyed; I am
not in the habit of being disobeyed by
any one; it is very sad that I should see
the attempt first made by a child.’

“‘Oh papa! forgive me! forgive me!’
She arose, and, approaching him hastily,
as she observed him about to advance,
sunk on one knee before him, clasping
her hands together. ‘Oh, hear me for
but a moment. Never knelt I before
but to God, yet kneel I now to my
father. Oh, have mercy! nay, be <sc>JUST</sc>!’

“‘Why, Emily, verily I fear that long
.pn +1
confinement, and want of exercise, and
change, and air, are preying upon your
mind; you are not speaking rationally.
Rise, child, and do not pursue this folly—or
I may think you mad!’ He disengaged
her hands gently from his knee,
which they had the moment before
clasped, and raised her from her kneeling
posture, she weeping bitterly.

“I am not mad, papa, nor is my
sister; but we fear lest God’s anger
should fall upon you, nay, upon us all,
if you will not listen to the voice of compassion.’

“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said the Earl.
‘Excited as you are at present,’ he continued,
with rapidly increasing sternness
of manner, ‘no words of mine will be
able to satisfy you of the grievous impropriety,
nay the cruel absurdity of all
this proceeding. You talk to me like a
parrot about mercy, and compassion, and
God’s anger, and so forth, as though you
understood what you were saying, and I
understood not what I am doing, what I
ought to do, and what I have done.
Child, you forget yourself, me, and your
duty to me. How dared you to profane
yonder Testament, and insult your father
by placing it before him as you did this
morning? Did you do so?’

“‘I did,’ she answered, weeping.

“‘You presumptuous girl! forgetful
of the fifth commandment!’

“‘Oh, say not so! say not so! I love,
reverence you—and I <sc>FEAR</sc> you,
now!’ said Lady Emily, gazing at him
with tears running down her cheeks,
her dark hair partially deranged, her
hands clasped in a supplicatory manner.
‘I prayed to God, first, that I might not
be doing wrong; that you might not be
angry with me, that if angry, you might
forgive me!’

“‘Angry with you? Have I not
cause? Never dared daughter do such
thing to father before! You presume to
rebuke and threaten me—<i>me</i>—with
the vengeance of Heaven, if I yield not
to your sickly dreaming, drivelling sentimentality.
Silence!’ he exclaimed,
perceiving her about to speak very earnestly.
‘I have not had my eyes closed,
I tell you now, for days past—I have
observed your changed manner: you
have been deliberating long beforehand
how to perpetrate this undutifulness! As
though my heart had not been already
struck as with a thunderbolt from Heaven—you,
forsooth, you idle, unthinking
child! must strive to stab it—to wound
me! to insult me! This is not your own
doing: you dared not have thought of it!
You are the silly tool of others. Silence!
hear me, undutiful girl!

“‘Papa, I cannot hear you say all
this, in which you are so wrong. No
tool am I of any body! Twice have you
said this thing!’ Her figure the Earl
perceived involuntarily becoming erect
as she spoke, and her eye fixed with
steadfast brightness upon his. Had he
been sufficiently calm and observant, he
might have seen in his daughter at that
moment a faint reflection of his own lofty
spirit—intolerant of injustice. ‘And
even you, papa, have no right whatever
thus to talk to me. If I have done
wrong, chide me becomingly; but all
that you have said to me only hurts me,
and stings me, and I cannot submit to
it—’

“‘Lady Emily, to your chamber!’
said the Earl, with a stately air, rising;
so did his daughter.

“‘My Lord!’ she exclaimed magnificently,
her tall figure drawn up to its
full height, and her lustrous eyes fixed
unwavering upon his own. Neither
spoke for a moment; and the Earl
began, he knew not why, to feel great
inward agitation, as he gazed at the
erect figure of his silent and indignant
daughter.

“‘My child!’ said he, at length, faintly,
with a quivering lip; and extending his
arms, he moved a step towards her; on
which she sprang forward into his arms,
throwing her own about his neck, and
kissing his cheek passionately. His
strong will for once had failed him; his
full eyes overflowed, and a tear fell on
his daughter’s forehead. She wept bitterly;
for a while he spoke not, but
gently led her to a couch, and sat down
beside her.

“‘Oh, papa, papa!’ she murmured,
‘how I love you!’

“For a moment he answered not,
struggling, and with partial success, to
overcome the violence of his emotions.
Then he spoke in a low deep tone—

“‘The voices of the dead are sounding
in my ears, Emily! the tranquil dead!
’Tis said, my Emily,’ he paused for some
moments, and his agitation was prodigious,—‘that
stern was I to your sweet mother—’

“‘Oh, dear, dearest, best beloved by
daughter, never!’ she cried vehemently,
struggling to escape from his grasp, for
beheld her rigidly while gazing at her
with agonised eyes.

“‘And I now fearfully feel—I fear—that
stern I was, as stern I have this
day been to you. Forgive me, ye meek
and blessed dead!‘—his quivering lips
were, closed for a moment, as were his
eyes. ‘Oh, Emily! she is looking at
me through your eyes. Oh, how like!’
.pn +1
he remarked, as if speaking to himself.
Lady Emily covered her eyes, and buried
her head in his bosom. ‘Do you, my
Emily, forgive me?’

“‘Oh, papa! no, no; what have I to
forgive? Every thing have I to love!
my own, sweet papa! Much I fear that
I may have done what a daughter ought
not to have done! I have grieved and
wounded a father that tenderly loved
me—’

“‘Ay, my child, I do,’ he whispered
tremulously, gently drawing her slender
form nearer to his heart. ‘Emily,’ said
he, after a while, ‘go, get me that Testament
which you placed before me; oh,
go, dear child!’ She still hung her head,
and made no motion of going. ‘Go, get
it me; bring it to me!’

“She rose without a word, and brought
it to him; and while he silently read the
verse to which she had directed his attention,
she sat beside him, her hands clasped
together, and her eyes timidly fixed on
the ground.

“‘It was in love, and not presumption,
my Emily, that you laid these awful words
before me!’

“‘Indeed, my papa, it was,’ said she,
bursting into tears.

“He appeared about to speak to her,
when words evidently failed him suddenly.
At length—‘And when that
sweet soul’—he paused, ‘this morning
whispered in my ear, did she know of
this that you had done?’ Lady Emily
could not speak. She bowed her head in
acquiescence, and sobbed convulsively.
Her father was fearfully agitated.
‘Wretch that I am!—I am not worthy
of either of you!’ Lady Emily flung
her arms round him fondly, and kissed
him. ‘I am yielding to great weakness,
my love,’ said he, after a while, with
somewhat more of composure. ‘Yet,
never shall I—never can I—forget this
morning! I have long felt, and feared,
that I was not made to be loved: I have
seen it written in people’s faces. Yet
can I love!’

“‘I know you can! I know you do, my
own dear papa! Do you not believe
that I love you? that Agnes loves you?’

“‘I do, my Emily—I do! Yet till this
moment have I felt alone in life. In this
vast pile, to me how gloomy and desolate!
with these woods, so horrible, around me,
I have been alone—utterly alone! And
yet were you with me—you, my only
daughter—who, I suppose, dared not tell
me how much you loved me!’

“‘Oh, do not say so, papa! I knew
your grief and suffering. They were too
sacred to be touched—I wept for you,
but in my own chamber!’

“‘You stand beside me as an angel,
Emily!’ said the Earl fondly, ‘as you
have ever been: yet I now feel as though
my eyes had not really seen and known
you!’”
.pm letter-end

The gentle Lady Emily quits her
father’s room with leave to speak
again of Christian mercy, but with no
further gain. Still there is time to
save the unoffending, and it is not
lost. When every hope seemed gone,
impelled by an irresistible impulse,
and fortified by an unwavering conviction
of the prisoner’s innocence, Mr
Hylton, on the Friday evening preceding
the Monday fixed for Ayliffe’s
execution, as a last resource, had,
relying on the king’s well-known
sternly independent character, written
a letter to his Majesty, under cover
to a nobleman then in London attending
Parliament, and with whom Mr
Hylton had been acquainted at college.
Mr Hylton’s letter to the King
was expressed in terms of grave
eloquence. It set out with calling
his Majesty’s attention to the execution,
six months before, of a man for
a crime of which three days afterwards
he was demonstrated to have been
innocent. Then the letter gave a
moving picture of the exemplary life
and character of the prisoner, and of
his father; pointed to testimonials
given in his favour at the trial; and
added the writer’s own, together with
the most solemn and strong conviction
which could be expressed in
language, that whoever might have
been the perpetrator of this most
atrocious murder, it was not the
prisoner doomed to die on Monday.
It then conjured his Majesty, by
every consideration which could properly
have weight with a sovereign
intrusted with authority by Almighty
God, to govern according to justice
and mercy, to give his personal attention
to the case then laid before him,
and act thereon according to his
Majesty’s own royal and element
judgment. The letter suggested by
heaven, written by heaven’s minister,
and read by heaven’s intrusted servant,
achieved its mission. The King
read, and commuted the sentence of
death to that of transportation.
Upon the morning fixed for the execution
a reprieve arrived, almost as
.pn +1
the doomed man was walking from
his cell to the gallows.

The convict departs; his wife follows
him; his child and father remain
behind. The former is cared for by
the daughter of the Earl of Milverstoke,
the latter has still the abiding
friendship and regard of Mr Hylton.
Twenty years elapse. Perpetual
banishment was Adam Ayliffe’s sentence,
and he is still abroad. His misshapen
child has given evidence of
commanding abilities, and under
another name has been sent, at Mr
Hylton’s instigation, to the university
of Cambridge, where he is maintained
still at the charges of the sweet-hearted
Lady Emily. We arrive at the season
when the annual contest takes place
in the university for its most honourable
prizes. The dignity of Senior
Wrangler is contested by a young nobleman
and a humpbacked youth, of
whom little or nothing is known. The
rivals, representing as it were the aristocracy
and the democracy of the
ancient seat of learning, have no unworthy
envyings, one against the
other; they are friends and friendly
co-labourers. The battle comes, the
representative of the people is victorious:
Viscount Alkmond—for it is he—the
son of the murdered man, is
beaten by Adam Ayliffe, the offspring
of the supposed murderer. The Earl
of Milverstoke lives to hear the
news!

He lives to hear more! A man in
a distant part of the country is executed
for a robbery. Before he dies
he makes a confession. His name is
Jonas Handle. He tells the world,
for the relief of his own soul, that he,
and none but he, twenty years before,
did kill and murder my Lord Milverstoke’s
son, for which one Ayliffe was
taken and condemned to die, but afterwards
was transported, and is since
possibly dead. He explains minutely
how he proceeded to his work; who
was his accomplice. He had determined
to kill one Godbolt, the head
keeper, and, mistaking the young lord
for his intended victim, he struck him
dead with the coulter of a plough,
which coulter he thrust into the hole
of a hollow tree hard by. The confession
reaches Mr Hylton; the coulter
of the plough is sought and found: the
exiled innocent is recalled—returns:
this also the Earl of Milverstoke lives
to hear!

He lives to hear more! Mr Hylton
has not suffered twenty years to elapse
without appealing to the proud and
uncrucified heart of the great Earl,
who seemed to have forgotten, in the
midst of his transitory splendour, that
the great God of heaven himself became
a humble man, the eternal pattern
of humility <i>to</i> man on earth.
The faithful minister knocked at the
soul of the arrogant and overbearing
lord, until he shook its hardness, and
made it meet for heaven and its blessings.
When he brought tidings of
the murderer’s confession, he came to
one who had heard from the same
lips often before happier tidings, and
promises bright with celestial splendour.
In former days Mr Hylton had
approached the Lord of Milverstoke
as a meek martyr would have dared
the violence of a savage beast; now
he comes with his intelligence to one
rendered, at the close of his long life,
docile as a lamb. He speaks, and the
Earl asks tremulously, and with many
sighs, whether his reverend monitor
tells him of the murderer’s death in
judgment or in mercy.

.pm letter-start
“‘In mercy, dear my Lord! in mercy!’
answered Mr Hylton, with a brightening
countenance and a cheerful voice: ‘in
you, spared to advanced age, I see before
me only a monument of mercy and goodness!
Had you continued till now, deaf
to the teaching of His Holy Spirit—dead
to His gracious influences—hateful, relentless,
and vindictive—this which has
now occurred would, to my poor thinking,
have appeared to speak only in judgment,
uttering condemnation in your ears, and
sealing your eyes in judicial blindness!
But you have been enabled to hear a still
small voice, whose melting accents have
pierced through your deaf ear, and broken
a heart once obdurate in pride and hopelessly
unforgiving. Plainly I speak, dear
my Lord, for my mission I feel to be now
no longer one of terror, but of consolation!
It is awful, but awful in mercy
only, and condescension!’”
.pm letter-end

The Earl is old; but there lives
another still older, who must be visited
without delay. The Saxon patriarch,
who, when we first saw him, a man
“of simple and stern character” clung
to his Bible as to the rock upon which
the poor of this world, the sorely beset
and the heavily tried, can alone
.pn +1
repose in peace, and who referred simply,
believingly, and lovingly to that
sacred volume, as the cup of sorrow
grew fuller and fuller, until at length
it overflowed and could hold no more,—this
aged man, Ayliffe the grandfather,
still lives and owns the cottage
which he never would give up. What
is the Earl of Milverstoke to do, but
to ask pardon from the gray hairs
of the man whom the law so much
offended, and he still more, by the
cruel harshness of his once impenitent
spirit? See how he totters to the
unpolluted gate!

.pm letter-start
“Mr Hylton was moved almost to tears
at the spectacle which was before his
mind’s eye, of these two old men meeting
for the first, and it might be for the only,
time upon earth; and his offer to accompany
his Lordship at once to the cottage,
the Earl eagerly accepted, and they both
took their departure. As the carriage
approached, the Earl showed no little
agitation at the prospect of the coming
interview.

“‘Yonder,’ said Mr Hylton exultingly,
‘yonder is the humble place where dwells
still, and but a little longer, one whom
angels there have ministered to; with
whom God hath there ever communion;
and it is a hallowed spot!’

“The Earl spoke not; and in a few
minutes’ time he was to be seen, supported
by Mr Hylton and a servant, closely
approaching the cottage door, another
preceding him to announce his arrival,
and standing uncovered outside the door
as the Earl entered it; his lordly master
himself uncovering, and bowing low as he
stepped within, accompanied by Mr Hylton,
who led him up to old Ayliffe, saying,
‘Adam, here comes one to speak with
you—my Lord Milverstoke—who saith
that he hath long, in heart, done to you
and yours injustice; and hath come hither
to tell you so.’ The Earl trembled on
Mr Hylton’s arm while he said this, and
stood uncovered, gazing with an air of
reverence at the old man, who, when they
entered, was sitting beside the fire, leaning
on his staff beside a table, on which
stood his old Bible, open, with his spectacles
lying upon it, as though he had just
laid them there. He rose slowly as Mr
Hylton finished speaking.

“‘My Lord,’ said he solemnly, and
standing more erectly than he had stood
for years, ‘we be now both very old men,
and God hath not spared us thus long for
nothing.’

“‘Ay, Adam Ayliffe, indeed it is so!
Will you forgive me and take my hand?’
said the Earl faintly, advancing his right
hand.

“‘Ay, my Lord—ay, in the name of
God! feeling that I have had somewhat
to forgive! For a father am I, and a
father <i>wast</i> thou, my Lord! Here, since
it hath been asked for, is my hand, that
never was withheld from man that kindly
asked for it; and my heart goes out to
thee with it! God bless thee, my Lord,
in these thine old and feeble days—old
and feeble are we both, <i>and the grasshopper
is a burthen to us</i>.’

“‘Let me sit down, my friend,’ said
the Earl gently. ‘I am feebler than thou;
and be thou seated also!’ They both sat
down opposite to each other, Mr Hylton
looking on in silence. ‘God may forgive
me (and <i>may</i> He, of His infinite mercy!)—thou,
my fellow-creature, may’st forgive
me; but I cannot forgive myself, when I
am here looking at thee. Good Adam!
what hast thou not gone through these
twenty years!’ faltered the Earl.

“‘Ay, twenty years it is!’ echoed
Ayliffe solemnly, sighing deeply, and
looking with sorrowful dignity at the
Earl. ‘Life hath, during these twenty
years, been a long journey, through a
country dark and lonesome; but yet, here
is the lamp that hath shone ever blessedly
beside me, or I must have stumbled, and
missed my way for ever, and perished in
the valley of the shadow of death!’ As
he spoke, his eyes were fixed steadfastly
on the Earl, and he placed his hand reverently
upon the sacred volume beside
him.

“‘Adam, God hath greatly humbled
me, and mightily afflicted me!’ said the
Earl; ‘I am not what I was!’

“‘The scourge thou doubtless didst
need, my Lord, and it hath been heavily
laid upon thee; yet it is in mercy to thee
that thou art here, my good Lord!’ said
Ayliffe, with an eye and in a tone of voice
belonging only to one who spoke with
authority. ‘It is in mercy, too,’ he continued,
‘to me, that I am here to receive
and listen to thee! I, too, have been
perverse and rebellious, yet have I been
spared!—And art thou then, my Lord,
in thy heart satisfied that my poor son
hath indeed suffered wrongfully?’

“‘Good Adam,’ said the Earl sorrowfully,
and yet with dignity, ‘I believe
<i>now</i> that thy son is innocent, and ought
not to have suffered; yet God hath
chosen that we should not see all things
as He seeth them, Adam. The law, with
which I had nought to do, went right as
the law of men goeth; but, alas! as for
me, what a spirit hath been shown by me
towards thee and thine! Forgive me,
Adam! There is one here that knoweth
.pn +1
more against me’—the Earl turned towards
Mr Hylton with a look of gloomy
significance—‘than I dare tell thee, of
mine own awful guiltiness before God.’

“‘He is merciful! he is merciful!’ said
Ayliffe.

“‘Wilt thou give me a token of thy
forgiveness of a spirit most bitter and
inhuman?’ said the Earl presently. ‘If
thy poor son Adam cometh home while I
live, wilt thou speak with him that he
forgive me my cruel heart towards him?—that
he accept amends at my hands?’

“‘For amends, my Lord,’ said Ayliffe,
‘doubtless he will have none but those
which God may provide for him; and my
son hath no claim upon thee for human
amends. His forgiveness I know that
thou wilt have, for aught in which, my
Lord, thou may’st have wronged him by
uncharitableness; or he is not son of
mine, and God hath afflicted him in vain.’

“Here Mr Hylton interposed, observing
the Earl grow very faint, and rose to
assist him to the door.

“‘Good day, friend Adam, good day,’
said Lord Milverstoke feebly, but cordially
grasping the hand which Ayliffe
tendered to him. ‘I will come hither
again to see thee; but if I may not, wilt
thou come yonder to me? Say yes, good
Adam! for my days are fewer, I feel,
than thine!’

“‘When thou canst not come to me, my
good Lord, I will come to thee!’ said
Ayliffe, sadly, following the Earl to the
door, and gazing after him till he had
driven away.”
.pm letter-end

That time came soon. The Earl
grows ill; his end approaches. Exquisitely
beautiful is the description of
that end. Remembering the old man’s
plighted word, the sick nobleman
sends his servant to the cottage, and
demands fulfilment of the promise
given. The old man hears and trembles;
but with a solemn countenance
he gets his hat and stick, puts his
Bible under his aged arm, and answers,
“Ay, I will go with thee to my Lord.”

.pm letter-start
“When the Earl saw him it was about
evening, and the sun was setting, and its
declining rays shone softly into the room.

“‘Adam, see—it is going down!’ said
Lord Milverstoke in a low tone, looking
sadly at Adam, and pointing to the
sun.

“‘How is thy soul with God?’ said the
old man, with great solemnity.

“The Earl placed his hands together,
and remained silent for some moments.
Then he said, ‘I would it were, good
Adam, as I believe thine is!’

“‘Nay, my good Lord, think only of
thine own, not mine; I am sinful, and
often of weak faith. But hast thou faith
and hope?’

“‘I thank God, Adam, that I have some
little! Before I was afflicted, I went
astray! But I have sinned deeper than
even thou thinkest, good soul!’

“‘But His mercy, to whom thou art
going, is deeper than thy sins!’

“‘Oh, Adam! I have this day often
thought that I could die more peacefully
in thy little cottage than in this place!’

“‘So thy heart and soul be right, what
signifies where thou diest?’

“‘Adam,’ said the Earl, gently, ‘thou
speakest somewhat sternly to one with a
broken spirit—but God bless thee! thy
voice searcheth me! Wilt thou make
me a promise, Adam?’ said the Earl,
softly placing his hand in that of Ayliffe.

“‘Ay, my Lord, if I can perform it.’

“‘Wilt thou follow me to the grave? I
would have followed thee, hadst thou
gone first?‘

“‘I will!’ replied Adam, looking
solemnly at the Earl.

“‘And now give me thy prayers, dear
Adam! Pray for him that—is to come
after me—for I go—and in peace—in
peace—’

“Lady Alkmond, who was on the other
side of the bed, observed a great change
come suddenly over the Earl’s face, while
Adam was opening the Bible and adjusting
his glasses to read a Psalm. She
hastened round, she leaned down and
kissed the Earl’s forehead and cheek,
grasped his thin fingers, and burst into
weeping. But the Earl saw her not, nor
heard her: he was no longer among the
living!”
.pm letter-end

It need not be said that the Earl of
Milverstoke does what justice he may
to the falsely banished man and his
family, by making such provision for
them in his will, as his circumstances
allow and his dignity requires. It need
scarcely be mentioned that the close
of the career of the Ayliffe family is
as serene and happy, as it was stormy
and disastrous in its beginning. They
are not <i>compensated</i> for long-suffering
by the money of his lordship; but they
are made to <i>see</i> that the ways of God
are unsearchable and past finding out,
and that now, indeed, men see through
a glass darkly, though hereafter they
shall see face to face, and know even
as they are known. Knowledge
and consolation rightly understood, is
cheaply purchased, though even with
a life of trouble, such as Adam Ayliffe
saw.
.pn +1

There remains but a word or two
more to say concerning this history,
and the tale is told. It has been
hinted that Lord Alkmond quitted the
banqueting room on the night of his
murder on account of the discussion
of a subject which seemed greatly to
annoy him. That subject, as appears
in the course of the story, was <sc>DUELLING</sc>.
Let the author explain the
mystery. It might have had much to
do with the tragical catastrophe. Explained,
it has nothing to do with it
whatever.

.pm letter-start
“Among several letters which come to
the Castle shortly after the Earl’s sudden
illness, was one marked ‘Immediate’
and ‘Private and Confidential,’ and
bore outside the name of the Secretary of
State. From this letter poor Lady Emily
learnt the lamentable intelligence that
her brother, the late Lord Alkmond had,
when on the Continent, and shortly before
his marriage, slain in a duel a
Hungarian officer, whom, having challenged
for some affront which had passed at
dinner, he had run through the heart,
and killed on the spot: the unfortunate
officer leaving behind him, alas! a widow
and several orphans, all of them reduced
to beggary. The dispute which had led
to these disastrous results, had been one
of really a trivial nature, but magnified
into importance by the young Lord’s
quick and imperious temper, which had
led him to dictate terms of apology so
humiliating and offensive, that no one
could submit to them. Wherefore the
two met; and presently the Hungarian
fell dead, his adversary’s rapier having
passed clean through the heart. It was,
however, an affair that had been managed
with perfect propriety; with an exact
observance of the rules of duelling! All
had been done legitimately! Yet was it
<sc>MURDER</sc>; an honourable, a right honourable,
murder: murder as clear and glaring,
before the Judge of all the earth, as
that by which Lord Alkmond had himself
fallen. When thus fearfully summoned
away to his account, the young noble’s
own hand was crimsoned with the blood
which he had shed: and so went he
into the awful presence of the Most
High, whose voice had ever upon earth
been sounding tremendous in his ears,—<i>Where
is thy brother? What hast thou
done? The voice of thy brother’s blood
crieth unto me from the ground.</i> Unhappy
man! well might his heart have been
heavy, when men expected it to be lightest!
Well might his countenance darken,
and his soul shudder within him, under
the mortal throes of a guilty conscience!
From his father’s splendid banqueting
table he had been driven by remorse and
horror; for his companions, unconscious
that they were stabbing to the heart one
who was present, <sc>WOULD TALK</sc> of duelling,
and of one sanguinary duel in particular,
that bore a ghastly resemblance to his
own. Such poor amends as might be in
his power to make, he had striven to
offer to the miserable family whom he
had bereaved, beggared, and desolated,
to vindicate an honour which had never
been for one instant really questioned,
or compromised; and if it <i>had</i> been
tarnished, could <sc>BLOOD</sc> cleanse and
brighten it? All the money that
he could ordinarily obtain from the Earl,
had from time to time been furnished by
Lord Alkmond to the family of his victim.
For them it was that he had importuned
his father for a sum of money
sufficient to make for them an ample and
permanent provision. Only the day before
that on which he had quitted London,
to partake of the Christmas festivities,
had he written an earnest letter to
the person abroad with whom he had long
communicated on the subject, assuring
him that within a few weeks an ample
and satisfactory final arrangement should
be made. And he had resolved to make
a last strenuous effort with the Earl; but
whom, nevertheless, he dared not, except
as a matter of dire necessity, tell the
nature of his exigency. And why dared
not the son tell his father? And why had
that father shrunk, blighted, from the
mention, by Captain Lutteridge and Mr
Hylton, of the conversation which had
driven his son out into the solitude where
he was slain? Alas! it opened to Lord
Milverstoke himself a very frightful retrospect;
through the vista of years his
anguished, terror-stricken eye settled
upon a crimsoned gloom—

“Oh, Lord Milverstoke!—and then
would echo in thy ears, also, those appalling
sounds,—<i>what hast</i> <sc>THOU</sc> <i>done</i>?

“For <sc>THY</sc>—Honour! also, had been
dyed in blood!”
.pm letter-end

We have told as well as we may,
but very imperfectly as we feel, the
story of “Now and Then.” It is not for
us to advise the reader to get the volume
and to read it for himself. For
this he will, as he should, use his own
discretion; but we will, as a faithful
Mentor, and a long-tried friend, entreat
him, grave, intelligent, and responsible
Christian man as he is,
should he peruse the volume, to consider
well at its close the actual frame
of mind in which the book has left
him. We hold this to be the true test
.pn +1
of all literary metal, whosoever be the
coiner, wheresoever be the mint. If
the solemn elements brought into the
light and pleasant texture of this simple
narrative, do not elevate the spirit
and brace the heart of all but the
thorough sceptic—whom nothing will
elevate but liquor, and nothing brace
but a good three-inch oak stick—we
are content to be set down as the mere
slavish flatterer of Mr Warren, and not
as his calm and uninfluenced, though
warm and devoted counsellor. The
organs of public opinion in London
have dwelt upon the contrast which
“Now and Then” affords to the current
literature of the day. We are not
surprised at the impression these
critics have received. Whether we
regard the tendency and object of the
story, its conception and execution,
the style of the language, or the construction
of the plot, we are bound to
confess, that between this production
and the heap of Christmas and other
tales that drop uselessly, and worse
than uselessly, into the world, there
is all the difference of the bright, fresh,
vigorous mountain air, and the thick
fusty atmosphere of the lanes.

The current of piety that flows so
equably on through the whole of the
work, is lucid as a stream, polluted by
no admixture of rank weeds or earthly
dirt. It has been justly remarked, by
the leading journal of the world, that
“Now and Then” “is a vindication in
beautiful prose of the ways of God to
man.” Every actor in the history
vindicates these ways: every fact as
it arises does the same. The old
Saxon Ayliffe, who, from his entrance
till his exit, maintains the justice of
God’s doings, and walks peacefully
and unruffled over burning plough-shares,
because he sublimely feels the
practical influence of his faith, is one
champion. Hylton, the indefatigable
clergyman, doing good for his Master’s
sake, reproving the high-born,
sympathising with the lowly, preaching
and acting reconciliation everywhere,
is another champion. The
Earl of Milverstoke is a champion too.
If he be not, our soul has been moved
in vain by the childlike piety and
humble self-denial of his broken-hearted
latter days.

There is one thing more to note,
and then we have done. We have
said, at the commencement of this article,
that there are certain folks in
London and the provinces, who,
thinking themselves remarkably fine
fellows, and quite above the cant of
religion and all that sort of thing, will
pooh, pooh the noble tendency of “Now
and Then,” and talk about “stupid old
times,” “superstition,” “humbug,”
and the necessity of going a-head in
these enlightened days, whereby they
mean going to the devil headlong,
though they know it not. These worthies,
however, will do something more
than pooh, pooh. They will retire to
their tap-rooms, and fill their little souls
with gin in sheer envy and disgust.
Mr Warren, in the delineation of the
Ayliffe family, has beaten the bilious
discontented democrats on their own
ground. He has taken for his hero a
man of the people, but he has sustained
the heroism with ample justice
to all the world besides. Although
the author of “Nature’s Aristocracy,”
and “The Godlike Bricklayer,” may
be a paragon of benevolence, yet he
has not all the benevolence which this
huge world of benevolence contains.
We will not venture to hint that there
lives a human being better than himself,
but perhaps there live a few
nearly, if not quite as good.

Mr Warren does justice to the
masses: but he is much too honest
and too upright—being himself one of
the masses—to uphold their privileges
at the sacrifice of other men’s
lawful and just rights. He does not
do it; and the English people, who
love fair play, will honour him for his
work.

We honour him too, and cordially
shake him by the hand! He has not
done worse than Maga expected from
his industry and genius. Had he done
worse, by our immortality! much as we
love him, much as he has done for us,
and we for him, much as we have done
together, he should have felt the force
of her frown, and been tapped—gently,
perhaps, for the first offence—with
the crutch that, ere now, with a blow
has dealt death to the charlatan and
impostor.

<i>Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh.</i>

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<l>Footnotes</l>
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Transcriber’s Notes:

Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.

Typographical errors were silently corrected.

Spelling and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant
form was found in this book; otherwise it was not changed.

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Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (<i>italics</i>).
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